There was a deep ditch under the wall, filled with cactus-plants and dry
grass. We lay in the bottom of this for some minutes, panting with
fatigue. Our limbs were stiff and swollen, and we could hardly stand
upright. A little delay then was necessary, to bring back the blood and
determine our future course.
"We had best ter keep the gully," whispered Lincoln. "I kum across the
fields myself, but that 'ar kiver's thin, and they may sight us."
"The best route is the ditch," assented Raoul: "there are some windows,
but they are high, and we can crawl under them."
"Forward, then!" I whispered to Raoul.
We crept down the ditch on all-fours, passing several windows that were
dark and shut. We reached one, the last in the row, where the light
streamed through. Notwithstanding our perilous situation, I resolved to
look in. There was an impulse upon me which I could not resist. I was
yearning for some clue to the mystery that hung around me.
The window was high up, but it was grated with heavy bars; and, grasping
two of these, I swung myself to its level. Meanwhile my comrades had
crept into the magueys to wait for me.
I raised my head cautiously and looked in. It was a room somewhat
elegantly furnished, but my eye did not dwell long on that. A man
sitting by the table engrossed my attention. This man was Dubrosc. The
light was full upon his face, and I gazed upon its hated lines until I
felt my frame trembling with passion.
I can give no idea of the hate this man had inspired me with. Had I
possessed firearms, I could not have restrained myself from shooting
him; and but for the iron grating, I should have sprung through the sash
and grappled him with my hands. I have thought since that some
providence held me back from making a demonstration that would have
baffled our escape. I am sure at that moment I possessed no restraint
within myself.
As I gazed at Dubrosc, the door of the apartment opened, and a young man
entered. He was strangely attired, in a costume half-military,
half-ranchero. There was a fineness, a silky richness, about the dress
and manner of this youth that struck me. His features were dark and
beautiful.
He advanced and sat down by the table, placing his hand upon it.
Several rings sparkled upon his fingers. I observed that he was pale,
and that his hand trembled.
After looking at him for a moment, I began to fancy I had seen the
features before. It was not Narcisso; him I should have known; and yet
there was a resemblance. Yes--he even resembled _her_! I started as
this thought crossed me. I strained my eyes; the resemblance grew
stronger.
Oh, Heaven! could it be?--dressed thus? No, no! those eyes--ha! I
remember! The boy at the rendezvous--on board the transport--the
island--the picture! It is she--the cousin--_Maria de Merced_!
These recollections came with the suddenness of a single thought, and
passed as quickly. Later memories crowded upon me. The adventure of
the morning--the strange words uttered at the window of my prison--the
small hand! This, then, was the author of our deliverance.
A hundred mysteries were explained in a single moment. The unexpected
elucidation came like a shock--like a sudden light. I staggered back,
giving way to new and singular emotions.
"Guadalupe knows nothing of my presence, then. _She_ is innocent."
This thought alone restored me to happiness. A thousand others rushed
through my brain in quick succession--some pleasant, others painful.
There was an altercation of voices over my head. I caught the iron
rods, and, resting my toes upon a high bank, swung my body up, and again
looked into the room. Dubrosc was now angrily pacing over the floor.
"Bah!" he ejaculated, with a look of cold brutality; "you think to make
me jealous, I believe. That isn't possible. I was never so, and _you_
can't do it. I know you love the cursed Yankee. I watched you in the
ship--on the island, too. You had better keep him company where he is
going. Ha, ha! Jealous, indeed! Your pretty cousins have grown up
since I saw them last."
The insinuation sent the blood in a hot stream through my veins.
It appeared to have a similar effect upon the woman; for, starting from
her seat, she looked towards Dubrosc, her eyes flashing like globes of
fire.
"Yes!" she exclaimed; "and if you dare whisper your polluting thoughts
to either of them, lawless as is this land, you know that I still
possess the power to punish _you_. You are villain enough, Heaven
knows, for anything; but _they_ shall not fall: one victim is enough--
and such a one!"
"Victim, indeed!" replied the man, evidently cowed by the other's
threat. "You call yourself victim, Marie? The _wife_ of the handsomest
man in Mexico? Ha, ha!"
There was something of irony in the latter part of the speech, and the
emphasis placed on the word "wife."
"Yes; you may well taunt me with your false priest, you unfeeling
wretch! _Oh, Santisima Madre_!" continued she, dropping back into her
chair, and pressing her head between her hands. "Beguiled--beggared--
almost unsexed! and yet I never loved the man! It was not love, but
madness--madness and fascination!"
The last words were uttered in soliloquy, as though she regarded not the
presence of her companion.
"I don't care a claco," cried he fiercely, and evidently piqued at her
declaration; "not one claco whether you ever loved me or not! That's
not the question now, but _this is_: You must make yourself known to
your Croesus of an uncle here, and demand that part of your fortune that
he still clutches within his avaricious old fingers. You must do this
to-morrow."
"I will not!"
"But you shall, or--."
The woman rose suddenly, and walked towards the door as if she intended
to go out.
"No, not to-night, dearest!" said Dubrosc, grasping her rudely by the
arm. "I have my reasons for keeping you here. I noted you to-day
speaking with that cursed Yankee, and you're just traitor enough to help
him to escape. I'll look to him myself, so you may stay where you are.
If you should choose to rise early enough to-morrow morning, you will
have the felicity of seeing him dance upon the tight-rope. Ha! ha! ha!"
And with a savage laugh the Creole walked out of the room, locking the
door behind him.
A strange expression played over the features of the woman--a blending
of triumph with anxiety. She ran forward to the window, and, pressing
her small lips close to the glass, strained her eyes outward.
I held the diamond in my fingers, and, stretching up until my hand was
opposite her face, I wrote the word "_Gracias_."
At first seeing me she had started back. There was no time to be lost.
My comrades were already chafing at my delay; and, joining them, we
crept through the magueys, parting the broad, stiff leaves with our
fingers. We were soon upon the edge of the chaparral wood.
I looked back towards the window. The woman stood holding the lamp, and
its light was full upon her face. She had read the scrawl, and was
gazing out with an expression I shall never forget. Another bound, and
we were "in the woods."