"May you be as happy, señorita, as I wish you. The first wish, people say, is efficacious, so accept mine."
"I thank you, sir," Doña Concha answered, deceived by Don Torribio's accent.
"As for you, Señor d'Arenal, your happiness will make many men jealous; for you are taking away the most precious pearl in the rich casket of the Argentine republic."
"I will strive, señor, to be worthy of her; for I love her so dearly."
"They love one another so dearly," the father said with cruel simplicity.
The young lovers exchanged a glance full of hope and happiness. Neither Don Valentine's last remark, nor the look of the betrothed couple, was left unnoticed by Don Torribio, who though not letting anything be seen, received this double dagger thrust, and concealed his grief beneath a smile.
"By Jove, neighbour," the father continued, "you will be present at the festival of betrothal, and give up your evening to us."
"Impossible, señor; important business calls me to my estancia, and, to my great regret, I must leave you."
"Still, if my daughter joined with me—"
"If I," Don Sylvio said, "dared—"
"You quite confound me; but, on my honour, I must be gone. The sacrifice I make at this moment is the more painful to me," he added, with a sardonic smile, "because happiness generally flies so fast that it is impossible to catch it up, and it is folly to neglect the opportunity."
"I fear no misfortune now," said Doña Concha, looking at Don Sylvio.
Carvajal gave her a look full of indefinable meaning, and replied with a shake of the head.
"I trust you are saying the truth, señorita, but there is a French proverb."
"What is it?"
"'Twixt cup and the lip there's many a slip.'"
"Oh, the ugly proverb!" Conchita exclaimed, in some embarrassment, "but I am not a French woman, and hence have nothing to fear."
"That is true."
And Don Torribio, without adding a word, bowed, and left the room.
"Well, my friend," the estanciero said, "what do you think of that man?"
"He has a look deep as an abyss, and his words are bitter; I know not why, but I feel sure he hates me."
"I hate him too," said Concha, with a shudder.
"Perhaps he loved you, Conchita, for is it possible to see and not love you?"
"Who assures you that he is not meditating a crime?"
"This time, señorita, you are going too far; he is a gentleman."
"¿Quién sabe?" she replied, remembering Don Torribio's words, which had already caused her a shudder.
On leaving the estancia of San Julian, Don Torribio Carvajal was a prey to one of those cold, concentrated passions, which slowly collect in the mind, and at length burst out with terrible force. His spurs lacerated the sides of his horse, which snorted with pain, and doubled its furious speed.
Where was Don Torribio Carvajal going in this way? He did not know himself. He saw nothing, heard nothing. He revolved sinister plans in his brain, and leaped torrents and ravines without troubling himself about his horse. The feeling of hatred was alone at work within him. Nothing refreshed his burning forehead, his temples beat as if about to burst, and a nervous tremor agitated his whole body. This state of over-excitement lasted some hours, during which his horse devoured space. At length the noble steed, utterly exhausted, stopped on its trembling knees, and fell on the sand.
Don Torribio rose and looked wildly around him. He had required this rude shock to restore a little order to his ideas, and recall him to reality. An hour more of such agony and he would have become a raving lunatic, or have died of an apoplectic fit.
Night had set in, thick darkness covered the landscape, and a mournful silence prevailed in the desert where chance had carried him.
"Where am I?" he said, as he tried to discover his whereabouts.
But the moon, concealed by clouds, shed no light; the wind blew violently; the branches of the trees clashed together, and in the depths of the desert the howling of the wild beasts began to mingle the deep notes of their voices with the hoarse mewlings of the wild cats.
Don Torribio's eyes sought in vain to pierce the obscurity. He went up to his horse, which was lying on the ground and panting heavily; moved with pity for the companion of his adventurous journeys, he bent over it, placed in his waist belt the pistols that were in the holsters, and unfastening a gourd of rum hanging from his saddlebow, began washing the eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth of the poor beast, whose sides quivered, and which this seemed to restore to life. Half an hour passed in this way; the horse, somewhat refreshed, had got on its legs, and with the instinct that distinguishes the race had discovered a spring close by where it quenched its thirst.
"All is not lost yet," Don Torribio muttered, "and perhaps I shall soon succeed in getting out of this place, for my friends are waiting for me, and I must join them."
But a deep roar broke forth a short distance away, repeated almost immediately from four different quarters. The horse's hair stood on end with terror. Even Don Torribio trembled.
"Malediction!" he exclaimed, "I am at a watering place of the cougars."
At this moment he saw, about ten paces from him, two eyes that shone like live coals, and looked at him with strange fixedness.
Don Torribio was a man of tried courage, audacious, and even rash on occasions; but alone in the gloomy solitude in the midst of the black night, surrounded by ferocious beasts, he felt fear assail himself against his will; he breathed with difficulty; his teeth were clenched, an icy perspiration poured down his whole person, and he was on the point of abandoning himself to his fate. This sudden discouragement disappeared before a powerful will, and Don Torribio, sustained by the instinct of self-preservation, and that hope which springs eternal in the human breast, prepared for an unequal struggle.
The horse burst into a snort of terror, and ran off.
"All the better," its rider thought, "perhaps it will escape."
A frightful concert of howls and roars broke out on all sides at the sound of the horse's flight and huge shadows bounded along past Don Torribio. A violent blast swept the sky, and the moon lit up the desert with its mournful, sickly rays.
Not far off the Rio Negro ran between two scarped banks, and Don Torribio saw all round him the compact masses of a virgin forest, an inextricable chaos of rocks piled up pell-mell, and of fissures out of which clumps of trees grew. Here and there creepers were intertwined describing the wildest curves, and only stopped their ramifications at the river. The soil, composed of sand and that detritus which abounds in American forests, gave way beneath the foot.
Don Torribio now discovered where he was He was more than fifteen leagues from any habitation, on the outskirts of an immense forest, the only one in Patagonia which no ranger had as yet been bold enough to explore, such horror and mystery did its gloomy depths appear to reveal. Near the forest a limpid stream burst through the rocks, whose banks were trampled by numerous traces of the claws of wild beasts. This stream served them, in fact, as a watering place, when they left their dens after sunset, and went in search of food and drink. As a living testimony of this supposition, two magnificent cougars, male and female, were standing on the bank, and watching with anxious eyes the sporting of their cubs.
"Hum," said Don Torribio, "these are dangerous neighbours."
And he mechanically turned his eyes away. A panther, stretched out on a rock in the position of a watchful cat, fixed its inflamed eyes upon him. Torribio, who was well armed according to the American fashion, had a rifle of wondrous accuracy, which he had leant against a rock close to him.
"Good," he said, "it will be a tough fight at any rate."
He raised his gun, but at the moment when he was about to fire, a plaintive mewling made him raise his head. A dozenpajirosandsubaracayas(wild cats of great size), perched on branches of trees, were looking down at him, while several red wolves were crouching in front of him.
A number of vultures, urubús, and caracaras, with half-closed eyes, were seated on the surrounding rocks, and apparently awaiting the hour for their meal.
Don Torribio jumped up on a rock, and then, by the help of his hands and knees, gained, after extraordinary difficulties, a sort of natural terrace situated about twenty feet above the ground. The frightful concert formed by the denizens of the forest, whom the subtlety of their scent attracted one after the other, increased more and more, and overpowered the very sound of the wind which raged in the ravines and forest clearings. The moon was once more hidden behind clouds, and Don Torribio found himself again in darkness; but if he could not distinguish the wild beasts near him, he guessed and almost smelt their presence; he saw their eyeballs flashing in the gloom, and heard their roars constantly coming nearer.
He set his feet firmly on the ground, and cocked his revolver. Four shots were followed by four howls of pain, and the noise produced by branch after branch in the fall of the wounded wild cats. This attack aroused a sinister uproar. The red wolves rushed with yells on the victims, for which they contended with the urubús and vultures. A rustling in the leaves reached the ear of the brave hunter, and a mass it was impossible clearly to distinguish cleft the space, and lodged with a roar on the platform. With the butt of his rifle he struck out in the darkness, and the panther, with a broken skull, rolled to the base of the rock. He heard a monstrous battle, which the cougars and wild cats waged with the wounded panther, and intoxicated by his triumph, and even by his danger, he fired two shots into the crowd of obstinate enemies snarling below him. Suddenly all these animals, ceasing their contest as if by common consent, united against the man, their common foe, and their rage was turned against the rock, from the top of which Don Torribio appeared to defy them all. They climbed up the projections. The wild cats were the first to arrive, and fast as Torribio felled them others leaped upon him. He felt his strength and energy gradually diminishing.
This struggle of a single man against a multitude of ferocious brutes had something grand and poignant about it. Don Torribio, as if suffering from a nightmare, struggled in vain against the swarms of assailants that were constantly reinforced. He felt on his face the warm, fetid breath of the wild cats and red wolves, while the roars of the cougars and the mocking miauling of the panthers filled his ears with a frightful melody that gave him a vertigo. Hundreds of eyes sparkled in the shade, and at times the heavy wings of the vultures and urubús lashed his forehead, which was bathed in a cold perspiration.
In him every feeling of self had died out: he no longer thought; his life, so to speak, had become entirely physical; his movements were mechanical, and his arms rose and fell to strike with the rigid regularity of a pendulum.
Already several claws had been buried deep in his flesh. Wild cats had seized him by the throat, and he had been compelled to struggle with them to make them loose their hold; his blood was flowing from twenty wounds, not mortal it is true, but the hour was approaching beyond which human strength cannot go; Don Torribio would have fallen from his rock and perished under the teeth of the wild beasts.
At this solemn moment, when all seemed to desert him, a loud cry burst from his bosom—a cry of agony and despair of undefinable expression, which was echoed far and wide by the rocks. It was the last protest of the strong man who confesses himself vanquished, and who, before falling, calls his fellow man to his aid, or implores the help of Heaven.
He cried, and a cry responded to his!
Don Torribio amazed, and not daring to count on a miracle in a desert which no human being had ever yet penetrated, believed himself under the impression of a dream or an hallucination; still, collecting all his strength, and feeling hope rekindled in his soul, he uttered a second cry, louder and more ear-piercing than the first.
"Courage!"
This time it was not echo that answered him. Courage! That one word reached him on the wings of the wind, though faint as a sigh. Like the giant Antaeus, Don Torribio, drawing himself up, seemed to regain his strength and recover that life which was already slipping from him. He redoubled his blows at his innumerable enemies.
Several horses were galloping in the distance; shots lit up the darkness with their transient gleams, and men, or rather demons, dashed suddenly into the thick of the wild beasts, and produced a fearful carnage.
Suddenly Don Torribio, attacked by two tiger cats, rolled on the platform, struggling with them.
The wild beasts had fled before the newcomers, who hastened to light fires to keep them at bay during the rest of the night. Two of these men, holding lighted torches, began seeking the hunter, whose cries of distress had besought their help. He was lying senseless on the platform, surrounded by ten or a dozen dead wild cats, and holding in his stiffened fingers the neck of a strangled pajiro.
"Well, Pepe," a voice said, "have you found him?"
"Yes," was the reply; "but he appears to be dead."
"Caray! That would be a pity," Pedrito continued, "for he is a fine fellow. Where is he?
"On this rock."
"Can you bring him down with the help of Lopez?"
"Nothing easier."
"Make haste, in Heaven's name!" Pedrito said. "Each minute's delay is, perhaps, a year's life slipping from him."
Lopez and Pepe raised Don Torribio by the head and feet, and with infinite precautions transported him from the improvised fortress where he had so long fought, and laid him on a bed of leaves Juan had got ready near one of the fires.
"Canario!" Pedrito exclaimed, on seeing the gory man's miserable appearance; "Poor devil! How they have served him out! It was high time to help him."
"Do you think he will recover?" Lopez asked eagerly.
"There is always hope," Pedrito answered sententiously, "where life is not extinct. Let us have a look at him."
He bent over Don Torribio's body, drew his glistening knife, and placed the blade between his lips.
"Not the slightest breath," Pedrito said, shaking his head.
"Are his wounds serious?" Lopez asked.
"I do not think so. He has been worn out by fatigue and emotion, but he will soon open his eyes again, and in a quarter of an hour, if he think proper, he can get into the saddle again. It is surely he," Pedrito added, in a low voice.
"Whence comes your thoughtful air, brother?"
"It is because this man, in spite of his European dress and thorough appearance of a white, resembles—"
"Whom?"
"The Indian chief, with whom we fought at the tree of Gualichu, and to whom we owe Mercedes' safety."
"You must be mistaken."
"Not the least in the world, brothers," the eldest replied authoritatively. "When hidden in the trunk of the sacred tree, I had leisure to study his features, which have remained graven on my mind. Besides, I recognize him by this gash which I made on his face with my sabre."
"That is true," the others said in surprise.
"What is to be done?"
"What is the meaning of this disguise?"
"Heaven alone knows," Pedrito answered, "but he must be saved."
The bomberos, like all wood rangers living far from the colony, are obliged to cure their own wounds, and hence acquire a certain practical knowledge of medicine through employing the remedies and simples in use among the Indians.
Pedrito, assisted by Pepe and Juan, washed Don Torribio's wounds with rum and water, moistened his temples, and puffed tobacco smoke up his nostrils. The young man gave an almost insensible sigh, stirred slightly, and opened his eyes, which wandered round vacantly.
"He is saved!" said Pedrito; "Now leave Nature to act, for she is the best physician I know."
Don Torribio raised himself on an elbow, passed his hand over his forehead, as if to regain his memory and thought, and said, in a weak voice—
"Who are you?"
"Friends, sir—fear nothing."
"I feel as if every bone in my body were broken."
"There is no danger, sir; with the exception of the fatigue, you are well as we are."
"I hope so, my worthy friends; but by what miracle did you arrive in time to save me?"
"Your horse performed this miracle; had it not, you were lost."
"How so?" Torribio asked, his voice growing gradually stronger, and already able to rise.
"This is how it was—we are bomberos—" The young man gave a sort of nervous start, which he suddenly checked.
"We are bomberos, and watch the Indians, especially at night. Accident brought us to these parts. Your horse was flying with a pack of red wolves at its heels; we freed it from these brutes; then, as it seemed to us probable that a ready saddled horse could not be without an owner in this forest, where no one ventures, we set out in search of the rider. Your cry guided us."
"How can I pay my debt to you?" Torribio asked, offering his hand to Pedrito.
"You owe us nothing, sir."
"Why?"
"Here is your horse, caballero."
"But I should like to see you again," he said, before starting.
"It is unnecessary; you owe us nothing, I tell you," said Pedrito, who held the horse by the bridle.
"What do you mean?" Don Torribio insisted.
"The bombero," Pedrito replied, "has paid today the debt contracted yesterday with Nocobotha the Ulmen of the Aucas."
Don Torribio's face was covered with a deadly pallor.
"We are quits, chief," Pedrito continued, as he let go the bridle.
When the rider had disappeared in the darkness, Pedrito turned to his brothers—
"I know not why it is," he said, with a sigh of relief, "but I feel happy at owing nothing to that man."
At the Estancia of San Julian, the hours passed away pleasantly, in talking and dreams of happiness, and Don Valentine shared the joy of his two children. Don Torribio, since the official announcement of Doña Concha's marriage, had not been seen again either at San Julian or Carmen, to the great amazement of everybody. Mercedes, gentle and simple, had become the friend, almost the sister of Concha. The frank and pealing laugh of the girls cheered the echoes of the house, and caused the capataz to grow pensive, for, at the sight of the bomberos' sister, he had felt his heart turn towards her, like the heliotrope to the sun. Don Blas, resembling a soul in purgatory, prowled round Mercedes at a distance, to look at her unperceived. Everybody at the estancia had observed the worthy man's distress, and he alone, in spite of his heavy sighs, did not know what it all meant. They ventured to ridicule him, though without wounding his feelings, and laugh at his singular ways.
One fresh November morning, shortly after sunrise, there was a great commotion at the estancia of San Julian. Several horses, held by black slaves, were stamping impatiently at the foot of the steps; servants were running backwards and forwards; and Don Blas, dressed in his best clothes, was awaiting his master's arrival.
At length Don Valentine and Don Sylvio appeared, accompanied by the two ladies. At the sight of Mercedes, the capataz felt fire rise from his heart to his face; he drew himself up, curled his moustache cordially, and gave his well-beloved a tender and respectful glance.
"Good day, Blas, my friend," Don Valentine said to him cordially. "I fancy we shall have a fine day's sport."
"I think so too, Excellency; the weather is superb."
"Have you chosen quiet horses for my daughter and her companion?"
"Oh, Excellency," the capataz answered; "I lassoed them myself on the corral. I answer for them, or my head. They are real ladies' horses—lambs."
"We are easy in mind," said Doña Concha, "for we know that Don Blas spoils us."
"Come, to horse, and let us start."
"Yes, it is a long ride from here to the plain of the Ñandus (a species of the ostrich)," said Blas, with an affectionate glance at Mercedes.
The little party, composed of twenty well-armed men, proceeded to the battery, where Patito lowered the drawbridge.
"You must double your vigilance," the capataz said to the gaucho.
"Don't be alarmed, Señor Blas. Good luck to you and the honourable company," Patito added, waving his hat in the air.
"Raise the drawbridge, Patito."
"Anyone who gets into the estancia, capataz, will be sharper than you and I."
In Patagonia, at a short distance from the rivers, all the plains are alike; sand, ever sand, and here and there some stunted bushes. Such was the road to the plain of the Ñandus.
Don Valentine had invited his future son-in-law to an ostrich hunt, and, as may be supposed, Conchita wished to be of the party.
Ostrich hunting is one of the great amusements of the Spaniards in Patagonia and the Argentine Republic, where those birds are found in great numbers.
The ostriches usually live in small families of eight or ten, scattered along the edges of marches, pools, and lakes; and they feed on fresh grass. Faithful to the native nook, they never leave the vicinity of the water, and, in the month of November, they lay their eggs, which are frequently fifty to sixty in number, in the wildest part of the desert, and only sit on them at night. When incubation is over, the bird breaks with its beak the addled eggs, which are at once covered with flies and insects, that serve as food for the young.
A characteristic feature of the manners of the ostriches is their extreme curiosity. At the estancias, where they live in a domestic state, it is not uncommon to see them stalking about among the groups and looking at people who are conversing together. On the plains their curiosity is often fatal to them, for they come up without hesitation to investigate everything that appears to them strange. Here is a rather good Indian story referring to this. The cougars lie down on the ground, raise their tail in the air, and wave it in all directions. The ostriches, attracted by the sight of this strange object, come up in their simplicity; the rest can be guessed—they become victims to the tricks of the cougars.
The hunters, after a rather quick ride for nearly two hours, reached the plain of the Ñandus. The ladies dismounted on the bank of a stream and four men, with their rifles on their hips, remained with them. The hunters exchanged their horses for others black slaves had led by the bridle for them, and then divided into two equal bands. The first, commanded by Don Valentine, entered the plain, forming a semicircle, so as to drive the game into a ravine, situated between two sand ridges. The second band, having at its head the hero of the day, Don Sylvio, formed a long line, which constituted the other moiety of the circle. This circle was gradually contracted by the advance of the horsemen, when a dozen ostriches showed themselves; but the male bird, that stood as sentry, warned the family of its danger, by a cry sharp as a boatswain's whistle. The ostriches fled rapidly, in a straight line, and without looking back.
All the hunters started after them at a gallop, and the hitherto silent plain became very animated.
The horsemen pursued the luckless birds at the full speed of their steeds, and raised clouds of fine dust as they passed. About fifteen yards behind the game, still galloping and digging their spurs into their horses' flanks, they bent forward, whirling round their heads the terrible bolas and hurling them with all their strength at the animals. If they missed their throw they stooped down on one side, without stopping, and picked up the bolas, which they threw again.
Several families of ostriches had got up, and the chase soon grew most exciting. Yells and shouts were heard all around; the bolas whistled through the air, and twined round the necks, wings, and legs of the ostriches, which, wild with terror, made a thousand feints and turns to escape their enemies, and tried, by flapping their wings, to wound the horses with the species of nail with which the extremity of their wings is armed.
Several startled horses reared, and embarrassed by three or four ostriches that got between their legs, fell, bearing their riders to the ground with them. The birds, taking advantage of the confusion, escaped to the side where other hunters were waiting for them, where they fell under a shower of bolas. Each hunter dismounted, killed his victim, cut off its wings as a trophy, and then resumed the chase with fresh ardour. Ostriches and hunters fled and galloped rapidly as the pampero.
Some fifteen ostriches strewed the plain, and Don Valentine gave the signal to retreat. The birds which had not fallen hurried with wings and feet to a place of safety. The dead were carefully picked up, for the ostrich is excellent eating, and the Americans prepare from the meat off the breast, a dish renowned for its delicacy and exquisite flavour, which they callpicanilla.
The slaves went to look for the eggs, which are also highly esteemed, and obtained a large quantity of them.
Although the hunt had only lasted an hour the horses were panting; hence the return to the estancia took place but slowly. The hunters did not return till a little before sunset.
"Well, Don Valentine," asked Patito, "has anything of importance happened during my absence?"
"Nothing, Excellency!" Patito replied, "A gaucho, who said he had come from Carmen on important business, insisted on being let in to speak with Don Sylvio d'Arenal."
This gaucho, for whom Patito had been very careful not to lower the drawbridge, was his dear and honest friend Corrocho, who, it may be remembered, wanted to kill him cleverly. Corrocho had gone off in a very bad temper, without leaving any message.
"What do you think about this gaucho's arrival, Don Sylvio?" Don Valentine asked, when they were comfortably seated in the drawing room.
"It does not surprise me," Sylvio answered.
"My own house is being got ready at Carmen, and, no doubt, my orders are wanted."
"That is possible."
"I am hurrying on the workmen, father. I am so eager to be married that I fear lest my happiness should slip from my grasp," said Don Sylvio.
"And I too," said Doña Concha, her face becoming purple.
"There is a little article for you," said Don Valentine. "The hearts of girls are at work when you least expect it. Patience, miss, for three days longer."
"My good father!" Conchita cried, as she hid her face in Don Valentine's bosom, that the tears of joy might not be seen.
"Oh! In that case I will start tomorrow for Carmen, especially as I am awaiting from Buenos Aires papers indispensable for our marriage—our happiness," Don Sylvio added, looking at his well beloved.
"I hope," she said, "you will start very early, so as to return in the morning of the next day."
"I shall be here tomorrow evening. Can I remain long away from you, my dear Conchita?"
"No, Don Sylvio, no. I implore you. I do not wish you to return at night."
"Why not?" the young man asked, slightly piqued at this remark.
"I really cannot tell you; but I feel frightened at the thought of your crossing the Pampa alone and by night."
"Oh!" she continued, seeing Don Sylvio about to speak, "I know that you are brave, almost too brave; but gaucho bandits abound in the plain. Do not expose a life which is so dear to me, which is no longer your own, Sylvio; and listen to the warnings of a heart which is no longer mine."
"Thanks, Conchita. Still I have no one to fear in this country, where I am a stranger. Moreover, I never leave the estancia without looking like a theatrical bandit, so covered am I with weapons."
"No matter," Doña Concha continued; "if you love me—"
"If I love you!" he interrupted passionately.
"If you love me, you must take pity on my anxiety, and—obey me."
"Come, come!" said Don Valentine, with a laugh. "On my soul you are mad, Conchita, and your romances have turned your head. You only dream of brigands, ambuscades, and treachery."
"What would you have, father? Is it my fault? The foreboding of a coming misfortune agitates me, and I wish to leave nothing to chance."
"Do not cry, my darling child," the father said to Concha, as she burst into tears. "Kiss me. I was wrong. Your betrothed and myself will do all you please. Does that satisfy you?"
"Do you really mean it?" Doña Concha asked, smiling through her tears.
"Oh, señorita!" Sylvio exclaimed in a tone of tender reproach.
"You render me perfectly happy. I only ask one thing. Let Blas Salazar accompany you."
"As you please."
"Do you promise it?"
"On my honour."
"Then," Don Valentine said, gaily, "all is for the best, little maid. I suspect, Conchita, that you are somewhat jealous, and afraid of losing Sylvio."
"Perhaps so," she said, maliciously.
"Such things have happened," her father said, teasingly. "So, Don Sylvio, you intend starting tomorrow morning?"
"At sunrise, in order to avoid the great heat; and, as I do not hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again before I go, I will take leave of you at once."
"Kiss one another, children! When persons part, especially if they love, they ought to embrace as if they were never going to meet again in this world."
"Really, father," said Conchita, "you have such ideas—"
"I was only in fun, my dear child."
"Pleasant journey, Don Sylvio; and we shall see you again the day after tomorrow."
"You may be sure of that."
The next morning at sunrise, Don Sylvio d'Arenal left the estancia. At the bottom of the steps the capataz and two slaves were waiting for him. Involuntarily the young man, before starting, turned his head towards the window of his beloved which suddenly opened.
"Farewell," said Doña Concha, with some emotion in her voice.
"Farewell," Sylvio replied, wafting her a kiss, "till we meet again."
"That is true," she said. "We shall soon meet again."
The capataz gave a heavy sigh; he was, doubtless thinking of Mercedes, and saying to himself that Don Sylvio was a very lucky man.
Don Sylvio, whose heart was contracted, though he knew not the cause, gave a last signal to his betrothed, and soon disappeared among the trees. Doña Concha followed him for a long time with her eyes, for a longer time with her heart; and soon as she was alone, she felt sadness assail her, and she wept and sobbed bitterly.
"O Heaven!" she exclaimed, "Protect him."
On the banks of the Rio Negro, about five and twenty leagues from Carmen, stood the toldería, or village of the Pass of the Guanacos.
This toldería, a simple temporary encampment, like all the Indian villages, whose nomadic manners do not agree with fixed settlements, was composed of about one hundredchozas, or cabins irregularly grouped one after the other.
Each choza was formed of ten stakes fixed in the ground, four or five feet high at the sides, and six to seven in the centre, with an opening to the east, so that the owner of the choza might in the morning throw water in the face of the rising sun, a ceremony by which the Indians implore Gualichu not to injure their families during the course of the day. These chozas were covered with horses' hides sewn together, and always open at the top to leave a free escape for the smoke of the fires in the interior, which fires equal in number the wives of the occupant, as each squaw must have a fire of her own. The leather that served as the exterior wall was carefully dressed and painted of different colours, and these paintings—rendered the general appearance of the toldería more cheerful.
In front of the entrance of the chozas, the lances of the warriors were fixed in the ground. These lances, light and made of flexible bamboos, sixteen to eighteen feet in length, and armed at their extremity with a spear a foot long forged by the Indians themselves, grow in the mountains of Chili, near Valdivia.
The liveliest joy appeared to prevail in the toldería. In some chozas Indian women, provided with spindles handed down from the Incas, were winding the wool of their flocks; in others, women were weaving their ponchos, so renowned for their delicacy and perfection of work, at looms of primitive simplicity which are another inheritance from the Incas.
The young men of the tribe, assembled at the centre of the toldería in a large square, were playing atpilma, a singular game of which the Aucas are very fond. The players trace a large circle on the ground, which they enter and range themselves in two rows facing each other. The champions of each party holding a ball full of air in their hands, one side on the right, the other on the left hand, throw these balls before them. They raise the left leg, catch the projectile in their hand and throw it at the adversary, whom they must hit on the body under penalty of losing one point. This produces a thousand strange contortions on the part of the opponent, who stoops down or gives a spring to avoid being hit. If the ball leaves the circle, the first player loses two points, and runs after it. If, on the contrary, the second player is hit, he must catch the ball and throw it at his adversary, whom he is bound to hit or lose a point. The next player on the opposite side begins the game again, and so on to the end. We can understand what bursts of laughter greet the grotesque postures of the players.
Other Indians of a riper age were gravely playing a sort of game at cards, with squares of leather clumsily illumined with figures of different animals.
In a choza, larger and better painted than the rest, which was the abode of thecaraskenor first chief, whose lances, covered at the end with red stained leather, were the distinctive mark of power, three men were sitting over a decaying fire, and talking regardless of the noises outside. These men were Nocobotha, Pincheira, and Churlakin, one of the principal Ulmens of the hills, whose squaw had given birth that same morning to a son, which was the cause of the great rejoicings among the Indians.
Churlakin received the orders of the great chief for the ceremonies usual on such occasions, bowed respectfully and left the choza, which he soon re-entered, followed by his wives and all his friends, one of whom held the infant in his arms.
Nocobotha placed himself between Pincheira and Churlakin, at the head of the party, and proceeded toward the Rio Negro. The newborn babe, wrapped in woollen swaddling clothes, was plunged into the water, and then they returned in the same order to Churlakin's choza, in front of which lay a plump filly, thrown down and with its four feet secured.
A poncho was spread under the animal's belly, and the relations and friends deposited on it, one after the other, the presents intended for the child, consisting of spurs, weapons, and clothes. Nocobotha, who had consented to act as godfather, placed the infant in the midst of the presents; and Churlakin laid open the filly's flanks, tore out its heart and handed it while still warm to Nocobotha, who employed it to make a cross on the infant's forehead, while saying, "Your name will be Churlakinkco." The father took the child back, and the chief, raising the bleeding heart, said thrice in a loud voice, "Let him live! Let him live! Let him live!" Then he recommended the child to Gualichu, the genius of evil, praying him to render him brave and eloquent, and terminated the enunciation of his vows with the words, "Above all, let him never become a slave."
When the ceremony was ended, the filly was cut into pieces, large fires were kindled, and all the relations and friends began a feast which would last until the immolated filly had entirely disappeared.
Churlakin prepared to sit down and eat like his guests, but at a sign from Nocobotha, he followed the great chief into his choza, where they resumed their seats at the fire, Pincheira joining them. Upon a signal from Nocobotha the squaws went out, and after a short reflection he began to say—
"Brothers, you are my confidants, and my heart is laid open before you likechirimoya, to enable you to see my most secret thoughts. You were perhaps surprised tonight at finding that I did not count you among the chiefs selected to act under my orders."
The two chiefs gave a nod of denial.
"You neither doubted my friendship nor supposed that I had withdrawn my confidence from you? Far from it. I reserve you two for more important enterprises, which require sure and well-tried men. You, Churlakin, will mount without delay, here is the quipu."
And he handed the Ulmen a small piece of willow wood, ten inches long and four wide, split down the centre and holding a human finger. This piece of wood, covered with thread, was fringed with red, blue, black, and white wool. Churlakin received the quipu respectfully.
"Churlakin," Nocobotha continued, "you will serve me ascasqui(herald), not to the Patagonian natives of the Pampas, whose caraskens, Ulmens and Apo-Ulmens were present at the solemn meeting at the tree of Gualichu, although you may communicate with them on your road; but I send you specially to the nations and tribes scattered far away, and living in the woods, such as the Ranqueles, the Guerandis, the Moluches, and the Pecunches, to whom you will present the quipu. Turning back thence to the desert, you will visit the Charruas, Bocobis, Tebas, and Guaramis, who can place about twenty-five thousand warriors under arms. The task is difficult and delicate, and that is why I entrust it to you, whom I regard as my second self."
"My brother's mind can be at rest," Churlakin said, "I shall succeed."
"Good," Nocobotha continued, "I have made nineteen knots on the black wool to indicate that my brother left my side on the nineteenth day of the moon; on the white wool twenty-seven knots, to signify that in twenty-seven days the warriors will assemble under arms on the Island of Ghole-Isechel, at the fork of the Rio Negro. The chiefs who consent to join us will make a knot on the blood red wool, and those who refuse will knot the red and blue wool together. Has my brother understood?"
"Yes," Churlakin answered. "When must I start?"
"At once, for time presses."
"In ten minutes I shall be far from the village," said Churlakin, as he bowed to the two chiefs and left the choza.
"And now it is our turn," Nocobotha said with a friendly accent, when he found himself alone with Pincheira.
"I am listening."
The superior chief, then putting off the composed manner and language of an Ulmen, employed the European style with surprising readiness, and laying aside the Indian dialect, addressed the Chilian officer in the purest Castilian, spoken from Cape Horn to Magellan.
"My dear Pincheira," he said to him, "during the two years since my return from Europe, I have attached to myself most of the Carmen gauchos—utter scoundrels, I allow—and bandits exiled from Buenos Aires; but I can count on them, and they are devoted to me. These men only know me by the name of Don Torribio Carvajal."
"I was aware of the fact," Pincheira said.
"Ah!" Nocobotha remarked, darting a glance of suspicion at the Chilian.
"Everything is known on the Pampa."
"In a word," Nocobotha continued, "the hour has arrived when I must reap what I have sown among these bandits, who will be useful to us against their countrymen, through their knowledge of the Spanish tactics, and their skill in the use of firearms. Reasons, which would take me too long to explain, prevent me from turning my attention to these gauchos, so you will introduce yourself to them in my name. This diamond," he added, drawing a ring from his finger, "will be your passport; they are warned, and if you show it to them they will obey you as myself. They assemble at a low pulquería in the Población del Sur, at Carmen."
"I know it well. What am I to do with the fellows?"
"A very simple matter. Every day, a devoted man, Panchito by name, will transmit you my orders, and inform you of what is going on among us. Your duty will be to hold these bandits in readiness, and on a day I shall indicate to you, you will stir up a revolt in Carmen. This revolt will give us time to act outside, while a part of your people are scouring the Pampas, and freeing us, if possible, from those infernal bomberos, who watch our manoeuvres, and are almost as crafty as our Indians."
"Confound it," said Pincheira, "that is a tough job!"
"You will succeed, if not through friendship for me, at least through hatred of the Spaniards."
"Not to deceive your expectations, I will do more than man can do."
"I know it, and thank you, my dear Pincheira. But you must be prudent and skilful! Our plans are suspected, and we are watched. To employ an Indian metaphor, I entrust to you a mole's job. You must dig a mine under Carmen, which will blow them all up when it explodes."
"Caray," said Pincheira, as he warmly pressed Nocobotha's hand, "you are one of the men I like. Trust to me, to my friendship, and, above all, to my hatred."
"We shall all be avenged," Nocobotha added. "May Satan hear you!"
"To work, then! But, in the first place, lay aside your uniform as a Chilian officer. Disguise yourself as well as you can, for your face is familiar at Carmen."
"Yes," Pincheira replied, "and in an hour you will not recognize me yourself. I will dress myself as a gaucho, for that will not be noticed. Farewell."
"One word yet."
"Say it."
"The man I send to you will arrange a fresh meeting place for every night in order to foil the spies."
"All right."
"Good-bye."
Pincheira left the choza; and the Indian chief looked after him for a moment.
"Go," he said, "ferocious brute, to whom I throw a people as prey. Go! Miserable instrument of projects whose greatness you do not understand," he added, as he looked at the Indians, "they are making holiday, playing like children, and unsuspicious that I am about, to make them free. But it is time for me to think of my own vengeance."
And he quitted the choza, leapt on a horse, which an Indian held by the bridle, and started at a gallop on the road to Carmen.
At the end of an hour he stopped on the banks of the Rio Negro, dismounted, assured himself by a glance that he was alone, took off a leathern valise fastened to his saddle, and entered a natural grotto a few paces distant. There he quickly doffed his Indian garb, dressed in handsome European attire, and set out again.
It was no longer Nocobotha, the supreme chief of the Indian nations, but Don Torribio Carvajal, the mysterious Spaniard. His pace was also prudently altered, and his horse carried him at a gentle trot toward Carmen.
On coming near the spot where, on the previous evening, the bomberos had halted with their sister to hold a consultation, he dismounted again, sat down on the grass, and took from a splendid cigar case made of plaited Panama straw, a cigar, which he lit with the apparent tranquillity of a tourist who is resting in the shade, and is admiring the beauty of the scenery.
During this time the footfall of several horses disturbed the solitude of the Pampa, and a hoarse voice struck up an Indian song well known on this border:—
"I have lost my Neculantey in the country of Tilqui. Oh! Ye damp plains, which have changed him into shadows and flies."
"Oh, oh! the song of the Maukawis already!" Don Torribio said in a loud voice.
"Does not the note of the Maukawis announce sunrise?" the voice asked.
"You are right, Panchito," Don Torribio replied, "we are alone, so you can come, as well as your comrade, who, I suppose, is your friend Corrocho."
"You have guessed right, Excellency," said Corrocho, as he came from behind a sandhill.
"Faithful to our word," said Panchito, "we have arrived at the spot and hour appointed."
"That is well, my good fellows, and thanks. Come here, but remain on horseback. Are you both devoted to me?"
"To the last drop of our blood, Excellency," the two gauchos said.
"And you do not despise money?"
"Money can only injure those who have none," the sententious Panchito remarked.
"When it is honourably gained," Corrocho added, with an ape-like grimace.
"Of course, of course," the young man said, "it is a matter of fifty ounces."
The two bandits had a shudder of joy, and their tiger cat eyeballs flashed.
"Caray," they said.
"Does that suit you?"
"Fifty ounces? Of course it is a tough job."
"Perhaps so."
"No odds."
"There will be a man to kill."
"All the worse for him," said Panchito.
"Does it suit you still?"
"More than ever," Corrocho grunted.
"In that case listen to me attentively," Don Torribio Carvajal said.
During the whole course of their journey, which lasted two hours, Don Sylvio and Don Blas did not exchange a single word, to the great surprise of the capataz. Don Sylvio was thinking of his approaching happiness, which was slightly over-clouded, through the sadness of the leave-taking, and Doña Concha's presentiments. But these vague alarms were dissipated like the morning mist by the sun, so soon as he arrived at El Carmen.
Don Sylvio's first care was to visit the house to which he would lead Doña Concha, after the nuptial ceremony was performed. Though comfort does not exist in South America, it was a fairy palace, thronged with all the splendours of luxury. A band of English, French, and Italian workmen, collected with extraordinary difficulty, were toiling without relaxation, under the orders of a skilful architect, in putting the final touch to this creation out of the Arabian Nights, which had already swallowed up large sums, and which would be in a condition to receive its new hosts within eight and forty hours. At Carmen nothing was talked of but the splendours of Don Sylvio d'Arenal's palace; the curious crowd that collected in front of the gates related marvels about this princely residence.
Don Sylvio, satisfied at seeing his dream accomplished, smiled as he thought of his betrothed, and after complimenting the architect and the workmen, proceeded to pay a visit to the governor, where important business summoned him.
The commandant gave the young man, with whose father he had been intimate, a gracious reception. Still, in spite of the courteous manner of Don Antonio Valverde, Sylvio fancied he could notice traces of secret annoyance in his face.
The governor was a brave and honourable soldier, who had rendered good service in the War of Independence, and the government had placed him on honourable half pay, by entrusting to him the command of Carmen, a post he had held for fifteen years. Courageous, strict, and just, the commandant kept the gauchos in order by the punishment of thegarrota, and foiled the repeated attempts of the Indians, who came even under the guns of the fortress, to harry cattle, and carry off prisoners, especially women. Gifted with but a poor intellect, but supported by his own experience, and the esteem of all the honest people in the colony, he was not deficient in a certain energy of character. Physically, he was a tall, stout man, with a rubicund, pimpled face, full of self-satisfaction, who listened to people speaking, and carefully weighed his words, as if they were made of gold.
Don Sylvio was surprised at the anxiety which disturbed the usual placidity of the colonel's face.
"It is a miracle," the latter said, as he cordially pressed the young man's hand, "for which I thank nuestra Señora del Carmen, to see you here."
"In a few days you will not be able to reproach me thus," Don Sylvio replied.
"Then, it is coming off soon?" Don Antonio said, rubbing his hands.
"Yes, I hope to be married within four days. I have come to Carmen today to give the master's look at the final arrangements of my house."
"All the better," the commandant replied; "I am enchanted that you are about to settle among us, Don Sylvio; your betrothed is the prettiest girl in the colony."
"I thank you in her name, colonel."
"Do you spend the day at Carmen?"
"Yes, and I intend returning to the estancia at an early hour tomorrow."
"In that case you will breakfast with me, without ceremony?"
"Willingly."
"That is famous," said the commandant, as he rang a bell.
A Negro slave appeared.
"This gentleman is going to breakfast with me. By the bye, Don Sylvio, I have a large packet of papers addressed to you, which arrived last night from Buenos Aires by express."
"Heaven be praised! I feared some delay. These papers are indispensable for my marriage."
"All is for the best," Don Antonio remarked.
The young man placed the packet in his coat pocket, and the slave opened the door again.
"Your Excellency is served," he said.
A third guest was waiting for them in the dining room. It was Major Bloomfield, a tall, dry, punctilious Englishman, who had been second in command at Carmen for twenty years past. Don Antonio and the major had fought side by side in their youth, and had a fraternal attachment. They sat down, after the usual ceremony, to an abundantly and delicately covered table, and at the dessert the conversation, which had suffered through the appetite of the guests, became thoroughly friendly.
"By the way," Don Sylvio asked, "what is the matter with you, Don Antonio? You do not seem in your usual good spirits."
"That is true," the commandant said, as he sipped a glass of Jerez de la Frontera; "I am sad."
"You sad? Hang it, you alarm me; if I had not seen you breakfast with such a good appetite, I should fancy you ill."
"Yes," the old soldier answered with a sigh; "my appetite is all right."
"What else can annoy you?"
"A foreboding," the commandant said seriously,
"A foreboding," Don Sylvio repeated, remembering Doña Concha's parting words.
"I, too, feel anxious, in spite of myself," the major added; "there is something, I know not what, in the air. A danger is suspended over our heads, but whence it will come, the Lord alone knows."
"Yes," Don Antonio remarked, "He knows; and, believe me, Don Sylvio, He gives warnings to men when they are in danger."
"Major Bloomfield and you, both old soldiers, brave as their swords, cannot be frightened at a shadow; so what are your reasons?"
"I have none," said the colonel; "still—
"Come, come, Don Antonio," Sylvio remarked gaily, "you are suffering from what the major would call blue devils. It is a species of spleen produced by the English fogs, and not at all at home in this country, which is full of sunshine. Take my advice, colonel; have yourself bled, and in two days the fog over your imagination will be dissipated; do you not agree with me, major?"
"I wish it may be so," the old officer answered, with a shake of his head.
"Nonsense!" Sylvio remarked, "Life is too short as it is, then why sadden it by chimeras?"
"On the frontier men can be sure of nothing."
"The Indians have become lambs."
"Excellency," a slave said, opening the door, "a bombero, who has arrived at full speed, requests an interview."
The three gentlemen looked at one another.
"Let him come in," the colonel said.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the passage, and the bombero appeared; it was Pedrito. He certainly had at this moment the look of a bearer of ill tidings, and seemed to have just come out of a fight. His ragged clothes were stained with blood and mud, an unusual pallor covered his face, and he leant on his rifle, for he was exhausted by his hurried ride.
"Take this glass of wine," said Don Sylvio, "it will restore you."
"No," Pedrito answered, thrusting the glass away, "it is not wine I thirst for, but blood."
The bombero wiped his dank forehead with the back of his hand, and said in a sharp, quick voice, which conveyed terror to the hearts of the three hearers—
"The Indians are coming down."
"Have you seen them?" the major asked.
"Yes," he replied hoarsely.
"When?"
"This morning."
"Far from here?"
"Twenty leagues."
"How many are they?"
"Count the grains of the sand on the Pampa, and you will have their number."
"Oh," the colonel exclaimed, "that is impossible, the Indians cannot thus organize an army at a day's notice. Terror must have made you see double."
"Terror, nonsense!" the bombero answered disdainfully, "In the desert we have not time to know it."
"But, tell me, how are they coming?"
"Like a hurricane, burning and plundering everything on their passage. They form a vast semicircle, whose two extremities are gradually drawing nearer to Carmen. They act with a certain method, under the orders of a chief who is, doubtless, practised and skilful."
"That is serious," the commandant said.
The major shook his head.
"Why did you warn us so late?" he said to the bombero.
"This morning at sunrise my three brothers and I were surrounded by two or three hundred Indians, who seemed to emerge suddenly from the ground. What a fight it was! We defended ourselves like lions; Juan is dead, Pepe and Lopez are wounded, but we escaped at last, and here I am."
"Return to your post as speedily as possible; a fresh horse will be given you."
"I am off."
"Well," said Don Antonio, after Pedrito had retired, "what do you think of our presentiments, Don Sylvio? But where are you going?" he asked the young man, who had risen from his chair.
"I shall return to the Estancia of San Julian, which the Indians have, perhaps, attacked. Oh, Doña Conchita!"
"San Julian is fortified, and safe against surprise. Still, try and induce Don Valentine and his daughter to return to Carmen, where they will be in greater security."
"Thanks, colonel, I will try, and do you offer a bold front to the enemy. As you are aware, the Indians only attempt surprise, and so soon as they see that their plans are discovered, they are off again."
"May heaven hear you."
"Good-bye for the present, gentlemen, and I wish you success," said the young man, as he pressed the hand of the two old soldiers.
Don Blas Salazar, who was waiting for Don Sylvio in the courtyard, ran up to him so soon as he perceived him.
"Well," the capataz said, "you know the news. The Indians are making a descent."
"I have just been told so."
"What are we going to do?"
"Return to the estancia."
"Hum, Don Sylvio, that is not at all prudent; the Indians will, doubtless, bar our way."
"We will pass over their bodies."
"Of course, of course, but suppose they kill you?"
"Nonsense! Doña Concha is expecting me."
"As you please," the capataz answered, "all is ready for our departure; the horses are here, saddled and all. Let us be off."
"Thank you, Blas, you are a good fellow," Sylvio said, as he held out his hand to him.
"I am aware of it."
"Off we go."
Don Sylvio and Blas, escorted by the two slaves, walked their horses through the crowd of idlers who had assembled in front of the fortress to hear the news; then they went at a sharp trot down the rather steep hill that leads from the citadel to old Carmen, and at length galloped towards San Julian.
They had not noticed the behaviour of sundry suspicious looking fellows who had followed them at a distance ever since they started, and were talking eagerly together.
The weather was stormy, and the clouds were gray and low. The air seemed motionless, a deep silence brooded over the solitude; a white cloud, light as a sand drift, collected in the southwest, which advanced, and each moment grew larger. All announced the approach of the pampero, that simoom of the prairies.
The clouds collected, the dust rose and ran along in dense columns, suspended between earth and sky. The clouds enveloped the plain as in a mantle, whose comers the gusts lifted at every moment, and which lightning flashes rent here and there. Puffs of hot air traversed the space, and suddenly the tempest rushed up furiously from the horizon, sweeping the Pampa with irresistible violence. The light was obscured by masses of sand; a thick gloom covered the earth, and the thunder mingled its terrible artillery with the howling of the hurricane. Enormous masses were detached from the lofty cliffs, and fell with a frightful din into the sea.
The travellers got off their horses, and sheltered themselves behind rocks on the seashore. When the worst of the storm had passed, they set out again, Don Sylvio and Blas riding silently side by side, while the two slaves, twenty yards ahead, trembled at the thought of seeing the Indians appear.
The storm had slightly diminished in intensity, the pampero had carried its fury further, but the rain fell in torrents, and thunder and lightning followed each other uninterruptedly. The travellers could not continue their journey, for they ran the risk of being thrown at every moment by their horses, which reared in affright. The ground and the sand, moistened by the rain, did not offer a single spot where the brutes could set their feet in safety; they stumbled, slipped, and threatened to fall.
"Whatever we may do," said the capataz, "it is impossible to go any further, so we had better halt again, and seek refuge under that clump of trees."
"Very good," Don Sylvio said, with a sigh of resignation.
The little party proceeded toward a wood that bordered the road. They were only some fifteen paces from it, when four men, whose faces were concealed by black masks, dashed out of the wood at a gallop, and silently attacked the travellers.
The slaves rolled off their horses, struck by two bullets the strangers had fired, and writhed on the ground in convulsions of agony. Don Sylvio and Blas Salazar, astonished at this sudden attack on the part of men who could not be Indians, for they wore the dress of gauchos, and their hands were white, immediately dismounted, and making a rampart of their horses, awaited the attack of their adversaries, with levelled rifles.
Bullets were exchanged on both sides, and a fierce combat, silent and unequal, began; one of the assailants fell with his skull cleft to the teeth; and Don Sylvio passed his sword through the chest of another.
"Well, my masters," he shouted to them, "have you had enough? Or does another of you wish to form the acquaintance of my blade? You are fools, ten of you should have come to assassinate us."
"What!" the capataz added, "Are you going to give in already? You are clumsy fellows for cut-throats, and the man who pays you ought to have made a better choice."
In fact, the two masked men had fallen back; but immediately four other men, also masked, appeared, and all six rushed at the Spaniards, who firmly awaited their attack.
"Hang it! Pardon our having calumniated you; you know your trade," said Don Blas, as he fired a pistol into the thick of his adversaries.
The latter, still silent, returned the fire, and the fight began again with fresh fury. But the two brave Spaniards, whose strength was exhausted, and whose blood was flowing, fell in their turn on the corpses of two other assailants, whom they sacrificed to their rage before succumbing.
So soon as the strangers saw Don Sylvio and Blas were motionless, they uttered a cry of triumph. Paying no heed to the capataz, they raised Don Sylvio d'Arenal's body, laid it across one of their horses, and fled away at full speed along the devious path.
Seven corpses strewed the ground. After the assailants the vultures arrived, which hovered and circled above the victims, and mingled their hoarse croaks of triumph with the sound of the hurricane.
"It is a heavy blow," the governor said, after Don Sylvio had left the room; "but, ¡viva Dios! the pagans shall find someone to talk to. Major, warn the officers to assemble at one, for a council of war, so that we may arrange the defensive operations."
"That is the plan," the major answered; "I am satisfied with you. You draw yourself up haughtily, and I find you again, at last, my dear fellow."
"Ah! My dear Bloomfield, the presentiment of an unknown misfortune depresses one's courage, while danger, however great it may be, once we have it face to face, ceases to cause us terror."
"You are right," said the major, who left the room to carry out his chiefs orders.
The officers of the garrison, six in number, without counting the colonel and the major, were soon assembled in the governor's rooms.
"Sit down, caballeros," he said to them, "you are doubtless aware of the motive of this meeting. The Indians are threatening the colony, and a powerful league has been formed among the Patagonians. What forces have we at our disposal?"
"We are not deficient in arms and ammunition," the major replied. "We have more than two hundred thousand cartridges, and abundance of muskets, pistols, sabres, and lances; and our guns are amply supplied with round shot and canister."
"Very good."
"Unfortunately," the major continued, "our troops—"
"How many have we?"
"Our effective strength should be one hundred and twenty, but death, illness, and desertions, have reduced it to scarce eighty."
"Eighty!" the colonel said, with a shake of his head. "In the presence of a formidable invasion, as the common safety is at stake, can we not compel the inhabitants to get under arms?"
"It is their duty," one of the officers said.
"An imposing force must crown our walls," Don Antonio continued; "and this is what I propose. All the Negro slaves will be enlisted, and formed into a company; the merchants will form a separate corps; the gauchos, well armed and mounted, will defend the approaches to the town, and act as patrols outside. We shall thus muster seven hundred men, a sufficient force to repulse the Indians."
"You know, colonel," an officer objected, "that the gauchos are utter scoundrels, and that the least disturbance is to them an excuse for plundering."
"On that account they will be employed for the external defence. They will be encamped outside the colony, and, to diminish the chances of revolt among them, they will be divided into two squadrons, one of which will scout, while the other is resting. In this way we shall have nothing to fear from them."
"As for the creoles, and strangers residing in the colony," the major remarked, "I think it will be as well to give them orders to come to the fortress every night, to be armed in case of necessity."
"Excellent. The number of bomberos will be doubled to prevent a surprise, and barricades raised at each entrance to the town, to protect us from the terrible charges of the Indians."
"If that is your opinion, colonel," the major interrupted, "a sure man ought to be sent off to the estancias, to tell them to seek refuge in Carmen, when they are warned of the approach of the enemy by their cannon shots."
"Do so, major, for the poor people would be piteously massacred by the savages. The inhabitants of the town must also be warned that all their females must withdraw into the fort, when the pagans come in sight, unless they wish them to fall into the hands of the Indians. In the last invasion, if you remember, they carried off upwards of two hundred. And now, gentlemen, all that is left to us is to do our duty truly, and confide in the will of Heaven."
The officers rose, and were about to take leave of their chief, when a slave announced another bombero.
"Show him in, and pray be seated again, Caballeros."
The scout was Pepe, Pedrito's brother. Although he had started five hours after his brother from their place of ambush, he was scarce an hour behind him. His great pace indicated the gravity of the news he brought. He had retained his cunning look, although his face was pale, blood-stained, and black with gunpowder. His torn clothes, the handkerchief fastened round his head, his arm in a sling, but above all, four scalps hanging from his girdle, showed that he had ridden through the Indians in order to reach Carmen.
"Pepe," the governor said to him, "your brother has just left me."
"I know it," colonel.
"Is your news worse than his?"