"I hope so," said the conspirator, coolly.
"Ah! ah!" the young man remarked, "all is for the best, then?"
"You are about to be present at a very interesting spectacle."
"Oh! I depend upon you for that. For my part, I am glad at not having lost such an opportunity."
"Is it not one?"
"Pardieu!—yes. It is astonishing how travelling instructs one," he added, in the form of a parenthesis.
The individuals assembled near the fountain surrounded them with every mark of the profoundest respect. These were the faithful—the Dark-Hearts—upon whom perfect dependence was to be placed.
"Gentlemen," said Don Tadeo, "the struggle is about to commence. I desire at length that you should know me, that you should be informed who the man is who commands you."
And he threw off his mask. A burst of enthusiasm broke from the ranks of the conspirators. "Don Tadeo de Leon!" they cried with astonishment, mingled with a species of veneration for the man who had suffered so much for the common cause.
"Yes, gentlemen," Don Tadeo replied, "the man whom the creatures of the tyrant condemned to death, and whom God has miraculously preserved, in order to be the instrument of His vengeance today."
All the conspirators pressed tumultuously round him. These men of spontaneous impressions, and essentially superstitious, no longer doubted of victory, since they had at their head the man whom God, as they believed, had so manifestly protected. Don Tadeo had calculated upon this manifestation to heighten the ardour of the conspirators, and to augment still further the prestige he enjoyed. The result had answered his expectations.
"Is everyone at his post?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Are arms and ammunition distributed?"
"To everybody."
"Are all the barricades completed?—all the gates of the city guarded?"
"All."
"That is well. Now wait."
And quiet was re-established.
All these men had known Don Tadeo for a long time; they appreciated his character at its true value; they had already vowed to him a boundless friendship; and now they knew that Don Tadeo and the King of Darkness were the same person, they were ready to lay down their lives for him. The news of the revelation which had been made near the fountain spread through the city with the rapidity of a train of gunpowder, and added greatly to the fermentation which already prevailed. Whilst the few words were being exchanged between the chief of the conspirators and his party, a regiment of infantry had formed in front of the cabildo, flanked right and left by two squadrons of horse.
"Attention!" Don Tadeo commanded.
A sensation of impatience pervaded the men grouped around him.
"Eh! eh!" Valentine murmured, with that mocking, short laugh that was peculiar to him; "this is going on capitally! Caramba! we shall soon have some fun!"
The gates of the cabildo were thrown open violently, and a general, followed by a brilliant staff, took his station on the top step of the great staircase; next several senators made their appearance in full costume, and formed a group round him. At a signal from the general, the drums beat for a time, to secure attention and silence. When all was quiet, a senator, who held a roll of paper in his hand, came forward a few steps, and prepared to read.
"Bah!" said the General, seizing his arm, "Why lose your time in reading that rubbish? Leave it to me."
The senator, who asked no better than to be freed from the dangerous commission with which, very much against his will, he had been charged, rolled up his papers, and retreated to the rear. The general assumed a commanding posture, placed his hand upon his hip, with the point of his sword on the ground, and said in a voice audible in every corner of the place—
"People of the province of Valdivia, the sovereign senate, assembled in congress at Santiago de Chili, has unanimously passed the following resolutions:—
"1st. The various provinces of the Chilian republic shall be composed of independent states united under the title of the Confederation of the United States of South America.
"2nd. The valiant and most excellent general, Don Pancho Bustamente, has been elected Protector of the Chilian Confederation."
"People, cry with me—'Long live the Protector Don Pancho Bustamente!'"
The officers grouped round the General, and the soldiers drawn up in the place, shouted—
"Long live the Protector!"
But the people were mute.
"Hum!" the general murmured to himself; "they do not display much enthusiasm."
A man came forward from the group collected round the fountain, and advanced boldly to within twenty paces of the soldiers. This man was Don Tadeo de Leon; his countenance was calm and his bearing firm and collected. He made a sign with his hand.
"What is your will?" the general shouted.
"To reply to your proclamation," the King of Darkness said, intrepidly.
"Speak! I hear you," the general replied.
Don Tadeo bowed with a significant smile.
"In the name of the Chilian people," he said, in a loud, clear voice, "the senate of Santiago de Chili, composed of creatures sold to the tyrant, is declared traitorous to its country."
"Miserable fellow! what do you dare to say?" the General cried, angrily.
"No insults, if you please! Allow me to terminate the answer I have to give you," Don Tadeo replied, coolly.
The General, involuntarily brow-beaten by the heroic courage of this man, who, alone, unarmed before a triple row of muskets ready to be directed towards his breast, had dared to speak in this loud, firm tone, and overcome by that ascendancy which a great character always exercises, bit the pommel of his sword with rage.
"In the name of the people," Don Tadeo, still calm and stoical, continued, "Don Pancho Bustamente is declared a traitor to his country, and as such is degraded from his titles and his power. Liberty! Chili!"
"Liberty! Chili!" the populace assembled on the square shouted with the greatest enthusiasm.
"Oh, this is too audacious!" the General cried, pale with anger. "Soldiers, seize that rebel!"
Several soldiers stepped forward; but, quicker than thought, Don Gregorio and Valentine had sprung to Don Tadeo's side, and dragged him back with them among the people.
"Cordieu!" cried Valentine, pressing his hands enough to crush them, "you are a troublesome man! but I love you the better for it."
The General, outrageous at seeing his enemy escape, shouted silence. "In the name of the Protector," he said, "I command that rebel to be given up!"
Hisses and hootings were the only reply.
"Fire!" the General commanded, who, even before the last insulting manifestation, had perceived that no half measures were possible. The muskets were lowered, and a formidable discharge pealed like thunder. Several men fell, killed or wounded.
"Chili! Liberty! down with the oppressor!" the people shouted, arming themselves with everything they could lay their hands on. A second discharge resounded, followed closely by a third. The ground was, in an instant, strewed with the dead and dying; but the patriots showed no disposition to disperse; on the contrary, under the incessant fire of the soldiers, they organized a resistance, and soon replied by a few shots to the incessant platoon firing which was decimating them. The combat became mutual; the revolution had commenced.
"Hum!" the General muttered to himself, "I have undertaken a rather awkward mission."
But, essentially a soldier, and endowed to the highest degree with that spirit of passive obedience which distinguishes all who have grown old in harness, he prepared either to chastise the insurgents severely, or die at his post.
It was not, as may well be believed, through fear, that General Bustamente had absented himself from Valdivia at the moment when one of his lieutenants so boldly proclaimed him from the top of the steps of the cabildo, before the populace. No, General Bustamente was one of those soldiers of fortune of whom so many are found in America, accustomed to set his life upon a cast of the die, and to be turned aside by nothing in the world from the accomplishment of his projects. He had hoped, by the means of the forces he had concentrated in this remote province of the republic, that the inhabitants, taken unawares, would only offer an insignificant resistance, and that he should be able, by joining his troops with those of Antinahuel, to make a forced march through Araucania, gain possession of Concepción, and thence, keeping the gathering snowball in motion, and dragging his companions after him, arrive at Santiago in time to prevent any movement, and oblige the inhabitants to capitulate and accept, as an accomplished fact, the change of government inaugurated by him in the distant provinces of the republic.
This plan was not deficient in audacity, or even in a certain degree of policy; it comprised great chances of success. Unfortunately for General Bustamente, the Dark-Hearts, whose spies were everywhere, had got wind of this project, and had countermined it by taking advantage of the opportunity offered them by their enemy to unmask their own batteries. We have seen under what conditions the struggle between the two parties had commenced in Valdivia. The General, who was ignorant of what was passing, felt in a state of perfect security. As soon as he was in his tent with Antinahuel, he let fall the curtain which closed it behind them, and, by a gesture, invited the toqui to be seated.
"Sit down, chief," he said, "I have something to say to you."
"I am at the orders of my white brother," the Indian replied, with a bow.
The General attentively examined the man before him; he endeavoured to read on his countenance the various feelings that acted upon him; but the features of the Indian were marble; no impression was reflected by them.
"Let us speak frankly, loyally, and as friends who wish no better than to understand each other plainly," he said.
Antinahuel bowed reservedly to this appeal to frankness, and the General continued—
"At this moment the people of Valdivia are constituting me, by acclamation, protector of a new confederation, formed of all the states."
"Good!" said the chief, with an almost imperceptible shake of the head; "is my father sure of that?"
"Certainly I am. The Chilians are tired of the continual agitations which disturb the country; they have forced this heavy burden upon me; but I owe myself to my country, and I will not disappoint the hopes my compatriots place in me."
These words were pronounced in a hypocritical tone of self-denial, of which the Indian was not in the least the dupe. A smile flitted across the lips of the chief, which the General affected not to perceive.
"To be brief," he continued, quitting the mild, conciliatory tone in which he had till that time spoken, to assume a more decided and abrupt manner, "are you prepared to keep your engagements?"
"Why should I not keep them?" Antinahuel remarked.
"Will you march with me to assure the success of my projects?"
"Let my father order, I will obey."
This readiness was displeasing to the General.
"Come," he said, angrily, "let us put an end to this; I have not time to enter into a contest of wits with you, or follow you through a labyrinth of Indian circumlocutions."
"I do not understand my father," Antinahuel replied, impassively.
"We shall never get to the end, chief," the General said, stamping his foot, "if you will not answer me categorically."
"I listen to my father; let him ask, I will reply."
"How many men can you have under arms within twenty-four hours?"
"Ten thousand," the chief said, drawing himself up proudly.
"All experienced warriors?"
"All."
"What do you require of me for them?"
"My father knows."
"I accept of all your conditions but one."
"Which is that?"
"The surrender of the province of Valdivia to you."
"Is not my father going to make up for that province on another side?"
"How so?"
"Am I not to assist my father in conquering Bolivia?"
"Yes."
"Well, then?"
"You are mistaken, chief, it is not the same thing; I may enlarge the Chilian territory, but honour forbids me to diminish it."
"Let my father reflect; the province of Valdivia was anciently an Araucanian Uthal-Mapus."
"Very possibly, chief; but, according to that principle, all Chili was Araucanian previous to the discovery of America."
"My father is mistaken; the Inca Sinchiroca had, a hundred years before, conquered the Chilian land as far as the Rio-Maulé."
"You seem to be well acquainted with the history of your country, chief," the General observed.
"Does not my father know the history of his?"
"That is not the question, now; do you accept my proposals or not?"
The chief appeared to reflect for an instant.
"Well!" the General exclaimed, impatiently, "time presses."
"That is true; I will, therefore, go and command a council, composed of the Apo-Ulmens and Ulmens of my nation, and submit the words of my father to them."
The General with difficulty suppressed an expression of anger.
"You must, doubtless, be joking, chief," he said—"your words cannot be serious."
"Antinahuel is the first toqui of his nation," the Indian replied, haughtily; "he never jokes."
"But you must give me your answer now—at once—in a few minutes!" cried the General; "who knows whether we may not be obliged to march within an hour from this time?"
"It is my duty, as much as it is my father's, to enlarge the territory of my people."
At this moment the gallop of a horse was heard approaching; the General flew to the entrance of the tent, where an orderly officer appeared. The face of this officer was bathed with perspiration, and spots of blood stained his uniform.
"General!" he said breathlessly.
"Silence!" the latter hissed, pointing to the chief, who, though apparently indifferent, followed all his movements attentively. The General turned towards Antinahuel.
"Chief," he said, "I have orders to give to this officer—pressing orders; if you will permit me, we will resume our conversation presently."
"Good!" replied the chief; "my father need not inconvenience himself; I can wait."
And after bowing, he left the tent slowly.
"Oh!" said the General to himself, "you demon! if, some day, I have you in my power!"
But perceiving that anger was making him forget himself, he turned towards the officer, who stood motionless:
"Well, Diego," he said, "what news have you?—are we conquerors?"
"No," the officer replied, shaking his head; "the people, excited by those incarnate demons, the Dark-Hearts, have rebelled."
"Oh!" the General cried, "shall I never be able to crush them? What has taken place?"
"The people have raised barricades; and Don Tadeo de Leon is at the head of the movement."
"Don Tadeo de Leon!" said the General.
"Yes, he who was so clumsily shot."
"Oh! this is war to the death then!"
"A part of the troops, seduced by their officers, who have sold themselves to the Dark-Hearts, have passed over to their side; at this moment they are fighting in all the streets with the fiercest inveteracy. I had to pass through a shower of bullets to come and inform you."
"We have not an instant to lose."
"No; for though the soldiers who have remained faithful to you are fighting like lions, I can assure you they are closely pressed."
"Maldición!" the General howled; "I will not leave stone upon stone of that accursed city!"
"Yes, but, in the first place, we must reconquer it, General, and that will prove rather a rough job, I promise you," replied the old soldier, who had preserved his blunt speech throughout.
"Very well!" said Bustamente; "let 'boot and saddle' be sounded, and every horseman take a foot soldier behind him."
Don Pancho Bustamente was a prey to the most violent rage; for several instants he stamped about his tent, like a wild beast in its cage. This unexpected resistance, in spite of all the measures of precaution he had taken, exasperated him. Suddenly the curtain of his tent was raised. "Who is there?" he cried. "Ah! chief, is that you? Well, what do you say?"
"I saw the chief come out, and I thought that perhaps my father would not be sorry to see me," the other replied, courteously.
"And you were right; I am delighted to see you; forget all we have said, chief; I accept all your conditions; are you satisfied, this time?"
"Yes. Including Valdivia?"
"That above all!" said the General, with concentrated rage.
"Ah!"
"Yes, and as that province has revolted, in order to be able to give it to you, I must bring it back to its duty, must I not?"
"To be sure you must!"
"Well, as I have it at my heart to fulfil all my engagements to you, I am going instantly to march against that city; will you help me to subdue it?"
"That will be but just, as I shall labour for myself."
"How many horsemen have you at hand?"
"Twelve hundred."
"Good!" said the General, "they will be more than we shall want."
"The troops are ready," said Diego, entering the tent, "and only await your Excellency's orders."
"To saddle, then; let us be gone! let us be gone! And you, chief, will you not accompany us?"
"Let my father move onward! my mosotones and I will tread in his steps quickly."
Ten minutes later, General Bustamente, with his soldiers, was again galloping along the road to Valdivia. Antinahuel followed him with his eyes attentively; then he rejoined his Ulmens, saying between his teeth, "Let us leave these Moro-Huincas to slaughter each other a little while; it will always be time enough to fall into the party."
Doña Rosario was so terrified, and such mortal anguish assailed her on beholding the Count fall under the knives of the assassins, that she fainted. When she recovered her senses, it was dark night. For several minutes her confused thoughts whirled about in her brain; and she endeavoured, but for a long time in vain, to recover the violently broken thread of her ideas. At length light returned to her mind; she breathed a deep sigh, and murmured in a low voice full of terror:
"My God! my God! what has happened to me?"
She then opened her eyes, and cast around a despairing look. We have said it was a dark night; but what made the darkness more complete for the poor girl, was a heavy covering of some kind which was spread over her face, as well as her person. Then, with that patience which characterizes all prisoners, and which is merely the instinct of liberty, the poor child endeavoured to ascertain what her position was. As well as she could judge, she was lying upon the back of a mule, between two bales; a cord, which passed round her waist, prevented her from rising, but her hands were free. The mule had that rough, irregular trot, peculiar to its species, which made the young girl suffer terribly at every step. Some horse cloths had been thrown over her, no doubt to protect her from the heavy dews of the night, or perhaps to prevent her from making out what road she was going. Doña Rosario, gently, and with great precaution, slipped the covering down from her face: after a few efforts her head was completely free. She then looked around her; but all was dark. The moon, closely veiled by the clouds which passed over its pale disc, only yielded, at rare intervals, a weak, uncertain light. By lifting her head softly, the young girl could distinguish several horsemen, riding before and behind the mule which carried her. As well as she could make out, from the obscurity which surrounded her, these horsemen were Indians.
The rather numerous party—it apparently consisted of a score of individuals—followed a narrow road deeply inclosed between two abrupt mountains, the rocky masses of which, throwing their shadow over the road, augmented the darkness. This road rose with a gentle ascent; and the horses and mules, probably fatigued with a long journey, travelled at a foot pace. The young girl, scarcely recovered from her fainting, had not been able to judge of the time that had elapsed since her abduction; and yet, by collecting her remembrances, and thinking at what hour she had been the victim of this odious attempt, she calculated that twelve hours must have passed away since she was made a prisoner. Overcome by the effort she had been forced to make in order to look around her, the poor girl let her head sink back again, stifling a sigh of despondency; and closing her eyes, as if to isolate herself the more, she plunged into sad and deep meditations.
She was at least ignorant of whom she was with. Many times, it was true, Don Tadeo had spoken to her of an inveterate enemy, inveterate for her destruction; of a woman whose hatred watched her incessantly, ready to sacrifice her on the first favourable opportunity. But who was this woman? What cause had she for her hatred? Was she in the hands of this woman at that moment? And if so, why had she not already sacrificed her to her vengeance? From what motive had she been spared? For what punishment was she reserved?
These thoughts and many others came in crowds to assail the maiden's bewildered mind. This uncertainty was for her an atrocious torture; at that moment, the truth would, perhaps, have been a consolation. Man is so constructed, that what he is most in dread of is the unknown; what he is ignorant of, assumes instinctively, in the prepossessed eyes of one whom a terrible danger menaces, gigantic proportions, a thousand times more terrific than the danger itself. The diseased imagination creates for itself phantoms which reality, however horrible it may be, puts to flight. In a word, the condemned prisoner who is led to punishment suffers more from the apprehensions which the fear of the death awaiting him inspires him with, than the physical pain of that death itself will cause him. Such was, at this moment, the situation of Doña Rosario; her mind, filled with inquietude and dark presentiments, made her dread nameless sufferings, the mere thought of which froze the young blood in her veins.
The caravan still proceeded; it had left the ravine, and was climbing a path traced along the edge of a precipice, at the base of which could be heard the dull murmur of invisible water. At times, a stone, half-broken beneath the hoof of a mule, became detached, and rolled with a sinister noise down the side of the mountain, to engulf itself in the waters, into which it plunged with a dull plash, the sound of which ascended from the abyss. The wind howled through the pines and larches, the clashing branches of which showered a deluge of dry cones upon the travellers. At intervals the owl, and the screech owl, concealed in the crevices of the rocks, poured out into the night their plaintive notes, breaking the silence dismally. Furious barkings were heard in the distance; by degrees they grew nearer, and ended by forming a frightful concert, broken by the sharp voices of women and children, endeavouring to quiet them; lights appeared, and the caravan stopped. They had evidently arrived at the halt, at which they were to pass the rest of the night.
The maiden cast an anxious but cautious look around her; but the flame of the torches agitated by the wind would not permit her to see anything but the dark outlines of some buildings and the shadows of several individuals who flitted about her, with cries and laughter—nothing more. The people of the escort were busily employed in unsaddling the horses and unloading the mules, amidst cries and oaths, and did not appear to bestow the least attention upon the young girl.
A considerable time passed away; Doña Rosario did not know to what to attribute this unaccountable forgetfulness. At length she felt that someone took the mule by the bridle, and she heard him shout in a hoarse voice,Arrea!—the word with which the arrieros are accustomed to excite their beasts. Had she, then, been deceived? Was it not here they were to stop? What was the meaning of the halt, then? Why did a portion of the escort leave her?
Her uncertainty was not of long duration; at the end of ten minutes at most, the mule stopped again, and the man who led it approached Doña Rosario. This man, clothed in the costume of the Chilian peasantry, wore an old straw Panama hat, the large brim of which, pulled down over his face, prevented her distinguishing his features. At the sight of this individual, the young girl felt an involuntary shudder run through her frame. The peasant, or pretended peasant, without addressing a word to her, withdrew the covering which enfolded her, untied the cord which bound her to the mule, and taking her in his arms, carried her with as much ease as if she had been a child, into a detached cabin a few paces distant, the door of which, standing open, seemed to invite them to enter.
The interior of this cabin was dark. The young girl was laid upon the ground with a care and attention she did not expect. At the moment when he let her sink softly down from his arms to the ground, the man bent his head down towards her, and in a voice as inaudible as a breath, he whispered, "Courage! and hope!" and recovering himself quickly, went hastily out of the cabin, closing the door after him.
As soon as he was gone, Doña Rosario sprang upon her feet. The two words pronounced by the unknown had sufficed to restore her presence of mind, and remove all her terrors. Hope, that universal panacea, that supreme good, which God, in His infinite mercy, has given to the unfortunate to help them to suffer, had suddenly re-entered her heart; she felt herself become strong, and ready to engage in the struggle with her unknown enemies. She knew now that a friend watched in secret over her, and, if required, his assistance would not be wanting; therefore it was almost with impatience, though still with fear, that she waited for her ravishers to signify their intentions.
The place in which she was confined was completely dark. At the first moment she in vain endeavoured to distinguish anything in this chaos; but, by degrees, her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and, in front of her, she perceived a faint light, which flitted between the badly-joined boards of a door. She then, with great precaution, for fear of arousing her invisible guardians, and stretching out her hand to keep her from contact with any obstacle she could not see, advanced cautiously, and listening attentively, towards the side from which came the light—a light which attracted her as instinctively as a flame attracts the imprudent moth whose wings it burns.
The nearer she approached, the more distinct the light became, and the sound of a voice reached her ears. At length her extended hands touched the door, and leaning forward, she applied her eye to the chink. She stifled a cry of surprise, and, as at that moment the conversation, which had been for a short time interrupted, recommenced, she listened with intensity.
What she heard, but still more what she saw, necessarily powerfully interested Doña Rosario. In a vast room, dimly lighted by one of those yellow candles which the Chilians callvelas de cebo, fastened to the wall by means of a ring, a woman, still young, and very handsome, attired in a riding dress of great richness, was seated on an ebony chair, covered with Cordova leather. With her right hand she played with a gold headed whip, and was speaking in an animated tone to a man who stood respectfully before her, hat in hand. This man, as well as Doña Rosario could make out, was the same who had carried her into thecuarto. The woman, whom Doña Rosario did not recollect ever to have seen, was no other than Doña Maria, the shameless courtesan, who, under the name of the Linda, enjoyed such a scandalous celebrity.
Doña Maria's position threw the light of the candle full upon her face, and gave Doña Rosario an opportunity of distinguishing her features. She contemplated them with deep interest, for she felt instinctively that this woman was the enemy who, from her birth, had fatally followed her steps. She imagined that a decisive conference between her and the unknown was about to take place, and that in a few minutes her fate would be made known to her. And yet, at the aspect of this woman, whose bent brows, clear and haughty look, coldly compressed lips, and cruel words, revealed with the hatred which devoured her, it was neither a feeling of terror, nor a feeling of hatred, that the young girl experienced. Without knowing why, a sadness and an undefined pity for the very woman who was giving orders that made her shudder, took possession of her. She listened breathlessly, fascinated, scarcely knowing whether what she heard was really true, and fancying herself at times under the influence of some terrible hallucination.
The two speakers, who knew not that they were either watched or overheard, resumed their conversation in an unrestrained voice. Doña Rosario, we may well suppose, did not lose a single word.
"How is it," said the Linda, "that Joan has not come? I expected him."
The man thus questioned cast a sharp look around him, and rolling up the broad brim of his hat in his fingers, replied with ill-dissembled embarrassment—
"Joan sent me in his place."
"And by what right," said the Linda, in a haughty tone, "does the fellow presume to confide to others the care of accomplishing the orders I give him?"
"Joan is my friend," the man replied.
"What are the ties that unite you to me:" she asked, contemptuously.
"The mission you charged him with is accomplished."
"Ay—but faithfully?"
"The woman is there," he said, pointing to the room in which Doña Rosario was; "during the journey she has spoken to nobody, and I can guarantee that she does not know to what place she has been brought."
At this assurance the look of Doña Maria softened a little, and it was in a less sharp and haughty tone she continued—
"But why did Joan give up his place to you?"
"Oh!" the man said with a feigned bluntness, belied by his cunning eye, "for a very simple reason; Joan is at this moment attracted towards the plain by the black eyes of the wife of a paleface, which sparkle like fireflies in the night. The woman's toldo is built in the country, near the toldería which you call, I think, Concepción. Although such conduct be unworthy of a warrior, his heart is flying constantly towards this woman, in spite of himself, and until he gain possession of her, he will never be in his senses."
"Well, then," the Linda interrupted, stamping her foot with vexation, "why does not the fool carry her off?"
"I proposed that to him."
"And what did he say?"
"He refused."
Doña Maria shrugged her shoulders with a smile of disdain. "Still," she remarked, "all that does not tell me who you are."
"I! I am an Ulmen in my tribe; a great warrior among the Puelches," he replied, proudly.
"Ah!" she said, with an air of satisfaction, "you are an Ulmen of the Puelches, are you? Good! then I can depend upon your fidelity."
"I am the friend of Joan," he remarked simply, with a respectful bow.
"Do you know the woman whom you have brought here?" the Linda asked, darting at him a mistrustful glance.
"How should I know her?"
"Are you ready to obey me in everything?"
"My obedience will depend on my sister; let her speak, and I will answer."
"This woman is my enemy," said the Linda.
"Must she die?" he asked, roughly, without lowering his eyes before the searching glances of the Linda.
"Oh, no!" she cried eagerly; "these Indians are brutes—they understand nothing of vengeance! What use would her death be to me? It is her life I want."
"Let my sister explain; I do not comprehend."
"Death! that is nothing but a few instants of suffering, then all is over."
"White death may be so, but an Indian death must be called for many hours before it answers."
"I wish her to live, I tell you!"
"She shall live. Ah!" he added, with a sigh, "the toldo of a chief is empty, its fires are extinguished."
"Oh! oh!" the Linda interrupted; "have you no wives?"
"They are dead."
"And where is your tribe at this moment?"
"Oh!" said the Indian, "far from here—ten suns' march, at least. I was returning to rejoin the warriors of my toldería, when Joan charged me with this mission."
There was a short silence, during which the Linda appeared to be reflecting. Doña Rosario redoubled her attention—she felt she was about to know her fate.
"And pray," Doña Maria resumed, fixing her keen eyes upon the Indian, "what great interest detained you on the plains near the seashore?"
"None; I came, as the other Ulmens did, to renew the treaties."
"Had you no other reasons?"
"None at all."
"Listen to me, chief. You have, doubtless, admired the four horses fastened at the gate of this house?"
"They are noble beasts," the Indian replied, his eyes glistening with the desire of possessing them.
"Well, it only depends upon yourself that I should give them to you."
"Oh! oh!" he cried, joyfully, "what must I do for that?"
"Obey me," said the Linda, with a smile.
"I will obey," he replied.
"Whatever I command you?"
"Whatever my sister commands."
"That is well; but remember what I am going to say to you. If you deceive me, my vengeance will be terrible—it will follow you everywhere."
"Why should I deceive my sister?"
"Because your Indian race is so constituted—astute and roguish, ever ready to betray."
A sinister flash gleamed from the downcast eye of the Puelche warrior; nevertheless, he replied in a calm tone—
"My sister is mistaken; the Araucanos are loyal."
"We shall see," she coldly remarked. "What is your name?"
"The Musk Rat."
"Very well; listen, Musk Rat, to what I am going to say."
"My ears are open."
"This woman, who, according to my orders, you brought here, must never again revisit the shores of the sea."
"She shall never see them again."
"I do not wish her to die—understand that; she must suffer," the Linda added, in a tone which made the unhappy girl tremble with fear.
"She shall suffer."
"Yes," said Doña Maria, with sparkling eyes, "I wish that, during a long course of years, she may suffer a martyrdom at every instant; she is young, she will have time to call upon death to deliver her from her misery before it deigns to listen to her. Beyond the mountains, far in the deserts, in the virgin forests of the Grou-Chaco, I am told that hordes of Indians exist who are ferocious and sanguinary, and bear a deadly hatred towards all of the white race."
"Yes," said the Puelche, in a melancholy tone, "I have heard of these men from the chiefs of my tribe; they live only for murder."
"That is it!" she said, with sinister delight. "Well, chief, do you think yourself able to traverse these vast deserts, and reach the Grou-Chaco?"
"Why should I not?" the Indian replied, raising his head proudly, "Do there exist obstacles strong enough to resist the Araucano warrior in his course? The puma is the king of the forests, the vulture that of the heavens; but the Aucas is the king of the puma and the eagle; the desert is his—Guatechu has given it to him; his horse and his lance render him invincible and master of immensity."
"Then my brother will accomplish this journey, which is impossible?"
A disdainful smile played for an instant round the lips of the savage warrior.
"I will accomplish it," he said.
"Good! my brother is a chief—I perceive he is one now."
The Puelche bowed modestly.
"My brother will go there, then, and when he arrives in the Chaco, he will sell the pale girl to the Guayacuras."
The Indian did not allow any mark of astonishment to be perceived upon his face.
"I will sell her," he replied.
"That is well!—my brother will be faithful?"
"I am a chief; I have but one word, my tongue is not forked; but why should I take this pale woman so far?"
Doña Maria cast a penetrating glance at him—a suspicion crossed her mind—the Indian perceived it.
"I only made a simple observation to my sister; it concerns me little, and she need not answer me if she does not think proper," he said, with indifference.
The brow of the Linda became serene again.
"The remark is just, chief; I will answer it. Why take her so far, you asked me; because Antinahuel loves this woman—his heart is softened by her—and perhaps he will suffer himself to be moved by her prayers, and restore her to her family. But it shall not happen; she shall weep tears of blood; her heart shall break under the incessant pangs of grief; she shall lose everything, even hope!"
After uttering these words, Doña Maria arose, with head erect, sparkling eyes, and extended arm; there was in her aspect something fatal and terrible, which terrified even the Indian, by nature so difficult to move.
"Go," she cried, in a tone of command, "before she departs for ever, I will see this woman once—only once, and speak with her for a few minutes; she shall at least know me: bring her hither!"
The Indian went out silently; this woman, so beautiful and so cruel, terrified him—she inspired him with horror.
Doña Rosario, on hearing this atrocious sentence pronounced against her, fell senseless to the ground.
The door of the cuarto in which Doña Rosario was confined was thrown open, and the Puelche warrior appeared; he held in his hand a rude earthen lamp, the flame of which, although feeble, sufficed to distinguish objects. He had replaced his shabby hat upon his head, and its wide brim served as a mask to his features.
"Come with me!" he said, in a rough voice, to the maiden.
Conscious of the inutility of a resistance which could only be dangerous to her amidst the bandits who surrounded her, and bowing her head with resignation, she followed her guide in silence. Doña Maria had resumed her place in the ebony chair; with arms crossed, and her head hanging upon her bosom, she was buried in dark meditations. At the slight noise made by the footsteps of the young lady, she drew herself up, a flash of hatred gleamed from her dark eyes, and with, a gesture she commanded the Indian to retire. The Puelche obeyed.
The two women examined each other intensely; their looks crossed; the hawk and the dove were face to face. A deathlike silence reigned in the apartment; at intervals the wind came in gusts and dismal moanings, through the ill-joined boards of the doors, shook the old building to its foundation, and agitated the flame of the only candle that illumined the vast gloomy room in which the two women were. After a sufficiently long pause, the Linda, who, with that instinct which women possess in such a high degree, had examined in detail, one by one, the numerous beauties of the charming girl who stood pale and trembling before her, at length spoke—
"Yes," she said, in a hollow voice, as if speaking to herself, and overcome by the evidence of the fact, "yes, this girl is beautiful; she has everything to make her an object of love—to see her must be to love her; well, this beauty, which up to this time has been her joy and her pride, grief shall wither rapidly; before one year has passed away I am resolved that she shall become an object of pity and contempt for all. Oh!" she added, in a piercing, shrill voice, "I have her at length within the power of my vengeance!"
"What have I done to you, madam, that you should hate me thus?" the maiden asked, in a plaintive voice, the sweet and melodious accent of which would have softened anyone but her to whom she spoke.
"What have you done to me, silly creature?" the Linda cried, bounding up like a wounded lioness, and placing herself close in front of Doña Rosario—"what have you done to me?" and then added, with a loud laugh—"Ah! ah! that's true,youhave done nothing to me!"
"Alas, madam! I do not even know you; this is the first time I have been in your presence; I, a poor young girl, whose life to the present time has passed away in retirement—how can I have offended you?"
"Yes, I allow it," the Linda replied; "you have done nothing to me; and, personally, as you have just said, I have nothing to reproach you with; but, by making you suffer, learn that it is uponhimI avenge myself."
"I do not understand what you mean, madam," the maiden said, simply.
"Senseless fool, do not play with the lioness who is ready to devour you, or pretend to feign an ignorance of which I am not the dupe; if you have not already divined my name, I will tell it you—I am Doña Maria, whom they call the Linda—do you understand me now?"
"Not more than I did before, madam," replied Doña Rosario, with an accent of frankness that shook the belief of her persecutor, in spite of herself; "I have never even heard that name."
"Can that be true?" she cried, doubtingly.
"I swear it is."
Doña Linda strode about the apartment with long, hasty steps. Doña Rosario, more and more astonished, looked stealthily at this woman, without being able to account to herself for the emotion which her presence, and the sound of her voice, caused her to experience; it was not fear, still less was it joy, but an incomprehensible mixture of sadness, joy, pity, and terror; an undefinable feeling, which, far from creating repulsion, drew her towards a woman whose odious projects were no secret to her, and from whom she knew she had so much to dread. Singular sympathy; what Doña Rosario felt towards the Linda, the Linda felt towards Doña Rosario: in vain she called to her aid the remembrance of all the wrongs with which she fancied she had to reproach the man whom she wished to strike in the person of the young girl; in the innermost recesses of her heart, a voice, which constantly gained strength, spoke to her in favour of the maiden whom she was about to sacrifice to her hatred; the more she endeavoured to overcome this sentiment, for which she could not account, the more powerless she found her efforts become; at length, she was on the point of being softened.
"Oh!" she murmured, passionately, "what is going on within me? Am I weak enough to allow myself to be subdued by the tears of that paltry creature?"
Like Indian warriors, who, when fastened to the stake of blood, sing their own exploits to encourage them to endure bravely the tortures which their executioners silently prepare, the Linda recalled the maddening remembrance of all the outrages Don Tadeo had loaded her with; and with flashing eyes and trembling lips, she stopped short in front of Doña Rosario.
"Listen to me, girl," she said, in a voice which passion caused to tremble, "this is the first and last time we shall be in the presence of each other; and you shall know why I bear you such hatred. What you will learn will be hereafter, perhaps, a consolation to you, and help you to bear with courage the miseries I reserve for you," she added, with the laugh of a demon.
"I will listen to you, madam," Rosario replied, meekly, "although I am certain that what you are about to say cannot, in any sense, render me guilty with respect to you."
"Do you think so?" the Linda said, in a tone of ironical compassion; "well, then, listen; we have time to talk, as you will not leave this place for an hour."
This allusion to her approaching departure made the poor girl shudder, by recalling to her all that the departure threatened.
"A woman," the Linda continued, "a young and beautiful woman, more beautiful than you, fragile child of cities, whom the least storm bends like a weak reed—a woman, I say, had for love married a man, also young, and handsome as the evil angel before his fall, who with perfidiously golden words, by opening before her immense and unknown horizons, had so seduced her, the poor, poor girl, that in a few days he induced her to abandon stealthily the roof which had sheltered her infancy, and to which her aged father in vain recalled her up to the day of his death, that he might bless and pardon her."
"Oh, that is frightful!" cried Doña Rosario.
"Why so? as he had married her, morality was satisfied, in the eyes of the world. This woman was pure, and could thenceforward move with head erect before the crowd which had hailed her fall with laughter and contempt. But everything passes away in this world, and most quickly of all, the love of the most passionate man. Only a year after marriage this woman, alone in the most retired room of her dwelling, wept over the remembrance of the happiness which had left her for ever. Her husband had deserted her! A child born of this union, a little fair girl, a rosy-lipped cherub, whose eyes reflected the azure of the heavens, was the sole consolation which in her misfortunes was left to the poor abandoned mother. One night, when she was plunged in sleep, her husband stole like a thief into her house, seized the child, in spite of the cries of the desolate mother, who threw herself in tears at his feet, and implored him by all he held sacred in the world. After roughly repulsing the despairing mother, who sank dying on the cold slabs of the floor, this heartless and pitiless man disappeared with the child."
"And the mother?" Doña Rosario anxiously asked, much affected by the story which the Linda told, entirely to her own advantage.
"The mother," she continued, in a low, broken voice, "the mother was doomed never to see her child again. She never has seen her! Prayers, threats, everything in turn, have been employed without success. And now, this mother, who adores her child, and would sacrifice her life for her,—this mother has vowed a hatred against this man, whom she so fondly loved, and who showed no pity to her, which no vengeance can satisfy! Now, then, young girl, do you know the name of this mother? Say, do you know it? No, you do not? Well, then, I am this mother! and the man who ravished from her all her happiness—the man whom she hates as she does the demon whose heart he bears, is Don Tadeo de Leon!"
"Don Tadeo!" Rosario cried, starting back with surprise.
"Yes!" the Linda said, furiously; "yes, Don Tadeo, your lover!"
The maiden sprang towards Doña Maria, and seizing her arm violently, and placing her face, inflamed with anger, close to that of the courtezan, who was stupefied at the energy she could not have expected from this delicate creature, cried indignantly,—
"What have you dared to say, madam? Don Tadeo my lover! It is false, madam!"
"Can this be true?" the Linda asked, eagerly. "Can I have been so grossly mistaken? But then," she added, mistrustfully, "who are you? and by what title does he keep you always with him?"
"I will tell you who I am, madam!" Rosario replied, proudly.
All at once the hasty gallop of several horses was heard from without, mingled with cries and oaths.
"What can the matter be?" said Doña Maria, turning pale.
"Oh!" said Doña Rosario, clasping her hands fervently; "oh, my God! are you sending me liberators?"
"You are not free yet," the Linda said, with a bitter smile.
The tumult increased greatly; the door, violently pushed from without, flew open, and several men rushed into the room.
The multiplicity of the scenes we have to describe, and the exigencies of our story, compel us to abandon Doña Rosario and the Linda, and return to Valdivia, where the revolt had assumed the gigantic proportions of a revolution. Electrified by the heroic conduct of the King of Darkness, the patriots fought with the greatest obstinacy. The Dark-Hearts appeared to have the gift of ubiquity; their numbers increased, they were everywhere at the head of the insurgents, exciting them by gesture and voice; but, above all, by their example. The city was completely cut up by barricades, against which the few troops who remained faithful to General Bustamente struggled in vain. Beaten back by the enemies who on all sides rose up against them to the thousand times repeated cries of "Our country!" "Chili Liberty!" the soldiers retreated, step by step, abandoning, one after another, the different posts of which they had been in possession at the commencement of the action, and rallied upon the Plaza Mayor, the outlets of which they had barricaded in their turn.
The city was in the power of the insurgents; for as the battle from this moment was concentrated at one point, it was not difficult to foresee with which party the victory would remain; for the soldiers, discouraged by the ill success of theircoup de main, and sensible of being the champions of a lost cause, only fought to obtain honourable conditions. General Bustamente's officers, and the senators whom he had brought with him as partizans, trembled when thinking of the fate that awaited them if they fell into the hands of their enemies. Success justifies everything: from the moment they failed to succeed they became traitors to their country, and, as such, had no right to a capitulation. They therefore excited their soldiers to fight valiantly, promising them speedy assistance, and trying to revive their courage by telling them that their adversaries were merely citizens, whom they could easily overcome if they made a bold attempt, or even resisted for an hour longer.
The general who commanded the garrison, and whom we saw upon the steps of the cabildo read with so much arrogance the decree which changed the form of government, bit his lips with rage and performed prodigies of valour, to give Bustamente time to arrive. As soon as he saw the turn things had taken, he sent off an express for the General with the utmost promptitude. This express was Diego, the old soldier who was so devoted to General Bustamente.
"Lieutenant," he said, in conclusion, "you see in what a position we are; you must reach the General at all risks."
"I will reach him, General; be at ease on that head!" Diego replied, intrepidly.
"And I will endeavour to hold out till your return."
Don Diego, before he finished speaking, had ridden desperately at the ranks of the insurgents, spurring on his horse, and waving his sword with menacing rapidity round his head. The Dark-Hearts, astonished by such an attack on the part of a single man, at the first moment unconsciously opened their ranks before him as to a canister shot, incapable of resisting the impetuous shock of this apparently invulnerable demon, who mowed down all that came in his way. Diego skilfully took advantage of the disorder produced on the enemy by his furious assault; he kept pushing on, and, after incredible efforts, succeeded in getting out of the city. As soon as he was in safety, the overexcitement which till that time had sustained him, suddenly sank, and at a few paces from the gates he was forced to stop to take breath, and restore his confused ideas to a little order. The old soldier washed the sides and nostrils of his horse with a little brandy and water; and as soon as this duty was performed, aware that the fate of his companions depended upon his speed, he sprang into his saddle and set off with the fleetness of an arrow.
The General did not delay his return to Valdivia a minute, for he felt that success would be an immense advantage to him; and a check, if he were beaten, irreparable. As a conqueror, his march to Santiago would be nothing but a triumphant march; the authorities of the cities he passed through would rival each other in ranging themselves beneath his standard; whereas, if he were forced to abandon Valdivia as a fugitive, he would be tracked like a wild beast, and obliged to seek safety in a prompt flight, either in Bolivia or Buenos Aires, and the projects he had nourished so long, and of which he believed he had beforehand assured the success, would be deferred, or perhaps destroyed for ever. Thus the General was a prey to one of those cold furies, which are so much more terrible, because they cannot be exhibited outwardly.
The horsemen advanced amidst a cloud of dust raised by their precipitate course, rushing along the road like a whirlwind, and with a noise like thunder. Two lances' length in advance of the soldiers, Don Pancho, bending over the neck of his horse, with pale brow and clenched teeth, galloped at full speed, keeping his eyes fixed upon the lofty steeples of Valdivia, whose dark shadows became more enlarged on the horizon every minute. Within half a mile of the city he halted his squadron. The sharp pattering of musketry resounded strongly, mingled at intervals with the dismal, rolling bass of cannon; the battle, therefore, must still be going on. The General hastened to make his last preparations before attempting an attack he hoped would prove decisive. The foot soldiers dismounted, and formed in platoons, and firearms of all kinds were loaded.
The troops brought up by the General were not numerous from the European point of view, according to which we are accustomed to see great masses in conflict; they, at most, did not exceed eight hundred men. In Europe it is customary to say that victory is most likely to attend large battalions: in America, where the largest armies are frequently of not more than three thousand men, this idea becomes naturally modified, and it is generally the most skilful or the most brave man who remains master of the field of battle.
Don Pancho was a rough soldier, accustomed to the struggles of civil wars, which, for the most part, consist of audaciouscoups de main. Endowed with courage bordering on rashness, and devoured by ambition, he prepared, with the greatest coolness, to re-establish his compromised affairs by an irresistible attack. The country in the neighbourhood of Valdivia is a real English garden, interspersed with thickets, apple orchards, copses, and slender streams of water rippling away to the river. It was very easy for the General to conceal his arrival. Two soldiers were detached as scouts, in order to learn the state of things. At the expiration of a few minutes they returned. The outskirts of the city were deserted, the insurgents had driven the troops back into the centre, and, according to the scouts, with the imprudence of citizens metamorphosed suddenly into soldiers, they had left no reserve, or even placed sentinels, to secure their rear against a surprise.
This information, instead of restoring confidence to the General, made him knit his brows; he thought it must be a manoeuvre, and whilst his officers were laughing with all their might at the able tactics of the insurgents, he judged it necessary to redouble his precautions. The troops were divided into two bodies, which, in case of need, were to support each other; and, as they were attacking a city entirely barricaded, the lancers were ordered to dismount, and reinforce the infantry. Only one squadron of a hundred horsemen remained in the saddle, concealed about a quarter of a mile from the place, in order to support a retreat, or to put the fugitives to the sword, if the surprise succeeded. These arrangements made, the General made an earnest address to his soldiers, to whom he promised, in the event of success, the pillage of the city. He then placed himself at the head of the first detachment, and gave the order, "March! Forward!"
The troops advanced in the Indian fashion, taking advantage of every inequality in the ground, and of every tree to conceal themselves, and arrived thus, without giving alarm, to within pistol shot of the city. The dead silence which continued to prevail around him, contrasted in a dismal manner with the musketry and cannon which became more audible as they advanced, and greatly increased the General's anxiety. A dark presentiment warned him that he was threatened by some great danger, which he knew not how to avoid, from being ignorant of what kind it might be. The least hesitation at this critical minute might bring on irreparable misfortunes. The General grasped the hilt of his sword firmly in his clenched hand, and turning towards his soldiers, shouted in a loud, clear voice, "Forward!"
The detachment, which only awaited this order, rushed forward shouting, and, at double-quick time, cleared the space between them and the city. Windows, doors, all were closed; and had it not been for the distant report of musketry, the city might have been thought deserted. The first detachment, finding no obstacles before them, continued their march; and the second detachment also entered. But then, all at once, behind, before, and on the flanks of the troops, a loud cry burst forth; and at every window appeared men with muskets in their hands. Don Pancho Bustamente was surrounded, he had allowed himself to be taken—pardon us the triviality of the comparison—like a rat in a trap. The soldiers, astonished for a second, soon recovered themselves; they faced front and rear, and attacked the double barrier that enclosed them: but though they desperately rushed against it, they could not force it. They then plainly perceived they were lost, that they could expect no quarter, and prepared to die like brave men.
The General cast fierce and desperate glances around him, looking, but unsuccessfully, for a point of issue from the menacing forest of bayonets crossed before him, and which enclosed him as in a steel network. Some authors have amused themselves at the expense of the wars and battles of the Americans, in which they say the two armies always take care to place themselves out of reach of cannon shot, so as never to have a single man killed. This pleasantry, which is in very bad taste, has assumed the proportions of a calumny it is but just to refute, for it attacks the honour of the Americans of the South, who, I unhesitatingly assert, are endowed with intrepid courage—a courage that was brilliantly displayed during the wars of independence against the Spaniards. Unhappily, at present this courage is employed in fratricidal struggles, without any understood object. Thrice the soldiers rushed upon the insurgents, and thrice were they repulsed with enormous loss. The battle was horrible, without mercy on either side; they fought hand to hand, foot to foot, breast to breast, to the last breath, only falling to die. The troops, decimated by this frightful carnage, gradually gave ground; the space they occupied became narrower and narrower, and the moment did not appear distant when they would disappear under the popular flood which continued to ascend, and threatened to engulf them under its irresistible mass. The General collected about fifty men resolved to die or open a passage, and he made a desperate attempt. It was a collision of giants. For a few minutes, the two masses launched one against the other remained almost motionless, from the force of the blow with which they met; Don Pancho, flourishing his sword around him, and standing in his stirrups, struck down all who opposed his passage.
Suddenly a man placed himself before him, like a rock which rises from the depths of the sea. At the sight of him the General paused, in spite of himself, with a stifled cry of surprise and rage. This man was Don Tadeo de Leon, his mortal enemy; whom he had once condemned to death, and who had, in a miraculous manner, survived his execution. But, now! God seemed to place him fatally before him, to be the instrument of his vengeance, and the cause of his ruin and his shame.
"My God!" said the General, "am I the dupe of an hallucination?"
"Ah! ah!" the King of Darkness exclaimed, with an ironical smile, "you recognize me then, General?"
"Don Tadeo de Leon!" Don Pancho cried, in horror. "Do the dead then arise from the tomb? Oh! I hoped that what I heard was false. It is you!"
"Yes," Don Tadeo replied, in a stern voice, "you are not mistaken, Don Pancho; I am Don Tadeo de Leon, whom you caused to be shot upon the Plaza Mayor of Santiago. Your spies have informed you correctly."
"Man or demon," the General shouted, half choking with rage, "I will not yield to you! I will fight you as a man, and send you back again to the hell from which you have escaped!"
His enemy smiled disdainfully.
"Your hour has arrived, Don Pancho," he said; "you are due to the justice of the Dark-Hearts."
"You do not hold me yet, wretched traitor! If I cannot conquer, I can die, weapon in hand, like a soldier."
"No, your hour has struck, I tell you; you are ours, you shall die, but not the death of a soldier; you shall be executed by our justice!"
"If that be the case," the General yelled, brandishing his sword, "come and take me!"
Don Tadeo did not deign a reply; he gave a signal, and a lasso whizzed through the air, launched by an invisible hand, and fell round the General's shoulders. Astonished by this unexpected attack, before he could make the least possible resistance, he received a terrific shock, lost his stirrups, was pulled from his horse, and dragged amongst the insurgents. The astounded General, half mad with rage and shame, exhausted himself in vain efforts; nearly strangled by the lasso which flayed his neck, his face assumed a purple tint; his eyes, injected with blood, seemed starting from their sockets, and a white foam flowed from the corners of his discoloured lips. Don Tadeo contemplated him for a moment with a mixture of pity and triumph.
"Free him from that slipknot," he said. "Secure his person, but treat him with respect."
The soldiers, terrified at this prompt capture, which they had not at all expected, stood downcast and silent; in their stupor forgetting even the use of their arms. Don Tadeo turned towards them:
"Surrender," he shouted, "surrender! the man who misled you is in our power; your lives shall be spared."
The soldiers consulted each other for an instant with their eyes; and then, as if by a spontaneous movement, they threw down their muskets, crying aloud:
"Chili! Chili! liberty! liberty!"
"That is well!" said Don Tadeo; "leave the city, encamp at the distance of a mile, and await the orders which shall soon be transmitted to you."
The conquered soldiers, with downcast looks, followed the road they had traversed an hour before; they passed through the silent ranks of the insurgents, which opened to give them passage. Without loss of time, Don Tadeo, followed by a crowd of his partisans, directed his course towards the Plaza Mayor, where the battle still raged. The soldiers, solidly intrenched in the Plaza, and masters of the cabildo, fought valiantly, hoping still for the assistance of General Bustamente, of whose fate they were ignorant. Although reduced to a small number, these troops occupied a formidable position, in which it was almost impossible to force them, without resolving to suffer great loss. Persuaded that they only required to gain time, the soldiers fought with the energy of despair, defending inch by inch the barricade behind which they were sheltered.
But the day was passing away, their ammunition was growing exhausted, a great number of their comrades were stretched dead at their feet, and nothing could support them but the hope that the succour so impatiently expected was at hand. In the heat of their own contest they had not heard the noise of the battle fought by Don Pancho at the city gates, in which but few shots had been fired, as it had been principally decided by cold steel. Discouragement, however, began to affect the bravest, the general who commanded even felt his energy diminish, and he looked around him with great anxiety.
Dejected, and with downcast eyes, the senator, who had been the bearer of the fatal proclamation, trembled in all his limbs; he regretted, but too late, having thrown himself into this hornet's nest; and he offered up the most magnificent vows to the innumerable saints of the golden Spanish legend, if they would bring him safe and sound through the perils which surrounded him. The worthy man had not any warlike instincts; and we can safely affirm, without fear of contradiction, that if he had had the slightest suspicion that things would have taken the turn they did, he would have remained quiet in his charming quinta of Corro-Azul, in the environs of Santiago, where his life glided away so softly, so happily, and, above all, so free from care. Unfortunately, as it sometimes happens in this nether world, where, whatever Candide may say, everything is not for the best, in the best of worlds, Don Ramón Sandias—so the worthy senator was named—had not been able duly to appreciate the charms of that calm life; ambition had gnawed at his heart, though he had nothing to wish for; and he had, as we have seen, plunged up to the neck in a hornet's nest, from which he did not know how to emerge.
At every shot he heard, the poor senator jumped like a Guanaco, with startled eyes; and when, now and then, in spite of the precautions he had taken, the sinister hissing of a bullet resounded in his ear, he threw himself flat on his face, murmuring all the prayers that his troubled memory could recall.
At first, the contortions and cries of Don Ramón had very much amused the officers and soldiers among whom accident had placed him; they had even taken delight in augmenting his terrors; but, at length, as happens more frequently in such cases than people fancy, the pleasantries had ceased; Don Ramón's terrors had communicated themselves to the laughers, who saw, with fright, that their position was becoming every minute more desperate.
"The devil take the poltroon!" the General at length cried, angrily; "cannot you keep your trembling limbs still? Caspita! console yourself, they won't kill you more than once."
"Ah! that is very easy for you to say," the senator replied, in a broken voice; "I am no soldier; it is your trade to be killed, it is all one to you."
"Hum!" said the General, "not quite so much so as you may think; but comfort yourself; if this goes on a little longer, we shall all go together."
"What is that you say?" the poor man muttered, with redoubled fear.
"Caramba! it is clear as day, if Don Pancho does not make haste and come, all of us here will die."
"But I do not wish to die!" said the senator, bursting into tears; "I am no soldier. Oh! I implore you, my good, my inestimable Don Tiburcio Cornejo, let me go away!"
The General shrugged his shoulders.
"What consequence can it be to you?" the senator continued, in a supplicating tone; "do save my life! show me which way I can get out of this cursed confusion."
"Eh! how the devil do I know?"' the General said, impatiently.
"Well, now, look here," said the senator; "you owe me two thousand piastres, which I won of you at Monte, do you not?"