Chapter Fourteen.
Que Cosa?
Giving way to sweet imaginings, I stood for some seconds under the shadow of the portal.
Meanwhile the Mexican had passed out of the street.
As I believed that he had gone back to the saloon we had both lately forsaken, I started in the same direction.
I now longed to have a conversation with him; determined in my own mind that it should be more cordial than any that had yet taken place between us. I could at that moment have embraced him: for my gratitude, hitherto restrained by the thought of his being my rival, was suddenly exalted to a feeling of fervour.
I should seek an interview with the noble youth; make known who it was he had befriended; and ask if there was any way in which I could reciprocate his generosity?
My heart was overflowing towards Francisco Moreno! As he had been the cause of my late misery, I now looked upon him as the instrument of my regeneration.
“Oh! I shall make an ample return to him! But what is it to be?”
Just as I gave thought to the interrogatory, a harsh sound struck upon my ears—as if some one, suddenly stopped in the street, had uttered a cry of mixed anger and surprise. It was followed by the words:
“Que cosa caballeros? Que cosa comigo?” (What is it, gentlemen? What do you want with me?)
“Vuestra bolsa, señor; nada mas” (Your purse, sir; nothing more.)
“Carrambo! A modest demand! For all that, I’m not inclined to comply with it. You may have my purse; but not till after you’ve taken my life. Out of the way, scoundrels! Let me pass!”
“Upon him, camarados! He is loaded with doblones. Al tierra! Down with him!”
These words—not very loudly spoken—were succeeded by the sounds of a struggle, in which several men appeared to take part; five or six, as I could tell by the shuffling of their shoes upon the flagged pavement.
I no longer heard words; or only a few, that seemed spoken under restraint, and scarce louder than whispers!
Even he who had first called out appeared to have become suddenly silent!
For all that the struggle was continuing!
The street in which it was taking place was a sort of narrow passage—leading from one of the main thoroughfares towards the Piazza Grande—and not far from the entrance to the Calle del Obispo.
It was dimly illumined by a solitary lard lamp, whose feeble flickering only served to make the path more uncertain.
I had myself entered the lane—which chanced to be a near cut between the café to which I was returning, and the “calle” I had left behind. It was just as I had got into it that the cry fell upon my ears, followed by the challenge “Que cosa caballeros?”
The rest of the dialogue did not occupy ten seconds of time, before the conflict commenced; and, as the scene of strife was not more than ten paces from where I had paused, another half-score of seconds carried me up to the spot.
I had been thus prompt in rushing to the rescue, because I fancied that I knew the voice of the man who was being assaulted.
I was right. It was Francisco Moreno!
I found him in the midst of five men, forming a sort of quincunx around him; against all five of whom he was industriously defending himself; while they were as busy in the endeavour to get him down.
They were all armed with machetés; while he wielded a sword, which he had drawn from under his cloak.
I could see that the attacking party carried pistols, but did not attempt to use them—perhaps from fear of causing an alarm, and thus defeating their purpose: to all appearance plunder!
I was not so chary about the discharging of mine. The moment I caught sight of the Red Hats—for the assailants were so distinguished—I had a clear comprehension of the sort of gentry with whom the Mexican had to deal, as well as the character of the attack.
The blood ran scalding within my veins. But that very day I had been sickened at hearing the details of an atrocity, committed by these precious pets of our commander-in-chief; and I had mentally vowed, if I should ever chance to catch one of them at their tricks, to make short work with him.
The chance had come sooner than I expected; and I remembered my vow.
The shout with which I interrupted their pastime was almost loud enough to hinder them from hearing the report of my pistol; but one of them caught the bullet that came out of it, and went groaning into the gutter.
I might have shot down a second, or even a third, before they could get out of the way; though they were anything but slow in making disappearance.
I was satisfied with having put an end to one: for this had I done, as was evident from the silent lump of humanity that lay doubled up along the stones.