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“To-morrow,” said Vicente, completing his sentence, “he may be the friend and leader of all the lovers of freedom in Mexico; and if so, my leader. I have talked with that man, and he sees to the farthest ramifications of this great canker that is eating out the very vitals of our land. You will hear of him soon, Feliz, if you have not done so already. His name is Benito Juarez.”

Feliz smiled. “What, that Indian?” she said. “It is a new thing for a gentleman of pure Spanish blood to choose such a leader. Ah, Vicente, you disappoint me! It must be this Ramirez, who has in his every movement the air of a guerilla, a free-fighter, who has infected you.”

“No,” answered Vicente, sullenly, “Ramirez has no influence over me; only the fortune of war has thrown us together,—a blustering fellow on the surface, but so deep, so astute, that none can fathom him. He is not the man I could make my friend.”

“Where does he come from?” asked Doña Feliz with interest. “There is something familiar to me in his voice or expression.”