I resumed my way down the rough descent, pondering, for the first time in my life, on the ingratitude I had been guilty of, and had reached some high cliffs that border the road beneath the village of La Cuera del Becerro, when a pistol was discharged within a few yards of me, and, looking up, I saw a witchlike figure standing on the edge of the precipice overhanging the path—It was Paca!
Had my eyes wished to deceive me, she would not have allowed them, for, with a wild, demonaical laugh, she screamed out “Adelante, Adelante, embustero desalmado![147]—You will yet be in time to dig the grave for your child, though too late to snatch your wife from the arms of her paramour. Forward, forward; recollect the old saying, ‘no hay boda, sin tornabóda;’[148] you may have forgotten Paca of Benaocaz, but I shall never forget Blas Maldonado. The creditor has ever a better memory than the debtor. I have paid myself now, however—ride on, and see the receipt I have left for you at Cañete—ha, ha, ha!”
There was something perfectly fiendish in her laughter. A horrible presentiment possessed me.—With a hand tremulous with passion, I drew forth a pistol and fired. Paca staggered, and fell backwards; but, not waiting to see if she were killed, I put spurs to my horse, and hurried forward to Cañete.
I rode straight to the house where I had left my wife, but it was uninhabited. I turned from it with a shudder, and proceeded to the abode of my faithful friend Clavijo, who was confined to his bed with ague. He received me with a face foreboding evil.
“Where is my wife?” I hastily demanded—“my child, where is he?”
“Alas!” he replied, “why came you not earlier?”
“Earlier! how could that be? It is but twelve hours since your summons was penned! Tell me, I implore you—what horrible misfortune has befallen?”
“But twelve hours, say you?” exclaimed Clavijo; “It is now three days since I intrusted my letter to Paca to convey to you! she it was who informed me of the plot to carry off your wife, (which has been but too truly effected,) and offered to be herself the bearer of my letter to you at Montejaque, where she assured me you were. I have not seen her since, and fancied she had not succeeded in finding you.”
I stood stupified whilst listening to this explanation—for such it was to me; the truth, the horrible truth, at once flashing upon me—and then, without waiting to obtain further information from the bed-ridden Miguel, hastened to the late residence of my wife, which one of his domestics pointed out to me. In few words, I explained to its owner the object of my visit, begging for information concerning my child. “This will explain all, Señor Blas,” she replied, taking a letter from a cupboard, and placing it in my hands; “would to God it had been in my power to prevent what has happened.”
The letter was in my wife’s hand-writing, I tore it open, and to my astonishment read as follows.