I felt a pang of chagrin. I had expected thanks more formal than this
mere phrase of compliment.
My man appeared better satisfied. A gold _onza_ gleamed in his purple
palm--a handsome perquisite.
"By whom given?" I inquired.
"Golly, mass cap'n, a gal guv it! De handsomest quaderoom gal dis nigga
ever see."
Beyond a doubt, Isolina herself was the donor!
I could have broken the rascal's thick skull, but that the queenly
douceur gave proof of the satisfaction with which my offering had been
received. Even on this trivial circumstance, I built my hopes of yet
receiving a fuller meed of thanks.
Absorbed in these hopes, I continued to pace the azotea alone.
It was a _dia de fiesta_ in the rancheria. Bells had already commenced
their clangour, and other notes of rejoicing fell upon the ear. The
poblanas appeared in their gayest attire--the Indians in bright naguas,
with red and purple threads twisted in their black hair; the denizens of
the ranchitos were pouring into the piazza, and processions were being
formed by the church; _jararas_ were twanging their guitar-like music;
and pyrotechnic machines were set up at the corners of the streets.
Tinsel-covered saints were carried about on the shoulders of painted
maskers; and there were Pilate and the Centurion, and the Saviour--a
spectacle absurd and unnatural; and yet a spectacle that may be
witnessed every week in a Mexican village, and which, with but slight
variation, has been exhibited every week for three centuries!
I had no eyes for this disgusting fanfarronade of a degrading
superstition. Sick of the sight, wearied with the sounds, I had given
orders for my horse to be saddled, intending to ride forth and seek
repose for my spirit amid the silent glades of the chapparal.
While waiting for my steed, an object came under my eyes that quickened
the beatings of my pulse: my gaze had been long turned in one
direction--upon the hacienda of Don Ramon de Vargas.
Just then, I saw emerging from its gate, and passing rapidly down the
hill, a horse with a rider upon his back.
The snow-white colour of this horse, and the scarlet manga of the
rider--both contrasting with the green of the surrounding landscape--
could not escape observation even at that distance, and my eyes at once
caught the bright object.
I hesitated not to form my conclusion. It was the white steed I saw;
and the rider--I remembered the manga as when first my eyes rested upon
that fair form--the rider was Isolina.
She was passing down the slope that stretched from the hacienda to the
river, and the minute after, the thick foliage of the platanus trees
shrouded the shining meteor from my sight.
I noticed that she halted a moment on the edge of the woods, and fancied
that she gazed earnestly towards the village; but the road she had taken
led almost in the opposite direction.
I chafed with impatience for my horse. My resolve, made on the impulse
of the moment, was to follow the white steed and his scarlet-clad rider.
Once in the saddle I hurried out of the piazza, passed the ranchos of
yucca, and reaching the open country, pressed my horse into a gallop.
My road lay up the river, through a heavily timbered bottom of gum and
cotton-woods. These were thickly beset with the curious _tillandsia_,
whose silvery festoons, stretching from branch to branch, shrouded the
sun, causing amongst the tree-trunks the obscurity of twilight.
In the midst of one of these shadowy aisles, I met or passed some one: I
saw that it was a Mexican boy; but the sombre light, and the rapidity
with which I was riding, prevented me from noting anything more. The
lad shouted after me, uttering some words, which were drowned by the
hoof-strokes of my horse. I deemed it some expression of boyish
_esprit_, and, without heeding it, rode on.
Not until far out of sight and hearing did it occur to me that I knew
the voice and the lad. I recollected a sort of errand-boy attached to
the hacienda, and whom I had seen more than once at the rancheria. I
now remembered the badinage of Wheatley, and would have returned to
question the youth; but I had left him too far in the rear. After a
moment's reflection, I spurred on.
I soon arrived at the base of the hill on which stood the hacienda; and
here leaving the main road, I followed a bridle-path that skirted the
hill.
A few hundred yards brought me to the spot where I had last observed the
object of my pursuit.
The hoof-track of the white horse now guided me, and upon his trail I
entered the woods.
For some distance, it followed a well-trodden path--a cattle-track--but
all at once it diverged from this, and struck off into a heavily
timbered bottom, where not the semblance of path existed.
Keeping the trace in view, I rode after.
As I advanced, the timber grew thicker, and the path more difficult. A
close underwood of arundinaria and sabal palms shut up the way and the
view; trailing roots obstructed progress below; while higher up, the
trelliswork of llianas, bamboo briars, sarsaparilla, and gigantic
grape-vines, rendered it necessary to bend down in the saddle in order
to pass onward.
To my surprise I noticed all this. For what purpose could she have
chosen such a path? Was it indeed Isolina I had seen? A white horse
and a scarlet manga are not uncommon things in Mexico. It might not
be--But the hoof-print--
I dismounted and examined it: I knew it at a glance--it was that of the
noble steed, and the rider could be no other than Isolina de Vargas.
No longer in doubt, though still wondering, I followed the tracks.
For a half-mile or more, the path meandered through thick forest, here
turning around some giant trunk, there diverging to the right or left,
to avoid the impervious network of canes and llianas.
At length it began to slope upwards; and I perceived by the ascent that
I was climbing a hill. The woods became more open as I advanced--here
and there alternating with glades--the trees were of slender growth, and
the foliage lighter and thinner. I was no longer among the heavy trunks
of platanus and liquidambar. The _leguminoseae_ were the prevailing
trees; and many beautiful forms of inga, acacia, and mimosa, grew
around. Myrtles, too, mingled their foliage with wild limes, their
branches twined with flowering parasites, as the climbing _combretum_,
with its long flame-like clusters, convolvuli, with large white
blossoms, and the beautiful twin-leaved bauhinia.
It was a wild garden of flowers--a shrubbery of nature's own planting.
The eye, wandering through the vistas and glades, beheld almost every
form of inflorescence. There were the trumpet-shaped bignonias--
convolvuli in pendulous bells--syngenesists disposed in spreading
umbels; and over them, closely set upon tall spikes, rose the showy
blossoms of the bromelias--aloes and _dasylyrium_. Even from the tops
of the highest trees hung gaudy catkins, wafted to and fro by the light
breeze, mingling their sheen and their perfume with the floral
_epiphytes_ and parasites that clustered around the branches.
I could not help thinking that these flowers are gifted with life, and
enjoy, during their short and transient existence, both pleasure and
pain. The bright warm sun is their happiness, while the cold cloudy sky
is the reflection of their misery.
As I rode onward, another reflection passed through my mind; it was
caused by my perceiving that the atmosphere was charged with pleasant
perfumes--literally loaded with fragrance. I perceived, moreover, that
the same breeze carried upon its breath the sweet music of birds, whose
notes sounded clear, soft, and harmonious.
What closet-slanderer hath asserted that the flowers of this fair land
are devoid of fragrance--that its birds, though brightly plumed, are
songless?
Ah, Monsieur Buffon! with all your eloquence, such presumptive assertion
will one day strip you of half your fame. You could never have
approached within two hundred paces of a _Stanhopea_, of the _epidendrum
odoratum_, of the _datura grandiflora_, with its mantle of snow-white
blossoms? You could never have passed near the pothos plant, the
serbereae, and tabernamon taneae, the callas, eugenias, ocotas, and
nictiginas?--you could never have ridden through a chapparal of acacias
and mimosas--among orchids whose presence fills whole forests with
fragrant aroma?
And more, Monsieur! you could never have listened to the incomparable
melody of the mock-bird--the full, charming notes of the blue
song-thrush--the sweet warbling voices of the silvias, finches, and
tanagers, that not only adorn the American woods with their gorgeous
colours, but make them vocal with never-ending song?
No, Monsieur! you could never have inhaled the perfume of these flowers,
nor listed to the melody of these sweet songsters; and sad it was of
you, and silly as sad, to have yielded to the prejudice of a slender
spirit, and denied their existence. Both exist--the singing birds and
the fragrant flowers--both exist, and thou art gone.
On such reflections I dwelt but for a moment; they were merely the
natural impressions of surrounding objects--short-lived sensations,
almost instantaneously passing away. The soul, benighted with love, has
neither eye nor ear for aught beyond the object of its passion. From
the contemplation of that only does it derive pleasure; and even the
fairest pictures of nature may be spread before it without challenging
observation. It was only that the one through which I was passing was
of such transcendent beauty--so like to some scene of paradise--that I
could not help regarding it with momentary admiration.
But my eyes soon returned to the earth, and once more taking up the
trace of the steed, I rode on.
I had advanced near the summit. The tracks were quite recent; the
branches that had been touched by the flanks of the horse had not yet
ceased to vibrate; the rider could not be far in advance. I fancied I
heard the hoof-stroke.
Silently I pressed on, expecting every moment to catch the gleam of the
scarlet manga, or the white sheen of the steed.
A few paces farther, and both were under my eyes, glittering through the
feathery frondage of the mimosas. I had followed the true track. The
rider was Isolina.
I saw that she had halted. She had reached the top of the hill, where
the growth of timber ceased. An opening of about an acre there was,
surrounded on all sides by the flowery woods--the very _beau-ideal_ of a
summer glade. The open summit commanded a view of the surrounding
country--for the hill was a high one--while the charming spot itself
enjoyed perfect privacy and repose.
In this glade, she had drawn up, and was sitting silently in the saddle
as if to enjoy the warbling of birds, the hum of the bees, and the
fragrance of flowers.
I myself drew rein, and remained for some moments in a state of
hesitancy, as to whether I should ride forward or go back. A feeling of
shame was upon me, and I believe I would have turned my horse and stolen
gently away, but just then I saw the fair rider draw forth from her
bosom something that glittered in the sun. It was a watch, and she
appeared to note the time. I observed that she looked anxiously over
the tops of the low trees, in the direction of the plain below.
These circumstances, trivial as they might appear, produced within me a
quick sense of pain. I felt as if hot steel was passing through my
heart. I had ridden to my ruin--I had followed to be present at an
assignation. Thus only could I explain the solitary ride, and by such
difficult and devious paths; thus only could I account for the
oft-repeated anxious glance, the ear acutely bent. Beyond a doubt, she
was listening for the footsteps of a lover!
The rein fell from my fingers. I sat irresolute--I scarcely breathed--
my heart felt cold and feeble--the birds mocked me--the parrots
screeched his name--the _aras_ in hoarse concert cried out "_Ijurra_!"
The name nerved me, as blood knits the sinews of the tiger. Once more
my fingers closed upon my bridle, my feet became firm in the stirrups,
and heart and arm swelled to their full strength. 'Twas but a light
rapier that hung against my thigh--no matter; he might be no better
weaponed; but even armed from head to heel, I feared him not. Three
passions--hatred, jealousy, and revenge--supplied an arm of treble
strength, and under the influence of these I felt bold and sure of
conquest. Yes, I felt at that moment, as though I could have slain my
hated rival with my naked hands.
I was no longer troubled with scruples of etiquette. No; this monster
owed me satisfaction--life itself: he had striven to take mine; and now
his should be forfeit to my vengeance. On that spot--even in her
presence--should he die, or I myself become the victim. The two of us
should never go thence alive. "Oh, that he may reach the ground while
my blood is thus hot, and my hand ready!"
The fierce thoughts stirring within me must have roused my horse, for at
that moment he tossed his head and neighed wildly. A response came like
an echo from the glade, and the instant after, a voice called out.--
"_Hola! quien va_?"
Concealment was no longer possible. I saw that I was observed; and,
spurring my horse into the open ground, I rode up, and halted face to
face with Isolina.