My friend took a few steps, then drew back. There were plenty of soldiers and armed men in the plazuela. Suddenly there appeared before us a man on crutches, accompanied by several officials of high rank.
“What is going on here?” asked Don José de Montoria. “It seemed to me I heard the cries of a woman. Augustine, are you weeping? What is the matter?”
“Señor,” said Mariquilla, in alarm, turning to Montoria. “You will not at all oppose their setting my father at liberty? Do you not remember me? You were wounded yesterday, and I cared for you.”
“It is true, child,” said Don José gravely; “I am very grateful. Now I see that you are the daughter of Señor Candiola.”
“Yes, sir. Yesterday, when I was attending you, I recognized in you the man who ill-treated my father some time ago.”
“Yes, my daughter, it was a sudden thing—a hasty—I can’t help it. I have very quick blood. And you took care of me? That is the way good Christians do, returning good for evil, paying back injuries with benefits, and to do good to them that hate us is what God commands.”
“Señor,” exclaimed Mariquilla, dissolved in tears. “I forgive my enemies. Do you also forgive yours? Why do they not free my father? He has not done anything.”
“This thing that you ask is a little difficult. The treachery of Señor Candiola is unpardonable. The troops are furious.”
“It is all a mistake. If you would intercede! You must be one of the commanders.”