She was but a peasant, a pretty poblana—perhaps already inducted into the mysteries of Cupid’s court: for it would be rare for one of her race to have reached woman’s age without loving. The sister of a common soldier—for such was the rank of Calros—what harm could be done? What wrong could I be dreaming about?
I did not need all this sophistry to satisfy the whisperings of my conscience. At that time of my life the task was easy of accomplishment—too easy; and with such a lure as Lola Vergara it was less than a task.
I made no effort to resist the temptation. On the contrary, I devoted myself to the winning of her heart with all the ardour of an important enterprise.
It was her heart I wished to win, and that only. I wished it because she had won mine. I deny that I had any design beyond—any thought more dishonourable. That of itself may be deemed sufficiently so, since I had no intention of offering her my hand.
Her love alone did I care for; though I will not conceal my belief, that, in the event of conquering her heart, any other conquest would be facile and without resistance.
This was my faith at the time—a faith founded on sad experience. I applied it to Lola Vergara, as I should have done to any other girl under the like circumstances.
The future would prove whether my creed was erroneous as it was dishonourable.
I entered the tent. She, whose affections I intended trifling with, rose from her seat, saluting me, as I stepped forward, with an air of modesty that might have shamed my secret thoughts. Her glance was full of gratitude. How ill did I deserve it!
“Señor,” said she, after answering my inquiries as to the condition of the invalid, “I hope you will forgive me for the rude manner in which I addressed you. Volga me Dios! To have made such a mistake! I thought you had killed my brother, not knowing when I saw you standing over him. O señor! you will forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive, fair Lola. Considering the situation, you could scarcely have thought otherwise. Fortunately, no one has succeeded in killing your brother; not even the American rifleman who sent his bullet through him. I am glad to hear that the wound is not dangerous.”