“He must have said Brahmins,” interrupted Rafael.

“Yes, that’s it:  and Bonzes, too—­just joking, of course—­I remember very well.  But finally he compromised and let her be baptized with the orthodox name of ‘Leonor.’  Not that he cared what they called her in the church.  As he went out he said to the priest:  “She will be ‘Leonora’ for reasons that please her father, and which you wouldn’t understand even if I were to explain them to you.”  What a hubbub followed!  Don Ramon and I had to interfere to calm the good curates; they were for sending him up for sacrilege, insult to religion, what not!  We had to go some to quiet things down.  In those days, boy, a matter of that sort was more serious than killing a man.”

“Which name did she keep?” asked a friend of Rafael.

“Leonora, as her father wished.  That girl always took after the old man.  Just as queer as he was.  The Doctor all over again!  I haven’t seen her yet.  They say she’s a stunning beauty, like her mother, who was a blonde, and the handsomest girl in all these parts.  When the Doctor had dressed his wife up like a lady, she wasn’t much for manners, but she certainly was something to look at....”

“And what became of Moreno?” asked another.  “Is it true, as they said years ago, that he shot himself?”

“Oh, some say one thing, some another.  Perhaps it’s all a lie.  Who knows!  It all happened so far away....  After the Republic fell, it was the turn of decent people again.  Poor Moreno took it all harder than he did the death of his Teresa, and kept himself locked up in his house day in, day out.  Your father was stronger than before and we ran things in a way that was a sight for sore eyes!  Don Antonio up in Madrid gave orders to the Governors to give us a free hand in cleaning up everything that was left of the Revolution.  The people who before had been cheering for the Doctor all the time, now kept away from him for fear we should catch them.  Some afternoons he would go for a walk in the suburbs, or a stroll over to his sister’s orchard, near the river—­always with Leonora at his side.  She was now about eleven years old.  All his affection was centered on her.  Poor Doctor!  How things had changed from the days when his mobs would meet the troops shot for shot in the streets of Alcira, shouting vivas for the Federal Republic!...  In his solitude and in all the dejection coming from the defeat of his perverted ideas, he took more than ever to music.  He had but one joy left him.  Leonora loved music as much as he.  She learned her lessons rapidly; and soon could accompany her father’s violoncello on the piano.  They would spend the days playing together, going through the whole pile of music sheets they kept stored in the attic along with those accursed medical books.  Besides, the little girl showed she had a voice, and it seemed to grow fuller and more beautiful every day.  ‘She will be a singer, a great singer,’ her father proclaimed enthusiastically.  And when some tenant of his or one of his dependents came into the house and could hardly believe his ears at the sweetness of the little angel’s voice, the Doctor would rub his hands and gleefully exclaim:  ’What do you think of the little lady, eh?...  Some day people in Alcira will be proud she was born here.’”