For some seconds I hung over what I supposed to be an inanimate form; it
was that of a mere youth, and fair to behold, as was also the face,
which was conspicuously upturned to the light of the moon.
Notwithstanding its deathly pallor, it exhibited a fine type of manly
beauty. The features were regular, the complexion brown, the cheek soft
and smooth, the upper lip darkly bedecked with the young growth of
virility, the eye rotund and of noble expression, the forehead framed in
a garland of glossy black hair, whose luxuriant curls drooped down upon
each side of the full rounded throat--all these I saw at a single
glance. I saw also a faultless figure, habited in the costume of a
peasant rather than of a soldier, but a peasant of a peculiar people,
the _Jarochos_. In the words lately proceeding from the lips of the
unfortunate youth, I had recognised the _patois_ of this people, and was
not surprised at seeing a richly-embroidered shirt of the finest linen,
neatly fitting over the young man's breast, a sash of China crape around
the waist, calzoneros of velveteen, with rows of bell-buttons, and boots
with spurs attached, apparently of silver.
Striking and rich as was the costume, it was still only that of the
Mexican peasant. A few peculiarities, such at; the hat of palm-sinnet,
and the checked kerchief, that had covered the back part of the head,
both lying near, denoted their _ci-devant_ wearer to be a denizen of the
coast lands--in short, a "Jarocho."
These observations did not detain me, or only for a second of time, as I
bent down over the prostrate form. My whole design was to examine the
wound which I supposed to have been given by the robber, and which I
really believed to have caused the Jarocho's death.
To my astonishment, I could discover no wound, at least none that was
fresh. There was a blotch of coagulated blood on the left thigh, darker
in the centre as seen through the torn calzoneros; but this was from the
wound received in battle.
Where was that just given by the sword of the Salteador? Certainly I
saw stains of blood recently spilt. There were several spots upon the
white linen shirt, besprinkling the plaits upon the bosom, and others
upon the sleeves; also the cheeks of the youth showed a drop or two on
their pallid ground.
Whence had these blood-drops proceeded?
I could not guess. I could discover no recent stab on the Jarocho's
body, not a scratch to account for them!
Had the robber, after all, failed in his fatal thrust? Had the death of
his intended victim been caused by the shot-wound in the thigh, hastened
by the terror of that horrid threat?
While thus conjecturing, my eye fell upon an object glancing through the
grass. I stooped down and took it up. It was a _machete_--half sword,
half hunting-knife--to be met with in every Mexican house, or seen
hanging on the hip of every Mexican _cavallero_.
Was it the weapon of the wounded man, or that I had lately seen in the
hand of his enemy?
I took it up to examine it. The blade was bright: not a speck appeared
on its polished surface!
Between my fingers, as they grasped the hilt of riveted horn, I felt
something _wet_. Was it dew from the grass?
No. The moonlight fell upon something darker than dew. Both the haft
of the weapon and my fingers encircling it were red as rubies. It was
blood, and fresh from the veins of a human being!
As it could not be the blood of Calros, I concluded it must be that of
Ramon Rayas. My bullet must have been true to its aim.
While thus occupied with conjectures, a new voice fell upon my ear, as
different from either of those lately listened to as music from the
rudest noise.
"Calros! dear Calros!" called the voice, "was it you I heard? Speak,
Calros! _valga me Dios_! That shot! Surely it was not for him? No--
no--I heard him speaking after it. Calros! Answer me, if you are near.
It is I who call--I, your own Lola!"
Had it been the voice of an angel coming out of the chapparal, or from
the sky above it could not have sounded sweeter, nor thrilled me with a
stranger impulse.
For some seconds I remained irresolute as to what answer should be made
to the pathetic appeal. I hesitated to apprise the speaker of the
presence of Calros. Only his body was present; his spirit was not
there!
What a sad spectacle for the eye of the loved Dolores--the _loving_
Dolores--how could I doubt it? Looking upon the handsome Jarocho--
graceful even in the attitude of death--I could not wonder at the
earnestness of that feminine voice, pronouncing him her "_querido
Calros_."
Once more it fell upon my ear, continuing the passionate appeal.
"Calros! O Calros! Why do you not answer me? It is Lola--your own
Lola!"
"Lola!" I responded, yielding to an irresistible emotion, "this way;
come this way! Calros is here."
An exclamatory phrase, expressing gratitude to the "Mother of God," was
heard in response; and quickly following the words, a female form, fair
as the mother of men, parting the hushes that bordered the glade,
stepped cut into the opening.
Story 1, Chapter V.