“It is not of your mother I was thinking,” he said ambiguously, “when I spoke of Guanapila, but of my niece Carmen de Velasquez. She knows that the General Ramirez once sent an escort with her mother to Tres Hermanos, and levied upon her husband for a loan of ten thousand dollars when he might have had five times as much,—for the old fellow she has married is rich, and does honor to the financial acumen of the fair Carmen, and we will see whether she has a just appreciation of the favors I am supposed to have rendered her. There, go to your tent and sleep in peace; in three days you shall be safe within the house of Velasquez in Guanapila.”
It cannot be said that Chata slept in peace; yet the prospect was reassuring, and enabled her to bear with resignation the fatigues and excitements of the following days, and the loneliness and terrors of the nights. The General slept before the opening of her tent. Upon the fourth night he awoke her, and handed her a torn and shabby reboso and a skirt of coarse red cloth, with instructions to put them on. She did so with some repugnance, though the clothing she left was not better; and at a call stepped out into the starlight. The young Captain Alva preceded her in silence outside the limits of the camp, where two horses were in waiting, held by a man whom at the first startled glance she failed to recognize. It would have horrified her beyond control had she known that in his size and air and dress he was the image of the ranchero who had entered Tres Hermanos on the night of the murder, years before. She uttered a cry of relief as Ramirez greeted her.
“Ah, is it not a perfect disguise?” he said. “Why, I might go into El Toro itself with impunity! Mount, child, and keep close at my side!”
In a minute or less, with the assistance of Alva, Chata was ready for the start,—her courage rising with the sense of mystery and daring under which Ramirez seemed to glow and expand. He paused to give his last commands to Alva, of which she heard only the concluding words: “Reyes should be here by daylight. Keep him at all hazards, for he must sound Ruiz before another day passes. Caramba! I cannot believe that fellow has failed me; but whether or no, the end will be the same,—except that I swear if Ruiz prove false, were he twice my godson he shall not escape my vengeance.”
The General pulled his hat over his eyes, waved his hand, struck the spurs into his horse, and led the way at a swift canter. Chata until within the last few days had never ridden on horseback; but she was singularly free from fear or awkwardness, and with ease, though in silence, kept at his side.
“Chata,” Ramirez once said abruptly, turning his dark and piercing eyes upon her, “I am risking much for your sake. Remember that you are my daughter. Be faithful to me, obey my bidding, and I will cherish you as the apple of my eye. It may depend upon you whether the troops of Doña Isabel follow my lead or that of Gonzales. You will know my meaning later; but I swear to you, as I have done by Ruiz, my vengeance shall rest upon whomsoever balks me,—yes, if it is even you, the newfound daughter whom I love.”
Chata trembled. Though his words were an enigma, they indicated that her rôle was not to be an utterly passive one. Her companion awaited no answer, and Chata did not attempt to make one. They rode on at ever increasing speed as the night advanced. Just at daybreak they reached a hut, which was placed at the mouth of a cañon. There they left their horses, and an old woman appeared with a crate of turkeys in each hand, one of which she gave to the disguised chieftain, the other to the wondering Chata.
An hour later they were in the streets of Guanapila, and before they had broken their fast Chata sat overcome with fatigue and dismay upon the stone stairs that led to the corridor of a palatial residence. The ranchero, as the servants supposed him, had gone to speak with the lady of the mansion. It was a long time before he re-appeared; and when he did, a beautiful woman preceded him. She was very pale, and there was in her eyes an incredulous and startled expression, which changed to pity as her gaze fell upon Chata,—who, looking up, thought of the pale and lovely face she had seen but once, and knew she must be in the presence of Carmen, the sister of the nun of El Toro.
Ramirez whispered a word in the ear of the bewildered girl, it might be of warning or of farewell; but her senses failed her,—she neither saw nor heard more.
“Go, go!” cried the mistress of the house. “For God’s sake go, before there is any one to wonder. Whether your tale be true or false, she has the face of a Garcia, and a loveliness and sweetness of her own. I will guard her as though she were my child. Go, go! and the saints grant you a safe passage. I will not betray your confidence. Ah, she has fainted! I will manage that; it shall be my pretext for charity.”