“Do you speak in that tone of your hero, Dolores? Remember that he only warned me of my danger out of pure friendship. But his warning was thrown away; my unhappy passion, the sight of your loveliness, your own incautious words, were too much for my heart.”
She dropped her face on her hands and remained silent.
“I have suffered for my fault, and must suffer more. Will you not say you forgive me, Dolores?” I said, offering my hand.
She took it, but continued silent.
“Say, dearest friend, that you forgive me, that we part friends.”
“Oh, Richard, must we part then?” she murmured.
“Yes—now, Dolores; for, before you are up, I must be on horseback and on my way to join the troops. The march to Montevideo will probably commence almost immediately.”
“Oh, I cannot bear it!” she suddenly exclaimed, taking my hands in both hers. “Let me open my heart to you now. Forgive me, Richard, for being so angry with you, but I did not know the General had said such a thing. Believe me, he imagines more than he knows. When you took me in your arms and held me against your breast it was a revelation to me. I cannot love or give my hand to any other man. You are everything in the world to me now, Richard; must you leave me to mingle in this cruel civil strife in which all my dearest friends and relations have perished.”
She had had her revelation; I now had mine, and it was an exceedingly bitter one. I trembled at the thought of confessing my secret to her, now when she had so unmistakably responded to the passion I had insanely revealed.
Suddenly she raised her dark, luminous eyes to mine, anger and shame struggling for mastery on her pale face.