With the señora he had become quite a favorite, although at first, for a long time, he had only menial service to perform, there came a change. One day she heard him reading aloud to the dwarf, and was so much delighted with his distinct enunciation, and fine rendition of what happened to be a favorite author, that she called him to her private library, and talked a long time in a way she had never before addressed him.
“He is a boy of quick mind,” thought she, “and may be more than an ordinary servant to me. He is just what I shall need in my troublesome Mexican affairs. I must train him to his work.”
From that day he used to sit hours in the library reading to her, and often she gave him long papers to copy, which he was soon able to do, to her entire satisfaction.
Very often she would talk to him as though he were a man, in fact the training he was receiving brought only the man’s thoughts. He had left his happy boyhood at the little stall in the market-place.
One day he found an old guitar in the attic of an out-house, which was filled with broken furniture, and many things disused and forgotten. From that hour he enjoyed a real pleasure. In a short time he picked out the chords and wove them into delicious harmonies, and then there came into his mind a rich old melody of the fatherland. It was like the memory of a happy dream, and the tears filled his eyes. Again he was happy, for every thing save the spell of the divine melody was forgotten.
Two more years glided by, and the young boy was advancing toward manhood. He was tall, and finely developed; and deep within his dreamy eyes slept the wonderful magnetic charm. Still the brown skin and stiff hair remained, and he was only poor ugly Crimson Tuft.
In all this time he had never been outside the massive gate which was always strongly locked and barred; and though he had often entreated the dwarf, the only reply was a grave shake of the head, and a sad, compassionate look, from the odd squinting eyes of his companion, and if he persisted the dwarf would go away and leave him alone.
He had never ventured to speak to the Señora but once, on the subject, in years, and then her fury was so unbounded, that he feared she would tear him in pieces with her long bony fingers, which, when she was enraged, possessed the power of a vice. For a week after, she fed him on bread and water, and kept him confined in a dark room with too heavy tasks to allow him to question the mysterious past, or speculate on the uncertain future.
“Always a foolish dreamer,” she said. “I will teach you something, you, the brown-skinned Crimson Tuft.”
Yet it was all no use: the boy had his thoughts, that could not be chained. He was determined to escape.