In marching on La Magdalena the count had a double object: in the first place, that of meeting the rich hacenderos and alcaldes of the pueblos dissatisfied with the Mexican Government, and try to draw them over to his side by the brilliant prospects of independence he offered them; secondly, by his strategic position at the village, to alarm General Guerrero, and keep him constantly on the alert by a simultaneous feint of aggressive movements on each of the three Sonorian capitals.
The general, so soon as war was declared, had appealed to the population with that pompous and verbose Mexican eloquence which only deceives the foolish. The inhabitants, who were perfectly indifferent about the Government, and cared but little to interfere in the general's private quarrels, which he tried in vain to metamorphose into a national question, had remained quietly at home, and had in no way responded to their chiefs so-called patriotic appeal, the more so because, during the four months since the French landed in Sonora, and had been traversing the country, their conduct toward the population had been ever exemplary, and not the smallest complaint had been made against them.
The general, disappointed at the ill success of his machinations, then changed his batteries. He proceeded to forced enlistments: next, not satisfied with that, he treated with the Hiaquis and Opatas Indians, in order to increase his army. He also wished, at the outset, to enrol the Apaches; but the rude lesson the French had read the latter had disgusted them with war, and they retired to their deserts without listening to any new proposition.
Still General Guerrero had succeeded in collecting an imposing force. His army amounted to nearly 12,000 men—an enormous number, if we think of the few combatants his enemy could draw up in time. The general, we must do him the justice to say, in spite of his incessant braggadocio, and the continual marches and countermarches he performed, had an instinctive respect for his enemy, or, if you like it better, a perfectly reasonable fear, which incited him to prudence, and prevented him ever coming too close to the French outposts. He contented himself with actively watching the count's movements, and holding the three roads in such a way as to be able easily to concentrate his troops on the point menaced by the adventurers.
It is a singular fact that the Americans of the South have never been able, after so many centuries, and though they are nearly descended from the Spaniards, to dispel that superstitious terror with which the European conquerors inspired them on their landing. The deeds of those heroic adventurers are still in every mouth, and during the war of independence it frequently happened that a handful of Spaniards put to flight, merely by showing themselves, masses of Mexican insurgents. The most convincing proof of our assertion we can produce is that, at this very moment, three hundred French adventurers, isolated in the centre of a country they did not know, and the majority of whom did not even speak the language, held in check an army of 12,000 men, commanded by chiefs who were esteemed good soldiers, and not only made Sonora tremble, but even the Federal Government in Mexico itself.
The boldness and temerity of the enterprise attempted by the count increased, were that possible, the terror he inspired. This expedition was so mad, that sensible men could not imagine that the count was not backed up by secret, though powerful allies, who only awaited an opportunity to declare themselves. This terror was carefully kept up by the count's spies and scouts. The boldness of his movements, the decision with which he acted, and finally, the occupation of La Magdalena without a blow being struck, heightened the apprehensions of the Government, and increased its indecision as to the intentions of the chief, or, as they called him, theCabecilla.
It was about five in the morning when the curtain that closed the count's tent was raised from the outside, and a man entered. Don Louis, startled by this sudden apparition, rubbed his eyes and seized his pistols, saying in a firm voice,—
"Who is there?"
"I, of course," the new arriver said. "Who would dare enter in this way except me?"
"Valentine!" the count exclaimed with a shout of joy, and throwing down his pistols. "You are welcome, brother: I have been expecting you impatiently."
"Thank you," the hunter said. "Did not Curumilla announce my return this very night?"
"Yes," the count said with a laugh; "but you know how easy it is to talk with the chief."
"That is true. Well, I have brought you the information he omitted to give you, and perhaps it is all for the best."
The count had dressed himself; that is to say, he put on his coat and zarapé, for he had thrown himself on his bed in his clothes.
"Take a stool," he said, "and let us talk."
"I prefer going out."
"As you please," Don Louis answered, suspecting that his friend had peculiar reasons for acting thus. They left the tent together.
"Captain de Laville," the hunter said, addressing the young man, who was walking up and down before the tent, "an escort of ten horsemen, a horse for myself, and another for the chief, if you please."
"At once?"
"Yes, if it be possible."
"Of course it is."
"We are going to leave the camp, then?" Louis said when they were alone.
"We are going to La Magdalena," the hunter made answer.
"The moment is a most unfortunate one."
"Why so?"
"Because I am expecting the general's answer."
"In that case you can come," the hunter said with a malicious smile, "for you will not receive that reply. The colonel's mission was only a bait to lull your vigilance to sleep."
"Oh, oh! are you certain of what you assert?"
"By Jove!"
At this moment the escort appeared. Louis and Valentine mounted. It was hardly six in the morning; the country was deserted; at each puff of wind the trees shook their branches, which were damp with the abundant bright dew, and caused a gentle shower which rustled on the bushes; the sun sucked up the dense vapour that rose from the ground; and the birds, hidden in the foliage, woke up singing. The two friends, slightly in advance of their escort, rode pensively side by side, with the bridle on their horses' necks, and gazing vacantly at the magnificent landscape which lay expanded before them. The first houses of the pueblo, gaily enframed in clumps of floripondios and vines, were visible from a turning in the road. Don Louis raised his head.
"Well," he said, as if answering his own thoughts, "I swear this shall be the last time that General Guerrero mocks me thus. It is plain that Colonel Suarez only came to my camp to see for himself in what condition we were."
"For nothing else."
"Where are we going now?"
"To a cockfight."
"A cockfight!" the count said in surprise.
The hunter looked at him significantly.
"Yes," he said to him, "you know, perhaps—or, if you do not, I will tell you—that the finest cockfights take place annually at La Magdalena at the period of the festival."
"Ah!" Louis said indifferently.
"I am certain that it will interest you," Valentine continued with a cunning air.
The count perfectly well understood that his friend only spoke to him in this way in order to foil any eavesdroppers who might be about, and was silent, for he felt certain that all would be cleared up ere long. Besides, the little party were at this moment entering the pueblo, the houses of which were beginning to open, in which the dwellers, hardly awake, saluted them as they passed with joyous and friendly smiles. After passing slowly through two or three streets, at a sign from Valentine the detachment stopped before a house of rather mean appearance, and which had nothing about it to recommend it to the attention of strangers.
"It is here," the hunter said.
They stopped and dismounted. Valentine then gave the leader of the escort strict orders to remain mounted with his men, and not stir till the count's return; then he tapped discreetly at the door, which was immediately opened. They entered, and the door was closed without their seeing anybody. They were scarcely in the house ere the hunter led his companion into a cuarto, the door of which he opened with a key he drew from his pocket.
"Follow my example," he said as he took off his vicuna hat and zarapé, which he exchanged for a cloak and a broad-brimmed straw hat. The count imitated him.
"Now come."
They wrapped themselves carefully in their cloaks, pulled their hats over their eyes, and left the house by a door cleverly hidden in the wall, which communicated with the adjoining house, through which they passed without meeting anybody, and found themselves once more in the street. But during the few minutes they remained in the house the appearance of the pueblo had completely changed. The streets were now thronged with people coming and going: at each step children and leperos were letting off fireworks with shouts of delight and bursts of laughter. Through the whole of Spanish America, and especially in Mexico, no at all respectable festival goes off without crackers and fireworks: letting off squibs is the acme of joy. We will repeat on this head a rather characteristic anecdote.
Some time after the Spaniards had been definitively expelled from Mexico, King Ferdinand one morning asked a rich Mexican who had sought refuge at the court of Spain,—
"What do you imagine your countrymen are doing at this moment, Don Luis de Cerda?"
"Sire," the Mexican replied gravely, as he bowed to the king, "they are letting off squibs."
"Ah!" the king said, and passed on.
A few hours later the king accosted the gentleman again: it was two in the afternoon.
"And now," he asked him gaily, "what are they engaged in?"
"Sire," the Mexican said with no less gravity than on the first occasion, "they continue to let off squibs."
The king smiled, but made no reply. At nightfall, however, he again addressed the same question to the gentleman, who answered with his imperturbable coolness,—
"May it please your Majesty, they are letting off more squibs than ever."
This time the king could not contain himself, but burst into a fit of laughter—a very remarkable circumstance, for this prince was never renowned for the jollity of his character.
The Mexicans have three passions;—playing at monte, witnessing cockfights, and letting off squibs. We believe that the third is the most deeply rooted in them; and the quantity of powder consumed in Mexico in the shape of squibs is incalculable. Hence squibs were being let off in all the streets and on all the squares of La Magdalena. At each step crackers exploded beneath the feet of our two friends, who, however, long accustomed to Mexican habits, did not attach the slightest importance to the fireworks, but continued their progress in perfect coolness, clearing a way as well as they could through the dense crowd of Indians, half-breeds, Negroes, Zambos, Spaniards, Mexicans, and North Americans. At length they turned into a lane about half way down the Calle San Pedro.
"Halloh!" Louis said, "are we really going to see a cockfight?"
"Of course," Valentine said with a smile. "Let me alone. I told you it would interest you."
"Go on, then," the count said with a careless shrug of his shoulders. "Deuce take you and your absurd ideas!"
"Good, good!" Valentine replied with a laugh. "We shall see; but we have arrived."
And without any more words they entered the house.
There is no amusement in Mexico, save perhaps monte or fireworks, which excites interest to such a degree as a cockfight; and this interest is not confined merely to a certain class of society. In this respect there is no difference between the President of the Republic and the most humble citizen, between the generalissimo and the lowest leper, between the highest dignitary of the Church and the most obscure sacristan: whites, blacks, half-castes, and Indians the whole population rushes with unequalled frenzy to this bloody spectacle which is so full of interest to them.
The pit is arranged in the following way:—Behind a house a large yard is selected, in the centre of which rises a circular amphitheatre, from fifty to sixty feet in diameter. The wall of this amphitheatre is never less than twenty feet high: it is built with brick, and carefully covered with hard stucco inside and out. Five rows of seats rising above each other complete the interior of the building. Until the opening of the doors no one knows what birds are entered; but, so soon as the public are admitted, the cocks are brought in. The bettors bring one each, which are then intrusted to the care of the trainer who makes the preliminary arrangements. These, however, are very simple. The cocks are armed with artificial spurs made of polished steel, about four inches in length, by half an inch wide at the base, slightly curved at the end, and terminating in a sharp point, while the upper side of the spur is sharpened. These spurs are firmly attached to the legs of the cocks by straps. When thus prepared for the contest, the cocks are taken into the pit by the trainers, who hold them up in the air, and submit them to the inspection of the spectators, who then make their bets. The money thus risked on the life of a bird is incredible, and men often ruin themselves by betting.
At the moment when the Frenchmen entered, the amusement had long before begun, so that all the best places were taken, and the pit filled with spectators pressing against each other. As, however, our friends had by no means come to take an active part in the amusement, they modestly seated themselves on the wall of the arena, where a band of ragged leperos had taken refuge, too poor to bet, but who regarded with envious eye and scarce-suppressed passion the happy favourites of fortune who were moving about beneath them with shouts and exclamations. The tumult was at its height, and all eyes were fixed on the pit, where—an extraordinary circumstance—one cock had defeated nine others in succession.
The Frenchmen cleverly profited by the effervescence of the spectators to pass on unnoticed, and reach the places they had selected. After a minute Valentine lit a maize pajilla, and bent over to his foster brother's ear.
"Wait for me here," he said; "I shall return in a moment."
Louis bowed in assent. Valentine rose with a nonchalant air, leaped carelessly over the benches, and, with cigar in mouth, mingled among the spectators who crowded the approaches to the pit. The count looked after him for a few moments, but then lost him in the crowd. His eyes then turned to the pit; and so great is the attraction offered by this singular and cruel spectacle, that the count involuntarily grew interested in what was going on before him, and even took a certain pleasure in it.
The combats followed in rapid succession, each offering different but exciting incidents. The count began to find his foster brother's absence protracted, for he had left him for nearly an hour, when all at once he saw himself standing before him.
"Well?" he asked him.
"Well," Valentine answered in Castilian, "it appears that I was right, and that Señor Rodrigo's cocks are achieving marvels. Come and see it more closely. I assure you that it is curious."
The count rose without replying, and followed him.
Owing to their disguise, but, above all, the interest everybody took in the cockfight, the Frenchmen succeeded in leaving the amphitheatre as they had entered it; that is to say, without attracting any attention. When they reached a sort of dark passage leading to the interior of the house, Valentine stopped.
"Listen, to me, Louis," he said, gluing his mouth, as it were, to his friend's ear. "The moment has arrived for you to learn why I brought you hither."
"I am listening."
"Since I left you at the mission, as you may suppose, I have not been inactive. I have gone about the country, have entered into relations with all the richest and most respected inhabitants, and have succeeded in making them comprehend how important it was for them to join and support you. The festival of La Magdalena offered us a favourable opportunity for meeting without attracting the attention of the Mexican Government, and arousing its apprehension. The only house in which a large body of persons can meet without exciting notice is indubitably that in which there is a cockpit. I therefore made an appointment here for this moment with the malcontents, who are numerous. They are all men who, by their fortunes or position, enjoy a high degree of consideration in the State which we wish to revolutionise, and possess great influence. I will introduce you to them: they are awaiting your arrival. You will explain to them your intentions, and they will tell you on what conditions they will consent to join you. Remember, however, brother, that you are dealing with Mexicans. Set no more confidence in their words or promises than they deserve. Be sure that success alone will gain them; that if you fail they will abandon you remorselessly, and be ready to deliver you up if they fancy they can derive any advantage from such an act of infamy. Now, if what I tell you does not suit you, you can retire, and I will undertake to dismiss them without compromising you in any way."
"No!" the count answered resolutely, "it is too late now: to hesitate or recoil would be cowardly. I must go on at all risks. Announce me to our new friends."
"Come on, then."
They walked to the end of the passage, where a closed door checked their progress. Valentine tapped thrice at equal intervals with the hilt of his machete.
"Who is there?" a voice asked from inside.
"The man expected a long time, though you did not dare hope that he would come," Valentine answered.
"He is welcome," the voice added.
At this moment the door opened, the two men entered, and it closed again on them immediately. They then found themselves in a large room with whitewashed walls, and the floor of beaten earth. The furniture consisted of benches, on which were seated some fifty men, some of whom wore an ecclesiastical garb. Curtains of red serge placed before the windows took off the glare, while at the same time preventing anyone outside seeing what was going on. On the entrance of the count and Valentine, all rose and uncovered themselves respectfully.
"Caballeros," Valentine said, "according to my promise, I have the honour to present to you the Count de Prébois Crancé, who has consented to accompany me in order to hear the propositions you have to make to him."
All bowed ceremoniously to the count, and he returned their bows with that grace and amenity peculiar to him. A man of a certain age, with an elegant and intelligent face, and dressed in the magnificent costume of the rich hacenderos, advanced and addressed the hunter.
"Pardon me, sir," he said with a slightly ironical accent, "I believe you have made a small mistake."
"Be good enough to explain, Señor Don Anastasio," the hunter replied. "I do not understand the words you have done me the honour to address to me."
"You said, sir, that the count had done us the honour of coming to hear the propositions we had to make to him."
"Well, sir?"
"That is just where the mistake lies, Don Valentine."
"How so, Señor Anastasio?"
"It appears to me that we have no propositions to make to the count, but that we, on the contrary, should listen to his."
A murmur of assent ran through the audience. Don Louis saw it was time to interfere.
"Gentlemen," he said, bowing gracefully to the hacenderos, "will you allow me to have a frank explanation with you? I am convinced that when I have done so any misunderstanding will be removed, and we shall comprehend each other perfectly."
"Speak, speak, señor!" they said.
"Gentlemen," he went on, "will not here enter into any personal details. I will not tell you how or why I arrived at Guaymas—in what way the Government of Mexico, after breaking all the promises it made me, ended by declaring me an enemy of the country, placed me without the pale of society, and carried its impudence so far as to treat me as a pirate, and set a price on my head, as if I were a bandit or wretched assassin; for that would cause the loss of precious moments, and be a gratuitous abuse of your patience, as you all know thoroughly what has occurred."
"Yes, señor conde," the hacendero who had already spoken interrupted him, "we know the facts to which you allude: we deplore them, and blush for the honour of our country."
"I thank you, gentlemen, for these marks, of sympathy: they are very sweet to me, as they prove that you are not mistaken as to my character. I will come to facts without further circumlocution."
"Hear, hear!" the audience murmured.
The count waited a few moments, and when silence was completely restored he continued:—
"Gentlemen, Sonora is the most fertile and richest country not only of Mexico, but of the whole universe. By its position at the extremity of the centre of the Confederation, from which it is divided by lofty mountains and vast despoblados, Sonora is a country apart, destined, in a speedy future, to separate itself from the Mexican Confederation. Sonora is sufficient for itself. The other provinces supply it with nothing; on the contrary, Sonora supports and enriches them with the surplus of its produce. But Sonora, owing to the system of oppression under which it groans, is, properly speaking, only a vast desert. The greater part of its territory is uncultivated, for the Government of Mexico, which knows so well how to squeeze it, and seize the productions of its soil, and the gold and silver of its mines, is impotent to protect it against the enemies that surround it—the Indios Bravos, whose incursions, annually becoming more insolent, threaten to grow even more so, unless a speedy remedy is applied, and the evil uprooted. I said, at the outset, that within a short period Sonora would be separated from the Mexican Confederation. Let me explain myself. This will happen inevitably, but in two different ways, according to the advantage the inhabitants will derive from it. Sonora is menaced by powerful enemies other than the Indians. These enemies are the North Americans, those Wandering Jews of civilisation, whose axes you may hear felling the trees of the last forests that separate you, and who will soon invade and occupy your country, unless you take care; and it will be impossible for you to offer the slightest resistance to this unjust conquest, for you have no support to expect from your Government, which consumes all its energies in the purposeless and universal contests of the cabecillas, who seize on the power in turn."
"Yes, yes," several persons exclaimed, "that is true; the count is right."
"This conquest with which you are menaced is imminent—it is inevitable; and then what will happen, gentlemen? What has happened wherever the Yankees have succeeded in planting themselves. You will be absorbed by them: your language, customs, even your religion, all will be submerged in this flood. See what has occurred in Texas, and shudder at the thought of what awaits you soon!"
A thrill of anger ran through the assembly at these words, of which each recognised the justice in his heart. The count went on:—
"You have a means to escape this frightful evil; it is in your hands—it depends on you alone."
"Speak, speak!" was shouted on every side.
"Declare your independence loudly, frankly, and energetically. Separate yourselves boldly from Mexico, form the Sonorian Confederation, and call to your aid the French emigrants in California. They will not remain deaf to your appeal: they will come to help you not only in conquering, but also in maintaining your independence against your enemies within and without. The Frenchmen whom you adopt will become your brothers: they have the same religion, almost the same habits as yourselves; in a word, you belong to the same race. You will easily understand each other. They will erect an impassable barrier against North American invasion, make the Indians respect your frontiers, and compel the Mexicans to recognise the right you have proclaimed of being free."
"But," one of the company objected, "if we call the French to our aid, what will they ask of us in return?"
"The right of cultivating your lands which lie fallow," the count answered energetically; "of bringing to you progress, the arts, and industry; in one word, of peopling your deserts, enriching your towns, and civilising your villages: that is what the French will ask. Is it too much?"
"No, certainly, it is not," Don Anastasio said amid a murmur of assent.
"But," another objected, "who guarantees us that, when the moment arrives to settle our accounts with the colonists we have summoned to our aid, they will faithfully fulfil the promises they have made us, and not insist, in their turn, on dictating laws to us, by taking advantage of their number and strength?"
"I, caballeros, I, who in their name will treat with you, and assume the responsibility of everything."
"Yes, the prospective of which you allow us a glimpse is seductive, caballero," Don Anastasio answered in the name of all. "We recognise the truth of the facts you tell us. We know only too well how precarious our position is, and what great dangers menace us; but a scruple causes us to refrain at this moment. Have we the right to plunge our unhappy country, already half ruined, in the horrors of a civil war, when in this unfortunate land nothing is prepared for an energetic resistance? The Government of Mexico, so weak for good, is powerful for evil, and it will manage to find troops to reduce us if we revolt. General Guerrero is an experienced officer—a cold and cruel man, who will recoil before no extremity, however terrible its nature, to stifle in blood any attempt at insurrection. In a few days he has succeeded in collecting a powerful army to conquer us: each of your soldiers, in the coming contest, will have to fight against ten. However brave the French may be, it is impossible for them to resist such an imposing force. A battle lost, and all is over with you. Any armed opposition will become impossible, and you will drag us down in your fall if we help you; and we have the more to fear, because our position is not like yours. We are sons of the country: we have in it our families and fortunes. We have, therefore, everything to lose; while you, on the other hand, supposing you are beaten, and your enterprise completely fails, have a means of safety we cannot employ, in flight. These considerations are serious. They oblige us to act with the greatest prudence, and reflect deeply, before determining to shake off the detested yoke of Mexico. Do not believe, caballero, that we speak thus through cowardice or weakness. No, it is solely through the fear of failure, and the loss, in the shipwreck, of the few shreds of liberty which, through policy, they have not yet dared to tear from us, and which they possibly only need a pretext to assail."
"Gentlemen," the count answered, "I appreciate at their full value the motives you have been good enough to lay before me. Still, permit me to observe that, however serious the objections may be you do me the honour of laying before me, we are not here to discuss them. The object of our meeting is an offensive and defensive alliance between yourselves and me, is it not?"
"Certainly," most of the audience exclaimed, surprised by the count's sudden change of position, and led to speak, perhaps involuntarily, more hurriedly than they had intended.
"Well," the count continued, "let us not waste our time, like those tradesmen who boast to each other about the quality of their wares. Let us go straight to our object, frankly, clearly, and like men of honour. Tell me, without any concealment, on what conditions you consent to form an alliance with me and give me your support, and the number of men I can count on when the right moment arrives."
"That is the right way to speak, señor conde," Don Anastasio replied. "Well, to a question so clearly asked, we will answer no less clearly. We do not doubt (Heaven forbid we should!) either the courage or strategic skill of your soldiers: we know that the French are brave. Still your band is not large: up to the present it has no support, and only possesses the patch of ground on which it is encamped. Establish a solid base of operations—seize, for instance, one of the three chief cities of Sonora—then you will no longer be adventurers, but really soldiers; and we shall no longer fear to treat with you, because your expedition will have gained consistency—in one word, have become earnest."
"Very good, gentlemen; I understand you," the count answered coldly. "And, in case I succeed in carrying one of the cities you mention, I can count on you?"
"Body and soul."
"And how many men will you place at my disposal?"
"Six thousand in four days—the whole of Sonora in a week."
"You promise it?"
"We all swear it!" they exclaimed enthusiastically.
But this enthusiasm could not produce a flash or smile on the count's face.
"Gentlemen," he said, "within a fortnight I give you the meeting in one of the three chief cities of Sonora; and then, as I shall have accomplished my obligations, I shall call on you to keep yours."
The Mexicans could not restrain a gesture of astonishment and admiration at these noble words. The count, though no longer young, was still handsome, and gifted with that fascination which improvises kingdoms. Each of his phrases left a memory. All present came in turn to press his hand, and renew individually their protestations of devotion, after which they left the room. The count and Valentine remained alone.
"Are you satisfied, brother?" the hunter asked him.
"Who could be strong enough to galvanise this people?" the count muttered with a mournful shrug of his shoulders, and rather answering his own thoughts than the question his friend had addressed to him. The two men went to fetch their zarapés. They found their escort where they had left it, and retired slowly through the crowd, who saluted them as they passed with shouts of "Vivan los Franceses!"
"If I come to be shot some day," the count said bitterly, "they will only have to alter one word."
Valentine sighed, but made no reply.
Doña Angela had just awakened: a sportive sunbeam, passing indiscreetly over her charming face, had made her open her eyes. She was lying half extended in her hammock, with her head supported on her right arm, and was pensively looking at the swan's-down slipper which she was idly balancing on her dainty little foot. Violanta, seated at her foot on a stool, was busily arranging the various articles of her mistress's toilette. At length Doña Angela shook off her careless languor, and a smile played on her coral lips.
"Today," she said, as she raised her head coquettishly.
This one word contained the maiden's thoughts, her joy, love, happiness—her whole life, in fact. She fell back in a reverie, yielding herself up unconsciously to the delicate and busy services of her waiting-maid. The sound of a footstep was heard outside, and Doña Angela raised her head quickly.
"Someone is coming," she said.
Violanta went out, but returned almost immediately.
"Well?"
"Don Cornelio requests permission to say two words to the señorita," the camarista answered.
The maiden frowned with an air of vexation.
"What can he want again?" she said.
"I do not know."
"That man displeases me singularly."
"I will tell him that you cannot receive him."
"No," she said quickly, "let him enter."
"Why, if he displeases you?"
"I prefer seeing him. I do not know why, but that man almost terrifies me."
The waiting maid blushed and turned her head away, but recovered almost immediately.
"Still he is entirely devoted to Don Louis and yourself, señorita."
"Do you think so?" she said, fixing a piercing glance on her.
"Well, I suppose so; his conduct up to the present has been most honourable."
"Yes," she murmured dreamily. "Still there is something at the bottom of my heart which tells me that this man hates me. I experience, on seeing him, an insurmountable feeling of repulsion. This is something inexplicable to me; but, though everything seems to prove to me that I am wrong, still, whether right or wrong, there is at times an expression in his glance which makes me shudder. The only thing a man cannot disguise is his look, for it is the reflex of his soul, and God has decreed it so, in order that we may put ourselves on our guard, and recognise our enemies. But he is doubtlessly tired of waiting. Let him come in."
Violanta hastened to execute her mistress's orders. Don Cornelio entered with a smile on his lips.
"Señorita," he said, after a graceful bow, which the maiden returned without leaving her hammock, "pardon me for daring to trouble your solitude; but a worthy priest, a French missionary, desires that you will grant him the favour of a few minutes' interview."
"What is the missionary's name, Señor Don Cornelio?"
"Father Seraphin, I believe, señorita."
"Why does he not address himself to Don Louis?"
"He intended to do so in the first instance."
"Well?"
"But," Don Cornelio continued, "at sunrise Don Louis left the camp, accompanied by Don Valentine; and though it is now near midday, he has not yet returned."
"Ah! Where did Don Louis go to at so early an hour?"
"I cannot tell you, señorita. All that I know for certain is, that he proceeded in the direction of La Magdalena."
"Has anything new occurred?"
"Nothing I am aware of, señorita."
There were a few moments of silence, during which Doña Angela was reflecting. At length she continued:
"And do you not suspect what this missionary wishes to say to me, Don Cornelio?"
"In no way, señorita."
"Beg him to come in. I shall be happy to see and converse with him."
Violanta, without giving Don Cornelio time to reply, raised the curtain that closed the entrance of the jacal.
"Come in, my father," she said.
The missionary appeared. Doña Angela greeted him respectfully, and pointed to a chair.
"You wish to speak with me, my father?" she said.
"Yes, madam," he replied with a bow.
"I am ready to listen to you."
The missionary looked round in a way that Don Cornelio and the waiting maid understood, for they went out at once.
"Cannot what you have to say to me be heard by that girl, who is devoted to me?"
"Heaven forbid, madam, that I should try to lessen the confidence you place in that person, but allow me to give you a little piece of advice."
"Pray do so."
"It is often dangerous to confide your secret thoughts to persons in a lower station than yourself."
"Yes, that may be true in theory, my father, but I will not discuss it. Be kind enough to explain to me the reason of your visit."
"I am grieved, madam, at having hurt your feelings without wishing it. Pardon an observation which you considered indiscreet, and may Heaven grant that I am deceived!"
"No, my father, no; I did not consider your remark indiscreet. But I am a spoiled child, and it is my place to ask your forgiveness."
At this moment the sound of horses was heard in the camp. Violanta raised the curtain.
"Don Louis has arrived," she said.
"Let him come hither at once," Doña Angela exclaimed.
The missionary gazed on her with an expression of gentle pity. A few minutes later Don Louis and Valentine entered the jacal. The hunter walked up to the missionary, and pressed his hand affectionately.
"Have you come from the general, my father?" the count asked him quickly.
"Alas, no!" he answered. "The general is unaware of my coming; for had he known of it, he would probably have tried to oppose it."
"What do you mean? Speak, in Heaven's name!"
"Alas! I am about to redouble your agony and your sorrow. General Guerrero never intended to bestow on you this lady's hand. I cannot tell you what I have seen or heard, for my office forbids it; but I am a Frenchman, sir—that is to say, your fellow countryman—and I believe my duty orders me to warn you that treachery surrounds you on all sides, and that the general is trying to lull your vigilance by fallacious promises, in order to surprise you and finish with you."
Don Louis let his head sink on his chest.
"In that case, sir," he said presently, "with what object have you come here?"
"I will tell you. The general wishes to get back his daughter, and, to effect that, all means will be good. Permit me to draw your attention to the fact that, under present circumstances, the lady's presence here is not only a danger for you, but also an ineffaceable stain on her honour."
"Sir!" the count exclaimed.
"Deign to listen to me," the missionary continued coldly. "I do not doubt either your honour or the lady's; but you have no power, to my knowledge, to impose silence on your enemies, and stop the immense flood of calumny they pour out on you and her. Unhappily your conduct seems to justify them."
"But what is to be done? What means shall I employ?"
"There is one."
"Speak, my father."
"This is what I propose. You intend to marry this lady?"
"Certainly; you know that is my dearest wish."
"Let me finish. The marriage must not be celebrated here; for such a ceremony, performed in the midst of a camp of adventurers, without witnesses, would seem a mockery."
"But——"
"It must take place in a city, in the presence of the entire population, in the broad sunshine, to the sound of the bells and cannon, which, traversing the air, will tell all that the marriage has really taken place."
"Yes," Valentine remarked, "Father Seraphin is right; for then Doña Angela will no longer marry a pirate, but a conqueror, with whom terms must be made. She will not be the wife of an adventurer, but of the liberator of Sonora, and those who blame her today will be the first to sing her praises."
"Yes, yes, that is true!" the maiden cried with fire. "I thank you, my father, for coming. My duty is laid down: I will accomplish it. Who will dare to attack the reputation of her who has married the saviour of her country?"
"Still," the count remarked, "this is only a palliative, after all. The marriage cannot take place yet. A fortnight, perhaps a month, will elapse ere I have rendered myself master of a city. Till then Doña Angela must remain in the camp where she has hitherto been."
All eyes were anxiously turned to the missionary.
"No," he said, "if the young lady will allow me to offer her a shelter."
"A shelter!" she said with an inquiring glance.
"Very simple and most unworthy to receive her, doubtlessly," he continued, "but where at least she will be in safety, in the midst of a family of honourable and good persons, to whom it will be a delight to receive her."
"Is the shelter you offer me, my father, very far from here?" the maiden asked quickly.
"Twenty-five leagues at the most, in the direction in which the French expedition must proceed on its march into Sonora."
Doña Angela gave a cunning smile at having been so well understood by the good priest.
"Listen, my father," she said with that resolution which was one of the principal features of her character. "Your reputation reached me long ago, and I know that you are a holy man. Even if I did not know you, the friendship and respect Don Valentine professes for you would be to me a sufficient guarantee. I trust myself in your hands. I understand how unsuitable my presence in the camp now, at any rate, is. Take me wherever you please. I am ready to follow you."
"My child," the missionary said with charming unction, "it is God who inspires this determination. The grief you will feel at a separation of a few days at the most will double the happiness of a reunion which no one will dare any longer to oppose—which will not only raise you again in the public opinion, which it is always precious to preserve, but also give your reputation a lustre which it will be hopeless to try and tarnish."
"Go, then, as it must be so, Doña Angela," the count said. "I intrust you to this good padre; but I swear that a fortnight shall not elapse ere we are again together."
"I hold your promise, Don Louis; it will help me to endure with greater courage the agony of absence."
"When do you expect to start?" Valentine asked.
"Now," the maiden exclaimed. "As the separation is inevitable, let us get over it at once."
"Well spoken," Valentine said. "By Jove! I return to what I said before, Doña Angela—you are a strong and nobly courageous woman; and, by heavens, I love you as a sister!"
Doña Angela could not refrain from smiling at the hunter's enthusiasm. The latter continued:—
"Hang it! But we did not think of that; you will need an escort——"
"For what?" the priest asked simply.
"By Jove! you are really delightful. Why, to protect you against the enemy's marauders."
"My friend, the respect of everybody we meet will be worth more to us than an escort, which is often compromising."
"For you, I grants but, my father, you do not remember that you will travel with two females who must be immediately recognised."
"That is true," he said simply; "I did not think of it."
"What is to be done, then?"
Doña Angela began laughing.
"Gentlemen, you are really troubled by a very trifling matter. The good father said an instant back, that the gown is the best safeguard, for friend and foe will respect it under all circumstances."
"That is true," the missionary said in confirmation.
"Well, it is extremely simple. If Father Seraphin has no objection, my waiting maid and myself will put on novices' robes, under which it will be easy for us to disguise ourselves so cleverly that no one can recognise us."
Father Seraphin seemed to be reflecting profoundly for a few moments.
"I see no serious obstacles to this disguisement," he at length observed: "under the circumstances it is permissible, as it will serve a good object."
"But where shall we find monks' robes?" the count objected, half seriously, half laughing. "I must confess that my camp is completely out of them."
"I will take that on myself," Valentine said. "I will send to La Magdalena a safe man, who can bring them back within an hour: during that time Doña Angela will complete her preparations for departure."
No one made any objection, and the maiden was left alone. Less than an hour after, Doña Angela and Violanta, dressed in monks' robes which Don Cornelio had purchased in the village, and with their faces concealed under broad-brimmed hats, mounted their horses, and, after bidding a warm farewell to their companions, they left the camp, accompanied by Father Seraphin. On separating, Violanta and Don Cornelio exchanged a secret glance, which would have given the count and Valentine matter for serious thought, could they have seen it.
"I am not easy in my mind," Don Louis muttered, shaking his head sadly. "A priest is a very weak escort in the present times."
"Reassure yourself," Valentine answered; "I have provided for that."
"Oh! you always think of everything, brother."
"Is it not my duty? Now let us attend to ourselves. The night will soon fall, and we must take our precautions not to let ourselves be surprised."
"You know that, with the exception of the few words you told me through Curumilla, I am completely ignorant of the details of this affair."
"They would be too long to give you at the present moment, brother, for we have hardly the requisite time for action."
"Have you any plan?"
"Certainly. If it succeed, the people who hope to surprise us will be awfully taken in."
"On my word, I trust to you with the greater pleasure because we have been a long time already at La Magdalena, and I wish to begin my forward march seriously."
"Very good. Can you spare me fifty adventurers?"
"Take as many as you like."
"I only want fifty resolute men accustomed to desert warfare. For that purpose I shall take Captain de Laville, and recommend him to select from among the men he brought with him from Guetzalli the boldest and most clever."
"Do so, my friend. As for myself, I will carefully watch over the camp, and double the patrols."
"That precaution can do no harm. So now good-by till tomorrow."
"Farewell!"
They separated, and Don Louis returned to his tent.
At the moment Valentine reached Captain de Laville's jacal he saw Don Cornelio quitting the camp with an indifferent air, and mechanically looked after him. In a moment he lost him out of sight behind a clump of trees, but all at once saw him reappear but mounted this time, and setting off full gallop in the direction of the pueblo.
"Eh, eh?" Valentine muttered with a thoughtful air. "What can Don Cornelio have to do in such haste at La Magdalena? I will ask him."
And he entered the jacal, where he found the captain, with whom he immediately began discussing the plan he had formed to foil the intended surprise on the part of the Mexicans. As we shall see this plan carried out presently, we will say nothing about it here, but go and rejoin Father Seraphin and Doña Angela.
It is especially at night, about two hours after sunset, that American scenery assumes grand proportions. Under the influence of the first night shadows the trees seem to put on majestic forms; the animated silence of the desert becomes more mysterious; and man experiences involuntarily a feeling of undefinable respect, which contracts his heart, and fills him with superstitious dread. At that hour the waters of the rivers flow with hoarse murmurings; the heavy and sinister flight of the birds of night agitates the air with a fluttering of evil augury; and the wild beasts, aroused in their hidden dens, salute the darkness with long howlings of joy, for at night they are incontestably the kings of the desert, for man is deprived of his greatest strength—the power of the eye.
Father Seraphin was riding by the side of the two females along the foot of a lofty mountain, whose wooded slopes were lost in the black depths of the Barrancas. Since leaving the camp they had not stopped once. They were following at this moment a narrow path traced by mules, which wound with countless turnings along the sides of the mountain. This path was so narrow that two horses could scarce go along side by side; but the steeds on which our travellers were mounted were so sure-footed, that the latter proceeded without any hesitation along a road on which no other animal would have ventured in the darkness.
The moon had not yet risen; not a star glistened in the cloud-laden sky; the darkness was dense; and, under the circumstances, this was almost fortunate; for had the travellers been able to see the spot where they were, and the way in which they were suspended, as it were, in space at a prodigious height, possibly their courage would have failed them, and their heads grown dizzy. Father Seraphin and Doña Angela were riding side by side: Violanta was a few paces behind.
"My father," the young lady said, "we have now been travelling for nearly six hours, and I am beginning to feel fatigued. Shall we not halt soon?"
"Yes, my child, in an hour at the most. In a few moments we shall leave this path, and cross a defile called the Quebrada del Coyote: at the end of that pass we shall spend the night in a poor house, which is now not more than two miles off."
"You say we are going to pass through the Coyote defile. We are, then, on the road to Hermosillo?"
"Quite true, my child."
"Is it not imprudent for us to venture on this road, which my father's troops command."
"My child," the missionary said gently, "in good policy we must often risk a great deal in order to secure greater tranquillity. We are not only on the road to Hermosillo, but we are going to that very city."
"What! to Hermosillo?"
"Yes, my child. In my opinion it is the only spot where you will be completely safe from your father's search, as he will never think of looking for you there, and cannot imagine that you are so near him."
"That is true," she said after a moment's reflection.
"The plan is a bold one, and hence must succeed. I believe, in truth, that Hermosillo is the only spot where I can be safe from the pursuit of those who have an interest in finding me."
"I will take care, besides, to recommend you to the persons to whom I shall intrust you; and, for greater security, I will leave you as little as possible."
"I shall be greatly obliged to you, my father, for I shall feel very sad and lonely."
"Courage, my child! I have faith in Don Louis. Heaven must protect his expedition, for the work he has undertaken is grand and noble, as it has for its object the emancipation of an entire country."
"Believe me, my father, I am happy to hear you speak thus. The count may fail; but in that case he will fall like a hero, and his death will be that of a martyr."
"Yes, the count is a chosen vessel. I believe, like yourself, my child, that if his contemporaries do not do him the justice which is his due, posterity at least will not confound him with those filibusters and shameless adventurers for whom gold alone is everything, and who, whatever may be the title they assume, are in reality no more than highway robbers. But the road is growing wider—we are about to enter the pass. This spot does not enjoy a very good reputation, so keep by my side. Although I believe that we have nothing to fear, it is always well to be prudent."
In fact, as the missionary stated, the path had suddenly widened out: the two sides of the mountain, which had, for some distance, been gradually drawing together, now formed two parallel walls, at the most only forty yards apart. It was this narrow gorge which was known as the Quebrada del Coyote. It was about half a mile in length; but then it suddenly grew wider, and opened on a vastchaparral, covered with thickets and fields of dahlias; while the mountains separated to the right and left, not to meet again till eighty leagues further on.
At the moment when the travellers entered the pass the moon broke out from the clouds in which it floated, and lighted up this dangerous pass with its mournful and sickly light. This gleam, weak as it was, could not fail to be agreeable to the travellers, as it allowed them to look around and see where they were. They pressed on their wearied steeds, in order to arrive more speedily at the end of the gloomy gorge in which they were. They had gone on for about ten minutes, and had nearly reached the centre of the pass, when the neighing of a horse smote their ears.
"We have travellers behind us," the missionary said with a frown.
"And in a hurry, as it seems," Doña Angela added. "Hark!"
They stopped to listen. The noise of hurried galloping reached their ears.
"Who can these men be?" the missionary murmured, speaking to himself.
"Travellers like ourselves, probably."
"No," Father Seraphin remarked, "travellers would not go at such a pace: they are doubtlessly persons in pursuit of us."
"That is not probable, my father: no one is aware of our journey."
"Treachery has the eye of the lynx and the ear of the opossum, my dear child. It is incessantly on the watch: everything is known—a secret is no longer one when two persons know it. But time presses: we must make up our minds."
"We are lost if they are enemies!" Doña Angela exclaimed with terror. "We have no help to expect from any one."
"Providence is on the watch, child. Place confidence in her: she will not abandon us."
The noise of horses rapidly approaching came nearer, and resembled the grumbling of thunder. The missionary drew himself up: his face suddenly assumed an expression of indomitable energy which would have been thought impossible for such gentle features; his voice, usually so pleasant and sonorous, became quick, and almost harsh.
"Place yourselves behind me, and pray," he said; "for, if I am not greatly mistaken, the meeting will be dangerous."
The two females obeyed mechanically. Doña Angela believed herself lost: alone with this poor priest, any resistance must be impossible. The missionary collected the reins in his left hand, attached them to the pommel of his saddle, and awaited the shock with his face turned to the newcomers. He had not long to wait: within scarce five minutes ten horsemen appeared at full gallop. When twenty paces from the travellers they halted as firmly as if their horses' hoofs were suddenly fixed in the ground.
These men, as far as it was possible to distinguish in the doubtful and tremorous light of the moon, were dressed in the Mexican garb, and their faces were covered with black crape. Doubt was no longer possible: these sinister horsemen were really in pursuit of our travellers. There was an instant of supreme silence—a silence which the missionary at length resolved to break.
"What do you want, gentlemen?" he said in a loud and firm voice. "Why are you pursuing us?"
"Oh, oh!" a mocking voice said, "the dove assumes the accent of the gamecock. Señor padre, we have no intention to injure you; we only wish to do you a service by saving you the trouble of guarding the two pretty girls you so cleverly have with you."
"Go your way, sirs," the priest continued, "and do not trouble yourselves about what does not concern you."
"Come, come, señor padre," the first speaker went on, "surrender with a good grace: we should not like to fail in the respect due to you. Resistance is impossible—we are ten against you alone: besides, you are a man of peace."
"You are cowards!" the missionary shouted. "Retire! A truce to mockery, and let me continue my journey in peace."
"Not so, señor padre, unless you consent to leave us your two companions."
"Ah, ah! that is it? Well, then, we must fight, gentlemen. It seems to me that you are strangely mistaken about me. Yes, I am a missionary, a man of peace; but I am also a Frenchman, and you appear to have forgotten that. You must understand that I will not suffer the slightest insult to the persons, whoever they may be, whom Heaven has placed under my protection."
"And with what will you defend them, Mr. Frenchman?" the stranger asked with a grin.
"With these," the missionary coldly replied as he drew a brace of pistols from his holsters, and set the hammers with a resolute air.
The bandits hesitated involuntarily. The missionary's action was so clear, his voice so firm, his presence so intrepid, that they felt themselves tremble; for they understood that they had a brave-hearted man before them, who would sooner die than yield an inch. The Mexicans do not respect much; but we must do them the justice of saying that they have an unbounded reverence for the priest's gown. The missionary was not a man like some who may be unfortunately met with, especially among the clergy of North and South America. His reputation for virtue and goodness was immense along the whole Mexican frontier: it was a serious matter to insult him, much more to threaten him with death. Still the strangers had advanced too far to give way.
"Come, padre," the man who had hitherto been spokesman said, "do not attempt any useless resistance. At all risks we will carry off these women."
And he made a movement as if to advance.
"Stop! One step further, and you are a dead man. I hold in my hands the life of two."
"And I of two others," a rough voice exclaimed; and a man, suddenly emerging from a thicket, bounded forward like a jaguar, and placed himself intrepidly by the missionary's side.
"Curumilla!" the latter exclaimed.
"Yes," the chief answered, "it is I. Courage! Our friends are coming up."
In fact a dull and continued sound could be heard rapidly increasing. The strangers had not yet paid attention to it, as they were so engaged by their discussion with the missionary. Still the situation was growing complicated. Father Seraphin saw that, so long as a pistol was not fired, he should remain almost master of the situation, certain, from Curumilla's words, as he was of seeing speedy help arrive. His resolution was at once formed: all he wanted was to gain time, and he attempted it.
"Come, gentlemen," he said, "you see that I am no longer alone: God has sent me a brave auxiliary; hence my position is no longer so desperate. Will you parley?"
"Parley!"
"Yes."
"Be quick."
"I will try to be so, as I presume, from the way in which you stopped me, you are salteadores. Well, look you. You have me almost in your power, or at least you think so. Remember that I am only a poor missionary, and that what I possess belongs to the unhappy. How much do you want for my ransom? Answer. I am ready to make any sacrifice compatible with my position."
Father Seraphin might have spoken thus for a long time, for the strangers were no longer listening: they had noticed the approaching sound, and were beginning to grow nervous.
"Maldición!" the man who had hitherto spoken said, "that demon has mocked us."
He dug his spurs into his horses flanks; but the noble animal, instead of bounding forward, reared up almost straight with a snort of pain, and then fell in a heap. Curumilla had cut its back sinews with a blow of his machete. After this exploit the Indian uttered a loud cry for help, which was answered by a formidable hurrah.
Still the impulse had been given, and the bandits rushed forward with a ferocious yell. The missionary discharged his pistols, rather for the purpose of hastening the advent of his unknown friends than of wounding his enemies, which was easy to see; for no one fell, and the two parties were so close that it was almost impossible to miss the mark.
At the same instant five or six horsemen rushed on the strangers like a whirlwind. A frightful medley began, and the bullets whistled in every direction. The missionary had dismounted, and, compelling the two females to do the same, he led them a few paces in the rear, in order to protect them from the shots. But the struggle was not a long one: within five minutes the bandits fled at full speed, pursued by nearly all the newcomers, and leaving four of their men stretched on the ground.
After a chase of a few minutes, however, the horsemen giving up a pursuit which they saw was useless, returned and joined the missionary. The latter, forgetting the unjust aggression he had just escaped, was already seeking to succour the unhappy men who had fallen victims to the trap they had laid for him: he went piously from one to the other, in order to offer them assistance if there were still time. Three were dead: the fourth was gasping and rolling on the ground in convulsions of death. The missionary raised the veil that concealed his face, and uttered a cry of surprise on recognising him. At this cry the dying man opened his eyes, and fixed a haggard glance on Father Seraphin.
"Yes, it is I," he said in an expiring voice. "I have only what I deserve."
"Unhappy man!" the missionary replied, "Is that what you swore to me?"
"I tried to do it," he continued. "A few days back I saved the man you recommended to me, father."
"And I," the missionary said sorrowfully, "you owe your life to me, and yet tried to kill me?"
The dying man made a gesture of energetic denial.
"No," he exclaimed, "never! Look you, my father: there are accursed natures in the world. El Buitre was a wretched bandit. Well, he dies as he lived: that is just. Good-by, father! Well, I saved your friend, the hunter. Ah, ah!"
While saying this the wretch had sat up. Suddenly he was seized with a convulsion, and rolled on the ground: he was dead. The missionary knelt down by his side and prayed. All present, moved involuntarily, took off their hats piously, and remained silent by his side. All at once shouts and firing were heard, and a numerous baud of horsemen galloped down the pass.
"To arms!" the men shouted, leaping into their saddles hurriedly.
"Stay," Curumilla said; "they are friends."
Employing our privilege as romancers, we will go back a little way, and return to Don Cornelio, whom Valentine looked after with such astonishment when he saw him leave the camp in such an unusual manner.
In the first place we will say a few words about Don Cornelio, that joyous and careless gentleman whom, in the first part of this history, we saw so impassioned for music generally, and the romance del Rey Rodrigo in particular. At the present time he was greatly changed: he no longer sang—the chords of his jarana no longer vibrated under his agile fingers; a deep wrinkle crossed his brow; his cheeks had grown pale; and he frowned incessantly under the pressure of gloomy thoughts. What could have happened? What powerful cause had thus changed the Spaniard's character?
This cause might be easily guessed. Don Cornelio loved Doña Angela. He loved her with all his strength—we will not say with a true and sincere love, for it was not love at all that he felt for her: another sentiment, less noble, but perhaps more lively, had craftily entered the gentleman's heart by the side of love.
This sentiment was avarice. We previously stated that Don Cornelio was under the influence of a fixed idea. This idea had led the Spaniard to America. The hidalgo wished to make his fortune by a marriage with a lady young, rich, and fair, but, before all, rich. A fixed idea is more than a passion, more than a monomania: it is the first stage of madness. Many times had Don Cornelio been deceived in his attempts on rich American women, whom he sought to dazzle, not by his luxury (for he was poor as Job, of lamentable memory), but by his personal advantages; that is to say, his beauty and wit. His meeting with Doña Angela decided his fate. Persuaded that the young lady loved him, he began to love her, for his part, with the frenzy of the drowning man, for whom such a love was the only chance of salvation.
When he perceived his error it was too late. We will do him the justice of conceding that the poor gentleman had struggled valiantly to tear from his heart this insensate passion. Unfortunately all his efforts were futile, and, as ever happens under such circumstances, forgetting all he owed to Don Louis, who had saved him not only from misery, but also from death, he felt for the count an intense hatred, the more tenacious because it was dumb and concentrated; and, by a natural feeling, he turned one half of that hatred on Doña Angela, although the young lady and the count had only been the instruments, throughout the affair, of that fatality which was so bitter against him.
Thus, with extreme patience and unexampled hypocrisy, Don Cornelio prepared his vengeance against these two beings, who had never done him aught but kindness, and watched with the perfidy of a wild beast the opportunity to destroy them. This opportunity would not be difficult to find in a country where treachery is the order of the day, and forms the basis of all combinations and transactions, of whatever nature they may be.
Don Cornelio had entered into relations with the enemies of the count, and surrendered to them the secrets the latter allowed to let slip in his presence. He had so arranged as to make his two foes fall into a trap from which they could not escape, and in wreathing round them a net from which extrication would be impossible. And now that we have explained Don Cornelio's feelings to the reader we will proceed with our narrative.
The Spaniard had succeeded in drawing over to his side Doña Angela's waiting maid. Thus Violanta betrayed her mistress to the profit of Don Cornelio, by whom she believed herself beloved, and who, had led her to fancy that he would marry her some day. From the camarista, who had remained on the listen, the Spaniard learned all that was said in the jacal between Father Seraphin, the count, and the young lady: the order he afterwards received to go to La Magdalena and purchase the gowns dissipated all his doubts, and he resolved to act without loss of time.
It was by his advice that the Mexicans were to attempt to attack the camp that very night: hence he knew where to find them. Taking advantage, therefore, of a moment when everybody was too busy with his own affairs to think about what others were doing, he glided silently out of the camp, like a man taking a morning's walk, gained a clump of trees behind which a horse was hidden, and rode off at full speed across country, after taking a scrutinising glance around to assure himself that he was not watched.
He galloped thus for several hours, not seeming to follow any regular road, dashing straight on, and paying no attention to obstacles, or not checking the speed of his horse. Still, gradually his thoughts, at first gloomy and sad, assumed a different direction: he attached the bridle to his saddle-bow, and for the first time for many a day his fingers began straying mechanically over the resonant strings of his jarana, which he always wore in a sling, and brought with him; then, yielding unconsciously to the influence of the surrounding scenery, he began singing in a loud voice that couplet of the romance which bore a certain degree of reference to his present position:—
"Amada enemiga mia,De España segunda Elena,O ¡si yo naciera ciego!O ¡tú sin beldad nacieras!Maldito sea el punto y horaQue al mundo me dio mi estrella:Pechos que me dieron lecheMejor sepulcro me dieranPagará——"[1]
"Deuce take the owl singing at this hour!" a rough voice said, harshly interrupting the virtuoso. "Who ever heard such an infernal row?"
Don Cornelio looked around. The darkness was profound. A tall man with crafty air, and mustachios turned up, was examining him impudently while tapping the hilt of a long rapier.