But on a certain night they forsake their post altogether, as if their object has been attained, and there is no need to keep watch any more.
On this same night, a man might be seen issuing out of the mission-building, and making away from its walls. He is not seen, nevertheless. For it is the hour of midnight, and all have retired to rest—the whole household seemingly wrapt in profoundest slumber. Moreover, the man slips out stealthily, through the backdoor; thence across the second courtyard, and along a narrow passage leading into the garden. Having reached this, he keeps on down the centre walk, and over the wall at bottom, through which there chances to be a breach. All these mysterious movements are in keeping with the appearance of the man. For his countenance shows cunning of no ordinary kind. At first glance, and under the moonlight, he might be mistaken for a mulatto. But, though coloured, he is not of this kind. His tawny skin shows a tinge of red, which tells of Indian, rather than African blood. He is, in truth, a mestizo—half Spaniard or Mexican, the other half being the aboriginal race of America.
It is a breed not always evil-disposed, still less frequently ill-featured; and, so far as looks go, the individual in question might claim to be called handsome. He has a plenteous profusion of dark curly hair, framing a countenance by no means common. A face of oval form, regular features, the nose and chin markedly prominent, a pair of coal black eyes, with a well-defined crescent over each. Between his lips are teeth, sound and of ivory whiteness, seeming whiter in contrast with a pair of jet black moustaches.
Taking his features singly, any of them might be pronounced comely. And yet the tout ensemble is not pleasing. Despite physical beauty, there is something in the man’s face that appears repulsive, and causes shrinking in the heart of the beholder. Chiefly is it his eyes that seem to produce this effect; their glance inspiring fear, such as one feels while being gazed at by an adder.
Not always can this sinister look be observed. For the mestizo, when face to face with his superiors, has the habit of holding his eyes averted—cast down, as if conscious of having committed crime, or an intention to commit it.
Most with whom he comes in contact are impressed with the idea, that he either has sinned, or intends sinning; so all are chary of giving him confidence.
No—not all. There is one exception: one man who has trusted, and still continues to trust him—the young planter, Dupré. So far, that he has made him his man of confidence—head-servant over all the household. For it need scarce be told, that the real master of the house is he who rendered it habitable, by filling it with furniture and giving it a staff of servants. Colonel Armstrong is but its head through courtesy due to age, and the respect shown to a future father-in-law.
Why the Creole puts such trust in Fernand—the mestizo’s name—no one can clearly comprehend. For he is not one of those domestics, whose integrity has been tested by long years of service. On the contrary, Dupré has never set eyes on him, till just before leaving Nachitoches.
While organising the expedition, the half-blood had presented himself, and offered to act as its guide—professing acquaintance with that section of Texas whither the colony was to be conducted. But long before reaching their destination, Dupré had promoted him to a higher and more lucrative post—in short, made him his “major-domo.”
Colonel Armstrong does not object. He has not the right. Still less, anybody else. Outsiders only wonder and shake their heads; saying, in whispers, that the thing is strange, and adding, “No good can come of it.”