"Fire-crackers, I want fire-crackers!" cried the little boy.
"And what do you want?" the grandfather asked Basilio. The boy got up and went to the old man.
"Señor," he said, "have I been ill more than a month?"
"Since we found you, faint and covered with wounds, two moons have passed. We thought you were going to die----"
"May God reward you; we are very poor," said Basilio; "but as to-day is Christmas, I want to go to the pueblo to see my mother and my little brother. They must have been looking everywhere for me."
"But, son, you aren't well yet, and it is far to your pueblo. You would not get there till midnight. My sons will want to see you when they come from the forest."
"You have many children, but my mother has only us two; perhaps she thinks me dead already. I want to give her a present to-night--a son!"
"You are as sensible as an old man! Go, find your mother, give her her present! Go, my son. God and the Lord Jesus go with you!"
"What, you're not going to stay and see my fire-crackers?" said the little boy.
"I want you to play hide and seek!" pouted the little girl; "nothing else is so much fun."
Basilio smiled and his eyes filled with tears.
"I shall come back soon," he said, "and bring my little brother; then you can play with him. But I must go away now with Lucia."
"Don't forget us!" said the old man, "and come back when you are well." The children all accompanied him to the bridge of bamboo over the rushing torrent. Lucia, who was going to the first pueblo with her basket, made him lean on her arm; the other children watched them both out of sight.
The north wind was blowing, and the dwellers in San Diego were trembling with cold. It was the Nochebuena, and yet the pueblo was sad. Not a paper lantern hung in the windows, no noise in the houses announcing the joyful time, as in other years.
At the home of Captain Basilio, the master of the house is talking with Don Filipo; the troubles of these times have made them friends.
"You are in rare luck, to be released at just this moment," Captain Basilio was saying to his guest. "They've burned your books, that's true; but others have fared worse."
A woman came up to the window and looked in. Her eyes were brilliant, her face haggard, her hair loose; the moon made her uncanny.