"They are of two descriptions. The latter only concerns yourself; during the course of your journey you can make yourself acquainted with them; they will instruct you in certain matters you should know in order to secure the success of your mission."
"I understand—and the others?"
"The others are for Antinahuel, that is, the Tiger Sun, and must be delivered into his own hands."
"A queer name that!" Valentine replied, with a laugh. "And where am I to find the gentleman rejoicing in such a formidable title?"
"By my faith, my friend," replied Don Tadeo, "I know no more than you do."
"The Araucano Indians," interrupted Don Gregorio, "are a rather wandering race, and it is sometimes difficult to find the one you are in search of."
"Bah! I shall find him, be assured of that."
"We do entirely rely upon you."
"In a few hours, as I have told you, I shall myself set out to place in a convent in Valdivia the young lady whom you so fortunately saved; it will, therefore, be in Valdivia I shall await your answer."
"I beg your pardon, but I have not the least idea where Valdivia is," observed Valentine.
"Don't be uneasy on that account; any child in this country can direct you the way thither," Don Gregorio replied.
"Thanks."
"And now, if you change your mind when we meet again, and consent to remain among us, remember we are brothers, and do not hesitate to inform me of your new determination."
"I can neither, reply yes or no, sir; if it depended upon me, we should continue to see each other frequently."
After exchanging a few more friendly expressions, the three men separated. At sunrise, Louis and Valentine, mounted on magnificent horses, which Don Tadeo had forced them to accept, rode away from the chacra, followed by Cæsar. Valentine had received his despatches from the hands of the major-domo. As they were quitting the farm Louis turned round instinctively, as if to salute with a last look a spot he abandoned for ever, and which contained all that was dear to him. A window was gently opened, and the face of the fair girl appeared through the small interval, bathed in tears. The two young men bowed respectfully towards the necks of their horses, and with a deep sigh from Louis, they moved on as the window closed.
"Adieu! oh, adieu for ever!" murmured Louis, choking with emotion.
"Ah, perhaps!" said Valentine; and, to rouse his friend from his grief, he put his horse into a gallop, and they soon lost sight of the chacra in the windings of the road.
Within four hours from their departure Don Tadeo and Don Gregorio likewise set out on their journey to Valdivia, for the purpose of placing Doña Rosario in the convent. But the enemy of whom they thought they had relieved themselves at the Quinta Verde, was not dead; the dagger of the King of Darkness had not proved more sure than the bullets of the General. The two enemies were destined soon to meet again. Notwithstanding the seriousness of the wound he had received, thanks to the intelligent cares lavished upon him, but more particularly, thanks to his excellent constitution, General Bustamente was soon in a convalescent state. Don Pancho and the Linda, from that time united by the strongest of ties—a common personal hatred—prepared to take their revenge upon Don Tadeo, and that of the bitterest nature. The General signalized his restoration to health by cruelties of the most flagrant kind towards every man suspected of liberalism, and by inaugurating throughout the republic a pitiless system of terror. Don Tadeo was pronounced outlawed; his friends were cast into dungeons, and their property was confiscated; and then, when the General thought that all these vexations must bring his enemy to bay, and he had nothing to dread from him or his partizans, under the pretence of visiting the provinces of the Republic, he set out for Valdivia, accompanied by his mistress.
As the principal incidents of this history are now about to take place in Araucania, we think it necessary to give our readers some account of this people, who alone of all the nations the Spaniards encountered in America, succeeded in resisting them, and had, up to the time we treat of, preserved intact their liberty and almost all their territory. The Araucanos or Moluchos inhabit the beautiful country situated between the rivers Biobio and Valdivia, having on one side the sea, and on the other the great Cordilleras of the Andes. They are thus completely enclosed within the Chilian republic, and yet, as we have said, have always remained independent. It would be a great error to suppose these Indians savages. The Araucanos have adopted as much of European civilization as suited their character and their mode of living, and have rejected the rest. From the most remote times these peoples had formed a national body, strong and compact, governed by wise laws rigorously executed. The first Spanish conquerors were quite astonished to find in this remote corner of America, a powerful aristocratic republic, and a feudalism organized almost upon the same plan as that which prevailed in Europe in the thirteenth century. We will here enter into a few details of the government of the Araucanos, who proudly style themselvesAucas—free men. These details concerning a people too little known, up to this day, cannot fail to interest the reader.
The principal chiefs of the Araucanos are the Toquis,[1]the Apo-Ulmens, and the Ulmens. There are four Toquis, one for each territorial division; they have under their orders the Apo-Ulmens, who, in their turn, command the Ulmens. The Toquis are independent of each other, but confederated for the public good. Titles are hereditary, and pass from males to males. The vassals or Mosotones are free; in time of war alone they are subject to military service; but, in this country, and it is this which constitutes its strength, every man in a condition to bear arms is a soldier. It may easily be understood what the chiefs are when we state that the people consider them only as the first among their equals, and that their authority is consequently rather precarious; and if, now and then, certain Toquis have endeavoured to extend their authority, the people, jealous of their privileges, have always found means to keep them within the bounds prescribed by their ancient usages.
A society whose manners are so simple, and interests so little complicated, which is governed by wise laws, and all the members of which have an ardent love of liberty, is invincible, as the Spaniards have many times found to their cost. After having, in several attempts, endeavoured to subdue this little corner of land, isolated amidst their own territory; they have ended by acknowledging the futility of their efforts, and have tacitly admitted their defeat by renouncing for ever their projects of obtaining dominion over the Araucanos, with whom they have contracted alliances, and across whose territory they now peacefully pass on their road from Santiago to Valdivia.
The Carampangue—in the Araucano idiom, refuge of lions—is a charming stream, half torrent, half river, which comes bounding down from the inaccessible summits of the Andes, and, after many capricious windings, loses itself in the sea two leagues to the north of Arauco. Nothing can be more beautiful than the banks of the Carampangue, bordered by smiling valleys, covered with woods, with apple trees loaded with fruit, rich pastures in which animals of all kinds range and feed at liberty, and high mountains, from the verdant sides of which hang, in the most picturesque positions, clusters of cabins, whose whitewashed walls shine in the sun, and give life to this enchanting landscape.
On the day when we resume our narrative, that is, on a beautiful morning in July—called by the Indians the month of the sun—two horsemen, followed by a magnificent black and white Newfoundland dog, were ascending, at a sharp trot, the course of the river, following what is called a wild beast's track, scarcely marked in the high grass. These men, dressed in the Chilian costume, surging up suddenly amidst this wild natural scene, formed, by their manners and their vestments, a contrast with everything which surrounded them; a contrast of which they probably had no idea, for they rode as carelessly through this barbarous country, abounding in perils and ambushes without number, as they would have done along the road from Paris to Saint-Cloud. These two men, whom the reader has, no doubt, recognized, were the Count Louis de Prébois-Crancé and Valentine Guillois, his foster brother. They had passed in turn through Maulé, Talca, and Concepción; and on the day we meet them again, in the middle of Araucania, they had been full two months on the road, travelling philosophically along with their dog Cæsar upon the banks of the Carampangue. This was the 14th of July, 1837, at eleven o'clock in the morning.
The young men had passed the night in an abandonedranchowhich they had fallen in with on their way, and at sunrise resumed their journey; so that they now began to be sensible of the calls of hunger. Upon taking a survey of the spot where they found themselves, they perceived a clump of apple trees, which intercepted the rays of the sun, and offered them a shelter for their repast and a little rest. They dismounted and sat down at the foot of a large apple tree, leaving their horses to browse upon the young branches so abundant around them. Valentine knocked down a few apples with a stick, opened hisalforjas—large cloth pockets placed behind the saddle—drew out some sea biscuit, a piece of bacon, and a goat's milk cheese, and the two young men began eating gaily, sharing their provisions with Cæsar in a brotherly way, whilst he, seated gravely in front of them, followed with his eyes every morsel they put into their mouths.
"Caramba!" said Valentine, with a satisfied smile; "it is comfortable to have a little rest, after having been on horseback from four o'clock in the morning."
"Well, to tell the truth, I must own I am a little fatigued," Louis confessed.
"My poor friend, you are not, as I am, accustomed to long journeys. It was stupid of me not to remember that."
"Bah! on the contrary, I am getting accustomed to them very well; and besides," he added, with a sigh, "physical fatigue makes me forget——"
"Ah! that's true," Valentine interrupted; "come! I am happy to hear you speak thus—I see you are becoming a man!"
Louis shook his head sorrowfully.
"No," he said, "you are mistaken. As the malady which undermines me is without remedy, I endeavour to play a manly part."
"Yes, hope is one of the supreme illusions of love; when it can no longer exist, love dies."
"Or he who experiences it," said the young man, with a melancholy smile.
This was followed by a silence, which Valentine at length broke.
"What a charming country!" he cried, with feigned enthusiasm, for the purpose of giving the conversation another direction, as he swallowed, with delectation, an enormous piece of bacon.
"Yes, but the roads are very bad."
"Who knows?" said Valentine, with a smile: "they say the roads to Paradise are of that kind; this may be the way thither." Then addressing the dog, "And you, Cæsar, what do you think of our journey, old boy?"
The dog wagged his tail, fixing his eyes, sparkling with intelligence, upon the speaker's face, whilst he eagerly devoured all that was given to him. But he stopped suddenly in his masticating operations, pricked up his ears, turned his head sharply round, and balked furiously.
"Silence, Cæsar!" said Valentine; "what do you bark in that manner for? You know right well we are in a desert, and that in a desert there is nobody but the devil!"
But Cæsar continued to bark without heeding his master.
"Hum!" said Louis, "I do not agree with you; I think that the deserts of America are thickly peopled."
"Well, perhaps you are right."
"The dog's barking is not usual; we ought to take precautions."
"I will see," said Valentine; and addressing the Newfoundland, "Come! come! hold your tongue, Cæsar! You are tiresome! What's the matter with you? What teases you? Do you scent a stag? Caramba! That would be a glorious godsend for us."
Here he rose, and cast an inquiring glance around, but he immediately stopped, and seized his rifle, making a sign to Louis to do the same, in order to be prepared for whatever might happen.
"Diable!" he said, "Cæsar was right, and I must confess myself a stupid fellow. Look yonder, Louis!"
The other turned his eyes as directed.
"Oh! oh!" he said; "what is this?"
"Hum! I believe we shall soon discover."
"With God's help!" Louis replied, cocking his rifle.
Ten Indians in war costume, and mounted on magnificent horses, were drawn up within twenty paces of the travellers, though the latter were quite unable to comprehend how they had succeeded in approaching so near to them without being discovered. Notwithstanding Valentine's efforts, Cæsar continued to bark furiously, and endeavoured to rush upon the Indians. The American warriors, motionless and impassible, made neither gesture nor movement, but they surveyed the Frenchmen so closely and persistently, that Valentine, not very patient in his nature, began to find himself excessively annoyed.
[1]This word comes from the verbtoquin, which means tojudge, tocommand.
[1]This word comes from the verbtoquin, which means tojudge, tocommand.
"Eh! eh!" said Valentine, whistling sharply to his dog, who immediately came to him; "these fellows do not seem to have friendly intentions; we must be upon our guard: who knows what may happen?"
"They are Araucanos," said Louis.
"Do you think so? Then they are devilish ugly!"
"Well, now, for my part, I think them very handsome."
"Ah, yes; that may be in an artistic point of view. But, ugly or handsome, we will await their coming."
The Indians talked among themselves, and continued to look at the young men.
"They are consulting to determine with what sauce they shall eat us," said Valentine.
"Not at all——"
"Bah! I tell you they are."
"Pardieu! they are not cannibals!"
"No? So much the worse; that's a defect. In Paris, all the savages exhibited in public are cannibals."
"You madman! you laugh at everything."
"Would you prefer my weeping a little? It appears to me that at this moment our position is not so seducing in itself that we should seek to make it more dismal."
These Indians were for the most part men of from forty to forty-five years of age, clothed in the costume of the Puelches, one of the most warlike tribes of Upper Araucania; they wore the poncho floating from the shoulders, the calzoneras fastened round the hips and falling to the ankle, the head bare, the hair long, straight, and greasy, gathered together by a red ribbon, which encircled the brow like a diadem, and the face painted of various colours. Their arms consisted of a long lance, a knife, a gun hanging from the saddle, and a round buckler, covered with leather, ornamented with horsehair and human scalps.
The man who appeared to be their chief was a man of lofty stature, expressive features, hard and haughty, but still displayed a certain frankness, a very rare quality among Indians. The only thing which distinguished him from his companions was a feather of the eagle of the Andes, planted upright on the left side of his head, in the bright red ribbon that confined his hair.
After having consulted with his companions for a few minutes, the chief advanced towards the travellers, making his horse curvet with inimitable grace, and lowered the point of his lance in sign of peace. When within three paces of Valentine, he stopped, and, after saluting him ceremoniously, in the Indian fashion, by placing his right hand on his breast, and slowly bowing his head twice, he said to him in Spanish:—
"My brothers are Muruches—foreigners,—and not Culme-Huinca—despicable Spaniards. Why are they so far from the men of their own nation?"
This question, asked in the guttural accent, and with the emphatic tone peculiar to the Indians, was perfectly understood by the young men, who, as we have before observed, generally spoke Spanish themselves.
"Hum!" Valentine said to his companion, "here is a savage who appears to have a little curiosity about him—what think you?"
"Bah!" Louis replied, "answer him, at all events that will do no harm."
"Why, no, that is true; we cannot easily be more compromised than we are already."
And turning towards the chief, who waited impassibly,
"We are travelling," he said, laconically.
"What! alone, thus?" asked the chief.
"Does that astonish you, my friend?"
"Do my brothers fear nothing?"
"What should we fear?" said the Parisian in a bantering tone. "We have nothing to lose."
"What! not even your hair?"
Louis could not refrain from laughing, as he looked at Valentine.
"Ah! ah! what, he is laughing at the disordered state of my hair, is he, the ugly wretch?" Valentine grumbled, vexed at the observation of the chief, and quite mistaking his intentions. "Stop a bit!" then he added, in a loud voice, "Have the goodness to pass on, gentlemen savages. Your remarks are not pleasant, I can assure you."
He cocked his rifle, and lifted it to his shoulder, as if taking aim at the chief. Louis, who had attentively followed the progress of the conversation, without saying a word imitated the action of his friend, directing the barrel of his rifle towards the group of Indians. The chief had, doubtless, understood but little of the speeches of his adversaries, but far from appearing terrified at the menacing attitude they assumed, he seemed to contemplate with pleasure the martial and firm deportment of the Frenchmen; and putting gently on one side the weapon pointed against his breast, said in a conciliatory tone:
"My friend is mistaken. I have no intention of insulting him. I am hispenni—brother—and his companion's likewise. Were not the palefaces eating when I and my young men came up?"
"Faith! yes, chief, you say true," interrupted Louis, with a smile; "your sudden appearance stopped the progress of our humble repast."
"Part of which is very much at your service," continued Valentine, pointing with his finger to the provisions spread upon the grass.
"I accept your offer," said the Indian, cordially.
"Bravo!" cried Valentine, throwing down his rifle, and preparing to resume his seat on the grass; "to table, then!"
"Yes," replied the chief, "but upon one condition."
"What is that?" the young men asked together.
"That I shall furnish my part."
"Agreed," said Louis.
"Well, that is but fair," Valentine added; "and it will be the more acceptable, from our not being rich, and having but meagre fare to offer you."
"The bread of a friend is always good," the chief said, sententiously.
"That is admirably answered! But, at this moment, unfortunately, our bread is only stale biscuit."
"I will remedy that;" and the chief said a few words in the Molucho language to his companions, who began to rummage in their alforjas, and quickly produced maize tortillas, some charqui, and several leathern bottles filled with chica—a sort of cider made of apples and Indian corn. The whole was placed upon the grass before the two Frenchmen, who were wonderstruck at the sudden abundance which had succeeded without any transition to their late short commons. The Indians dismounted, and sat down in a circle round the travellers. The chief, then turning towards his guests, said with a pleasant smile—
"Now, then, let my brothers eat."
The young men did not require the cordial invitation to be repeated, but vigorously attacked the provisions so frankly offered. For the first few minutes silence prevailed among the party, for all were too well engaged to talk; but as soon as appetite was a little appeased, conversation was resumed.
Of all men, Indians, perhaps, understand the laws of hospitality the best. They have an instinct of social conventions, if such an expression may be allowed, which makes them divine at once, with infallible correctness, what the questions are that may be properly addressed to their guests, and the point at which they should stop to avoid committing any indiscretion. The two Frenchmen, who for the first time found themselves in contact with Araucanos, could not overcome the surprise caused by the knowledge of life, and the noble and frank manners of these men, whom, on the faith of accounts more or less false, they were accustomed, in common with all Europeans, to consider as gross savages, almost destitute of intelligence, and quite incapable of any delicacy of behaviour.
"My brothers are not Spaniards?" the chief said, half interrogatively.
"That is true," Louis replied; "but how did you discover that?"
"Oh!" he said, with a disdainful smile, "we are well acquainted with thosechiaplos—wicked soldiers. They are too old enemies to allow us to commit an error with regard to them. From what island do my brothers come?"
"Our country is not an island," Valentine observed.
"My brother is mistaken," the chief said emphatically; "there is but one country that is not an island, and that is the great land of the Aucas."
The two young men bowed their heads before an opinion so peremptorily put forth—all discussion became impossible.
"We are Frenchmen," Louis replied.
"Frenchmen! ah! a good brave nation! We had several French warriors in the time of the great war."
"What!" said Louis, with excited curiosity, "have French warriors fought with you?"
"Yes," the chief remarked, proudly; "warriors with grey beards, and breasts marked with honourable scars, which they received in the wars of their island, when they fought under the orders of their great chief, Zaléon."
"Napoleon?" said Valentine, quite astonished.
"Yes; I believe it is so the palefaces pronounce his name. Did my brother know him?" the chief added, with ill-concealed curiosity.
"No," replied the young man. "Although born in his reign, I was never able to get sight of him, and he is now dead."
"My brother is mistaken," said the Puelche, solemnly; "such warriors as he do not die. When they have performed their task upon earth they go to Paradise—to hunt with Pillian, the master of the world."
The young men bowed, as if convinced.
"It is very singular," said Louis, "that the reputation of that powerful genius should have spread to the most remote and unknown regions of the globe, and be preserved pure and brilliant among these rude men; whilst in that France, for which he did everything men invariably seek to lessen it, and even to destroy it."
"Like all their compatriots, who, from time to time, traverse our hunting grounds, our brothers have, doubtless, trading purposes in coming among us. Where are your goods?" said the chief.
"We are not traders," replied Valentine; "we came to visit our brothers, the Araucanos, of whose wisdom and hospitality we have heard much."
"The Moluchos love the French," the chief said, flattered by the compliment; "my brothers will be well received in our villages."
"To what tribe does my brother belong?" asked Valentine, inwardly delighted at the good opinion the Indians entertained of his compatriots.
"I am one of the principal Ulmens of the sacred tribe of the Great Hare," the chief said, proudly.
"Thank you—one word more."
"Let my brother speak; my ears are open."
"We are in search of a Molucho chief, to whom we have a message from a friend of his, with whom he has had much dealing."
"What is the chief's name?"
"Antinahuel."
"Good!"
"Does my brother know him?"
"I know him. If my brothers will follow me they shall see the toldo of a chief in which they shall be received like pennis. When they have rested, if they desire it, I will myself conduct them to Antinahuel, the most powerful Toqui of the four Uthal-Mapus of the Araucano confederacy."
"What province is governed by Antinahuel?"
"The Piré-Mapus, that is to say, the interior of the Andes."
"Thanks, brother."
"Will my brothers accept the offer I have made them?"
"Why should we not accept it, chief, if, as I believe, it is made in earnest?"
"Let my brothers come, then," the chief said, with a smile; "my toldería is not far off."
The breakfast was over, and the Indians were mounting.
"We may as well go," said Valentine, in French. "This Indian appears to speak cordially and honestly, and it will give us a capital opportunity of studying interesting manners and customs. What do you think, Louis?—It may prove very amusing."
"Well, I see no harm that accepting the invitation can do."
"God speed us, then!"
And with a bound he was in his saddle, imitated by Louis.
"Forward!" cried the chief, and the party set off at a gallop.
"Well, it must be allowed," said Valentine, in his cheerful way, "that these savages, if savages they are, have some redeeming qualities belonging to them. I begin to take a warm interest in them. They are true Scotch mountaineers for hospitality. I wonder what my regimental comrades, and more particularly my old friends of the Boulevard du Temple, would say if they could see me now! Houp! After me, the end of the world!"
Louis laughed at this outburst of the incorrigiblegamin, and, without further inquiries, the young men gaily abandoned themselves to the guidance of their new friends, who, after leaving the banks of the river, directed their course towards the mountains.
In order to make the facts which follow intelligible, we are obliged here to relate an adventure which happened more than twenty years before the period at which our history commences.
Towards the end of the month of December, 1816, on a cold, rainy night, a traveller, mounted on an excellent horse, and carefully wrapped in the folds of an ample cloak, was following at a round trot the road, or rather the blind path, on the mountains which leads from Cruces to San-José. This man was a rich landowner, who was making a journey into Araucania, for the purpose of treating with the Indians for a large number of cattle and sheep. Having left Cruces about two o'clock in the afternoon, he had been delayed on his way by settling some business with variousguasos, and he was hastening to gain a hacienda he possessed at some leagues from the spot where he then was, and where he reckoned upon passing the night.
The country at the time was not in a state of tranquillity. For several days past the Puelches had appeared in arms upon the frontiers of Chili, and made incursions into the territories of the republic, burning the chacras, and carrying off the families they surprised. These marauders were commanded by a chief named The Black Jackal, whose cruelty spread terror among the people exposed to his depredations.
It was, therefore, with some anxiety, mixed with secret apprehensions, that the man we have spoken of made all speed along the desolate road which led to his hacienda. Every minute only added to his fears. The storm, which had threatened all day, burst forth at last with a fury of which we have no conception in our climates. The wind roared loudly through the trees, bending some, and uprooting others. The rain fell in torrents, and the lightning became so vivid, that the horse began to plunge and rear, and refused to advance. The rider spurred the restive animal, and endeavoured, as well as the darkness would permit, to discover whereabouts he was. After surmounting immense difficulties, he saw at length, in the distance, the shadow of the walls of his hacienda, and the lights which shone like guiding stars, when suddenly his horse bounded on one side in such a way as almost to unseat him. When, with much trouble, he had recovered his command of the animal, he looked round to see what could have frightened it so, and perceived, with terror equal to the horse's, several men of sinister appearance standing motionless before him. The horseman's first movement was to seize his pistols, in order to sell his life as dearly as he could, for he had no doubt he had fallen into an ambuscade of bandits.
"Keep your hands from your weapons, Don Antonio Quintana," said a rough voice; "we desire neither your life nor your money."
"What do you want then?" he replied, in a tone that showed he was a little reassured by that frank declaration, though he still kept on the defensive.
"Hospitality for this night, in the first place," said the other.
Don Antonio endeavoured to ascertain if he knew the man who was speaking to him, but he could not distinguish his features through the darkness.
"The doors of my dwelling always fly open to the stranger," he remarked; "why have you not knocked at them?"
"Knowing you must come this way, I preferred waiting for you."
"What else do you desire of me, then?"
"I will tell you under your own roof; the open road is a place ill adapted for imparting confidence."
"If you have nothing more to say to me now, and are as willing as I am to get under shelter, we will continue our journey."
"Go on, then; we will follow you."
Without exchanging another word, they directed their course towards the hacienda. Don Antonio Quintana was a resolute man, as the manner in which he had replied to the men who had so rudely barred his passage proved him. In spite of the fluency with which the one who had spoken employed the Spanish language, he had, at the first word, by his guttural accent, perceived he was an Indian; and with him fear had immediately given way to curiosity, and he had not hesitated to grant the hospitality asked, knowing that the Araucano, Puelches, Hueliches, or Moluchos, never violate the roof under which they are welcomed, and that the hosts who shelter them are held sacred.
On arriving at the hacienda, Don Antonio found he was not mistaken; the men who had accosted him in so strange a manner were really Indians. There were four of them, and with them was a young woman with a child at the breast. The hacendero welcomed them to his dwelling with all the minute forms of Castilian courtesy, and gave orders to his peones or Indian domestics, terrified at the savage appearance of the strangers, to assist them with everything they might desire.
"Eat and drink," he said, "you are at home, here."
"Thanks!" replied the man, who had till that time been spokesman. "We accept your offer with as good a will as you give it, as far as regards food, of which we stand most in need."
"Will you not rest till day?" asked Don Antonio; "the night is dark, and the weather frightful for travelling."
"A black night is what we desire; besides, we must depart immediately. Now, allow me to put my second request to you."
"Explain yourself," said the Spaniard, examining the speaker attentively.
The latter was a tall, well-made man, of about forty; his strongly-marked features and his commanding eye proclaimed that he was accustomed to exercise authority.
"It was I," he said, without preamble, "who directed the last invasion made upon the palefaces of the frontiers. My mosotones were all killed yesterday in an ambuscade by your lanceros; the three you see with me are all that remain of a troop of two hundred warriors; the others are dead. I myself am wounded, hunted, tracked like a wild beast; we are without horses to rejoin our tribe, without weapons to defend ourselves if we are attacked on the plain. I come to ask of you the means of escape from our pursuers. I will neither deceive nor surprise your good faith. I am bound to tell you the name of the man whose safety you hold in your hands. I am the greatest enemy of the Spaniards; my life has been passed in contending with them. In a word, I am The Black Jackal, the Apo-Ulmen of the Black Serpents."
On hearing this redoubtable name the Chilian could not suppress a start of terror; but immediately recovering his self-possession, he replied in a calm voice, and in a kind tone.
"You are my guest, and you are unfortunate, two titles sacred with me. I desire to know nothing more; you shall have horses and arms."
A smile of ineffable sweetness lit up the countenance of the Indian.
"One last prayer," he said.
"Speak."
The chief took by the hand the young Indian squaw, who had remained cowering and weeping in a corner, rocking her child in her arms, and presented her to Don Antonio.
"This woman belongs to me; this child is mine," he said, "and I confide them both to you."
"I will take charge of them; the woman shall be my sister, the child my son," the hacendero replied kindly, and after the Indian fashion.
"The Apo-Ulmen will remember!" said the Puelche chief, in a voice trembling with emotion.
He imprinted a kiss upon the brow of the poor little creature, who smiled upon him, cast upon the woman a look beaming with tenderness, and rushed out of the house, followed by his companions. Don Antonio supplied them with arms and horses, and the four Indians disappeared in the darkness.
Many years passed away ere Don Antonio heard anything of the Black Jackal; the woman and the child remained at the hacienda, and were treated as if they had been members of the Chilian's family. The hacendero had been married; but, unfortunately, after a year, which promised to be the commencement of a long and happy union, the wife died when giving birth to a beautiful little girl, whom her father named Maria. The two children grew up together, watched over by the anxious solicitude of the Indian woman, loving each other like brother and sister.
At length, one day, a numerous troop of Puelches, magnificently equipped and mounted, arrived at Rio-Claro, the town in which Don Antonio resided. The chief of these Indians was the Black Jackal, who came to redemand his wife and son of him to whom he had intrusted them. The interview was very affecting. The chief forgot his Indian stoicism; he gave himself up to the feelings which agitated him, and enjoyed the happiness of finding again, after such a length of time, the two beings he held dearest in the world. When it became necessary to depart, and the children learnt they were to be separated, they shed abundance of tears. They had been accustomed from their infancy to live together, and they could not comprehend why they were not to continue to do so.
Don Antonio had extended his traffic over different parts of the frontiers; he possessed chacras, in which the breeding of cattle was carried on upon a vast scale. The Black Jackal, who had sworn a perpetual friendship, became of great use to him in his business transactions; he often put him in the way of making excellent bargains with his compatriots, and, what was still more serviceable, protected his property from the depredations of plunderers. Every year Don Antonio visited all his chacras in Araucania, and passed a couple of months among the tribe of the Black Serpents, with his friend, the Black Jackal. His daughter accompanied him in all these journeys, on account of the friendship that existed between the children. Things went on thus for many years.
At the period when our history commences, the Black Jackal was dead: he had fallen, like a brave warrior, with his weapons in his hand, in a combat on the frontier; his son, Antinahuel, now about thirty-five years of age, who promised to tread in his footsteps, had been elected Apo-Ulmen in his place, and afterwards Toqui of his Uthal-Mapus or province, which made him one of the principal men of Araucania. Don Antonio had likewise died, shortly after the marriage of his daughter, Doña Maria, with Don Tadeo de Leon, brought to an untimely grave by his grief at her misconduct, which had produced terrible scandal in the upper classes of Santiago.
Doña Maria for some years past had only seen Antinahuel at long intervals; but between them their friendship remained as warm as in the days of their childhood; and, on the part of the Indian warrior, it was carried so far that he obeyed the least caprice of the young woman as an imperative duty. Great, then, was the astonishment of the warriors of the tribe of the Black Serpents, when, in the evening of the day on which we have resumed our story, they saw Doña Maria arrive on horseback, accompanied only by two peons, at their toldería, and go straight towards the rancho of the Toqui. On perceiving her, the usually gloomy face of the chief was suddenly lighted up with an expression of gladness.
"Eglantine of the Woods!" he cried, in a joyous tone, "does my sister then still remember the poor Indian?"
"I have come to visit the toldo of my brother," she said, turning her brow towards him, upon which he impressed a kiss; "my heart is sad, grief devours me—and I have remembered my brother."
The chief cast a look upon her of anxiety, mingled with sorrow.
"Although it be to trouble that I owe the visit of my sister, I am, nevertheless, rejoiced to see her."
"Yes," she resumed, "when we are in trouble we think of our friends."
"My sister has done well in thinking of me; what can I do for her?"
"My brother can render me a great service."
"My life is my sister's; she knows she can dispose of it at her pleasure."
"Thank you! I was certain I could depend upon my brother."
"Everywhere, and at all times."
After bowing respectfully to Doña Maria, he led her into his rancho, where his mother had prepared everything worthy of the visit of one whom for so many years she had loved as a daughter.
Antinahuel—the Tiger Sun—was at this time a man of about thirty-five years of age. In stature he was tall, and in his carriage majestic; everything in his person announced a man accustomed to command, and made to rule over his fellows. As a warrior, his reputation was immense, and his mosotones held him in superstitious veneration. Such was, physically, the man whom Doña Maria de Leon came to visit; what he was, morally, we shall soon see.
The cloth was laid in the toldo,—we make use of the expression, the cloth was laid, advisedly, because the Araucano chiefs are perfectly well acquainted with European customs, and almost all possess dishes, plates, and silver spoons and forks. It is true, they only make use of these upon great occasions, and for the purpose of display; for, as to themselves, they carry frugality and plainness to an excess, and when they are alone with their families, are content to eat with their fingers.
Doña Maria seated herself at the table, and made a sign to Antinahuel, who stood respectfully beside her, to keep her company, and to take his place opposite to her. It was clear to the Indian chief that his sister, as he called her, who for some years had completely neglected him, must have been induced by some powerful interest to seek him thus in his remote village. But what could the interest be which led a delicate woman, accustomed to all the luxurious comforts of life, to undertake a long and perilous journey in order to come and talk with an Indian in a miserable toldería, hidden in the midst of the desert?
On her side, the young woman was a prey to still greater uneasiness, for she was anxious to discover whether, in spite of her neglect of the chief, she had preserved the boundless power she had formerly exercised over that Indian nature, which civilization had softened rather than subdued; she feared lest the long forgetfulness in which she had left him had made her lose her prestige in his eyes, and that coolness and indifference might have succeeded to the warm friendship of early days.
When the repast was ended, a peon brought in thematé[1]the infusion of the Paraguay herb which, with the Chilians, takes the place of tea, and of which they are very fond. Two chased cups, placed upon a filagree salver, were presented to Doña Maria and the chief; they lit their maizepajillos, and smoked, whilst sipping theirmaté, reflectively. After a few minutes' silence, which was beginning to be embarrassing to both, Doña Maria, who perceived that Antinahuel was resolved to act on the defensive, determined to open the attack.
"My brother," she said, with a smile, "is surprised at my sudden arrival at his toldería."
"It is true; the Eglantine of the Woods has appeared unexpectedly amongst us, but she is not the less welcome on that account."
And he bowed.
"I am glad to observe that my brother is as gallant as ever."
"No; I love my sister, and I am happy to see her, after being so long deprived of her presence."
"I know your friendship for me, Penni; our childhood was passed together, but it is a long time since that time. You are now one of the caraskens, whilst I am only, as formerly, a poor woman."
"The Eglantine of the Woods is my sister, her least wishes shall always be sacred with me."
"Thanks, Penni! But let us drop this conversation, and talk of our early years, which, alas! so quickly glided away."
"Yesterday exists no longer," he said, sententiously.
"That's true," she replied, with a sigh; "why, indeed, should we talk of times that can never come back?"
"Does my sister intend to return to Chili?"
"No; I have left Santiago for a time; I intend, for a season, to take up my abode in Valdivia; I left my friends to continue their route, whilst I came on to pay my respects to my brother."
"Yes, I know that the man whom the palefaces call General Bustamente, though scarcely cured of a dangerous wound, set off, a month ago, to visit the province of Valdivia, I, myself, intend shortly to visit that city."
"There are many palefaces from the South there at present."
"Among these strangers are there any that I know?"
"Good heavens! how can I tell? Yes, there is one, Don Tadeo, my husband."
Antinahuel raised his head in astonishment.
"I thought he had been shot!" he said.
"He was."
"Well?"
"He escaped death, though grievously wounded."
The artful woman endeavoured to read what impression the news she had so coolly imparted made upon the stoical face of the Indian.
"Listen to me, my sister," he resumed, after a minute's pause; "Don Tadeo is still your enemy, is he not?"
"More so than ever."
"Good!"
"Not content with having basely abandoned me, and having torn from me my child, the innocent creature who alone consoled me and enabled me to support the sorrows with which he has overwhelmed me, he has crowned his insults by publicly paying his addresses to another woman, whom he takes with him everywhere, and who is at this moment his companion at Valdivia."
"Hum!" the chief said, carelessly.
Accustomed to Araucanian manners, which permit every man to take as many wives as he can support, he found the action of Don Tadeo perfectly natural. This did not escape Doña Maria: an ironical smile curled for a second the corners of her lips, and she continued, negligently, but looking earnestly in the face of the chief—
"Yes, the woman is called, as I hear, Doña Rosario de Mendoz; and is, they say, a beautiful creature!"
That name, pronounced with such apparent indifference, produced the effect of a clap of thunder upon the chief; he sprang up, his face inflamed, and his eyes sparkling.
"Rosario de Mendoz, did you say, my sister?" he shouted.
"Good heavens! I hardly know," she replied. "I have only heard her name—I believe that may be it—but," she added, "what interest can my brother take in it?"
"Oh! none," he said, as he quietly resumed his seat. "Why does not my sister avenge herself upon the man who has abandoned her?"
"To what purpose? and, besides, what vengeance can I hope for? I am but a weak and timid woman, without friends, without support; in short, alone."
"And I?" said the chief; "what am I, then?"
"Oh!" she replied, warmly; "I would not on any account that my brother should constitute himself the avenger of an insult which is personal to myself."
"My sister is mistaken; in attacking this man I avenge my own insult."
"My brother must explain himself—I do not understand him."
"That is what I am going to do."
"I am all attention."
At this moment Antinahuel's mother entered the toldo, and, approaching the chief, said in a humble, but sad tone,—
"My son is wrong in thus recalling old remembrances, and opening ancient wounds again."
"Woman!" the Indian replied, "Retire! I am a warrior! My father left me a vengeance. I have sworn, and I will accomplish my oath!"
The poor mother left the toldo with a sigh. The Linda, whose curiosity was excited to the highest degree, awaited impatiently the chief's explanation. Without, the rain fell pattering upon the leaves of the trees; at intervals a blast of night wind, loaded with uncertain sounds, came whistling through the ill-joined boards of the toldo, and caused the flame of the torch which lighted it to waver unsteadily. The two speakers, though absorbed in their own reflections, involuntarily lent an ear to these nameless sounds, and felt a depression of spirits they could not account for. The chief raised his head, and inhaling, one after another, several mouthfuls of smoke from his pajillo, which he puffed out brusquely, commenced in a low voice,—
"Although my sister is almost a child of the nation, as my mother nursed her, she has never been made acquainted with the history of my family. The history I am about to relate will reveal to her that I have against Don Tadeo de Leon an old hatred, ever kept alive; and which, if I have to the present moment appeared to allow to slumber, it has been because that man was the husband of my sister: the conduct of Don Tadeo towards my sister frees me from the promise I had made myself, and leaves me liberty of action."
Doña Maria bowed assentingly.
"When the vile Spaniards," he continued, "conquered Chili, and reduced its cowardly inhabitants to slavery, they dreamt of subjugating Araucania in its turn, and marched against the Aucas, whose frontiers they violated. My sister sees that I take up my recital from the beginning. The Toqui Cadegual was one of the first to convoke a grand council of the nation, on the plain of the Carampangue. Named Toqui, one of the four Uthal-Mapus, he gave battle to the palefaces. The conflict was terrible! It lasted from the rising to the setting of the sun. Many Molucho warriors departed for the happy prairies of the Eskennane, but Pillian did not abandon the Aucas; they were conquerors, and the Chiaplo fled like timid hares before the terrible lances of our warriors. Numbers of palefaces fell into our hands; among them was a powerful chief, named Don Estevan de Leon. The Toqui Cadegual might have employed his rights, and have killed him, but he did nothing of the kind: so far from it, he led him to his toldo, and treated him with kindness, as a brother. But when did Spaniards ever show themselves grateful for a kindness? Don Estevan, forgetful of the sacred duties of hospitality, seduced the daughter of the man to whom he owed his life, and, one day, disappeared with her. The grief of the Toqui was immense at this unworthy and disloyal treachery. He swore to wage from that time a pitiless war against the palefaces, and he kept his oath: all Spaniards taken by them, whatever their age or sex, were massacred. These terrible reprisals were just, were they not?"
"Yes," said the Linda laconically.
"One day, Cadegual, surprised by his ferocious enemies, fell, covered with wounds, into their hands, after a heroic resistance, during which all his brave Mosotones had allowed themselves to be killed by his side. In his turn, as it happened, Cadegual was in the power of Don Estevan de Leon. The Spanish chief recollected the man who had, years before, saved his life. He was merciful. After cutting off the hands, and scooping out the eyes of his prisoner, he restored to him his daughter, of whom he was tired, and sent him back to his nation. The Toqui was led back by his child, whom he pardoned. When he joined his tribe, Cadegual called together his relations, related to them what he had suffered, showed them his bleeding and mutilated arms, and, after having made his sons and all his relations swear to avenge him, he allowed himself to die of hunger, that he might not survive his shame."
"Oh, that is frightful!" Doña Maria cried, affected, in spite of herself.
"That is nothing yet!" the chief resumed, with a bitter smile; "let my sister listen to the sequel. From that time, an implacable destiny has always hung over the two families, and continually brought the descendants of the Toqui Cadegual in contact with those of Captain Don Estevan de Leon. During three centuries, this ardent, inveterate struggle has lasted between the two families, and will never terminate but by the extinction of one, or perhaps both of them. Up to the present time, the advantage has almost always been on the side of the Leons; the sons of the Toqui have very often been conquered, but they have always remained firm and implacable, ready to re-commence the combat at the first signal. At the present day, the family of Don Estevan has but one representative, Don Tadeo—a representative formidable through his courage, his fortune, and the immense influence, he exercises over his compatriots. He, personally, has never injured the Aucas; he seems even to be ignorant of the inveterate hatred which exists between his family and that of the Toqui; but the descendants of Cadegual do not forget it: they are strong, numerous, and powerful in their turn; the hour of vengeance has struck, they will not let it escape! My sister," he continued, in a voice almost rising to a shout; "my sister, my ancestor was the Toqui Cadegual, and I thank you for having warned me that not only my enemy is not dead, but that he is within my reach!"
"Your mother asked you properly, Penni, why should you revive old hatreds? Peace now reigns between the Chilians and the Aucas: let my brother beware; the whites are numerous; they have many warlike, disciplined soldiers."
"Oh," he replied, with a sinister look; "I am sure of succeeding, for I have my nymph."
Indians of high rank all entertain a firm belief that they have a familiar genius, who is bound to obey them.
Doña Maria feigned to yield to this reason; she had succeeded in putting the hunter upon the scent of the game she wished to destroy, and it was of very little importance to her what motive made him obey her. She knew perfectly well that the hatred alleged by the chief was nothing but a pretext, and that the real cause remained hidden in the depths of his heart. Although she had a clear idea of what it was, she affected not to have the least suspicion of it.
She continued talking with Antinahuel for some time longer about indifferent subjects, and then retired to a chamber which had been prepared for her. It was late, and she wished to set out for Valdivia at daybreak. She was sufficiently well acquainted with the companion of her childhood to know that, now the tiger was roused, it would not be long before he started in quest of the prey which she had marked down for him.
As for the Toqui, the whole night passed away without his thinking of taking a moment's repose; he remained plunged in profound and agitating reflections.