Chapter Thirty Four.
Padre Cornaga.
Astonishment still held me speechless, as it did my companion—motionless, too, as the maguey leaves, radiating around us.
Had I known the real signification of what had just transpired, I might have acted with more promptitude, and ten times the energy.
As it was, I felt like one slowly recovering from a state of torpidity—from an ill-digested dream!
“What does it all mean?” I inquired of the stage-driver, without stirring from my place.
“Darn’d if I know, cap’n; ’cept it air one band o’ robbers that’s attackted the t’other, and stripped ’em of their spoils. The conq’rors ’pear to be clean gone away, an’ hev took the weemen too! They’ve sloped off on t’other side o’ the shanty. I kin hear ’em yet, making their way up the mountain! Thar’s a path there; tho’ it ain’t so easy to climb. I reck’n they’ve gone up it, toatin up the gurls along wi’ ’em. The reezun they ain’t still screechin’ is, they’ve got ’em eyther gagged, or tapado.”
“Tapado?”
“Yes; muffled up—thar faces covered wi’ something—to hinder them from seeing their way, or singin’ out. They only do it, when the weemen show refactory.”
What mattered it to me? What mattered, whether Dolores Villa-Señor was the wife of one robber, or the mistress of another? Why should I care now? She could never be mine!
I stepped out from among the leaves—leisurely, as one who has no motive for making haste. There was a cold pain at my heart; a callous indifference to the fate of her who had caused it. She was welcome to go higher—to the summit of the mountain she had selected as the scene of her nuptials.
It was Ixticihuatl on whose slope we stood. The “White Sister” could be seen through the clear starlight above, reposing in spotless vestments. How different from the robe of Dolores!
“Let her go!” was my unchivalric reflection. “She has made her own bed: let her lie upon it!”
It was not for the purpose of pursuing—at all events not with any thought of rescuing her—that I placed the call to my lips, and sounded the signal for my men.
In less than five minutes the “Rifles” were around me—their green jackets distinguishable under the brilliant beams of the moon—that on the instant sailed suddenly into sight.
On hearing the shots, and other sounds of strife, they had commenced moving up the mountain-path. Hence the promptness of their appearance.
Selecting half a dozen of them, I stepped straight into the doorway of the house. We entered without opposition—groping our way through the saguan.
Inside all was darkness; though we could tell that the place was still tenanted,—by the groans that proceeded from the adjacent chamber.
A light was struck; and we commenced exploring the apartments. In the dining-room there was no one—a banquet spread—but without guest to partake of it!
We turned into the sala grande—from whence proceeded the lugubrious sounds.
The scene—so late one of merriment—was now a spectacle of death!
Two men were lying along the floor. One might have been supposed asleep: as he lay quite silent. But a red rivulet, trickling from its source underneath him, and terminating on the tiles in a pool of blood—told that it was the silence of death.
The other, also surrounded by seams of smoking gore, still lived and moved. It was he who was making moan.
On stooping over him, I recognised the features of Francisco Moreno. They were still handsome, though terribly distorted by his struggle, as I supposed, with death.
It was no use asking an explanation from him. I saw that he did not know me!
There was a thought in my mind at the moment—an unsanctified thought. A rival had been removed from my path. Francisco Moreno was no longer in my way!
But it could not matter now. The relief had come too late!
“Hilloa, what’s this?” exclaimed one of the men, poking his rifle under the banquette, and pressing it against what appeared a large bundle done up in Kentucky jeans. “By the Almighty, it’s a monk!”
“You’re right, caballero,” answered a voice, from under the envelope of grey-blue serge, which, on closer inspection, proved to be the gown of a Franciscan friar.
“A monk I am—at your service, caballeros. Sangre de Crista! It’s the merest, accident that I’m a living one. O, señores; I perceive that you are hombres buenos; and that the ladrones have retreated at your approach. Say that they are gone; and that I need have no further fear?”
“Two on ’em haint gone fur,” replied the stage-driver; “thar they lie—right afore yur eyes, Padre Cornaga.”
“Ah! you know me, good sir? Santissima, it’s the driver of the diligencia—the worthy Don Samuel Bruno! What! these robbers? Por Dios, no! They are gentlemen!”
“A queery kind o’ gentlemen, I reckin’.”
“’Tis true as I say it, Señor Don Samuel. Caballeros—hombres honestos—both these unfortunate young men. Ay de mi!” added the monk, stooping down over one of the prostrate forms. “This is the son of our Juez de Letras (judge of the Criminal court). Many a robber have I shrived after sentence passed by his honoured father. And this,” he continued, turning to Francisco, “Ah! señores, this is the bridegroom himself—asesinado—in the presence of his bride, and under the sacred shadow of the altar, that should have protected him from anything! Pobre Dolores! Pobre Dolores!”
“It is the name of a lady. How came she to be here? You say these men are not robbers—what are they?”
“Oh, señor capitan!—for I perceive you are the chief—it is a strange story. Shall I tell it to you?”
“As you please about that. I came here to capture a gang of ladrones; or kill them, if need be. I only want to know which are the thieves, and which the honest men. There does not appear to be any great difference between them?”
“O caballero! why should you say that? Surely you do not mistake the honourable capitan Moreno for a salteador? A worthy young gentleman who but ten minutes ago was standing up to be wedded to one of the fairest and most Christian ladies in our good city of Puebla—the daughter of Don Eusebio—”
“Villa-Señor. I know all that. But how came it to pass? Why was the ceremony here? Why not in her father’s house?”
“You astonish me, señor! What can you know?”
“Never mind what. Tell me, I entreat—I command you—how it is that this marriage—interrupted as I perceive it has been—was taking place here—among the mountains?”
“Señor capitan; you are welcome to know all. Alas! there is now no reason for keeping the scheme concealed.”
“A scheme! There was a scheme?”
“Si, señor! It was contrived between the young people themselves. Don Eusebio was against their being united—so much, that to prevent it he was taking his daughter to a convent—that of La Concepcion, in the capital; which I may be permitted to say to you, a stranger, is the most fashionable of our nunneries. Pobre Dolores! Can you blame her for using means to escape from such a fate? Even I, a religio, do not scruple to say it was wrong. To think of immuring such a fair creature within the dull walls of a cloister!”
“I acknowledge to having been in the confidence of the amantes; and even assisted them to contrive their little scheme; which, alas! has proved so unsuccessful. Ah, worse than that: since it has brought ruin to all engaged in it!”
“What was it?” I asked, impatiently, having but slight sympathy with the regrets of the priest.
“Well, señor, it was this. The gallant youth whom you see there—alas, I fear the victim of his gallantry—with half a dozen of his friends, disguised as salteadores, were to capture the diligencia, and gain possession of the Señorita Dolores,—as also of her sister who accompanied her; another lady as fair—some say fairer—than she; and, with all respect to the gentle Dolores, I am myself of this opinion.
“Need I say that the plan so far was eminently successful?
“Pues, señor! It had been arranged that I was to be one of the travelling party; which, from my office of sacristan to the family of the Señor Don Eusebio, was easily brought about. I too was to be taken prisoner by the sham bandits!
“Pues señor! There was to be a marriage—without Don Eusebio’s consent. It was in the act of being solemnised. Jesu Cristo! what a termination! There lies the bridegroom. Where is the bride? Where her sister Mercedes? Ah, señor! you should see Mercedes—una cosa muy linda—the fairest thing in all the city of Puebla!”
“Excepting Dolores.”
The words went forth with a purely mechanical effort. I was in no mood for playing champion to charms never to be enjoyed by me.
“The robbery of the diligencia was a ruse, then?”
“Si, señor. Una engaña. A little stratagem of Don Francisco and his friends.”
“I thort thar was somethin’ queery beout it,” remarked the stage-driver.
“But what meant the ransom—the ten thousand dollars?” I asked.
“Ay Dios, señor capitan, that was part of the plot. Don Eusebio is muy rico—very rich indeed. For all that he is perhaps a little parsimonious. The young people knew that they would need money to commence housekeeping; and as it might be a long time, before the worthy parent would relent and grant them forgiveness, they thought it might be as well to borrow it from him in that way. Santissima! it has been a mistake—all, all! Oh, señores! you will not betray me? If it becomes known that I was a willing actor in this sad affair, I would not only lose the lucrative situation I hold in Don Eusebio’s family, but perhaps also my gown. Dios de mi alma!”
“My good padre,” I answered somewhat unmannerly, “we have no time to trouble ourselves about your future. We wish you to give some further explanation of the present. The marriage ceremony you speak of was interrupted. We know that. But why, and by whom?”
“Robbers, señor—real robbers! Salteadores del camino grande!”
This was an answer to both my questions. The monk on perceiving it, offered no further explanation.
“Their sole motive was plunder, I suppose?”
“Ah, señor, I wish I could think so!”
“You believe they had some other object?”
“Alas! yes. Look there, caballero!”
The priest pointed to the dead body of the young man, whom he had represented as the son of the Juez de Letras. He was lying with face upwards. I could see upon his breast the sparkle of gold—the guard-chain of a watch—and inside the vest a shape showing that the watch was itself there!
“This is strange,” I said. “Are you sure they were regular robbers who did this?”
“Sure—sure!” replied the padre, with a melancholy shake of the head. “Too sure, caballero. ’Tis true they wore masks, and I could not see their faces. But I heard a name that told me all. I heard it as they passed out, carrying the muchachas along with them.”
“What name?” I asked, with a painful presentiment.
“Ah, señor capitan; one too well known upon these roads.”
“Carrasco?” I half shouted, without waiting for the padre to pronounce it.
“Ay Dios, señor! You know everything! That is the name. I heard it from one of his followers, who spoke to him as they hurried off in the darkness. The robber-chief who has done this foul deed is the noted captain Carrasco! Pobres niñas!”