“My good friend,” said the General, “I am extremely sorry that you have been hurt through an excess of zeal on the part of one of my people. But I can scarcely regret this incident, painful as it seems, since it enables me to assure you that one other virtue besides hospitality still survives in the Banda Orientál—I mean gratitude.”
“I do not understand you,” I said.
“We were companions in misfortune a very short time ago,” he returned. “Have you forgotten the service you did me then?”
I stared at him, astonished at his words; and while I looked into his face, suddenly that scene at the magistrate’s estancia, when I went with the key to let my fellow-traveller out of the stocks, and he jumped up and seized my hand, flashed on me. Still I was not quite sure, and half whispered tentatively, “What, Marcos Marcó?”
“Yes,” he returned, smiling, “that was my name at that moment. My friends,” he continued, resting a hand on my shoulder, and speaking to the others, “I have met this young Englishman before. A few days ago, when I was on my way hither, I was arrested at Las Cuevas in his company; it was by means of his assistance that I succeeded in making my escape. He did this good deed, believing at the time that he was helping a poor peasant, and not expecting any return.”
I might have reminded him that only after he had given me a solemn assurance that he did not intend attempting to make his escape, did I consent to get his legs out of the stocks. However, as he thought proper to forget that part of the affair I was not going to recall it to him.
There were many surprised exclamations from the bystanders, and, glancing at that beautiful girl, who was standing near with the others, I found her dark eyes fixed on my face with an expression of tenderness and sympathy in them that sent the blood rushing to my heart.
“They have hurt you badly, I fear,” said the General, addressing me again. “To continue your journey now would be imprudent. Let me beg of you to remain where you are, in this house, till your arm is better.” Then, turning to the young lady, he said, “Dolores, will you and your mother take charge of my young friend till I return, and see that his injured arm is attended to?”
“My General, you will make us happy by leaving him in our care,” she replied, with a bright smile.
He then introduced me as Don Ricardo simply—for he did not know my surname—to the lovely señorita, Dolores Zelaya; after which he again bade us adieu and hurried away.
When he had gone, Alday advanced, hat in hand, and gave me back my revolver, which I had forgotten all about. I took it with my left hand, and put it in my pocket. He then apologised for having treated me roughly—the Major had taught him that word—but without the faintest trace of servility in his speech or manner; and after that he offered me his hand.
“Which will you have,” I said, “the hand you have injured or the left hand?”
He immediately dropped his own hand to his side, then, bowing, said he would wait till I had recovered the use of my right hand. Turning to go, he added with a smile that he hoped the injury would soon heal, so that I would be able to wield a sword in my friend Santa Coloma’s cause.
His manner, I thought, was a little too independent. “Pray take back your horse now,” I said, “as I have no further use for it, and accept my thanks for conducting me thus far on my journey.”
“Do not mention it,” he replied, with a dignified wave of his hand. “I am pleased to have been able to render you this small service.”
XVI
Romance of the White Flower
When Alday had left us, the charming señorita, in whose care I was well pleased to find myself, led me into a cool, spacious room, dimly lighted, scantily furnished, and with a floor of red tiles. It was a great relief to drop into a sofa there, for I now felt fatigued and suffered great pain from my arm. In a few moments I had the señorita, her mother, Doña Mercedes, and an old serving-woman all round me. Gently drawing off my coat, they subjected my wounded arm to a minute examination; their compassionate fingertips—those of the lovely Dolores especially—feeling like a soft, cooling rain on the swollen, inflamed part, which had become quite purple.
“Ah, how barbarous of them to hurt you like that! a friend, too, of our General!” exclaimed my beautiful nurse; which made me think that I had involuntarily become associated with the right political party in the State.
They rubbed the arm with sweet oil; while the old servant brought in a bundle of rue from the garden, which, being bruised in a mortar, filled the room with a fresh, aromatic smell. With this fragrant herb she made a cooling cataplasm. Having dressed my arm, they placed it in a sling, then in place of my coat a light Indian poncho was brought for me to wear.
“I think you are feverish,” said Doña Mercedes, feeling my pulse. “We must send for the doctor—we have a doctor in our little town, a very skilful man.”
“I have little faith in doctors, señora,” I said, “but great faith in women and grapes. If you will give me a cluster from your vine to refresh my blood I promise to be well very soon.”
Dolores laughed lightly and left the room, only to return in a few
