“What would I not give—what would I not do—to be the hero of such a heart?”
These were my reflections as I quitted the house.
I had noted every word, every look, every action, that could lend me a hope; and my memory conjured up, and my judgment canvassed, each little circumstance in its turn.
How strange her conduct at bidding adieu! How unlike her sister! Less friendly and sincere; and yet from this very circumstance I drew my happiest omen.
Strange—is it not? My experience has taught me that love and hate for the same object can exist in the same heart, and at the same time. If this be a paradox, I am a child of error.
I believed it then; and her apparent coldness, which would have rendered many another hopeless, produced with me an opposite effect.
Then came the cloud—the thought of Don Santiago—and a painful feeling shot through my heart.
“Don Santiago, a naval officer, young, handsome. Bah! hers is not a heart to be won by a face.”
Such were my reflections and half-uttered expressions as I slowly led my soldiers through the tangled path.
Don Santiago’s age and his appearance were the creations of a jealous fancy. I had bidden adieu to my new acquaintances knowing nothing of Don Santiago beyond the fact that he was an officer on board the Spanish ship of war, and a relation of Don Cosmé.