The man who had been murdered years before had been a shadow, a myth, in her mind. He became at that supreme moment a living presence, joining with, blent with, the martyred Pedro in denunciation of the man whom she had raised in her admiration to a pinnacle of glory. The idol of years crashed to the earth, in semblance of a demon,—and with it fell the stoicism and pride that had encased as in bands of steel the softer emotions of her nature.
“Murdered! murdered both!” she moaned at length. “Was it not enough he should bereave me even before I came into the world, but that he should so vilely slay the only creature who has loved me? Oh, my God!” she added, shuddering, “why have I been so cursed as to have given one thought to such a wretch? Oh! forgive, forgive, forgive!”
XXXVI.
To whom was that vain cry addressed? Ashley questioned not, but clasping in his the icy hands which strove to smite and beat each other, spoke such words of soothing as came readiest in the stranger tongue he found so inadequate. He realized that it was not to him Chinita directed that wail of self-abasement and remorse; and he also apprehended somewhat of the wild joy that would have been his, had she involuntarily turned to him in the anguish of her desolation. But she was scarcely conscious of his presence, and in her frenzy—terrible to witness, though it was not loud—even Pepé’s rough accents were unheeded.
“Niña of my soul!” he said earnestly, “Pedro is not dead. No, it is not a lie I tell thee! Who would lie to thee in such an hour as this? I have come to tell thee that he lives; ’t was he himself who sent me.”
“He himself!”, she echoed at last, turning her wild, tearless eyes upon Pepé’s face. “Ah, it is because thou art here that I know he is dead, else thou wouldst not dare to leave him!”
“And by my faith, it is not of my own will I am here!” answered Pepé, bluntly. “Señor Don ’Guardo, you can tell her that.”
“I can in truth,” replied Ashley, who seeing that the peasant’s words were received by her but as mere attempts to defer the evil moment when the inevitable assurance of the death of her foster-father must be given her,—so well did she know the customs and manners of her country people, ever prone to useless prevarication, even in their deepest sorrow,—hastened to describe to her the few scant means they had found in his extremity to recall the exhausted Pedro to the life that had apparently been thrust and beaten and driven from him forever.
The ball of the pistol had but grazed the cheek of the tortured man; the blood and dust had deceived the accustomed eyes of Ramirez, as it had deceived their own. The greater danger arose from the frightful condition of laceration and fatigue to which the mad race through the stony cañon had reduced him.
In a few words Pepé told the tale. He and Pedro had met but the day before, and it was while hastening to El Toro to apprize Gonzales of the plot that Pepé, in the petition of Chinita, had revealed to the indignant Pedro, that they had encountered face to face the irate chieftain and his followers. Pepé understood little of the cause that led to their being seized, dragged from their horses, and threatened with instant death. Both alike protested innocence of any scheme to baffle or injure the mountain chieftain; but he understood too well the ease with which a foe too weak to fight could assume the aspect of a friend. At the worst, however, Pepé imagined they might be forced to turn back on their way to spend a few unwilling hours among the bandit followers, until chance should give them opportunity to escape. But Ramirez’s memory was keen as it was vengeful. Suddenly he bent and gazed searchingly into the face of the elder prisoner.