“What is all this?” exclaimed Montoria, in amazement. “Augustine, have you told this girl that you have any idea of failing in your duty? Do you know her?”
Augustine, overcome by his fear, answered nothing.
“Yes, he will set him at liberty,” said Mariquilla, in despair. “Go away from here, señors. You have no business here.”
“What am I to understand?” cried Don José, seizing his son by his arm. “If what this girl says should be true, if I could imagine that my son’s honor could fail in this fashion, his loyalty sworn to his flag be trampled underfoot—if I supposed that my son could make light of the orders with whose fulfilment he has been charged, I myself would tie him and drag him before the council of war that he might get his just reward.”
“Señor, oh, my father,” said Augustine, pale as death, “I have never thought of failing in my duty.”
“Is that your father?” said Mariquilla. “Augustine, tell him that you love me, and perhaps he will have compassion on me.”
“This girl is mad,” said Don José. “Unhappy child, your trouble touches my heart. I charge myself with protecting you in your orphanhood. Yes, I will protect you as long as you reform your habits. Poor little one, you have a good heart, an excellent heart. But—yes—I have heard, a little inclined to be giddy. It is a pity that by being badly brought up a good soul should be lost. But you will be good? I think you will!”
“Augustine, how can you permit me to be insulted?” said Mariquilla, with overwhelming grief.