General Harero was more seriously wounded than he had at first
deemed himself to be, and gathering up the fragments of his sword,
he sought the assistance of his surgeon, in a state of anger and
excitement that bid fair, in connection with his wounds, to lead him
into a raging fever. Inventing some plausible story of being
attacked by some unknown ruffian, and desiring the surgeon to
observe his wishes as to secrecy, for certain reasons, the wounded
man submitted to have his wounds dressed, and taking some cooling
medicine by way of precaution, lay himself down to sleep just as the
gray of morning tinged the western horizon.
That morning Isabella Gonzales awoke with pleasant memories of her
dream, little knowing that the sweet music she had attributed to the
creations of her own fancy, was real, and that voice and instrument
actually sounded beneath her own chamber window.
"Ah, sister," said Ruez, "how well you are looking this morning."
"Am I, brother?"
"Yes, better than I have seen you this many a long day."
"I rested well last night, and had pleasant dreams, Ruez."
"Last night," said the boy, "that reminds me of some music I heard."
"Music?"
"Yes, a serenade; a manly voice and guitar, I should judge.
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