"She's going in! Let's go in too!" they exclaimed. Sisa felt her heart beating violently as she ascended the stairs. She did not know just what to say to the padre to placate his wrath or what reasons she could advance in defense of her son. That morning at the first flush of dawn she had gone into her garden to pick the choicest vegetables, which she placed in a basket among banana-leaves and flowers; then she had looked along the bank of the river for the _pakó_ which she knew the curate liked for salads. Putting on her best clothes and without awakening her son, she had set out for the town with the basket on her head. As she went up the stairway she, tried to make as little noise as possible and listened attentively in the hope that she might hear a fresh, childish voice, so well known to her. But she heard nothing nor did she meet any one as she made her way to the kitchen. There she looked into all the corners. The servants and sacristans received her coldly, scarcely acknowledging her greeting. "Where can I put these vegetables?" she asked, not taking any offense at their coldness. "There, anywhere!" growled the cook, hardly looking at her as he busied himself in picking the feathers from a capon. With great care Sisa arranged the vegetables and the salad leaves on the table, placing the flowers above them. Smiling, she then addressed one of the servants, who seemed to be more approachable than the cook: "May I speak with the padre?" "He's sick," was the whispered answer. "And Crispin? Do you know if he is in the sacristy?" The servant looked surprised and wrinkled his eyebrows. "Crispin? Isn't he at your house? Do you mean to deny it?" "Basilio is at home, but Crispin stayed here," answered Sisa, "and I want to see him." "Yes, he stayed, but afterwards he ran away, after stealing a lot of things. Early this morning the curate ordered me to go and report it to the Civil Guard. They must have gone to your house already to hunt for the boys." Sisa covered her ears and opened her mouth to speak, but her lips moved without giving out any sound. "A pretty pair of sons you have!" exclaimed the cook. "It's plain that you're a faithful wife, the sons are so like the father. Take care that the younger doesn't surpass him." Sisa broke out into bitter weeping and let herself fall upon a bench. "Don't cry here!" yelled the cook. "Don't you know that the padre's sick? Get out in the street and cry!" The unfortunate mother was almost shoved down the stairway at the very time when the Sisters were coming down, complaining and making conjectures about the curate's illness, so she hid her face in her pañuelo and suppressed the sounds of her grief. Upon reaching the street she looked about uncertainly for a moment and then, as if having reached a decision, walked rapidly away. CHAPTER XIX A Schoolmaster's Difficulties El vulgo es necio y pues lo paga, es justo Hablarle en necio para darle el gusto. [62]