LITMIR.BIZ

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My friend promised to keep her concealed, until this war should be over, and I could return home to protect her as a freeborn citizen of the republic.”

      “How came she to be here to-night?”

      “Devotion,” proudly replied the youth; “devotion, ñor capitan. She heard from some fugitives that I was shot down and left on the field. She came to find me—if dead to weep over my body—if living, to take care of me. Thanks to you, ñor deconocio, she has found me alive.”

      After a short interval of silence, in which the invalid appeared to reflect, he resumed speech.

      “Madré de Dios!” he said, “if Rayas had succeeded in killing me! But for you, ñor, he must have succeeded. Lola was near at hand, calling my name. He would have heard her. She would have come up, and then the wolf and the lamb would have met in the middle of the chapparal. Madré de Dios! Thanks that she is saved!”

      As the more than probable consequence of such a meeting became pictured in the imagination of the Jarocho, he raised himself, half erect, upon the camp-bedstead, and emphatically repeated the thanksgiving.

      The words had scarcely passed from his lips, when, for the third time, the mother of God was invoked.

      On this occasion, however, a different cause had called forth the invocation—a cry heard outside the tent in the silvery intonation of a woman’s voice.

      It was easy to recognise the utterance of Dolores. On hearing it the invalid sprang clear out of the catre; and stood for some moments balancing himself upon the floor.

      Yielding to his weakness, he fell back upon the couch, just as the girl rushed inside the tent—proclaiming by her presence that no harm had befallen her.

      “What is it, dear Lola?” cried her brother, almost word for word repeating my own interrogatory.

      “He! Don Ramon! He is there—outside the tent!”

      “If he will only stay till I come out, I promise you, fair Lola, you shall never more be troubled by his presence.”

      I drew my sword from its sheath, and was rushing for the opening in the canvas.

      ”Ñor, ñor! por amor Dios! Go not alone! Don Ramon is wicked; but he is brave—he is dangerous!”

      It was Dolores who interrupted me with these strange speeches.

      “Brave!” I said, turning to her with angry astonishment. “Brave! a villain such as he, brave!”

      I spoke with a bitter emphasis. The thought had shot across my brain, that the scorn of which Calros spoke, might have been only a fraternal fancy!

      “I hope he will have courage enough to wait my coming. We shall see!” and with this valorous declaration, I emerged from the marquee, and ran over the ground in search of Don Ramon.

      Half a score of my comrades, who had started from their couches on hearing the scream, were soon around me; but although we quartered the chapparal for a good stretch on every side of the encampment, we could find no trace of the robber.

      Having doubled the number of the sentries, and taken other precautions against the return of this terrible intruder, I re-entered the tent which gave shelter to the Jarocho and his sister.

      Restoring the invalid to such repose as was possible, I made preparations to leave them for the night. The girl was to sleep upon the floor of the marquee, under cover of a serapé, which I had procured for her accommodation.

      “Have no fear, Linda Lola!” I whispered, as reluctantly I bade good night. “He who would harm thee must first pass over my body. I shall sleep outside—before the entrance of the tent. Adios! Posa V. buena noche! Hasta la mañana!”

      “Hasta la mañana!” was the reply—simply my own words repeated, and with an innocent unconcern, that should have nipped in the bud any unhallowed hopes.

Story 1, Chapter XI.

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      A Mexican Medico.

      In front of the tent—as I had whispered to her—I lay upon the ground, enfolded in my cloak. It was not the cold that kept me from sleeping, but the proximity—I might almost say the presence of that fair creature, since only a sheet of thin canvas was between us.

      I will not confess my thoughts; they are unworthy of being recorded. Even my dreams—for I had short intervals of sleep, during which I dreamt—all tended to one theme:—the enjoyment of the beautiful Jarocha.

      I listened long, with my ear keenly bent to catch the slightest sound. I felt no interest in the noises without. The night was now hastening towards day, and the sufferers who had been making it hideous seemed to have become wearied with wailing, for their voices were no longer heard.

      Alone echoed upon the air the mocking strains of the czentzontle, perched upon the summit of an acacia, and answering a friend, perhaps an enemy, far off on the opposite side of the barranca.

      The bird music fell unheeded on my ear, as did all other sounds proceeding from without. Even the firing of a gun would scarcely have distracted my attention from listening for any murmur that might reach me from the interior of the tent.

      I could hear the heavy breathing of the invalid; nothing more.

      Once he coughed, and became restless upon his couch. Then I heard a sweet silvery voice speaking in accents of affectionate inquiry, and ending in the pronunciation of some soothing words.

      From other sounds I could tell that his nurse had arisen, and was ministering to the invalid.

      By the silence, soon restored, I could perceive that she had completed her task, and had returned to her recumbent position.

      She appeared to have no thoughts of him who was keeping guard without;—not as her guardian angel, but rather demon, who would not have hesitated to destroy that innocence which enabled her to sleep!

      Just in proportion as the time passed, so increased my respect for Lola Vergara, and my contempt for myself.

      The lovelight I had observed in her eyes was but her natural look—the simple expression of her wondrous beauty. It had no signification—at least none that was evil—and in mistaking it for the glance of a guilty passion I had erred—deeply wronging her.

      Soothed by this more honourable reflection, I at length fell asleep, just as the grey light of dawn was beginning to steal over the spray of the chapparal.

      I could not have been very long unconscious, for the beams of the sun had scarcely attained their full brilliancy, when I was again awakened—this time, not by the conflict of passion within, but by the voices of men without. The challenge of a sentry had first struck upon my ear—quickly followed by a parley with some one who had approached the tent.

      In the scarcely intelligible dialogue that ensued, I could tell that the man challenged was a Mexican, who, in broken English, was endeavouring to satisfy the demands of the sentry.

      The dialogue ran thus:—

      “Who goes there?”

      “Amigos! friends!” was the response.

      “ ’Dvance, and gie the countersign!”

      “Señor centinela! we are medicos—surgeon, you call—of the ejercito—armee Mejicano.”

      “Ye’re Mexicans, are ye? Take care what ye’re about then. What d’ye want hyar?”

      “We are medicos—doctor—entiende usted?”

      “Doctors,

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