Don Alonzo Ximenes, Don Uberto
Cortez. Don Alonzo is not interesting; he is fat, and rather stupid, but
most good-natured. Don Uberto is Carlos's friend, a noble young captain,
much admired formerly in Havana. I have danced with him, my cousin, in
halls of rose-wreathed marble; we meet here in the wilderness, I with my
shattered affections, he with his country's name written on his soul. It
is affecting; it is heart-stirring, Marguerite; yet think nothing of it;
romance is dead for Margarita Montfort. Carlos is my kind brother, as
ever. He was vexed at first at my coming here. Heavens! what was I to
do? My stepmother was dragging me to a convent; my days would have been
spent there, and in a short time my life would have gone out like a
flame. "Out, short candle!" You see I remember your Shakespeare
readings, my dearest. Can I forget anything that recalls you to me, half
of my heart? If there had been time, indeed, I might have written to my
uncle; I might even have come to you; but the hour descended like a
thunderbolt; I fled, Manuela with me. The manner of my flight? you will
ask. Marguerite, it was managed--I do not boast, I am the soul of
humility, you know it!--the manner of it was perfect. Listen, and you
shall hear all. You remember that in my last letter--written, alas! in
my beloved garden, which I may never see more--I spoke with a certain
restraint, even an approach to mystery. It was thus. At first, when that
woman proposed to take me to the convent, I was a creature distracted.
The fire of madness burned in my veins, and I could think of nothing
save death or revenge. But with time came reflection; came wisdom,
Marguerite, and inflexible resolve. To those she loves, Margarita
Montfort is wax, silk, down, anything the most soft and yielding that
can be figured. To her enemies, steel and adamant are her composition.
I had two friends in that house of Spaniards; one was Pasquale, good,
faithful Pasquale, an under gardener and helper; the other, Manuela, my
maid. I have described her to you--enough! I realised that action must
be of swiftness, the lightning flash, the volcano fire that I predicted.
Do not say that I did not warn you, Marguerite; knowing me, you must
have expected from my last letter what must come. I called Manuela to my
room, I made pretence that she should arrange my hair. My hair has grown
three inches, Marguerite, since I left you; it now veritably touches the
floor as I sit. Our holy relig