THE JUDGMENT.
The sun had disappeared on the horizon; shadows had assumed the place
of light; the darkness falling from the sky had covered the forest
with an impenetrable brown shroud. The Gambusinos lighted branches of
_ocote_, and then the clearing, in which the events we are describing
took place, was fantastically lighted by torches, whose flickering,
ensanguined glare played on the trees and the persons collected under
their dense foliage, and gave the whole scene a strange and sinister
stamp.
Don Miguel, after looking around to demand attention, began
speaking:--"As you have found that portfolio," he said, "I have
nothing more to tell you. It was really your brother who committed the
fearful crime with which you charge him. Fortunately, his object could
not be completely attained. Your wife is dead, it is true, Don Mariano;
but your daughter still lives. She is in safety, and it was I who was
fortunate enough to tear her from her tortures, and from that _In pace_
in which she was thrust alive. I will restore your daughter to you, Don
Mariano, pure and uncontaminated as when I took her from her tomb."
Don Mariano, so fierce in grief, was unable to bear joy. The commotion
the news produced was so violent, that he rolled unconsciously on
the ground; clasping his hands fervently with a last effort to thank
Heaven for having granted him so much joy, after visiting him with so
much suffering. The gentleman's servants, aided by several Gambusinos,
hastened round him, and paid him all the attention his condition
demanded.
Don Miguel allowed time for the emotion produced by Don Mariano's fall
to calm, and then made a sign for silence. "It is now our turn, Don
Estevan," he said. "Furious at seeing one of your victims escape you,
you did not fear to pursue her even to this spot. Knowing that it was
I who saved her, you laid a snare for me, in which you hoped I should
perish. The hour has arrived to settle our accounts."
On seeing that he no longer had his brother as his adversary, Don
Estevan regained all his boldness and impudence. At this address he
drew himself up coldly, and fixed a sarcastic glance on the young man.
"Oh! oh!" he said ironically; "my good gentleman, you would not be
sorry to assassinate me, eh? so as to make me hold my tongue. Do you
fancy me the dupe of the fine sentiments you utter so complacently?
Yes, you saved my niece, that is true; and I should thank you for it,
did I not know you so thoroughly."
At these singular words, his hearers made a movement of surprise, which
did not escape Don Estevan's notice. Satisfied with the effect he found
he had produced, he went on.
The scoundrel had judged the question at the first glance. Unable
completely to exonerate himself, he resolved to turn the difficulty,
which he expected to do the more easily, because the only person
capable of contradicting him was unable to hear him and put matters
in the right light. He assumed a placid countenance, and said, with
affected honesty:--"Good heavens! not one of us is infallible. Who
does not commit an error, at least once in his life? Far from me be
the thought of lessening the opprobrium of the deed I am accused of.
Yes, I broke my pledged faith; I deceived my brother, the man to whom
I owed all. You see, Caballeros, that I do not attempt to exculpate
myself; but between that fault and the committal of a crime, there is
a vast difference, and, thanks to Heaven, I cannot be accused of an
assassination; and I throw back the responsibility of this shameful
deed on the right person."
"Who is that man?" Don Miguel asked, involuntarily astonished and
terrified by the fellow's cunning.
"Oh," he said, with imperturbable coolness, "I will throw the
responsibility on those too zealous people who ever understand much
more than they should understand, and who, either through covetousness
or some other motive, always go further than they ought. I confess that
I certainly desired to get hold of my brother's fortune; but I intended
to do so legally."
The Gambusinos, all scoundrels gifted with a marvellously elastic
conscience, which naturally rendered them very unscrupulous as to
deeds more or less reprehensible, were, however, terrified on hearing
such a theory. They asked each other, in a low voice, with the simple
credulity of semi-savages, if the man before them, who spoke thus, were
really their fellow being, or whether the Evil Spirit had not assumed
this shape in order to deceive them?
"Understand me clearly, Caballeros," Don Estevan continued, in a voice
growing, every moment firmer, "the Mother Superior of the Bernardines
is my relative, and has an unbounded affection for me. When I let her
see through my plans, she urged me to persevere, assuring me that
she knew an infallible means to make my projects succeed. I believed
her words the more easily, because these means were very simple,
and consisted in compelling my niece to take the veil. I looked no
further, I swear to you. Poor child, I loved her too dearly to desire
her death! All went on as I desired, though I in no way interfered;
my sister-in-law died; that death seemed to me perfectly natural,
after the numberless sorrows that had overpowered her. I am accused
of having poisoned her. It is false! Perhaps she was so; I will not
affirm the contrary; but in that case my relative must be accused of
the crime, whose object it was, evidently, to bring the fortune I
coveted nearer to my grasp. I wrote at once to my brother, telling him
of this death, which really grieved me; but he did not receive the
letter. I see nothing astonishing in that, because he was continually
going from town to town, as his fancy led him. I frequently went to
the convent to visit my niece; she seemed to me determined to take the
veil. The Mother Superior, for her part, incessantly told me not to
trouble myself about anything; hence I let matters go on without any
interference on my part. On the day my niece was to take the veil, I
went to the convent; then, something unusual and scandalous occurred.
At the moment of professing, the girl refused distinctly to become a
nun, and I retired in despair at this misadventure. In the evening, a
nun came to my house and told me that my niece, after a very violent
scene with the Mother Superior, had been attacked by congestion of the
brain, and died suddenly. This news caused me considerable grief. All
night I walked about my room, deploring the irreparable misfortune
which overwhelmed my unhappy brother. On reflection, a suspicion sprung
up in my mind. This death appeared to me peculiar, and I dreaded
a crime. In order to clear up my doubts, I hurried to the convent
at daybreak; there a fresh surprise awaited me. The community were
upset--terror was visible on every face. During the night a band of
armed men entered the convent; my niece was torn from her tomb and
carried off by these men, who at the same time took away a young
novice. Then, convinced that I was not deceived, and that a crime had
been committed, I shut myself up with the Mother Superior in her cell,
and, by menaces and entreaties, succeeded in dragging the truth from
her. My horror was extreme on learning that my unfortunate niece had
really been interred alive. One thing was left me to do; one duty to
fulfil. I must discover traces of her, rescue her, and restore her to
her father's arms. I did not hesitate, but set out two days later. That
is the entire truth; my conduct has been reprehensible, even culpable;
but, I swear it, it has not been criminal."
The audience had listened to this daring justification with icy
silence. When Don Estevan stopped speaking, not a sign of approval gave
him a hope of having convinced his hearers.
"Supposing--though I do not admit it, for there are too many proofs to
the contrary--that what you assert be true," Don Miguel answered him,
"for what reason did you wish to assassinate me, when I had saved her
whom you had wished to restore to her father's arms?"
"Do you not understand that?" Don Estevan exclaimed, in feigned
surprise. "Must I tell you everything?"
"Yes, everything," the young man answered, coldly.
"Well, yes, I did wish to assassinate you, because at the Presidio de
Tubar I was assured that you had only carried off my niece for the
purpose of dishonouring her. I wished to avenge on you the outrage I
believed you had done her."
Don Miguel turned pale at this insult. "Villain!" he shouted, in a
voice of thunder, "do you dare to utter such an atrocious calumny?"
The auditors had started in horror at Don Estevan's words, and, feeling
himself conquered, in spite of all his audacity, he was compelled to
bow his head beneath the weight of the general reprobation.
Marksman then rose. "Caballeros," he said, "you have heard the
accusation brought against this man by his brother. During the whole
time that accusation lasted, you remarked his countenance; now you have
heard his defence. We have allowed him to say what he pleased, without
trying to interrupt or intimidate him: the hour has now arrived to
pronounce judgment. It is always a serious thing to condemn a man, even
the worst of malefactors. Lynch law, you know as well as I, admits no
compromises; it kills or it acquits. Although chosen to try this man,
we will not alone assume the responsibility of the act. Reflect, then,
seriously before answering the questions I shall address to you, and,
before all, remember that on your answer depends the life or death of
this wretched man. Caballeros, on your soul and conscience, is this man
guilty?"
There was a moment of supreme silence; all the faces were grave, all
hearts beat forcibly. Don Estevan, with frowning brow, pale face, but
firm look--for he was brave--waited, a prey to an anxiety which he
could only conceal by the firmness of his will.
Marksman, after waiting several minutes, went on in a slow and solemn
voice,--"Caballeros, is this man guilty?"
"Yes!" all exclaimed, unanimously.
At this moment, Don Mariano, through the care of his servants,
was beginning to give signs of life, precursors of his return to
consciousness. Brighteye bent over to Marksman. "Is it right," he
whispered, "that Don Mariano should be present at his brother's
condemnation?"
"Certainly not," the old hunter said, quickly; "the more so, as
now that the first outbreak of wrath has passed, he would probably
intercede in his favour. But how shall we get him away?"
"I'll manage that, and take him to the Gambusinos' camp."
"Make haste!"
Brighteye rose, and walked to Bermudez, in whose ear he whispered a
few words; then the two servants, taking their master under the arms,
disappeared with him in the thickets, followed by the hunter and
Eglantine, to whom the Canadian had made a sign to come. In the state
of agitation and excitement the Gambusinos were in, no one noticed this
departure, and not even the sound of several horses going away was
heard.
Don Estevan alone noticed this removal, the purpose of which he
understood. "I am lost," he muttered.
Marksman made a sign, and silence was restored, as if by enchantment.
"What penalty does the culprit deserve?" he asked.
"Death!" the audience replied, like a funeral echo.
Then, turning to the condemned man, Marksman continued--"Don Estevan de
Real del Monte, you, who came into the desert with criminal intentions,
have fallen beneath the stroke of Lynch law; it is the law of God;
eye for eye, tooth for tooth; it admits of only one punishment, that
of retaliation; it is the primitive law of old times restored to
humanity. You condemned a hapless maiden to be buried alive, and perish
of hunger. You will also be buried alive, to die of hunger; but as
you might long call on death ere it came to your aid, we will give
you the means to put an end to your sufferings when the courage to
endure them longer fails you. We are more merciful than you were to
your unhappy victim; for you will be only interred up to the armpits,
your left arm will remain at liberty, and we will place within your
reach a pistol, with which you can blow out your brains when you have
suffered sufficiently. I have spoken. Is this sentence just?" he added,
addressing his audience.
"Yes," they said, in a low and concentrated voice. "Eye for eye, tooth
for tooth!"
Don Estevan had listened with horror to the old hunter's words; the
fearful punishment to which he was condemned had struck him with
stupor; for though he expected death, that prepared for him seemed
so frightful, that at first he could not believe it; still, when he
saw, at a sign from Marksman, two Gambusinos set to work digging a
hole, his hair stood upright with terror, an icy perspiration beaded
on his temples, and he cried, in a hoarse voice, as he clasped his
hands,--"Oh, not that atrocious death, I implore you; kill me at once!"
"You are condemned, and must endure your punishment, such as it was
pronounced," the old hunter answered.
"Oh, give me the pistol you promised me, that I may blow out my brains
on the spot. You will be avenged."
"We are not taking vengeance; the pistol will be left you when we
depart."
"Oh, you are implacable!" he said, as he fell to the ground, where he
writhed in impotent rage.
"We are just," Marksman merely answered.
Don Estevan, having arrived at the height of fury, leaped up suddenly,
and, bounding like a jaguar, rushed head down, against a tree, with the
intention of dashing out his brains. But the Gambusinos watched his
movements too closely to let him carry out his desperate resolve; they
seized, and, despite his obstinate resistance and wild ravings, they
bound him, and rendered it impossible for him to make a movement. His
wrath then changed to despair. "Oh!" he shouted, "were my brother here,
he would save me. Oh, heavens! Mariano, help me, help me!"
Marksman walked up to him.
"You are about to be placed in your grave," he said to him. "Have you
any final arrangements to make?"
"Then this horrible punishment is true?" he said, wildly.
"It is true."
"You must be wild beasts, then."
"We are your judges."
"Oh, let me live, be it only for a day!"
"You are condemned."
"Maldición on you, demons with human faces! Assassins, who gives you
the right to kill me?"
"By the right every man possesses to crush a serpent. For the last
time, have you any arrangements to make?"
Don Estevan, crushed by this fearful contest, kept silence for an
instant; then two tears slowly dropped from his fever-burned eyes, and
he murmured in a gentle, almost childlike voice,--"Oh, my sons, my poor
darlings! What will become of you when I am no longer here?"
"Make haste," the hunter said.
Don Estevan fixed a haggard eye upon him. "I have two sons," he said,
speaking as in a dream; "they have only me left, alas! and I am about
to die! Listen, if you are not utterly a wild beast. Swear to perform
what I ask of you?"
The hunter felt moved by this poignant grief.
"I swear it," he said.
The condemned seemed to be collecting his ideas. "Paper and a pencil,"
he said.
Marksman still held the portfolio; he tore a leaf from it, and gave it
to him, with the pencil.
Don Estevan smiled bitterly at the sight of his portfolio. He clutched
the paper, and hurriedly wrote a few lines, which he gave to the
hunter. An extraordinary change had taken place in the prisoner's face;
his features were calm, his glance gentle and suppliant. "Here," he
said, "I count on your word. Take this letter; it is for my brother.
I recommend my children to him; it is for their sake I am dying. No
matter! if they are happy, I shall have attained my object--that is all
I want. My brother is good; he will not abandon the unhappy orphans I
leave as a heritage to him. I implore you, give him that paper."
"Within an hour it shall be in his hands; I swear it!"
"Thanks. Now do with me what you please; I care little. I have insured
the welfare of my children; that was all I wished for."
The hole had been dug. Two Gambusinos seized Don Estevan, and lowered
him into it. When he was standing upright in the hole, the ground was
just on a level with his armpits; his right arm was fastened along his
side, the other left free. Then the earth was piled up around this
living man, who was already no more than a corpse. When the hole was
filled up, a Gambusino approached the condemned man with a scarf.
"What are you going to do?" he asked in terror, though he guessed the
man's purpose.
"To gag you," the Gambusino said, brutally.
"Oh!" he remarked.
He allowed himself to be gagged without resistance, and was, indeed,
hardly conscious of what was being done with him. Marksman then placed
a pistol under the wretch's quivering hand, and took off his hat. "Don
Estevan," he said, in a grave and solemn voice, "men have condemned
you. Pray to God that He may be merciful to you, for you have no hope
but in Him."
The hunters and Gambusinos then remounted their horses, extinguished
the torches, and disappeared in the darkness, like a legion of black
phantoms. The culprit was left alone in the gloom, which his remorse
peopled with hideous spectres. With neck stretched out, eyes widely
dilated, and ears on the watch, he looked and listened. So long as he
heard the echo of the horses' footfalls in the distance, a wild hope
still filled his soul; he waited--he expected. What did he await--what
expect? He could not have said, himself; but man is so constituted.
Gradually every sound died out, and Don Estevan at length found himself
alone, in the heart of an unknown desert, with no hope of help from
anyone. Then he uttered a profound sigh, closed his hand on the pistol,
and placed the icy muzzle against his temple, muttering for the last
time the name of his children.
* * * * *
In the meantime the Gambusinos withdrew, a prey to that feeling of
undefinable uneasiness which involuntarily contracts the heart of
every man, when he has accomplished an act in which he knows that he
had, perhaps, no right to take the initiative--even when recognizing
its necessity and even strict justice. No one spoke; all heads were
bowed. They rode along, gloomy and thoughtful, by each other's side,
not daring to interchange their reflections, and listening to the
mysterious sounds of the solitude. They had just reached the last
limits of the forest covert: before them the waters of the Rubio
glistened like a long, silver ribbon in the pale moonlight. They had
gained the ford, when suddenly the distant explosion of a firearm
resounded hoarsely, driven back by the echoes of the Quebradas.
Instinctively these men, for all they were so brave and well tried,
shuddered, and stopped with a movement of stupor--almost of terror.
There was a minute of ghostly silence. Marksman understood that he must
break the gloomy dream which weighed like remorse on all these men.
Hence, masking with some difficulty the emotion that almost choked him,
he said, in a grave voice:--"Brothers! the vengeance of the desert is
satisfied. The scoundrel we condemned has at length done justice on
himself."
There is in the human voice a strange and incomprehensible power. The
few words uttered by the Scout sufficed to restore to all these men
their pristine energy.
"May heaven be merciful to him!" Don Miguel responded.
"Amen!" the Gambusinos said, crossing themselves piously.
From this moment the heavy weight that oppressed them was removed; the
culprit was dead. The unpleasant logic of an accomplished fact once
again justified Lynch Law, and at the same time stifled regret and
remorse, by putting an end to the cruel uncertainty which had hitherto
oppressed them.
Don Stefano once dead, the girl he had so pitilessly pursued was saved,
in the eyes of these iron-hearted men: this reason alone was sufficient
to extinguish in them all pity for the criminal. A sudden reaction took
place in them, and their rebel natures, momentarily subdued, rose again
stronger and more implacable than ever.
At a signal from the Canadian, the party recommenced their march, and
soon disappeared among the sandhills which cover the banks of the Rubio
ford. The desert, for an instant troubled by the sound of the horses'
feet on the pebbles, fell back into its calm and majestic silence.