I thanked the officer, who had looked and spoken so unlike a revolutionary bandit, and, as soon as I had succeeded in clambering on to my horse, we were once more dashing along the main street at a fast gallop. We drew up before a large, old-looking stone house at the end of the town, standing some distance back from the road, and screened from it by a double row of tall Lombardy poplars. The back of the house was towards the road, and, passing round to the front after leaving our horses at the gate, we entered a spacious _patio_, or yard. Running along the front of the dwelling was a wide corridor, supported by wooden pillars, painted white, while the whole of the _patio_ was shaded by an immense grape-vine. This was evidently one of the best houses in the place, and, coming directly from the glaring sun and the white, dusty road, the vine-shaded _patio_ and corridor looked delightfully cool and inviting. A gay company of twelve or fifteen people were gathered under the corridor, some sipping _maté_, others sucking grapes; and when we came on the scene a young lady was just finishing a song she was singing. I at once singled out General Santa Coloma, sitting by the young lady with the guitar--a tall, imposing man, with somewhat irregular features, and a bronzed, weather-beaten face. He was booted and spurred, and over his uniform wore a white silk _poncho_ with purple fringe. I judged from his countenance that he was not a stern or truculent man, as one expects a Caudillo--a leader of men--in the Banda Orientál to be: and, remembering that in a few minutes he would be leaving the house, I was anxious to push forward and state my case to him. The others, however, prevented me, for the General just then happened to be engaged in a vivacious conversation with the young lady sitting by him. When I had once looked attentively at this girl I had eyes for no other face there. The type was Spanish, and I have never seen a more perfect face of the kind; a wealth of blue-black hair shading the low, broad forehead, straight nose, dark, luminous eyes, and crimson, pouting lips. She was tall, perfect in her figure as in her face, and wore a white dress with a deep red China rose on her bosom for only ornament. Standing there unnoticed at the end of the corridor, I gazed with a kind of fascination on her, listening to her light, rippling laughter and lively talk, watching her graceful gestures, her sparkling eyes, and damask cheeks flushed with excitement. Here is a woman, I thought with a sigh--I felt a slight twinge at that disloyal sigh--I could have worshipped. She was pressing the guitar on the General. “You have promised to sing one song before you go, and I cannot let you off,” she exclaimed. At length he took the instrument, protesting that his voice was a very bad one; then, sweeping the strings, began that fine old Spanish song of love and war: “_Cuando suena la trompa guerrera_.”