Don Felipe brought us the news, and it was easy to see, in spite of his talk, that it did not displease him.
"We shall have to call in Bolivar now," said he, "or make peace with the viceroy. Of course you and I will suffer. Our estates will be confiscated; we shall probably be thrown into prison; but we are good patriots, and will not shrink from our duty."
"If the others agree with me," replied my father, "we shall neither call in Bolivar nor make peace. There is still an army left!"
"Just so, but we cannot trust it. The troops are almost in open rebellion, and this news will not quiet them."
"We do not yet know that it is true."
"I am sure of it," said our neighbour hastily. "I have—that is to say, there can be no doubt of it."
A week or two later—January 20, 1823, to be precise—there walked into the quarters of the second battalion a young officer. His face was white and drawn, his eyes were sunken; he looked so pitifully weak and ill that at first I failed to recognize him.
"Well, Crawford," he exclaimed, "am I as changed as all that? Don't you know your old chum Alzura when you see him?"
"Alzura?" I echoed, aghast.
"All that is left of him."