The effect was such as I anticipated--drawing from my own remembrance.
The spirit passed immediately through his frame--filling his veins as
with fresh blood.
He soon became conscious: he recognised me.
"Ah, senor!" said he, looking gratefully in my face, "It is you--you who
are doing me this kindness! Oh! tell me, where is she--Dolores--my own
Dolores--my bride--my wife? Ah--no--she was not yet that? But where--
where--"
"Do not disquiet yourself about her," I said, with a bitterness that
even his sufferings could not hinder me from showing. "No doubt she can
take care of herself."
"But where is she? O senor! tell me where!"
"Compose yourself, Don Francisco. The lady cannot yet be far off. I
fancy I shall be able to overtake the scoundrels who have carried her
away."
"They have carried her away? O God! carried away, by him--by him!"
"By whom?"
It was an idle interrogatory. I knew without asking. There was a voice
still ringing in my ears--a voice I had distinguished through the din of
the strife, and which even then I fancied having heard before. I now
knew it was no fancy. The friar had convinced me of that.
"That wretch, Carrasco!" replied the wounded man; "I am sure it was he.
I recognised him despite the crape mask. Lola, Lola! you are lost! And
still more _Mercedes! pobre Mercedes_!"
I did not press for an explanation of this speech, that sounded so
ambiguously strange. I only said in reply:
"Senor Moreno, do not excite yourself. Leave the matter in my hands.
My duty compels me to use every effort in recovering these ladies, and
punishing the vile caitiffs who have carried them off. Have no fear
about my doing what I can. If fate wills it, _your_ Dolores shall be
restored to you."
"Thanks, thanks, senor! I feel assured you will do what can be done.
If not for _Dolores, you should for the sake of her sister_."
"Her sister! What mean you by that speech, captain Moreno?"
"Ah, caballero! if you but knew how she loves you!"
"Loves _me_!"
"Ay. It was in the hope of seeing you, that she consented to assist in
a stratagem, of which I need not tell you now. It was to end by our
going on to the Capital; where, since the storming of Chapultepec, she
knew you have been residing. She heard of your gallant behaviour in
that sanguinary action, and of the dangerous wounds you received. You
cannot guess how she grieved for you--despite her chagrin. _Pobre
Mercedes_!"
"Mercedes--grieved--chagrin! You mystify me."
"Ah, senor--your conduct mystified her. Ay more: it half broke her
heart."
"Francisco Moreno! for heaven's sake explain yourself! What does all
this mean--about _Mercedes_? Pray tell me!"
"I can tell you little, but what should be known to yourself. _Pobre
nina_! She had made me her _confidant_,--having long been mine in my
correspondence with Lola. O, senor! you have been kind to me. You are
doubly so now. But why have you behaved so to Mercedes? Though I may
never rise from this couch, I cannot help telling you it was
dishonourable,--ay _cruel_!"
"On what occasion, may I ask, has this cruelty occurred?"
"You are mocking me, _amigo_? You must remember it. She gave you an
appointment in the Alameda; and though you came, and she saw you, you
went away without waiting to speak to her. After that slight she never
saw you again! To win a woman's heart, and thus trifle with it! Was it
not cruel? I ask, was it not cruel?"
An overpowering surprise hindered me from making reply. There was
something more to account for my remaining silent. Through the darkness
long shrouding my soul, I discerned the dawning of day.
"You cannot have forgotten the occasion?" continued the wounded man,
still speaking reproachfully, "I myself have reason to remember it:
since it brought me a message from Lola--the sweetest ever received from
my _querida_. It was a written promise to be mine; a vow registered _en
papel_: that sooner than enter the convent she would consent--_huyar--
huyar_. You know what that means?"
Though I well understood the significance of the phrase, I was not in a
state of mind to answer the interrogatory. I had one of my own to put--
to me of far more importance.
"You received your letter through the window of a carriage? Was it not
the writer herself who delivered it?"
"_Por Dios_, no! The _billetita_ you speak of was from _Dolores_. She
who gave it me was _Mercedes_!"
I felt like folding Francisco Moreno in my friendliest embrace. I could
have stayed by his bedside to nurse him, or, what was then more likely,
to close his eyelids in death!
I could have canonised him for the words he had spoken. To me they had
imparted new life--along with a determination, that soon absorbed every
impulse of my soul.
I need not tell what it was. In less time than it would take to declare
it, I was scaling the steeps of Ixticihuatl in search of my lost love--
once more, _Mercedes_!