“Count,” said the intended bride, trembling with apprehension, but anxious to make another effort for delay, “cannot this ceremony be as well performed to-morrow? I do not like this indecent haste.”
“It must be performed to-night—now,” he replied calmly. “If you refuse, you know the alternative. I will not be trifled with.”
“I am not trifling with you, indeed,” said she hurriedly. “But reflect—my mother is scarcely cold in her grave!”
“The better reason why you should observe her wishes,” De Marsiac replied. “I have considered all that, and find no reason to change my mind. If you intend to redeem your pledge at all, it is as well to-night as to-morrow. If you are willing to sacrifice your friends, los Americanos, your refusal to-night will only give me my revenge sooner!”
His course of argument was too direct and forcible to be oppugned; Margarita rose as its meaning reached her, and signified her willingness to go at once to the altar. The count turned to one of his followers and said—
“Go to Father Aneres, and tell him that we will be ready by the time he can reach the altar.”
The man approached the door of the room where we have seen the good padre recruiting his exhausted strength. He was met at the door by young Eltorena, dressed in a white cassock, and holding a censer in his hand, as if in attendance upon the priest.
“The good Father,” said the young man, “is in his closet, but will meet them in the chapel in five minutes.”
The man returned to his master, and the procession at once marched toward the chapel. A room fitted up for this purpose is to be found in almost all the larger haciendas of that part of Mexico—its size and splendor depending upon the wealth and piety of the proprietor. That at Piedritas had been somewhat neglected of late, but was still a respectable chapel. It was separated from the priest’s room—where Eltorena had sought the padre—by two partitions, between which was the private closet; and leading out of this was a door which opened behind the altar. It was through this door that Father Aneres was to enter for the performance of the momentous ceremony. But the reader already knows that the good Father was not within, and therefore could not come forth.
The procession entered the chapel in the following order. The count, holding the unwilling hand of his trembling bride, was succeeded by the two women, accompanied by his trusty lieutenant, who was to “give the bride away.” Then came three files of rancheros with trailed arms—a desecration which the good Father, timid as he was, would not have permitted. Behind these, each between two soldiers, who jealously watched them, came Harding and Grant—borne in the procession, like the prisoners of ancient Rome, to grace the triumph of the conqueror! Then followed the remainder of the count’s band of free-companions, numbering, in all, about twenty. All the domestics of the family crowded in after, and the door was taken in charge by the trusty sentinel who had disobeyed his orders!