Chapter 8

VIII

"SENORES," related the General to his guests, "though my thoughts were
of love then, and therefore enchanting, the sight of that house always
affected me disagreeably, especially in the moonlight, when its close
shutters and its air of lonely neglect appeared sinister. Still I went
on using the bridle-path by the ravine, because it was a short cut.
The mad Royalist howled and laughed at me every evening to his
complete satisfaction; but after a time, as if wearied with my
indifference, he ceased to appear in the porch. How they persuaded him
to leave off I do not know. However, with Gaspar Ruiz in the house
there would have been no difficulty in restraining him by force. It
was part of their policy in there to avoid anything which could
provoke me. At least, so I suppose.

"Notwithstanding my infatuation with the brightest pair of eyes in
Chile, I noticed the absence of the old man after a week or so. A few
more days passed. I began to think that perhaps these Royalists had
gone away somewhere else. But one evening, as I was hastening towards
the city, I saw again somebody in the porch. It was not the madman; it
was the girl. She stood holding on to one of the wooden columns, tall
and white-faced, her big eyes sunk deep with privation and sorrow. I
looked hard at her, and she met my stare with a strange, inquisitive
look. Then, as I turned my head after riding past, she seemed to
gather courage for the act, and absolutely beckoned me back.

"I obeyed, senores, almost without thinking, so great was my
astonishment. It was greater still when I heard what she had to say.
She began by thanking me for my forbearance of her father's infirmity,
so that I felt ashamed of myself. I had meant to show disdain, not
forbearance! Every word must have burnt her lips, but she never
departed from a gentle and melancholy dignity which filled me with
respect against my will. Senores, we are no match for women. But I
could hardly believe my ears when she began her tale. Providence, she
concluded, seemed to have preserved the life of that wronged soldier,
who now trusted to my honour as a caballero and to my compassion for
his sufferings.

"'Wronged man,' I observed coldly. 'Well, I think so too: and you
have been harbouring an enemy of your cause.'

"'He was a poor Christian crying for help at our door in the name of
God, senor,' she answered simply.

"I began to admire her. 'Where is he now?' I asked stiffly.

"But she would not answer that question. With extreme cunning, and an
almost fiendish delicacy, she managed to remind me of my failure in
saving the lives of the prisoners in the guard-room, without wounding
my pride. She knew, of