The first time she seems to have suspected in herself a feeling for her handsome young cousin stronger than cousinly regard was on a day at her father’s house when the young leader of the Filipino forces at the Ateneo was brought in with a broken head and covered with dust, blood, and glory. It was not the first time he had been so ornamented, but only the first time she had seen him thus. At the sight of the youthful champion of the Filipino people disabled early in the fray, Leonora ran with speed to get warm water and bandages to dress his hurts. The rest was easy and according to the formulæ for such cases well known and accepted. She loved him for the battles he waged, and he loved her that she nursed him so tenderly. A year later with the full approbation of their parents they were betrothed. Mr. Rivera was fond of his nephew; to the aunt, José was at least not objectionable, though she seems to have been a lady of a captious and changeable temperament. It was the uncle that first suggested Rizal’s withdrawal from the Philippines when it became evident that the governing class had marked him as a young man to be suppressed. Mr. Rivera knew well enough what that would mean in Santo Tomas and elsewhere: every avenue closed, every possible obstacle thrown in his way. The malice he had aroused he could hope to defeat in some measure if he could win in Europe a training and a distinction that would on his return provide him with a practice in spite of Spanish opposition. Mr. Rivera assisted his flight, sent him money while he was pursuing his studies in Madrid, and showed at all times a sincere interest in his welfare. The lovers had a tender parting just before Rizal went aboard his ship that night; as a sign or image of his presence when he should be far away he left with her a poem that began: The summons sounds, predestinate and grim, The iron clanging of the tongue of fate, That drives me on a pathway strange and dim And strikes my flowers of hope all desolate. Thou know’st,—thou other, dearer soul of mine— How hard it is to say farewell, and part; Through clouds that darken, suns that shine, I venture—but I leave with thee my heart. At Madrid he wrote her regularly and with deep affection and received replies that, his diary says, gave him unbounded joy, as these entries indicate: 1884. January 10. Received two letters, one from Uncle Antonio [Leonora’s father] and the other from L. Nov. 30. The letter from Leonora was lovely with a sweet ending. January 25. To-night I had a sad dream. I returned to the Philippines, but oh, what a sad reception! Leonora had been unfaithful; an inexcusable unfaithfulness without any remedy. April 13. To-day I received letters from Leonora, Uncle Antonio, and Changoy. I am well satisfied with what Leonora writes but not with her state of health. [79]