We have arrived at the final scene of our drama. The shores of the Lake
Ostuta, which in so short a space of time had witnessed so many stirring
events, are once more to relapse into their gloomy and mournful silence.
Already Don Cornelio and his two companions have disappeared from the
spot, and taken the road for Oajaca.
The funeral cortege is moving off towards the hacienda of San Carlos--
the Indians who carry the bier marching in solemn silence. On that bier
two corpses are laid side by side--the Spaniard Don Fernando de Lacarra
by the side of his youthful wife.
Don Mariano, accompanied by his attendants--to whom have been added
Caspar and Zapote--follows at a short distance; and still further
behind, the troopers of Don Rafael form a rearguard closing up the
procession. The most profound and solemn silence is observed by all: as
if all were alike absorbed by one common sorrow.
This, however, is only apparent; for there are two individuals in that
procession whose hearts are not a prey to grief. On the contrary, both
are at this moment in the enjoyment of the most perfect felicity which
it is permitted for mortals to experience upon earth. Both are now
assured of a mutual love, tried by long tortures, and scarce too dearly
bought, since the past anguish has resulted in such delicious ecstasy.
At nearly equal distances from the escort of Don Mariano and the
troopers forming the rearguard, these two personages appear: one borne
in her _litera_, the other mounted upon horseback, and riding alongside.
It need not be told who is the occupant of the _litera_, nor who the
tall horseman who, bending down from his saddle, whispers so softly and
gently, that no one may hear his words, save her for whom they are
intended.
Absorbed with this interchange of exquisite emotions, both are still
strangers to the sad event that has occurred within the hour. Don
Mariano, devouring his grief in silence, has left them ignorant of the
terrible misfortune. God has been merciful to him in thus fortifying
his soul against sorrow at the loss of one child, by permitting him to
behold the unspeakable happiness of the other, who is thus preserved to
him as an angel of consolation. He well knows the strong affection of
Gertrudis for her sister, and fearing in her feeble state to announce
the melancholy event, lest the shock would be too much for her, he has
carefully concealed the sad news, until some opportunity may arise of
preparing her to receive it. A few hours of the happiness she is now
enjoying may strengthen her long-tortured spirit, and enable her to bear
up against this new and unexpected sorrow.
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Still riding by the side of the _litera_, his eyes fervently glancing
through the half-open curtains, his ear close to them lest he might lose
a single word that falls from the lips of Gertrudis, Don Rafael devours
the sweet speeches addressed to him, with the avidity of the thirsty
traveller who has reached the pure and limpid fountain, so eagerly
yearned for on his long and weary route.
As the moon is now low in the sky, and gleams with an uncertain light
through the curtains of the _litera_, Don Rafael can only trace
indistinctly the features of Gertrudis. This half-obscurity, however,
favours the young girl, concealing at the same time her happiness and
confusion, both of which are betraying themselves in full blush upon her
cheeks, hitherto so wan and pale.
Impelled by the strength of her love, from time to time she casts a
furtive glance upon the face of her lover. It is a glance of strange
significance; its object being to discover whether upon his features the
tortures of long absence have not also left their imprint.
But the passion which Don Rafael has suffered under, although as
incurable as her own, has left no other trace upon his countenance than
that of a profound melancholy, and at the moment, his heart filled with
exquisite happiness, all traces of this melancholy have disappeared.
Gertrudis only looks upon a countenance that shows not a souvenir of
suffering.
Don Rafael no longer doubts the love of Gertrudis. She has given him
proofs no more to be questioned. But of his? What proof has he offered
in return? Gertrudis cannot yet hinder herself from doubting!
The young girl endeavours to conceal the sigh which these thoughts have
summoned up, and though the moon is still bright enough for her to
perceive upon the countenance of Don Rafael an expression of the most
loyal love, she cannot rest satisfied. Unable to restrain herself,
again and again she repeats the interrogatory, "Do you still love me,
Rafael?" Again and again she receives the same affirmative answer
without being assured!
"Oh, it is too much happiness!" cries she, suddenly raising her head
from the pillow, "I cannot believe it, Rafael. As for the sincerity of
my words, you could not doubt them. The messenger has told you--
plainly, has he not?--that I could not live without you? Then you came
to me--yes, you have come," continues she, with a sigh that betokens the
mingling of sorrow with her new-sprung joy; "but for all that, oh!
Rafael, what can you say to me that will convince me you still love me?"
"What shall I say?" rejoins Don Rafael, repeating her words. "Only
this, Gertrudis. I vowed to you that whenever I should receive this
sacred message," at this drawing the tress from his bosom, and pressing
it proudly to his lips, "I vowed that though my arm at the moment might
be raised to strike my deadliest enemy, it should fall without
inflicting the blow. I have come, Gertrudis--I am here!"
"You are generous, Rafael. I know that. You swore it! and--oh! my God;
what do I hear?"
The interruption was caused by a wild cry that seemed to rise out of the
earth close to the path which the procession was following. It seemed
like the voice of some one in pain, and calling for deliverance or
mercy. Gertrudis trembled with affright as she nestled closer within
the curtains of the _litera_.
"Do not be alarmed," said Don Rafael; "it is nothing you need fear; only
the voice of the monster Arroyo praying to be set free. He is lying
over yonder upon the sand, bound hand and foot. He is still living; and
to you, Gertrudis, does he owe his life. This assassin of my father--
whom for two years I have pursued in vain--but a moment ago was about to
receive death at my hands when your messenger arrived. I hesitated not,
Gertrudis. It was but too much happiness to keep my oath. I cut the
cords that attached him to the tail of my horse--in order that I should
come to you the sooner."
Gertrudis, almost fainting, allowed her head to fall back upon the
pillow; and as Don Rafael, frightened at the effect of his
communication, bent closer to the _litera_, he heard murmured in a low
voice, the sweet words--
"Your hand, Rafael! Oh! let me thank you for the happiness you have
given me, a happiness that no words can describe."
And Don Rafael, his frame quivering with exquisite emotion, felt the
soft pressure of her lips upon the hand which he had hastened to offer.
Then, as if abashed by this ardent avowal of her passion, the young girl
suddenly closed the curtains of the _litera_, to enjoy in secret, and
under the eye of God alone, that supreme felicity of knowing that she
was beloved as she herself loved--a felicity that had, as it were,
restored her life.
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Like phantoms which have been called up by the imagination--like the
unreal shadows in a dream, which one after another vanish out of sight--
so the different personages in our drama, whose sufferings, whose loves,
and whose combats we have witnessed, are all gradually disappearing from
the scene where we have viewed them for the last time--Don Fernando and
Marianita on their funereal bier; Gertrudis, in her _litera_, restored
to new life; Don Rafael, Don Mariano, and his followers.
Don Cornelio, Costal, and Clara had already gone far from the spot; and
soon the last horseman of the Colonel's escort, forming the rearguard of
the procession, had filed through the belt of cedrela trees--leaving the
Lake Ostuta apparently as deserted as if human footsteps had never
strayed along its shores.
And yet this desertion was only apparent. Upon the edge of the lake at
that point where the chase of the bandits had terminated, two human
bodies might, be seen lying along the ground. One was dead; and the
other, though still living, was equally motionless. The former was the
corpse of Bocardo, who in the _melee_ had been despatched by the
troopers of Don Rafael. The living body was that of Arroyo, who, still
bound hand and foot with the lazo, was unable to stir from the spot.
There lay he with no one to pity--no one to lend a helping hand;
destined at no distant time to make a meal for the vultures, to perish
by the poignard of some royalist, or to excite the compassion of an
insurgent.
The moon had disappeared below the horizon, and the vitreous
transparence which her light had lent to the enchanted hill, giving it a
semblance of life, was no more to be observed. The lake no longer
glittered under the silvery beam. Both Ostuta and Monopostiac had
resumed the sombre aspect that usually distinguished them, with that
mournful tranquillity that habitually reigned over the spot--interrupted
only by the cry of the coyote, or the shrill maniac scream of the eagle
preparing to descend to the banquet of human flesh!