The House of Ulloa

Julián only understood two words:

“A girl.”

For many a day Nucha lay hovering before that gloomy portal known as death’s door, with one foot on the threshold, as if to say: “Shall I go in, or not?”

“You must help me get away from here,” declared Nucha, fixing him with her eyes, which now were more than vague, they were distracted. “Help me get away from this house.”

The greatest of conquering heroes could not have felt more proud of himself than did Perucho, for he was certain he had saved the baby from death and had brought her to safety where no one could find her. He did not think for a moment of his hard, sunburnt grandfather lying by the wall.

Six months after his arrival, he received a letter edged in black. At first he did not fully understand, but when he did he showed no sign of grief. On the contrary, he experienced a sense of comfort and elation, in the sure knowledge that in heaven Señorita Nucha would be rewarded for all her suffering on this miserable earth, where a soul as pure as hers could only know martyrdom. Julián’s own spirit bowed once more to the strict rule of Kempis’s Imitation. Even the shock occasioned by receiving the news of her death soon wore off, while a peaceful passivity cauterized, as it were, his spirit.

There was only one point which gave him cause to doubt that these two charming youngsters were indeed the bastard son and legitimate heiress of the House of Ulloa. For while the clothes worn by Sabel’s son were of a good quality and well-cut, so that one might have placed him as something between a well-to-do peasant and a señorito, Nucha’s daughter wore an old percale dress and shoes that were so broken one could almost say she was barefoot.