The mass began. Every one arose. The heat was intense, and the anticipation of the approaching ceremony held all spellbound.
Batora alone was not absorbed by it. Her face was white and her eyes feverish, and though the latter were directed toward the altar they saw something entirely different.
Near Batora were three women standing upon a bench, and one of them was holding in her arms a chubby infant with cheeks like roses. The laughter and playfulness of the babe were diverting the women and relieving the tension of delay. The young mother was pale and thin, but in spite of that her features showed traces of great beauty. It was Sadurra, in ill health and shabbily dressed. She saw her mother`s cold and indifferent manner, and made an effort to restrain her tears.
“Not even one look at the `bambino, who is so pretty, and who in addition bears the name of its dead grandfather!” No! her mother was doubtless beside herself with rage, and was calling down curses on the curly head of the innocent. At the idea Sadurra could no longer refrain from weeping, and was tempted to leave the church.
But Batora did not curse the “bambino,” and the sight of it even softened the anger which the presence of Sadurra had aroused. She had never seen the child, and had not realized how deeply she could be affected. It was the first time, also, that she had seen her daughter since her marriage.
How changed she was! She seemed like a beggar. She seemed—“Zia” Batora had not yet explored the depths of her heart. Under the layers of resentment and anger, perhaps some little pity for her daughter might be concealed.
Signora Santissima! How pretty the child is, and the eyes, how like its grandfather`s. No! no! they are more like that vile race of the Nieglia.
The mass proceeded. The bell rang for the elevation of the Host, and for a moment all was hushed. “Zia” Batora prayed, but only with her lips. She was conscious of nothing save the tumult of voices within her. Anger, humiliation, and regret; bitterness and tenderness; hate, pity, and love were mingled together in her heart, and engaged in a maddening struggle. The multitude of people sank upon their knees.
“Gezti, Gezii!” cried “Zia” Batora, covering her face with her hands. “Nostra Signora mia! Have pity on me! Have pity on me!”
Experienced an inexpressible sensation
She felt the eyes of her daughter fixed upon her and experienced an inexpressible sensation of grief. She yearned to kiss the cheeks of her grandchild, and at the same time longed to dash its head against the wall. Sadurra had simply brought the infant for the purpose of stirring up the past, and her enemies were watching her humiliation with smiles of satisfaction!
“Dio Santissimo.” It was torture! Would the mass never be finished?
The rapt attention grew more intense; morbid curiosity and fear had driven the crowd almost to a frenzy. Women fainted from heat and fatigue, and were trampled under foot. Even the merry-makers and vendors had pushed their way into the church. Behind the choir a group of gendarmerie added color to the picture.
“Zia” Batora was nearly suffocated in her heavy bonnet and long black veil, and found herself pushed to the very foot of the bench on which Sadurra was standing. Her agitation was increased by fear of the supernatural, and she felt sure her trembling was noticeable to all about her.
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