Another circumstance was not unnoticed amongst us. Ribald pasquinades, rudely written, and accompanied by threats of proscription, were at this time thrust under the doors of such of the citizens as had been friendly to us. Even the alcalde had received some documents of this character—perhaps emanating from a jealous tiendero who had looked with bitter eye upon the courtship of Wheatley and Conchita. It was not till afterwards I learned that similar missives had “come to hand” in a quarter that more concerned myself.
Some scouted the absurdity of these acts—alleging that they sprung from personal enmity, or originated in the mob-patriotism of the leperos. It was not so, as we afterwards learned; the government of the country—or, at all events, several of its prominent members—countenanced the meanness; and at their instigation, a “black list” was made out in every town and village through which the American army had occasion to pass. Let the minister, Señor O—, make answer to this accusation.
I was musing on this disagreeable theme, after my return from the cerro, and endeavouring to sketch out some plan for the safety of my betrothed during my absence; but my thoughts proved barren.
With a sort of faint hope that the villain Ijurra might yet fall into our hands, I had despatched Holingsworth—nothing loath for the duty—with a party of rangers upon his trail, and I was impatiently awaiting their return.
The voice of Wheatley aroused me from my reverie.
“Well, lieutenant, what is it?”
“Only that precious boy,” answered he, with a significant smile, at the same time ushering “Cyprio” into the room.
The lad carried a note, which I opened. A green sprig of juniper was enclosed, and the simple word “tuya” was written in pencil.
I knew the symbol well. The juniper is tuya in that most beautiful of tongues, and tuya from a lady signifies “yours.”
“Anything more?” I asked of the messenger.