Having no definite idea as to what Lorenzo Bezan would do, under the new aspect of affairs, General Harero could not devise in what way to meet him.  That Isabella had been prevented from absolutely loving him only by her pride, when he was before upon the island, he knew full well, and he realized as fully that all those obstacles that pride had engendered were now removed by the rank and position of his rival.  He wondered in his own mind whether it was possible that Lorenzo Bezan might not have forgotten her, or found some more attractive shrine whereat to worship.  As he realized Isabella’s unmatched loveliness, he felt that, however, could hardly be; and thus unsettled as to the state of affairs between the two, he was puzzled as to what course to pursue.

In the meantime, while General Harero was thus engaged with himself, Lorenzo Bezan was thinking upon the same subject.  It was nearly midnight; but still he walked back and forth in his room with thoughtful brow.  There was none of the nervous irritation in his manner that was evinced by his rival; but there was deep and anxious solicitude written in every line of his handsome features.  He was thinking of Isabella.  Was thinking of her, did we say?  He had never forgotten her for one hour since the last farewell meeting in the prison walls.  He knew not how she felt towards him now-whether a new pride might not take the place of that which had before actuated her, and a fear lest she should, by acknowledging, as it were, the former error, be led still to observe towards him the same austere manner and distance.

“Have I won renown, promotion, and extended fame to no purpose, at last?” he asked himself; “what care I for these unless shared in by her; unless her beautiful eyes approve, and her sweet lips acknowledge?  Alas, how poor a thing am I, whom my fellow-mortals count so fortunate and happy!”

Thus he mused to himself, until at last stepping to the open balcony window, he looked out upon the soft and delicious light of it tropical moon.  All was still-all was beautiful; the steady pace of the sentinel on duty at the entrance of the palace, alone, sounding upon the ear.  Suddenly a thought seemed to suggest itself to his mind.  Seizing his guitar, from a corner of his room, he threw a thin military cloak about his form, and putting on a foraging cap, passed the sentinel, and strolled towards the Plato!  How well he remembered the associations of the place, as he paused now for a moment in the shadow of the broad walls of the barracks.  He stood there but for a moment, then drawing nearer to the house of Don Gonzales, he touched the strings of his guitar with a master hand, and sung with a clear, musical voice one of those exquisite little serenades with which the Spanish language abounds.