THE CONFESSION.
The hacendero and his daughter left the colony of Guetzalli under the escort of Don Martial and the four peons he had taken into his service. The little band advanced to the west, in the direction of which the free company had marched in pursuit of the Apaches. Don Sylva was the more anxious to rejoin the French because he knew that their expedition had no other purpose than to deliver him and his daughter from the hands of the redskins.
The journey was gloomy and silent. As the travellers approached the desert the scenery assumed a sombre grandeur peculiar to primitive countries, which exercised an unconscious influence over the mind, and plunged them into a melancholy which they were powerless to overcome.
No more cabins, no more jacals, no more travellers found by the side of the road, offering an affectionate wish for your safe arrival as you pass, but an accidented soil, impenetrable forests peopled with wild beasts, whose eyes sparkled like live coals amid the wildly-interlaced creepers, shrubs and tall grass. At times the trail of the Frenchmen might be seen on the soil, trodden by a large number of horses; but suddenly the country changed its character, and every trace disappeared.
Each evening, after the Tigrero had beaten the vicinity to drive back the wild beasts, the camp was formed by the bank of a stream, the fires lighted, and a hut of branches hastily constructed to protect Doña Anita from the night cold; then, after a scanty meal, they wrapped themselves up in their fresadas and zarapés and slept till daybreak. The only incidents which at times disturbed the monotony of their life were the discovery of an elk or deer, in pursuit of which Don Martial and his peons galloped at full speed, and it often took hours ere the poor brute was headed and killed.
But there were none of those pleasant chats and confidences which make time appear less tedious, and render the fatigues of an interminable road endurable. The travellers maintained a reserve toward each other, which not only kept all intimacy aloof, but also any confidence. They only spoke when circumstances rendered it compulsory, and then only exchanged words that were indispensable. The reason of this was that two of the travellers had a secret unknown to the third, which weighed upon them, and at which they blushed inwardly.
Man, with his necessarily incomplete nature, is neither entirely good nor entirely bad. Most frequently, after committing actions under the iron pressure of passion or personal interest, when his coolness has returned, and he measures the depth of the abyss in which he has precipitated himself, he regrets them, especially if his life, though not exemplary, has at least hitherto been exempt from deeds which are offensive to morality. Such was at this moment the situation of Don Martial and Doña Anita. Both had been led by their mutual love to commit a fault they bitterly repented; for we will state here, to prevent our readers forming an erroneous estimate of their character, that their hearts were honest, and when, in a moment of madness, they arranged and carried out their flight, they were far from foreseeing the fatal consequences which this hopeless step would entail.
Don Martial, especially after the orders he had given Cucharés, and the hacendero's unshaken determination of rejoining the Count de Lhorailles, clearly comprehended that his position was growing with each moment more difficult, and that he was proceeding along a path that had no outlet. Thus the two lovers, fatally attached by the secret of their flight, still kept hidden from each other the remorse that devoured them; they felt at each step that the ground on which they walked was undermined, and that it might suddenly give way beneath their feet.
In such a situation life became intolerable, as there was no longer a community of thought or feeling between these three persons. A collision between them was imminent, though it happened, perhaps, sooner than they anticipated, through the pressure of the circumstances in which they were entangled. After a journey of about a fortnight, during which no noteworthy incident occurred, Don Martial and his companions, guided partly by the information they had picked up at the hacienda, and partly by the trail left by the persons they were following, at length reached the ruins of the Casa Grande of Moctecuhzoma. It was about six in the evening when the little party entered the ruins: the sun, already below the horizon, only illumined the earth with those changing beams which glisten for a long while after the planet king has disappeared. Marching a short distance from each other, Don Sylva and Don Martial looked searchingly around, advancing cautiously, and with finger on the rifle trigger, through this inextricable maze, so favourable for an Indian ambuscade. They at length reached the Casa Grande, and nothing extraordinary had met their sight. Night had almost set in, and objects began to grow confused in the shadows. Don Martial, who was preparing to dismount, suddenly stopped, uttering a cry of astonishment, almost of terror.
"What is it?" Don Sylva asked quickly as he walked up to the Tigrero.
"Look!" the latter said, stretching out his arm in the direction of a clump of stunted trees which stood a short distance from the entrance. The human voice exerts a strange faculty over animals—that of inspiring them with insurmountable fear and respect. To the few words exchanged by the two men hoarse and confused cries responded, and seven or eight savage vultures rose from the centre of the clump, and began flying heavily over the travellers' heads, forming wide circles in the air, and continuing their infernal music.
"I can see nothing," Don Sylva went on; "it is as black as in an oven."
"That is true: still, if you look more carefully at the object I point out you will easily recognise it."
Without any reply the hacendero pushed on his horse.
"A man hung by the feet!" he uttered, stopping his horse with a gesture of horror and disgust. "What can have happened here?"
"Who can say? It is not a savage—his colour and dress do not allow the least doubt on that point; still he has his scalp, so the Apaches did not kill him. What is the meaning it?"
"A mutiny perhaps," the hacendero hazarded.
Don Martial became pensive; his eyebrows contracted. "It is not possible," he said to himself; but a moment after added, "Let us enter the house; we must not leave Doña Anita any longer alone. Our absence must surprise her and might alarm her if prolonged. When the encampment is arranged I will go and look, and I shall be very unlucky if I do not discover the clue to this ill-omened mystery."
The two men retired and rejoined Doña Anita, who was awaiting them a few paces off, under the guard of the peons. When the travellers had dismounted and crossed the threshold of the casa, Don Martial lighted several torches of ocote wood to find their way in the darkness, and guided his companions to the large hall to which we have already introduced our readers. It was not the first time Don Martial had visited the ruins: frequently, during his long hunting expeditions in the western prairies, they had offered him a refuge. Thus he knew their most hidden nooks.
It was he, too, who had urged his companions to proceed to the Casa Grande, for he was convinced that the count could only find there a safe and sure bivouac for his troop. The hall, in which a table stood, presented unmistakable signs of the recent passage of several persons, and a tolerably prolonged stay they had made at the spot.
"You see," he said to the hacendero, "that I was not mistaken; the persons we seek stopped here."
"It is true. Do you think they have long left it?"
"I cannot tell you yet; but while supper is being prepared, and you are making yourselves comfortable, I will take a look round outside. On my return I trust to be more fortunate, and be able to satisfy your curiosity."
And placing the torch he held in his hand in an iron bracket fastened to the wall, the Tigrero quitted the house. Doña Anita fell pensively back on a species of clumsy sofa, accidentally left by the side of the table. Aided by the peons, the hacendero began making preparations for the night. The horses were unsaddled, driven into a species of enclosure, and had an ample stock of alfalfa placed before them. The trunks were unloaded, the bales carried into the hall, where they were piled up, after one had been opened to take out the requisite provisions; and then an enormous brazier was kindled, over which a quarter of deer-meat was hung.
When these various preparations were ended the hacendero sat down on a buffalo's skull, lighted a husk cigarette, and began smoking, while every now and then turning a sad glance on his daughter, who was still plunged in melancholy thought. Don Martial's absence was rather long, for it lasted two hours. At the end of that time his horse's hoofs could be heard echoing on the stone flooring of the ruins, and he reappeared.
"Well?" Don Sylva asked him.
"Let us sup first," the Tigrero answered, pointing to the girl in a way her father comprehended.
The meal was short, as might be expected from persons preoccupied and wearied with a long day's march. Indeed, with the exception of the roast venison, it only consisted of cainc, maize tortillas, and frijoles con aji. Doña Anita ate a few spoonfuls of tamarind preserve; then, after bowing to her friends, she rose and walked into a small room adjoining the hall, where a bed had been made up for her with her father's wraps, and the entrance to which was closed by hanging up, in place of the absent door, a horse blanket attached to nails driven in the wall.
"You fellows," the Tigrero said, addressing the peons, "had better keep good watch, if you wish to save your scalps. I warn you that we are in an enemy's country, and if you go to sleep you will probably pay dearly for it."
The peons assured the Tigrero that they would redouble their vigilance, and went out to execute the orders they had received. The two men remained seated opposite each other.
"Well," Don Sylva began, again asking his companion the question he had already begun, "have you learned anything?"
"All that was possible to learn, Don Sylva," the Tigrero sharply replied. "Were it otherwise I should be a scurvy hunter, and the jaguars and tigers would have had the best of me long ago."
"Is the information you have obtained favourable."
"That depends on your future plans. The French have been here, and bivouacked for several days. During their stay in the ruins they were vigorously attacked by the Apaches, whom, however, they succeeded in repulsing. Now it is probable, though I cannot assert it, that the troopers revolted for some cause of which I am ignorant, and that the poor wretch we saw hanging to the tree like rotten fruit paid for the rest, as generally happens."
"I thank you for your information, which proves to me that we are not mistaken, but followed the right trail. Now, can you complete your information by telling me if the French have long left the ruins, and in what direction they have marched?"
"Those questions are very easy to answer. The free company left their bivouac yesterday, a few moments after sunrise, and entered the desert."
"The desert!" the hacendero exclaimed, letting his arms sink in despondency.
There was a silence of some moments, during which both men reflected. At length Don Sylva took the word.
"It is impossible," he said.
"Still, it is so."
"But it is an extraordinary act of imprudence, almost of madness."
"I do not deny it."
"Oh, the unhappy men!"
"They are lost!"
"The fact is, that if they escape, Heaven will perform a miracle in their favour."
"I think with you; but it is now an accomplished fact, which no recriminations of ours can alter; so, Don Sylva, I believe that the wisest thing is to trouble ourselves no more about them, but let them get out of it as they best can."
"Is that your notion?"
"It is," the Tigrero replied carelessly. "I propose to remain here two or three days, and see if anything turns up. After that time, if we have seen or heard nothing, we will remount, and return to Guetzalli by the road we came, without stopping to look back, that we may arrive more speedily, and the sooner quit these horrible regions."
The hacendero shook his head like a man who has just formed an irrevocable determination.
"Then you will go alone, Don Martial," he said dryly.
"What!" the latter exclaimed, looking him firmly in the face. "What is your meaning?"
"I mean that I shall not turn back on the path I have hitherto followed; in a word, that I will not fly."
Don Martial was confounded by this answer.
"What do you intend doing, then?"
"Can you guess that? Why did we come to this place? For what purpose have we been travelling so long?"
"Excuse me, Don Sylva, but the question is now changed. You will do me the justice to allow that I have followed you without any observations—that I have been a faithful guide to you during this journey."
"I do so indeed. Now explain to me your notion."
"It is this, Don Sylva. So long as we only wandered about the prairies, at the risk of being devoured by wild beasts, I bowed my head, without attempting to oppose your designs, for I tacitly recognised that you were acting as you were bound to do. Even now, were you and I alone, I would bow without a murmur before the firm determination that animates you. But reflect that you have your daughter with you—that you condemn her to undergo nameless tortures in this fearful desert, where you force her to follow you, and which will probably swallow up both."
Don Sylva made no reply, so the Tigrero continued,—
"Our party is weak. We have provisions for only a few days; and you know, once in the Del Norte, we find no more water or game. If, during our excursion, we are assailed by a temporal, we are lost—lost, without resources, without hope!"
"All that you tell me is correct, I am well aware; still, I cannot follow your advice. Listen to me in your turn, Don Martial. The Count de Lhorailles is my friend; he will soon be my son-in-law. I do not say this to vex you, but only that you may thoroughly understand my position with regard to him. It was for my sake, to save me from those whom he supposed to have carried me off, that, without calculation, and solely urged by his noble heart, he entered the desert. Can I allow him to perish without trying to bring him succour? Is he not a stranger to Mexico—our guest, in a word? It is my duty to save him, and I will attempt it, whatever may happen."
"Since matters are so, Don Sylva, I will no longer try to combat a resolution so firmly made. I will not tell you that the man to whom you give your daughter is an adventurer, driven from his country through his ill-conduct, and who, in the marriage he seeks to contract, sees only one thing—the immense fortune you possess. All these things, and many others, I could supply you with proofs of; but you would not believe me, for you would only read rivalry in my conduct; so let us say no more on that head. You wish to enter the desert: I will follow you. Whatever may happen, you will find me at your side ready to defend and aid you. But as the hour for frank explanations has arrived, I do not wish any cloud to remain between us—that you should thoroughly know the man with whom you are going to attempt the desperate stroke you meditate, so that you may have a full and entire confidence in him."
The hacendero gazed at him with surprise. At this moment the curtain of Doña Anita's room was raised; the young girl came out, walked slowly down the hall, knelt before her father, and turning to the Tigrero,—
"Now speak, Don Martial," she said. "Perhaps my father will pardon me on seeing me thus implore his forgiveness."
"Pardon you!" the hacendero said, his eyes wandering from his daughter to the man who was standing before him with blushing brow and downcast eyes. "What is the meaning of this? What fault have you committed?"
"A fault for which I am alone culpable, Don Sylva, and for which I alone must suffer the punishment. I deceived you disgracefully: it was I who carried off your daughter."
"What!" the hacendero shouted with an outburst of fury. "I was your plaything, your dupe, then?"
"Passion does not reason. I will only say one word in my defence: I love your daughter! Alas! Don Sylva, I now perceive how culpable I have been. Reflection, though tardy, has at length arrived, and, like Doña Anita, who is weeping at your feet, I humble myself before you, and say, 'Pardon me!'"
"Pardon, father!" the poor girl said in a weak voice.
The hacendero made a gesture.
"Oh!" the Tigrero said quickly, "Be generous, Don Sylva. Do not spurn us. Our repentance is true and sincere. I am eager to repair the evil I have done. I was mad then: passion blinded me. Do not overwhelm me."
"Father," Doña Anita continued in a tearful voice, "I love him. Still, when we left the colony, we might have fled, and abandoned you; but we did not do it. The idea never once occurred to us. We were ashamed of our fault. You see us both here ready to obey you, and perform without a murmur the orders it may please you to give us. Be not inflexible, O my father, but pardon us!"
The hacendero drew himself up.
"You see," he said severely, "I can no longer hesitate. I must save the Count de Lhorailles at all hazards, else I should be your accomplice."
The Tigrero walked in great agitation up and down the hall: his eyebrows were contracted—his face deadly pale.
"Yes," he said in a broken voice, "yes, he must be saved. No matter what becomes of me after. No cowardly weakness! I have committed a fault, and will undergo all the consequences."
"Aid me frankly and loyally in my search, and I will pardon you," Don Sylva said gravely. "My honour is compromised by your fault. I place it in your hands."
"Thanks, Don Sylva; you will have no cause to repent," the Tigrero nobly replied.
The hacendero gently raised his daughter, drew her to his breast, and embraced her several times.
"My poor child!" he said to her, "I forgive you. Alas! Who knows whether in a few days I shall not have, in my turn, to ask your forgiveness for all the sufferings I have inflicted on you? Go and rest; the night is drawing on—you must have need of repose."
"Oh, how kind you are and how I love you, father!" she cried from her heart, "Fear nothing. Whatever sufferings the future may have in store for me, I will endure them without a murmur. Now I am happy, for you have pardoned me."
Don Martial's eye followed the maiden.
"When do you intend starting?" he said, stifling a sigh.
"Tomorrow, if possible."
"Be it so. Let us trust in Heaven."
After conversing for some short time longer, and making their final arrangements, Don Sylva wrapped himself up in his coverings, and soon fell asleep. As for the Tigrero, he left the house to see that the peons were carefully watching over their common safety.
"Provided that Cucharés has not fulfilled my orders!" he muttered.