“This was my first impression of you.  You boldly wooed me, told me you loved me above all else.  Your very audacity attracted me; it was so novel, so strange to be thus approached.  I, who was the acknowledged belle of Havana, before whom the best blood and highest titles of the island knelt, and who was accustomed to be approached with such deference and respect, was half won before I knew it, by the Lieutenant Lorenzo Bezan, on the Plato.  Singular circumstances again threw us together, where again your personal bravery and firmness served us so signally.  I knew not my own heart even then, though some secret whisperings partly aroused me, and when you were sent to prison, I found my pride rising above all else.  And yet by some uncontrollable impulse I visited you, disguised, in prison; and there again I can see how nearly I had acknowledged my true feelings; but once more the secret whisper sounded in my ear, and I left you coldly, nay, almost insultingly.  But bitterly have I wept for that hour.

“In vain have I struggled on, in vain strove to forget; it was impossible; and yet, never until you sent me that note, have I frankly acknowledged, even to my own heart, the feeling which I have so long been conscious of.  Ah, it has been a bitter experience that I have endured, and now I can see it all in its true light, and own to thee freely, that I have loved even from the first.”

While she had spoken thus, Lorenzo Bezan had gently conducted her to a couch, and seated by her side he had held her hand while he listened and looked tenderly into the depths of her lustrous and beautiful eyes.  He felt how cheaply he had earned the bliss of that moment, how richly he was repaid for the hardships and grief he had endured for Isabella’s sake.

“Ah, dearest, let us forget the past, and live only for each other and the future.”

“Can you so easily forget and forgive?” she asked him, in softest accents.

“I can do anything, everything,” he said, “if thou wilt but look ever upon me thus,” and he placed his arms about that taper waist, and drew her willing form still nearer to his side, until her head fell upon his shoulder.  “There will be no more a dark side to our picture of life, dear Isabella.”

“I trust not.”

“And you will ever love me?”

“Ever!” repeated the beautiful girl, drawing instinctively nearer to his breast.

At that moment, Ruez, returning from the Plato to procure some article which he had left behind, burst hastily into the room, and, blushing like a young girl at the scene that met his eye, he was about to retire hastily, when Lorenzo Bezan spoke to him, not the least disconcerted; he felt too secure in his position to realize any such feeling: 

“Come hither, Ruez, we have just been speaking of you.”

“Of me?” said the boy, rather doubtfully, as though he suspected they had been talking of matters quite foreign to him.