The Bee Hunters: A Tale of Adventure

"You must be greatly fatigued with your long ride tonight, caballero. Will you have anything to restore you?"

Don Fernando, horrified at the coolness with which this was uttered, hesitated for a moment.

"How am I to understand you, caballero?" said he.

"How?" said the other. "Pooh! What is the use of dissembling? I assure you, it is useless to attempt to blind me: I know all."

"You know all! What do you know?" replied the Mexican, anxious to ascertain how far Don Estevan was acquainted with what had occurred.

"I know," replied the major-domo, "that you rose, that you saddled your horse, and that you went to meet one of your friends who was waiting for you at the Isle de los Pavos."

"What!" cried Don Fernando, scarcely repressing his rage; "You dared to follow me?"

"¡Vive Dios! I should think so; it is my way of thinking to fancy that a man who has been all day long on horseback does not take another ride through the whole of the following night for mere pleasure, particularly in a country like this, which, dangerous enough by daylight, is doubly so when night has fallen. Moreover, I am inquisitive by nature – "

"You are a spy!" broke in Don Fernando, in a fury.

"Fie, caballero! What a strange expression you use! I a spy! No, no; only as the simplest way of learning what I wanted to know was to listen, I listened."

"Then you were present at the conversation on the Isle de los Pavos?"

"I will not deny it, caballero; indeed, I was very close to you."

"And heard everything that was said there?"

"To be sure; yes, very nearly all," replied Don Estevan, still smiling.

Don Fernando threw himself upon the major-domo, but was stopped by him with a strength the former hardly expected to meet with.

Don Estevan continued, in the same placid tone in which he had hitherto spoken:

"¡Cuerpo de Cristo! you are my guest. Wait a little; we shall have time to finish this matter here, after, if it must be."

The Mexican, overwhelmed by these words, stepped back from him, crossed his arms, and, looking him full in the face, replied, "I will wait."

CHAPTER XIV

DON ESTEVAN DIAZ

For some little time the two men stood thus face to face, looking at each other with the dogged resolution of two duellists who are watching an opportunity to close.

The eyes of Don Estevan, whose face was in other respects impassive, betrayed a sorrow which he could not dissemble.

Don Fernando, with folded arms, his head erect, his forehead frowning, and his lips livid with the fury that boiled within him, waited for the words that were to fall from Don Estevan's mouth, in order to decide whether he should attack him at once, or pretend to be satisfied with the excuses the latter would probably utter.

By degrees the darkness had become less palpable: the sky decked itself in iris colours, the horizon grew red, the sun, although not yet visible, gave tokens that it would not be long ere he rose, to replace with floods of dazzling light the pale rays of the few stars still visible in the profound blue of heaven.

A thousand pungent odours rose from the earth; and the morning breeze, passing over the foliage of the trees, made it tremble and murmur, while it twisted the mists hanging over the river into the most fantastic folds.

At length Don Estevan, to whom the pause was becoming as embarrassing as it was to the other, determined to break the silence.

"I will be frank with you, caballero," said he. "I heard everything that passed in your conversation with the Tigercat; not a word escaped me. This will show you that I know all, and am aware that Don Fernando Carril and Stoneheart are one and the same person."

"Yes," said the Mexican, bitterly, "I see you are an excellent spy. You have chosen a sorry trade, caballero."

"Who can tell? Perhaps, before we have finished our conversation, you may be of a different opinion, señor."

"I doubt it. But allow me to remark, that you have a singular mode of showing hospitality towards the guests God sends you."

"Let me explain first; then, after you have heard what I have to tell you, I shall be ready, caballero, to give you the satisfaction you demand – if you still insist on it."

"Speak, then; and let us finish this somehow or other," replied Don Fernando impatiently. "The sun has already risen; I hear them moving and talking in the rancho; the people will soon make their appearance, and hinder, by their presence, any explanation between us."

"You are right; we must settle this; and as I have as little inclination to be interrupted as you, follow me. What I have to say is too long to be spoken here."

Don Fernando complied. They entered the corral, and saddled their horses.

"Now mount and be off," said Don Estevan, as he vaulted into the saddle; "there is plenty of room for talk in the desert."

The plan proposed was very acceptable to the Mexican, as it gave him freedom of action, and the means of hurling consummate vengeance at the head of the major-domo, if the latter wished, as he fancied, to betray him.

It was a splendid morning: a dazzling sun showered down his hot rays in profusion over the country, making the stones glitter like diamonds; the birds warbled gaily among the leaves; vaqueros and peones began to disperse themselves in all directions, urging on to the pasturage the horses and cattle of the hacienda; the landscape increased in beauty every moment, and bore a smiling aspect, very different to the one it wore under the terrors of darkness.

The two men rode on for an hour, when they came to a half-ruined and uninhabited rancho, which, covered with climbing plants, and almost hidden under their leaves and flowers, offered an excellent refuge from the heat; for, though the day was still young, the sultriness of the air was overpowering.

"Let us stop here," said Don Estevan, breaking silence for the first time since they left his home; "we shall scarcely find a fitter place."

"Stop, if it suits you," said Don Fernando, carelessly; "to me all places are alike, provided you give me the explanation I demand; only, let it be short and frank."

"Frank it shall be, I give you my honour; short I cannot say, for I have a long and sad tale to relate."

"To me? And for what purpose, pray? Must I hear it? Tell me only – "

"Most surely," said Don Estevan, as he dismounted, "what I have to say will touch you very nearly. You will shortly see the proof."

Don Fernando shrugged his shoulders, and alighted in his turn.

"You are mad, Dios me libre," (God forgive me), said he. "Since you overheard our conversation so clearly, you must know that I am a foreigner, and anything that occurs in this country can be but of slight importance to me."

"¿Quién sabe?" (Who can tell?) replied Don Estevan, sententiously, throwing himself on the floor of the rancho with great content.

Don Fernando followed his example, his curiosity beginning to get the better of him.

When the two men were comfortably stretched opposite each other, Don Estevan turned his face to the Mexican:

"I am going to talk of Doña Hermosa," said he of a sudden.

Surprised by these words, the Mexican blushed deeply. He tried in vain to conceal his emotion.

"Ah!" said he in a stifled voice, "Doña Hermosa! You mean the daughter of Don Luna?"

"The same. In a word, the very girl you saved a few days ago."

"Why recur to that event? Everyone else in my place would have done the same."

"It may be so. I do not wish to appear sceptical, but I think you are mistaken there. However, that is not our question. I say, you saved Doña Hermosa from a frightful death. At the first impulse, yielding to your feelings of pride, you left her abruptly, determined to return to the desert, never again to see the face of her who would have overwhelmed you with gratitude."

Don Fernando, astonished and galled at finding his feelings so well understood, briskly interrupted the speaker.

"To our business, if it so please you, caballero," he said sharply; "it is better to begin your explanation at once than launch out into suppositions which may be very ingenious, but have the one fault of being erroneous."

"Look, Don Fernando," replied the other, "you will try in vain to lead me on a false trail; so all denial is useless. You are young and handsome. Passing your life among savages, you are utterly ignorant of the great key to human passions. You could not see Doña Hermosa with impunity. As soon as you saw her, your heart trembled; new ideas developed themselves; and, forgetting all else, despising every other consideration, you have retained only one object, one desire, – that of seeing this girl, who appeared to you as a dream, and brought trouble into a heart so calm before. You have longed to see her, if only for a minute – for a second."

"You are right," cried Don Fernando, carried away by the force of truth; "I feel all you describe. I would joyfully give my life to see but a corner of her rebozo (veil). But why is it so? I seek in vain to understand it."

"It is what you would never understand if I did not come to your aid. A man brought up like you, beyond the pale of social considerations, – whose life as yet has only been one long strife with the imperious necessity of each day; who has never employed his physical powers except in the cares of the chase or the struggles of war, – your moral faculties lay dormant within you; you were ignorant of their power. Love brought about the transformation, the effects of which are now confounding you. You love Doña Hermosa."

"Do you think so?" said he simply. "Is this what is called love? In that case," he added, speaking more to himself than to Don Estevan, "its pains are cruel."

The latter looked at him with a mingling of pity and sorrow, and continued:

"I followed you last night because your actions seemed suspicious, and a vague fear led me to distrust you. Concealed in a bush only a yard or two from the spot where you were talking to the Tigercat, I overheard all you said. I changed my opinion of you; I recognised – forgive me if I speak frankly – that you were better than report would make you, and that it would be wrong to take you for such a man as the one you spoke to. The peremptory manner with which you repulsed his insinuations proved that you have a heart. Upon that I determined to support you in the strife for which you are preparing against this man, who has ever been your evil genius, and whose pernicious influence has so malignly brooded over your youth. These are the reasons why I have spoken thus; these the reasons why I brought you here for an explanation. Now, here is my hand; will you take it? It is that of a friend and brother."

Don Fernando rose, and eagerly seizing the hand so frankly held out to him, pressed it again and again.

"Thanks," said he; "thanks, and forgive me. Truly I am, as you say, a savage, taking offence at every trifle. I did not recognise your noble character."

"Do not say a word on that subject. Listen to me: I do not know whence my idea springs, but I suspect that the Tigercat is the implacable enemy of Don Pedro de Luna; his purpose is to make you the instrument of some devilish attempt upon the family at the hacienda."

"It is just what I thought myself," said Don Fernando. "The Tigercat's strange conduct during the time they were his guests, and the deception practised upon them, which would have been successful but for my intervention, roused my suspicions. You yourself heard last night the obloquy he heaped on me. Let him beware."

"Let us not be too precipitate," said Don Estevan; "we cannot be too prudent. On the contrary, let us leave the Tigercat to develop his schemes, that we may check them the more readily."

"That, perhaps, would be the better plan. He is going to San Lucar shortly: it will be easy to watch all his steps and counteract his projects. Although this man is subtle, and his cunning and knavery astute, I swear to God I will be no less wily than he."

"More so, as I shall be in the background to support you, and be at your side in the hour of need."

"It is Doña Hermosa who must be specially guarded."

"Alas, Don Estevan, how happy you will be in having it in your power to watch over her hourly."

"Nonsense, my friend; I hope to take you to her in the course of an hour or two."

"Can such a thing be possible?" cried Don Fernando, rapturously.

"Of course it can; particularly as you ought to be placed on a certain footing of intimacy with those at the hacienda, that we may the better mislead the Tigercat. Have you forgotten his sarcasms and insinuations apropos of the love he fancies you feel for the charming girl, – the love he boasts of having instigated himself, by throwing her into your way without your suspecting it?"

"True; the man has certainly some hideous project concerning her."

"Be not alarmed; with God's help, we will checkmate him. Now, two words more. Do you really believe this wretch to be your father? The question is one of more importance than you imagine."

Don Fernando became restless; his forehead clouded over with thought; he remained some time in profound meditation. At last he raised his hat and replied:

"I have often asked myself the question you have propounded without ever coming to a satisfactory conclusion. Nevertheless, I am almost certain he is not my father; I cannot be his son. His conduct towards me, the cruel care with which he inspired me with thoughts of evil, and developed in me all the bad instincts of nature, – prove to me that, if any relationship exists between us, it can only be a distant one. It is not to be imagined that a father could take absolute pleasure in thus perverting his own son. Nature revolts so utterly against such a proposition, that the mind cannot accept it. On the other hand, I have always felt for this man a secret repulsion and invincible dislike approaching to hatred. This repulsion increased instead of diminishing with time, a rapture became daily more imminent, and only a pretext was wanting to bring it about. This pretext has been unconsciously found by the Tigercat; and now I am hugging myself with joy at finding my freedom restored, and myself eased of the heavy burden of subjection which weighed me down so long."

"I am quite of your opinion; the man cannot be your father. We shall shortly find that we are right in our conviction; and this moral certainty will allow us to take any measures we please to counteract and foil his machinations."

"In what way do you intend to introduce me to Doña Hermosa, my friend?"

"I will tell you directly. But first I must relate a long and mournful tale, requisite for you to know in all its details, lest, in your intercourse with Don Pedro, you should unwittingly touch upon a wound still secretly bleeding in his heart. This dark and mysterious affair happened long ago. I was hardly born at the time of its occurrence; yet my mother has so often told me the details, that they present themselves to my memory as if I had been an actor in the terrible drama. Listen attentively, my good friend. Who knows whether God, who has inspired me with the wish to tell you the tale, may not have reserved for you the elucidation of its mysteries."

"Does this tale relate to Doña Hermosa?"

"Indirectly it does. Doña Hermosa was not born at the time, and her father did not inhabit the hacienda, which he purchased subsequently. At that time the family lived in retirement at a town in the Banda Oriental; for you must know that Don Pedro de Luna is not a Mexican, and the name by which you know him is not his; at least he has only adopted it, the name belonging to the original branch of his family in Mexico. He did not assume it till after the occurrence of the events I am about to relate, when he came to settle here, having bought Las Norias de San Antonio from his relations, who, established for many years in Mexico, only occasionally, and at long intervals, paid a visit of a few days to this distant hacienda. The people at San Lucar, and the other inhabitants of the province, knowing Don Pedro de Luna under no other name, imagined it was really that person who had chosen to retire to his estate. My master, when he came here, cared the less to disabuse them, as, when he bought the hacienda, he had stipulated with his relations for the right to bear their name. The latter naturally found nothing extraordinary in this; and now that, after a lapse of twenty years, Don Pedro, by the death of his relations, has become the head of the family, this borrowed name has become effectually his own, and none can dispute his right to bear it."

"You excite my curiosity to the utmost; and I wait with impatience for the beginning of your tale."

The two men seated themselves as comfortably as they could in the rancho; and Don Estevan Diaz, without farther digression, commenced his long-deferred story. He spoke the whole day long, and when night fell was still speaking.

Don Fernando, his eyes eagerly fixed on the narrator, his heart palpitating, and his eyebrows compressed, listened with liveliest interest to the tale, the strange events of which, as they were unrolled before him, made him shudder with emotions of mingled rage and horror.

Taking Don Estevan's place, we will ourselves recount to the reader this mournful history.

CHAPTER XV

DON GUZMAN DE RIBERA

In the year 1515 Juan Diaz de Solis discovered the Rio de la Plata, – a discovery which cost him his life.

According to Herrera, this river to which Solis had first given his own name, took the one it now bears from the fact that the first silver brought from America was shipped at this point for Spain.

In 1535 Don Pedro de Mendoza, appointed adelantado, or governor general, of the country between the Rio de la Plata and the Straits of Magellan, founded on the right bank of the river, opposite the mouth of the Uruguay, a town called at first Nuestra Señora de Buenos Aires; later, La Trinidad de Buenos Aires; and finally, Buenos Aires, – a name it has since retained.

The history of this town would be a curious study, full of interesting particulars, as from its earliest days it seems stamped with the seal of fatality.

One should read, in the narrative of Ulrich Schmidel, a German adventurer, and one of the original founders of Buenos Aires, to what depths of misery the wretched conquerors of the country were reduced: how they were constrained by famine to devour the dead bodies of their companions, who had been killed by the Corendian Indians, whom their exactions and cruelties had driven to exasperation; and who, believing the white men who had landed amongst them in such an extraordinary way to be evil genii, had sworn their extermination.

The destiny of this town is a singular one, condemned, as it has been, to an unceasing strife, sometimes with enemies from without, at others, with more formidable foes from within; and which, in spite of these ceaseless struggles, is still one of the richest and most flourishing cities of Spanish America.

Like all the towns founded by the Castilian adventurers in the New World, Buenos Aires is placed in a lovely situation. Its streets are broad, laid out by rule and line; the houses are well built, with a garden to each, thus affording a pleasant prospect. It contains many public buildings, among which we may name the Bazaar de la Recoba. At intervals vast squares occur, well furnished with magnificent shops, which give it an appearance of life and prosperity unhappily too rare in this unfortunate country, so long distracted by civil wars.

Taking an immense leap backwards, we will now introduce our readers to Buenos Aires at a time about twenty years previous to the period to which our story belongs. It is ten o'clock in the night of one of the last; days of September 1839, i. e. at the time the tyranny of that extraordinary man who, for twenty years, subjected the Argentine provinces to a yoke of iron, had reached its climax.

Nobody in these days could imagine the hideous tyranny which the Government of Rosas inflicted on this beautiful country, nor the frightful system of terrorism organized by the Dictator from one extremity to the other of the Banda Oriental.

Although it was only ten o'clock, as we said above, a deathlike silence hovered over the town. All the shops were shut, all the streets dark and deserted, save when, at long intervals, they were traversed by strong patrols, whose heavy footsteps resounded on the pavement; or by a few solitary serenos (watchmen), who, in fear and trembling, shambled through their duty as guardians of the night.

The inhabitants, shut up in their dwellings, had timidly extinguished their lights, for fear of exciting the suspicions of a police ever ready to take offence, and had sought a temporary refuge in slumber from the evils of the day.

On this particular night Buenos Aires was more desolate-looking than usual. The wind had blown, in a storm from the Pampas during the whole of the day, and filled the atmosphere with an icy chill. Large vivid clouds, laden with electricity, were moving heavily through the sky; and the hoarse rumbling of distant thunder, and the nearer and nearer approaching flashes of lightning, gave warning that a fearful storm was on the point of breaking over the city.

Nearly in the centre of the Calle Santa Trinidad, one of the finest streets in the city, which it traverses almost from end to end, a feeble light, placed behind the muslin curtain of a window on the ground floor, twinkled, like a star in a dark sky, through the tufted branches of some trees planted in front of a noble mansion.

This light seemed to be a blot upon the universal obscurity; for every patrol that passed, every sereno whom chance brought to the spot, could not refrain from pausing, and observing it with an expression of anger and ill-dissembled fear: after which they would resume their march, the soldiers growling, in a tone of ill humour boding no good:

"There is that traitor, Don Guzman de Ribera, hatching some new conspiracy against his Excellency the Dictator."

The others saying, in a tone of subdued pity:

"Don Guzman will go on till he gets himself arrested some day."

It is into this house, and into the room itself where the light is shining, which gave rise to so many surmises, that we will introduce our readers.

After having crossed the garden and cleared the zaguán, we find on our right hand a massive door of walnut, fastened simply by a latch, on lifting which we enter a large room, well lighted by three windows opening on the street.

The furniture of this apartment was of the greatest simplicity. The whitewashed walls were decorated with a few of those abominable coloured prints which the trade of Paris has exported into all regions of the globe, and which are supposed to represent the death of Poniatowski, the seasons, &c. The inevitable Soufleto's piano – which in all Spanish-American houses one sees thrust forward into the most conspicuous place, but which is happily beginning to be replaced by the Alexandre harmonium – a dozen chairs, a round table covered with a green cloth, two armchairs, and a clock with alabaster columns, on a pier table, completed the inventory.

In this room a man, dressed in a travelling costume, with poncho (cloak) and polenas (boots), was striding up and down, casting impatient and restless looks at the clock every time he passed the table.

Sometimes he paused, lifted the curtain of a window, and tried to pierce the obscurity of night and see into the street; but in vain; the darkness was too great for him to distinguish objects. Sometimes he listened attentively, as if amongst the noises of the town the breeze had brought him the distant echo of a sound significant to him; then he resumed, with a gesture of ill humour and increasing agitation, the walk he had so often interrupted.

This man was Don Guzman de Ribera.

Belonging to one of the best families in the country, and descending in a direct line from the first conquerors, Don Guzman, when still very young, had served a rude apprenticeship in arms under his father. During the war of independence, as aide-de-camp to San Martin, he had followed that general when he crossed the Cordilleras at the head of his army, and revolutionised Chili and Peru.