General Harero had judged Isabella Gonzales well when he said that there was no danger of her loving Lorenzo Bezan-she had too much pride!

But let us look once more into the sick room we so lately left, where the wounded soldier lies suffering from his wounds.  A volante has just stopped at the barracks’ doors, and a girl, whose dress betokens her to be a servant, steps out, and telling her errand to the corporal of the guard, is permitted to pass the sentinel, and is conducted to the sick man’s room.  She brings some cooling draughts for his parched lips, and fragrant waters with which to battle his fevered temples and burning forehead.

“Who sends these welcome gifts to Captain Bezan?” asked the assistant-surgeon.

“My lady, sir.”

“And who is your lady, my good girl, if you please?” he asked.

“The Senorita Isabella Gonzales, sir,” was the modest reply of the maid.

“Ah, yes; her brother has been here this afternoon, I remember,” said the surgeon; “the sick man fell asleep then, and has not since awakened.”

“Heaven grant the sleep may refresh him and restore his strength,” said the girl.

“Amen, say I to that,” continued the surgeon, “and amen says every man in the regiment.”

“Is he so popular as that?” asked the girl, innocently.

“Popular, why he’s the pet of the entire division.  He’s the best swordsman, best scholar, best-in short we could better lose half the other officers than Captain Bezan.”

“Do you think him any better than he was this morning?”

“The sleep is favorable, highly favorable,” replied the surgeon, approaching the bedside; “but in my judgment of the case, it must entirely depend upon the state in which he wakes.”

“Is there fear of waking him, do you think?” asked the girl, in a whisper, as she drew nearer to the bed, and looked upon the high, pale forehead and remarkably handsome features of the young soldier.  Though the few days of confinement which he had suffered, and the acute pain he had endured by them, had hollowed his checks, yet he was handsome still.

“No,” replied the surgeon, to her question; “he will sleep quite long enough from the opiate, quite as long as I wish; and if he should wake even now, it would not be too soon.”

“How very slightly he breathes,” continued the girl, observantly.

“Very; but it is a relief to see him breathe in that way,” replied the surgeon.

“Stay, did he not murmur something, then?” asked the maid.

“Possibly,” replied the surgeon.  “He has talked constantly during his delirium.  Pray, my good girl, does he know your mistress very well?”

“I think not,” was the reply.  “But why do you ask that?”

“Because he seems constantly to dream and talk about her night and day.  Indeed she is all he has spoken of since the height of his fever was upon him.”

“Indeed!” said the girl, musing at the surgeon’s words abstractedly.