At last, seating himself at a table, he seized upon pen and paper
and wrote as follows:
"ISABELLA GONZALES: I know not how to address you, in what tone to
write, or even as to the propriety of writing to you at all; but the
suspense I now suffer is my excuse. I need not reiterate to you how
dearly I love you; you know this, dear one, as fully as any
assertion of my own could possibly express it. It is trite that my
love for you has partaken in no small degree of a character of
presumption, daring, as an humble lieutenant of infantry, to lift my
eyes to one as peerless and beautiful as yourself, and of a class of
society so far above what my own humble position would authorize me
to mingle with. But the past is past, and now my rank and fortune
both entitle me to the entree, to your father's house. I mention not
these because I would have them weigh in my favor with you. Far from
it. I had rather you would remember me, and love me as I was when we
first met.
"Need I say how true I have been to the love I have cherished for
you? How by my side in battle, in my dreams by the camp fire, and
filling my waking thoughts, you have ever been with me in spirit?
Say, Isabella Gonzales, is this homage, so sincere, thus tried and
true, unwelcome to you? or do you, in return, love the devoted
soldier, who has so long cherished you in his heart as a fit shrine
to worship at? I shall see you, may I not, and you will not repulse
me, nor speak to me with coldness.
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