The Archbishop walked slowly home with her, Jacinta just behind, and left her under that old stone scutcheon on the door. Del Torre and Don Ramon lingered behind; and when they had passed her window, she was sitting there, looking weary. The old General passed by, sweeping off his hat, his eyes on the ground. He had been talking to the youth of all the duties of his life and love; but Ramon was inattentive, watching for her. As they passed her window Ramon lingered, daring a word to Dolores through the iron bars. He asked her for a rose she wore. She looked at him a moment, then gave it to him, with a message. The Marquis saw her give the rose; he did not hear the message. Don Ramon did; and his face turned the color of a winter leaf. As he walked on, he crushed the rose, then threw it in the gutter. For the girl, womanlike, had told the rival first. That night Ramon intoxicated himself in some tavern brawl. He had a companion with him, not of his own sex; and when another officer reproached him with it, for his cousin, he swore that he would marry her, and that she had been---- Then they fought a duel, and both were wounded. VII. THE General heard of it the next morning, and it was even the Archbishop brought him the news. The priest besought del Torre to marry his ward, but he was obdurate; the crafty priest wrestled with the soldier’s will all through that day, and neither conquered. But the General’s face looked worn; he argued, only sadly, of the hot blood of youth, of the hope in her love for the nephew, and of his bravery. Then late in the day came the young officer, wounded, the bandage on his breast half stanching the heart’s blood he had shed for her, and besought the general not to give her to Don Ramon. Del Torre stood as if at bay. “You love her too?” he cried. “Ay, and would save her,” said the young man, faintly. “You must protect her from this libertine,” then said the priest. For he wished her to marry the one he thought she loved not. “She loves him!” sighed the General. “You must save her----” “I will live with her, and guard her as my own----” “You may not,” said the priest. “I am her guardian----” “You may not--you must marry her.” “I am old and she is young----” “The holy Church demands it!” “I love her not--I----” the lie stuck in his lips. Late in the afternoon del Torre went to see Dolores. She was at vesper service, and he waited until she came back, pale. He began to speak. “I have heard all,” she interrupted; “Jacinta told me.” And again he saw her blush. Del Torre groaned; he turned aside. Then he strode back to her, his sabre clanking as he walked. “God forgive me if I err. Dolores, you may not marry this man--you--you must--Señorita Condesa, will you marry me?” Dolores looked up; she had been red, she was now pale. So blushes lie. “Santissima Maria,” she said, below her breath.