There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me.”
SHAKSPEARE.
I could not pass the still bleeding corpse of the old commander without gazing for a moment on the body, and expressing my sympathy aloud. The Empecinado directed a careless look at the fallen Frenchman.
“Yes,” he said, “La Coste has fought his last battle; and he who would wish that the event were otherwise, would be indeed his enemy. I have one weak point of character, Mr. O’Halloran, and occasionally, forget the man in the soldier. The Spaniard who struck for freedom had in La Coste a ruthless foe. By the orders of him and another, I have lost, as you know, two brave companions; and within an hour after ‘the Student’ breathed his last, the dying commands of my friend were carefully conveyed to me. Vengeance he demanded—vengeance I swore should be exacted—and I doomed his murderers accordingly. From my fixed purpose no earthly intervention could have saved the devoted commander—but the chances of war have averted an ignominious end. He died a soldier’s death—I don’t regret it;—and the halter, designed for him, is reserved for some less fortunate camarado. No more—the morning has been a busy one. Come, we need refreshment. Follow me!”
He led the way through an opening in the abatis made by the removal of a tree, ascended the steep rock behind it, and when we gained the summit, we found there a guerilla déjeuné prepared. The scene and meal were wild alike. Substantial viands, a leathern bottle of capacious size filled with wine of superior excellence, a few rude platters, the rock our table, the sky, cloudless and blue, the canopy—while a rivulet, clear as crystal, trickled at our feet through the deep hollow of a mountain ravine, whose volume of water varied at seasons from a torrent to a thread. Above, the rugged pinnacles of the wild Sierra overhung the place we occupied—while below, the broken road wound through the underwood, which by turns revealed or hid it. The lower portion was crowded with the guerillas and their prisoners in march to Villa Moro, but the upper presented a less pleasing spectacle. It was thickly studded with the bodies of the slain—an hour ago “instinct with life,” but now mutilated, cold, and naked.
We found two chosen friends of Juan Diez waiting to share the morning meal. As the dark complexion of the guerilla leader had given the Empecinado his by-name, so also, the person or profession of his companions had obtained for each a sobriquet. One was a low-sized man, of extraordinary muscular proportions, who, from a distortion of his left hand, was termed El bianco, or “The Maimed.” The other retained the title of his former calling; and although the missal had long since been abandoned for the sword, he still was designated “El Cura.” Than the respective dresses and appearance of these partida chiefs, nothing could be more dissimilar. The “Maimed One” wore the simple costume of an Estremduran peasant—while the rich uniform of a chef-d’escadron of Joseph’s lancers of the guard, was adopted by the churchman, whose tall and martial figure seemed never intended for one, whose sphere of action should be confined to the drowsy duties of cell and cloister.
At the invitation of Juan Diez, we assumed a Roman attitude, and stretched ourselves upon the rock; the fosterer modestly falling back, as if he considered himself unworthy of breakfasting in such goodly presence. The Spaniard noticed his secession.
“What ho!” he exclaimed, with a smile,—“hast thou no appetite to-day?—or after sticking stoutly to a comrade in the fray, wouldst thou desert him afterwards at feasting time? ’Tis not the world’s way in general—and men love to see the cork drawn, who hate the sparkle of a sabre. Sit thee down,” and he pointed to a place beside himself. Then turning to his companions, the Empecinado thus continued:—
“I told you, my friends, how narrowly I avoided the trap which French gold and Spanish treachery had baited for me. I planned and led a desperate effort at escape—and never was man more gallantly supported. This youth and I succeeded. ‘Twas all mere accident. We kept our legs and gained the river. My brave friend here,” (I coloured at the compliment like a peony,) “and our murdered brethren, were beaten down and captured. It is marvellous how the whistle of a passing bullet accelerates one’s speed—and faith, I never fancied I could run so fast. If my camarado here proved that in the fray he could use his arms stoutly, in flight nothing but a goatherd could keep him company. Fast as I ran, he still ran faster—and we fairly outstripped pursuit, save that of two rascally voltigeurs, who had thrown away their musquets, and thus lightened, were enabled to keep close at our heels. We neared the river—ten paces more would gain the bank—and then escape would be pretty certain. I turned my head to see what number of the enemy pursued us. A score came straggling after at various distances, and, fifty yards ahead of their companions, those two accursed sharpshooters led the chase. I wished the scoundrels hamstrung; but, thanks to our Lady! the Sedana was at hand. Alas! it seemed fated that I should not reach its waters. An infernal vine-root crossed the path—it caught my foot—down I came; and, as I believed, my doom was sealed,—captivity first, and death afterwards. My young companion heard my fall; and checking his course, he boldly turned to assist me to escape, or share my fate if taken. With a blow he felled the leading voltigeur, and while the other hesitated to close with two desperate men, I regained my feet, and in another moment I and my brwe preserver were breasting the swollen stream, and jive minutes found us in safety on its farther side. Yes, my stout comrade—but for thee, France would have been freed of one of her worst enemies, and Spain have lost a faithful son. Juan Diez owes thee a life—and the dearest wish of his heart is, that a time may come when he can repay thy gallant service.”