II

Delfina de Capalleja, after months of deferred hope, stood with the crowd at the dock, awaiting the return of the troop which had gone to defend the Mission of San Gabriel in its building.  There was no flutter of colour beneath her white skin, and the heavy lids almost concealed the impatient depths of her eyes; the proud repose of her head indicated a profound reserve and self-control.  Over her white gown and black dense hair she wore a black lace mantilla, fastened below the throat with a large yellow rose.

The ship swung to anchor and answered the salute from the fort.  Boats were lowered, but neither officers nor soldiers descended.  The murmur of disappointment on shore rose to a shout of execration.  Then, as the ship’s captain and passengers landed, a whisper ran through the crowd, a wail, and wild sobbing.  They flung themselves to the earth, beating their heads and breasts,—­all but Delfina de Capalleja, who drew her mantilla about her face and walked away.

The authorities of the city of Mexico yielded to public clamour and determined to cast a silver bell in honour of the slaughtered captain and his men.  The casting was to take place in the great plaza before the cathedral, that all might attend:  it was long since any episode of war had caused such excitement and sorrow.  The wild character and remoteness of the scene of the tragedy, the meagreness of detail which stung every imagination into action, the brilliancy and popularity of De la Torre, above all, the passionate sympathy felt for Delfina de Capalleja, served to shake society from peak to base, and no event had ever been anticipated with more enthusiasm than the casting of that silver bell.

No one had seen Delfina since the arrival of the news had broken so many hearts, and great was the curiosity regarding her possible presence at the ceremony.  Universal belief was against her ever again appearing in public; some said that she was dead, others that she had gone into a convent, but a few maintained that she would be high priestess at the making of the bell which was to be the symbol and monument of her lover’s gallantry and death.

The hot sun beat upon the white adobe houses of the stately city.  At the upper end of the plaza, bending and swaying, coquetting and languishing, were women clad in rich and vivid satins, their graceful heads and shoulders draped with the black or white mantilla; caballeros, gay in velvet trousers laced with gold, and serape embroidered with silver.  Eyes green and black and blue sparkled above the edge of large black fans; fiery eyes responded from beneath silver-laden sombreros.  The populace, in gala attire, crowded the rest of the plaza and adjacent streets, chattering and gesticulating.  But all looked in vain for Delfina de Capalleja.

Much ceremony attended the melting of the bell.  Priests in white robes stiff with gold chanted prayers above the silver bubbling in the caldron.  A full-robed choir sang the Te Deum; the regiment to which De la Torre had belonged fired salutes at intervals; the crowd sobbed and shouted.