[53] Local synonym for a horse.

[54] Listen, Sir Stranger.

[55] Abbreviated form of Doña, used in this part of Mexico.

[56] Calros, Charles.

[57] A head-dress greatly in vogue among Mexican females.

CHAPTER III.

The Fête of Manantial.--The Combat.

The name of Jarochos is given to those peasants who live on the

sea-board round Vera Cruz. Their costume bears no resemblance whatever

to that of the people around them. The inhabitants of Andalusia wear a

dress very similar to theirs, and it is the general opinion, from their

manners and character, that they are the descendants of the Gitanos of

that Spanish province. Their dialect is, like their attire, strange and

singular. It abounds in words of the purest Castilian, interspersed with

local terms disfigured by a vicious pronunciation, and can not be

understood, even by those who know Spanish, without diligent and careful

study. They are impatient of restraint, and, consequently, ill fitted

for acting as soldiers or sailors, although well versed in the use of

arms, and not unacquainted with the dangers of the sea. It is their love

of independence which causes them to prefer the wandering life of the

herdsman and the horse-dealer, and the _machete_ plays no unimportant

part in all their difficulties. The Jarocho would rather want the most

indispensable part of his dress than be deprived of the long, sharp,

glittering blade which he wears in his belt. This sabre is more

generally in the hand of the Jarocho than at his side. A small point of

honor, or the most futile remark, has often been the means of bringing

on the most bloody and long-continued series of combats. They are

possessed, however, of some rare qualities, which atone for their

defects. The Jarocho is temperate, frank, loyal, and hospitable to the

_whites_ (by this term he means the higher classes); he looks upon theft

with horror; he loves the place of his birth. A stranger to every desire

for wealth, he lives contented with a little in the midst of a fertile

country where three harvests a year cover the ground, which is sown but

not tilled. The inhabitants of the country round Vera Cruz are in

general robust and well made. They are strong and muscular; and nature

has thrown round their persons an air of elegance in exact harmony with

the devotion the Jarocho pays to three things: his horse, his sword, and

his mistress.

Seven years before my arrival in Mexico, I once had an opportunity of

meeting with one of this singular race; but, from want of familiarity

with Spanish, I could not well understand his peculiar dialect.

As soon as I awoke in the morning, I was reminded, by the handsome and

elegant dress of my host, that it was the fête-day of Manantial. A

twisted fringe, strung with Venetian pearls, and studded at regular

distances with little mirrors, ran round his hat; his shirt, of the

finest linen, was embroidered in the most beautiful manner; the buttons

of his velvet _calzonera_ at his girdle were made of solid piastres, and

those which ran down his legs of reals and half reals. On his feet were

half-boots of Cordovan leather. His _cortante_,[58] polished to the

highest degree of brilliancy, hung suspended from his girdle of scarlet

silk, and two bows of the same color adorned its hilt. Set out thus to

the best advantage, the Jarocho had an air of refinement about him which

augured well for his success.

In spite of a degree of satisfaction which shone upon his countenance,

Calros could not help twirling the end of his mustache with an anxious

expression. His joy seemed to be mixed with an alloy of bitterness. I

asked him the cause of it.

"Ah! if you could only free me of my vow of vengeance, I should be

relieved of a charge which will embitter, I fear, all my pleasures."

"What! will your oath keep you from drinking, singing, and playing?"

"No, but it will hinder me from knocking a fellow down; and what is a

fandango without some little quarrel to enliven it? No matter; one can

not have all one's pleasures at once. I shall sing louder, play more,

and drink as much as will soothe me for the disappointment."

I doubted much the calming efficacy of Catalonian brandy, but I affected

to believe fully in the power of the remedy.

Manantial, like the Jarocho, had put on its holiday garb for the

occasion. An unusual stir was visible in the village. At the doors of

the cabins, women, arrayed in abundance of muslin and lace, appeared

from time to time, decked with gold and coral ornaments, so dear to the

swarthy beauties of Southern countries. In a glade, an estrade had been

erected for the accommodation of the dancers; little shops had been

improvised for the supply of water, _tepache_, and Catalonian brandy;

gambling-tables had been set up. In a few hours the Jarochos from the

surrounding villages would come pouring in. The sun was shining full

upon the spot in all its dazzling brilliancy. The shadow cast by the

palm-trees, already a little off the perpendicular, showed that it was

two hours past noon. Crowds of horsemen now began to arrive, who, after

alighting, tied their foaming steeds to the trunks of the trees or the

pillars of the houses. Horses and men were soon mingled together in

strange confusion; the cries of the men, the neighing of the steeds, and

the tuning of guitars, were now heard on all sides. Circles were

speedily formed round the gambling-tables, the _ventorillos_,[59] or the

estrade reserved for the female dancers. Here I stationed myself.

The estrade, on which female dancers were alone to figure, was elevated

a few inches above the ground. According to a singular custom prevailing

in all the villages round Vera Cruz, the men on this occasion are mere

spectators of the women's performances. A Jarocho squatted himself down

on the ground close to the estrade, and commenced strumming his

mandolin. Eight or ten girls answered to his call, and began to dance. I

could not help admiring the graceful dexterity with which many of them

carried a glass of water on their heads without spilling a drop,

dancing, too, all the while with the greatest vigor; or the agility with

which they untied, without using their hands, the silk bows attached to

their shoes,[60] When this dance, very coldly applauded, was finished,

the guitar struck up a new tune, that of the dance called _petenera_.

This time the estrade was quite full, and among the women who advanced

to take a part in this measure I recognized, by her graceful mien and

dazzling beauty, Doña Sacramenta, whom my host called, in his flowery

language, _his dearly-beloved angel on earth_. She was attired in a

beautiful dress of transparent muslin. Her rounded arms were adorned in

the upper part by the embroidery and lace of her cambric chemise, the

rest remained bare. The contour of her fair shoulders was masked, but

not entirely concealed, by a gorget of lace very like Arlesian. She wore

shoes of the most beautiful satin, and a tress of her magnificent black

hair was wound round a tortoise-shell comb mounted with massy gold. Her

eyelids, cast down under the fiery glances that were shot from all sides

at her, allowed one to see the long silken lashes with which they were

fringed. She was not now the calm beauty that I had admired the evening

before in the moonlight, but an impassioned daughter of the tropics in

all her brilliancy.

The excitement among the spectators, increased by their frequent

libations, became greater and greater every minute, but another and a

more intense interest was soon awakened in the minds of the crowd.

"Ah!" cried a Jarocho at my side, whose hair was beginning to turn gray,

"at the last fandango held at Malibran,[61] Quilimaco lost one of his

ears, and Juan de Dios the point of his nose, in a quarrel that arose

about a beauty who was not worth a lock of hair compared with that girl

there."

"Have patience, _tio_,"[62] answered another; "the beautiful Sacramenta

has more than one aspirant in this village, and I venture to predict

that, before nightfall, she will have danced the _machete_ and

_chamarra_ for two at least among us."

I did not understand what they meant, but the events that followed soon

explained it. Two groups had by this time formed round the estrade

occupied by the dancers. In the first, a Jarocho, as richly dressed as

Calros, seemed to exercise a marked ascendency. In the second, my host

appeared to be the head of another party. Animated by the hope of some

quarrel arising between the two factions, the musicians strummed their

guitars with redoubled ardor, and a fearful discord filled the air. Just

when the dancers were beginning to put themselves in motion, some

singers chanted, in a nasal tone of voice, a couplet whose words bore no

relation whatever to the present circumstances, and which consisted of a

series of proverbs put in verse, almost devoid of meaning, but strongly

tinged with obscene allusions. I was then standing near my host, whose

eye was following with a jealous attention the least movement of

Sacramenta, but she did not deign to bestow upon him the slightest

glance.

"You see my hard fate," said he to me, in a low voice; "in high hope one

day, in despair the next. We shall set out to-morrow."

These last words betrayed such poignant grief that I could not help

cursing in my heart that pitiless coquetry which could wound the

feelings of so ardent a lover.

"Ah!" he resumed, "she has not yet forgiven me for that confounded bow

of red ribbons which I was unable to procure for her."

At this moment his rival advanced to the estrade, and uncovering,

presented his hat to Sacramenta with a very gallant air. She received it

with a smile, without interrupting for a moment the evolutions in which

she was engaged. Calros's face appeared quite impassible, and he

contented himself with making an almost imperceptible gesture to one of

his partisans. This person then advanced in his turn and did the same.

Custom demanded that, in a case like this, the maiden should show

preference to neither; she therefore continued to dance with the two

hats in her hand. The advantage of seeing his hat placed upon the head

of the dancer would by right belong to the third gallant; and, as I

expected, Calros was the one who profited by this usage. The two rivals

then exchanged looks of mutual defiance, while the first, untying his

sash of China crape, formed it into a rosette, and stepped forward to

suspend it to the bare shoulder of Sacramenta.

The guitars, now struck with the greatest vigor, made almost as much

noise as a band of trumpeters, and the voices of the singers increased

in proportion. The men were exchanging looks of evident satisfaction,

but the women were chattering among themselves, evidently envying the

homage paid to Sacramenta. This young girl kept her feet in motion; her

complexion was heightened by a reddish glow, which lent an additional

charm to her radiant black eyes. A vague apprehension, however, seemed

to agitate her bosom. At once happy and miserable, she dared not turn

her eyes upon him whose heart yearned for her with such true affection.

In spite, also, of Calros's apparent calm, the involuntary working of

the muscles of his face disclosed the torture he was suffering.

"Courage!" said I to him, in a whisper; "have you not on your heart the

suchil flower?"

Calros raised his head, as if the remembrance of that had restored all

his confidence. He seized his machete, and went to suspend it at

Sacramenta's shoulder. I then understood the meaning of the prediction

that I had heard some time before. Sacramenta danced with the machete

and _chamarra_ of two of her suitors. It was a singular sight to see a

long, sharp, glittering blade dangling from the nude shoulder of the

young girl, in such close proximity to her heaving bosom.

A sudden silence now fell upon the crowd, similar to what sometimes

takes place at a bull-fight when the arena has received its first stains

of blood. All at once a loud and imposing male voice near the orchestra

exclaimed "Bomba!" The instruments ceased to sound, and the song died

away. The voice was that of Calros's rival, who now chanted a couplet

expressive of his confidence in his mistress's tenderness, while the

friends of the Jarocho repeated the last line in chorus. Calros then

answered in a high key by saying that he would not have a divided heart,

and that his rival was a traitor.

The Jarocho replied in another recitative, by inquiring if he had spirit

sufficient to meet him in fair combat. Calros then, with a smile upon

his face, expressed his willingness to meet this traitor, this vagabond,

this false friend.

Whether Sacramenta was weary of the dance, or overcome by the general

emotion which was manifested when this last couplet was chanted, I know

not, but she stepped hastily from the estrade, and her companions

followed her. Instructed by past experience not to wait for the

commencement of the melee, as their instruments generally suffer in the

fray, the musicians hurriedly retired. Some customary pieces of ceremony

were still, however, to be gone through; the suitors must redeem the

pledges given to the dancer. The customary fee for these is half a real

each. The two rivals advanced, one after the other, and filled both

hands of Sacramenta with silver coin. While she was receiving the

forfeits, in the midst of murmurs of applause excited by the prodigality

of the two Jarochos, and which she could not refuse without being guilty

of rudeness, her two little outstretched hands trembled involuntarily,

and her pale lips tried, but in vain, to smile. Calros fruitlessly

sought a look of encouragement from her. Pale and mute, and evidently

laboring under an emotion too powerful for concealment, she kept her

eyes fixed upon the ground. The machete would decide the question; and

the pleasures of the fête were going to be wound up by my host in spite

of his sage resolutions, when an old woman, elbowing her way through the

crowd, reminded him of the oath he was about to violate. She was the

mother of his dead relative.

"It is a shame, _ñor_ Don Calros," cried the beldame, "to take a new

quarrel upon you when your cousin's death has not yet been avenged."

The Jarocho was evidently taken aback at this unseasonable interruption,

and he made all the efforts he could to induce the old woman to retract

what she had said, but to all his reasons she had one unvarying reply.

"Well, _ña_ Josefita," said Calros at last, good-humoredly, "you are

making a great work about nothing, and are mistrusting my good

intention; for, if I fight this man, am I not keeping my hand in

exercise?"

"And should you happen to be run through the body, who will then avenge

my son?"

"You are right there," replied Calros, thrown off his guard by this

argument; "but that's just the way: the women are always mixing

themselves up in business that does not concern them. Any one may now

take my place," he continued, with an ill-natured air, "if my adversary

consent."

His rival bowed, and, poising his hat jauntily over his right ear,

placed at the same time his hand upon the hilt of his machete, and with

his right leg thrown slightly in advance, exclaimed, with an air of

haughty condescension, "What do I mean by all this? Will the good folks

of Manantial allow it to be said that they suffered their fandango to be

terminated without bestowing the customary honors upon their visitors?

Now," he continued, his eyes winking with increased rapidity, "if I can

not knock a man down for the sweet eyes of _ña_ Sacramenta, I shall

forfeit to any one who draws the first blood a bottle of Catalonian

brandy."

Loud shouts of applause interrupted the orator, who, raising his head

with an air of assurance, thus went on: "I must say, however, that,

having expended my last real not an hour ago, I can not pay and must

conquer. Will any one here fight me on these conditions?"

This ridiculous fanfaronade, quite in the spirit of a Jarocho, was

welcomed enthusiastically by the by-standers. As for the speaker,

looking upon Calros, who was biting his thumbs, he cried impudently,

"Come, now, Don Calros, you have no lack of friends to take your place."

But the enthusiasm of the crowd had died away. The prospect of paying

the forfeit in one's own person, and out of one's own purse, did not

appear to be welcomed by any of the on-lookers, and I was not without

some apprehension that Calros would revert to his former idea by asking

me to become his substitute. Happily, an unexpected incident occurred

which saved the honor of the villagers of Manantial.

By the same road that I had reached the village the evening before, a

horseman was descried galloping along at his utmost speed. All eyes were

turned upon the new-comer, who appeared to be a stranger, and whom I

recognized as one of the horsemen who had interrupted my game with

Cecilio. The unknown alighted, and, without saying a word, tied his

horse to one of the wooden pillars of a house; then, still silent, he

stepped to the estrade, drew his machete, at whose hilt fluttered a bow

of red ribbons, with its point traced a circle in the sand, and then

stuck his sword in the centre.

A dead silence welcomed this strange visitant. The sword stuck in the

ground seemed to me to convey a defiance to all the village. The

antagonist desired by the rival of Calros appeared to have stepped in at

the proper time. The general gaze was now directed to the former

boaster, but he evidently did not feel inclined to take up this

unlooked-for challenge. The stranger, who looked like one of those

Paladins on whom a vow of silence has been imposed, advanced as

haughtily as he had come to one of the _ventorillos_, called for a glass

of brandy, and raised it to his mouth; but, with the air of a man who

disdains to assist his courage by artificial stimulants, instead of

drinking it, he tossed the liquor over his shoulder. He then cast upon

all the by-standers a proud glance of defiance.

All the villagers viewed the unknown with admiration, but none seemed so

impatient to measure their strength with this brilliant champion as

Calros. If the reader remember, he was not in favor with Sacramenta,

owing to the affair of the bow of red ribbons. Now at the hilt of the

stranger's sword hung a bow of ribbons of the very color she wanted.

"Viva!" he whispered to me; "the old woman may go to the devil;

Sacramenta shall have her ribbons."

He then went and planted his sword beside that of the unknown. The

challenge was accepted. The stranger courteously carried his hand to his

hat, and, having considered his adversary for a moment, cast a rapid

look among the group of females, as if singling out some one on whom to

bestow the homage of his valor. He was not long in discovering the

beautiful Sacramenta, and, stepping toward her, exclaimed, with

admirable self-possession, "The fandangoes of Medellin have lost all

their attraction since _ña_ Sacramenta is no longer there to enliven

them with her presence. May I flatter myself that she has not forgotten

them, and one of her most fervent _apasionados_?"

The young woman was going to reply, when Calros, whose jealousy was ever

awake, approached the unknown, and said, "Pardon me, Señor Cavalier, but

I have a particular liking for red ribbons. Will you surrender those

that adorn your machete as forfeit for the first blood drawn?"

"With pleasure," answered the stranger. "I should hardly have ventured

to offer them in homage to Doña Sacramenta; henceforth they shall have a

certain value in my eyes, as being the price of blood shed for her."

After saying these words with a gracious smile, he uncovered himself,

and plucked his sword out of the ground. Calros did so too. A polite

altercation then took place between them as to who should be the first

to place his hat on his head; but this was soon decided by bonneting at

the same time. The most experienced of the spectators undertook the task

of selecting a spot free from the sun's rays. This done, the combatants

stood face to face, the villagers surrounded them, and they waited for

the signal to begin. If the stranger was as skillful as he was brave,

Calros would find in him a tough opponent, and the issue might probably

be unsuccessful to this ardent lover of Sacramenta. The word was given,

and the combat commenced. Their blows were so furiously put that it

looked more like an encounter for life and death than a contest for the

first blood.[63] Sometimes the swords cut the air with a mournful sough;

sometimes they struck one another with a shrill clang. It was evident,

however, that the stranger looked more to the honor of his antagonist

than to his life. Now, in combats of this sort, the great point is to

guard the hand. A wounded hand is the greatest stain upon the reputation

of the most renowned swordsman. The loss of life even is not such a

disgrace. Unluckily, the red ribbons, fluttering at the hilt of the

unknown's sword, protected his hand more securely than even the best

steel guard could have done. It was to deck the beautiful hair of

Sacramenta that Calros was exposing his life; it was to guard these

ribbons from stain that the Jarocho stood so grimly on his defense. In

the course of the combat the swordsmen had now gone over a considerable

space of ground. The tumultuous crowd wavered to and fro, and followed

the two combatants as they were successively displaced. Neither had yet

received a scratch, when the sword of the stranger, striking that of

Calros, glided along the whole length of the blade. A moment after, my

host's fingers being cut, he was just about to drop his machete, but a

rude parry he made to save his arm failed, and the blood poured out

from a wound above his wrist. At the same instant a bloody stain

appeared upon the shoulder of the stranger. The two swords were lowered

at once, and the combat was decided without it being possible for me to

say which of the two had been first wounded; but the skilled and

experienced eyes of the witnesses had decided that question. The unknown

did not even appeal to their judgment; but, detaching the silk bow which

adorned his machete, fixed the much-coveted ornament upon its point, and

held it out to his adversary, thus confessing himself conquered. This

last act of courtesy won him all hearts; and, in spite of his defeat, he

partook with his rival in all the honors of victory. One thing only

remained, which my host perhaps desired more. During the whole time the

combat had lasted, a deadly paleness had overspread the countenance of

Sacramenta, but that soon gave place to a more lively color when Calros

advanced toward her. While she was receiving the precious ribbons which

he had so valiantly fought for, the tumultuous heavings of her bosom, a

sweet and radiant smile, and looks no more cast down to the ground, all

proclaimed in the most eloquent manner to the happy Jarocho that his

beloved attached as much value to the bow of scarlet ribbons as he had

done to the withered suchil flower which had fallen from her hair the

night before.

This last episode had passed unnoticed by almost every body. The men

surrounded the stranger, who this time invited them to a _ventorillo_.

Calros soon joined the company, and the two rivals began a contest of

prodigality, to the great delight of all the villagers, who, as they

swallowed the brandy in long draughts, congratulated themselves on

having had such a brilliant fandango as would furnish matter for

conversation for a week to come. For my part, after some words had

passed between the former rivals, I was on the point of addressing the

stranger, when the general attention was directed to a horseman who was

seen advancing at full gallop. This cavalier was no other than the

person with whom the unknown had agreed the evening before to meet at

Manantial. When he saw the blood which stained his shirt, the new-comer

cried, "Have you passed a pleasant time here, friend Julian?"

"Better than I could have expected, friend Ventura," answered the

stranger.

"Well, did I not tell you what would happen?" said the horseman,

pointing to the sky, which, having been covered with clouds for some

time, now betokened a coming storm. "We shall have some hard work

presently upon the beach. Will you accompany me?"

"Willingly," answered the unknown, sadly, "for I am afraid I have

nothing to hope for here."

And, remounting his horse, after shaking every one by the hand, the two

friends went off at a gallop. A general break-up then followed. The

passage at arms between Calros and Julian had closed the fête in a

worthy manner.

Who were Julian and Ventura? None of the Jarochos around me seemed to

know them; but I intended to interrogate Calros about the strangers on

the first opportunity. When night had come, and we were lying together

under the veranda of my host's cabin, I was on the point of questioning

him about the two mysterious individuals, when the light tread of a

person walking over the dry grass interrupted me. It was the old woman

Josefa. Carefully draped, in spite of the heat, in her _rebozo_, which

allowed only her two sparkling dark eyes to be seen, the old woman

presented a complete specimen of those sorceresses that are still to be

found in Mexico among so many other remnants of the Middle Ages.

"I have been charged with a message for you," said she to Calros, "and

from the lips of one dear to you, who will welcome you on your return,

if you ever return alive. You will be told when to set out as soon as

you are ready."

The Jarocho rose briskly, and followed the old woman. An hour afterward

he returned. He knew that _her_ most fervent wishes accompanied him in

his perilous enterprise, and his brow was radiant with delight.

"It is, however, very hard to leave Sacramenta," he remarked, "but I

have no longer a pretext for deferring my departure, and we shall set

out to-morrow morning."

"So be it; but what road do you intend to take? Do you know to what

place the murderer has fled?"

"We shall keep by the coast. Old Josefa assures me that the pilot

Ventura will put me on his traces. He is at Bocca del Rio. Down there we

shall certainly meet him."

When Calros named Ventura, I was desirous to satisfy my curiosity by

asking who he was. I inquired if he knew this Ventura, and, above all,

Julian, whose chivalrous conduct had singularly interested me; but, as I

obtained nothing but vague replies, I was confirmed in my design of

accompanying my entertainer to Bocca del Rio, where I hoped to meet the

two friends.

Next morning we saddled our horses before dawn, and, as soon as it was

daylight, quitted the village, which was still enveloped in its usual

morning fog.

FOOTNOTES:

[58] Local name for a sword.

[59] A kind of shed erected for the sale of brandy, tepache (a fermented

liquor made from ananas), and other intoxicating liquors.

[60] This dance is called bomba.

[61] A little village about three leagues from Vera Cruz.

[62] Uncle, an expression of endearment, applied to men advanced in

years.

[63] The Jarochos know nothing of scientific fencing, and trust

altogether to strength and agility of body.

The Pilot Ventura.

CHAPTER I.

Vera Cruz.--Bocca del Rio.

The place where Vera Cruz now stands is not that on which Cortez first

disembarked. It was not till the end of the sixteenth century that Count

de Monterey, the viceroy, laid the foundations of the present city.

Destined to become the key to New Spain, Vera Cruz was built by the

conquerors with all the splendor which they usually lavished on their

undertakings. The houses were made large and spacious, and the streets

crossed each other at right angles, to allow the fresh sea-breezes to

circulate freely, and to temper the intense heat of the atmosphere.

Still faithful to that antipathy to trees, which seems a distinctive

trait in their hygienic principles, the Spaniards chose, as a site for

the first maritime city in Mexico, a vast sandy plain, enlivened by

scarcely a spot of verdure, and not even containing a single spring of

water. Even before it was first visited by the yellow fever, a situation

so unfavorable gave to Vera Cruz a melancholy appearance, which it has

preserved to this day. The town, though scarcely all built upon,

nevertheless quickly attained a very high degree of prosperity. It was

from its ill-sheltered roadstead that those rich galleons sailed which

conveyed to Europe a mass of wealth far surpassing the much-vaunted

treasures of Potosi.

Few remains of its former grandeur are now to be seen. Built on too

large a scale for its decreasing population, this city, once so

flourishing, never tried to struggle against that decline which is soon

made known to the traveler by its empty houses and deserted streets. The

wind from the sea exercises in full force its destructive agency; and

the terrible periodical gales are sometimes so violent as to tear down

the crumbling walls of the palaces, and lift from their beds the rusty

cannon which serve for posts upon the quays. In Vera Cruz you are

reminded of the cities of the East, as well from the rich and

picturesque costumes of the people of the neighboring coast and of the

interior, who flock to the town, as by the dull appearance of the houses

and public buildings. Every where you observe domes of various colors,

steeples shooting high into the air, balconies ornamented with massive

gratings; and, as if to increase the resemblance still more, the women

of the upper classes are never seen in the streets. If you wish to get a

glimpse of them, you must penetrate into the interior of the houses, or,

rather, go out after sunset. Then, the murmur of mysterious voices, the

rustling of a fan, and some pale figures, blanched by the rays of the

moon, sitting behind a Venetian blind half opened, reveal the presence

of the fair Vera Cruzans to the stranger, whom the freshness of the

night, and the delicious coolness of the sea-breeze, have brought out

upon the streets.

Washed on one side by the ocean, which is gradually wearing away its

admirable mole, surrounded by heaps of sand, which the wind is

continually shifting, Vera Cruz, at the present moment, submits with

indifference to the progressive encroachment of the sand-hills and the

daily ravages of the waves. The north-east wind carries before it, in

dense whirling masses, large bodies of sand. For many centuries a line

of movable hills has been thus gradually formed behind the city. These

hillocks, improperly called _medanos_, are continually augmented by

fresh additions, and are ever changing, according to the caprice of the

wind, their place and figure. Some rise in the air like pyramids, from

the top of which small portions of sand are constantly flying off like a

never-failing bank of fog. The great number of these medanos, many of

which attain a height of from fourteen to more than thirty feet,

threatens to bury the town; but, as the danger is still distant, and in

hot countries one's existence hangs merely by a thread, the inhabitants

leave to their posterity the task of providing against that emergency.

Another disadvantage still more serious is, that the medanos hinder the

rain-water from flowing away. Small lakes are thus formed at the bottom

of these sand-hills; and the parched-up ground is gradually converted

into a fenny marsh, from which arise the most pernicious exhalations. A

thick layer of mud fertilizes the sand, and all the noxious plants which

abound in low, moist grounds are here produced in countless profusion.

During the rainy season this rank vegetation spreads and grows round all

the margin of the ponds. The mangroves shoot their branches down to the

ground. They take root there, produce new trunks, and soon form

impenetrable thickets--haunts of numberless reptiles of every kind. A

thick crust of greenish scum carpets the surface of the water. The

fermentation which sets in on the return of hot weather in these

frightful marshes disperses deleterious miasmas abroad, and removes to a

distance the swarms of musquitoes. For three months of the year,

however, the impetuous squalls which usually prevail sweep away all

pestilential vapors, and momentarily purify these sinks of putrefaction.

The reader may perhaps remember that, the day after the fandango at

Manantial, I had set out with Calros to seek the murderer whom he had

sworn to punish. On leaving the village, there were signs abroad which

showed the near approach of one of those tempests caused by the north

wind, termed by seamen northers. A strange, dreamy sort of languor

seemed to brood over all nature; the suffocating heat caused our horses

to foam and pant, although our pace was designedly slow, and our lungs

sought in vain for the freshness of the morning air.

We had traveled only a few hours on a road overshadowed by trees, when a

dull, hollow, rumbling noise was heard. It was the sound of waves; we

were approaching the sea without being able to discover its whereabouts.

A few minutes afterward we debouched upon the beach, and I could not

help contemplating with delight that ocean which bathed the shores of

Europe. In the distance we descried Vera Cruz, with its spires and

domes, and the fort San Juan de Ulloa, that stood like a rock among the

billows, above which shot the tall, slender masts of the shipping in the

roads.

The state of the sea gave every indication of a tempest, of which we had

recognized the first symptoms in the wood. The waves gently licked the

sand; a more than usually keen smell was distinguishable; the fish were

evidently uneasy, leaping high out of the water; and the sea-birds

wheeled round and round in the air, uttering mournful cries. Thick

clouds were already sweeping up over the town. All at once a large

cleft was observable in them. The Sierra of San Martin, which extends

from Tuxtla to the mouth of the Goazacoalco, was suddenly stripped of

the veil which had, till now, hid the range from our eyes, and its sharp

peaks were brought out in bold relief against the deep blue sky.

"Woe betide the ships that are in the gulf just now!" said Calros, "for

the north wind will advance upon them sword in hand;[64] this will be a

tempestuous night. We shall know something more about it this evening at

Bocca del Rio."

I made no reply at first. I was gazing on the ocean. To-morrow I

intended to bid adieu to Mexico, and to embark for France. Contending

emotions were striving for mastery within me. The joy at my return, long

desired as it had been, was tinged with a momentary feeling of

dejection. The country that I was about to leave had satisfied my thirst

for adventure, and I wished ever afterward to lead a more calm and

equable life. Calros's remark reminded me that I had not yet left this

life of peril, from which I fancied I had been freed too easily. When,

after saying nothing for a few moments, I told him--a little confused, I

own--that I intended to embark in the first American ship that was

leaving the roads, Calros objected with an air of chagrin, reminding me

of my promise to accompany him to Bocca del Rio; and he then pointed out

the threatening appearance of the sea. Not a single ship will lift her

anchor here for four days, he added; and this last argument was

decisive. I then agreed to his terms. I arranged to spend one of the

four days of detention with him at Bocca del Rio, to assist in the

search for the murderer. That port is only twelve miles from Vera Cruz.

Calros intended to go through the city on the way to his village. For my

part, I resolved to stay in town to make arrangements for my departure,

after which I meant to rejoin Calros in the evening.

A short time after this we entered Vera Cruz. Upon the arid, sandy plain

which surrounds the town, some muleteers had pitched their tents,

waiting impatiently for the time when they could fly this pestiferous

coast, which carries off some of their number at almost every trip.

Farther off, a few negro porters, accustomed to this burning climate,

were wrestling and struggling on the sand, paying no regard to the fine

clothes they wore. I could not help smiling involuntarily when I

compared in my own mind their condition with those of our porters at

home. After renewing my promise to Calros of meeting him soon, I

repaired to the countinghouse of my correspondent. I shall pass over in

silence the worthless incidents which occurred during this day, till the

time when I had to quit the town and set out for Bocca del Rio.

The wind now began to blow strongly from the north. When I reached the

shore, after passing the outskirts of the town, great black clouds,

preceded by drifting scud, veiled the face of the sky, and an icy blast,

charged with cold from Hudson's Bay, struck me at intervals upon the

face. The waves broke on the beach with a mighty roar, and the water

came up as far as my horse's feet in large sheets of white foam. The

farther I advanced, the wind seemed to increase in fury, and the night

was growing darker and darker. Forced sometimes to turn my back to avoid

the clouds of drifting sand, I now and then had a glimpse of the town

that I repented of having left. At regular intervals, the light-house of

San Juan de Ulloa blazed up in all the beauty of its revolving light,

sometimes gleaming on Vera Cruz shrouded in darkness, and then on the

roadstead white with foam. For a moment I discerned the ships at their

anchors pitching up and down on the broken swell, and almost driving on

each other. The light soon turned, and all was dark. It was scarcely the

season for a nocturnal excursion. I advanced, however, with a resolution

that deserved some credit, and had already approached the wood at the

extremity of which lies the village of Bocca del Rio, when I fancied I

distinguished a cavalier somewhat in advance of me. I hastened toward

him. Enveloped in a large blue cloak, he seemed at a distance like a

Franciscan. The noise of the tempest was so loud and overpowering that I

was by his side before he perceived me. I then saw he was not a monk,

but a peasant of the coast, whose _bayeta_[65] I had taken for a frock.

With his hand upon his eyes to guard them from the dazzling glare of the

lightning, the horseman rode on, casting keen glances toward one side,

as if seeking to pierce the dark veil which hung over the ocean; but

nothing could be seen but the white crest of the waves lashed into fury

by the violence of the storm. I shouted to the stranger with all the

force of my lungs, but the violence of the wind hindered my words from

reaching him. All at once a loud report was heard in the distance. At

the sound, as if it had been a signal he had been ardently expecting,

the cavalier put spurs to his horse, and galloped off in the direction

of the woods of Bocca del Rio. He was soon lost to view among the trees,

and my only care was, in the midst of the lianas and underwood, to keep

the straight path which led to the houses. I had reason to hope that,

once among the trees and sheltered from the fury of the wind, I could

follow the road with ease. As soon as I entered the wood, the noise of

the waves gradually died away. I rode almost an hour beneath this leafy

vault in complete darkness, and it was not without regret that I again

perceived, by a flash of lightning, a long line of foaming breakers. I

soon arrived at Bocca del Rio, so called from its situation at the mouth

of the river; but, on issuing from the wood, an interesting spectacle

met my view, which decided me to make a short halt.

FOOTNOTES:

[64] _Con espada en mano_, a local term to denote the fury of the

north-east wind. It commonly blows for fifty hours when it is strong. If

weak, it lasts sometimes five or six days.

[65] A kind of cloak of woolen cloth worn almost exclusively by the

Jarochos.

CHAPTER II.

The Wreckers.--Narrow Escape of Ventura.

In spite of the violence of the tempest, the whole population of Bocca

del Rio were assembled on the beach, and all eyes were fixed on the

boiling sheet of foam, whose phosphorescent light contrasted strongly

with the deep black of the heavens above. Not a sail was in sight. The

distant boom of a gun, however, signaled that a ship was in distress,

and that a pilot was required. In such a night as this, it was evident

that nothing short of a miracle could save the luckless vessel from

being dashed to pieces. Still, as another gun had not been heard, it was

hoped that the ship exposed to the tempest had weathered the danger.

Besides, a pilot who had left that morning before the _norther_ began

to blow had very likely got on board, and his consummate seamanship and

skill eased some minds. A few, however, persisted in looking upon the

ship as doomed.

I soon recognized Calros, whom curiosity had brought to the spot. Just

when he was concluding his account about the general gathering of the

people of the village, we heard another heavy boom, and this time more

distinctly than the last. A flash was soon followed by a third report,

and at the end of a few seconds the dark mass of a vessel was distinctly

seen, driving on shore with as much rapidity as if she had been impelled

by sails. Apparently no power could now save her. A by-stander, however,

remarked that there was still a chance of safety, if she succeeded in

reaching a part of the bay, opposite to which ran a kind of natural

canal, where she might glide softly on to a sandy beach; but if, on the

contrary, the luckless ship were driven on the rocks, she would

infallibly go to pieces as soon as she grounded. Unfortunately, no one

could exactly make out the place in question in the dark, since we could

not light any fires for fear of guiding her in a wrong direction.

All the manoeuvres of the ship appeared to be now directed to impelling

her in the direction of the canal that was covered by the waves.

Sometimes she drifted broadside on, sometimes she ran right before the

gale, in the direction of the shore. A cry of joy suddenly arose that

was heard above the roaring of the tempest. About a gunshot from the

place where we were standing, a beacon-fire flashed up with a brilliant

flame. Had some courageous fellow hazarded his life to point out the

passage into the place of safety? We fancied that the people on board

put the same construction upon the light as we did, for the ship was

seen advancing toward the light with great rapidity, looming larger and

larger as she approached the shore. The light was waved backward and

forward, but was kept always in a straight line. A single jib was the

only sail that could be set to assist her in answering her helm.

Sometimes, when the wind lulled for an instant, her motion appeared to

be checked, but a fresh gust soon gave her a new impulse. At last,

carried on the top of a high wave, the vessel hung for an instant upon

her larboard quarter, then upon her starboard; she then started forward

and canted on her broadside, her timbers grinding heavily against the

ground. A cry of distress reached our ears, heard distinctly above the

roar of the winds and waves; at the same instant the light went out,

like one of those glow-worms which flit through the air at night in

fenny places, and lead the incautious traveler into quagmires. The

schooner was a complete wreck. All we could now do was to save the crew

and passengers. While some were deliberating on the means that should be

adopted for that purpose, a man was seen making his way along the bows

of the wrecked ship, and, by the light of a lamp which shone full upon

his face, I distinguished a person who was no longer unknown to me since

his visit to Manantial--I mean the pilot Ventura. Some words that he

directed to us through a speaking-trumpet were heard very indistinctly,

but a line that he held in his hand left us in no doubt as to his

meaning. Ventura was begging us to launch a boat to take the end of a

rope on shore. But it was impossible that any thing could swim amid

these breakers. A boat was then lowered from the bows of the schooner,

several seamen got in, and pulled hard to reach the shore; but, in a

few minutes, struck by a sea, it filled with water and disappeared.

One man only succeeded in reaching the shore, almost exhausted with cold

and fatigue. He was the pilot Ventura. Paying no attention to the

questions the people put to him, he unwound a line that was fastened

round his body, and ordered them to hold on by the end so as to assist

in saving the remaining sailors on board the schooner. A hundred hands

immediately seized the rope, and held it with the strength of a capstan.

That done, the pilot gave me the details of the dark and mysterious

proceeding which I had just witnessed. The ship had been lost through a

false light. The beacon-fire that had drawn her upon a reef of rocks had

been lit by the perfidious hands of one of those wreckers to whom every

shipwreck is a godsend. While telling a story which reflected so much

credit upon himself for his courage, Ventura's eyes wandered about among

the crowd, seeking to discover the malicious individual who had caused

the loss of the schooner. I could hardly help thinking on the person

whom I had seen in advance of me before my arrival at Bocca del Rio, and

who, on the first signal of distress given by the ship, had galloped off

so furiously in the direction of the sea.

"Curse them!" cried Ventura, on finishing his account; "to the devil

with those wreckers whom the north wind brings to the coast to rob the

shipwrecked and pillage the cargo! Above all, confound the rascal who

led us ashore to gratify his own infernal cupidity!"

While he was speaking, the vibratory motion given to the cordage

announced that the sailors of the ship were striving to reach the land

by its assistance. In fact, partly by swimming, partly by wading, the

shipwrecked seamen were not long in reaching the shore, though not

without great difficulty and danger, as the sea was running higher, and

the wind had increased in fury. The vessel, which was an American

schooner, had been bound to Alvarado with a rich cargo of contraband

goods, which was destined to become, to all appearance, a prey to the

waves and the inhabitants of the coast; but, with American prudence, the

lading had been insured for a sum at least equal to its value, and the

captain, knowing it was an affair between the underwriters and the

proprietors of the ship, interested himself only to procure shelter for

himself and crew. The peasants received both him and his men with every

demonstration of hospitality, incited, no doubt, by the consideration of

profiting without scruple, during the night, by the waifs which the sea

would not be long in throwing up. For my part, I intrusted my horse to

one of the villagers, after taking the precaution of placing in my belt

the pistols which were in the holsters. My intention was to remain upon

the beach, that I might not lose a single portion of the strange scene

which the organized pillage of a wreck promised me.

The women and children having been sent away, a small number of men only

remained upon the shore, waiting impatiently for the moment when the sea

would give back a part of the cargo that had been ingulfed in it.

Ventura caused all the lights to be extinguished, and the beach became

dark, if not still. The hoarse noise of the waves was as loud as the

thunder overhead. Sometimes the pale light of the moon illumined the

foaming breakers with which the sea was covered, and you got a glimpse

of the ill-fated vessel pounding to pieces upon the rocks.

"Wherever there is a corpse," said the pilot, pointing to the schooner,

"there you will find _zopilotes_[66] or sharks. We shall soon see the

wretch that caused the loss of the vessel, and it will be a shame if we

allow others to share in any thing that the sea may throw upon our

coasts."

No sound, however, save the wild war of the elements was heard, and,

while waiting for the wreckers, I had leisure to examine the situation

of the different places. A few paces from us was the mouth of a river,

whose banks were covered on both sides with thick brushwood. On our side

of the stream stood the houses of Bocca del Rio, and between it and us

ran a thick range of mangroves, which would, owing to the darkness, hide

us completely from view. Upon the suggestion of the pilot, we agreed to

lie in ambush at this spot.

We were not long kept in suspense. A body of men on horseback soon

appeared, riding along the bank of the stream. They stopped upon the

beach. The troop halted a short distance from the mangroves as if in

doubt, and a horseman advanced alone to reconnoitre.

"The rascal has gone away to get assistance," said the pilot to me, in a

low voice.

"And some mules, doubtless, to carry away the spoil," remarked one of

the river-men.

In the horseman who had left the main body I was not long in

distinguishing the man whose odd behavior had raised my suspicions while

on my way from Vera Cruz to Bocca del Rio. Astonished, no doubt, to find

the place which he had left so full of life some time before, quite

deserted, the man, still enveloped in the same blue bayeta, continued

silently to examine every place, and at last advanced near the

mangroves. He soon, however, returned to his comrades.

The remains of the schooner's cargo, which the tide was washing on

shore, could now be plainly seen. This was a sure indication that the

most valuable parts of the lading would not be long in being thrown up.

The wreckers could no longer restrain their impatience. They stationed

themselves in a long line along the strand, so that nothing could escape

them. The man in the blue cloak, who seemed to be the chief of these

wretches, rode his horse into the waves, to have a better view of the

boxes and bales floating about.

"Will any of you lend me a gun?" asked the pilot.

One of our party handed him his musket. Ventura seized it. At this

moment the dark profile of the chief wrecker and his horse, relieved by

the white foam of the sea, presented an admirable mark. He fired, and we

saw the cavalier fall from his steed, and disappear beneath the waves.

The other wretches took to flight. Immediately after, a man came out of

the water, and walked up the beach, the ball which Ventura had intended

for him having only struck his horse. The pilot ran toward the villain

to prevent his escape. A struggle took place in the darkness. Just when

we had come up to assist the pilot, he was thrown to the ground by the

marauder, whose poniard happily had glided over his clothes without

injuring him. It was impossible to overtake the fugitive, as he fled as

fast as his legs could carry him, fancying, probably, his opponent had

been killed. Ventura rose with difficulty.

"I was not able to hold him," said he, passing his hand over his body;

"but that's nothing. I recognized the fellow; it is Campos! I am not

hurt a bit; but it is a wonder that the rascal did not pin me to the

ground with his dagger. I am curious to know, however, where the deuce

the scoundrel got that horse."

"Did you say that the miscreant's name was Campos?" cried Calros;

"Tereso Campos?"

"Yes, Tereso Campos."

"That's the man I am seeking," returned the Jarocho, grasping my hand.

"Are you in search of him?" asked the pilot; "and why?"

"To kill him," answered Calros, quite naïvely.

"Well, I warrant you we shall find him to-morrow; and if the proprietor

of the horse he stole join us, as he ought to do, the scoundrel will be

very fortunate if he escape."

"You hear, Señor Cavalier," said Calros to me; "you have a like interest

with us in avenging yourself upon Campos."

"Why?"

"Because, if I am not mistaken, it is your horse he has carried off."

I replied with perfect disinterestedness that, with the exception of the

saddle, which was a costly one, I did not attach the slightest value to

the sorry hack of which he had deprived me. But my objection was

overruled, and I was obliged to yield. The reader may perhaps remember

that I had sent my horse to the village in the charge of one of the

inhabitants, but the man had tied up the beast to a tree near the beach,

intending to return for it in a short time; and Campos, meanwhile, had

stepped in and appropriated the animal.

Before advancing up the country in pursuit of the fugitives, a very

delicate business still remained to be accomplished. This was the

equitable division of the spoils from the wreck, vast quantities of

which had been thrown up by the waves. I was not long in perceiving that

the wrath of Ventura was chiefly directed against the marauders, because

they were poaching on his preserves. At first, a few isolated portions

of the rigging had been collected, then casks of wine and brandy, which

were soon followed by large quantities of boxes filled with various

articles. As they were thrown upon the shore, they were seized and piled

up in a dry, sandy hollow till the distribution was made. I must say

that Ventura conducted himself on this occasion with the strictest

impartiality; he reserved nothing to himself beyond his share but a

number of small boxes containing a goodly number of yards of fine Irish

linen, as a sort of recompense for the dangers he had run. All was

arranged to the full satisfaction of the river-men, who carried their

booty away with such expedition that, in a short time, not a single

article was to be seen on the sands.

We at last settled what was to be done during the remaining hours of the

night, which was already approaching its meridian. In an hour hence we

agreed to meet on the bank of the river at a place that the pilot

pointed out to us. He, meanwhile, went home to secure his share of the

plunder. The Jarocho had contemplated with a disdainful indifference the

pillage of the shipwrecked cargo. Before quitting the shore, he threw a

last look upon the sea, which was still beating with remorseless fury

against the timbers of the ill-fated schooner, and then upon the broken

barrels and boxes which the tide was still floating to land.

"All that," said he, with a melancholy smile, "is not to be compared to

a fandango under the palm-trees, nor a look from Sacramenta."

I could not help thinking that the Jarocho was right; but it was

scarcely the moment to lose one's self in amorous reveries. A short walk

took us to the village; and, after a frugal repast, a necessary

precaution before setting out to encounter new fatigues, we directed our

steps in silence to the place where Ventura was waiting for us.

FOOTNOTE:

[66] Black vultures that abound in the streets of Vera Cruz, which

perform the part of public scavengers by clearing the streets of

carrion, &c.

CHAPTER III.

Excursion up a River.--Vengeance overtakes Campos, the Murderer.

In a little creek, overshadowed by some gigantic willows, we found the

pilot engaged in putting the oars on board a small boat that was moored

to the bank. I was rather averse to a march through the woods, and it

was with a feeling of pleasure that, instead of a pedestrian excursion,

I saw we were to be conveyed to our place of destination in a boat. I

communicated my satisfaction to the pilot.

"Here," said he, "we only travel in two ways, on horseback or in a

'dingy.' We leave to the newly-landed Galicians the resource of

_striding a path_.[67] You can row, of course?" addressing himself to

Calros.

He answered in the affirmative, and we took our places in the skiff. As

I was only a passenger, I stretched myself on my cloak at the bottom of

the boat to shelter myself from the wind. Though we were at a

considerable distance from the mouth of the stream, the river was

swollen with the tide, and the water lapped the sides of the boat with

great fury. We set out, and, impelled by two pairs of strong arms, soon

began to glide rapidly along the surface of the dark water. The usual

imposing stillness of American forests was on the banks. At a distance

you heard the dull, heavy roar of the wind raging among the trees. The

banks of the river were very undulating. Sometimes its bed widened

considerably, and we then kept in the centre of the stream. At other

times the water flowed between high, precipitous rocks, under a thick

canopy of mahogany and cedar trees, from whose branches long-trailing

parasitical plants hung over our heads. Charmed with the beauty of the

river, I forgot completely the object of our journey. I was soon

reminded of it, however, by the pilot.

"Every one," said he, "in this world has his enemies. For my part, I

know more than one individual, and Campos among others, who would be

very glad to know that at this late hour of the night, in the midst of

these solitudes, which alcalde has never visited, they could meet

Sinforoso Ventura unarmed and defenseless."

"Have we no arms?" Calros inquired. "Are the pistols of my friend here,

my machete, and your musket, to be reckoned as nothing?"

"In an open country such arms would be of the greatest service; here

they are of no use. A person hidden in any of the trees which overhang

the stream could pick out any of the three he chose, and send a ball

through his head; or, by throwing the trunk of a tree across the river,

might capsize our boat, if he did not smash it to pieces. What do you

think of that?"

"I dare say you're right," answered Calros. "Luckily, nobody is to know

that you are to be pulling up the river to-night."

"I am not so sure of that," said the pilot; "there are spies and

traitors every where. If any of the marauders we put to flight this

evening has the slightest inkling of our plans, be sure that his

comrades will be apprised of it time enough to meet us at a part of the

river I know. We have already rowed two hours," he added, shaking his

head, "and the place is not far off. You now know what we have to fear.

Consider, therefore, whether we shall push on, or land, and wait till

daylight."

"I can not lose a minute," returned the Jarocho, coldly. "If we pull

well, we shall reach the village where Campos lives in an hour."

"It is quite the same to me," Ventura replied. "Let us proceed."

A dead silence succeeded these words. Knowing now the dangers we had to

run, I went and seated myself in the bow, to try to make out, if it were

possible, the ambuscades that threatened us; but the darkness was so

great that I could discover nothing. The leafy vault under which we

moved threw a thick shadow over the bed of the river; at times, however,

a gust of wind shook into the water, like a shower of golden rain, large

cucuyos, which fell from the trees above us. Not a single star was to be

seen through the interstices of the foliage. A quarter of an hour had

now elapsed without in the least justifying the suspicions of the pilot.

The Jarocho lay on his oars to take breath, and the boat, moved by the

current, turned broadside on to the stream.

"Keep her head to the stream," cried the pilot, sharply. "Even supposing

that we have no ambuscades to fear, the wind may, perhaps, have

uprooted some dead tree, and should it happen to hit the side of our

boat, it would cant over to a dead certainty; but if we are struck on

the bow, it may do us no harm. The tide runs up as far as this, and

sharks not uncommonly come up with it."

This last observation disclosed another danger which I had not

suspected; and, in the presence of the increasing perils of this

nocturnal expedition, I thought, with some bitterness, on the

comfortable _farniente_ and refreshing sleep I should have enjoyed had I

been in my hotel at Vera Cruz.

Calros did not require a second warning, but resumed his oar with new

vigor. We soon arrived at a place where a high rock on each side of the

stream approached each other, narrowing very considerably the bed of the

river. About a dozen paces farther up, the passage became so contracted

that both oars could not be worked, and it was only by the assistance of

a boat-hook that the pilot, by fixing it among the lianas, could pull us

up against the force of the current. The river widened considerably at

the head of this narrow pass, and allowed us again to ply our oars; but

as the stream grew broader, the banks rose in proportion. On the right

and left, high rocks curved gently inward, and then ran sheer down into

the water, like the arch of a bridge broken at the key-stone. Under this

vault every stroke produced an echo. We advanced by chance, and the

darkness was so intense that we did not know but what every pull would

send us up against the wall of rock on either side.

"One would need to have the eyes of a tiger-cat to see in this place,"

cried the pilot.

"Have we far to go now?" asked Calros.

"A few vigorous strokes will send us there," answered Ventura; "but the

most embarrassing thing is to discover the entrance to the narrow reach

that runs up from this basin. This reach is as narrow as the one we have

just left."

"Put out the boat-hook to feel if we are not running against the rocks."

I did what he ordered me. The boat was still in the middle of the

stream. The boat-hook, though stretched out as far as I could reach,

struck against nothing.

"All right," I cried. "I can touch the rocks on neither side."

The rowers again plied their oars, and the light skiff flew up the

river. All at once the boat-hook, which I was holding at right angles to

the boat, hit against a rock, and bounced out of my hands. The shock

over-set me completely. A cracking of broken branches was heard. The

skiff suddenly stopped.

"What's this?" cried the pilot, who had run to the bow, and was fumbling

with his hands among a tangled mass of lianas and branches. "Demonio!

the rascals have pitched a dead tree into the river higher up, and the

current has carried it down here. We can advance no farther. How shall

we get out of this mess? One or two large stones, hurled from the top of

these rocks, might crush us to pieces before we could clear the

passage."

This took us completely aback, and not another word was said. The only

plan seemed to be to return to the reach we had just left; but the boat

was so strongly fixed among the branches of the fallen tree that it

could not be disengaged. Some moments passed in a fruitless endeavor to

overcome this obstacle. Suddenly a voice called out right above us,

"Who is there?"

"_Gente de paz_," I replied, prompted by the pilot.

"That's not enough. There are three of you, and I must hear three

voices."

"Caramba! well," cried the Jarocho. "Tell Campos that I am here--I,

Calros Romero, of Manantial."

"And ask him also," added the pilot, haughtily, "if he remembers the

name of Sinforoso Ventura, of Bocca del Rio."

A shrill whistle was heard in the woods. It was repeated behind us,

showing that both banks were guarded. Two or three seconds elapsed, that

seemed as long as so many years. Shadowy forms appeared on the rocks

above our heads, threatening cries were heard, and quivering lights

danced upon the water. The pilot was not long in firing upon the

scoundrels; but they had the advantage in point of position, and wielded

arms more terrible than ours. The flash of the gun lighted up all

surrounding objects. Meanwhile an enormous stone, which they had

succeeded in moving to the edge of the rocks, fell close to the boat,

and splashed us with water from head to foot. The pilot cried out as if

he had been hurt. We felt the boat lurch under us heavily, and then,

torn from the rude embrace of the branches, drift rapidly down the

stream. When I opened my eyes, for we had been both blinded by the

spray, Ventura had disappeared. I called aloud several times. There was

no reply.

"'Tis all over with him!" cried Calros. "He is at the bottom of the

river. We must see to ourselves now."

A speedy retreat was the only chance of safety left us. The Jarocho

seized the oars and began rowing vigorously. Not a sound was heard but

the dip of the oar in the water. Had our enemies retreated, or were they

waiting for us at the narrow reach we must unavoidably pass? We could

not escape the fate that seemed to be awaiting us. We were soon in the

dangerous pass. The trunk of a guaiacum or cedar hanging over the

water--the noise of the wind in their branches--an iguana leaving its

bed of dry leaves--a squirrel frightened by the working of the oars--the

slightest sound, or the least object that we saw, all kept our minds on

the rack, and our hands on our arms. We stopped at short intervals,

after which Calros resumed his oars with new ardor.

We reached at last a spot where the vegetation was not so abundant, and

one of the banks was destitute of wood. We landed there. A rapid survey

convinced us that this was not the place for an ambuscade. We decided to

remain a short time to rest ourselves, and we should afterward consider

whether to continue our journey by land or water. The sun was just

beginning to make his appearance. What was our surprise, when, as we

were about to throw ourselves upon the ground, we heard a voice calling

to us! The voice was that of our late companion Ventura. We thought at

first that we were laboring under a hallucination; but in a short time

we could no longer doubt about the resurrection of our brave friend, who

appeared on the opposite bank, waving his hand to invite us to carry him

across. To cross the stream was with Calros the work of an instant.

"And by what miracle are you still in this world?" I asked of Ventura.

"The cry of agony you uttered still rings in my ears."

"That cry saved my life. As soon as I felt that we ran the risk of

getting crushed to pieces without being able to defend ourselves, I

jumped among the branches that stopped our passage, and, on seeing the

immense stone which they had pushed into the river, I raised a great

shriek. The rascals, fancying from the cry that I was mortally wounded,

decamped as quickly as they could. Once out of the water, I followed the

course of the river, knowing that you could not be far off. I was right,

as you see. We shall now resume our journey. As for you, Señor Calros,

who are so impatient to revenge yourself upon Campos, I have hit on a

more expeditious plan than the one we are now following. I have some

friends in the village in which Campos lives. We shall go and visit

them; and in two hours all your wishes shall be fully satisfied."

The arrival of the pilot had brought back to Calros's mind all that

boiling impatience which his exhaustion of body had alone kept under. He

would not listen to a halt. A short discussion then arose as to whether

we should continue our journey by land or water. Ventura was of opinion

that we ought still to make use of the boat and reascend the river, as

we should probably fall in with no more enemies, and the force of the

current had very likely removed all obstacles to our passage. We

therefore took our places in the skiff without loss of time, Calros and

Ventura pulling, and I between the two rowers, glad at finding that,

from my inexperience in rowing, I should not be expected to give any

assistance, and would be at full liberty to admire the glorious

landscape that unfolded itself before our eyes, bathed in the first

light of dawn.

The river, so dark and sombre the night before, seemed now to smile in

the sunlight. Light vapors arose from the surface of the water, drawn up

by the heat, which had taken the place of the coolness of the evening

before. Numerous aquatic plants covered its surface, and the furrow

which our boat cut in passing through them soon closed up again, leaving

not a trace of our presence. No sound was heard save the working of the

oars in the row-locks, and a green woodpecker tapping with long, regular

strokes the trunk of a dead tree.

My companions were quite indifferent to the glorious beauty of this

solitude. I must confess, however, that I allowed myself to be

distracted from the contemplation of these charms to listen to the

conversation of the two men, which was becoming more and more animated.

Besides relating the grievances which he had endured from Campos, the

pilot, in the course of his narrative, caused a chord to vibrate in the

heart of the chivalrous lover of Doña Sacramenta. Calros was painfully

surprised on learning that Julian, his antagonist in the fandango at

Manantial, was his rival. Julian, being the pilot's friend, had no

secrets from him. His passion for Sacramenta dated from the time when

the parents of the young girl lived in another village called Medellin,

before they had come to reside at Manantial. After the departure of

Sacramenta for Manantial, Julian had not lost all hope of seeing her

again, and of winning her affections. Old Josefa, the woman whose son

Campos had killed, and who was seeking every where an avenger for her

son's murder, had been often invited from Manantial to Medellin for the

purpose of exercising the black art, in which she was considered an

adept. It was through her that Julian received news of Sacramenta, and

the old crone had even promised to exert her influence with the girl in

his favor, if he succeeded in putting her on the traces of her son's

murderer. This condition Julian had been able to fulfill through the

friendship of the pilot, as the latter, by his ancient relations with

Campos, was well aware of all this wretch's crimes. Julian had thus

informed her that Campos was her son's murderer, and that the pilot

Ventura would lend her a hand in securing him. Josefa had, on her side,

kept her word. She had used all her influence with Sacramenta in

Julian's favor, "and was successful," said the pilot, with an arch

smile, "since the amorous Jarocho had been invited to attend the fête of

Manantial by the young girl herself, to challenge, in her honor, the

bravest champion in the village." The pilot did not know that the old

crone Josefa, in her eagerness to have her son avenged, had likewise

excited the passion of Calros, in order that she might make him more

eager in the search after Campos. Calros and I could alone complete the

revelations of Ventura. I did not say a single word, however, because I

feared to excite the Jarocho's jealousy still more by untimely

consolation, and because I knew that his soul was torn by violent and

contending emotions. The pilot, seeing us both sunk in thought, turned

to Calros and said,

"Now, when I think of it, it was you that challenged my friend Julian.

It was you that was victor in the combat held in honor of the fair

Sacramenta. Well, shall I tell you? Julian confessed to me that, even

after his defeat, he had not entirely lost hope; so much so that he is

talking about quitting Medellin, and you will perhaps see him some of

these days quietly settled in Manantial."

"Are you sure of what you say?" asked Calros, in an altered tone.

"Has my good friend Julian ever deceived me?" answered the pilot.

"Trust me, he is not a man that is under the influence of illusions. If

he never come to Manantial, it is because he will have the best of

reasons for staying away."

This was rather much, and Calros asked him no more questions. With eyes

fixed mechanically on the water around him, the poor fellow plied his

oar with a kind of feverish energy. His body was with us, but his mind

had fled away to the woods of Manantial.

We had now gone as far as we could on the river, which had now dribbled

down to a mere streamlet, flowing between low banks. Upon one side

fields of green sugar-cane, waving in the wind, stretched to the foot of

a chain of hills which rose at a short distance from the stream.

"We must land here," cried the pilot; "the village is behind these

hills."

FOOTNOTE:

[67] Ensillar la vereda.

CHAPTER IV.

The Duel.--Awful Death of the Murderer.

We leaped ashore. The pilot tied the "dingy" to the bank, and led the

advance. We soon reached the village. All was quiet there. The greater

part of the inhabitants were still in their hammocks under the verandas

of their cabins, but they saluted the pilot as he approached with the

greeting of an old acquaintance. After replying briefly to the questions

that were put to him, Ventura asked where Campos was. He pointed to

Calros, and explained why he had come thither. This news was welcomed

with enthusiasm by the idle and pugnacious peasants; but in a

_diversion_ in which there was so much interest, the greatest secresy

must be employed, and every one rivaled his neighbor in discretion. The

hut of Campos was noiselessly approached, and he was found inside

stretched in his hammock. I could not help admiring the rare command of

countenance which this man showed when he saw the pilot, whom he

believed to be lying at that moment at the bottom of the neighboring

river. He rose quietly, looked at us with a disdainful curiosity, and

did not appear to be moved at seeing Calros.

"Who put you on my traces?" he asked of the Jarocho.

"_Tia_ Josefa," was the reply. "It was by her order I came here from

Manantial."

"A word is enough to the wise," answered Campos. "It is well; I am ready

for you."

The conditions of the duel were immediately discussed, with a calmness

and dignity which I did not expect in two such adversaries. Neither

Calros nor the pilot deigned to make the slightest allusion to the

events of last night. It was a duel to the death which was to be fought,

and at such a solemn moment all recrimination was reckoned silly and

trifling. The place of meeting was mutually agreed on; and Campos left

to procure his seconds, while we directed our steps thither. I walked

behind Calros, silent and sorrowful.

"Whatever happen," said he to me, in a low voice, "whether I fall or

remain alive, in any case, you will have no message to deliver to _her_

from me."

After walking about half an hour on a footpath that ran at right angles

with the river, we arrived at the edge of one of those marshy ponds so

common in certain parts of Mexico. On one side was a clump of trees,

and on the other rose lofty hillocks of fine moving sand, which was

gradually filling up the lagoon by its ceaseless shifting. We there

waited the arrival of Campos and his seconds. Calros strode over the

ground, a prey to feverish anxiety, for the Jarocho was not one of those

lackadaisical lovers who rush out of life the first check they receive.

The ground measured, and the situation chosen, the antagonists stood

face to face. The signal was given; and I heard, with a beating heart,

the clash of the two swords. I had turned my head away; but, hearing a

cry of rage, I was drawn irresistibly to cast a look upon the

combatants. A man had run to the top of one of the sand-hills; he

brandished the stump of a machete, and blood was trickling down his

side: this was Campos. His flight had been so sudden and rapid that his

adversary was still immovable in his place. One of his seconds

approached to hand him a sword in the place of the one that had been

broken, but he came too late. Exhausted by the effort he had made in

clambering up the hill, Campos staggered and fell upon the sand. For a

moment we thought he would have kept himself on the mound, but the

movable substance rolled away from beneath him, and the unhappy wretch,

after struggling fearfully for a few moments, rolled down into the

marsh, and was ingulfed alive in an avalanche of sand.

Nothing now remained but to secure the flight of Calros. We left in all

haste the scene of action, and arrived at the boat before the alcalde of

the village had detached a single alguazil in pursuit. Aided by the

current, the light skiff glided like an arrow down the stream, the trees

and rocks seeming to fly behind us. After a two hours' row, we reached

the mouth of the river, and landed under the willows which overshadowed

the pilot's abode. We required his services no farther, and therefore

bade him adieu. Before parting, he tried to induce Calros to stay with

him.

"I was looking out for a brave and resolute fellow to make a man of him

like myself. I have found one in you. The sea-shore is preferable to the

woods. It is to enrich the dweller on the coast that the norther blows

three months every year. Remain with me; you will be rich in that time."

But a complete dejection now possessed the mind of the Jarocho; he shook

his head moodily in token of refusal.

"Well, I am sorry for it," said the pilot. "I shall always miss a

comrade who can handle an oar as well as a machete. We two could have

done a good stroke of business together. Good-by, then; every one must

follow his destiny."

We parted, and I accompanied Calros to the hut where he had left his

horse. Some wood-cutters, during my absence, had found my hack a short

way off in the woods.

"I must bid you farewell here," said Calros. "You will soon see your

native land, and I--"

He left the sentence unfinished; I finished it in thought, and pressed

him to return to Manantial. I attempted also, but in vain, to prove to

Calros that his despair was at least premature.

"The words of the pilot," he replied, "agree but too well with a voice

that has been incessantly calling to me, 'Sacramenta never loved you.'"

"But," I answered, "if you intend to bid an eternal farewell to your

mother and the village in which Sacramenta lives, why did you refuse the

offer of the pilot? Your life would then have some definite aim."

"That's of no consequence. The Jarocho is born to live free and

independent. A bamboo hut, the woods and the river, a gun and nets, are

all that is necessary for him, and these I shall find every where.

Farewell, señor; don't tell any body that you saw me weep like a woman."

Pulling his hat over his eyes, Calros gave the spur to his horse. It was

not without a lively sympathy that I followed with my eye the retiring

figure of one whose exalted passion and adventurous humor had shown the

character of the Jarocho in the most pleasing light. I had to gain Vera

Cruz on foot this time, as my horse had lost both saddle and bridle. I

dragged him along, however, with a halter behind me. Oppressed by heat

and thirst, I stopped at a hut by the way-side, and the host accepted of

the poor brute in compensation for the refreshment with which he had

supplied me.

Two days afterward I embarked on board the good ship _Congress_ for the

United States. I could not leave Mexico without regret, for the society

to be found in that country had for me all the attraction of a romance,

with every particular of which I had a strong desire to become

acquainted.

THE END.

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extant. It is a most valuable work.--_Southern Ladies' Companion._

Here we have placed before us a book that would do credit to any

author or compiler that ever lived, and, to the astonishment of

some, produced by the head, heart, and hand of a woman.--_N. Y.

Daily Times._

This is a very curious and very interesting work--a Biographical

Dictionary of all Distinguished Females--a work, we believe, quite

unique in the history of literature. We have only to say that the

work will be found both instructive, amusing, and generally

impartial.--_London Ladies' Messenger._

The comprehensiveness of the work renders it a valuable addition to

the library.--_London Ladies' Companion._

A Female Biographical Dictionary, which this volume really is, will

often be consulted as an authority; and the great extent of Mrs.

Hale's information as to the distinguished women of modern times,

supplies us with a number of facts which we knew not where to

procure elsewhere. It is clearly and simply written.--_London

Guardian._

HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

Each Number of the Magazine will contain 144 octavo pages, in

double columns, each year thus comprising nearly two thousand pages

of the choicest Miscellaneous Literature of the day. Every number

will contain numerous Pictorial Illustrations, accurate Plates of

the Fashions, a copious Chronicle of Current Events, and impartial

Notices of the important Books of the Month. The Volumes commence

with the Numbers for JUNE and DECEMBER; but Subscriptions may

commence with any number.

TERMS.--The Magazine may be obtained of Booksellers, Periodical

Agents, or from the Publishers, at THREE DOLLARS a year, or

TWENTY-FIVE CENTS a Number. The Semi-Annual Volumes, as completed,

neatly bound in Cloth, are sold at Two Dollars each, and Muslin

Covers are furnished to those who wish to have their back Numbers

uniformly bound, at Twenty-five Cents each. Eleven Volumes are now

ready, bound.

The Publishers will supply Specimen Numbers gratuitously to Agents

and Postmasters, and will make liberal arrangements with them for

circulating the Magazine. They will also supply Clubs, of two

persons at Five Dollars a year, or five persons at Ten Dollars.

Clergymen supplied at Two Dollars a year. Numbers from the

commencement can now be supplied.

The Magazine weighs over seven and not over eight ounces. The

Postage upon each Number, _which must be paid quarterly in

advance_, is THREE CENTS.

The Publishers would give notice that they have no Agents for whose

contracts they are responsible. Those ordering the Magazine from Agents

or Dealers must look to them for the supply of the Work.

Each month it gladdens us and our household, to say nothing of the

neighbors who enjoy it with us. Twenty-five cents buys it--the

cheapest, richest, and most lasting luxury for the money that we

know. Three dollars secures it for one year: and what three dollars

ever went so far? Put the same amount in clothes, eating, drinking,

furniture, and how much of a substantial thing is obtained? If

ideas, facts, and sentiments, have a monetary value--above all, if

the humor that refreshes, the pleasantries that bring a gentle

smile, and brighten the passage of a truth to your brain, and the

happy combination of the real and the imaginative, without which no

one can live a life above the animal, are to be put in the scale

opposite to dollars and cents, then you may be certain, that if

Harper were three or four times as dear, it would amply repay its

price. It is a Magazine proper, with the idea and purpose of a

Magazine--not a book, not a scientific periodical, nor yet a

supplier of light gossip and chatty anecdotes--but a Magazine that

takes every form of interesting, dignified, and attractive

literature in its grasp.--_Southern Times._

Its success was rapid, and has continued till the monthly issue has

reached the unprecedented number of 150,000. The volumes bound

constitute of themselves a library of miscellaneous reading, such

as can not be found in the same compass in any other publication

that has come under our notice. The contents of the Magazine are as

"various as the mind of man." In the immense amount of matter which

it contains, it would be strange, indeed, if there was not

_something_ to gratify every taste. The articles illustrating the

natural history and resources of our country are enough to entitle

the Magazine to a place in every family where there are children to

be taught to love their native land. The Editor's Table presents

every month an elaborately prepared essay on some topic intimately

connected with our politics, our morals, or our patriotism, while

the Easy Chair and the Drawer of the same responsible

personage--doubtless a _plural unit_--display gems of wit, humor,

and fancy, in any quantity to suit the temper of any

reader.--_Boston Courier._

HARPER'S STORY BOOKS.

A MONTHLY SERIES OF NARRATIVES, BIOGRAPHIES, and TALES, for the

Instruction and Entertainment of the Young. By JACOB ABBOTT.

Embellished with numerous and beautiful Engravings.

TERMS.--Each Number of "Harper's Story Books" will contain 160 pages in

small quarto form, very beautifully illustrated, and printed on

superfine calendered paper.

The Series may be obtained of Booksellers, Periodical Agents, and

Postmasters, or from the Publishers, at Three Dollars a year, or

Twenty-five Cents a Number in Paper, or Forty Cents a Number bound in

Cloth gilt. Subscriptions may commence with any Number. The Postage upon

"Harper's Story Books," which must be paid quarterly in advance, is Two

Cents. "Harper's Magazine" and "Harper's Story Books" will be sent to

one Address, for one year, for _Five Dollars_.

The Quarterly Volumes, as completed, neatly bound in Cloth gilt, are

sold at One Dollar each, and Muslin Covers are furnished to those who

wish to have their back Numbers uniformly bound, at Twenty-five Cents

each.

VOL. I. Contains the first three Numbers, "Bruno," "Willie," and "Strait

Gate."--VOL. II. "The Little Louvre," "Prank," and "Emma."--VOL. III.

"Virginia," "Timboo and Joliba," and "Timboo and Fanny."--VOL. IV. "The

Harper Establishment," "Franklin," and "The Studio."

They are the best children's books ever published. They wisely

avoid the introduction or discussion of religious topics, yet are

such as Christian parents may unhesitatingly place in their

children's hands. The price is marvelously low. Twenty-five cents a

number makes it about six pages of print and two excellent

engravings for each cent of the money. The engravings alone,

without a line of letter-press, would be cheap at the price. One

good thing these Story Books will certainly accomplish: henceforth

inferior authorship and used-up, worn out illustrations can not be

palmed off on children. They have samples here of what is best for

them, and they are shrewd enough not to put up with any thing of

lower quality.--_N. Y. Daily Times._

We have heard so many fathers and mothers who recognize the

pleasant duty of guiding the minds of their children in the paths

of knowledge at home, speak in terms of the highest commendation of

this series of books for children, that we feel a desire to see

them universally read among children. They constitute the finest

series of books for the young that we have seen.--_Louisville

Courier._

Who is better qualified than Jacob Abbott to prepare such a work?

He always seems to have an intuitive perception of just what

children want--just what will take with them, and so serve as the

medium of conveying instruction in the pleasantest form. He has

begun this new series admirably, and we almost envy the relish with

which our children will read it. Now for a suggestion to parents:

instead of buying your boy some trumpery toy, give him a _year's

subscription_ to this charming monthly. It will cost you _three

dollars_, indeed; but its excellent moral hints and influence, its

useful and entertaining knowledge, are worth all that, and much

more. If you think you can not afford it for _one_ child, take it

for your _children's home circle_, and let one read it aloud to the

others. You'll never regret it.--_Christian Inquirer._

BUNGENER'S COUNCIL OF TRENT.

History of the Council of Trent. From the French of L. F. BUNGENER,

Author of "The Priest and the Huguenot." Edited, from the Second

English Edition, by JOHN M'CLINTOCK, D.D. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00.

Most persons know that the Council of Trent was a product of the

Reformation, but comparatively few, we suspect, know much about its

history. Those who wish to know (and it is a matter worth knowing)

will find ample means of information in this volume. * * * He (the

author) is clear in statement, subtle and consecutive in his logic,

and steers as far from dullness as from sourness.--_Perthshire

Advertiser._

It is all that a history should be--perspicuous in language,

discriminating in detail, dignified and philosophical in manner,

candid and faithful in the narration of facts, and bears evident

traces of extensive reading and enlarged information.--_Caledonian

Mercury._

This history is invaluable.--_Christian Advocate._

Characterized by clearness, truthfulness, and vigor in the

narrative, acuteness and terseness in the reasoning, and a spirit

of Christian fidelity and charity.--_Watchman._

The work before us is undoubtedly one of the very best that has

appeared on the subject. The writer has abundant materials, and has

used them with fidelity, impartiality, and talent. His brilliant

style radiates in every department of the work.--_Philadelphia

Evening Bulletin._

A work of permanent interest, which should be well understood by

the ministry of our church and country.--_Christian Observer._

It is adapted for popular reading; while, as a true portraiture of

men and things in the Council, it is invaluable to the

theologian.--_Christian Intelligencer._

MEXICO AND ITS RELIGION;

Or, Incidents of Travel in that Country during Parts of the Years

1851-52-53-54, with Historical Notices of Events connected with

Places Visited. By ROBERT A. WILSON. With Illustrations. 12mo,

Muslin, $1 00.

This is a record of recent travel in various parts of Mexico,

including full statistical details, historical reminiscences and

legends, and descriptions of society, manners, and scenery. A large

portion is devoted to the influence of the Catholic Church, and

relates many piquant narratives in illustration of the subject. The

author writes in a lively, graphic, and, sometimes, humorous style.

He gives a great deal of valuable information, and his travels can

not fail to find numerous readers and prove a most popular volume.

SEYMOUR'S JESUITS.

Mornings among the Jesuits at Rome. Being Notes of Conversations

held with certain Jesuits on the Subject of Religion in the City of

Rome. By Rev. M. HOBART SEYMOUR, M.A. 12mo, Muslin, 75 cents.

End of Project Gutenberg's Vagabond Life in Mexico, by Gabriel Ferry