“It may be. I have forgotten.”
“Too well he remembers. He has dared to sing a serenade to your memory—well, truly, he did not finish it, and but for the Senor Doctor, I should have taught him that Isabel is not a name for his lips to utter. Here, he may presume to come into your presence. Will you receive him with extreme haughtiness? It would be a great satisfaction to me.”
“The poor fellow! Why should I make him miserable? You should not be jealous, Luis.”
“If you smile on him—the least little smile—he will think you are in love with him. He is such a fool, I assure you. I am very distressed about this matter, my angel.”
“I will tell you Luis—when the myrtle-tree grows figs, and the fig-tree is pink with myrtle flowers, then I may fall in love with Dias de Bonilla—if I can take the trouble.”
No one heeded this pretty, extravagant talk. It was a thing apart from the more serious interests discussed by Doctor Worth and his wife and eldest daughter. And when Ortiz and Navarro joined the circle, the story of the fall of the Alamo was told again, and Luis forgot his own happiness, and wept tears of anger and pity for the dead heroes.
“This brutal massacre was on the morning of the sixth, you say, Navarro?”
“Last Sabbath morning, Senor. Mass was being offered in the churches, and Te Deums sung while it went on.”
“A mass to the devil it was,” said Ortiz.
“Now, I will tell you something. On the morning of the second, Thomas was in Washington. A convention sitting there declared, on that day, the independence of Texas, and fifty-five out of fifty-six votes elected General Houston Commander-in-Chief.”