“True.  I have it still,” said Lorenzo Bezan, musingly.

“But more than that I discovered from the lady herself?” said the surgeon.

“From the lady?  What do you mean?” asked General Bezan, most earnestly.

“Why she visited you during your illness, and though she came in disguise, I discovered her.”

“In disguise?”

“Yes.”

“How did you discover her?  I pray you tell me all, if you are my friend.”

“By a tear!”

“A tear!”

“Yes, because I knew no servant or lady’s maid sent to execute her mistress’s bidding would have been so affected, and that led me to watch for further discovery.”

“Did she weep?”

“One tear fell from her eyes upon your hands as she bent over you, and it told me a story that I have since sometimes thought you should know.”

“A tear!” mused General Bezan, to himself, rising and walking up and down his room in haste; “that must have come from the heart.  Smiles are evanescent; kind words, even, cost nothing; but tears, they are honest, and come unbidden by aught save the heart itself.  Tears, did you say?” he continued, pausing before the surgeon.

“As I have said, general.”

“And she bathed my forehead, you say?”

“She did, and further, left with me a purse to be devoted to supplying your wants.”

“This you never told me of before.”

“I have had no opportunity, and to speak honestly, it was very well timed and needed.”

“Money!” mused Lorenzo Bezan.  “Money, that is full of dross; but a tear,—­I would to Heaven I had earlier known of that.”

“I hope I have caused you no uneasiness, general.”

“Enough.  Go on your mission to General Harero; save him, if you can; you have already saved me!  Nay, do not stare, but go, and see me again at your leisure.”

The surgeon bowed respectfully, and hastened away as he was directed.

That tear had removed mountains from Lorenzo Bezan’s heart; he hardly knew what further to do under the circumstances.  The earliest impulse of his heart was to seek Isabella, and throwing himself at her feet, beg her to forgive him for having for one moment doubted the affection and gentleness of her woman heart.  This was the turning point with him if she had a heart, tender and susceptible, and not coroded by coquetry; he had no fear but that he could win it; his love was too true, too devoted, too much a part of his soul and existence to admit of doubt.  Joy once more reigned in his heart.  He was almost childish in his impatience to see her; he could hardly wait even for an hour.

At last, seating himself at a table, he seized upon pen and paper and wrote as follows: