"Father," Doña Anita continued in a tearful voice, "I love him. Still, when we left the colony, we might have fled, and abandoned you; but we did not do it. The idea never once occurred to us. We were ashamed of our fault. You see us both here ready to obey you, and perform without a murmur the orders it may please you to give us. Be not inflexible, O my father, but pardon us!"
The hacendero drew himself up.
"You see," he said severely, "I can no longer hesitate. I must save the Count de Lhorailles at all hazards, else I should be your accomplice."
The Tigrero walked in great agitation up and down the hall: his eyebrows were contracted—his face deadly pale.
"Yes," he said in a broken voice, "yes, he must be saved. No matter what becomes of me after. No cowardly weakness! I have committed a fault, and will undergo all the consequences."
"Aid me frankly and loyally in my search, and I will pardon you," Don Sylva said gravely. "My honour is compromised by your fault. I place it in your hands."
"Thanks, Don Sylva; you will have no cause to repent," the Tigrero nobly replied.
The hacendero gently raised his daughter, drew her to his breast, and embraced her several times.
"My poor child!" he said to her, "I forgive you. Alas! Who knows whether in a few days I shall not have, in my turn, to ask your forgiveness for all the sufferings I have inflicted on you? Go and rest; the night is drawing on—you must have need of repose."
"Oh, how kind you are and how I love you, father!" she cried from her heart, "Fear nothing. Whatever sufferings the future may have in store for me, I will endure them without a murmur. Now I am happy, for you have pardoned me."