THE RUPTURE.
They travelled the whole day without any incidents: the heat which had
so incommoded them all during the first few days, had been succeeded
by a temperature which hourly became colder. The foliage of the trees
assumed a deeper tinge of green; the singing birds of the llanos,
whose sweet notes ravished the ear, had been succeeded by the eagles,
vultures, and other birds of prey, which formed immense circles in
space while uttering the hoarse and strange cries peculiar to them.
The sky, which had hitherto been of such a pure blue, was beginning
here and there to assume greyish tones and coppery reflections, which
formed a contrast with the dull whiteness of the water of the torrents
which fell in cascades from the snowy peaks of the mountains, down
whose flanks they dragged with a dull roar masses of rock and enormous
firs which they uprooted in their passage.
A wild llama or vicuna might be seen balanced on a point of granite,
and at times in the openings of the thick wood which bordered the road,
the flashing eyes of a puma, or the black muzzle of a bee hunting bear,
could be seen stretched out over a branch. All, in a word, announced
the vicinity of the Cordillera of the Andes.
When night set in, the caravan had reached a narrow plateau, situated
in what is called the temperate region, the last station of travellers
before entering the vast and gloomy solitudes of the Andes, which are
as yet very little known or explored, owing to the difficulty of means
of transport, and the absence of a sedentary population.
The camp was made by the side of the road, under an immense natural
arch, formed by means of rock, which overhung the road for more than
two hundred yards, and formed a shelter for travellers by being
hollowed out at its base. The fires were lighted, one in the centre of
the camp, and the other at each corner, in order to keep off the wild
beasts whose attacks were beginning to be apprehended with reason.
When supper was ended, sentries were posted, and each prepared his
couch in order to spend his night in the enjoyment of that sleep which
restores the strength. If the expression we have just used, that each
prepared his couch, were to be taken literally, it would be a great
mistake, if this performance were at all supposed to be like what is
done in Europe in similar cases.
In fact, with a European a bed generally consists of at least one
mattress, or something analogous to take its place, a bolster, a
pillow, sheets, blankets, &c.; but in Chili things are very different.
Although luxury and comfort are things well known in towns, beds at
all like ours are only found in the houses of rich people, and then,
great heavens! what beds. As for the one which the Chilians employ when
travelling, it is most convenient and ingenious, since it serves them
as a saddle by day, as we shall proceed to show.
The horse's equipment consists, in the first place, of three ponchos,
folded square, and laid one upon the other on the back of the horse; in
these ponchos are laid four sheepskins with the wool on, and on these
again is placed a wooden seat, representing a saddle, which supports
a pair of heavy wooden stirrups, hollowed out in a triangular form.
A surcingle, fastened under the horse's belly, keep these various
articles in their places, and four more ponchos and four more skins
are laid on them. Lastly, another poncho is thrown over the whole, and
serves as chabraque, a second strap holding this edifice in its place.
We can see from the description of what enters into the formation of
Chilian horse accoutrement that it can advantageously take the place
of our scanty English saddle, and that the rider is able to find the
materials for a very soft bed. When the latter arrives at his sleeping
place, he unsaddles his horse, which he leaves at liberty to find its
food where it thinks proper, and then makes the aforesaid bed in the
following way.
He first lays the saddle on the ground to act as pillow, then spreads
his first sheepskins, over a space six feet in length, and two or three
in width; he covers these with three ponchos, on which he lies down,
and then pulls over him the four other skins and the remaining ponchos,
and eventually disappears under this pile of stuff so entirely that it
is impossible to perceive him, for even his head is hidden.
It happens at times that when a man is passing the night on the
Cordilleras, under the protection of this formidable rampart of skins
and blankets, a few feet of snow literally bury the sleeper, who,
on awaking, is compelled to throw his legs and arms about for some
minutes, in order to liberate himself and see daylight again.
Diego was preparing his bed in the manner which we have just described,
and displaying all the attention of a man who feels the need of a
sound sleep, when he saw Leon Delbès coming towards him, who since
the morning had not spoken to him, and seemed to avoid him. We must
suppose that the smuggler's face betrayed a lively emotion, for
Diego on looking up to him, felt ill at ease, and saw that something
extraordinary had taken place in his friend's mind. From the way in
which the young man looked at him, it was certain that he was preparing
to ask of him an explanation about some fact, and understanding that
it could only refer to the Soto-Mayor family, he could not suppress a
start of impatience which did not escape Leon.
The latter, on his side, was asking himself how he should manage the
conversation as to lead Diego to tell him what he wanted to learn, and
not knowing how to begin, he waited till the latter should address
him. Both were afraid of reverting to the past, and yet each felt that
the moment had arrived to behave frankly and expose the nature of his
grievances.
When we speak of grievances, we know perfectly that neither had
to reproach the other for any deed of a reprehensible nature in
what concerned their mutual pledge to help each other; but if Leon
involuntarily revolted against the implacable revenge which the
half-breed had begun to exercise against the Soto-Mayors, while
confessing to himself that, in spite of the friendship which united him
to Diego, he could never lend a hand to excesses like the one which
he had seen committed on the previous night by the Indians, Diego had
not failed to comprehend that the love which Leon entertained for
Maria would be an invincible obstacle to the support which the latter
had sworn to give him. Without accusing him of treachery, he still
taxed him with softness of heart and irresolution, or rather pitied
him for having surrendered himself, bound hand and foot, to a wild
passion which paralyzed all the goodwill which he might under other
circumstances have expected from him.
As we see, the respective position of the two men toward each other had
been too false for them not to feel in their hearts a lively desire
to put an end to it; the difficulty was to manage it without injuring
their self-esteem and interests.
Leon had hoped that Diego would at length inquire the motive which had
brought him to his friend, but on seeing that the latter affected not
to address a syllable to him, he resolved to break the silence.
"You are going to sleep, brother," he said to him.
"Yes," Diego replied: "I am tired."
"You tired!" Leon remarked, with a smile of incredulity, "tired by a
ten leagues' ride, when I have seen you hunt on the Pampas for eight
or ten days in succession without dreaming of resting for a moment;
nonsense!"
"Tired or no, I wish to sleep: besides, what is there extraordinary in
that? Has not everybody in camp lain down?"
"That is true."
"Then I invite you to do the same, unless love keeps you awake," he
added, laconically. "In that case, the best thing you can do is to
spend the night in walking round the hut in which your fair one is
reposing, that her sleep may not be disturbed; and much good may it do
you."
"Diego," Leon answered, sorrowfully, "what you are saying to me is not
right. What have I done to you that you should address me so roughly?"
"Nothing," the half-breed said, with a regretful tone. "But come,"
he said, kicking the bed over which he had taken so much pains in
preparing, "you really seem so anxious to speak to me that I might
fancy that you had important business."
"What makes you suppose that I want to speak to you?"
"Oh, good Heaven! Leon, we have lived together long enough for us to
be able to read on one another's faces what our thoughts are. Confess
that you are suffering, that you are anxious, and that you have come to
ask some explanation of me. Come, if it be so, tell me frankly what you
want of me, and I will answer. For on my side I also have to speak with
you about the grief and sorrow which seem to have assailed you since
yesterday. Speak; is it the engagement you made to support me in the
struggle I am preparing, for that seems to you too heavy to carry out?
Only say one word: there is still time, and I will give you back your
word; but speak, for I am anxious to come to a decision."
"Brother," said Leon, without replying directly to Diego's injunction,
"I notice bitterness in your words and mocking on your lips: still,
in order to remove from the discussion anything that might resemble
passion or annoyance, I have let the whole day pass over the event
about which I wish to speak to you, for it is the friend I am
addressing, and not Tahi-Mari."
"Well, what do you want?"
"I will tell you."
Leon drew from his belt the ring which he had found, and handed it to
Diego.
"Do you know this?" he asked him.
"What is it?" said the half-breed, taking it and turning it over in his
fingers, while giving the young man an inquiring glance.
"A ring."
"Hang it, I can see that, and a very handsome ring too; but I ask you
what meaning it has in your hands?"
"Do you not know?"
"How would you have me know?"
"Is it true that you do not know to whom it belongs?"
"Certain."
"Then you did not notice it on anybody's hand?"
"No; and I assure you that if I had seen it twenty times I should not
recognise it now, for I pay no attention to such futilities."
"Well, since you do not know to whom it belongs, I will tell you."
"If you insist on my knowing, very good. But," he added, with a smile,
"if I could have thought that you wished to speak to me so anxiously in
order to talk about a pearl, I should have begged you to let me sleep."
"A little patience, for this ring is more important than you seem to
fancy."
"In that case tell me for what reason, and how it comes in your hands."
Leon looked at Diego's face, which indicated his entire good faith, and
continued:
"You remember that when we reached the Indians' camp together, two
Spanish prisoners were in their power."
"Yes, certainly."
"Now, this morning, when passing again through that camp with the
caravan, Don Pedro Sallazar, after examining the sign, divined an
Indian sojourn, and invited me to enter the huts with him. I found this
ring in the one to which I saw the prisoners transported."
"In that case," said Diego, "it must have belonged to one of them, that
is incontestable. But how do those prisoners concern us?"
"Our second, as victim of the barbarous sacrifice which I saw
accomplished before my eyes, and he was a lancero. I allow that I saw
that hapless man for the first time in my life. But the other."
"The other!" Diego interrupted, who was curiously listening to Leon's
narrative.
"The other we both know, for he was Don Juan de Soto-Mayor, the
general's son, and this ring is the same which he wore on the day when
his father sheltered us under his roof."
"Don Juan!" Diego said, with a start, while a flash of savage joy
illuminated his eyes. "What! it was he?"
"Did you not know it?"
"No, on my soul! It is probable that he was following the same road as
ourselves; and the Indians, who were ahead of us, seized him."
"And what has become of him? What have they done to him?"
"How do I know? A Soto-Mayor!" Diego repeated, on whom the announcement
of this news produced unequivocal satisfaction. "Thanks, Leon, for
having been the first to inform me of the fact."
"What do you mean? I came to you to ask you whether this man has not
found among the Indians the horrible death that smote the lancero who
accompanied him!"
"No; and I thank Heaven for it, for I gave orders that all prisoners
should be kept in a place of safety, with the exception of the one
selected for sacrifice, and I shall soon be able to find Don Juan, who
belongs to me, and whose blood shall be shed by me in expiation of
the great Tahi-Mari, my father. At length," the half-breed exclaimed,
growing animated, "you are about to be avenged, my glorious ancestors!
and may every head which my hand causes to fall, rejoice your irritated
manes!"
At this moment, Diego's attitude had something so imposing about it
that Leon felt himself gradually overcome by its terrible expression;
because he resolved to oppose to the force of hatred which burned in
the half-breed's heart that of love which consumed his own, by striking
a grand blow.
"Brother," he said, "you are strangely in error if you fancy that I
told you the name of the wearer of this ring in order to satisfy your
vengeance."
"What do you mean?" Diego replied.
"That in the name of the friendship which unites us, in the name of the
love which I have for Doña Maria, I have come to ask you to restore to
liberty the brother of her whom I love."
And Leon ceased speaking.
The man who, walking along a road bordered by flowers and turf,
suddenly saw the ground open under his feet, and a bottomless precipice
present itself, would not feel a greater commotion of surprise than
that which assailed the descendant of Tahi-Mari: his lips were
clenched, his cheeks turned livid, and he fell crushed on the ponchos
which remained on the ground.
"Have I rightly understood? Leon, it is at the moment when after
waiting twenty years for the solemn hour of victory I at length hear
it strike, that you ask me to surrender my enemy to you! What I should
have broken all the obstacles which opposed the success of the holy
cause which I am defending; I should have sacrificed without pity for
myself all that attached me to life, after tearing from my heart all
the illusions of my youth, in order only to leave my hatred, and all
that in order to renounce the hope of attaining the object which I was
pursuing! Oh, no, that is not possible; and it is not you, Leon, my
friend, my brother, who would ask such a sacrifice of me. No!"
"Brother, forgive me!" Leon exclaimed; "but I love this woman."
"Yes, you love her; and if I give you the life of the brother, you will
ask me tomorrow for that of the father; and each day, implored by you,
I must, I suppose, abandoning one by one the victims I have marked,
efface from my memory every recollection of the past, and allow the
assassins of Tahi-Mari to live amid the joys which power and wealth
produce. No, no! I pity you, brother, for you must have left all your
reason at the bottom of that love to which you refer when you dare to
make me such a proposal."
"Enough, Diego; enough! I implored you in the name of our friendship,
and I was wrong, since you believe that you are committing an act of
justice in killing those for whom I implore your mercy. Pardon me; and
now farewell, brother, I will leave you."
"Where are you going, madman?" Diego asked, as he held him back.
"I do not know, but I wish to fly far from here."
"What! leave me! thus break a friendship like ours! You cannot think of
such a thing."
"Do you not know that I love Maria with all the strength of my soul: as
I told you it is an impossibility to give up that love, and yet I do
not wish to betray your cause; so let me go and seek far from her, if
not oblivion, at least death."
"Grief leads you astray, Leon. Come, listen to me."
"What!--your justification! I do not accuse you; but once again I say
we must separate, for if Maria were to ask me for her brother and I
should not give him to her, she would curse me, do you hear? Because
she would refuse to believe that I love her, as I did not know how to
die to save him whom your hatred has condemned! You see plainly that I
must depart."
"Well, then," said Diego, with some amount of emotion, "an
insurmountable barrier is raised between us."
"Yes, brother; but though we are parted the memory of our friendship
will survive our separation."
A silence of some minutes' duration followed these words, and nothing
could be heard but the hurried breathing of the two men. Diego was the
first to speak.
"Leon," he suddenly exclaimed, making a violent effort over himself;
"you have spoken the truth; one of us must depart, as we are both
following a different road; but it shall be I, for my place is at the
head of the Indians, my brothers. As for you, remain with those whom
you are protecting, and ere I go to resume the life of the proscript,
and continue in broad daylight the struggle which I have been carrying
on for so many years in the darkness, give me your hand, that I may
press it in mine for the last time; and then, to the mercy of God!"
"Oh!" Leon replied, eagerly, "most gladly so, or rather let us embrace,
for we are still worthy of each other."
And the two smugglers fell into each other's arms.
"Be happy, Diego," said Leon.
"God grant that you may find happiness in the love of Doña Maria," said
Diego.
Then the latter, taking his lasso, whistled to his colt, which came up
at the appeal, and, after saddling it, he leaped lightly on its back.
He remained motionless for a moment, taking a sorrowful glance at the
men sleeping a short distance from him; and then, after breathing a
deep sigh, he addressed Leon once again.
"Farewell!" he said to him: "remember that you are an adopted son
of the Araucanos, and that if you please one day to come among your
brothers to seek a supporter or a defender, you will find one and the
other."
"Farewell!" murmured Leon, whose eyes were moist.
Ere long the half-breed's mustang, sharply spurred, leaped at one bound
over the bales which formed the enclosure of the camp, and darted
across the plain with the rapidity of an arrow.