"The remorse of that unfortunate wretch has in it something appalling," said Morley, as they walked aft.
"Bah!" replied Captain Phillips, who was busy with his quadrant; "I have seen something of this kind before, Mr. Ashton, and know it is only a case of 'the devil was sick:' you know the rest of the couplet."
"What crimes can he have committed?" said Ethel, who was weeping with sympathy.
"Crimes, Miss Basset!" repeated the captain, as he wiped and adjusted the two speculums or horizon glasses; "Lord love your kind heart, he'll have committed every crime that ever was recorded in Newgate, and would commit 'em all again, but old King Death has brought him up with a round turn."
Whether it was the result of Ethel's visit, or that excess of despair had prostrated his nerves, we know not; but as night approached Pedro became more composed, and was heard to pray very fervently. The iron had entered his soul; he wept freely, and his tears relieved him; but the retrospect of his past life still rose like a barrier of flame before him, and this he said from time to time, when Morley Ashton and Tom Bartelot watched him by turns, or together, and gave him drink; for he was tormented by a consuming fever and thirst.
The night was fine and clear, the constellations that look down on the mighty Indian Ocean were shining amid the pure ether overhead, and the waves sparkled in light as they rolled around the fleet Hermione, for she was still running steadily, close-hauled, making a long tack towards the distant coast of Africa.
Morley had bade "Good night" to Ethel, and he and Tom Bartelot sat smoking on the steps of the forecastle, when they could equally attend to the wants of Pedro, and bear a hand with what was wanted on deck.
As if to relieve his mind, between his muttered orisons, Pedro mentioned many dark episodes of his career, among slavers in the West Indies, and otter-hunters in the Pacific Ocean; among the gold-diggers of California, and the robbers of the Barranca Secca, between Zalappa and the Puebla de Perote. The names of Hawkshaw and Zuares occurred more than once in these wild stories, which, with his casual remarks, indicated Pedro's complicity in many heinous crimes, and filled his listeners with wonder and repugnance; but there was one story he related, with many pauses, filled with sighs and outbursts of repentance, which showed that he was more an incarnate fiend than a mere common villain or everyday rogue.
To rehearse it here, as he related it—he who seemed to be in a Hades without hope—would prove scarcely intelligible to the reader; so we shall give this episode of Pedro's past life in our own words, with many additions, the result of local inquiry. These are woven up with the text of the story, as being preferable to giving them in the tantalising form of notes.
* * * * * * * *
In their childhood Pedro and Zuares Barradas in no way promised to become the outcasts of religion and of nature they proved in future years.
Aware of her own errors and frailty, for which she repented in bitterness, in sackcloth and ashes, in hours of sorrow, prayer, and self-inflicted penance, known to Heaven and herself only, Mariquita Escudero lived for her sons alone. Had she been without them to cling to, in the rash impulsiveness of her race and of her nature, she would probably have committed suicide, after the sudden death of her father, the catastrophe which happened to her young brother, Juan, on the ramparts of San Juan de Ulloa, and the loss of her lover, Don Pedro, who was borne away beyond the sea.
She educated her boys carefully and lovingly, living with them the life of a recluse at her father's solitary granja, on the slope of the Pico d'Orizaba, and striving to impress them with a high sense of religion and morality, and thought that she had done so completely, all unaware, poor woman, of the latent and inherent spark of the infernal spirit that slumbered in the heart of each.
Her whole hopes for the future, her entire soul, were centred in her little boys, and this tender and repentant mother was never weary of watching them when they assisted at the service of mass, in carrying tapers or little vessels of holy-water, and when making responses, in attending the old Bishop of Orizaba within the rails of the great altar.
Neither was she ever weary of sewing and dressing with her own hands the little white surplices which they wore over their black soutans on those occasions, for she knew that her boys were handsome, and were alike the envy and the taunt of other mothers.
Pedro and Zuares spent nearly their whole time in or about the old cathedral church—a fane, the pride of the wooded valley, and founded of old by a pious follower of Hernan Cortez. They sat or played for hours daily on the steps of that great altar, where Pedro Valdivia prayed in his armour, ere he marched against the Aurucans of Chili.
Thereon stood a beautiful image of Our Lady, holding in her arms her divine Son, with arms outspread, a miracle of sculpture and painting. She was clad in an azure robe, with an aureole and thirteen stars above her brow, all sparkling with precious gems.
Frequently Zuares used to talk to these figures as if they were answering him; while hovering in the side-aisles, with a finger on her lips, tears in her eyes, and hope and gladness in her heart, Mariquita watched and listened, assured that they would become faithful servants of God, and as such would atone for the errors of her own life, and again and again she blessed her little boys, and whispered in her mother's heart, "that of such was the kingdom of heaven."
Pedro at times spoke to the image of the little child Jesus, as if it was a playfellow; while, like the little chorister of the old legend of Chartres, Zuares was wont to say that he had divided his heart into three portions: "one he had given to God, one to the Blessed Virgin, and one to his mother." Yet, as years crept on, it seemed as if all the snares of Satan had been set around to tempt and lure them, for they rapidly fell into evil ways; they abandoned the church, the morning mass and evening vespers, with all their duties and services; they became the companions of outlaws and robbers, and it was by the hand of her youngest and best-beloved son that the unfortunate Mariquita, long since broken in heart and crushed in soul, perished, as we have shown, in the savage gorge of the Barranca Secca.
Even the old bishop wept as he cursed them.
Zuares had early joined a band of outlaws in the Barranca, where, among many other outrages, on a dark night, when there was no other light on earth or in heaven, save the flaming cone of Orizaba, which lit up all the grove of peach trees that clothe the valley, they waylaid and robbed a wealthy escribano, or lawyer, of the city. Then with a refinement of cruelty, they tied him across the nearest line of railway, and watched to see him torn to shreds by the first train which passed; but his cries of despair—which they mimicked and mocked—reached the ears of the engine-driver, the train was stopped in time, and the escribano saved. He never forgot the horrors of that night, and became an honest man for ever after, abandoning for ever the study and practice of the law.
He denounced Zuares, however, and the reward for his capture, offered by the alcalde, proving too great for the cupidity of his companions, this enterprising youth, ere long, found himself a captive in the carcel or prison of Orizaba, under sentence to die by the garotte.
The day of his execution had been named, when letters to the bishop and alcalde arrived, threatening vengeance, and to the dismay of the people, the famous image of Our Lady was missed from the altar of the cathedral church, having been carried off, with its golden aureole, the precious gems that decked it, and the thirteen stars that sparkled round her brow.
In its place was found a piece of paper, on which was written:
"A hostage for my brother.
"PEDRO BARRADAS."
From the altar, the old bishop, in full pontificals, denounced vengeance on the sacrilegious robber, and threatened with condign punishment here and hereafter all who were concerned in this new outrage, which filled all the good people of Orizaba with grief and indignation, for the image of Our Lady was the peculiar palladium of their city.
On the following day, this notice was found appended to the cathedral door:
"I, Pedro Barradas, know who stole the image of Our Lady from the great altar; I know also in what part of the Barranca Secca it is concealed. To the altar I shall restore it, but on two conditions; first, the instant release of my brother Zuares, who is condemned to die for mulcting a miserable escribano of a few ill-gotten dollars; second, a pardon for myself; otherwise, the Holy Image shall never more be seen."
Great was the indignation of the entire community at this insolence; but discretion was deemed better than severity. Zuares was set at liberty by the alcalde, who placed round the cathedral a guard of soldiers, with orders to shoot down any bandido who should appear, even if he bore the image of Our Lady.
How the act was achieved will never be known; but in the night after the release of Zuares, the image was replaced on the altar, unseen by the guard and other watchers. Some there were who said the soldiers were tipsy or asleep; others stigmatised the whole affair as a trick of the Jesuits, of course. But by far the greater number declared it was a miracle, and Orizaba poured her thousands towards the cathedral gates, shouting:
"La Madonna neustra! La Madonna del Paradiso! A miracle! a miracle!"
The old bishop, however, did not share this enthusiasm; neither did he think there was any miracle in the matter: for the holy image had come back denuded of its golden aureole and its thirteen stars, each of which was composed of thirteen magnificent rose diamonds.
After this, the wooded valley of Orizaba, even the recesses of the Barranca Secca, became too hot to hold these wicked brothers; they fled to the sea and took a passage for San Francisco, where, after many wanderings in the lawless land of the gold-diggers, they found their way to Vera Cruz, and lived among some outlaws and contrabandists in their old haunt, the Barranca.
In the summer of last year, immediately after the terrible episode of Zuares and his mother in that wild place, Pedro and he quitted the valley of Orizaba for the third time, and reaching the port of La Vera Cruz, shipped as foremast-men on board a long, low, sharp, and rakish-looking brigantine, bound, as her captain stated vaguely, "for the Pacific, towards the Bay of Mexilones."
She proved to be an otter-hunter, and long ere she doubled Cape Horn, she had her eight brass guns, which had been concealed in the hold, hoisted out and lashed to the ports, the wooden quakers they replaced being sent below; and then sundry pikes, cutlasses, and pistols, that had all been invisible while the brigantine was within range of the cannon of San Juan de Ulloa, were placed upon racks in the steerage, and presented a goodly array; for these otter-hunting craft are lawless and contraband, and frequently their crews must fight their way against Spanish and other war ships, like the buccaneers of old.
She ran along the coast of South America, in sight of the snow-capped summits of the mighty Andes, traversing a great portion of the Pacific, without accident or adventure, until, in a forecastle row, knives were drawn, and Zuares threatened to stab the mate. In such a craft severe measures were necessary, so Zuares was put in the bilboes, and would have been scourged next day, by order of the captain, save for an accident which happened to the latter in the night.
Taking advantage of an intense darkness about the first hour of the morning watch, the worthy brothers quitted the brigantine, dropping quietly astern of her in the quarter-boat, when the harbour lights of Valparaiso were visible about three leagues distant on the lee bow, as they had resolved never again to face the snows and horrors of doubling the Horn, and reefing topsails that were stiff with ice.
They did not quit the brigantine, however, without leaving tokens of their vengeance. The poor captain was found in his berth, with the sheath-knife of Zuares—that illegal weapon now so constantly in use among seamen—planted in his heart; and it was soon after discovered that a canvas bag, containing two thousand Mexican dollars, was gone, as well as the quarter-boat.
But long ere this was known on board the armed brigantine, her two deserters had pulled the boat into the harbour of Valparaiso, where they scuttled her, and landed at the Almendral, a suburb which lies close by the shore, and is chiefly inhabited by those who are employed about the shipping.
Here they divided the contents of the bag between them, and the precious pair having shaken hands, they separated, each to shift for himself.
Master of a thousand silver dollars, and of himself—rid of his brother Zuares, whose petulant and fiery temper was frequently the means of embroiling him in useless, or what he deemed still worse, unprofitable quarrels—Pedro hoped to enjoy himself in Chili, and without fear, too, as the mates and crew of the otter-hunter (of whom our late American acquaintance, Mr. Bill Badger, formed one), were already too far beyond the pale of all laws, even those of South America, to seek either him or Zuares, especially under the Cordilleras de los Andes.
He resolved to get rid of his sailor's costume; to dress himself like an emigrant hidalgo; to take upon himself the airs, and certainly all the ease of one, until his money was spent, and something else turned up. He was not without hope, too, of replenishing his stock at the Casa de Juego, or gaming-house (as we have related he was never without a pair of cogged dados), and he knew, from his previous habits and education, that he could act tolerably well the part he meant to assume; and who could say that he might not, if a run of fortune favoured him, marry an heiress, and settle down pleasantly till the money was spent.
"Come esta el Senor Caballero Don Pedro," said he, as he lit a cigarito, and slapped the bag containing his dollars with great gusto; "courage, and to work at once, for the day will soon dawn."
He quitted the Almendral, with its muddy streets and unpaved narrow lanes, and just as the sun was rising, or, rather, as its light was descending on the steep red cliffs, and penetrating into the deep dark mountain gullies that overhang the city of Valparaiso—or the Valley of Paradise—he found himself amid the opening shops and early morning bustle of the spacious Plaza de la Victoria.
He soon found the shop of a clothier (all shopkeepers in Valparaiso are Frenchmen), under whose auspices he substituted his forecastle attire for a round jacket of fine claret colour, braided elaborately with yellow and scarlet silk, especially about the breast, and slit-up sleeves, loose, braided trousers of some light material, girt at the waist by a Spanish sash of the Chilian colours. His sou'-wester gave place to a smart sombrero of black velvet, with a plush bob of the same sable hue on one side, and a long scarlet riband flowing on the other; and in lieu of the dingy checked shirt, which was washed once weekly, and strung on the mainstay to dry, he exhibited one of spotless linen, with elaborate needlework on the breast.
A poncho cloak, black without and scarlet within, was thrown over the left shoulder, for use by night, for ornament by day, and to conceal the bowie-knife and revolver, which completed his equipment.
After a barber had shaved off his luxuriant beard and whiskers, leaving only the heavy, black, and well-trimmed moustache, Pedro walked along the shady side of the Plaza de la Victoria, surveying his outward mien, in the plate-glass windows as he passed them, a long regalia between his lips, master still of 930 dollars, and perfectly satisfied with himself, and with the South American world in general.
In the shop of the barber he had filled up a spare moment, by fitting on, and pocketing unseen, a luxuriant red wig, which he thought might at some time prove useful to him; and aware that a traveller without baggage has always short credit and a shady reputation, he next procured a handsome trunk of ample dimensions, with screws to fix it to the floor of any place which he might happen to honour with his residence—a very old "dodge," indeed, or, as the Spaniards would call it, tergiversation.
Repairing to the Posa de San Augustin, still kept by a person named Felipe Fernandez, close by the Church of the Augustin Friars, he chose an apartment, from the lattice of which he could have a view of the volcano of Aconcagua, sending a tremendous column of smoke up to the very zenith, through a sky of wonderful purity, against the blue of which the snow-capped Andes stood in a clear and awful outline; and this selection impressed Signor Fernandez that his guest was a wealthy hidalgo in search of the picturesque.
"Basta!" said Pedro, as he tore a roasted galina to pieces at dinner, and devoured it with more rapidity than grace, "I have eaten nothing for two days; but this is excellent, and the wine, too—your health, brother Zuares."
At this posada Pedro resided for several days, and ran up a goodly bill, chiefly for stronger liquors than are usually drunk by noble hidalgos; but his trunk being securely screwed to the floor, so as to be quite immovable, Felipe Fernandez was quite easy on the subject, believing that a guest with a box so ponderous—full of duros, no doubt—could not levant in a hurry.
Pedro's tastes and instincts would have led him towards the alleys of the Almendral, the harbour, and the shipping; but he remembered the little accident which occurred on the last night he and Zuares spent on board the brigantine, so he wisely avoided the vicinity of the sea-shore, and turned his thoughts inland.
He actually gave himself airs of propriety, and inquired of Signor Fernandez which was the most attractive church in Valparaiso. Pedro meant attractive in the number of fair devotees; but Felipe understood him differently and replied:
"The Matriz Church, senor. The Padres Eizagiuerro and Ugarte, from Santiago, are preaching there now. The former is the Apostolic Nuncio, and friend of His Holiness the Pope."
"And their preaching draws the people in numbers?"
"Yes, senor," replied the host, bowing lower.
"I am particularly fond of a good sermon, and love to see a well-filled church."
"Why, senor, the people go for various reasons," continued Fernandez, smiling; "the women to show themselves."
"And the men—what do they go for?"
"To see the women, or put off time till the theatre opens."
"Bueno! I shall go to see the women, and hear the Padre—what the devil's his name?"
So Pedro hung a brass medal of the Madonna at his neck, bought a rosary as thick as a hawser, and went to the Matriz Church to vespers, and always fell asleep. Mass was too early for him, he was always a-bed then. As all the women were very old or very ugly, he soon grew tired of the eloquence of the Padres Ugarte and Eizagiuerro.
The latter was the most popular; the church was usually filled by a dense crowd, who stood, as there was no sitting space, and through whom Pedro's brawny arms and square shoulders forced a passage, without ceremony, right and left, straight up to the pulpit, in spite of crinoline or other obstructions, and reiterated exclamations of annoyance.
"Senor, the church is quite full!"
"So I see, senora. A charming place, isn't it?"
"Senor, you cannot pass further!" exclaimed someone else.
"I shall try," was the cool response.
"Senor, how can you be so troublesome?" exclaimed a young man angrily.
Pedro turned to him with a dark scowl.
A young lady, closely veiled, was hanging on his arm.
"Perez—dear Perez!" said she, entreatingly, and, with a voice of great sweetness, added, "Senor, do not crush me so, if you please."
"Do I incommode you, senora?" stammered Pedro.
"Very much indeed."
"Pardon me—I shall make room."
And he did so by lurching forward and squeezing an old duenna against a pillar, where she was nearly suffocated by his huge back, and from whence he began to eye—almost ogle—the young lady who had spoken.
Her features, though partially hidden by a black lace veil, were charming and soft, and the pressure of the crowd had deranged it so far as to permit Pedro's bold and wandering eye to see enough of an adorable white neck and swelling bust to make him long to look on more.
Her nostrils and lips in contour were singularly fine, her tresses were of a rich ripply brown, and a valuable rosary was in her pretty hands, which were cased in well-fitting gloves of lavender-coloured kid.
Pedro was smitten. He continued to ogle and leer, and make a cushion of the old lady behind, in a mode of which the young girl was all unconscious, for she never looked at him once, though her male companion, whom she had named Perez, felt undisguised anger and uneasiness from time to time.
Of his frowns Pedro saw nothing, for his attention was riveted on the sweet young girl, so nothing heard he of the Reverend Padre Eizagiuerro's denunciations of worldly sin and iniquity.
The sermon over, and benediction given, Pedro rushed to the font, that he might give her some holy water in the hollow of his hand; but Perez, by an awkward or intended motion, knocked it into the eyes of Pedro, who was half blinded by its saline property. He uttered a malediction, and resolved to follow the little beauty; but she was driven away in a handsome carriage.
Again and again he came to vespers; but the sweet girl was no longer there to mingle her soft voice with the hymn; and, as we have said, the other fair ones who attended the Matriz Church were not to our adventurer's taste, he contented himself by leering at all the girls who promenaded in the Plaza, and this he did so pointedly, that, in one or two instances, nothing saved him from being punished summarily, even in that city of poniards and police, but his towering figure, muscular limbs, and dare-devil aspect.
A fortnight slipped away without any adventure.
He had not yet fallen on an heiress, and already 400 of his beloved dollars had slipped away, but not in works of charity or devotion. Money is easier spent than won everywhere, so Pedro began to get tired of Valparaiso.
He certainly led a very jolly life. There were no watches to keep in the wind and rain; no hoarse voice at the fore-scuttle summoned all hands to reef topsails on a sleety night; no scrambling for the best of the beef and potatoes in the filthy mess kid; no weevils to pick out of the mouldy biscuits; no pumps to work at, or decks to scrub; but withal Pedro—he knew not why—began to be weary, and wonder what Zuares was about: whether his share of the spoil was spent, and where he had turned his steps.
In Valparaiso, the mercantile men are nearly all Britons, Americans, or Germans. Thus, in the cafés frequented by Pedro, his appearance and bearing did not suit their taste exactly, and he never got beyond receiving and giving a very cold bow, exchanging a light for his cigar, or a civil remark now and then.
If he had the fumes of wine in his head—an element it was seldom without—he rattled out a forecastle oath in Spanish or English, which made them stare at him, and then at each other. Though twice at the Casa de Juego he had more than replenished his exchequer so rapidly that suspicion of foul play was excited, on one evening fortune was so decidedly against him that he walked forth into the Plaza with only ten dollars in his pocket, and the prospect of receiving his bill at the posada, amounting to 400 at least, which had been overdue now more than a week.
"Los Infernos!" thought he; "what is to be done now?"
The idea of donning his red wig, taking a turn through the streets after dark, and relieving some belated citizen of his purse, occurred to him; but he reflected on the acumen of the well-regulated police, and, with a malediction on things in general, wished himself at San Francisco, or La Villa Rica del Vera Cruz.
The evening was singularly beautiful; so much so that even Pedro could not be insensible to its lovely calm, and to the wonderful rocky scenery that overhangs the Valley of Paradise, as he rambled listlessly along the harbour towards the fort, on which the flag of the Chilian Republic was waving.
The stupendous hills that overlook the city were steeped in golden light, which streamed into the ravines that yawned beneath them; and each of these ravines seemed to be piled up on both sides with white-walled houses—for every chasm formed as it were a street, that branched upward from the low-lying suburb, named the Almendral.
The spires, the bay with its shipping, the cannon on the batteries, were all burnished with the yellow sheen, and over all, towering blue and dim in the distance, rose the cone of Aconcagua, sending a cloud of sombre smoke on the south wind, far away towards the woody and snowy Andes, whose summits rise above the limits of eternal frost—for the burning mountain we have named is 23,000 feet above the level of the sea at Valparaiso; and there are thirteen similar peaks in Chili, all nearly in a constant state of eruption, flame, smoke, and lava.
The lattices of a thousand villas that nestled on the sloping hills were gleaming in the light of the setting sun, as he sunk into the waters of the Pacific, casting the shadows of their walls and terraced roofs on gardens, where the gorgeous, but scentless, flowers of the tropics were closing their petals, and where the deep green leaves of the guava contrasted with the purple tints of the olive, the golden bulbs of the orange, and the giant quinces of Chili, that were ripening in his warmth—the glow of a summer that never ceases.
Pedro surveyed all this with a half-listless, half-pleased eye; and he watched the groups of idlers, in their picturesque dresses of gaudy colours, who thronged the harbour mole and evening promenade. There were the graceful Spanish whites, particularly the donzellas, with their sparkling eyes and piquante smiles, their black lace mantillas, short crinolines, and taper ankles; the slenderly-formed and olive-skinned mestizoes, and the half-naked, supple, and grinning mulattoes, who sung so gaily as they worked in gangs at cranes or capstan-bars.
Several padres were among the promenaders, chiefly Grey Friars, in greasy frocks and hoods, with beads and cord complete; and Chilian soldiers were not wanting, in tawdry uniforms, with plenty of braid without, and plenty of fleas within.
Two priests passed him—they were tall, thin, and sallow men—for whom all made way, for they were the famous preachers from Santiago, the Padres Ugarte and Eizagiuerro; and when Pedro lifted his sombrero, a pang shot through his heart as he thought of Zuares, and their boyish days, when they carried tapers, or swung the censer before the old Bishop of Orizaba—of what they were, and what they might have been.
"Caramba!" he muttered, "why should I think of such things?"
The harbour was full of shipping from Lima and Peru, taking in Cordovan leather in brown bales, cordage in vast coils, and dried fruit in boxes of all sizes. The waves curled in golden prisms over the great rock that lies near the shore, and the yellow-billed and speckled seamews that always cluster there fled screaming towards the offing, as the flag was hauled down and the evening gun boomed across the water from the fort which the Spaniards built of old as a defence against the Indians.
The evening was calm and mild, and the hum of the city was carried away by the soft breeze that swept across the bay, where hundreds of pleasure-boats were shooting to and fro under sail or oar.
Suddenly a gaudy little pinnace, that was running for the stairs near the old half-moon battery, caught the nautical eye of Pedro.
"Luff, luff, presto!" he exclaimed, as he saw there was something foul with the sheet; "luff, you lubber!"
The words had scarcely left his lips ere there was a shout from the spectators. The shoulder-of-mutton sail shivered and flapped as the boat broached-to and capsized.
Then a lady and gentleman were seen floundering and splashing in the water. The latter succeeded in reaching the keel of the inverted boat, to which he clung, wildly shouting for help the while; but the former was swept by the current that ran round the harbour rock.
"My daughter! O Dios mio! my poor daughter! She will perish—she will drown! Who will save her? O Madre de Dios! who will save her?" exclaimed an old gentleman, rushing in despair along the quay, wringing his hands, and gesticulating, as foreigners only do, appealing to several men in vain.
Pedro saw the girl rising and sinking alternately as her crinoline buoyed her up, and piteously she shrieked every time she rose. He coolly measured the distance from the quay to where she was drowning. He could swim like a fish; but he thought of his new finery, so recently donned, and was turning away, when the unfortunate father rushed forward and grasped his hands.
"Can you swim, senor?" he asked, impetuously.
"Yes, a little," replied Pedro, with hesitation.
"You can—you can!"
"Like a duck or a dolphin sometimes."
"A thousand dollars, if you save my poor girl, shall be yours!" exclaimed the old man, weeping.
"Are you sure that——"
"I can pay you? Eh, eh. O Dios mio! she will drown before my eyes while this wretch chaffers for her life. Oh, my Ignez! my Ignez!"
"Save her, if you can swim, I command you!" cried the full, deep voice of the Padre Eizagiuerro, who rushed forward. "Quick, senor! he who implores you to save his child—his only child—is the wealthy Moreno, the richest merchant in the city of Santiago."
"Too late!—too late!—she sinks! Pray to God for her!" cried a hundred voices.
"In, in!" exclaimed the Padres Ugarte and Eizagiuerro together, for her father was almost speechless with despair; "in, if you are a swimmer—two thousand dollars if you save her!"
"Half my fortune—yea, all, if you will but save her!" groaned the unhappy father.
"Shame! shame!" muttered the crowd.
"Two thousand will do—presto! here goes!" said Pedro, as he cast his sombrero, poncho, gaudy jacket and vest, his knife and revolver, to the care of old Moreno, and plunged into the water amid the joyous yells of the negroes, and the loud "Vivas!" of the white and yellow spectators, many of whom were already stripping as if to anticipate him.
Pedro's head of black curly hair was soon seen to rise above the water as he swam, unerringly as a Newfoundland dog, to where the man was gesticulating frantically on the keel of the capsized boat, and to where the poor girl had sunk.
There he dived down, and all who looked on held their breath for a time; many crossed themselves very devoutly; the two padres raised their hands and eyes to heaven, and all the friars were on their knees, with many of the people.
Again a "Viva!" rent the air, as Pedro reappeared, but a few yards off, with the girl on his left arm, while he swam vigorously with his right, and gained the battery steps, even before a boat could reach her, for which he was by no means anxious, as he wished to enjoy the entire credit and profit of the enterprise; but life seemed almost extinct in the poor creature.
"Dead or alive," muttered the heartless Pedro; "'tis nothing to me; 2,000 dollars are a good set-off against a wet shirt!"
The strong hand of the Padre Eizagieurro grasped his, and assisted him up the slimy sea stair, where he placed the senseless and dripping girl in her father's arms, and then the poor man wept as he covered her cold, wet cheek with kisses—the purest that are ever bestowed in this world; and now the shouts of "Viva el noble caballero!" that greeted him on all sides, so applaudingly and so vociferously, almost made Pedro Barradas believe himself the disinterested and gallant fellow the simple people believed him to be.
The young gentleman, who clung to the keel of the inverted boat, was almost immediately rescued by the crew of a brigantine, in which Pedro suddenly recognised, to his dismay, the otter-hunter; but the lady's companion was viewed with singular displeasure by all. Even the negroes ventured to mock him, for Pedro was the hero of the whole episode!
A carriage was summoned; the young lady, in whom Pedro discovered his beauty of the Matriz Church, and, who was already reviving, was placed therein, with her friend, or lover, as he appeared to be, by his excessive alarm and tenderness. Her father insisted on her preserver accompanying them, and after a little affected demur and diffidence, he gave an anxious glance at the brigantine, another at the crowd, lest some of her crew might be there, and, assenting, took his place beside Moreno.
He remembered what the Padre Eizagiuerro had said so hurriedly, that this old gentleman was the richest merchant in Santiago, the capital of Chili (of which the great city of Valparaiso is merely the port); that the girl he had saved was an only child.
"Caramba!" thought he; "I may get the daughter as well as the 2,000 duros. Courage, Pedro, amigo mio, for fortune smiles more than ever! How lucky it was that little accident occurred on board the brigantine!"
From the mole the carriage was driven to one of the most splendid hotels in Valparaiso. Don Salvador held his daughter in his arms, and hung over her with great solicitude and affection. She soon began to open her eyes, and the swinging motion of the carriage tended to promote the circulation of the blood. She was at once committed to the care of a medical man and her own attendants, and ere Pedro had dried his garments, and imbibed a stiff glass of brandy-and-water, most favourable tidings of her recovery were brought by her father, old Don Salvador, who insisted that Pedro should stay and sup with him, promising, that if Donna Ignez were sufficiently recovered ere he left them—which there was no reason to doubt—her preserver should be introduced to her.
"Bravo!" thought Pedro, as he approvingly glanced at himself askance in a great mirror, that ascended from the marble mantelpiece under which the gilt brassero smouldered, to the lofty frescoed ceiling; "bravo, Pedro!—so far so well!"
A supper, consisting chiefly of light dishes, fruit, and rare wines, served up in costly plate and splendid crystal, made Pedro's eyes twinkle, and ere the last flush of sunset had faded away on the Pacific, of which they had a fine view from the open windows of the hotel, they were joined by the Padres Eizagiuerro and Ugarte (whose presence Pedro could very well have spared); for the former was the confessor of Donna Ignez, and the latter was an old friend of her family.
Don Perez, the young man who had cut such a sorry figure on the keel of the inverted boat, also joined the party, but he was silent, reserved, and dissatisfied.
"Pardon me, senor," began Salvador de Moreno—a benevolent-looking old gentleman, whose silky hair was white as snow, though his face, which was noble in feature, wore a deep ruddy brown hue—"pardon me," he continued, after having expressed his gratitude in the most extravagant terms; "but may I inquire the name of a gentleman to whom my daughter owes her life, and I so much?"
Now, Pedro had not thought of a name to assume; but, with all the ready wit of a rogue, he at once foresaw that to adopt any other Christian cognomen than his own might prove awkward, if he forgot it, or failed to keep his cue, so he replied:
"Don Pedro Florez de Serrano."
The old merchant bowed very low indeed, for the name sounded well, and somehow not unfamiliar.
"You have served——"
"In the navy—yes," said Pedro, hastily.
"Ah—I thought so."
"Curse his clever eyes!" thought Pedro; "there is no concealing a sailor's hands."
Ere this, he had discovered a necessity for concealing this circumstance, which had always excited suspicions of his assumed character, for his hands were, of course, browned by tar and exposure, and hardened by tallying on to ropes, cables, and capstan-bars. He resolved to invest in a box of kid gloves forthwith, and to account for his nautical bearing, said:
"I am a lieutenant in the navy of the Southern States, on parole not to serve during the war against the North. I belonged to that famous ship, the Florida."
Don Salvador and the two padres bowed again, while Don Perez, a pale, but rather handsome young man, on whom Pedro's sharp eye turned from time to time, stared before him straight at his wine-glass, and looked, if possible, more discontented than ever.
"Jealous already, my old friend of the Matriz Church!—ho! ho!" thought Pedro.
"As your name is Florez," said the Padre Ugarte, "may I inquire whether you are any relation of Don Florez de——?"
Here the priest named a famous Spanish grandee. On which the adventurous Pedro promptly replied, while holding his glass to the liveried and aiguiletted servant, to be filled with hock, iced and sparkling, for the sixth time:
"I am no relation whatever, I believe—only a namesake."
"Indeed!"
"Since the death of my uncle, the Corregidor of Ciudad Rodrigo, in the old country, I have only one relation in the world."
"Ah, indeed!" remarked Padre Eizagiuerro, who seemed to be studying Pedro closely with his small, keen eyes.
"My father's cousin," he resumed, with a steady stare, which somewhat abashed the worthy ecclesiastic.
"May I inquire?" asked Perez, who had not yet spoken.
"Certainly—old Serrano, the Captain-General of Cuba."
"El Mariscal Duque de Serrano!" exclaimed Ugarte.
"Certainly—do you know him, Senor Padre?" continued Pedro, with affected carelessness, while rolling up a paper cigarito, knowing well that the truth of this bold statement would never be tested in the Republic of Chili; and though a citizen thereof, Don Salvador now bowed very low indeed, for he had enough of the old Spaniard in his disposition to have a respect, bordering on awe, for long names and long pedigrees. The priests glanced at each other doubtfully, but remained silent, for they were more acute men of the world than their worthy host.
"And how came you among us here in Chili?" asked Perez.
"Simply by a stroke of fortune, senor. My parole cuts me off indefinitely from naval employment; my cousin will do nothing for me, either in Castile or in Cuba, so I have come here to kill time by travelling, attended by a young fellow named Zuares, a faithful servant, whom I have lost; so I find myself," added Pedro, who, thanks to the tutelage of the old Bishop of Orizaba, could express himself well when he chose, "by the great shores of the Pacific without a single friend."
"Do not say so, I entreat you, Senor Don Pedro," exclaimed old Moreno, impulsively, as he shook the speaker's hands; "oh," he added, while his eyes filled, "how much do I owe you, Madre de Dios!—how much?"
("Two thousand dollars, my golden pigeon!" thought Pedro.)
"I shall be your friend, senor, and so must our kinsman Perez."
Don Perez mumbled some reply half in his wine-glass, for he evidently viewed our adventurer with no favourable eyes. Indeed, though loving his young cousin Ignez with all his soul, he had scarcely grace to thank Pedro for fishing her up from the bottom of the bay. Perez de Moreno was rather a handsome young man; his black hair was shorn short, and he had smart moustaches, that stuck straight out right and left, terminating in sharp points, and his costume, though provincial, became him well.
He wore a short, round jacket of dark figured silk (surtouts and swallow-tails are unknown in these regions); a rich vest of scarlet satin; a shirt open at the neck, fastened by gold studs, in the centre of each of which a diamond flashed; long, straight pantaloons of chocolate-coloured velvet, girt by a sash of yellow silk; a broad-brimmed brown beaver, encircled by a gold band; straw-coloured kid gloves, and a knife concealed somewhere, no doubt, completed his attire.
As yet not a word had been said about the dollars, and notwithstanding his chivalrous character and high connections, our friend Pedro was getting impatient on the subject, and was very well pleased when it was referred to, with a covert sneer, by Don Perez.
"Ah, true, true, Dios mio! I had forgotten," exclaimed Don Salvador, producing a gilt morocco pocket-book, and opening it hastily; but Pedro, knowing well the character of the merchant, and having a deep and ultimate game in view, declined to receive a single dollar for the service rendered. Don Salvador expostulated, remonstrated, and was almost indignant, while Pedro rose fifty per cent. in the estimation of the two priests. At last, he could with difficulty, apparently, be prevailed upon "to accept, as his remittances from Charleston had been delayed," a cheque from his host, on the bank of Santiago, for 1,000 dollars.
"We leave this to-morrow for Santiago, where we reside. I should like my daughter to see you ere we go; but I find that, if she is well enough, we must start by sunrise. If you should ever visit our city, don't forget us, senor—don't forget us, I beseech you," and the old gentleman presented his card, on which was engraved the name and address:
"Don Salvador de Moreno, Alameda de la Canada."
"I shall not forget, be assured, senor," said Pedro, pocketing the cheque and the card; and now, thinking, as the lights were beginning to multiply, that the time had come when it would be prudent to take his departure, he solemnly, and with much profuse politeness, bade his intended father-in-law adieu, for in this relationship he actually viewed Don Salvador already. "I have some business to transact, about—about—but it does not matter what, so I shall not be long behind you here."
He remembered the brigantine at anchor in the bay, and resolved to quit Valparaiso without loss of time.
"Adios, Padre Ugarte—Padre Eizagiuerro, adios!" said he, waving his hat, and yawing some what in his course towards the door; "adios, Don Perez; don't forget to learn to swi—swi—swim. A thousand farewells to you, Don Salvador."
Fortunately the door was promptly opened by a servant, or Pedro would have lurched against its panels of plate-glass, and ere long he found himself in the street, with his back against a lamp-post, and very dim ideas of how he had quitted the hotel. Then he thought Don Perez had insulted him, and a vague notion of returning and punching that individual's head floated through his own.
The cool breeze from the Pacific partly sobered him; he wrapped his poncho round him; felt if the cheque was safe; and, then, remembering that he was in a strange place, he searched next for his knife and revolver.
"All right—bueno!"—he hiccuped, "now for the Posada de San Augustin. The church is just opposite the posada—no, it is the posada that is opposite the church, amigo mio."
Though tipsy, he reflected that he had a heavy bill due there; but as he had not the slightest intention of liquidating it, the expenses of a night more would matter little, as he meant to depart for Santiago on the morrow and follow up his fortune there without delay.
Pedro lay long a-bed next day for divers weighty reasons. He had a crushing headache—the result of iced champagne, moselle, sherry, and brandy-punch; he had to remember all the little romances he had invented for the behoof of Don Salvador and the jealous Don Perez; he also deemed it safer to keep out of the way till nightfall—even though skilfully disguised—than to wander about Valparaiso while that devilish brigantine (he could see her from the posada windows) was anchored off the battery.
Among other things, Pedro reflected that he must get rid of Don Perez, whom he already hated as a rival.
He knew well that attentions to the fair sex must be gone warily about under the shadow of the Andes; for though the women of South America are handsome and gay, their ideas of morality are somewhat cloudy and vague, hence the jealousy of the men is extreme, their vengeance deadly and sudden. Spanish and Indian blood make a fiery mixture in that land of earthquakes and volcanoes.
Gallantry to women, married or single, is often repaid by the bullet or stiletto of a parent or lover; and yet what a certain writer says of California suits Chili, or any other of these regions, equally well, for there the very men who would lay down their lives to avenge the honour of their own family, would risk the same lives to complete the dishonour of another.
But the intentions of Senor Don Pedro Florez de Serrano, of the Southern navy, were strictly honourable. He contemplated nothing but matrimony.
Some woman he meant to marry; whether she was a princess or a paisano, whether, like Ignez, the heiress of uncounted pistoles, or the pretty keeper of a taberna, mattered nothing to him provided she could supply all his little exigences till he grew tired of her, slipped his cable and ran off to sea again.
So now an opportunity of the most golden and unexpected kind—one favoured by fortune and those good old romantic accessories of all lovers and novelists—to wit, gratitude and adventure, had suddenly opened up to him.
It seemed that he had but to go in and win. He was the rescuer from death of an heiress, young, beautiful, tender, and simple "as a sucking turkey," to use one of his own peculiar forecastle phrases; so he leaped from bed about mid-day, called for a long glass of brandy and potash iced, to assist in clearing his faculties, after which he began to consider in what fashion he would "levant" from the Posada de San Augustin and set out for Santiago, without seeking for his bill, to attempt which, when he had but ten dollars in hand, would only have been an insult to his worthy host, Felipe Fernandez, whom, he had no desire to offend.
Santiago lies sixty miles south-west of Valparaiso towards the Andes, a rough and hilly road. To proceed there on foot by no means suited Pedro's ideas of locomotion, while to travel by any kind of vehicle might lead to detection and other serious annoyances, so, as evening approached, and Pedro considered that old Moreno and his daughter must have had ten or twelve hours' start, he became sorely perplexed.
The sun set, the moon rose, and still Pedro was undecided.
Slowly, solemnly, and majestically that broad, round silver moon ascended from the calm waters of the Pacific. White as snow shone all the plastered streets of Valparaiso, and the sea that rolled rippling into the bay, between the embattled forts, seemed a sheet of liquid sheen; but in the blue sky her silver light struggled for supremacy with a lurid red cast—not upon the clouds, for there were none—but upon the very ether itself, by the flames that were now shooting upward from the vast cone of Aconcagua.
From the windows of the front drawing-room, or large public saloon of the posada, which opened towards the bay, Pedro sauntered, sunk in thought and rage—perplexity always took that form with him—to those of the back, which overlooked the stable-yard, and there a violent altercation arrested his attention. It was taking place between no less a personage than Felipe Fernandez and a horseman who had just arrived.
"I have ridden from the Maypo River," said the latter, "and must put up here."
"A short distance, senor, and your horse is quite fresh," replied the host; "it is useless dismounting, as I cannot accommodate you."
"Why?" asked the other, with a malediction which sounded familiar to the ear of Pedro.
"We have no room."
"Bah! I have been told that elsewhere."
"Very likely," replied the host, drily, as he turned to retire.
"If you have no room inside, just shove a pole out of the upper window, and I'll roost on that in California fashion," urged the speaker, as he deliberately dismounted, and, taking the lasso from his saddlebow, threw it over his arm; "I must have a bottle of wine, at least, ere I look for other diggings—caramba."
This interjection made Pedro regard the stranger more closely as he passed from where he had fastened his horse, and crossed the yard in the full blaze of the moonlight. Then Barradas ground his teeth as he recognised Cramply Hawkshaw, whom he had not met since that afternoon of crime in the Barranca Secca; and he was quite as much enraged and bewildered on seeing Hawkshaw there in the Posada de San Augustin as that personage had been on beholding him when perched on the yard-arm of the Hermione, on that evening after she left London.
But Pedro's measures were rapidly taken; already he heard the footsteps of him he must avoid ascending the broad marble-staircase of the hotel! Save his poncho, knife, and revolver, Pedro had no luggage that he cared about, so he thrust the weapons in his sash, threw the poncho over his shoulders, stuck his sombrero fiercely on his head, and brushed past Hawkshaw just as that person entered the room.
Descending quickly to the stable-yard, Pedro went straight to where Hawkshaw's horse was standing in shadow, and after deliberately giving a glance at the bit and bridle, and lengthening the stirrup-leathers, to suit himself, he mounted, rode softly out of the stable-yard, and before Captain Hawkshaw, late of the Texan Partisan Rangers, had finished his wine, and had another expostulation with the maestro de casa, who either knew him of old, or disliked his trapper-like equipment, Pedro was fully three miles from Valparaiso, and was ascending, at a slow pace, of course, the steep and winding path which led to one of the many ravines in the mountain range that overhangs the city.
The horse had come from the Maypo River that day, as Hawkshaw stated; but it was strong and active, being one of that degenerated breed of Spanish chargers, which are to be met with, sometimes in herds of 10,000, on the vast plains which extend from the shores of La Plata to the mountains of Patagonia. His head was broad; his legs clumsy; he was long-eared, rough-coated, and of a chestnut bay colour; but, like his brethren of the grassy prairies, he was possessed of great strength and spirit, and thus ascended the rough mountain path with unflagging zeal; but not so quickly as to prevent another horse, whose hoofs were heard behind, from gaining on him as they entered the ravine in the hills, where their galloping was re-echoed by the overhanging volcanic rocks.
Pedro's hasty flight, together with the disappearance of the horse of the unwelcome visitor, who now stormed, and threatened to complain to the nearest alcalde, having excited the suspicion of the host, and a gust of rage in the breast of Hawkshaw, the latter, on hearing of the ponderous and immovable trunk, suggested that it should at once be examined, for, being aware of every species of trick under the sun, he at once suspected that it was full alone of emptiness.
Promptly acting on this alarming suggestion, Fernandez burst it open, and then nothing was seen in it, save the heads of the screws that secured it to the floor. He tore his hair, said many irreverent things of poor San Augustin, the patron of his posada, and leaping on one of his own horses, after a few inquiries, started in pursuit of the runaway along the Santiago road.
His horse being one of those which are imported from San Domingo, was of pure Castilian breeding, and rapidly overtook the Chilian nag ridden by Pedro, whom Fernandez soon recognised in the moonlight, as he jogged along, with his toes turned out and his elbows squared, and whom he summoned to stop, just as they gained the wildest part of the ravine, where the hills overhung it darkly, though at its western end, far down below, could be seen white Valparaiso, its deep-blue bay and shipping, its lighted thoroughfares, its spires and convents, spread out like a fairy map in the silver sheen.
"Hollo!" answered Pedro, reining up, "who are you that follow a gentleman thus, shouting on the road like a drunken Indian? What—is it you, Senor Fernandez?"
"Yes, tis I," replied the landlord, breathless alike with rage and his hasty ride, yet resolving to dissemble a little; "permit me to expostulate with you, senor, on the double mistake you have committed."
"Mistake—I?"
"Yes, senor!"
"Explain yourself, and quickly too," replied Pedro, fiercely, as he grasped the revolver under his poncho.
"You have taken a stranger's horse from my house, and departed without paying the bill."
"I have left baggage, fellow," Pedro was beginning, with great loftiness.
"Only an empty box," interrupted Fernandez, but with rather a quavering voice, when remembering with deep mortification that he had come on this errand unarmed.
"You know Don Salvador de Moreno?"
"Perfectly."
"I have here a cheque of his for a large sum, sir," said Pedro, producing the old merchant's stamped paper. "What change have you about you?"
"I regret, senor, that I have only twenty pistoles," said the landlord, with sudden affability; "yes—just twenty, and a few dollars."
"All of which I require you to hand over instantly, or I shall send this bullet through your brain!" cried Pedro, with an oath, as he levelled the revolver full at the head of the startled Fernandez.
The latter saw the steel barrel glittering in the moonlight; he saw the caps on the breech; and he saw, too, that there was no misunderstanding the fierce glitter in the eyes of Pedro. The path was lonely, and no aid was nigh.
"Presto!" roared Pedro; "I have no time to spare."
With a reluctance that was no way feigned, Fernandez gave his purse, which Pedro thrust into his pocket.
"Now, senor," said Fernandez, "I beseech you to give me the horse, for which I must account to Captain Hawkshaw, as he left it on my premises."
Pedro laughed aloud on hearing this request.
"Harkye, shipmate, he rides seldom who only rides borrowed horses; so I ride seldom, and, being a sailor, don't overlike it. Captain Hawkshaw is an old friend of mine, and may find his horse if he inquires at Quillota." (This was said to mislead the landlord as to his route.) "All my little mistakes are rectified now, I think, eh? Adios! I shall always recommend the Posada de San Augustin to my friends. Your cooking is admirable, your wines ditto. Be assured alike of my boundless custom and most distinguished consideration when next I visit your beautiful city of Valparaiso."
And thus bantering, the ruffian rode off, leaving Fernandez, speechless with rage, to retrace his steps or enjoy the moonlight among the mountains, as he chose, on very bad terms, however, with his patron, San Augustin, whom he believed had handed him over to the Evil One.
Pedro's horse, if not swift, had good mettle in him, and trotted steadily eastward up the ascent, towards the higher ranges of hills, and ere long no less than four volcanic peaks were visible, all flaming at once, like the cones of a mighty natural furnace, and casting from afar off a glow of fire even to the zenith.
At midnight, the moonshine was still glorious. Pedro had ridden more than half-way to Santiago—thirty miles—so he stopped to rest himself, rather than the poor horse, in a little dell amid groves of mimosa trees, where parroquets, flame-coloured and green, chattered amid the branches; where the tall ceibas, or cotton-wood timber, cast their shadows on a deep and reedy lagune, whereon the giant water-flowers of that tropical region floated, and where, for coolness, the picaflor, or little humming-bird, nestled in their cups by day.
Though a South American, Pedro, as a seaman, had been long unused to the saddle. He felt as if all his bones had been mangled; wearily he threw the bridle over the stump of a broken tree, and stretched himself on the grass, while his nag drank of the lagune.
On the whole, Pedro was greatly pleased with himself. He had Don Salvador's bill for 1,000 dollars; he had ten dollars yet remaining of the plunder from the brigantine, and he had twenty pistoles and four dollars just taken from Fernandez. Then there was Hawkshaw's horse, which, with its furniture, he valued at 500 more.
"Vamas!" thought he; "at this rate I shall soon realise a fortune."
While Pedro was thus casting up this little sum, gained by his industry, he did not perceive a dark, lithe, and athletic young fellow, who had been lurking among the luxuriant weeds, and who now stole stealthily towards him, with a knife glittering in his hand; and little thought Pedro that the clink of his ill-gotten pistoles had been overheard.
This stealthy personage wore a red baize shirt, a yellow poncho cloak, or surreppa, an old-fashioned Spanish hat, much broken and bruised, and long brown leather leggings.
He had a calf-skin girdle, fastened to which by a thong the sheath of his knife was dangling, beside an Indian bota, or drinking-flask.
Gliding like a serpent or eel, he was close to Pedro, ere a sound made the latter turn sharply, with instinctive caution.
Each uttered an imprecation—an expletive not to be found in Johnson or Walker—there was a gleam of the lurker's knife, and a flash of Pedro's pistol, as they closed suddenly, and, without harming each other, suddenly drew back.
"Pedro!"
"Zuares!"
Such were the exclamations that escaped the lips of these worthies, just in time to prevent a little culpable fratricide.
The brothers now exchanged an account of their adventures since they had scuttled the boat of the brigantine at the harbour of the Almendral, and separated, each to shift for himself.
Those of Zuares were very simple, being merely the breaking of all the commandments, and spending his dollars in such a fashion that the atmosphere of Valparaiso became too hot for his comfort, and he was now travelling inland, to avoid the chance of being legally garotted in a city where there was no Sangrado equalling our friend Heriot in a skill calculated to baffle even Calcraft.
But Pedro's narrative and intentions filled Zuares with genuine admiration and envy of his brother, the part of whose valet he promptly resolved to personate, in the prosecution of their scheme upon the funds and family of Don Salvador de Moreno, the account of whose simplicity, together with the beauty of Donna Ignez, he vowed to be quite delightful.
"Of course. Corpo Santo! a rich man's only daughter is always lovely," said Pedro; "but now, Zuares, hermano mio, you must remember all I have said, particularly about our—I mean my noble relatives."
"I have spelt them all over, I think. There is Serrano, Captain-General of Ciudad Rodrigo, and your cousin, Don Florez, who is alcalde of Cuba——"
"No, no, no!" exclaimed Pedro; "at this rate you will play the devil with me. I am Don Pedro Florez de Serrano, cousin to the Captain-General of Cuba; my late uncle was corregidor of Ciudad Rodrigo, as rich and as pious as you please."
"And you—you are——"
"A lieutenant of the Southern Navy on parole; which will account for my brown hands, and other shortcomings in the matter of gentility. You——"
"I am a most attached and faithful servant."
"A regular Sancho. You have your cue?"
"Por vida del demonio, what a game!"
"Glorioso! Vamos (come)!"
And the two rascals laughed heartily as they resumed the road that led to Santiago, chatting, and fraternally riding by turns the horse of Hawkshaw, which now, poor animal, began to droop its head and ears in weariness.
"That Fortune is not nice in her morality," says Maria Edgeworth; "that she frequently favours those who do not adhere to truth more than those who do, we have early had occasion to observe. But whether fortune may not be in this, as in all the rest, treacherous and capricious—whether she may not by her first smiles and favours, lure her victims to their cost, to their utter undoing at last, remains to be seen."
And so it remains to be seen how far the blind goddess favoured Pedro and his well-beloved brother, Zuares.
Towards the close of the next day, they drew near the great city of Santiago, and meeting a muleteer, who was travelling towards Quillota, with a train of mules, laden with jerked beef and hemp, they further improved their financial resources by selling to him the horse of Hawkshaw, with bridle and saddle, for 100 dollars, and the muleteer was too well pleased with his bargain to make any particular inquiries respecting it; but took the precaution, after he left the sellers, to halt in the first peach grove, and shear off the horse's mane, dock his tail and forelock, and otherwise disguise him.
On entering Santiago, to avoid any further mistakes, Pedro proceeded at once to get Don Salvador's cheque turned into hard cash of the Chilian Republic. Then he had the somewhat picturesque costume of Zuares changed for a handsome suit of Spanish livery; and, thirdly, he betook himself to the Alameda de la Canada, just as the streets were being lighted, in search of the house of the Morenos.
The Alameda of Santiago is, perhaps, the most magnificent promenade in any of the South American cities. It is more than 150 years old. Measuring 1,000 yards in length, it is divided into three stately walks, on each side of which runs a carriage-way. There are also three canals, which intersect it, and six rows of gigantic poplars.
Here is also the ancient convent of St. Francis, with a church built of pure white stone, having a lofty steeple, from the galleries of which may be seen the fertile vale that stretches to the base of the Andes—the land of gold and of fire.
The stone seats were all occupied by ladies. All were gay, and many of them were beautiful. Their lace mantillas were all thrown back, to float over their shoulders, for the evening was warm, and all their large feather fans were at work.
Gentlemen in sombreros hovered round their seats in hundreds, and the fine band of a Lancer regiment of the Chilian Republic played near the octagon fountain, at the foot of the centre walk, and filled the ambient air with the strains of "Il Trovatore."
The December evening was lovely, as well as warm (the thermometer rises to 85 degrees there in January), and the yellow glory of the set sun yet lingered on the giant summits of the snow-clad Andes, shaded off into saffron, purple, and dark blue in the ravines and valleys, through which roll those rivers that mingle their gold-dust with the sand on the shores of the Pacific—the Rio Monte and the Aconcagua, whose banks are bordered by groves of the orange, the fig, the peach, and the pomegranate, for in Chili the land teems with all that can minister to luxury and to wealth.
Accompanied by his valet, who walked at a respectful distance behind, bearing his poncho and umbrella, our acquaintance, Don Pedro Florez, walked along the Alameda, with a cigar in his mouth, his sombrero stuck very much over his right eye, and both hands thrust into his trousers pockets. He peered or leered into the faces of all the ladies with an air of assurance that he might not have adopted, had he and Zuares not recently dined. He inquired of a water-carrier for the mansion of Don Salvador, and it was speedily pointed out to him.
"Demonio!" thought Pedro, as he ascended the broad flight of marble steps in front; "it is a regular palace, this! And what if Donna Ignez should have been too ill to travel after her cold bath?—she may be still at Valparaiso."
Pedro was somewhat scared, and Zuares was so completely, by the magnitude and magnificent aspect of the mansion, the door of which was open, revealing a lighted vestibule, and lamps were shining through nearly all of its lofty windows. The balconies were richly gilded; the Venetian blinds were all up, and thus the rich curtains, the draperies, and gilded ceilings of the apartments could be seen from the Alameda.
Don Salvador was at home.
Pedro took his cloak from his valet, whom he told, with great condescension, to amuse himself for the remainder of the evening at the dancing-rooms, but to be at their hotel before midnight. Zuares touched his hat, with his tongue in his cheek, while his brother was ushered into the ante-cámera, or drawing-room, where Don Salvador, Don Perez, and Padre Eizagiuerro (whom he could very well have spared) received him with great politeness; but the first alone with any cordiality.
Coffee and chocolate were being served round, and Donna Ignez came forward, blushing and smiling, to be presented to her "brave preserver."
She was, evidently, of pure Spanish blood; her pale brunette complexion showing clearly that there was no native mixture in her blue veins; while her eyes, and their lashes and brows, were black as night.
As Pedro surveyed the girl's pure loveliness, not her least attractions seemed to be her necklace, her long pendant ear-rings, her bracelets, and high Spanish comb, all en suite—all blood-red rubies, which sparkled all the brighter for the snowy pearls that mingled with them in settings of richly-chased gold, for Pedro Barradas had the eye and heart of a pirate.
Two sisters of the pale and discontented Don Perez were present—Donna Erminia, a tall and magnificent girl (whose broad white shoulders and large proportions made Pedro wish that she had been the merchant's daughter), and little Donna Paula, who was only some ten years old or so, but who seemed a miniature edition of Erminia, with a high comb, fan, and veil, a demure little face, and calm, black, inquiring eyes. She sat on a velvet hassock near the knee of Don Salvador, with whom she was an especial favourite.
All unused to society such as this, Pedro was sorely abashed for a time, till his natural impudence came to his aid. His past education, and his service as a boy in the cathedral church of Orizaba, he now recalled with success, and the knowledge he had gained of clerical matters, served him in his endeavours to cast "dust in the eyes" of the Padre Eizagiuerro as to his real character, and yet, withal, the priest mistrusted him.
He saw that there was something unreal about this Don Pedro—that he was not a gentleman of Spain, or any other place; and as for the Padre Ugarte, he suspected something worse than mere imposture. Yet, veiling the native ferocity of his character, Pedro was now humble, fawning, and discreet—oh! exceedingly discreet! He had a great game to play—a rich end in view.
"We met, senor, once before that accident," said Donna Ignez, looking up with a bright smile in her soft eyes.
"Yes, senora," replied Pedro.
"At the Matriz Church—ah, you remember!"
"Could I ever forget?" was the gallant response.
"And the sermon?'
"It was divine," said Pedro, in a low voice, but yet distinct enough to reach the ear of the padre.
So now they were friends at once, to an extent that cousin Perez could neither understand nor relish.
Though, when inflamed by his potations, a mad ruffian, as we have shown by his proceedings on board the Hermione, Pedro was not altogether destitute of the subtle art of winning female favour—the art in which his father excelled so fatally, and which was the only inheritance he had left him—so he exerted every energy to please the fair young Ignez, and to use with industry the time that fortune gave him.
So, after detailing a very bloody engagement between the ships of the Federals and Confederates, in which he alleged he was wounded and left for dead on the enemy's deck, he suddenly affected to discover a new source for deep interest in Donna Ignez—a close and most remarkable resemblance which she bore to "a sister, whom he loved dearly."
"Where does she reside?" asked Donna Erminia; "in Spain?"
"Dear old Spain, of which papa talks so much," added her cousin Ignez.