Though the grotto is in darkness, its occupants are not asleep. To them
repose is impossible; for they are that moment in the midst of anguish,
keen as human heart could feel. They have passed through its first
throes, and are for the while a little calmer. But it is the
tranquillity of deep, deadening grief, almost despair. They mourn him
dearest to them as dead.
Nor have they any doubt of it. How could they? While in the boat, they
heard their captors speak about the scuttling of the ship, well knowing
what they meant. Long since has she gone to the bottom of the sea, with
the living left aboard, or perhaps only their lifeless bodies; for they
may have been murdered before! No matter now in what way death came to
them. Enough of sadness and horror to think it has come--enough for the
bereaved ones to know they are bereft.
Nor do they need telling why it has all been done. Though hindered from
seeing while in the boat, they have heard. Cupidity the cause; the
crime a scheme to plunder the ship. Alas! it has succeeded.
But all is not yet over. Would that it were! There is something still
to come; something they fear to reflect upon, or speak of to one
another. What is to be their own fate?
Neither can tell, or guess. Their thoughts are too distracted for
reasoning. But in the midst of vague visions, one assumes a shape too
well-defined. It is the same of which Carmen was speaking when seized.
She again returns to it, saying:
"Inez, I'm now almost sure we are not in the hands of strangers. From
what has happened, and some voices we heard, I fear my suspicions have
been too true!"
"Heaven help us, if it be so!"
"Yes; Heaven help us! Even from pirates we might have expected some
mercy; but none from them. _Ay de mi_! what will become of us?"
The interrogatory is only answered by a sigh. The spirit of the
Andalusian girl, habitually cheerful, is now crushed under a weight of
very wretchedness. Soon again they exchange speech, seeking counsel of
one another. Is there no hope, no hand to help, no one to whom they may
turn in this hour of dread ordeal? No--not one! Even the English
sailor, in whom they had trusted, has proved untrue; to all appearance,
chief of the conspiring crew! Every human being seems to have abandoned
them. Has God?
"Let us pray to Him!" says Carmen.
"Yes," answers Inez; "He only can help us now."
They kneel side by side on the hard, cold floor of the cave, and send up
their voices in earnest prayer. They first entreat the Holy Virgin that
the life of him dear to them may yet be spared; then invoke her
protection for themselves, against a danger both dread as death itself.
They pray in trembling accents, but with a fervour eloquent through
fear.
Solemnly pronouncing "Amen!" they make the sign of the cross; in
darkness, God alone seeing it.
As their hands drop down from the gesture, and while they are still in a
kneeling attitude, a noise outside succeeds their appeal to Heaven,
suddenly recalling them to earthly thoughts and fears.
They hear voices of men in conversation; at the same time the sailcloth
is pushed aside, and two men press past it into the cave. Soon as
entering one says:
"Senoritas! we must ask pardon for making our somewhat untimely call;
which present circumstances render imperative. It's to be hoped,
however, you won't stand upon such stiff ceremony with us, as when we
had the honour of last paying our respects to you."
After this singular peroration, the speaker pauses to see what may be
the effect of his words. As this cannot be gathered from any reply--
since none is vouchsafed--he continues; "Dona Carmen Montijo, you and I
are old acquaintances; though, it may be, you do not remember my voice.
With the sound of the sea so long echoing in your ears, that's not
strange. Perhaps the sense of sight will prove more effectual in
recalling an old friend. Let me give you something to assist it!"
Saying this, he holds out a lantern, hitherto concealed beneath his
cloak. As it lights up the grotto, four figures are seen erect; for the
girls have sprung to their feel in apprehension of immediate danger.
Upon all, the light shines clear; and, fronting her, Carmen Montijo
sees--too surely recognising it--the face of Francisco de Lara; while in
her _vis-a-vis_, Inez Alvarez beholds Faustino Calderon!
Yes, before them are their scorned suitors; no longer disguised in
sailor garb, but resplendent in their Californian costume--the same worn
by them on that day of their degradation, when De Lara rolled in the
dust of the Dolores road.
Now that he has them in his power, his triumph is complete; and in
strains of exultation he continues:
"So, ladies! you see we've come together again! No doubt you're a
little surprised at our presence, but I hope not annoyed."
There is no reply to this taunting speech.
"Well, if you won't answer, I shall take it for granted you _are_
annoyed; besides looking a little alarmed too. You've no need to be
that."
"No, indeed," endorses Calderon. "We mean you no harm--none whatever."
"On the contrary," goes on De Lara, "only good. We've nothing but
favours to offer you."
"Don Francisco de Lara!" exclaims Carmen, at length breaking silence,
and speaking in a tone of piteous expostulation; "and you, Don Faustino
Calderon, why have you committed this crime? What injury have we ever
done you?"
"Come! not so fast, fair Carmen! Crime's a harsh word, and we've not
committed any as yet--nothing to speak of."
"No crime! _Santissima_! My father--my poor father!"
"Don't be uneasy about him. He's safe enough."
"Safe! Dead! Drowned! _Dios de mi alma_!"
"No, no. That's all nonsense," protests the fiend, adding falsehood to
his sin of deeper dye. "Don Gregorio is not where you say. Instead of
being at the sea's bottom, he is sailing upon its surface; and is likely
to be, for Heaven knows how long. But let's drop that subject of the
past, which seems unpleasant to you, and talk of the present--of
ourselves. You ask what injury you've ever done us? Faustino Calderon
may answer for himself to the fair Inez. To you, Dona Carmen, I shall
make reply--But we may as well confer privately."
At this he lays hold of her wrist, and leads her aside; Calderon
conducting Inez in the opposite direction.
When the whole length of the cavern is between the two pairs, De Lara
resumes speech:
"Yes, Dona Carmen; you _have_ done me an injury--a double wrong I may
call it."
"How, sir?" she asks, withdrawing her hand from his, with a disdainful
gesture. "How?" he retorts. "Why, in making me love you--by leading me
to believe my love returned."
"You speak falsely; I never did so."
"You did, Dona Carmen; you did. It is you who speak false, denying it.
That is the first wrong I have to reproach you with. The second is in
casting me off, as soon as you supposed you'd done with me. Not so, as
you see now. We're together again--never more to part till I've had
satisfaction for all. I once hinted--I now tell you plainly, you've
made a mistake in trifling with Francisco de Lara."
"I never trifled with you, senor. _Dios mio_! What means this? Man--
if you be a man--have mercy! Oh! what would you--what would you?"
"Nothing to call for such distracted behaviour on your part. On the
contrary, I've brought you here--for I'll not deny that it's I who have
done it--to grant you favours, instead of asking them. Ay, or even
satisfying resentments. What I intend towards you, I hope you will
appreciate. To shorten explanations--for which we've neither
opportunity nor time--I want you for my wife--_want you, and will have
you_."
"_Your_ wife!"
"Yes; my wife. You needn't look surprised, nor counterfeit feeling it.
And equally idle for you to make opposition. I've determined upon it.
So, you must many me."
"Marry the murderer of my father! Sooner than do that, you shall also
be mine. Wretch! I am in your power. You can kill me now."
"I know all that, without your telling me. But I don't intend killing
you. On the contrary, I shall take care to keep you alive, until I've
tried what sort of a wife you'll make. Should you prove a good one, and
fairly affectionate, we two may lead a happy life together,
notwithstanding the little unpleasantness that's been between us. If
not, and our wedded bondage prove uncongenial, why, then, I may release
you in the way you wish, or any other that seems suitable. After the
honeymoon, you shall have your choice. Now Dona Carmen! those are my
conditions. I hope you find them fair enough!"
She makes no reply. The proud girl is dumb, partly with indignation,
partly from the knowledge that all speech would be idle. But while
angry to the utmost, she is also afraid--trembling at the alternative
presented--death or dishonour; the last if she marry the murderer of her
father; the first if she refuse him!
The ruffian repeats his proposal, in the same cynical strain, concluding
it with a threat.
She is at length stung to reply; which she does in but two words, twice
repeated in wild despairing accent. They are:
"Kill me--kill me!"
Almost at the same time, and in similar strain does Inez answer her
cowardly suitor, who in a corner of the grotto has alike brought her to
bay.
After the dual response, there is a short interval of silence. Then De
Lara, speaking for both, says:
"Senoritas! we shall leave you now; and you can go to sleep without fear
of further solicitation. No doubt, after a night's rest, you'll awake
to a more sensible view of matters in general, and the case as it
stands. Of one thing be assured; that there's no chance of your
escaping from your present captivity, unless by consenting to change
your names. And if you don't consent, they'll be changed all the same.
Yes, Carmen Montijo! before another week passes over your head, you
shall be addressed as Dona Carmen de Lara.
"And you, Inez Alvarez, will be called Dona Inez Calderon. No need for
you to feel dishonoured by a name among the first in California. Noble
as your own; ay, or any in old Spain."
"_Hasta manana, muchacas_!" salutes De Lara, preparing to take leave.
"_Pasan Vs buena noche_!"
Calderon repeating the same formulary, the two step towards the
entrance, lift up the piece of suspended sailcloth, and pass out into
night. They have taken the lantern along with them, again leaving the
grotto in darkness.
The girls grope their way, till their arms come in contact. Then,
closing in mutual embrace, they sink together upon the cold flinty
floor!