ALL INTERESTS AT STAKE.
Meanwhile, Sarah was left alone, alone with her anguish and her grief!
She was about to give up her whole life to a man whom she did not love!
She leaned over the perfumed balcony of her chamber, which overlooked
the interior gardens. Through the green jalousies, her ear listened to
the sounds of the slumbering country. Her lace mantle, gliding over her
arms, revealed a profusion of diamonds sparkling on her shoulders. Her
sorrow, proud and majestic, appeared through all her ornaments, and she
might have been taken for one of those beautiful Greek slaves, nobly
draped in their antique garments.
Suddenly her glance rested on a man who was gliding silently among the
avenues of the magnolia; she recognized him; it was Liberta, her
servant. He seemed to be watching some invisible enemy, now sheltering
himself behind a statue, now crouching on the ground.
Sarah was afraid, and looked around her. She was alone, entirely alone.
Her eyes rested on the gardens, and she became pale, paler still! Before
her was transpiring a terrible scene. Liberta was in the grasp of a man
of tall stature, who had thrown him down; stifled sighs proved that a
robust hand was pressing the lips of the Indian.
The young girl, summoning all her courage, was about to cry out, when
she saw the two men rise! The negro was looking fixedly at his
adversary.
"It is you, then! it is you!" exclaimed he.
And he followed this man in a strange stupefaction. They arrived beneath
the balcony of Sarah. Suddenly, before she had time to utter a cry,
Martin Paz appeared to her, like a phantom from another world; and, like
the negro when overthrown by the Indian, the young girl, bending before
the glance of Martin Paz, could in her turn only repeat these words,
"It is you, then! it is you!"
The young Indian fixed on her his motionless eyes, and said:
"Does the betrothed hear the sound of the festival? The guests are
thronging into the saloons to see happiness radiate from her
countenance! Is it then a victim, prepared for the sacrifice, who is
about to present herself to their impatient eyes? Is it with these
features, pale with sorrow, with eyes in which sparkle bitter tears,
that the young girl is to appear herself before her betrothed?"
Martin Paz spoke thus, in a tone full of sympathizing sadness, and Sarah
listened vaguely as to those harmonies which we hear in dreams!
The young Indian resumed with infinite sweetness:
"Since the soul of the young girl is in mourning, let her look beyond
the house of her father, beyond the city where she suffers and weeps;
beyond the mountains, the palm-trees lift up their heads in freedom, the
birds strike the air with an independent wing; men have immensity to
live in, and the young girls may unfold their spirits and their hearts!"
Sarah raised her head toward Martin Paz. The Indian had drawn himself up
to his full height, and with his arm extended toward the summits of the
Cordilleras, was pointing out to the young girl the path to liberty.
Sarah felt herself constrained by an irresistible force. Already the
sound of voices reached her; they approached her chamber; her father was
undoubtedly about to enter; perhaps her lover would accompany him! The
Indian suddenly extinguished the lamp suspended above his head. A
whistling, similar to the cry of the _cilguero_, and reminding one of
that heard on the Plaza-Mayor, pierced the silent darkness of night; the
young girl swooned.
The door opened hastily; Samuel and André Certa entered. The darkness
was profound; some servants ran with torches. The chamber was empty.
"Death and fury!" exclaimed the mestizo.
"Where is she?" asked Samuel.
"You are responsible for her," said André, brutally.
At these words, the Jew felt a cold sweat freeze even his bones.
"Help! help!" he exclaimed.
And, followed by his domestics, he sprang out of the house.
Martin Paz fled rapidly through the streets of the city. The negro
Liberta followed him; but did not appear disposed to dispute with him
the possession of the young girl.
At two hundred paces from the dwelling of the Jew, Paz found some
Indians of his companions, who had assembled at the whistle uttered by
him.
"To our mountain _ranchos_!" exclaimed he.
"To the house of the Marquis Don Vegal!" said another voice behind him.
Martin Paz turned; the Spaniard was at his side.
"Will you not confide this young girl to me?" asked the marquis.
The Indian bent his head, and said in a low voice to his companions:
"To the dwelling of the Marquis Don Vegal!"
They turned their steps in this direction.
An extreme confusion reigned then in the saloons of the Jew. The news of
Sarah's disappearance was a thunderbolt; the friends of André hastened
to follow him. The _faubourg_ of San Lazaro was explored, hastily
searched; but nothing could be discovered. Samuel tore his hair in
despair. During the whole night the most active research was useless.
"Martin Paz is living!" exclaimed André Certa, in a moment of fury.
And the presentiment quickly acquired confirmation. The police were
immediately informed of the elopement; its most active agents bestirred
themselves; the Indians were closely watched, and if the retreat of the
young girl was not discovered, evident proofs of an approaching revolt
came to light, which accorded with the denunciations of the Jew.
André Certa lavished gold freely, but could learn nothing. Meanwhile,
the gate-keepers declared that they had seen no person leave Lima; the
young girl must therefore be concealed in the city.
Liberta, who returned to his master, was often interrogated; but no
person seemed more astonished than himself at the elopement of Sarah.
Meanwhile, one man besides André Certa had seen in the disappearance of
the young Jewess, a proof of the existence of Martin Paz; it was the
Sambo. He was wandering in the streets of Lima, when the cry uttered by
the Indian fixed his attention; it was a signal of rally well known to
him! The Sambo was therefore a spectator of the capture of the young
girl, and followed her to the dwelling of the marquis.
The Spaniard entered by a secret door, of which he alone had the key; so
that his domestics suspected nothing. Martin Paz carried the young girl
in his arms and laid her on a bed.
When Don Vegal, who had returned to re-enter by the principal door,
reached the chamber where Sarah was reposing, he found Martin Paz
kneeling beside her. The marquis was about to reproach the Indian with
his conduct, when the latter said to him:
"You see, my father, whether I love you! Ah! why did you throw yourself
in my way? We should have been already free in our mountains. But how,
should I not have obeyed your words?"
Don Vegal knew not what to reply, his heart was seized with a powerful
emotion. He felt how much he was beloved by Martin Paz.
"The day on which Sarah shall quit your dwelling to be restored to her
father and her betrothed," sighed the Indian, "you will have a son and a
friend less in the world."
As he said these last words, Paz moistened with his tears the hand of
Don Vegal. They were the first tears this man had shed!
The reproaches of Don Vegal died away before this respectful submission.
The young girl had become his guest; she was sacred! He could not help
admiring Sarah, still in a swoon; he was prepared to love her, of whose
conversion he had been a witness, and whom he would have been pleased to
bestow as a companion upon the young Indian.
It was then that, on opening her eyes, Sarah found herself in the
presence of a stranger.
"Where am I?" said she, with a sentiment of terror.
"With a generous man who has permitted me to call him my father,"
replied Martin Paz, pointing to the Spaniard.
The young girl, restored by the voice of the Indian to a consciousness
of her position, covered her face with her trembling hands, and began to
sob.
"Withdraw, friend," said Don Vegal to the young man; "withdraw."
Martin Paz slowly left the room, not without having pressed the hand of
the Spaniard, and cast on Sarah a lingering look.
Then Don Vegal bestowed upon this poor child consolations of exquisite
delicacy; he conveyed in suitable language his sentiments of nobility
and honor. Attentive and resigned, the young girl comprehended what
danger she had escaped; and she confided her future happiness to the
care of the Spaniard. But amid phrases interrupted by sighs and mingled
with tears, Don Vegal perceived the intense attachment of this simple
heart for him whom she called her deliverer. He induced Sarah to take
some repose, and watched over her with the solicitude of a father.
Martin Paz comprehended the duties that honor required of him, and, in
spite of perils and dangers, would not pass the night beneath the roof
of Don Vegal.
He therefore went out; his head was burning, his blood was boiling with
fever in his veins.
He had not gone a hundred paces in the street, when five or six men
threw themselves upon him, and, notwithstanding his obstinate defense,
succeeded in binding him. Martin Paz uttered a cry of despair, which was
lost in the night. He believed himself in the power of his enemies, and
gave a last thought to the young girl.
A short time afterward the Indian was deposited in a room. The bandage
which had covered his eyes was taken off. He looked around him, and saw
himself in the lower hall of that tavern where his brethren had
organized their approaching revolt.
The Sambo, Manangani, and others, surrounded him. A gleam of indignation
flashed from his eyes, which was reciprocated by his captors.
"My son had then no pity on my tears," said the Sambo, "since he
suffered me for so long a time to believe in his death?"
"Is it on the eve before a revolt that Martin Paz, our chief, should be
found in the camp of our enemies?"
Martin Paz replied neither to his father, nor to Manangani.
"So our most important interests have been sacrificed to a woman!"
As he spoke thus, Manangani had approached Martin Paz; a poignard was
gleaming in his hand. Martin Paz did not even look at him.
"Let us first speak," said the Sambo; "we will act afterward. If my son
fails to conduct his brethren to the combat, I shall know now on whom to
avenge his treason. Let him take care! the daughter of the Jew Samuel is
not so well concealed that she can escape our hatred. My son will
reflect. Struck with a mortal condemnation, proscribed, wandering among
our masters, he will not have a stone on which to rest his sorrows. If,
on the contrary, we resume our ancient country and our ancient power,
Martin Paz, the chief of numerous tribes, may bestow upon his betrothed
both happiness and glory."
Martin Paz remained silent; but a terrific conflict was going on within
him. The Sambo had roused the most sensitive chords of his proud nature
to vibrate; placed between a life of fatigues, of dangers, of despair,
and an existence happy, honored, illustrious, he could not hesitate. But
should he then abandon the Marquis Don Vegal, whose noble hopes destined
him as the deliverer of Peru!
"Oh!" thought he, as he looked at his father, "they will kill Sarah, if
I forsake them."
"What does my son reply to us?" imperiously demanded the Sambo.
"That Martin Paz is indispensable to your projects; that he enjoys a
supreme authority over the Indians of the city; that he leads them at
his will, and, at a sign, could have them dragged to death. He must
therefore resume his place in the revolt, in order to ensure victory."
The bonds which still enchained him were detached by order of the Sambo;
Martin Paz arose free among his brethren.
"My son," said the Indian, who was observing him attentively,
"to-morrow, during the fête of the Amancaës, our brethren will fall like
an avalanche on the unarmed Limanians. There is the road to the
Cordilleras, there is the road to the city; you will go wherever your
good pleasure shall lead you. To-morrow! to-morrow! you will find more
than one mestizo breast to break your poignard against. You are free."
"To the mountains!" exclaimed Martin Paz, with a stern voice.
The Indian had again become an Indian amid the hatred which surrounded
him.
"To the mountains," repeated he, "and wo to our enemies, wo!"
And the rising sun illumined with its earliest rays the council of the
Indian chiefs in the heart of the Cordilleras.
These rays were joyless to the heart of the poor young girl, who wept
and prayed. The marquis had summoned Father Joachim; and the worthy man
had there met his beloved penitent. What happiness was it for her to
kneel at the feet of the old priest, and to pour out her anguish and her
afflictions.
But Sarah could not longer remain in the dwelling of the Spaniard.
Father Joachim suggested this to Don Vegal, who knew not what part to
take, for he was a prey to extreme anxiety. What had become of Martin
Paz? He had fled the house. Was he in the power of his enemies? Oh! how
the Spaniard regretted having suffered him to leave it during that night
of alarms! He sought him with the ardor, with the affection of a father;
he found him not.
"My old friend," said he to Joachim, "the young girl is in safety near
you; do not leave her during this fatal night."
"But her father, who seeks her--her betrothed, who awaits her?"
"One day--one single day! You know not whose existence is bound to that
of this child. One day--one single day! at least until I find Martin
Paz, he whom my heart and God have named my son!"
Father Joachim returned to the young girl; Don Vegal went out and
traversed the streets of Lima.
The Spaniard was surprised at the noise, the commotion, the agitation of
the city. It was that the great fête of the Amancaës, forgotten by him
alone, the 24th of June, the day of St. John, had arrived. The
neighboring mountains were covered with verdure and flowers; the
inhabitants, on foot, on horseback, in carriages, were repairing to a
celebrated table-land, situated at half a league from Lima, where the
spectators enjoyed an admirable prospect; mestizoes and Indians mingled
in the common fête; they walked gayly by groups of relatives or friends;
each group, calling itself by the name of _partida_, carried its
provisions, and was preceded by a player on the guitar, who chanted,
accompanying himself, the most popular _yaravis_ and _llantos_. These
joyous promenaders advanced with cries, sports, endless jests, through
the fields of maize and of _alfalfa_, through the groves of banana,
whose fruits hung to the ground; they traversed those beautiful
_alamedas_, planted with willows, and forests of citron, and
orange-trees, whose intoxicating perfumes were mingled with the wild
fragrance from the mountains. All along the road, traveling cabarets
offered to the promenaders the brandy of _pisco_ and the _chica_, whose
copious libations excited to laughter and clamor; cavaliers made their
horses caracole in the midst of the throng, and rivaled each other in
swiftness, address, and dexterity; all the dances in vogue, from the
_loudon_ to the _mismis_, from the _boleros_ to the _zamacuecas_,
agitated and hurried on the _caballeros_ and black-eyed _sambas_. The
sounds of the _viguela_ were soon no longer sufficient for the
disordered movements of the dancers; the musicians uttered wild cries,
which stimulated them to delirium; the spectators beat the measure with
their feet and hands, and the exhausted couples sunk one after another
to the ground.
There reigned in this fête, which derives its name from the little
mountain-flowers, an inconceivable transport and freedom; and yet no
private brawl mingled among the cries of public rejoicing; a few lancers
on horseback, ornamented with their shining cuirasses, maintained here
and there order among the populace.
The various classes of Limanian society mingled in these rejoicings,
which are repeated every day throughout the month of July. Pretty
_tapadas_ laughingly elbow beautiful girls, who bravely come, with
uncovered faces, to meet joyous cavaliers; and when at last this
multitude arrive at the _plateau_ of the Amancaës, an immense clamor of
admiration is repeated by the mountain echoes.
At the feet of the spectators extends the ancient city of kings, proudly
lifting toward heaven its towers and its steeples, whose bells are
ringing joyous peals. San Pedro, Saint Augustine, the Cathedral, attract
the eye to their roofs, resplendent with the rays of the sun. San
Domingo, the rich church, the Madonna of which is never clad in the same
garments two days in succession, raises above her neighbors her tapering
spire; on the right, the vast plains of the Pacific Ocean are undulating
to the breath of the occidental breeze, and the eye, as it roves from
Callao to Lima, rests on those funereal _chulpas_, the last remains of
the great dynasty of the Incas; at the horizon, Cape Morro-Solar frames,
with its sloping hills, the wonderful splendors of this picture.
So the Limanians are never satisfied with these admirable prospects, and
their noisy approbation deafens every year the echoes of San Cristoval
and the Amancaës.
Now, while they fearlessly enjoyed these picturesque views, and were
giving themselves up to an irresistible delight, a gloomy bloody
funereal drama was preparing on the snowy summits of the Cordilleras.