University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Hardly had these words been spoken, when the guitar again
sounded from within. Every ear was instantly hushed as the
strain ascended — a strain, more ambitious than the preceding,
of melancholy and indignant apostrophe. The improvvisatrice
was no longer able to control the passionate inspiration which
took its tone from the stern eloquence of the Liberator. She
caught from him the burning sentiment of scorn which it was no
longer his policy to repress, and gave it additional effect in the
polished sarcasm of her song. Our translation will poorly suffice
to convey a proper notion of the strain.

As the song proceeded, Bolivar stood forward as one rapt in
ecstacy. The exultation brightened in his eye, and his manner
was that of a soul in the realization of its highest triumph. Not
so the Bogotans by whom he was surrounded. They felt the
terrible sarcasm which the damsel's song conveyed — a sarcasm
immortalized to all the future, in the undying depths of a song
to be remembered. They felt the humiliation of such a record,
and hung their heads in shame. At the close of the ballad,
Bolivar exclaimed to Joachim de Zalabarietta, the father:—

“Bring the child before us. She is worthy to be a prime minister.
A prime minister? No! the hero of the forlorn hope! a
spirit to raise a fallen standard from the dust, and to tear down
and trample that of the enemy. Bring her forth, Joachim. Had
your men of Bogota but a tithe of a heart so precious! Nay,
could her heart be divided among them — it might serve a thousand
— there were no viceroy of Spain within your city now!”

And when the father brought her forth from the little cabinet,
that girl, flashing with inspiration — pale and red by turns —
slightly made, but graceful — very lovely to look upon —
wrapped in loose white garments, with her long hair, dark and
flowing unconfined, and so long that it was easy for her to

walk upon it[1] — the admiration of the Liberator was insuppressible.

“Bless you for ever,” he cried, “my fair Princess of Freedom!
You, at least, have a free soul, and one that is certainly
inspired by the great divinity of earth. You shall be mine ally,
though I find none other in all Bogota sufficiently courageous.
In you, my child, in you and yours, there is still a redeeming
spirit which shall save your city utterly from shame!”

While he spoke, the emotions of the maiden were of a sort
readily to show how easily she should be quickened with the
inspiration of lyric song. The color came and went upon her
soft white cheeks. The tears rose, big and bright, upon her
eyelashes — heavy drops, incapable of suppression, that swelled
one after the other, trembled and fell, while the light blazed,
even more brightly from the showers in the dark and dilating
orbs which harbored such capacious fountains. She had no
words at first, but, trembling like a leaf, sunk upon a cushion at
the feet of her father, as Bolivar, with a kiss upon her forehead,
released her from his clasp. Her courage came back to her a
moment after. She was a thing of impulse, whose movements
were as prompt and unexpected as the inspiration by which she
sung. Bolivar had scarcely turned from her, as if to relieve her
tremor, when she recovered all her strength and courage. Suddenly
rising from the cushion, she seized the hand of her father,
and with an action equally passionate and dignified, she led him
to the Liberator, to whom, speaking for the first time in that
presence, she thus addressed herself:—

“He is yours — he has always been ready with his life and
money. Believe me, for I know it. Nay more! doubt not that
there are hundreds in Bogota — though they be not here — who,
like him, will be ready whenever they hear the summons of
your trumpet. Nor will the women of Bogota be wanting.
There will be many of them who will take the weapons of those
who use them not, and do as brave deeds for their country as
did the dames of Magdalena when they slew four hundred
Spaniards.”[2]

“Ah! I remember! A most glorious achievement, and worthy
to be written in letters of gold. It was at Mompox, where
they rose upon the garrison of Morillo. Girl, you are worthy to
have been the chief of those women of Magdalena. You will
be chief yet of the women of Bogota. I take your assurance
with regard to them; but, for the men, it were better that thou
peril nothing even in thy speech.”

The last sarcasm of the Liberator might have been spared.
That which his eloquence had failed to effect was suddenly accomplished
by this child of beauty. Her inspiration and presence
were electrical. The old forgot their caution and their years.
The young, who needed but a leader, had suddenly found a
genius. There was now no lack of the necessary enthusiasm.
There were no more scruples. Hesitation yielded to resolve.
The required pledges were given — given more abundantly than
required; and, raising the slight form of the damsel to his own
height, Bolivar again pressed his lips upon her forehead, gazing
at her with a respectful delight, while he bestowed upon her the
name of the Guardian Angel of Bogota. With a heart bounding
and beating with the most enthusiastic emotions — too full
for further utterance — La Pola disappeared from that imposing
presence which her coming had filled with a new life and
impulse