After the count's somewhat precipitate retreat, and the mission intrusted to Don Aníbal to detain him at the hacienda, if only for a few hours, the Mexican insurgents continued discussing in the hall the most fitting measures to obtain a speedy and good result for the new uprising which was preparing. Father Pelagio then informed the conspirators that this time the leaders of the revolutionary party wished to deal a heavy blow, and finish, at all risks, with the Spanish government. The secret societies spread over the country, and the recently created Masonic lodges, had, in a general meeting, elected as commander-in-chief of the national army Colonel Iturbide, whose well-known military talents were a guarantee of success.
Colonel Iturbide, who was destined hereafter to proclaim himself emperor, under the name of Agustín I., and fall beneath the bullets of his own subjects, who condemned him and mercilessly shot him, when he tried to regain the power he had allowed to slip from his grasp; Iturbide, we say, is the sole truly skilful statesman Mexico has produced since the revolution. He had served with distinction in the Spanish army, and had on several occasions displayed a devotion to the government which bordered on cruelty. Now that he was gained over to the revolution, nothing would arrest him in attaining the object of his secret ambition.
This time the Mexicans wished to avoid a serious fault into which they had previously fallen, and which had not only fairly compromised their cause but almost ruined it. This was the circumstance: When, in 1814, the Spanish armies, beaten in every encounter, seemed on the point of giving up the game, and yielding to the revolutionary turmoil, whose triumphant principles seemed solidly established on the territory of new Spain, General Morelos, at that time the most influential chief of the liberal party, whose ideas secretly inclined to a republic, established on the same basis as that of the United States, thought that the hour had arrived to convene a national congress.
This congress, at first composed of only a dozen members, began its session at Chilpancingo, where it promulgated decree upon decree; but the discussing power had scarce been established by side of the armed and acting power, ere, instead of combining their efforts for the triumph of the cause they had sworn to defend, they began contending together, each impeding the measures they should have taken in common, and by deplorable conflict destroyed their means of action. The congress tried to restrict the power of the general-in-chief, and prevented on every occasion his operations, so that the latter found it almost impossible to act.
These internal dissensions gave the Spaniards time to regain their courage. The Mexican republic was dead ere it lived, and the insurgents were obliged a second time to undergo the yoke from which they fancied themselves forever free.
As Colonel Iturbide and the chief of the liberal party were not yet quite ready to commence the insurrectionary movement, the great point was to wait and, before all, gain time; for this Fray Pelagio only saw one plan: to send to the general commanding the province a messenger-order to make him certain proposals, and bearing a respectful petition addressed to the Viceroy. During the absence of this ambassador, resistance would be quietly organized, and they would be ready to act when the signal for revolt was given by the chiefs. The conspirators enthusiastically applauded this proposal, which seemed to them fully to carry out the object proposed, namely cheating the Spaniards. Still, when it came to select the ambassador, serious difficulties arose.
Most of the persons present were rich hacenderos, long known to belong to the liberal party, and whom the government carefully watched; many of them had had to undergo numerous annoyances either in their estates or their persons from the Spaniards, and they were not at all anxious to surrender themselves to the mercy of enemies whose summary treatment they were acquainted with. In fact, the Spanish generals made no scruple about hanging or shooting the insurgents who fell into their hands, and there was no plausible reason for supposing that they would respect the person of an ambassador, sent by men whom they regarded as rebels, and with whom the law of nations and of war need not be followed. Consequently each found an excuse to escape the dangerous honour of being sent to the general.
The question became difficult of solution. Father Pelagio only saw around him long drawn faces, which foreboded no good for the execution of his plan; he was, therefore, considerably embarrassed and did not see how to escape the difficulty, when Don Aurelio suddenly came to his help at the moment when he least expected it.
"¡Canarios!" the Mexican exclaimed, "It must be allowed, caballeros, that we are pulling singular faces, and bear a strong likeness to the rats in Yriarte's fable, that wished to bell the sleeping cat."
In spite of the gravity of the situation, this sally was so true that it unwrinkled all the foreheads, and caused a general laugh.
"In truth," Don Pelagio observed, "Dios me perdone, we look as if we did not know exactly what to resolve."
"Yet I fancy that nothing is easier than the choice we propose making."
"How so?" the priest asked.
"Whom do we want as ambassador? A true man; we are all so, I believe. Still this man must be through his position sufficiently free and independent to be able honourably to fulfil the important mission intrusted to him. Is it not so?"
"Yes, you are right," Fray Pelagio answered, not knowing what the hacendero wished to arrive at.
All the company, puzzled in the highest degree, looked anxiously at Don Aurelio, unable to detect what the result would be. The latter continued quietly, as he laid his hands on the Sumach's shoulder, who, very indifferent to what was said, was carelessly listening to the discussion as he leant on his rifle.
"Well, the man you seek is here," he said: "our excellent colonel—he alone can worthily fulfil this great and glorious mission."
"What?" the adventurer exclaimed, starting as if a snake had stung him, "No jokes, if you please. If it be a joke, I warn you that I consider it a poor one."
"I am not joking at all, Colonel," the hacendero continued with a gracious smile, "on the contrary, I am speaking very seriously."
"Nonsense, my dear sir. Your idea may seem to you a good one, but, for my part, I consider it absurd and in every way impracticable. Hang it," he added, as he passed his hand round his neck, "I know the Spanish gentry, and am not at all anxious to go and thrust my head down the wolfs throat out of bravado."
Father Pelagio at once perceived what advantage this plan possessed for everybody, hence he resolved to carry it out, and convince the adventurer, who, in fact, was the only man who could risk, owing to his very insignificance, going to the Spanish authorities.
"You are mistaken, Colonel," he said to the Canadian. "Don Aurelio's idea is an excellent one, and I give you credit for such good sense that you will agree with me in a moment."
"I doubt it hugely, caballero. I confess that I am curious to know how you will set about proving to me that I must go and be hanged or shot for the greater benefit of your cause," he answered with an ironical smile.
"Oh, that is very easy, Colonel. Understand me thoroughly."
"Oh, I am all ears."
"You alone can carry out this difficult duty, for the following reasons: in the first place you are a foreigner, citizen of a country with which the Spanish government would think twice before seeking a quarrel; and then you are a colonel in our army. You may be sure that any insult offered to you will not be left unpunished, and that I, your general, will take an exemplary vengeance."
"All that is very fine," the adventurer answered with a grin. "I allow that the Spaniards will be unable to confiscate my property, for even if I possess any, it is, thank heaven, out of their reach. But they can imprison and even shoot me. That is of some importance, I suppose; and, once I am dead, will you restore me the life taken from me? What shall I care then for the more or less exemplary manner in which you avenge my death? I shall not be the less securely buried."
"I repeat to you that the Spaniards will not dare touch a hair of your head; moreover, you will not go alone; the noble count whom you saw here just now will pledge himself to protect and defend you, for he will introduce you to the person to whom I am about to send you."
"Hum!" the adventurer continued, "All this is not very clear; but how do you know that the count will assume this responsibility? You have not yet asked him the question."
"No; but while your colonel's commission is being made out, and two months' advance are paid you for your outfit, I will go and speak to the count, and obtain his word that you shall incur no danger from the Spanish authorities, and that when your mission is completed, every security will be granted for your safe return."
The adventurer scratched his head as if very far from convinced. It was plain that, in spite of his general's explanations and the fine promises, he did not particularly care for the mission confided to him. Still, at the expiration of a moment, he drew himself up with a determined air, shook his head several times as if to drive away a troublesome idea, and said—
"Well, well, I see that madmen must always be madmen; so deuce take fear. The Spaniards, I suppose, are not more formidable than tigers; I shall not be sorry to have a nearer look at them, and so I accept your offer. When am I to start?"
"Tomorrow, with the count; he will escort you to the general."
"That is settled."
"Now, give your name to Don Aurelio Gutiérrez, in order that your commission may be filled up, and your letters of credit written."
"Good; my name is Oliver Clary, called the Sumach; this time I will not deny my name, for I believe that I shall see death pretty closely. I was born at Québec, and I am thirty-two years of age. Is that enough, or do you want any further information?"
"No, Señor Don Oliver, that is more than sufficient; now I will leave you for a few moments, and settle matters with the count."
"Do so, General, I trust to your promise."
"Depend on me."
And Father Pelagio left the room. The adventurer was at once surrounded by the conspirators, who warmly thanked him for his devotion to their cause, and the courage with which he was going to trace an imminent and terrible danger in order to serve it. The Canadian shrugged his shoulders, and quietly turned his back on them. So soon as his commission and letters of credit were ready, and he had received his money, he carefully placed all in his waist belt, and, making a sign to Moonshine, left the room with him.
We have already described in what way Father Pelagio obtained the count's assent; we will, therefore, not return to that subject, but merely state that the priest hastened to inform the Canadian, whom he met, of the success of his application, while warning him that he must be ready to start at sunrise of the next day.
"You know," he added, in a low voice, and with a smile, "that an ambassador must have eyes and ears; I trust to you to see and hear all that it may be useful for us to know."
"Good, good, leave me alone, I will prove to the Gachupinos that the Godos are not the only clever people, and that the Canadians are descended from the Normans; they will not catch a weasel asleep in me."
Father Pelagio exchanged a few more remarks with him, and then left, after wishing him success once again. The two Canadians then left the house and proceeded to the garden, where they sought the most secluded spot. On reaching one, where they did not fear being overheard, they stopped and sat down side by side on the ground.
"Friend Moonshine," the adventurer said, "I have brought you here because I wish to ask a service of you."
"I suspected it; speak, Oliver, you know that I am ready to do everything you wish."
"I do not know how I let myself be humbugged into accepting this confounded embassy, in which there are ninety chances in a hundred that I shall lose my hide; but what is done cannot be undone. Listen to me: during my absence you will take the command of my men, and I will give them orders to obey you as myself."
Moonshine gave a nod of assent.
"Now," the adventurer continued, "take this belt; it contains not only the gold I have just received, but also some savings of my own."
"What am I to do with it?"
"If I am killed by the Godos, I do not wish them to profit by my money. You will keep as much as you like, and send the rest to my old mother, you know where."
"I will send it all; I shall not need money, for if those brigands of Spaniards assassinate you I must revenge your death, and money will be useless to me."
"That is true; in that case you will send all. That is settled, thank you."
"There is nothing to thank me for; what you ask of me is simple."
"Yes, yes," the other said, with a shake of his head; "but who knows what turn matters will take?"
"Well, up to the present we have no cause to grumble, I fancy."
"It is true that we have succeeded in everything; my measures were so well taken that, without exciting the slightest suspicion, we managed to gain the very thing we aimed at; but we must wait for the end."
"Nonsense; we shall succeed; set your mind at rest about that, Sumach. Besides, our project is most honourable, as we wish to render a service to people to whom we do not owe the slightest obligation, and whom we do not even know."
"That is true. Well, let us trust to heaven. One last word."
"Out with it."
"Distrust that cunning-looking majordomo. I know not why, but he inspires me with an invincible repulsion."
"All right; I will watch him."
"Very good; now let us go to dinner."
The two men rose and went back to the house as quiet and careless as if they had been conversing about indifferent matters. Immediately after dinner, the adventurer assembled his comrades, made them recognize Moonshine as their chief during his absence, and then all his affairs being thus settled, he wrapped himself in his zarapé, lay down on the ground, and almost immediately fell asleep.
Don Melchior Díaz's name has several times already slipped from our pen; the reader has been introduced to him, but up to the present we have not yet positively explained who he is or in what way he succeeded in gaining the position he occupies in the Saldibar family. The moment has arrived to make this known, and acquaint the reader with certain events most important for a proper understanding of coming facts.
When Sotavento handed over to Don Aníbal de Saldibar the child saved from the general massacre of the Indian tribe, there was a fact which the majordomo passed over in silence. It was, that the lad whom he declared to have recovered from the Indians, had been simply confided to him by a white hunter, to whom he had scarce spoken, and who said to him at the same time as he handed him a bag of gold dust, which the majordomo did not think it necessary to mention either, as he doubtless preferred to appear thoroughly disinterested in his master's eyes—
"This child is born of white parents; one day he will be reclaimed; tell Don Aníbal to take the greatest care of him."
Sotavento scented a mystery under these hints, and in the prospect of some profit to be made at a later date, kept to himself the hunter's remarks, and told his master some sort of story, which the latter believed, through the slight importance he attached to it. The lad had, therefore, been unhesitatingly accepted by Don Aníbal, and brought up in the family for the first five years. The hacendero paid but little attention to him, amusing himself at times with his sallies, but taking very slight interest in him, and regarding him rather as a servant than as a member of the family destined to acquire considerable importance.
Don Aurelio, when he narrated to his companions the facts which caused Doña Emilia's insanity and the events that followed, had been unable to tell more than everybody knew, and comment on these events from his own point of sight. But a secret was kept in the inner circle of the family which Don Aníbal was more careful not to permit to transpire, and which, consequently, Don Aurelio was ignorant of. The secret was this: Doña Emilia was not cured; her madness still endured; still this madness had become, so to speak, intermittent, and only made its appearance at settled intervals; but then her attacks acquired such strength that they became irresistible, and any constraint placed at such a moment on the patient's volition would infallibly have caused her death.
Don Aníbal, as we have said, adored his wife. Several times he tried to calm her; he even went so far as to try and prevent her leaving the hacienda. But then such frightful scenes occurred; Doña Emilia fell into such horrible convulsions at the mere thought of not acting as she liked, that Don Aníbal was obliged to restore her liberty. Doña Emilia when these attacks came upon her became a lioness; she had but one thought, one purpose, to rush in pursuit of the Indians, and pitilessly massacre them. Singular anomaly of the human heart, especially in a mild, kind, timid woman, whom the slightest pain caused to faint, and who, in ordinary times, could not endure the sight of blood. Doña Emilia, whom, by the physician's express orders, Don Aníbal had not dared deprive of her daughter, had brought up her child in a hatred of the redskins, and seizing on her young imagination with that ascendency which mothers possess, had succeeded, if not in completely making her share her ideas, at least in obtaining from her a passive and absolute obedience.
Melchior, brought up, so to speak, haphazard at the hacienda, had, through the instinct of protecting innate in man, attached himself to Doña Diana, whom he saw sad, sickly, and suffering. Doña Diana, for her part, felt pity for the poor orphan, and from this mutual sympathy sprang a friendship which years had only consolidated by rendering it warmer. Don Aníbal and Doña Emilia both saw with pleasure this affection spring up between the children, though from different motives. Don Aníbal, who would not for anything in the world have thwarted his wife's ideas, saw with delight this boy grow up who, at a given moment, might become her defender and safeguard in her mad expeditions against the Indians; while Doña Emilia, reasoning from an entirely different point of view, though she attained the same result, saw in him a devoted and most useful ally in these same expeditions.
The result of this tacit understanding between husband and wife was that the boy, at first abandoned to his instincts, was watched with greater care, brought up as he deserved to be, and at last gradually regarded as a member of the family. Let us hasten to add that Don Melchior was in every respect deserving of the kindness shown him. He was a thoughtful, earnest lad, with an honest heart and firm will, who could thoroughly appreciate all that was done for his future well-being.
When the boy became a man, he was taken naturally into Doña Emilia's intimacy, and associated in all her plans. Don Aníbal, delighted at this result, and trusting in the young man, whose good sentiments he had reason for believing he knew, felt relieved from a heavy burden; and when his wife, attacked by one of her fits, attempted one of her hazardous excursions, he saw her start with less terror, as he felt convinced that she had a devoted defender by her side. But a thing happened which neither husband nor wife had foreseen. The two young people, brought up side by side, living constantly together, accustomed to interchange their most secret thoughts and ideas, passed by an imperceptible incline, without either perceiving or suspecting it, from friendship to love. Love in these two young, ignorant hearts, which were pure from any wrong sentiment, must necessarily be deep, irresistible, and produce the effect of a thunderbolt.
This is what occurred: the two young people, instead of trying to resist the new feeling which was germinating in their hearts and growing so rapidly, yielded to it with that simple confidence which ignorance alone can give, and which converts love into a divine sentiment. Long before they had made a mutual avowal, they understood each other by a glance, and knew that they were henceforth attached to each other.
One day Doña Diana approached Melchior, who, with his shoulder leant against a sumach, was listlessly watching a flight of wild pigeons passing over his head. The young man was so absorbed in thought that he did not hear the maiden's light step, as her dainty feet made the sand of the walk she was following creak. It was only when her hand was laid on his shoulder that, recalled to earth from heaven, he started as if he had received an electric shock, turned suddenly, and fixed his eyes on Doña Diana. The young lady smiled.
"Were you dreaming?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied with a sigh; "I was dreaming, Niña."
She mechanically raised her eyes to the sky.
"Of those birds, doubtless? Did they bring you a hope or a regret?"
Melchior shook his head.
"Neither one nor the other," he said sorrowfully. "I have no regrets, and my sole hope is here."
The young lady looked down with a blush. There was a silence for some minutes, filled with ineffable melody for these young hearts; the lad was the first to speak.
"Alas!" he said, in a low and timid voice, "Regrets are hot made for me; what am I, save a lost child, whose colour is not even decided? Can I regret a family I do not know?"
"Yes, that is true," she answered, with a roguish smile; "but you have a hope."
"A mad hope, an insensate dream, which the reawakening of reason will utterly dispel," he said with feverish animation.
"You are deceived or wish to deceive me," she said, with some sternness in her voice; "that is not right, Melchior."
"Señorita—" he stammered.
The maiden walked softly up to him. "We were brought up together," she said to him in a gentle and penetrating voice, "we grew up together, ever equally sharing our joys and sorrows; is that true, Melchior?"
"It is," he murmured faintly.
"Why, then," she continued, "have you become so taciturn during the last few days? Why do you shun me? Why do you fly on my approach?"
"I?"
"You, brother, who ought to keep nothing hidden from me."
"Oh!"
"I repeat that you ought to keep nothing from me, for I am your oldest, perhaps your only friend."
"It is true, oh! It is true, Diana," he exclaimed, as he clasped his hands with passionate fervour, "you are my only friend."
"Why then keep a secret from me?"
"A secret!" he exclaimed, as he recoiled in horror.
"Yes, a secret; and I have discovered it, though you fancied you had locked it up in your heart."
The young man turned pale.
"Oh! Take care, Niña," he exclaimed, "this secret I dare not confess to myself."
"That is the very reason why I discovered it, Melchior," she answered, with an adorable expression.
"Oh! It is impossible, Diana; you cannot know—"
"That you love me!" she interrupted him with an outburst. "Why not, since I love you?"
And she gazed at him with the sublime confidence of a chaste and true love—that divine and fugitive beam which God, in his ineffable goodness, only allows to shine in innocent and candid hearts. The young lover tottered like a drunken man; for a moment he thought he must be dreaming, for so much happiness surpassed all that he had ever dared to hope.
"You love me, Diana!" he at length exclaimed.
"You love me! Oh! An eternity of suffering for this second of happiness!"
And he fell on his knees in front of the maiden. She looked at him for a moment with an expression of indescribable passion, and then offered him her hand, which he covered with burning kisses.
"Rise, Melchior," she said to him, with considerable emotion. "Rise, my beloved. Let this holy love which binds us, and which we have mutually confessed, remain a secret from everybody. A day will come, and soon, I hope, when we shall be permitted to proclaim it openly; but till then let us hide our happiness."
The young man rose.
"I love you, Diana," he said. "I am your slave; order me, and I will obey."
"Alas, my beloved," she continued, with a sad shake of her head, "I can give you no orders, entreaty alone is permitted me."
"Oh, speak, speak, Diana," he exclaimed.
The maiden passed her arm through his with a sanguine, childish confidence.
"Come," she said, "accompany me a few paces, and we will talk about my mother."
Melchior shook his head sorrowfully, but said nothing.
"Poor mother!" Diana murmured.
"Oh, yes, most unhappy," the young man remarked with a sigh.
"I think you love my mother, dearest?"
"Is it not to her that I am indebted for being what I am?"
"Listen to me, Melchior," she said resolutely; "we love each other, and some day you will be my husband, for I swear to you that I will never have another. As you see, I speak frankly and boldly, more so perhaps than a girl of my age and position ought to do; but you are an honourable man, and will never abuse the confession I have made you."
"Thanks," he said, simply. "Speak, Diana, speak. Your words are engraved in letters of fire on my heart."
"It is well, my friend. You, my mother, and my father occupy all my affections. It is a holy trinity, to which I will never break faith. You know in what a horrible position my mother finds herself, and what fearful hallucinations seize upon her."
"Alas!"
"Well! Swear to me that whatever may occur, you will never fail in the mission I have taken on myself, and of which I confide to you one half from this day; swear to me that, under all circumstances, you will remain by her side to defend her, and die for her if it must be so. At this price, I repeat to you, Melchior, at this price my love is yours for ever; and no other man but yourself shall ever be my husband."
The young man tried to interrupt her; but she imposed silence on him by a sudden and peremptory gesture, and continued—
"Oh! I know what a frightful sacrifice I impose on you, brother; but I, who am but a girl, still a child I may say, endure without complaining all the consequences of these ferocious acts of vengeance which I dare not qualify as madness. Alas, Melchior, the fearful disease to which my poor mother is condemned dates from the period of my birth. I am, so to speak, the innocent cause of it; hence it is my duty to sacrifice myself, whatever it may cost me, in order to try if possible to relieve her frightful sufferings, which, in the paroxysm of a horrible crisis, will perhaps entail my death and hers; for I do not conceal from myself, brother, that the day must arrive when the redskins will take their revenge for my mother's implacable expeditions. But then, if I succumb, I shall at least fall with the incomparable satisfaction of having done my duty by sacrificing myself for her to whom I owe my life."
"Dismiss such gloomy thoughts, Diana. Your mother is growing calmer with age. The expeditions, as you know, are more and more rare, the attacks less frequent, and soon, perhaps, we shall have the happiness of seeing them entirely disappear."
"I dare not flatter myself with that hope, my dear Melchior. No, no. Unless a miracle occurs, my mother will fall a victim to her monomania for vengeance on the redskins."
"My dear Diana, there are now two of us to devote ourselves to her. God is too just and good to desire the ruin of two innocent children who have never offended Him. You have my word, and my life belongs to you and to your mother; employ it as a thing that is your own. On the day when I lose it in serving you and saving you from sorrow, I shall be the happiest of men."
"Thanks, Melchior; I knew that I could reckon on you. Your generous words restore the courage which was fast deserting me. I will not break down in the task I have imposed on myself; henceforth we belong to one another, no matter what obstacles may arise."
From this day the compact was made between the young people—a sacred compact, which neither broke, and which was fated to have terrible consequences for them at a later date. But an invisible witness had overheard their conversation. This witness, whom they had not seen gliding like a snake through the shrubs, and listening to all their remarks with the greatest attention, was Pedro Sotavento, majordomo of the hacienda. What interest had this man in thus overhearing their conversation? He alone knew; for beneath an affable and inoffensive appearance, he concealed a deeply ulcerated heart, and evidently followed a plan resolved on long before, the realization of which would burst like a thunderclap upon those whose ruin he had so long meditated.
Sotavento kept to himself his knowledge of the love of the young people, which he had so treacherously surprised. He never ventured, in their presence, on the slightest allusion which might lead them to suspect that he was aware of it. On the contrary, he increased his politeness towards Melchior, and seemed trying, by overtures adroitly made each time an opportunity offered, to gain his confidence. This, however, let us hasten to add, he never succeeded in doing; for the young man felt for the worthy steward an instinctive and invincible aversion, which stopped in his throat a confession he was several times on the point of making to him.
We will now resume our story again at the point where we broke off. Don Melchior, after his short appearance in the saloon, hastily proceeded to a retired suite of rooms in the right wing of the hacienda. We will precede him and go in a few minutes before him.
This suite only consisted of two rooms, furnished with that severe luxury which the Spaniards so well understand, and which is appropriate to their grave and melancholy character. The first room, serving as withdrawing room, was hung with stamped Cordovan leather. Oak chairs, which had grown black with time, and were also covered with leather, were drawn up against the walls. In the centre of the room was a table, over which a green cloth was thrown. A crucifix of yellow ivory, three feet high, before which stood a curiously carved oak prie-dieu, faced one of those enormous Louis XIII. clocks, whose case could easily have contained a man, and, in a corner, was a species of oratory, surmounted by a white marble statue of the Virgin of Suffering, whose brow was girt with a crown of white roses, while before it burned a silver lamp, shaped like a censer, and suspended from the ceiling by a chain.
In this room, which looked more like an oratory than a drawing room, and which opened on a bedroom, the furniture of which was extremely plain, two ladies were seated near a window, and conversing in a low voice, at the moment when the exigencies of our narrative compel us to join them. Of these two, one had passed the age of thirty—that critical period for Spanish women; but although her face was pale as marble, and her features were worn with sorrow, it was easy to perceive that she must have been very lovely once. The person who kept her company was a light-haired, graceful, pale, and delicate girl. She was endowed with the ideal and dreamy beauty which renders painters desperate and which German poets have alone been able to describe. In her calm, pensive features were found again the dreamy, restless, and chaste physiognomy of Goethe's Marguerite, and the intoxicating and impassioned smile of Schiller's pale creations.
These two ladies were mother and daughter. Doña Emilia de Saldibar and Doña Diana. Their dress, through its severe simplicity, harmonized perfectly with the expression of sorrow and melancholy spread over their whole persons. They wore long gowns of black velvet, without embroidery or ornaments, fastened round the waist by girdles of the same colour. A rebozo of black lace covered their neck and chest, and could, if necessary, be thrown over their heads, and hide their faces. They were conversing in a low voice, looking out now and then absently into the courtyard, in which were assembled the numerous peons of the hacenderos who had responded to Don Aníbal's summons.
"No," Doña Emilia said, "no, my child, it is better to remain silent, for this information is anything but positive."
"Still, mother," the young lady answered, "the man seemed thoroughly acquainted with the whole story; and it appears to me, on the contrary—"
"You are wrong, Diana," her mother interrupted, with some sternness in her voice. "I know better than you what should be done under the circumstances. Be careful, Niña. You take the affair too much to heart, and let yourself be carried away."
The girl blushed, and bit her lips.
"You know how I love you, my child," Doña Emilia continued directly; "so do not try to thwart what I do, as you are well aware I have but one object, your happiness, so let me act as I think proper."
"My dear mother!" the young lady said affectionately.
"Yes," Doña Emilia replied with a cold smile, "I am your dear mother when I yield to your importunities."
"Oh, do not say that, mother! You know what deep love I have for you."
"Yes I know it, and I know too that I do not alone occupy your heart."
Doña Diana turned her head away to hide the blush that suffused her face at this remark; but her mother did not notice this emotion, and continued, as if speaking to herself, instead of addressing her daughter—
"But why should I complain? Ought it not always to be so? Woman is born to love, as the bird is to fly in the air. Love, my poor, dear child; for love constitutes a woman's entire life, for it enables her to learn joy and sorrow."
Her voice gradually grew weaker, and these words were spoken indistinctly. There was a rather long silence, which the girl did not venture to disturb by an indiscreet question. Respecting the sorrowful reverie into which her mother had fallen, her eyes were fixed more attentively on the courtyard. All at once she started.
"Ah!" she said, at once glad and troubled, "Here is Don Melchior."
"What did you say, Niña?" her mother asked, raising her head eagerly. "I think you mentioned the name of Don Melchior?"
"Yes, I did, mother," she answered timidly.
"Well, what did you say about him?"
"Nothing, mother, except that I just saw him in the yard, and I think he is coming here."
"He will be welcome, for I am anxiously expecting him. So soon as he comes in, Niña, you will be good enough to retire to your bedroom, and not come back till I call you. I have important matters to discuss with this young man, which it is unnecessary for you to hear."
"You shall be obeyed, mother," the young lady said as she rose. "I hear his footstep in the corridor, so I will withdraw, for he will be here directly."
"Go, my child; I shall soon recall you."
The girl bent over her mother, whose forehead she kissed, and ran away, light as a bird, at the moment when two raps on the door announced a visitor. Doña Emilia waited till the door of her daughter's bedroom was closed, and then cried, "Come in!" The door swung back slowly on its hinges, and Melchior appeared. So soon as the young man entered the room he doffed his hat, and walked respectfully toward Doña Emilia, who, without leaving her seat by the window, half turned and made him a sign to approach.
"You did me the honour of sending for me, madam," he said, as he stopped three or four yards from Doña Emilia.
"Yes, caballero," she replied. "You know that I have been absent from the hacienda for several days, and only returned a few hours ago; consequently I am ignorant of all that is going on, and thought you could give me the information I desire."
"You know, madam, that I am completely at your service for anything you may please to order."
"I doubt neither your courtesy nor your devotion, Don Melchior, and I think I have given you sufficient proof of that."
"Madam," the young man answered warmly, "your kindness to me has known no bounds. I feel for you the veneration I should have for a mother, for you have acted as such to me."
"I did what my religion commanded for an abandoned orphan. But enough on this head: tell me what there is new at the hacienda."
"When you left the house without warning me, contrary to your habit, madam, to get ready to accompany you, I was at first very sad, for I was afraid that I had displeased you; then, on reflection, and after seeking in my mind what the motive could be that urged you to exile me from your presence, I supposed that I should be more useful to you here than if I followed you."
"Quite right," she answered, with a smile. "Go on; but first sit down here by my side," she added, affectionately.
The young man bowed respectfully, and took the chair pointed out to him.
"I need not tell you, madam," he continued, "what is the motive of this day's meeting, or who the persons present are."
"No, pass over that."
"But among these persons there is one whose presence you are assuredly far from suspecting."
"Who is it?"
"Father Sandoval."
"Father Sandoval!" she exclaimed, with a start. "Impossible! He is a prisoner of the Spaniards."
"It is he, madam."
"That is strange. How is it that I have not been informed of his presence?"
"He arrived at the hacienda with Don Aurelio Gutiérrez."
"But I was close to Don Aurelio: he only had with him Yankee or Canadian wood rangers and two Mexican peons."
"Well, madam, one of those peons was no other than Father Sandoval. The reverend father thought it wise to assume this disguise in order, probably, more easily to escape the Spanish spies."
"Yes, that must have been the reason; prudence commanded him to act so. Go on."
"Father Sandoval has made himself known to all our adherents, and has been unanimously elected their chief."
"In truth, he alone possesses sufficient influence over the haughty hacenderos to command them. And what measures have been adopted?"
"Pardon me, madam, but I must tell you of another person whose presence was neither expected nor desired, and who arrived suddenly."
"The Count de Melgosa, I suppose. I was aware that he was coming. He was doubtless the bearer of some tremendous message. Has he gone again?"
"Not yet, madam; he will not leave the hacienda till sunrise tomorrow, accompanied by Colonel Don Oliver Clary, one of the Canadian adventurers brought by Don Aurelio, whom Father Sandoval has entrusted with his answer to the governor's manifesto."
"Very good, we have time before us; we will set out tonight. You will accompany us, Melchior; so be careful that everything is prepared for midnight, and our departure kept secret."
"You shall be obeyed, madam."
"And the majordomo?"
This question was asked in a tone which showed what importance Doña Emilia attached to it.
"Still impenetrable, madam," he answered; "ever full of zeal and devotion. His conduct does not offer the slightest pretext to suspect him of treachery."
"Strange," she murmured; "still it is evident to me that this man is a traitor, and playing a double part. How can I unmask him? Oh, a proof, a proof, however slight it be. Still it cannot always be so; heaven will not permit it. Patience, patience! I thank you, Don Melchior, for the zeal you have displayed; continue to be faithful. Now you can withdraw."
The young man rose.
"Madam," he ventured, timidly, "will you allow me to ask you one question."
"Speak."
"I have not had the happiness," he continued, with hesitation, "to see Doña Diana since her return. I trust that the fatigue she must have felt has not made her ill, and that her precious health is still good."
Doña Emilia frowned, and a cloud of dissatisfaction spread over her face; but at once recovering herself, she replied, gently—
"Doña Diana is well, Melchior."
"Oh, all the better, madam," he said, with an outburst of passionate joy which he could not repress.
Then, bowing deeply to Doña Emilia, he fell back to leave the room.
"Poor boy!" Doña Emilia murmured, as she looked after him.
At the moment when he reached the door, she called him back.
"I forgot," she said; "be kind enough to tell Father Sandoval that, if his occupations permit, I should like to speak with him for a few moments after oración this evening."
"I will tell him, madam. Have you any further commands for me?"
"No, you can go."
The young man bowed for the last time, and went out. Doña Emilia was hardly alone ere her daughter rushed from her bedroom, and ran up to her.
"Well," she said, "what is the meaning of this, Niña? Why have you come without being called?"
"Oh, mother," she answered, as she threw herself into her arms, "forgive me, but I was suffering too greatly."
Doña Emilia recoiled, and looked her daughter in the face.
"What is the meaning of these words, señorita!" she said to her, sternly. "To what are you alluding?"
The girl, ashamed of the confession she had allowed to escape her, buried her head in her hands, and burst into tears.
"Diana, Diana!" her mother said, with ineffable sadness, as she drew her daughter gently to her heart, "You are preparing great suffering both for yourself and me."
"Mother!" she murmured, with a sob.
"Silence, Niña!" Doña Emilia quickly interrupted, "Do not add a word which might, perhaps, cause, irreparable misfortunes. I know nothing, and wish to know nothing. Dry those tears which burn my heart, and take your place again by my side."
"Yes, mother," she answered, in a voice choked by sobs and trying to obey.
"Diana!" Doña Emilia continued presently, in a firm voice, "Remember that we have a mission of vengeance to accomplish against the Indians, and that they are the cause of the terrible misfortunes which have overwhelmed us."
These words were uttered in a tone which admitted of no reply. The maiden shuddered and hung her head sadly with no strength to answer. Her mother regarded her for a moment with an expression of pity, love, and grief impossible to describe, and pointed to the statue of the Virgin placed in a corner of the room.
"Pray to her who has drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of sorrow; she will have pity on you and give you the necessary courage to endure the grief which overwhelms you."
The maiden rose slowly; she went to the chapel, and kneeling down piously before the statue, to which she raised her tear-laden eyes, she prayed fervently; then, at a sign from her mother, she withdrew to her bedroom. In the evening, Doña Emilia had a conversation with Father Sandoval, which was carried on far into the night. This conversation, doubtless, very important, but which we will not describe here, left a sweet and consoling impression on the mind of Doña Emilia, for her features grew calmer, and, before retiring to rest, she gave her daughter's pale forehead a kiss full of maternal tenderness, as she murmured in a low voice—
"Hope!"
The girl started in her sleep, and a faint smile played round her rosy lips.
In all the countries of Spanish America the heat is so stifling during midday, that the wise plan has been adopted of only travelling in the morning and evening; that is to say, from sunrise till about half past eleven, and from five in the afternoon till midnight. In this way travelling is rendered far more convenient and less fatiguing for travellers as well as for animals.
About ten o'clock at night, with the exception of the bivouac fires lighted by the peons congregated in the yards and gardens, all the lights were extinguished in turn in the hacienda, and a deep silence soon reigned in this house, which, however, contained a thousand persons, while a much larger number were temporarily quartered round it. All were asleep, or seemed to sleep, with the exception of a few sentries standing motionless on the walls, and who stood out distinctly in the bright moonlight. The night, which was calm and starlit, was only disturbed by that indistinct murmur which is never extinct, either in city or desert, and is the incessantly ascending flood of life. At times a distant growl, or a half stifled bark, showed that the wild beasts had left their hidden dens and were wandering about the forest in search of prey.
All at once, on the side where the walls were the highest and rose perpendicularly over the precipice, a door was cautiously opened. Through its position over the precipice, this door could not be seen by the sentries, and the three persons who stepped through it one after the other, ran no risk of being perceived. These persons, who seemed perfectly acquainted with the dangerous road they were entering on, carefully closed the gate after them, and clinging to some projections probably arranged to facilitate the descent, descended the cliff without any hesitation, stopping at times to draw breath, or look inquiringly around them. The descent was a long one, for it could not be performed directly, and the bold adventurers were compelled to keep to their left, and often to march parallel with the gulf; but at length they reached the bottom without accident, and took a few minutes' rest by the side of a stream which ran silently at their feet.
Nearly opposite the spot where the bold adventurers reached the bottom of the abyss, was the yawning mouth of a natural cavern. After taking a parting glance above their heads, as if to feel certain that no one had noticed their departure, and that the same tranquillity continued to prevail in the hacienda, they disappeared in the grotto. Then the person who marched last took off his zarapé, which he held before the opening, while one of his companions struck a light and lit a torch of ocote wood, a considerable pile of which was collected in a hole of the rock. By the glare of the torch, which suddenly cast a reddish tinge over the interior of the grotto, a spy would have easily recognized in these three persons, Doña Emilia, her daughter, and Don Melchior.
When Doña Emilia, who held the torch, had gone far enough to prevent the light from being seen from the outside, Don Melchior pulled down his zarapé, and went off in his turn. The grotto had such numerous and sudden turns, that any stranger whom chance conducted to it would have been infallibly lost, and Doña Emilia and her companions must have known it for a long time when they ventured to enter it. After walking for about ten minutes, our friends reached a species of hall, on to which six passages opened, which ran in diametrically opposite directions probably for a great distance. This hall formed a rather large room, in which were several clumsily made equipales, a rickety table, and a sort of rack fastened to the wall, and filled with weapons of every description, lances, daggers, machetes, pistols, and muskets, with bullet bags of tapir hide and buffalo horns full of powder.
Three horses with eyes full of fire were lying on thick litter, and vigorously munching their stock of alfalfa. On seeing their owners, they gave a neigh of pleasure, and got up as if impatient to leave their dark stable. Don Melchior fetched the saddles, which were carefully arranged on a bench, and after rubbing down the noble animals he began saddling them without a moment's delay. Five minutes later, each of them, holding their horse by the bridle, left the circular hall, and after some turnings reached the mouth of the grotto. This opening, perfectly concealed by shrubs, led to a rarely visited arm of the Río del Norte; the water flowed up to the very entrance of the cavern, which in the rainy season it penetrated, which rendered all investigation impossible on this side at least, and insured the secrecy of this hiding place.
After parting the branches, the horses were led through, and Don Melchior again concealed the fissure by which they passed out. The travellers mounted and entered the river, following the watercourse till they reached a somewhat distant sandy point on which they landed. They found themselves in the heart of a dense forest, and all signs of cultivation had disappeared.
"Now," Doña Emilia said, with a peculiar smile, as she drew up her reins and leant over her horse's neck, "forward, and in Heaven's name!"
These were the first words uttered since leaving the hacienda; the horses started at a gallop and disappeared beneath the foliage. We will leave Doña Emilia for a season and return to the Hacienda del Barrio.
The two Canadians, as we have already stated, lay down on the ground, where they at once fell asleep. The Sumach could not have stated how long he had been slumbering, when he felt his shoulder slightly tapped. Adventurers and wood rangers, owing to the mode of life they lead, have an excessively light sleep; the adventurer at once opened his eyes and saw a man leaning over him with a finger laid on his lip as if urging silence on him.
"Quick," this person whispered; "get up and follow me."
"Well," the Canadian said to himself, "I know that where there is a mystery there are ounces to be gained; it is a fine time to assure one's self of the truth of the statement."
Without displaying the slightest surprise, the Sumach or Oliver, whichever the reader likes to call him, rose from his humble couch, carefully wrapped himself in his zarapé to guard against the night dew, and after making certain that his pistols were still in his girdle, and that his knife moved easily in its sheath, he followed his mysterious conductor without any hesitation. The latter, to whom the hacienda appeared familiar, led him through several passages and apartments feebly lighted by smoking candles fastened to the wall, into a room of small dimensions, completely devoid of furniture, with the exception of two equipales and a table. This stranger, who was wrapped up in a large cloak that completely concealed his features, opened a dark lantern, took a glance round the room, shut the door, placed the light on the table, sat down, and made the Canadian a sign to imitate him.
"Sit down and let us talk," he said.
The adventurer bowed; then, with the utmost coolness he laid his pistols on the table within reach, seated himself and rested his head on his hands, looking cunningly the while at the stranger.
"I am quite ready to talk."
"Why do you take this precaution?" the other said, pointing to the pistols.
"Hang it," he said, "for a very simple reason; it is that I may have an argument handy to convince you, should our conversation grow warm."
The stranger began laughing.
"You are prudent," he said.
"Prudence is the mother of safety," the Canadian answered, sententiously.
"I do not blame you," the stranger continued, still laughing. "I am free to confess, indeed, that I am delighted to see you behave thus."
"In that case, all is for the best."
"As for me, look," he said, as he opened his cloak. "I have not so much as a pin about me."
"That is easy to comprehend," said the adventurer, "for you are at home."
"What do you mean?" the stranger asked, in surprise. "What do you know about it?"
"I mean that you are in your own country, while I am a foreigner; that is all."
"Ah, very good; but in order to reassure you completely, and prove to you that I wish to deal above-board with you, look at me," he said, as he took off the broad-brimmed hat which concealed his face.
"Father Sandoval!" the Canadian exclaimed in surprise, recognizing the priest.
"Silence!" the latter said quickly. "Not so loud. Have you forgotten that our interview must be secret?"
The Canadian silently shook his head, and, uncocking his pistols, returned them to his belt.
"Why do you frown so?" the priest asked him after examining him attentively. "Are you vexed at recognizing me?"
"Oh no, it is not that," he answered.
"What is it, then?"
"On my word, I confess that I am trying in vain to discover what you, a person I do not know, have so secret and important to say to me."
"Are you sure of that."
"How, sure of it?" he exclaimed, with surprise.
"Yes," the priest remarked with a smile.
"Hang it," he said, "unless I have seen you in a dream, I am ready to swear that we meet today for the first time."
"Look at me closely, my friend," he said. "Will you really swear that you never saw me before?"
The Canadian, more and more surprised at this pressing, leant over to the singular speaker, and, taking up the lantern, made a careful inspection of him, which Don Pelagio permitted with the best possible grace. At the expiration of a moment, the adventurer deposited the lantern on the table again, and scratched his head with an embarrassed air.
"It is strange," he said. "I now fancy that you may be in the right. Certain of your features, to which I did not at first pay attention, are familiar to me, though it is perfectly impossible for me to recollect how or when chance brought us together, if, as you insist on assuring me, we have already met."
"I do not say that we were positively acquainted, but we have met, and remained together for two hours."
"Listen to me. I do not doubt your word, for I do not see what motive you could have in trying to make a fool of me. You appear to me too sober-minded a man for such jokes. Explain yourself frankly, for that will be the only way to settle the matter."
"I see that I must do so. I should have liked to avoid it, because I shall now appear to be compelling you to carry out a promise, by asking of you what I wished to obtain solely from your honour and good heart."
"My worthy father, you are becoming most mysterious, and I really do not know how all this will end."
"One word will give you the clue."
"Say it, then, at once, for deuce take me if I am not as curious as an old woman at this moment."
"Have you forgotten the Beaver pond and the sumach to which the Pawnee Indians fastened you, after smearing you with honey?"
The adventurer smote his forehead violently, and, hurriedly rising, seized the priest's hand.
"¡Viva Dios!" he exclaimed warmly. "Where could my brains be, that I should forget the features of the Christian who so generously saved me from a horrible death? My good father, forgive me; my eyes alone were guilty, for I have ever remembered you from the moment when you rendered me this immense service at the risk of your life."
Father Sandoval cordially returned the adventurer's squeeze, but he remained silent for a moment, with his eyes obstinately fixed on him, as if trying to read his most secret thoughts.
"What!" the Canadian said hotly, "Could you doubt me? I am only a poor devil of an adventurer, it is true, but I consider myself a man. We wood rangers, if we are rather quick at the use of the knife and in shooting an enemy, know better than town folk, perhaps, how to retain the recollection of an act of kindness. Speak, father, speak without fear. Whatever you bid me I will do. I belong to you, body and soul. I repeat that I am entirely yours; hence, do not be afraid about explaining yourself frankly, for I shall catch your meaning at a word."
"Indeed!" the priest at length answered. "Why should I doubt you? You have given me no cause to suspect your loyalty. Moreover, what I wish to ask of you, Don Oliver, is only conditional. I merely desire to make sure of your assistance in case of need, that is all."
"Speak, speak; have I not told you that you can count on me?"
"Well, so be it. This is what I expect of you. You are going to start in the morning. The mission I have intrusted to you is a dangerous one, though I have strong reasons for believing that you will get out of it safe and sound; but that is not the point at the present moment. You are about to start, I repeat; no one knows how long you may remain absent. For my part, I shall probably be obliged to push forward. Give me your word that, on whatever day or hour I need you, whatever you may be doing, when you receive a message from me summoning you, give me your word to abandon everything instantly, and run to my help, to aid me to the utmost of your power in the accomplishment of what I have resolved on, and without asking me for an explanation, however grave or terrible the matter in which I ask your support may be. Do you promise me this? Do not answer hastily; reflect before pledging your word, for the engagement you are going to make is serious, and may entail consequences which it is impossible to foresee."
The Canadian listened to these words with visible impatience. When Father Sandoval ended, he shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
"Why so much beating about the bush?" he said. "I am yours. You ask for my word, and I give it. Now, may heaven grant me the opportunity of fulfilling my pledge."
"Thanks! I trust, I repeat, that I may not be constrained to have recourse to you. Still, we are bound to take our precautions. In case of my being forced to send a messenger to you, take half this ring. The apparently most faithful man may, at a given moment, become a traitor; and I have learned the truth of that by sad experience. You will only follow the man who hands you the other half of this ring, and says, 'The hour is come—the master waits.' You will ask this man no questions, for he will be unable to answer you, as he will know nothing. Have you thoroughly understood me? Is this arranged?"
"All right. I understand you," the Canadian replied, as he carefully stowed away the half ring the priest gave him. "Have you any further recommendations to give me?"
"No. We must part now. Follow me."
They rose and left the room. After some time the Canadian found himself again at the spot where Moonshine was lying. Father Sandoval gave the adventurer a parting sign to be discreet, and went away.
"Hum!" the Sumach said, as he examined the sky, "I have not much time to lose, if I want a little rest before starting."
After this reflection, he lay down again by the side of his comrade, who still slept, and almost directly fell himself into deep slumber.
The brilliant gleams of dawn were already colouring the crests of the distant mountains; the warm beams of the rising sun, issuing from a mass of golden and purple clouds, dissipated the fog; the vapour rose like a curtain and revealed in all its majestic grandeur the splendid landscape of which the Hacienda del Barrio formed the centre. On the right extended the verdant valley through which the Río Grande del Norte forced its capricious windings. On the left, in the midst of a profusion of clumps of trees, rocks and hills, girt with a garland of verdure, extended a great lake, whose surface, slightly ruffled by the pure and refreshing morning breeze, sparkled in the sunbeams. Lofty mountains, scarped rocks, and banks, on which grew sumachs, mahoganies, and cork trees, framed in this magnificent sheet of water, and the harmonious rustling of the dew-laden leaves seemed to impart a sort of life to this calm scenery which the hand of man had not yet deformed, and which rose radiant beneath the powerful breath of the Creator.
The coming dawn had scarce begun to disperse the gloom ere all was in motion at the hacienda. The peons fetched the animals from the corrals while the cavaliers led their horses to the watering place, or went in search of dry wood to rekindle the bivouac fires and prepare the morning repast. Don Aníbal's numerous visitors gave their followers orders to load the mules and saddle the horses, so as to be ready to start at the first signal.
The Count de Melgosa quitted the apartment in which he had passed the night, and accompanied by the hacendero, who insisted on seeing him off, he proceeded to the first patio, where his people were already waiting, as was the Canadian adventurer, who, at the first beam of day, left without much regret the hard bed on which he had slumbered for only two or three hours.
"What!" Don Aníbal said with surprise, on seeing the count's small escort, "Did you venture to come here so weakly escorted in this time of trouble and disorder?"
"Why not?" the count said, carelessly; "The six men you see are devoted to me; they are old soldiers, accustomed to fire. Moreover, what have I to fear?" he added with an ironical smile. "Are we not at peace?"
"Yes, for the present at any rate; but the long wars we have had to endure have, as you know, ruined and reduced many people to desperation; the country is infested with marauders, and this frontier especially, exposed to the continual incursions of the Indians, is anything but safe. I repeat, Señor Conde, that you committed a serious act of imprudence in bringing so few people with you, and, with your permission, I will give you an escort to protect you from all danger."
"Do nothing of the sort, my friend," the count answered, quickly; "although I sincerely thank you for the solicitude you display, I am convinced that your fears are exaggerated."
"Still—" the hacendero continued.
"Not a word more on the subject, I beg; you would seriously annoy me by pressing it further. Moreover," he said with a laugh, as he pointed to the Canadian, "my escort is augmented by an ally who, in case of need, I am persuaded, would not hesitate to come to my help. So, say no more about it, and good-bye. Excuse my leaving you so suddenly, but we have a long ride before us along roads which, you know as well as I do, are very bad, and it is time for me to start."
"Since you insist, count, I can only wish you a prosperous journey, and take my leave of you."
"Good-bye, my friend," he said, as he affectionately pressed Don Aníbal's hand. "I trust that we shall soon meet again, under circumstances more agreeable to you and me."
"Whatever may happen, or whatever fate destiny reserves for us, be assured that nothing can alter the friendship I feel for you."
"I know it, and thank you," the count said, as he got into the saddle. "Are you ready to accompany me, señor?" he asked the Canadian.
"I have been waiting some time for you, señor," the latter answered, in his usual rough way.
The count examined him for a moment, smiled slightly, shrugged his shoulders, but made no remark. After exchanging a few more affectionate remarks with the hacendero, he slightly raised his hat, gave the order to depart, and the little band left the hacienda at a sharp trot. The horsemen, splendidly armed, and rifle on thigh, traversed in good order the camp formed outside the hacienda, without replying to the sarcasms or jests of the Mexicans, who collected as they passed, and showered on them witticisms, which were at times offensive. The count rode gravely at the head of the little party, looking neither to the right nor left, apparently indifferent to the coarse jokes levelled upon him.
About a horse's length behind him, the Canadian, whose indifference was not at all feigned, for all he heard concerned him very slightly, was reflecting on the way in which he should perform the singular commission so strangely entrusted to him, and though he was as yet only at the outset of the expedition, he was already beginning to feel a lively desire to be freed from the company in which he found himself, and for which he felt no sympathy.
The other travellers, six in number, were, as the count had said to Don Aníbal, old soldiers, regardless of danger, entirely devoted to their master, and who, at a sign from him, would let themselves be bravely killed, without taking the trouble to discover the motive for the order given them. However, all these men, their master included, seemed to possess a considerable amount of gravity and pride, which did not conduce to confidence, and prevented any familiarity. The adventurer had judged his companions at the first glance, and bravely put up with the annoyance which they would cause him during the journey; hence he resolved to imitate them, and be equally reserved.
After traversing the camp, the small party turned to the left, and proceeded to the lake, whose umbrageous banks they intended to follow for several miles. As we have stated, the morning was magnificent, all nature was laughing, a multitude of birds of every description and colour, hidden beneath the foliage, were singing merrily; squirrels leapt from branch to branch, and splendid elks, terrified by the approach of the travellers, bounded away a few yards from them, while hideous alligators wallowed in the mud pell-mell with enormous frogs which uttered frightful croaks.
Our travellers rode thus for some two hours, and not a word had been spoken since the start, each seeming to be buried in thought, when suddenly a great movement was heard beneath the trees and shrubs around them. The birds suddenly became silent, and, leaving their nests, went to the foot of the trees, where they timidly concealed themselves in the grass, while the frogs croaking on the nymphæas dashed into the water. At the same moment the shadow of two mighty wings was visible on the sand; the Canadian mechanically raised his eyes, and he perceived a white-headed eagle soaring in the blue sky.
The eagle, after hovering in wide circles for some minutes almost over the head of the travellers, dropped with lightning speed into a copse, whence it emerged almost immediately, holding in its powerful claws a luckless parrot, which uttered pitiable cries of distress, and struggled vainly to escape from the deadly grasp of its implacable foe. The eagle rose with extraordinary rapidity, and soon attained an enormous elevation. The Canadian had anxiously followed the incidents of this drama, and perhaps instinctively cocked his rifle.
"All the worse," he muttered, at the moment when the eagle, which only appeared like a black dot in the air, was about to become invisible. "I will save it."
With a movement swift as thought he raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. The Spaniards halted, and looked in amazement at the adventurer; but the latter, whose eyes were obstinately fixed on the sky, did not seem to notice the attention of which he was the object. The eagle, suddenly arrested in its flight, fell with headlong speed, turning in space. Suddenly its claws relaxed, and the delivered victim, half wild with terror, though unwounded, fell perpendicularly for some seconds with its enemy; but, suddenly opening its wings, the poor parrot soared, and then resumed its flight with a long cry of delight, while the eagle writhed in its death throe at the hunter's feet. The Canadian's bullet had passed right through its body.
"Ah!" the wood ranger said, gladly; "Though a powder charge is precious in the desert, I do not repent this one."
The Spaniards could not restrain a cry of admiration at this miraculous display of skill. The Canadian dismounted, and seizing his rifle by the barrel, advanced upon the eagle, which, with body thrown back and wings extended, looked undauntedly at him. With one blow of the butt, dealt with no ordinary strength, the adventurer settled the bird, which did not make the slightest effort to avoid the blow.
"Will you sell me that bird?" the count said, at the moment when the hunter stooped to pick up the royal bird.
"I will give it you if you like to accept it," the Canadian replied.
"Very good," the count said, making one of his men a sign to pick the bird up and place it on his horse.