I shall not attempt to describe the blackness in my breast as I sallied
forth from the President's palace--Don Eusebio by my side.
Directed by the general, he had placed his affair in my hands, and
himself at my disposal.
The announcement of his name had caused me an acute pain--the agony of a
reopened wound.
And the pain came not from the story I had heard. It was not the
thought that Dolores--for it was no more Mercedes--that Dolores
Villa-Senor was in the keeping of brutal brigands! It had pained me as
much--perhaps more--to think of her in the keeping of Francisco Moreno!
Truth compels me to the sad, disgraceful confession: that I listened to
the tale with a sort of satisfaction! Jealousy was still alive--anger
not dead--within my heart!
Though remembered with reluctance, too keenly did I feel the slight that
had been put upon me.
The ungentle thought did not for long control me. Soon was it succeeded
by one purer and holier--sprung from such chivalry as I possessed. A
weak woman in the power of wild, wanton men--two of them, for that
matter; though I thought but of one--borne off by brigands to some
hideous haunt--some scene of lascivious revel!
They were horrid fancies that came crowding upon me. They drove
jealousy out of my heart, and along with it my senseless anger.
These gone, I became inspired by a slight, scarcely definable,
pleasure--like the distant re-dawning of a hope that has been for a time
extinguished.
What if I should be the means of rescuing Dolores Villa-Senor from the
hands of her worse than savage captors--of saving her from a life-long
shame?
Might not the gratitude, called forth by such a deed, become changed to
that other feeling, I had once fondly fancied to have been entertained
in my favour?
I could have risked everything--life itself--to bring about such a
revolution!
After all, had I not been too precipitate in my conclusions? Was it
certain she had surrendered her heart--her _whole_ heart--to Francisco
Moreno?
The episode in the Alameda--of which I had been a spectator--might it
not have been but a bit of flirtation, deftly practised by Spanish
dames, and oft without serious intent, or termination?
Or might it have been only a chapter of coquetry--myself the object
aimed at?
Consoling thoughts--well calculated to stir me to energetic action! Don
Eusebio might have been surprised at my ardent espousal of his cause!
He was at least affected by it. Entirely unsuspicious of my motive for
questioning him, he not only gave me an unreserved account of the
robbery upon the road, but made me the confidant of more than one family
secret.
One gave me something more than a surprise. It caused the renewal of my
chagrin.
"In your interview with the general," I said, "you spoke of some
important matter that was bringing you to the capital. May I be told
it? Excuse me for asking: but in the performance of my duty it may be
necessary for me to know what was the object of your journey."
"Say no more, senor capitan," he rejoined, interrupting me; "you have
taken such a friendly interest in my misfortunes--far beyond what your
duty requires--that I have no hesitation in telling you all. Indeed, it
is essential I should do so. Hear me, then."
Without repeating Don Eusebio's words--with all the circumlocution
rendered appropriate by paternal affection, and the sorrow from which he
suffered--I learnt from him what might have caused me greater surprise,
but for the chance conversation to which I had listened in the Alameda.
The Poblano had spoken the truth to his friend from Yucatan.
Not only had Don Eusebio threatened to immure his daughter in a nunnery;
but was actually on his way to carry the threat into execution, when
stopped by the _salteadores_!
Although accompanied by both his daughters, but one of them was to be
consigned to her living tomb--the aristocratic convent of _La
Conception_, in the city of Mexico--the abode of some of Mexico's
fairest _muchachas_.
"Which of your daughters?" I asked with such eager _empressement_ as to
startle Don Eusebio, and call forth an interrogative exclamation.
"Oh!" I answered, with an effort to gloss over my confusion, "I
understood you to say you had _two_ daughters. Of course one is older
than the other--that is, if they be not twins?"
"No senor; they are not twins. One is two years the elder. It was she
who intended to devote herself to the service of God. _Por dios_!" he
continued, his brow shadowing as he spoke, "Both must do so now. There
is no other future for them--_pobres ninas_!"