Having steeled themselves to the reception of their rival suitors, with
brave words one supporting the other, the two girls remain upon the
_azotea_. Meanwhile, the man-o'-war's boat has been drawing in towards
the beach, heading for a little embayment, formed by the shore-line and
the sand-bar already spoken of.
The horsemen advancing from the town-side do not see it; nor can the
crew of the boat perceive them. The land-ridge is between the two
parties, its crest concealing them from one another.
They are approaching it at a like rate of speed; for although the horses
appear to be in a gallop, it is only a fancy gait fashionable among
Spanish-Americans, its purpose to exhibit equestrian skill. For the two
horsemen looking up the hill, have seen heads on the house-top, and know
that ladies' eyes are upon them.
Surreptitiously goaded by the spur, their steeds plunge and curvet,
apparently progressing at a rapid pace, but in reality gaining little
ground.
After a time both parties disappear from the eyes of those on the
_azotea_. They have gone under the brow of the hill, which, overhanging
for a short distance, shuts out a view of the road, as also the
sea-shore, along the sand-spit.
Unseen from above, the man-o'-war's boat beaches, and the two officers
spring out upon the strand. One of them turning, says something to the
coxswain, who has remained in the stern-sheets, with the tiller-ropes in
hand. It is an order, with instructions about where and when he is to
wait for them on return to the ship.
"At the new wharf in the harbour," Crozier is heard to say; for it is he
who commands.
His order given, the boat shoves off, and is rowed back towards the
ship; while the officers commence climbing the slope, to get upon the
shore-road.
At the same time the horsemen are ascending from the opposite side.
Soon both parties are again within view of those on the house-top;
though neither as yet sees the other, or has any suspicion of such
mutual proximity. The crest of the ridge is still between, but in a few
seconds more they will sight one another.
The men afoot are advancing at about the same rate of speed as those on
horseback. The latter have ceased showing off, as if satisfied with the
impression they must have made, and are now approaching in tranquil
gait, but with an air of subdued triumph--the mock modesty of the
_matador_, who, with blood-stained sword, bends meekly before the box
where beauty sits smiling approbation.
The two pedestrians climb the hill less ceremoniously. Glad to stretch
their limbs upon land--"shake the knots out of their knees," as
Cadwallader gleefully remarks--they eagerly scale the steep. Not silent
either, but laughing and shouting like a couple of schoolboys abroad for
an afternoon's holiday.
Suddenly coming within view of the house, they bring their boisterous
humour under restraint at sight of two heads above the parapet. For
they know to whom these belong, and note that the faces are turned
towards them.
At the same instant the horsemen also see the heads, and observe that
the faces are _not_ turned towards _them_. On the contrary, _from_
them, the ladies looking in another direction.
Some chagrin in this. After all their grand caracolling, and feats of
equitation, which must have been witnessed by the fair spectators.
At what are these now gazing? Is it a ship sailing up the bay, or
something else on the water? No matter what, and whether on land, or
water; enough for the conceited fellows to think they are being
slightingly received.
Disconcerted, they seek an explanation, mutually questioning one
another. But before either can make answer in speech, they have it
under their eyes--in the shape of a brace of British naval officers.
Like themselves, the latter have just reached the summit of the ridge,
and are moving on towards Don Gregorio's gate. It is midway between;
and keeping on at the same rate of speed, the two pairs will meet
directly in front of it.
Before that moment, neither has ever set eyes on the other.
Notwithstanding, there is an expression on the faces of all four, which
tells of mutual recognition, and of no friendly nature.
Calderon whispers to De Lara:
"The English officers!"
Cadwallader says, _sotto-voce_ to Crozier:
"The fellows we've heard about--our rivals, Ned, like ourselves, I
suppose, going to visit the girls."
De Lara makes no response to Calderon. Neither does Crozier to
Cadwallader. There is not time. They are now close up to the gate, and
there is only its breadth between them.
They have arrived there at the same instant of time, and simultaneously
make stop. Face to face, silence on both sides, neither word nor salute
offered in exchange. But looks are quite as expressive--glances that
speak the language of jealous rivalry--of rage with difficulty
suppressed.
It is a question of precedence, as to who shall first pass into the
entrance. Their hesitation was not from any courtesy, but the reverse.
The men on horseback look down on those afoot contemptuously,
scornfully. Threateningly, too; as though they had thoughts of riding
over, and trampling them under the hoofs of their horses. No doubt they
would like to do it, and might make trial, were the young officers
unarmed. But they are not. Crozier carries a pistol--Cadwallader his
midshipman's dirk, both weapons conspicuous outside their uniforms.
For a period of several seconds' duration, the rivals stand _vis-a-vis_,
neither venturing to advance. Around them is a nimbus of angry
electricity, that needs but a spark to kindle it into furious flame. A
single word will do it. This word spoken, and two of the four may never
enter Don Gregorio's gate--at least not alive.
It is not spoken. The only thing said is by Crozier to Cadwallader--not
in a whisper, but aloud, and without regard to what effect it may have
on the enemy.
"Come along, Will! We've something better to do than stand
shilly-shallying here. Heave after me, shipmate!"
Crozier's speech cut the Gordian knot; and the officers, gliding through
the gateway, advance along the avenue.
With faces now turned towards the house, they see the ladies still upon
the _azotea_.
Soon as near enough for Carmen to observe it, Crozier draws out the
treasured tress, and fastens it in his cap, behind the gold band. It
falls over his shoulder like a cataract of liquid amber.
Cadwallader does likewise; and from his cap also streams a tress, black
as the plumes of a raven.
The two upon the house-top appear pleased by this display. They show
their approval by imitating it. Each raises hand to her riding-hat; and
when these are withdrawn, a curl of hair is seen set behind their
_toquillas_--one chestnut-brown, the other of yellowish hue.
Scarce is this love-telegraphy exchanged, when the two Californians come
riding up the avenue, at full speed. Though lingering at the gate, and
still far-off, De Lara had observed the affair of the tresses, clearly
comprehending the symbolism of the act. Exasperated beyond bounds, he
can no longer control himself, and cares not what may come.
At his instigation, Calderon spurs on by his side, the two tearing
furiously along. Their purpose is evident: to force the pedestrians
from the path, and so humble them in the eyes of their sweethearts.
On his side, Crozier remains cool, admonishing Cadwallader to do the
same. They feel the power of possession: assured by those smiles, that
the citadel is theirs. It is for the outsiders to make the assault.
"Give a clear gangway, Will!" counsels Crozier; "and let them pass. We
can talk to the gentlemen afterwards."
Both step back among the _manzanita_ bushes, and the _ginetes_ go
galloping past; De Lara on Crozier's side scowling down, as if he would
annihilate the English officer with a look. The scowl is returned with
interest, the officer still reserves speech.
On the other edge of the avenue the action is a little different. The
midshipman, full of youthful freak, determines on having his "lark." He
sees the chance, and cannot restrain himself. As Calderon sweeps past,
he draws his dirk, and pricks the Californian's horse in the hip. The
animal, maddened by the pain, springs upward, and then shoots off at
increased speed, still further heightened by the fierce exclamations of
his rider, and the mocking laughter of the mid.
Under the walls the two horsemen come to a halt, neither having made
much by their bit of rude bravadoism. And they know they will have a
reckoning to settle for it--at least De Lara does. For on the brow of
Crozier, coming up, he can read a determination to call him to account.
He is not flurried about this. On the contrary, he has courted it,
knowing himself a skilled swordsman, and dead shot. Remembering that he
has already killed his man, he can await with equanimity the challenge
he has provoked. It is not fear has brought the pallor to his cheeks,
and set the dark seal upon his brow. Both spring from a different
passion: observable in his eyes as he turns them towards the house-top.
For the ladies are still there, looking down.
Saluting, he says:
"Dona Carmen, can I have the honour of an interview?"
She thus interrogated does not make immediate answer. Spectator of all
that has passed, she observes the hostile attitude between the two sets
of visitors. To receive both at the same time will be more than
embarrassing. With their angry passions roused to such a pitch, it must
end in a personal encounter.
Her duty is clear. She is mistress of the house, representing her
father, who is absent. The English officers are there by invitation.
At thought of this she no longer hesitates.
"Not now, Don Francisco de Lara," she says, replying to his question;
"not to-day. I must beg of you to excuse me."
"Indeed!" rejoins he sneeringly. "Will it be deemed discourteous in me
to ask why I am denied?"
It is discourteous; and so Dona Carmen deems it. Though she does not
tell him as much in words, he can take it from her rejoinder.
"You are quite welcome to know the reason. We have an engagement!"
"Oh! an engagement!"
"Yes, sir, an engagement," she repeats, in a tone telling of irritation.
"Those gentlemen you see are our guests. My father has invited them to
spend the day with us."
"Ah! your father has invited them! How very good of Don Gregorio
Montijo, extending his hospitality to _gringos_! And Dona Carmen has
added her kind compliments with earnest entreaties for them to come, no
doubt?"
"Sir!" says Carmen, no longer able to conceal her indignation, "your
speech is impertinent--insulting. I shall listen to it no longer."
Saying which, she steps back, disappearing behind the parapet--where
Inez has already concealed herself, at the close of a similar short, but
stormy, dialogue with Calderon.
De Lara, a lurid look in his eyes, sits in his saddle as if in a stupor.
He is roused from it by a voice, Crozier's, saying:
"You appear anxious to make apology to the lady? You can make it to
_me_."
"_Caraji_!" exclaims the gambler, starting, and glaring angrily at the
speaker. "Who are you?"
"One who demands an apology for your very indecorous behaviour."
"You'll not get it."
"Satisfaction, then."
"That to your heart's content."
"I shall have it so. Your card, sir?"
"There; take it. Yours?"
The bits of cardboard are exchanged; after which De Lara, casting
another glance up to the _azotea_--where he sees nothing but blank
wall--turns his horse's head; then spitefully plying the spur, gallops
back down the avenue--his comrade close following.
Calderon has not deemed it incumbent upon him to demand a card from
Cadwallader. Nor has the latter thought it necessary to take one from
him; the mid is quite contented with that playful prod with his dirk.
The young officers enter the house, in cheerful confidence. They have
lost nothing by the encounter, and those inside will still smilingly
receive them--as indeed they do.