For a time the listeners heard nothing beyond those commonplace speeches
exchanged between lovers--when the young man, doubtful of his position,
makes himself heard in reproaches, or arguments, which to him appear
all-powerful, while the responses which he meets with show too plainly
that he is either not loved at all, or that the advantages are on the
side of the girl. But was this really the position of Tiburcio with
Rosarita? It remains to be known.
According to the custom of country houses throughout Mexico, the window
of Rosarita's chamber was unglazed. Strong iron bars, forming what is
called the _reja_, hindered an entrance from without; and behind this
reja, lit up by the lamp in the chamber, the young girl was standing in
an attitude of graceful ease. In the calm and perfumed night she
appeared even more charming than when seen in the brilliant saloon--for
it is behind the railing of these balconies that the women of Spanish
race appear to the greatest advantage.
A _reboso_ of silk was thrown over her head, falling over her shoulders
in graceful undulations. The window running quite down to the level of
the floor concealed nothing of her person; she was visible from the
crown of her head to the satin slipper that covered her pretty little
foot; and the outline of her figure formed in a graceful silhouette
against the light burning within.
Tiburcio, his forehead resting against the bars, appeared to struggle
with a painful conviction that was fast forcing itself upon him.
"Ah!" said he, "I have not forgotten, as you, Rosarita, the day when I
first saw you in the forest. The twilight was so sombre I could scarce
make out your form, which appeared like the graceful shadow of some
siren of the woods. Your voice I could hear, and there was something in
it that charmed my soul--something that I had never heard till that
moment."
"I have never forgotten the service you rendered us," said the young
girl; "but why recall those times? they are long past."
"Long past! no, not to me, Rosarita--that scene appears to me as if it
had happened yesterday. Yes," continued the young man, in a tone of
melancholy, "when the light of the camp-fire by little and little
enabled me to observe the radiant beauty of your face, I can scarce
describe the emotion which it gave me."
Had Tiburcio, instead of looking to the ground, but raised his eyes at
that moment, he might have noticed upon the countenance of Rosarita an
expression of interest, while a slight blush reddened her cheeks.
Perhaps her heart was scarce touched, but rarely does woman listen,
without pleasure, to those impassioned tones that speak the praises of
her beauty.
Tiburcio continued in a voice still softer and more marked by
emotion:--"I have not forgotten the flowers of the llianas which I
gathered for you, and that seemed to give forth a sweeter perfume when
mingled with the tresses of your hair. Ah! it was a subtle poison that
was entering into my heart, and which has resulted in filling it with an
incurable passion. Ah! fool that I have been! Is it possible,
Rosarita, that you have forgotten those sweet souvenirs upon which I
have lived from that day up to the present hour?"
There are certain moments of indiscretion in the life of most women, of
which they have a dislike to be reminded. Was it so with Rosarita? She
was silent for a while, as if her rebellious memory could not recall the
particulars mentioned by Tiburcio.
"No," at length answered she, in a tone so low as not to betray a slight
trembling of her voice, "I do not forget, but we were then only
children--to-day--"
"To-day," interrupted Tiburcio in a tone of bitter reproach, "to-day
that is all forgotten, since a Senator from Arispe has condescended to
comprise you in his projects of ambition."
The melodious voice of Rosarita was now heard in a tone of disdainful
anger. Tiburcio had wounded her pride.
"Comprise me in his projects of ambition," said she, her beautiful
nostrils curving scornfully as she spoke, "and who has told you, senor,
that it is not I who condescend?"
"This stranger, too," continued Tiburcio, still preserving his
reproachful manner, "this Don Estevan--whom I hate even worse than the
Senator--has talked to you of the pleasures of Madrid--of the wonderful
countries that lie beyond the sea--and you wish to see them with your
own eyes!"
"Indeed I acknowledge," answered Rosarita, "that in these deserts life
appears to me dull enough. Something tells me that I was not made to
die without taking part in those splendours of the world of which I have
heard so much. What can you offer to me--to my father?"
"I understand now," cried Tiburcio with despairing bitterness, "to be
poor, an orphan, unhappy--these are not the titles to win the heart of a
woman."
"You are unjust, Tiburcio. It is almost always the very reverse that
happens--for it is the instinct of a woman to prefer those who are as
you say. But it is different with fathers, who, alas! rarely share this
preference with their daughters."
There was in these last words a sort of tacit avowal which Tiburcio
evidently did not comprehend--for he continued his reproaches and bitter
recriminations, causing the young girl many a sigh as she listened to
them.
"Of course you love this Senator," said he. "Do not talk, then, of
being compelled!"
"Who talks of being compelled?" said Rosarita, hastily interrupting the
young man. "I said nothing of compulsion, I only spoke of the desire
which my father has already manifested; and against his will, the hopes
you may have conceived would be nothing more than chimeras or idle
dreams."
"And this will of your father is to throw you into the arms of a ruined
prodigal, who has no other aim than to build up the fortune he has
squandered in dissipation, and satisfy his ambitious desires? Say,
Rosarita, say! is this will in consonance with your own? Does your
heart agree to it? If it is not, and there is the least compulsion upon
you, how happy should I be to contest for you with this rival. Ah! you
do not make answer--you love him, Rosarita? And I--Oh! why did they not
leave me to die upon the road?"
At this moment a slight rustling was heard in the grove of oranges,
where Don Estevan and Cuchillo were crouching in concealment.
"Hush!" said the young girl, "did you not hear a noise?"
Tiburcio turned himself quickly, his eye on fire, his heart beating
joyfully with the hope of having some one upon which to vent the
terrible anger that tortured it--but the rays of the moon shone only
upon the silvery foliage--all was quiet around.
He then resumed his gloomy and pensive attitude. Sadness had again
taken possession of his soul, through which the quick burst of anger had
passed as lightning though a sombre sky.
"Very likely," said he, with a melancholy smile, "it is the spirit of
some poor lover who has died from despair."
"Santisima Virgen!" exclaimed Rosarita, making the sign of the cross.
"You make me afraid, Tiburcio. Do you believe that one could die of
love?" she inquired in a tone of _naivete_.
"It may be," replied Tiburcio, with a sad smile still playing upon his
lips. Then changing his tone, he continued, "Hear me, Rosarita! you are
ambitious, you have said so--hear me then! Supposing I could give you
all that has been promised you? hitherto I have preferred to plead the
cause of Tiburcio poor and an orphan; I shall now advocate that of
Tiburcio Arellanos on the eve of becoming rich and powerful; noble too I
shall become--for I shall make myself an illustrious name and offer it
to you."
As he said these words the young man raised his eyes towards heaven: his
countenance exhibited an altered expression, as if there was revived in
his soul the pride of an ancient race.
For the first time since the commencement of the interview, Tiburcio was
talking sensibly, and the daughter of Eve appeared to listen with more
attention than what she had hitherto exhibited.
Meanwhile the two spies were also listening attentively from their
hiding-place among the oranges. Not a word of what was said, not a
gesture escaped them. The last speech of Tiburcio had caused them to
exchange a rapid glance. The countenance of the outlaw betrayed an
expression of rage mingled with shame. After the impudent manner in
which he had boasted of his penetration, he felt confounded in the
presence of Don Estevan, whose eyes were fixed upon him with a look of
implacable raillery.
"We shall see now," whispered the Spaniard, "whether this young fellow
knows no more of the situation of the Golden Valley than he does of the
Garden of Eden."
Cuchillo quailed under this terrible irony, but made no reply.
As yet Don Estevan had learnt nothing new. The essential object with
him was to discover whether Tiburcio's passion was reciprocated: the
rest was of little importance. In the behaviour of Rosarita there was
certainly something that betrayed a tender compassion for the adopted
son of Arellanos; but was this a sign of love? That was the question to
which Don Estevan desired to have the answer.
Meanwhile, having excited the evil passions of the outlaw to the highest
pitch, he judged it prudent to moderate them again; an explosion at that
moment would not have been politic on his part. A murder committed
before his face, even though he had not ordered it either by word or
gesture, would at least exhibit a certain complicity with the assassin,
and deprive him of that authority which he now exercised over Cuchillo.
"Not for your life!" said he, firmly grasping the arm of the outlaw,
whose hand rested upon his knife. "Not for your soul's safety!
Remember! till I give the word, the life of this young man is sacred.
Hush!" he continued, "listen!" and still holding the outlaw by the arm
he turned his eyes upon Tiburcio, who had again commenced speaking.
"Why should I conceal it from you longer?" exclaimed the young man, in a
tone to which the attentive attitude of Rosarita had lent animation.
"Hear me, then! honours--riches--power I can lay at your feet, but you
alone can enable me to effect this miracle."
Rosarita fixed her eyes upon the speaker with an interrogatory
expression.
"Perhaps I should have told you sooner," continued Tiburcio, "that my
adopted mother no longer lives--"
"I know it," interrupted the young girl, "you are alone in the world; I
heard it this evening from my father."
The voice of Rosarita, in pronouncing these words, was soft as the
breeze that sighed through the groves of oranges; and her hand, falling
as if by chance into that of Tiburcio, did not appear to shun the
pressure given to it.
At the sight of this, the hand of Don Estevan gradually relaxed its hold
upon the arm of Cuchillo.
"Yes," continued Tiburcio, "my mother died in poverty, though she has
left me a valuable inheritance, and at the same time a legacy of
vengeance. True, it is a dangerous secret of which I am the heir, for
it has already been death to those who possessed it; nevertheless it
will furnish the means to raise myself to an opulence like your own.
The vengeance which I have sworn to accomplish must be delayed, but it
shall not be forgotten. I shall yet seek the murderer of Arellanos."
At these words Cuchillo turned pale, impatiently grinding his teeth.
His arm was no longer restrained, Don Estevan grasped it no more, for he
saw that the hand of Rosarita was still pressed by that of Tiburcio.
"Here me further!" continued the young man. "About sixty leagues from
here, in the heart of the Indian country, there is a placer of gold of
incalculable richness; it was discovered by my adopted father. My
mother on her death-bed gave me full directions to find the place; and
all this gold may be mine, Rosarita, if you will only love me. Without
your love I care nothing for it. What should I do with such riches?"
Tiburcio awaited the answer of Rosarita. That answer fell upon his
heart like the tolling of a funeral knell.
"I hope, Tiburcio," said she, with a significant smile, "that this is
only a _ruse_ on your part to put me to the proof--I hope so, because I
do not wish to believe that you have acted so vile a part as to make
yourself master of a secret that belongs to another."
"The secret of another!" cried the young man in a voice hoarse with
astonishment.
"Yes, a secret which belongs only to Don Estevan. I know it--"
Tiburcio at once fell from the summit of his dreams. So his secret,
too, was lost to him as well as her whom he loved, this secret upon
which he had built his sweetest hopes; and to add to the bitterness of
his disappointment, she too--for whose sake alone he had valued it--she
to accuse him of treason!
"Ah!" cried he, "Don Estevan knows of the Golden Valley? perhaps then he
can tell me who murdered my father! Oh! my God!" cried he, striking the
ground with his heel, "perhaps it was himself!"
"Pray God rather to protect you,--you will need all his grace!" cried a
rough voice, which caused Rosarita to utter a cry of terror as she saw a
dark form--that of a man--rushing forward and flinging himself upon
Tiburcio.
The young man, before he could place himself in an attitude of defence,
received a severe wound, and losing his balance fell to the ground. The
next moment his enemy was over him. For some minutes the two struggled
together in silence--nothing was heard but their loud quick breathing.
The knife of Cuchillo, already stained with blood, had escaped from his
hand, and lay gleaming upon the ground without his being able to reach
it.
"Now, villain, we are quits," cried Tiburcio, who with an effort of
supreme strength had got uppermost, and was kneeling upon the breast of
the outlaw. "Villain!" repeated he, as he endeavoured to get hold of
his poignard: "you shall die the death of an assassin."
Places had suddenly changed--Tiburcio was now the aggressor, but at this
moment a third personage appeared upon the scene. It was Don Estevan.
"Hold," screamed Rosarita, "hold, for the love of the Holy Virgin! This
young man is my father's guest; his life is sacred under our roof."
Don Estevan grasped the arm that was raised to strike Cuchillo, and as
Tiburcio turned to see what thus interfered between him and his
vengeance, the outlaw glided from under him.
Tiburcio now sprang up, rolled his serape around his left arm, and
holding it as a shield, stood with his body inclined backward, his left
leg advanced, and his right hand firmly grasping his weapon, in the
attitude of an ancient gladiator. He appeared for a moment as if
choosing upon which of his antagonists he would first launch himself.
"You call this being quits!" cried Cuchillo, his breast still heaving
from the pressure to Tiburcio's knee. "Your life belongs to me--I only
lent it to you, and I shall now take it back."
"Come on, dog!" shouted Tiburcio, in answer; "and you too, Don Estevan,
you cowardly assassin! you who pay for the murder of defenceless
people."
The countenance of the Spaniard turned livid pale at this unexpected
accusation. He instantly drew his dagger, and crying out:--"Down with
him, Cuchillo!" rushed furiously forward to the attack.
No doubt Tiburcio would soon have succumbed before two such formidable
antagonists, but at this moment a red light flashed upon the combatants,
as Dona Rosarita, with a flaming torch in her hand, rushed forward
between them.
The aspect of Tiburcio, who, despite the odds against him, and the blood
that was running from his arm, still fearlessly maintained his defensive
attitude, caused the heart of Rosarita to beat with sympathetic
admiration. This sanguinary _denouement_ to their interview, was
pleading the cause of the lover far more eloquently than either his
reproaches or promises!
The first impulse of Rosarita was to fling herself into the arms of the
young man so daring and beautiful. She was restrained only from
following this impulse, by a feeling of feminine delicacy; and for an
instant Tiburcio seemed the one about whom she was least concerned.
"Oh! my God!" cried she, "are you wounded? Don Estevan? Senor
Cuchillo? Senor Arechiza! retire; for the love of the Virgin, let not
the world know that a crime has been committed in our house."
The excited bearing of the young girl, her bosom heaving under the light
tissue of her dress, her reboso floating behind her, mingled with the
long dark tresses of her dishevelled hair--all these, added to the proud
savage beauty of her countenance--commanded respect; and as if by
enchantment, the weapons of the combatants were restored to their
sheaths.
Cuchillo growled like a dog newly muzzled, while Don Estevan preserved a
sombre silence. Both walked away from the ground, and their forms were
soon lost in the darkness.
Tiburcio, with face upturned, his eyes still flashing with rage, his
features illuminated with the red light of the torch, remained for some
moments without changing his attitude. His features exhibited that
superb expression that danger only magnifies into grandeur. Gradually,
however, their tone became softened, and an air of melancholy succeeded
it, as his eyes rested upon Rosarita. The young girl had suddenly
become pale, under the reaction of such vivid emotions, as well as under
the influence of the powerful sentiment now rekindled within her heart.
Acting under this influence as well, she hastily arranged her scarf in
order to cover her nude shoulders, and the palpitating movements of her
bosom. Even her motive for this was misunderstood by Tiburcio.
"Rosarita!" he said, speaking with perfect calmness, "I might have
doubted your words, but your actions have spoken more plainly. It was
to my enemies you first ran, though my blood was spilling; all your
fears appeared to be for Don Estevan."
"God knows that I do not deserve this reproach," said the young girl, as
with a look of terror she saw the blood streaming to the ground. At the
same instant she advanced to examine the wound.
Tiburcio repulsed her by stepping backward.
"It is too late," said he with a bitter smile, "the evil is done.
Adieu! I have been too long your guest. The hospitality of your house
is fatal to me. Under your roof my life has been threatened, my dearest
hopes have been crushed! Adieu, Rosarita! Adieu!"
As he pronounced the last words, he turned and walked hastily away.
There was a broken place in the wall of the enclosure, and towards this
he directed his steps. A hundred paces beyond, the forest commenced,
and the dark sombre trees were visible through the opening. The
mysterious light he had already noticed, was still glimmering feebly
above their tops.
"Where are you going, Tiburcio?" cried the young girl, her hands joined
and her eyes filling with tears, "my father's roof will protect you."
Tiburcio only answered by a negative shake of the head.
"But yonder," continued Rosarita, pointing to the woods, "yonder, alone
and without defence--danger--death will await you."
"God will send me friends," answered Tiburcio, glancing towards the
distant light. "The hospitality of the wandering traveller--a sleep by
his camp-fire--will be safer for me than that of your father's roof."
And Tiburcio continued to advance towards the breach with a gentle but
resolute step.
"For the love of heaven do not expose yourself to dangers that may
perhaps arise when I am no longer present to protect you! I tell you
out yonder you will be risking your life;" then giving to her voice a
tone of persuasive softness, she continued, "In what place, Tiburcio,
will you be safer than with me?"
Tiburcio's resolution was for a moment shaken, and he paused to make
answer.
"One word, Rosarita!" said he; "say that you hate my rival as I hate
him--say this, and I remain."
A violent conflict appeared to arise in the breast of Rosarita. Her
bosom swelled with conflicting emotions, as she fixed upon Tiburcio a
glance of tender reproach, but she remained silent.
To a man of Tiburcio's age the heart of a woman is a sealed book. Not
till we have lost the attractions of youth--so powerful, despite its
inexperience--are we able to penetrate the mysteries of the female
heart--a sad compensation which God accords to the maturity of age. At
thirty years Tiburcio would have remained. But he was yet only
twenty-four; he had spent his whole life in the desert, and this was his
first love.
"You will not say it? Adieu, then," cried he, "I am no longer your
guest," and saying this, he leaped over the broken wall, before the
young girl could offer any opposition to his departure.
Stupefied by this unexpected movement, she mounted upon the fragments
that lay at the bottom of the wall, and stretching her arms toward the
forest, she cried out--
"Tiburcio! Tiburcio! do not leave us so; do you wish to bring upon our
house the malediction of heaven?"
But her voice was either lost to his ears, or he disdained to reply.
She listened a moment, she could hear the sound of his footsteps fast
dying in the distance--until they could be heard no more.
"Oh! my God," cried she, falling upon her knees in an attitude of
prayer, "protect this young man from the dangers that threaten him. Oh
God! watch over him, for alas! he carries with him my heart."
Then forgetting in her grief her projects of ambition, the will of her
father, all that deceptive confidence, which had kept silent the voice
of a love, of the existence of which she was hitherto almost ignorant--
the young girl rose hastily from her knees, once more mounted upon the
wall, and in a heart-rending voice called out, "_Come back! Tiburcio;
come back! I love only you_!"
But no answer was returned, and wrapping her face in her reboso, she sat
down and wept.
Before returning to her chamber she cast one more look in the direction
of the forest, but the woods were still enveloped in the obscurity of
night; all was sombre and silent, though in the distance the feeble
light was still glimmering over the tree tops. All at once it appeared
for an instant to flash more brightly, as if offering a welcome to him
who had no longer a home!