During Valentine's absence facts of extreme gravity had occurred at the mission. The Count de Prébois Crancé had finished his correspondence, and held in his hand the letters he had just written, while he gave a peon, already mounted, his final instructions. At this moment the advanced posts uttered the cry of "Who goes there?" which was immediately taken up along the whole line. Louis felt his heart contracted by this shout, to which he was, however, accustomed; a cold perspiration beaded on his temples; a mortal pallor covered his face; and he was forced to lean against a wall lest he should fall, so weak did he feel.
"Good heavens!" he stammered in a low voice, "what can be the matter with me?"
Let who can explain the cause of this strange emotion, this inner presentiment which warned the count of a misfortune; for our part, we confess our inability, and content ourselves with recording the fact.
The count, however, wrestled with this extraordinary emotion, for which there was no plausible reason. Owing to a supreme effort of the will, a perfect reaction took place in him, and he became once more cold, calm, and stoical, ready to sustain, without weakness as without bravado, the blow by which he instinctively felt himself menaced.
In the meanwhile an answer had been returned to the sentries' challenge, and words exchanged. Don Cornelio came up to the count, his face quite discomposed by astonishment, and himself a prey to the most lively emotion.
"Señor conde——" he said in a panting voice, and then stopped.
"Well," the count asked, "what is the meaning of those challenges I heard?"
"Señor," Don Cornelio continued with an effort, "General Guerrero, accompanied by his daughter, several other ladies, a dozen officers, and a powerful escort, requests to be introduced to your presence."
"He is welcome. At length, then, he consents to treat directly with me."
Don Cornelio withdrew to carry out the orders he had received, and soon a brilliant cavalcalde, at the head of which was General Guerrero, entered the mission. The general was pale, and frowned: it was easy to see that he with difficulty suppressed a dumb fury that filled his heart. The adventurers, in scattered groups, and haughtily wrapped up in their rags, regarded curiously these smart Mexican officers, so vain and so glittering with gold, who scarce deigned to bestow a glance upon them. The count walked a few paces toward the general, and uncovered with a movement full of singular grace.
"You are welcome, general," he said in his gentle voice; "I am happy to receive your visit."
The general did not even lift his finger to his embroidered hat, but, suddenly stopping his horse when scarce two paces from the count,—
"What is the meaning of this, sir?" he exclaimed in an angry voice. "You are guarded as if in a fortress! You have, Heaven pardon me! sentries and patrols round your encampment, as if you were in command of a regular army."
The count bit his lips; but he restrained himself, and replied in a calm, though grave voice,—
"We are on the edge of thedespoblados(deserts), general, and our safety depends on our vigilance. Although I am not the commander of an army, I answer for the safety of the men I have the honour of leading. But will you not dismount, general, so that we may discuss more at our ease the grave questions which doubtless bring you here?"
"I will not dismount, sir, nor anyone of my suite, before you have explained to me your strange conduct."
Such a flash sparkled in the count's blue eye that, in spite of himself, the general turned his head away. This conversation had taken place under the vault of heaven, in the presence of the Frenchmen, who had collected round the newcomers. The patience of the adventurers was beginning to grow exhausted, and hoarse, mutterings were heard. With a sign the count appeased the storm, and silence was immediately re-established.
"General," Don Louis continued with perfect calmness, "the words you address to me are severe. I was far from expecting them, especially after the way in which I have acted since my landing in Mexico, and the moderation I have constantly displayed."
"All that is trifling," the general said furiously. "You Frenchmen have a honeyed tongue when you wish to deceive us. But, by heavens, I will teach you differently! You are warned once for all."
The count drew himself up, and a feverish flush suffused his cheeks. He put on again the hat he had hitherto held in his hand, and looked the general boldly in the face.
"I would observe, Señor Don Sebastian Guerrero," he said, in a voice broken by emotion, which he attempted in vain to check, "that you have not returned me my salute, and that you employ strange language in addressing a gentleman at least as noble as yourself. Is this the boasted Mexican courtesy? Come to the facts, caballero, without holding language unworthy of yourself or me; explain yourself frankly, that I may know, once for all, what I have to hope or fear from these eternal tergiversations, and the continued treachery of which I am the victim."
The general remained for a moment thoughtful after this rude apostrophe. At length he made up his mind, removed his hat, saluted the count graciously, and suddenly changed his manner.
"Pardon me, caballero," he said; "I was so far carried away by my temper as to employ expressions which I deeply regret."
The count smiled disdainfully.
"Your apologies are sufficient, sir," he said.
At the word "apologies" the general quivered, but soon regained command of himself.
"Where do you desire that I should communicate to you the orders of my Government?"
"At this spot, sir. I have, thanks to Heaven, nothing to hide from my brave comrades."
The general, though evidently annoyed, dismounted. The ladies and officers who accompanied him did the same. The escort alone remained on horseback, with their ranks closed up. At an order from Don Louis several tables were produced, and instantaneously covered with refreshments, of which the French officers began to do the honours with the grace and gaiety that distinguish their nation. The general and the count seated themselves on butacas, placed in the doorway of the mission church, near a table, on which were pen, ink, and paper.
There was a lengthened silence. It was evident that neither wished to be the first to speak. The general at length opened the conversation.
"Oh, oh!" he said, "you have guns with you?"
"Did you not know it, general?"
"My faith, no!"
And he added, with a sarcastic smile,—
"Do you intend to pursue the Apaches with such weapons?"
"At the present moment less than ever, general," Don Louis answered dryly. "I do not know of what use this artillery will be to me. Still it is good, and I am convinced that it will not betray me in the hour of need."
"Is that a menace, sir?" the general asked significantly.
"What is the use of threatening when you can act?" the count said concisely. "But that is not the question, for the present at least. I am awaiting your pleasure, sir, to explain to me the intentions of your Government with regard to me."
"They are kind and paternal, sir."
"I will wait till you have told me them ere I express any opinion."
"This is the message I am charged to deliver to you."
"Ah! have you a message for me?"
"Yes."
"I am listening, caballero."
"The message is quite paternal."
"I am certain of it. Let us see what your Government's intentions are."
"I should have wished them better, but I consider them acceptable in their present form."
"Be kind enough to communicate them to me, general."
"I was anxious to come myself, señor conde, in order to lessen by my presence any apparent bitterness these proposals might contain."
"Ah!" the count remarked, "propositions are made to me; in other words, and speaking by the card, conditions which it is desired to impose on me. Very good."
"Oh, conde, conde, how badly you take what I say to you!"
"Pardon me, general, you know that I do not speak your magnificent Spanish very well; still I thank you from my heart for your kindness in accepting the harsh mission of communicating these propositions to me."
This was said with an accent of fine raillery which completely discountenanced the general.
"I would observe, general, that we are now only a few leagues from the mine, and the alternative offered me is most painful, especially after the evasive answers constantly made to me and the persons I sent with full powers to treat personally with the authorities of the country."
"That is true; I can comprehend that. Colonel Florés, whom you sent to me a few days back, will have told you how pained I felt at all that is happening. I lose as much as yourself. Unfortunately, you will understand me, my dearest count, I must obey, whether I like it or not."
"I understand perfectly," Louis answered ironically, "how deeply pained you must feel."
"Alas!" the general said, more embarrassed than ever, and who began to regret in his heart that he was not accompanied by a larger force.
"Well, as it is useless to prolong this position indefinitely, as it is so cruel for you, explain yourself without further circumlocution, I beg."
"Hum! Remember that I am in no way responsible."
The fact is the general was afraid.
"Go on—go on!"
"The propositions are as follow:—You are enjoined——"
"Oh! that is a harsh term," Louis observed.
The general shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that he had nothing to do with drawing up the document.
"Well, then," the count said, "we are enjoined——"
"Yes, First. Either to consent to give up your nationality as Frenchmen——"
"Pardon me," the count interrupted, and laid his hand on the general's arm, "an instant, if you please. As I see that what you are commissioned to communicate to me interests all my comrades, it is my duty to invite them to be present at the reading of these propositions; for you have them in writing, I believe?"
"Yes," the general stammered, turning livid.
"Very good. Buglers!" the count shouted in a high and imperative voice, "sound the assembly."
Ten minutes later the whole company was ranged round the table, at which the general and the count were seated. Don Louis looked carefully around, and then noticed the Mexican officers and ladies, who, curious to know what was going on, had also drawn nearer.
"Chairs for these ladies and caballeros," he said. "Pray excuse me, señoras, if I do not pay you all the attention you deserve; but I am only a poor adventurer, and we are in the desert."
Then, when all had taken their seats,—
"Give me a copy of these proposals," he said to the general; "I will read them myself."
The general obeyed mechanically.
"Gentlemen and dear comrades," Don Louis then said in a sharp voice, in which, however, a scarcely suppressed anger could be noticed, "when I enrolled you at San Francisco, I showed you the authentic documents conferring on me the ownership of the mines of the Plancha de Plata, did I not?"
"Yes!" the adventurers shouted with one voice.
"You read at the foot of those documents the names of Don Antonio Pavo, President of the Mexican Republic, and of General Don Sebastian Guerrero, present here at this moment. You then knew on what conditions you enlisted, and also the engagements the Mexican Government entered into with you. Today, after three months' marching and counter-marching; after suffering without a murmur all the annoyances it pleased the Mexican Government to inflict on you; when you have proved, by your good conduct and severe discipline, that you were in every way worthy to fulfil honourably the mission that was intrusted to you; when, finally, in spite of the incessant obstacles continually raised in your path, you have arrived within less than ten leagues of the mines, do you know what the Mexican Government demands of you? Listen: I will tell you, for you are even more interested than myself in the question."
A thrill of curiosity ran through the ranks of the adventurers.
"Speak—speak!" they shouted.
"You have three alternatives:—First. You are enjoined to resign your French nationality, and become Mexicans, and will be permitted to work the mines, without any pay, under the supreme command of General Guerrero, whose aide-de-camp I shall become."
An Homeric burst of laughter greeted this proposition.
"The second—let us have the second!" some shouted.
"Sapristi!" others remarked, "these Mexicans are not fools to wish to have us for their countrymen."
"Go on—go on!" the remainder howled.
The count gave a sign, and silence was re-established.
"Secondly. You are ordered to take out cards of surety if you wish to remain Frenchmen. By means of such cards you can go anywhere: still, as foreigners, you will be forbidden any possession—that is to say, working—of the mines. You have quite understood me, I presume?"
"Yes, yes! The last one—the last one!"
"I did not fancy the Mexicans were such funny fellows," a soldier remarked.
"Thirdly. I personally am ordered to reduce the company to fifty men, to hand over my command to a Mexican officer, and on that condition you can at once take possession of the mines."
When the captain had ended his reading there was such an explosion of laughter, shouts, and yells, that for nearly a quarter of an hour it was almost impossible to hear anything. At length the count succeeded in restoring some degree of order and silence, though with considerable difficulty.
"Such are the paternal intentions of the Mexican Government as regards us. What do you think of them, my friends? Still, I implore you, do not allow yourselves to be carried away by your just indignation, but reflect deeply on what you think it your duty to do for your own interests. As for myself, my resolution is formed—it is immutable; and even if it cost my life, I shall not alter it. But you, my friends, my brethren, your private interests cannot be mine; hence do not sacrifice yourselves through friendship and devotion to me. You know me well enough to put faith in my words. Those among you who wish to leave me will be free to do so: not only will I not oppose their departure, but I shall bear them no ill will. The strange position in which we are placed by the ill faith of the Mexicans imposes on me obligations and a line of conduct to which you can refuse to submit without disgrace. From this moment I release you from every engagement with me. I am no longer your chief, but I will ever be your friend and brother."
These words had scarce been uttered ere the adventurers, through an irresistible impulse, overthrowing all in their way, rushed toward the count, surrounded him with shouts and cries, lifted him in their arms, and showered on him assurances of their complete devotion.
"Long live the count! Long live Louis! Long live our chief! Death to the Mexicans! Down with the traitors!"
Their effervescence assumed proportions which threatened to become dangerous to the Mexicans at the moment in the camp. The exasperation was at its height. Still, owing to the influence the count exerted over his comrades, and the energetic conduct of the officers, the tumult gradually died out, and all returned nearly to the normal condition.
General Guerrero, at first alarmed by the effect produced on the French by the untoward propositions of which he had constituted himself the bearer, soon reassured himself, however, especially on seeing with what abnegation and loyalty the count protected him against the just indignation of his companions. Nearly sure of running no risk, owing to the noble character of the man he had so unjustly deceived, he resolved to strike the final blow.
"Caballeros," he said in that honeyed voice peculiar to the Mexicans, "permit me to address a few words to you."
At this request the tumult was on the point of recommencing: still the count succeeded in producing a stormy silence, if we may be allowed to employ the phrase.
"General, you can speak," he said to him.
"Gentlemen," Don Sebastian went on, "I have only a few words to add. The Count de Prébois Crancé has read you the conditions the Mexican Government imposes, but he was unable to read to you the consequences of a refusal to obey those conditions."
"That is true, sir. Be good enough, therefore, to make them known to us."
"It is a terrible duty for me to fulfil; still I must do so for your benefit, caballeros."
"Come to the point!" the adventurers shouted.
The general unfolded a paper, and after a moment of hesitation he read as follows, with a voice which, spite of all his efforts, slightly trembled:—
"Count Don Louis de Prébois Crancé, and all the men who remain faithful to him, will be regarded as pirates; placed without the pale of the law, and arrested as such; tried by a military commission, and shot within twenty-four hours."
"Is that all, sir?" the count asked coldly.
At a sign from the count the two papers containing the proposals and the proclamation of outlawry were nailed on the trunk of a tree.
"And now, sir, you have fulfilled your mission, I believe? You have nothing further to add?"
"I regret, señor conde——"
"Enough, sir. Were I really a pirate, as you so charitably call me, it would be easy for me to retain you, as well as the persons that accompany you, which would supply me with ample means for the satisfaction of my vengeance; but, whatever you may say, neither I nor the men I have the honour to command are pirates. You will leave here as free as you came: still I fancy you would do well not to delay your departure."
The general did not need to hear this twice. For two hours he had seen death several times too near, or at least he fancied so, to desire to prolong his stay in the camp; and hence he gave the necessary orders for immediate departure. At this moment Doña Angela, suddenly emerged from the group of ladies among whom she had hitherto stood, and walked forward, majestically robed in herrebozo, her eye flashing with a sombre fire.
"Stay!" she said with an accent so firm and so imposing that each was silent, and regarded her with astonishment.
"Madam," Don Louis said to her, "I conjure you——"
"Let me speak," she said energetically; "let me speak, señor conde. As no one in this hapless country dares to protest against the odious treachery of which you are a victim, I—a woman, the daughter of your most implacable enemy—declare openly before all, that you, count, are the only man whose genius is powerful enough to regenerate this unhappy country. You are misunderstood—insulted; and the epithet of pirate is attached to your name. Well, pirate—be it so. Don Louis, I love you! Henceforth I am yours—yours alone. Persevere in your noble enterprise. As long as I live there will be a woman in this accursed land who will pray for you. And now, farewell! I leave my heart with you."
The count knelt before the noble woman, kissed her hand respectfully, and raised his eyes to heaven.
"Doña Angela," he said with emotion, "I thank you. I love you, and whatever may happen, I will prove to you that I am worthy of your love."
"Now, my father, let us go," she said to the general, who was half mad with rage, and who yet did not dare give way to his passion; and turning for the last time to the count, she said, "Good-by, Don Louis! My betrothed, we shall soon meet again."
And she left the camp, accompanied by the enthusiastic shouts of the adventurers.
The Mexicans marched out with drooping heads and a blush on their foreheads. In spite of themselves they were ashamed of the infamous treachery they had dealt out to men whom they had earnestly summoned, whom they had deluded during four months with false promises, and whom they were now preparing to rush upon like wild beasts.
Scarce two hours after these events occurred Valentine re-entered the camp.
The emotion caused by the general's visit gradually calmed down. The Frenchmen, so long the sport of Mexican bad faith, experienced almost joy at seeing themselves at length liberated from the inextricable web of trickery which had encompassed them. With that carelessness which forms the basis of the national character, they began laughing and jibing at the Mexicans generally, and especially at the authorities of the country, of whom they had to complain so greatly, though without daring to offer the least observation, through respect for their chief. Full of confidence in the count, without calculating that they were only a handful of men abandoned to their own resources, without help or possible protection, more than six thousand leagues from their country, they indulged to the fullest extent of their imagination in the wildest dreams, discussing among themselves the most extraordinary and daring plans, without ever supposing, in their candid filibustering simplicity, that even the least extravagant of their dreams was impossible to realise.
Louis would not allow the ardour of his volunteers to be chilled. After consulting with his officers, to whom he submitted his plans, which they accepted enthusiastically, by Valentine's advice he ordered a general assembly of the company. The bugles at once sounded, and the adventurers collected around headquarters.
"Gentlemen," the count said, "you see in what a position the breach of faith of the Mexican authorities has placed us; but this position, in my opinion, is far from being desperate. Still I must not conceal from you that it is extremely grave, and, from certain information I have from a good source, it threatens to become still more so. We have two modes in which to act. The first is to proceed by forced marches to Guaymas, seize a vessel, and embark ere our enemies have thought about opposing our departure."
A long murmur of dissatisfaction greeted these words.
"Gentlemen," the count continued, "it was my duty to submit this proposition to you, and you will discuss it amongst yourselves. If it does not suit you, no more need be said. And now for the second. Mexico, since its emancipation, has languished in a state of the most scandalous barbarism. It would be grand to regenerate this people, or at least attempt it. The American emigration from the United States is at this moment invading California, leaving other emigrants no means, I will not say of prospering, but even of keeping on a footing of equality with the Yankees. We are here in Sonora, 200 resolute Frenchmen, well armed and disciplined. Let us seize a large town to have a basis of operations; then we will summon to us the French emigrants from California and all America. Let us emancipate Sonora, make it free and strong, civilise it in spite of itself, and not only shall we have created an outlet for French immigration, but have regenerated a people and formed a colony which will advantageously balance American influence on these shores, and oppose a dyke to its incessant encroachments. We shall have acquired a claim to the gratitude of our country, and have avenged ourselves on our enemies in the way Frenchmen revenge themselves; that is to say, by responding to their insults by kindness. Such, gentlemen, are the two sole methods we can select which would be worthy of men like us. Weigh my words carefully; reflect on my propositions; and tomorrow, at sunrise, you will inform me of your intentions through the channel of your officers. Remember one thing before all, comrades, and that is, you must maintain strict discipline among yourselves. Obey me passively, and place unbounded faith in me. If you fail in one of the duties I impose on you at this moment, we are all lost; for the struggle will become impossible, and consequently our enemies will gain an easy victory over us. In conclusion, brethren, accept my word that whatever may be the circumstances in which we find ourselves—however magnificent the offers that may be made me—I will never abandon you. We will perish or succeed together."
This speech was greeted as it deserved to be; that is to say, with an enthusiasm impossible to describe. The count then withdrew with Valentine.
"Alas, brother!" he said to him, with an expression of heart-rending sorrow, "the die is now cast. I, Count de Prébois Crancé, am a rebel, a pirate: I am at open war with a recognised power, with a constitutional Government. What can I do with the few men I command? I shall perish in the first battle—the combat is senseless. I shall be ere long the laughing stock of the world. Who could have predicted this when I left San Francisco, full of hope, to work those mines which I shall never see? What has become of my fair dreams, my seductive hopes?"
"Do not allow yourself to be downcast, brother," Valentine answered. "At present, above all, you need all your intellect and all your energy to fulfil worthily the task accident imposes on you. Remember that from this intellect and this energy depends the safety of two hundred of your countrymen, whom you have sworn to lead back to the seashore; and you must keep your oath."
"I will die with them. What more can they demand?"
"That you should save them," the hunter replied sternly.
"That is my most anxious desire."
"Your position is a fine one—you are not so alone as you fancy."
"How so?"
"Have you not the French colony of Guetzalli, founded by the Count de Lhorailles?"
"Yes," Louis answered sadly; "but the count is dead."
"He is; but the colony exists, and is prosperous. You will find there fifty to sixty resolute men, who ask no better than to join you, even if merely through the spirit of adventure."
"Fifty men are very few."
"Nonsense! They are more than you need when dealing with Mexicans. Do one thing more: prepare an insurrection among the half savage population, whose alcaldes pine secretly at their secondary position, and the species of vassaldom into which the Mexican Government forces them."
"Oh, oh!" Louis said, "that is a good idea. But where is the man who will undertake to visit this people, and negotiate with the alcaldes of the Pueblos?"
"I will, if you like."
"I did not dare ask it. Thank you. I, for my part, will prepare everything in order to begin with a terrible blow, which will startle the Mexican Government by giving it an idea of our strength."
"Good! Before all, do not forget that, until fresh orders, the war you undertake must be an uninterrupted succession of daring blows."
"Oh! you may be at ease. Now that the Mexicans have lifted the mask, and forced me to defend myself, they will learn to know the men they have so long despised, and whom they fancied cowards because they were good-hearted."
"Has Colonel Florés left?"
"No, not yet."
"Keep him here till tomorrow, no matter by what pretext."
"Why so?"
"Let me alone: you shall know. And now prepare to sustain an attack from the Indians: if my presentiments do not deceive me, it will be warm."
"What makes you suppose that?"
"Certain information I picked up for myself, and other still more important I obtained from Curumilla. So try to prevent the Mexican colonel leaving the camp, but do not let him suspect he is watched."
"It shall be done. You know that I trust to you for the precautions to be taken?"
"Externally, yes; but do you watch that the lines are not forced."
The greatest animation prevailed in the camp. Armories and smiths were busily working with feverish ardour to place weapons, carts, and gun carriages in working condition. On all sides joyous shouts and bursts of laughter could be heard; for these worthy adventurers had regained all their gaiety, now that there was a prospect of fighting; that is, of dealing and receiving blows.
Colonel Florés wandered about rather sadly in the midst of the confusion: his position was becoming difficult, and he felt it. Still he did not know how to prolong his stay among the Frenchmen, now that war was declared, and the interests of the company of which he was the delegate were completely laid aside; and thus the only plausible reason he could allege for remaining was cut away. Since the Frenchmen's arrival in Mexico the double character played by the colonel brought him handsome sums: his profession of spy, rendered easy by the confiding frankness of the adventurers, had been to him a source of enormous profit, and people do not give up without pain a lucrative engagement.
Thus the colonel's brow was anxious, for he racked his brains in vain for a plausible excuse to offer the count. In the height of his diplomatic combinations Valentine came to him, and told him, with the most innocent air possible, that Don Louis was seeking for him, and wished to speak with him. The colonel shuddered at the news: he thanked the hunter, and hastened to the count. Valentine looked after him with an ironical smile; and, certain that Louis would detain him long enough by his side, he commenced the execution of the plan he had prepared.
While all this was occurring night had set in—a gloomy and sad night, without a star in the sky. The clouds shot rapidly across the sickly disc of the moon, and intercepted its rays. The wind lamented sadly as it whistled through the branches of the trees, which dashed against each other with a lugubrious sound. In the mysterious depths of the forest could be heard growls and savage yells, mingled with the dashing of the cascade and the monotonous clashing of the pebbles rolled on the bank by the river. It was one of those nights in which nature seems to associate herself with human sorrows, and lament at the crimes for which her gloomy shadows serve as a veil.
By Valentine's orders the trees had been cut down for a distance of fifty yards round the camp, in order to clear the ground, and deprive the enemy of the chance of creeping up to the intrenchments unseen. On the space thus left free enormous fires were kindled at regular intervals. These fires, whose tall flames illumined the prairie for a considerable distance, formed a brilliant circle round the camp, which was itself plunged in complete obscurity. Not the slightest light flashed in the mission. The intrenchments appeared to be deserted—not a sentry could be seen. The mission had fallen back into the silence of solitude—all was calm and tranquil.
But this calm concealed the tempest. In the shadow palpitated the anxious hearts of the men who, with ear on the watch, and finger on the trigger, awaited motionless the arrival of their enemies. The hours, however, passed away slowly one after the other, and nothing justified the apprehensions expressed by Valentine as to a speedy attack.
The count was walking up and down the church which served as his retreat, listening anxiously to the slightest sounds that interrupted the silence at intervals. At times he turned an angry and impatient look upon the desert country, but nothing stirred—the same calm continued ever to oppress nature. Wearied by this long and enervating delay, he quitted the church, and proceeded toward the intrenchments. The adventurers were at their posts, stretched on the ground, each man with his hand on the trigger.
"Have you seen or heard nothing yet?" the count asked, though he knew beforehand the answer he would receive, and rather for the purpose of deceiving his impatience than with any other object.
"Nothing," Don Cornelio answered coldly, who happened to be close to him.
"Ah! it is you," the count said. "And Colonel Florés, what have you done with him?"
"I followed your instructions, commandant. He is asleep."
"You are sure of it?"
The Spaniard smiled.
"I guarantee that he will sleep at least till sunrise," he said. "I managed matters well."
"Very good; in that case we have nothing to fear from him."
"Nothing at all."
"Has anyone seen Don Valentine or the Indian chief?"
"No; they both went out at sunset, and have not reappeared since."
While speaking thus the two men were looking out, and their eyes attentively examined the plain: hence they made a gesture of surprise, almost of alarm, on suddenly perceiving a man who seemed to emerge from the ground, and rose between them like a phantom.
"Válgame Dios!" the superstitious Spaniard said as he crossed himself, "what is this?"
The count quickly drew a revolver from his girdle.
"Do not fire," the newcomer said as he laid his hand on the count's arm.
"Curumilla!" the count exclaimed in surprise.
"Silence!" the Araucano commanded.
"Where is Valentine?"
"He sent me."
"Then the redskins will not attack us this night?"
Curumilla regarded the count with amazement.
"Does not my brother see them?" he said.
"Where?" the count asked in astonishment.
"There!" Curumilla answered, stretching out his arm in the direction of the plain.
Don Louis and Don Cornelio looked out for several instants with the most sustained attention; but, in spite of all their efforts, they perceived nothing. The plain was still just as naked, lighted up by the ruddy glare from the braseros: here and there alone lay the trunks of the trees felled during the day to leave an open prospect.
"No," they said at length, "we see nothing."
"The eyes of the white men are closed at night," the chief muttered sententiously.
"But where are they?" the count asked impatiently. "Why did you not warn us?"
"My brother Koutonepi sends me for that purpose."
The name of Koutonepi—that is to say, the Valiant—had been given to Valentine by the Araucanos on his arrival in America, and Curumilla never called him otherwise.
"Then make haste to teach us, chief, that we may foil the accursed stratagem which these demons have doubtlessly invented."
"Let my brother warn his brothers to be ready to fight."
The word ran immediately along the line from one to the other. Curumilla then tranquilly shouldered his rifle, and aimed at a trunk of a tree rather nearer the intrenchments than the rest.
Never did a shot produce such an effect. A horrible yell rose from the plain, and a swarm of redskins, rising, as if moved by a spring, from behind the stems of trees that sheltered them, rushed toward the intrenchments, bounding like coyotes, uttering fearful yells, and brandishing their weapons furiously.
But the Frenchmen were prepared for this attack: they received the Indians at the bayonet point without recoiling an inch, and answering their ferocious yells with the unanimous shout of "VIVE LA FRANCE!"
From this moment war was,de facto, declared. The French had smelled powder, and the Mexicans were about to learn, at their own expense, what rude enemies they had so madly brought on themselves.
Still the redskins, led and animated by their chief, fought with extraordinary obstinacy. The majority of the Frenchmen who composed the company were ignorant of the way of fighting with the Indians, and it was the first time they had come into collision with them. While valiantly resisting them, and inflicting on them terrible losses, they could not refrain from admiring the audacious temerity of these men, who, half naked and wielding wretched weapons, yet rushed upon them with invincible courage, and only fell back when dead.
Suddenly a second band, more numerous than the first, and composed entirely of horsemen, burst on to the battlefield, and sustained the efforts of the assailants. The latter, feeling themselves supported, redoubled their yells and efforts. The medley became terrible: the combatants fought hand to hand, lacerating each other like wild beasts.
The French bugles and drums sounded the charge heartily.
"A sortie—a sortie!" the adventurers shouted, ashamed at being thus held in check by enemies apparently so insignificant.
"Kill, kill!"
The Indians responded with their war cry.
An Indian chief, mounted on a magnificent black horse, and with his body naked to the waist, curveted in the front rank of his men, dropping with his club every man that came within reach of his arm. Twice he had made his steed leap at the barricades, and twice he scaled them, though unable to clear them completely. This chief was Mixcoatzin. His black eye flashed with a sombre fire; his arm seemed indefatigable; and everyone withdrew from this terrible enemy, who was apparently invincible.
The sachem redoubled his boldness, incessantly urging on his men, and insulting the whites by his shouts and ironical gestures.
Suddenly a third troop appeared on the battlefield, which, owing to the braziers, was as light as day. But this troop, composed, like the second, of horsemen, instead of joining the Indians, formed a semicircle, and charged them furiously, shouting,—
"A muerte—a muerte!"
Valentine's powerful voice at this moment rose above the tumult of battle, and even reached those he wished to warn.
"Now is the time!" he shouted.
The count heard him. Turning then to fifty of the adventurers who bad remained inactive since the beginning of the action, chafing and trailing their arms,—
"It is our turn, comrades!" he shouted as he drew his long sword. Then, opening the wicket, he bounded boldly into themêlée, followed by his party, who rushed after him with shouts of joy. The Indians were caught between two fires—a thing which rarely happens—and compelled to fight in the open. Still they were not discouraged, for Indian bravery surpasses all belief. Finding themselves surrounded, they resolved to die bravely sooner than surrender; and though not nearly so well armed as their enemies, they received their attack with unlessened resolution.
But the Indians, on this occasion, had not to do with Mexicans, and soon discovered the difference. The charge of the Frenchmen was irresistible: they passed like a tornado through the redskins, who, in spite of their resolution, were compelled to give ground. But flight was impossible. Recalled by the voices of their chiefs, who, while themselves fighting bravely, did not cease to urge them to redouble their efforts, they returned to the combat. The struggle then assumed the gigantic proportions of a horrible carnage. It was no longer a battle, but a butchery, in which each sought to kill, caring little about falling himself, so long as he dragged down his foeman with him.
Valentine, the greater part of whose life had been spent in the desert, and who had frequently encountered the Indians, had never before seen them display so great animosity, and, above all, such obstinacy; for usually, when they suffer a check, far from obstinately continuing a fight without any possible advantageous result for themselves, they retire immediately, and seek safety in a hurried flight; but this time their mode of fighting was completely changed, and it seemed that the more they recognised the impossibility of victory, the more anxious they felt to resist.
The count, ever in front of his comrades, whom he encouraged by his gestures and voice, tried to approach Mixcoatzin, who, still curveting on his black horse, performed prodigies of valour, which electrified his men, and threatened, if not to change the face of the combat, at any rate to prolong it. But each time that chance brought him in front of the chief, and he prepared to rush upon him, a crowd of combatants, driven back by the changing incidents of the fight, came between them, and neutralised his efforts.
For his part, the sachem also strove to approach the count, with whom he burned to measure himself, persuaded that, if he succeeded in killing the chief of the palefaces, the latter would be struck with terror, and abandon the battlefield.
At length, as if by mutual agreement, the white men and Indians fell back a few paces, doubtlessly to prepare for a final contest; and it was then that, for the first time since the combat, the count and the sachem found themselves face to face. The two men exchanged a flashing glance, and rushed upon each other furiously. Neither of the chiefs had firearms: the sachem brandished his terrible club, and the count waved his long sword, which was reddened to the hilt.
"At last!" the count shouted, as he raised his weapon over his head.
"Begging dog of the palefaces," the Indian said with a grin, "you bring me, then, your scalp, that I may attach it to the entrance of my cabin!"
They were only two paces from each other, each awaiting the favourable moment to rush on his enemy. On seeing their chiefs ready to engage, the two parties rushed forward impetuously, in order to separate them and recommence the combat; bat Don Louis, with a gesture of supreme command, ordered his companions not to interfere. The adventurers remained motionless. On his side, Mixcoatzin, seeing the noble and gallant courtesy of the count, commanded his comrades to keep back. The redskins obeyed, and the question was left to be decided between Don Louis and the sachem.
The two enemies hesitated for a moment; but suddenly the sachem bounded forward. The count remained motionless; but at the moment the Indian reached him, with a movement rapid as thought, he seized the nostrils of the chief's horse with the left hand, so that it reared with a shriek of pain, and thrust his sword into the Indian's throat: the latter's lifted arm fell down, his eyes opened widely, a jet of blood poured from the gaping wound, and he rolled on the ground, uttering a yell of agony, and writhing like a serpent. The count placed his foot on the chief's chest, and nailed him to the ground. Then he shouted to his comrades in a powerful voice,—
"Forward—forward!"
The adventurers responded by a shout of triumph, and rushed once more on the redskins. But the latter no longer awaited their attack. Terrified by the death of Mixcoatzin, one of their most revered sachems, a panic seized upon them, and they fled in every direction. Then began a real manhunt, with all its hideous and atrocious interludes. As we have said, the Indians were surrounded: flight had become impossible. The adventurers, exasperated by the long contest they had been obliged to sustain, pitilessly massacred their conquered enemies, who would have implored mercy in vain. The distracted Indians ran hither and thither, sabred as they passed, transfixed by bayonets, and trampled underfoot by the horses, which, as cruel as their masters, and intoxicated by the sharp odour of blood, stamped on them frenziedly. The corpses were piled up in the centre of the fatal circle which incessantly closed in around them.
Their courage and strength all exhausted, the wretched redskins had thrown away their arms, and, with their hands crossed on their chests, they gave up any further struggle for life, and awaited death with that gloomy calmness of despair and stoicism which characterises their race.
The count had wished for a long time to arrest this horrible carnage; but, in the intoxication of victory, his orders were not so much disobeyed as unheard. Still the Frenchmen stopped, struck with admiration at the sight of the stoical resignation displayed by their brave enemies, who disdained to ask mercy, and prepared to die worthily, without any weakness or bravado. The Frenchmen hesitated, looked at one another, and then raised their bayonets. The count profited by this truce, and rushed before his men, brandishing in the air his sword, reddened to the hilt.
"Enough, comrades," he shouted, "enough! We are soldiers, not hangmen or butchers. Leave to the Mexicans all cowardly acts, and remain what you have ever been—brave and clement men. Mercy for these poor wretches!"
"Mercy—mercy!" the Frenchmen shouted as they brandished their weapons above their heads.
At this moment the sun rose gloriously in a flood of vapour. It was a scene at once imposing and full of sublime horror which the battlefield offered—still smoking with the last explosions of the firearms, covered with corpses, and in the midst of which thirty disarmed men appeared to bid defiance to a circle of men stained with blood and powder, and whose features were contracted by passion.
The count then returned his sword to its scabbard, and walked slowly toward the Indians, who watched his approach restlessly; for they understood nothing of what had just occurred. The Indians are implacable, and clemency is unknown to them. In the prairies the only law isva victis. The redskins, being pitiless, never implore the mercy of their foes, and endure unmurmuring the harsh law which it may please their conquerors to mete out to them.
The adventurers had piled their arms, and had already forgotten all their rancour: they were laughing and talking gaily together. Valentine and Curumilla had rejoined the count.
"What is your intention?" the hunter asked.
"Have you not guessed it?" Louis replied. "I pardon them."
"All?"
"Of course," he said with surprise.
"Then you will restore them to liberty?"
"Yes."
"Hum!" the hunter said.
"Do you see anything to prevent it?"
"Possibly."
"Explain yourself."
"I see no harm in your forgiving the Indians, for that may produce a good effect among the tribes, especially as the redskins have an excellent memory, and will long remember the severe lesson they received this night."
"Well?"
"But," the hunter went on, "all those men are not Indians."
"What do you mean?"
"That there are disguised Mexicans among them."
"You are certain of that?"
"Yes, the more so because I was warned by the man who commands the horsemen that proved such useful auxiliaries to you."
"But are not those horsemen Apaches?"
"You are mistaken, my dear friend: they are white men, and what is more,cívicos; that is to say, men paid and enrolled by the hacenderos to chase the Indians. You see how honourably they carry out their duties; but that must not astonish you, for you are sufficiently well acquainted with the manners of this country to find that perfectly natural, I have no doubt."
Louis stopped thoughtfully.
"What you tell me confounds me," he muttered.
"Why so?" the hunter replied carelessly. "It is, on the contrary, most simple. But we have not to trouble ourselves about the horsemen at present—they are beside the question."
"Certainly. Indeed, I owe them my thanks."
"They will save you the trouble, and I too. Let us only deal with the men down there."
"Then you are sure there are white men among them?"
"Quite sure."
"But how to recognise them?"
"Curumilla will undertake that."
"What you tell me is strange. For what purpose are these men leagued with our enemies?"
"We shall soon know that."
They then went on, and stood by the group. Valentine made a sign to Curumilla: the chief then approached the Indians, and began examining them attentively in turn, the count and Valentine watching him with considerable interest. The Araucano was as cold and gloomy as usual—not a muscle of his face quivered. On seeing him examine them thus, the Indians could not refrain from shuddering: they trembled at the sight of this dumb and unarmed man, whose piercing glance seemed to try and read their hearts; Curumilla laid his finger on an Indian's chest.
"One!" he said, and passed on.
"Come out!" Valentine said to the redskin.
The latter stood apart.
Curumilla pointed out in this way nine in succession, and then rejoined his comrades.
"Is that all?" Valentine asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"Disarm those men, and bind them firmly," the count commanded.
His orders being obeyed, Don Louis then walked up to the Apaches.
"My brothers may take their arms and mount their horses again," he said. "They are valiant warriors. The palefaces have appreciated their courage, and esteem them. My brothers will return to their villages, and tell the old men and sages of their nation that the palefaces who have conquered them are not cruel men, like the ferocious Yoris, and that they desire to bury the hatchet so deeply between themselves and the Apaches, that it may never be found again for ten thousand years."
An Indian advanced from the group, and saluted majestically.
"Strong Heart is a terrible warrior: he is a jaguar during the combat, but he becomes an antelope after the victory. The words his breast breathes are inspired in him by the Great Spirit—the Wacondah loves him. My nation was deceived by the Yoris. Strong Heart is generous—he has pardoned. Henceforth there will be friendship between the Apaches and the warriors of Strong Heart."
The redskins, according to their custom, had, with that poesy which distinguishes them, given Don Louis the name of Strong Heart.
After this address on the part of the Indian, who was a celebrated chief, and known as the White Buffalo, there was an interchange of good offices between the adventurers and Apaches. Their horses and arms were returned to them, and the ranks were opened to let them pass. When they had disappeared in the forest, El Buitre ordered his men to wheel, and retired in his turn. Don Louis for a moment had the idea of recalling this auxiliary, who had been so useful to him during the action; but Valentine opposed it.
"Let those men go, brother," he said to him. "You must not have any public relations with them."
Don Louis did not insist.
"Now," Valentine went on, "let us finish what we have so well begun."
"That is right," the count answered.
The order was at once given to bury the dead and attend to the wounded. The Frenchmen had suffered a serious loss: they had ten men killed and twenty odd wounded. It is true that the majority of these wounds were not mortal; still the victory cost dearly: it was a warning for the future.
Two hours later the company, assembled by the bugle call, ranged themselves silently in the mission square, in the centre of which Don Louis, Valentine, and three officers were gravely seated at a table, on which lay sundry papers. Don Cornelio was writing at a smaller table. The count had summoned his comrades, and appointed a court martial, of which he was president, in order to try the prisoners captured during the fight. Don Louis rose amidst a solemn silence.
"Bring forward the prisoners," he said.
The men previously pointed out by Curumilla appeared, led by a detachment of adventurers, and were freed from their bonds. Although they still wore the costume of Apache warriors, they had been compelled to wash themselves, and remove the paint that disguised them. These men appeared not so much to repent of their detected roguery, but merely ashamed of being made a public spectacle.
"Bring in the last prisoner," Don Louis commanded.
At this order the adventurers looked round in surprise, not understanding what the count meant, for the nine Mexicans were all present. But at the expiration of a moment their surprise was changed into anger, and a dull murmur ran along their ranks like an electric current.
Colonel Florés had made his appearance. He was unarmed, and his head bare; but his face, stamped with boldness and defiance, had a gloomily malicious expression, which gave him a most unpleasant appearance. Curumilla accompanied him. The count made a sign, and silence was re-established.
"What is the meaning of this?" the colonel asked in a haughty tone.
Don Louis did not allow him to continue.
"Silence!" he said in a firm voice, turning a flashing glance upon him.
Subdued, in spite of himself, by the count's accent, the colonel blushed and remained silent. Don Louis continued:—
"Brothers and comrades," he said, "unfortunately for us, circumstances have placed us in an exceptional situation. On all sides treachery surrounds us. By falsehood after falsehood, trick upon trick, they have led us onto this desert, where we are abandoned to ourselves, far from all help, and having our courage alone to count upon to save us. Yesterday Don Sebastian Guerrero, believing himself at length sure of the success of his infamous plans, which he has so long been forming against us, decided on raising the mask. He declared us outlaws, and branded us with the disgraceful epithet of pirates. Scarce two hours after his departure we were attacked by Indians. Our enemies' measures were well calculated, and were within an ace of success. But God was on the watch, and saved us this time again. Now, do you know the man who made himself the generals right arm, and carried into effect the odious treachery of which we were so nearly the victims?
"This man," he said, pointing with his finger with an expression of crushing contempt, "is the villain who, since our departure from Guaymas, has attached himself to us, and never left us. He pretended to love and defend us, that he might surprise our secrets, and sell them to our enemies. It is the wretch whom we treated as a brother—to whom we offered the most delicate and enduring attention. It is the man, lastly, who assumes the title of colonel, and name of Francisco Florés, and who lied in doing so; for he is a nameless half-breed, surnamed El Garrucholo, ex-lieutenant of El Buitre, that ferocious brigand who commands acuadrillaof salteadores that has desolated Upper Mexico for several years. Look at him! Now that he is detected, he trembles—villain that he is; for he knows that the supreme hour of justice has rung for him."
In fact, at this terrible revelation, thus made in the presence of all, the bandit's boldness suddenly gave way, and an expression of hideous terror contracted his features.
"See," the count continued, "the men whom our enemies are not ashamed to employ against us; and yet they treat us as pirates! Well, we accept this brand, brothers; and these bandits who have fallen into our hands shall be judged according to the summary law of pirates."
The adventurers warmly applauded their chief's address. Besides, all recognised the truth and logic of his remarks. In the critical situation in which they found themselves they could forgive nothing: clemency would have been culpable weakness. They could only regain their position by boldness and energy, by terrifying their foes, and compelling them to treat with them. The count sat down again.
"Don Cornelio," he said, "read to the accused the charges brought against him."
The Spaniard rose, and began a long charge against the colonel, supported by numerous letters written by Don Francisco, or received by him from various persons, principally General Guerrero, which clearly and indubitably proved the colonel's guilt. Don Cornelio finished by describing the interview on the previous day between Don Francisco, El Buitre, and the Apache chief. The adventurers listened to this long enumeration of crimes and felonies in the most profound silence. When Don Cornelio had ended the count addressed the colonel.
"Do you recognise the truth of the charge brought against you?"
The bandit raised his head: his mind was made up, and he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"Of what use to deny?" he said. "It is all true."
"Then you confess that you have betrayed us since the first moment we met?"
"Canarios!" he said, with a mocking smile, "you are mistaken, señor conde. I betrayed you even before I knew you."
At this cynical declaration no one present could repress a start of horror.
"Does what I say astonish you?" the bandit continued boldly. "Why so? I consider my conduct perfectly natural. What are you to us Mexicans but strangers? You are leeches, who come to our country to suck the brightest of our blood; that is to say, to gorge yourselves with our riches, deride our ignorance, turn into ridicule our manners and customs, and impose on us your tastes, and what you call your Western civilisation. By what right do you seize on all that is dear to us? You are only ferocious beasts, to destroy whom all measures are justifiable. If we are not the stronger in the sunshine, well, we have the night. Loyalty and frankness would ruin us, so we employ falsehood and treachery. What next? Who is wrong—who is right? Who will dare to be judge between us? No one. I have fallen into your hands: you are going to kill me. Very good. I shall be assassinated, but not condemned by you, for you have no authority by which to try me. What more do you want? Act as you think proper: it does not trouble me. He who sows the wind reaps the whirlwind. I have sown trickery—I have reaped treason. It is but just. I am about to die. Well, you have no right to inflict on me this death which I have deserved. Your verdict will be a murder, I repeat."
After pronouncing these words he folded his arms on his chest, and boldly surveyed his auditors. In spite of themselves the adventurers felt moved by a species of admiration for the savage resolution of this man, with his feline and crafty manner, who had suddenly revealed himself in so different a light from that in which they had hitherto known him. In speaking with such brutal frankness the bandit had, as it were, raised himself in the eyes of all. His roguery appeared less vile; he inspired a sort of sympathy in these brave men, for whom courage and virtue are the first two virtues.
"Then you do not even try to defend yourself?" Don Louis said sorrowfully.
"Defend myself," he said in amazement, "for having acted as I thought it my duty to do, and as I should act again if you were such fools as to pardon me! Come, caballeros, that is not common sense. Besides, if I defended myself, I should to a certain extent recognise the competency of your tribunal, and I absolutely deny it; so, believe me, you had better finish with me—the sooner the better, both for you and me."
The count rose, took off his hat, and, addressing the adventurers, said in a solemn voice,—
"Friends and comrades, on your soul and conscience, is this man guilty?"
"Yes!" the adventurers answered in a hollow voice.
"What punishment has this man merited?" the count continued.
"Death!" the adventurers replied simultaneously.
The count then turned to the colonel.
"Don Francisco Florés, otherwise called El Garrucholo, you are condemned to the penalty of death."
"Thanks!" he said, with a graceful bow.
"But," the count continued, "as you are convicted of treason, and must suffer the death of traitors—that is, be shot in the back—taking into consideration the uniform you wear, which is that of the Mexican army, which we do not wish to disgrace in your person, you will be first degraded: the judgment will be executed immediately after."
The bandit shrugged his shoulders.
"What do I care?" he said.
At a sign from the count a non-commissioned officer stepped from the ranks, and the degradation commenced. El Garrucholo endured this frightful humiliation without turning pale: the bandit had in him completely gained the mastery over the caballero, and, as he said, he cared little about being degraded—that is to say, dishonoured—-because honour to him was as nothing. When the subaltern had returned to the ranks the count again addressed the condemned man.
"You have five minutes to commend your soul to God," he said to him. "May He be merciful to you! You have nothing more to expect in this world from men."
The bandit burst into a hoarse laugh.
"You are all fools!" he shouted. "What have I in common with God, if really He exist? I had better recommend myself to the demon, into whose clutches I shall fall, if what the monks say is true."
At this frightful blasphemy the adventurers gave a start of terror; but El Garrucholo did not seem to notice it.
"I have," he continued, "only one favour more to ask of you."
"Speak!" the count replied, suppressing a gesture of disgust.
"I wear round my neck, hanging by a steel chain, a little velvet bag, containing a blessed relic, which my mother gave me, telling me it would bring me good fortune. Since my birth this scapulary has never left me. I desire it to be buried with me. Perhaps it will be of use to me down there where I am bound."
"What you desire shall be done," the count answered.
"Thanks!" he said with evident satisfaction.
Strange anomaly of the Mexican character! This people is credulous and superstitious, without faith and without belief—a childish people, too long enslaved, and too quickly liberated, which has not had the time either to forget or to learn.
"The picket!" the count commanded.
Eight men, commanded by a corporal, stepped from the ranks. The bandit knelt, with his back turned to the executioners.
"Present—fire!"
El Garrucholo fell, shot in the back, not uttering a sigh: he was stark dead. His body was covered with a zarapé.
"Now," the count said coldly, "for the rest."
The nine prisoners were brought up to the table: they were trembling, for the summary justice of the adventurers filled them with terror. A great noise was at this moment heard a short distance off, mingled with shouts and imprecations; and suddenly two females, mounted on magnificent horses, galloped into the middle of the square, when they stopped. They were Doña Angela and her waiting maid, Violanta.
Doña Angela's hair was dishevelled; her features were animated, probably by the speed at which she had come; and her eyes flashed flames. She remained for a moment motionless amid the crowd surprised at her sudden appearance. But, seeming suddenly to form a supreme resolution, she raised her head haughtily, and addressed the attentive adventurers, who were struck with admiration at so much boldness united to such beauty.
"Listen!" she said in a piercing voice. "I, Doña Angela, daughter of the Governor of Sonora, have come here to protest boldly, in the sight of all, against the treachery of which my father makes you the victims. Don Louis, chief of the French pirates, I love you! Will you accept me as your wife?"
A thunder of applause greeted these strange words, which were uttered with extraordinary animation. Don Louis slowly drew nearer the maiden, as if fascinated and attracted by her glance.
"Come," he said to her, "come, as you do not fear to ally yourself to misfortune."
The girl uttered a scream of joy that resembled a yell; and abandoning her reins, she bounded like a panther, and fell into the arms of the count, who pressed her frenziedly against his manly breast. Then, after a moment, still holding her in his embrace, he proudly raised his head, and looked commandingly around.
"This lady is the wife of the chief of the pirates, my brothers. Love her as a sister: she will be our palladium—our guardian angel."
The intoxication of the adventurers cannot be described: it was madness. This strange scene appeared to them a dream. The count then turned to the prisoners, who awaited their sentence in tremor.
"Begone!" he said to them. "Go and narrate what you have seen. Doña Angela pardons you."
The prisoners left the square, uttering benedictions innumerable. The poor fellows, after all that had passed in their presence, regarded themselves as dead men. Valentine drew near the maiden.
"You are an angel," he said to her in a low voice. "Will you persevere?"
"I am his to the tomb," she answered with a feverish energy.