She felt, plain enough, that she was
miserable; indeed the flood of tears she daily shed betrayed this to
her. But her proud Castilian blood was the phase through which alone
she saw, or could see. It was impossible for her to banish Lorenzo
Bezan from her mind; but yet she stoutly refused to admit, even to
herself, that she regarded him with affection-he, a lowly soldier, a
child of the camp, a myrmidon of fortune-he a fit object for the
love of Isabella Gonzales, the belle of Havana, to whom princes had
bowed? Preposterous!
Her brother, whose society she seemed to crave more than ever, said
nothing; he did not even mention the name of the absent one, but he
secretly moaned for him, until the pale color that had slightly
tinged his check began to fade, and Don Gonzales trembled for the
boy's life. It was his second bereavement. His mother's loss,
scarcely yet outgrown, had tried his gentle heart to its utmost
tension; this new bereavement to his sensitive mind, seemed really
too much for him. A strange sympathy existed between Isabella and
the boy, who, though Lorenzo Bezan's name was never mentioned, yet
seemed to know what each other was thinking of.
But in the meantime, while these feelings were actuating Isabella
and her brother at Havana, Lorenzo Bezan had reached Cadiz, and was
on his way to the capital of Spain, Madrid.
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