Story 1, Chapter VIII.A Pleasant Explanation.The peculiar spectacle thus witnessed for a while distracted my thoughts from the marquee and its occupants.Only for a short while. Soon again the lovely face of Lola rose up before the eye of my imagination; and the longing to look upon it became stronger than ever.Yielding to this fascination—for which I could scarcely account—I strolled back to theci-devanthead-quarters of the Mexican commander-in-chief.On arriving in front of the entrance I paused.Had the invalid been still asleep, I might have hesitated about disturbing him. But his voice warned me that he was awake, and in conversation with some one—who, of course, could be no other than Lola.Even then I hesitated about going in; but while thus meditating, I could not help overhearing a portion of the dialogue that was passing between them. A name already known was on the lips of Calros, from which I could easily divine the subject of their conversation. It was the name of Ramon Rayas.“Yes, dearest Lola,” said the invalid, as if replying to some interrogatory, “it was that villain. Not content with persecuting you with his infamous proposals, he has followed me, even to the field of battle? He would have killed me outright.Carrambo! I thought he had done so. I saw him standing over me with hismachetépointed at my breast. I was too weak to make resistance. I could not raise a hand to parry his thrust. He did not strike. I know not why. There was a shot; and then I saw him standing over me again, with a pistol, its muzzle held close to my body.Valga me Dios! I saw no more. I became unconscious.”“Dear Calros! it was not Rayas who held the pistol.”“Not him!—not Ramon Rayas. Itwas, Lola. I saw him. I heard and talked to him. I listened to his threats. He wanted me to tell him—Oh! too surely was it he—he, and no other.”“Yes, he who threatened you with themacheté. That’s true enough; but the man who held the pistol—that was not Don Ramon; not an enemy either, though I also thought him one.”“And who was it?” asked the invalid, with a puzzled look upon his countenance.“TheAmericano—he who has had you carried here into the tent.”“Which of them? There were several around me. Was it themedicowho dressed my wound? He must be a doctor to have done it so skilfully.”“No, it was not he.”“Which, then, Lola?”“You saw an officer among them, did you not?—a handsome young officer?”My heart then thrilled with a pleasant emotion. I bent my eyes with keen scrutiny upon the face of the invalid. I expected to see there an expression denoting jealousy. I thought it strange that no such thought could be detected on the features of Calros Vergara.“He must be brave, too,” continued the girl, “to have conquered the Capitan Rayas.”“Conquered Rayas! How? What mean you, Lola?”“You see those spots of blood on your shirt-bosom? There were others on your face, but I have washed them off. I thought it was yours, Calros.”“And is it not?”“No. This is fresh blood, as you may tell by looking at it. It is not yet quite dried. Thanks to the holy Virgin, it is not yours; to lose more would have killed you, Calros; themedicosaid so.”“Carrambo! whose is it then?”“Don Ramon’s.”“How? Tell me, Lola!”“You say he was threatening to run you through with hismacheté. You heard a shot? It was not Ramon, but the young officer, who fired it; and the bullet was aimed at Rayas himself, and not at you. It must have hit him, for hismachetéwas found beside you, the hilt stained with blood; and these drops must have come from the wound he received. Ah!dear brother Calros! but for this brave Americano you would now have been in another world, and I left in this, alone, and without a protector.”BrotherCalros!A load seemed lifted from my heart; the arrow, so lately entering it, and already beginning to rankle, appeared to be suddenly plucked from it without causing pain.BrotherCalros!No longer did I wonder at the stoical indifference with which the Jarocho had listened to that flattering eulogy bestowed upon myself.“No, Lola Vergara”—for that should be her name—“No! Never in this world, so long asIlive, shall you, beautiful Jarocha, be without a protector!”That was my thought, my mental resolution. I could scarcely restrain myself from rushing into the tent, and proclaiming it aloud!
The peculiar spectacle thus witnessed for a while distracted my thoughts from the marquee and its occupants.
Only for a short while. Soon again the lovely face of Lola rose up before the eye of my imagination; and the longing to look upon it became stronger than ever.
Yielding to this fascination—for which I could scarcely account—I strolled back to theci-devanthead-quarters of the Mexican commander-in-chief.
On arriving in front of the entrance I paused.
Had the invalid been still asleep, I might have hesitated about disturbing him. But his voice warned me that he was awake, and in conversation with some one—who, of course, could be no other than Lola.
Even then I hesitated about going in; but while thus meditating, I could not help overhearing a portion of the dialogue that was passing between them. A name already known was on the lips of Calros, from which I could easily divine the subject of their conversation. It was the name of Ramon Rayas.
“Yes, dearest Lola,” said the invalid, as if replying to some interrogatory, “it was that villain. Not content with persecuting you with his infamous proposals, he has followed me, even to the field of battle? He would have killed me outright.Carrambo! I thought he had done so. I saw him standing over me with hismachetépointed at my breast. I was too weak to make resistance. I could not raise a hand to parry his thrust. He did not strike. I know not why. There was a shot; and then I saw him standing over me again, with a pistol, its muzzle held close to my body.Valga me Dios! I saw no more. I became unconscious.”
“Dear Calros! it was not Rayas who held the pistol.”
“Not him!—not Ramon Rayas. Itwas, Lola. I saw him. I heard and talked to him. I listened to his threats. He wanted me to tell him—Oh! too surely was it he—he, and no other.”
“Yes, he who threatened you with themacheté. That’s true enough; but the man who held the pistol—that was not Don Ramon; not an enemy either, though I also thought him one.”
“And who was it?” asked the invalid, with a puzzled look upon his countenance.
“TheAmericano—he who has had you carried here into the tent.”
“Which of them? There were several around me. Was it themedicowho dressed my wound? He must be a doctor to have done it so skilfully.”
“No, it was not he.”
“Which, then, Lola?”
“You saw an officer among them, did you not?—a handsome young officer?”
My heart then thrilled with a pleasant emotion. I bent my eyes with keen scrutiny upon the face of the invalid. I expected to see there an expression denoting jealousy. I thought it strange that no such thought could be detected on the features of Calros Vergara.
“He must be brave, too,” continued the girl, “to have conquered the Capitan Rayas.”
“Conquered Rayas! How? What mean you, Lola?”
“You see those spots of blood on your shirt-bosom? There were others on your face, but I have washed them off. I thought it was yours, Calros.”
“And is it not?”
“No. This is fresh blood, as you may tell by looking at it. It is not yet quite dried. Thanks to the holy Virgin, it is not yours; to lose more would have killed you, Calros; themedicosaid so.”
“Carrambo! whose is it then?”
“Don Ramon’s.”
“How? Tell me, Lola!”
“You say he was threatening to run you through with hismacheté. You heard a shot? It was not Ramon, but the young officer, who fired it; and the bullet was aimed at Rayas himself, and not at you. It must have hit him, for hismachetéwas found beside you, the hilt stained with blood; and these drops must have come from the wound he received. Ah!dear brother Calros! but for this brave Americano you would now have been in another world, and I left in this, alone, and without a protector.”
BrotherCalros!
A load seemed lifted from my heart; the arrow, so lately entering it, and already beginning to rankle, appeared to be suddenly plucked from it without causing pain.
BrotherCalros!
No longer did I wonder at the stoical indifference with which the Jarocho had listened to that flattering eulogy bestowed upon myself.
“No, Lola Vergara”—for that should be her name—“No! Never in this world, so long asIlive, shall you, beautiful Jarocha, be without a protector!”
That was my thought, my mental resolution. I could scarcely restrain myself from rushing into the tent, and proclaiming it aloud!
Story 1, Chapter IX.Evil Imaginings.My discovery of the real relationship existing between Calros and Lola at once cured me of an incipient jealousy, which, though slight, had promised to become sufficiently painful.Its very existence, however, would have proved to me that I was already in love, had such proof been required to convince me.But I needed not to reason on that head. I knew that I was enamoured with Lola Vergara—had fallen in love with her at first sight—at that very moment when her accusing eyes flashed fiercely upon me, and through her dazzling teeth was hissed forth that angry epithet, proclaiming me amurderer! In the full tide of anger, with frowning face and furious look, had she appeared lovely—scarcely less lovely than now in her smiles!I had since beheld these. She smiled on learning that Calros was in no danger of death. She smiled on me as the preserver of his life, gratefully—I fanciedgraciously. On that fancy I had founded a hope; and hence the jealousy that had so quickly and causelessly arisen.The hope became strengthened on hearing that fraternal apostrophe, “Hermanita Calros!” pronounced in a language unequalled in the phraseology of affectionate endearment.The words bespoke a relationship far different from that I had supposed to exist between them—leaving her bosom free for another affection—a passion compatible, if not kindred.Was it my destiny to inspire this passion? Was that grand triumph to be mine?Her singular speeches, not very honestly overheard, filled me with hope.I hesitated about entering the tent. I no longer desired to interrupt a dialogue that had caused me such supreme pleasure; and yet I yearned to proffer my devotion—to stand once more face to face, and eye to eye, with the beautiful Jarocha.In any case I could not continue to play the part of an eavesdropper. I could now perceive the indelicacy of the act—especially as my satisfied heart no longer needed soothing.I must either enter, or withdraw. I decided upon entering.But not till I had set my forage-cap more coquettishly upon my head, drawn my fingers through my hair, and given to my moustache its most captivating curl.I confess to all this weakness. I was at that time full of conceit in my personal appearance. I had heard the phrase, “handsome young officer,” applied to me by one from whose lips dropped the words like the honey of Hymettus; and, inspired by the flattering epithet, I left nothing undone to deserve it.Nevertheless I felt embarrassed, as I presented myself once more before the lovely Lola—an embarrassment heightened by the presence of her brother.Wonder at this, if you will. It is too easily explained. I entered the tent with the consciousness of a design that was not honourable. I stood before them both—the sister and brother—with a conscience not clear. At that moment—I confess it to my shame—I had no other thought than that of trifling with the affections of the beautiful Jarocha.She was but a peasant—one of a race, it is true, to whom the appellation is somewhat inappropriate—a people, though poor, elegant in person, graceful in deportment, highly gifted with thesavoir faire, as it relates to the ordinary intercourse of life—at the same time a people in whose pantheon the divinity, Virtue, finds but an inconspicuous niche.Neither the first nor the last of these reflections may be deemed an excuse for my conduct. I do not offer them as such, though both serving at the time to satisfy my conscience.Its scruples were not difficult to subdue. Its still small voice was unheard, or rather unheeded, under the promptings of a powerful, but unholy passion, of which Lola Vergara was then the object, and as I hoped, afterwards to become the victim.She was but a peasant, a prettypoblana—perhaps already inducted into the mysteries of Cupid’s court: for it would be rare for one of her race to have reached woman’s age without loving. The sister of a common soldier—for such was the rank of Calros—what harm could be done? What wrong could I be dreaming about?I did not need all this sophistry to satisfy the whisperings of my conscience. At that time of my life the task was easy of accomplishment—too easy; and with such a lure as Lola Vergara it was less than a task.I made no effort to resist the temptation. On the contrary, I devoted myself to the winning of her heart with all the ardour of an important enterprise.It was herheartI wished to win, and that only.I wished it because she had won mine. I deny that I had any design beyond—any thought more dishonourable. That of itself may be deemed sufficiently so, since I had no intention of offering her my hand.Her love alone did I care for; though I will not conceal my belief, that, in the event of conquering herheart, any other conquest would be facile and without resistance.This was my faith at the time—a faith founded on sad experience. I applied it to Lola Vergara, as I should have done to any other girl under the like circumstances.The future would prove whether my creed was erroneous as it was dishonourable.I entered the tent. She, whose affections I intended trifling with, rose from her seat, saluting me, as I stepped forward, with an air of modesty that might have shamed my secret thoughts. Her glance was full of gratitude. How ill did I deserve it!“Señor,” said she, after answering my inquiries as to the condition of the invalid, “I hope you will forgive me for the rude manner in which I addressed you.Volga me Dios! To have made such a mistake! I thought you had killed my brother, not knowing when I saw you standing over him. O señor! you will forgive me?”“There is nothing to forgive, fair Lola. Considering the situation, you could scarcely have thought otherwise. Fortunately, no one has succeeded in killing your brother; not even the American rifleman who sent his bullet through him. I am glad to hear that the wound is not dangerous.”“Ah, señor,” interposed Calros himself, “but for you—Lola has just been telling me—but for you I should have had a wound, not only dangerous, but deadly. Thatcortante(the Jarocho pointed to the blood-stained weapon lying on the floor of the tent) would have pierced my flesh—my heart. I know it; I am sure of it. He meant to have killed me!El demonio!”“You are speaking of Ramon Rayas?”“Of him!—pardon, señor Americano. You cannot know anything of him? How learnt you his name?”“From your own lips, Calros Vergara; and your name from his. From both of you a name prettier than either.”I glanced towards Lola, who returned my look with a gracious smile.Calros looked puzzled; as if not very clearly comprehending me.“You forget,” I said, “that in the conversation which occurred between you and this Ramon Rayas, you repeatedly addressed each other by name; and also mentioned a third individual, whose acquaintance I have since had the pleasure of making—your sister, is she not?”“Si, ñor capitan. Ña Lola is my sister.”“She is worthy to be your sister, señor Calros. She who follows a brother to the field of battle—seeks for him among the slain—risking life to alleviate the pain of his wounds—ah! that is a sister for a soldier. Would that I had such an one!”While speaking I regarded the countenance of the girl. I regarded it with a tender gaze. I fancied that she returned my thought, but so slightly as to have been perceptible only to the keen scrutiny of love. It was only a single glance she gave me; and then the long lashes fell over her eyes, hiding their sweet scintillation.When I had finished speaking, she turned towards me, but without raising her eyes. Then pronouncing the formal phrase, “Mil gracius señor” she stepped silently towards the entrance of the tent.Before passing out, she paused a moment to state apologetically the object of her departure—some trifling errand relating to the invalid.But for this I might have fancied that my flattery had offended, or perhaps the glance of gallantry with which I had regarded her. Even had it been so, I could not then have apologised: for in another instant she was gone.
My discovery of the real relationship existing between Calros and Lola at once cured me of an incipient jealousy, which, though slight, had promised to become sufficiently painful.
Its very existence, however, would have proved to me that I was already in love, had such proof been required to convince me.
But I needed not to reason on that head. I knew that I was enamoured with Lola Vergara—had fallen in love with her at first sight—at that very moment when her accusing eyes flashed fiercely upon me, and through her dazzling teeth was hissed forth that angry epithet, proclaiming me amurderer! In the full tide of anger, with frowning face and furious look, had she appeared lovely—scarcely less lovely than now in her smiles!
I had since beheld these. She smiled on learning that Calros was in no danger of death. She smiled on me as the preserver of his life, gratefully—I fanciedgraciously. On that fancy I had founded a hope; and hence the jealousy that had so quickly and causelessly arisen.
The hope became strengthened on hearing that fraternal apostrophe, “Hermanita Calros!” pronounced in a language unequalled in the phraseology of affectionate endearment.
The words bespoke a relationship far different from that I had supposed to exist between them—leaving her bosom free for another affection—a passion compatible, if not kindred.
Was it my destiny to inspire this passion? Was that grand triumph to be mine?
Her singular speeches, not very honestly overheard, filled me with hope.
I hesitated about entering the tent. I no longer desired to interrupt a dialogue that had caused me such supreme pleasure; and yet I yearned to proffer my devotion—to stand once more face to face, and eye to eye, with the beautiful Jarocha.
In any case I could not continue to play the part of an eavesdropper. I could now perceive the indelicacy of the act—especially as my satisfied heart no longer needed soothing.
I must either enter, or withdraw. I decided upon entering.
But not till I had set my forage-cap more coquettishly upon my head, drawn my fingers through my hair, and given to my moustache its most captivating curl.
I confess to all this weakness. I was at that time full of conceit in my personal appearance. I had heard the phrase, “handsome young officer,” applied to me by one from whose lips dropped the words like the honey of Hymettus; and, inspired by the flattering epithet, I left nothing undone to deserve it.
Nevertheless I felt embarrassed, as I presented myself once more before the lovely Lola—an embarrassment heightened by the presence of her brother.
Wonder at this, if you will. It is too easily explained. I entered the tent with the consciousness of a design that was not honourable. I stood before them both—the sister and brother—with a conscience not clear. At that moment—I confess it to my shame—I had no other thought than that of trifling with the affections of the beautiful Jarocha.
She was but a peasant—one of a race, it is true, to whom the appellation is somewhat inappropriate—a people, though poor, elegant in person, graceful in deportment, highly gifted with thesavoir faire, as it relates to the ordinary intercourse of life—at the same time a people in whose pantheon the divinity, Virtue, finds but an inconspicuous niche.
Neither the first nor the last of these reflections may be deemed an excuse for my conduct. I do not offer them as such, though both serving at the time to satisfy my conscience.
Its scruples were not difficult to subdue. Its still small voice was unheard, or rather unheeded, under the promptings of a powerful, but unholy passion, of which Lola Vergara was then the object, and as I hoped, afterwards to become the victim.
She was but a peasant, a prettypoblana—perhaps already inducted into the mysteries of Cupid’s court: for it would be rare for one of her race to have reached woman’s age without loving. The sister of a common soldier—for such was the rank of Calros—what harm could be done? What wrong could I be dreaming about?
I did not need all this sophistry to satisfy the whisperings of my conscience. At that time of my life the task was easy of accomplishment—too easy; and with such a lure as Lola Vergara it was less than a task.
I made no effort to resist the temptation. On the contrary, I devoted myself to the winning of her heart with all the ardour of an important enterprise.
It was herheartI wished to win, and that only.I wished it because she had won mine. I deny that I had any design beyond—any thought more dishonourable. That of itself may be deemed sufficiently so, since I had no intention of offering her my hand.
Her love alone did I care for; though I will not conceal my belief, that, in the event of conquering herheart, any other conquest would be facile and without resistance.
This was my faith at the time—a faith founded on sad experience. I applied it to Lola Vergara, as I should have done to any other girl under the like circumstances.
The future would prove whether my creed was erroneous as it was dishonourable.
I entered the tent. She, whose affections I intended trifling with, rose from her seat, saluting me, as I stepped forward, with an air of modesty that might have shamed my secret thoughts. Her glance was full of gratitude. How ill did I deserve it!
“Señor,” said she, after answering my inquiries as to the condition of the invalid, “I hope you will forgive me for the rude manner in which I addressed you.Volga me Dios! To have made such a mistake! I thought you had killed my brother, not knowing when I saw you standing over him. O señor! you will forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive, fair Lola. Considering the situation, you could scarcely have thought otherwise. Fortunately, no one has succeeded in killing your brother; not even the American rifleman who sent his bullet through him. I am glad to hear that the wound is not dangerous.”
“Ah, señor,” interposed Calros himself, “but for you—Lola has just been telling me—but for you I should have had a wound, not only dangerous, but deadly. Thatcortante(the Jarocho pointed to the blood-stained weapon lying on the floor of the tent) would have pierced my flesh—my heart. I know it; I am sure of it. He meant to have killed me!El demonio!”
“You are speaking of Ramon Rayas?”
“Of him!—pardon, señor Americano. You cannot know anything of him? How learnt you his name?”
“From your own lips, Calros Vergara; and your name from his. From both of you a name prettier than either.”
I glanced towards Lola, who returned my look with a gracious smile.
Calros looked puzzled; as if not very clearly comprehending me.
“You forget,” I said, “that in the conversation which occurred between you and this Ramon Rayas, you repeatedly addressed each other by name; and also mentioned a third individual, whose acquaintance I have since had the pleasure of making—your sister, is she not?”
“Si, ñor capitan. Ña Lola is my sister.”
“She is worthy to be your sister, señor Calros. She who follows a brother to the field of battle—seeks for him among the slain—risking life to alleviate the pain of his wounds—ah! that is a sister for a soldier. Would that I had such an one!”
While speaking I regarded the countenance of the girl. I regarded it with a tender gaze. I fancied that she returned my thought, but so slightly as to have been perceptible only to the keen scrutiny of love. It was only a single glance she gave me; and then the long lashes fell over her eyes, hiding their sweet scintillation.
When I had finished speaking, she turned towards me, but without raising her eyes. Then pronouncing the formal phrase, “Mil gracius señor” she stepped silently towards the entrance of the tent.
Before passing out, she paused a moment to state apologetically the object of her departure—some trifling errand relating to the invalid.
But for this I might have fancied that my flattery had offended, or perhaps the glance of gallantry with which I had regarded her. Even had it been so, I could not then have apologised: for in another instant she was gone.
Story 1, Chapter X.An Implacable Pursuer.I was in the midst of circumstances still unexplained. A wounded man found lying upon the field of battle—a mere youth; in no respect, either in costume, accoutrements, or personal appearance, resembling the thing called a “common soldier,” and yet bearing no insignia to show that he was aught else.Found with an enemy standing over him, not a national foe, but a countryman—and, as it appeared, an old school-fellow,machetéin hand, threatening to accomplish what the foeman had left incomplete—threatening his life, and only hindered from taking it by the merest accidental intervention!Near at hand, soon after to appear by his side, a woman—not one of those hideous hags sometimes seen on the morrow of a bloody battle, skulking among the slain, and stooping, vulture-like, over the mangled corpse—but a young girl of sweet voice and lovely aspect; so contrasting with the rude objects around her, so apparently out of place amid such scenes, that instead of a human being, a form of flesh and blood, one might have believed her to be an angel of mercy, that had descended from the sky to soothe the sufferings which men in their frantic fury had caused one another!And this angel-like creature to prove thesister—and not thesweetheart—of him whose cries had called me from my couch!Even in this circumstance there was something to cause me surprise. It would not have been the first time I had met the soldier’s sweetheart on the field of battle; but never before had I encountered his sister.I might have been more surprised at this peculiar encounter, but that on the afternoon of that very day I had been spectator of a scene calculated to explain it. In a field adjoining the hamlet-village of El Plan I had gazed upon four thousand soldiers of Santa Anna’s army made prisoners during the action; and circling among them—not as spectators, but real actors in the affairs of the camp—were at least half this number of women!Though most stood in a different relationship, I learned that many of these devoted creatures were the sisters—some of them the mothers—of the men who had mingled in the fight!I could not help contrasting this bi-sexual crowd with the invading army to which I myself appertained; in which some half-dozen hags, under the appellation of sutler’s assistants; a like number performing themétierof the laundress; and one or two virgins of still more questionable calling, formed the whole female camp-following.After such a scene as that witnessed by therancheriaof El Plan, it could not much astonish me to find the sister of Cairo? Vergara on the field of battle. My astonishment only arose from seeingsuch a sister!On being left alone with the Jarocho, I could no longer repress my desire to obtain an explanation of the series of mysteries, that had so suddenly and unexpectedly surrounded me.My interference in his behalf had furnished me with a sort of right to make the request—even to demand it.“Ramon Rayas,” I said, as soon as the girl was gone out of hearing—“This Ramon Rayas appears to be no friend of yours?”“Ah, señor! my bitterest enemy.”“He is not the enemy of your sister, though! He professes to be her very best friend—at least her lover, which should be the same thing? Issheof that opinion?”“My sister hates him.”“Are you sure of that?””Ñor capitan, you are a stranger to me; but the service you’ve this night performed makes me feel as if I were talking to an old friend. Excuse the freedom I take. I am only a poor Jarocho—owning nothing but myrancho, a few varas of garden-ground, my horse, my saddle, and mymacheté. I was going to say my liberty, but that’s not true: else why am I dragged from my home to fight battles in which I have no interest? You may say what our military oppressors say—it is to fight for my country. Bah! what use in spilling one’s blood for a country that’s not free? It isn’t for that I’ve been brought to Cerro Gordo, and shot down like a dog. It was to fight for a tyrant, not for a country—for El Cojo, and nobody else!”“You have not been in the battle by your own will, then?”“Carrambo! nothing of the sort,ñor deconocio! I am here by conscription; and I’ve been shot down by conscription. No matter now.Wehave no liberty left in Mexico—at least I have none. Still, ñor capitan, there’s one treasure left to me which I prize above everything else before riches, or even liberty. It was left me by my parents—who have long ago gone to a better world.”“What treasure?” I inquired, seeing that the speaker hesitated to declare it.“Ña Lola—mia hermanita.” (Lola, my dear sister.)“I hope there is no danger of your losing her?”“There is. This very night you must have heard something to tell you that there is.”“’Tis true I heard something that sounded like a threat; but what need you fear from a man who can have no control over you or your sister? You say she scorns his suit. If that be so, I cannot understand how she is in danger.”“Ah!ñor deconocio! you know not our country, else you might understand. The man you speak of has power; that is, if he be still alive.”The speaker glanced significantly towards the blood-stained cutlass.“Power! How?”“He is my captain. I am one of a band ofguerilleros, raised in our village and neighbourhood. This man, Don Ramon Rayas, is our chief. He had his appointment from the dictator himself, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. It’s a puzzle to me—and to others as well—how he obtained it: for it’s well known that before the beginning of this war with the Americanos, Rayas was asalteador.”“A highway robber!”“Neither more nor less, ñor capitan.”“I heard you apply that unenviable appellation to him. But what can be his motive for attempting to take your life?”“Only to get rid of me; and then Lola—my poor sister would be more easily—carrai! you know what I mean!”I needed not a more ample explanation, though Calros proceeded to give it.”Ñor deconocio,” said he, speaking in a low voice, so as not to be heard outside the tent, “I shall tell you all about it. You’ve seen my sister. Well, perhaps to you, whose countrywomen I have heard say are very fair-skinned, Lola may not appear much—”I did not interrupt Calros to tell himhow much.“Here, among us Jarochos, though I, her brother, say it, Lolita is thoughtmuy linda.”“She would be thought so anywhere, I should say.”“Well,” proceeded the conscript, apparently pleased at my remark, “good looks in a girl are sometimes only a misfortune to her—more especially if she be poor, and that is just what Lola is.”“A misfortune! How?”I put the question with a keener interest than the invalid suspected.Had Lola been already the victim of a misfortune?“You see, sir stranger,” rejoined Calros, “among those who have set their eyes upon ña Lola is this Ramon Rayas.”“An old school-fellow of yours, is he not?”“True—such schooling as we had. That is long ago. Since then we have never seen him till lately. He left our village, and went to live in the great city of Puebla—a wicked place, though it be called theCity of the angels. We didn’t hear of him for a long time; and then we were told that he had taken to thecamino real—had become, as I’ve said, asalteador.”“And now he is an officer in the Mexican army?”“That’s the strangest of all. But no. It’s not so strange to us down here, who are well acquainted with Don Antonio. Ramon Rayas isn’t the onlypicaroin his employ. As I’ve told you, we’d seen nothing of Ramon since he was a boy at school. Then one day he reappeared among us with a commission to recruit—no, not that, but rather to take us young fellows by force, and make soldiers of us. I was compelled to go with the rest. We were formed into aguerilla, with Rayas as our captain. It was at that time his eyes fell upon Lola.”“But did your sister accompany you in the campaign?”“She did. There were many other women with us—the wives and sisters of my comrades. They came to work for us, and make us comfortable in camp. It is our custom, ñor Americano. ’Tis not so with you, I am told.”“No, we don’t trouble ourselves with such company.”“Ah, ñor capitan, it has indeed proved a trouble to me. It has required all to protect my poor little sister.”“Protect her! Against whom?”“Our captain—Don Ramon. His importunities—cruelties I should call them—were of daily, hourly occurrence. They were growing worse, when—”“You sent her out of his reach?”“I did. I found a friend who offered me a home for her. My friend promised to keep her concealed, until this war should be over, and I could return home to protect her as a freeborn citizen of the republic.”“How came she to be here to-night?”“Devotion,” proudly replied the youth; “devotion, ñor capitan. She heard from some fugitives that I was shot down and left on the field. She came to find me—if dead to weep over my body—if living, to take care of me. Thanks to you, ñor deconocio, she has found me alive.”After a short interval of silence, in which the invalid appeared to reflect, he resumed speech.“Madré de Dios!” he said, “if Rayas had succeeded in killing me! But for you, ñor, he must have succeeded. Lola was near at hand, calling my name. He would have heard her. She would have come up, and then the wolf and the lamb would have met in the middle of the chapparal.Madré de Dios! Thanks that she is saved!”As the more than probable consequence of such a meeting became pictured in the imagination of the Jarocho, he raised himself, half erect, upon the camp-bedstead, and emphatically repeated the thanksgiving.The words had scarcely passed from his lips, when, for the third time, the mother of God was invoked.On this occasion, however, a different cause had called forth the invocation—a cry heard outside the tent in the silvery intonation of a woman’s voice.It was easy to recognise the utterance of Dolores. On hearing it the invalid sprang clear out of thecatre; and stood for some moments balancing himself upon the floor.Yielding to his weakness, he fell back upon the couch, just as the girl rushed inside the tent—proclaiming by her presence that no harm had befallen her.“What is it,dearLola?” cried her brother, almost word for word repeating my own interrogatory.“He! Don Ramon! He is there—outside the tent!”“If he will only stay till I come out, I promise you, fair Lola, you shall never more be troubled by his presence.”I drew my sword from its sheath, and was rushing for the opening in the canvas.”Ñor, ñor!por amor Dios! Go not alone! Don Ramon is wicked; but he isbrave—he is dangerous!”It wasDoloreswho interrupted me with these strange speeches.“Brave!” I said, turning to her with angry astonishment. “Brave! a villain such as he, brave!”I spoke with a bitter emphasis. The thought had shot across my brain, that the scorn of which Calros spoke, might have been only a fraternal fancy!“I hope he will have courage enough to wait my coming. We shall see!” and with this valorous declaration, I emerged from the marquee, and ran over the ground in search of Don Ramon.Half a score of my comrades, who had started from their couches on hearing the scream, were soon around me; but although we quartered the chapparal for a good stretch on every side of the encampment, we could find no trace of the robber.Having doubled the number of the sentries, and taken other precautions against the return of this terrible intruder, I re-entered the tent which gave shelter to the Jarocho and his sister.Restoring the invalid to such repose as was possible, I made preparations to leave them for the night. The girl was to sleep upon the floor of the marquee, under cover of aserapé, which I had procured for her accommodation.“Have no fear,Linda Lola!” I whispered, as reluctantly I bade good night. “He who would harm thee must first pass over my body.I shall sleep outside—before the entrance of the tent. Adios! Posa V. buena noche! Hasta la mañana!”“Hasta la mañana!” was the reply—simply my own words repeated, and with an innocent unconcern, that should have nipped in the bud any unhallowed hopes.
I was in the midst of circumstances still unexplained. A wounded man found lying upon the field of battle—a mere youth; in no respect, either in costume, accoutrements, or personal appearance, resembling the thing called a “common soldier,” and yet bearing no insignia to show that he was aught else.
Found with an enemy standing over him, not a national foe, but a countryman—and, as it appeared, an old school-fellow,machetéin hand, threatening to accomplish what the foeman had left incomplete—threatening his life, and only hindered from taking it by the merest accidental intervention!
Near at hand, soon after to appear by his side, a woman—not one of those hideous hags sometimes seen on the morrow of a bloody battle, skulking among the slain, and stooping, vulture-like, over the mangled corpse—but a young girl of sweet voice and lovely aspect; so contrasting with the rude objects around her, so apparently out of place amid such scenes, that instead of a human being, a form of flesh and blood, one might have believed her to be an angel of mercy, that had descended from the sky to soothe the sufferings which men in their frantic fury had caused one another!
And this angel-like creature to prove thesister—and not thesweetheart—of him whose cries had called me from my couch!
Even in this circumstance there was something to cause me surprise. It would not have been the first time I had met the soldier’s sweetheart on the field of battle; but never before had I encountered his sister.
I might have been more surprised at this peculiar encounter, but that on the afternoon of that very day I had been spectator of a scene calculated to explain it. In a field adjoining the hamlet-village of El Plan I had gazed upon four thousand soldiers of Santa Anna’s army made prisoners during the action; and circling among them—not as spectators, but real actors in the affairs of the camp—were at least half this number of women!
Though most stood in a different relationship, I learned that many of these devoted creatures were the sisters—some of them the mothers—of the men who had mingled in the fight!
I could not help contrasting this bi-sexual crowd with the invading army to which I myself appertained; in which some half-dozen hags, under the appellation of sutler’s assistants; a like number performing themétierof the laundress; and one or two virgins of still more questionable calling, formed the whole female camp-following.
After such a scene as that witnessed by therancheriaof El Plan, it could not much astonish me to find the sister of Cairo? Vergara on the field of battle. My astonishment only arose from seeingsuch a sister!
On being left alone with the Jarocho, I could no longer repress my desire to obtain an explanation of the series of mysteries, that had so suddenly and unexpectedly surrounded me.
My interference in his behalf had furnished me with a sort of right to make the request—even to demand it.
“Ramon Rayas,” I said, as soon as the girl was gone out of hearing—“This Ramon Rayas appears to be no friend of yours?”
“Ah, señor! my bitterest enemy.”
“He is not the enemy of your sister, though! He professes to be her very best friend—at least her lover, which should be the same thing? Issheof that opinion?”
“My sister hates him.”
“Are you sure of that?”
”Ñor capitan, you are a stranger to me; but the service you’ve this night performed makes me feel as if I were talking to an old friend. Excuse the freedom I take. I am only a poor Jarocho—owning nothing but myrancho, a few varas of garden-ground, my horse, my saddle, and mymacheté. I was going to say my liberty, but that’s not true: else why am I dragged from my home to fight battles in which I have no interest? You may say what our military oppressors say—it is to fight for my country. Bah! what use in spilling one’s blood for a country that’s not free? It isn’t for that I’ve been brought to Cerro Gordo, and shot down like a dog. It was to fight for a tyrant, not for a country—for El Cojo, and nobody else!”
“You have not been in the battle by your own will, then?”
“Carrambo! nothing of the sort,ñor deconocio! I am here by conscription; and I’ve been shot down by conscription. No matter now.Wehave no liberty left in Mexico—at least I have none. Still, ñor capitan, there’s one treasure left to me which I prize above everything else before riches, or even liberty. It was left me by my parents—who have long ago gone to a better world.”
“What treasure?” I inquired, seeing that the speaker hesitated to declare it.
“Ña Lola—mia hermanita.” (Lola, my dear sister.)
“I hope there is no danger of your losing her?”
“There is. This very night you must have heard something to tell you that there is.”
“’Tis true I heard something that sounded like a threat; but what need you fear from a man who can have no control over you or your sister? You say she scorns his suit. If that be so, I cannot understand how she is in danger.”
“Ah!ñor deconocio! you know not our country, else you might understand. The man you speak of has power; that is, if he be still alive.”
The speaker glanced significantly towards the blood-stained cutlass.
“Power! How?”
“He is my captain. I am one of a band ofguerilleros, raised in our village and neighbourhood. This man, Don Ramon Rayas, is our chief. He had his appointment from the dictator himself, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. It’s a puzzle to me—and to others as well—how he obtained it: for it’s well known that before the beginning of this war with the Americanos, Rayas was asalteador.”
“A highway robber!”
“Neither more nor less, ñor capitan.”
“I heard you apply that unenviable appellation to him. But what can be his motive for attempting to take your life?”
“Only to get rid of me; and then Lola—my poor sister would be more easily—carrai! you know what I mean!”
I needed not a more ample explanation, though Calros proceeded to give it.
”Ñor deconocio,” said he, speaking in a low voice, so as not to be heard outside the tent, “I shall tell you all about it. You’ve seen my sister. Well, perhaps to you, whose countrywomen I have heard say are very fair-skinned, Lola may not appear much—”
I did not interrupt Calros to tell himhow much.
“Here, among us Jarochos, though I, her brother, say it, Lolita is thoughtmuy linda.”
“She would be thought so anywhere, I should say.”
“Well,” proceeded the conscript, apparently pleased at my remark, “good looks in a girl are sometimes only a misfortune to her—more especially if she be poor, and that is just what Lola is.”
“A misfortune! How?”
I put the question with a keener interest than the invalid suspected.
Had Lola been already the victim of a misfortune?
“You see, sir stranger,” rejoined Calros, “among those who have set their eyes upon ña Lola is this Ramon Rayas.”
“An old school-fellow of yours, is he not?”
“True—such schooling as we had. That is long ago. Since then we have never seen him till lately. He left our village, and went to live in the great city of Puebla—a wicked place, though it be called theCity of the angels. We didn’t hear of him for a long time; and then we were told that he had taken to thecamino real—had become, as I’ve said, asalteador.”
“And now he is an officer in the Mexican army?”
“That’s the strangest of all. But no. It’s not so strange to us down here, who are well acquainted with Don Antonio. Ramon Rayas isn’t the onlypicaroin his employ. As I’ve told you, we’d seen nothing of Ramon since he was a boy at school. Then one day he reappeared among us with a commission to recruit—no, not that, but rather to take us young fellows by force, and make soldiers of us. I was compelled to go with the rest. We were formed into aguerilla, with Rayas as our captain. It was at that time his eyes fell upon Lola.”
“But did your sister accompany you in the campaign?”
“She did. There were many other women with us—the wives and sisters of my comrades. They came to work for us, and make us comfortable in camp. It is our custom, ñor Americano. ’Tis not so with you, I am told.”
“No, we don’t trouble ourselves with such company.”
“Ah, ñor capitan, it has indeed proved a trouble to me. It has required all to protect my poor little sister.”
“Protect her! Against whom?”
“Our captain—Don Ramon. His importunities—cruelties I should call them—were of daily, hourly occurrence. They were growing worse, when—”
“You sent her out of his reach?”
“I did. I found a friend who offered me a home for her. My friend promised to keep her concealed, until this war should be over, and I could return home to protect her as a freeborn citizen of the republic.”
“How came she to be here to-night?”
“Devotion,” proudly replied the youth; “devotion, ñor capitan. She heard from some fugitives that I was shot down and left on the field. She came to find me—if dead to weep over my body—if living, to take care of me. Thanks to you, ñor deconocio, she has found me alive.”
After a short interval of silence, in which the invalid appeared to reflect, he resumed speech.
“Madré de Dios!” he said, “if Rayas had succeeded in killing me! But for you, ñor, he must have succeeded. Lola was near at hand, calling my name. He would have heard her. She would have come up, and then the wolf and the lamb would have met in the middle of the chapparal.Madré de Dios! Thanks that she is saved!”
As the more than probable consequence of such a meeting became pictured in the imagination of the Jarocho, he raised himself, half erect, upon the camp-bedstead, and emphatically repeated the thanksgiving.
The words had scarcely passed from his lips, when, for the third time, the mother of God was invoked.
On this occasion, however, a different cause had called forth the invocation—a cry heard outside the tent in the silvery intonation of a woman’s voice.
It was easy to recognise the utterance of Dolores. On hearing it the invalid sprang clear out of thecatre; and stood for some moments balancing himself upon the floor.
Yielding to his weakness, he fell back upon the couch, just as the girl rushed inside the tent—proclaiming by her presence that no harm had befallen her.
“What is it,dearLola?” cried her brother, almost word for word repeating my own interrogatory.
“He! Don Ramon! He is there—outside the tent!”
“If he will only stay till I come out, I promise you, fair Lola, you shall never more be troubled by his presence.”
I drew my sword from its sheath, and was rushing for the opening in the canvas.
”Ñor, ñor!por amor Dios! Go not alone! Don Ramon is wicked; but he isbrave—he is dangerous!”
It wasDoloreswho interrupted me with these strange speeches.
“Brave!” I said, turning to her with angry astonishment. “Brave! a villain such as he, brave!”
I spoke with a bitter emphasis. The thought had shot across my brain, that the scorn of which Calros spoke, might have been only a fraternal fancy!
“I hope he will have courage enough to wait my coming. We shall see!” and with this valorous declaration, I emerged from the marquee, and ran over the ground in search of Don Ramon.
Half a score of my comrades, who had started from their couches on hearing the scream, were soon around me; but although we quartered the chapparal for a good stretch on every side of the encampment, we could find no trace of the robber.
Having doubled the number of the sentries, and taken other precautions against the return of this terrible intruder, I re-entered the tent which gave shelter to the Jarocho and his sister.
Restoring the invalid to such repose as was possible, I made preparations to leave them for the night. The girl was to sleep upon the floor of the marquee, under cover of aserapé, which I had procured for her accommodation.
“Have no fear,Linda Lola!” I whispered, as reluctantly I bade good night. “He who would harm thee must first pass over my body.I shall sleep outside—before the entrance of the tent. Adios! Posa V. buena noche! Hasta la mañana!”
“Hasta la mañana!” was the reply—simply my own words repeated, and with an innocent unconcern, that should have nipped in the bud any unhallowed hopes.
Story 1, Chapter XI.A Mexican Medico.In front of the tent—as I had whispered to her—I lay upon the ground, enfolded in my cloak. It was not the cold that kept me from sleeping, but the proximity—I might almost say thepresenceof that fair creature, since only a sheet of thin canvas was between us.I will not confess my thoughts; they are unworthy of being recorded. Even my dreams—for I had short intervals of sleep, during which I dreamt—all tended to one theme:—the enjoyment of the beautiful Jarocha.I listened long, with my ear keenly bent to catch the slightest sound. I felt no interest in the noises without. The night was now hastening towards day, and the sufferers who had been making it hideous seemed to have become wearied with wailing, for their voices were no longer heard.Alone echoed upon the air the mocking strains of theczentzontle, perched upon the summit of an acacia, and answering a friend, perhaps an enemy, far off on the opposite side of thebarranca.The bird music fell unheeded on my ear, as did all other sounds proceeding from without. Even the firing of a gun would scarcely have distracted my attention from listening for any murmur that might reach me from the interior of the tent.I could hear the heavy breathing of the invalid; nothing more.Once he coughed, and became restless upon his couch. Then I heard a sweet silvery voice speaking in accents of affectionate inquiry, and ending in the pronunciation of some soothing words.From other sounds I could tell that his nurse had arisen, and was ministering to the invalid.By the silence, soon restored, I could perceive that she had completed her task, and had returned to her recumbent position.She appeared to have no thoughts of him who was keeping guard without;—not as her guardian angel, but rather demon, who would not have hesitated to destroy that innocence which enabled her to sleep!Just in proportion as the time passed, so increased my respect for Lola Vergara, and my contempt for myself.The lovelight I had observed in her eyes was but her natural look—the simple expression of her wondrous beauty. It had no signification—at least none that was evil—and in mistaking it for the glance of a guilty passion I had erred—deeply wronging her.Soothed by this more honourable reflection, I at length fell asleep, just as the grey light of dawn was beginning to steal over thesprayof the chapparal.I could not have been very long unconscious, for the beams of the sun had scarcely attained their full brilliancy, when I was again awakened—this time, not by the conflict of passion within, but by the voices of men without. The challenge of a sentry had first struck upon my ear,—quickly followed by a parley with some one who had approached the tent.In the scarcely intelligible dialogue that ensued, I could tell that the man challenged was a Mexican, who, in broken English, was endeavouring to satisfy the demands of the sentry.The dialogue ran thus:—“Who goes there?”“Amigos! friends!” was the response.“’Dvance, and gie the countersign!”“Señor centinela! we aremedicos—surgeon, you call—of the ejercito—armee Mejicano.”“Ye’re Mexicans, are ye? Take care what ye’re about then. What d’ye want hyar?”“We are medicos—doctor—entiende usted?”“Doctors, ye say. Humph! if that’s what ye be, ye mout be o’ some use hyar, I reckon. There’s a good wheen o’ yer sodgers gone under for want o’ docturin. F’r all that I can’t let you pass ’ithout the countersign; leastwise till I’ve called the corporal o’ the guard.”The group, who stood in front of the faithful sentinel awaiting permission to pass, was full under my eyes, as I turned my face towards it. The persons comprising it numbered about a score of men, only one of whom was in uniform. This individual wore a frock-coat of blue broadcloth, very long in the skirt, with gilt buttons over the breast, crimson edging, and a cord trimming of gold lace. His pantaloons were of similar colour to the coat—in fact, of the same kind of cloth. Instead of a military cap or shako he wore a black glazé hat, with broad brim; while several minor articles of dress and equipment proclaimed a costume half military, half civilian—such a style as might be seen in any army during a campaign, but more especially in that of Mexico.The other personages of the party were variously clad—some in half military costumes, but most of them in plain clothes,—if any garments worn in Mexico can be so qualified. Several of them, two-and-two, bore stretchers between them; while others carried surgical instruments, lint, and labelled phials—insignia that declared their calling. They were the hospital staff, theassistentesof the young officer who preceded them, and who was evidently a surgeon belonging to the Mexican army.It was he who had accosted the sentry.The appearance of this party on the field of battle needed no explanation. No more did there need to be any ceremony as to their introduction.On seeing them, I shouted to the sentry to let them pass without waiting for the arrival of that important functionary—the “corporal of the guard.”As I arose to my feet, I was confronted by the Mexicanmedico, to whose indifferent English I had been for some time listening.“Señor Capitan,” he said, after saluting me with a polite wave of the hand, “I have been told that I may address you in my own language. In it, and in the name of humanity, let me thank you for the kindness you have shown to our wounded soldiers. In you, sir, we no longer recognise an enemy.”“The trifling assistance I have rendered is scarcely deserving of thanks. I fear that to some of the poor fellows who were its recipients it has been of no avail. More than one of them must have succumbed during the night.”“That reminds me, Señor Capitan, that I should not lose time. I carry, as you perceive, asafeguardfrom the American Commander-in-chief.”While speaking, he held out the document referred to, in order that I might examine it.“It is not necessary,” I said; “you are of the medical staff; your errand is your passport.”“Enough, Señor Capitan. I shall proceed to the accomplishment of my duty. In the name of humanity and Mexico, once more I thank you!”Saying this, he walked off with his followers towards that portion of the field, where most of his wounded countrymen had miserably passed the night.In the style and personal appearance of this Mexican there was a gracefulness peculiarly impressive. He was a man of not less than fifty years of age, of dark complexion under snow-white hair, and with features so finely outlined as to appear almost feminine. A pair of large, liquid eyes, a voice soft and musical, small delicate hands, and a graceful modesty of demeanour, bespoke him a person of refinement—in short, a gentleman.The fact of his speaking English, though not very fluently, being an accomplishment rare among his countrymen, betokened intellectual culture, perhaps foreign travel—an idea strengthened by his general manner and bearing. There was something in his looks, moreover, that led me to think he must be clever in his calling.I bethought me of the invalid inside the tent. Calros might stand in need of his skill.I was about to summon him back, when the young girl, hurrying out, anticipated my intention. She had overheard the dialogue between the new-comer and myself, and, thinking only of her brother, had rushed forth to claim the services of thesurgeon.“Oh, Señor,” she cried, making the appeal to myself, “will you call him back to—to see Calros?”“I was about to do so,” I replied. “He is coming!”I had not even the merit of summoning the medics. On hearing her voice he had stopped and turned round, his attendants imitating his example. The eyes of all were concentrated on the Jarocha.“Señorita,” said the surgeon, stepping towards the tent and modestly raising his sombrero as he spoke, “so fair a flower is not often found growing upon the ensanguined field of battle. If I have overheard you aright, it is your wish I should see some one who is wounded—some one dear to you, no doubt?”“My brother, sir.”“Ah! your brother,” said the Mexican, regarding the girl with a look that betokened a degree of surprise. “Where may I find him?”“In the tent, señor. Calros, dear Calros! there is a medico, a real surgeon, coming to see you.”And as the girl gave utterance to the words she stepped quickly inside the marquee, followed by the surgeon himself.
In front of the tent—as I had whispered to her—I lay upon the ground, enfolded in my cloak. It was not the cold that kept me from sleeping, but the proximity—I might almost say thepresenceof that fair creature, since only a sheet of thin canvas was between us.
I will not confess my thoughts; they are unworthy of being recorded. Even my dreams—for I had short intervals of sleep, during which I dreamt—all tended to one theme:—the enjoyment of the beautiful Jarocha.
I listened long, with my ear keenly bent to catch the slightest sound. I felt no interest in the noises without. The night was now hastening towards day, and the sufferers who had been making it hideous seemed to have become wearied with wailing, for their voices were no longer heard.
Alone echoed upon the air the mocking strains of theczentzontle, perched upon the summit of an acacia, and answering a friend, perhaps an enemy, far off on the opposite side of thebarranca.
The bird music fell unheeded on my ear, as did all other sounds proceeding from without. Even the firing of a gun would scarcely have distracted my attention from listening for any murmur that might reach me from the interior of the tent.
I could hear the heavy breathing of the invalid; nothing more.
Once he coughed, and became restless upon his couch. Then I heard a sweet silvery voice speaking in accents of affectionate inquiry, and ending in the pronunciation of some soothing words.
From other sounds I could tell that his nurse had arisen, and was ministering to the invalid.
By the silence, soon restored, I could perceive that she had completed her task, and had returned to her recumbent position.
She appeared to have no thoughts of him who was keeping guard without;—not as her guardian angel, but rather demon, who would not have hesitated to destroy that innocence which enabled her to sleep!
Just in proportion as the time passed, so increased my respect for Lola Vergara, and my contempt for myself.
The lovelight I had observed in her eyes was but her natural look—the simple expression of her wondrous beauty. It had no signification—at least none that was evil—and in mistaking it for the glance of a guilty passion I had erred—deeply wronging her.
Soothed by this more honourable reflection, I at length fell asleep, just as the grey light of dawn was beginning to steal over thesprayof the chapparal.
I could not have been very long unconscious, for the beams of the sun had scarcely attained their full brilliancy, when I was again awakened—this time, not by the conflict of passion within, but by the voices of men without. The challenge of a sentry had first struck upon my ear,—quickly followed by a parley with some one who had approached the tent.
In the scarcely intelligible dialogue that ensued, I could tell that the man challenged was a Mexican, who, in broken English, was endeavouring to satisfy the demands of the sentry.
The dialogue ran thus:—
“Who goes there?”
“Amigos! friends!” was the response.
“’Dvance, and gie the countersign!”
“Señor centinela! we aremedicos—surgeon, you call—of the ejercito—armee Mejicano.”
“Ye’re Mexicans, are ye? Take care what ye’re about then. What d’ye want hyar?”
“We are medicos—doctor—entiende usted?”
“Doctors, ye say. Humph! if that’s what ye be, ye mout be o’ some use hyar, I reckon. There’s a good wheen o’ yer sodgers gone under for want o’ docturin. F’r all that I can’t let you pass ’ithout the countersign; leastwise till I’ve called the corporal o’ the guard.”
The group, who stood in front of the faithful sentinel awaiting permission to pass, was full under my eyes, as I turned my face towards it. The persons comprising it numbered about a score of men, only one of whom was in uniform. This individual wore a frock-coat of blue broadcloth, very long in the skirt, with gilt buttons over the breast, crimson edging, and a cord trimming of gold lace. His pantaloons were of similar colour to the coat—in fact, of the same kind of cloth. Instead of a military cap or shako he wore a black glazé hat, with broad brim; while several minor articles of dress and equipment proclaimed a costume half military, half civilian—such a style as might be seen in any army during a campaign, but more especially in that of Mexico.
The other personages of the party were variously clad—some in half military costumes, but most of them in plain clothes,—if any garments worn in Mexico can be so qualified. Several of them, two-and-two, bore stretchers between them; while others carried surgical instruments, lint, and labelled phials—insignia that declared their calling. They were the hospital staff, theassistentesof the young officer who preceded them, and who was evidently a surgeon belonging to the Mexican army.
It was he who had accosted the sentry.
The appearance of this party on the field of battle needed no explanation. No more did there need to be any ceremony as to their introduction.
On seeing them, I shouted to the sentry to let them pass without waiting for the arrival of that important functionary—the “corporal of the guard.”
As I arose to my feet, I was confronted by the Mexicanmedico, to whose indifferent English I had been for some time listening.
“Señor Capitan,” he said, after saluting me with a polite wave of the hand, “I have been told that I may address you in my own language. In it, and in the name of humanity, let me thank you for the kindness you have shown to our wounded soldiers. In you, sir, we no longer recognise an enemy.”
“The trifling assistance I have rendered is scarcely deserving of thanks. I fear that to some of the poor fellows who were its recipients it has been of no avail. More than one of them must have succumbed during the night.”
“That reminds me, Señor Capitan, that I should not lose time. I carry, as you perceive, asafeguardfrom the American Commander-in-chief.”
While speaking, he held out the document referred to, in order that I might examine it.
“It is not necessary,” I said; “you are of the medical staff; your errand is your passport.”
“Enough, Señor Capitan. I shall proceed to the accomplishment of my duty. In the name of humanity and Mexico, once more I thank you!”
Saying this, he walked off with his followers towards that portion of the field, where most of his wounded countrymen had miserably passed the night.
In the style and personal appearance of this Mexican there was a gracefulness peculiarly impressive. He was a man of not less than fifty years of age, of dark complexion under snow-white hair, and with features so finely outlined as to appear almost feminine. A pair of large, liquid eyes, a voice soft and musical, small delicate hands, and a graceful modesty of demeanour, bespoke him a person of refinement—in short, a gentleman.
The fact of his speaking English, though not very fluently, being an accomplishment rare among his countrymen, betokened intellectual culture, perhaps foreign travel—an idea strengthened by his general manner and bearing. There was something in his looks, moreover, that led me to think he must be clever in his calling.
I bethought me of the invalid inside the tent. Calros might stand in need of his skill.
I was about to summon him back, when the young girl, hurrying out, anticipated my intention. She had overheard the dialogue between the new-comer and myself, and, thinking only of her brother, had rushed forth to claim the services of thesurgeon.
“Oh, Señor,” she cried, making the appeal to myself, “will you call him back to—to see Calros?”
“I was about to do so,” I replied. “He is coming!”
I had not even the merit of summoning the medics. On hearing her voice he had stopped and turned round, his attendants imitating his example. The eyes of all were concentrated on the Jarocha.
“Señorita,” said the surgeon, stepping towards the tent and modestly raising his sombrero as he spoke, “so fair a flower is not often found growing upon the ensanguined field of battle. If I have overheard you aright, it is your wish I should see some one who is wounded—some one dear to you, no doubt?”
“My brother, sir.”
“Ah! your brother,” said the Mexican, regarding the girl with a look that betokened a degree of surprise. “Where may I find him?”
“In the tent, señor. Calros, dear Calros! there is a medico, a real surgeon, coming to see you.”
And as the girl gave utterance to the words she stepped quickly inside the marquee, followed by the surgeon himself.
Story 1, Chapter XII.A Side Conversation.I was about to enter after them, when some words spoken by one of the attendants, who had drawn nearer to the tent, arrested my steps, causing me to remain outside.“It’s Lola Vergara,” said the speaker; “that’s who it is. Any one who has had the good fortune to see thatmuchachaonce, won’t be likely to forgetherface, and won’t object to look at it a second time.”“You’re right in what you say, Anton Chico. I know one who, instead of disliking to look at her beautiful countenance, would give anonzafor a single glance at it.Carrambo! that he would.”“Who—who is he?” asked several of the party.“That big captain ofguerilleros—Rayas, his name. I know he’d like to see her.”“Why, her brother belonged to hiscuadrilla; and the girl was with him in the camp. I saw her myself, not three days ago, down by Puente National.”“That’s quite true!” assented the speaker who had endorsed the declaration of Anton Chico.“She was with the army for some days, along with the other women that followed Rayas’s troop. But then all at once she was missed, and nobody knew where she went to. Capitan Rayas didn’t, I know; or why should he have offered an onza to any one who would tell him?”“He made that offer?”“Ver dad! I heard him.”“To whom?”“To that uglyzamboyou’ve seen skulking about the camp—who belongs to nobody. It was at the Puente National, as I have said. I was standing under the bridge—the dry arch at the further end. It was just after dark; when, who should come there but Capitan Rayas, and the zambo following him. They were talking about this veryniña: and I heard her name more than once. I did not hear much, for I had to keep a good distance off, so that they might not see me. But I heard that.”“What?”“What I’ve said about the offer of the onza. ‘Find out, Santucho,’ said Rayas—Santucho is the zambo’s name—‘find out where he has hid her.’”“Who has hid her?”“Carrambo! that’s what I couldn’t make out; but who, if it wasn’t her own brother?—Calros, they call him.”“There’s something ugly in all that,” remarked one of the men.“It isn’t the niña, that’s certain,” jocularly rejoined Anton Chico.“The zambo, then! he’s ugly enough. What say you, camarados?”“The patron, who wanted to employ him, is no great beauty himself,” said one who had not before spoken. “Notwithstanding his fine trappings, he has got some black marks against him. Look here,hombres,” continued the speaker, drawing nearer to the others, and adopting a more confidential tone. “I’m a blind man, if I haven’t seen his phiz before; ay, andtapadoat that.”“Tapado?” echoed several.“With black crape! It was only on my last trip but one up the country. I went with therecuaof José Villares. He carried goods for that English house—you know—in the Calle do Mercaderos. Well, we were stopped at the Pinal, between Peroté and Puebla; every mule stripped of itscarga; and every man of us, with José himself obliged to lie with our mouths to the grass, till the rascals had rifled therecua. They took only what was most valuable and easiest carried; but,carrambo! it well nigh ruined poor José; he has never been the sameanierosince.”“What of all that, hombre?” inquired one, who seemed to be still unsatisfied. “What has that to do with the Capitan Rayas?”“Ah! I forgot,” said the accuser; “it was of the Capitan Rayas we were speaking. Well, it has this to do with him. Thesalteadoreswere all tapado, with black crape over their faces, their captain like the rest; but while he was engaged examining some papers he took from José, I caught a glance of his ugly countenance—just enough to know it again. If it wasn’t the same I saw the other day when I met this Rayas in the camp, then I don’t knowchingaritofrom holy water. I’ll answer for it from the chin up to the eyes. Above that I didn’t see it, for the tapado was over it.”“Bah!” exclaimed one of the men, who appeared to be of easy conscience himself; “what if the Capitan Rayas has done a little business on the road? There are officers in our army of higher rank than he who’ve cried out, ‘Boca abajo!’—ay, some that are now generals!”“Hush, camarade!” interrupted one who stood nearest the speaker. “See, the medico’s coming out.Guardate, guardate! it’s treason you’re talking!”The interest with which I had listened to this singular palaver, had hindered me from entering the tent. The men had spoken loud enough for me to overhear every word—no doubt under the supposition that I did not understand their language—and to keep them in this belief, I had made pretence of being engaged in a whispering conversation with one of my own troopers who stood near.As the return of the medico put an end to the talking of his attendants, I advanced to meet him, and inquired the condition of his patient.“Thanks to your care, cavallero, he is out of danger from his wound. But from what he has confided to me—and to you also, I believe—he will be in danger of another kind by remaining in this place.”I could tell from this speech that Calros had communicated to the surgeon the incidents of the preceding night.“How long do you keep guard here?” inquired the Mexican, with an abstracted air.“I am under orders to strike tents and march—exactly at noon.”“To Jalapa, I presume?”“To Jalapa.”“In that case this young fellow must be carried back to the village of El Plan. A body of your troops will likely remain there for some time?”“I believe that is the intention of our commander-in-chief.”“Then the invalid would be safer there. It will do him no harm, if taken upon a stretcher. I must lend him half-a-dozen of my assistants, or pick up some stragglers to perform this service.”“He would be safer in Jalapa?” I suggested, interrogatively. “Besides, the climate of Jalapa is much more favourable to the healing of wounds—is it not?”“That is true,” answered the man of science; “but Jalapa is distant. We have not a single ambulance in our army. Who is to carry him there—a poor soldier?”“A fine young fellow, notwithstanding. My men would not mind the trouble of taking him, if you think—”I looked round, in hopes that the proposal might be heard and approved by another.The Jarocha was standing in the entrance of the tent, her face beaming with gratitude. No doubt it was due to the assurance which the surgeon had given her of her brother’s speedy recovery; but I fancied I could perceive, in the sparkle of her beautiful eyes, a smile indicative of consent to what I had proposed.The surgeon comprehended not the cause of my friendly interest in the welfare of the wounded Jarocho.Did Lola comprehend it? Did she suspect it? Endowed with the keen, delicate instincts of her race, it was probable she did; at least, I fancied so, from the kindly look with which she had listened to my suggestion.After all, it might have been gratitude for my friendly intentions, and nothing more.“I see no objection to his going up the road,” said the surgeon, after having spent some little time in considering, “It is very kind on your part, cavallero,” added he—“a stranger and an enemy.” Here the medico smiled. “It is only a continuation of your humane exertions during the past night.”A smile, almost imperceptible, accompanied this last observation, together with the slightest raising of his eyes towards the Jarocha.“Suppose,” said he, continuing his speech, and relieving me from some little embarrassment, “suppose we consult the wishes of the invalid himself. What say you, señorita?”“Gracias, ñores,” replied the girl. “I shall ask brother Calros.”“Calros!” she called out, turning her face towards the tent. “The young officer who has been so kind to you proposes to have you carried up the road to Jalapa. Would you like to go there? The medico says the air of Jalapa will be better for you than this place.”With a fast-beating pulse I listened for the response of the invalid.It was delayed. Calros appeared to be considering.“Why?” I asked myself.“Ay de mi!” broke in the voice of his sister, in a tone of ingenuous reflection. “It is very hot at El Plan.”“Thanks, sweet Lola!” I mentally exclaimed, and listened for the decision of Calros, as a criminal waiting for his verdict.
I was about to enter after them, when some words spoken by one of the attendants, who had drawn nearer to the tent, arrested my steps, causing me to remain outside.
“It’s Lola Vergara,” said the speaker; “that’s who it is. Any one who has had the good fortune to see thatmuchachaonce, won’t be likely to forgetherface, and won’t object to look at it a second time.”
“You’re right in what you say, Anton Chico. I know one who, instead of disliking to look at her beautiful countenance, would give anonzafor a single glance at it.Carrambo! that he would.”
“Who—who is he?” asked several of the party.
“That big captain ofguerilleros—Rayas, his name. I know he’d like to see her.”
“Why, her brother belonged to hiscuadrilla; and the girl was with him in the camp. I saw her myself, not three days ago, down by Puente National.”
“That’s quite true!” assented the speaker who had endorsed the declaration of Anton Chico.
“She was with the army for some days, along with the other women that followed Rayas’s troop. But then all at once she was missed, and nobody knew where she went to. Capitan Rayas didn’t, I know; or why should he have offered an onza to any one who would tell him?”
“He made that offer?”
“Ver dad! I heard him.”
“To whom?”
“To that uglyzamboyou’ve seen skulking about the camp—who belongs to nobody. It was at the Puente National, as I have said. I was standing under the bridge—the dry arch at the further end. It was just after dark; when, who should come there but Capitan Rayas, and the zambo following him. They were talking about this veryniña: and I heard her name more than once. I did not hear much, for I had to keep a good distance off, so that they might not see me. But I heard that.”
“What?”
“What I’ve said about the offer of the onza. ‘Find out, Santucho,’ said Rayas—Santucho is the zambo’s name—‘find out where he has hid her.’”
“Who has hid her?”
“Carrambo! that’s what I couldn’t make out; but who, if it wasn’t her own brother?—Calros, they call him.”
“There’s something ugly in all that,” remarked one of the men.
“It isn’t the niña, that’s certain,” jocularly rejoined Anton Chico.
“The zambo, then! he’s ugly enough. What say you, camarados?”
“The patron, who wanted to employ him, is no great beauty himself,” said one who had not before spoken. “Notwithstanding his fine trappings, he has got some black marks against him. Look here,hombres,” continued the speaker, drawing nearer to the others, and adopting a more confidential tone. “I’m a blind man, if I haven’t seen his phiz before; ay, andtapadoat that.”
“Tapado?” echoed several.
“With black crape! It was only on my last trip but one up the country. I went with therecuaof José Villares. He carried goods for that English house—you know—in the Calle do Mercaderos. Well, we were stopped at the Pinal, between Peroté and Puebla; every mule stripped of itscarga; and every man of us, with José himself obliged to lie with our mouths to the grass, till the rascals had rifled therecua. They took only what was most valuable and easiest carried; but,carrambo! it well nigh ruined poor José; he has never been the sameanierosince.”
“What of all that, hombre?” inquired one, who seemed to be still unsatisfied. “What has that to do with the Capitan Rayas?”
“Ah! I forgot,” said the accuser; “it was of the Capitan Rayas we were speaking. Well, it has this to do with him. Thesalteadoreswere all tapado, with black crape over their faces, their captain like the rest; but while he was engaged examining some papers he took from José, I caught a glance of his ugly countenance—just enough to know it again. If it wasn’t the same I saw the other day when I met this Rayas in the camp, then I don’t knowchingaritofrom holy water. I’ll answer for it from the chin up to the eyes. Above that I didn’t see it, for the tapado was over it.”
“Bah!” exclaimed one of the men, who appeared to be of easy conscience himself; “what if the Capitan Rayas has done a little business on the road? There are officers in our army of higher rank than he who’ve cried out, ‘Boca abajo!’—ay, some that are now generals!”
“Hush, camarade!” interrupted one who stood nearest the speaker. “See, the medico’s coming out.Guardate, guardate! it’s treason you’re talking!”
The interest with which I had listened to this singular palaver, had hindered me from entering the tent. The men had spoken loud enough for me to overhear every word—no doubt under the supposition that I did not understand their language—and to keep them in this belief, I had made pretence of being engaged in a whispering conversation with one of my own troopers who stood near.
As the return of the medico put an end to the talking of his attendants, I advanced to meet him, and inquired the condition of his patient.
“Thanks to your care, cavallero, he is out of danger from his wound. But from what he has confided to me—and to you also, I believe—he will be in danger of another kind by remaining in this place.”
I could tell from this speech that Calros had communicated to the surgeon the incidents of the preceding night.
“How long do you keep guard here?” inquired the Mexican, with an abstracted air.
“I am under orders to strike tents and march—exactly at noon.”
“To Jalapa, I presume?”
“To Jalapa.”
“In that case this young fellow must be carried back to the village of El Plan. A body of your troops will likely remain there for some time?”
“I believe that is the intention of our commander-in-chief.”
“Then the invalid would be safer there. It will do him no harm, if taken upon a stretcher. I must lend him half-a-dozen of my assistants, or pick up some stragglers to perform this service.”
“He would be safer in Jalapa?” I suggested, interrogatively. “Besides, the climate of Jalapa is much more favourable to the healing of wounds—is it not?”
“That is true,” answered the man of science; “but Jalapa is distant. We have not a single ambulance in our army. Who is to carry him there—a poor soldier?”
“A fine young fellow, notwithstanding. My men would not mind the trouble of taking him, if you think—”
I looked round, in hopes that the proposal might be heard and approved by another.
The Jarocha was standing in the entrance of the tent, her face beaming with gratitude. No doubt it was due to the assurance which the surgeon had given her of her brother’s speedy recovery; but I fancied I could perceive, in the sparkle of her beautiful eyes, a smile indicative of consent to what I had proposed.
The surgeon comprehended not the cause of my friendly interest in the welfare of the wounded Jarocho.
Did Lola comprehend it? Did she suspect it? Endowed with the keen, delicate instincts of her race, it was probable she did; at least, I fancied so, from the kindly look with which she had listened to my suggestion.
After all, it might have been gratitude for my friendly intentions, and nothing more.
“I see no objection to his going up the road,” said the surgeon, after having spent some little time in considering, “It is very kind on your part, cavallero,” added he—“a stranger and an enemy.” Here the medico smiled. “It is only a continuation of your humane exertions during the past night.”
A smile, almost imperceptible, accompanied this last observation, together with the slightest raising of his eyes towards the Jarocha.
“Suppose,” said he, continuing his speech, and relieving me from some little embarrassment, “suppose we consult the wishes of the invalid himself. What say you, señorita?”
“Gracias, ñores,” replied the girl. “I shall ask brother Calros.”
“Calros!” she called out, turning her face towards the tent. “The young officer who has been so kind to you proposes to have you carried up the road to Jalapa. Would you like to go there? The medico says the air of Jalapa will be better for you than this place.”
With a fast-beating pulse I listened for the response of the invalid.
It was delayed. Calros appeared to be considering.
“Why?” I asked myself.
“Ay de mi!” broke in the voice of his sister, in a tone of ingenuous reflection. “It is very hot at El Plan.”
“Thanks, sweet Lola!” I mentally exclaimed, and listened for the decision of Calros, as a criminal waiting for his verdict.
Story 1, Chapter XIII.A Group of Jarochos.Had the wounded man been left free to choose, he would in all probability have decided in favour of being taken to Jalapa—that sanatorium for invalids of thetierra caliente.I know not whether he had resolved the matter in his mind, but if so, the resolution rose not to his lips; for, as I stood over his couch, venturing to add my solicitations to thatnaïveinsinuation of his sister, I heard voices outside the tent—voices of men who had just come up—inquiring for “Calros Vergara.”“Hola!” cried the Jarocho, recognising the voices, “those are our friends, sister—people from Lagarto. Run out, niña, and tell them I am here!”Lola glided towards the entrance of the tent.“’Tis true, Calros,” she cried, as soon as she had looked out. “I see Vicente Vilagos, Ignacio Valdez, Rosario Très Villas, and the little Pablito!”“Gracias a Dios!” exclaimed the invalid, raising himself on thecatre. “I should not wonder if they’ve come to carry me home.”“That’s just what we’ve come for,” responded a tall, stalwart specimen of a Jarocho, who at that moment stepped inside the tent, and who was hailed by the invalid as “Vicente Vilagos.” “Just that, Calros; and we’re glad to learn that the Yankee bullet has not quite stopped your breath. You’re all right, hombre! So the medico outside has been telling us; and you’ll be able, he says, to make the journey to Lagarto, where we’ll carry you as gingerly as a game cock; ay, and the niña, too, if she will only sit astride of my shoulders. Ha! ha! ha!”By this time the other Jarochos, to the number of six or seven, had crowded inside the tent, and surrounded thecatrein which lay their countryman—each grasping him by the hand on arriving within reach; and all saluting Lola with an air ofchevalresquegracefulness worthy of the days of the Cid!I stood aside—watching with curious interest this interchange of friendly feeling; which partook also of anationalcharacter: for it was evident that the visitors of Calros were all of the Jarocho race.I had another motive for observing their movements, far stronger than that of mere curiosity. I looked to discover if among the new-comers I could recognise a rival!I watched the countenance of Lola more than theirs, scrutinising it as each saluted her. I felt happy in having observed nothing—at least nothing that appeared like a glance of mutual intelligence. They were all thin, sinewy fellows, dark-skinned and dark-haired, having faces such as Salvator Rosa would have delighted to commit to canvas, and pointed chin-beards, like those painted by Vandyke.None of them appeared to be over thirty years of age. Not one of them was ill-looking; and yet there was not one who inspired me with that unpleasant feeling too often the concomitant of love.From all that I had yet seen, the rivalry of Rayas, Calros’s enemy, was more to be dreaded than that of any of his friends.Vicente Vilagos was the oldest of the party, and evidently their leaderpro tem.It was no longer a question of carrying Calros to Jalapa. That, to his friends, would have appeared absurd—perhaps not the less so were Lola to urge it.She said nothing, but stood apart. I fancied she was not too content at their coming, and the fancy was pleasant to me!Surrounded by her enthusiastic friends, for a time I could not find an opportunity of speaking with her. I endeavoured to convey intelligence with my eyes.The Jarochos are sharp fellows; skilled in courtesy, and thorough adepts in the art of love. I had reason to be careful. My peculiar position was against me, as it marked me out for their observation.Their glances, however, were friendly. They had gathered some particulars of what had passed between their compatriot and myself.“Come!” said Vilagos, after some minutes spent in arranging their plans. “’Tis time for us to take the road. ’Twill be sundown before we can rest under the palm-trees of Lagarto.”The poetical phraseology did not surprise me: I knew it wasJarocho.Calros had been placed upon a stretcher; and his bearers had already carried him outside the tent. Some broad leaves of the banana had been fixed over him as an awning, to shelter him from the rays of the sun.“Ñor deconocio,” said Vilagos, coming up to me, and frankly extending his hand. “You’ve been kind to ourcon-paisano, though you be for the time our enemy. That, we hope, will soon pass; but whether it be in peace or in war, if you should ever stray to our littlerancheriaof Lagarto, you will find that a Jarocho can boast of two humble virtues—gratitud y hospitalidad! Adios!”Each of the companions of Vilagos parted from me with an almost similar salutation.I would have bidden a very different sort of adieu to Dolores, but was hindered by the presence of her friends, who clustered around.I could find opportunity for only four words:“Lola! I love you!”There was no reply; not a word, not a whisper that reached me; but her large dark orbs, like the eyes of themazame, flashed forth a liquid light that entered my soul, like fire from Cupid’s torch.I was half delirious as I uttered the “adios.” I did not add the customary “Va con Dios!” nor yet the “hasta luego”—the “au revoir” of the Spanish, for which our boorish Saxon vocabulary has no synonym.Notwithstanding the omission, I registered a mental vow—to see Lola Vergara again.The beautiful Jarocha was gone from my sight!“Shall I ever see her again?”This was the interrogatory that came uppermost in my thoughts—not the less painful from my having perceived that she had lingered to look back.Would she have preferred the road to Jalapa?Whether or not, I had the vanity to think so.Gone, without leaving me either promise or souvenir—only the remembrance of her voluptuous beauty—destined long to dwell within the shrine of my heart.“Shall I ever see her again?”Once—twice—thrice—involuntarily did I repeat the self-interrogation.“Perhaps never!” was each time the equally involuntary reply.In truth, the chances of my again meeting with her were very slight. To this conclusion came I, after a calm survey of the circumstances surrounding me. True, I had obtained the name of her native village—El Lagarto—and had registered a mental resolve to visit it.What of that? A long campaign was before me, loading me in the opposite direction. The chances of being killed, and surviving it, were almost equally balanced in the scale. With such a prospect, when might I stray towards Lagarto?There was but one answer to this question within my cognisance:whenever I should find the opportunity. With this thought I was forced to console myself.I stood with my eyes fixed upon the turning of the road, where the overhanging branches of the acacias, with cruel abruptness, shrouded her departing figure from my sight. I watched thegrecquebordering upon her petticoat, as the skirt swelled and sank, gradually narrowing towards the trees. I looked higher, and saw the fringed end of the reboso flirted suddenly outward, as if a hand, rather than the breeze, had caused the motion. I looked still higher. The face was hidden under the scarf. I could not see that, but the attitude told me that her head must be turned, and her eyes, “mirando atras!”Kissing my hand, in answer to this final recognition, was an action instinctive and mechanical.“I’ve been a fool to permit this parting—perhaps never to see her again!”This was the reflection that followed. I entered the tent, and flung myself upon thecatrelately occupied by the invalid.A sleepless night, caused by excited passions, succeeding another passed equally without sleep, in which I had toiled, taking those useless howitzers up the steep slopes of El Plan—had rendered me somnolent to an extreme degree; and spite the chagrin of that unsatisfactory separation, I at length gave way to a god resistless as Cupid himself.
Had the wounded man been left free to choose, he would in all probability have decided in favour of being taken to Jalapa—that sanatorium for invalids of thetierra caliente.
I know not whether he had resolved the matter in his mind, but if so, the resolution rose not to his lips; for, as I stood over his couch, venturing to add my solicitations to thatnaïveinsinuation of his sister, I heard voices outside the tent—voices of men who had just come up—inquiring for “Calros Vergara.”
“Hola!” cried the Jarocho, recognising the voices, “those are our friends, sister—people from Lagarto. Run out, niña, and tell them I am here!”
Lola glided towards the entrance of the tent.
“’Tis true, Calros,” she cried, as soon as she had looked out. “I see Vicente Vilagos, Ignacio Valdez, Rosario Très Villas, and the little Pablito!”
“Gracias a Dios!” exclaimed the invalid, raising himself on thecatre. “I should not wonder if they’ve come to carry me home.”
“That’s just what we’ve come for,” responded a tall, stalwart specimen of a Jarocho, who at that moment stepped inside the tent, and who was hailed by the invalid as “Vicente Vilagos.” “Just that, Calros; and we’re glad to learn that the Yankee bullet has not quite stopped your breath. You’re all right, hombre! So the medico outside has been telling us; and you’ll be able, he says, to make the journey to Lagarto, where we’ll carry you as gingerly as a game cock; ay, and the niña, too, if she will only sit astride of my shoulders. Ha! ha! ha!”
By this time the other Jarochos, to the number of six or seven, had crowded inside the tent, and surrounded thecatrein which lay their countryman—each grasping him by the hand on arriving within reach; and all saluting Lola with an air ofchevalresquegracefulness worthy of the days of the Cid!
I stood aside—watching with curious interest this interchange of friendly feeling; which partook also of anationalcharacter: for it was evident that the visitors of Calros were all of the Jarocho race.
I had another motive for observing their movements, far stronger than that of mere curiosity. I looked to discover if among the new-comers I could recognise a rival!
I watched the countenance of Lola more than theirs, scrutinising it as each saluted her. I felt happy in having observed nothing—at least nothing that appeared like a glance of mutual intelligence. They were all thin, sinewy fellows, dark-skinned and dark-haired, having faces such as Salvator Rosa would have delighted to commit to canvas, and pointed chin-beards, like those painted by Vandyke.
None of them appeared to be over thirty years of age. Not one of them was ill-looking; and yet there was not one who inspired me with that unpleasant feeling too often the concomitant of love.
From all that I had yet seen, the rivalry of Rayas, Calros’s enemy, was more to be dreaded than that of any of his friends.
Vicente Vilagos was the oldest of the party, and evidently their leaderpro tem.
It was no longer a question of carrying Calros to Jalapa. That, to his friends, would have appeared absurd—perhaps not the less so were Lola to urge it.
She said nothing, but stood apart. I fancied she was not too content at their coming, and the fancy was pleasant to me!
Surrounded by her enthusiastic friends, for a time I could not find an opportunity of speaking with her. I endeavoured to convey intelligence with my eyes.
The Jarochos are sharp fellows; skilled in courtesy, and thorough adepts in the art of love. I had reason to be careful. My peculiar position was against me, as it marked me out for their observation.
Their glances, however, were friendly. They had gathered some particulars of what had passed between their compatriot and myself.
“Come!” said Vilagos, after some minutes spent in arranging their plans. “’Tis time for us to take the road. ’Twill be sundown before we can rest under the palm-trees of Lagarto.”
The poetical phraseology did not surprise me: I knew it wasJarocho.
Calros had been placed upon a stretcher; and his bearers had already carried him outside the tent. Some broad leaves of the banana had been fixed over him as an awning, to shelter him from the rays of the sun.
“Ñor deconocio,” said Vilagos, coming up to me, and frankly extending his hand. “You’ve been kind to ourcon-paisano, though you be for the time our enemy. That, we hope, will soon pass; but whether it be in peace or in war, if you should ever stray to our littlerancheriaof Lagarto, you will find that a Jarocho can boast of two humble virtues—gratitud y hospitalidad! Adios!”
Each of the companions of Vilagos parted from me with an almost similar salutation.
I would have bidden a very different sort of adieu to Dolores, but was hindered by the presence of her friends, who clustered around.
I could find opportunity for only four words:
“Lola! I love you!”
There was no reply; not a word, not a whisper that reached me; but her large dark orbs, like the eyes of themazame, flashed forth a liquid light that entered my soul, like fire from Cupid’s torch.
I was half delirious as I uttered the “adios.” I did not add the customary “Va con Dios!” nor yet the “hasta luego”—the “au revoir” of the Spanish, for which our boorish Saxon vocabulary has no synonym.
Notwithstanding the omission, I registered a mental vow—to see Lola Vergara again.
The beautiful Jarocha was gone from my sight!
“Shall I ever see her again?”
This was the interrogatory that came uppermost in my thoughts—not the less painful from my having perceived that she had lingered to look back.
Would she have preferred the road to Jalapa?
Whether or not, I had the vanity to think so.
Gone, without leaving me either promise or souvenir—only the remembrance of her voluptuous beauty—destined long to dwell within the shrine of my heart.
“Shall I ever see her again?”
Once—twice—thrice—involuntarily did I repeat the self-interrogation.
“Perhaps never!” was each time the equally involuntary reply.
In truth, the chances of my again meeting with her were very slight. To this conclusion came I, after a calm survey of the circumstances surrounding me. True, I had obtained the name of her native village—El Lagarto—and had registered a mental resolve to visit it.
What of that? A long campaign was before me, loading me in the opposite direction. The chances of being killed, and surviving it, were almost equally balanced in the scale. With such a prospect, when might I stray towards Lagarto?
There was but one answer to this question within my cognisance:whenever I should find the opportunity. With this thought I was forced to console myself.
I stood with my eyes fixed upon the turning of the road, where the overhanging branches of the acacias, with cruel abruptness, shrouded her departing figure from my sight. I watched thegrecquebordering upon her petticoat, as the skirt swelled and sank, gradually narrowing towards the trees. I looked higher, and saw the fringed end of the reboso flirted suddenly outward, as if a hand, rather than the breeze, had caused the motion. I looked still higher. The face was hidden under the scarf. I could not see that, but the attitude told me that her head must be turned, and her eyes, “mirando atras!”
Kissing my hand, in answer to this final recognition, was an action instinctive and mechanical.
“I’ve been a fool to permit this parting—perhaps never to see her again!”
This was the reflection that followed. I entered the tent, and flung myself upon thecatrelately occupied by the invalid.
A sleepless night, caused by excited passions, succeeding another passed equally without sleep, in which I had toiled, taking those useless howitzers up the steep slopes of El Plan—had rendered me somnolent to an extreme degree; and spite the chagrin of that unsatisfactory separation, I at length gave way to a god resistless as Cupid himself.