“Ah, señor,” interposed Calros himself, “but for you—Lola has just been telling me—but for you I should have had a wound, not only dangerous, but deadly. That cortante (the Jarocho pointed to the blood-stained weapon lying on the floor of the tent) would have pierced my flesh—my heart. I know it; I am sure of it. He meant to have killed me! El demonio!”
“You are speaking of Ramon Rayas?”
“Of him!—pardon, señor Americano. You cannot know anything of him? How learnt you his name?”
“From your own lips, Calros Vergara; and your name from his. From both of you a name prettier than either.”
I glanced towards Lola, who returned my look with a gracious smile.
Calros looked puzzled; as if not very clearly comprehending me.
“You forget,” I said, “that in the conversation which occurred between you and this Ramon Rayas, you repeatedly addressed each other by name; and also mentioned a third individual, whose acquaintance I have since had the pleasure of making—your sister, is she not?”
“Si, ñor capitan. Ña Lola is my sister.”
“She is worthy to be your sister, señor Calros. She who follows a brother to the field of battle—seeks for him among the slain—risking life to alleviate the pain of his wounds—ah! that is a sister for a soldier. Would that I had such an one!”
While speaking I regarded the countenance of the girl. I regarded it with a tender gaze. I fancied that she returned my thought, but so slightly as to have been perceptible only to the keen scrutiny of love. It was only a single glance she gave me; and then the long lashes fell over her eyes, hiding their sweet scintillation.