oisons the air of the whole world as he goes
through it. I shall never be happy till I know that he is in purgatory.
He will be hated even there--and in a worse place, too. Yes, it is
pleasant to think of that! There will be many accusers of him there.
I shall comfort myself with imagining his punishment. Isabel, do you
believe with your heart that Senor Houston and the Americans will be
strong enough to kill him?"

"Mi madre, I know it."

"Then do be a little delighted. How can you bear things with such a
provoking indifference? But as Luis is safe--"

"Chito! Chito! Do not be cruel, mi madre. I would stab Santa Anna with
my own hands--very slowly, I would stab him. It would be so sweet. The
Sisters told me of a woman in the Holy Book, who smiled upon the one she
hated, and gave him milk and butter, and when he slept, drove a great
nail through his temples. I know how she felt. What a feast it would
be, to strike, and strike, and strike! I could drive ten, twenty, fifty
nails, into Santa Anna, when I think of Juan."

No one had before dared to breathe her boy's name in her hearing. She
herself had never spoken it. It fell upon the ears of both women like
a strain of forgotten music. They looked at each other with eyes that
stirred memory and love to their sweetest depths. Almost in whispers
they began to talk of the dead boy, to recall how lovable, how charming,
how affectionate, how obedient he had been. Then the Senora broke
open the seals of her sorrow, and, with bitter reproaches on herself,
confessed that the kiss she had denied her Juan was a load of anguish
upon her heart that she could not bear.

"If I had only blessed him," she moaned; "I had saved him from his
misfortune. A mother's blessing is such a holy thing! And he knelt at my
knees, and begged it. I can see his eyes in the darkness, when my eyes
are shut. I can hear his voice when I am asleep. Isabel, I shall never
be happy till I see Juan again, and say to him, 'Forgive me, dear one,
forgive me, for I have suffered.'"

Both were weeping, but Isabel said, bravely: "I am sure that Juan does
not blame you now, mi madre. In the other world one understands better.
And remember, also, the letter which he wrote you. His last thought was
yours. He fell with your name on his lips. These things are certain. And
was it not good of Dare to die with him? A friend like that! Out of the
tale-books who ever hears of such a thing? Antonia has wept much. In the
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