IN the Calvareo that evening the Doña Dolores walked alone,
with only old Jacinta, the black nurse; black she was called, but her
hair alone was black--blue-black; her face was of that fiery brown
that marks the Venezuelan Indian; she was not fat, as most nurses, but
stood erect, with fierce lurid eyes, her hair in two tight braids, and
was following and watching her gentle charge. Jacinta had things to
do in our story; her race has nothing of the merry sloth, the gross
animality of the negro; what things Jacinta found to do, were done.
She was scarce a dozen years older than her mistress, and her form was
still as lithe, her step as firm and quick as that of that boy of hers,
now twelve, in the military school, training under the _soutane’d_
Jesuits for the service of the Church--or Bolivar. And in the Calvareo
also that evening were two men--nephew and uncle, both cousins of
Dolores--and not, of course, walking with her or speaking to her, save
by reverent bows; and, on the nephew’s part at least, by looks of fire.
Yet the uncle might, perhaps, have walked with her, even in Carácas;
for he, whom men called the General, despite his prouder titles, was
not her cousin only, but her guardian.
Dolores and her maid have traversed the spiral path to the summit of
the little hill; there is a little pool and fountain that the Moors,
generations back, had taught these people’s ancestors to build; and
from a bench among the orchids and the jasmine, and the charming
amaryllis lily, standing sentry by her, like a band of spearmen, sees
Dolores the lovely valley, purple in the first shadows of the short
tropic day, and, on the southern mountain, the white walls of the
Archbishop’s new convent; to the north, and higher, the little mountain
fort guarding the road to the coast, and, as she looks, it dips its
colors to the sunset, which are the yellow and red--the blood and
gold--of Spain, and the booming of its little cannon echoes down the
valley and the Angelus replies. Then she turns, and touches tenderly
(not plucks) a marvellous lonely flower that blooms beside her. It
is the Eucharis Amazonica, the lily of the Amazon, but known to her
only as the _Flor del Espiritu santo_--the flower of the Holy
Ghost. One moment, it seems that she will be disturbed. The younger
man has left the older on his walk--for they are not always together,
and gossip has made him suitor for his cousin’s hand, and he stands
a moment watching her, behind a group of tree-ferns. No lovelier a
girl had surely even his eyes ever rested on, as she sat there stilly,
though her wonderful eyes were lost to him, following the sunset. And
she was the greatest heiress in all the Spanish Main.
He might have stepped forward, into the open, to her, and no one but
Jacinta would have known. Perhaps he was about to do so; but suddenly
there appeared, on the hilltop beside them, a tall figure dressed in
a purple gown, with hood and trimmings of bright scarlet, looking
like a fuchsia flower; on his head was a little black velvet covering
shaped half like a crown. It was the young Jesuit, the Archbishop
of the Guianas. Dolores rose and kissed his hand, bending the knee
respectfully; he sat down beside her.