Rosita knelt upon the floor, passing her little hand-shuttle through the
cotton-woof. Now she sang--and sweetly she sang--some merry air of the
American backwoods that had been taught her by her mother; anon some
romantic lay of Old Spain--the "Troubadour," perhaps--a fine piece of
music, that gives such happy expression to the modern song "Love not."
This "Troubadour" was a favourite with Rosita; and when she took up her
bandolon, and accompanied herself with its guitar-like notes, the
listener would be delighted.
She was now singing to beguile the hours and lighten her task; and
although not accompanied by any music, her silvery voice sounded sweet
and clear.
The mother had laid aside her pipe of _punche_, and was busy as Rosita
herself. She spun the threads with which the rebosos were woven. If
the loom was a simple piece of mechanism, much more so was the
spinning-machine--the "huso," or "malacate"--which was nothing more or
less than the "whirligig spindle." Yet with this primitive apparatus
did the old dame draw out and twist as smooth a thread as ever issued
from the "jenny."
"Poor dear Carlos! One, two, three, four, five, six--six notches I have
made--he is just in his sixth day. By this time he will be over the
Llano, mother. I hope he will have good luck, and get well treated of
the Indians."
"Never fear, nina--my brave boy has his father's rifle, and knows how to
use it--well he does. Never fear for Carlos!"
"But then, mother, he goes in a new direction! What if he fall in with
a hostile tribe?"
"Never fear, nina! Worse enemies than Indians has Carlos--worse enemies
nearer home--cowardly slaves! they hate us--both _Gachupinos_ and
_Criollos_ hate us--Spanish dogs! they hate our Saxon blood!"
"Oh, mother, say not so! They are not _all_ our enemies. We have some
friends."
Rosita was thinking of Don Juan.
"Few--few--and far between! What care I while my brave son is there?
He is friend enough for us. Soft heart--brave heart--strong arm--who
like my Carlos? And the boy loves his old mother--his strange old
mother, as these _pelados_ think her. He still loves his old mother.
Ha! ha! ha! What, then, cares she for friends? Ha! ha! ha!"
Her speech ended in a laugh of triumph, showing how much she exulted in
the possession of such a son.
"O my! what a _carga_, mother! He never had such a carga before! I
wonder where Carlos got all the money?"
Rosita did not know exactly where; but she had some fond suspicions as
to who had stood her brother's friend.
"_Ay de mi_!" she continued; "he will be very rich if he gets a good
market for all those fine things--he will bring back troops of mules.
How I shall long for his return! One--two--three--six--yes, there are
but six notches in the wood. Oh! I wish it were full along both
edges--I do!"
Rosita's eyes, us she said this, were bent upon a thin piece of
cedar-wood that hung against the wall, and upon which six little notches
were observable. That was her clock and calendar, which was to receive
a fresh mark each day until the cibolero's return--thus keeping her
informed of the exact time that had elapsed since his departure.
After gazing at the cedar-wood for a minute or two, and trying to make
the six notches count seven, she gave it up, and went on with her
weaving.
The old woman, laying down her spindle, raised the lid of an earthen
"olla" that stood over a little fire upon the brazero. From the pot
proceeded a savoury steam; for it contained a stew of _tasajo_ cut into
small pieces, and highly seasoned with _cebollas_ (Spanish onions) and
_chile Colorado_ (red capsicum).
"Nina, the _guisado_ is cooked," said she, after lifting a portion of
the stew on a wooden spoon, and examining it; "let us to dinner!"
"Very well, mother," replied Rosita, rising from her loom; "I shall make
the tortillas at once."
Tortillas are only eaten warm--that is, are fit only for eating when
warm--or fresh from the "_comal_." They are, therefore, to be baked
immediately before the meal commences, or during its continuance.
Rosita set the olla on one side, and placed the comal over the coals.
Another olla, which contained maize--already boiled soft--was brought
forward, and placed beside the "metate," or tortilla-stone; and then, by
the help of an oblong roller--also of stone--a portion of the boiled
maize was soon reduced to snow-white paste. The metate and roller were
now laid aside, and the pretty, rose-coloured fingers of Rosita were
thrust into the paste. The proper quantity for a "tortilla" was taken
up, first formed into a round ball, and then clapped out between the
palms until it was only a wafer's thickness. Nothing remained but to
fling it on the hot surface of the comal, let it lie but for an instant,
then turn it, and in a moment more it was ready for eating.
These operations, which required no ordinary adroitness, were performed
by Rosita with a skill that showed she was a practised "tortillera."
When a sufficient number were piled upon the plate, Rosita desisted from
her labour, and her mother having already "dished" the guisado, both
commenced their repast, eating without knife, fork, or spoon. The
tortillas, being still warm, and therefore capable of being twisted into
any form, served as a substitute for all these contrivances of
civilisation, which in a Mexican rancho are considered superfluous
things.
Their simple meal was hardly over when a very unusual sound fell upon
their ears.
"Ho! what's that?" cried Rosita, starting to her feet, and listening.
The sound a second time came pealing through the open door and windows.
"I declare it's a bugle!" said the girl. "There must be soldiers."
She ran first to the door, and then up to the cactus-fence. She peered
through the interstices of the green columns.
Sure enough there were soldiers. A troop of lancers was marching by
twos down the valley, and not far off. Their glittering armour, and the
pennons of their lances, gave them a gay and attractive appearance. As
Rosita's eyes fell upon them, they were wheeling into line, halting, as
they finished the movement, with their front to the rancho, and not a
hundred paces from the fence. The house was evidently the object of
their coming to a halt.
What could soldiers want there? This was Rosita's first reflection. A
troop often passed up and down the valley, but never came near the
rancho, which, as already stated, was far from the main road. What
business could the soldiers be upon, to lead them out of their usual
track?
Rosita asked herself these questions; then ran into the house and asked
her mother. Neither could answer them; and the girl turned to the
fence, and again looked through.
As she did so she saw one of the soldiers--from his finer dress
evidently an officer--separate from the rest, and come galloping towards
the house. In a few moments he drew near, and, reining his horse close
up to the fence, looked over the tops of the cactus-plants.
Rosita could just see his plumed hat, and below it his face, but she
knew the face at once. It was that of the officer who on the day of San
Juan had ogled her so rudely. She knew he was the Comandante Vizcarra.