Chata showed the letter to Doña Carmen, and she it was who called the girl’s attention to some chance mention of the name of the place where Ramirez said he might be able to remain some days, even if closely pressed, for the people there were secretly sworn to his support. Day after day wild rumors flew through the city of the pursuit of Ramirez, his capture, his death, only to be contradicted upon the next. They did not seriously agitate Chata, for not once was the name of the place he called his stronghold mentioned.
One night the anxious girl had a vivid dream. She dreamed she saw the chieftain and Chinita lying dead,—the one on one side of a village street, the other on the opposite. The people were rushing wildly about screaming and gesticulating madly, while Doña Isabel, followed by women clothed in black like herself, was in frenzy passing from one to the other, uttering that low wail that seems the very key-note of woe.
Chata woke with a stifled scream. The wind was blowing shrilly through the trees and seemed to bring to her a voice, which said, “Wake! oh wake, Chata! I have dreamed of her.” The voice sounded close to her ear. It came from Doña Isabel, who leaning over the dreamer’s bed was repeating again and again the words, “I shall find her. I have dreamed of her.”
Chata raised herself upon the pillows and caught the lady’s wasted hand. “Yes, yes,” continued Doña Isabel, “I have dreamed of Chinita and of another,—one I loved long years ago. I saw them together in Las Parras. It is a revelation! Why have I not thought of it before? No other place would be so fitting. I shall find her. I am going now, now! My carriage, my horses, my men must be here; I will call them. Tell my daughter when she wakes; she will understand.”
Doña Isabel turned to leave the room, her excitement supplementing her returning strength; but Chata detained her. “I too will go,” she cried. “Nothing shall prevent me. Doña Carmen will not stop us,—she knows; she dare not forbid me. I will tell her now. She will know what is best for us. The carriage is still here, but—”
Chata hastened from the room and wakened Doña Carmen. “Ah,” said the daughter to herself, “the thought is come, and the hour.” She hastily wrote a line to her husband, who was absent at a hacienda he owned near the city; provided herself with some rolls of gold, and presently entered her mother’s room dressed in a somewhat soiled cotton gown, and with her reboso over her arm. Doña Isabel, who in the excitement of her thoughts was walking hither and thither, taking up and putting down articles of apparel, looked at her daughter blankly. Why, she thought, had a servant come at that hour?
“See, I am ready,” cried Carmen, cheerfully. “The diligence is to leave the city for the first time to-day. We shall pass through the country quite safely. Who would stop such poor creatures as we appear to be?”
Doña Isabel looked at her daughter gratefully,—her mind had been running helplessly upon carriages and mounted escorts and all the paraphernalia of travel, which require so much time and thought to prepare. “True, true!” she said, “that will be best, oh much the best!” In feverish haste she prepared herself for the journey as Carmen had done, arraying herself in a plain dark dress and reboso. But her daughter noticed that she did not think of the expenses of the journey, and herself silently assumed the direction of the little party.
Doña Carmen led the way from her own house so quietly that only the doorkeeper to whom she gave a few directions, which he doubtless in his amazement straightway forgot, was awakened. The three ladies were so humbly dressed that they attracted but little notice at the diligence house, and being hastily motioned to the poorest seats in the coach were soon on their way. Covering their faces with their rebosos, they did not so much as speak to one another.
Some ten leagues from the city the diligence was stopped by a half-dozen armed men. The male passengers were ordered to lie down upon their faces, and were despoiled of all their money and valuables. Chata to her extreme disgust—which fortunately was disguised by her alarm—received an amicable expression of approval from one of the bandits, which was abruptly checked by the remark of the captain that this was no time for fooling, as there was a rival band but a half-mile farther on. The elder women escaped remark. Happily, the other band did not present itself, and the three ladies told their beads in devout thankfulness.