“Indeed, there is nothing for me to forgive you. Oh, señor, how good you are! You command here surely. Then cause my father to be set free!”
“That is none of my business. Señor Candiola has committed a terrible crime. It is impossible to pardon him, impossible! I understand your affliction, and truly I feel it, especially in remembering your kindness. I will protect you. We shall see.”
“I do not wish for anything for myself,” said Mariquilla, whose voice was now hoarse with her emotion. “I only wish that an unfortunate man who has done nothing should be set at liberty. Augustine, are you not in command here? What are you doing?”
“This young man will do his duty,” said Montoria.
“This young man,” cried Mariquilla, angrily, “will do what I bid him, because he loves me. Isn’t it true that you will free my father? You said you would. Señors, what are you here for? Do you intend to stop him? Augustine, do not pay any attention to them; defend us!”
“What is all this?” exclaimed Montoria, in amazement. “Augustine, have you told this girl that you have any idea of failing in your duty? Do you know her?”
Augustine, overcome by his fear, answered nothing.
“Yes, he will set him at liberty,” said Mariquilla, in despair. “Go away from here, señors. You have no business here.”
“What am I to understand?” cried Don José, seizing his son by his arm. “If what this girl says should be true, if I could imagine that my son’s honor could fail in this fashion, his loyalty sworn to his flag be trampled underfoot—if I supposed that my son could make light of the orders with whose fulfilment he has been charged, I myself would tie him and drag him before the council of war that he might get his just reward.”
“Señor, oh, my father,” said Augustine, pale as death, “I have never thought of failing in my duty.”
“Is that your father?” said Mariquilla. “Augustine, tell him that you love me, and perhaps he will have compassion on me.”
“This girl is mad,” said Don José. “Unhappy child, your trouble touches my heart. I charge myself with protecting you in your orphanhood. Yes, I will protect you as long as you reform your habits. Poor little one, you have a good heart, an excellent heart. But—yes—I have heard, a little inclined to be giddy. It is a pity that by being badly brought up a good soul should be lost. But you will be good? I think you will!”
“Augustine, how can you permit me to be insulted?” said Mariquilla, with overwhelming grief.
“It is not insult,” said the father, “it is good counsel. How could I insult my benefactress? I believe that if you behave yourself well, we shall have a great affection for you. Remain under my protection, poor orphan. Why do you talk so to my son? It is nothing, nothing; have better sense; and enough for now of all this agitation. The lad perhaps knows you. Yes, I have been told that during the siege you have not left the company of the soldiers. Now you must reform. I charge myself—I cannot forget the kindness I have received. And besides I know that you are good at heart. That is not a deceitful face. You have a heavenly form. But it is necessary to renounce worldly enjoyments, refrain from vice—then—”
“No!” cried Augustine, suddenly, with so lively an outburst of anger that all of us trembled at seeing him and hearing him. “No! I will not consent that anyone, not even my father, should insult her before me. I love her! And if I have concealed it before, I tell it now, without fear or shame, for all the world to know! Sir, you do not know what you are saying, nor how you miss the truth! You have been deceived. You may kill me, if I fail in respect, but do not defame her before me; because if I should hear again what I have heard, not even the fact that you are my own father could restrain me!”
Montoria, not expecting this, looked about in amazement at his friends.
“Good, Augustine!” cried Mariquilla. “Do not pay any attention to these people. This man is not your father. Do what your heart tells you to do. Go away, señors! Go away!”
“You are mistaken, Mariquilla,” replied the young man; “I have not intended to free the prisoner, nor shall I do so; but at the same time I tell you that it will not be I who will take his life. There are officers in my battalion who will carry out the order. I am no longer a soldier. Although we are in the face of the enemy, I break my sword, and hasten to the Captain-General that he may decide my fate.”
As he said this, he drew his sword, and, doubling the blade across his knee, he broke it, and after throwing the two pieces into the middle of our circle, he went without another word.
“I am all alone! There is no one to help me!” cried Mariquilla, faintly.
“Gentlemen, pay no attention to the affairs of my son. I will take that upon myself. Perhaps the girl has interested him. That is of little consequence. These inexperienced ecclesiastics are very likely to be taken in. And you, Señora Doña Mariquilla, try to calm yourself. We will look after you. I promise you that, if you behave yourself, you will later enter into repentance. Come, let us take her away from here!”
“No, no! nobody shall tear me away from here, except in bits,” said the girl, with the calmness of despair. “Oh, Señor Don José de Montoria, will you not ask them to pardon my father? If he
