. And old Tasio is dead. They buried him in the Chinese cemetery."

"Poor Don Astasio!" sighed Don Filipo. "And his books?"

"The devout thought it would be pleasing to God if they should
burn them; nothing escaped, not even the works of Cicero. The
gobernadorcillo was no check whatsoever."

They were both silent. At that moment, the melancholy song of Sisa
was heard. A child passed, limping, and running toward the place from
which the song came; it was Basilio. The little fellow had found
his home deserted and in ruins. He had been told about his mother;
of Crispin he had not heard a word. He had dried his tears, smothered
his grief, and without resting, started out to find Sisa.

She had come to the house of the new alferez. As usual, a sentinel
was pacing up and down. When she saw the soldier, she took to flight,
and ran as only a wild thing can. Basilio saw her, and fearing to
lose sight of her, forgot his wounded foot, and followed in hot
pursuit. Dogs barked, geese cackled, windows opened here and there,
to give passage to the heads of the curious; others banged to, from
fear of a new night of trouble. At this rate, the runners were soon
outside the pueblo, and Sisa began to moderate her speed. There was
a long distance between her and her pursuer.

"Mother!" he cried, when he could distinguish her.

No sooner did Sisa hear the voice than she again began to run madly.

"Mother, it's I," cried the child in despair. Sisa paid no
attention. The poor little fellow followed breathless. They were now
on the border of the wood.

Bushes, thorny twigs, and the roots of trees hindered their
progress. The child followed the vision of his mother, made clear now
and then by the moon's rays across the heavy foliage. They were in the
mysterious wood of the family of Ibarra. Basilio often stumbled and
fell, but he got up again, without feeling his hurts, or remembering
his lameness. All his life was concentrated in his eyes, which never
lost the beloved figure from view.

They crossed the brook, which was singing gently, and to his great
surprise, Basilio saw his mother press through the thicket and
enter the wooden door that closed the tomb of the old Spaniard. He
tried to follow her, but the door was fast. Sisa was defending the
entrance--holding the door closed with all her strength.

"Mother, it's I, it's I, Basilio, your son!" cried the child, falling
from fatigue. But Sisa would not budge. Her feet braced against