-Xix- · III

The chaplain attempted to dissuade her: he feared she would overtire herself, that she would catch cold crossing the salons and going down to the cloister. The lady made no other answer than to lay aside her needlework, wrap herself in her shawl, and set off. They traversed at a brisk pace the file of spacious, unfurnished, almost empty rooms where their footsteps re-echoed hollowly. From time to time Nucha turned her head back to see if her companion was following her, and the gesture of turning it revealed agitation and dread. In her right hand she swung a bunch of keys. They emerged onto the upper cloister, and by a very steep little flight of stairs descended to the lower one, whose arcades were of stone.

Arriving at the paved courtyard that enclosed the solemn cloister, Nucha pointed to a pillar into which an iron ring was embedded, from which there still hung a link eaten away with rust.

“Do you know what this was?” she murmured in a hushed voice.

“I do not know,” answered Julián.

“Pedro says,” explained the lady, “that here was the chain with which his grandparents kept a black slave chained... Does it not seem incredible that such cruelties were practiced? What evil times those were, Julián!”

“Madam... Don Máximo Juncal, who thinks of nothing but politics, is always talking of that; but look you, every age has its rough stretch of road... Plenty of barbarities are committed nowadays, and religion has been undone since these brawls began.”

“Yet because here,” observed Nucha, simply formulating a historical and philosophical observation of considerable scope, “one sees nothing but the atrocities of the lords of former times... it seems they are the only ones that give one food for thought... Why are men such bad Christians?” she added, parting her lips in candid wonder.

The sky darkened further at the moment Nucha expressed herself thus; a flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the depths of the cloister arcades and the lady’s face, which in the greenish light took on the tragic look of a carved image.

“Blessed Saint Barbara!” murmured the chaplain piously, with a shudder. “Let us go back upstairs, madam... It is thundering. As we had no autumn gales this year... naturally, the equinox will not pass without this... Shall we go up?”

“No,” resolved Nucha, determined to fight her own terrors. “This is the cellar door... Which will be the key?”

She searched for it for some time in the bunch. On inserting it into the lock and pushing open the door, another flash of lightning bathed in phantasmagoric light the place she was about to enter; the chariot of thunder rolled, slow at first, then hoarse and formidable, like a voice swollen with wrath, and Nucha recoiled in terror.

“What is the matter, dear lady? What is the matter?” cried the chaplain.

“Nothing... nothing!” stammered the lady of Ulloa. “It seemed to me as I opened the door that a great big dog was sitting in there, and that it stood up and sprang at me to bite me... Can I be out of my mind? Yet I would swear I saw it.”

“The sweet Name of Jesus! No, madam, it is because it is cold here, because it thunders, because it is madness to go rummaging in the cellars now... Go back inside; I will search for whatever is needed.”

“No,” replied Nucha firmly. “It really vexes me to be so foolish... I want to go in first, so that you may see that I understand perfectly that it is all nonsense... Have you the match?” she called from within already.

The chaplain struck it, and by its more than doubtful light they saw the cellar, or rather caught a glimpse of the walls dripping with moisture; the confused heap of objects banished there as useless and rotting in the corners; that assemblage of shapeless and therefore fearful and vague things. In the gloom of that almost subterranean place, in that clutter of old junk discarded as worthless and abandoned to the rats, the leg of a table looked like a mummified arm, the face of a clock was the whitish countenance of a corpse, and a pair of worm-eaten riding-boots protruding from between papers and rags awakened in the fancy the idea of a murdered man hidden there. Nevertheless, Nucha, with resolute step, walked straight toward that damp and fearful chaos, and, with the choked and trembling voice of those who have just gained a great victory over themselves, called out:

“Here is the chest... Let them bring it up for me later...”

She emerged greatly cheered, pleased with her resolution, victorious in her hand-to-hand struggle with the manor house that frightened her. On ascending the little staircase again, she was once more overtaken by the crash of a deeper, louder, and nearer thunderclap than the former ones. It was necessary to light the candle of the Blessed Sacrament and recite the Trisagion!

This they did at once. The candle was set upon Nucha’s chest of drawers: a taper still rather long, of orange-coloured wax, with many gutters and a wick that spluttered and would not burn steadily. Before kneeling, they closed the wooden shutters of the window, to prevent the dazzling glance of the lightning from blinding them every minute. The wind roared with increasing fury, and the thunderstorm had stationed itself directly over the Pazos, its din sounding just as though a squadron of horses were galloping across the roof, or a giant were amusing himself by dragging a great rock and rolling it bumping over the tiles. With what fervor did the chaplain begin to lead the mysterious Trisagion! Humbling himself before the divine wrath whose violence shook and caused the Pazos to tremble as if it were a hut, he pronounced:

From sudden death by lightning and thunderbolt deliver us through this Trisagion, and set Thy seal upon him who recites it: and take heed...

Nucha, suddenly, sprang to her feet with a shriek, and ran to the sofa, where she threw herself down, breaking into interrupted hysterical peals of laughter that sounded like weeping. Her clenched hands tore at the hooks and eyes of her dress, or pressed her temples, or dug into the cushions of the sofa, clawing at them with fury... Inexperienced though he was, Julián understood what was happening: the inevitable spasm, the explosion of repressed terror, the price paid for poor Nucha’s display of courage...

“Filomena, Filomena! Here, woman, here... Water, vinegar... that little bottle... Where is the phial that came from the apothecary in Cebre? Loosen her dress... I am turning my back, woman, you had no need to tell me... Cold cloths to her temples... If it thunders, let it thunder! Let it thunder... Attend to the mistress... Fan her with this paper, even... Is she covered and loosened now? I will give it to her, little by little... Let her breathe the vinegar well...”