Basilio murmured his prayers and lay down near his mother, who was upon her knees praying. He felt hot and cold, he tried to close his eyes as he thought of his little brother who that night had expected to sleep in his mother's lap and who now was probably trembling with terror and weeping in some dark corner of the convento. His ears were again pierced with those cries he had heard in the church tower. But wearied nature soon began to confuse his ideas and the veil of sleep descended upon his eyes. He saw a bedroom where two dim tapers burned. The curate, with a rattan whip in his hand, was listening gloomily to something that the senior sacristan was telling him in a strange tongue with horrible gestures. Crispin quailed and turned his tearful eyes in every direction as if seeking some one or some hiding-place. The curate turned toward him and called to him irritably, the rattan whistled. The child ran to hide himself behind the sacristan, who caught and held him, thus exposing him to the curate's fury. The unfortunate boy fought, kicked, screamed, threw himself on the floor and rolled about. He picked himself up, ran, slipped, fell, and parried the blows with his hands, which, wounded, he hid quickly, all the time shrieking with pain. Basilio saw him twist himself, strike the floor with his head, he saw and heard the rattan whistle. In desperation his little brother rose. Mad with pain he threw himself upon his tormentor and bit him on the hand. The curate gave a cry and dropped the rattan--the sacristan caught up a heavy cane and struck the boy a blow on the head so that he fell stunned--the curate, seeing him down, trampled him with his feet. But the child no longer defended himself nor did he cry out; he rolled along the floor, a lifeless mass that left a damp track. [60] Sisa's voice brought him back to reality. "What's the matter? Why are you crying?" "I dreamed--O God!" exclaimed Basilio, sitting up, covered with perspiration. "It was a dream! Tell me, mother, that it was only a dream! Only a dream!" "What did you dream?" The boy did not answer, but sat drying his tears and wiping away the perspiration. The hut was in total darkness. "A dream, a dream!" repeated Basilio in subdued tones. "Tell me what you dreamed. I can't sleep," said his mother when he lay down again. "Well," he said in a low voice, "I dreamed that we had gone to glean the rice-stalks--in a field where there were many flowers--the women had baskets full of rice-stalks the men too had baskets full of rice-stalks--and the children too--I don't remember any more, mother, I don't remember the rest." Sisa had no faith in dreams, so she did not insist. "Mother, I've thought of a plan tonight," said Basilio after a few moments' silence. "What is your plan?" she asked. Sisa was humble in everything, even with her own sons, trusting their judgment more than her own. "I don't want to be a sacristan any longer." "What?"