"We shall see," he replied in a hollow voice, falling back a few paces as if to withdraw.
"And your father—do you not wish to know what the result of your ambush has been with him?" Dominique then asked him in a tone of dull menace.
"I have no father," don Melchior replied savagely.
"No," the count exclaimed in disgust, "for you have killed him."
The young man shuddered, a livid pallor covered, his face, a bitter smile contracted his thin lips, and casting a venomous glance at those who surrounded him, he cried in a choking voice—"Make way; I accept this new insult; make way for the parricide."
Everybody recoiled with horror watching this monster, who departed across the plain, apparently calm and peaceful. Cuéllar himself watched him retire with a shake of the head.
"That man is a demon," he muttered, and crossed himself.
This gesture was piously imitated by the soldiers. Doña Dolores was gently raised in Dominique's arms, placed on the count's horse, and the young men, escorted by Cuéllar, returned to don Andrés. The peons had bound up their master's wounds to the best of their ability. By the count's orders, they then made a litter of branches, which they covered with theirsarapes, and the old gentleman was laid on it by his daughter's side. Don Andrés was still unconscious. Cuéllar then took leave of the count.
"I regret more than I can express this unfortunate event," he said with some degree of sadness. "Although this man is a Spaniard, and consequently an enemy of Mexico, still the lamentable state to which I see him reduced fills me with compassion."
The young men thanked the rough partisan for this proof of sympathy, and after collecting their wounded, they finally took leave of him, and sadly recommenced their journey to Puebla, where they arrived two hours later, accompanied by several relations of don Andrés, who, warned by a peon sent on ahead, had come out to meet them.
Loïck ended his narrative. Theranchero'sstory had been a long one. Don Jaime listened, to it from one end to the other without interruption, with a cold and impassive face, but with flashing eyes.
"Is that all?" he asked Loïck, turning to him.
"Yes, all, Excellency."
"In what way were you so well informed of the slightest details of this awful catastrophe?"
"It was Domingo himself who related the events to me; he was half mad with rage and grief, and knowing that I was going to you, he ordered me to repeat to you—"
Don Jaime sharply interrupted him.
"Very good; did Domingo give you no other message for me?" he asked, fixing on him a fiery glance.
Therancherobecame confused.
"Excellency," he stammered.
"Confound the Briton," the adventurer exclaimed; "what cause have you to tremble so? Come, speak or choke."
"Excellency," he said resolutely, "I am afraid I have done a stupid thing."
"By Heaven! I suspected it, if only from your air of contrition. Well, what is this folly?"
"It is," he continued, "that Domingo appeared in such despair at not knowing where to find you—he seemed to have such a desire to speak to you, that—"
"That you could not hold your tongue, and revealed to him—"
"Where you live; yes, Excellency."
After this confession, therancherobowed his head, as if he felt inwardly convinced that he had committed a great fault. There was a silence.
"Of course you told him under what name I concealed myself in this house?" don Jaime continued a moment after.
"Hang it!" Loïck said simply, "if I had not done so he would have had a difficulty in finding you, Excellency."
"That is true; he is coming then?"
"I fear it."
"It is well."
Don Jaime walked up and down the room reflecting, then approaching Loïck, who was still motionless at his place, he asked him—
"Did you come alone to Mexico?"
"López accompanied me, Excellency; but I have left him at a pulquería near the Belén gate, where he is waiting for me."
"Good, you will join him there, but say nothing to him; in an hour, not sooner, you will return here with him, perhaps I shall want you both."
"Good," he said, rubbing his hands; "all right, Excellency, we shall come."
"Now, be off."
"Pardon, Excellency, I have a note to deliver to you."
"A note! From whom?"
Loïck felt in his dolman, drew out a carefully sealed letter, and handed it to don Jaime.
"Here it is," he said.
The adventurer took a glance at the address.
"Don Estevan!" he exclaimed with a cry of joy, and eagerly broke the seal.
The note, though short, was written in cypher—it was to the following effect:—
"Everything is going on admirably; our man is coming of his own accord to the bait held out to him. Saturday, midnight, Peral."
"Hope!" "Córdoba."
Don Jaime tore the note up into imperceptible pieces.
"What day is this?" he suddenly asked Loïck.
"Today?" he repeated, startled by this question, which he did not at all anticipate.
"Ass! I suppose I did not mean yesterday or tomorrow."
"That is true, Excellency—this is Tuesday."
"Why could you not say so at once?"
Don Jaime again walked up and down the room in deep thought.
"Can I go?" Loïck ventured.
"You ought to have gone ten minutes ago," he answered sharply.
Therancherodid not require a repetition of this injunction. He bowed, and retired. Don Jaime remained alone, but at the end of a minute the door opened, and the two ladies came in again. Their faces were anxious, and they timidly approached the adventurer.
"You have received bad news, don Jaime?" doña María asked.
"Alas! Yes, sister," he answered, "very bad indeed." "May we hear it?"
"I have no reason for concealing it from you; and, besides, it concerns people whom you love."
"Heavens!" said doña Carmen, clasping her hands, "Can it be Dolores?"
"Dolores—yes, my child," don Jaime answered; "Dolores, your friend; the Hacienda del Arenal has been surprised and burnt by the Juarists."
"Oh, Heavens!" the two ladies exclaimed sorrowfully; "Poor Dolores! And don Andrés?"
"He is dangerously wounded,"
"Thank God, he is not dead."
"He is not much better."
"Where are they at this moment?"
"Sheltered in Puebla, where they arrived under the escort of some of their peons, commanded by Leo Carral."
"Oh! He is a devoted servant."
"But had he been alone, I doubt whether he would have succeeded in saving his masters; fortunately don Andrés had at the hacienda two French gentlemen, the Count de la Saulay."
"The gentleman who is going to marry Dolores?" doña Carmen said eagerly.
"Yes, and the Baron Charles de Meriadec, attaché to the French Embassy; it appears that these two young men performed prodigies of valour, and that it was through their bravery that our friends escaped the horrible fate which threatened them."
"May God bless them!" doña María exclaimed; "Though I do not know them, I already feel an interest in them as if they were old friends."
"You will soon know one of them at least."
"Ah!" the young lady said curiously.
"Yes, I expect Baron de Meriadec at any moment."
"We will receive him to the best of our ability."
"I wish you to do so."
"But Dolores cannot remain in Puebla."
"That is my opinion. I intend to go to her."
"Why could she not come to us?" doña Carmen said; "She would be in safety here, and her father should not want for a nurse."
"What you are saying, Carmen, is very judicious; perhaps it would be as well for her to live for some time with you. I will think over it; before all, I must see don Andrés, that I may convince myself of the state he is in, and whether he can be removed."
"Brother," doña María observed, "I notice that you have told us about Dolores and her father, but you have not said a word about don Melchior."
Don Jaime's face suddenly grew dark at this remark, and his features were contracted.
"Can any misfortune have happened to him?" doña María exclaimed.
"Would to Heaven it were so!" he replied with a sadness mingled with anger; "Never speak to me about that man—he is a monster."
"Great Heaven! You terrify me, don Jaime."
"I told you, I think, that the Hacienda del Arenal was surprised by the guerilleros."
"Yes," she said, quivering with emotion.
"Do you know who commanded the Juarists and served as their guide? Don Melchior de la Cruz."
"Oh!" the two ladies exclaimed in horror.
"Afterwards, when don Andrés and his daughter obtained permission to retire safe and sound to Puebla, a man laid a snare for them a short distance from the town, and treacherously attacked them: this man was once again don Melchior."
"Oh, this is horrible!" They said, as they hid their faces in their hands and burst into sobs.
"Is it not?" he continued; "The more horrible, as don Melchior had coldly calculated on his father's death, that he wished by a parricide to seize his sister's fortune, a fortune to which he had no claim, and which the approaching marriage of doña Dolores will entirely strip from him, or, at least, he believed so."
"This man is a monster!" said doña María.
The two ladies were terrified by this announcement. Their intimacy with the de la Cruz family was great, the two younger ladies having been almost brought up together; they loved each other like sisters, although though doña Carmen was a little older than doña Dolores, hence the news of the misfortune which had so suddenly burst on don Andrés filled them with grief. Doña María warmly urged don Jaime to have don Andrés and his daughter conveyed to Mexico and lodged in her house, when doña Dolores would find that care and consolation which she must need so greatly after such a disaster.
"I will see, I will strive to satisfy you," don Jaime replied; "still, I dare not promise you anything as yet. I intend to start this very day for Puebla, and if I were not expecting a visit from Baron de Meriadec I should set out at once."
"It would be the first time," doña María said gently, "that I should see you leave us almost without regret."
Don Jaime smiled. At this moment they heard the outer gate opened, and a horse's hoofs re-echo in the zaguán.
"Here is the baron," said the adventurer, and he went to meet his visitor.
It was really Dominique. Don Jaime offered him his hand, and giving him a significant glance, said in French, which language the ladies spoke very well—
"You are welcome, my dear baron; I was impatiently expecting you."
The young man understood that he was to retain his incognito till fresh orders.
"I am really sorry at having kept you waiting, my dear don Jaime," he answered, "but I have come at full speed from Puebla, and do not tell you anything new in saying that it is a long journey."
"I know it," don Jaime remarked with a smile; "but let me introduce you to two ladies who desire to know you, and let us not remain any longer here."
"Ladies," don Jaime said as he entered, "allow me to introduce to you Baron Charles de Meriadec, attaché to the French Embassy, one of my best friends, to whom I have before alluded. My dear baron, I have the honour to present to you doña María, my sister, and doña Carmen, my niece."
Although the adventurer omitted, no doubt purposely, one-half of the ladies' names, the young man did not appear to notice it, and bowed respectfully.
"Now," don Jaime resumed gaily, "you are one of the family; you are acquainted with our Spanish hospitality: if you require anything, speak; we are all at your service."
They sat down, and while taking refreshments, conversed—
"You can speak quite openly, baron," don Jaime said; "these ladies are aware of the frightful events at the hacienda."
"More frightful than you suppose, I fancy," the young man said; "and since you take an interest in this unhappy family, I am afraid to add to your grief, and be a messenger of evil tidings."
"We are intimately connected with don Andrés de la Cruz and his charming daughter," doña María observed.
"In that case, madam, forgive me if I have only bad news to impart to you."
The young man hesitated.
"Oh, speak! Speak!"
"I have only a few words to say: the Juarists have seized Puebla; the town surrendered to the first summons."
"The cowards!" the adventurer said, smiting the table with his fist.
"Were you ignorant of it?"
"Yes; I believed it to be still held by Miramón."
"The first business of the Juarists was, according to their invariable custom, to plunder and imprison the foreigners, and more especially the Spaniards residing in the town. Some were even shot without the pretence of a trial; the prisons are crowded; they have been obliged to employ several convents in which to bestow their prisoners. Terror reigns in Puebla."
"Go on, my friend; and don Andrés?"
"Don Andrés, as, of course, you are aware, is dangerously wounded."
"Yes, I know it."
"His state admits of but slight hopes; the governor of the town, in spite of the representations of the notables and the entreaties of all honest people, had don Andrés arrested as convicted of high treason—those are the very words of the warrant—in spite of the tears of his daughter and all his friends, he had been removed to the dungeons of the old Inquisition; the house occupied by don Andrés has been plundered and destroyed."
"Why, this is frightful! It is barbarity!"
"Oh, that is nothing as yet."
"How, nothing?"
"Don Andrés was tried, and as he protested his innocence, in spite of all the efforts of the judges to make him condemn himself, he was subjected to torture."
"To torture!" the hearers exclaimed with a start of horror.
"Yes; this wounded, dying old man was suspended by the thumbs, and received the strappado on two different occasions. In spite of this martyrdom his torturers did not succeed in making him confess the crimes with which they charge him, and of which he is innocent."
"Oh, this surpasses all credence!" don Jaime exclaimed; "And of course the hapless man is dead?"
"Not yet; or, at least, he was not so on my departure from Puebla. He had not even been condemned, for his murderers are in no hurry; time is their own, and they are playing with their victim."
"And Dolores!" doña Carmen exclaimed; "Poor Dolores! How she must suffer!"
"Doña Dolores has disappeared; she has been carried off."
"Disappeared!" don Jaime shouted in a voice of thunder; "And you still live to tell me of it?"
"I did all I could to be killed," he replied simply, "but did not succeed."
"Ah! I will find her again," the adventurer continued, "and the count, what is he doing?"
"He is in a state of despair and is seeking her, aided by Leo Carral: while I came to you."
"You did well: I shall not fail you. Then the count and Leo Carral have remained in Puebla?"
"Leo Carral alone. The count was obliged to fly in order to escape the pursuit of the Juarists and has taken shelter at theranchowith his servants: every day his youngest valet Ibarru, I think that is his name, goes to the town to arrange measures with the majordomo."
"Was it from your own impulse that you came to me?"
"Yes, but I first consulted with the count, as I did not like to act without having his advice."
"You were right, sister, prepare a suitable apartment for doña Dolores."
"You will bring her back then?" the two ladies exclaimed.
"Yes, or perish."
"Shall we be off?" the young man cried impatiently.
"In a moment, I expect Loïck and López."
"Is Loïck here?"
"It may be he who brought me the news about the surprise of the hacienda."
"It was I who sent him."
"I am aware of it. Your horse is fatigued, you will leave it here, when it will be taken care of, and I will give you another."
"Very good."
"Of course you heard the names of don Andrés' principal persecutors?"
"They are three in number, the first is the first secretary, the tool of the new governor, his name is don Antonio de Cacerbar."
"You have a lucky hand," the adventurer said ironically, "that is the man whose life you so philanthropically saved."
The young man uttered a roar like a tiger, "I will kill him," he said hoarsely.
Don Jaime gave him a glance of surprise.
"Then, you hate him thoroughly?" he asked him.
"Even his death will not satisfy me: the man's conduct is strange: he suddenly arrived in the town two days after the army: he only appeared and then went off again, leaving behind him a long train of blood."
"We shall find him again: who is the second?"
"Have you not guessed him already?"
"Don Melchior, I suppose."
"Yes."
"In that case, I know where to find doña Dolores: it was he who carried her off."
"It is probable."
"And the third?"
"The third is a young man with a handsome face, soft voice, and noble manners, more terrible than both the others, it is said, though he has no official title: he seems to hold great power and passes for a secret agent of Juárez."
"His name?"
"Don Diego Izaguirre."
The adventurer's face brightened.
"Good," he said with a smile, "the affair is not so desperate as I feared; we shall succeed."
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"May heaven hear you!" the two ladies exclaimed with clasped hands.
Doña María, ever since the arrival of the pretended baron, had been suffering from an extraordinary feeling, while the young man was conversing with don Jaime. She gazed at him with strange intentness, she felt her eyes fill with tears and her bosom oppressed, she could not at all understand the emotion which was caused her by the sight and voice of this elegant young man, whom she now saw for the first time; in vain did she search her recollections to discover where she had already heard his voice, whose accent had something so sweetly sympathetic about it that went straight to her heart. She studied the handsome manly face of thevaquero, as if she were to discover in his features a fugitive resemblance to someone she had formerly known: but everything was a chaos in her memory, an insurmountable barrier seemed to be raised between the present and the past, as if to prove to her that she was allowing herself to be overpowered by a wild hope, and that the man who was before her, was really a stranger to her. Don Jaime attentively followed on doña María's face the different feelings that were in turn reflected on it; but whatever his opinion on the subject might be, he remained cold, impassive, and apparently indifferent to the interludes of this family drama, which, however, must interest him to the highest degree. Loïck arrived followed by López: a fresh horse was saddled for Dominique.
"Let us go," the adventurer said as he rose, "time presses."
The young man took leave of the ladies.
"You will return, will you not, sir?" doña María graciously asked him.
"You are a thousand times too kind, madam," he answered, "I shall consider it a happiness to avail myself of your delightful invitation."
They left the room, doña María seized her brother's arm.
"One word, don Jaime," she said to him in a trembling voice.
"Speak, sister."
"Do you know this young man?"
"Intimately."
"Is he really a French gentleman?"
"He passes for such," he replied, looking at her intently.
"I was mad," she murmured, as she let go the arm she had hitherto held, and heaved a sigh.
Don Jaime went out without another word. Ere long the hoofs of the four horses urged at their full speed could be heard clattering in the street.
They galloped thus till night without exchanging a word. At sunset they reached a ruinedrancho, standing like a sentry, on the skirt of the road. The adventurer made a sign and the riders pulled up their horses. A man came out of therancho, looked at them, without saying a word, and then went in again. Some minutes elapsed; the man reappeared, but this time he came from behind therancho, and was leading two horses by the bridle. These horses were saddled. The adventurer and Dominique leapt down, removed theiralforjasand pistols, placed them on the fresh horses and remounted. The man returned a second time with two other horses, which Loïck and López mounted. The man, still silent, collected the bridles of the four horses, and went off dragging them after him.
"Forwards!" don Jaime cried.
They set out once more. The silent and rapid ride recommenced. The night was gloomy and the riders glided through the shadows like phantoms. All night they galloped thus. At about five a.m. they changed horses again at a half-ruinedrancho. These men seemed made of iron; though they had been fifteen hours in the saddle, fatigue had no hold on them. Not a word had been exchanged between them during this long ride.
At about ten o'clock in the morning, they saw the domes of Puebla glittering in the dazzling sunbeams. They had covered one hundred and twenty-six miles that separated that town from Mexico, in twenty hours, along almost impracticable roads. At about half a league from the town, instead of continuing to advance in a straight line, at a sign from the adventurer, they turned off and entered a scarce traced path that ran through a wood. For an hour they galloped after don Jaime, who had taken the lead of the cavalcade. They thus reached a rather extensive clearing, in the centre of which stood an enramada.
"We have arrived," said the adventurer, checking his horse and dismounting. "We will establish our headquarters here temporarily."
His companions leaped down and prepared to unsaddle their horses.
"Wait," he continued. "Loïck, you will go to yourrancho, where the Count de la Saulay and his servants are at present, and bring them here. You, López, will fetch our provisions."
"Are we two going to wait under this enramada, then?" Dominique asked.
"No; for I am going to Puebla."
"Do you not fear being recognized?"
The adventurer smiled. Don Jaime and thevaquerowere left alone. They removed their horses' bridles so that they might graze freely on the tender grass of the clearing.
"Follow me," said don Jaime.
Dominique obeyed. They went under the enramada. This is the name given in Mexico to a species of shapeless hut formed of interlaced branches, and covered with other branches and leaves; these tenements, though of very paltry appearance, offer a very sufficient shelter against rain and sunshine. This enramada, better built than the others, was divided into two compartments by a hurdle of intertwined branches, which mounted to the roof and divided the hut into two equal parts. Don Jaime did not stop in the first compartment, but passed straight into the second, still followed by Dominique, who for some moments past seemed to be plunged into serious reflections. The adventurer disturbed a pile of grass and dry leaves, and drawing his machete, began digging up the ground. Dominique looked at him in amazement.
"What are you doing there?" he asked him.
"As you see, I am clearing the entrance of a vault; come and help me," he answered.
Both set to work. Ere long appeared a large flat stone, in the centre of which a ring was fixed. When the stone was removed, steps, clumsily cut in the rock, became visible.
"Come down," said the adventurer.
He had lighted a lamp by means of a lucifer match. Dominique cast a curious glance around him. The spot where he was, situated some seven or eight yards underground, formed a sort of octagonal hall of very considerable dimensions; four galleries, which seemed to run further underground, entered at so many different points. This hall was amply supplied with weapons of every description; there were also harnesses, clothes, a bed made of leaves and furs, and even books on a shelf hanging against the side.
"You see one of my dens," the adventurer said with a smile. "I possess several like this scattered all over Mexico. This vault dates from the time of the Aztecs, and its existence was revealed to me several years ago by an aged Indian. You are aware that the province in which we now are, was anciently the sacred territory of the Mexican religion, and temples swarmed on it; the numberless underground passages were used by the priests to go from one place to another without being discovered, and thus give greater force to miracles of ubiquity which they pretended to accomplish. At a later date, they served as a refuge to the Indians persecuted by the Spanish conquerors. The one we are now in, which runs on one side to the pyramid of Cholula, and on the other to the very heart of Puebla without counting other issues, was on several occasions extremely useful to the Mexican insurgents during the war of Independence—now its existence is forgotten, and the secret is only known to myself and to you now."
Thevaquerohad listened to this explanation with the most lively interest.
"Pardon me," he said, "but there is one thing that I do not exactly understand."
"What is it?"
"You told me just now that if anyone arrived by chance, we should be at once warned?"
"Yes, I did say so."
"I do not at all understand how this can be."
"Very simply. You see that gallery, do you not?"
"Yes."
"It terminates with a sort of outlook about a yard square, covered with shrubs, and impossible to detect at the very entrance of the path by which it is alone possible to enter the wood; now, by a singular effect of acoustics, which I shall not at all attempt to explain, all sounds, of whatever nature they may be, even the slightest, which are produced near that outlook are immediately repeated here, with such distinctness, that it is most easy to recognize their nature."
"Oh! In that case I am no longer alarmed."
"Moreover, when the persons we expect have arrived, we will stop up this hole, which will be useless to us, and leave by the gallery that opens there in front of you."
While giving these explanations to his friend, the adventurer had doffed a portion of his garments.
"What are you doing?" Dominique asked.
"I am disguising myself, in order to go and find out how matters stand in Puebla. The inhabitants of that town are very religious; monasteries are numerous there, and hence I am going to put on a Camaldoli dress, by favour of which I can attend to my business without fear of attracting attention."
Thevaquerohad sat down on the furs, and was reflecting with his back against the wall.
"What is the matter, Dominique? You appear to me preoccupied and sad?" don Jaime asked him a moment after.
The young man started as if a viper had suddenly stung him.
"I am, in truth, sad, master," he muttered.
"Have I not told you that we shall find doña Dolores again?" he continued.
Dominique quivered, and his face became livid; "Master," he said, as he rose, and hung his head, "despise me, I am a coward."
"You a coward, Domingo! Good God, you speak falsely."
"No, master, I am telling the truth, I have misunderstood my duty, betrayed my friend, and forgotten your recommendations." He gave a profound sigh. "I love the betrothed wife of my friend," he added feebly.
The adventurer fixed his bright eyes on him, "I was aware of it," he said.
Domingo started and exclaimed in alarm, "You knew it?"
"I did," don Jaime continued, "And you do not despise me?"
"Why should I? Are we masters of our heart?"
"But she is betrothed to the count, my friend."
The adventurer made no answer to this exclamation. "And does she love you in return?" he asked.
"How can I tell?" he exclaimed, "I have hardly dared to confess it to myself."
There was a lengthened silence. While putting on his monastic garb, the adventurer examined the young man aside. "The count does not love doña Dolores?" he at length said.
"What! Can it be possible?" he exclaimed, hotly. Don Jaime burst into a laugh.
"That is the way with lovers," he remarked, "they do not understand that others have not the same eyes as themselves."
"But he is going to marry her?"
"He ought," he said, laying a marked stress on the word.
"Did he not come to Mexico expressly for the purpose?"
"It is true."
"Then you see he will marry her in that case."
The adventurer shrugged his shoulders.
"Your conclusion is absurd," he said. "Does a man ever know what he will do? Does the morrow belong to him?"
"But since the misfortunes which have crushed doña Dolores' family and herself, the count has been attempting impossibilities to save the young lady."
"That proves that the count is a perfect gentleman and man of honour, that is all. Besides, he is her relation, and is doing his duty in trying to save her, even at the risk of his life and fortune."
Dominique shrugged his shoulders several times, "He loves her," he said.
"In that case I will turn the sentence; doña Dolores does not love him."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"Oh, if I could only persuade myself of it, I might hope."
"You are a baby. Now I am off, and do you wait for me here: swear not to leave this place till my return."
"I swear it."
"Good: I am going to work for you, so hope I shall return soon."
And giving him a last wave of the hand, the adventurer went off by a side gallery.
The young man remained pensive so long as the sound of his friend's retiring footsteps reached him, then he fell back on the bed of furs, murmuring in a low voice, "He told me to wait."
We will leave Dominique plunged in those reflections which, judging from the expression of his face, must have been agreeable, and follow don Jaime on his adventurous expedition. As the vault was situated about half a league from the town, don Jaime had that distance to go underground before he found himself in Puebla. But this long walk did not appear at all to alarm him: he proceeded at a round pace along the gallery into which sufficient light penetrated by invisible interstices, for him to be able to guide himself in the countless windings he was forced to make. He walked thus for about three parts of an hour, and at length reached the foot of a staircase, consisting of fifteen steps.
The adventurer stopped a moment to draw breath, and then went up. When he reached the top of the steps, he sought for a spring, which he soon found, and pressed his finger on it. Immediately an enormous stone became detached from the wall, moved noiselessly on invisible hinges, and displayed a wide passage. Don Jaime stepped out and thrust back the stone, which immediately resumed its first position in so perfect a manner, that it was impossible, even with the most earnest attention, to perceive the slightest crack or solution of continuity in the wall.
Don Jaime looked searchingly round him: he was alone. The spot where he was was a chapel of the cathedral of Puebla. The secret door through which the adventurer had passed opened on a corner of this chapel, and was concealed by a confessional. These precautions were carefully taken, and there was no risk of a discovery. Don Jaime left the church and found himself on the Plaza Mayor. It was about midday, the hour of the siesta, and the square was almost deserted. The adventurer pulled the hood over his eyes, hid his hands in his cuffs, and with his head hanging on his chest, and with a calm and contemplative step he crossed the square and entered one of the streets that ran from it.
Oliver thus reached the gate of a pretty house, standing in its own grounds, and which seemed to rise from the centre of a bouquet of orange and pomegranate trees. As this gate was only on the hasp, the adventurer pushed it, went in and closed the gate again after him. He then found himself on the sanded walk that led to the door of the house, which was raised by a few steps, and covered by a large verandah in the Mexican fashion. Oliver looked suspiciously around him, but the garden was deserted. He advanced; but instead of proceeding toward the house he struck into a sidewalk, and after a few turns found himself facing a door apparently belonging to the offices.
On reaching this spot Oliver took a silver whistle hanging round his neck by a thin gold chain, raised it to his lips, and produced a sweet and peculiarly modulated sound. Almost immediately a similar whistle was heard from the interior, the door opened, and a man appeared. The adventurer made him a Masonic sign, to which the other replied, and followed him into the house. Without speaking, this man guided him through several apartments till he reached a door which he opened to let the adventurer pass through, while he remained behind.
The room into which Oliver was thus introduced was elegantly furnished, large Venetian blinds interrupted the rays of the sun, the floor was covered with one of those softpetateswhich the Indians alone know how to manufacture; a hammock of aloe fibre suspended by silver rings from hooks of the same material divided the room in two. A man was lying in this hammock fast asleep. It was don Melchior de la Cruz; a knife with a curiously embossed silver hilt, with a wide long blade sharp as a viper's tongue, was placed on a low sandalwood table within reach, by the side of two magnificent revolvers.
Even in his own house, in the middle of Puebla, don Melchior thought it right to be on his guard against a surprise or treachery. His fears, however, were not at all exaggerated, for the man who is at that moment before him might fairly be reputed one of his most formidable enemies.
The adventurer surveyed him for some minutes, then advanced softly to the hammock without producing the slightest noise. He took the revolvers, concealed them under his gown, seized the knife, and then gently touched the sleeper. Though the touch, was so light, it sufficed to arouse don Melchior. He at once opened his eyes, and stretched out his arm to the table by a mechanical movement.
"It is useless," Oliver said to him, coldly; "the weapons are no longer there."
At the sound of this well-known voice don Melchior sprang up as if moved by a spring, and fixing a haggard eye on the man standing motionless before him, he asked, in a voice choked by horror—
"Who are you?"
"Have you not recognized me yet?" the adventurer remarked, jeeringly.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"Ah! You require a certainty: well, look!" and he threw back his hood on his shoulders.
"Don Adolfo!" the young man muttered, in a hollow voice.
"Why this astonishment?" the adventurer continued, in the same mocking voice. "Did you not expect me? Still, you should have supposed that I would come to seek you."
Don Melchior remained for a moment as if lost in thought. "Be it so," he at length said, "After all it is better to come to an end once for all," and he sat down again, apparently calm and careless, on the edge of the hammock.
Oliver smiled. "Very good," he said; "I would sooner see you thus: let us talk, we have time."
"Then you have not come with the intention of assassinating me?" he asked, ironically.
"Oh! What a bad thought that is of yours, my dear sir! I raise a hand against you! Oh, no! Heaven preserve me from it! That is the hangman's business, and I should be most sorry to poach on the manor of that estimable functionary."
"The fact is," he exclaimed, impetuously, "that you have entered my house as a malefactor, in disguise, of course, to assassinate me."
"You repeat yourself, and that is clumsy; if I have come to you in disguise it is because circumstances compelled me to take the precaution, that is all: moreover, I only followed your example," and suddenly changing his tone, he added—"by the by, are you satisfied with Juárez? Has he rewarded your treachery handsomely? I have heard say that he is a very greedy and mean Indian, and so, I suppose, he contented himself with making you promises?"
Don Melchior smiled disdainfully.
"Did you thus privily enter my house only to talk such trash to me?" he asked.
The adventurer rose, drew a revolver, stepped forward, and regarding him with a look of indescribable contempt, shouted, in a voice of thunder—
"No, scoundrel, I have come to blow out your brains if you refuse to reveal to me what you have done with your sister, doña Dolores!"
For some seconds there was a silence, pregnant with menace. The two men were standing face to face. This silence don Melchior de la Cruz was the first to break.
"Ah, ah, ah!" he said, bursting into a hoarse laugh, and sinking again on the border of the hammock, "Was I so wrong in saying to you, my dear sir, that you entered my house for the purpose of assassinating me?"
The adventurer bit his lip savagely, and the unlucky revolver.
"Well, no!" he exclaimed, in a loud voice; "No, I repeat, I will not kill you, for you are not worthy to die by the hand of an honest man; but I will compel you to confess the truth to me."
The young man looked at him with a singular expression. "Try it," he said, with a disdainful shrug of the shoulders.
Then he began carelessly rolling in his fingers a dainty husk cigarette, lit it, and while sending up to the ceiling a puff of blue and perfumed smoke, he said—
"Come, I am waiting for you."
"Good! This is what I propose to you: you are my prisoner, well, I will restore you to liberty if you will deliver doña Dolores, I will not say into my hands, but into those of Count de la Saulay, her cousin, whom she is going to marry immediately."
"Hum! This is serious, my dear sir; please remember that I am my sister's legal guardian."
"How her guardian?"
"Yes, since our father is dead."
"Don Andrés de la Cruz dead?" the adventurer exclaimed, leaping up.
"Alas! Yes," the young man replied, hypocritically raising his eyes to heaven; "we had the grief of losing him the night before last, and he was buried yesterday morning; the poor old gentleman could not resist the frightful misfortunes which have overwhelmed our family. Sorrow crushed him: his end was most affecting."
There was a silence, during which Oliver walked up and down the room. All at once the adventurer stopped in front of the young man.
"Without any further circumlocution," he said to him, "will you, yes or no, restore your sister her liberty?"
"No!" Melchior replied, resolutely.
"Good," the adventurer coldly remarked; "in that case, all the worse for you."
At this moment the door opened, and a tall and elegantly-dressed young man entered the room. At the sight of this young man a cunning smile illumined don Melchior's face.
"Eh!" he said, to himself, "Things may turn out differently from what this dear don Adolfo supposes."
The young man bowed politely, and walked up to the master of the house, with whom he shook hands.
"I am disturbing you?" he said, taking a careless glance at the supposed monk.
"On the contrary, my dear don Diego, you could not arrive more opportunely: but by what chance do I see you at so unusual an hour?"
"I have come to bring you good news: Count de la Saulay, your private enemy, is in our power; but, as he is a Frenchman, and certain considerations must be maintained, the general has decided to send him, under a good escort, to our most illustrious president. Another piece of good news, you are intrusted with the command of this escort."
"¡Demonios!" don Melchior exclaimed, triumphantly, "You are a good friend. But now it is my turn: look carefully at that monk, do you recognize him? Well, this man is no other than the adventurer called don Adolfo, don Olivero, don Jaime, or by a hundred names, who has so long been sought in vain."
"Can it be possible?" don Diego exclaimed.
"It is true," don Adolfo said.
"Within an hour you will be dead—shot like a traitor and bandit!" Melchior exclaimed.
Don Adolfo shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"It is evident," don Diego observed, "that this man will be shot; but the president alone has the right of deciding his fate, as he declares that he is a Frenchman."
"Why all the demons seem to belong to that accursed race!" don Melchior exclaimed, quite disconcerted.
"Well, really I cannot tell you exactly; as regards this man, as he is a daring fellow, and you might be considerably embarrassed by him, I will send him to the president under a separate escort."
"No, no, if you wish to do me a service; let me take him with me; do not be alarmed, I will take such precautions, that, clever as he is, he shall not escape me; still, it will be as well to disarm him."
The adventurer silently handed his weapons to don Diego. At this moment a footman came in, and announced that the escort was waiting in the street.
"Very good," said Melchior, "let us be off."
The servant gave his master a machete, a brace of pistols, and asarape, and buckled on his spurs.
"Now we can start," said don Melchior.
"Come," said don Diego, "señor don Adolfo, or whatever be your name, be kind enough to go first."
The adventurer obeyed without a word. Twenty-five or thirty soldiers attired in a rather fantastic uniform, mostly in rags, and resembling bandits, much more than honest soldiers, were waiting in the street.
These men were all well mounted and armed. In the midst of them were the Count de la Saulay, and his two servants under strict guard; a smile of joy lit up don Melchior's face at the sight of the gentleman; the latter did not deign to appear to notice his presence. A horse was prepared for don Adolfo; at a sign from don Diego he mounted, and placed himself of his own accord by the side of the count, with whom he shook hands. Don Melchior also mounted.
"Now, my friend," said don Diego, "a pleasant journey to you. I am going back to the government house."
"Good bye then," said Melchior, and the escort set out.
It was about two in the afternoon, the greatest heat of the day had passed, the shops were beginning to open again, and the tradesmen standing in the door watched the soldiers pass with a yawn. Don Melchior rode a few yards ahead of his troop; his demeanour was cold and sedate, he made vain efforts to restrain the joy which he experienced on at length having his implacable enemies in his hands. After they had ridden some distance from the town, the lieutenant who commanded the escort, approached don Melchior.
"Our men are fatigued," he said to him, "it is time to think about camping for the night."
"I am willing to do so," the other replied, "provided that the spot is a secure one."
"I know a few paces from here," the lieutenant continued, "a desertedrancho, where we shall be very comfortable."
"Let us go there then."
The lieutenant acted as guide, and the soldiers soon entered a path scarce traced through a very thick wood, and at the end of about three quarters of an hour reached a large clearing, in the middle of which stood the announcedrancho. The officer gave his men orders to dismount. The latter eagerly obeyed; for they seemed anxious to rest after their fatigue.
Leaping from his horse, don Melchior entered therancho, in order to assure himself of the condition it was in. But he had hardly set his foot in the interior, ere he was suddenly seized, rolled in asarape, and bound and gagged, even before he had the time to attempt a useless defense.
At the end of some minutes, he heard a clanking of sabres, and a regular sound of footsteps outside therancho; the soldiers, or at least a portion of them, were going away, without paying any attention to him.
Almost at the same moment he was seized by the feet and shoulders, lifted up, and carried off. After a few rapid steps, it seemed to him as if his bearers were taking him down steps that entered the ground; then, after about ten minutes march, he was softly laid on a bed, composed of furs as he supposed, and left alone. An utter silence prevailed around the prisoner, he was really alone. At length a slight noise became audible, this noise gradually increased, and soon became loud; it resembled the walk of several persons, whose footsteps grated on sand.
This noise suddenly ceased. The young man felt himself lifted up and carried off once more. They carried him for a very considerable distance, and the bearers relieved each other at regular distances.
At length they stopped again; from the fresher and sharper air that smote his face, the prisoner conjectured that he had left the tunnel and was now in the open country. He was laid down on the ground.
"Set the prisoner at liberty," a voice said, whose dry metallic sound struck the young man.
His bonds were at once unfastened, and the gag and the handkerchief that covered his eyes removed.
Don Melchior leaped on his feet and looked around him. The spot where he found himself was the top of a rather lofty hill in the centre of an immense plain. The night was dark, and a little to the right in the distance gleamed like so many stars, the lights of the houses in Puebla. The young man formed the centre of a rather large group, drawn up in a circle round him. These men were masked, each of them held in his right hand a torch of ocote wood, whose flame agitated by the wind, threw a blood red hue over the country, and imparted to it a fantastic appearance. Don Melchior felt a shudder of terror run over his whole body, he understood that he was in the power of that mysterious Masonic association, of which he was himself a member, and which spread over the whole of Mexico, the gloomy ramifications of its formidableventas. The silence was so profound on the hill, all the men so thoroughly resembled statues in their cold immobility, that the young man could hear his own heart beating in his breast.
A man stepped forward.
"Don Melchior de la Cruz," he said, "do you know where you are, and in whose presence?"
"I know it," he replied through his clenched teeth.
"Do you recognize the authority of the men by whom you are surrounded?"
"Yes, because they have the might on their side; any attempt at resistance or protest would be an act of folly on my part."
"No, it is not for that reason that you come under the authority of these men, and you are perfectly aware of the fact; but because you voluntarily connected yourself with them by a compact. In making this compact, you accepted their jurisdiction, and gave them the right to be your judges, if you broke the oaths which you took of your own full accord—"
Don Melchior shrugged his disdainfully.
"Why should I attempt a useless defense?" he said; "for am I not condemned beforehand. Hence execute without further delay, the sentence which you have already tacitly pronounced."
The masked man darted at him a flashing glance through the openings in his mask.
"Don Melchior," he continued in a hard and deeply marked voice, "it is neither as parricide, nor as fratricide, nor as robber, that you appear before this supreme tribunal, I repeat to you, but as a traitor to your country, I call on you to defend yourself."
"And I refuse to do so," he replied in a loud firm voice.
"Very good," the masked man continued coldly; then, planting his torch in the ground, he turned to the spectators. "Brothers," he said, "what punishment has this man deserved?"
"Death!" the masked men answered, in a hollow voice.
Don Melchior was not at all affected.
"You are condemned to death," the man continued who had hitherto spoken. "The sentence will be executed at this spot. You have half an hour to prepare to meet your God."
"In what way shall I die?" the young man asked, carelessly.
"By the rope."
"That death as soon as another," he said, with an ironical smile.
"We do not arrogate the right of killing the soul with the body," the masked man continued; "a priest will hear the confession of your faults."
"Thanks!" the young man said, laconically.
The masked man stood for a second, as if expecting that don Melchior would address another request to him; but seeing that he continued to maintain silence, he took up his torch again, fell back two paces, waved it thrice, and extinguished it beneath his foot. All the other torches were put out at the same moment. A slight rustling of dry leaves and broken branches was heard, and don Melchior found himself alone. Still, the young man did not deceive himself as to this apparent solitude. He understood that his enemies, though invisible, continued to watch him. A man, however well tempered his mind may be, however great his energy, though he has looked death in the face a hundred times, when he is twenty years of age, that is to say, when he finds himself scarcely on the threshold of existence, and the future smiles on him through the intoxicating prism of youth, cannot thus completely forget himself, and, without any transition, pass from life to death, without feeling an utter and sudden enervation of all his intellectual faculties, and suffering a horrible agony and nervous contraction of all his muscles, especially this death which awaits him full of life and youth, is inflicted on him coldly at night, and has an indelible brand of infamy. Hence, spite of all his courage and resolution, don Melchior suffered an awful agony. At the root of every hair, which stood on end with terror, gathered a drop of cold perspiration. His features were frightfully contracted, and a livid and earthy pallor covered his face. At this moment a hand was gently laid on his shoulder. He started as if he had received an electric shock, and sharply raised his head. A monk was standing before him, with his hood pulled down over his face.
"Ah!" he said, rising; "Here is the priest."
"Yes," said the monk in a low, but perfectly distinct voice; "kneel down, my son: I am prepared to receive your confession."
The young man started at the sound of this voice, which he fancied he recognized; and his ardent and scrutinizing glance was fixed on the monk standing motionless before him. The latter knelt down, making him a signal to imitate him. Don Melchior mechanically obeyed. These two men thus kneeling on the desert crest of this hill, faintly lit up by the feeble and flickering light of the lanthorns, which rendered the darkness that surrounded them on all sides more profound, offered a strange and striking spectacle.
"We are watched," said the monk. "Display no agitation; keep your nerves quiet, and listen to me. We have not a moment to lose. Do you recognize me?"
"Yes," don Melchior said, faintly; who, feeling a friend at his side, involuntarily clung to hope, the sentiment which last survives in the human heart: "Yes, you are don Antonio de Cacerbar."
"Dressed in the garb I am now wearing," don Antonio continued; "I was on the point of entering Puebla, when I was suddenly surrounded by masked men, who asked me whether I was in orders? On my affirmative reply—a reply made at all hazards, in order not to destroy an incognito which is my sole safeguard against my enemies, these men carried me off with them, and brought me here. I witnessed your trial while shuddering with terror for myself, if I were recognized by these men, from whom I escaped once before solely by a miracle; but, whatever may happen, I am resolved to share your fate. Have you weapons?"
"No. But of what use are weapons against so large a body of enemies?"
"To fall bravely, instead of being ignominiously hung."
"That is true!" the young man exclaimed.
"Silence, unhappy man!" don Antonio said, sharply. "Take this revolver and this dagger. I have the same for myself."
"All right!" he said, clutching the weapons to his chest; "Now I am no longer afraid of them."
"Good! That is how I wished you to feel. Remember this: the horses are waiting ready saddled down there on the right, at the foot of the hill. If we succeed in reaching them, we are saved."
"Whatever happens, thanks, don Antonio. If Heaven decrees that we shall escape—"
"Promise me nothing," don Antonio said, quickly; "there will be time hereafter to settle our accounts."
The monk gave his penitent absolution. A few minutes elapsed. At length don Melchior rose with a firm and assured countenance, for he was certain of not dying unavenged. The masked men suddenly reappeared, and once more crowned the top of the hill. The one who hitherto had alone spoken, approached the condemned man, by whose side don Antonio had stationed himself, as if to exhort him in his last moments.
"Are you ready?" the stranger asked.
"I am," don Melchior coldly replied.
"Prepare the gallows, and light the torches!" the masked man ordered.
There was a great movement in the crowd, and a momentary disorder. The members were so convinced that flight was impossible, and besides, it was so improbable that the condemned man should attempt to escape his fate, that for two or three minutes they relaxed their watchfulness. Don Melchior and his friend took advantage of this moment of forgetfulness.
"Come!" don Antonio said, hurling to the earth the man nearest him. "Follow me!"
"All right!" don Melchior boldly replied, as he cocked his revolver, and drew his knife.
They rushed head foremost into the midst of the conspirators, striking right and left, and forcing a passage. Like most desperate actions, this one succeeded through its sheer madness. There was a gigantic melée, a frightful struggle for some minutes between the members, who were taken off their guard, and the two men who were resolved to escape, or perish with arms in their hands. Then the furious gallop of horses became audible, and a mocking voice shouting in the distance,—
"Farewell, for the present!"
Don Melchior and don Antonio were galloping at full speed along the Puebla road. All hope of catching them was lost: however, they had left sanguinary traces behind them—ten corpses lay on the ground.
"Stop!" don Adolfo shouted to the men who were running to their horses. "Let them fly. Don Melchior is condemned—his death is certain. But," he added, thoughtfully; "who can that accursed monk be?"
Leo Carral, the majordomo, leaned over to his ear.
"I recognized the monk," he said; "he was don Antonio de Cacerbar."
"Ah!" he said, passionately; "That man again!"
A few minutes later, a cavalcade, composed of about a dozen horsemen, were trotting sharply along the high road to the capital. This party was led by don Jaime, or Oliver, or Adolfo, whichever the reader may please to call him.
Don Melchior de la Cruz resolved to seize at any price the fortune of his father, which his sister's marriage threatened to make him hopelessly lose, had rushed headlong into politics, hoping to find amid the failures which had so long distracted his country, the occasion to satisfy his ambition and insatiable avarice by fishing largely in the troubled waters of revolutions. Endowed with an energetic character and great intelligence, a true political condottiere, passing without hesitation or remorse from one party to another, according to the advantages offered him, ever ready to serve the man who paid him best, he had contrived to render himself master of important secrets which made him feared by all, and gained him a certain degree of credit with the chiefs of parties whom he had served in turn; a well-born spy he had managed to get in everywhere, and join all the fraternities and secret societies, for he possessed in a most eminent degree the talent so envied by the most renowned diplomatists, of naturally feigning the most opposite feelings and opinions. It was thus that he became a member of the mysterious society Union and Strength, by which he was eventually condemned to death, with the predetermined resolution of selling the secrets of this formidable association whenever a favourable opportunity presented itself. Don Antonio de Cacerbar was shortly after made a member of the same association. These two men were made to understand each other at the first word, and they did so. The most intimate friendship ere long united them. When, at the beginning of their connection, don Antonio de Cacerbar, owing to anonymous revelations, was convicted of treachery, condemned by the mysterious association, and obliged to defend his life against one of the members, fell beneath his adversary's sword, and was left for dead on the road, where Dominique found him, as we have previously related. Don Melchior, who had been watching this sanguinary execution from a distance, resolved, were it possible, to save this man who inspired him with such warm sympathy. After the departure of his comrades, he hurried up as soon as he dared with the intention of succouring the wounded man, but did not find him; chance, by bringing Dominique to the spot, had deprived him, to his great regret, of the opportunity he desired for rendering don Antonio his debtor. At a later date, when don Antonio, half cured, escaped from the grotto where he was being nursed, the two men met again; more fortunate this time, don Melchior had rendered his friend important services. The latter, in his turn, had been able on several occasions to let the young man profit by the occult influence which he had at his disposal. The only difference was, that if don Antonio was thoroughly aware of his partner's affairs, of the object he proposed to himself, and the means he intended to employ in attaining it, the same was not the case with don Melchior as regarded don Antonio de Cacerbar, who remained an undecipherable mystery to him. Still the young man, though he had several times tried to make his friend speak, and lead him into confessions which would have given certain prerogatives, but never succeeded, did not for all that resign the hope of discovering one day what the other appeared to have so great an interest in hiding.
The last service which don Antonio had rendered him, by making him so unexpectedly escape from the implacable justice of the members of the Union and Strength society, had rendered don Melchior temporarily, at any rate, dependant on him. Don Antonio seemed to make it to some extent a point of honour not to remind don Melchior of the immense danger from which he had saved him; he continued to serve him as he had hitherto done. The first care of the young man, on returning to Puebla, had been to proceed in all haste to the convent in which he had confined his sister after carrying her off; but, as he had a secret presentiment, he found the bird flown. Don Antonio had said but a few words to him on this subject, but they had a terrible eloquence.
"Only the dead do not escape," he had remarked.
Don Melchior bowed his head, recognizing the correctness of this remark. All the young man's searches in Puebla were vain: no one could or would tell him anything; the mother superior of the convent was dumb.
"Let us go to Mexico; we shall find her there if she be not dead already," don Antonio said to him.
They set out. What means don Antonio employed to discover the retreat of doña Dolores, we are unable to say, but so much is certain, that two days after his arrival in the capital, he was acquainted with the young lady's residence.
Let us leave for a short season these two men, whom we shall meet again but too soon, and describe how doña Dolores had been liberated. The young lady was placed, by don Melchior's orders, in a convent of Carmelite nuns. The mother superior—whom don Melchior succeeded in winning to his interests by a large sum of money he paid her, and the promise of larger sums if she executed his orders zealously and intelligently—did not allow the young lady to receive any visitors but her brother, she was forbidden to write letters, and those that arrived for her were pitilessly intercepted. Dolores thus passed sad and monotonous days in a narrow cell, deprived of all relations with the outer world, and no longer retaining even the hope of being some day restored to liberty; her brother had made known to her his will in this respect; he insisted on her taking the veil. This was the only method don Melchior had found to force his sister to give up her fortune to him, by renouncing the world. Still don Melchior, though he had got himself named his sister's guardian, could not have taken her to a convent without a written order of the governor; but this had been easily obtained, and handed by don Diego Izaguirre—private secretary to his Excellency the Governor—to the mother superior when the young lady was taken to the convent.
At about nine o'clock on the night of the day when don Melchior had been so adroitly carried off by don Adolfo, whom he believed his prisoner, three men wrapped in thick cloaks, and mounted on handsome and powerful Spanish genets, stopped at the gate of the convent, at which they rapped. The lay sister opened a wicket in this gate, exchanged a few words in a low voice with one of the horsemen who had dismounted, and evidently satisfied with the answers she received, she set the gate on the jar to admit this late visitor. The latter threw his horse's bridle to one of his companions; while the latter awaited him outside, he went in, and the gate was closed after him. After passing along several corridors, the porteress opened the abbess' cell, and announced don Diego Izaguirre, private secretary to His Excellency the Governor. Don Diego, after exchanging a few compliments, drew a sealed letter from his dolman, and handed it to the superior, who opened and hastily read it.
"Very good, señor," she answered, "I am ready to obey you."
"Please, madam, carefully do bear in mind the tenour of the order I have communicated to you, and which I am compelled to request back. Everybody, you understand, madam," he said, laying a marked stress on the word, "must be ignorant how doña Dolores has left the convent: this recommendation is of the highest importance."
"I will not forget it, señor."
"You are at liberty to say that she has escaped. Now, madam, be kind enough to warn doña Dolores."
The superior left don Diego in her cell, and went herself to fetch doña Dolores. So soon as he was alone, the young man tore into impalpable fragments the order he had shown the superior, and threw them into thebrasero, when the fire immediately consumed them.
"I am not at all desirous," don Diego said as he watched them burning, "that the governor should perceive one day the perfection with which I imitate his signature, for it might cause him to feel jealous;" and he smiled with an air of mockery.
The superior was not absent more than a quarter of an hour.
"Here is doña Dolores de la Cruz," said the abbess; "I have the honour of delivering her into your hands."
"Very good, madam; I hope soon to prove to you that his Excellency knows how, when the opportunity offers, worthily to reward those persons who obey him without hesitation."
The mother superior bowed humbly, and raised her eyes to Heaven.
"Are you ready, señorita?" don Diego asked the young lady.
"Yes," she answered laconically.
"In that case be kind enough to follow me."
"Go on," she said, wrapping herself in her cloak, and taking no further leave of the abbess. They then left the cell, and guided by the superior, reached the convent gate. By some slight pretext the abbess had had the precaution to remove the porteress. She opened the gate herself, and then, when don Diego and the young lady had passed through, she gave a farewell bow to the secretary, and closed the gate again, as if anxious to be delivered from the alarm that his presence caused her.
"Señorita," don Diego said respectfully, "be kind enough to mount this horse."
"Señor," she said in a sad but firm voice, "I am a poor defenseless orphan: I obey you, because any resistance on my part would be madness; but—"