Had the invalid been still asleep, I might have hesitated about disturbing him. But his voice warned me that he was awake, and in conversation with some one—who, of course, could be no other than Lola.
Even then I hesitated about going in; but while thus meditating, I could not help overhearing a portion of the dialogue that was passing between them. A name already known was on the lips of Calros, from which I could easily divine the subject of their conversation. It was the name of Ramon Rayas.
“Yes, dearest Lola,” said the invalid, as if replying to some interrogatory, “it was that villain. Not content with persecuting you with his infamous proposals, he has followed me, even to the field of battle? He would have killed me outright. Carrambo! I thought he had done so. I saw him standing over me with his macheté pointed at my breast. I was too weak to make resistance. I could not raise a hand to parry his thrust. He did not strike. I know not why. There was a shot; and then I saw him standing over me again, with a pistol, its muzzle held close to my body. Valga me Dios! I saw no more. I became unconscious.”
“Dear Calros! it was not Rayas who held the pistol.”
“Not him!—not Ramon Rayas. It was, Lola. I saw him. I heard and talked to him. I listened to his threats. He wanted me to tell him—Oh! too surely was it he—he, and no other.”
“Yes, he who threatened you with the macheté. That’s true enough; but the man who held the pistol—that was not Don Ramon; not an enemy either, though I also thought him one.”
“And who was it?” asked the invalid, with a puzzled look upon his countenance.
“The Americano—he who has had you carried here into the tent.”
“Which of them? There were several around me. Was it the medico who dressed my wound? He must be a doctor to have done it so skilfully.”
“No, it was not he.”