irst
impression of love, and whose charmed ear has listened with fondness to
the soft tale of promised bliss. Now, with restless and agitated glance,
she surveys the numerous host in the vain hope of distinguishing the
dear object of all her tenderest affections, torn from her arms to
exchange her smile for scenes of bloodshed and desolation. Alas! how
numerous and various are the fears that agitate her gentle breast! She
may never more see him: he may sleep his last sleep on the field of
horror; or he may return triumphant but false to his vows, with a proud
heart, to scorn the love of her who mourned for his absence.

But women, likewise, there might be seen more high-minded and more
heroic in their thoughts and feelings; some who, like Leonor de Aguilar,
offered their tears at the shrine of glory and patriotism, and who,
while they trembled for the life of the object of their affections, were
still more anxious for his honor; some, whose passion received a spark
of heavenly fire that elevated them above their kind, and who gloried in
the sight as they beheld their lovers marching onwards to fame and
victory.

Such scenes, such sensations, with others which as powerfully affect the
heart, but which the pen would vainly attempt to portray, are generally
attendant on a departing army. Fear, perhaps, holds its dominion in the
breasts of the many and interesting beings who are left behind; but hope
steals gently forward, and gilds with its bright illusion the most
fearful anticipations.

Meantime the soldier marches on gaily and reckless, and with a light
heart he takes his farewell of those whom he is, perhaps, doomed never
more to behold; and the tears that accompany his departure, tears of
sympathy and affection, will soon, alas! be changed for the bitter drops
of grief and despair.

CHAPTER III.

_Mer._ Ce sont la de mes moindres coups,
De petits souflets ordinaires.

_Sos._ Si j'etois aussi prompt que vous,
Nous ferions de belles affaires.

_Moliere._

No nos rompas la cabeza
Hombre----Pero Ay Dios mio!
Pored un freno a mi lengua;
Y ojala que esta no fuese
La menor de mis flaquezas.

_Cruz._

"_Valga me el cielo!_" exclaimed Roque, "Oh Maria, oh Rufa! Oh Rufa, oh
Maria! nearly a week have I been with you, and yet I cannot, for the
soul of me, believe what I see. There must be witchcraf