After a pause, he proceeded, "It was _Dolores_, my eldest girl, who
intended to take the veil."
"Was it of her own free will?" I asked.
I could see that the question caused embarrassment. My emotions at the
moment were not less powerful--not less painful--than his.
"Pardon me," I continued, "for making so free with your family affairs;
which, of course, cannot in any way concern me. It was a mere
inadvertence--quite unintentional--I assure you."
"O, sir! have I not promised to tell you all--you who have so nobly
espoused our cause; you who are about to imperil your precious life for
the safety of my children! Why should I conceal from you aught that
appertains to their welfare?"
"It is true," he continued, after a short interval of silence, "true,
that my daughter was not altogether reconciled to the step. I myself
was inciting her to take it. I had my reasons, senor; and I am sure,
that on hearing them, you will approve of what I intended doing. It was
for her happiness; for the honour of our family name and the glory of
God--which last should be the chief end and act of every true
Christian."
The solemn speech awed me into silence. I made no reply, but stood
awaiting the revelation.
"Only of late," continued Don Eusebio, "in fact within the last few
days, was I made acquainted with a circumstance, that caused me both
anger and alarm. I learnt that some intimate relations had become
established between my elder daughter, Dolores, and a young man in no
way worthy of forming an alliance with our family. Know, sir, that the
name _Villa-Senor_ is one. But why dwell upon that? I could not look
upon my child, and think of her disgrace. For that reason I determined
that she should pass the rest of her days in expiating the crime she had
committed."
"Crime! What crime?"
It would be difficult to describe the sensation I felt while putting
this question, or the agony with which I awaited the answer.
"That of consenting to unite herself--for it had come to giving her
consent--to one of low birth; of listening to vows of love from the lips
of a peasant--a _lepero_!"
"Was he this?"
"Si, senor; was, and is. Through the state of anarchy and revolution
from which this unfortunate country has long suffered, like many others
of his class, he has risen to the paltry distinction of being an officer
in our army--a captain, I believe. Among you, I am aware, the title is
one of distinction--not so easily earned, and substantial when obtained.
In the army of our so-called Republic, a swineherd to-day may be a
captain to-morrow; and the captain of to-morrow a _salteador_ the day
following!"
"Of course you know the name of this captain--whom you deem so unworthy
of your daughter?"
The question was put mechanically, and without care for the answer. I
knew that the name would be "Francisco Moreno."
It was.