IN THE WAKE OF PRINCELY CAVALCADES
"... Now swell out, and with stiff necks
Pass on, ye sons of Eve! vale not your looks,
Lest they descry the evil of your path."
--_Dante_.
The Grand Equerry was again the Dignitary of the hour. He held the
Emperor's stirrup, while the Emperor, fittingly attired, swung
gracefully astride a curvetting charger. Behind was his coach, ready for
him when he should tire of the saddle. It was already late in the
afternoon, and he meant to travel all night. Flatterers begged him to
consider the importance of his health, which but made him unyielding.
Some slight martyrdom for his country appealed to Maximilian. No, he
said, grave affairs might be afoot since the Confederacy's surrender.
The capital needed his presence, and he reminded them that the State
came first, as always.
The retinue climbed into carriages. The escort, Dragoons, Austrians and
Contra Guerrillas, formed in hollow square about their prince. Colonel
Dupin scowled because he was going. Colonel Lopez, when unobserved,
scowled because he was left behind. And Monsieur Eloin, at the Emperor's
side, thought well of himself in substituting for a rival favorite one
so distant from favoritism as the Tiger. The Dragoons and Austrians who
were to remain presented arms on the hacienda porch, and Lopez gave them
the cue for a parting viva. The emancipated peons, still wet from
spiritual grace, swelled the din gratefully and stridently, lured to it
by their thoughtful pastor, the hacienda curate.
But Maximilian still lingered. He looked from window to window under the
colonnade, and seemed expectant. But Lopez signaled to the buglers, and
the trumpet call and the redoubled huzzas of a people thrilled him out
of his melancholy. With a sigh he gave over his private loves and poesy.
He breathed deep and his eyes flashed. And as the grand monarch and
good, he departed with the acclaim of posterity in his ears, conscious
that the superb figure he made was for History's contemplation.
At this time the Marquise d'Aumerle was half way up a ladder in the
garden. She was picking the fragrant china blossoms, tossing them down
to Berthe's apron, and humming "Mironton, mironton, mirontaine" in
blissful indifference to many things, to princes among them.
Nor was the other girl behind the hacienda shutters. Yet she, at least,
saw him ride away. High up in the chapel tower, between the bell and the
masonry, crouched a sobbing little figure. She gazed and gazed, with
straining eyes. Over there below, in front of her father's house, were
glittering swords and dazzling helmets, and the sheen of gilded
escutcheons on coach doors. And as the beautiful pageant wound its way
along the highroad, she watched in fawn-like curiosity. The sobs were
only involuntary. She was not thinking, then, that this was matter for
grief. Her dark eyes, that had been weeping, and were now so dry, held
to a certain one among the cavaliers, to the very tall and splendid one
with the slender waist, and they kept him jealously fixed among the
others, and were ever more impatient of the blurring distance. But when
finally he was lost for an instant in the general bright haze of the
company, and she could not be quite sure after that which was he, then
indeed the eyelids fluttered in a kind of despair. Yet only after the
last carriage had vanished under the giant banana leaves of the hill
beyond, did the tears come and tremble upon her lashes.
"He is married, the Emperor," she told herself, as though the fact were
that second written across the burning sky. At last, full, grim
comprehension was hers.
The stones of the tower glowed like a brazier in the sun, but the girl,
with her head on her arm against the parapet, shivered as with cold; and
a numbness at her heart grew heavier and heavier, like weighted ice.
Below her the barren knoll, where an hour before swarthy stolid hundreds
had crowded awaiting baptism, was lonely as the grave. The peons were
dispersing to their village down by the river junction, or to their huts
near the hacienda store, and on the air floated the falsetto nasal of
their holiday songs, breaking ludicrously above the mumbling bass of
loosely strung harps. Nearer by, the only life was an old man with a
fife and a boy with a drum, who marched round and round the chapel,
playing monotonously, while a second urchin every five minutes touched
off a small cannon at the door. They did these things with solemn
earnestness. It was to achieve an end, for San Felipe's day would come
soon, and meantime each and every lurking devil had to be driven off the
sacred precincts. But there was one hideous fiend who grinned, and
pinched, and shrieked. His abode was the girl's heart, and he shrieked
to her gleefully, that she could never, never in life, wed the man she
loved. The fife and drum and the stupid little cannon simply made him
the merrier.
* * * * *
The imps were left in peace for the night, and all about the chapel was
dark and silent and desolate. But a man was working stealthily at one of
the rear windows. It was a square, barred window, near the ground. The
man chipped away at the granite sill with short, quick blows. The butt
of his chisel was padded in flannel, so that even a chuckling that
escaped him now and again made more sound than the steel. Soon he
dropped his tools, and wrapping either hand around a window bar, he
braced both feet together against the wall, and pulled. The two bars
scraped slowly toward him across the stone. Then, with a sharp, downward
jerk he tore them out. Quickly he climbed inside and cut the ropes of a
man who lay bound on the floor. Both men emerged noiselessly through the
window.
"Have a care how you step," whispered the rescuer. "Your faithful guards
are busy sleeping and don't want any disturbance."
"That candle-stinking sacristy!" grumbled the rescued.
"But it's the only stone calaboose on the ranch. In fact, _I_
suggested it, since Don Rodrigo should be kept tight and safe. That's
why Dupin left me behind." The rescuer chuckled as before. "Careful,
hombre, there's a guard there, lying right in front of you!"
Rodrigo made out the prostrate form, and lifted a boot heel over the
upturned face. But his liberator jerked him aside.
"Fool, you'll wake the fat padre, and he doesn't like my jests, says
they're inspired of the Evil One."
"Thinking of the Bishop of Sonora's waiting maid, was he?"
"Well, what of it? Didn't he elope here with her?"
"And you, Don Tiburcio?"
"Of course; she naturally wanted to correct her first bad taste."
"By running away with you? If you call that good taste----"
"I call that a good joke on the padrecito."
Having by this time come safely to the front of the church, Rodrigo was
for making certain his escape at once. But Tiburcio interposed. "There's
some talk still due between you and me," he said. "Sit down, here in the
doorway."
"Well?" said the brigand uneasily.
"Well?" repeated his jocular friend.
"Well, there isn't even a moon and we can't deal monte, as if that
weren't the same as giving you what you want, anyway."
"I risk my hide saving you for money, then?" Don Tiburcio's tone was
aggrieved.
"Oh no, for friendship," the sardonic Rodrigo corrected himself, "and I
think as much of you in my turn, amigo mio. Not half an hour ago I was
wrapped in anxiety, imagining you trying to collect blackmail, and I not
near to keep my patriots from your throat. Oh, the sorrow of it!"
"God be praised that a dear friend came and eased your worries! But you
are not an ingrate. Since the Confederate Gringo took all my money the
other morning----"
"Tiburcio, on oath, I haven't had money either, not since our last game
at cards. There was Murguia, I know, but I let him off for bringing me
that French girl. She was good for a big ransom, only your same
Gringo--curse the intruder! If ever the Imperialists catch him, and
Murguia is there to testify against him----"
Tiburcio moved nearer on the church step. "And then?"
"That's our secret, Murguia's and mine."
"But Rodrigo, he _is_ caught. They are trying him and Murguia both
this very minute. And do you know what for? For being your accomplices."
The outlaw started exultantly. "Then, if you want him shot----"
"Well?--Oh don't be afraid, maybe I can help."
"Were you with Captain Maurel when we ambushed them near Tampico?"
"I can't remember," said Tiburcio tentatively.
"If you will hurry down to this court martial, perhaps you will remember
better. Go, and I'll leave you."
"Not quite so fast, Rodrigo. You forget that your devoted rescuer is
penniless."
"So am I, I tell you. We'll both have to go to work, Don Tiburcio."
"What's the lay? Tell me." The humorist's tone was unmistakable.
Rodrigo looked about him in the dark. "Listen," he whispered, "there's a
bullion convoy out of San Luis before long, but--you shall hear no more
unless it is agreed that I am to meet them first."
"Of course, hombre! How else could I threaten to expose them for
contributing to the rebels?"
"Bien, it's next week. You will meet them this side of Valles, some time
Thursday or Friday.--Now I'm off. Adios."
"Stay. You'll find your horse down by the river. The administrator is
waiting with it. And Rodrigo, don't you want your pistol? Be more
careful another time, and keep it loaded."
Something in his tone nettled the brigand. "What do you mean? Give me my
pistol."
Tiburcio pointed it at him instead. "When you cool a little, yes.
But it takes a good marksman to hit a Frenchman with an empty
pistol--especially when one wakes up and finds himself tied."
Rodrigo stiffened. This was menacing to his dignity.
"Both lassoed," Tiburcio went on, "and no telling which was heifer and
which vaquero, stampeding down on poor Max.--Ai de mi, I never thought
it could be so funny!"
"Give me my pistol!"
"Slumbering like two babes in the wood, and your sweet innocent breaths
perfuming the woody forest. I'd have covered you with leaves, like the
little robins, only----"
"Was it you tied us, you----"
"Just like two babes, but," and Tiburcio pointed his thumb to his mouth
and shook his head sorrowfully, "that's bad, very bad. Why didn't you
leave me some? Of the cognac, especially?"
"If you don't explain----"
"Softly there, amigo. Yes, I tied you."
"Another of your jokes----"
"Inspired of the Evil One? Oh no, it was--precaution. Yes, that was it,
come to think; just precaution. You see, I and Dupin had scattered your
guerrillas, and I was scouting ahead, to stir up any ambush waiting for
us--which I did later, when we chased them, and burned Culebra. But
going along, I heard snoring, and found you two, like two----Now sit
still!"
"Why didn't you wake me? Then we could have roped the Frenchman."
"And have him identify me after we'd gotten the ransom? Oh, no, I'm a
loyal Imperialist. Now listen a minute, will you?--Our Contras were
following me not a half mile behind. That meant I had to work quick. You
see, I wanted to find you both there when I could come back alone. And
meantime, I didn't want you to hurt each other. If either got killed,
there'd be no ransom. So I took your knife and his sabre. Then I tied
you both with my lariat. I was going to get your lariat too, and tether
the pair of you to a tree, hoping you'd hold each other there till I got
back. _You_ would do it, for I meant to pin a note on your sleeve,
explaining. But just that minute the Frenchman stirred, for the Cossacks
were getting into his ears, so I had to run back and turn them into
another path."
"So long as it wasn't any of your infernal farces?"
"Well, it _was_ worth a ransom, the way it turned out.--Sit still,
will you? You _know_ I take you too seriously ever to think of any
joke with _you_! Here's your artillery and cutlery. Quick now,
clear out!"
Both rose to go, each to his respective deviltry, but not six steps
ahead in the black night Tiburcio stumbled over a soft, inert mass. He
recovered himself, half cursing, half laughing.
"One of your guards, Rodrigo," he muttered. "He must have got this far
before the drug worked into his vitals."
"Your mescal probably killed him," said Rodrigo indifferently. "But a
little knife slit will look more plausible in the morning, for you it
will."
Getting to his knees on the stone walk the outlaw groped over the body
for a place to strike, holding his knife ready. But all at once he
stopped and got up hastily, without a word. He only rubbed his left hand
mechanically on his jacket.
"Well, what ails you?" asked Tiburcio.
Rodrigo gave a short, apologetic laugh. "It--it's a woman!" He quit
rubbing his hand, seeming to realize. "There's blood," he added.
"Here," said Tiburcio, "you keep back, and run if anybody comes. I'm
going to strike a match."
By the flare they saw that it was a girl and that her head was crushed.
Kneeling on either side, they peered questioningly, horrified, at each
other. Their great sombreros almost touched. Their hard faces were
yellow in the flickering light between, and the face looking up with its
quiet eyes and dark purplish cleft in the brow was white, white like
milk. With one accord the two men turned and gazed upward at the tower,
whose black outline lost itself far above in the blacker shadows of the
universe. They understood.
Tiburcio shrugged his shoulders, a silent comment on the tragedy from
its beginning to this, its end. He threw the match away and arose, but
Rodrigo still knelt, leaning over her, holding the poor battered head in
his hands, half lifting it, and trying to look again into those eyes
through the darkness. He would touch the matted hair, as if to caress,
not knowing what he did, and each time he would jerk back his hand at
the uncanny, sticky feeling. Roving thus, his fingers touched an ivory
cross, and closed over it. With no present consciousness of his act, he
placed the symbol in his jacket, over his breast.
Tiburcio touched him on the shoulder. "I'll go now, and bring her
father," he said.
"Yes," returned the other vaguely, stumbling to his feet.
"It's going to kill the old man," murmured Tiburcio, "or--God, if it
should _not_ kill him! He is a coward, but once he slapped you,
Rodrigo, for so much as looking at her. And now, the Virgin help--may
the Virgin help whoever's concerned in this!--But here, you must go, do
you hear?"
"Yes."
"Then go, go!"
"Yes," said Rodrigo again, moving slowly away.
"By the river, remember. You'll find your horse there."
"Captain Maurel's, the fine black one?"
"Yes, I slipped it out of the stables for you."
"The fine black one?"
"Yes, yes, hombre!"
"And--and she never--she never saw--how magnifico I look on--on that
fine black horse."
He was still muttering as he reeled and staggered down the hill.
When he was gone, and no alarm of sentinels rang out, Tiburcio took off
his serape and laid it over the dark blot on the stones. Then he too
stole away, to tell her father.