THE CONSEQUENCES OF A MEETING.
Fray Arsenio followed his silent guide delightedly, although he was
surrendered into the hands of an Indian, who must instinctively hate
the Spaniards, those ferocious oppressors of his decimated and almost
destroyed race. Still, the monk was glad at having escaped safe and
sound from the clutches of the adventurers, whom he feared not only as
ladrones, that is to say, men without faith and steeped in vice, but
also as demons, or at the least sorcerers in regular connection with
Satan, for such were the erroneous ideas which the most enlightened of
the Spaniards entertained about the filibusters and buccaneers.
It had needed all the devotion which the monk professed for Doña Clara,
and all the ascendancy that charming woman possessed over those who
approached her, to make him consent to execute a plan so mad in his
opinion, as that of entering into direct relation with one of the most
renowned chiefs of the filibusters, and it was with a great tremor that
he had accompanied his penitent to Nevis.
When we met him, he was proceeding to the hatto, to inform Doña Clara,
as had been arranged between them, of the arrival of the filibustering
squadron at Port Margot, and consequently of Montbart's presence in the
island of Saint Domingo.
Unfortunately the monk, but little used to night journeys, across
untrodden roads which he must guess at every step, lost himself on the
savannah; overcome with terror, almost dead with hunger, and worn out
by fatigue, the monk had seen the light of a fire flashing a short
distance off; the sight of this had restored him hope, if not courage,
and he had consequently ridden as fast as he could toward the fire, and
tumbled headlong into a boucan of French adventurers.
In doing this, he unconsciously followed the example of the silly moth,
which feels itself irresistibly attracted to the candle in which it
singes its wings.
More fortunate than these insects, the monk had burned nothing at
all; he had rested, eaten and drunk well, and, apart from a very
honest terror at finding himself so unexpectedly in such company, he
had escaped pretty well, or at least he supposed so, from this great
danger, and had even succeeded in obtaining a guide. Everything, then,
was for the best, the Lord had not ceased to watch over His servant,
and the latter only needed to let himself be guarded by Him. Moreover
the monk's confidence was augmented by the taciturn carelessness of his
guide who, without uttering a syllable, or even appearing to trouble
himself about him the least in the world, walked in front of his
horse, crossing the savannah obliquely, making a way through the tall
grass, and seemed to direct himself as surely amid the darkness that
surrounded him, as if he had been lit by the dazzling sunbeams.
They went on thus for a long time following each other without the
interchange of a word; like all the Spaniards, Fray Arsenio professed
a profound contempt for the Indians, and it was much against his will
that he ever entered into relations with them. For his part, the Carib
was not at all anxious to carry on with this man, whom he regarded as a
born foe of his race, a conversation which could only be an unimportant
gossip.
They had reached the top of a small hill, from which could be seen
gleaming in the distance, like so many luminous dots, the watch fires
of the soldiers encamped round the hatto, when all at once, instead
of descending the hill and continuing his advance, Omopoua stopped,
and looked round him anxiously, while strongly inhaling the air, and
ordering the Spaniard by a wave of his hand to halt.
The latter obeyed and remained motionless as an equestrian statue,
while observing with a curiosity blended with a certain amount of
discomfort, the manoeuvres of his guide.
The Carib had laid himself down and was listening with his ear to the
ground.
At the end of a few minutes he rose again, though he did not cease
listening.
"What is the matter?" the monk, whom this conduct was beginning
seriously to alarm, asked.
"Horsemen are coming towards us at full speed."
"Horsemen at this hour of night on the savannah?" Fray Arsenio remarked
incredulously; "It is impossible."
"Why, you are here?" the Indian said with a jeering smile.
"Hum! That is true," the monk muttered, struck by the logic of the
answer; "who can they be!"
"I do not know, but I will soon tell you," the Carib answered.
And before the monk had the time to ask him what his scheme was,
Omopoua glided through the tall grass and disappeared, leaving Fray
Arsenio greatly disconcerted at this sudden flight, and extremely
annoyed at finding himself thus left alone in the middle of the desert.
A few minutes elapsed, during which the monk tried, though in vain, to
hear the sound which the Indian's sharp sense of hearing had caused him
to catch long before, amid the confused rumours of the savannah.
The monk, believing himself decidedly deserted by his guide, was
preparing to continue his journey, leaving to Providence the care of
bringing him safely into port, when he heard a slight rustling in the
bushes close to him, and the Indian reappeared.
"I have seen them," he said.
"Ah!" the monk replied; "And who are they?"
"White men like you."
"Spaniards in that case?"
"Yes, Spaniards."
"All the better," Fray Arsenio continued, whom the good news completely
reassured; "are they numerous?"
"Five or six at least; they are proceeding like yourself, towards the
hatto, where, as far as I could understand, they are very eager to
arrive."
"That is famous; where are they at this moment?"
"Two stones' throw at the most. According to the direction they are
following, they will pass the spot where you are now standing."
"Better still. In that case we have only to wait."
"You can do so, if you think proper; but I have no wish to meet them."
"That is true, my friend," the monk remarked, with a paternal air. "And
possibly such a meeting would not be agreeable to you; so pray accept
my thanks for the manner in which you have guided me hitherto."
"You are quite resolved on waiting for them, then? If you like, I can
enable you to avoid them."
"I have no motive for concealing myself from men of my own colour.
Whoever they may be, I feel sure that I shall find friends in them."
"Very good. Your affairs concern yourself, and I have nothing to do
with them. But the sound is drawing nearer, and as they will speedily
arrive, I will leave you, for it is unnecessary for them to find me
here."
"Farewell."
"One last recommendation: if by chance they had a fancy to ask who
served as your guide, do not tell them."
"It is not at all probable they will ask this."
"No matter. Promise me, if they do, to keep my secret."
"Very good. I will be silent, since you wish it; although I do not
understand the motive for such a recommendation."
The monk had not finished the sentence, ere the Indian disappeared.
The horsemen were rapidly approaching. The galloping of their steeds
echoed on the ground like the rolling of thunder. Suddenly several
shadows, scarcely distinguishable in the obscurity, rose as it were in
the midst of the darkness, and a sharp voice shouted--
"Who goes there?"
"A friend!" the monk answered.
"Tell your name, _¡sangre de Dios!_" the voice repeated, passionately,
while the dry snap of a pistol being cocked, sounded disagreeably in
the monk's ears. "At night there are friends in the desert!"
"I am a poor Franciscan monk, proceeding to the hatto del Rincón; and
my name is Fray Arsenio Mendoza."
A hoarse cry replied to the monk's words--a cry whose meaning he had
not the time to conjecture; that is to say, whether it was the result
of pleasure or anger; for the horsemen came up with him like lightning,
and surrounded him even before he could understand the reason of such a
headlong speed to reach him.
"Why, señores," he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion, "what
is the meaning of this? Have I to do with the _ladrones?_"
"Good! Good! Calm yourself, Señor Padre," a rough voice answered, which
he fancied he recognised. "We are not _ladrones_, but Spaniards like
yourself; and nothing could cause us more pleasure than meeting you at
this moment."
"I am delighted at what you say to me, caballero. I confess that
at first the suddenness of your movements alarmed me; but now I am
completely reassured."
"All the better," the stranger replied, ironically; "for I want to talk
with you."
"Talk with me, señor?" he said, with surprise.
"The spot and the hour are badly chosen for an interview, I fancy. If
you will wait till we reach the hatto, I will place myself at your
disposal."
"Enough talking. Get off your horse," the stranger observed, roughly;
"unless you wish me to drag you off."
The monk took a startled glance around him, but the horsemen looked at
him savagely, and did not appear disposed to come to his help.
Fray Arsenio, through profession and temperament, was quite the
opposite of a brave man. The way in which the adventure began was
commencing seriously to alarm him. He did not yet know into what
hands he had fallen, but everything led him to suppose that these
individuals, whoever they might be, were not actuated by kindly
feelings towards him. Still any resistance was impossible, and he
resigned himself to obey; but it was not without a sigh of regret,
intended for the Carib, whose judicious advice he had spurned, that he
at length got off his horse, and placed himself in front of his stern
questioner.
"Light a torch!" the strange horseman said. "I wish this man to
recognise me, so that, knowing who I am, he may be aware that he cannot
employ any subterfuge with me, and that frankness alone will save him
from the fate that menaces him."
The monk understood less and less. He really believed himself suffering
from an atrocious nightmare.
By the horseman's orders, however, one of his suite had lighted a torch
of ocote wood.
So soon as the flame played over the stranger's feature, and illumined
his face, the monk gave a start of surprise, and clasped his hands at
the same time as his countenance suddenly reassumed its serenity.
"Heaven be praised!" he said, with an accent of beatitude impossible
to render. "Is it possible that it can be you, Don. Stenio de Bejar? I
was so far from believing that I should have the felicity of meeting
you this night, Señor Conde, that, on my faith, I did not recognise
you, and felt almost frightened."
The Count, for it was really he whom the monk had so unfortunately met,
did not answer for the moment, but contented himself with smiling.
Don Stenio de Bejar, who had left Saint Domingo at full speed, for the
purpose of going to the hatto del Rincón, in order to convince himself
of the truth of the information given him by Don Antonio de la Ronda,
thus found himself, by the greatest accident, just as he was reaching
his destination, and when he least expected it, face to face with Fray
Arsenio Mendoza; that is to say, with the only man capable of proving
to him peremptorily the truth or falsehood of the assertions of the
spy, who had denounced Doña Clara to her husband.
Fray Arsenio's reputation for poltroonery had long been current among
his countrymen, and hence nothing seemed more easy than to obtain from
him the truth in its fullest details.
The Count believed himself almost certain, by employing intimidation,
to make Fray Arsenio confess what he knew: hence, so soon as the latter
had mentioned his name, Don Stenio, warned by the spy, who rode at his
side, resolved to terrify the monk, and thus render it impossible for
him to resist the orders he might intimate to him.
We take pleasure in believing that in acting thus, the Count had not
the slightest intention of treating the monk with a violence, which
in any case would be deplorable, but dishonourable on the part of
a man in his position. Unfortunately, through the unforeseen and
incomprehensible resistance which, contrary to all probability, the
monk offered him, the Count was led away by his passion, and gave
orders against his better judgment, when harshness and even cruelty
could in no case be justified.
After a silence of some seconds, Don Stenio fixed a piercing glance on
the monk, as if he wished to read his very soul, and then seized him
brutally by the arm.
"Where have you come from?" he asked him, in a rough voice. "Is it the
custom for monks of your order to ramble about the country at this hour
of the night?"
"My lord!" Fray Arsenio stammered, thrown off his guard by this
question, which he was far from expecting.
"Come, come!" the Count continued; "Answer at once, and let us have no
subterfuge or tergiversation."
"But, my lord, I do not at all understand this great anger which you
appear to have with me. I am innocent, I vow!"
"Ah! ah!" he said, with an ironical laugh; "You are innocent! _¡Viva
Dios!_ you make haste to defend yourself before you are accused; hence
you feel yourself guilty."
Fray Arsenio was aware of the Count's jealousy, which he concealed so
poorly, that, in spite of all his efforts, it was visible to everybody.
Hence he understood that Doña Clara's secret had been revealed to her
husband; and he foresaw the peril that menaced him for having acted as
her accomplice. Still, he hoped that the Count had only learnt certain
facts, while remaining ignorant of the details of the Countess' voyage;
and hence, though he trembled at heart at the thought of the dangers to
which he was doubtless exposed, alone and defenceless, in the hands of
a man blinded by passion and the desire of avenging what he regarded
as a stain on his honour, he resolved, whatever might happen, not to
betray the confidence which a woman had unhappily placed in him.
He raised his head and replied with a firm voice, and with an accent at
which he was himself astonished--
"My lord, you are governor of Saint Domingo; you have a right to
exercise justice over those placed under your rule. You possess almost
sovereign power, but you have no right, as far as I know, to ill treat
me, either by word or deed, or to make me undergo an examination at
your caprice. I have superiors on whom I am dependant; have me taken
before them; hand me over to their justice, if I have committed any
fault they will punish me, for they alone have the right of condemning
or acquitting me."
The Count had listened to the monk's long answer, while biting his lips
savagely and stamping his foot with passion. He had not thought to find
such resistance in this man.
"So, then," he exclaimed, when Fray Arsenio at length ceased speaking,
"you refuse to answer me?"
"I refuse, my lord," he coldly replied, "because you have no right to
question me."
"You forget, however, Señor Padre, that if I have not the right, I have
the might, at least, at this moment."
"You are at liberty, my lord, to abuse that might, by applying it to an
unhappy and defenceless man. I am no soldier, and physical suffering
frightens me. I do not know how I shall endure the tortures you will
perhaps inflict on me, but there is one thing of which I am certain."
"What is it, may I ask, Señor Padre?"
"That I will die, my lord, before answering any of your questions."
"We shall see that," he said, sarcastically, "if you compel me to have
recourse to violence."
"You will see," he replied, in a gentle but firm voice, which denoted
an irrevocable determination.
"For the last time, I deign to warn you: take care--reflect."
"All my reflections are made, my lord; I am in your power. Abuse my
weakness as you may think proper, I shall not even attempt a useless
defence. I shall not be the first monk of my order who has fallen a
martyr to duty: others have preceded me, and others will doubtless
follow me in this painful track."
The Count stamped his foot savagely; the spectators, dumb and
motionless, exchanged terrified glances, for they foresaw that this
scene would soon have a terrible denouement, between two men, neither
of whom would make concessions; while the first of them, blinded by
rage, would soon not be in a condition to listen to the salutary
counsels of reason.
"My lord," Don Antonio de la Ronda murmured, "the stars are beginning
to turn pale, and the day will soon dawn; we are still far from the
hatto, would it not be better to set out without further delay?"
"Silence!" the Count answered, with a smile of contempt. "Pedro," he
added, addressing one of his domestics, "a match."
The valet dismounted and advanced with a long sulphured match in his
hand.
"The two thumbs," the Count said, laconically.
The domestic approached the monk; the latter offered his hands without
hesitation, although his face was fearfully pale, and his whole body
trembled.
Pedro coolly rolled the match between his two thumbs, passing it
several times under his nails, and then turned to the Count.
"For the last time, monk," the latter said, "will you speak?"
"I have nothing to say to you, my lord," Fray Arsenio replied, in a
soft voice.
"Light it," the Count commanded, biting his lips till they bled.
The valet, with the passive obedience distinguishing men of this class,
set fire to the match.
The monk fell on his knees and raised his eyes to Heaven. His face had
assumed an earthy tint, a cold perspiration beaded on his temples, and
his hair stood on end. The suffering he experienced must be horrible,
for his chest heaved violently, although his parched lips remained dumb.
The Count watched him anxiously.
"Will you speak now, monk?" he said to him in a hollow voice.
Fray Arsenio turned toward him a face whose features were distorted by
pain, and gave him a look full of ineffable gentleness.
"I thank you, my lord," he said, "for having taught me that pain does
not exist for a man whose faith is lively."
"My curses on you, wretch!" the Count exclaimed, as he hurled him down
with a blow on the chest. "To horse, señores, to horse, so that we may
reach the hatto before sunrise."
The cavaliers remounted, and went off at full speed, leaving, without
a glance of compassion, the poor monk, who, vanquished by pain, had
rolled fainting on the ground.