His response caused the candidate for holy orders to open his eyes to the widest. He fancied that in the confusion of his head he had not clearly comprehended the meaning of the cura’s speech; and he preferred this fancy to the alternative of supposing that the worthy priest of Caracuaro was himself suffering from mental aberration.
“What! you an insurgent?” inquired Lantejas, not without some apprehension.
“Very true. I am, and have been for a long time.”
As neither upon the head of the cura, nor yet of his two servants, there appeared those diabolical ornaments which had been promised them by the Lord Bishop of Oajaca, Don Cornelio began to think that perhaps all insurgents were not delivered over to the devil; and, as there was no alternative, he accepted the offer made to him, and mounted behind one of the attendants. He had made up his mind, however, not to accompany the curate of Caracuaro further than the hacienda of San Diego, and to make as short a stay as possible in such suspicious company. But he had scarcely completed this satisfactory arrangement with his conscience, when the burning rays of the sun shining down upon his head, caused a ferment in his brain of so strange a character—that not only did the idea of this insurrection, excited by priests, appear right and natural, but he commenced chanting at the top of his voice a sort of improvised war song, in which the King of Spain was mentioned in no very eulogistic terms!
From that time, till his arrival at the hacienda of San Diego, the student was altogether unconscious of what passed—and for several days after, during which he remained under the influence of a burning fever. He had only a vague remembrance of ugly dreams, in which he appeared constantly surrounded by armed men, and as if he was tossing about on a stormy sea!
At length his consciousness returned, and on looking around he was astonished to find himself in a small and poorly furnished chamber. He now remembered his tumble from the mule, and his encounter with the cura of Caracuaro. Finally, feeling himself strong enough to rise from his couch, he got up, and staggered towards the window—for the purpose of ascertaining the nature of a noisy tumult that was heard outside.
The courtyard under the window was filled with armed men—some afoot, others on horseback. Lances with gay pennons, sabres, guns, and other weapons were seen on all sides, glancing under the sunbeams. The horses were rearing and neighing—the men talking loudly—in short, the scene resembled the temporary halt of a corps d’armée.
His weakness soon compelled the invalid to return to his couch, where he lay awaiting impatiently—the more so that he was half-famished with hunger—the coming of some one who could give him an explanation of the strange circumstances by which he was surrounded.
Shortly after, a man entered the chamber, whom the student recognised as one of the attendants of the cura of Caracuaro. This man had come, on the part of his master, to inquire, the state of the invalid’s health.
“Where am I, friend? tell me that,” said Lantejas, after having answered the inquiries of the servant.