“It is best that you go to the jail to-night, Rosendo,” said Josè with sinking heart. “But, Don Mario,” turning menacingly to the Alcalde, “mark you, his trial takes place in the morning, and he shall be judged, not by you alone, but by his fellow-townsmen!”
“Have I not said so, señor?” returned Don Mario curtly, with a note of deep contempt in his voice.
As in most small Spanish towns, the jail was a rude adobe hut, with no furnishings, save the wooden stocks into which the feet of the hapless prisoners were secured. Thus confined, the luckless wight who chanced to feel the law’s heavy hand might sit in a torturing position for days, cruelly tormented at night by ravenous mosquitoes, and wholly dependent upon the charity of the townsfolk for his daily rations, unless he have friends or family to supply his needs. In the present instance Don Mario took the extra precaution of setting a guard over his important prisoner.
Josè, benumbed by the shock and bewildered by the sudden precipitation of events, accompanied Rosendo to the jail and mutely watched the procedure as Fernando secured the old man’s bare feet in the rude stocks. And yet, despite the situation, he could not repress a sense of the ridiculous, as his thought dwelt momentarily on the little opéra bouffe which these child-like people were so continually enacting in their attempts at self-government. But it was a play that at times approached dangerously near to the tragic. The passions of this Latin offshoot were strong, if their minds were dull and lethargic, and when aroused were capable of the most despicable, as well as the most grandly heroic deeds. And in the present instance, when the fleeting sense of the absurd passed, Josè knew that he was facing a crisis. Something told him that resistance now would be useless. True, Rosendo might have opposed arrest with violence, and perhaps have escaped. But that would have accomplished nothing for Carmen, the pivot upon which events were turning. Josè had reasoned that it were better to let the Alcalde play his hand 225 first, in the small hope that as the cards fell he might more than match his opponent’s strength with his own.
“Na, Padre, do not worry,” said Rosendo reassuringly. “It is for her sake; and we shall have to know, as she does, that everything will come out right. My friends will set me free to-morrow, when the trial takes place. And then”––he drew the priest down to him and whispered low––“we will leave Simití and take to the mountains.”
Josè bent his heavy steps homeward. Arriving at Rosendo’s house, he saw the little living room crowded with sympathetic friends who had come to condole with Doña Maria. That placid woman, however, had not lost in any degree her wonted calm, even though her companions held forth with much impassioned declamation against the indignity which had been heaped upon her worthy consort. He looked about for Carmen. She was not with her foster-mother, nor did his inquiry reveal her whereabouts. He smiled sadly, as he thought of her out on the shales, her customary refuge when storms broke. He started in search of her; but as he passed through the plaza Mañuela Cortez met him. “Padre,” she exclaimed, “is the little Carmen to go to jail, too?”
Josè stopped short. “Mañuela––why do you say that?” he asked hurriedly, his heart starting to beat like a trip-hammer.
“Because, Padre, I saw the constable, Fernando, take her into Don Mario’s house some time ago.”
Josè uttered an exclamation and started for the house of the Alcalde. Don Mario stood at the door, his huge bulk denying the priest admission.
“Don Mario!” panted Josè. “Carmen––you have her here?”