"First, then, my rival's name."
"It will cost you fifty ounces, and you cannot think it dear."
"Here they are," the count said, arranging them on the table.
The lepero made them disappear in a second in his large pockets.
"The name of your rival, caballero, is Don Martial. He is a Tigrero, and very rich."
"I fancy I have heard Don Sylva mention that name."
"It is probable. Don Sylva cannot endure Don Martial, especially since he saved Doña Anita's life."
"I remember that circumstance too; Don Sylva frequently mentioned it to me. And now, how did Don Martial carry the girl off?"
"Very easily, the more so as she wished nothing better than to follow him. During your fight with the Apaches he placed Doña Anita in a canoe, into which I had already thrown her father, gagged and tied; then we went off, all four of us. All through the night we kept to the river, so as to leave no traces of our flight, and by daybreak had covered fifteen leagues. No longer fearing discovery, we landed. Indios Mansos sold us some horses. Don Martial ordered me to take the young girl's father to Guaymas, and I fulfilled this difficult commission with all honour. Don Sylva was unwilling to follow me; but at last I managed to get him into his own house, where I left him, and went back to Don Martial, who had requested me to bring him certain things, and was awaiting me at a spot agreed on between us."
"Ah!" the count said, "and how did you come to leave him?"
"Good gracious, caballero! We separated, as so often happens to the best of friends, in consequence of a misunderstanding."
"Very good! He turned you off?"
"Nearly so, I am obliged to confess."
"Have you left him long?"
The lepero winked his right eye.
"No," he answered.
"Can you lead me to the spot where he now is?"
"Yes, whenever you please."
"Very good! Is it far?"
"No, but pardon me, caballero, let us settle matters at once. Are you agreeable?"
"Let us see."
"How much will you give me to learn at what spot Don Martial and Doña Anita are concealed?"
"Two hundred ounces."
"Hand them over."
"Here they are."
The count took some handfuls of money from an iron box in a corner of the room, and gave them to the lepero.
"There is a pleasure in dealing with you," said Cucharés, as he sent these ounces to join the others with admirable celerity. "Thus you see I was quite right when I told you that I was going to do you a service."
"It is true, and I thank you. Where are Don Martial and the Doña?"
"At the mission of Don Francisco. But now I must ask permission to leave you."
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"For two reasons; the first, because, in spite of all the confidence I have in you, nothing has yet proved to me that you have told the truth."
"Oh!" said the lepero with a gesture of denial.
"I know very well I am mistaken; but what would you have? I am naturally suspicious."
"Good! I will remain. But now for your second reason."
"This is it. I have in my turn a service to ask of you."
"To be paid for?"
"Of course."
"I am listening."
"I will give you a hundred ounces to lead me to my rival."
"Canarios!" the lepero exclaimed.
"One hundred ounces," the count said again.
"I understand you. One hundred ounces—a fine sum. But look ye, count: I am a costeño, and a lepero in the bargain. This desert life does not suit my temperament and injures my health. I have taken an oath to have no more of it. The road from here to the mission is difficult. We shall have to cross the desert. No, taking all things into consideration, it is impossible."
"That is unlucky," coldly replied the count.
"It is."
"Because," he continued, "I would have given you not one, but two hundred ounces."
"Eh?" asked the other, cocking his ears.
"But as you refuse—you do so, I think?—I shall be obliged, to my great regret to have you shot."
"What do you say?" the lepero exclaimed, with a movement of terror.
"By'r Lady!" the count said simply, "my dear fellow, you are so clever in business matters that, having found two sides of a question, I am terribly frightened lest you should find a third."
And before Cucharés could prevent him he seized the pistols that lay on the table. The lepero turned livid.
"Pardon me, pardon me," he said in an ill-assured voice. "As you desire it so eagerly, I must please you to the best of my power. I accept the two hundred ounces."
"Very good!" the count exclaimed. "I thought, too, that we should come to an understanding."
He went to fetch the money from the iron chest; but, as he turned his back on the lepero, he could not see the singular smile that curved his lips. Had he done so, he would not have chanted his victory so loudly.
The lepero's story, true in its foundation, was utterly false and erroneous in its details. Perhaps, however, he had an interest in deceiving the Count de Lhorailles, which the reader will be able to judge of better after reading the following chapter.
After escaping so miraculously from the hands of the Apaches, into whose power he had fallen, Cucharés dived and sought the centre of the river. On mounting to the surface again to take breath, he looked around him: he was alone. The lepero stifled a cry of joy, and, after a moment's reflection, swam vigorously in the direction of the mangroves, where Don Martial, warned by the signal he had been compelled to give, had doubtlessly been awaiting him some time. With a few strokes he reached the trees, beneath whose shade he disappeared. But another piece of good luck awaited him there: the canoe, abandoned to itself, had floated up against the trunk of a tree, and remained stationary.
Cucharés, leaving the water, soon succeeded in emptying the canoe and making it float again. These boats are so light that they can be easily emptied, for in these regions they are made of birch bark, which the Indians strip from the tree by means of boiling water.
He had scarce landed ere a shadow bent over him and muttered in his ear:—
"You have been a long time."
The lepero gave a start of terror; but he recognised Don Martial. In a very few words he explained to him all that happened.
"It is all the better, as you have come here," the Tigrero said. "Hide yourself in the mangroves, and do not stir under any pretext until I return."
And he rapidly retired. Cucharés obeyed with more zeal because he heard at no great distance from him the sound of the obstinate contest going on at that moment between the French and Apaches. Don Martial, dagger in hand, in readiness for any event, had glided like a phantom up to a clump of floripondins, where Doña Anita awaited him all trembling. Just as he was going to pull back the branches that separated him from the young girl, he stopped with panting breast and frowning brow. She was not alone. Her voice, quivering with emotion or anger, was harsh and imperious, whom could she be speaking to? Who was the man that had succeeded in discovering her in this retired spot, where she fancied herself so well concealed, and who, it seemed, was trying to force her to follow him? The Tigrero listened. Soon he made a gesture of anger and menace. He had recognised the voice of the man with whom Doña Anita was talking: it was her father.
All was lost!
The hacendero was trying to lead his daughter in the direction of the buildings; while employing the most convincing reasons. He did not appear to suspect the motive which had brought his daughter to that spot. Doña Anita refused to go away, alleging the danger of being met by an Indian marauder, and thus falling into the danger she so earnestly wished to avoid.
Don Martial struck his brow; a singular smile played on his lips; his eyes flashed fire, and he noiselessly slipped back to the river bank. Still the combat was going on: at times it appeared to draw nearer—oaths and yells could be distinguished; at others, flashes lit up the scene, and a shower of bullets whizzed through the air with that sharp, hissing sound which terrifies novices in warfare.
"In the name of Heaven, my beloved daughter," Don Sylva urged, "come! We have not a moment to lose; in a few seconds our retreat may be perhaps cut off. Come, I implore you!"
"No, my father!" she said, shaking her head. "I am resigned: whatever may happen, I repeat to you, I will not leave this spot."
"It is madness," the hacendero exclaimed in great grief. "You wish to die, then?"
"What matter to me?" she said sorrowfully. "Am I not condemned in every way? Heaven is my witness, father, that I would gladly die to escape the marriage prepared for me."
"My daughter, in the Virgin's name——"
"What do you care, father, whether I fall into the hands of Pagan savages today, when tomorrow you would surrender me with your own hands to a man I detest?"
"Speak not to me thus, daughter. Besides, the moment is very badly chosen, it seems to me, for a discussion like this. Come, the shouts are growing more furious; it will soon be too late."
"Go, if you think proper," she said resolutely. "I shall remain here, whatever may happen."
"As it is so, as you obstinately resist me, I will employ force to compel your obedience."
The girl threw her left arm round the trunk of a cedar tree, and looking with intense resolution at her father, exclaimed,—
"Do so if you dare, O my father! But I warn you that, at the first step you take toward me, that will happen which you want to avoid. I will utter such piercing shrieks that they must reach the ears of the Pagans, who will run up."
Don Sylva stopped in hesitation: he knew his daughter's firm and determined character, and that she would at once put this threat in execution. A few minutes elapsed, during which father and daughter stood face to face, not uttering a word, or making even a gesture.
Suddenly the branches were noisily parted, yielding a passage to two men, or rather two demons, who, rushing with panther bounds on the hacendero, hurled him to the ground. Before Don Sylva was able to recognise the enemies who attacked him so unexpectedly by the pale beams of the stars, he was gagged and bound, while a handkerchief twisted round his head hid from him all external objects, and prevented him seeing what his daughter's fate might be. The latter, at this sudden attack, uttered a cry of terror, at once prudently checked, for she had recognised Don Martial.
"Silence!" the Tigrero hurriedly said in a low voice. "I could manage in no other way. Come, come, your father, you know, is a sacred object to me."
The girl made no reply. At a sign from Don Martial, Cucharés seized Don Sylva, threw him on his shoulders, and went toward the mangroves.
"Where are we going?" Doña Anita asked in a trembling voice.
"To a place where we can be happy together," the Tigrero answered gently, as he lifted her with a passionate movement, and ran off with her to the canoe. Doña Anita made no resistance: she smiled and threw her arms round her lover's neck to keep her balance during this steeplechase, in which Don Martial leaped from branch to branch, holding on by the creepers and encouraging his lovely burden by signs and looks. Cucharés had placed Don Sylva in the bottom of the canoe, and, paddles in hand, was impatiently awaiting the Tigrero's arrival: for the combat seemed doubled in intensity, although, from the number of musket shots, it was easy to see that victory would rest with the French.
"What shall we do?" Cucharés inquired.
"Get into the middle of the river, and slip down with the current."
"But our horses?"
"Let us save ourselves first; we will think of the horses afterwards. It is evident that the white men are the victors. As soon as the fight is over, Count de Lhorailles will send everywhere in search of his guests. It is important not to leave any trail, for the French are demons, and would find us again."
"Still, I fancy—" Cucharés timidly observed.
"Be off!" said the Tigrero in a peremptory tone, kicking the canoe vigorously from the bank.
The first moments of the voyage passed in silence: each reflected on the peculiar position in which he was placed.
Don Martial had assumed a tremendous responsibility by staking, as it were, on one throw the happiness of the girl he loved and his own. Besides, the hacendero lying at the bottom of the canoe gave him great subject for thought. The position was grave, the solution difficult.
Doña Anita, with drooping head and absent glance, was dreamily letting her dainty hand glide through the water over the side of the canoe.
Cucharés, while paddling furiously, was thinking that the life he led was anything rather than agreeable, and that he was far happier at Guaymas, as he lay with his head in the shade, and his feet in the sun, in the church porch, enjoying his siesta, refreshed by the sea breeze, and lulled to sleep by the mysterious murmur of the surf on the shingle.
As for Don Sylva de Torrés, he was not reflecting. A prey to one of those dumb passions which, if they lasted any length of time, must end in insanity, he frantically bit the gag that shut his mouth, and writhed in his bonds, while unable to break them.
The various sounds of the contest gradually died out. For some time longer the travellers remained silent, absorbed not only in their thoughts, but affected by that gentle melancholy produced on all nervous natures by that solemn calmness and striking harmony of the wilderness, whose sublime and majestic grandeur no human pen is capable of describing.
The stars were beginning to pale in the sky: an opal line was vaguely drawn in the horizon: the clumsy alligators were quitting the mud and going in search of their morning meal; the owls, perched on the trees, were saluting the approaching sunrise; the coyotes glided in startled bands along the shore, uttering their hoarse barks; the wild beasts were retreating to their hidden dens, heavy with sleep and fatigue; day was on the point of breaking. Doña Anita leaned coquettishly on Don Martial's shoulder.
"Where are we going?" she asked him in a gentle resigned voice.
"We are flying," he laconically answered.
"We have been descending the river in this way for more than six hours, borne by the current and helped by your four vigorously-pulled paddles. Are we not out of reach of danger?"
"Yes, long ago. It is not any fear of the French which troubles me now—"
"What then?"
The Tigrero pointed to Don Sylva, who, having exhausted his strength and passion, had at length tacitly recognised his powerlessness, and was sleeping quite exhausted.
"Alas!" she said, "You are right. Things can not go on thus, my friend; the position is intolerable."
"If you will allow me to act as I think proper, before a quarter of an hour your father will thank me."
"Do you not know that I am entirely yours?"
"Thanks!" he said. Turning to Cucharés, he muttered a few words in his ear.
"Ah, ah! That is an idea," the lepero said with a grin. Two minutes later the canoe ran ashore. Don Sylva, delicately borne by two powerful hands, was carried ashore without waking.
"Now it is your turn," Don Martial said to the girl: "for the success of the scheme I have formed you must allow yourself to be fastened to this tree."
"Do so, my friend."
The Tigrero took her into his vigorous arms, bore her ashore and in a twinkling had fastened her tightly by the waist to the stem of a tree.
"Now," he said hurriedly, "remember this. Your father and yourself were carried off from the hacienda by the Apaches; accident brought us in your way, and—"
"You save us, I suppose?" she said with a smile.
"Quite correct; but utter shrill cries, as if you felt in great alarm. You understand, do you not?"
"Perfectly."
The play was performed in the way arranged. The girl uttered piercing shrieks, to which the two adventurers replied by discharging their rifles and pistols; they then rushed toward the hacendero, whom they hastened to liberate from his bonds, and to whom they restored not only the use of his limbs, but also of his eyes and tongue. Don Sylva half rose, and looked around him: he saw his daughter fastened to a tree, from which two men were freeing her. The hacendero raised his eyes to heaven, and uttered a fervent prayer.
So soon as Doña Anita was free she ran to her father, and cast herself in his arms. As she embraced him she hid her face, which blushed, perhaps, for shame at this unworthy deception, on the old man's breast.
"My poor darling child," he murmured, with tears in his eyes, "It was for you, for you alone, I trembled during the whole of this fearful night."
The girl made no reply, for she felt stung to the heart by this reproach. Don Martial and Cucharés, judging the moment favourable, then approached, holding their smoking rifles in their hands. On recognising them a cloud passed over the hacendero's face—a vague suspicion gnawed at his heart; he bent a searching glance on the two men and on his daughter, and rose with frowning brow and quivering lips, though not uttering a word. Don Martial was embarrassed by this silence, which he had been far from anticipating. After the service he was supposed to have done Don Sylva, the duty of speaking first fell upon him.
"I am happy," he said in an embarrassed voice, "to have arrived here so fortunately, Don Sylva, as I was enabled to save you from the redskins."
"I thank you, señor Don Martial," the hacendero answered dryly. "I could expect nothing less from your gallantry. It was written, so it seems, that after saving the daughter, you must also save the father. You are destined, I see it, to be the liberator of my entire family: receive my sincere thanks."
These words were uttered with an accent of raillery that pierced the Tigrero like an arrow: he could not find a word in reply, and bowed awkwardly in order to hide his embarrassment.
"My father," Doña Anita said in a caressing tone, "Don Martial has risked his life for us."
"Have I not thanked him for it?" he continued. "The affair was a sharp one, as it seems, but the heathens escaped very quickly. Was there no one killed?"
And saying this the hacendero affected to look carefully around him. Don Martial drew himself up.
"Señor Don Sylva de Torrés," he said in a firm voice, "as chance has brought us once again face to face permit me to tell you that few men are so devoted to you as myself."
"You have just proved, caballero."
"Leave that out of sight," he went on hurriedly. "Now that you are free, and can act as you please, command me. What would you of me? I am ready to do anything you please, in order to prove to you how happy I should be in doing you a service."
"That is language I can understand, caballero, and to which I will frankly respond. Important reasons compel me to return to the French colony of Guetzalli, whence the heathens carried me off so treacherously."
"When do you wish to start?"
"At once, if that be possible."
"Everything is possible, caballero. Still, I would call your attention to the fact that we are nearly thirty leagues from that hacienda; that the country in which we now are is a desert; that we should have great difficulty in finding horses: and, with the best will in the world, we cannot, make the journey on foot."
"Especially my daughter, I presume," the other remarked with a sardonic smile.
"Yes," the Tigrero said, "especially the señorita."
"What else is to be done? for I must return there—with my daughter," he added, purposely laying stress on the last three words, "and that so soon as possible."
The Tigrero did not utter the exact truth in telling Don Sylva they were thirty leagues from the colony. It was not more than eighteen; but in a country like this, where roads do not exist, fifteen leagues are an almost insurmountable obstacle to a man not thoroughly acquainted with desert life. Don Sylva, though he had never travelled under other than favourable circumstances—that is to say, with all the comfort it is possible to obtain in these remote regions—was aware, theoretically, if not practically, of all the difficulties which would rise before him with each step, and what obstacles would check his movements. His resolution was made almost immediately.
Don Sylva, like a good many of his countrymen, was gifted with rare obstinacy. When he had formed a plan, the greater the obstacles which prevented its accomplishment, the greater his determination to carry it out.
"Listen," he said to Don Martial; "I wish to be frank with you. I fancy I tell you nothing new in announcing my daughter's marriage with the Count de Lhorailles. That marriage must be performed: I have sworn it, and it shall be, whatever may be said or done to impede it. And now I am about to make trial of the devotion you boast of offering me."
"Speak, señor."
"You will send your companion to the Count de Lhorailles; he will carry him a message to calm his uneasiness and announce my speedy arrival."
"Good!"
"Will you do it?"
"At once."
"Thanks! Now, as regards yourself personally, I leave you at liberty to follow or leave us at your pleasure; but in the first place, we want horses, arms, and, above all, an escort. I do not wish to fall once more into the hands of the heathen. Perhaps I shall not have the good fortune to escape from them so easily as on this occasion."
"Remain here: in two hours I will return with horses. As for an escort, I will try and procure you one, although I do not promise it. As you allow me to do so, I will accompany you till you have rejoined the conde. I hope, during the period I may have the felicity of passing near you, to succeed in proving to you that you have judged me wrongfully."
These words were pronounced with such an accent of truth that the hacendero felt moved.
"Whatever may happen," he said, "I thank you: you will none the less have done me an immense service, for which I shall be ever grateful to you."
Don Sylva tore a leaf from his pocketbook, on which he wrote a few lines in pencil, folded it, and handed it to the Tigrero.
"Are you sure of that man?" he asked him.
"As of myself," Don Martial replied evasively. "Be assured that he will see the conde."
The hacendero made a sign of satisfaction as the Tigrero went up to Cucharés.
"Listen," he said aloud as he gave him the paper. "Within two days you must have delivered this to the chief of Guetzalli. You understand me?"
"Yes," the lepero replied.
"Go, and may Heaven protect you from all evil encounters! In a quarter of an hour behind that mound," he hurriedly added in a whisper.
"Agreed," the other said with a bow.
"Take the canoe," the Tigrero continued.
Had the hacendero conceived any doubts, they were dissipated when he saw Cucharés leap into the canoe, seize the paddles, and depart without exchanging a signal with the Tigrero, or even turning his head.
"The first part of your instructions is fulfilled," said the Tigrero, returning to Don Sylva's side. "Now for the second part. Take my pistols and musket. In case of any alarm you can defend yourself. I leave you here. Pray do not move, and within two hours at the latest I will rejoin you."
"Do you know where to find horses?"
"Do you not remember that the desert is my domain?" he returned with a melancholy smile. "I am at home here, as I shall prove to you. Farewell for the present."
And he went off in a direction opposed to that taken by the canoe. When he had disappeared from Don Sylva's sight behind a clump of trees and shrubs, the Tigrero turned sharply to the right and ran back. Cucharés, carelessly seated on the ground, was smoking a cigarette while awaiting him.
"No words, but deeds," the Tigrero said. "We have no time to waste."
"I am listening,"
"Look at this diamond;" and he pointed to a ring through which his neck handkerchief was drawn.
"It is worth 6000 piastres," Cucharés said, examining it like a judge.
Don Martial handed it to him.
"I give it you," he said.
"What am I to do for it?"
"First hand me the letter."
"Here it is."
Don Martial took it and tore it into impalpable fragments.
"Next?" Cucharés continued.
"Next, I have another diamond like that one at your service. You know me?"
"Yes; I accept."
"On one condition."
"I know it," said the other with a significant sign.
"And you accept?"
"Of course I do."
"It is a bargain."
"He shall never trouble you again."
"Good! But you understand that I shall need proofs."
"You shall have them."
"Good-by, then."
The two accomplices parted, well satisfied with each other. A nod was as good as a wink in such a case. We have seen how Cucharés acquitted himself of the mission intrusted to him by Don Sylva. Don Martial, after his short conversation with Cucharés, went to look for horses. Two hours later he had returned. He not only brought excellent horses, but had hired four peons, or men who called themselves so, to act as escort. The hacendero comprehended all the delicacy of Don Martial's conduct: and though the air and garb of his defenders were not completely orthodox, he warmly thanked the Tigrero for the trouble he had taken to supply his wants. Reassured as to his journey, he breakfasted with good appetite on a lump of venison, washed down with pulque, which Don Martial had procured. Then, so soon as the meal was over, the little band, well armed, set out resolutely in the direction of Guetzalli, where Don Sylva expected to arrive in three days, if nothing thwarted his calculations.
The Mexican frontier, up to the old Jesuit missions, now abandoned and falling in ruins, forms the skirt of the great prairie of the Rio Gila or of Apacheria, which extends as far as the mournful desert of the Norte. In this portion of the prairie nature expands all that richness of growth and vegetation which may be in vain sought elsewhere.
Guetzalli was built by Count de Lhorailles on the ruins of a once flourishing mission of the reverend Jesuits, which the decree commanding their expulsion had compelled them to abandon. Without entering into discussion for or against the Jesuits, we will say, en passant, that these clergy rendered immense services in America; that all the missions thus founded in the desert prospered; that the Indians flocked in by thousands to range themselves beneath their paternal laws: and that certain missions, whose names we could quote were it necessary, counted as many as sixty thousand neophytes; that, as a proof of the excellence of their system, when the order was given them to give up their mission to other monks, and withdraw, their proselytes implored them to resist this unjust ostracism, and offered to defend them against everybody.
The Jesuits have the greater claim to this tardy justice we now seek to do them in the fact that, in spite of the many years that have elapsed since their departure, and although all the men they brought into the bosom of the church by incessant labour have returned to a savage life, the remembrance of the good deeds of these pious missionaries still lives in the hearts of the Indians, and forms at night round the campfires the staple of conversation, so deeply engraved on the minds of these primitive beings is the small amount of kindness shown them.
Don Sylva de Torrés wished to reach the colony of Guetzalli again so soon as possible, and by the most direct route. Unfortunately he was obliged to cross, as the crow flies, a large extent of country through which no road ran. Moreover, owing to his topographical ignorance of the prairie, he was compelled to trust in Don Martial, an excellent guide in every respect, whose sagacity and thorough knowledge of the desert he did not for a moment doubt, but in whom he placed but slight confidence, while unable to explain his motive even to himself.
Still the Tigrero (apparently at least) gave proofs of his entire devotion to the hacendero, leading him by the most beaten tracks, making him avoid difficult passages, and watching with unequalled care and solicitude over the safety of his little band. Each evening at sunset the party encamped on the top of an open hill, whence a large quantity of ground could be surveyed, in order to guard against any surprise. On the evening of the fourth day, after a fatiguing march over an irregular tract, Don Martial reached a hill where he proposed to camp.
The hacendero greeted the offer with greater pleasure, for, being but little accustomed to this mode of travelling, he felt extremely fatigued. After a frugal meal, composed of maize tortillas, and frijoles powdered with the hottest spices, and washed down with pulque, Don Sylva, without even thinking of smoking a cigarette (his custom always after a meal), wrapped himself in his zarapé, laid down with his feet toward the fire, and fell off almost immediately into a profound sleep.
Don Martial and the young girl remained for some time silently opposite each other, their eyes fixed on the hacendero, and uneasily watching the phases of his sleep. At length, when the Tigrero was persuaded that Don Sylva was really asleep, he bent over her, and muttered in her ear in a gentle voice:—
"Pardon, Doña Anita, pardon!"
"For what?" she asked in surprise.
"Because you are suffering through me."
"Egotist!" she said with an enchanting smile, "it is not through myself too, as I love you?"
"Oh, thank you!" he exclaimed. "You restore to my heart that courage which I felt dying out. Alas! How will all this end?"
"Well, I am convinced," she said quickly. "We must be patient. My father believe me, will soon change his opinion about you."
The Tigrero smiled sorrowfully.
"Still," he said, "I cannot carry you about the prairie indefinitely."
"That is true," she remarked despondently. "What is to be done?"
"I do not know. For the last two days we have only been moving round the colony, from which we are scarce three leagues distant, and yet I cannot resolve to enter it."
"Alas!" the girl murmured.
"Ah!" he continued, with a degree of animation in his glance, "Why is this man your father, Doña Anita?"
"Speak not so, my friend," she said hurriedly, laying her little hand on his mouth as if to prevent him saying more. "Why despair? God is good; He will not fail us. We know not what He has in reserve for us: let us place our trust in Him!"
"Still," he replied, shaking his head, "our position is not tenable. It is impossible to go on at haphazard. Your father, in spite of his ignorance of the country, will at length perceive I am deceiving him, and I shall be hopelessly ruined in his opinion. On the other hand, by proceeding to the colony, I place you in the hands once more of the man you are forced to marry. I cannot resolve on doing this odious deed. Oh! I would joyfully give ten years of my life to know how I ought to act."
At this moment, as if Heaven had heard his words, and hastened to reply immediately, the Tigrero, whose eyes were mechanically fixed on the prairie, which at this moment was buried in obscurity, saw a short distance off, in the midst of the tall grass, a luminous point arise in the air twice, tracing in its passage quaint parabolas. At the same moment Don Martial's practised ear heard, or fancied it heard, the suppressed snorting of a horse.
"It is extraordinary," he muttered, as if speaking to himself. "What can it mean? Is it a signal? Still we are alone here. Through the whole of the past day I have not caught sight of a single trail; but that light—"
"What is the matter, my friend?" Doña Anita asked anxiously. "You seem restless. Can any danger menace us? Speak! You know I am brave; and by your side, what can I fear? Hide nothing from me. Something extraordinary is taking place, is it not?"
"Well, yes," he replied, resolutely making up his mind, "something extraordinary is really happening; but calm yourself, I do not believe there is anything for you to fear."
"But what is it? I saw nothing."
"Stay: look there!" he said quickly, and stretched out his arm.
The girl looked attentively, and saw what the Tigrero had noticed a few moments previously—a reddish dot sparkling in the gloom, and describing interlaced lines.
"'Tis evidently a signal," the Tigrero went on. "Somebody is concealed there."
"Do you expect anyone?" she asked him.
"No; and yet, I know not why, but I fancy that signal can only be intended for me."
"Still recollect that we are in the prairie, and probably, without suspecting it, surrounded by bands of Indian hunters. They may be corresponding with each other by means of that light which we have seen twice gleaming before our eyes."
"No, Doña Anita, you are mistaken. We are not, at any rate for the present, surrounded by any Indians: we are quite alone."
"How can you know that, my friend, since you have not left us for a moment to go and look for trails?"
"Doña Anita, my well beloved!" he said in a stern voice, "the prairie is a book on which Heaven's secrets are written in ineffaceable letters, which the man accustomed to desert life can read currently. The wind passing through the branches, the bird flying through the air, the deer or buffalo grazing on the tufted grass, the alligator slothfully wallowing in the mud, are to me certain signs in which I cannot be mistaken. For the last two days we have seen no Indian sign; the buffaloes and other animals we have passed growled calmly and without distrust; the flight of the birds was regular; the alligators almost disappeared in the mud which covered them. All these animals scent the approach of man, and especially of the Indian, for a considerable distance, and so soon as they have done so, disappear at headlong speed, so great is the terror with which the Lord of creation inspires them. I repeat to you, we are alone here, quite alone here, and therefore that signal is intended for me. See, there it is again!"
"It is true; I can see it!"
"I must know what the meaning of it is," he said, seizing his rifle.
"Oh, Don Martial, I implore you, take care! Be prudent. Think of me!" she added in agony.
"Reassure yourself, Doña Anita. I am too old a wood ranger to let myself be deceived by a clumsy trick. I shall return shortly."
And without listening further to the young girl, who tried to retain him by her entreaties and tears, he proceeded to the slope of the hill, which he descended rapidly, though with the utmost prudence. On arriving in the prairie the Tigrero stopped to look around him. The party were encamped about two arrow-shots from the Gila, nearly opposite a large island, which is in reality only a rock, bearing some resemblance to the human form, and which the Apaches call the master of the life of man. In their excursions upon Indian territory the redskins never fail to stop at this island and deposit their offerings, the ceremony consisting in throwing into the water, with dancing, tobacco, hair, and birds feathers. This rock, which offers a most striking appearance from the distance, has two excavations in it more than 1200 feet in length, and forty wide, the roof being of an arched form.
The fact which had aroused the Tigrero's curiosity, and caused him to undertake the enterprise of discovery in the meaning of the signal, was that it came from the island; and this he could not at all account for, being aware that the Indians felt for the rock a veneration mingled with a superstitious terror so great, that no Indian warrior however brave he might be, would have dared to spend the night there. It was the knowledge of this peculiarity which urged him to examine into the mystery.
Tall and tufted grass grew profusely down to the river's edge. Concealed by the thickly-growing mangroves and shrubs, intertwined in inextricable confusion, the Tigrero glided cautiously down to the bank. So soon as he reached it he let himself hang from a branch, and entered the water so quietly that his immersion produced no sound.
Holding his rifle over his head to keep it out of the wet, the Tigrero then swam with one hand in the direction of the island. The distance was short: the Tigrero was a vigorous swimmer, and he soon reached the spot where he wished to land. So soon as he was on the island he crawled through the shrubs, listening to the slightest sounds, and trying to pierce the darkness. He saw nothing, heard nothing; then he rose, and walked toward one of the grottos, at the entrance of which he could see a fire blazing from the spot where he stood: near it was seated a man, smoking as quietly as if he had been seated before a pulquería at Guaymas.
Don Martial, after attentively regarding this man, had difficulty in repressing a shout of joy, and walked toward him without further attempt at concealment. He had recognised his confidant, Cucharés, the lepero. At the sound of his footfall Cucharés turned his head.
"You have come at last!" he exclaimed. "For more than an hour I have been racking my brain in inventing fresh signs, to which you would not deign a reply."
"Ah, my dear fellow," the Tigrero joyfully replied, "could I have suspected it was you I should have been with you long ago; but I so little expected you—"
"You are quite right, and in such a country as this it is better to be prudent than not sufficiently so."
"Ah, ah! There is something new?" the Tigrero said, as he sat down to the fire to dry his clothes.
"Caspita! If there was not, should I be here?"
"True: you are a good comrade, and I thank you for coming. You know that I have a faithful memory."
"I know it."
"But come, what have you to tell me? I am anxious to hear all the news. But, before beginning, one question."
"Well?"
"Is the news good?"
"Excellent; you shall judge."
"Caray! As it is so, take this ring, which I was not to have given till our little affair was settled. But do not be frightened: when we balance our account I shall find something to please you."
The lepero's eye glistened with joy and avarice; he seized the ring, and sent it to join company with the one he received a few days previously.
"Thanks!" he said. "Heaven keep me! There is a pleasure in dealing with you. You do not huckster, at any rate."
"Now for the news."
"Here it is, short and good. El señor conde, rendered desperate by the disappearance of his betrothed, whom he supposes to have been carried off by the Apaches, has quitted the hacienda at the head of his company, and is now crossing the desert in every direction in pursuit of the Black Bear."
"By all the saints! That is the best news you could bring me. And what do you intend doing?"
"What! Did we not agree that el conde—"
"Of course," the Tigrero quickly interrupted him, "but to do that you must find him, and that, I fancy, is not so easy now."
"On the contrary."
"How so?"
"Why, señor Don Martial, do you wish to insult me by taking me for a pavo (goose)?"
"By no means, gossip: still—"
"Still you believe it. Well, you are mistaken, caballero, and I am not sorry to tell you so. During the very few hours which I spent at the hacienda I made inquiries, and, as I announced myself the bearer of a most important mission for el señor conde, no one made any bones about answering me. It seems that the Apaches, instead of pushing on, were so thoroughly beaten by the French (for whom, by the way, they feel an enormous respect), that they are returning on the desert del Norte, in order to regain their villages. The conde is pursuing them, is he not?"
"You told me so."
"Well, in all probability he will not dare to enter the desert."
"Naturally," the Tigrero said with a shudder, in spite of his tried courage.
"Well, then, he can only stop at one spot."
"At the Casa Grande!" Don Martial exclaimed quickly.
"Quite right! I am certain of finding him there."
"Body of me! Go there, then."
"I shall set out immediately after your departure."
The Tigrero looked at him in surprise.
"You're a fine fellow, Cucharés, on my soul!" he said presently. "I am delighted to find that I made no mistake about you."
"What would you?" the scamp answered modestly while winking his little grey eye. "The relations into which I entered with you are so agreeable to me, that I can refuse you nothing."
The two men began laughing at this sally, which might have been in better taste.
"Now that all is settled between us," Don Martial went on, "let us part."
"How did you come here?"
"Can't you see? By swimming: and you?"
"On my horse. I would offer to land you again, but we are going in opposite directions."
"For the present, yes."
"Do you intend to cross over there soon, then?"
"Probably," he said with an equivocal smile.
"In that case we shall soon meet again."
"I hope so."
"Stay, Don Martial. Now that your clothes are dry, I should not like you to wet them again. Let us go and see if there be not a canoe about: you know the Indians leave them everywhere."
The Tigrero entered the grotto, and found there a canoe, with its paddles carefully balanced against the sides: he unscrupulously carried it out on his shoulders.
"By the way," he said, "why the deuce did you give me the meeting here?"
"Not to be disturbed. Would you have liked anyone to overhear our conversation?"
"I allow that. Good-by, then."
"Good-by."
The men separated—Cucharés to commence a long journey, and Don Martial to return to his camping ground. But they were mistaken in supposing that no one had overheard their conversation. They had scarce quitted the island in different directions ere, from a thicket of dahlias and floripondins growing at the entrance of the grotto, a hideous head was thrust out cautiously, and looked around; then, at the end of a moment, the bushes were further parted, and an Apache Indian, painted and armed for war appeared. It was the Black Bear.
"Wah!" he muttered with a menacing gesture, "the palefaces are dogs. The Apache warriors will follow their trail."
Then, after keeping his eyes fixed for a few instants on the star-spangled sky, he entered the grotto.
In the meanwhile the Tigrero had regained the encampment. Doña Anita, rendered restless by so long an absence, was awaiting him with the most lively anxiety.
"Well?" she asked, running up as soon as she saw him.
"Good news?" he answered.
"Oh, I was so frightened!"
"I thank you. It was as I expected. The signal was intended for me."
"Then?"
"I found a friend, who gave me the means to quit the false position in which we are."
"In what way?"
"Do not trouble yourself about anything, I repeat, but leave me to act."
The girl bowed submissively, and, in spite of the curiosity that devoured her, retired without any further questioning into the jacal of branches prepared for her. Don Martial, instead of sleeping, sat down on the ground, folded arms on his chest, leaned against a tree, and remained thus motionless till daybreak, plunged in deep and melancholy thought. At sunrise the Tigrero shook off the effects of his night watch and aroused his comrades. Ten minutes after the little party was en route.
"Oh, oh!" the hacendero said, "You are very early this morning."
"Did you not notice that we did not even breakfast before starting, as we usually do?"
"Of course I did."
"Do you know the reason? Because we shall breakfast at Guetzalli, where we shall arrive in two hours at the latest."
"Ah, caramba!" the hacendero exclaimed, "you delight me with that news."
"I thought I should."
Doña Anita, on hearing him speak thus, had looked sorrowfully at Don Martial; but seeing his face so calm, his smile so frank, she felt suddenly reassured, and suspected that his silence of the previous night intended some pleasant surprise for her.
As Don Martial had stated, two hours later they reached the colony. So soon as they were perceived by the sentinels the isthmus drawbridge was lowered, and they entered the hacienda, where they were received with all possible politeness. Doña Anita, with her eyes constantly fixed on the Tigrero, blushed and turned pale, understanding nothing of his perfect calmness. They dismounted in the second courtyard before the gate of honour.
"Where is the Count de Lhorailles?" asked the hacendero, surprised that his future son-in-law had not merely neglected to come to meet him, but was not there to receive him.
"My master will feel highly annoyed, when he hears of your arrival, at not having been present to welcome you," replied the steward, breaking out into profuse apologies.
"Is he absent?"
"Yes, señor."
"But he will soon return?"
"I hardly think so. The captain started in pursuit of the savages at the head of his entire company."
This news was a thunderbolt for Don Sylva; but the Tigrero and Doña Anita exchanged a glance of delight.
The great desert del Norte is the American Sahara—more extensive, more to be feared, than the African Sahara; for it contains no laughing oases, sheltered by fine trees, and refreshed by sparkling fountains. Beneath a coppery sky extend immense plains, covered with a dirty-greyish sand; in every direction horizons succeed horizons; sand, ever sand, fine impalpable sand, bearing a closer resemblance with human dust, which the wind carries aloft in long whirlwinds, whose desolating aspect varies incessantly at the will of the tempest, which hollows out valleys and throws up hills each time the fearful cordonazo howls across this desolate soil.
Greyish rocks, covered with patches of parched lichen, at times lift up their stunted crests in the midst of this chaos, which has not changed its appearance since the creation. The buffalo, the ashata, the swift-footed antelope, shun this desert, where their feet would only rest on a shifting soil; flocks of blear-eyed and ill-omened vultures alone soar over these regions in search of extremely rare prey for the desert is so horrible that the Indians themselves enter on it with a tremour, and cross it with express speed when they return to their villages after a foray on the Mexican territory. And yet, however rapid their journey may be, their passage is marked in an indelible manner by the skeletons of mules and horses which they are compelled to abandon, and whose bones blanch in the desert, until the hurricane, again unchained, covers all with a cerecloth of sand.
Still, as the hand of Deity is everywhere visible, in the desert more profoundly than elsewhere, there spring up at long intervals, and half buried in the sand, in the midst of piled up rocks, vigorous trees, with enormous trunks and immense foliage, which seem to offer the traveller rest beneath their shade. But these trees grow few and far between on the plain, and two are rarely found together at the same spot. These trees, revered by the Indians and wood rangers, are the imprint of Providence on the desert, the proof of His solicitude and inexhaustible goodness. But we repeat it, with the exception of these few landmarks, lost like imperceptible dots in the immensity, there are neither animals nor vegetables on the Del Norte: sand, and naught but sand.
The Casa Grande of Moctecuhzoma, where the Count de Lhorailles' free company was encamped, rose, and probably still rises, at the extreme limit of the prairie, at not more than two leagues from the skirt of the desert. The line of demarcation was clearly and coarsely traced between the two regions: on the one side a luxuriant vegetation, glowing with vigour and health; verdant plains covered with a close, tall grass, in which animals of every description browsed: the song of birds, the hiss of reptiles, the lowing of the buffaloes, in a word, grand, vigorous, and ever-joyous life, exhaling in every pore of this blessed landscape.
On the other side, the silence of death: a grey horizon; a sea of sand, whose agitated waves pressed forward on every side, as if to encroach on the prairie; not even the most scanty pasture—nothing—no roots, no moss, naught but sand!
After his conversation with Cucharés the count recalled his lieutenants, and began drinking and laughing again in their society. They rose from the table at an advanced hour to retire to sleep. Cucharés, however, did not sleep: he was too busily engaged in thinking. We know now, or nearly so, with what purpose he joined the count at the Casa Grande.
At sunrise the bugles sounded the réveillé. The soldiers rose from the ground on which they had been sleeping, shook off the night's cold, and were busily engaged in dressing their horses and preparations for the morning's meal. The camp soon put on that hurry and reckless animation so characteristic of Frenchmen when out on an expedition.
In the great hall of the Casa Grande the count and his lieutenants, seated on the dried skulls of buffaloes, were holding a council. The discussion was animated.
"In an hour," the count said, "we shall set out. We have twenty mules laden with provisions, ten to carry water, and eight for ammunition. We have, therefore, nothing to fear."
"That is true to a certain point, señor conde," the capataz observed.
"Why so?"
"We have no guides."
"What use are guides?" the count said passionately. "I fancy we need only follow the Apache trail."
Blas Vazquez shook his head.
"You do not know the Del Norte, excellency," he said candidly.
"This is the first time accident has brought me this way."
"I pray God it be not the last."
"What do you mean?" the count said with a secret shudder.
"Señor conde, the Del Norte is not a desert, but a gulf of shifting sands; at the slightest breath of air in these desolate regions the sand rises, whirls, and swallows up men and horses, leaving not a trace; all disappears for ever, buried beneath a cerecloth of sand."
"Oh, oh!" the count said thoughtfully.
"Believe me, señor conde," the capataz continued. "Do not venture with your brave soldiers into this implacable desert: not one of you will leave it again."
"Still the Apaches are men too: they are not braver or better mounted than we, I may say."
"They are not."
"Well, they cross the Del Norte from north to south, from east to west, and that, not once a year or ten times, but continually, whenever the fancy takes them."
"But do you know at what price, señor conde? Have you counted the corpses they leave along the road to mark their passage? And then you cannot compare yourselves with the Pagans: the desert possesses no secrets for them. They know its furthest mysteries."
"Then," the count exclaimed impatiently, "your impression is—"
"That in bringing you here, and attacking you two days ago, the Apaches laid a trap for you. They wish to entice you after them into the desert; certain not merely that you will not catch them, but that you and all your men will leave your bones there."
"Still you agree with me, my dear Don Blas, that it is very extraordinary there is not among all your peons one capable of guiding us in this desert. Hang it, they are Mexicans!"
"Yes excellency, but I have more than once had the honour of observing to you that all these men are costeños, or inhabitants of the seaboard. They never before came so far into the interior."
"What shall we do, then?" the count asked with some hesitation.
"Return to the colony," the capataz replied. "I see no other means."
"Shall we abandon Don Sylva and his daughter?"
Blas Vasquez frowned. He replied in a solemn voice, and with much emotion,—
"Excellency, I was born on the estate of the Torrés family. No one is more devoted, body and soul, than I am to the persons whose names you have pronounced; but no one is bound to attempt impossibilities. It would be tempting God to enter the desert in our present state. We have no right to calculate on a miracle, and that alone could bring us back here safe and sound."
There was a moment's silence. These words produced on the count's mind an impression which he tried in vain to master. The lepero guessed his hesitation, and approached.
"Why," he said in a crafty voice, "did you not tell me that you needed a guide, señor conde?"
"What good would that do?"
"In fact, that is true; it was not worth the trouble, as I promised to conduct you to Don Sylva. You have doubtlessly forgotten that?"
"You know the road, then?"
"Yes, as well as a man can who has only gone along it twice."
"By heavens!" the count exclaimed, "We can push on now; nothing need keep us longer. Diégo Léon, order 'the boot and saddle' to be sounded, and if you are a good guide you shall have proofs of my satisfaction."
"Oh, you can trust to me, excellency!" the lepero answered with a dubious smile. "I certify you will reach the spot whither I have to guide you."
"I ask no more."
Blas Vasquez, with that instinctive suspicion innate in all honest minds when they come across wicked persons, felt an irresistible repugnance for the lepero. This repugnance had displayed itself from the first moment of Cucharés' appearance in the hall the previous evening. While he was talking to the count he therefore examined him closely. When he had ended, Blas made a sign to the count, who came up with him. The capataz led him to a distant corner of the room, and whispered in his ear,—
"Take care; that man is deceiving you."
"You know it?"
"I am certain of it."
"Why so?"
"Something tells me so."
"Have you any proofs?"
"None."
"You must be mad, Don Blas, fear troubles your senses."
"God grant that I am deceived!"
"Listen! Nothing forces you to follow us. Remain here till we return: in that way, whatever may happen, you will escape the dangers which in your idea menace us."
The capataz drew himself up to his full height.
"Enough, Don Gaëtano," he said coldly. "In warning you I acted as my conscience commanded. You will not attend to my advice—you need not do so; I have done my duty as I was bound to do. You wish to march forward. I will follow you, and hope soon to prove to you that if I am prudent, I can be as brave as any man when it is necessary."
"Thanks!" the count answered, affectionately pressing his hand: "I felt sure that you would not abandon me."
At this moment a great disturbance was heard outside, and Lieutenant Diégo Léon entered precipitately.
"What is the matter, lieutenant?" the count asked sternly. "What means this startled face? Why do you enter in this way?"
"Captain," the lieutenant answered in a panting voice, "the company has revolted."
"Eh? What do you say, sir? My troopers have revolted?"
"Yes, captain."
"Ah!" he said, biting his moustaches, "And why have they revolted, if you please?"
"Because they do not wish to enter the desert."
"They do not wish!" the count continued, weighing every word. "Are you sure of what you say, lieutenant?"
"I swear it, captain; but listen."
In fact, shouts and oaths, an ever-increasing noise, which was beginning to assume formidable proportions, were heard outside.
"Oh, oh! This is becoming serious, I fancy," the count continued.
"Much more than you suppose, captain. The company, I repeat, is in complete mutiny. The rebels have loaded their arms: they surround the house, uttering threats against you. They say they want to speak to you, and that they are sure of obtaining what they want, by good will or ill."
"I am curious to see that," the count said, still perfectly calm, as he walked toward the door.
"Stay, captain," the officers exclaimed, as they rushed before him; "our men are exasperated; some accident may happen to you."
"Nonsense, gentlemen," he replied angrily, repulsing them; "you are mad: they do not know me well enough yet. I intend to show these bandits that I am worthy to command them."
And, without listening to any entreaty, he slowly walked out of the room with a firm and calm step.
What had happened may be told in a few words.
Blas Vasquez' peons, during the few days the company had bivouacked in the ruined city, told the troops, with sufficient exaggeration, mournful and gloomy stories about the desert, giving details about those accursed regions which would have made the hair stand on the head of the bravest. Unfortunately, as we have said, the company was encamped hardly two leagues from the entrance of the Del Norte: the gloomy horizon of the desert added its frightful reality to the terrible tales told by the peons.
All the count's soldiers were French Dauph'yeers, principally men who had escaped the gallows, brave, but, like all Frenchmen, easy to lead backwards and forwards, and equally resolute for good or bad. Since they had been under the command of the Count de Lhorailles, although he had behaved with considerable bravery in action, they only obeyed him with a certain degree of repugnance. The count had grave faults in their eyes; in the first place, that of being a count; next, they considered him too polite, his voice was too soft, his manner too delicate and effeminate. They could not imagine that this gentleman, so well clothed and well gloved, was capable of leading them to great things. They would have liked as a chief a man of rude voice and rough manner, with whom they could have lived, so to speak, on a footing of equality.
In the morning rumour had spread that the camp was about to be raised, in order to enter the desert and pursue the Apaches. At once groups were formed—commentaries commenced—the men gradually grew excited. Resistance was soon organised, and when the lieutenant came to give orders to raise the camp he was greeted with laughter, jests, and hisses; in short, he was compelled to give ground before the mutineers, and return to his captain to make his report.
An officer, under such circumstances, acts very wrongly in losing his coolness, and yielding a step in the presence of revolt, he ought sooner to let himself be killed. In a mutiny one concession compels another; then this inevitably happens—the rebels count their strength, and at the same time their leaders': they recognise the immense superiority brute strength gives them, and immediately abuse the position which the weakness or sloth of their officers has given them, not to ask a simple modification, but even to claim a radical change.
This happened under the present circumstances. So soon as the lieutenant had retired, his departure was at once regarded in the light of a triumph. The soldiers began haranguing, influenced by those among them whose tongues were most loosely hung. It was no longer a question about not entering the desert, but of appointing other officers, and returning at once to the colony. The entire staff must be changed, and the leaders chosen from those who inspired their comrades with most confidence—that is to say, the most dangerous fellows.
The effervescence had reached the boiling point: the soldiers brandished their weapons furiously, while directing the most furious threats at the captain and his lieutenants. Suddenly the door opened, and the count appeared. He was pale, but calm. He took a quiet look at the mutinous band that howled around him.
"The captain! Here is the captain!" the troopers shouted.
"Kill him!" others went on.
"Down with him, down with him!" they howled in chorus.
All rushed upon him, brandishing weapons and offering insults. But the count did not give way; on the contrary, he advanced a step. He held in his mouth a fine husk cigarette, from which he puffed the smoke with the utmost serenity.
Nothing imposes on masses like cold and unaffected courage. There was a pause in the revolt. The captain and his men examined each other, like two tigers measuring their strength ere bounding forward. The count profited by the moment of silence he had obtained to take the word.
"What do you want?" he asked calmly, while withdrawing his cigarette from his mouth, and following the light cloud of bluish smoke as it rose in spirals in the sky.
At this question of their captain's the charm was broken; the shouts and yells recommenced with even greater intensity; the rebels were angry with themselves for having allowed their chief's firmness momentarily to overawe them. All spoke at once. They surrounded the count on all sides, pulling him in every direction, to force him to listen to them. The count, pressed and hustled by all these rogues, who had thrown discipline overboard, and were sure of impunity in a country where justice only nominally exists, did not lose his countenance—his coolness remained the same. He allowed these men to yell at their ease for some moments, their eyes bloodshot, and foam on their lips; and when he considered this had lasted long enough, he said, in a voice as calm and tranquil as on the first occasion:—
"My friends, it is impossible for us to go on talking in this way: I understand nothing of what you say. Choose one of your comrades to make your complaints in your name. If they are just, I will do you justice; but be calm."
After uttering these words the count leaned his shoulder against the door, crossed his arms on his chest, and began smoking again, apparently indifferent to what was going on around him. The calmness and firmness displayed by the count from the beginning of this scene had already borne their fruit: he had regained numerous partisans among his soldiers. These men, though they dared not yet openly avow the sympathy they felt with their chief, warmly supported the proposition he had made them.
"The captain is right," they said. "It is impossible, if we continue to badger him in this way, that he can understand our arguments."
"We must be just too," others took up the ball. "How can you expect the captain to do justice unless we clearly explain to him what we want?"
The revolt had made an immense backward step. It no longer spoke of deposing its chiefs; it limited itself to asking justice of the captain. Hence it still tacitly recognised him.
At length, after numberless discussions among the mutineers, one of their number was selected to take the word in the name of the rest. He was a short, square-shouldered fellow, with a cunning face, and little eyes sparkling with wickedness and spite; a regular scoundrel in a word. The type of the low-class adventurer, with whom everything is comprised in robbery and assassination. This man, whose nom de guerre was Curtius, was a Parisian, and hailed from the Faubourg Saint Marceau. An ex-soldier, an ex-sailor, he had been at every trade, except, perhaps, that of an honest man. Since his arrival in the colony he had been remarkable for his spirit of insubordination, brutality, and, above all, his bounce. He boasted of "owing eight dead;" that is to say, in the language of the country, having committed eight murders. He inspired his comrades with an instinctive terror. When he was selected to take word he rammed his hat down on the side of his head, and addressing his comrades, said,—
"You shall see how I'll walk into him."
And he advanced, insolently swaying from side to side, toward the captain, who watched his approach with a smile of peculiar meaning. Suddenly a great silence fell on the crowd; hearts beat powerfully, faces grew anxious; each guessed instinctively that something decisive and extraordinary was about to happen.
When Curtius was only two paces from his captain he stopped, and, surveying him insolently, said,—
"Come, captain, the business is this: my com—"
But the count gave him no time to finish. Quickly drawing a pistol from his girdle, he pressed it against his temples and blew out his brains. The bandit rolled in the dust with a fractured skull. The captain returned the pistol to his sash, and coolly raising his head, said in a firm voice:—
"Has anyone further observations to make?"
No one stirred: the bandits had suddenly become lambs. They stood silent and penitent before their chief, for they understood him. The count smiled contemptuously.