Night fell, and the blazing fagots threw their glare over the patio,
striking upon objects picturesque at all times, but doubly so under the
red light of the pine fires. The grouping of guerilleros--their broad,
heavy hats, many of them plumed--their long black hair and pointed
beards--their dark, flashing eyes--their teeth, fierce and white--the
half-savage expression of their features--their costumes, high-coloured
and wild-like--all combined in impressing us with strange feelings.
The mules, the mustangs, the dogs, the peons, the slippered wenches,
with their coarse trailing tresses, the low roofs, the iron-barred
windows, the orange-trees by the fountain, the palms hanging over the
wall, the glistening cocuyos, were all strange sights to us.
The sounds that rang in our ears were not more familiar. Even the
voices of the men, unlike the Saxon, sounded wild and sharp. It was the
Spanish language, spoken in the _patois_ of the Aztec Indians. In this
the guerilleros chatted, and sang, and swore. There was a medley of
other sounds, not less strange to our ears, as the dogs howled and
barked their bloodhound notes--as the mustangs neighed or the mules
whinnied--as the heavy sabre clanked or the huge spur tinkled its tiny
bells--as the _poblanas_ (peasant-women), sitting by some group, touched
the strings of their bandolons, and chanted their half-Indian songs.
By a blazing pile, close to where we sat, a party of guerilleros, with
their women, were dancing the _tagarota_, a species of fandango.
Two men, seated upon raw-hide stools, strummed away upon a pair of
bandolons, while a third pinched and pulled at the strings of an old
guitar--all three aiding the music with their shrill, disagreeable
voices.
The dancers formed the figure of a parallelogram, each standing opposite
his partner, or rather moving, for they were never at rest, but kept
constantly beating time with feet, head, and hands. The last they
struck against their cheeks and thighs, and at intervals clapped them
together.
One would suddenly appear as a hunchback, and, dancing out into the
centre of the figure, perform various antics to attract his partner.
After a while she would dance up--deformed also--and the two, bringing
their bodies into contact, and performing various disgusting
contortions, would give place to another pair. These would appear
without arms or legs, walking on their knees, or sliding along on their
hips!
One danced with his head under his arm, and another with one leg around
his neck; all eliciting more or less laughter, as the feat was more or
less comical. During the dance every species of deformity was imitated
and caricatured, for this is the tagarota. It was a series of grotesque
and repulsive pictures. Some of the dancers, flinging themselves flat,
would roll across the open space without moving hand or foot. This
always elicited applause, and we could not help remarking its
resemblance to the gymnastics we had lately been practising ourselves.
"Och, be me sowl! we can bate yez at that!" cried Chane, who appeared to
be highly amused at the tagarota, making his comments as the dance went
on.
I was sick of the scene, and watched it no longer. My eyes turned to
the portale, and I looked anxiously through the half-drawn curtains.
"It is strange I have seen nothing of _them_! Could they have turned
off on some other route? No--they must be here. Narcisso's promise for
to-night! He at least is here. And she?--perhaps occupied within--gay,
happy, indifferent--oh!"
The pain shot afresh through my heart.
Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a brilliant picture appeared
within--brilliant, but to me like the glimpse which some condemned
spirit might catch over the walls of Paradise. Officers in bright
uniforms, and amongst these I recognised the elegant person of Dubrosc.
Ladies in rich dresses, and amongst these--. Her sister, too, was
there, and the Dona Joaquiana, and half a dozen other ladies, rustling
in silks and blazing with jewels.
Several of the gentlemen--young officers of the band--wore the
picturesque costume of the guerilleros.
They were forming for the dance.
"Look, Captain!" cried Clayley; "Don Cosme and his people, by the living
earthquake!"
"Hush! do not touch me--do not speak to me!"
I felt as though my heart would stop beating. It rose in my bosom, and
seemed to hang for minutes without moving. My throat felt dry and
husky, and a cold perspiration broke out upon my skin.
He approaches her--he asks her to dance--she consents! No: she refuses.
Brave girl! She has strayed away from the dancers, and looks over the
balustrade. She is sad. Was it a sigh that caused her bosom to rise?
Ha! he comes again. She is smiling!--he touches her hand!
"Fiend! false woman!" I shouted at the top of my voice as I sprang up,
impelled by passion. I attempted to rush towards them. My feet were
bound, and I fell heavily upon my face!
The guards seized me, tying my hands. My comrades, too, were re-bound.
We were dragged over the stones into a small room in one corner of the
patio.
The door was bolted and locked, and we were left alone.