«Ainda tinhamos bem presente na imaginação a narrativa americana subordinada ao titulo «The little saints», com que aprouve a mrs. J. Ousten honrar a ilha do Pico, narrativa publicada n’um numero do «Harper e New Monthly Magazine» e a qual se não demonstra uma rigorosa exactidão dos factos, ao menos revela na sua illustre authora propensões muito apreciaves para, com o decurso do tempo, acrescentar ainda alguns contos as Mile Uma Noites, quando n’um dos ultimos dias veio-nos ter as mãos um livro inglez «In the trades, the tropics and the roaring forties», no qual algumas paginas relativas a essa grande digressão effectuada no hiate de recreio, a vapor, «The Sumbeam» tratam d’este archipelago e designadamente da ilha de São Miguel.»

Mas, de que se trata? Na realidade, o nome da senhora, escritora americana popular na altura, é Jane G. Austin (25 de Fevereiro de 1831 – 30 de Março de 1894), e, como diz Ernesto Rebelo, tinha publicado uns bons 17 anos antes, na «Harper’s New Monthly Magazine» de Janeiro de 1872, vol. 44, n.º 260, páginas 281-288, um conto negro intitulado «The Little Saints», passado no Pico. Para quem estiver interessado, está transcrito abaixo.

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The Little Saints.

Wandering around the world in the enforced idleness resulting from overwork in a laborious profession, I found myself in the island of Pico just as the vintage season commenced, and resolved to remain there for some weeks at least.

Accommodation, as innkeepers understand the word, there was none; but the means of life were to be had; and with a little trouble I succeeded in hiring a small house, the landlord kindly throwing in the services of a couple of sheep, who were driven through the various rooms before I entered, that the fleas might involve themselves in their heavy fleeces, and so be carried forth to “green fields and pastures new.” A bedstead of domestic manufacture, a sack of striped tow filled with fragrant heather, tow sheets, and coarse blankets, with my own traveling plaid for counterpane, a few chairs, a table—at least I think it was a table, but it might have been almost any thing else—some gaudy crockery-ware and a spoon and fork from my dressing-case completed my housekeeping arrangements. Besides these I had Tia, Pataco-falso, and Carocho; the first being a woman, old, ugly, and useful, her true name being lost in the mist of ages, and her title of Tia, or aunt, belonging also to every woman of her years and station living beneath the Portuguese flag. Of Pataco-falso’s baptismal and family names I am equally ignorant, nor could I ever ascertain how he came by his sobriquet, which means a bad copper five-cent piece. But he did not strike me as likely to have been a coiner, or, in fact, any thing else arguing any amount of skill, or the possession of a brain, being simply a long-legged, swarthy lad, with a shock of black hair thatching a Murillo-like face, expressive of nothing but stolid simplicity and animal good nature. With all his simplicity, however, he got the better of my traveled astuteness, and concluded a bargain for his services during my stay in Pico at the rate of fifty cents per day, before I discovered this sum to be a little more than twice the current rate of day wages for a laborer in that favored isle. His principal duty was that of attendant upon Carocho, or the Cockroach, this third and final member of my household being a small and very curly donkey, whose strength and endurance of body were only excelled by the vicious perversity of his temper. His equipments consisted of a huge pad in shape and size resembling a feather-bed, over which was tightly strapped a wooden frame, suggesting the first vague germ of our modern saddles; upon this was laid a cushion of red calico filled with some sharp-edged substances, possibly pebbles, possibly chips; and over this again was thrown a gay striped blanket, whose usual fate was to slide gently to the ground in the course of the first hour’s journeying. Upon the throne thus constructed sat Carocho’s rider, his two feet dangling stirrupless at one side, the reins looped to the andilhas of the incipient saddle, upon which also rested his hands in the imbecile fashion peculiar to this mode of equi-, or, perhaps, asi-tation. Behind walked or trotted Pataco-falso, armed with a long stick, supple, strong, and heavy, the end provided with a metal tip sharpened to a point, and with this stick and this goad were the unfortunate Corocho’s sides, haunches, and flanks so intimately acquainted that I sincerely hope use had with him become second nature, and that he no longer suffered from the infliction.

I have said that it was the vintage season, and this in Pico means the bluest sky and sunniest sea of the year, and delicious fragrance of grapes, figs, bananas, and many another fruit ripening between the sunshine and the hot black lava soil; it means the hum of bees, the song of birds, the chirping of insects, the gay shouts of men, and the tinkling laughter of girls as they pursue their happy toil in the vineyards, or come stepping down the stony paths toward the wine-press, the heaped baskets of grapes poised easily upon their heads, and their full, stately figures swaying gracefully beneath the fragrant burden. And the grapes! Small and amber-colored, they seem still to glow and taste and smell of the fierce sunshine which has ripened them, each little globe containing the essence of a summer day. But no amount of description really describes beauty, whether of place, person, or thing; so leaving the scenery, the girls, and the grapes behind, I go on to my story, for I have one, and a curious one.

It was toward night of a delicious day that we—that is, I, Pataco-falso, and Carocho—were dragging wearily home after a long ramble among the mountain paths, and found ourselves by chance upon a road new to me, but commanding so remarkably fine a view of the bay and of Fayal that I tugged at the donkey’s rein, shouting, “E-e-e-e! Venha ca!” desiring him to pause and allow me to enjoy it; but my attendant interposed in his peculiar English.

“Oh, senhor! No good here! Come along down very quick! Passa-ca-asno!”—the last phrase addressed to Carocho, and accompanied with a dig of the goad which caused that worthy creature to lash out behind with great vigor and animosity. “E-e-e-e! Be quiet, you brute! What do you mean, Pataco-falso? Why isn’t it good here? What’s the matter?”

“Os Santinhos! No bon, no good! Come down, senhor.” And Pataco-falso, crossing himself vigorously with one hand, pointed with the other toward a rough wall twelve or fifteen feet in height skirting the road for several hundred yards in front of us.

“The Little Saints!” repeated I, staring at the wall, which, built of masses of black lava laid in dark mortar, suggested no more saintly idea than that of a garden or vineyard carefully protected from the furious winds of spring.

“Little Saints! where are they? what do you mean, Pataco-falso?” repeated I; while Carocho, inspired by some private hint from the goad, indulged in another fling with his heels, and then set off at a pace that left me no breath for more than laughter until we had so far passed the gloomy wall that my desire to remain in its vicinity had become of no avail. Then, and not until then, did my cunning attendant allow Carocho to subside into good behavior, and me to find breath and opportunity for addressing him. My first remarks were naturally of a reproachful nature, but failed so completely in awakening that moral sense in which, I fear, Pataco-falso was totally deficient that I soon abandoned them, and, reverting to our original subject of dispute, demanded the meaning of my servant’s abhorrence of the black, high wall, and why he had given it the title of Santinhos, or Little Saints. For some time I could get no answer but,

“Oh, senhor! Nas[ã] é bon, it is not good; very bad place; not good to talk about,” etc., etc.; but by judicious questioning, some wholesome severity, and the present of a cigar, I at last extracted the information that behind the wall was a house built by a rich man from Fayal, who had lived there in a very secluded manner with his young wife, and three children who were supposed to be his own, although other reports made him only their guardian. In course of time the children died, and were buried somewhere within the grounds, and a sort of mystery and terror began to settle over the place. The servants, who had come from Fayal with their master, never appeared outside the walls, and such supplies from the village as were required were taken in at the gate by a steward called Maestro José, who never encouraged either gossip or delay on the part of the messenger. But one morning all this came to an end; for as a party of mountain villagers were passing the great red wooden doors which alone gave access to the estate, one of them was violently pulled open, and a white-clad, barefooted woman rushed out shrieking fearfully, and always, as she ran, turning her head to look over her shoulder like one pursued. Behind her came Maestro José, his face white and stern, his hair streaming in the morning breeze, his whole air disordered and terrified. Seeing the peasants, he stopped short, and pointing to the flying figure, now almost out of sight, he said:

“Go after the poor senhora and bring her back: she has lost her wits, and no wonder. My master is dead, and she was with him, she and the—”

Then he stopped, and not another word would he say, nor would he allow any of the party to step inside the great red gates, which, indeed, he locked, and put the key in his pocket, remaining on the outside himself. Two of the young men set off in pursuit of the unfortunate senhora, and about half a mile from the gate found her lying beside the road in a deep swoon. They brought her back and delivered her to Maestro José, who, without a word, took her in his arms and carried her inside the gate, which he again locked in the faces of the little crowd outside.

Three days more went by, and then Maestro José sent for the priest of the next village to bring the sacrament to a dying person. So much was known; for the whole village saw the solemn procession, and, indeed, most of them followed it; but at the garden door stood Maestro José waiting to receive them, and so soon as the padre, with his attendants and the holy symbols that they bore, passed in, he slammed the gate and locked it as fast as ever.

When the priest again appeared some of the more influential of the villagers ventured to make inquiries concerning his visit, but were only informed that the senhora was in extremis, and the senhor already buried. Two days more, and again Padre Xavier was summoned within the close-mouthed gates, and this time to bury the unhappy woman whom he had shriven a few hours before. After this Maestro José, with all the rest of the servants, returned to Fayal, and by the next opportunity took passage for Brazil, where a certain property had been bequeathed to them by their late master.

After this the place remained closed, and although known to belong to a family of Fayal, had never been visited by any member of it, so far, at least, as Pico information went.

“But why the name of Santinhos, Pataco-falso?” inquired I, as my retainer paused in his story.

“Because, senhor, of the pequeninos, the little children of the wicked Senhor Francisco.”

“What of them? Come, Pataco, here is another cigar; light it, and tell me the rest of the story: the smoke will keep off the ‘diabos’ that you are afraid of.”

Crossing himself fervently, and glancing over his shoulder as if expecting the imps referred to were already at his heels, Pataco took heart of grace, and in a lower voice and yet more earnest gesticulation than he had yet used, he told how a party of young men from the village, moved partly by curiosity and partly by a hope of picking up some little matters of property that might have been left behind in the sudden removal of the household, had scaled the wall, and were on the point of entering the house, when one of them, left on watch, had seen the figures of three little children, all clothed in shining white, and with a light like that of the rising moon about their heads, come out of the closely shaded path leading to the garden, and, mounting the terrace, disappear within the house; much frightened, he was hastening to warn his companions, when from within the thick walls of the building rang out such a shriek, in the shrill voice of a woman, that those who heard started back as if shot, and then, tumbling over each other, fled hastily down the steps, and through the grounds and over the wall, never pausing until safe out of sight and hearing of the unlucky spot.

“For, senhor,” whispered Pataco, laying a finger upon my arm and opening his glaring dark eyes very wide, “at the back of that garden is where Maestro José buried those three babies, and from there they come every night to meet those that—eh, eh, senhor, it is not lucky to talk much of these things; but now you see that because they were so good, and so unfortunate—not to mention having shining things round their heads, and white clothes like the little Jesus in the church—we call them the Little Saints, and the house the Casa da Santinhos, which is surely better than to give it a bad name, is it not? Adios, senhor.”

“Adios—good-night, Pataco-falso,” replied I, absently; and so soon as my valet had left me I lighted yet another cigar, and quietly letting myself out of the house, strolled away in the moonlight. At first I walked along without any definite plan, merely enjoying the warm, dry air and splendid radiance of the sky while musing over the story I had just heard. Presently, however, I found myself upon the road to Os Santinhos, and without really knowing why I should wish to put myself to so much trouble and fatigue, I resolved to keep on, and take a closer view of the place than I had as yet been permitted to do.

The distance of about three miles was quickly passed, and before midnight I found myself beneath the high black wall at the point where it made an angle with the side wall, which was not nearly so high, as it only divided the grounds from a neighboring vineyard. Over this side wall I decided to make my entrance, and at some little distance from the road I selected a favorable spot; and with some scrambling, the sacrifice of a pair of boots and a good many stones out of the wall, I found myself upon the top, and by the help of a convenient chestnut-tree let myself down upon the other side. The house stood before me, white and ghostly in the moonlight, the latticed windows of the upper story without shutters, but those below entirely covered. A balcony ran around three sides of the house, and upon it these upper windows opened after the manner of doors.

“Since I am here, I may as well see the whole,” muttered I; and mounting the steps leading to the terrace, I walked slowly around the house, looking for some means of entrance below or for a convenient point of ascent to the balcony. I had passed around the moon-lighted sides, and was entering upon the darkest part of my journey, when a faint scream close at my elbow was followed by the fluttering sound of a woman’s garments and the fall of rapid feet, as a dark figure rushed past me and out of sight in the direction of the gate.

I do not lay claim to any more courage than is common to my sex, but I may safely say that to startle me in this fashion is not the way to dissuade me from any pursuit, and I was now more than ever determined to explore the ill-omened house before me; so, after a moment’s pause, I kept on, peering through the gloom at the wall as I passed in search of a door. About half-way to the next angle I saw one, and turning the handle, found to my great surprise that it yielded to my hand, and admitted me at once to the sagao [saguão], or cellar-like entrance hall common to all Azorean houses of the better class. Here I stopped to strike a light by means of my pocket match-case, which, much to my vexation, proved to contain but two matches. One of them I drew across the stone wall, and as it flashed into light I held it above my head and stared about me. It was a low, wide hall, supported by stone pillars, and of indefinite extent. Many doors opened at either side, giving entrance, no doubt, to store-rooms and cellars; and at the far end another, which, even as I looked, opened slowly from within, letting out a faint streak of light, and showing a white figure standing motionless upon the steps inside. A sort of thrill ran through my body—perhaps it was fright; I do not know; but, at any rate, my next impulse was to rush forward through the dim vault toward the open door. As the sound of my feet upon the stones woke the gloomy echoes of the place, the figure turned and fled up the stairs, silently and swiftly as a cloud; but the door remained open, and, guided by the light, I pursued as swiftly. The stairs terminated in a long corridor running through the house and pierced with many doors. One of these was just swinging together as I reached the landing, and rushing forward, I pushed it violently open. A faint sound, a sort of gasping sob, greeted my entrance, and in the dim moonlight that filled the room I saw the white figure flit through another door at the far end of the place. Leaping forward, I laid my hand upon the door before it could be closed, and pushed my way into the small chamber behind it. This, lighted only by one window, and that at the north, was yet darker than the other room and the staircase, both of which received the full light of the moon; but still I could discover the shadowy white figure, no longer flying, but crouched in the farthest corner of the room, the head bent down, and the face hidden by the hands.

“At last!” exclaimed I, rushing forward and laying my hand upon the bowed head. I had so fully prepared myself for the shock of feeling nothing beneath my fingers that I really experienced something of terror in finding a real head; and it was only with an effort that I returned to my usual prosaic mode of thought, and regarded the figure before me as that of an ordinary mortal, apparently a woman, and one who, perhaps, had a right where certainly I had none. Filled with this last idea, I was beginning some sort of apology both for my presence and my conduct, when to my dismay the drooping head drooped still farther, the figure swayed sideways, and it became evident that the fugitive had fainted as she sat.

“Proved that it is a woman, and mortal; but what am I to do with her?” muttered I, in all the perplexity of a bachelor. Remembering that fresh air and cold water were always alluded to in romances as appropriate restoratives, I dashed open the window, dragged the unconscious figure close beside it, and collecting in my hand some drops of water still standing in a hollow of the stone balcony after the morning’s shower, I sprinkled them in the white face, which I began to notice was very young and something more than fair.

“The deuce! a young lady! What a mess!” thought I, in comic despair, not lessened by perceiving that my patient was reviving. It was a very pretty sight, no doubt, to watch the dark eyes as they slowly opened and turned languidly from side to side, while the faintest color came back to the charming mouth, and a little warmth crept into the cheek upon which I respectfully laid my fingers. But all these signs only heralded the moment I already dreaded, when with a sudden start, as the tide of memory came rolling back upon the brain, my pretty patient attempted to rise, and murmured,

“What is it? Jeronyma, is it you?”

The plunge had come; and drawing a long breath, I remarked with as judicious a mingling of respect and benevolence as I could manage upon the moment,

“Pardon me, senhora, but—”

A scream cut short my sentence, and, rising to her feet with an elastic motion not to be acquired by the Northern races, the fair Portuguese turned a face both frightened and angry full upon me, and exclaimed,

“Senhor, I do not know you! What have you done with Jeronyma? Where is my servant?”

“If Jeronyma is the individual whom I just frightened off the terrace below, I should say that she must be nearly at Magdalena by this time,” replied I, a little nettled at the haughty tone of my recent patient. Like a shuttlecock it came to me the next instant.

“And might I inquire, senhor, why you should frighten away my servant, and pursue me, and, above all, what you are doing in this house?”

“Minha senhora, these questions are at once too just and too severe to admit of a reply. Suffer me to offer my humblest apologies, and to take my leave.”

So saying, and with a bow of exaggerated humility, silently returned by the dim figure I addressed, I backed out of the room, and slowly retraced my steps to the staircase. No sooner had I left the presence of this mysterious lady than I began to repent my precipitation; and while I wondered more than ever what her business could be in this lonely and ill-omened house at midnight, I doubted whether as a gentleman I was right to leave her to its terrors, even at her own request.

“If only she hadn’t been so confoundedly arrogant I would go back and try to persuade her to return to Magdalena with me,” muttered I, halting as I reached the sagao. “But no, she would only snub me again. I will go and look after Jeronyma instead. She will be coming back by this time.”

So saying, I lighted the last match, and by its glimmer found my way to the outer air. Passing along the terrace, I could not resist the temptation of going around the house to its northern side and glancing up at the farthest window. As I did so a shadowy white figure drew silently back into the gloom and disappeared.

With a smile upon my lips, kindly hidden by the darkness, I made my way to the outer gate, which, as I expected, was not only unlocked, but standing wide open; and, taking the road toward Magdalena, walked rapidly on, until, gaining a rising ground, I stopped and scanned the track for a considerable distance in advance. No living creature was to be seen or heard, and I turned to look back at Os Santinhos. House and grounds lay bathed in the quiet moonlight as I had first seen them; but was it that my nerves had become excited, or did the light fall differently? At any rate, there was a change; the whole place had taken on a weird, unnatural appearance; the moonlight glancing from the windows looked like flames, the shadows seemed like moving crowds of living creatures. At that moment, and for the first time, a feeling of horror in connection with the place took possession of my mind, and prompted flight. The next instant came the revulsion of reason, and with it a feeling of self-reproach that I had abandoned, even at her own demand, a young girl to the loneliness and terrors that already assailed my stronger nerves.

I made a step toward return, then checked myself. “She will ask again what business I have in following her,” said I to myself; and still was hesitating, my eyes earnestly fixed upon Os Santinhos, when I saw—and as I am a living man it is the truth—a cloud, or rather a body of light, issue from the rhododendron walk leading from the back of the house into the garden. I rubbed my eyes and knit my brows, determined not to be made the fool of an excited fancy; but still the shining cloud moved on, slowly advancing toward the house. And now I began to distinguish forms moving within it. One, and two, and three! Yes, three figures, as of children walking hand in hand, all clothed in shining white, and all looking earnestly toward the house as they moved slowly and steadily toward it.

“Os Santinhos!” muttered I; and, with no further hesitation, I sprang forward at a run, no longer doubting that it was my duty as well as my earnest desire to share the vigil of that haughty, dark-eyed girl, and shield her so far as mortal might from the terrors of this haunted house. The distance may have been a quarter of a mile or less; but from the first step I lost sight of the house and grounds, nor caught another glimpse of either until, breathless, excited, and strangely moved, I rushed through the red door, still standing ajar, and on between the dew-dripping hedges to the house. As I came in sight of it I paused a moment, partly to recover my breath, partly to note what changes had taken place since my departure. But still the house lay cold and white in the moonlight, the lower half close barred, the upper casements dark and forbidding, save when they flashed back the flame-like light. The cloud, the three childish figures, were nowhere visible; and a doubt whether I had not deceived myself in seeing them at all flashed across my mind, and brought a smile of self-contempt to my lips.

“At any rate, I will go in again, and, braving the fair donna’s disdain, will offer to escort her back to the town; for it certainly is not agreeable to spend a night alone in such an old ghost-trap as this, whether-—

A sudden shriek cut short my unspoken words, and sent a thrill of horror through my nerves. Such a sound of terror, of despair, of madness, I never heard before or since, and never while I live will it cease to haunt me. Without an instant of thought or hesitation I sprang up the steps, rushed around the house, and seizing the handle of the door which I had closed in coming out, I turned and shook it violently, but without result. She had followed me down, and fastened the door behind me. I threw myself against it with all my force, and again and again, but the solid oak and iron met me like a rock. I stamped and ground my teeth with rage, rushed up and down the terrace like a madman; then, controlling myself with a violent effort, I tried to think—for up to this point I had been guided solely by impulse. A moment did it; and running around the house until I stood beneath the window I had opened to give air to the fainting girl, I seized one of the carved pilasters which ornamented the wall, and by violent efforts succeeded in clambering up until I could touch the stone floor of the balcony, which, as in all Azorean houses, was formed by the projection of part of the wall of the house, and not supported from below, as in American country houses.

The floor attained, I easily grasped the railing, and drew myself up and over. The window still stood open, but the little chamber was empty, and I passed hastily through it into the next, and still finding no one, went on to the corridor at the head of the stairs. Standing here in the darkness, I listened intently for a few moments, then groped my way on toward the dim window at the farther end. As I did so some one passed me; some one who was in great grief and terror; some one from whom emanated a horrible chill and a sense of repulsion that made me shrink away until I stood pressed against the wall. I tell this incident thus vaguely, for it was thus that it occurred, and this is all that I know of it. I saw no one, I heard no one; but yet I knew that in the dead darkness of the place some one—a woman as it seemed to me, a woman overcome with some terrible grief and fright, and bearing about her an atmosphere of creeping chill and horror—passed me and went away out of the house; for after a minute or so I drew a long breath of relief, and felt that a weight was lifted from my brain which would have driven me mad had it been suffered to remain there.

In the same way that I had known that this woman passed me, I knew that it was not the woman I had seen in my first visit to the place, and I now felt more than ever determined to find and rescue her. Listening so intently that the tympanum of my ears tingled with the strain, I heard the low sound of a whispering voice in a room at the end of the gallery, and as noiselessly as possible I groped my way toward it. The door stood half open, and the last rays of the moon, already sinking, threw a strange, cold light into the desolate chamber. Just where this light fell upon her head knelt the girl whom I had already seen, a crucifix and rosary between her folded hands, her great dark eyes uplifted and full of tears, her face white and cold as marble. It was the whispered words of her prayer that I had heard; and so rapt was she in her devotions that she had not perceived my cautious footsteps. Seeing her safe, and thus occupied, I hesitated to intrude, and finally contented myself with remaining where I could watch over her without being myself perceived. The moon sank lower and lower, and the “dark hour before dawn” came on. Then, in the dim twilight, I saw the kneeling figure sink down exhausted, while the rosary fell rattling to the floor. “O Jesu! Is it not enough?” moaned the broken voice; and then—”it is so terrible here!”

At that I dared to act, and pushing open the door, I entered the room, saying, as I did so,

“Senhora, once more pardon my intrusion, but—”

“You, senhor! You again! Is it really you, a living man?”

“It is I, senhora; and I have dared to return because I felt that this place and this time were enough to terrify me, were I compelled to remain alone here, and I did not suppose you to have more courage than myself.”

“I had courage because it was a duty, senhor,” replied she, coldly; and then came a silence, and then a smothered sob, and then the weary, broken voice, no longer proud or cold, moaned out:

“Oh, take me out into the light; take me away from this fearful place, senhor, if, indeed, you pity me, as you say.”

I do not remember what I replied to that; but as I close my eyes I see again, as I saw then, the slender white figure defined against the casement coming toward me with pleading, outstretched arms, and again I feel the ice-cold little hands that grasped mine so convulsively as we met midway.

“You are safe now. Come!” said I, and, still holding her hand in mine, I led her, wildly sobbing now that her strained nerves had given way, through the corridor and down the stairs and through the tomb-like sagao, until we stood beneath the free, pure heaven, already rosy with the coming dawn.

Upon the broken terrace steps she sank down utterly exhausted, and unable longer to control or exert herself. I stood beside her, silent, while the violence of her emotion lasted, but when the stormy sobs grew less frequent, and some murmured words of apology became audible, I seated myself, and, in such phrases as I could best choose, I assured her of my sympathy, my anxiety to help her, and my regret at having appeared to intrude upon her privacy. But here she interrupted me, saying, hurriedly,

“I owe it to you, senhor, to explain why I am here—”

“By no means, senhora; it is I who owe you both explanation and apology;” and, hurrying on, I told her my little story precisely as I have told it to the reader. In the ghostly light of early morning I could see her proud face grow yet paler, and her large eyes dilate and waver, as I spoke of the strange presentiment, the stranger sights and sounds, that had led me back to her when already I was far away; and when I told of the Presence—the Thing—that had brushed by me in the corridor, she shrank closer to my side, and laid her icy hand in mine.

“I saw her! I heard her!” whispered she.

“It was then that you shrieked, was it not?”

“I did not shriek. That was her, not me—that is the shriek with which her wicked mind fled from its body, and she rushed out to die.”

“She?” asked I, my curiosity overpowering my discretion.

“Yes. My grandfather’s wicked young wife. Senhor, you have told me your story; now listen to mine:

“Senhor Francisco—, who built this house, had a younger brother, who went to Brazil and gained very much money there. Dying, he sent his three little children, whose mother was dead before, to his brother, and with them the papers that proved their right to all his property, both in Brazil and here in the islands. Senhor Francisco had also married, and also lost his wife, who in dying left him one child, afterward my mother. He was angry that this daughter was not a son, and while she was yet little he sent her away to grow up among the peasants of one of his country-seats. Then he married a beautiful young wife who brought him yet more money, and by whom he hoped to become the father of sons who should inherit his wealth and his name. It was soon after this that the little orphans with their great fortune came to him from Brazil, and the father of evil put it into his heart, or rather into that of the wife, to kill them and become their heir.

“This house was just built then, and had never been used, for, you know, we Fayalese only come to Pico for the summer months; so it surprised no one when, early in July, my grandfather with his whole family came over here, and began to live so quietly that after a while it was like a prison: no one came in and no one went out. The only life was the sports of the poor little children, and little by little they seemed to lose all heart for play, and went creeping about hand in hand, sitting for hours in the garden, or hiding in the thicket behind it; for although the house was new, the garden had been made a great many years, and was already old.”

“But, senhora, how do you know all these details of a time so long past when you were born?” asked I, curiously.

“It was only two months ago, senhor, that I heard them from the lips of an old, old man who came home from Brazil to die in his native place. He was called Maestro José, and was my grandfather’s feitor—what you call in English steward. He had grown up in the family, and knew all its secrets; indeed, I do not think my grandfather tried to hide any thing from him. So, in returning to Fayal, he came to the old house where he had grown up, and where, alas! I now live all alone—for, senhor, I am an orphan—and after a few weeks the poor old man fell sick, and they told him that he must die. Then he asked to see me all alone, and told me this story, and said that it had haunted him in his far-away Brazilian home, and he could not rest there, but had come home to tell the story to my mother if she had been alive, but, failing her, to me; and—but stop! I will finish the story, and then I will tell you how the promise which I gave to José brought me here to-night.

“So—José went on to tell me—the little children moped and pined, and the wicked young wife watched them with sidelong, eager eyes, like a cat who waits for the bird to be quite within reach before she springs; and my poor grandfather wandered up and down the house, wasting to a shadow with the struggle that went on within his heart; for, oh, senhor, I am of his blood, and I do not wish to think that he was wicked of himself: it was she that made him so.

“At last, in the hottest part of the summer, the children fell ill with some slight childish complaint, and they lay in bed in the room where you found me praying. It was in the night that José heard movements in the house, and, rising from his bed, came softly along the corridor, just as you did last night, senhor, and standing at the door, peeped in, still as you did, but the sight he saw was different. The children lay sleeping in their little beds close together, and my grandfather and his wife bent over them; she with such a dark, determined look upon her face that old José said his hair stiffened upon his head, and a chill of death crept over him, and he (my grandfather) holding her back and whispering in her ear. But all at once she tore herself away from him, and snatching up a pillow pressed it upon two of the little heads lying close together, and held it down so tight—so tight—that in a few moments the poor little limbs ceased to struggle, and the murdered children lay very quiet.

“The youngest, the baby, a pretty little curly-haired darling not three years old, waked as she went toward his little bed, and, smiling up in her face, held out his arms to be taken. She hesitated one moment, and my grandfather cried out,

“Not him, Thereza; not the poor little Francisquinho!

“But she looked at him with her great fierce eyes, like a wolf, and saying, ‘All or none, my husband,’ she crushed the pillow down upon the little sunny head, and bent like a black shadow of death over the poor little struggling form. Then José crept away as he had come, and went to his own room, but had hardly been there an hour when a servant came to call him. The children had died, and the master was very ill, all of some dreadfully contagious disease, he said, and the mistress was calling for Maestro José.

“So he went, and listened to her story, and said nothing, but set himself to watch over his master, who was raving in delirium already.

“When morning came he buried the three poor little babies in the thicket at the back of the garden, where they had tried to hide from the foul death that was pursuing them; he buried them, and said nothing, for was not my grandfather’s safety and honor more to him than his own—more than the law, or even revenge upon that wicked woman?

“Two days more and my grandfather was dying. In the last hours his senses came back to him, and he confessed all to José, with the wife standing by and mocking at every word he said, for already her mind was wandering. But my grandfather, not heeding her, told the whole story; and he gave him a sum of money and jewels, and bade him carry all the servants with him and go to Brazil to spend the rest of his life, lest the secret should ever escape his lips; and he gave him the deeds of a small estate there, writing with his own dying hand that they were to be made over to him forever. Then he made José carry him into the chamber where the children had died; and when the night came round again, and she was watching beside him with her fierce wolf-eyes, he died. It was at that moment, senhor, that they first came.”

“They?”

“The children, the Little Saints, as the people call them. José saw them standing at the foot of the bed, and looking so sadly, so pityingly, at the dying man that he felt they were forgiving him the cruel wrong he had permitted toward them. He saw them too, and starting up in his bed with a great cry, he threw out his hands as if to keep them off, and fell back—dead. And she—she saw them, and it was then that she uttered that terrible shriek whose echo you heard last night, senhor. It was when she saw those three, and knew that they were to haunt her forever through all her miserable life, that her senses gave way, and with that dreadful shriek she rushed out of the room and out of the house, and fled through the gate, and José after her. When they brought her back he took her into the house, and laid her upon her bed, and locked the door upon her, while he went to look at his master, but he was already dead and cold. So when night came he went for the priest, and my poor grandfather was buried—but not with the rites of the Church, for, alas! he had died in his sins, unshriven and unforgiven. There was no inquiry into his death or that of the children, for my grandfather was very rich, and the priest and the mayor were very poor, and José knew how to manage them. The next day the padre came again to bring the last unction to the dying woman; and when all was over José collected the frightened servants, whom he had kept in the farthest part of the house all this time with talk of deadly contagion, and carried them over to Fayal, and a few days after they all sailed together for Brazil. Then the property all came to the poor neglected and despised little daughter running barefoot among the peasant children at Conceiçao, and she had a guardian, and was educated, and grew up and married, and she and my father died three years ago, and I am all alone in the world, senhor. You see that, as the priest says often happens, the sins of the fathers are punished in the children, and I suffer for the wickedness that was done here forty, almost fifty, years ago. So, senhor, when José had told me all this story, and begged me to do something to ease his dying moments, I promised that when the anniversary of that cruel night came round I would visit this place, and spend the night upon my knees praying for the souls of those who died so fearfully here; and the old man smiled and closed his eyes, and never spoke again. I told my confessor of my vow, and he said it was a holy one, and he promised to spend the night in praying that I might be prospered in my pious task; and I gave him money that masses may be said for a whole year in the little chapel upon one of my estates in Fayal, and so I think I have done all that I can; have I not, senhor? But it was very terrible, and I am so glad that you came, although you frightened me so much.”

“But, senhora, did you actually see any thing supernatural last night?” inquired I, as she paused.

“How can I tell, senhor? I heard something. I knew that some one was near, and I fixed my eyes upon God’s clear sky, and prayed to Him as fervently as I could. At last I heard that awful shriek, and the next thing was your voice. But see! there comes Jeronyma; she is my old nurse, senhor, and she came to watch with me last night. We are staying at a house that I borrowed of a friend in Fayal, so that I might keep my vigil without exciting remark. I will go to meet her. Adios, senhor.”

She rose, and, making me a stately and graceful reverence, was already moving away, when I arrested her.

“But, senhora, may not I hope to see you again? May not I ask your name?”

She hesitated a moment, then said:

“A young woman like myself can not receive a young gentleman as her guest among us Portuguese; but I am called Senhora Donna Katrina, and if you are ever in Fayal, it may chance that we shall meet at the house of some mutual friend. Adios, senhor.”

“Adios, minha senhora. We shall meet again.”

So ends the story of Os Santinhos, but not the story of Donna Katrina and myself; for that is not done yet, and my daily prayer is that it may not be finished for many, many years.