He could not have told how long he had been sleeping, when all of a sudden he was rudely awakened by cries of fright and of rage raised at a little distance from him, and with which were almost immediately mingled several shots.
M. Dubois rose in the utmost anxiety, and rushed out to discover the cause of this extraordinary tumult.
A strange spectacle, and which he was certainly far from expecting, offered itself to his astonished eyes.
The platform, or rather the court situated before the rancho, was occupied by some twenty individuals, who were crying out and gesticulating with fury, and in the midst of whom was the painter, his head uncovered, his hair flying in the wind, his right foot placed on his gun, which had been thrown on the ground before him, and a pistol in each hand.
Behind the young man, five or six Indians, his servants, with their guns at their shoulders, ready to fire.
At the door of the shed the loaded mules and the saddled horses were held by two or three Indians armed with guns and sabres.
By the light of the torches, the red flames of which threw out a strange reflection, the scene assumed a fantastic appearance of a remarkable character, rudely contrasting with the profound darkness which reigned on the plain, and which the varying light of the torches illuminated at each gust of the night wind.
The old man, without seeking an explanation of this mournful drama, but instinctively understanding that something was passing in which he was personally interested, darted forward boldly to the side of his young companion.
"What is it?" he cried. "Are we attacked?"
"Yes," quickly answered the young man; "we are attacked, but by your peons (attendants)."
"By my attendants!" exclaimed M. Dubois.
"It would appear that these worthy gauchos have found your baggage suit them, and that the idea has occurred to them to seize upon it—that is all. It is very simple, you see. But let me act; they are not going to succeed as easily as they think."
"Perhaps, if I were to speak to them?" ventured the old man.
"Not a word, not a gesture; leave that to me. You are my guest; my duty is to defend you, and, God aiding me, so long as you shall be under my roof, I will defend you, come what may, against everything."
The old man did not attempt to insist; moreover, he had not the time for it. The attendants, for a moment taken aback by his unforeseen appearance, in the midst of them, recommenced their cries and their wild gestures, brandishing their arms with a threatening air, and narrowing every moment the circle in which M. Dubois and his few defenders were compactly standing.
The struggle, which had been on the point of commencement between the two parties, was most unequal, and in the proportion of about one to four; since, besides the two Frenchmen, only six Indians, of whom three were holding the horses and mules, were preparing to fight the twenty bandits or so who had so insolently revolted.
However, notwithstanding their small number, the Frenchmen and their servants resolved to face the danger boldly, and to maintain the combat to the last gasp, considering the conditions that these wretches thought proper to impose unworthy of their acceptance.
The painter coolly cocked his pistols, slung his gun by his shoulder belt, and, instead of waiting the attack of the attendants, boldly advanced towards them, after having rejoined his companions, by a gesture, to remain where they were, but be ready to defend him.
A bold action always has its effect on the masses.
The attendants, instead of continuing to march in advance, hesitated, stopped, and finished by retreating to the wall of the shed, against which they placed their backs.
They could not at all understand the strange rashness of this man, who thus dared to come alone to face them; and, spite of themselves, by an instinctive sentiment, they felt for him a respect mingled with fear. Moreover, the combat which had taken place some hours before between the young man and the Spanish captain, by proving the incontestable power and bravery of the stranger, had excited their admiration—a circumstance which had considerable weight with them at the moment—added to the respect which they had for him, and caused them still further to hesitate.
The artist had understood the situation at a glance. He felt that he could not escape from the awkward position in which he found himself, but by boldness and decision. His resolve was the work of a moment, and instead of waiting for the danger, he had bravely anticipated it, convinced that this was the only practicable way of saving his life and that of his companions, who for the moment appeared to be quite at sea, and rather to depend on chance than on the most skilful of plans.
"Come, let us make an end of this," said he, in a hard and firm voice, stopping at a couple of paces from the attendants, who were standing huddled against each other before him; "what do you want?"
To this question no answer was given.
"Will you answer yes or no?" pursued Émile. "What do you demand? No doubt you have no intention of appropriating to yourselves, purely and simply, the baggage of the person in whose service you are. That would be the deed of highway robbers, and, low as you may have become in my esteem, I do not believe you have arrived at so base a point as that."
"And that is just where you are wrong, Señor," said an attendant, taking a couple of steps in advance, swaying himself jauntily about, and laughing.
The painter did not hesitate. The moment was critical; he aimed at the attendant, and discharged a pistol full in his chest, saying—
"I do not speak to you; I address myself to these honourable caballeros, and not to a fellow of your sort."
The poor devil rolled on the ground without uttering a cry. He had been killed in an instant.
The effect produced by this daring action was electrical. The attendants, charmed not only at being treated as honourable caballeros, but also at coming out of the delicate position in which they had inconsiderately placed themselves, applauded with enthusiasm, and uttered mad cries of joy at this unwarrantable act.
"I was saying, then," pursued the painter, in a gentle voice, and coolly reloading his pistol, "that you are honest people—that is understood and agreed on between us. Now that we understand one another, explain to me the motives that have induced you to revolt in this way, and to push matters to such lengths that had I not arrived you would have left with the horses, mules, and baggage."
A unanimous protest was raised to this accusation.
"Well," continued the young man, "the mules and the horses have been saddled and loaded inadvertently, I admit. Without thinking of doing wrong you would have prepared to take them away with you, still, through a mistake which would be regretted, all that, strictly speaking, may be, if not logical, at least possible. But still, in revolting against a man who has paid you something in advance, and whom you have engaged to serve honourably for the term of the journey, you had certain motives. What are these motives is what I wish to know. What are they? Tell me."
A reaction had worked in the minds of all these uncultivated men. The bold and honest courage of the young man had carried them away in spite of themselves. Scarcely had he finished speaking than all protested energetically to their loyalty and devotion, pressing round him, and almost suffocating him as they closed in upon him.
But he, without losing any of his coolness, and wishing that the lesson should be complete, pushed them away gently with his hand, and making a sign for them to be quiet.
"One moment," said he to them, smiling; "it is not necessary for another mistake to come and embroil us anew at the moment when we are on the point of understanding one another. My friends, who are at some little distance from us, and who do not know what is passing, would suppose me in danger, and come up to my aid. Let me then prove to them that all is finished, and that I consider myself perfectly safe."
And taking his pistols by the barrels, he threw them over his head; unbuckled his sabre, and sent it the same way; and then crossed his arms carelessly on his breast.
"Now let us talk," said he.
This last action of unheard-of boldness literally staggered the mutineers. They acknowledged themselves conquered, and, without wishing to enter upon new explanations, they humbly bowed before the haughty young man, and kissed his hands, swearing devotion under all circumstances, and immediately withdrew with a rapidity which proved their repentance.
Some minutes afterwards the mules were unloaded, the horses unsaddled, and the attendants, enveloped in their ponchos, were sleeping, stretched before the watch fires.
Émile rejoined his companions—anxious and stationary at the place where he had left them—carelessly twirling a cigarette of maize straw between his nervous fingers.
But his countenance was pale, and his eyes had a sombre expression. On his road he found his arms, and again took possession of them.
"You have done wonders," said M. Dubois to him, grasping his hand with gratitude.
"No," answered he, with a sweet and calm smile; "only I remembered the word of Danton."
"What word?"
"Boldness. It is only with boldness we can tame wild beasts; and what are men if not savage beasts?"
"But you risked your life?"
"Have I not said that a long while ago I made that sacrifice? But do not attach, I beg you, more importance to this affair than it really deserves. Everything depended on a firm and prompt resolution. These men were prepared for theft—not for assassination. That is the secret of the matter."
"Do not seek to lower the value of an action of which I shall preserve an ever grateful memory."
"Bah! What I have done for you today you will do for me tomorrow, and then we shall be quits."
"I doubt it. I am not a man for battle. I have only social courage. In an émeute, I am afraid."
"Pardieu! So am I; only I do not allow it to be seen. But let us speak no more of this; we have to talk of more important matters—at least, if you would not prefer to resume your sleep, so awkwardly interrupted."
"It would be impossible for me to sleep now. I am entirely at your disposal."
"Since it is so, let us re-enter the rancho. The nights are cold, the dew frozen. It is of no use for us to be any longer in the open air. You see that our wild revolutionists have taken in good part their defeat, and sleep peaceably. Do not let any of them, who may perhaps be still watching, suppose that we still have any anxiety on their account. Come."
They re-entered the rancho, the door of which the painter scrupulously closed after him.
When they had sat down, the young man opened a bottle of rum, poured out a glass, and, after having tasted it, he gave two or three puffs of smoke, and then placing his glass on the table—
"The situation is grave," he said, throwing himself back in his chair; "do you wish that we should speak unreservedly?"
"I should like nothing better," answered the old man, casting at him a furtive look from beneath his half-closed eyelids.
"First and before all, let us understand one another thoroughly," pursued Émile, smiling; "here we do not talk diplomatically: is it not so?"
"Why should we?" said his companion, smiling.
"Why, the force of habit may lead you away, and, believe me, at this moment it would be a wrong to yourself to allow yourself thus to be led."
"Fear nothing. I shall be with you as frank as possible."
"Um!" said the young man, with a half-convinced air; "However, it matters not, I will risk it; so much the worse for you if you do not keep your promise, for I have no other interest but yours."
"I am convinced of it; speak, then, fearlessly."
"First, one question. You are going to Tucumán?"
"Have I not told you so?"
"Just so. A part of the men who accompany you are disguised soldiers that the government of Buenos Aires has given you to serve you for the escort."
"How do you know that?"
"In a way which it is difficult to guess. So you are charged with a political mission?"
"I!"
"Parbleu! That speaks for itself; only I wish you to observe that it is completely indifferent to me, and that I do not attach the least importance to it."
"But—"
"Allow me to continue. From what has passed tonight, it is evident to me that a part of your escort is traitorous, and intends to give you up to the Spaniards."
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"Matters are serious, then?"
"You have a mission?"
"Suppose what you please; but aid me in escaping from my embarrassment."
"Well, I understand; you need say no more. Now, you will never reach Tucumán!"
"Do you know your opinion is also mine?"
"Pardieu! I know it well. Now that these fellows are curbed, this is what I propose—"
"Well?"
"But, take particular notice that it is only in your interest."
"I am convinced of it."
"If it is agreeable to you, as these bandits profess a certain respect for me, I offer to accompany you as far as Tucumán."
"My dear compatriot, nothing can be more agreeable to me in every way than this proposition. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You are literally saving my life."
"Pardon me—but on one condition."
"But what is that condition?" said the old man.
"It is simple; I believe that you will accept it with enthusiasm," answered the young man, laughing.
"Tell me, tell me; I am all attention."
"I must tell you that, without ever having been able to give myself a reason for it, I have always felt a profound disgust for politics."
"There is nothing wrong in that," said the old man, shaking his head with a pensive air.
"Is there not? So that, if I consent to escort you as far as Tucumán, and to conduct you there safe and sound, it is on the express condition that there shall never be a political discussion between us as long as we remain together. I have come to America to study art; let us each enjoy our specialty."
"I ask nothing better, and subscribe joyfully to that condition."
"And then—"
"Ah! There is something else."
"Consequent on the fear that I have previously expressed, I wish to leave you when we are in sight of Tucumán—that is to say, let us understand one another, before entering it; and if some day chance should bring us together again, you will never tell anyone whatever the service I shall have rendered you. Will that suit you?"
M. Dubois considered for a moment.
"My dear compatriot," at last said he, "I understand and I appreciate, believe me, all the delicacy of your procedure towards me. I engage, with all my heart, not to trouble your happy artist carelessness by coming to bore you with political questions that, happily for you, you cannot understand; but your last condition is too hard. However great may be the danger which threatens me at this moment, I will expose myself to it without hesitation rather than consent to forget the gratitude that I owe you, and to feign towards you an indifference against which my whole being revolts. We are both Frenchmen, cast far from our country, on a land where all is hostile to us; we are consequently brothers, that is to say, we are severally answerable for each other; and you so well enter into this, that all you have done since our meeting has been done under this impression. Do not defend yourself; I know you better, perhaps, than you know yourself, but permit me to tell you that your exquisite delicacy causes you just now to overshoot your mark. It is not for yourself, but for me alone that you fear all this; I cannot accept this sacrifice of self-denial. Although I am not a man of action, as you are, I nevertheless will in no circumstances consent to compromise my duties; and it is a duty for me—a sacred duty ever—not to forget what I owe you, and to acknowledge my deep obligations to you."
These words were pronounced with so much frankness and simplicity that the young man was moved; he held out his hand to the old man, whose pale and severe countenance had assumed, under the feelings which agitated it, an imposing expression. He answered in a voice which he vainly tried to render indifferent.
"Let it be so; since you demand it, Monsieur, I give way; to insist further would be ungracious. At break of day we will begin the journey, unless you would prefer to pass a day or two here."
"Urgent affairs call me to Tucumán. If it were not so, the revolt of tonight would induce me to hasten."
"It will not be renewed, I give you my word. These wild beasts are now muzzled, and changed into lambs. Better than you I know this mongrel race, for I have already lived several months in the midst of it. But we cannot use too much prudence. It is better, then, that you leave as soon as possible. There are already three hours of night; take advantage of it by getting a little sleep. I will wake you when the hour of departure has arrived. Good night."
The two men shook hands once more; the painter withdrew, and the old man remained alone.
"What a pity," murmured he to himself, installing himself as comfortably as possible in his mantle, and stretching himself on the table, "that a man of such ability, and with so brave a heart, should let his life become the sport of fancy, and not consent to devote himself to a serious career! There is in him, I am convinced, the stuff whereof to make a diplomatist."
While he was making these reflections he fell asleep. As to the young man, as, notwithstanding the assurance he affected, he inwardly had a vague misgiving, instead of lying down in the room which he usually occupied, he stretched himself in the open air on the esplanade, across the door of the rancho, and after having cast around him an inquiring look, to assure himself that all was really secure, he slept peacefully.
Scarcely had the stars commenced to pale in the sky, and the horizon to be irradiated with large opal band, than the painter was up and surveying the preparations for departure.
The attendants, who had completely resumed their duty, obeyed his orders with perfect docility, appearing to have quite forgotten the attempt at rebellion so happily frustrated.
When the mules were loaded and the horsemen in their saddles, the young man awakened his guest, and they proceeded on their journey.
From the house of Émile Gagnepain to the town of Tucumán the journey was rather long. It lasted four days, during which nothing occurred worth mentioning. They camped in the evening sometimes in some Guaranis rancho, abandoned by reason of the war, sometimes on the open field, and left a little before sunrise.
The attendants did not belie the good opinion that the young painter had formed of them; their conduct was exemplary, and during all the journey they did not manifest any tendency to revolt anew.
On the sixth day, at about ten o'clock in the morning, the white houses and the high towers of San Miguel de Tucumán—to restore to it the name which geographers confer upon it—arose upon the horizon.
The aspect of this city is enchanting; built on the confluence of the Río Dulce and the Río Tucumán, in such a situation as the Spaniards alone knew how to choose at the epoch of the conquest, the town is traversed by straight and broad streets, with pavements, and intersected here and there by beautiful squares, adorned with sumptuous buildings. The population of Tucumán is about 12,000 souls; it possesses a college, and a somewhat renowned university; while its commerce makes it one of the most important towns of the Banda Oriental.
At the time when we take the reader there that importance had further increased by the war. It had been fortified by means of a deep ditch, and by earth ramparts, sufficient to put it in a position to resist an attack.
For some time strong detachments of troops had been sent to the town on account of the events which had happened in Peru, and the approach of the Spanish troops.
These various corps were camped round the town, and their bivouacs offered the most singular aspect, especially to the eyes of a European, accustomed to that order, symmetry, and discipline which characterise the armies of the world.
In these camps all was pell-mell and disorder. The soldiers, lying or sitting on the ground, were playing, sleeping, smoking, or eating, while their wives—for in the entire Hispano-American army each soldier is always followed by his wife—led the horses to drink, prepared the meals, or cleaned the arms with that passive obedience which is the characteristic of Indian women, and which in some respects renders those unhappy creatures so interesting and worthy of pity.
The travellers, obliged to pass through the bivouacking parties, did not do so without some apprehension. However, contrary to their misgiving, they had not to submit to any insult, and entered without any obstacle San Miguel de Tucumán.
The town appeared en fête; the clocks of the convents and of the churches were ringing a full peal; the streets were full of men and women, dressed in their best and handsomest costumes.
"Have you decided on a spot where to stop?" said the painter to his companion.
"Yes," answered the latter, "I am going to the portals of the Plaza Mayor."
"But to which? All the square is furnished with portals."
"To those which front the cathedral. An apartment has been retained for me at the house No. 3."
"Good, I see that close-by."
The caravan was then threading an apparently inextricable labyrinth at streets, but in about a quarter of an hour it came out upon the Plaza Mayor.
"Here we are arrived," said the painter. "Permit me now to take leave of you."
"Not before you have consented to accept from me the hospitality I have received from you."
"Why not let me go?"
"Who knows; perhaps I may still want your assistance?"
"If it is to be so, I resist no longer, and I will follow you."
"Let us enter, then, for I believe here is the house."
They were, in fact, in front of No. 3.
San Miguel de Tucumán, the studious and calm town, whose broad streets were ordinarily almost deserted, and whose squares resembled the cloisters of an immense convent, had suddenly changed its aspect. It might have been called a vast barrack, so many soldiers of all kinds encumbered it. The quiet life of its inhabitants had been changed into feverish existence, full of noise and excitement. Men, women, children, and soldiers, mingled pell-mell at the corner of each street, and in every square, were calling out and talking in emulation of each other, gesticulating with that vivacity and animation peculiar to southern races; brandishing banners with the colours of the nation, and dragging about in all the busy streets, and close to the houses, boxes and cohetes, that supreme manifestation of joy in Spanish America.
A fête without cohetes or crackers, without fireworks, making noise and smoke, is a failure in these countries. The quantity of powder which is consumed in this way attains fabulous proportions.
We are pleased to render this justice to the Hispano-Americans—that they have no pretentiousness in their fireworks, and that they let them off artlessly, to their great contentment, as well by day under the most brilliant sun, as by night in the midst of darkness. We have even remarked that they prefer, by a refinement, no doubt, of extravagant selfish enjoyment, to let them off by daylight under the noses of the gaping crowd, that escapes half-burnt, howling and cursing at the mischievous wags, who laugh convulsively at the good turn which they have done for their admirers.
On this day, as the travellers learned on their passage, the inhabitants of San Miguel were celebrating a great victory gained by a chief of the Buenos Airean Montoneros over the Spaniards.
In the old Spanish colonies, and in general throughout America—that of the south as well as that of the north—it is not well to take too literally these bulletins of victory, which for the most part are only skirmishes of no importance, when there are neither killed nor wounded; and which even frequently conceal defeats or shameful retreats.
For some years Europeans have been informed as to the character of these dwellers beyond the sea; their boasting and throwing the hatchet have passed into a proverb. Everyone knows that the puff is of American origin; that the most magnificent flocks of canards reach us at a single flight from the other side of the Atlantic; and that, although many come from the Spanish republics, the most numerous start in countless troops from all the ports of the United States of America, which have justly acquired such a superiority for the rearing of these interesting birds, that henceforth no one will venture to dispute with them the palm of the puff, the public announcement, and the official lie.
An entire house had been placed at the disposal of M. Dubois by the new republican power. The governor of the province and the general commanding the troops camped round the town, warned of his arrival, waited for him at the door of the house, at the head of a numerous and brilliant staff.
The painter grasped the hand of his companion, allowing him to enjoy in his own way the honours which they heaped upon him; and, curious, true artist as he was, he put an album under his arm, glided through the crowd assembled in the Plaza Mayor, and wandered about, his nose in the air and his hands in his pocket, in quest of studies to paint or types to sketch; preferring to look out for novelty, than to submit to the wearisomeness of an official reception.
However, he had left his horses and his attendants with those of M. Dubois, who had only consented to his temporary departure after having made him promise not to choose any other dwelling than his own during all the time he might be pleased to stay at San Miguel.
The artist wore the complete costume of the inhabitants of the country, and had nothing which could attract attention; so it was easy for him to move about among the groups without being incommoded by the impertinent curiosity of the gaping idlers, for whom, especially at this time, a stranger—a European particularly—was an extraordinary being, who they imagined belonged to a different species to themselves, and towards whom they manifested more pity than goodwill. The greater part at the present day believe that Europeans are heretics, half men and half demons, and damned from the moment of their birth.
Nothing, in our opinion, is so agreeable as to walk about thus, without occupation of any sort, wandering through the crowd, isolated amidst the multitude; allowing oneself carelessly to follow out the caprices of the moment; mingling sometimes indirectly in the general joy, then resuming the course of one's thoughts, and again becoming alone in the midst of the crowd; only attaching oneself by an invisible chain—incessantly breaking, and again joined by chance—to events which, as an immense kaleidoscope, defile before one's eyes; at once an actor and a spectator, indifferent or interested to everything that strikes the eye, elbowing and skimming everything without being oneself mixed up in the facts which are transpiring.
The young man, happy as a scholar during the vacation at being so agreeably rid of his serious companion, thus wandered about, admiring the public monuments, the squares, the promenades; gazing at the women who passed near him, with a light and gentle tread; carelessly smoking his cigarette, walking right on without knowing where he was going, and caring very little, seeing that he was on the lookout for novelty.
He thus reached, scarcely knowing how, the Alameda or promenade of the town, a charming garden with thick foliage, adorned with clusters of pomegranate and orange trees in flower, the delicious perfume from which embalmed the atmosphere. By a singular chance the Alameda was deserted; all the population had been carried away into the centre of the town, and for one day had abandoned this delicious promenade.
The painter congratulated himself on the solitude in which he found himself, after the noise and uproar with which he had been so long mingled, and which began to oppress his temples, and to cause him to feel a kind of moral lassitude.
He cast his eye round for a bench, which he soon discovered, half-concealed in a bower of orange trees, and sat down with an unspeakable sense of pleasure.
It was about five o'clock in the evening. The breeze had risen, and was refreshing the heated atmosphere; the sun, nearly level with the ground, immeasurably lengthened the shadow of the trees; a number of birds concealed in the foliage were singing with all their might, and millions of insects with transparent wings were humming and flying around the flowers, the sweets of which they were gathering.
The sounds of the fête only came as a far-off echo, and almost inaudible to this solitude, which breathed the most complete calm.
Carried away in spite of himself by all that surrounded him, and submitting to the enervating influence of the perfume exhaled by the flowers, the young man allowed himself to fall back, crossed his arms over his chest, and, half closing his eyes, he fell into a sweet reverie, which soon absorbed his whole being, and made him completely forget reality, to be borne away into the fantastic land of dreams.
How long had he been subjected to this delicious somnolence, without name in our language? He could not have answered his own question; when suddenly he gained consciousness with a rude gesture of ill humour, listening and casting around him a look of discontent.
The sound of conversation had reached him.
However, it would have been in vain for him to try and pierce the darkness, for night had come; he could see no one. He was still alone in the bower, into the recess of which he had withdrawn.
He redoubled his attention; then he discovered that the voices that he had heard were those of two men who had stopped at a few paces behind him, and that the cluster of orange trees, in the midst of which he was alone, precluded his seeing them.
These two men, whoever they might be, appeared to wish not to be heard, for they spoke in a low voice, though with some animation. Unhappily, the Frenchman was so near them that, in spite of himself, and do what he might to prevent it, he heard all they said.
"The devil take these fellows," murmured the young man to himself; "to think of coming to talk politics here! I was so comfortable. What shall I do with myself now?"
But as he heard what his neighbours said, and even their lightest movements, the latter probably would have heard him if he had endeavoured to leave the place. Force compelled him, then, though he grumbled at it, to maintain his hiding place, and to continue to hear the conversation of the two men—a conversation by no means calculated to reassure him, and which from time to time assumed a very disquieting character for a third party, called to be, spite of himself, a confidant.
We have mentioned what horror the painter had for politics: the reader will easily understand what was his anxiety on hearing such things as those we are about to relate.
"This news is certain!" said one of the interlocutors.
"I have it from an eyewitness," answered the other.
"¡Caramba!" said the first, slightly raising his voice, "So we may soon hope to see the general in these parts!"
The painter trembled. He seemed to recognise that voice, without being able to recall where he had previously heard it.
"So the insurgents have been defeated?" continued the same speaker.
"Utterly defeated, Captain. I repeat it, at the battle of Villuma, General Pezuela pursued them more than six leagues, hard pressing them with the sword."
"Bravo! And what is he doing now?"
"Carsi! He is marching, doubling the rations, in order to arrive the quicker; unhappily, as far as we can see, he will not be able to be here for two months."
"That is very late."
"Yes; but that allows you to prepare your batteries."
"That is true; nevertheless, the mission with which the general charges me is full of difficulties. The insurgents are numerous round the town, and they keep a good guard; if it were a question of carrying away two or three, or even ten deputies, perhaps I could answer for success; but consider, my dear count, that it is nothing less than causing the disappearance of sixty or eighty persons."
"I do not understand you."
"That is natural," continued the captain; "only arrived today in the town, and not having yet gone out, except with me, you are unacquainted with what is passing."
"Entirely so," pursued the other, to whom had been given the title of count.
"Here are the circumstances in a few words. The insurgents wish to strike a decided blow. With this design they have convoked here at Tucumán a congress composed of deputies from each revolted district. This congress has for its object the proclaiming of the independence of Buenos Aires, and of all the Banda Oriental."
"¡Sangre de Dios! Are you sure of that?" cried the Count astounded.
"So sure that I know it by one of my cousins, who is himself one of these deputies, and who has no secret from us."
"¡Cuerpo de Cristo! This is dreadful! The general will be furious when I inform him of it."
"I am convinced of it; but what is to be done?"
"To prevent it by all means."
"It is impossible; means fail us completely. I can only dispose of a hundred men, with whom I can attempt nothing, so much the more as we are playing an unlucky game at this moment. The population is running frantic at the success of the chief of the Montoneros, Zeno Cabral, has gained two days ago over the royal troops, commanded by Colonel Azevedo."
"This success is somewhat apocryphal, my dear Captain. I give you my word of honour; it merely consists of an unimportant skirmish between foragers."
"I admit it; it is even certain that it is so; but no one in the town will believe it; so that the check must be considered real."
"Well, what matters? Let us leave these people in their error, and take advantage of it by acting. Now that they think themselves invincible, and that they amuse themselves by wasting their powder in fireworks, we can perhaps try a bold attack on the town."
"Your idea is not bad; I even avow that it rather pleases me; but it has to be matured. It would be necessary to adroitly remove the troops camped in the environs, and to profit by their absence to attempt a surprise."
"Then nothing would be easier than to seize upon the deputies."
"Do not let us go too fast; let us first see what are the forces we have at our disposal for this expedition, which cannot but be very perilous, and which offers—I do not deceive you—very little chance of success."
"Well, let us discuss the matter; I am quite agreeable."
The painter, becoming more and more ill at ease through these confidences, which assumed rather a grave aspect for him, and wishing at all hazards to escape from the perplexing position in which he found himself—for he instinctively understood that it was a conversation between conspirators, and that he risked his life if he were discovered—took a resolution which appeared to him to be an inspiration from Heaven. Not wishing to continue to be a third party to secrets of such importance, he resolved to discover himself. He did not conceal from himself that the first moments would be very dangerous for him to get through, when the two men knew that their conversation had been heard throughout; but he preferred rather to risk this uncertain chance of saving his life than to remain any longer in the awkward position.
Émile was foolishly bold, and scarcely ever thought of danger; on the contrary, he rushed headlong into it—the reader has already discovered this for himself; but this time, contrary to his habits, he used some little prudence before revealing his presence to the unknown speakers.
He gently cocked his pistols, which he held in his hand under his poncho, ready to make use of them if need be: then rising from the bench on which up to that moment he had remained sitting—
"¡Hola caballeros!" said he, in a voice not loud enough to be heard by any other persons than those to whom he addressed himself. "Take care! There are ears which hear you."
The two men uttered an exclamation of surprise and terror; then there was a trampling sound in the shrubbery, and they appeared in front of the young man, each holding a sabre in one hand and a pistol in the other, their countenances distorted by rage and fright.
But they suddenly stopped.
The young man stood motionless before them, his pistols in his grasp.
"Halt, and let us talk it over," said he coolly.
This scene had something strange and startling about it. In this little enclosure of orange trees in flower—in the silver rays of the moon, in the midst of a profound calm, in the bosom of that calm nature on which the imposing silence of a night impressed a stamp of majesty—these three men, thus placed face to face, measuring each other with their glances and ready for attack, formed a most striking contrast with what surrounded them.
"Talk over the matter!" said the count. "Of what use would that be?"
"To prevent killing one another like brutes without knowing why," answered the painter.
"A traitor merits death."
"I agree with you; but I am not a traitor, since I make myself known to you, when it would have been easy to remain silent until I had discovered all your secrets."
This observation—very reasonable for that matter—appeared to produce a certain impression on the two men.
"Then, why these arms?" continued the count, in a tone evidently mollified.
"To avoid what would have happened had I not taken the precaution to furnish myself with them."
"You are not a spy upon us, then?"
"By no means; in fact, I was here a good while before you. The sound of your conversation awakened me from a light slumber into which I had fallen, and not caring to be, against your will, a confidant in your secrets, I have decided to warn you."
"Who can prove it?" sternly pursued the count.
"I presume, caballero," answered the young man, "that you allow yourself to doubt my words?"
"Who, then, are you, Señor, that you ought to be thus believed at the first words?"
"I!" said the young man, laughing; "Not much compared with you—a poor French painter, but honest, thank God, to the fingers' ends."
"Ah! I know him," cried the second stranger, who till that moment had remained silent. "I know him now. Put up your sabre and drop your pistol, my dear count. Arms are not wanted here."
"I will do so willingly, if that is your advice, Captain," answered the count, with hesitation. "However, it appears to me that in so serious a position—"
"Down with your arms! I tell you," interrupted the captain, who had already put aside his own. "I will answer, body for body, as to this cavalier."
"Be it so," said the count; "but prudence—"
"What? Since this caballero gives you his word, and this word is corroborated by my own, that is sufficient, it appears to me," pursued the captain.
The young man, seeing that his adversaries had apparently no longer any hostile intentions, quietly uncocked his pistols, and, replacing them in his girdle, he turned towards him who had so unexpectedly come to his aid—
"I thank you, Señor," said he, "for the good opinion that you have of me. Although your voice is not unknown to me, I shall be, nevertheless, happy if you will be good enough to refresh my memory, by informing me, if you can, where I have had the honour of meeting you before."
"Vive Dios, Señor. Don Émile," he resumed in a tone of good humour, "you have a short memory."
"How do you know my name?"
"And you know mine, unless you have forgotten it—which would not astonish me after what I see!"
"I am really astonished, Señor; but I cannot the least in the world recall where we have already seen one another."
"Come, since it is absolutely necessary that I tell you my name once more, I will do so. I am Don Lucio Ortega."
"The Spanish captain!" cried he.
"And whom you so dexterously disarmed. The very same, caballero."
"Oh! How could I forget that meeting, which has left me so charming a souvenir?" he said, holding out his hand.
"So this gentleman is a friend of yours?" pursued the count.
"Yes, my dear count; and one of the most intimate."
"Pardon me for saying it, but you know what would be the consequences of indiscretion."
"They would be terrible. Continue."
"And you think yourself still in a position to answer for the discretion of this caballero?"
"As much as for my own, I repeat."
"Good; act in your own way, then," he continued.
"Listen," said the captain; "I can understand how you, who do not know this gentleman, may entertain secret anxiety; we are not engaged in child's play at this moment, we are risking our lives in a desperate undertaking; each of us has a right to demand of his companion a strict account of his conduct."
"Just so; it appears to me it ought to be so."
"Very well. This account I am going to give you. In spite of himself, and without having wished to do so, Don Émile has discovered secrets of the greatest importance. These secrets, I am convinced, he will keep at the bottom of his heart; but the certainty that I have you do not share: this is your right, and I have nothing to object to in it; but, with the design of merely reassuring you, I will take all the precautions, with respect to my friend, that you can demand. Of course, these precautions will have in them nothing to wound the honour or self-respect of Don Émile, whom I hold above all as my friend."
"I will act with the captain," briskly answered the young man; "and I place myself completely at your disposal as to anything you are pleased to exact from me. I humbly confess that politics cause me a shudder, and that I most sincerely regret to be so unfortunately discovered here, when it would have been so easy for me to have been elsewhere, where, without doubt, I should have been much better off."
The gravity of the Count was not proof against this speech, uttered with such despairing artlessness. He burst into laughter.
"You are a charming companion," said he; "and, although our connection has commenced under such hostile auspices, I hope it will be lasting: that soon you will become one of our friends, and I shall be one of yours."
"That will be a great honour for me, Monsieur le Comte," he answered, bowing.
"Now that you have placed one foot on our secrets, it is necessary that you enter into them entirely."
"Is it, then, absolutely necessary?"
"Decidedly so."
"It is curious how for the last few days fate has been pleased to pursue me and obstinately to make me a man of politics, when I should be so happy merely to paint pictures—I, who have only come to America for that purpose. It has been a splendid idea, certainly, and I have well chosen my time."
"In the first place, it is necessary for you to make your decision."
"I know it well, and that is just the reason why I am enraged; but as soon as I shall be able to act otherwise, I shall not hesitate a moment, I promise you."
"Until a new order, it is indispensable that you remain with us—that you be in some sort our prisoner; but, reassure yourself, your captivity shall not be hard; we will make it, or at least we will try to make it, as agreeable to you as possible."
"So you are going to deprive me of my freewill?" said the painter with a tragi-comic air.
"It must be so for the present."
"Hum! Well, I consent to it—the devil take politics! What occasion had I to come to San Miguel to accompany that old Dubois?"
The two men started at that name.
"You know the Duc de Mantone?" they exclaimed.
"Ah, ha! You know whom I mean, it appears?"
"The Duc de Mantone, formerly a member of the Convention, a senator under the Emperor Napoleon, who has come to America under the name of Louis Dubois?" said the count.
"That is he. Why, then, did he urge me so strongly not to give him his title?"
"Because he hoped not to be recognised. He comes here, hunted by the Bourbons for having voted the death of Louis XVI., to seek a refuge in this country, and to lend the insurgents the aid of his experience in conducting the revolution."
"The fact is that he ought to know a great deal about this affair," said the painter, laughing.
"But what were you saying about him? Was he really at San Miguel?"
"I myself aided him to enter the town today."
"You?"
"Parbleu! He is a fellow countryman: and, look you, Captain, we were together when I had the honour of meeting you."
"What! That tall old man with such a haughty look and such imposing features, who sat so firmly on horseback near you?"
"The very same."
"Oh, if I had known it!" cried the captain.
"What would you have done, then?"
"I should have captured him, ¡vive Dios!"
"Then it is fortunate that you did not know him, for probably there would have been a skirmish."
The captain took no notice of this remark.
"Come," said he.
"Where shall you conduct me?"
"To Cabildo."
"To Cabildo! What for?"
"The governor gives a grand ball there today; we shall spend some little time there."
"I fear that this conceals some political manoeuvre."
"Perhaps."
"Provided that I do not find myself further mixed up in it, spite of myself—"
"I will try to leave you ignorant of what may transpire."
"I shall be very grateful to you for it. Well, à la grâce de Dieu!"
The three men, quite reconciled, left the little inclosure, set out from Alameda, and took the road to Cabildo, conversing in a friendly way.
The streets were illuminated, and the population were diverting themselves more than ever in letting off fireworks.
Montonero, the feminine of which is montonera, is essentially an American word, although its root is undoubtedly Spanish. It signifies, literally, a heap, a mass, a collection. Taken in the bad acceptation of the word, a montonera means a gathering of men of the sack and cord—of bandits without faith or law—of highway robbers.
But this is not the meaning which was at first given to the word. They understood by montonera, a cuadrilla—a guerilla composed of banished politicians—of insurgents who made war as partisans at their own risk and peril, but who were brave and honest.
The Spaniards, at the commencement of the insurrection of the colonies against the government, imposed this name on them in order to lower them in public opinion—a name in which the Montoneros themselves boasted, and which they considered it an honour to bear.
But when the civil war degenerated into a fratricidal struggle among citizens—when the Spaniards were conquered and constrained to abandon the new world—the Montoneros degenerated, and suspicious men of all parties came to shelter themselves under their banners, and to seek there an impunity for their crimes. They were then nothing more than a lot of sinister bandits, resembling those bands of robbers and vagrants of the middle ages which so long desolated Europe, and the successive governments were, during more than two centuries, powerless to destroy, or even to repress them.
Appearing to have received the traditions of their progenitors of the old World, the Montoneros commenced to ravage the country, to pillage the haciendas, to put to ransom the towns too weak to oppose an energetic resistance to them; and serving any cause for pay, they adopted all parties in turn, remorselessly betraying one after the other, and only seeing in civil war one end—pillage.
At the epoch in which our history transpires, although the Montoneros had already degenerated from their original loyalty, and a number of people without any occupation had succeeded in getting into their ranks, they nevertheless preserved, at least in appearance, the principles of chivalrous patriotism which had governed their formation, and their name did not inspire, as it afterwards did, terror to the honest folk and peaceable citizens whom it was the mission of the Montoneros to protect and defend.
In a fertile valley, at the foot of a wooded hill of moderate height, on the bank of the Río Tucumán, at about fifteen leagues from the town of San Miguel, a troop of horsemen, whose number might be about three hundred, had camped in a delicious position.
The soldiers, all clothed in the costume of the gauchos of the pampa—their features expressive of energy, and their faces bronzed in the sun, but with a fierce look—were for the most part armed, not only with sabres and guns, but also with a long and strong lance, the blade of which was garnished with a bright red streamer.
Lying or sitting at the foot of the fig and orange trees, they had planted their lances in the ground, and were playing, talking, or sleeping, while their horses were freely wandering about, feeding on the green grass of the plain.
Some sentinels, scattered on the somewhat distant heights—motionless as statues of Florentine bronze, of which they had the warm and coppery tint—were watching over the common safety.
These men, whose reputation for bravery was celebrated in all the Banda Oriental, composed the Montonera of the celebrated Zeno Cabral—the same who had had, they said, some days before, a quarrel with the royal troops, and whose victory the town of San Miguel was celebrating with shouts and fireworks.
This wild and primitive encampment, which more resembled a halt of bandits than anything else, had a most picturesque appearance, and would have been the admiration of a painter of the Salvator Rosa school.
Nearly in the centre of the encampment, at the summit of a little hill of a scarcely perceptible slope, several men, whose arms and clothing were in a better position, and their appearance less fierce than those of their companions, were seated on the grass smoking their cigarettes.
These men were the officers. In the midst of them was their chief, or the general, as they called him.
This chief was a very young man, appearing, at the most, twenty-two, with fine and delicate features, and gentle and graceful manners, which, in the eyes of an indifferent spectator, would have appeared little calculated to command men like those who had voluntarily ranged themselves under his banner; but an observer would not have been deceived by the energetic expression on his calm and handsome face, by the uncommon height of his clear and well-chiselled forehead, and by the eagle glance which escaped from his full black eyes. A sad melancholy seemed settled on his features, and it was with extreme difficulty that his companions—for the most part young men of his own age, and belonging to the first families of the country—could succeed at long intervals in bringing a sad smile upon his lips.
His head supported on his right hand, thoughtlessly twirling with his left hand his long and silky black moustache, he carelessly gazed, without any apparent object, on the immense and magnificent panorama which was spread before him, only answering by monosyllables to the questions which were addressed to him, and appearing absorbed in some secret thought.
His officers, seeing all their advances repulsed by their chief, had decided to leave him to his reflections, whatever they were, since he appeared to wish to indulge them, and began to chat and laugh among themselves, when all of a sudden some forty horsemen appeared on the horizon, coming at full speed towards the spot where the Montonera was encamped.
"Eh?" said one of the officers, placing his hand as a shade over his eyes, "Who can these horsemen be?"
"They are our people, since the sentinels have allowed them to pass," answered another officer.
"Have we, then, scouts in the environs?"
"I could not be certain of it; but as the general had spoken of detailing Captain Quiroga, with some twenty soldiers, to watch the defiles of the Sierra, and as I do not see him among us, it is probable that the general has given effect to the project."
"It would be his troop, then, that is coming up?"
"I think so; for that matter, we shall not be long in knowing the real state of affairs."
The horsemen still rode towards them; they were soon sufficiently near to be recognised.
"You were not deceived, Don Juan Armero," resumed the first officer: "it is, in fact, Captain Quiroga. I can distinguish from here his long lean body, which appears to sway about in his clothes, and his angular and morose face, which makes him appear like a bird of night."
"The fact is," answered don Juan, "that the worthy captain is easy to recognise; but you should be more careful, Don Estevan; you know that the general likes him much, and perhaps it would displease him to hear him thus spoken of."
"To the devil! As if I said any ill of him! Captain Quiroga is a brave and worthy soldier, whom I love and appreciate very highly myself, but that is no reason why he should have the figure of Adonis."
"A matter about which he cares very little, without doubt, gentlemen," said Zeno Cabral, mingling in the conversation; "he contents himself with being one of our bravest and most experienced officers."
"¡Caramba! General; and we also all love him—the brave old man who might be our father, and who tells us during the nights of bivouac such pleasant tales of old times."
The chief of the party smiled, without answering.
"But what is he bringing us here?" suddenly cried don Estevan Albino, the officer who had first spoken. "Why, I can see the folds of a robe and a mantilla fluttering in the wind!"
"Two robes and two mantillas, if you please, Don Estevan; and even more, if I am not deceived," sententiously remarked Don Juan Armero.
"¡Válgame Dios!" said the young officer, laughing; "The old boy is bringing us a bevy of petticoats."
The officers rose; some opened their lorgnettes, and began to examine attentively the troops which were arriving, freely commenting on the prize made by the old officer, and which he was bringing with him.
Zeno Cabral had fallen again into his reverie, apparently indifferent to what was passing around him; but the feverish flush which suffused his face, and the knitting of his eyebrows, belied the affected calm, and showed that he was inwardly a prey to strong emotion.
Meanwhile, the horsemen rapidly traversed the plain, and approached nearer and nearer, coming towards the group of officers, recognisable by the Buenos Airean flag, the staff of which was fixed in the ground, and which floated in long folds to the breeze.
On the arrival of the horsemen the Montoneros rose, looked at them curiously, and then followed them, laughing and sneering among themselves, so much that, when they reached the foot of the little hill where the officers were waiting for them, they found themselves literally enveloped by a compact crowd that Captain Quiroga was obliged to separate with a blow or two from a piece of lancewood, of which he acquitted himself with imperturbable coolness.
The officers had not calumniated the worthy captain. The difference of costume apart, he resembled, trait for trait, Don Quixote, at the time of his second sortie.
There was the same long and meagre body, the same lean and angular countenance, with a depressed forehead, sunken eyes, hooked nose like the beak of a bird, large jaws furnished with a few worn-out teeth, long grey moustaches, and high reddish cheekbones.
And yet this eccentric appearance—as they would nowadays have called it—had nothing ridiculous in it. This singular physiognomy was set off by such an expression of bravery, candour, and goodness, that at first sight one felt oneself attracted towards the old officer—for he was at least fifty—and quite disposed to love him.
The soldiers laughed convulsively on receiving the blows that the captain generously distributed to them, and it was with great difficulty that he could rid himself of them.
"Devil take these fellows!" said the captain; "They will not let me approach the general."
And, followed by a part of his soldiers, who, like himself, had alighted, he walked up the hill where the officers were gathered.
The soldiers led several prisoners in their midst; among these prisoners were some women, of whom two appeared, by their costume and manners, to belong to high society.
The Montoneros, notwithstanding the indiscreet curiosity which animated them, had not dared, out of respect for their chief, to pass the natural limit traced by the foot of the little hill. Grouped in disorder round some soldiers who were guarding the horses, they gazed anxiously on their officers.
The latter were ranged right and left of Zeno Cabral, and had given free passage to Captain Quiroga and to those whom he brought with him. Zeno Cabral had slowly risen, and, his hand supported by the handle of his sabre, his countenance cold and impassive, and his eyebrows knitted, he waited for his subordinate to speak.
The captain, having with a gesture ordered those who followed him to stop, took some steps in advance, and, after a military salute, he remained motionless without uttering a word. Amongst all his qualities, the captain did not reckon that of being an orator; his silence had become proverbial in the company.
Don Zeno knew that if he did not interrogate the captain, the latter would never make up his mind to speak first. He therefore made an effort, and affecting an indifference which was doubtless very far from his real feeling—
"You have returned, then, Captain Quiroga?" said he.
"Yes, General," laconically answered the officer.
"Have you fulfilled the mission that I confided to you?"
"I believe so, General."
"You have surprised the enemies of the country?"
"Those or others, General. I seized the people you designated when they debouched from the ravine; whether they are enemies of the country or not I do not know—that does not concern me."
"That is right," said don Zeno Cabral, who was evidently dragging out the conversation, and hesitated to attack the point of it really interesting to him.
The captain was again silent.
Don Zeno resumed, after a short pause, fidgeting his sabre knot with suppressed ill temper.
"But, in a word, what have you done?"
At this moment one of the prisoners motioned the captain on one side with a sudden gesture, and taking a step in advance—
"Do you not know, Don Zeno Cabral?" she said, in a haughty voice, throwing on her shoulders, with a gesture full of nobility, the rebozo of black lace which veiled her face.
The officers stifled a cry of admiration at the sight of the sovereign beauty of this woman.
Don Zeno Cabral took a step backward, biting his lips with vexation, while his countenance became covered with a mortal paleness.
"Madame," said he, with closed teeth, "you are a prisoner, and must only speak—do not forget that—when you are questioned."
A smile of contempt curled the lips of the lady. She slightly shrugged her shoulders, and fixed on the general a look with such an expression that, in spite of himself, he turned away his eyes.
This lady, in all the force and pride of her beauty, appeared to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age, although in reality she was about thirty-three. Her features, with extreme regularity of outline, realised the ideal of Roman beauty; her black eyes, full of fire and passion, her delicate forehead, her pretty mouth, her fine and velvet skin, her complexion very slightly bronzed by the sun, and, above all, the haughty and mockingly cruel expression of her countenance, excited a repulsion for her for which it was impossible at first to account. Her majestic figure, her noble gestures—everything about this woman, by an inexplicable contrast, repelled instead of attracting. One would have looked for the roar of a wild beast in the harmonious modulations of her voice, and the claws of a tiger under her rosy nails.
"Beware what you do, caballero," she resumed; "I am a foreigner; I am travelling peaceably; no one has a right to stop me, or even to impede my course."
"I repeat, Madame," coldly answered the general, "when I interrogate you, then, and then alone, I will permit you to answer me."
"Have I then fallen into the hands of bandits, without faith or law?" pursued she, with contempt. "Am I in the power of robbers of the desert? For that matter, the manner in which, up to the present time, I have been treated, and the sight of the man before whom I am conducted, would make me suppose so."
A murmur of anger, immediately repressed by a gesture from don Zeno Cabral, arose among the officers at this imprudent outburst.
"Where is the guide that we suspected of treason?" said the general, turning towards the captain.
"I have seized him," answered the latter.
"Have you acquired proofs of his treason?"
"Undoubted proofs, General."
"Have him brought in."
There was a movement among the soldiers. Some of them separated from the group which surrounded the prisoners, and led—treating him roughly—before their chief a half-caste of pitiful mien, with squinting eyes and thickset limbs, who, for more safety, no doubt, they had firmly bound round the neck with a lasso.
Don Zeno Cabral looked for a moment at this man—who stood humble and trembling before him—with a singular mixture of pity and disgust.
"You are convicted of treason," said he to him at last. "I have the right to hang you. I give you five minutes to commend your soul to God."
"I am innocent, noble General," murmured the wretch, falling on his knees, and hanging down his head with fear.
The general shrugged his shoulders, and turned towards the officers, with whom he began to talk in a low voice, without appearing to hear the prayers that the prisoner continued to address to him in a crying tone.
Three or four minutes passed. A funereal silence characterised the attentive crowd of the Montoneros.
It is always a serious matter, that condemnation to death, pronounced coldly, resolutely, and without appeal, even for men habituated to stake their lives on the hazard of a die, like those who were assisting at this scene; thus, in spite of themselves, they felt themselves seized with a secret fright, increased by the doleful sounds of the voice of the wretch who was writhing with fear in their midst, and imploring with sobs the pity of their chief.
The latter turned round, and making a sign to Captain Quiroga—
"It is time," said he.
"¡Caray!" said the captain; "The pícaro has been long enough seeking the gallows; he will not have cheated it, that will be at least a satisfaction for him in his last moments."
This singular speech on the part of a man who spoke so little as a rule, astonished everybody, and suddenly changing the course of ideas among the company, caused them to burst out into mocking laughter and jests directed to the condemned, who from that time lost all hope.
A soldier had mounted a tree a few paces off, and had attached his lasso to the principal branch. The captain ordered that the spy should be led under the tree, and a running knot was cast around his neck.
"Stop!" cried the lady prisoner, suddenly interposing; "That man is mine; take care what you are about to do."
There was a moment of hesitation. The wretch drew breath again; he thought he was saved.
"Take care yourself, Señora," harshly answered Zeno Cabral; "I alone command here."
"I am the Marchioness de Castelmelhor," she resumed, "the wife of General Castelmelhor; each drop of blood of that man shall cost the lives of thousands of your countrymen."
"You are a foreigner, Madame—the wife—you have said so yourself—of a Portuguese general, who has only entered our territory a few days since to ravage it. Think of yourself, and do not intercede anymore for that wretch."
"But," said she, with bitter irony, "are you not a Portuguese yourself, Señor—a Portuguese by descent at least?"
"Enough, Madame; from respect to yourself, do not insist any more. This man is guilty; he is condemned; he ought to die; he shall die."
At this moment a second woman, who, up to this time, had remained unnoticed among the other prisoners, darted quickly forward, and seizing with a nervous gesture the arm of the general, while tears ran down her face, pale with emotion—
"And mine, Don Zeno," she cried, "and mine! If I asked pardon for that man, would you refuse me?"
"Oh!" cried the general, with despair; "You here—you, Doña Eva!"
"Yes, I—I, Don Zeno, who supplicate you by all you hold most dear, to pardon him."
The general looked at her for some moments with an expression of love, of anger, and of grief, impossible to describe; whilst the young woman, panting, desolate, her eyes filled with tears, and her hands clasped, almost kneeling before him, addressed him a mute prayer. Then, suddenly making a last effort over himself, and resuming his cold and impassive appearance, he regained his composure, and crossing his arms on his breast—