"Come, do not cry, little girl, but say good-bye; I must return to the plain."
He tenderly embraced his sister who was still weeping, left the room, mounted his horse again, and started at a gallop.
"Father," Doña Concha said eagerly, "are we going to remain at the estancia during the invasion of the Indians?"
"My child, it is the safest plan." "But, Don Sylvio?" she added, with a delicious pout.
"He will come and join us."
"Oh, no," she said hurriedly; "you forget, father, that the roads are impracticable, and infested with Indians; I do not wish him to fall into an ambuscade of the Pagans."
"What is to be done?"
"Send him a messenger ordering him, from me, to remain at Carmen, or, if he absolutely insists on returning, to take a boat; the Indians will not dare attack him on the river. Write to him, father; I will add a few lines to your letter, and he will not like to displease his wife."
"His wife?" her father repeated with a smile.
"Or nearly so, as I am going to marry him in two days. You will write at once, will you not, dear father?"