CHAPTER XXV. LA SEÑHORA
To this very hour I am unable to say how long I remained at the village of La Noria. Time slipped away unchronicled; the seasons varied little, save for about two winter mouths, when heavy snows fell, and severe cold prevailed; but spring followed these with a suddenness that seemed like magic, and then came summer and autumn, as it were, blended into one,—all the varied beauties of the one season vying with the other. This was all that was wanting to complete the illusion which the monotony of my daily life suggested; for me there was no companionship,—no link that bound me to my fellow-men; the “Sunday,” too, “shone no Sabbath-day for me.” The humble range of my duties never varied; nor, save with Mijo, did I ever exchange even a passing word. Indeed, the hours of my labor were precisely those when all others slept; and whether I tracked the wayworn asses at their dreary round, or pursued my solitary path at night, my own was the only voice I ever heard. It was the “life of a dog;” but, after all, how many states of existence there are far less desirable! I had always wherewithal to subsist upon; I had no severe labor, nor any duty incompatible with health; and I had—greatest blessing of all—time for self-communing and reflection; that delicious leisure, in which the meanest hovel ever raised by hands become one's “Home.” I was happy, then, after my own fashion; various little contrivances to lighten my tasks amused and occupied my thoughts. To bring the garden into order was also a passion with me; and although necessitated to invent and fashion the tools to work with, I was not deterred by this difficulty, but manfully overcame it. I greatly doubted if Watt ever gazed at a new improvement in steam machinery with half the delight I looked upon my first attempt at a rake. Then, what pleasure did I experience as I saw the trim beds covered with blooming flowers, the clearly raked walks, the grass-plots close-shaven and weedless! How the thoughts of changes and alterations filled my mind as I wandered in the dreary night! What trellises did I not invent; what festoons of the winding vine-branches; what bowers of the leafy banana! Like the old gardener, Adam, I began at last to think that all these things were too beautiful for one man's gaze, that such ecstasies as mine deserved companionship, and that the selfishness of my enjoyment was the greatest blot upon its perfection. When this notion caught hold of me, I wandered away in fancy to the “Donna Maria de los Dolores;” and how fervently did I believe that, with her to share it, my present existence had been a life of Paradise!
These thoughts at last exhausted themselves, and I fell a thinking why the Señhora Dias never had the curiosity to visit her garden, nor see the changes I had wrought in it. To be sure, it was true she knew nothing of them: how, then, was I to make the fact reach her ears? The only hours that I was at liberty were those when every close-drawn curtain and closed shutter proclaimed the “siesta.”
It was clear enough that a whole life might slip over in this fashion without my ever seeing her. There was something in the difficulty that prompted a desire to overcome it; and so I set myself to plan the means by which I might make her acquaintance. Of the windows which looked towards the garden, the blinds were always closed; the single door that led into it as invariably locked; I bethought me of writing a humble and most petitionary epistle, setting forth my utter solitude and isolation; but where were pen and ink and paper to come from? These were luxuries the Gobernador himself alone possessed. My next thought was more practicable: it was to deposit each morning upon her basket of fruit a little bouquet of fresh flowers. But, then, would they ever reach her hands?—would not the servant purloin and intercept my offering?—ay, that was to be thought of.
By most assiduous watching, I at last discovered that her bedroom looked into the garden by a small grated window, almost hidden by the gnarled branches of a wild fig-tree. This at once afforded me the opportunity I desired, and up the branches of this I climbed each morning of my life, to fasten to the bars my little bouquet of flowers.
With what intense expectancy did I return home the first morning of my experiment! what vacillations of hope and fear agitated me as I came near the garden, and, looking up, saw, to my inexpressible delight, that the bouquet was gone! I could have cried for very joy! At last I was no longer an outcast, forgotten by my fellows. One, at least, knew of my existence, and possibly pitied and compassionated my desolation.
I needed no more than this to bind me again to the love of life; frail as was the link, it was enough whereupon to hang a thousand hopes and fancies, and it suggested matter for cheering thought, where, before, the wide waste of existence stretched pathless and purposeless before me. How I longed for that skill by which I might make the flowers the interpreters of my thoughts! I knew nothing of this, however; I could but form them into such combinations of color and order as should please the senses, but not appeal to the heart; and yet I did try to invent a language, forgetting the while that the key of the cipher must always remain with myself.
It chanced that one night, when on my rounds outside the village, I suddenly discovered that I had forgotten the caps for my rifle. I hastened homeward to fetch them, and entered the garden by a small door which I had myself made, and of which few were cognizant. It was a night of bright moonlight; but the wind was high, and drifted large masses of cloud across the sky, alternately hiding and displaying the moon. Tracking, with an instinct too well trained to become deceptive, the walks of the garden, while a dark mass shut out the “lamp of night,” I reached my hut, when suddenly, on a little stone bench beside the door, I beheld a female figure seated. She was scarcely four yards from where I stood, and in the full glare of the moonlight as palpable as at noonday. She was tall and elegantly formed; her air and carriage, even beneath the coarse folds of a common dress of black serge, such as bespoke condition; her hands, too, were white as marble, and finely and delicately formed; in one of them she held a velvet mask, and I watched with anxiety to see the face from which it had been removed, which was still averted from me. At last she turned slowly round, and I could perceive that her features, although worn by evident suffering and sorrow, had once been beautiful; the traits were in perfect symmetry; the mouth alone had a character of severity somewhat at variance with the rest, but its outline was faultless,—the expression only being unpleasing. The dark circles around the eyes attested the work of years of grief, bitter and corroding.
What should I do,—advance boldly, or retire noiselessly from the spot? If the first alternative presented perhaps the only chance of ever speaking to her, it might also prevent her ever again visiting the garden. This was a difficulty; and ere I had time to solve it, she arose to leave the spot. I coughed slightly: she halted and looked around, without any semblance of terror or even surprise, and so we stood face to face.
“You should have been on your rounds on this hour!” said she, with a manner of almost stern expression, and using the Spanish language.
“So I should, Señhora; but having forgot a part of my equipment, I returned to seek it.”
“They would punish you severely if it were known,” said she, in the same tone.
“I am aware of that,” replied I; “and yet I would incur the penalty twice over to have seen one of whom my thoughts for every hour these months past have been full.”
“Of me? You speak of me?”
“Yes, Señhora, of you. I know the presumption of my words; but bethink you that it is not in such a spirit they are uttered, but as the cry of one humbled and humiliated to the very dust, and who, on looking at you, remembers the link that binds him to his fellows, and for the instant rises above the degradation of his sad condition.”
“And it is through me,—by looking at me,—such thoughts are inspired!” said she, in an accent of piercing anguish. “Are you an English youth?”
“Yes, Señhora, as much as an Irishman can call himself.”
“And is this the morality of your native land,” said she, in English, “that you can feel an elevation of heart and sentiment from the contemplation of such as I am? Shame, sir,—shame upon your falsehood, or worse shame upon your principle.”
“I only know you as my day and night dreams have made you, lady,—as the worshipper creates his own idol.”
“But you have heard of me?” said she, speaking with a violence and rapidity that betokened a disordered mind. “All the world has heard of me, from the Havannah to Guajuaqualla, as the poisoner and the forger!”
I shook my head dissentingly.
“It is, then, because you are less than human,” said she, scoffingly, “or you had heard it. But mind, sir, it is untrue; I am neither.” She paused, and then, in a voice of terrible emotion, said, “There is enough of crime upon this poor head, but not that! And where have you lived, not to have heard of La Señhora Dias?” said she, with an hysteric laugh.
In a few words I told her how I had made part of a great gold-searching expedition, and been utterly ruined by the calamity which destroyed my companions.
“You would have sold yourself for gold wherewith to buy pleasure!” muttered she to herself.
“I was poor, lady; I must needs do something for my support.”
“Then why not follow humble labor? What need of wealth? Where had you learned its want, or acquired the taste to expend it? You could only have imitated rich men's vices, not their virtues, that sometimes ennoble them.”
The wild vehemence of her manner, as with an excessive rapidity she uttered these words, convinced me that her faculties were not under the right control of reason, and I followed her with an interest even heightened by that sad impression.
“You see no one, you speak to none,” said she, turning round suddenly, “else I should bid you forget that you have ever seen me.”
“Are we to meet again, Señhora?” said I, submissively, as I stood beside the door, of which she held the key in her hand.
“Yes—perhaps—I don't know;” and, so saying, she left me.
Two months crept over—and how slowly they went!—without my again seeing the Señhora. Were it not that the bouquets which each morning I fastened to the window-bars were removed before noon, I could have fancied that she had no other existence than what my dreamy imagination gave her. The heavy wooden “jalousies” were never opened; the door remained close locked; not a foot-tread marked the gravel near it. It was clear to me she had never crossed the threshold since the night I first saw her.
I fell into a plodding, melancholy mood. The tiresome routine of my daily life, its dull, unvarying monotony, began to wear into my soul, and I ceased either to think over the past or speculate on the future, but would sit for hours long in a moody revery, actually unconscious of everything.
Sometimes I would make an effort to throw off this despondency, and try, by recollection of the active energy of my own nature, to stir up myself to an effort of one kind or other; but the unbroken stillness, the vast motionless solitude around me, the companionless isolation in which I lived, would resume their influence, and with a weary sigh I would resign myself to a hopelessness that left no wish in the heart save for a speedy death.
Even castle-building—the last resource of imprisonment—ceased to interest. Life had also resolved itself into a successsion of dreary images, of which the voiceless prairie, the monotonous water-wheel, the darkened path of my midnight patrol, were the chief; and I felt myself sinking day by day, hour by hour, into that resistless apathy through which no ray of hope ever pierces.
At last I ceased even to pluck the flowers for the Señhora's window. I deemed any exertion which might be avoided, needless, and taxed my ingenuity to find out contrivances to escape my daily toil. The garden I neglected utterly; and in the wild luxuriance of the soil the rank weeds soon effaced every sign of former culture. What a strange frame of mind was mine! Even the progress of this ruin gave me a pleasure to the full as great as that once felt in witnessing the blooming beauty of its healthful vegetation. I used to walk among the rank and noisome weeds with the savage delight of some democratic leader who saw his triumph amid the downfall of the beautiful, the richly-prized, and the valued, experiencing a species of insane pleasure in the thought of some fancied vengeance.
How the wild growth of the valueless weed overtopped the tender excellence of the fragrant plant; how the noisome odor overpowered its rich perfume; how, in fact, barbarism lorded it over civilization, became a study to my distorted apprehension; and I felt a diabolical joy at the victory.
A little more, and this misanthropy had become madness; but a change was at hand. I was sitting one night in the garden: it was already the hour when my “patrol” should have begun; but latterly I had grown indifferent to the call of duty: as Hope died out within me, so did Fear also, and I cared little for the risk of punishment,—nay, more, a kind of rebellious spirit was gaining upon me, and I wished for some accident which might bring me into collision with some one. As I sat thus, I heard a footstep behind me: I turned, and saw the Señhora close to me. I did not rise to salute her, but gazed calmly and sternly, without speaking.
“Has the life of the dog imparted the dog's nature?” said she, scoffingly. “Why don't you speak?”
“I have almost forgotten how to do so,” said I, sulkily.
“You can hear, at least?”
I nodded assent.
“And understand what you hear?”
I nodded again.
“Listen to me, then, attentively, for I have but a short time to stay, and have much to tell you. And, first of all, do you wish to escape from hence?”
“Do I wish it!” cried I; and in the sudden burst, long dried-up sources of emotion opened out afresh, and the heavy tears rolled down my cheeks.
“Are you willing to incur the danger of attempting it?”
“Ay, this instant!”
“If so, the means await you. I want a letter conveyed to a certain person in the town of Guajuaqualla, which is about two hundred miles distant.”
“In which direction?” asked I.
“You shall see the map for yourself; here it is,” said she, giving me a small package which contained a map and a mariner's compass. “I only know that the path lies over the prairie and by the banks of a branch of the Red River. There are villages and farmhouses when you have reached that region.”
“And how am I to do so, unmolested, Señhora? A foot-traveller on the prairie must be overtaken at once.”
“You shall be well mounted on a mustang worth a thousand dollars; but ride him without spurring. If he bring you safe to Guajuaqualla he has paid his price.” She then proceeded to a detail which showed how well and maturely every minute circumstance had been weighed and considered. The greatest difficulty lay in the fact that no water was to be met with nearer than eighty miles, which distance I should be compelled to compass on the first day. If this were a serious obstacle on one side, on the other it relieved me of all apprehension of being captured after the first forty or fifty miles were accomplished, since my pursuers would scarcely venture farther.
The Señhora had provided for everything. My dress, which would have proclaimed me as a runaway “settler,” was to be exchanged for the gay attire of a Mexican horse-dealer,—a green velvet jacket and hose, all slashed and decorated with jingling silver buttons, pistols, sabre, and rifle to suit.
The mustang, whose saddle was to be fitted with the usual accompaniment of portmanteau and cloak, was also to have the leathern purse of the “craft,” with its massive silver lock, and a goodly ballast of doubloons within. Two days' provisions and a gourd of brandy, completed an equipment which to my eyes was more than the wealth of an empire.
“Are you content?” asked she, as she finished the catalogue.
I seized her hand, and kissed it with a warm devotion.
“Now for the reverse of the medal. You may be overtaken; pursuit is almost certain,—it may be successful; if so, you must tear the letter I shall give you to fragments so small that all detection of its contents may be impossible. Sell your life dearly; this I counsel you, since a horrible death would be reserved for you if taken prisoner. Above all, don't betray me.”
“I swear it,” said I, solemnly, as I held up my hand in evidence of the oath.
“Should you, however, escaping all peril, reach Guajuaqualla in safety, you will deliver this letter to the Señhor Estavan Olares, a well-known banker of that town. He will present you with any reward you think sufficient for your services, the peril of which cannot be estimated beforehand. This done,—and here, mark me! I expect your perfect fidelity,—all tie is severed between us. You are never to speak of me so long as I live; nor, if by any sun of Fortune we should chance to meet again in life, are you to recognize me. You need be at no loss for the reasons of this request: the position in which I am here placed—the ignominy of an unjust sentence, as great as the shame of the heaviest guilt—will tell you why I stipulate for this. Are we agreed?”
“We are. When do I set out?”
“To-morrow by daybreak; leave this a little before your usual time, pass out of the village, and, taking the path that skirts the beech wood, make for the Indian ground,—you know the spot. At the cedar-tree close to that you will find your horse all ready,—the letter is here.” Now for the first time her voice trembled slightly, and for an instant or two she seemed irresolute. “My mind is sometimes so shaken by suffering,” said she, “that I scarcely dare to trust its guidance; and even now I feel as if the confidence I am about to place in an utter stranger, in an—”
“Outcast, you would say,” said I, finishing what she faltered at. “Do not fear, then, one humbled as I have been can take offence at an epithet.”
“Nor is it one such as I am who have the right to confer it,” said she, wiping the heavy drops from her eyes. “Good-bye forever!—since, if you keep your pledge, we are never to meet again.” She gave me her hand, which I kissed twice, and then, turning away, she passed into the house; and before I even knew that she was gone, I was standing alone in the garden, wondering if what had just occurred could be real.
If my journey was not without incident and adventure, neither were they of a character which it is necessary I should inflict upon my reader, who doubtless ere this has felt all the wearisome monotony of prairie life, by reflection. Enough that I say, after an interesting mistake of the “trail” which led me above a hundred miles astray! I crossed the Conchos River within a week, and reached Chihuahua, a city of considerable size, and far more pretensions than any I had yet seen in the “Far West.”
Built on the narrow gorge of two abrupt mountains, the little town consists of one great straggling street, which occupies each side of a torrent that descends in a great tumbling mass of foam and spray along its rocky course. It was the time of the monthly market, or fair, when I arrived, and the streets were crowded with peasants and muleteers in every imaginable costume. The houses were mostly built with projecting balconies, from which gay-colored carpets and bright draperies hung down, while female figures sat lounging and smoking their cigarettes above. The aspect of the place was at once picturesque and novel. Great wooden wagons of melons and cucumbers, nuts, casks of olive-oil and wine; bales of bright scarlet cloth, in the dye of which they excel; pottery ware; droves of mustangs, fresh caught and capering in all their native wildness; flocks of white goats from the Cerzo Gorde, whose wool is almost as fine as the Llama's; piles of firearms from Birmingham and Liège, around which groups of admiring Indians were always gathered; parroquets and scarlet jays, in cages; richly ornamented housings for mule teams; brass-mounted saddles and a mass of other articles littered and blocked up the way so that all passage was extremely difficult.
Before I approached the city, I had been canvassing with myself how best I might escape from the prying inquisitiveness to which every stranger is exposed on entering a new community. I might have spared myself the trouble, for I found that I was perfectly unnoticed in the motley throng with which I mingled.
My strong-boned, high-bred mustang, indeed, called forth many a compliment as I rode past; but none had any eye, nor even a word, for the rider. At last, as I was approaching the inn, I beheld a small knot of men whose dress and looks were not unfamiliar to me; and in a moment after, I remembered that they were the Yankee horse-dealers I had met with at Austin, some years before. As time had changed me far more than them, I trusted to escape recognition, not being by any means desirous of renewing the acquaintance. I ought to say that, besides my Mexican costume, I wore a very imposing pair of black moustaches and beard, the growth of two years at “La Noria,” so that detection was not very easy.
While I was endeavoring to push my way between two huge hampers of tomatoes and lemons, one of this group, whom I at once recognized as Seth Chiseller, laid his hand on my beast's shoulder and said, in Spanish, “The mustang is for sale?”
“No, Señhor,” said I, with a true Mexican flourish, “he and all mine stand at your disposal, but I would not sell him.”
Not heeding much the hackneyed courtesy of my speech, he passed his hands along the animal's legs, feeling his tendons and grasping his neat pasterns. Then, proceeding to the hocks, he examined them carefully; after which he stepped a pace or two backwards, the better to survey him, when he said, “Move him along in a gentle trot.”
“Excuse me, Señhor, I came here to buy, not to sell. This animal I do not mean to part with.”
“Not if I were to offer you five hundred dollars?” said he, still staring at the beast.
“Not if you were to say a thousand, Señhor,” said I, haughtily; “and now pray let me pass into the court, for we are both in need of refreshment.”
“He an't no Mexican, that 'ere chap,” whispered one of the group to Chiseller.
“He sits more like a Texan,” muttered another.
“He'll be the devil, or a Choctaw outright, but Seth will have his beast out of him,” said another, with a laugh; and with this the group opened to leave me a free passage into the inn-yard.
All the easy assurance I could put on did not convince myself that my fears were not written in my face as I rode forward. To be sure, I did swagger to the top of my bent; and as I flung myself from the saddle, I made my rifle, my brass scabbard, my sabretache, and my spurs perform a crash that drew many a dark eye to the windows, and set many a fan fluttering in attractive coquetry.
“What a handsome Caballero! how graceful and well-looking!” I thought I could read in their flashing glances; and how pleasant was such an imaginary amende for the neglect I had suffered hitherto.
Having commended my beast to the hands of the ostler, I entered the inn with all the swaggering assurance of my supposed calling, but, in good earnest, with anything but an easy heart at the vicinity of Seth and his followers. The public room into which I passed was crowded with the dealers of the fair in busy and noisy discussion of their several bargains; and had I been perfectly free of all personal anxieties, the study of their various countenances, costumes, and manners had been most amusing, combining as they did every strange nationality,—from the pale-faced, hatchet-featured New Englander to the full-eyed, swarthy descendant of old Spain. The mongrel Frenchman of New Orleans, with the half-breed of the prairies, more savage in feature than the Pawnee himself, the shining negro, the sallow Yankee, the Jew from the Havannah, and the buccaneer-like sailor who commanded his sloop and accompanied him as a species of body-guard,—were all studies in their way and full of subject for after-thought.
In this motley assemblage it may easily be conceived that I mingled unnoticed, and sat down to my mess of “frijoles with garlic” without even a passing observation. As I ate on, however, I was far from pleased by remarking that Seth and another had taken their seats at a table right opposite, and kept their eyes full on me with what in better society had been a most impudent stare. I affected not to perceive this, and even treated myself to a flask of French wine, with the air of a man revelling in undisturbed enjoyment. But all the rich bouquet, all the delicious flavor, were lost upon me; the sense of some impending danger overpowered all else; and let me look which way I would, Seth and his buff-leather jacket, his high boots, immense spurs, and enormous horse-pistols rose up before me like a vision.
I read in the changeful expression of his features the struggle between doubt and conviction as to whether he had seen me before. I saw what was passing in his mind, and I tried a thousand little arts and devices to mystify him. If I drank my wine, I always threw out the last drops of each glass upon the floor; when I smoked, I rolled my cigar between my palms, and patted and squeezed it in genuine Mexican fashion. I turned up the points of my moustache like a true hidalgo, and played Spaniard to the very top of my bent.
Not only did these airs seem not to throw him off the scent, but I remarked that he eyed me more suspiciously, and often conversed in whispers with his companion. My anxiety had now increased to a sense of fever, and I saw that if nothing else should do so, agitation alone would betray me. I accordingly arose, and called the waiter to show me to a room.
It was not without difficulty that one could be had, and that was a miserable little cell, whitewashed, and with no other furniture than a mattress and two chairs. At least, however, I was alone; I was relieved from the basilisk glances of that confounded horse-dealer, and I threw myself down on my mattress in comparative ease of mind, when suddenly I heard a smart tap at the door, and a voice called out, with a very Yankee accent, “I say, friend, I want a word with you.”
I replied, in Spanish, that if any one wanted me, they must wait till I had taken my “siesta.”
“Take your siesta another time, and open your door at once; or mayhap I 'll do it myself!”
“Well, sir,” said I, as I threw it open, and feigning a look of angry indignation, the better to conceal my fear, “what is so very urgently the matter that a traveller cannot take his rest, without being disturbed in this fashion?”
“Hoity-toity! what a pucker you're in, boy!” said he, shutting the door behind him; “and we old friends too!”
“When or where have we ever met before?” asked I, boldly.
“For the 'where,'—it was up at Austin, in Texas; for the 'when,'—something like three years bygone.”
I shook my head, with a saucy smile of incredulity.
“Nay, nay, don't push me farther than I want to go, lad. Let bygones be bygones, and tell me what's the price of your beast, yonder.”
“I 'll not sell the mustang,” said I, stoutly.
“Ay, but you will, boy! and to me, too! And it's Seth Chiseller says it!”
“No man can presume to compel another to part with his horse against his will, I suppose?” said I, affecting a coolness I did not feel.
“There's many a stranger thing than that happens in these wild parts. I've known a chap ride away with a beast,—just without any question at all!”
“That was a robbery!” exclaimed I, in an effort at virtuous indignation.
“It war n't far off from it,” responded Seth; “but there 's a reward for the fellow's apprehension, and there it be!” and as he spoke he threw a printed handbill on the table, of which all that I could read with my swimming eyes were the words, “One Hundred Dollars Reward,”—“a mare called Charcoal,”—“taking the down trail towards the San José.”
“There was no use in carrying that piece of paper so far,” said I, pitching it contemptuously away.
“And why so, lad?” asked he, peering inquisitively at me.
“Because this took place in Texas, and here we are in Mexico.”
“Mayhap, in strict law that might be something,” said he, calmly; “but were I to chance upon him, why should n't I pass a running-knot over his wrists, and throw him behind me on one of my horses? Who's to say 'You sha' n't?' or who's to stop a fellow that can ride at the head of thirty well-mounted lads, with Colt's revolvers at the saddle-bow?—tell me that, boy!”
“In the first place,” said I, “the fellow who would let himself be taken and slung on your crupper, like a calf for market, deserves nothing better; and particularly so long as he owned a four-barrelled pistol like this!”—and here I drew the formidable weapon from my breast, and held it presented towards him, in a manner that it is rarely agreeable to confront.
“Put down your irons, lad,” said he, with the very slightest appearance of agitation in his manner; “we'll come to terms without burning powder.”
“I ask for nothing better,” said I, putting up my weapon; “but I 'll not stand being threatened.”
He gave a short, dry laugh, as though the conceit of my speech amused him, and said, “Now, to business: I want that mustang.”
“You shall have him, Seth,” said I, “the day he reaches Guajuaqualla, whither I am bound in all haste.”
“I am a-going north,” said Seth, gruffly, “and not in that direction.”
“You can send one of your people along with me, to fetch him back.”
“Better to leave him with me now, and take a hack for the journey,” said he.
This was rather too much for my temper; and I ventured to say that he who was to receive a present should scarcely dictate the conditions accompanying it.
“It's a ransom, boy,—a forfeit,—not a present,” said he, gravely.
“Let us see if you can enforce it, then,” said I, instinctively
“There, now, you're angry again!” said he, with his imperturbable smile; “if we're to have a deal together, let us do it like gentlemen.”
Now, probably a more ludicrous caricature of that character could not have been drawn than either in the persons, the manners, or the subject of the transaction in hand; but the word was talismanic, and no sooner had he uttered it than I became amenable to his very slightest suggestion.
“Let me have the beast,—I want him; and I see your holsters and saddle-bags have a jingle in them that tells me dollars are plenty with you; and as to this,”—he threw the piece of paper offering the reward at his feet,—“the man who says anything about it will have to account with Seth Chiselier, that's all.”
“How far is it from this to Guajuaqualla?”
“About a hundred and twenty miles by the regular road; but there 's a trail the miners follow makes it forty less. Not that I would advise you to try that line; the runaway niggers and the half-breeds are always loitering about there, and they 're over ready with the bowie-knife, if tempted by a dollar or two.”
Our conversation now took an easy, almost a friendly tone. Seth knew the country and its inhabitants perfectly, and became freely communicative in discussing them and all his dealings with them.
“Let us have a flask of 'Aguadente,'” said he, at last, “and then we 'll join the fandango in the court beneath.”
Both propositions were sufficiently to my taste; and by way of showing that no trace of any ill-feeling lingered in my mind, I ordered an excellent supper and two flasks of the best Amontillado.
Seth expanded, under the influence of the grape, into a most agreeable companion. His personal adventures had been most numerous, and many of them highly exciting; and although a certain Yankee suspiciousness of every man and his motives tinged all he said, there was a hearty tone of good-nature about him vastly different from what I had given him credit for.
The Amontillado being discussed, Seth ordered some Mexican “Paquaretta,” of delicious flavor, of which every glass seemed to inspire one with brighter views of life; nor is it any wonder if my fancy converted the rural belles of the courtyard into beauties of the first order.
The scene was a very picturesque one. A trellised passage, roofed with spreading vines in full bearing, ran around the four sides of the building, in the open space of which the dancers were assembled. Gay lamps of painted paper and rude pine-torches lit up the whole, and gave to the party-colored and showy costumes an elegance and brilliancy which the severer test of daylight might have been ungenerous enough to deny. The olive-brown complexion—the flashing dark eyes—the graceful gestures—the inspiriting music—the merry voices—the laughter—were all too many ingredients of pleasure to put into that little crucible, the human heart, and not amalgamate into something very like enchantment,—a result to which the Paquaretta perhaps contributed.
Into this gay throng Seth and I descended, like men determined, in Mexican phrase, to “take pleasure by both horns.” It was at the very climax of the evening's amusement we entered. The dance was the Mexican fandango, which is performed in this wise: a lady, stepping into the circle, after displaying her attractions in a variety of graceful evolutions, makes the “tour” of the party in search of the Caballero she desires to take as her partner. It is at his option either to decline the honor by a gesture of deferential humility, or, accepting it, he gives her some part of his equipment,—his hat, his scarf, or his embroidered riding-glove, to be afterwards redeemed as a forfeit; the great amusement of the scene consisting in the strange penalties exacted, which are invariably awarded with a scrupulous attention to the peculiar temperament of the sufferer. Thus, a miserly fellow is certain to be mulcted of his money; an unwieldy mass of fears and terrors is condemned to some feat of horsemanship; a gourmand is sentenced to a dish of the least appetizing nature; and so on: each is obliged to an expiation which is certain to amuse the bystanders. While these are the “blanks” in the lottery, the prizes consist in the soft, seductive glances of eyes that have lost nothing of Castilian fire in their transplanting beyond seas; in the graceful gestures of a partner to whom the native dance is like an expressive language, and whose motions are more eloquent than words,—in being, perhaps, the favored of her whose choice has made you the hidalgo of the evening; and all these, even without the aid of Paquaretta, are no slight distinctions.
Were the seductions less attractive, it is not a man whose Irish blood has been set a-glowing with Spanish wine who is best fitted to resist them, nor assuredly ought Con Cregan to be selected for such self-denial. I stood in the circle with wondering admiration, delighted with everything. Oh, happy age! glorious hour of the balmy night! excellent grape-juice! how much of delicious enjoyment do I owe you all three! I suppose it is the case with every one, but I know it to be with me, that wherever I am, or however situated, I immediately single out some particular object for my especial predilection. If it be a landscape, I at once pitch upon the spot for a cottage, a temple, or a villa; if it be a house, I instantly settle in my mind the room I would take as my own, the window I would sit beside, the very chair I'd take to lounge in; if it be a garden, I fix upon the walk among whose embowering blossoms I would always be found: and so, if the occasion be one of festive enjoyment, I have a quick eye to catch her whose air and appearance possess highest attractions for me. Not always for me the most beautiful,—whose faultless outlines a sculptor would like to chisel,—but one whose fair form and loveliness are suggestive of the visions one has had in boyhood, filling up, in rich colors, the mind-drawn picture we have so often gazed on, and made the heroine of a hundred little love-stories, only known to one's own heart. And, oh, dear! are not these about the very best of our adventures? At least, if they be not, they are certainly those we look back on with fewest self-reproaches.
In a mood of this kind it was that my eye rested upon a slightly formed but graceful girl, whose dark eyes twice or thrice had met my own, and been withdrawn again with a kind of indolent reluctance—as I fancied—very flattering to me. She wore the square piece of scarlet cloth on her head, so fashionable among the Mexican peasantry, the corners of which hung down with heavy gold tassels among the clusters of her raven locks; a yellow scarf, of the brightest hue, was gracefully thrown over one shoulder, and served to heighten the brilliancy of her olive tint; her jupe, short and looped up with a golden cord, displayed a matchless instep and ankle. There was an air of pride—“fierté,” even—in the position of the foot, as she stood, that harmonized admirably with the erect carriage of her head, and the graceful composure of her crossed arms made her a perfect picture. Nor was I quite certain that she did not know this herself; certain is it, her air, her attitude, her every gesture, were in the most complete “keeping” with her costume.
She was not one of the dancers, but stood among the spectators, and, if I were to pronounce from the glances she bestowed upon the circle, not one of the most admiring there; her features either wearing an expression of passive indifference, or changing to a half smile of scornful contempt. As, with an interest which increased at each moment, I watched her movements, I saw that her scarf was gently pulled by a hand from behind; she turned abruptly, and, with a gesture of almost ineffable scorn, said some few words, and then moved proudly away to another part of the “court.”
Through the vacant spot she had quitted I was able to see him who had addressed her. He was a young, powerfully built fellow, in the dress of a mountaineer, and, though evidently of the peasant class, his dress and arms evinced that he was well to do in the world; the gold drop of his sombrero, the rich bullion tassels of his sash, the massive spurs of solid silver, being all evidences of wealth. Not even the tan-colored hue of his dark face could mask the flush of anger upon it as the girl moved off, and his black eyes, as they followed, glowed like fire. To my amazement, his glance was next bent upon me, and that with an expression of hatred there was no mistaking. At first, I thought it might have been mere fancy on my part; then I explained it as the unvanished cloud still lingering on his features; but at last I saw plainly that the insulting looks were meant for myself. Let me look which side I would, let me occupy my attention how I might, the fellow's swarthy, sullen face never turned from me for an instant.
I suppose something must have betrayed to my companion what was passing within me, for Seth whispered in my ear, “Take no notice of him,—he's a Ranchero; and they are always bad uns to deal with.”
“But what cause of quarrel can he have with me?” said I; “we never saw each other before.”
“Don't you see what it is?” said Seth. “It's the muchacha: she's his sweetheart, and she's been a-looking too long this way to please him.”
“Well, if the girl has got such good taste,” said I, with a saucy laugh, “he ought to prize her the more for it.”
“She is a neat un, that's a fact,” muttered Seth; and at the same instant the girl walked proudly up to where I stood, and, making a low courtesy before me, held out her hand. I suppose there must have been a little more than the ordinary enthusiasm in the manner I pressed my lips upon it, for she blushed, and a little murmur ran round the circle. The next moment we were whirling along in the waltz,—I, at least, lost to everything save the proud pleasure of what I deemed my triumph. The music suddenly changed to the fandango, of which dance I was a perfect master; and now the graceful elegance of my partner and the warm plaudits of the company called forth my utmost exertions. As for her, she was the most bewitching representative of her native measure it is possible to conceive, her changeful expression following every movement of the dance: now retiring in shrinking bashfulness, now advancing with proud and haughty mien, now enticing to pursuit by looks of languishment, now, as if daring all advances, her flashing eyes would almost sparkle with defiance.
What a terrible battery was this to open upon the defenceless breastwork of a poor Irishman! How withstand the showering grape-shot of dark glances?—how resist the assault of graces that lurked in every smile and every gesture? Alas! I never attempted a defence; I surrendered, not “at,” but “without,” discretion; and, tearing off the great embroidered scarf which I wore, all heavy with its gold fringe, I passed it round her taper waist in a very transport of enthusiasm.
While a buzz of approbation ran round the circle, I heard the words uttered on all sides, “Destago!” “A forfeit!”
“I'll try his gallantry,” said the girl, as, darting back from my arms, she retired to the very verge of the circle, and, holding up the rich prize, gazed at it with wondering eyes; and now exclamations of praise and surprise at the beauty of the tissue broke from all in turn.
“The muchacha should keep the 'capotillo,'” said an old lynx-eyed duenna, with a fan as large as a fire-board.
“A Caballero rich as that should give her a necklace of real pearls,” said another.
“I 'd choose a mustang, with a saddle and trappings all studded with silver,” muttered a third in her ear.
“I 'll have none of these,” said the girl, musing; “I must bethink me well if I cannot find something I shall like to look at with pleasure, when mere dress and finery would have lost their charm. I must have that which will remind me of this evening a long time hence, and make me think of him who made it a happiness; and now what shall it be?”
“His heart's blood, if that will content you!” cried the mountaineer, as, springing from his seat, he tore the scarf from her hands and dashed it on the ground, trampling it beneath his feet, and tearing it to very rags.
“A fight—a fight!” shouted out a number of voices; and now the crowd closed in upon the dancing space, and a hundred tongues mingled in wild altercation. Although a few professed themselves indignant that a stranger should be thus insulted, I saw plainly that the majority were with their countryman, whom they agreed in regarding as a most outraged and injured individual. To my great astonishment, I discovered that my friend Seth took the same view of the matter, and was even more energetic than the others in reprobation of my conduct.
“Don't you see,” cried he to me, “that you have taken his sweetheart from him? The muchacha has done all this to provoke his jealousy.”
“Oui, oui,” said a thin, miserable-looking Frenchman, “vous avez tiré la bouteille; il faut payer le vin.”
In all probability, had not the crowd separated us most effectually, these comments and counsels had been all uttered “after the fact;” for I dashed forward to strike my antagonist, and was only held back by main force, as Seth whispered in my ear, “Take it coolly, lad; it must be a fight now, and don't unsteady your hand by flying into a passion.”
Meanwhile the noise and confusion waxed louder and louder; and from the glances directed towards me there was very little doubt how strongly public opinion pronounced against me.
“No, no!” broke in Seth,—in reply to some speech whose purport I could only guess at, for I did not hear the words,—“that would be a downright shame. Let the lad have fair play. There's a pretty bit of ground outside the garden, for either sword or pistol-work, whichever you choose it to be. I 'll not stand anything else.”
Another very fiery discussion ensued upon this, the end of which was that I was led away by Seth and one of his comrades to my room, with the satisfactory assurance that at the very first dawn of day I was to meet the Mexican peasant in single combat.
“You have two good hours of sleep before you,” said Seth, as we entered my room; “and my advice is, don't lose a minute of them.”
It has been a mystery to me, up to the very hour I am writing in, how far my friend Seth Chiseller's conduct on this occasion accorded with good faith. Certainly, it would have been impossible for any one to have evinced a more chivalrous regard for my honor, and a more contemptuous disdain for my life, than the aforesaid Seth. He advanced full one hundred reasons for a deadly combat, the results of which, he confessed, were speculative matters of a most dreamy indifference. Now, although it has almost become an axiom in these affairs that there is nothing like a bold, decided friend, yet even these qualities may be carried to excess; and so I began to experience.
There was a vindictiveness in the way he expatiated upon the gross character of the insult I had received, the palpable openness of the outrage, that showed the liveliest susceptibility on the score of my reputation; and thus it came to pass, I suppose, from that spirit of divergence and contradiction so native to the human heart that the stronger Seth's argument ran in favor of a most bloody retribution, the more ingenious grew my casuistry on the side of mercy; till, grown weary of my sophistry, he finished the discussion by saying: “Take your own road, then; and if you prefer a stiletto under the ribs to the chance of a sabre-cut, it is your own affair, not mine.”
“How so? Why should I have to fear such?”
“You don't think that the villano will suffer a fellow to take his muchacha from him, and dance with her the entire evening before a whole company, without his revenge? No! no! they have different notions on that score, as you 'll soon learn.”
“Then what is to be done?”
“I have told you already, and I tell you once more: meet him to-morrow,—the time is not very distant now. You tell me that you are a fair swordsman: now, these chaps have but one attack and one guard. I 'll put you up to both; and if you are content to take a slight sabre-cut about the left shoulder, I'll show you how to run him through the body.”
“And then?”
“Why, then,” said he, turning his tobacco about in his mouth, “I guess you'd better run for it; there'll be no time to lose. Mount your beast, and ride for the Guajuaqualla road, but don't follow it long, or you'll soon be overtaken. Turn the beast loose, and take to the mountains, where, when you 've struck the miner's track, you 'll soon reach the town in safety.”
Overborne by arguments and reasons, many of which Seth strengthened by the pithy apothegm of “Bethink ye where ye are, boy! This is not England, nor Ireland neither!” all my scruples vanished, and I set about the various arrangements in a spirit of true activity. The time was brief, since, besides taking a lesson in the broadsword, I had to make my will. The reader will probably smile at the notion of Con Cregan leaving a testament behind him; but the over-scrupulous Seth would have it so, and assured me, with much feeling, that it would “save a world of trouble hereafter, if anything were to go a bit ugly.”
I therefore bequeathed to the worthy Seth my mustang and his equipments of saddle, holsters, and cloak-bag; my rifle and pistols and bowie-knife were also to become his, as well as all my movables of every kind. I only stipulated that, in the event of the “ugly” termination alluded to, he would convey the letter with his own hands to Guajuaqualla,—a pledge he gave with the greater readiness that a reward was to be rendered for the service. There was some seventy dollars in my bag, which, Seth said, need not be mentioned in the will, as they would be needed for the funeral. “It 's costly hereabouts,” said he, growing quite lively on the theme. “They put ye in a great basket, all decked with flowers, and they sticks two big oranges or lemons in your hands; and the chaps as carry you are dressed like devils or angels, I don't much know which,—and they do make such a cry! My eye for it, but if you was n't dead, you 'd not lie there long and listen to 'em!”
Now, although the subject was not one half so amusing to me as it seemed to Seth, I felt that strange fascination which ever attaches to a painful theme, and asked a variety of questions about the grave and the ceremonies and the masses, reminding my executor that, as a good Catholic, I hoped I should have the offices of the Church in all liberality.
“Don't distress yourself about that,” said he; “I 'll learn a lot of prayers in Latin myself,—' just to help you on,' as a body might say. But, as I live, there goes the chaps to the 'Molino';” and he pointed to a group of about a dozen or more, who, wrapped up in their large cloaks, took the way slowly and silently through the tall wet grass at the bottom of the garden.
I have ever been too candid with my kind reader to conceal anything from him. Let him not, therefore, I beg, think the worse of me if I own that, at the sight of that procession, a strange and most uncomfortable feeling pervaded me. There seemed something so purpose-like in their steady, regular tramp. There was a look of cold determination in their movement that chilled me to the heart. “Only to think!” muttered I, “how they have left their beds on this raw, damp morning, at the risk of colds, catarrhs, and rheumatism, all to murder a poor young fellow who never injured one of them!”
Not a thought had I for the muchacha,—the cause of all my trouble; my faculties were limited to a little routine of which I myself was the centre, and I puzzled my brain in thinking over the human anatomy, and trying to remember all I had ever heard of the most fatal localities, and where one could be carved and sliced with the fullest impunity.
“Come along!” said Seth; “we 've no time to lose. We must look out for a cheap mustang to wait for you on the Guajuaqualla road, and I have to fetch my sword; for this thing of yours is full eight inches too short.” Seth now took my arm, and I felt myself involuntarily throwing a glance at the little objects I owned about the room,—as it were a farewell look.
“What are you searching for?” said he, as I inserted my hand into my breast-pocket.
“It's all right,” said I; “I wanted to see that I had the Señhora's letter safe. If—if—anything—you understand me—eh?”
“Yes, yes; I'll look to it. They sha' n't bury you with it,” said he, with a diabolical grin which made me positively detest him, for the moment.
If Mr. Chiseller was deficient in the finer sympathies of our nature, he was endowed with a rare spirit of practical readiness. The “mustang” was found in the very first stable we entered, and hired for a day's pleasure,—so he called it,—for the sum of two crowns. A mountain lad was despatched to hold him for my coming, at a certain spot on the road. The sabre was fetched from his chamber, and in less than five minutes we were on our way to the Molino, fully equipped and “ready for the fray.”
“Don't forget what I told you about the face-guard: always keep the hilt of your weapon straight between your eyes, and hold the elbow low.” This he kept repeating continually as we went along, till I found myself muttering the words after him mechanically,—without attaching the slightest meaning to them. “The villain is a strong muscular chap, and perhaps he 'll be for breaking down your guard by mere force, and cleaving you down with a stroke. If he tries it, you 've only to spring actively to one side and give him your point, anywhere about the chest.” From this he proceeded to discuss a hundred little subtleties and stratagems the Mexicans are familiar with, so that at last I regretted, from the very bottom of my soul, that the gage of battle had not fallen upon Seth himself, so much more worthy in every way of the distinction.
If I seemed full of attention to all he was saying, my thoughts, in truth be it spoken, were travelling a vastly different road. I was engaged in the performance of a little mental catechism, which ran somewhat in this wise: “If you escape this peril, Master Con, will it not be wise to eschew fandangoes in future,—or, at least, not indulge in them with other men's sweethearts? Beware, besides, of horse-dealers, of Xeres and Paquaretta; and, above all, of such indiscretions as may make the 'Seth Chisellers' of this world your masters!” Ay, there was the sum and substance of my sorrows: that unlucky step about “Charry” and the lottery-ticket placed me in a situation from which there was no issue. I now saw, what many have seen before, and many will doubtless see again, that crime has other penalties besides legal ones, and that the difficulty of conforming to an assumed good character, with even one lapse from the path of honesty, is very considerable.
“Are you attending to me, lad?” cried Seth, impatiently. “I was telling you about the cross-guard for the head.”
“I have not heard one word of it,” said I, frankly; “nor is it of the least consequence. All the talk in the world could n't make a swordsman, still less would a few passing hints like those you give me. If the villano be the better man, there's an end of the matter.”
Seth, less convinced by my reasonings than offended at them, spoke no more, and we approached the Molino in silence. As we neared the spot, we perceived the party seated in a little arbor, and by their gestures, as well as by a most savory odor of garlic, evidently eating their breakfast.
“The fellows are jolly,” said Seth: “had we not better follow their example? Here is a nice spot, and a table just at hand.” At the same time he called out, “Muchacho, pan el vino en la mesa, and we 'll think of somewhat to eat.”
I tried to play indifferent, and seem at my ease; but it was no use. The vicinity of the other group, and, in particular, of a certain broad-shouldered member of it whom I could detect through the leaves, and who certainly did not eat with the air of a man who felt it to be his last breakfast, spoiled all my efforts, and nipped them even as they budded.
“You don't eat,” said Seth; “look at the villano yonder.”
“I see him,” said I, curtly.
“See how he lays in his prog!”
“Let him show that he can be as dexterous with the broadsword as with a carving-knife,” said I, with a tremendous effort.
“Egad! I'll tell him that,” cried Seth, jumping up, and hastening across the garden. I had not long to wait for the effect of the speech. Scarcely had Chiseller uttered a few words than the whole party arose, and such a volley of “Maledicion!” and “Caramba!” and other like terms I never heard before or since.
“I knew that would make 'em blaze up,” said he; “they're all ready now,—follow me.” I obeyed, and walked after him into a little paddock, which, from the marks of feet and other signs, seemed to be a spot not chosen for the first time for such an amusement. The others entered by an opposite gate, and, taking off their cloaks, folded them carefully and laid them on the benches. They were armed to the very teeth, and really did look amazingly like the troop of brigands Drury Lane would produce in a new melodrama.
One of the party advanced towards Seth to arrange preliminaries, while the rest lighted their cigars and began smoking,—an example I deemed it wise to imitate; at least, it looked cool.
As I sat, affecting to admire the landscape, and totally careless of what was going on behind me, I overheard Seth in a warm altercation on the subject of my sabre, which the villano's friend insisted was at least eight or nine inches too long. Seth, however, was equally obstinate in asserting that I had always used it, had fought repeated duels with it; and if we could not call the principals as witnesses, it was for certain cogent reasons that need not be mentioned. How I chuckled at this bit of boastfulness! how I prayed that it might terrify the enemy! Nothing of the kind; the semi-savage stepped out into the circle, with his shirt-sleeve rolled up to the shoulder, displaying an arm whose muscular development was like knotted cordage. As if to give a foretaste of what he intended for me, he clove down the stout branch of an elm-tree with a single stroke and with the ease of a man slicing a cheese. Never did I think so meanly of a fandango as at that moment; never was I in a mood less lenient to female coquetry!
“All's ready, Con, my hearty,” whispered Seth, leaning over my shoulder; “here's the tool.”
If I had followed the instinct then strongest, I should have treated my “friend” Seth to the first of my maiden sword. But for him—But it was too late for regrets; and already the group had retired, leaving the villano standing in a position of formidable defence alone in the circle.
I can remember that I walked calmly and slowly forward to the spot assigned me. I can remember the word being given to draw swords, and I even yet can see the flashing steel as it glistened, and hear the clang of the scabbards as we flung them from us; but of the encounter itself I have only the vaguest impression. Cuts, thrusts, parries, advances and retirings, feints and guards, are all blended up with the exclamations of the bystanders as, in praise or censure, they followed the encounter. At last, without knowing why, after a warm rally, my antagonist uttered a faint cry, and tottering a few paces back, let fall his sword, and sank heavily to the earth. I sprang forward in dread anxiety; but two of the others held me back while they cried out, “Basta—Basta, Señhor!” I tried to force my way past them, but they held me fast; and all that I could see was one of the group take up the villano's arm and let it go again, when it fell heavily to the ground with a dull bang I shall never forget! They then threw his cloak over him, and I saw him no more.
“What are ye waitin' for, lad?” whispered Seth. “You don't want to attend his funeral, I reckon?”
“Is he—is he———?” I could n't get the word out for worlds.
“By course he is; and so will you be, if ye don't make a bolt of it.”
I have some recollection of an angry altercation between Seth and myself,—I refusing, and he insisting on my instant flight; but it ended somehow in my finding myself galloping along the Guajuaqualla road at a furious pace, and, to my extreme surprise, feeling now as eager about my safety as before I had been indifferent to it.
I became conscious of this from the sense of uneasiness I experienced as each horseman neared me, and the danger of pursuit aroused in me the instinct of self-preservation.
A rude sign-post at the foot of a rugged mountain path apprised me where the “miners' trail” led off to Guajuaqualla; so, dismounting from my “mustang,” now wearied and blown by a pretty sharp pace for above seven miles, I turned the animal loose and set off on foot. I know of no descent so great in life as from the “saddle” to the “sole!” from the inspiriting pleasure of being carried along at will, to the plodding slowness of mere pedestrianism. In the one case you “shoot your sorrows flying;” in the other, they jog alongside of you all the way, halting with you when you lie down at noon, and taking share of the spring from which your parched lips are refreshed. Like an underbred acquaintance, they will not be denied; they are always “going your way;” and in their cruel civility they insist on bearing you company.
At a little cabaret of the very humblest order, I obtained some breakfast and made purchase of a stock of bread and a gourd of wine, as I learned that nothing was to be had before I reached “Sanchez,” the hut of an old miner, which was reckoned halfway to Guajuaqualla. This done, again I set forth on my journey.
The scenery was wild, without being grand. There was bareness and desolation, but no sublimity. It was evidently a tract of such inferior fertility that few in a land so rich as this would select it for a resting-place; and, accordingly, I came upon no signs of habitation other than the shealings the shepherds raise at certain seasons when migrating with their flocks among the mountains.
It was exactly the character of landscape likely to increase and thicken the gloom of sad thoughts; and, indeed, mine wanted little assistance. This last exploit left a weight like lead upon my heart. All my sophistry about self-defence and wounded honor, necessity, and the like could not cover the fact that I had taken away a man's life in a foolish brawl, from the very outset of which the whole fault lay on my side.
“So much,” said I, “for trying to be a 'gentleman'. Every step in this disastrous pursuit would seem to have a penalty attached to it; and, after all, I am just as far from the goal as when I set out.”
That day seemed a year in length; and were I to attempt to chronicle it, the reader would confess himself convinced before I had half finished; so that, for both our sakes, I 'll not “file my bill of particulars,” as my respected father would have said, but at once come to the hour when the sun approached the horizon, and yet not anything like a human dwelling came in sight; and I still plodded along, sad and weary, and anxious for rest. If the events which I am about to record have little in them of extraordinary interest, they at least were the turning-points in my humble destiny, and therefore, kind reader, with your permission, we 'll give them a chapter to themselves.
