So Esteban has given up for the present his dream of fighting, and
devotes himself to protecting me. You see there is no sanctuary,
no help but his right arm. The towns are in Spanish hands, the
manigua is infested with lawless men, and there is no place in
which to hide me. So I feel myself a burden. Esteban has plans to
arm a band of his own. I am numb with dread of what it may lead
to, for his hatred is centered upon Cueto, that false servant
whose wickedness reduced us to this extremity. Esteban is so young
and reckless. If only you were here to counsel him.

If only you were here--Oh, my dearest Juan! If only you were here-
-to take me in your arms and banish this ever constant terror at
my heart. If only you were here to tell me that you love me still
in spite of my misfortune. See! The tears are falling as I write.
My eyes are dim, my fingers trace uncertain letters on the sheet,
and I can only steady them when I remember that you promised to
return. You WILL return, will you not? I could not write like this
if I were sure that you would read these lines. My nightly prayer-
-But I will not tell you of my prayers, for fate may guide this
letter to you, after all, and the hearts of men do change. In
those dark hours when my doubts arise I try to tell myself that
you will surely come and search me out.

Sometimes I play a game with Evangelina--our only game. We gather
wild flowers. We assort the few belongings that I managed to bring
with me and I array myself for you. And then I smile and laugh for
a little while, and she tells me I am beautiful enough to please
you. But the flowers fade, and I know that beauty, too, will fade
in such surroundings. What then? I ask myself.