CHAPTER EIGHTY.
MATLACUEZC A MORTAL.
The shores of the Lake Ostuta, hitherto so solitary and silent, appearedupon this night to have become a general rendezvous for all the world.The _litera_ of Gertrudis had scarce moved from the spot which DonMariano had chosen for his bivouac, when another _litera_ was seenentering the glade, and moving onward through it. This, however, wasborne by men, and preceded by some half-dozen Indian peons with blazingtorches of _ocote_ wood carried in their hands.
On reaching the shore of the lake, the second _litera_ with its escortmade halt, while the Indians bearing the torches commenced searching forsomething among the reeds.
Costal and Clara, instead of accompanying the party of Don Mariano, hadremained upon the ground, in hopes that they would now be left free tocontinue their pagan incantations, and once more behold the Syren of thedishevelled hair. Don Cornelio also lingered behind, not caring justthen to encounter the victorious royalists.
As soon as Costal perceived the approach of this new party--once moreinterrupting his designs--his fury became uncontrollable; and, makingtowards it on horseback, he snatched a torch from the hands of one ofthe Indians who were in advance, and then rode straight up to the_litera_. The apparition of a gaunt horseman with a torch in one hand,and a bloody sword in the other, his countenance expressing extremerage, produced an instantaneous effect on the bearers of the _litera_.Without waiting to exchange a word, they dropped their burden to theground, and ran back into the woods as fast as their legs could carrythem.
A stifled cry came from the interior of the _litera_; while DonCornelio, who had followed Costal, hastened to open the curtains. Bythe light of the torch which the Zapoteque still carried, they now sawstretched inside the body of a man, with a face wan, pallid, and stainedwith blood. Don Cornelio at once recognised the young Spaniard--theproprietor of the hacienda San Carlos--the victim of Arroyo's ferocity,and of the cupidity of his associate.
The dying man, on seeing Costal, cried out--
"Oh! do not harm me--I have not long to live."
Lantejas made signs for this Zapoteque to step aside; and bending overthe _litera_, with kind and affectionate speeches endeavoured to calmthe apprehensions of the unfortunate sufferer.
"Thanks! thanks!" murmured the latter, turning to Don Cornelio with alook of gratitude. "Ah, Senor!" continued he, in a supplicating tone,"perhaps you can tell me--have you seen anything of her?"
The interrogatory caused a new light to break upon him to whom it wasaddressed. He at once remembered the phantom which he had seen whileapproaching the hacienda; the white form that had vanished into thewoods, and again the same apparition just seen among the reeds. Both,no doubt, were one and the same unfortunate creature. Twice, then, hadhe seen living, one whom the young Spaniard was never likely to seeagain, except as a corpse.
"I have seen no one," replied Don Cornelio, hesitating in his speech,and unwilling to make known his dread suspicions, "no one, except twobrigands, who had hidden themselves in the thicket, and who are now--"
"Oh! Senor, for the love of God, search for her! She cannot be farfrom this place. I am speaking of my wife. We have found just now hersilk scarf, and not far off this slipper. Both I know to be hers. Shemust have dropped, them in her flight. Oh! if I could only once moresee her--embrace her--before I die!"
And so speaking the young man bent a look of suppliant anguish upon DonCornelio, while exhibiting the two objects which his attendants hadfound upon the path, and which had served to guide them in their search.
Don Cornelio, unable longer to endure the painful interview, allowed thecurtains of the _litera_ to close over the wretched husband; and,stepping aside, rejoined the Zapoteque--who was still giving vent to hisanger in strong and emphatic phraseology.
"Costal," said the Captain, "I fear very much that the wife of thisyoung Spaniard is no longer alive. I saw a woman robed in white downthere among the reeds, just as the brigand fired his carbine; and fromwhat I saw afterwards, I am afraid that she must have been hit by thebullet. Surely it must have been her that they are now searching for."
"You are a fool!" cried Costal, in his ill-humour forgetting the respectdue to his superior. "The woman you saw in white robes was no otherthan Matlacuezc, and I should have had her in my arms in another secondof time but for that accursed coyote, who, by firing his carbine, causedher suddenly to disappear. Well! he has paid for his indiscretion:that's some comfort, but, for all that--"
"It is you who are a fool, you miserable heathen," said Don Cornelio,interrupting Costal in his turn. "The poor creature, who has no doubtbeen struck with the bullet, is no other than the wife of this youngSpaniard! Do you hear that?"
This last interrogatory had relation to a cry that came up from thereeds, where the Indians with their torches were still continuing theirsearch.
"Look yonder!" continued Don Cornelio, pointing to them, "they havestopped over the very spot, and that wail--that is significant."
As Don Cornelio spoke a chorus of lamentations came back upon thebreeze, uttered by the Indian searchers. It was heard by the dying manin his _litera_, and apprised him of that which Don Cornelio wouldotherwise have attempted to conceal from him. It was now too late,however, and the Captain ran towards the _litera_, in hopes of offeringsome words of consolation.
"Dead! dead!" cried the young Spaniard, wringing his hands in mortalanguish. "Oh God! she is dead!"
"Let us hope not," faltered Don Cornelio; "these people may bemistaken."
"Oh! no, no! she is dead! I knew it; I had a presentiment of it! Omerciful Saviour! dead, my Marianita dead!"
After a moment, becoming more calm, the dying man continued:--
"What better fate could I have wished for her? She has escapeddishonour at the hands of these pitiless brigands, and I am about to diemyself. Yes, friend! death is now sweeter to me than life: for it willbring me to her whom I love more than myself."
And like those who, calmly dying, arrange everything as if for someordinary ceremonial, the young man laid his head upon the pillow; andthen stretching out his hands, composed the coverlet around him--leavingit open at one side, as if for the funereal couch of her whom he wouldnever see more.
Don Cornelio, turning away from the painful spectacle, advanced towardsthe lake, making signs for Costal to follow him.
"Come this way," he said, "and you shall see how much truth there is inyour pagan superstitions."
Costal made no objection: for he had already begun to mistrust theevidence of his own senses; and both proceeded together towards the spotwhere the torch-bearers had halted.
A white robe, torn by the thorns of the thicket, stained with blood, andbedraggled by the greenish scum of the water, enveloped the lifelessform of the young wife, whom the Indians had already deposited upon acouch of reeds. Some green leaves that hung over her head appeared tocompose her last _parure_.
"She is beautiful as the Syren of the dishevelled hair," said Costal, ashe stood gazing upon the prostrate form, "beautiful as Matlacuezc! PoorDon Mariano!" continued he, recognising the daughter of his old master,"he is far from suspecting that he has now only one child!"
Saying this the Indian walked away from the spot, his head droopingforward over his breast, and apparently absorbed in painful meditation.
"Well," said Don Cornelio, who had followed him, "do you still believethat you saw the spouse of your god Tlaloc?"
"I believe what my fathers have taught me to believe," replied Costal,in a tone of discouragement. "I believe that the descendant of theCaciques of Tehuantepec is not destined to restore the ancient gloriesof his race. Tlaloc, who dwells here, has forbidden it."
And saying this the Zapoteque relapsed into silence, and walked on withan air of gloomy abstraction that seemed to forbid all furtherconversation on the subject of his mythological creed.
CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.
TWO HAPPY HEARTS.
We have arrived at the final scene
of our drama. The shores of the LakeOstuta, which in so short a space of time had witnessed so many stirringevents, are once more to relapse into their gloomy and mournful silence.
Already Don Cornelio and his two companions have disappeared from thespot, and taken the road for Oajaca.
The funeral cortege is moving off towards the hacienda of San Carlos--the Indians who carry the bier marching in solemn silence. On that biertwo corpses are laid side by side--the Spaniard Don Fernando de Lacarraby the side of his youthful wife.
Don Mariano, accompanied by his attendants--to whom have been addedCaspar and Zapote--follows at a short distance; and still furtherbehind, the troopers of Don Rafael form a rearguard closing up theprocession. The most profound and solemn silence is observed by all: asif all were alike absorbed by one common sorrow.
This, however, is only apparent; for there are two individuals in thatprocession whose hearts are not a prey to grief. On the contrary, bothare at this moment in the enjoyment of the most perfect felicity whichit is permitted for mortals to experience upon earth. Both are nowassured of a mutual love, tried by long tortures, and scarce too dearlybought, since the past anguish has resulted in such delicious ecstasy.
At nearly equal distances from the escort of Don Mariano and thetroopers forming the rearguard, these two personages appear: one bornein her _litera_, the other mounted upon horseback, and riding alongside.It need not be told who is the occupant of the _litera_, nor who thetall horseman who, bending down from his saddle, whispers so softly andgently, that no one may hear his words, save her for whom they areintended.
Absorbed with this interchange of exquisite emotions, both are stillstrangers to the sad event that has occurred within the hour. DonMariano, devouring his grief in silence, has left them ignorant of theterrible misfortune. God has been merciful to him in thus fortifyinghis soul against sorrow at the loss of one child, by permitting him tobehold the unspeakable happiness of the other, who is thus preserved tohim as an angel of consolation. He well knows the strong affection ofGertrudis for her sister, and fearing in her feeble state to announcethe melancholy event, lest the shock would be too much for her, he hascarefully concealed the sad news, until some opportunity may arise ofpreparing her to receive it. A few hours of the happiness she is nowenjoying may strengthen her long-tortured spirit, and enable her to bearup against this new and unexpected sorrow.
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Still riding by the side of the _litera_, his eyes fervently glancingthrough the half-open curtains, his ear close to them lest he might losea single word that falls from the lips of Gertrudis, Don Rafael devoursthe sweet speeches addressed to him, with the avidity of the thirstytraveller who has reached the pure and limpid fountain, so eagerlyyearned for on his long and weary route.
As the moon is now low in the sky, and gleams with an uncertain lightthrough the curtains of the _litera_, Don Rafael can only traceindistinctly the features of Gertrudis. This half-obscurity, however,favours the young girl, concealing at the same time her happiness andconfusion, both of which are betraying themselves in full blush upon hercheeks, hitherto so wan and pale.
Impelled by the strength of her love, from time to time she casts afurtive glance upon the face of her lover. It is a glance of strangesignificance; its object being to discover whether upon his features thetortures of long absence have not also left their imprint.
But the passion which Don Rafael has suffered under, although asincurable as her own, has left no other trace upon his countenance thanthat of a profound melancholy, and at the moment, his heart filled withexquisite happiness, all traces of this melancholy have disappeared.Gertrudis only looks upon a countenance that shows not a souvenir ofsuffering.
Don Rafael no longer doubts the love of Gertrudis. She has given himproofs no more to be questioned. But of his? What proof has he offeredin return? Gertrudis cannot yet hinder herself from doubting!
The young girl endeavours to conceal the sigh which these thoughts havesummoned up, and though the moon is still bright enough for her toperceive upon the countenance of Don Rafael an expression of the mostloyal love, she cannot rest satisfied. Unable to restrain herself,again and again she repeats the interrogatory, "Do you still love me,Rafael?" Again and again she receives the same affirmative answerwithout being assured!
"Oh, it is too much happiness!" cries she, suddenly raising her headfrom the pillow, "I cannot believe it, Rafael. As for the sincerity ofmy words, you could not doubt them. The messenger has told you--plainly, has he not?--that I could not live without you? Then you cameto me--yes, you have come," continues she, with a sigh that betokens themingling of sorrow with her new-sprung joy; "but for all that, oh!Rafael, what can you say to me that will convince me you still love me?"
"What shall I say?" rejoins Don Rafael, repeating her words. "Onlythis, Gertrudis. I vowed to you that whenever I should receive thissacred message," at this drawing the tress from his bosom, and pressingit proudly to his lips, "I vowed that though my arm at the moment mightbe raised to strike my deadliest enemy, it should fall withoutinflicting the blow. I have come, Gertrudis--I am here!"
"You are generous, Rafael. I know that. You swore it! and--oh! my God;what do I hear?"
The interruption was caused by a wild cry that seemed to rise out of theearth close to the path which the procession was following. It seemedlike the voice of some one in pain, and calling for deliverance ormercy. Gertrudis trembled with affright as she nestled closer withinthe curtains of the _litera_.
"Do not be alarmed," said Don Rafael; "it is nothing you need fear; onlythe voice of the monster Arroyo praying to be set free. He is lyingover yonder upon the sand, bound hand and foot. He is still living; andto you, Gertrudis, does he owe his life. This assassin of my father--whom for two years I have pursued in vain--but a moment ago was about toreceive death at my hands when your messenger arrived. I hesitated not,Gertrudis. It was but too much happiness to keep my oath. I cut thecords that attached him to the tail of my horse--in order that I shouldcome to you the sooner."
Gertrudis, almost fainting, allowed her head to fall back upon thepillow; and as Don Rafael, frightened at the effect of hiscommunication, bent closer to the _litera_, he heard murmured in a lowvoice, the sweet words--
"Your hand, Rafael! Oh! let me thank you for the happiness you havegiven me, a happiness that no words can describe."
And Don Rafael, his frame quivering with exquisite emotion, felt thesoft pressure of her lips upon the hand which he had hastened to offer.
Then, as if abashed by this ardent avowal of her passion, the young girlsuddenly closed the curtains of the _litera_, to enjoy in secret, andunder the eye of God alone, that supreme felicity of knowing that shewas beloved as she herself loved--a felicity that had, as it were,restored her life.
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Like phantoms which have been called up by the imagination--like theunreal shadows in a dream, which one after another vanish out of sight--so the different personages in our drama, whose sufferings, whose loves,and whose combats we have witnessed, are all gradually disappearing fromthe scene where we have viewed them for the last time--Don Fernando andMarianita on their funereal bier; Gertrudis, in her _litera_, restoredto new life; Don Rafael, Don Mariano, and his followers.
Don Cornelio, Costal, and Clara had already gone far from the spot; andsoon the last horseman of the Colonel's escort, forming the rearguard ofthe procession, had filed through the belt of cedrela trees--leaving theLake Ostuta apparently as deserted as if human footsteps had neverstrayed along its shores.
And yet this desertion was only apparent. Upon the edge of the lake atthat point where the chase of the bandits had terminated, two humanbodies might, be seen lying along the ground. One was dead; and theother, though still living, was equally motionless. The former was thecorpse of Bocardo, who in the _melee_ had been despatched by
thetroopers of Don Rafael. The living body was that of Arroyo, who, stillbound hand and foot with the lazo, was unable to stir from the spot.There lay he with no one to pity--no one to lend a helping hand;destined at no distant time to make a meal for the vultures, to perishby the poignard of some royalist, or to excite the compassion of aninsurgent.
The moon had disappeared below the horizon, and the vitreoustransparence which her light had lent to the enchanted hill, giving it asemblance of life, was no more to be observed. The lake no longerglittered under the silvery beam. Both Ostuta and Monopostiac hadresumed the sombre aspect that usually distinguished them, with thatmournful tranquillity that habitually reigned over the spot--interruptedonly by the cry of the coyote, or the shrill maniac scream of the eaglepreparing to descend to the banquet of human flesh!
THE END.
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