She was tall, perfect in her figure as in her face, and wore a
white dress with a deep red China rose on her bosom for only ornament.
Standing there unnoticed at the end of the corridor, I gazed with a
kind of fascination on her, listening to her light, rippling laughter
and lively talk, watching her graceful gestures, her sparkling eyes,
and damask cheeks flushed with excitement. Here is a woman, I thought
with a sigh--I felt a slight twinge at that disloyal sigh--I could
have worshipped. She was pressing the guitar on the General.
"You have promised to sing one song before you go, and I cannot let
you off," she exclaimed.
At length he took the instrument, protesting that his voice was a very
bad one; then, sweeping the strings, began that fine old Spanish song
of love and war:
"_Cuando suena la trompa guerrera_."
His voice was uncultivated and somewhat harsh, but there was a good
deal of fire and expression in the performance, and it was rapturously
applauded.
The moment the song was over he handed her back the guitar, and,
starting up hastily, bade the company adieu, and turned to go.
Coming forward, I placed myself before him and began to speak.
"I am pressed for time and cannot listen to you now," he said quickly,
scarcely glancing at me. "You are a prisoner--wounded, I see; well,
when I return--" Suddenly he stopped, caught hold of my wounded arm,
and said, "How did you get hurt? Tell me quickly.
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