Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Nineteen.The Comandante, with his friend Roblado, alone remained in the room, and continued the conversation with a fresh glass and cigar.“And you really think, Roblado, that the fellow had encouragement. I think so too, else he would never have dared to act as he did.”“I am quite sure of it now. That he saw her last night, and alone, I am certain. As I approached the house I saw a man standing before the reja, and leaning against the bars, as if conversing with some one inside. Some friend of Don Ambrosio, thought I.“As I drew nearer, the man, who was muffled in a manga, walked off and leaped upon a horse. Judge my surprise on recognising in the horse the black stallion that was yesterday ridden by the cibolero!“When I entered the house and made inquiries as to who were at home, the servants informed me that master was at themineria, and that the Señorita had retired, and could see no one that night!“By Heaven! I was in such a passion, I hardly knew what I said at the moment. The thing’s scarce credible; but, that this low fellow is on secret terms with her, is as sure as I am a soldier.”“It does seem incredible. What do you mean to do, Roblado?”“Oh! I’m safe enough about her. She shall be better watched for the future. I’ve had a hint given to Don Ambrosio. You know my secret well enough, colonel. Hermine is my loadstone; but it is a cursed queer thing to have for one’s rival such a fellow as this! Ha! ha! ha!”Roblado’s laugh was faint and unreal. “Do you know,” continued he, striking on a new idea, “the padré don’t like the güero family. That’s evident from the hints he let drop to-night. We may get this fellow out of the way without much scandal, if the Church will only interfere. The padrés can expel him at once from the settlement if they can only satisfy themselves that he is a ‘heretico.’ Is it not so?”“It is,” coldly replied Vizcarra, sipping his wine; “but to expelhim, my dear Roblado,some one elsemight be also driven off. The rose would be plucked along with the thorn. You understand?”“Perfectly.”“That, then, of course, I don’t wish—at least not for the present. After some time we may be satisfied to part with rose, thorn, bush, roots, and all. Ha! ha! ha!”“By the way, colonel,” asked the captain, “have you made any progress yet?—haveyoubeen to the house?”“No, my dear fellow; I have not had time. It’s some distance, remember. Besides, I intend to defer my visit until this fellow is out of the way. It will be more convenient to carry on my courtship in his absence.”“Out of the way! what do you mean?”“That the cibolero will shortly start for the Plains—to be gone, perhaps, for several months, cutting up buffalo-beef, tricking the Indians, and such-like employments.”“Ho! that’s not so bad.”“So you see, querido camarado, there’s no need for violence in the matter. Have patience—time enough for everything. Before my bold buffalo-hunter gets back, both our little affairs will be settled, I trust. You shall be the owner of rich mines, and I—”A slight knock at the door, and the voice of Sergeant Gomez was heard, asking to see the Comandante.“Come in, sergeant!” shouted the colonel. The brutal-looking trooper walked into the room, and, from his appearance, it was plain he had just dismounted from a ride.“Well, sergeant?” said Vizcarra, as the man drew near; “speak out! Captain Roblado may know what you have to say.”“The party, colonel, lives in the very last house down the valley,—full ten miles from here. There are but the three, mother, sister, and brother—the same you saw at the fiesta. There are three or four Tagno servants, who help the man in his business. He owns a few mules, oxen, and carts, that’s all. These he makes use of in his expeditions, upon one of which he is about to start in three or four days at the furthest. It is to be a long one, I heard, as he is to take a new route over the Llano Estacado.”“Over the Llano Estacado?”“Such, I was told, was his intention.”“Anything else to say, sergeant?”“Nothing, colonel, except that the girl has a sweetheart—the same young fellow who bet so heavily against you at the fiesta.”“The devil!” exclaimed Vizcarra, while a deep shadow crossed his forehead.“He, indeed! I suspected that. Where does he live?”“Not far above them, colonel. He is the owner of a rancho, and is reputed rich—that is for a ranchero.”“Help yourself to a glass of Catalan, sergeant.”The trooper stretched out his hand, laid hold of a bottle, and, having filled one of the glasses, bowed respectfully to the officers, and drank off the brandy at a draught. Seeing that he was not wanted further, he touched his shako and withdrew.“So, camarado, you see it is right enough, so far as you are concerned.”“And for you also!” replied Roblado.“Not exactly.”“Why not?”“I don’t like the story of this sweetheart—this ranchero. The fellow possesses money—a spirit, too, that may be troublesome. He’s not the man one would be called upon to fight—at least not one in my position; butheis one of these people—what the cibolero is not—and has their sympathies with him. It would be a very different thing to get involved with him in an affair. Bah! what need I care? I never yet failed. Good night, camarado!”“Buenos noches!” replied Roblado; and both, rising simultaneously from the table, retired to their respective sleeping-rooms.

The Comandante, with his friend Roblado, alone remained in the room, and continued the conversation with a fresh glass and cigar.

“And you really think, Roblado, that the fellow had encouragement. I think so too, else he would never have dared to act as he did.”

“I am quite sure of it now. That he saw her last night, and alone, I am certain. As I approached the house I saw a man standing before the reja, and leaning against the bars, as if conversing with some one inside. Some friend of Don Ambrosio, thought I.

“As I drew nearer, the man, who was muffled in a manga, walked off and leaped upon a horse. Judge my surprise on recognising in the horse the black stallion that was yesterday ridden by the cibolero!

“When I entered the house and made inquiries as to who were at home, the servants informed me that master was at themineria, and that the Señorita had retired, and could see no one that night!

“By Heaven! I was in such a passion, I hardly knew what I said at the moment. The thing’s scarce credible; but, that this low fellow is on secret terms with her, is as sure as I am a soldier.”

“It does seem incredible. What do you mean to do, Roblado?”

“Oh! I’m safe enough about her. She shall be better watched for the future. I’ve had a hint given to Don Ambrosio. You know my secret well enough, colonel. Hermine is my loadstone; but it is a cursed queer thing to have for one’s rival such a fellow as this! Ha! ha! ha!”

Roblado’s laugh was faint and unreal. “Do you know,” continued he, striking on a new idea, “the padré don’t like the güero family. That’s evident from the hints he let drop to-night. We may get this fellow out of the way without much scandal, if the Church will only interfere. The padrés can expel him at once from the settlement if they can only satisfy themselves that he is a ‘heretico.’ Is it not so?”

“It is,” coldly replied Vizcarra, sipping his wine; “but to expelhim, my dear Roblado,some one elsemight be also driven off. The rose would be plucked along with the thorn. You understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“That, then, of course, I don’t wish—at least not for the present. After some time we may be satisfied to part with rose, thorn, bush, roots, and all. Ha! ha! ha!”

“By the way, colonel,” asked the captain, “have you made any progress yet?—haveyoubeen to the house?”

“No, my dear fellow; I have not had time. It’s some distance, remember. Besides, I intend to defer my visit until this fellow is out of the way. It will be more convenient to carry on my courtship in his absence.”

“Out of the way! what do you mean?”

“That the cibolero will shortly start for the Plains—to be gone, perhaps, for several months, cutting up buffalo-beef, tricking the Indians, and such-like employments.”

“Ho! that’s not so bad.”

“So you see, querido camarado, there’s no need for violence in the matter. Have patience—time enough for everything. Before my bold buffalo-hunter gets back, both our little affairs will be settled, I trust. You shall be the owner of rich mines, and I—”

A slight knock at the door, and the voice of Sergeant Gomez was heard, asking to see the Comandante.

“Come in, sergeant!” shouted the colonel. The brutal-looking trooper walked into the room, and, from his appearance, it was plain he had just dismounted from a ride.

“Well, sergeant?” said Vizcarra, as the man drew near; “speak out! Captain Roblado may know what you have to say.”

“The party, colonel, lives in the very last house down the valley,—full ten miles from here. There are but the three, mother, sister, and brother—the same you saw at the fiesta. There are three or four Tagno servants, who help the man in his business. He owns a few mules, oxen, and carts, that’s all. These he makes use of in his expeditions, upon one of which he is about to start in three or four days at the furthest. It is to be a long one, I heard, as he is to take a new route over the Llano Estacado.”

“Over the Llano Estacado?”

“Such, I was told, was his intention.”

“Anything else to say, sergeant?”

“Nothing, colonel, except that the girl has a sweetheart—the same young fellow who bet so heavily against you at the fiesta.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Vizcarra, while a deep shadow crossed his forehead.

“He, indeed! I suspected that. Where does he live?”

“Not far above them, colonel. He is the owner of a rancho, and is reputed rich—that is for a ranchero.”

“Help yourself to a glass of Catalan, sergeant.”

The trooper stretched out his hand, laid hold of a bottle, and, having filled one of the glasses, bowed respectfully to the officers, and drank off the brandy at a draught. Seeing that he was not wanted further, he touched his shako and withdrew.

“So, camarado, you see it is right enough, so far as you are concerned.”

“And for you also!” replied Roblado.

“Not exactly.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like the story of this sweetheart—this ranchero. The fellow possesses money—a spirit, too, that may be troublesome. He’s not the man one would be called upon to fight—at least not one in my position; butheis one of these people—what the cibolero is not—and has their sympathies with him. It would be a very different thing to get involved with him in an affair. Bah! what need I care? I never yet failed. Good night, camarado!”

“Buenos noches!” replied Roblado; and both, rising simultaneously from the table, retired to their respective sleeping-rooms.

Chapter Twenty.The “ranchos” and “haciendas” of the valley extended nearly ten miles along the stream below San Ildefonso. Near the town they were studded more thickly; but, as you descended the stream, fewer were met with, and those of a poorer class. The fear of the “Indios bravos” prevented those who were well off from building their establishments at any great distance from the Presidio. Poverty, however, induced others to risk themselves nearer the frontier; and, as for several years the settlement had not been disturbed, a number of small farmers and graziers had established themselves as far as eight or ten miles distance below the town.Half-a-mile beyond all these stood an isolated dwelling—the last to be seen in going down the valley. It seemed beyond the pale of protection—so far as the garrison was concerned—for no patrol ever extended its rounds to so distant a point. Its owner evidently trusted to fate, or to the clemency of the Apaches—the Indians who usually troubled the settlement,—for the house in question was in no other way fortified against them. Perhaps its obscure and retired situation contributed to its security.It stood somewhat off the road, not near the stream, but back under the shadow of the bluff; in fact, almost built against the cliff.It was but a poor rancho, like all the others in the valley, and, indeed, throughout most parts of Mexico, built of large blocks of mud, squared in a mould and sun-dried. Many of the better class of such buildings showed white fronts, because near at hand gypsum was to be had for the digging. Some of greater pretension had windows that looked as though they were glazed. So they were, but not with glass. The shining plates that resembled it were butlaminaeof the aforesaid gypsum, which is used for that purpose in several districts of New Mexico.The rancho in question was ornamented neither with wash nor windows. It stood under the cliff, its brown mud walls scarce contrasting with the colour of the rock; and, instead of windows, a pair of dark holes, with a few wooden bars across them, gave light to the interior.This light, however, was only a supplement to that which entered by the door, habitually kept open.The front of the house was hardly visible from the valley road. A traveller would never have noticed it, and even the keen eye of an Indian might have failed to discover it. The singular fence that surrounded it hid it from view,—singular to the eye of one unaccustomed to the vegetation of this far land, it was a fence of columnar cacti. The plants that formed it were regular fluted columns, six inches thick and from six to ten feet high. They stood side by side like pickets in a stockade, so close together that the eye could scarce see through the interstices, still further closed by the thick beard of thorns. Near their tops in the season these vegetable columns became loaded with beautiful wax-like flowers, which disappeared only to give way to bright and luscious fruits. It was only after passing through the opening in this fence that the little rancho could be seen; and although its walls were rude, the sweet little flower-garden that bloomed within the enclosure told that the hand of care was not absent.Beyond the cactus-fence, and built against the cliff, was another enclosure—a mere wall ofadobeof no great height. This was a “corral” where cattle were kept, and at one corner was a sort of shed or stable of small dimensions. Sometimes half-a-dozen mules and double the number of oxen might be seen in that corral, and in the stable as fine a horse as ever carried saddle. Both were empty now, for the animals that usually occupied them were out. Horse, mules, and oxen, as well as their owner, were far away upon the prairies.Their owner was Carlos the cibolero. Such was the home of the buffalo-hunter, the home of his aged mother and fair sister. Such had been their home since Carlos was a child.And yet they were not of the people of the valley nor the town. Neither race—Spanish nor Indian—claimed them. They differed from both as widely as either did from the other. It was true what the padré had said. True that they were Americans; that their father and mother had settled in the valley a long time ago; that no one knew whence they had come, except that they had crossed the great plains from the eastward; that they werehereticos, and that the padrés could never succeed in bringing them into the fold of the Church; that these would have expelled, or otherwise punished them, but for the interference of the military Comandante; and furthermore, that both were always regarded by the common people of the settlement with a feeling of superstitious dread. Latterly this feeling, concentrated on the mother of Carlos, had taken a new shape, and they looked upon her as ahechicera—a witch—and crossed themselves devoutly whenever she met them. This was not often, for it was rare that she made her appearance among the inhabitants of the valley. Her presence at the fiesta of San Juan was the act of Carlos, who had been desirous of giving a day’s amusement to the mother and sister he so much loved.Their American origin had much to do with the isolation in which they live. Since a period long preceding that time, bitter jealousy existed between the Spano-Mexican and Anglo-American races. This feeling had been planted by national animosity, and nursed and fomented by priestcraft. Events that have since taken place had already cast their shadows over the Mexican frontier; and Florida and Louisiana were regarded as but steps in the ladder of American aggrandisement; but the understanding of these matters was of course confined to the more intelligent; but all were imbued with the bad passions of international hate.The family of the cibolero suffered under the common prejudice, and on that account lived almost wholly apart from the inhabitants of the valley. What intercourse they had was mostly with the native Indian population—the poor Tagnos, who felt but little of this anti-American feeling.If we enter the rancho of Carlos we shall see the fair-haired Rosita seated upon apetaté, and engaged in weaving rebosos. The piece of mechanism which serves her for a loom consists of only a few pieces of wood rudely carved. So simple is it that it is hardly just to call it a machine. Yet those long bluish threads stretched in parallel lines, and vibrating to the touch of her nimble fingers, will soon be woven into a beautiful scarf to cover the head of some coquettish poblana of the town. None in the valley can produce such rebosos as the cibolero’s sister. So much as he can beat all the youth in feats of horsemanship, so much does she excel in the useful art which is her source of subsistence.There are but two rooms in the rancho, and that is one more than will be found in most of its fellows. But the delicate sentiment still exists in the Saxon mind. The family of the cibolero are not yet Indianised.The kitchen is the larger apartment and the more cheerful, because lighted by the open door. In it you will see a small “brazero,” or altar-like fireplace—half-a-dozen earthen “ollas,” shaped like urns—some gourd-shell cups and bowls—a tortilla-stone, with its short legs and inclined surface—somepetatésto sit upon—some buffalo-robes for a similar purpose—a bag of maize—some bunches of dried herbs, and strings of red and green chilé—but no pictures of saints; and perhaps it is the only house in the whole valley where your eye willnotbe gratified by a sight of these. Truly the family of the cibolero are “hereticos.”Not last you will see an old woman seated near the fire, and smokingpunchein a pipe! A strange old woman is she, and strange no doubt her history but that is revealed to no one. Her sharp, lank features; her blanched, yet still luxuriant hair; the wild gleam of her eyes; all render her appearance singular. Others than the ignorant could not fail to fancy her a being different from the common order. No wonder, then, that these regard her as “una hechicera!”

The “ranchos” and “haciendas” of the valley extended nearly ten miles along the stream below San Ildefonso. Near the town they were studded more thickly; but, as you descended the stream, fewer were met with, and those of a poorer class. The fear of the “Indios bravos” prevented those who were well off from building their establishments at any great distance from the Presidio. Poverty, however, induced others to risk themselves nearer the frontier; and, as for several years the settlement had not been disturbed, a number of small farmers and graziers had established themselves as far as eight or ten miles distance below the town.

Half-a-mile beyond all these stood an isolated dwelling—the last to be seen in going down the valley. It seemed beyond the pale of protection—so far as the garrison was concerned—for no patrol ever extended its rounds to so distant a point. Its owner evidently trusted to fate, or to the clemency of the Apaches—the Indians who usually troubled the settlement,—for the house in question was in no other way fortified against them. Perhaps its obscure and retired situation contributed to its security.

It stood somewhat off the road, not near the stream, but back under the shadow of the bluff; in fact, almost built against the cliff.

It was but a poor rancho, like all the others in the valley, and, indeed, throughout most parts of Mexico, built of large blocks of mud, squared in a mould and sun-dried. Many of the better class of such buildings showed white fronts, because near at hand gypsum was to be had for the digging. Some of greater pretension had windows that looked as though they were glazed. So they were, but not with glass. The shining plates that resembled it were butlaminaeof the aforesaid gypsum, which is used for that purpose in several districts of New Mexico.

The rancho in question was ornamented neither with wash nor windows. It stood under the cliff, its brown mud walls scarce contrasting with the colour of the rock; and, instead of windows, a pair of dark holes, with a few wooden bars across them, gave light to the interior.

This light, however, was only a supplement to that which entered by the door, habitually kept open.

The front of the house was hardly visible from the valley road. A traveller would never have noticed it, and even the keen eye of an Indian might have failed to discover it. The singular fence that surrounded it hid it from view,—singular to the eye of one unaccustomed to the vegetation of this far land, it was a fence of columnar cacti. The plants that formed it were regular fluted columns, six inches thick and from six to ten feet high. They stood side by side like pickets in a stockade, so close together that the eye could scarce see through the interstices, still further closed by the thick beard of thorns. Near their tops in the season these vegetable columns became loaded with beautiful wax-like flowers, which disappeared only to give way to bright and luscious fruits. It was only after passing through the opening in this fence that the little rancho could be seen; and although its walls were rude, the sweet little flower-garden that bloomed within the enclosure told that the hand of care was not absent.

Beyond the cactus-fence, and built against the cliff, was another enclosure—a mere wall ofadobeof no great height. This was a “corral” where cattle were kept, and at one corner was a sort of shed or stable of small dimensions. Sometimes half-a-dozen mules and double the number of oxen might be seen in that corral, and in the stable as fine a horse as ever carried saddle. Both were empty now, for the animals that usually occupied them were out. Horse, mules, and oxen, as well as their owner, were far away upon the prairies.

Their owner was Carlos the cibolero. Such was the home of the buffalo-hunter, the home of his aged mother and fair sister. Such had been their home since Carlos was a child.

And yet they were not of the people of the valley nor the town. Neither race—Spanish nor Indian—claimed them. They differed from both as widely as either did from the other. It was true what the padré had said. True that they were Americans; that their father and mother had settled in the valley a long time ago; that no one knew whence they had come, except that they had crossed the great plains from the eastward; that they werehereticos, and that the padrés could never succeed in bringing them into the fold of the Church; that these would have expelled, or otherwise punished them, but for the interference of the military Comandante; and furthermore, that both were always regarded by the common people of the settlement with a feeling of superstitious dread. Latterly this feeling, concentrated on the mother of Carlos, had taken a new shape, and they looked upon her as ahechicera—a witch—and crossed themselves devoutly whenever she met them. This was not often, for it was rare that she made her appearance among the inhabitants of the valley. Her presence at the fiesta of San Juan was the act of Carlos, who had been desirous of giving a day’s amusement to the mother and sister he so much loved.

Their American origin had much to do with the isolation in which they live. Since a period long preceding that time, bitter jealousy existed between the Spano-Mexican and Anglo-American races. This feeling had been planted by national animosity, and nursed and fomented by priestcraft. Events that have since taken place had already cast their shadows over the Mexican frontier; and Florida and Louisiana were regarded as but steps in the ladder of American aggrandisement; but the understanding of these matters was of course confined to the more intelligent; but all were imbued with the bad passions of international hate.

The family of the cibolero suffered under the common prejudice, and on that account lived almost wholly apart from the inhabitants of the valley. What intercourse they had was mostly with the native Indian population—the poor Tagnos, who felt but little of this anti-American feeling.

If we enter the rancho of Carlos we shall see the fair-haired Rosita seated upon apetaté, and engaged in weaving rebosos. The piece of mechanism which serves her for a loom consists of only a few pieces of wood rudely carved. So simple is it that it is hardly just to call it a machine. Yet those long bluish threads stretched in parallel lines, and vibrating to the touch of her nimble fingers, will soon be woven into a beautiful scarf to cover the head of some coquettish poblana of the town. None in the valley can produce such rebosos as the cibolero’s sister. So much as he can beat all the youth in feats of horsemanship, so much does she excel in the useful art which is her source of subsistence.

There are but two rooms in the rancho, and that is one more than will be found in most of its fellows. But the delicate sentiment still exists in the Saxon mind. The family of the cibolero are not yet Indianised.

The kitchen is the larger apartment and the more cheerful, because lighted by the open door. In it you will see a small “brazero,” or altar-like fireplace—half-a-dozen earthen “ollas,” shaped like urns—some gourd-shell cups and bowls—a tortilla-stone, with its short legs and inclined surface—somepetatésto sit upon—some buffalo-robes for a similar purpose—a bag of maize—some bunches of dried herbs, and strings of red and green chilé—but no pictures of saints; and perhaps it is the only house in the whole valley where your eye willnotbe gratified by a sight of these. Truly the family of the cibolero are “hereticos.”

Not last you will see an old woman seated near the fire, and smokingpunchein a pipe! A strange old woman is she, and strange no doubt her history but that is revealed to no one. Her sharp, lank features; her blanched, yet still luxuriant hair; the wild gleam of her eyes; all render her appearance singular. Others than the ignorant could not fail to fancy her a being different from the common order. No wonder, then, that these regard her as “una hechicera!”

Chapter Twenty One.Rosita knelt upon the floor, passing her little hand-shuttle through the cotton-woof. Now she sang—and sweetly she sang—some merry air of the American backwoods that had been taught her by her mother; anon some romantic lay of Old Spain—the “Troubadour,” perhaps—a fine piece of music, that gives such happy expression to the modern song “Love not.” This “Troubadour” was a favourite with Rosita; and when she took up her bandolon, and accompanied herself with its guitar-like notes, the listener would be delighted.She was now singing to beguile the hours and lighten her task; and although not accompanied by any music, her silvery voice sounded sweet and clear.The mother had laid aside her pipe ofpunche, and was busy as Rosita herself. She spun the threads with which the rebosos were woven. If the loom was a simple piece of mechanism, much more so was the spinning-machine—the “huso,” or “malacate”—which was nothing more or less than the “whirligig spindle.” Yet with this primitive apparatus did the old dame draw out and twist as smooth a thread as ever issued from the “jenny.”“Poor dear Carlos! One, two, three, four, five, six—six notches I have made—he is just in his sixth day. By this time he will be over the Llano, mother. I hope he will have good luck, and get well treated of the Indians.”“Never fear, niña—my brave boy has his father’s rifle, and knows how to use it—well he does. Never fear for Carlos!”“But then, mother, he goes in a new direction! What if he fall in with a hostile tribe?”“Never fear, niña! Worse enemies than Indians has Carlos—worse enemies nearer home—cowardly slaves! they hate us—bothGachupinosandCriolloshate us—Spanish dogs! they hate our Saxon blood!”“Oh, mother, say not so! They are notallour enemies. We have some friends.”Rosita was thinking of Don Juan.“Few—few—and far between! What care I while my brave son is there? He is friend enough for us. Soft heart—brave heart—strong arm—who like my Carlos? And the boy loves his old mother—his strange old mother, as thesepeladosthink her. He still loves his old mother. Ha! ha! ha! What, then, cares she for friends? Ha! ha! ha!”Her speech ended in a laugh of triumph, showing how much she exulted in the possession of such a son.“O my! what acarga, mother! He never had such a carga before! I wonder where Carlos got all the money?”Rosita did not know exactly where; but she had some fond suspicions as to who had stood her brother’s friend.“Ay de mi!” she continued; “he will be very rich if he gets a good market for all those fine things—he will bring back troops of mules. How I shall long for his return! One—two—three—six—yes, there are but six notches in the wood. Oh! I wish it were full along both edges—I do!”Rosita’s eyes, us she said this, were bent upon a thin piece of cedar-wood that hung against the wall, and upon which six little notches were observable. That was her clock and calendar, which was to receive a fresh mark each day until the cibolero’s return—thus keeping her informed of the exact time that had elapsed since his departure.After gazing at the cedar-wood for a minute or two, and trying to make the six notches count seven, she gave it up, and went on with her weaving.The old woman, laying down her spindle, raised the lid of an earthen “olla” that stood over a little fire upon the brazero. From the pot proceeded a savoury steam; for it contained a stew oftasajocut into small pieces, and highly seasoned withcebollas(Spanish onions) andchilé Colorado(red capsicum).“Niña, theguisadois cooked,” said she, after lifting a portion of the stew on a wooden spoon, and examining it; “let us to dinner!”“Very well, mother,” replied Rosita, rising from her loom; “I shall make the tortillas at once.”Tortillas are only eaten warm—that is, are fit only for eating when warm—or fresh from the “comal.” They are, therefore, to be baked immediately before the meal commences, or during its continuance.Rosita set the olla on one side, and placed the comal over the coals. Another olla, which contained maize—already boiled soft—was brought forward, and placed beside the “metate,” or tortilla-stone; and then, by the help of an oblong roller—also of stone—a portion of the boiled maize was soon reduced to snow-white paste. The metate and roller were now laid aside, and the pretty, rose-coloured fingers of Rosita were thrust into the paste. The proper quantity for a “tortilla” was taken up, first formed into a round ball, and then clapped out between the palms until it was only a wafer’s thickness. Nothing remained but to fling it on the hot surface of the comal, let it lie but for an instant, then turn it, and in a moment more it was ready for eating.These operations, which required no ordinary adroitness, were performed by Rosita with a skill that showed she was a practised “tortillera.”When a sufficient number were piled upon the plate, Rosita desisted from her labour, and her mother having already “dished” the guisado, both commenced their repast, eating without knife, fork, or spoon. The tortillas, being still warm, and therefore capable of being twisted into any form, served as a substitute for all these contrivances of civilisation, which in a Mexican rancho are considered superfluous things.Their simple meal was hardly over when a very unusual sound fell upon their ears.“Ho! what’s that?” cried Rosita, starting to her feet, and listening.The sound a second time came pealing through the open door and windows.“I declare it’s a bugle!” said the girl. “There must be soldiers.”She ran first to the door, and then up to the cactus-fence. She peered through the interstices of the green columns.Sure enough there were soldiers. A troop of lancers was marching by twos down the valley, and not far off. Their glittering armour, and the pennons of their lances, gave them a gay and attractive appearance. As Rosita’s eyes fell upon them, they were wheeling into line, halting, as they finished the movement, with their front to the rancho, and not a hundred paces from the fence. The house was evidently the object of their coming to a halt.What could soldiers want there? This was Rosita’s first reflection. A troop often passed up and down the valley, but never came near the rancho, which, as already stated, was far from the main road. What business could the soldiers be upon, to lead them out of their usual track?Rosita asked herself these questions; then ran into the house and asked her mother. Neither could answer them; and the girl turned to the fence, and again looked through.As she did so she saw one of the soldiers—from his finer dress evidently an officer—separate from the rest, and come galloping towards the house. In a few moments he drew near, and, reining his horse close up to the fence, looked over the tops of the cactus-plants.Rosita could just see his plumed hat, and below it his face, but she knew the face at once. It was that of the officer who on the day of San Juan had ogled her so rudely. She knew he was the Comandante Vizcarra.

Rosita knelt upon the floor, passing her little hand-shuttle through the cotton-woof. Now she sang—and sweetly she sang—some merry air of the American backwoods that had been taught her by her mother; anon some romantic lay of Old Spain—the “Troubadour,” perhaps—a fine piece of music, that gives such happy expression to the modern song “Love not.” This “Troubadour” was a favourite with Rosita; and when she took up her bandolon, and accompanied herself with its guitar-like notes, the listener would be delighted.

She was now singing to beguile the hours and lighten her task; and although not accompanied by any music, her silvery voice sounded sweet and clear.

The mother had laid aside her pipe ofpunche, and was busy as Rosita herself. She spun the threads with which the rebosos were woven. If the loom was a simple piece of mechanism, much more so was the spinning-machine—the “huso,” or “malacate”—which was nothing more or less than the “whirligig spindle.” Yet with this primitive apparatus did the old dame draw out and twist as smooth a thread as ever issued from the “jenny.”

“Poor dear Carlos! One, two, three, four, five, six—six notches I have made—he is just in his sixth day. By this time he will be over the Llano, mother. I hope he will have good luck, and get well treated of the Indians.”

“Never fear, niña—my brave boy has his father’s rifle, and knows how to use it—well he does. Never fear for Carlos!”

“But then, mother, he goes in a new direction! What if he fall in with a hostile tribe?”

“Never fear, niña! Worse enemies than Indians has Carlos—worse enemies nearer home—cowardly slaves! they hate us—bothGachupinosandCriolloshate us—Spanish dogs! they hate our Saxon blood!”

“Oh, mother, say not so! They are notallour enemies. We have some friends.”

Rosita was thinking of Don Juan.

“Few—few—and far between! What care I while my brave son is there? He is friend enough for us. Soft heart—brave heart—strong arm—who like my Carlos? And the boy loves his old mother—his strange old mother, as thesepeladosthink her. He still loves his old mother. Ha! ha! ha! What, then, cares she for friends? Ha! ha! ha!”

Her speech ended in a laugh of triumph, showing how much she exulted in the possession of such a son.

“O my! what acarga, mother! He never had such a carga before! I wonder where Carlos got all the money?”

Rosita did not know exactly where; but she had some fond suspicions as to who had stood her brother’s friend.

“Ay de mi!” she continued; “he will be very rich if he gets a good market for all those fine things—he will bring back troops of mules. How I shall long for his return! One—two—three—six—yes, there are but six notches in the wood. Oh! I wish it were full along both edges—I do!”

Rosita’s eyes, us she said this, were bent upon a thin piece of cedar-wood that hung against the wall, and upon which six little notches were observable. That was her clock and calendar, which was to receive a fresh mark each day until the cibolero’s return—thus keeping her informed of the exact time that had elapsed since his departure.

After gazing at the cedar-wood for a minute or two, and trying to make the six notches count seven, she gave it up, and went on with her weaving.

The old woman, laying down her spindle, raised the lid of an earthen “olla” that stood over a little fire upon the brazero. From the pot proceeded a savoury steam; for it contained a stew oftasajocut into small pieces, and highly seasoned withcebollas(Spanish onions) andchilé Colorado(red capsicum).

“Niña, theguisadois cooked,” said she, after lifting a portion of the stew on a wooden spoon, and examining it; “let us to dinner!”

“Very well, mother,” replied Rosita, rising from her loom; “I shall make the tortillas at once.”

Tortillas are only eaten warm—that is, are fit only for eating when warm—or fresh from the “comal.” They are, therefore, to be baked immediately before the meal commences, or during its continuance.

Rosita set the olla on one side, and placed the comal over the coals. Another olla, which contained maize—already boiled soft—was brought forward, and placed beside the “metate,” or tortilla-stone; and then, by the help of an oblong roller—also of stone—a portion of the boiled maize was soon reduced to snow-white paste. The metate and roller were now laid aside, and the pretty, rose-coloured fingers of Rosita were thrust into the paste. The proper quantity for a “tortilla” was taken up, first formed into a round ball, and then clapped out between the palms until it was only a wafer’s thickness. Nothing remained but to fling it on the hot surface of the comal, let it lie but for an instant, then turn it, and in a moment more it was ready for eating.

These operations, which required no ordinary adroitness, were performed by Rosita with a skill that showed she was a practised “tortillera.”

When a sufficient number were piled upon the plate, Rosita desisted from her labour, and her mother having already “dished” the guisado, both commenced their repast, eating without knife, fork, or spoon. The tortillas, being still warm, and therefore capable of being twisted into any form, served as a substitute for all these contrivances of civilisation, which in a Mexican rancho are considered superfluous things.

Their simple meal was hardly over when a very unusual sound fell upon their ears.

“Ho! what’s that?” cried Rosita, starting to her feet, and listening.

The sound a second time came pealing through the open door and windows.

“I declare it’s a bugle!” said the girl. “There must be soldiers.”

She ran first to the door, and then up to the cactus-fence. She peered through the interstices of the green columns.

Sure enough there were soldiers. A troop of lancers was marching by twos down the valley, and not far off. Their glittering armour, and the pennons of their lances, gave them a gay and attractive appearance. As Rosita’s eyes fell upon them, they were wheeling into line, halting, as they finished the movement, with their front to the rancho, and not a hundred paces from the fence. The house was evidently the object of their coming to a halt.

What could soldiers want there? This was Rosita’s first reflection. A troop often passed up and down the valley, but never came near the rancho, which, as already stated, was far from the main road. What business could the soldiers be upon, to lead them out of their usual track?

Rosita asked herself these questions; then ran into the house and asked her mother. Neither could answer them; and the girl turned to the fence, and again looked through.

As she did so she saw one of the soldiers—from his finer dress evidently an officer—separate from the rest, and come galloping towards the house. In a few moments he drew near, and, reining his horse close up to the fence, looked over the tops of the cactus-plants.

Rosita could just see his plumed hat, and below it his face, but she knew the face at once. It was that of the officer who on the day of San Juan had ogled her so rudely. She knew he was the Comandante Vizcarra.

Chapter Twenty Two.The officer, from his position, had a full view of the girl as she stood in the little enclosure of flowers. She had retreated to the door, and would have gone inside, but she turned to call off Cibolo, a large wolf-dog, who was barking fiercely, and threatening the new-comer.The dog, obedient to her voice, ran back into the house growling, but by no means satisfied. He evidently wanted to try his teeth on the shanks of the stranger’s horse.“Thank you, fair Señorita,” said the officer. “It is very kind of you to protect me from that fierce brute. I would he were the only clangour I had to fear in this house.”“What have you to fear, Señor?” inquired Rosita, with some surprise.“Your eyes, sweet girl: more dangerous than the sharp teeth of your dog,—they have already wounded me.”“Cavallero,” replied Rosita, blushing and averting her face, “you have not come here to jest with a poor girl. May I inquire what is your business?”“Business I have none, lovely Rosita, but to seeyou,—nay, do not leave me!—Ihavebusiness—that is, I am thirsty, and halted for a drink: you will not refuse me a cup of water, fair Señorita?”These last phrases, broken and hastily delivered, were meant to restrain the girl from cutting short the interview, which she was about to do by entering the house. Vizcarra was not thirsty, neither did he wish for water; but the laws of hospitality would compel the girl to bring it, and the act might further his purposes.She, without replying to his complimentary harangue, stepped into the house, and presently returned with a gourd-shell filled with water. Carrying it to the gate-like opening of the fences, she presented it to him, and stood waiting for the vessel.Vizcarra, to make his request look natural, forced down several gulps of the fluid, and then, throwing away the rest, held out the gourd. The girl stretched forth her hand to receive it, but he still held it fast, gazing intently and rudely upon her.“Lovely señorita,” he said, “may I not kiss that pretty hand that has been so kind to me?”“Sir! please return me the cup.”“Nay, not till I have paid for my drink. You will accept this?”He dropped a gold onza into the gourd.“No, Señor, I cannot accept payment for what is only an act of duty. I shall not take your gold,” she added, firmly.“Lovely Rosita! you have already taken my heart, why not this?”“I do not understand you, Señor; please put back your money, and let me have the cup.”“I shall not deliver it up, unless you take it with its contents.”“Then you must keep it, Señor,” replied she, turning away. “I must to my work.”“Nay, further, Señorita!” cried Vizcarra; “I have another favour to ask,—a light for my cigar? Here, take the cup! See! the coin is no longer in it! You will pardon me for having offered it?”Vizcarra saw that she was offended, and by this apology endeavoured to appease her.She received the gourd-shell from his hands, and then went back to the house to bring him the light he had asked for.Presently she reappeared with some red coals upon a small “brazero.”On reaching the gate she was surprised to see that the officer had dismounted, and was fastening his horse to a stake.As she offered him the brazero, he remarked, “I am wearied with my ride; may I beg, Señorita, you will allow me a few minutes’ shelter from the hot sun?”Though annoyed at this request, the girl could only reply in the affirmative; and the next moment, with clattering spur and clanking sabre, the Comandante walked into the rancho.Rosita followed him in without a word, and without a word he was received by her mother, who, seated in the corner, took no notice of his entrance, not even by looking up at him. The dog made a circuit around him, growling angrily, but his young mistress chided him off; and the brute once more couched himself upon a petaté, and lay with eyes gleaming fiercely at the intruder.Once in the house, Vizcarra did not feel easy. He saw he was not welcome. Not a word of welcome had been uttered by Rosita, and not a sign of it offered either by the old woman or the dog. The contrary symptoms were unmistakeable, and the grand officer felt he was an intruder.But Vizcarra was not accustomed to care much for the feelings of people like these. He paid but little regard to their likes or dislikes, especially where these interfered with his pleasures; and, after lighting his cigar, he sat down on a “banqueta,” with as much nonchalance as if he were in his own quarters. He smoked some time without breaking silence.Meanwhile Rosita had drawn out her loom, and, kneeling down in front of it, went on with her work as if no stranger were present.“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the officer, feigning interest in the process, “how very ingenious! I have often wished to see this! a reboso it is? Upon myword! and that is how they are woven? Can you finish one in a day, Señorita?”“Si, Señor,” was the curt reply.“And this thread, it is cotton; is it not?”“Si, Señor.”“It is very prettily arranged indeed. Did you place it so yourself?”“Si, Señor.”“Really it requires skill! I should like much to learn how the threads are passed.”And as he said this he left his seat upon the banqueta, and, approaching the loom, knelt down beside it.“Indeed, very singular and ingenious. Ah, now, do you think, pretty Rosita, you could teach me?”The old woman, who was seated with her eyes bent upon the ground, started at hearing the stranger pronounce her daughter’s name, and glanced around at him.“I am really serious,” continued he; “do you think you could teach me this useful art?”“No, Señor!” was the laconic reply.“Oh! surely I am not so stupid! I think I could learn it—it seems only to hold this thing so,”—here he bent forward, and placed his hand upon the shuttle, so as to touch the fingers of the girl,—“and then put it between the threads in this manner; is it not—?”At this moment, as if carried away by his wild passions, he seemed to forget himself; and, turning his eyes upon the blushing girl, he continued in an under tone, “Sweetest Rosita! I love you,—one kiss, fairest,—one kiss!” and before she could escape from his arms, which had already encircled her, he had imprinted a kiss upon her lips!A scream escaped from the girl, but another, louder and wilder, answered it from the corner. The old woman sprang up from her crouching position, and running across the floor launched herself like a tigress upon the officer! Her long bony fingers flew out, and in an instant were clutching his throat!“Off! beldame! off!” cried he, struggling to escape: “off I say; or my sword shall cut short your wretched life, off!—off!—I say!”Still the old woman clutched and screamed, tearing wildly at his throat, his epaulettes, or whatever she could lay hold of.But sharper than her nails were the teeth of the great wolf-dog that sprang almost simultaneously from his lair, and, seizing the soldier by the limbs, caused him to bellow out at the top of his voice—“Without there! Sergeant Gomez! Ho! treason! to the rescue! to the rescue!”“Ay! dog of a Gachupino!” screamed the old woman,—“dog of Spanish blood! you may call your cowardly myrmidons! Oh! that my brave son were here, or my husband alive! If they were, you would not carry a drop of your villain blood beyond the threshold you have insulted!—Go!—go to your poblanas—yourmargaritas! Go—begone!”“Hell and furies! This dog—take him off! Ho, there! Gomez! your pistols. Here! send a bullet through him! Haste! haste!”And battling with his sabre, the valiant Comandante at length effected a retreat to his horse.He was already well torn about the legs, but, covered by the sergeant, he succeeded in getting into the saddle.The latter fired off both his pistols at the dog, but the bullets did not take effect; and the animal, perceiving that his enemies outnumbered him, turned and ran back into the house.The dog was now silent, but the Comandante, as he sat in his saddle, heard a derisive laugh within the rancho. In the clear soft tones of that jeering laughter he distinguished the voice of the beautiful güera!Chagrined beyond measure, he would have besieged the rancho with his troop, and insisted on killing the dog, had he not feared that the cause of his ungraceful retreat might become known to his followers. That would be a mortification he did not desire to experience.He returned, therefore, to the troop, gave the word to march, and the cavalcade moved off, taking the backward road to the town.After riding at the head of his men for a short while, Vizcarra—whose heart was filled with anger and mortification—gave some orders to the sergeant, and then rode off in advance, and in full gallop.The sight of a horseman in blue manga, passing in the direction of the rancho—and whom he recognised as the young ranchero, Don Juan—did not do much towards soothing his angry spirit. He neither halted nor spoke, but, casting on the latter a malignant glance, kept on.He did not slacken his pace until he drew bridle in the saguan of the Presidio.His panting horse had to pay for the bitter reflections that tortured the soul of his master.

The officer, from his position, had a full view of the girl as she stood in the little enclosure of flowers. She had retreated to the door, and would have gone inside, but she turned to call off Cibolo, a large wolf-dog, who was barking fiercely, and threatening the new-comer.

The dog, obedient to her voice, ran back into the house growling, but by no means satisfied. He evidently wanted to try his teeth on the shanks of the stranger’s horse.

“Thank you, fair Señorita,” said the officer. “It is very kind of you to protect me from that fierce brute. I would he were the only clangour I had to fear in this house.”

“What have you to fear, Señor?” inquired Rosita, with some surprise.

“Your eyes, sweet girl: more dangerous than the sharp teeth of your dog,—they have already wounded me.”

“Cavallero,” replied Rosita, blushing and averting her face, “you have not come here to jest with a poor girl. May I inquire what is your business?”

“Business I have none, lovely Rosita, but to seeyou,—nay, do not leave me!—Ihavebusiness—that is, I am thirsty, and halted for a drink: you will not refuse me a cup of water, fair Señorita?”

These last phrases, broken and hastily delivered, were meant to restrain the girl from cutting short the interview, which she was about to do by entering the house. Vizcarra was not thirsty, neither did he wish for water; but the laws of hospitality would compel the girl to bring it, and the act might further his purposes.

She, without replying to his complimentary harangue, stepped into the house, and presently returned with a gourd-shell filled with water. Carrying it to the gate-like opening of the fences, she presented it to him, and stood waiting for the vessel.

Vizcarra, to make his request look natural, forced down several gulps of the fluid, and then, throwing away the rest, held out the gourd. The girl stretched forth her hand to receive it, but he still held it fast, gazing intently and rudely upon her.

“Lovely señorita,” he said, “may I not kiss that pretty hand that has been so kind to me?”

“Sir! please return me the cup.”

“Nay, not till I have paid for my drink. You will accept this?”

He dropped a gold onza into the gourd.

“No, Señor, I cannot accept payment for what is only an act of duty. I shall not take your gold,” she added, firmly.

“Lovely Rosita! you have already taken my heart, why not this?”

“I do not understand you, Señor; please put back your money, and let me have the cup.”

“I shall not deliver it up, unless you take it with its contents.”

“Then you must keep it, Señor,” replied she, turning away. “I must to my work.”

“Nay, further, Señorita!” cried Vizcarra; “I have another favour to ask,—a light for my cigar? Here, take the cup! See! the coin is no longer in it! You will pardon me for having offered it?”

Vizcarra saw that she was offended, and by this apology endeavoured to appease her.

She received the gourd-shell from his hands, and then went back to the house to bring him the light he had asked for.

Presently she reappeared with some red coals upon a small “brazero.”

On reaching the gate she was surprised to see that the officer had dismounted, and was fastening his horse to a stake.

As she offered him the brazero, he remarked, “I am wearied with my ride; may I beg, Señorita, you will allow me a few minutes’ shelter from the hot sun?”

Though annoyed at this request, the girl could only reply in the affirmative; and the next moment, with clattering spur and clanking sabre, the Comandante walked into the rancho.

Rosita followed him in without a word, and without a word he was received by her mother, who, seated in the corner, took no notice of his entrance, not even by looking up at him. The dog made a circuit around him, growling angrily, but his young mistress chided him off; and the brute once more couched himself upon a petaté, and lay with eyes gleaming fiercely at the intruder.

Once in the house, Vizcarra did not feel easy. He saw he was not welcome. Not a word of welcome had been uttered by Rosita, and not a sign of it offered either by the old woman or the dog. The contrary symptoms were unmistakeable, and the grand officer felt he was an intruder.

But Vizcarra was not accustomed to care much for the feelings of people like these. He paid but little regard to their likes or dislikes, especially where these interfered with his pleasures; and, after lighting his cigar, he sat down on a “banqueta,” with as much nonchalance as if he were in his own quarters. He smoked some time without breaking silence.

Meanwhile Rosita had drawn out her loom, and, kneeling down in front of it, went on with her work as if no stranger were present.

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the officer, feigning interest in the process, “how very ingenious! I have often wished to see this! a reboso it is? Upon myword! and that is how they are woven? Can you finish one in a day, Señorita?”

“Si, Señor,” was the curt reply.

“And this thread, it is cotton; is it not?”

“Si, Señor.”

“It is very prettily arranged indeed. Did you place it so yourself?”

“Si, Señor.”

“Really it requires skill! I should like much to learn how the threads are passed.”

And as he said this he left his seat upon the banqueta, and, approaching the loom, knelt down beside it.

“Indeed, very singular and ingenious. Ah, now, do you think, pretty Rosita, you could teach me?”

The old woman, who was seated with her eyes bent upon the ground, started at hearing the stranger pronounce her daughter’s name, and glanced around at him.

“I am really serious,” continued he; “do you think you could teach me this useful art?”

“No, Señor!” was the laconic reply.

“Oh! surely I am not so stupid! I think I could learn it—it seems only to hold this thing so,”—here he bent forward, and placed his hand upon the shuttle, so as to touch the fingers of the girl,—“and then put it between the threads in this manner; is it not—?”

At this moment, as if carried away by his wild passions, he seemed to forget himself; and, turning his eyes upon the blushing girl, he continued in an under tone, “Sweetest Rosita! I love you,—one kiss, fairest,—one kiss!” and before she could escape from his arms, which had already encircled her, he had imprinted a kiss upon her lips!

A scream escaped from the girl, but another, louder and wilder, answered it from the corner. The old woman sprang up from her crouching position, and running across the floor launched herself like a tigress upon the officer! Her long bony fingers flew out, and in an instant were clutching his throat!

“Off! beldame! off!” cried he, struggling to escape: “off I say; or my sword shall cut short your wretched life, off!—off!—I say!”

Still the old woman clutched and screamed, tearing wildly at his throat, his epaulettes, or whatever she could lay hold of.

But sharper than her nails were the teeth of the great wolf-dog that sprang almost simultaneously from his lair, and, seizing the soldier by the limbs, caused him to bellow out at the top of his voice—

“Without there! Sergeant Gomez! Ho! treason! to the rescue! to the rescue!”

“Ay! dog of a Gachupino!” screamed the old woman,—“dog of Spanish blood! you may call your cowardly myrmidons! Oh! that my brave son were here, or my husband alive! If they were, you would not carry a drop of your villain blood beyond the threshold you have insulted!—Go!—go to your poblanas—yourmargaritas! Go—begone!”

“Hell and furies! This dog—take him off! Ho, there! Gomez! your pistols. Here! send a bullet through him! Haste! haste!”

And battling with his sabre, the valiant Comandante at length effected a retreat to his horse.

He was already well torn about the legs, but, covered by the sergeant, he succeeded in getting into the saddle.

The latter fired off both his pistols at the dog, but the bullets did not take effect; and the animal, perceiving that his enemies outnumbered him, turned and ran back into the house.

The dog was now silent, but the Comandante, as he sat in his saddle, heard a derisive laugh within the rancho. In the clear soft tones of that jeering laughter he distinguished the voice of the beautiful güera!

Chagrined beyond measure, he would have besieged the rancho with his troop, and insisted on killing the dog, had he not feared that the cause of his ungraceful retreat might become known to his followers. That would be a mortification he did not desire to experience.

He returned, therefore, to the troop, gave the word to march, and the cavalcade moved off, taking the backward road to the town.

After riding at the head of his men for a short while, Vizcarra—whose heart was filled with anger and mortification—gave some orders to the sergeant, and then rode off in advance, and in full gallop.

The sight of a horseman in blue manga, passing in the direction of the rancho—and whom he recognised as the young ranchero, Don Juan—did not do much towards soothing his angry spirit. He neither halted nor spoke, but, casting on the latter a malignant glance, kept on.

He did not slacken his pace until he drew bridle in the saguan of the Presidio.

His panting horse had to pay for the bitter reflections that tortured the soul of his master.

Chapter Twenty Three.The first thing which Rosita did, after the noise without had ceased, was to glide forth and peep through the cactus-fence. She had heard the bugle again, and she wished to be sure that the intruders were gone.To her joy, she beheld the troop some distance off, defiling up the valley.She ran back into the house and communicated the intelligence to her mother, who had again seated herself, and was quietly smoking her pipe ofpunche.“Dastardly ruffians!” exclaimed the latter. “I knew they would be gone. Even an old woman and a dog are enough. Oh, that my brave Carlos had been here! He would have taught that proud Gachupino we were not so helpless! Ha! that would Carlos!”“Do not think of it any more, dear mother; I don’t think they will return. You have frightened them away,—you and our brave Cibolo. How well he behaved! But I must see,” she added, hastily casting her eyes round the room; “he may be hurt. Cibolo! Cibolo! here, good fellow! Come, I’ve got something for you. Ho, brave dog!”At the call of her well-known voice the dog came forth from his hiding-place, and bounded up, wagging his tail, and glancing kindly in her face.The girl stooped down, and, passing her hands through his shaggy coat, examined every part of his body and limbs, in fear all the while of meeting with the red stain of a bullet. Fortunately the sergeant’s aim had not been true. Neither wound nor scratch had Cibolo received; and as he sprang around his young mistress, he appeared in perfect health and spirits.A splendid animal he was,—one of those magnificent sheep-dogs of New Mexico, who, though half-wolf themselves, will successfully defend a flock of sheep from the attack of wolves, or even of the more savage bear. The finest sheep-dogs in the world are they, and one of the finest of his race was Cibolo.His mistress, having ascertained that he was uninjured, stepped upon the banqueta, and reached up towards a singular-looking object that hung over a peg in the wall. The object bore some resemblance to a string of ill-formed sausages. But it was not that, though it was something quite as good for Cibolo, who, by his sparkling eyes and short pleased whimpers, showed that he knew what it was. Yes, Cibolo had not to be initiated into the mysteries of a string of tasajo. Dried buffalo-meat was an old and tried favourite; and the moment it reached his jaws, which it did immediately after, he gave proof of this by the earnest manner in which he set to work upon it.The pretty Rosita, still a little apprehensive, once more peeped through the cactus-fence to assure herself that no one was near.But this time some onewasnear, and the sight did not cause her any fear,—quite the contrary. The approach of a young man in a blue manga, mounted upon a richly-caparisoned horse, had a contrary effect altogether, and Rosita’s little heart now beat with confidence.This young horseman was Don Juan the ranchero. He rode straight up to the opening, and seeing the güera cried out in a frank friendly voice, “Buenos dias, Rosita!”The reply was as frank and friendly—a simple return of the salutation—“Buenos dias, Don Juan!”“How is the Señora your mother to-day?”“Muchas gracias, Don Juan! as usual she is. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!”“Hola!” exclaimed Don Juan. “What are you laughing at, Rosita?”“Ha! ha! ha! Saw you nothing of the fine soldiers?”“True, I did. I met the troop as I came down, going up the valley in a gallop, and the Comandante riding far ahead, as if the Apaches were after him. In truth, I thought they had met the Indios bravos—for I know that to be their usual style of riding after an interview with these gentry.”“Ha! ha! ha!” still laughed the little blonde, “but did you notice nothing odd about the officer?”“I think I did. He looked as though he had ridden through the chapparal; but I had scarce a glance at him, he passed so quickly. He gavemeone that was anything but friendly. No doubt he remembers the loss of his gold onzas at San Juan. Ha! ha! But, dear Rosita, what may you be laughing at? Have the soldiers been here? Anything happened?”Rosita now gave an account of the Comandante’s visit; how he had called to light his cigar and get a drink of water; how he had entered the house and been attacked by Cibolo, which caused the precipitate retreat to his horse, and his hasty departure from the place. She was silent, however, about the most important particulars. She said nothing of the insulting speeches which Vizcarra had made—nothing of the kiss. She feared the effect of such a communication on Don Juan. She knew her lover was of a hot rash disposition. He would not hear these things quietly; he would involve himself in some trouble on her account; and these considerations prompted her to conceal the cause that had led to the “scene.” She, therefore, disclosed only the more ludicrous effects, at which she laughed heartily.Don Juan, even knowing only so much, was inclined to regard the affair more seriously. A visit from Vizcarra—a drink of water—light his cigar—enter the rancho—all very strange circumstances, but not at all laughable, thought Don Juan. And then to be attacked and torn by the dog—to be driven from the house in such a humiliating manner—in presence of his own troop, too!—Vizcarra—the vainglorious Vizcarra—the great militario of the place—the hero of a hundred Indian battles that never were fought—he to be conquered by a cur! Seriously, thought Don Juan, it was not an affair to laugh at. Vizcarra would have revenge, or try hard to obtain it.The young ranchero had other unpleasant thoughts in connexion with this affair. What could have brought the Comandante to the rancho? How had he found out that interesting abode,—that spot, sequestered as it was, that seemed to him (Don Juan) to be the centre of the world? Who had directed him that way? What brought the troop out of the main road, their usual route of march?These were questions which Don Juan put to himself. To have asked them of Rosita would have been to disclose the existence of a feeling he would rather keep concealed—jealousy.And jealous he was at the moment. The drink, she had served him of course,—the cigar, she had lit it for him—perhaps invited him in! Even now she appeared in the highest spirits, and not at all angry at the visit that had been paid her!Don Juan’s reflections had suddenly grown bitter, and he did not join in the laugh which his sweetheart was indulging in.When after a short while she invited him in, his feelings took a turn, and he became himself again. He dismounted from his horse, and followed Rosita through the garden into the house.The girl sat down by the loom and continued her work, while the young ranchero was allowed to kneel upon the petaté beside her, and converse at will. There was no objection to his occasionally assisting her to straighten out the woof or untwist a fouled thread; and, on these occasions, their fingers frequently met, and seemed to remain longer in contact than was necessary for the unravelling of the knot.But no one noticed all this. Rosita’s mother was indulging in a siesta; and Cibolo, if he saw anything amiss, said nothing about it to any one, but wagged his tail, and looked good-humouredly at Don Juan, as if he entirely approved of the latter’s conduct.

The first thing which Rosita did, after the noise without had ceased, was to glide forth and peep through the cactus-fence. She had heard the bugle again, and she wished to be sure that the intruders were gone.

To her joy, she beheld the troop some distance off, defiling up the valley.

She ran back into the house and communicated the intelligence to her mother, who had again seated herself, and was quietly smoking her pipe ofpunche.

“Dastardly ruffians!” exclaimed the latter. “I knew they would be gone. Even an old woman and a dog are enough. Oh, that my brave Carlos had been here! He would have taught that proud Gachupino we were not so helpless! Ha! that would Carlos!”

“Do not think of it any more, dear mother; I don’t think they will return. You have frightened them away,—you and our brave Cibolo. How well he behaved! But I must see,” she added, hastily casting her eyes round the room; “he may be hurt. Cibolo! Cibolo! here, good fellow! Come, I’ve got something for you. Ho, brave dog!”

At the call of her well-known voice the dog came forth from his hiding-place, and bounded up, wagging his tail, and glancing kindly in her face.

The girl stooped down, and, passing her hands through his shaggy coat, examined every part of his body and limbs, in fear all the while of meeting with the red stain of a bullet. Fortunately the sergeant’s aim had not been true. Neither wound nor scratch had Cibolo received; and as he sprang around his young mistress, he appeared in perfect health and spirits.

A splendid animal he was,—one of those magnificent sheep-dogs of New Mexico, who, though half-wolf themselves, will successfully defend a flock of sheep from the attack of wolves, or even of the more savage bear. The finest sheep-dogs in the world are they, and one of the finest of his race was Cibolo.

His mistress, having ascertained that he was uninjured, stepped upon the banqueta, and reached up towards a singular-looking object that hung over a peg in the wall. The object bore some resemblance to a string of ill-formed sausages. But it was not that, though it was something quite as good for Cibolo, who, by his sparkling eyes and short pleased whimpers, showed that he knew what it was. Yes, Cibolo had not to be initiated into the mysteries of a string of tasajo. Dried buffalo-meat was an old and tried favourite; and the moment it reached his jaws, which it did immediately after, he gave proof of this by the earnest manner in which he set to work upon it.

The pretty Rosita, still a little apprehensive, once more peeped through the cactus-fence to assure herself that no one was near.

But this time some onewasnear, and the sight did not cause her any fear,—quite the contrary. The approach of a young man in a blue manga, mounted upon a richly-caparisoned horse, had a contrary effect altogether, and Rosita’s little heart now beat with confidence.

This young horseman was Don Juan the ranchero. He rode straight up to the opening, and seeing the güera cried out in a frank friendly voice, “Buenos dias, Rosita!”

The reply was as frank and friendly—a simple return of the salutation—

“Buenos dias, Don Juan!”

“How is the Señora your mother to-day?”

“Muchas gracias, Don Juan! as usual she is. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!”

“Hola!” exclaimed Don Juan. “What are you laughing at, Rosita?”

“Ha! ha! ha! Saw you nothing of the fine soldiers?”

“True, I did. I met the troop as I came down, going up the valley in a gallop, and the Comandante riding far ahead, as if the Apaches were after him. In truth, I thought they had met the Indios bravos—for I know that to be their usual style of riding after an interview with these gentry.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” still laughed the little blonde, “but did you notice nothing odd about the officer?”

“I think I did. He looked as though he had ridden through the chapparal; but I had scarce a glance at him, he passed so quickly. He gavemeone that was anything but friendly. No doubt he remembers the loss of his gold onzas at San Juan. Ha! ha! But, dear Rosita, what may you be laughing at? Have the soldiers been here? Anything happened?”

Rosita now gave an account of the Comandante’s visit; how he had called to light his cigar and get a drink of water; how he had entered the house and been attacked by Cibolo, which caused the precipitate retreat to his horse, and his hasty departure from the place. She was silent, however, about the most important particulars. She said nothing of the insulting speeches which Vizcarra had made—nothing of the kiss. She feared the effect of such a communication on Don Juan. She knew her lover was of a hot rash disposition. He would not hear these things quietly; he would involve himself in some trouble on her account; and these considerations prompted her to conceal the cause that had led to the “scene.” She, therefore, disclosed only the more ludicrous effects, at which she laughed heartily.

Don Juan, even knowing only so much, was inclined to regard the affair more seriously. A visit from Vizcarra—a drink of water—light his cigar—enter the rancho—all very strange circumstances, but not at all laughable, thought Don Juan. And then to be attacked and torn by the dog—to be driven from the house in such a humiliating manner—in presence of his own troop, too!—Vizcarra—the vainglorious Vizcarra—the great militario of the place—the hero of a hundred Indian battles that never were fought—he to be conquered by a cur! Seriously, thought Don Juan, it was not an affair to laugh at. Vizcarra would have revenge, or try hard to obtain it.

The young ranchero had other unpleasant thoughts in connexion with this affair. What could have brought the Comandante to the rancho? How had he found out that interesting abode,—that spot, sequestered as it was, that seemed to him (Don Juan) to be the centre of the world? Who had directed him that way? What brought the troop out of the main road, their usual route of march?

These were questions which Don Juan put to himself. To have asked them of Rosita would have been to disclose the existence of a feeling he would rather keep concealed—jealousy.

And jealous he was at the moment. The drink, she had served him of course,—the cigar, she had lit it for him—perhaps invited him in! Even now she appeared in the highest spirits, and not at all angry at the visit that had been paid her!

Don Juan’s reflections had suddenly grown bitter, and he did not join in the laugh which his sweetheart was indulging in.

When after a short while she invited him in, his feelings took a turn, and he became himself again. He dismounted from his horse, and followed Rosita through the garden into the house.

The girl sat down by the loom and continued her work, while the young ranchero was allowed to kneel upon the petaté beside her, and converse at will. There was no objection to his occasionally assisting her to straighten out the woof or untwist a fouled thread; and, on these occasions, their fingers frequently met, and seemed to remain longer in contact than was necessary for the unravelling of the knot.

But no one noticed all this. Rosita’s mother was indulging in a siesta; and Cibolo, if he saw anything amiss, said nothing about it to any one, but wagged his tail, and looked good-humouredly at Don Juan, as if he entirely approved of the latter’s conduct.

Chapter Twenty Four.When Vizcarra reached his sumptuous quarters, the first thing he did was to call for wine. It was brought, and he drank freely and with fierce determination.He thought by that to drown his chagrin; and for a while he succeeded.There is relief in wine, but it is only temporary: you may make jealousy drunk and oblivious, but you cannot keep it so. It will be sober as soon—ay, sooner than yourself. Not all the wine that was ever pressed from grapes can drown it into a complete oblivion.Vizcarra’s heart was filled by various passions. There was love—that is, such love as a libertine feels; jealousy; anger at the coarse handling he had experienced; wounded self-love, for with his gold-lace and fine plumes he believed himself a conqueror at first sight; and upon the top of all, bitter disappointment.This last was the greater that he did not see how his suit could be renewed. To attempt a similar visit would lead to similar chagrin,—perhaps worse.It was plain the girl did not care for him, with all his fine feathers and exalted position. He saw that she was very different from the others with whom he had had dealings—different from the dark-eyed doncellas of the valley, most of whom, if not all, would have taken his onza without a word or a blush!It was plain to him he could go no more to the rancho. Where, then, was he to meet her—to see her? He had ascertained that she seldom came to the town—never to the amusements, except when her brother was at home. How and where, then, was he to see her? His was a hopeless case—no opportunity of mending his firstfaux pas—none, any more than if the object of his pursuit was shut up in the cloisters of a nunnery! Hopeless, indeed! Thus ran his reflections.Though uttering this phrase, he had no belief in its reality. He had no intention of ending the affair so easily. He—the lady-killer, Vizcarra—to fail in the conquest of a poor ranchera! He had never failed, and would not now. His vanity alone would have urged him farther in the affair; but he had a sufficient incentive to his strong passion,—for strong it had now grown. The opposition it had met—the very difficulty of the situation—only stimulated him to greater energy and earnestness.Besides, jealousy was there, and that was another spur to his excited pride.He was jealous of Don Juan. He had noticed the latter on the day of the fiesta. He had observed him in the company of the cibolero and his sister. He saw them talking, drinking, feasting together. He was jealousthen; but that was light, for then he still anticipated his own easy and early triumph. That was quiet to the feeling that tortured him now—now thathe had failed—now that he had seen in the very hour of his humiliation that same rival on his road to the rancho—welcome, no doubt—to be told of all that had happened—to join her in jeering laughter at his expense—to—Furies! the thought was intolerable.For all that the Comandante had no idea of relinquishing his design. There were still means—foul, if not fair—if he could only think of them. He wanted some head cooler than his own. Where was Roblado?“Sergeant! tell Captain Roblado I wish to speak with him.”Captain Roblado was just the man to assist him in any scheme of the sort. They were equally villains as regarded women; but Vizcarra’smétierwas of a lighter sort—more of the genteel-comedy kind. His forte lay in the seductive process. He made loveà la Don Giovanni, and carried hearts in what he deemed a legitimate manner; whereas Roblado resorted to any means that would lead most directly to the object—force, if necessary and safe. Of the two Roblado was the coarser villain.As the Comandante had failed in his way, he was determined to make trial of any other his captain might suggest; and since the latter knew all the “love stratagems,” both of civilised and savage life, he was just the man to suggest something.It chanced that at this time Roblado wanted counsel himself upon a somewhat similar subject. He had proposed for Catalina, and Don Ambrosio had consented; but, to the surprise of all, the Señorita had rebelled! She did not say she wouldnotaccept Captain Roblado. That would have been too much of a defiance, and might have led to a summary interference of paternal authority. But she had appealed to Don Ambrosio for time—she was not ready to be married! Roblado could not think of time—he was too eager to be rich; but Don Ambrosio had listened to his daughter’s appeal, and there lay the cause of the captain’s trouble.Perhaps the Comandante’s influence with Don Ambrosio might be the means of overruling this decision and hastening the wished-for nuptials. Roblado was therefore but too eager to lay his superior under an obligation.Roblado having arrived, the Comandante explained his case, detailing every circumstance that had happened.“My dear colonel, you did not go properly to work. I am astonished at that, considering your skill and experience. You dropped like an eagle upon a dovecot, frightening the birds into their inaccessible holes. You should not have gone to the rancho at all.”“And how was I to see her?”“In your own quarters; or elsewhere, as you might have arranged it.”“Impossible!—she would never have consented to come.”“Not by your sending for her direct; I know that.”“And how, then?”“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Roblado; “are you so innocent as never to have heard of such a thing as an ‘alcahuete’?”“Oh! true—but by my faith I never found use for one.”“No!—you in your fine style have deemed that a superfluity; but you might find use for one now. A very advantageous character that, I assure you—saves much time and trouble—diminishes the chances of failure too. It’s not too late. I advise you to try one. If that fails, you have still another string to your bow.”We shall not follow the conversation of these ruffians further. Enough to say that it led into details of their atrocious plans, which, for more than an hour, they sat concocting over their wine, until the whole scheme was set forth and placed in readiness to be carried out.Itwascarried out, in fine, but led to a different ending from what either anticipated. The “lady” who acted as “alcahuete” soon placed herselfen rapportwith Rosita; but her success was more equivocal than that of Vizcarra himself; in fact, I should rather say unequivocal, for there was no ambiguity about it.As soon as her designs were made known to Rosita, the latter communicated them to her mother; and the scratches which the Comandante had received were nothing to those which had fallen to the lot of his proxy. The “alcahuete” had, in fact, to beg for her life before she was allowed to escape from the terrible Cibolo.She would have sought legal revenge, but that the nature of her business made it wiser for her to pocket the indignities, and remain silent.

When Vizcarra reached his sumptuous quarters, the first thing he did was to call for wine. It was brought, and he drank freely and with fierce determination.

He thought by that to drown his chagrin; and for a while he succeeded.

There is relief in wine, but it is only temporary: you may make jealousy drunk and oblivious, but you cannot keep it so. It will be sober as soon—ay, sooner than yourself. Not all the wine that was ever pressed from grapes can drown it into a complete oblivion.

Vizcarra’s heart was filled by various passions. There was love—that is, such love as a libertine feels; jealousy; anger at the coarse handling he had experienced; wounded self-love, for with his gold-lace and fine plumes he believed himself a conqueror at first sight; and upon the top of all, bitter disappointment.

This last was the greater that he did not see how his suit could be renewed. To attempt a similar visit would lead to similar chagrin,—perhaps worse.

It was plain the girl did not care for him, with all his fine feathers and exalted position. He saw that she was very different from the others with whom he had had dealings—different from the dark-eyed doncellas of the valley, most of whom, if not all, would have taken his onza without a word or a blush!

It was plain to him he could go no more to the rancho. Where, then, was he to meet her—to see her? He had ascertained that she seldom came to the town—never to the amusements, except when her brother was at home. How and where, then, was he to see her? His was a hopeless case—no opportunity of mending his firstfaux pas—none, any more than if the object of his pursuit was shut up in the cloisters of a nunnery! Hopeless, indeed! Thus ran his reflections.

Though uttering this phrase, he had no belief in its reality. He had no intention of ending the affair so easily. He—the lady-killer, Vizcarra—to fail in the conquest of a poor ranchera! He had never failed, and would not now. His vanity alone would have urged him farther in the affair; but he had a sufficient incentive to his strong passion,—for strong it had now grown. The opposition it had met—the very difficulty of the situation—only stimulated him to greater energy and earnestness.

Besides, jealousy was there, and that was another spur to his excited pride.

He was jealous of Don Juan. He had noticed the latter on the day of the fiesta. He had observed him in the company of the cibolero and his sister. He saw them talking, drinking, feasting together. He was jealousthen; but that was light, for then he still anticipated his own easy and early triumph. That was quiet to the feeling that tortured him now—now thathe had failed—now that he had seen in the very hour of his humiliation that same rival on his road to the rancho—welcome, no doubt—to be told of all that had happened—to join her in jeering laughter at his expense—to—Furies! the thought was intolerable.

For all that the Comandante had no idea of relinquishing his design. There were still means—foul, if not fair—if he could only think of them. He wanted some head cooler than his own. Where was Roblado?

“Sergeant! tell Captain Roblado I wish to speak with him.”

Captain Roblado was just the man to assist him in any scheme of the sort. They were equally villains as regarded women; but Vizcarra’smétierwas of a lighter sort—more of the genteel-comedy kind. His forte lay in the seductive process. He made loveà la Don Giovanni, and carried hearts in what he deemed a legitimate manner; whereas Roblado resorted to any means that would lead most directly to the object—force, if necessary and safe. Of the two Roblado was the coarser villain.

As the Comandante had failed in his way, he was determined to make trial of any other his captain might suggest; and since the latter knew all the “love stratagems,” both of civilised and savage life, he was just the man to suggest something.

It chanced that at this time Roblado wanted counsel himself upon a somewhat similar subject. He had proposed for Catalina, and Don Ambrosio had consented; but, to the surprise of all, the Señorita had rebelled! She did not say she wouldnotaccept Captain Roblado. That would have been too much of a defiance, and might have led to a summary interference of paternal authority. But she had appealed to Don Ambrosio for time—she was not ready to be married! Roblado could not think of time—he was too eager to be rich; but Don Ambrosio had listened to his daughter’s appeal, and there lay the cause of the captain’s trouble.

Perhaps the Comandante’s influence with Don Ambrosio might be the means of overruling this decision and hastening the wished-for nuptials. Roblado was therefore but too eager to lay his superior under an obligation.

Roblado having arrived, the Comandante explained his case, detailing every circumstance that had happened.

“My dear colonel, you did not go properly to work. I am astonished at that, considering your skill and experience. You dropped like an eagle upon a dovecot, frightening the birds into their inaccessible holes. You should not have gone to the rancho at all.”

“And how was I to see her?”

“In your own quarters; or elsewhere, as you might have arranged it.”

“Impossible!—she would never have consented to come.”

“Not by your sending for her direct; I know that.”

“And how, then?”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Roblado; “are you so innocent as never to have heard of such a thing as an ‘alcahuete’?”

“Oh! true—but by my faith I never found use for one.”

“No!—you in your fine style have deemed that a superfluity; but you might find use for one now. A very advantageous character that, I assure you—saves much time and trouble—diminishes the chances of failure too. It’s not too late. I advise you to try one. If that fails, you have still another string to your bow.”

We shall not follow the conversation of these ruffians further. Enough to say that it led into details of their atrocious plans, which, for more than an hour, they sat concocting over their wine, until the whole scheme was set forth and placed in readiness to be carried out.

Itwascarried out, in fine, but led to a different ending from what either anticipated. The “lady” who acted as “alcahuete” soon placed herselfen rapportwith Rosita; but her success was more equivocal than that of Vizcarra himself; in fact, I should rather say unequivocal, for there was no ambiguity about it.

As soon as her designs were made known to Rosita, the latter communicated them to her mother; and the scratches which the Comandante had received were nothing to those which had fallen to the lot of his proxy. The “alcahuete” had, in fact, to beg for her life before she was allowed to escape from the terrible Cibolo.

She would have sought legal revenge, but that the nature of her business made it wiser for her to pocket the indignities, and remain silent.

Chapter Twenty Five.“Now, Roblado,” asked the Comandante, “what is the other string to my bow?”“Can’t you guess, my dear colonel?”“Not exactly,” replied Vizcarra, though he well knew that he could. It was not long since the other string had been before his mind. He had even thought of it upon the day of his first defeat, and while his anger was hot and revengeful. And since then, too—often, often. His question was quite superfluous, for he well knew Roblado’s answer would be “force.”Itwas“force.” That was the very word. “How?”“Take a few of your people, go by night, and carry her off. What can be more simple? It would have been the proper way at first, with such a prude as she! Don’t fear the result. It’s not so terrible to them. I’ve known it tried before. Long ere the cibolero can return, she’ll be perfectly reconciled, I warrant you.”“And if not?”“If not, what have you to fear?”“The talk, Roblado—the talk.”“Bah! my dear colonel, you are timid in the matter. You have mismanaged it so far, but that’s no reason you should not use tact for the future. It can be done by night. You have chambers here where no one is allowed to enter—somewithout windows, if you need them. Who’s to be the wiser? Pick your men—those you can trust. You don’t require a whole troop, and half-a-dozen onzas will tie as many tongues. It’s as easy as stealing a shirt. It is only stealing a chemisette. Ha! ha! ha!” and the ruffian laughed at his coarse simile and coarser joke, in which laugh he was joined by the Comandante.The latter still hesitated to adopt this extreme measure. Not from any fineness of feeling. Though scarce so rough a villain as his companion, it was not delicacy of sentiment that restrained him now. He had been accustomed all his life to regard with heartless indifference the feelings of those he had wronged; and it was not out of any consideration for the future happiness or misery of the girl that he hesitated now. No, his motive was of a far different character. Roblado said true when he accused him of being timid. He was. It was sheer cowardice that stayed him.Not that he feared any bodily punishment would ever reach him for the act. He was too powerful, and the relatives of his intended victim too weak, to give him any apprehensions on that score. With a little policy he could administer death,—death to the most innocent of the people,—and give it a show of justice. Nothing was more easy than to cause suspicion of treason, incarcerate, and slay—and particularly at that time, when both Pueblo revolt and Creole revolution threatened the Spanish rule in America.What Vizcarra feared was “talk.” Such an open rape could not well be kept secret for long. It would leak out, and once out it was too piquant a piece of scandal not to have broad fame: all the town would soon enjoy it. But there was a still more unpleasant probability. It might travel beyond the confines of the settlement, perhaps to high quarters, even to the Vice-regal ear! There find we the secret of the Comandante’s fears.Not indeed that the Vice-regal court at the time was a model of morality. It would have been lenient enough to any act of despotism or debauchery done in a quiet way; but such an open act of rapine as that contemplated, on the score of policy, could hardly be overlooked. In truth, Vizcarra’s prudence had reason. He could not believe that it would be possible to keep the thing a secret. Some of the rascals employed might in the end prove traitors. True, they would be his own soldiers, and he might punish them for it at his will, but what satisfaction would that give him? It would be locking the stable after the steed had been stolen!Even without their playing him false, how could he hope to keep the affair concealed? First, there was an angry brother. True, he was out of the way; but there was a jealous lover on the ground, and the brother would return in time. The very act of the rape would point to him, Vizcarra. His visit, the attempt of the “alcahuete,” and the carrying off of the girl, would all be pieced together, and put down to his credit; and the brother—such a one—and such a lover too—would not be silent with their suspicious. He might take measures to get rid of both, but these measures must needs be violent and dangerous.Thus reasoned Vizcarra with himself, and thus he argued with Roblado. Not that he wished the latter to dissuade him—for the end he desired with all his heart—but in order that by their united wisdom some safer means of reaching it might be devised.And a safer planwasdevised. Roblado, deeper in head, as well as bolder in heart, conceived it. Bringing his glass to the table with a sudden stroke, he exclaimed—“Vamos, Vizcarra! By the Virgin, I have it!”“Bueno—bravo!”“You may enjoy your sweetheart within twenty four hours, if you wish, and the sharpest scandalmonger in the settlement will be foiled; at least, you will have nothing to fear. What a devil of a lucky thought!—the very thing itself, amigo!”“Don’t keep me in suspense, camarado! your plan! your plan!”“Stop till I’ve had a gulp of wine. The very thought of such a glorious trick makes me thirsty.”“Drink then, drink!” cried Vizcarra, filling out the wine, with a look of pleasant anticipation.Roblado emptied the goblet at a draught, and then, leaning nearer to the Comandante, he detailed what he had conceived in a low and confidential tone. It seemed to satisfy his listener, who, when the other had finished, uttered the word “Bravo!” and sprang to his feet like one who had received some joyful news. He walked back and forth for some minutes in an excited manner, and then, bursting into a loud laugh, he cried out, “Carrambo, comrade! youarea tactician! The great Conde himself would not have shown such strategy.Santisima Virgen! it is the very master-stroke of design; and I promise you, camarado, it shall have speedy execution.”“Why delay? Why not set about it at once?”“True,—at once let us prepare for thispleasant masquerade!”

“Now, Roblado,” asked the Comandante, “what is the other string to my bow?”

“Can’t you guess, my dear colonel?”

“Not exactly,” replied Vizcarra, though he well knew that he could. It was not long since the other string had been before his mind. He had even thought of it upon the day of his first defeat, and while his anger was hot and revengeful. And since then, too—often, often. His question was quite superfluous, for he well knew Roblado’s answer would be “force.”

Itwas“force.” That was the very word. “How?”

“Take a few of your people, go by night, and carry her off. What can be more simple? It would have been the proper way at first, with such a prude as she! Don’t fear the result. It’s not so terrible to them. I’ve known it tried before. Long ere the cibolero can return, she’ll be perfectly reconciled, I warrant you.”

“And if not?”

“If not, what have you to fear?”

“The talk, Roblado—the talk.”

“Bah! my dear colonel, you are timid in the matter. You have mismanaged it so far, but that’s no reason you should not use tact for the future. It can be done by night. You have chambers here where no one is allowed to enter—somewithout windows, if you need them. Who’s to be the wiser? Pick your men—those you can trust. You don’t require a whole troop, and half-a-dozen onzas will tie as many tongues. It’s as easy as stealing a shirt. It is only stealing a chemisette. Ha! ha! ha!” and the ruffian laughed at his coarse simile and coarser joke, in which laugh he was joined by the Comandante.

The latter still hesitated to adopt this extreme measure. Not from any fineness of feeling. Though scarce so rough a villain as his companion, it was not delicacy of sentiment that restrained him now. He had been accustomed all his life to regard with heartless indifference the feelings of those he had wronged; and it was not out of any consideration for the future happiness or misery of the girl that he hesitated now. No, his motive was of a far different character. Roblado said true when he accused him of being timid. He was. It was sheer cowardice that stayed him.

Not that he feared any bodily punishment would ever reach him for the act. He was too powerful, and the relatives of his intended victim too weak, to give him any apprehensions on that score. With a little policy he could administer death,—death to the most innocent of the people,—and give it a show of justice. Nothing was more easy than to cause suspicion of treason, incarcerate, and slay—and particularly at that time, when both Pueblo revolt and Creole revolution threatened the Spanish rule in America.

What Vizcarra feared was “talk.” Such an open rape could not well be kept secret for long. It would leak out, and once out it was too piquant a piece of scandal not to have broad fame: all the town would soon enjoy it. But there was a still more unpleasant probability. It might travel beyond the confines of the settlement, perhaps to high quarters, even to the Vice-regal ear! There find we the secret of the Comandante’s fears.

Not indeed that the Vice-regal court at the time was a model of morality. It would have been lenient enough to any act of despotism or debauchery done in a quiet way; but such an open act of rapine as that contemplated, on the score of policy, could hardly be overlooked. In truth, Vizcarra’s prudence had reason. He could not believe that it would be possible to keep the thing a secret. Some of the rascals employed might in the end prove traitors. True, they would be his own soldiers, and he might punish them for it at his will, but what satisfaction would that give him? It would be locking the stable after the steed had been stolen!

Even without their playing him false, how could he hope to keep the affair concealed? First, there was an angry brother. True, he was out of the way; but there was a jealous lover on the ground, and the brother would return in time. The very act of the rape would point to him, Vizcarra. His visit, the attempt of the “alcahuete,” and the carrying off of the girl, would all be pieced together, and put down to his credit; and the brother—such a one—and such a lover too—would not be silent with their suspicious. He might take measures to get rid of both, but these measures must needs be violent and dangerous.

Thus reasoned Vizcarra with himself, and thus he argued with Roblado. Not that he wished the latter to dissuade him—for the end he desired with all his heart—but in order that by their united wisdom some safer means of reaching it might be devised.

And a safer planwasdevised. Roblado, deeper in head, as well as bolder in heart, conceived it. Bringing his glass to the table with a sudden stroke, he exclaimed—

“Vamos, Vizcarra! By the Virgin, I have it!”

“Bueno—bravo!”

“You may enjoy your sweetheart within twenty four hours, if you wish, and the sharpest scandalmonger in the settlement will be foiled; at least, you will have nothing to fear. What a devil of a lucky thought!—the very thing itself, amigo!”

“Don’t keep me in suspense, camarado! your plan! your plan!”

“Stop till I’ve had a gulp of wine. The very thought of such a glorious trick makes me thirsty.”

“Drink then, drink!” cried Vizcarra, filling out the wine, with a look of pleasant anticipation.

Roblado emptied the goblet at a draught, and then, leaning nearer to the Comandante, he detailed what he had conceived in a low and confidential tone. It seemed to satisfy his listener, who, when the other had finished, uttered the word “Bravo!” and sprang to his feet like one who had received some joyful news. He walked back and forth for some minutes in an excited manner, and then, bursting into a loud laugh, he cried out, “Carrambo, comrade! youarea tactician! The great Conde himself would not have shown such strategy.Santisima Virgen! it is the very master-stroke of design; and I promise you, camarado, it shall have speedy execution.”

“Why delay? Why not set about it at once?”

“True,—at once let us prepare for thispleasant masquerade!”

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