"On the contrary," said he, "I give you a proof of the confidence I have in your honour, inasmuch as without your having asked who I am, I have told you; and now, knowing that I am completely in your power, I am going to stretch myself in your hammock, where I shall sleep under your protection as tranquilly as if I were in the midst of my friends."
"Well, sir," answered the young man, still with some little resentment, "I admit your explanation; only, if you choose to make yourself known to me, you should have done it in some other way than by attacking my honour."
"I confess that I am wrong, and I ask pardon for it again, Señor; it is more than a man like me is accustomed to do. So give me your honest hand, and forget it."
The young man took the hand that the Pincheyra offered him, and resumed his place at the table beside him.
They continued their meal without any fresh disagreeable incident.
The Pincheyra was so overcome by fatigue, that, towards the end of the repast, he fell asleep talking.
The painter understood the effort which the Pincheyra was making, and put an end to his suffering, striking him on the shoulder.
"What do you want?" asked he.
"Merely to tell you that now you have appeased your appetite, you have another want, more imperious still, to satisfy; it is time that you went to sleep, so as to be speedily in a position to join your friends."
"True," said Don Santiago, laughing, "I am sleeping as I sit; I really do not know how to excuse myself for such ill manners before you."
"Pardieu!by lying down; that, I think, is the only thing you have to do at this moment."
"Upon my word, you are right; I will not make any fuss about it, and since you are so good a companion, I will, without any further delay, profit by your counsel."
In speaking thus, he rose with some little difficulty, so overcome was he by fatigue, and, aided by the young man, he stretched himself on the hammock, where he soon fell asleep.
Again free to give himself up to his own thoughts, the young man lit a cigar, installed himself comfortably in a seat, and, while digesting his breakfast, he began to reflect on this new episode of his varied life which had just been unexpectedly grafted on the others, and which would, perhaps, still more complicate the numberless difficulties of the position in which he found himself.
"This time," said he, "I can boldly say that I have had no hand in what has happened, and that this man has really come to me when I by no means sought him, as he knew the cavern before me. How will all this finish? Suppose Tyro does not arrive! Devoted as the brave fellow may be to me, I fear the allurement of 15,000 piastres—a very large sum for anyone who knows how to gain it honestly—may induce him to give up my guest and myself, which would be excessively disagreeable."
Several hours thus passed, during which the Montonero chief slept soundly. The Frenchman faithfully watched over his bed, and all the while gave himself up to reflections which gradually became more and more sombre.
At last, about one o'clock in the afternoon, Emile thought that the Montonero had sufficiently slept. He approached him, and touched him lightly on the shoulder, to awaken him.
The latter instantly opened his eyes, and bounded like a coyote out of the hammock.
"What is the matter?" demanded he, in a low voice.
"Nothing that I know of," answered the other.
"Then, why wake me, when I was sleeping so well?" said he, gaping.
"Because you have slept enough."
"Ah!" said the other.
"Yes, it is time to go."
"Time to go! already! You are chary of your hospitality, master. Well, let us say nothing more about it. I will do what you wish," added he, in a feigned tone; "I do not wish to embarrass you any longer with my presence."
"You do not embarrass me, Señor," answered the young man; "if it only depended upon me, you might remain here as long as you please. You cannot compromise me more than I am already."
"Perhaps; but on whom does it depend, then?"
"On the Indian servant who has concealed me here, and who, probably, will not be long before he pays me a visit. Consider whether it would suit you to be seen by him."
"Not the least in the world! To trust myself to an Indian would be to be irretrievably lost. And you say that he is coming here soon?"
"I do not know precisely when he will come, but I expect him from one moment to another."
"The deuce! With your permission,Iwill not expect him. If you will permit me, I will set out at once."
"Come and choose your horse."
The Montonero seized his carbine, which he loaded as he walked, and they went into the gallery.
The choice did not take long. The three horses were equally young, full of blood, fire, and swiftness. The Montonero, a good judge, saw this at a glance, and took one haphazard.
"What is unfortunate for me in all this," said he, quickly saddling his horse, "is, that I am obliged to leave the same way as I came, and that I run the risk of falling into an ambuscade. There used to be a second gallery in this cavern, but it has been stopped up long ago, I suppose?"
"No, not at all. This gallery is still there. You can easily go out that way."
"If it is so, I am saved," cried the Montonero, with joy.
"Silence!" said the young man, in a low voice, rapidly putting his hand on his companion's mouth; "I hear someone walking."
The Pincheyra listened, and heard the sound of steps close by.
"Oh!" cried he, with a gesture of despair.
"Remain here! Let me act—I'll answer for all," the young man quickly whispered.
And he briskly darted into the cavern. It was time that he came. Tyro was about to look for him in the gallery.
As we have said at the end of the preceding chapter, at the moment when the painter came out of the gallery in the cavern, he found himself face to face with Tyro, who, having entered by the opposite gallery, and not finding him in the room, was going to seek for him in the stable, where he supposed the painter might be.
The two men remained a short time motionless and silent, facing each other, carefully examining each other, and somewhat embarrassed how to commence the conversation. However, the situation, already very embarrassing, threatened, if it continued much longer, to become critical. The Frenchman saw that he must, at any price, get out of it; so he resolved on speaking boldly, persuaded that this was the best means of escaping from his embarrassment.
"You here, at last, Tyro!" he cried, feigning great joy; "I began to feel uneasy at this seclusion, to which I cannot become accustomed."
"It was impossible for me to come sooner to see you, master," answered the Indian, giving a cunning glance from under his half-closed eyelashes. "You have, I suppose, found everything in order here."
"Perfectly. I must confess that I have passed an excellent night."
"Ah!" said the Guaraní; "You have heard nothing? Has there been no unusual noise to disturb your sleep?"
"Upon my word, no; I have slept right off through the whole night. I only waked about half an hour ago."
"So much the better, master. I am delighted at what you tell me. If you did not tell it to me so decidedly, I frankly confess I should scarcely have believed you."
"Why?" asked he, with feigned astonishment.
"Because, master, the night has been anything but tranquil."
"Ah! Bah!" cried he, with the most natural air that he could assume; "What has happened, then? You understand that, buried here, at the bottom of this hole, I am ignorant of everything."
"A desperate battle has been fought close by here, between the Spaniards and the patriots."
"The devil! That is serious. And this combat has terminated?"
"Otherwise, should I be here, master?"
"That is right, my friend. And who have got the best of it?"
"The patriots."
"Ah! Ah!"
"Yes, and for certain reasons I am very sorry, for your sake."
"For me, do you say, Tyro? What have I to do in the matter?"
"Are you not proscribed by the patriots?"
"Just so, you remind me of a fact; but what does that signify?"
"Why, at this moment the Spaniards are, or at least are supposed to be, your friends."
"That is true; but conquerors or conquered, I should not be able to claim their aid."
The Indian remained a moment silent; then he took a step backward, and, bowing to the young man—
"Master," said he, in a sad voice, "What have I done to lose your confidence? What have I done that you should now wish to keep secrets from me?"
Emile felt that he blushed; however, he answered—
"I do not understand this reproach that you address to me, my brave friend; explain yourself more clearly."
The Guaraní shook his head with a sorrowful air.
"What good will it be," pursued he, "since you mistrust me?"
"I mistrust you!" cried the young man, who felt that he was to blame, but who did not believe himself authorised to give up a secret which did not belong to him.
"Certainly, master. Look at these two glasses and two plates; look, moreover, at these remains of cigars."
"Well?"
"Well, do you think, then, that, if I did not know already, these things would not be sufficient to prove to me the presence of another person here besides yourself?"
"How? What do you know?"
"I know, master, that a man, whose name, if I chose, I could easily tell you, this morning entered the cavern, that you have given him hospitality, and that at the moment I am speaking, he is still here—hidden there—look," added he, stretching out his arm—"in that gallery."
"But then," cried the young man, violently, "since you are so well informed, you have then betrayed me?"
"So, he is really here?" said the Indian, with a gesture of joy.
"Have you not just told me so yourself?"
"True, master, but I feared that he had already gone away."
"Ah! But what does all that mean? I am quite at a loss to understand it."
"It is, nevertheless, very simple, master; call this man; all will be explained in a few words."
"Ma foi!" cried the young man, in an ill-humoured tone; "Call him yourself, since you know him so well."
"You are angry with me, master; you are wrong, for in everything that occurs I should only act for you and in your interest."
"It is possible, but I am annoyed at the position in which fate constantly places me, and at the absurd part I am condemned to play."
"Oh, master, do not complain; for this time, I assure you, Fate, as you call it, has shown rare intelligence; and you will soon have a proof of it."
"I should like nothing better."
"Will you permit me, master?"—
"Are you not in your own place? Do what you like; I wash my hands of it."
After having answered, by this outburst, the young man threw himself on a seat, and lit a cigar with the most careless air he could affect, although he felt himself in reality quite upset by the situation in which he found himself.
The Indian looked at him a moment with an indefinable expression, and then, taking his hand, and kissing it respectfully—
"Oh, master!" said he, in a gentle and somewhat trembling voice, "Do not be unjust towards a faithful servant."
And then he strode towards the gallery.
"Come, Don Santiago," cried he, with a loud voice, stopping at the entrance, "you can show yourself; there are none here but friends."
The sound of a quick step was heard, and the Montonero almost immediately showed himself.
Alter having cast a glance around him, he advanced briskly towards the Guaraní, and, grasping him heartily by the hand—
"¡Vive Dios!" cried he; "My brave friend, I am happy to see you here!"
"And so am I, Señor," respectfully answered the Indian; "but first permit me to ask you a favour."
"What, my friend?"
"In return for the service I have rendered you, render me another."
"If it depends on me, I will do so willingly."
"Will you be good enough to explain to this gentleman, who is my master, what has passed between you and me the last two days?"
"What!" said the Spaniard, with surprise; "Thiscaballeroyour master—my friend; the meeting is strange!"
"It may be that I had prepared it, or at least tried to arrange it," answered the Indian.
"That's possible, after all," said the Spaniard.
"You know that I do not understand a word of what you are saying," interrupted the Frenchman with suppressed impatience.
"Speak, Don Santiago, I beg you."
"This is what has occurred," pursued the Montonero. "For certain reasons, too long to tell you—and which, moreover, would very little interest you, I am convinced—I am the friend of this brave Indian, to whom I cannot, and do not wish to refuse anything. Two days ago, then, he came to me, at one of my habitual rendezvous that he has long known, and made me promise to come here with some of the men of my squadron, in order to protect the flight of several persons in whom he is much interested, and whom the patriots—I do not know for what reasons—have proscribed."
"Hum!" cried the young man, rising quickly, and throwing away his cigar; "Continue, continue; Señor; it this becomes very interesting to me."
"So much the better; only you do wrong to throw away your cigar on that account. I have come, then. Unhappily, notwithstanding all the precautions that I have taken, I have been discovered, and—you know the rest."
"Yes, but you do not know it, Señor, and I am going to tell you," answered the Indian.
"I should like nothing better."
"One moment!" cried the painter, holding out his hand to the Guaraní. "I owe you an apology, Tyro, for my unjust suspicions. I offer it from the bottom of my heart. You know how soured I must be through all that has happened to me the last few days, and I am convinced that you will excuse me."
"Oh, that is too much, master; your goodness confounds me," answered the Guaraní, with emotion. "I only wished to prove to you that I am still your faithful servant."
"There remains not the least doubt of that, my friend."
"Thank you, master."
"Yes, yes," murmured the Spaniard; "believe me, Señor, these redskins are better than they are generally supposed, and when they once are attached to you, you can always reckon on them; now, my brave friend," added he, addressing Tyro, "tell me what, according to you, I do not know."
"The result—here it is, Señor; you have been betrayed."
"¡Vive Dios!I feared so; you know the traitor?"
"I know him."
"Good!" said he, joyfully rubbing his hands; "you will no doubt tell me his name."
"It is useless, Señor; I intend to chastise him myself."
"As you please. I should, however, have much liked to give myself that pleasure."
"Believe me, Señor—you or me—he will lose nothing," pursued the Indian, with an accent of hatred it would be impossible to render.
"I will not cavil any longer with you on that; let us return to our business; I am sufficiently embarrassed at this moment."
The Indian smiled.
"Do you not know me then, Don Santiago?" said he; "The evil has been repaired as far as it is possible."
"Good! That is to say—"
"That is to say, that I have myself carried the news of your defeat to your friends; that tonight twenty-five horsemen will arrive here, where we shall conceal them, whilst fifty others will await your return to Vado del Nandus, ambuscaded in the rocks."
"Perfectly arranged all that—perfectly, my master," said the Spaniard, in a joyous tone. "But why should I not go myself, just to meet my friends? That would simplify matters very much, it appears to me. I do not expect to be a second time defeated, as I was last night. I do not propose this out of self-love, you know, especially as I hope someday or other to have my revenge."
"All that is just, Don Santiago," answered the Indian, "but you forget that I have asked you to render me a service."
"That is true! I do not know where my brains are at this moment; excuse me, I beg, and be convinced that I am still at your disposal."
"I thank you. Now, master," added he, turning towards the young man, "it is necessary that this very day the ladies that you know should quit San Miguel; tomorrow would be too late. You must go immediately and resume your disguise, and repair to the convent. It is but about two leagues from here to the convent. You will arrive just at sunset, only you must make haste."
"The devil!" murmured the painter, "But how shall I conduct these ladies here."
"Do not let that disturb you, master; at the gate of the convent a guide will await you, who will bring you safely here."
"And that guide?"
"Will be me, master."
"Oh, that will be all right then," said the young man.
"You have not a moment to lose."
"Can I resume my nap?" asked the Spaniard.
"Certainly, nothing will prevent you; especially as I shall return in time to introduce your companions into the cave."
"Very well. Good fortune then."
And he stretched himself comfortably in the hammock, while Tyro aided his master to complete his metamorphosis, which did not take long.
The two men then left the cavern by the gallery through which Tyro had entered, leaving the Spaniard already in a sound sleep.
The gallery by which the master and the servant departed led out to the very bank of the river, and was so completely concealed, that unless anyone had known of its existence, it would never have been suspected.
A boat, run aground on the land, at a few paces off, awaited them.
Tyro immediately went towards it; he set it partly afloat, made his master enter it, stepped into it himself, and then, taking the paddles, launched it into the current.
"We shall arrive quicker thus," he said; "by this means I can put you down at a few paces only from the spot where you are going."
The painter made a sign of assent, and they continued their route.
The idea of the Indian was excellent in this respect, that not only this means of locomotion, which was very rapid, very much shortened the journey that they had to make, but it also had the advantage of freedom from espionage, always to be feared on entering the town, and traversing streets filled with people.
The head of the boat soon grated on the sand of the bank; they had arrived. The Frenchman landed.
"Good fortune!" murmured Tyro, pushing off again.
Spite of himself, on finding himself again in the midst of a town, where he knew he was looked for as a criminal, and tracked as a wild beast, the young man felt some emotion, and felt his heart beat more than usual.
He knew that he was risking his head on a throw of the dice, in an enterprise that many others in his place would have considered as mad, especially in the critical position in which he found himself placed.
But Emile had a generous and intrepid heart; he had promised two ladies to try all he could to aid them; and, notwithstanding the natural apprehension which he felt as to the result of his expedition, he had not for a moment the thought of failing in his word.
Moreover, what had he to fear more than death? Nothing. Exposed already to the hatred of the patriots, in case of surprise, he still had the chance of selling his life dearly. Under his disguise, he was well armed; and, moreover, his course was decided on; the Rubicon was passed; he could not go back. He threw an inquiring look around him, assured himself that the environs were deserted, and, after having a last time touched the pistols placed under his poncho in his girdle, he boldly entered the street.
Like the bank of the river, the street was a desert.
The young man, affecting the somewhat trembling step of an old man, and looking carefully around him, took the side of the street opposite to that of the convent. Then, having arrived before the windows, he twice repeated the signal which he had agreed upon with the marchioness.
"Suppose," said he to himself, "they have placed someone in concealment, and my signal has been perceived!"
Then, after a pause, no doubt employed in still further bracing up his resolution, he crossed the street and approached the gate.
At the moment when he was preparing to knock, the gate opened.
He entered, and the gate shut immediately after him.
"Ouf!" said he, "Here am I in the mousetrap; what is going to happen now?"
A nun—not the same as had the first time opened to him—stood before him. Without uttering a word, she made him a sign to follow her, and proceeded.
They thus traversed silently and rapidly the long corridors and the cloisters, and at last reached the chamber of the superior. The door was open.
The conductress of the young man stood on one side to give him entrance, and when he had gone in, shut the door behind him, remaining herself outside.
One person only was in the chamber; this person was the superior.
The young man bowed respectfully to her.
"Well," she asked, briskly approaching him, "what has happened? Speak without fear; no one can hear us."
"What has happened, Madame," answered he, "is, that if these ladies still have the intention to fly, all is ready."
"God be praised!" cried the superior, with, joy, "And when shall they go?"
"Immediately, if they are disposed; tomorrow, as I am assured, it would be too late for them."
"It is but too true, alas!" said she, with a sigh; "So you can answer for their safety?"
"I can answer, Madame, that I would suffer myself to be killed to defend them; a man cannot engage to do more."
"You are right,caballero;it is, in fact, more than we have a right to ask you."
"Now, Madame, be so kind as to inform these ladies as soon as possible; I do not need to repeat, that time is very precious."
"They are aware of it already; they are now finishing their preparations; in a short time they will be here."
"So much the better, for I am anxious to get in the open country. I confess that I do not breathe freely within these thick walls. You know, Madame, that you have offered me the means of facilitating our quitting this house. I could not by myself undertake this task, in which I should fail."
"Do not distress yourself; what I have said I will do."
"A thousand thanks, Madame; permit me one last observation."
"Speak,caballero."
"When I first came here, I thought I remarked—perhaps I was deceived—that the person who acted as my guide did not possess your entire confidence."
"Yes, Señor, you were not deceived; but," added she, with a significant smile, "you will now have nothing to fear from the indiscretions of that nun; her post is occupied by a reliable person; as to the former, I have given her another position."
The young man bowed.
At the same moment a door opened, and two persons entered.
The darkness which began to prevail in the room prevented the Frenchman at first recognising these two persons, enveloped in thick mantles, and their heads covered with hats, which so covered their faces, that their features could not he distinguished.
"We are lost?" murmured he, taking a step backward, and instinctively putting his hand to his pistols.
"Stop!" sharply cried one of the two unknown, letting fall the lappet of her mantle, "Do you not see who we are?"
"Oh!" cried the Frenchman, recognising the marchioness.
"I thought," she resumed, "that for the hazardous adventure which we undertake this costume would be better than our own."
"And you are most decidedly right, Madame. Oh! now, if there be no unforeseen complications, I think I may almost answer for the success of your escape."
The young girl concealed herself timidly and trembling behind her mother.
"We will leave when you please, Madame," pursued the young man, "only I think the sooner the better."
"Immediately! Immediately!" cried the marchioness.
"Very well," said the superior, "follow me."
They quitted the chamber.
The marchioness and her daughter each carried a light valise under their arms.
The marchioness also—no doubt to add to the correctness of her masculine costume—had a pair of pistols in her girdle, a sabre at her side, and a cutlass in her rightpolena.
The cloisters were deserted; a death-like silence reigned in the convent.
"You can go without any fear," said the superior; "no one watches you."
"Where are the horses?" asked the marchioness.
"At a few paces from here," answered Emile; "it would have been imprudent to have brought them to the convent."
"That is true," answered the marchioness.
They still walked on.
The painter was very uneasy. The last question of the marchioness, about the horses, reminded him—rather late in the day—that he had never thought of providing them. Carried away by the rapidity with which events had occurred since the arrival of Tyro in the cavern, he had left everything to the Guaraní, without for a moment thinking of this little matter, which was, nevertheless, so important for the success of his project of flight.
"Confound it," murmured he to himself, "suppose Tyro has had no more memory than I! I could not, however, admit this unpardonable forgetfulness; besides, the principal thing is to escape from here."
The four persons rapidly traversed the corridors, and were not long in reaching the gate of the convent. The superior, after having cast a searching look through the grating, to assure herself that the street was deserted, took a key from the bunch hanging at her girdle, and opened the door.
"Adieu, and the Lord protect you!" said she; "I have honourably kept my promise."
"Adieu, and thank you," answered the marchioness. As to the young girl, she threw herself into the arms of the nun, and embraced her, weeping.
"Go! go!" quickly cried the superior; and pushing them gently, she closed the door behind them.
The two ladies gave a last sad look at the convent, and, enveloping themselves carefully in their mantles, they prepared to follow their protector.
"Which way do we take?" asked the marchioness.
"This," answered Emile, turning to the right—that is to say, proceeding to the river.
Was it by chance or intuition that he took this direction? A little of one and a little of the other.
A rather large barque, rowed by four men, was waiting, run aground on the bank.
"Eh!" said one of the men, in whom Emile immediately recognised Tyro; "Here is the master—that is not unfortunate."
The latter, without answering, made his companions enter the barque, and immediately stepped in after them.
On a sign from the Indian, the oars were shipped, and the barque darted rapidly away.
The ladies gave a sigh of relief.
Tyro had thought that it would be better, on leaving, to resume the same mode of travelling, especially on account of the ladies, who, notwithstanding all their precautions, ran the risk of being easily discovered; only, as he had not thought of acquainting his master with his plans, he feared that the latter might have arranged to traverse the streets. He had therefore grounded the barque in such a position that he could see his master on his exit from the convent; and if he had seen him turn in an opposite direction to that which he had taken, he would have run after him so as to bring them back.
We have seen how, this time, Fate—no doubt tired of always persecuting the young man—had consented to protect him in directing him in the right way.
Thanks to the darkness—for the sun had set, and already the darkness was great—and especially to the breadth of the river, the barque keeping to the middle, the fugitives ran very little risk of being recognised.
They accomplished their passage in a very little time, and during all the time they did not meet any other boat than their own, except an Indian pirogue containing a single man, which crossed them on their leaving the town.
But this pirogue passed them too far off, and its course was too rapid, for it to be supposed that the man who was in it could perceive them.
They at last arrived at the entrance of the cavern.
We have said that the barque was rowed by four men.
Of these four men, two were gauchos, engaged by Tyro, and, as the Guaraní had well paid them, he had a right to reckon on their fidelity; let us add that, for greater safety, the Indian had told them nothing about their destination. The third was a domestic of the painter's—an Indian whom the latter had left at San Miguel, without taking any heed of him, when he himself took flight. The fourth was Tyro himself.
When the barque touched the bank, the Guaraní respectfully helped the two ladies to land, and then, going up to the entry of the cavern—
"Will you, ladies," said he, "enter this cavern, where we will speedily rejoin you."
The ladies obeyed.
"And we?—" asked the painter.
"We have still something to do, master," answered the Indian.
The peculiar stress with which these words were pronounced astonished Emile, but he took no notice of it, convinced that the Guaraní must have some serious reason to induce him to answer in so peremptory a way.
Turning towards the two gauchos, who were carelessly leaning over the side of the boat—
"I have paid you, you are free now to leave us," said the Guaraní to them, "unless you consent to make a new bargain with this gentleman, in whose name I have engaged you."
"Let us see the bargain," answered one of the two gauchos.
"First, are you free?"
"We are."
"Is it for both that you answer me?"
"This; thiscaballerois my brother; his name is Mataseis, and mine Sacatripas: where one goes, the other follows."
Tyro bowed with a delighted air. The reputation of these twocaballeroshad long been known, and Tyro was well acquainted with it. They Were two of the most noted bandits of all the Banda Oriental, Under present circumstances, nothing could have happened better. Men of the sack and of the cord, their arms were red up to the elbow. For a real, they would, without hesitation, have assassinated their fathers, but their word was their bond. Once given, they would not have violated it for the possession of all the mines of the Cordillera. It was their only failing, or, if it be preferred, their only virtue. Man, that strange animal, is so constituted that he is neither complete for good, nor for evil.
"Very well," resumed Tyro, "I am happy,caballeros, to have to do with men like you; I hope that we shall understand one another."
"Well, let us know what you want," answered; Mataseis.
"Would you like to remain in the service of thiscaballero?"
"On what conditions? Besides, it would be well to know if the service will be hard," pursued the positive Mataseis.
"It will be; it will commit you to do all, you understand—all," added he, intentionally emphasizing the last word.
"That is the least consideration, if it pays well."
"Fiveoncesper month each; will that suit you?"
The two bandits exchanged a look.
"Agreed," said they.
"Here is a month in advance," resumed Tyro, taking a handful of gold from his pocket, and handing it to them.
The gauchos held out their hands with a movement of joy, and instantly pocketed the gold.
"Only, understand that a month begun must finish, and that when you wish to quit the service of thiscaballero,you must give him eight days' notice, and refrain from doing anything against his interest during the week after the breaking off the engagement. Do you accept these conditions?"
"We accept them."
"Swear, then, to keep them faithfully."
The two bandits opened their ponchos, took in their hands the scapularies hanging at their necks, and, taking off their hats, and raising their eyes to heaven with an emotion worthy of a more Christian oath—
"We swear on these blessed scapularies to keep the conditions accepted by us," said they, both together; "may we lose the portion we hope for in Paradise, and be damned, if we fail in the oath we freely give."
"Very good," said Tyro; and turning towards the Indian, while the gauchos, after dropping their scapularies, put them in their breasts again—"And you, Neno, will you remain in the service of your master?" he asked.
"That would be impossible," boldly answered the Indian; "I have another master."
"Very good; you are free. Go."
Neno did not require the request to be repeated. After bowing to the painter, he leaped lightly out of the boat, and proceeded hastily towards San Miguel.
The Guaraní followed him a minute with his eyes; then, leaning towards Sacatripas, he whispered a word into his ear.
The bandit made an affirmative gesture with his head, gently touched his brother's arm, and both, rapidly landing, set off running, and disappeared in the darkness.
"These demons will be very valuable to you, master."
"I believe so, but they appear to me atrocious scoundrels; unhappily, in the circumstances in which I find myself, perhaps I shall be obliged some day or other to make use of their services."
The Guaraní smiled, without answering.
"Do you not consider the conduct of this Neno shabby, after so many kindnesses that I have done him?" pursued the painter.
"You do not yet know all that he has done, master."
"What do you mean?"
"It is he who has betrayed you, and who has sold your head to your enemies."
"You knew that!" cried the young man, with violence, "And you have brought this wretch with us? We are ruined, then!"
"Listen, master," coldly answered the Guaraní.
At this moment a cry of agony pierced the air. Although far off it had such an expression of anguish and of grief that the painter involuntarily trembled, and felt himself covered with a cold perspiration.
"Oh!" cried he; "It is the cry of a man who is being murdered. What is happening?Mon Dieu!" And he made a movement to jump out of the barque.
"Stop, master," said Tyro, "it is useless; the treachery of Neno need no longer be feared."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, master, that your gauchos have commenced their services; you see that they are valuable men. Go and rejoin the ladies, while I conceal the boat with the aid of these worthycaballeros,whom I already see running in this direction."
The young man rose, without answering, and quitted the boat, staggering like a drunken man.
"It is frightful!" murmured he; "And yet, perhaps, the death of this wretch may save the life of three persons."
He proceeded to the gallery and rejoined the ladies, who were trembling close to each other, not understanding the prolonged absence of the young man, and naturally frightened by the death cry, the mournful echo of which had reached them.
The sight of the Frenchman reassured them.
"What shall we do now?" asked the marchioness, in a low voice.
"In a few minutes we shall know," answered Emile; "we must wait."
At this moment the Guaraní appeared, followed by Mataseis.
"I have sunk the barque," said the Indian, "in order to destroy the traces of our journey. The brother of this Señor has gone out as a scout; come."
They followed him.
The Indian proceeded in the darkness with as much ease as in full daylight. The fugitives were soon sufficiently near for the sound of several voices to reach them.
Tyro twice imitated the sound of an owl. A profound silence immediately reigned in the cavern; then a man appeared, holding in one hand a lantern, with which he showed a light, and in the other a loaded pistol.
This man was Don Santiago Pincheyra.
"Who goes there?" asked he, in a threatening tone.
"A friend," answered the painter.
"Ah! Ah! Your expedition has succeeded, it appears?" answered the Montonero, replacing the pistol in his girdle. "So much the better; I began to be uneasy at your long absence. Come, come, all our friends are here."
They entered.
There were, indeed, a dozen Montoneros in the cavern.
With a delicacy which, in such a man, would not have been suspected, the Montonero approached the two ladies, whom, notwithstanding their costume, he had discovered, and, bowing to them as he presented them with silk neckerchiefs—
"Cover your faces, ladies," said he, respectfully. "It will be better for no one to know who you are. At a later time you would not, perhaps, be much pleased to be recognised by one of the companions whom fate gives you today."
"Thank you, Señor; you are really acaballero," graciously answered the marchioness; and, without any further remark, she concealed her features with the neckerchief, and in this she was immediately imitated by her daughter.
This happy thought of the Montonero preserved theincognitoof the fugitives.
"As to us," continued he, addressing the painter, "we are men capable of answering for our acts, are we not?"
"It is of little consequence for us to be recognised," answered the latter; "but what hinders us from setting out? Is everything ready?"
"Everything is ready; I have a numerous troop of bold companions concealed likeguanacosin the thicket. We will leave when you like."
"Well, I think the sooner the better."
"Let us go, then."
"One moment, Señor! I have dispatched one of the retainers of my master to keep watch; perhaps it would be well to wait his return."
"Just so; however," said Emile, "in order not to lose time, it would be well to leave here, and mount horse, that would allow the gaucho to overtake us. As soon as he comes we will proceed on our journey."
"Well said; only I am somewhat embarrassed at this moment."
"Why?"
"Why, to mount a horse, it is necessary to have one, and I fear some of us have none."
"I have thought of that; do not bother yourself about that little circumstance. There are, in the rancho, six horses that I have had brought here today," said Tyro.
"Oh! then nothing prevents us; let me just give a look out, and I will tell you when it is time to rejoin me."
And after having with a gesture ordered his companions to follow him, the Montonero disappeared in the gallery.
There only remained in the cavern the two ladies, the painter, and the Guaraní.
"My good Tyro," then said Emile, "I do not know how to acknowledge your devotion; you are not one of those men whom one pays, but, before separating, I should wish to give you a proof of—"
"Pardon, master," quickly interrupted Tyro, "if I interrupt you. Did you speak of separating?"
"Yes, my friend, and believe me, that this causes me real sorrow; but I have no right to condemn you any longer to share my bad fortune."
"You are then discontented with my services, master? If it is so, excuse me, I shall try for the future better to understand your intentions, in order to execute them to your entire satisfaction."
"What!" cried the young man, with a joyful surprise, "You intend to follow me, notwithstanding the bad position in which I am, and the dangers of all kinds which surround me?"
"These dangers would themselves be an additional reason for me not to leave you, master," he answered, with emotion, "if I had already not decided on not abandoning you. Although I may not be of much account—although I may be but a poor Indian—nevertheless, there are certain occasions when one is happy to know that there is a devoted heart available."
"Tyro," said the Frenchman, profoundly touched with the simple and sincere affection of this man, "you are no longer my servant, you are my friend, take my hand. Whatever may happen, I shall never forget what has passed this moment between us."
"Thank you, oh! Thank you," answered he, kissing his hand; "then you agree that I shall accompany you."
"Pardieu!" cried he, "It is now between us for life and death; we will never leave each other more."
"And you will speak to me as before."
"I will speak to you as you wish; are you content?" pursued he with a smile.
"Thank you once more, master. Oh! Make your mind easy; you shall never repent the kindness that you have shown me."
"I know it well; therefore, I am easy. Go, and you have but to try and reassure me."
"Come," said the Montonero, reappearing; "all is ready; we only wait for you; as to the horses—"
"I will take care of that," answered Tyro.
They then went to the gallery; the horses of the young man were not in the stable which had been assigned to them, but he did not disquiet himself on that account.
They soon came out into the midst of the underwood, where, the night before, the Spaniards and the patriots had waged so furious a battle. A numerous troop of horsemen was stationed motionless and silent before the entrance of the cavern.
The Guaraní had taken precautions; when the Montonero came out into the open air, he immediately found the gaucho, holding several horses by the bridle.
"Here are your horses, ladies," said he, addressing them; "here are two coursers of very sure and swift pace."
The marchioness thanked him. The Indian fastened behind the horses the valises that she had given him, and then assisted the mother and the daughter to place themselves in the saddles.
Emile, the Montonero, and the gaucho were already mounted.
Two horses still remained—one for Tyro, the other for Sacatripas.
At the moment when the Guaraní put his feet in the stirrups, a sharp whistle was heard in the woods.
"There is our scout," said he; and he answered the signal.
Sacatripas, indeed, almost immediately appeared.
The gaucho appeared to have been running rapidly; his chest heaved, his face was covered with perspiration.
"Let us go, let us go!" said he, in a sad voice; "If, we do not want to be smoked out like wolves. In less than half an hour they will be here."
"The devil!" cried the Montonero; "That is bad news, companion."
"It is certain."
"What direction must we take?"
"That of the mountains."
"So much the better—that is what I prefer;" and then raising his voice, "Advance!" he cried; "And do not let us spare the horses!"
The horsemen applied the spurs as they loosed their bridles, and all the troop darted forward in the darkness with the rapidity of a hurricane, taking the plain in a right line, clearing ravines and thickets without taking count of obstacles.
The two ladies were placed between Emile and the Guaraní, who were themselves each flanked by a gaucho. There was something strange and fantastic in the mad flight of this black legion, flying in the darkness, silent and sad, with the irresistible rapidity of a whirlwind.
The flight continued thus for several hours; the horses gasped; some even began to stumble.
"Whatever happens, we must stop an hour," murmured the Pincheyra; "if not, we shall soon be dismounted."
Tyro heard him.
"Let us only reach the rancho of the Quemado," said he.
"What good will that be?" sharply replied the Montonero; "We are still two leagues from it at least; our horses will be completely knocked up."
"What matter? I have prepared a relay."
"A relay! We are too numerous."
"Two hundred horses await us."
"Two hundred horses! Mercy! Your master is very rich, then?"
"He?" said the Indian, laughing; "He is as poor as Job. But," added he, significantly, "his companions are rich, and I have been preparing this flight for twelve days, foreseeing what would happen today."
"Then," cried the Montonero, with feverish emotion, "ahead! Ahead! companions, though the horses be killed!"
The journey was continued with feverish rapidity.
A little before sunrise they reached the rancho. It was time they did so; the horses were only kept up by the bridle; they stumbled at each step, and several had already fallen never to rise again.
Their masters, with that careless philosophy which characterises the gauchos, after having relieved them of their saddles, and having charged themselves with them, had abandoned the horses and followed the cavalcade as well as they could by running.
The rancho of the Quemado was in some respects but a vast shed, to which was attached an immense inclosure filled with horses.
At three or four leagues behind, were extended, as a sombre barrier, the first chain of the Cordilleras, whose snowy tops masked the horizon.
On the order of Santiago, the fatigued horses were; abandoned after their saddles had been removed, and, each Montonero entered the enclosure, whirling his lago round him.
Each man had soon caught the horse which he wanted, and proceeded to harness it.
There remained eighty or one hundred horses in the inclosure.
"We must not leave these horses here," said the Montonero; "our enemies would make use of them to pursue us."
"It is easy to avoid that," observed Tyro; "there is ayegua madrina, we will put a bell on her; the horses will follow her; ten of our companions will set out in advance with them."
"Pardieu!You are a valuable comrade," replied the Montonero, joyously; "nothing is more easy."
The order was immediately given by him, and the spare horses were soon out of sight, in the direction of the mountains, under the escort of some horsemen.
The horses, thus at liberty, could make long tracks without fatiguing themselves. This mode of relay is generally adopted in America, where it is almost impossible otherwise to procure fresh horses.
"Now," resumed the Montonero, "I think we shall do well to mount horse again."
"Yes, and to set out again," added Emile, extending his arm towards the plain.
In the first rays of the sun, which glittered on their arms, a numerous troop of horsemen was perceived coming towards them at full speed.
"Rayo de Dios!" cried Don Santiago; "The scout was right; we were closely followed; the demons have made haste, but now it is too late for them. We do not fear them any longer. To your saddles, and ahead! Ahead!"
They set out again.
This time the journey was not so rapid. The fugitives believed themselves safe, not to be overtaken. The lead they had gained was too great, and, according to all probability, they would arrive at the mountains before the patriots could reach them.
Once in the passes of the Cordilleras, they were saved.
The flight, however, could not but be fatiguing to the two ladies, who, accustomed to all the refinements of luxury, could only keep themselves on horseback by dint of energy and of will, and stimulated especially by the fear of again falling into the hands of their persecutors. Tyro and his master were obliged to keep constantly by their side, and watch over them attentively. Without this precaution they would have fallen from their horses—not so much by reason of the fatigue they suffered, though that fatigue was great, but because sleep overcame them, and prevented them, notwithstanding all their efforts, from keeping their eyes open and guiding their horses.
"But who has betrayed us?" suddenly exclaimed Don Santiago.
"I know him," answered Sacatripas.
"You know him, Señor? Well, then, you will do me the pleasure of telling me, will you not?"
"It is useless, Señor. The man who has betrayed you is dead; only he has been killed two hours too late."
"That is unfortunate, indeed; and why too late?"
"Because he had had time to speak."
"A good many things can be said in two hours, especially when there is no interruption. And you are sure of that?"
"Perfectly sure."
"At least," philosophically replied the Montonero, "we have the consolation of being certain that he will speak no more—there is something in that. As to the men who follow us," added he, turning round, "we—"
But he suddenly checked himself, uttering a horrible oath, and bounding from his saddle.
"What is the matter?" asked Emile, with uneasiness.
"¡Mil demonios!—that these pícaros are gaining on us every moment, and that in an hour they will have reached us."
"Oh! Oh!" quickly cried the young man; "Do you think so?"
"Why, look yourself."
The painter looked; the Montonero had spoken truly. The enemy's troop was sensibly approaching.
"¡Caray!I do not know what I would give to know who are these demons."
"They are part of the squadron of Don Zeno Cabral I even believe that he is among them."
"So much the better!" said the Montonero, with rage; "I shall perhaps have my revenge."
"Do you intend to fight these people?"
"Pardieu!Do you think that I will allow myself to be shot from behind, like a cowardly dog?"
"I do not say that; but it appears to me that we can redouble our pace."
"What good will that be? Do you not see that these fellows have with them a freshrecua, and that they will still overtake us? We had better anticipate them."
"As affairs stand, I believe, with you, that that will be best," said Emile, who feared that the Montonero might suppose he was afraid.
"Good!" answered Don Santiago, "You are a man! Let me act."
Then, without anyone foreseeing what was his intention, he made his horse suddenly dart off, and dashed at full speed to the front of the patriots.
"Tyro," then said Emile, addressing the Guaraní, "take with you the two brothers that you have engaged in my service, and put the marchioness and her daughter in safety."
"Señor, why separate us?" asked the marchioness, with a sorrowful air; "Would it not be better for us to remain near you?"
"Pardon me for insisting on this temporary separation, Madame. I have sworn to do all I can to save you, and I will keep my word."
The marchioness, overcome, either by the lassitude she suffered, or by the sleep which, spite of her efforts, weighed down her eyelids, only answered by a sigh.
"You will not abandon these ladies under any pretext," continued the young man, addressing the Indian; "and if misfortune happen to me during the combat, you will continue to serve them, as far as they require your protection. May I reckon on you?"
"As on yourself, master."
"Advance, then! And God protect you."
On a sign from the Indian the gauchos took by the bridle the horses of the two ladies, and setting off at a gallop, they took these horses with them, without the fugitives, who perhaps had not a thorough knowledge of what was passing, trying to oppose them.
The painter, who, as they galloped, followed them with his eyes, saw them disappear in the midst of a thick cluster of trees, where the first chain of the Cordilleras commenced.
"Thank God! Conquerors or conquered, they will not fall into the hands of their persecutors," said he; "I have kept my promise."
Suddenly, several shots afar off were heard. Emile looked round and perceived Don Santiago, who was returning at full speed towards his troop, brandishing his carbine above his head, with an air of defiance.
Three or four horsemen were in hot pursuit of him.
Arrived at a certain distance the Spaniard stopped, shouldered his carbine and fired, and then started off again at a gallop.
A horseman fell; the others retreated.
The Spaniard soon found himself again in the midst of his own people.
"Halt!" cried he, with a voice of thunder.
The troop immediately stopped.
"Companions, loyal subjects of the king," continued he; "I have reconnoitered theseladrones;they are scarcely forty. Shall we fly any longer before them? Advance! And long live the king!"
"Forward!" repeated the troop, rushing forward with him.
Emile charged with the others—with rather a sullen air, it is true; he cared as little for the king as for the country, and it appeared to him wiser to have made their escape as rapidly as possible; but as, in reality, it was his own cause that these men were defending—as it was to protect him that they fought—he was obliged to take heart against fortune, and not to remain in arrear.
Notwithstanding their small number, the patriots did not appear at all intimidated by the aggressive return of the Spaniards, and continued bravely to advance.
The shock was terrible; the two troops resolutely attacked each other with their swords, and soon found themselves mingled together.
In themêléeEmile recognised Don Zeno Cabral. He darted towards him, and, striking with the chest of his horse that of his adversary, fatigued with a long journey, the latter was overthrown.
Leaping immediately to the ground, the young man immediately put his knee to the chest of Don Zeno, and putting the point of his sabre to his throat—
"Surrender!" said he.
"No!" answered the latter.
"Death! Death!" cried Don Santiago, who now came up.
"Let the fight cease," answered Emile, turning towards him; "this gentleman has surrendered, on condition that he shall be free to return to San Miguel with his companions."
"Who has authorised you to make conditions?" said the Montonero.
"The service I have rendered you, and the promise you have made me."
The Spaniard suppressed a gesture of rage.
"Well," answered he, after a pause; "you wish it; let it be so, but you will repent of it. Retreat!"
And he left.
"You are free," said the young man, holding out his hand to Don Zeno, to aid him in rising.
The latter darted a fierce look at him.
"I am obliged to accept your offer," said he, "but all is not finished between us. We shall see one another again."
"I hope so," simply answered the young man; and, remounting his horse, he rejoined his companions, already a good way off.
Two hours later, the Spaniards penetrated the first defiles of the Cordilleras, while the patriots returned leisurely and sufficiently discontented at the result of their expedition to San Miguel de Tucuman, where they arrived at nightfall of the same day.
It was about the middle of a southern summer; the heat during the whole day had been suffocating; the dust had covered the leaves of the trees with a thick layer of a greyish tint, which gave to the landscape— picturesque and varied as it was in theLlano de Manso, where our narrative recommences—a sad and desolate appearance, which, happily, was soon to disappear, thanks to the abundant shower of the night, which, in washing the trees, would bring back to them their primitive colour.
Thellanopresented, as far as the eye could reach, in all directions, only an uninterrupted chain of low hills, covered with a yellowish grass, dried up by the burning rays of the sun, and under which myriads of red grasshoppers uttered in emulation of each other their sharp twitterings.
At some distance on the right was a little stream, half dried up, which meandered like a silver ribbon, bordered with a narrow fringe of mastic trees, of guanas, and of thistles. Only on an elevated shore of this stream, called the Rio Bermejo, and which is an affluent of the Parana, there was a thick wood, a kind of oasis, planted by the all-powerful hand of God in this desert, and the fresh and green foliage of which strongly contrasted with the yellow tint which formed the chief feature of the landscape.
Black swans allowed themselves carelessly to drift on the stream; hideous iguanas wallowed in the mire; flights of partridges and turtledoves rapidly flew to the shelter of the trees; here and there vicuñas and viscachas were bounding and playing in the air; and high in the air large bald vultures were wheeling their flight in broad circles.
From the profound calm which reigned in this desert, and from its wild appearance, it would seem to have remained as it had come from the hands of the Creator, and never to have been trodden by a human foot.
But it was not so; the Llano de Manso—the furthermost plains of which reached the banks of the Grand Chaco, the almost impregnable refuge of the Indian bravos, or of those whom the cruelty of the Spaniards had, after the dispersion of the missions founded by the Jesuits, thrown back into barbarism—is in some respects a neutral territory, where all the tribes, by a tacit understanding, had their rendezvous for hunting. It is incessantly traversed in all directions by warriors belonging to tribes the most hostile to each other, but who, when they meet on this privileged territory, forget for the time their rivalry or their hereditary hatred, to remember only the hospitality of the llano—that is to say, the freedom that each one ought to have to hunt or travel as he pleased.
The whites have but rarely, and at long intervals, penetrated into this country, and always with some apprehension; so much the more, as the Indians, continually beaten back by civilisation—feeling the importance of preserving this territory for themselves—defended its approaches with unspeakable fury, torturing and massacring without pity the whites whose curiosity or ill fortune brought into this region.
However, notwithstanding these apparently insurmountable difficulties, bold explorers have not been afraid to visit the llano, and to traverse it at their risk and peril, with the design of enriching the domain of science by interesting discoveries.
It is to them that the wood of which we have spoken, and which appears an oasis in this sea of sand, owes its charming name of Rincón del Bosquecillo, out of gratitude, no doubt, for the freshness they have found there, and the shelter that has been offered them after their long and fatiguing journey in the desert.
The sun was rapidly setting on the horizon, considerably lengthening the shadow of the rocks, bushes, and a few trees here and there scattered in the llano. The panthers already commenced to utter their hoarse and mournful growlings as they sought their drinking places; the jaguars bounded out of their dens with dull cries of anger, lashing with their powerful tails their panting sides; troops of wild oxen and horses fled frightened before these dreadful kings of the night, whom the first hours of evening rendered masters of the desert.
At the moment when the sun, having reached the level of the horizon, was drowned, so to say, in waves of purple and gold, a troop of horsemen appeared on the right bank of the Rio Bermejo, proceeding apparently towards the bank of which we have spoken, on the summit of which was the thick wood called the Rincón del Bosquecillo.
These horsemen were Indian Guaycurus, recognisable by their elegant costumes, by the band which circled their heads, and especially by the matchless grace with which they managed their horses—noble sons of the desert—as fiery and as untameable as their masters.
They formed a troop of about fifty men, all armed as warriors, and not having any tuft of ostrich feathers or streamers at the point of their lances—which showed that they were on some important expedition, and not united for the chase.
A little in advance of the troop were two men, chiefs, as was shown by the vulture's feather placed in their red bands, and whose external appearance contrasted strongly with that of their companions.
They wore variegated ponchos, trousers of brown holland, and boots made of leather from horse's legs. Their arms—laco bolas, lance and knives—were the same as those of their companions; but here the resemblance stopped.
The first was a young man of twenty-two at the most. His figure was tall, elegant, supple, and well formed; his manners noble, his least gesture graceful. No painting, no tattooing, disfigured his expressive features, of almost feminine beauty, but to which—an extraordinary thing in an Indian—a black beard, short and frizzled, gave a masculine and decided expression. This beard, added to the dull white of the skin of the young man, would have made him pass easily for a white man, if he had worn a European costume. However, let us hasten to state that among the Indians men are often met with whose skin is completely white, and who appear to belong to the Caucasian race. This singularity, therefore, did not attract any attention among their companions, who attached no other importance to it than to cause them to manifest for them a greater respect, believing them to be descended from the privileged race of men who first united them into tribes, and taught them the first elements of civilisation.
The young man, whose portrait we have briefly sketched, was the principal chief of the warriors by whom he was at this moment followed. He was named Gueyma, and notwithstanding his youth, he enjoyed a great reputation in his tribe for wisdom and bravery.
His companion, as far as it was possible—in spite of his upright figure, his hair black as the raven's wing, and his countenance free from wrinkles—to fix his age with any certainty, was about seventy. However, as we have said, no sign of decrepitude was observable in him; his eye shone with all the fire of youth, his limbs were supple and vigorous; his teeth, of which not one was missing, were brilliantly white, rendered more striking by the dark hue of his complexion, although, like the other chief, he had neither tattoo nor painting; but, in default of physical signs of old age, the expression of severity on his fine and intelligent countenance, his emphatic gestures, and the measured slowness with which he let fall the least word, would have proved to every man accustomed to the Indians that this chief was very aged, and that he enjoyed among his people a great renown for wisdom and prudence, rather holding his place at the council fire of the tribe, than at the head of a war expedition.
In the centre of the troop were two men who, by their complexion and their clothing, it was easy to recognise as Europeans.