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Therefore he disliked them; yet he could not help occasionally entering their tent, for the leaders of the mutiny held their counsels there. Zorrillo always received him courteously; but his companion gazed at him so intently and searchingly, that an anxious feeling, very unusual to the bold fellow, stole over him.
"The election will take place to-morrow, gentlemen; we are holding a council to-day. It is very warm in here; I feel it as much as you do. But before we separate, listen a few minutes to a man, who means well." Zorrillo now explained all the reasons, which induced him to counsel negotiations and a friendly agreement with the commander-in-chief.
The captain lowered his eyes in embarrassment, saying, in a low tone: "Nothing of great importance; but day before yesterday a wicked deed was committed, which will vex you. The woman you love, the camp sibyl...." "Who? What? What do you mean?" "She went to Zorrillo, and he you must not be startled he stabbed her." Ulrich staggered back, repeating, in a hollow tone "Stabbed!"
I will never, never forget it, whatever happens! Go, go; the drum is beating again." Zorrillo fancied she was uttering mere feverish ravings, and begged her to calm herself; then he left the tent, and went to the place where the election was to be held.
You wield a good blade, but to attack Navarrete is suicide. I'll take him the letter. Be wise, Zorrillo, and look for another love at once." "Directly, directly, of course," replied the quartermaster; but as soon as he had sent the maid-servant away, and was entirely alone, he bowed his forehead upon the table and his shoulders heaved convulsively.
"Long live the king! Long live Navarrete! Navarrete! Hurrah for Navarrete!" echoed loudly, impetuously from a thousand bearded lips. Zorrillo had no opportunity to speak again. The election was made. Ulrich was chosen Eletto. As if on wings, he went from man to man, shaking hands with his comrades. Power, power, the highest prize on earth, was attained, was his!
The leaders of the mutineers were standing on the wall of earth between the field-pieces, and amid the foremost rank, nay, in front of them all, her son was addressing the crowd. The choice wavered between him and Zorrillo. Ulrich had already been speaking a long time.
Zorrillo perceiving that a new and violent argument was about to break forth among the men closed the meeting. Before adjourning, however, it was unanimously decided that the election should be held on the morrow.
Zorrillo belonged to another regiment, but Ulrich had long known him and his companion, the "campsibyl." Wine was sold in the quartermaster's tent, which, before the outbreak of the mutiny, had been the rendezvous of the officers and chaplains.
I know how heavily I have sinned, I deserve whatever may befall me; but you, you must not make me more wretched, than I already am. Your father, he . . . if he were still alive, for your sake I would crawl to him on my knees, and say: 'Here I am, forgive me' but he is dead. Pasquale, Zorrillo lives; do not think me a vain, deluded woman; Zorrillo cannot bear to have me leave him. . . ."
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