"We shall be off so much the sooner, muchacho," said the don, whispering to his servant, "if they do not think we have seen their trap and are about to throw dust in their eyes."

Diego nodded.

"And Don Bernardo?" he asked.

"Admit him. I had rather know the worst at once."

"Is it quite prudent for your Excellency to see this man alone?"

"No fear, Diego; he is not so terrible as you think. Are my pistols in my poncho?"

The old servant, probably tranquillised by these words, left the room without replying; but returned almost immediately, showing in a man of about thirty, dressed in the uniform of a staff officer of the Argentine army.

At sight of the stranger, Don Guzman smiled pleasantly, and advancing a few steps towards him, said:

"You are welcome, Colonel Pedrosa"—he made a sign to Diego to retire—"although the hour is rather late for a visit. I am delighted to see you. Pray be seated."

"Your Excellency will excuse me, on account of the business which brings me here," replied the colonel, with a polished bow.

Here Diego, obeying the reiterated signs of his master, left the room, although much against his will.

The two men, seated face to face, looked at each other much like two duellists about to cross their blades.

Don Diego was a handsome man, of slender and upright figure, all whose movements betrayed his noble birth, and were marked by the most consummate elegance.

His face, a perfect oval, was embellished by two large black and sparkling eyes, from which, when he grew excited, fire seemed to flash, possessing an electric power so potent, that few could support their dazzling effulgence. His straight nose, with its open and flexible nostrils; his well-formed mouth, with its astute and sarcastic outline, and its set of brilliant teeth, surmounted by an ebon and well-trimmed moustache; his open forehead, and his complexion slightly tanned by exposure to the sun,—gave to his face, which was encircled by long silky curls of magnificent black hair,—a haughty and commanding expression, inspiring an instinctive repulsion by its frigid energy.

His bands, ensconced in admirably fitting gloves, and his varnished boots, were of wonderfully small size,—in fact, his whole person was a type of his race.

Such was the personage who, at eleven o'clock at night, knocked at Don Guzman's door, and insisted on admittance, under the pretext of important business. As for his moral qualities, the progress of our story will exhibit them so perfectly, that it would be useless to enter into the details at present.

However, as the silence between these two personages threatened to prolong itself indefinitely, Don Guzman, in his quality of host, thought it incumbent on him to put an end to a situation which began to be embarrassing to both; so he broke it.

Bowing with courtesy, he said:

"Caballero, I am waiting for what you may please to communicate to me. It grows late."

"Aha! You wish to get rid of me," said the colonel, with a sardonic smile. "Is that what you wish me to understand?"

"It is always my aim to make my speech so clear and open, colonel, that there may be no possibility of my words bearing a double interpretation."

Don Bernardo's cheeks, which had flushed up when Don Guzman spoke, resumed their natural colour, and assuming a tone of pleasantry, he said:

"Look you, Don Guzman; we will put away all idea of sparring with each other. I have a great desire to serve you."

"Me!" said Don Guzman, with a look of ironical amazement; "Are you quite sure of that?"

"If we continue in this strain, caballero, we shall only envenom our discussion, without coming to an understanding."

"Alas, colonel, we live in an era (and you know it better than most men) in which the most innocent actions are so often made to look like guilt, that no one dares to take a step or hazard a word without dreading to excite the suspicions of a power that broods darkly over us all. How can I put faith in the words you have just spoken, when your whole conduct towards me has hitherto been that of an inveterate enemy?"

"Allow me to waive for the present the discussion of the question whether I have acted for or in opposition to your interests. The day will come, caballero—at least I hope so—when you will judge me according to my deserts. My present hope is, that you will lay aside all prejudice as regards the step I am now taking."

"If that be the case, have the goodness to explain your intentions, that I may act accordingly."

"Certainly, caballero. I have just left Palermo."

"Palermo, indeed!" said Don Guzman, shuddering imperceptibly.

"I have; and do you know what they are doing at Palermo tonight?"

"By my faith, I confess I trouble myself very little about the Dictator, especially when he is busy at his quinta (country house). They are dancing, or otherwise amusing themselves there, I suppose?"

"Quite right: they are dancing and amusing themselves."

"By heavens!" said the other, "I did not think I was so good a diviner."

"Well, you have guessed a part of their occupation, but not the whole."

"The devil! You puzzle one," replied Don Guzman laughing sardonically. "I do not see too clearly what his Excellency can have to do beyond dancing, unless he amuses himself with signing warrants against the suspected. His Excellency is endowed with great capabilities for business."

"This time you have divined the whole, caballero," said the colonel, without appearing to notice the ironical tone of the speaker.

"And amongst these warrants there is, I dare say, one which concerns me more particularly."

"Precisely so," replied the colonel, with a bland smile.

"Very good. What follows is quite simple: you are charged to put it in execution."

"Just so," said the colonel coolly.

"I would have laid a hundred to one on it! And this warrants enjoins you—"

"To put you under arrest, caballero."

No sooner had the colonel uttered these words with the most charming indifference, than Don Guzman was standing before him, a pistol in each hand.

"By heavens!" said he resolutely, "Such an order is easier given than executed when the person to be arrested is Don Guzman de Ribera!"

The colonel had not stirred; he had remained lounging in his armchair, in the attitude of a man quite at home with his host. He made a sign to the caballero to be seated again.

"You are quite mistaken," said he coolly. "Nothing would have been easier for me than to execute the warrant, if I had any intention to carry it out, especially as you yourself have furnished me with the means."

"I!" said Don Guzman.

"Yourself: you are a resolute man; you would have resisted it, as you have just proved. Now, what would have happened? I should have killed you. General Rosas, in spite of the interest he feels for you, has not absolutely ordered me to take you alive."

The reasoning was brutal, but perfectly logical. Don Guzman bowed his head: he felt he was in this man's power.

"Nevertheless, you are my foe," he said.

"¿Quién sabe?" (who can tell?) "Señor, in times such as we live in, no one can say who is friend or who is foe."

"But finally, what are your intentions?" exclaimed Don Guzman, in a state of nervous excitement, increased by the necessity of dissembling the fury that was raging in his mind.

"I will tell you; but I beg you will not interrupt me. We have already lost much time—which is valuable just now, more especially to yourself, as you ought to know. At the very moment when I came to disturb you, you were giving orders to your confidential servant Diego to get ready your horses."

"Indeed!" said Don Guzman.

"It is the fact. You were only deferring your flight till the arrival of a certain guacho" (Mexican inhabitant of the prairies) "to guide you through the Pampas."

"Do you know that too?"

"We know everything. As for the rest, judge for yourself. Your brother, Don Leoncio de Ribera, a refugee with his family for many years in Chili, is to arrive this very night within a few leagues of Buenos Aires. You have been advised of his coming for some days. It was your intention to repair to the Hacienda del Pico, where he was to expect you; then to introduce him surreptitiously into the city, where you have prepared what you fancied would be a safe hiding place for him. Is this the whole, or have I forgotten any minor particulars?"

Don Guzman covered his face with his hands, discouraged, thunderstricken by what he had just heard.

A horrible gulf yawned before his eyes. If Rosas was master of his secret—and that he was, the revelations of the colonel left no room to doubt—his death and that of his brother had been sworn by the ruthless Dictator. Hope would have been a folly.

"Good God!" cried he; "My brother—my poor brother!"

The colonel seemed to enjoy for a moment the effect produced by his words; then he resumed, in a quiet and insinuating manner:

"Calm yourself, Don Guzman; all is not yet lost. The details I have mentioned, and which you thought such a profound secret, are known to me alone. The order for your arrest does not come into execution before sunrise tomorrow. The stop I have taken should prove to you that I have no wish to make an unfair use of the advantage chance has placed in my hands."

"But again I say, What is your intention? In the name of the devil, what are you?"

"What am I?—Your enemy. My intention?—To save you."

Don Guzman did not reply. A prey to the most violent emotion, his whole body trembled with agitation. The colonel shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Let us understand each other," said he. "You wait in vain for the guacho on whom you reckoned: he is dead."

"Dead!" cried Don Guzman, struck with astonishment.

"The man," continued Don Bernardo, "was a traitor. He had hardly entered Buenos Aires, before he attempted to make money by the sale of the secret confided to him by your brother. Chance would have it that he should apply to me, in preference to anyone else, on account of the hatred I seemed to entertain for your family."

"That you seemed to entertain!" bitterly repeated Don Guzman.

"Yes, that I seemed to entertain," Don Bernardo went on, laying great stress upon the words. "In short, this man revealed everything. I paid him well, and let him go."

"What an imprudence!" exclaimed Don Guzman, highly interested.

"Was it not?" said the colonel quickly. "But what could I do? For the first moment I was so thunderstruck by the news, that I did not think of detaining the fellow. I was on the point of sending in search of him, when I heard an uproar in the street. I inquired the cause; I confess I was not quite satisfied with what was told me. It appears that the fool had hardly put foot in the street before he began to quarrel with another pícaro of his own kind; that the latter, in a fit of impatience, had given him a navaja" (a cut with the knife) "across his belly, and, luckily for you, killed him outright. It is miraculous, is it not?"

The colonel had related this strange tale with the same negligent indifference he had exhibited during the whole meeting, and which he had not dropped for an instant. Don Guzman cast a penetrating glance at him, which he bore with the greatest unconcern. Then all irresolution seemed to vanish. He raised himself to his full height, and made a courteous inclination to Don Bernardo.

"Excuse me, colonel," said he fervently, "for having mistaken your character; but up to this day everything seemed to justify my conduct; only, in the name of Heaven, if you are my foe—if you have a hate to satisfy—take your revenge on me—on me alone—and spare my brother, against whom you can have no cause for animosity."

Don Bernardo frowned, but replied quickly:

"Caballero, order your servants to bring round your horses; I myself will escort you out of the city. You could not possibly quit it without me; you are so thoroughly surrounded by spies. You have nothing to fear from the men who are with me; they are trusty and faithful, and I chose them on purpose. Besides, they shall leave us a few paces hence."

Don Guzman hesitated for a while. He watched Don Bernardo with anxious eyes. At last he seemed to have formed his resolve; for he rose, and said, looking the colonel full in the face:

"No; whatever may happen, I will not take your advice."

The colonel suppressed his feeling of dissatisfaction.

"Are you mad?" said he; "Remember—"

Don Guzman interrupted him:

"My decision is made," said he dryly. "I will not leave this room without a perfect knowledge of the reason of this strange conduct on your part. I have tried to overcome it, but a secret presentiment assures me that you are still my foe; and if you now utter a feigned wish to serve me, colonel, it is only with the purpose of carrying out some diabolical plan against me and mine."

"Beware, caballero! When I came here, my purpose was friendly. Your obstinacy will compel me to break off a colloquy which we can never resume. I have but one thing to add: whatever the reason for my actions may be, I have only one wish—to save you. This is the sole explanation I have the right to give."

"But that will not suffice, caballero."

"And why, if it please you?" said the colonel haughtily.

"Because matters have occurred between you and a certain member of my family which give me a right to look upon any intentions of yours as hostile."

The colonel trembled; a livid pallor stole over his countenance.

"Indeed!" said he hoarsely. "So you know that, Señor Don Guzman?"

"I will answer you in the exact words in which you replied to me a few minutes ago; I know all!"

Don Bernardo cast down his eyes, and clenched his hands in concentrated rage.

There was silence for a time.

Just at this moment a sereno passed through the street, paused close to the walls of the house, and cried, in a cracked and drunken voice, the hour of the night:

"¡Ave, María purísima! Las doce han dado y sereno!" ("Hail, purest Mary! Twelve o'clock, and a fine night!")

Then his heavy step was heard as he went on his rounds, until it gradually died away in the distance.

The two men shuddered, thus suddenly aroused from their preoccupation.

"Midnight already!" muttered Ribera in a tone of mingled regret and anxiety.

"Let us end this," resolutely exclaimed Don Bernardo. "Since nothing will convince you of the honesty of my intentions; since you exact from me revelations which concern myself alone—"

"And one other person," supplied Don Guzman.

"I will admit it," continued the colonel impatiently.

"Well, are you satisfied now? It is solely because I know I shall meet this person at the Hacienda del Pico, that I wish to accompany you. I must have an interview. Do you understand me now?"

"Yes; I understand you perfectly."

"Then what are your objections?"

"You are deceiving yourself, caballero," answered Don Guzman coolly.

"Oh! This time I swear you are mistaken."

"Then I shall go alone!—That is all."

"Beware, once more!" said the colonel; "My patience is exhausted."

"And mine, colonel! Yes, I repeat, I scorn your threats! Do what you think fit, caballero. God will aid me."

At these words a disdainful smile passed over the lips of the colonel; he rose, and planted himself before Don Guzman, who was standing in the middle of the room.

"Are those your last words, señor?" said he.

"The last."

"Your blood be upon your own head! It is you who have willed it so," shouted the colonel, casting on him a glance of fury.

And without taking any further notice of his foe, who remained apparently cold and impassive, he turned to leave the chamber, a prey to the most violent emotion.

Don Guzman, profiting by this movement of the colonel, dexterously threw off his poncho, cast it over the head of Don Bernardo, muffling him up in it in such a manner that he was bound and gagged before he could attempt to defend himself.

"For one trump a higher!" laughed Don Ribera.

"As you are determined to go with me, you shall, but in a different fashion to what you expected."

For answer, the colonel made a vain but desperate effort to free himself from his bonds.

"And now for the others!" exclaimed Don Guzman, with a triumphant look at his enemy, who was rolling on the floor in a paroxysm of impotent rage.

Five minutes later, the few soldiers who had been left in the zaguán were disarmed by the servants, bound with cords they had themselves brought for a far different purpose, and deposited on the steps of the neighbouring cathedral, where they were left to their fate.

As to the colonel, the old soldier, who had just shown so much presence of mind, had no idea as he had said himself, of leaving him behind. On the contrary, he had weighty reasons for taking him with him in the hazardous adventure he was about to undertake. So, as soon as he was on horseback, he threw his prisoner across the pummel of his saddle, and left the house attended by several trusty servants, well mounted, and armed to the teeth.

"Speed! Speed!" he cried, as soon as the door was closed. "Who knows but that this traitor may have sold us beforehand?"

The little party started at a gallop, and traversed the city—deserted at that time of night—with the speed of a storm wind.

But as soon as the riders reached the commencement of the suburbs, they gradually slackened their pace, and finally halted, at a sign from Don Guzman.

That gentleman had totally forgotten one thing, and a very important one. It was, that during the time the city was suffering under the rule of Rosas, it was under martial law; and consequently, after a certain hour, it was impossible to pass out without the watchword, which was changed every night, and given by the Dictator himself. It was an embarrassing situation. Don Guzman's looks fell upon the prisoner in front of him; for a single moment he thought of liberating his head, and demanding the watchword, which he would certainly know. But another moment's reflection made him relinquish the idea of trusting to a man to whom he had just offered a mortal insult, and who would certainly embrace the first opportunity that offered for revenge. He determined, therefore, to trust to audacity, and act according to circumstances. Consequently, having warned his servants to look to their arms, and be in readiness to use them at his first signal, he gave the order to advance.

They had ridden a few hundred paces farther, when they heard the sound of a musket being cocked, followed immediately by the words, "Who goes there?" lustily halloaed.

Luckily, the night was intensely dark. The moment for audacity had come.

Don Guzman responded, in a sharp and firm voice:

"Colonel Pedrosa! ¡Ronde mashorca!"[1]

"Where are you going?" said the sentry.

"To Palermo," replied Ribera, "by orders of the well-beloved General Rosas."

"Pass!" said the sentry.

The little party was swallowed up in the jaws of the ponderous gate; it galloped through, and was soon lost in the darkness.

Thanks to his audacity, Don Guzman had escaped from utmost peril.

The serenos were chanting the half-hour after midnight when the travellers left the last houses of Buenos Aires behind them.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE POST HOUSE IN THE PAMPAS.

The Pampas are the Steppes of South America, with this difference, that these immense plains, which extend from Buenos Aires, as far as San Luis de Mendoza, to the foot of the Cordilleras, are clothed with a thick carpet of long grass, undulating with the softest breath of the wind, and are intersected by numerous water courses, some of great magnitude, which cut it up in every direction.

The aspect of the Pampas is desperately monotonous and mournful. There is neither wood nor mountain; not a single break of ground to form an oasis of sand or granite, on which to rest the eye in the midst of this ocean of green.

Only two roads traverse the Pampas, and connect the Atlantic with the Pacific.

The first leads to Chili, passing by Mendoza; the second to Peru, by Tucumen and Salta.

These vast solitudes are infested by two races of men, perpetually at war with each other: the Indian Bravos, or Pampas, and the Guachos.

The Guachos, a caste peculiar to the Argentine provinces, are not to be met elsewhere.

These men, charged with the supervision of the wild cattle and horses which range at large through the whole extent of these wide plains, are, for the most part, whites by race; but, crossed in blood with the aborigines for many years, they have in time become almost as barbarous as the Indians themselves, from whom they have learnt their cunning and cruelty.

They live on horseback, lie in the bare sun, support themselves on the flesh of their beasts when unlucky in the chase, and only approach the towns and haciendas for the purpose of exchanging their skins, their ñandú (the ostrich of the Pampas) plumes, and furs, for spirits, silver spurs, powder, knifes, and the cloths of gaudy colours with which they delight to adorn their persons.

The true Centaurs of the New World, as rapid as the Tartar riders of the Steppes of Siberia, they transport themselves with prodigious speed from one extremity of the Banda Oriental to the other. They recognise no law beyond the whim of the moment; no master but their will. For the most part, they do not know the proprietor who employs them, and whom they only see at rare intervals.

The Guachos are almost as much to be dreaded as the Indians by travellers, who dare not venture upon the Pampas except in considerable numbers, so as to afford mutual protection against the aggressions to which they are constantly exposed, either from Indians or from the wild beasts.

The caravans are usually composed of fifteen, or even twenty, wagons, or galeras, drawn by six or eight oxen apiece. Their drivers, crouching under the hide covering of the galeras, urge them on with long goads, slung over their heads, with which they can easily reach the leading oxen of the team.

A capataz, or major-domo,—a resolute man, thoroughly acquainted with the Pampas,—commands the caravan, having under his orders some thirty peones, who, like himself, are mounted, and gallop around the convoy, watch the relief cattle, and, in case of attack, defend the travellers of every age whom they escort.

Nothing can be seen at once so picturesque and sad as the aspect the caravans present as they extend themselves in a long serpentine line over the Pampas, advancing at a slow and regular pace along roads full of quagmires, over which the immense galeras roll, groaning on their croaking and massive wheels, tottering with indescribable swayings and joltings along ruts, out of which the oxen, lowing and stretching their smoking nostrils to the ground, can hardly drag them.

Ofttimes these heavy caravans are passed by arrieros (muleteers), whose recua (string of mules) trots gaily on, to the tinkling of a silver bell attached to the neck of the yegua madrina (the leading mule), and to the sound of "Arrea, mulos" (Get on mules), incessantly repeated, in all notes of the gamut, by the arriero chief and his peones who gallop about the mules to prevent their straying to right or left.

When night comes, the muleteers and ox drivers find precarious shelter in the post houses—a kind of tambas or caravanseries, built, at considerable distances apart, in the Pampas. The galeras, detached from the oxen, are ranged in single file; the burdens of the mules are piled up in a circle; then, if the corral (stables) be full, if there be many travellers at the post house, beasts and men encamp together, and spend the night under the open sky,—a mode of sleeping which is no hardship in a country where cold is almost unknown. Then commence, by the fantastic light of the bivouac fires, the long tales of the Pampas, interspersed with joyous bursts of laughter, with songs, and words of love uttered in whispers.

Yet it is rare for the night to pass over without a quarrel of some sort arising between the muleteers and the drivers, who are by nature jealous of each other, and enemies by profession. Then blood flows, the consequence of a navajada or two; for the knife always plays a too active part among these men, whom no fear of consequences restrains in their unbridled frenzy.

Now, on the night of the day on which our story begins, the last post house on the Portillo road, when you leave the Pampas, going to Buenos Aires, was overfilled with travellers. Two numerous recuas de mulas (strings of mules), which a month before had crossed the Alto de Cumbre, and encamped on the Rio de la Cucoa, close to the Inca's Bridge, one of the most singular natural curiosities in the country, had lighted their fires before the post house, close to two or three convoys of galeras, whose oxen were quietly lying in the interior of the circle formed by the wagons.

The post house was a building of considerable extent, constructed of adobas (sundried bricks.) The entrance was furnished with a portico—a species of peristyle formed of the trunks of four large trees, planted in the ground in lieu of pillars, and supporting a veranda broad enough to afford shelter from the piercing rays of the sun.

In the interior of the toldo, as they call these miserable hovels, resounded the songs and laughter of the drivers and muleteers, mingling with the notes of a vihuela (Spanish guitar), scraped with the knuckles of the hand in a manner sufficient to drive one to despair, and with the sharp and clamorous outcry of the postmaster, whose squeaking voice strove in vain to quell the uproar, and regulate the disorder.

Just at this moment the rapid gallop of many horses was heard; and two parties of riders, coming from points diametrically opposite, stopped, as with one accord, before the porch of the toldo, after passing with great dexterity through the encampments before the post house, the approaches to which were vastly obstructed by the galeras.

The first of these parties, consisting of only six riders, came from the direction of Mendoza; the second from the opposite side, from the heart of the Pampas: the latter comprised some thirty individuals at least.

The unexpected arrival of the newcomers stopped, as by enchantment, the clamour which the ranchero, or owner of the house, had been unable to still, and a sudden silence seized on the company, which had been so joyously uproarious a few minutes before.

The muleteers and drivers glided like shadows out of the house, and, with furtive steps, regained their respective encampments, exchanging uneasy looks amongst themselves; so that the room was empty in a twinkling, and the ranchero was able to come forward and receive the guests who had arrived so unexpectedly. But he had scarcely reached the threshold, and cast a glance outside, when a mortal pallor overspread his visage, a convulsive shudder shook his frame, and his tones were almost unintelligible, as he managed to stutter forth the essential phrase of welcome in South America; "¡Ave, María purísima!" (Hail, purest Mary!)

"¡Sin pecado concebida!" (immaculately conceived) answered the rough voice of a tall cavalier, with harsh features and a ferocious eye, who seemed to be the leader of the more numerous party.

We must observe that the second party appeared in some degree to share the terror felt by the inhabitants of the post house; and having perceived the others before their own presence was remarked, the six cavaliers had prudently reined in their horses, and thrown themselves into the shade as far as possible, being little desirous, in all probability, of being inadvertently seen by the dangerous fellow travellers amongst whom chance or ill luck had unfortunately thrown them.

Now, who were these persons, the sight of whom sufficed of itself to inspire a general panic and womanly consternation in the breasts of the hardy explorers of the wilderness—of men whose life was a perpetual struggle against the wild beasts, and who had so often confronted death without blenching, that they almost fancied they were beyond his grasp?

At the time in which this story happens, the hateful and bloody tyranny of that half-breed—that Nero who had nothing belonging to humanity but its semblance, that ignorant and brutal guacho, that man-faced tiger, in a word, Don Juan Manuel de Rosas—which had so long crushed the Argentine provinces, was still all-powerful; and these men were federales, hired assassins of that butcher in cold blood, whose name is now damned by the execration of the world; in short, they were members of that horrible restauradora (regeneratory) society, better known under the name of mashorca (mashorca signifies literally "more gallows"), which for several years filled all Buenos Aires with mourning. Constrained by public indignation, the Dictator, later on, had made a pretence of dissolving this society; but he did nothing of the sort, in reality; and up to the final fall of the unclean tyrant, it existed de facto, and at the slightest sign of its master scattered murder, violation, and fire through the length and breadth of the confederation.

The reader can now understand the terror which seized upon the careless and peaceable travellers assembled in the toldo, at the appearance of the ominous uniforms of these hired ruffians, to whom pity was unknown.

Compelled by one of these instinctive presentiments which are seldom fallacious, they felt that some misfortune threatened them. They crept out with slouching heads, and hiding themselves behind their bales, began to shudder in the darkness, without attempting to prepare for resistance, which they knew would be futile.

In the meantime, the colorados, or federales, had dismounted, and entered the rancho, marching on their toes, on account of their enormous spur rowels, and allowing their heavy iron scabbards to trail beside them: The clang made by these in their contact with the flooring seemed a sound of evil augury to the terrified listeners.

"Halloa!" cried the leader, in a harsh voice; "¡rayo de Dios! What does this mean, Caballeros? Does our arrival banish all pleasure from this dwelling?"

The ranchero multiplied his obeisances till he addled his brains with bowing, and twisted his shapeless hat in both hands without finding a word to say. At the bottom of his heart, this worthy man, who was acquainted with the expeditious habits of his unwelcome guests, had the greatest dread of being hanged forthwith; a thought which by no means helped him to recover his presence of mind, and the coolness required by circumstances.

The large room was barely lighted by a single smoky candle, shedding a yellow and doubtful light. The colorado, coming from the open, his eyes still clouded with the thick darkness on the Pampas, had not been able to distinguish objects at first; but as soon as he had got accustomed to the semi-obscurity which reigned around him, and perceived that, with the exception of the ranchero, the place was empty, he frowned, and stamped on the ground in ire.

"¡Válgame Dios!" he exclaimed, looking furiously at the poor devil perspiring with fear before him, "Have I fallen unawares into a nest of serpents? Is this miserable hut the meeting place of salvajes unitarios? Answer, wretch, or I will have your tongue torn out and thrown to the dogs!"

The post master grew green with fear when he heard this menace,—a threat he well knew these men capable of executing. He was still more frightened at the expression salvajes unitarios, an epithet used to designate the enemies of Rosas, and generally the prelude to a massacre.

"Señor General," cried he, with an heroic effort to utter a few words.

"I am not a general," broke in the colorado in a somewhat smoother tone, for his pride was secretly flattered by the sonorous title; "I am not a general yet, though I hope to be one someday. I am only teniente (lieutenant), which is already a pretty step; so call me nothing else for the present. Now, go on."

"Señor Teniente," replied the ranchero, a little comforted, "there is nobody here except good friends of the well beloved General Rosas; we are all federals."

"Ha! I doubt that," said the terrible lieutenant. "You are too close to Monte Video to be thorough Rosistas."

We must state here that throughout the Argentine provinces there was only one town which had the noble courage to oppose itself to the savage tyranny of the ruthless Dictator. This town, whose devotion to the sacred cause of liberty has made it celebrated throughout both the Old and New Worlds, is Monte Video. Resolute to perish, if it must be, in the holy cause it bad embraced, it heroically sustained a siege of nine years against the troops of Rosas, whose impotent efforts were repeatedly shattered against its walls.

"Señor Teniente," replied the ranchero obsequiously, "the people who meet here are solely arrieros and wagoners, who are only passers-by, and never meddle with politics."

This explanation, which the postmaster thought most adroit, had no influence on the colorado.

"¡Vive Dios!" he cried, with haughty voice, "We will see; and woe to the traitor I discover! Luco," he continued addressing his cabo, or corporal, "just step and rouse up those brute beasts, and bring them hither. If any sleep too soundly, stir them up with the point of the sabre; it will exhilarate them and induce them to move more quickly."

The cabo gave a malicious grin, and went out immediately to execute his orders.

The lieutenant, after addressing a few more questions of minor importance to the ranchero, at last thought fit to seat himself on the bench which ran round the room, and, to enliven the time of the corporal's absence, set himself to consume the liquor and food assiduously placed before him by the host, who was swearing to himself all the while at being obliged to find drink gratis for so many. He knew well that, though the consumption of liquors by the soldiers would be enormous, he would never see the colour of their money, and might think himself happy if he escaped without other damage.

The soldiers, except five or six who remained without in charge of the horses, seated themselves by their officer, and followed his example in drinking like sponges.

The corporal's task was easier than he expected, for the poor devils of muleteers and drivers had overheard the peremptory order of the leader. Comprehending that resistance would not only be useless, but make their situation worse, they obeyed their officer's orders with resignation, and came back again into the room, attempting to hide their fright with ill-counterfeited smiles.

"Aha!" cried the lieutenant; "I knew we should find some malcontents here,—ay, good people?"

The peasants multiplied their excuses and protestations, to which the lieutenant listened with the greatest indifference, taking all the while short sips from an enormous goblet, filled to the brim with refino de Catalonia, the strongest spirit known.

"There, that will do," said he at last, making the steel scabbard of his sword rattle against the bench; "let us reconnoitre a little; and first of all, for whom are you, in the devil's name?"

The travellers, terrified by this demonstration, answered the question by hastening to shout at the top of their voices, and with an enthusiasm the more demonstrative the less it was real:

"Viva el benemérito General Rosas, Viva el libertador, Vivan los federales, Mueren los salvajes unitarios. A degüello, a degüello con ellos."[1]

These well-known federal cries, which served as rallying calls in their bloody expeditions, dispelled the doubts of the officer. He deigned to smile; but it was a tiger's smile, exposing the white fangs ready to bite.

"Bravos, Bravos," he cried: "that is right at all events. These are true Rosistas. Come, ranchero, trago de aguardiente" (a draught of brandy) "for these worthy people. I intend to treat them."

The ranchero could have easily dispensed with this factitious generosity of the officer, the cost of which he well knew he should have to pay out of his own pocket. However, he executed the order, hiding the chagrin he felt under the most gracious air he could assume. The cries and protestations of federalism were renewed with redoubled ardour: the brandy circulated, and joy seemed to have reached a climax.

The lieutenant next took a guitar, which happened to lie beside him.

"Come, muchachos," said he; "a zambacueca" (a Mexican dance). "Voto a Dios, Room for the dance."

There was no refusing. Whatever the secret fears of those present, the gracious invitation of the colorado was so neatly put, that they were obliged to take heart of grace, as the saying is, and play their parts to the end. It was the best plan to resign themselves to their lot. They were in the claws of the tiger, who might devour them at any moment if the fancy seized him.

The middle of the room was cleared; the dancers, male and female, took their places, their eyes fixed on the officer, in expectation of his signal.

They had not long to wait; as soon as the lieutenant saw his victims prepared, he swallowed an enormous bumper of refino, and set himself to rattle on the guitar with his knuckles; while he sang, or rather screeched, in a shaky voice, the gay zambacueca so well known in the Argentine provinces, and which begins with the following charming verse:

"Para que vas y vienes,
Vienes y vas.
Si otros andar menos,
Consiguen más?"[2]

It has been truly said that the Spaniards are excessively fond of dancing; but in this, as in many other matters, the South Americans have left them far behind They have carried this passion to such a pitch, that it reaches the limits of folly. The scene we are about to describe will prove the truth of our assertion.

These very men, who had only consented to dance because, as one may say, the knife was at their throats, and were still under the influence of extreme terror, had scarcely heard for a few minutes the groaning chords of the guitar, and the words which marked the time, than they immediately forgot their precarious position, and gave themselves up heart and soul, in a sort of savage frenzy, to their favourite pastime.

Those who at first had prudently kept themselves within bounds, in consequence of their anxiety, were soon fascinated by the bounds of the dancers, and leaped and stamped, howling, like the others, with all the strength of their lungs.

Thus at the close of a few minutes all constraint had vanished, and the noise had again grown as deafening, and the uproar as stunning, as it had been when the federals arrived.

Meanwhile the corporal had diligently carried out the orders he had received from his superior; but, as we said above, the muleteers and wagoners, having accidentally stopped in front of the rancho, and then entered the room of their own accord, had materially lightened his task. But that worthy officer, zealous in the performance of his duty, had taken half a dozen soldiers with him, and scoured the several encampments, passing the blades of their swords between the bales, looking into the insides of the galeras,—in a word, ferreting about everywhere, with the sagacity of an old bloodhound which it is impossible to baffle.

Persuaded at last, after the most minute search, that all those whom he thus looked after had entered the rancho, he determined to follow them. But the uproar he heard inside convincing him that all was going right, for the time at least, he changed his mind, and dismissing the soldiers who were with him, and who desired nothing better than to join the merriment, remained outside.

As soon as he found himself alone, the corporal's whole demeanour changed. He first satisfied himself that no indiscreet eye observed his motions; he then rolled a cigarette between his fingers, lit it, and, walking backwards and forwards with the air of an idler enjoying his leisure, gradually increased his distance from the porch.

After some ten minutes of this manoeuvring, which bore no bad resemblance to a ship tacking against a contrary breeze in her endeavours to get away from her port, he found he had passed beyond the wagoners' camps, and was so far from the rancho, that, thanks to the obscurity of the night, it was impossible to see him from thence. He immediately stopped, looked once more round him, and threw the lighted cigar in the air.

The light pajillo described a brilliant parabola against the sky, and then fell to the ground, when the corporal extinguished it with his foot.

At the same moment a slender line of fire sparkled in the obscurity a little way off.

"Good," growled the corporal; "see what it is to be prudent."

A second time he scanned the neighbourhood narrowly; then, reassured by the obscurity which reigned around, he resolutely turned aside into the darkness, humming under his breath these three verses of a song well known in the Pampas:

"O Libertad preciosa No comparado al oro Ni al bien mayor de la espaciosa tierra."[3]

Directly, a voice, low as a whisper, took up the subsequent verses:

"Más rica y más gozosa Que el más precioso tesoro."[4]

At this response, which he doubtless expected, the corporal stopped short. He struck the end of his scabbard on the ground, rested himself on the hilt, and said aloud, as if talking to himself:

"I should like to know why the ñandús (ostriches) have so suddenly taken themselves off into the Pampas?"

"Because," answered the voice which had continued the song, "they smelt the odour of dead bodies."

"That may be true," said the corporal, without seeming astonished at the answer which came so oddly; "but then the condors would come down from the Cordilleras."

"It is already twenty-one days since they passed the Alto de Cumbre."

"The sunset yesterday was red."

"His rays reflected the light of the conflagrations caused by the mashorca," said the voice again.

The corporal hesitated no longer.

"Approach, Don Leoncio," cried he; "you and your companions."

"We are here, Luco;" and the corporal was immediately surrounded by six persons, armed to the teeth.

It is useless to say that these men were the six persons who an hour before had arrived at the post house simultaneously with the colorados, and whom prudence had induced to remain concealed.

The dancing and shouting in the rancho still went on. The merriment was gradually growing into a gigantic orgy.

Consequently the strangers were sure they should not be disturbed. Moreover, although the moon had now risen, and gave a certain amount of light, the little group, sheltered by the wagons behind which they stood, was in no danger of discovery; while, thanks to its position, nobody could leave the rancho, without being seen directly by those composing it.

We will profit by the moonbeams to depict in a few words these fresh personages; a task made more easy by the fact that they had dismounted, and were holding their horses by the bridles.

We said they were six in number: the first three were evidently peones; but their heavy silver spurs, their tirador, or girdle of embroidered velvet, their beautifully chased weapons, their rich ponchos of fine Bolivian vicuña wool, and, above all, the respectful familiarity which they used towards their masters, indicated that they had earned for themselves a certain degree of consideration.

These peones were, in fact, not only servants, but friends; humble ones, it is true, but devoted ones, tried many a time in scenes of frightful danger.

Of the masters, two were men of about thirty-five, in all the vigour of their age and strength. Their dress, similar in cut to that of their servants, was only distinguished from it by the superior richness and fineness of its texture.

The foremost was a tall and well-built person, with graceful manners and elegant gestures. The outline of his face was proud and decided, and his hardy features expressed a kindness and frankness which, at first sight, won the sympathy and regard of all.

His name was Don Leoncio de Ribera.

His companion, of the same size and figure, and endowed with the same manners, formed, nevertheless, a perfect contrast to Don Leoncio.

His soft blue eyes; the thick curls of blonde hair, which escaped in large masses from under his Panama hat, and flowed in disorder on his shoulders; the cream-coloured skin, which contrasted with the olive and slightly bronzed complexion of Don Leoncio,—seemed to indicate that he was not born under the burning sun of South America. Yet this cavalier could proudly claim, even more than the latter, the quality of a veritable hijo del país[5] since he descended in a direct line from the brave and unhappy Tupac Amaru, the last Inca, so basely assassinated by the Spaniards.

He was called Manco Amaru, Diego de Solis y Villas Reales; and we beg our reader's pardon for this litany of names.

Don Diego de Solis concealed the courage of the lion under the effeminacy of a woman, and nerves of steel under the skin of his soft white hands.

As to the third cavalier, who kept himself modestly retired behind the others, he had wrapped himself up so carefully in the voluminous folds of his poncho, and the rim of his hat was so well pulled down over his countenance, that is was impossible to distinguish any part of him except two large black eyes, which flashed forth flames of fire. His small size, delicate limbs, and a certain soft smoothness about his movements, would lead one to suppose that he was still a youth, if this masculine attire did not conceal a woman, which seemed more probable.

However that may be, no sooner did the corporal find himself in the presence of the persons we have described, than there was a complete metamorphosis in his whole appearance. His rough and fierce demeanour was exchanged for a flattering obsequiousness, denoting complete devotedness; and his countenance lost its mocking expression, to take that of decided pleasure.

Don Leoncio had difficulty in moderating the outbursts of foolish joy to which the soldier gave vent, with the unconstraint of a man who at length enjoys a happiness he has long been vainly expecting.

"There, there, Luco," said he; "be calm. You see it is I. There, there; be moderate, muchacho this is not the time for outpourings of affection."

"It is true, mi amo" (my master); "but I am so happy to see you again after such a length of time," and he brushed away the tears which rolled down his bronzed cheeks.

Don Leoncio felt deeply moved by the affection of his old servant, and replied:

"Thanks, Luco; you are indeed a good and trusty fellow."

"And yet, in spite of the happiness I feel in seeing you once more, I wish you had not returned at such an unlucky moment. Mi amo, the times are bad; the tyrant is more powerful than ever in Buenos Aires."

"I know. Unfortunately, I could not postpone my journey, in spite of the perils to which I should be exposed."

"¡Válgame Dios, señor! This is a terrible life we are now leading."

"What is to be done? We must all take our share of the unavoidable. Are my orders fulfilled?"

"Yes, all, mi amo: your brother is forewarned. Unluckily, I could not go myself to inform him: I was forced to send a guacho, of whom I knew little. But do not be uneasy, señor; your brother will not fail to be here in a few hours."

"Good; but you seem to have come here in considerable numbers."

"Alas, it could not be helped; I am so spied after, mi amo. I was obliged to use the most extraordinary efforts to induce the lieutenant to bring so few."

"We had very nearly run into his arms."

"Yes; and I was in a dreadful fright at the moment, for I had recognised you already, señor: God knows what would have happened had you met."

"And now, is this lieutenant to be trusted?"

Luco shook his head sorrowfully.

"He! Mi amo, take heed. He is one of the most ferocious mashorqueras of that evil dog Rosas."

"The devil he is!" said Don Leoncio, with a troubled look. "I fear, my poor Luco, your too great confidence has led us into a hornet's nest, out of which we shall have some trouble to escape safe and sound."

"It is a difficult case—I will not attempt to deny it. You must be very cautious, and let no one strike your trail. The principal thing is to gain time."

"True," said Don Leoncio, plunging into a reverie.

"How many are there of you?" said Don Diego, mixing in the conversation for the first time.

"Thirty-five, counting the lieutenant, señor; but he is a devil incarnate, and counts for four at least."

"Pooh!" replied Don Diego carelessly, while he stroked his blonde moustache; "we are seven when we count you, my good fellow."

"Who is this lieutenant?"

"Don Torribio, formerly a guacho."

"Oh," said Don Leoncio, disgusted, "Torribio Degüello!" (literally, Torribio the Butcher).

"¡Voto a brios!" replied Don Diego; "How I should like to plant my knee on the breast of that wretch! Well, what are we to do?"

"You forget who is with us," said Don Leoncio, quickly, casting a glance at the motionless figure behind.

"It is true," said the young man; "I am mad. Forgive me, friend; we cannot be too cautious."

"It is lucky," observed Luco, "that you have not brought Doña Antonia with you. Poor dear niña! she would die here, were she exposed to the devils in whose midst we are."

All of a sudden before Don Leoncio had time to reply, a horrible clamour arose in the rancho, several shots were heard, and a score of men and women, frantic with fear, rushed into the open with shouts of terror, and dispersed in all directions.

"Hide yourselves!" cried Luco. "Good God! What can this mean? I will be back directly; but, for God's sake, do not let them see you. Farewell for a time! I must go and see what is the matter."

Leaving Don Leoncio and his companions in dreadful anxiety, the corporal ran towards the house, where the tumult was increasing every minute.