San Salvador was built on a plain that might once have been the bed of a
lake formed by mountain torrents partially confined. It was an irregular
oval, two miles in length from north to south, and a mile and a half
wide. As large an exact paralellogram as the space would allow was
surrounded by a deep canal, or river, shut in by balustrades on both
sides, and having its outlet southward through the mountains. This space
was the town, as compactly built as possible.
Across the centre, from east to west, ran a wide avenue that expanded at
middle length to a square. Seen from a height this avenue and square
looked like a huge cross laid down across the town. Narrow streets,
alternating with single blocks of houses, ran north and south, only an
open space of a few feet being left all round next the river. The
cross-streets did not make a complete separation of the houses, but cut
away only the basement and floor above, so that one looked across the
town through a succession of arches.
The houses were all of gray stone, three stories high, with a _patio_, a
flat roof, and two fronts. There was no sign of an outbuilding, nor was
there a blade of grass in the gray stone pavement that covered every
inch of ground inside the river. But there were plants on the roofs. At
each end of the avenue a bridge as wide crossed the river; and there
were four narrow bridges at each of the four sides of the town.
In the southern half of the square was a building called the Assembly,
from its use, or the Star-house, from its shape. It had three triangular
stories set one over the other in the shape of a six-pointed star, the
protruding angles forming vestibules below with their supporting
columns, and terraces above. These columns restored the symmetry of the
structure, and gave it grace and lightness.
In the northern square was a low bell-tower with a pulpit built against
its southern side. The first floor was an open room surrounded by
arches.
With the exception of these two structures, nothing could be more
monotonous in form and color than the whole town; while nothing could be
more varied than its setting.
That part of the plain outside the river, called the Cornice, had a
straight edge next the river and an outer edge that showed every wildest
caprice. Sometimes it ran into the mountains in bays, in curves and
rivers, and sometimes the mountains crowded it to within a few feet of
the river. All around rose the mountain wall, lined with hills, gentle,
or abrupt; and, inundating all, a flood of verdure was thrown up on
every side, like the waves of a sea. The ragged edges of the plain were
heavy with wheat, rice and corn; higher up were orchards, vineyards, and
terraced gardens, and a smoke of olives curling about everywhere, and
groves of trees crowded into sunny hollows, and wedges of pines thrust
upward, diminishing till the last tree stood alone beneath a gigantic
cornice-rim of rock, snow and ice,—
“Where the olive dare not venture,
And the pine-tree’s courage fails.”
Around the middle distance of this garden-zone was a wavering path, now
visible to the town, now lost, with frequent dropping paths, half
stairs, to the plain. This path was called the Ring. Here and there was
a glistening watercourse, or cascade; and the whole garden-circle was
sparsely dotted with little cottages, some of them scarcely more than
huts.
Two great masses of rock detached from the mountains were connected with
them by bridges. That at the southwest was covered with a building
containing a school for boys, that at the northeast had the hospital.
Directly opposite the eastern end of the avenue was the largest building
in the town, called the Arcade. Here was the girls’ school, and a hotel
for women.
It was here that Tacita Mora stood, in the long wide veranda that
followed the whole irregular front of the building, and looked for the
first time on the city of her birth. But of all this scene, splendid by
daylight, in that midnight hour she saw only a bold mountain outline
high against the stars, with an embroidery of shadows beneath, and lower
yet, a gray bas-relief that as it approached nearer became houses.
Presently, the waning moon came up over the mountains behind the Arcade,
and set a snow-peak glistening opposite, and half unveiled a ghostly
sheeted avalanche, and penciled here and there a clearer outline, and
showed the embossed surface of the plain cleft smoothly across from
beneath the veranda where she stood to something far away that seemed
like a white wavering cascade, with a fiery sparkle above it as the moon
rose higher.
The desire to know more, to see nearer, to assure herself by actual
touch that this was not all a twilight _mirage_ became irresistible.
“Be free as in your father’s house,” Elena had said to her.
There was no sign nor sound of any one abroad. The soft rustle of
running waters alone moved the silence.
Tacita found the last stair and went out. In that delicate airy
illumination the avenue disclosed itself before her, and the white
object far away became stationary. But the sparkle above it had
disappeared. She went forward timidly, pausing to listen, turning to
retreat, and again advancing, at once resolute and afraid.
A few silvery bird-notes floated through the silence; a white network of
cloud, like a bed of anemones, veiled the moon’s crescent.
Tacita, gathering courage and excited by the spirit of adventure,
hastened till she reached the Square, paused there but a moment, and
then hurried on toward that white object which was her goal. It was a
little above the level of the town; it took shape as she drew nearer,
and became the façade of a white building with a fragmentary glimmering
across it and above; it showed a background of dark rock, and a plateau
in front surrounded by a white balustrade. In all the town there was
nothing white except this building and the balustrade raised and
overlooking every other building. In a Christian community only a church
would be so enthroned.
Tacita crossed the bridge, and went to kneel on the steps leading from
the level to the inclosed terrace. There was a smooth façade with a
great door in receding arches in the centre, above a flight of white
steps, five rose windows following the arched line of the roof, and
something like a gilded lettering across the middle height.
As the anemone-cloud drew away from the moon, the letters grew distinct,
and the text shone out full and clear:—
I AM THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD.
At sight of that shining legend aloft, something stirred in the girl’s
memory. A thick curtain of years parted, showing a distinct fragment of
the past. Once, long ago, she had looked up at that white expanse and
seen upon its front the line of shining figures. Her hands held the soft
fold of a dress, and a hand rested lightly on her head. In her memory
the bright figures were associated with the idea of a great golden lamp,
softly luminous, swung by a golden chain down from the skies, and of a
face all radiant, and a sweet voice that said: _Of such is the kingdom
of heaven_.
“I must have stood on this very spot with my mother while she explained
the words to me, and told how he blessed little children.”
When the bee has gathered all the honey that it can carry, it flies
home.
Tacita’s heart was full. She wanted no more that night.
But there was no timidity in her return. The place was walled in as by a
host of angels. The fold of her mother’s dress seemed yet within her
grasp, and the flowing water was a song of peace.
The candle, burnt low, was where she had left it on the stair, and all
was silent and deserted on the way up to her chamber.