“I must be on my guard; there are assassins hereabouts,” he said to himself, and after a moment’s fondling of the hound, who had instantly recognized him, he once more drew nearer to the Plato, when suddenly the palace bell sounded the alarm of fire.  His duty called him instantly to return, which he was forced to do.

It was past midnight before the fire was quenched, and Lorenzo Bezan dismissed the guard and extra watch that had been ordered out at the first alarm, and himself, greatly fatigued by his exertions and care in subduing the fire, which in Havana is done under the direction and assistance of the military, always, he threw himself on his couch, and fell fast asleep.

Early the subsequent morning, he despatched a line to Isabella Gonzales, saying that on the evening of that day he would answer in person her dear communication; and that though pressing duty had kept him from her side, she was never for one moment absent from his heart.  He begged that Ruez might come to him in the meantime, and he did so at once.  The meeting between them was such as the reader might anticipate.  The officer told the boy many of his adventures, asked a thousand questions of his home, about his kind old father, Isabella, the hound, and all.  While Ruez could find no words to express the delight he felt that the same friend existed in General Bezan, that he had loved and cherished as the captain of infantry.

“How strange the fortune that has brought you back again, and so high, too, in office.  I’m sure we are all delighted.  Father says you richly deserve all the honor you enjoy, and he does not very often compliment any one,” said the boy.

The twilight had scarcely faded into the deeper shades of night, on the following evening, when Lorenzo Bezan once more hastened towards the Plato, to greet her whom he loved so tenderly and so truly-she who had been the star of his destiny for years, who had been his sole incentive to duty, his sole prompter in the desire for fame and fortune.

In the meantime there was a scene enacting on the Plato that should be known to the reader.  Near the door of the house of Don Gonzales, stood Isabella and Ruez, and before them a young person, whose dress and appearance betokened the occupation of a page, though his garments were soiled and somewhat torn in places.  Isabella was addressing the youth kindly, and urged him to come in and rest himself, for he showed evident tokens of fatigue.

“Will you not come in and refresh yourself? you look weary and ill.”

“Nay, lady, not now.  You say this is the house of Don Gonzales?”

“Yes.”

“And are you the daughter of that house?” continued the page.

“I am.”

“I might have known that without asking,” said the page, apparently to himself.

“Indeed, do you know us, then?” asked Isabella, with some curiosity.

“By reputation, only,” was the reply.  “The fine of beauty travels far, lady.”