Remember the Alamo [64]
indeed!" cried Luis. "Who knows it not? It is the
seguidilla to our blessed Lord, written by the daughter of
Lope de Vega--the holy Marcela Carpio. You know it, Senora?"
"As I know my Credo, Luis."
"And you, Isabel?"
"Since I was a little one, as high as my father's knee.
Rachela taught it to me."
"And you, Lopez."
"That is sure, Luis."
"And I, too!" said Antonia, smiling. "Here is your mandolin.
Strike the chords, and we will all sing with you. My
father will remember also." And the doctor smiled an assent,
as the young man resigned Isabel's hand with a kiss, and swept
the strings in that sweetness and power which flows invisibly,
but none the less surely, from the heart to the instrument.
"It is to my blessed Lord and Redeemer, I sing," he said,
bowing his head. Then he stood up and looked at his
companions, and struck the key-note, when every one joined
their voices with his in the wonderful little hymn:
So noble a Lord
None serves in vain;
For the pay of my love
Is my love's sweet pain.
In the place of caresses
Thou givest me woes;
I kiss Thy hands,
When I feel their blows.
For in Thy chastening,
Is joy and peace;
O Master and Lord!
Let thy blows not cease.
I die with longing
Thy face to see
And sweet is the anguish
Of death to me.
For, because Thou lovest me,
Lover of mine!
Death can but make me
Utterly Thine!
The doctor was the first to speak after the sweet triumph of
the notes had died away. "Many a soul I have seen pass
whispering those verses," he said; "men and women, and little
children."
"The good Marcela in heaven has that for her joy," answered
Luis.
Lopez rose while the holy influence still lingered. He kissed
the hands of every one, and held the doctor's in his own until
they reached the threshold. A more than usual farewell took
place there, though there were only a few whispered words.
"Farewell, Lopez! I can trust you?"
"Unto death."
"If we never meet again?"
"Still it will be FAREWELL. Thou art in God's care."
Very slowly the doctor sauntered back to the parlor, like a
man who has a heavy duty to, do and hardly knows how to begin
it. "But I will tell Maria first," he whispered; and then
he opened the door, and saw the Senora bidding her
children good-night.
"What a happy time we have had!" she was saying. "I shall
never forget it. Indeed, my dears, you see how satisfactory
it is to be religious. When we talk of the saints and angels,
they come round us to listen to what we say; accordingly, we
are full of peace and pleasure. I know that because I heard
Fray--I heard a very good man say so."
She smiled happily at her husband, as she took his arm, and
twice, as they went slowly upstairs together, she lifted her
face for his kiss. Her gentleness and affection made it hard
for him to speak; but there were words to be said that could
be no longer delayed; and when he had closed the room door, he
took her hands in his, and looked into her face with eyes that
told her all.
"You are going away, Roberto," she whispered.
"My love! Yes! To-night--this very hour I must go! Luis and
Dare also. Do not weep. I entreat you! My heart is heavy,
and your tears I cannot bear."
Then she answered, with a noble Composure: "I will give
you smiles and kisses. My good Roberto, so true and kind! I
will try to be worthy of you. Nay, but you must not weep--
Roberto!"
It was true. Quite unconsciously the troubled husband and
father was weeping. "I fear to leave you, dear Maria. All is
so uncertain. I can only ask you two favors; if you will
grant them, you will do all that can be done to send me away
with hope. Will you promise me to have nothing to do whatever
with Fray Ignatius; and to resist every attempt he may make to
induce you to go into a religious house of any kind?"
"I
seguidilla to our blessed Lord, written by the daughter of
Lope de Vega--the holy Marcela Carpio. You know it, Senora?"
"As I know my Credo, Luis."
"And you, Isabel?"
"Since I was a little one, as high as my father's knee.
Rachela taught it to me."
"And you, Lopez."
"That is sure, Luis."
"And I, too!" said Antonia, smiling. "Here is your mandolin.
Strike the chords, and we will all sing with you. My
father will remember also." And the doctor smiled an assent,
as the young man resigned Isabel's hand with a kiss, and swept
the strings in that sweetness and power which flows invisibly,
but none the less surely, from the heart to the instrument.
"It is to my blessed Lord and Redeemer, I sing," he said,
bowing his head. Then he stood up and looked at his
companions, and struck the key-note, when every one joined
their voices with his in the wonderful little hymn:
So noble a Lord
None serves in vain;
For the pay of my love
Is my love's sweet pain.
In the place of caresses
Thou givest me woes;
I kiss Thy hands,
When I feel their blows.
For in Thy chastening,
Is joy and peace;
O Master and Lord!
Let thy blows not cease.
I die with longing
Thy face to see
And sweet is the anguish
Of death to me.
For, because Thou lovest me,
Lover of mine!
Death can but make me
Utterly Thine!
The doctor was the first to speak after the sweet triumph of
the notes had died away. "Many a soul I have seen pass
whispering those verses," he said; "men and women, and little
children."
"The good Marcela in heaven has that for her joy," answered
Luis.
Lopez rose while the holy influence still lingered. He kissed
the hands of every one, and held the doctor's in his own until
they reached the threshold. A more than usual farewell took
place there, though there were only a few whispered words.
"Farewell, Lopez! I can trust you?"
"Unto death."
"If we never meet again?"
"Still it will be FAREWELL. Thou art in God's care."
Very slowly the doctor sauntered back to the parlor, like a
man who has a heavy duty to, do and hardly knows how to begin
it. "But I will tell Maria first," he whispered; and then
he opened the door, and saw the Senora bidding her
children good-night.
"What a happy time we have had!" she was saying. "I shall
never forget it. Indeed, my dears, you see how satisfactory
it is to be religious. When we talk of the saints and angels,
they come round us to listen to what we say; accordingly, we
are full of peace and pleasure. I know that because I heard
Fray--I heard a very good man say so."
She smiled happily at her husband, as she took his arm, and
twice, as they went slowly upstairs together, she lifted her
face for his kiss. Her gentleness and affection made it hard
for him to speak; but there were words to be said that could
be no longer delayed; and when he had closed the room door, he
took her hands in his, and looked into her face with eyes that
told her all.
"You are going away, Roberto," she whispered.
"My love! Yes! To-night--this very hour I must go! Luis and
Dare also. Do not weep. I entreat you! My heart is heavy,
and your tears I cannot bear."
Then she answered, with a noble Composure: "I will give
you smiles and kisses. My good Roberto, so true and kind! I
will try to be worthy of you. Nay, but you must not weep--
Roberto!"
It was true. Quite unconsciously the troubled husband and
father was weeping. "I fear to leave you, dear Maria. All is
so uncertain. I can only ask you two favors; if you will
grant them, you will do all that can be done to send me away
with hope. Will you promise me to have nothing to do whatever
with Fray Ignatius; and to resist every attempt he may make to
induce you to go into a religious house of any kind?"
"I