Under the dominion of a sweet excitement, I was on the point of confessing my amourette with Mercedes, and telling him how he had interrupted it—in short, telling him all. No longer rivals, but fellow-suitors for two fair sisters, we were journeying along the same road. A common motive—each having a different object—instead of estranging, ought rather to unite us?
And yet there was a doubt. Something counselled me to reticence. My secret remained unspoken; not even mention being made of the Calle del Obispo.
“Oh!” I answered, taming down my tone of enthusiasm, “Much more depended on my life. Had I lost it—”
“Had you lost it,” interrupted the young Mexican, relieving me from the necessity of further explanation, “it would have been a sad misfortune for me: since this night I should have lost mine. Five minutes more, and these footpads would have overpowered me. As for my having saved your life, that is scarcely correct. Your own comrades did it. But for their timely arrival, we might not have been able to withstand the assault of the angry patriotas; who were led by a man of no common kind.”
“So much the greater reason for my gratitude to you.”
“Well, you have amply acquitted the debt. But for your interference here—the more generous that you did not know for whom it was exerted—I might now be lying in the place of that red-hatted, red-handed wretch; who has been alike a traitor to his country and his God!”
The last words were pronounced with a scornful emphasis, as if the speaker’s patriotism had become fired at the sight of the renegade robber.
“But, caballero!” he continued, changing to a more tranquil tone, “you say we have also met at the monté table. Lately?”
“Our latest meeting has been to-night.”
“To-night!”