It was the garden of Don Ignacio's _casa de campo_; the ladies, his
daughter and the Condesa. The lovely night, with balm in the air and a
bright moon shining through the sky, had drawn them out, and they
strolled through the grounds, keeping step, as it were, to that
matchless melody, the song of the _czenzontle_. But note of no
nightingale was in their thoughts, which were engrossed by graver
themes.
"'Tis so strange our never hearing from them, and not a word of them.
What do you make of it, Ysabel? Is it a bad sign?"
The question was asked by the Dona Luisa.
"That we haven't heard from them is--in a way," responded the Countess.
"Yet that may be explained, too. The probability is, from the roads
being all watched and guarded, as we know they are, they'd be cautious
about communicating with us. If they've sent a messenger--which I hope
they haven't--he must have been intercepted and made prisoner. And
then, the message; that might compromise us. But I know Ruperto will be
careful. Not to have heard of them is all for the best--the very best.
It should almost assure us that they're still free, and safe somewhere.
Had they been recaptured, we'd have known before this. All Mexico would
be talking about it."
"True," assented Don Ignacio's daughter, with a feeling of relief.
"They cannot have been retaken. But I wonder where they are now."
"So I myself, Luisita. I hope, however, not at that old monastery of
which Ruperto gave me a description in one of his letters. It's
somewhere up in the mountains. But with the country all around so
occupied by troops it would seem an unsafe place. I trust they've got
over the Sierra, and down to Acapulco. If they have, we needn't feel so
very anxious about them."
"Why not, Ysabel?"
"Why not? Ah! that's a question you haven't yet come to understand.
But never mind the reason now. You'll know it in good time; and when
you do, I've no fear but you'll be satisfied; your father too."
Don Ignacio's daughter was both puzzled and surprised at the strange
words. But she knew the Countess had strange ways; and, though a bosom
friend, was not without some secrets she kept to herself. This was one
of them, no doubt, and she forebore pressing for an explanation.
What the Condesa hinted at was that disaffection in the south, the
expected _pronunciamento_, which, if successful, would not only depose
the Dictator, but of course also his Cabinet Ministers, her friend's
father among them. With some knowledge of coming events, she declined
imparting this to the Dona Luisa through delicacy. Right was she, also,
in her surmise as to the messenger; none had been intercepted, none
having been sent out, just for the reason surmised by her.
They had made a turn or two of the grounds, thus conversing, when both
came to a sudden stop, simultaneously uttering exclamations of alarm,
"_Santissima_!" and "_Madre de Dios_!"
"What can it be?" gasped Dona Luisa. "Is it a man?"
No wonder she should so doubtingly interrogate, since her question
referred to that strange creature on the top of the wall, seeming more
ape than human being.
That he was human, however, was to be proved by his being gifted with
the power of speech, put forth on the instant after. Before the
Countess could make answer to the question (of course overheard by him),
he interposed, saying--
"Pray, don't be alarmed, your ladyships, at a poor miserable creature
like me. I know that my body is anything but shapely; but my soul--
that, I trust, is different. But, Senoritas, surely you remember me?"
While speaking, he had raised himself into an upright attitude, and the
moonlight falling upon him showed his shape in all its grotesqueness of
outline. This, with his words, at once recalled their having seen him
before. Yes; it was the _enano_, whom the big Texan had swung up to the
box of their carriage.