The bride was willing; there could be no doubt of it. I remembered what the stage-driver had told me, of her tripping off so lightly among the trees, her present behaviour confirmed it. Even in that solemn hour, I fancied that she was gay. I could not see the face; but there was a free, nonchalant carriage of the head, and a coy vibration of the scarf that covered it, very different from the staid, drooping attitude that denotes compulsion. On the contrary, she appeared contented—trembling only with joy!
It would be vain to attempt a description of my own feelings. For the time, a statue set among the shrubbery could not have been more motionless than I. I stood rigid as the fronds of the aloe around me,—my gaze steadfastly fixed upon the spectacle passing inside. I began to fancy it a dream!
But, no! There was the bride and the bridegroom; and the monk, in dull monotone still reciting from his book!
And now I could hear the promise to “love, honour, and cherish,” and the responsive vow to “love, honour, and obey”—all after the formula of the Catholic faith.
Oh! it was no dream, but a hellish, heart-rending reality!
The woman who had won my heart—whom for six months I had been vainly endeavouring to forget—was before my eyes, surrounded by a band of brigands—not their captive, but the bride of their chief—freely consenting to the sacrifice!
“Otra cosa de Mexico!”