DOÑA HERMOSA.
Stoneheart was not mistaken in declaring that the dust, rising far away in the desert, was caused by the servants of the hacienda; in fact, the hunter had scarcely left the persons he was guiding, when the cloud of sand was blown away by the breeze, disclosing a numerous party of vaqueros and peones, well armed, who were approaching at the top of their speed.
Two horses' length in front galloped Don Estevan Diaz, chiding his companions, and urging them to increase their pace.
The two parties soon met, and mingled with each other.
Estevan Diaz, as Don Pedro had foreseen, had grown anxious at his master's lengthened absence. Fearing lest some accident might have occurred, he had assembled all the most resolute men belonging to the hacienda, and placing himself at their head, commenced his search at once, scouring the wilderness in all directions.
But had it not been for the lucky chance which led to the meeting with Stoneheart, in the very moment when the strength and courage of the little party were oozing away together, it is probable that the search would have been without result, and another mournful and horrible tragedy registered in the annals of the prairies.
The joy of Don Estevan and his party was great at recognising those whom they had scarcely hoped to see again, and the whole company gaily took the road to the hacienda, where they arrived in safety a couple of hours later.
Doña Hermosa retired to her apartment as soon as she had dismounted, excusing herself on account of the fatigue she had endured.
She reached her cool maiden chamber, which looked so calm and pleasant, cast a glance of delight at the cherished appurtenances, and then threw herself with a feeling of instinctive gratitude, at the knees of the Virgin, whose image, crowned with flowers, was placed in a corner of the chamber, and seemed to watch over her.
Her prayer addressed to the Virgin was long, very long. For more than an hour she remained on her knees, murmuring words which none save God could hear.
At last she rose, slowly, and as it were with reluctance, made a final sign of the cross, and, traversing the room, cast herself on a couch, where she nestled in a flood of drapery, like the Bengali in its bed of moss.
Then she gave herself up to thought.
What power could thus profoundly occupy the mind, hitherto so gay and cheerful, of this young creature, whose life from infancy had been one unbroken succession of gentle joys,—for whom the sky had had no cloud, the past no regrets, and the future no apprehensions Why did she frown so heavily, tracing, on her pure forehead, lines at first hardly perceptible, but deepening with her deepening thoughts?
None could tell. Hermosa herself could not, perhaps, have given an explanation.
This was the reason: without accounting to herself for the change she was undergoing, Hermosa awoke as from a long slumber; her heart beat more quickly, her blood coursed more rapidly in her veins, a flood of unknown thoughts rushed from her heart to her brain, making it whirl. In one word, the girl felt she had become a woman.
A vague uneasiness without apparent cause, a feverish irritability, agitated her by turns; sometimes a stifled sob would rend her bosom, and a burning tear show like a pearl on her eyelashes; then her purple lips would part under the influence of a charming smile, the reflection of thoughts she could not define, beseeching her to drive them away, and return to the calm and heedless joys she was losing forever.
"Yes!" she cried suddenly, bounding from her couch with the grace of a startled fawn; "Yes: I will discover who he is."
Hermosa had involuntarily allowed the key of the riddle to escape her. Possessed by the spirit whose voice was evoking her inward agitation, she loved—or at least Love was on the point of revealing himself to her.
Scarcely had she uttered the words we have reported, than she blushed deeply, and, urged by a charming impulse of maiden modesty, ran to draw before the image of the Virgin the curtain used to conceal it.
The Virgin, the habitual confidante of the girl, was not to know the secrets of the woman. Full of holy fervour, Hermosa had immediately seized upon this delicate distinction; perhaps she mistrusted herself; perhaps the feeling which had been so suddenly and violently awakened in her heart did not seem pure enough to be confided, with all its longings and desires, to her at whose feet she had hitherto deposited all her hopes and aspirations.
Feeling calmer after this action, which, in her superstitious ignorance, she fancied would shroud her from the piercing eye of her heavenly protectress, Doña Hermosa regained her couch, and touched a silver bell standing beside her. At the sound, the door softly opened half way, and the arch face of a charming chola (maid) appeared at the opening with a look of inquiry.
"Come in, chica" (girl), said her mistress, making a sign for her to approach.
The chola, a slim maiden, of lithe figure, and whose skin was slightly tawny, like that of all half-breeds kneeled gracefully at the feet of her mistress, fixed her great black eyes upon her, and smilingly asked what she wanted.
"Nothing," was the evasive answer, "only to see and talk to you a little."
"How glad I am!" said the girl, passionately clasping her hands together; "It is so long since I have seen you, niña" (a term of endearment).
"Did my absence distress you much, Clarita?"
"What a question to ask, señorita! Do I not love you like a sister? Do they not say you have been in great danger?"
"Who says that?" asked Hermosa carelessly.
"Everyone; they talk of nothing but your adventures in the prairie. All the peones have left their work to hear the news; the hacienda is in an uproar."
"Indeed!"
"For the two whole days of your absence, we did not know what saint to commend you to; I vowed a gold ring to my good patroness Santa Clara."
"Thank you," said she, with a smile.
"But you should only have seen Don Estevan! He would not be comforted; the poor fellow was like a madman, accusing himself as the cause of all that had happened: he tore his hair, asserting that he ought to have disobeyed your father, and to have remained with you in defiance of his orders."
"Poor Estevan!" said the lady, whose thoughts were elsewhere, and who began to get weary of the chattering of her maid; "Poor Estevan! He loves me like a brother."
"Yes, he does; so he has sworn by his head that such a thing shall not happen to you again, and that from henceforth he will never lose sight of you."
"Was he really in such alarm about me?"
"You cannot imagine how dreadfully frightened he was, particularly as they said you had fallen into the hands of the most ferocious robber in the prairie."
"Yet, I can assure you, chica, that the man who gave us shelter overwhelmed us with civility and attention."
"Exactly what your father says; but Don Estevan maintains he has known this man for a long time; that his kindness was feigned, and intended to conceal some monstrous treachery."
Doña Hermosa had suddenly become thoughtful.
"Don Estevan has gone mad," she said; "his friendship for me bewilders his brains; I am sure he is mistaken. But you remind me that I escaped from him the moment after my arrival without offering him a word of thanks. I must make reparation for this involuntary forgetfulness; is he still in the hacienda?"
"I think he is, señorita."
"Go and find out, and ask him to come here, if he has not gone already."
The maid rose and left her.
"As he knows him," said Hermosa, as soon as she was alone, "I will make him speak, and teach me what I want to learn."
So she awaited impatiently the return of her messenger.
The latter seemed to have divined the anxiety of her mistress, and made such haste to execute her commission that scarcely ten minutes elapsed before she announced Don Estevan.
We have already said that Don Estevan was a handsome man; he had the heart of a lion, the eye of an eagle; his carriage full of grace and suppleness, betrayed his race. He entered, saluting the lady with a winning familiarity authorised by his long and intimate connection with one whom he had known from her cradle.
"Dear Estevan," said she, stretching out her hand gaily, "how happy I am to see you! Sit down here and let us talk."
"Yes; let us have some chat," answered Don Estevan, gladly entering into the spirit of Hermosa's gaiety.
"Give Estevan a chair, chica, and then go; I do not want you any longer."
The maid obeyed without replying.
"What a number of things I have to tell you, my friend!" resumed the doña. "But first excuse me for running away from you. My sole thought was to be alone, and put my ideas into a little order."
"I can easily understand that, dear Hermosa."
"Then you are not angry with me, Estevan?"
"Not the least in the world, I assure you."
"Are you quite sure?" said she, pouting half seriously.
"Do not talk about it anymore, my dear child; one cannot encounter such dangers as you have been exposed to without feeling their effect upon the mind for a long time afterwards."
"But it is all over now, believe me; yet, between ourselves, my dear Estevan, these dangers have not been so great as your affection for me led you to suppose."
The other shook his head in token of his want of conviction, and replied:
"On the contrary, niña, these dangers have been much more serious than you choose to believe."
"No, they were not Estevan; the people we met treated us with the most cordial hospitality."
"I admit it; but will reply with one question."
"Ask it; and I will answer it, if I can."
"Do you know the name of the man who treated you with this cordial hospitality?" And he laid considerable stress on the last words.
"I confess that I not only do not know it, but that I did not even take the pains to ask him."
"You were wrong, señorita: for he would have answered that his name was 'the Tigercat.'"
"The Tigercat!" she exclaimed, turning deadly pale; "The execrable miscreant who for years has spread terror over the frontiers! You are wrong, Estevan; it could not be he."
"No, señorita, I am not wrong; I know the truth of my assertion. I can have no doubt, after what I have gathered from your father."
"But how did it happen that this man should have received us so kindly, and that he should have profited by the accident which placed us in his power?"
"No one can penetrate into the dark windings of that man's heart. Besides, who can prove he was not laying a snare for you? Were you not pursued by the redskins?"
"We were; but we escaped from them, thanks to the devotion of our guide." And she spoke with a little uncertainty of voice.
"You are right again," said Don Estevan ironically "But the guide himself—do you know who he is?"
"He constantly refused to tell us his name, in spite of the pressing entreaties of my father."
"He had good reasons for doing so, niña; the name would have filled you with horror."
"Then who and what is this man?"
"He is the son of the Tigercat; he is called Stoneheart."
Hermosa recoiled with instinctive terror, and hid her face in her hands.
"It is impossible," she cried: "this man cannot be a monster; this man who proved himself so faithful, so loyal—who saved my life, too."
"What!" exclaimed Don Estevan: "He saved your life?"
"Have you not heard it? Has not my father told you the story?"
"No; Don Pedro did not say anything about it."
"Then I will tell you, Estevan; for whatever this man may be, I must render him justice. I owe it to him, to him alone, that I did not die in horrible agony."
"In the name of Heaven, explain yourself, Hermosa."
"While we were wandering in the forest, a prey to despair," she replied, in extreme agitation—"while we were expecting the death that could not be long in coming,—I felt my foot bitten by a snake of the most venomous kind. At first I overcame my pain, in order not to increase the discouragement of my companions."
"How well I recognise your strength and courage there, niña!"
"Let me continue," said she, with a sad smile. "The pain soon became so piercing, that my strength failed me, in spite of my courage. At that moment God sent to our aid, him whom you call Stoneheart. The first thought of that man was to help me."
"It is wonderful!" said Don Estevan Diaz.
"By the use of some sort of leaf, he managed to neutralise the effect of the poison, so that, shortly after having been bitten, I felt no pain from the wound, and am quite recovered today. Can you now deny that I owe him my life?"
"No," said he frankly; "for he saved you indeed. Yet for what purpose? That is what puzzles me."
"For the sake of saving me,—for humanity's sake; his after conduct sufficiently proves it. It is to him alone we owe our subsequent escape from the Apaches, who were on our trail."
"All you say, niña, appears like an incomprehensible dream; I do not know whether I am asleep or awake while I listen to you."
"But has this man really been guilty of the infamous actions which excite your indignation?"
Estevan Diaz did not answer: he seemed embarrassed; and there was a short silence.
"I will be frank with you, Hermosa," said he, at last. "It is necessary that you should know who your deliverer is. I will tell you all I know of him myself; and perhaps this knowledge may be useful to you hereafter, should fate ever again bring you into the presence of this extraordinary man."
"I am listening attentively; proceed."
"Be on your guard, Hermosa; do not let the impulse of your heart carry you away too far; do not expose yourself to future heartache. Stoneheart is, as I told you, the son of the Tigercat. I need tell you nothing about his father; that monster with a human face has built up for himself an infamous notoriety, too well known for me to enter into its details. The infamy of the father has reflected on the son, and enveloped him in a halo of murder and rapine which makes him almost as much dreaded as his father. However, in justice to the man, I must confess that, although he is accused of a thousand evil deeds and odious crimes, it has been impossible hitherto to obtain positive proof of any accusation preferred against him. All they say of him is wrapped up in impenetrable mystery; yet everyone relates the most horrible tales of him, although nobody can speak with certainty as to the truth of one of them."
"They are not true," said Hermosa.
"Do not be too eager to pronounce him innocent, niña; recollect that a modicum of truth is to be found at the bottom of every suspicion; and, strictly speaking, this man's trade would of itself suffice as proof against him, and bear testimony to his natural ferocity."
"I cannot understand you, Estevan. What dreadful trade is it?"
"Stoneheart is a bee-hunter."
"A bee-hunter!" she exclaimed, with a burst of laughter. "Truly there is nothing offensive in that?"
"The word is pleasant to the ear; the trade itself one of the most inoffensive; but the bees, those advanced sentinels of civilisation, who, in proportion as the whites push forward in America, bury themselves deeper in the prairies, and take refuge in more inaccessible wildernesses, require a special organism in the men who hunt them,—a heart of bronze in a body of steel, a fortitude beyond proof, indomitable courage, and unswerving will."
"Excuse me for the interruption, Estevan; but in all you have told me, there seems nothing that is not highly honourable to the men who devote themselves to this perilous trade."
"Your observation would be just, if these men—half savages from the life they lead, ceaselessly exposed to most serious danger, constantly obliged to strive, in defence of their lives, against the wild beast and the redskin, by whom they are perpetually threatened—had not contracted, perhaps in spite of themselves, the habit of shedding blood; a habit of such cold-blooded cruelty, in a word, that they set no value on human life,—kill a man with the same indifference as they smoke the bees from the tree, and often, for mere pastime, fire on the approaching stranger, white or redskin. For this reason, the Indians dread them more than the fiercest animals, and, unless they happen to be in force, fly before a bee-hunter with more terror and precipitation than from the grizzly bear, that redoubtable inhabitant of our American forests. Believe me, niña, I am not exaggerating. It results from what I have related, that when these men reappear upon the frontiers, their arrival creates a general panic; for their road is a bloody one, marked by the corpses of those whom they have slain under the most frivolous pretexts. In one word, niña, the bee-hunters are completely beyond the pale of humanity,—beings with all the vices of whites and redskins, and without the virtues of either: both races abjure and repudiate them with horror."
"Estevan," gravely replied Doña Hermosa, "I have listened seriously to what you have said. I thank you; but, in my opinion, it proves nothing either for or against the person about whom I questioned you. I grant you that the bee-hunters maybe semi-savages, of profound cruelty; yet, are there no noble and loyal hearts, no generous spirits, among them? You have spoken of the rule; who will tell me that Stoneheart is not the exception? His conduct compels me to think so. I am only a young, ignorant, and inexperienced girl; but were I bidden to open my heart, and speak frankly, I should answer: 'My friend, this man, condemned from infancy to a life of shame and trial, has striven valiantly against the current which was dragging him away, and the force of bad example assailing him on every side. Son of a criminal father, associated, against his will, with bandits to whom every restraint is an abomination, and by whom every sentiment of honour has been trodden under foot, this man, far from imitating their actions,—far from burning, pillaging and assassinating as they do,—has preferred to adopt a career of perpetual peril. His heart has remained pure; and when chance offered him an opportunity of doing a good deed, he seized it eagerly and gladly.' This is what I should say to you, Estevan,—and if, like me, you had studied this strange man for two whole days, you would be of my opinion,—which is, that he is more to be pitied than blamed; for, placed among ferocious brutes, he has retained his humanity."
Don Estevan remained for a time lost in thought; then he turned towards the girl, took her hand, pressed it in his own, and looked at her with tender compassion.
"I pity and admire you, Hermosa. You are just what I thought you—I, who have watched the development of your character from your infancy. The woman fulfils all the promise held out by the child and the girl. Your heart is noble, your sentiments are exalted; you are indeed perfect—a chosen soul. I do not blame you for following the impulse of your heart—you are only obeying the instinct for good or evil which sways you in spite of yourself; but, alas! Dear child, I am your elder brother, and my experience is larger than your own. To me, the horizon seems to be clouding over. Without prejudging what the future may be preparing for us, let me prefer one entreaty."
"An entreaty! You, Estevan! Oh, speak; I shall be so happy to do anything to please you."
"Thanks, Hermosa; but the entreaty has no connection with myself—it concerns you alone."
"So much the greater reason for my granting it," she said with a gracious smile.
"Listen, child: the events of the last two days have completely changed your life, and feelings have germinated in your mind of which you ignored the existence until now. You have always placed entire confidence in me: I demand the continuance of that confidence. My only desire is to see you happy; all my thoughts, all my actions, tend to that goal. Never believe that I dream of betraying you or thwarting your projects. If I am tenacious on this point, it is to aid you with my counsel and experience; it is to save you even from yourself; to insure your escape from the snares which the future may lay for your innocent frankness. Do you promise what I entreat?"
"Yes," she replied, without hesitation, and looking firmly in his face; "I promise, Estevan, my brother—for you are in truth a brother to me—whatever may happen, I will have no secrets from you."
"I thank you, Hermosa," said the young man, rising, "I hope soon to prove myself worthy of the name of brother. Come tomorrow, in the afternoon, to my mother's rancho (farmhouse); I shall be there, and most likely able to clear up certain matters which are so obscure today."
"What do you mean?" cried she, in great agitation.
"Nothing at present, dear child; leave me to take my own measures."
"What are your projects? What do you intend to do? Oh, do not attach more importance to my words than I attach to them myself. Involuntarily I have been constrained to utter words from which you would be wrong to draw conclusions—"
"Be calm, Hermosa," said he, interrupting her, with a smile. "I have drawn no conclusion derogatory to you from our conversation. I understand that you have avowed an immense amount of gratitude to the man who saved your life. I see it would make you happy to know that this man is not unworthy of the feelings he has inspired. I draw no other conclusion."
"It is exactly what I feel, Estevan; and I think the wish natural, and one to which no blame can be attached."
"Certainly, my dear child. I do not blame the feeling in the least; only, as I am a man, and can do many things interdicted to a woman, I will try if I can lift the mysterious, veil which conceals the life of your liberator, so as to tell you positively whether he is or is not worthy of the interest you take in him."
"Do that, Estevan, and I will thank you from the bottom of my heart."
The young man only replied by a smile to this passionate outbreak: he saluted Hermosa, and retired.
As soon as he was gone, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. Did she regret the confidence into which she had been led, or was she afraid of herself? Only women can decide the question, and only Spanish-American women, who are so impressionable, and through whose veins rushes the lava of their native volcanoes.
Don Fernando Carril, as we have already related, after his conversation with the vaqueros, had taken, at a gallop the route to the pueblo; but when he was within a hundred yards of the first houses, he slackened his pace to a walk, and cast glances right and left, as if in the expectation of meeting some person he wished to see. But if such were his thoughts, it seemed as if he were doomed to disappointment; for the road was completely deserted in all directions as far as his eye could reach.
CHAPTER X.
EL AS DE COPAS (THE ACE OF HEARTS).
Don Fernando checked his steed, and remained motionless as an equestrian statue on a marble pedestal.
"He will not come," he muttered, after a while.
"Can he have deceived me?—It is impossible."
Casting, as a last hope, one more look around him, he dropped the reins, but seized them again an instant later with a suddenness which made his horse perform a curvette and wince with pain. Don Fernando had just seen two cavaliers advancing towards him—one approaching from the pueblo, the other riding down the road he had himself taken.
"Come, come, it is all right," he said to himself; "This one is Don Torribio Quiroga. But who is this other cavalier?" he added, turning to the man who had just left the pueblo.
He frowned, seemed to hesitate for an instant, but soon formed his decision, smiled ironically, and saying half-aloud, "It is better as it is," made his horse execute a traverse, and placed himself exactly across the middle of the road, so as to bar the passage completely.
The two arrivals, who greedily watched all his motions, took good note of the hostile appearance of Don Fernando's position: neither seemed to feel alarm, and both advanced at the same speed as before. The cavalier coming from the pueblo was much nearer Don Fernando than Don Torribio was, and was soon close to him.
Mexicans, of all ranks and however little education, have an instinctive knowledge of social decorum, which never deceives them, and a refined politeness which would astonish the inhabitants of the Old World.
As soon as Don Fernando found the stranger within reach of his voice, he slightly altered the position of his horse, doffed his hat, and said, with a low bow:
"Señor caballero, permit me to ask you a question."
"Caballero," replied the stranger, with no less politeness, "it will be an honour to me."
"My name is Don Fernando Carril."
"And mine, Don Estevan Diaz."
"Señor Don Estevan, I am happy to make your acquaintance. Would you throw away ten minutes in my company?"
"Señor Don Fernando, however pressed for time I might be, I would stop to enjoy your society."
"You are excessively kind; accept my thanks. I will explain in half a dozen words. The caballero who is approaching is Señor—"
"Don Torribio Quiroga," interposed Don Estevan; "I know him."
"So much the better; the matter is simplified. That honourable personage, as I found out by a strange chance is my bitter enemy."
"That is a pity."
"It is; but what shall I say? He is so thoroughly my enemy, that he has tried four times to have me assassinated; has made me serve as a target to banditti."
"It is grievous. He plays an evil game with you, Don Fernando."
"The very reflection I made myself; so, as I wish to have done with him, I have resolved to offer him the means of getting out of the scrape."
"It is the act of a true caballero."
"¡Caray! I can fancy how furious he will be. I am charmed at your consenting to be witness of the transaction."
"With pleasure, caballero."
"A thousand thanks; I will gladly return the compliment. But here is our man."
Don Torribio had continued to advance during this short conversation, and was now only a short distance from the speakers.
"¡Válgame Dios!" he cried gaily; "If I do not mistake, it is my admirable friend, Don Fernando Carril, whom I have the good fortune to meet."
"Himself, my dear friend; and as happy as you can be at the chance which has thrown us together."
"¡Vive Dios! Since I have got you, I will not let you go; we will ride together as far as the pueblo."
"I should like it, Don Torribio; but first of all, with your permission, I have a few words to say which may upset that plan."
"Speak then, señor; you can only utter words I shall be happy to hear in Don Estevan's presence."
"In fact, Don Fernando has requested me to be present at the conversation," said the latter.
"Nothing could be better! Let us hear, señor."
"Suppose we dismount," said Don Estevan; "the conversation may be a long one."
"Well observed, caballero," replied Don Fernando; "I know a grotto where we shall be quite at our ease. It is close at hand."
"Let us go there at once," said Don Torribio.
The three cavaliers left the beaten track, took a turn to the right, and directed their steps towards a little wood of plane trees and mahoganies, which stood at a short distance.
Anyone who had seen them thus, riding side by side, chatting and smiling to each other, would have incontestably believed them to be intimate friends, delighted at having met. However it was, nothing of the kind, as our readers will soon see.
Exactly as Don Fernando had predicted, they soon gained the wood, and found the natural grotto of which he had spoken.
The grotto was in the side of a hill of no great elevation, and its proportions were scanty enough. Carpeted with verdure inside and out, it was a charming place of repose for passing away the stifling heat of the sun at midday.
The cavaliers dismounted, took the bridle from their horses, leaving them to graze at will. They entered the grotto, and inhaled with ineffable delight the freshness caused by a slender stream of water which ran between its banks with a melancholy murmur, forming a pleasant contrast with the burning atmosphere to which they were recently exposed. They threw their zarapés on the ground, stretched themselves out comfortably, and lit their maize pajillos (cigarettes).
"I am greatly obliged to you, Don Fernando, for thinking of this delicious retreat," said Don Torribio; "now, if it is your pleasure to speak, it will be an honour to me to listen."
"Señor Don Torribio, you really overwhelm me by so much courtesy. Heaven bear witness, that if I were not your most implacable enemy, I could be your dearest friend."
"Alas!" said Don Torribio, "Heaven has disposed otherwise."
"I know it, my good señor, and regret it with all my soul."
"Not more than I do, I swear."
"Well, as that is the case, we must act accordingly,"
"Alas! That is just what I mean to do."
"I thought so. Then, in your interest and mine, I have resolved to make an end of it."
"I do not exactly see how we can get at that result, unless one of us consents to kill the other."
"I presume this hatred of yours has cost you a round sum of money?"
"Four hundred piastres, which the rascals have stolen from me, as you are still alive; to say nothing of two hundred others I propose to present to a pícaro who has sworn to kill you tonight."
"It is perfectly distressing! If this goes on, you will ruin yourself."
Don Torribio sighed, but made no reply.
Don Fernando resumed, while he threw away his cigarette and occupied himself in rolling another:
"For my part, señor, I confess that, in spite of the lamentable clumsiness of the people you employ, I begin to be tired of serving as a target at moments when I least expect it."
"I can understand that; it must be very disagreeable."
"It is. Well, then, wishing to reconcile our mutual interests, and to put an end to it, once for all, I have racked my brains until I think I have hit on a method of arranging these matters to our mutual satisfaction."
"Well, let us hear this method; I know you to be a man of imagination, Don Fernando. It is doubtless ingenious."
"Oh, no; on the contrary, it is quite simple. Do you ever play?"
"So seldom, that it is hardly worth mentioning."
"Precisely the case with me. This is the proposal I have to make: it is evident you will not succeed in assassinating me."
"Do you think so, señor?" said Don Torribio, still smiling.
"I am sure of it, else you would have succeeded already."
"I will admit it: what, then, do you propose?"
"This: we will have a game at cards—the first to whom el as de copas (the ace of hearts) falls shall win, and be master over the life of his opponent, who shall be bound to blow out his brains as he sits there."
"Not so bad; the idea is ingenious."
"And why not señor?—It is just like a common game, only the loser cannot have his revenge. Now, where are the cards?"
It was then discovered that these three gallant caballeros, who never played, had each a pack of cards in his pocket. They produced them with such spontaneousness, that all three could not help bursting into Homeric laughter.
We have already said, somewhere, that in Mexico the passion for gambling is carried beyond the verge of madness; so that the facility with which Don Torribio accepted the game proposed by his foe has nothing in it to astonish those who know the character of those strange Mexicans, who carry everything to extremes, and for whom anything unexpected and extraordinary has always an irresistible attraction.
"One moment, señores," said Don Estevan, who had hitherto listened without joining in the conversation; "perhaps there might still be another way."
"What other?" exclaimed Don Fernando and Don Torribio, turning briskly to him.
"Is your mutual hatred so great, that in reality it can only be satisfied by the death of one or the other?"
"It is," said Don Torribio hoarsely.
Don Fernando merely replied by a nod.
"In that case," continued Don Estevan, "instead of having recourse to blind chance, why cannot you fight it out with each other?"
Both men made a gesture of disdain.
"What!" exclaimed Don Torribio, "Fight like wretched leperos, at the risk of disfiguring or crippling ourselves, which would be worse than death! No! I will never consent to that."
"Nor I; it is better that chance shall decide."
"As you please, caballeros; do as you like."
"But," said Don Torribio, "who is to deal?"
"The devil!" said Don Fernando; "that is a good remark: I never thought of that."
"I will, if you have no objection," said Don Estevan; "and so much the more readily, as my friendship for both of you señores, makes me perfectly disinterested."
"It will do," said Don Torribio; "only, to avoid all cause for dispute, you must choose at hap-hazard the pack you are to use."
"Very well: place the three packs under a hat; I will take the first I touch."
"That will do. What a pity you did not think of this game sooner, Don Fernando!"
"What could I do, señor?—I have only just hit upon the idea."
Don Estevan rose and left the grotto, to afford the two foes every facility for arranging the three packs under the hat. He was very soon recalled.
"So," said he, "you are determined to play out this game?"
"We are, they replied."
"You swear, by all the world holds most holy, and whichever of you it may be whom fortune favours, to submit yourselves to the fiat of fate in all its entirety?"
"We swear, Don Estevan, by the word of caballeros."
"Enough, señores," he replied, passing his Hand under the hat and drawing out a pack of cards. "And now recommend your souls to God; for a few minutes hence, one of you will be in his presence."
The two men crossed themselves devoutly, and fixed their eyes anxiously on the pack of cards.
Don Estevan shuffled the cards with the greatest care, and then made each of the adversaries cut them in turn.
"Attention, señores," said he; "I am going to begin."
The two, negligently leaning on their elbows, smoked their pajillos with a perfect assumption of indifference, which was only belied by the flashing of their eyes.
Meanwhile the cards continued to fall on the zarapé: Don Estevan held only about a dozen more in his hand, when he paused.
"Caballeros," said he, "for the last time—reflect."
"Go on, go on!" cried Don Torribio excitedly; "the first card belongs to me."
"Look at it," said Don Estevan, turning it up.
"Oh," said Don Fernando, throwing away his cigarette, "el as de copas. Look, Don Torribio; it is curious. ¡Vive Dios! you can reproach no one; you are the author of your own death."
Don Torribio made a violent gesture, which he repressed immediately, and resumed the tone of affected civility which had characterised the conversation.
"Upon my honour, it is true," said he. "I must confess, Don Fernando, I have no chance with you in anything."
"I am quite in despair, dear Don Torribio."
"Never mind; it was a capital game; I never felt so interested."
"Nor I either. Unfortunately, I cannot give you your revenge."
"Right! And now I must pay my debt."
Don Fernando bowed without answering.
"Be quite easy, dear señor; I will only keep you waiting such time as is absolutely necessary. If I could have foreseen this, I would have brought my pistols."
"I have brought mine; they are perfectly at your service."
"Then pray be kind enough to lend me one."
Don Fernando rose, took a pistol from his holsters, and offered them to Don Torribio.
"It is primed and loaded; the trigger is a little stiff."
"What a capital man of business you are, Don Fernando! You provide for everything; no detail escapes you."
"My traveller's habits, Don Torribio,—nothing more."
Don Torribio took the pistol and cocked it.
"Señores," said he, "I beg you not to leave my body to the mercy of the wild beasts; it would distress me dreadfully to become their food when I am dead."
"Set your mind at rest, dear señor; we will carry you home across your own horse. We should be in despair if the body of so accomplished a caballero were thus profaned."
"That is all I have to request of you, señores; now accept my thanks, and farewell."
After this he cast one last look around him, and coolly placed the muzzle of the pistol against his right temple.
Don Fernando suddenly arrested his hand.
"I have one remark to make," he said.
"Upon my honour, you are only just in time," said Don Torribio, without exhibiting emotion: "two seconds more, and it would have been too late. But let us hear this remark. Is it of much interest?"
"You yourself shall judge. You have lost your life fairly to me."
"As fairly as possible."
"Well, then, it belongs to me. You are dead; I have the right of disposing of you as I think fit."
"I cannot deny it. You will observe that I am ready to pay my losses like a caballero."
"I render you full justice, dear señor; therefore if I allow you to live for the present, you are bound to kill yourself at my first requisition, and to employ the life I leave you (which I could deprive you of at this very moment) solely in my interest, and at my good pleasure."
"Then you offer me a bargain?" said Don Torribio.
"Yes, you have hit the word; it is a bargain."
"H'm!" said Don Torribio; "That requires consideration. What would you do, if you were in my place, Don Estevan?"
"I?" replied he; "I would accept without hesitation. Life is so beautiful, take it all in all, it is best to enjoy it as long as possible."
"There is something true about what you say; but recollect I should become Don Fernando's slave as I could only employ my life in his service, and should be bound to kill myself whenever he gives the word."
"True; but Don Fernando is a caballero who will only exact this sacrifice in so far as to protect his own life."
"I will even go further," broke in Don Fernando; "I will limit the duration of our bargain to ten years. If by that time Don Torribio is not dead, he will again enter upon his rights in all their plenitude, and can dispose of his life after his own fashion."
"That really touches me to the heart! You are a perfect caballero, señor; and I accept the life you offer me so gracefully. A thousand thanks!" added he, uncocking the pistol. "I have no further use for this weapon."
"One thing more, Don Torribio. As no one can read the future, you will not object to have this bond drawn up in writing?"
"Certainly not; but where shall we get the paper?"
"I think I can find the writing materials in my alforjas."
"How right I was in pronouncing you a perfect man of business, whom nothing escapes, dear señor!"
Don Fernando, without answering, went to fetch his alforjas, a kind of double pocket, which is fastened behind the saddle, to hold the necessary articles for travelling, and used throughout the whole of Spanish America instead of the common European valise.
Don Fernando took out pens, ink, and paper, and laid them in order before Don Torribio.
"Now," said he, "write as I shall dictate."
"Proceed, my dear señor; I will write."
Don Fernando began:
"I, the undersigned, Don Torribio Quiroga y Carvajal y Flores del Cerro, acknowledge that I have fairly lost my life to Don Fernando Carril, in a game played with the aforesaid señor; I acknowledge that the life belongs henceforth to Don Fernando, who shall have the right to dispose of it as he thinks fit, without my having power to raise objection in any case, or to refuse obedience to the orders he may give me, whether they be to kill myself before his eyes, or to risk in any perilous adventure the life I have lost, and which I acknowledge to hold only at his pleasure. I farther acknowledge that all sentiments of hatred to the aforesaid Don Fernando Carril are extinguished in my heart, and that I will never seek to injure him directly or indirectly. I enter into this bond for the space of ten years, beginning from the day on which this deed is signed; it being formally stipulated by me, that at the end of the aforesaid ten years I shall resume all my rights in full, with the entire possession of my life, and that from thenceforth I shall not be responsible to Don Fernando Carril for any account of it."
"Written and signed by me, this 17th March 18—, and subscribed, as witness, by Señor Don Estevan Diaz y Morelos."
"Now," said Don Fernando, "sign: pass the paper to Don Estevan, for his signature; then give it to me." Don Torribio signed with the greatest good humour, added a tremendous flourish to his signature, and gave the pen to Don Estevan, who affixed his name without making the slightest objection to this strange arrangement.
When all this was over, Don Torribio scattered a little sand over the paper, to dry the ink, folded it neatly in four, and placed it in the hands of Don Fernando, who read it attentively, and put it in his bosom.
"There, that is finished," said Don Torribio. "Now señor, if you have no commands for me, I ask your permission to retire."
"I should be distressed to detain you longer, caballero; go where your engagements call you; may they be pleasant ones!"
"Thanks for the wish, though I fear it will scarcely be fulfilled; I have had bad luck for some time past."
He saluted the others once more, put the bridle on his horse, and departed at a gallop.
"Do you really intend to demand the execution of this bond?" asked Don Estevan, as soon as he found himself alone with Don Fernando.
"Most certainly," replied the other; "you forget that this man is my mortal foe. But I must leave you, Don Estevan; I must be today at Las Norias de San Antonio, and it is growing late."
"Are you going to the hacienda of Don Pedro de Luna?"
"Not exactly to the hacienda, but to the neighbourhood."
"Then we can ride together; for I, too, am going in that direction."
"You," said he, looking at him inquisitively.
"I am the major-domo of the hacienda," replied Don Estevan.
The two men left the grotto, and mounted their horses. Don Fernando rode pensively by the side of his companion, only replying in monosyllables.
CHAPTER XI.
THE RANCHO.
The road the two men had to travel together was tolerably long. Don Estevan would not have been sorry to shorten it by talking to Don Fernando, particularly as the manner in which he had made acquaintance with the latter, and the light in which he had shown himself, excited the curiosity of the former in the highest degree. Unfortunately, Don Fernando did not seem in the least inclined to keep up the conversation; and, in spite of all his efforts, the major-domo found himself obliged to conform to his companion's state of mind, and imitate his taciturnity.
They had already left the village a long way behind them, and were cantering along the undulating banks of the Rio Bermejo, when they heard, at a short distance in front of them, the sound of a horse at full gallop. We say, they heard; for, shortly after leaving the grotto, the sun had finally disappeared below the horizon, and there had been a sudden transition from the glorious light of day to thick darkness.
In Mexico, where there is no police, or, at all events, only a nominal one, every man is obliged to take care of himself. Two men, meeting on a road after nightfall, cannot accost each other without the greatest precaution, nor approach each other until fully assured they have nothing to fear.
"Keep your distance!" shouted Don Fernando, as soon as he thought the person approaching was within reach of his voice.
"And why so? You know you have nothing to fear from me," answered somebody; the sound caused by the horse's hoofs ceasing at the same time, denoting that the rider had halted.
"I know that voice," said the Mexican.
"And the man, too, Señor Don Fernando, for it is not very long since we met; I am El Zapote."
"Aha!" laughed Don Fernando; "Is it you, Tonillo? Come on, muchacho."
The latter rode up directly.
"What the devil are you doing on this road, at this hour of the night?"
"I am coming from a rendezvous, and returning to the pueblo."
"I fancy that rendezvous has been a slippery affair."
"You insult me, Don Fernando. I am an honourable man."
"I have no doubt of it. Moreover, your affairs are not mine; and I do not choose to be mixed up with them. Come, adieu, Tonillo."
"A moment if you please. Since I have been lucky enough to meet you, grant me five minutes: I was going to look for you."
"You! Is it a case like the last? I thought you had had enough of that speculation, which hardly succeeds with me."
"Here is the matter in two words, Don Fernando. After what happened the other day, I considered that I owed you my life, and, consequently, had not full liberty of action where you are concerned. But you know, señor, I am a caballero; and as an honest man can but stick to his word, I resolved to see the person who had paid me to kill you, and return him the money. It was hard to disburse so large a sum; but I did not hesitate. One may well say, a good action always brings its own recompense."
"You ought to know that better than anyone else," laughed Don Fernando.
"You laugh! Very well; judge for yourself. I sought this person, whose name it is needless to mention."
"So much the more so, as I know it already."
"You do? Very well, then. This morning a caballero, one of my friends, gave me notice that the person in question also wished to speak to me. All was working wonderfully. But guess my amazement when, just as I was going to refund the money and throw up my engagement, this personage announced to me that he had been reconciled to you, that you were the best friends, and begged me to keep the hundred piastres as an indemnification for the damage he had caused me."
"Was it this person, then, whom you went to meet tonight?"
"The same. I have only just left him."
"Very well: go on, compadre" (comrade).
"Well, caballero, since this affair has ended in a manner honourable to me, as I flatter myself, I am at liberty to follow my own inclinations, and am quite at your service, if you will do me the honour to employ me."
"I will not say no; perhaps in a day or two I may find a use for your services."
"You will not repent having employed me, señor. You will be always sure to find me at—"
"Not a word on that subject," said Don Fernando, interrupting him suddenly; "when the time comes, I shall find you."
"As you please, señor. Now permit me to take leave of you and this honourable caballero, your friend."
"Adieu, Zapote. A happy journey."
The lepero joyfully took to his road again.
"Señor," said Don Estevan, as soon as the latter had gone, "in a short time we shall reach the rancho (farmhouse) I inhabit with my mother; it would glad me to offer you shelter for the night."
"Thanks for your courtesy, which I gratefully accept. Is the rancho far from Las Norias?"
"Hardly a league. Were it daylight, you would be able to see from hence the tall walls of the hacienda. Permit me to be your guide on the road to my poor dwelling."
The cavaliers then bent to the left, entering a broad path lined with aloes. Very soon the barking of several watchdogs, and two or three specks of light which twinkled through the darkness, apprised them that it would not be long before they reached the end of their tedious journey. In fact, after riding some ten minutes longer, they found themselves in front of a house, small, but apparently comfortable, under the zaguán (veranda) of which several persons, provided with torches, seemed to be expecting their arrival.
They stopped before the porch, dismounted, gave their horses to a peon, who led them away, and entered the dwelling, Don Estevan preceding his guest in order to do the honours of his house.
They found themselves in a chamber of good dimensions, furnished with sundry chairs, a few armchairs, and a massive table, on which the cloth was laid for several persons. The whitewashed walls of the room were adorned with prints, frightfully coloured, representing the four seasons, the five quarters of the globe, &c.
A woman, no longer young, dressed with a certain degree of refinement, and whose features, although marked by age, still preserved traces of great beauty, stood in the middle of the room.
"Mother," said Don Estevan, bowing respectfully before her, "permit me to present to you Don Fernando Carril, an honourable caballero, who consents to be our guest tonight."
"He is welcome," answered Doña Manuela, with a gracious smile; "this house and all that is in it is at his disposal."
"Many thanks, señora, for this kind reception."
At first sight of the stranger Doña Manuela had begun to tremble, and had scarcely repressed an exclamation of surprise. The sound of his voice struck her no less, and she cast a profoundly scrutinising look over him; but after a moment she shook her head gently, as if mistrusting the thought which had arisen.
"Be seated, señor," she said, pointing to the table with great cordiality; "the supper shall be served directly. Your long ride will have sharpened your appetite, and will make the frugality of the viands less distasteful."
In fact, the meal was frugal, consisting of beans with red pepper, beef dried in the sun, a fowl boiled in rice, rolls of maize, with pulque and mezcal to drink With great pleasure Doña Manuela watched the viands disappear with which she loaded their plates. She encouraged them by all the means in her power to satisfy their hunger.
When supper was over, they passed into an inner chamber, more comfortably furnished, which appeared to be the reception room.
The conversation, which had naturally been rather languid at dinner, now, little by little, grew more animated, and soon reached, thanks to the efforts of Doña Manuela, that tone of pleasant familiarity which banishes every constraint, and doubles the charms of familiar chat.
Don Fernando seemed to enter with all his heart into the desultory conversation, which leaped without ceasing from one subject to another; listening with complacency to the long stories of Doña Manuela, and answering with apparent rankness the questions she asked him.
"Are you a costeño" (an inhabitant of the sea border), "or a tierras a dentro" (one of those who dwell inland), "caballero?" the good dame suddenly asked her guest.
"By my faith, señora," replied he, laughing, "I confess I feel some difficulty in replying."
"Why so, señor?"
"For the simple reason that I have no idea where I was born."
"But you are hijo del país" (literally, a son of the country),—"a Mexican, at all events?"
"Everything leads me to think so, señora; but I would not swear it."
"That is very singular. Does not your family reside in the province?"
A shadow crossed the face of Don Fernando. "No, señora," he replied dryly.
The mistress of the house perceived she had touched a tender chord, and hastened to turn the conversation.
"Of course you know Don Pedro de Luna?"
"Very little, señora; accident threw us together once. It is true the circumstances were too singular for him to forget them easily; but it remains to be seen whether I ever set foot in his hacienda."
"You are wrong, caballero; Don Pedro is a cristiano Viejo" (an old Christian, i.e. a descendant of the early conquerors), "who exercises hospitality after the fashion of old times: nothing makes him happier than to practise it."
"Most unfortunately, important affairs call me to some distance, and I fear I shall have no time to stop at his hacienda."
"Forgive the question," said Don Estevan; "but have you really the intention of entering the prairie?"
"Why do you ask, caballero?"
"Because we are here on the extreme Indian frontier; and unless you retrace your steps, it is only towards the wilderness you can bend them."
"Well, then, it is my intention to go into the desert."
Don Estevan made a gesture of surprise.
"Forgive my pertinacity," said he; "but without doubt you must be acquainted with the desert you intend to enter?"
"By your leave, señor, I am thoroughly acquainted with it."
"And knowing its dangers, dare you enter it alone?"
"I thought I had given you a proof today," said he, with an indefinable smile, "that I dare many things."
"Yes, yes; I know your courage carries you on to rashness: but what you would undertake is worse than temerity—it is madness!"
"Madness, señor! The word is too strong. Can a resolute man, well armed and mounted, have anything to fear from the Indians?"
"If you had nothing to do but defend yourself against Indians and wild beasts. I should be somewhat in your way of thinking, señor: a determined white can make head against twenty redskins. But how will you escape from the Tigercat?"
"From the Tigercat? Excuse me, caballero, but I do not understand you at all."
"I will soon explain, señor. The Tigercat is a white. This man, from reasons unknown to all, has joined the Apaches, has become one of their chiefs, and sworn implacable hatred to all men of his own colour."
"I have heard vaguely of the man you mention; but, after all, he is the only one of his race among the Indians. Redoubtable as he may be, he is not invulnerable, I suppose; and a brave man might kill him."
"Unfortunately you are mistaken, caballero; this man is not the only one of his race among the Indians; other bandits of his class are with him."
"Yes," cried Doña Manuela; "his son among the rest, who, they say, is as fierce a bandit as his father."
"Mother, that is only a surmise. If you come to proof, nothing can be affirmed against Stoneheart."
"Who is the man of whom you speak?"
"His son, as people say; but one cannot be sure of it."
"And you call this man Stoneheart?"
"Yes, señor. For my own part, I know several instances of his generosity, which indicate, on the contrary, a heart in its right place, and an ardent spirit capable of noble deeds."
A slight blush overspread the face of Don Fernando.
"Let us return to the Tigercat," said he. "What have I to dread from this man?"
"Everything. Concealed in the prairie, like a hideous zopilote (vulture) on its point of rock, this wretch pounces upon the caravans, whatever their strength, and pillages them; he murders in cold blood the solitary travellers whom their evil destiny delivers into his hands: his nets are stretched with such cruel skill, that none may escape him. Listen to me, caballero: give up this journey, or you are a lost man."
"I thank you for your advice, which, I know, is prompted by the interest you take in me; nevertheless, I cannot follow it. But it is too late; allow me to retire. I observed a hammock under the zaguán, in which I could pass the night admirably."
"I will give orders to have my son's chamber prepared for you."
"I could not allow anyone to be disturbed on my account, señora; I am an old traveller. Moreover, the night is already far gone. I swear you would disoblige me by forcing me to accept the chamber of Don Estevan."
"Do as you think proper, caballero. A guest is one sent from God; he ought to be master in the house he inhabits, as long as he chooses to honour it with his presence. May the Lord watch over your repose and bless your slumbers! My son shall show you the corral (outhouse) where your horse has been stabled, in case you should wish to depart before the household is awake."
"Many thanks, once more, señorita. I hope to pay my respects to you before I go."
Having exchanged a few more compliments with his hostess, Don Fernando rose and left the room, accompanied by Don Estevan. The wish he expressed, to sleep in a hammock under the zaguán, was not at all extraordinary, and perfectly in accordance with the customs of a country where the nights, by their beauty and freshness, compensate the inhabitants for the overpowering heat of the day.
The American ranchos all have a porch, formed by four, and often six columns, outside the house, and which support an azotea (flat roof). In the large space between these columns, which are placed on either side of the main entrance, hammocks are slung, in which the owners of the dwellings themselves often pass the night, preferring to sleep in the open air rather than endure the torrid heat which literally converts into a stove the interior of the houses.
Don Estevan led his guest to the corral, explained to him the mechanism of the lock, asked if he could be of any further service, wished him good night, and retired into the house, leaving the door open, so that Don Fernando might enter if he thought fit.
Doña Manuela awaited her son's return in the apartment where he had left her. The old lady seemed restless.
"Well," she asked, immediately her son made his appearance, "what do you think of this man, Estevan?"
"I, mother!" he answered, looking astonished; "What can I think of him? I saw him today for the first time."
The old señora shook her head impatiently.
"You have been side by side for many hours; such a long tête-à-tête should have given you an opportunity of studying and forming an opinion of him."
"That man, my dear mother, during the short time I have been with him, has appeared under so many different aspects, that it has been altogether an impossibility, I will not say to form an opinion, but even to gain a ray of light by means of which I could direct my study of him. I believe his to be a strong nature, full of nerve, capable of good or evil, accordingly as he follows the impulse of his heart or the calculations of his egotism. At San Lucar everyone seems to dread him instinctively,—for nothing ostensible in his conduct justifies the repulsion he inspires; no one can say positively who he is: his life is an impenetrable mystery."
"Estevan," said his mother, placing her hand heavily on his arm, as if to lend force to the words she was about to utter, "a secret presentiment warns me that the presence of this man in these parts presages great misfortune. I cannot explain why. The moment he entered, his features recalled a confused recollection of events that happened long ago. I saw in his face points of resemblance with that of a person dead, alas! How long?" She sighed. "When he spoke, the tone of his voice sounded mournfully on my ear; for the voice completed the likeness I had found in his face. Whoever this man may be, I am convinced there is trouble, perhaps danger, in store for us. I am old, my son; I have much experience; and, you know, one is seldom mistaken at my age. Presentiments come from God; we must have faith in them. Watch that man's doings as long as he remains here. I could wish you had never brought him under our roof."
"What could I do, mother? Hospitality is a duty from which no one should shrink."
"I do not reproach you, Estevan; you have acted according to your conscience."
"God grant that you delude yourself, mother! After all, whatever the man's intentions may be, if he seeks to injure us, as you suppose, we can but countermine his machinations."
"No, Estevan; it is not exactly for ourselves I fear."
"For whom, then, mother?"
"Cannot you understand me?" said she, with, a mournful smile.
"¡Vive Dios, mother! Let him beware. But no, it is impossible. Nevertheless, I will go to the hacienda at daybreak, and put Don Pedro on his guard."
"Do not say a word to them, Estevan; but watch over them like a faithful friend."
"Yes, mother, you are right," said Estevan, who had suddenly become thoughtful. "I will surround Hermosa with a vigilant protection, so secret that no one shall suspect it. I swear it, ¡vive Dios! I would a thousand times rather die under the most atrocious torture, than see her exposed anew to dangers like those of the last few days. And now, mother, give me your blessing, and let me go."
"Go, my son; and God protect you!"
Don Estevan bent respectfully before his mother, and retired; but before seeking repose, he made a minute examination of the house, and did not extinguish his lamp till after he had convinced himself that all was in perfect order.
As soon as Don Estevan had left him, Don Fernando threw himself into the hammock, and closed his eyes. The night was calm and beautiful; the stars studded the heavens with an infinite number of diamonds; the moon spread her silver rays over the landscape; at intervals, the prolonged baying of the watchdogs mingled with the abrupter bark of the coyotes (prairie-wolves), whose sinister forms were often perceptible in the distance, the transparency of the atmosphere permitting remote objects to be easily distinguished.
All slept, or seemed to sleep.
Suddenly Don Fernando raised his head, and peered cautiously over the edge of his hammock. Thoroughly convinced that silence reigned throughout the house, he slipped to the ground; after carefully listening, and prying into the darkness in all directions, he placed on his head the accoutrements of his horse, and turned his steps towards the corral.
Opening the door noiselessly, he whistled gently. At the signal, the horse raised his head, and walked up to his master, who was holding the door half open.
The latter caught him by the mane, caressed him playfully, and then saddled and bridled him with the dexterity and speed only acquired by constant habit. The task over, his master wrapped his hoofs in four pieces of sheepskin, to deaden the sound of his steps, vaulted into the saddle, and bending over the neck of the noble brute: "Santiago!" cried he, "now is the time to prove your mettle."
The horse, as if he understood his master, dashed off into the darkness, and took the direction of the river at the top of his speed.
Meanwhile the greatest silence pervaded the rancho, none of the inhabitants of which seemed to be aware of this sudden flight.