"You are dreadfully tenacious of your plan to save me," said Don Guzman, with a mournful smile.
"More so than ever, ¡canarios! This time there will be no doubt about your compliance. In two days you shall judge for yourself."
"So much the better," said Don Guzman, sighing; "it will be over the sooner."
"Good! We are not so badly off for friends as you think, señor—amongst others, the French and English consuls. There is a fine French schooner in the harbour, which only waits for your presence on board to sail directly."
"Then she runs the risk of never leaving Buenos Aires."
"Pooh! pooh! I am of a different opinion—I think quite the contrary. I have come to an understanding with the French consul. The day after tomorrow the schooner will set sail: she will send a boat to fetch you, and will hug the coast till you come. Once under the protection of the French flag, who will dare to touch you?"
"For the last time, listen to me, Luco," said Don Guzman firmly: "I will not—understand me—I will not be saved. I intend that the infamy of my death shall cover the Dictator with confusion. I thank you for your devotion, my good old servant; but I demand that you cease to compromise yourself by your efforts for me. Let us speak no more of it."
"Then," said the sergeant, "your mind is quite made up? Nothing can change your determination?"
"Alas! One single person might have that influence over me; but that person is in ignorance of all that happens around her. Happily for her, she has lost her reason, and with reason her memory—that incurable cancer of a broken heart."
The sergeant smiled, and, opening his uniform produced a letter from his breast, and, without a word, handed it to Don Guzman.