This was on a Sunday. Monday we spent in our preparations for marching. I had need of all the diversion I could find, to keep down the maddening thought that I should have to go without seeing my lady. In my despair I called upon Father Rocus, who counselled patience, and promised to do what he could to obtain for me a last meeting. But he warned me that even should he succeed, I could expect to see her only in the presence of the family. I begged him to give me some hope for the future. But he shook his head. "_Sabe Dios!--Quien sabe?_" he said. "All that I can now say is that, if she cannot follow you to your free republic, she will take the veil." "No!" I cried. "I cannot give her up!" "You can if you must, my son. There are few mortals who at some time during their lives do not have to bear a heavy cross. If this one is laid upon your shoulders, you will bear it with manly strength. But there is still a hope for you. I shall advise with her before you pay your farewell call at Senor Vallois's. If there seems a way of escape, you will receive a message either from her or from myself." I thanked the good padre, and left him, my heart in a tumult between fondest hope and blackest despair. In the morning, which was that of the twenty-eighth of April, the day set for us to march, we visited about the city to say farewell to all our friends. But when we came to Don Pedro's I informed the Lieutenant that I wished him to make only a brief call and then go without me. Malgares, who was to march in charge of our escort, and with whom we had called upon the weeping Dona Dolores, assented to my request no less heartily than did Pike. As I had expected, Don Pedro and Dona Marguerite received us with the utmost cordiality--but alone. In the midst of our call Father Rocus entered in a casual manner, but, unlike the Vallois, he greeted us with a marked coolness. I was seized with the dreadful suspicion that he had all along been playing double with me. Yet there was the memory of that meeting at the _Parroquia_ to shame my doubt. Before I could calm my thoughts, Pike and Malgares rose to leave. I followed them slowly to the door, then suddenly turned back and bent upon one knee to take the hand of Dona Marguerite. "Senora," I begged, "for the love of God, give me a last word with her! I am going away all those thousands of miles--I fear I shall never again see her--have pity upon me! One word, senora!" "_Ave Maria purisima!_" she murmured, bowing her head and sighing. I had touched her heart. Another plea might have persuaded her. But Don Pedro came hastening back, his face as cold and hard as a stone. "Your friends will be delayed, Senor Robinson," he said.