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The Queen of the Savannah: A Story of the Mexican War

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Title: The Queen of the Savannah: A Story of the Mexican War

Author: Gustave Aimard


        
Release date: December 16, 2013 [eBook #44448]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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THE QUEEN OF THE SAVANNAH

A Story of the Mexican War

by

GUSTAVE AIMARD

Author of
"Last of the Incas," "Red Track," "Prairie Flower," etc.







London:
Ward and Lock, 158, Fleet Street.
MDCCCLXII.




CONTENTS.


PROLOGUE.

         I. THE EXPEDITION.
        II. REDSKINS AND WHITESKINS.
       III. THE RED BUFFALOES.
        IV. THE CASCABEL.

         I. THE ADVENTURERS.
        II. A NIGHT IN THE WOODS.
       III. THE SUCCOUR.
        IV. INSIDE THE HACIENDA.
         V. THE COUNCIL.
        VI. GENERAL FRAY PELAGIO.
       VII. A CONVERSATION.
      VIII. THE ENVOY.
        IX. DON MELCHIOR DÍAZ.
         X. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
        XI. THE SORTIE.
       XII. ON THE ROAD.
      XIII. AN ALARM.
       XIV. THE REDSKINS.
        XV. COUNT DE MELGOSA.
       XVI. DIEGO LÓPEZ.
      XVII. LEONA VICARIO.
     XVIII. THE INTERVIEW.
       XIX. THE DUNGEON.
        XX. SOTAVENTO MAKES A MOVE.
       XXI. THE COUNCIL OF THE RED BUFFALOES.
      XXII. THE WAR TRAIL.
     XXIII. THE SNARE.
      XXIV. OLIVER CLARY.
       XXV. THE WOUNDED MAN.
      XXVI. DOÑA EMILIA.
     XXVII. THE CHIEF'S PROPOSAL.
    XXVIII. PREPARATIONS FOR A RESCUE.
      XXIX. THE REVOLUTION.
       XXX. ON THE TRAIL.
      XXXI. THE JACAL.
     XXXII. THE PRISONER.
    XXXIII. MOONSHINE.
     XXXIV. THE TEOCALI.
      XXXV. IN THE FIELD.
     XXXVI. A YOUNG HEART.
    XXXVII. THE AMBUSH.
   XXXVIII. THE PURSUIT.
     XXXIX. RUNNING WATER.




THE QUEEN OF THE SAVANNAH.




PROLOGUE




CHAPTER I.

THE EXPEDITION.


The story begins on May 5, 1805, in one of the wildest and most abrupt
portions of New Spain, which now forms the State of Coahuila, belonging
to the Mexican Confederation.

If the reader will have the kindness to take a glance at a numerous
cavalcade, which is debouching from a canyon and scaling at a gallop
the scarped side of a rather lofty hill, on the top of which stands an
_aldea_, or village of Indios mansos, he will at the same time form the
acquaintance of several of our principal characters, and the country in
which the events recorded in this narrative occurred.

This cavalcade was composed of fifteen individuals in all; ten of them
were lancers, attired in that yellow uniform which procured them the
nickname of _tamarindos_. These soldiers were execrated by the people,
in consequence of their cruelty. They advanced in good order, commanded
by a subaltern and an alférez--an old trooper who had grown gray in
harness, who had long white moustachios and a disagreeable face. As he
galloped on, he looked around him with the careless, wearied air of a
man for whom the future reserves no hopes either of ambition, love, or
fortune.

About twenty paces from this little band, and just so far ahead
that their remarks reached the soldiers' ears in a completely
incomprehensible fashion, three persons, two men and a woman, were
riding side by side.

The first was a gentleman of about thirty years of age, of commanding
stature; his harsh, haughty, and menacing features were rendered even
more gloomy by a deep scar of a livid hue which commenced on his right
temple and divided his face into two nearly equal parts.

This man, who was dressed in the sumptuous costume of the Mexican
_campesinos_, which he wore with far from common grace, was named Don
Aníbal de Saldibar, and was considered the richest hacendero in the
province.

His companion, who kept slightly in the rear, doubtless through
respect, was a civilized Indian, with a quick eye, aquiline nose, and a
wide mouth lined with two rows of dazzling white teeth. His countenance
indicated intelligence and bravery. He was short and robust, and the
almost disproportioned development of his muscles gave an enormous
width to his limbs. This individual must assuredly be endowed with
extraordinary strength. His attire, not nearly so rich as that of the
hacendero, displayed a certain pretension to elegance, which was an
extraordinary thing in an Indian.

This man's name was Pedro Sotavento, and he was majordomo to Don Aníbal.

As we have said, the third person was a female. Although it was easy to
see, through the juvenile grace of her movements and her taper waist,
that she was still very young, she was so discreetly hidden behind
gauze and muslin veils, in order to protect her from the burning heat
of the sun which was then at its zenith, that it was impossible to
distinguish her features. Long black locks escaped from beneath her
broad-brimmed vicuña hat, and fell in profusion on her pink and white
shoulders, which were scarcely veiled by a China crape _rebozo_.

At the moment when we approach these three persons they were conversing
together with considerable animation.

"No," Don Aníbal said, with a frown, as he smote the pommel of his
saddle, "it is not possible, I cannot believe in so much audacity
on the part of these Indian brutes. You must have been deceived,
Sotavento."

The majordomo grinned knowingly, and buried his head between his
shoulders with a motion which was habitual to him.

"You will see, _mi amo_," he replied, in a honeyed voice, "my
information is positive."

"What!" the hacendero continued with increased fury, "They would really
attempt resistance! Why, they must be mad!"

"Not so much as you suppose, mi amo; the aldea is large and contains at
least three thousand _callis_."

"What matter? Suppose there were twice as many, is not one Spaniard as
good as ten Indians?"

"In the open, perhaps so."

"What is that you say--perhaps?" Don Aníbal exclaimed, turning sharply
round, and giving his majordomo a glance of supreme contempt. "Really,
Sotavento, your Indian origin involuntarily abuses your judgment by
making you regard things differently from what they really are."

"No, mi amo. The Indian origin with which you reproach me, on the
contrary, makes me judge the situation healthily; and, believe me, it
is far more serious than you imagine."

These words were uttered in a serious tone, which caused the proud
Spaniard to reflect.

Pedro Sotavento had been in his service for a long time. He knew
that he was brave and incapable of being intimidated by threats or
rodomontade. Moreover, he had always been kind to him, and believed
himself sure of his devotion, hence he continued in a milder key--

"That is the reason, then, why you insisted so strongly on my taking an
escort when we passed the Fort of Agua Verde?"

"Yes, mi amo," he replied, giving the soldiers a glance of singular
expression. "I should have liked it to be more numerous."

"Nonsense, had it not been through consideration for the señora, whom
I am anxious not to terrify in her present condition, I would not
have accepted a single soldier. We alone are more than sufficient to
chastise these scoundrels, were there a thousand of them."

"Don Aníbal," the young lady here said in a soft and harmonious voice,
"the contempt you profess for these poor people is unjust. Though they
are of a different colour from us, and almost devoid of intellect,
they are men for all that, and as such have a claim on our pity."

"Very good, señora," the hacendero answered savagely; "take their part
against me, that will not fail to produce an excellent effect."

"I take no person's part, Don Aníbal," she continued, with a slight
tremor in her voice. "I merely offer an opinion which I consider
correct, that is all. But your outbursts of passion terrify me; perhaps
it would have been better to leave me at the hacienda, as I expressed a
desire."

"My family are never insulted with impunity, señora; I wished you to
witness the vengeance which I intend taking for the insult offered to
you."

"I made no complaint to you, Don Aníbal. The slight insult I received,
even admitting that it was an insult, does not deserve so terrible
a punishment as you purpose to inflict on these unhappy creatures.
Take care, Don Aníbal. These men whom, in your Castilian pride, you
obstinately insist on ranking with the brute beasts and treating as
such, will grow weary one day. They already feel a profound hatred for
you. The Indians are vindictive, and may wait perhaps for twenty years
the opportunity to repay you the evil you have done them; but then
their vengeance will be frightful."

"Enough, señora," the hacendero said roughly; "but while waiting for
this vengeance with which you menace me in their name, I mean to treat
them as they deserve."

The young lady bowed her head, and made no further remark.

"Oh!" the majordomo said, with a grin of mockery, "You can strike
without fear, mi amo. The Indians have been too long accustomed to
bend their necks for them ever to feel any desire to draw themselves up
and bite the hand which chastises them."

These words were uttered with an accent which would have caused Don
Aníbal to reflect seriously, had he not been so infatuated about his
real or supposed superiority over the unfortunate race that formed the
subject of the conversation we have just reported.

The opinion expressed by the hacendero was not so erroneous as it might
appear to a European. The Spanish name was at this period surrounded
by such a prestige; the hapless Indians were reduced to such a state
of degrading servitude and brutalization; they seemed to have so
thoroughly recognized the superiority of their oppressors, that the
latter did not even take the trouble to hide the contempt with which
these degenerate remains of the powerful races they had vanquished in
former times inspired them. They affected, under all circumstances, to
make them feel all the weight of the yoke under which they bowed them.

Still, under present circumstances, the proud Spaniard committed a
grave error. For this reason:

The Indians against whom he was marching at this moment were not
attached by any tie to those whom three centuries of slavery had
rendered submissive to the Spanish authority. They had only been
settled for about thirty years, through their own free will, at the
spot where they now were. This requires an explanation, which we will
proceed to give, begging the reader to pardon this digression, which
is indispensable for the comprehension of the facts which we have
undertaken to recount.

There are races which seem destined by fate to disappear from the
surface of the globe. The red race is of the number, for it has no
fiercer enemy than itself.

The Indians, in lieu of making common cause against their oppressors,
and trying to emancipate themselves from their tyranny, expend all
their courage and energy in fratricidal contests of nation against
nation, tribe against tribe, and thus help those who do all in their
power to keep them down. These contests are the more obstinate, because
they take place between men of the same blood and even of the same
family for originally frivolous causes, which, however, soon attain
considerable importance, owing to the number of warriors who succumb to
the rage and ferocity displayed on both sides.

Hence entire nations, formerly powerful, are gradually reduced to a few
families, and in a relatively short period become entirely extinct,
the few surviving warriors seeking their safety in flight, or going
to claim the protection of another nation with which they soon become
blended.

Hence we may account for the fact that the names of the tribes
flourishing at the period of the discovery of America are now scarcely
known, and it is impossible to recover any trace of them.

The first conquerors, impelled by religious fanaticism and an
unextinguishable thirst for gold were, we allow, pitiless to their
unhappy victims, and sacrificed immense numbers in working the mines.
Still, to be just, we must state that they never organized those
grand Indian hunts which the Anglo-Saxons initiated in North America;
they never offered a reward of fifty dollars for every Indian scalp;
and instead of driving back the Indian race before them, they, on
the contrary, blended the native blood with their own, so that the
number of Indians has been considerably augmented in the old Spanish
possessions, while they will ere long disappear in North America, where
they are hunted down like wild beasts.

According to a census made by the Washington Congress in 1858, the
Indians scattered over the territory of the United States amount to
800,000.

In Mexico, where the population is only seven million, there are five
million Indians and half-breeds; moreover, it is proved that in the
time of Motecuhzoma the population never attained this high figure.

It results then from our remarks that the Spaniards who, during three
centuries, incessantly massacred the Indians, succeeded in increasing
their numbers; while the North Americans who are so philosophical and
such philanthropists have attained a diametrically opposite result, and
during the sixty years since they proclaimed their independence, in
spite of all the efforts made to civilize the Indians, they have nearly
exterminated those tribes which dwell on their territory.

It must be confessed that this is a most unfortunate result! We will
stop here, for every thinking man will be enabled to draw the sole
logical conclusion from our remarks without our dilating on them.

About forty years before the period at which our story begins, two of
the most important tribes of the Comanche nation suddenly quarrelled
after an expedition they had made in common against the Apaches, the
irreconcilable enemies of the Comanches, with whom they alone dare to
dispute the supremacy on the great prairies of the Far West.

This expedition had been completely successful: a winter village of the
Apaches was surprised by night, the horses were carried off, and sixty
scalps raised.

The warriors returned to the gathering place of their nation, singing,
dancing, and celebrating their exploits, as they are accustomed to do
when, in an expedition of this nature, they have killed several of
their enemies without any loss on their own side. This had been the
case on the present occasion. The Apache warriors, aroused from deep
sleep, had fallen like ripe corn beneath the tomahawks of the Comanches
as they sought to escape from their burning lodges without thought of
arming themselves.

In spite of all the care taken in the division of the plunder that
each tribe might be equally favoured, the chiefs did not succeed in
satisfying everybody; the warriors who thought themselves defrauded
gave way to recriminations; tempers were heated, and, as always
happens with men who constantly go about armed, they proceeded almost
immediately from words to blows.

There was a battle; blood followed in streams, and then the two tribes
separated, swearing a deadly hatred, though it was impossible to
discover whence the quarrel originated, or which side was in the wrong.
These two tribes were the "White Horse" and the "Red Buffalo."

Then a war began between these old friends which threatened to be
indefinitely prolonged; but one day the Red Buffaloes, being surprised
by their enemies, were almost entirely exterminated, after a fight that
lasted two days, and in which even the squaws took part.

The vanquished, reduced to about fifty warriors and the same number of
women and children, sought safety in flight, but being hotly pursued,
they were compelled to cross the Indian border, and seek a refuge upon
Spanish territory.

Here they drew breath. The Spanish government allowed them to settle
in the neighbourhood of the Fort of Agua Verde, and granted them the
right of self-government, while recognizing the authority of the king
of Spain, and pledging themselves to be guilty of no exactions of any
sort.

The Red Buffaloes, pleased with the protection granted them,
religiously carried out the conditions of the treaty; they built a
village, became husbandmen, accepted the missionary sent to them,
turned Christians, ostensibly at least, and lived on good terms
with their white neighbours, among whom they speedily acquired the
reputation of being quiet and honest people.

Unhappily, perfect happiness is not possible in this world, and the
poor Indians soon learnt this fact at their own expense.

The ground on which their wretched village stood was surrounded by the
lands of the Hacienda del Barrio, which had belonged, ever since the
conquest, to the Saldibar family.

So long as Don José de Saldibar was alive, with the exception of a few
insignificant discussions, the Indians were tolerably at liberty; but
when Don Aníbal succeeded his father, matters at once altered.

Don Aníbal signified to the chief cacique of the Red Buffaloes, that he
must allow himself to be a vassal, and consequently pay to him not only
a tithe of his crops, and the capitation tax, but also supply a certain
number of his young men to work in the mines and guard the cattle.

The chief answered with a peremptory refusal, alleging that he was only
dependent on the Spanish government, and recognized no other sovereign.

Don Aníbal would not allow himself to be defeated; he organized against
the Indians a system of dull annoyance for the purpose of compelling
them to give way; he cut down their woods, sent his cattle to grass in
their fields, and so on.

The Indians suffered without complaining. They were attached to their
wretched huts and did not wish to quit them.

This patient resignation, this passive resistance, exasperated
Don Aníbal. The Indians let themselves be ruined without uttering
complaints or threats; several of their young men were carried off,
and they did not offer the slightest protest. The hacendero resolved
to come to an end with these men whom nothing could compel to obey his
will.

In spite of himself, he was terrified at the indifference of the
Indians, which he fancied too great not to be affected; he went over in
his mind all he had made the poor people suffer, and the injustice he
had done them, and came to the conclusion that they were preparing to
take some terrible vengeance on him.

He determined to be beforehand with them, but he needed a pretext, and
this Sotavento, his majordomo, undertook to provide him with.

This Sotavento, of whom we have already said a few words, was himself
of Indian race. One of Don Aníbal's friends had warmly recommended him,
and for twelve years he had been in the service of the hacendero, whose
good and bad passions he had contrived so cleverly to flatter, with
that suppleness of character natural to the redskins, that the latter
placed the most perfect confidence in him.

Sotavento, naturally, carried out his master's orders zealously, and
eagerly seized every opportunity to injure the Red Buffaloes, for whom
he appeared to entertain a profound hatred.

After consulting with his master, Sotavento managed matters so that
one day Doña Emilia, Don Aníbal's wife, who had hitherto defended
the poor people of the aldea under all circumstances, and had even
succeeded in saving them from several vexatious acts, was, while taking
a walk, insulted by an Indian, or at least a man wearing their costume,
and was so frightened that she was confined to her bed for several days.

The hacendero made the more noise about this insult, because, as his
wife was _enceinte_, the fright she had undergone might have had very
serious consequences for her.

He proceeded in all haste to the capital of the province, had a long
interview with the governor, and then returned home, certain this time
of gaining the end at which he had so long aimed.

He had been accompanied from the city by a juez de letras, an
insignificant person, to whom we have not yet alluded, and who appeared
but little pleased with the duty confided to him, for he trotted
timidly along upon a scrubby mule behind the soldiers.

Only stopping at the hacienda long enough to bid his wife mount
her horse and come and see what was going to happen, Don Aníbal at
once continued his journey, consenting with great difficulty, upon
the repeated entreaties of his majordomo, to accept the escort the
commandant of the Fort of Agua Verde offered him, for he was so eager
to revenge himself.

The country the travellers passed through was extremely picturesque;
from the elevation they had reached, they surveyed an admirable
landscape closed in on the horizon by lofty forest-clad mountains.
In the west spread out the immense sheet of water, known as the Agua
Verde, which the beams of the setting sun tinged with all the prismatic
hues. Besides this, they could see the Río Grande, which was lost in
infinite windings, the Fort of the Bahia, situated on a point of the
river, and the green prairies of the Indian border, which were agitated
by mysterious movements.

In the meanwhile the Mexicans continued to ascend, we dare not say the
road, for no roads of any sort existed at that period in this savage
country, and we doubt whether any exist now, but the track which led to
the aldea of the Red Buffaloes.

This track, cut by human hands on the sides of the hill round which it
wound, became more and more scarped, and at last resembled a staircase,
which would have mightily staggered a European traveller, but these
horsemen did not even seem to notice the fact.

All at once, Sotavento, who had pushed on slightly ahead during the
conversation between the hacendero and Doña Emilia, uttered a cry
of surprise as he stopped his horse so short, that the noble animal
trembled on its hind legs.

"What is the matter?" Don Aníbal asked as he spurred his horse.

"Look there!" the majordomo replied, stretching his hand.

"_¡Mil demonios!_" Don Aníbal shouted passionately, "What is the
meaning of this? Who has warned the scoundrels?"

"_¿Quién sabe?_" the majordomo said with a grin.

Several trees, to which the branches and roots were still attached, had
been thrown across the track, and formed a barricade about ten feet in
height, which completely stopped the way.

The travellers were compelled to halt before this impassable obstacle.

The hacendero was startled for a moment, but soon, shaking his head
like a lion at bay, he looked around defiantly, dismounted, and drawing
his machete, walked boldly up to the barricade, while Sotavento,
motionless and with folded arms, looked cunningly at him.

The lancers, whom this compulsory stoppage had enabled to catch up the
first party, cocked their carbines at an order from their commanding
officer, and held themselves in readiness to fire at the first signal.




CHAPTER II.

REDSKINS AND WHITESKINS.


Don Aníbal de Saldibar was gifted with a most energetic character and
iron will; obstacles, instead of checking, only impelled him to go on
at all risks, until he had carried out what he once resolved to do.
In no case could any interference, however powerful its nature, have
induced him to hesitate in accomplishing his plans, much less make him
give them up. Possessing great physical strength and unusual skill in
the management of weapons, he was courageous after the manner of wild
beasts, through an instinct for evil and to smell blood. Still he had
as much contempt for his own life as for that of his opponent, and
he never tried to avoid peril, but, on the contrary, felt a secret
pleasure in looking it in the face.

The soldiers who accompanied him had assuredly furnished proofs of
their courage long before. Still it was with a start of terror they saw
him advance calmly and carelessly toward this barricade of verdure,
which rose silent and menacing before them, and behind which they
expected at each moment to see spring up a band of enemies, exasperated
by long sufferings, and resolved to defend themselves to the last
extremity. In the probable event of a collision, the position of the
Mexicans was most disadvantageous.

The soldiers, grouped on a path only three feet in width, having on
their right a perpendicular granite wall, and on their left a deep
barranca, into which the slightest false step might precipitate them,
with no shelter of any description to fight men hidden behind a thick
barricade, were almost certain of being defeated, if a hand to hand
fight began with the Indians. Hence the old officer who commanded the
escort shook his head several times with a dissatisfied air, after he
had hastily examined the probable fighting ground.

The juez de letras and the two alguaciles who served him as a guard
of honour, evidently shared the lieutenant's opinion, for they had
stopped out of gunshot and dismounted, under a pretext of tightening
their mules' girths, but in reality to convert the carcases of the poor
brutes into a rampart.

As for Sotavento, sitting motionless on his horse about ten yards at
the most from the felled trees, he was carelessly rolling a cigarette
between his fingers, while pinching up his thin lips, and letting a
viper's glance pass through his half-closed eyelids.

He seemed, in short, to take but very slight interest in what was going
on around him, and was prepared to be a spectator rather than actor of
the events which would in all probability occur.

The hacendero had approached the barricade. His face was unmoved;
with his left hand resting on one of the branches, and his body bent
slightly forward, he was trying to peer through the intertwined
branches and leaves at some of the enemies whom he supposed to be
ambuscaded there.

Still, although this examination lasted for several minutes, and Don
Aníbal, through bravado, prolonged it far beyond what was necessary,
the deepest silence continued to prevail, and not a leaf stirred.

"Come," the hacendero said in a sarcastic voice, as he drew himself
up, "you are mistaken, Sotavento, there is no one here. I was a fool
to believe for a moment that these brutes would attempt to dispute our
passage."

"Well, well," the majordomo said with a grin, "¿quién sabe? mi amo,
¿quién sabe? These brutes, as you very correctly term them, have not
left their prairies so long as to have completely forgotten their
Indian tricks."

"I care little," the hacendero answered drily, "what their intentions
or the tricks they have prepared may be; dismount and help me to roll
over the precipice these trees which obstruct the path; at a later date
we will proceed to punish the persons who have thus dared to barricade
the king's road."

Sotavento hung his head without replying, and prepared to obey; but
before he had drawn his foot out of the stirrup the branches parted,
and in the space thus left free appeared a man wearing a gold-laced
hat with a military cock, and holding in his right hand a long
silver-knobbed cane.

As this individual is destined to play a certain part in this
narrative, we will draw his portrait in a few lines.

He was a man of lofty stature, with marked features and an intelligent
physiognomy. His black eyes, sparkling like carbuncles, and full of
cunning, had a strange fixity, which gave him, when any internal
emotion agitated him, an expression of cold ferocity impossible to
describe. His complexion, which was of the colour of new red copper,
allowed him to be recognized as an Indian at the first glance; although
he had passed midlife, it was impossible to decide his age, for he
seemed as vigorous and active as if only twenty years old; not a
wrinkle furrowed his brow, not a single gray hair was perceptible in
the thick black masses which fell in disorder on his shoulders.

Excepting his gold-laced hat, and his silver-mounted cane, which were
the emblems of his rank as cacique or alcade of the aldea, his dress
was very simple, and only consisted of worn velvet calzoneras, which
but half covered his bare legs, and a gaily coloured zarapé, which was
thrown over his shoulders.

Still, in spite of this miserable garb, this man had about him such an
air of haughty dignity and innate superiority, that, on seeing him, his
ridiculous attire was forgotten, and involuntary respect was felt for
him.

This person was, in fact, the chief of the Red Buffaloes, their
cacique, to whom the governor of the province had given the title of
alcade.

His name was Mah-mih-kou-ing-atl, not a very euphonious name; but, like
all Indian titles, it had a meaning, and signified literally "Running
Water."

The hacendero and the cacique examined each other for a moment
silently, like two duellists, who, before falling on their favourite
guard, try to discover their opponent's weak point, and thus render
their attack, if possible, decisive.

It was the first time they stood face to face, and hence the fixedness
of their glance had something strange and fatal about it. Still, Don
Aníbal's machete, raised against the barricade, fell without striking.
The cacique, satisfied with this triumph, turned his head away with a
gloomy smile. Each of these men had measured his foe, and found him a
worthy one. The spectators, dumb and motionless, anxiously awaited what
was about to take place. Don Aníbal was the first to break the silence.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, in a voice that betrayed dull
passion; "By what right do you obstruct the king's highway?"

"Who are you, first, who question me in so haughty a fashion, and who
authorizes you to do so?" the cacique answered drily.

"Who I am?" the Spaniard continued passionately, "Do you not know?"

"Whether I know or not is of no consequence; I wish to learn the fact
from you. I am not acquainted with you, and do not wish to have any
dispute with you."

"Do you think so, my master?" the hacendero retorted with a mocking
smile, "If unfortunately you are mistaken, as you will speedily
discover."

"Perhaps so," the Indian replied disdainfully; "but, in the meanwhile,
as you have no right to enter my village with soldiers, in my quality
of magistrate, I order you to withdraw, rendering you and yours
responsible for the consequences of your disobedience in the event of
your refusing to obey my orders."

While Don Aníbal listened to these words, with his arms crossed on his
chest, and head thrown back, a smile of imperceptible meaning played
around his lips.

"I fancy," he said ironically, "that you attach greater importance to
your dignity of alcade than it really possesses, my master; but I have
not come here to discuss with you. Will you, yes or no, let me pass?"

"Why do you not try to force a passage?" the cacique said.

"I am going to do so."

"Try it."

Without replying, Don Aníbal turned to the leader of the escort.

"Lieutenant," he said to him, "order your men to fire on that
scoundrel."

But the old officer shook his head.

"Hum!" he remarked, "What good would that do us? It would only cause us
to be killed like asses. Do you imagine that man to be alone?"

"Then you refuse to obey me?" the hacendero said with concentrated
passion.

"¡Canarios! I should think I do refuse. I was ordered to defend you
from attack; but not to sacrifice the men I command in satisfying a
whim. This individual, the deuce take him! Were he ten times the Indian
he is, has the law on his side, ¡Rayo de Dios! You waste your time in
arguing with him, instead of coming to an end at once."

Don Aníbal listened to this remonstrance with ill-restrained
impatience. When the lieutenant ceased speaking, he said with ironical
deference, as he bowed to him--

"Pray what would you have done in my place, Señor Lieutenant?"

"¡Canarios! I should have acted in a different way. It is evident that
we are not the stronger, and that if we attempt to pass as you propose,
those red devils will only have to give us a push to send us rolling
over the precipice, which, I suppose, would not exactly suit your
views."

"Well?" the hacendero interrupted with an impatient gesture.

"One moment, hang it all! Let us act legally since it is necessary. The
alcade's cane is at times stronger than the soldier's sword, and to
break it you require a stronger cane, that is all. Have you not brought
with you a sort of writer or juez de letras, flanked by two alguaciles?
The scoundrel must have some sort of authority in his pocket. But
what do I know? Well, let the two black birds settle matters between
themselves. Believe me, it is the only thing we can do in the present
posture of affairs; we will see if these pícaros dare to resist a
representative of his majesty, whom may Heaven preserve!"

"¡Viva Dios! you are right, Lieutenant; I perceive that I acted like an
ass, and we ought to have begun with that. Give those persons orders to
come up, if you please."

The cacique had listened to the conversation, leaning carelessly on
his cane in the trench behind the barricade; but, on hearing the
conclusion, which he doubtless had not anticipated, he frowned and
looked anxiously behind him.

At a sign from the lieutenant, several soldiers went in search of the
juez de letras and his two acolytes. But it was no easy task to bring
them to the front: officers of justice have this in common with the
crow, that they smell gunpowder a long distance off.

The poor devils, entrenched, as well as they could manage, behind
their mules, were trembling all over, while waiting for the action to
begin; when they saw the soldiers galloping toward them, they fancied
their last hour had arrived, and they began commending their souls to
Heaven, while repeating all the prayers they could call to mind, and
beating their chests powerfully, as they invoked all the saints of the
interminable Spanish calendar.

At the first moment the soldiers were greatly amused at their terror,
and laughed heartily at their pale faces and startled glances. On
hearing the lancers laugh, the juez de letras, who, apart from his
poltroonery, was a clever and sensible man, began reflecting, and
suspected that the danger was not so great as he had at first supposed
it.

He got up, carefully arranged his attire, and asked the soldiers for
news, which they gave him, laughing most heartily the while. The juez
then drew himself up in a dignified manner, mounted his mule, and
addressed his alguaciles, who were still hidden behind a bend in the
path--

"Well, scamps," he said to them, while attempting to reassume an
imposing air, as became a magistrate of his importance, "what is the
meaning of this? Heaven pardon me, but I believe you are afraid. Is
that the way in which you sustain the honour of the gown you wear?
Come, come, mount without further delay, and follow me smartly."

The alguaciles, abashed by this sharp reprimand, got on their mules,
offering the best excuses they could, and ranged themselves behind
their superior officer.

Still the worthy juez de letras was not so reassured as he wished to
appear, and we are forced to confess that the nearer he drew to the
barricade, the more formidable it seemed to him, and the less at ease
did he feel as to the results of the mission he had to carry out.

Still, hesitation was no longer possible, he must bravely go through
with the affair; and pluck up a heart. No one is so courageous as a
poltroon driven into a corner; fear in him takes the place of bravery,
and he becomes the more rash in proportion to his former terror.

The juez de letras gave a proof of this, for instead of halting a
reasonable distance from the barricade, he advanced till he could
almost touch it. Perhaps, though, this did not result entirely from his
own will, for the soldiers had maliciously given the poor mule several
vigorous blows with their chicotes, so that it pricked up its ears and
dashed madly onward. The fact is, that, whether voluntarily or not, the
juez found himself side by side with Don Aníbal.

The lieutenant's advice was, as he had said, the only mode of putting
an end to the cacique's resistance. At the period when this story takes
place, the liberal ideas which overturned and regenerated the old world
had not yet reached the Spanish colonies, or, if they had reached them,
had not penetrated to the lower classes, who, besides, would not have
understood them.

The King of Spain, owing to the system adopted by the Peninsular
government, was revered, feared, and respected like a god; the lowest
of his representatives, the mere flag hoisted over a conducta de plata,
were sufficient to protect the millions that traversed the entire
length of Mexico to be embarked on board the ships; in a word, it would
not have occurred to anyone in New Spain that it was possible to rebel
against the mother country or disobey the lowest or most insignificant
of the officers of the sovereign beyond the seas.

Still, in spite of the knowledge of their power, the Spaniards were
slightly alarmed by the coldly resolute attitude of the Indian cacique;
the more so, because this man belonged to that haughty Comanche race
which preferred to return to the desert sooner than bend beneath the
Spanish yoke. It is true that Running Water, on settling on this side
the border, had recognized the suzerainty of the King of Spain; but
it was so recently that this fact occurred, that there was reason to
fear lest the Red Buffaloes, driven to extremities by the countless
annoyances they had endured, might be resolved to take an exemplary
vengeance on their enemies, even though that vengeance entailed their
utter ruin.

Such instances as this had already occurred several times in the
colony. Another reason also heightened the apprehensions of Don Aníbal
and his companions; in spite of the secrecy in which his plans were
arranged and his rapidity of action, the Indians had been warned of
what was being prepared against them, which was superabundantly proved
by the measures they had taken to defend themselves against an attack
which nothing could have led them to suspect.

The hacendero had, then, been betrayed; but who was the traitor?

At a sign from Don Aníbal, the juez de letras prepared with
considerable assurance to exhibit his titles and quality. After
securing himself firmly in his saddle the magistrate drew a paper from
a portfolio one of the alguaciles handed him, the contents of which he
read in a loud, firm voice.

This document was to the effect that the Comanche Indians, called the
Red Buffaloes, who had sought shelter on the Spanish territory, and
to whom the government of his majesty had deigned to grant asylum
and protection, had rendered themselves unworthy this protection by
their misdeeds, a long list of which was quoted. The Viceroy of New
Spain, listening to the repeated complaints which were made from all
sides against them, recognizing them as ungrateful and incorrigible
felons, withdrew the hand he had hitherto extended to protect them,
and ordered, in consequence, that they should be compelled by all
legal means at once to abandon their place of residence, and repass
the border, after their village had been utterly destroyed in their
presence. Any disobedience would be punished with death, etc., etc.

This document was listened to in religious silence by the cacique, with
downcast head and frowning brow, but without the slightest mark of
impatience, anger, or sorrow. When the judge had finished he raised his
head, and looked at him like a man awakening from sleep.

"Have you ended?" he asked him in a gentle voice.

"Not yet," the magistrate answered, amazed and emboldened by this
mildness, which he had been far from anticipating.

"Do so," he said.

The judge continued:

"Consequently I, Don Ignacio Pavo y Cobardo, juez de letras of the town
of Mondovo, by virtue of the powers conceded to me by the most serene
Governor of the Intendancy, summon you, alcade of the aldea of the Red
Buffaloes, in the name of his Majesty, whom may Heaven preserve, to
obey this order at once without any resistance."

Running Water drew himself up, gave the spectators a glance of strange
meaning; then, without uttering a word, he took off his hat, which
he threw over the precipice, broke his cane across his knee, let the
pieces fall at his feet, and said to Don Aníbal--

"You wish for war, be it so! I accept. You can now pass, and no one
will oppose you."

He fell back a step, shouted in a thundering voice, "We shall meet
again," and then disappeared.




CHAPTER III.

THE RED BUFFALOES.


The startled Mexicans looked at each other with dumb terror; for
several minutes after the disappearance of the cacique they remained
thus gloomy and hesitating, fearing a trap, and not daring to put faith
in the words of an Indian.

At length the hacendero, ashamed of showing the terror he felt,
haughtily raised his head, and angrily stamped his foot.

"¡Viva Dios!" he shouted, "Are we timid women to let ourselves be
frightened by the threats of a maniac? I will go on, even if I should
be murdered."

And before anyone dreamed of preventing him, he forced his way with
great difficulty through the branches, machete in hand, and ready to
sell his life dearly. But Running Water had told the truth; the passage
was free far as eye could extend, and the path was entirely deserted.
Don Aníbal rejoined his comrades.

"There is nobody," he said, with an accent of regret. "Aid me to throw
these trees over the precipice, and let us continue our journey. Let
us make haste though, for, if I am not mistaken, we shall find the
resistance which is not offered us here at the village."

The path was soon cleared, and the trees hurled into the barranca, down
which they rolled with a sinister noise. They continued their march,
and at the end of an hour reached the plateau on which the village
stood. But they found the huts a pile of smoking ashes, while a long
line of flame was rapidly running along the side of the hill, and
devouring the crops. The Red Buffaloes had not waited for the arrival
of the king's people; they had themselves destroyed everything.

The Mexicans only found shapeless ruins; as for the Indians, they had
disappeared, and it was impossible to discover in what direction they
had fled. The old officer gazed for a moment pensively at this scene of
desolation, and then walked up to Don Aníbal.

"Señor de Saldibar," he said to him solemnly, "take care!"

"Take care! I?" he answered haughtily, "Nonsense, Lieutenant, you are
jesting."

"I am not jesting," the soldier answered sadly, "I have known the
Indians for a long time. They never forgive an insult. For them to
consent to consummate their ruin, and unresistingly abandon a spot
which must for so many reasons be dear to them, they must be meditating
a terrible revenge upon you; so, I repeat, take care."

In spite of his ferocious courage and indomitable pride the hacendero
was struck by the tone in which these words were pronounced by a
man whose courage could not be doubted; he felt a shudder pass over
his limbs and his blood run cold in his veins; for a moment remorse
entered his heart, and he regretted having driven to desperation these
peaceable men, who only asked for their share of air and sunshine.

But stiffening himself almost immediately against this emotion, of
which he had not been master, the haughty Spaniard smiled bitterly, and
answered the officer with a look of defiance--

"What can such wretches effect against me? It is not I who have to
fear; but they will have cause to tremble if ever they cross my path
again; but as we have nothing more to do here, let us be off, for it is
growing late."

The officer made no answer; he bowed, remounted his horse and ordered
the bugles to sound. At the base of the hill the band separated; the
escort returned to the fort of Agua Verde, and the hacendero, only
followed by his wife and his majordomo, started in the direction of the
Hacienda del Barrio. The juez de letras and the two alguaciles, who had
not quite recovered from their terror, preferred to follow the soldiers
in spite of the offer Don Aníbal made them of receiving them into his
house.

The journey was sad, for the hacendero was dissatisfied, though he did
not wish to show it. His plans had succeeded, it is true, but not in
the way he had intended; hence, his vengeance was not complete.

These people, whom he wanted to drive from their hearths, on whom he
wished to inflict chastisement for the insult offered his wife, had
destroyed their village with their own hands, and they robbed him thus
far of the pleasure of doing it.

Doña Emilia was sorrowful and thoughtful; this hatred, accumulated
on her husband's head, which would doubtless fall on her, though she
was innocent, terrified her. She did not dare express her feelings
aloud, but she gave full scope to her thoughts, and with the exquisite
sensibility, and prophetic intuition which loving women possess, she
foresaw a future big with misfortune and gloomy catastrophes.

The majordomo appeared as careless and indifferent on the return as
when he went to the village. Still, anyone who could have examined
him carefully, and seen the wicked flash of his eye when he took a
side-glance at his master, would have suspected that this man was
playing a part, that he had taken a greater share in recent events than
was supposed, that his indifference was feigned, and that he alone of
the three travellers had a glad heart, although his countenance was
sorrowful.

Anyone who had had this idea would perhaps not have been completely
mistaken, for we must not forget that Señor Sotavento was an Indian,
although he appeared a Christian, and almost civilized.

Nothing occurred to interrupt the monotony of the journey, no annoying
accident troubled the tranquillity of the travellers, who reached the
Hacienda del Barrio a little before sunset, at the moment when night
was beginning to hide the valleys in the transparent shadows of dusk,
while the tops of the mountains were still tinged with a pinkish light.

The hacienda was a substantial building of hewn stone, such as the
first conquerors liked to erect to prove to the conquered that they
would never abandon the soil of which fortune had rendered them
masters. This house seemed a fortress, so massive was it; and built
on the top of a rather lofty hill upon a rock hanging over the abyss,
it could only be reached by a narrow, rugged track cut in the rock,
on which two horsemen could not ride abreast. This track wound round
the side of the hill and led to the great gate of the hacienda, which
was defended by a drawbridge, usually down, but which it would have
been an easy task to raise. The walls, which were thirty feet high
and of proportionate thickness, were surmounted by those _almenas_
or battlements which were a sign of nobility, and which the old
Christians, that is to say, the true Castilians, never failed to place
above their houses; for the hacenderos must not be confounded with our
farmers, for that would be a great error.

The hacenderos of New Spain are great landowners, whose possessions
are often more extensive than one of our counties. In the time of the
Spaniards, they led the life of feudal lords in the midst of their
vassals, acting as they pleased, and only accountable to the Viceroy,
who, residing in Mexico, or a great distance off, had something else
to do than look after the way in which these feudatories managed their
estates. The latter cultivated their land, worked their mines, fattened
their flocks, and reared their horses, without anyone dreaming of
asking any account of them as to the means they employed to augment
their fortunes, or the manner in which they treated the Indians who
fell to their share upon the grand division of the Mexican population
among the conquistadors.

On this subject we will hazard a parenthesis. Since Mexico has
proclaimed her independence, slavery is abolished _de jure_ in the
country, but still exists _de facto_. In this way: The rich landowners
whom the philanthropic law utterly ruined, instead of crying out and
complaining as certain slaveholders do in North America, hit on a
clever and successful plan.

The hacenderos assembled their slaves and informed them that slavery
was abolished, and that consequently they were free, and could go
wherever they thought proper. The poor devils were, at the first
moment, stunned by the news, and did not at all know what would become
of them. In fact, while they were slaves, they lived without having
the trouble of thinking. They worked, it is true, but they were fairly
fed, clothed after a fashion, and taken care of when ill. Now they were
free, they would have to seek the food, clothing, and medicine which
they had hitherto ready to hand without the trouble of looking for it.
The question was a delicate one, for they had nothing at all.

The hacenderos appeared to take pity on their hapless fate; they were
moved with compassion, and told them that, as they would require peons
to do the Work the slaves had hitherto done, they would engage them at
the rate of three reals a day, but they would have to feed and clothe
themselves. "Moreover," the hacenderos added, "to facilitate your
getting a start in life, which is rather difficult, we will advance you
all you require, and stop it out of your wages. In this way you will be
free, and you can leave us whenever you think proper, after paying off
the advances we have made you."

The ex-slaves accepted with transports of joy and became peons. Then
it came about that they could never pay off the advances, and as they
still wanted food and clothing, the debt increased like the memorable
snowball, and the peons were forced to give up all thoughts of leaving
their masters, as they had no other than personal security to offer.
The result is, that at the present day they are greater slaves than
ever.

The only persons who gained by the transaction were the hacenderos.
The reason is very simple: it has been calculated that the cost of
maintaining a slave is six reals a day, and the peons cost them three.
Hence there is a clear profit of one half; moreover, the masters
supply the food and clothing, and heaven alone knows what price they
charge the peons.

This is the way in which the Indians, who were slaves in the
Spanish possessions, have become free, thanks to the declaration of
Independence. Is this progress? I do not think so. But to resume our
story.

Days, weeks elapsed, and not a word was heard of the Indians; they
seemed to have disappeared for ever. By autumn the recollection of the
expedition faded away, and then it was utterly forgotten, and nothing
was said about the Red Buffaloes or their threat of vengeance, which
was regarded as braggadocio.

A year passed away, and we reach the second half of 1808. The political
horizon was beginning to grow overcast; in spite of the care the
Spanish government took to isolate the colonies, and prevent European
newspapers entering them, the arrival of French troops in Spain was
vaguely discussed; minds fermented and attempts at revolt were made in
several provinces. Don Aníbal, who at this time was at Leona Vicario,
whither he had taken his wife a few months before for her confinement,
resolved to leave the town and return to his hacienda.

He was the more eager to carry out this resolution because the Indians
of the Presidio de Río Grande, only a few leagues from his estate,
had risen in revolt, and after burning the fort and massacring the
garrison, had spread over the country like a torrent which had burst
its dykes, and were plundering and destroying everything they came
across. An atrocious fact was stated in connection with the capture of
the Río Grande Fort, which heightened the hacendero's apprehensions, by
leading him to suppose that his old enemies, the Red Buffaloes, were
connected with this sudden insurrection.

Count Don Rodrigo de Melgosa, commander of the Presidio, and brother of
the governor of the Intendancy, was detested by the Indians, whom he
treated with the utmost rigour, and it was rumoured that he had several
times been guilty of unjustifiable acts of cruelty and barbarity. When,
after a desperate resistance, the Indians stormed the fort, they killed
Colonel de Melgosa by pouring molten gold into his mouth, saying that,
"Since he was so fond of gold they were determined to make him eat it,"
and the unhappy man died under horrible sufferings.

Then the Indians cut off his head, wrapped it up in a zarapé, and
sent this horrible trophy of their victory to the colonel's wife, who
happened to be staying with her father-in-law at Mondovo. At the sight
of this scalped and fearfully mutilated head, the unhappy woman all but
went mad.

It was in vain that the governor--whose only son, quite a lad at time,
was at the time in the fort with the colonel, and had disappeared,
carried off by the Indians, or, as was more probable, had been
sacrificed to their implacable vengeance--tried by all the means in his
power to discover the man who had undertaken to deliver this horrible
message; all his researches were fruitless, and the unhappy father, a
prey to impotent despair, remained in the most perfect ignorance as to
the fate of his child.

Strange to say, the murderers had designed on the victim's forehead a
buffalo with their scalping knives. Don Aníbal knew that the buffalo
was the totem, or emblem of the Indian tribe which he had so brutally
expelled from his domain a year previously, hence his anxiety was
great, for it was evident to him that the Red Buffaloes were the
authors of the death of the unfortunate Colonel de Melgosa, and of the
rape of his nephew.

He completed his preparations in all haste, said good-bye to Doña
Emilia, whom, in spite of her entreaties, he would not consent to take
with him, and started. Nine days later he reached his hacienda, where
bad news was awaiting him; all was in disorder. This was substantially
what he learned:

Most of his cattle had been carried off, as well as his manadas of
horses; several peons had been killed in trying to prevent the robbery
of his animals; his fields had been fired and his vines uprooted,
indeed the destruction was immense; and in order that the hacendero
might be thoroughly aware who the culprits were, a long pole was
found planted in the middle of a field, from which was suspended a
half-tanned elk skin, on which a buffalo was drawn. This time there
could be no mistake; it was really the totem of the hacendero's
enemies, for the buffalo was red.

The hacendero burst into a frightful passion, and swore to take
exemplary vengeance for this insult. He immediately wrote letters
to several neighbouring hacenderos exposed like himself to the
depredations of the marauders, and sent off couriers in all directions.
The hacenderos, who were as desirous as he was to be freed from these
demons, whose audacity, heightened by impunity, no longer knew any
limits, and threatened, if they were left alone, to ruin the entire
province, did not hesitate about joining Don Aníbal de Saldibar, and a
veritable manhunt was organized against the redskins.

The Count de Melgosa, burning to avenge his brother's death, and,
moreover, hoping to recover his son, placed two squadrons of dragoons
at the service of the confederates, whose numbers were thus
considerably augmented, and Don Aníbal, who took the command in chief
by general acclamation, found himself at the head of a real army.

The hostilities commenced immediately. The confederates divided into
three bodies and set out in search of the Indians. The preparations for
the expedition had been made with such secrecy, that the redskins, who
were far from suspecting what was going on, were surprised only a few
leagues from the Hacienda del Barrio, in a valley on the banks of the
Río del Norte, where they had established their camp.

Although suddenly attacked by an enemy superior in strength, the
redskins did not the less try to defend themselves, and bravely
opposed the white men. The combat was terrible, and lasted a whole
day; the Indians fought with that energy of desperation which doubles
the strength and equalizes chances; they knew they had no quarter to
expect, and hence preferred death to falling alive into the hands of
their implacable foes. The massacre was terrible, and nearly all the
redskins succumbed; some, but they were a small number, succeeded
in escaping by leaping into the Río del Norte. The Mexicans took no
prisoners; men, women, and children were pitilessly sacrificed.

After the battle, Sotavento, who had truly done his duty by his
master's side, brought him a boy of about five or six years of age,
who was crying bitterly, and who had been delivered to him during the
massacre by a Canadian wood ranger. He declared that he had not the
courage to kill the child, the more so because his pale skin might lead
to the supposition that he was the son of a European. The hacendero
shook his head angrily at the sight of the boy; still, not daring to
prove himself more cruel than his majordomo, he consented to the poor
little wretch being spared, and even carried his clemency so far as to
allow him to be taken to the hacienda.

This battle ended the campaign. The confederates separated, satisfied
with having exterminated their enemies and taken such a prompt revenge
for their outrages. The redskins, at least for a lengthened period,
would be unable to take their revenge, and the lesson had been perfect.




CHAPTER IV.

THE CASCABEL.


The French Revolution not only shook the old European thrones, which
it made quiver to their foundations, but the terrible blow it dealt
the world was so violent, that the counterstroke was felt even in the
indolent and voluptuous Spanish colonies.

In response to the echoing footsteps of those generals of the young
French Republic who marched from prodigy to prodigy, improvising
soldiers and organizing victory, a lengthened electric current ran
along all the coasts of the New World, and revealed to the inhabitants
that, like their brethren in North America, they too might someday
become free.

Like a deafening thunderclap, leaping across the Atlantic Ocean, the
echo of the battles of giants of that Sublime epic power called the
Empire, caused the hearts of Americans to beat, and inflamed them with
a noble ardour which the Spanish Viceroys were powerless to extinguish.

The occupation of the Peninsula by French armies, by forcing Spain to
defend her own territory, which had almost entirely fallen into the
enemy's power, obliged her to concentrate all her strength in order to
sustain the extraordinary struggle that was preparing, and compelled
her to abandon her possessions beyond the seas to their own resources,
while she could only form sterile vows that they might not slip from
her grasp.

The colonies, which had long been worn out by the yoke the mother
country implacably made them wear, considered the moment favourable;
generous hearts were affected, and in an instant Peru, Mexico, Chili,
Buenos Aires formed secret societies, whose common branches, passing
through all classes of society, ended by enveloping the colonial
governments in an inextricable net.

Then, when all preparations had been made, when the chiefs had
been elected, soldiers enrolled, and the headquarters of revolt
chosen, a long cry for liberty was raised to heaven on twenty sides
simultaneously; the insurgents rose, calling their brethren to arms,
and the systematic opposition of the conspirators was all at once
followed by an obstinate war without truce or mercy, of the conquered
against the conquerors, of the oppressed against the oppressors, whose
watchword was Liberty or Death!

A holy war, an extraordinary struggle, in which the Americans,
inexperienced, and having no acquaintance with arms, had but one
insatiable desire, to shake off the yoke, an energy which no reverse
could crush; and an unflinching resolution to oppose the old Spanish
bands, hardened by long fighting, and whom the habit of warfare
rendered almost invincible in the sight of these men, in whom they
inspired a species of instinctive and supernatural terror.

We will not describe here the history of this war, which was so grand,
so noble, and so full of heroic devotion, affecting incidents, and
traits of bravery, self-denial, and disinterestedness, worthy the most
glorious days of antiquity; our task is more modest, and certainly more
easy, for we will limit ourselves to penciling a few private details of
this grand drama, which have been neglected by the disdainful muse of
history, but which we believe will serve to complete the magnificent
tableau of the struggle of progress against barbarism in the first
years of the 19th century.

The Mexican revolution had this strange thing about it, that the clergy
gave the first signal of revolt. In the provinces the Curas preached
insurrection to their parishioners, and seizing a sword in one hand, a
cross in the other, led them to the field.

Don Aníbal de Saldibar, although a _cristiano viejo_, that is to say,
belonging to a family originally Spanish, and of which not a member had
become allied with the Indians during several ages, did not consider
himself obliged to join his fellow countrymen, but, on the contrary,
attached himself to the insurrectionary movement.

Father Sandoval, chaplain at the Hacienda del Barrio, was to a great
extent the cause of this determination. In Mexico, where the towns
are far distant from each other, each hacienda has a chapel served by
a priest, whose duty it is to baptize, marry, confess, and guide the
Indians, but, before all, keep them in order by the fear of future
punishment. Father Sandoval, about whom we shall have a good deal
to say during the course of this story, was a simple-hearted, kind,
intelligent man, gifted, with great energy of character, and his
education had not been so neglected as that of the majority of the
priests at this period.

In a word, he was an honest man and true priest before God; the Indians
adored him, and would have gone through fire and water for him. Still
young, belonging to a rich and respected family, possessing that severe
and calm beauty which attracts confidence and excites sympathy, this
man who, had he liked, could have attained the highest dignities of
the church, preferred this obscure position through his devotion to
that persecuted class which Las Casas loved so deeply, and for which he
himself felt immense pity.

As friend and fellow student of the Curé Hidalgo, who was destined to
become so celebrated, he professed liberal principles and hatred of
the Spanish yoke. Don Aníbal, like all weak-minded men, unconsciously
yielded to the influence of this chosen vessel, and had for him a
friendship mingled with respect and veneration. Protector of the
Indians, Father Sandoval defended them under all circumstances, and had
often succeeded, by the mere force of his eloquence, in saving them
from the severe punishments to which Don Aníbal had condemned them in a
moment of passion. He easily proved to the hacendero that it was to his
interest to embrace the revolutionary cause. The latter, dissatisfied
with the Spanish government, against which he had long been carrying on
a lawsuit, raised no serious objections; and as certain natures only
require a lash to make them go faster than is necessary, and pass the
goal for which they are started, so soon as Don Aníbal had consented
to what Father Sandoval asked of him, he wished to force the latter to
place himself by his side at the head of the hacienda peons capable
of bearing arms, and proceed to join the Curé Hidalgo, who had just
raised the standard of revolt, and was preparing, at the head of his
parishioners, armed with bows, arrows, and slings, to face the army of
the Viceroy.

As this project was excessively imprudent, the chaplain combated
it; but the hacendero, one of whose slightest faults was obstinacy,
declared that he must give a pledge to the revolution, and the best
way was to range himself beneath the insurrectionist banners. Still,
by force of reasoning, supported by the entreaties of Doña Emilia,
whom the fear of a separation and the prospect of remaining alone and
unprotected at the hacienda with her child, which was scarce fifteen
months old, filled with terror, Father Sandoval succeeded in modifying
Don Aníbal's resolution, if he did not completely alter it. He made
him understand that his hacienda, situated on the Indian border, close
to several important presidios, ought to serve as headquarters for the
insurgents of this portion of Mexico, who would rally round him and
hold the Spanish garrisons in check, so as to prevent them joining the
troops General Callega and Count de la Cadena were raising to offer
battle to the rebels commanded by Hidalgo, Allende, etc., and who were
preceded by the Virgen de Los Remedios, attired as a generalísimo. In
a country like Mexico, where religion is all in all, and at the head
of an army most of whose generals and officers were priests and monks,
this banner was not inappropriate.

Don Aníbal yielded with great difficulty to Father Sandoval's
objections; but, feeling flattered by the part he would be called on
to play, he at length consented to follow the advice given him by a
man who was wiser and more prudent than himself. The Hacienda del
Barrio was therefore converted into a fortress; Don Aníbal incited
the Indians to revolt, and organized on this frontier a partizan war
against the neighbouring garrisons, after having sent to join Hidalgo a
body of two hundred well-armed and mounted horsemen under the orders of
his majordomo. We see that Don Aníbal thus frankly threw away the mask
and boldly burnt his vessels.

The war soon assumed much larger proportions than had been thought
possible. The government had remained attached to the King of Spain,
and most of the rich landowners followed this example; so that the
insurrection, which was at first formidable, became to some extent
isolated, and reduced to act on the defensive. Don Aníbal was too
greatly compromised to hope for a pardon, which, indeed, he was not
at all inclined to solicit. On the contrary, he suddenly dashed from
his eagle's nest on the Spaniards who scoured the country, and though
not always the victor, he did them sufficient mischief to prevent them
going too far from the presidios or leaving the province. The governor,
at length wearied by the incessant attacks of his unseizable foe,
resolved to finish with him, and besiege him in his lurking place.

Don Aníbal, warned by his spies of what was preparing against him,
resolved on a vigorous resistance; but as he really loved his wife,
and did not wish to expose her to the hazards of a storm, and the
sight of those atrocities which are the inevitable consequence of it,
he arranged with Father Sandoval that he should remove her from the
hacienda as soon as possible, and place her and her child in safety.
When these arrangements were made, the two gentlemen proceeded in
search of the señora, to tell her of the plan they had formed.

Doña Emilia spent a very dull life at the Hacienda del Barrio. Her
husband, who was elsewhere engaged, often left her for days, only
seeing her for a moment at meals, and addressing a few unmeaning words
to her during the quarter of an hour they were together. Fortunately
for the poor lady, the hacienda possessed a magnificent garden. She
spent nearly the entire day in it under an arbour of orange and lemon
trees, reading pious books and watching her child, who was nursed by a
quadroon to whom Doña Emilia was sincerely attached, and had married to
a peon of the hacienda.

On the day to which we allude, at about two in the afternoon, the
warmest hour of the day, Doña Emilia, according to her wont, was
indulging in a siesta in a hammock suspended from two enormous orange
trees, whose tufted crests almost entirely overshadowed the entire
nook. A few paces from her, Rita, the quadroon, was carelessly rocking
in a _butaca_, and giving the breast to the child.

As we have said, the heat was stifling. The burning sunbeams made the
sand on the garden walks sparkle like diamonds; there was not a breath
of air; the atmosphere, impregnated with the sweet exhalations of the
flowers and fragrant woods, was intoxicating, and conduced to slumber.
The birds, hidden under the leaves, had ceased their song, and were
waiting till the evening breeze refreshed the soil; a solemn silence
brooded over nature, and the fall of a leaf would have been heard, so
profound was the calm. Rita, involuntarily yielding to the narcotic
influences that surrounded her, had fallen asleep with the child still
clinging to her breast.

All at once a strange, terrible, frightful thing occurred--a horrible
scene, which we feel a hesitation to describe, although we had the
fact from a credible witness.[1] The branches of a dahlia bush were
gently and noiselessly parted, and in the space thus left free appeared
the hideous and distorted face of Running Water. This man had, at the
moment, something fatal and satanic in his physiognomy, which would
have filled with terror anyone who saw it. After remaining motionless
for an instant, which he employed in looking around, through fear of
being surprised, he laughed cunningly in the Indian fashion, and began
crawling softly till his entire body had emerged from the bush. Then
he rose, carefully repaired the disorder his passage had caused in
the bush, advanced two paces, placed on the ground a rather large bag
he held in his right hand, folded his arms and gazed at Doña Emilia,
who was sleeping calmly and peacefully in her hammock, with a strange
fixedness, and an expression of hatred and joy impossible to describe.

How had this man contrived to penetrate into the hacienda, which was
so strongly guarded, and whose walls were almost insurmountable? Why
had he entered alone the garden of a man whom he knew to be his most
implacable foe? He doubtless meditated vengeance, but of what nature
was it? Running Water, whom the hacendero had strove so hard to injure,
and to whom he had done such hurt, was not the man to content himself
with ordinary revenge. The redskins have refinements of cruelty and
barbarity of which they alone possess the secret. What did he intend
doing? What was his object? The Indian chief alone could have answered
these questions; for the redskins are well acquainted with the proverb,
that "revenge is eaten cold."

I know not what gloomy thoughts agitated this man while he gazed at the
sleeping lady, but his countenance altered every second, and seemed to
grow more and more ferocious. He made a move as if about to seize the
bag on the ground in front of him, but suddenly reflected.

"No," he muttered to himself, "not that; he alone would suffer; the
hearts of both of them must bleed. Yes, yes, my first idea is the best."

Then, after taking a parting glance at the lovely, sleeping lady, he
stooped with a terrible smile, picked up the bag, which he placed under
his left arm, and went away with a step light and stealthy as that of a
tiger preparing to leap on its prey. Still, he only went a few paces.
Turning suddenly to his right, he found himself in front of the nurse.
The latter was still sleeping, intoxicated by the smell of the flowers
which appeared to bend over her, as if to shed sleep more easily upon
her. Rita was sleeping like a child, without dreams or fears. Rita was
young and lovely; anyone but a ferocious Indian, like the man who gazed
at her at this moment, and devoured her with his eyes, would have felt
affected by such confiding innocence.

With the upper part of her body indolently thrown back, with her eyes
half closed and veiled by her long black lashes, and her rosy lips
slightly parted so as to display her pearly teeth, the young quadroon
with her slightly coppery complexion was delicious. We repeat that
anyone but Running Water would have felt subdued and vanquished by the
sight of her. Her two hands, folded over the little girl, held her
against her bosom, and seemed trying to protect her even in sleep. The
infant was neither asleep nor awake. She was in that state of lethargic
somnolency which seizes on these frail creatures when they have sucked
for a long time. Clinging to the breast, on which she had laid her two
small, snow-white hands, the child, with her eyes already closed to
sleep, was imbibing a drop of milk at lengthened intervals.

The Indian regarded this group with a tiger's glance, and for some
two or three minutes, involuntarily fascinated by this picture, whose
innocence and candour no artist would be able to depict, he stood
gloomy and thoughtful, perhaps hesitating in the accomplishment of the
infernal work he had meditated so long, and to execute which he had
treacherously entered the hacienda. But Satan, conquered for a second,
regained his ascendancy in the redskin's heart.

"It is well," he muttered in a hollow voice. "The babe will die. The
death of the child kills doubly father and mother."

And he smiled once again that terrible and silent laugh which would
have caused anyone who saw it to shudder, and which was habitual to
him. He fell back a step, and with a look around him he explored the
neighbourhood in its most hidden corners. Assured at length that no
one could see him he fell back till he reached the hole in one of the
orange trees from which the hammock was hung, and which was exactly
opposite the nurse; then he carefully concealed himself behind a
tree, and laid his bag on the ground. This bag was of tapir hide, and
fastened up with the greatest care.

The Indian stood motionless for a second, then drawing his dagger he
did not take the trouble to cut the leather thongs that closed the bag;
on the contrary, throwing himself back as if afraid of the consequences
of the deed he was about to do, he ripped up the bag its entire length,
and at once disappeared behind the trunk of a tree. The body of a
cascabel, or rattlesnake; appeared in the gaping orifice of the bag.
Indian manners brand as infamous any man who, excepting in Combat,
strikes and kills a child at the breast. Hatred is intelligent, and
Running Water had found the means to satisfy his upon the poor little
creature without breaking the rules of his tribe. He had gone in search
of a snake, which was not difficult to find. He enclosed it in a bag of
tapir hide so that it could not escape, and kept it for several days
without food so as to restore to the animal, which he had surprised
while digesting a gorge, all its original ferocity. When the redskin
supposed that the snake was in proper condition, he entered the garden
as we have seen.

The snake, suddenly liberated from the dark and narrow prison in
which it had been so long confined, began unrolling on the ground its
monstrous coils. At first half asleep and dazed by the bright light of
day it remained for a moment in a state of stupor, balancing itself to
the right and left hesitatingly on its enormous tail, throwing its head
back and opening its hideous mouth till it displayed its awful fangs.
But gradually its eye grew brighter, and breathing a strangled hiss it
rushed with undulating bounds towards poor Rita.

The Indian, with his body bent forward, heaving chest, and eyes
enormously dilated, looked after it eagerly; at length he held his
vengeance in his grasp, and no human power could take it from him. But
a strange thing happened, which filled the Indian himself with horror.
Upon reaching the nurse the snake, after a moment's hesitation, gave
a soft melodious hiss, apparently indicating pleasure; and rising on
its tail with a movement full of grace and suppleness, enwrithed the
nurse's body in its huge folds, gently pushed the sleeping babe aside
without doing it the slightest injury, and seizing the nipple the
little creature had let go, glued its hideous mouth to it.

Running Water uttered a cry of rage, and stamped his foot in
desperation. He had forgotten the frenzied passion snakes have
for milk, especially that of women. This time again the Indian's
calculations were thrown out, and his vengeance slipped from him. What
should he do? To try and tear the snake from the prey it had seized
would be incurring certain death; and then, fascinated by the horrible
spectacle he had before him, the redskin felt incapable of collecting
his ideas. He looked on, suffering from a frightful nightmare, and
awaiting with the most lively anxiety the conclusion of this frightful
scene. Rita still slept on, and the child even had not noticed its
changed position, so gentle and measured had the snake's movements
been, and was still slumbering. The cascabel, however, drank with such
ardour the quadroon's milk that the blood poured down her breast, and
she was aroused by the pain from her deep sleep. She opened her eyes,
and perceived the horrible animal.

Rita endured a second of indescribable agony and despair, for she
felt that she was hopelessly lost. Then, wondrous to relate, this
half-sleeping woman, seeing herself through a mist of blood in the
power of the monster, suddenly formed an heroic resolution. She
recognized with remarkable lucidity her fearful situation, and
completely forgetting herself had but one thought, that of saving the
child.[2] A woman is a mother before all. God has placed in her heart a
flame Which nothing can extinguish.

With her features distorted by terror, her temples inundated with cold
perspiration, and her hair standing on end, she had the immense courage
not to tremble or stir, and held back in her parched throat the cry
of horror ready to burst from it: in a word, she remained in the same
position as if she were still asleep.

The Indian himself, struck with admiration at this sublime emotion,
felt his iron heart melt, and he almost regretted being the cause of
this fearful catastrophe. The snake still enjoyed its horrible repast,
and gorged itself with the milk mingled with blood which it drew from
the breast of its hapless victim. At length its coils relaxed, its eye
gradually lost its fascinating lustre, and with an almost insensible
undulation it left the prey to which it was clinging. Completely
gorged with milk, it rolled off to the ground, and crawled away in
the direction of the shrubs. The mulatto then seized the child in her
clenched hands, sat up straight as a statue, and uttered a fearful cry.

"Mother, mother!" she said with a sob that lacerated her throat, "Take
your child."

Doña Emilia, aroused by this cry, bounded like a lioness from her
hammock, and seized her babe. Rita then fell back, with her breast
bleeding, and her features distorted by pain, and writhed in frightful
convulsions. Doña Emilia leant over her.

"What is the matter, in Heaven's name?" she asked her in horror.

"The snake, see the snake, mother!" the quadroon exclaimed, as she
raised herself with a last, effort and pointed to the reptile which
was quietly gliding along the sand; then she uttered a fearful groan,
and fell back--dead. Don Aníbal and the priest, attracted by the
cries, rushed into the arbour, and at once comprehended the frightful
accident which must have occurred. The hacendero ran up to his wife,
while Father Sandoval bravely attacked the snake and killed it. The
Indian chief had disappeared with the bound of a wild beast, after
exchanging with Doña Emilia a glance of awful purport.

The lady, with calm brow and a smile on her lip, nursed her babe, which
was now awake, while singing one of those touching American tunes with
which these innocent creatures are lulled to sleep. She was mad!

Don Aníbal, crushed by this terrible catastrophe, tottered for a moment
like a drunken man, then raising his hands to his face with a cry of
despair, he fell unconscious on the ground. His rebellious nature had
at last been vanquished by grief.

"It is the finger of God!" the priest murmured, as he raised his
tear-laden eyes to heaven.

And kneeling by the body of the poor quadroon he prayed fervently. Doña
Emilia was still singing and lulling her child to sleep.

Two days later the hacienda was invested by the Spaniards. Don Aníbal
defended himself for a long time with heroic courage, but the Spaniards
at last stormed the fortress, and made a horrible massacre of its
defenders. Don Aníbal, bearing his wife across his horse's neck, and
the priest carrying in his arms the baby and the boy saved a short
time previously upon the defeat of the Indians, succeeded in escaping,
through the courage of some twenty peons who resolutely collected round
them and made a rampart of their bodies.

Hotly pursued by the _tamarindos_, the fugitives wandered for a long
time haphazard in the forests, tracked like wild beasts by their
implacable victors; but at last, after extraordinary privations and
innumerable dangers, they succeeded in reaching Santa Rosa, where the
miners offered them a shelter. The revolt having thus been drowned
in blood in this province by the Spaniards, they had a lengthened
breathing time; for the patriots were dead or so utterly demoralized
that a fresh insurrection need not be apprehended.

END OF THE PROLOGUE.


[1] The person to whom we allude is at this moment in Paris, and could,
if necessary, confirm our statement.

[2] However incredible this fact may appear, we repeat that it is
strictly true.




CHAPTER I.

THE ADVENTURERS.


The daring revolt of the Curé Hidalgo opened against the Spanish
government that era of sanguinary struggles and obstinate contests
which, thirteen years later, on February 24, 1821 was fated to end
in the proclamation of Independence by Iturbide at Iguala. This
proclamation compelled the Viceroy, Apodaca, to abdicate, and the
Spaniards finally to abandon these magnificent countries which they had
ruled with a hand of iron for more than three centuries. But during
these thirteen years what blood had been shed, what crimes committed!
All Mexico was covered with ruins. The unburied corpses became the prey
of wild beasts; towns taken by storm burned like lighthouses, and the
flames were extinguished in the blood of their massacred inhabitants.

The Mexicans, badly armed and disciplined, learning through their very
defeats the art of beating their conquerors, struggled with the energy
of despair; incessantly defeated by the old Spanish bands, but never
discouraged, deriving strength from their weakness and their firm
desire to be free, they ever stood upright before their implacable
foes, who might kill them, but were powerless to subjugate them.

In no country of the New World did the Spaniards offer so long and
desperate a resistance to revolution as in Mexico, for Spain was aware
that once this inexhaustible source of wealth was lost, her influence
and prestige in the Old World would be utterly destroyed. Hence it
happened that the Spaniards quitted Mexico as they entered it, on ruins
and piles of corpses. And their power, inaugurated by Hernando Cortés
by the light of arson, and amid the cries of the victims, slipped in
the blood of millions of murdered Indians, and was stifled by their
bodies. It was a hideous government, the offspring of violence and
treachery, and, after three centuries, violence and treachery overthrew
it. It was a grand and sublime lesson which Providence gave the despots
through the inflexible logic of history, and yet despots have ever
refused to understand it.

We shall resume our narrative on September 20, 1820, between five and
six in the afternoon, at a period when the struggle having been at
length equalized between the two parties, was growing more lively and
decisive. The scene is still laid in the same part of the viceroyalty
of New Spain in which the prologue was enacted, that is to say, the
Province of Coahuila; owing to its remoteness from the centre, and its
situation on the Indian border, this province had suffered less than
the others, though the traces of war could be seen at each step.

The rich and numerous haciendas which formerly studded the landscape
were nearly all devastated, the fields were uncultivated and deserted,
and the country offered an aspect of gloomy desolation painful to
contemplate. The revolution, violently compressed by the Spaniards,
was smouldering beneath the ashes; a hollow fermentation was visible on
the surface, and the Indian guerillas who had not ceased their partizan
warfare, were beginning to combine and organize, in order to deal the
Castilian colossus a decisive blow. The insurrection of the Spanish
liberals, by creating fresh embarrassments for the mother country,
restored Mexico, not its courage, for that had never faltered during
the long struggle, but the hope of success; on both sides preparations
were being made in the dark, and the explosion could not long be
delayed.



Five or six well-mounted and armed horsemen were following a narrow
track marked on the side of a hill in that wild and mountainous country
which separates the Fort of Agua Verde, of which the Spaniards were
still masters, from the little town of Nueva Bilbao. Of these six
travellers, five appeared to be peons, or servants, while the sixth
was a man of some forty years of age, of lofty stature and haughty
demeanour, who kept, as far as the road allowed, by the side of his
servants, and talked to them in a low voice, while looking at times at
the gloomy scenery that surrounded him, and which the encroaching gloom
rendered even more ominous.

All these men advanced rifle on hip, and ready to fire at the
slightest suspicious movement in the chaparral, which they attentively
investigated. This distrust was justified by the state in which this
wild country found itself, for the revolutionary opinions had made more
progress here than anywhere else.

The travellers had reached the highest point of the track they were
following, and were preparing to descend into the plain, but they
involuntarily stopped for a moment to admire the magnificent landscape
and grand panorama which were suddenly unrolled before their sight.
From the lofty spot which the travellers had reached, they embraced a
considerable extent of the loveliest country in the world, rendered
even more picturesque by the numerous diversities of the ground; an
uninterrupted series of small hills rising one above the other, and
covered with luxuriant verdure, were blended in the distant azure of
the horizon, with the lofty mountains of which they formed the spurs,
and supplied a splendid frame for the magnificent picture. An extensive
lake, studded with small plots resembling bouquets, occupied nearly the
entire centre of the plain to which the travellers were preparing to
descend.

A deep calm brooded over the landscape, which the first gleams of dusk
were beginning to tinge with varying hues. Nothing enlivened this
deserted country, and the travellers were on the point of starting
again, when one of the servants turned to his master, and pointed in
the direction of a track that ran along the bank of the lake.

"Stay, mi amo," he said, "I know not if I am mistaken, but I fancy I
can see down there, near that cactus clump, something resembling human
forms. Unluckily, the gloom gathering in the valley prevents me being
certain."

The master looked attentively for some minutes in the indicated
direction, and then shook his head several times, as if annoyed.

"You are right, Viscachu," he said; "they are men, and I can
distinguish their horses tied up a few yards from them; who can they
be?"

"Travellers, like ourselves," remarked the peon, whom his master had
called Viscachu.

"Hum!" the horseman said dubiously, "People do not travel in such times
as these, unless they have very important motives. Those two persons,
for there are two, as I can distinguish them perfectly now, are more
probably spies sent to meet us, and find out the reason of our presence
in these parts."

"With all the respect I owe you, mi amo," Viscachu, who seemed to be
on rather familiar terms with his master, objected, "that does not
seem very likely; if these strangers were spies, they would not expose
themselves so, but, on the contrary, would be careful to keep out of
sight. And then, again, they would not be ahead of us, but behind us."

"You are right, Viscachu; I did not reflect on all that; but we are
compelled to display such prudence, that I yielded involuntarily to my
first impulse."

"And it is often the right one," the peon observed, with a smile; "but
this time I believe the proverb is false, and that these persons are
simply travellers, whom business of some nature has brought across our
path. However, it is an easy matter to make sure; there are only two
of them, while we are six, well armed and resolute men. Let us push
on boldly towards them, because it is probable that they have already
perceived us, and our hesitation, which has no apparent cause, may seem
to them suspicious."

"Yes, we have stopped here too long as it is, so let us continue our
journey. Well, if they are enemies, they will have their work cut out,
that's all. Hang such foolish terror! We can face a larger party than
the one at present in front of us."

"Excellent, Don Aurelio, that is what I call talking," the peon said
gaily; "so let us start without further delay."

Don Aurelio bent down to his servant, after looking round him
anxiously--

"Be prudent!" he said, in a low voice.

"That is true," the peon replied, with a slight smile. "I let myself
be carried away involuntarily; but do not be alarmed, I will be more
careful in future."

Then, at a signal from the leader, the little party began descending
the hill, though not till the peons had assured themselves that their
muskets were in good state, and ready to do service if it came to a
fight. The path followed by the Mexicans, like all those found on the
side of a hill or mountain, formed a countless succession of turns, so
that, although from the height, where they halted for a moment, it was
easy for them to notice the strangers almost beneath them, owing to the
constant turnings they were obliged to take they required a lengthened
period to reach them, the more because the constantly increasing gloom
compelled them to redouble their precautions in order to prevent their
horses stumbling over pebbles, and rolling into the quebradas past
which the track ran.

In the desert, man, being obliged to keep constantly on guard against
the invisible enemies who incessantly watch him, grows accustomed not
only to watch the bushes, grass, and rocks that surround him, but also
to examine the air, water, and sky, as if he expected a foe to rise
before him at any moment. The result is, that the physical qualities
of the individual who is habituated to the normal life of the
savannahs, acquire such perfection, that, by a species of a prophetic
intuition, the wood rangers, who are so praised, and of whom so little
is generally known, foresee the dangers that threaten them even before
those dangers have become realized.

The strangers, perceived from the top of the hill by the Mexicans, had
guessed the presence of the latter before they appeared, and their
eyes had been eagerly fixed on the crest of the hill some moments
before the newcomers crowned it. These two men had set up their
night bivouac near a clump of cactuses, and they quietly continued
to prepare their supper, apparently troubling themselves very little
about the approaching travellers. Still, anyone able to examine them
closely would have perceived that they had made all preparations for an
obstinate defence, in the event of an attack. Hence their rifles lay
ready cocked within arm's length, and their horses were still saddled
and bridled, so that they could be mounted immediately, should it prove
necessary.

As for these two men--whose portraits we shall draw, as they play
a very important part in our story--although they were in no way
related, they bore an extraordinary likeness to each other, not so much
in features, but in general appearance, that is to say, both were tall,
thin, and powerfully built; they were light haired and had blue eyes,
in a word, they displayed all the characteristic traits of the northern
race,--we mean the true Norman, and not the Anglo-Saxon.

In truth, these men were Canadians. At the period of which we are
writing, the United States of America had not attained that degree of
factitious strength and daring confidence they eventually reached. The
King of Spain reigned as lord and master of the colonies as much as
of the Peninsula. No Anglo-American had up to this time dared to leap
across the frontier and hunt in New Spain. The laws were strict and
rigorously carried out; any foreigner surprised inside the frontier was
regarded as a spy, and treated as such, that is to say, mercilessly
shot. Several examples having been made, the Americans took the hint,
and did not attempt to force their way in.

But times had changed; the Mexican insurrection, by rendering the
inhabitants interested accomplices in infractions of the Spanish laws,
favoured this immigration, the more so because the Mexicans, who had
been kept by the Spaniards in utter ignorance of the use of firearms
and of military discipline, wanted to obtain men capable of leading
and teaching them how to conquer their oppressors. Hence the North
Americans, who had hitherto been held in check by the severity of the
Castilian laws, began to inundate the territory of New Spain from all
sides.

The two men to whom we refer at this moment were hardy comrades, real
wood rangers, who, reaching the Mexican border while hunting buffalo
and deer, crossed it in the hope of picking up an honest fortune in a
short time by fishing in the troubled waters of revolution. We must do
them the justice of saying that, in their hearts, they cared but little
for either of the parties quarrelling in Mexico, and were probably
ready to sell their assistance to the one which offered the highest
price and the most tangible hopes of a speedy fortune. Still they were
good fellows, bold and experienced, caring as little for their life as
for a leaf that fell from a tree, and resolved to risk it on a throw of
the dice, if it offered them the hope of advantageous gain.

The first of these two men was called Oliver Clary.

The redskins among whom he had resided for a long time had christened
him the Sumach, in consequence of his extraordinary strength and
boldness; while his comrade had forgotten the name he originally bore,
and only answered to that of Moonshine. These strange and significant
names will save us the trouble of dwelling on the character of their
bearers, the more so as the reader will be able to appreciate it in the
course of the story.

Carelessly reclining on the grass by the side of the fire lit to cook
their supper, they watched with one eye the leg of venison which,
with some batatas, was to constitute their meal, and with the other
attentively followed the march of the Mexicans. The latter, so soon as
they left the track and entered the plain, affected a certain military
air, which did not fail to appear formidable to the Canadians, the
more so as the newcomers were well armed, and moreover seemed resolute
and difficult to intimidate. The hunters waited till they came nearly
within pistol shot, then rose cautiously, and placed themselves with
shouldered rifles in the middle of the road.

Don Aurelio ordered his men to halt, while recommending them in a
low voice to keep on their guard for fear of treachery, and ready to
come to his assistance. Then, giving his horse a slight touch of the
spur, he proceeded a few yards nearer the hunters, who still remained
motionless in the middle of the road. Stopping his horse with one hand,
with the other he raised his hat, while crying in a clear and well
modulated voice, "Who goes there?"

"Men of peace," Moonshine answered in excellent Spanish, though it was
easy to recognize the foreigner from his accent.

"Which side do you belong to?" Don Aurelio continued.

Moonshine looked cunningly at his comrade.

"It is easy to ask, caballero," he said, "on which side we are. Tell us
first which side you are; we are only two against six, and the stronger
party ought to give the first explanation."

"Very good," Don Aurelio replied, "we are for God and independence; and
you?"

The two Canadians exchanged a second look as ironical as the first.

"By Jove, señor," Moonshine said presently, as he rested the butt of
his rifle on the ground, and crossed his hands confidently over the
muzzle, "you ask us a question which we find it rather difficult to
answer. My comrade and I are strangers, as you may easily recognize by
our accent, and hence have no settled opinion upon the subject which
divides your country. On the other hand, you can perceive from our garb
that we are wood rangers, that is to say, men with whom liberty is a
worship, almost an adoration; so that if we must have an opinion, we
should rather be on the side of independence than of royalty."

"And why do you not decide for one or the other?" said the horseman,
who had drawn nearer, though the Canadian did not appear alarmed by the
fact.

"For the reason I had the honour of giving you a moment ago," Moonshine
continued; "we are foreigners, that is to say, entirely disinterested
in the question; and in case we decided to join either side, it would
be the one which offered us the greatest advantages."

"Excellently argued, and like true Yankees," Don Aurelio remarked with
a laugh.

"Pardon me, señor," Moonshine objected seriously, "do not make any
mistake; my friend and I are not Yankees, but Canadians, which, I must
beg you to believe, is by no means the same thing."

"Forgive me, señor," Don Aurelio said civilly, "I did not at all intend
to insult you."

The hunter bowed, and the Mexican continued--

"My name is Don Aurelio Gutiérrez; it is late, and the spot where we
now are is by no means suited for a serious conversation; if you will
consent to accompany me to a hacienda about three leagues from here, I
will guarantee to modify your opinions, and bring you over to my way of
thinking."

"I do not say no, Señor Gutiérrez; but I will propose something better.
I suppose you are not in such a hurry that you could not delay your
arrival at the hacienda to which you allude for a few hours?"

Don Aurelio exchanged a look with Viscachu, who, during this
conversation, had drawn nearer, and was now standing by his side.

"No," he at last answered; "so long as I reach the place I am going to
by tomorrow morning, that will do."

"Well," the hunter continued, courteously, "as you remarked yourself,
the night is dark; accept the hospitality we offer you, and bivouac
with us; the supper is ready and we will eat together: a night in the
open air need have no terrors for you; we will sleep side by side, and
tomorrow when the sun appears on the horizon, my comrade and I will
accompany you wherever you please. What do you say to that?"

Don Aurelio exchanged a second look with Viscachu, who gave him a sign
of assent by nodding his head several times.

"On my honour," he replied with a laugh, as he held out his hand to the
hunter, "your proposition is too hearty for me to decline it. Done
with you then, on one condition, however, that my people add a few
provisions they carry with them to our meal."

"You can add what you please; we will pass the night as good comrades;
tomorrow it will be day, and we will see what is to be done. Of course
it is understood that if your proposals do not suit us, we are at
liberty to decline them."

"Oh, of course."

Don Aurelio ordered his men to come up, himself dismounted, and five
minutes later, all our party, merrily seated round the fire, were doing
justice to the hunters' meal, which was considerably augmented through
the provisions brought by Don Aurelio, and rendered almost sumptuous by
a goat skin filled with excellent _refino de Cataluña_, a sort of very
strong spirit, which put the guests in a thorough good humour.




CHAPTER II.

A NIGHT IN THE WOODS.


American forests, when night sets in, assume a character of grandeur
and majesty, of which our European forests cannot supply an idea. The
aged trees, which grow more than one hundred feet in height, and whose
tufted crests form splendid arches of foliage, the lianas which spread
in every direction with the strangest parabolas, the moss, called
Spaniard's beard, which hangs in long festoons from all the branches,
impart to these vast solitudes an aspect at once grand and mysterious,
which leads the mind to reverie and fills it with religious and
melancholy thoughts.

When the sun has disappeared and made way for darkness, when the night
breeze murmurs in the foliage, and the hollow sound of some unknown
rivulet coursing over the gravel, is blended with the myriad indistinct
noises of the insects hidden in the crevices of the trees and rocks;
when the wild beasts, awaking at nightfall, leave their secret dens
to proceed to their watering places, uttering at intervals hoarse
yells--the forests in the pale moonbeams, which filter timidly through
the branches, really become to the man who ventures into them the grand
laboratory in which nature likes to assay in gloom and mystery the most
powerful and strangest of her productions.

There are accumulated, beneath the detritus piled up by centuries, the
shapeless and yet imposing ruins of generations which have disappeared
and left no sign; remnants of walls, pyramids, and obelisks rise at
times before the startled eyes of the Indian or the hunter, as if to
reveal to them that in times perhaps contemporary with the deluge, a
powerful nation, now utterly effaced from the world, existed at this
spot. Those who obstinately call America the New World, and deny the
existence of the ruins with which this fertile soil is broadcast, have
traversed this country like blind men, and have neither visited the
splendid ruins of the Palenques, nor those which may be found at every
step in the desert, by means of which some travellers have succeeded
in settling the route followed by the migrations of the peoples that
succeeded each other. The province of Coahuila in Mexico possesses
several of these remains of great antiquity, which recall by their
shape, and the way in which they are constructed, the _dolmens_ and
_menhirs_ of old America.

The travellers had established their camp in a vast clearing, in the
centre of which was a gigantic monolith obelisk, so singularly placed
on a block of stone that the slightest touch sufficed to give it a
marked oscillating movement. This spot had a singular name, whose
origin no one could have accounted for; the people of the country
called it _Coatetl_, that is to say the home of the snake. This name,
by the way, is found very frequently in Mexico, whose aborigines had a
great respect for the snake, in consequence of their first legislator
Quetzaltcoatl, that is to say, the "serpent covered with feathers."

The clearing, which Indians and peons avoided with a respect mingled
with terror, was said to be haunted. An ancient tradition, greatly in
favour with the people, declared that at certain periods of the year,
at the new moon, and when any great event was about to be accomplished,
the stone, raised at its base by some mysterious power, afforded
passage to a monstrous snake, which, after sitting up there on its
tail with an angry hiss, suddenly assumed the appearance and form of a
female, dressed in a white winding sheet, who walked round the clearing
till daylight, uttering shrieks and writhing her arms with all the
marks of the most profound despair; then, as the moon became more deep
on the horizon, the apparition gradually became less distinct, and
entirely disappeared at daybreak. The stone then resumed its place,
and all returned to its natural state. At times, but very rarely, the
apparition spoke; but woe to the man whose ear the words reached; he
would certainly die within the year, and his end was almost always
miserable.

Probably the travellers bivouacked at this moment in the clearing were
ignorant of this legend, or, if acquainted with it, their education or
their strength of character protected them from such vulgar belief.
Had it not been so, they would not have ventured to spend the night
at a spot of such suspicious reputation. However this may be, the
travellers whom chance had so singularly brought together did honour to
the improvised repast, like men who, little accustomed to good dinners,
recognized all their merits. When they had finished eating they turned
their backs to the fire, so that the flames might not prevent their
watching the neighbourhood, and lighting their pipes and cigarettes
began smoking the Indian _moriche_, the only tobacco they had at their
service at the moment. There was a lengthened silence, during which
the guests enjoyed their smoke, and Don Aurelio was the first whose
cigarette was consumed. As he rolled another he said to the two wood
rangers--

"You are foreigners, I think you said?"

The Canadians nodded an affirmative, probably not considering that any
other answer was required.

"And have not been long in Mexico?" Don Aurelio continued.

"No," the Sumach answered, laconically.

"Ah!" the Mexican continued, not allowing himself to be discouraged by
the uninviting way in which the hunters answered him. "Ours is a famous
country at present for brave men; it is easy to make a fortune without
much outlay."

"Well," Moonshine answered with a crafty look, "not quite so easy as
you fancy. Here is my comrade, who is certainly a plucky fellow, and
who perhaps knows his trade better than most people, and yet he has not
found anything to suit him."

"He probably applied to persons who did not understand him."

"Perhaps so, perhaps not," the Sumach said, shaking his head
doubtfully; "or perhaps I asked too high a price."

"What! Too high a price?" Don Aurelio exclaimed; "I do not understand."

"What use is it wasting time in explaining it to you, as it is not
likely we shall have a deal together?"

"Who knows? Tell me, at any rate. We are going to a meeting of very
rich caballeros, and expect to join them in the morning. Let me know
your demands, which I will lay before them; and if they are not too
high, they may probably deal with you."

"Nonsense, why tell them to you?" the adventurer continued carelessly.
"It will be time enough tomorrow for us to have an explanation with the
gentlemen to whom you refer."

"As you please, I have no wish to force myself on your confidence."

"I intend to do so; but listen to me. Give me your word of honour that
if we do not come to terms I shall be at liberty to go wherever I
please, without any fear for my safety or my life."

"I pledge you my word of honour," Don Aurelio said quickly; "you can
trust to me."

"I do so with the more confidence," the adventurer remarked with a
laugh; "because if a hair of my head fell, it would cost you much more
dearly than you imagine."

"What do you mean?"

"Enough that I know it," the Sumach said with a crafty smile; "we have
no need to enter into further details."

"Why play fast and loose with this caballero?" Moonshine observed; "His
intentions are good. I see no harm in your being frank with him."

"Nonsense," the adventurer said, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Let me
alone, Moonshine; least said is soonest mended. In that way, we shall
see if we can have confidence in the word of a Spaniard."

"Of a Mexican you mean," Don Aurelio interrupted him with some vivacity.

"Well, a Mexican; it is of little consequence, though the difference
appears to me very slight."

"That is possible, but to me it is enormous."

"As you please," the adventurer answered carelessly. "I have not the
slightest wish to argue with you--the more so, that you must know more
about the matter than I do."

"In one word," Don Aurelio continued, "do you accept the proposition I
made you to accompany me tomorrow to the hacienda, where the leaders of
the revolutionary party are going to assemble, and may I rely on your
word?"

"Yes, if I may rely on yours."

"I gave it to you. Here is my hand, you can take it without fear; it is
that of a man of honour, and a friend."

The two Canadians cordially pressed the hand so frankly offered.

"That is settled," Moonshine said, as he shook the ashes of his pipe
out on his thumb nail, and then passed the stem through his belt.
"Now that is all arranged between us, if you will take my advice we
will have a sleep. The night is getting on, and we must be mounted by
sunrise."

No one opposed this proposition, which, on the contrary, was
unanimously accepted; for all of them being fatigued with riding for
the whole day along impracticable roads, had great need of rest. Each
wrapped himself carefully up in his zarapé, and lay down on the grass
with his feet to the fire. Moonshine threw a few handfuls of dry wood
into the flames, and resting his back against the base of the obelisk,
placed his rifle between his legs, and prepared to guard the slumbers
of his companions.

Don Aurelio had to oppose this, asserting that it was his duty to keep
the first guard; but the Canadian insisted so strongly that the Mexican
at length gave way, on the express condition of taking his place so
soon as he felt sleep weighing his eyelids down. Moonshine, therefore,
was soon the only person awake in the camp.

The night was calm and sultry; the atmosphere impregnated by the
fragrant emanations from the ground, and refreshed by a wayward breeze
which sported through the branches, and made them gently rustle, formed
a light haze through which the white moonbeams capriciously filtered.
The will-o'-the-wisps danced over the points of the grass, and a dull,
continuous murmur which resembled the breathing of nature, and seemed
to have no apparent cause, was mingled with the indistinct sounds of
the solitude. The dark blue sky, studded with a profusion of dazzling
stars, spread out like a diamond dome over this grand scenery, to which
it imparted a fairylike aspect.

The hunter, leaning against the base of the obelisk, with his arms
crossed on the barrel of his rifle which was resting between his legs,
yielded to the pleasure which this splendid night caused him. With his
eyes half closed, and assailed by a sleepiness which he only combated
with difficulty, his ideas were beginning to lose their lucidity, his
brain was growing confused, and the moment was at hand when sleep would
definitively close his eyelids, which he could only succeed in keeping
open by long and painful efforts.

How long he was plunged in this reverie, which has no name in any
language, but which causes an infinite pleasure, he could not have
said. All was confused before his half-closed eyes, and he could only
perceive surrounding objects through a prism which transformed the
landscape. Suddenly the hoarse croak of the owl was repeated several
times with a force which made the hunter give a mighty start. He opened
his eyes, shook off the lethargy that weighed upon him, and looked
anxiously around him. All at once he started, rubbed his eyes as if to
expel the last remains of sleep, and with a movement swift as thought,
raised his rifle.

"Who goes there?" he shouted in a sharp though slightly trembling
voice, owing to the inward emotion that agitated him.

The cry aroused the travellers from their sleep; they started up
sharply and laid their hands on their weapons; but they let them fall
again and remained motionless, with pallid cheeks and eyes fixed and
dilated by terror. At fifty paces from them, on the skirt of the
clearing, and fantastically illumined by a moonbeam which threw its
light full upon her, stood straight and upright the vague form of a
woman, whose proportions appeared gigantic to the terrified travellers.
Garments of a dazzling whiteness fell in folds round this undefinable
being, who held in her right hand a long sword whose flashing blade
emitted sinister reflections. Her beautiful and regular face was of
a cadaverous hue, which formed a contrast with the raven hue of her
hair, which fell in disorder on her shoulders, and descended lower
than her girdle, which was a golden circlet two burning eyes lit up
this face and gave it an expression rendered even more sinister by the
heart-rending and despairing smile which slightly parted her lips.

This strange apparition, whether man, woman, or demon, fixed on the
startled travellers a look in which sorrow and wrath were mingled.
These brave men, whom no human peril could have terrified, underwent a
moment of supreme hesitation--they were afraid!

The very horses, as if they understood what was going on, and
instinctively shared the fear which overpowered their masters, left off
eating their food. With ears laid back, legs apart, and head stretched
out in the direction of this terrible apparition, they neighed and
snorted violently. Moonshine, at length ashamed of the feeling of fear
he experienced, moved forward a step and boldly cocked his rifle.

"Who goes there?" he shouted for the second time, in a voice rendered
firmer by the assurance of being supported by his comrades, although
the latter, growing more and more alarmed, did not appear at all
disposed to help him. "Who's there? Speak, or, by Heaven, whether you
are an angel or demon, I will lodge a bullet in your head, and I warn
you that I never miss my mark."

Fear makes men talkers; the hunter only made so long a speech through
the terror with which the incomprehensible being he was addressing
inspired him, and whom his threats did not at all appear to disturb.
The apparition stretched out its left arm to the hunter, and said in a
loud though melodious voice--

"What use is it to threaten what you cannot perform? Have you such a
stock of ammunition that you are not afraid of wasting it?"

By an instinctive movement, which was independent of his will, the
Canadian lowered his weapon, and let the butt sink to the earth again.

"What are you doing here?" the fantastic being continued. "You are
sleeping like brute beasts, when you ought to be galloping. Your
enemies are on the watch to surprise you; if you remain any longer
here, on reaching the meeting place tomorrow you will only find the
corpses of your friends lying all bloody on the ruins of the hacienda,
where they are expecting you. You have not a moment to lose: to horse!
To horse! And you," she added, turning to the two Canadians, "do you
follow them; and, as you say that you are flying from despotism and
seeking liberty, fight for it!"

"Who are you? What faith can we place in your words?" asked Don
Aurelio, who had overcome his first terror.

"What matter who I am," the apparition replied, forcibly, "if the
advice I give you be good. I come, maybe from heaven, maybe from hell,
who can say?" she added with a sarcastic laugh. "Perhaps, I am the
spirit of this clearing. Obey the order I give you; then, when the task
you have undertaken is accomplished, you may try to find me out, if you
are still curious."

"¡Viva Dios! I will not be fobbed in this way!" the Mexican shouted. "I
will know what this means, and who is the being that thus counsels me."

And before his comrades could oppose the execution of the plan he had
formed, he rushed forward impetuously, with a pistol in each hand.

"Madman!" the apparition continued, "For wasting your time in trying
to pursue a chimera, when an imperious duty summons you. Catch me if
you can."

"Aye, if I perish," Don Aurelio shouted. But at the same instant his
feet were entangled in a liana, which he had not noticed in his hurry,
and he rolled full length on the ground, and both his pistols, whether
accidentally or purposely, were discharged in his fall. The Mexican
rose again with a savage imprecation, but the phantom had disappeared.

"Malediction!" he shouted, as he looked searchingly around him.

A long laugh responded to him, and then a voice, momentarily growing
weaker, said three distinct times--

"To horse, to horse, to horse!"

The travellers were startled; all had been witness of this strange
apparition, which had suddenly disappeared as if the earth had
swallowed it up, and there was no chance of guessing whither it had
gone; hence all these brave men trembled like leaves agitated by the
wind, and exchanged silent glances of terror, without daring to make a
movement.




CHAPTER III.

THE SUCCOUR.


The emotion caused by the strange apparition we described in the last
chapter was gradually dissipated; minds regained their equilibrium,
and ere long the travellers, reassured by each other's presence,
laughed and jested at the terror they had felt. Two of them, however,
more obstinate, or more affected than the rest, wished to detect
the meaning of this extraordinary adventure, and, as if by common
accord, though they did not communicate to each other the result of
their reflections, they fetched their horses, mounted, and rushed into
the forest from two opposite points. These two men were Don Aurelio
Gutiérrez and the Canadian adventurer, known as the Sumach.

Their absence was long, and their comrades impatiently awaited their
return for several hours. At length they reappeared, each coming in
a direction opposed to that in which he had set out. For a radius of
four leagues round the clearing, they had explored the forest, clump
by clump, bush by bush, but in vain; their researches had obtained no
result; they had discovered no trace, and found no sign which might
lead them to the truth. At one moment the adventurer fancied that he
heard the distant gallop of a horse; but the sound was so remote, so
indistinct, that it was impossible for him to form any opinion or
acquire a certainty. As for Don Aurelio, the forest had been as silent
to him as a tomb.

Both, therefore, rejoined their companions with hanging heads and
minds occupied with this apparition, which seemed to them the stranger
because their staunch hearts and straightforward minds could not accept
it as a divine intervention, and yet it could not be an hallucination.
At the moment when they re-entered the clearing the night was nearly
spent, the stars were growing pale, and expiring one after another.
Wide tinted bands were beginning to appear athwart the horizon, the
flowers and plants exhaled a sharper and more penetrating perfume, and
the birds nestled beneath the leaves were already preluding with timid
notes the melodious concert with which they each morning salute the
break of day. The sun would make its appearance ere long.

The horses were saddled, and the travellers had only been awaiting the
return of the two explorers to resume their journey. At the moment when
Don Aurelio was about to give the signal to start, the Sumach walked up
to him and laid his hand on the bridle of his horse.

"One moment," he said; "before we start I should wish to make a few
remarks to you."

The Mexican regarded the adventurer closely, and read on his thoughtful
face so serious an expression that he bowed to him deferentially.

"I am listening to you," he said.

The Sumach, as the surname he bore sufficiently proved, was a man
endowed with that ferocious and blunt courage to which every contest
is a holiday, and which overthrows any obstacles that rise before it,
however great they may be. Deeds done by this man were related which
displayed a boldness and temerity bordering on the prodigious. Fear
was as unknown to him as was weakness. But he was a Canadian; that is
to say, he belonged to that hardy Norman race, so superstitious and
credulous, which trembles at night at the dashing of an owl's wing
against a pane of glass, and for which apparitions and phantoms are
almost articles of belief. In a word, this man, who would have been
unmoved by the sight of twenty rifles pointed at his bosom, had an
inward tremor at the thought of the past night's apparition. And yet,
so peculiar is the human mind, the suspicious being who had so startled
him had scarce disappeared ere he rushed in pursuit. The truth was that
his indomitable courage had revolted at the thought of the involuntary
panic, his heart palpitated with shame, and he tried to discover the
truth or falsehood there might be in the occurrence.

The sterile hunt he had made in the forest had put the final touch on
his mental confusion, conviction was forced upon him, and now he felt
certain that a supernatural intervention had given them a warning which
they would do very wrong in neglecting. This was the reason which made
him oppose the immediate departure of the travellers and address Don
Aurelio.

"Listen, caballero," he said to him, in a firm voice, "I am only an
ignorant adventurer to whom books have hitherto been unknown things.
There are few things in the world I fear, but I am a Christian and a
Catholic; as such I cannot believe that God would disturb the order
of nature without some powerful reason. What is your opinion in the
matter?"

"I entirely share your opinion, my good fellow," Don Aurelio replied,
who, a good Catholic himself, and sincerely attached to his religion,
did not dream of disputing its dogmas and creeds.

"In that case," the adventurer continued, "trusting only to my own poor
judgment, the being who appeared to us a few hours ago does not belong
to this world. Yourself fired two pistol shots almost point-blank
without hitting, and though we started immediately in pursuit we found
no signs or trace. Is that so?"

"I must allow, señor, that all this is not only perfectly true but
strictly exact."

"Very good," the Sumach continued, evidently pleased with this answer.
"Now, neither of us can affirm with certainty whether this being comes
from heaven or the other place; but that is of but slight importance
to me. What I consider as far more serious is the advice offered to us.
Whether it be true or false we are unable to discover at this moment,
but it is our duty not to neglect it. If a serious danger menaces
your friends we are not numerous enough at this moment to offer them
effectual help."

"That is just; but what is to be done?" the Mexican remarked, struck by
the adventurer's logical reasoning.

"Patience," the latter said, with a smile full of meaning. "Did not
my comrade, Moonshine, tell you last night that if you broke your
engagement with me I should not fail of avengers."

"It is true," Don Aurelio exclaimed, eagerly.

"Well," the Canadian said, "what I did not care to tell you then I
will confess now. I have some twenty comrades a few leagues from here,
Canadians like myself, all resolute men and devoted to me. I was going
to rejoin them last night when we met. I will place them at your
orders, if you like, for this expedition, on the understanding that
when the danger has passed--should there be any--if the conditions we
offer do not please you, we shall be at liberty to withdraw in safety."

"Certainly," Viscachu exclaimed, yielding involuntarily to the joy
he probably experienced; but, recognizing at once the fault he had
committed, he humbly withdrew behind his master, muttering--

"Pardon me, Señor Caballero."

"I pledge you my word as a gentleman," Don Aurelio answered; "then you
have at your disposal twenty bold comrades?"

"Yes, or nearly so," the adventurer said; "and I offer them to you."

"Unfortunately we are in a hurry, and you will not have time to warn
them."

"Well, I did not think of that," the Canadian said, thoughtfully.

"Where are they at this moment?"

"I told you; about two leagues from here."

"But in what direction?" Don Aurelio pressed him.

"Hang it! As you belong to the country, you will know better than I;
they are encamped at a place called the Giant's Peak, on the road
running to the Hacienda del Barrio."

"What!" the Mexican exclaimed, in delight, "Why that is the very
hacienda we are going to!"

"Can it be possible?" the adventurer asked, in amazement.

"Nothing is truer; my friends are going to assemble there."

"If that be the case, it is useless to lose any further valuable time;
let us be off at once."

"Of course; I am most anxious to do so."

"By the way," said the Sumach, "I will go on ahead, so as to warn my
comrades, in that way you will not be obliged to make a circuit to
reach our camp, and when you arrive opposite the Giant's Peak, you will
find us on the road ready to follow you. Does that suit you?"

"¡Canarios! I should think so; you are a precious man, you think of
everything, so be off at once."

The Canadian dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and started at
full speed. The travellers followed him at once; their pace, though
rapid, was however much more moderate than that of the adventurer, who
appeared to devour space. Moonshine remained with the Mexicans, and
galloped by the side of Don Aurelio.

"Why did you not tell me about your cuadrilla?" the latter asked him.

"Pardon me, señor," the Canadian said, "but your memory fails you at
this moment; I was about to speak of it when my friend, the Sumach,
forced me to be silent."

"That is true; I remember."

"Now," he continued, "I will take the liberty of remarking, that in
speaking of my comrade's party you used the words _your_ cuadrilla."

"Well," Don Aurelio observed, "have I unwittingly offended you by that
qualification?"

"Not at all, señor; still I will inform you that I do not at all belong
to this cuadrilla, as you call it; I am simply a buffalo hunter and
beaver trapper. I do not say that when the opportunity offers to draw
a bead on a redskin I refuse to do so; far from it--it is, in fact, an
amusement in which I frequently indulge; but soldiering is not at all
in my line."

"I thought you an intimate friend of your countryman," the Mexican
remarked.

"You were not mistaken," the hunter answered, "we are indeed very old
friends, though our avocations are diametrically opposed."

"And on the present occasion, would you refuse the support of your arm
in defending the good cause?"

"I do not know what you call the good cause," the Canadian replied,
simply, "and, as a foreigner, I care very little to learn what it is.
Thanks to heaven your disputes do not concern me the least in the
world; but I should consider myself a coward if I abandoned a man with
whom I have eaten and drunk, and by whose side I have slept, when a
serious danger seems to threaten him. Hence you can safely reckon on
me."

"Thanks, caballero," the Mexican said, warmly; "you are a man whose
heart is in the right place."

"I believe it is; but I do not see why you should take the trouble to
thank me for so natural a thing as this."

Don Aurelio regarded him for a moment with repressed admiration.

"Let me shake your hand," he said to him.

"With pleasure," the hunter simply replied.

During the preceding conversation the sun had risen on the horizon,
and beneath the influence of its hot and enlivening beams, which made
the pebbles in the road glisten like diamonds, the scenery had lost
that stern appearance which the darkness had imparted to it. A warm
vapour rose from the ground and formed a species of; transparent fog,
that refreshed the atmosphere which was already rendered sultry by the
sun; the leaves damp with dew seemed greener, the birds twittered in
rivalry, and at times an elk or antelope, startled by the thundering
echo of the horses' hoofs, leaped from beneath a bush, and dashed madly
away with head thrown back and dilated eye; or the alligators raised
their heavy heads from the mud in which they were imbedded, and after
gazing at the travellers for a moment, plunged into the lake.

The Mexicans galloped on thus without the slightest incident for about
two hours, conversing together about indifferent topics, and apparently
as tranquil as if they were not going to meet a probable danger. They
had left for some time the banks of the lake which they had hitherto
been following, and, turning to the right, entered a narrow track,
the bed of a dried-up torrent, encased between two hills over which
mighty oaks formed a dense dome of verdure which the sunbeams could not
penetrate.

"The Giant's Peak is only a league and a half to our left," Don Aurelio
said to the Canadian.

"In that case," the latter quietly replied, "we shall soon come up with
our friends; they must be waiting for us at the end of that canyon."

In fact, when the travellers passed through the species of defile in
which they were, they saw, about fifty yards ahead of them, a party of
horsemen drawn up in good order, at whose head Don Aurelio recognized,
with a delight he did not attempt to conceal, the worthy adventurer.
The two bands were soon commingled.

"Thanks," the Mexican said with a smile to the Canadian; "you are a man
of your word."

"Did you doubt it?" the other remarked.

"Certainly not."

And they continued their journey at a gallop. They had at the most but
two leagues to go ere they reached the hacienda. Moonshine spurred his
horse, which soon carried him twenty yards ahead of the party.

"Where are you going?" Don Aurelio shouted to him.

"To scout," the hunter answered; "let me alone. We must not fall into a
wasps' nest."

"Go on, my friend," said the Mexican.

The hunter went off; but a quarter of an hour had scarce elapsed ere
his comrades saw him returning at full gallop, and making them signs to
halt, which they obeyed.

"Oh, oh!" Moonshine exclaimed, so soon as he had rejoined them, "the
warning was good: whether angel or demon, the person who gave it was
well informed."

"Explain, explain," his hearers shouted.

"Silence," the hunter replied. "Listen!"

All did so; and then the distant detonation of firearms could be
distinctly heard.

"What is happening?" Don Aurelio asked, a prey to the liveliest anxiety.

"A very simple thing," the hunter answered; "two or three hundred
Indians, or at least men dressed in their garb, are furiously attacking
the hacienda, the inhabitants of which are offering the most vigorous
resistance."

"¡Caray! Comrades, we must hasten to their assistance," Don Aurelio
exclaimed.

"That is also my opinion; but take my advice; let us not act rashly,
but take our precautions, for these Indians appear to me suspicious;
they manage their pieces too well, and take too good an aim to be real
redskins, and Indians would never venture to attack in open daylight a
fortress like the one before us."

"Then your opinion is--"

"That they are disguised Spaniards, viva Dios, and nought else."

"We cannot hesitate," said the Sumach. "Every minute is worth an age.
Let us approach softly, so as not to reveal our presence prematurely,
and when we are near enough to the demons, let us charge them
vigorously."

"Yes, we have nothing else to do. Forward!" Don Aurelio shouted.

"Forward!" the adventurers repeated.

The nearer they drew, the more distinct the sound became. With
the shots were mingled ferocious yells and howls uttered by the
assailants, and to which the defenders of the hacienda responded with
equally ferocious cries. They soon came in sight of the fortress, and
perceived the combatants. The engagement was of a serious nature. The
Indians, or men looking like them, fought with incredible energy and
contempt of death, trying, in spite of the fire of the besieged, to
escalade the walls of the hacienda, the top of which several of them
were on the point of reaching. In spite of the courage they evinced,
the defenders were unfortunately too few to carry on the contest much
longer with any prospect of victory.

All at once a formidable cry was raised, and the Indians, furiously
attacked in the rear, were obliged to wheel round. It was the charge
of the adventurers. At the same moment further succour arrived for the
besieged, for a second band of strangers rushed forward like a manada
of forest tigers, and taking the Indians on the flank, made a desperate
attack. The latter bravely supported this double assault, which they
resisted with the utmost bravery; but the defenders of the hacienda
finding they were at liberty through this providential help, which
they were far from anticipating, made a sortie, and proceeded to help
their defenders. There it became no longer a fight, but a butchery. The
Indians, after disputing the ground for some moments, recognized the
madness of a longer contest. They turned their backs, and sought safety
in flight.

The second band, which charged the Indians simultaneously with the
Canadians, had also disappeared. Still the Sumach, with a surprise
mingled with horror, fancied that he recognized at the head of this
band the fantastic being who had appeared in the forest; hence, in his
simple credulity, he was not far from supposing that these combatants
who vanished so suddenly were demons. When the few wounded white men
were picked up, the adventurers, and those who had given them such
effectual assistance, entered the hacienda. The plain, so noisy a few
moments previously, became silent and solitary once again; and the
birds of prey, left masters of the obstinately disputed battlefield,
began circling heavily above the corpses, with hoarse and sinister
croaks of joy.




CHAPTER IV.

INSIDE THE HACIENDA.


Although since the beginning of the civil war the Hacienda del Barrio
had frequently served as headquarters for the insurgents of New Spain,
and, for this reason, had sustained several regular sieges from the
government troops, who twice took it by storm, still, in the interior
at least, but slight changes had taken place since the time when we
first introduced the reader to it.

Still this house, which at that time was almost a country mansion,
had become a real fortress, a deep and wide fosse had been dug round
that side of the walls which might be accessible, and the threatening
muzzles of several heavy guns peeped out of the embrasures, to avoid a
surprise and defend the approaches to the hacienda. The trees had been
felled for a radius of nearly a mile all round, the scarped path which
ran round the hill and led to the gateway had been dug up in several
places so as to render the approach still more difficult, and the
drawbridge had been placed in working order.

On entering the hacienda the adventurers and travellers were received
by a caballero, who paid them the greatest attention. It was the
proprietor of the hacienda, Don Aníbal de Saldibar. The eleven years
which had elapsed since our prologue had produced but very slight
effect on his vigorous organization. A few wrinkles had formed on the
hacendero's wide forehead, here and there a few threads of silver were
mingled with his black hair, but that was all. He was still upright,
and his eye was bright as ever. He and Don Aurelio had been long
acquainted, and appeared to feel a sincere friendship for each other.

"You and the gentlemen who accompany you are welcome," Don Aníbal
exclaimed as he warmly pressed his friend's hand; "you could not have
arrived more opportunely. Had it not been for you, I know not how
matters would have ended."

"Well, I hope," Don Aurelio said, warmly returning the pressure; "are
we the first at the meeting?"

"On my word, nearly so, there are very few persons here as yet. You
know how difficult the communications are, and what a system of
espionage Señor Apodaca, his Excellency the Viceroy of New Spain, has
invented. It is a perfect inquisition. Every suspicious individual is
immediately arrested, so that our friends are obliged to act with the
greatest prudence."

"In fact, we have unhappily reached that point when one half the
population plays the spy on the other."

"Well, enough on this head for the present. You and your friends must
need rest. Allow me to conduct you myself to the cuartos which have
been prepared for you by my orders."

"On my word, I confess to you that I accept your offer with the same
frankness in which it is made."

Don Aníbal then led his guests to spacious and rather comfortable
furnished apartments, where he left them at liberty to behave as they
thought proper, informing them that refreshments would be brought them
directly; then he left them, in order to receive other persons who
arrived at the hacienda at the moment. In fact, scarce had Don Aníbal
left, ere the door opened to make way for several footmen, loaded with
trays covered with refreshments of every description. The Sumach, after
bivouacking his adventurers in a corral, rejoined Don Aurelio, with
whom remained only one of his servants, namely, Viscachu, in whom he
seemed to have the greatest confidence.

Our four friends, that is to say, Don Aurelio, Moonshine, the Sumach,
and Viscachu, sat down to the table, and did honour to the refreshments
sent by Don Aníbal, in a manner which would have assuredly pleased him,
had he seen it. Viscachu, doubtless through humility, was seated a
little away; he alone ate moderately, rather as a man who does not wish
to be guilty of want of courtesy, than as a man who had just ridden
ten leagues, and whose appetite must have been sharpened by recent
and vigorous exercise. When the travellers' hunger was appeased, the
conversation, which had, at, the outset, been languishing, became more
animated, and naturally turned on the master of the house in which the
guests were assembled. Moonshine, after lighting his pipe, addressed
Don Aurelio.

"Will you allow me," he said to him, "to ask you a few questions with
reference to our host?"

"I see no reason why you should not," the Mexican replied; "I shall be
even pleased to give you all the information you wish about him that I
am in a position to supply."

"These questions will be quite general," the Canadian continued. "My
friend and I are strangers, and as it is probable that circumstances
will oblige us to make a rather lengthened stay in this country, I
confess to you that we should be glad to have certain information about
persons with whom chance may bring us into contact, which will enable
us to act toward them in such a way as will not hurt either their
feelings or their interests."

"The fact is," Oliver Clary said in support, interrupting his words
with numerous puffs of smoke, "the country is so extraordinary, all
that goes on in it so far surpasses anything I have hitherto seen, that
I am quite of my countryman and friend's opinion."

"As you please. To begin, I presume that you would like to know
something about our host."

"You have hit it, caballero," both men said, with a polite bow.

"Nothing is easier, the more so because I am a distant relative of
Don Aníbal, and am better able than most persons to give you the
information you require."

"Excellent," the Sumach said, as he threw himself lazily back in his
chair.

"I think nothing equal to a good story after a jolly breakfast," said
Moonshine, as he rested his elbows on the table, and prepared to listen.

Don Aurelio delicately rolled a husk cigarette between his fingers, lit
it, and then went on as follows:--

"It is scarce midday," he said; "it is probable that we shall not be
disturbed till four o'clock, for Don Aníbal is at this moment occupied
in receiving the numerous visitors who are arriving from all parts of
the province. We have four hours before us, which we cannot employ
better; so listen to me."

After this sort of introduction, the Mexican summoned up his
recollections for a few minutes, and then went on like a man prepared
to tell a long story:--

"Don Aníbal Heredia Gómez de Alvarado y Saldibar is what we call in
this country a _Cristiano viejo_, that is to say, his blood has never
crossed, during ages, with that of the Indians; he is descended in
a straight line from that famous Don Pedro de Alvarado to whom Don
Hernando Cortés entrusted the government and command of the city of
Mexico, when he was compelled to proceed to Veracruz, to fight Don
Pamfilo de Narváez, whom Don Diego Velasquez, Governor of Cuba, sent
against him, and who passed with all his men under the flag of the
conqueror. You will see from this rapid sketch that Don Aníbal comes
from a good stock. When Hernando Cortés had completed the conquest
of Mexico, he divided the vast territory among all his lieutenants.
Don Pedro de Alvarado, owing to his fidelity to the Conquistador,
was naturally the best provided for, and he soon found himself in
possession of an enormous fortune. This fortune, being well managed,
augmented in the course of time, and thus at the present day Don Aníbal
is not only one of the richest landowners in New Spain, but in the
whole world. This colossal fortune was further increased, some sixteen
years back, by Don Aníbal's marriage with Doña Emilia de Aguilar, my
cousin, sixth removed. Doña Emilia was at that period seventeen years
of age, and one of the loveliest girls in the province."

Don Aurelio paused for a few seconds, and then continued--

"Here there is a grand gap, not in my recollection, but in the
information I have been able to collect. At the period to which I
allude some interesting business forced me to make a voyage to the
Havana, so that I only heard on my return that Don Aníbal had drawn
on himself the hatred of certain Indians established on his estates;
that these Indians, expelled by him, had sworn to avenge themselves,
which they tried several times, but unsuccessfully. While this was
going on, Hidalgo, the curé of Dolores, raised the standard of revolt,
and summoning the population under arms, began that long war of
independence which is not yet terminated. Although of Spanish origin,
Don Aníbal, whose whole fortune consists of land and mines, and whom
the triumph of the revolution would irremediably ruin if he obstinately
remained faithful to the Spanish government, either through interest or
conviction, or through these motives united, joined the insurrection,
and became one of its most devoted adherents. The house in which we
are at this moment, perfectly situated, as you can see, and tolerably
well fortified to resist a surprise, has several times served as
headquarters for the insurgents. Once was Don Aníbal surprised suddenly
by the Spaniards; the hacienda was so completely and rapidly invested
that Don Aníbal had not the time, as he had intended, to send Doña
Emilia and her child, who was then hardly eighteen months old, to Leona
Vicario. Both, therefore, remained with him, and then a frightful
affair, which has never been properly cleared up, took place. A snake
was conveyed into the garden of the hacienda by an Indian, as was found
by the trail discovered on the sand, and the bag of tapir hide he
left behind. How this Indian contrived to elude the vigilance of the
sentinels no one ever knew. Still it is a fact that this snake, without
doing the slightest hurt to the infant, attacked the nurse, whose
milk it sucked with a horrible frenzy. The wretched girl died almost
immediately after in fearful convulsions, and Doña Emilia, who was a
witness of the tragedy, not having the strength to endure it, went mad."

"Oh!" the hearers exclaimed, with a terror mingled with horror, "that
is fearful."

"Is it not?" Don Aurelio said sadly.

"And what became of the unhappy mother?" Moonshine asked with interest.

"Did she remain mad?" the adventurer added.

"No," the Mexican continued, "the unfortunate lady recovered her
reason, or, at least, after two years of assiduous care, she appeared
to do so, for, since the scene I have described to you, she has
constantly suffered from terrible crises, which succeed each other with
a strength and energy that continually grow greater."

"Poor woman!" Viscachu muttered.

"Oh, yes, poor woman!" Don Aurelio continued. "Don Aníbal, although
he would not let it be seen, adored his wife. The misfortune which
burst on him like a thunderclap, by revealing to him all the immensity
of his passion, deprived him of the strength any longer to conceal
it. All the time that Doña Emilia's madness lasted, the devotion and
self-denial he displayed were sublime. When she at length recovered her
senses, he ordered all his servants not to restrain her in any way, but
to let her act as she pleased, without even questioning or troubling
her. A strange change had taken place in Doña Emilia's character; this
woman or girl--for she was hardly eighteen years of age when the
misfortune happened--so kind, gentle, timid, and graceful, became a
lioness thirsting for carnage, only dreaming of combats, and having one
fixed idea, that of incessantly pursuing the redskins, and pitilessly
destroying them wherever she met them. Employing the liberty her
husband granted her, she frequently disappeared from the hacienda for
whole weeks, taking her daughter with her, from whom she never parts,
and whom she has trained in her own feelings of hatred and revenge; and
both remained absent all this time, and no one was able to discover
what became of them, or what they were doing; then the mother and
daughter would return with smiling faces and tranquil demeanour, as if
nothing extraordinary had occurred."

"And now?" Moonshine interrupted.

"I believe that the same thing goes on now," the Mexican continued,
"and that Doña Emilia has not given up her wanderings. Don Aníbal,
whom her absence terribly alarmed, has tried several times to prevent
them, but he found that the precautions he took to keep his wife at
home rendered her so unhappy that he preferred letting her act as she
thought. However, for some reason unknown to me, the Indians feel such
a superstitious terror of her that her mere appearance suffices to put
them to flight, however numerous they may be, as has been witnessed on
several occasions."

"It is extraordinary," Oliver Clary muttered.

"And the young lady?" Moonshine asked.

"She is now nearly fifteen years of age, and her name is Diana. She
is an exquisite creature, light and graceful, fair-haired, and her
eyes reflect the blue of heaven; but, beneath this delicate appearance
she conceals an indomitable energy, and an incredible firmness of
character. Educated by her mother, as I told you, she adores and only
obeys her, although she has a deep and sincere friendship for her
father, and evinces the greatest respect for him. Still, Don Aníbal,
I feel persuaded, however energetic he may be, would not venture to
contend with her, for he would be certain beforehand of defeat. The
young lady is, therefore, quite her own mistress, and hence never
leaves her mother; but the singular thing is that these two females,
who understand each other so thoroughly, have admitted a third person
to their friendship."

"A third," the Canadian said; "who is it?"

"That is the strangest thing of all; he is a tall, well-built, powerful
young fellow of about two and twenty, whom Don Aníbal brought back some
twelve or thirteen years ago from an expedition against the Indians,
and there is every reason for believing that he is a redskin himself.
This person's name, or rather the name given him, is Melchior Díaz.
Gifted with prodigious strength and unequalled activity and Excellency
in all manly exercises, this young man is the darling of Don Aníbal,
who sees with secret despair the approaching extinction of his name,
for he has no son, and is, consequently, the last of his race. Hence he
has bestowed on this young man, who, I must allow, is in every respect
worthy of it, through the goodness of his heart and the rectitude of
his mind, the affection he would feel for a real son; on the other
hand, being forced to consent to leave his wife and daughter their
liberty, he is glad to know they have such a devoted defender, for
Melchior accompanies them in all their expeditions. Several times Don
Aníbal has tried to obtain from the young man some information as
to their nature, but the latter has been impenetrable, intrenching
himself behind the oath he says he has taken never to reveal anything
that relates to Doña Emilia. Now, how is it that this lady, who
has such an inveterate hatred for the Indians, has taken into her
friendship this young man, who, I repeat, is assuredly a redskin, and
is so attached to him that she will not let him leave her for a moment?"

"And what does Doña Diana think of this young man?" the hunter asked.

"Diana is a child knowing nothing of life; she believes that Melchior
is her brother, for they were brought up together, and she feels a
frank friendship for him."

"But the young man," Moonshine said searchingly, "does he know that he
is not Doña Diana's brother?"

"I am not aware, but it is probable that Don Aníbal or Doña Emilia has
informed him of his origin."

"Is he at the hacienda at this moment?" the Sumach asked.

"I cannot tell you. I have not been here for several months, and so do
not know what is going on. But I hear a footstep in the corridor, and I
doubt not but that we are going to be interrupted."

In truth, a light footstep was audible on the outside, coming nearer
and nearer to the room in which the travellers were. At length the door
opened, and a peon appeared.

"Pardon, señores," he said, after bowing ceremoniously, "Don Aníbal de
Saldibar, my master, requests you to follow me to the grand hall, where
all the caballeros are assembled."

"We are at Don Aníbal's orders," Don Aurelio said, as he rose.

His companions imitated him, and all four went out after the servant.




CHAPTER V.

THE COUNCIL.


While the travellers were listening with ever growing interest to the
astonishing story told by Don Aurelio, other strangers, coming from all
parts of the compass, flocked into the hacienda. They were principally
rich landowners of the province, or persons compromised in previous
struggles through their ardent love of liberty, and who, justly objects
of suspicion to the Spaniards, could only find security in a general
uprising. Don Aníbal tried to offer all these visitors, the majority
of whom were followed by a numerous and well-armed escort, a large
and generous hospitality. Hence, the interior of the hacienda soon
resembled a barrack, and though the dependencies of the mansion were
large, they were crowded with men and horses, so that the latter were
obliged to be placed in the courtyards and the gardens.

At four in the evening the number of strangers assembled at the
hacienda amounted to upwards of four thousand, which formed an imposing
force. Unfortunately, with the exception of a few experienced men who
had fought during the first tentatives made by the Mexicans to regain
their liberty, the rest were only poor peons who had never smelt
powder, and were completely ignorant of war. Still, whatever their
intrinsic value might be from a military point of view, all these
men burned with an ardent desire for liberty. They were devoted to
their masters, and if well led, it was plain that a good deal might
be expected from them; and that when once trained and disciplined,
they would become not only formidable through their numbers, but also
through their courage and the revolutionary fanaticism that animated
them. In the meanwhile they offered a most miserable and pitiable
appearance; pale, haggard, thin, scarce covered by their dirty ragged
clothes, and mostly armed with pikes, bows and arrows, they could only
excite a pity blended with contempt in the well-fed, disciplined, and
thoroughly-armed Spaniards.

However this may be, Don Aníbal de Saldibar saw them enter the hacienda
with a joy which he did not attempt to conceal, and he augured
favourably for the success of the plans he had formed, through the
promptitude with which his friends replied to his summons. At length
the moment arrived when it was impossible for another soul to enter
the hacienda, and the last comers were obliged to establish themselves
in an entrenched camp on the ground where in the morning so obstinate
a fight had been waged with the Indians. At night the hacienda was
surrounded as it were by a glittering halo, produced by the bivouac
fires of the rebels who were encamped on the plain.

When all the persons Don Aníbal expected were assembled he gave orders
for the hacienda gates to be shut, doubled the sentries, advised the
utmost vigilance, and entered the reception hall, whither he had
ordered his servants to conduct visitors of high rank. This hall, which
was of large, almost grand proportions, was filled by some two hundred
persons, who were collected in groups and conversing together in a
low voice, but with great animation. The entrance of Don Aníbal was
greeted with a prolonged "Ah!" which testified to the impatience of the
visitors.

The hacendero, after gracefully inviting his guests to take the seats
prepared for them, made his way through the groups, and approached
a table covered with a green cloth, round which were already seated
several strangers, among them being Don Aurelio Gutiérrez, the two
Canadians, and Viscachu, who had contrived unnoticed to find his
way among the select company. Don Aníbal waited until silence was
established, then he bowed several times to the visitors, and asked to
say a few words. Permission, was at once granted, for the company were
pleased in their hearts at thus seeing him take the initiative, and
assume the responsibility of the events which were about to take place.

"Señores," he said, in a firm, distinct voice, "permit me in the first
place to thank you cordially, in the name of the country, for the
eagerness you have kindly shown in accepting my invitation, in spite
of the difficulties of every description that opposed, the journey
you were about to undertake, and the perils you must meet with on the
road. In spite of our continued defeats since the day when the generous
Hidalgo first called us to arms, in spite of the triumphs of our
haughty oppressors, the cause we have sworn to defend, instead of being
destroyed, has, on the contrary, prospered, because the cause is a holy
one, as we fight for liberty, that undoubted right of all nations.
Before approaching the immediate subject of our meeting, let me
describe in a few words the events accomplished during the last twelve
years, in order that we may be able to judge our position healthily,
perceive whether the insurrection we are preparing is opportune, and if
its success is so certain as is asserted."

"Pardon me, señor," said Moonshine, as he rose to interrupt him, "I
perceive that you are preparing to discuss matters which are perfectly
indifferent to myself and my companions, as we are foreigners; we,
therefore, ask your permission to withdraw before we have heard any of
your secrets."

At these words, uttered with that crafty carelessness characteristic of
the French Canadian, the company rose tumultuously, and remarks were
made violently from all parts of the hall. Some even shouted treachery.
In a word, the confusion was tremendous. Don Aníbal and Don Aurelio
exchanged anxious glances, and tried in vain to appease the agitation
of their friends, and establish some degree of order in the meeting. At
length, by exhortations and entreaties, they succeeded in producing a
semi-silence, of which they hastened to take advantage.

"What!" Don Aurelio exclaimed, addressing Moonshine, "Are we not to
reckon on you and your comrade?"

"For what reason should you do so?" the adventurer said, bluntly. "We
have made no bargain; to my knowledge, you have made me no proposition
I am able to accept. _¡Viva Dios!_ business is business. The honourable
gentlemen I command have a right to ask me of an account of the blood
they have sold me. I suppose that they do not fight for mere amusement."

"You are perfectly in the right," Don Aníbal said, prudently and
politely. "Still, your noble and devoted conduct this morning lead us
to suppose that you wished to defend our cause."

"A mistake," Moonshine replied, with a shake of his head. "My friend
and myself only wished to give you a specimen of what these men
can do--that was all. And then, again, could we honourably abandon
travellers who trusted to our loyalty, and whom we had promised to
defend?"

"Certainly not," said the hacendero; "and in the name of these
caballeros, as well as my own, I thank you for your brilliant conduct,
and the valiant assistance you rendered them."

The company were beginning to grow tired of this conversation which
seemed to have no object. Shouts and threats were beginning to be heard
again. Don Aníbal understood that he must come to an end as quickly as
possible.

"Tell me, señores," he said, "are you free from engagements?"

"Completely," the adventurer replied.

"Do you feel disposed to fight for us?"

"Yes, if your terms suit us."

"Very good. These are the terms. You, Caballero, are appointed colonel
of a regiment of cavalry, which you will undertake to organize, and of
which your men will form the nucleus. Your pay will begin from today;
your engagement is for three months; and you will receive a month and a
half in advance. Do these terms suit you?"

"I find them very fair," the adventurer replied; "but how much will you
give my comrades?"

"Two piastres a man. Is that enough?"

"Certainly, if you are not too exacting."

"What do you mean?"

"If you will shut your eyes to certain things which take place after a
battle or a siege."

"Colonel, as your regiment is a free corps, it cannot be subjected to
the strict discipline of regular troops."

"Very good, I understand," the Sumach said, with a wink of intense
significance.

"Is that settled?"

"Yes; whatever may happen, I belong to you for three months."

"Good. As for you, señor," Don Aníbal continued, addressing Moonshine,
"what are your wishes?"

"Although my rifle knows how to talk when there is an opportunity, I
repeat that I am no soldier; I only ask to serve you as scout during
the campaign at the rate of six ounces a month. You can take it or
leave it."

"I accept," the hacendero said, quickly.

"All right. You can count on me as on my friend."

Don Aníbal, pleased with having settled this affair to the general
satisfaction, and ensured the insurrection the assistance of men of
tried bravery and experience, received the congratulations of his
friends, and prepared to continue his address. During this, Don Aurelio
leant over to the adventurers.

"I was convinced that you would join us," he said to them, in a low
voice.

"What would you have?" they replied, in the same key; "We have no
prejudices, and came to this country to take service with one or other
of the two parties. You met us first, that is all."

Don Aurelio could not restrain a smile of contempt, but made no answer.
As for the Canadians, they were firmly convinced that their conduct was
most honourable, and, as they were in a foreign country, they had the
right of acting as they were doing; a reasoning which, by the way, was
neither incorrect nor illogical.

"Señores," the hacendero continued, "since the time of Hidalgo, who,
carried away by his enthusiasm, believed that it was sufficient to
wish to be free to become so, our enemies have taught us to conquer
them; the battles of Tres Palos, Palmar, Acatita de Bajan, Cuautlo,
Chilpancingo, and many others in which we defeated our ferocious
adversaries, have proved that we were able to gain our liberty.
Unhappily the death of Morelos, by delivering our enemies from their
most formidable adversary, has plunged the nation into discouragement,
and occasioned that discord which has glided into our ranks and once
again riveted our almost broken fetters. Three mournful dates are
marked in our revolutionary annals: that of July 30, 1811, on which
Hidalgo was shot; December 22, 1815, on which Morelos shared the same
fate; and lastly, December 18, 1817, which saw the brave and generous
Mina also fall beneath the murderous bullets of the Spaniards. Do not
all these glorious dead who lie in their bloodstained tombs excite you
to emulate them? Has their precious blood been uselessly shed? I do not
think so; the glorious spark which is supposed to be extinguished is
smouldering beneath the ashes, and one word, one cry from you will be
sufficient to rekindle it. Will you hesitate at this supreme hour to
rise and die, if need be, like those who so nobly preceded you in the
arena?"

"No," Don Aurelio exclaimed enthusiastically, as he rose; "no, we will
not hesitate, for at your summons, Don Aníbal, we flocked to you, ready
to recommence the struggle, no matter what may happen."

"Yes," observed a hacendero, whose white hair, lofty stature, and
imposing glances inspired respect, "we are ready to fight and die if
necessary for that liberty which is so dear to us; but courage is
nothing without discipline; who will command us, who is the chief
we can select? The revolutionary martyrology is already long in our
country, although the contest only began ten years ago. In addition to
the three heroes you have mentioned, Don Aníbal, and whom the Spaniards
cowardly assassinated, what has become of those heroes who are more
obscure but equally worthy of mention, such as Matamoros, Galeana,
Bravo, Mier y Terán, Victoria, and Guerrero? They are also dead or
in flight. We do not lack soldiers but chiefs. What can we effect
against the old Castilian generals, against that Viceroy Apodaca,
who obtained from King Ferdinand the title of Count del Venadito for
the assassination of Mina, and who, employing with diabolical skill
the faults we have not ceased to commit, has almost succeeded in
extinguishing that patriotic fire which emitted such dazzling flames
but a few months back?"

"What!" Don Aníbal remarked vehemently, "Would you despond? Do you
believe that chiefs will be wanting, and that Providence who has up to
the present done so much for you, will abandon you?"

"Heaven forbid my entertaining such a thought," the old man replied;
"for ten years I have furnished sufficient proof of my devotion to
the cause of Independence for my opinions not to be suspected. As you
said yourself, Don Aníbal, the struggle we are about to begin must be
decisive, and the last hour of liberty or slavery will strike for us!
I confess with sorrow that although I have looked carefully around,
I see no person capable of taking on himself the perilous honour of
commanding us, no one worthy of marching at our head, no one whose
military talent can cope with that of the Spanish generals."

"Are you sure you are not mistaken? Are you quite convinced that your
memory does not fail you at this moment, and that all the heroes who
formerly led us are dead?" Don Aurelio exclaimed, with a marked accent
of irony.

The old man started at being thus addressed, and his brow was
contracted as if by the weight of a sorrowful remembrance.

"Alas, Don Aurelio," he replied sadly, "one man alone has hitherto
escaped the death which all his comrades suffered in succession; but
his fate is only the more sorrowful. Confined in one of the dungeons
of the old Mexican Inquisition, he drags on in despair the rest of a
branded existence, which his torturers appear to have only left him
through derision. That man, were he free, might claim the honour of
commanding us, and we would gladly follow him. But, alas! What use is
it opening such cruel wounds? He will never be free, he will never be
allowed to see the sun again; he is compelled to die of misery in his
foetid dungeon."

"Are you quite sure of that?" Don Aurelio exclaimed. "Do you really
believe that heaven has so utterly abandoned us, and that the man to
whom you allude cannot recover his liberty?"

"Unhappily, I am but too certain of it. During the two years which have
elapsed since the Spaniards have treacherously seized him, no one knows
what has become of him. Shall I add that no one is certain that he is
still alive, and has not been strangled in his dungeon by the Viceroy's
orders?"

"Do you remember this person's name, señores?" Don Aurelio asked in a
loud voice.

"Don Pelagio," the company, shouted unanimously.

"No one has forgotten it; his name is inscribed on our hearts."

"If he were to reappear, what would you do?" Don Aníbal asked.

"It is impossible," the old man said, "he will not reappear; when the
Spanish lion holds a victim beneath its powerful paw, it does not let
him go, but rends him asunder."

"But tell me," Don Aníbal continued pressingly, "if Father Sandoval
reappeared, what would you do? Answer me!"

"Since you insist on an answer," the old man said with an accent of
supreme majesty, "I will give it you clearly and categorically, in
the name of all present, for I am persuaded that no one will dream of
contradicting me. If Father Pelagio were to appear suddenly in the
midst of us, we would immediately take an oath to conquer or die with
him."

"Do you swear it?" Don Aurelio asked again.

"Yes, we swear it!" all present exclaimed proudly.

Don Aníbal took a step forward, and approaching Viscachu, who had
hitherto remained modestly concealed behind Don Aurelio, he bowed
to him with marks of the deepest respect, and taking his hand, said
--"Father, your Excellency can throw off your incognito without fear;
there are none but true Mexicans here."




CHAPTER VI.

GENERAL FRAY PELAGIO.


It is impossible to describe the enthusiasm which broke out among the
patriots at this revelation which burst upon them like a thunderclap.
In truth, it was really Father Pelagio Sandoval. The result obtained
by this surprise, which was so thoroughly to the Mexican taste, was
immense. For a moment the worthy priest literally ran a risk of being
stifled, so lovingly did his partizans press round him; everyone wished
to get near him, clasp his hand; or kiss some part of his garments.
For more than a quarter of an hour there was an indescribable tumult
and disorder in the hall; everybody spoke at once; each exalted the
remarkable qualities of the chief who had been so long lost, and who
reappeared, as if by a miracle, at the moment when they least hoped to
see him.

The two Canadians were dumb with surprise; the effervescence, however,
gradually calmed, and silence was re-established. Before aught else,
Father Pelagio was obliged to explain to his followers in what way
he had succeeded, after two years of captivity, comparable with
the Neapolitan _carcere duro_, in leaving his dungeon by the aid
of a faithful friend, in spite of the vigilant watch and constant
espionage the Spaniards had established around him. So soon as he had
satisfied their curiosity to the best of his ability, Father Sandoval,
understanding the value of time well employed, and not wishing to let
the enthusiasm of his adherents cool, asked leave to speak.

A deep silence at once fell, as if by enchantment, upon the crowd a
moment previously so turbulent and disorderly; each with body bent
forward, and an attentive ear, prepared to listen to the words which
a mouth, they had fancied closed for ever, was about to utter. Father
Pelagio still retained the calm, benign, and intellectual appearance
which illumined his face the first time when we introduced him to the
reader; a few wrinkles more, furrowed by the terrible struggle he had
carried on for so many years, marked his pale forehead; his eyes had
acquired a greater magnetic force, and his face, pale and thinned by
suffering, had assumed that appearance of asceticism which Zurbaran has
so well depicted on immortal canvas.

In spite of his common dress, so soon as the priest had thrown far
from him the broad-brimmed hat which partly covered his features, and,
under the influence of the feelings that agitated him at the moment,
drew himself up to his full height, his face changed so thoroughly, his
demeanour all at once became so majestic, that all the spectators, when
gazing on him, felt themselves filled with a respect for which they did
not even attempt to account.

"Listen to me, brothers and friends," he said in that melodious and
sympathetic voice which gained him all hearts, "Don Aníbal said to you,
only a moment ago, the time is ripe for our beloved country, the hour
of liberty has struck for Mexico. If we really wish to break the yoke
which has so long weighed on us, the moment for the final struggle
has arrived; the salvation of our country depends on you, and all is
prepared for the grand act which it is our mission to accomplish. Pay
the greatest attention to my words, for the news you are about to hear
is serious. You are ignorant, I suppose, of the name of the man who
opened the door of the dungeon in which I was buried alive, without
hope of ever leaving it; this man is Don Agustín de Iturbide, the same
man who shot Matamoros, that stoical martyr of our liberty--Iturbide,
that ferocious colonel of militia, who has hitherto proved himself
the most obstinate enemy of the Mexican insurgents. Don Agustín de
Iturbide, that skilful, active, enterprising, and ambitious chief, who
learnt the art of war in the ranks of our enemies, has all at once left
the false path on which he has hitherto marched in order to become one
of our most zealous defenders. Great changes effected in the mother
country by Riego's pronunciamiento, have led to the establishment of
the Cortés, and the abolition of the Inquisition throughout the Spanish
possessions. As you see, the times are changed, the sun is beginning
to shine for us through the clouds, our most obstinate adversaries are
becoming our warmest partizans. Lastly, the Count del Venadito has been
recalled by the Spanish government and is no longer Viceroy, his place
being taken by O'Donojú. Let us take advantage of this interregnum, let
us make our last heroic effort, and if we like we shall be free; our
fate depends on ourselves, is in our hands. Shall we hesitate to rend
our fetters?"

At those words, warmly pronounced with a cheering accent and inspired
face, the audience felt electrified; an indescribable enthusiasm
seized on them, and, drawing their sabres and swords, which they
brandished over their heads, they shouted, in a voice of thunder,
"Liberty! Liberty!" The priest waited a few minutes, until the
generous effervescence caused by his speech had slightly calmed; then,
commanding silence by a gesture full of majesty, he continued--

"Iturbide is only waiting for our signal to declare himself for
independence, and overthrow the metropolitan government; the southern
provinces are already in a flame. Shall we remain behindhand? You are
all witnesses of what took place here this very morning; the Spaniards,
advised by their spies of the meeting which was to take place at this
hacienda, and having no plausible excuse to break it up, assumed the
Indian garb to attack us, in order to deceive us, and be able, in the
case of a check, to disavow all participation in this unjustifiable
act. Their ostensible motive, it is true, señores, was to break up our
meeting; but their real motive, the important object they had in view,
was to carry me off, and thus paralyze your attempts at insurrection.
Caballeros, brothers, and countrymen, one last word, which contains our
thought, and traces our duty for us--'To arms! Liberty or death!'"

The effect of these words, pronounced with feverish energy, was immense.

"To arms! Liberty or death!" all his hearers shouted.

At this moment the door opened, and a young man appeared; it was
Don Melchior, the lad saved by Don Aníbal some fourteen years back,
and brought up by him as his son. Don Aurelio had spoken the truth;
Melchior was really a charming cavalier, tall and gracefully built,
with regular, noble features, and soft black eyes. His dress, without
being rich, was extremely neat, and held a middle place between that of
the conspirators and of the desert hunters; a straight sabre, called
a machete, unsheathed, and passed through an iron ring, hung from his
left side, and the butts of two long pistols peered out of the _faja_,
or red China crape girdle, fastened round his hips. Don Melchior, after
looking curiously around him, glided through the groups and made his
way up to Father Pelagio, in whose ear he whispered a few words; the
priest started, and his face was slightly flushed, but, recovering
himself immediately, he said, raising his voice so as to command
attention--

"Señores, I have just heard something which neither you nor I
anticipated. Count de Melgosa has just arrived at the hacienda, and
insists on being shown in to you, as he says that he has matters of the
utmost importance to communicate to us."

This news produced all the effect which the chief of the insurgents
expected. All frowned angrily, and a menacing expression of dull
irritation appeared on every face.

"What do you propose doing?" Don Aurelio asked. "If our friends give
their consent," Fray Pelagio replied, "I will receive him at once.
What good is it any longer hiding ourselves? We have sufficient force
to hold head against an enemy more dangerous than the count can be.
Let us burn our vessels bravely, and make head against the storm. What
matter whether our enemies learn two hours sooner or later, that we are
recommencing the struggle?"

"Viva Dios, you are right," Don Aníbal exclaimed impetuously; "let us
confront the storm."

"Let us show," the old man supported him, who had already taken part in
the discussion several times; "let us show these haughty Spaniards that
we are not afraid of them."

"That is talking like a man of heart," Father Pelagio said with a
smile. "Melchior, my child," he added, as he turned to the young man,
"be kind enough to introduce El Señor Conde de Melgosa. So great a
person must not be kept waiting any longer in the anteroom of a poor
Creole."

The last words were uttered with an accent of pure raillery, which
brought a smile to the lips of several of the hearers. Don Melchior,
without replying, bowed to the priest and left the room. Father Pelagio
then drew Don Aníbal and Don Aurelio on one side, and began an earnest
conversation with them in a low voice. The door ere long again opened
and Melchior appeared preceding another person, whom he introduced as
Count de Melgosa. At the time when we bring him on the stage the count
was about fifty-five years of age, although he seemed scarce forty, so
greatly had his powerful constitution hitherto preserved him against
the assaults of old age.

He was a tall and well proportioned man, with a cold and ceremonious
manner. His angular features were stern and haughty, and the expression
of his face ironical. His eyes, deep set beneath his brows, flashed
a gloomy and concentrated fire. There was about his whole person
something stiff and constrained, which prevented sympathy. He was
dressed in a rich military uniform, and wore the insignia of a colonel
in the Spanish army.

A profound silence greeted his entrance into the hall. Not appearing at
all affected by this cold and significant reception he lightly raised
his hand to his hat without deigning to uncover, and walked with a firm
and deliberate step up to Don Aníbal de Saldibar, who, at a sign from
Father Pelagio, came to meet him, moving aside the persons in his way
so as to offer a free passage to a visitor who was so little desired.
When the two men were opposite each other they bowed ceremoniously, and
Don Aníbal, as master of the house, spoke first.

"What fortunate accident, my lord," he said, "procures me the honour of
the unexpected visit which you deign to pay me?"

The count smiled bitterly, and, looking ironically round the company,
whose eyes were fixed on him with an ill restrained expression of
hatred and anger, said--

"An unexpected visit, I can believe, caballero; and, doubtless, very
little desired."

"Why so?" Señor Conde, the hacendero continued with the most exquisite
politeness; "Be assured that I shall be always highly honoured when
you, the alcade mayor of the province, deign to visit my humble
residence."

"Are you speaking seriously, Señor Don Aníbal, and can I credit the
words which it pleases you to address to me at this moment?"

"Why should it not be so, Señor Conde?" the hacendero said, with an
almost imperceptible tinge of sarcasm.

"Why?" the count remarked with considerable vehemence; but at once
checking himself he continued in that cold and lightly mocking
tone natural to him, "A truce, if you please, to compliments and
protestations in which neither of us believes, and let us come to
facts."

"Be it so, Señor Conde," Don Aníbal replied, still obsequious. "Let us
come to facts, I desire nothing more."

There was a silence for two or three moments. At length the count
continued--

"Caballero, I have come to visit you, not as alcade mayor of the
province, a title I do not possess, and to which I have no claim, but
merely as alcade of the town of Leona Vicario, in the territory of
which your property is partly included, and from the jurisdiction of
which you naturally append."

"Naturally!" the hacendero repeated. "Ah! I depend from the
jurisdiction of Leona Vicario. I thank you for the information,
Señor Conde. I confess to you that I was completely ignorant of the
fact, having, whether rightly or wrongly, a habit of recognizing no
jurisdiction but my own in matters that occur on my estates."

"As you see, caballero, you are wrong."

"Be it so; but in my turn, Señor Conde, I will say, with your
permission, enough of this. For I suppose that it is not with the
purpose of giving me this most important information, for which I thank
you, that you have ridden such a distance, and taken the trouble to
come hither."

"You are right, caballero, I had another motive in coming here."

"And may I hope that you will deign to let me know it?"

"Without further delay, señor."

"I am waiting with the most lively impatience, Señor Conde."

"I have come, caballero," the alcade mayor continued with a tinge of
threatening hauteur, "to ask you by what right you have assembled at
your hacienda so large a number of individuals who have all been long
known as haters of the king's government?"

Don Aníbal was preparing to answer this question in a manner at least
quite as haughty as that in which it was asked, but Father Pelagio,
who had hitherto seemed to attach but slight importance to the
conversation, suddenly drew himself up, and seizing Don Aníbal by the
arm gently thrust him on one side, and coldly said to the count--

"It is my place to answer this, Señor Alcade."

At this interpellation, which he was far from expecting, the count
looked with surprise at the man who was addressing him, and noticing
his shabby clothes said disdainfully--

"Who are you, my good fellow, and by what right do you take the liberty
of addressing me?"

"Ah, ah, it appears that my disguise is good, Señor Conde," the priest
said mockingly, "since you, to whom my features are so familiar, do not
recognize me."

"Can it be possible?" the count exclaimed in surprise, after examining
the speaker more attentively. "What, you here! Oh, I am no longer
astonished at the ferments of revolt which are springing up again in
all parts of the province. It is you, unworthy minister of a God of
peace, who, forgetting your holy mission, are spreading discord and
preaching insurrection to the masses."

"You are mistaken, count," the priest answered, "I preach a holy war:
but, believe me, caballero, threats or insults are unadvisable between
us; it would be neither prudent nor courteous on your part to offer
them to me, and I warn you that I will not put up with them. You want
to know what we are doing here? I will tell you. We are conspiring
the overthrow of the government you serve, and at the moment when you
arrived we were taking an oath to conquer or die in regaining our
liberty. Is there anything else you desire to know? Speak, and I am
ready to satisfy you."

The count smiled sorrowfully.

"No," he answered, "poor madmen, I have nothing more to learn. What can
you tell me that I do not already know? Was not the long struggle you
have sustained up to this day sufficient to prove to you the inutility
of a mad resistance against a power too strongly established for your
obstinate efforts to succeed even in shaking it? Listen to what I am
instructed to say to you in the name of his Excellency the Viceroy."

"Speak," Fray Pelagio said, coldly, "and speak loud, Señor Conde, so
that we may clearly hear the propositions you have to make to us."

"Propositions?" he replied haughtily. "I have none to make to you. I
have orders to intimate, nothing else."

"Orders? That is very haughty language. Have you forgotten where you
are, and who are the men surrounding you?"

"I have forgotten nothing I ought to remember, caballero, believe me.
Renounce an impossible contest; withdraw peacefully, all of you, to
your houses; and possibly the government, taking pity on you, will
consent to close its eyes upon this insensate and purposeless attempt."

A frightful outburst of yells and threats greeted this contemptuous
summons. The count, with a smile on his lips, a calm brow, and head
aloft, remained unmoved by this general indignation.

"Silence," the Father shouted; "and you, Señor Conde," he added,
addressing the alcade mayor, "how many lives have you to risk when you
dare offer us such an insult? Do you think yourself in perfect safety?
In your turn listen to our reply--it will be brief."

"I am listening," he said.

"The weapons we take up today we shall not lay down till the last
Spaniard has quitted the soil of Mexico."

Frenzied applause and shouts of joy arose from all sides at these words.

"Be it so, señores," the count replied; "the blood shed will be
on your own heads. In the name of the king I declare you infamous
traitors, and, as such, outlaws. Farewell!"

And without condescending to bow to the company, the count, after
looking defiantly around him, turned and left the hall with the same
calm and measured step as when he entered it. Father Pelagio then bent
down to Don Aníbal's ear.

"Follow him," he said in a low voice, "and do not let him quit the
hacienda till you know his instructions and the repressive measures the
government intend to employ against us."

"That will be difficult," the hacendero observed.

"Not so much so as you suppose. The count is an old friend of
yours. Take advantage of the late hour to oblige him to accept your
hospitality, and remain here till tomorrow. In our present position,
twenty-four hours gained may ensure the success of our plans. I reckon
on your skill to decide him."

"I will try," Don Aníbal answered, shaking his head doubtfully; "but I
am afraid I shall fail in this delicate mission."

"Try impossibilities, my friend," Fray Pelagio pressed him.

Don Aníbal bowed and left the hall.




CHAPTER VII.

A CONVERSATION.


Among the persons present at the meeting, was one to whom we have
not alluded, although he is destined to play an important part in
this story, and who perhaps listened with more interest than anyone
else to what was said. This person, to whom we have now to turn our
attention, was Sotavento, the Indian majordomo, so liked by Don Aníbal
de Saldibar, and whose gloomy outline was described in our earlier
chapters.

Sotavento had not altered; nearly a dozen years had passed over his
head without leaving the slightest trace; his hair was still as
black, his face as cold, and his person as upright. Indians have this
peculiarity, that, whatever their age may be, they always seem young,
and do not really begin to display any signs of decrepitude until they
reach the last limits of old age.

We several times came across redskins who mentioned to us facts that
occurred sixty years back, and yet they did not themselves look more
than five and thirty. Moreover, it is impossible to fix with any
certainty an Indian's age, even when his features bear the stamp of
senility, for the simple reason that the savages do not try by any
ceremony to fix in their minds the precise date of their children's
birth, and limit themselves to recording, by the name they give
them, at what spot, in what season, and under what physical or moral
influence they are born; hence the names of plants, animals, rivers,
mountains, etc., which nearly all the redskins bear.

Sotavento, during the twelve years that had elapsed, had not left his
master. He had continued to serve him with such fidelity and devotion
that the latter, in spite of his indomitable Castilian pride, had
almost come to regard his majordomo more as a friend than a servant,
and to treat him accordingly. The conduct of this man, although still
stamped with a certain mystery, had constantly been loyal, apparently
at least, and under two critical circumstances he had bravely exposed
his life to save his master's.

Still, in spite of the proofs of devotion which could not be disputed,
this man inspired all those with whom chance brought him into contact
(always excepting Don Aníbal) with a repugnance and antipathy which
nothing could overcome; and, singular to say, the better he was known
and the longer, the less people liked him, and the more they tried to
avoid having anything to do with him. Still, his manners were gentle,
polite, even affable; he liked to do services, and eagerly seized
every opportunity to be agreeable, even to persons who must be quite
indifferent to him.

Whence came this general repulsion for this man? No one could have
said: it was instinctive; when people were near him they felt an
emotion like that caused by the sight of a reptile. Don Aníbal alone
shrugged his shoulders with a smile of contempt when any doubts or
fears were expressed in his presence about the character of the man
whom he had made his confidant. Was he wrong or right? The conclusion
will probably show.

The majordomo stepped unnoticed out of the hall after his master, and
leaving the latter to go in search of Count de Melgosa, who had already
reached the patio, and was about giving his servants the necessary
orders for departure, he quietly entered the inner apartments, went
through several rooms, and reached an octagonal parlour of small size,
whose windows looked out on the huerta, which at that moment was filled
with horses and armed men who had formed a temporary bivouac there. On
reaching it the Indian looked searchingly around him, then, going to
the door, bent his body forward, and seemed to be listening.

"They are coming," he said to himself, almost immediately after.

With one bound he reached the other end of the room, opened, with a
key that hung from his neck by a thin steel chain, a door carefully
concealed in the wall, took a final glance of singular meaning at the
door of the room, and then disappeared, closing the panel, which moved
noiselessly in a groove, at the very moment when Don Aníbal entered the
room, accompanied by the count.

"Here," the hacendero said, pointing to a butaca, "we can converse at
our ease, without fear of being disturbed by intruders."

"I assure you that I have nothing to say to you; still, if you desire
to exchange a few words with me while my servants are saddling the
horses, it will afford me great pleasure."

While saying this, the count seated himself.

"Oh, oh!" the hacendero remarked, with a smile, "Is that your tone? I
cannot believe that you really intend to go away so speedily; it cannot
be so, for the honour of my house. My dear count, old friends as we
are must separate with mutual satisfaction, and when all the duties of
hospitality have been strictly fulfilled."

"My dear Don Aníbal, at the present day," the count said with reserve,
"the duties of hospitality have become, I fear, very weak ties, and are
not strong enough to retain anybody."

"Do not believe that," Don Aníbal exclaimed warmly; "friendship has its
undeniable rights, and if fate has cast us into two opposite parties,
we ought only to esteem each other the more for having followed our
convictions."

"Unfortunately, Don Aníbal, but few friendships resist political
hatreds. However great the affection may be we feel for a man, however
powerful the sympathy we may have with him, when a community of
thought no longer exists, when everything separates you, indifference
inevitably succeeds friendship, and, as you know, from indifference to
hatred is only a step."

"Which, I trust, you have not yet taken, my dear count, for our
friendship is one of those which nothing can weaken, as it rests on too
solid a basis--an oath of vengeance which we took together--and which
we have as yet been unable to accomplish, in spite of all our efforts."

The count's brow was contracted by a painful thought.

"Yes," he murmured, "you are right, Don Aníbal; there is a vengeance we
have sworn to take. Oh, whatever may happen, I will keep my oath."

"Perhaps," the hacendero continued, "the hour is nearer at hand than
you suppose."

"Is that the truth, Don Aníbal?" he exclaimed, suddenly starting up.
"Shall we at length reach the object for which we have so long been
striving?"

"I hope so, Señor Conde; as I am more at liberty than you, and better
situated to obtain information, I believe that I am at last on the
track."

"Speak, speak! What do you know, my friend?"

"Speaking today would perhaps be imprudent. I do not wish to leave
anything to chance; give me a few more days, and then--"

"But," the count interrupted him passionately, "the insult I have to
avenge is more serious than yours; my murdered brother, my boy carried
off, perhaps killed, whose blood is incessantly crying out after their
cowardly and barbarous murderers."

"And I have my wife, my well-beloved wife, who was rendered mad by
terror, and my daughter, who escaped by a miracle from the frightful
sting of a snake. Oh, believe me, count, I suffer as much as you, for
all my happiness has been for ever destroyed."

There was a moment of painful silence. The two gentlemen, lying back in
their butacas, with their heads buried in their hands, remained plunged
in gloomy and sorrowful thoughts. At length the hacendero spoke.

"Still," he said, "on reflection, I think that it will be better both
for you and me to come to a thorough understanding about the steps we
mean to take, and arrange so that failure cannot be possible. But the
conversation will be a long one; I have much information to impart to
you, and so, my dear count, whether you like it or not, you must defer
your departure till tomorrow, and consent to pass the night beneath my
roof."

"I am in a very exceptional position here, Don Aníbal. The persons
assembled in the hacienda at this moment have a right to regard me as
an enemy, perhaps a spy. I should not like--"

"That concerns me, my dear count. Thank heaven, the well-known honour
of your character places you above all suspicion; and who knows,
perhaps your stay here, however short it may be, will not prove useless
to the cause you serve."

"What do you mean? Pray explain yourself, my friend, for I do not
understand you."

"You will soon do so; but for the present I shall feel obliged by your
not pressing the point."

"Very good; I will await a more propitious moment to obtain from you
the double explanation you promise me."

At this moment the door opened, and Don Melchior appeared. He bowed.

"Well, Don Melchior, what good wind has brought you here?" Don Aníbal
asked with a smile.

"The Señor Conde's horses are ready, father," he replied; "his people
are only awaiting his pleasure."

"Be good enough, my dear boy," the hacendero remarked, "to tell the
criados to take his Excellency's horses back to the stable, and to
unload the mules. The count does not start tonight, but deigns to spend
it under our humble roof."

"Still--" the count objected.

"You have promised me," Don Aníbal said quickly.

"Well, be it so," said the count, with his eyes fixed on the young man,
who was standing respectfully in the doorway.

At a sign from the hacendero, Melchior bowed, and left the room. The
count remained pensive for some moments, and then turned to his host.

"Have you not your old majordomo?" he asked him.

"Certainly. Why do you ask the question?"

"I fancied that young man had taken his place."

"Oh, no! That young man is not even one of my servants."

"Ah!"

"He is an orphan I have brought up."

"It is strange that I should have never seen him before."

"I presume you never noticed him before now."

"That is possible," the count said, suppressing a sigh, "still, it
seems to me, I know not why, that had I seen him before, his face would
not have passed out of my memory; there is something about it which
struck me. Have you had him long?"

"He was six years old, I believe, when Sotavento brought him to me.
Since that time he has constantly been with me; he is, I think, of
Indian origin, although his features are more marked than those of the
redskins, and his complexion whiter; but that means nothing on the
border, where crossings of breed are so frequent."

"That is true," the count murmured, as he passed his hand over his
forehead, as if to drive away a painful thought; "forgive me, my
friend, I do not know where my head was; the questions I asked you must
have appeared to you most indiscreet."

"Not at all; I am greatly attached to this young man, who deserves
in every respect all that I have done for him. Hence I can only feel
flattered when others beside myself take an interest in him, for it
proves that I was not deceived with respect to him. Now, that it is
arranged you will not start till tomorrow--"

"At sunrise," the count interrupted.

"Very good," the hacendero continued; "permit me to discharge a mission
I have undertaken toward you."

"A mission!" the count said with surprise.

"The word is perhaps very ambitious, but the matter is this--Father
Pelagio wishes you to give him an interview for a few minutes in this
room."

"Did I not see him just now, and did we not have a conversation?"

"That is true; but at the moment he was among too many persons to be
able to have an explanation with your Excellency, as he would have
probably desired."

"I do not know whether my instructions permit me to grant a
confidential interview to the person to whom you allude; still, not to
disoblige you, my dear Don Aníbal, and prove to you how anxious I am
to maintain the public tranquillity, I consent to the interview Father
Pelagio asks, on the condition, however, that you are present."

"Your Excellency anticipates my wish," the priest said as he entered
the room.

"You were listening to us, señor," the count remarked haughtily.

"Not at all, caballero; but, as I opened the door, I involuntary
overheard your last sentence, and I did not think that I committed any
indiscretion in proving to you that I heard it."

"Very good, I am ready to listen to you; but pray be brief."

"I have only a few words to say to you," Father Pelagio replied with a
bow.

"What is their nature?"

"I am about to have the honour of explaining. We regret, as much as
you do, caballero, the continued wretchedness which has weighed on our
unhappy country for so many years; far from wishing to recommence the
war, we desire, on the contrary, to obtain a durable peace, if it be
possible; but, in order to gain this result, which is the object we
desire, we must have the means of transmitting to his Excellency the
Viceroy our respectful entreaties."

"Respectful?" the count interrupted ironically.

The priest bowed, and continued without seeming to notice the accent in
which this word was uttered--

"We have, therefore, resolved on sending to the Viceroy one of our
friends intrusted with a humble petition, if you will consent,
Señor Conde, to pledge your honour that this petition shall reach
his Excellency, and that whatever the Viceroy's answer may be, our
ambassador will have nothing to fear, and be at liberty to go whither
he pleases, without being troubled, so soon as his mission is ended."

The count reflected for a moment.

"Listen," he said; "I know not whether rebels have the right to send
ambassadors to the chiefs of the government they are combating. Still,
as I sincerely desire peace, and as whatever may be the result of the
contest, Spanish blood will flow on both sides, and as I wish, as far
as depends on myself, to avoid a painful conflict, I pledge my honour,
not to lead your envoy to his Excellency the Viceroy, as that is
impossible, but to present him to the general commanding the province,
who, for my sake, will treat him respectfully, and who, if your
petition really contains quiet and respectful demands, will himself
place it before his Excellency the Viceroy; such is the only thing I
can undertake. If that suits you, very good; but it is impossible for
me to do more."

"Señor Conde, I expected no less from you, although what you offer does
not quite come up to our expectations. Still, we eagerly accept your
offer, as we desire to convince you of the frankness and loyalty of our
intentions. Tomorrow our envoy will follow you."

"That is settled, señor."

Father Pelagio bowed respectfully to the count, and withdrew. When Don
Aníbal found himself alone again with his friend, he begged him to
follow him to the room which had been prepared for him, and both went
out. The secret door gently opened, and Sotavento appeared, advancing
cautiously, and looking anxiously around him. When he was certain that
no one could surprise him, his eye flashed with a sinister gleam, and
making a menacing gesture, he said in a hollow voice--

"We shall see!"




CHAPTER VIII.

THE ENVOY.


After the count's somewhat precipitate retreat, and the mission
intrusted to Don Aníbal to detain him at the hacienda, if only for a
few hours, the Mexican insurgents continued discussing in the hall
the most fitting measures to obtain a speedy and good result for the
new uprising which was preparing. Father Pelagio then informed the
conspirators that this time the leaders of the revolutionary party
wished to deal a heavy blow, and finish, at all risks, with the Spanish
government. The secret societies spread over the country, and the
recently created Masonic lodges, had, in a general meeting, elected
as commander-in-chief of the national army Colonel Iturbide, whose
well-known military talents were a guarantee of success.

Colonel Iturbide, who was destined hereafter to proclaim himself
emperor, under the name of Agustín I., and fall beneath the bullets
of his own subjects, who condemned him and mercilessly shot him, when
he tried to regain the power he had allowed to slip from his grasp;
Iturbide, we say, is the sole truly skilful statesman Mexico has
produced since the revolution. He had served with distinction in the
Spanish army, and had on several occasions displayed a devotion to the
government which bordered on cruelty. Now that he was gained over to
the revolution, nothing would arrest him in attaining the object of his
secret ambition.

This time the Mexicans wished to avoid a serious fault into which they
had previously fallen, and which had not only fairly compromised their
cause but almost ruined it. This was the circumstance: When, in 1814,
the Spanish armies, beaten in every encounter, seemed on the point of
giving up the game, and yielding to the revolutionary turmoil, whose
triumphant principles seemed solidly established on the territory of
new Spain, General Morelos, at that time the most influential chief
of the liberal party, whose ideas secretly inclined to a republic,
established on the same basis as that of the United States, thought
that the hour had arrived to convene a national congress.

This congress, at first composed of only a dozen members, began its
session at Chilpancingo, where it promulgated decree upon decree; but
the d

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