“For God’s sake say no more!” cried Ashley, with actual horror in his voice. “I forgot that this tale has no deeper significance to you than any other; that the American is to you simply an American, and Ramirez the hero of your own countrymen, by whose desperate deeds your imagination is dazzled, and for whom, even in the midst of horror, you find excuse, admiration, justification. To you he seems but a jealous lover, taking just revenge upon a successful rival.”
Chinita spoke not a word, but bent her head as though his words were an accusation. Her face, in the dim light, was so impassive it was impossible for Ashley to conjecture what was passing in her mind. Did she remember that he had said he had come to seek a child, and was it possible that the mystery of her own birth had not suggested to her that she might have an interest in the ghastly deed of Ramirez far deeper than would make natural or possible to her the excuse of jealousy in the perpetrator? He had learned something of the reticence and self-restraint of these people since he had come among them; yet was it possible this young girl could suspend judgment in such a cause until her own relation to it was fully ascertained? Were prejudice, education, sentiment, so much stronger than the voice of Nature? Did no instinct cry in her heart, denouncing this man, of whom she had made a hero,—no womanly pity hover over his victim? What a ready apprehension she had shown of Ashley’s own desire for vengeance! Was that simply because it was the passion strongest in her own soul, and so gave to her ready excuse even for murder?
Under the moonlight it seemed to him that the young girl’s face grew hard as marble. No, she was not one to yield her faith lightly. This deed, which had filled the mind of Chata with dismay, and intensified a thousand-fold the horror in which she held the character of the man whom she believed it sin not to reverence and love, would in no wise shake the faith and admiration of this stronger soul, who could condone it with the thought that a woman had played the murderer false.
“Yet with all this, Señor,” she said at length, looking up, “if you have no more to tell me, I see not why this should turn me against the Señor General. For you it is different—oh, quite different; but for me,—” She paused suddenly, and Ashley saw that the hand which hung at her side was clenched till the nails marked her flesh.
Yes, the deed itself was nothing,—a trifle, at most,—but in its relation to her, how great, how terrible, it might become!
Ashley was not deceived. He felt that by a word he might fan into a resistless flame the fire that lay smouldering in that resolute heart,—a word which would be no surprise to her, which would but confirm the conviction against which, in loyalty to Ramirez, she struggled with even a certain anger against the persistent suspicion that made the legendary and unheroic figure of the American a mute denouncer, more powerful, more persuasive, than the living man who had revealed the author of the tragedy which through all her life had been so dark a mystery. It seemed to Ashley that she held her breath to listen to his next words; but he could be as hard as she was herself to this girl, whose heart seemed incapable of feeling aught but a personal injury, or any passion but revenge.
“Señorita,” he said, “I went back to the hacienda. My horse had fled; there was nothing else for me to do, if I would find means to follow this man who had suddenly become my debtor in all the dues of outraged kinship. My object was to obtain money, a horse and guide, and to regain the troop as quickly as should be possible; to denounce this murderer to Doña Isabel, and reveal the plot against her interests which had appeared to me so weak, so absolutely absurd, but which now assumed an importance commensurate with my detestation of him whom it was designed to serve. But with further thought my resolution changed. If all her agents were false,—Pedro, Ruiz, as well as you, whom I know to be” (Chinita winced),—“and Pepé should be successful in inducing Pedro to play into the hands of Ramirez, what power could Doña Isabel employ to prevent that change of leadership which it was more than probable the troops—indifferent to the cause, eager only for action and booty—would accept with acclamations? Clearly, my only course was to proceed to El Toro and arouse the too confident Gonzales, who in incomprehensible inactivity was awaiting the promised succor,—incomprehensible if the emissaries of Doña Isabel had reached him; for, as I knew, not one word in reply had been returned.
“I had much to ask of Doña Isabel Garcia,—questions which had burned upon my lips before; but reflection told me I was no more ready to ask them now than I had been; that her pride might be still as obdurate. No, there were months before me in which by gradual assault I might acquire all the knowledge I would in vain endeavor to gain by sudden force. I was confident that if by no stratagem or treason Ramirez ultimately could place himself at the head of these troops, he would be found in the field against them. I learned that he hated Gonzales as a personal, no less than a political, foe. Gonzales then was the man for me to follow. In serving Doña Isabel against the machinations of those she had so blindly trusted, I should serve myself; keep in view the mocking fiend whose downfall I had sworn, and perchance satisfy myself in regard to the still importunate doubts which had led to my presence amid these strange scenes.
“I had intended to leave the hacienda upon the very night of my return, but on my way—Well, that is nothing to the purpose; I reached it exhausted. But the early morning found me in the saddle. My strength revived with every step toward El Toro. Once we caught sight of the long line of the hacienda troop crossing the open plain. We had passed through cañons and byways, and were far in advance of them. More than once in the mountains we heard the name of Ramirez, and made wide detours of hamlets where men were gathering in twos and threes and sixes,—ragged, unkempt, unarmed for the most part, but full of enthusiasm in their leader, and confident of booty and glory. Without doubt, the reverse of Ramirez at El Toro would not remain unavenged. I realized the spell of that potent name, the very echo of which seemed to be as eloquent as the living voice of most men, chieftains and leaders though they might be.”
Chinita’s eyes glistened; she raised herself with a proud gesture, as if the involuntary tribute to the genius of the adventurer was a personal commendation.