I know not whether he had resolved the matter in his mind, but if so, the resolution rose not to his lips; for, as I stood over his couch, venturing to add my solicitations to that naïve insinuation of his sister, I heard voices outside the tent—voices of men who had just come up—inquiring for “Calros Vergara.”
“Hola!” cried the Jarocho, recognising the voices, “those are our friends, sister—people from Lagarto. Run out, niña, and tell them I am here!”
Lola glided towards the entrance of the tent.
“’Tis true, Calros,” she cried, as soon as she had looked out. “I see Vicente Vilagos, Ignacio Valdez, Rosario Très Villas, and the little Pablito!”
“Gracias a Dios!” exclaimed the invalid, raising himself on the catre. “I should not wonder if they’ve come to carry me home.”
“That’s just what we’ve come for,” responded a tall, stalwart specimen of a Jarocho, who at that moment stepped inside the tent, and who was hailed by the invalid as “Vicente Vilagos.” “Just that, Calros; and we’re glad to learn that the Yankee bullet has not quite stopped your breath. You’re all right, hombre! So the medico outside has been telling us; and you’ll be able, he says, to make the journey to Lagarto, where we’ll carry you as gingerly as a game cock; ay, and the niña, too, if she will only sit astride of my shoulders. Ha! ha! ha!”
By this time the other Jarochos, to the number of six or seven, had crowded inside the tent, and surrounded the catre in which lay their countryman—each grasping him by the hand on arriving within reach; and all saluting Lola with an air of chevalresque gracefulness worthy of the days of the Cid!
I stood aside—watching with curious interest this interchange of friendly feeling; which partook also of a national character: for it was evident that the visitors of Calros were all of the Jarocho race.
I had another motive for observing their movements, far stronger than that of mere curiosity. I looked to discover if among the new-comers I could recognise a rival!
I watched the countenance of Lola more than theirs, scrutinising it as each saluted her. I felt happy in having observed nothing—at least nothing that appeared like a glance of mutual intelligence. They were all thin, sinewy fellows, dark-skinned and dark-haired, having faces such as Salvator Rosa would have delighted to commit to canvas, and pointed chin-beards, like those painted by Vandyke.