“How? Tell me, Lola!”
“You say he was threatening to run you through with his macheté. You heard a shot? It was not Ramon, but the young officer, who fired it; and the bullet was aimed at Rayas himself, and not at you. It must have hit him, for his macheté was found beside you, the hilt stained with blood; and these drops must have come from the wound he received. Ah! dear brother Calros! but for this brave Americano you would now have been in another world, and I left in this, alone, and without a protector.”
Brother Calros!
A load seemed lifted from my heart; the arrow, so lately entering it, and already beginning to rankle, appeared to be suddenly plucked from it without causing pain.
Brother Calros!
No longer did I wonder at the stoical indifference with which the Jarocho had listened to that flattering eulogy bestowed upon myself.
“No, Lola Vergara”—for that should be her name—“No! Never in this world, so long as I live, shall you, beautiful Jarocha, be without a protector!”
That was my thought, my mental resolution. I could scarcely restrain myself from rushing into the tent, and proclaiming it aloud!