To this he thought she had listened, or seemed to listen, with more than ordinary attention, looking pensive as she made reply.
“Yes, Don Florencio! you will see much in Mexico likely to give you gratification. ’Tis true, indeed, that many of my countrywomen are fair—some very fair. Among them you will soon forget—”
Kearney’s heart beat wildly, hoping he would hear the monosyllable “me.” But the word was not spoken. In its place the phrase “us poor exiles,” with which somewhat commonplace remark the young Mexican concluded her speech.
And still there was something in what she had said, but more in her manner of saying it, which made pleasant impression upon him—something in her tone that touched a chord already making music in his heart. If it did not give him surety of her love, it, for the time, hindered him from despairing of it.
All this had occurred at an interview he had with her only the day before; and, since, sweet thoughts and hopes were his. But on the same morning they were shattered—crushed out by the spectacle he had witnessed, and the interpretation of those whispered words he had failed to hear. It had chased all hope out of his heart, and sent him in wild, aimless strides along the street, just in the right frame of mind for being caught by that call which had attracted his eyes on the poster—
“Volunteers for Texas.” And just so had he been caught; and, as described, entered among the filibustering band to be chosen its chief. To the young Irishman it was a day of strange experiences, varying as the changes of a kaleidoscope; more like a dream than reality; and after reflecting upon it all, he thus interrogated himself—
“Shall I see her again, or not? Why not? If she’s lost, she cannot be worse lost by my having another interview with her. Nor could I feel worse than I do now. Ah! with this laurel fresh placed upon my brow! What if I tell her of it—tell her I am about to enter her native land as an invader? If she care for her country, that would spite her; and if I find she cares not for me, her spite would give me pleasure.”
It was not an amiable mood for a lover contemplating a visit to his sweetheart. Still, natural enough under the circumstances; and Florence Kearney, wavering no longer, turned his steps towards that part of the city where dwelt Don Ignacio Valverde.