A TRIO OF VILLAINS.
Leaving Addick to depart at full gallop from Quiepaa Tani, let us
turn for a little while to the maidens whom, prior to his departure,
he confided to the Amantzin. The latter shut the maidens up in the
Ciuatl-expan, inhabited by the Virgins of the Sun. Although prisoners,
they were treated with the utmost respect, after the orders Addick had
given, and they would have probably endured the annoyance of their
unjust captivity with patience, had not a deep alarm as to the fate
reserved for them, and an invincible sorrow, resulting from the events
to which they had been victims, and the terrible circumstances which
had led them to their present condition, by suddenly separating them
from their last defender, seized upon them.
It was now that the difference of character between the two friends
was clearly shown. Doña Laura, accustomed to the eager homage of the
brilliant cavaliers who visited her father's house, and the enjoyment
of a slothful and luxurious life, as is that of all rich Mexican
families, suffered on feeling herself so roughly deprived of the
delights and caresses by which her childhood had been surrounded;
forgetting the tortures of the convent only to remember the joys of the
paternal mansion, and incapable of resisting the sorrow that preyed
upon her, she fell into a state of discouragement and torpor which she
did not even attempt to combat.
Doña Luisa, on the contrary, who found in her present condition but
little change from her noviciate, while deploring the blow that struck
her, endured it with courage and resignation: her well-tempered soul
accepted misfortune as the consequence of her devotion to her friend.
Unconsciously, perhaps, another feeling had for some time past glided
into the maiden's heart--a feeling which she did not attempt to
explain, whose strength she did not thoroughly know; but which doubled
her courage, and made her hope for a deliverance, if not prompt, at
least possible, executed by the man who had already risked everything
for her friend and herself, and would not abandon them in the fresh
tribulations by which they were assailed, owing to the odious treachery
of their guide.
When the two friends conversed together at times about any probability
of deliverance, Laura did not dare to pronounce the name of Don Miguel,
and through a reserve, the reason of which may be easily divined, she
pretended to rely on the name and power of her father. Luisa, more
frank, contented herself with answering that the bravery and devotion
that Don Miguel had displayed were a sure guarantee that he would, ere
long, come to their assistance.
Laura, whom her companion had not thought it advisable to inform of
the numberless obligations which she owed the young man, could not
understand the connection that could possibly exist between him and the
future, and cross-questioned Luisa. But the latter remained dumb, or
eluded the question.
"In truth, my friend," Laura said to her, "you speak incessantly of Don
Miguel. We certainly owe him great gratitude for the service he has
rendered us; but now his part is almost played out; my father, warned
by him of the position in which we are, will come, ere long, to deliver
us."
"_Querida de mi corazón_"[1] Luisa answered her, with a toss of her
head; "who knows where your father is at this moment? _I_ trust in
help from Don Miguel, because he alone saved us from his own impulse,
without hope of reward of any sort, and he is too loyal and too much of
a gentleman not to finish an enterprise he has begun so well."
This last sentence was uttered by the young lady with such an air of
conviction, that Laura felt surprised at it, and raised her eyes to her
friend, who felt herself instinctively blush beneath the weight of this
inquiring glance.
Laura added nothing; but she asked herself what could be the nature
of the feeling which urged her friend to defend a man whom no one
attacked, and to whom she, Luisa, only owed such slight obligations,
and, indeed, scarce knew?
From that day, as if by a tacit agreement, they never spoke of Don
Miguel, and his name was never mentioned by the maidens.
It is a strange fact, and yet undoubtedly true, that priests, no matter
of what country they are, or the religion to which they belong, are
continually devoured by a desire to make proselytes at any price. The
Amantzin of Quiepaa Tani, in this respect, resembled all his brethren;
he would not allow the opportunity to slip which was apparently
afforded him of converting two Spanish girls to the religion of the
Sun. Gifted with a great intellect, thoroughly convinced of the
excellence of the religious principles he professed, and, besides,
an obstinate enemy of the Spaniards, he conceived the plan, so soon
as Addick intrusted him with the care of the maidens, of making them
priestesses of the Sun. In America, there is no lack of instances
of conversions of this nature, for what may seem monstrous to us is
regarded as perfectly natural in that country.
The Amantzin planted his batteries in consequence. The maidens did
not speak Indian; on his side, he did not know a word of Spanish; but
this difficulty, apparently enormous, was quickly removed by the High
Priest. He was related to a renowned Indian warrior, of the name of
Atoyac, the very man, indeed, who was sentry at the gate of the city
upon Addick's arrival. This man had married a civilized Indian girl,
who, brought up not far from Monterey, spoke Spanish sufficiently
well to make herself understood. She was a woman of about thirty
years of age, although she appeared at least fifty. In these regions,
where growth is so rapid, a woman is usually married at the age of
twelve or thirteen. Continually forced to those hard tasks which, in
other countries, fall to the lot of men, their freshness speedily
disappears; on reaching the age of twenty-five, they are attacked by a
precocious decrepitude, which, ten years later, converts into hideous
and repulsive beings women who, in their youth, were endowed with great
beauty and exquisite grace, of which many European women would be
justly proud.
Atoyac's wife was named Huitlotl, or the Pigeon. She was a gentle and
simple creature, who, having herself suffered much, was instinctively
urged to sympathize with the sufferings of others. Hence, in spite of
the law which forbade the introduction of strangers into the Palace
of the Virgins of the Sun, the High Priest took on himself to let the
Pigeon enter the presence of the maidens.
A person must have been a prisoner himself among individuals whose
language he does not understand, in order to imagine the satisfaction
which the prisoners must have felt on at length receiving a visit from
somebody who could converse with them, and help them to subdue the
utter weariness in which they passed their time. The Indian was hence
accosted as a friend, and her presence regarded as a most agreeable
interlude.
In the second interview, however, the Spaniards guessed with what an
interested design these visits were permitted, and then a real tyranny
succeeded on the short joyous conversation of the first day. It was
a permanent punishment to the maidens. As Spaniards, and attached to
the religion of their fathers, they could not fulfil the High Priest's
hopes, while the Indian woman, incapable of playing the false and
roguish part to which she was condemned, did not hide from them that,
in spite of the honied words and insinuating manner of the Amanani,
they must expect to suffer the most frightful tortures, if they refused
to devote themselves to the worship of the Sun. The prospect was far
from being reassuring. The maidens knew the Indians to be capable
of putting their odious threats in execution without the slightest
remorse; hence, while promising in their hearts to remain staunch in
the faith of their fathers, the poor creatures were devoured by mortal
alarm.
Time passed away, and the High Priest began to grow impatient at the
slowness of the conversion. The little hope the two maidens had kept up
of escaping from the sacrifice demanded of them was gradually deserting
them. This painful situation, which was further aggravated by the
absence of all news from without, at length produced an illness whose
progress was so rapid, that the High Priest considered it prudent to
suspend the execution of his ardent project of proselytism.
Let us leave the wretched prisoners for a few moments, almost
felicitating themselves on the change that had taken place in their
health, as it for a time at least almost freed them from the odious
presence to which they were exposed, and take up the course of events
which happened to other persons who figure in this story.
So soon as Don Estevan found himself at liberty, he dug his spurs into
the flanks of Brighteye's horse, and began a furious race across the
forest, whose evident object was to remove him as speedily as possible
from the clearing which had all but proved so fearfully fatal to him.
A prey to a mad terror which every moment that passed doubled, the
wretched man galloped haphazard, without object or idea, following
no direction, but flying straight before him, pursued by the hideous
phantom of the death which, for an hour that was as long as an age, had
bent over his shoulders, and had already stretched forth its skeleton
hand to seize him, when a miraculous accident sent a liberator.
Don Estevan, in proportion as lucidity re-entered his brain, and
calmness sprung up again in his thoughts, became once more the man
he had ever been; that is to say, the implacable villain so justly
condemned and executed by Lynch law. Instead of recognising in his
deliverance the omnipotent finger of Providence wishing thus to show
him the path of repentance, he only saw a naturally accidental fact,
and entertained but one thought--that of avenging himself on the men
who prostrated him and set their feet on his chest.
No one could say how many hours he thus galloped in the darkness,
revolving schemes of vengeance, and casting ironical looks of defiance
at Heaven. The whole night was passed in this mad race, and sunrise
surprised him at a long distance from the spot where he had undergone
his sentence.
He stopped for a moment in order to restore a little connection in his
ideas and look around him. The trees, rather scattered at the spot
where he halted, enabled him to see between their trunks a plain in
front of him, terminating in the distance in tall mountains, whose
blue-grey summits mingled in the horizon with the sky: a rather wide
river flowed silently between two scarped banks, denuded of vegetation.
Don Estevan gave a sigh of relief. Supposing, as was not at all
probable, that anyone had started in pursuit, the rapidity of his
flight, and the innumerable turns he had taken, must have completely
hidden his trail. He advanced slowly to the edge of the forest,
resolved to stop for an hour or two to rest his panting steed, and
himself take that repose so absolutely necessary after so much fatigue
and agony. So soon as he reached the first trees of the wood, he
stopped again. Assured himself by a glance round that no human being
was in the vicinity, and reassured by the calmness and silence that
reigned around him, he dismounted, unsaddled and hobbled his horse,
and, lying down on the ground, he began reflecting. His position was
far from agreeable. He was alone, almost unarmed, in a strange country,
compelled to fly from men of his own colour, and obliged to depend on
himself alone to face all the events which might occur, and the dangers
that surrounded him on every side.
Assuredly, a man more resolute than was Don Estevan, and gifted by
nature with a more powerful organization than he possessed, would, in
his place, have felt greatly embarrassed, and would have given way,
if not to despair, at least to discouragement. The Mexican, overcome
by the atrocious emotions and extraordinary fatigue he had endured
during the fatal night which had just passed, fell involuntarily into
such a state of prostration and insensibility, that gradually external
objects disappeared from his sight, and he only existed in his mind,
that ever-shining beacon in the human brain, and which God in his
infinite goodness allows to shine there in the darkest gloom, in order
to restore to the creature, in extreme situations, the feeling of his
strength and the will to struggle.
For a long time Don Estevan had been seated, with his elbow on his
knee and his head on his hand, looking without seeing, listening
without hearing, when he suddenly started, and drew himself up sharply.
A hand had been gently laid on his shoulder. Slight as the touch was,
it was enough to arouse the Mexican, and restore him to a sense of his
present situation. He looked up: two men, two Indians, were by his
side; they were Addick and Red Wolf.
A gleam of joy shone in Don Estevan's eye: these two men, he had a
presentiment, were two allies. He wanted them without hoping ever to
meet them. In fact, in the desert, who can be certain of meeting those
he seeks?
Addick fixed a sardonic glance on him. "Och!" he said, "my pale brother
sleeps with his eyes open; his fatigue, it seems, is great."
"Yes," Don Estevan answered.
There was a moment of silence. "I did not hope to find my brother again
so soon, and in such an agreeable position," the Indian continued.
"Ah!" Don Estevan said again.
"Yes, aided by my brother Red Wolf and his warriors, I had set out to
bring help, if it were possible, to the Paleface."
The Mexican looked at him suspiciously. "Thanks," he at length said,
with piercing irony; "I required help from nobody."
"All the better--that does not astonish me: my brother is a great
warrior in his nation; but perhaps the help now useless to him will be
of service to him later."
"Listen, Redskin," Don Estevan said; "take my advice, let us not deal
in repartees, but be frank towards each other. You know a great deal
more of my affairs than I should have wished anyone to discover. How
you learned it is of little consequence; still, if I understand you,
you have a proposal to make to me, a proposal you doubtless think I
shall accept, because of the position in which you find me. Make it,
then, frankly, briefly, as a man ought to do, and let us come to an
end, instead of wasting precious time in idle discourse and useless
beating about the bush."
Addick smiled craftily. "My brother speaks well," he said, in a honied
voice; "his wisdom is great. I will be frank with him; he wants me; I
will serve him."
"_Voto a brios!_ that is talking like a man; that pleases me. Go on,
Chief; if the end of your speech resembles the beginning, I do not
doubt we shall come to an understanding."
"Wah! I am convinced of it; but, before sitting down to the council
fire, my brother needs to regain his strength, weakened by a long fast
and heavy fatigue. Red Wolf's warriors are encamped close by. Let my
brother follow me. When he has taken a little nourishment, we will
settle our business."
"Be it so. Go on; I follow you," Don Estevan answered.
The three men then went off in the direction of the Redskin camp, which
was not more than a hundred paces from the spot they left.
The Indians understand hospitality better than any other people,
excepting the Arabs--that virtue ignored in cities, where, to the
disgrace of civilized peoples, a cold egotism and shameful distrust is
substituted for it. Don Estevan was treated by the Indians as well as
it was possible for them to do. After he had eaten and drank as much as
he wanted, Addick returned to the charge. "Will my Paleface brother
hear me at present?" he said. "Are his ears open?"
"My ears are open, Chief. I am listening to you with all the attention
of which I am capable."
"Does my brother wish to avenge himself on his enemies?"
"Yes," Don Estevan exclaimed, passionately.
"But those enemies are powerful; they are numerous. My brother has
already succumbed in the contest he tried to wage with them. A man,
when he is alone, is weaker than a child."
"That is true," the Mexican muttered.
"If my brother consents to grant to Red Wolf and Addick what they will
ask of him, the Red Chiefs will help my brother to avenge himself, and
ensure him success."
A feverish flush covered Don Estevan's face; a convulsive tremor flew
over his limbs. "_Voto a brios!_" he muttered, gloomily; "whatever be
the condition you lay down, I accept it, if you serve me as you say."
"My brother must not pledge himself lightly," the Indian retorted, with
a grin. "He does not know the condition yet; perhaps he will regret
having been so hasty."
"I repeat to you," Don Estevan repeated firmly, "that I accept the
condition, whatever it be. Let me know it, then, without further delay."
The cautious Indian hesitated, or appeared to hesitate, for two or
three minutes, which seemed an age to the Mexican. At length he went
on, in a perfidiously gentle voice. "I know where the two Palefaced
maidens are whom my brother seeks in vain."
Don Estevan, at these words, bounded as if he had been stung by a
serpent. "You know it!" he shouted, as he squeezed his arm violently,
and looked fixedly at him.
"I know it," Addick answered, still with perfect calmness.
"It is not possible."
The Indian smiled contemptuously. "It was under my guardianship," he
said, "and guided by me, that they reached their present abode."
"And you can lead me to it?"
"I can."
"On the instant?"
"Yes, if you accept my conditions."
"That is true; tell me them."
"Which does my brother prefer, these young girls, or vengeance?"
"Vengeance!"
"Good; the young pale girls will remain where they are. Addick and Red
Wolf are alone; their cabins are desolate; they each need a wife. The
warriors hunt; the cihuatls prepare the food, and nurse the papooses.
Does my brother understand me?"
These words were pronounced with so strange an intonation, that the
Mexican shuddered involuntarily, but he recovered almost immediately.
"And if I accept?" he said.
"Red Wolf has two hundred warriors. They are at my brother's service,
to aid him in accomplishing his vengeance."
Don Estevan let his head fall in his hands. For a few moments he
remained motionless. This man, who had so coolly resolved on his
niece's death, hesitated at the odious proposition now made him. This
condition seemed to him more horrible than death.
The Indians waited, apparently apathetic witnesses of the contest
that was going on in the heart of the man they wished to seduce. They
watched this conflict of good and evil inclinations, coldly calculating
the chances of success offered them by the evil instincts of the wretch
they held beneath their eye. However, the struggle was not long. Don
Estevan raised his head, and said, with a calm voice, cold face, and no
sign of emotion,--"Well, be it so, the die is cast. I accept, and will
keep my word; but first keep yours."
"We will keep it," the Indians answered.
"Before the eighth sun," Addick added, "my brother's enemies will be in
his power; he will deal with them as he thinks proper."
"And now, what must I do?" Don Estevan asked.
"Here is our plan," Addick replied.
The three men then discussed the plan of campaign they intended to
follow, in order to gain the object they proposed. But, as we shall
soon see it work out, we will leave it, to return to our other
characters.
[1] Cherished one of my heart.