“Who dares to obstruct a son of the church in the discharge of his duty to Heaven?” he indignantly demanded. “Out of the way, false man of blood; and let the confessor and his penitent pass out from among the oppressors of God’s people!”
This vigorous speech was not particularly appropriate to the occasion, nor was it thoroughly understood by him to whom it was addressed. Neither was it such as was likely to move one of De Marsiac’s ordinary followers; for the rancheros generally stood more in awe of their leader’s displeasure, than of the wrath of Heaven; and it is probable that but few of the desperadoes would have hesitated to bayonet the Pope, himself, had the count so commanded. But this sentinel seemed to be of a more reverential nature; for no sooner did he recognize the priest and his companion, than he raised the point of his bayonet, shouldered his musket, and allowed them to pass.
This disobedience of his captain’s orders—remarkable for its want of precedent among De Marsiac’s banditti; was not the only singular circumstance about the accommodating sentinel, as the reader will soon observe. The young penitent disappeared among the shades of night with his confessor, whom he hurried on faster, probably, than he had ever walked before. He directed his course to a little group of ranchos, which stood directly south of the hacienda. Having entered one of these, and remained five minutes—it seemed that his sin was not long in the confessing or absolution, notwithstanding his overwhelming distress—for at the end of that time he issued forth alone, with a well-pleased smile upon his lip, and elasticity restored to his bearing. From the door of the rancho he took his way north-ward again; verging obliquely to the right, however, until he reached the bank of the river, nearly a quarter of a mile east of the hacienda. At this point, a grove of small trees sheltered the bank, and through them passed the road up the valley to Anelo. The youth paused as he gained the shadows, and gave a low, clear whistle. It was answered from the river-bank; and in a moment afterward, a man emerged from the covert, and approached the messenger.
A whispered consultation ensued between the pair, but of brief duration; for Eltorena seemed in haste.
“Keep due south,” said he, as he prepared to return, “until you reach Martiniez’ avenue—then turn west, until you are opposite the south entrance, and approach cautiously.”
With those words he turned away; and retracing his steps with great rapidity, soon came in view of the sentinel, who had permitted him to pass.
“Quien va la?” hailed the latter, presenting his musket. But Eltorena only answered by a low whistle, and boldly advanced. As he approached, the sentinel again shouldered his piece, and a consultation ensued between them, also—the youth pointing out the direction which he had indicated to his confederate at the river, and then passing into the mansion. The sentinel resumed his pace up and down his post—pausing from time to time with his ear bent toward the east, as if waiting for some expected sound. But every thing was as still as a summer night in the north; and though the moon was now rising over the eastern hills, there was not a moving thing perceptible to the eye.
While these things were going on without, the hour appointed for the ceremony of marriage was fast approaching; and one of the parties, at least, was filled with anxious fears. Margarita had delayed her preparations as much as possible; but the assistance of her women, with which it would have been more politic to have dispensed, had, even against her will, so expedited them, that she was fully ready at the time. Nor, had it been otherwise, was the count disposed to permit any further procrastination; for, punctually to the minute, he knocked at her door, and, without waiting a summons to enter, threw it open and stepped across the threshold.
“I am glad to see you ready,” said he, throwing as much kindness into his manner as his consciousness of wrong permitted. “Come, the chapel is prepared, and the padre awaits us.”