“What matters it?” responded Fabian, “to-day it would be too late.”
“Yes, but it does matter—ah! I knew two men—one at least—who shall restore to you what you have lost, or die in the attempt.”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“Of one who, without knowing it, aided to some extent in the assassination of your mother—of one whom that sad souvenir has a thousand times troubled the conscience—who, in the silence of the night in the midst of the woods, has often fancied he could hear that cry of anguish, which at the time he mistook for the wailing of the breeze against the cliffs of Elanchovi. It was the death scream of your poor mother. Ah! Don Fabian de Mediana,” continued the speaker, in reply to the gesture of horror made by the young man, “Ah! that man’s conscience has reproached him in stronger terms than you could use; and at this hour he is ready to spill the last drop of his blood for you.”
The impetuous passions of Fabian, for a moment softened by thoughts of Rosarita, were again inflamed to their utmost. He had already sworn to avenge the death of Arellanos, and here was anew object of vengeance, the murderer of his own mother! The bland image of Rosarita at once disappeared, paling away as the firelight eclipsed by the brighter gleams of the rising sun.
“My mother’s assassin!” cried he, his eyes flashing with furious indignation. “And you know him?”
“You also—you have eaten with him at the same table—under the same roof—that which you have just now quitted!”
Pepé without further interrogation went on to recount what he knew of the events of Elanchovi. He told Fabian who he was—that Don Estevan was no other than his uncle, Antonio de Mediana—of the marriage of his mother with Don Juan his father—of the consequent chagrin of the younger brother—of his infamous design, and the manner it had been carried into execution. How Don Antonio, returning from the wars in Mexico, with his band of piratical adventurers, had landed in a boat upon the beach at Ensenada—how he had entered the chateau, and with the help of his two subordinate villains had abstracted the Countess and her infant—himself Fabian—how the assassination of the mother had been committed in the boat, and the child only spared in the belief that the murderer’s steel was not necessary—in the belief that the waves and the cold atmosphere of a November night would complete the deed of death.
Nor did Pepé conceal his own conduct connected with this affair. He disclosed all to his half-frantic listener—the after actions of Don Antonio with regard to himself—his imprisonment and subsequent banishment to the fisheries of Ceuta—his escape at a later period to the prairies of America, and his meeting with Bois-Rose—with whom, however, no recognition had ever been established about the events of Elanchovi—since neither had ever mentioned that name in hearing of the other.
All these things Pepé narrated in turn, but briefly as the circumstances required. The rest of his history Fabian already knew—at least, the greater part of it; Bois-Rose had partially made the revelation.