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"Very good, gentlemen; I understand you," the count answered coldly. "And, in case I succeed in carrying one of the cities you mention, I can count on you?"
"Body and soul."
"And how many men will you place at my disposal?"
"Six thousand in four days – the whole of Sonora in a week."
"You promise it?"
"We all swear it!" they exclaimed enthusiastically.
But this enthusiasm could not produce a flash or smile on the count's face.
"Gentlemen," he said, "within a fortnight I give you the meeting in one of the three chief cities of Sonora; and then, as I shall have accomplished my obligations, I shall call on you to keep yours."
The Mexicans could not restrain a gesture of astonishment and admiration at these noble words. The count, though no longer young, was still handsome, and gifted with that fascination which improvises kingdoms. Each of his phrases left a memory. All present came in turn to press his hand, and renew individually their protestations of devotion, after which they left the room. The count and Valentine remained alone.
"Are you satisfied, brother?" the hunter asked him.
"Who could be strong enough to galvanise this people?" the count muttered with a mournful shrug of his shoulders, and rather answering his own thoughts than the question his friend had addressed to him. The two men went to fetch their zarapés. They found their escort where they had left it, and retired slowly through the crowd, who saluted them as they passed with shouts of "Vivan los Franceses!"
"If I come to be shot some day," the count said bitterly, "they will only have to alter one word."
Valentine sighed, but made no reply.
CHAPTER XVI
FATHER SERAPHIN
Doña Angela had just awakened: a sportive sunbeam, passing indiscreetly over her charming face, had made her open her eyes. She was lying half extended in her hammock, with her head supported on her right arm, and was pensively looking at the swan's-down slipper which she was idly balancing on her dainty little foot. Violanta, seated at her foot on a stool, was busily arranging the various articles of her mistress's toilette. At length Doña Angela shook off her careless languor, and a smile played on her coral lips.
"Today," she said, as she raised her head coquettishly.
This one word contained the maiden's thoughts, her joy, love, happiness – her whole life, in fact. She fell back in a reverie, yielding herself up unconsciously to the delicate and busy services of her waiting-maid. The sound of a footstep was heard outside, and Doña Angela raised her head quickly.
"Someone is coming," she said.
Violanta went out, but returned almost immediately.
"Well?"
"Don Cornelio requests permission to say two words to the señorita," the camarista answered.
The maiden frowned with an air of vexation.
"What can he want again?" she said.
"I do not know."
"That man displeases me singularly."
"I will tell him that you cannot receive him."
"No," she said quickly, "let him enter."
"Why, if he displeases you?"
"I prefer seeing him. I do not know why, but that man almost terrifies me."
The waiting maid blushed and turned her head away, but recovered almost immediately.
"Still he is entirely devoted to Don Louis and yourself, señorita."
"Do you think so?" she said, fixing a piercing glance on her.
"Well, I suppose so; his conduct up to the present has been most honourable."
"Yes," she murmured dreamily. "Still there is something at the bottom of my heart which tells me that this man hates me. I experience, on seeing him, an insurmountable feeling of repulsion. This is something inexplicable to me; but, though everything seems to prove to me that I am wrong, still, whether right or wrong, there is at times an expression in his glance which makes me shudder. The only thing a man cannot disguise is his look, for it is the reflex of his soul, and God has decreed it so, in order that we may put ourselves on our guard, and recognise our enemies. But he is doubtlessly tired of waiting. Let him come in."
Violanta hastened to execute her mistress's orders. Don Cornelio entered with a smile on his lips.
"Señorita," he said, after a graceful bow, which the maiden returned without leaving her hammock, "pardon me for daring to trouble your solitude; but a worthy priest, a French missionary, desires that you will grant him the favour of a few minutes' interview."
"What is the missionary's name, Señor Don Cornelio?"
"Father Seraphin, I believe, señorita."
"Why does he not address himself to Don Louis?"
"He intended to do so in the first instance."
"Well?"
"But," Don Cornelio continued, "at sunrise Don Louis left the camp, accompanied by Don Valentine; and though it is now near midday, he has not yet returned."
"Ah! Where did Don Louis go to at so early an hour?"
"I cannot tell you, señorita. All that I know for certain is, that he proceeded in the direction of La Magdalena."
"Has anything new occurred?"
"Nothing I am aware of, señorita."
There were a few moments of silence, during which Doña Angela was reflecting. At length she continued:
"And do you not suspect what this missionary wishes to say to me, Don Cornelio?"
"In no way, señorita."
"Beg him to come in. I shall be happy to see and converse with him."
Violanta, without giving Don Cornelio time to reply, raised the curtain that closed the entrance of the jacal.
"Come in, my father," she said.
The missionary appeared. Doña Angela greeted him respectfully, and pointed to a chair.
"You wish to speak with me, my father?" she said.
"Yes, madam," he replied with a bow.
"I am ready to listen to you."
The missionary looked round in a way that Don Cornelio and the waiting maid understood, for they went out at once.
"Cannot what you have to say to me be heard by that girl, who is devoted to me?"
"Heaven forbid, madam, that I should try to lessen the confidence you place in that person, but allow me to give you a little piece of advice."
"Pray do so."
"It is often dangerous to confide your secret thoughts to persons in a lower station than yourself."
"Yes, that may be true in theory, my father, but I will not discuss it. Be kind enough to explain to me the reason of your visit."
"I am grieved, madam, at having hurt your feelings without wishing it. Pardon an observation which you considered indiscreet, and may Heaven grant that I am deceived!"
"No, my father, no; I did not consider your remark indiscreet. But I am a spoiled child, and it is my place to ask your forgiveness."
At this moment the sound of horses was heard in the camp. Violanta raised the curtain.
"Don Louis has arrived," she said.
"Let him come hither at once," Doña Angela exclaimed.
The missionary gazed on her with an expression of gentle pity. A few minutes later Don Louis and Valentine entered the jacal. The hunter walked up to the missionary, and pressed his hand affectionately.
"Have you come from the general, my father?" the count asked him quickly.
"Alas, no!" he answered. "The general is unaware of my coming; for had he known of it, he would probably have tried to oppose it."
"What do you mean? Speak, in Heaven's name!"
"Alas! I am about to redouble your agony and your sorrow. General Guerrero never intended to bestow on you this lady's hand. I cannot tell you what I have seen or heard, for my office forbids it; but I am a Frenchman, sir – that is to say, your fellow countryman – and I believe my duty orders me to warn you that treachery surrounds you on all sides, and that the general is trying to lull your vigilance by fallacious promises, in order to surprise you and finish with you."
Don Louis let his head sink on his chest.
"In that case, sir," he said presently, "with what object have you come here?"
"I will tell you. The general wishes to get back his daughter, and, to effect that, all means will be good. Permit me to draw your attention to the fact that, under present circumstances, the lady's presence here is not only a danger for you, but also an ineffaceable stain on her honour."
"Sir!" the count exclaimed.
"Deign to listen to me," the missionary continued coldly. "I do not doubt either your honour or the lady's; but you have no power, to my knowledge, to impose silence on your enemies, and stop the immense flood of calumny they pour out on you and her. Unhappily your conduct seems to justify them."
"But what is to be done? What means shall I employ?"
"There is one."
"Speak, my father."
"This is what I propose. You intend to marry this lady?"
"Certainly; you know that is my dearest wish."
"Let me finish. The marriage must not be celebrated here; for such a ceremony, performed in the midst of a camp of adventurers, without witnesses, would seem a mockery."
"But – "
"It must take place in a city, in the presence of the entire population, in the broad sunshine, to the sound of the bells and cannon, which, traversing the air, will tell all that the marriage has really taken place."
"Yes," Valentine remarked, "Father Seraphin is right; for then Doña Angela will no longer marry a pirate, but a conqueror, with whom terms must be made. She will not be the wife of an adventurer, but of the liberator of Sonora, and those who blame her today will be the first to sing her praises."
"Yes, yes, that is true!" the maiden cried with fire. "I thank you, my father, for coming. My duty is laid down: I will accomplish it. Who will dare to attack the reputation of her who has married the saviour of her country?"
"Still," the count remarked, "this is only a palliative, after all. The marriage cannot take place yet. A fortnight, perhaps a month, will elapse ere I have rendered myself master of a city. Till then Doña Angela must remain in the camp where she has hitherto been."
All eyes were anxiously turned to the missionary.
"No," he said, "if the young lady will allow me to offer her a shelter."
"A shelter!" she said with an inquiring glance.
"Very simple and most unworthy to receive her, doubtlessly," he continued, "but where at least she will be in safety, in the midst of a family of honourable and good persons, to whom it will be a delight to receive her."
"Is the shelter you offer me, my father, very far from here?" the maiden asked quickly.
"Twenty-five leagues at the most, in the direction in which the French expedition must proceed on its march into Sonora."
Doña Angela gave a cunning smile at having been so well understood by the good priest.
"Listen, my father," she said with that resolution which was one of the principal features of her character. "Your reputation reached me long ago, and I know that you are a holy man. Even if I did not know you, the friendship and respect Don Valentine professes for you would be to me a sufficient guarantee. I trust myself in your hands. I understand how unsuitable my presence in the camp now, at any rate, is. Take me wherever you please. I am ready to follow you."
"My child," the missionary said with charming unction, "it is God who inspires this determination. The grief you will feel at a separation of a few days at the most will double the happiness of a reunion which no one will dare any longer to oppose – which will not only raise you again in the public opinion, which it is always precious to preserve, but also give your reputation a lustre which it will be hopeless to try and tarnish."
"Go, then, as it must be so, Doña Angela," the count said. "I intrust you to this good padre; but I swear that a fortnight shall not elapse ere we are again together."
"I hold your promise, Don Louis; it will help me to endure with greater courage the agony of absence."
"When do you expect to start?" Valentine asked.
"Now," the maiden exclaimed. "As the separation is inevitable, let us get over it at once."
"Well spoken," Valentine said. "By Jove! I return to what I said before, Doña Angela – you are a strong and nobly courageous woman; and, by heavens, I love you as a sister!"
Doña Angela could not refrain from smiling at the hunter's enthusiasm. The latter continued: —
"Hang it! But we did not think of that; you will need an escort – "
"For what?" the priest asked simply.
"By Jove! you are really delightful. Why, to protect you against the enemy's marauders."
"My friend, the respect of everybody we meet will be worth more to us than an escort, which is often compromising."
"For you, I grants but, my father, you do not remember that you will travel with two females who must be immediately recognised."
"That is true," he said simply; "I did not think of it."
"What is to be done, then?"
Doña Angela began laughing.
"Gentlemen, you are really troubled by a very trifling matter. The good father said an instant back, that the gown is the best safeguard, for friend and foe will respect it under all circumstances."
"That is true," the missionary said in confirmation.
"Well, it is extremely simple. If Father Seraphin has no objection, my waiting maid and myself will put on novices' robes, under which it will be easy for us to disguise ourselves so cleverly that no one can recognise us."
Father Seraphin seemed to be reflecting profoundly for a few moments.
"I see no serious obstacles to this disguisement," he at length observed: "under the circumstances it is permissible, as it will serve a good object."
"But where shall we find monks' robes?" the count objected, half seriously, half laughing. "I must confess that my camp is completely out of them."
"I will take that on myself," Valentine said. "I will send to La Magdalena a safe man, who can bring them back within an hour: during that time Doña Angela will complete her preparations for departure."
No one made any objection, and the maiden was left alone. Less than an hour after, Doña Angela and Violanta, dressed in monks' robes which Don Cornelio had purchased in the village, and with their faces concealed under broad-brimmed hats, mounted their horses, and, after bidding a warm farewell to their companions, they left the camp, accompanied by Father Seraphin. On separating, Violanta and Don Cornelio exchanged a secret glance, which would have given the count and Valentine matter for serious thought, could they have seen it.
"I am not easy in my mind," Don Louis muttered, shaking his head sadly. "A priest is a very weak escort in the present times."
"Reassure yourself," Valentine answered; "I have provided for that."
"Oh! you always think of everything, brother."
"Is it not my duty? Now let us attend to ourselves. The night will soon fall, and we must take our precautions not to let ourselves be surprised."
"You know that, with the exception of the few words you told me through Curumilla, I am completely ignorant of the details of this affair."
"They would be too long to give you at the present moment, brother, for we have hardly the requisite time for action."
"Have you any plan?"
"Certainly. If it succeed, the people who hope to surprise us will be awfully taken in."
"On my word, I trust to you with the greater pleasure because we have been a long time already at La Magdalena, and I wish to begin my forward march seriously."
"Very good. Can you spare me fifty adventurers?"
"Take as many as you like."
"I only want fifty resolute men accustomed to desert warfare. For that purpose I shall take Captain de Laville, and recommend him to select from among the men he brought with him from Guetzalli the boldest and most clever."
"Do so, my friend. As for myself, I will carefully watch over the camp, and double the patrols."
"That precaution can do no harm. So now good-by till tomorrow."
"Farewell!"
They separated, and Don Louis returned to his tent.
At the moment Valentine reached Captain de Laville's jacal he saw Don Cornelio quitting the camp with an indifferent air, and mechanically looked after him. In a moment he lost him out of sight behind a clump of trees, but all at once saw him reappear but mounted this time, and setting off full gallop in the direction of the pueblo.
"Eh, eh?" Valentine muttered with a thoughtful air. "What can Don Cornelio have to do in such haste at La Magdalena? I will ask him."
And he entered the jacal, where he found the captain, with whom he immediately began discussing the plan he had formed to foil the intended surprise on the part of the Mexicans. As we shall see this plan carried out presently, we will say nothing about it here, but go and rejoin Father Seraphin and Doña Angela.
CHAPTER XVII
THE QUEBRADA DEL COYOTE
It is especially at night, about two hours after sunset, that American scenery assumes grand proportions. Under the influence of the first night shadows the trees seem to put on majestic forms; the animated silence of the desert becomes more mysterious; and man experiences involuntarily a feeling of undefinable respect, which contracts his heart, and fills him with superstitious dread. At that hour the waters of the rivers flow with hoarse murmurings; the heavy and sinister flight of the birds of night agitates the air with a fluttering of evil augury; and the wild beasts, aroused in their hidden dens, salute the darkness with long howlings of joy, for at night they are incontestably the kings of the desert, for man is deprived of his greatest strength – the power of the eye.
Father Seraphin was riding by the side of the two females along the foot of a lofty mountain, whose wooded slopes were lost in the black depths of the Barrancas. Since leaving the camp they had not stopped once. They were following at this moment a narrow path traced by mules, which wound with countless turnings along the sides of the mountain. This path was so narrow that two horses could scarce go along side by side; but the steeds on which our travellers were mounted were so sure-footed, that the latter proceeded without any hesitation along a road on which no other animal would have ventured in the darkness.
The moon had not yet risen; not a star glistened in the cloud-laden sky; the darkness was dense; and, under the circumstances, this was almost fortunate; for had the travellers been able to see the spot where they were, and the way in which they were suspended, as it were, in space at a prodigious height, possibly their courage would have failed them, and their heads grown dizzy. Father Seraphin and Doña Angela were riding side by side: Violanta was a few paces behind.
"My father," the young lady said, "we have now been travelling for nearly six hours, and I am beginning to feel fatigued. Shall we not halt soon?"
"Yes, my child, in an hour at the most. In a few moments we shall leave this path, and cross a defile called the Quebrada del Coyote: at the end of that pass we shall spend the night in a poor house, which is now not more than two miles off."
"You say we are going to pass through the Coyote defile. We are, then, on the road to Hermosillo?"
"Quite true, my child."
"Is it not imprudent for us to venture on this road, which my father's troops command."
"My child," the missionary said gently, "in good policy we must often risk a great deal in order to secure greater tranquillity. We are not only on the road to Hermosillo, but we are going to that very city."
"What! to Hermosillo?"
"Yes, my child. In my opinion it is the only spot where you will be completely safe from your father's search, as he will never think of looking for you there, and cannot imagine that you are so near him."
"That is true," she said after a moment's reflection.
"The plan is a bold one, and hence must succeed. I believe, in truth, that Hermosillo is the only spot where I can be safe from the pursuit of those who have an interest in finding me."
"I will take care, besides, to recommend you to the persons to whom I shall intrust you; and, for greater security, I will leave you as little as possible."
"I shall be greatly obliged to you, my father, for I shall feel very sad and lonely."
"Courage, my child! I have faith in Don Louis. Heaven must protect his expedition, for the work he has undertaken is grand and noble, as it has for its object the emancipation of an entire country."
"Believe me, my father, I am happy to hear you speak thus. The count may fail; but in that case he will fall like a hero, and his death will be that of a martyr."
"Yes, the count is a chosen vessel. I believe, like yourself, my child, that if his contemporaries do not do him the justice which is his due, posterity at least will not confound him with those filibusters and shameless adventurers for whom gold alone is everything, and who, whatever may be the title they assume, are in reality no more than highway robbers. But the road is growing wider – we are about to enter the pass. This spot does not enjoy a very good reputation, so keep by my side. Although I believe that we have nothing to fear, it is always well to be prudent."
In fact, as the missionary stated, the path had suddenly widened out: the two sides of the mountain, which had, for some distance, been gradually drawing together, now formed two parallel walls, at the most only forty yards apart. It was this narrow gorge which was known as the Quebrada del Coyote. It was about half a mile in length; but then it suddenly grew wider, and opened on a vast chaparral, covered with thickets and fields of dahlias; while the mountains separated to the right and left, not to meet again till eighty leagues further on.
At the moment when the travellers entered the pass the moon broke out from the clouds in which it floated, and lighted up this dangerous pass with its mournful and sickly light. This gleam, weak as it was, could not fail to be agreeable to the travellers, as it allowed them to look around and see where they were. They pressed on their wearied steeds, in order to arrive more speedily at the end of the gloomy gorge in which they were. They had gone on for about ten minutes, and had nearly reached the centre of the pass, when the neighing of a horse smote their ears.
"We have travellers behind us," the missionary said with a frown.
"And in a hurry, as it seems," Doña Angela added. "Hark!"
They stopped to listen. The noise of hurried galloping reached their ears.
"Who can these men be?" the missionary murmured, speaking to himself.
"Travellers like ourselves, probably."
"No," Father Seraphin remarked, "travellers would not go at such a pace: they are doubtlessly persons in pursuit of us."
"That is not probable, my father: no one is aware of our journey."
"Treachery has the eye of the lynx and the ear of the opossum, my dear child. It is incessantly on the watch: everything is known – a secret is no longer one when two persons know it. But time presses: we must make up our minds."
"We are lost if they are enemies!" Doña Angela exclaimed with terror. "We have no help to expect from any one."
"Providence is on the watch, child. Place confidence in her: she will not abandon us."
The noise of horses rapidly approaching came nearer, and resembled the grumbling of thunder. The missionary drew himself up: his face suddenly assumed an expression of indomitable energy which would have been thought impossible for such gentle features; his voice, usually so pleasant and sonorous, became quick, and almost harsh.
"Place yourselves behind me, and pray," he said; "for, if I am not greatly mistaken, the meeting will be dangerous."
The two females obeyed mechanically. Doña Angela believed herself lost: alone with this poor priest, any resistance must be impossible. The missionary collected the reins in his left hand, attached them to the pommel of his saddle, and awaited the shock with his face turned to the newcomers. He had not long to wait: within scarce five minutes ten horsemen appeared at full gallop. When twenty paces from the travellers they halted as firmly as if their horses' hoofs were suddenly fixed in the ground.
These men, as far as it was possible to distinguish in the doubtful and tremorous light of the moon, were dressed in the Mexican garb, and their faces were covered with black crape. Doubt was no longer possible: these sinister horsemen were really in pursuit of our travellers. There was an instant of supreme silence – a silence which the missionary at length resolved to break.
"What do you want, gentlemen?" he said in a loud and firm voice. "Why are you pursuing us?"
"Oh, oh!" a mocking voice said, "the dove assumes the accent of the gamecock. Señor padre, we have no intention to injure you; we only wish to do you a service by saving you the trouble of guarding the two pretty girls you so cleverly have with you."
"Go your way, sirs," the priest continued, "and do not trouble yourselves about what does not concern you."
"Come, come, señor padre," the first speaker went on, "surrender with a good grace: we should not like to fail in the respect due to you. Resistance is impossible – we are ten against you alone: besides, you are a man of peace."
"You are cowards!" the missionary shouted. "Retire! A truce to mockery, and let me continue my journey in peace."
"Not so, señor padre, unless you consent to leave us your two companions."
"Ah, ah! that is it? Well, then, we must fight, gentlemen. It seems to me that you are strangely mistaken about me. Yes, I am a missionary, a man of peace; but I am also a Frenchman, and you appear to have forgotten that. You must understand that I will not suffer the slightest insult to the persons, whoever they may be, whom Heaven has placed under my protection."
"And with what will you defend them, Mr. Frenchman?" the stranger asked with a grin.
"With these," the missionary coldly replied as he drew a brace of pistols from his holsters, and set the hammers with a resolute air.
The bandits hesitated involuntarily. The missionary's action was so clear, his voice so firm, his presence so intrepid, that they felt themselves tremble; for they understood that they had a brave-hearted man before them, who would sooner die than yield an inch. The Mexicans do not respect much; but we must do them the justice of saying that they have an unbounded reverence for the priest's gown. The missionary was not a man like some who may be unfortunately met with, especially among the clergy of North and South America. His reputation for virtue and goodness was immense along the whole Mexican frontier: it was a serious matter to insult him, much more to threaten him with death. Still the strangers had advanced too far to give way.
"Come, padre," the man who had hitherto been spokesman said, "do not attempt any useless resistance. At all risks we will carry off these women."
And he made a movement as if to advance.
"Stop! One step further, and you are a dead man. I hold in my hands the life of two."
"And I of two others," a rough voice exclaimed; and a man, suddenly emerging from a thicket, bounded forward like a jaguar, and placed himself intrepidly by the missionary's side.
"Curumilla!" the latter exclaimed.
"Yes," the chief answered, "it is I. Courage! Our friends are coming up."
In fact a dull and continued sound could be heard rapidly increasing. The strangers had not yet paid attention to it, as they were so engaged by their discussion with the missionary. Still the situation was growing complicated. Father Seraphin saw that, so long as a pistol was not fired, he should remain almost master of the situation, certain, from Curumilla's words, as he was of seeing speedy help arrive. His resolution was at once formed: all he wanted was to gain time, and he attempted it.
"Come, gentlemen," he said, "you see that I am no longer alone: God has sent me a brave auxiliary; hence my position is no longer so desperate. Will you parley?"
"Parley!"
"Yes."
"Be quick."
"I will try to be so, as I presume, from the way in which you stopped me, you are salteadores. Well, look you. You have me almost in your power, or at least you think so. Remember that I am only a poor missionary, and that what I possess belongs to the unhappy. How much do you want for my ransom? Answer. I am ready to make any sacrifice compatible with my position."
Father Seraphin might have spoken thus for a long time, for the strangers were no longer listening: they had noticed the approaching sound, and were beginning to grow nervous.
"Maldición!" the man who had hitherto spoken said, "that demon has mocked us."
He dug his spurs into his horses flanks; but the noble animal, instead of bounding forward, reared up almost straight with a snort of pain, and then fell in a heap. Curumilla had cut its back sinews with a blow of his machete. After this exploit the Indian uttered a loud cry for help, which was answered by a formidable hurrah.
Still the impulse had been given, and the bandits rushed forward with a ferocious yell. The missionary discharged his pistols, rather for the purpose of hastening the advent of his unknown friends than of wounding his enemies, which was easy to see; for no one fell, and the two parties were so close that it was almost impossible to miss the mark.
At the same instant five or six horsemen rushed on the strangers like a whirlwind. A frightful medley began, and the bullets whistled in every direction. The missionary had dismounted, and, compelling the two females to do the same, he led them a few paces in the rear, in order to protect them from the shots. But the struggle was not a long one: within five minutes the bandits fled at full speed, pursued by nearly all the newcomers, and leaving four of their men stretched on the ground.
After a chase of a few minutes, however, the horsemen giving up a pursuit which they saw was useless, returned and joined the missionary. The latter, forgetting the unjust aggression he had just escaped, was already seeking to succour the unhappy men who had fallen victims to the trap they had laid for him: he went piously from one to the other, in order to offer them assistance if there were still time. Three were dead: the fourth was gasping and rolling on the ground in convulsions of death. The missionary raised the veil that concealed his face, and uttered a cry of surprise on recognising him. At this cry the dying man opened his eyes, and fixed a haggard glance on Father Seraphin.
