Lorenzo Bezan was truly affected, as his words have shown him to be.  He doubted whether Isabella Gonzales had ever loved him; her scream and fainting might have been caused by surprise, or even the heat.  He had been too ready to attribute it to that which his own heart had first suggested.  O, if he only dared to address her now-to see her, and once more to tell how dearly and ardently he loved her still-how he had cherished her by the camp fires, in the battle-field, and the deprivations of war and the sufferings of a soldier’s wounds.  If he could, if he dared to tell her this, he would be happier.  But, how did he know that a proud repulse did not await him!  Ah, that was the fear that controlled him; he could not bear to part again from her as he had last done.

While he was thus engaged in reverie alone, a servant, whom he had despatched on an errand, returned to say that General Harero was very ill and confined to his bed; that some wounds he had accidentally received in quelling some street affray had brought on a burning and dangerous fever.  On the receipt of this information Lorenzo Bezan wrote a hasty note and despatched the servant once more for a surgeon to come to his quarters; a demand that was answered by the person sent for in a very few minutes.  It was the same surgeon who a few years before had so successfully attended Bezan.  The recognition between them was cordial and honest, while the new lieutenant-general told him of General Harero’s severe illness, and expressed a wish for him to immediately attend the sick man.

“But, General Bezan,” said the surgeon, “you have little cause for love to General Harero.”

“That is true; but still I desire his recovery; and if you compass it by good nursing and the power of your art, remember fifty doubloons is your fee.”

“My professional pride would lead me to do my best,” replied the surgeon, “though neither I nor any other man in the service loves General Harero any too much.”

“I have reasons for my interest that it is not necessary to explain,” said General Bezan, “and shall trust that you will do your best for him, as you did for me.”

“By the way, general, I have been half a mind, more than once, ever since your return to the island, to tell you of a little affair concerning your sickness at that time, but I feared you might deem it in some measure impertinent.”

“By no means.  Speak truly and openly to me.  I owe you too much to attribute any improper motives to you in any instance.  What do you refer to?”

“Well, general, I suppose on that occasion I discovered a secret which I have never revealed to any one, and upon which subject my lips have been ever sealed.”

“What was it?”

“Your love for Isabella Gonzales.”

“And how, pray, came you to surmise that?” asked Lorenzo Bezan, in surprise.

“First by your half incoherent talk in moments of delirium, and afterwards by finding her portrait, painted probably by yourself, among your effects.”