The two met on a certain afternoon at the edge of the Pedregal. The second lieutenant, escorted by a number of dragoons, was emerging from the rocky wasteland and Santa, looking for Cosme, had just crossed the river barefoot on the stepping stones and, thinking herself unobserved, she had sat down on the ground to rinse off her naked feet and put her shoes on. The sand muffled the riders' approach, and by the time that Santa realized it, the dragoons had gotten a very good look at her ankles, as their sheepish expressions clearly testified. The second lieutenant, for his part, was totally entranced.

“May God turn my heart into the sand you walk on,” he declared, reining in his mount abruptly.

From that moment began the siege, a campaign characterized on the second lieutenant's part by tenacious insistence, and by only weak resistance on the part of Santa, who did not defend herself the way she had earlier against Valentín, the lovesick troubadour who worked at the factory with Fabián and Esteban and could only sigh in Santa's presence. The second lieutenant, on the other hand, worked fast and knew all the tricks in the book. He found a dozen excuses to meet the girl as if by chance, and, clean shaven and smiling, he knew just how to chat with her, jokingly most of the time, tapping his high boots with his riding crop or petting the neck of his horse when he said something more serious. At first, Santa had acted sullen or arrogant and had clammed up or run home so as not to lend an ear to his gallantries, but little by little she softened. She stopped in front of the mirror to look at herself more often than she used to do. She began to recognize the gait of the spotted horse from far away, and she took to sitting beside the road to San Angel in the afternoons, anticipating that the young officer might pass, alone, and she was not often disappointed. Neither her mother nor her brothers noticed these changes, and the girl was drawn like a moth to the flaming passion simulated by the corrupt and careless suitor whose ardor came not from true love but merely from the desire to taste that delicious, ripening fruit, because he found it within reach of his heedless youth and his handsomely smiling teeth. Like so many soldiers stationed now here, now there, whose rank and sword confer a bit of authority, he did not care if he happened to knock down someone's fence or transform passionate kisses of greeting into desperate tears of parting. What did it matter? He did not make the world and its sorrows. He was an ignorant, irresponsible macho of the common sort, looking for an amorous adventure where it would cost him least and afford him most pleasure. Like so many, he showed little interest in the children whom he engendered unconsciously, a transient soldier incapable of repairing the damage he did to the country maids who gave themselves to him, just as he could not mend the unraveled seams that, from time to time, marred his uniform.