CHAPTER VIII.
THE TOLDO.
On leaving the reception room, Emile Gagnepain proceeded to the _toldo_
occupied by the Marchioness de Castelmelhor and her daughter. In thus
acting, the young man obeyed a presentiment which told him that in
what had passed before him a melancholy farce had been played by Don
Pablo, and that the readiness with, which he had consented to part with
them concealed some perfidy or other.
This presentiment had become so fixed in the young man's mind--it had
become so real to him--that, although nothing arose to corroborate this
suspicion of treachery, he was perfectly convinced of it, and would
have asserted as much had occasion called for it.
Drawn, spite of himself, into a series of adventures very disagreeable
to a man who, like him, had come to America to seek for that freedom
and tranquillity of mind which his country, torn by factions, refused
him, the young man had at last--as always happens--become interested in
the anomalous position into which he had been thrown, with the feverish
anxiety of a man who sees passing before him the scenes of a stirring
drama. Moreover, without his taking any heed of it, a sentiment that
he could not analyse had taken possession of his heart. This feeling
had grown, unknown to himself, almost insensibly, and finally had
acquired such force that the young man--who began to be frightened
at the novel situation in which he was suddenly placed--despaired of
freeing himself from it. Like all natures not feeble, but careless--not
daring seriously to question himself, and sound the gulf which had thus
opened in his heart--he allowed himself carelessly to be drifted by the
current which carried him along, enjoying the present without caring
for the future, and assuring himself that when the catastrophe arrived
it would be time enough to face the danger and to take his stand.
He had taken but a few steps in the camp when, turning his head, he
perceived Don Santiago Pincheyra at a few paces behind him.
The Montonero was walking carelessly, his arms behind his back, with a
vague look, whistling a _zambacueca_--in a word, all the appearance of
a man taking a lounging walk. But the painter was not deceived: he knew
that Don Pablo, engaged with his guests, towards whom he was obliged
to do the honours of the camp, had deputed his brother to watch his
movements and render an account of his proceedings.
The young man by degrees slackened his pace unaffectedly, and, turning
suddenly on his heel, found himself face to face with Don Santiago.
"Eh!" said he, feigning to see him for the first time; "What a charming
surprise, Señor! You have then left to your brother, Don Pablo, the
care of treating with the Spanish officers."
"As you see, Señor," answered the other, rather nonplussed, and not
well knowing what to say.
"And you are, no doubt, taking a walk?"
"Upon my word, yes; between ourselves, dear Señor, these formal
receptions weary me; I am a plain man, you know."
"_Caray_, if I know it!" said the Frenchman, with a sly air; "So you
are free?"
"_Mon Dieu!_ Yes, completely."
"Well, I am delighted that you have succeeded in disengaging yourself
from these proud and haughty strangers. It is very fortunate for me
that you are free. I confess I scarcely reckoned on the pleasure of
meeting you thus."
"You were seeking me, then?" said Don Santiago, with astonishment.
"Certainly, I was looking for you; only, under the present
circumstances, I repeat, I did not hope to meet with you."
"Ah! Why were you seeking me, then?"
"Well, dear Señor, as I have long known that you are one of my best
friends, I intended to ask a service of you."
"To ask a service of me--me!"
"_Parbleu!_ Who else? Except your brother Don Pablo and you, I do not
know anyone at Casa-Frama."
"It is true; you are a _forastero_ stranger."
"Alas! Yes--all that there is left of a forastero."
"What is the service?" asked the Montonero, completely deceived by the
feigned good nature of the young man.
"This is the affair," answered the latter with imperturbable coolness;
"only I beg you to keep the secret, for it concerns other persons, and
consequently is rather serious."
"Ah! Ah!" exclaimed Don Santiago.
"Yes," pursued the young man, nodding his head affirmatively, "you
promise to keep it secret, do you not?"
"On my honour."
"Thank you, I am satisfied. I confess, then, that I begin to be
horribly bored at Casa-Frama."
"I can understand that," answered the Montonero, shaking his head.
"I wish to leave."
"What prevents you?"
"_Mon Dieu!_ A multitude of things; first, the two ladies whom you
know."
"That is true," said he with a smile.
"You do not understand me."
"How so?"
"Why, you appear to suppose that I wish to remain with them, whereas it
is they who persistently demand that I stay with them."
The Montonero cast a stealthy and suspicious look on his companion, but
the Frenchman was on his guard; his face was inexpressive as marble.
"Good, continue," said he, after a pause.
"You know that I have assisted at the interview."
"_Parbleu!_ Seeing that it was I who conducted you there. You were
seated near the secretary."
"Señor Vallejos--just so--a very amiable gentleman. Well, these ladies
are on the point of quitting Casa-Frama. Don Pablo consents to their
departure."
"You wish to leave with them?"
"You have not guessed it; I should like to leave, it is true, but not
with them; since they go under the escort of Spanish officers, I should
be of no service to them."
"Just so."
"Then they will no longer have any pretext for preventing me quitting
them."
"That is true; then--"
"Then I desire that you get your brother to grant me--unless you would
prefer to give it me yourself--a safe conduct to traverse your lines
and regain as quickly as possible Tucuman, which I ought never to have
left."
"Is it really to return to Tucuman that you want a safe conduct?"
"For what reason should it be, then?"
"I do not know; but my brother,"--he suddenly stopped with
ill-concealed embarrassment.
"Your brother!" suggested the young man.
"Nothing--I made a mistake; do not attach to what I say to you a sense
which cannot be true; I am frequently subject to make mistakes."
"Are there any difficulties in your granting me the safe conduct?"
"I do not see any; however, I should not dare to do so without
informing my brother."
"Do not distress yourself about that; I have no intention of leaving
the camp without his authority; if you like we will go together to find
him."
"You are then in a hurry to depart?"
"To a certain extent; it would be better, I think, if I could go away
without seeing these ladies, and before them. In this way I should
avoid the request they would not fail to make, to accompany them."
"That would indeed be better."
"Then come and find your brother, in order to settle the affair as soon
as possible."
"Be it so."
They proceeded towards the _toldo_ of Don Pablo; but about halfway the
Frenchman stopped, slapping his forehead.
"What's wrong with you?" asked Don Santiago.
"I am thinking there is no occasion for us to go together; you will
arrange this matter much better than me. While you go there I will
prepare everything for my departure, so that I shall be able to set out
immediately after your return."
The young man spoke with such decided good nature--his countenance was
so expressive of frankness and carelessness--that Don Santiago, despite
all his cleverness, was deceived.
"Very good," said he; "while I see my brother, make your
preparations--there is no necessity for you to come."
"However, if you prefer it, perhaps it would be better for me to
accompany you?"
"No, no, it is needless; in an hour I shall be at your _toldo_ with the
safe conduct."
"I thank you in advance."
The two men shook hands and separated, Don Santiago proceeding towards
his brother's house, which was also his own, and the Frenchman
apparently going in the direction of the habitation which had been
assigned to him; but as soon as the partisan had turned the corner of
the nearest street, Emile, having assured himself that no new spy was
dogging his steps, immediately changed his route, and took that towards
the dwelling of the two ladies.
Pincheyra had lodged his captives in an isolated _toldo_ at one of
the extremities of the camp--a _toldo_ with its back to an almost
perpendicular mountain, and which for that reason assured him against
the probabilities of their flight. This _toldo_ was divided into
several compartments; it was clean and furnished with all the luxury
that the locality admitted.
Two Indian women had been attached by the partisan to the service
of the ladies, apparently as servants, but in reality to watch
them and render him an account, of what they said and did; for,
notwithstanding all the denials of Don Pablo, the marchioness and her
daughter, although treated with the greatest respect, were really
prisoners--which they had not been long in perceiving.
It was only with great caution and by stealth that the young painter
succeeded in seeing them, and in exchanging with them a few words
without any witness.
The domestics incessantly hovered round their mistresses, ferreting,
listening, and watching; and if by chance they want away, the sister
of Don Santiago, who pretended to manifest a lively friendship for the
strangers, came and installed herself near them unceremoniously, and
remained there nearly all the day, fatiguing them with studied caresses
and lying exhibitions of a friendship which they perfectly knew was
false.
However, thanks to Tyro, whose devotion did not slacken, and who knew
well how to cope with the two Indian women, Emile had succeeded in
pretty well escaping from them. The Guaraní had found means of
attracting them by little presents, and of bringing them over a little
to the interests of his master, who himself never came to the _toldo_
without offering them some trifle. There remained, then, only the
sister of Pincheyra. But today, after having during the morning made a
long visit to the ladies, she had withdrawn, in order to assist at the
repast that her brother gave to the officers, and to fulfil towards
them her duties as mistress of the house, a care with which she could
not dispense.
The marchioness and her daughter were then, for some time at least,
delivered from their spies, mistresses of their time, and free to a
certain extent to converse with the only friend who had not abandoned
them, without fear of their words being repeated to the man who had so
disgracefully betrayed, in their case, the laws of hospitality.
At a few paces from the _toldo_, the young man came across Tyro, who,
without speaking to him, made him understand by mute signs, that the
ladies were alone.
The young man entered.
The marchioness and her daughter, sitting sadly by each other's side,
were reading a prayer book.
At the sound which Emile made in crossing the threshold of the door,
they quickly raised their heads.
"Ah!" exclaimed the marchioness, whose countenance immediately
brightened up, "It is you at last, Don Emile?"
"Excuse me, Madame," he answered, "I can but very rarely come to see
you."
"I know it. Like us, you are watched, and exposed to suspicion. Alas!
We have only escaped the revolutionists to fall into the hands of men
more cruel still."
"Have you to complain of the proceedings of Don Pablo Pincheyra, or of
any of his people, Madame?"
"Oh!" answered she, with a significant smile, "Don Pablo is polite--too
polite, perhaps, for me! Oh! Mon Dieu! What have I done to be thus
exposed to his persecutions?"
"Have you seen my servant this morning, Madame! I ask pardon for
interrogating you thus, but time presses."
"Is it of Tyro that you speak?"
"Yes, of him, Madame."
"I have seen him for a moment."
"Has he said nothing to you?"
"Very little; he announced to me your visit, adding, that no doubt you
would have important news to communicate to me; so I was anxious to
see you. In the position in which my daughter and I are, everything is
matter for hope."
"I have indeed, Madame, important news to announce to you, but I do not
know how to do so."
"How so?" cried Doña Eva, fixing on him her large eyes, with an
undefinable expression; "Do you fear to afflict us, Señor Don Emile?"
"I fear, on the contrary, Señora, to raise in your heart a hope which
may not be realised."
"What do you mean? Speak, Señor, in the name of heaven," quickly
interrupted the marchioness.
"This morning, Madame, several strangers entered Casa-Frama."
"I know it, _caballero_. It is to that circumstance that I owe not
having near me the bodyguard of a cornet that it has been thought I
ought to have--that is to say, the sister of Don Pablo Pincheyra."
"Do you know these strangers, Madame?"
"Your question surprises me, _caballero_. Since my arrival here, you
know that I have scarcely been permitted to take a few steps out of
this miserable place."
"Excuse me, Madame; I will put my question more definitely. Have you
heard speak of a certain Don Sebastiao Vianna?"
"Yes, yes!" cried Doña Eva, clapping her hands with joy; "Don Sebastiao
is one of the aides-de-camp of my father."
The countenance of the young man clouded.
"So you are sure you know him?" pursued he.
"Certainly," answered the marchioness; "how can my daughter and I fail
to know a man who is our distant relation, and who has stood godfather
to my daughter?"
"Then, Madame, I am deceived, and the news I bring you is really good
news for you. I have been wrong in hesitating so long in announcing it
to you."
"How is that?"
"Among the strangers who have arrived this morning at Casa-Frama, one
of them is charged with claiming your being immediately set at liberty,
on the part of the Marquis de Castelmelhor--your husband, Madame--your
father, Señora. This stranger is named Don Sebastiao Vianna, wears
the costume of a Portuguese officer, and is, he says, aide-de-camp
of General the Marquis de Castelmelhor. I ought to avow that in this
matter Don Pablo Pincheyra has conducted himself as a true _caballero_.
After having denied that you were his prisoners, he nobly refused the
sum proposed for your ransom, and engaged to place you today in the
hands of Don Sebastiao, who is, under his escort, to conduct you to
your husband."
There was a minute's silence. The marchioness was pale, her eyebrows
knitted under the influence of internal emotion, and her fixed look
denoted an intense feeling, which she repressed with difficulty. Doña
Eva, on the contrary, brightened up; the hope of liberty illuminated
her features with a halo of happiness.
The young man looked at the marchioness without understanding this
emotion, the cause of which he vainly sought. At last she said:
"Are you really certain, _caballero_," said she, "that the officer of
whom you speak is named Don Sebastiao Vianna?"
"Perfectly, Señora. I have several times heard him called in my
presence; besides, it would be quite impossible for me to invent a name
that I have never before today heard pronounced."
"It is true; and yet what you tell me is so extraordinary, that I
confess I do not dare to believe it, and that I fear a snare."
"Oh, my mother," cried Doña Eva, in a tone of reproach, "Don Sebastiao
Vianna, the most loyal man, and the most--"
"Which assures you, my daughter," quickly interrupted the marchioness,
"that this man is really Don Sebastiao."
"Oh, Madame," said the young man.
"_Caballero_ Don Sebastiao was, scarcely two months ago, in Europe,"
answered the marchioness, in a peremptory tone.
This remark fell like a thunderbolt in the midst of the conversation,
and suddenly chilled the hope in the heart of the young girl.
At the same moment a whistle sounded from without.
"Tyro warns me," said Emile, "that someone comes this way; I can stay
no longer. Whatever happens, do not abandon yourself to despair, feign
to accept, whatever they are, the propositions that will be made to
you; anything is preferable to you than to remain longer here. I also
will watch. I shall soon see you again--courage! Reckon on me."
And without waiting for the answer that the two ladies were doubtless
preparing to make, the young man darted into the street.
Tyro, who was watching for his appearance, seized him quickly by the
arm, and led him towards the _toldo_.
"Look!" said he.
The painter leant forward cautiously, and perceived Don Pablo
Pincheyra, his sister, the Portuguese officer, and three or four other
persons, who were going towards the habitation of the ladies.
"Hum!" he exclaimed; "it was time--"
"Is it not? But I was watching, happily."
"Come, Tyro, let us return to my place. Don Santiago must expect me."
"You have given me a rendezvous?"
"Yes."
"Well, have I deceived you, my friend?"
"No, certainly; what I have seen has surpassed my expectation. But who,
then, is this Don Sebastiao?"
The Guaraní answered by a sneer of bad omen.
"There is something, is there not?" asked Emile, with uneasiness.
"With the Pincheyras there is always something, my friend," pursued
the Indian, in a low voice; "but here we are at your _toldo;_ be
prudent."
"Inform the gauchos that probably we shall set out today; prepare all,
so that we may be ready."
"We are going to leave?"
"I hope so."
"Oh, then, all is not yet lost."
They entered the toldo; it was deserted; Don Santiago had not yet
appeared.
Whilst Tyro went to tell the gauchos to get ready, to saddle their
horses, and to bring the baggage mules from the corral, the young man
proceeded, with feverish rapidity, to make his preparations.
So when, half an hour later, Don Santiago entered the _toldo_, the
suspicious look that he threw around him did not reveal anything which
could give rise to a suspicion that the Frenchman had not commenced his
task immediately after having quitted him.
"Ah! Ah!" exclaimed the young man on seeing him, "Welcome, Don
Santiago, especially if you bring my safe conduct."
"I bring it you," laconically answered Don Santiago.
"_Pardieu!_ It must be confessed that you are a valuable friend; Don
Pablo has not made any difficulties?"
"None."
"Well, he is really very obliging to me; so I can set out?"
"Yes, on two conditions."
"Ah! There are conditions! And what are they?"
"The first is, that you will set out immediately, and without seeing
anyone," added he, carefully emphasising the last part of his sentence.
"My people?"
"You shall take them with you; what do you think that we should do with
them here?"
"You are right; well--but this condition pleases me much; you know that
I especially desire to set out without taking leave of anyone whatever.
It's all for the best, then. Now, what is the second condition; if
it is like the first, I doubt not that I shall accept it without
hesitation."
"Here it is: Don Pablo desires that I escort you, with a dozen
horsemen, for a few leagues from here."
"Ah!" exclaimed the young man.
"Does that displease you?"
"Me!" answered Emile, laughing, for he had already recovered his
coolness; "Why should it be displeasing to me? I am, on the contrary,
very grateful to you, brother, for this new favour. He, no doubt, fears
that I should wander in the inextricable mazes of these mountains,"
added he, with an ironical emphasis.
"I do not know; he has ordered me to escort you; I obey--that is all."
"That is right, and particularly logical."
"So you accept these two conditions?"
"With gratitude."
"Then we will set out when you like."
"I would say immediately, but, unfortunately, I am obliged to wait for
my horses, which have not yet come from the _corral_."
"It is not yet late, so there is no time lost."
"Now that we are agreed, suppose we take a drop of brandy?"
"Upon my word I shall be delighted, Señor."
The Frenchman took a bottle and poured out some brandy into two horn
goblets.
"To your health!" said he, drinking.
"To your pleasant journey!" answered Don Santiago.
"Thank you."
A sound of horses was heard from without.
"Here are your animals."
"Then we shall be ready in a few minutes. If you like, while we are
loading, inform the men who are to accompany you."
"They have been told; they are waiting for us in the intrenchments."
Tyro and the gauchos then proceeded, aided by Emile and Don Santiago,
to load the two mules and to saddle the horses.
The Frenchman, accustomed to travel in these countries, had very little
luggage; he never carried with him anything but what was indispensable.
Half an hour afterwards the caravan started out at a gentle pace,
accompanied by Don Santiago, who followed it on foot, smoking his
cigarette, and talking with the young man in a friendly way.
As the Montonero had said, a dozen horsemen were waiting at the
intrenchments.
The Pincheyra mounted his horse, gave the order of departure; the
keepers opened the barriers, and the little troop quitted the camp in
good order.
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE MOUNTAIN.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when Emile Gagnepain left
the camp. Notwithstanding the rather suspicious escort by which he was
accompanied, it was with a sigh of satisfaction that the young man at
last saw himself clear of this repair of bandits, from which at one
time he feared he should never again set out.
The route which the little caravan followed was most picturesque and
varied. A narrow path wound on the side of the mountains, almost
always close to unfathomable precipices, from the base of which arose
mysterious murmurs produced by invisible waters. Sometimes a bridge
formed by two trunks of trees thrown across a chasm, which suddenly
interrupted the route, was crossed, as if in play, by horses and mules
for a long time accustomed to walk over routes more perilous still.
Obliged to travel one behind the other, owing to the narrowness of the
scarcely traced path which they were pursuing, the travellers could
not talk to each other; it was scarcely possible for them to exchange
a few words, and they were constrained to abandon themselves to their
own thoughts, or to charm the weariness of the journey by singing or
whistling. It was in thus examining the abrupt and wild landscape by
which he was surrounded that the young man formed a good idea of the
formidable and almost impregnable position chosen by the partisan for
his headquarters, and the great influence that this position must give
him over the dismayed inhabitants of the plain. He shuddered as he
thought of the imprudence he had committed in allowing himself to be
taken to this fortress which, like the infernal circles of Dante, was
by nature surrounded by impassable intrenchments, and which never gave
up the prey that had once been drawn into it. A crowd of melancholy
stories of young girls, who had been carried away and had disappeared,
recurred to his mind, and, by a strange reaction of thought, he
experienced a kind of retrospective turn--if we may be allowed the
expression--in thinking of the terrible dangers that he had run in the
midst of these lawless bandits, by whom, in many instances, the law of
nations--sacred among all civilised peoples--had not been respected.
Then, from reflection to reflection--by a very natural gradation--his
mind fixed itself on the ladies whom he had left without support or
protection in the midst of these men. Although he had only left them
with the design of attempting a last effort for their deliverance,
his conscience reproached him for having abandoned them; for,
notwithstanding the absolute impossibility of his being useful to them
at Casa-Frama, he was convinced that his presence was a check upon the
Pincheyras, and that before him none of them would have dared to have
subjected the captives to any brutal act.
A prey to these painful thoughts, he felt his spirits sadden by
degrees, and the joy that he had at first experienced on seeing himself
so unexpectedly at liberty gave place to the despondency which several
times already had seized on him, and had destroyed his energy.
He was drawn from these reflections by the voice of Don Santiago, which
suddenly fell upon his ear.
The young man quickly raised his head, and looked round him like a man
suddenly awakened.
The landscape had completely changed. The path had by degrees become
broader, and had assumed the appearance of a regular route; the
mountains were lower; their sides were now covered with verdant
forests, the leafy summits of which were tinted with all the colours of
the rainbow by the mild rays of the setting sun. The caravan emerged
at this moment into a rather extensive plain, surrounded by thick
shrubbery and traversed by a narrow stream, the capricious meanderings
of which were lost here and there in the midst of high and thick grass.
"What do you want?" asked the Frenchman, who, susceptible like all
artists, had become absorbed, unknown to himself, by the influence of
this majestic landscape, and felt gaiety replace the sadness which had
for a long time oppressed him; "What do you want now, Don Santiago?"
"The devil!" exclaimed the latter; "It is fortunate that you have at
last consented to answer me. For more than quarter of an hour I have
been speaking to you without getting a word out of you. It seems as if
you had been sound asleep, companion."
"Pardon me, Señor, I was not asleep; I was reflecting, which is often
much about the same."
"_¡Demonio!_ I will not quibble about that; but as you now consent to
listen to me, will you be so good as to answer me?"
"I am quite agreeable; but that I may do so, it will be necessary, my
dear Don Santiago, to repeat your question, of which I assure you I
have not heard a word."
"I will do so, although, without exaggeration, I have done so at least
ten times to no purpose."
"I have already begged you to excuse me."
"I know it, and I therefore will not be offended at your inattention.
This is what I have to say: it is at least six o'clock; the sun is
setting amidst coppery clouds of the worst kind; I fear a storm
tonight."
"Oh! Oh!" exclaimed the young man; "Are you sure of that?"
"I have too much acquaintance with these mountains to be deceived."
"Hum! And what do you intend to do?"
"That is what I ask; that concerns you at least as much as me, I
suppose."
"Just so--even more, since it is for my sake that you have agreed to
accompany me. Well, what is your advice. I will at once adopt the
expedients that your experience may suggest, and accept them without
question."
"That is what I call speaking, and your answer is none the worse for
making me wait for it. My advice, then would be to stop here, where we
can--unless there is a deluge impossible to foresee--place ourselves
under shelter from the hurricane, and camp for the night. What do you
think of it?"
"I think that you are right, and that it would be folly, under
circumstances like those, considering the advanced hour--especially the
charming spot where we are--to persist in going further."
"Especially as it would be almost impossible for us to reach as good a
refuge as this, before it is quite dark."
"Let us stop, then, without further discussion, and let us hasten to
make our encampment."
"Well, dear Señor, as it is to be so, alight and let us unload the
mules."
"Very good," said the young man, leaping from his horse--a movement
immediately imitated by the Pincheyra.
Don Santiago had spoken truly. The sun was setting, drowned in waves of
dull clouds; the evening breeze was rising with some force; the birds
wheeled in large circles, uttering discordant cries--everything, in
fact, foretold one of those terrible hurricanes called _temporales_,
the violence of which is so great that the country over which they
wreak their vengeance is in a few minutes completely changed and thrown
into disorder, as if an earthquake had shattered it.
The painter had several times, since his arrival in America, been in
a position to witness the terrifying spectacle of these frightful
convulsions of nature in labour. Knowing the inconvenience of the
danger then, he hastened to prepare everything, so that the tempest
might do as little damage as possible. The baggage piled together in
the centre of the valley, not far from the stream, formed a solid
rampart against the greatest fury of the wind; the horses were left
free and abandoned to that infallible instinct with which Providence
has endowed them, and which in giving them a foreknowledge of the
danger, suggests to them the means of escaping from it. Then, in a hole
dug in haste, they lit the fire for cooking the slices of _charqui_,
or wild bull's flesh dried in the sun, destined, with the _harina
tostada_ and a little _queso_ of goat's flesh, for the evening
meal. The water from the brook served to satisfy the thirst of the
travellers, for, except Don Santiago and the painter, who were each
provided with a large _bota_ of white brandy, they did not carry with
them either wine or liqueurs; but this forgetfulness, if it really was
such, was of little importance for men of such great frugality as the
Hispano-Americans--people who live, so to speak, on nothing, and whose
hunger or thirst is appeased by the first thing which offers itself.
The meal was what it should be among men who expect from one moment to
another to see a terrible and inevitable danger fall upon them--that
is to say, sorrowful and silent. Each ate in haste, without holding
conversation with his neighbour; then, hunger satisfied and the
cigarette lighted, the travellers, without even wishing good night
to each other, enveloped themselves in their _frazadas_ and their
_pellones_, and tried to sleep with that placid resignation which forms
the foundation of the character of the Creoles, and makes them accept
without useless murmurs the frequently disastrous consequences of the
nomadic life to which they are condemned.
Soon, with the exception of the three or four sentinels placed on the
outskirts of the encampment, in order to guard against the approach of
wild beasts, and the two chiefs of the caravan--that is to say, Don
Santiago and Emile--all were plunged into deep sleep.
The Pincheyra appeared thoughtful; he smoked his cigarette, his back
leaning on a trunk of a tree, and his eyes directed straight forward,
without looking on any object. The Frenchman, on the contrary, more
wakeful and more gay than ever, was humming a tune and amusing himself
by digging with the point of a knife a hole in which he piled some dry
wood, evidently intending to light a watch fire to warm his feet, when
he felt inclined to go to sleep.
"Eh! Don Santiago," said he at last, addressing Pincheyra, and touching
him lightly on the shoulder, "what are you thinking of now? Is it that
you are not going to try and sleep for a couple of hours?"
The Chilian shook his head without answering.
"What does it matter?" pursued the young man persistently--"You, who
a little while ago reproached me for my melancholy--you seem to have
inherited it, upon my word. Is it the weight of the atmosphere that
influences you?"
"Do you take me for a woman?" answered he at last, in a surly tone;
"What matters to me the state of the sky? Am I not a child of the
mountains, accustomed from my infancy to brave the most terrible
storms?"
"But, then, what is it that distresses you?"
"What is it? Do you wish to know?"
"Pardieu! Since I ask it."
Don Santiago shook his head, threw around him a suspicious look, and
then at last made up his mind to speak in a low and almost indistinct
voice, as if he feared to be heard, although all his companions were
asleep at too great a distance for the sound of his voice to reach
them.
"I have," said he, "but one thing which vexes me."
"You, Don Santiago--you much astonish me; can it be that you are on bad
terms with your brother, Don Pablo?"
"My brother, it is true, has something to do with the affair, but with
him personally I have no misunderstanding--at least I believe so, for
with him one never knows how to act; no, it is only on your account
that I am chagrined just now."
"On my account!" cried the young man with surprise, "I confess I do not
understand you."
"Speak lower; there is no occasion for our companions to hear what we
say. Look you, Don Emile, I wish to be frank with you. We are about to
separate, perhaps never to see one another again--and I hope, for your
sake, it may be so. I wish our parting to be friendly, and that you
should not entertain any ill feeling against me."
"I assure you, Don Santiago--"
"I know what I say," interrupted he, with some vivacity; "you have
rendered me a great service. I cannot deny that, to a certain extent,
I owe my life to you, for when I met you in the cavern of the rancho
my position was almost desperate; well, I have not, in appearance,
conducted myself towards you as I ought to have done. I engaged myself
to shelter you and yours from the danger which threatened you, and I
have conducted you to Casa-Frama, when I ought, on the contrary, to
have taken you in quite an opposite direction. I know that I have acted
badly in this aspect, and you have a right to entertain ill feeling to
me. But I was not free to do otherwise. I was forced to obey a will
stronger than my own--the will of my brother--whom no one has ever
dared to resist. Now, I acknowledge my fault, and I wish as much as
possible to repair the evil I have done, and that I have allowed to be
done."
"That is speaking like a _caballero_ and a man of heart, Don Santiago.
Be assured that, come what may, I shall be pleased at what you tell me
at this moment; but, since you have begun so well, do not leave me any
longer in the painful doubt in which I now am; answer me sincerely,
will you?"
"Yes, as far as it depends on me."
"The ladies that I have been obliged to abandon, do they run any danger
at present?"
"I think so."
"On the part of your brother?"
"Yes, on his, and others also. These two strangers have implacable
enemies bent on their destruction."
"Poor women!" murmured the young man, sighing; "They will not, then,
leave the camp?"
"Yes; tomorrow, at sunrise, they will quit it, escorted by the officer
who, in our presence, claimed them of my brother."
"Do you know that officer?"
"A little."
"Who is he?"
"That I cannot say; I have sworn not to reveal it to anyone."
The Frenchman saw that he must not persist, so he modified his
questions.
"What route will they take?" asked he.
"That which we are following."
"And they are going--"
"Towards the Brazilian frontier."
"So they will rejoin General Castelmelhor?"
The Pincheyra shook his head negatively.
"Then why take this direction?"
"I do not know."
"And, nevertheless, you think that danger threatens them?"
"Terrible."
"Of what kind?"
"I do not know."
The young man stamped his foot with vexation. These continual
reticences on the part of the partisan disquieted him more than the
truth, so frightful that he kept watching out to hear it.
"So," pursued he, after a pause, "supposing I remain here for some
time, I shall see them."
"There is no doubt of it."
"What do you advise?"
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Nothing; I am not, like you, in love with Doña Eva," said he, with
a certain tinge of raillery which made the young man start.
"In love with Doña Eva!"--cried he--"I!"
"What other motive could induce you, with all the chances against you,
to risk your life to save her, if it were not so."
The young man did not answer. A light flashed suddenly on his mind.
That secret, which he had hid from himself, others knew it; and when he
did not dare to question himself on this insensate love which burned
within him, the certainty of its existence was discovered even by
strangers.
"Oh!" stammered he at last; "Don Santiago, do you think me capable of
such a folly?"
"I do not know if it is a folly to love when one is young and ardent
as you are," coldly answered the Pincheyra. "I have never loved but
my horse and my gun; but I know well that the love of two young and
handsome beings is a law of nature, and that I do not see what reason
you should have to try and escape from it I do not blame you or approve
you; I state a fact--that is all."
The young painter was astonished to hear a man speak thus who, up to
that time, he had supposed to be endowed with a very moderate share of
intelligence, and all whose aspirations seemed to him directed towards
war and pillage. This half savage, uttering with so careless an air
sentiments so humanely philosophic, seemed to him an incomprehensible
phenomenon.
The Pincheyra, without appearing to notice the impression that he had
produced on his companion, continued quietly--
"The officer who escorts these ladies, not only is ignorant of your
love for the youngest of the two ladies, but he is not even aware
that you know them. For particular and personal reasons, my brother
has thought proper to keep silence on that subject. I give you this
information, the correctness of which I guarantee, because it will be
of service to you in case of need."
"Now, it is too late."
"Don Emile, know this--that immediately after our conversation my
companions and I will withdraw, for our mission is terminated; and if
I have remained so long with you, it is because I decided to tell you
certain things."
"I thank you for it."
"Well, I am certain that you will not quit this place without having
tried, not only to see these ladies again, but to carry them off from
those who have them in charge--which, for that matter, would not be
impossible, since they will be but a dozen at the most. I wish you good
fortune from the bottom of my heart, for I like you. Only, take my
advice--act with prudence; cunning has united more bonds than force has
broken. Follow the counsel that I give you, and I hope that you will
find it good. Now we must separate; I have, if not repaired, at least
lessened the serious consequences of the fault I have been obliged to
commit. Let us part as two friends. The only hope that I have is, that
we shall never see one another again."
"What! You are going to set out in the midst of darkness when we are
threatened with a storm!"
"It must be, Don Emile. I am expected there. My brother is preparing
an important expedition, in which I ought, and wish, to assist. As to
the storm, it will not burst for two or three hours, and, terrible
as it may be, it is too old an acquaintance for me not to know how
to defend myself from it. Adieu, then, and once more--good fortune!
Whatever happens, silence on what I have said! Now, wrap yourself in
your poncho, and feign to sleep till I have given the signal for my men
to depart."
The young man followed the counsel which had been given to him; he
rolled himself in his mantle and stretched himself on the ground.
When Don Santiago was assured that nothing would arouse suspicion as
to the conversation which had just taken place, he rose, stretched his
limbs to freshen himself up, and, taking a whistle suspended to his
neck by a little silver chain, he gave a shrill and prolonged call with
it.
The horsemen immediately raised their heads.
"Come, boys!" cried the Pincheyra in a loud voice, "Up and saddle your
horses, we return to Casa-Frama."
"What! You leave us at this hour, Señor Don Santiago?" asked the young
man, feigning to be awakened by the sound of the whistle.
"It must be so, Señor," answered he; "our escort is not necessary to
you, and we have a long journey to make if we would reach Casa-Frama
before sunrise."
Meanwhile, the Pincheyras had with alacrity obeyed the order which they
had received; they had risen and had proceeded to get ready and saddle
their horses.
By accident apparently, but no doubt as planned by Don Santiago, the
sentinels who were charged with watching over the common safety were
the two gauchos and the Guaraní, so that he was certain that the secret
of his conversation with the Frenchman would not transpire.
In a few minutes the horsemen were in the saddles. The Pincheyra
put himself at their head, and, turning towards Emile, making him a
friendly salute with the hand--
"Adieu, Señor, and good fortune!" said he significantly.
"The painter returned his cordial salute, and the little troop set out.
It soon disappeared at the turn of the path. The sound of its steps
gradually lessened, and before long had ceased altogether. When silence
was completely re-established, Emile made a sign to his companions.
"Now that we are alone, Señores," said he, "let us talk, for affairs
are serious. Tyro, light the fire; we will hold counsel in the Indian
fashion."
The Guaraní gathered some dry wood, piled it carefully, struck a light,
and soon a slight column of flame rose brightly in the air.
A death-like silence reigned in the valley; the breeze had died away;
there was not a sound in the air; the sky, black as ink, had not a
single star; nature appeared to be gathering all her powers for a
terrible strife of the elements; from the unexplored depths of the
chasms dull and mysterious sounds sometimes rose, mingling at intervals
with the low growl of beasts going to seek water.
The four men crouched round the fire, lit their cigarettes, and the
young man talked to them, telling them what he thought advisable of the
conversation which had taken place between him and Don Santiago.
"Now," added he, "answer me frankly; can I count on you for all that I
think proper to do?"
"Yes," answered they with one voice.
"Whatever happens?"
"Whatever happens."
"Well, I shall not be ungrateful; the reward shall equal the services;
now, if you have any observations to submit, I am ready to hear them."
The gauchos, peculiarly men of action, and not by nature great talkers,
contented themselves by saying that when the moment for action arrived
they would be ready--that they had nothing to say on the mode of
proceeding--that that did not concern them.
"That is right," said Tyro. "Go to sleep, my braves, and leave us--the
Señor, our master and I, agree on what is best to be done."
The gauchos did not require this to be repeated; they rose and
proceeded to stretch themselves amongst the baggage: a few minutes
later, and they were sound asleep.
Emile and the Guaraní, who alone were awake, held a long and serious
conversation, and arranged a plan which it is needless to state here.
CHAPTER X.
THE PARTISAN.
We must now return to the Guaycurus chiefs, whom we left at the moment
when, following Don Zeno Cabral, they entered a cavern where the
Montonero--at least according to the words he made use of in accosting
them--appeared to have given a rendezvous to the Cougar.
This cavern--the entry of which, without knowing it well, it was
impossible to distinguish from without, by reason of the conformation
of the ground of which it formed the centre, and of the difficulty
with which it was reached--was vast and perfectly light, on account of
a number of almost imperceptible fissures which allowed the light to
penetrate at the same time as it renewed the air. At the bottom and on
the sides several galleries opened, which were lost under the mountain
at probably very great distances. The spot where the partisans stopped,
that is to say at a few steps from the opening, contained several seats
formed by blocks of oak awkwardly squared, and two or three masses of
dried leaves, serving probably for beds to those who came to seek a
temporary refuge in this place.
In the centre of the cavern a great fire was lighted. Over this fire,
suspended by a chain from three stakes placed triangularly, was boiling
an iron pot, while a quarter of _guanaco_, spitted on a ramrod fixed in
the ground, was roasting very gently; some potatoes were cooking under
the cinders, and several bullock-horn cups containing some _harina
tostada_ were placed near seats on the ground. The arms of Zeno Cabral,
that is to say, his gun and his sabre, were leaning against one of the
walls of the cavern; he had only kept his knife in his right pocket.
"Señores," said the partisan with a courteous gesture, "permit me
to offer you the poor hospitality that the circumstances in which
we are compel me to give you. Before anything else we will eat and
drink together to establish confidence between us, and to remove all
suspicion of treason."
These words were spoken in Portuguese; the captains answered in the
same language, and sat, after the example of their Amphytrion, on the
seats prepared for them.
Zeno Cabral then unhooked the pot and served with uncommon skill
and vivacity, in the _couis_ which he presented to his guests, some
_tocino_, _chorizo_, and _charqui_, seasoned with _camotes_ and _ají_,
which form the national dish of these countries.
The meal commenced; the chiefs vigorously attacked the dishes placed
before them, helping themselves with their knives instead of forks,
and drinking in turn water slightly dashed with brandy to remove its
brackishness.
The Indians do not speak as they eat, so their meals are generally
short. After the _charqui_, it was the turn for the _guanaco;_ then the
_harina tostada_ was taken, diluted with warm water, and at last Zeno
Cabral made the maté[1] and offered it to his guests.
When the maté had been drunk, and our three personages had lighted
their maize straw cigarettes, Zeno Cabral at last spoke.
"I ought to apologise to you, Señor Captain," said he in Portuguese to
Gueyma, "for the kind of surprise by means of which I have obtained an
interview with you; the Cougar, of whom I have for a long time had the
honour of being a friend, has induced me to act as I have done; if a
fault has been committed, it is on him that the blame ought to rest."
"What the Cougar does is always right," answered the chief smiling;
"he is my father, since it is to him that I owe what I am; I have not
to blame him then, convinced that very important reasons, and which no
doubt will afterwards be explained to me, prevented him from acting
otherwise."
"Gueyma has well spoken as usual," said the Cougar; "wisdom dwells
with him; the white chief will not be long in adducing motives for his
conduct."
"That is what I am immediately going to do, if the captains will be so
good as to lend me their attention," pursued Zeno Cabral.
"Let my father speak, our ears are opened."
The partisan collected himself for two or three minutes, and then
commenced in these terms:
"My brothers, the Guaycurus warriors, deceived by the lying words of
a white, have consented to form an alliance with him, and to follow
him into this country, to aid him in fighting other whites, who have
never done evil to my brothers, and even of whose existence they
were ignorant. But while the warriors entered on the path of war,
and abandoned their hunting territories, under the safeguard of the
honour of their new allies, the latter, who had no other design than
that of getting them away, in order to seize more easily their rich
and fertile countries, invaded, to the contempt of sworn faith, these
territories, and tried to establish themselves there. This iniquitous
project, this infamous treason, would probably have succeeded,
considering the absence of the brave warriors of the tribe, if a friend
of the Guaycurus, disgusted with that infamous action, had not warned
Tarou-Niom, the great captain of the Guaycurus, to put himself on his
guard, and had not contracted an offensive and defensive alliance with
Emavidi-Chaimé, the great chief of the Payagoas, to oppose the attacks
of the common enemy."
Notwithstanding the command of countenance of which the Indians boast
in the most important circumstances, Gueyma, on learning this news, so
decisively and coldly uttered, could not contain himself. His eyebrows
knitted, his nostrils dilated like those of a wild beast; he bounded on
his feet, and violently clapping his hands:
"My brother, the pale chief, has proofs of what he states, has he not?"
cried he, with a tone of sudden menace.
"I have," simply answered Zeno Cabral.
"Good, then he will give them to me."
"I will give them to the captain."
"But there is another thing I wish to know."
"What does my brother wish to know?"
"Who is the friend of the Guaycurus who has warned them of the horrible
treason which is plotted against them?"
"What good will it be to tell my brother that?"
"Because, as I know my enemies, I wish to know my friends."
Zeno Cabral bowed.
"It is I," said he.
Gueyma looked at him a moment with a strange earnestness, as if he had
wished to read his most secret thoughts.
"It is good," said he at last; "what my brother says must be true.
Gueyma thanks him, and offers him his hand."
"I accept it with alacrity, for I have a long time loved the captain,"
answered the partisan, pressing the hand that the chief held out to him.
"Now, what are the proofs that my brother will give me?"
Zeno Cabral searched under his poncho and drew out a _quipu_; the
latter quickly seized it, and immediately proceeded to decipher it with
the same rapidity that a European reads a letter.
Little by little the features of the chief resumed their marble
rigidity; then, after having completely deciphered the _quipu_, he
handed it to the Cougar, and, turning towards Zeno Cabral, who followed
all his movements with secret anxiety:
"Now, I know the insult that has been offered me," said he, coldly, "my
brother will give me, no doubt, the means of avenging myself."
"Perhaps I shall succeed," answered the partisan.
"Why have a doubt on the lips when certainty is in the heart," pursued
Gueyma.
"What does the captain mean?"
"I mean that no one with the simple design of being agreeable to a man
whom he does not know, would do as my brother has done."
"I know the captain better than he thinks."
"It is possible; I admit that; but it is not the less evident to me
that my brother, the pale chief, had a design in acting as he has done.
It is that design that Gueyma wishes to know."
"If my brother were to suppose that I also have to avenge myself on
the man who has insulted him, and that for this vengeance to be more
sure and striking I need the aid of my brother--would he refuse me?"
"No, certainly, if instead of being a supposition it was a reality."
"The captain promises me?"
"I promise it."
"Well, the suspicions of the chief are just. Notwithstanding the lively
and sincere friendship that I have for him, obliged for the present
to occupy myself with very important affairs, I should have, perhaps,
neglected to concern myself with his, if I had not had a powerful
inducement to do so, and if the man of whom he wishes to avenge himself
had not long been my enemy. There is the whole truth."
"Ah! My brother has well spoken; his tongue is not forked; the words
that come from his breast are loyal. What will my brother do to assure
my vengeance at the same time as his own?"
"Two things."
"What is the first?"
"I will deliver into the hands of the captain the wife and daughter of
his enemy."
The Indian's eye darted a lightning flash of joy.
"Good," cried he, "now what is the second?"
"I will guide my brother by the paths of wild beasts, known only to
myself, and with the rich plunder that I shall have given him, I will
enable him to reach in less than five days the frontier of his hunting
territory."
"My brother will do that?"
"I will do it, I swear."
"Good! When will the two pale women be my captives?"
"Before two days, if the chief consents to aid me."
"I have told the white chief that he can dispose of me; let him speak,
then, without fear."
Zeno Cabral cast an inquiring look at the Cougar, who, up to that time,
had sat mute and impassive during the conversation.
"My brother can speak," said the old chief; "the word of Gueyma is the
word of a captain; nothing can make him change it."
"Only let my brother pay the most serious attention to what I am about
to say. I will only do what I propose on one condition."
"I am listening."
"My brother will not be able to dispose, under any pretext, of the
captives placed in his hands without my authority; under no pretext can
he give them liberty without I consent to it. For the rest, the Cougar
knows my intentions, and he has promised to conform to them."
"Is it true?" asked Gueyma of the old chief; turning towards him.
"It is true," laconically answered the latter.
"The Cougar," resumed the young man, "is one of the wisest warriors
of my tribe; what he says is always good: it is my duty to follow his
example; I adhere to what the white chief wishes."
Zeno Cabral bowed his head as a sign of thanks, and, spite of himself,
a gleam of satisfaction for an instant illumined his austere face.
Gueyma resumed:
"Has the pale chief anything to add to what he has told me?"
"Nothing," answered the partisan.
"It is well; it is my turn now to impose conditions."
"That is quite true, chief; I listen to you."
"My brother, the white chief, knows the customs of the Pampa, does he
not?"
"I know them; my life has been almost wholly passed in the desert."
"Does he know the ceremony of the compact of vengeance in use in the
tribe of the Guaycurus?"
"I have heard speak of it, without, however, having ever practised it
on my own account; I know that it is a kind of brotherhood of arms
which binds two men to each other by a tie stronger than the nearest
relationship."
"Yes, that is it; does my brother consent to this ceremony being
performed by us?"
"I consent to it with all my heart, chief," answered the partisan
without hesitation, "because my intentions are pure, no thought of
treachery is in my heart, and I have for my brother great friendship."
"Good," resumed the young chief, smiling; "I thank my brother for
accepting me as his blood companion; the Cougar will bind us to each
other."
The three men rose.
The Cougar then advanced between them, and making them stretch out the
right hand:
"Each of you," said he, "is double; he has a friend to watch over
him in all places and in all circumstances--night as well as day,
morning as well as evening; the enemies of one are the enemies of the
other; what one possesses belongs to his friend; at the call of his
blood companion, no matter where he is, no matter what he is doing,
the friend must immediately abandon all to run to him who claims his
presence. Death even cannot disunite you; in the other life your
compact must continue as strong as in this. You, Zeno Cabral, for the
tribe of the Guaycurus, you are now named Cabral Gueyma; and you,
Gueyma, for the brothers of your friend, are Gueyma Zeno. Your blood
even ought to mix in your breasts, in order that your thoughts may be
really the same, and that, at the hour when you shall appear after
death before the Master of the world, he may recognise you and reunite
you to each other."
After having thus spoken, the Cougar drew his knife from its sheath,
and slightly punctured the chest of the partisan, just over the heart.
Zeno supported without trembling or paling this startling incision; the
old chief received the blood which flowed from the wound in a _coui_,
in which a little water remained. He then punctured in the same way the
chest of the young chief, and caused his blood to flow into the _coui_.
Then raising the vessel above his head:
"Warriors," cried he, in a sombre and majestic voice, "your blood is
contained there, so well mixed that it cannot be separated; each of you
is about to drink of this cup, which between you you must empty; it is
your turn first," added he, turning to Zeno Cabral, and holding out the
vessel to him.
"Give it to me," coldly answered the partisan, and he carried it
without hesitation to his lips.
When he had drunk about half of what it contained he presented it to
Gueyma. The latter took it without uttering a word, and emptied it at a
draught.
"At our next meeting, brother," then said the young chief, "we will
exchange our horses, for we cannot do so now. Meanwhile, here is my
gun, my sabre, my knife, my powder horn, my shot pouch, my _laco_, and
my _bolas_. Accept them, and may the Great Spirit grant that they may
do you as good service as they have done me."
"I receive them, brother, in exchange for my arms--which take."
Then the two men embraced, and the ceremony was over.
"Now," said the Cougar, "the moment for separation has come; we must
rejoin our warriors; where shall we see one another again, and when
will the meeting take place?"
"The second sun after this," answered the partisan, "I shall expect
my brothers three hours before the setting of the sun at the _Cañon
de Yerbas Verdes_. The captives will be with me. The cry of the eagle
of the Cordilleras, three times repeated, will warn my brothers of my
presence; they will answer me by that of the maukawis, repeated the
same number of times."
"Good! My warriors will be exact."
The three men heartily shook hands, and the Guaycurus chiefs withdrew,
again taking the almost impracticable way by which they had come, but
which could not offer any serious difficulties to men inured like them
to every bodily exercise, and endowed with an unequalled suppleness and
agility.
Zeno Cabral remained alone in the cavern.
The partisan threw himself on a seat, leant his head on his breast,
and thus remained for a considerable lapse of time plunged in profound
reflection.
When the first shadows of evening began to invade the entrance of the
cavern, the young man stood up.
"At last," murmured he in a low voice, "I am about to have that
vengeance that for so long a time I have sought. No one now can snatch
my prey from me. My father will start with joy in his grave on seeing
in what way I keep my oath. Alas! Why must I use the hatchet intended
to martyr two innocent women? The true culprit still escapes me! Will
God permit him to fall through my hands? How shall I compel him to give
himself to me?"
He kept silence some moments, and then resumed with savage energy.
"Of what use is it to pity the fate of these women? Does not the law of
the desert say, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth? It is not I who
have committed the crime. I avenge the insult done to my family; the
die is cast; God will judge me!"
He rose and took a few steps in the cavern. The darkness was nearly
complete. Zeno Cabral took a torch of rotten wood, lit it, and fixed
it in the ground; then, after another hesitation, he shook his head,
passed his hand over his forehead, as if to chase away a passing idea,
and sat himself down on one of the seats, after having cleared away the
traces of the meal and those left by the Guaycurus warriors.
"I am mad," murmured he in a low voice, "it is too late now to go
back;" and seizing his gun he fired it in the air.
The sound of the report repeated by the numerous echoes of the cavern
reverberated for a considerable time, grew weaker and weaker, and
finally ceased.
Almost immediately the light of several torches shone at the bottom of
a side gallery, rapidly increased, and soon illuminated the cavern with
reddish tints which fell upon the walls with fantastic reflections.
These torches were carried by Montoneros led by several officers, among
whom was Don Silvio Quiroga.
"Here we are, General," said the captain, with a respectful bow.
"Where are the prisoners?" asked Zeno Cabral, as he loaded his gun,
which he placed within reach.
"Guarded at a few paces off by our detachment of our men."
"Let them come."
The captain withdrew without answering. Some minutes passed, at the end
of which he reappeared, accompanied by three unarmed men, who walked in
the midst of a group of partisans.
"It is well," said the General, "leave me with these _caballeros_, I
wish to talk with them; only be ready to run here if occasion requires,
at the first signal. Go."
Captain Quiroga planted two or three torches in the ground, and then
disappeared in the gallery from which he had come out.
Don Zeno remained alone with the two prisoners; the latter stood
upright before him, cold and haughty, their heads proudly thrown back,
and their arms crossed on their chests.
There was a moment of silence.
It was one of the prisoners who broke it.
"I suppose, Señor General," said he, with a slight tone of raillery,
"since that is the title they give you, that you have called us into
your presence in order to have us shot?"
"You are deceived, Señor Don Lucio Ortega," coldly answered the
partisan; "at present at least, such is not my intention."
"You know me," cried the Spaniard, with a movement of surprise which he
could not suppress.
"Yes, Señor, I know you, as well as your companions, the Señor Count
Mendoza and Colonel Zinozain. I know even with what design you have
come thus to wander about these mountains; you see that I am well
served by my spies."
"_¡Caramba!_" gaily cried Captain Ortega, "I wish I had been as well
served by mine."
The partisan smiled with irony.
"In point of fact, Señor," said the Count, "what do you intend to do
with us, since we are in your power, and you do not wish to have us
shot?"
"You acknowledge, do you not, that I should have the right to do so if
that were my good pleasure?"
"Perfectly," pursued the captain; "as to us, be convinced that we
should not have failed to break your skull if fate had made you fall
into our hands. Is it not so, Señores?"
The two officers answered affirmatively.
"Touching unanimity!" said the Montonero with a sneer, "I give you
credit, believe me, for your good intentions towards me; however, they
do not change my resolution."
"Then," resumed the captain, "it is probable that you find it more
advantageous to yourself to allow us to live than to order our
execution?"
"That is evident."
"But it is probable also that the conditions you will impose upon us,"
said the colonel, "will be of such a kind that we shall refuse to
accept them, preferring death to dishonour."
"Well, you have not at all guessed it, my dear colonel," answered the
partisan with good humour; "I know too well how soldiers ought to
conduct themselves, even as enemies, to profit by the advantages that
my position gives me; and these conditions will be, on the contrary,
excessively easy."
"Oh, oh! that is strange," murmured the Count.
"Very strange indeed, Monsieur Count, to see one of those miserable
Creoles--those wild beasts, as you call them--preserve sentiments
of humanity so completely forgotten by their ex-masters, the noble
Castilians."
"I confess that for my part, I am curious to know these benign
propositions," said the captain with a sneer.
"You are about to be satisfied, Señor," replied the partisan, with the
sly tone that he had affected from the commencement of the interview;
"but meanwhile will you be so good as to sit down: I am at home, I wish
to do you the honours of my abode."
"Be it so, we listen to you," said the captain, sitting down--a
movement imitated by his two companions.
"Here are my conditions," resumed the partisan: "I offer to restore you
immediately to liberty, giving you the baggage which has been taken
from you, and allowing you the facility of continuing your journey,
and to accomplish the mission with which you are charged for Don Pablo
Pincheyra."
"Eh!" cried the captain, "You know that also."
"I know all, have I not told you?"
"That is true; pardon me this interruption," said the captain; "you
said, then, that you offered to set us at liberty, &c., &c.--on
condition--"
"On condition," replied Don Zeno, "that first you will give me your
word of honour as gentlemen and soldiers, that whatever happens during
all the time that we remain together, you will never utter my name, and
that with regard to me you will be inviolably secret."
"At present I do not see anything which prevents us taking this
engagement. Then, Señor, for that is not all, I imagine--"
"Just so, that is not all. I wish to go in your company to the camp
of Casa-Frama, to treat with Don Pablo Pincheyra on an affair which
concerns myself. I will take the name and the costume of a Portuguese
officer. You will not betray me, and, moreover, you will aid me in
terminating the affair in question; I know that you possess sufficient
influence over Don Pablo to enable me to succeed."
"Do you refuse to instruct us as to this affair?" asked the Count.
"By no means. This susceptibility is too honourable for me not to
accede to your request. It concerns two Portuguese ladies, the
Marchioness de Castelmelhor and her daughter, whom the Pincheyras have
seized against the right of nations, and whom I wish to deliver."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, _caballero;_ see if your honour will permit you to accept these
conditions?"
"Señor Don Zeno Cabral," answered the Count, "the history which
you are pleased to relate to us is very well imagined, although we
doubt much the reality of your devotion to these ladies. As they are
almost unknown to us, and as you have told us this affair entirely
concerns yourself, we do not acknowledge the right to inquire into it;
consequently my companions and I accept your conditions, which, let us
state, are really very easy. We give you our word of honour to fulfil
exactly the engagement that we take with regard to you, without we are
otherwise compelled by force."
"We give you our word of honour, as well as our noble friend, Count de
Mendoza," said the captain and the colonel together.
"And now," added Don Lucio Ortega, "when shall we be free?"
"Immediately, _caballeros_."
"And we shall set out?--"
"At sunrise, so as to be tomorrow morning at Casa-Frama. Now, dispose
of me, Señores; I am no longer your host."
We have already stated in what way the Count and the persons who
accompanied him had been received by the Pincheyras.
[1] In a preceding work, the "Grand Chief of the Aucas," I have
explained what this drink is. In Southern America it replaces tea, and
is very much liked by the white inhabitants and Indians.
CHAPTER XI.
THE CAPTIVES.
As soon as the reception had terminated, Don Pablo had offered to the
Spanish envoys and to the Portuguese officer--that is to say, to Don
Zeno Cabral, whom he was far from suspecting was a guest in his camp--a
collation that the latter had accepted.
Although camped in one of the most inaccessible parts of the
Cordilleras, the Pincheyras--thanks to their continual excursions, to
the robberies and pillage they committed in the _chacras_, the towns
and even the cities situated on the two sides of the mountains--were
well provisioned; their retreat was filled with the rarest and most
delicate things.
By the care of the sister of Don Pablo, charged by her brother with
the domestic management, a table had been prepared and covered with
a profusion of provisions of all sorts--with sweets, fruits, and
liqueurs, and even with the wines of Spain and France, that certainly
one would have been far from expecting in such a place.
The Spaniards and the Hispano-American Creoles are generally sober;
however, when the occasion presents itself, they by no means scorn the
pleasures of a well-furnished table. On this occasion they feasted in
emulation of each other on the good cheer provided for them--either on
account of the long privations that they had previously endured, or
because all was in reality exquisite, and served with much taste. The
meal was thus prolonged a considerable time; it was more than three
hours after dinner when the guests at last rose from the table.
Don Pablo then took on one side Zeno Cabral, whom he had placed near
him at table, and for whom he had a strong liking.
"Señor Don Sebastiao," said he, in a somewhat trembling voice; for
notwithstanding, or perhaps on account of, his habitual sobriety, the
few glasses of generous wine that the partisan had been obliged to
drink while entertaining his guests, had given him a slight touch of
drunkenness--"I find you, _¡vive Dios!_ a charming companion. I should
like to do something which will be agreeable to you."
"You do me honour, _caballero_," answered Zeno Cabral, with some
reserve.
"Yes, _¡Dios me ampare!_ It is so. I confess that this morning I was
somewhat thwarted in giving you up the two ladies."
"Why?"
"_¡Diablo!_ I ought to have had a good ransom for them."
"Do not let that distress you, _caballero;_ I am quite ready--"
"No, no," he quickly replied, "do not let us speak of that; I shall
gain with others what I have lost with them. I wish now to tell you
that I am delighted with what has happened. Bah! you please me--much
better that it is so. Besides, these women weary me; they weep
continually--it is insupportable."
"Just so; you were saying, then?--"
"Well, I was saying that if I could be agreeable to you in anything,
I should be happy if you would allow me to show the esteem I have for
you."
"You flatter me, _caballero_, in speaking, thus; I do not deserve this
kindness on your part."
"Well, as you will have it so, I will be frank with you, Señor; there
is, indeed, one thing in which you could be useful to me."
"Well and good--what is it?"
"Oh! _Mon Dieu!_ a very simple affair. Leave these ladies, I beg you,
in ignorance of their deliverance; you know that joy, like grief is to
be feared when it comes suddenly without any preparation. I am afraid
of the revulsion that the announcement of this sudden departure will
cause these ladies, as they are so far from expecting it."
"What you ask me is very easy of course; however, I must tell them
tomorrow, or this evening."
"Don't worry about that; it's easily managed. Tell them that they must
be ready to mount horse tomorrow at sunrise, without telling them of
the cause or the destination of the journey. I shall be careful to keep
out of their sight till I find an opportunity of presenting myself to
them without too much exciting them."
The Pincheyra, a man naturally very unsentimental, did not appreciate
what the Montonero said to him. But, by reason of that species of
innate vanity in all men, which leads them to attribute qualities to
themselves which they do not possess--attracted, moreover, towards his
own acquaintance by an inexplicable sympathy--he made no difficulty in
agreeing to what Don Zeno Cabral asked him, and consented to let him
act quite in his own way, inwardly flattered by the good opinion that
the latter appeared to have of him, and anxious to prove to him that he
was not deceived in him.
Matters thus arranged, Don Pablo requested--without entering into
any details--his brother, Don Antonio, to inform the ladies of their
approaching departure, and, going out with Don Zeno, he took him to
visit the camp of Casa-Frama.
José Antonio, the third brother of Pincheyra, was a man of about
twenty, of a melancholy disposition and limited intelligence, who
accepted with bad grace the commission which had been given him; but he
proceeded to acquit himself of it as quickly as possible.
He went, therefore, to the _toldo_ inhabited by the two ladies.
They were alone, talking to each other, when the Pincheyra presented
himself.
At sight of him they could not repress a movement of surprise--almost
of fright, but they immediately recovered themselves, and returned the
abrupt salute which he had given them without speaking to them, which
led the marchioness to ask what was the reason of his visit.
"Señora," he replied, "my brother the colonel, Don Pablo Pincheyra, has
requested me to give you notice to be ready to leave the camp tomorrow
at sunrise."
"I thank you for this good news, _caballero_," coldly answered the
marchioness.
"I do not know if the news is good or bad, and it's all one to me. I am
ordered to tell you, and I do it--that is all. Now that my commission
is done, adieu--I withdraw."
And, without further remark, he made a move to go away.
"Pardon, _caballero_," said the marchioness to him making an effort to
continue the conversation, in the hope of seeing a favourable light
burst upon the chaos which surrounded her; "one word, if you please."
"One word let it be," answered he, stopping, "but no more."
"Do you know why we are to quit the camp?"
"Upon my word, no; what is it to me whether you leave or not?"
"That is true--it must be quite indifferent to you; but you are, I
believe, one of your brother's principal officers?"
"I am a captain," he answered, holding himself up proudly.
"In that capacity you must be in the confidence of your brother's
projects, so as to know what are his intentions."
"I! What for? My brother does not render account to me, and I do not
ask any."
The marchioness bit her lips with vexation; but she continued, abruptly
changing the conversation--
"If I am so soon to leave the camp, permit me, _caballero_, to offer
you, before leaving, this slight mark of remembrance;" and taking
from her breast a delicate reliquary in gold, curiously chased, she
presented it to him with a gracious smile.
The eye of the bandit flashed with covetousness.
"Ah!" said he, holding out his hand, "What is that?"
"This medallion," replied the marchioness, "contains relics."
"Relics!" he exclaimed; "Real?"
"Certainly, it contains a splinter of the true cross, and a tooth of
Santa Rosa de Lima."
"Ah! And they are of use, are they not? Father Gomez, my brother's
chaplain, says that the relics of saints are the best arms that a
Christian can carry with him."
"He is right; these are infallible against wounds and sickness."
The bandit's eye dilated; an indescribable expression of joy overspread
his countenance.
"And you will give them to me?" he quickly exclaimed.
"I give them to you, but on one condition."
"Without condition!" he resumed, knitting his eyebrows, and casting a
sinister look at the marchioness.
The only active sentiment in the heart of this man--his
superstition--had been aroused. Perhaps to seize these relics that he
coveted he would not have recoiled from a crime.
The marchioness immediately perceived the thought, indistinct as it
was, that agitated his obtuse mind. She exhibited no emotion, and
continued:
"These relics would immediately lose their virtue if they were taken by
violence from the person who possesses them."
"Ah!" murmured he, with a sullen and husky voice, "They must be freely
given?"
"They must," coldly answered the marchioness.
Doña Eva had felt a shudder of fear run through her limbs at the
concealed threat of the bandit; but his exclamation reassured her; she
saw that the wild beast was tamed.
"What is this condition?" pursued he.
"I wish to know if some strangers arrived in the camp yesterday."
"They arrived this morning."
"Spaniards?"
"Yes."
"Was there a Portuguese among them?"
"I believe there was one."
"Are you sure of it?"
"Yes, it is he who is to take you away; he offers a large ransom for
you. I remember, because my brother has refused the ransom while
consenting to part with you--which I cannot at all understand on his
part."
"Ah!" she murmured, with a dreamy air.
"Have you anything else to ask me?"
"One question more."
"Be quick," he answered, his eyes greedily fixed on the reliquary,
which he never lost sight of.
"Do you know Don Emile?"
"The Frenchman?"
"Yes, the same."
"I know him."
"I should like to speak with him."
"It is impossible."
"Why so?"
"Because he left the camp an hour ago, in company with my brother Don
Santiago."
"Do you know when he will return?"
"Never; I repeat that he has gone away."
A sigh of relief escaped the breast of the marchioness. If the young
man had gone away, it was with the intention of being of service to
them. All hope was not then lost to them, since a devoted friend was
still watching over their safety.
"I thank you," she replied, "for what you have consented to tell me;
there is the reliquary."
The Pincheyra bounded on it like a wild beast on his prey, and hid it
under his poncho.
"You swear to me that these relics are true?" he asked, in a suspicious
tone.
"I swear it."
"No matter," murmured he, shaking his head; "I will have them blessed
by Father Gomez; that can do no harm. Adieu, Madame."
And without further salutation he turned on his heel, left the _toldo_
as abruptly as he had entered it, keeping his right hand firmly on his
breast, no doubt to assure himself that the precious reliquary was
still in the place where he had hidden it.
There was a long silence between the two ladies after the departure of
the Pincheyra.
The marchioness at last raised her eyes, and fixed a long look on her
daughter, who, her head reclined on her breast, seemed lost in bitter
reflections.
"Eva!" said she, in a gentle voice.
The young girl started, and, holding up her beautiful face, paled with
grief:
"Do you speak, mother?" she answered.
"Yes, my girl," replied the marchioness; "you were thinking, no doubt,
of our unhappy situation?"
"Alas!" exclaimed she.
"A situation," continued the marchioness, "that every moment renders
more dreadful; for, do not deceive yourself, my child, this liberty
that the bandit accords us, whose prisoners we are--this liberty is but
a snare."
"Oh! Do you think so, mother? What makes you suppose that?"
"I know nothing; and yet I am convinced that the man who says he is
sent by your father to take us back to him, and who obstinately keeps
out of the way, instead of presenting himself to us as he ought to
do--I am convinced that this man is our enemy, more to be feared,
perhaps, than he from whom he takes us away, and who--a bandit
without faith or law--has only kept us in the hope of a rich ransom,
entertaining towards us neither hatred nor anger."
"Pardon me, mother, for not being of your opinion in this matter. In
a country so far from our own--where, except Don Emile, we know no
one--strangers in the midst of the people who surround us--what enemy
can we have to fear?"
The marchioness smiled sadly.
"Your memory is short," she said, "my dear Eva; careless, like all
children of your age, the past is nothing more to you than a dream, and
without dwelling on the present, you look only to the future. Have you,
then, forgotten the partisan chief who, two months ago, made us his
prisoners, and from whom Don Emile's devotion saved us?"
"Oh, no! Mother," cried she, with a nervous start; "no, I have not
forgotten him, for this man seems to be our evil genius. But, God be
praised! Here, at least, we have nothing to fear from him."
"You deceive yourself, my daughter; it is he, on the contrary, who now
pursues us."
"It cannot be, mother; this man, you know, is attached to the opposite
party to that of the bandit, in whose hands we are."
"Poor child! The wicked always unite when there is any evil to be done.
I repeat, this man is here."
"Mother," said the young girl, whose voice trembled with emotion, but in
a resolute tone, "you have long known this man?"
"Yes," she simply answered.
"As that is the case, you no doubt know the motives, true or false, of
this implacable hatred?"
"Yes, I know them, my girl."
"And," said she, with some hesitation, "why do you not acquaint me with
them?"
"No, that is impossible."
"Permit me to ask you a question, mother."
"Speak, my girl; if I can answer I will."
"Do the reasons for this hatred affect you personally?"
"No, I am, in every way, innocent of the deeds with which we are
reproached."
"Why _we_, mother?"
"Because, dear child, all the members of a family are so intimately
connected, you know."
"I know it, mother."
"It is an unquestionable consequence of this that a deed laid at the
door of one member of a family must be for all, and that if this action
is shameful or guilty, all must submit to the shame of it, and bear its
responsibility."
"That is true; thank you, mother, I understand you; now there only
remains one point on which I am not well informed."
"To what do you allude?"
"To this--that at Santiago de Chile, and afterwards at Salto, Señor Don
Zeno Cabral--that is his name, I think?"
"Yes, that is his name; well?"
"When he came to our house, did you then know this hatred that he bears
us?"
"I knew it, my girl," briefly answered the marchioness.
"You knew it, mother!" cried Doña Eva, with surprise.
"Yes, I knew it, I repeat."
"But then, mother, if that were the case, why receive him on the
footing of intimacy, when it would have been so easy for you to have
closed the door to him!"
"Do you think that would have been possible for me?"
"Forgive this persistence, mother; but I cannot explain to myself such
conduct on your part. You, endowed as you are with such exquisite tact,
and so deep a knowledge of the world!"
The marchioness slightly shrugged her shoulders, while a smile of an
indefinable expression played round her mouth.
"You reason foolishly, my dear Eva," she answered lightly impressing
her pale lips on the forehead of the young girl. "I did not personally
know Don Zeno Cabral. He was ignorant then, and probably is ignorant
still, that I was mistress of the secret of his hatred--a secret
of which, in fact (with a disposition less candidly honourable than
that of your father), I should not have had (on account of certain
particulars hurtful to me as a woman)--I should not have had, I say,
to share the heavy burden. My design, in entertaining our enemy, and
even in introducing him into our private intimacy, was to put him on
the wrong scene--to make him believe that I was in complete ignorance;
and thus excite his confidence, and so succeed, if not in making him
renounce his projects against us, at least in making him modify them,
or obtain the avowal of them from him. The apparent weakness of Don
Zeno--his effeminate manners, his pretended gentleness, his beardless
face, which makes him appear much younger than he is--everything made
me suppose that I should easily succeed in overreaching him. Unhappily
it has not been so. This man is of granite; nothing moves him, nothing
affects him. Availing himself of irony--so much the more dangerous,
as it is difficult coolly to combat it--he always knew how to meet my
stratagem and repulse my attacks. Tired of this, and galled one day
by the tone of biting raillery which never left him in our private
interviews, I allowed myself to be carried away by anger; I grievously
offended him by a bitter word that I threw in his face, and which I
wished immediately to retract. But it was too late; the imprudence was
irreparable. In wishing to unmask my adversary, I had allowed him to
read my heart. From that moment all was over between us--or rather all
commenced. After having coldly bowed to me, he withdrew, ironically
warning me to be more on my guard for the future. I saw him no more
till the moment when he caused us to fall into the ambuscade which puts
us in his power."
While the marchioness was speaking, the countenance of Doña Eva by
turns expressed contrary feelings. The young girl, a prey to an emotion
she vainly tried to conquer, pressed her panting bosom, and secretly
wiped her eyes, which every moment filled with tears. At last this
emotion was so apparent that the marchioness could not but perceive it.
She abruptly stopped, and fixing on her daughter a hard and imperious
look, whilst her eyebrows knitted, and her voice assumed a tone of
menace:
"What is the matter with you, niña?" asked she; "Why these tears that I
see you are shedding?"
The young girl blushed and lowered her head with embarrassment.
"Answer," severely resumed the marchioness; "answer, I desire."
"Mother," stammered she, in a feeble and trembling voice, "is not what
you tell me sufficient to cause the grief which you see I am suffering?
I do not at all deserve the unjust anger that you display to me."
The marchioness shook her head, continuing to fix her eye upon her
daughter, who, blushing and paling by turns, more and more lost
countenance.
"Well," said she, "I am willing to believe what you say, but take care
that someday I do not discover that you have spoken falsely--that a
feeling, if not of the existence, at least of the power of which you
are ignorant, and which you vainly try to conceal from me, has taken
possession of your heart."
"What do you mean, mother? In the name of Heaven, I do not understand
you."
"Heaven grant that I may be deceived," she replied, mournfully; "but
let us quit this subject--we are getting too melancholy about it; I
have warned you, and I will watch--the future will decide."
"Mother, when we are so unhappy already, why increase my sorrow by
unjust reproaches?"
The marchioness darted a look, in which there was a flash of anger, but
immediately recovering herself--
"You have, then, understood me?" she cried, with a calculating coolness.
The young girl shivered, fell trembling on the bosom of her mother,
murmuring an answer interrupted by grief, and fainted.
The marchioness lifted her gently and laid her on a hammock. For a
long time she contemplated her with an expression of anger, love, and
sadness impossible to express.
"Poor, poor child!" murmured she, and falling on her knees near the
hammock, she clasped her hands and addressed a fervent prayer to Heaven.
She prayed a long time thus. Suddenly she felt a burning tear fall upon
her forehead. She quickly raised her head.
Her daughter, half raised upon the hammock, and leaning over her, was
looking at her as she prayed.
"Mother! mother!" she cried, drawing her gently towards her.
The marchioness rose without answering, approached her daughter, and
the two women fell into each other's arms, mingling their tears in an
impassioned embrace.
THE END.