No sooner had the Alguazil departed from the enclosure, than the figure
which Juan had beheld obscurely among the shadows, stepped slowly into
the moonshine, looking like a phantom, because so closely shrouded from
head to foot that nothing was seen but the similitude of a human being,
wrapped, as it might be imagined, in a gray winding-sheet. The thick
hood and veil concealed her countenance, and even her hands were hidden
among the folds.
It seemed, for a moment, as if she were about to speak, for low murmurs
came inarticulately from the veil. As for Juan himself, he was kept
silent by the most painful agitation. At last, and when it appeared as
if the unhappy being was conscious that no other mode of revealment was
in her power, she raised her hand to her head, and the next moment, the
hood falling back, the moonbeams fell upon the exposed visage of La
Monjonaza. It was exceedingly, indeed deadly, pale; and the gleaming of
her dewy forehead indicated how feebly even her powerful strength of
mind contended with a sense of humiliation. She made an effort to
elevate her head, to compose her features into womanly dignity, but all
in vain; her hands sought each other, and were clasped together upon her
breast, her lips quivered, her head fell, and her eyes, after one wild,
brief, and supplicating glance, were cast upon the earth.
"Alas, Magdalena!" exclaimed Juan, with tones of the deepest feeling,
"do I see you here, do I see you _thus_?"
At these words she raised her head, with a sudden and convulsive start,
as if the imputation they conveyed had stung her to the soul; and as she
bent her eyes upon Juan, though they were filled with tears, yet they
flashed with what seemed a noble indignation. But this was soon changed
to a milder and sadder expression, and the flush which had accompanied
it, was quickly replaced by her former paleness.
"Thou dost indeed see me here," she replied, summoning her resolution,
and speaking firmly, "and thou seest me thus,--degraded, not in thine
imagination only, but in the suspicions of all, down to the level of
scorn. Yes," she continued, bitterly, "and while thou pitiest me for a
shame endured only for thyself,--endured only that I may requite thee
with life for life,--thou art sorry thy hand ever snatched me from the
billows. Speak, Juan Lerma, is it not so?"
"It had been better, Magdalena," said the youth, reproachfully, "for,
besides that the act caused me to be stained with blood, it afflicts me
with a curse still more heavy. I do not mourn the death of Hilario, as I
mourn the downfall of one whom I once esteemed almost a seraph."
"Villain that he was!" cried Magdalena, with vindictive impetuosity,
"mean and malignant in life and in death! who, with a lie, living,
destroyed the peace and the fame of the friendless, and died with a lie,
that both might remain blighted for ever! O wretch! O wretch! there is
no punishment for him among the fiends, for he was of their nature. And
thou mournest his death, too! Thou cursest the hand that avenged the
wrong of a feeble woman!"
"I lament that I slew the son of my benefactor," said Juan, with a deep
sigh; and then added with one still deeper, "but, sinner that I am, I
rejoice while looking on thee, in the fierce thought, that I killed the
destroyer of innocence."
"The destroyer of innocence indeed," replied Magdalena, with a voice
broken and suffocating. "Yes, innocence!" she exclaimed more wildly, "or
at least, the _fame_ of innocence! for innocence herself he could not
harm. No, by heaven! oh, no! for what I came from the sea, that I am
_now_; yes, now, I tell thee, now! and if thou darest give tongue to
aught else, if thou darest think--Oh heaven! this is more than I can
bear! Say, Juan Lerma! say! dost _thou_, too, believe me the thing I am
called? the base, the fallen, the degraded?"
"Alas, Magdalena," replied Juan, to the wild demand: "with his dying
lips, Hilario----"
"With his dying lips, he perjured his soul for ever!" exclaimed
Magdalena, "for ever, for ever!" she went on, with inexpressible energy
and fury; "and may the curse of a broken-hearted woman, destroyed by his
defaming malice, cling to him as long, scorching him with fresh
torments, even when fiends grow relentful and forbearing. Mountains of
fire requite the coals he has thrown upon my bosom! May God never
forgive him! no, never! never!"
"This is horrid!" said Juan. "Revoke thy malediction: it is impiety.
Alas, alas!" he continued, moved with compassion, as the singular being,
passing at once from a sibyl-like rage to the deepest and most feminine
abasement of grief, wrung her hands, and sobbed aloud and bitterly;
"Would indeed that thou hadst perished with the others!"
"Would that I had!" said Magdalena, more calmly; "but thou hadst then
been left to a malice like that which has slain me.--No, not like that;
for it is content with thy _life_!--I would ask thee more of myself,"
she went on, more composedly, after a little pause, "but it needs not.
If I can show thee thou wrongest me concerning Hilario, canst thou not
believe I may be even _here_ without stain? Well, I care not; one day,
thou wilt know thou hast wronged me. But let the shame rest upon me now;
for it needs I should think, not of myself, but of thee. Listen to me,
Juan Lerma; for fallen or not, yet am I thine only friend among a
thousand enemies. Give up thy service, thy hopes of fame and fortune in
this land, and leave it. Leave Mexico, return to the islands. Thou hast
marvellously escaped a death, subtly and cruelly designed; and now thou
art destined to an end as vengeful, and perhaps even more inevitable.
Yet there is one way of escape, and there is one moment to take
advantage of it. Leave Mexico: Cortes is thy foe.--Leave Mexico."
"These are but wild words, Magdalena," said Juan, with a troubled voice.
"I would do much to remove _thee_ from a situation, the thought whereof
is bitterer to me than my own misfortunes."
"Wouldst thou?" said Magdalena, eagerly. "Go then, and I go likewise; go
then, and know that thy departure not only releases me from a situation
of disgrace, but enables me to make clear a reputation which thou--yes,
_thou_,--believest to be sullied and lost. I am not what I seem--Saints
of heaven, that I should have to say it! But by the grave of my mother,
I swear, Juan Lerma, thou doest me as deep a wrong as others. Leave this
land, and thou shalt see that the fame of an angel is not purer than
mine own scorned name,--no, by heaven, no freer from a deserved shame.
Thou shakest thy head!--I could kill thee, Juan Lerma, I could kill
thee!"--she went on, with a strange mingling of fierce resentment and
beseeching grief; "I could kill thee, for I have not deserved this of
thee!" Then, changing her tone, and clasping her hands submissively, she
said, "But think not of me, or rather continue to think me unworthy of
aught but pity: think not, above all, that what I do is with any
reference to myself. No, heaven is my witness, I claim of thee neither
affection nor respect; I am content to be mistaken, to be despised. All
this I can endure, and will, uncomplaining,--so that I can rescue thee
from the danger in which thou art placed. Leave this land: Don Hernan
deceives thee; he hates thee, and thirsts after thy blood. He has
confessed it!"
"God be my help!" said Juan, despairingly; "my life is in his hands. If
this be true--"
"If it be true!" repeated Magdalena: "It is known to all but thyself."
"It is _not_ true!" exclaimed the young man, vehemently: "I have done
him no wrong, and he is not the detestable being you would make him. If
he be, I owe him a life--let him have it; it is in his hands."
"Leave Mexico," reiterated Magdalena. "If thou goest to Tochtepec, thou
art lost. I have it in my power to aid,--nay, to secure thy escape. Say,
therefore, thou wilt consent, say thou wilt leave Mexico!"
"It cannot be," said Juan, with a sad and sullen resolution: "I will
await my fate in Mexico!"
"And wilt thou stand, like the fat ox, till the noose is cast upon thy
neck? till thou art butchered?"
"My life is nothing--I live not for myself; the redemption of others
depends upon my acts. I have a duty that speaks more urgently than fear.
My lot is cast in Mexico; I cannot leave it."
As he spoke, with a firm voice, he bent his looks expressively on his
companion. Her eyes flashed fire, and they shone from her pale face like
living coals:
"Sayst thou this to me?" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with fury,
"sayst thou this to me?" Then advancing a step, and laying her hand upon
his arm, she continued, her accents sinking almost into whispers, they
were so subdued, or so feeble, "Lay not upon thy soul a sin greater than
stains it already. Leave Mexico; resolve or die: leave Mexico, or
perish!--Oh, thou art guiltier than thou thinkest! Thou hast cursed
Hilario for my fall: curse thyself,--not Hilario, but thyself; for but
for thee, but for thee, I had been happy! yes, happy, happy!"
To these words, Juan, though greatly compassionating the distress of the
speaker, would have replied with remonstrance; but she gave him no
opportunity. She continued to repeat over and over again, with a kind of
hysterical pertinacity, the words 'Leave Mexico! leave Mexico!' so that
Juan was not only prevented replying, but confounded. He was relieved
from embarrassment by a sudden growl, coming from the bushes at his
side. La Monjonaza started at the sound, and in the moment of silence
that succeeded, both could distinguish the steps of a man rapidly
approaching the pool. At the same instant, another growl was heard, and
Befo, issuing from the leafy covert, took a stand by his master's side,
as if to defend him from an enemy. The veil of Magdalena fell over her
visage; she paused but to whisper, in tones of such energy that they
thrilled him to the soul, 'Leave Mexico, or die!' and then instantly
vanished among the boughs. It was too late for Juan to follow her: he
had scarce time to lay his hand upon Befo's neck and moderate his
ferocity, before his eyes were struck with the strange spectacle of a
tall man, in the garb of a Dominican friar, his face pale as death, his
hand holding a naked sword, who strode into the inclosure and upon that
part of the path which was illuminated by the moonbeams. No sooner had
he cast his eyes upon Juan than he exclaimed, "Die, wretch!" and made a
pass at him with his weapon. Had the lunge been skilfully made, it must
have proved fatal; for though Juan still held the sheathless rapier he
had brought from his chamber, he was so much surprised at the suddenness
of the apparition, that his attempt to ward it could not have succeeded
against a good fencer. A better protection was given by the faithful
Befo, who, darting from Juan's hand, against the assailant's breast,
attacked him with a shock so violent, that, in an instant, the senor
Camarga (for it was he who played this insane part) lay rolling upon his
back, his grizzled locks streaming in the pool.
"In the name of heaven, what dost thou mean, and who art thou, impostor
and assassin!" cried Juan, pulling off the dog, and helping Camarga to
his feet. "Thou art mad, I think!"
There was something in the man's countenance, as well as in the
murderous attempt, to confirm the idea; for Camarga's agitation was
singular and extreme, and he seemed unable to answer a word.
"Who art thou?" continued Juan angrily, impressed with the certainty
that he had seen the face of the assailant before, yet without knowing
when or where. "Confess thyself straight, or I will have thee to the
Alguazil, and see the friar's frock scourged from thy base body!"
However eager and foreboding the young man's curiosity, it was doomed to
be disappointed by a new interruption. While he yet spoke, he was
alarmed by a sudden discharge of firearms, followed by shrieks and
cries, at the bottom of the garden; and presently the whole solitude was
transformed into a scene of tumult and uproar. Lights were seen flashing
among the trees, and men were heard running confusedly to and fro,
calling to one another.
The last word had hardly parted from his lips, before the boughs crashed
on the opposite side of the pool, and a new actor was suddenly added to
the scene.