“No, no!” screamed Doña Rita, “the place is full of ruffians. Ramirez himself is a tiger! I—” but Chata had wrenched the key from her numbed and shaking hands, and thrusting it in the lock had turned the grating wards.
When she rushed into the corridors they were empty,—there was a sight to behold elsewhere. On she flew, not noticing that Doña Rita and Rosario followed, and that their shrieks rose with hers, as in a minute or less they reached the outer court, and strove to penetrate the throng that filled it and extended to the village beyond.
Within the high arch of the doorway, clear against the deep blue of the mid-day sky, swayed the figure of a man,—of Rafael Sanchez. Below, sword in hand, stood Ramirez and two panting laborers who that instant had accomplished his decree. Around them were gathered scores of armed men, evil-eyed, with the ferocity of brutes in their faces; and Ramirez stood pre-eminent, a very demon.
The crowd parted like water before the shrieks of the three women. In a moment Chata reached the side of Ramirez, and grasped his sword. “Spare him! spare him!” she demanded rather than entreated. “If I am your daughter, cut the rope! Spare him, and do as you like with me; else I swear I will die with him rather than be known as your child!”
The women were on their knees,—not Doña Rita and Rosario alone, but all those of the village. Sobs and entreaties filled the air. Ramirez threw a glance of triumphant admiration upon Chata, and put one arm around her, while he raised the other, pointing with a nod to the swaying figure.
A man sprang to cut the rope, and the administrador fell into the dozen arms stretched out to receive him. Chata saw with infinite joy that he was not dead. He threw up his arms, gasped, opened wide-staring eyes. A moment later, she was hurried away. Half-fainting though she was, she was glad to escape that embrace from which she dared not shrink.
“Ah, Rafael, you are conquered,—I have the girl! And now where is the gold?” she heard Ramirez exclaim, and saw the gesture of defiance with which the scarce conscious victim answered this demand.
An hour later Chata was riding by the side of the baffled Ramirez. She knew not whether her foster-father was living or dead, and dared not ask; but stifling her sobs, looked back through a mist of tears upon the desolated hacienda. It was incredible even to her horrified and longing gaze, the terrible devastation that had been worked in a few short hours. Seemingly to complete its ruin, a thunder-cloud, which had been lurking over the valley, discharged its contents over the devoted house. Upon the hills the sun shone; Chata was safe from the fury of the storm. And yet she felt as though the very wrath of heaven had burst over her.
“Caramba, Chatita! thou wilt make a soldier’s daughter yet!” Ramirez was exclaiming. “By my faith, I am proud of thee!” In spite of the unattained gold, he pressed on in rare good humor. His fury, like the storm, was quickly expended. “And by our Lady of Glory I am glad that you came in time to save that obstinate fool, Rafael. He has, after all is said, served me a good turn in aiding Isabel to put what she meant for a shabby trick upon me. Caramba! It was clever of her. I should never have discovered it but for a slip of the tongue on Rafael’s part which no one else would have noticed, and but for thy wonderful likeness to my mother,—the angels give her good rest!”
Chata could not be grateful for this favor of nature; it seemed to her indeed the bitterest spite that could have been wreaked upon her. She turned her eyes upon the face of Ramirez with a questioning glance, which startled him: those gray eyes, limpid and clear as they were, were far different from the large, languorous, black ones of his mother,—yet not unfamiliar. Where had he seen such before? The inquiry was not worth a special effort of memory. Enough that the eyes were beautiful. The very softness and appeal in their expression held a peculiar charm for this fierce, hard spirit. He had begun a denunciation of the revenge practised against him by his sister, but he abruptly paused. What if this young creature knew nothing of those wild deeds of bygone years? Why shock her tender and immature mind by the recital of such episodes as she would view but at their darkest? For the first time in his life he felt the impossibility of impressing his hearer with the daring rather than the villany of his deeds, and rode beside her in silence, furtively watching her face, which with wonderful control, indicating a latent strength of character, she suffered to reveal none of the horror or fear with which he inspired her, but only the natural grief with which she had been separated from the home of her childhood.