I did not hear the conclusion of his passionate appeal, nor the reply—if there was one.
Dolores might have stayed in the balcon, and chatted with her dear Francis for an hour by the cathedral clock, without giving me the slightest chagrin. I was too happy to listen to another word of their conversation.
Mercedes—my Mercedes—was not she who had dropped that little note, and said to him who received it, “Va con Dios!”
There was still a hope that her heart was free; that no “querido Francisco” had yet taken possession of it!
“God grant but that,” was my mental prayer, as I turned to take my departure, “and Mercedes may yet be mine!”
Chapter Fourteen.
Que Cosa?
Giving way to sweet imaginings, I stood for some seconds under the shadow of the portal.