Having mounted their steeds, the two sanguinary young gentlemen rode
onwards, side by side, but in silence; for the souls of those who have
resolved to slay each other find small delight in vain conversation.
Moreover, there is that in the conscious proximity of death which
stimulates to thought much more than to speech. But Freeman preserved an
outward demeanor of complacent calm, as one who doubts not, nor dreads,
the issue; and, indeed, this was not the first time by many that he had
taken his life in his hand and brought it unscathed through dangers.
Don Miguel, on the other hand, was troubled in spirit, and uneasy in
the flesh. He was one soon hot and soon cold; and this long ride to the
decisive event went much against his stomach. If the conflict had
taken place there in the garden, while the fire of the insult was yet
scorching him, he could have fought it out with good will; but now the
night air seemed chiller and chiller, and its frigidity crept into his
nerves: he doubted of the steadiness of his aim, bethought himself that
the darkness was detrimental to accurate shooting, and wondered whether
Senor Freeman would think it necessary to fight across a handkerchief.
He could not help regretting, too, that the quarrel had not
been occasioned by some more definite and satisfactory
provocation,--something which merely to think of would steel the heart
to irrevocable murderousness. But no blow had passed; even the words,
though bitter to swallow, had been wrapt in the phrases of courtesy;
and perhaps the whole affair was the result of some misapprehension.
He stole a look at the face of his companion; and the latter’s air of
confident and cheerful serenity made him feel worse than ever. Was he
being brought out here to be butchered for nothing,--he, Don Miguel de
Mendoza, who had looked forward to many pleasures in this life? It was
too bad. It was true, the fortune of war might turn the other way; but
Don Miguel was aware of a sensation in his bones which made this hope
weak.
At length Freeman drew rein and glanced around him. They were in a
lonely and--Don Miguel thought--a most desolate and unattractive spot.
An open space of about half an acre was bounded on one side by a growth
of wild mustard, whose slender stalks rose to more than the height of a
man’s head. On the other side was a grove of live-oak; and in front, the
ground fell away in a rugged, bush-grown declivity.
“It strikes me that this is just about what we want,” remarked Freeman,
in his full, cheerful tones. “We are half a mile from the road;
the ground is fairly level; and there’s no possibility of our being
disturbed. I was thinking, this afternoon, as I passed through here,
what an ideal spot it was for just such a little affair as you and I are
bent on. But I didn’t venture to anticipate such speedy good fortune as
your obliging condescension has brought to pass, Don Miguel.”
“Caramba!” muttered the senor, shivering. He might have said more, but
was unwilling to trust his voice, or to waste nervous energy.
Meanwhile, Freeman had dismounted, and was tethering his horse. It
occurred to the senor that it would be easy to pull his gun, send a
bullet through his companion, and gallop away. He did not yield to
this temptation, partly from traditional feeling that it would not be
suitable conduct for a De Mendoza, partly because he might miss the shot
or only inflict a wound, and partly because such deeds demand a nerve
which, at that moment, was not altogether at his command. Instead,
he slowly dismounted himself, and wondered whether it would ever be
vouchsafed him to sit in that saddle again.
Freeman now produced his revolver, a handsome, silver-mounted weapon,
that looked business-like. “What sort of a machine is yours?” he
inquired, pleasantly. “You can take your choice. I’m not particular, but
I can recommend this as a sure thing, if you would like to try it. It
never misses at twenty paces.”
“Twenty paces?” repeated Don Miguel, with a faint gleam of hope.
“Of course we won’t have any twenty paces to-night,” added Freeman, with
a laugh. “I thought it might be a good plan to start at, say, fifteen,
and advance firing. In that way, one or other of us will be certain to
do something sooner or later. Would that arrangement be agreeable to
Senor de Mendoza?”
“Valga me Dios! I am content,” said the latter, fetching a deep breath,
and setting his teeth. “I will keep my weapon.”
“Muy buen,” returned the American. “So now let us take our ground: that
is, if you are quite ready?”
Accordingly they selected their stations, facing respectively about
north and south, with the planet of love between them, as it were.
“Oblige me by giving the word, senor,” said Freeman, cocking his weapon.
But Don Miguel was staring with perturbed visage at something behind
his antagonist. “Santa Maria!” he faltered, “what is yonder? It is a
spirit!”
Freeman had his wits about him, and perhaps entertained a not too high
opinion of Mexican fair play. So, before turning round, he advanced till
he was alongside his companion. Then he looked, and saw something which
was certainly enigmatic.
Among the wild-mustard plants there appeared a moving luminosity,
having an irregular, dancing motion, as of a will-o’-the-wisp singularly
agitated. Sometimes it uplifted itself on high, then plunged downwards,
and again jerked itself from side to side; occasionally it would quite
vanish for an instant. Accompanying this manifestation there was a
clawing and reaching of shadowy arms: altogether, it was as if some
titanic spectral grasshopper, with a heart of fire, were writhing and
kicking in convulsions of phantom agony. Such an apparition, in an hour
and a place so lonely, might stagger a less superstitious soul than that
of Don Miguel de Mendoza.
Freeman gazed at it for a moment in silence. It mystified him, and
then irritated him. When one is bent heart and soul upon an important
enterprise, any interruption is an annoyance. Perhaps there was in the
young American’s nature just enough remains of belief in witches and
hobgoblins to make him feel warranted in resorting to extreme measures.
At any rate, he lifted his revolver, and fired.
It was a long shot for a revolver: nevertheless it took effect. The
luminous object disappeared with a faint explosive sound, followed by a
shout unmistakably human. The long stems of the wild mustard swayed
and parted, and out sprang a figure, which ran straight towards the two
young men.
Hereupon, Don Miguel, hissing out an appeal to the Virgin and the
saints, turned and fled.
Meanwhile, the mysterious figure continued its onward career; and
Freeman once more levelled his weapon,--when a voice, which gave him
such a start of surprise as well-nigh caused him to pull the trigger
for sheer lack of self-command, called out, “Why, you abominable young
villain! What the mischief do you mean? Do you want to be hanged?”
“Professor Meschines!” faltered Freeman.
It was indeed that worthy personage, and he was on fire with wrath. He
held in one hand a shattered lantern mounted on the end of a pole, and
in the other a long-handled net of gauze, such as entomologists use to
catch moths withal. Under his left arm was slung a brown japanned case,
in which he presumably deposited the spoils of his skill. Freeman’s shot
had not only smashed and extinguished the lantern which served as bait
for the game, but had also given the professor a disagreeable reminder
that the tenure of human life is as precarious as that of the silly moth
which allows itself to be lured to destruction by shining promises of
bliss.
“Upon my soul, professor, I am very sorry,” said Freeman. “You have
no idea how formidable you looked; and you could hardly expect me to
imagine that you would be abroad at such an hour----”
“And why not, I should like to know?” shouted the professor, towering
with indignation. “Was I doing anything to be ashamed of? And what are
you doing here, pray, with loaded revolvers in your hands?--Hallo! who’s
this?” he exclaimed, as Don Miguel advanced doubtfully out of the gloom.
“Senor de Mendoza, as I’m a sinner! and armed, too! Well, really! Are
you two out on a murdering expedition?--Oho!” he went on, in a changed
tone, glancing keenly from one to another: “methinks I see the bottom of
this mystery. You have ridden forth, like the champions of romance,
to do doughty deeds upon each other!--Is it not so, Don Miguel?” he
demanded, turning his fierce spectacles suddenly on that young man.
Don Miguel, ignoring a secret gesture from Freeman, admitted that he had
been on the point of expunging the latter from this mortal sphere.
The professor chuckled sarcastically. “I see! Blood! Wounded honor!
The code!--But, by the way, I don’t see your seconds! Where are your
seconds?”
“My dear sir,” said Freeman, “I assure you it’s all a mistake. We just
happened to meet at the gen--er--happened to meet, and were riding home
together----”
“Now, listen to me, Harvey,” the professor interrupted, holding up an
expository finger. “You have known me since some ten years, I think; and
I have known you. You were a clever boy in your studies; but it was
your foible to fancy yourself cleverer than you were. Acting under that
delusion, you pitted yourself against me on one or two occasions; and
I leave it to your candid recollection whether you or I had the best of
the encounter. You call yourself a man, now; but I make bold to say
that the--discrepancy, let us call it--between you and me remains as
conspicuous as ever it was. I see through you, sir, much more clearly
than, by this light, I can see you. I am fond of you, Harvey; but I
feel nothing but contempt for your present attitude. In the first place,
conscious as you are of your skill with that weapon, you know that this
affair--even had seconds been present--would have been, not a duel,
but an assassination. You acted like a coward!--I say it, sir, like a
coward!--and I hope you may live to be as much ashamed of yourself as
I am now ashamed for you. Secondly, your conduct, considered in its
relations to--to certain persons whom I will not name, is that of a boor
and a blackguard. Suppose you had accomplished the cowardly murder--the
cowardly murder, I said, sir--that you were bent upon to-night. Do you
think that would be a grateful and acceptable return for the courtesy
and confidence that have been shown you in that house?--a house, sir, to
which I myself introduced you, under the mistaken belief that you were
a gentleman, or, at least, could feign gentlemanly behavior! But I
won’t--my feelings won’t allow me to enlarge further upon this point.
But allow me to add, in the third place, that you have shown yourself
a purblind donkey. Actually, you haven’t sense enough to know the
difference between those who pull with you and those who pull against
you. Now, I happen to know--to know, do you hear?--that had you
succeeded in what you were just about to attempt, you would have removed
your surest ally,--the surest, because his interests prompt him to favor
yours. You pick out the one man who was doing his best to clear the
obstacle out of your path, and what do you do?--Thank him?--Not you!
You plot to kill him! But even had he been, as you in your stupidity
imagined, your rival, do you think the course you adopted would have
promoted your advantage? Let me tell you, sir, that you don’t know the
kind of people you are dealing with. You would never have been permitted
to cross their threshold again. And you may take my word for it, if
ever you venture to recur to any such folly, I will see to it that you
receive your deserts.--Well, I think we understand each other, now?”
Freeman’s emotions had undergone several variations during the course of
the mighty professor’s harangue. But he had ended by admitting the force
of the argument; and the reminiscences of college lecturings aroused by
the incident had tickled his sense of humor and quenched his anger. He
looked at the professor with a sparkle of laughter in his eyes.
“I have done very wrong, sir,” he said, “and I’m very sorry for it. If
you won’t give me any bad marks this time, I’ll promise to be good in
future.”
“Ah! very smooth! To begin with, suppose you ask pardon of Senor Don
Miguel de Mendoza for the affront you have put upon him.”
To a soul really fearless, even an apology has no terrors. Moreover,
Freeman’s night ride with Don Miguel, though brief in time, had sufficed
to give him the measure of the Mexican’s character; and he respected
it so little that he could no longer take the man seriously, or be
sincerely angry with him. The professor’s assurance as to Don Miguel’s
inoffensiveness had also its weight; and it was therefore with a quite
royal gesture of amicable condescension that Freeman turned upon his
late antagonist and held out his hand.
“Senor Don Miguel de Mendoza,” said he, “I humbly tender you my
apologies and crave your pardon. My conduct has been inexcusable; I beg
you to excuse it. I deserve your reprobation; I entreat the favor of
your friendship. Senor, between men of honor, a misunderstanding is a
misunderstanding, and an apology is an apology. I lament the existence
of the first; the professor, here, is witness that I lay the second at
your feet. May I hope to receive your hand as a pledge that you restore
me to the privilege of your good will?”
Now, Don Miguel’s soul had been grievously exercised that night: he had
been insulted, he had shivered beneath the shadow of death, he had been
a prey to superstitious terrors, and he had been utterly perplexed by
the professor’s eloquent address, whereof (as it was delivered in good
American, and with a rapidity of utterance born of strong feeling) he
had comprehended not a word, and the unexpected effect of which upon his
late adversary he was at a loss to understand. Although, therefore,
he had no stomach for battle, he was oppressed by a misgiving lest
the whole transaction had been in some way planned to expose him
to ridicule; and for this reason he was disposed to treat Freeman’s
peaceful overtures with suspicion. His heart did not respond to those
overtures, but neither was it stout enough to enable him to reject them
explicitly. Accordingly, he adopted that middle course which, in spite
of the proverb, is not seldom the least expedient. He disregarded
the proffered hand, bowed very stiffly, and, saying, “Senor, I am
satisfied,” stalked off with all the rigidity of one in whose veins
flows the sangre azul of Old Castile. Freeman smiled superior upon his
retreat, and then, producing a cigar-case, proceeded to light up with
the professor. In this fragrant and friendly cloud we will leave them,
and return for a few minutes to the house of General Trednoke.
It will be remembered that something was said of Grace being privy to
the nocturnal advances of Senor de Mendoza. We are not to suppose
that this implies in her anything worse than an aptness to indulge in
romantic adventure: the young lady enjoyed the mystery of romance,
and knew that serenades, and whisperings over star-lit balconies, were
proper to this latitude. It may be open to question whether she really
was much interested in De Mendoza, save as he was a type of the adoring
Spaniard. That the scene required: she could imagine him (for the
time-being) to be the Cid of ancient legend, and she herself would enact
a role of corresponding elevation. Grace would doubtless have prospered
better had she been content with one adorer at a time; but, while
turning to a new love, she was by no means disposed to loosen the chains
of a former one; and, though herself as jealous as is a tiger-cat of her
young, she could never recognize the propriety of a similar passion on
the part of her victims. She had been indignant at Freeman’s apparent
infidelity with Miriam; but when she had (as she imagined) discovered
her mistake, she had listened with a heart at ease to the protestations
of Don Miguel. She had parted from him that evening with a half
expressed understanding that he was to reappear beneath her window
before day-light; and she had pictured to herself a charming
balcony-scene, such as she had beheld in Italian opera. Accordingly, she
had attired herself in a becoming negligee, and had spent the fore part
of the night somewhat restlessly, occasionally emerging on the veranda
and gazing down into the perfumed gloom of the garden. At length she
fancied that she heard footsteps. Whose could they be, unless Don
Miguel’s? Grace retreated within her window to await developments. Don
Miguel did not appear; but presently she descried a phantom-like figure
ascending the flight of steps to the veranda. Could that be he? If so,
he was bolder in his wooing than Grace had been prepared for. But surely
that was a strange costume that he wore; nor did the unconscious harmony
of the gait at all resemble the senor’s self-conscious strut. And
whither was he going?
It was but too evident that he was going straight to the room occupied
by Miriam!
This was too much for Grace’s equanimity. She stepped out of her window,
and flitted with noiseless step along the veranda. The figure that she
pursued entered the door of the house, and passed into the corridor
traversing the wing. Grace was in time to see it cross the threshold of
Miriam’s door, which stood ajar. She stole to the door, and peeped in.
There was the figure; but of Miriam there was no trace.
The figure slowly unfastened and threw back the hood which covered
its head, at the same time turning round, so that its countenance was
revealed. A torrent of black hair fell down over its shoulders. Grace
uttered an involuntary exclamation. It was Miriam herself!
The two gazed at each other a moment in silence. “Goodness me, dear!”
said Grace at last, in a faint voice, “how you have frightened me! I
saw you go in, in that dress, and I thought you were a man! How my heart
beats! What is the matter?”
“This is strange!” murmured the other, after a pause. “I never heard
such words; and yet I seem to understand, and even to speak them. It
must be a dream. What are you?”
“Why, Miriam, dear! don’t you know Grace?”
“Oh! you think me Miriam. No; not yet!” She raised her hands, and
pressed her fingers against her temples. “But I feel her--I feel her
coming! Not yet, Kamaiakan! not so soon!--Do you know him?” she suddenly
asked, throwing back her hair, and fixing an eager gaze on Grace.
“Know who? Kamaiakan? Why, yes----”
“No, not him! The youth,--the blue-eyed,--the fair beard above his
lips----”
“What are you talking about? Not Harvey Freeman!”
“Harvey Freeman! Ah, how sweet a name! Harvey Freeman! I shall know it
now!--Tell him,” she went on, laying her hand majestically upon Grace’s
shoulder, and speaking with an impressive earnestness, “that Semitzin
loves him!”
“Semitzin?” repeated Grace, puzzled, and beginning to feel scared.
“Semitzin!” the other said, pointing to her own heart. “She loves him:
not as the child Miriam loves, but with the heart and soul of a mighty
princess. When he knows Semitzin, he will think of Miriam no more.”
“But who is Semitzin?” inquired Grace, with a fearful curiosity.
“The Princess of Tenochtitlan, and the guardian of the great treasure,”
was the reply.
“Good gracious! what treasure?”
“The treasure of gold and precious stones hidden in the gorge of the
desert hills. None knows the place of it but I; and I will give it to
none but him I love.”
“But you said that... Really, my dear, I don’t understand a bit! As for
Mr. Freeman, he may care for Semitzin, for aught I know; but, I must
confess, I think you’re mistaken in supposing he’s in love with you,--if
that is what you mean. I met him before you did, you know; and if I were
to tell you all that we----”
“What are you or Miriam to me?--Ah! she comes!--The treasure--by the
turning of the white pyramid--six hundred paces--on the right--the
arch----” Her voice died away. She covered her face with her hands, and
trembled violently. Slowly she let them fall, and stared around her.
“Grace, is it you? Has anything happened? How came I like this? What is
it?”
“Well, if you don’t know, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I had begun to
think you had gone mad. It must be either that or somnambulism. Who is
Semitzin?”
“Semitzin? I never heard of him.”
“It isn’t a man: it’s a princess. And the treasure?”
“Am I asleep or awake? What are you saying?”
“The white pyramid, you know----”
“Don’t make game of me, Grace. If I have done anything----”
“My dear, don’t ask me! I tell you frankly, I’m nonplussed. You were
somebody else a minute ago.... The truth is, of course, you’ve been
dreaming awake. Has any one else seen you beside me?”
“Have I been out of my room?” asked Miriam, in dismay.
“You must have been, I should think, to get that costume. Well, the best
plan will be, I suppose, to say nothing about it to anybody. It shall be
our secret, dear. If I were you, I would have one of the women sleep
in your room, in case you got restless again. It’s just an attack of
nervousness, probably,--having so many strangers in the house, all of a
sudden. Now you must go to bed and get to sleep: it’s awfully late, and
there’ll be ever so much going on to-morrow.”
Grace herself slept little that night. She could not decide what to make
of this adventure. Nowadays we are provided with a name for the peculiar
psychical state which Miriam was undergoing, and with abundant instances
and illustrations; but we perhaps know what it is no more than we did
twenty-five or thirty years ago. Grace’s first idea had been that Miriam
was demented; then she thought she was playing a part; then she did not
know what to think; and finally she came to the conclusion that it was
best to quietly await further developments. She would keep an eye on
Freeman as well as on Miriam; something, too, might be gathered from Don
Miguel; and then there was that talk about a treasure. Was that all the
fabric of a dream, or was there truth at the bottom of it? She had
heard something said about a treasure in the course of the general
conversation the day before. If there really was a treasure, why might
not she have a hand in the discovery of it? Miriam, in her abnormal
state, had let fall some topographical hints that might prove useful.
Well, she would work out the problem, sooner or later. To-morrow,
when the others had gone off on their expedition, she would have
ample leisure to sound Don Miguel, and, if he proved communicative and
available, who could tell what might happen? But how very odd it all
was! Who was Semitzin?
While asking herself this question, Grace fell asleep; and by the
time the summons to breakfast came, she had passed through thrilling
adventures enough to occupy a new Scheherazade at least three years in
the telling of them.