At the sight of Don Santiago the sentinels presented arms, and moved aside respectfully to give him passage, while the crowd was kept at a distance by some soldiers, previously placed there for that purpose, and had no other means of slaking their curiosity than that of questioning the attendants of the strangers who were watching their master's horses.
The two men entered the house. After having passed through a hall full of soldiers, they entered a room where several officers were talking in a high voice about the arrival of the strangers. Some of these officers approached Don Santiago to ask him the news; but the latter, who perhaps knew no more than they on this subject, or who had received strict instructions from his brother, only gave them evasive answers, and putting them aside gently with, his hand, he at last entered the council room, followed closely by the French painter, who began to be much interested in all he saw.
The council room was a rather large apartment, the whitewashed walls of which were completely bare, with the exception of a large Christ in ivory, placed at the extremity of the room, above an armchair occupied at the moment by Don Pablo Pincheyra. To the right of this figure a wretched engraving, frightfully illuminated, purported to represent the King of Spain, crowned, and with the scepter in his hand. To the left an engraving, not less ugly, represented, or was supposed to represent, Our Lady of Solitude.
The furniture was mean and primitive; some few benches and stools ranged against the walls, and a small table, formed the whole of it.
Don Pablo Pincheyra, dressed in the uniform of a Spanish colonel, was seated in his armchair; near him was his brother, Don José Antonio, on the right; the place of Don Santiago on his left was for the time vacant; then came Father Gomez, chaplain of Don Pablo—a fat and jovial monk, but whose eyes sparkled with wit; several officers—captains, lieutenants, and subalterns, grouped without order round their chief—were leaning on their sabres, and carelessly smoking their cigarettes, talking in a low voice.
Before the table was seated a tall, lean man, with ascetic features, and ambiguous, deceitful eyes. This was Don Justo Vallejos, Secretary of Don Pablo; for, as he had given himself the luxury of a chaplain, this worthy colonel no doubt had felt all the greater need of attaching a secretary to his person.
Acaboor corporal stood near the door, and filled; the functions of doorkeeper, introducing the visitors.
"At last!" cried Don Pablo, perceiving the Frenchman; "I began to fear that you would not come."
"We have had great difficulty in reaching here," answered Don Santiago, taking the place which had been reserved for him.
"Now you have come, all is ready, Señor Frenchman; place yourself there, near my secretary. Cabo Mendez, bring a chair for this gentleman."
The young man bowed silently, and, as he had received the order to do, he sat down near the secretary, who in turn bowed, and cast a furtive look at him by way of salute.
"Now,caballeros," pursued Don Pablo, addressing the company, "do not forget that representatives of his Most Sacred Majesty the King, our sovereign, are about to appear before us. Let us act, then, as the truecaballerosthat we are, and let us prove to them that we are not so savage as they perhaps have supposed."
The officers answered by a respectful bow, sat upright, and threw away their cigarettes.
Looking around him, Don Pablo assured himself that his wishes had been attended to, and that his officers had assumed an attitude more becoming than that they had previously taken, and then, turning towards the corporal, motionless at the door, on the lock of which his hand was placed—
"Cabo Mendez," said he, "introduce to us the representatives of his Catholic Majesty the King of Spain and the Indies."
The corporal opened both leaves of the door, and the persons expected, who were in an adjoining apartment, entered the room with a grave and measured tread, after the corporal had repeated, with a clear voice, and in an emphatic tone, the last words of Don Pablo Pincheyra.
These strangers, to whom was given a title to which they probably had a very doubtful right, were to the number of five.
Their escort had remained without. On perceiving them the young Frenchman with difficulty repressed an exclamation of surprise. Of the five persons he had recognized two whom he certainly was far from expecting to meet under such circumstances.
If Emile Gagnepain became somewhat more calm, certainly the strange spectacle that he had before him had aroused not only his gaiety but his caustic fancy. This shameless parody of interviews accorded by the chiefs of a powerful nation to the representatives of another—played seriously by bandits with low and cruel features, and hands red with blood—half fox and half wolf—whose affected manners had something despicable and repulsive in them—disagreeably impressed the young man, and caused him to experience an undefinable sentiment of disgust and pity for the Spanish officers, who did not scruple to come and humbly implore the aid of these ferocious partisans, whom for a long time they had implacably pursued, to punish them for their innumerable misdeeds.
And, in fact, the Spanish officers appeared to be perfectly aware of their anomalous position, and of the reprehensible step, with regard to honour and the right of nations, that they did not at this moment scruple to take.
Notwithstanding the assurance they affected and their haughty bearing, the blush of shame covered their faces. In spite of them their heads drooped, and their eyes rested only with a kind of hesitation on the persons by whom they were surrounded, and who, without doubt, they wished had been less numerous.
This unusual ceremony, displayed before them with the evident design of cutting them off from all retreat, and of engaging them irrevocably, weighed upon them; for they understood all the bearings of such a measure, and the effect it could not fail to have beyond the mountains.
The bearing of the Pincheyras formed a striking contrast to that of the Spaniards.
Tumultuously grouped round their chiefs, with mocking eye and sardonic lip, they whispered to each other, throwing over their shoulders disdainful glances at those whose bad fortune constrained them to seek their aid.
Don Pablo Pincheyra and his brothers alone preserved a becoming countenance. They felt their hearts swell with pride as they thought of the past, which fortune, by one of her incomprehensible caprices, called on them suddenly to play. They looked upon this attitude as serious, and really believed themselves called upon to replace, by the force of their arms, under Spanish domination, those rich colonies which had so providentially escaped them, by that just and implacable law of retaliation which wills that, sooner or later, the executioners shall become in their turn victims of those whom they have martyred.
When the strangers had been introduced by thecabo, and the first salutations had been exchanged, Don Pablo Pincheyra commenced—
"Welcome to Casa-Frama,caballeros," said he, beginning with studied politeness; "I will try, while you are pleased to stay among us, to render your visit agreeable."
"I thank you,caballero, in the name of my companions and my own," answered one of the strangers, "for the gracious welcome you have been pleased to give us; permit me on one point only to correct you. It is not a visit that we make to you and your brave companions, so devoted and loyal champions of Spain; we come charged with an important mission by our sovereign and yours."
"We are ready to listen to this message,caballero; but first will you be so good as to acquaint us with your name and those of the honourable persons who accompany you."
The stranger bowed.
"I am," he said, "Don Antonio Zinozain de Figueras, lieutenant colonel in the service of his Majesty the King of Spain and the Indies."
"I have very often heard your name, Señorcaballero," interrupted Don Pablo.
"Two others, captains of his Majesty, have been attached to me," continued Don Antonio, directing the partisan's attention to them, "Don Lucio Ortega and Don Estevan Mendoza."
The two officers, whose names had just been mentioned, ceremoniously bowed.
Pincheyra darted a piercing look at them, and addressing him who had been designated by the name of Don Estevan Mendoza—
"Prudence, no doubt, has induced you,caballero, to conceal yourself modestly under the name of Don Estevan."
"Señor—" stammered the Spaniard.
"Reassure yourself,caballero," continued Don Pablo; "although these precautions are useless, I understand your scruples; yourincognitoshall be respected."
Don Estevan—or at least the person who had given himself this name—blushed with shame and confusion at these cutting words, but he found no words to answer, and bowed silently with an ill-concealed gesture of spite.
Don Pablo smiled slyly, and turning towards Don Antonio—
"Continue, I beg,caballero," said he.
The latter had been as surprised as annoyed at the mocking observation of the partisan, and it was with some difficulty that he succeeded in concealing the annoyance he felt; however, thus questioned by Don Pablo, he bowed and answered—
"The two other persons who accompany me are—the one an Indian Araucan chief, renowned—"
"I know him," said Pincheyra. "A long time ago Captain Marilaün and I slept side by side under the sametoldo, as two brothers who loved each other; I am, then, happy to see him."
"And I also," answered the chief in excellent Spanish. "If it had only depended on my will, I should have united myself to your chief several months ago, for you are brave as the most redoubtable Ulmen of my tribe."
Don Pablo pressed the hand of the chief.
"It only remains to me,caballero," pursued Don Antonio, "to present to you this officer."
"It is needless,caballero," quickly interrupted Don Pablo; "when the time arrives he will present himself, informing us of the motives which lead to his presence among us. Will you now be so good as to acquit yourself of the mission with which you are charged, in making us acquainted with the message of which you are the bearers."
"Señorcaballero," pursued Don Antonio Zinozain, "the king, my master and yours, satisfied with the services you have rendered to his government since the commencement of this deplorable revolt, has deigned to confer on you the grade of colonel."
"I thank his Majesty for his kind solicitude for me," answered Don Pablo with a sardonic smile, "but the grade which he is good enough to confer upon me today, my sword has long ago conquered for me in the battlefield, where I have poured out my blood like water, to maintain the rights of his sacred Majesty."
"I know itcaballero, but it is not to this distinction only that his Majesty confines his favours."
"I am listening to you, Señor."
"His Majesty has not only resolved to place under your immediate orders a body of two hundred men of regular cavalry, commanded by myself and other officers of the army, but also he authorises you, by a decree duly signed by him and registered in the chancellor's office, to take for the corps placed under your orders the title of the Faithful Corps of Mountain Chasseurs, to hoist the royal standard quartered with Castile and León, and to place the Spanish cockade on the hats of your soldiers."
"His Majesty accords me these signal favours?" interrupted Dou Pablo, with a joyous trembling in his voice.
"Moreover," impassively continued Don Antonio Zinozain, "his Majesty, considering that, up to the present time, guided solely by your devotion and your inviolable fidelity, you have sustained the war at your own risk and peril, dispensing and compromising your own fortune for his service, without hope of regaining these enormous disbursements—his Majesty, I say, whose high wisdom nothing escapes, has thought fit to give you a proof of his high satisfaction at this loyal conduct. He has consequently ordered that a sum of 100,000 piastres should be immediately placed at your disposal, in order to cover a part of your expenses. Moreover, he authorises you to take in advance, from all the war contributions that you shall impose on the towns which fall in your power, a tenth, of which you shall dispose as you think fit, as being entirely your own property, and this to the amount of another 100,000 piastres. His Majesty, besides, charges me, through his Excellency the Viceroy, his delegate and bearer of full powers, to assure you of his high satisfaction and of his desire not to limit to what he has done today the reward that he reckons to accord to you in the future."
"So," said Don Pablo, standing erect with a proud smile, "I am now really a war chief."
"His Majesty has so decided," coldly answered Don Antonio.
"¡Vive Dios!" cried the partisan with a menacing gesture; "his Majesty has done well, for I swear that of all those who now fight for his cause, I shall be the last to lay down arms if I die for it. Never will I consent to treat with the rebels, and this oath I will keep,¡rayo de Cristo!Even if heaven and earth should league against me to weigh me down, I hope that, a century hence, the grandchildren of the men that we now fight should still tremble at the memory of my name."
The ferocious partisan had risen as he uttered this terrible imprecation; he had bowed his tall figure, thrown back his head, and placed his hand on the pommel of his sabre, whilst he cast at those around him a look of inexpressible arrogance and of savage energy.
The assembly were moved by these bold words; an electric shock appeared to run through them, and suddenly the whole room burst out into cries and exclamations; and then, the partisans warming by degrees through their own excitement, soon reached a paroxysm of joy and delirium.
Primitive natures are easy to draw out. These men, half savages, felt themselves recompensed by the honours accorded to their chief; they were proud of him, and manifested their joy in their own way—that is to say, by bawling out and gesticulating.
The Spaniards themselves shared to a certain extent the general excitement. For a time, hope, nearly extinguished, arose as strongly in their hearts as on the first day, and they persuaded themselves into the belief in a success henceforth impossible.
In fact, at the point at which affairs had now arrived, this last attempt made by the Spaniards was but an act of foolish temerity, the result of which could not but be the prolongation, without any necessity, of a war of extermination between men of the same race, speaking the same language—an impious war, and a sacrilege which they ought, on the contrary, to have terminated as soon as possible, in order to spare bloodshed, instead of leaving America under the burden of general reprobation. But they were driven forward much more by the hatred of the colonists towards themselves, than by a sentiment of patriotism and nationality, that the latter did not yet understand, and which could not exist on a land which never, since its discovery, had been free.
Emile Gagnepain, the only spectator, apart from his reasons as to personal safety, completely disinterested in the question, could not, however, preserve his indifference, and assist coldly at this scene. He would even have ended by giving way to the general excitement, if the presence of the two Spanish officers—the first cause of all his misfortunes—had not restrained him, by inspiring a secret apprehension which he vainly tried to combat, but which, spite of all his efforts, continued with an obstinacy more and more disquieting to him.
Although the young Frenchman was prominently placed near Don Pablo Pincheyra's secretary, the Spaniards, from their entrance into the room, had not appeared to notice him. Not once had their eyes been directed to him, although they must have seen him. This obstinacy in feigning not to see him appeared the more extraordinary on the part of these two men, as they had no ostensible motive for avoiding him—at least he supposed so.
Emile was only waiting for the interview to terminate to approach Captain Ortega, and ask him to explain a proceeding which was not only painful to him, but which seemed to denote intentions anything but friendly towards himself.
When the tumult began to subside, and the partisans had by degrees ceased their vociferations, Don Pablo claimed silence with a gesture, and prepared to take leave of the Spanish envoys, but Don Antonio Zinozain took a step in advance, and turning towards the Indian chief, who, up till then, had remained impassable and mute, listening to and observing all that was passing around him, though taking no part in it.
"Has my brother Marilaün nothing, then, to say to the great pale chief?" asked he.
"Yes," sharply answered the Araucan, "I have sworn this: Marilaün is a powerful Apo-Ulmen among the Aucas; a thousand warriors when he demands them follow his horse wherever he is pleased to conduct them; hisquipuis obeyed on all the territory of the Puelches and the Huiliches; Marilaün loves the grandfather of the palefaces; he will fight with his warriors to bring back to their duty the wandering sons of the Toqui of the whites. Five hundred Huiliche and Puelche horsemen will range themselves near the Pincheyra when he orders it, for Pincheyra has always been a friend of the Aucas, and they consider him as a child of their tribe. I have said. Have I spoken well, powerful men?"
"I thank you for your generous offer, chief," answered Don Pablo, "and I accept it with alacrity. Your warriors are brave; your own reputation for courage and wisdom has long since passed the bounds of your territory. The aid you offer me will be very useful to his Majesty. Now,caballeros, permit me to offer you hospitality. You are fatigued with a long journey, and must want to take some refreshments before leaving. As there is nothing to retain us any further here, will you follow me?"
"Pardon, Señor Colonel," said the Portuguese officer, who till then had kept modestly on one side; "before you quit this room I will, if you permit me, acquit myself of a mission to you with which I am charged."
Notwithstanding his self-control, Don Pablo allowed a gesture of dissatisfaction to escape him, which he almost immediately repressed.
"Perhaps it would be better, Señor Captain," he replied, in a conciliating tone, "to postpone till a more fitting moment the communication that you have to make me."
"Why so, Señor Colonel?" quickly answered the Portuguese; "the moment appears to me very suitable, and the spot where we are very appropriate. Moreover; do you not come here to treat of subjects of the highest importance?"
"Perhaps so, Señor, but it appears to me that this meeting has lasted too long already—it is prolonged beyond ordinary limits. You, like ourselves, must want some hours of repose."
"So, Señor Colonel, you refuse to hear me?" drily pursued the officer.
"I do not say that," quickly answered Don Pablo; "do not misunderstand me, I beg, Señor Captain. I address a simple observation to you in your own interest—that is all, Señor."
"If it is to be so,caballero, permit me, while thanking you for your courtesy, not to accept, at present at least, the gracious offer you make me, and, if you will permit me, I will acquit myself of my mission."
Don Pablo threw a stealthy look on the French painter, and then answered with visible repugnance—
"Speak, then, Señor, since you insist on it.Caballeros," added he, addressing the other strangers, "excuse me for a few minutes, I beg. You see that I am obliged to listen to what thiscaballeroso ardently wishes to tell me; but I am glad to think that he will not detain you long."
"A few minutes only, Señor."
"Be it so; we listen to you."
And the partisan resumed with a wearied air the seat that he had quitted. Although he put a good face upon it, an observer would have seen that he felt annoyed. The Frenchman, put on his guard by Tyro, and who, till this time, had seen nothing in what passed that concerned himself, did not allow this circumstance to escape him, slight as it was. Feigning entire indifference, he redoubled his attention, and imposed silence on Don Pablo's secretary, who—no doubt warned by his master—had suddenly felt inclined to talk with the young man, to whom he had previously not condescended to accord the least mark of politeness.
Thus rebuffed, Señor Vallejos felt constrained to subside again into the same silence that had previously distinguished him.
The Portuguese captain, taking advantage of the permission that had been given him, advanced a few paces, and after having ceremoniously bowed to Don Pablo, he commenced in a firm tone—
"Señor Colonel," said he, "my name is Don Sebastiao Vianna; I have the honour to serve, in the capacity of captain, in the army of his Majesty the King of Portugal and the Algarves."
"I know it,caballero," drily answered Don Pablo; "come to the fact, if you please, without further delay."
"I will do so, Señor; but before acquitting myself of the message with which I am charged, I was bound first to make myself officially known to you."
"Very well; continue."
"General Don Roque, Marquis de Castelmelhor, commander in chief of the second division of the corps of occupation of the Banda Oriental, of whom I have the honour to be aide-de-camp, sends me to you, Don Pablo Pincheyra, colonel commanding a squadron in the service of his Majesty the King of Spain, to beg you to explain yourself clearly and fully on the subject of the Marchioness of Castelmelhor, his wife, and Doña Eva de Castelmelhor, his daughter, whom—according to certain reports which have reached him—you retain, against the law of nations, prisoners in your camp at Casa-Frama."
"Ah!" cried Don Pablo, with a gesture of denial, "Such a supposition attacks my honour, Señor Captain; beware!"
"I do not speak on supposition,caballero," pursued Don Sebastiao, with firmness; "be so good as to answer me clearly. Are these ladies, or are they not, in your power?"
"These ladies have claimed my assistance to escape from the rebels, who had made them prisoners."
"You retain them, in your camp—here, at Casa-Frama?"
Don Pablo turned with an air of vexation towards the Frenchman, whose eye he instinctively felt weighed upon him.
"It is true," at last he answered, "that these ladies are in my camp, but they enjoy perfect liberty."
"But on several occasions, when they have entreated you to allow them to rejoin General Castelmelhor, you have always objected to it on some vague pretext."
The situation became more and more embarrassing; the partisan felt rage boiling within him; he saw that he had been betrayed, that his conduct was known, that all denial was useless. The honourable distinction that had been so recently conferred upon him induced him to restrain himself, but he was not sufficiently master of himself to repress all manifestation of annoyance—there was in him too much of the partisan and the bandit for that.
"¡Vive Dios!" cried he, with violence, "One would think that you are now making me undergo an examination!"
"It is so, in fact," proudly answered the officer.
"You forget, it appears to me, where you are and to whom you are speaking, Señor."
"I forget nothing; I do my duty without troubling, myself with the probable consequences that this conduct may have for myself."
"You are jesting, Señor," pursued the partisan, with a wily smile; "you have nothing to fear from me or mine; we are soldiers and not bandits; speak, then, without fear."
Don Sebastiao smiled bitterly.
"I have no fear, Señor," said he, "but that of not succeeding in accomplishing my mission; but I find that I am detaining you longer than I wished; I therefore briefly conclude. My general charges me to remind Don Pablo Pincheyra, a Spanish officer, that his honour, as a soldier, demands that he fail not in his word, loyally given, in retaining against their will two ladies who, of their own accord, have placed themselves under his safeguard. He, consequently, begs him to send them under my escort to the headquarters of the Portuguese army. To Pincheyra, the partisan chief—a man to whom the words, honour, and loyalty are void of meaning, and who only seeks lucre—the Marquis of Castelmelhor offers a ransom of 4,000 piastres, that I am charged to pay on the surrender of the two ladies. Now I have finished,caballero; it is for you to tell me to whom I am now speaking—to the Spanish officer or to the Montonero."
After these Words, uttered with a short and dry voice, the captain leant on his sabre, and waited.
Meanwhile, a lively agitation reigned in the room; the partisans whispered to each other, casting angry glances at the bold officer who dared to brave them in their own camp; some even had their hands already on their arms, and a conflict seemed imminent.
Don Pablo rose, calmed the tumult with an imperious gesture, and, when silence was re-established, he replied to the general's envoy with exquisite courtesy—
"Señor Captain, I excuse the bitterness and exaggeration in what you have just said; you are ignorant of what has passed, and do not know how to acquit yourself of the mission with which you are charged; The tone you have thought proper to take would perhaps, with any other man than me, have serious consequences for you; but, I repeat, I excuse you in wrongly supposing me to have intentions which have always been far from my thoughts. These ladies have asked for my protection; I have accorded it them to the full. They now think they can do without it. Be it so; they are free; nothing prevents them leaving with you; they are not my prisoners. I have, then, no ransom to exact from them. My only reward will be to have been happy enough to have been of service to them in so perilous a position. That is the answer, Señor Captain, that I have to make to you. Will you inform his Excellency the Marquis de Castelmelhor as to the manner in which I have acted with you, and assure him that I have been happy to render to these ladies the services that they have claimed from me on my honour as a soldier."
"This answer fills me with joy,caballero," resumed the officer. "Believe me that I thought it a duty to dispel from the mind of my General the prejudices which he had acquired against you—and with some reason, permit me to say. He does not know you, and your enemies have traduced you to him."
"All is settled then, Señor. I am happy that this grave affair has at last terminated to our mutual satisfaction. When do you wish to leave?"
"As soon as I possibly can, Señor."
"I understand; the Marquis de Castelmelhor must be impatient to see once more two persons who are so dear to him, and from whom he has been so long separated. But these ladies must require some hours to make their preparations for departure; they are not yet informed of it. I venture to hope, then, that you will accept the invitation that I have made thesecaballeros, and share the hospitality that I offer them."
"With all my heart,caballero, only I should wish that you would permit me to see these ladies without delay."
"I will myself conduct you to them, Señor Captain, as soon as you have taken some refreshments."
The captain bowed; a further persistence would have been in bad taste.
Don Pablo then left the room with his guests and his most intimate officers. On passing the French painter he did not say a word to him, but he looked at him sardonically, and with a smile which much struck the young man.
"Hum!" murmured he to himself; "It is not so clear to me. I believe I must more than ever watch over these poor ladies. Don Pablo has too readily consented to let them go."
And he left the room, shaking his head for some time.
On leaving the reception room, Emile Gagnepain proceeded to thetoldooccupied by the Marchioness de Castelmelhor and her daughter. In thus acting, the young man obeyed a presentiment which told him that in what had passed before him a melancholy farce had been played by Don Pablo, and that the readiness with, which he had consented to part with them concealed some perfidy or other.
This presentiment had become so fixed in the young man's mind—it had become so real to him—that, although nothing arose to corroborate this suspicion of treachery, he was perfectly convinced of it, and would have asserted as much had occasion called for it.
Drawn, spite of himself, into a series of adventures very disagreeable to a man who, like him, had come to America to seek for that freedom and tranquillity of mind which his country, torn by factions, refused him, the young man had at last—as always happens—become interested in the anomalous position into which he had been thrown, with the feverish anxiety of a man who sees passing before him the scenes of a stirring drama. Moreover, without his taking any heed of it, a sentiment that he could not analyse had taken possession of his heart. This feeling had grown, unknown to himself, almost insensibly, and finally had acquired such force that the young man—who began to be frightened at the novel situation in which he was suddenly placed—despaired of freeing himself from it. Like all natures not feeble, but careless—not daring seriously to question himself, and sound the gulf which had thus opened in his heart—he allowed himself carelessly to be drifted by the current which carried him along, enjoying the present without caring for the future, and assuring himself that when the catastrophe arrived it would be time enough to face the danger and to take his stand.
He had taken but a few steps in the camp when, turning his head, he perceived Don Santiago Pincheyra at a few paces behind him.
The Montonero was walking carelessly, his arms behind his back, with a vague look, whistling azambacueca—in a word, all the appearance of a man taking a lounging walk. But the painter was not deceived: he knew that Don Pablo, engaged with his guests, towards whom he was obliged to do the honours of the camp, had deputed his brother to watch his movements and render an account of his proceedings.
The young man by degrees slackened his pace unaffectedly, and, turning suddenly on his heel, found himself face to face with Don Santiago.
"Eh!" said he, feigning to see him for the first time; "What a charming surprise, Señor! You have then left to your brother, Don Pablo, the care of treating with the Spanish officers."
"As you see, Señor," answered the other, rather nonplussed, and not well knowing what to say.
"And you are, no doubt, taking a walk?"
"Upon my word, yes; between ourselves, dear Señor, these formal receptions weary me; I am a plain man, you know."
"Caray, if I know it!" said the Frenchman, with a sly air; "So you are free?"
"Mon Dieu!Yes, completely."
"Well, I am delighted that you have succeeded in disengaging yourself from these proud and haughty strangers. It is very fortunate for me that you are free. I confess I scarcely reckoned on the pleasure of meeting you thus."
"You were seeking me, then?" said Don Santiago, with astonishment.
"Certainly, I was looking for you; only, under the present circumstances, I repeat, I did not hope to meet with you."
"Ah! Why were you seeking me, then?"
"Well, dear Señor, as I have long known that you are one of my best friends, I intended to ask a service of you."
"To ask a service of me—me!"
"Parbleu!Who else? Except your brother Don Pablo and you, I do not know anyone at Casa-Frama."
"It is true; you are aforasterostranger."
"Alas! Yes—all that there is left of a forastero."
"What is the service?" asked the Montonero, completely deceived by the feigned good nature of the young man.
"This is the affair," answered the latter with imperturbable coolness; "only I beg you to keep the secret, for it concerns other persons, and consequently is rather serious."
"Ah! Ah!" exclaimed Don Santiago.
"Yes," pursued the young man, nodding his head affirmatively, "you promise to keep it secret, do you not?"
"On my honour."
"Thank you, I am satisfied. I confess, then, that I begin to be horribly bored at Casa-Frama."
"I can understand that," answered the Montonero, shaking his head.
"I wish to leave."
"What prevents you?"
"Mon Dieu!A multitude of things; first, the two ladies whom you know."
"That is true," said he with a smile.
"You do not understand me."
"How so?"
"Why, you appear to suppose that I wish to remain with them, whereas it is they who persistently demand that I stay with them."
The Montonero cast a stealthy and suspicious look on his companion, but the Frenchman was on his guard; his face was inexpressive as marble.
"Good, continue," said he, after a pause.
"You know that I have assisted at the interview."
"Parbleu!Seeing that it was I who conducted you there. You were seated near the secretary."
"Señor Vallejos—just so—a very amiable gentleman. Well, these ladies are on the point of quitting Casa-Frama. Don Pablo consents to their departure."
"You wish to leave with them?"
"You have not guessed it; I should like to leave, it is true, but not with them; since they go under the escort of Spanish officers, I should be of no service to them."
"Just so."
"Then they will no longer have any pretext for preventing me quitting them."
"That is true; then—"
"Then I desire that you get your brother to grant me—unless you would prefer to give it me yourself—a safe conduct to traverse your lines and regain as quickly as possible Tucuman, which I ought never to have left."
"Is it really to return to Tucuman that you want a safe conduct?"
"For what reason should it be, then?"
"I do not know; but my brother,"—he suddenly stopped with ill-concealed embarrassment.
"Your brother!" suggested the young man.
"Nothing—I made a mistake; do not attach to what I say to you a sense which cannot be true; I am frequently subject to make mistakes."
"Are there any difficulties in your granting me the safe conduct?"
"I do not see any; however, I should not dare to do so without informing my brother."
"Do not distress yourself about that; I have no intention of leaving the camp without his authority; if you like we will go together to find him."
"You are then in a hurry to depart?"
"To a certain extent; it would be better, I think, if I could go away without seeing these ladies, and before them. In this way I should avoid the request they would not fail to make, to accompany them."
"That would indeed be better."
"Then come and find your brother, in order to settle the affair as soon as possible."
"Be it so."
They proceeded towards thetoldoof Don Pablo; but about halfway the Frenchman stopped, slapping his forehead.
"What's wrong with you?" asked Don Santiago.
"I am thinking there is no occasion for us to go together; you will arrange this matter much better than me. While you go there I will prepare everything for my departure, so that I shall be able to set out immediately after your return."
The young man spoke with such decided good nature—his countenance was so expressive of frankness and carelessness—that Don Santiago, despite all his cleverness, was deceived.
"Very good," said he; "while I see my brother, make your preparations—there is no necessity for you to come."
"However, if you prefer it, perhaps it would be better for me to accompany you?"
"No, no, it is needless; in an hour I shall be at yourtoldowith the safe conduct."
"I thank you in advance."
The two men shook hands and separated, Don Santiago proceeding towards his brother's house, which was also his own, and the Frenchman apparently going in the direction of the habitation which had been assigned to him; but as soon as the partisan had turned the corner of the nearest street, Emile, having assured himself that no new spy was dogging his steps, immediately changed his route, and took that towards the dwelling of the two ladies.
Pincheyra had lodged his captives in an isolatedtoldoat one of the extremities of the camp—atoldowith its back to an almost perpendicular mountain, and which for that reason assured him against the probabilities of their flight. Thistoldowas divided into several compartments; it was clean and furnished with all the luxury that the locality admitted.
Two Indian women had been attached by the partisan to the service of the ladies, apparently as servants, but in reality to watch them and render him an account, of what they said and did; for, notwithstanding all the denials of Don Pablo, the marchioness and her daughter, although treated with the greatest respect, were really prisoners—which they had not been long in perceiving.
It was only with great caution and by stealth that the young painter succeeded in seeing them, and in exchanging with them a few words without any witness.
The domestics incessantly hovered round their mistresses, ferreting, listening, and watching; and if by chance they want away, the sister of Don Santiago, who pretended to manifest a lively friendship for the strangers, came and installed herself near them unceremoniously, and remained there nearly all the day, fatiguing them with studied caresses and lying exhibitions of a friendship which they perfectly knew was false.
However, thanks to Tyro, whose devotion did not slacken, and who knew well how to cope with the two Indian women, Emile had succeeded in pretty well escaping from them. The Guaraní had found means of attracting them by little presents, and of bringing them over a little to the interests of his master, who himself never came to thetoldowithout offering them some trifle. There remained, then, only the sister of Pincheyra. But today, after having during the morning made a long visit to the ladies, she had withdrawn, in order to assist at the repast that her brother gave to the officers, and to fulfil towards them her duties as mistress of the house, a care with which she could not dispense.
The marchioness and her daughter were then, for some time at least, delivered from their spies, mistresses of their time, and free to a certain extent to converse with the only friend who had not abandoned them, without fear of their words being repeated to the man who had so disgracefully betrayed, in their case, the laws of hospitality.
At a few paces from thetoldo, the young man came across Tyro, who, without speaking to him, made him understand by mute signs, that the ladies were alone.
The young man entered.
The marchioness and her daughter, sitting sadly by each other's side, were reading a prayer book.
At the sound which Emile made in crossing the threshold of the door, they quickly raised their heads.
"Ah!" exclaimed the marchioness, whose countenance immediately brightened up, "It is you at last, Don Emile?"
"Excuse me, Madame," he answered, "I can but very rarely come to see you."
"I know it. Like us, you are watched, and exposed to suspicion. Alas! We have only escaped the revolutionists to fall into the hands of men more cruel still."
"Have you to complain of the proceedings of Don Pablo Pincheyra, or of any of his people, Madame?"
"Oh!" answered she, with a significant smile, "Don Pablo is polite—too polite, perhaps, for me! Oh! Mon Dieu! What have I done to be thus exposed to his persecutions?"
"Have you seen my servant this morning, Madame! I ask pardon for interrogating you thus, but time presses."
"Is it of Tyro that you speak?"
"Yes, of him, Madame."
"I have seen him for a moment."
"Has he said nothing to you?"
"Very little; he announced to me your visit, adding, that no doubt you would have important news to communicate to me; so I was anxious to see you. In the position in which my daughter and I are, everything is matter for hope."
"I have indeed, Madame, important news to announce to you, but I do not know how to do so."
"How so?" cried Doña Eva, fixing on him her large eyes, with an undefinable expression; "Do you fear to afflict us, Señor Don Emile?"
"I fear, on the contrary, Señora, to raise in your heart a hope which may not be realised."
"What do you mean? Speak, Señor, in the name of heaven," quickly interrupted the marchioness.
"This morning, Madame, several strangers entered Casa-Frama."
"I know it,caballero. It is to that circumstance that I owe not having near me the bodyguard of a cornet that it has been thought I ought to have—that is to say, the sister of Don Pablo Pincheyra."
"Do you know these strangers, Madame?"
"Your question surprises me,caballero. Since my arrival here, you know that I have scarcely been permitted to take a few steps out of this miserable place."
"Excuse me, Madame; I will put my question more definitely. Have you heard speak of a certain Don Sebastiao Vianna?"
"Yes, yes!" cried Doña Eva, clapping her hands with joy; "Don Sebastiao is one of the aides-de-camp of my father."
The countenance of the young man clouded.
"So you are sure you know him?" pursued he.
"Certainly," answered the marchioness; "how can my daughter and I fail to know a man who is our distant relation, and who has stood godfather to my daughter?"
"Then, Madame, I am deceived, and the news I bring you is really good news for you. I have been wrong in hesitating so long in announcing it to you."
"How is that?"
"Among the strangers who have arrived this morning at Casa-Frama, one of them is charged with claiming your being immediately set at liberty, on the part of the Marquis de Castelmelhor—your husband, Madame—your father, Señora. This stranger is named Don Sebastiao Vianna, wears the costume of a Portuguese officer, and is, he says, aide-de-camp of General the Marquis de Castelmelhor. I ought to avow that in this matter Don Pablo Pincheyra has conducted himself as a truecaballero. After having denied that you were his prisoners, he nobly refused the sum proposed for your ransom, and engaged to place you today in the hands of Don Sebastiao, who is, under his escort, to conduct you to your husband."
There was a minute's silence. The marchioness was pale, her eyebrows knitted under the influence of internal emotion, and her fixed look denoted an intense feeling, which she repressed with difficulty. Doña Eva, on the contrary, brightened up; the hope of liberty illuminated her features with a halo of happiness.
The young man looked at the marchioness without understanding this emotion, the cause of which he vainly sought. At last she said:
"Are you really certain,caballero," said she, "that the officer of whom you speak is named Don Sebastiao Vianna?"
"Perfectly, Señora. I have several times heard him called in my presence; besides, it would be quite impossible for me to invent a name that I have never before today heard pronounced."
"It is true; and yet what you tell me is so extraordinary, that I confess I do not dare to believe it, and that I fear a snare."
"Oh, my mother," cried Doña Eva, in a tone of reproach, "Don Sebastiao Vianna, the most loyal man, and the most—"
"Which assures you, my daughter," quickly interrupted the marchioness, "that this man is really Don Sebastiao."
"Oh, Madame," said the young man.
"CaballeroDon Sebastiao was, scarcely two months ago, in Europe," answered the marchioness, in a peremptory tone.
This remark fell like a thunderbolt in the midst of the conversation, and suddenly chilled the hope in the heart of the young girl.
At the same moment a whistle sounded from without.
"Tyro warns me," said Emile, "that someone comes this way; I can stay no longer. Whatever happens, do not abandon yourself to despair, feign to accept, whatever they are, the propositions that will be made to you; anything is preferable to you than to remain longer here. I also will watch. I shall soon see you again—courage! Reckon on me."
And without waiting for the answer that the two ladies were doubtless preparing to make, the young man darted into the street.
Tyro, who was watching for his appearance, seized him quickly by the arm, and led him towards thetoldo.
"Look!" said he.
The painter leant forward cautiously, and perceived Don Pablo Pincheyra, his sister, the Portuguese officer, and three or four other persons, who were going towards the habitation of the ladies.
"Hum!" he exclaimed; "it was time—"
"Is it not? But I was watching, happily."
"Come, Tyro, let us return to my place. Don Santiago must expect me."
"You have given me a rendezvous?"
"Yes."
"Well, have I deceived you, my friend?"
"No, certainly; what I have seen has surpassed my expectation. But who, then, is this Don Sebastiao?"
The Guaraní answered by a sneer of bad omen.
"There is something, is there not?" asked Emile, with uneasiness.
"With the Pincheyras there is always something, my friend," pursued the Indian, in a low voice; "but here we are at yourtoldo;be prudent."
"Inform the gauchos that probably we shall set out today; prepare all, so that we may be ready."
"We are going to leave?"
"I hope so."
"Oh, then, all is not yet lost."
They entered the toldo; it was deserted; Don Santiago had not yet appeared.
Whilst Tyro went to tell the gauchos to get ready, to saddle their horses, and to bring the baggage mules from the corral, the young man proceeded, with feverish rapidity, to make his preparations.
So when, half an hour later, Don Santiago entered thetoldo, the suspicious look that he threw around him did not reveal anything which could give rise to a suspicion that the Frenchman had not commenced his task immediately after having quitted him.
"Ah! Ah!" exclaimed the young man on seeing him, "Welcome, Don Santiago, especially if you bring my safe conduct."
"I bring it you," laconically answered Don Santiago.
"Pardieu!It must be confessed that you are a valuable friend; Don Pablo has not made any difficulties?"
"None."
"Well, he is really very obliging to me; so I can set out?"
"Yes, on two conditions."
"Ah! There are conditions! And what are they?"
"The first is, that you will set out immediately, and without seeing anyone," added he, carefully emphasising the last part of his sentence.
"My people?"
"You shall take them with you; what do you think that we should do with them here?"
"You are right; well—but this condition pleases me much; you know that I especially desire to set out without taking leave of anyone whatever. It's all for the best, then. Now, what is the second condition; if it is like the first, I doubt not that I shall accept it without hesitation."
"Here it is: Don Pablo desires that I escort you, with a dozen horsemen, for a few leagues from here."
"Ah!" exclaimed the young man.
"Does that displease you?"
"Me!" answered Emile, laughing, for he had already recovered his coolness; "Why should it be displeasing to me? I am, on the contrary, very grateful to you, brother, for this new favour. He, no doubt, fears that I should wander in the inextricable mazes of these mountains," added he, with an ironical emphasis.
"I do not know; he has ordered me to escort you; I obey—that is all."
"That is right, and particularly logical."
"So you accept these two conditions?"
"With gratitude."
"Then we will set out when you like."
"I would say immediately, but, unfortunately, I am obliged to wait for my horses, which have not yet come from thecorral."
"It is not yet late, so there is no time lost."
"Now that we are agreed, suppose we take a drop of brandy?"
"Upon my word I shall be delighted, Señor."
The Frenchman took a bottle and poured out some brandy into two horn goblets.
"To your health!" said he, drinking.
"To your pleasant journey!" answered Don Santiago.
"Thank you."
A sound of horses was heard from without.
"Here are your animals."
"Then we shall be ready in a few minutes. If you like, while we are loading, inform the men who are to accompany you."
"They have been told; they are waiting for us in the intrenchments."
Tyro and the gauchos then proceeded, aided by Emile and Don Santiago, to load the two mules and to saddle the horses.
The Frenchman, accustomed to travel in these countries, had very little luggage; he never carried with him anything but what was indispensable.
Half an hour afterwards the caravan started out at a gentle pace, accompanied by Don Santiago, who followed it on foot, smoking his cigarette, and talking with the young man in a friendly way.
As the Montonero had said, a dozen horsemen were waiting at the intrenchments.
The Pincheyra mounted his horse, gave the order of departure; the keepers opened the barriers, and the little troop quitted the camp in good order.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when Emile Gagnepain left the camp. Notwithstanding the rather suspicious escort by which he was accompanied, it was with a sigh of satisfaction that the young man at last saw himself clear of this repair of bandits, from which at one time he feared he should never again set out.
The route which the little caravan followed was most picturesque and varied. A narrow path wound on the side of the mountains, almost always close to unfathomable precipices, from the base of which arose mysterious murmurs produced by invisible waters. Sometimes a bridge formed by two trunks of trees thrown across a chasm, which suddenly interrupted the route, was crossed, as if in play, by horses and mules for a long time accustomed to walk over routes more perilous still.
Obliged to travel one behind the other, owing to the narrowness of the scarcely traced path which they were pursuing, the travellers could not talk to each other; it was scarcely possible for them to exchange a few words, and they were constrained to abandon themselves to their own thoughts, or to charm the weariness of the journey by singing or whistling. It was in thus examining the abrupt and wild landscape by which he was surrounded that the young man formed a good idea of the formidable and almost impregnable position chosen by the partisan for his headquarters, and the great influence that this position must give him over the dismayed inhabitants of the plain. He shuddered as he thought of the imprudence he had committed in allowing himself to be taken to this fortress which, like the infernal circles of Dante, was by nature surrounded by impassable intrenchments, and which never gave up the prey that had once been drawn into it. A crowd of melancholy stories of young girls, who had been carried away and had disappeared, recurred to his mind, and, by a strange reaction of thought, he experienced a kind of retrospective turn—if we may be allowed the expression—in thinking of the terrible dangers that he had run in the midst of these lawless bandits, by whom, in many instances, the law of nations—sacred among all civilised peoples—had not been respected.
Then, from reflection to reflection—by a very natural gradation—his mind fixed itself on the ladies whom he had left without support or protection in the midst of these men. Although he had only left them with the design of attempting a last effort for their deliverance, his conscience reproached him for having abandoned them; for, notwithstanding the absolute impossibility of his being useful to them at Casa-Frama, he was convinced that his presence was a check upon the Pincheyras, and that before him none of them would have dared to have subjected the captives to any brutal act.
A prey to these painful thoughts, he felt his spirits sadden by degrees, and the joy that he had at first experienced on seeing himself so unexpectedly at liberty gave place to the despondency which several times already had seized on him, and had destroyed his energy.
He was drawn from these reflections by the voice of Don Santiago, which suddenly fell upon his ear.
The young man quickly raised his head, and looked round him like a man suddenly awakened.
The landscape had completely changed. The path had by degrees become broader, and had assumed the appearance of a regular route; the mountains were lower; their sides were now covered with verdant forests, the leafy summits of which were tinted with all the colours of the rainbow by the mild rays of the setting sun. The caravan emerged at this moment into a rather extensive plain, surrounded by thick shrubbery and traversed by a narrow stream, the capricious meanderings of which were lost here and there in the midst of high and thick grass.
"What do you want?" asked the Frenchman, who, susceptible like all artists, had become absorbed, unknown to himself, by the influence of this majestic landscape, and felt gaiety replace the sadness which had for a long time oppressed him; "What do you want now, Don Santiago?"
"The devil!" exclaimed the latter; "It is fortunate that you have at last consented to answer me. For more than quarter of an hour I have been speaking to you without getting a word out of you. It seems as if you had been sound asleep, companion."
"Pardon me, Señor, I was not asleep; I was reflecting, which is often much about the same."
"¡Demonio!I will not quibble about that; but as you now consent to listen to me, will you be so good as to answer me?"
"I am quite agreeable; but that I may do so, it will be necessary, my dear Don Santiago, to repeat your question, of which I assure you I have not heard a word."
"I will do so, although, without exaggeration, I have done so at least ten times to no purpose."
"I have already begged you to excuse me."
"I know it, and I therefore will not be offended at your inattention. This is what I have to say: it is at least six o'clock; the sun is setting amidst coppery clouds of the worst kind; I fear a storm tonight."
"Oh! Oh!" exclaimed the young man; "Are you sure of that?"
"I have too much acquaintance with these mountains to be deceived."
"Hum! And what do you intend to do?"
"That is what I ask; that concerns you at least as much as me, I suppose."
"Just so—even more, since it is for my sake that you have agreed to accompany me. Well, what is your advice. I will at once adopt the expedients that your experience may suggest, and accept them without question."
"That is what I call speaking, and your answer is none the worse for making me wait for it. My advice, then would be to stop here, where we can—unless there is a deluge impossible to foresee—place ourselves under shelter from the hurricane, and camp for the night. What do you think of it?"
"I think that you are right, and that it would be folly, under circumstances like those, considering the advanced hour—especially the charming spot where we are—to persist in going further."
"Especially as it would be almost impossible for us to reach as good a refuge as this, before it is quite dark."
"Let us stop, then, without further discussion, and let us hasten to make our encampment."
"Well, dear Señor, as it is to be so, alight and let us unload the mules."
"Very good," said the young man, leaping from his horse—a movement immediately imitated by the Pincheyra.
Don Santiago had spoken truly. The sun was setting, drowned in waves of dull clouds; the evening breeze was rising with some force; the birds wheeled in large circles, uttering discordant cries—everything, in fact, foretold one of those terrible hurricanes calledtemporales, the violence of which is so great that the country over which they wreak their vengeance is in a few minutes completely changed and thrown into disorder, as if an earthquake had shattered it.
The painter had several times, since his arrival in America, been in a position to witness the terrifying spectacle of these frightful convulsions of nature in labour. Knowing the inconvenience of the danger then, he hastened to prepare everything, so that the tempest might do as little damage as possible. The baggage piled together in the centre of the valley, not far from the stream, formed a solid rampart against the greatest fury of the wind; the horses were left free and abandoned to that infallible instinct with which Providence has endowed them, and which in giving them a foreknowledge of the danger, suggests to them the means of escaping from it. Then, in a hole dug in haste, they lit the fire for cooking the slices ofcharqui, or wild bull's flesh dried in the sun, destined, with theharina tostadaand a littlequesoof goat's flesh, for the evening meal. The water from the brook served to satisfy the thirst of the travellers, for, except Don Santiago and the painter, who were each provided with a largebotaof white brandy, they did not carry with them either wine or liqueurs; but this forgetfulness, if it really was such, was of little importance for men of such great frugality as the Hispano-Americans—people who live, so to speak, on nothing, and whose hunger or thirst is appeased by the first thing which offers itself.
The meal was what it should be among men who expect from one moment to another to see a terrible and inevitable danger fall upon them—that is to say, sorrowful and silent. Each ate in haste, without holding conversation with his neighbour; then, hunger satisfied and the cigarette lighted, the travellers, without even wishing good night to each other, enveloped themselves in theirfrazadasand theirpellones, and tried to sleep with that placid resignation which forms the foundation of the character of the Creoles, and makes them accept without useless murmurs the frequently disastrous consequences of the nomadic life to which they are condemned.
Soon, with the exception of the three or four sentinels placed on the outskirts of the encampment, in order to guard against the approach of wild beasts, and the two chiefs of the caravan—that is to say, Don Santiago and Emile—all were plunged into deep sleep.
The Pincheyra appeared thoughtful; he smoked his cigarette, his back leaning on a trunk of a tree, and his eyes directed straight forward, without looking on any object. The Frenchman, on the contrary, more wakeful and more gay than ever, was humming a tune and amusing himself by digging with the point of a knife a hole in which he piled some dry wood, evidently intending to light a watch fire to warm his feet, when he felt inclined to go to sleep.
"Eh! Don Santiago," said he at last, addressing Pincheyra, and touching him lightly on the shoulder, "what are you thinking of now? Is it that you are not going to try and sleep for a couple of hours?"
The Chilian shook his head without answering.
"What does it matter?" pursued the young man persistently—"You, who a little while ago reproached me for my melancholy—you seem to have inherited it, upon my word. Is it the weight of the atmosphere that influences you?"
"Do you take me for a woman?" answered he at last, in a surly tone; "What matters to me the state of the sky? Am I not a child of the mountains, accustomed from my infancy to brave the most terrible storms?"
"But, then, what is it that distresses you?"
"What is it? Do you wish to know?"
"Pardieu! Since I ask it."
Don Santiago shook his head, threw around him a suspicious look, and then at last made up his mind to speak in a low and almost indistinct voice, as if he feared to be heard, although all his companions were asleep at too great a distance for the sound of his voice to reach them.
"I have," said he, "but one thing which vexes me."
"You, Don Santiago—you much astonish me; can it be that you are on bad terms with your brother, Don Pablo?"
"My brother, it is true, has something to do with the affair, but with him personally I have no misunderstanding—at least I believe so, for with him one never knows how to act; no, it is only on your account that I am chagrined just now."
"On my account!" cried the young man with surprise, "I confess I do not understand you."
"Speak lower; there is no occasion for our companions to hear what we say. Look you, Don Emile, I wish to be frank with you. We are about to separate, perhaps never to see one another again—and I hope, for your sake, it may be so. I wish our parting to be friendly, and that you should not entertain any ill feeling against me."
"I assure you, Don Santiago—"
"I know what I say," interrupted he, with some vivacity; "you have rendered me a great service. I cannot deny that, to a certain extent, I owe my life to you, for when I met you in the cavern of the rancho my position was almost desperate; well, I have not, in appearance, conducted myself towards you as I ought to have done. I engaged myself to shelter you and yours from the danger which threatened you, and I have conducted you to Casa-Frama, when I ought, on the contrary, to have taken you in quite an opposite direction. I know that I have acted badly in this aspect, and you have a right to entertain ill feeling to me. But I was not free to do otherwise. I was forced to obey a will stronger than my own—the will of my brother—whom no one has ever dared to resist. Now, I acknowledge my fault, and I wish as much as possible to repair the evil I have done, and that I have allowed to be done."
"That is speaking like acaballeroand a man of heart, Don Santiago. Be assured that, come what may, I shall be pleased at what you tell me at this moment; but, since you have begun so well, do not leave me any longer in the painful doubt in which I now am; answer me sincerely, will you?"
"Yes, as far as it depends on me."
"The ladies that I have been obliged to abandon, do they run any danger at present?"
"I think so."
"On the part of your brother?"
"Yes, on his, and others also. These two strangers have implacable enemies bent on their destruction."
"Poor women!" murmured the young man, sighing; "They will not, then, leave the camp?"
"Yes; tomorrow, at sunrise, they will quit it, escorted by the officer who, in our presence, claimed them of my brother."
"Do you know that officer?"
"A little."
"Who is he?"
"That I cannot say; I have sworn not to reveal it to anyone."
The Frenchman saw that he must not persist, so he modified his questions.
"What route will they take?" asked he.
"That which we are following."
"And they are going—"
"Towards the Brazilian frontier."
"So they will rejoin General Castelmelhor?"
The Pincheyra shook his head negatively.
"Then why take this direction?"
"I do not know."
"And, nevertheless, you think that danger threatens them?"
"Terrible."
"Of what kind?"
"I do not know."
The young man stamped his foot with vexation. These continual reticences on the part of the partisan disquieted him more than the truth, so frightful that he kept watching out to hear it.
"So," pursued he, after a pause, "supposing I remain here for some time, I shall see them."
"There is no doubt of it."
"What do you advise?"
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Nothing; I am not, like you, in love with Doña Eva," said he, with a certain tinge of raillery which made the young man start.
"In love with Doña Eva!"—cried he—"I!"
"What other motive could induce you, with all the chances against you, to risk your life to save her, if it were not so."
The young man did not answer. A light flashed suddenly on his mind. That secret, which he had hid from himself, others knew it; and when he did not dare to question himself on this insensate love which burned within him, the certainty of its existence was discovered even by strangers.
"Oh!" stammered he at last; "Don Santiago, do you think me capable of such a folly?"
"I do not know if it is a folly to love when one is young and ardent as you are," coldly answered the Pincheyra. "I have never loved but my horse and my gun; but I know well that the love of two young and handsome beings is a law of nature, and that I do not see what reason you should have to try and escape from it I do not blame you or approve you; I state a fact—that is all."
The young painter was astonished to hear a man speak thus who, up to that time, he had supposed to be endowed with a very moderate share of intelligence, and all whose aspirations seemed to him directed towards war and pillage. This half savage, uttering with so careless an air sentiments so humanely philosophic, seemed to him an incomprehensible phenomenon.