"Foolish mob! brainless mob! swinish mob!" cried the stranger, when he at length stood beside the cart upon which the monster was still rending its hapless victim; "whither are ye running, and pressing, and crowding, and what are ye come to see? Know ye not that in Mexico it is forbidden to see, especially to see clearly?"
The tone of the speaker, his sudden appearance, and the bold originality of his manner, contrasted strongly with the timidity of the other Creoles, who had all in their turn approached the cart cautiously, viewed it for a few moments with an air of mistrust, and then withdrawn themselves to a distance, in order to await in safety what might next ensue. The daring address of the new-comer, so different from this prudent behaviour, did not fail to attract universal attention.
"What now, men of Mexico, or of Anahuac, if you prefer that name, Aztecs and Tenochtitlans and Othomites, and Metises and Zambos and Salta-atras, and whites, whom the devil fly away with," added he in a lower tone, "or at least with one-twentieth of them?"[10]
"Bravo!" vociferated hundreds of Metises and Zambos, whom the last few words had suddenly enlightened as to the political opinions of the speaker. "Bravo! Escuchad! Hear him!"
The object of this applause was apparently busied examining the composition of the pageant. When silence was restored, he again turned to the crowd.
"And so you would like to know what it means?" said he. "Fools! know ye not that knowledge is forbidden? And yet, if you are any better than a parcel of mules, you may see and understand."
"And if we are no better than mules?" cried a voice.
"Then will I be your arriero, and drive you," replied the stranger laughing, and tripping round the cart. "Mules! ay, Madre de Dios! that are ye, and have been all the days of your lives, ever since the gloomy Gachupin yonder"—and he pointed to the monster, half monk, half beast—"has chosen for his resting-place the body of the poor unhappy creature, whom some call Anahuac, some Mexitli, and some Guatemozin.[11] Mules, ay, threefold mules! Poor mules!" added he, in a tone of mingled compassion and contempt.
"Poor mules!" sighed the surrounding spectators, gazing alternately at the speaker and at the bleeding Torso.
On a sudden, the masked cavalier raised the cowl of the monster-monk, and the severed head of the Torso rolled out from it. The features were Indian, modelled and coloured in so masterly a manner, that the resemblance they were intended to convey struck every body, and hundreds of voices simultaneously exclaimed—