CHAPTER XXII
After leaving John and Candelaria's home of liberty and love, nothingfurther worth recording happened till I had nearly reached the desiredhaven of the Lomas de Rocha, a place which I was, after all, neverdestined to see except from a great distance. A day unusually brillianteven for this bright climate was drawing to a close, it being withinabout two hours of sunset, when I turned out of my way to ascend a hillwith a very long, ridge-like summit, falling away at one end, appearinglike the last sierra of a range just where it dies down into thelevel plain; only in this instance the range itself did not exist. Thesolitary hill was covered with short tussocks of yellow, wiry grass,with occasional bushes, while near the summit large slabs of sandstoneappeared just above the surface, looking like gravestones in some oldvillage churchyard, with all their inscriptions obliterated by time andweather. From this elevation, which was about a hundred feet above theplain, I wished to survey the country before me, for I was tired andhungry, so was my horse, and I was anxious to find a resting-placebefore night. Before me the country stretched away in vast undulationstowards the ocean, which was not, however, in sight. Not the fainteststain of vapour appeared on the immense crystalline dome of heaven,while the stillness and transparency of the atmosphere seemed almostpreternatural. A blue gleam of water, south-east of where I stood andmany leagues distant, I took to be the lake of Rocha; on the westernhorizon were faint blue cloud-like masses with pearly peaks. Theywere not clouds, however, but the sierras of the range weirdly named_Cuchilla de las Animas_--Ghost-haunted Mountains. At length, like aperson who puts his binocular into his pocket and begins to look abouthim, I recalled my vision from its wanderings over illimitable space toexamine the objects close at hand. On the slope of the hill, sixtyyards from my standpoint, were some deep green, dwarf bushes, each bushlooking in that still brilliant sunshine as if it had been hewn out of ablock of malachite; and on the pale purple solanaceous flowers coveringthem some humble-bees were feeding. It was the humming of the beescoming distinctly to my ears that first attracted my attention tothe bushes; for so still was the atmosphere that at that distanceapart--sixty yards--two persons might have conversed easily withoutraising their voices. Much farther down, about two hundred yards fromthe bushes, a harrier hawk stood on the ground, tearing at somethingit had captured, feeding in that savage, suspicious manner usual withhawks, with long pauses between the bites. Over the harrier hovered abrown milvago hawk, a vulture-like bird in its habits, that lives bypicking up unconsidered trifles. Envious at the other's good fortune, orfearing, perhaps, that not even the crumbs or feathers of the feastwere going to be left, it was persecuting the harrier by darting down atintervals with an angry cry and aiming a blow with its wing. The harriermethodically ducked its head each time its tormentor rushed down at it,after which it would tear its prey again in its uncomfortable manner.Farther away, in the depression running along at the foot of the hill,meandered a small stream so filled with aquatic grasses and plants thatthe water was quite concealed, its course appearing like a vivid greensnake, miles long, lying there basking in the sunshine. At the point ofthe stream nearest to me an old man was seated on the ground, apparentlywashing himself, for he was stooping over a little pool of water, whilebehind him stood his horse with patient, drooping head, occasionallyswitching off the flies with its tail. A mile farther on stood adwelling, which looked to me like an old _estancia_ house, surrounded bylarge shade trees growing singly or in irregular clumps. It was the onlyhouse near, but after gazing at it for some time I concluded that it wasuninhabited. For even at that distance I could see plainly that therewere no human beings moving about it, no horse or other domesticanimal near, and there were certainly no hedges or enclosures of anydescription.
Slowly I went down the hill, and to the old man sitting beside thestream. I found him engaged in the seemingly difficult operationof disentangling a luxuriant crop of very long hair, which hadsomehow--possibly from long neglect--got itself into great confusion. Hehad dipped his head into the water, and with an old comb, boasting aboutseven or eight teeth, was laboriously and with infinite patience drawingout the long hairs, a very few at a time. After saluting him, I lit acigarette, and, leaning on the neck of my horse, watched his efforts forsome time with profound interest. He toiled away in silence for fiveor six minutes, then dipped his head in the water again, and, whilecarefully wringing the wet out, he remarked that my horse looked tired.
"Yes," I replied; "so is his rider. Can you tell me who lives in that_estancia_?"
"My master," he returned laconically.
"Is he a good-hearted man--one who will give shelter to a stranger?" Iasked.
He took a very long time to answer me, then said:
"He has nothing to say about such matters."
"An invalid?" I remarked.
Another long pause; then he shook his head and tapped his foreheadsignificantly; after which he resumed his mermaid task.
"Demented?" said I.
He elevated an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.
After a long silence, for I was anxious not to irritate him with toomuch questioning, I ventured to remark:
"Well, they will not set the dogs on me, will they?"
He grinned, and said that it was an establishment without dogs.
I paid him for his information with a cigarette, which he took veryreadily, and seemed to think smoking a pleasant relief after hisdisentangling labours.
"An _estancia_ without dogs, and where the master has nothing tosay--that sounds strange," I remarked tentatively, but he puffed on insilence.
"What is the name of the house?" I said, after remounting my horse.
"It is a house without a name," he replied; and after this ratherunsatisfactory interview I left him and slowly went on to the_estancia_.
On approaching the house I saw that there had formerly been a largeplantation behind it, of which only a few dead stumps now remained, theditches that had enclosed them being now nearly obliterated. The placewas ruinous and overgrown with weeds. Dismounting, I led my horsealong a narrow path through a perfect wilderness of wild sunflowers,horehound, red-weed, and thorn-apple, up to some poplar trees wherethere had once been a gate, of which only two or three broken postsremained standing in the ground. From the old gate the path ran on,still through weeds, to the door of the house, which was partly of stoneand partly of red brick, with a very steep, sloping, tiled roof. Besidethe ruined gate, leaning against a post, with the hot afternoon sunshining on her uncovered head, stood a woman in a rusty-black dress. Shewas about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, and had an unutterablyweary, desponding expression on her face, which was colourless asmarble, except for the purple stains under her large, dark eyes. Shedid not move when I approached her, but raised her sorrowful eyes to myface, apparently feeling little interest in my arrival.
I took off my hat to salute her, and said:
"Senora, my horse is tired, and I am seeking for a resting-place; can Ihave shelter under your roof?"
"Yes, _caballero_; why not?" she returned in a voice even moresignificant of sorrow than her countenance.
I thanked her, and waited for her to lead the way; but she stillremained standing before me with eyes cast down, and a hesitating,troubled look on her face.
"Senora," I began, "if a stranger's presence in the house would beinconvenient--"
"No, no, senor, it is not that," she interrupted quickly. Then, sinkingher voice almost to a whisper, she said: "Tell me, senor, have you comefrom the department of Florida? Have you--have you been at San Paulo?"
I hesitated a little, then answered that I had.
"On which side?" she asked quickly, with a strange eagerness in hervoice.
"Ah, senora," I returned, "why do you ask me, only a poor traveller whocomes for a night's shelter, such a question--"
"Why? Perhaps for your good, senor. Remember, women are not likemen--implacable. A shelter you shall have, senor; but it is best that Ishould know."
br /> "You are right," I returned, "forgive me for not answering you at once.I was with Santa Coloma--the rebel."
She held out her hand to me, but, before I could take it, withdrew itand, covering her face, began to cry. Presently recovering herself andturning towards the house, she asked me to follow.
Her gestures and tears had told me eloquently enough that she toobelonged to the unhappy Blanco party.
"Have you, then, lost some relation in this fight, senora?" I asked.
"No, senor," she replied; "but if our party had triumphed, perhapsdeliverance would have come to me. Ah, no; I lost my relations longago--all except my father. You shall know presently, when you see him,why our cruel enemies refrained from shedding _his_ blood."
By that time we had reached the house. There had once been a verandah toit, but this had long fallen away, leaving the walls, doors, and windowsexposed to sun and rain. Lichen covered the stone walls, while, in thecrevices and over the tiled roof, weeds and grass had flourished; butthis vegetation had died with the summer heats and was now parched andyellow. She led me into a spacious room, so dimly lighted from the lowdoor and one small window that it seemed quite dark to me coming fromthe bright sunlight. I stood for a few moments trying to accustom myeyes to the gloom, while she, advancing to the middle of the apartment,bent down and spoke to an aged man seated in a leather-bound easy-chair.
"Papa," she said, "I have brought in a young man--a stranger who hasasked for shelter under our roof. Welcome him, papa."
Then she straightened herself, and, passing behind the chair, stoodleaning on it, facing me.
"I wish you good day, senor," I said, advancing with a littlehesitation.
There before me sat a tall, bent old man, wasted almost to a skeleton,with a grey, desolate face and long hair and beard of a silverwhiteness. He was wrapped in a light-coloured _poncho_, and wore a blackskull-cap on his head. When I spoke he leant back in his seatandbegan scanning my face with strangely fierce, eager eyes, all the timetwisting his long, thin fingers together in a nervous, excited manner.
"What, Calixto," he exclaimed at length, "is this the way you come intomy presence? Ha, you thought I would not recognise you! Down--down, boy,on your knees!"
I glanced at his daughter standing behind him; she was watching my faceanxiously, and made a slight inclination with her head.
Taking this as an intimation to obey the old man's commands, I went downon my knees, and touched my lips to the hand he extended.
"May God give you grace, my son," he said, with tremulous voice. Then hecontinued: "What, did you expect to find your old father blind then? Iwould know you amongst a thousand, Calixto. Ah, my son, my son, why haveyou kept away so long? Stand, my son, and let me embrace you."
He rose up tottering from his chair and threw his arm about me; then,after gazing into my face for some moments, deliberately kissed me onboth cheeks.
"Ha, Calixto," he continued, putting his trembling hands upon myshoulders and gazing into my face out of his wild, sunken eyes, "do Ineed ask where you have been? Where should a Peralta be but in the smokeof the battle, in the midst of carnage, fighting for the Banda Oriental?I did not complain of your absence, Calixto--Demetria will tell you thatI was patient through all these years, for I knew you would come backto me at last wearing the laurel wreath of victory. And I, Calixto, whathave I worn, sitting here? A crown of nettles! Yes, for a hundred yearsI have worn it--you are my witness, Demetria, my daughter, that I haveworn this crown of stinging-nettles for a hundred years."
He sank back, apparently exhausted, in his chair, and I uttered a sighof relief, thinking the interview was now over. But I was mistaken. Hisdaughter placed a chair for me at his side. "Sit here, senor, and talkto my father, while I have your horse taken care of," she whispered,and then quickly glided from the room. This was rather hard on me,I thought; but while whispering those few words she touched my handlightly and turned her wistful eyes with a grateful look on mine, and Iwas glad for her sake that I had not blundered.
Presently the old man roused himself again and began talking eagerly,asking me a hundred wild questions, to which I was compelled to reply,still trying to keep up the character of the long-lost son just returnedvictorious from the wars.
"Tell me where you have fought and overcome the enemy," he exclaimed,raising his voice almost to a scream. "Where have they flown from youlike chaff before the wind?--where have you trodden them down under yourhorses' hoofs?--name--name the places and the battles to me, Calixto?"
I felt strongly inclined just then to jump up and rush out of the room,so trying was this mad conversation to my nerves; but I thought of hisdaughter Demetria's white, pathetic face, and restrained the impulse.Then in sheer desperation I began to talk madly as himself. I thoughtI would make him sick of warlike subjects. Everywhere, I cried, wehad defeated, slaughtered, scattered to the four winds of heaven, theinfamous Colorados. From the sea to the Brazilian frontier we have beenvictorious. With sword, lance, and bayonet we have stormed and takenevery town from Tacuarembo to Montevideo. Every river from the Yaguaronto the Uruguay had run red with Colorado blood. In forests and sierraswe had hunted them, flying like wild beasts from us; we had capturedthem in thousands, only to cut their throats, crucify them, blow themfrom guns, and tear them limb by limb to pieces with wild horses.
I was only pouring oil on the blazing fire of his insanity.
"Aha!" he shouted, his eyes sparkling, while he wildly clutched my armwith his skinny, claw-like hands, "did I not know--have I not said it?Did I not fight for a hundred years, wading through blood every day,and then at last send you forth to finish the battle? And every day ourenemies came and shouted in my ears, 'Victory--victory!' They told meyou were dead, Calixto--that their weapons had pierced you, that theyhad given your flesh to be devoured of wild dogs. And I shouted withlaughter to hear them. I laughed in their faces, and clapped my handsand cried out, 'Prepare your throats for the sword, traitors, slaves,assassins, for a Peralta--even Calixto, devoured of wild dogs--is comingto execute vengeance! What, will God not leave one strong arm to strikeat the tyrant's breast--one Peralta in all this land! Fly, miscreants!Die, wretches! He has risen from the grave--he has come back from hell,armed with hell-fire to burn your towns to ashes--to extirpate youutterly from the earth!'"
His thin, tremulous voice had risen towards the close of this mad speechto a reedy shriek that rang through the quiet, darkening house likethe long, shrill cry of some water-fowl heard at night in the desolatemarshes.
Then he loosened his hold on my arm and dropped back moaning andshivering into his seat. His eyes closed, his whole frame trembled, andhe looked like a person just recovering from an epileptic fit; then heseemed to sink to sleep. It was now getting quite dark, for the sun hadbeen down some time, and it was with the greatest relief that I saw DonaDemetria gliding like a ghost into the room. She touched me on the armand whispered, "Come, senor, he is asleep now."
I followed her out into the fresh air, which had never seemed so freshbefore; then, turning to me, she hurriedly whispered, "Remember, senor,that what you have told me is a secret. Say not one word of it to anyother person here."