“He has not yet left El Molino,” said an orderly, standing in the room.
“He is at the end of the town at the Casa Blanca, and does not leave till half-past three.”
“It is nearly that now,” said the officer, consulting his watch. “Take him to the General at once, Lieutenant Alday.”
I thanked the officer, who had looked and spoken so unlike a revolutionary bandit, and, as soon as I had succeeded in clambering on to my horse, we were once more dashing along the main street at a fast gallop. We drew up before a large, old-looking stone house at the end of the town, standing some distance back from the road, and screened from it by a double row of tall Lombardy poplars. The back of the house was towards the road, and, passing round to the front after leaving our horses at the gate, we entered a spacious patio, or yard. Running along the front of the dwelling was a wide corridor, supported by wooden pillars, painted white, while the whole of the patio was shaded by an immense grape-vine. This was evidently one of the best houses in the place, and, coming directly from the glaring sun and the white, dusty road, the vine-shaded patio and corridor looked delightfully cool and inviting. A gay company of twelve or fifteen people were gathered under the corridor, some sipping maté, others sucking grapes; and when we came on the scene a young lady was just finishing a song she was singing. I at once singled out General Santa Coloma, sitting by the young lady with the guitar—a tall, imposing man, with somewhat irregular features, and a bronzed, weather-beaten face. He was booted and spurred, and over his uniform wore a white silk poncho with purple fringe. I judged from his countenance that he was not a stern or truculent man, as one expects a Caudillo—a leader of men—in the Banda Orientál to be: and, remembering that in a few minutes he would be leaving the house, I was anxious to push forward and state my case to him. The others, however, prevented me, for the General just then happened to be engaged in a vivacious conversation with the young lady sitting by him. When I had once looked attentively at this girl I had eyes for no other face there. The type was Spanish, and I have never seen a more perfect face of the kind; a wealth of blue-black hair shading the low, broad forehead, straight nose, dark, luminous eyes, and crimson, pouting lips. She was tall, perfect in her figure as in her face, and wore a white dress with a deep red China rose on her bosom for only ornament. Standing there unnoticed at the end of the corridor, I gazed with a kind of fascination on her, listening to her light, rippling laughter and lively talk, watching her graceful gestures, her sparkling eyes, and damask cheeks flushed with excitement. Here is a woman, I thought with a sigh—I felt a slight twinge at that disloyal sigh—I could have worshipped. She was pressing the guitar on the General.
“You have promised to sing one song before you go, and I cannot let you off,” she exclaimed.
At length he took the instrument, protesting that his voice was a very bad one; then, sweeping the strings, began that fine old Spanish song of love and war:
“Cuando suena la trompa guerrera.”
His voice was uncultivated and somewhat harsh, but there was a good deal of fire and expression in the performance, and it was rapturously applauded.
The moment the song was over he handed her back the guitar, and, starting up hastily, bade the company adieu, and turned to go.
Coming forward, I placed myself before him and began to speak.