Chapter Fourteen.Que Cosa?Giving way to sweet imaginings, I stood for some seconds under the shadow of the portal.Meanwhile the Mexican had passed out of the street.As I believed that he had gone back to the saloon we had both lately forsaken, I started in the same direction.I now longed to have a conversation with him; determined in my own mind that it should be more cordial than any that had yet taken place between us. I could at that moment have embraced him: for my gratitude, hitherto restrained by the thought of his being my rival, was suddenly exalted to a feeling of fervour.I should seek an interview with the noble youth; make known who it was he had befriended; and ask if there was any way in which I could reciprocate his generosity?My heart was overflowing towards Francisco Moreno! As he had been the cause of my late misery, I now looked upon him as the instrument of my regeneration.“Oh! I shall make an ample return to him! But what is it to be?”Just as I gave thought to the interrogatory, a harsh sound struck upon my ears—as if some one, suddenly stopped in the street, had uttered a cry of mixed anger and surprise. It was followed by the words:“Que cosa caballeros? Que cosa comigo?” (What is it, gentlemen? What do you want with me?)“Vuestra bolsa, señor; nada mas” (Your purse, sir; nothing more.)“Carrambo! A modest demand! For all that, I’m not inclined to comply with it. You may have my purse; but not till after you’ve taken my life. Out of the way, scoundrels! Let me pass!”“Upon him,camarados! He is loaded with doblones.Al tierra! Down with him!”These words—not very loudly spoken—were succeeded by the sounds of a struggle, in which several men appeared to take part; five or six, as I could tell by the shuffling of their shoes upon the flagged pavement.I no longer heard words; or only a few, that seemed spoken under restraint, and scarce louder than whispers!Even he who had first called out appeared to have become suddenly silent!For all that the struggle was continuing!The street in which it was taking place was a sort of narrow passage—leading from one of the main thoroughfares towards the Piazza Grande—and not far from the entrance to the Calle del Obispo.It was dimly illumined by a solitary lard lamp, whose feeble flickering only served to make the path more uncertain.I had myself entered the lane—which chanced to be a near cut between the café to which I was returning, and the “calle” I had left behind. It was just as I had got into it that the cry fell upon my ears, followed by the challenge “Que cosa caballeros?”The rest of the dialogue did not occupy ten seconds of time, before the conflict commenced; and, as the scene of strife was not more than ten paces from where I had paused, another half-score of seconds carried me up to the spot.I had been thus prompt in rushing to the rescue, because I fancied that I knew the voice of the man who was being assaulted.I was right. It was Francisco Moreno!I found him in the midst of five men, forming a sort of quincunx around him; against all five of whom he was industriously defending himself; while they were as busy in the endeavour to get him down.They were all armed withmachetés; while he wielded a sword, which he had drawn from under his cloak.I could see that the attacking party carried pistols, but did not attempt to use them—perhaps from fear of causing an alarm, and thus defeating their purpose: to all appearance plunder!I was not so chary about the discharging of mine. The moment I caught sight of theRed Hats—for the assailants were so distinguished—I had a clear comprehension of the sort of gentry with whom the Mexican had to deal, as well as the character of the attack.The blood ran scalding within my veins. But that very day I had been sickened at hearing the details of an atrocity, committed by these precious pets of our commander-in-chief; and I had mentally vowed, if I should ever chance to catch one of them at their tricks, to make short work with him.The chance had come sooner than I expected; and I remembered my vow.The shout with which I interrupted their pastime was almost loud enough to hinder them from hearing the report of my pistol; but one of them caught the bullet that came out of it, and went groaning into the gutter.I might have shot down a second, or even a third, before they could get out of the way; though they were anything but slow in making disappearance.I was satisfied with having put an end to one: for this had I done, as was evident from the silent lump of humanity that lay doubled up along the stones.
Giving way to sweet imaginings, I stood for some seconds under the shadow of the portal.
Meanwhile the Mexican had passed out of the street.
As I believed that he had gone back to the saloon we had both lately forsaken, I started in the same direction.
I now longed to have a conversation with him; determined in my own mind that it should be more cordial than any that had yet taken place between us. I could at that moment have embraced him: for my gratitude, hitherto restrained by the thought of his being my rival, was suddenly exalted to a feeling of fervour.
I should seek an interview with the noble youth; make known who it was he had befriended; and ask if there was any way in which I could reciprocate his generosity?
My heart was overflowing towards Francisco Moreno! As he had been the cause of my late misery, I now looked upon him as the instrument of my regeneration.
“Oh! I shall make an ample return to him! But what is it to be?”
Just as I gave thought to the interrogatory, a harsh sound struck upon my ears—as if some one, suddenly stopped in the street, had uttered a cry of mixed anger and surprise. It was followed by the words:
“Que cosa caballeros? Que cosa comigo?” (What is it, gentlemen? What do you want with me?)
“Vuestra bolsa, señor; nada mas” (Your purse, sir; nothing more.)
“Carrambo! A modest demand! For all that, I’m not inclined to comply with it. You may have my purse; but not till after you’ve taken my life. Out of the way, scoundrels! Let me pass!”
“Upon him,camarados! He is loaded with doblones.Al tierra! Down with him!”
These words—not very loudly spoken—were succeeded by the sounds of a struggle, in which several men appeared to take part; five or six, as I could tell by the shuffling of their shoes upon the flagged pavement.
I no longer heard words; or only a few, that seemed spoken under restraint, and scarce louder than whispers!
Even he who had first called out appeared to have become suddenly silent!
For all that the struggle was continuing!
The street in which it was taking place was a sort of narrow passage—leading from one of the main thoroughfares towards the Piazza Grande—and not far from the entrance to the Calle del Obispo.
It was dimly illumined by a solitary lard lamp, whose feeble flickering only served to make the path more uncertain.
I had myself entered the lane—which chanced to be a near cut between the café to which I was returning, and the “calle” I had left behind. It was just as I had got into it that the cry fell upon my ears, followed by the challenge “Que cosa caballeros?”
The rest of the dialogue did not occupy ten seconds of time, before the conflict commenced; and, as the scene of strife was not more than ten paces from where I had paused, another half-score of seconds carried me up to the spot.
I had been thus prompt in rushing to the rescue, because I fancied that I knew the voice of the man who was being assaulted.
I was right. It was Francisco Moreno!
I found him in the midst of five men, forming a sort of quincunx around him; against all five of whom he was industriously defending himself; while they were as busy in the endeavour to get him down.
They were all armed withmachetés; while he wielded a sword, which he had drawn from under his cloak.
I could see that the attacking party carried pistols, but did not attempt to use them—perhaps from fear of causing an alarm, and thus defeating their purpose: to all appearance plunder!
I was not so chary about the discharging of mine. The moment I caught sight of theRed Hats—for the assailants were so distinguished—I had a clear comprehension of the sort of gentry with whom the Mexican had to deal, as well as the character of the attack.
The blood ran scalding within my veins. But that very day I had been sickened at hearing the details of an atrocity, committed by these precious pets of our commander-in-chief; and I had mentally vowed, if I should ever chance to catch one of them at their tricks, to make short work with him.
The chance had come sooner than I expected; and I remembered my vow.
The shout with which I interrupted their pastime was almost loud enough to hinder them from hearing the report of my pistol; but one of them caught the bullet that came out of it, and went groaning into the gutter.
I might have shot down a second, or even a third, before they could get out of the way; though they were anything but slow in making disappearance.
I was satisfied with having put an end to one: for this had I done, as was evident from the silent lump of humanity that lay doubled up along the stones.
Chapter Fifteen.Life for Life.“Gracias!” cried the young Mexican, “mil gracias, caballero! That’s all I can say till I get back my breath.”He stopped. I could hear his respiration, quick and heavy, as that of a horse halted after a rapid run.“I hope you have not received any serious injury?” I said, on becoming assured that the only Red Hat remaining in the street was the one lying along the kerb-stone. “Are you wounded?”“Nothing to signify, I think. A cut or two, perhaps. They’re only scratches.”“You’re sure?”“Not quite, caballero; though I fancy I’m all right. I don’t feel disabled—only a little fatigued. It was rather quick play, keeping guard against all five at once. I had no chance to get a thrust at them, else I might have reduced the number. You’ve done that, I perceive. Once more let me thank you for my life.”“There is no need. It is simply a debt paid in kind; and we are now quits.”“Señor, your speech mystifies me. I cannot tell whether I have the honour of knowing the brave man who has done me such signal service. Your voice sounds like one I’ve heard before. You’ll excuse me. It’s so dark here—”“You and I are so much in the habit of having encounters in dark places, I begin to think there’s a fatality in it.”“Carrambo!” exclaimed the Mexican, still further mystified by my remark. “Where have we had these encounters? Pray tell me, señor?”“You don’t remember capitan Moreno?”“It is my name! You know me?”“I have good reason.”“You astonish me. If I mistake not, you are in uniform—an American officer?”“I am.”“May I ask where we have met? At themontétable?”“We have met atmontémore than once. It was not there, however, that I had my first introduction to you, but—”“Where?”“In your house.”“Una burla, señor! No matter; you are welcome.”“No jest, I assure you. Our first exchange of speech was under your own roof.”“Caspita! You confound me.”“’Tis true, I did not go inside—only just over the doorstep. There we met and parted—both a little unmannerly. For the first I was to blame. The last, I think, you ought to share with me. By your abrupt closing of the door, you gave me no chance of showing politeness; else I should have stayed to thank you for doing, what you say I have just done for you. I intended to seek an opportunity some day. It seems I have found it without seeking.”“Santissima Virgen! you, then, are the gentleman—”“Who on a certain night so unceremoniously made entrance into the house of Don Francisco Moreno, in the Callecito de los Pajaros; who went in head-foremost, and no doubt would have been carried out feet foremost, but for the fortune that gave him such a generous host. Ah! captain Moreno,” I continued, in the ardour of my gratitude grasping the young soldier’s hand, “I said we were quits. Far, far from it; you owe me perhaps your life. To you I am indebted for mine; and—and much more.”“Por Dios, caballero! you continue to mystify me. What more?”Under the dominion of a sweet excitement, I was on the point of confessing myamourettewith Mercedes, and telling him how he had interrupted it—in short, telling him all. No longer rivals, but fellow-suitors for two fair sisters, we were journeying along the same road. A common motive—each having a different object—instead of estranging, ought rather to unite us?And yet there was a doubt. Something counselled me to reticence. My secret remained unspoken; not even mention being made of the Calle del Obispo.“Oh!” I answered, taming down my tone of enthusiasm, “Much more depended on my life. Had I lost it—”“Had you lost it,” interrupted the young Mexican, relieving me from the necessity of further explanation, “it would have been a sad misfortune for me: since this night I should have lost mine. Five minutes more, and these footpads would have overpowered me. As for my having savedyourlife, that is scarcely correct. Your own comrades did it. But for their timely arrival, we might not have been able to withstand the assault of the angrypatriotas; who were led by a man of no common kind.”“So much the greater reason for my gratitude to you.”“Well, you have amply acquitted the debt. But for your interference here—the more generous that you did not know for whom it was exerted—I might now be lying in the place of that red-hatted, red-handed wretch; who has been alike a traitor to his country and his God!”The last words were pronounced with a scornful emphasis, as if the speaker’s patriotism had become fired at the sight of the renegade robber.“But, caballero!” he continued, changing to a more tranquil tone, “you say we have also met at themontétable. Lately?”“Our latest meeting has been to-night.”“To-night!”“About an hour ago. Perhaps a little less.”“Carrambo! You must have been there at the time I left the saloon. You saw me go out?”“Every one saw you. More than one remarked it as strange.”“Why strange, señor?”“It is not usual for a player to run away from such luck as you had—without a very powerful motive. Something of the kind carried you off, I presume?”“Par Dios! Not much of that. Only a little errand that required punctuality. I executed it; and was on my way back, when thesepicaronesattacked me. Thanks to you, sir, it may still be in my power to gain anotheronzaor two; which I intend doing, if the luck has not been drawn out of me along with these drops of blood. But come, caballero! are you going back yourself? ’Tis not too late to have anotheralbur.”“I shall go with you, to see whether you’ve received any wounds that require looking after.”“Thanks, thanks! They’re nothing; else I should have thought of them before now. No doubt they’re scarce worth dressing. A little soap and water will set them all right. Are we to leavehimhere?”“If dead, yes. He don’t deserve even the scant honour of being carried upon a stretcher.”“You are not partial to your red-hatted associates?”“I detest them; and so does every officer in our army who cares for its escutcheon. They were regular professional robbers, these renegades—were they not?”“Were, are, and will be.Salteadores del camino grande!”“Many of us consider it a scandal. So the world will esteem it. A band of brigands taken into the service of a civilised nation, and treated as its own soldiers! Who ever heard of such a thing?”“Ah, señor! I see you are a true soldier of civilisation. I am sorry to say that in my poor country such travesties are but too common. In our army—that is, the army of his most Illustrious Excellency, General Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna—you may discover captains, colonels—nay, even generals, who—. But no. It is not for me to pour these sad revelations into the ears of an enemy. Perhaps in time you may find out for yourself some strange things; which we of the country are accustomed to call—Cosas de Mexico!”
“Gracias!” cried the young Mexican, “mil gracias, caballero! That’s all I can say till I get back my breath.”
He stopped. I could hear his respiration, quick and heavy, as that of a horse halted after a rapid run.
“I hope you have not received any serious injury?” I said, on becoming assured that the only Red Hat remaining in the street was the one lying along the kerb-stone. “Are you wounded?”
“Nothing to signify, I think. A cut or two, perhaps. They’re only scratches.”
“You’re sure?”
“Not quite, caballero; though I fancy I’m all right. I don’t feel disabled—only a little fatigued. It was rather quick play, keeping guard against all five at once. I had no chance to get a thrust at them, else I might have reduced the number. You’ve done that, I perceive. Once more let me thank you for my life.”
“There is no need. It is simply a debt paid in kind; and we are now quits.”
“Señor, your speech mystifies me. I cannot tell whether I have the honour of knowing the brave man who has done me such signal service. Your voice sounds like one I’ve heard before. You’ll excuse me. It’s so dark here—”
“You and I are so much in the habit of having encounters in dark places, I begin to think there’s a fatality in it.”
“Carrambo!” exclaimed the Mexican, still further mystified by my remark. “Where have we had these encounters? Pray tell me, señor?”
“You don’t remember capitan Moreno?”
“It is my name! You know me?”
“I have good reason.”
“You astonish me. If I mistake not, you are in uniform—an American officer?”
“I am.”
“May I ask where we have met? At themontétable?”
“We have met atmontémore than once. It was not there, however, that I had my first introduction to you, but—”
“Where?”
“In your house.”
“Una burla, señor! No matter; you are welcome.”
“No jest, I assure you. Our first exchange of speech was under your own roof.”
“Caspita! You confound me.”
“’Tis true, I did not go inside—only just over the doorstep. There we met and parted—both a little unmannerly. For the first I was to blame. The last, I think, you ought to share with me. By your abrupt closing of the door, you gave me no chance of showing politeness; else I should have stayed to thank you for doing, what you say I have just done for you. I intended to seek an opportunity some day. It seems I have found it without seeking.”
“Santissima Virgen! you, then, are the gentleman—”
“Who on a certain night so unceremoniously made entrance into the house of Don Francisco Moreno, in the Callecito de los Pajaros; who went in head-foremost, and no doubt would have been carried out feet foremost, but for the fortune that gave him such a generous host. Ah! captain Moreno,” I continued, in the ardour of my gratitude grasping the young soldier’s hand, “I said we were quits. Far, far from it; you owe me perhaps your life. To you I am indebted for mine; and—and much more.”
“Por Dios, caballero! you continue to mystify me. What more?”
Under the dominion of a sweet excitement, I was on the point of confessing myamourettewith Mercedes, and telling him how he had interrupted it—in short, telling him all. No longer rivals, but fellow-suitors for two fair sisters, we were journeying along the same road. A common motive—each having a different object—instead of estranging, ought rather to unite us?
And yet there was a doubt. Something counselled me to reticence. My secret remained unspoken; not even mention being made of the Calle del Obispo.
“Oh!” I answered, taming down my tone of enthusiasm, “Much more depended on my life. Had I lost it—”
“Had you lost it,” interrupted the young Mexican, relieving me from the necessity of further explanation, “it would have been a sad misfortune for me: since this night I should have lost mine. Five minutes more, and these footpads would have overpowered me. As for my having savedyourlife, that is scarcely correct. Your own comrades did it. But for their timely arrival, we might not have been able to withstand the assault of the angrypatriotas; who were led by a man of no common kind.”
“So much the greater reason for my gratitude to you.”
“Well, you have amply acquitted the debt. But for your interference here—the more generous that you did not know for whom it was exerted—I might now be lying in the place of that red-hatted, red-handed wretch; who has been alike a traitor to his country and his God!”
The last words were pronounced with a scornful emphasis, as if the speaker’s patriotism had become fired at the sight of the renegade robber.
“But, caballero!” he continued, changing to a more tranquil tone, “you say we have also met at themontétable. Lately?”
“Our latest meeting has been to-night.”
“To-night!”
“About an hour ago. Perhaps a little less.”
“Carrambo! You must have been there at the time I left the saloon. You saw me go out?”
“Every one saw you. More than one remarked it as strange.”
“Why strange, señor?”
“It is not usual for a player to run away from such luck as you had—without a very powerful motive. Something of the kind carried you off, I presume?”
“Par Dios! Not much of that. Only a little errand that required punctuality. I executed it; and was on my way back, when thesepicaronesattacked me. Thanks to you, sir, it may still be in my power to gain anotheronzaor two; which I intend doing, if the luck has not been drawn out of me along with these drops of blood. But come, caballero! are you going back yourself? ’Tis not too late to have anotheralbur.”
“I shall go with you, to see whether you’ve received any wounds that require looking after.”
“Thanks, thanks! They’re nothing; else I should have thought of them before now. No doubt they’re scarce worth dressing. A little soap and water will set them all right. Are we to leavehimhere?”
“If dead, yes. He don’t deserve even the scant honour of being carried upon a stretcher.”
“You are not partial to your red-hatted associates?”
“I detest them; and so does every officer in our army who cares for its escutcheon. They were regular professional robbers, these renegades—were they not?”
“Were, are, and will be.Salteadores del camino grande!”
“Many of us consider it a scandal. So the world will esteem it. A band of brigands taken into the service of a civilised nation, and treated as its own soldiers! Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“Ah, señor! I see you are a true soldier of civilisation. I am sorry to say that in my poor country such travesties are but too common. In our army—that is, the army of his most Illustrious Excellency, General Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna—you may discover captains, colonels—nay, even generals, who—. But no. It is not for me to pour these sad revelations into the ears of an enemy. Perhaps in time you may find out for yourself some strange things; which we of the country are accustomed to call—Cosas de Mexico!”
Chapter Sixteen.Early Birds.I supped with Francisco. The goddess Fortuna did not show any grudge against him, for his short flirtation with the sister divinity; but, on his return to themontétable, again smiled upon him—as she did upon myself.By way of a change we paid our addresses to Coena and Bacchus—to the latter more especially—keeping up our devotions to a late hour of the night.It did not hinder me from being early abroad on the morning after. I saw the rose-tints upon the “White Sister,” as Phoebus imprinted his first kiss upon her snowy brow. I saw this as I entered the Calle del Obispo—the magnificent mountain appearing like a white wall stretched across at the termination of the street!You will scarce ask why I was there? Only, why at such an early hour?I could but gaze at the house—trace the frescoes on itsfaçade—feast my eyes upon inanimate objects; or, if animate, only nest-building birds, or domestics of the mansion.You are thinking of Park-lane—not Puebla, where the angels rise early. In Park-lane they sleep till a late hour, having “retired” at a late hour. In Puebla they are up with the sun, having gone to bed with the same.The explanation is easy. Puebla is Catholic—a city oforisons. Park-lane is Protestant, and more given to midnight revels!Had I not known the peculiarity of Mexican customs in this respect, I should not have been traversing the “Street of the Bishop” before seven o’clock in the morning.But I did know them; and that the lady who, at that hour, or before it, is not on her way to church—capilla, parroquia, or cathedral—is either too old to take an interest in theconfessional, or too humble to care for the Church at all!Few there are of this sort in the City of the Angels. It was not likely that Mercedes Villa-Señor would be among the number. Her sister, Dolores, had let me into a secret—without knowing, or intending it.In Mexico there are two twilights—equally interesting to those who make love by stealth. One precedes the rising, the other follows the setting, of the sun.It seems like reversing the order of nature to say that the former is more favourable to theculteof the god Cupid—but in Mexico it is even so. While the Belgravian beauty lies asleep on her soft couch, dreaming of fresh conquests, the fair Poblana is abroad upon the streets, or kneeling before the shrine of the Virgin—in the act ofmaking them!Early as I had sallied out, I was a little behind time.Oracionbells had commenced tolling all over the town. As I entered the Calle del Obispo, I saw three female forms passing out at its opposite end. Two walked side by side: the third a little behind them.I might have permitted them to pass on without further remark, had it not been that the great gate of the Casa Villa-Señor stood open.Theporterowas closing it, as if a party had just passed out; and it could only be they who were going along the street.The two in advance? Who should they be but the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor?The third I scarce spent a thought upon; or only to conjecture, that she wasTia Josefa.The Calle del Obispo had no further attractions for me. Folding my cloak around me, I followed the trio of señoras.A spurt of quick walking brought me close upon the heels of Tia Josefa, and within good viewing distance of the two damsels—over whom she was playingdueña.I had no longer any doubt of their being the daughters of Don Eusebio, though both were veiled to the eyes. Over the eyes in fact: since their shawls were carriedtapado. Instead of hanging from the shoulder, they were drawn across the crown of the head, and held under the chin—so as completely to conceal the countenance!The black Spanish eye sparkling in shadow was all that could have been seen; though I saw it not: as I was at some distance behind them.I saw that of Tia Josefa—as she turned, on perceiving my shadow projected before her on the pavement.There was a sudden glance, accompanied by the bristling of a fan, as the maternal hen ruffles her feathers when the shadow of the hawk is seen sailing towards her chicks.Only for an instant was I the object ofauntJosefa’s suspicion. My meek look, directed towards the “White Sister,” at once reassured her. I was not the bird of prey she had been cautioned to keep guard against: and, after a cursory glance at me, she went on after her pair of protégés.I did likewise.Though they were dressed exactly in the same style—wearing black lace shawls, with high combs holding them above their heads—though their figures were scarce to be distinguished in height, shape, ortournure—though the backs of both were toward me—I could tell my chosen at a glance.There is something in the physical form—less in its muscular development than its motion—in the play of the arms and limbs—that proclaims the spirit within. It is that unmistakeable, and yet undefinable essence we termgrace; which Nature alone can give, and Art cannot acquire. It is a quality of the soul; and not belonging to the body—to the adornment of which it but lends itself.It proclaimed itself in every movement of Mercedes Villa-Señor—in her step, her carriage, the raising of her hand, the serpentine undulation perceptible throughout her whole frame. Every gesture made was a living illustration of Hogarth’s line.Grace was not denied to Dolores; though to her given in a lesser degree. There was a sprightliness about her movements that many might have admired; but which in my mind but poorly compared with the grand, queen-like, air that characterised the step of her sister.I soon became aware that they were on their way to the Cathedral—whose matin bells were filling the streets with their clangour. Other intended devotees—most of them women, in shawls andrebosos—were hastening across the Piazza Mayor, in the same direction.Dolores alone looked round. Several times she did so—turning again towards the Cathedral with an air of evident dissatisfaction.Her seeing me made not the slightest difference—a stranger accidentally walking the same way.I felt no chagrin at her indifference. I divined the cause of it. I was not “Querido Francisco.”Mercedes appeared to be uninterested in aught that was passing around. Her air was that of one a little “out of sorts”—as was shown by the cold salutations she exchanged with the “caballeros” encountered upon the way, and who one and all seemed to court a more cordial “buenas dias.”Only once did she show sign of being interested:—when an American officer in the uniform of the Mounted Rifles came galloping along the street. Then only during the six seconds spent in scrutinising him, as he swept past; after which her eyes once more turned towards the Cathedral.Its massive door stood open to admit the early devotees, who were by this time swarming up the steps.The sisters became part of the throng, and passed on inside—Tia Josefa closely following, and keeping up her espionage with as much strictness, as while passing along the streets!I did the same—with a different intent.
I supped with Francisco. The goddess Fortuna did not show any grudge against him, for his short flirtation with the sister divinity; but, on his return to themontétable, again smiled upon him—as she did upon myself.
By way of a change we paid our addresses to Coena and Bacchus—to the latter more especially—keeping up our devotions to a late hour of the night.
It did not hinder me from being early abroad on the morning after. I saw the rose-tints upon the “White Sister,” as Phoebus imprinted his first kiss upon her snowy brow. I saw this as I entered the Calle del Obispo—the magnificent mountain appearing like a white wall stretched across at the termination of the street!
You will scarce ask why I was there? Only, why at such an early hour?
I could but gaze at the house—trace the frescoes on itsfaçade—feast my eyes upon inanimate objects; or, if animate, only nest-building birds, or domestics of the mansion.
You are thinking of Park-lane—not Puebla, where the angels rise early. In Park-lane they sleep till a late hour, having “retired” at a late hour. In Puebla they are up with the sun, having gone to bed with the same.
The explanation is easy. Puebla is Catholic—a city oforisons. Park-lane is Protestant, and more given to midnight revels!
Had I not known the peculiarity of Mexican customs in this respect, I should not have been traversing the “Street of the Bishop” before seven o’clock in the morning.
But I did know them; and that the lady who, at that hour, or before it, is not on her way to church—capilla, parroquia, or cathedral—is either too old to take an interest in theconfessional, or too humble to care for the Church at all!
Few there are of this sort in the City of the Angels. It was not likely that Mercedes Villa-Señor would be among the number. Her sister, Dolores, had let me into a secret—without knowing, or intending it.
In Mexico there are two twilights—equally interesting to those who make love by stealth. One precedes the rising, the other follows the setting, of the sun.
It seems like reversing the order of nature to say that the former is more favourable to theculteof the god Cupid—but in Mexico it is even so. While the Belgravian beauty lies asleep on her soft couch, dreaming of fresh conquests, the fair Poblana is abroad upon the streets, or kneeling before the shrine of the Virgin—in the act ofmaking them!
Early as I had sallied out, I was a little behind time.Oracionbells had commenced tolling all over the town. As I entered the Calle del Obispo, I saw three female forms passing out at its opposite end. Two walked side by side: the third a little behind them.
I might have permitted them to pass on without further remark, had it not been that the great gate of the Casa Villa-Señor stood open.
Theporterowas closing it, as if a party had just passed out; and it could only be they who were going along the street.
The two in advance? Who should they be but the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor?
The third I scarce spent a thought upon; or only to conjecture, that she wasTia Josefa.
The Calle del Obispo had no further attractions for me. Folding my cloak around me, I followed the trio of señoras.
A spurt of quick walking brought me close upon the heels of Tia Josefa, and within good viewing distance of the two damsels—over whom she was playingdueña.
I had no longer any doubt of their being the daughters of Don Eusebio, though both were veiled to the eyes. Over the eyes in fact: since their shawls were carriedtapado. Instead of hanging from the shoulder, they were drawn across the crown of the head, and held under the chin—so as completely to conceal the countenance!
The black Spanish eye sparkling in shadow was all that could have been seen; though I saw it not: as I was at some distance behind them.
I saw that of Tia Josefa—as she turned, on perceiving my shadow projected before her on the pavement.
There was a sudden glance, accompanied by the bristling of a fan, as the maternal hen ruffles her feathers when the shadow of the hawk is seen sailing towards her chicks.
Only for an instant was I the object ofauntJosefa’s suspicion. My meek look, directed towards the “White Sister,” at once reassured her. I was not the bird of prey she had been cautioned to keep guard against: and, after a cursory glance at me, she went on after her pair of protégés.
I did likewise.
Though they were dressed exactly in the same style—wearing black lace shawls, with high combs holding them above their heads—though their figures were scarce to be distinguished in height, shape, ortournure—though the backs of both were toward me—I could tell my chosen at a glance.
There is something in the physical form—less in its muscular development than its motion—in the play of the arms and limbs—that proclaims the spirit within. It is that unmistakeable, and yet undefinable essence we termgrace; which Nature alone can give, and Art cannot acquire. It is a quality of the soul; and not belonging to the body—to the adornment of which it but lends itself.
It proclaimed itself in every movement of Mercedes Villa-Señor—in her step, her carriage, the raising of her hand, the serpentine undulation perceptible throughout her whole frame. Every gesture made was a living illustration of Hogarth’s line.
Grace was not denied to Dolores; though to her given in a lesser degree. There was a sprightliness about her movements that many might have admired; but which in my mind but poorly compared with the grand, queen-like, air that characterised the step of her sister.
I soon became aware that they were on their way to the Cathedral—whose matin bells were filling the streets with their clangour. Other intended devotees—most of them women, in shawls andrebosos—were hastening across the Piazza Mayor, in the same direction.
Dolores alone looked round. Several times she did so—turning again towards the Cathedral with an air of evident dissatisfaction.
Her seeing me made not the slightest difference—a stranger accidentally walking the same way.
I felt no chagrin at her indifference. I divined the cause of it. I was not “Querido Francisco.”
Mercedes appeared to be uninterested in aught that was passing around. Her air was that of one a little “out of sorts”—as was shown by the cold salutations she exchanged with the “caballeros” encountered upon the way, and who one and all seemed to court a more cordial “buenas dias.”
Only once did she show sign of being interested:—when an American officer in the uniform of the Mounted Rifles came galloping along the street. Then only during the six seconds spent in scrutinising him, as he swept past; after which her eyes once more turned towards the Cathedral.
Its massive door stood open to admit the early devotees, who were by this time swarming up the steps.
The sisters became part of the throng, and passed on inside—Tia Josefa closely following, and keeping up her espionage with as much strictness, as while passing along the streets!
I did the same—with a different intent.
Chapter Seventeen.At Matins.It was the first time I had made my devotions in a Roman Catholic Cathedral; and I shall not say that I then worshipped as I should have done.Santa Gaudalupe—beautiful as the sensuous Mexican priesthood have had the cunning to conceive her—glorious as she appeared in her golden shrine—was scarce regarded by me.More attractive were the black lace shawl and high comb of Mercedes Villa-Señor—not for themselves, but for the lovely countenance I knew to be underneath them.I watched them with eyes that wandered not. In my heart I anathematised them as the most detestable screens ever interposed between a lover’s eye and its idol.While engaged in her devotions a Mexicanseñoritaassumes three distinct attitudes. She stands, she kneels, shesquats. I regret my inability to express in more elegant phrase, that peculiar species of genuflexion, which may be described as the dropping down from the kneeling attitude to one a degree lower. It is a feat of feminine gymnastics that has long mystified me; and I am not anatomist enough either to comprehend or explain it.Mercedes Villa-Señor appeared perfect in everyposé. Even hersquattingwas graceful!I watched her changing attitudes as the ceremony proceeded—the chant, the prayer, the lesson. During all these she never once looked round. I thought she must be asaint—a thought scarce in keeping with the conjectures I had hitherto shaped concerning her.It gave me but slight pleasure to think she was so holy. I should have preferred finding her human—that angel of angels!Dolores appeared less devout. At all events, she was less attentive to her prayers. Twenty times I perceived her eyes averted from the altar—turned toward the doorway—peering into shadowy aisles—looking everywhere but upon the officiating priest.His shaven crown had no attraction for her. She searched for the shining curls of “querido Francisco!”He was not in the Cathedral—at least, I could not see him. I had my own thoughts about the cause of his absence.Less accustomed to “sparkling wine,” he had not borne its effects like the boon companion who shared the revel along with him; or had not so readily recovered from it.Certainly he was not there. So much the less trouble for Tia Josefa!I could have told Dolores a tale that would have given her gratification. I wanted to do as much for Mercedes.The time passed—chant and psalm, lesson and prayer, rapidly succeeding one another. Bells were tinkled, incense burnt, and wax candles carried about.Still kept Mercedes her eyes upon the altar; still seemed she absorbed by a ceremonial, which to me appeared more than absurd—idolatrous.In my heart I hated it worse than ever in my life. I could scarce restrain myself from scowling upon the priest. I envied him the position that could make his paltry performance so attractive—to eyes like those then looking upon him.Thank heaven they are mine at last—at last!Yes: at last they were mine. I was seen, and recognised.I had entered the Cathedral without thought of worshipping at its altar. The love I carried in my heart was different from that inculcated within those sacred walls—far different from that inscribed upon the tablet: “God is love.” My love was human; and, perhaps, impure! I shall not say that it was what it should have been—a love, such as we read of among troubadours and knights-errant of the olden time. I can lay claim to belong to no other class than that of the simpleadventurer; who, with tongue, pen, or sword—as the chances turned up—has been able, in some sort, to make his way through the world!In my designs there may have been selfishness; but not one iota in the passion I felt for Mercedes Villa-Señor. It was too romantic to be mean.In her first glance I read recognition. Only that and nothing more,—at least nothing to gratify me.But it was soon followed by another, on which I was pleased to place a different interpretation. It was the warm look that had won, and once more seemed towelcomeme!There was a third, and a fourth, timidly stolen through the fringe of thechalé. The very stealth flattered my vanity, and gave a new impulse to my hopes. There was more than one reason for it: the sacredness of the place; the reticence of maiden modesty; and perhaps more than either: the presence of Tia Josefa.Again our glances met—mine given with all the ardour of a love long restrained.Once more they met in sweet exchanging—once more, and once more. I had won Mercedes from her worship!No doubt it was wicked of me to feel joy at the thought; and, no doubt, I deserved the punishment that was in store for me.
It was the first time I had made my devotions in a Roman Catholic Cathedral; and I shall not say that I then worshipped as I should have done.
Santa Gaudalupe—beautiful as the sensuous Mexican priesthood have had the cunning to conceive her—glorious as she appeared in her golden shrine—was scarce regarded by me.
More attractive were the black lace shawl and high comb of Mercedes Villa-Señor—not for themselves, but for the lovely countenance I knew to be underneath them.
I watched them with eyes that wandered not. In my heart I anathematised them as the most detestable screens ever interposed between a lover’s eye and its idol.
While engaged in her devotions a Mexicanseñoritaassumes three distinct attitudes. She stands, she kneels, shesquats. I regret my inability to express in more elegant phrase, that peculiar species of genuflexion, which may be described as the dropping down from the kneeling attitude to one a degree lower. It is a feat of feminine gymnastics that has long mystified me; and I am not anatomist enough either to comprehend or explain it.
Mercedes Villa-Señor appeared perfect in everyposé. Even hersquattingwas graceful!
I watched her changing attitudes as the ceremony proceeded—the chant, the prayer, the lesson. During all these she never once looked round. I thought she must be asaint—a thought scarce in keeping with the conjectures I had hitherto shaped concerning her.
It gave me but slight pleasure to think she was so holy. I should have preferred finding her human—that angel of angels!
Dolores appeared less devout. At all events, she was less attentive to her prayers. Twenty times I perceived her eyes averted from the altar—turned toward the doorway—peering into shadowy aisles—looking everywhere but upon the officiating priest.
His shaven crown had no attraction for her. She searched for the shining curls of “querido Francisco!”
He was not in the Cathedral—at least, I could not see him. I had my own thoughts about the cause of his absence.
Less accustomed to “sparkling wine,” he had not borne its effects like the boon companion who shared the revel along with him; or had not so readily recovered from it.
Certainly he was not there. So much the less trouble for Tia Josefa!
I could have told Dolores a tale that would have given her gratification. I wanted to do as much for Mercedes.
The time passed—chant and psalm, lesson and prayer, rapidly succeeding one another. Bells were tinkled, incense burnt, and wax candles carried about.
Still kept Mercedes her eyes upon the altar; still seemed she absorbed by a ceremonial, which to me appeared more than absurd—idolatrous.
In my heart I hated it worse than ever in my life. I could scarce restrain myself from scowling upon the priest. I envied him the position that could make his paltry performance so attractive—to eyes like those then looking upon him.
Thank heaven they are mine at last—at last!
Yes: at last they were mine. I was seen, and recognised.
I had entered the Cathedral without thought of worshipping at its altar. The love I carried in my heart was different from that inculcated within those sacred walls—far different from that inscribed upon the tablet: “God is love.” My love was human; and, perhaps, impure! I shall not say that it was what it should have been—a love, such as we read of among troubadours and knights-errant of the olden time. I can lay claim to belong to no other class than that of the simpleadventurer; who, with tongue, pen, or sword—as the chances turned up—has been able, in some sort, to make his way through the world!
In my designs there may have been selfishness; but not one iota in the passion I felt for Mercedes Villa-Señor. It was too romantic to be mean.
In her first glance I read recognition. Only that and nothing more,—at least nothing to gratify me.
But it was soon followed by another, on which I was pleased to place a different interpretation. It was the warm look that had won, and once more seemed towelcomeme!
There was a third, and a fourth, timidly stolen through the fringe of thechalé. The very stealth flattered my vanity, and gave a new impulse to my hopes. There was more than one reason for it: the sacredness of the place; the reticence of maiden modesty; and perhaps more than either: the presence of Tia Josefa.
Again our glances met—mine given with all the ardour of a love long restrained.
Once more they met in sweet exchanging—once more, and once more. I had won Mercedes from her worship!
No doubt it was wicked of me to feel joy at the thought; and, no doubt, I deserved the punishment that was in store for me.
Chapter Eighteen.A Challenge in a Church.While carrying on my eye-courtship with the kneeling devotee, I stood somewhat in shadow. A column, with the statue of some canonised churchman, afforded me a niche where I was concealed from the other worshippers.But there was a darker shadow behind me—occupied by a darker substance.Tia Josefa was not the only spy present in the Cathedral.I was made aware of it, by hearing a voice—of course spoken in a whisper, but so close to my ear, that I had no difficulty in distinguishing every word.The voice said:—“Por Dios, caballero! You appear greatly interested in theoracion! Youcannot be aheretico, like the rest of your countrymen?”The sting of a wasp could not have caused me a more unpleasant sensation. The double meaning of the speech was not to be mistaken. The speaker had observed the eye signals passing between Mercedes and myself!I glanced into the gloom behind me.It was some seconds before I could see any one. My eyes dazzled with the splendour of the church adornments, refused to do their office.Before I could trace out either his shape, or countenance, the whispering stranger again addressed me:—“I hope, señor, you will not be offended by my free speech? It gratifies usCatolicosto perceive that our Holy Church is making converts among the Americanos. I’ve been told there is a good deal of this sort of thing. Ourpadreswill be delighted to know thattheirconquest by the Word is likely to compensate forourdefeat by the sword.”Despite the impertinence, there was something so ingenious in theargumentthus introduced, that I was prevented from making immediate reply. Stark surprise had also to do with my silence.I waited upon my eyes, in order that I might first see what sort of personage was speaking to me.Gradually my sight overcame the obscurity, and disclosed what the corner contained: a man several degrees darker than the shadow itself, up to his ears in aserapé, with a black sombrero above them, and between hat and “blanket” a countenance that could only belong to a scoundrel!I could see a bearded chin and lip, and a face lit up by a pair of eyes sparkling with sinister light. I could see, moreover, that despite thebadinageof the speeches addressed to me there wasreal angerin them!The sarcasm was all pretence. He, who had given utterance to it, was too much in earnest to deal long in irony; and I did not for a moment doubt that I was standing in the presence of one who, like myself, was a candidate for the smiles of Mercedes Villa-Señor.The thought was not one to make me more tolerant of the slight that had been put upon me. On the contrary, it but increased my indignation—already at a white heat.“Señor!” I said, in a voice with great difficulty toned down to a whisper, “you may thank your stars you are inside a church. If you’d spoken those words upon the street, they’d have been the last of your life.”“The street’s not far off. Come out; and I shall there repeat them.”“Agreed!”My challenger was nearest to the door, and started first. I followed three steps after.In the vestibule I paused—only for a second—to see whether my exit was being noted by the kneeling Mercedes.It was. She was gazing after me—no longer by stealth; but in surprise; I fancied in chagrin!Had she divined the cause of my abrupt departure?That was scarcely probable.In the position lately occupied by my unknown challenger, she could not have seen him. The statue interposed; and the column covered him, as he stepped towards the door.I returned her glance by one intended to reassure her. With my eyes I said:—“A moment, sweet saint, and you shall see me again!”
While carrying on my eye-courtship with the kneeling devotee, I stood somewhat in shadow. A column, with the statue of some canonised churchman, afforded me a niche where I was concealed from the other worshippers.
But there was a darker shadow behind me—occupied by a darker substance.
Tia Josefa was not the only spy present in the Cathedral.
I was made aware of it, by hearing a voice—of course spoken in a whisper, but so close to my ear, that I had no difficulty in distinguishing every word.
The voice said:—
“Por Dios, caballero! You appear greatly interested in theoracion! Youcannot be aheretico, like the rest of your countrymen?”
The sting of a wasp could not have caused me a more unpleasant sensation. The double meaning of the speech was not to be mistaken. The speaker had observed the eye signals passing between Mercedes and myself!
I glanced into the gloom behind me.
It was some seconds before I could see any one. My eyes dazzled with the splendour of the church adornments, refused to do their office.
Before I could trace out either his shape, or countenance, the whispering stranger again addressed me:—
“I hope, señor, you will not be offended by my free speech? It gratifies usCatolicosto perceive that our Holy Church is making converts among the Americanos. I’ve been told there is a good deal of this sort of thing. Ourpadreswill be delighted to know thattheirconquest by the Word is likely to compensate forourdefeat by the sword.”
Despite the impertinence, there was something so ingenious in theargumentthus introduced, that I was prevented from making immediate reply. Stark surprise had also to do with my silence.
I waited upon my eyes, in order that I might first see what sort of personage was speaking to me.
Gradually my sight overcame the obscurity, and disclosed what the corner contained: a man several degrees darker than the shadow itself, up to his ears in aserapé, with a black sombrero above them, and between hat and “blanket” a countenance that could only belong to a scoundrel!
I could see a bearded chin and lip, and a face lit up by a pair of eyes sparkling with sinister light. I could see, moreover, that despite thebadinageof the speeches addressed to me there wasreal angerin them!
The sarcasm was all pretence. He, who had given utterance to it, was too much in earnest to deal long in irony; and I did not for a moment doubt that I was standing in the presence of one who, like myself, was a candidate for the smiles of Mercedes Villa-Señor.
The thought was not one to make me more tolerant of the slight that had been put upon me. On the contrary, it but increased my indignation—already at a white heat.
“Señor!” I said, in a voice with great difficulty toned down to a whisper, “you may thank your stars you are inside a church. If you’d spoken those words upon the street, they’d have been the last of your life.”
“The street’s not far off. Come out; and I shall there repeat them.”
“Agreed!”
My challenger was nearest to the door, and started first. I followed three steps after.
In the vestibule I paused—only for a second—to see whether my exit was being noted by the kneeling Mercedes.
It was. She was gazing after me—no longer by stealth; but in surprise; I fancied in chagrin!
Had she divined the cause of my abrupt departure?
That was scarcely probable.
In the position lately occupied by my unknown challenger, she could not have seen him. The statue interposed; and the column covered him, as he stepped towards the door.
I returned her glance by one intended to reassure her. With my eyes I said:—
“A moment, sweet saint, and you shall see me again!”
Chapter Nineteen.A Quiet Street.I was not so confident of being able to keep my promise, as I stepped out into the sunlight, and saw a little before me the man who was to be my antagonist.He stood six feet in his russet boots, with a frame that seemed as sinewy, as herculean. He had all the look of avieux sabreur; and I knew he would insist upon the sword for his weapon.A Mexican makes but a poor fight with firearms. They are too noisy for taking life—in the way he oft wishes to take it. I was certain my challenger would choose the sword.By the etiquette of theduello, I might have insisted upon having the choice; but I was too angry to stand upon punctilios.The Cathedral of Puebla stands upon a raiseddais—with a stone stairway along itsfaçade, and around three sides. Down this the stranger preceded me—having already descended several of the steps before I came out.At the bottom he paused to await me; and there, for the first time, I had a fair chance of scrutinising him.Forty, but with that tough, terse figure that betokens a man who has passed his life in energetic action, and whose nerves have never been a day out of training.The face was not a whit improved by the light of the sun. It looked as foul as I had fancied it, when seen under the shadow of the Saint. It told of an ill-spent past, and prognosticated an evil future.What could the man want with me?Under other circumstances I might have asked the question; but I did not then. I had a tolerably clear comprehension, of what had stimulated him to seek thedesafio.Like myself, he was in love with Mercedes Villa-Señor; like myself, ready to defy to the death whoever might present himself as a rival!He had recognised me as such; a successful one—if his interpretation of her glances corresponded with my own.I had no doubt about this being the reason for his having so deliberately provoked me.“It’s rather public just here,” said he, on receiving me at the bottom of the stair. “The Piazza is not the best place for a purpose like ours.”“Why not?” I asked, impatient to put an end to an episode that was causing me annoyance.“Oh! only that we are likely to be interrupted by policemen, or patrols. Perhapsyouwould prefer it that way?”“Lepero!” I cried, losing all temper. “Take me where you will—only be quick about it! Once on the ground, there won’t be much chance for either policeman or patrol, to save you from the sword you are tempting from its scabbard. Lead on!”“There’s a quiet street close by,” said he, with a coolness that surprised, and, but for my rage, might have disconcerted me; “There we can have our game out, without risk of interruption. You consent to our going there?”“Certainly. The place is all one to me. As to the time, it won’t take long to teach you a lesson, that will last you for your life.”“Nos veremos, señor! Nos vamos!” was the singular response of my challenger, as he started to conduct me to the “quiet street.”Mechanically I walked after him, though not without misgivings. Had I been in a proper state of mind, I might have reflected more seriously on the step I was called upon to take.It could scarce have appeared other than it really was—imprudent.After passing through several streets, we came to the entrance of that we were in search of.On turning into it, some vague remembrance flitted across my brain. I fancied I had been there before.I glanced up to the coign of the corner house. In black lettering I read the inscription:—“Callecito de los Pajaros!”I next looked at my man. I had also some vague memory abouthim—associated with the “Little Street of the Sparrows.”The locality quickened my recollection; and before proceeding farther, I stopped short, and demanded his name.“Carrambo! Why do you ask that?” he inquired, in a taunting tone. “Do you intend to report me in the other world, for despatching you prematurely out of this? Ha! ha! ha!”“Well,” he continued, “I won’t disappoint you. Tell the devil, when you see him, that he is indebted to Captain Torreano Carrasco for sending him a subject. Now, señor! are you ready to die?”There needed no further proof to tell me I was entrapped. If there had, it was furnished by sight of a half-score savage-lookingpelados, who, issuing from the adjacent doors, came running towards us—evidently intending to take part in the combat.No longer to be a duel. I saw that my challenger had no thought of such a thing. He had changed his chivalric tone, and his voice was once more heard leading the contemptible cry—“Muera el Americano!”
I was not so confident of being able to keep my promise, as I stepped out into the sunlight, and saw a little before me the man who was to be my antagonist.
He stood six feet in his russet boots, with a frame that seemed as sinewy, as herculean. He had all the look of avieux sabreur; and I knew he would insist upon the sword for his weapon.
A Mexican makes but a poor fight with firearms. They are too noisy for taking life—in the way he oft wishes to take it. I was certain my challenger would choose the sword.
By the etiquette of theduello, I might have insisted upon having the choice; but I was too angry to stand upon punctilios.
The Cathedral of Puebla stands upon a raiseddais—with a stone stairway along itsfaçade, and around three sides. Down this the stranger preceded me—having already descended several of the steps before I came out.
At the bottom he paused to await me; and there, for the first time, I had a fair chance of scrutinising him.
Forty, but with that tough, terse figure that betokens a man who has passed his life in energetic action, and whose nerves have never been a day out of training.
The face was not a whit improved by the light of the sun. It looked as foul as I had fancied it, when seen under the shadow of the Saint. It told of an ill-spent past, and prognosticated an evil future.
What could the man want with me?
Under other circumstances I might have asked the question; but I did not then. I had a tolerably clear comprehension, of what had stimulated him to seek thedesafio.
Like myself, he was in love with Mercedes Villa-Señor; like myself, ready to defy to the death whoever might present himself as a rival!
He had recognised me as such; a successful one—if his interpretation of her glances corresponded with my own.
I had no doubt about this being the reason for his having so deliberately provoked me.
“It’s rather public just here,” said he, on receiving me at the bottom of the stair. “The Piazza is not the best place for a purpose like ours.”
“Why not?” I asked, impatient to put an end to an episode that was causing me annoyance.
“Oh! only that we are likely to be interrupted by policemen, or patrols. Perhapsyouwould prefer it that way?”
“Lepero!” I cried, losing all temper. “Take me where you will—only be quick about it! Once on the ground, there won’t be much chance for either policeman or patrol, to save you from the sword you are tempting from its scabbard. Lead on!”
“There’s a quiet street close by,” said he, with a coolness that surprised, and, but for my rage, might have disconcerted me; “There we can have our game out, without risk of interruption. You consent to our going there?”
“Certainly. The place is all one to me. As to the time, it won’t take long to teach you a lesson, that will last you for your life.”
“Nos veremos, señor! Nos vamos!” was the singular response of my challenger, as he started to conduct me to the “quiet street.”
Mechanically I walked after him, though not without misgivings. Had I been in a proper state of mind, I might have reflected more seriously on the step I was called upon to take.
It could scarce have appeared other than it really was—imprudent.
After passing through several streets, we came to the entrance of that we were in search of.
On turning into it, some vague remembrance flitted across my brain. I fancied I had been there before.
I glanced up to the coign of the corner house. In black lettering I read the inscription:—
“Callecito de los Pajaros!”
I next looked at my man. I had also some vague memory abouthim—associated with the “Little Street of the Sparrows.”
The locality quickened my recollection; and before proceeding farther, I stopped short, and demanded his name.
“Carrambo! Why do you ask that?” he inquired, in a taunting tone. “Do you intend to report me in the other world, for despatching you prematurely out of this? Ha! ha! ha!”
“Well,” he continued, “I won’t disappoint you. Tell the devil, when you see him, that he is indebted to Captain Torreano Carrasco for sending him a subject. Now, señor! are you ready to die?”
There needed no further proof to tell me I was entrapped. If there had, it was furnished by sight of a half-score savage-lookingpelados, who, issuing from the adjacent doors, came running towards us—evidently intending to take part in the combat.
No longer to be a duel. I saw that my challenger had no thought of such a thing. He had changed his chivalric tone, and his voice was once more heard leading the contemptible cry—
“Muera el Americano!”
Chapter Twenty.Rescued by Red Hats.The Street of the Sparrows appeared to be my doomed spot. For the second time there seemed no chance of my getting out of it alive; and for the second time I made up my mind to die hard in it.Despite the suddenness with which Carrasco had surprised me, I was upon my guard—before he or any of his comrades could come to close quarters.But this time, alas! I was without revolver, or pistol of any kind. Not dreaming of danger at that early hour of the day, I had sallied forth, wearing only my parade sword. With this fickle weapon I could not possibly defend myself against half a score of men armed with thin long-bladedmachetés.Grasping its hilt was like leaning upon a reed.I thought of Francisco of again throwing myself upon his protection.But which of the fifty dwellings was his?Even could I have told the right one, would I have time to reach it, or would he be at home?There was a chance that he might be—that he might hear my cries, and come out. It was so slight as to seem hopeless; and yet I clutched at it, as a drowning man at a straw!Shouting, I retreated along the street—in what I believed to be the direction of his dwelling.I am not ashamed to acknowledge, that I called loudly for help—coupling my calls with the name of Francisco Moreno. A man, with death staring him in the teeth, may be excused for dropping a trifle of his dignity. I shouted like a respectable shopkeeper attacked by a gang of garotters.The Street of the Sparrows was fatal to me only in promise; and for the second time fortune favoured my escape from it.Help came; though not from the quarter so loudly solicited. Francisco’s door remained shut; at least it was not opened by him. It was thrown open by a score of Red Hats, who at that moment appeared entering the street.At any other time the sight of these sanguinary allies would have caused me a thrill of antagonism. Now they seemed saints—as they proved saviours!They had shown themselves in the nick of time. Carrasco and his compeers were close behind me—so close that the points of theirmachetéswere within six inches of my spine.On espying the Red Hats they retreated in the opposite direction—going off even faster than they had been following me!Seeing myself disembarrassed of the danger, I advanced to meet my preservers. I had no idea of what they could be doing there; until I saw them stop in front of a house—where they demanded admittance.The demand was made in a rude manner, and in terms of an unmistakeable determination to enter.As no one opened the door, they commenced hammering upon it with the butts of theirescopetas; for several of them were armed with this weapon.The door finally gave way—having yielded at the hinges—and, swinging round, stood partially ajar.Not till then had I the slightest suspicion of what the Red Hats were after. Some “bit of burglary,” I supposed, done in open day; for there was no reason to think the contrary. I could see they were a straggling lot—out on their own account, and without authority.I was not enlightened about their object, till I saw the face of Francisco Moreno behind the half-opened door, scowlingly confronting them!It was his house; though I had not before recognised it.The conclusion came quick as electricity. They were there to arrest him, for killing one of their comrades on the night before, or being an accomplice in the act!I heard them make the declaration to the young soldier himself.They had sufficient respect for the law to treat with him for a quiet surrender. More probably they feared his resistance—as he stood sword in hand in the doorway—looking like anything but a man who was going to give himself up!Had he yielded, they would scarce have kept faith with him. I had no doubt of their intention to slay him upon the spot, instead of taking him to their quarters.It was a crisis that called for my interference; and I interfered.It only needed the throwing open my cloak, and pointing out the “spread eagle” on my button.The slightest disobedience to me would have cost them a score of lashes each—“on the bare back, well laid on.” Such was the phrasing of our military courts.Nothing of the kind was attempted. I had full control of my rescuers—who were altogether unconscious of the service they had done me—ignorant also of the fact that it was I, not the Mexican, who had sent theircamaradoto his long account!For myself I had no fear of them. I only feared for my friend: who, if left to their tender mercies, would never have paid another visit to the Street of the Bishop.I did not leave him to be judged by the Red Tribunal. I made a compromise with their self-esteem—by taking a lead in his arrest!To this the accused man, with some show of reluctance, submitted; and, in ten minutes after, he was transported to theCuartel, occupied by the Rifle Rangers—though not to suffer the degradation of being shut up in its guard-house.
The Street of the Sparrows appeared to be my doomed spot. For the second time there seemed no chance of my getting out of it alive; and for the second time I made up my mind to die hard in it.
Despite the suddenness with which Carrasco had surprised me, I was upon my guard—before he or any of his comrades could come to close quarters.
But this time, alas! I was without revolver, or pistol of any kind. Not dreaming of danger at that early hour of the day, I had sallied forth, wearing only my parade sword. With this fickle weapon I could not possibly defend myself against half a score of men armed with thin long-bladedmachetés.
Grasping its hilt was like leaning upon a reed.
I thought of Francisco of again throwing myself upon his protection.
But which of the fifty dwellings was his?
Even could I have told the right one, would I have time to reach it, or would he be at home?
There was a chance that he might be—that he might hear my cries, and come out. It was so slight as to seem hopeless; and yet I clutched at it, as a drowning man at a straw!
Shouting, I retreated along the street—in what I believed to be the direction of his dwelling.
I am not ashamed to acknowledge, that I called loudly for help—coupling my calls with the name of Francisco Moreno. A man, with death staring him in the teeth, may be excused for dropping a trifle of his dignity. I shouted like a respectable shopkeeper attacked by a gang of garotters.
The Street of the Sparrows was fatal to me only in promise; and for the second time fortune favoured my escape from it.
Help came; though not from the quarter so loudly solicited. Francisco’s door remained shut; at least it was not opened by him. It was thrown open by a score of Red Hats, who at that moment appeared entering the street.
At any other time the sight of these sanguinary allies would have caused me a thrill of antagonism. Now they seemed saints—as they proved saviours!
They had shown themselves in the nick of time. Carrasco and his compeers were close behind me—so close that the points of theirmachetéswere within six inches of my spine.
On espying the Red Hats they retreated in the opposite direction—going off even faster than they had been following me!
Seeing myself disembarrassed of the danger, I advanced to meet my preservers. I had no idea of what they could be doing there; until I saw them stop in front of a house—where they demanded admittance.
The demand was made in a rude manner, and in terms of an unmistakeable determination to enter.
As no one opened the door, they commenced hammering upon it with the butts of theirescopetas; for several of them were armed with this weapon.
The door finally gave way—having yielded at the hinges—and, swinging round, stood partially ajar.
Not till then had I the slightest suspicion of what the Red Hats were after. Some “bit of burglary,” I supposed, done in open day; for there was no reason to think the contrary. I could see they were a straggling lot—out on their own account, and without authority.
I was not enlightened about their object, till I saw the face of Francisco Moreno behind the half-opened door, scowlingly confronting them!
It was his house; though I had not before recognised it.
The conclusion came quick as electricity. They were there to arrest him, for killing one of their comrades on the night before, or being an accomplice in the act!
I heard them make the declaration to the young soldier himself.
They had sufficient respect for the law to treat with him for a quiet surrender. More probably they feared his resistance—as he stood sword in hand in the doorway—looking like anything but a man who was going to give himself up!
Had he yielded, they would scarce have kept faith with him. I had no doubt of their intention to slay him upon the spot, instead of taking him to their quarters.
It was a crisis that called for my interference; and I interfered.
It only needed the throwing open my cloak, and pointing out the “spread eagle” on my button.
The slightest disobedience to me would have cost them a score of lashes each—“on the bare back, well laid on.” Such was the phrasing of our military courts.
Nothing of the kind was attempted. I had full control of my rescuers—who were altogether unconscious of the service they had done me—ignorant also of the fact that it was I, not the Mexican, who had sent theircamaradoto his long account!
For myself I had no fear of them. I only feared for my friend: who, if left to their tender mercies, would never have paid another visit to the Street of the Bishop.
I did not leave him to be judged by the Red Tribunal. I made a compromise with their self-esteem—by taking a lead in his arrest!
To this the accused man, with some show of reluctance, submitted; and, in ten minutes after, he was transported to theCuartel, occupied by the Rifle Rangers—though not to suffer the degradation of being shut up in its guard-house.
Chapter Twenty One.Six O’clock—in the Alameda!I had little difficulty in clearing the paroled officer from the charge of assassinating “a member of the Spy Company.”As soon as his accusers discovered what I knew of that affair, they not only withdrew their accusation, but their own precious persons, beyond the reach of court-martial inquiry.When “wanted,” to give testimony in the investigation that ensued, not one, but five, of Dominguez’s followers were reported “missing!” The four coadjutors of him who had been killed thought it more prudent not to press the charge; and when sent for, could not be found either in the “Spy” quarters, or elsewhere in the City of the Angels!They had taken their departurea los Montes; and I was left alone to tell the story of that nocturnal encounter.For their testimony I cared not a straw; though the episode was not without some beneficial effects. It taught our renegade allies a little lesion; which was no doubt afterwards profitable—if not to themselves—to those who were so unfortunate as to have dealings with them.I was not so indifferent to the escape of the scoundrels who had attacked me in the “Street of the Sparrows;” and who appeared to have their head-quarters there.In half an hour after leaving it with my escort of Red Hats, I was back again—accompanied by a score of Rifle Rangers, who assisted me in making an exploration of that interesting locality.But the birds we went in search of had flown; and during the remainder of my stay in La Puebla de los Angeles, I never more set eyes upon my quaint challenger.I learnt something more of him from Francisco—some chapters of his history that did not fail to astonish me. He had been a captain in the Mexican army; and would be so again, should the tyrant Santa Anna get restored to his dictatorial power. Whenever the star of the latter was in the ascendant, the former was sure of a commission.But as the light of Santa Anna’s star had been of late only intermittent, so also was the holding of his commission by Captain Torreano Carrasco.During the intervals which Francisco jocosely styled “his leaves of absence,” the gallant captain was in the habit of spending a portion of his time among the mountains.“What does he do there?” I innocently inquired of my informant.“Carrambo, señor! It is strange you should ask that. I thought everybody knew,” was the answer.“Knew what?”“That El Capitan Carrasco isun pocito de salteador.”I was less astonished at the declaration, than the manner in which it was made.The young Mexican appeared to treat the thing as of no great consequence, but rather a matter of course. He seemed to look upon it in the light of a levity—scarcely a crime—one of theCosas de Mexico!He was more serious when replying to my next question: “Has this Captain Carrasco any acquaintance with the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor?”“Why do you ask, caballero?” he said, turning pale at the mention of the name; “You know them?”“I have not the honour of knowing them, except by sight. I saw them this morning at matins. I saw Carrasco there too. He appeared to take an interest in their devotions.”“If I thought so I’d—. Bah! it is not possible. He dare not—. Tell me, caballero;whatdid you observe?”“Oh, nothing more than I’ve said. What do you know about it yourself?”“En verdad, nothing either! It was only a thought I had—from something I once saw. I may have been mistaken. ’Tis of no consequence.”We spoke no more upon the subject. It was evidently painful to Francisco Moreno—as it was to myself.At a later period—when our acquaintance became better established—further confidence was exchanged between us; and I was told the story of Francisco’s courtship—to a portion of which, without his knowing it, I had listened before.It was as I had supposed. There was an objection to his being united to hisdear Dolores—her father being chief objector. The young soldier was but a “poor gentleman”—with no other prospect, save that at the point of his sword—not much in Mexico, to a man with anhonestheart. There was a rival who was rich; and to this “party” Don Eusebio had promised his daughter—with the threat of a convent in the case of her refusal.Notwithstanding this menace, Francisco was full of hope—based upon the promises of Dolores. She had expressed her determination to share penury with him rather than wed therico, who was not of her choice—to die, or do anything rather than go into a convent!I was not so communicative as my new acquaintance—at least as regarded my relationship with the family of Villa-Señor. To have spoken of Mercedes to another would have spoiled the romance of my passion. Not a word said I to Francisco of that hopeful affair.From that day I became noted, as one of the earliest risers on the muster-roll of the American army. Not a morning did I outsleep thereveille; nor once missed matins in the Cathedral.Several times I again saw Mercedes. Each time there was an exchange of glances—each day becoming better understood between us.And still not a word had we exchanged! I feared to risk speech—the humiliation that would follow, if perchance I was mistaken.I was again on the eve of resorting to the epistolary mode of communication—and had actually written the letter, intending to deliver it—not second-hand through thecochero, but, inpropria persona, to the lady herself.At each succeedingoraçionI watched for an opportunity; when the fair worshipper, passing out along with the crowd, might come within delivering distance.Twice had I been disappointed. On the third time I had the chance, without taking advantage of it!It was not needed. The wish I had expressed in my epistle was better worded by Mercedes herself. As she descended the steps on her way to the street, her lips came so close to my ear, that I was enabled to catch every syllable of that sweet whisper:“En la Alameda. A seis horas!” (At six o’clock, in the Alameda!)
I had little difficulty in clearing the paroled officer from the charge of assassinating “a member of the Spy Company.”
As soon as his accusers discovered what I knew of that affair, they not only withdrew their accusation, but their own precious persons, beyond the reach of court-martial inquiry.
When “wanted,” to give testimony in the investigation that ensued, not one, but five, of Dominguez’s followers were reported “missing!” The four coadjutors of him who had been killed thought it more prudent not to press the charge; and when sent for, could not be found either in the “Spy” quarters, or elsewhere in the City of the Angels!
They had taken their departurea los Montes; and I was left alone to tell the story of that nocturnal encounter.
For their testimony I cared not a straw; though the episode was not without some beneficial effects. It taught our renegade allies a little lesion; which was no doubt afterwards profitable—if not to themselves—to those who were so unfortunate as to have dealings with them.
I was not so indifferent to the escape of the scoundrels who had attacked me in the “Street of the Sparrows;” and who appeared to have their head-quarters there.
In half an hour after leaving it with my escort of Red Hats, I was back again—accompanied by a score of Rifle Rangers, who assisted me in making an exploration of that interesting locality.
But the birds we went in search of had flown; and during the remainder of my stay in La Puebla de los Angeles, I never more set eyes upon my quaint challenger.
I learnt something more of him from Francisco—some chapters of his history that did not fail to astonish me. He had been a captain in the Mexican army; and would be so again, should the tyrant Santa Anna get restored to his dictatorial power. Whenever the star of the latter was in the ascendant, the former was sure of a commission.
But as the light of Santa Anna’s star had been of late only intermittent, so also was the holding of his commission by Captain Torreano Carrasco.
During the intervals which Francisco jocosely styled “his leaves of absence,” the gallant captain was in the habit of spending a portion of his time among the mountains.
“What does he do there?” I innocently inquired of my informant.
“Carrambo, señor! It is strange you should ask that. I thought everybody knew,” was the answer.
“Knew what?”
“That El Capitan Carrasco isun pocito de salteador.”
I was less astonished at the declaration, than the manner in which it was made.
The young Mexican appeared to treat the thing as of no great consequence, but rather a matter of course. He seemed to look upon it in the light of a levity—scarcely a crime—one of theCosas de Mexico!
He was more serious when replying to my next question: “Has this Captain Carrasco any acquaintance with the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor?”
“Why do you ask, caballero?” he said, turning pale at the mention of the name; “You know them?”
“I have not the honour of knowing them, except by sight. I saw them this morning at matins. I saw Carrasco there too. He appeared to take an interest in their devotions.”
“If I thought so I’d—. Bah! it is not possible. He dare not—. Tell me, caballero;whatdid you observe?”
“Oh, nothing more than I’ve said. What do you know about it yourself?”
“En verdad, nothing either! It was only a thought I had—from something I once saw. I may have been mistaken. ’Tis of no consequence.”
We spoke no more upon the subject. It was evidently painful to Francisco Moreno—as it was to myself.
At a later period—when our acquaintance became better established—further confidence was exchanged between us; and I was told the story of Francisco’s courtship—to a portion of which, without his knowing it, I had listened before.
It was as I had supposed. There was an objection to his being united to hisdear Dolores—her father being chief objector. The young soldier was but a “poor gentleman”—with no other prospect, save that at the point of his sword—not much in Mexico, to a man with anhonestheart. There was a rival who was rich; and to this “party” Don Eusebio had promised his daughter—with the threat of a convent in the case of her refusal.
Notwithstanding this menace, Francisco was full of hope—based upon the promises of Dolores. She had expressed her determination to share penury with him rather than wed therico, who was not of her choice—to die, or do anything rather than go into a convent!
I was not so communicative as my new acquaintance—at least as regarded my relationship with the family of Villa-Señor. To have spoken of Mercedes to another would have spoiled the romance of my passion. Not a word said I to Francisco of that hopeful affair.
From that day I became noted, as one of the earliest risers on the muster-roll of the American army. Not a morning did I outsleep thereveille; nor once missed matins in the Cathedral.
Several times I again saw Mercedes. Each time there was an exchange of glances—each day becoming better understood between us.
And still not a word had we exchanged! I feared to risk speech—the humiliation that would follow, if perchance I was mistaken.
I was again on the eve of resorting to the epistolary mode of communication—and had actually written the letter, intending to deliver it—not second-hand through thecochero, but, inpropria persona, to the lady herself.
At each succeedingoraçionI watched for an opportunity; when the fair worshipper, passing out along with the crowd, might come within delivering distance.
Twice had I been disappointed. On the third time I had the chance, without taking advantage of it!
It was not needed. The wish I had expressed in my epistle was better worded by Mercedes herself. As she descended the steps on her way to the street, her lips came so close to my ear, that I was enabled to catch every syllable of that sweet whisper:
“En la Alameda. A seis horas!” (At six o’clock, in the Alameda!)
Chapter Twenty Two.Appointment and Disappointment.In most Mexican cities of the first and second class, there is both a “Paseo” and an “Alameda;” the former a public drive—riding included; the latter more especially set apart for pedestrians, though there is also a carriage way around it.In the capital itself there are two Paseos—BucareliandLa Vega. The latter extending along the famedchinampas, or “floating gardens,” is only fashionable at a certain season of the year—during the week of Carnival. At all other times it is neglected for the more magnificent drive of Bucareli.The Paseo of Puebla is poor by comparison; but its Alameda is not without merits. It is a large quadrangle lying on the western edge of the city; with trees, walks, statues, flowers, fountains, and all the usual adornments of a public garden. Around it is a road for carriages and equestrians, as well as a path for promenaders—with benches at intervals on which they may rest themselves.Its view includes theteocalliof Cholula, with the church of the virgin “Remedios” on its top; beyond, the snow-cone of Popocatepec, and the twinnevadaof the “White Sister.”It was not to look upon these that I was “in the Alameda at six o’clock;” or, perhaps, a half-hour earlier.With such an appointment as mine, no living man could have restrained himself from anticipating the time.As the place is devoted to the three several kinds of recreation—walking, riding, driving—it was a question in which way Mercedes would present herself.The last was the most likely; though the first would have been the more convenient—keeping in view the supposed purpose.It was the mode I had myself adopted: having entered the enclosure as a simple pedestrian, and in civilian dress—to avoid observation.I sauntered along the walks—apparently admiring the flowers, and criticising the statues. It was sheer pretence—to deceive the promenaders, who were moving before and behind me. At that moment I had no thought, either of the elegancies of Art, or the beauties of Nature; not even for its sublimities, displayed within sight on the snow-clad slopes of the great “Cordillera.”I was thinking only of the beauty of woman—impatient to behold it in its most perfect type.Was it to appear on foot, on horseback, or between wheels?Considering the character of the times—and that Red Hats were in the Alameda—the last was the most likely.Notwithstanding this conjecture, I scrutinised every female pedestrian who came inside the enclosure—even those coifed by the cheapestreboso.Though her sister had said otherwise, Mercedes might not always be free to go forth? She might have to take her recreation by stealth, and disguised?My surmises soon came to an end; and, to my joy, proved erroneous. Dolores had been right. Thecocheroin black glaze hat andjaquetaof blue camlet cloth, driving a pair offrisones, could be no other than he who had once lost a doubloon by staying too late over his stable duties?I took no further note of him. Thenceforth my eyes were occupied with a countenance seen through the windows of the carriage. It was acarretelaof elegant construction—all glass in front—best plate, and clear as crystal.The face inside was but improved by its interposition—toned to the softness of tinted wax.It needed no scrutiny to identify it. There was no mistaking the countenance of Mercedes.I had done this before; but that was under the uncertain glimmer of a street lamp.I now saw it in the full light of day; and well did it bear the exposure. If possible it was more perfect than ever; and the jetty eyes, the carmine tinted checks, the lips—but I had no time to observe them in detail before the carriage came close up.I saw that she was its sole occupant—unaccompanied either by sister, orchaperone. Even Tia Josefa was not with her!It was true, then, what Dolores had said. Poor Dolores! I could not help feeling sympathy for her; the more so that I was now the friend of her Francisco.The carriage was coming on at a slow pace. Thefrisonesscarce trotted. I had time to take some steps, which simple prudence suggested. Even love has its instincts of caution; especially when full of confidence.Mine was to seek some solitary nook of the Alameda, where I might observe without being observed—except by the occupant of thecarretela.Fortune favoured me. A clump of Peruvian pepper-trees stood close by—their pendant fronds drooping over the drive. Under their shadow was a recess—quiet, cornered, apparently unoccupied. It was the very spot I was in search of.In ten seconds I had placed myself under thepimentos.In ten more the carriage came abreast of me—still slowly moving on.My eyes met those of Mercedes!Half blinded by the blaze of her beauty, I stood gazing upon it. My glance must have betrayed my admiration; but not less the faltering fear that had hold of me. It was in my heart, and must have been symbolled in my countenance. It was the humility of a man who feels that he is not worthy of the woman he would worship; for I could have worshipped Mercedes!In five minutes afterwards I wascursingher! She passed, with her eyes full upon me, but without showing any sign of recognition, either by speech or gesture!It was only after they were averted that I thought of interpreting their glance; and then I was prevented by a surprise that stupified me—a rage that almost rendered me frantic.Instead of the smile—the something more which I had been fondly expecting—the look vouchsafed to me was such as might have been given to a complete stranger!And yet it was not like this. There was salutation in it, distant, disguised under some strange reserve—to me unreadable.Was it caution? Was it coquetry?It stung me to think it was the latter.I gazed after thecarretelafor an explanation. I was not likely to get it—now that the blind back of the vehicle was towards me, and its occupant no longer to be seen.But I had it the instant after.A little farther along the drive I saw a man pass out from among the pepper-trees; who, like myself, appeared to have been there “in waiting.”Unlike me, he was on horseback—bestriding a well caparisoned steed. The man was no stranger to me. At a glance I saw who it was.Yielding to a touch of the spur, his horse launched himself out into the road; and was pulled up close to thecarretela—through the opened window of which a white arm was at the same time protruded.I saw the flashing of a jewelled wrist, with abilletitaheld at the tips of tapering fingers!Stodare could not have taken that note more adroitly, or concealed it with quicker sleight, than did my friend Francisco Moreno—never more to be friend of mine!
In most Mexican cities of the first and second class, there is both a “Paseo” and an “Alameda;” the former a public drive—riding included; the latter more especially set apart for pedestrians, though there is also a carriage way around it.
In the capital itself there are two Paseos—BucareliandLa Vega. The latter extending along the famedchinampas, or “floating gardens,” is only fashionable at a certain season of the year—during the week of Carnival. At all other times it is neglected for the more magnificent drive of Bucareli.
The Paseo of Puebla is poor by comparison; but its Alameda is not without merits. It is a large quadrangle lying on the western edge of the city; with trees, walks, statues, flowers, fountains, and all the usual adornments of a public garden. Around it is a road for carriages and equestrians, as well as a path for promenaders—with benches at intervals on which they may rest themselves.
Its view includes theteocalliof Cholula, with the church of the virgin “Remedios” on its top; beyond, the snow-cone of Popocatepec, and the twinnevadaof the “White Sister.”
It was not to look upon these that I was “in the Alameda at six o’clock;” or, perhaps, a half-hour earlier.
With such an appointment as mine, no living man could have restrained himself from anticipating the time.
As the place is devoted to the three several kinds of recreation—walking, riding, driving—it was a question in which way Mercedes would present herself.
The last was the most likely; though the first would have been the more convenient—keeping in view the supposed purpose.
It was the mode I had myself adopted: having entered the enclosure as a simple pedestrian, and in civilian dress—to avoid observation.
I sauntered along the walks—apparently admiring the flowers, and criticising the statues. It was sheer pretence—to deceive the promenaders, who were moving before and behind me. At that moment I had no thought, either of the elegancies of Art, or the beauties of Nature; not even for its sublimities, displayed within sight on the snow-clad slopes of the great “Cordillera.”
I was thinking only of the beauty of woman—impatient to behold it in its most perfect type.
Was it to appear on foot, on horseback, or between wheels?
Considering the character of the times—and that Red Hats were in the Alameda—the last was the most likely.
Notwithstanding this conjecture, I scrutinised every female pedestrian who came inside the enclosure—even those coifed by the cheapestreboso.
Though her sister had said otherwise, Mercedes might not always be free to go forth? She might have to take her recreation by stealth, and disguised?
My surmises soon came to an end; and, to my joy, proved erroneous. Dolores had been right. Thecocheroin black glaze hat andjaquetaof blue camlet cloth, driving a pair offrisones, could be no other than he who had once lost a doubloon by staying too late over his stable duties?
I took no further note of him. Thenceforth my eyes were occupied with a countenance seen through the windows of the carriage. It was acarretelaof elegant construction—all glass in front—best plate, and clear as crystal.
The face inside was but improved by its interposition—toned to the softness of tinted wax.
It needed no scrutiny to identify it. There was no mistaking the countenance of Mercedes.
I had done this before; but that was under the uncertain glimmer of a street lamp.
I now saw it in the full light of day; and well did it bear the exposure. If possible it was more perfect than ever; and the jetty eyes, the carmine tinted checks, the lips—but I had no time to observe them in detail before the carriage came close up.
I saw that she was its sole occupant—unaccompanied either by sister, orchaperone. Even Tia Josefa was not with her!
It was true, then, what Dolores had said. Poor Dolores! I could not help feeling sympathy for her; the more so that I was now the friend of her Francisco.
The carriage was coming on at a slow pace. Thefrisonesscarce trotted. I had time to take some steps, which simple prudence suggested. Even love has its instincts of caution; especially when full of confidence.
Mine was to seek some solitary nook of the Alameda, where I might observe without being observed—except by the occupant of thecarretela.
Fortune favoured me. A clump of Peruvian pepper-trees stood close by—their pendant fronds drooping over the drive. Under their shadow was a recess—quiet, cornered, apparently unoccupied. It was the very spot I was in search of.
In ten seconds I had placed myself under thepimentos.
In ten more the carriage came abreast of me—still slowly moving on.
My eyes met those of Mercedes!
Half blinded by the blaze of her beauty, I stood gazing upon it. My glance must have betrayed my admiration; but not less the faltering fear that had hold of me. It was in my heart, and must have been symbolled in my countenance. It was the humility of a man who feels that he is not worthy of the woman he would worship; for I could have worshipped Mercedes!
In five minutes afterwards I wascursingher! She passed, with her eyes full upon me, but without showing any sign of recognition, either by speech or gesture!
It was only after they were averted that I thought of interpreting their glance; and then I was prevented by a surprise that stupified me—a rage that almost rendered me frantic.
Instead of the smile—the something more which I had been fondly expecting—the look vouchsafed to me was such as might have been given to a complete stranger!
And yet it was not like this. There was salutation in it, distant, disguised under some strange reserve—to me unreadable.
Was it caution? Was it coquetry?
It stung me to think it was the latter.
I gazed after thecarretelafor an explanation. I was not likely to get it—now that the blind back of the vehicle was towards me, and its occupant no longer to be seen.
But I had it the instant after.
A little farther along the drive I saw a man pass out from among the pepper-trees; who, like myself, appeared to have been there “in waiting.”
Unlike me, he was on horseback—bestriding a well caparisoned steed. The man was no stranger to me. At a glance I saw who it was.
Yielding to a touch of the spur, his horse launched himself out into the road; and was pulled up close to thecarretela—through the opened window of which a white arm was at the same time protruded.
I saw the flashing of a jewelled wrist, with abilletitaheld at the tips of tapering fingers!
Stodare could not have taken that note more adroitly, or concealed it with quicker sleight, than did my friend Francisco Moreno—never more to be friend of mine!