"WHY COMES HE NOT?"
"What delays Valerian? What can be keeping him?"
These questions came from Adela Miranda, on the evening of that same
day, standing in the door of her brother's house, with eyes bent along
the road leading to Albuquerque. Valerian was her brother's baptismal
name, and it was about his absence she was anxious.
For this she had reasons--more than one. Though still only a young
girl, she quite understood the political situation of the Mexican
Republic; at all times shifting, of late more critical than usual. In
her brother's confidence, she had been kept posted up in all that
transpired in the capital, as also the district over which he held
military command, and knew the danger of which he was himself
apprehensive--every day drawing nigher and nigher.
Shortly after his leaving her she had heard shots, with a distant murmur
of voices, in the direction of the town. From the _azolea_, to which
she had ascended, she could note these noises more distinctly, but
fancied them to be salutes, vivas, and cheers. Still, there was nothing
much in that. It might be some jubilation of the soldiery at the
ordinary evening parade; and, remembering that the day was a _fiesta_,
she thought less of it.
But, as night drew down, and her brother had not returned, she began to
feel some slight apprehension. He had promised to be back for a dinner
that was long since due--a repast she had herself prepared, more
sumptuous than common on account of the saint's day. This was it that
elicited the anxious self-asked interrogatories.
After giving utterance to them, she paced backward and forward; now
standing in the portal and gazing along the road; now returning to the
_sola de comida_, to look upon the table, with cloth spread, wines
decantered, fruits and flowers on the epergne--all but the dishes that
waited serving till Valerian should show himself.
To look on something besides--a portrait that hung upon the wall,
underneath her own. It was a small thing--a mere photographic
carte-de-visite. But it was the likeness of one who had a large place
in her brother's heart, if not in her own. In hers, how could it? It
was the photograph of a man she had never seen--Frank Hamersley. He had
left it with Colonel Miranda, as a souvenir of their short but friendly
intercourse.
Did Colonel Miranda's sister regard it in that light? She could not in
any other. Still, as she gazed upon it, a thought was passing through
her mind somewhat different from a sentiment of simple friendship. Her
brother had told her all--the circumstances that led to his acquaintance
with Hamersley; of the duel, and in what a knightly manner the
Kentuckian had carried himself; adding his own commentaries in a very
flattering fashion. This, of itself, had been enough to pique curiosity
in a young girl, just escaped from her convent school; but added to the
outward semblance of the stranger, by the sun made lustrous--so lustrous
inwardly--Adela Miranda was moved by something more than curiosity. As
she stood regarding the likeness of Frank Hamersley she felt very much
as he had done looking at hers--in love with one only known by portrait
and repute.
In such there is nothing strange nor new. Many a reader of this tale
could speak of a similar experience.
While gazing on the carte-de-visite she was roused from the sweet
reverie it had called up by hearing footsteps outside. Someone coming
in through the _saggan_.
"Valerian at last!"
The steps sounded as if the man making them were in a hurry. So should
her brother be, having so long delayed his return.
She glided out to meet him with an interrogatory on her lips.
"Valerian?"--this suddenly changing to the exclamation, "_Madre de
Dios_! 'Tis not my brother!"
It was not, but a man pale and breathless--a _peon_ of the
establishment--who, on seeing her, gasped out,--
"Senorita! I bring sad news. There's been a mutiny at the cuartel--a
_pronunciamento_. The rebels have had it all their own way, and I am
sorry to tell you that the colonel, your brother--"
"What of him? Speak! Is he--"
"Not killed, _nina_; only wounded, and a prisoner."
Adela Miranda did not swoon nor faint. She was not of the nervous kind.
Nurtured amid dangers, most of her life accustomed to alarms from
Indian incursions, as well as revolutionary risings, she remained calm.
She dispatched messengers to the town, secretly, one after another; and,
while awaiting their reports, knelt before an image of the Virgin, and
prayed.
Up till midnight her couriers went, and came. Then one who was more
than a messenger--her brother himself!
As already reported to her, he was wounded, and came accompanied by the
surgeon of the garrison, a friend. They arrived at the house in hot
haste, as if pursued.
And they were so, as she soon after learnt.
There was just time for Colonel Miranda to select the most cherished of
his _penates_; pack them on a _recua_ of mules, then mount, and make
away.
They had scarce cleared the premises when the myrmidons of the new
commandant, led by the man himself, rode up and took possession of the
place.
By this time, and by good luck, the ruffian was intoxicated--so drunk he
could scarce comprehend what was passing around him. It seemed like a
dream to him to be told that Colonel Miranda had got clear away; a more
horrid one to hear that she whom he designed for a victim had escaped
from his clutches.
When morning dawned, and in soberer mood he listened to the reports of
those sent in pursuit--all telling the same tale of non-success--he
raved like one in a frenzy of madness. For the escape of the late
Commandant of Albuquerque had robbed him of two things--to him the
sweetest in life--one, revenge on the man he heartily hated; the other,
possession of the woman he passionately loved.