It went at once, hastened by thoughts of Carrasco; and my first friendship for Francisco Moreno was restored in all its strength.
I looked around the room. There was no furniture, except such as appeared to have been transported thither for the occasion. I stepped into a small chamber adjoining. In this I discovered a catre, or camp-bedstead of leather, stretched upon trestles. Some shawls, scarfs, and other articles of female apparel thrown over it, told of its intended occupancy. It was to have been the bridal bed!
I had the bridegroom placed upon it; to receive the embrace, not of Dolores, but Death!
After a cursory examination of his wounds, I conceived a more hopeful opinion of them. The haemorrhage had been profuse. Still the main artery did not appear to be touched.
He was feeble as a child; and stood in need of some restorative.
I could think only of that which, under circumstances strangely analogous, had given support to myself—a draught of Catalan. My flask was full of refino—the best that could be obtained in the Capital.
I placed it between his lips; and poured down a portion of its contents.
The effect was such as I anticipated—drawing from my own remembrance. The spirit passed immediately through his frame—filling his veins as with fresh blood.
He soon became conscious: he recognised me.
“Ah, señor!” said he, looking gratefully in my face, “It is you—you who are doing me this kindness! Oh! tell me, where is she—Dolores—my own Dolores—my bride—my wife? Ah—no—she was not yet that? But where—where—”