A profound calm brooded over the country: the night breeze had died away; no other sound but the continual buzzing of the infinitely little creatures, that toil incessantly at the unknown task for which they were created by Providence, disturbed the silence of the night: the deep blue sky had not a cloud: a gentle, penetrating brilliancy fell from the stars and the moonbeams flooded the landscape with gleams that gave a fantastic appearance to the trees and mounts whose shadows they immoderately elongated: bluish reflections seemed to pervade the atmosphere whose dearness was such, that the heavy flight of the coleoptera buzzing round the branches could be easily distinguished: here and there fireflies darted like will-o'-the-wisps through the tall grass, which they lit up with phosphorescent gleams as they passed.
It was, in a word, one of those limpid and pure American nights, unknown in our cold climates less favoured by heaven, and which plunge the mind into gentle and melancholy reverie.
All at once a shadow rose on the horizon, rapidly increased and soon revealed the black and still undecided outline of a horseman; the sound of horses' hoofs striking the hardened ground hurried blows, soon left no doubt in this respect.
A horseman was really approaching and going in the direction of Puebla; half asleep on his steed, he held the bridle rather loose, and allowed it to go much as it pleased, until the animal, on reaching some crosroads, in the middle of which a cross stood, gave a sudden start and leaped on one side, cocking its ears and pulling back forcibly.
The rider, suddenly aroused from his sleep or, as is more probable, from his reflections, would have been thrown, had he not, by an instinctive movement, gathered up his horse by pulling at the bridle.
"Hola," he exclaimed, drawing himself up sharply and laying his hand on his machete, while he looked anxiously around, "what is going on here? Come, Moreno, my good horse, why this terror? There, calm yourself, my good boy, no one is thinking of us."
But though the master patted it as he spoke, and both seemed to be on good terms, the animal still continued to pull back and display signs of the most lively terror.
"This is not natural, by Heaven! You are not accustomed to be thus frightened for nothing: come, my good Moreno, what is it?"
And the traveller again looked around him, but this time more attentively and peering at the ground, "Ah!" he said all at once, on noticing a corpse stretched out on the road, "Moreno is right; there is something there, the body of some hacendero without doubt, whom the salteadores have killed to plunder him more at their ease, and whom they left, without paying further heed to him: let me have a look."
While speaking thus to himself in a low voice, the horseman had dismounted.
But, as our man was prudent, and, in all probability, long accustomed to traverse the roads of the Mexican confederation, he cocked his gun, and held himself in readiness either for attack or defense, in the event of the individual whom he proposed to succor suddenly rising to ask him for his money or his life, an eventuality quite in accordance with the manners of the country, and against which he must place himself on his guard.
He therefore approached the corpse and gazed at it for an instant with the most serious attention.
It only required one glance to attain for certainty that there was nothing to be feared from the unhappy man lying at his feet.
"Hum!" he continued, shaking his head several times, "This poor fellow seems to be very bad: if he is not dead, he is not worth much more, well, I suppose I must try to succor him, though I am afraid it will be lost trouble."
After this fresh aside, the traveller, who was no other than Dominique, the ranchero's son, to whom we just now alluded, uncocked his gun which he leaned against the road side, so as to have it within reach in case of need, fastened his horse to a tree, and took off hissarape, so as to be less impeded in his movements.
After taking all these precautions quietly and methodically, for he was a very careful man in everything, Dominique took off thealforjasor double pockets carried on the back of the saddle, put them on his shoulder, and kneeling down by the side of the outstretched corpse, he opened the wounded man's clothes and put his ear to his chest, in which was a gaping wound.
Dominique was a man of tall stature, powerful and perfectly proportioned: his supple limbs were garnished with muscles thick as cords and hard as marble: he was evidently endowed with remarkable strength, joined to great skill in all his movements, which were not without a certain manly grace: he was, in a word, one of those powerful men uncommon in all countries, but who are most frequently found among those nations where the exigencies of a life of combat develop the personal faculties of the individual in frequently extreme proportions.
Although he was only twenty-two years of age, Dominique appeared at least twenty-eight. His features were handsome, masculine and intelligent, his black open eyes looked you boldly in the face, his ample forehead, his auburn hair that curled naturally, his large mouth with rather thick lips, his fiercely curled moustache, his well designed and squarely cut chin gave his face an expression of frankness, boldness and kindness, which was really attractive, while at the same time rendering him most distinguished looking. A singular thing in this man, who belonged to the humble class ofvaqueros, his hands and feet were wonderfully small, and his hands more especially were exquisitely shaped.
Such physically was the new personage whom we introduce to the reader, and who is intended to play an important part in the course of this narration. "Well, he will have a job, to recover, if he does recover," Dominique continued as he rose, after vainly trying to feel the beating of his heart. Still he did not let himself be discouraged, he opened hisalforjasand took out linen, a surgical case and a small locked box.
"Luckily I have kept up my Indian habits," he said with a smile, "and always carry my medicine bag about with me."
Without loss of time he probed the wound and washed it carefully. The blood dripped drop by drop from the violet edges of the wound, he uncorked a vial, poured on the wound a few drops of reddish liquor, and the blood at once ceased flowing as if by enchantment. Then with a skill that evidenced much practice he bandaged the wound, on which he delicately laid some herbs pounded and moistened with the red fluid he had before employed.
The unhappy man gave no sign of life, his body continued to retain the inert rigidity of a corpse; still a certain moistness existed at the extremities, a diagnostic which made Dominique suppose that life was not completely extinct in this poor body. After dressing the wound with care, he gently raised the man and leaned him against a tree: then he began rubbing his chest, temples and wrists with rum and water, only stopping from time to time to examine with an anxious eye his pale contracted face. Everything appeared to be useless: no contraction, no nervous quiver indicated the return of life. But there is nothing so persistent as the will of a man who desires to save his fellow man. Although he began seriously to doubt the success of his efforts, far from being discouraged, Dominique felt his ardor redoubled, and resolved not to give up his exertions, till he had attained the certainty that they were wasted. A striking picture was offered by the group formed on this deserted road upon this calm and luminous night, at the foot of the cross—the symbol of redemption—by these two men, one of whom impelled by the holy love of humanity lavished on the other the most paternal care.
Dominique ceased his frictions for a moment and smote his forehead, as if a sudden thought had risen to his brain.
"Where the deuce can my head be?" he muttered; and feeling in hisalforjas, which seemed inexhaustible, so many things did they contain, he brought out a carefully stoppered gourd.
He opened the wounded man's clenched teeth with his knife blade, thrust the gourd between his lips, and poured into his mouth a portion of the contents, while examining his face anxiously. At the end of two or three minutes, the wounded man gave a slight shiver, and his eyelids moved, as if he were trying to open them.
"Ah!" said Dominique with joy, "This time I believe I shall win the day."
And, laying the gourd by his side, he recommenced his frictions with renewed ardor. A sigh faint as a breath issued from the wounded man's lips, his limbs began ere long to lose a little of their rigidity, life was returning by inches. The young man redoubled his efforts; by degrees the breathing, though faint and broken, became more distinct, the features relaxed and the cheek bones displayed two red spots, although the eyes remained closed, the lips moved as if the wounded man were trying to utter some words.
"Come," said Dominique with delight, "all is not over yet, but he will have had a very narrow squeak for it; bravo! I have not lost my time! But who on earth can have given him so tremendous a sword thrust? People do not fight duels in Mexico. On my soul! If I were not afraid of insulting him. I could almost swear I know the man who so nearly slit up this poor wretch; but patience, he must speak ere long, and then he will be very clever if I do not learn with whom he has had the row."
In the meanwhile life, after long hesitating to return to this body which it had almost abandoned, had commenced an earnest struggle with death, which it drove further and further away. The movements of the wounded man became more distinct and decidedly more intelligent. Twice already his eyes had opened, although they closed again immediately; but the improvement in him was sensible: he would soon recover his senses, it was now but a question of time. Dominique poured a little water into a cup, mixed with it a few drops of the liquid contained in the gourd, and put it to the patient's mouth: the latter opened his lips, drank and then gave a gasp of relief.
"How do you feel?" the young man asked him with interest.
At the sound of this unknown voice, a convulsive quiver agitated the whole of the wounded man's body; he made a gesture as if repulsing a terrifying image, and muttered in a low voice, "Kill me!"
"Certainly not!" Dominique exclaimed joyfully.
"I had too much trouble in recovering you for that."
The wounded man partly opened his eyes, glanced wildly around, and at length gazed at the young man with an expression of indescribable horror.
"The mask!" he exclaimed, "The mask! Oh! Back, back!"
"The brain has suffered a very severe shock," the young man muttered, "he is suffering from a feverish hallucination which, if it continued, might produce madness. Hum! The case is serious! What is to be done to remedy this?"
"Murderer!" the wounded man continued feebly; "Kill me."
"He insists on that as it seems; this man has fallen into some frightful snare, his troubled mind only recalls the last scene of murder, in which he acted so unfortunate a part. I must cut this short and restore him the calmness necessary for his cure, if not, he is lost."
"Do I not know perfectly well I am lost?" the wounded man who overheard the last word said; "Kill me, therefore, without making me suffer more."
"You hear me, señor," the young man answered "very good then, listen to me without interruption: I am not one of the men who brought you into your present state. I am a traveller, whom accident or rather Providence brought on this road, to come to your assistance and, as I hope, to save you: you understand me, do you not? Hence cease to invent chimeras; forget, if it be possible, for the present at any rate, what passed between you and your assassins. I have no other desire but that of being useful to you: without me you would be dead: do not render more difficult the hard task I have taken on myself: your recovery henceforth depends on yourself."
The wounded man made a sudden effort to rise, but his strength betrayed him, and he fell back with a sigh of discouragement; "I cannot," he murmured.
"I should think not, wounded as you are. It is a miracle that the frightful sword thrust you received did not kill you on the spot: hence, do not any longer oppose what humanity orders me to do for you."
"But if you are not the assassin, who are you?" the wounded man asked, apprehensively.
"Who am I? A poorvaquero, who found you expiring here, and was fortunate enough to restore you to life."
"And you swear to me that your intentions are good?"
"I swear it, on my honour."
"Thanks!" the wounded man murmured.
There was a rather long silence.
"Oh! I wish to live;" the wounded man resumed, with concentrated energy.
"I can understand the desire—it is quite natural on your part."
"Yes; I wish to live, for I must avenge myself!"
"That sentiment is just, for vengeance is permitted."
"You promise that you will save me—do you not?"
"At least I will do all in my power."
"Oh! I am rich: I will reward you."
The ranchero shook his head.
"Why speak of reward?" he said. "Do you believe that devotedness can be bought? Keep your gold, caballero—it would be useless to me, for I have no wants to satisfy."
"Still, it is my duty."
"Not a word more on this subject, I must request, señor. Any pressure on your part would be a mortal insult to me. I am doing my duty in saving your life, and have no claim to any recompense."
"Act as you please, then."
"Promise me first not to raise any objection to what I may consider it proper to do on behalf of your health."
"I promise it."
"Good! In this way we shall always understand one another. Day will soon appear, and so we must not remain here any longer."
"But when can I go? I feel so faint, that I cannot possibly make the slightest movement."
"That need not disturb you. I will put you on my horse; and by making it go at a foot pace, it will carry you, without any dangerous jolts, to a safe place."
"I leave myself in your hands."
"That is the best thing you could do. Do you wish me to take you to your house?"
"My house!" the wounded man exclaimed, with ill-disguised terror, and making a movement as if he would try to fly. "You know me then, señor—know my residence?"
"I do not know you, and am ignorant where your house is situated. How could I know such details, when I never saw you before this night?"
"That is true," the wounded man muttered, speaking to himself. "I am mad! This man is honest." Then, addressing Dominique, he said in a broken and scarce distinct voice; "I am a traveller. I come from Veracruz, and was going to Mexico, when I was suddenly attacked, plundered of everything I possessed, and left for dead at the foot of this cross, when you so providentially discovered me. As for a home, I have no other at this moment but the one you may be pleased to offer me. This is my whole story: it is as simple as truth."
"Whether it be true or not does not concern me, señor. I have no right to interfere in your affairs against your will. Let me request you, therefore, to refrain from giving me information which I do not ask of you—which does not concern me, and which, in your present condition, can only be injurious to you, first, by causing you too great tension of mind, and then, by forcing you to speak."
In truth, it was only by a violent effort of the will, that the wounded man had succeeded in keeping up so long a conversation. The shock he had received was too powerful, his wound too severe, for him to talk any longer, without running the risk of falling into a fainting fit more dangerous than the one from which he had been so miraculously drawn by his generous saviour. Already he felt his arteries throbbing, a mist spread before his sight: there was a sinister buzzing in his ears; an icy sweat beaded on his temples; his thoughts, into which he had found it so difficult to introduce a little regularity and coherence, were beginning to desert him again: he understood that any lengthened resistance on his part would be madness, and he fell back in a state of discouragement, and heaving a sigh of resignation—
"My friend," he murmured, in a faint voice, "do with me what you please; I feel as if I were dying."
Dominique watched his movements with an anxious eye: he hastened to make him drink a few drops of cordial, with which he had mixed a soporific. This help was efficacious, and the wounded man felt himself recalled to life. He tried to thank the young man.
"Silence!" the latter said to him, quickly; "You have talked too much already."
And he carefully wrapped him in his cloak, and laid him on the ground.
"There!" he continued; "So far you are all right; do not stir, and try to sleep, while I reflect on the means of removing you from here as quickly as possible."
The wounded man attempted no resistance; the opium he had swallowed was already acting upon him: he smiled softly, closed his eyes, and was soon plunged in a calm and strengthening sleep. Dominique watched him for a moment asleep with the most entire satisfaction.
"I like better to see him thus than as he was on my arrival," he said, gladly. "Ah! All is not over yet: now we must be off as rapidly as possible, if I do not wish to be impeded by the troublesome people who will soon flock along this road."
He unfastened his horse, put on the bridle again, and led it close to the wounded man. After making a species of seat on the animal's back with some blankets, to which he added hissarape, pulling it off without the slightest hesitation, he raised the wounded man in his powerful arms, with as much ease as if he had been a child instead of a tall, rather corpulent man, and placed him softly on the seat, where he fastened him as well as he could, while carefully holding him to avoid a jolt, which might prove fatal.
When the young man felt assured that his patient was in a position as convenient as circumstances permitted, he started his horse, whose bridle he held, without leaving his place by the side of the wounded man, whom he supported, and proceeded straight to the rancho, where we preceded him about an hour, in order to introduce the adventurer there.
Dominique marched very gently, supporting with a firm hand the wounded man seated in his saddle, watching over him as a mother watches over her child, having only one desire—that of reaching the rancho as soon as possible, in order to give this stranger, who, without him, would have died so miserably, that attention which the precarious state in which he still was, necessitated.
In spite of the impatience he felt, it was unfortunately impossible to hurry his horse on for fear of an accident across the broken and almost impracticable roads he was compelled to follow: hence it was with an indescribable feeling of pleasure that, in coming within two or three gunshots of the rancho, he noticed some persons running towards him. Though he did not recognize them at first, his joy was great, for it was help arriving for him; and though he would assuredly have been unwilling to allow it, he recognized its extreme necessity for himself, and especially for the wounded man, as for some hours he had been stumbling along tracks nearly always impracticable, constrained to keep a constant watch on this man, whom, by an incomprehensible miracle, he had saved from a certain death, and whom the slightest neglect might kill.
When the men running towards him were only a few yards from him, he stopped and shouted to them with a joyous air, like a man delighted to be freed from an oppressive responsibility.
"Eh! Come on! Caray! You ought to have been here long ago."
"What do you mean, Dominique?" the adventurer asked in French. "What pressing need did you feel for us?"
"Why, that is plain enough, I fancy. Don't you see that I am bringing a wounded man?"
"A wounded man!" Oliver started with a tiger's bound, which brought him up to the young man's side. "To what wounded man are you alluding?"
"Hang it! To the one I have seated to the best of my ability on my horse, and whom I should not be sorry to see in a good bed; of which, between ourselves, he has the greatest need: for if he be still alive, it is, on my soul, through some incomprehensible miracle of providence!"
The adventurer, without replying, roughly pulled away thesarapethrown over the wounded man's face, and examined it for some minutes with an expression of agony, grief, anger and regret, impossible to describe. His face, which had suddenly turned pale, assumed a cadaverous hue; a convulsive tremour ran over his whole body; his eyes, fixed on the wounded man, seemed to emit flashes, and had a strange expression.
"Oh!" he muttered in a low voice, convulsed by the storm that agitated his heart; "That man! It is he—really he! And is not dead!"
Dominique did not understand a word. He gazed at Oliver with amazement, not knowing what to think of the words he was uttering.
"But tell me," he at length said, with an outburst of passion, "what is the meaning of this? I save a man—Heaven knows how—by my care: in spite of a thousand difficulties I succeed in bringing here this poor wretch, who, without me, I may safely say, would have died like a dog, and this is how you greet me!"
"Yes, yes, rejoice!" the adventurer said to him, with a bitter accent; "You have committed a good action. I congratulate you on it, Dominique, my friend! It will benefit you, be sure, and that ere long!"
"You know that I do not understand you!" the young man exclaimed.
"Well! is there any need that you should understand me, poor boy?" he replied, with a disdainful shrug of his shoulders. "You have acted according to your nature, without reflection or afterthought. I have no more reproaches to address to you, than explanations to offer you."
"But, come; what do you mean?"
"Do you know this man?"
"Really, no. How should I know him?"
"I do not ask you that. Since you do not know him, how is it that you are bringing him to the rancho, without giving us notice?"
"For a very simple reason. I was returning from Cholula, when I found him lying across the road, groaning like a bull in the death throes. What could I do? Did not humanity command me to succor him? Is it permissible to let a Christian die in such a way without attempting to aid him?"
"Yes, yes," Oliver replied, ironically; "you acted well, and certainly I am far from blaming you. Of course, a man could not meet one of his fellow men in this cruel condition without assisting him." Then, suddenly changing his tone, and shrugging his shoulders with pity, he added; "Did you receive such lessons in humanity from the Redskins, among whom you lived so long?"
The young man attempted to answer, but he hurriedly checked him.
"Enough, now the evil is done," he said to him: "it is of no use alluding to it. López will convey him to the cavern of the rancho, where he will nurse him. Go, López, lose no time; lead away this man, while I talk with Dominique."
López obeyed, and the young man allowed him to do so. He was beginning to comprehend that possibly his heart had deceived him, and that he had too easily given way to a feeling of humanity towards a man who was a perfect stranger to him.
There was a rather lengthened silence. López had gone off with the wounded man, and had already disappeared in the cavern. Oliver and Dominique, standing face to face, remained motionless and pensive. At length the adventurer raised his head.
"Have you spoken with this man?"
"Only a few words."
"What did he tell you?"
"Not much that was sensible, he talked to me about an attack to which he had fallen a victim."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, or nearly so."
"Did he tell you his name?"
"I did not ask him for it."
"But he must have told you who he is."
"Yes, I think so: he told me that he had come a short time previously from Veracruz and was proceeding to Mexico, when he was attacked unawares and plundered by men whom he was unable to recognize."
"He told you nothing else about his name or position?"
"No, not a word."
The adventurer remained pensive for a moment.
"Listen," he then continued, "and do not take what I am going to say to you in ill part."
"From you, Master Oliver, I will hear anything you have the right to say everything to me."
"Good! Do you remember how we became acquainted?"
"Certainly: I was a child then, wretched and sickly, dying of want and misery in the streets of Mexico: you took pity on me, you clothed and fed me: not satisfied with this, you yourself taught me to read, write and cypher, and many other things."
"Go on."
"Then, you enabled me to find my parents again, or at least the persons who brought me up, and whom, in default of others, I have always regarded as my family."
"Good, what next?"
"Hang it, you know that as well as I do, Master Oliver."
"That is possible, but I wish you to repeat it to me."
"As you please: one day you came to the rancho, you took me away with you and took me to Sonora and Texas, where we hunted buffalo: at the end of two or three years, you caused me to be adopted by a Comanche tribe, and you left me, ordering me to remain on the prairies, and to lead the existence of a wood ranger, until you sent me an order to return to you."
"Very good, I see that you have a good memory: go on."
"I obeyed you, and remained among the Indians, hunting and living with them: six months ago, you came yourself to the banks of the Río Gila, where I was at the time, and you told me that you had come to fetch me and that I must follow you. I followed you, therefore, without asking an explanation which I did not need: for do I not belong to you, body and soul?"
"Good, you still retain the same feeling."
"Why should I have changed? You are my only friend."
"Thanks, then you are resolved to obey me in everything?"
"Without hesitation, I swear it."
"That is what I wished to be certain of, now listen to me in your turn: this man whom you have succored so foolishly—forgive the word—lied from the first to the last word he told you. The story he told you is a tissue of falsehoods: it is not true that he had only arrived a few days before from Veracruz, it is not true that he is going to Mexico, and lastly it is not true that he was attacked and plundered by strangers. This man I know: he has been in Mexico for the last eight months, he lives in Puebla, he was condemned to death by men who had a right to try him and with whom he is perfectly well acquainted: he was not attacked unawares, a sword was placed in his hand, and he received permission to defend himself—a permission which he took advantage of, and he fell in fair fight: finally, he was not plundered, because he had not to do with highwaymen but with men of honour."
"Oh, oh," said the young man, "this alters the case."
"Now answer this: you have pledged yourself to him?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"This man, when he regained his senses and was able to speak, implored your protection; did he not?"
"That is true, Master Oliver."
"Good, and what did you answer him?"
"Hang it all, you understand that it was very difficult for me to abandon the poor fellow in the state he was in, especially after what I had done for him."
"Good, good; what then?"
"Well then, I promised to cure him."
"Nothing else?"
"Well no."
"And you only promised him this?"
"No, I pledged my word."
The adventurer gave a start of impatience.
"But supposing he recovers," he continued, "which between ourselves seems rather doubtful; when he is in a good state of health, will you consider yourself entirely free from him?"
"Oh yes, Master Oliver, completely."
"In that case, it is only a half evil."
"You know that I do not at all understand you?"
"Be content, Dominique, learn that you have not a lucky hand for a good deed."
"Because?"
"Because the man you have succored and on whom you lavished such devoted attentions, is your deadly enemy."
"This man my deadly enemy?" he exclaimed with an astonishment mingled with doubt; "But I do not know him any more than he knows me."
"You suppose so, my poor fellow; but be convinced that I am not deceived and am telling you the truth."
"It is strange."
"Yes, very strange, indeed, but it is so: this man is even your most dangerous foe."
"What is to be done?"
"Leave me to act: I went to the rancho this morning with the intention of telling you that one of your enemies, the most formidable of all, was dead: you took care to make me a liar. After all, perhaps it is better it should be so: what God does is well, His ways are unknown to us, we must bow before the manifestation of His will."
"Then, it is your intention—?"
"My intention is to order López to watch over your patient: he will remain in the cavern where he will be taken the greatest care of, but you will not see him again, as it is unnecessary for you to know any more about him at present: in my turn, I pledge you my word that all the attention his condition demands shall be bestowed on him."
"Oh, I trust entirely to you, Master Oliver: but when he's cured, what shall we do?"
"We will let him go away in peace, he is not our prisoner: be at ease, we shall find him again without difficulty when we want him: of course it is understood that no one in the rancho is to go down to him or have any relations with him."
"Good: in that case you will tell them so, for I cannot undertake it."
"I will do so: but I shall not see him either; López alone will remain in charge of him."
"Have you nothing more to say to me?"
"Yes, that I intend to take you away with me for a few days."
"Ah, are we going far?"
"You will see: in the meanwhile go to the rancho and prepare everything you want for your journey."
"Oh, I am ready," he interrupted.
"That is possible, but I am not; have I not to give López orders about your wounded man?"
"That is true, and besides I must say good-bye to my family."
"That will be very proper, as you will probably be away for some time."
"Good, I understand, we are going to have a famous hunt."
"Yes, we are going to hunt," the adventurer said with an equivocal smile; "but not at all in the way you suppose."
"All right, I do not care. I will hunt in whatever way you please."
"I reckon on it; but come, we have lost too much time already."
They proceeded toward the mound. The adventurer entered the vault, and the young man went up to the rancho. Loïck and the two women were awaiting him on the platform considerably perplexed by the long conversation he had held with Oliver; but Dominique was impenetrable—he had lived too long in the desert to let the truth be drawn from his heart when he thought proper to conceal it. Under these circumstances, all the questions they showered on him were thrown away; he only answered by clever evasions, and at last his father and the two women, despairing of making him speak, resolved to leave him at peace. His breakfast was all ready on the table. As he was hungry, he took advantage of this pretext to change the conversation, and while eating, announced his departure. Loïck made no remark, for he was accustomed to these sudden absences.
At the end of about half an hour Oliver reappeared. Dominique rose and took leave of his family.
"You are taking him with you," said Loïck.
"Yes," Oliver replied, "for a few days; we are going into theTierra Caliente."
"Take care," said Louise anxiously; "you know that Juárez' guerillas are scouring the country."
"Fear nothing, little sister," the young man said as he embraced her; "we shall be prudent. I will bring you back a handkerchief. You know that I have promised you one for a long time."
"I should prefer your not leaving us, Dominique," she replied sadly.
"Come, come," the adventurer remarked gaily; "do not be alarmed, I will bring him back safe and sound."
It appears that the occupants of the rancho had great confidence in Oliver's word, for on this assurance their anxiety became calmed, and they took leave of the two men in tolerably good spirits. The latter then left the rancho, descended the mound, and found their horses, ready to be mounted, awaiting them, tied up to a liquidambar tree. After giving a last parting signal to the inhabitants of the rancho, who were assembled on the platform, they leapt into their saddles, and went off at a gallop across country to strike the Veracruz road.
"Are we really going to the hot lands?" Dominique asked, while galloping by his comrade's side.
"We are not going so far, or nearly so; I am only taking you a few miles off to a hacienda, where I want you to make a new acquaintance."
"Bah! Why so? I care very little for new acquaintances."
"This one will be very useful to you."
"Oh, in that case it is different. I confess to you that I am not very fond of the Mexicans."
"The person to whom you will be introduced is not Mexican, but French."
"That is not at all the same thing; but why do you talk in that mysterious way? Are you not going to introduce me?"
"No, it is another person whom you know, and for whom you feel some liking."
"To whom are you alluding?"
"To Leo Carral."
"The majordomo of the hacienda del Arenal?"
"Himself!"
"In that case we are going to the hacienda?"
"Not exactly, but near it. I have given the majordomo a rendezvous, where he will wait for me, and we are going there now."
"In that case all is for the best. I shall be delighted to see Leo Carral again. He is a good fellow."
"And a man of honour and trust," Oliver added.
Ever since Count de la Saulay's arrival at the hacienda del Arenal, doña Dolores had treated him with a degree of reserve which the marriage projects made by the two families were far from justifying. The young lady had not only had no private interviews with the man whom she ought to consider to some extent her betrothed, but had not indulged in the slightest intimacy, or most innocent familiarity; while remaining polite, and even gracious, she had contrived, ever since the first day they met, to raise a barrier between herself and the count—a barrier which he had never attempted to scale, and which had condemned him to remain, perhaps against his secret wishes, within the limits of the strictest reserve.
In these conditions, and especially after the scene at which he had been present on the previous evening, we can easily understand what the stupefaction of the young man must be on learning that doña Dolores requested an interview with him. What could she have to say to him? For what motive did she grant him this meeting? What reason impelled her to act thus? Such were the questions which the count did not cease to ask himself—questions which necessarily remained unanswered. Hence the young man's anxiety, curiosity, and impatience, were aroused to the highest degree, and it was with a feeling of joy, which he could not fully explain, that he at length heard the hour for the interview strike. Had he been in Paris instead of a Mexican hacienda, he would have certainly known beforehand what he had to expect from the message he had received, and his conduct would have been regulated beforehand.
But here the coldness of doña Dolores toward him—a coldness which had never once thawed—the preference which after the last night's scene she seemed to give to another person, all combined to deprive this interview of the slightest supposition of love. Was it his renunciation of her hand, and immediate retirement, that doña Dolores was about to request of him?
Singular contradiction of the human mind! The count, who felt for this marriage a repulsion more and more marked, whose formal intention it was to have, as soon as possible, an explanation on this subject with don Andrés de la Cruz, and whose firm resolution it was to withdraw, and renounce the alliance so long prepared, and which displeased him the more because it was forced on him—revolted at the supposition of this renunciation, which, without doubt, doña Dolores was going to ask him; his wounded self-esteem made him regard this question under a perfectly new light, and the contempt which the young lady seemed to feel for his hand, filled him with shame and anger.
He, Count Ludovic de la Saulay, young, handsome, rich, renowned for his wit and elegance, one of the most distinguished members of the jockey club, one of the gods of fashion, whose conquests occupied every mouth in Paris, had produced on a half wild girl no other impression but that of repulsion, had inspired no other feeling but a cold indifference. There was certainly something desperate about this; for an instant he went so far as to fancy—for anger blinded him to such an extent—that he was really in love with his cousin, and he was on the point of swearing to remain deaf to the tears and supplications of doña Dolores, and insisting on the completion of the marriage within the shortest period possible. But fortunately the pride which had urged him to this determination suddenly suggested to him a more simple, and assuredly more agreeable way to escape from the embarrassment.
After taking a complacent glance at his person, a smile of haughty satisfaction lit up his face; he found himself both physically and morally so immeasurably above his surroundings, that he only felt a sort of merciful pity for the poor girl whom the bad education she had received prevented from appreciating the numberless advantages which gave him a superiority over his rivals, or understanding the happiness she would find in an alliance with him.
While revolving all these, and many other thoughts, the count left his rooms, crossed the courtyard, and proceeded to the apartments of doña Dolores. He remarked, though without attaching much importance to the fact, that several saddle horses were waiting in the court, held by peons. At the door of the apartments stood a young Indian girl with pretty face, and sparkling eyes, who greeted him with a smile and a profound courtesy, as she made him a sign to enter. The count followed her; the waiting maid passed through several elegantly furnished rooms, and finally raised a curtain of white China crape, embroidered with large flowers of every hue, and introduced the count, without saying a word, into a delightful boudoir, furnished throughout with China lace.
Doña Dolores, half-reclining on a hammock of aloe fibre, was amusing herself with teasing a pretty parrot half the size of her hand, and was laughing heartily at the little creature's cries of fury.
The young lady was charming, thus: the count had never seen her so lovely. After bowing deeply to her, he stopped in the door, experiencing an admiration mingled with such great stupefaction, that doña Dolores after looking at him for a moment, could not retain her seriousness, but burst out into a silvery peal of laughter.
"Forgive me, cousin," she said to him, "but you look so singular at this moment, that I could not help—"
"Laugh, laugh, my fair cousin," the young man replied, resolved to share this gaiety which he was so far from expecting, "I am delighted to find you in such good humour."
"Do not stay there, cousin," she continued, "set down here near me in this butaca," and with her pink finger she pointed to an armchair.
The young man obeyed.
"Cousin," he said, "I have the honour of obeying the invitation which you deigned to send me."
"Ah, that is true," she answered; "I thank you for your kindness, and more especially for your punctuality, cousin."
"I could not display too great eagerness in obeying you, cousin, I have so rarely the happiness of seeing you."
"Is that a reproach you are addressing to me, cousin?"
"Oh, by no means, Madam. I in no way claim the right of offering you what you are pleased to call reproaches: you are at liberty to act as you please, and to dispose of me."
"Oh, oh, my dear cousin, I fancy if I were disposed to make trial of this noble devotion, I should expose myself to shame and you would refuse me point blank."
"Now we have it," the young man thought and added aloud, "it is my most sincere desire to please you in everything, cousin. I pledge you my word as a gentleman, and no matter what you may ask of me, I will obey you."
"I am much inclined to take you at your word, don Ludovic," she said, leaning down to him with a delicious smile.
"Do so, cousin, and you will see from my promptitude in obeying you, that I am the most devoted of your slaves."
The young lady remained pensive for a moment, then putting back on its rosewood perch the parrot with which she had been playing up till now, she leaped from her hammock, and seated herself a short distance from the count.
"Cousin," she said to him, "I have a service to ask of you."
"Of me? At length I shall be of some use to you."
"This service," she continued, "is not of great importance in itself."
"All the worse."
"But I fear, lest it may cause you great annoyance."
"What matter, cousin, the annoyance I may experience, if I can be of service to you."
"Cousin, I thank you, this is the affair: I must take a rather long ride today, for reasons you will soon appreciate. I cannot and will not be accompanied by any of the inhabitants of the hacienda, whether masters or servants. Still, as the roads are not, at this moment, perfectly secure, and I dare not venture to traverse them alone, I want with me, in order to protect and defend me if necessary, a peon whose presence at my side could not give rise to any malevolent suppositions. I have thought of you as my companion on this expedition. Do you consent, cousin?"
"With delight: I would merely remark that I am a stranger to this country, and might lose my way on roads I am unacquainted with."
"Do not trouble yourself about that, cousin, I am a native of the country, and have no fear about losing my way for fifty leagues round."
"If that is the case, cousin, all is for the best: I thank you for the honour you deign to do me, and place myself completely at your disposal."
"It is for me to thank you, cousin, for your extreme kindness; the horses are saddled, the Mexican garb becomes you admirably, go and put on your spurs, warn your valet that he will have to accompany you, and fetch your weapons: that is an important point, for you never know what may happen, and come back in ten minutes, when I shall be ready for you."
The count rose, bowed to the young lady, who responded by a gracious smile, and left the room.
"By Jove," he muttered as soon as he was alone, "this is delightful, and the duty she intends for me is most satisfactory. I fancy I am simply accompanying my delightful cousin to some love appointment. But how was it possible to refuse her anything! I never saw her looking so lovely as today. On my soul, she is a charming fay, and unless I take care, I may end by falling in love with her, unless I have done so already," he added with a stifled sigh.
He returned to his rooms ordered Raimbaut to get ready to follow him, which the worthy valet did with the punctuality and silence that distinguished him, and after buckling on his heavy silver spurs, and throwing asarapeover his shoulders, he selected a double-barrelled gun, a straight sabre, a brace of revolvers, and thus armed went into the patio. Raimbaut followed his example, had laid in a complete arsenal. The two men were thus, without exaggeration, capable in case of need, to face fifteen bandits.
Doña Dolores, already mounted, was talking with her father while awaiting the count's arrival. Don Andrés de la Cruz was rubbing his hands in delight, the good understanding between the young people charmed him.
"So you are going to take a ride?" he said to the count; "I wish you all possible pleasure."
"The señorita has deigned to offer to accompany her," Ludovic answered.
"She has acted admirably, for her choice could not be better."
While exchanging these few words with his future father-in-law, the count had mounted.
"A pleasant trip," continued don Andrés, "and mind you are careful whom you meet, Juárez' cuadrillas are beginning to prowl about the neighbourhood, so I have been informed."
"Do not be alarmed, papa," doña Dolores replied; "besides," she added with a charming smile aimed at the young man, "under my cousin's escort I fear nothing."
"Be off then and get back early."
"We shall return before theoración, papa."
Don Andrés gave them a last farewell nod, and they left the hacienda. The count and the young lady galloped side by side. Raimbaut, as a well trained servant, followed a few paces in the rear.
"I will act as your guide, cousin," the young lady said, when they had ridden some distance out into the plain and were lost among clumps of liquidambars.
"I could not desire a better one," Ludovic answered gallantly.
"Stay, cousin," she resumed, giving him a side glance, "I have a confession to make to you."
"A confession, cousin?"
"Yes, I see you are such a good fellow, that I feel ashamed at having deceived you."
"You deceived me, cousin?"
"Shamefully," she said with a laugh, "as you shall judge. I am leading you to a spot where we are expected."
"Where you are expected, you mean."
"No, because it is you they want especially to see."
"I confess, cousin, that I do not understand you at all: I know no one in this country."
"Are you quite sure of that, my dear cousin?" she asked with a mocking air.
"Well, I believe so at least."
"Then, you are beginning to doubt."
"You seem so sure of your fact."
"I am so, indeed: the person who expects you, not only knows you, but is a friend of yours."
"Very good, this makes the matter more puzzling than ever: go on, I beg."
"I have but very little to add, besides, in a few minutes we shall have arrived, and I do not wish to keep you in doubt any longer."
"That is very kind of you, cousin, I declare. I am humbly waiting till you deign to explain."
"I must do so, as your head has such a bad memory. What, sir, you are but a foreigner, who had been but a little while in a strange land. In this country, so soon as you landed, you met one man who displayed some sympathy with you, and you have already forgotten him. Permit me to remark, my dear cousin, that this offers but poor testimony to your constancy."
"Crush me, cousin, I deserve all your reproaches. You are right; there is really one man in Mexico for whom I feel a sincere friendship."
"Ah! Ah! Then I was not mistaken?"
"No; but I was so far from supposing that it was to him you alluded, that I confess—"
"That you no longer remembered him, eh?"
"On the contrary, cousin; and it would be my most eager desire to see him again."
"And what is this person's name?"
"He told me it was Oliver; still, I should not like to affirm that it is really his name."
The young woman gave a meaning smile.
"Would it be indiscreet to ask you why you entertain this unfavourable supposition?"
"Not at all, cousin; but señor Oliver appeared to me a very mysterious gentleman; his manners are not those of everybody. As I think, there would be nothing extraordinary if, according to circumstances—"
"He assumed a name," she interrupted. "Perhaps you are right—perhaps you are wrong—I could not answer that question; all I can tell you is, that he is the person who expects you."
"That is singular," the young man muttered.
"Why so? He has doubtless an important communication to make to you; at least, so I understood."
"Did he tell you so?"
"Not precisely; but while conversing with me last night he displayed a desire to see you as soon as possible; that is the reason, cousin, why I asked you to accompany me on my ride."
This confession was made by the young lady in such simple faith that the count was completely staggered by it, and looked at her for a moment as if he did not comprehend her. Doña Dolores did not notice his astonishment. With her hand placed as a screen over her eyes, she was examining the plain.
"Ah," she said a moment after, pointing in a certain direction, "look at those two men seated side by side in the shade of that clump of trees; one of these is Oliver, the person who expects you. Let us hurry on."
"Very good," Ludovic answered, spurring his horse.
And they galloped toward the two men, who, on perceiving them, had risen to receive them.
Oliver and Dominique, after leaving the rancho, rode for a long time side by side without exchanging a word; the adventurer seemed to be reflecting, while for his part thevaquero, in spite of his apparentnonchalance, was greatly preoccupied. Dominique, or Domingo, according as he was called in French or Spanish, whose physical portrait we have sketched in a preceding chapter, was, morally, a strange mixture of good and bad instincts; still, we are bound to add, that the good nearly always gained the victory. The wandering life he had led for several years among the indomitable Indians of the prairie, had developed in him, beside a great personal strength, an incredible force of will and energy of character, blended with a leonine courage and a degree of cleverness which might at times be taken for duplicity. Crafty and distrustful like a Comanche, he had transferred to civilized life all the practices of the wood rangers, never letting himself be taken unawares by the most unforeseen events, and opposing an impassive face to the most scrutinizing glances, he feigned a simplicity by which the cleverest persons were often deceived; added to this, he generally displayed a rare frankness, unbounded generosity, exquisite sensibility of heart, and carried his devotion to those he loved to the extremest limits, without reflection or afterthought; but on the other hand he was implacable in his hatreds, and possessed a true Indian ferocity. In one word, his was one of those strange natures as perfect for good as for evil, and whom opportunity can as easily make remarkable men as great villains.
Oliver had profoundly studied the extraordinary character of hisprotégé, hence he knew better than himself, perhaps, of what he was capable; and he had frequently shuddered on probing the hidden depths of this strange organization which did not know itself; and while imposing his will on the indomitable nature and making it bow as he pleased, still, like the imprudent beast tamer who plays with a tiger, he foresaw the moment when the lava boiling dully at the bottom of this young man's heart would suddenly burst forth under the impetuous blast of the passions; hence, in spite of the implicit confidence he seemed to have in his friend, it was with extreme care that he set certain chords vibrating in him, and he sedulously avoided giving him a consciousness of his strength, or revealing to him the extent of his moral power.
After a ride of some hours the travellers arrived about three leagues from the hacienda del Arenal, on the skirt of a rather thick wood that bordered the last plantations of the hacienda.
"Let us stop here and eat," Oliver said, as he dismounted; "this is our destination for the present."
"I am quite willing," Dominique answered; "this confounded sun falling virtually on my head since the morning, is beginning, I confess, to tire me, and I should not be sorry to lie down for a little while on the grass."
"In that case stand on no ceremony, comrade; the spot is glorious for a rest."
The two men hobbled their horses, which they unbridled, to let them browze at their ease; and after sitting down opposite each other under the protection of the dense foliage of the trees, they felt in theiralforjas, which were well stocked with provisions, and began eating with good appetite. Neither of the men was a great speaker, hence they disposed of their meal in silence, and it was not till Oliver had lit apuroand Dominique his Indian calumet, that the former resolved to speak.
"Well, Dominique," he said to him, "what do you think of the life I have made you lead for the last five months in this province?"
"To tell you the truth," thevaqueroreplied, puffing out a dense cloud of smoke, "I consider it absurd and wearisome to the highest degree. I should long ago have requested you to send me back to the western prairies, had I not been convinced that you wanted me here."
Oliver burst into a laugh.
"You are true, friend," he said, as he offered him his hand, "ever ready to act without observation or comment."
"I flatter myself I am; for is not friendship composed of self-denial and devotedness?"
"Yes; and that is why it is so rarely met with in this world."
"I pity those who are incapable of experiencing the feeling, for they deprive themselves of a great enjoyment. Friendship is the only real link that attaches men to each other."
"Many believe that it is egotism."
"Egotism is only a variety of the species; it is friendship badly understood, and reduced to low proportions."
"Hang it! I did not fancy you were so strong in paradoxes. Did you learn these tricks of the tongue among the Indians?"
"The Indians are wise men, my master," thevaqueroanswered with a shake of the head; "with them the true is true, and the false false, while in your cities you have so well succeeded in embroiling everything, that the cleverest man could not find his way, while the simple man soon loses the feeling of justice and injustice. Let me return to the prairies, my friend, my place is not among the paltry contests that disgrace this country, and make my heart ache with disgust and pity."
"I would willingly restore you your liberty, my boy, but I repeat that I have need of you, perhaps for three months longer."
"Three months? That is very long."
"Perhaps you will find the period very short," he said, with a peculiar expression.
"I do not believe it."
"We shall see; but I have not told you yet what I want of you."
"That is true, and I had better know, so that I may fulfil your intentions properly."
"Listen to me then: I shall be the more brief, because when the persons I am expecting arrive, I shall give you more detailed instructions."
"Very good, go on."
"Two persons are going to join us here, a young man, and a young lady; the latter is doña Dolores de la Cruz, daughter of the owner of the hacienda del Arenal: she is sixteen years of age, and very beautiful; she is a gentle, pure, and simple girl."
"Very good, but that does not concern me, for you know I trouble myself but slightly about squaws."
"That is true, so I will not dwell on the point: doña Dolores is betrothed to don Ludovic, who will marry her immediately."
"Much good may it do him; and who is don Ludovic? Some Mexican, I suppose, stupid and proud, who prances like a canon's mule."
"In that you are mistaken; don Ludovic is her cousin, Count Ludovic de la Saulay, belonging to the highest nobility in France."
"Ah, ah! He is the Frenchman in question?"
"Yes: he has come expressly from France to contract with his cousin this union which has long been arranged between the two families. Count Ludovic is a most agreeable gentleman, rich, kind, amiable, well educated, and obliging: in short, an excellent fellow, in whom I take the most sincere interest, and I wish you to attach yourself to him."
"If he is as you say, all right; before two days we shall be the best friends in the world."
"Thanks, Dominique, I expected no less from you."
"Eh," said thevaquero, "look there, Oliver, someone is coming, I fancy: hang it, they are riding fast, they will be on us in ten minutes."
"They are doña Dolores and Count Ludovic."
They rose to go and receive the young people, who, in truth, were coming up at full speed.
"Here we are at last," the young lady said, as she stopped her horse, with the skill of a practised rider.
With one bound the newcomers reached the ground; after bowing to Dominique, the count held out both hands to the adventurer.
"I see you again then, my friend," he said to him; "thanks for remembering me."
"Did you suppose I had forgotten you?"
"On my word," the young man said gaily, "I almost had the right to do so."
"My Lord Count," the adventurer then said, "permit me first of all to introduce to you M. Dominique, he is more than a brother, he is another self: I shall be pleased if you will transfer to him a small portion of the friendship you deign to testify to me."
"Sir," the count replied, bowing gracefully to thevaquero, "I sincerely regret that I express myself so badly in Spanish, for it prevents me from proving to you the lively desire I feel to let you see the sympathy with which you have already inspired me."
"That is of no consequence, sir," thevaqueroreplied in French "I speak your language fluently enough to thank you for your cordial words, for which I am most grateful."
"Ah, by Jove! Sir, you delight me; this is a charming surprise; pray, accept my hand, and consider me as entirely at your service."
"Most willingly, sir, and thank you; we shall soon know each other better, and then, you will reckon me, I hope, in the number of your friends."
After these words, the two young men warmly shook hands.
"Are you satisfied, my friend?" doña Dolores asked.
"You are a fairy, dear child," Oliver replied with emotion; "you cannot imagine how happy you render me."
And he respectfully kissed the forehead which the young lady offered him. "Now," he continued, changing his tone, "let us turn to business, for time presses; but we are still one short."
"Who is it?" the young lady asked.
"Leo Carral: let me summon him;" and raising to his lips a silver whistle, he produced a shrill and long sustained note.
Almost immediately the galloping of a horse was heard in the distance, which rapidly drew nearer, and the majordomo soon appeared.
"Come on, come on, Leo," the adventurer shouted to him.
"Here I am, señor," the majordomo replied, "entirely at your orders."
"Listen to me attentively," Oliver resumed, addressing doña Dolores; "the affair is serious, I am compelled to go away this very day: my absence may last for a long time; and hence it is impossible for me to watch over you: unfortunately I have a foreboding that an imminent danger threatens you, of what nature it is, or when it will burst on you, I am unable to say, but it is certain. Now, my dear Dolores, what I cannot do, others will do: these others are the count, Dominique, and our friend Leo Carral, all three are devoted to you, and will watch over you like brothers."
"But, my friend," the young lady interrupted, "you forget, I think, my father and my brother."
"No, my child, I do not forget them, on the contrary, I bear them in mind: your father is an aged man, who not only cannot protect anyone, but needs protection himself, which in the case of need you will not fail to grant him. As for your brother, don Melchior, you know, my dear girl, my opinion about him, and hence it is unnecessary to dwell on that point: he cannot, or will not defend you. You know that I am usually well informed, and am rarely mistaken; now, all of you carefully remember this; be most careful not to let don Melchior or any other inhabitant of the hacienda suppose, either from your words or actions, that you foresee a misfortune; but watch carefully, so as not to let yourselves be surprised, and take your precautions accordingly."
"We will watch, trust to me," thevaqueroreplied; "but I have an objection to offer, my friend, which is not without justice."
"What is it?"
"How shall I manage to get into the hacienda and remain there without arousing suspicions? This appears to me rather difficult."
"No, you are mistaken; no one at the hacienda knows you but Leo Carral, I think?"
"That is true."
"Well, you will go there as a Frenchman, a friend of the Count de la Saulay; and for greater security you will pretend, not to understand a word of Spanish."
"Permit me," Ludovic observed, "I have spoken several times to don Andrés about an intimate friend attached to the French Legation in Mexico, and whom I expect to visit me at the hacienda at any moment."
"Perfect, Dominique will pass for him, and if he likes, he can talk broken Spanish; what is the name of the friend you expect?"
"Charles de Meriadec."
"Very good, Dominique will christen himself so; while he is at the hacienda, I will arrange that the man whose name he temporarily assumes, does not come to disturb him."
"Hum, that is important."
"Fear nothing, I will arrange it; so that is settled; and tomorrow Monsieur Charles de Meriadec will arrive at the hacienda."
"He will be well received then," Ludovic replied with a smile.
"As for you, Leo Carral, I have no recommendations to give you."
"No, no, my measures have been taken for a long time past," the majordomo replied; "I have only now to arrange with these gentlemen."
"All is going well, so now let us separate: I should have been a long way off by this time."
"Are you leaving us already, my friend?" doña Dolores asked with emotion.
"I must, my child; be of good cheer, and have confidence in God; during my absence, He will watch over you; farewell."
The adventurer pressed the count's hand for the last time, kissed the young lady's forehead, and leapt into the saddle.
"Let me see you again soon," doña Dolores said to him.
"Tomorrow you will see your friend Meriadec," Dominique said with a laugh, and he started at a gallop after the adventurer.
"Are you going back with us to the hacienda?" the count asked the majordomo.
"Why not?" he replied; "I shall be supposed to have met you during your ride."
"That is true."
They remounted, and cantered toward the hacienda, which they reached a little before sunset.
The closing months of 18— had arrived. Political events were beginning to press on each other with such rapidity that the least enlightened minds already understood that they were hurrying towards an imminent catastrophe. In the South, the troops of General Gutiérrez had gained a great victory over the constitutional army commanded by General don Diego Álvarez (the same who at an earlier period presided at Guaymas over the court-martial that condemned to death our unfortunate countryman and friend Count Gaston de Raousset Boulbon). The carnage of the Pinto Indians had been immense: 1200 remained on the battlefield, and the artillery and abundant materiel fell into the hands of the victor. But at the same period, there commenced in the interior a series of opposite events: the first was the flight of Zuloaga, that president who, after abdicating in favour of Miramón, revoked that abdication one day without knowing exactly why, without consulting anyone, and at the moment when it was least expected.
General Miramón then loyally offered to the President of the Supreme Court of Justice to assume the executive power and convoke the assembly of the Notables to have himself elected chief magistrate of the Republic. While this was happening, a new catastrophe added fresh dangers to the situation. Miramón, whom his continual victories had probably endowed with imprudent confidence, or more probably impelled by the desire to come to an end in some way or another, offered battle at Silao to forces four times his own. He suffered a complete rout, lost his artillery, and was himself on the point of perishing: it was only by performing prodigies of valour, and killing with his own hand several of those that surrounded him, that he succeeded in cutting his way out of the melée and escaping to Querétaro, where he arrived almost alone. From this place, Miramón, not allowing himself to be crushed by misfortunes, returned to Mexico, whose inhabitants thus learned simultaneously his defeat, his arrival, and his intention to offer himself for election.
The result did not disappoint the secret expectations of the general: he was elected President by the Chamber of Notables almost unanimously. The general, who knew how time pressed, took the oaths, and immediately entered on his duties. Although materially the defeat at Silao was almost nothing, still from a moral point of view the effect produced was immense. Miramón understood this: he actively employed himself in restoring a little order in the finances, creating resources, precarious but sufficient for the urgent necessities of the moment in raising fresh troops, and taking all the precautions that prudence suggested. Unfortunately the president was constrained to abandon several important points in order to concentrate his forces round Mexico, and these various movements, ill-understood by the people, alarmed them and made them apprehend approaching misfortunes. Under these circumstances, the president, wishing doubtless to satisfy public opinion and restore a little tranquillity to the capital, consented to enter into negotiations with his rival Juárez, which, if they did not lead to peace, might at any rate produce an armistice which would temporarily check bloodshed. Unluckily, a fresh complication rendered all hope of an arrangement impossible.