THE MATRICIDE.
We have repeatedly said that in times of peace the Araucanos are exceedingly hospitable. This hospitality, which on the part of the warriors is cordial and simple, on that of the chiefs becomes extravagant. Antinahuel was far from being a rude Indian, attached though he was to the customs of his fathers; and although in his heart he hated not only the Spaniards, but indiscriminately all belonging to the white race, the half-civilized education he had received had given him ideas of comfort completely above Indian habits. Many of the richest Chilian farmers would have found it impossible to display greater luxury than he exhibited when his caprice or his interest led him to do so. On the present occasion, he was not sorry to show strangers that the Araucanos were not so barbarous as their arrogant neighbours wished it to be supposed, and that they could, when necessary, rival even them. At the first glance, Antinahuel had discovered that his guests were not Spaniards; but, with the circumspection which forms the foundation of the Indian character, he confined his observations to his own breast. It was with the kindest air and in the most winning tone of voice that he pressed them to enter his toldo.
The Frenchmen followed him in, and with a gesture he requested them to be seated. Peons placed a profusion of cigars and cigarettes upon the table, near a tasty filigree brasero. In a few minutes other peons entered with the maté, which they respectfully presented to the chief and his guests. Then, without the silence being broken—for the Araucanian laws of hospitality require that no question should be addressed to strangers until they think proper to speak themselves—each sipped the herb of Paraguay, while smoking. This preliminary operation being gone through, Valentine rose.
"I thank you, chief, in the name of myself and my friend, for your cordial hospitality."
"Hospitality is a duty which every Araucano is jealous to fulfil!"
"But," replied Valentine, "as I have been given to understand that the chief is about to set out on a journey, I do not wish to detain him."
"I am at the orders of my guests; my journey is not so pressing as not to admit of being put off for a few hours."
"I thank the chief for his courtesy, but I hope he will soon be at liberty."
Antinahuel bowed.
"A Spaniard has charged me with a letter for the chief."
"Ah!" the toqui exclaimed, with a singular intonation, and fixing a piercing look upon the face of the young man.
"Yes," the Frenchman continued; "and that letter I am about to have the honour of handing to you."
And he put his hand to his breast, to take out the letter.
"Stop!" said the chief, laying his hand upon his arm, as he turned towards his servants; adding, "leave the room." The three men were left alone.
"Now you may give me the letter," he continued.
The chief took it, looked carefully at the superscription, turned the paper in all directions in his hand, and then, with some hesitation, presented it to the young man.
"Let my brother read it," he said; "the whites are more learned than we poor Indians: they know everything."
Valentine gave his countenance the most silly expression possible.
"I cannot read this," he said, with well-assumed embarrassment.
"Does my brother then refuse to render me this service?" the chief pressed him.
"I do not refuse you, chief; only I am prevented doing what you request by a very simple reason."
"And what is that reason?"
"It is that my companion and I are both Frenchmen."
"Well, and what then?"
"We speak a little Spanish, but we cannot read it."
"Ah!" said the chief, in a tone of doubt; but, after walking about, and reflecting a minute, he added,—"Hem! that is possible."
He then turned towards the two Frenchmen, who, on their part, were, in appearance, impassive and indifferent.
"Let my brothers wait an instant," he said; "I know a man in my tribe who understands the marks which the whites make upon paper: I will go and order him to translate this letter."
The young men bowed, and the chief left the apartment.
"Why the devil did you refuse to read the letter?" Louis asked.
"In good truth," Valentine replied, "I can scarcely tell you why; but what you said of the expression of this man's countenance, produced a certain effect upon me. He inspires me with no confidence, and I am not anxious to be the depository of secrets which he may some day reclaim in a disagreeable manner."
"Yes, you are right! We may, some day, congratulate ourselves upon this circumspection. Hush! I hear footsteps."
And the chief re-entered the room.
"I know the contents of the letter," he said; "if my brothers see the man who charged them with it, they will inform him that I am setting out this very day for Valdivia."
"We would, with pleasure, take charge of that message," replied Valentine; "but we do not know the person who gave us the letter, and it is more than probable we may never see him again."
The chief darted at them a stolen and deeply suspicious glance.
"Good! Will my brothers remain here, then?"
"It would give us infinite pleasure to pass a few hours in the agreeable society of the chief, but with us time presses; with his permission, we will take our leave."
"My brothers are perfectly free; my toldo is open for those who leave it, as well as for those who enter it."
The young men rose to depart.
"In what direction are my brothers going?"
"We are bound for Concepción."
"Let my brothers go in peace, then! If their course lay towards Valdivia, I would have offered to journey with them."
"A thousand thanks, chief, for your kind offer; unfortunately we cannot profit by it, for our road lies in a completely opposite direction."
The three men exchanged a few more words of courtesy, and left the toldo. The Frenchmen's horses had been brought round; they mounted, and after having saluted the chief once more, they set off. As soon as they were out of the village, Louis, turning to Valentine, said,—
"We have not an instant to lose. If we wish to reach Valdivia before that man, we must make all speed. Who knows whether Don Tadeo may not be awaiting our arrival impatiently?"
They soon rejoined their friends, who looked for them anxiously, and all four set off at full speed in the direction of Valdivia, without being able to explain to themselves why they used such diligence. Antinahuel accompanied his guests a few paces out of his toldo. When he had taken leave of them, he followed them with his eyes as far as he could see them, and when they disappeared at the extremity of the village, he returned thoughtfully and slowly to his toldo, saying to himself,—
"It is evident to me that these men are deceiving me; their refusal to read the letter was nothing but a pretext. What can be their object? Can they be enemies? I will watch them!"
When he arrived in front of his toldo, he found his mosotones mounted, and awaiting his orders.
"I must set out at once," he said; "I shall learn all yonder, and, perhaps," he added, in a voice so low that he could hardly hear it himself, "perhaps I shall find her again. If Doña Maria breaks her promise, and does not give her up to me, woe, woe be to her!"
He raised his head, and saw his mother standing before him. "What do you want, woman?" he asked, harshly; "this is not your place!"
"My place is near you when you are suffering, my son," she mildly replied.
"I suffering! You are mad, mother! age has turned your brain! Go back into the toldo, and, during my absence, keep a good watch over all that belongs to me."
"Are you, then, really going, my son?"
"This moment," he said, and sprang into his saddle.
"Where are you going?" she asked, and seized his horse's bridle.
"What is that to you?" he replied, with an ugly glance.
"Beware! my son; you are entering on a bad course. Guérubu, the spirit of evil, is master of your heart."
"I am the best and sole judge of my actions."
"You shall not go!" she exclaimed, as she placed herself resolutely in front of his horse.
The Indians collected round the speakers looked on with mute terror at this scene; they were too well acquainted with the violent and imperious character of Antinahuel not to dread something fatal, if his mother persisted in endeavouring to prevent his departure.
The brows of the chief lowered—his eyes gleamed like lightning—and it was not without a great effort that he mastered the passion boiling in his breast.
"I will go!" he said, in a loud voice, and trembling with rage; "I will go, if I trample you beneath my horse's hoofs!"
The woman clung convulsively to the saddle, and looked her son in the face.
"Do so," she cried; "for, by the soul of your father, who now hunts in the blessed prairies with Pillian, I swear I will not stir, even if you pass over my body!"
The face of the Indian became horribly contracted; he cast around a glance which made the hearts of the bravest tremble with fear.
"Woman! woman!" he shouted, grinding his teeth with rage; "get out of my way, or I shall crush you like a reed!"
"I will not stir, I tell you!" she repeated, with wild energy.
"Take care! take care!" he said again; "I shall forget you are my mother!"
"I will not stir!"
A nervous tremor shook the limbs of the chief, who had now attained the highest paroxysm of fury.
"If you will have it so," he cried, in a husky, but loud voice, "your blood be upon your own head!"
And he dug the spurs into the sides of his horse, which plunged with pain, and then sprung forward like an arrow, dragging along the poor woman, whose body was soon but one huge wound. A cry of horror burst from the quivering lips of the terrified Indians. After a few minutes of this senseless course, during which she had left fragments of her flesh on every sharp point of the road, the strength of the Indian woman abandoned her; she left her hold of the bridle, and sank dying.
"Oh!" she said, in a faint voice, and following, with a look dimmed by agony, her son, as he was borne away like a whirlwind, "my unhappy son! my unhappy——"
She raised her eyes towards heaven, clasped her mangled hands, as if to offer up a last prayer, and fell back.
She died pitying the matricide, and pardoning him. The women of the tribe took up the body respectfully, and carried it, weeping, into the toldo. At the sight of the corpse, an old Indian shook his head several times, murmuring in a prophetic tone,—
"Antinahuel has killed his mother! Pillian will avenge her!"
And all bowed down their heads sorrowfully: this atrocious crime made them dread horrible misfortunes in the future.