It was a warm, balmy day. The wearied children
were under the wagons and under the trees, sleeping the dead
sleep of extreme exhaustion. The mothers, wherever it was
possible, slept also. The guides were a little apart,
listening and smoking. If they spoke, it was only in
monosyllables. Rest was so much more needed than food that
little or no attempt was made to cook until near sundown.
At dawn next morning--nay, a little before dawn--when all was
chill, and gray, and misty, and there was not a sound but the
wailing of a sick child, the Senora touched her daughters.
Her voice was strange to them; her face solemnly happy.
"Antonio! Isabel! I HAVE SEEN JUAN! I HAVE SEEN JUAN! My
eyes were shut, but I have seen him. He was a beautiful
shadow, with a great, shadowy host around him. He bent on me
such eyes! Holy Mother! their love was unfathomable, and I
heard his voice. It was far off, yet near. `Madre!' he said,
`TOMORROW YOU SHALL HEAR FROM US.' Now I am happy. There
are words in my heart, but I cannot explain them to you. I
know what they mean. I will weep no more. They put my Juan's
body in the grave, but they have not buried HIM."
All day she was silent and full of thought, but her face was
smiling and hopeful, and she had the air of one waiting for
some assured happiness.
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