[1]The following extract from the letter of the author of the Captive Rivals, will account for the delay in finishing this story in the December number.—Ed. Graham.Jacksonville, Ill. Dec. 12th, 1861.G. R. Graham, Esq.,Dear Sir,—I send you, inclosed, the final number of the ‘Captive Rivals’—which has been by sickness, and other unavoidable causes, unreasonably delayed.
[1]
The following extract from the letter of the author of the Captive Rivals, will account for the delay in finishing this story in the December number.—Ed. Graham.
Jacksonville, Ill. Dec. 12th, 1861.G. R. Graham, Esq.,Dear Sir,—I send you, inclosed, the final number of the ‘Captive Rivals’—which has been by sickness, and other unavoidable causes, unreasonably delayed.
Jacksonville, Ill. Dec. 12th, 1861.
G. R. Graham, Esq.,
Dear Sir,—I send you, inclosed, the final number of the ‘Captive Rivals’—which has been by sickness, and other unavoidable causes, unreasonably delayed.
[2]The reader must recollect that the leagues mentioned are Mexican.
[2]
The reader must recollect that the leagues mentioned are Mexican.
——
All in the castle were at rest;When sudden on the windows shoneA lightning flash, just seen and gone.Rokeby.
All in the castle were at rest;When sudden on the windows shoneA lightning flash, just seen and gone.Rokeby.
All in the castle were at rest;
When sudden on the windows shone
A lightning flash, just seen and gone.
Rokeby.
’Tis to be wished it had been sooner done;But stories somewhat lengthen, when begun.Byron.
’Tis to be wished it had been sooner done;But stories somewhat lengthen, when begun.Byron.
’Tis to be wished it had been sooner done;
But stories somewhat lengthen, when begun.
Byron.
It wanted yet an hour of noon, when, excepting the occasional clash of arms in the court-yard, where De Marsiac had quartered his men, all sounds in the mansion ceased. The room in which Harding found himself imprisoned, had but one small window, and this was protected by strong, vertical iron bars, in the fashion of the country. The only door opened upon a corridor, along the stone pavement of which the prisoner could distinctly hear the footsteps of a sentinel, approaching and receding, but never quite going beyond earshot. As if to secure him, beyond the possibility of escape, another armed man passed, from time to time, before the window, looking curiously in at each return, and never disappearing for more than five minutes. Harding, as the reader has perceived, was a decidedly brave man; but when he reflected upon the meaning of these precautions, and the character of the man into whose power he had fallen, he could not avoid some apprehension as to his fate. Fatigue, however, soon overcame his fears, and the drowsy monotony of noonday conquered his wakefulness. Seating himself in the deep window, he leaned his head against the bars and slept.
When he awoke, the sun was declining toward the horizon, and the shadows of the trees were lengthening along the hills. He aroused himself and looked about him. His window commanded a view of the garden, in which he had met Margarita, and a part of the river, along which he had entered. The waters had subsided since morning, and the arches under the wall were proportionably more open; but escape in this direction, even had he been able to break his prison, was cut off by two sentinels who stood upon the river-bank, and never, for a moment, turned their eyes from his window.
None but those who are deprived of it, can fully appreciate the blessing of freedom; but even their hopelessness may be deepened, by the view of waving fields and clear sunlight, when they feel that it is not for them that they wave and shine. Harding turned away from the window, sick at heart, and with rapid and impatient strides paced up and down the narrow floor. As he passed the door for the fourth or fifth time, he heard voices without, as if in altercation, and the next moment, a heavy step coming along the corridor.
“What do you want here?” roughly demanded a voice, which Harding at once recognized as that of the count.
“I was taking theAmericanosomething to eat,” timidly answered the smaller of the voices, before in altercation.
“Let him pass,” the count ordered the sentinel; and then added, aloud, as if on purpose to be heard within, “and tell theAmericanothat he had better eat heartily, for it will be his last meal!”
“Si, señor,” said the boy, and at the same moment the door was cautiously opened, so as to preclude all chance of escape, and thepeonentered, bearing a small waiter, on which were placed some articles of food.
Harding turned away, in no mood for eating—though he had tasted nothing since morning. He had heard De Marsiac’s threat, and the character of his enemy left him little reason to doubt that he would put it into execution. He had hoped that his messenger would return from Anelo in time to save him; but now all prospect of that seemed cut off; for he knew that the count was not a man to delay when he had once taken his resolution. As this thought flashed across his mind, he wheeled suddenly round, determined to rush forth and try the chances of a fight; but before he could do so, the door was drawn violently to, and hastily bolted.
“Theseñorwill eat something?” said the boy, timidly.
“Set it down, then, and begone!” answered the prisoner, pointing to a wooden bench at the side of the room.
“The count told me to say you had better eat heartily,” said thepeon, “as this will be your last meal; and,” he continued, in a lower voice, pointing to a roll of bread, “you must break this bread, even if you don’t eat it.”
The gesture and tone attracted Harding’s attention. He approached the bench and raised the roll, while the boy, repeating his injunction, went back to the door, and was cautiously let out. The lieutenant waited until the bolts were drawn again, and then broke the bread. A small slip of paper fell to the floor; and, on raising it, he found the following hopeful, though unsatisfactory words:
“Will you pay me the twenty dollars, or shall I keep the horse?”
“It would be cheaper,” muttered Harding, perversely, “to let him keep the horse, if he has ridden him thirty leagues already. But,” he added, a suspicion flashing across his mind, “that is impossible! I ought to have known the young scoundrel would betray me—and this is only a cruelruseof De Marsiac!”
He turned the paper over as he spoke, and his eye caught these words written on the reverse:
“I will be with you by 9 o’clock—McCulloch.”
“I did the boy injustice,” was his first thought; “he shall have both the money and the horse.” And seating himself on the bench, he followed the count’s well-meant advice, and was soon refreshed by a hearty meal.
It is wonderful how much the state of the stomach has to do with the moods of the mind. Indeed, the two organs seem to be inter-reactive; and I believe some physiologists now contend, with great plausibility, too, that the brain is really the digestive organ. If this theory be true, mental distress must be only another name fordispepsia; and—though I have seen men who ate like anacondas, when under great affliction—I am strongly inclined to endorse the speculation. At all events, Harding was “a case, or subject, in point;” for, but a few minutes before, when he was apprehending many certain and uncertain evils, from the resentment of the count, he had not the least desire for refreshment; but, on the first glimpse of hope, he had an appetite like a soldier escaped from a beleaguered city. And, no sooner was the inner man replenished, than—on the aforesaid principle of inter-reaction—his spirits rose almost to the point of absolute content. Most axioms are tautological; but none is more so than that which asserts that “man is astrange animal.” The word “strange” might be advantageously and conveniently left out.
So thoroughly had the important act of receiving his rations reinvigorated the captive, both corporeally and mentally, that, when he resumed his walk up and down the floor, he dismissed all anxiety about his own fate, and began to speculate in reference to the condition of his fellow-prisoner, Grant. From regret that he had been compelled to strike him, his mind wandered to a more pleasing subject of contemplation—he began to long for some information about Margarita; how she was treated by the ruffian count, and, more particularly—for love is always egotistical—how she viewedhiscaptivity; and finally, whether she had not forgotten her grief for her murdered mother, in devising means of giving him his liberty. These, or such as these, are often very pleasant fancies—the misfortune is, that, in most cases, they areonlyfancies, and are occasionally rather rudely dispelled.
So it was, at all events, with Harding; for, just as he had reached that supreme apex of egotism, to which lovers so easily attain—where one’s mistress is not supposed to know that there is any thing, or anybody else in the world, about which, or whom, shecanthink—when he was recalled to more substantial realities, by hearing the count, in loud, stern tones, giving a rapid and ominous command.
“Close the gates and bar them—muster the company, with loaded muskets, and bring out the prisoners!” Such was the significant order of a man who was never known to stop at half-measures!
“McCulloch will be too late, at last!” exclaimed Harding, halting suddenly, and dashing his hand violently against the wall. The dinner had lost its virtues, for his heart sank even below its former point of depression. And, in truth, his apprehension was far from groundless. De Marsiac was incensed beyond bearing, by the consciousness that Harding had overreached him. His suspicions were first aroused by observing him take a road toPiedritas, different to the one he had pointed out. He had watched him until he halted among the elms, and had seen him dispatch the messenger for assistance. He was ignorant, however, of his point of destination—supposing that the nearest American force was at Monclova, about sixty leagues[3]distant. This supposition would give him at least forty-eight hours, in which to prepare for the reception, should soldiers be sent, or, at least, to retreat into the mountains. The interview between Margarita and Harding, had also been watched by some one of the household; and when the count came in great haste after his prisoner, this unwelcome news had met him at the threshold. A man of his violent temper could not have brooked this under any circumstances, least of all, when he possessed, as did the count, ample and ready means of vengeance.
While the unfortunate prisoner was running these comfortless circumstances over in his mind, the door was suddenly thrown open, and several men rushed upon him and threw him to the floor. Almost before he was aware of their object, his arms were drawn forcibly back and pinioned behind him. They then lifted him to his feet, and unceremoniously marched him out upon the corridor. Here he found Grant, securely pinioned like himself, and held by tworancheros, one on each arm.
“This is a pretty predicament you have brought us into,” said the younger, sullenly; “We’re to be shot, I suppose.”
“Very probably,” answered Harding, scarcely able to resist, even in that serious moment, an inclination to smile at Grant’s disconsolate look. “But how came you here?”
“I escaped fromEmbocaduraabout the same time with you, and was in the garden to learn your treachery and—”
“And to get that blow on the head,” interrupted Harding, feeling again an impulse to jest.
“I’ll settle that score with you hereafter,” said Grant, his eyes flashing fire.
“By ‘hereafter,’ I suppose, you mean in the next world,” said Harding, with a bitter smile. “But, seriously, Grant, this is no time for the indulgence of such feelings; we have probably not long to live, and ought to be thinking of more important matters. I am heartily sorry for the blow, as well as for my insincerity—will you forgive it?”
“With all my heart,” answered the other warmly; and each made a gesture, as if to join hands; but the cords bound them too closely.
“We can do but one thing, Grant,” said Harding, with feeling, “and that is, die like Christian men—and brave men,” he added, after a pause; “for these cursedrancherosought not to see any weakness in Americans.”
“They shall see none in me,” said Grant, firmly, “though I do think it hard to be sacrificed in this way!”
“One of the chances of war, Grant—only one of the chances of war,” said Harding, sturdily; and, at the same moment the count, for whom the men seemed to have been waiting, appeared on the corridor and waved his hand. The files turned away with their prisoners, and marching around the building, soon gained the bank of the river. Here they halted again, awaiting the approach of the count, who, like most men when assuming a fearful responsibility, seemed to act with much less than his usual prompt rapidity. The sun had already set, and there was only left the short twilight of that latitude before the falling of night, which must suspend the bloody act, perhaps forever.
But a few minutes were lost, however, when De Marsiac came hastily round the building, accompanied by ten of hisrancheroswith trailed arms. At a gesture from him the prisoners’ guards resumed their march, and crossing the river on the stepping-stones, before mentioned, soon gained the little open space where Harding had met Margarita. Selecting two trees which stood near each other, the count ordered his captives to be lashed securely to them; and then drawing his men some five paces off, gave the preliminary commands to a cold-blooded murder.
“Keep a strong heart, Grant,” said Harding, endeavoring to sustain his younger comrade in the awful hour. “Don’t let your courage fail now—it is too late!”
“This is a mere assassination,” said Grant, grinding his teeth.
“And will be speedily avenged,” added Harding, “more speedily than the vindictive scoundrel now thinks!”
De Marsiac caught these words, and paused. For a moment he seemed to hesitate whether to proceed. But his nature was too obstinate to admit more than a passing thought of change in his purpose; and without further noting the words of Harding, he resumed his attitude of command. While he seemed to hesitate, his men had brought their guns to the ground—and they were now to be brought up again by the successive movements of the manual. The delay arising from this cause, probably saved the lives of both the prisoners.
A quick, light footstep was heard rapidly approaching along the main walk, and a moment afterward, Margarita, accompanied by one of her women, rushed into the area and threw herself, without hesitation, between the prisoners and their executioners.
“Count!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing fire, and her voice attesting the extremity of her emotion, “is this the way you keep your promises with one to whose hand you aspire! Down with your arms, miscreants, and begone!Iam mistress here!”
A slight sneer curled the haughty lip of the count; but, considering his vengeance snatched from him for the present, he gave his men the order to ground their arms, but to stand firm. Assuming, then, the most insinuating address in his power—and he was far from ungraceful—he approached the incensed girl, and drew her aside.
“Margarita,” said he, taking her hand, “you must pardon an act which is prompted only by love for yourself; and you must not judge too harshly of one who feels that the dearest price of earth has been unfairly snatched from his grasp. Both these men have been instrumental in blasting my hopes of obtaining this hand; I feel that while they live, I can never rebuild the vision I have indulged—perhaps their death may not assist me—but,” and he raised himself suddenly to his full height, and spoke in a deep, determined tone, the meaning of which she knew too well, “I shall at least be avenged!”
“What do you mean?” she asked, trembling.
“I mean,” he replied, calmly, “that since my hopes are wrecked at any rate, their death will give me revenge, without harm to my interests—they must die!”
“And dare you think that I would marry one whose hands were bloody with such a deed?” she asked, proudly.
“Listen to me,” said he, laying his hand on her arm; “my hands are notnowbloody—yet you reject me. If I spare these men, you will reject me still—and I shall lose my revenge, and not gain your love.”
“Perhaps—” she commenced, but paused.
“If you will be mine,” he interrupted, perceiving that the moment had arrived, “both these men shall be sent back, unharmed, to the American army—and I shall be not only the happiest of men, for the requital of my love, but will also be saved, what I feel would be a great crime!”
“If you know it to be a great crime, why commit it?” she asked.
“Ah, Margarita! you little understand man’s feelings. But come,” he added, suddenly, “time presses—I cannot wait. You reject me—they must die!”
He turned away as he spoke, as if to resume his commands; but Margarita called him back.
“If I consent,” she commenced, with hesitation, “when will you demand the fulfillment of my promise?”
“To-night,” he replied; “so soon as Father Aneres can be brought fromLa Embocadura!”
“Why such haste?” she demanded. “Will not to-morrow be quite soon enough? Remember, my mother was only buried to-day!”
“A few hours can make no difference in that matter,” he replied, “butmightin another view. I must have your handto-night, or these men must dienow.”
It was a terrible alternative. But Margarita had seen Harding’s messenger, and knew that McCulloch, with his Rangers, might be expected within three hours. The only question was, whether she could find excuses enough to delay the ceremony for that length of time. Could she do so, she was safe; but—and it was a terrible thought—should De Marsiac use his power to hasten it, she was lost! But, running over in her mind all the plausible reasons she might give for an hour’s delay, and especially reflecting upon the consequences of a refusal, she at length determined to consent.
“I can do no more,” she said.
“Then I understand you to consent?” he asked.
“I do,” she replied, “on the condition that you send these unfortunate men to their army immediately.”
“As soon as you are mine, they shall set out,” said the count; and Margarita was obliged to be satisfied with his pledge. He at once ordered the prisoners unbound, and taken back to their temporary prisons; and walking beside his intended bride, he followed the little procession to the house, and at once gave orders to summon the priest.
The presence of a clerical functionary, in the house of such a man as De Marsiac, was not so remarkable as at first view it would seem; for, independent of the almost complete degradation of that order in that part of Mexico, there was another reason for the opportune appearance of one of its members. The count, anticipating the possibility of gaining some advantage in the events about to happen, had manifested one of the most valuable characteristics of a great general—preparing himself to make the utmost of whatever success might be given him. He had summoned Father Aneres to Embocadura, for the very purpose for which he now called him to Piedritas.
Thepadreexhibited the three peculiarities of the priesthood in that country, excepting, indeed, well-shaped hands and feet, they were the only remarkable points about him: he possessed a rotund corporation, a full nether lip, and a small, twinkling, black eye. He was above the ordinary level referred to, however, for the grossness of his aspect was rather that of easy self-indulgence, than of positive sensuality. Indolence filled up the space in him, which, in his brethren, it usually shared with a cruel and rapacious depravity.
He entered thehaciendawithin an hour after the dispatch of De Marsiac’s messenger—a promptitude for which he received from none there, excepting the count, any of the good wishes usually bestowed upon such occasions on men of his profession. To Margarita, especially, his coming was unwelcome in a very high degree; for, though but an hour remained before the period fixed for McCulloch’s arrival with his Rangers, this was space enough for one so determined as the count, and far too much for her to dispose of in specious delays.
This was soon manifested, indeed, by the unannounced entrance of De Marsiac, who demanded that the ceremony should proceed forthwith. She informed him that she had but now commenced her preparations; and rashly said, that she would be quite ready at the end of an hour.
“See that you are so, then,” said he, peremptorily; “for I will not be cajoled into another minute’s delay. I shall be here again precisely at nine o’clock; and if you are not ready then, I shall shoot the prisoners, and compel you to redeem your pledge afterward.”
She was about to make an angry reply; but, reflecting that he was fully capable, if incensed more than he seemed already, of dragging her at once to the altar, she suppressed her indignation, and replied as calmly as possible—
“Do you not think, count,” said she, “that such language is unbecoming at such a time—and to me?”
“If,” said he, softening at once, approaching her and taking her hand, “if you treated me with the confidence which I feel I deserve, no one could be more gentle and affectionate than I would be. But you leave no room for gentleness. Even now, you are endeavoring to gain time in order that you may be rescued by American soldiers. But—be at once undeceived—these soldiers cannot arrive here sooner than the day after to-morrow, and then they will find the place vacant.”
Margarita’s heart sank within her, though she had seen Harding’s messenger, and trusted his report. She knew not to what expedient one so adroit as her persecutor might resort, to delay the march of the rangers, or lead them astray; and her imagination at once conjured up twenty plans by which he might secure his object. She made no reply, however, other than to assert that he was mistaken in her motives, and request that he would leave her to her preparations.
“Very well,” said he, “I will return at nine o’clock.”
As soon as his step ceased to be heard, Margarita summoned the two confidential women who were most about her person, and a council was held upon the ways or means of escaping or gaining time. But, fertile as is woman’s wit, no feasible plan was suggested. Escape from the house was impossible, for the count had every avenue guarded; the priest was inaccessible, for he was completely under De Marsiac’s influence; even her own men could not be depended upon, for the few who were in thehaciendawere overawed by therancherosof her persecutor. The only alternative was to stand obstinately silent at the altar; and yet by this course, she inevitably sacrificed two lives—one of them dearer to her than her own. Her position was terribly embarrassing; for, if she should refuse to consent until her lover was murdered, she could not even then be sure that the count would not force her to yield afterward; making thus a bloody, and unavailing sacrifice.
In the midst of their deliberations—if a hopeless search after desperate expedients could be so called—a light knock was heard at the door, and on being opened, it admitted Harding’s trusty messenger, Margarita’s half-brother. He paused at the threshold and gazed about him. It was the first time he had ever been admitted into the private apartments of a place which he had been taught to consider his own, and the gleam of his dark eye would have betrayed his thoughts to any one less preoccupied than Margarita. The expression soon faded away, however, and without salutation he advanced to Margarita, and abruptly asked—
“Are you about to marry Count De Marsiac, willingly?”
“Why do you ask?” Margarita inquired.
“I wish to prevent it,” he replied calmly.
“How can you do so?”
“By gaining time, till theTexanoscome,” he answered.
“If you can do this,” said Margarita, eagerly, “your reward shall even exceed your own expectations.”
“My reward does not depend upon you,” he coldly replied. “It is quite as much to my interest to prevent the marriage, as it can be to yours.”
“How can that be?” interposed one of the women.
“That will be explained hereafter,” the young man replied. “If you will follow my directions the marriage shall be prevented.”
“What do you wish me to do?” asked Margarita.
“Only to delay your preparations as long as you can, and if the Texans do not arrive before the hour—”
“Nine o’clock is the time,” interrupted Margarita, “and it wants but half an hour of it, now.”
“I know,” said the other, “but linger as long as possible. Do not tempt the count to any violence; when you can delay no longer, go to the altar, and you will understand what I mean.”
There was no alternative but to trust him; and Margarita did so the more willingly, because he dictated the only course she could see open to her—procrastination, in the hope of relief. His motives were plain enough, though she could not fathom them. He claimed thehaciendaas his own, but he knew that if it once fell into the hands of a man, whose grasp was as tenacious as that of the count, his title would have but small chance of successful assertion, and he was therefore interested in preventing his union with Margarita.
In the mean time, the good Padre Aneres was seated in one of the southern wings of thehacienda, recruiting his energies, after an exhausting journey of two miles fromEmbocadura. The robes and appointments of his clerical office were arranged with a neatness which scarcely distinguished his personal appearance; for he was about to celebrate a sacrament, which he viewed as hardly less important than the last unction administered to the dying—to which, indeed, it furnished no indistinct parallel. Preparatory, however, to the performance of the ceremony, he was fortifying himself with a liberal supply of delicate viands—that to which he applied himself most frequently being a large silver bowl of red Parras wine.
He had been thus agreeably occupied for half an hour or more after his arrival, and having recovered his breath, began to feel comfortable again, when a hasty but timid knock was heard at the door. The worthypadrepushed the bowl of wine a little farther from him, hastily swallowed the morsel in his mouth, and having settled himself in an attitude of meditation, gave a gentle invitation to enter. The door was pushed timidly open, and the young messenger presented himself, in most singular plight. His clothes were studiously disarranged; his hair was disheveled, and covered with dust and ashes, while his eyes gave signs of recent violent weeping.
“Oh, padre!” he exclaimed, in evident distress, throwing himself at the good Father’s feet. “Peccavi! Peccavi!I have sinned! I have sinned! O, Father! Hear me, and forgive.”
The worthy priest was startled at this exhibition of grief, so much more intense than he was accustomed to see; for the penitent beat his breast, and humbled himself upon his knees in the most abandoned manner.
“Calm yourself, my son,” said the pastor, “and remember that mercy may be extended to the guiltiest of mortals.”
“Confiteor! Confiteor!” rapidly continued the sinner. “Oh,padre! Pity and forgive!Peccavi! Peccavi! O, Miseracordia!”
“Entrust your sin to the Representative of Heaven,” gently urged the Father, “and never despair of God’s mercy.”
“Not here! O, not here!” exclaimed the youth, springing to his feet and rushing to the door. “There are spies here—ears listening for the confession, which must be given to you alone.”
“Who dares to penetrate the secrets of the Confessional?” demanded thepadre, his little black eyes twinkling with indignation.
“The count and his spies,” answered the youth. “We must leave the house—we must go forth into the night, for my soul is burthened with sin, and the load must be lifted. Come!” He seized the confessor by the robe and dragged him toward the door, sobbing “Peccavi! Peccavi!” all the time.
“But, my son,” hesitated the priest, “the count is—”
“Come—come—come!” repeated the penitent, impatiently; a part of his grief giving way before his haste to be absolved. “We can return before you will be wanted. I cannot endure to wait! O, pity and forgive!”
The good Father, like most indolent men, was very slow of decision at all times; and now he was carried away by the torrent of grief, and the impatience for absolution, which seemed to flow from the consciousness of some great crime. Half inclined to refuse, and yet too undecided to act with promptness, he suffered himself to be dragged from the room, and through the door into the open air. Here they were brought to a sudden halt: arancherostepped before them, and presented his musket. But such an indignity at once restored the Father to his dignity.
“Who dares to obstruct a son of the church in the discharge of his duty to Heaven?” he indignantly demanded. “Out of the way, false man of blood; and let the confessor and his penitent pass out from among the oppressors of God’s people!”
This vigorous speech was not particularly appropriate to the occasion, nor was it thoroughly understood by him to whom it was addressed. Neither was it such as was likely to move one of De Marsiac’s ordinary followers; for therancherosgenerally stood more in awe of their leader’s displeasure, than of the wrath of Heaven; and it is probable that but few of the desperadoes would have hesitated to bayonet the Pope, himself, had the count so commanded. But this sentinel seemed to be of a more reverential nature; for no sooner did he recognize the priest and his companion, than he raised the point of his bayonet, shouldered his musket, and allowed them to pass.
This disobedience of his captain’s orders—remarkable for its want of precedent among De Marsiac’s banditti; was not the only singular circumstance about the accommodating sentinel, as the reader will soon observe. The young penitent disappeared among the shades of night with his confessor, whom he hurried on faster, probably, than he had ever walked before. He directed his course to a little group ofranchos, which stood directly south of thehacienda. Having entered one of these, and remained five minutes—it seemed that his sin was not long in the confessing or absolution, notwithstanding his overwhelming distress—for at the end of that time he issued forthalone, with a well-pleased smile upon his lip, and elasticity restored to his bearing. From the door of theranchohe took his way north-ward again; verging obliquely to the right, however, until he reached the bank of the river, nearly a quarter of a mile east of thehacienda. At this point, a grove of small trees sheltered the bank, and through them passed the road up the valley to Anelo. The youth paused as he gained the shadows, and gave a low, clear whistle. It was answered from the river-bank; and in a moment afterward, a man emerged from the covert, and approached the messenger.
A whispered consultation ensued between the pair, but of brief duration; for Eltorena seemed in haste.
“Keep due south,” said he, as he prepared to return, “until you reach Martiniez’ avenue—then turn west, until you are opposite the south entrance, and approach cautiously.”
With those words he turned away; and retracing his steps with great rapidity, soon came in view of the sentinel, who had permitted him to pass.
“Quien va la?” hailed the latter, presenting his musket. But Eltorena only answered by a low whistle, and boldly advanced. As he approached, the sentinel again shouldered his piece, and a consultation ensued betweenthem, also—the youth pointing out the direction which he had indicated to his confederate at the river, and then passing into the mansion. The sentinel resumed his pace up and down his post—pausing from time to time with his ear bent toward the east, as if waiting for some expected sound. But every thing was as still as a summer night in the north; and though the moon was now rising over the eastern hills, there was not a moving thing perceptible to the eye.
While these things were going on without, the hour appointed for the ceremony of marriage was fast approaching; and one of the parties, at least, was filled with anxious fears. Margarita had delayed her preparations as much as possible; but the assistance of her women, with which it would have been more politic to have dispensed, had, even against her will, so expedited them, that she was fully ready at the time. Nor, had it been otherwise, was the count disposed to permit any further procrastination; for, punctually to the minute, he knocked at her door, and, without waiting a summons to enter, threw it open and stepped across the threshold.
“I am glad to see you ready,” said he, throwing as much kindness into his manner as his consciousness of wrong permitted. “Come, the chapel is prepared, and thepadreawaits us.”
“Count,” said the intended bride, trembling with apprehension, but anxious to make another effort for delay, “cannot this ceremony be as well performed to-morrow? I do not like this indecent haste.”
“It must be performed to-night—now,” he replied calmly. “If you refuse, you know the alternative. I will not be trifled with.”
“I am not trifling with you, indeed,” said she hurriedly. “But reflect—my mother is scarcely cold in her grave!”
“The better reason why you should observe her wishes,” De Marsiac replied. “I have considered all that, and find no reason to change my mind. If you intend to redeem your pledge at all, it is as well to-night as to-morrow. Ifyou are willing to sacrifice your friends,los Americanos, your refusal to-night will only give me my revenge sooner!”
His course of argument was too direct and forcible to be oppugned; Margarita rose as its meaning reached her, and signified her willingness to go at once to the altar. The count turned to one of his followers and said—
“Go to Father Aneres, and tell him that we will be ready by the time he can reach the altar.”
The man approached the door of the room where we have seen the goodpadrerecruiting his exhausted strength. He was met at the door by young Eltorena, dressed in a white cassock, and holding a censer in his hand, as if in attendance upon the priest.
“The good Father,” said the young man, “is in his closet, but will meet them in the chapel in five minutes.”
The man returned to his master, and the procession at once marched toward the chapel. A room fitted up for this purpose is to be found in almost all the largerhaciendasof that part of Mexico—its size and splendor depending upon the wealth and piety of the proprietor. That atPiedritashad been somewhat neglected of late, but was still a respectable chapel. It was separated from the priest’s room—where Eltorena had sought thepadre—by two partitions, between which was the private closet; and leading out of this was a door which opened behind the altar. It was through this door that Father Aneres was to enter for the performance of the momentous ceremony. But the reader already knows that the good Father was not within, and therefore could not come forth.
The procession entered the chapel in the following order. The count, holding the unwilling hand of his trembling bride, was succeeded by the two women, accompanied by his trusty lieutenant, who was to “give the bride away.” Then came three files ofrancheroswith trailed arms—a desecration which the good Father, timid as he was, would not have permitted. Behind these, each between two soldiers, who jealously watched them, came Harding and Grant—borne in the procession, like the prisoners of ancient Rome, to grace the triumph of the conqueror! Then followed the remainder of the count’s band of free-companions, numbering, in all, about twenty. All the domestics of the family crowded in after, and the door was taken in charge by the trusty sentinel who had disobeyed his orders!
The count dragged his bride to the chancel-rail, and, leaving her there for a few moments supported by her women, took upon himself the duties of master of the ceremonies. He placed his two prisoners directly behind the bride, well guarded however, so that they would have the satisfaction of seeing without the power of interfering. Behind them he ranged his followers in a compact mass, and directing thepeonsto seat themselves in the rear, he ordered the sentinel to close the door, but not to leave it. Returning then to the chancel-railing, he resumed his place beside Margarita, and took her cold and trembling hand in his.
Although these dispositions consumed full ten minutes, when he returned to his place, the priest still delayed his coming. The count, however, fiery and impetuous as he was, waited patiently for a period quite as long; when, finding that the door still remained closed, he began to knit his brows and mutter angry threats. These signs encouraged Margarita, for they indicated delay, if not deliverance; and she had even the audacity to smile in De Marsiac’s face.
“Antonio,” said the latter furiously, “go to Father Aneres and tell him that we are waiting for him—impatiently!”
The man addressed sprang to the door and attempted to open it, but it did not yield to his efforts.
“It is fastened on the outside,” he said. But, at the same moment, the door behind the altar was heard to swing upon its hinges, and a slow, heavy step was placed upon the short stairway which led up to the platform.
“The old dotard is coming at last,” muttered the count, not observing the ominous report of his messenger. He laid aside his gold-laced cap, which hitherto he had kept upon his head, and resuming Margarita’s hand, placed himself before the railing and looked up.
It was not the priest who stood at the altar! A tall, heavily-armed man—evidently an American—rose suddenly from his cover, and, leveling a pistol at De Maniac’s breast, gave his war-cry of “Texano! Texano!” At the same moment the closed door was thrown open, and a band of near twenty men filed speedily in and brought their carbines to bear upon therancheros—while a detachment, equally strong, rushed in from the priest’s room, and marched past their leader—who was none other than McCulloch of the Texan Rangers! A glance passed between Harding and Grant—each understood the thought of the other—and, as if by pre-concert, they broke away from their guards, sprang upon the count, and, before his men could interfere, dragged him, a prisoner in his turn, within the chancel! Scarcely giving him time to speak, two of the rangers hurried him away through the priest’s room, and delivered him in charge to the guard stationed at the door.
“Lay down your arms!” shouted McCulloch, through the din which now arose—chiefly from the domestics—“and every man’s life shall be spared. But therancherothat holds his arms one minute, shall hang to the first tree that’s tall enough to stretch him.”
The word “Texano” had already half accomplished the conquest; the captivity of their leader weakened their resolution, and this threat, which every Texan was, in the estimation of a Mexican, fully capable of executing, completed the discomfiture. Eachrancherothrew down his arms with an alacrity which seemed to indicate that they were growing hot in his hands, and the two detachments of rangers marched in and made them all prisoners, without the least resistance.
“There’s one good job well done, boys,” said McCulloch, “and all the better done because we have spilt no blood.”
Turning then to Harding, who was supporting Margarita upon his arm, while Grant stood moodily aside, he said—cordially receiving the hand extended to him—
“We were very nearly too late, at last—though, thank God! not quite. I had information from your messenger, since we entered thehacienda, that the bandit, De Marsiac, designed to take your lives, even after he had obtained the hand which was to be their ransom.”
“I doubt not,” said Harding, frankly; “if my friend Grant and I see to-morrow morning, we shall owe the sight to your promptness in attending my call. You must be satisfied with our gratitude until the chances of war shall enable us to discharge the obligation in kind.”
“If the only mode of payment,” said the captain with a smile, “is rescuing me from a scrape like this, I hope you may never have a creditor more pressing than I.”
“I do not know,” said the ranger lieutenant, Gillespie, coming forward with the open manner of the soldier; “I think, if the prize, at the outcome, were as great as it seems to be in this instance, Captain McCulloch would have no special objection to dangers quite as imminent.”
He looked at Margarita as he spoke—for she still hung upon Harding’s arm. The captain laughed at what he considered a compliment both to himself and the lady; a round of introductions ensued, and congratulations, with jests and pleasant laughs—during which the prisoners were marched off and confined, and thehaciendareassumed its aspect of dreamy quiet.
“Gentlemen,” said Margarita, when a pause at last broke the round of felicitations, “you have ridden far and hard, and must be both fatigued and hungry. Will you not partake of some refreshment?”
“With the utmost pleasure,” answered McCulloch; “but I must first see my men quartered.”
“I have already given orders for their accommodation,” said Margarita. “Since I may soon be under their escort, it becomes me to consult their comfort.”
“Under their escort!” exclaimed Harding.
“Yes,” she replied. “Since my mother’s death this is no longer a fit residence for me. I have many relatives in Saltillo, and it is thither that I wish to go. When you return to the United States,” she added, in French, observing Harding’s doubtful look, “I shall be your companion—if you desire it.”
He could only reply by another look, of a different meaning, when McCulloch asked—
“What will become of thehaciendain your absence? I have seen too much of the steward system in this country, not to regret the absence of the proprietor from every fine estate.”
“I shall give it to one,” she replied, “who, though he already claims it unjustly, has, by his services this night entitled himself to even a greater reward. I mean the young man who led you hither.”
“And his mother,” suggested one of the women, who did not quite relish the generous proposition.
“She is a confirmed maniac,” said Margarita with a shudder, “and this is only a stronger reason why I should do as I say. She will be a burthen upon her son, and it is but just that he should have the means of supporting her.” This closed the discussion, and the party adjourned to supper.
On the following day the prisoners were mustered by the order of McCulloch—as they supposed, for the purpose of being treated astheircountrymen had so often treatedhis; that is, being hung like traitors, or shot by platoons—but really for the purpose of being released. De Marsiac, however, as a man who might do the Americans some injury, was retained a prisoner of war. All the rest, much to their surprise, were dismissed with anadmonitionnot to be found again in arms. The captain judged, very correctly, that taking theirparolwould be an unmeaning ceremony.
About an hour afterward, the cavalcade set out for Saltillo, by way of Anelo and Capellania—a long route which McCulloch’s orders compelled them to take. Margarita, with a generosity which my readers may be disposed to call romantic, but which was, after all, scarcely more than justice—had conveyed theHacienda de los Piedritasto her half-brother, who had so richly deserved his reward. The sacrifice was small, too, for she had, still remaining, possessions ample even for that country of overgrown individual fortunes.
Three days brought them to the handsome city of Saltillo, where Margarita found a refuge among her many relatives. De Marsiac was reported at headquarters and sent to the rear; while Harding and Grant—wiser if not better men—rejoined their companies, and resumed their duties. The events of their captivity seemed to have cured the latter of the pleasant malady which had afflicted him; and the pair became, in a short time, as inseparable as ever. They visited Margarita together, and though the younger winced a little, when by any chance the subject of his hallucination was referred to, on the whole he bore his disappointment with a good grace.
The battle of Buena Vista closed the campaign in that part of the country; and shortly afterward the regiment to which they were attached was discharged. Before their return home, however, the ancient rivals returned to Saltillo—where, in the handsome cathedral, Harding and Margarita were united in marriage. And, a pleasant memento of rather uncertain times, the officiating priest was the worthy Father Aneres, who had figured in the history of Harding and Grant while they were “Captive Rivals!”