“And you will not hesitate a minute—no, not a second,” cried Isabel, the hot blood rushing to her face.
“Isabel!” said the soldier, in a voice which, despite all he could do, trembled.
“You will avenge the savage butchery. Shall I, a daughter of sunny Portugal, in whose veins flows the proud blood of Castille, bid you stay?”
He held her out at arm’s length, he gazed into her eyes, flashing with pride and indignation.
“Go, Enrico. The steamer leaves to-morrow at daybreak. Go: and come back to me covered with glory, as you will come.”
“And if I return no more, Isabel?”
“Still go, Enrico; and lead your regiment in the thickest of the fray. Tell them they fight for their wives and children; and when the murders are avenged, when what remains of the helpless prisoners are safe, when the flag of your country waves victorious in the land, come back to me, or,”—and for the first time the flushed countenance paled and the voice trembled—“or,” she continued, “Enrico mio, I will come to you;” and, bursting into tears, her beautiful head sunk on the soldier’s breast, as he clasped her fervently in his arms.
The Relief of Cawnpore.
The news of the fearful outbreak in India had taken the English by surprise. The dreadful atrocities of Cawnpore, the massacres perpetrated by Nana Sahib, who had ever been looked upon as the Englishman’s friend, had carried a sense of woe and desolation to the heart of the land, but the first numbing sense of sorrow had passed, and many a gallant fellow was on his way to India to wipe out the stain, which the revolt of her Sepoy army had cast upon the time-honoured banner of England.