“Mariquilla,” said Augustine, “you are lacerating my soul. You ask the impossible of me, that which I will not do, and cannot do, although you offer me eternal blessedness for payment. I have sacrificed all, and I knew that you would abhor me. Think what it is for a man to tear out his own heart and trample it in the mud. I have done that. I can do no more.”
The fervent exaltation of Mariquilla Candiola carried her from intense anger to pathetic sensitiveness of suffering. She had showed her anger with fiery heat, now she burst into bitter tears, expressing herself thus—
“What mad things I have said! And what madness hast thou said, Augustine! How I have loved you, and how I do love you!—from the time I saw you first at our house. You have never been absent from my thoughts for a moment. You have been to me the most loving, the most generous, the most thoughtful, the bravest of all men. I loved you without knowing who you were. I did not know your name, or that of your parents; but I would have loved you if you had been the son of the hangman of Saragossa. Augustine, you have forgotten me since we have not been together. It is I, Mariquilla. I have all this time believed, and I believe now that you will not take away from me my good father whom I love as much as I love you. He is good. He has not hurt anybody. He is a poor old man. He has some faults; but I do not see them. I do not see anything in him but virtues. I never knew my mother, who died when I was very small. I have lived retired from the world. My father has brought me up in solitude. In solitude the great love that I bear you has been nourished. If I had never known you, the whole world would have been nothing to me without him!”
I could read clearly Montoria’s indecision in his face. He was looking with terrified eyes, now at the girl, now at the sentinels at the entrance of the tower. The daughter of Candiola, with admirable instinct, knew how to make use of that evidence of weakness. Throwing her arms around his neck, she cried—
“Augustine, set him at liberty! We will hide where no one can find us. If they say anything to you, if they accuse you of having failed in duty, do not take any notice of them. Come with me. How my father will love you, seeing you have saved his life! Then what happiness is before us, Augustine. How good you are! I was expecting it, and when I knew that the poor prisoner was in your hands, I felt the gates of heaven were open!”
My friend took a few steps, then drew back. There were plenty of soldiers and armed men in the plazuela. Suddenly there appeared before us a man on crutches, accompanied by several officials of high rank.
“What is going on here?” asked Don José de Montoria. “It seemed to me I heard the cries of a woman. Augustine, are you weeping? What is the matter?”
“Señor,” said Mariquilla, in alarm, turning to Montoria. “You will not at all oppose their setting my father at liberty? Do you not remember me? You were wounded yesterday, and I cared for you.”
“It is true, child,” said Don José gravely; “I am very grateful. Now I see that you are the daughter of Señor Candiola.”
“Yes, sir. Yesterday, when I was attending you, I recognized in you the man who ill-treated my father some time ago.”
“Yes, my daughter, it was a sudden thing—a hasty—I can’t help it. I have very quick blood. And you took care of me? That is the way good Christians do, returning good for evil, paying back injuries with benefits, and to do good to them that hate us is what God commands.”
“Señor,” exclaimed Mariquilla, dissolved in tears. “I forgive my enemies. Do you also forgive yours? Why do they not free my father? He has not done anything.”
“This thing that you ask is a little difficult. The treachery of Señor Candiola is unpardonable. The troops are furious.”
“It is all a mistake. If you would intercede! You must be one of the commanders.”
“I!” said Montoria, “that is a business which does not rest on me. But calm yourself, young woman. You seem to be a good girl; truly, I remember the attention with which you took care of me, and such goodness touches my soul. I did you a great wrong, and from the same person whom I injured I received a great good, perhaps life itself. In such ways God teaches us to be humble and charitable, porr—I was just going to let it go, this cursed tongue of mine!”
“Señor, how good you are!” cried the girl; “and I thought you were very bad. You will help me to save my father. He does not lay up the outrage he received.”
“Listen,” said Montoria, taking her by the arm. “Not long ago I asked pardon of Señor Don Jeronimo for all that; and
