“You are wounded-I fear severely, Captain Bezan,” said the father.

“A mere scratch, sir, in the arm, from one of the unlucky thrusts of those Montaros,” he replied, assuming an indifference that his pale face belied.

“Ah! father, what can be done for him?” said Isabella, quickly.

“I am unharmed,” said the grateful old man, “and can sit a horse all day long, if need be.  Here, captain, take my seat in the volante, and Isabella, whom you have served at such heavy cost to yourself, shall act the nurse for you until we get to town again.”

Perhaps nothing, save such a proposition as this, could possibly have aroused and sustained the wounded officer; but after gently refusing for a while to rob Don Gonzales of his seat in the volante, he was forced to accept it even by the earnest request of Isabella herself, who seemed to tremble lest he was mortally wounded in their behalf.

Little did Don Gonzales know, at that time, what a flame he was feeding in the young officer’s breast.  He was too intently engaged in his own mind with the startling scenes through which he had just passed, and was exercised with too much gratitude towards Captain Bezan for his deliverance, to observe or realize any peculiarity of appearance in any other respect, or to question the propriety of placing him so intimately by the side of his lovely child.  Isabella had never told her father, or indeed any one, of the circumstance of her having met Captain Bezan on the Plato.  But the reader, who is aware of the scene referred to, can easily imagine with what feelings the soldier took his seat by her side, and secretly watched the anxious and assiduous glances that she gave his wounded arm and side, as well as the kind looks she bestowed upon his pallid face.

“I fear I annoy you,” said the soldier, realizing his proximity to her on the seat.

“No, no, by no means.  I pray you rest your arm here,” said Isabella Gonzales, as she offered her rebosa supported in part by her own person!

“You are too kind-far too kind to me,” said the wounded officer, faintly; for he was now really very weak from loss of blood and the pain of his wounds.

“Speak not, I beseech of you, but strive to keep your courage up till we can gain the aid of some experienced surgeon,” she said, supporting him tenderly.

Thus the party drove on towards the city, by easy stages, where they arrived in safety, and left Captain Bezan to pursue his way to his barracks, which he did, not, however, until he had, like a faithful courier, reported to the governor-general the safe result of his mission to the south of the island.

The story of the gallant rescue was the theme of the hour for a period in Havana, but attacks from robbers on the road, under Tacon’s governorship, were too common an occurrence to create any great wonder or curiosity among the inhabitants of the city.  But Captain Bezan had got wounds that would make him remember the encounter for life, and now lay in a raging fever at his quarters in the infantry barracks of the Plaza des Armes.