“Yes you will, sister.”

“No, I will not, and you will vex me if you say so again,” she added, pettishly.

“Come, Carlo, come,” said Ruez, calling to the hound, as he followed close upon his sister’s footsteps towards the entrance of Don Gonzales’s house on the Plato.

The truth was, Isabella Gonzales, the proud beauty, was pleased; perhaps her vanity was partly enlisted also, while she remembered the frankness of the humble soldier who had poured out his devotions at her feet in such simple yet earnest strains as to carry conviction with every word to the lady’s heart.  Image, even from the most lowly, is not without its charm to beauty, and the proud girl mused over the late scene thoughtfully, ay, far more thoughtfully than she had ever done before, on the offer of the richest and proudest cavalier.

She had never loved; she knew not what the passion meant, as applied to the opposite sex.  Universal homage had been her share ever since she could remember; and if Isabella Gonzales was not a confirmed coquette, she was certainly very near being one.  The light in which she regarded the advances of Captain Bezan, even puzzled herself; the phase of his case and the manner of his avowal were so far without precedent, that its novelty engaged her.  She still felt vexed at the young soldier’s assurance, but yet all unconsciously found herself endeavoring to invent any number of excuses for the conduct he had exhibited!

“It is true, as he said,” she remarked, half aloud to herself, “that it was the only way in which he could meet me on terms of sufficient equality for conversation.  Perhaps I should have done the same, if I were a high-spirited youth, and really loved!”

As for Lorenzo Bezan, he quietly sought his quarters, as happy as a king.  Had he not been successful beyond any reasonable hope?  Had he not told his love? ay, had he not kissed the hand of her he loved, at last, almost by her own consent?  Had not the clouds in the horizon of his love greatly thinned in numbers?  He was no moody lover.  Not one to die for love, but to live for it rather, and to pursue the object of his affection and regard with such untiring and devoted service as to deserve, if not to win, success.  At least this was his resolve.  Now and then the great difference between their relative stations would lead him to pause and consider the subject; but then with some pleasant sally to himself he would walk on again, firmly resolved in his own mind to overcome all things for her whom he loved, or at least to strive to do so.

This was all very well in thought, but in practice the young soldier will not perhaps find this so easy a matter.  Patience and perseverance are excellent qualities, but they are not certain criteria of success.  Lorenzo Bezan had aimed his arrow high, but it was that little blind fellow, Cupid, that shot the bow.  He was not to blame for it-of course not.

“Ha!  Bezan, whence come you with so bright a face?” asked a brother officer, as he entered his quarters in the barracks of the Plaza des Armes.