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The Insurgent Chief

by Gustave Aimard · English · Gutenberg #45402 · 506,460 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Insurgent Chief

Author: Gustave Aimard


        
Release date: April 15, 2014 [eBook #45402]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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THE INSURGENT CHIEF.

by

GUSTAVE AIMARD,

Author of "Queen of the Savannah," "Indian Chief," "Red Track," etc,







London:
J. A. Berger, 13, Catherine St., Strand,
And All Booksellers.





THE INSURGENT CHIEF.



CONTENTS

Book I--THE PINCHEYRAS

       I. THE CALLEJÓN DE LAS CRUCES.
      II. THE LETTER.
     III. THE RECLUSES.
      IV. THE INTERVIEW.
       V. THE PREPARATIONS OF TYRO.
      VI. COMPLICATIONS.
     VII. THE PANIC.
    VIII. THE SOLITARY.
      IX. THE INDIAN.
       X. ACROSS COUNTRY.

Book II--THE MONTONERO

       I. EL RINCÓN DEL BOSQUECILLO.
      II. THE TREATY.
     III. THE COUGAR.
      IV. THE TWO CHIEFS.
       V. THE ROYAL ARMY.
      VI. AT CASA-FRAMA.
     VII. THE INTERVIEW.
    VIII. THE TOLDO.
      IX. IN THE MOUNTAIN.
       X. THE PARTISAN.
      XI. THE CAPTIVES.




BOOK I.--THE PINCHEYRAS



CHAPTER I.

THE CALLEJÓN DE LAS CRUCES.


Although the town of San Miguel de Tucuman is not very ancient, and its
construction dates scarcely two centuries back, nevertheless--thanks,
perhaps, to the calm and studious population which inhabit it--it has
a certain middle age odour which is profusely exhaled from the old
cloisters of its convents, and from the thick and gloomy walls of its
churches. The grass in the low quarters of the town freely grows in
the nearly always deserted streets; and here and there some wretched
old house crumbling with age, leaning over the river which washes its
foundations, incomprehensible miracle of equilibrium--presents to the
curious look of the artistic traveller the most picturesque effects.

The Callejón de las Cruces, especially--a narrow and tortuous street,
lined with low and sombre houses--which at one end abuts on the river,
and at the other on the street de las Mercaderes, is, without doubt,
one of the most singularly picturesque in the town.

At the period of our history, and perhaps at the present time, the
greater part of the right side of the Callejón de las Cruces was
occupied by a high and large house, of a cold and sombre aspect, whose
thick walls, and the iron bars with which its windows wore furnished,
made it resemble a prison.

However, it was nothing of the sort. This house was a kind of nunnery,
such as are often met with even, now in Belgian and Dutch Flanders, so
long possessed by the Spaniards, and which served for a retreat for
women of all classes of society, who, without having positively taken
vows, wished to live sheltered from the storms of the world, and to
devote the remainder of their lives to exercises of piety, and works of
benevolence.

As the reader has seen, by the description which we gave of the place
when it came under notice, this house was thoroughly appropriated to
its uses, and there continually reigned around it a peacefulness and a
calm which made it rather resemble a vast necropolis than a partially
religious community of women.

Every sound died without an echo on the threshold of the door of this
gloomy house; sounds of joy, as well as cries of anger--the uproars
of _fêtes_, as well as the rumblings on insurrection--nothing could
galvanise it, or rouse it from its majestic and sombre indifference.

However, one evening--the very night when the governor of San Miguel
had given, at the Cabildo, a ball to celebrate the victory gained by
Zeno Cabral over the Spaniards[1]--towards midnight, a troop of armed
men, whose measured tread sounded heavily in the darkness, had left
the street de las Mercaderes, turned into the Callejón de las Cruces,
and, having reached the massive and solidly bolted door of the house of
which we have spoken, they stopped.

He who appeared to be the chief of these men had knocked three times
with the pommel of his sword on the door, which was immediately opened.

This man had, in a low voice, exchanged a few words with an invisible
person; then, on a sign from himself, the ranks of his troop opened,
and four women--four spectres, perhaps--draped in long veils, which
did not allow any part of their person to be perceived, entered
the house silently, and in a line. Some few words further had been
exchanged between the chief of the troop and the invisible doorkeeper
of this mysterious house; then the door had been again noiselessly
closed, as it had been opened; the soldiers returned by the way they
had come, and all was over.

This singular circumstance had transpired without awakening in any way
the attention of the poor people who lived in the vicinity. The greater
part were assisting at the _fête_ in the streets or in the squares of
the high quarters of the town; the remainder were sleeping, or Were
too indifferent to trouble themselves about any noise whatever at so
advanced an hour of the night.

So that, on the morrow, the inhabitants of the Callejón de las Cruces
would have been quite unable to give the slightest account of what had
passed at midnight in their street, at the gate of the Black House as
among themselves they called this gloomy habitation, for which they had
a strong dislike, and which was far from enjoying a good reputation
among them.

Several days had passed since the _fête_, the town had resumed its calm
and peaceful appearance, only the troops had not raised their camp--on
the contrary, the _Montonera_ of Don Zeno Cabral had installed itself
at a short distance from them.

Vague rumours, which circulated in the town, gave rise to the belief
that the revolutionists were preparing a great expedition against the
Spaniards.

Emile Gagnepain--much annoyed at first at being continually the sport
of events, and at seeing his free will completely annihilated for
the benefit of others, and especially at being obliged, in spite of
himself, to be mixed up with politics, when he would have been so happy
to pass his days in wandering about the country, and particularly in
dreamily stretching himself on the grass--had finished by making up
his mind to these continual quarrels in which he could do nothing. He
had, till better times arrived, resigned himself to his fate with that
philosophic carelessness which formed the foundation of his character;
and this the more readily, as he was not long in perceiving that his
position as secretary to the Duc de Mantone was rather nominal than
actual, and that, in fact, it was a magnificent sinecure, inasmuch as
during the fortnight he had been supposed to fulfil its duties, the
diplomatist had not given him a syllable to write.

Although both lived in the same house, the patron and the nominal
secretary only saw one another rarely, and, ordinarily, did not meet
but at meals, when the same table served them. Two or three days
sometimes passed without their seeing each other.

M. Dubois, completely absorbed in the intricate combinations of
politics, often passed the day in long and serious conferences with
the chiefs of the executive power. He had been charged with a very
difficult work on the election of the deputies to the general congress,
which was about to be held at San Miguel de Tucuman, and in which the
independence of the provinces of the ancient vice-royalty of Buenos
Aires was about to be proclaimed.

So that, spite of the lively interest which he had in his young
countryman, the diplomatist was obliged to neglect him--of which
the latter by no means complained; on the contrary, profiting
conscientiously by the agreeable leisure which politics gave to him,
he gave himself up with delight to the contemplative life so dear to
artists, and lounged whole days about the town and country, in quest of
picturesque points of view, and of fine landscapes.

This search was by no means unprofitable in a country such as that in
which he was accidently living, where nature, yet but little spoiled
or marred by the unintelligent hand of man, possessed that seal of
majesty and of grandeur which God alone knows how to impress so royally
alike upon the most vast and the meanest works which spring from His
all-powerful hands.

The inhabitants, accustomed to see the young man among them,
attracted by his handsome and frank countenance, by his gentle
manners and his careless air, were, by degrees, familiarised with
him; and, notwithstanding that he was a European, and especially a
Frenchman--that is to say, a _gringo_ or heretic--had at last come to
be very friendly to him, and allowed him to go wherever fancy led him,
without following him with an uneasy curiosity, or worrying him with
indiscreet questions.

Moreover, in the state of political excitement in which the country was
at this time, when every passion was in ebullition, and revolutionary
ideas turned every head, it appeared so strange to see a man walking
about continually with an unconcerned air, carelessly looking about him
with a smile on his lips, and his hands in his pockets, without regret
for yesterday or care for tomorrow, that this man justly passed for a
kind of phenomenon. Everyone envied him, and felt constrained to love
him, by reason even of his placid indifference. He alone, perhaps, did
not perceive the effect produced by his presence, when he rambled about
the square or the most populous streets of the town; and he continued
his promenade without even considering that he was for those whose path
he crossed a walking enigma, of which they vainly sought the key. Some
even, quite astounded by this magnificent indifference, which they
could not comprehend, went so far as to believe that if he were not
completely mad, at least he had some tendencies that way.

Emile occupied himself neither with one nor the other. He continued
his careless open air life, following with his eyes the birds in their
flight, listening for hours together to the mysterious murmur of a
cascade, or in rapture with a splendid sunset in the Cordillera. Then,
in the evening, he philosophically re-entered his lodging, murmuring
between his teeth:

"Is not all this admirable! How much better this than politics!
_Parbleu!_ He must be an idiot who does not see it. Positively, people
are absurd, they are asses! They would be so happy if they would only
consent to live carelessly, without seeking to free themselves from
their masters. As if, when some masters are gone, others will not
immediately come! Positively they are animals fit to eat hay!"

The next day he resumed his walks, and so day after day, without
worrying himself about a mode of life so agreeable and happy; and in
this he was perfectly right.

The young painter, as we have already said, lived in a house placed at
the disposal of M. Dubois by the Buenos Airean Government, and situated
on the Plaza Mayor, under the gates. The young man, on stepping out
of his house, found himself in face of a wide street, furnished with
shops, which led out of the square. This street was the Calle de las
Mercaderes. Now, the painter had been in the habit of going straight
on, of following the Calle Mercaderes, at the end of which was the
Callejón de las Cruces; he then entered the Callejón, and arrived,
without any turning, at the river. Thus, twice a day--in the morning in
going out, and in the evening in returning from his promenade--Emile
Gagnepain passed the entire length of the Callejón de las Cruces.

He stopped sometimes for a considerable time to admire the graceful
outline of some gable ends, dating from the earlier years of the
conquest, and preferred to traverse this silent and solitary street,
where he could freely give himself up to his thoughts without fear
of being interrupted, rather than to take the streets of the higher
quarters, where it was impossible to take a step without meeting some
acquaintance whom he could not have passed without exchanging a few
words, or at least without a bow--things which annoyed him much, as
they broke the thread of his thoughts.

One morning when, according to custom, Emile Gagnepain had begun his
walk, and was pensively traversing the Callejón de las Cruces, at the
moment when he was passing the house of which we have spoken, he felt a
slight tap on the crown of his hat, as if some light object had struck
it, and a flower immediately fell at his feet.

The young man stopped with astonishment. His first movement was to
raise his head, but he saw nothing; the old house had still its
accustomed mournful and sombre aspect.

"Hum!" murmured he; "What does that mean? This flower, at all events,
has not fallen from the sky."

He stooped down, picked it up delicately, and examined it with care.

It was a white rose, scarcely half opened, and still fresh and damp
with dew.

Emile remained an instant wrapped in thought.

"Well, that is odd," said he; "this flower has only been gathered a
few minutes; is it not to me that it has been thrown? Nay," added he,
looking around him, "it would be very difficult to have thrown it
to another, for I am alone. This deserves reflection. I must not be
carried away by vanity. I'll wait till the evening."

And he continued his walk, after having vainly explored, with an
anxious look, all the windows of this solitary house.

This incident, slight as it was, was sufficient to trouble the artist
during the remainder of his promenade.

He was young, he believed himself good-looking; and, moreover, he
had more than a reasonable share of vanity. His imagination soon
carried him away. He called to mind all the love stories he had heard
related in relation to Spain; and, putting this and that together,
he soon arrived at this conclusion, excessively flattering to his
self-love--that a beautiful _Señora_, held prisoner by some jealous
husband, had seen him pass under her windows, had felt herself drawn
towards him by an irresistible passion, and had thrown him this flower
to attract his attention.

This conclusion was absurd, it was true but it immensely pleased the
painter, whose self-love, as we have said, it flattered.

During the whole day the young man was burning with anxiety; twenty
times he thought of returning, but, happily, reflection came to his
aid, and he came to the conclusion that too much haste would compromise
the success of his adventure, and that it would be better not again to
pass the house till the hour when he was in the habit of returning home.

"In this way," said he, with a knowing air--questioning himself to
avoid a disillusion, if, which was possible, he was deceived--"if she
expects me, she will throw me another flower; then I will buy a guitar,
a mantle the colour of the wall, and I will come like a lover of the
time of the Cid Campeador, by starlight, to tell her my love."

But, notwithstanding this mockery, which he addressed to himself as he
wandered about, he was much more concerned in the matter than he was
ready to confess, and every moment he was consulting his watch to see
if the hour for his return was near.

Although we may not be in love--and certainly the painter only felt
at this moment a curiosity which he could not explain; for it was
impossible for him to entertain any other feeling for a person whom
he did not know: nevertheless the unknown--the unforeseen, if you
will--has an indefinable charm, and exerts a powerful attraction on
certain excitable organisations, which induces them in a moment to
build up suppositions which they are not slow to consider as realities,
until the truth suddenly comes, as a drop of cold water thrown into a
boiling fluid will in a moment stop the evaporation of steam.

When the painter thought the hour had arrived, he turned back towards
home. Affecting, perhaps, a little too visibly--if anyone had had an
interest in watching his movements and gestures--the manners of a man
completely indifferent, he reached the Callejón de las Cruces, and soon
arrived near the house.

Spite of himself, the young man felt that he was flushed; his heart
beat rapidly, and he had a buzzing in his ears, as when the blood,
suddenly excited, rushes to the head.

All of a sudden, he felt a pretty smart shock to his hat.

He briskly raised his head.

Sudden as had been his movement, he could see nothing; only he heard a
slight noise as if a window had been cautiously closed.

Disappointed at this second and unsuccessful attempt to perceive
the person who was thus interested in him, he remained for a moment
motionless; then, recollecting the ridiculousness of his position in
the middle of a street, and under the eyes of people who were, perhaps,
watching him from behind a window blind, he resumed his apparent
coolness and indifference, and looked on the ground about him for the
object which had so suddenly struck him.

He soon perceived it two or three paces from him.

This time it was not a flower. The object, whatever it was--for at
first he could not be certain of it--was enveloped in paper, and tied
carefully with a purple silk thread several times round the paper.

"Oh, oh!" thought the painter, picking up the little roll of paper, and
rapidly hiding it in the pocket of the waistcoat which he wore under
his poncho; "This complicates the matter. Are we already to write to
one another? The devil! This is making rapid progress, indeed!"

He began to walk rapidly to reach his lodgings; but soon reflecting
that this unaccustomed proceeding would astonish people who were in
the habit of seeing him, lounging and looking about him, he checked
himself, and resumed his ordinary pace.

But his hand was incessantly going to his pocket, to feel the object
which he had so carefully deposited there.

"God pardon me," said he, after a time! "I believe it is a ring. Oh,
oh! That would be charming! Upon, my word, I return to my first idea--I
will buy a guitar, and a mantle the colour of the wall, and in making
love to my beautiful unknown--for she is beautiful, I doubt not--I will
forget the torments of exile. But," said he, suddenly stopping right
in the middle of the square, and throwing up his arms with a desperate
air, "if she is ugly! Ugly women have often extraordinary ideas which
seize them, they know not why. Ah! That would be frightful! Come! What
am I talking about? The devil take me, if I am not becoming stupid! She
cannot be ugly, for the very simple, reason that all the Spaniards are
pretty."

And reassured by this reasoning, the deduction from which was so
pleasant, the young man pursued his journey.

As the reader has been in a position to perceive, Emile Gagnepain loved
talking to himself--sometimes even he went to extravagant lengths--but
the fault was not his. Thrown by chance in a foreign land, only
speaking with difficulty the language of the people among whom he found
himself, and not having near him any friend to whom he could confide
his joys and his troubles, he was to some extent obliged to make a
confidant of himself; so true is it that man is an eminently social
animal, and that life in common is indispensable to him, through the
incessant want which he experiences in each circumstance of his life,
of unburdening his heart, and of sharing with some one of his own
species the sweet or painful sentiments which it feels.

While he was still reflecting, the young man arrived at the house
which, he occupied in common with M. Dubois.

An attendant seemed to be waiting for his arrival. As soon as he
perceived the painter, he quickly approached him, and after having
respectfully saluted him--

"I beg your pardon, your lordship," said he to him, "my lord duke has
several times asked for you today. He has left orders that as soon as
you arrive we should ask you to go to his apartment."

"Very well," he answered, "I will go there immediately."

So saying, instead of turning to the right to enter the part of the
house which he occupied, he went towards the great staircase situated
at the bottom of the court, and which led to the apartment of M. Dubois.

"Is it not strange," murmured he, mounting the staircase, "that this
nuisance of a man, of whom I never know how to speak, should just want
me at the very moment when I desire to be alone?"

M. Dubois waited for him in a large room rather richly furnished, in
which he was pacing up and down, his head lowered and his arms crossed
behind his back, like a man occupied with serious reflections.

As soon as he perceived the young man, he advanced rapidly towards him.

"Oh, you have come!" cried he. "For two hours I have been waiting for
you. What has become of you?"

"I! Why, I have been walking. What would you have me do? Life is so
short!"

"Always the same!" pursued the duke, laughing.

"I shall take good care not to change; I am too happy as I am."

"Sit down, we have to talk seriously."

"The devil!" said the young man, seating himself on a butaca.

"Why this exclamation?"

"Because your exordium appears to me to be of bad omen."

"Come, you who are so brave!"

"That's possible, but, you know, I have an unconquerable fear of
politics, and it is probably of politics that you wish to talk to me."

"You have guessed it at the first trial."

"Then, I was sure of it," said he, with a despairing air.

"This is the matter on hand--"

"Pardon, could you not put off this grave conversation to a later
period?"

"Why should I do so?"

"Why, because that would be so much gained for me."

"Impossible!" pursued M. Dubois, laughing; "You must take your part in
it."

"Then, since it must be so," said he, with a sigh, "what is the
question?"

"Here are the facts in a few words. You know that affairs are becoming
more and more serious, and that the Spaniards, who, it was hoped, were
conquered, have resumed a vigorous offensive, and have gained some
important successes for some time past."

"I! I know nothing at all, I assure you."

"But how do you pass your time, then?"

"I have told you--I walk; I admire the works of God--which, between
ourselves, I find much superior to those of men--and I am happy."

"You are a philosopher."

"I do not know."

"In a word, here is the matter in question. The Government, frightened,
with reason, at the progress of the Spaniards, wish to put an end to it
by uniting against them all the forces of which they can dispose."

"Very sensibly reasoned; but what can I do in all this?"

"You shall see."

"I ask nothing better."

"The Government wishes, then, to concentrate all its forces to strike a
great blow. Emissaries have already been dispatched in all directions
to inform the generals; but while we attack the enemy in front, it is
important, in order to assure their defeat, to place them between two
fires."

"That is to reason strategically, like Napoleon."

"Now, our general only is in a position to operate on the rear of the
enemy, and to cut off his retreat This general is San Martin, who is
now in Chili, at the head of an army of 10,000 men. Unhappily, it
is excessively difficult to traverse the Spanish lines; but I have
suggested to the council an infallible means of doing so."

"You are full of schemes."

"This means consists in dispatching you to St. Martin. You are a
foreigner; they will not distrust you; you will pass in safety, and you
will remit to the general the orders of which you will be the bearer--"

"Or I shall be arrested and hanged."

"Oh! That is not probable."

"But it is possible. Well, my dear sir, your project is charming."

"Is it not?"

"Yes, but on thorough reflection it does not please me at all, and I
absolutely refuse it. The devil! I do not care to be hanged as a spy
for a cause which is foreign to me, and of which I know nothing at all."

"What you say to me annoys me to the last degree, for I interest myself
very much in you."

"I thank you for it, but I prefer that you should leave me in my
obscurity. I am unambitiously retiring."

"I know it. Unhappily it is absolutely necessary that you charge
yourself with this mission."

"Oh, indeed! It will be difficult for you to convince me of that."

"You are in error, my young friend; on the contrary, it will be very
easy to me."

"I do not believe it."

"In this way: it appears that two Spanish prisoners, arrested some days
ago at the Cabildo, and whose trial is proceeding at this moment, have
charged you in their depositions, asserting that you are perfectly
acquainted with their plans--in a word, that you were one of their
accomplices."

"I!" cried the young man, starting with rage.

"You!" coolly answered the diplomatist "It was then a question of
arresting you; the order was already signed when, not wishing you to be
shot, I intervened in the discussion."

"I thank you for it."

"You know how much I love you. I warmly took up your defence,
until--forced into my last retrenchments, and seeing that your
destruction was resolved upon--I found no other expedient to make
your innocence apparent to all, than to propose you as an emissary to
General San Martin, asserting that you would be happy to give this
pledge of your devotion to the revolution."

"But it is a horrible murder!" cried the young man, with despair; "I am
in a fix!"

"Alas; yes, you see me afflicted at it--hanged by the Spaniards, if
they take you--but they will not take you--or shot by the Buenos
Aireans, if you refuse to serve them as an emissary."

"It is frightful," said the young man, utterly cast down; "never did an
honest man find himself in so cruel an alternative."

"On which do you decide?"

"Have I the choice?"

"Why, look--reflect."

"I accept," said he, expressing a strong wish as to the fate of those
who had thus entrapped him.

"Come, come, calm yourself. The danger is not so great as you suppose.
Your mission, I hope, will terminate well."

"When I dreamed that I had come to America to study art, and to escape
politics, what a fine idea I had then!"

M. Dubois could not help laughing.

"Grumble now; later you will relate your adventures."

"The fact is, that if I go on as now, they will be considerably varied.
It is necessary that I set out immediately, no doubt?"

"No, we are not going on so rapidly as that. You have all the time
necessary to make your preparations. Your journey will be long and
difficult."

"How much time can I have to get ready to leave?"

"I have obtained eight days--ten at most. Will that suffice you?"

"Amply. Once more I thank you."

The countenance of the young man suddenly brightened, and it was with a
smile on his lips that he added--

"And during this time I shall be free to dispose of myself as I like."

"Absolutely."

"Well," pursued he, grasping heartily the hand of M. Dubois, "I do not
know why, but I begin to be of your opinion."

"In what way?" said the diplomatist, surprised at the sudden change
manifested by the young man.

"I believe that all will finish better than I at first thought."

And after having ceremoniously saluted the old man, he left the saloon
and went to his apartments.

M. Dubois followed him a moment with his eyes.

"He meditates some folly," murmured he, shaking his head several times.
"In his own interest I will watch him."


[1] See "The Guide of the Desert."




CHAPTER II.

THE LETTER.


The painter had taken refuge in his apartments, a prey to extreme
agitation.

Having reached his bedroom, he doubly locked the door; then, certain
that for a time no one would come to thrust him out of this last
asylum, he allowed himself to fall heavily on a _butaca_, threw his
body backward, leaned his head forward, crossed his arms over his
chest, and--an extraordinary thing for an organisation like his--he
gave himself up to sad and profound reflections.

At first he called to mind--tormented as he was by the saddest
presentiments--all the events which had happened to him since his
arrival in America.

The list was long, and by no means pleasant.

At the end of half an hour, the artist arrived at this miserable
conclusion--that, from the first moment that he had placed his foot
on the New World, Fate had taken a malicious pleasure in falling
furiously upon him, and in making him the sport of the most disastrous
combinations, spite of the efforts that he had made to remain
constantly free from politics, and to live as a true artist, without
occupying himself with what was passing around him.

"_Pardieu!_" he cried, angrily striking with his hand the arm of his
chair, "it must be confessed that I have no chance! In conditions like
these, life becomes literally impossible. Better a hundred times would
it have been for me to remain in France, where at least I should have
been allowed to live quietly, and in my own fashion! A pretty situation
is this of mine--placed here, without knowing why, between the gun and
the gallows! Why, it is absurd, it is unheard-of! The devil take these
Americans and Spaniards! As if they could not quarrel with one another
without bringing into the dispute a poor painter, who has nothing to
do with it, and who is travelling as an amateur in their country! They
have, indeed, a singular manner of rendering hospitality, these pretty
fellows! I compliment them sincerely upon it. And I, who was persuaded,
on the faith of travellers, that America was, _par excellence_, the
land of hospitality--the country of simple and patriarchal manners.
Trust to narratives of travel--those who take such pleasure in leading
the public into error, ought to be burnt alive! What is to be done?
What is to become of me? I have eight days before me, says that old
lynx of a diplomatist, to whom, however, I shall preserve eternal
gratitude for his proceedings in my behalf. What a charming compatriot
I have met there. How fortunate I have been with him. Well, no matter,
I must make up my mind what to do. But what? I see nothing but flight!
Hum! flight--that's not easy; I shall be closely watched. Unhappily,
I have no choice; come, let me study a plan of escape. Away with the
wretched fate which obstinately makes of my life a melodrama, when I
employ all my powers to make it a vaudeville!"

Upon this the young man, whose gaiety of disposition gained the victory
over the anxiety which agitated him, set himself--half laughing, half
seriously--to reflect anew.

He remained thus for more than an hour, without stirring from his
_butaca_, and without making the least movement.

It cannot be denied that at the end of that time he was as far advanced
as before; that is to say, that he had hit upon nothing.

"Well, I give it up for the present," he cried, rising suddenly; "my
imagination absolutely refuses me its aid! It is always so. Well, I,
who wanted sensation, cannot complain; it is to be hoped that for some
time past I have had enough of it, and of the most poignant sensation
too!"

Then he began to stride about his room, to stretch his legs,
mechanically rolled up a cigarette, and felt in his pocket for his
_mechero_ to light it.

In the movement which he made in searching for it, he felt in his
waistcoat pocket something which he did not remember to have placed
there; he looked at it.

"_Pardieu!_" said he, striking his forehead, "I had completely
forgotten my mysterious unknown; but that's accounted for by my
vexation! If this lasts only for eight days, I am convinced I shall
completely go out of my mind. Let me see what it is that she has so
adroitly dropped on my hat."

While he soliloquised, the painter had drawn from his pocket the little
roll of paper, and attentively considered it.

"It is extraordinary," continued he, "the influence which women exert,
perhaps unknown to ourselves, on the organisation of us men, and how
the most trivial thing which comes to us from one of them, who is
utterly unknown, immediately interests us."

He remained several moments turning about the paper in his hand,
without coming to the resolution to break the silk, which alone
prevented him from satisfying his curiosity, all the while continuing
in _petto_ his speculations on the probable contents of the packet.

At last, with a sudden resolution, he put an end to his hesitation, and
broke with his teeth the delicate silk thread, and then unrolled the
paper carefully. This paper, which--as the young man had conjectured
--served for an envelope, contained another, folded carefully, and
covered on every page with fine close writing.

Spite of himself, the young man felt a nervous trembling as he unfolded
this paper, in which a ring was enclosed.

This ring was but a simple gold ring, in which was set a Balas ruby, of
great value.

"What does this mean?" murmured the young man, admiring the ring, and
trying it mechanically on all his fingers.

But although the artist had a very beautiful hand--thing of which, in
parenthesis, he was very proud--this ring was so small, that it was
only on the little finger that he could succeed in putting it on, and
this with some difficulty.

"This person is evidently deceived," pursued the painter; "I cannot
keep this ring; I will return it, come what may. But to do that I
must know the individual, and I have no other means of obtaining this
information except by reading her letter. I'll read it, then."

The artist was at this moment in the singular position of a man who
feels himself gliding down a rapid decline, at the foot of which is a
precipice, and who, perceiving that he has not the power successfully
to resist the impulse which controls him, endeavours to prove to
himself that he does right to abandon himself to it.

But before opening the paper, which he apparently held with such a
careless hand, and on which he looked so disdainfully--so much, say
what we may, is man (that being said to be made in the image of his
Maker) always a comedian, even to himself, when no one can see him,
because even then he tries to impose upon his self-love--the artist
went to try the lock, to see if the door was firmly fastened, and that
no one could surprise him; then he slowly returned, sat himself on the
_butaca_, and unfolded the paper.

It was, indeed, a letter, written in a fine close hand, but nervous and
agitated, which convinced him in a moment that it was a woman's writing.

The young man at first cursorily read it, and feigning to take but
moderate interest in it; but soon, spite of himself, he felt himself
influenced by what he learned. As he proceeded in his reading, he
found his interest increase; and when he had reached the last word, he
remained with his eyes fixed on the thin paper which was being crushed
in his convulsive fingers; and a considerable time elapsed before he
could succeed in conquering the strong emotion that this strange letter
had excited.

The following are the contents of this letter, the original of which
has for a long time remained in our hands, and which we translate
without comment:--

      "As an important preliminary, let me, Señor, claim,
      from your courtesy a formal promise--a promise in
      which you will not fail, I am convinced, if, as I
      have the presentiment, you are a true _caballero_. I
      demand that you read this letter without interruption
      from beginning to end, before passing any judgment
      whatever on her who addresses it to you."

      "You have sworn, have you not? Well, I thank you for
      the proof of confidence, and I begin without further
      preamble."

      "You are, Señor--if, as I believe, I am not deceived
      in my observation--a Frenchman from Europe: that is
      to say, the son of a country where gallantry and
      devotion to women reign supreme, and are so far
      traditional, that these characteristics form the most
      salient feature in the men."

      "I also am--not a French woman, but born in Europe;
      that is to say, although unknown to you, your friend,
      almost your sister on that far-off land; and as such,
      I have a right to your protection, and I now boldly
      claim it from your honour."

      "As I do not wish that you should at once take me for
      an adventuress, from the mode, somewhat beyond the
      rules of society, in which I enter on relations with
      you, I must first tell you, in a few words, not my
      history--that would cause you unreasonably to lose
      precious time--but who I am, and by what motives I am
      compelled for a time to put aside that timid modesty
      which never abandons women worthy of the name; and
      then I will tell you what is the service I ask of
      you."

      "My husband, the Marquis de Castelmelhor, commands a
      division of the Brazilian army, which, they say, has
      some days since entered Buenos Airean territory."

      "Coming from Peru with my daughter and some
      servants, with the intention of joining my husband
      in Brazil--for I knew nothing of the events which
      had just previously occurred--I have been surprised,
      carried away, and declared a prisoner of war, by a
      Buenos Airean _Montonero;_ and I and my daughter are
      now imprisoned in the house which you pass twice a
      day."

      "If it were but a question of a detention more or
      less protracted, I would resign myself to submit to
      it, confiding myself to the power and goodness of
      God."

      "But, unhappily, a terrible fate threatens me--a
      frightful danger hangs not only over my own head, but
      over that of my daughter--my innocent and pure Eva."

      "An implacable enemy has sworn our ruin; he has
      boldly accused us of being spies, and in a few
      days--perhaps tomorrow, for this man is thought very
      highly of by the members of his Government--we shall
      be brought before a tribunal assembled to judge us,
      and the verdict of which cannot be doubtful--the
      death of traitors, dishonour! The Marchioness of
      Castelmelhor cannot submit to such infamy."

      "God, who never abandons the innocent who trust in
      Him in their distress, has inspired me with the
      thought of addressing you, Señor, for you alone can
      save me."

      "Will you do it? I believe you will."

      "A stranger in this country--sharing neither the
      prejudices, the narrow ideas, nor the hatred of its
      inhabitants against Europeans--you ought to make
      common cause with us, and try to save us, even if it
      be at the peril of your life."

      "I have long hesitated before writing this letter.
      Although your manners were those of a respectable
      man--although the frank expression of your
      countenance, and even your youth, prepossessed me in
      your favour--I feared to trust myself to you; but
      when I learned that you were a Frenchman, my fears
      vanished, to give place to entire confidence."

      "Tomorrow, between ten and eleven o'clock in the
      morning, present yourself boldly at the door of the
      Black House, and knock. When the door is opened, say
      that you have heard that a professor of the piano
      is wanted in the convent, and that you have come to
      offer your services."

      "But be very careful. We are watched with the
      greatest care. Perhaps it would be better if you were
      to disguise yourself, to avoid being recognised, in
      case your proceedings are watched."

      "Remember that you are the only hope of two innocent
      women, who, if you refuse them your help, will die
      cursing you; for their safety depends on you."

      "Tomorrow, between ten and eleven in the morning."

                       "The most unfortunate of women,"
                               "Marquise LEONA DE CASTELMELHOR."

No pen could describe the expression of astonishment, mingled with
fright, which was painted on the countenance of the young man, when he
had finished the reading of this singular letter, which had reached him
in so extraordinary a way.

As we have said, he remained a long time with his eyes fixed on the
paper, probably without seeing the characters which were written there,
his body leaning forward, his hands clenched, a prey to reflections
which could not be at all pleasant.

To say nothing of the check to his self-love--a check always
disagreeable to a man who for several hours had given his imagination
free play in the pleasant land of chimeras, and who had thought
himself the object of a sudden and irresistible passion, caused by his
good looks and his Don Juan-like appearance--the service which the
unknown lady demanded of him could not but considerably embarrass him,
especially in the exceptional position in which he found himself at the
time.

"Decidedly," murmured he, in a low voice, dashing his hand on the chair
with rage, "Fate too furiously pursues me. This is absurd! Here am I
asked to be a protector--I, who so much want protection myself! Heaven
is not just to permit, without rhyme or reason, a good fellow, who only
sighs for quiet, to be thus tormented in every possible circumstance."

He rose, and began to stride about his room.

"However," added he, after a pause, "these ladies are in a frightful
position; I cannot abandon them thus, without trying to come to their
aid; my honour is engaged in it; a Frenchman, spite of himself,
represents France in a foreign country. But what is to be done?"

He sat down again, and appeared to be lost in a deep reverie. At last,
in about a quarter of an hour, he again rose.

"That is it," said he; "I see no other means that. If I do not succeed,
I shall have nothing to reproach myself with, for I shall have done
even more than my actual position, and especially prudence, should
permit me to attempt."

Emile had evidently made a resolve.

He opened the door, and went down into the _patio_.

It was almost night; the attendants, freed from their labours, more
or less properly accomplished, were resting themselves, reclining on
palm-mats, smoking, laughing, and chatting together.

The painter had not long to search for his domestics in the midst of
the twenty or five-and-twenty individuals grouped pell-mell on the
ground.

He made a sign to one of them to come to him, and he immediately went
up again into his room.

The Indian, at the call of his master, immediately rose, in order to
obey him.

He Was an Indian Guaraní, still very young; he appeared to be at the
most twenty-four or twenty-five, With fine, bold, and intelligent
features, a tall figure, of a robust appearance, and with free and
unconstrained manners.

He wore the costume of the gauchos of the Pampa, and was named Tyro.

At the call of his master he had thrown away his cigarette, picked up
his hat, gathered his poncho round him, and had darted towards the
staircase with an alacrity which spoke well for him.

The painter much liked this young man, who, although of rather a
taciturn disposition, like all his people, appeared, nevertheless, to
entertain some affection for him.

Having reached the sleeping room, he did not pass the door, but,
stopping on the threshold, he respectfully bowed, and waited till his
master might be pleased to address him.

"Enter, and close the door behind you," said the painter to him, in a
friendly tone; "we have some important things to talk about."

"Secrets, master?" asked the Indian.

"Yes."

"Then, with your permission, master, I will leave the door open."

"What is that caprice for?"

"It is not a caprice, master; all these places are rendered noiseless
by the mats which cover the ground; a spy can, without being heard,
come and put his ear to the door and hear all that we may say, so much
the more easily as we, absorbed in our own conversation, should not be
aware of his presence; whereas, if all the doors remain open, no one
will enter without our seeing him, and we shall not risk being watched."

"What you remark is very sensible, my good Tyro; leave the doors open,
then. The precaution cannot do any harm, although I do not believe in
spies."

"Does not the master believe in the night?" answered the Indian, with
an emphatic gesture. "The spy is like the night; he likes to glide
about in the darkness."

"Be it so; I will not discuss the matter with you. Let us come to the
reason for which I have called you."

"I am listening, master."

"Tyro, first answer me, frankly, the question which I am about to ask
you."

"Let the master speak."

"Bear in mind, that I wish you to speak candidly; but pay particular
attention to the form of my question, so as to answer, fully
understanding it. Are you towards me only a good domestic, strictly
performing your duties; or a devoted servant, on whom I have the right
to reckon at all times."

"A devoted servant, master--a brother, a son, a friend. You cured my
mother of a disease which appeared incurable. When you bought the
rancho, instead of sending her and me away, you preserved to the old
woman her _cuarto_, her garden, and her flock. As to me, you have
treated me as a man, never commanding me with rudeness, and never
obliging me to do shameful or dishonourable things, though I am an
Indian. You have always considered me an intelligent being, and not an
animal possessed of instinct merely. I repeat, master, I am devoted to
you in everything, and forever."

"Thank you, Tyro," answered the painter, with slight emotion; "I half
thought what you have just told me, but I was resolved to make you
confirm it; for I have need of your services."

"I am ready; but what is to be done?"

Notwithstanding the candour of this avowal, the French painter--little
acquainted yet with the character of these primitive races--by no means
intended to put the Indian completely in the confidence of his secrets.

Too much civilisation renders us mistrustful.

The Guaraní readily perceived the hesitation of the artist, who,
unaccustomed to dissimulation, allowed his countenance to reflect his
emotions, as in a mirror.

"The master has nothing to teach Tyro," said he, with a smile; "the
Indian knows all."

"What!" cried the young man, with a start of surprise; "You know all!"

"Yes," he merely said.

"_Pardieu!_" pursued the artist; "For the curiosity of the thing, I
would not be sorry if you were to inform me how far extends that 'all'
of which you so confidently speak."

"That is easy; let the master listen."

Then, to the extreme astonishment of the young man, Tyro related to
him, without omitting the least detail, all that he had done since his
arrival at San Miguel de Tucuman.

However, by degrees Emile, by a great effort, succeeded in regaining
his coolness, reflecting with inward satisfaction that this recital,
so complete in other respects, had one omission--an important omission
for him; it stopped at that very morning. Tyro knew nothing of the
adventure of the Callejón de las Cruces.

But fearing that this omission merely arose from forgetfulness, he
resolved to assure himself of it.

"Well," said he, "all that you relate is correct, but you forget to
speak about my walks through the town."

"Oh, as to that," answered the Indian, with a smile, "it is useless to
occupy myself with that. The master passes all his time in a reverie,
looking up at the sky and gesticulating as he walks. At the end of two
days it was found that it was not worthwhile to follow him."

"The devil! I have been followed then! I did not know I had friends who
took such an interest in me."

An equivocal smile played on the expressive lips of the Indian, but he
did not answer.

"You, no doubt, know the person who has thus played the spy?"

"Yes, I know him, master."

"You will tell me his name, then?"

"I will tell you, when the time arrives to do so; but he is but an
instrument; besides, if this person spies you at the command of
another, I watch him, master, for your sake; and what he has been able
to discover is of little importance. I alone possess your secrets, so
you may be easy."

"What! You know my secrets!" cried the painter, again provoked at the
moment when he least expected it; "What secrets?"

"The white rose and the letter of the Callejón de las Cruces; but I
repeat that I alone know it."

"This is too much!" murmured the young man.

"A devoted servant," seriously remarked the Indian, who had heard the
"aside" of the painter, "ought to know all, so that when the time comes
that his assistance may be necessary, he may be in a position to come
to his master's aid."

The artist then decided on doing what most men would have decided on
doing, under similar circumstances. Seeing that there was no means of
doing otherwise, he determined on giving his entire confidence to the
Indian, and he avowed all with the greatest candour--a candour which
the Guaraní would have little valued had he known the true reason for
it. Though he did not fully admit it to himself, the painter only
acted under the pressure of necessity, and, feeling the uselessness of
concealing the least thing from so far-seeing a servant, he preferred
freely placing himself entirely in the Indian's hands, hoping that this
mode of acting would engage him not to betray him. For a moment, the
thought crossed his mind to blow the man's brains out; but, reflecting
what a ticklish thing this would be, especially in his position, he
preferred trying a milder course and a feigned open-heartedness.

Happily for him, the painter had to do with an honest and really
devoted man, who with any other person would probably have ruined him,
rather than have saved him.

Tyro had for a long time led the life of the gauchos, hunted the Pampa,
and explored the desert in all directions. He was thoroughly acquainted
with all the Indian schemes. Nothing would have been easier for him
than to have acted as a guide to his master, and have conducted him
either to Peru, Buenos Aires, Chili, or even to Brazil.

When confidence was thoroughly established between the two men, though
the Frenchman had at first acted with but feigned candour, he was not
long in displaying all the artless honesty of his character, happy in
meeting in a country, where everybody was hostile to him, a man who
manifested sympathy with him, even if this sympathy were more apparent
than real. He at once seriously asked the advice of his servant.

"This is what must be done," said the latter. "In this house everything
is suspicious; it is filled with spies. Pretend to put yourself in
a rage with me, and dismiss me. Tomorrow, at the time of your usual
walk, I will meet you, and we will settle everything. Our conversation
has lasted too long already, master. Suspicions are awakened. I will
go down as if I had been scolded by you. Follow me to the door of the
room, speaking in a loud tone, and finding fault with me; then, in a
little while, you will come down and dismiss me before everybody. Above
all, master," added he, laying stress on these last words, "say nothing
till tomorrow to the occupants of the house; do not let them suspect
our arrangement: if you do, believe me, you are lost."

Having so said, the Indian withdrew, his finger on his lips.

All was done as had been arranged between master and servant.

Tyro was immediately sent from the house, which he left grumbling,
and Emile again went up to his apartment, leaving all the attendants
astounded at a scene which they never expected from a man whom they
were accustomed to see ordinarily so gentle and tolerant.

The next day, at the same hour as usual, the painter went out for his
accustomed walk, taking care, while he feigned the utmost indifference,
to return every now and then, to assure himself that he was not
followed. But this precaution was needless; no one cared to watch his
promenade, so inoffensive was it known to be.

Arrived on the bank of the river, at about a hundred paces from the
town, a man, concealed behind a rock, suddenly presented himself to him.

The young man smothered a cry of surprise. He recognised Tyro, the
Guaraní servant dismissed by him the previous evening, according to
mutual arrangement.




CHAPTER III.

THE RECLUSES.


Almost at the moment when the half hour after ten in the morning had
sounded from the clock of the Cabildo of San Miguel de Tucuman, a man
knocked at the door of the mysterious house of the Callejón de las
Cruces.

This individual, dressed somewhat like the well to-do artisans of the
town, was a man of middle height, slightly bent by age; some few grey
hairs escaped from under his straw hat, he wore large spectacles with
iron frame, and supported himself on a stick. His appearance, on the
whole, was very respectable; his well-made olive-green cloth trousers,
and his poncho of Chilian make, left nothing to desire.

In a minute or two, a little slide moved in a groove, and the head of
an old woman appeared behind.

"Who are you? And what do you want here, Señor?" said a voice.

"Señora," answered the old man, slightly coughing, "excuse my boldness;
but I have heard that a professor of music is required in this
establishment. If I am deceived, it only remains for me to withdraw,
begging you once more to accept my apologies."

While the old man said these few words in the most natural tone, and
with the most careless manner, the woman behind the grating examined
him with earnestness.

"Wait," answered she, after a slight pause.

The slide was again put back.

"Hum!" murmured the professor, in a low voice, "The place is well
guarded."

A noise of drawing bolts and of detaching chains was heard, and the
gate was half-opened--just enough to admit one person.

"Enter, then," said, in a surly tone, the woman who had at first shown
herself at the grating, and who appeared to be the portress of this
convent-like house.

The old man entered slowly, his hat in his hand, and bowing low.

The sight of his bald head, with but here and there a few hairs of
reddish grey, appeared to give confidence to the old woman.

"Follow me," said she to him, in a peevish tone, "and replace your hat,
these corridors are cold and damp."

The old man bowed, replaced his hat on his head, and, leaning on his
stick, he followed the nun with that somewhat trembling step which is
characteristic of persons who have considerably passed middle age.

The nun led him through long corridors, which appeared to turn back
upon themselves, and which at last opened into a rather spacious
cloister, the centre of which was occupied by a mass of rose bushes and
orange trees, in the middle of which burst forth a stream of water,
which fell with a loud sound into a white marble basin.

The walls of this cloister, towards which opened the doors of some
thirty little chambers, were garnished with a number of pictures of a
mediocre character, representing various episodes in the life of Our
Lady of Solitude, or of Tucuman.

The old man merely threw a disdainful look upon these paintings, half
effaced by time and weather, and continued to follow the nun, who
trotted on before him, causing at every step a jingling of the heavy
bunch of keys suspended to her girdle.

At the end of this cloister there was another, on the whole like the
first, only the pictures represented different subjects--the life, I
believe, of St. Rosa of Lima.

Arrived nearly halfway through this cloister, the nun stopped, and
after having fetched her breath for a minute or two, she cautiously
gave too slight taps at a black oak door, curiously sculptured.

Almost immediately a gentle and musical voice pronounced from the
interior of the little chamber this single word:

"_Adelante_."

The nun opened the outer door and disappeared, after having with a sign
requested the old man to wait for her.

Some minutes passed, and then the inner door opened, and the nun
reappeared.

"Come in," said she, making a sign for him to approach.

"Come, she is not very loquacious, at least," grumbled the old man to
himself, as he obeyed; "she is accommodating."

The nun stood on one side to give him passage, and he entered the
little room, whither she followed him, closing the door after her.

This little room, with very comfortable furniture in old black carved
oak, and the walls of which were covered, in the Spanish fashion, with
thin Cordova leather, was divided into two, which was indicated by a
door placed in a corner.

Three persons were, at the time, in the room, sitting on high-backed
carved chairs.

These three persons were women.

The first, still young and very beautiful, wore the complete costume
of a nun; the diamond cross, suspended by a large silk ribbon from
her neck, and falling on her breast, at once pointed her out as the
superior of the house, which, notwithstanding the simple and sombre
appearance of its exterior, was, in reality, occupied by Carmelite nuns.

The two other ladies, seated pretty close to the abbess, wore ordinary
costume.

The one was the Marchioness de Castelmelhor, and the other Doña Eva,
her daughter.

On the entrance of the old man, who bowed respectfully to them, the
abbess made a slight sign of welcome with her head, while the two other
ladies, as they bowed to him ceremoniously, furtively cast curious
looks at the visitor.

"My dear sister," said the abbess, addressing the old woman, in that
harmonious voice which had already agreeably struck the ear of the old
man, "bring, I beg you, a chair for this gentleman."

The nun obeyed, and the stranger seated himself with an apology.

"So," continued the abbess, this time addressing herself to the old
man, "you are a professor of music?"

"Yes, Señora," answered he, bowing.

"Are you of our country?"

"No, Señora, I am a foreigner."

"Ah!" said she, "You are not a heretic--an Englishman."

"No, Señora; I am an Italian professor."

"Very good. Have you lived long in our dear country?"

"Two years, Señora."

"And before that you were in Europe?"

"Pardon me, Señora; I lived in Chili, where I have for a long time
resided at Valparaíso, Santiago, and subsequently at Aconchagua."

"Do you intend to remain among us?"

"I, at least, wish to do so, Señora; unhappily, the times are not
favourable for a poor artist like me."

"That is true," pursued she, with interest. "Well, we will try to
procure you some pupils."

"A thousand thanks for so much goodness, Señora," he humbly answered.

"You really interest me, and to prove how much I desire to assist you,
this young lady will be pleased, for my sake, to take this very day her
lesson with you," said she, pointing towards Doña Eva.

"I am at the orders of the young lady, as I am at yours, Señora,"
answered the old man, with a respectful bow.

"Well, that is agreed," said the abbess; and turning towards the
portress, still motionless in the middle of the room, "My dear sister,"
added she, with a gracious smile, "be so good, I beg you, as to bring
in some refreshments. You will return in an hour to accompany this
gentleman to the door of the convent."

The portress bowed with a crabbed air, suddenly turned round, and left
the room, casting a sour look around her.

There was a silence of two or three minutes, at the expiration of which
the abbess gently rose, advanced on tiptoe towards the door, and opened
it so suddenly, that the portress, whose eye was placed at the keyhole,
stood confused and blushing at being thus surprised in the very act of
a spy.

"Ah! You are still there, my dear sister!" said the abbess, without
appearing to remark the confusion of the old portress; "I am glad
of it. I had forgotten to beg you to bring me, when you return to
reconduct this gentleman, my Book of Hours, that I left through
forgetfulness this morning in the choir in my stall."

The portress bowed, grumbling between her teeth some incomprehensible
excuses, and she went away almost with a run.

The abbess followed her a moment with her eyes, and then she returned,
re-closed the door, over which she had let fall a heavy curtain in
tapestry, and turning towards the old professor, who scarcely knew what
countenance to assume:

"Respectable old man," said she to him, laughing, "cover up the locks
of your fair hair, which are indiscreetly escaping from under your grey
peruke."

"The devil!" cried the professor, quite taken aback, suddenly putting
his two hands to his head, and at the same time letting his cane and
his hat fall, the latter rolling several paces from him.

At this unorthodox exclamation, uttered in good French, the three
ladies laughed afresh, whilst the disconcerted professor looked at them
with fright, not understanding anything which had passed, and arguing
nothing favourable to him from this railing and unexpected gaiety.

"Hush!" said the abbess, placing a delicate finger on her rosy lips.
"Someone is coming."

They were silent.

She withdrew the curtain. Almost immediately the door opened, after a
slight tap had been given to ask permission to enter.

It was two lay sisters, who brought sweets and refreshments, as the
abbess had desired.

They placed the whole on a table, and then withdrew with a respectful
bow.

The curtain was immediately dropped behind them.

"Do you now believe, my dear marchioness," said the superior, "that I
was right in mistrusting our sister, the portress?"

"Oh yes, Madame; this woman, sold to our enemies, is wicked, and I
dread for you the consequences of the rude lesson, although merited,
that you have given her."

A brilliant flash darted from the black eyes of the young woman.

"It is for her to tremble, Madame," said she, "now that I have in my
hand the proofs of her treason; but do not let us care for that," said
she, resuming her cheerful countenance; "time presses, let us take
our places at the table; and you, Señor, taste our preserves. I doubt
whether, in the convents of your country, the nuns make such good ones."

The marchioness, remarking the embarrassed position and the piteous
air of the stranger, quickly approached him, and said with a gracious
smile--

"It is useless to keep up any further disguise," said she to him; "it
is I, Señor, who have written to you; speak, then, without fear before
Madame, she is my best friend, and my only protectress."

The painter breathed heavily.

"Madame," answered he, "you remove an immense weight from my breast. I
humbly confess that I did not know what countenance to assume in seeing
myself recognised so unawares. God be praised, who permits that this
may come to a better termination than I feared a little while ago."

"You are an admirable actor, Señor," pursued the abbess; "your hair
does not at all come out from under your peruke; I only wished to tease
you a little, that is all. Now, drink, eat, and do not worry yourself
about anything."

The collation was then attacked by the four persons, between whom the
ice was now broken, and who talked gaily to each other. The abbess
especially, young and merry, was charmed at this trick she was playing
on the revolutionary authorities of Tucuman, in trying to carry away
from them two persons to whom they seemed to attach so much importance.

"Now," said she, when the repast was finished, "let us talk seriously."

"Talk seriously--I should like nothing better," pursued the painter;
"_apropos_ of that, I shall permit myself to recall the phrase that you
have yourself uttered--time presses."

"That is true; you are no doubt astonished to see me--the superior of a
house which is almost a convent onto whom has been confided the care of
two prisoners of importance--enter into a plot, the design of which is
to permit them to escape."

"Indeed," murmured the painter, bowing; "that does appear rather
strange to me."

"I have several motives for it, and your astonishment will cease when
you know that I am a Spaniard, and have no sympathy with the revolution
made by the inhabitants of this country, to drive my fellow countrymen
out of it, to whom it belongs by every divine and human law."

"That appears to me logical enough."

"Moreover, in my opinion, a convent is not--and cannot, under any
pretext, be metamorphosed into a prison. Again, women ought to be
always placed out of the region of politics, and be left free to act in
their own fashion. In fact, to sum up, the Marchioness de Castelmelhor
is an old friend of my family; I love her daughter as a sister, and I
wish to save them at all hazards, even if my life is paid for theirs."

The two ladies threw themselves into the arms of the abbess, loading
her with caresses and thanks.

"Good, good," pursued she, gently motioning them aside, "let me
continue; I have sworn to save you, and I will save you, come what may,
my dear creatures. It would be marvellous, indeed," added she, smiling,
"if three women, aided by a Frenchman, could not be clever enough to
deceive these yellow men, who have made this disastrous revolution, and
who believe themselves eagles of intelligence, and the thunderbolts of
war."

"The more I reflect on this enterprise, the more I fear the
consequences of it for you; I tremble, for these men are without pity,"
sadly murmured the marchioness.

"Poltroon!" gaily cried the superior; "Have we not the _caballero_ with
us?"

"With you, ladies, until the last gasp!" cried he, carried away by
emotion.

The truth is, that the beauty of Doña Eva, joined to the romance of
the situation, had completely subjugated the artist. He had forgotten
everything, and only experienced one desire--that of sacrificing
himself for the safety of these women, so beautiful and so unfortunate.

"I knew well that I could not be deceived!" cried the abbess, holding
out to him her hand, which the painter respectfully raised to his lips.

"Yes, ladies," pursued he, "God is my witness, that all that is humanly
possible to do to assure your flight, I will attempt; but, doubtless
you have not addressed yourselves to me without concerting a plan. This
plan it is indispensable that you make me acquainted with."

"_Mon dieu_, Sir!" answered the marchioness, "This plan is very simple,
one such as women alone are capable of concocting."

"I am all attention, Madame."

"We have no acquaintance in this town, where we are strangers, and
where, without our knowing why, it appears we have many enemies,
without reckoning one single friend."

"That is pretty well my position also," said the young man, shaking his
head.

"Yours, Sir!" said she, with surprise.

"Yes, yes, mine, Madame; but continue, I beg."

"Our good superior can do but one single thing for us, but that is
immense--it is to open for us the gates of the convent."

"That is much, indeed!"

"Unhappily, on the other side of this gate her power ceases completely,
and she is constrained to leave us to ourselves."

"Alas! Yes," said the superior.

"Hum!" murmured the painter, like an echo.

"You understand how critical would be our position, wandering alone at
hazard in a town which is completely unknown to us."

"Then you thought of me!"

"Yes, Sir," she simply answered.

"And you have done well, Madame," answered the painter, with animation.
"I am, perhaps, the only man incapable of betraying you in the whole
town."

"Thank you for my mother and myself, Sir," gently said the young girl,
who, up to that moment, had kept silence.

The painter was half dazed; the sweet and plaintive accents of that
harmonious voice had made his heart beat rapidly.

"Unhappily, I am very weak myself to protect you, ladies," he resumed;
"I am alone, a foreigner, suspected--more than suspected even, since I
am threatened with being shortly placed on my trial."

"Oh!" said they, joining their hands in their grief, "We are lost then."

"_Mon dieu!_" cried the abbess, "We have placed all our hope in you."

"Wait," pursued he; "all is perhaps not so desperate as we suppose.
As for me, I am preparing a plan of escape; I can only offer you one
thing."

"What?" cried they, eagerly.

"To share my flight."

"Oh, willingly!" cried the young girl, clapping her hands with joy.

Then, ashamed at having allowed herself to give way to a thoughtless
movement, she lowered her eyes, and concealed in the bosom of her
mother her charming face, suffused with tears.

"My daughter has answered you for herself and for me, Sir," said the
marchioness, proudly.

"I thank you for this confidence, of which I shall try to prove myself
worthy, Madame; only I want a few days to prepare everything. I have
only with me one man on whom I can rely, and I must act with the
greatest prudence."

"That is right, Sir; but what do you mean by a few days?"

"Three at the least--four at the most."

"Well, we will wait. Now, can you explain to us what is the plan you
have adopted?"

"I do not know it myself, Madame. I find myself in a country which is
totally unknown to me, and in which I naturally want the commonest
experience. I must trust to the direction of the servant of whom I have
had the honour to speak to you."

"Are you quite sure of this man, Sir? Pardon me for saying this, but
you know one word might ruin us."

"I am as sure of the person in question as one man can be of another.
It is he who has furnished me with the means of appearing before you
without awakening suspicion. I rely not only on his devotion, but also
on his skill, on his courage, and especially on his experience."

"Is he a Spaniard, a foreigner, or a half-caste?"

"He does not come in any of the categories you have mentioned, Madame;
he is simply an Indian Guaraní, to whom I have been fortunate enough to
render some slight services, and who has vowed an eternal gratitude."

"You are right, Sir; you can no doubt reckon on this man. The Indians
are brave and faithful; when they are devoted, it is to the death.
Pardon me all these questions, which, without doubt, must appear very
extraordinary on my part; but you know this affair does not only
concern myself--it concerns also my daughter, my poor dear child."

"I think it is very natural, Madame, that you should desire to be
completely informed as to my plans for our common safety. Be thoroughly
persuaded that when I shall positively know what must be done, I will
hasten to inform you of it, in order that if the plan formed by my
servant and myself should appear to you to be defective, I may modify
it according to your advice."

"Thank you, Sir; will you permit me to ask you one question more?"

"Speak, Madame. In coming here, I place myself entirely at your orders."

"Are you rich?"

The painter blushed; his eyebrows knitted.

The marchioness perceived it.

"Oh, you do not understand me, Sir," she eagerly cried; "far from me be
the thought of offering you a reward. The service that you consent to
render us is one of those that no treasure could pay for, and the heart
alone can requite."

"Madame--" he murmured.

"Permit me to finish. We are associates now," said she, with a charming
smile. "Now, in an association each one ought to take a share of the
common expenses. A project like ours must be conducted with skill and
celerity; a miserable question of money might mar its success or retard
its execution. It is in that sense that I have spoken to you, and in
which I repeat my words--are you rich?"

"In any other position but that in which fate has temporarily placed
me, I should answer you--yes, Madame, for I am an artist--my tastes are
simple, and I live almost on nothing, only finding joys and happiness
in the ever-fresh surprises that the art which I cultivate procures me,
and which I madly love. But at this moment, in the perilous position
in which you and I find ourselves--when it is necessary to undertake
a desperate struggle against a whole population--I must be frank with
you, and admit that money, the sinews of war, almost wholly fails me. I
must assure you, in a word, that I am poor."

"So much the better!" cried the marchioness, with a movement of joy.

"Upon my word," pursued he, gaily, "I never complain; it is only now
that I begin to regret those riches for which I have always so little
cared, for they would have facilitated the means of being useful to
you; but we must try and do without them."

"Do not distress yourself about that, Sir. In this affair you bring
courage and devotion; leave me to bring that money which you have not."

"On my word, Madame," answered the artist, "since you so frankly put
the question, I do not see why I should give way, in refusing you,
to a ridiculous susceptibility perfectly out of place, since it is
your interests that are at stake in this matter. I accept, then, the
money that you shall consider fitting to place at my disposal; but, of
course, I shall render you an account of it."

"Pardon, Sir; it is not a loan that I offer to make you; it is my part
in the association that I bring--that is all."

"I understand it so, Madame; only if I spend your money, will it not be
necessary that you should know in what way?"

"Well and good!" exclaimed the marchioness, going to a piece of
furniture, of which she opened a drawer, from whence she took a rather
long purse, through the meshes of which glittered a considerable
quantity of _onces_.

After having carefully closed the drawer, she presented the purse to
the young man.

"There are there two hundred and fifty _onces_[1] in gold," said she;
"I hope that that sum will suffice; but if it is insufficient, let me
know, and I will immediately place a larger sum at your disposal."

"Oh, oh! Madame, I hope not only that it will suffice, but that I shall
have to give you back a part of this sum," answered he, respectfully
taking the purse, and placing it carefully in his girdle. "I have now a
restitution to make you."

"To me, Sir?"

"Yes, Madame," said he, drawing off the ring that he had placed on his
little finger, "this ring."

"It is mine, that I wrapped up in the letter," eagerly exclaimed the
young girl, with a charming heedlessness.

The young man bowed, quite confounded.

"Keep that ring, Sir," answered the marchioness, smiling, "my daughter
would be vexed if you were to return it."

"I will keep it, then," said he, with secret joy, and suddenly changing
the conversation; "I will only come once more, ladies," said he, "in
order not to arouse suspicion; that will be to tell you when all is
ready; only every day, at my usual hour, I will pass before this house.
When, in the evening, on my return towards home, you shall see me
holding a _súchil_ flower or a white rose in my hand, that will be a
sign that our business proceeds well; if; on the contrary, I remove
my hat and wipe my forehead, then pray to God, ladies, because new
embarrassments will have risen before me. In the last place, if you see
me pulling asunder the flower that I hold in my hand, you must hasten
your preparations for departure; the very day of my visit we shall quit
the town. You will remember all these recommendations?"

"We are too much interested in remembering them," said the marchioness;
"never fear, we shall forget nothing."

"Now, not another word on this subject, and give your music lesson,"
said the abbess, opening an instruction book, and handing it to the
young man.

The painter seated himself at a table between the two ladies, and began
to explain to them as well as he could the mysteries of black, of
white, of crotchets, and of minims.

When, some minutes afterwards, the portress entered, her serpent-like
look gliding from under her half closed eyelids, perceived three
persons apparently very seriously occupied in estimating the value of
notes, and the difference between the key of F and the key of G.

"My holy mother," hypocritically said the portress, "a horseman, saying
that he is sent by the governor of the town, asks the favour of an
interview with you."

"Very good, my sister. When you have reconducted this gentleman, you
will introduce this _caballero_ to me. Beg him to wait a few minutes."

The painter rose, bowed respectfully to the ladies, and followed the
portress. The door of the room closed behind him.

Without uttering a word, the portress guided him through the corridors
that he had already traversed, as far as the gate of the convent,
before which several horsemen, enveloped in long mantles, had stopped,
to the general astonishment of the neighbours, who could scarcely
believe their eyes, and who had come out to their doors, the better to
see them.

The painter, thanks to his looking like an old man, his little dry
cough, and his trembling walk, passed in the midst of them without
attracting their attention, and went away in the direction of the river.

The portress made a sign to one of the horsemen, that she was ready to
conduct him to the superior.

Just at that moment, the painter, who had gone some little distance,
turned to give a last look at the convent.

He suppressed a gesture of fright on recognising the horseman of whom
we are speaking.

"Zeno Cabral!" murmured he. "What does this man do in the convent?"


[1] £850 sterling.




CHAPTER IV.

THE INTERVIEW.


The French painter was not deceived. It was indeed Zeno Cabral, the
Montonero chief, whom he had seen enter the convent.

The portress walked with a hasty step, without turning her head,
before the young man, who appeared plunged in sorrowful and painful
reflections.

They proceeded thus for a considerable time through the corridors,
without exchanging a word; but at the moment when they had reached the
entry of the first cloister, the chief stopped, and lightly touching
the arm of his conductress--

"Well?" said he, in a low voice.

The latter turned briskly, threw an enquiring look around her, and
then, reassured, no doubt, by the solitude in the midst of which she
was, she answered, in the same low and stifled tone, the single word--

"Nothing."

"How nothing?" cried Don Zeno, with suppressed impatience, "You have
not, then, watched as I desired you, and as was agreed between us."

"I have watched," answered she, eagerly; "watched from evening to
morning, and from morning to evening."

"And you have discovered nothing?"

"Nothing."

"So much the worse," said the Montonero, coldly; "so much the worse for
you, my sister; for if you are so little clear-sighted, it is not just
yet that you will quit your post of portress for a superior employment
in the convent, or one better still, in that of the Bernardines."

The portress trembled; her little grey eyes gave a sinister look.

"I have discovered nothing, it is true," said she, with a dry and
nervous laugh, like the cry of a hyena; "but I suspect, and soon I
shall discover; only I am watched, and opportunity fails me."

"Ah! And what shall you discover?" asked he, with ill-concealed
interest.

"I shall discover," she pursued, laying an affected stress on each
syllable, "all that you wish to know, and more, too. My measures are
now taken."

"Ah, ah!" said he, "And when will that be, if you please?"

"Before two days."

"You promise me?"

"As I hope for heaven."

"I rely on your word."

"Rely on it; but as to yourself?"

"I?"

"Yes."

"I will keep the promise I have made you."

"All?"

"All."

"Well, do not distress yourself about anything; but--giving, giving?"

"That's agreed."

"Now, come; they expect you. This long stay may excite suspicion; more
than ever, prudence is necessary."

They proceeded. At the moment when they entered the first cloister,
a black figure came away from an obscure corner, which, until that
moment, it had remained shrouded in darkness; and after having made
a threatening gesture to the portress, it appeared to vanish like a
fantastic apparition, so rapidly did it glide through the corridors.

Arrived at the door of the superior's room, the portress knocked gently
twice without receiving any answer; she waited a moment, and then
knocked again.

"_Adelante_," was then answered from within.

She opened the door, and announced the stranger.

"Beg the gentleman to enter; he is welcome," answered the abbess.

The portress disappeared, and the general entered; then, on a sign from
the superior, the portress withdrew, closing the door behind her.

The superior was alone, sitting on her great abbess's chair; she held
open a Book of Hours, which she appeared to be reading.

At the entry of the young man she slightly inclined her head, and, with
a gesture, directed him to a seat.

"Pardon me, Madame," said he, bowing respectfully, "in thus coming so
inopportunely to disturb your pious meditations."

"You are, you say, Señor _caballero_, sent to me by the governor of the
town. In that capacity my duty is to receive you at any hour that you
please to come," pursued she, in a tone of cold politeness. "You have
no apologies to make me, but only to explain the reason for this visit."

"I am about to have the honour of explaining myself; as you so
graciously request it, Madame," answered he, with a constrained smile,
taking the seat which she had pointed out.

The conversation had commenced in a tone of frigid politeness, which
completely expressed the relation which the two speakers wished to hold
towards each other during the whole interview.

There was a silence of two or three minutes.

The Montonero turned and returned his hat in his hands with a vexed
air; while the abbess, who pretended to read attentively the book which
she had not abandoned, stealthily cast a mocking look at the officer.

It was he who, feeling how strange his silence would appear,
recommenced the conversation with an ease which was too marked to be
natural.

"Señora, I do not know what causes the displeasure that you appear to
have in seeing me; will you acquaint me with the reason, and accept,
meanwhile, my humble and respectful apologies for the annoyances that,
to my great regret, my presence occasions you?"

"You are in error, _caballero_," answered she, "as the meaning I attach
to my words. I do not feel any annoyance, believe me, at your presence;
only I am vexed at being obliged, at the good pleasure of the persons
who govern us, to receive, without being prepared for it beforehand,
the visits of envoys--very respectable, no doubt--but whose place
should be anywhere else than in the room of the superior of a convent
of women."

"That observation is perfectly just, Madame. It is not my fault that
this has occurred. Unhappily it is, for the present, a necessity to
which you must submit."

"So," resumed she, with some sharpness, "you see that I submit to it."

"You submit to it--yes, Madame," he pursued, in an insinuating tone,
"but complaining at it, because you confound your friends with your
enemies."

"I, Señor! You make a mistake, no doubt," said she, with compunction;
"you do not reflect on who I am. What friends or what enemies can
I have--I, a poor woman retired from the world, and devoted to the
service of God?"

"You deceive yourself, or, which is more probable--excuse me, I beg,
Madame--you do not wish to understand me."

"Perhaps, also, it is a little your fault, Señor," she resumed, with a
slight tinge of irony, "owing to the obscurity in which your words are
enveloped, unknown to yourself, no doubt."

Don Zeno repressed a gesture of impatience.

"Come, Madame," said he, after a pause, "let us be candid, shall we?"

"I wish nothing better for my part, Señor."

"You have here two prisoners?"

"I have two ladies that I have only received into this house on the
express injunction of the governor of the town. Is it of these two
ladies that you speak, Señor?"

"Yes, Señora, the same."

"Very well, they are here; I have, indeed, very strict orders with
respect to them."

"I know it."

"These ladies have nothing, that I can see, to do with this
conversation."

"On the contrary, Madame; it is them alone that it concerns; it is on
their account alone that I have come here."

"Very well, Señor, continue; I am listening."

"These ladies have been made prisoners by me, and by me also conducted
into this town."

"You could even add--into this convent, Señor; but continue."

"You are wrong in supposing, Madame, that I am the enemy of these
unfortunate women; no one, on the contrary, interests himself more than
I do in their fate."

"Ah!" said she, with irony.

"You do not believe me, Madame; indeed, appearances condemn me."

"Meanwhile, you condemn these unhappy ladies; is it not so,
_caballero?_"

"Señora," he cried, with violence, but immediately controlling himself,
"pardon me this outburst, Madame; but if you consent to understand me--"

"Is not that what I am doing at this moment, Señor?"

"Yes; you listen to me, it is true, Madame; but with your mind made up,
beforehand, not to put faith in my words, however true they may be."

The abbess slightly shrugged her shoulders, and resumed: "It is, Señor,
that you now tell me things which are so incredible. How can you
expect, when you yourself have just admitted that you arrested these
ladies, when it would have been so easy to allow them to continue their
journey; that it is you who brought them into this town; that it is you
who also brought them to this convent, in order to deprive them of all
hope of flight--how can you expect that I should credit the professions
of devotion of which you are now pleased to make a parade before me?
It would be more than artlessness on my part, you must admit, and you
Would have a right to believe me to be what I am not--that is to say,
to speak frankly, a fool."

"Oh, Madame, there are many things which you do not know."

"Certainly, there are many things which people do not know in such
cases; but come, let us come to the fact, since you yourself have
proposed candour: prove to me that you really intend to speak the
truth--tell me the things of which I am ignorant."

"I am quite willing to do so, Madame."

"Only I warn you that I perhaps know many of these things, and that if
you wander from the right path I will pitilessly put you in it again.
Does that course suit you?"

"Nothing better can be done, Madame."

"Well, speak; I promise not to interrupt you."

"You overwhelm me, Señora; but to acquaint you with the whole truth, I
shall be obliged to enter into some details touching my family which,
doubtless, will have little interest for you."

"I beg your pardon; I wish to be impartial, so I ought to know all."

And as she said these words, she looked stealthily towards the door of
the adjoining room.

This look was not observed by the Montonero, who at this moment, his
head sunk upon his breast, appeared to be collecting his thoughts.

At last, after a few minutes, he began--

"My family, as my name indicates, Madame, is of Portuguese origin;
one of my ancestors was that Alvarez Cabral, to whom Portugal owes so
many magnificent discoveries. Settled in Brazil from the period of
the occupation, my ancestors established themselves in the province
of Sao Paulo, and led, one after the other, by the example of their
neighbours and friends, they made long and perilous expeditions into
the interior of unknown lands, and several of them were reckoned among
the most celebrated and the most bold Paulistas of the province. Pardon
me these details, Madame, but they are indispensable; for the rest, I
will abridge them as much as possible. My ancestor, as the result of a
very lively discussion with the Viceroy of Brazil, Don Vasco Fernandez
Cesar de Menezes, about 1723--a discussion, the topics of which he
never wished to reveal--saw his property placed under sequestration.
He himself was obliged to take flight with all his family. A little
patience, I beg you, Madame."

"You are unjust, Señor; these details, of which I was ignorant,
interest me in the highest degree."

"My great-grandfather, with the wreck which he had succeeded in saving
from his fortune--of considerable value, I hasten to say; for he was
enormously rich--took refuge in the vice-royalty of Buenos Aires, in
order to go back the more easily to Brazil, if fortune ceased to be
adverse to him. But his hope was frustrated; he was to die in exile;
his family was condemned never again to see their country. However, on
various occasions propositions were made to him to enter into relations
with the Portuguese Government, but he always haughtily rejected them,
protesting that, never having committed any crime, he would not be
absolved, and that especially--pay particular attention to this, Madame
--the Government which had taken away his property had no claim to what
remained to him; that he would never consent to pay for a pardon that
they had no right to sell him. Subsequently, when my great-grandfather
was on the point of death, and my grandfather and father were round
his bed, although then very young, my father thought he understood the
propositions made by the Portuguese Government, and which the old man
had always obstinately repulsed."

"Ah!" said the abbess, beginning to take an interest in the recital,
which was made with an air of truth which could not be questioned.

"Judge of the matter yourself, Madame," resumed the Montonero; "my
great-grandfather, as I have said, feeling that he was about to die,
had called my grandfather and my father round his bed; then, after
making them swear on the Cross and on the Gospel never to reveal what
he was about to tell them, he confided to them a secret of great
importance for the future of our family; in a word, he stated to
them that some time before his exile, in the last expedition that he
had made, according to his custom, he had discovered diamond mines
and deposits of gold of incalculable value. He entered into the
minutest details as to the route that was to be followed to discover
the country where these unknown riches were hidden; gave to my
grandfather a map traced by himself on the very spot, and added, for
fear that my grandfather should forget any important detail, a bundle
of manuscripts, in which the history of his expedition and of his
discovery, as well as the itinerary life that he had followed, going
and returning, were related as a diary, almost hour by hour; then,
certain that this fortune which he had left them would not be lost to
them, he gave his children his blessing, and died almost immediately,
weakened by the efforts that he had been obliged to make to give them
complete information; but before closing his eyes for ever, he made
them, for the last time, swear inviolable secrecy."

"I do not yet see, Sir, what relation there is between this
history--very interesting, certainly--that you are relating, and these
two unfortunate ladies," interrupted the abbess, shaking her head.

"A few minutes more complaisance, Madame; you will not be long in being
satisfied."

"Be it so, Sir; continue then, I beg."

Don Zeno resumed:

"Some years passed; my grandfather was at the head of the vast _chacra_
occupied by our family, my father was beginning to aid him in his
labours. He had a sister beautiful as the angels, and pure as they. She
was named Laura; her father and brother loved her to adoration; she was
their joy, their pride, their happiness--"

Don Zeno stopped; tears that he did not try to restrain slowly flowed
down his cheeks.

"This souvenir affects you, Señor," said the abbess, gently.

The young man proudly nerved himself.

"I have promised to tell you the truth, Madame, and although the task
that I impose on myself is painful, I will not give way. My grandfather
had deposited in a place, known to him and his daughter only, the
manuscript and the map that had been left them by my great-grandfather
on his deathbed, and then neither of them had cared much more about
the matter, not supposing that a time would arrive when it would be
possible to take possession of this fortune, which, nevertheless,
belonged to them by incontestable title. One day, a foreigner presented
himself at the _chacra_, and asked hospitality, which was never refused
to anyone. The stranger was young, handsome, and rich--at least, he
appeared so--and for our family he had the great advantage of being
our fellow countryman; he belonged to one of the most noble families
of Portugal. He was then more than a friend--almost a relation. My
grandfather received him with open arms; he lived several months in
our _chacra;_ he might have lived there altogether had he wished it;
everyone in the house liked him. Pardon me, Madame, for passing rapidly
over these details. Although too young to have personally assisted
in that infamous treason, my heart is broken. One day the stranger
disappeared, carrying away Doña Laura. That is how that man repaid our
hospitality."

"Oh! that is horrible!" cried the abbess, carried away by the
indignation she felt.

"Every search was fruitless; it was impossible to discover his traces.
But what was more serious in this affair, Madame, was, that this man
had coldly and basely followed out a plan previously laid."

"It is not possible!" said the abbess, with horror.

"This man had--I do not know how--discovered something in Europe
about the secret that my great-grandfather had so well guarded. The
stranger's design, in introducing himself into our house, was to
discover the complete secret, in order to rob us of our fortune.
During the time that he lived at the _chacra_, he several times
tried, by artful questions, to learn the details of which he was
ignorant--questions addressed sometimes to my grandfather, sometimes
to my father, then a young man. The odious violence that he committed
did not proceed from love, pushed almost to distraction, as you might
suppose; he might have demanded of my grandfather the hand of his
daughter, which the latter would have given him; no, he did not love
Doña Laura.

"Then," interrupted the abbess, "why did he carry her off?"

"Why, you say?"

"Yes."

"Because he believed that she possessed the secret that he wished to
discover; that, Madame, was the only motive for the crime."

"What you tell me is infamous, Señor," cried the abbess; "this man was
a demon."

"No, Madame, he was a wretch devoured by the thirst for riches, and
who, at any price, determined to possess them, even if to do so he had
to bring dishonour and shame into a family, or to walk over a heap of
corpses."

"Oh!" she gasped, hiding her head in her hands.

"Now, Madame, do you wish to know the name of this man?" he pursued,
with bitterness; "But it is needless, is it not? For you have already
guessed, no doubt."

The abbess nodded her head affirmatively, without answering.

There was rather a long silence.

"But why render the innocent," at last said the abbess, "responsible
for the crimes committed by others?"

"Because, Madame--an inheritor of the paternal hatred for twenty
years--it is only a fortnight ago that I have again found a trace that
I thought was lost forever; that the name of our enemy has, like a
thunderclap, suddenly burst on my ear, and that I have demanded of this
man a reckoning in blood for the honour of my family."

"So to satisfy a vengeance which might be just, were it brought to bear
on the guilty, you would be cruel enough--"

"I do not yet know what I shall do, Madame. My head is on fire; fury
carries me away," interrupted he, with violence. "This man has stolen
our happiness; I wish to take away his; but I shall not be a coward,
as he has been; he shall know from whence comes the blow which strikes
him; it is between us a war of wild beasts."

At this moment the door of the adjoining room opened suddenly, and the
marchioness appeared calm and imposing.

"A war of wild beasts let it be, _caballero;_ I accept it."

The young man rose abruptly, and darting a look of crushing scorn at
the superior:

"Ah! I have been listened to," said he, with irony; "well, so much the
better, I prefer it to be so. This unworthy treachery precludes any
further explanation; you know, Madame, the cause of the hatred that I
bear towards your husband; I have nothing more to tell you."

"My husband is a noble _caballero_, who, if he were present, would
wither, by his denial--as I do myself--the odious tissue of lies by
which you have not scrupled to accuse him before a person," added she,
directing a look of sorrowful pity to the superior, "who would not,
perhaps, have believed this frightful tale, the falsity of which is too
easy to prove for it to be necessary to refute it."

"Be it so, Madame; this insult, coming from you, cannot affect me; you
are naturally the last person to whom your husband would have confided
this horrible secret; but whatever happens, a time will come--and it is
near, I hope--when the truth will be declared, and when the criminal
will be unmasked before you."

"There are men, Señor, whom calumny, however skilfully concocted,
cannot reach," answered she, with scorn.

"Let us cease this, Madame; all discussion between us would only serve
the more to embitter us against each other. I repeat that I am not your
enemy."

"But what are you then, and for what reason have you related this
horrible story?"

"If you had had the patience to listen to me a few minutes more,
Madame, you would have learned."

"What prevents you telling me, now that we are face to face?"

"I will tell you if you desire it, Madame," replied, he, coldly. "I
should have preferred, however, that some other person, who might have
more sympathy for you than I have, should perform this task."

"No, no, Sir; I am myself a Portuguese also, and when the honour of my
name is concerned, my principle is to act for myself."

"As you please, Madame; I was about to make a proposition to you."

"A proposition--to me!" said she, haughtily.

"Yes, Madame."

"What is it? Be brief, if you please."

"I was about to ask you to give me your word not to quit this town
without my authority, and not to try and communicate with your husband."

"Ah! And if I had made this promise?"

"Then, Madame, I should, in return, have freed you from the accusation
which weighs upon you, and should immediately have obtained your
liberty."

"Liberty to be a prisoner in a town, instead of in a convent," said
she, with irony; "you are generous, Señor. But you would not have had
to appear before a counsel of war."

"That is true; I forgot that you and yours make war on
women--especially on women--you are so brave, you revolutionary
gentlemen." The young man was unmoved by this bitter insult; he bowed
respectfully.

"I wait your answer, Madame," said he.

"What answer?" she replied, with disdain.

"That which you will be pleased to make to the proposition which I have
the honour to make."

The marchioness remained a moment silent; then, raising her head, and
taking a step in advance--

"_Caballero_," she resumed, in a haughty voice, "to accept the
proposition you make me, would be to admit the possibility of the truth
of the odious accusation that you dare to bring against my husband.
Now, that possibility I do not allow. The honour of my husband is mine;
it is my duty to defend it."

"I expected that answer, Madame, although it afflicts me more than you
can suppose. You have, no doubt, well reflected on all the consequences
of this refusal?"

"On all--yes, Señor."

"They may be terrible."

"I know it, and I shall submit."

"You are not alone, Madame; you have a daughter."

"Sir," she answered, with an accent of supreme hauteur, "my daughter
knows too well what she owes to the honour of her house to hesitate in
making for it, if need be, the sacrifice of her life."

"Oh, Madame!"

"Do not try to frighten me, Señor; you will not succeed. My
determination is taken, and I should not change it, even if I saw the
scaffold before me. Men deceive themselves, if they think they alone
possess the privilege of courage. It is good, from time to time,
for a woman to show them that they also know how to die for their
convictions. A truce, then, I beg you, to any more entreaties, Señor;
they would be useless."

The _Montonero_ bowed silently, made a few steps towards the door,
stopped, and half turned as if he wished to speak; but, altering his
mind, he bowed a last time and went out.

The marchioness remained an instant motionless; then, turning towards
the abbess, and extending her arms to her--

"And now, my friend," said she to her, with a sorrowful voice, "do you
believe that the Marquis de Castelmelhor is guilty of the frightful
crimes of which that man accuses him?"

"Oh, no, no, my friend," cried the superior, melting into tears, and
falling into the arms which opened to receive her.




CHAPTER V.

THE PREPARATIONS OF TYRO.


The painter's rencontre, on his leaving the convent, had struck him
with a sad presentiment as to his _protégés_.

Without being able quite clearly to account for the sentiments he
entertained for them, however unfortunate himself, he felt himself
constrained to aid and succour by all means in his power, the women
who, without knowing him, had so frankly claimed his protection.

His self-love--first as a man, and then as a Frenchman--was flattered
at the part which he thus found himself called on to play unawares in
this sombre and mysterious affair, the whole of which, notwithstanding
the confidence of the marchioness, he much doubted whether they had
revealed to him.

But what mattered that?

Placed by chance--or rather by bad fortune--which so furiously pursued
him, in an almost desperate situation, the risks that he had to run in
succouring these two ladies, did not much aggravate that situation;
whereas, if he succeeded in enabling them to escape the fate which
threatened them, while he saved himself, he would bring to bear on his
persecutors a little warlike strategy in showing himself more keen than
they, and would once for all avenge the continual apprehensions they
had caused him since his arrival at San Miguel.

These reflections, in bringing back calmness to the young man's mind,
gave him back also his careless gaiety, and it was with a quick and
deliberate step that he rejoined Tyro at the spot which the latter had
assigned as a permanent rendezvous.

The place was well chosen; it was a natural grotto, not very deep,
situated at two pistol shots or so from the town, so well concealed
from curious eyes by the chaos of rocks, and of thickets of parasitic
plants, that, unless the exact position of this grotto were known, it
was impossible to discover it--so much the more, as its mouth opened
onto the river, and that to enter it, it was necessary to go into
the water up to the knees. Tyro, half lying on a mass of dry leaves,
covered with two or three Araucanian _pellones_[1] and ponchos, was
carelessly smoking a cigarette of maize straw, while he waited for his
master.

The latter, after being assured that no one was watching him, removed
his shoes, tucked up his trousers, went into the water, and entered the
grotto--not, however, without having whistled two separate times, in
order to warn the Indian of his arrival.

"Ouf!" said he, as he entered the grotto, "A singular fashion this of
coming into one's house. Here am I returned, Tyro."

"I see, master," gravely answered the Indian, without changing his
position.

"Now," pursued the young man, "let me resume my clothes, and then we
can talk. I have much to tell you."

"And I also, master."

"Ah!" said he, looking at him.

"Yes; but first change your clothes."

"That's right," resumed the young man.

He immediately proceeded to abandon his disguise, and soon he had
recovered his ordinary appearance.

"There--that's done," said he, sitting near the Indian, and lighting
a cigarette. "I can tell you that this disgusting costume annoys me
horribly, and I shall be happy when I shall be able to get rid of it
altogether."

"That will be soon, I hope, master."

"And I also, my friend. God grant that we have not deceived ourselves!
Now, what have you to tell me? Speak, I am listening."

"But you--have you not told me you have news?"

"That is true; but I am anxious to know what you have to tell me. I
believe it is more important than what I have to tell you. So, speak
first; my communication will come soon enough."

"As you please, master," answered the Indian, settling himself, and
throwing away his cigarette, which began to burn his fingers; then,
half turning his head towards the young man, and looking him full in
the face--

"Are you brave?" he asked.

This question, put so suddenly unawares, caused such a profound
surprise to the painter, that he hesitated an instant.

"Well," he at last answered, "I believe so then, collecting himself
by degrees," he added, with a slight smile. "Besides, my good Tyro,
bravery is in France so common a virtue, that there is no conceit on my
part in asserting that I possess it."

"Good!" murmured the Indian, who caught his idea, "You are brave,
master; and so am I, I believe; I have seen you in several
circumstances conduct yourself very well."

"Then why ask me this question?" said the painter, with some slight
annoyance.

"Do not be angry, master," quickly replied the Indian, "my intentions
are good. When a serious expedition is commenced, and when we wish to
bring it to a good conclusion, it is necessary to calculate all the
chances. You are a Frenchman--that is to say, a foreigner, not long in
this country, of the customs of which you are completely ignorant."

"I admit that," interrupted the young man.

"You find yourself on an unknown territory, which, at every moment must
be a mystery to you. In asking you, then, if you are brave, I do not
doubt your courage I have seen you act courageously--only I wish to
know if this courage is white or red; if it shines as much in darkness
and solitude as in broad daylight, and before the crowd--that's all."

"Thus put, I understand the question, but I do not know how to answer
it, not having ever found myself in a situation where it was necessary
for me to employ the kind of courage of which you speak. I can simply,
and in all confidence, assure you of this--that day or night, alone or
in company, in default of bravery, pride would always prevent me from
retreating, and would constrain me to front my adversaries, whoever
they might be, if they stood before me to oppose my will, when I had
formed a resolution."

"I thank you for that assurance, master, for our task will be arduous,
and I shall be happy to know that you will not abandon me in the great
danger in which I shall be placed, and my devotion to you."

"You can count on my word, Tyro," answered the painter; "so, banish all
afterthoughts, and boldly march ahead."

"That I will do, master, you may depend. Now, let us leave that, and
come to the news that I had to tell you."

"Just so," said the painter; "what is this news--good or bad?"

"That depends, master, on how you estimate it."

"Good; let me know first."

"Do you know that the Spanish officers, whom they were going to try
tomorrow, or the day after, have escaped?"

"Escaped!" cried, the painter, with astonishment, "When was that?"

"This very morning; they passed near here scarcely two hours ago,
mounted on horses of the Pampas, and galloping furiously in the
direction of the Cordilleras."

"Upon my word, so much the better for them--I am delighted at it, for,
as matters go in this country, they would have been shot."

"They would have been shot certainly," said the Indian, nodding his
head.

"That would have been a pity," said the young man. "Although I know
very little about them, and they have placed me, by their fault, in a
rather difficult position, I should have been sorry if any misfortune
had happened to them. So you are certain that they have really escaped?"

"Master, I have seen them."

"Then, _bon voyage!_ God grant that they may not be retaken."

"Do you not fear that this flight may be prejudicial?"

"To me! Why?" cried he, with surprise.

"Have you not been indirectly implicated in their affairs?"

"That is true, but I believe I have nothing to fear now, and that the
suspicions which had been excited against me have been completely
dissipated."

"So much the better, master; however, if I may give you advice--believe
me, be prudent."

"Come, talk candidly. I see behind your Indian circumlocutions a
serious thought which possesses you, and which you wish me to share.
Respect, or some fear that I cannot understand, alone prevents you from
explaining yourself."

"Since you demand it, master, I will explain myself, especially as time
presses. The flight of the two Spanish officers has awakened suspicions
which were but suppressed; and now they accuse you of having encouraged
them in their project of flight, and of having procured them the means
of accomplishing it."

"I! Why, that is impossible! I have not once seen them since their
arrest."

"I know it, master; however, it is as I say; I am well informed."

"Then my position becomes extremely delicate; I do not know what to do."

"I have thought of that for you, master; we Indians form a population
apart in the town. Disliked by the Spaniards, scorned by the Creoles,
we sustain one another, in order to be in a position, in case of need,
to resist the injustice they may design to do us. Since I have occupied
myself with preparations for your journey, I have communicated with
several men of my tribe, engaged in the families of certain persons in
the town, in order to be informed of all that passes, and to warn you
against treachery. I knew yesterday evening that the Spanish officers
were going to escape today at the rising of the sun. For several days,
aided by their friends, they have planned their flight."

"I do not yet see," interrupted the painter, "what relation there is
between this flight and anything which concerns me personally."

"Wait, master," pursued the Indian, "I am coming to that. This morning,
after having aided you to disguise yourself, I followed you and entered
the town. The news of the flight of the officers was already known
--everybody was talking of it. I mixed myself in several groups, where
this flight was commented on in a hundred different ways. Your name was
in every mouth."

"But I knew nothing of this flight."

"I know it well, master; but you are a stranger--that is enough for
them to accuse you--so much the more as you have an enemy determined on
your ruin who has spread abroad this report, and given it consistency."

"An enemy!--I!" said the young man, astounded; "It is impossible!"

The Indian smiled, sarcastically.

"Soon you will know it, master," said he; "but it is useless to occupy
ourselves with him at this moment; it is you we must think of--you that
we must save."

The young man shook his head sadly.

"No," said he, with a sad voice; "I see that I am really lost this
time; all that I might do would but hasten my destruction; better
resign myself to my fate."

The Indian looked at him for some moments with an astonishment that he
did not seek to dissimulate.

"Was I not right, master," he resumed at last, "to ask you at the
commencement of this conversation, if you had courage?"

"What do you mean?" cried the young man, suddenly collecting himself,
and darting a look at the Indian.

Tyro did not lower his eyes; his countenance remained impassive, and it
was with the same calm voice, with the same careless accent, that he
continued:

"In this country, master, courage does not resemble in anything
what you possess. Every man is brave with the sabre or the gun in
hand--especially here, where, without reckoning men, we are constantly
obliged to struggle against all kinds of animals of the most
destructive and ferocious character; but what signifies that?"

"I do not understand you," answered the young man.

"Pardon me, master, for teaching you things of which you are ignorant.
There is a courage that you must acquire--it is that which consists in
appearing to give in when the strife is unequal--reserving yourself,
while you feign flight, to take your revenge later. Your enemies have
an immense advantage over you; they know you; they therefore act
against you with certainty, while you do not know them. You are liable
at the first movement you make to fall into the snare spread under your
feet, and thus to give yourself up without hope of vengeance."

"What you say is full of sense, Tyro; only you speak to me in enigmas.
Who are these enemies whom I do not know, and who appear so determined
on my destruction?"

"I cannot yet tell you their names, master; but have patience--a day
will come when you will know them."

"Have patience!--It's very well to say that. Unhappily, I am up to my
neck in a trap, out of which I do not know how to escape."

"Leave it to me, master; I will answer for all. You will escape more
easily than you think."

"Hum! That appears to me very difficult."

The Indian smiled, as he slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"All the whites are like this," murmured he, as if he were speaking to
himself; "in appearance their conformation is the same as our own, and,
nevertheless, they are completely incapable of doing the least thing by
themselves."

"It is possible," answered the young man, nettled at this
uncomplimentary remark; "that involves a number of considerations too
long to explain to you, and which, moreover, you would not understand;
let us return to what ought solely to occupy us just now. I repeat,
that I find my position desperate, and that I do not know, even with
the aid of your devotion, in what way I shall escape."

There was a short interval of silence between the two men, and then the
Indian resumed, but this time with a clear and decided voice, like that
of a man who desires to be understood at once, without being obliged to
lose precious time in explanations.

"Master," said he, "as soon as I was informed of what had passed,
convinced that I should not be unsupported by you, I laid my plan, and
put myself in a position to ward off the new blow which threatens you.
My first care was to go to your house. They know me; the greater part
of the attendants are my friends; they took no heed of me. I was free
to go and come as I liked, without attracting attention. I then took
advantage of a time when the house was almost deserted on account of
the _siesta_ which closed the eyes of masters and servants, and, aided
by some of my friends, I hastily carried away all that belongs to you,
even to your horses, which I loaded with your baggage, and your boxes
full of papers and linen."

"Well," interrupted the young man, with a satisfaction clouded by
slight anxiety; "but what will my countryman think of this proceeding?"

"Do not let that distress you, master," answered the Guaraní, with a
singularly expressive smile.

"Be it so; you no doubt found a plausible pretext to account for this
strange proceeding."

"That is just it," said he, with a chuckle.

"Very well; but now tell me, Tyro; what have you done with this
baggage? I should by no means like to lose it--it contains the best
part of my fortune. I cannot camp out in the open air, more especially
as that would avail me nothing, and that those who have an interest in
seeking me would soon discover me; on the other hand, I can scarcely
see in what house I can lodge, without running the risk of being soon
arrested."

The Indian laughed.

"Eh! Eh!" gaily said the young man. "As you laugh, it is, perhaps,
because my affairs go on well, and that you are nearly certain of
having found a safe shelter."

"You are wrong, master. I am immediately going to seek some spot where
you will be safe and completely hidden from pursuit."

"The devil! That is not so easy to find in the town."

"But it is not in the town that I look for it."

"Oh, oh! Where then? I scarcely see that there is any place in the
country where it is possible for me to hide."

"That is because you do not, like we Indians, understand the desert. At
about two miles from here, in a rancho of the Guaraní Indians, I have
found an asylum where I defy them to come and look for you, or, in case
of a visit, to find you."

"You strangely pique my curiosity. Is everything prepared to receive
me?"

"Yes, master."

"Why do we then remain here, instead of going there?"

"Because, master, the sun has not yet set, and it is too light to
venture into the country."

"You are right, my brave Tyro; I thank you for this new service."

"I have only done my duty, master."

"Hum! Well, since you wish it, I consent. Only, believe that I am not
ungrateful. So that is agreed. I am unhoused. My dear compatriot will
be much astonished when he finds that I have left without taking leave
of him."

The Indian laughed, without answering.

"Unhappily, my friend," continued the young man, "this position is very
precarious; it cannot last for long."

"Depend upon me for that, master; before three days we shall have set
out. All my measures are taken accordingly. My preparations would have
been finished already, if I had had at my disposal a sufficient sum to
purchase some indispensable things."

"Do not let that disturb you," cried the young man, quickly putting
his hand into his pocket, and drawing from it the purse which the
marchioness had given him; "there is the money."

"Oh!" said the Indian, with joy, "There is much more than we want."

But suddenly the painter became sad, and took the purse again from the
hands of the Guaraní.

"I am mad," said he. "We cannot use that money, it is not ours; we have
no right to make use of it."

Tyro looked at him with surprise.

"Yes," continued he, gently shaking his head, "this sum has been given
to me by the person whom I have promised to save, in order to prepare
everything for her flight."

"Well?" said the Indian.

"Why, now," resumed the young man, "the affair appears to me to be
quite altered; I should have a right, I think, to save myself alone."

"Your situation is just the same, master; you can keep the word that
you have given; in fact, perhaps you are in a better position today
than you were yesterday, to organise, not only your flight, but that of
these persons. I have foreseen all."

"Come, explain yourself; for I begin no longer to understand you at
all."

"How is that, master?"

"Why, you appear to know my affairs better than I do."

"Do not let that distress you. I only know as much about your affairs
as I ought to know, to be useful to you in case of need, and to be in a
position to prove to you what is my devotion for you. Moreover, if you
wish it, I will appear to know nothing."

"That is a good joke!" exclaimed the young man, laughing. "Come, since
it is not even possible to keep my secrets to myself, act as you
like--sorcerer that you are. I shall complain no more; now, continue."

"Only give me this gold, master, and leave me to act."

"Well, I think that is the best; take it then," added he, putting the
purse in his hand; "only, make haste, for you ought to know better than
I do, that we have no time to lose."

"Oh! Just now nothing presses. They believe you have gone; they are
searching for you far away; they thus give you every facility to do
here all that you wish."

"That is true. If it only concerned myself, upon my word I have so
great a confidence in my own skill, that I should not hurry myself at
all, I assure you; but--"

"Yes," he interrupted, "I know what you wish to say, master, it
concerns these ladies. They are anxious to be off, and they are right;
but they have nothing to fear before three days. I only ask two, is
that too much?"

"No, certainly; only I confess there is one thing which much
embarrasses me at present."

"What is it, master?"

"It is how I shall introduce myself into the convent to warn them."

"That is very simple; you will go in the convent in the same disguise
that you assumed yesterday."

"Hum! You think that is not risking too much?"

"Not the least in the world, master. Who will care to concern himself
about a poor old man?"

"Well, I will try; if I fail, I shall have done my duty as a gallant
man; my conscience will reproach me in nothing."

They continued to talk thus for several hours, making their final
arrangements, and trying to foresee all the chances which might, at the
last moment, occur to mar the success of their projects.

The more the young Frenchman became intimately acquainted with the
Guaraní, the more he discovered intelligence in this poor Indian, so
simple and so artless in appearance, and the more he congratulated
himself on having accepted his offers of service, and trusting to him.

It should be added that if the painter had not thus, at this critical
period, met this devoted servant, he would have been in a most critical
situation, and it would have been almost impossible for him to escape
from the terrible danger suspended over his head. He frankly owned
this, and, putting aside the prejudices of race, he wisely left his
servant to act for himself, contenting himself with following his
counsels without trying to have his own way--which showed that the
young man, notwithstanding his apparent frivolity of character, had
good common sense, and a rather uncommon rectitude of judgment.

About half an hour after sunset, the two men quitted the grotto, in the
recesses of which they had remained hidden more than four hours.

The Indian, who, notwithstanding the darkness, appeared to see as
if it were broad daylight, guided his master through the intricate
paths, apparently inextricable, but through which he proceeded with a
certainty which indicated a complete knowledge of the places which he
traversed. The painter, unaccustomed to these night journeys, followed
him as well as he could, stumbling at nearly every step, but not being
discouraged, and cheerfully taking his part in this new adventure.

The journey from the grotto to the place where they were to stay was
short--it did not last longer than three-quarters of an hour.

Tyro stopped before a rancho of a sufficiently miserable aspect, built
on the summit of a hill. He opened, without otherwise announcing his
presence, a door formed of an ox hide stretched over a hurdle of willow.

The rancho was, or rather appeared, deserted.

The Indian struck a light with his flint and steel, and lit a _sebo_.[2]

The interior of the rancho resembled the exterior, and was very
miserable.

"Eh?" said Emile, casting a scrutinising look round him, "This rancho
is abandoned, then."

"By no means, master," answered Tyro; "but the occupants have withdrawn
into the other room, so as not to see us."

"Oh! Oh! And for why?"

"Simply because, if they should come to look for us here, they could
with a good conscience affirm that that they do not know you, and that
they have not seen you."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the young man, "That is very good of them, good
people that they are! Well, I see with pleasure that the Jesuits
make good pupils as well in America as in Europe. The plan is very
ingenious."

Tyro did not answer. He was in the act of removing with a pickaxe a
slight layer of earth, under which soon appeared a trapdoor. The Indian
lifted it up.

"Come, master," said he.

"The devil!" murmured the young man, with some hesitation, "Am I going
to be buried alive?"

The Indian had already disappeared in the opening left gaping by the
removal of the trapdoor.

"Come," said the young man, "there is no time to hesitate."

He leant over the hole, perceived the first steps of a ladder, and
boldly descended into the cave, where Tyro awaited him, the _sebo_
being held towards him, to give him light, and prevent a false step.

This cavern was rather large and high, and completely furnished with
palm mats to absorb the moisture. All the baggage of the young man had
been brought here, and was ranged with care.

A washing stand, a couch, a table, and a hammock, hung in a corner,
completed the simple furniture of the place.

Several candles and a lamp were placed on the table.

At each end of the cavern, the form of which was nearly oval, were
galleries.

"Here is our temporary apartment, master," said the Guaraní; "each of
these galleries is carried, after a few turns, a good way into the
country. In case of alarm, you have a safe retreat; your horses have
been placed by me in the gallery to the left; they have all they want.
In this basket you will find provisions for three days. I do not
pledge you as to going out before you have seen me; only I warn you
that I shall not return till all is ready for your flight; you will be
here completely in safety. You have only to be patient."

While he thus spoke, the Indian had taken from the basket, and spread
on the table, after having lit the lamp, provisions for the supper, of
which the painter, who had fasted since he left the convent, began to
feel the necessity.

"Now, master, I am going up into the rancho, to put everything in
order, and to remove all traces of our movements. Good-bye, for the
present, and keep up your spirits."

"Thank you, Tyro; but, in the name of Heaven, remember that I trust
entirely to you; do not leave me too long a prisoner."

"Depend on me, master. Ah! I forgot to tell you that when I return, it
will be by the gallery to the right I shall imitate the cry of the owl
three times before entering."

"Well, I will remember. Will you not keep company with me, and have
supper?"

"Thank you, master, that is impossible; I must be at San Miguel in an
hour."

"Well, do as you wish," answered the painter, suppressing a sigh; "I
will not detain you anymore."

"_Au revoir_, master; patience for a short time."

"_À bientôt_, Tyro; as to the patience you recommend, I will try and
exercise it."

The Indian remounted the ladder, disappeared through the opening,
and, after having again bidden adieu to his master, he re-closed the
trapdoor.

Emile found himself alone.

He remained a short time motionless, buried in sad reflections; but
soon, shaking his head several times, he seated himself on the couch,
and proceeded to attack the provisions placed before him on the table.

"Supper!" said he; "That will pass away an hour, especially as I feel
a formidable appetite. Positively," added he, after a pause, with his
mouth full, "when, on my return to France, I relate my adventures in
America, no one will believe me!"

And, pleased with this reflection, he carefully proceeded with his
supper.


[1] Sheepskins dyed and prepared.

[2] A pot of tallow.




CHAPTER VI.

COMPLICATIONS.


The same day on which transpired the various events which we have
related in our preceding chapters, about nine o'clock in the evening,
two persons were seated in the room of the Duke de Montone, and were
talking in French with animation. These two persons were the Duke de
Montone himself; or M. Dubois, as he wished to be called, and the
other, General Don Eusebio Moratin, governor, for the Buenos-Airean
patriots, of the town of San Miguel, and of the province Tucuman.

General Moratin was then about forty-five; he was short but stout, and
well built. His features would have been handsome, had it not been for
the expression of cold calculation in his black and deeply sunken eyes.

This officer, whose memory is justly execrated in the Argentine
provinces, and who, if Rosas had not come after him, would have
remained the most complete type of the villains which the revolutionary
foam, from the commencement of the century, threw to the surface of
society, to tyrannise over the people, and dishonour the great human
family, played at this time an important part in his country, and
enjoyed immense influence.

We shall give his history in a few words. Born in 1760, of a
distinguished family of Montevideo, this man had early manifested the
most wicked tendencies. The nomadic life of the gauchos, their savage
independence, everything about them, even their ferocity, had led away
this unruly spirit. For several years he shared their life, and then
he got together a band of contrabandists and assassins, of whom he
soon became the most active, the most cruel, and the most enterprising
member.

The ascendancy gained by this man over his companions in rapine, made
them choose him as their chief.

From that time his excesses knew no bounds, and acquired a celebrity at
once brilliant and execrable.

He ravaged without pity the Banda Oriental, Entrekios, and Paraguay,
destroying the crops, carrying away the women, murdering the men,
pillaging the churches, and throwing more than 20,000 families into
mourning.

Affairs came to such a pass that the governor of Buenos Aires was
obliged to form a corps of volunteers, specially charged to pursue
the band of Moratin; but this means was insufficient, and the Spanish
Government was obliged to treat with this brigand as between two
powers.

His own father served as mediator. The bandits were amnestied,
incorporated in the army, and their chief, besides a large sum of
money, received the commission of lieutenant, which soon was worth more
to him than that of a captain.

But at the first cry of independence raised in the Argentine provinces,
Moratin deserted, went over to the insurgents, followed by his old
companions, formed a powerful _Montonero_, resolutely attacked the
Spaniards, and defeated them in several encounters--notably, in 1811,
on _las Piedras_.

We will not dwell further on the daring deeds of this ferocious
_condottiere_, whom--notwithstanding the care we have taken to conceal
his name--those of his compatriots into whose hands this book may fall
will immediately recognise. We will merely add that, after acts of
revolting ferocity, mingled with brilliant deeds--for he was endowed
with high intelligence--at the moment when we place him on the stage,
he had the rank of general, was governor of Tucuman, and probably did
not intend merely to remain that.

The picture that the insurgent provinces presented was the most sad and
afflicting that could be imagined.

The men in power endeavoured to destroy one another, to the detriment
of public tranquillity.

The soldiers had broken all the bonds of subordination, and it was
by caprice that they agreed or refused to obey their officers, who
themselves generally assumed their rank on their own authority.

The Portuguese made war for the aggrandisement of Brazil, the
Montevideans for their own security, and the Buenos Aireans to maintain
the union proclaimed, from the commencement of hostilities between the
Spaniards.

In this strange conflict of every human passion, the last sentiments of
patriotism had been drowned in blood, and each one no longer took his
part in the contest, except according to his own avarice or ambition.

In a word, demoralisation was everywhere--good faith nowhere.

Don Eusebio Moratin, although as a Creole he had a sovereign contempt
for everything foreign, and especially European, spoke English and
French very well--not from a liking to these languages, but from
necessity, and in order to facilitate, by an apparent love of liberty,
and the support of the great European powers, the ambitious views that
he concealed in his heart.

We shall now resume our narrative at the point at which we left it;
that is to say, we shall make the reader present at the conclusion of
the conversation of of the two politicians whom we have introduced in
commencing this chapter.

The general, who had for some minutes been striding about the room,
turned suddenly, and facing the duke--

"Bah! Bah!" said he, in a sharp voice, throwing back his head, and
smacking his fingers--a gesture which was habitual to him--"I repeat,
Monsieur le Duc, that your Zeno Cabral, good soldier as he may be, is
but an arrant simpleton."

"Allow me, general--" objected the Frenchman.

"Come," he resumed, with violence, "be a politician! One must be mad
to think so. A Montonero chief, who thinks of falling in love--of
becoming sentimental! Is it thus that he acts? Eh! _Mon Dieu!_ If the
girl pleases him, let him take her! That's as simple as 'good day,' and
does not require much diplomacy. I have experience in these matters
myself. Every woman wishes to be a little forced--that's a preliminary.
Instead of that he puts on sorrowful airs, rolls his eyes, sighs, and
almost goes the length of composing madrigals. Upon my word, it would
be enough to make one burst out into laughter, if it did not make one
shrug his shoulders with pity. Mother and daughter only mock him, and
they are right. He is a thorough simpleton. You will see that they will
finish by slipping through his fingers, like two snakes as they are,
and they will do it well! I shall heartily rejoice at such a splendid
result of a platonic attachment, seasoned with hereditary vengeance. Do
not speak to me any more of this man; there is nothing to be done with
him."

The duke had listened to this impassioned outburst with coolness, which
was perpetually stereotyped on his impassable countenance.

When the general had finished, he looked at him for a time, with a
slightly mocking air, and then taking up the conversation--

"All that is very well, general," said he, "but this is, after all,
only your individual opinion, is it not?"

"Certainly," said Don Eusebio.

"You would be very little pleased, I imagine,", resumed he, smiling,
"if the words you have just muttered were repeated to Don Zeno Cabral."

A flash of ferocity darted from the eye of the general; but immediately
recovering himself--

"I admit," said he, "that I should be annoyed at it."

"Then," resumed the duke, "of what use is it to say things which one
day or other you might regret. With me it is of no consequence; I know
too well by what slight threads the deepest political combinations are
often held, ever to abuse confidence; but in a hasty moment you might
permit yourself to speak thus before a third party, of whom you could
not be so sure as you are of me; and then the consequences might be
serious."

"You are right, my dear duke," said the general, laughing; "consider
that I have said nothing."

"That is right, general--especially as at this moment you have the most
pressing need of Don Zeno Cabral and his squadron."

"That is true; unhappily, I cannot do without him."

"A charming way of inspiring his confidence, to treat him as a
simpleton!"

"Oh, forget that, and let us come, if you please, to business. Don Zeno
will not be long before he comes here. I should like that everything
was decided upon between us before he comes."

The Frenchman looked at the clock.

"We have still twenty minutes," said he; "that is more than is
necessary to decide upon everything. Now, what is your project?"

"To have me declared president of the republic!" he exclaimed, with
violence.

"I know it, but that is not of what I am speaking."

"Of what are you speaking, then?"

"Of the means you intend to employ to reach the end you are ambitious
to arrive at."

"Ah, that is just where the shoe pinches. I do not know what to do; we
are now wading in such a muddy pool--"

"That's an additional consideration," interrupted the duke; "the best
fish are always found in troubled water."

"To say that to me!" said the general, with a burst of laughter; "I
have never fished in any other but troubled water."

"Well, if you have succeeded up to the present time, you must continue."

"I should like to do so, but how?"

The duke appeared to reflect seriously for some minutes, while the
general looked at him anxiously.

"See how unjust you are, my dear general," at last resumed the duke;
"it is just this love of Don Zeno for the daughter of the Marchioness
de Castelmelhor--a love that you have spoken of so bitterly--that will
furnish you with those means you have been unsuccessfully seeking."

"I do not understand the least in the world what relation there can be
between--"

"Patience!" interrupted the diplomatist. "What do you wish first?--the
immediate removal of Don Zeno Cabral, who, loved and respected by all
as he is, resume his presence, influence the votes of the deputies
uttered witted at this moment in the town to proclaim, independence,
and perhaps elect a president; is it not that?"

"Just so; but Don Zeno will not consent, under any pretence, to go
away."

The diplomatist slightly sneered, casting a look of pity on his
companion.

"General," said he, "have you ever been in love in your life?"

"I!" cried Don Eusebio, with a start of surprise. "Ah, you are jesting
with me, my dear duke."

"Not the least in the world," answered he, calmly.

"To the devil with such a silly question, when we are dealing with a
serious affair!"

"Not so silly as you suppose, general. I am not at all wandering from
our business. So I beg you do me the pleasure of answering me plainly.
Have you, or have you not, been in love?"

"Since you insist on it--well, I have never been what you call in love;
is that clear?"

"Perfectly; well, that's just the difference between you and Don Zeno
Cabral, that he is in love."

"_Pardieu!_ The good and important news that you tell me, my dear
duke!--after an hour, I am waiting for it."

"Agreed; but wait the conclusion."

"Let us have the conclusion, then."

"Here it is. It has been said, a century ago, by a fabulist of our
nation, in a charming way, in a fable that I will someday read to you--"

"But the conclusion!" cried the general, stamping with impatience.

"Hum! How lively you are, my dear general," replied the duke,
imperturbably, amused by the exasperation of his companion. "Listen;
it is not long, but it is in verse. Calm yourself; there are but two
lines:"

    "'Amour, amour! Quand tu nous tiens,
    On peut bien dire: Adieu, prudence.'"[1]

"So you understand?"

"Pretty well," answered the general, who really did not understand at
all, but who did not like to confess it; "however, I do not see--"

"It is, however, very simple, my dear general; it is just by his love
that we hold him."

"That is to say--"

"That is to say, that in knowing how to excite this love, we shall
succeed in the result we wish to obtain."

"For once, I do not understand you, Monsieur le Duc; this love has no
need of being excited, I should think."

"Not love, perhaps," answered the Frenchman, laughing; "but jealousy,
at all events; as to that, let me act; I have taken it into my head
that you shall succeed, and it shall be so."

"I thank you, my dear duke, for the aid you are pleased to give me;
but would it not be well that you should make me acquainted with your
projects, so that I can, in case of need, come to your assistance;
whereas, if I remain in ignorance, as at present, perhaps it will
happen that, without knowing it, I shall run contrary to you."

"You are right, general; moreover, I have no reason to hide from you
the means I intend to employ, since it is you alone that all this
concerns."

"Just so; I shall, then, be much obliged to you to explain, my dear
duke."

"Very well."

At that moment the door was opened wide, and a servant, dressed in a
splendid livery, announced--

"His Excellency General Don Zeno Cabral."

The two men exchanged a rapid look of intelligence, and rose to salute
the general.

"I am disturbing you, gentlemen?" said the latter, as he entered.

"Not the least in the world, Señor Don Zeno," replied the Frenchman;
"on the contrary, we have been waiting for you with the greatest
impatience."

"Pardon me for coming a few minutes earlier than the time you deigned
to mention for our interview, Monsieur le Duc; but as I knew I should
find his Excellency the governor here, I hastened to come, having an
important communication to make to him."

"Then you are doubly welcome, dear general," answered Don Eusebio.

The servant brought forward a chair, and withdrew. The conversation,
begun in French on account of the difficulty that the duke felt in
expressing himself in Spanish, was continued in the same language,
which--we will say, in a parenthesis--Don Zeno spoke with remarkable
purity.

"You were saying, then, dear Don Zeno," pursued Don Eusebio, when they
were seated, "that you have an important communication to make to me?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Gouverneur."

"Then be so good, I beg you, as to explain yourself freely. The duke
knows all our secrets; moreover, it is not fair to our friends that we
should make what interests us a mystery to them."

"Here is the affair in a few words," answered Don Zeno Cabral, with a
bow. "The two prisoners, who were to have been tried tomorrow as spies
by the council of war--Don Louis Ortego and the Count de Mendoza--that
I myself arrested at the Cabildo on the night of the _fête_--"

"Well?" interrupted General Moratin.

"Well, they have escaped."

"Escaped!" cried the governor, with surprise.

"This very day, at sunrise, disguised as Franciscan monks. Accomplices
held their horses, all prepared, at the gates of the town."

"Oh! Oh! That seems to me decided treason!" cried the general, knitting
his eyebrows "I will--"

"Do nothing," interrupted Don Zeno; "any step would now be useless;
they have fourteen hours in advance, and people travel quickly when it
is to save their lives."

"When did you hear of this escape, of which no one has informed me?"

"You were hunting, general."

"That is true; I am to blame."

"By no means, for in your absence I took upon myself to give orders."

"I thank you, dear Don Zeno."

"In leaving the house of the Marchioness de Castelmelhor, where I had
gone this morning, one of your aides-de-camp, general, who was looking
for you, and wished to mount horse to join you, gave me the news of
this flight; I immediately dispatched detachments in all directions in
pursuit of the fugitives."

"Very good."

"These detachments have returned, except one, without learning any news
of the prisoners."

"This is a serious affair, and which cannot but further complicate the
difficult position in which we find ourselves just now."

"I did not stop there, Monsieur le Gouverneur," answered Don Zeno;
"I went to the prison to ask the director about the particulars of
the escape; moreover, I dispersed through the town some intelligent
persons, whom I charged to converse about the matter, and to report to
me what they heard."

"You could not have been more prudent or better advised, my dear Don
Zeno; I congratulate you with all my heart."

"You give too much importance to so simple a thing."

"And what have you learnt?"

"Upon my word," replied Don Zeno, half turning towards the French
diplomatist, "I have learnt one thing that will much astonish you,
Monsieur le Duc, and that I do not yet dare to believe."

"What?" said the duke, smiling; "Have I, without knowing it, aided the
flight of your prisoners?"

"Well," said Don Zeno, laughing, "it is something of that sort."

"Ah! Upon my word!" cried the duke; "You are going to explain, are you
not, general?"

"I am quite willing, Monsieur le Duc; but, reassure yourself; you are
not concerned in all this--only one of your friends."

"One of _my_ friends! But I am a foreigner; there is no one except you
that I know in the town, where I have come, for the first time, only a
few days ago."

"Just so," said Don Zeno, laughing; "it is one of your compatriots."

"One of my compatriots!"

"Yes, a certain Emile Gagnepain. It would appear that he
has--understand that I am only the echo of an _on dit_, general--"

"Continue--he has--"

"He has entertained relations with the prisoners, whom he has known for
a long time; and, in a word, that he has finished by enabling them to
escape."

A slight and scarcely perceptible smile played on the thin lips of the
diplomatist at this revelation; but immediately regaining his coolness--

"As to that, gentlemen," answered he, "I can immediately prove to you
the falsity of this accusation brought against my unhappy compatriot."

"I should like nothing better, for my part," said Don Zeno.

"How will you do that?" demanded Don Eusebio.

"You shall see; my compatriot, or rather, my friend, lives in this very
house; I will have him called."

"Very good," observed the governor; "by his answers we shall soon know
what he is."

"Observe, Monsieur le Duc, that I affirm nothing," pursued Don
Zeno--"that I in no way attack the honour of this _caballero_."

"It is of no consequence, gentlemen," cried the duke, with an
expression of indignation; "if he were really guilty--which I declare
impossible--I should be the first to abandon him to your justice."

The two men bowed without answering. The duke struck a bell.

A servant appeared.

"Inform Don Emile," said the duke, "that I wish to speak to him
immediately."

"Señor Don Emile is not in his apartment, your lordship," answered the
servant, bowing respectfully.

"Ah!" said the diplomatist, with astonishment; "Still out at this hour!
Well, when he returns--for he cannot be long--beg him to come here."

The servant bowed without moving.

"Have you not understood me?" resumed the diplomatist; "Why do you not
withdraw?"

"Your lordship," respectfully answered the servant, "Don Emile will not
return."

"Don Emile will not return! What do you know about it?"

"He has this morning had all his baggage taken away by a man, who said
that he was going immediately to leave the town."

The duke made a sign for the servant to withdraw.

"This is strange!" murmured he, when the door had closed upon the
valet; "What does this departure mean?"

The two Creoles looked at each other with astonishment.

"No," pursued the duke, decidedly, "I cannot yet believe him guilty;
there is evidently something in this affair of which we are ignorant."

The door at this moment again opened.

"Señor Captain Don Sylvio Quiroga," announced the servant.

"Let him come in," said Don Zeno.

And turning towards the duke--

"Pardon me, sir; Captain Quiroga is the last officer dispatched by me
in pursuit of the fugitives. He is an old traveller. I am much deceived
if he does not bring us news."

"He will be very welcome, then," said Don Eusebio.

"Yes, we will welcome him," added the duke, "for I hope that the
information which he will give us will dissipate the doubts which have
been raised as to the honour of my unfortunate countryman."

"God grant it!" said Don Zeno.

Captain Don Sylvio Quiroga appeared. After having respectfully bowed to
the persons who were in the room, he drew himself up, and waited till
they should address him.

"Well!" asked Don Zeno, "Have you found any trace of the fugitives,
captain?"

"I have, general," he answered.

"Have you brought them back?"

"No."

"You have not overtaken them?"

"Yes, general."

"Then, how is it that you return without these two men?"

"First, they are no longer two, general; it appears that they have
secured a companion on their journey. I saw three of them myself."

There was a momentary silence, during which the Frenchman and the two
Creoles exchanged looks.

"It is little matter whether they are two or three," resumed Don Zeno.
"How is it, captain, that having overtaken them, you allowed them to
escape?"

"General, here is the fact in a few words. At the moment when I was
preparing to take them by the collar--for I was scarcely more than a
pistol shot from them--two or three hundred horsemen unawares darted
out of a little wood, and charged us with fury. As I had with me
only eight men, I thought it prudent not to wait the attack of these
enemies, that I was far from expecting so near me, and I immediately
retreated with my companions."

"Oh! Oh! What do you say?" cried Don Zeno, "You were afraid perhaps,
captain?"

"Upon my word, yes, general; I was afraid, and very much so," frankly
answered the officer, "especially when I saw with what sort of people I
had to do."

"Were they, then, so terrible?"

"I returned immediately, at all speed, to inform you, general; for, as
I was escaping, I had plenty of time to thoroughly observe them."

"And they are?" demanded the governor, impatiently.

"They are Pincheyras, your Excellency," coolly answered the old soldier.

This revelation came like a thunderbolt on those to whom he spoke. Don
Zeno especially, and Don Eusebio appeared extraordinarily agitated.

"Pincheyras!" repeated they.

"Yes, and we shall soon know what they want. I have placed two men in
ambush on their route, with orders to watch their movements."

"Well," cried the governor, rising quickly, "we cannot take too many
precautions with such demons. Excuse me, Monsieur le Duc, for quitting
you so abruptly; but the news brought by this brave officer is of the
utmost importance. I must, without delay, prepare for the safety of the
town. Tomorrow, if you will permit me, we will resume this interview."

"When you please, gentlemen," answered the diplomatist; "you know that
I am at your orders."

"A thousands thanks--tomorrow then. Are you coming with me, Señor
Cabral?"

"Certainly, I am with you," answered the latter. "We cannot employ too
much prudence in so grave a position."

The two generals immediately took leave of the duke, and went out,
followed by the captain.

When the door was closed, and the old diplomatist found himself alone,
he rubbed his hands, and darting an ironical look towards the place
where his visitors had disappeared--

"I think," murmured he, with a smile of raillery, "there is already
a pretty trap prepared! Eh! Eh! My dear friend Emile will do well if
he escape. I like him too much not to make his fortune, in spite of
himself. I at least owe him that for the service he has rendered me."


[1] O love, love, when thou takest possession of us, we may well say,
Prudence, adieu!




CHAPTER VII.

THE PANIC.


It is difficult to form an idea of the rapidity with which, bad news
spreads--of the way in which it is disfigured in passing from mouth
to mouth, constantly increasing, and finishing, in a very short time,
by returning to the author of it, so surcharged with statements, and
embellished with details, that he cannot recognise it.

We might almost suppose that there exist in the atmosphere electric
currents, which become charged, so as to transmit to the greatest
distance, with the rapidity of lightning, that bad news that the chiefs
in power only confide to the ear, and under the express condition of
the utmost secrecy.

Captain Don Sylvio Quiroga had not, since his return to San Miguel,
communicated with any other person but Don Eusebio Moratin and Don Zeno
Cabral. His soldiers had, like himself, kept perfectly silent on what
had passed during their short expedition in search of the fugitives;
and yet, by an inexplicable fatality, scarcely had the two generals,
on leaving the Duc de Montone, reached the gates of the Plaza Mayor,
than on all sides they perceived frightened people, and heard voices,
saddened by fear, murmuring the dreaded name of the Pincheyras.

The news had already made much way. It was no longer 300 men who had
shown themselves in the environs of the town, but a formidable Spanish
army, coming from Peru--pillaging, burning, devastating everything on
its route--and of which the ferocious squadron of the Pincheyras formed
the advance guard. They had arrived by forced marches; and soon--the
next day, perhaps--they would encamp before the town. What was to be
done? what was to be resolved on? Where were the people to hide, or to
fly? It was all over with San Miguel; the Spaniards, to avenge their
defeats, would not leave there one stone upon another.

Those who had seen them--for, as usual, there were people who asserted
that they had seen this fantastic Spanish army, which existed only in
their imaginations--were certain that they had heard the enemy utter
the most terrible oaths of vengeance against the unfortunate insurgents.

People, furnished with torches, coming from no one knew where,
traversed the town in all directions, crying--

"To arms! To arms!"

At these cries, at these lurid flames, which cast ill-omened
reflections on the walls, the citizens came in all haste from their
houses; the women and children wept and lamented--in a word, the panic
had become in a few minutes so general, that the two officers, who,
nevertheless, knew the truth, were themselves frightened, and asked
themselves if the danger was not, in fact, greater than they had
supposed it.

They mounted their horses, that their assistants were holding for them
at the door of the duke's house, and set out at full gallop towards the
Cabildo.

Notwithstanding the advanced hour--it was beyond midnight--the
Cabildo, at the moment when the governor and the Montonero entered it,
was invaded by the crowd, and offered a spectacle of disorder and of
fear, not less animated and not less noisy than that which they had
just seen in crossing the Plaza Mayor.

The two officers were received with cries of joy and protestations
of devotion that fear alone could inspire in the greater part of the
people present.

The governor had considerable difficulty in re-establishing a little
order, and in making himself heard by these people, rendered almost
insensible by terror.

But it was in vain that he tried to reassure them in relating simply
what had passed; they did not wish to believe him, and he did not
succeed in convincing anyone that the danger which they so much feared
did not exist.

The tocsin sounded from all the churches; barricades were constructed
at the corners of all the streets, which were constantly traversed by
armed patrols of the citizens, whilst others bivouacked on the place.

The town at this time offered the aspect of a vast camp. It was useless
to try and resist the torrent--the governor understood that. Despairing
to re-establish security by ordinary methods, he pretended to give
way to the views of the persons who surrounded him, and tried to
organise the panic in giving orders for the defence of the city, and in
dispatching aides-de-camp in all directions.

Don Zeno, after having exchanged a few words in a low voice with
the governor, instead of going up into the Cabildo, had started off
rapidly, followed by Captain Quiroga.

But his absence was not long. Soon a gallop of horses was heard, and
Don Zeno reappeared at the head of his _Montonero_, which immediately
installed its bivouac on the Plaza Mayor.

The sight of the partisans, in whose courage the inhabitants of San
Miguel had full confidence, began by degrees to reassure the population.

So much the more as the _Montoneros_, after having attached their
horses to the pickets, and placed their sentinels, mingled with the
crowd, and began gently--talking with one and the other, at first
pretending to enter into the prevailing ideas--to re-establish the
facts so strangely disfigured, by relating the affair just as it really
was.

The influence of these recitals, carried from one to the other, and
continually recommenced by the soldiers, was soon felt in the crowd;
the reaction soon manifested itself, and the less cowardly felt their
courage returning a little.

However, at last it was found that the danger, though less than it was
supposed, nevertheless existed, and that the nearness of the royalist
Montoneros could not but be very disquieting for the common safety.
General Moratin skilfully took advantage of the excitement of the
population, by taking the most efficacious measures he could think of
to resist an attack till reinforcements arrived, in case the enemy
might suddenly try and take the town by surprise--which was not without
precedent in the history of the Buenos Airean revolution.

Devoted officers superintended the construction of the barricades; on
the terraced roofs of the houses stones were carried to crush the
assailants; depôts of arms and munitions were established in various
places; and barriers were closed and defended by numerous soldiers.

Meanwhile, Don Zeno Cabral, at the head of forty resolute Montoneros,
had set out on a journey of discovery, starting off madly into the open
country.

All the deputies were assembled in the Cabildo, in the Hall of
Assembly, and were declared _en permanence._

The governor, wishing by his presence to assure the population, had
mounted horse, and, followed by a numerous staff, had traversed the
town in all directions, encouraging some, reprimanding others, and
exciting the inhabitants to do their duty, and to fight the enemy
bravely, if he dared to show himself.

The whole night passed thus. At sunrise, calmness was somewhat
re-established, although everyone preserved his arms, and remained at
his post.

Don Zeno Cabral, who had left more than four hours to reconnoitre,
had not returned. Don Eusebio did not know what to think of this long
absence, which began seriously to disquiet him.

Several aides-de-camp, dispatched by him to seek for the Montoneros,
had returned without bringing news either of him or his detachment.

In the meanwhile, an officer entered, leant towards the ear of the
governor, and murmured some words which he alone heard.

Don Eusebio started and turned rather pale, but immediately recovering
himself:

"Captain," said he, to the officer, "sound the order to saddle,
and let all the squadron of Don Zeno Cabral mount horse. We will go
and make a reconnaissance out of the town, in order to reassure the
population by proving that danger no longer exists."

The order was immediately executed; the Montonero left the town at a
trot.

General Don Eusebio Moratin, mounted on a magnificent black horse, and
dressed in a uniform covered with gold embroidery, rode at its head.

The crowd, scattered through all the streets, saluted the partisans as
they passed with hearty exclamations.

The Montonero appeared rather to execute a military promenade, than to
be setting out to make a reconnaissance.

When the troop was in the open country, and some rising ground had
hidden it from the gaze of the inhabitants, the general had a halt
sounded, stationed the sentinels, and ordered the officers to come to
him on a hillock, on the summit of which he had stopped, at about a
hundred paces in advance of the squadron.

The latter immediately obeyed with an impatience mingled with
curiosity; for, although no one had informed them, they vaguely
suspected that this sudden sortie from the town concealed some motive
graver than that of a promenade.

When all the officers had arrived, and had dismounted, they ranged
themselves in a circle round the general. The latter began:

"Caballeros," said he to them, firmly, "the time for dissimulation
has passed; it is my duty frankly to explain to you the situation,
especially as I have great need of your assistance."

"Speak, general," answered the officers; "we are ready to obey you as
if you were really our chief, whatever may be the order you may give us
in the interest of the country."

"I thank you, Caballeros, and I count upon your promise. Here is what
has happened: your chief, Don Zeno Cabral, deceived by a traitor, a
spy, or an imbecile--we do not yet know which--has been, with a few men
who accompanied him, surprised by a party of royal scouts. Everything
leads to the belief that this party belongs to the formidable band
of the Pincheyras. Don Zeno, after prodigies of valour, has been
constrained to surrender, to prevent bloodshed. Happily, one of his
companions has succeeded in escaping almost by a miracle. It is he who
has informed us of what has happened We can therefore depend on the
news."

The officers, at these words, uttered exclamations of rage.

"The enemies are near," continued the general, commanding silence by
a gesture. "Not knowing of the flight of one of their prisoners, and
feeling perfectly sure that their bold _coup de main_ is still unknown
to us, they have only withdrawn gently, and almost without order. The
opportunity is, therefore, favourable to take our revenge, and to
deliver our chief and your friends. Will you?"

"Yes, yes!" cried the officers, brandishing their arms. "At them! At
them!"

"Very well," answered the general; "before an hour we shall have
overtaken them; we shall attack them unawares, and then each will do
his duty. Remember that the men that attack us are bandits, with
neither good faith nor law, placed by their crimes under the ban of
society. At them, then, and no quarter!"

The officers responded by cries and oaths of vengeance, placed
themselves at the head of their respective platoons, and the squadron
set out at a gallop, almost hidden by the cloud of dust that they
raised on their passage.

What General Moratin had announced to the officers of the squadron was
true, or, at least--somewhat misinformed by the fugitive--he thought it
so; but affairs had not transpired exactly as had been stated.

Don Zeno Cabral left, as we have said, about two o'clock in the
morning, at the head of a rather weak detachment, with the intention
of making a reconnaissance in the environs of the town. After having
scoured the country for two or three hours, without discovering
anything suspicious, and without noticing any trace of the passage of
an armed troop, he wished, before reentering the town, to explore the
borders of the river, which--escarped by reason of the numerous masses
of rock which lined it, and, moreover, covered with thick clusters of
trees and shrubbery--might conceal an ambuscade of marauders. He had
therefore made a turn, and, advancing with the greatest caution, in
order not to be surprised, had commenced his exploration.

For a long time the Montoneros marched thus, beating the thickets and
the underwood with the point of their lances, without discovering
anything; and their chief, convinced that the enemy--if by chance he
had ventured so near the town--had judged it prudent not to remain
there any longer, gave the order to retreat; when all of a sudden, at
the moment when it was least expected, a hundred men rose on all sides
from the midst of the thicket, surrounded his troop, and vigorously
attacked it.

Although surprised and harassed by an enemy of whose number they were
ignorant, but whom they supposed, with reason to be much superior to
themselves, the Montoneros were not the men to lay down their arms at
the first blow, without trying to sell their life dearly, especially
with such a man to command them.

There was, at first, terrible disorder--a terrible collision,
hand-to-hand--in the midst of which Don Zeno Cabral was unhorsed, and
thrown to the ground.

For a time his companions thought him dead.

It was then that one of them slipped unperceived into the midst of the
trees and rocks, and galloped hard to San Miguel to carry the news of
the defeat of the Montoneros.

They were, however, far from being conquered. Don Zeno Cabral had
almost immediately risen, and had reappeared at the head of his men,
who, discouraged for a time by his fall, had, on seeing him again on
horseback, regained their confidence.

However, the assailants were too numerous--the place of ambuscade too
well chosen--for the Montoneros to have the hope--not of conquering
them, they had no thought of that--but of escaping from the scrape into
which they had fallen.

Don Zeno Cabral perceived at a glance the difficulties of the ground on
which it was necessary to fight, and where it was impossible for the
men to manoeuvre their horses.

All his efforts were then directed to enlarge the field of battle.
The Montoneros, grouped firmly around him, boldly charged the enemy
several times without succeeding in breaking through them; the position
was well attacked and well defended; they fought Montoneros against
Montoneros, bandits against bandits.

The chief of the patriots knew with what enemies he had to contend:
their red ponchos--a uniform adopted by the Pincheyras--had caused them
to be recognised as soon as daylight had come.

For during the desperate combat that the two troops had been waging,
the sun had risen.

Unhappily the light of day, in revealing the small number of the
patriots, rendered their defeat more probable.

The Pincheyras, furious at having been so long held in check by so
feeble a detachment, redoubled their efforts to completely defeat them.

But the latter were not discouraged; led a last time to the charge
by their intrepid chief, they rushed with fury on their enemies, who
vainly tried to bar their passage.

The Montoneros had succeeded in overturning the human barrier raised
before them, and had gained the plain.

But at the price of what sacrifices!

Twenty of their men were lying lifeless on the rocks,--the survivors
to the number of about fifteen at the most, were, for the most part,
wounded and weighed down by the fatigue of the unequal combat they had
so long to sustain.

All was not finished however; for the patriots to find themselves
in open country was not to be saved. However, they did not deceive
themselves as to their fate, but, knowing that they had no quarter to
expect from their ferocious enemies, they preferred to be killed rather
than to fall alive into the hands of their enemies, and be condemned to
suffer horrible tortures.

Nevertheless, though still very bad, their situation was decidedly
ameliorated, by reason that they now had space around them, and that
their safety would depend on the swiftness of their horses.

The Pincheyras, to surprise their enemies, had been obliged to
dismount, and to hide their horses some paces from them.

When the Montoneros had succeeded in opening a passage, the Pincheyras
precipitated themselves immediately towards the spot where they had
left their horses, in order to pursue them.

There was then compulsorily a pause, by which Don Zeno Cabral and his
companions profited, to increase the distance which separated them from
their enemies.

The chief of the Pincheyras, a man of tall figure, with energetic
and marked features, and a harsh and cruel expression--still young,
and who, during the combat, had performed prodigies of valour, and
had furiously pressed Don Zeno Cabral himself, whom he had at the
commencement of the action overthrown from his horse--soon appeared
almost lying on his horse, furiously brandishing his lance, and
exciting with loud cries the twenty horsemen by whom he was followed.

The other Pincheyras were not long in overtaking him, emerging
successively from the midst of the rocks and the clusters of trees.

Then the pursuit began--rapid, disordered, desperate--on all sides.

The Montoneros, to give less chance to their enemies, had dispersed
over a large space. They stretched themselves over their horses,
hanging on one side by the stirrup, and holding the bridle with one
hand, to avoid the _bolas_ and the _lagos,_ that their enemies, while
rapidly galloping, flourished round their heads.

This manhunt, thanks to the skill of these practised horsemen,
presented a most stirring spectacle, full of strange incidents.

The Pincheyras, however, notwithstanding the efforts of the
Montoneros--owing to the fresh horses they rode--approached them
rapidly. A few minutes more and they would arrive within reach of those
whom they pursued, when, on a sudden, the earth resounded under the
rapid gallop of a considerable troop of horsemen, and a thick cloud of
dust appeared on the horizon.

This cloud soon separated, and General Don Eusebio Moratin, followed
by the whole squadron of Don Zeno Cabral, charged furiously upon the
royalists.

The latter, surprised in their turn, when they already thought
themselves conquerors, uttered cries of rage, and immediately turning
their bridles, they endeavoured to escape in all directions, closely
pressed by the Montoneros, who, on recognising their chief, had
redoubled their ardour. Don Zeno, burning to draw a brilliant vengeance
from what he considered an affront, affectionately grasped the hand of
the general; and, although overcome by fatigue, and wounded in two or
three places, put himself at the head of his squadron, and dashed with
it upon the Pincheyras.

Speedily the _bolas_ and the _lagos_ flew on all sides, and the
horsemen, hurled from their saddles, rolled on the ground with cries of
rage and anguish.

The strife was short, but terrible. Surrounded by the squadron, the
Pincheyras, despite a desperate resistance, were defeated, and were
obliged to surrender.

Scarcely twenty-five survived; the others, strangled by the _lagos_,
wounded by the lances, or their skulls broken by the terrible _bolas_,
lay stretched upon the field.

One man only had escaped, by what miracle it was impossible to say.

It was the chief of the Pincheyras.

Hemmed in by the Montoneros, trapped like a wild beast, he had
penetrated into a thick cluster of mastic trees, and trees of Peru,
whither the patriots had almost immediately followed him.

The Pincheyra had coolly faced his pursuers; with the last shot from
his carbine he had killed one of those who most closely pressed him,
and then, with a laugh of disdain, he had buried himself in the midst
of a thicket, where he had suddenly disappeared.

Vainly the Montoneros, exasperated by the desperate resistance of this
man, and the last death he had caused, started after him to capture
him. For more than an hour they searched the ground foot by foot, inch
by inch; separated the branches in the wood, and struck the ground with
their lances; they could not succeed in discovering any traces of their
bold adversary. He had become invisible. All search was vain--they
could not find him again, and the Montoneros felt compelled to give up
the pursuit.

The general had the order to depart sounded, though much against his
liking. It annoyed him much not to be able to bring that man to San
Miguel--so much the more as one of the prisoners had avowed that he
whom they sought was no less than Don Santiago Pincheyra himself.

The reputation of Don Santiago was too well established for the general
not to be vexed at not having succeeded in capturing him.

However, he was obliged to return to the town. The prisoners were tied
to the tails of the horses, and the squadron set out at a gallop for
San Miguel.

"Señor general," said Don Zeno Cabral to the governor, taking his hand
with emotion, "you have saved my life--more than that, you have saved
my honour. Whatever happens, I am yours, at whatever time--I give you
my word."

"Thank you, Don Zeno," replied the general, a slight smile answering to
the warm grasp of the hand; "I accept your word, and will remember it
in case of need."

"In everything, and for everything, depend on me."

An hour later the squadron re-entered San Miguel, received by the
joyful cries of the inhabitants, at the sight of the unhappy Pincheyras
led prisoners at the tails of the horses.

The passage of the Montoneros through the streets of the town was a
complete triumph.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE SOLITARY.


We must now return to the French painter that we have left buried, so
to say, at the bottom of a cavern, philosophically making up his mind
to this voluntary seclusion, which, however, circumstances rendered
indispensable, and vigorously attacking the provisions placed before
him.

Obliged to remain alone during a considerable time, and not knowing
how to employ himself, the young man prolonged his meal as much as
possible; and then--when, despite all his efforts, he felt the natural
impossibility of taking another mouthful--he lit a cigar, and began to
smoke with the beatific resignation of a Mahometan, or a drinker of
_hatckich._ After this cigar he smoked another, then another, and then
another, followed immediately by a fourth; so that midnight came almost
without his perceiving it, and he laid himself upon his hammock without
being wearied.

However, Emile had too nervous an organisation to content himself long
with this kind of life. It was with a sigh of regret that he closed
his eyes and slept; for he could not foresee the termination of his
imprisonment, and the prospect of remaining several days thus alone
frightened him.

How long had he remained plunged in sleep, he could not tell. Suddenly
he jumped up, sat up in his hammock, with his forehead pale, and his
features contracted, casting around him a look of fright.

In the midst of his sleep--while he was cradled in those sweet dreams
that tobacco sometimes procures for those who abuse it when they are
not accustomed to smoke it to excess--he suddenly thought he heard
cries, and the trampling of horses, mingled with deadened sounds. For
some time these sounds were mingled and incorporated with the events of
his dream.

But soon these cries and trampling acquired such an intensity--appeared
so near the young man--that they suddenly awakened him from his sleep.

At first he took no account of what he heard, believing that it was but
a sound existing only in his imagination--the last echo, in fact, of
his interrupted dream.

But when, by degrees, he succeeded in recovering his ideas, and when
he felt that he was completely awake, he acquired the certainty, not
only that this noise was real--that he was not the dupe of an illusion
of his senses--but that it every moment increased, and had become very
loud.

One would have thought that a desperate combat was even being fought in
the cavern itself.

However, all was calm around the young man; the lamp--the wick of which
he had lowered when he lay down, so that its too brilliant light might
not hinder his sleeping--shed a gentle and uncertain light, but strong
enough to enable him to assure himself at a glance that all was in the
state in which he had left it on retiring to bed, and that he was still
alone.

He rose, a prey to extraordinary agitation.

The first thought that occurred to him was that his retreat was
discovered, and that they wished to arrest him; but he soon admitted
the absurdity of this supposition, and reassured himself; the people
charged to secure him would simply have entered the cavern, and would
have had no combat to sustain; they would have made him a prisoner even
before he had had time to open his eyes.

But what could be the cause of this frightful tumult which still
continued quite near to him?

This extremely puzzled the young man, and awakened his curiosity to the
highest pitch.

He looked at his watch. It was half past five in the morning.

Outside, then, it was daylight. It could not be a gathering of wild
beasts, the sun making them retire into their caves; moreover, these
animals would not dare to venture so near the town.

What was it, then?

A battle, perhaps! But a battle in the middle of the night, almost at
the gates of San Miguel, the capital of the province of Tucuman, where,
on account of the congress, considerable forces were now united; this
supposition was not admissible.

For a moment the young man thought of knocking at the trapdoor, to get
it opened, and to ask information of the rancheros.

But he reflected that these good people were supposed to be ignorant
of his presence among them--that this inconsiderate proceeding would
displease them, and cause them to fear afterwards getting into trouble
about him.

And then, if this uproar was really that of a fight, it was probable
that the poor Indians at the commencement of the fight had abandoned
their rancho, half dead with fright, and had flown across the country,
in order to conceal themselves in some retreat known to themselves
alone, to escape the fury of one or other of the two parties; so that
it would be pure loss of time for him to call them and ask them to open
the door.

These various considerations were strong enough to restrain him from
committing an imprudence in revealing his retreat, if, by chance, the
rancho had been temporarily occupied by his enemies.

But as--as we have said--his curiosity was excited to the highest
degree, and as, in the precarious situation he was in it was important
for him--at least, he gave himself this reason to justify in his own
eyes the step he wished to take--to know what was passing around
him, in order to know how to act; he resolved to act without further
delay, and learn the causes of this extraordinary uproar, which had so
suddenly troubled his repose.

HE therefore rose, took a sabre, passed a pair of pistols in his
girdle, seized a carbine, and thus armed, and ready for any event, he
lit a lantern, and proceeded towards the passage on the right--the side
from whence the sound appeared to come.

This passage, or rather this gallery of the cavern, was large enough
for two persons to walk abreast; its walls were high and dry, and the
ground was covered with a fine yellow sand, which completely stifled
the sound of steps. The gallery had several turnings.

After a short time the young man reached a room which at the moment
served for a stable for his three horses.

The animals appeared frightened; they were drooping their ears, and
violently snorting, as they tried to break the cords which bound them
to the manger, furnished with a copious supply of provender.

The painter patted them with his hand, caressed them, and tried to
reassure them, and then continued his investigations.

The further he advanced into the gallery, the more the noise became
intense. It was no longer cries and trampling that he heard, but the
sound of firearms, and the clashing of sabres.

Doubt was no longer possible; a furious combat was being fought a few
steps from the entry of the cavern.

This certainty, far from stopping the young man, increased his desire
to know positively what was passing; he almost ran to reach the end of
the gallery.

There he was obliged to stop; an enormous stone hermetically sealed the
entrance of the cavern.

The young man, nevertheless, was not discouraged by this apparently
insurmountable obstacle.

This stone could evidently be moved; but what means could he employ to
obtain that result? He knew not.

Then, with the help of his lantern, he proceeded to examine the stone
above, below, and on the sides, seeking how he might succeed in
removing it.

For nearly half an hour he gave himself up to an inspection as careful
as it was useless, and he began to despair of discovering the secret
which evidently existed, when suddenly he thought he saw the stone
slightly move.

He looked more attentively. Yes, the stone was gently moved, and was,
by degrees, coming out of its cell.

Emile was a bold fellow, endowed with a large share of coolness and
energy. His mind was made up in a moment, and mentally thanking the
individual, whoever he was, who was sparing him the long and fatiguing
labour which he did not know how to bring to a successful termination,
he quickly placed himself in concealment in a corner of the gallery,
placed his lantern on the ground near him, taking care to cover it with
his hat, so that its light might not be perceived. Seizing a pistol
in each hand, to be ready for anything, he waited with his eyes fixed
on the stone, which, owing to the numerous fissures in the walls of
the gallery, he could easily distinguish--a prey to a strange emotion,
which caused his heart to beat violently, and his blood to rush to his
brain.

His watching was not long. Scarcely had he concealed himself before the
stone was detached and rolled on the ground, and a man, holding in his
hand a carbine, the barrel of which was still smoking, quickly entered
the cavern.

The man leant forward towards the aperture, appeared to listen for a
few seconds, and then stood up, murmuring loud enough for the young man
to hear him.

"They come, but too late; the tiger has now escaped."

And skilfully aiding himself with the barrel of the carbine, as with a
lever, he rapidly replaced the stone in its previous position.

"Search, search, _perros malditos,_" said the unknown, with an ironical
sneer, "I do not fear you now."

And with the greatest coolness he proceeded to reload his gun; but the
painter did not give him time to do so. Rushing from his concealment,
and removing the hat which covered his lantern, he stood face to face
with the unknown, and, presenting his pistols:

"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded. The unknown made a
movement of surprise and flight, stepped back apace, and letting fall
his gun:

"Eh! What is this?" cried he; "Am I, then, betrayed?"

"Betrayed!" repeated the Frenchman, prudently placing his foot on
the carbine; "The expression seems to me rather strange from your
mouth, Señor; especially after the manner in which you have introduced
yourself here."

But it was only the work of a minute for the unknown to regain his
coolness, and become completely master of himself.

"Replace your pistols in your girdle, Señor," said he; "they are not
wanted here; you have nothing to fear from me."

"I am pleased to hear it," answered the painter; "but what guarantee do
you give me?"

"My word as a gentleman," he replied, with dignity.

Although the painter had been but a few months in America, he had been
often enough in a position to study the character of the inhabitants
of the country, to know what reliance he might place on this word so
proudly given. So, after having affirmatively nodded his head:

"I accept it," said he, uncocking his pistols, and placing them in his
girdle.

The unknown picked up his gun.

Without, the noise still continued, but its character had changed; it
was no longer a combat which was heard, but the sound of iron striking
the ground, and loud cries; they were seeking the fugitive.

"Come, follow me," pursued the young man; "you must not remain any
longer here."

The unknown smiled with an air of raillery.

"They will not find me," said he; "let them search."

"As you please; come, let us talk."

"Talk--be it so."

"Who are you?"

"You see--a _proscrit_."

"Just so; but there are various kinds of _proscrits_."

"I am of the worst kind," said the other, smiling.

"Hum!" cried the young man, "What do you mean?"

"What I say--nothing else. At the end of a desperate combat, fought by
me against my enemies, as I had fallen into an ambuscade, I have been
conquered just at the moment when I thought I had gained the victory.
After seeing all my companions fall around me, I have been obliged to
fly."

"That is the fortune of war," said the young man, philosophically; "you
know this retreat, then?"

"Apparently, since you see I have taken refuge in it."

"True; you do not fear that you will be discovered?"

"Impossible; nobody knows of the existence of the place."

"I, however--I know it."

"Yes, you; but you are a _proscrit_, like myself."

"How do you know that?"

"I suppose so; otherwise you would not be here."

"Possibly; but as I know it, others may know it--especially as I did
not discover it myself."

"Yes, but he who has told you, and who has brought you here, wishes, no
doubt, to place you in a position where you will not run the risk of
falling into the hands of those who seek you. He must be master of his
secret."

"Well, I give up any more discussion with you, for you answer
everything with a knock-down logic. In my turn, I give you my word of
honour as a Frenchman, that you have nothing to fear from me, and that
I will serve you in all I can."

"Thank you," laconically answered the unknown, holding out his hand; "I
expected nothing less from you."

"The tumult appears to go farther off; your pursuers, no doubt, give up
seeking for you any longer. Follow me; I am, I believe, in a position
to offer you better hospitality than you think."

"At the present moment, I want two things."

"What?"

"Food, and two hours sleep."

"And then--?"

"Then--unhappily that does not depend upon you."

"What is it, then?"

"A good horse to carry me as quick as possible to rejoin my companions,
that I have left twenty leagues from here."

"Very well You shall first eat; then you shall sleep; then, when you
have reposed long enough, you shall choose which of my horses suits you
best, and you shall set out."

"Will you do that, indeed?" cried the unknown, with a thrill of joy.

"Why should I not do it, since I promise it?"

"You are right. Pardon me; I did not know what I was saying."

"Come then, proceed."

"Well, let us go."

They quitted the extremity of the gallery, and proceeded to the room.

"There are the horses," said the young man, as he passed through the
stable.

"Good!" simply said the other.

When they were in the cavern, the unknown looked around him with wonder.

"What does this mean?" said he; "Do you really live here, then?"

"For a time, yes. Have you not guessed that I, like yourself, am
proscribed?"

"How? you--a Frenchman!"

"Nationality has nothing to do with the matter," said the young man,
laughing; "sit down and eat." And after having brought forward a chair,
he placed provisions on the table.

"And you--will you not also eat?" asked the unknown.

"Pardon--I intend to keep you company."

The two took their places, and began the meal.

"Look you," said the unknown, after a pause, "I wish to give you a
decided proof of the entire confidence I have in you."

"You do me honour."

"Would you like to gain 15,000 piastres?"

"Pooh!" said the young man, with a pout.

"You do not care for money?" said the unknown, with astonishment.

"Upon my word, no! It is not worth the trouble you have to get it."

"But it is easy for you, without the least trouble, to gain this money."

"That is another affair. Let me see your plan."

"It is very simple."

"So much the better."

"Have you heard of four Pincheyra brothers?"

"Often."

"Favourably or not?"

"Good and bad, but especially bad."

"Good! There are so many tongues of scandal."

"That is true. Go on."

"You know that a price is put on their heads?"

"Ah! Ah! Ah!"

"You did not know it?"

"How should I know it? It does not concern me, I suppose."

"More than you think: I am a Pincheyra," said he, looking at him
fixedly.

"Bah!" cried the young man, turning round upon his chair so as to
examine his guest more at his ease; "It is a strange meeting."

"Is it not? I am Don Santiago Pincheyra, the second of the four
brothers."

"Very good, I am delighted at having made your acquaintance."

"My head is worth 15,000 piastres."

"That is a pretty sum. I doubt whether mine, which I value very much,
is worth so great an amount."

"You do not understand what I mean."

"Upon my word, no; not the least in the world."

"Give me up; they will give you the money, and, more than that, they
will pardon you."

The Frenchman knitted his eyebrows; his eyes flashed, and a livid
paleness covered his face.

"_Vive Dieu!_" cried he, striking the table with his fist, "Do you know
that you insult me, _caballero?_"

Don Santiago remained motionless and smiling; he held out his hand to
the young man, and, inviting him to resume his seat he had so suddenly
quitted:

"On the contrary," said he, "I give you a proof of the confidence I
have in your honour, inasmuch as without your having asked who I am, I
have told you; and now, knowing that I am completely in your power, I
am going to stretch myself in your hammock, where I shall sleep under
your protection as tranquilly as if I were in the midst of my friends."

"Well, sir," answered the young man, still with some little resentment,
"I admit your explanation; only, if you choose to make yourself known
to me, you should have done it in some other way than by attacking my
honour."

"I confess that I am wrong, and I ask pardon for it again, Señor; it
is more than a man like me is accustomed to do. So give me your honest
hand, and forget it."

The young man took the hand that the Pincheyra offered him, and resumed
his place at the table beside him.

They continued their meal without any fresh disagreeable incident.

The Pincheyra was so overcome by fatigue, that, towards the end of the
repast, he fell asleep talking.

The painter understood the effort which the Pincheyra was making, and
put an end to his suffering, striking him on the shoulder.

"What do you want?" asked he.

"Merely to tell you that now you have appeased your appetite, you have
another want, more imperious still, to satisfy; it is time that you
went to sleep, so as to be speedily in a position to join your friends."

"True," said Don Santiago, laughing, "I am sleeping as I sit; I really
do not know how to excuse myself for such ill manners before you."

"_Pardieu!_ by lying down; that, I think, is the only thing you have to
do at this moment."

"Upon my word, you are right; I will not make any fuss about it, and
since you are so good a companion, I will, without any further delay,
profit by your counsel."

In speaking thus, he rose with some little difficulty, so overcome was
he by fatigue, and, aided by the young man, he stretched himself on the
hammock, where he soon fell asleep.

Again free to give himself up to his own thoughts, the young man lit a
cigar, installed himself comfortably in a seat, and, while digesting
his breakfast, he began to reflect on this new episode of his varied
life which had just been unexpectedly grafted on the others, and which
would, perhaps, still more complicate the numberless difficulties of
the position in which he found himself.

"This time," said he, "I can boldly say that I have had no hand in what
has happened, and that this man has really come to me when I by no
means sought him, as he knew the cavern before me. How will all this
finish? Suppose Tyro does not arrive! Devoted as the brave fellow may
be to me, I fear the allurement of 15,000 piastres--a very large sum
for anyone who knows how to gain it honestly--may induce him to give up
my guest and myself, which would be excessively disagreeable."

Several hours thus passed, during which the Montonero chief slept
soundly. The Frenchman faithfully watched over his bed, and all the
while gave himself up to reflections which gradually became more and
more sombre.

At last, about one o'clock in the afternoon, Emile thought that the
Montonero had sufficiently slept. He approached him, and touched him
lightly on the shoulder, to awaken him.

The latter instantly opened his eyes, and bounded like a coyote out of
the hammock.

"What is the matter?" demanded he, in a low voice.

"Nothing that I know of," answered the other.

"Then, why wake me, when I was sleeping so well?" said he, gaping.

"Because you have slept enough."

"Ah!" said the other.

"Yes, it is time to go."

"Time to go! already! You are chary of your hospitality, master. Well,
let us say nothing more about it. I will do what you wish," added he,
in a feigned tone; "I do not wish to embarrass you any longer with my
presence."

"You do not embarrass me, Señor," answered the young man; "if it only
depended upon me, you might remain here as long as you please. You
cannot compromise me more than I am already."

"Perhaps; but on whom does it depend, then?"

"On the Indian servant who has concealed me here, and who, probably,
will not be long before he pays me a visit. Consider whether it would
suit you to be seen by him."

"Not the least in the world! To trust myself to an Indian would be to
be irretrievably lost. And you say that he is coming here soon?"

"I do not know precisely when he will come, but I expect him from one
moment to another."

"The deuce! With your permission, _I_ will not expect him. If you will
permit me, I will set out at once."

"Come and choose your horse."

The Montonero seized his carbine, which he loaded as he walked, and
they went into the gallery.

The choice did not take long. The three horses were equally young, full
of blood, fire, and swiftness. The Montonero, a good judge, saw this at
a glance, and took one haphazard.

"What is unfortunate for me in all this," said he, quickly saddling his
horse, "is, that I am obliged to leave the same way as I came, and that
I run the risk of falling into an ambuscade. There used to be a second
gallery in this cavern, but it has been stopped up long ago, I suppose?"

"No, not at all. This gallery is still there. You can easily go out
that way."

"If it is so, I am saved," cried the Montonero, with joy.

"Silence!" said the young man, in a low voice, rapidly putting his hand
on his companion's mouth; "I hear someone walking."

The Pincheyra listened, and heard the sound of steps close by.

"Oh!" cried he, with a gesture of despair.

"Remain here! Let me act--I'll answer for all," the young man quickly
whispered.

And he briskly darted into the cavern. It was time that he came. Tyro
was about to look for him in the gallery.




CHAPTER IX.

THE INDIAN.


As we have said at the end of the preceding chapter, at the moment when
the painter came out of the gallery in the cavern, he found himself
face to face with Tyro, who, having entered by the opposite gallery,
and not finding him in the room, was going to seek for him in the
stable, where he supposed the painter might be.

The two men remained a short time motionless and silent, facing each
other, carefully examining each other, and somewhat embarrassed how
to commence the conversation. However, the situation, already very
embarrassing, threatened, if it continued much longer, to become
critical. The Frenchman saw that he must, at any price, get out of it;
so he resolved on speaking boldly, persuaded that this was the best
means of escaping from his embarrassment.

"You here, at last, Tyro!" he cried, feigning great joy; "I began to
feel uneasy at this seclusion, to which I cannot become accustomed."

"It was impossible for me to come sooner to see you, master," answered
the Indian, giving a cunning glance from under his half-closed
eyelashes. "You have, I suppose, found everything in order here."

"Perfectly. I must confess that I have passed an excellent night."

"Ah!" said the Guaraní; "You have heard nothing? Has there been no
unusual noise to disturb your sleep?"

"Upon my word, no; I have slept right off through the whole night. I
only waked about half an hour ago."

"So much the better, master. I am delighted at what you tell me. If you
did not tell it to me so decidedly, I frankly confess I should scarcely
have believed you."

"Why?" asked he, with feigned astonishment.

"Because, master, the night has been anything but tranquil."

"Ah! Bah!" cried he, with the most natural air that he could assume;
"What has happened, then? You understand that, buried here, at the
bottom of this hole, I am ignorant of everything."

"A desperate battle has been fought close by here, between the
Spaniards and the patriots."

"The devil! That is serious. And this combat has terminated?"

"Otherwise, should I be here, master?"

"That is right, my friend. And who have got the best of it?"

"The patriots."

"Ah! Ah!"

"Yes, and for certain reasons I am very sorry, for your sake."

"For me, do you say, Tyro? What have I to do in the matter?"

"Are you not proscribed by the patriots?"

"Just so, you remind me of a fact; but what does that signify?"

"Why, at this moment the Spaniards are, or at least are supposed to be,
your friends."

"That is true; but conquerors or conquered, I should not be able to
claim their aid."

The Indian remained a moment silent; then he took a step backward, and,
bowing to the young man--

"Master," said he, in a sad voice, "What have I done to lose your
confidence? What have I done that you should now wish to keep secrets
from me?"

Emile felt that he blushed; however, he answered--

"I do not understand this reproach that you address to me, my brave
friend; explain yourself more clearly."

The Guaraní shook his head with a sorrowful air.

"What good will it be," pursued he, "since you mistrust me?"

"I mistrust you!" cried the young man, who felt that he was to blame,
but who did not believe himself authorised to give up a secret which
did not belong to him.

"Certainly, master. Look at these two glasses and two plates; look,
moreover, at these remains of cigars."

"Well?"

"Well, do you think, then, that, if I did not know already, these
things would not be sufficient to prove to me the presence of another
person here besides yourself?"

"How? What do you know?"

"I know, master, that a man, whose name, if I chose, I could easily
tell you, this morning entered the cavern, that you have given him
hospitality, and that at the moment I am speaking, he is still
here--hidden there--look," added he, stretching out his arm--"in that
gallery."

"But then," cried the young man, violently, "since you are so well
informed, you have then betrayed me?"

"So, he is really here?" said the Indian, with a gesture of joy.

"Have you not just told me so yourself?"

"True, master, but I feared that he had already gone away."

"Ah! But what does all that mean? I am quite at a loss to understand
it."

"It is, nevertheless, very simple, master; call this man; all will be
explained in a few words."

"_Ma foi!_" cried the young man, in an ill-humoured tone; "Call him
yourself, since you know him so well."

"You are angry with me, master; you are wrong, for in everything that
occurs I should only act for you and in your interest."

"It is possible, but I am annoyed at the position in which fate
constantly places me, and at the absurd part I am condemned to play."

"Oh, master, do not complain; for this time, I assure you, Fate, as you
call it, has shown rare intelligence; and you will soon have a proof of
it."

"I should like nothing better."

"Will you permit me, master?"--

"Are you not in your own place? Do what you like; I wash my hands of
it."

After having answered, by this outburst, the young man threw himself
on a seat, and lit a cigar with the most careless air he could affect,
although he felt himself in reality quite upset by the situation in
which he found himself.

The Indian looked at him a moment with an indefinable expression, and
then, taking his hand, and kissing it respectfully--

"Oh, master!" said he, in a gentle and somewhat trembling voice, "Do
not be unjust towards a faithful servant."

And then he strode towards the gallery.

"Come, Don Santiago," cried he, with a loud voice, stopping at the
entrance, "you can show yourself; there are none here but friends."

The sound of a quick step was heard, and the Montonero almost
immediately showed himself.

Alter having cast a glance around him, he advanced briskly towards the
Guaraní, and, grasping him heartily by the hand--

"_¡Vive Dios!_" cried he; "My brave friend, I am happy to see you
here!"

"And so am I, Señor," respectfully answered the Indian; "but first
permit me to ask you a favour."

"What, my friend?"

"In return for the service I have rendered you, render me another."

"If it depends on me, I will do so willingly."

"Will you be good enough to explain to this gentleman, who is my
master, what has passed between you and me the last two days?"

"What!" said the Spaniard, with surprise; "This _caballero_ your
master--my friend; the meeting is strange!"

"It may be that I had prepared it, or at least tried to arrange it,"
answered the Indian.

"That's possible, after all," said the Spaniard.

"You know that I do not understand a word of what you are saying,"
interrupted the Frenchman with suppressed impatience.

"Speak, Don Santiago, I beg you."

"This is what has occurred," pursued the Montonero. "For certain
reasons, too long to tell you--and which, moreover, would very little
interest you, I am convinced--I am the friend of this brave Indian, to
whom I cannot, and do not wish to refuse anything. Two days ago, then,
he came to me, at one of my habitual rendezvous that he has long known,
and made me promise to come here with some of the men of my squadron,
in order to protect the flight of several persons in whom he is much
interested, and whom the patriots--I do not know for what reasons--have
proscribed."

"Hum!" cried the young man, rising quickly, and throwing away his
cigar; "Continue, continue; Señor; it this becomes very interesting to
me."

"So much the better; only you do wrong to throw away your cigar on
that account. I have come, then. Unhappily, notwithstanding all the
precautions that I have taken, I have been discovered, and--you know
the rest."

"Yes, but you do not know it, Señor, and I am going to tell you,"
answered the Indian.

"I should like nothing better."

"One moment!" cried the painter, holding out his hand to the Guaraní.
"I owe you an apology, Tyro, for my unjust suspicions. I offer it from
the b

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