“Did I not tell you? You may take that, I think, as an instalment of the proof you are desirous of having.”
A reflection, at this moment, came into the mind of the Spaniard, that struck upon his spirit like a thunderbolt. It was this:—“If the young girl, after all, is really in love with this fellow, what a dilemma! I may have to renounce all idea of the marriage, which I had designed as the corner-stone of my vast edifice!”
Don Estevan was the only one who at this time was aware of the real name and family of Tiburcio, and of course knew that he was not unworthy of the daughter of a Mexican haciendado. But it had never entered his mind that this young girl, who only regarded Tiburcio in the light of a poor gambusino, would think for a moment of reciprocating his passion. His ideas were suddenly altered, however, on hearing the voices of Tiburcio and Rosarita, alternating with each other, with no other witness to their conversation than the stars in the sky. It was evident, therefore, that Rosarita did not regard the young rustic with an unfavouring eye. An interview, such as this, could not be otherwise than a thing premeditated and prearranged.
The heart of the Spaniard swelled with rage at the thought. His ambition was suddenly alarmed: for this was an obstacle that had never occurred to him. His countenance exhibited a thoughtful and troubled expression. He found himself unexpectedly in the presence of one of those exigencies, which render diplomacy powerless, and absolve all reasons of state. He had behind him a man ready to destroy whatever victims he might point out; but he remembered that twenty years of expiation had failed to wash from his memory a murder of which he had been himself accused. Should he, then, after having passed the middle of his career, again embitter the remainder of his days by another deed of blood? On the other hand, so near the object of his ambition, was he to permit this barrier to stand in his way? or with a bold effort to rid himself of the obstacle?
Thus it is that the ambitious continually roll before them the rock of Sisyphus!
“Providence,” said he to himself—and as he pronounced the word a bitter smile played upon his lips—“Providence offers me an opportunity to restore to this young man his name and his fortune, and the honours which he has lost. Such a good action in my ripe age would perhaps compensate for the crime of my youth. But, no—no—I spurn the occasion—it is but a slight sacrifice to the cause which I serve.”
As he spoke, his face was turned towards Cuchillo, who was observing him attentively; but the shadow of the trees hindered the outlaw from noting the sombre expression of his countenance.
“The hour is come,” said he, speaking to Cuchillo in a low voice, “when our doubts are to be solved. But remember! your projects of vengeance must remain subordinate to my wishes—now follow me!”
Saying this, he walked silently towards the hacienda, followed by the assassin.
The storm which threatened Tiburcio promised soon to break over his head. Two dangerous enemies were approaching him; Cuchillo with wounded self-esteem, and purposes of vengeance that caused, him to grind his teeth as he thought of them; and Don Estevan, smarting at the discovery of such an obstacle to his ambition.