es el capitan_!" (Papa, it is the captain!) cried one of
the sisters, who had run out in advance, and whom I recognised as the
elder one.

"Do not be alarmed, Senorita," said I, approaching.

"Oh! you are safe--you are safe!--papa, he is safe!" cried both the
girls at once; while Don Cosme exhibited his joy by hugging my comrade
and myself alternately.

Suddenly letting go, he threw up his hands, and inquired with a look of
anxiety:

"_Y el senor gordo_?" (And the fat gentleman?)

"Oh! he's all right," replied Clayley, with a laugh; "he has saved his
bacon, Don Cosme; though I imagine about this time he wouldn't object to
a little of yours."

I translated my companion's answer. The latter part of it seemed to act
upon Don Cosme as a hint, and we were immediately hurried to the
dining-room, where we found the Dona Joaquina preparing supper.

During our meal I recounted the principal events of the day. Don Cosme
knew nothing of these guerilleros, although he had heard that there were
bands in the neighbourhood. Learning from the guide that we had been
attacked, he had despatched a trusty servant to the American camp, and
Raoul had met the party coming to our rescue.

After supper Don Cosme left us to give some orders relative to his
departure in the morning. His lady set about preparing the sleeping
apartments, and my companion and I were left for some time in the sweet
companionship of Lupe and Luz.

Both were exquisite musicians, playing the harp and guitar with equal
cleverness. Many a pure Spanish melody was poured into the delighted
ears of my friend and myself. The thoughts that arose in our minds were
doubtless of a similar kind; and yet how strange that our hearts should
have been warmed to love by beings so different in character! The gay,
free spirit of my comrade seemed to have met a responsive echo. He and
his brilliant partner laughed, chatted, and sang in turns. In the
incidents of the moment this light-hearted creature had forgotten her
brother, yet the next moment she would weep for him. A tender heart--a
heart of joys and sorrows--of ever-changing emotions, coming and passing
like shadows thrown by straggling clouds upon the sun-lit stream!

Unlike was _our_ converse--more serious. We may not laugh, lest we
should profane the holy sentiment that is stealing upon us. There is no
mirth in love. There are joy, pleasure, luxury; but laughter finds no
echo in the heart that loves.