As it could not be the blood of Calros, I concluded it must be that of Ramon Rayas. My bullet must have been true to its aim.
While thus occupied with conjectures, a new voice fell upon my ear, as different from either of those lately listened to as music from the rudest noise.
“Calros! dear Calros!” called the voice, “was it you I heard? Speak, Calros! valga me Dios! That shot! Surely it was not for him? No—no—I heard him speaking after it. Calros! Answer me, if you are near. It is I who call—I, your own Lola!”
Had it been the voice of an angel coming out of the chapparal, or from the sky above it could not have sounded sweeter, nor thrilled me with a stranger impulse.
For some seconds I remained irresolute as to what answer should be made to the pathetic appeal. I hesitated to apprise the speaker of the presence of Calros. Only his body was present; his spirit was not there!
What a sad spectacle for the eye of the loved Dolores—the loving Dolores—how could I doubt it? Looking upon the handsome Jarocho—graceful even in the attitude of death—I could not wonder at the earnestness of that feminine voice, pronouncing him her “querido Calros.”
Once more it fell upon my ear, continuing the passionate appeal.
“Calros! O Calros! Why do you not answer me? It is Lola—your own Lola!”
“Lola!” I responded, yielding to an irresistible emotion, “this way; come this way! Calros is here.”
An exclamatory phrase, expressing gratitude to the “Mother of God,” was heard in response; and quickly following the words, a female form, fair as the mother of men, parting the hushes that bordered the glade, stepped cut into the opening.