The Rebel Chief: A Tale of Guerilla Life

The masked man darted at him a flashing glance through the openings in his mask.

"Don Melchior," he continued in a hard and deeply marked voice, "it is neither as parricide, nor as fratricide, nor as robber, that you appear before this supreme tribunal, I repeat to you, but as a traitor to your country, I call on you to defend yourself."

"And I refuse to do so," he replied in a loud firm voice.

"Very good," the masked man continued coldly; then, planting his torch in the ground, he turned to the spectators. "Brothers," he said, "what punishment has this man deserved?"

"Death!" the masked man answered, in a hollow voice.

Don Melchior was not at all affected.

"You are condemned to death," the man continued who had hitherto spoken. "The sentence will be executed at this spot. You have half an hour to prepare to meet your God."

"In what way shall I die?" the young man asked, carelessly.

"By the rope."

"That death as soon as another," he said, with an ironical smile.

"We do not arrogate the right of killing the soul with the body," the masked man continued; "a priest will hear the confession of your faults."

"Thanks!" the young man said, laconically.

The masked man stood for a second, as if expecting that Don Melchior would address another request to him; but seeing that he continued to maintain silence, he took up his torch again, fell back two paces, waved it thrice, and extinguished it beneath his foot. All the other torches were put out at the same moment. A slight rustling of dry leaves and broken branches was heard, and Don Melchior found himself alone. Still, the young man did not deceive himself as to this apparent solitude. He understood that his enemies, though invisible, continued to watch him. A man, however well tempered his mind may be, however great his energy, though he has looked death in the face a hundred times, when he is twenty years of age, that is to say, when he finds himself scarcely on the threshold of existence, and the future smiles on him through the intoxicating prism of youth, cannot thus completely forget himself, and, without any transition, pass from life to death, without feeling an utter and sudden enervation of all his intellectual faculties, and suffering a horrible agony and nervous contraction of all his muscles, especially this death which awaits him full of life and youth, is inflicted on him coldly at night, and has an indelible brand of infamy. Hence, spite of all his courage and resolution, Don Melchior suffered an awful agony. At the root of every hair, which stood on end with terror, gathered a drop of cold perspiration. His features were frightfully contracted, and a livid and earthy pallor covered his face. At this moment a hand was gently laid on his shoulder. He started as if he had received an electric shock, and sharply raised his head. A monk was standing before him, with his hood pulled down over his face.

"Ah!" he said, rising; "Here is the priest."

"Yes," said the monk in a low, but perfectly distinct voice; "kneel down, my son: I am prepared to receive your confession."

The young man started at the sound of this voice, which he fancied he recognised; and his ardent and scrutinising glance was fixed on the monk standing motionless before him. The latter knelt down, making him a signal to imitate him. Don Melchior mechanically obeyed. These two men thus kneeling on the desert crest of this hill, faintly lit up by the feeble and flickering light of the lanthorns, which rendered the darkness that surrounded them on all sides more profound, offered a strange and striking spectacle.

"We are watched," said the monk. "Display no agitation; keep your nerves quiet, and listen to me. We have not a moment to lose. Do you recognise me?"

"Yes," Don Melchior said, faintly; who, feeling a friend at his side, involuntarily clung to hope, the sentiment which last survives in the human heart: "Yes, you are Don Antonio de Cacerbas."

"Dressed in the garb I am now wearing," Don Antonio continued; "I was on the point of entering Puebla, when I was suddenly surrounded by masked men, who asked me whether I was in orders? On my affirmative reply – a reply made at all hazards, in order not to destroy an incognito which is my sole safeguard against my enemies, these men carried me off with them, and brought me here. I witnessed your trial while shuddering with terror for myself, if I were recognised by these men, from whom I escaped once before solely by a miracle; but, whatever may happen, I am resolved to share your fate. Have you weapons?"

"No. But of what use are weapons against so large a body of enemies?"

"To fall bravely, instead of being ignominiously hung."

"That is true!" the young man exclaimed.

"Silence, unhappy man!" Don Antonio said, sharply.

"Take this revolver and this dagger. I have the same for myself."

"All right!" he said, clutching the weapons to his chest; "Now I am no longer afraid of them."

"Good! That is how I wished you to feel. Remember this: the horses are waiting ready saddled down there on the right, at the foot of the hill. If we succeed in reaching them, we are saved."

"Whatever happens, thanks, Don Antonio. If Heaven decrees that we shall escape – "

"Promise me nothing," Don Antonio said, quickly; "there will be time hereafter to settle our accounts."

The monk gave his penitent absolution. A few minutes elapsed. At length Don Melchior rose with a firm and assured countenance, for he was certain of not dying unavenged. The masked men suddenly reappeared, and once more crowned the top of the hill. The one who hitherto had alone spoken, approached the condemned man, by whose side Don Antonio had stationed himself, as if to exhort him in his last moments.

"Are you ready?" the stranger asked.

"I am," Don Melchior coldly replied.

"Prepare the gallows, and light the torches!" the masked man ordered.

There was a great movement in the crowd, and a momentary disorder. The members were so convinced that flight was impossible, and besides, it was so improbable that the condemned man should attempt to escape his fate, that for two or three minutes they relaxed their watchfulness. Don Melchior and his friend took advantage of this moment of forgetfulness.

"Come!" Don Antonio said, hurling to the earth the man nearest him. "Follow me!"

"All right!" Don Melchior boldly replied, as he cocked his revolver, and drew his knife.

They rushed head foremost into the midst of the conspirators, striking right and left, and forcing a passage. Like most desperate actions, this one succeeded through its sheer madness. There was a gigantic mêlée, a frightful struggle for some minutes between the members, who were taken off their guard, and the two men who were resolved to escape, or perish with arms in their hands. Then the furious gallop of horses became audible, and a mocking voice shouting in the distance, —

"Farewell, for the present!"

Don Melchior and Don Antonio were galloping at full speed along the Puebla road. All hope of catching them was lost: however, they had left sanguinary traces behind them – ten corpses lay on the ground.

"Stop!" Don Adolfo shouted to the men who were running to their horses. "Let them fly. Don Melchior is condemned – his death is certain. But," he added, thoughtfully; "who can that accursed monk be?"

Leo Carral, the majordomo, leant over to his ear.

"I recognised the monk," he said; "he was Don Antonio de Cacerbas."

"Ah!" he said, passionately; "That man again!"

A few minutes later, a cavalcade, composed of about a dozen horsemen, were trotting sharply along the high road to the capital. This party was led by Don Jaime, or Oliver, or Adolfo, whichever the reader may please to call him.

CHAPTER XXII

DON DIEGO

Don Melchior de la Cruz resolved to seize at any price the fortune of his father, which his sister's marriage threatened to make him hopelessly lose, had rushed headlong into politics, hoping to find amid the failures which had so long distracted his country, the occasion to satisfy his ambition and insatiable avarice by fishing largely in the troubled waters of revolutions. Endowed with an energetic character and great intelligence, a true political condottiere, passing without hesitation or remorse from one party to another, according to the advantages offered him, ever ready to serve the man who paid him best, he had contrived to render himself master of important secrets which made him feared by all, and gained him a certain degree of credit with the chiefs of parties whom he had served in turn; a well-born spy he had managed to get in everywhere, and join all the fraternities and secret societies, for he possessed in a most eminent degree the talent so envied by the most renowned diplomatists, of naturally feigning the most opposite feelings and opinions. It was thus that he became a member of the mysterious society Union and Strength, by which he was eventually condemned to death, with the predetermined resolution of selling the secrets of this formidable association whenever a favourable opportunity presented itself. Don Antonio de Cacerbas was shortly after made a member of the same association. These two men were made to understand each other at the first word, and they did so. The most intimate friendship ere long united them. When, at the beginning of their connexion, Don Antonio de Cacerbas, owing to anonymous revelations, was convicted of treachery, condemned by the mysterious association, and obliged to defend his life against one of the members, fell beneath his adversary's sword, and was left for dead on the road, where Dominique found him, as we have previously related. Don Melchior, who had been watching this sanguinary execution from a distance, resolved, were it possible, to save this man who inspired him with such warm sympathy. After the departure of his comrades, he hurried up as soon as he dared with the intention of succouring the wounded man, but did not find him; chance, by bringing Dominique to the spot, had deprived him, to his great regret, of the opportunity he desired for rendering Don Antonio his debtor. At a later date, when Don Antonio, half cured, escaped from the grotto where he was being nursed, the two men met again; more fortunate this time, Don Melchior had rendered his friend important services. The latter, in his turn, had been able on several occasions to let the young man profit by the occult influence which he had at his disposal. The only difference was, that if Don Antonio was thoroughly aware of his partner's affairs, of the object he proposed to himself, and the means he intended to employ in attaining it, the same was not the case with Don Melchior as regarded Don Antonio de Cacerbas, who remained an undecipherable mystery to him. Still the young man, though he had several times tried to make his friend speak, and lead him into confessions which would have given certain prerogatives, but never succeeded, did not for all that resign the hope of discovering one day what the other appeared to have so great an interest in hiding.

The last service which Don Antonio had rendered him, by making him so unexpectedly escape from the implacable justice of the members of the Union and Strength society, had rendered Don Melchior temporarily, at any rate, dependant on him. Don Antonio seemed to make it to some extent a point of honour not to remind Don Melchior of the immense danger from which he had saved him; he continued to serve him as he had hitherto done. The first care of the young man, on returning to Puebla, had been to proceed in all haste to the convent in which he had confined his sister after carrying her off; but, as he had a secret presentiment, he found the bird flown. Don Antonio had said but a few words to him on this subject, but they had a terrible eloquence.

"Only the dead do not escape," he had remarked.

Don Melchior bowed his head, recognising the correctness of this remark. All the young man's searches in Puebla were vain: no one could or would tell him anything; the mother superior of the convent was dumb.

"Let us go to Mexico; we shall find her there if she be not dead already," Don Antonio said to him.

They set out. What means Don Antonio employed to discover the retreat of Doña Dolores, we are unable to say, but so much is certain, that two days after his arrival in the capital, he was acquainted with the young lady's residence.

Let us leave for a short season these two men, whom we shall meet again but too soon, and describe how Doña Dolores had been liberated. The young lady was placed, by Don Melchior's orders, in a convent of Carmelite nuns. The mother superior – whom Don Melchior succeeded in winning to his interests by a large sum of money he paid her, and the promise of larger sums if she executed his orders zealously and intelligently – did not allow the young lady to receive any visitors but her brother, she was forbidden to write letters, and those that arrived for her were pitilessly intercepted. Dolores thus passed sad and monotonous days in a narrow cell, deprived of all relations with the outer world, and no longer retaining even the hope of being some day restored to liberty; her brother had made known to her his will in this respect; he insisted on her taking the veil. This was the only method Don Melchior had found to force his sister to give up her fortune to him, by renouncing the world. Still Don Melchior, though he had got himself named his sister's guardian, could not have taken her to a convent without a written order of the governor; but this had been easily obtained, and handed by Don Diego Izaguirre – private secretary to his Excellency the Governor – to the mother superior when the young lady was taken to the convent.

At about nine o'clock on the night of the day when Don Melchior had been so adroitly carried off by Don Adolfo, whom he believed his prisoner, three men wrapped in thick cloaks, and mounted on handsome and powerful Spanish genets, stopped at the gate of the convent, at which they rapped. The lay sister opened a wicket in this gate, exchanged a few words in a low voice with one of the horsemen who had dismounted, and evidently satisfied with the answers she received, she set the gate on the jar to admit this late visitor. The latter threw his horse's bridle to one of his companions; while the latter awaited him outside, he went in, and the gate was closed after him. After passing along several corridors, the porteress opened the abbess' cell, and announced Don Diego Izaguirre, private secretary to His Excellency the Governor. Don Diego, after exchanging a few compliments, drew a sealed letter from his dolman, and handed it to the superior, who opened and hastily read it.

"Very good, señor," she answered, "I am ready to obey you."

"Please, madam, carefully to bear in mind the tenour of the order I have communicated to you, and which I am compelled to request back. Everybody, you understand, madam," he said, laying a marked stress on the word, "must be ignorant how Doña Dolores has left the convent: this recommendation is of the highest importance."

"I will not forget it, señor."

"You are at liberty to say that she has escaped. Now, madam, be kind enough to warn Doña Dolores."

The superior left Don Diego in her cell, and went herself to fetch Doña Dolores. So soon as he was alone, the young man tore into impalpable fragments the order he had shown the superior, and threw them into the brasero, when the fire immediately consumed them.

"I am not at all desirous," Don Diego said as he watched them burning, "that the governor should perceive one day the perfection with which I imitate his signature, for it might cause him to feel jealous;" and he smiled with an air of mockery.

The superior was not absent more than a quarter of an hour.

"Here is Doña Dolores de la Cruz," said the abbess; "I have the honour of delivering her into your hands."

"Very good, madam; I hope soon to prove to you that his Excellency knows how, when the opportunity offers, worthily to reward those persons who obey him without hesitation."

The mother superior bowed humbly, and raised her eyes to Heaven.

"Are you ready, señorita?" Don Diego asked the young lady.

"Yes," she answered laconically.

"In that case be kind enough to follow me."

"Go on," she said, wrapping herself in her cloak, and taking no further leave of the abbess. They then left the cell, and guided by the superior, reached the convent gate. By some slight pretext the abbess had had the precaution to remove the porteress. She opened the gate herself, and then, when Don Diego and the young lady had passed through, she gave a farewell bow to the secretary, and closed the gate again, as if anxious to be delivered from the alarm that his presence caused her.

"Señorita," Don Diego said respectfully, "be kind enough to mount this horse."

"Señor," she said in a sad but firm voice, "I am a poor defenceless orphan: I obey you, because any resistance on my part would be madness; but – "

"Doña Dolores," said one of the horsemen, "we are sent by Don Jaime."

"Oh!" she exclaimed joyfully, "'Tis the voice of Don Carlos."

"Yes, señorita; re-assure yourself, then, and be good enough to mount without further delay, as we have no time to spare."

The young lady leapt lightly on Don Diego's horse.

"Now, señores," the young man said, "you no longer wait me – good bye; gallop your hardest, and I wish you a pleasant journey."

They dashed away like a whirlwind, and soon disappeared in the darkness.

"How they race!" the young man said laughingly; "I fancy Don Melchior will have some difficulty in catching them."

And wrapping himself in his cloak, he returned on foot to the palace of the government, where he resided. The two men who accompanied the young lady were Dominique and Leo Carral. They galloped the whole night. At sunrise they reached an abandoned rancho, where several persons were awaiting them. Doña Dolores joyfully recognised among them Don Adolfo and the Count. Surrounded by these devoted friends, she had nothing more to fear. She was saved. The journey was a continued maze, but her joy was immense when she arrived in Mexico, and under the escort of her brave friends entered the small house, where every preparation had been made to receive her. She fell weeping into the arms of Doña Maria and Doña Carmen. Don Adolfo and his friends discreetly retired, leaving the ladies to their confidences. The Count, in order to watch more closely over the young lady, hired a house in the same street, and offered to share it with Dominique, who eagerly accepted it. It was arranged, in order not to arouse suspicion or attract attention to the house of the three ladies, that the young men should only pay them short visits at rather lengthened intervals. As for Don Adolfo, the young lady had scarcely been installed in his house ere he recommenced his wandering life, and once more became invisible. Sometimes after nightfall he would suddenly turn up at the young men's house, of which Leo Carral had undertaken the management, declaring that as the Count was going to marry his young mistress, he was his master, and he regarded himself as his majordomo; the Count, not to grieve the worthy servant, had left him carte blanche in these rare appearances. The adventurer conversed for some time on indifferent topics with the two friends, and then left them, after recommending them to be vigilant.

Matters went on well for some days; Doña Dolores, under the beneficial impression of happiness, had resumed all her girlish gaiety and confidence; she and Carmen twittered like hummingbirds from morn till night in every corner of the house; Doña Maria herself, yielding to the influence of this frank and simple joy, seemed quite rejuvenated, and at times her earnest features were even illumined by a smile.

The Count and his friend, by their visits, which, in spite of Don Jaime's advice, became gradually more frequent and long, produced a variety in the calm monotonous existence of the three voluntary recluses, who never set foot in the street, and were in utter ignorance of what was taking place around them.

One evening when the Count was playing a game of chess with Dominique for the sake of killing time, and the two young men who took but slight interest in the game were sitting face to face, ostensibly arranging clever schemes, but in reality thinking of other things, there was a violent knocking at the street door.

"Who the deuce can come at this hour?" they both exclaimed with a start.

"It is past midnight," Dominique said.

"If it is not Oliver," the Count remarked, "I cannot think who it is."

"It is he, of course," Dominique added.

At this moment the room door was opened, and Don Jaime entered.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said; "you did not expect me at this hour, eh?"

"We always expect you, my friend."

"Thanks: with your permission," he added, and turning to the servant who showed him a light, said, "get me some supper, if you please, Master Raimbaut."

The latter bowed and left the room.

Don Jaime threw his hat on a table, and sat down on a chair, fanning himself with his handkerchief.

"Ouf!" he said; "I am dying of hunger, my friends!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE SUPPER

The young men examined the adventurer with a surprise that they tried in vain to conceal, and which, spite of themselves, was reflected on their faces.

Raimbaut, aided by Lanca Ibarru, brought in a ready-laid table, which he placed before Don Adolfo.

"By Jove, gentlemen!" the adventurer said gaily, "Master Raimbaut has had the charming attention to lay covers for three, evidently foreseeing that you would not refuse to keep me company; forget your thoughts for a moment, then, I beg, and come to table."

"Most willingly," they replied, as they took the seat by his side.

The meal began; Don Adolfo ate with good appetite while talking with a humour and quickness they had never noticed in him before. He was inexhaustible; it was a rolling fire of sallies, witticisms, and neatly told anecdotes that poured from his lips. The young men looked at each other, for they did not at all comprehend this singular temper; for, in spite of the gaiety of his remarks and his easiness of manner, the adventurer's brow remained thoughtful, and his face retained its habitual coldly sarcastic expression. Still, excited by this most communicative gaiety, they soon forgot all their anxieties, and allowed themselves to be won by this apparently so frank joy, ere a contest of laughter and merry remarks was mingled with the clink of glasses and the rattle of the knives and forks. The servants were dismissed, and the three friends left alone.

"Really, gentlemen," Don Adolfo said as he uncorked a bottle of champagne, "of all meals, in my opinion, supper is the best; our fathers liked it, and were right; among other good customs that are departing, this one is going, and will soon be entirely forgotten. I, for one, shall regret it sincerely." He filled his companions' glasses. "Permit me," he continued, "to drink your health in this wine, one of the most delicious productions of your country." And after hobnobbing, he emptied the glass at one draught. The bottles rapidly succeeded each other, for the glasses were no sooner filled than emptied. They soon began to grow excited. Then they lit cigars, and attacked the liqueurs – Jamaica rum, Catalaña refino, and French brandy. With their elbows on the table, and enveloped in a dense cloud of fragrant smoke, they went on talking with less reservation, and insensibly – they did not perceive it themselves – their conversation assumed a more earnest and confidential character.

"Bah!" Dominique suddenly said, throwing himself back comfortably in his chair, "Life is a good thing, and above all a beautiful one."

At this outburst, which fell into the centre of the conversation like an aërolite, the adventurer burst into a sharp, nervous laugh.

"Bravo!" he said, "That is first-class philosophy. This man, who was born, he does not know of whom or where, who has sprung up like a sturdy mushroom, never knowing any other friend save myself, who does not possess a shilling, considers life a beautiful thing and congratulates himself on enjoying it. By Jove! I should be curious to hear this fine theory developed a little."

"Nothing is easier," the young man replied, without any excitement. "I was born I know not where, that is true: but it is a blessing for me. The whole earth is my country. To whatever nation they may belong, men are my countrymen. I do not know my parents: but who knows whether this is not also a blessing for me? By their desertion they freed me from respect and gratitude for the cares they might have bestowed on me, and left me at liberty to act as I pleased, without having reason to fear their control. I never had but one friend: but how many men can flatter themselves with possessing even so much? Mine is kind, sincere, and devoted. I have always felt him near me, when I wanted him to share my joy or sorrow; to support me and attach me by his friendship to the great human family, from which I should be exiled without him. I do not possess a shilling: that is also true – but what do I care for wealth? I am strong, brave, and intelligent; ought not man to work? I accomplish my task like the rest, perhaps better, for I envy nobody and am happy with my lot. You see clearly, my dear Adolfo, that life is to me at least a good and beautiful thing, as I said just now. I defy you, the skeptic and disabused man, to prove to me the contrary."