“We hear enough,” replied Lucas; “dress up a block, and it will look like a shopman. I tell you, these good-for-nothing she vagabonds appear to me more like bedraggled rags than women.” “Get away! If this Lucas hasn’t always the rod of justice lifted! He has entered the uniform, but the uniform hasn’t entered him. If you had been born king, they would have called you the _Justiciero_.”[11] The next morning the troops were drawn up in splendid array, the bands were playing, and the general, magnificently mounted, came galloping upon the field, followed, at a little distance, by an elegant open carriage, in which was seated a beautiful and richly dressed woman. The carriage stopped near where Lucas and his townsmen were formed at the end of a line. “That is the general’s mistress,” said the man at Lucas’s right in a low tone. “Did I not tell you she was a sun?” Lucas raised his eyes, and fixed them upon the woman, at the same instant starting so perceptibly as to attract the notice of his companions. “What ails you, Lucas?” “Nothing,” he answered calmly. But the glances of the occupant of the carriage had fallen upon the gallant-looking soldier who stood so near her, and a cry of delighted surprise burst from her lips. “Lucas,” said his other neighbor in line, “that lady is looking this way, and making signs to you.” Lucas, pale but perfectly composed, neither looked up nor replied. “Lucas, who can it be? She knows you; she is waving her handkerchief, and seems as if she would spring out of the carriage. Look at her! Say! who is she?” “I do not know her,” answered Lucas. “By the very cats!” exclaimed the first who had spoken, in an ecstasy, “may my end be a bad one if it isn’t your sister Lucia! Look at her, man! it is she!” “I have looked at her, and I tell you that I do not know her,” responded Lucas. “Look, now, look! the poor little thing is crying. She is not much changed, only handsomer. You must be blind not to see that it is your sister!” “I do not know her,” repeated the young man, with the same composure. There are men who feel profoundly, but exercise such self-control that they succeed in covering with a mantle of indifference the most violent and agonizing emotions--moral Scævolas, who astonish without attracting us. We like neither the motive nor the effects of a stoicism that parades itself so disdainfully. For, if in order to judge of all things human, it is necessary to compare them with the example of the ideal of humanity--the God-Man--we cannot fail to be repelled by such arrogance when we reflect that the most holy passion would have lacked its tender and sublime sanctity, if in it bravado had taken the place of meekness.