Once more, in the balmy springtime, they stood in the porch together, Marcelino and Magdalen. The storms of winter had passed over, again the trees clothed themselves in brilliant green, again the shrubs decked themselves with flowers, and all nature rejoiced in the renewal of life and strength. Together they stood in the porch, looking out into the mellow sunshine, she leaning upon his arm with happy confidence, with a sweet sense of ownership, for she was his wife.

Seated in an easy-chair under the shade of the trees, with the soft wind playing round him and tossing lightly about the scant white hairs which lay upon his temples, sat an old, old man. Don Alfonso had survived his illness, but he rose from his bed older by apparently twenty years, since the night when Magdalen had found him lying on the floor of his room beside the brass-bound coffer, from which his treasure had been stolen. He might yet live long, although the zest of life had gone from him, leaving him only a monotonous, aimless existence, but he had now both a son and a daughter to watch over the comforts of his declining years. He accepted their attentions, passively submitting himself to their care, and seeming happy, though taking no interest in anything that went on around. Still his eye would brighten as they spoke to him of the devastation and ruin which had fallen upon Spain, and of the success which attended the measures of the new Junta of Buenos Aires. One day he asked Marcelino for $1000, a sum which it was no easy matter for Marcelino to procure, and he was curious to know what it was required for, but for days the old man would do nothing except repeat his demand, till Marcelino promised him that he should have the money. Then he rubbed his hands together, saying:

"Such a good stroke, it should be well paid."

"What stroke, papa?" said Magdalen.

"That man who saved Don Carlos and killed that traitorous Spaniard."

Then Marcelino gave him the money, and he locked it up himself in the black coffer, till Venceslao Viana should come back and receive the gift from his own hands. Magdalen sighed as she saw that her father had not yet fully learned the lesson of forgiveness, but to Marcelino she spoke only of his gratitude.

Together they stood in the porch, watching the old man as he sat under the trees, looking out into the mellow sunshine, thinking of troubles past, fearing little for troubles to come, confident that their mutual faith and trust, would bear them through whatever trials might yet be in store for them.

"You have not told me if you have been successful," said Magdalen.

"I have had no difficulty at all," replied Marcelino. "My father can come back and remain here as long as he chooses, but I fear there is little chance of his remaining long, I fear he has made up his mind to return to Spain, and will take my mother and Lola with him."

"And is Doña Constancia willing to go?"

"Yes, she is even anxious; she dreads nothing so much as that my father should take an active part in the hostile measures of the Spaniards of Monte Video. Dolores rejoices at the idea."

"That I can understand very well," said Magdalen, smiling.

"She was always more a Spaniard than a Porteña," said Marcelino. "Though she does not say anything to me, yet I know she sorrows over me as a hopeless rebel. When my father returns I think that both she and my mother will come to see you."

"Does she ever speak of Don Carlos Evaña?"

"Yes, and you would be surprised to hear her. She will not allow any one to say a word against him. She calls the execution of Marshal Liniers a foul murder, but is angry when any one says that he had anything to do with it. She says she knows that it was for quite another purpose that he joined the army."

"Yet every one says that he went only to pursue Marshal Liniers. Don Fausto says that when he marched from Arrecifes he was not in pursuit of Major Asneiros, but of some one else, and that he had false information that Don Santiago Liniers was with the mutineers."

"One thing is certain, that he went away after the fight on Pico's estancia with twenty men, and that nothing was known of him for more than a week after, but Marshal Liniers was at that time in Cordova."

"Do you think it is true that he sat on the court-martial?"

"Of that there is no doubt. My uncle Gregorio refused, and they named him instead. Dr Castelli told me that, when he returned."

"Is that the reason why Don Gregorio came back and left the command of the regiment to Don Carlos?"

"I believe so, but I have not seen my uncle since, he only remained one night in the city."

"When you write to Don Carlos do not forget to tell him that Don Roderigo is going to Spain, and will take Doña Constancia and Lola with him," said Magdalen.

"I will not forget," replied Marcelino.

Spring drew on towards summer; everywhere the patriot arms carried everything before them. Goyeneche, general-in-chief of the Spanish armies of the Viceroyalty of Peru, maddened by repeated defeats and the loss of some of his most trusted officers, gathered his forces together for one last effort to retrieve the cause of Spain in the late Viceroyalty of Buenos Aires, of which he, a Peruvian, was the champion. The fight was fierce and bloody; the cavalry of Diaz Velez, charging with true Argentine impetuosity, broke through the lines of the partidarios of Peru, and scattered them in hopeless confusion; the infantry of Buenos Aires, pressing on through showers of grape and musketry, stormed with the bayonet the centre of the Spanish position, but, broken by their rapid advance, their ranks in disorder, they here found themselves opposed by a regiment of Spanish infantry, which had been kept in reserve, and whose steady fire mowed down their men by scores. Diaz Velez was far off; to retreat was utter ruin, to reform the column under this murderous fire was impossible. Already the signs of panic were visible, soldiers throwing down their arms and seeking shelter, officers running wildly about, striving to collect their men and make some reply to the volleys which shattered each rank as it was formed. One young officer seized a standard, and waving it over his head, calling upon his men to follow him, rushed upon the levelled muskets of the Spaniards, who, in close ranks and steady as on parade, loaded and fired with the rapidity only acquired by long practice; alone he stood unflinchingly, under a tempest of balls, which tore the flag he held into streamers, and shattered the shaft till it fell in pieces in his hands. Other Spanish corps began to rally on the flanks of the patriot column; all seemed lost, when through the smoke and dust a small band of horsemen came rushing at full gallop, and hurled themselves upon that serried line of infantry. At their head rode a tall man with pale olive features and high square forehead, who neither waved his sword nor shouted, but, taking his bridle in both hands and plying his spurs, forced his horse into the thickest of the levelled bayonets; he never looked behind, but rode straight on, knowing that those who followed his lead, would follow it to the death. With wild shouts his troopers galloped close behind, and their sabres drank deep of Spanish blood that day.

The murderous fire was stopped, the panic was at an end, his men answered to the voice of the young officer, who again called upon them to rally to the standard, the ranks were reformed, the patriot column rushed on, and the field of Suipacha was won.

"Major Evaña," said General Balcarce, as he strained that officer in his arms, when covered with blood and dust he retired from the hard-fought field, "to you our country owes the greatest victory she has yet achieved. The enemy is totally routed, to-morrow there will not remain one armed foeman on Argentine soil."

"Not to me alone," said Evaña; "let me ask you a favour for a young officer, who did even more than me to-day."

Evaña stepping back laid his hand upon the shoulder of a young officer of the Patricios, and continued:

"You have granted me leave of absence, let Don Evaristo Ponce de Leon accompany me, he will be back ere you have need for him again."

"He shall carry my despatches for me to the Junta," replied General Balcarce, "and shall carry his shattered flag-shaft with him as a proof of the gallantry of the youth of Buenos Aires."

The year 1810 drew near to its close; a few days more and 1810 was merely a date in the past, a date replete with memories both sad and joyful to many of those whose lives and deeds have furnished the materials for this book.

In the roadstead of Buenos Aires there lay a noble ship, with anchor apeak, sails hanging in the brails, the blue-and-white flag, signal of departure, flying from the truck of the fore-mast. On the quarter-deck of this ship were collected several of those of whom we have just spoken. Over them floated the flag of England, under whose shelter political animosities were forgotten, and the close ties of relationship and of friendship were once more acknowledged.

Don Roderigo Ponce de Leon had settled his affairs in Buenos Aires, and shaking off the dust from his feet, was on his way to Europe; rending asunder the liens which bound him to the country of his adoption, he turned himself again to the country which had given him birth, determined to devote the rest of his life to her service. But he went not alone, with him went his wife and daughter, and he said to himself that he had yet a son left, who, uninfected with the heresies of the present age, was still a loyal child of Spain. Yet as the moment of departure drew nigh his heart yearned towards the son who had at one time been his pride, his anger towards him melted away, and forcing himself to forget the present and the immediate past, he talked only to him of the future; talked to him of the day when Ferdinand of Bourbon, reinstated on the throne of Spain, should re-establish his authority over his subjects in America who yet acknowledged their allegiance to him, and, grateful for their past loyalty and devotion, should forgive their present disloyalty to Spain.

Side by side he and Marcelino paced the deck together. Marcelino, deeply grateful for the love his father yet displayed to him, seizing eagerly at any topic of conversation in which he could agree with him, and speaking confidently of the day as not far distant, when Spain and her colonies should again be united under one sceptre.

"You have forgiven me, my father," said he. "God bless you for it. When you are far away, and in your own country are striving to substitute the will of an entire people for the tyranny of a few, when you establish a cortes at Cadiz, and so direct the valour of a noble people, fighting for rulers in whom they can trust, that this unbroken series of defeats shall be changed into one of victories, till not a Frenchman tread the soil of Spain, then, father, you will do me justice. Buenos Aires is my country, as Spain is yours; what I have done for Buenos Aires you will do for Spain, and under free institutions, Spain and her colonies shall all acknowledge one king."

Then as Don Roderigo answered nothing, but paced the deck with a flush of pride on his face as he thought of down-trodden Spain, and of the future which lay before him, should he contribute to her certain triumph, Marcelino continued:

"You have forgiven me, my father, there is one here to whom you owe no forgiveness, who has never wronged you, and who, if you love me, has every claim upon your love also, for she is your daughter. Father, you have never spoken to Magdalen, she is my wife, and only waits permission to share with me, all the love and respect I have for you. Father, will you not speak to Magdalen? May I not bring her to you, and will you not bless her for my sake if not for her own?"

"Magdalen! Your wife! Yes, let me see her," replied Don Roderigo.

Apart from the others, sitting by Doña Constancia and soothing her sorrow with many gentle words, was Magdalen Miranda, who had already found in Doña Constancia a second mother, and had learned to love her dearly, only to lose her. Marcelino went up to her, and taking her hand in his said:

"Come, Magdalen."

And Magdalen knew why he spoke, for her eyes had followed him wherever he had gone, and her heart was with him in its one hope, that Marcelino's father might yet bless her and call her his daughter ere they parted, never to meet again.

She rose, and with her hand m his, walked with him to where Don Roderigo stood awaiting them. Don Roderigo raised his hat, bowing to her with courtly politeness, but without speaking, till seeing the yearning look in her gray eyes, eyes which reminded him so much of those of his own daughter, Lola, he forgot that she was the daughter of the man whose life he had blasted, of the man who had ruined for him his hopes when life was at its brightest, he saw in her only the wife whom his son loved; opening his arms he took her to his breast and kissed her, then raising his hand he laid it upon her head and blessed her, calling her his daughter, and thanking her for the happiness she had brought into the life of his son.

Taking her hand he led her to a seat, and seating himself beside her began talking to her, questioning her much concerning herself, and listening with ever-increasing pleasure to the sound of her voice, which fell upon his ear with the melody of soft music.

Marcelino sat beside his mother with her hand in his, trying to speak cheerfully to her of the future time when they should meet again, and Dolores, flitting to and fro, kept the others from approaching these two couples, so as to prolong for them the few minutes they might yet have together.

"Here he comes at last," said a voice.

It was the English captain who arrived in a boat from shore, for his arrival alone the ship was waiting. As he set his foot upon the deck, the boom of a gun drew all eyes towards the distant city, then there came the boom of another gun, then another.

"The guns are firing from the fort, papa," said Dolores, and as she spoke, the continued roar of the guns came to them mingled with the joyful clash of bells, coming to them with a softened sound across the wide waste of water which separated them from the land.

"What is it?" asked several, of the English captain.

"They have just received news of a great victory somewhere in the north," replied he; "they were making no end of a hullabulloo about it when I left."

"Oh! my son! my son!" cried Doña Constancia, when these words were translated to her, "I shall never see Evaristo again; but he could not know, poor boy!" and she covered her face with her hands.

But her son was nearer to her than she thought. In the wake of the captain's boat came another, swiftly propelled by six stout oarsmen. As it drew near, it was seen to contain two passengers, whose eyes eagerly scanned the row of faces peering over the bulwarks at them. Both were in uniform, but in uniforms travel-stained and sun-browned.

"Evaristo!" said Dolores, with a cry of joy.

"And Evaña," echoed Marcelino.

Hardly had the boat touched the side, ere the younger officer, springing lightly up the ladder, stood on the deck looking eagerly about him, then bursting from those who pressed round him with congratulations and many questioning words, he ran to where his mother sat, even yet barely comprehending what she heard.

"Mamita!" he said, clasping her in his arms.

Leaving mother and son together, the rest crowded round Evaña, pressing his hands and listening eagerly, as he told them of the great victory which had freed Argentine soil from the footstep of a foe. Even Don Roderigo, forgetful of all else, came up to him, and taking his hand, listened with a father's pride, to the words in which Evaña spoke of the gallantry displayed by his youngest son, attributing to him more than to any other, the glories of Suipacha.

Evaña spoke with head erect, he stood among them with the bearing of a conqueror, he felt that the dream of his life was rapidly approaching its full accomplishment. Though he spoke but little of his own deeds, he knew that had he not marched from Cordova with the army of the north, the victories which had crowned the standards of the patriots, had never been won. He it was who had infused determination into the counsels of the chiefs; he it was who had set his foot with ruthless energy upon every attempt to shackle in any way the authority of the Junta; he it was who had interpreted to them the orders of that Junta, and had dared to trample in the dust the standard of Spain, when upheld by those who equally with the Junta claimed to rule by the authority of King Ferdinand.

Evaña spoke proudly and haughtily as a free citizen of a free people, but as he spoke, his eye wandered from them who hung upon his words, wandered unceasingly, till his gaze fell at last upon her he sought, his eye had found Dolores, seated at some distance from him with her mother and Evaristo; then his voice faltered, and he answered at random the questions which were put to him.

"And General Nieto, is it true that he fell in some action?" asked Don Roderigo.

"No," replied Evaña fiercely, "I took him prisoner. Two file of grenadiers and a priest, you remember his counsel to Marshal Liniers, such mercy as he would have shown to me, such mercy I gave to him."

Then heedless of more questions, he made his way through them, and walking up to Doña Constancia took her hand and raised it to his lips.

"Oh, Carlos, how good you have been to my son," said Doña Constancia. "If you had not brought him, he could not have come, and I should have gone away without seeing him."

"He might have been here before," said Evaña, "but Evaristo is a brave soldier, and his country could not spare him on the eve of a battle. I never told him you were going till the fight was over."

"I never saw any one in such a hurry to finish a fight," said Evaristo; "but for Viana he would have been killed twice over. Then when all was over he told me and we have galloped ever since."

"Don Carlos, I am so glad you have come," said Dolores, putting her hand in his.

Evaña drew her away from the others to a vacant corner behind the wheel, where they stood side by side, looking together at the shore.

"You are glad to see me, Lola," said Evaña.

Dolores started and her face was troubled as he spoke to her by this name, which he had never used but once before during all their long friendship, but quickly recovering herself she answered:

"Yes, so glad. You have been a true friend to me and mine, I have so much to thank you for, you managed it all so well. No one knows here that papa went with the mutineers, no one, not even mamma or Marcelino."

"I told you that I would be your friend, Lola, I have kept my word and you have kept yours. I have left the army and come here on purpose to see you once more, I have come to ask you to give me yet one promise."

"Tell me, you have only to ask me, I will promise what you wish."

"Listen first. You see that fair city stretched white and smiling, with its towers and glistening domes, before us on the shore. That city is the city of your birthplace, this country which you leave behind you to-day is your country. You are going to Spain, you love Spain because Spain is your father's country, when you have lived in Spain you will know better what Spain is. I am glad you are going, but some day you will come back, and to make sure that you do come back, I want you to make me one promise, the promise I have come here to ask from you. Promise me that you will never forget the land of your birth, promise me that you will never forget that you are a Porteña."

"I will promise," said Dolores, "I can make that promise very easily, for I am a Porteña. I love Spain as you say, because it is papa's country, but I am a Porteña."

"Away across the ocean in the land to which you are going there is a gallant soldier, whose heart will beat with a wild joy when he hears that you tread the same soil as he. Some day you will be his wife, Lola, remember then that your country is his also. He has promised us, he has promised me and Marcelino, that when his own country no longer needs his sword, he will come and join us, and will fight beside us till the independence of your country and my country is secure."

Dolores flushed scarlet, her hand trembled as it lay in Evaña's firm grasp, and she answered hurriedly:

"But the war is over, is it not? After this great victory there will be no more fighting?"

"The war is but commencing," replied Evaña; "so long as Spain holds one foot of ground on American soil, our independence is not secure."

The white sails came fluttering down from the brails where they hung in festoons, the monotonous clank of the capstan ceased, the cheery cry of the sailors announced that the anchor was aboard, and the noble ship, swinging round, spread her wings to the wind. No longer an inert mass lying lifeless on the waters, she became a thing of life, and cleaving her way through the dancing waves, began her voyage back to Europe, bearing within her the mingled joys and sorrows, hopes and cares, which make a ship a small epitome of the world.

"Remember!" said Evaña to Dolores, then bending over her he pressed his lips upon her forehead and so left her.

Again they stood in the porch together, Marcelino and Magdalen. Evaña had just left them, and the evening breeze tossed about the branches of the trees which had waved over him as he disappeared, going from them with his heart full of proud hopes of which he had eloquently spoken to them, going forth into a life such as he had planned out for himself long ago, a life full of proud hopes and high resolves, a busy, turbulent life, the life of a politician in a young democracy. They stood in the porch together, and through the evening air came again to them, as it had come to them in the morning across the waste of waters, the loud boom of the cannon, the joyful clangour of the bells.

"Again!" said Magdalen. "Have they not made noise enough over Suipacha?"

"Again," replied Marcelino, "but for another cause; this is to celebrate another victory. Belgrano has forced the passage of the Parana, and the army of Velazco has fled before him. Everywhere the Junta is victorious."

So joyously and gloriously ended the year 1810, with the booming of cannon and the loud clangour of the bells. So, decking her brows right early with the laurel leaves of victory, there rose up in the New World a new nation. As a young man, glorying in his strength, rejoices in the difficulties and dangers which beset his path, so Buenos Aires, recking nothing of the toils and dangers she entailed upon herself, set her hand zealously to the task she had undertaken, scorning to count the cost of the great work she purposed to accomplish. Manumission from the thraldom of a tyrant is purchased by the lives of men, and Buenos Aires sent forth her best and her bravest to bear the standard of freedom in the fore-front of the battle. Over the whole continent of South America the sun of May rose resplendent, awakening enslaved peoples from the sloth in which they wallowed, calling upon them to claim their place among the nations.

"Then there will be no more fighting now," said Magdalen; "the authority of the Junta is established."

"That I cannot tell," said Marcelino; "but one truth I know, which you have taught me, that he who works out zealously the life-task which God gives him to do, need fear nothing that may befall him in the future—as his day is so will his strength be."