The day upon which these various events took place was anything but a
happy one for Arroyo. It appeared to him as if the re-appearance in the
neighbourhood of his deadliest foe--Don Rafael Tres-Villas--had been the
signal for the series of disappointments which had occurred to him. Ten
of his followers had fallen in a sortie of the besieged, besides two
more killed by the hand of Don Rafael--who had himself escaped, as well
as the prisoner Gaspar and the deserter Juan el Zapote.
The bloodthirsty disposition of the guerilla chief had been strengthened
by these disappointments, and in order to give solace to his vexed
spirit, he resolved to possess himself of the hacienda of San Carlos
without further delay.
In addition to the wicked desires--which the promptings of Bocardo had
excited within him--there was another reason urging him to carry out
this design. The hacienda of San Carlos, with a little labour, could be
converted into a fortress of considerable strength, and such as he might
yet stand in need of.
He saw that he had miscalculated the power of resistance of the royalist
garrison of Del Valle; and, still ignorant of its real strength, he
deemed it better to call off the besieging force until after the taking
of San Carlos. Then he could go back with his whole band, and make a
determined assault against the place.
He had, for these reasons, ordered the besiegers to return to camp; and,
striking his tent, had marched with all his followers to the capture of
San Carlos. This will explain why Don Cornelio and his companions had
been able to pass the hacienda Del Valle--and afterwards the ford of the
Ostuta--without seeing anything of Arroyo or his band--Gaspacho alone
excepted.
Numerous as were the servants of Don Fernando Lacarra--the proprietor of
San Carlos--their master did not for a moment dream of making
resistance. It would have been worse than useless against an
experienced _guerilla_ numbering in all above a hundred men. At the
first summons, therefore, the gates of the hacienda were opened to
Arroyo and his followers.
Having hitherto practised a strict neutrality, and being known to have a
strong sympathy with the cause of the Independence, the young Spaniard
believed that Arroyo only intended demanding from him a contribution in
provisions--and perhaps money--for the support of his troops; and that
with this he would be contented.
Although not suspecting the designs of the brigand in regard to his
wife, he had deemed it prudent, before opening the gates, that she
should conceal herself in one of the secret chambers of the mansion--
where he was also in the habit of keeping his money and plate. There he
fancied she would be safe enough--unless, indeed, the whole building
should be ransacked and pillaged.
To strengthen this precaution, Don Fernando had informed the brigands on
their entering the house, that his wife, Marianita, was not at home.
Unfortunately for him, it was not a mere levy of blackmail that was now
to satisfy the partisan chieftains. One was determined upon robbing him
of his wife--while the other coveted his money--and therefore the
subterfuges of Don Fernando were not likely to avail him.
It was just at the time that the wretched husband was endeavouring to
mislead his visitors as to the hiding-place of his wife and his
treasure, that Don Cornelio Lantejas had come within view of the
building, the lights of whose windows had so mystified him. That
mystery was now to be cleared up, and the ex-student was to find the
explanation of those bright coloured flames with their changing hues.
Following Gaspacho up the stone stairway, Don Cornelio reached a door
upon the landing. It was closed; but inside, a tumult of voices could
be heard, accompanied by cries as of some one in pain.
His conductor unceremoniously opened the door, and pushed Don Cornelio
into a large room, the atmosphere of which almost suffocated him.
Several torches of resin, set in candelabras, were burning round the
walls, but the reddish light which these produced was almost eclipsed
under the glare that proceeded from a keg of brandy that stood near the
middle of the floor, and which, having been set on fire, was completely
enveloped in violet-coloured flames.
The heat, the smell of blood, and the effluvia of the burning alcohol,
constituted an atmosphere horrid to endure; but even this was less
painful to Don Cornelio than the sight which met his eyes as he entered
the room. On one side was a group of guerilleros--clustered around some
object which they were regarding with the most vivid interest--all
seemingly pleased with the spectacle.
It was that of an unfortunate man, stripped almost naked, and tied with
his face to the wall, while another man stood over him, grasping a
strong cow-hide whip, with which, at intervals, he struck the wretched
victim, apparently with all the strength that lay in his arms.
He who handled the whip was a man of the most sinister aspect; and the
blue flames of the alcohol flashing over his countenance added to its
demoniac expression. Gouts of blood, that had spurted from the back of
the sufferer, spotted the wall on both sides of him; and the number of
those spots showed that the punishment had been continued for some
length of time.
By the side of the man who was inflicting the stripes--and whom Lantejas
supposed to be some common executioner--stood a woman of a still more
hideous aspect; who, by her gestures and words, kept exciting the wretch
to still greater cruelty--as though he stood in need of such
encouragement.
Gaspacho, perceiving that no one heeded his entrance, cried out, so as
to be heard above the tumult--
"Senor Captain! we have captured the comrade of the negro and the
Indian. Here he is."
To the astonishment of Don Cornelio, the person thus addressed as the
captain was no other than the hideous individual who was handling the
whip.
"Very well," responded the latter, without turning round. "I shall
attend to him presently, as soon as I have made this _coyote_ confess
where he has hidden his wife and his money."
The whip again whistled through the air, and came down upon the back of
the wretched sufferer, without producing any other manifestation than a
deep groan.
It is scarcely necessary to say that the victim of this barbarous
treatment was Don Fernando Lacarra. The words of Arroyo have already
made this known to the reader.
Perfectly indifferent to the spectacle, Gaspacho, having introduced his
prisoner to the presence of Arroyo, walked out of the room.
As regards Don Cornelio, he stood where the robber had left him,
paralysed with horror. Independently of the compassion he felt for the
sufferer, he was under the suspicion that both Costal and Clara had
already perished, and that his own turn might come next.
While these fearful reflections were passing through his mind, a man
whom he had not before noticed now came up to him. This was an
individual with a jackal-like face, and the skulking mien of that
animal, with all its ferocious aspect.
"My good friend," said this man, addressing himself to Don Cornelio,
"you appear somewhat lightly clad for one who is about to present
himself before people of distinction."
Lantejas, in reality--thanks to the bandits who had captured him--was
almost naked: a torn shirt and drawers being all the clothing they had
left him.
"Senor Captain,"--said he, addressing the jackal-like individual, and
intending to account for the scantiness of his costume.
"Stop," interrupted the other, "not _captain_. Call me Colonel of
Colonels, if you please. It is a title which I have adopted, and no one
shall deprive me of it."
"Well then, Colonel of Colonels! if your people had not robbed me of my
broad cloth cloak, my hat of Vicuna wool, and various other articles of
clothing, you would not have seen me so lightly dressed. But it is not
only that which grieves me. I have other serious complaints to make--"
"The devil!" exclaimed the Colonel of Colonels, without heeding the last
remarks. "A broad cloth cloak and Vicuna hat, did you say? Two things
of which I stand particularly in need. They must be recovered."
"I have to complain of violence offered to my person," continued Don
Cornelio. "I am called Lantejas--Captain Lantejas. I serve the junta
of Zitacuaro, under the orders of General Morelos; and I bear from him a
commission, of which the proofs--"
A sudden thought interrupted the speech of Don Cornelio--a terrible
thought, for it just now occurred to him that his despatches, his
commission as captain, his letters of credence--in short, all the papers
by which he could prove his identity--were in the pockets of the stolen
cloak!
"Ho!" exclaimed the Colonel of Colonels, in a joyful tone, "you call
yourself Lantejas, do you? I am delighted to hear it, and so will our
captain be. It is the luckiest circumstance in the world for us, and
for you, too, as you shall presently be convinced. Look here!"
The speaker raised the corner of a _serape_ that was spread upon one of
the tables standing near, and pointed to some objects lying underneath.
Don Cornelio saw they were human heads.
There were three of them.
"Now, my good friend," continued the Colonel of Colonels, "there you see
the head of our old comrade, Lieutenant Lantejas, which we have brought
away from where it was nailed over the gate of the hacienda Del Valle.
Conceive, then, what a lucky thing for us! What a splendid _revanche_
we shall have when, in place of the head of the insurgent Lantejas, we
shall nail up that of Lantejas the royalist spy!"
"But it is a mistake," cried Don Cornelio, rubbing the cold sweat from
his forehead. "I am not a royalist nor a spy neither. I have the
honour to serve the cause of the Independence--"
"Bah! everybody says the same. Besides, without any proofs--"
"But I have proofs. They are in the pocket of my cloak, of which I have
been robbed."
"Who took your cloak?" inquired the Colonel of Colonels.
"Gaspacho," replied Don Cornelio, who had incidentally learnt the name
of the brigand who had despoiled him.
"Ah! that is a terrible misfortune. Gaspacho has just received orders
to go in all haste to Las Cruces. He is off by this time, and will not
likely be back in less than ten days. You, by that time will have lost
your head, and I my cloak and Vicuna hat. Both of them, I know, would
have fitted me, since you and I are both of a size. What a damnable
misfortune for both of us!"
A fearful cry interrupted the dialogue between Don Cornelio and the
Colonel of Colonels. The cry came from the wretched sufferer, who
fainted as soon as uttering it.
Almost at the same instant the alcohol shot up its last flickering
flame--as the spirit itself was consumed; and in the reddish light of
the torches Don Cornelio could perceive the men flitting about like
shadows, or rather like demons assisting in the horrible drama that was
being enacted.