Chapter Fifty Three.Love’s Malady.After the departure of the bandits, a mournful tranquillity reigned in the hacienda of Las Palmas. Gertrudis, asking herself at every moment of the day whether Don Rafael really no longer loved her, could only answer with certainty that she loved him, and should do so for ever.One afternoon—it was the third after Arroyo had gone—she sat looking over the plain as the sun was sinking slowly to the horizon. It was just such an evening as that on which she had awaited the arrival of Don Rafael. Now, however, the floods had retired, and the landscape had assumed a more verdant and joyous aspect.All at once, half-a-dozen horsemen appeared before her eyes, as if just coming from the hills in the rear of the hacienda. The Spanish pennants floating from their lances proclaimed them to be Royalist dragoons. One rode a little in advance of the rest, evidently their leader. Several other horsemen appeared, following them: until a large troop was seen defiling across the plain.Gertrudis heeded not those in rank. Her eyes were solely occupied by the one who rode in front. He was too distant to be recognised by the sight, but her heart told her who it was.“I, too,” murmured she to herself, “I have been rash in my words—in pronouncing an anathema against those sons of our country who should betray its cause. What matters it to the woman who loves, what flag her beloved may fight under? His cause should be hers. Why did I not do as my sister? Ah! why, indeed? Marianita is now happy, while I—” A sigh choked her utterance, and with tears falling from her eyes she continued silently to gaze after the horsemen, until their retreating forms melted away into the golden haze of the sunset.Not even once had their leader turned his face towards the hacienda, and yet it was Don Rafael!It was in reality the dragoon captain, going off in obedience to the order he had received; and who, to conceal from his soldiers the anguish of his spirit, had thus ridden past the hacienda without turning his head to look back.From this time it should have mattered little to Gertrudis where she might reside. For her, Las Palmas had now only sad memories; but even these seemed to attach her to the place; and she could not help thinking, that her departure from Las Palmas would break the last link that bound her to him she so devotedly loved.When Don Rafael no longer breathed the same air with her, she found a melancholy pleasure in taking care of his beautiful steed—the bay-brown Roncador—that, having galloped off after the encounter with the men of Arroyo, had been recaught by Don Mariano’s vaqueros, and brought back to the hacienda.Shortly after the marriage of Marianita with Don Fernando de Lacarra was celebrated. This union had been arranged, long previous to the breaking out of the insurrection, and found no opposition on the part of Don Mariano. Don Fernando was a Spaniard, it is true; but he had already obtained the consent of the haciendado. Even under the changed circumstances in which the revolution had placed the country, it would not have been refused. Like many other Spaniards at this time, Don Fernando had chosen for his country, that which held the object of his affections; and his sympathies had become enlisted in favour of the land of his adoption.A few days after his marriage, he bore his young bride home with him to the hacienda of San Carlos. His mansion was situated not far from the hacienda of Del Valle, lying, as the latter did, on the banks of the river Ostuta which separated the two estates, and not far from the lake of the same name.Most of the people on the estate of Don Fernando—less given to insurrectionary views than those of Las Palmas—had remained faithful to its owner. On this account, it appeared to offer a more secure abode during the troublous times of the insurrection; and Don Fernando wished to give an asylum to his father-in-law and his family. Don Mariano, however, had declined the offer, in hopes that amidst the stirring life and society of a large town he might find distraction for the melancholy of Gertrudis. He preferred, therefore, retiring to Oajaca, and a few days after his daughter’s marriage had set out. Gertrudis refused to use theliterathat had been prepared for her on the journey. She preferred riding the beautiful bay-brown, that had so often carried Don Rafael; and the fiery Roncador, as if conscious that he was object most dear to his master, suffered himself to be guided with as much docility by the fair frail hand of Gertrudis, as if his rein had been held in the vigorous grasp of Don Rafael himself.Contrary to Don Mariano’s expectation, the sojourn in Oajaca proved ineffectual in removing the melancholy under which his daughter suffered. Insensible to all the attractions offered by the best society of the place, the time hung heavily upon Gertrudis. One moment of happiness she enjoyed: and that was when public rumour announced that Colonel Tres-Villas, after capturing the town of Aguas Calientes, had caused the hair to be shorn from the heads of three hundred women!As Trujano had already hinted—having heard it from Marianita, at the house of whose husband he had spent several days—this news had for a moment filled the heart of the young Creole with happiness and pride. Amidst the general surprise at this act of singular severity, she alone knew why it had been accomplished. Don Rafael did not wish that she should be the only woman who, by this insurrection, should lament the loss of her hair. Gertrudis, nevertheless, did not fail to reproach herself, for indulging in this moment of selfish happiness.“Pobres mujeres!” (poor women!) exclaimed she, as she drew her fingers through the ebony locks that already replaced the long luxuriant tresses she had sacrificed. “Pobres mujeres! They have not had, as I, the good fortune to make the sacrifice for the life of those they loved.”After this occurrence, months passed, without her receiving any news of Don Rafael; and her cheek, gradually growing paler, with the blue circles darkening around her eyes, bore witness to the mental torment she was enduring.For the long period of two years this agony continued—the young girl in vain endeavouring to stifle the passion that was devouring her life. Both spirit and body, enfeebled by solitude, by silence, and the sedentary character of the life she now led, had not the strength to continue the struggle much longer.Don Rafael had the advantage in this respect. He carried his grief from one end of the kingdom to the other; and the constant change of scene, along with the distraction caused by the excitement of battles, were to him a species of relief.Such advantages were wanting to Gertrudis. Happily, however, God has granted to woman, in a large degree, the virtue of resignation—often her sole defence against sorrow.Gertrudis made no complaint, but suffered in silence—concealing, as well as she could, the dark chagrin that was consuming her. In long sleepless nights, when resignation appeared as if it would soon succumb, a feeble ray of hope would sometimes break upon her spirit, and for the moment restore its equanimity.It was then she thought of her first resource—that which she intended to make use of when her power of resistance should be gone—that supreme resource that still existed in the tress of hair she had so carefully cherished and preserved.The sending back to Don Rafael his horse had already cost her a pang. It had been a step on her part towards compromising the strife between her love and pride. Still more painful would it be to resort to that last measure, and avail herself of the permission, alas! so prophetically asked for.
After the departure of the bandits, a mournful tranquillity reigned in the hacienda of Las Palmas. Gertrudis, asking herself at every moment of the day whether Don Rafael really no longer loved her, could only answer with certainty that she loved him, and should do so for ever.
One afternoon—it was the third after Arroyo had gone—she sat looking over the plain as the sun was sinking slowly to the horizon. It was just such an evening as that on which she had awaited the arrival of Don Rafael. Now, however, the floods had retired, and the landscape had assumed a more verdant and joyous aspect.
All at once, half-a-dozen horsemen appeared before her eyes, as if just coming from the hills in the rear of the hacienda. The Spanish pennants floating from their lances proclaimed them to be Royalist dragoons. One rode a little in advance of the rest, evidently their leader. Several other horsemen appeared, following them: until a large troop was seen defiling across the plain.
Gertrudis heeded not those in rank. Her eyes were solely occupied by the one who rode in front. He was too distant to be recognised by the sight, but her heart told her who it was.
“I, too,” murmured she to herself, “I have been rash in my words—in pronouncing an anathema against those sons of our country who should betray its cause. What matters it to the woman who loves, what flag her beloved may fight under? His cause should be hers. Why did I not do as my sister? Ah! why, indeed? Marianita is now happy, while I—” A sigh choked her utterance, and with tears falling from her eyes she continued silently to gaze after the horsemen, until their retreating forms melted away into the golden haze of the sunset.
Not even once had their leader turned his face towards the hacienda, and yet it was Don Rafael!
It was in reality the dragoon captain, going off in obedience to the order he had received; and who, to conceal from his soldiers the anguish of his spirit, had thus ridden past the hacienda without turning his head to look back.
From this time it should have mattered little to Gertrudis where she might reside. For her, Las Palmas had now only sad memories; but even these seemed to attach her to the place; and she could not help thinking, that her departure from Las Palmas would break the last link that bound her to him she so devotedly loved.
When Don Rafael no longer breathed the same air with her, she found a melancholy pleasure in taking care of his beautiful steed—the bay-brown Roncador—that, having galloped off after the encounter with the men of Arroyo, had been recaught by Don Mariano’s vaqueros, and brought back to the hacienda.
Shortly after the marriage of Marianita with Don Fernando de Lacarra was celebrated. This union had been arranged, long previous to the breaking out of the insurrection, and found no opposition on the part of Don Mariano. Don Fernando was a Spaniard, it is true; but he had already obtained the consent of the haciendado. Even under the changed circumstances in which the revolution had placed the country, it would not have been refused. Like many other Spaniards at this time, Don Fernando had chosen for his country, that which held the object of his affections; and his sympathies had become enlisted in favour of the land of his adoption.
A few days after his marriage, he bore his young bride home with him to the hacienda of San Carlos. His mansion was situated not far from the hacienda of Del Valle, lying, as the latter did, on the banks of the river Ostuta which separated the two estates, and not far from the lake of the same name.
Most of the people on the estate of Don Fernando—less given to insurrectionary views than those of Las Palmas—had remained faithful to its owner. On this account, it appeared to offer a more secure abode during the troublous times of the insurrection; and Don Fernando wished to give an asylum to his father-in-law and his family. Don Mariano, however, had declined the offer, in hopes that amidst the stirring life and society of a large town he might find distraction for the melancholy of Gertrudis. He preferred, therefore, retiring to Oajaca, and a few days after his daughter’s marriage had set out. Gertrudis refused to use theliterathat had been prepared for her on the journey. She preferred riding the beautiful bay-brown, that had so often carried Don Rafael; and the fiery Roncador, as if conscious that he was object most dear to his master, suffered himself to be guided with as much docility by the fair frail hand of Gertrudis, as if his rein had been held in the vigorous grasp of Don Rafael himself.
Contrary to Don Mariano’s expectation, the sojourn in Oajaca proved ineffectual in removing the melancholy under which his daughter suffered. Insensible to all the attractions offered by the best society of the place, the time hung heavily upon Gertrudis. One moment of happiness she enjoyed: and that was when public rumour announced that Colonel Tres-Villas, after capturing the town of Aguas Calientes, had caused the hair to be shorn from the heads of three hundred women!
As Trujano had already hinted—having heard it from Marianita, at the house of whose husband he had spent several days—this news had for a moment filled the heart of the young Creole with happiness and pride. Amidst the general surprise at this act of singular severity, she alone knew why it had been accomplished. Don Rafael did not wish that she should be the only woman who, by this insurrection, should lament the loss of her hair. Gertrudis, nevertheless, did not fail to reproach herself, for indulging in this moment of selfish happiness.
“Pobres mujeres!” (poor women!) exclaimed she, as she drew her fingers through the ebony locks that already replaced the long luxuriant tresses she had sacrificed. “Pobres mujeres! They have not had, as I, the good fortune to make the sacrifice for the life of those they loved.”
After this occurrence, months passed, without her receiving any news of Don Rafael; and her cheek, gradually growing paler, with the blue circles darkening around her eyes, bore witness to the mental torment she was enduring.
For the long period of two years this agony continued—the young girl in vain endeavouring to stifle the passion that was devouring her life. Both spirit and body, enfeebled by solitude, by silence, and the sedentary character of the life she now led, had not the strength to continue the struggle much longer.
Don Rafael had the advantage in this respect. He carried his grief from one end of the kingdom to the other; and the constant change of scene, along with the distraction caused by the excitement of battles, were to him a species of relief.
Such advantages were wanting to Gertrudis. Happily, however, God has granted to woman, in a large degree, the virtue of resignation—often her sole defence against sorrow.
Gertrudis made no complaint, but suffered in silence—concealing, as well as she could, the dark chagrin that was consuming her. In long sleepless nights, when resignation appeared as if it would soon succumb, a feeble ray of hope would sometimes break upon her spirit, and for the moment restore its equanimity.
It was then she thought of her first resource—that which she intended to make use of when her power of resistance should be gone—that supreme resource that still existed in the tress of hair she had so carefully cherished and preserved.
The sending back to Don Rafael his horse had already cost her a pang. It had been a step on her part towards compromising the strife between her love and pride. Still more painful would it be to resort to that last measure, and avail herself of the permission, alas! so prophetically asked for.
Chapter Fifty Four.Topographical Details.In proportion as the insurrection spread through the province of Oajaca did the Royalists increase their watchfulness in the capital; and Don Mariano, having become suspected of a leaning towards the insurgent cause, was ordered to leave the place.Before taking his departure, he had despatched a messenger—the same already made mention of—to the hacienda Del Valle. Upon what errand? We shall know presently.On the same day that the messenger had presented himself to the Catalan lieutenant, and almost at the same hour, Don Rafael Tres-Villas was galloping as a fugitive through the plain of Huajapam. On that morning, also, Don Mariano de Silva took his departure from Oajaca,en routefor the hacienda San Carlos. The haciendado was accompanied by his daughter Gertrudis, borne in a litter, and attended by a number of mounted domestics. The pale cheeks of the young girl, contrasted with the purplish circles around her eyes, proclaimed the mental agony she had endured.Finally, on that same day, only at a later hour, another important personage of our history—the Captain Don Cornelio Lantejas—rode out from the camp of Morelos—evidently bent upon a journey, as was testified by the travelling costume that had replaced his military uniform. He was accompanied by two men, easily recognised as the scouts Costal and Clara.Don Cornelio had been ordered by the insurgent general on a mission, confidential as it was dangerous.The summer solstice was close at hand; and the black and the Indian—the latter having now accomplished his half century of years—were discussing between themselves the best plan for raising the Siren of the dishevelled hair from the waters of the mysterious lake, Ostuta, on whose banks they expected to encamp, before Don Cornelio had finally accomplished his mission.Although this mission was of a secret and confidential character, it will be no betrayal of confidence on our part to state at once what it was.The taking of the capital of Oajaca would not only render Morelos master of the whole province, but of all the southern part of New Spain—from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. The insurgent general was, therefore, anxious to complete this magnificent conquest before the closing of that year’s campaign.Nevertheless, in the prospect of attacking a town so populous and well garrisoned as Oajaca, he deemed it prudent to gain some information as to its actual resources; and it was chiefly upon this errand he had despatched his aide-de-camp Lantejas.The mission of the Captain had another object, of secondary importance, which, however, was the first to be accomplished. To the honour of the cause which Morelos upheld, it was of urgent necessity to put an end to the depredations of the two notorious guerilleros, Arroyo and Bocardo; whose deeds of cruel atrocity were rapidly producing the effect of rendering the insurrection as odious to its partisans as to its enemies. The force which these two leaders had under their command was as little known as the whereabouts in which they might be found; but their bloody deeds had rendered them as much dreaded as if a numerous army had been under their orders. The rapidity of their movements gave them the opportunity of multiplying, to an indefinite extent, their acts of ferocity, though at the same time a pursuer in search of them might easily have found them by the ensanguined track which marked their passage.Arroyo, ever ready to imbrue his hands in blood—no matter whose—seemed to find a savage pleasure in destroying life; and one of his favourite habits was to be himself the executioner of his victims. He was endowed with some brute courage, a quality altogether wanting to his associate, Antonio Bocardo; for the latter was both cowardly and cruel, though in general more inclined to robbery than murder.Morelos had been apprised of the outrages committed by these two bandits; and a message to them was one of the commissions with which Captain Lantejas had been charged. The message was in the form of a simple threat—it was to say to them, on the part of the insurgent general, that, unless they discontinued those outrages which had so long dishonoured the insurgent cause, they should both be drawn and quartered.From the reputation which these two brigands had acquired, of being little mindful of military authority—as well as on account of the rigid guard which the Spaniards had established in Oajaca—it will be seen that we have spoken only the simple truth in saying that the mission of Captain Lantejas was anything but a safe one. With melancholy mien, therefore, he traversed the road leading from Huajapam to the Ostuta river—upon the banks of which it was reported that Arroyo and his band were at that time encamped.Before proceeding farther, it will be necessary to give, at a bird’s-eye view—if we may use the expression—the topography of the country lying in the triangle between Huajapam, Oajaca, and the Lake Ostuta: for this is now to become the arena of the future events of our narrative.Regarding Huajapam and the town of Oajaca as on the same line, we find a road running from each—the two gradually converging until they meet. The point of union is upon the banks of the Ostuta river, not far from the lake, and where a ford crosses the stream. Before arriving at this ford, the hacienda Del Valle lies to one side of the Oajaca road, while about an hour’s journey after crossing the river the domain of San Carlos is reached. These two estates—each embracing an immense tract of territory—would be contiguous to each other, but for the river which flows between and separates them.Arroyo, having returned to the neighbourhood, with the number of his followers augmented by recent successes, as well as by the more favourable prospects of the insurrection, had sworn not to leave a stone of the hacienda Del Valle standing in its place; and to accomplish this vow was the object of his presence on the banks of the Ostuta.His band, divided into two encampments, held both sides of the river, just by the crossing. Thus disposed, he could direct himself at will either against San Carlos or Del Valle.It was not only possible, but probable, that the messenger of Don Mariano de Silva, going from Del Valle to Huajapam, would meet Don Rafael coming in the opposite direction, and about half way; since, as already stated, both had set out about the same time. It was also likely enough that Don Mariano and his daughter,en routefor San Carlos, would encounter Captain Lantejas, travelling from Huajapam somewhere not far from the crossing of the Ostuta. The time at which both had started on their respective journeys would favour this probability. Finally, Don Rafael, making for the hacienda Del Valle, unless some accident should detain him, might meet all those personages almost at the same instant of time.The principal characters of our history would thus be once more united on the banks of the Ostuta.
In proportion as the insurrection spread through the province of Oajaca did the Royalists increase their watchfulness in the capital; and Don Mariano, having become suspected of a leaning towards the insurgent cause, was ordered to leave the place.
Before taking his departure, he had despatched a messenger—the same already made mention of—to the hacienda Del Valle. Upon what errand? We shall know presently.
On the same day that the messenger had presented himself to the Catalan lieutenant, and almost at the same hour, Don Rafael Tres-Villas was galloping as a fugitive through the plain of Huajapam. On that morning, also, Don Mariano de Silva took his departure from Oajaca,en routefor the hacienda San Carlos. The haciendado was accompanied by his daughter Gertrudis, borne in a litter, and attended by a number of mounted domestics. The pale cheeks of the young girl, contrasted with the purplish circles around her eyes, proclaimed the mental agony she had endured.
Finally, on that same day, only at a later hour, another important personage of our history—the Captain Don Cornelio Lantejas—rode out from the camp of Morelos—evidently bent upon a journey, as was testified by the travelling costume that had replaced his military uniform. He was accompanied by two men, easily recognised as the scouts Costal and Clara.
Don Cornelio had been ordered by the insurgent general on a mission, confidential as it was dangerous.
The summer solstice was close at hand; and the black and the Indian—the latter having now accomplished his half century of years—were discussing between themselves the best plan for raising the Siren of the dishevelled hair from the waters of the mysterious lake, Ostuta, on whose banks they expected to encamp, before Don Cornelio had finally accomplished his mission.
Although this mission was of a secret and confidential character, it will be no betrayal of confidence on our part to state at once what it was.
The taking of the capital of Oajaca would not only render Morelos master of the whole province, but of all the southern part of New Spain—from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. The insurgent general was, therefore, anxious to complete this magnificent conquest before the closing of that year’s campaign.
Nevertheless, in the prospect of attacking a town so populous and well garrisoned as Oajaca, he deemed it prudent to gain some information as to its actual resources; and it was chiefly upon this errand he had despatched his aide-de-camp Lantejas.
The mission of the Captain had another object, of secondary importance, which, however, was the first to be accomplished. To the honour of the cause which Morelos upheld, it was of urgent necessity to put an end to the depredations of the two notorious guerilleros, Arroyo and Bocardo; whose deeds of cruel atrocity were rapidly producing the effect of rendering the insurrection as odious to its partisans as to its enemies. The force which these two leaders had under their command was as little known as the whereabouts in which they might be found; but their bloody deeds had rendered them as much dreaded as if a numerous army had been under their orders. The rapidity of their movements gave them the opportunity of multiplying, to an indefinite extent, their acts of ferocity, though at the same time a pursuer in search of them might easily have found them by the ensanguined track which marked their passage.
Arroyo, ever ready to imbrue his hands in blood—no matter whose—seemed to find a savage pleasure in destroying life; and one of his favourite habits was to be himself the executioner of his victims. He was endowed with some brute courage, a quality altogether wanting to his associate, Antonio Bocardo; for the latter was both cowardly and cruel, though in general more inclined to robbery than murder.
Morelos had been apprised of the outrages committed by these two bandits; and a message to them was one of the commissions with which Captain Lantejas had been charged. The message was in the form of a simple threat—it was to say to them, on the part of the insurgent general, that, unless they discontinued those outrages which had so long dishonoured the insurgent cause, they should both be drawn and quartered.
From the reputation which these two brigands had acquired, of being little mindful of military authority—as well as on account of the rigid guard which the Spaniards had established in Oajaca—it will be seen that we have spoken only the simple truth in saying that the mission of Captain Lantejas was anything but a safe one. With melancholy mien, therefore, he traversed the road leading from Huajapam to the Ostuta river—upon the banks of which it was reported that Arroyo and his band were at that time encamped.
Before proceeding farther, it will be necessary to give, at a bird’s-eye view—if we may use the expression—the topography of the country lying in the triangle between Huajapam, Oajaca, and the Lake Ostuta: for this is now to become the arena of the future events of our narrative.
Regarding Huajapam and the town of Oajaca as on the same line, we find a road running from each—the two gradually converging until they meet. The point of union is upon the banks of the Ostuta river, not far from the lake, and where a ford crosses the stream. Before arriving at this ford, the hacienda Del Valle lies to one side of the Oajaca road, while about an hour’s journey after crossing the river the domain of San Carlos is reached. These two estates—each embracing an immense tract of territory—would be contiguous to each other, but for the river which flows between and separates them.
Arroyo, having returned to the neighbourhood, with the number of his followers augmented by recent successes, as well as by the more favourable prospects of the insurrection, had sworn not to leave a stone of the hacienda Del Valle standing in its place; and to accomplish this vow was the object of his presence on the banks of the Ostuta.
His band, divided into two encampments, held both sides of the river, just by the crossing. Thus disposed, he could direct himself at will either against San Carlos or Del Valle.
It was not only possible, but probable, that the messenger of Don Mariano de Silva, going from Del Valle to Huajapam, would meet Don Rafael coming in the opposite direction, and about half way; since, as already stated, both had set out about the same time. It was also likely enough that Don Mariano and his daughter,en routefor San Carlos, would encounter Captain Lantejas, travelling from Huajapam somewhere not far from the crossing of the Ostuta. The time at which both had started on their respective journeys would favour this probability. Finally, Don Rafael, making for the hacienda Del Valle, unless some accident should detain him, might meet all those personages almost at the same instant of time.
The principal characters of our history would thus be once more united on the banks of the Ostuta.
Chapter Fifty Five.Sunrise in the Tropics.On the fourth day after the siege of Huajapam, let the reader fancy himself transported to the banks of the Ostuta, where he will behold one of the most magnificent natural landscapes of American scenery.The sun has not yet risen, and themäipouri(tapir), before seeking his forest lair, plunges once more under the shadowy waves of the river. The Mexican roebuck, more timid than the tapir, trembling at the slightest sound among the leaves, watches while drinking for the first signs of daybreak—its signal to conceal itself in the thickets of sassafras and tall ferns. The solitary heron, standing statue-like upon its long legs, and the red flamingoes ranged in silent ranks, await, on the contrary, the coming of the dawn to commence their matutinal fishery.There is a profound silence over all, save those vague sounds heard at this hour even in the most solitary places—where the different guests of the forest, according to their nature, are either awaking to begin their day, or retiring to their haunts for rest and concealment.Although the darkness of night has disappeared, the eye cannot yet make out, amidst the whitish vapour that overhangs the stream, with what species of vegetation its banks are adorned. The crowns of palm-trees rising high above the other foliage—like noble knights of the olden time above the mêlée of common warriors—can alone be distinguished. To a superficial observer, the banks of the Ostuta might appear as much of a solitude as in those days before the children of Europe had set foot upon American soil; but the eye of one scrutinising the scene more narrowly would discover this deserted appearance to be altogether a deception.Along the right bank of the river—near its main crossing—might be distinguished a number of scattered fires, scintillating through the nocturnal vapour, like stars in a cloud-covered sky.On the left bank also, and opposite the first, others appear, irregularly gleaming along the edge of the river. Both lines of fires betoken an encampment—the same, though separated into two divisions by the stream.At a considerable distance from the crossing, and contiguous to the road leading from Huajapam to the hacienda Del Valle, in the midst of a little glade, might be seen a group of eight horsemen, at the moment apparently engaged in some consultation among themselves. Still nearer to the river, and at the distance of some three or four hundred yards from this group, two pedestrian travellers appeared, cautiously advancing along the road, where it wound through an extensive wood of guiacum and cedrela trees.Finally, between the eight horsemen and the two foot travellers, and at about mid-distance from each party, a single individual might have been seen, who could not be called either horseman or pedestrian, and who could neither be said to be occupied in any way. In fact, this personage was fast asleep, though in a most singular situation and attitude: that is to say, fast bound with a scarf of scarlet silk between the two main branches of a tree, and at a height of over ten feet from the ground.The thick foliage so completely concealed him, however, that an Indian spy might have passed under the tree without suspecting his presence.The individual who occupied this aerial couch was no other than Colonel Don Rafael Tres-Villas.There are occasions when extreme bodily fatigue has the effect of causing apprehension in the spirit; and Don Rafael had found himself in one of these occasions.Wearied, after three days’ journey under a hot sun, and having had no sleep on the night before setting out, in spite of the uncomfortable position in which he had placed himself, Don Rafael was enjoying that deep repose which is often granted to the tired soldier, even on the eve of a sanguinary battle.Leaving him, therefore, to indulge in his lofty siesta, and passing to some distance from the spot, and along the road leading to Oajaca, we shall encounter another group, differing from any yet mentioned. At a short distance from the river Ostuta, and near the lake of this name, a little before daybreak, might be seen a small party of travellers, about to resume their journey interrupted for the night. From the haste exhibited in making preparations for departure from their bivouac, it would appear as if they were in dread of some danger. Two of them were busy in extinguishing the remains of a fire, lest its light might still betray them; two others saddled the horses; while a fifth, who stood by the half-opened curtains of alitera, appeared to be reassuring a young lady who was inside.It is scarce necessary to say that the travellers in question were Don Mariano de Silva, his daughter, and their domestics.In the midst of the solitudes of transatlantic scenery, there are two solemn hours out of the twenty-four, in which all created nature seems more especially to rejoice—the hours of sunrise and sunset.The eternal horologe is about to sound the first. A fresh breeze arising, gently stirs the leaves of the trees, and, playing over the surface of the water, dispels the nocturnal vapours. The eastern sky is becoming tinged with bright yellow streaks, mixed with the purple of the aurora, which proclaims the approach of the rising sun. His coming is saluted by the voices of myriads of bright birds that flutter among the trees of the forest.The jackal flying to his den, utters his parting growl, and the funereal voices of the night-birds are heard for the last time. The mäipouri and roebuck have already disappeared within the thickets, where they have chosen their respective dens.Finally, the clouds redden like the wings of the flamingoes, as the sun, shooting upward, gleams with golden brilliance upon the fronds of the palms, and discloses in all their splendid variety the trees of the American forest.The tall ebony trees, with their bunches of golden flowers, the guiacums and perfumed liquidambars—like pyramids of solid vegetation—the mahogany and cedrela trees, and the princely palms towering over gigantic tree-ferns, and fanciful festoons of parasitical climbers, that form a flowery cortège around their stems.In the midst of the almost impenetrable labyrinths formed by these various kinds of trees, glades may here and there be encountered, and paths leading from one to another, trodden only by wild animals, or savage bulls, the descendants of those introduced by the great Cortez into the province of Oajaca. These, maddened by thirst, may be seen pressing through the thick undergrowth towards the river, or standing, half immersed, with their black muzzles buried under water. Here and there pieces of the flowery turf, detached by their hooves, float down the stream, while birds alighting upon these miniature islets, joyfully flap their wings, as if celebrating a triumphal procession upon the water.Such, in all its primitive splendour, was the aspect of the Ostuta on the morning in question, at that solemnal hour, when the sun proclaimed his presence upon the eastern horizon.
On the fourth day after the siege of Huajapam, let the reader fancy himself transported to the banks of the Ostuta, where he will behold one of the most magnificent natural landscapes of American scenery.
The sun has not yet risen, and themäipouri(tapir), before seeking his forest lair, plunges once more under the shadowy waves of the river. The Mexican roebuck, more timid than the tapir, trembling at the slightest sound among the leaves, watches while drinking for the first signs of daybreak—its signal to conceal itself in the thickets of sassafras and tall ferns. The solitary heron, standing statue-like upon its long legs, and the red flamingoes ranged in silent ranks, await, on the contrary, the coming of the dawn to commence their matutinal fishery.
There is a profound silence over all, save those vague sounds heard at this hour even in the most solitary places—where the different guests of the forest, according to their nature, are either awaking to begin their day, or retiring to their haunts for rest and concealment.
Although the darkness of night has disappeared, the eye cannot yet make out, amidst the whitish vapour that overhangs the stream, with what species of vegetation its banks are adorned. The crowns of palm-trees rising high above the other foliage—like noble knights of the olden time above the mêlée of common warriors—can alone be distinguished. To a superficial observer, the banks of the Ostuta might appear as much of a solitude as in those days before the children of Europe had set foot upon American soil; but the eye of one scrutinising the scene more narrowly would discover this deserted appearance to be altogether a deception.
Along the right bank of the river—near its main crossing—might be distinguished a number of scattered fires, scintillating through the nocturnal vapour, like stars in a cloud-covered sky.
On the left bank also, and opposite the first, others appear, irregularly gleaming along the edge of the river. Both lines of fires betoken an encampment—the same, though separated into two divisions by the stream.
At a considerable distance from the crossing, and contiguous to the road leading from Huajapam to the hacienda Del Valle, in the midst of a little glade, might be seen a group of eight horsemen, at the moment apparently engaged in some consultation among themselves. Still nearer to the river, and at the distance of some three or four hundred yards from this group, two pedestrian travellers appeared, cautiously advancing along the road, where it wound through an extensive wood of guiacum and cedrela trees.
Finally, between the eight horsemen and the two foot travellers, and at about mid-distance from each party, a single individual might have been seen, who could not be called either horseman or pedestrian, and who could neither be said to be occupied in any way. In fact, this personage was fast asleep, though in a most singular situation and attitude: that is to say, fast bound with a scarf of scarlet silk between the two main branches of a tree, and at a height of over ten feet from the ground.
The thick foliage so completely concealed him, however, that an Indian spy might have passed under the tree without suspecting his presence.
The individual who occupied this aerial couch was no other than Colonel Don Rafael Tres-Villas.
There are occasions when extreme bodily fatigue has the effect of causing apprehension in the spirit; and Don Rafael had found himself in one of these occasions.
Wearied, after three days’ journey under a hot sun, and having had no sleep on the night before setting out, in spite of the uncomfortable position in which he had placed himself, Don Rafael was enjoying that deep repose which is often granted to the tired soldier, even on the eve of a sanguinary battle.
Leaving him, therefore, to indulge in his lofty siesta, and passing to some distance from the spot, and along the road leading to Oajaca, we shall encounter another group, differing from any yet mentioned. At a short distance from the river Ostuta, and near the lake of this name, a little before daybreak, might be seen a small party of travellers, about to resume their journey interrupted for the night. From the haste exhibited in making preparations for departure from their bivouac, it would appear as if they were in dread of some danger. Two of them were busy in extinguishing the remains of a fire, lest its light might still betray them; two others saddled the horses; while a fifth, who stood by the half-opened curtains of alitera, appeared to be reassuring a young lady who was inside.
It is scarce necessary to say that the travellers in question were Don Mariano de Silva, his daughter, and their domestics.
In the midst of the solitudes of transatlantic scenery, there are two solemn hours out of the twenty-four, in which all created nature seems more especially to rejoice—the hours of sunrise and sunset.
The eternal horologe is about to sound the first. A fresh breeze arising, gently stirs the leaves of the trees, and, playing over the surface of the water, dispels the nocturnal vapours. The eastern sky is becoming tinged with bright yellow streaks, mixed with the purple of the aurora, which proclaims the approach of the rising sun. His coming is saluted by the voices of myriads of bright birds that flutter among the trees of the forest.
The jackal flying to his den, utters his parting growl, and the funereal voices of the night-birds are heard for the last time. The mäipouri and roebuck have already disappeared within the thickets, where they have chosen their respective dens.
Finally, the clouds redden like the wings of the flamingoes, as the sun, shooting upward, gleams with golden brilliance upon the fronds of the palms, and discloses in all their splendid variety the trees of the American forest.
The tall ebony trees, with their bunches of golden flowers, the guiacums and perfumed liquidambars—like pyramids of solid vegetation—the mahogany and cedrela trees, and the princely palms towering over gigantic tree-ferns, and fanciful festoons of parasitical climbers, that form a flowery cortège around their stems.
In the midst of the almost impenetrable labyrinths formed by these various kinds of trees, glades may here and there be encountered, and paths leading from one to another, trodden only by wild animals, or savage bulls, the descendants of those introduced by the great Cortez into the province of Oajaca. These, maddened by thirst, may be seen pressing through the thick undergrowth towards the river, or standing, half immersed, with their black muzzles buried under water. Here and there pieces of the flowery turf, detached by their hooves, float down the stream, while birds alighting upon these miniature islets, joyfully flap their wings, as if celebrating a triumphal procession upon the water.
Such, in all its primitive splendour, was the aspect of the Ostuta on the morning in question, at that solemnal hour, when the sun proclaimed his presence upon the eastern horizon.
Chapter Fifty Six.The Bandit Camp.The bivouac fires appearing by the ford of the Ostuta were those of Arroyo and his guerilla.At sunrise, this temporary encampment of the guerilleros presented a scene sufficiently animated and picturesque. A hundred men might be seen occupying themselves in grooming their horses. This they did in the most primitive fashion, some rubbing them down with bunches of dry grass, others with the first stone that offered, while still others, mounted on the bare backs of the animals, were swimming them through the stream, in order to wash and refresh them. On the bank the saddles were placed in a sort of irregular alignment, in the midst of bales of goods laid open, and of which only the coverings remained upon the ground, to tell of plunder taken from some unfortunatearriero.On the right bank of the river—that side on which lay the hacienda San Carlos—was the principal encampment. There stood a large, rudely-shaped tent, constructed out of the covers of the despoiled packages—pieces of coarse hempen canvas and sack cloth, woven from the fibres of the maguey.Two guerilleros, armed from head to foot, with carbines, swords, pistols, and knives, mounted guard on each side of it, pacing to and fro, but at such a distance from the tent that neither could hear what might be said within.This rude marquee was the head-quarters of the two leaders, Arroyo and Bocardo, both of whom were at that moment inside. They were seated upon the skulls of bullocks, which served them for chairs, each smoking a cigarette rolled in the husk of Indian corn. From the attitude presented by Arroyo—his eyes bent upon the ground, which was cut up by the long heavy rowels of his spurs, it was evident that his astute associate was employing arguments to influence him to some deed of crime.“Most certainly,” said the latter, with an air of drollery, “I am disposed to do justice to the good qualities of the Señora Arroyo; they are truly admirable. When a man is wounded, she volunteers to sprinkle red pepper over his wounds. Nothing can be more touching than the way she intercedes for the prisoners we condemn to death—that is, that they may be put to death as slowly as may be—I mean as gently as possible.”“Ah, that is not selfishness on her part,” interrupted the husband. “She does so to please me rather than herself—poor thing.”“True, she is greatly devoted to you—a worthy woman, indeed! Still, camarado,” continued Bocardo with a hesitation that told he had finished speaking the praises of Madame Arroyo; “you will acknowledge she is neither young nor very pretty.”“Well—say she is old and ugly,” answered Arroyo, “she suits my purpose for all that.”“That’s strange enough.”“It’s less strange than you think for. I have my reasons. She shares with me the execration of the public; and if I were a widower—”“You would have to bear it all on your own shoulders. Bah! they are broad enough for that!”“True,” replied Arroyo, flattered at the compliment, “but you,amigo, have also a share of that load. It isn’t often that the name of Arroyo is cursed, without that of Bocardo being mixed up in the malediction.”“Ah, there are too many lying tongues in this world!”“Besides,” continued the brigand, returning to the subject of Madame Arroyo, “I have another good reason for wishing that no harm should come to my wife. She is in possession of a scapulary, blessed by the Pope of Rome; which has the wonderful power of causing the husband of whatever woman may carry it to die at the same time that his wife does.”“Oh!” rejoined Bocardo in a tone of repudiation, “I did not mean that you should kill the Señora Arroyo—nothing of the kind. My idea is that she should be sent to a convent of penitents, where she might occupy her time in praying for the salvation of her soul, as well as that of her husband. Then replace her by a pretty young damsel, with eyes and hair as black as night, lips as red as the flowers of the grenadine, and skin as white as thefloripondio. Now you can tell what for the last half-hour I have been killing myself to make you comprehend.”“And do you know of such a pretty young damsel?” inquired Arroyo after an interval of silence, which proved that the arguments of his associate were not lost upon him.“Of course I do, and so do you as well—one that you could lay your hands on at any moment.”“Where?”“Where? At the hacienda of San Carlos. Where else should she be?”“You mean the Doña Marianita de Silva?”“Precisely so.”“Mil demonios, camarado! Do you intend us to save every hacienda in the country? Of course it is for the sake of pillaging the house, that you wish me to possess myself of its mistress?”“The owner of San Carlos is a Spaniard,” rejoined Bocardo, without making any direct reply to the insinuation of his associate. “It would surely be no great crime to take either the wife or property of aGachupino.”“Hold,amigo! that Gachupino is as great a friend to the insurgent cause as you or I. He has furnished us with provisions, and—”“True; but he does it out of pure fear. How can you suppose that any one is a true insurgent, who has chests filled with bags of dollars, drawers crammed with silver plate, and besides,” added Bocardo to conceal his true designs, “such a pretty young wife by his side. Bah! we were fools that we did not also take Don Mariano’s two daughters from him, at the same time that we disembarrassed him of his plate. We should have been better off now, and I too should have possessed a beautiful creature, whereas I am still a solitary bachelor. But it’s my luck, camarado, always to sacrifice my own interests to yours!”“Look here, Bocardo!” said the brigand leader after a moment of pensive silence, in which he appeared to reflect upon the proposals of his astute associate, “we shall get ourselves into trouble, if we carry on in this fashion. It may end in our being hunted down like a pair of wild beasts.”“We have a hundred and fifty devoted followers,” simply replied the other, “every one of them brave and true as his dagger.”“Well!” said Arroyo, still speaking in a reflective tone, “I do not say, but—I shall think it over.”The eyes of Bocardo flashed with a fierce joy as he perceived the undecided bearing of his associate. Well knew he that, before the end of that day, he should be able to obtain Arroyo’s full consent and co-operation in the dark and terrible deed he had designed to accomplish.
The bivouac fires appearing by the ford of the Ostuta were those of Arroyo and his guerilla.
At sunrise, this temporary encampment of the guerilleros presented a scene sufficiently animated and picturesque. A hundred men might be seen occupying themselves in grooming their horses. This they did in the most primitive fashion, some rubbing them down with bunches of dry grass, others with the first stone that offered, while still others, mounted on the bare backs of the animals, were swimming them through the stream, in order to wash and refresh them. On the bank the saddles were placed in a sort of irregular alignment, in the midst of bales of goods laid open, and of which only the coverings remained upon the ground, to tell of plunder taken from some unfortunatearriero.
On the right bank of the river—that side on which lay the hacienda San Carlos—was the principal encampment. There stood a large, rudely-shaped tent, constructed out of the covers of the despoiled packages—pieces of coarse hempen canvas and sack cloth, woven from the fibres of the maguey.
Two guerilleros, armed from head to foot, with carbines, swords, pistols, and knives, mounted guard on each side of it, pacing to and fro, but at such a distance from the tent that neither could hear what might be said within.
This rude marquee was the head-quarters of the two leaders, Arroyo and Bocardo, both of whom were at that moment inside. They were seated upon the skulls of bullocks, which served them for chairs, each smoking a cigarette rolled in the husk of Indian corn. From the attitude presented by Arroyo—his eyes bent upon the ground, which was cut up by the long heavy rowels of his spurs, it was evident that his astute associate was employing arguments to influence him to some deed of crime.
“Most certainly,” said the latter, with an air of drollery, “I am disposed to do justice to the good qualities of the Señora Arroyo; they are truly admirable. When a man is wounded, she volunteers to sprinkle red pepper over his wounds. Nothing can be more touching than the way she intercedes for the prisoners we condemn to death—that is, that they may be put to death as slowly as may be—I mean as gently as possible.”
“Ah, that is not selfishness on her part,” interrupted the husband. “She does so to please me rather than herself—poor thing.”
“True, she is greatly devoted to you—a worthy woman, indeed! Still, camarado,” continued Bocardo with a hesitation that told he had finished speaking the praises of Madame Arroyo; “you will acknowledge she is neither young nor very pretty.”
“Well—say she is old and ugly,” answered Arroyo, “she suits my purpose for all that.”
“That’s strange enough.”
“It’s less strange than you think for. I have my reasons. She shares with me the execration of the public; and if I were a widower—”
“You would have to bear it all on your own shoulders. Bah! they are broad enough for that!”
“True,” replied Arroyo, flattered at the compliment, “but you,amigo, have also a share of that load. It isn’t often that the name of Arroyo is cursed, without that of Bocardo being mixed up in the malediction.”
“Ah, there are too many lying tongues in this world!”
“Besides,” continued the brigand, returning to the subject of Madame Arroyo, “I have another good reason for wishing that no harm should come to my wife. She is in possession of a scapulary, blessed by the Pope of Rome; which has the wonderful power of causing the husband of whatever woman may carry it to die at the same time that his wife does.”
“Oh!” rejoined Bocardo in a tone of repudiation, “I did not mean that you should kill the Señora Arroyo—nothing of the kind. My idea is that she should be sent to a convent of penitents, where she might occupy her time in praying for the salvation of her soul, as well as that of her husband. Then replace her by a pretty young damsel, with eyes and hair as black as night, lips as red as the flowers of the grenadine, and skin as white as thefloripondio. Now you can tell what for the last half-hour I have been killing myself to make you comprehend.”
“And do you know of such a pretty young damsel?” inquired Arroyo after an interval of silence, which proved that the arguments of his associate were not lost upon him.
“Of course I do, and so do you as well—one that you could lay your hands on at any moment.”
“Where?”
“Where? At the hacienda of San Carlos. Where else should she be?”
“You mean the Doña Marianita de Silva?”
“Precisely so.”
“Mil demonios, camarado! Do you intend us to save every hacienda in the country? Of course it is for the sake of pillaging the house, that you wish me to possess myself of its mistress?”
“The owner of San Carlos is a Spaniard,” rejoined Bocardo, without making any direct reply to the insinuation of his associate. “It would surely be no great crime to take either the wife or property of aGachupino.”
“Hold,amigo! that Gachupino is as great a friend to the insurgent cause as you or I. He has furnished us with provisions, and—”
“True; but he does it out of pure fear. How can you suppose that any one is a true insurgent, who has chests filled with bags of dollars, drawers crammed with silver plate, and besides,” added Bocardo to conceal his true designs, “such a pretty young wife by his side. Bah! we were fools that we did not also take Don Mariano’s two daughters from him, at the same time that we disembarrassed him of his plate. We should have been better off now, and I too should have possessed a beautiful creature, whereas I am still a solitary bachelor. But it’s my luck, camarado, always to sacrifice my own interests to yours!”
“Look here, Bocardo!” said the brigand leader after a moment of pensive silence, in which he appeared to reflect upon the proposals of his astute associate, “we shall get ourselves into trouble, if we carry on in this fashion. It may end in our being hunted down like a pair of wild beasts.”
“We have a hundred and fifty devoted followers,” simply replied the other, “every one of them brave and true as his dagger.”
“Well!” said Arroyo, still speaking in a reflective tone, “I do not say, but—I shall think it over.”
The eyes of Bocardo flashed with a fierce joy as he perceived the undecided bearing of his associate. Well knew he that, before the end of that day, he should be able to obtain Arroyo’s full consent and co-operation in the dark and terrible deed he had designed to accomplish.
Chapter Fifty Seven.A Real Virago.The two brigands remained for some time without saying a word, both reflecting on the scheme of murder and pillage which they now premeditated. At this moment the tent flap was raised, and a figure appeared in the entrance. It was a woman of masculine mien—a true virago—robust and hale; but whose countenance betrayed the ravage of evil passions rather than time. Her coarse hair clubbed around her head, and held in its place by a large tortoiseshell comb with gold pendants, showed no sign of advanced age. It was black as ebony. Around her neck were hung numerous chains of gold and glass beads, to which were attached a number of crosses, scapularies, and other golden ornaments; but in spite of this gaudy adorning her countenance was hideous to behold, and did not belie the portrait of Arroyo’s wife which had been sketched by Bocardo, for it was she. As she presented herself at the opening of the tent, rage was depicted in her countenance, exhibiting itself in the swollen veins of her neck and forehead, and in the rolling of her bloodshot eyes.“A shame on you!” cried she, casting on Bocardo, whom she both hated and despised, the angry look she feared to give her husband, “a shame on you, that after the oath you have taken, there should still remain a stone of this nest of vipers, or a man to defend it!”“Well—what now?” demanded Arroyo, in an ill-humoured tone. “What nest of vipers are you speaking of?”“The hacienda Del Valle—what other should it be? There our men—the greater number of them at least—have been besieging it for three days without any result. No, not without result, for I’ve just this moment learnt that three of our people have been killed in a sortie, and that this accursed Catalan, who commands the place, has nailed their heads over the door of the hacienda!”“Who has told you this?” quickly demanded Arroyo.“Gaspacho. He is outside awaiting your orders. He has been sent to ask for a reinforcement.”“By all the devils!” cried Arroyo in a rage. “Woman! who has given you the privilege of interrogating the couriers that are sent me?”As he put this interrogatory the brigand sprang to his feet; and, seizing the bullock’s skull upon which he had been seated, made a motion as if he would crush with it that of his amazonian partner. Perhaps, influenced by the late councils of Bocardo, he would have decided on bearing the public execration upon his own shoulders, had it not been for that scapulary blessed by the Pope, and whose fatal influence he at the moment remembered.Bocardo paid no attention to the threatening demonstration of his associate, but sat phlegmatically silent.“Maria Santissima!” exclaimed the virago, as she retreated before the angry menace of her husband. “Will you not protect me, Señor Bocardo?”“Hum!” replied the latter, without moving from his seat, “you know the proverb, worthy Señora? Between the tree and the bark—you understand? These little domestic broils—”“Must not occur any more,” interposed Arroyo, quieting down; “and now, Señora,” continued he, addressing himself to his helpmate, “before receiving Gaspacho, I have a commission for you to execute.”“What may that be?” brusquely demanded the woman, elevating her tone in proportion as that of her husband became lowered.“It is a magnificent scheme conceived by me,” interrupted Bocardo.“Ah!” exclaimed the virago, “if you had only as much courage as intelligence, Señor Bocardo!”“Bah! Arroyo has courage enough for both of us.”“That,” said Arroyo, suddenly turning his anger upon his associate, who had not the advantage of possessing a charmed scapulary, “that is as much as to say that you have the intelligence for both of us?”“God forbid I should either say or think so,” rejoined Bocardo in an humble tone; “you are as intelligent as you are brave, Señor Arroyo.”“Wife!” continued Arroyo, without appearing to listen to the fulsome flattery of his associate, “go and interrogate once more the prisoner we have taken. Find out if possible what errand he was on—”“The bird still sings the same tune,” responded the woman; “he repeats that he is in the service of Don Mariano de Silva; and that he is the bearer of a message to that mad Colonel, as you call him, Don Rafael Tres-Villas.”At this hated name the shade deepened upon the brow of the bandit.“Have you found out what this message is?” he inquired.“The fellow insists upon it that it is of no importance. What do you suppose I found in his pockets, when we were searching him?”“A vial of poison, perhaps?”“No; but something equally droll. A packet carefully put up, enclosing a small cambric handkerchief, sweetly scented with perfume, and inside this a tress of hair—a woman’s hair, long and beautiful, by my faith!”“Indeed!” exclaimed Bocardo, in a significant tone; “and what have you done with it, Madame Arroyo?”“What should I have done with it?” said the virago, with a disdainful toss of her head—“what but fling it back in the face of the messenger—the worthless thing. No doubt it is a love-token sent to this colonel of the devil.”“The messenger took it back then?”“Ah, indeed—with as much eagerness as if it had been a chain of gold.”“So much the better,” said Bocardo, with a significant gesture. “I have an idea,” he continued, “if I am not mistaken—a superb idea! With this messenger and this love-token, we can give the Colonel Tres-Villas a rendezvous, where, instead of meeting his sweetheart, he may tumble into the middle of a score of our fellows, who may take him alive without the slightest difficulty. The thing’s as good as done. Only put me in communication with this messenger, and I’ll answer for the rest. What say you, Arroyo? What shall we do with the Colonel Tres-Villas?”“Burn him over a slow fire—roast him alive!” responded the guerillero, with an expression of ferocious joy.“But your wife will intercede for him?” ironically added Bocardo.“Carrambo! Yes!” exclaimed the hag, “to burn him over the slow fire, and roast him alive—that I shall.”And with a hideous laugh she walked out of the tent to give place to Gaspacho, who the next moment entered.The courier thus named had all the appearance of an original character. He was tall and thin as the blade of a rapier, with a cynical expression of countenance, and long snaky tresses of hair hanging down over his shoulders, like thongs of smoked leather.“Speak!” commanded Arroyo, as he entered. “Thou bearer of evil tidings, what have you to tell us now?”“Perhaps, Señor Captain,” responded the brigand, who, notwithstanding his habitual air of importance, was evidently cowed by the scowl of his superior, “perhaps I have some good news as well?”“First, then, deliver your bad ones!”“Well, then, Señor Captain, there are not enough of us to take this hacienda by assault. The den of coyotes has proved stronger than we expected; and I am sent to ask for a reinforcement of men.”“Who has sent you?—Lieutenant Lantejas?”“Lieutenant Lantejas will never send another message. This morning his head was nailed over the gate of the hacienda along with that of Sergeant Yañez.”“Tripes of the fiend!” exclaimed the guerilla leader, “Yañez, too!”“Their heads are not the only ones, Captain. Besides them are those of Salinas and Tuerto, to say nothing of Matavidas, Sacamedios, and Piojento, who were taken prisoners and hung alive by the feet from the parapet of the building. We had to fire at them and kill them with our carbines, in order to put an end to their sufferings.”“They deserved it—a fig for their lives! Why did they allow themselves to be taken alive?”“That’s just what I told them,” said Gaspacho, with an air of assent. “I warned them that your honour would be very angry about it. But they did not mind what I said for all that.”“So then there are now only forty-four of you laying siege to the accursed place?”“Your pardon, Captain. I did not yet mention four others who have been hung up by the necks. Upon these we were not obliged to spend our powder—as they were dead enough already.”“Carajo!” vociferated the brigand with a furious accent. “Ten of my men gone already!Demonios! Am I to lose this band like the other? Go on! You have given me enough of ill news. Let me hear some of what you call good ones!”“Yesterday evening a horseman approached the hacienda riding towards it, as if he had nothing to do but present himself at the gate and be admitted. Before getting near, however, he was seen by two of our videttes, who at once charged upon him. After a fight, in which the horseman made a fierce resistance, he managed to escape.”“Carajo!—the stupids!”“Don’t be angry with the poor fellows, Señor Captain. I assure you they did not let him go without a struggle, which ended in one of them getting his shoulder fractured by a pistol-shot, and the other having his horse fall under him. Pressed by the latter, the Royalist horseman turned upon him, and rushing against his horse, brought the animal to the ground. Then grasping the vidette by the collar, he lifted him clean out of his stirrups, and dashed him to the earth, as one would do a cocoa-nut to break its shell. It was full two hours before the poor fellow came to his senses.”“I know only one man strong enough to accomplish that feat,” said Bocardo, turning pale—“the damned Colonel Tres-Villas. It was just in that way that he killed Antonio Valdez.”“It was Colonel Tres-Villas,” added Gaspacho. “Pepe Lobos is sure of it. He heard the snorting of that strange horse—the same he rode upon the day he came to Las Palmas. Besides, Pepe recognised his figure, and the sound of his voice—notwithstanding that it was in the night. Ten of our men have gone in pursuit of him, and by this he ought to be taken.”“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the guerillero chief, turning his eyes towards heaven, “I promise you a wax candle as big as a palm tree, if this man falls into our hands!”“As big as a palm tree!” exclaimed Bocardo in astonishment.—“Camarado, do you mean it?”“Hush!” said the other in a low voice. “Hold your tongue, Bocardo; it’s only to humbug the Virgin!”“Well,” replied Bocardo, “whether they capture him or not, it don’t much matter. We shall take him all the same. If I understand his history, and the meaning of the message which this coyote has for him, he can be lured by it to the farthest corner of the earth.”At this moment the wife of Arroyo re-entered the tent, her face exhibiting a still stronger expression of fury than before.“The cage is empty!” cried she, “the bird has flown, and along with it the guardian left to watch it—the worthless Juan de Zapote!”“Blood and fire!” vociferated Arroyo, “quick, pursue them! Hola!” continued he, raising the flap of his tent, “twenty men to horse! Scour the woods and the river banks. Bring back the two fugitives bound hand and foot. Above all, bring them backalive!”The order created a brisk movement throughout the camp, where each seemed to compete with his fellow as to who should be the first to enter on the pursuit.“Jesus Santo!” muttered Bocardo to himself, “if this Colonel should escape, and also the messenger, adieu to all my fine combinations! Well!” he continued, after the wife of Arroyo had gone out of the tent to hasten the departure of the pursuers. “Well, Señor Arroyo! if he should get away from us it will be a great pity sure enough. Still we shall find consolation at the hacienda San Carlos.”“True,” replied the other, “and I have need of some distraction just now. This evening I mean to amuse myself. To-morrow we shall storm the fortress of Del Valle with all our force; and may the devil scorch me, if I leave one stone of it standing upon another!”“Yes; to-morrow let us set seriously about it,” said Bocardo, gleefully rubbing his hands together. “But see!” he continued, glancing out of the tent, “our fellows are ready to start. If you take my advice, instead of twenty men, you’ll send only ten. That will be quite sufficient to capture those two droll devils who have escaped from us. After you have sent the reinforcement to Del Valle we’ll have no great number of men to remain at head-quarters here.”The guerillero chief yielded to the counsel of his associate; and choosing from the horsemen that were ready ten of the best mounted, he directed them to enter upon the pursuit. The others were at the same time ordered to proceed to the hacienda Del Valle to reinforce the party already besieging the place.
The two brigands remained for some time without saying a word, both reflecting on the scheme of murder and pillage which they now premeditated. At this moment the tent flap was raised, and a figure appeared in the entrance. It was a woman of masculine mien—a true virago—robust and hale; but whose countenance betrayed the ravage of evil passions rather than time. Her coarse hair clubbed around her head, and held in its place by a large tortoiseshell comb with gold pendants, showed no sign of advanced age. It was black as ebony. Around her neck were hung numerous chains of gold and glass beads, to which were attached a number of crosses, scapularies, and other golden ornaments; but in spite of this gaudy adorning her countenance was hideous to behold, and did not belie the portrait of Arroyo’s wife which had been sketched by Bocardo, for it was she. As she presented herself at the opening of the tent, rage was depicted in her countenance, exhibiting itself in the swollen veins of her neck and forehead, and in the rolling of her bloodshot eyes.
“A shame on you!” cried she, casting on Bocardo, whom she both hated and despised, the angry look she feared to give her husband, “a shame on you, that after the oath you have taken, there should still remain a stone of this nest of vipers, or a man to defend it!”
“Well—what now?” demanded Arroyo, in an ill-humoured tone. “What nest of vipers are you speaking of?”
“The hacienda Del Valle—what other should it be? There our men—the greater number of them at least—have been besieging it for three days without any result. No, not without result, for I’ve just this moment learnt that three of our people have been killed in a sortie, and that this accursed Catalan, who commands the place, has nailed their heads over the door of the hacienda!”
“Who has told you this?” quickly demanded Arroyo.
“Gaspacho. He is outside awaiting your orders. He has been sent to ask for a reinforcement.”
“By all the devils!” cried Arroyo in a rage. “Woman! who has given you the privilege of interrogating the couriers that are sent me?”
As he put this interrogatory the brigand sprang to his feet; and, seizing the bullock’s skull upon which he had been seated, made a motion as if he would crush with it that of his amazonian partner. Perhaps, influenced by the late councils of Bocardo, he would have decided on bearing the public execration upon his own shoulders, had it not been for that scapulary blessed by the Pope, and whose fatal influence he at the moment remembered.
Bocardo paid no attention to the threatening demonstration of his associate, but sat phlegmatically silent.
“Maria Santissima!” exclaimed the virago, as she retreated before the angry menace of her husband. “Will you not protect me, Señor Bocardo?”
“Hum!” replied the latter, without moving from his seat, “you know the proverb, worthy Señora? Between the tree and the bark—you understand? These little domestic broils—”
“Must not occur any more,” interposed Arroyo, quieting down; “and now, Señora,” continued he, addressing himself to his helpmate, “before receiving Gaspacho, I have a commission for you to execute.”
“What may that be?” brusquely demanded the woman, elevating her tone in proportion as that of her husband became lowered.
“It is a magnificent scheme conceived by me,” interrupted Bocardo.
“Ah!” exclaimed the virago, “if you had only as much courage as intelligence, Señor Bocardo!”
“Bah! Arroyo has courage enough for both of us.”
“That,” said Arroyo, suddenly turning his anger upon his associate, who had not the advantage of possessing a charmed scapulary, “that is as much as to say that you have the intelligence for both of us?”
“God forbid I should either say or think so,” rejoined Bocardo in an humble tone; “you are as intelligent as you are brave, Señor Arroyo.”
“Wife!” continued Arroyo, without appearing to listen to the fulsome flattery of his associate, “go and interrogate once more the prisoner we have taken. Find out if possible what errand he was on—”
“The bird still sings the same tune,” responded the woman; “he repeats that he is in the service of Don Mariano de Silva; and that he is the bearer of a message to that mad Colonel, as you call him, Don Rafael Tres-Villas.”
At this hated name the shade deepened upon the brow of the bandit.
“Have you found out what this message is?” he inquired.
“The fellow insists upon it that it is of no importance. What do you suppose I found in his pockets, when we were searching him?”
“A vial of poison, perhaps?”
“No; but something equally droll. A packet carefully put up, enclosing a small cambric handkerchief, sweetly scented with perfume, and inside this a tress of hair—a woman’s hair, long and beautiful, by my faith!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Bocardo, in a significant tone; “and what have you done with it, Madame Arroyo?”
“What should I have done with it?” said the virago, with a disdainful toss of her head—“what but fling it back in the face of the messenger—the worthless thing. No doubt it is a love-token sent to this colonel of the devil.”
“The messenger took it back then?”
“Ah, indeed—with as much eagerness as if it had been a chain of gold.”
“So much the better,” said Bocardo, with a significant gesture. “I have an idea,” he continued, “if I am not mistaken—a superb idea! With this messenger and this love-token, we can give the Colonel Tres-Villas a rendezvous, where, instead of meeting his sweetheart, he may tumble into the middle of a score of our fellows, who may take him alive without the slightest difficulty. The thing’s as good as done. Only put me in communication with this messenger, and I’ll answer for the rest. What say you, Arroyo? What shall we do with the Colonel Tres-Villas?”
“Burn him over a slow fire—roast him alive!” responded the guerillero, with an expression of ferocious joy.
“But your wife will intercede for him?” ironically added Bocardo.
“Carrambo! Yes!” exclaimed the hag, “to burn him over the slow fire, and roast him alive—that I shall.”
And with a hideous laugh she walked out of the tent to give place to Gaspacho, who the next moment entered.
The courier thus named had all the appearance of an original character. He was tall and thin as the blade of a rapier, with a cynical expression of countenance, and long snaky tresses of hair hanging down over his shoulders, like thongs of smoked leather.
“Speak!” commanded Arroyo, as he entered. “Thou bearer of evil tidings, what have you to tell us now?”
“Perhaps, Señor Captain,” responded the brigand, who, notwithstanding his habitual air of importance, was evidently cowed by the scowl of his superior, “perhaps I have some good news as well?”
“First, then, deliver your bad ones!”
“Well, then, Señor Captain, there are not enough of us to take this hacienda by assault. The den of coyotes has proved stronger than we expected; and I am sent to ask for a reinforcement of men.”
“Who has sent you?—Lieutenant Lantejas?”
“Lieutenant Lantejas will never send another message. This morning his head was nailed over the gate of the hacienda along with that of Sergeant Yañez.”
“Tripes of the fiend!” exclaimed the guerilla leader, “Yañez, too!”
“Their heads are not the only ones, Captain. Besides them are those of Salinas and Tuerto, to say nothing of Matavidas, Sacamedios, and Piojento, who were taken prisoners and hung alive by the feet from the parapet of the building. We had to fire at them and kill them with our carbines, in order to put an end to their sufferings.”
“They deserved it—a fig for their lives! Why did they allow themselves to be taken alive?”
“That’s just what I told them,” said Gaspacho, with an air of assent. “I warned them that your honour would be very angry about it. But they did not mind what I said for all that.”
“So then there are now only forty-four of you laying siege to the accursed place?”
“Your pardon, Captain. I did not yet mention four others who have been hung up by the necks. Upon these we were not obliged to spend our powder—as they were dead enough already.”
“Carajo!” vociferated the brigand with a furious accent. “Ten of my men gone already!Demonios! Am I to lose this band like the other? Go on! You have given me enough of ill news. Let me hear some of what you call good ones!”
“Yesterday evening a horseman approached the hacienda riding towards it, as if he had nothing to do but present himself at the gate and be admitted. Before getting near, however, he was seen by two of our videttes, who at once charged upon him. After a fight, in which the horseman made a fierce resistance, he managed to escape.”
“Carajo!—the stupids!”
“Don’t be angry with the poor fellows, Señor Captain. I assure you they did not let him go without a struggle, which ended in one of them getting his shoulder fractured by a pistol-shot, and the other having his horse fall under him. Pressed by the latter, the Royalist horseman turned upon him, and rushing against his horse, brought the animal to the ground. Then grasping the vidette by the collar, he lifted him clean out of his stirrups, and dashed him to the earth, as one would do a cocoa-nut to break its shell. It was full two hours before the poor fellow came to his senses.”
“I know only one man strong enough to accomplish that feat,” said Bocardo, turning pale—“the damned Colonel Tres-Villas. It was just in that way that he killed Antonio Valdez.”
“It was Colonel Tres-Villas,” added Gaspacho. “Pepe Lobos is sure of it. He heard the snorting of that strange horse—the same he rode upon the day he came to Las Palmas. Besides, Pepe recognised his figure, and the sound of his voice—notwithstanding that it was in the night. Ten of our men have gone in pursuit of him, and by this he ought to be taken.”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the guerillero chief, turning his eyes towards heaven, “I promise you a wax candle as big as a palm tree, if this man falls into our hands!”
“As big as a palm tree!” exclaimed Bocardo in astonishment.—“Camarado, do you mean it?”
“Hush!” said the other in a low voice. “Hold your tongue, Bocardo; it’s only to humbug the Virgin!”
“Well,” replied Bocardo, “whether they capture him or not, it don’t much matter. We shall take him all the same. If I understand his history, and the meaning of the message which this coyote has for him, he can be lured by it to the farthest corner of the earth.”
At this moment the wife of Arroyo re-entered the tent, her face exhibiting a still stronger expression of fury than before.
“The cage is empty!” cried she, “the bird has flown, and along with it the guardian left to watch it—the worthless Juan de Zapote!”
“Blood and fire!” vociferated Arroyo, “quick, pursue them! Hola!” continued he, raising the flap of his tent, “twenty men to horse! Scour the woods and the river banks. Bring back the two fugitives bound hand and foot. Above all, bring them backalive!”
The order created a brisk movement throughout the camp, where each seemed to compete with his fellow as to who should be the first to enter on the pursuit.
“Jesus Santo!” muttered Bocardo to himself, “if this Colonel should escape, and also the messenger, adieu to all my fine combinations! Well!” he continued, after the wife of Arroyo had gone out of the tent to hasten the departure of the pursuers. “Well, Señor Arroyo! if he should get away from us it will be a great pity sure enough. Still we shall find consolation at the hacienda San Carlos.”
“True,” replied the other, “and I have need of some distraction just now. This evening I mean to amuse myself. To-morrow we shall storm the fortress of Del Valle with all our force; and may the devil scorch me, if I leave one stone of it standing upon another!”
“Yes; to-morrow let us set seriously about it,” said Bocardo, gleefully rubbing his hands together. “But see!” he continued, glancing out of the tent, “our fellows are ready to start. If you take my advice, instead of twenty men, you’ll send only ten. That will be quite sufficient to capture those two droll devils who have escaped from us. After you have sent the reinforcement to Del Valle we’ll have no great number of men to remain at head-quarters here.”
The guerillero chief yielded to the counsel of his associate; and choosing from the horsemen that were ready ten of the best mounted, he directed them to enter upon the pursuit. The others were at the same time ordered to proceed to the hacienda Del Valle to reinforce the party already besieging the place.
Chapter Fifty Eight.An Unexpected Reception.From that portion of Gaspacho’s report which related to Don Rafael Tres-Villas, the reader will easily guess the purpose of the eight horsemen assembled in the glade of the forest of Ostuta: they were no other than the soldiers who from the besieging party had gone in pursuit of the Royalist Colonel. It will be remembered, however, that ten was the number mentioned by Gaspacho, while only eight now composed the group that occupied the clearing.We shall presently learn how their number became thus reduced: but first let us recount the adventures of Don Rafael himself—from the time of his quitting the camp of Huajapam, to the moment when we find him asleep upon his arboreal couch.As soon as the song of triumph raised by the soldiers of Trujano had ceased to echo in his ears, Don Rafael proceeded to reflect upon his own situation. He perceived at once that, in order to traverse with safety some thirty leagues of a country almost entirely in the hands of the insurgents, certain precautions would be absolutely necessary. His gold-laced uniform, his helmet, all his equipments, in short, would betray him to an insurgent enemy. Moreover he was badly armed—having broken his sword in the conflict; and for such a perilous journey it was necessary to be provided with better weapons than a dagger and pistols.He knew it was impossible to return to his marquee to re-equip himself. The camp was already filled with the insurgent soldiers, and no doubt his tent had been pillaged long before that time.After a moment’s reflection it occurred to him that on the field of battle—that part of it most distant from Huajapam, where Callejas had sustained the first shock of Morelos’ army—he might find the necessary articles he desired; and turning a little out of his course, he directed himself thither.His judgment proved correct. A two-edged sword soon rewarded his search; and he was able to exchange for his dragoon helmet the felt hat of an insurgent soldier, with a brass front-plate, bearing in ill-formed letters the inscription,Independencia o’ muerte!Scornfully tearing off the tablet and trampling it under his feet, Don Rafael placed the felt hat upon his head, and continued his explorations. Shortly after he exchanged thejaquetaof an insurgent soldier for his cavalry uniform; and then looking to the state of his pistols, and seeing that his cartridge-box was well garnished he put spurs to Roncador and rode briskly away from the ground.It is not necessary to detail the many precautions which he adopted from hour to hour to keep out of the hands of the insurgents, who were on all sides scouring the country through which he had to pass. Suffice it to say that for the most part he journeyed only by night. Even travelling thus, he was not always safe; and more than once he found occasion to employ all the courage and presence of mind with which Nature had endowed him.On the evening of the third day, just at the hour of twilight, he arrived in the neighbourhood of his own hacienda. He was expecting soon to be in security within its walls, when the two videttes already mentioned perceived and rushed forward to capture him. This behaviour was in conformity with the orders of Arroyo, who had commanded that every one seen near the hacienda should be made prisoner and brought into his presence.Don Rafael was at first uncertain as to the enemy with which he had to deal; but he was not the man to submit tamely to conduct so brusque and uncourteous as was that of the videttes. His resistance ended in putting both of themhors de combat; but the circumstances of the encounter, for certain reasons, had been somewhat misrepresented by Gaspacho.It is true that one of the two soldiers had his shoulder fractured by a shot; but the bullet had also passed so near his heart, that the man was dead in an hour after. As to the other, it was true that the Colonel dashed him to the ground as described; but, before doing so, he had taken the precaution to plunge his dagger into the breast of this second adversary.Although he had left both deprived of the power to give the alarm, unfortunately the report of his pistol had betrayed his presence to the guerilleros. In a few moments half a score of them were riding in pursuit; for, by the orders of their chief, one half their horses were kept saddled and bridled both day and night.After disembarrassing himself of his two adversaries, the Colonel had hesitated a moment, as to whether he should return on his path or continue on to the hacienda. It was during this interval of hesitation that the pursuing horsemen drew near, and that one of them (Pepe Lobos by name) caught sight of and recognised him, while the snorting of Roncador as he galloped off confirmed the guerillero in his belief.It is likely enough that the extreme hatred which Arroyo bore for the Colonel was at this crisis the means of saving his life. The guerilleros, knowing the desire of their chief that Tres-Villas should be captured alive, reflected upon the rich recompense they might expect if they should so take him. Otherwise the volley of carbine shots, which they would have delivered on the instant, might have terminated the existence of their dreaded foe.On seeing the horsemen, Don Rafael suddenly wheeled round and galloped back as he had come. His hope lay in being able to distance his pursuers, and afterwards find a temporary refuge in the thick forest he had just been traversing, and through which ran the road to Huajapam. With this purpose in view, he returned along the route at full gallop.When he deemed himself at a sufficient distance in advance of his pursuers, he wheeled suddenly from the road and headed his steed into the thick underwood, through which he spurred onward, until his passage was fairly barred up by an impenetrable network of vines and bushes. Here he halted; and, dismounting, led his horse to a tree. He then commenced groping about, to find some spot where he might in safety obtain a few hours of repose, after the fatigues he had encountered during the day.A few paces further on he perceived a cedrela tree of gigantic dimensions, and so thickly loaded with leaves that it seemed to promise a secure hiding-place among its branches. Still apprehensive that his pursuers might discover his track, Don Rafael resolved to climb the cedrela, whose dark foliage would screen him from the sharpest eyes. On approaching the tree, he perceived by the vast circumference of its trunk that he could not climb up by embracing it. Neither could he reach to even the lowest of its limbs. A means, however, presented itself of getting over the difficulty.An enormous lliana, stretching from among the top branches, reached the ground in a diagonal direction; and up this Don Rafael was enabled to make his ascent.Placing his body between two large boughs, he disposed himself, as best he could, to pass the remainder of the night, leaving it for the day to bring him to some further determination.He commenced reflecting upon the pursuit. He was in hopes that his pursuers, having lost his track, might separate into small parties of two or three, in order the more thoroughly to scour the woods. In this case, he might be able to defeat the whole party, taking them in detail, and favoured by his own superior courage and strength, in which he felt the most perfect confidence.The night had already advanced, and the moon from the high vault of the starry heavens poured down her floods of light over the spray of the forest. A few feeble raylets, penetrating through the thick masses of foliage, reached the retreat where Don Rafael had hidden himself.He remained for some moments listening attentively. He could hear nothing—at least no sound that betokened the presence of human beings. The breeze sighing among the leaves, the distant howl of the coyote, the sweet note of the mimic night-thrush, or perchance the rustling caused by the iguana as it scampered over the dead leaves, were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the night.The fresh balmy air that he was breathing, the shadow of night that enwrapped him, the imposing tranquillity that reigned around, all conspired to beget the desire for repose. He felt his eyelids gradually grow heavier and heavier; and after a while an invincible torpor seized upon his whole frame.Without being in any great degree uneasy about his situation, Don Rafael nevertheless felt the necessity of keeping awake as long as he might be able. With this intent he struggled for a time against sleep, but in vain. Seeing that it was about to overpower him, he unwound the sash from his waist, and with this attached himself firmly between the branches. Having thus provided against the danger of a fall, he surrendered himself the moment after to a profound and silent slumber.
From that portion of Gaspacho’s report which related to Don Rafael Tres-Villas, the reader will easily guess the purpose of the eight horsemen assembled in the glade of the forest of Ostuta: they were no other than the soldiers who from the besieging party had gone in pursuit of the Royalist Colonel. It will be remembered, however, that ten was the number mentioned by Gaspacho, while only eight now composed the group that occupied the clearing.
We shall presently learn how their number became thus reduced: but first let us recount the adventures of Don Rafael himself—from the time of his quitting the camp of Huajapam, to the moment when we find him asleep upon his arboreal couch.
As soon as the song of triumph raised by the soldiers of Trujano had ceased to echo in his ears, Don Rafael proceeded to reflect upon his own situation. He perceived at once that, in order to traverse with safety some thirty leagues of a country almost entirely in the hands of the insurgents, certain precautions would be absolutely necessary. His gold-laced uniform, his helmet, all his equipments, in short, would betray him to an insurgent enemy. Moreover he was badly armed—having broken his sword in the conflict; and for such a perilous journey it was necessary to be provided with better weapons than a dagger and pistols.
He knew it was impossible to return to his marquee to re-equip himself. The camp was already filled with the insurgent soldiers, and no doubt his tent had been pillaged long before that time.
After a moment’s reflection it occurred to him that on the field of battle—that part of it most distant from Huajapam, where Callejas had sustained the first shock of Morelos’ army—he might find the necessary articles he desired; and turning a little out of his course, he directed himself thither.
His judgment proved correct. A two-edged sword soon rewarded his search; and he was able to exchange for his dragoon helmet the felt hat of an insurgent soldier, with a brass front-plate, bearing in ill-formed letters the inscription,Independencia o’ muerte!
Scornfully tearing off the tablet and trampling it under his feet, Don Rafael placed the felt hat upon his head, and continued his explorations. Shortly after he exchanged thejaquetaof an insurgent soldier for his cavalry uniform; and then looking to the state of his pistols, and seeing that his cartridge-box was well garnished he put spurs to Roncador and rode briskly away from the ground.
It is not necessary to detail the many precautions which he adopted from hour to hour to keep out of the hands of the insurgents, who were on all sides scouring the country through which he had to pass. Suffice it to say that for the most part he journeyed only by night. Even travelling thus, he was not always safe; and more than once he found occasion to employ all the courage and presence of mind with which Nature had endowed him.
On the evening of the third day, just at the hour of twilight, he arrived in the neighbourhood of his own hacienda. He was expecting soon to be in security within its walls, when the two videttes already mentioned perceived and rushed forward to capture him. This behaviour was in conformity with the orders of Arroyo, who had commanded that every one seen near the hacienda should be made prisoner and brought into his presence.
Don Rafael was at first uncertain as to the enemy with which he had to deal; but he was not the man to submit tamely to conduct so brusque and uncourteous as was that of the videttes. His resistance ended in putting both of themhors de combat; but the circumstances of the encounter, for certain reasons, had been somewhat misrepresented by Gaspacho.
It is true that one of the two soldiers had his shoulder fractured by a shot; but the bullet had also passed so near his heart, that the man was dead in an hour after. As to the other, it was true that the Colonel dashed him to the ground as described; but, before doing so, he had taken the precaution to plunge his dagger into the breast of this second adversary.
Although he had left both deprived of the power to give the alarm, unfortunately the report of his pistol had betrayed his presence to the guerilleros. In a few moments half a score of them were riding in pursuit; for, by the orders of their chief, one half their horses were kept saddled and bridled both day and night.
After disembarrassing himself of his two adversaries, the Colonel had hesitated a moment, as to whether he should return on his path or continue on to the hacienda. It was during this interval of hesitation that the pursuing horsemen drew near, and that one of them (Pepe Lobos by name) caught sight of and recognised him, while the snorting of Roncador as he galloped off confirmed the guerillero in his belief.
It is likely enough that the extreme hatred which Arroyo bore for the Colonel was at this crisis the means of saving his life. The guerilleros, knowing the desire of their chief that Tres-Villas should be captured alive, reflected upon the rich recompense they might expect if they should so take him. Otherwise the volley of carbine shots, which they would have delivered on the instant, might have terminated the existence of their dreaded foe.
On seeing the horsemen, Don Rafael suddenly wheeled round and galloped back as he had come. His hope lay in being able to distance his pursuers, and afterwards find a temporary refuge in the thick forest he had just been traversing, and through which ran the road to Huajapam. With this purpose in view, he returned along the route at full gallop.
When he deemed himself at a sufficient distance in advance of his pursuers, he wheeled suddenly from the road and headed his steed into the thick underwood, through which he spurred onward, until his passage was fairly barred up by an impenetrable network of vines and bushes. Here he halted; and, dismounting, led his horse to a tree. He then commenced groping about, to find some spot where he might in safety obtain a few hours of repose, after the fatigues he had encountered during the day.
A few paces further on he perceived a cedrela tree of gigantic dimensions, and so thickly loaded with leaves that it seemed to promise a secure hiding-place among its branches. Still apprehensive that his pursuers might discover his track, Don Rafael resolved to climb the cedrela, whose dark foliage would screen him from the sharpest eyes. On approaching the tree, he perceived by the vast circumference of its trunk that he could not climb up by embracing it. Neither could he reach to even the lowest of its limbs. A means, however, presented itself of getting over the difficulty.
An enormous lliana, stretching from among the top branches, reached the ground in a diagonal direction; and up this Don Rafael was enabled to make his ascent.
Placing his body between two large boughs, he disposed himself, as best he could, to pass the remainder of the night, leaving it for the day to bring him to some further determination.
He commenced reflecting upon the pursuit. He was in hopes that his pursuers, having lost his track, might separate into small parties of two or three, in order the more thoroughly to scour the woods. In this case, he might be able to defeat the whole party, taking them in detail, and favoured by his own superior courage and strength, in which he felt the most perfect confidence.
The night had already advanced, and the moon from the high vault of the starry heavens poured down her floods of light over the spray of the forest. A few feeble raylets, penetrating through the thick masses of foliage, reached the retreat where Don Rafael had hidden himself.
He remained for some moments listening attentively. He could hear nothing—at least no sound that betokened the presence of human beings. The breeze sighing among the leaves, the distant howl of the coyote, the sweet note of the mimic night-thrush, or perchance the rustling caused by the iguana as it scampered over the dead leaves, were the only sounds that broke the stillness of the night.
The fresh balmy air that he was breathing, the shadow of night that enwrapped him, the imposing tranquillity that reigned around, all conspired to beget the desire for repose. He felt his eyelids gradually grow heavier and heavier; and after a while an invincible torpor seized upon his whole frame.
Without being in any great degree uneasy about his situation, Don Rafael nevertheless felt the necessity of keeping awake as long as he might be able. With this intent he struggled for a time against sleep, but in vain. Seeing that it was about to overpower him, he unwound the sash from his waist, and with this attached himself firmly between the branches. Having thus provided against the danger of a fall, he surrendered himself the moment after to a profound and silent slumber.