THE HALT.
The sun had almost entirely disappeared on the horizon at the moment
when the caravans reached the halting ground.
This spot, situated on the top of a rather scarped hill, had been
selected with that sagacity which distinguishes Texan or Mexican
arrieros; any surprise was impossible, and the aged trees that grew on
the crest of the hill would, in the event of an attack, offer a secure
protection against bullets.
The mules were unloaded, but, contrary to the usual custom, the bales,
instead of being employed as a breastwork for the camp, were piled up
and placed out of reach of the marauders whom chance or cupidity might
attract to this quarter when the darkness had set in.
Seven or eight large fires were lit in a circle, in order to keep off
wild beasts; the mules received their ration of Indian corn on _mantas_
or horsecloths laid on the ground; then, so soon as sentinels were
posted round the camp, the troopers and arrieros were busily engaged in
preparing the poor supper, which the day's fatigues rendered necessary.
Captain Don Juan and the monk, who had gone a little aside to a fire lit
expressly for them, were beginning to smoke their husk cigarettes, while
the officer's servant was hastily preparing his master's meal--a meal,
we are bound to say, as simple as that of the other members of the
caravan, but which hunger had the privilege of rendering not only
appetising, but almost succulent, although it was only composed of a few
_varas_ of tocino, or meat dried in the sun, and four or five biscuits.
The Captain soon finished his supper. He then rose, and, as night had
completely fallen, went to visit the sentries, and see that all was in
order. When he resumed his place by the fire, Father Antonio, with his
feet turned to the flame, and wrapped in a thick zarapé, was sleeping,
or pretending to sleep, soundly.
Don Juan examined him for a moment with an expression of hatred and
contempt, impossible to describe, shook his head twice or thrice
thoughtfully, and then told his assistants, who were standing a few
paces off in expectation of his orders, to have the two prisoners
brought up.
These prisoners had hitherto been kept apart; though treated with
respect, it was, however, easy for them to see that they were guarded
with the greatest care; still, either through carelessness or some other
reason, they did not appear to notice the fact, for their weapons had
been left them, and, judging from their muscular force and energetic
features, though both had reached middle life, there was fair ground for
supposing when the moment arrived for them to insist on their liberty,
they would be the men to try and regain it by force.
Without any remark they followed the Captain's servant, and soon found
themselves before that officer.
Though the night was gloomy, the flames of the fire spread sufficient
light around to illumine the faces of the new comers.
On seeing them Don Juan gave a start of surprise, but one of the
prisoners laid his finger on his lip to recommend prudence to him, and
at the same time glanced significantly at the monk lying near them.
The Captain understood this dumb warning, to which he replied by a light
nod of the head, and then affected the utmost carelessness.
"Who are you?" he asked, as he idly rolled a cigarette between his
fingers.
"Hunters," one of the prisoners answered, without hesitation.
"You were found a few hours back halting on the bank of a stream."
"Quite correct."
"What were you doing there?"
The prisoner bent a scrutinizing glance around, and then looked again
boldly at the speaker.
"Before giving any further answer to your questions," he said, "I should
like to ask you one in my turn."
"What is it?"
"Your right to cross-question me?"
"Look round you," the Captain lightly replied.
"Yes, I understand you, the right of force. Unluckily I do not recognize
that right. I am a free hunter, acknowledging no other law but my will,
no other master but myself."
"Oh, oh! your language is bold, comrade."
"It is that of a man not accustomed to yield to any arbitrary power; to
take me you have abused--I do not say your strength, for your soldiers
would have killed me, before compelling me to follow them, had not such
been my intention--but the facility with which I confided in you: I
therefore protest against it, and demand my immediate freedom."
"Your haughty language has no effect on me, and were it my good
pleasure to force you to speak, I could compel you by certain
irresistible arguments I possess."
"Yes," the prisoner said, bitterly, "the Mexicans remember the Spaniards
their ancestors, and appeal to torture when necessary; well, try it,
Captain--who prevents you? I trust that my gray hairs will not grow weak
before your young moustache."
"Enough of this," the Captain said, angrily. "If I give you your
liberty, should I deliver a friend or a foe?"
"Neither."
"Hum! what do you mean?"
"My answer is clear enough, surely."
"Still, I do not understand it."
"I will explain in two words."
"Speak."
"Both of us being placed in diametrically opposite positions, chance has
thought proper to bring us together to-day: if we now part, we shall
take with us no feeling of hatred through our meeting, because neither
you nor I have had cause to complain of each other, and probably we
shall never see each other again."
"Still, it is plain that when my soldiers found you, you were expecting
somebody on this road."
"What makes you suppose that?"
"Hang it! you told me you were hunters; I do not see any game you could
hunt along this road."
The prisoner began laughing.
"Who knows?" he replied, with a stress on his words, "Perhaps it was
more precious game than you may fancy, and of which you would like to
have your share."
The monk gave a slight start, and opened his eyes as awaking.
"What?" he said, addressing the Captain, and stifling a yawn. "You are
not asleep, Don Juan?"
"Not yet," the latter answered. "I am questioning the two men my
vanguard arrested some hours ago."
"Ah!" the monk remarked with a disdainful glance at the strangers,
"these poor devils do not appear to me very alarming."
"You think so?"
"I do not know what you can have to fear from these men."
"Perhaps they are spies?"
Fray Antonio assumed a paternal air.
"Spies?" he said; "Do you fear an ambuscade?"
"Under the circumstances in which we now are, that supposition is not so
improbable, I fancy."
"Nonsense! in a country like this, and with the escort you have at your
service, that would be extraordinary; moreover, these two men let
themselves be captured without resistance, as I heard, when they might
easily have escaped."
"That is true."
"It is evident, then, that they had no bad intentions. If I were you, I
would quietly let them go where they pleased."
"Is that your advice?"
"Indeed it is."
"You seem to take a great interest in these two strangers."
"I? Not the least in the world. I only tell you what is right, that's
all: now you can act as you please. I wash my hands of it."
"You may be right, still I will not set these persons at liberty till
they have told me the name of the person they were expecting."
"Were they expecting anybody?"
"They say so, at any rate."
"It is true, Captain," said the person who had hitherto spoken; "but
though we knew you were coming, it was not you we were waiting for."
"Who was it, then?"
"Do you insist on knowing?"
"Certainly."
"Then answer, Fray Antonio," the prisoner said with a grin; "for you
alone can reveal the name the Captain asks of us."
"I?" the monk said with a start of passion, and turning pale as a
corpse.
"Ah, ah!" the Captain said, as he turned to him, "this is beginning to
grow interesting."
It was a singular scene presented by the four men standing round the
fire, whose flame fantastically lit up their faces.
The Captain carelessly smoked his cigarette, while looking sarcastically
at the monk, on whose face impudence and fear were fighting a battle,
every incident in which was easy to read; the two hunters, with their
hands crossed over the muzzles of their long rifles, smiled cunningly,
and seemed to be quietly enjoying the embarrassment of the man whom they
had placed in this terrible dilemma.
"Don't pretend to look so surprised, Padre Antonio," the prisoner then
at length said; "you know very well we were expecting you."
"Me?" the monk said in a choking voice; "the scoundrel is mad, on my
soul."
"I am not mad, Padre, and I will trouble you not to employ such language
toward me," the prisoner replied drily.
"Come, give in," the other, who had hitherto been silent, cried
coarsely; "I do not care to dance at the end of a rope for your good
pleasure."
"Which will inevitably happen," the Captain remarked quietly, "if you do
not decide, Caballeros, on giving me a clear and explicit explanation of
your conduct."
"There you see, Señor Frayle," the prisoner continued, "our position is
growing delicate; come, behave like a man."
"Oh!" the monk exclaimed furiously, "I have fallen into a horrible
trap."
"Enough," the Captain said in a thundering voice; "this farce has lasted
only too long, Padre Antonio. It is not you who have fallen into a trap,
but you tried to draw me into one. I have known you for a long time, and
possess the most circumstantial details about the plans you were
devising. It is a dangerous game you have been playing for a long time;
a man cannot serve GOD and the devil simultaneously, without all being
discovered at last; still, I wished to confront you with these worthy
men, in order to confound you, and make the mask fall from your
hypocritical face."
At this rude apostrophe the Monk was for a moment stunned, crushed as he
was beneath the weight of the charges brought against him; at length he
raised his head and turned to the Captain.
"Of what am I accused?" he asked haughtily.
Don Juan smiled contemptuously.
"You are accused," he replied, "of having wished to lead the conducta I
command into an ambush formed by you, and where at this moment your
worthy acolytes are waiting to massacre and rob us. What will you reply
to that?"
"Nothing," he answered, drily.
"You are right, for your denials would not be accepted. Still, now that
you are convicted by your own confession, you will not escape without an
eternal recollection of our meeting."
"Take care of what you are about to do, Señor Captain: I belong to the
church, and this gown renders me inviolable."
A mocking smile contracted the Captain's lips.
"No matter for that," he replied, "it shall be stripped off you."
Most of the troopers and arrieros, aroused by the loud voices of the
monk and the officer, had gradually drawn nearer, and attentively
followed the conversation.
The Captain pointed to the monk, and addressed the soldiers.
"Strip off the gown that covers that man," he said; "fasten him to a
catalpa, and give him two hundred lashes with a _chicote_."
"Villains!" the monk exclaimed, nearly out of his mind; "Any man of you
who dares to lay hands on me I curse; he will be eternally condemned for
having insulted a minister of the altar."
The soldiers stopped in terror before this anathema, which their
ignorance and stupid superstition robbed them of the courage to brave.
The monk folded his arms, and addressed the officer triumphantly--
"Wretched madman," he said, "I could punish you for your audacity, but I
pardon you. Heaven will undertake to avenge me, and you will be punished
when your last hour arrives. Farewell! Make room for me to pass,
fellows!"
The dragoons, confused and timid, fell back slowly and hesitatingly
before him; the Captain, forced to confess his impotence, clenched his
fists, as he looked passionately around him.
The monk had all but passed through the ranks of the soldiers, when he
suddenly felt his arm clutched; he turned with the evident intention of
severely reprimanding the man who was so audacious as to touch him, but
the expression of his face suddenly changed on seeing who it was that
stopped him, and looked at him craftily, for it was no other than the
strange prisoner, the first cause of the insult offered him.
"One moment, Señor Padre," the hunter said. "I can understand that these
worthy fellows, who are Catholics, should fear your curse, and dare not
lay a hand on you through their dread of eternal flames, but with me it
is different. I am a heretic, as you know, hence I run no risk in taking
off your gown, and, with your permission, I will do you that slight
service."
"Oh!" the monk replied, as he ground his teeth; "I will kill you, John,
I will kill you, villain!"
"Nonsense, threatened people live a long while," John replied, as he
forced him to take off his monk's gown.
"There," he continued, "now, my fine fellows, you can carry out your
Captain's orders in perfect safety; this man is no more to you than the
first comer."
The hunter's bold action suddenly broke the spell that enchained the
soldiers. So soon as the much-feared gown no longer covered the monk's
shoulders, listening to neither prayers nor threats, they seized the
culprit, fastened him, in spite of his cries, securely to a catalpa, and
conscientiously administered the two hundred lashes decreed by the
Captain, while the hunters played their part by counting the blows and
laughing loudly at the contortions of the wretched man, whom pain caused
to writhe like a serpent.
At the one hundred and twenty-eighth lash the monk became silent: his
nervous system being completely overthrown, rendered him insensible;
still, he did not faint, his teeth were clenched, a white foam escaped
from his crisped lips, he looked fixedly before him without seeing
anything, and giving no other signs of existence than the heavy sighs
which at intervals upheld his muscular chest.
When the punishment was ended, and he was unfastened, he fell to the
ground like a log, and lay there motionless.
His robe was handed back to him, and he was left to lie there, no one
troubling himself further about him.
The two hunters then went off, after talking to the Captain for some
minutes in a low voice.
The rest of the night passed away without incident.
A few minutes before sunrise, the soldiers and arrieros prepared to load
the mules, and prepare everything for the start.
"Stay," the Captain suddenly exclaimed, "where is the monk? We cannot
abandon him thus; lay him on a mule, and we will leave him at the first
rancho we come to."
The soldiers hastened to obey, and look for Padre Antonio, but all their
search was in vain; he had disappeared, and left no trace of his flight.
Don Juan frowned at the news, but, after a moment's reflection, he shook
his head carelessly.
"All the better," he said, "he would have been in our way."
The conducta herewith started again.