The Tiger Hunter

After the separation of the two lovers, by little and little Don Rafael began to doubt whether his passion had been really returned by the fair Oajaqueña. Time and absence, while they rendered more feeble the remembrance of those little incidents that had appeared favourable to him, increased in an inverse ratio the impression of the young Creole’s charms – that in fancy now appeared to him only the more glowing and seductive. So much did this impression become augmented, that the young officer began to think he had been too presumptuous in aspiring to the possession of such incomparable loveliness.

His cruel doubts soon passed into a more cruel certainty; and he no longer believed that his love had been returned.

In this state of mind he endeavoured to drive the thoughts of Gertrudis out of his head: by saying to himself that he had never loved her! But this attempt at indifference only proved how strongly the sentiment influenced him; and the result was to force him into a melancholy, habitual and profound.

Such was the state of Don Rafael’s mind when the soldier-priest, Hidalgo, pronounced the first grito of the Mexican revolution. Imbued with those liberal ideas which had been transmitted to him from his father – and even carrying them to a higher degree – knowing, moreover, the passionate ardour with which Don Mariano de Silva and his daughter looked forward to the emancipation of their country; and thus sure of the approbation of all for whom he had reverence or affection – Don Rafael determined to offer his sword to the cause of Independence. He hoped under the banners of the insurrection to get rid of the black chagrin that was devouring his spirit; or if not, he desired that in the first encounter between the royalist and insurgent troops, death might deliver him from an existence that was no longer tolerable.

At this crisis came the messenger from Del Valle. The message was simply a summons to his father’s presence that he might learn from him some matters that were of too much importance either to be trusted to paper or the lips of a servant. The young officer easily conjectured the object for which he was summoned to Oajaca. Knowing his father’s political leanings, he had no doubt that it was to counsel him, Don Rafael, to offer his sword to the cause of Mexican Independence.

The message, however significant and mysterious, partially restored the captain of dragoons to his senses. In the journey he was necessitated to make, he saw there might be an opportunity of sounding the heart of Gertrudis, and becoming acquainted with her feelings in regard to him. For this purpose he had determined upon frankly declaring his own. In fine, he had half resolved to renounce those chivalric sentiments, that had already hindered him from opening the affair to Don Mariano without the consent of Gertrudis. So profound had his passion become, that he would even have preferred owing to filial obedience the possession of her he so devotedly loved, than not to possess her at all.

Influenced by such ideas, no wonder that with feverish ardour he rushed over the hundred leagues that separated Mexico from Oajaca; and it was for this reason he was willing to risk the danger of perishing in the flood rather than not reach the Hacienda las Palmas, on the evening he had appointed to be there.

It may be mentioned that in sending back the messenger of his father, he had charged the man to call at the hacienda of Las Palmas and inform its proprietor of his – Don Rafael’s – intention to demand there the hospitality of a night. Having calculated the exact time he might be occupied on his journey, he had named the day, almost the very hour, when he might be expected. Without knowing the importance which the young dragoon attached to this visit, Don Mariano was but too gratified to have an opportunity of showing politeness to the son of a gentleman who was at the same time his neighbour and friend.

With regard to the sentiments of Gertrudis, they are already known to the reader. What would not Don Rafael have given to have been equally well acquainted with them! Ah! could he have known the secret pleasure with which his arrival was expected – the ardent prayers, and that sacrificial vow registered in his favour, at the moment when he was struggling with danger – could he have known all this, it would have at once put an end to his melancholy!

At this time the insurrection was just beginning to make some stir at Oajaca. On throwing off the mask, Hidalgo had despatched secret agents to the different provinces of Mexico, in hopes that they might all join in the grito already pronounced by him in Valladolid. The emissaries sent to Oajaca were two men named Lopez and Armenta; but both, having fallen into the hands of the government authorities, were beheaded on the instant, and their heads, raised upon poles, were exposed upon the great road of San Luis del Rey, as a warning to other insurgents.

This rigorous measure had no effect in retarding the insurrection. Shortly after, a ranchero, named Antonio Valdez, raised the standard of independence, and, at the head of a small guerilla of country-people, commenced a war of retaliation. Many Spaniards fell into his hands; and their blood was spilled without mercy: for in this sanguinary manner did the Mexican revolution commence; and in such fashion was it continued.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Honest Muleteer

On the same day in which the student of theology arrived at the Hacienda las Palmas, and about four o’clock in the afternoon – just after the hour of dinner – the different members of the family, along with their guests, were assembled in one of the apartments of the mansion. It was the grand sala or reception room, opening by double glass doors upon a garden filled with flowering plants, and beautiful shade trees.

Two individuals, already known to the reader, were absent from this reunion. One was the student himself, who, notwithstanding that he was now in perfect security, had so delivered himself up to the remembrance of the dangers he had encountered while reclining under his terrible daïs of tigers and serpents, that he had been seized with a violent fever, and was now confined to his bed.

The other absentee was Marianita, who, on pretext of taking a look at the great ocean of waters – but in reality to ascertain whether the bark of Don Fernando was not yet in sight – had gone up to the azotéa.

Don Mariano, with that tranquillity of mind, which the possession of wealth usually produces – assuring the rich proprietor against the future – was seated in a large leathern fauteuil, smoking his cigar, and occasionally balancing himself on the hind legs of the chair.

Beside him stood a small table of ornamental wood, on which was placed a cup of Chinese porcelain containing coffee. It was of the kind known among Spanish-Americans as café de siesta; on the principle, no doubt, lucus a non lucendo: since it is usually so strong that a single cup of it is sufficient to rob one of the power of sleep for a period of at least twenty-four hours.

In the doorway opening into the garden stood Don Rafael, who appeared to be watching the evolutions of the parroquets, amidst the branches of the pomegranates, with all the interest of a naturalist.

Though his countenance was calm, his heart was trembling at the thought of the entretien he had proposed on bringing about.

Gertrudis, with head inclined, was seated near by, occupied with the embroidery of one of those scarfs of white cambric, which the Mexican gentlemen are accustomed to wear over their shoulders, after the fashion of the Arab burnouse, to protect them from the too fierce rays of the sun.

Despite the tranquil silence of the haciendado, at intervals a cloud might have been observed upon his brow; while the pale countenance of Don Rafael also exhibited a certain anxiety, belying the expression of indifference which he affected.

The spirit of Gertrudis in reality was not more calm. A secret voice whispered to her that Don Rafael was about to say something; and that same voice told her it was some sweet prelude of love. Nevertheless, despite the quick rush of her Creole blood, and the sudden quivering that rose from her heart to her cheeks, she succeeded in concealing her thoughts under that mask of womanly serenity which the eye of man is not sufficiently skilful to penetrate.

The only individual present whose countenance was in conformity with his thoughts, was the arriero– Don Valerio Trujano.

With hat in hand, and standing in front of the haciendado, he had come to say adios, and thank Don Mariano for the hospitality his house had afforded him.

To that easy gracefulness of manners common to all classes in Spanish-America, there was united in the person of the arriero a certain imposing severity of countenance, which, however, he could temper at will by the aid of a pair of eyes of mild and benevolent expression.

Notwithstanding that his social position was not equal to that of his host – for Mexico had not yet become republican – Valerio Trujano was not regarded as an ordinary guest either by Don Mariano or his daughters.

Independent of his reputation for honesty beyond suspicion – for profound piety as well – which he enjoyed throughout the whole country, he possessed other high qualities that had entitled him to universal esteem. The generosity and courage which he had exhibited on the preceding evening – when assisting a stranger at the risk of his own life – had only added to the great respect already entertained for him by the inmates of the Hacienda las Palmas.

Although the dragoon officer had in some measure requited the service, by afterwards snatching the arriero from the jaws of the devouring flood, he did not on that account feel a whit less grateful. Neither did Gertrudis, who with her thoughts of love had already mingled her prayers for him, who had a just title to be called the saviour of Don Rafael’s life.

The man, Valerio Trujano, whose nature at a later period became immortalised by the siege of Huajapam, was at this time about forty years of age; but his fine delicate features, overshadowed by an abundance of glossy black hair, gave him the appearance of being much younger.

“Señor Don Mariano,” said he, on coming into the presence of the haciendado, “I have come to bid adios, and thank you for your hospitality.”

“What!” exclaimed Don Mariano, “surely you are not going to leave us so soon? No, no.”

Gertrudis at the same time expressed her unwillingness that he should depart.

“I must leave you, Don Mariano,” answered the arriero. “The man who has business to attend to is not always his own master. When his heart impels him to turn to the right, his affairs often carry him to the left. He who is in debt, is still less master of himself.”

“You owe a sum of money, then?” said Don Rafael, interrogatively, at the same time advancing towards the arriero and offering him his hand. “Why could you not have told me of this? Whatever be the amount, I – ”

“Ah! cavallero,” interrupted Trujano, with a smile, “it is a bad plan to borrow from one for the purpose of paying another. I could not think of accepting a loan. It is not from pride, but a sense of duty that I decline your generous offer; and I hope you will not be offended. The sum I owe is not a very heavy one – a few hundred dollars. Since it has pleased God that my mules should find a shelter in the stables of Don Mariano, and thus escape the inundation, I can now take the road through the mountains to Oajaca, where the money I shall receive for my recua will, I hope, entirely clear me from debt.”

“What!” cried Don Mariano, in a tone of surprise, “do you talk of selling your mules – the only means you have of gaining your livelihood?”

“Yes,” modestly replied the muleteer, “I intend selling them. I do so in order that I may be able to go where my vocation calls me. I should have gone already; but being in debt up to this time, my life belonged to my creditors rather than to myself, and I had not the right to expose it to danger.”

“To expose your life?” interrogated Gertrudis, with an accent that bespoke her interest in the brave man.

“Just so, Señorita,” responded the arriero. “I have seen the heads of Lopez and Armenta exposed upon the high road of San Luis del Rey. Who knows but that my own may soon figure beside them? I speak openly,” continued Trujano, looking round upon his audience, “and as if before God. I know that my host, no more than God himself, would betray a secret thus confided to him.”

“Of course not,” rejoined Don Mariano, with an air of hospitable simplicity such as characterised the earlier ages. “But here,” he continued, “we are one and all of us devoted to the cause of our country’s liberty; and we shall pray for those who aid her in obtaining it.”

“We shall do more than that,” said Tres-Villas in his turn; “we shall lend our help to her. It is the duty of every Mexican who can wield a sword and ride a horse.”

“May all those who raise an arm in favour of Spain!” cried Gertrudis, her eyes flashing with patriotic enthusiasm, “may they be branded with infamy and disgrace! may they find neither a roof to shelter them, nor a woman to smile upon them! may the contempt of those they love be the reward of every traitor to his country!”

“If all our young girls were like you,” said Trujano, looking gratefully towards Gertrudis, “our triumph would soon be attained. Where is the man who would not be proud to risk his life for one smile of your pretty lips, Señorita, or one look from your beautiful eyes?”

As the arriero said this, he glanced significantly towards the young officer. Gertrudis hung her head, happy at hearing this homage rendered to her beauty in presence of the man in whose eyes she alone cared to appear beautiful.

After a pause Trujano continued: “Dios y Libertad! (God and Liberty!) that is my motto. Had I been in a condition sooner to take up the cause of my country, I should have done so – if only to restrain the excesses that have already sullied it. No doubt you have heard of them, Señor Don Mariano?”

“I have,” replied the haciendado; and the shadow that at that moment passed over his brow told that the news had troubled him.

“The blood of innocent Spaniards has been shed,” continued the muleteer, “men who had no ill-will towards our cause; and, shame to say, the only one in this our province who now carries the banner of the insurrection is the worthless wretch, Antonio Valdez.”

“Antonio Valdez!” cried Don Rafael, interrupting him. “Do you mean Valdez, a vaquero of Don Luis Tres-Villas – my father?”

“The same,” replied Don Mariano. “May it please God to make him remember that his master always treated him with kindness!”

The air of uneasiness with which Don Mariano pronounced these words did not escape Don Rafael.

“Do you think, then,” said he, in a tone that testified his alarm, “do you think that my father, whose liberal opinions are known to every one, is in any danger from the insurgents?”

“No, I hope not,” replied Don Mariano. “Señor Valerio,” said Don Rafael, turning to interrogate the arriero; “do you know how many men this fellow, Antonio Valdez, may have under his command?”

“Fifty, I have heard; but I think it likely his band may have been greatly increased by accessions among the country-people – who have suffered even more than those of the town from the oppressions of the Spaniards.”

“Señor Don Mariano,” said the officer, in a voice trembling with emotion, “nothing less than news similar to what I have just now heard could have tempted me to abridge a sojourn under your roof, which I should have been only too happy to have prolonged; but when one’s father is in danger – even to the risk of life – his son’s place should be by his side. Is it not so, Doña Gertrudis?”

On hearing the first words of Don Rafael’s speech, which announced the intention of a precipitate departure, a cry of anguish had almost escaped from the lips of the young girl. With the heroism of a woman’s heart she had repressed it; and stood silent with her eyes fixed upon the floor.

“Yes, yes!” murmured she, replying to Don Rafael’s question in a low but firm voice.

There was an interval of silence, during which a sort of sinister presentiment agitated the spirits of the four personages present. The homicidal breath of civil war was already commencing to make itself felt within the domestic circle.

Trujano was the first to recommence the conversation – his eyes gleaming as he spoke like one of the ancient prophets moved by Divine inspiration.

“This morning,” said he, “an humble servant of the Most High, the obscure priest of a poor village, has left you to offer up his prayers for the insurgent cause. And now an instrument, not less humble, by the will of God takes leave of you to offer it his arm, and if need be, his life. Pray for them! good and beautiful Madonna!” he continued, addressing himself to Gertrudis, and speaking with that religious and poetical fervour which was the leading trait in his character; “pray for them; and perhaps it will please the Almighty to show that from the very dust He can raise the power that may hurl the tyrant from his throne.”

On saying these words, the arriero respectfully pressed the hands that were held out to him, and then walked out of the sala, followed by Don Mariano.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Lovers alone

It may be that the haciendado had reasons for thus leaving his daughter alone with Don Rafael, during the few short moments that should elapse previous to the departure of the young officer.

The voices of the muleteers, who were busily lading the recua of Don Valerio, scarce reached the ears of the lovers, who were now embarrassed by the profound silence that reigned in the sala. It was the first time they had found themselves alone, since the arrival of the officer at the hacienda.

The sun was gilding the tops of the pomegranate trees, where the parroquets were joyously performing their gymnastic exercises; and the breeze which caressed the plants in the garden, wafted into the saloon the perfumes of a thousand flowers. It was a solemn and decisive moment. Gertrudis, happy, yet trembling for the words of love she expected to hear, sat with her face partially concealed behind the folds of her silken reboso. In her fingers she still held the scarf she had been embroidering; but, seeing that this betrayed the trembling of her hand, she placed it on a table by her side, lest Don Rafael might observe the emotion of which he was the author. It was the last effort of virgin pride – its last attempt at resistance before avowing itself overcome.

“Gertrudis!” said Don Rafael, endeavouring to stifle the pulsations of his heart, “I have spoken to your father. I wish to consecrate these few moments – the last I may ever pass in your presence – to an explanation between us. I implore you, then, to speak, as I intend speaking myself, without reserve – without ambiguity.”

“I promise you that, Don Rafael,” responded Gertrudis; “but what mysterious secret have you been communicating to my father?” added she, in a tone of gentle raillery.

“I told him,” replied the lover, “that I had come hither with my heart full of you; that my father’s message summoning me to his presence had been received by me as a voice calling me to bliss: since it gave me this opportunity of once more being near you. I told him how I had hurried over the immense distance that separated us; and how, in order that I might see you an hour sooner, I had disregarded the howling of the jaguars, and the threatening voice of the inundation – ”

Don Rafael became silent, perhaps from embarrassment, while Gertrudis still remained in a listening attitude. It was a melody to which she could have listened for ever!

“And when you told my father,” said she, after a pause of silence, “that – that – you loved me – did he exhibit any astonishment at the unexpected revelation?”

“No, not any,” replied the officer, himself a little surprised at the question thus put to him.

“That, then, must have been because I had already told him,” said the young beauty, with a smile as sweet as her voice. “But my father – what answer did he give you?”

“‘My dear Don Rafael,’ said he to me, ‘I would be most happy to see our families united. But this can only be with the consent of Gertrudis, and the free wish of her heart; and I have no reason to think that her heart is yours.’ Those were the terrible words that proceeded from the lips of your father. Gertrudis, do your lips confirm them?”

The voice of Don Rafael quivered as he spoke; and this trembling of a strong man – who never trembled in the presence of danger – was so delicious to the heart of her who loved him, as to hinder her from hastening to make reply.

On hearing the answer which her father had given to Don Rafael, the carnation upon her lips became of a deeper hue. She was biting them to restrain a smile. Assuming an air of gravity, however, which had the effect of rendering her lover still more anxious, she at length made reply —

“Don Rafael!” said she, “you have appealed to my candour, and I shall speak frankly to you. But swear to me that you will not regard my sincerity as a crime.”

“I swear it, Gertrudis! Speak without fear, though your words should crush a heart that is entirely your own.”

“Only on one condition can I speak freely.”

“Name it! it shall be observed.”

“It is, that – while I am making my confession to you, you will keep your eyes fixed upon the tops of those pomegranate trees. Without doing that you might risk not hearing certain things – in short, an avowal – such as you might wish.”

“I shall try to obey you,” answered Don Rafael, turning his gaze towards the tops of the trees, as if about to study the domestic habits of the parroquets, that still continued their evolutions among the branches.

In a timid and trembling voice, Gertrudis commenced —

“One day,” said she, “not very long ago – a young girl made a vow to the Virgin, to save the man she loved from fearful danger that threatened him. Don’t you think, Don Rafael, that that man was dearly loved?”

“That depends upon the nature of the vow,” replied the officer.

“You shall hear it. The young girl promised to the Virgin, that if her lover should escape from the danger, she would cause him to cut the hair – Oh! if you look at me I cannot go on – she would cause him to cut the hair from her head with his own hands – the long tresses which she herself highly valued, and which he had so passionately admired. In your opinion, was that man beloved?”

“Oh! who would not be proud to be so loved?” cried Don Rafael, casting a glance at his questioner that moved her to the depths of her soul.

“I have not yet finished,” said she. “Turn your eyes upon the trees, or perhaps you may not hear the end of my tale, and that might vex you. When this young girl, who had not hesitated to sacrifice her hair – the object of her constant care – the long silken tresses that encircled her head like the diadem of a queen, and which, perhaps, were, in her lover’s eyes, her greatest embellishment – when this poor girl will have cut – had cut them off, I should say – do you believe that her lover – you may look at me now, Don Rafael – I give you permission – do you believe that he would still love her as before?”

Don Rafael faced round suddenly at the question; not that he yet comprehended its import; but the tone of melancholy in which Gertrudis was speaking had profoundly moved him.

A tender tear – a tear of envy for the lot of this unknown, so passionately loved – glistened in his eye, as he made reply —

“Oh, Gertrudis!” said he, “no devotion could repay such a sacrifice as that; and the young girl you speak of, however beautiful she might be, could not be otherwise than an angel in the eyes of her lover.”

Gertrudis pressed her hand over her heart, to stay the flood of joyful emotion that was rushing through it.

After a pause she continued, her voice quivering as she spoke —

“Once more, and for the last time, I desire you to raise your eyes towards heaven. We have reason to be thankful to it.”