“Her sister! What mean you by that speech, captain Moreno?”
“Ah, caballero! if you but knew how she loves you!”
“Loves me!”
“Ay. It was in the hope of seeing you, that she consented to assist in a stratagem, of which I need not tell you now. It was to end by our going on to the Capital; where, since the storming of Chapultepec, she knew you have been residing. She heard of your gallant behaviour in that sanguinary action, and of the dangerous wounds you received. You cannot guess how she grieved for you—despite her chagrin. Pobre Mercedes!”
“Mercedes—grieved—chagrin! You mystify me.”
“Ah, señor—your conduct mystified her. Ay more: it half broke her heart.”
“Francisco Moreno! for heaven’s sake explain yourself! What does all this mean—about Mercedes? Pray tell me!”
“I can tell you little, but what should be known to yourself. Pobre niña! She had made me her confidant,—having long been mine in my correspondence with Lola. O, señor! you have been kind to me. You are doubly so now. But why have you behaved so to Mercedes? Though I may never rise from this couch, I cannot help telling you it was dishonourable,—ay cruel!”
“On what occasion, may I ask, has this cruelty occurred?”
“You are mocking me, amigo? You must remember it. She gave you an appointment in the Alameda; and though you came, and she saw you, you went away without waiting to speak to her. After that slight she never saw you again! To win a woman’s heart, and thus trifle with it! Was it not cruel? I ask, was it not cruel?”