you will soon forget--"

Kearney's heart beat wildly, hoping he would hear the monosyllable "me."
But the word was not spoken. In its place the phrase "us poor exiles,"
with which somewhat commonplace remark the young Mexican concluded her
speech.

And still there was something in what she had said, but more in her
manner of saying it, which made pleasant impression upon him--something
in her tone that touched a chord already making music in his heart. If
it did not give him surety of her love, it, for the time, hindered him
from despairing of it.

All this had occurred at an interview he had with her only the day
before; and, since, sweet thoughts and hopes were his. But on the same
morning they were shattered--crushed out by the spectacle he had
witnessed, and the interpretation of those whispered words he had failed
to hear. It had chased all hope out of his heart, and sent him in wild,
aimless strides along the street, just in the right frame of mind for
being caught by that call which had attracted his eyes on the poster--

"Volunteers for Texas." And just so had he been caught; and, as
described, entered among the filibustering band to be chosen its chief.
To the young Irishman it was a day of strange experiences, varying as
the changes of a kaleidoscope; more like a dream than reality; and after
reflecting upon it all, he thus interrogated himself--

"Shall I see her again, or not? Why not? If she's lost, she cannot be
worse lost by my having another interview with her. Nor could I feel
worse than I do now. Ah! with this laurel fresh placed upon my brow!
What if I tell her of it--tell her I am about to enter her native land
as an invader? If she care for her country, that would spite her; and
if I find she cares not for me, her spite would give me pleasure."

It was not an amiable mood for a lover contemplating a visit to his
sweetheart. Still, natural enough under the circumstances; and Florence
Kearney, wavering no longer, turned his steps towards that part of the
city where dwelt Don Ignacio Valverde.

CHAPTER FIVE.

A STUDIED INSULT.

In a small house of the third Municipality, in the street called Casa
Calvo, dwelt Don Ignacio Valverde. It was a wooden structure--a frame
dwelling--of French-Creole fashion, consisting of but a single story,
with casement windows that opened on a verandah, in the Southern States
termed _piazza_; this being but little elevated above the level of the
o