Story 1, Chapter XXII.
Dark Suspicions.
I cannot describe the painful impression produced upon me, at seeing the Jarocha in such strange companionship.
At first I was inclined to disbelieve the evidence of my eyes, and to think that I was being cheated by a resemblance.
But as the path turned into a second zigzag, more abrupt than the first, the profile became a quarter-face portrait; and there was no chance for me to avoid the conviction that Lola Vergara was riding alongside Ramon Rayas!
A countenance like hers was not common. It was too beautiful to have had a counterpart, even in that land of lovely graces.
Besides, I now recognised the dress, the same worn by the Jarocha when I had last seen her, some six hours before, with only the addition of the sombrero, which had been donned, no doubt, as a protection against the hot beams of a tropical sun.
I had just time to assure myself of the identity of the girl; when the road, having reached the bottom of the hill, turned straight again; and from that time till the cuadrilla came to a halt, I could only catch occasional glimpses, either of the robber captain, or of the fair equestrian moving onward by his side.
Though no longer privileged with a fair view either of Ramon Rayas or Lola Vergara, the painful impression produced by their juxtaposition continued to harrass my soul; and during the half hour that intervened before arriving at the halting-place of the brigands, I gave myself up to reflections and conjectures imbued with the extreme of bitterness.
My first thought, put in the shape of a mental interrogatory, was, whether the Jarocha was a consenting party to the companionship in which I now saw her?
The position, such as it was, looked more than suspicious. Her dread of Rayas, loudly expressed on the preceding night, might, after all, have been nothing more than hypocrisy; nay, it might have been real, and yet it might have resulted in the association now before my eyes!
I had seen enough of women to convince me, that terror is too often the true weapon by which their affections may be assailed and conquered; and that the possession of absolute power may turn their hate, if not into love, at least into a feeling near akin to it.
I remembered some expressions in reference to Rayas, that, on the night before, had fallen from the lips of Lola Vergara. To me they had been unintelligible at the time, though producing a vague sense of doubt, about the honesty as to her declared antipathy to the man.
These were now recalled, with, as I fancied, a clearer comprehension of their import.
In fine, why should she be there, riding by his side, voluntarily: for there was no appearance of compulsion; but rather of complaisance.
No! I should not say that. The glimpse I had had of her face did not give me that idea. On the contrary, I saw, or fancied that I saw a pale cheek, a downcast glance, and a sorrowful expression of countenance.
I was not certain of this; I would have given much to have been assured of it; and my intent gaze was directed to this end, when the straightening of the road, and the interposition of the salteadores, cut short my investigation.
The fancy that she looked sad—in keeping with her name of Dolores—was some consolation; which enabled me, with a certain tranquillity of mind, to sustain that forced traverse through the chapparal in the companionship of the salteadores.
There was one circumstance that surprised while it pained me as well. Why did Lola not look round?
During all the time my eyes had been on her, she had not turned hers towards the rear, nor even to one side or the other. This I thought strange, whether her presence among the robbers was forced or voluntary.
Was she aware of the capture which they had made—an officer of the American army? Or could she be acquainted with the more particular fact, as to who was the individual made prisoner?
I could not think that she was cognisant of either circumstance; and yet she had not looked back. If no other feeling, that of natural curiosity, proverbially strong in her sex, would have prompted her to turn her head.
She had not done so. Surely, after what had passed between us on the preceding night, she could not be indifferent to my forlorn condition—scarcely even to the uniform that distinguished me from my captors?
Such conduct was not compatible with the character of woman, whether Mexican or American. Lola Vergara could not have known of the capture which the robbers had accomplished; she could not be aware of my presence in the rear of the cuadrilla.
There was consolation in my thinking so, slight as it may be deemed. It would have been a grievous reflection to have believed her to be a sharer in the fortunes of my captors;—to have known that she was a participator of all that had transpired;—to imagine that she had even a suspicion of who it was who was riding, fast bound to a horse, behind her.
I did not wrong her by the belief I felt convinced she was unconscious of all—at least of the last circumstance.
I was confirmed in this conviction by something that had occurred, as we parted from the spot where I had been captured. A short halt had been made by the robbers, during which they had been joined by a party that had not been present at their ambuscade. In all likelihood, the Jarocha had been one of this party, and might have been ignorant of what had passed.
This was probable enough; though for myself I had been at the time too much engrossed with my misfortune to take heed to what was transpiring around me.
The explanation satisfied, at the same time that it pleased me. I could give credence to no other. After what had passed on the preceding night—my protection extended to her brother—my sympathy for herself—my profession of something more—her own apparent reciprocation of that something—surely Lola Vergara could not be my enemy?
In all I saw there was a mystery that needed elucidation.
Ere long I obtained it. The cuadrilla came to a halt at a rancheria or collection of huts, all of which appeared to be uninhabited—their owners no doubt having fled at the approach of the robber band.
It was the Rinconada alluded to by the robber chief. In the piazza of the village the order was broken up; and the files in the rear closed in upon the heads of the “column.”
By this change of position I was brought close to the side of the Jarocha.
Words can but ill express the pleasure I felt on perceiving that she was strapped to her saddle—like myself, a prisoner; and the scream that escaped her, as she recognised me, was, to my ears, sweeter than any note that ever issued from the lips of Grisi or the “Swedish Nightingale.”
We were not allowed any interchange of words—scarcely even that of a glance. Before I could speak to her, the Jarocha was handed from her horse, and conducted inside one of the Jacales—the one which appeared to be the principal “hut” of the rancheria.