But not till I had set my forage-cap more coquettishly upon my head,
drawn my fingers through my hair, and given to my moustache its most
captivating curl.
I confess to all this weakness. I was at that time full of conceit in
my personal appearance. I had heard the phrase, "handsome young
officer," applied to me by one from whose lips dropped the words like
the honey of Hymettus; and, inspired by the flattering epithet, I left
nothing undone to deserve it.
Nevertheless I felt embarrassed, as I presented myself once more before
the lovely Lola--an embarrassment heightened by the presence of her
brother.
Wonder at this, if you will. It is too easily explained. I entered the
tent with the consciousness of a design that was not honourable. I
stood before them both--the sister and brother--with a conscience not
clear. At that moment--I confess it to my shame--I had no other thought
than that of trifling with the affections of the beautiful Jarocha.
She was but a peasant--one of a race, it is true, to whom the
appellation is somewhat inappropriate--a people, though poor, elegant in
person, graceful in deportment, highly gifted with the _savoir faire_,
as it relates to the ordinary intercourse of life--at the same time a
people in whose pantheon the divinity, Virtue, finds but an
inconspicuous niche.
Neither the first nor the last of these reflections may be deemed an
excuse for my conduct. I do not offer them as such, though both serving
at the time to satisfy my conscience.
Its scruples were not difficult to subdue. Its still small voice was
unheard, or rather unheeded, under the promptings of a powerful, but
unholy passion, of which Lola Vergara was then the object, and as I
hoped, afterwards to become the victim.
She was but a peasant, a pretty _poblana_--perhaps already inducted into
the mysteries of Cupid's court: for it would be rare for one of her race
to have reached woman's age without loving. The sister of a common
soldier--for such was the rank of Calros--what harm could be done? What
wrong could I be dreaming about?
I did not need all this sophistry to satisfy the whisperings of my
conscience. At that time of my life the task was easy of
accomplishment--too easy; and with such a lure as Lola Vergara it was
less than a task.
I made no effort to resist the temptation. On the contrary, I devoted
myself to the winning of her heart with all the ardour of an important
enterprise.
It was her _heart_ I wished to win, and that only. _I wished it because
she had won mine_. I deny that I had any design beyond--any thought
more dishonourable. That of itself may be deemed sufficiently so, since
I had no intention of offering her my hand.
Her love alone did I care for; though I will not conceal my belief,
that, in the event of conquering her _heart_, any other conquest would
be facile and without resistance.
This was my faith at the time--a faith founded on sad experience. I
applied it to Lola Vergara, as I should have done to any other girl
under the like circumstances.
The future would prove whether my creed was erroneous as it was
dishonourable.
I entered the tent. She, whose affections I intended trifling with,
rose from her seat, saluting me, as I stepped forward, with an air of
modesty that might have shamed my secret thoughts. Her glance was full
of gratitude. How ill did I deserve it!
"Senor," said she, after answering my inquiries as to the condition of
the invalid, "I hope you will forgive me for the rude manner in which I
addressed you. _Volga me Dios_! To have made such a mistake! I
thought you had killed my brother, not knowing when I saw you standing
over him. O senor! you will forgive me?"
"There is nothing to forgive, fair Lola. Considering the situation, you
could scarcely have thought otherwise. Fortunately, no one has
succeeded in killing your brother; not even the American rifleman who
sent his bullet through him. I am glad to hear that the wound is not
dangerous."
"Ah, senor," interposed Calros himself, "but for you--Lola has just been
telling me--but for you I should have had a wound, not only dangerous,
but deadly. That _cortante_ (the Jarocho pointed to the blood-stained
weapon lying on the floor of the tent) would have pierced my flesh--my
heart. I know it; I am sure of it. He meant to have killed me! _El
demonio_!"
"You are speaking of Ramon Rayas?"
"Of him!--pardon, senor Americano. You cannot know anything of him?
How learnt you his name?"
"From your own lips, Calros Vergara; and your name from his. From both
of you a name prettier than either."