Story 1, Chapter XXI.

Story 1, Chapter XXI.Robbers En Route.At a short distance from the spot where I had been lazoed, the road taken by the robbers debouched from the forest, and entered thechapparal.No longer under the gloomy shadow of the great trees, I had a better view of the band, and could see that they were genuinesalteadores.Indeed, I had not doubted it from the first—at least, not after discovering who was their leader. The wounded Jarocho had told me that most of the guerillos commanded by Rayas, were no better than brigands; and that such honest fellows as himself, who had been forced to join it, would all return to their homes, after the breaking up of the Mexican army by the defeat of Cerro Gordo.What I now saw was no longer Rayas’guerillas, but a remnant of it—or rather the individuals of that organisation, who had been his bandit associates before the breaking out of the war.There were in all between twenty and thirty of these patriotic brigands; and from the opportunity I now had of scanning the faces of such as were near me, I can justly affirm that a more ferocious set of ruffians I never beheld—to the full as picturesque, and evidently as pitiless, as their Italian brethren of the Abruzzi.On their march they observed a sort of rude order—riding two and two—though this formation was forced upon them by the necessity of the narrow path, rather than from any control of their leader.Where the road at intervals ran through openings, the ranks were broken at will; and the troop would get clumped together, to string out again on re-entering the chapparal path.For myself, I was guarded by a brace of morose wretches, as I have said, one riding on each side of me; and both armed with long naked blades; which, had I shown the slightest sign of attempting to escape, would have been thrust into me without either reluctance or remorse.But there was no chance even to make the attempt. I was strapped to the stirrups, with my hands firmly bound behind my back; and lest the steed, on which they had mounted me, should stray from the track, the lazo of one of my keepers was passed through the bitt-ring of the bridle, and then attached to the tree of the robber’s own saddle.In this manner was our march conducted—the route being towards Orizava. There was no mistaking the direction: for the snow-capped summit of the great “Citlapetel” was right before our faces—piercing up into a sky of cloudless azure.From the top of a ridge which we crossed, shortly after coming out of the timber, I discovered that we were yet at no great distance from Cerro Gordo itself; so near, that on glancing back—for we were now riding away from it—I could see the American flag upon “El Telegrafo,” and could even distinguish the stars and stripes!My chase after the riderless horse had carried me several miles from Corral Falso; but I had been all the while riding back in the direction of the battle-field—in a line nearly parallel to the main road, over which my troop had been travelling. It was only on re-entering the timber that the chase had conducted me in a different direction—southward, towards Orizava.I could now understand how I had fallen into the hands of Rayas and his robbers.After the battle, these worthies had lingered in the neighbourhood of the field—for what purpose I knew not then—plunder, I supposed—and this was, no doubt, the explanation, so far as most of them were concerned. Their chief, however, had a different object; one which, ere long, I was enabled to comprehend.The character of the country around Cerro Gordo—a labyrinth ofcañonsandbarrancos—covered with a thick growth of tangled chapparal, rendered their remaining near the field of their defeat an easy matter—unattended with danger. They knew the pursuit had passed up the main road to Jalapa; and there was not the remotest chance of their being followed across country.They had accomplished whatever purpose had kept them near the field; and they were nowen routefor some more distant scene of action.I had been actuallyriding after them—on that headlong chase which carried me into the midst of their improvised ambuscade!As a prisoner, my position lay in the rear—only one or two files of the cuadrilla riding behind me.I could see Rayas in front, at the head of his band.I wondered he did not hang back for the purpose of taunting me with his triumphant speeches. I could only account for his not doing so, by the supposition that he was a man of patience, and that my hour of torture had not arrived.That I should have to suffer some fearful indignity, in all likelihood, and the loss of my life, I felt certain. What had occurred between myself and the brigand chief, had established a relationship that must end in the ruin of one or the other; and it was clear that I was to be the victim. It needed not that hideous grin with which he had regarded me, on becoming his prisoner—nor the jovial style in which he talked of arevanche,—to assure me that for this mild term I might substitute the phrase—“Deadly revenge!”He had promised his associates a spectacle on their arrival at La Rinconada. I had no doubt, that in that spectacle I was myself to be the prominent figure; or at all events the chiefsufferer.I had been riding for some time, absorbed in meditations, that I need not pronounce painful. Circumstanced as I was, they could not be pleasant. It was only in an occasional and involuntary glance, that my eyes had rested upon Rayas, at the head of his cuadrilla.I had not noticed a peculiar personage riding by his side. This arose from the fact, that the individual in question was of shorter stature than the othersalteadores, by nearly the head, and therefore hidden from my view by the bodies of the brigands habitually interposed between us.After cresting the ridge above mentioned, and commencing the descent on its opposite side, I could command a better view of those in front; and then it was that the individual, riding alongside of Rayas, attracted my attention. Not only attracted it, but fixed it, to the exclusion of every other thought—even the reflections I had been hitherto indulging in, upon my own unfortunate situation.At the first glance I had mistaken the companion of the robber chief for a man, or a boy closely approximating to manhood. There was a man’s hat upon the head—the usual low-crowned, broad-brimmedsombrero. Moreover, the style of equitation was that of a man—a leg on each side of the saddle.It was only at the second glance that my gaze became fixed—only after perceiving, by the long plaits of hair hanging down to the croup of the saddle—along with some peculiarities of shape and costume—that the companion of the robber chief was awoman!There was nothing in the discovery to cause me surprise. Both the hat on the head, and the mode—à la Duchesse de Berri—in which the woman was mounted, were sights that could be seen any day upon the roads of Mexico, or in the streets of its cities. Both were but the common fashions of the country.What fixed my attention was the fact, that I fancied I knew the woman—or rather girl, as she appeared to be—that I had seen her before!It was only the back of the head and shoulders I was yet permitted to see; but there was sufficient idiosyncracy about these, to beget within me a vague idea of identification.I had hardly time to enter into the field of conjecture, when a slight turn in the path brought the faces of the leading ridersen profileto my view; among others, that of the girl.A shot through the heart could not have been more painful, or caused me to start more abruptly, than the sight of that face.“Lola Vergara!”

At a short distance from the spot where I had been lazoed, the road taken by the robbers debouched from the forest, and entered thechapparal.

No longer under the gloomy shadow of the great trees, I had a better view of the band, and could see that they were genuinesalteadores.

Indeed, I had not doubted it from the first—at least, not after discovering who was their leader. The wounded Jarocho had told me that most of the guerillos commanded by Rayas, were no better than brigands; and that such honest fellows as himself, who had been forced to join it, would all return to their homes, after the breaking up of the Mexican army by the defeat of Cerro Gordo.

What I now saw was no longer Rayas’guerillas, but a remnant of it—or rather the individuals of that organisation, who had been his bandit associates before the breaking out of the war.

There were in all between twenty and thirty of these patriotic brigands; and from the opportunity I now had of scanning the faces of such as were near me, I can justly affirm that a more ferocious set of ruffians I never beheld—to the full as picturesque, and evidently as pitiless, as their Italian brethren of the Abruzzi.

On their march they observed a sort of rude order—riding two and two—though this formation was forced upon them by the necessity of the narrow path, rather than from any control of their leader.

Where the road at intervals ran through openings, the ranks were broken at will; and the troop would get clumped together, to string out again on re-entering the chapparal path.

For myself, I was guarded by a brace of morose wretches, as I have said, one riding on each side of me; and both armed with long naked blades; which, had I shown the slightest sign of attempting to escape, would have been thrust into me without either reluctance or remorse.

But there was no chance even to make the attempt. I was strapped to the stirrups, with my hands firmly bound behind my back; and lest the steed, on which they had mounted me, should stray from the track, the lazo of one of my keepers was passed through the bitt-ring of the bridle, and then attached to the tree of the robber’s own saddle.

In this manner was our march conducted—the route being towards Orizava. There was no mistaking the direction: for the snow-capped summit of the great “Citlapetel” was right before our faces—piercing up into a sky of cloudless azure.

From the top of a ridge which we crossed, shortly after coming out of the timber, I discovered that we were yet at no great distance from Cerro Gordo itself; so near, that on glancing back—for we were now riding away from it—I could see the American flag upon “El Telegrafo,” and could even distinguish the stars and stripes!

My chase after the riderless horse had carried me several miles from Corral Falso; but I had been all the while riding back in the direction of the battle-field—in a line nearly parallel to the main road, over which my troop had been travelling. It was only on re-entering the timber that the chase had conducted me in a different direction—southward, towards Orizava.

I could now understand how I had fallen into the hands of Rayas and his robbers.

After the battle, these worthies had lingered in the neighbourhood of the field—for what purpose I knew not then—plunder, I supposed—and this was, no doubt, the explanation, so far as most of them were concerned. Their chief, however, had a different object; one which, ere long, I was enabled to comprehend.

The character of the country around Cerro Gordo—a labyrinth ofcañonsandbarrancos—covered with a thick growth of tangled chapparal, rendered their remaining near the field of their defeat an easy matter—unattended with danger. They knew the pursuit had passed up the main road to Jalapa; and there was not the remotest chance of their being followed across country.

They had accomplished whatever purpose had kept them near the field; and they were nowen routefor some more distant scene of action.

I had been actuallyriding after them—on that headlong chase which carried me into the midst of their improvised ambuscade!

As a prisoner, my position lay in the rear—only one or two files of the cuadrilla riding behind me.

I could see Rayas in front, at the head of his band.

I wondered he did not hang back for the purpose of taunting me with his triumphant speeches. I could only account for his not doing so, by the supposition that he was a man of patience, and that my hour of torture had not arrived.

That I should have to suffer some fearful indignity, in all likelihood, and the loss of my life, I felt certain. What had occurred between myself and the brigand chief, had established a relationship that must end in the ruin of one or the other; and it was clear that I was to be the victim. It needed not that hideous grin with which he had regarded me, on becoming his prisoner—nor the jovial style in which he talked of arevanche,—to assure me that for this mild term I might substitute the phrase—“Deadly revenge!”

He had promised his associates a spectacle on their arrival at La Rinconada. I had no doubt, that in that spectacle I was myself to be the prominent figure; or at all events the chiefsufferer.

I had been riding for some time, absorbed in meditations, that I need not pronounce painful. Circumstanced as I was, they could not be pleasant. It was only in an occasional and involuntary glance, that my eyes had rested upon Rayas, at the head of his cuadrilla.

I had not noticed a peculiar personage riding by his side. This arose from the fact, that the individual in question was of shorter stature than the othersalteadores, by nearly the head, and therefore hidden from my view by the bodies of the brigands habitually interposed between us.

After cresting the ridge above mentioned, and commencing the descent on its opposite side, I could command a better view of those in front; and then it was that the individual, riding alongside of Rayas, attracted my attention. Not only attracted it, but fixed it, to the exclusion of every other thought—even the reflections I had been hitherto indulging in, upon my own unfortunate situation.

At the first glance I had mistaken the companion of the robber chief for a man, or a boy closely approximating to manhood. There was a man’s hat upon the head—the usual low-crowned, broad-brimmedsombrero. Moreover, the style of equitation was that of a man—a leg on each side of the saddle.

It was only at the second glance that my gaze became fixed—only after perceiving, by the long plaits of hair hanging down to the croup of the saddle—along with some peculiarities of shape and costume—that the companion of the robber chief was awoman!

There was nothing in the discovery to cause me surprise. Both the hat on the head, and the mode—à la Duchesse de Berri—in which the woman was mounted, were sights that could be seen any day upon the roads of Mexico, or in the streets of its cities. Both were but the common fashions of the country.

What fixed my attention was the fact, that I fancied I knew the woman—or rather girl, as she appeared to be—that I had seen her before!

It was only the back of the head and shoulders I was yet permitted to see; but there was sufficient idiosyncracy about these, to beget within me a vague idea of identification.

I had hardly time to enter into the field of conjecture, when a slight turn in the path brought the faces of the leading ridersen profileto my view; among others, that of the girl.

A shot through the heart could not have been more painful, or caused me to start more abruptly, than the sight of that face.

“Lola Vergara!”

Story 1, Chapter XXII.Dark Suspicions.I cannot describe the painful impression produced upon me, at seeing the Jarocha in such strange companionship.At first I was inclined to disbelieve the evidence of my eyes, and to think that I was being cheated by a resemblance.But as the path turned into a second zigzag, more abrupt than the first, the profile became a quarter-face portrait; and there was no chance for me to avoid the conviction that Lola Vergara was riding alongside Ramon Rayas!A countenance like hers was not common. It was too beautiful to have had a counterpart, even in that land of lovely graces.Besides, I now recognised the dress, the same worn by the Jarocha when I had last seen her, some six hours before, with only the addition of the sombrero, which had been donned, no doubt, as a protection against the hot beams of a tropical sun.I had just time to assure myself of the identity of the girl; when the road, having reached the bottom of the hill, turned straight again; and from that time till the cuadrilla came to a halt, I could only catch occasional glimpses, either of the robber captain, or of the fair equestrian moving onward by his side.Though no longer privileged with a fair view either of Ramon Rayas or Lola Vergara, the painful impression produced by their juxtaposition continued to harrass my soul; and during the half hour that intervened before arriving at the halting-place of the brigands, I gave myself up to reflections and conjectures imbued with the extreme of bitterness.My first thought, put in the shape of a mental interrogatory, was, whether the Jarocha was a consenting party to the companionship in which I now saw her?The position, such as it was, looked more than suspicious. Her dread of Rayas, loudly expressed on the preceding night, might, after all, have been nothing more than hypocrisy; nay, it might have been real, and yet it might have resulted in the association now before my eyes!I had seen enough of women to convince me, that terror is too often the true weapon by which their affections may be assailed and conquered; and that the possession of absolute power may turn their hate, if not into love, at least into a feeling near akin to it.I remembered some expressions in reference to Rayas, that, on the night before, had fallen from the lips of Lola Vergara. To me they had been unintelligible at the time, though producing a vague sense of doubt, about the honesty as to her declared antipathy to the man.These were now recalled, with, as I fancied, a clearer comprehension of their import.In fine, why should she be there, riding by his side, voluntarily: for there was no appearance of compulsion; but rather ofcomplaisance.No! I should not say that. The glimpse I had had of her face did not give me that idea. On the contrary, I saw, or fancied that I saw a pale cheek, a downcast glance, and a sorrowful expression of countenance.I was not certain of this; I would have given much to have been assured of it; and my intent gaze was directed to this end, when the straightening of the road, and the interposition of the salteadores, cut short my investigation.The fancy that she looked sad—in keeping with her name of Dolores—was some consolation; which enabled me, with a certain tranquillity of mind, to sustain that forced traverse through the chapparal in the companionship of the salteadores.There was one circumstance that surprised while it pained me as well. Why did Lola not look round?During all the time my eyes had been on her, she had not turned hers towards the rear, nor even to one side or the other. This I thought strange, whether her presence among the robbers was forced or voluntary.Was she aware of the capture which they had made—an officer of the American army? Or could she be acquainted with the more particular fact, as to who was the individual made prisoner?I could not think that she was cognisant of either circumstance; and yet she had not looked back. If no other feeling, that of natural curiosity, proverbially strong in her sex, would have prompted her to turn her head.She had not done so. Surely, after what had passed between us on the preceding night, she could not be indifferent to my forlorn condition—scarcely even to the uniform that distinguished me from my captors?Such conduct was not compatible with the character of woman, whether Mexican or American. Lola Vergara could not have known of the capture which the robbers had accomplished; she could not be aware of my presence in the rear of the cuadrilla.There was consolation in my thinking so, slight as it may be deemed. It would have been a grievous reflection to have believed her to be a sharer in the fortunes of my captors;—to have known that she was a participator of all that had transpired;—to imagine that she had even a suspicion of who it was who was riding, fast bound to a horse, behind her.I did not wrong her by the belief I felt convinced she was unconscious of all—at least of the last circumstance.I was confirmed in this conviction by something that had occurred, as we parted from the spot where I had been captured. A short halt had been made by the robbers, during which they had been joined by a party that had not been present at their ambuscade. In all likelihood, the Jarocha had been one of this party, and might have been ignorant of what had passed.This was probable enough; though for myself I had been at the time too much engrossed with my misfortune to take heed to what was transpiring around me.The explanation satisfied, at the same time that it pleased me. I could give credence to no other. After what had passed on the preceding night—my protection extended to her brother—my sympathy for herself—my profession of something more—her own apparent reciprocation of that something—surely Lola Vergara could not be my enemy?In all I saw there was a mystery that needed elucidation.Ere long I obtained it. The cuadrilla came to a halt at a rancheria or collection of huts, all of which appeared to be uninhabited—their owners no doubt having fled at the approach of the robber band.It was the Rinconada alluded to by the robber chief. In the piazza of the village the order was broken up; and the files in the rear closed in upon the heads of the “column.”By this change of position I was brought close to the side of the Jarocha.Words can but ill express the pleasure I felt on perceiving that she was strapped to her saddle—like myself, a prisoner; and the scream that escaped her, as she recognised me, was, to my ears, sweeter than any note that ever issued from the lips of Grisi or the “Swedish Nightingale.”We were not allowed any interchange of words—scarcely even that of a glance. Before I could speak to her, the Jarocha was handed from her horse, and conducted inside one of theJacales—the one which appeared to be the principal “hut” of therancheria.

I cannot describe the painful impression produced upon me, at seeing the Jarocha in such strange companionship.

At first I was inclined to disbelieve the evidence of my eyes, and to think that I was being cheated by a resemblance.

But as the path turned into a second zigzag, more abrupt than the first, the profile became a quarter-face portrait; and there was no chance for me to avoid the conviction that Lola Vergara was riding alongside Ramon Rayas!

A countenance like hers was not common. It was too beautiful to have had a counterpart, even in that land of lovely graces.

Besides, I now recognised the dress, the same worn by the Jarocha when I had last seen her, some six hours before, with only the addition of the sombrero, which had been donned, no doubt, as a protection against the hot beams of a tropical sun.

I had just time to assure myself of the identity of the girl; when the road, having reached the bottom of the hill, turned straight again; and from that time till the cuadrilla came to a halt, I could only catch occasional glimpses, either of the robber captain, or of the fair equestrian moving onward by his side.

Though no longer privileged with a fair view either of Ramon Rayas or Lola Vergara, the painful impression produced by their juxtaposition continued to harrass my soul; and during the half hour that intervened before arriving at the halting-place of the brigands, I gave myself up to reflections and conjectures imbued with the extreme of bitterness.

My first thought, put in the shape of a mental interrogatory, was, whether the Jarocha was a consenting party to the companionship in which I now saw her?

The position, such as it was, looked more than suspicious. Her dread of Rayas, loudly expressed on the preceding night, might, after all, have been nothing more than hypocrisy; nay, it might have been real, and yet it might have resulted in the association now before my eyes!

I had seen enough of women to convince me, that terror is too often the true weapon by which their affections may be assailed and conquered; and that the possession of absolute power may turn their hate, if not into love, at least into a feeling near akin to it.

I remembered some expressions in reference to Rayas, that, on the night before, had fallen from the lips of Lola Vergara. To me they had been unintelligible at the time, though producing a vague sense of doubt, about the honesty as to her declared antipathy to the man.

These were now recalled, with, as I fancied, a clearer comprehension of their import.

In fine, why should she be there, riding by his side, voluntarily: for there was no appearance of compulsion; but rather ofcomplaisance.

No! I should not say that. The glimpse I had had of her face did not give me that idea. On the contrary, I saw, or fancied that I saw a pale cheek, a downcast glance, and a sorrowful expression of countenance.

I was not certain of this; I would have given much to have been assured of it; and my intent gaze was directed to this end, when the straightening of the road, and the interposition of the salteadores, cut short my investigation.

The fancy that she looked sad—in keeping with her name of Dolores—was some consolation; which enabled me, with a certain tranquillity of mind, to sustain that forced traverse through the chapparal in the companionship of the salteadores.

There was one circumstance that surprised while it pained me as well. Why did Lola not look round?

During all the time my eyes had been on her, she had not turned hers towards the rear, nor even to one side or the other. This I thought strange, whether her presence among the robbers was forced or voluntary.

Was she aware of the capture which they had made—an officer of the American army? Or could she be acquainted with the more particular fact, as to who was the individual made prisoner?

I could not think that she was cognisant of either circumstance; and yet she had not looked back. If no other feeling, that of natural curiosity, proverbially strong in her sex, would have prompted her to turn her head.

She had not done so. Surely, after what had passed between us on the preceding night, she could not be indifferent to my forlorn condition—scarcely even to the uniform that distinguished me from my captors?

Such conduct was not compatible with the character of woman, whether Mexican or American. Lola Vergara could not have known of the capture which the robbers had accomplished; she could not be aware of my presence in the rear of the cuadrilla.

There was consolation in my thinking so, slight as it may be deemed. It would have been a grievous reflection to have believed her to be a sharer in the fortunes of my captors;—to have known that she was a participator of all that had transpired;—to imagine that she had even a suspicion of who it was who was riding, fast bound to a horse, behind her.

I did not wrong her by the belief I felt convinced she was unconscious of all—at least of the last circumstance.

I was confirmed in this conviction by something that had occurred, as we parted from the spot where I had been captured. A short halt had been made by the robbers, during which they had been joined by a party that had not been present at their ambuscade. In all likelihood, the Jarocha had been one of this party, and might have been ignorant of what had passed.

This was probable enough; though for myself I had been at the time too much engrossed with my misfortune to take heed to what was transpiring around me.

The explanation satisfied, at the same time that it pleased me. I could give credence to no other. After what had passed on the preceding night—my protection extended to her brother—my sympathy for herself—my profession of something more—her own apparent reciprocation of that something—surely Lola Vergara could not be my enemy?

In all I saw there was a mystery that needed elucidation.

Ere long I obtained it. The cuadrilla came to a halt at a rancheria or collection of huts, all of which appeared to be uninhabited—their owners no doubt having fled at the approach of the robber band.

It was the Rinconada alluded to by the robber chief. In the piazza of the village the order was broken up; and the files in the rear closed in upon the heads of the “column.”

By this change of position I was brought close to the side of the Jarocha.

Words can but ill express the pleasure I felt on perceiving that she was strapped to her saddle—like myself, a prisoner; and the scream that escaped her, as she recognised me, was, to my ears, sweeter than any note that ever issued from the lips of Grisi or the “Swedish Nightingale.”

We were not allowed any interchange of words—scarcely even that of a glance. Before I could speak to her, the Jarocha was handed from her horse, and conducted inside one of theJacales—the one which appeared to be the principal “hut” of therancheria.

Story 1, Chapter XXIII.A Fiendish Design.I was left but little time for reflection; but, short as it was, it enabled me to comprehend the scheme of my captors—or rather that of their chief.From the Piazza of La Rinconada, Citlapetel was in full view, with its quick acclivity guiding the eye of the observer up to the azure canopy of heaven.That line of pure virgin snow should have been suggestive of spotless innocence. Alas! to me, at that moment, it was but the suggester of thoughts of a far different character.On the slope of that majestic mountain, stood the town of Orizava, the capital of the surrounding country. I knew—a knowledge all my own, and not shared by my comrades in the American army—that the lame tyrant of Mexico had fled towards Orizava, and was at that moment safe beyond pursuit in this city of the mountains.It was not likely I should so soon have forgotten the contents of that infamous epistle found on thecatreso lately occupied by the Mexican commander-in-chief, nor the vile conditions therein promised. “En buen tiempo dormira ella en la tienda, y los brazos de vuestra Excellenza.” Too truly did I remember them.Now, certainly, did I perceive the scheme that the salteador was in the act of executing. Santa Anna should, by that time, be somewhere in the neighbourhood of Orizava, if not in the town itself. Orizava was the destination of Rayas and his robbers!It needed no further consideration, had there been time for such, either to explain the past or forecast the future. The girl had been taken prisoner on the road between Cerro Gordo and the village of El Plan—captured, perhaps, but a few moments after that parting I had fondly deemed reluctant; ah! perhaps even through the delay caused by myself, and which had separated her from her escort of Jarochos? It might be in the midst of that escort, dismayed and scattered by the onslaught of the salteadores. It might be that the unfortunate Calros—her brother—My conjectures were cut short. The robber chief stood before me. His air of savage exultation was easily interpreted. He had come to prepare me for the spectacle which he had promised to his companions!I knew not what was to be its nature; nor do I know to this hour. It was like one of those promised performances of the theatre—conspicuous in the programme, but omitted in the action. It never came to pass.The brigand directed me to be unbound, and separated from the horse, an order that was instantly executed by his brace of subordinates who had been more especially guarding me.As soon as my feet were set free from the stirrup-leathers, I was dragged out of the saddle, my limbs were fast lashed together, both at the knees and ankles, and I was rudely cast upon the ground—where I lay, helpless as a bale of merchandise.During all the time that this action was going forward, the robber chief stood near me, grinning gleefully at my forlorn position, taunting me with my impuissance, and applying to me every ugly epithet to be found in the vocabulary of the Spano-Mexican tongue.His most favourite allusions were to the “putita” inside the hut, to which he kept pointing, ironically entreating me to protect her; at the same time telling me in plain and most disgusting terms, the fate that was in store for her.He could not have devised a more excruciating mode of torment. No ill he could have inflicted on my person could have been more painful than this torturing of my soul. I loved the girl whose dishonour was thus freely foreshadowed; and knowing the character of her captor, I could have no doubt about the fulfilment of his atrocious promise.All the more was I pained, now that I had learnt how involuntary was the Jarocha’s presence among the brutal rabble that surrounded her; all the more, that I fancied in that cry—which escaped her lips on recognising me as her fellow-prisoner—an accent of interest not to be mistaken.The look with which she had regarded me was eloquent of the same interest; its muteness only showing the intensity of her sorrowful surprise.I could not help framing conjectures as to what was to be the spectacle, of which I was to form the conspicuous figure. ItsdénouementI could only guess—death in some shape or other. Lola’s fate I knew; and my own—all but the mode of its accomplishment. Death in some dire fashion, by some of those horrid devices so well known to the ruffians who surrounded me, under the sanction of thelex talionis, at the time in full practice throughout the land.Rayas had for the moment left me, and had gone inside the hut, where the Jarocha was kept.The brace of bandits still stood over me. There was a peculiar grin upon their faces—an expression that bespoke demoniac delight, as if anticipating some scene that combined the comic with the cruel.I noted a similar expression upon the faces of their comrades, who had gathered in groups in front of the jacale within which their chief had for the moment disappeared.Not altogether disappeared. Through the interstices between the bamboos which formed the walls, I could see as through the wicker of a cage. Four figures could be counted inside. Three of them were moving about; the fourth was stationary and seated. One of the moving figures was Rayas himself, the other two were a brace of his subordinates, who had conducted, or rather carried, the girl inside. It was her figure I saw in the sitting position, or rather crouched and cowering as in fear.What did it mean? There was something to come off—something of which the brigands had been already apprised—as I could tell by the infernal glee with which they were congratulating one another.Evidently some fiendish spectacle was at hand; and it soon became equally evident to me, that it was not I, but my fellow-captive, who was to be its principal figure.Yes: clear as could be, the girl was destined to some atrocious treatment—some infamous exhibition!I was painfully pondering in my mind what it was to be—shaping hideous conjectures—when I saw Rayas wave his arm in the direction of the motionless figure.It seemed a signal to his subordinates; who, in obedience to it, glided up to the Jarocha, both at the same instant laying hands upon the girl.She sprang to her feet, and commenced what appeared to be a struggle of resistance. Her cries at the same time came forth freely from the hut, piercing my heart to its very core; while from the unfeeling wretches outside, they only elicited peals of brutal laughter!As I could but faintly distinguish the movements of the men inside, I was still uncertain as to the nature of the struggle going on between them and the girl. They appeared to be disrobing her, or rather tearing the clothes from her back!This was in reality their purpose, effected in a few minutes: for in less time than I have taken to tell it, she was dragged outside the door; and I saw that the only covering which concealed her person from the lewd eyes that were gazing upon her, was a slight chemise of thin cotton stuff, scarcely reaching to her knees.At the same instant a sort of truck bedstead, made of bamboos, was brought forth from the hut by another brace of the brigands, who placed it conspicuously in front of where I lay.Towards this the girl was now conducted.Merciful heavens! what could it mean?I could only divine the intention by the circumstances that preceded it. These made it too clear for me not to comprehend the dread drama for which the stage was being set.Rayas himself was to be the perpetrator. I saw him preparing for the grave deed!I averted my eyes in disgust. I could not look either at the villain or his victim. The sight of the latter might have melted a heart of stone—any other than that of a brutal brigand. Her cries were of themselves sufficient to fill my heart with the acme of extreme bitterness.I lay upon my back, gazing upwards to heaven. Was there no help to come from God? Had a thunderbolt from the sky struck me dead at that moment, I should have deemed it mercy. I prayed for death!The faces of the two men who stood over me were lit up with smiles of fiendish delight. They saw my agony, and began to mock me with ribald words.They were the last that either of them lived to utter. The one most forward in reviling, suddenly stopped in his speech, as if rebuked by something that had struck him in the face.A stifled cry escaped from his lips; he tottered a moment on his legs, and then fell heavily by my side!He had scarcely settled upon the ground before hisconfrère, dropping in like fashion, fell doubled over his body.There was blood gushing out from the faces of both. I saw that both were corpses!

I was left but little time for reflection; but, short as it was, it enabled me to comprehend the scheme of my captors—or rather that of their chief.

From the Piazza of La Rinconada, Citlapetel was in full view, with its quick acclivity guiding the eye of the observer up to the azure canopy of heaven.

That line of pure virgin snow should have been suggestive of spotless innocence. Alas! to me, at that moment, it was but the suggester of thoughts of a far different character.

On the slope of that majestic mountain, stood the town of Orizava, the capital of the surrounding country. I knew—a knowledge all my own, and not shared by my comrades in the American army—that the lame tyrant of Mexico had fled towards Orizava, and was at that moment safe beyond pursuit in this city of the mountains.

It was not likely I should so soon have forgotten the contents of that infamous epistle found on thecatreso lately occupied by the Mexican commander-in-chief, nor the vile conditions therein promised. “En buen tiempo dormira ella en la tienda, y los brazos de vuestra Excellenza.” Too truly did I remember them.

Now, certainly, did I perceive the scheme that the salteador was in the act of executing. Santa Anna should, by that time, be somewhere in the neighbourhood of Orizava, if not in the town itself. Orizava was the destination of Rayas and his robbers!

It needed no further consideration, had there been time for such, either to explain the past or forecast the future. The girl had been taken prisoner on the road between Cerro Gordo and the village of El Plan—captured, perhaps, but a few moments after that parting I had fondly deemed reluctant; ah! perhaps even through the delay caused by myself, and which had separated her from her escort of Jarochos? It might be in the midst of that escort, dismayed and scattered by the onslaught of the salteadores. It might be that the unfortunate Calros—her brother—

My conjectures were cut short. The robber chief stood before me. His air of savage exultation was easily interpreted. He had come to prepare me for the spectacle which he had promised to his companions!

I knew not what was to be its nature; nor do I know to this hour. It was like one of those promised performances of the theatre—conspicuous in the programme, but omitted in the action. It never came to pass.

The brigand directed me to be unbound, and separated from the horse, an order that was instantly executed by his brace of subordinates who had been more especially guarding me.

As soon as my feet were set free from the stirrup-leathers, I was dragged out of the saddle, my limbs were fast lashed together, both at the knees and ankles, and I was rudely cast upon the ground—where I lay, helpless as a bale of merchandise.

During all the time that this action was going forward, the robber chief stood near me, grinning gleefully at my forlorn position, taunting me with my impuissance, and applying to me every ugly epithet to be found in the vocabulary of the Spano-Mexican tongue.

His most favourite allusions were to the “putita” inside the hut, to which he kept pointing, ironically entreating me to protect her; at the same time telling me in plain and most disgusting terms, the fate that was in store for her.

He could not have devised a more excruciating mode of torment. No ill he could have inflicted on my person could have been more painful than this torturing of my soul. I loved the girl whose dishonour was thus freely foreshadowed; and knowing the character of her captor, I could have no doubt about the fulfilment of his atrocious promise.

All the more was I pained, now that I had learnt how involuntary was the Jarocha’s presence among the brutal rabble that surrounded her; all the more, that I fancied in that cry—which escaped her lips on recognising me as her fellow-prisoner—an accent of interest not to be mistaken.

The look with which she had regarded me was eloquent of the same interest; its muteness only showing the intensity of her sorrowful surprise.

I could not help framing conjectures as to what was to be the spectacle, of which I was to form the conspicuous figure. ItsdénouementI could only guess—death in some shape or other. Lola’s fate I knew; and my own—all but the mode of its accomplishment. Death in some dire fashion, by some of those horrid devices so well known to the ruffians who surrounded me, under the sanction of thelex talionis, at the time in full practice throughout the land.

Rayas had for the moment left me, and had gone inside the hut, where the Jarocha was kept.

The brace of bandits still stood over me. There was a peculiar grin upon their faces—an expression that bespoke demoniac delight, as if anticipating some scene that combined the comic with the cruel.

I noted a similar expression upon the faces of their comrades, who had gathered in groups in front of the jacale within which their chief had for the moment disappeared.

Not altogether disappeared. Through the interstices between the bamboos which formed the walls, I could see as through the wicker of a cage. Four figures could be counted inside. Three of them were moving about; the fourth was stationary and seated. One of the moving figures was Rayas himself, the other two were a brace of his subordinates, who had conducted, or rather carried, the girl inside. It was her figure I saw in the sitting position, or rather crouched and cowering as in fear.

What did it mean? There was something to come off—something of which the brigands had been already apprised—as I could tell by the infernal glee with which they were congratulating one another.

Evidently some fiendish spectacle was at hand; and it soon became equally evident to me, that it was not I, but my fellow-captive, who was to be its principal figure.

Yes: clear as could be, the girl was destined to some atrocious treatment—some infamous exhibition!

I was painfully pondering in my mind what it was to be—shaping hideous conjectures—when I saw Rayas wave his arm in the direction of the motionless figure.

It seemed a signal to his subordinates; who, in obedience to it, glided up to the Jarocha, both at the same instant laying hands upon the girl.

She sprang to her feet, and commenced what appeared to be a struggle of resistance. Her cries at the same time came forth freely from the hut, piercing my heart to its very core; while from the unfeeling wretches outside, they only elicited peals of brutal laughter!

As I could but faintly distinguish the movements of the men inside, I was still uncertain as to the nature of the struggle going on between them and the girl. They appeared to be disrobing her, or rather tearing the clothes from her back!

This was in reality their purpose, effected in a few minutes: for in less time than I have taken to tell it, she was dragged outside the door; and I saw that the only covering which concealed her person from the lewd eyes that were gazing upon her, was a slight chemise of thin cotton stuff, scarcely reaching to her knees.

At the same instant a sort of truck bedstead, made of bamboos, was brought forth from the hut by another brace of the brigands, who placed it conspicuously in front of where I lay.

Towards this the girl was now conducted.

Merciful heavens! what could it mean?

I could only divine the intention by the circumstances that preceded it. These made it too clear for me not to comprehend the dread drama for which the stage was being set.

Rayas himself was to be the perpetrator. I saw him preparing for the grave deed!

I averted my eyes in disgust. I could not look either at the villain or his victim. The sight of the latter might have melted a heart of stone—any other than that of a brutal brigand. Her cries were of themselves sufficient to fill my heart with the acme of extreme bitterness.

I lay upon my back, gazing upwards to heaven. Was there no help to come from God? Had a thunderbolt from the sky struck me dead at that moment, I should have deemed it mercy. I prayed for death!

The faces of the two men who stood over me were lit up with smiles of fiendish delight. They saw my agony, and began to mock me with ribald words.

They were the last that either of them lived to utter. The one most forward in reviling, suddenly stopped in his speech, as if rebuked by something that had struck him in the face.

A stifled cry escaped from his lips; he tottered a moment on his legs, and then fell heavily by my side!

He had scarcely settled upon the ground before hisconfrère, dropping in like fashion, fell doubled over his body.

There was blood gushing out from the faces of both. I saw that both were corpses!

Story 1, Chapter XXIV.A Scattering of Salteadores.I was less astonished than delighted by a phenomenon that might have appeared mysterious.But there was no mystery about the matter. The explanation had already reached me in the “crack, crack,” quickly following each other, easily distinguished as the detonation of a brace of rifles, whose reports I had often heard before.I raised my head, and looked in the direction whence the shots had proceeded. I could see no one; but the cloud of blue smoke fast scattering upon the edge of the chapparal, scarcely twenty paces from the spot, was sufficiently significant. I knew who had created that sulphureous vapour.A wild cry arose among the terror-stricken brigands, who stood transfixed to the spot, as if uncertain how to act.It was not until the “crack-crack” had been repeated, and two more of them went sprawling upon the grass, that the whole of the band put themselves fairly in motion, each running towards the horse that stood nearest him.Their consternation was scarcely greater, when a loud “hurrah” was heard outside the skirts of therancheria; and the heavy hoof-strokes of a troop of cavalry could be distinguished, approaching at full gallop along the road.Their chief was the only one among the robbers who did not seem to have lost all presence of mind.Alas! no. It was now displayed with fiendish effect.On perceiving the surprise, so little expected by him in such a place, he had glided straight towards the Jarocha. Flinging his arms around the girl, he lifted her from the ground, and commenced carrying her towards his horse.He was not even assisted by his subordinates—for each individual, yielding to the true instinct ofsauve qui peut, was seeking his own safety.I saw that Rayas employed both his arms in this effort—having disengaged the wounded one from its sling, before the surprise had taken place. It was only his hand that was wounded, and the arm was still sufficiently sound for his purpose.Despite the screams and resistance of the Jarocha, he succeeded in placing her on the pommel of his saddle, and in springing behind her into the seat.In another instant he was going at full gallop, his left hand directing the reins, both arms encircling the semi-nude body of the Jarocha, whose struggles to free herself were still further defeated, by the teeth of her captor fast clutching the long tresses of her hair.It was a fearful crisis—the most painful I had yet experienced.The “rangers” were already entering the outskirts of therancheria, on its opposite side—their rifles were repeatedly ringing; and here and there I could see a fugitive salteador dropping dead from his saddle. But Rayas, with his victim, was still continuing his flight. No one appeared to fire athim—for fear of injuring the girl—and this the wretch seemed to know, as he rode exultingly away.Mounted as he was upon my own noble steed, I knew there would be no chance of any of my comrades overtaking him; and this it was that was driving me to distraction.“Fire at the horse!” cried several of the “rangers,” who seemed to be influenced by the thought, “Bring him down, and then—”There was a moment of silence. I listened for the shots. They came not: the rifles of all had been discharged, and were empty. It was the earnest action of re-loading them that had caused that momentary interval of silence.Fortunately it was so, else, in recovering my sweetheart, I should have lost the finest steed that ever carried rider. As it was, both were restored to me.The silence gave me the opportunity I wanted, though only then did the thought occur to me.With a wrench I raised my body half erect; and, concentrating all my energies into the effort, I gave utterance to a cry that, if heard, I knew that my steed would understand.He both heard and understood it: for before its echoes had ceased to reverberate through therancheria, the horse was seen to wheel suddenly round, and come galloping back!In vain did Rayas strive to turn him to the track. He only succeeded in checking him, when a struggle commenced—my voice against the spurs of the robber.During the strife Rayas found full occupation in the management of Moro, without thinking of the Jarocha. Even his teeth became disengaged from the plaits of her hair; and, seeing a chance for safety, the young girl made a desperate effort, and succeeded in getting clear of that unwelcome embrace.In another instant she had reached the ground, and was seen running back towards the rancheria.The robber cast a glance after her, that spoke unutterable disappointment; but seeing that his own liberty was in danger, and despairing of a conquest over the horse, he dropped the reins, sprang out of the saddle, and shot like an arrow into the chapparal—at that place an almost impervious thicket.Several shots were fired after him, and the thicket was entered in search; but strange to say, no traces of the fugitive could be found.In all likelihood he had made his escape by capturing some of the horses of his comrades—several of which were at the time straying riderless through the chapparal.The rescue needed but slight explanation. On perceiving that I had failed to return in due time to the halting-place at Corral Falso, my men mounted their horses and rode forth in search of me. Guided by the two trappers, Rube and Garey, they had no difficulty in following my trail.On entering the forest-road, the numerous hoof-prints of the robbers’ horses had filled them with fears for my safety; and having reached the place where I had been “lazoed,” the experienced trappers easily interpreted the “sign.”From that point they had ridden at an increased rate of speed; and as the robbers had no suspicion of being pursued, their slow march, with the halt that succeeded it, had favoured the rangers in overtaking them.Rube and Garey, acting as scouts, had kept in the advance.On coming within sight of the rancheria, they had left their horses behind, and had crept forward under cover of the thicket.It was the double detonation of their rifles that had first given the surprise to the salteadores—at the same time, as had been preconcerted, it acted as a signal to the rangers to charge forward into the place.The Jarocha’s presence among the bandits has been already explained. My conjecture was correct. On the way between Cerro Gordo and the village of Rio del Plan, she had lingered behind thecortègethat accompanied her wounded brother. At a turn on the road, some half-dozen of the ruffians of Rayas’ band had rushed out of an ambuscade and seized hold of her. By stifling her cries, they had succeeded in conveying her off, even without alarming the escort of Jarochos.All this chapter of strange incidents occurred within the short space of twenty-four hours: for before a second sun had set, I was once more at the head of my troop,en routefor Jalapa; while the beautiful Jarocha, with her honour still intact, but her heart, as I hoped, sweetly affected towards her preserver, was on her way, this time with a safer escort, to her nativerancheria.We did not part without a mutual promise to meet again. Need I say, that the promise was kept.End of the Guerilla Chief.

I was less astonished than delighted by a phenomenon that might have appeared mysterious.

But there was no mystery about the matter. The explanation had already reached me in the “crack, crack,” quickly following each other, easily distinguished as the detonation of a brace of rifles, whose reports I had often heard before.

I raised my head, and looked in the direction whence the shots had proceeded. I could see no one; but the cloud of blue smoke fast scattering upon the edge of the chapparal, scarcely twenty paces from the spot, was sufficiently significant. I knew who had created that sulphureous vapour.

A wild cry arose among the terror-stricken brigands, who stood transfixed to the spot, as if uncertain how to act.

It was not until the “crack-crack” had been repeated, and two more of them went sprawling upon the grass, that the whole of the band put themselves fairly in motion, each running towards the horse that stood nearest him.

Their consternation was scarcely greater, when a loud “hurrah” was heard outside the skirts of therancheria; and the heavy hoof-strokes of a troop of cavalry could be distinguished, approaching at full gallop along the road.

Their chief was the only one among the robbers who did not seem to have lost all presence of mind.

Alas! no. It was now displayed with fiendish effect.

On perceiving the surprise, so little expected by him in such a place, he had glided straight towards the Jarocha. Flinging his arms around the girl, he lifted her from the ground, and commenced carrying her towards his horse.

He was not even assisted by his subordinates—for each individual, yielding to the true instinct ofsauve qui peut, was seeking his own safety.

I saw that Rayas employed both his arms in this effort—having disengaged the wounded one from its sling, before the surprise had taken place. It was only his hand that was wounded, and the arm was still sufficiently sound for his purpose.

Despite the screams and resistance of the Jarocha, he succeeded in placing her on the pommel of his saddle, and in springing behind her into the seat.

In another instant he was going at full gallop, his left hand directing the reins, both arms encircling the semi-nude body of the Jarocha, whose struggles to free herself were still further defeated, by the teeth of her captor fast clutching the long tresses of her hair.

It was a fearful crisis—the most painful I had yet experienced.

The “rangers” were already entering the outskirts of therancheria, on its opposite side—their rifles were repeatedly ringing; and here and there I could see a fugitive salteador dropping dead from his saddle. But Rayas, with his victim, was still continuing his flight. No one appeared to fire athim—for fear of injuring the girl—and this the wretch seemed to know, as he rode exultingly away.

Mounted as he was upon my own noble steed, I knew there would be no chance of any of my comrades overtaking him; and this it was that was driving me to distraction.

“Fire at the horse!” cried several of the “rangers,” who seemed to be influenced by the thought, “Bring him down, and then—”

There was a moment of silence. I listened for the shots. They came not: the rifles of all had been discharged, and were empty. It was the earnest action of re-loading them that had caused that momentary interval of silence.

Fortunately it was so, else, in recovering my sweetheart, I should have lost the finest steed that ever carried rider. As it was, both were restored to me.

The silence gave me the opportunity I wanted, though only then did the thought occur to me.

With a wrench I raised my body half erect; and, concentrating all my energies into the effort, I gave utterance to a cry that, if heard, I knew that my steed would understand.

He both heard and understood it: for before its echoes had ceased to reverberate through therancheria, the horse was seen to wheel suddenly round, and come galloping back!

In vain did Rayas strive to turn him to the track. He only succeeded in checking him, when a struggle commenced—my voice against the spurs of the robber.

During the strife Rayas found full occupation in the management of Moro, without thinking of the Jarocha. Even his teeth became disengaged from the plaits of her hair; and, seeing a chance for safety, the young girl made a desperate effort, and succeeded in getting clear of that unwelcome embrace.

In another instant she had reached the ground, and was seen running back towards the rancheria.

The robber cast a glance after her, that spoke unutterable disappointment; but seeing that his own liberty was in danger, and despairing of a conquest over the horse, he dropped the reins, sprang out of the saddle, and shot like an arrow into the chapparal—at that place an almost impervious thicket.

Several shots were fired after him, and the thicket was entered in search; but strange to say, no traces of the fugitive could be found.

In all likelihood he had made his escape by capturing some of the horses of his comrades—several of which were at the time straying riderless through the chapparal.

The rescue needed but slight explanation. On perceiving that I had failed to return in due time to the halting-place at Corral Falso, my men mounted their horses and rode forth in search of me. Guided by the two trappers, Rube and Garey, they had no difficulty in following my trail.

On entering the forest-road, the numerous hoof-prints of the robbers’ horses had filled them with fears for my safety; and having reached the place where I had been “lazoed,” the experienced trappers easily interpreted the “sign.”

From that point they had ridden at an increased rate of speed; and as the robbers had no suspicion of being pursued, their slow march, with the halt that succeeded it, had favoured the rangers in overtaking them.

Rube and Garey, acting as scouts, had kept in the advance.

On coming within sight of the rancheria, they had left their horses behind, and had crept forward under cover of the thicket.

It was the double detonation of their rifles that had first given the surprise to the salteadores—at the same time, as had been preconcerted, it acted as a signal to the rangers to charge forward into the place.

The Jarocha’s presence among the bandits has been already explained. My conjecture was correct. On the way between Cerro Gordo and the village of Rio del Plan, she had lingered behind thecortègethat accompanied her wounded brother. At a turn on the road, some half-dozen of the ruffians of Rayas’ band had rushed out of an ambuscade and seized hold of her. By stifling her cries, they had succeeded in conveying her off, even without alarming the escort of Jarochos.

All this chapter of strange incidents occurred within the short space of twenty-four hours: for before a second sun had set, I was once more at the head of my troop,en routefor Jalapa; while the beautiful Jarocha, with her honour still intact, but her heart, as I hoped, sweetly affected towards her preserver, was on her way, this time with a safer escort, to her nativerancheria.

We did not part without a mutual promise to meet again. Need I say, that the promise was kept.

Story 2, Chapter I.Despard, the Sportsman.A City of Duellists.Among the cities of America, New Orleans enjoys a special reputation. The important position it holds as the key to the great valley of the Mississippi, of whose commerce it is the naturalentrepôtas well asdécharge—its late rapid growth and aggrandisement—all combine to render the “Crescent City” one of the most interesting places in the world, and by far the most interesting in the United States.A variety of other circumstances have contributed to invest New Orleans with a peculiar character in the eyes of the American people. The romantic history of its early settlement—the sub-tropical stamp of its vegetation, and the truly tropical character of its climate—the repeated changing of its early owners; the influx and commingling of the most varied and opposite nationalities; and thebizarrerieof manners and customs resulting therefrom, could not otherwise than produce a community of a peculiar kind.And such has been the result. Go where you will throughout the Atlantic states, or even through the states of the West, you will find a certain sentiment of interest attached to the name of the “Crescent City;” and no one talks of it with indifference. The young Kentuckian, who has not yet been “down the river,” looks forward with pleasant anticipation to the hour, when he may indulge in a visit to that place of infinite luxury and pleasure—the Mecca of the Western world.The growth of New Orleans has been rapid, almost beyond parallel—that is, dating from the day it became a republican city. Up to that time its history is scarcely worth recording.Sixty years have witnessed its increase from a village of 10,000—of little trade and less importance—to a grand commercial city, numbering a population of 200,000 souls. And this in the teeth of a pestilential epidemic, that annually robs it of its thousands of inhabitants.But for the drawback of climate, New Orleans would, ere this, have rivalled New York; but it looks forward to a still grander future. Its people believe it destined to become the metropolis of the world; and in view of its peculiar position, there is no great presumption in the prophecy.New Orleans is not looked upon as a provincial city—it never was one. It is a true metropolis, and ever has been, from the time when it was the head-quarters and commercial depot of the gulf pirates, to the present hour.Its manners and customs are its own; its fashions are original, or, if borrowed, it is from the Boulevards, not from Broadway. The latestcoiffureof a Parisian belle, the cut of a coat, or the shape of a hat, will make its appearance upon the streets of New Orleans, earlier than on those of New York—notwithstanding the advantage which the latter has in Atlantic steamers: and, what is more, the coat and hat of the New Orleanois will be of better fabric, and costlier materials, than that of the New Yorker. The Creole cares little for expense: he clothes himself in the best—the finest linen that loom can produce; the finest cloth that can be fabricated. Hats are worn costing twenty-five dollars apiece; and the bills of a tailor of the Rue Royale would astonish even a customer of Stultz. I have myself some recollection of a twelve guinea coat, made me by one of these Transatlantic artists; but I remember also thatit was a coat.New Orleans, then, may fairly claim to be considered a metropolis; and, among its many titles there is one which it enjoyspar excellence, that is, in being the head-quarters of theduello. In no other part of America, nor haply in the world either, are there so many personal encounters—nowhere is the sword so often drawn, or the pistol aimed, in single combat, as among the fiery spirits of the “Crescent City.” Scarcely a week passes without an “affair;” and too often, through the sombre forest of Pontchartrain, borne upon the still morning air, may be heard the quick responsive detonations that betoken a hostile meeting—perhaps the last moments of some noble but misguided youth.I have said that nearly every week witnesses such a scene—I am writing of the present. Were I to speak of the past, I should have to make a slight alteration in my phraseology. Were I to use the phrase, “nearly every day,” it would not invalidate the truth of my assertion; and that of a period not yet twenty years gone by.At that time a duel, or a street fight—one or the other—was a diurnal occurrence: and the notoriety of either ended almost with the hour in which it came off.It was difficult for a man of spirit to keep his hand clear of these embroglios; and even elderly respectable men—men, married and with grown-up families—were not exempted from duelling, but were expected to turn out and fight, if but the slightest insult were offered them.Of course a stranger, ignorant of the customs of the place, and used to a society where a little liberal “larking” was allowed, would there soon be cured of his propensity for practical jokes.But even a sober-minded individual could not always steer himself so as to escape an adventure. For myself, without being at all of a pugnacious disposition, I came very nigh tumbling into an “affair” within twenty-four hours after my first landing in New Orleans; and a friend, who was my companion, actuallydidtake the field.The circumstance is scarcely worth relating—and, perhaps, it would be better, both for my friend and myself if it were left untold.But there is a dramatic necessity in the revelation. The incident introduced me to the principal characters of the little drama I have essayed to set forth; and the circumstances of this introduction—odd though they were—are required to elucidate the “situation.”I love the sea, but hate sea-travelling. I never “go down to it in ships” but with great reluctance, and from sheer necessity. My fellow-voyager felt exactly as I did—both of us were alike weary of the sea. What was our joy, then, when, after a voyage ranging nearly from pole to equator—after being “cabined, cribbed, and confined” for a period of three months—buffeted by billows, and broiled amid long-continued calms—we beheld the promised land around the mouths of the mighty Mississippi!The dove that escaped from the Ark was not more eager to set its claws upon a branch, than we to plant our feet uponterra firma.The treeless waste did not terrify us. Swamp as it was, and is, we should have preferred landing in its midst to staying longer aboard, had a boat been at our service.As there was none, we were compelled to endure the tedious up-stream navigation of one hundred miles, before our eyes finally rested upon the shining cupola of the Saint Charles.Then we could endure the ship no longer; and our importunities having produced their effects upon the kindly old skipper, two stout tars were ordered into the gig, and myself and companion were rapidly “shot” upon the bank.It is not easy to describe the pleasurable sensations one has at such a moment; but if you can fancy how a bird might feel on escaping from its cage, you may have a very good idea of how we felt on getting clear of our ship.We were still several miles below New Orleans; but a wide road wended in the direction of the city, running along the crest of a great embankment, known as the “Levee,” and taking this road for our guide, we started forward towards the town.

Among the cities of America, New Orleans enjoys a special reputation. The important position it holds as the key to the great valley of the Mississippi, of whose commerce it is the naturalentrepôtas well asdécharge—its late rapid growth and aggrandisement—all combine to render the “Crescent City” one of the most interesting places in the world, and by far the most interesting in the United States.

A variety of other circumstances have contributed to invest New Orleans with a peculiar character in the eyes of the American people. The romantic history of its early settlement—the sub-tropical stamp of its vegetation, and the truly tropical character of its climate—the repeated changing of its early owners; the influx and commingling of the most varied and opposite nationalities; and thebizarrerieof manners and customs resulting therefrom, could not otherwise than produce a community of a peculiar kind.

And such has been the result. Go where you will throughout the Atlantic states, or even through the states of the West, you will find a certain sentiment of interest attached to the name of the “Crescent City;” and no one talks of it with indifference. The young Kentuckian, who has not yet been “down the river,” looks forward with pleasant anticipation to the hour, when he may indulge in a visit to that place of infinite luxury and pleasure—the Mecca of the Western world.

The growth of New Orleans has been rapid, almost beyond parallel—that is, dating from the day it became a republican city. Up to that time its history is scarcely worth recording.

Sixty years have witnessed its increase from a village of 10,000—of little trade and less importance—to a grand commercial city, numbering a population of 200,000 souls. And this in the teeth of a pestilential epidemic, that annually robs it of its thousands of inhabitants.

But for the drawback of climate, New Orleans would, ere this, have rivalled New York; but it looks forward to a still grander future. Its people believe it destined to become the metropolis of the world; and in view of its peculiar position, there is no great presumption in the prophecy.

New Orleans is not looked upon as a provincial city—it never was one. It is a true metropolis, and ever has been, from the time when it was the head-quarters and commercial depot of the gulf pirates, to the present hour.

Its manners and customs are its own; its fashions are original, or, if borrowed, it is from the Boulevards, not from Broadway. The latestcoiffureof a Parisian belle, the cut of a coat, or the shape of a hat, will make its appearance upon the streets of New Orleans, earlier than on those of New York—notwithstanding the advantage which the latter has in Atlantic steamers: and, what is more, the coat and hat of the New Orleanois will be of better fabric, and costlier materials, than that of the New Yorker. The Creole cares little for expense: he clothes himself in the best—the finest linen that loom can produce; the finest cloth that can be fabricated. Hats are worn costing twenty-five dollars apiece; and the bills of a tailor of the Rue Royale would astonish even a customer of Stultz. I have myself some recollection of a twelve guinea coat, made me by one of these Transatlantic artists; but I remember also thatit was a coat.

New Orleans, then, may fairly claim to be considered a metropolis; and, among its many titles there is one which it enjoyspar excellence, that is, in being the head-quarters of theduello. In no other part of America, nor haply in the world either, are there so many personal encounters—nowhere is the sword so often drawn, or the pistol aimed, in single combat, as among the fiery spirits of the “Crescent City.” Scarcely a week passes without an “affair;” and too often, through the sombre forest of Pontchartrain, borne upon the still morning air, may be heard the quick responsive detonations that betoken a hostile meeting—perhaps the last moments of some noble but misguided youth.

I have said that nearly every week witnesses such a scene—I am writing of the present. Were I to speak of the past, I should have to make a slight alteration in my phraseology. Were I to use the phrase, “nearly every day,” it would not invalidate the truth of my assertion; and that of a period not yet twenty years gone by.

At that time a duel, or a street fight—one or the other—was a diurnal occurrence: and the notoriety of either ended almost with the hour in which it came off.

It was difficult for a man of spirit to keep his hand clear of these embroglios; and even elderly respectable men—men, married and with grown-up families—were not exempted from duelling, but were expected to turn out and fight, if but the slightest insult were offered them.

Of course a stranger, ignorant of the customs of the place, and used to a society where a little liberal “larking” was allowed, would there soon be cured of his propensity for practical jokes.

But even a sober-minded individual could not always steer himself so as to escape an adventure. For myself, without being at all of a pugnacious disposition, I came very nigh tumbling into an “affair” within twenty-four hours after my first landing in New Orleans; and a friend, who was my companion, actuallydidtake the field.

The circumstance is scarcely worth relating—and, perhaps, it would be better, both for my friend and myself if it were left untold.

But there is a dramatic necessity in the revelation. The incident introduced me to the principal characters of the little drama I have essayed to set forth; and the circumstances of this introduction—odd though they were—are required to elucidate the “situation.”

I love the sea, but hate sea-travelling. I never “go down to it in ships” but with great reluctance, and from sheer necessity. My fellow-voyager felt exactly as I did—both of us were alike weary of the sea. What was our joy, then, when, after a voyage ranging nearly from pole to equator—after being “cabined, cribbed, and confined” for a period of three months—buffeted by billows, and broiled amid long-continued calms—we beheld the promised land around the mouths of the mighty Mississippi!

The dove that escaped from the Ark was not more eager to set its claws upon a branch, than we to plant our feet uponterra firma.

The treeless waste did not terrify us. Swamp as it was, and is, we should have preferred landing in its midst to staying longer aboard, had a boat been at our service.

As there was none, we were compelled to endure the tedious up-stream navigation of one hundred miles, before our eyes finally rested upon the shining cupola of the Saint Charles.

Then we could endure the ship no longer; and our importunities having produced their effects upon the kindly old skipper, two stout tars were ordered into the gig, and myself and companion were rapidly “shot” upon the bank.

It is not easy to describe the pleasurable sensations one has at such a moment; but if you can fancy how a bird might feel on escaping from its cage, you may have a very good idea of how we felt on getting clear of our ship.

We were still several miles below New Orleans; but a wide road wended in the direction of the city, running along the crest of a great embankment, known as the “Levee,” and taking this road for our guide, we started forward towards the town.

Story 2, Chapter II.Scene in a Drinking Saloon.We passed plantations of sugar-cane, and admired the houses in which their owners dwelt—handsome villas, embowered amid orange groves, and shaded with Persian lilacs and magnolias.We might have entertained the desire to enter one or other of these luxuriant retreats, but, under the circumstances, there was neither hope nor prospect, and we continued on.As we advanced up the road, other houses were encountered—some of a less inhospitable character. These werecabaretsandcafés, that, with their coloured bottles and sparkling glasses, their open fronts and cool shaded corridors, were too tempting to be passed.There was a sweetness about these novel potations of “claret sangarees” and “juleps,” fragrant with the smell of mint and pines—an attractive aroma—that could not be repelled, especially by one escaping from the stench of raw rum and ship’s bilge water.Neither my companion nor I had the strength to resist their seductive influence; and, giving way to it, we called at more than onecabaret, and tasted of more than one strange mixture. In fine, we became merry.The sun was already low when we landed; and before we had entered the suburbs of the city, his disc had disappeared behind the dark belt of cypress forest that bounds the western horizon.The street lamps were alight, glimmering but dimly, and at long intervals from each other; but a little afterwards a light glistened in our eyes more brilliant and attractive.Through a large open folding-door was disclosed the interior of one of those magnificent drinking “saloons,” for which the “Crescent City” is so celebrated. The sheen of a thousand sparkling objects—of glasses, bottles, and mirrors ranged around the walls—produced an effect gorgeous and dazzling. To our eyes it appeared the interior of an enchanted palace—a cave of Aladdin.We were just in the mood to explore it; and, without further ado, we stepped across the threshold; and approaching the “bar,” over a snow-white sanded floor, we demanded a brace of fresh juleps.What followed I do not pretend to detail, with any degree of exactness. I have a confused remembrance of drinking in the midst of a crowd of men—most of them bearded, and of foreign aspect. The language was that of Babel, in which French predominated; and the varied costumes betokened a miscellaneous convention of different trades and professions. Numbers of them had the “cut” and air of sea-faring men—skippers of merchant vessels—while others were landsmen, traders, or small planters; and not a few were richly and fashionably dressed as gentlemen—real or counterfeit, I could not tell which.My companion—a jolly young Hibernian—like myself, just escaped from the cloisters ofAlma Mater, soon goten rapportwith these strangers. Hospitable fellows they appeared; and in the twinkling of an eye we were drinking and clinking glasses, as if we had fallen among a batch of old friends or playmates!There was one individual who attracted my notice. This may have arisen partly from the fact that he was more assiduous in his attentions to us than any of the rest; but there was also something distinctive in the style of the man.He was a young man, apparently about twenty years of age, but with all thetonand air of a person of thirty—a precocity to be attributed partly to clime, and partly to the habitudes of New Orleans life. He was of medium size; with regular features, well and sharply outlined; his complexion was brunette, with an olive tinge; and his hair black, luxuriant, and wavy. His moustaches were dark and well defined, slightly curling at the tips. He was handsome, until you met the glance of his eye. In that there was something repellent; though why, it would be difficult to say. The expression was cold and animal. A slight scar along the prominence of his cheek was noticeable; and might have been received in an encounter with rapiers, or from the blade of a knife.This young man was elegantly attired. His dress consisted of a claret-coloured dress-coat, of finest cloth, with gilt buttons, and satin-lined skirts—a vest of spotlessMarseilles—black inexpressibles—white linenbootees—and a Paris hat. A shirt ruffled with finest cambric, both at the bosom and sleeves, completed his costume.To-day, and in the streets of London, this would appear the costume of a snob. Not so there and then. The dress described, with slight variations as to cut and colour, was the usual morning habit of a New Orleans gentleman—that is, his winter habit. In summer, white linen, or “nankeen” upon his body, and the costly “Panama” on his head.I have been particular in describing this young fellow, as I afterwards ascertained that he was the type of a class which at that time abounded in New Orleans—most of them of French or Spanish origin—the descendants of the ruined planters of Haiti; or a later importation—the sons of the refugees whom revolution had expelled from Mexico and South America.Of these the “Crescent City” contained a legion—most of them being without visible means—too lazy to work, too proud to beg—dashing adventurers, who, in elegant attire, appeared around the tables of “Craps” and “Kino;” in the grand hotels and exchanges; at the public balls; and not unfrequently in the best private company—for, at this time, the “society” of the “Crescent City” was far from being scrupulous or exacting. So long as a gentleman’s cloth and cambric wereen règle, no one speculated as to whether his tailor was contented, or hisblanchisseusehad given him a discharge for her little account.The New Orleanois pride themselves on minding their own affairs; and indeed there is some justice in their claim. Moreover, the rôle of the meddler is not without danger among these people; and even the half-proscribed adventurers of whom I have spoken, though not disdaining to live bycards, were ever ready to exchange one with the man who would cast the slightest slur upon their respectability.Of just such a “kidney” was the individual we had met; though, of course, at that first interview, I was not aware of it. I was then little skilled in reading character from the physiognomy, and yet I remember that the glance of this young fellow, notwithstanding his polite attentions, produced an unpleasant impression upon me; and some instinct whispered to me that, despite his elegant attire and fine bearing, our new acquaintancewas not exactly a gentleman.My companion seemed more pleased with him than I was. I confess, however, that he had drunk deeper, and was far less capable of forming a judgment. As I turned away to converse with another of the strangers, I noticed the two—the Hibernian and the Frenchman—standing close together, champagne glasses in hand, andhobnobbingin the most fraternal manner.Ten minutes might have elapsed before I faced round again. When I did so, it was in consequence of some loud words that were uttered behind me, and in which I recognised the voice of my friend, speaking in an angry and excited tone. The words were:—“Yes, sir! it’s gone—and, by Jaysus,youtook it!”“Pardon, Monsieur!”“Pardon, indeed!—you’ve got my watch—you’vestolen it, sir!”Almost simultaneously with this unexpected accusation, I heard a loud, fierce “sacr-r-ré” from the Frenchman, followed instantly by a sharp metallic click, as of a pistol being cocked; and as soon as I could get my eyes fairly upon the disputing parties, I beheld a somewhat frightfultableau.My friend was standing close to the bar, pointing with one hand to the broken guard of his watch, which dangled loosely over the lapels of his waistcoat. His face was towards me, and from his gestures, as well as from the words he had uttered, I could see that some one had made free with his chronometer, and that he believed the thief to be theelegantalready described.The latter was between me and the Hibernian, and, as he stood facing his accuser, I could as yet see only his back.But the suspicious “click” I had heard, caused me to step hastily to one side; and this brought me in sight of the ugly weapon poised in the fellow’s hand, with its muzzle pointed directly at the head of my fellow-voyager, who, seemingly taken by surprise, was making no effort to get out of the way!All this had passed within a second of time.Impelled by a sort of instinct, I sprang forward and clutched the pistol around the lock.Whether I saved the life of my friend by so doing, I cannot say; but the shot was not delivered; and in the subsequent struggle between myself and the stranger, for possession of the pistol, the cap was wrenched off, and the weapon remained in my hands.Seeing it was harmless, I returned it to its owner, with a word of caution to him not to be so ready in drawing such dangerous weapons in the middle of a crowd.“Sacré!” shouted he, addressing himself more particularly to my fellow-voyager; “you shall repent this insult—sacr-r-ré!”“Insult, indeed!” stammered out the Hibernian—whom, as he would not desire his real name to be known, I shall call Casey. “I repeat it, then, my fine fellow! My watch is gone—it was taken from my fob here: you seethis, gentlemen?” and Casey exhibited to the crowd the wrenched swivel. “It was he who did it: I repeat that he is the thief!”The Frenchman fairly foamed with rage at this fresh accusation; while, by his gestures, he appeared as if desirous of recapping the pistol.I watched him closely, however, to prevent such a movement, as I knew that Casey was in no condition to defend himself.At the same time I endeavoured, along with several others, to bring the affair to an explanation, and, if possible, to a pacific termination.

We passed plantations of sugar-cane, and admired the houses in which their owners dwelt—handsome villas, embowered amid orange groves, and shaded with Persian lilacs and magnolias.

We might have entertained the desire to enter one or other of these luxuriant retreats, but, under the circumstances, there was neither hope nor prospect, and we continued on.

As we advanced up the road, other houses were encountered—some of a less inhospitable character. These werecabaretsandcafés, that, with their coloured bottles and sparkling glasses, their open fronts and cool shaded corridors, were too tempting to be passed.

There was a sweetness about these novel potations of “claret sangarees” and “juleps,” fragrant with the smell of mint and pines—an attractive aroma—that could not be repelled, especially by one escaping from the stench of raw rum and ship’s bilge water.

Neither my companion nor I had the strength to resist their seductive influence; and, giving way to it, we called at more than onecabaret, and tasted of more than one strange mixture. In fine, we became merry.

The sun was already low when we landed; and before we had entered the suburbs of the city, his disc had disappeared behind the dark belt of cypress forest that bounds the western horizon.

The street lamps were alight, glimmering but dimly, and at long intervals from each other; but a little afterwards a light glistened in our eyes more brilliant and attractive.

Through a large open folding-door was disclosed the interior of one of those magnificent drinking “saloons,” for which the “Crescent City” is so celebrated. The sheen of a thousand sparkling objects—of glasses, bottles, and mirrors ranged around the walls—produced an effect gorgeous and dazzling. To our eyes it appeared the interior of an enchanted palace—a cave of Aladdin.

We were just in the mood to explore it; and, without further ado, we stepped across the threshold; and approaching the “bar,” over a snow-white sanded floor, we demanded a brace of fresh juleps.

What followed I do not pretend to detail, with any degree of exactness. I have a confused remembrance of drinking in the midst of a crowd of men—most of them bearded, and of foreign aspect. The language was that of Babel, in which French predominated; and the varied costumes betokened a miscellaneous convention of different trades and professions. Numbers of them had the “cut” and air of sea-faring men—skippers of merchant vessels—while others were landsmen, traders, or small planters; and not a few were richly and fashionably dressed as gentlemen—real or counterfeit, I could not tell which.

My companion—a jolly young Hibernian—like myself, just escaped from the cloisters ofAlma Mater, soon goten rapportwith these strangers. Hospitable fellows they appeared; and in the twinkling of an eye we were drinking and clinking glasses, as if we had fallen among a batch of old friends or playmates!

There was one individual who attracted my notice. This may have arisen partly from the fact that he was more assiduous in his attentions to us than any of the rest; but there was also something distinctive in the style of the man.

He was a young man, apparently about twenty years of age, but with all thetonand air of a person of thirty—a precocity to be attributed partly to clime, and partly to the habitudes of New Orleans life. He was of medium size; with regular features, well and sharply outlined; his complexion was brunette, with an olive tinge; and his hair black, luxuriant, and wavy. His moustaches were dark and well defined, slightly curling at the tips. He was handsome, until you met the glance of his eye. In that there was something repellent; though why, it would be difficult to say. The expression was cold and animal. A slight scar along the prominence of his cheek was noticeable; and might have been received in an encounter with rapiers, or from the blade of a knife.

This young man was elegantly attired. His dress consisted of a claret-coloured dress-coat, of finest cloth, with gilt buttons, and satin-lined skirts—a vest of spotlessMarseilles—black inexpressibles—white linenbootees—and a Paris hat. A shirt ruffled with finest cambric, both at the bosom and sleeves, completed his costume.

To-day, and in the streets of London, this would appear the costume of a snob. Not so there and then. The dress described, with slight variations as to cut and colour, was the usual morning habit of a New Orleans gentleman—that is, his winter habit. In summer, white linen, or “nankeen” upon his body, and the costly “Panama” on his head.

I have been particular in describing this young fellow, as I afterwards ascertained that he was the type of a class which at that time abounded in New Orleans—most of them of French or Spanish origin—the descendants of the ruined planters of Haiti; or a later importation—the sons of the refugees whom revolution had expelled from Mexico and South America.

Of these the “Crescent City” contained a legion—most of them being without visible means—too lazy to work, too proud to beg—dashing adventurers, who, in elegant attire, appeared around the tables of “Craps” and “Kino;” in the grand hotels and exchanges; at the public balls; and not unfrequently in the best private company—for, at this time, the “society” of the “Crescent City” was far from being scrupulous or exacting. So long as a gentleman’s cloth and cambric wereen règle, no one speculated as to whether his tailor was contented, or hisblanchisseusehad given him a discharge for her little account.

The New Orleanois pride themselves on minding their own affairs; and indeed there is some justice in their claim. Moreover, the rôle of the meddler is not without danger among these people; and even the half-proscribed adventurers of whom I have spoken, though not disdaining to live bycards, were ever ready to exchange one with the man who would cast the slightest slur upon their respectability.

Of just such a “kidney” was the individual we had met; though, of course, at that first interview, I was not aware of it. I was then little skilled in reading character from the physiognomy, and yet I remember that the glance of this young fellow, notwithstanding his polite attentions, produced an unpleasant impression upon me; and some instinct whispered to me that, despite his elegant attire and fine bearing, our new acquaintancewas not exactly a gentleman.

My companion seemed more pleased with him than I was. I confess, however, that he had drunk deeper, and was far less capable of forming a judgment. As I turned away to converse with another of the strangers, I noticed the two—the Hibernian and the Frenchman—standing close together, champagne glasses in hand, andhobnobbingin the most fraternal manner.

Ten minutes might have elapsed before I faced round again. When I did so, it was in consequence of some loud words that were uttered behind me, and in which I recognised the voice of my friend, speaking in an angry and excited tone. The words were:—

“Yes, sir! it’s gone—and, by Jaysus,youtook it!”

“Pardon, Monsieur!”

“Pardon, indeed!—you’ve got my watch—you’vestolen it, sir!”

Almost simultaneously with this unexpected accusation, I heard a loud, fierce “sacr-r-ré” from the Frenchman, followed instantly by a sharp metallic click, as of a pistol being cocked; and as soon as I could get my eyes fairly upon the disputing parties, I beheld a somewhat frightfultableau.

My friend was standing close to the bar, pointing with one hand to the broken guard of his watch, which dangled loosely over the lapels of his waistcoat. His face was towards me, and from his gestures, as well as from the words he had uttered, I could see that some one had made free with his chronometer, and that he believed the thief to be theelegantalready described.

The latter was between me and the Hibernian, and, as he stood facing his accuser, I could as yet see only his back.

But the suspicious “click” I had heard, caused me to step hastily to one side; and this brought me in sight of the ugly weapon poised in the fellow’s hand, with its muzzle pointed directly at the head of my fellow-voyager, who, seemingly taken by surprise, was making no effort to get out of the way!

All this had passed within a second of time.

Impelled by a sort of instinct, I sprang forward and clutched the pistol around the lock.

Whether I saved the life of my friend by so doing, I cannot say; but the shot was not delivered; and in the subsequent struggle between myself and the stranger, for possession of the pistol, the cap was wrenched off, and the weapon remained in my hands.

Seeing it was harmless, I returned it to its owner, with a word of caution to him not to be so ready in drawing such dangerous weapons in the middle of a crowd.

“Sacré!” shouted he, addressing himself more particularly to my fellow-voyager; “you shall repent this insult—sacr-r-ré!”

“Insult, indeed!” stammered out the Hibernian—whom, as he would not desire his real name to be known, I shall call Casey. “I repeat it, then, my fine fellow! My watch is gone—it was taken from my fob here: you seethis, gentlemen?” and Casey exhibited to the crowd the wrenched swivel. “It was he who did it: I repeat that he is the thief!”

The Frenchman fairly foamed with rage at this fresh accusation; while, by his gestures, he appeared as if desirous of recapping the pistol.

I watched him closely, however, to prevent such a movement, as I knew that Casey was in no condition to defend himself.

At the same time I endeavoured, along with several others, to bring the affair to an explanation, and, if possible, to a pacific termination.

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