Chapter Thirty Four.An odd Way of opening a Letter.“Has any of you heard of Dubrosc on the route?” I inquired of my comrades.No; nothing had been heard of him since the escape of Lincoln.“Faix, Captain,” said the Irishman, “it’s meself that thinks Mister Dubrosc won’t throuble any ov us any more. It was a purty lick that same, ayquil to ould Donnybrook itself.”“It is not easy to kill a man with a single blow of a clubbed rifle,” observed Clayley; “unless, indeed, the lock may have struck into his skull. Butweare still living, and I think that is some evidence that the deserter is dead. By the way, how has the fellow obtained such influence as he appeared to have among them, and so soon, too?”“I think, Lieutenant,” replied Raoul, “Monsieur Dubrosc has been here before.”“Ha! say you so?” I inquired, with a feeling of anxiety.“I remember, Captain, some story current at Vera Cruz, about a Creole having married or run away with a girl of good family there. I am almost certain Dubrosc was the name; but it was before my time, and I am unacquainted with the circumstances, I remember, however, that the fellow was a gambler, or something of the sort; and the occurrence made much noise in the country.”I listened with a sickening anxiety to every word of these details. There was a painful correspondence between them and what I already knew. The thought that this monster could be in any way connected withherwas a disagreeable one. I questioned Raoul no further. Even could he have detailed every circumstance, I should have dreaded the relation.Our conversation was interrupted by the creaking of a rusty hinge. The door opened, and several men entered. Our blinds were taken off, and, oh, how pleasant to look upon the light! The door had been closed again, and there was only one small grating, yet the slender beam through this was like the bright noonday sun. Two of the men carried earthen platters filled with frijoles, a single tortilla in each platter. They were placed near our heads, one for each of us.“It’s blissid kind of yez, gentlemen,” said Chane; “but how are we goin’ to ate it, if ye plaze?”“The plague!” exclaimed Clayley; “do they expect us to lick this up without either hands, spoons, or knives?”“Won’t you allow us the use of our fingers?” asked Raoul, speaking to one of the guerilleros.“No,” replied the man gruffly.“How do you expect us to eat, then?”“With your mouths, as brutes should. What else?”“Thank you, sir; you are very polite.”“If you don’t choose that, you can leave it alone,” added the Mexican, going out with his companions, and closing the door behind them.“Thank you, gentlemen!” shouted the Frenchman after them, in a tone of subdued anger. “I won’t please you so much as to leave it alone. By my word!” he continued, “we may be thankful—it’s more than I expected from Yañez—that they’ve given us any. Something’s in the wind.” So saying, the speaker rolled himself on his breast, bringing his head to the dish.“Och! the mane haythins!” cried Chane, following the example set by his comrade; “to make dacent men ate like brute bastes! Och! murder an’ ouns!”“Come, Captain; shall we feed?” asked Clayley.“Go on. Do not wait for me,” I replied.Now was my time to read the note. I rolled myself under the grating, and, after several efforts, succeeded in gaining my feet. The window, which was not much larger than a pigeon-hole, widened inwards like the embrasure of a gun-battery. The lower slab was just the height of my chin; and upon this, after a good deal of dodging and lip-jugglery, I succeeded in spreading out the paper to its full extent.“What on earth are you at, Captain?” inquired Cayley, who had watched my manoeuvres with some astonishment.Raoul and the Irishman stopped their plate-licking and looked up.“Hush! go on with your dinners—not a word!” I read as follows:To-night your cords shall be cut, and you must escape as you best can afterwards. Do not take the road back, as you will be certain to be pursued in that direction; moreover, you run the risk of meeting other parties of the guerilla. Make for the National Road at San Juan or Manga de Clavo. Your posts are already advanced beyond these points. The Frenchman can easily guide you. Courage, Captain! Adieu!P.S.—They waited for you. I had sent one to warn you; but he has either proved traitor or missed the road. Adieu! adieu!“Good heavens!” I involuntarily exclaimed; “the man that Lincoln—.”I caught the paper into my lips again, and chewed it into a pulp, to avoid the danger of its falling into the hands of the guerilla.I remained turning over its contents in my mind. I was struck with the masterly style—the worldly cunning exhibited by the writer. There was something almostunfeminineabout it. I could not help being surprised that one so young, and hitherto so secluded from the world, should possess such a knowledge of men and things. I was already aware of the presence of a powerful intellect, but one, as I thought, altogether unacquainted with practical life and action. Then there was the peculiarity of her situation.Is she a prisoner like myself? or is she disguised, and perilling her life to save mine? or can she be—Patience! To-night may unravel the mystery.
“Has any of you heard of Dubrosc on the route?” I inquired of my comrades.
No; nothing had been heard of him since the escape of Lincoln.
“Faix, Captain,” said the Irishman, “it’s meself that thinks Mister Dubrosc won’t throuble any ov us any more. It was a purty lick that same, ayquil to ould Donnybrook itself.”
“It is not easy to kill a man with a single blow of a clubbed rifle,” observed Clayley; “unless, indeed, the lock may have struck into his skull. Butweare still living, and I think that is some evidence that the deserter is dead. By the way, how has the fellow obtained such influence as he appeared to have among them, and so soon, too?”
“I think, Lieutenant,” replied Raoul, “Monsieur Dubrosc has been here before.”
“Ha! say you so?” I inquired, with a feeling of anxiety.
“I remember, Captain, some story current at Vera Cruz, about a Creole having married or run away with a girl of good family there. I am almost certain Dubrosc was the name; but it was before my time, and I am unacquainted with the circumstances, I remember, however, that the fellow was a gambler, or something of the sort; and the occurrence made much noise in the country.”
I listened with a sickening anxiety to every word of these details. There was a painful correspondence between them and what I already knew. The thought that this monster could be in any way connected withherwas a disagreeable one. I questioned Raoul no further. Even could he have detailed every circumstance, I should have dreaded the relation.
Our conversation was interrupted by the creaking of a rusty hinge. The door opened, and several men entered. Our blinds were taken off, and, oh, how pleasant to look upon the light! The door had been closed again, and there was only one small grating, yet the slender beam through this was like the bright noonday sun. Two of the men carried earthen platters filled with frijoles, a single tortilla in each platter. They were placed near our heads, one for each of us.
“It’s blissid kind of yez, gentlemen,” said Chane; “but how are we goin’ to ate it, if ye plaze?”
“The plague!” exclaimed Clayley; “do they expect us to lick this up without either hands, spoons, or knives?”
“Won’t you allow us the use of our fingers?” asked Raoul, speaking to one of the guerilleros.
“No,” replied the man gruffly.
“How do you expect us to eat, then?”
“With your mouths, as brutes should. What else?”
“Thank you, sir; you are very polite.”
“If you don’t choose that, you can leave it alone,” added the Mexican, going out with his companions, and closing the door behind them.
“Thank you, gentlemen!” shouted the Frenchman after them, in a tone of subdued anger. “I won’t please you so much as to leave it alone. By my word!” he continued, “we may be thankful—it’s more than I expected from Yañez—that they’ve given us any. Something’s in the wind.” So saying, the speaker rolled himself on his breast, bringing his head to the dish.
“Och! the mane haythins!” cried Chane, following the example set by his comrade; “to make dacent men ate like brute bastes! Och! murder an’ ouns!”
“Come, Captain; shall we feed?” asked Clayley.
“Go on. Do not wait for me,” I replied.
Now was my time to read the note. I rolled myself under the grating, and, after several efforts, succeeded in gaining my feet. The window, which was not much larger than a pigeon-hole, widened inwards like the embrasure of a gun-battery. The lower slab was just the height of my chin; and upon this, after a good deal of dodging and lip-jugglery, I succeeded in spreading out the paper to its full extent.
“What on earth are you at, Captain?” inquired Cayley, who had watched my manoeuvres with some astonishment.
Raoul and the Irishman stopped their plate-licking and looked up.
“Hush! go on with your dinners—not a word!” I read as follows:
To-night your cords shall be cut, and you must escape as you best can afterwards. Do not take the road back, as you will be certain to be pursued in that direction; moreover, you run the risk of meeting other parties of the guerilla. Make for the National Road at San Juan or Manga de Clavo. Your posts are already advanced beyond these points. The Frenchman can easily guide you. Courage, Captain! Adieu!P.S.—They waited for you. I had sent one to warn you; but he has either proved traitor or missed the road. Adieu! adieu!
To-night your cords shall be cut, and you must escape as you best can afterwards. Do not take the road back, as you will be certain to be pursued in that direction; moreover, you run the risk of meeting other parties of the guerilla. Make for the National Road at San Juan or Manga de Clavo. Your posts are already advanced beyond these points. The Frenchman can easily guide you. Courage, Captain! Adieu!
P.S.—They waited for you. I had sent one to warn you; but he has either proved traitor or missed the road. Adieu! adieu!
“Good heavens!” I involuntarily exclaimed; “the man that Lincoln—.”
I caught the paper into my lips again, and chewed it into a pulp, to avoid the danger of its falling into the hands of the guerilla.
I remained turning over its contents in my mind. I was struck with the masterly style—the worldly cunning exhibited by the writer. There was something almostunfeminineabout it. I could not help being surprised that one so young, and hitherto so secluded from the world, should possess such a knowledge of men and things. I was already aware of the presence of a powerful intellect, but one, as I thought, altogether unacquainted with practical life and action. Then there was the peculiarity of her situation.
Is she a prisoner like myself? or is she disguised, and perilling her life to save mine? or can she be—Patience! To-night may unravel the mystery.
Chapter Thirty Five.The Cobra-di-Capello.Up to this moment my intention had been engrossed with the contents of the note, and I had no thought of looking outward. I raised myself on tiptoe, stretching my neck as far as I could into the embrasure.A golden sunlight was pouring down upon broad, green leaves, where the palms grew wildly. Red vines hung in festoons, like curtains of scarlet satin. There were bands of purple and violet—the maroon-coloured morus, and the snowy flowers of the magnolia—a glittering opal. Orange-trees, with white, wax-like flowers, were bending under their golden globes. The broad plumes of the corozo palm curved gracefully over, their points trailing downwards, and without motion.A clump of these grew near, their naked stems laced by a parasite of the lliana species, which rose from the earth, and, traversing diagonally, was lost in the feathery frondage above. These formed a canopy, underneath which, from tree to tree, three hammocks were extended. One was empty; the other two were occupied. The elliptical outlines, traceable through the gauzy network of Indian grass, proved that the occupants were females.Their faces were turned from me. They lay motionless: they were asleep.As I stood gazing upon this picture, the occupant of the nearest hammock awoke, and turning, with a low murmur upon her lips, again fell asleep. Her face was now towards me. My heart leaped, and my whole frame quivered with emotion. I recognised the features of Guadalupe Rosales.One limb, cased in silk, had fallen over the selvage of her pendent couch, and hung negligently down. The small satin slipper had dropped off, and was lying on the ground. Her head rested upon a silken pillow, and a band of her long black hair, that had escaped from the comb, straggling over the cords of the hammock, trailed along the grass. Her bosom rose with a gentle heaving above the network as she breathed and slept.My heart was full of mixed emotions—surprise, pleasure, love, pain. Yes, pain; for she could thus sleep—sleep sweetly, tranquilly—while I, within a few paces of her couch, was bound and brutally treated!“Yes, she can sleep!” I muttered to myself, as my chagrin predominated in the tumult of emotions. “Ha! heavens!”My attention was attracted from the sleeper to a fearful object. I had noticed a spiral-like appearance upon the lliana. It had caught my eye once or twice while looking at the sleeper; but I had not dwelt upon it, taking it for one vine twined round another—a peculiarity often met with in the forests of Mexico.A bright sparkle now attracted my eye; and, on looking at the object attentively, I discovered, to my horror, that the spiral protuberance upon the vine was nothing else than the folds of a snake! Squeezing himself silently down the parasite—for he had come from above—the reptile slowly uncoiled two or three of the lowermost rings, and stretched his glistening neck horizontally over the hammock. Now, for the first time, I perceived the horned protuberance on his head, and recognised the dreaded reptile—themacaurel(thecobraof America).In this position he remained for some moments, perfectly motionless, his neck proudly curved like that of a swan, while his head was not twelve inches from the face of the sleeper. I fancied that I could see the soft down upon her lip playing under his breath!He now commenced slowly vibrating from side to side, while a low, hissing sound proceeded from his open jaws. His horns projected out, adding to the hideousness of his appearance; and at intervals his forked tongue shot forth, glancing in the sun like a purple diamond.He appeared to be gloating over his victim, in the act of charming her to death. I even fancied that her lips moved, and her head began to stir backward and forward, following the oscillations of the reptile.All this I witnessed without the power to move. My soul as well as my body was chained; but, even had I been free, I could have offered no help. I knew that the only hope of her safety lay in silence. Unless disturbed and angered, the snake might not bite; but was he not at that moment distilling some secret venom upon her lips?“Oh, Heaven!” I gasped out, in the intensity of my fears, “is this the fiend himself? She moves!—now he will strike! Not yet—she is still again. Now—now!—mercy! she trembles!—the hammock shakes—she is quivering under the fascin— Ha!”A shot rang from the walls—the snake suddenly jerked back his head—his rings flew out, and he fell to the earth, writhing as if in pain!The girls started with a scream, and sprang simultaneously from their hammocks.Grasping each other by the hand, with terrified looks they rushed from the spot and disappeared.Several men ran up, ending the snake with their sabres. One of them stooped, and examining the carcase of the dead reptile, exclaimed:“Carai! there is a hole in his head—he has been shot!”A moment after, half a dozen of the guerilleros burst open the door and rushed in, crying out as they entered:“Quien tira?” (Who fired?)“What do you mean?” angrily asked Raoul, who had been in ill-humour ever since the guerillero had refused him a draught of water.“I ask you who fired the shot?” repeated the man.“Fired the shot!” echoed Raoul, knowing nothing of what had occurred outside. “We look like firing a shot, don’t we? If I possessed that power, my gay friend, the first use I should make of it would be to send a bullet through that clumsy skull of yours.”“Santissima!” ejaculated the Mexican, with a look of astonishment. “It could not be these—they are all tied!”And the Mexicans passed out again, leaving us to our reflections.
Up to this moment my intention had been engrossed with the contents of the note, and I had no thought of looking outward. I raised myself on tiptoe, stretching my neck as far as I could into the embrasure.
A golden sunlight was pouring down upon broad, green leaves, where the palms grew wildly. Red vines hung in festoons, like curtains of scarlet satin. There were bands of purple and violet—the maroon-coloured morus, and the snowy flowers of the magnolia—a glittering opal. Orange-trees, with white, wax-like flowers, were bending under their golden globes. The broad plumes of the corozo palm curved gracefully over, their points trailing downwards, and without motion.
A clump of these grew near, their naked stems laced by a parasite of the lliana species, which rose from the earth, and, traversing diagonally, was lost in the feathery frondage above. These formed a canopy, underneath which, from tree to tree, three hammocks were extended. One was empty; the other two were occupied. The elliptical outlines, traceable through the gauzy network of Indian grass, proved that the occupants were females.
Their faces were turned from me. They lay motionless: they were asleep.
As I stood gazing upon this picture, the occupant of the nearest hammock awoke, and turning, with a low murmur upon her lips, again fell asleep. Her face was now towards me. My heart leaped, and my whole frame quivered with emotion. I recognised the features of Guadalupe Rosales.
One limb, cased in silk, had fallen over the selvage of her pendent couch, and hung negligently down. The small satin slipper had dropped off, and was lying on the ground. Her head rested upon a silken pillow, and a band of her long black hair, that had escaped from the comb, straggling over the cords of the hammock, trailed along the grass. Her bosom rose with a gentle heaving above the network as she breathed and slept.
My heart was full of mixed emotions—surprise, pleasure, love, pain. Yes, pain; for she could thus sleep—sleep sweetly, tranquilly—while I, within a few paces of her couch, was bound and brutally treated!
“Yes, she can sleep!” I muttered to myself, as my chagrin predominated in the tumult of emotions. “Ha! heavens!”
My attention was attracted from the sleeper to a fearful object. I had noticed a spiral-like appearance upon the lliana. It had caught my eye once or twice while looking at the sleeper; but I had not dwelt upon it, taking it for one vine twined round another—a peculiarity often met with in the forests of Mexico.
A bright sparkle now attracted my eye; and, on looking at the object attentively, I discovered, to my horror, that the spiral protuberance upon the vine was nothing else than the folds of a snake! Squeezing himself silently down the parasite—for he had come from above—the reptile slowly uncoiled two or three of the lowermost rings, and stretched his glistening neck horizontally over the hammock. Now, for the first time, I perceived the horned protuberance on his head, and recognised the dreaded reptile—themacaurel(thecobraof America).
In this position he remained for some moments, perfectly motionless, his neck proudly curved like that of a swan, while his head was not twelve inches from the face of the sleeper. I fancied that I could see the soft down upon her lip playing under his breath!
He now commenced slowly vibrating from side to side, while a low, hissing sound proceeded from his open jaws. His horns projected out, adding to the hideousness of his appearance; and at intervals his forked tongue shot forth, glancing in the sun like a purple diamond.
He appeared to be gloating over his victim, in the act of charming her to death. I even fancied that her lips moved, and her head began to stir backward and forward, following the oscillations of the reptile.
All this I witnessed without the power to move. My soul as well as my body was chained; but, even had I been free, I could have offered no help. I knew that the only hope of her safety lay in silence. Unless disturbed and angered, the snake might not bite; but was he not at that moment distilling some secret venom upon her lips?
“Oh, Heaven!” I gasped out, in the intensity of my fears, “is this the fiend himself? She moves!—now he will strike! Not yet—she is still again. Now—now!—mercy! she trembles!—the hammock shakes—she is quivering under the fascin— Ha!”
A shot rang from the walls—the snake suddenly jerked back his head—his rings flew out, and he fell to the earth, writhing as if in pain!
The girls started with a scream, and sprang simultaneously from their hammocks.
Grasping each other by the hand, with terrified looks they rushed from the spot and disappeared.
Several men ran up, ending the snake with their sabres. One of them stooped, and examining the carcase of the dead reptile, exclaimed:
“Carai! there is a hole in his head—he has been shot!”
A moment after, half a dozen of the guerilleros burst open the door and rushed in, crying out as they entered:
“Quien tira?” (Who fired?)
“What do you mean?” angrily asked Raoul, who had been in ill-humour ever since the guerillero had refused him a draught of water.
“I ask you who fired the shot?” repeated the man.
“Fired the shot!” echoed Raoul, knowing nothing of what had occurred outside. “We look like firing a shot, don’t we? If I possessed that power, my gay friend, the first use I should make of it would be to send a bullet through that clumsy skull of yours.”
“Santissima!” ejaculated the Mexican, with a look of astonishment. “It could not be these—they are all tied!”
And the Mexicans passed out again, leaving us to our reflections.
Chapter Thirty Six.The Head-Quarters of the Guerilla.Mine were anything but agreeable. I was pained and puzzled. I was pained to think thatshe—dearer to me than life—was thus exposed to the dangers that surrounded us. It was her sister that had occupied the other hammock.“Are they alone? Are they prisoners in the hands of these half-robbers? May not their hospitality to us have brought them under proscription? And are they not being carried—father, mother, and all—before some tribunal? Or are they travelling for protection with this band—protection against the less scrupulous robbers that infest the country?”It was not uncommon upon the Rio Grande, when rich families journeyed from point to point, to pay for an escort of this sort. This may elucidate—.“But I tell yez I did hear a crack; and, be my sowl! it was the sargint’s rifle, or I’ve lost me sinses intirely.”“What is it?” I asked, attracted to the conversation of my comrades.“Chane says he heard a shot, and thinks it was Lincoln’s,” answered Clayley.“His gun has a quare sound, Captain,” said the Irishman, appealing to me. “It’s diffirint intirely from a Mexican piece, and not like our own nayther. It’s a way he has in loadin’ it.”“Well—what of that?”“Why, Raowl says one of them axed him who fired. Now, I heerd a shot, for my ear was close till the door here. It was beyant like; but I cud swear upon the blissed crass it was ayther the sargint’s rifle or another as like it as two pays.”“It is very strange!” I muttered, half in soliloquy, for the same thought had occurred to myself.“I saw the boy, Captain,” said Raoul; “I saw him crossing when they opened the door.”“The boy!—what boy?” I asked.“The same we brought out of the town.”“Ha! Narcisso!—you saw him?”“Yes; and, if I’m not mistaken, the white mule that the old gentleman rode to camp. I think that the family is with the guerilla, and that accounts for our being still alive.”A new light flashed upon me. In the incidents of the last twenty hours I had never once thought of Narcisso. Now all was clear—clear as daylight. The zambo whom Lincoln had killed—poor victim!—was our friend, sent to warn us of danger; the dagger, Narcisso’s—a token for us to trust him. The soft voice—the small hand thrust under the tapojo—yes, all were Narcisso’s!A web of mystery was torn to shreds in a single moment. The truth did not yield gratification. No—but the contrary. I was chagrined at the indifference exhibited in another quarter.“She must know that I am here, since her brother is master of the fact—here, bleeding and bound. Yet where is her sympathy? She sleeps! She journeys within a few paces of me, where I am tied painfully; yet not a word of consolation. No! She is riding upon her soft cushion, or carried upon alitera, escorted, perhaps, by this accomplished villain, who plays the gallant cavalier upon my own barb! They converse together, perhaps of the poor captives in their train, and with jest and ridicule—he at least; andshecan hear it, and then fling herself into her soft hammock and sleep—sleep sweetly—calmly?”These bitter reflections were interrupted. The door creaked once more upon its hinges. Half a dozen of our captors entered. Our blinds were put on, and we were carried out and mounted as before.In a few minutes a bugle rang out, and the route was resumed.We were carried up the stream bottom—a kind of glen, orCañada. We could feel by the cool shade and the echoes that we were travelling under heavy timber. The torrent roared in our ears, and the sound was not unpleasant. Twice or thrice we forded the stream, and sometimes left it, returning after having travelled a mile or so. This was to avoid thecañons, where there is no path by the water. We then ascended a long hill, and after reaching its summit commenced going downwards.“I know this road well,” said Raoul. “We are going down to the hacienda of Cenobio.”“Pardieu!” he continued. “I ought to know this hill!”“For what reason?”“First, Captain, because I have carried many abultoof cochineal and many a bale of smuggled tobacco over it; ay, and upon nights when my eyes were of as little service to me as they are at present.”“I thought that youcontrabandistashardly needed the precaution of dark nights?”“True, at times; but there were other times when the Government became lynx-eyed, and then smuggling was no joke. We had some sharp skirmishing.Sacre! I have good cause to remember this very hill. I came near making a jump into purgatory from the other side of it.”“Ha! how was that?”“Cenobio had got a large lot of cochineal from a crafty trader at Oaxaca. It wascachédabout two leagues from the hacienda in the hills, and a vessel was to drop into the mouth of the Medellin to take it on board.“A party of us were engaged to carry it across to the coast; and, as the cargo was very valuable, we were all of us armed to the teeth, with orders from thepatroneto defend it at all hazards. His men were just the fellows who would obey that order, coming, as it did, from Cenobio.“The Government somehow or other got wind of the affair, and slipped a strong detachment out of Vera Cruz in time to intercept us. We met them on the other side of this very hill, where a road strikes off towards Medellin.”“Well! and what followed?”“Why, the battle lasted nearly an hour; and, after having lost half a score of their best men, the valiant lancers rode back to Vera Cruz quicker than they came out of it.”“And the smugglers?”“Carried the goods safe on board. Three of them—poor fellows!—are lying not far off, and I came near sharing their luck. I have a lance-hole through my thigh, here, that pains me at this very moment.”My ear at this moment caught the sound of dogs barking hoarsely below. Horses of the cavalcade commenced neighing, answered by others from the adjacent fields, who recognised their old companions.“It must be near night,” I remarked to Raoul.“I think, about sunset, Captain,” rejoined he. “Itfeelsabout that time.”I could not help smiling. There was something ludicrous in my comrade’s remark about “feeling” the sunset.The barking of the dogs now ceased, and we could hear voices ahead welcoming the guerilleros.The hoofs of our mules struck upon a hard pavement, and the sounds echoed as if under an arched way.Our animals were presently halted, and we were unpacked and flung rudely down upon rough stones, like so many bundles of merchandise.We lay for some minutes listening to the strange voices around. The neighing of horses, the barking and growling of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the shouts of the arrieros unpacking their mules, the clanking of sabres along the stone pavement, the tinkling of spurs, the laughter of men, and the voices of women—all were in our ears at once.Two men approached us, conversing.“They are of the party that escaped us at La Virgen. Two of them are officers.”“Chingaro! I got this at La Virgen, and a full half-mile off. ’Twas some black jugglery in their bullets. I hope thepatronewill hang the Yankee savages.”“Quien sabe?” (Who knows?) replied the first speaker. “Pinzon has been taken this morning at Puenta Moreno, with several others. They had a fandango with the Yankee dragoons. You know what the old man thinks of Pinzon. He’d sooner part with his wife.”“You think he will exchange them, then?”“It is not unlikely.”“And yet he wouldn’t trouble much if you or I had been taken. No—no; he’d let us be hanged like dogs!”“Well; that’s always the way, you know.”“I begin to get tired of him. By the Virgin! José, I’ve half a mind to slip off and join the Padré.”“Jarauta?”“Yes; he’s by the Bridge, with a brave set of Jarochos—some of our old comrades upon the Rio Grande among them. They are living at free quarters along the road, and having gay times of it, I hear. If Jarauta had taken these Yankees yesterday, the zopiloté would have made his dinner upon them to-day.”“That’s true,” rejoined the other; “but come—let us un-blind the devils and give them their beans. It may be the last they’ll ever eat.”With this consoling remark, José commenced unbuckling ourtapojos, and we once more looked upon the light. The brilliance at first dazzled us painfully, and it was some minutes before we could look steadily at the objects around us.We had been thrown upon the pavement in the corner of thepatio—a large court, surrounded by massive walls and flat-roofed houses.These buildings were low, single-storied, except the range in front, which contained the principal dwellings. The remaining three sides were occupied by stables, granaries, and quarters for the guerilleros and servants. A portale extended along the front range, and large vases, with shrubs and flowers, ornamented the balustrade. The portale was screened from the sun by curtains of bright-coloured cloth. These were partially drawn, and objects of elegant furniture appeared within.Near the centre of the patio was a large fountain, boiling up into a reservoir of hewn mason-work; and around this fountain were clumps of orange-trees, their leaves in some places dropping down into the water. Various arms hung or leaned against the walls—guns, pistols, and sabres—and two small pieces of cannon, with their caissons and carriages, stood in a prominent position. In these we recognised our old acquaintances of La Virgen.A long trough stretched across the patio, and out of this a double row of mules and mustangs were greedily eating maize. The saddle-tracks upon their steaming sides showed them to be the companions of our late wearisome journey.Huge dogs lay basking upon the hot stones, growling at intervals as someone galloped in through the great doorway. Their broad jaws and tawny hides bespoke the Spanish bloodhound—the descendants of that race with which Cortez had harried the conquered Aztecs.The guerilleros were seated or standing in groups around the fires, broiling jerked beef upon the points of their sabres. Some mended their saddles, or were wiping out an old carbine or a clumsy escopette. Some strutted around the yard, swinging their bright mangas, or trailing after them the picturesque serape. Women in rebozos and coloured skirts walked to and fro among the men.The women carried jars filled with water. They knelt before smooth stones, and kneaded tortillas. They stirred chilé and chocolate in earthen ollas. They cooked frijoles in flat pans; and amidst all these occupations they joked and laughed and chatted with the men.Several men—officers, from their style of dress—came out of the portale, and, after delivering orders to the guerilleros on guard, returned to the house.Packages of what appeared to be merchandise lay in one corner of the court. Around this were groups of arrieros, in their red leathern garments, securing their charge for the night, and laying out theiralparejasin long rows by the wall.Over the opposite roofs—for our position was elevated—we could see the bright fields and forest, and far beyond, the Cofre de Perote and the undulating outlines of the Andes. Above all, the white-robed peak of Orizava rose up against the heavens like a pyramid of spotless snow.The sun had gone down behind the mountains, but his rays still rested upon Orizava, bathing its cone with a yellow light, like a mantle of burnished gold. Clouds of red and white and purple hung like a glory upon his track, and, descending, rested upon the lower summits of the Cordillera. The peak of the “Burning Star” alone appeared above the clouds, towering in sublime and solitary grandeur.There was a picturesque loveliness about the scene—an idea of sublimity—that caused me for the moment to forget where I was or that I was a captive. My dream was dispelled by the harsh voice of José, who at that moment came up with a couple of peons, carrying a large earthen dish that contained our supper.This consisted of black beans, with half a dozen tortillas; but as we were all half-famished we did not offer any criticism on the quality of the viands. The dish was placed in our midst, and our arms were untied for the first time since our capture. There were neither knives, forks, nor spoons; but Raoul showed us the Mexican fashion of “eating our spoons”, and, twisting up the tortillas, we scooped and swallowed “right ahead.”
Mine were anything but agreeable. I was pained and puzzled. I was pained to think thatshe—dearer to me than life—was thus exposed to the dangers that surrounded us. It was her sister that had occupied the other hammock.
“Are they alone? Are they prisoners in the hands of these half-robbers? May not their hospitality to us have brought them under proscription? And are they not being carried—father, mother, and all—before some tribunal? Or are they travelling for protection with this band—protection against the less scrupulous robbers that infest the country?”
It was not uncommon upon the Rio Grande, when rich families journeyed from point to point, to pay for an escort of this sort. This may elucidate—.
“But I tell yez I did hear a crack; and, be my sowl! it was the sargint’s rifle, or I’ve lost me sinses intirely.”
“What is it?” I asked, attracted to the conversation of my comrades.
“Chane says he heard a shot, and thinks it was Lincoln’s,” answered Clayley.
“His gun has a quare sound, Captain,” said the Irishman, appealing to me. “It’s diffirint intirely from a Mexican piece, and not like our own nayther. It’s a way he has in loadin’ it.”
“Well—what of that?”
“Why, Raowl says one of them axed him who fired. Now, I heerd a shot, for my ear was close till the door here. It was beyant like; but I cud swear upon the blissed crass it was ayther the sargint’s rifle or another as like it as two pays.”
“It is very strange!” I muttered, half in soliloquy, for the same thought had occurred to myself.
“I saw the boy, Captain,” said Raoul; “I saw him crossing when they opened the door.”
“The boy!—what boy?” I asked.
“The same we brought out of the town.”
“Ha! Narcisso!—you saw him?”
“Yes; and, if I’m not mistaken, the white mule that the old gentleman rode to camp. I think that the family is with the guerilla, and that accounts for our being still alive.”
A new light flashed upon me. In the incidents of the last twenty hours I had never once thought of Narcisso. Now all was clear—clear as daylight. The zambo whom Lincoln had killed—poor victim!—was our friend, sent to warn us of danger; the dagger, Narcisso’s—a token for us to trust him. The soft voice—the small hand thrust under the tapojo—yes, all were Narcisso’s!
A web of mystery was torn to shreds in a single moment. The truth did not yield gratification. No—but the contrary. I was chagrined at the indifference exhibited in another quarter.
“She must know that I am here, since her brother is master of the fact—here, bleeding and bound. Yet where is her sympathy? She sleeps! She journeys within a few paces of me, where I am tied painfully; yet not a word of consolation. No! She is riding upon her soft cushion, or carried upon alitera, escorted, perhaps, by this accomplished villain, who plays the gallant cavalier upon my own barb! They converse together, perhaps of the poor captives in their train, and with jest and ridicule—he at least; andshecan hear it, and then fling herself into her soft hammock and sleep—sleep sweetly—calmly?”
These bitter reflections were interrupted. The door creaked once more upon its hinges. Half a dozen of our captors entered. Our blinds were put on, and we were carried out and mounted as before.
In a few minutes a bugle rang out, and the route was resumed.
We were carried up the stream bottom—a kind of glen, orCañada. We could feel by the cool shade and the echoes that we were travelling under heavy timber. The torrent roared in our ears, and the sound was not unpleasant. Twice or thrice we forded the stream, and sometimes left it, returning after having travelled a mile or so. This was to avoid thecañons, where there is no path by the water. We then ascended a long hill, and after reaching its summit commenced going downwards.
“I know this road well,” said Raoul. “We are going down to the hacienda of Cenobio.”
“Pardieu!” he continued. “I ought to know this hill!”
“For what reason?”
“First, Captain, because I have carried many abultoof cochineal and many a bale of smuggled tobacco over it; ay, and upon nights when my eyes were of as little service to me as they are at present.”
“I thought that youcontrabandistashardly needed the precaution of dark nights?”
“True, at times; but there were other times when the Government became lynx-eyed, and then smuggling was no joke. We had some sharp skirmishing.Sacre! I have good cause to remember this very hill. I came near making a jump into purgatory from the other side of it.”
“Ha! how was that?”
“Cenobio had got a large lot of cochineal from a crafty trader at Oaxaca. It wascachédabout two leagues from the hacienda in the hills, and a vessel was to drop into the mouth of the Medellin to take it on board.
“A party of us were engaged to carry it across to the coast; and, as the cargo was very valuable, we were all of us armed to the teeth, with orders from thepatroneto defend it at all hazards. His men were just the fellows who would obey that order, coming, as it did, from Cenobio.
“The Government somehow or other got wind of the affair, and slipped a strong detachment out of Vera Cruz in time to intercept us. We met them on the other side of this very hill, where a road strikes off towards Medellin.”
“Well! and what followed?”
“Why, the battle lasted nearly an hour; and, after having lost half a score of their best men, the valiant lancers rode back to Vera Cruz quicker than they came out of it.”
“And the smugglers?”
“Carried the goods safe on board. Three of them—poor fellows!—are lying not far off, and I came near sharing their luck. I have a lance-hole through my thigh, here, that pains me at this very moment.”
My ear at this moment caught the sound of dogs barking hoarsely below. Horses of the cavalcade commenced neighing, answered by others from the adjacent fields, who recognised their old companions.
“It must be near night,” I remarked to Raoul.
“I think, about sunset, Captain,” rejoined he. “Itfeelsabout that time.”
I could not help smiling. There was something ludicrous in my comrade’s remark about “feeling” the sunset.
The barking of the dogs now ceased, and we could hear voices ahead welcoming the guerilleros.
The hoofs of our mules struck upon a hard pavement, and the sounds echoed as if under an arched way.
Our animals were presently halted, and we were unpacked and flung rudely down upon rough stones, like so many bundles of merchandise.
We lay for some minutes listening to the strange voices around. The neighing of horses, the barking and growling of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the shouts of the arrieros unpacking their mules, the clanking of sabres along the stone pavement, the tinkling of spurs, the laughter of men, and the voices of women—all were in our ears at once.
Two men approached us, conversing.
“They are of the party that escaped us at La Virgen. Two of them are officers.”
“Chingaro! I got this at La Virgen, and a full half-mile off. ’Twas some black jugglery in their bullets. I hope thepatronewill hang the Yankee savages.”
“Quien sabe?” (Who knows?) replied the first speaker. “Pinzon has been taken this morning at Puenta Moreno, with several others. They had a fandango with the Yankee dragoons. You know what the old man thinks of Pinzon. He’d sooner part with his wife.”
“You think he will exchange them, then?”
“It is not unlikely.”
“And yet he wouldn’t trouble much if you or I had been taken. No—no; he’d let us be hanged like dogs!”
“Well; that’s always the way, you know.”
“I begin to get tired of him. By the Virgin! José, I’ve half a mind to slip off and join the Padré.”
“Jarauta?”
“Yes; he’s by the Bridge, with a brave set of Jarochos—some of our old comrades upon the Rio Grande among them. They are living at free quarters along the road, and having gay times of it, I hear. If Jarauta had taken these Yankees yesterday, the zopiloté would have made his dinner upon them to-day.”
“That’s true,” rejoined the other; “but come—let us un-blind the devils and give them their beans. It may be the last they’ll ever eat.”
With this consoling remark, José commenced unbuckling ourtapojos, and we once more looked upon the light. The brilliance at first dazzled us painfully, and it was some minutes before we could look steadily at the objects around us.
We had been thrown upon the pavement in the corner of thepatio—a large court, surrounded by massive walls and flat-roofed houses.
These buildings were low, single-storied, except the range in front, which contained the principal dwellings. The remaining three sides were occupied by stables, granaries, and quarters for the guerilleros and servants. A portale extended along the front range, and large vases, with shrubs and flowers, ornamented the balustrade. The portale was screened from the sun by curtains of bright-coloured cloth. These were partially drawn, and objects of elegant furniture appeared within.
Near the centre of the patio was a large fountain, boiling up into a reservoir of hewn mason-work; and around this fountain were clumps of orange-trees, their leaves in some places dropping down into the water. Various arms hung or leaned against the walls—guns, pistols, and sabres—and two small pieces of cannon, with their caissons and carriages, stood in a prominent position. In these we recognised our old acquaintances of La Virgen.
A long trough stretched across the patio, and out of this a double row of mules and mustangs were greedily eating maize. The saddle-tracks upon their steaming sides showed them to be the companions of our late wearisome journey.
Huge dogs lay basking upon the hot stones, growling at intervals as someone galloped in through the great doorway. Their broad jaws and tawny hides bespoke the Spanish bloodhound—the descendants of that race with which Cortez had harried the conquered Aztecs.
The guerilleros were seated or standing in groups around the fires, broiling jerked beef upon the points of their sabres. Some mended their saddles, or were wiping out an old carbine or a clumsy escopette. Some strutted around the yard, swinging their bright mangas, or trailing after them the picturesque serape. Women in rebozos and coloured skirts walked to and fro among the men.
The women carried jars filled with water. They knelt before smooth stones, and kneaded tortillas. They stirred chilé and chocolate in earthen ollas. They cooked frijoles in flat pans; and amidst all these occupations they joked and laughed and chatted with the men.
Several men—officers, from their style of dress—came out of the portale, and, after delivering orders to the guerilleros on guard, returned to the house.
Packages of what appeared to be merchandise lay in one corner of the court. Around this were groups of arrieros, in their red leathern garments, securing their charge for the night, and laying out theiralparejasin long rows by the wall.
Over the opposite roofs—for our position was elevated—we could see the bright fields and forest, and far beyond, the Cofre de Perote and the undulating outlines of the Andes. Above all, the white-robed peak of Orizava rose up against the heavens like a pyramid of spotless snow.
The sun had gone down behind the mountains, but his rays still rested upon Orizava, bathing its cone with a yellow light, like a mantle of burnished gold. Clouds of red and white and purple hung like a glory upon his track, and, descending, rested upon the lower summits of the Cordillera. The peak of the “Burning Star” alone appeared above the clouds, towering in sublime and solitary grandeur.
There was a picturesque loveliness about the scene—an idea of sublimity—that caused me for the moment to forget where I was or that I was a captive. My dream was dispelled by the harsh voice of José, who at that moment came up with a couple of peons, carrying a large earthen dish that contained our supper.
This consisted of black beans, with half a dozen tortillas; but as we were all half-famished we did not offer any criticism on the quality of the viands. The dish was placed in our midst, and our arms were untied for the first time since our capture. There were neither knives, forks, nor spoons; but Raoul showed us the Mexican fashion of “eating our spoons”, and, twisting up the tortillas, we scooped and swallowed “right ahead.”
Chapter Thirty Seven.Chane’s Courtship.The dish was emptied, as Clayley observed, in a “squirrel’s jump.”“Be my sowl! it ates purty well, black as it is,” said Chane, looking ruefully into the empty vessel. “It’s got a worse complaint than the colour, didn’t yez fetch us a thrifle more of it, my darlint boy?” he added, squinting up at José.“No entiende,” (Don’t understand), said the Mexican, shaking his head.“No in tin days!” cried Chane, mistaking the “no entiende” for a phrase of broken English, to which, indeed, its pronunciation somewhat assimilates it. “Och! git out wid you! Bad luck to yer picther! In tin days it’s Murtagh Chane that’ll ayther be takin’ his tay in purgathory or atin’ betther than black banes in some other part of the world.”“No entiende,” repeated the Mexican as before.“Tin days, indade! Sure we’d be did wid hunger in half the time. We want the banesnow.”“Qué quiere?” (What do you want?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul, who was by this time convulsed with laughter.“Phwhat’s that he sez, Raowl?” inquired Chane sharply.“He says he don’t understand you.”“Thin spake to him yerself, Raowl. Till him we want more banes, and a few more ov thim pancakes, if he plazes.”Raoul translated the Irishman’s request.“No hay” (There are none), answered the Mexican, shaking his forefinger in front of his nose.“No I—is that phwhat ye say, my darlint? Well, iv yez won’t go yerself, sind somebody else; it’s all the same thing, so yez bring us the ateables.”“No entiende” said the man, with the same shake of the head.“Oh! there agin with your tin days—but it’s no use; yez understand me well enough, but yez don’t want to bring the banes.”“He tells you there is no more,” said Raoul.“Oh! the desavin’ Judas! and five hundred ov thim grazers atin’ over beyant there. No more banes! oh, the lie!”“Frijoles—no hay,” said the Mexican, guessing at the purport of Chane’s remarks.“Fray holeys!” repeated Chane, imitating the Mexican’s pronunciation of the word “frijoles”. “Och! git out wid your fray holeys! There isn’t the size of a flay of holiness about the place. Git out!”Raoul, and indeed all of us except the Irishman himself, were bursting with laughter.“I’m chokin’,” said the latter, after a pause; “ask him for wather, Raowl—sure he can’t deny that, with that purty little sthrame boilin’ up undher our noses, as clear as the potteen of Ennishowen.”Raoul asked for water, which we all needed. Our throats were as dry as charcoal. The Mexican made a sign to one of the women, who shortly came up with an earthen jar filled with water.“Give it first to the captin, misthress,” said Chane, pointing to me; “sarve all ayqually, but respict rank.”The woman understood the sign, and handed me the jar. I drank copiously, passing it to my comrades, Clayley and Raoul. Chane at length took the jar; but instead of drinking immediately, as might have been expected, he set it between his knees and looked quizzically up at the woman.“I say, my little darlint,” said he, winking, and touching her lightly under the ribs with his outstretched palm, “my littlemoochacha—that’s what they call thim—isn’t it, Raowl?”“Muchacha? oh yes!”“Well, thin, my purty littlemoochacha, cudn’t yez?—ye know what I mane—cudn’t yez? Och! ye know well enough—only a little—jist a mouthful to take the cowld taste aff the wather.”“No entiende,” said the woman, smiling good-naturedly at Chane’s comical gestures.“Och, the plague! there’s that tin days agin. Talk to her, Raowl. Tell her what I mane.”Raoul translated his comrade’s wishes.“Tell her, Raowl, I’ve got no money, becase I have been rabbed, de ye see? but I’ll give her ayther of these saints for the smallest thrifle of agwardent;” and he pulled the images out of his jacket as he spoke.The woman, seeing these, bent forward with an exclamation; and, recognising the crucifix, with the images of the saint and Virgin, dropped upon her knees and kissed them devoutly, uttering some words in a language half Spanish, half Aztec.Rising up, she looked kindly at Chane, exclaiming, “Bueno Catolico!” She then tossed the rebozo over her left shoulder, and hurried off across the yard.“De yez think, Raowl, she’s gone after the licker?”“I am sure of it,” answered the Frenchman.In a few minutes the woman returned, and, drawing a small flask out of the folds of her rebozo, handed it to Chane.The Irishman commenced undoing the string that carried his “relics.”“Which ov them de yez want, misthress?—the saint, or the Howly Mother, or both?—it’s all the same to Murtagh.”The woman, observing what he was after, rushed forward, and, placing her hands upon his, said in a kind tone:“No, Señor. Su proteccion necesita usted.”“Phwhat diz she say, Raowl?”“She says, keep them; you will need their protection yourself.”“Och, be me sowl! she’s not far asthray there. I need it bad enough now, an’ a hape ov good they’re likely to do me. They’ve hung there for tin years—both of thim; and this nate little flask’s the first raal binifit I iver resaved from ayther of them. Thry it, Captin. It’ll do yez good.”I took the bottle and drank. It was thechingarito—a bad species ofaguardientefrom the wild aloe—and hot as fire. A mouthful sufficed. I handed the flask to Clayley, who drank more freely. Raoul followed suit, and the bottle came back to the Irishman.“Your hilth, darlint!” said he, nodding to the Mexican woman. “May yez live tillIwish ye dead!”The woman smiled, and repeated, “No entiende.”“Och! nivir mind the tin days—we won’t quarrel about that. Ye’re a swate crayteur,” continued he, winking at the woman; “but sure yer petticoats is mighty short, an’ yez want a pair of stockin’s bad, too; but nivir mind—yez stand well upon thim illigant ankles—’dade ye do; and yez have a purty little futt into the bargain.”“Qué dice?” (What does he say?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul.“He is complimenting you on the smallness of your feet,” answered the Frenchman.The woman was evidently pleased, and commenced cramping up what was in fact a very small foot into its faded satin slipper.“Tell me, my dear,” continued Chane, “are yez married?”“Qué dice?” again asked the woman.“He wants to know if you are married.”She smiled, waving her forefinger in front of her nose.Raoul informed the Irishman that this was a negative answer to his question.“By my sowl, thin,” said Chane, “I wudn’t mind marryin’ ye meself, an’ joinin’ the thribe—that is, if they’ll let me off from the hangin’. Tell her that, Raowl.”As desired, Raoul explained his comrade’s last speech, at which the woman laughed, but said nothing.“Silence gives consint. But tell her, Raowl, that I won’t buy a pig in a poke: they must first let me off from the hangin’, de ye hear?—tell her that.”“El señor está muy alegre,” (The gentleman is very merry), said the woman; and, picking up her jar, with a smile, she left us.“I say, Raowl, does she consint?”“She hasn’t made up her mind yet.”“By the holy vistment! thin it’s all up wid Murt. The saints won’t save him. Take another dhrap, Raowl!”
The dish was emptied, as Clayley observed, in a “squirrel’s jump.”
“Be my sowl! it ates purty well, black as it is,” said Chane, looking ruefully into the empty vessel. “It’s got a worse complaint than the colour, didn’t yez fetch us a thrifle more of it, my darlint boy?” he added, squinting up at José.
“No entiende,” (Don’t understand), said the Mexican, shaking his head.
“No in tin days!” cried Chane, mistaking the “no entiende” for a phrase of broken English, to which, indeed, its pronunciation somewhat assimilates it. “Och! git out wid you! Bad luck to yer picther! In tin days it’s Murtagh Chane that’ll ayther be takin’ his tay in purgathory or atin’ betther than black banes in some other part of the world.”
“No entiende,” repeated the Mexican as before.
“Tin days, indade! Sure we’d be did wid hunger in half the time. We want the banesnow.”
“Qué quiere?” (What do you want?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul, who was by this time convulsed with laughter.
“Phwhat’s that he sez, Raowl?” inquired Chane sharply.
“He says he don’t understand you.”
“Thin spake to him yerself, Raowl. Till him we want more banes, and a few more ov thim pancakes, if he plazes.”
Raoul translated the Irishman’s request.
“No hay” (There are none), answered the Mexican, shaking his forefinger in front of his nose.
“No I—is that phwhat ye say, my darlint? Well, iv yez won’t go yerself, sind somebody else; it’s all the same thing, so yez bring us the ateables.”
“No entiende” said the man, with the same shake of the head.
“Oh! there agin with your tin days—but it’s no use; yez understand me well enough, but yez don’t want to bring the banes.”
“He tells you there is no more,” said Raoul.
“Oh! the desavin’ Judas! and five hundred ov thim grazers atin’ over beyant there. No more banes! oh, the lie!”
“Frijoles—no hay,” said the Mexican, guessing at the purport of Chane’s remarks.
“Fray holeys!” repeated Chane, imitating the Mexican’s pronunciation of the word “frijoles”. “Och! git out wid your fray holeys! There isn’t the size of a flay of holiness about the place. Git out!”
Raoul, and indeed all of us except the Irishman himself, were bursting with laughter.
“I’m chokin’,” said the latter, after a pause; “ask him for wather, Raowl—sure he can’t deny that, with that purty little sthrame boilin’ up undher our noses, as clear as the potteen of Ennishowen.”
Raoul asked for water, which we all needed. Our throats were as dry as charcoal. The Mexican made a sign to one of the women, who shortly came up with an earthen jar filled with water.
“Give it first to the captin, misthress,” said Chane, pointing to me; “sarve all ayqually, but respict rank.”
The woman understood the sign, and handed me the jar. I drank copiously, passing it to my comrades, Clayley and Raoul. Chane at length took the jar; but instead of drinking immediately, as might have been expected, he set it between his knees and looked quizzically up at the woman.
“I say, my little darlint,” said he, winking, and touching her lightly under the ribs with his outstretched palm, “my littlemoochacha—that’s what they call thim—isn’t it, Raowl?”
“Muchacha? oh yes!”
“Well, thin, my purty littlemoochacha, cudn’t yez?—ye know what I mane—cudn’t yez? Och! ye know well enough—only a little—jist a mouthful to take the cowld taste aff the wather.”
“No entiende,” said the woman, smiling good-naturedly at Chane’s comical gestures.
“Och, the plague! there’s that tin days agin. Talk to her, Raowl. Tell her what I mane.”
Raoul translated his comrade’s wishes.
“Tell her, Raowl, I’ve got no money, becase I have been rabbed, de ye see? but I’ll give her ayther of these saints for the smallest thrifle of agwardent;” and he pulled the images out of his jacket as he spoke.
The woman, seeing these, bent forward with an exclamation; and, recognising the crucifix, with the images of the saint and Virgin, dropped upon her knees and kissed them devoutly, uttering some words in a language half Spanish, half Aztec.
Rising up, she looked kindly at Chane, exclaiming, “Bueno Catolico!” She then tossed the rebozo over her left shoulder, and hurried off across the yard.
“De yez think, Raowl, she’s gone after the licker?”
“I am sure of it,” answered the Frenchman.
In a few minutes the woman returned, and, drawing a small flask out of the folds of her rebozo, handed it to Chane.
The Irishman commenced undoing the string that carried his “relics.”
“Which ov them de yez want, misthress?—the saint, or the Howly Mother, or both?—it’s all the same to Murtagh.”
The woman, observing what he was after, rushed forward, and, placing her hands upon his, said in a kind tone:
“No, Señor. Su proteccion necesita usted.”
“Phwhat diz she say, Raowl?”
“She says, keep them; you will need their protection yourself.”
“Och, be me sowl! she’s not far asthray there. I need it bad enough now, an’ a hape ov good they’re likely to do me. They’ve hung there for tin years—both of thim; and this nate little flask’s the first raal binifit I iver resaved from ayther of them. Thry it, Captin. It’ll do yez good.”
I took the bottle and drank. It was thechingarito—a bad species ofaguardientefrom the wild aloe—and hot as fire. A mouthful sufficed. I handed the flask to Clayley, who drank more freely. Raoul followed suit, and the bottle came back to the Irishman.
“Your hilth, darlint!” said he, nodding to the Mexican woman. “May yez live tillIwish ye dead!”
The woman smiled, and repeated, “No entiende.”
“Och! nivir mind the tin days—we won’t quarrel about that. Ye’re a swate crayteur,” continued he, winking at the woman; “but sure yer petticoats is mighty short, an’ yez want a pair of stockin’s bad, too; but nivir mind—yez stand well upon thim illigant ankles—’dade ye do; and yez have a purty little futt into the bargain.”
“Qué dice?” (What does he say?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul.
“He is complimenting you on the smallness of your feet,” answered the Frenchman.
The woman was evidently pleased, and commenced cramping up what was in fact a very small foot into its faded satin slipper.
“Tell me, my dear,” continued Chane, “are yez married?”
“Qué dice?” again asked the woman.
“He wants to know if you are married.”
She smiled, waving her forefinger in front of her nose.
Raoul informed the Irishman that this was a negative answer to his question.
“By my sowl, thin,” said Chane, “I wudn’t mind marryin’ ye meself, an’ joinin’ the thribe—that is, if they’ll let me off from the hangin’. Tell her that, Raowl.”
As desired, Raoul explained his comrade’s last speech, at which the woman laughed, but said nothing.
“Silence gives consint. But tell her, Raowl, that I won’t buy a pig in a poke: they must first let me off from the hangin’, de ye hear?—tell her that.”
“El señor está muy alegre,” (The gentleman is very merry), said the woman; and, picking up her jar, with a smile, she left us.
“I say, Raowl, does she consint?”
“She hasn’t made up her mind yet.”
“By the holy vistment! thin it’s all up wid Murt. The saints won’t save him. Take another dhrap, Raowl!”
Chapter Thirty Eight.The Dance of the Tagarota.Night fell, and the blazing fagots threw their glare over the patio, striking upon objects picturesque at all times, but doubly so under the red light of the pine fires. The grouping of guerilleros—their broad, heavy hats, many of them plumed—their long black hair and pointed beards—their dark, flashing eyes—their teeth, fierce and white—the half-savage expression of their features—their costumes, high-coloured and wild-like—all combined in impressing us with strange feelings.The mules, the mustangs, the dogs, the peons, the slippered wenches, with their coarse trailing tresses, the low roofs, the iron-barred windows, the orange-trees by the fountain, the palms hanging over the wall, the glistening cocuyos, were all strange sights to us.The sounds that rang in our ears were not more familiar. Even the voices of the men, unlike the Saxon, sounded wild and sharp. It was the Spanish language, spoken in thepatoisof the Aztec Indians. In this the guerilleros chatted, and sang, and swore. There was a medley of other sounds, not less strange to our ears, as the dogs howled and barked their bloodhound notes—as the mustangs neighed or the mules whinnied—as the heavy sabre clanked or the huge spur tinkled its tiny bells—as thepoblanas(peasant-women), sitting by some group, touched the strings of their bandolons, and chanted their half-Indian songs.By a blazing pile, close to where we sat, a party of guerilleros, with their women, were dancing thetagarota, a species of fandango.Two men, seated upon raw-hide stools, strummed away upon a pair of bandolons, while a third pinched and pulled at the strings of an old guitar—all three aiding the music with their shrill, disagreeable voices.The dancers formed the figure of a parallelogram, each standing opposite his partner, or rather moving, for they were never at rest, but kept constantly beating time with feet, head, and hands. The last they struck against their cheeks and thighs, and at intervals clapped them together.One would suddenly appear as a hunchback, and, dancing out into the centre of the figure, perform various antics to attract his partner. After a while she would dance up—deformed also—and the two, bringing their bodies into contact, and performing various disgusting contortions, would give place to another pair. These would appear without arms or legs, walking on their knees, or sliding along on their hips!One danced with his head under his arm, and another with one leg around his neck; all eliciting more or less laughter, as the feat was more or less comical. During the dance every species of deformity was imitated and caricatured, for this is the tagarota. It was a series of grotesque and repulsive pictures. Some of the dancers, flinging themselves flat, would roll across the open space without moving hand or foot. This always elicited applause, and we could not help remarking its resemblance to the gymnastics we had lately been practising ourselves.“Och, be me sowl! we can bate yez at that!” cried Chane, who appeared to be highly amused at the tagarota, making his comments as the dance went on.I was sick of the scene, and watched it no longer. My eyes turned to the portale, and I looked anxiously through the half-drawn curtains.“It is strange I have seen nothing ofthem! Could they have turned off on some other route? No—they must be here. Narcisso’s promise for to-night! He at least is here. And she?—perhaps occupied within—gay, happy, indifferent—oh!”The pain shot afresh through my heart.Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a brilliant picture appeared within—brilliant, but to me like the glimpse which some condemned spirit might catch over the walls of Paradise. Officers in bright uniforms, and amongst these I recognised the elegant person of Dubrosc. Ladies in rich dresses, and amongst these—. Her sister, too, was there, and the Dona Joaquiana, and half a dozen other ladies, rustling in silks and blazing with jewels.Several of the gentlemen—young officers of the band—wore the picturesque costume of the guerilleros.They were forming for the dance.“Look, Captain!” cried Clayley; “Don Cosmé and his people, by the living earthquake!”“Hush! do not touch me—do not speak to me!”I felt as though my heart would stop beating. It rose in my bosom, and seemed to hang for minutes without moving. My throat felt dry and husky, and a cold perspiration broke out upon my skin.He approaches her—he asks her to dance—she consents! No: she refuses. Brave girl! She has strayed away from the dancers, and looks over the balustrade. She is sad. Was it a sigh that caused her bosom to rise? Ha! he comes again. She is smiling!—he touches her hand!“Fiend! false woman!” I shouted at the top of my voice as I sprang up, impelled by passion. I attempted to rush towards them. My feet were bound, and I fell heavily upon my face!The guards seized me, tying my hands. My comrades, too, were re-bound. We were dragged over the stones into a small room in one corner of the patio.The door was bolted and locked, and we were left alone.
Night fell, and the blazing fagots threw their glare over the patio, striking upon objects picturesque at all times, but doubly so under the red light of the pine fires. The grouping of guerilleros—their broad, heavy hats, many of them plumed—their long black hair and pointed beards—their dark, flashing eyes—their teeth, fierce and white—the half-savage expression of their features—their costumes, high-coloured and wild-like—all combined in impressing us with strange feelings.
The mules, the mustangs, the dogs, the peons, the slippered wenches, with their coarse trailing tresses, the low roofs, the iron-barred windows, the orange-trees by the fountain, the palms hanging over the wall, the glistening cocuyos, were all strange sights to us.
The sounds that rang in our ears were not more familiar. Even the voices of the men, unlike the Saxon, sounded wild and sharp. It was the Spanish language, spoken in thepatoisof the Aztec Indians. In this the guerilleros chatted, and sang, and swore. There was a medley of other sounds, not less strange to our ears, as the dogs howled and barked their bloodhound notes—as the mustangs neighed or the mules whinnied—as the heavy sabre clanked or the huge spur tinkled its tiny bells—as thepoblanas(peasant-women), sitting by some group, touched the strings of their bandolons, and chanted their half-Indian songs.
By a blazing pile, close to where we sat, a party of guerilleros, with their women, were dancing thetagarota, a species of fandango.
Two men, seated upon raw-hide stools, strummed away upon a pair of bandolons, while a third pinched and pulled at the strings of an old guitar—all three aiding the music with their shrill, disagreeable voices.
The dancers formed the figure of a parallelogram, each standing opposite his partner, or rather moving, for they were never at rest, but kept constantly beating time with feet, head, and hands. The last they struck against their cheeks and thighs, and at intervals clapped them together.
One would suddenly appear as a hunchback, and, dancing out into the centre of the figure, perform various antics to attract his partner. After a while she would dance up—deformed also—and the two, bringing their bodies into contact, and performing various disgusting contortions, would give place to another pair. These would appear without arms or legs, walking on their knees, or sliding along on their hips!
One danced with his head under his arm, and another with one leg around his neck; all eliciting more or less laughter, as the feat was more or less comical. During the dance every species of deformity was imitated and caricatured, for this is the tagarota. It was a series of grotesque and repulsive pictures. Some of the dancers, flinging themselves flat, would roll across the open space without moving hand or foot. This always elicited applause, and we could not help remarking its resemblance to the gymnastics we had lately been practising ourselves.
“Och, be me sowl! we can bate yez at that!” cried Chane, who appeared to be highly amused at the tagarota, making his comments as the dance went on.
I was sick of the scene, and watched it no longer. My eyes turned to the portale, and I looked anxiously through the half-drawn curtains.
“It is strange I have seen nothing ofthem! Could they have turned off on some other route? No—they must be here. Narcisso’s promise for to-night! He at least is here. And she?—perhaps occupied within—gay, happy, indifferent—oh!”
The pain shot afresh through my heart.
Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a brilliant picture appeared within—brilliant, but to me like the glimpse which some condemned spirit might catch over the walls of Paradise. Officers in bright uniforms, and amongst these I recognised the elegant person of Dubrosc. Ladies in rich dresses, and amongst these—. Her sister, too, was there, and the Dona Joaquiana, and half a dozen other ladies, rustling in silks and blazing with jewels.
Several of the gentlemen—young officers of the band—wore the picturesque costume of the guerilleros.
They were forming for the dance.
“Look, Captain!” cried Clayley; “Don Cosmé and his people, by the living earthquake!”
“Hush! do not touch me—do not speak to me!”
I felt as though my heart would stop beating. It rose in my bosom, and seemed to hang for minutes without moving. My throat felt dry and husky, and a cold perspiration broke out upon my skin.
He approaches her—he asks her to dance—she consents! No: she refuses. Brave girl! She has strayed away from the dancers, and looks over the balustrade. She is sad. Was it a sigh that caused her bosom to rise? Ha! he comes again. She is smiling!—he touches her hand!
“Fiend! false woman!” I shouted at the top of my voice as I sprang up, impelled by passion. I attempted to rush towards them. My feet were bound, and I fell heavily upon my face!
The guards seized me, tying my hands. My comrades, too, were re-bound. We were dragged over the stones into a small room in one corner of the patio.
The door was bolted and locked, and we were left alone.
Chapter Thirty Nine.A Kiss in the Dark.It would be impossible to describe my feelings as I was flung upon the floor of our prison. This was cold, damp, and filthy; but I heeded not these grievances. Greater sorrows absorbed the less. There is no torture so racking, no pain so painful as the throbbings of a jealous heart; but how much harder to bear under circumstances like mine! She could sleep, smile, dance—dance by my prison, and with my jailer!I felt spiteful—vengeful. I was stung to a desire for retaliation, and along with this came an eagerness to live for the opportunity of indulging in this passion.I began to look around our prison, and see what chances it afforded for escape.“Good heavens! if our being transferred to the cell should destroy the plans of Narcisso! How is he to reach us? The door is double-locked, and a sentry is pacing without.”After several painful efforts I raised myself upon my feet, propping my body against the side of the prison. There was an aperture—a window about as large as a loophole for musketry. I spun myself along the wall until I stood directly under it. It was just the height of my chin. Cautioning my companions to silence, I placed my ear to the aperture and listened. A low sound came wailing from the fields without. I did not heed this. I knew it was the wolf. It rose again, louder than before. A peculiarity in the howl struck me, and I turned, calling to Raoul.“What is it, Captain?” inquired he.“Do you know if the prairie wolf is found here?”“I do not know if it be the true prairie wolf, Captain. There is one something like thecoyote.”I returned to the aperture and listened.“Again the howl of the prairie wolf—the bark! By heavens! it is Lincoln!”Now it ceased for several minutes, and then came again, but from another direction.“What is to be done? if I answer him, it will alarm the sentry. I will wait until he comes closer to the wall.”I could tell that he was creeping nearer and nearer.Finding he had not been answered, the howling ceased. I stood listening eagerly to every sound from without. My comrades, who had now become apprised of Lincoln’s proximity, had risen to their feet and were leaning against the walls.We were about half an hour in this situation, without exchanging a word, when a light tap was heard from without, and a soft voice whispered:“Hola, Capitan!”I placed my ear to the aperture. The whisper was repeated. It was not Lincoln—that was clear.It must be Narcisso.“Quien?” I asked.“Yo, Capitan.”I recognised the voice that had addressed me in the morning.It is Narcisso.“Can you place your hands in the aperture?” said he.“No; they are tied behind my back.”“Can you bring them opposite, then?”“No; I am standing on my toes, and my wrists are still far below the sill.”“Are your comrades all similarly bound?”“All.”“Let one get on each side of you, and raise you up on their shoulders.”Wondering at the astuteness of the young Spaniard, I ordered Chane and Raoul to lift me as he directed.When my wrists came opposite the window I cautioned them to hold on. Presently a soft hand touched mine, passing all over them. Then I felt the blade of a knife pressed against the thong, and in an instant it leaped from my wrists. I ordered the men to set me down, and I listened as before.“Here is the knife. You can release your own ankles and those of your comrades. This paper will direct you further. You will find the lamp inside.”A knife, with a folded and strangely shining note, was passed through by the speaker.“And now, Capitan—one favour,” continued the voice, in a trembling tone.“Ask it! ask it!”“I would kiss your hand before we part.”“Dear, noble boy!” cried I, thrusting my hand into the aperture.“Boy! ah, true—you think me a boy. I am no boy, Capitan, buta woman—one who loves you with all her blighted, broken heart!”“Oh, heavens! It is, then—dearest Guadalupe!”“Ha! I thought as much. Now I will not. But no; what good would it be to me? No—no—no! I shall keep my word.”This appeared to be uttered in soliloquy, and the tumult of my thoughts prevented me from noticing the strangeness of these expressions. I thought of them afterwards.“Your hand! your hand!” I ejaculated.“You would kiss my hand? Do so!” The little hand was thrust through, and I could see it in the dim light, flashing with brilliants. I caught it in mine, covering it with kisses. It seemed to yield to the fervid pressure of my lips.“Oh!” I exclaimed, in the transport of my feelings, “let us not part; let us fly together! I was wronging you, loveliest, dearest Guadalupe—!”A slight exclamation, as if from some painful emotion, and the hand was plucked away, leaving one of the diamonds in my fingers. The next moment the voice whispered, with a strange sadness of tone, as I thought:“Adieu, Capitan! adieu!In this world of life we never know who best loves us!”I was puzzled, bewildered. I called out, but there was no answer. I listened until the patience of my comrades was well-nigh exhausted, but still there was no voice from without; and with a strange feeling of uneasiness and wonderment I commenced cutting the thongs from my ankles.Having set Raoul at liberty, I handed him the knife, and proceeded to open the note. Inside I found a cocuyo; and, using it as I had been already instructed, I read:“The walls are adobe. You have a knife. The side with the loop-hole fronts outward. There is a field of magueys, and beyond this you will find the forest. You may then trust to yourselves. I can help you no farther. Carissimo caballero, adios!”I had no time to reflect upon the peculiarities of the note, though the boldness of the style struck me as corresponding with the other. I flung down the firefly, crushing the paper into my bosom; and, seizing the knife, was about to attack the adobe wall, when voices reached me from without. I sprang forward, and placed my ear to listen. It was an altercation—a woman—a man! “By heaven! it is Lincoln’s voice!”“Yer cussed whelp! ye’d see the cap’n hung, would yer?—a man that’s good vally for the full of a pararer of green-gutted greasers; but I ain’t a-gwine to letyoulook at his hangin’. If yer don’t show me which of these hyur pigeon-holes is his’n, an’ help me to get him outer it, I’ll skin yer like a mink!”“I tell you, Mister Lincoln,” replied a voice which I recognised as the one whose owner had just left me, “I have this minute given the captain the means of escape, through that loophole.”“Whar!”“This one,” answered the female voice.“Wal, that’s easy to circumstantiate. Kum along hyur! I ain’t a-gwine to let yer go till it’s all fixed. De ye hear?”I heard the heavy foot of the hunter as he approached, and presently his voice calling through the loophole in a guarded whisper:“Cap’n!”“Hush, Bob! it’s all right,” I replied, speaking in a low tone, for the sentries were moving suspiciously around the door.“Good!” ejaculated he. “Yer kin go now,” he added to the other, whose attention I endeavoured to attract, but dared not call to loud enough, lest the guards should hear me. “Dash my buttons! I don’t want yer to go—yer a good ’un arter all. Why can’t yer kum along? The cap’n ’ll make it all straight agin about the desartion.”“Mr Lincoln, I cannot go with you. Please suffer me to depart!”“Wal! yer own likes! but if I can do yer a good turn, you can depend on Bob Linkin—mind that.”“Thank you! thank you!”And before I could interfere to prevent it, she was gone. I could hear the voice, sad and sweet in the distance, calling back, “Adios!”I had no time for reflection, else the mystery that surrounded me would have occupied my thoughts for hours. It was time to act. Again I heard Lincoln’s voice at the loophole.“What is it?” I inquired.“How are yer ter get out, Cap’n?”“We are cutting a hole through the wall.”“If yer can give me the spot, I’ll meet yer half-ways.”I measured the distance from the loophole, and handed the string to Lincoln. We heard no more from the hunter until the moonlight glanced through the wall upon the blade of his knife. Then he uttered a short ejaculation, such as may be heard from the “mountain men” at peculiar crises; and after that we could hear him exclaiming:“Look out, Rowl! Hang it, man! ye’re a-cuttin’ my claws!”In a few minutes the hole was large enough to pass our bodies; and one by one we crawled out, and were once more at liberty.
It would be impossible to describe my feelings as I was flung upon the floor of our prison. This was cold, damp, and filthy; but I heeded not these grievances. Greater sorrows absorbed the less. There is no torture so racking, no pain so painful as the throbbings of a jealous heart; but how much harder to bear under circumstances like mine! She could sleep, smile, dance—dance by my prison, and with my jailer!
I felt spiteful—vengeful. I was stung to a desire for retaliation, and along with this came an eagerness to live for the opportunity of indulging in this passion.
I began to look around our prison, and see what chances it afforded for escape.
“Good heavens! if our being transferred to the cell should destroy the plans of Narcisso! How is he to reach us? The door is double-locked, and a sentry is pacing without.”
After several painful efforts I raised myself upon my feet, propping my body against the side of the prison. There was an aperture—a window about as large as a loophole for musketry. I spun myself along the wall until I stood directly under it. It was just the height of my chin. Cautioning my companions to silence, I placed my ear to the aperture and listened. A low sound came wailing from the fields without. I did not heed this. I knew it was the wolf. It rose again, louder than before. A peculiarity in the howl struck me, and I turned, calling to Raoul.
“What is it, Captain?” inquired he.
“Do you know if the prairie wolf is found here?”
“I do not know if it be the true prairie wolf, Captain. There is one something like thecoyote.”
I returned to the aperture and listened.
“Again the howl of the prairie wolf—the bark! By heavens! it is Lincoln!”
Now it ceased for several minutes, and then came again, but from another direction.
“What is to be done? if I answer him, it will alarm the sentry. I will wait until he comes closer to the wall.”
I could tell that he was creeping nearer and nearer.
Finding he had not been answered, the howling ceased. I stood listening eagerly to every sound from without. My comrades, who had now become apprised of Lincoln’s proximity, had risen to their feet and were leaning against the walls.
We were about half an hour in this situation, without exchanging a word, when a light tap was heard from without, and a soft voice whispered:
“Hola, Capitan!”
I placed my ear to the aperture. The whisper was repeated. It was not Lincoln—that was clear.
It must be Narcisso.
“Quien?” I asked.
“Yo, Capitan.”
I recognised the voice that had addressed me in the morning.
It is Narcisso.
“Can you place your hands in the aperture?” said he.
“No; they are tied behind my back.”
“Can you bring them opposite, then?”
“No; I am standing on my toes, and my wrists are still far below the sill.”
“Are your comrades all similarly bound?”
“All.”
“Let one get on each side of you, and raise you up on their shoulders.”
Wondering at the astuteness of the young Spaniard, I ordered Chane and Raoul to lift me as he directed.
When my wrists came opposite the window I cautioned them to hold on. Presently a soft hand touched mine, passing all over them. Then I felt the blade of a knife pressed against the thong, and in an instant it leaped from my wrists. I ordered the men to set me down, and I listened as before.
“Here is the knife. You can release your own ankles and those of your comrades. This paper will direct you further. You will find the lamp inside.”
A knife, with a folded and strangely shining note, was passed through by the speaker.
“And now, Capitan—one favour,” continued the voice, in a trembling tone.
“Ask it! ask it!”
“I would kiss your hand before we part.”
“Dear, noble boy!” cried I, thrusting my hand into the aperture.
“Boy! ah, true—you think me a boy. I am no boy, Capitan, buta woman—one who loves you with all her blighted, broken heart!”
“Oh, heavens! It is, then—dearest Guadalupe!”
“Ha! I thought as much. Now I will not. But no; what good would it be to me? No—no—no! I shall keep my word.”
This appeared to be uttered in soliloquy, and the tumult of my thoughts prevented me from noticing the strangeness of these expressions. I thought of them afterwards.
“Your hand! your hand!” I ejaculated.
“You would kiss my hand? Do so!” The little hand was thrust through, and I could see it in the dim light, flashing with brilliants. I caught it in mine, covering it with kisses. It seemed to yield to the fervid pressure of my lips.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, in the transport of my feelings, “let us not part; let us fly together! I was wronging you, loveliest, dearest Guadalupe—!”
A slight exclamation, as if from some painful emotion, and the hand was plucked away, leaving one of the diamonds in my fingers. The next moment the voice whispered, with a strange sadness of tone, as I thought:
“Adieu, Capitan! adieu!In this world of life we never know who best loves us!”
I was puzzled, bewildered. I called out, but there was no answer. I listened until the patience of my comrades was well-nigh exhausted, but still there was no voice from without; and with a strange feeling of uneasiness and wonderment I commenced cutting the thongs from my ankles.
Having set Raoul at liberty, I handed him the knife, and proceeded to open the note. Inside I found a cocuyo; and, using it as I had been already instructed, I read:
“The walls are adobe. You have a knife. The side with the loop-hole fronts outward. There is a field of magueys, and beyond this you will find the forest. You may then trust to yourselves. I can help you no farther. Carissimo caballero, adios!”
“The walls are adobe. You have a knife. The side with the loop-hole fronts outward. There is a field of magueys, and beyond this you will find the forest. You may then trust to yourselves. I can help you no farther. Carissimo caballero, adios!”
I had no time to reflect upon the peculiarities of the note, though the boldness of the style struck me as corresponding with the other. I flung down the firefly, crushing the paper into my bosom; and, seizing the knife, was about to attack the adobe wall, when voices reached me from without. I sprang forward, and placed my ear to listen. It was an altercation—a woman—a man! “By heaven! it is Lincoln’s voice!”
“Yer cussed whelp! ye’d see the cap’n hung, would yer?—a man that’s good vally for the full of a pararer of green-gutted greasers; but I ain’t a-gwine to letyoulook at his hangin’. If yer don’t show me which of these hyur pigeon-holes is his’n, an’ help me to get him outer it, I’ll skin yer like a mink!”
“I tell you, Mister Lincoln,” replied a voice which I recognised as the one whose owner had just left me, “I have this minute given the captain the means of escape, through that loophole.”
“Whar!”
“This one,” answered the female voice.
“Wal, that’s easy to circumstantiate. Kum along hyur! I ain’t a-gwine to let yer go till it’s all fixed. De ye hear?”
I heard the heavy foot of the hunter as he approached, and presently his voice calling through the loophole in a guarded whisper:
“Cap’n!”
“Hush, Bob! it’s all right,” I replied, speaking in a low tone, for the sentries were moving suspiciously around the door.
“Good!” ejaculated he. “Yer kin go now,” he added to the other, whose attention I endeavoured to attract, but dared not call to loud enough, lest the guards should hear me. “Dash my buttons! I don’t want yer to go—yer a good ’un arter all. Why can’t yer kum along? The cap’n ’ll make it all straight agin about the desartion.”
“Mr Lincoln, I cannot go with you. Please suffer me to depart!”
“Wal! yer own likes! but if I can do yer a good turn, you can depend on Bob Linkin—mind that.”
“Thank you! thank you!”
And before I could interfere to prevent it, she was gone. I could hear the voice, sad and sweet in the distance, calling back, “Adios!”
I had no time for reflection, else the mystery that surrounded me would have occupied my thoughts for hours. It was time to act. Again I heard Lincoln’s voice at the loophole.
“What is it?” I inquired.
“How are yer ter get out, Cap’n?”
“We are cutting a hole through the wall.”
“If yer can give me the spot, I’ll meet yer half-ways.”
I measured the distance from the loophole, and handed the string to Lincoln. We heard no more from the hunter until the moonlight glanced through the wall upon the blade of his knife. Then he uttered a short ejaculation, such as may be heard from the “mountain men” at peculiar crises; and after that we could hear him exclaiming:
“Look out, Rowl! Hang it, man! ye’re a-cuttin’ my claws!”
In a few minutes the hole was large enough to pass our bodies; and one by one we crawled out, and were once more at liberty.
Chapter Forty.Maria de Merced.There was a deep ditch under the wall, filled with cactus-plants and dry grass. We lay in the bottom of this for some minutes, panting with fatigue. Our limbs were stiff and swollen, and we could hardly stand upright. A little delay then was necessary, to bring back the blood and determine our future course.“We had best ter keep the gully,” whispered Lincoln. “I kum across the fields myself, but that ’ar kiver’s thin, and they may sight us.”“The best route is the ditch,” assented Raoul: “there are some windows, but they are high, and we can crawl under them.”“Forward, then!” I whispered to Raoul.We crept down the ditch on all-fours, passing several windows that were dark and shut. We reached one, the last in the row, where the light streamed through. Notwithstanding our perilous situation, I resolved to look in. There was an impulse upon me which I could not resist. I was yearning for some clue to the mystery that hung around me.The window was high up, but it was grated with heavy bars; and, grasping two of these, I swung myself to its level. Meanwhile my comrades had crept into the magueys to wait for me.I raised my head cautiously and looked in. It was a room somewhat elegantly furnished, but my eye did not dwell long on that. A man sitting by the table engrossed my attention. This man was Dubrosc. The light was full upon his face, and I gazed upon its hated lines until I felt my frame trembling with passion.I can give no idea of the hate this man had inspired me with. Had I possessed firearms, I could not have restrained myself from shooting him; and but for the iron grating, I should have sprung through the sash and grappled him with my hands. I have thought since that some providence held me back from making a demonstration that would have baffled our escape. I am sure at that moment I possessed no restraint within myself.As I gazed at Dubrosc, the door of the apartment opened, and a young man entered. He was strangely attired, in a costume half-military, half-ranchero. There was a fineness, a silky richness, about the dress and manner of this youth that struck me. His features were dark and beautiful.He advanced and sat down by the table, placing his hand upon it. Several rings sparkled upon his fingers. I observed that he was pale, and that his hand trembled.After looking at him for a moment, I began to fancy I had seen the features before. It was not Narcisso; him I should have known; and yet there was a resemblance. Yes—he even resembledher! I started as this thought crossed me. I strained my eyes; the resemblance grew stronger.Oh, Heaven! could it be?—dressed thus? No, no! those eyes—ha! I remember! The boy at the rendezvous—on board the transport—the island—the picture! It is she—the cousin—María de Merced!These recollections came with the suddenness of a single thought, and passed as quickly. Later memories crowded upon me. The adventure of the morning—the strange words uttered at the window of my prison—the small hand! This, then, was the author of our deliverance.A hundred mysteries were explained in a single moment. The unexpected elucidation came like a shock—like a sudden light. I staggered back, giving way to new and singular emotions.“Guadalupe knows nothing of my presence, then.Sheis innocent.”This thought alone restored me to happiness. A thousand others rushed through my brain in quick succession—some pleasant, others painful.There was an altercation of voices over my head. I caught the iron rods, and, resting my toes upon a high bank, swung my body up, and again looked into the room. Dubrosc was now angrily pacing over the floor.“Bah!” he ejaculated, with a look of cold brutality; “you think to make me jealous, I believe. That isn’t possible. I was never so, andyoucan’t do it. I know you love the cursed Yankee. I watched you in the ship—on the island, too. You had better keep him company where he is going. Ha, ha! Jealous, indeed! Your pretty cousins have grown up since I saw them last.”The insinuation sent the blood in a hot stream through my veins.It appeared to have a similar effect upon the woman; for, starting from her seat, she looked towards Dubrosc, her eyes flashing like globes of fire.“Yes!” she exclaimed; “and if you dare whisper your polluting thoughts to either of them, lawless as is this land, you know that I still possess the power to punishyou. You are villain enough, Heaven knows, for anything; buttheyshall not fall: one victim is enough—and such a one!”“Victim, indeed!” replied the man, evidently cowed by the other’s threat. “You call yourself victim, Marie? Thewifeof the handsomest man in Mexico? Ha, ha!”There was something of irony in the latter part of the speech, and the emphasis placed on the word “wife.”“Yes; you may well taunt me with your false priest, you unfeeling wretch!Oh, Santisima Madre!” continued she, dropping back into her chair, and pressing her head between her hands. “Beguiled—beggared—almost unsexed! and yet I never loved the man! It was not love, but madness—madness and fascination!”The last words were uttered in soliloquy, as though she regarded not the presence of her companion.“I don’t care a claco,” cried he fiercely, and evidently piqued at her declaration; “not one claco whether you ever loved me or not! That’s not the question now, butthis is: You must make yourself known to your Croesus of an uncle here, and demand that part of your fortune that he still clutches within his avaricious old fingers. You must do this to-morrow.”“I will not!”“But you shall, or—.”The woman rose suddenly, and walked towards the door as if she intended to go out.“No, not to-night, dearest!” said Dubrosc, grasping her rudely by the arm. “I have my reasons for keeping you here. I noted you to-day speaking with that cursed Yankee, and you’re just traitor enough to help him to escape. I’ll look to him myself, so you may stay where you are. If you should choose to rise early enough to-morrow morning, you will have the felicity of seeing him dance upon the tight-rope. Ha! ha! ha!”And with a savage laugh the Creole walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.A strange expression played over the features of the woman—a blending of triumph with anxiety. She ran forward to the window, and, pressing her small lips close to the glass, strained her eyes outward.I held the diamond in my fingers, and, stretching up until my hand was opposite her face, I wrote the word “Gracias.”At first seeing me she had started back. There was no time to be lost. My comrades were already chafing at my delay; and, joining them, we crept through the magueys, parting the broad, stiff leaves with our fingers. We were soon upon the edge of the chaparral wood.I looked back towards the window. The woman stood holding the lamp, and its light was full upon her face. She had read the scrawl, and was gazing out with an expression I shall never forget. Another bound, and we were “in the woods.”
There was a deep ditch under the wall, filled with cactus-plants and dry grass. We lay in the bottom of this for some minutes, panting with fatigue. Our limbs were stiff and swollen, and we could hardly stand upright. A little delay then was necessary, to bring back the blood and determine our future course.
“We had best ter keep the gully,” whispered Lincoln. “I kum across the fields myself, but that ’ar kiver’s thin, and they may sight us.”
“The best route is the ditch,” assented Raoul: “there are some windows, but they are high, and we can crawl under them.”
“Forward, then!” I whispered to Raoul.
We crept down the ditch on all-fours, passing several windows that were dark and shut. We reached one, the last in the row, where the light streamed through. Notwithstanding our perilous situation, I resolved to look in. There was an impulse upon me which I could not resist. I was yearning for some clue to the mystery that hung around me.
The window was high up, but it was grated with heavy bars; and, grasping two of these, I swung myself to its level. Meanwhile my comrades had crept into the magueys to wait for me.
I raised my head cautiously and looked in. It was a room somewhat elegantly furnished, but my eye did not dwell long on that. A man sitting by the table engrossed my attention. This man was Dubrosc. The light was full upon his face, and I gazed upon its hated lines until I felt my frame trembling with passion.
I can give no idea of the hate this man had inspired me with. Had I possessed firearms, I could not have restrained myself from shooting him; and but for the iron grating, I should have sprung through the sash and grappled him with my hands. I have thought since that some providence held me back from making a demonstration that would have baffled our escape. I am sure at that moment I possessed no restraint within myself.
As I gazed at Dubrosc, the door of the apartment opened, and a young man entered. He was strangely attired, in a costume half-military, half-ranchero. There was a fineness, a silky richness, about the dress and manner of this youth that struck me. His features were dark and beautiful.
He advanced and sat down by the table, placing his hand upon it. Several rings sparkled upon his fingers. I observed that he was pale, and that his hand trembled.
After looking at him for a moment, I began to fancy I had seen the features before. It was not Narcisso; him I should have known; and yet there was a resemblance. Yes—he even resembledher! I started as this thought crossed me. I strained my eyes; the resemblance grew stronger.
Oh, Heaven! could it be?—dressed thus? No, no! those eyes—ha! I remember! The boy at the rendezvous—on board the transport—the island—the picture! It is she—the cousin—María de Merced!
These recollections came with the suddenness of a single thought, and passed as quickly. Later memories crowded upon me. The adventure of the morning—the strange words uttered at the window of my prison—the small hand! This, then, was the author of our deliverance.
A hundred mysteries were explained in a single moment. The unexpected elucidation came like a shock—like a sudden light. I staggered back, giving way to new and singular emotions.
“Guadalupe knows nothing of my presence, then.Sheis innocent.”
This thought alone restored me to happiness. A thousand others rushed through my brain in quick succession—some pleasant, others painful.
There was an altercation of voices over my head. I caught the iron rods, and, resting my toes upon a high bank, swung my body up, and again looked into the room. Dubrosc was now angrily pacing over the floor.
“Bah!” he ejaculated, with a look of cold brutality; “you think to make me jealous, I believe. That isn’t possible. I was never so, andyoucan’t do it. I know you love the cursed Yankee. I watched you in the ship—on the island, too. You had better keep him company where he is going. Ha, ha! Jealous, indeed! Your pretty cousins have grown up since I saw them last.”
The insinuation sent the blood in a hot stream through my veins.
It appeared to have a similar effect upon the woman; for, starting from her seat, she looked towards Dubrosc, her eyes flashing like globes of fire.
“Yes!” she exclaimed; “and if you dare whisper your polluting thoughts to either of them, lawless as is this land, you know that I still possess the power to punishyou. You are villain enough, Heaven knows, for anything; buttheyshall not fall: one victim is enough—and such a one!”
“Victim, indeed!” replied the man, evidently cowed by the other’s threat. “You call yourself victim, Marie? Thewifeof the handsomest man in Mexico? Ha, ha!”
There was something of irony in the latter part of the speech, and the emphasis placed on the word “wife.”
“Yes; you may well taunt me with your false priest, you unfeeling wretch!Oh, Santisima Madre!” continued she, dropping back into her chair, and pressing her head between her hands. “Beguiled—beggared—almost unsexed! and yet I never loved the man! It was not love, but madness—madness and fascination!”
The last words were uttered in soliloquy, as though she regarded not the presence of her companion.
“I don’t care a claco,” cried he fiercely, and evidently piqued at her declaration; “not one claco whether you ever loved me or not! That’s not the question now, butthis is: You must make yourself known to your Croesus of an uncle here, and demand that part of your fortune that he still clutches within his avaricious old fingers. You must do this to-morrow.”
“I will not!”
“But you shall, or—.”
The woman rose suddenly, and walked towards the door as if she intended to go out.
“No, not to-night, dearest!” said Dubrosc, grasping her rudely by the arm. “I have my reasons for keeping you here. I noted you to-day speaking with that cursed Yankee, and you’re just traitor enough to help him to escape. I’ll look to him myself, so you may stay where you are. If you should choose to rise early enough to-morrow morning, you will have the felicity of seeing him dance upon the tight-rope. Ha! ha! ha!”
And with a savage laugh the Creole walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.
A strange expression played over the features of the woman—a blending of triumph with anxiety. She ran forward to the window, and, pressing her small lips close to the glass, strained her eyes outward.
I held the diamond in my fingers, and, stretching up until my hand was opposite her face, I wrote the word “Gracias.”
At first seeing me she had started back. There was no time to be lost. My comrades were already chafing at my delay; and, joining them, we crept through the magueys, parting the broad, stiff leaves with our fingers. We were soon upon the edge of the chaparral wood.
I looked back towards the window. The woman stood holding the lamp, and its light was full upon her face. She had read the scrawl, and was gazing out with an expression I shall never forget. Another bound, and we were “in the woods.”