The Archbishop had told del Torre that his nephew had been married already—secretly, but married—married to the woman who came to seek him out at the camp. Against this wall del Torre’s will had been beating in vain before his own betrothal to Dolores was announced. If she could not marry Ramon, it might, indeed, be best she married him. But it was with a fierce suspicion he received his friends’ congratulations at his club and camp. Among his officers no other look or accent mingled with an unaffected joy. But in the city, he fancied—he was ever ready to fancy—among the young men, a shade of irony in their congratulations on his happiness. Was he not so old!
Don Ramon heard of it from Jacinta. Jacinta was on the side of the younger man. She looked upon del Torre’s gray hairs with fierce eyes. Ramon’s liquid voice and peachy lip had fascinated this supple creature of the forest. Don Ramon heard; and his own answer was characteristic.
“The old fool!”
Jacinta nodded impatiently. She asked him for a message back. He took pen and paper and wrote:
“Señorita Condesa: Thou lovest me. On the morning thou shalt wed Don Sebastian I kill him.
“Ramon del Torre.”
He read it over; then he stopped and thought. His first impulse was to boast; his second, to intrigue. He was not all tiger; something of the serpent lay within the handsome youth.
“I will send it this evening,” he said to Jacinta. And in the evening this is what he wrote:
“Señorita Condesa: The Archbishop is my enemy and makes my uncle marry you. Have you confessed to him? Surely, you have loved me? On the day he marries you he shall kill your
“Ramon.”