THE PRISON.
Don Miguel had been transferred to the prison of Santa Fe. Europeans, accustomed to philanthropic manners, and regarding human life as of some value, cannot imagine what atrocities the word "prison" contains in Mexico. In countries beyond sea the penitentiary system is not even in its infancy; for it is completely ignored, and has not even been suggested yet. With the exception of the United States, prisons are in America what they were at the period of the Spanish dominion; that is to say, filthy dens, where the wretched prisoners suffer a thousand tortures.
Among ourselves, so long as a man is not proved guilty, he is assumed to be innocent; but over there, so soon as a man is arrested, he is considered guilty, and consequently every consideration and all pity vanish, to make room for brutal and barbarous treatment. Thrown on a little straw in fetid holes, often inhabited by serpents and other unclean animals, the prisoners have more than once been found dead at the expiration of twenty-four hours, and half devoured. We have witnessed scores of times atrocious tortures inflicted by coarse and cruel soldiers on poor fellows whose crimes, in our country, would have merited a slight chastisement at the most. Still, in the great centres of populations, the prisons are better managed than in the towns and villages; and in this land, where money is the most powerful lever, a rich man easily succeeds in obtaining all he wishes, and rendering his position at any rate tolerable.
Don Miguel and General Ibañez had managed to be confined together by the expenditure of many entreaties and a heavy sum of gold. They inhabited two wretched rooms, the entire furniture of which consisted in a halting table, a few leather covered butacas, and two benches which served them as beds. These two men, so powerful by nature, had endured without complaint all the humiliation and insults inflicted on them during their trial, resolved to die as they had lived, with head erect and firm heart, without giving the judges who had condemned them the satisfaction of seeing them turn weak at the last moment.
It was toward evening of the same day on which we saw Valentine in the clearing. Darkness fell rapidly, and the only window, a species of narrow slit that served to light the prison, allowed but a weak and dubious light to penetrate. Don Miguel was walking with long strides up and down his prison, while the general, carelessly reclining on one of the benches, quietly smoking his cigarette, watching with childish pleasure the light clouds of bluish smoke which rose in a spiral to the ceiling, and which he constantly blew asunder.
"Well," Don Miguel said all at once, "it seems it is not for today either."
"Yes," the general said, "unless (though I do not believe it) they wish to do us the honor of a torchlight execution."
"Can you at all account for this delay?"
"On my honor, no. I have ransacked my brains in vain to guess the reason that prevents them shooting us, and I have given it up as a bad job."
"Same with me. At first I fancied they were trying to frighten us by the continued apprehension of death constantly suspended over our heads like another sword of Damocles; but this idea seemed to me too absurd."
"I am entirely of your opinion: still something extraordinary must be occurring."
"What makes you suppose that?"
"Why, for the last two days our worthy jailer, Tio Quesada, has become, not polite to us—for that is impossible—but less brutal. I noticed that he has drawn in his claws, and attempted a grin. It is true that his face is so little accustomed to assume that expression, that the only result he obtains is to make a wretched grimace."
"And you conclude from that?"
"Nothing positive," the general said. "Still I ask myself whence comes this incomprehensible change. It would be as absurd to attribute it to the pity he feels for our position as to suppose the governor will come to ask our pardon for having tried and condemned us."
"Eh?" Don Miguel said with a toss of his head. "All is not over—we are not dead yet."
"That is true; but keep your mind at rest—we shall be so soon."
"Our life is in God's hands. He will dispose of it at His pleasure."
"Amen!" the general said with a laugh, as he rolled a fresh cigarette.
"Do you not consider it extraordinary that, during the whole month we have been here, our friends have not given a sign of life?"
The general shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
"Hum!" he said, "a prisoner is very sick, and our friends doubtless feared to make us worse by the sight of their grief: that is why they have deprived themselves of the pleasure of visiting us."
"Do not jest, general. You accuse them wrongfully, I feel convinced."
"May Heaven grant it! For my part, I heartily forgive them their indifference, and the oblivion in which; they have left us."
"I cannot believe that Don Valentine, that true-hearted and noble-minded man, for whom I ever felt so deep a friendship, has not tried to see me."
"Bah! How, Don Miguel, can you, so near death as you are, still believe in honourable feelings in any man?"
At this moment there was a great clash of iron outside, and the door of the room was opened sufficiently to afford passage to the jailer, who preceded another person. The almost complete obscurity that prevailed in the prison prevented the condemned men from recognising the visitor, who wore a long black gown.
"Eh, eh!" the general muttered in his comrade's ear, "I believe that General Ventura, our amiable governor, has at length made up his mind."
"Why so?" Don Miguel asked in a low voice.
"Canarios! he has sent us a priest, which means that we shall be executed tomorrow."
"On my word, all the better," Don Miguel could not refrain from saying.
In the meanwhile the jailer, a short, thick-set man, with a ferret face and cunning eye, had turned to the priest, whom he invited to enter, saying in a hoarse voice,—
"Here it is, señor padre: these are the condemned persons."
"Will you leave us alone, my friend?" the stranger said.
"Will you have my lantern? It is getting dark, and when people are talking they like to see one another."
"Thanks; you can do so. You will open when I call you by tapping at the door."
"All right—I will do so;" and he turned to the condemned, to whom he said savagely, "Well, señores, here is a priest. Take advantage of his services now you have got him. In your position there is no knowing what may happen from one moment to the other."
The prisoners shrugged their shoulder's contemptuously, but made no reply. The jailer went out. When the sound of his footsteps had died away in the distance, the priest, who had till this moment stood with his body bent forward and his ear on the watch, drew himself up, and walked straight to Don Miguel. This manoeuvre on the part of the stranger surprised the two gentlemen, who anxiously awaited what was about to happen. The lantern left by the jailer only spread a faint and flickering light, scarcely sufficient to distinguish objects.
"My father," the hacendero said in a firm voice, "I thank the person who sent you to prepare me for death, for I anxiously wished to fulfil my duties as a Christian before being executed. If you will proceed with me into the adjoining room I will confess my sins to you: they are those which an honest man ordinarily commits; for my heart is pure, and I have nothing to reproach myself with."
The priest took off his hat, seized the lantern, and placed it near his pale face, whose noble and gentle features were suddenly displayed in the light.
"Father Seraphin!" the prisoners exclaimed with a surprise mingled with joy.
"Silence!" the priest ordered quickly. "Do not pronounce my name so loudly, brothers: everyone is ignorant of my being here except the jailer, who is my confidant."
"He!" Don Miguel said with a stupor; "the man who has been insulting and humiliating us during a month!"
"That man is henceforth ours. Lose no time, come. I have secure means to get you out of prison, and to leave the town ere your evasion can be even suspected: the horses are prepared—an escort is awaiting you. Come, gentlemen, for the moments are precious."
The two prisoners interchanged a glance of sublime eloquence; then General Ibañez quietly seated himself on a butaca, while Don Miguel replied,—
"Thanks, my father. You have undertaken the noble task of soothing all sorrow, and you do not wish to fail in your duty. Thanks for the offer you make us, which we cannot, however, accept. Men like us must not give our enemies right by flying like criminals. We fought for a sacred principle, and succumbed. We owe it to our countrymen and to ourselves to endure death bravely. When we conspired we were perfectly well aware of what awaited us if we were conquered. Once again, thanks; but we will only quit this prison as free men, or to walk to punishment."
"I have not the courage, gentlemen, to blame your heroic resolution: in a similar case I should act as you are doing. You have a very slight hope still left, so wait. Perchance, within a few hours, unforeseen events will occur to change the face of matters."
"We hope for nothing more, my father."
"That word is a blasphemy in your mouth, Don Miguel. God can do all He wills. Hope, I tell you."
"I am wrong, father: forgive me."
"Now I am ready to hear your confession."
The prisoners bowed. Father Seraphin shrived them in turn, and gave them absolution.
"Hola!" the jailer shouted through the door. "Make haste; it is getting late. It will soon be impossible to leave the city."
"Open the door," the missionary said in a firm voice.
The jailer appeared.
"Well?" he asked.
"Light me and lead me out of the prison. These caballeros refuse to profit by the chance of safety I came to offer them."
The jailer shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"They are mad," he said.
And he went out, followed by the priest, who turned on the threshold and pointed to heaven. The prisoners remained alone.