THE ASSASSIN.
The apartment where General Harero was confined to his bed by the
severe wounds he had received, presented much such an aspect as Lorenzo
Bezan’s had done, when in the early part of this story the reader
beheld him in the critical state that the wounds he received from the
Montaros on the road had placed him. It was dark and gloomy then. The
same surgeon who had been so faithful a nurse to our hero, was now with
the wounded officer. Notwithstanding the excitement of his patient’s
mind, he had succeeded in quieting him down by proper remedies, so as
to admit of treating him properly for his wounds, and to relieve his
brain, at least in part, from the excitement of feeling that a spirit
of revenge had created there.
A knock was heard at the door just at the moment when we would have the
reader look with us into the apartment, and the surgeon admitted a
tall, dark person, partly enveloped in a cloak. It was evening; the
barracks were still, and the gloom of the sick room was, if possible,
rendered greater by the darkness that was seen from the uncurtained
window. At a sign from his patient the surgeon left him alone with the
new comer, who threw himself upon a camp-stool, and folding his arms,
awaited the general’s pleasure. In the meantime, if the reader will
look closely upon the hard lineaments of his face, the heavy eyebrow,
the profusion of beard, and the cold-blooded and heartless expression
of features, he will recognize the game man whom he has once before met
with General Harero, and who gave him the keys by which he succeeded in
making a secret entrance to Lorenzo Bezan’s cell in the prison before
the time appointed for his execution. It was the jailor of the military
prison.
“Lieutenant,” said the general, “I have sent for you to perform a
somewhat delicate job for me.”
“What is it, general?”
“I will tell you presently; be not in such haste,” said the sick man.
“I am at your service.”
“Have I not always paid you well when employed by me, lieutenant?”
“Nobly, general, only too liberally.”
“Would you like to serve me again in a still more profitable job?”
“Nothing could be more agreeable.”
“But it is a matter that requires courage, skill, care and secrecy. It
is no boy’s play.”
“All the better for that, general.”
“Perhaps you will not say so when I have explained it to you more
fully.”
“You have tried me before now!” answered the jailor, emphatically.
“True, and I will therefore trust you at once. There is a life to be
taken!”
“What! another?” said the man, with surprise depicted on his face.
“Yes, and one who may cost you some trouble to manage-a quick man and a
swordsman.”
“Who is it?”
“Lorenzo Bezan!”
“The new lieutenant-general?”
“The same.”
“Why, now I think of it, that is the very officer whom you visited long
ago by the secret passage in the prison.”
“Very true.”
“And now you would kill him?”
“Yes.”
“And for what?”
“That matters not. You will be paid for your business, and must ask no
questions.”
“O, very well; business is business.”
“You see this purse?”
“Yes.”
“It contains fifty doubloons. Kill him before the set of to-morrow’s
sun, and it is yours.”
“Fifty doubloons?”
“Is it not enough?”
“The risk is large; if he were but a private citizen, now-but the
lieutenant-governor!”
“I will make it seventy-five.”
“Say one hundred, and it is a bargain,” urged the jailor, coolly.
“On your own terms, then,” was the general’s reply, as he groaned with
pain.
“It is dangerous business, but it shall be done,” said the other,
drawing a dagger from his bosom and feeling its point carefully. “But I
must have another day, as to-night it may be too late before I can
arrange to meet him, and that will allow but one more night to pass. I
can do nothing in the daytime.”
“Very well.”
“Where shall I be most likely to meet him, think you?”
“Possibly after twilight, on the Plato, near the house of Don
Gonzales.”
“I will be on the watch for him, and my trusty steel shall not fail
me.”
Thus saying, and after a few other words of little importance, the
jailor departed.
Maddened by the short confinement and suffering he had experienced,
General Harero resolved to rid himself at once of the stumbling block
in his path that General Bezan proved himself to be. A reckless
character, almost born, and ever bred a soldier, he stopped at no
measures to bring about any desired end. Nor was Lorenzo Bezan’s life
the first one he had attempted, through the agency of others; the foul
stains of murder already rested upon his soul. It was some temporary
relief, apparently, to his feelings now, to think that he had taken the
primary steps to be revenged upon one whom he so bitterly hated. He
could think of nothing else, now, as he lay there, suffering from those
wounds, and at times the expression of his face became almost demoniac,
as he ground his teeth and bit his lips, in the intense excitement of
his passions, the struggle of his feelings being so bitter and
revengeful.
But we must leave the sick man with himself for a while, and go
elsewhere.
Lorenzo Bezan had been pressed with the business incident to his new
position, and this, too, so urgently, that he had not yet answered the
note he had received from her he had loved so dearly. He had placed it
next his heart, however, and would seize upon the first moment to
answer it, not by the pen, but in person. It was for this purpose,
that, on the same evening we have referred to, he had taken his guitar,
and was strolling at a late hour towards the Plato. It was the first
moment that he could leave the palace without serious trouble, and
thinking Isabella might have retired for the night, he resolved at
least to serenade her once more, as he had so lately done.
It would be impossible to justly describe the feelings that actuated
the spirit of the lieutenant-governor. His soul was once more buoyant
with hope; he loved deeply, ay, more dearly than ever before, and he
believed that he was now indeed loved in return. How light was his
heart, how brilliant the expression of his face, as he turned his steps
towards the spot where his heart had so often returned when the expanse
of ocean rolled between him and the spot so dear to him from
association. He hurried forward to the steps that ascended from near
the end of the Calle de Mercaderes, on to the Plato, but before he had
reached it, there came bounding towards him a large dog, which he
instantly recognized to be the hound that had so materially aided him
in saving the life of Ruez Gonzales, long before.
At the same moment a hand was laid roughly upon his shoulder, but was
instantly removed and on turning to see what was the meaning of this
rude salutation, the young general discovered a large, dark figure
struggling with the hound, who, upon his calling to him, seemed to
relinquish the hold he had of the man’s throat, and sprang to his side,
while the person whom the dog had thus attacked, disappeared suddenly
round an angle of the Cathedral, and left Lorenzo Bezan vastly puzzled
to understand the meaning of all this. The man must evidently have
raised his arm to strike him, else the dog would not have thus
interposed, and then, had the stranger been an honest man, he would
have paused to explain, instead of disappearing thus.
“I must be on my guard; there are assassins hereabouts,” he said to
himself, and after a moment’s fondling of the hound, who had instantly
recognized him, he once more drew nearer to the Plato, when suddenly
the palace bell sounded the alarm of fire. His duty called him
instantly to return, which he was forced to do.
It was past midnight before the fire was quenched, and Lorenzo Bezan
dismissed the guard and extra watch that had been ordered out at the
first alarm, and himself, greatly fatigued by his exertions and care in
subduing the fire, which in Havana is done under the direction and
assistance of the military, always, he threw himself on his couch, and
fell fast asleep.
Early the subsequent morning, he despatched a line to Isabella
Gonzales, saying that on the evening of that day he would answer in
person her dear communication; and that though pressing duty had kept
him from her side, she was never for one moment absent from his heart.
He begged that Ruez might come to him in the meantime, and he did so at
once. The meeting between them was such as the reader might anticipate.
The officer told the boy many of his adventures, asked a thousand
questions of his home, about his kind old father, Isabella, the hound,
and all. While Ruez could find no words to express the delight he felt
that the same friend existed in General Bezan, that he had loved and
cherished as the captain of infantry.
“How strange the fortune that has brought you back again, and so high,
too, in office. I’m sure we are all delighted. Father says you richly
deserve all the honor you enjoy, and he does not very often compliment
any one,” said the boy.
The twilight had scarcely faded into the deeper shades of night, on the
following evening, when Lorenzo Bezan once more hastened towards the
Plato, to greet her whom he loved so tenderly and so truly-she who had
been the star of his destiny for years, who had been his sole incentive
to duty, his sole prompter in the desire for fame and fortune.
In the meantime there was a scene enacting on the Plato that should be
known to the reader. Near the door of the house of Don Gonzales, stood
Isabella and Ruez, and before them a young person, whose dress and
appearance betokened the occupation of a page, though his garments were
soiled and somewhat torn in places. Isabella was addressing the youth
kindly, and urged him to come in and rest himself, for he showed
evident tokens of fatigue.
“Will you not come in and refresh yourself? you look weary and ill.”
“Nay, lady, not now. You say this is the house of Don Gonzales?”
“Yes.”
“And are you the daughter of that house?” continued the page.
“I am.”
“I might have known that without asking,” said the page, apparently to
himself.
“Indeed, do you know us, then?” asked Isabella, with some curiosity.
“By reputation, only,” was the reply. “The fine of beauty travels far,
lady.”
“You would flatter me, sir page.”
“By our lady, no!”
“Where last thou heard of me, then?”
“Far distant from here, lady.”
“You speak and look like one who has travelled a long way,” said
Isabella.
“I have.”
“Do you live far from here, then?” asked Ruez, much interested in the
stranger.
“Yes,” was the reply. “Lady, I may call on you again,” continued the
page, “but for the present, adieu.”
Turning suddenly away, the stranger walked leisurely towards the head
of the broad stairs that led from the Plato to the street below, and
descended them.
At the same moment, Lorenzo Bezan, on his way to Isabella Gonzales, had
just reached the foot of the stairs, when hearing quick steps behind
him, he turned his head just in time to see the form of the page thrown
quickly between the uplifted arm of the same dark figure which he had
before met here, and himself-and the point of a gleaming dagger, that
must else have entered his own body, found a sheath in that of the
young stranger, who had thus probably saved his life. More on the alert
than he had been before for danger, Lorenzo Bezan’s sword was in his
hand in an instant, and its keen blade pierced to the very heart of the
assassin, who fell to rise no more.
Such, alas, seemed to be the fate of the page who had so gallantly
risked, and probably lost, his own life, to protect that of the
lieutenant-governor.
“Alas, poor youth,” said Lorenzo Bezan, “why didst thou peril thy life
to save me from that wound? Canst thou speak, and tell me who thou art,
and what I shall do for thee?”
“Yes, in a few moments; bear me to Don Gonzales’s house, quickly, for I
bleed very fast!”
Lorenzo Bezan’s first thought, on observing the state of the case, was
to obtain surgical aid at once, and preferring to do this himself to
trusting to the strange rabble about him, he turned his steps towards
the main barracks, where he expected to find his friendly surgeon whom
he had despatched to serve General Harero. He found his trusty
professional man, and hastily despatched him to the house of Don
Gonzales, bidding him exercise his best skill for one who had just
received a wound intended for his own body.
We, too, will follow the surgeon to the bedside of the wounded page,
where a surprise awaited all assembled there, and which will be
described in another chapter.