[1]I salute you, most pure Mary! Eleven has struck, and it rains.
[1]I salute you, most pure Mary! Eleven has struck, and it rains.
When the young lady left the sitting room to retire to her sleeping apartment, the count followed her with a lingering look, apparently not at all understanding the extraordinary conduct of his betrothed, especially under the circumstances in which they stood to each other, as they were so shortly to be married; but, after a few moments' reflection, the count shook his head, as if to dispel the mournful thoughts by which he was assailed, and, turning to Don Sylva, said:—
"Let us talk about business matters. Are you agreeable?"
"Have you anything new, then, to tell me?"
"Many things."
"Interesting?"
"You shall be the judge."
"Go on, then. I am all impatience to hear them."
"Let us proceed in rotation. You are aware, my friend, why I left Guetzalli?"
"Perfectly. Well, have you succeeded?"
"As I expected. Thanks to certain letters of which I was the bearer, and, above all, your kind recommendation, General Marcos received me in the most charming manner. The reception he deigned to accord me was most affectionate. In short, he gave mecarte blanche, authorising me to raise, not only one hundred and fifty men, but double the number if I considered it necessary."
"Oh, that is magnificent."
"Is it not? He told me also that in a war like that I was about to undertake—for my chase of the Apaches is a real war—he left me at liberty to act as I pleased, ratifying beforehand all I might do, being persuaded, as he added, that it would ever be for the interest and glory of Mexico."
"Come, I am delighted with the result. And now, what are your intentions?"
"I have resolved on quitting you to proceed, in the first place, to Guetzalli, whence I have now been absent nearly three weeks. I want to revisit my colony, in order to see if all goes on as I would wish, and if my men are happy. On the other hand, I shall not be sorry, before departing for possibly a long period with the greater part of my forces, to protect my colonists from acoup de main, by throwing up round the establishment earthworks strong enough to repulse an assault of the savages. This is the more important, because Guetzalli must always remain, to a certain extent, my headquarters."
"All right; and you start?"
"This very evening."
"So soon?"
"I must. You are aware how time presses at present."
"It is true. Have you nothing more to say to me?"
"Pardon me, I have one other point which I expressly reserved for the last."
"You attach a great interest to it, then?"
"Immense."
"Oh, oh! I am listening to you, then, my friend. Speak quickly."
"On my arrival in this country, at a period when the enterprises I have since successfully carried out were only in embryo, you were good enough, Don Sylva, to place at my disposal not only your credit, which is immense, but your riches, which are incalculable."
"It is true," the Mexican said with a smile.
"I availed myself largely of your offers, frequently assailing your strong box, and employing your credit whenever the occasion presented itself. Permit me now to settle with you the only part of the debt I can discharge, for I am incapable of repaying the other. Here," he added, taking a paper from his portfolio, "is a bill for 100,000 piastres, payable at sight on Walter Blount and Co., bankers, of Mexico. I am happy, believe me, Don Sylva, to be able to pay this debt so promptly, not because—"
"Pardon me," the hacendero quickly interrupted him, and declining with a gesture the paper the Count offered him, "we no longer understand each other, it seems to me."
"How so?"
"I will explain. On your arrival at Guaymas, you presented yourself to me, bearing a pressing letter of recommendation from a man to whom I owed very great obligations a few years back. The Baron de Spurtzheim described you to me rather as a beloved son than as a friend in whom he took interest. My house was at once opened to you—it was my duty to do so. Then, when I knew you, and could appreciate all that was noble and grand in your character, our relations, at first rather cold, became closer and more intimate. I offered you my daughter's hand, which you accepted."
"And gladly so," the count explained.
"Very good," the hacendero continued with a smile. "The money I could receive from a stranger—money which he honestly owes me—belongs to my son-in-law. Tear up that paper, then, my dear count, and pray do not think of such a trifle."
"Ah!" the count said, in a tone of vexation, "that was exactly what troubled me. I am not your son-in-law yet, and may I confess it? I fear I never shall be."
"What can make you fancy that? Have you not my promise? The word of Don Sylva de Torrés, Sir Count de Lhorailles, is a pledge which no one has ever yet dared to doubt."
"And for that reason I have no such idea. It is not you I am afraid of."
"Who, then?"
"Doña Anita."
"Oh, oh! My friend, you must explain yourself, for I confess I do not understand you at all," Don Sylva said sharply, as he rose and began walking up and down the room in considerable agitation.
"Good gracious, my friend, I am quite in despair at having produced this discussion! I love Doña Anita. Love, as you know, easily takes umbrage. Although my betrothed has ever been amiable, kind, and gracious to me, still I confess that I fancy she does not love me."
"You are mad, Don Gaëtano. Young girls know not what they like or dislike. Do not trouble yourself about such a childish thing. I promised that she shall be your wife, and it shall be so."
"Still, if she loved another, I should not like—"
"What! Really what you say has not common sense. Anita loves no one but you, I am sure; and stay, would you like to be reassured? You say that you start for Guetzalli this evening?"
"Yes."
"Very good. Prepare apartments for my daughter and myself. In a few days we will join you at your hacienda."
"Is it possible?" the count said joyfully.
"Tomorrow at daybreak we will start; so make haste."
"A thousand thanks."
"Come, you are now easier?"
"I am the happiest of mortals."
"All the better."
The two men exchanged a few words further, and separated with renewed promises of meeting again soon.
Don Sylva, accustomed to command despotically in his establishment, and to allow no one to discuss his will, told his daughter, through her waiting maid, that she must prepare for a rather long journey the next morning, and felt certain of her obedience.
The news was a thunderbolt for the young lady. She sank half fainting into an easy chair, and melted into tears. It was evident to her that this journey was only a pretext to separate her from the man she loved, and place, her a defenceless victim, in the power of the man she abhorred, and who was to be her husband. The poor child remained thus for several hours, a prey to violent despair, and not dreaming of seeking impossible repose; for, in the state in which she found herself, she knew that sleep would not close her eyes, all swollen with tears, and red with fever.
Gradually the sounds of the town died away one after the other. All slept, or seemed to sleep. Don Sylva's house was plunged into complete darkness; a weak light alone glistened like a star through the young girl's windows, proving that there at least someone was watching.
At this moment two hesitating shadows were cast on the wall opposite the hacendero's house. Two men, wrapped in long cloaks, stopped and examined the dimly lighted window with that attention only found in thieves and lovers. The two men to whom we allude incontestably belonged to the latter category.
"Hum!" the first said in a sharp but suppressed voice, "You are certain of what you assert, Cucharés?"
"As of my eternal salvation, Señor Don Martial," the scamp replied in the same tone. "The accursed Englishman entered the house while I was there. Don Sylva appeared on the best terms with the heretic. May his soul be confounded!"
We may here remark that a few years ago, and possibly even now, in the eyes of the Mexicans all foreigners were English, no matter the nation to which they belonged, and consequently heretics. Hence they naturally ranked, though little suspecting it, with the men whom it is no crime to kill, but whose assassination is rather looked upon as a meritorious action. We are bound to add, to the credit of the Mexicans, that whenever the occasion offered, they killed the English with an ardour which was a sufficient proof of their piety.
Don Martial continued:—
"On the faith of the Tigrero, this man has twice crossed my path, and I have spared him; but let him be careful against the third meeting."
"Oh!" Cucharés said, "the reverend Fra Becchico says that a man gains splendid indulgences by 'cutting' an Englishman. I have not yet had the luck to come across one, although I owe about eight dead men. I am much inclined to indulge myself with this one; it would be so much gained."
"On thy life, picaro, let him alone. That man belongs to me."
"Well, we'll not mention it again," he replied, stifling a sigh; "I will leave him to you. For all that it annoys me, although the niña seems to detest him cordially."
"Have you any proof of what you say?"
"What better proof than the repugnance she displays so soon as he appears, and the pallor which then covers her face without any apparent reason?"
"Ah, I would give a thousand ounces to know what to believe."
"What prevents you? Everybody is asleep—no one will see you. The story is not high—fifteen feet at the most. I am certain that Doña Anita would be delighted to have a chat with you."
"Oh, if I could but believe it!" he muttered with hesitation, casting a side glance at the still lighted window.
"Who knows? Perhaps she is expecting you."
"Silence, you scoundrel!"
"By'r Lady only listen! If what is said be true, the poor child must be in a perplexity, if not worse: she has probably great need of assistance."
"What do they say? Come, speak, but be brief."
"A very simple thing—that Doña Anita de Torrés marries within a week the Englishman, Don Gaëtano."
"You lie villain!" said the Tigrero with badly-restrained wrath. "I know not what prevents me thrusting down your throat with my dagger the odious words you have just uttered."
"You would do wrong," the other said, without being in the least discovered. "I am only an echo that repeats what it hears, nothing more. You alone in all Guaymas are ignorant of this news. After all, there is nothing astonishing in that, as you have only returned to town this day, after an absence of more than a month."
"That is true; but what is to be done?"
"Caray! Follow the advice I give you."
The Tigrero turned another long glance on the window, and let his head sink with an irresolute air.
"What will she say on seeing me?" he muttered.
"Caramba!" the lepero said in a sarcastic tone, "She will cry, 'You are welcome,alma mia!' It is clear, caray! Don Martial, have you become a timid child, that a woman's glance can make you tremble? Opportunity has only three hairs, in love as in war. You must seize her when she presents herself: if you do not, you run a risk of not meeting her again."
The Mexican approached the lepero near enough to touch him, and, fixing his glance on his tiger-cat eyes, said in a low and concentrated voice,—
"Cucharés, I trust in you. You know me. I have often come to your assistance. Were you to deceive my confidence I would kill you like a coyote."
The Tigrero pronounced these words with such an accent of dull fury, that the lepero, who knew the man before whom he was standing, turned pale in spite of himself, and felt a shudder of terror pass through his limbs.
"I am devoted to you, Don Martial," he replied in a voice, which he tried in vain to render firm. "Whatever may happen, count on me. What must I do?"
"Nothing; but wait, watch, at the least suspicious sound, the first hostile shadow that appears in the darkness, warn me."
"Count on me. Go to work. I am deaf and dumb, and during your absence I will watch over you like a son over his father."
"Good!" the Tigrero said.
He drew a few steps nearer, undid the reata fastened round his loins, and held it in his right hand. Then he raised his eyes, measured the distance and turning the reata forcibly round his head, hurled it into Doña Anita's balcony. The running knot caught in an iron hook, and remained firmly attached.
"Remember!" the Tigrero said, as he turned toward Cucharés.
"Go on," the latter said, as he leaned against the wall and crossed his legs; "I answer for everything."
Don Martial was satisfied, or feigned to be satisfied, with this assurance. He seized the reata, and taking a leap, like one of those panthers he had so often tracked on the prairies, he raised himself by the strength of his wrists, and speedily reached the balcony. He climbed over and went up to the window.
Doña Anita was asleep, half reclining in an easy chair. The poor girl, pale and exhausted, her eyes swollen with tears, had been conquered by sleep, which never gives up its claim on young and vigorous constitutions. On her marbled cheeks the tears had traced a long furrow, which was still humid. Martial surveyed with a tender glance the woman he loved, though not daring to approach her. Surprised thus during her sleep, Anita appeared to him even more beautiful; a halo of purity and candour seemed to surround her, watch over her repose, and render her holy and unassailable.
After a long and voluptuous contemplation, the Tigrero at length decided on advancing. The window, which was only leaned to (for the young girl had not dreamed of falling to sleep, as she had done), opened at the slightest push. Don Martial took one step, and found himself in the room. At the sight of this virginal chamber a religious respect fell on the Tigrero. He felt his heart beat rebelliously; and tottering, mad with fear and love, he fell on his knees by the side of the being he adored.
Anita opened her eyes.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, on seeing Don Martial, "Blessed be God, since He sends you to my assistance!"
The Tigrero surveyed her with moistened eye and panting chest. But suddenly the girl drew herself up; her memory returned, and with it that timid modesty innate in all women.
"Begone," she said, recoiling to the extremity of the room, "begone, caballero! How are you here? Who led you to my room? Answer I command you."
The Tigrero humbly bowed his head.
"God," he said, in an inarticulate voice, "God alone has conducted me to your side, señorita, as you yourself said. Oh, pardon me for having dared to surprise you thus! I have committed a great fault, I am aware; but a misfortune menaces you—I feel it, I guess it. You are alone, without support, and I have come to say to you, 'Madam, I am very low, very unworthy to serve you, but you have need of a firm and devoted heart. Here I am! Take my blood, take my life. I would be so happy to die for you!' In the name of Heaven, señora, in the name of what you love most on earth, do not reject my prayer. My arm, my heart, are yours: dispose of them."
These words were uttered by the young man in a choking voice, as he knelt in the middle of the room, his hands clasped, and fixing on Doña Anita his eyes, into which he had thrown his entire soul.
The hacendero's daughter turned her limpid glance on the young man, and, without removing her eyes, approached him with short steps, hesitating and trembling despite herself. When she arrived near him she remained for a moment undecided. At length she laid her two small, dainty hands on his shoulders, and placed her gentle face so near his, that the Tigrero felt on his forehead the freshness of her embalmed breath, while her long, black, and perfumed tresses gently caressed him.
"It is true, then," she said in a harmonious voice, "you love me then, Don Martial?"
"Oh!" the young man murmured, almost mad with love at this delicious contact.
The Mexican girl bent over him still more, and grazing with her rosy lips the Tigrero's moist brow,—
"Now," she said to him, starting back with the ravishing movement of a startled fawn, while her brow turned purple with the effort she had made to overcome her modesty, "now defend me, Don Martial; for in the presence of God, who sees us and judges us, I am your wife!"
The Tigrero leaped on his feet beneath the corrosive sting of this kiss. With a radiant brow and sparkling eyes, he seized the girl's arm and drawing her to the corner of the room, where was a statue of the Virgin, before which perfumed oil was burning,—
"On your knees, señorita," he said in an inspired voice, and himself bowed the knee.
The girl obeyed him.
"Holy Mother of Sorrow!" Don Martial went on, "Nuestra Señora de la Soledad!Divine succour of the afflicted, who soundest all hearts! Thou seest the purity of our souls, the holiness of our love. Before thee I take for my wife Doña Anita de Torrés. I swear to defend and protect her, before and against everybody, even if I lose my life in the contest I commence this day for the happiness of her I love, and who from this day forth is really my betrothed."
After pronouncing this oath in a firm voice the Tigrero turned to the maiden.
"It is your turn now, señorita," he said to her.
The girl fervently clasped her hands, and raising her tear-laden eyes to the holy image,—
"Nuestra Señora de la Soledad," she said in a voice broken with emotion, "thou, my only protector since the day of my birth, knowest how truly I am devoted to thee! I swear that all this man has said is the truth. I take him for my husband in thy sight, and will never have another."
They rose, and Doña Anita led the Tigrero to the balcony.
"Go!" she said to him. "Don Martial's wife must not be suspected. Go, my husband, my brother! The man to whom they want to deliver me is called the Count de Lhorailles. Tomorrow at daybreak we leave this place, probably to join him."
"And he?"
"Started this night."
"Where is he going?"
"I know not."
"I will kill him."
"Farewell, Don Martial, farewell!"
"Farewell, Doña Anita! Take courage: I am watching over you."
And after imprinting a last and chaste kiss on the young girl's pure brow, he clambered over the balcony, and hanging by the reata, glided down into the street. The hacendero's daughter unfastened the running knot, leant out and gazed on the Tigrero as long as she could see him; then she closed the window.
"Alas, alas!" murmured she, suppressing a sigh, "What have I done? Holy Virgin, thou alone canst restore me the courage which is deserting me."
She let the curtain fall which veiled the window, and turned to go and kneel before the Virgin; but suddenly she recoiled, uttering a cry of terror. Two paces from her Don Sylva was standing with frowning brow and stern face.
"Doña Anita, my daughter," said he, in a slow and stern voice, "I have seen and heard everything; spare yourself, then, I beg you, all useless denial."
"My father!" the poor child stammered in a broken voice.
"Silence!" he continued. "It is three o'clock; we set out at sunrise. Prepare yourself to marry in a fortnight Don Gaëtano de Lhorailles."
And, without deigning to add a word, he walked out slowly, carefully closing the door after him.
As soon as she was alone the young girl bent down as if listening, tottered a few steps forward, raised her hands with a nervous gesture to her contracted throat—then, pealing forth a piercing cry, fell back on the floor.
She had fainted.
It was about eight in the evening when the Count de Lhorailles left the residence of Don Sylva de Torrés. Theferia de platawas then in all its splendour. The streets of Guaymas were thronged with a joyful and motley crowd: the shouts of songs and laughter rose on every side. The piles of gold heaped on the monte tables emitted their yellow and intoxicating reflection in the dazzling gleams of the lights, that shone in every door and window: here and there the sounds of thevihuelasandjarabesescaped from the pulquerías, invaded by the drinkers. The count, elbowed and elbowing, traversed as quickly as was possible the dense groups which at every instant barred his passage; but the conversation he had had with Don Sylva had put him in too happy a temper for him to dream of being vexed at the numerous collisions he endured at every moment.
At length, after numberless difficulties, and wasting at least thrice the time he would have employed under other circumstances, he reached at about ten in the evening, the house where he lodged. He had spent about two hours in covering less than six hundred yards.
On arriving at the mesón, the count proceeded first to the corral to see his horse, to which he gave, with his own hand, two trusses of alfalfa; then, after ordering that he should be called at one o'clock, if by accident (which was most improbable) he retired to hiscuartoto take a few hours' rest.
The count intended to start at such an early hour in order to avoid the heat of the day, and travel more quickly. Besides, after his lengthened conversation with Don Sylva, the noble adventurer was not sorry to find himself alone, in order to go over in his mind all the happy things that had happened during the past evening.
From the moment he had landed in America the count had enjoyed—to employ a familiar term—a shameful good luck: everything succeeded with him. In a few months his fortune might be thus summed up:—A colony founded under the most favourable auspices, and already on the road of progress and improvement: while keeping his nationality intact—that is to say, his liberty of action and an inviolable neutrality—he was in the service of the Mexican Government, as captain of a free corps of one hundred and fifty devoted men, with whom he could attempt, if not carry out, the wildest enterprises. In the last place, he was on the point of marrying the daughter of a man twenty times a millionaire, as far as he had opportunity of judging; and what in no way spoiled the affair, his betrothed was delightful.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, according the standpoint our readers may think in judging of our hero, this man, worn out by the enervating eccentricities of Parisian life, no longer felt his heart beat from any emotion of joy, sorrow or fear: all was dead within him. He was exactly the man wanted to succeed in the country to which accident had sent him. In the great del of life he had begun in America he had an immense advantage over his adversaries—that of never allowing himself to be directed by passion; and consequently, owing to his unalterable coolness, he was enabled to evade the pitfalls incessantly laid for him, over which he triumphed without appearing to notice them.
After what we have said, we have hardly need to add that he did not love the woman whose hand he sought. She was young and lovely—so much the better. Had she been old and ugly he would have accepted her hand all the same. What did he care? He only sought one thing in marriage—a brilliant and envied position. In fine, the Count de Lhorailles was all calculation. We have made a mistake, however, in affirming that he had not a weak point. He was ambitious. This passion, one of the most violent of those with which Heaven has afflicted the human race, was possibly the only link by which the count was still attached to humanity. Ambition in him had reached such a pitch, especially during the last few months—it had taken such an immense development—that he would have sacrificed all to it.
Now let us see what was the object of this man's ambition. What future did he dream of? It is probable that we may explain this to the reader in fuller detail presently.
The count went to bed; that is to say, after wrapping himself carefully in his zarapé, he stretched himself on the leathern frame which throughout Mexico is the substitute for beds, whose existence is completely ignored. So soon as he lay down he fell asleep, with that conscience peculiar to the adventurer whose every hour is claimed beforehand, and who, having but a few moments to grant to rest, hastens to profit by them, and sleeps as the Spaniards say,a la pierna suelta, which we may translate nearly by sleeping with closed fists.
At one in the morning the count, as he had promised, awoke, lighted thecebowhich served him as a candle, arranged his toilette to a certain extent, carefully examined his pistols and rifle, and assured himself that his sabre left the scabbard easily; then, when all these various preparations, indispensable for every traveller careful for his safety, were ended, he opened the door of the cuarto and proceeded to the corral.
His horse was eating heartily, and gaily finishing its alfalfa. The count himself gave it a measure of oats, which he saw it dispose of with neighs of pleasure, and then put on the saddle. In Mexico, horsemen, whatever the class of society to which they belong, never leave to others the care of attending to their steeds: for in those semi-savage countries the life of the rider depends nearly always upon the vigour and speed of his animal.
The door of the mesón was only leaned to, so that the travellers might start whenever they pleased without disturbing anybody. The count lit his cigar, leaped into the saddle, and started on a trot along the road leading to the Rancho. Nothing is so agreeable as night travelling in Mexico. The earth, refreshed by the night breeze, and bedewed by the copious dew, exhaled acrid and perfumed scents, whose beneficent emanations restore the body all its vigour, and the mind its lucidity. The moon, just on the point of disappearing, profusely scattered its oblique rays, which lengthened immoderately the shadow of the trees growing at intervals along the road, and made them in the obscurity resemble a legion of fleshless spectres. The sky, of a deep azure, was studded with an infinite number of glistening stars, in the midst of which flashed the dazzling southern cross, to which the Indians have given the name ofPoron Chayké. The wind breathed gently through the branches, in which the blue jay uttered at intervals the melodious notes of its melancholy song, with which were mingled at times, in the profundities of the desert, the howling of the cougar, the sharp miauw of the panther or the ounce, and the hoarse bark of the coyotes in search of prey.
The count, on leaving Guaymas, had hurried on his horse; but subjugated, in spite of himself, by the irresistible attractions of this autumn night he gradually checked the pace of his steed, and yielded to the flood of thoughts which mounted incessantly to his brain, and plunged him into a gentle reverie. The descendant of an ancient and haughty Frank race, alone in this desert, he mentally surveyed the splendour of his name so long eclipsed, and his heart expanded with joy and pride on reflecting that the task was reserved for him perhaps to rehabilitate those from whom he descended, and restore, this time eternally, the fortunes of his family, of which he had hitherto proved such a bad guardian.
This land, which he trampled underfoot, would restore him what he had lost and madly squandered a hundred fold. The moment had at length arrived when, free from all hobbles, he was about to realise those plans for the future so long engraved on his brain. He went on thus, travelling in the country of chimeras, and so absorbed in his thoughts, that he no longer troubled himself with what went on around him.
The stars were beginning to turn pale in the heavens, and be extinguished in turn. The dawn was tracing a white line, which gradually assumed a reddish tint on the distant obscurity of the horizon. On the approach of day the air became fresher; then the count, aroused—if we may employ the term—by the icy impression produced on him by the bountiful desert dew, pulled the folds of his zarapé over the shoulders with a shudder, and started at a gallop, directing a glance to the sky, and muttering,—
"I will succeed, no matter the odds."
A haughty defiance, to which the heavens seemed prepared to respond immediately.
The day was on the brink of dawning, and, in consequence of that, the night, owing to its struggle with the twilight, had become more gloomy, as always happens during the few moments preceding the apparition of the sun. The first houses of the Rancho were standing out from the fog, a short distance before him, when the count heard, or fancied he heard, the sound of several horses' hoofs re-echoing on the pebbles behind him.
In America, by night, and on a solitary road, the presence of man announces always or nearly always, a peril.
The count stopped and listened. The sound was rapidly approaching. The Frenchman was brave, and had proved it in many circumstances; still he did not at all desire to be assassinated in the corner of the road, and perish miserably through an ambuscade. He looked around, in order to study the chances of safety offered him in the probable event that the arrivals were enemies.
The plain was bare and flat: not a tree, not a ditch, nor any elevation behind which he could intrench himself. Two hundred yards in front, as we have said, were the first houses of the Rancho.
The count made up his mind on the instant. He dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and galloped at full speed in the direction of San José. It seemed to him as if the strangers imitated him, and pressed on their horses too.
A few minutes passed thus, during which the sound grew more distinct. It was, therefore, evident to the Frenchman that the strangers were after him. He threw a glance behind him, and perceived two shadows, still distant, rushing at full speed towards him. By this time the count had reached the Rancho. Reassured by the vicinity of houses, and not caring to fly from a perhaps imaginary danger, he turned back, drew his horse across the road, took a pistol in each hand, and waited. The strangers were still pressing on without checking the speed of their horses, and were soon within twenty yards of the count.
"Who goes there?" he shouted in a firm and loud voice.
The unknown made no reply, and appeared to redouble their speed.
"Who's there?" the count repeated. "Stop, or I fire!"
He uttered these words with such a determined accent, his countenance was so intrepid, that, after a few moments' hesitation, the strangers stopped.
There were two of them. The day, just feebly breaking, permitted the count to distinguish them perfectly. They were dressed in Mexican costume; but, strangely enough in this country, where, under similar circumstances, the bandits care very little about showing their faces, the strangers were masked.
"Hold, my masters!" shouted the count. "What means this obstinate pursuit?"
"That we probably have an interest in catching you up," replied a hoarse voice sarcastically.
"Then you really are after me?"
"Yes, if you are the stranger known as the Count de Lhorailles."
"I am he," said he without any hesitation.
"Very good; then we can come to an understanding."
"I ask nothing better, though, from your suspicious conduct, you appear to me to be bandits, if you want my purse, take it and be off, for I am in a hurry."
"Keep your purse, caballero; we want to take your life, and not your money."
"Ah, ha! 'tis, then, a trap, followed by an assassination."
"You are mistaken. I offer you a fair fight."
"Hum!" the count said, "a fair fight: two against one—that is rather disproportionate."
"You would be correct if matters were as you assume," the man haughtily replied who had hitherto taken the word; "but my companion will content himself with looking on and taking no part in the duel."
The count reflected.
"Pardieu!" he said at last, "It is an extraordinary affair! A duel in Mexico and with a Mexican! Such a thing as that has never been heard of before."
"It is true, caballero; but all things must have a beginning."
"Enough of jesting. I ask nothing better than to fight, and I hope to prove to you that I am a resolute man; but before accepting your proposition, I should not be sorry to know why you force me to fight you."
"For what end?"
"Corbleu! Why, to know it. You must understand that I cannot waste my time in fighting with every ruffler I meet on the road, and who has a fancy to have his throat cut."
"It will be enough for you to know that I hate you."
"Caramba! I suspected as much; but as you seem determined not to show me your face, I should like to be able to recognise you at another time."
"Enough chattering," the unknown said haughtily. "Time is flying. We have had sufficient discussion."
"Well, my master, if that is the case, get ready. I warn you that I intend to take you both. A Frenchman would never have any difficulty in holding his own against two Mexican bandits."
"As you please."
"Forward!"
"Forward!"
The three horsemen spurred their horses and charged. When they met they exchanged pistol shots, and then drew their sabres. The fight was brief, but obstinate. One of the strangers, slightly wounded, was carried away by his horse, and disappeared in a cloud of dust. The count, grazed by a ball, felt his anger changed to fury, and redoubled his efforts to master his foe; but he had before him a sturdy opponent, a man of surprising skill and of strength at least equal to his own.
This man whose eyes he saw gleaming like live coals through the holes in his mask, whirled round him with extraordinary rapidity, making his horse perform the boldest curvets, attacking him incessantly with the point or edge of his sabre, while bounding out of reach of the counterblows.
The count exhausted himself in vain against this indefatigable enemy. His movements began to lose their elasticity—his sight grew troubled—the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. His silent adversary increased the rapidity of his attacks: the issue of the combat was no longer doubtful, when the Frenchman suddenly felt a slipknot fall on his shoulders. Before he could even dream of loosening it he was roughly lifted from his saddle, and hurled to the ground so violently that he almost fainted, and found it impossible to make an effort to rise. The second stranger, after a mad course of a few moments, had at length succeeded in mastering his horse; he returned in all haste to the scene of action, the two men so furiously engaged not noticing it; then, thinking it time to put an end to the duel, he raised his reata and lassoed the count.
So soon as he saw his enemy on the ground, the unknown leaped from his horse and ran up to him. His first care was to free the Frenchman from the slipknot that strangled him, and then tried to restore him to his senses, which was not a lengthy task.
"Ah!" the count said, with a bitter smile, as he rose and crossed his arms on his chest, "that is what you call fair fighting."
"You are alone to blame for what has happened," the other said quietly, "as you would not agree to my propositions."
The Frenchman disdained any discussion. He contented himself with shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.
"Your life belongs to me," his adversary continued.
"Yes, through a piece of treachery; but no matter—assassinate me, and finish the affair."
"I do not wish to kill you."
"What do you want, then?"
"To give you a piece of advice."
The count laughed sarcastically.
"You must be mad, my good fellow."
"Not so much as you fancy. Listen attentively to what I have to say to you."
"I will do so even for the hope of being promptly freed from your presence."
"Good, Señor Conde de Lhorailles. Your arrival in this country has caused the unhappiness of two persons."
"Nonsense! You are jesting with me."
"I speak seriously. Don Sylva de Torrés has promised you his daughter's hand."
"How does it concern you?"
"Answer!"
"It is true. Why should I conceal it?"
"Doña Anita does not love you."
"How do you know that?" the count asked with a mocking smile.
"I know it; I know, too, that she loves another."
"Only think of that!"
"And that the other loves her."
"All the worse for him; for I swear that I will not surrender her."
"You are mistaken, señor conde. You will surrender her or die."
"Neither one or the other," the impetuous Frenchman shouted, now perfectly recovered from his stunning fall. "I repeat that I will marry Doña Anita. If she does not love me, well, that is unfortunate. I hope that she will presently alter her opinion of me. The marriage suits me, and no one will succeed in breaking it off."
The unknown listened, a prey to violent emotion. His eyes flashed lightning, and he stamped his feet furiously; still he made an effort to master the feeling which agitated him, and replied in a slow and firm voice,—
"Take care of what you do, caballero. I have sworn to warn you, and have done so honestly. Heaven grant that my words find an echo in your heart, and that you follow the counsel I give you! The first time accident brings us together again one of us will die."
"I will take my precautions, be assured; but you are wrong not to profit by the present occasion to kill me, for it will not occur again."
The two strangers had by this time remounted.
"Count de Lhorailles," the unknown said again, as he bent over the Frenchman, "for the last time, take care, for I have a great advantage over you. I know you, and you do not know me. It will be an easy thing for me to reach you whenever I please. We are the sons of Indians and Spaniards. We feel a burning hatred: so take care."
After bowing ironically to the count he burst into a mocking laugh, spurred his horse, and started at headlong speed, followed by his silent companion. The count watched them disappear with a pensive air. When they were lost in the obscurity he tossed his head several times, as if to shake off the gloomy thoughts that oppressed him in spite of himself, then picked up his sabre and pistols, took his horse by the bridle, and walked slowly toward the pulquería, near which the fight had taken place.
The light which filtered through the badly-joined planks of the door, the songs and laughter that resounded from the interior, afforded a reasonable prospect of obtaining a temporary shelter in this house.
"Hum!" he muttered to himself as he walked along, "That bandit is right. He knows me, and I have no way of recognising him. By Jupiter, I have a good sound hatred on my shoulders! But nonsense!" he added, "I was too happy. I wanted an enemy. On my soul, let him do as he will! Even if Hades combine against me, I swear that nothing will induce me to resign the hand of Doña Anita."
At this moment he found himself in front of the pulquería, at the door of which he rapped. Naturally impatient, angered, too, by the accident which had happened to him, and the tremendous struggle he had been engaged in, the count was about to carry out his threat of beating in the door, when it was opened.
"Válga me Dios!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "Is this the way you allow people to be assassinated before your doors, without proceeding to their assistance?"
"Oh, oh!" the pulquero said sharply, "Is anyone dead?"
"No, thanks to Heaven!" the count replied; "But I had a narrow escape of being killed."
"Oh!" the pulquero said with great nonchalance, "If we were to trouble ourselves about all who shout for help at night, we should have enough to do; and besides, it is very dangerous on account of the police."
The count shrugged his shoulders and walked in, leading his horse after him. The door was closed again immediately.
The count was unaware that in Mexico the man who finds a corpse, or brings the assassin to trial, is obliged to pay all the expenses of a justice enormously expensive in itself, and which never affords any satisfaction to the victim. In all the Mexican provinces people are so thoroughly convinced of the truth of what we assert, that, so soon as a murder is committed, everyone runs off, without dreaming of helping the victim; for, in the case of death supervening, such an act of charity would entail many annoyances on the individual who tried to imitate the good Samaritan.
In Sonora people do better still: as soon as a quarrel begins, and a man falls, they shut all the doors.
As Don Sylva had announced to his daughter, by daybreak all was ready for the start. In Mexico, and specially in Sonora, where roads are mainly remarkable for their absence, the mode of travelling differs utterly from that adopted in Europe. There are no public vehicles, no relays of post horses; the only means of transport known and practised is on horseback.
A journey of only a few days entails interminable cares and vexations. You must carry everything with you, because you are certain of finding nothing on the road. Beds, tents, provisions and water before all, must be carried on mule-back. Without these indispensable precautions you would run a risk of dying from hunger or thirst, and sleeping in the open air.
You must also be provided with a considerable and well-armed escort, in order to repulse the attacks of wild beasts, Indians and especially robbers with whom all the roads of Mexico swarm, owing to the anarchy in which this unhappy country is plunged. Hence it is easy to comprehend the earnest desire Don Sylva felt to quit Guaymas at as early an hour as possible.
The court of the house resembled an hostelry. Fifteen mules laden with bales were waiting while the palanquin in which Doña Anita was to travel was being got ready. Some forty steeds, saddled, bridled, with musquetoons attached at to the troussequins, and pistols in the holsters, were fastened to rings in the wall while a peon held in hand a splendid stallion, magnificently harnessed, which stamped and champed its silver bit, which it covered with foam.
In the street a crowd of people, among whom were Don Martial and Cucharés, already returned from their expedition to the Rancho, were curiously regarding this departure, which they could not at all comprehend at such an advanced period of the year, so unpropitious for a country residence, and making all sorts of comments on the reason of the journey.
Among all these people, collected by accident or through curiosity, was a man, evidently an Indian, who, leaning carelessly against the wall, never took his eyes off the door of Don Sylva's house, and followed with evident interest all the movements of the hacendero's numerous servants.
This man, still young, appeared to be an Hiaqui Indian, although an observer, after a close inspection, would have asserted the contrary; for there was in the man's wide brow, in his eyes, whose glitter he tried in vain to moderate, in the haughty mouth, and above all, in the native elegance of his vigorous limbs, which seemed carved on the model of the Greek Hercules, something proud, resolute and independent, which rather denoted the proud Comanche or ferocious Apache than the stupid Hiaqui; but in this crowd no one dreamed of troubling himself about the Indian, who, for his part, was careful to attract as little attention as possible.
The Hiaquis are accustomed to come to Guaymas, and let themselves out as workmen or servants; hence the presence of an Indian there is not at all extraordinary, and is not noticed.
At last, at about eight o'clock, Don Sylva, giving his hand to his daughter, who was dressed in a charming travelling costume, appeared beneath the portico of the house. Doña Anita was pale as a ghost. Her haggard features, her swollen eyes, testified to the sufferings of the night, and the restraint she was forced to place on herself, even at this moment, to prevent her bursting into tears in the presence of all. At the sight of the young lady, Don Martial and Cucharés exchanged a rapid glance, while a smile of indefinable expression played round the lips of the Indian to whom we have alluded.
On the hacendero's arrival silence was re-established as if by enchantment; thearrierosran to the heads of their mules; the servants, armed to the teeth, mounted; and Don Sylva, after assuring himself by a glance that all was ready, and that his orders had been punctually executed, placed his daughter in the palanquin, where she at once nestled like a hummingbird among rose leaves.
At a sign from the hacendero, the mules, fastened to each other by the tails, began to leave the house behind thenana, whose bells they followed, and escorted by peons. Before mounting his horse Don Sylva turned to an old servant, who, straw hat in hand, respectfully stood near him.
"Adieu, Tío Pelucho!" he said to him. "I intrust the house to you. Keep good watch, and take care of all in it. I leave you Pedrito and Florentio to help you, and you will give them the necessary orders for all to go on properly during my absence."
"You may be at ease, mi amo," the old man answered, saluting his master. "Thanks to Heaven, this is not the first time you have left me alone here, and I believe I have ever done my duty properly."
"You are a good servant, Tío Pelucho," Don Sylva said with a smile; "I start in most perfect ease of mind."
"May God bless you, mi amo, as well as the niña!" the old man continued, crossing himself.
"Good bye, Tío Pelucho," the young lady then said, leaning out of the palanquin. "I know that you are careful of everything belonging to me."
The old man bowed with visible delight. Don Sylva gave the order for departure, and the whole caravan started in the direction of the Rancho de San José.
It was one of those magnificent mornings only known in these blessed regions. The night storm had entirely swept the sky, which was of a pale blue. The sun, already high in the horizon, shot forth its hot beams, which were slightly tempered by the odoriferous vapours exhaling from the ground. The atmosphere, impregnated by acrid and penetrating odours, was of extraordinary transparency; a light breeze refreshed the air at intervals; flocks of birds, glistening with a thousand colours, flew in every direction, and the mules following the bell of thenena madrina—the mother mule—were urged on by the songs of the arrieros.
The caravan moved along gaily through the sandy plain, raising round it clouds of dust, and forming a long twining serpent in the endless turnings of the road. A vanguard of ten servants explored the neighbourhood, examining the bushes, and shifting sand heaps. Don Sylva smoked a cigar while conversing with his daughter; and a rearguard, formed of twenty resolute men, closed the march, and insured the security of the convoy.
In this country, we repeat it, where the police are a nullity, and consequently surveillance impossible, a journey of four leagues—and the Rancho de San José is only that distance from Guaymas—is a very serious affair, and demands as many precautions as a journey of a hundred leagues with us, the enemies who may be met, and with whom you run a risk of a contest at any moment—Indians, robbers, or wild beasts—being too numerous, determined, and too greedy for plunder and murder to allow the traveller to confide with gaiety of heart in the speed of his horse.
They were already far from Guaymas, the white houses of which town had long ago disappeared in the numerous turnings of the road, when the capataz, leaving the head of the caravan, where he had hitherto remained galloped back to the palanquin, where Don Sylva was still riding.
"Well, Blas," the latter said, "what is there new? Have you noticed anything alarming ahead of us?"
"Nothing, excellency," the capataz replied: "all is going well, and in an hour at the latest we shall be at the Rancho."
"Whence, then, the haste you showed to join me again?"
"Oh! Excellency, it is not much; but an idea occurred to me—something I wished you to see."
"Ah, ah!" Don Sylva said. "What is it, my lad?"
"Look, excellency," the capataz continued, pointing in a south-western direction.
"Ah! What is that? A fire, if I am not mistaken."
"It is indeed a fire, excellency. Look here;" and he pointed east-south-east.
"There's another. Who on earth has lighted the fires on those scarped points? What can their object be?"
"Oh! It is easy enough to understand that, excellency."
"Do you think so, my boy? Well, then you will explain it to me."
"I am willing to do so. Stay," he said, pointing to the first fire: "that hill is the Cerro del Gigante."
"It is."
"And that," the capataz continued, pointing to the second fire, "is the Cerro de San Xavier."
"I think it is."
"I am certain of it."
"Well?"
"As we know that a fire cannot kindle itself, and as people do not amuse themselves with a fire when the thermometer is up at a hundred—"
"You conclude from that—?"
"That those fires have been lighted by robbers or Indians, who have had scent of our departure."
"Stay, stay! That is most logical, my friend. Continue your explanation, for it interests me enormously."
Don Sylva's capataz, or steward, was a tall, herculean fellow of about forty, devoted body and soul to his master, who placed the greatest confidence in him. The worthy man bowed with a smile of satisfaction on hearing the hacendero's kind remarks.
"Oh! Now," he went on, "I have not much more to say, except that the ladrones who are watching us know, through that signal, that Don Sylva de Torrés and his daughter have left Guaymas for the Rancho."
"My faith! You are right. I had forgotten all those details. I did not think of all the birds of prey that are watching our passage. Well, after all, though, what do we care if the bandits are at our heels? We do not hide ourselves. Our start took place in the presence of plenty of persons. We are numerous enough not to fear any insult; but if any of those picaros dare to attack us, cascaras! They will find their work cut out for them, I am convinced. Push on, then, without any fear, Blas, my boy! Nothing unpleasant can happen to us."
The capataz saluted his master and galloped back to the head of the column. An hour later they reached the Rancho without any accident.
Don Sylva rode at the right-hand door of the palanquin, talking to his daughter, who only answered in monosyllables, in spite of the continued efforts she made to hide her sorrow from her father's clear eyes, when the hacendero heard his name called repeatedly. He turned his head sharply, and uttered an exclamation of surprise on recognising in the man who addressed him the Count de Lhorailles.
"What! Señor conde, you here? What singular hazard makes me meet you so near the port, when you should have been so far ahead of us?"
On perceiving the count the Doña felt herself blush, and fell back, letting the curtains of the palanquin slip from her hand.
"Oh?" replied the count, with a courteous bow, "Since last night certain things have happened to me which I must impart to you, Don Sylva—things which will surprise you, I am certain; but the present is not the moment to commence such a story."
"Whatever you think proper, my friend. But say, do you set out again, or remain here?"
"I go, I go! In stopping here my sole object was to await you. If you consent we will travel together. Instead of preceding you at Guetzalli, we shall arrive together—that is the only difference."
"Capital! Let us go," he added, making a sign to the capataz. The latter, on seeing his master conversing with the count, had ordered a halt, but now the caravan started again. The Rancho was speedily traversed, and then the journey commenced in reality.
The desert lay expanded before the travellers in endless sandy plains. On the yellow ground, a long, tortuous line, formed by the whitened bones of mules and horses that had broken down, indicated the road which must be followed so as not to go astray.
About two hundred yards ahead of the caravan a man was trotting along, carelessly seated on the back of a skeleton donkey, swaying from side to side, half lulled to sleep by the burning sunbeams which fell vertically on his bare head.
"Eh?" Don Sylva said, on perceiving the man. "Blas," said Don Sylva on perceiving this man, "call the Indian over yonder. These devils of redskins know the desert thoroughly and he can serve as our guide. In that way we shall run no risk of losing our road, for he will be sure to put us right."
"Quite true," the count observed; "in these confounded sand hills no man can be sure of his direction."
"Go to him," commanded Don Sylva.
The capataz put his horse at a gallop. On arriving within a short distance of the solitary traveller, he formed a sort of speaking trumpet with his hands.
"Halloh, José!" he shouted.
In Mexico all theMansos, or civilised Indians, are called José, and reply to this name, which has grown generic. The Indian thus hailed turned round.
"What do you want?" he asked with a careless air.
It was the man whom we saw at Guaymas, watching so attentively the preparations for the hacendero's departure. Was it chance that brought him to this spot? That was a question which none but himself could have answered.
Blas Vasquez was what is called in Mexico ahombre de a caballo, versed for a long period in Indian tricks. He bent on the traveller an enquiring glance, which the latter supported with perfect ease. With his head timidly bowed, his hands laid on the donkey's neck, his naked legs hanging down on either side, he offered a complete type of the Indian manso, almost brutalised by the vicious contact with the whites. The capataz shook his head with a dissatisfied air; his investigation was far from satisfying him. Still, after a moment's hesitation, he resumed his interrogatory.
"What are you doing all alone on this road, José?" he asked him.
"I have come from del Puerto, where I have been engaged as a carpenter. I remained there a month, and as I saved the small sum I wanted, I started yesterday to return to my village."
All this was perfectly probable; the majority of the Hiaqui Indians act in this way; and then what interest could the man have in deceiving him? He was alone and unarmed; the caravan on the other hand, was numerous and composed of devoted men. No danger was, therefore, to be apprehended.
"Well, did you earn much money?" the capataz continued,
"Yes," the Indian said triumphantly; "five piastres and these three besides."
"Why, José, you are a rich man."
The Hiaqui smiled doubtfully.
"Yes," he said, "Tiburón has money."
"Is your name Tiburón (shark)?" the capataz said distrustfully. "That is an ugly name."
"Why so? The palefaces gave that name to their red son, and he finds it good, since it comes from them, and he keeps it."
"Is your village far from here?"
"If I had a good horse I should arrive in three days. The village of my tribe is between the Gila and Guetzalli."
"Do you know Guetzalli?"
The Indian shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.
"The redskins know all the hunting grounds on the Gila," he said.
At this moment the caravan caught up the two speakers.
"Well, Blas," Don Sylva asked, "Who is the man?"
"A Hiaqui Indian. He is returning to his village, after earning a trifle at the Puerto."
"Can he be of service to us?"
"I believe so. His tribe, he says, is encamped near the Gila."
"Ah!" said the count, drawing nearer, "Does he belong to the White Horse tribe?"
"Yes," the Indian said.
"In that case I answer for the man," the count said quickly. "Those Indians are very gentle; they are miserable beggars, often starving; and I employ them at the hacienda."
"Listen!" Don Sylva said, tapping the redskin's shoulder amicably. "We are going to Guetzalli."
"Good."
"We want a faithful and devoted guide."
"Tiburón is poor; he has only a poor donkey, which cannot march so quickly as his pale brothers drive their horses."
"Do not trouble yourself about that," the hacendero added. "I will give you such a horse as you never mounted, if you serve us honestly. On arriving at the hacienda, I will add ten piastres to those you already possess. Does that suit you?"
The Indian's eye sparkled with greed at this proposal.
"Where is the horse?" he asked.
"Here," the capataz replied, pointing to a superb stallion led by a peon.
The redskin looked at it with the eye of a connoisseur.
"Well, do you accept?" the hacendero said.
"Yes."
"Then get off your donkey, and let us start."
"I cannot abandon my donkey; it is a famous brute, which has done me good service."
"That need not trouble you; it can follow with the baggage mules."
The Indian gave a nod of assent, but made no further reply. In a few minutes he was mounted, and the caravan continued its march. The capataz alone did not appear to place any great confidence in the guide so singularly met.
"I will watch him," he said in a low voice.
The march went on the whole day without any fresh incident, and the next day they reached the Rio Gila. The banks of this river contrast by their fertility with the desolate aridity of the plains that surround them. Don Sylva's journey, though recommenced at the moment when the sun, arrived at its zenith, pours down its burning beams perpendicularly, was only an agreeable promenade of a few leagues, beneath the dense shade of tufted woods which grow with an amount of sap unknown in our climates.
It was nearly three o'clock when the travellers saw before them the colony of Guetzalli, founded by the Count de Lhorailles, and which, although it only had a few months' existence, had already attained a considerable size. This colony was composed of a hacienda, round which were grouped the labourers' huts. We will devote a few words to it.
The hacienda was built on a peninsula nearly three leagues in circumference, covered with wood and pasture, on which more than four thousand head of cattle grazed peacefully, returning at night to the parks adjoining the house, which was surrounded by the river, forming anenceinteof natural fortresses. The tongue of land, not more than eight yards in width, attaching it to the mainland, was commanded by a battery of six heavy guns, in its turn surrounded by a wide, wet ditch.
The house, surrounded by tall embattled walls, bastioned at the angles, was a species of fortress capable of sustaining a regular siege with the eight guns mounted on the bastions which guarded the approaches. It was composed of a huge main building, one story high, with a terraced roof, having ten windows in the frontage, and flanked on the right and left by two buildings, running out at right angles, one of which served as a magazine for grain and maize, while the other was occupied by the capataz and the numerousemployésof the hacienda.
Wide steps, furnished with a double iron balustrade, curiously worked, and surmounted by a veranda, formed the approach to the count's apartments, which were furnished with that simple and picturesque taste which distinguishes the Spanish farms of America.
Between the house and the outer wall was a vast garden, exquisitely laid out, and so covered with bushes that at four paces' distance it was impossible to see anything. The space left free behind the farm was reserved for the parks or corrals in which the animals were shut up at night, and a species of large court, in which thematanza del ganado, or slaughter of the cattle, was performed once annually.
Nothing could be so picturesque as the appearance of this white house, whose roof could be seen for a long distance, half concealed by the branches which formed a curtain of foliage most refreshing to the eye. From the windows of the first floor the eye surveyed the plain on one side; on the other, the Rio Gila, which, like a wide silvery ribbon, rolled along with the most capricious windings, and was lost an immense distance off in the blue horizon.
Since the time when the Apaches all but surprised the hacienda, amiradorhad been built on the roof of the main building, where a sentinel had been stationed day and night to watch the neighbourhood, and announce, by means of a bullock's horn, the approach of any stranger to the colony. Besides, a post of six men guarded the isthmus battery, whose guns were ready to thunder at the slightest alarm.
Thus the arrival of the caravan had been signalled when it was still a long distance off; and the count's lieutenant, Martin Leroux, an old African soldier, was standing behind the guns to interrogate the arrivals so soon as they were within hail. Don Sylva was perfectly aware of the regulations established in the hacienda, which were, indeed, common to all the establishments held by white men; for at these frontier posts, where people are exposed to the constant depredations of the Indians, they are obliged to be incessantly on the watch. But the thing the Mexican could not comprehend was that the count's lieutenant, who must have recognised him, did not open the gates immediately, and he made a remark to that effect.
"He would have done wrong," the count replied. "The colony of Guetzalli is a fortress, and the regulations must be the same for all: the general welfare depends on their strict and entire observation. Martin recognised me long ago, I am convinced; but he may suppose that I am a prisoner of the Indians, and that, in leaving me apparently free they intend to surprise the colony. Be assured that my excellent lieutenant will not let us pass till he is quite certain that our European clothes do not cover red skins."
"Oh, yes!" Don Sylva muttered to himself; "That is true. The Europeans foresee everything. They are our masters."
The caravan was now not more than twenty yards from the hacienda.
"I fancy," the count observed, "that if we do not wish to receive a shower of bullets we had better halt."
"What!" said Don Sylva in amazement; "They would fire?"
"I am certain of it."
The two men checked their horses and waited to be challenged.
"Who goes there?" a powerful voice shouted in French from behind the battery.
"Well, what do you think of it now?" the count said to the hacendero.
"It is perfectly wonderful," rejoined the latter.
"Friends," the count answered. "Lhorailles and freedom!"
"All right—open," the voice commanded. "They are friends. Would that we often received such visitors!"
The peons lowered the drawbridge (the only passage by which the hacienda could be entered), the caravan passed over and the drawbridge was immediately raised after them.
"You will excuse me, captain," Martin Leroux said, respectfully approaching the count, "but, although I recognised you, we live in a country where, I think, too great prudence cannot be exercised."
"You have done your duty, lieutenant, and I can only thank you for it. Have you any news?"
"Not much. A troop of horse I sent out into the plain discovered a deserted fire. I fancy the Indians are prowling round us."
"We will be on our guard."
"Oh, I keep good watch, especially at present, for the month is drawing nigh which the Comanches call so audaciously the Mexican moon. I should not be sorry, if they dared to meddle with us, to give them a lesson which would be profitable for the future."
"I share your views entirely. Redouble your vigilance, and all will be well."
"Have you no other orders to give me?"
"No."
"Then I will withdraw. You know, captain, that you intrust the internal details to me, and I must be everywhere in turn."
"Go, lieutenant; let me not keep you."
The old soldier saluted his chief, and retired with a friendly nod to the capataz, who followed him with the peons and baggage mules.
The count led his guests to the apartments kept for visitors, and installed them in comfortably-furnished rooms.
"Pray rest yourself, Don Sylva," he said; "you and Doña Anita must be fatigued with your journey. Tomorrow, if you permit me, we will talk about our business."
"Whenever you like, my friend."
The count bowed to his guests and withdrew. Since his meeting with his betrothed he had not exchanged a word with her. In the courtyard he found the Hiaqui Indian smoking and walking lazily around. He went up to him.
"Here," he said, "are the ten piastres promised you."
"Thanks," said the Indian as he took them.
"Now, what are you going to do?"
"Rest myself till tomorrow; then join the men of my tribe."
"Are you in a great hurry to see them?"
"I? Not at all."
"Stay here, then."
"What to do?"
"I will tell you; perhaps I may need you within a few days."
"Shall I be paid?"
"Amply. Does that suit you?"