The conspirators appeared to hear neither the enticing sounds of the vihuela which vibrated in their ears, nor the refrains of sambacuejas which flew in gusts from the chinganas, nor the bursts of fresh, silvery laughter of the black-eyed, rosy-lipped girls, who elbowed them on their way. They walked thus for a long time, turning round at intervals to ascertain if they were followed, plunging by degrees into the lowest quarters of the city, and at length stopped at a house of mean appearance, from which issued the loud but not very melodious strains of music eminently national.
This house was a chingana, a name which has no equivalent in French or English. A Chilian chingana presents so eccentrically droll an appearance, that it would defy the pencil of Callot, and is beyond all description. Let the reader figure to himself a low room, with smoky walls, the floor of which is but beaten earth, and rendered filthy by the detritus left by the feet of incessantly arriving and departing visitors. In the centre of this den, lighted only by a smoky lamp called a candil, by which it is impossible to distinguish more than the shadows of the customers, are seated four men upon stools. Two of them are twanging wretched guitars, which have lost most of their strings, with the backs of their hands; the third plays the tambourine with his thumbs upon a crippled table, striking it with all his might; whilst the fourth rolls between his hands a piece of bamboo six feet long, split into several strips, which yield the most discordant sound that can possibly be imagined. The four musicians, not content with the formidable clatter made by their instruments, shout, at the very top of their voices, songs which we can neither venture to repeat nor translate.
All this infernal noise is made to excite the dancers, who flutter about, assuming the most lascivious postures they can invent, amidst the hearty applause of the spectators, who writhe with delight, stamp their feet with pleasure, and sometimes, carried away by the harmony, thunder out all together, the burthen of the song, with the musicians and dancers. Amidst this disturbance, these cries and stampings, wind in and out the master of the establishment and his waiters, armed with couis of chicha, bottles of aguardiente, and even guarapo, to slake the thirst of the customers, who, to do them justice, the more they drink the more thirsty they become, and the more they wish to drink.
Twice or thrice in the course of an evening, it may happen that some of the guests, more heated than the rest, or seized by the demon of jealousy, take it into their heads to quarrel. Then knives are drawn from the polena, ponchos are rolled round the left arm to serve as bucklers, the music ceases, and a circle is formed round the combatants. The sanguinary contest begins, and when one of the combatants has fallen, he is carried into the street, the music is resumed, the dance recommences, and no more is thought of the poor wounded or dying man.
It was in front of one of these establishments that the chief of the Dark-Hearts and his friend had stopped; they did not hesitate. Pulling up the folds of their cloaks so as to completely conceal their faces, they entered the chingana: in spite of the pestilential atmosphere which nearly choked them, they passed unnoticed through the drinkers, and gained the further end of the room. The cellar door stood ajar; they opened it softly, and disappeared down the steps. After descending ten of these, they found themselves in a cellar, where a man, leaning over a barrel, which he appeared to be occupied in putting in its place, said to them, without interrupting his work—
"Would you like some aguardiente de pesco, some mescal, or some chica?"
"Neither the one nor the other," Don Tadeo replied; "we wish for some French wine."
The man sprang up as if moved by a spring. The two adventurers had put on their masks.
"Do you wish to have it white or red?" the man asked.
"Red—as red as blood," said Don Tadeo.