In the changing scenes of a soldier’s life there is but little time for the slow formalities, the zealous vigils, the complicated finesse of courtship. Perhaps this consideration impelled me. I have but little confidence in the cold heart that is won by a series of assiduities. There is too much calculation of after-events—too much selfishness.
These reflections passed through my mind. I bent towards my companion, and whispered to her in that language—rich above all others in the vocabulary of the heart:
“Guadalupe, tu me amas?” (Guadalupe, do you love me?)
“Yo te amo!” was the simple reply. Need I describe the joyful feelings that filled my heart at that moment? My happiness was complete.
The confession rendered her sacred in my eyes, and we sat for some time silent, enjoying that transport only known to those who have truly, purely loved.
The trampling of hoofs! It was Clayley at the head of the troop. They were mounted, and waiting for me. Don Cosmé was impatient; so was the Dona Joaquina. I could not blame them, knowing the cause.
“Ride forward! I shall follow presently.”
The horsemen filed off into the fields, headed by the lieutenant, beside whom rode Don Cosmé, on his white mule.
“You will soon return, Enrique?”
“I shall lose no opportunity of seeing you. I shall long for the hour more than you, I fear.”