THE END OF THE STORY.
Here Don Estevan paused in his recital.
"All this is frightful!" exclaimed Don Fernando, in accents of mingled
anger and pity.
"It is not all," replied the other.
"But what connection has this horrible story with Don Pedro de Luna?"
"Did I not tell you when I first began that the history was his?"
"You did; but, carried away by the dreadful incidents of your
narrative, I lost sight of the personages. My whole mind was so
excited, that I fancied myself a spectator of the scenes that passed
before me with such giddy rapidity, and did not recollect that one of
the actors was so close to us. But how does it happen that you are so
well acquainted with the details of this miserable tragedy?"
"I have heard them told many and many a day, from infancy till now
that I am a man. My father was the Corporal Luco, whom you have seen
so devoted to the Ribera family. My poor mother was the nurse, and I
am foster brother to Don Guzman's child; for we were born about the
same date, and my mother, who was brought up in the family, was very
anxious to nurse us both, insisting that, in imbibing the same milk as
my young master, my devotion to him would be endless. Alas! God has
decided otherwise; he is dead."
"Who can tell?" said Don Fernando, with gentle pity; "Perhaps he may
make his appearance again some day."
"Alas! We have no longer any hope. More than twenty years have elapsed
since the frightful catastrophe, and during all that time no efforts,
however active, have sufficed to lift a corner of the mysterious veil
which conceals the fate of the poor child."
"His poor mother must have suffered dreadfully."
"She went mad. But the sun is rapidly sinking to the horizon, and night
will be here before two hours have passed. Let me finish my tale, by
telling you what happened after the arrest of Don Guzman."
"Go on, my friend; I am anxious to know the end of this dark story."
Don Guzman replied by a smile of contempt to the summons of Colonel
Bernardo Pedrosa. He raised his wife in his arms, and prepared to
follow his enemy. Notwithstanding his hatred of Don Guzman, Don
Bernardo was a man of the world; the misery which overwhelmed the man
he had so long persecuted touched his heart. His pity was aroused, and
on his way back to Buenos Aires he showed the greatest consideration,
treating him with all the respect his unhappy position demanded.
The Dictator was furious at the massacre of his hirelings. Rejoiced at
finding a plausible pretext to free himself from a man whom, on account
of his great reputation and influence amongst the highest classes of
society, he had hitherto dreaded to attack, Rosas determined to make a
terrible example of him. Rudely separated from his wife, the prisoner
was cast into one of those horrible dungeons in which the tyrant's
victims languished, awaiting the tortures he prepared for them.
But the Dictator's vengeance was not destined to be as complete as he
hoped. The French and English consuls, moved by pity for the miserable
state to which Doña Antonia was reduced, made energetic remonstrances
to the tyrant, and even went several times to Palermo to hunt up the
savage in his lair In short, by dint of prayers and menaces, they
obtained the release of the poor woman, and her restoration to her
family; Rosas gnashing his teeth and foaming with rage when he granted
the favour. But he did not dare to brave the consuls, and felt his want
of power to cope with them. Thanks to this beneficent intervention, and
the mighty power they exercised in her behalf, Doña Antonia, at least,
escaped the tortures the tyrant was preparing to inflict.
As to Don Guzman, all attempts in his favour were unsuccessful. Rosas
not only refused to release him, but even to mitigate the terrible
treatment to which he was ordered to be subjected in prison.
Unfortunately, Don Guzman was guilty in the eye of the law. The consuls
could take no official steps and were obliged to desist, for fear of
exasperating the tiger to heap greater injuries on the man in whom they
took such lively interest.
Six months had elapsed since Don Guzman was arrested. Thanks to the
care with which Doña Antonia was surrounded, she recovered her reason.
But her position was thereby rendered worse; for she was now able to
appreciate her calamity to its fullest extent. She comprehended how
great was her misfortune; and her despair reduced her to such utter
prostration, that her life was in danger.
While this was going on, the rumour was spread abroad that Don Guzman,
who had seemed forgotten in his dungeon, was to be brought up for
judgment, and shortly to appear before a court martial.
Rosas eagerly seized the opportunity of giving all publicity to a trial
for high treason, hoping to make men forget the murders committed
in his name, in the interest of the discussion which would arise
concerning the trial.
The report was soon officially confirmed; the day was named on which
Don Guzman was to appear before his judges.
But there is one person of whom we have not spoken for some time, and
to whom we must now recur,--no other than Corporal Luco.
The worthy corporal, when he saw the _arrieros_ and wagoners go off,
and that Don Leoncio had abandoned his brother with the greater number
of _peones_, did not attempt to deceive himself as to his own position.
A traitor and deserter, the least that could happen to him would be to
be shot. So when, by the first rays of the rising sun, he saw a cloud
of dust rising afar off in the Pampas, he concluded that soldiers
must be hidden by it; that these soldiers were coming to avenge their
comrades, whom he, Luco, had helped to slay with so much good will; and
that if they caught him, they would instantly shoot him. The prospect
was not pleasant to the corporal; at the same time he loved his master,
and could not resolve to leave him. He was thus in great perplexity,
and unable to come to a decision, though time pressed.
Luckily his wife came to the rescue, and made him comprehend that any
attempt, in Don Guzman's present state, to induce him to fly must fail;
that, after all, it was better to preserve his freedom, in order to use
it hereafter to obtain his master's; and lastly, that he too, Luco, was
a father, who ought to save his life for his child's sake.
All these reasons conquered the corporal's hesitation. He seized one
horse, his wife another; and both vanished on one side, while the
soldiers came up on the other.
When he arrived at Buenos Aires, a bright idea struck him. Excepting
Muñoz and three other soldiers who had taken his part and fought with
him against their former comrades, all the _mashorqueras_ had been
slain. Not one remained to accuse the corporal of the treason of which
he felt himself guilty. Muñoz, whom he encountered strutting before
the gates of Buenos Aires waiting for his arrival, banished all his
scruples.
Taking up his part directly, the worthy corporal accompanied by his
confederates, went straight to his colonel, to whom he told his
own version of what had happened at the _rancho_, launching out in
invectives and threats of vengeance against Don Guzman, for whom he
expressed the utmost abhorrence.
His artifice succeeded beyond his expectations. The colonel charmed
with his conduct, and trusting to his tale, made him a sergeant, and
gave the corporal's stripe to Muñoz. The brave _colorados_ overwhelmed
the colonel with thanks and protestations of devotion to Rosas, and
retired, laughing in their sleeve.
Luco managed so well during the six months before Don Guzman's trial,
and gave such convincing proofs of his attachment to the cause of
the Dictator, that the latter, deceived in turn, although, like all
other tyrants, he made a virtue of distrust, reposed the greatest
confidence in him; and when the sergeant asked to command the guard
which was to take charge of Don Guzman during the trial, not the least
objection was made. This was exactly what the sergeant wanted: all his
machinations during these six months tended to this one aim; so, when
the day for the trial was named, he prepared his batteries, and kept
himself ready for action when the critical moment should come. Luco
had sworn to save his master; and what the sergeant once resolved, he
carried out, let the consequences be what they would.
Unhappily, the greatest obstacles in the way of the sergeant under
these circumstances came from Don Guzman himself. The prisoner wished
to die. For a long time Luco racked his brain in vain attempts at
finding some means to persuade him to relinquish the feeling. To all
his arguments Don Guzman replied, that his cup was full; that life was
a burden to him; and that death was the only good he could henceforth
look for.
The sergeant shook his head, and retired, perfectly convinced of the
fallacy of the arguments. At length he arrived one day at the dungeon,
and opened the door with a countenance so radiant with joy, that his
master could not help remarking it, and asking what had made him so
happy.
"Ah," replied the sergeant, "at last I have found out the way to
convince you."
"You are dreadfully tenacious of your plan to save me," said Don
Guzman, with a mournful smile.
"More so than ever, _¡canarios!_ This time there will be no doubt
about your compliance. In two days you shall judge for yourself."
"So much the better," said Don Guzman, sighing; "it will be over the
sooner."
"Good! We are not so badly off for friends as you think, señor--amongst
others, the French and English consuls. There is a fine French schooner
in the harbour, which only waits for your presence on board to sail
directly."
"Then she runs the risk of never leaving Buenos Aires."
"Pooh! pooh! I am of a different opinion--I think quite the contrary.
I have come to an understanding with the French consul. The day after
tomorrow the schooner will set sail: she will send a boat to fetch you,
and will hug the coast till you come. Once under the protection of the
French flag, who will dare to touch you?"
"For the last time, listen to me, Luco," said Don Guzman firmly: "I
will not--understand me--I will not be saved. I intend that the infamy
of my death shall cover the Dictator with confusion. I thank you for
your devotion, my good old servant; but I demand that you cease to
compromise yourself by your efforts for me. Let us speak no more of it."
"Then," said the sergeant, "your mind is quite made up? Nothing can
change your determination?"
"Alas! One single person might have that influence over me; but that
person is in ignorance of all that happens around her. Happily
for her, she has lost her reason, and with reason her memory--that
incurable cancer of a broken heart."
The sergeant smiled, and, opening his uniform produced a letter from
his breast, and, without a word, handed it to Don Guzman.
"What is this, Luco?" said the latter, as he hesitated to take the
letter.
"Read it, _mi amo_," replied the sergeant. "I wanted to give you a
complete surprise; but you are so obstinate, I am obliged to deploy my
forces."
Don Guzman opened the letter with trembling hands, and rapidly ran
through it.
"Almighty Father!" he exclaimed, "Is it possible? Doña Antonia has
recovered her reason, and bids me live!"
"Will you obey this time, _mi amo?_"
"Do what you will, Luco; I will obey you in all things. Oh, how I wish
to live now!"
"_¡Cuerpo de Cristo!_ You shall live, _mi amo_. I swear it to you."
With this consoling promise, Luco quitted the prison.
The day of Guzman's trial arrived at last. The Dictator, who knew how
much sympathy the prisoner excited, considered it prudent to make
a grand military display on the occasion. The city was literally
crammed with troops, the precautions being taken more for the purpose
of intimidating the friends of the prisoner, than as precautionary
measures against an escape, which he deemed impossible.
The French schooner, as Luco had predicted, sent a boat's crew ashore,
on the pretence of closing the agent's accounts; she then weighed
anchor, and stood on and off in the river expecting her boat.
The detachment detailed to escort the prisoner was strong, and composed
entirely of _colorados_, Rosa's most devoted troops. It was placed
under the command of Colonel Don Bernardo de Pedrosa; the special
platoon in charge of the prisoner was under the orders of Sergeant Luco
and Corporal Muñoz.
Twenty minutes before the specified time for commencing the march
to the court, Luco entered his master's dungeon, and had a final
conversation with him. He then gave him two pairs of pistols and a
poniard, and left him, saying;
"Remember _mi amo_, to keep quite quiet till you hear the words, never
mind from whom: 'To the devil with the sun! It blinds one!'--that is
your signal."
"Make yourself easy; I will not forget. Remember your promise to kill
me, rather than to let me fall again into the hands of the tyrant."
"Enough, _mi amo._ Pray God to help us; we stand in great need of Him."
"Farewell, Luco: you are right; I will pray."
The two men parted, not to meet again till the decisive moment.
However, the sergeant grew more anxious as that moment approached.
The formidable preparations of the Dictator raised his secret
apprehensions. But he gave no signs of his perturbation, for fear of
discouraging his accomplices; on the contrary, he affected an air of
perfect confidence, though he kept grumbling under his moustache:
"Never mind, it will be a hard tussle; we shall have plenty of firing."
Soon after, the clock of the cabildo (court of justice) struck ten. The
drum called the soldiers to arms; the gossips in the street stretched
their heads forward, murmuring an "Ah!" of satisfaction: all eyes were
fixed on the prison.
They had not long to wait. At the close of a few minutes, the prison
door opened, and the prisoner came forth. His face was pale, calm, and
stamped with indomitable resolution. He marched quietly in the middle
of a dozen soldiers commanded by Sergeant Luco. The latter, as if
wishing to be specially careful of his prisoner, strode on his right,
Muñoz on his left, almost side by side with Don Guzman.
The platoon was preceded by a strong detachment of _colorados_, at the
head of which curveted Colonel Don Bernardo de Pedrosa on a magnificent
coal-black stallion; in rear of the prisoner there was a second
detachment, as strong as the one in advance. The procession advanced
slowly between two mournful and silent crowds of people, who were with
difficulty kept down by two lines of sentries.
It was one of those magnificent spring mornings which South America
alone has the privilege of producing. The fresh breeze from the Pampas,
laden with odoriferous scents, rustled in the leaves and branches of
the gardens attached to the houses, and cooled the air heated by the
beams of the tropical sun.
The procession still continued its march. In spite of the danger
which lay in any exhibition of sympathy for the prisoner, the crowd
respectfully uncovered as he passed. He, calm and dignified as at
the moment he quitted the prison, marched on, his hat in his hand,
saluting, right and left, the people who were not afraid of testifying
their respect.
Two-thirds of the road had already been travelled; a few minutes more,
and the prisoner would reach the tribunal, when, in the Calle de la
Federación, several spectators, no doubt too rudely pushed back by
the soldiers lining the road, resisted the pressure to which they
were subjected, drove back the sentries, and, for a moment, almost
broke their line. As the procession approached, this tumult gradually
increased: cries, recriminations, and threats were bandied about with
the vivacity and rapidity peculiar to the races of the South, until
what seemed at first sight to be a squabble of no importance, began to
assume the dimensions of a veritable riot.
Don Bernardo, uneasy at the noise he heard, left the head of the
escort, and came galloping back to ascertain what was going on, and to
pacify the tumult.
Unluckily, the popular feeling had risen with so much rapidity, that
at several points the ranks had been broken, the soldiers isolated,
and--how it happened no one could say--disarmed, with unexampled
celerity, by persons of whom they had no knowledge. In short the
procession was cut in two.
Don Bernardo saw at a glance the gravity of the situation. Making way,
with considerable difficulty, through the crowd, he rode up to the
sergeant, who, cool and imperturbable, still stuck to his prisoner.
"Aha!" said the colonel, with a sigh of satisfaction, "Take me good
care of the prisoner. Close up! I fear you will be obliged to open a
passage by main force."
"We will open one, do not you be alarmed, colonel. But to the devil
with the sun! It blinds one."
The moment he uttered these words, a soldier who was close at hand
seized the colonel's leg, and threw him from his horse on the ground.
In the same instant, Luco caught hold of the bridle, while Don Guzman,
rapid as thought vaulted into the saddle.
What we have related took place so suddenly, and the whole was done so
adroitly, that Don Bernardo, completely confounded, was nailed to the
ground by a bayonet before he could comprehend what was happening: it
is even probable that he died without guessing the cause of the riot.
In the meantime, the twelve riders of the platoon had closed around
their ex-prisoner, and started at full speed through the thickest of
the throng.
Then a curious thing occurred: these inquisitive gapers, who were an
instant before so crowded and compact that they had broken through the
line of soldiery, open right and left before the fugitives, shouted
their joy at their success, and, the moment they had passed, closed up
the breach they had themselves made, and again presented an impassable
human barrier to the rearguard, which vainly strove to break it.
Armed men seemed to start suddenly out of the ground, gave the soldiers
back blow for blow, and offered a resistance sufficiently energetic to
allow time for the fugitives to secure their safety.
Then, suddenly as if by enchantment, these menacing crowds, which had
so lately disputed the ground, retreated, melted away, in some manner
or another; and that so speedily, that when the soldiers, recovered
from their surprise, were prepared for a vigorous defence, there was no
one in front of them: the insurgents had disappeared, without leaving
any traces behind them.
This audacious affray might almost have passed for a dream, were it not
that, on one side, the prisoner had escaped, and, that on the other,
Colonel Pedrosa, and five or six soldiers, lay weltering in their blood
on the ground; proving the reality of the daring _coup-de-main_ which
had been executed with such remarkable audacity and success.
Don Guzman and his companions found refuge in the boat which was
waiting for them. Five minutes later, they were on board the French
ship; and when pursuit was ordered, the schooner could only be seen on
the horizon, like a halcyon's wing balanced on the breeze.
On board the schooner Don Guzman found his wife. The schooner sailed
for Veracruz.
We have already related the decision which Don Guzman had made, and in
what manner he carried it out.
In order to insure the success of the researches he was about to make
to find his son, and to secure his own tranquillity, Don Guzman, on
setting foot in Mexico, resigned his own name for that of Don Pedro de
Luna, to which he had a right, and under which we shall still continue
to designate him.[1] He hoped by these means to escape the persecutions
of Don Leoncio, whose hatred, still unsatiated by the abduction of the
child, might possibly lead him to attempt to add his brother as another
victim.
Don Guzman's calculations were correct, or seemed so. Since his
departure from Buenos Aires, he had never heard of his brother: no one
knew what had become of him, nor whether he were alive or dead.
Five years after his arrival at the _hacienda_, a fresh misfortune
overtook the poor exile. Doña Antonia, who had never completely
recovered the shock to her mind, the consequences of the terrible
occurrences in the Pampas, and whose health had always languished
since, had expired in his arms, after giving birth to a daughter.
This daughter was the charming girl whom we have presented to our
readers under the name of Doña Hermosa.
From that time forth, Don Pedro concentrated his affections on this
delicate creature, the only bond which attached him to an existence
which might have been so happy, and which, struck by the cold breath of
adversity, had suddenly become so miserable.
Of all those who had accompanied him into exile, he alone remained. All
the rest were dead: he had seen them sink, one after another, into the
tomb. Manuela, Luco's wife, the confidante of her master's sorrows, was
charged with the education of his daughter; a charge she executed with
care and devotion beyond praise.
Such was the tale related by the _major-domo._ In order that the reader
may fully understand the events recorded in subsequent chapters,
it is necessary to remind him that Doña Hermosa was sixteen at the
commencement of our story, and that four years intervened between the
retirement of Don Pedro to the Hacienda de las Norias and the birth
of his daughter. Consequently twenty years had elapsed since the
occurrence of the circumstances narrated by Don Estevan Diaz.
[1] See "Stoneheart," the companion volume.
THE END.