Why, look you, Señor, thus the matter stands:When one is in a country dangerous,And night is round him everywhere—'tis wiseTo venture nothing till the morning's light,Lest, in the dark, some hidden pitfall lurk.Thus stands our fortune. Traitors full of guileAre in our midst—yet, keeping quiet their plans,Would gull us into false security.We know not where to strike—for here, and here,Danger may lurk, and yet we dare not strike.
Why, look you, Señor, thus the matter stands:When one is in a country dangerous,And night is round him everywhere—'tis wiseTo venture nothing till the morning's light,Lest, in the dark, some hidden pitfall lurk.Thus stands our fortune. Traitors full of guileAre in our midst—yet, keeping quiet their plans,Would gull us into false security.We know not where to strike—for here, and here,Danger may lurk, and yet we dare not strike.
Why, look you, Señor, thus the matter stands:
When one is in a country dangerous,
And night is round him everywhere—'tis wise
To venture nothing till the morning's light,
Lest, in the dark, some hidden pitfall lurk.
Thus stands our fortune. Traitors full of guile
Are in our midst—yet, keeping quiet their plans,
Would gull us into false security.
We know not where to strike—for here, and here,
Danger may lurk, and yet we dare not strike.
The house of Don Miguel Maraquando was situate on one side of the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres, opposite to the Cathedral, and near the Calle Otumba. Like the generality of Mexican mansions, it was built in the Hispano-Moriscan fashion—a style of architecture peculiarly adapted to this equatorial climate. Walls of massive stone, impenetrable to heat, surrounded a patio paved with variegated tiles and brilliant with tropical flowers. From this patio doors opened into the various rooms of the house, while above were ranges of sleeping-chambers fronted by a light iron-railed balcony running round all four sides of the courtyard. The roof—generally called the azotea—was flat, and in many houses is used for family gatherings in the warm nights or during a temperate day. In this case, however, the Maraquando family made use of the patio, where the heat, particularly at noon, was not so great.
It was a charming spot, cool, bright and airy, with plenty of brilliant-blossomed flowers standing round the sides in red, porous jars, and vividly green creepers which twisted round the squat pillars and clambered to the sunlight by the ladder of the balconies. An old Aztec sacrificial stone carved with ugly gods occupied the centre of the court, and here and there appeared misshapen statues of the same grotesque deities. A light awning, gaily striped with red and white, made the patio shady, and beneath this were cane chairs for the accommodation of the lazy, and small tables on which to place refreshments. It was a veritable castle of indolence, grateful to day-dreamers, and, as such, peculiarly acceptable to the Cholacacans, who are the least industrious people on this planet.
Outside, the mansion, with its massive doors and iron rejas, presented a gloomy and forbidding appearance, more like a prison than a dwelling house. On entering the door, however, and passing through the dim zaguan, the internal cheerfulness of the patio was accentuated by the dullness without. Indeed, the sudden emergence into the light was somewhat bewildering, as with blue sky above and flower-decorated patio below, it was some time before the eye became accustomed to the blinding brilliance of the whole. Graceful architecture, hideous idols, the splendour of floral treasures, and silver glitter of the walls, the patio was a most charming spot, and eminently calculated to make life in this tropical zone remarkably pleasant.
Into this city paradise, created by the hand of man, Jack introduced his friends, and formally presented them to Don Miguel, Jefe Politico of Tlatonac, who, having been informed of their arrival, awaited them in his patio according to the etiquette of the country. He was tall and lean and dry, with a most astonishing resemblance to Don Quixote as delineated by the pencil of Doré. For coolness, he wore a white linen suit, and shaded his austere face with a broad-brimed sombrero, which latter he removed with infinite grace on the appearance of the Englishman.
"Welcome, gentlemen, to Tlatonac," he said majestically, in Spanish; "my house and all therein is at your disposal."
After this hospitable greeting, he insisted that they should seat themselves in order to partake of some light refreshment. They had the greatest difficulty in assuring him that they were not hungry; as, indeed, they had just finished breakfast before leaving the yacht. Ultimately, in order not to offend their courteous host, they accepted some pulque, the national beverage of Mexico, and were sorry for the concession. Jack was used to the drink, and professed to like it; but the others pronounced it beastly. Those who have tried pulque for the first time will heartily endorse this opinion.
"Oh, oh!" spluttered Peter, trying to conceal his distaste from their host; "it's like bad butter-milk."
"What would I not give for a glass of whisky! 'Tis pig-wash, this same."
"It is certainly not the milk of Paradise," said Philip, in disgust.
Don Miguel had retired for a moment in search of cigars for the party, so they could express themselves freely to Jack. They took full advantage of the opportunity.
"The Mexicans say the angels in heaven prefer it to wine," said Jack, who had finished his glass with great gusto. "They have a proverb:
"'Lo beben, los angelesEn vez de vino.'"
"'Lo beben, los angelesEn vez de vino.'"
"'Lo beben, los angeles
En vez de vino.'"
"I can't say much for the angels' taste, then," retorted Philip, crossly. "Nastier stuff I never drank. Raki is bad enough, but it's nectar compared with pulque."
Jack laughed heartily at the wry faces made by his friends, and comforted them after the manner of Job's acquaintances.
"You'll have to drink it, however. Don Miguel will be offended if you do not."
They all promptly poured the liquor into some of the flower-bearing jars which happened, fortunately enough, to be handy.
"There," said Peter, triumphantly; "he'll think we have finished it."
"I'll bring a pocket-pistol next time," said Tim, gloomily. "I'll be having the cholera with this stuff."
"Hush! here is Don Miguel."
Their host returned with a good supply of cigars, which proved to be more acceptable than the pulque. Maraquando expressed great surprise that Peter did not smoke.
"What does he say?" asked Peter, woefully ignorant of Spanish.
"That you ought to smoke."
Peter shook his head in disgust.
"Tell Don Miguel tobacco is slow poison."
Maraquando laughed when this was translated to him.
"It must be very slow, Señor," he said, smiling. "I have smoked for forty years, and yet the poison has not overtaken me as yet."
All laughed at this speech save Peter, who could not appreciate jokes in the tongue of Castille. Indeed, he began to find his ignorance of Spanish somewhat annoying, as his friends, who acted as interpreters, played tricks on him. He became proficient in the tongue when Doña Serafina took him in hand; but that was many weeks later.
All this time Jack was wondering why Dolores did not appear to welcome him back. As it was not etiquette to ask directly for the ladies of the family, he made the inquiry in a roundabout way.
"Your family I trust are well, Señor?"
"They are in excellent health, I thank you, Señor Juan. At present I have but my daughter with me. Doña Serafina and Dolores are staying for a few days at my estancio."
This was bad news for Jack; but as Don Miguel's eyes were fixed inquiringly on his face, he was forced to dissemble his sorrow.
"And Don Rafael?"
"Is at present with his ship at Acauhtzin."
"What! with Don Hypolito?"
The expression on Maraquando's face changed, and he seemed about to burst out into a furious speech; but, out of courtesy, restrained himself for the present.
"We will talk of this again," he said, gravely. "I am sure you do not care about our politics."
"Indeed we do," replied Jack, emphatically. "This gentleman"—indicating Tim—"is a special correspondent, sent here by a great English paper, to report on your war."
"Our war!" echoed the Spaniard, with some surprise. "How do you know there is to be a war?"
"The telegrams to Europe say as much!" interposed Tim, speaking in Spanish.
"Telegrams sent by Don Hypolito, I have no doubt," responded Maraquando, grimly. "There will be no war, gentlemen."
"Carambo! Sacré!Damn!" ejaculated Tim, who swore fluently in all three languages. "I have been tricked, then?"
"Wait a moment, Señor Corresponsal. You will have plenty to write about; I will tell you some astonishing news shortly. Meanwhile, I must present you to my daughter, Doña Eulalia."
The girl who appeared at this moment caused them all to rise to their feet, and assuredly a more beautiful vision could not be seen anywhere. She was a little sparkling brunette, all eyes and smiles (as Tim afterwards phrased it), and when she beheld Jack, came forward eagerly to greet him with outstretched hands.
"Señor Juan," she said, in a deliciously sweet voice, "you have returned. Ah, how sorry Dol—Doña Serafina will be that she is not here to greet you."
She gave a side glance at her father on pronouncing the name of Doña Serafina; and, by that diplomatic substitution, Philip guessed that she was in the secret of the lovers.
"I trust Doña Serafina will return soon, Señora," said Jack, significantly, after exchanging courtesies. "I am anxious to see Doña Serafina."
Eulalia put her black fan up to hide the smile on her lips, and intimated that she expected her aunt back on the morrow. Nothing was said of Dolores; but Jack was not so dull a lover as not to know that, in this case, the lesser Serafina included the greater Dolores. Meanwhile, neither Tim nor Philip could keep their eyes off this Spanish beauty, and Don Miguel graciously presented them to his daughter. As for Peter, he was examining an ugly clay god at the other end of the court, which showed that he had no eye for beauty.
"At your feet, lady," said Philip, in his best Castillian.
"My hands for your kisses, Señor," she responded, coquettishly, whereat the baronet felt a strange feeling about the region of his heart.
"Oh, Lord, Lord!" he muttered, as Tim was executing court bows to the lady. "Great Heaven! this cannot be love at first sight. It must be the pulque."
He caught Jack's eye at this moment, and saw a derisive smile on that young man's lips, whereat he smiled also, as if to intimate that he thought but little of the dainty beauty. Jack knew better, however. Then Peter was torn away from his Aztec deity, and presented in due form, making use, at the introduction, of all the Spanish of which he was master.
"Bueno! Bueno!" quoth Peter, in perplexity, when Philip came to his rescue.
"Say 'a los pies de usted,' Señora," he whispered quickly.
"I can't remember all that," protested the doctor.
"Try."
"A los pres ud worsted!"
Doña Eulalia put up her fan at the sound of Peter's Spanish; but understanding the drift of his remark, replied gravely enough:
"Bése usted los manos, Señor."
"What's that, Philip?"
"My hands for your kisses, Señor."
"Will I have to kiss them?" asked Peter, in dismay.
"No; it's only a matter of form."
At this assurance, the doctor was much relieved, and not feeling any profound interest in a dialogue carried on completely in a foreign tongue, returned to his examination of the Aztec gods. Maraquando was already deep in conversation with Jack and Tim, so Philip had Doña Eulalia all to himself, and made good use of this solitude of two. He was glad he knew Spanish. 'Tis a pleasant language in which to talk gay nonsense.
On her side, Eulalia had no strong objection to the company of this eccentric American—all foreigners are Americans with the Cholacacans—and though he was a heretic, yet he spoke Spanish beautifully, and had no lack of pretty sayings at his command. Doña Eulalia would have flirted with a lepero in default of anything better; and as Don Felipe was a most desirable young man from every point of view, she lost no time in making herself agreeable. Philip, the cynic, enjoyed it greatly, thereby proving that a considerable portion of his misogamy was humbug. With the hour comes the eternal feminine. This was the hour—Eulalia the woman. It flashed across Philip's mind at that moment that he was playing with fire. Confident in his own imperviousness to fire, he went on playing. Then he burnt himself, and great was his outcry.
"I always understood," said Cassim to his charming companion, "that Cholacacan ladies were shut up like nuns."
"A great many of them are, Señor," replied Eulalia, demurely; "but my father is more liberal in his ideas. He delights in presenting us to his friends."
"How charming—for the friends."
"And how delightful—for us poor women. I assure you, Señor, that I would not care to be shut up at all; neither would my cousin Dolores!"
"I have heard of Doña Dolores from Jack!"
Eulalia flashed a glance at him from her glorious dark eyes, bit the top of her fan, and made an irrelevant observation.
"My cousin admires fair people."
"And Don Juan is fair. Oh, never fear, Señora, I know all."
"All what, Don Filipe?"
"All about fair people!" replied Philip, skilfully, "though, for my part, I prefer dark ladies."
This last remark was too much even for the audacious coquetry of Eulalia, and she, glancing uneasily at her father, turned the conversation with a dexterity begotten by long practice.
"My aunt, Doña Serafina, is dark. She is our duenna, you know. I am sure you will find her very charming."
"Oh, certainly, Señora, on your recommendation I——"
"And Tlatonac is charming, also," interposed the lady, smartly. "Do you stay long here, Señor?"
"That depends on—shall we say—Señor Duval."
His intention was to hint Dolores; but Doña Eulalia evidently thought the acquaintanceship was becoming too intimate, and entrenched herself behind her fan and a smile.
"Rather does it depend on Don Hypolito."
"Ah! Is there, then, to be a war?"
"I do not know, Señor. My father thinks it likely. If there is, of course you will go?"
"No! Why should I? Tlatonac has many attractions for me."
"My father will show you all over it to-morrow," rejoined Eulalia, with a mischievous smile. She knew quite well what he meant, but was not going to betray such knowledge at such an early period of her acquaintance. The proprieties must be observed—even in Cholacaca. Mrs. Grundy is not indigenous to Britain only. She flourished at Tlatonac under the name of Doña Serafina.
"You came in a steamer, did you not, Señor?"
"Yes; in my yacht,The Bohemian."
"Your vessel, Señor?"
"Yes."
Eulalia opened her eyes. This Americano must be very rich to own the boat she had seen steaming into the harbour. But, then, all Americanos were rich; though not all so nice as this one.
"You must do me the honour of coming on board, Señora," said Philip, eagerly. Then, seeing her draw back in alarm at this audacious proposal, "Of course, with Don Miguel and Doña Serafina. Likewise your cousin. My friend Don Juan is anxious to see Doña Dolores."
"Hush, Señor!" said Eulalia, quickly, glancing towards her father; "it is a secret. Do not speak of it now; but let us talk to the Señor yonder with the spectacles."
"He cannot talk Spanish."
"Oh yes, he can, Señor, I heard him."
She burst out into a merry laugh, and went towards Peter, followed by the reluctant Cassim. Philip was getting on excellently well, and rather resented the introduction of a third person into the conversation, even though it was but harmless Peter. That gentleman would much rather have been left alone to potter about the patio by himself; but Doña Eulalia, who saw his embarrassment, wickedly made him attempt Spanish, much to his discomfiture. Philip translated his compliments to Eulalia, whereon she smiled so graciously on the little man that the baronet grew restless, and Peter began to think there were other things in the world besides butterflies.
Meanwhile Don Miguel was having an interesting conversation with Tim and Jack concerning the state of affairs prevalent at Tlatonac. He was much flattered at the idea that a "gran'-diario" of England should take such an interest in Central American politics, and paid Tim, as the Señor Corresponsal, such attention, that Jack began to wish he were in the Irishman's shoes. He would then have a better chance of Dolores. As for Tim he discoursed blandly, quite unaware of the honours being showered on him, and when his Spanish failed, took refuge in French; when that gave out, he supplied his wants with Italian, so that his conversation savoured of the Tower of Babel and the confusion of tongues. However, with Jack's assistance, he managed to get along capitally, and gained a good deal of useful information from the Jefe Politico. Don Miguel himself was most eloquent on the subject, and particularly rabid against Xuarez, whom he seemed to hate as only a Spaniard can hate. Dr. Johnson liked a good hater. He should have met Don Miguel.
"Don Hypolito is a dangerous man, gentlemen," he said, with cold malignity; "he wishes to become President of the Republic."
"And why should he not become President?" asked Tim, calmly.
"Because he would use his position to destroy the Constitution of Cholacaca. We have not forgotten Iturbide and Dr. Francia. Cholacaca shall never lie at the mercy of a tyrant, as did Mexico and Paraguay. No, gentlemen. It was not for such an end that we threw off the yoke of Spain. Republicans we are, Republicans we remain. If Don Hypolito succeeds, he will find Tlatonac in ruins."
"I don't think that will stop him, Señor," said Jack, lightly. "If he ruins the old Tlatonac, he can build up a new one."
"Not with peons and Indians," retorted Maraquando, fiercely. "We, Señor, are Spaniards, and will submit to the tyranny of no man, much less this Mestizo of a Xuarez."
"What do you propose to do, Don Miguel?"
"The Junta has already decided that. Don Hypolito is to be arrested, brought here for trial, and banished from the country."
"I don't see how you are going to capture him at Acauhtzin. It is the headquarters of his party."
Maraquando smiled grimly, and waved his hand contemptuously.
"Xuarez has no party. A few unimportant estancieros believe in him, certainly; but the whole population of Tlatonac is in favour of the Government."
"But not the whole population of Cholacaca," said Duval, significantly.
"That is no matter. The Government hold Tlatonac, and, therefore, has all the power in its own hands. Acauhtzin! a mere village, whose adherence can do Xuarez no good."
"But if it comes to war?"
"It will not come to war, Señor Corresponsal. The fleet have gone to Acauhtzin to arrest Xuarez, and bring him here for trial."
"They won't do that easily."
Don Miguel laughed in a saturnine sort of manner, and pulled his moustache savagely.
"And why not, Señor?" said he slowly. "I think three war-ships, manned by brave men, are more than sufficient to arrest one traitor."
"That's so," replied Jack, dropping into Americanese, "if you can trust their crews."
"My son, Don Rafael, commandsThe Pizarro," he said, gravely. "The Government can trust him and his crew, if no others."
"'One swallow doesn't make a summer,' Don Miguel. That's an English proverb."
"And a very true one. Where did you hear that our navy was not to be trusted, Don Juan?"
"Here, and yonder!" said Jack, waving his hand all round the compass. "I hear this and that, Señor, and think over things. The general opinion, I find, is that there will be a civil war."
"It needs no prophet to tell that. And afterwards?"
"Señor, it is said the army will support the Junta, but the navy will strike for Xuarez."
"If I thought so!" growled Maraquando, savagely, under his breath. "If I—but no, Señor, you are mistaken. My son, Don Rafael, is in the navy, and many of the officers are his personal friends. He only consorts with men of honour, Señor. I swear that there is no fear of the navy revolting. In a few days, our three ships will come back with Don Hypolito."
Jack shrugged his shoulders. He was a youth of few words, and saw no reason to waste breath on such obstinacy. All the same, he held to his opinion. Don Rafael or no Don Rafael, the three war-ships and their crews were not to be trusted. In spite of his refusal to believe in such treachery, it seemed as though Don Miguel also had his doubts on the subject.
"I will see the President about this you speak of, Señor. It is as well that all things should be guarded against."
"There is one other thing that should be guarded against," said Jack, gravely. "Doña Serafina and your niece are some distance from the city, at your estancia. As there may be a war, the country will not be safe. I suggest that you, Señor, should ride out and escort them back."
"I am afraid I cannot leave the city at this juncture."
"Then let me go, Señor," said Jack, eagerly. "In any event, I will have to see the railway works; they are near your estancia, you know. Let me ride over to-morrow, and I will bring them back with me."
"It is too much honour, Señor," replied Maraquando politely. "Still, if you can spare the time——"
"Oh, that will be all right, Señor. It is settled, then, I will go to-morrow."
"I am your debtor, Don Juan, and accept the offer with a thousand thanks. But your friends——"
"Oh, we will look round Tlatonac," said Tim, putting up his pocket-book, wherein he had been making notes; "and if you will but introduce me to the President, Señor Maraquando, I shall take it as a favour. It will be useful to me in my letters to Europe."
"I am at your service, Señor Corresponsal. His Excellency will have much pleasure in receiving you, I am sure. Bueno!"
"That settles you, Tim," said Duval, in English "Philip can go with you, unless he prefers to remain with Doña Eulalia. But Peter?"
"Oh, send him after butterflies!"
Duval thought this a good idea, and, turning to Don Miguel, explained how anxious Peter was in pursuit of insects. Could Don Miguel send him beyond the city in charge of some one, to hunt for beetles? Maraquando reflected for a moment, and thought that he could do so. There was an Indian named Cocom, who would attend to Don Pedro. Unfortunately, he spoke no English.
"Never mind," said Jack, easily, "when my friend is hunting the wily butterfly, he speaks to no one. All I desire is that he should have a guide, so that he be not lost."
"Bueno! I will see that Cocom goes with Don Pedro to-morrow."
Jack called Peter from his interesting conversation with Eulalia, and explained matters. The doctor was quite agreeable, and wanted to go at once to the yacht, in order to get his paraphernalia ashore. This ardent desire, however, was not gratified at the moment, as they could scarcely take leave of their courteous host in so cavalier a fashion.
"By the way, Jack," said Philip, at this moment, "are we to stay on board the yacht during our stay here?"
"By no means. We will go to my house."
"What! are you a landed proprietor, Jack?"
"I have a rough kind of diggings, but it's big enough for the lot of us. Don Miguel," he added, turning to their host, "I must now take my leave, with my friends, as we want to see about our house."
"My house is at the disposal of your friends, Señor."
"A thousand thanks. I kiss your hands, Señor Miguel; but for the present we will stay at my residence in the Calle Huascar."
It not being etiquette to press the invitation, Don Miguel gravely bowed, and wished them good-bye for the present. He had to go to a meeting of the Junta in order to confer about the fleet which had remained away from Tlatonac a long time.
"And it will remain a longer time," said Jack, as they emerged on to the street. "The navy is going to revolt to Don Hypolito."
"I believe that's true, but the old chap doesn't think so. He'll have his eyes open soon, or my name's not Tim. Where's Philip?"
"Saying good-bye to Doña Eulalia," replied Jack, smiling. "Ah, by the way, here he is! Well, Sir Philip Cassim, Baronet, I see you are stabbed by a wench's black eye!"
"A little harmless conversation," protested Philip, guiltily; "don't make a mountain out of a mole-hill, Jack. I can take care of my heart; but your charming brunette friend has fascinated Peter."
"I don't see how that can be," said the doctor, dryly, "seeing I couldn't understand a word she was saying."
"The language of the eye, Peter. You must learn that. It is more interesting than butterflies."
"So you seem to think."
"Jack," said Tim, suddenly, "before we go to your cabin, take us to the telegraph-office, if there is one here."
"Of course there is one here. You want to wire to your editor?"
"Not yet! I want to arrange matters with the officials. There's going to be trouble here in a week, anyhow."
"So soon as that?" said Philip, starting. He had not heard the conversation with Don Miguel.
"Aye, and sooner," replied Duval, prophetically. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Philip; for, as sure as I stand here, news is now on its way to Tlatonac of the loss of the navy."
"In that case," said the baronet, quietly, "it was a good thing I brought all those arms with me. You'll have to learn how to shoot, Peter."
"Butterflies and beetles," said Peter, absently. He was thinking of the morrow's sport.
This is a country of magic; for, lo! in the heat of the noontide,Silent and lone is the city, no footfall is heard in the highways,Only the grasshopper shrilling, the tinkle of water clear gushing,And rarely the sigh of the breezes, that stir the white dust on the pavements.Magic! no magic but custom; for this is the time of siesta;When sinks the sun, then the city will waken to love and to laughter;Lightly the gay senoritas will dance in the cold-shining moonbeams,Flirt fan, flash eyes, and beckon, to lovers who long for their kisses,Then will the castanets rattle, the little feet dance the bolero,And serenades sigh at the windows, in scorning of jealous duennas.Magic is not of the noonday; when glimmers the amorous twilight,Then is the time of enchantment, of love, and of passionate lovers.
This is a country of magic; for, lo! in the heat of the noontide,Silent and lone is the city, no footfall is heard in the highways,Only the grasshopper shrilling, the tinkle of water clear gushing,And rarely the sigh of the breezes, that stir the white dust on the pavements.Magic! no magic but custom; for this is the time of siesta;When sinks the sun, then the city will waken to love and to laughter;Lightly the gay senoritas will dance in the cold-shining moonbeams,Flirt fan, flash eyes, and beckon, to lovers who long for their kisses,Then will the castanets rattle, the little feet dance the bolero,And serenades sigh at the windows, in scorning of jealous duennas.Magic is not of the noonday; when glimmers the amorous twilight,Then is the time of enchantment, of love, and of passionate lovers.
This is a country of magic; for, lo! in the heat of the noontide,
Silent and lone is the city, no footfall is heard in the highways,
Only the grasshopper shrilling, the tinkle of water clear gushing,
And rarely the sigh of the breezes, that stir the white dust on the pavements.
Magic! no magic but custom; for this is the time of siesta;
When sinks the sun, then the city will waken to love and to laughter;
Lightly the gay senoritas will dance in the cold-shining moonbeams,
Flirt fan, flash eyes, and beckon, to lovers who long for their kisses,
Then will the castanets rattle, the little feet dance the bolero,
And serenades sigh at the windows, in scorning of jealous duennas.
Magic is not of the noonday; when glimmers the amorous twilight,
Then is the time of enchantment, of love, and of passionate lovers.
Cocom was completely ignorant of his real age. He might have been a hundred, and he certainly looked as though he had completed his century. Long ago he had left off counting the flying years and meditating on the mutability of human life. In fact, he had changed so little that it is doubtful whether he believed in mutability at all. Wrinkled he was, it is true, and slightly bent, but his black eyes twinkled with the fire of youth, and he enjoyed his meals. These things argue juvenility, and, as Cocom possessed them, he evidently knew the secret of immortality. Perhaps he had found that fountain of youth spoken of by Ponce de Leon. If so, it had affected his soul not his body. He looked like Methuselah.
Yet he was wonderfully active considering his years, and undertook to introduce Peter to the butterflies of Central America. Arrayed in his white cotton drawers and shirt, with his pink zarape gracefully draped over his bent shoulders, he smoked a long black cigar, and waited the orders of the "Americanos" in stolid silence.
Peter was affectionately handling his butterfly-net, Tim was finishing his breakfast, and Jack, in a smart riding-dress, was slashing his high boots with his whip, impatient to get away. They were looking at Cocom, who had just arrived, and waiting for Philip, who, as usual, was late for breakfast.
"He looks too old to be of much use," said the doctor, disconsolately; "why couldn't Don Miguel send me a man instead of a mummy?"
"Perhaps the mummy is well up in entomology!"
"He ought to be that same!" cried Tim, with his mouth full; "he's had plenty of time to learn, anyhow. Ask the old cocoanut his age, Jack."
"Don't you take liberties with his name, Tim. Cocom was a king of Mayapan; and this, I presume, is his descendant."
"Royalty out at elbows!" said Peter, blandly.
"It's a king, is it?" remarked Tim, staring at the Indian. "He looks a mighty second-hand sort of article. I should be a king myself. Wasn't one of my ancestors King of Cork?"
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Philip, entering at this moment; "where did you pick up Methuselah?"
"This is Cocom, my guide," said the doctor, proudly introducing Cocom, who removed his sombrero with a graceful sweep.
"Oh, you are going to hunt the ferocious beetle, are you not? What is he, Jack? An Aztec?"
"No; a descendant of the Mayas."
"A dethroned king—no less."
"You know the country round here, Cocom?" said Philip, taking no notice of Tim's joke.
"Yes, Señor Americano; all! all!" replied Cocom, with grave dignity. "Don Pedro will be safe with me."
"You can show him butterflies?"
"Señor, I can show him butterflies, ants, beetles, wasps; all the Señor desires to behold."
"That being so, Peter, you had better get away," said Jack, impatiently. "I want to be off, and must see you started first; you can't be trusted to run the show on your own account."
"I'm quite ready. Good-bye, boys; I will see you this afternoon."
"Not me," said Duval, brusquely; "I'm off to Maraquando's estancia."
"Take care of the sun, Peter," warned Philip, kindly; "your head isn't over strong."
Peter indignantly repudiated this imputation on his cranium, and forthwith followed Cocom out of the house, gleefully looking forward to a pleasant day. His ideas of pleasure were singularly limited.
"He's quite safe, isn't he, Jack?" said Philip anxiously. "I don't want Peter to get into trouble."
"Oh, Cocom will look after him. I know the old man well. He is devoted to Don Miguel, who once saved his life. Cocom will sit on a bank and watch Peter gasping after butterflies. The exercise will do the doctor's liver good."
"You are off yourself now, I suppose?"
"Yes, I've been waiting for you. Really, Philip, you are the laziest man I know."
"This house that Jack built is the castle of indolence," explained Philip, sitting down to table. "Go, my friend, and kiss Dolores for me!"
"I'll do nothing of the sort. I'll kiss her for my own sake! Adios caballeros."
"When will you return, Jack?"
"To-morrow! Meanwhile Don Miguel will look after you both. Take care of yourselves."
"Con dios va usted mi amigo!" said Cassim, graciously. "Now go away, and let me eat my breakfast."
Jack departed, and Tim went to the window to see him ride down the street.
"He is a fine boy," he said, returning to the breakfast-table. "Doña Dolores ought to be proud of having such a lover."
"I have no doubt she is, Tim. It is to be hoped the course of true love will run smooth with Jack; but what with Don Hypolito and the harlequin opal I have my doubts. What are your plans, Timothy?"
"It's writing I'll be, all day!"
"Nonsense. Come and see Tlatonac."
"I can't. Isn't my chief waiting a letter from me?"
"Such industry! Tim, you make me feel ashamed of myself."
"The devil I do. Then you write my letter, Philip and I'll flirt with Doña Eulalia. I'm a white-headed boy with the female sex."
"No, thank you. It's not a fair exchange."
"Ah, she's a dark-eyed colleen, Philip. You have lost your heart there."
"No," said Philip, a trifle doubtfully. "I have seen too many pretty faces to be captured at first sight by a new one. I have other things to think of besides marriage."
"You have, but you won't," retorted Tim, ungrammatically. "Now get away with you, and leave me to my writing."
"I'll be back in two hours."
"If you are not, I'll come and look you up at the Don's. Make love to Doña Eulalia while you can, Philip, for it's mighty little time you'll have when the row starts.
"Do ye hear the cannon's rattle? do ye smell the smoke av battle,Whin the Irish bhoys are ridin' down the inimy so bould?Do ye see the bullets flyin'? and your faithful Patrick dyin',Wid ne'er a sowl beside him dear, to kiss his forehead cowld?"
"Do ye hear the cannon's rattle? do ye smell the smoke av battle,Whin the Irish bhoys are ridin' down the inimy so bould?Do ye see the bullets flyin'? and your faithful Patrick dyin',Wid ne'er a sowl beside him dear, to kiss his forehead cowld?"
"Do ye hear the cannon's rattle? do ye smell the smoke av battle,
Whin the Irish bhoys are ridin' down the inimy so bould?
Do ye see the bullets flyin'? and your faithful Patrick dyin',
Wid ne'er a sowl beside him dear, to kiss his forehead cowld?"
Tim, with that sudden transition from mirth to melancholy so characteristic of the Celtic race, threw so much pathos into the last two lines that Philip could not trust himself to reply, and went hastily out of the room. He drew a long breath of relief when he found himself in the hot sunshine, for that unexpected note of sorrow from jovial Tim touched him more nearly than he cared to confess. In spite of his cold demeanour and reserve, Philip was of a very emotional nature, and that melancholy strain had reached his heart. He was by no means prone to superstition, but at that moment a sudden question stirred his self-complacency. Never before had he heard Tim sing so pathetically, and the unexpectedness of the thing startled him. It seemed to hint at future sorrows. Poor Tim!
"Confound that Banshee song," he said, with a shiver, as he strolled along towards the Calle Otumba; "it makes me think of death and the grave. These Irishmen take one at a disadvantage. I won't shake off the feeling the whole day."
He forgot all about it, however, when he reached Maraquando's house, for in the patio he found Eulalia, who greeted him with a brilliant smile. The charm of her society banished the melancholy engendered by Tim's pessimism, and, chatting gaily to this strongly vitalised being, who restlessly flashed round the court like a humming-bird, he recovered his usual spirits. There is more in juxtaposition than people think.
"And where are your friends, Don Felipe?" asked Eulalia, standing on tip-toe to pluck a gorgeous tropical blossom.
"Allow me to get you that flower, Señora," replied Philip, eagerly. "My friends," he added, as he presented her with the bud, "are variously employed. Don Pedro is out after butterflies with Cocom. Señor Corresponsal is writing for his 'diario,' and Don Juan——"
"I know where Don Juan is, Señor. Yes; my father told me of his kindness. He will bring back from the estancia Doña Serafina."
"And Doña Dolores?"
Eulalia flung open her fan with a coquettish gesture, and raising it to her face, looked over the top of it at Philip.
"You know, then, Señor, what you know."
"Assuredly," replied the baronet, tickled at this delicate way of putting it. "I know that my friend wishes to marry your cousin."
"Ay de mi. It can never be."
"He is not rich enough."
"He is not a Spaniard. My father will never consent. And then," she dropped her voice, and looked round fearfully. "The Chalchuih Tlatonac!"
"I know about that also. But it has nothing to do with this marriage."
"It has everything to do with it. The Indians look on my cousin as one of themselves, and, if she married an Americano, she would leave the country. Then there would be no guardian of the stone, and their god would be angry."
"Is your cousin, then, to marry as they please?"
"She must marry one of her own people. An Indian or a Mestizo."
"But suppose she does not?"
"The Indians will carry her to their forest temple, and keep her there in captivity."
"Impossible! How could they seize her in Tlatonac?"
Doña Eulalia nodded her head wisely.
"You do not know how strong are the Indians, Señor. They are everywhere. If they want Dolores at their temple, they will be sure to capture her if they choose."
"By force?"
"No, by stratagem! They could take her away at any moment, and none of us would see her again."
"But what does Don Hypolito say to all this?"
Eulalia spread out her little hands with a look of disgust.
"Don Hypolito wants to marry Dolores because of the Chalchuih Tlatonac! He is a Mestizo; so the Indians would not mind such a marriage. But she hates him, and loves Don Juan. Let your friend beware, Señor."
"Of whom! Of Don Hypolito?"
"Yes; and of the Indians. It is much feared that Don Hypolito is no good Catholic—that he has been to the forest temple and seen—oh," she broke off with a shudder. "I do not know what he has seen. But he hates Don Juan, and, if he captures him, will put him to death. Señor——"
At this moment, before she could say more, Don Miguel entered the patio. Whereupon Eulalia whirled away like a black-and-amber bird. Philip looked after her for a second, thinking how graceful she was, then turned to greet Don Miguel. That gentleman was as lean and dry and as solemn as ever. How he ever came to be the parent of this fairy of midnight, Philip could not quite understand. But doubtless she took after her mother—the female side of a family generally does, in looks.
"I was just conversing with Doña Eulalia," said Philip, responding to Maraquando's stately greeting "Your daughter, Señor."
"She is yours also, Señor," was Miguel's startling reply.
"Egad! I wish she was mine," thought Cassim, who knew this Spanish formula too well to be astonished. "By the way, Señor, my friend Don Pedro thanks you for sending Cocom," he added politely.
"Don Pedro is welcome a thousand times to my poor services. And where is the Señor Correspoñsal?"
"Writing for his diario."
"Bueno, Señor. And Don Juan?"
"He is now on his way to your estancia."
"I am his servant, for such kindness," said Maraquando, gravely. "Will you take some pulque, Señor Felipe?"
"I thank you, no," replied Philip, remembering his former experience of the drink. "If not troubling you too much, I would like to see Tlatonac."
"I am at your service, Señor. Shall we depart at once?"
Philip signified his acquiescence, though he would rather have stayed in the cool patio, and flirted with Doña Eulalia. He knew, however, that Spanish fathers are not the most amiable parents in the world, and resent too much attention being paid by foreigners to their womankind; therefore he took leave of the young lady and departed with Don Miguel. Before Philip parted from that gentleman, he had explored the city thoroughly, and was quite worn out.
The Jefe Politico was a most conscientious cicerone. He took Philip to every building of any note, and gave him a minute history of all events connected therewith, from the earliest period to the present time. Fortunately, Tlatonac was not very old, or he would have gone on for a week without stopping. As it was, he took nearly all day in directing Philip's attention to dates, Aztec idols, ruins of teocallis, sites of palaces, to battle-fields, and many other things too numerous to mention. This information was accurate but wearisome, and Philip felt it to be so. Maraquando was Prescott and Bancroft rolled into one, as regards knowledge of history, and, having found a willing listener, took full advantage of the opportunity. Cassim was too polite to object, but he heartily wished that Don Miguel would hold his tongue. The most pathetic part of the whole affair was that the poor man thought he was amusing his guest.
Tlatonac is built partly on the seashore and partly on a hill. Within the walls of the forts frowning over the waters are the dwellings of the flat portion inhabited by peons and leperos, with a sprinkling of low-caste mestizos. From thence the houses rise up to the top of the hill, which is crowned by the cathedral in the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres. This is the heart of Tlatonac, the aristocratic quarter, and commands a splendid view of the surrounding country.
The Plaza was a very large square, fenced in on three sides by the houses of the Cholacacan aristocracy, on the fourth by the great cathedral. In the centre was the zocalo, a green oasis of verdure laid out in winding walks and brilliant flower-beds. Herein the aristocracy took their walks when the band played in the cool of the evening, using it as a kind of alameda, wherein to meet their friends and gossip. It was indeed a charming spot, and its green arcades afforded a grateful shade from the hot sun which blazed down on the white stones of the square outside. On leaving the zocalo, they entered the church dedicated to Nuestra Señora de la Concepcion, which once gave its name to the town now more generally known by its Indian appellation of Tlatonac.
"The cathedral, Señor," said Don Miguel, as they stood beneath the glory of the great cupola, "is built on the site of a famous teocalli."
"That dedicated to the Chalchuih Tlatonac?"
"To the false god Huitzilopochtli, Señor," corrected the Spaniard, gravely. "I see you know the story. Yes, it was here that the son of Montezuma's daughter came with the shining precious stone which gives its name to the city. He worshipped his barbaric deities after the fashion of his mother, and built here a teocalli to the war-god, wherein was preserved the devil stone. Many years after, when the Conquistadores—our ancestors, Señor—arrived, the then possessor of the opal fled with it into the impenetrable forests, and thus the jewel was lost to the Crown of Spain. The Conquistadores pulled down the teocalli and built thereon this church to the glory of Our Lady, at the command of Fray Medina, who afterwards became the first Bishop of Tlatonac. Is it not beautiful, Señor? and all for the glory of God and the true cross."
It was indeed a beautiful old church, mellowed into restful beauty by the lapse of years. The floor was of marquetry, hued like a dim rainbow owing to the different coloured woods. Slender porphyry pillars sprang from the floor to the groined ceiling in two long rows, and at the far end, under a firmament of sun and stars and silver moons, with ascending saints and wide-winged angels, arose the glory of the great altar, sparkling in the dusky atmosphere like a vast jewel. Before it burned a silver lamp like a red star. Tapestries, richly worked, depended between the pillars, gorgeous brocades were here, faded silken draperies there, and everywhere faces of saint, angel, cherubim, and seraphim. Gilt crosses, pictures of the Virgin, statues of the Virgin, side altars laden with flowers, silver railings, steps of Puebla marble, like alabaster, and throughout a dim religious light as the rays of the sun pierced the painted windows. The fumes of incense permeated the building; there was a sound of muttered prayers, and here and there a dark figure prostrate before a shrine or kneeling at the confessional.
All this magnificence was toned down by time to delicate hues, which blended the one with the other and made a harmonious whole. Dingy and old as it was, the whole edifice was redolent of sacred associations, and it required some imagination to conceive that where now reigned this quiet and holy beauty once arose a heathen temple, where the victims shrieked on the altar of a fierce deity. Religion did not seem very flourishing in Cholacaca, for on this day in the cathedral there were few worshippers—no priests.
"We have few priests now, Señor," explained Don Miguel, gravely, as they left the great building. "The Jesuits were once powerful in Cholacaca, but they were expelled some years ago. The priestswouldmeddle with politics, and when the Church clashes with the Government, well, Señor—one must go to the wall."
"So the Jesuits went?"
"Yes. They were unwilling to go, for Cholacaca is one of the richest mission fields. Not that I think they have done much good, for though the Indians are outwardly converted, yet I know for certain that they still secretly worship Huitzilopochtli and the Chalchuih Tlatonac."
"What makes you think so, Don Miguel?"
"Little things! The straws which show the wind's course. On the summit of some of these ruined teocallis beyond the walls, I have often seen fresh wreaths of flowers. Nay, in my own patio, before those statues of Coatlicue, Quetzalcoatli, and Teoyamiqui, I have found offerings of flowers and fruit. 'Tis also said, Señor," pursued Maraquando, dropping his voice, "that in the hidden Temple of the Opal the Indians still sacrifice human victims to the war-god. But this may be false."
"Very probably! I cannot conceive such horrors," replied Philip, with a shudder; "but, as regards priests, there are still some here, I presume?"
"Assuredly; but not of the Society of Jesus—save one. Yes, Padre Ignatius is still here. He was, and is, so beloved by all that the President had not the heart to banish him. So he yet works for the Faith in our midst."
"I should like to meet Father Ignatius?"
"You shall do so, Señor. He is a great friend of mine, and the confessor of my children. Often does he come to my poor house. But let us walk on, Señor. There are many things to see. El Palacio Nacional, where dwells his excellency; the Market Place, and the alameda. We are proud of our alameda, Señor."
Thus talked on Don Miguel, and, amused by the novelty of the scene, Philip stared round him with great pleasure. They passed the pulquerias, which are the public-houses of Tlatonac, saw the Palacio Nacional, a huge stone building, above which flaunted the yellow flag of the Republic, with its device of a white stone, darting rays of red, yellow, green, and blue, in allusion to the opal, explored the prison, which held a fine collection of ruffians, and ultimately arrived at the Market Place.
It was the prettiest sight in Tlatonac, and Philip was sorry he had not the power to transfer the scene with all its varied hues and picturesque figures to paper. A square, little less large than the great Plaza, surrounded on all sides by gaily tinted houses. Reds, greens, yellows, pinks, the Plaza was girdled by a perfect rainbow, and under the gay awnings before these sat the dealers and their wares. Here were tropical fruits from the tierras calientes, comprising oranges, bananas, pineapples, melons, peaches, and an infinite variety of others, all piled in picturesque confusion on the stalls. As to flowers, the whole place was a mass of blossom, from gorgeous red cactus buds to modest bunches of violets. Owing to the geography of Mexico and Central America, the products of both temperate and tropical zones can be found flourishing at one and the same time. Hence the violets, which Philip had scarcely expected to see. They put him in mind of English woods—of the day when in the Isle of Wight, Jack told him about Dolores.
"Yes, the Indians are fond of flowers," said Don Miguel, when Philip expressed his surprise at the profusion of blossoms. "It is a taste they inherit from their ancestors. The Aztecs, you know, were famous for floriculture. We love flowers just as passionately; and, go where you will in Tlatonac, you will find blooming gardens gay with flowers."
"It is a graceful taste, and one which the climate enables you to gratify to the full."
"Without doubt, Señor. We possess three climates in which flourish different products of Nature. Tlatonac is in the tierra calienti, or hot country. Higher up, on the table-lands it is less tropical, and is called the tierra templada, while the snow-clad mountain peaks, where flourish pine trees, oaks, and hemlocks, is known by the name of the tierra fria. Thus, you see, in our country we possess all the climates of the world."
"A rare advantage. Central America is a favoured country."
"In all save its rulers," sighed Maraquando, regretfully. "Nor is its population what it should be. I tell you, Señor, this land should be the most powerful in the world. It is the most favoured spot on earth—the garden of Paradise; but what with our incessant civil wars, our incompetent governors, and, of late, the tyranny of the Church, the whole continent is demoralised. Ah, if we but had the man who could weld all our foolish Republics into one great nation! Then, indeed, would we be the glory of the earth."
"Don Hypolito Xuarez evidently looks upon himself as that man."
"Don Hypolito!" echoed Maraquando, scornfully. "No, Señor; he has the instincts of a tyrant. He would grind down the people as the Conquistadores did their ancestors. Were he pure minded and noble in his ambition, I—even I, Miguel Maraquando—would support him. I would lay aside all prejudices to aid him to make our country great. But I know the man, Don Felipe. He is a half-bred, a treacherous scoundrel, who wants to be the Santa Anna of the Republic. Let him beware of Iturbide's fate!"
"At all events, he intends to become Emperor," persisted Philip, calmly.
"No! The Junta has decided that he is to be banished from Cholacaca. Already the fleet is a Acauhtzin to arrest him, and to-morrow we send up a special message that he is to be brought to Tlatonac at once."
"Suppose he refuses to come?"
"He will be brought by force."
"Always provided the fleet do not support his cause."
"You, too, Señor," said Maraquando, thoughtfully; "so said Don Juan last night. It may be so, and yet I hope, for the sake of the country, that the affair may be ended at once. I believe the navy will continue faithful. My own son, Don Rafael, is in command of one ship; yet I mistrust Xuarez and his oily tongue. Yes, Señor, I have thought much since Don Juan and the Señor Corresponsãl spoke to me last night. I have conferred with His Excellency, the President. Therefore have we decided to send up a message to-morrow, ordering the return of the fleet with or without Xuarez. It does not do to trust him."
"You have another man-of-war, then, to go to Acauhtzin."
"No; we have a small steamer. But she is quick, and will go there and return in no time."
"That is if she is permitted to do so," thought Philip; but he did not say this aloud, lest Don Miguel should grow angry.
"Still, even if the fleet does revolt, we will have the torpederas," said the Jefe, cheerfully. "They are now on their way from England. His Excellency received a telegram yesterday."
"If you have the torpederas, you can do a good deal," replied Philip, lighting a cigarette: "and if there is a war, Don Miguel, my yacht is at the service of the Government."
"A thousand, thousand thanks, Señor!" said Miguel, smiling gratefully; "but I hope and trust there will be no occasion for us to ask you to make such a sacrifice. However, we shall soon know—in three days at the most. If the fleet are true to us, they will bring back Don Hypolito. If not, we shall know what steps to take to defend Tlatonac from being bombarded."
"By the way, Señor," said Cassim, thoughtfully, "you have a telegraph-station here. In which direction do the wires run?"
"Why do you ask, Señor?"
"Because the Señor Corresponsãl wishes constant communication with England, should there be a war. Now, if the wires go north to Acauhtzin, they can be cut by Don Hypolito."
"That is true, Don Felipe. Fortunately they donotrun north. No; the wires run south to Janjalla which town will certainly remain faithful to the Government. From thence all messages can with ease be transmitted to England."
Philip was pleased at this, as he saw that Tim would be enabled to transmit messages to England with the greatest ease, and thus cover himself with glory. They conversed for a few minutes on the subject, and then left the market for the alameda.
It was a most delightful promenade. High trees on either side, whose branches formed a green arcade above the heads of the promenaders. Beds of roses in profusion—brilliant tropical plants, bronze statues, marble statues, and plenty of pleasantly situated seats. One portion was reserved for those who chose to walk, another for horses and their riders. Hither came all the aristocracy of the city, when they grew weary of the zocala of the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres, and on this day the alameda was crowded.
In a gaily decorated bandstand, an excellent company of musicians played bright music, mostly airs from comic operas, and Philip was amused to hear Offenbachian frivolities sounding in this spot. They seemed out of place. The musicians had no sense of the fitness of things. They should have played boleros fandangos—the national music of Spain—instead of which they jingled the trashy airs of minor musicians.
The alameda was thronged by a motley crowd, presenting more varied features than are to be seen in any other part of the world. Indian women squatting at the corners selling fruit and pulque, beautiful señoritas with black mantillas and eloquent fans, gay young cavaliers dashing along on spirited horses, in all the bravery of the national costume, and not seldom a sour-looking duenna, jealously watching her charge. Occasionally a priest in shovel-hat and black cassock—but these were very rare. The army was also represented by a number of gaily-dressed officers who smoked cigarettes, smiled at the señoritas, and clanked their huge spurs ostentatiously together. It was a gay scene, and Philip admired it greatly.
"I have never seen such a mixed crowd anywhere," he said, lightly, "save in the Strada Reale in Valetta."
"Well!" said Maraquando, after a pause, "and what do you think of Tlatonac?"
"It is a terrestrial Paradise," replied Philip, "and Hypolito is the serpent."