“I did. I found a friend who offered me a home for her. My friend promised to keep her concealed, until this war should be over, and I could return home to protect her as a freeborn citizen of the republic.”
“How came she to be here to-night?”
“Devotion,” proudly replied the youth; “devotion, ñor capitan. She heard from some fugitives that I was shot down and left on the field. She came to find me—if dead to weep over my body—if living, to take care of me. Thanks to you, ñor deconocio, she has found me alive.”
After a short interval of silence, in which the invalid appeared to reflect, he resumed speech.
“Madré de Dios!” he said, “if Rayas had succeeded in killing me! But for you, ñor, he must have succeeded. Lola was near at hand, calling my name. He would have heard her. She would have come up, and then the wolf and the lamb would have met in the middle of the chapparal. Madré de Dios! Thanks that she is saved!”
As the more than probable consequence of such a meeting became pictured in the imagination of the Jarocho, he raised himself, half erect, upon the camp-bedstead, and emphatically repeated the thanksgiving.
The words had scarcely passed from his lips, when, for the third time, the mother of God was invoked.
On this occasion, however, a different cause had called forth the invocation—a cry heard outside the tent in the silvery intonation of a woman’s voice.
It was easy to recognise the utterance of Dolores. On hearing it the invalid sprang clear out of the catre; and stood for some moments balancing himself upon the floor.
Yielding to his weakness, he fell back upon the couch, just as the girl rushed inside the tent—proclaiming by her presence that no harm had befallen her.