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Gustave Aimard
The Gold-Seekers: A Tale of California

CHAPTER V
THE CONSEQUENCES OP A LOVE SONG

During the conversation between the foster brothers, certain events we must describe to the reader occurred in the cuarto to which Curumilla and Don Cornelio had retired.

On entering the room, Curumilla, instead of lying down on the cuadro intended for him, laid his zarapé on the tiled flooring, stretched himself out upon it, and immediately closed his eyes. Don Cornelio, on the contrary, after hanging the lamp to a nail in the wall, trimmed up the smoking wick with the point of his knife, sat down on the side of the bed, with his legs hanging down, and then began in a sonorous voice the romance of King Rodrigo.

At this slightly unseasonable music Curumilla half opened one eye, though without protesting in any other way against this unwonted disturbance of his rest. Don Cornelio may or may not have noticed the Indian's silent protest; but in either case he took no heed of it, but went on singing, raising his voice to the highest compass of which it was capable.

"Wah!" the chief said, raising his bead.

"I was certain," Don Cornelio remarked with a friendly smile, "that the music would please you."

And he redoubled his flourishes.

The Araucanian rose, went up to the singer, and touched him gently on the shoulder.

"We must sleep," he said in his guttural voice, and with an ill-tempered grimace.

"Bah, chief! Music makes a man forget sleep. Just listen.

 
"'Oh, si yo naciera ciego!
Oh, tú sin beldad nacieras!
Maldito sea el punto – '"⁷
 

The Indian seemed to listen with sustained attention, his body bent well forward, and his eyes obstinately fixed on the singer. Don Cornelio felicitated himself internally on the effect he fancied he had produced on this primitive native, when suddenly Curumilla, seizing him by the hips, squeezed him in his nervous hands at in iron pincers, and lifting him with as much ease as if he had been but a child, carried him, spite of his resistance, into the patio, and seated him on the side of the wall.

"Wah!" he said, "music is good here."

And, without adding another word, he turned his back on the Spaniard, walked into his cuarto, laid himself on his zarapé, and went to sleep immediately.

At first Don Cornelio was quite confounded by this sudden attack, and knew not if he ought to laugh or feel vexed at the simple way in which his companion had got rid of his company; but Don Cornelio was a philosopher, gifted with an admirable character. What had happened to him seemed so droll that he burst into an Homeric laugh, which lasted several minutes.

"No matter," he said, when he had at length regained his seriousness, "the adventure is curious, and I shall laugh at it for many a long day. After all, the fellow was not entirely in the wrong. I am famously situated here to sing and play my jarana as long as I think proper; at any rate I shall run no risk of disturbing the sleepers, as I am quite alone."

And after this consolation, which he administered to himself to satisfy his somewhat offended pride, he prepared to continue his serenade.

The night was clear and serene; the sky was studded with a profusion of stars, in the midst of which sparkled the dazzling southern cross; a slight breeze, laden with the perfumes of the desert, gently refreshed the air; the deepest silence brooded over San José; for, in the retired Mexican pueblos, everybody returns home at an early hour. Everybody appeared asleep, too, in the mesón, although at a few windows the weak and dying light of the candles gleamed behind the cotton curtains.

Thus Don Cornelio, unconsciously yielding to the influences of this magnificent evening, omitted the first four verses of the romancero, and after a skilful prelude, struck up the sublime description of night: —

 
"A l'escaso resplendor,
De cualque luciente estrella,
Que en el medroso silencio,
Tristamente centellea."⁸
 

And he continued thus with eyes uplifted to heaven, and brow glowing with enthusiasm to the end of the romance; that is to say, until he had sung the ninety-six verses of which this touching piece of poetry is composed.

The Mexicans, children of the Andalusians, the musicians and dancers par excellence, have not degenerated in this respect from their forefathers; on the contrary, they have, if that be possible, exaggerated these two passions, to which they sacrifice everything.

When Don Cornelio began singing, the patio, as we have, already remarked, was completely deserted; but gradually, as the musician became more animated, doors opened in every corner of the yard, men and women appeared, advanced gently to the singer, and formed a circle round him; so that after the final strophe he found himself surrounded by a group of enthusiastic hearers, who applauded him frenziedly.

Don Cornelio rose from the wall on which he was seated, lifted his hat, and saluted his audience gracefully.

"Come," he said to himself, "this will be something for that Indian, who appreciates music so slightly, to reflect upon."

"Capa de Dios!" an arriero said, "that is what I call singing."

"Poor Señor Don Rodrigo, how he must have suffered!" a young criada exclaimed in short petticoats, and with a flashing eye.

"And that perfidious picaro of a Count Julian, who introduced the Moors into a Catholic country!" the landlord said with an angry gesture.

"God be praised!" the audience said in chorus; "Let us hope that he is roasting in the lowest pit."

Don Cornelio was at the pinnacle of jubilation. Never before had he obtained such a success. All his hearers thanked him for the pleasure he had caused them, with those noisy demonstrations and cries of joy which distinguish southern races. The Spaniard did not know whom to listen to, or on which side to turn. The shouts assumed such a character of enthusiasm, that the singer began to fear that he would be unable to get rid of his frenzied audience the whole long night.

Fortunately for him, at the moment when, half willingly, half perforce, he was preparing, on the general request, to recommence his romance, there was a movement in the crowd; it parted to the right and left, and left a passage for a tall and pretty girl, who, with a well-turned leg confined in silk stockings with gold clocks, her rebozo coquettishly drawn over her head, and her hair buried beneath a profusion of jasmine flowers, placed herself resolutely before the singer, and said with a graceful smile, which allowed her double row of pearly teeth to be seen, —

"Are you not, caballero, a noble hidalgo of Spain, of the name of Don Cornelio?"

We must do Don Cornelio the justice to allow that he was so dazzled by this delicious apparition that he remained for some seconds with gaping mouth, unable to find a word.

The girl stamped her foot impatiently.

"Have you been suddenly turned into stone?" she asked, with a slightly mocking accent.

"Heaven forbid, señorita!" he at length stammered.

"Then be good enough to answer the question I asked you."

"Nothing easier, señorita. I am indeed Don Cornelio Mendoza de Arrizabal, and have the honour to be a Spanish gentleman."

"That is what I call plain speaking," she said, with a slight pout. "If it be so, caballero, I must ask you to follow me."

"To the end of the world," the young man exclaimed impetuously. "I should never travel in pleasanter company."

"I thank you for the compliment, caballero, but I do not intend to take you so far. I only wish to conduct you to my mistress, who desires to see you and speak with you for an instant."

"Rayo del cielo! If the mistress be only as pretty as the maid, I shall not regret the trip if it last a week."

The girl smiled again.

"My mistress is staying in this inn, only a few steps off."

"All the worse, all the worse! I should have preferred a journey of several leagues before meeting her."

"A truce to gallantry. Are you willing to follow me?"

"At once, señorita."

And throwing his jarana on his back, and bowing for the last time to the audience, who opened a passage for him respectfully, —

"I am at your orders," he said.

"Come, then."

The girl turned away and hurried off rapidly, the Spaniard following close at her heels.

Don Cornelio, like all the adventurers whom a hazardous life in Europe had cast on the American shores, nourished in his heart a secret hope of re-establishing, by a rich marriage, his fortunes, which were more than compromised. Several instances, though rare, we allow, of marriages contracted in this romantic fashion, had imbedded this idea deeply in the Spaniard's somewhat windy brain.

He was young, noble, handsome – at least he thought so; hence he possessed all needed for success. It is true that, until this moment, fortune had never deigned to smile on him; no young girl seemed to care for his assassinating glances, or respond to his interested advances. But this ill success had in no way rebuffed him, and what happened at this moment seemed to justify his schemes, by offering him, at the moment he least expected it, that occasion he had so long awaited.

Only one thing saddened his brow, and clouded the internal joy he experienced, and that was the seedy condition of his attire, sadly ill-treated by the brambles, and torn by the sharp points of the rocks, during his long journey in Sonora. But with that characteristic fatuity innate in the Spaniards, he consoled himself by the reflection that his personal advantages would amply compensate for the seedy condition of his dress, and that the lady who had sent for him, if she felt any tender interest in him, would attach but slight value to a new cloak or a faded cloak. It was with these conquering feelings that Don Cornelio arrived behind the camarista at the door of a cuarto, before which she stopped.

"It is here," she said, turning round to him.

"Very good," he said, drawing himself up. "We will enter whenever you please."

She smiled cunningly with a twinkle of her black eyes, and turned the key in the lock. The door opened.

"Señorita," the waiting-maid said, "I have brought you the gentleman."

"Let him come in, Violanta," a sweet voice answered.

The girl stepped aside to make room for Don Cornelio, who walked in, twisting his moustache with a conquering air.

The room in which he found himself was small, and rather better furnished than the other cuartos in the hostelry, probably owing to the indispensable articles the temporary occupier of the room had the precaution to bring with her. Several pink candles burned in silver chandeliers, and on a sofa lay a lovely young girl of sixteen to seventeen years of age, buried in muslin, like a hummingbird in a nest of roses, who bent on the Spanish gentleman two large black eyes sparkling with humour, maliciousness, and curiosity.

In spite of the immense dose of self-love with which he was cuirassed, and the intimate conviction he had of his own merits, Don Cornelio stopped in considerable embarrassment on the threshold, and bowed profoundly, without daring to advance into the interior of this cuarto, which appeared to him a sanctuary.

By a charming sign the young woman invited him to draw nearer, and pointed out a butaca, about two paces from the sofa on which she was reclining. The young man hesitated; but the camarista, laughing like a madcap, pushed him by the shoulders and compelled him to sit down.

Still the position of our two actors, opposite each other, was rather singular. Don Cornelio, a prey to the most powerful embarrassment he ever experienced, twisted the brim of his beaver in his hands, as he cast investigating glances cautiously around; while the girl, no less confused, timidly looked down, and seemed at present almost to regret the inconsiderate step she had let herself be led to take.

Still, as in all difficult circumstances of life, women possess a will of initiative greater than that of men, because they make a strength of their weakness, and know at once how to approach the most awkward questions, it was the lady who first regained her coolness and commenced the conversation.

"Do you recognise me, Don Cornelio?" she asked him in a deliberate tone, which made the Spaniard quiver.

"Alas, señorita!" he replied, trying to gain time, "where could I have had the happiness of ever seeing you? I have only lived up to the present in an inferno."

"Let us speak seriously," she said with an almost imperceptible frown. "Look me well in the face, caballero, and answer me frankly: do you recognise me – yes or no?"

Don Cornelio timidly raised his eyes, obeyed the order he had received in so peremptory a fashion, and after a few seconds, —

"No, señorita," he said with a suppressed sigh, "I do not recognise you; I do not believe that I ever had the happiness of meeting you before today."

"You are mistaken," she replied.

"I! O no! It is impossible."

"Do not swear, Don Cornelio; I will prove to you the truth of what I assert."

The young man shook his head incredulously.

"When a man has had once the happiness of seeing you – " he murmured.

She interrupted him sharply.

"You do not know what you say, and your gallantry is misplaced. Before contradicting me you would do better by listening to what I have to say to you."

Don Cornelio protested.

"I repeat," she said distinctly, "that you are mad. For two days you travelled in the company of my father and myself."

"I!"

"Yes, you."

"Oh!"

"It is just three years ago. At that period I was only a child, scarce fourteen: there is, consequently, nothing extraordinary in your having forgotten me. At that period you sang your inevitable romance of Don Rodrigo, of which I will say no harm, however," she added, with an enchanting smile, "because I recognised you by that song. My father, now governor and political chief of Sonora, was at that time only a colonel."

The Spaniard struck his forehead.

"I remember," he exclaimed. "You were going from Guadalajara to Tepic, when I had the pleasure of meeting you in the middle of the night."

"Yes."

"That is it. Let me see, your father's name is Don Sebastian Guerrero, and yours – "

"Well, and mine?" she said, with a pretty challenging pout.

"Yours, señorita," he said gallantly, "is Doña Angela. What other name could you bear?"

"Come," she said, clapping her dainty hands together with a ringing laugh, "I am glad to see that you have a better memory than I believed."

"Oh!" he muttered reproachfully.

"We had a rather disagreeable adventure, if I remember right, with certain bandits?" she continued.

"Extremely disagreeable, for I was half killed."

"That is true; I remember something of the sort. Were you not rescued by a hunter, a wood ranger? I can hardly remember."

"A noble gentleman, señorita," Don Cornelio replied with fire, "to whom I owe my life."

"Ah!" she said carelessly, "that is possible. The man helped you, nursed you, and then you parted?"

"Not exactly."

"What!" she said, with some agitation, "you continued to live together?"

"Yes."

"Always?"

"Yes."

"But now?" she said, with a certain hesitation in her voice.

"I repeat to you, señorita, that we have not separated."

"Indeed! Is he here?"

"Yes."

"In this hostelry?"

"On the other side of the yard."

"Ah!" she murmured, letting her head fall on her breast.

"What's the matter now?" the Spaniard asked himself.

And not interrupting the sudden reverie into which the young lady had fallen, he waited respectfully until it pleased her to renew the conversation.

CHAPTER VI
DELILAH

The position of our two characters toward each other was somewhat singular. Both appeared to be watching each other, and trying to discover the flaw in the armour; but in this struggle of a man against a woman, the latter must inevitably prove the conqueror.

Don Cornelio had possibly a rather exaggerated opinion of himself. This was what ruined him, and delivered him bound hand and foot over to his dangerous adversary.

Doña Angela, resting coquettishly on her elbow, with her chin on the palm of her dainty hand, fixed on him two eyes sparkling with maliciousness, so that the Spaniard, as it were, fascinated by the brilliancy of this irresistible glance, had not even the will to turn his head, and liberate himself from the deceptive charm that fascinated him.

"Violanta," the girl said, in a voice soft and pure as the song of the centzontle, the American nightingale, "have you no refreshments to offer this caballero?"

"Oh, certainly," said the crafty camarista, with a look sufficient to tempt St. Anthony; and she rose quickly to obey her mistress's directions.

Don Cornelio, flattered in his heart by this politeness, which he was far from expecting, thought it necessary to break out in excuses; but Doña Angela cut him short by herself saying, —

"You will forgive me, caballero, for receiving you so poorly, but I did not expect to have the honour of your visit in this wretched pueblo."

Naturally enough, Don Cornelio, infatuated with the advantages he fancied he possessed, regarded this remark as a compliment.

Angela maliciously bit her rosy lips, and continued, with a bow, —

"But now that I have been so fortunate as to meet again with an old friend, for I hope you will permit me to give you that appellation – "

"Oh, señorita!" the young man said with a movement of joy.

"I flatter myself that I shall have the pleasure of enjoying your company more frequently."

"Señorita, believe me that I shall be too happy."

"I know your gallantry, Don Cornelio," she interrupted him with a smile. "I am aware that you will seize every opportunity to offer me your homage."

"Heaven is my witness, señorita. Unfortunately, adverse fate will possibly ordain differently."

"Why so?"

"You are only passing through this wretched town."

"Yes. My father is proceeding to Tepic, where his new position as governor of the province demands his residence."

"That is true. You see, then, madam, that it is almost impossible for us ever to meet again."

"Do you think so?" she asked.

"Alas! I am atrociously afraid of it."

"Why so?" she said, bending her body forward in curiosity.

"Because, according to every probability, tomorrow, at sunrise, we shall take diametrically opposite routes, señorita."

"Oh, that is not possible!"

"Unfortunately it is too true."

"Explain this enigma to me."

"I would it were one; but a child can read it."

"I do not at all understand you?"

"I will explain myself more clearly."

"Go on."

"When you and your father, madam, start tomorrow for Tepic, my friends and myself will set out for San Francisco."

"San Francisco!"

"Alas! Yes."

"What need have you to go there?"

"I! None."

"Well, then?"

Don Cornelio behaved like most men when in a state of embarrassment; that is to say, he scratched his head. At length he said, —

"I cannot leave my friends."

"What friends?"

"Those in whose company I am."

"Then they want to go to San Francisco?"

"Yes."

"What to do?"

"Ah! That is it," the Spaniard replied, more and more embarrassed by the obligation of confessing the trade in which he was engaged, and which he fancied must lower him to an extraordinary degree in the eyes of the young lady whose heart he fancied he had touched.

"I am waiting," she said with a slight frown of her arched brows.

Don Cornelio, driven into his last retrenchments, determined to make a clean breast of it.

"You must know," he said in a honeyed voice, "that my friends are hunters."

"Ah!" she remarked.

"Yes."

"Well, what then?"

"Why, then, why, they hunt, I suppose," he continued, discountenanced by the lady's singular tone.

"That is probable," she said, with a little silvery laugh. "And what do they hunt?"

"Well, pretty nearly all sorts of animals."

"Specify."

"Wild bulls, for instance."

"Very good; we will say, then, that they hunt wild bulls?"

"Yes."

"Why those animals more than others?"

"I will tell you."

"I shall feel delighted."

Don Cornelio bowed.

"You must know that at San Francisco – "

"San Francisco again?"

"Alas! Yes."

"Very good: proceed."

"Oxen, bullocks, and generally all animals that serve for food, are extremely dear."

"Ah!"

"O dear, yes! You understand that people in that country pay great attention to finding gold, and very little to seeking food."

"Quite correct."

"So my friend reasoned thus."

"Which friend?"

"The hunter, Don Louis."

"Don Louis?"

"Yes, the man who three years back, when the bandits attacked you, arrived so opportunely, and whom I have never quitted since."

Doña Angela experienced such a startling emotion that her face suddenly turned pale. Don Cornelio, busied with his story, did not perceive the effect the accidental mention of that name produced, but continued, —

"'Very good, then,' he said to himself. 'Bulls obtain fabulous prices in California; in Mexico they may be had for almost nothing. Let us go and buy or lasso them in Mexico.'"

"So then?"

"Well, we set out."

"You were in California at that time?"

"At San Francisco, with Don Louis."

"And now?"

"We have a magnificent herd of novillos, which we have driven a long distance, and which we hope to dispose of at a large profit at San Francisco."

"I hope so."

"Thank you, madam; the more so as we had an enormous difficulty in procuring them."

"But all that does not teach me why you cannot separate from your friends."

"At any rate not until we have sold the bullocks. You understand, señorita, that acting otherwise would be ungentlemanly."

"That is true; but why insist on selling your bulls nowhere save at San Francisco?"

"We do not at all insist on that."

"Then, supposing you found a good price here, you would dispose of them?"

"I see nothing to prevent it."

Doña Angela gave a start of joy, which Don Cornelio naturally interpreted to his own advantage.

"That might be arranged," she said.

"You think so?"

"Yes, if you are not too craving."

"You need not apprehend that, señorita."

"My father possesses a hacienda a few leagues from this town. I know that he intends to re-form his ganado, and he stopped here today in order to have an interview with his mayordomo."

"Oh! That is a providential chance."

"Is it not?"

"It is really. Has the mayordomo arrived?"

"Not yet: we do not expect him till tomorrow. I fancy that a day's delay will do you no injury."

"Not the slightest."

"Well, then, if you consent, we will settle this affair while we are together; that is to say," she added, "you will tell me the prices, that I may inform my father."

"Ah!" he said, with a certain hesitation, "I can, unfortunately, say nothing on that head."

"Why so? Are you not the owner of the herd?"

"Pardon me."

"Well, what then?" she interrupted, looking at him with fixed attention.

"That is to say, I am not sole owner."

"You have partners?"

"Yes, I have one."

"And that partner – ?"

"Stay, madam, I prefer being frank with you, and telling you clearly how matters stand."

"I am listening, caballero."

"I am owner without being so."

"I do not understand you at all."

"It is very simple, however, as you will see."

"I am all anxiety."

"Just imagine that Don Louis, after curing me of my wounds, felt that loyal and open friendship for me which has no counterpart in town life. Not only would he not consent to my leaving him, but aware that, owing to reverses too long to repeat to you, I was almost penniless, he insisted on my becoming a sharer in all the enterprises he thought proper to undertake; so that, without the outlay of a penny, I hold one half the property. Hence, as you will see, I can do nothing until I have first taken his instructions."

"That is only just, it seems to me."

"And to me too, madam; and that is the reason why, in spite of the lively desire I entertain to settle the business with you at once, I find it impossible to do so."

Doña Angela seemed to reflect for a moment, then went on with a palpitation of the heart and a tremor in her voice, which she could not conceal, in spite of all her efforts: —

"After all, the matter is perfectly simple, and may be arranged very easily."

"I ask nothing better; still I confess, to my shame, that I do not see what means I should employ."

"It is a trifle, tomorrow, before the mayordomo's arrival, I will speak with my father: he will, I doubt not, be delighted to render a service to the man who saved our lives. You will tell your friend, he will come to an arrangement with my father, and all will be settled."

"Indeed, madam, I did not think of that. All can be arranged in that way."

"Unless your friend – Don Louis, I think you called him – ?"

"Yes, madam, Don Louis. He is a gentleman belonging to one of the noblest and oldest families in France."

"Ah! All the better. Unless, I say, he should not consent to deal with my father."

"And why should he not, señorita?"

"Oh! I do not know; but on our first meeting, after saving my father's life and mine, that caballero behaved so singularly toward us that I fear – "

"You are wrong, madam, to suppose that Don Louis could refuse an offer so advantageous as that you make him; besides, I will talk with him, and am certain to bring him over to my views."

"O dear me!" she said negligently, "I have but a very slight interest in all this. I should not like the proposal to cause you the slightest annoyance with your partner. I am only looking after your interests in the affair, Don Cornelio."

"I am convinced of it, madam, and thank you humbly," he replied, with a low bow.

"I only know you. Your partner, though he rendered me a great service, is but a stranger to me, especially after the peremptory manner in which he declined my father's advances and offers of service."

"You are perfectly right, señorita. Believe me that I attach full value to the delicacy of your conduct."

"Still," she continued, in an insinuating and slightly malicious voice, "I confess to you that I should not be sorry to find myself once more face to face with that strange man, were it only to convince myself that the opinion I formed of him was wrong."

"Don Louis, madam," the Spaniard answered complacently, "is a true caballero, kind, noble, and generous, ever ready to help with purse or sword those who claim his assistance. Since I have had the honour of living in his society I have had many opportunities of appreciating the greatness of his character."

"I am happy to hear what you tell me, señor, for I confess that this caballero left a very bad impression on me, doubtlessly through the rough manner in which he parted from us."

"That bad impression was unjust, madam. As for the roughness with which you reproach him alas! It is only melancholy."

"What!" she exclaimed quickly, while a rosy tinge suddenly invaded her forehead, "melancholy, do you say? Is the gentleman unhappy?"

"Who is not so?" Don Cornelio asked with a sigh.

"Perhaps, though, you are mistaken."

"Alas! No, madam. Don Louis has been the victim of frightful disasters: judge for yourself. He had a wife he adored, who had presented him with several charming children. One night the Indians surprised his hacienda, fired it, massacred his wife, his children, his whole family, in a word, and himself only escaped by a miracle."

"Oh, that is horrible!" she exclaimed, as she buried her face in her hands. "Poor man! Now I heartily pardon what appeared singularity in his manners. Alas! The society of his fellow men must weigh upon him."

"Yes, madam, it doubtlessly does so; for the grief he endures is of that nature which cannot be consoled. And yet, when he knows of a misfortune to alleviate, or any good deed to do, he forgets himself only to think of those he wishes to aid."

"Yes, you are right, caballero; that man has a noble heart."

"Alas, madam! I should ever remain below the truth in what I might tell you of him. You must live his life, be constantly by his side, in order to understand and appreciate him at his full value."

There were a few moments of silence. The night was drawing on; the candles were beginning to dim; the camarista, who had but a very slight interest in this conversation, had laid her head against the back of her butaca; her eyes were closed, and she was enjoying that catlike sleep peculiar to women and the feline race, and which does not prevent them being constantly on the watch.

"Tell me, Don Cornelio," Doña Angela continued with a smile, "have you never spoken with Don Louis about our meeting during the long period that has since elapsed?"

"Never, madam."

"Ah!"

"Once, and only once, I remember that I tried to bring the conversation round to that subject by some rather direct allusions."

"Well?"

"Don Louis, who, till then, had seemed to listen kindly to my observations, suddenly requested me, in very distinct language, never to return to that subject, remarking that he had only acted in accordance with his duty; that he would do the same again; and that it was not worth while talking about, the less so as chance would, in all probability, never again bring him into contact with the persons to whom he had been so fortunate as to render this slight service."

The young lady frowned.

"I thank you," she said in a slightly affected voice, "I thank you, Don Cornelio, for the kindness with which you have treated the whims of a woman you did not know."

"Oh, madam!" he exclaimed in protest; "for a long time I have been your most humble slave."

"I know your gallantry, but will not abuse it longer. Be assured that I shall keep our long conversation in pleasant memory. Be kind enough not to forget the proposals I wish to make to Don Louis."

"Tomorrow, madam, at the hour you think most suitable, my friend and myself will have the honour to present ourselves to the general."

"Do not derange yourselves, caballero; a criado will warn you when my father is ready to receive you. Farewell!"

"Farewell!" he replied, bowing respectfully to the young lady, who dismissed him with a gracious smile.

The Spaniard went out with joy in his heart.

"Oh!" Doña Angela murmured, so soon as she was alone, "I love him!"

Whom was she speaking of?