THE SORCERER.
On the same day, a toldería, situated at some miles from Orano, on the banks of the Carampangue, was a scene of the greatest commotion. The women and warriors assembled in front of a toldo, on the threshold of which was exposed a corpse, lying as it were in state, upon a bed of branches, were uttering cries and groans, which were mingled with the deafening sound of drums and flutes in most dismal discord, and the continuous howling of dogs, whom all this din rendered furious. In the middle of the crowd, by the side of the body, stood a man advanced in years, tall in stature, and clothed in the costume of a woman, who appeared to direct the ceremony, making extraordinary gestures and contortions, accompanied by scarcely human yells. This man, of a ferocious aspect, was the machi, or sorcerer of the tribe; the motions he affected, the cries he uttered, were intended to protect the body against the attacks of the evil genius, supposed to be eager to get possession of it. At a sign from him the music and groans ceased; the evil genius, conquered by the power of the machi, had given up the contest, after a sharp struggle, and abandoned the body which it was beyond his power to obtain. The sorcerer then turned towards a man of lofty stature and commanding countenance, who stood near him leaning upon a long lance.
"Ulmen of the powerful tribe of the Great Hare," he said, in a sepulchral tone, "thy father, the valiant Ulmen, who has been ravished from us by Pillian, is no longer in dread of the influence of the evil genius, whom I have forced to depart; he now hunts in the happy prairies of the Eskennane with the just warriors: all the rites are accomplished—the hour for surrendering his body to the earth has arrived!"
"Stop!" the chief replied, warmly; "my father is dead, but who has killed him? A warrior does not succumb thus, in a few hours, unless some secret influence has weighed upon him, and dried up the springs of life in his heart. Answer me, O machi, inspired by Pillian! Tell me the name of the assassin! My heart is sad, and can only be comforted by avenging my father."
At these words, pronounced in a firm voice, a shudder crept through the ranks of the people assembled in a group round the body. The machi, after having looked searchingly round, cast down his eyes, crossed his arms upon his breast, and appeared to reflect.
The Araucanos only think one sort of death possible—that on the field of battle; they do not suppose any one can lose his life by either accident or disease; in these two cases they always attribute death to the action of an occult power, and are persuaded that some enemy of the defunct has cast the charm upon him that has killed him. In this persuasion, at the period of the funeral ceremonies, the relations and friends of the dead person call upon the machi to denounce the assassin to them. The machi is obliged to point him out; it would be in vain for him to endeavour to make them comprehend that the death of their relation is natural, for their fury would be immediately turned against him, and he would become their victim.
In this hard alternative, the machi takes good care not to hesitate; the murderer is the more easily pointed out through his non-existence, and from the sorcerer being in no danger of being suspected of deception. Generally, in order to make his own interests agree with those of the relations who claim a victim, he gives up one of his own personal enemies to their vengeance; when—but that is rare—the machi has no enemies, he fixes upon someone at hazard. The pretended murderer, in spite of his protestations of innocence, is immolated without mercy.
It may be easily understood how perilous such a custom is, and what an influence it gives the sorcerer in the tribe; an influence we are obliged to admit which he abuses under all circumstances, without the least scruple.
Fresh personages, among whom were Valentine and his friend, had arrived at the village, and, attracted by curiosity, mingled with the crowd collected round the body. The two Frenchmen could not comprehend anything of this scene till their guide had briefly explained it to them; then they followed the different phases of it with great interest.
"Speak!" said the Ulmen, after a short pause. "Does not my father know the name of the man of whom we must demand an account of this murder?"
"I know him," the sorcerer replied, in a solemn tone.
"Why, then, does the inspired machi preserve silence, when the dead body cries for vengeance?"
"Because," the machi said, looking this time the newly-arrived chief full in the face, "there are powerful men who laugh at human justice."
The eyes of the crowd turned to the man whom the sorcerer appeared indirectly to point out.
"The guilty man," the Ulmen cried, in a loud voice, "whatever be his rank in the tribe, shall not escape my just vengeance; speak without fear, priest of fate! I swear that the man whose name passes your lips shall die!"
The machi drew himself up majestically; he raised his arm slowly, and, amidst the general anxious curiosity, he, with his finger, pointed to the chief who had offered such cordial hospitality to the strangers, saying, in a loud, ringing voice—
"Accomplish your oath, then, Ulmen—that is the assassin of your father, Trangoil-Lanec cast the charm upon him which has killed him!"
And the machi veiled his face with the corner of his poncho, as if overwhelmed with grief at making the revelation.
The sorcerer's terrible words were succeeded by the silence of astonishment. Trangoil-Lanec was the last man in the tribe who would have been suspected. He was beloved and venerated by all for his courage, frankness, and generosity. The first sensation of surprise over, a general movement took place in the crowd; all drew back from the supposed murderer, leaving him face to face with the chief of whose death he was accused. Trangoil-Lanec remained impassive, a smile of disdain passed over his lips, he dismounted from his horse, and waited.
The Ulmen walked slowly towards him, and when within a few paces, asked, in a sorrowful voice—
"Why didst thou kill my father, Trangoil-Lanec? He loved thee, and I, was not I thy Penni?"
"I have not killed thy father, Curumilla," the chief replied, with a tone of frankness that would have convinced a man less prejudiced than the one he addressed.
"The machi has said so."
"The machi lies."
"No, the machi cannot lie—he is inspired by Pillian; thou, thy wife, and thy children must die; the law decrees that it shall be so."
Without deigning to reply, the chief threw down his arms, and went and placed himself beside the stake of blood, planted in front of the medicine toldo, which contains the sacred idol. A circle was formed, of which the stake formed the centre; the wife and children of the chief were brought up, and were prepared immediately for the sacrifice; for the funeral ceremony of the chief could not be completed before the execution of his murderer. The machi was triumphant. One man alone in the tribe had ventured to hold up his hand against his robberies and rogueries, and that man was about to die and leave him absolute master. Upon a sign from Curumilla, two Indians seized the chief, and, in spite of the tears and sobs of his wives and children, they prepared to fasten him to the stake.
The two Frenchmen had anxiously watched the spectacle of this infamous drama; Louis was disgusted with the rascality of the machi and the credulity of the Indians.
"Oh!" he said, to his friend, "we cannot allow this murder to be accomplished."
"Hum!" muttered Valentine, stroking the ends of his light moustache, and casting a glance around him, "hum! there is a great number of them."
"What matters it how many?" Louis replied, impetuously; "I will not be the witness of such iniquity, if I die for it. I will attempt to save the life of that unfortunate man, who so frankly offered us his friendship."
"The fact is," Valentine said, pensively, "this Trangoil-Lanec, as they call him, is a very worthy fellow, for whom I feel a warm sympathy; but what can we do?"
"Pardieu!" Louis said, seizing his pistols, "throw ourselves between him and his enemies; we can each of us kill five or six."
"Yes, and the others will kill us, without our having succeeded in saving the man for whom we devote ourselves. A bad means that! Let us try to find some other."
"We must be quick, then; the torture is about to commence."
Valentine struck his forehead, and cried, with a jeering laugh—
"Bah! I have it! Trick must serve our turn—leave it to me; my old trade of a mountebank will do! Help me, if I want it; but, for heaven's sake, swear to remain calm!"
"I swear I will, if you save him."
"Be satisfied—against rogue I'll play rogue and a half; these savages shall see I can be more cunning than they."
Valentine urged his horse into the middle of the circle, and shouted—
"Stop a minute!"
At the unexpected appearance of this man, whom nobody had yet observed, all turned round and looked at him with astonishment. Louis, with his hands on his pistols, watched his movements with anxiety, ready to fly to his succour, if he needed it.
"We will not joke," continued Valentine, "we have not time for that. You are a set of fools, and your machi is laughing at you. What! would you kill a man without a moment's reflection, because a rogue bids you do so? Caramba! I have taken it into my head to prevent your committing such a folly—I will do it, too!"
And placing his hand upon his hip, he looked round with an intrepid glance. The Indians, according to their strange custom, listened to this speech without evincing surprise, even by a gesture. Curumilla approached him.
"My pale brother must retire," he said, calmly; "he is unacquainted with the laws of the Puelches; this man is condemned, he must die; the machi has pointed him out as a murderer."
"I repeat to you, you are fools!" said Valentine shrugging his shoulders; "your machi is no more a conjurer than I am; I again tell you, he is cheating you, and I will prove it, if you will let me."
"What says my father?" said Curumilla to the machi, who stood cold and motionless by the side of the body.
The machi smiled disdainfully.
"When did the white man ever speak truth?" he replied, with a sneer. "Let this one prove what he asserts, if he is able."
"Good!" the Ulmen said; "the Murucho may speak."
"Pardieu!" cried Valentine. "Notwithstanding the bold-faced assurance of this individual, I shall find it no difficult matter to prove that he is an impostor."
"We are attentive," said Curumilla.
The Indians drew round with intense curiosity. Louis could not at all make out what his friend proposed to do. He could only suppose that some extravagant idea had crossed his brain, and was as impatient as the rest to see how he would come through his dangerous undertaking with honour.
"One moment!" said the machi, with perfect assurance. "What will my brothers do if I prove my accusation true?"
"The stranger must die," said Curumilla, coolly.
"I accept the terms," Valentine replied, resolutely. Placed thus in the necessity of explaining himself, the Frenchman drew himself up to his full height, and, knitting his brows, exclaimed pompously—
"I, too, am a great medicine man!"
The Indians bowed reverentially. The science of Europeans is perfectly established among them; they respect without disputing it.
"It was not Trangoil-Lanec," continued the Frenchman, with the greatest audacity, "who killed the chief; it was the machi himself."
A start of astonishment pervaded the assembly.
"I!" cried the machi, in a voice of amazement.
"You, yourself, and you know it well," replied Valentine, giving him a look that made him tremble.
"Stranger," said Trangoil-Lanec, with the majesty of a martyr, "it is no use to interpose in my favour; my brothers believe me guilty, and innocent though I am, I must die."
"Your devotion to your laws is noble, but in this case it is absurd," Valentine replied.
"This man is guilty," the machi persisted.
"Let us put an end to this, then," replied Trangoil-Lanec; "kill me!"
"What say my brothers?" Curumilla asked of the crowd, who pressed anxiously around him.
"That the Murucho medicine-man be allowed to prove the truth of his words," replied the warriors with one voice.
They loved Trangoil-Lanec, and in their hearts desired that he should not die. On the other hand, they entertained for the machi a hatred which the profound terror he inspired them with scarcely sufficed to make them conceal.
"Very well," said Valentine, "this is what I propose."
All were silent as the grave. The Frenchman drew his sword, and waved the bright blade before the eyes of the spectators.
"You see this weapon," said he, in a pompous tone; "I will put it into my mouth, and swallow it up to the hilt. If Trangoil-Lanec is guilty, I shall die; if he is innocent, as I affirm, Pillian will help me, and I shall draw forth the sword from my body without suffering a wound."
"My brother speaks like a courageous warrior," said Curumilla; "we are ready to behold."
"I will not suffer it!" Trangoil-Lanec shouted. "Does my brother want to kill himself?"
"Pillian is judge!" Valentine replied, with a smile of strange expression, and with an air of conviction admirably well played.
The two Frenchmen exchanged a glance. The Indians are perfect children in their love of spectacle, and the extraordinary proposal of the Parisian seemed to them to admit of no reply.
"The trial! the trial!" they shouted.
"Very well," said Valentine; "let my brothers behold, then."
He first placed himself in the proper position adopted by jugglers when they exhibit this feat in public places; then introducing the blade of the sword into his mouth, in a few seconds the whole of it disappeared. During the performance of this trick, which in their eyes was a miracle, the Puelches watched the bold Frenchman in breathless terror. They could not comprehend how a man could perform such an operation without deliberately killing himself. Valentine turned on all sides, so that everyone might be convinced of the reality of the fact; then he deliberately withdrew the blade from his mouth, as bright as when it came from the sheath. A cry of enthusiasm burst from the crowd: the miracle was evident.
"One minute more," he said; "I have still something to demand of you."
Silence was in an instant re-established.
"I have proved to you, in an incontrovertible manner, that the chief is not guilty—have I not?"
"Yes! yes!" they shouted simultaneously; "the paleface is a great medicine man! he is beloved by Pillian!"
"Very well. Now, then," he added, with a sardonic smile directed towards the machi, "your machi should prove in his turn that I have calumniated him, and that it was not he who killed the Apo-Ulmen of your tribe. The dead chief was a great warrior; it ought to be avenged."
"Yes," the warriors cried, "he ought to be avenged."
"My brother speaks well," observed Curumilla; "let the machi be put to the proof."
The unfortunate machi perceived at once that he was lost. He became livid, and a cold perspiration bathed his temples, whilst a convulsive tremor shook his limbs.
"This man is an impostor," he muttered, in a voice scarcely audible; "he abuses your good faith."
"Perhaps I am," said Valentine; "but, in the meantime, imitate me."
"Here," said Curumilla, holding out the sword to the machi, "if you are innocent, Pillian will protect you, as he has protected my brother."
"Caramba! that is certain; Pillian always protects the innocent, and you are about to be a proof of it," said the Parisian, in whom the revived spirit of the gamin was now triumphant.
The machi cast around a look of despair; all eyes were expressive of impatience and curiosity; the unhappy wretch perceived but too plainly that he could look for help to nobody, and he formed his resolution instantly—he determined to die as he had lived, deceiving the crowd to the last minute.
"I fear nothing," he said, in a firm voice; "this steel will be harmless to me. You desire that I should go through the trial—I will obey. But, beware! Pillian is angry with your conduct towards me; the humiliation you impose upon me will be avenged by the terrible scourges which he will inflict upon you."
At these words of their prophet the Puelches were moved. They hesitated. For many long years they had been accustomed to place entire faith in his predictions, and they experienced a kind of fear in thus daring to accuse him of imposture. Valentine saw at a glance what was passing in their hearts.
"Capitally well played," he said, replying by a knowing wink to the triumphant smile of the machi; "now it is my turn. Let my brothers take heart!" he added, in a loud, firm voice. "No misfortune threatens them; this man speaks thus because he is afraid to die; he knows he is guilty, and that Pillian will not protect him."
The machi darted a glance at him gleaming with hatred, seized the sword, and, imitating as well as he knew how what he had seen, with desperate quickness plunged the blade down his throat. A stream of black blood sprang from his mouth, his eyes glared hideously, his arms shook convulsively, he staggered two steps forward, and fell flat upon his face. The people crowded round him—he was dead.
"Let this lying dog be thrown to the vultures," said Curumilla, kicking the lifeless body with contempt.
"We are brothers for life and death," cried Trangoil-Lanec, embracing Valentine.
"Well," the young man said with a smile, to his friend, "I think I have not got very badly through that affair—eh? You see, it is well, sometimes, to have practised many trades; even that of a mountebank may serve at need."
"Do not calumniate your heart and courage," Louis replied, warmly pressing his hand; "you have; saved the life of a man."
"Aye; but I have killed another."
"Oh, he was a guilty wretch!"