In Spanish America, where the days are so warm and the nights so fresh, the inhabitants, shut up at home so long as the sun calcines the ground, go out at nightfall to breathe a little pure air; the streets, deserted in consequence of the heat, are gradually peopled; benches are placed before the doors, on which persons recline to smoke and gossip, drink orangeade, strum the guitar, and sing. Frequently the entire night is passed in these innocent amusements, and folks do not return home till dawn, in order to indulge in the sleep so grateful after this long watch. Hence the Hispano-American towns must be especially visited by night, if you wish to judge truthfully the nature of this people—a strange composite of the most discordant contrasts, who only live for enjoyment, and only accept from existence the most intoxicating pleasures. Still, on the night to which we refer, the town of Santa Fe, usually so laughing and chattering, was plunged into a gloomy sadness, the streets were deserted, the doors closed; no light filtered through the hermetically closed windows; all slept or at least feigned to sleep. The fact was, that Santa Fe was at this moment in a state of mortal agitation, caused by the condemnation of Don Miguel Zarate, the richest land owner in the province—a man who was loved and revered by the whole population. The agitation took its origin in the unexpected apparition of the Comanche war detachment—those ferocious enemies whose cruelties have become proverbial on the Mexican frontier, and whose presence presaged nothing good.
Don Pablo and his companion walked quickly, like persons anxious to reach a place where they knew they are expected, exchanging but a few words at intervals, whose meaning, however, caught up by the man who followed them, urged them still more not to let them out of sight. They thus traversed the greater part of the town, and on reaching the Calle de la Merced, they stopped at their destination—a house of handsome aspect.
A weak light burned at the window of a ground floor room. By an instinctive movement, the two gentlemen turned round at the moment of entering the house but Nathan had slipped into a doorway, and they did not perceive him. Father Seraphin tapped gently; the door was at once opened, and they went in. Nathan stationed himself in the middle of the street, with his eye ardently fixed on the only window of the house lit up. Ere long, shadows crossed the curtains.
"Good!" the young man muttered; "But how to warn the old one that the dove is in her nest?"
All at once, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and Nathan turned, fiercely clutching a bowie knife. A man was before him, gloomy, silent and wrapped in the thick folds of his cloak. The American started.
"Go your way," he said in a menacing voice.
"What are you doing here?" the stranger asked.
"How does that concern you? The street is free to all."
"No."
This word was pronounced with a sharp accent. Nathan tried in vain to scan the features of the man with whom he had to deal.