At which commiserating remark Don Pedro smiled grimly; well aware of the sort of interest Colonel Santander took in the pair of prisoners committed to his care. For the order so to dispose of them he knew to have come from Santander himself! It was not his place, nor was he the kind of man to inquire into motives; especially when these concerned his superiors. Santander was an officer on the staff of the Dictator, besides being a favourite at Court. The gaol-governor knew it, and was subservient. Had he been commanded to secretly strangle the two men thus specially placed in his charge, or administer poison to them, he would have done it without pity or protest. The cruel tyrant who had made him governor of the Acordada knew his man, and had already, as rumour said, with history to confirm it, more than once availed himself of this means to get rid of enemies, personal or political.

During all this interlude the robber had maintained his position and silence, his face turned to the blank wall of the cloister, his back upon all the others. What his motive for this was neither of the Texans could tell; and in all likelihood Santander knew not himself any more who the man was. But his behaviour, from its very strangeness, courted inquiry; and seemingly struck with it, the staff-colonel, addressing himself to the gaol-governor, said—

"By the way, Don Pedro, who is your prisoner, who makes the fourth in this curious quartette? He seems shy about showing his face, which would argue it an ugly one like my own."

A bit of badinage in which Carlos Santander oft indulged. He knew that he was anything but ill-favoured as far as face went.

"Only a gentleman of the road—un salteador" responded the governor.

"An interesting sort of individual then," said Santander. "Let me scan his countenance, and see whether it be of the true brigand type—a Mazaroni or Diavolo."

So saying, he stepped inside the cell, and passed on till he could see over the robber's shoulder, who now slightly turning his head, faced towards him. Not a word was exchanged between the two, but from the looks it was clear they were old acquaintances, Santander starting as he recognised the other; while his glance betrayed a hostility strong and fierce as that felt for either Florence Kearney or the Texan. A slight exclamation, involuntary, but telling of anger, was all that passed his lips as his eyes met a pair of other eyes which seemed to pierce his very heart.

He stayed not for more; but turning upon his heel, made direct for the door. Not to reach it, however, without interruption. In his hurry to be gone, he stumbled over the legs of the Texan, that stretched across the cell, nearly from side to side. Angered by the obstruction, he gave them a spiteful kick, then passed on outward. By good fortune fast and far out of reach, otherwise Cris Rock, who sprang to his feet, and on for the entrance, jerking the dwarf after, would in all probability there and then have taken his life.

As it was, the gaol-governor, seeing the danger, suddenly shut the cloister door, so saving it.

"Jest as I've been tellin' ye all along, Cap," coolly remarked Rock, as the slammed door ceased to make resonance; "we shed ha' hanged the skunk, or shot him thar an' then on the Shell Road. 'Twar a foolish thing lettin' him out o' that ditch when I had him in it. Darn the luck o' my not drownin' him outright! We're like to sup sorrow for it now."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE EXILES RETURNED.

Of the dramatis personae of our tale, already known to our reader, Carlos Santander, Florence Kearney, and Cris Rock were not the only ones who had shifted residence from the City of New Orleans to that of Mexico. Within the months intervening two others had done the same— these Don Ignacio Valverde and his daughter. The banished exile had not only returned to his native land, but his property had been restored to him, and himself reinstated in the favour of the Dictator.

More still, he had now higher rank than ever before; since he had been appointed a Minister of State.

For the first upward step on this progressive ladder of prosperity Don Ignacio owed all to Carlos Santander. The handsome aide-de-camp, having the ear of his chief, found little difficulty in getting the ban removed, with leave given the refugee—criminal only in a political sense—to come back to his country.

The motive will easily be guessed. Nothing of either friendship or humanity actuated Santander. Alone the passion of love; which had to do not with Don Ignacio—but his daughter. In New Orleans he himself dared no longer live, and so could no more see Luisa Valverde there. Purely personal then; a selfish love, such as he could feel, was the motive for his intercession with the political chief of Mexico to pardon the political criminal. But if he had been the means of restoring Don Ignacio to his country, that was all. True, there was the restitution of the exile's estates, but this followed as a consequence on reinstatement in his political rights. The after honours and emoluments—with the appointment to a seat in the Cabinet—came from the Chief of the State, Santa Anna himself. And his motive for thus favouring a man who had lately, and for long, been his political foe was precisely the same as that which actuated Carlos Santander. The Dictator of Mexico, as famed for his gallantries in love as his gallantry in war—and indeed somewhat more—had looked upon Luisa Valverde, and "saw that she was fair."

For Don Ignacio himself, as the recipient of these favours, much may be said in extenuation. Banishment from one's native land, with loss of property, and separation from friends as from best society; condemned to live in another land, where all these advantages are unattainable, amidst a companionship uncongenial; add to this the necessity of work, whether mental or physical toil, to support life—the res augustae domi; sum up all these, and you have the history of Don Ignacio Valverde during his residence in New Orleans. He bore all patiently and bravely, as man could and should. For all he was willing—and it cannot be wondered at that he was—when the day came, and a letter reached him bearing the State seal of the Mexican Republic—for its insignia were yet unchanged—to say that he had received pardon, and could return home.

He knew the man who had procured it for him—Carlos Santander—and had reason to suspect something of the motive. But the mouth of a gift horse must not be too narrowly examined; and Santander, ever since that night when he behaved so rudely in Don Ignacio's house, had been chary in showing his face. In point of fact, he had made but one more visit to the Calle de Casa Calvo here, presenting himself several days after the duel with a patch of court plaister on his cheek, and his arm in a sling. An invalid, interesting from the cause which made him an invalid, he gave his own account of it, knowing there was but little danger of its being contradicted; Duperon's temper, he understood, with that of the French doctor, securing silence. The others were all G.T.T. (gone to Texas), the hack-drivers, as he had taken pains to assure himself. No fear, therefore, of what he alleged getting denial or being called in question.

It was to the effect that he had fought Florence Kearney, and given more and worse wounds than he himself had received—enough of them, and sufficiently dangerous, to make it likely that his adversary would not long survive.

He did not say this to Luisa Valverde—only to her father. When she heard it second hand, it came nigh killing her. But then the informant had gone away—perhaps luckily for himself—and could not further be questioned. When met again in Mexico, months after, he told the same tale. He had no doubt, however, that his duelling adversary, so terribly gashed as to be in danger of dying, still lived. For an American paper which gave an account of the battle of Mier, had spoken of Captain Kearney in eulogistic terms, while not giving his name in the death list; this Santander had read. The presumption, therefore, was of Kearney being among the survivors.

Thus stood things in the city of Mexico at the time the Mier prisoners entered it, as relates to the persons who have so far found place in our story—Carlos Santander, a colonel on the staff of the Dictator; Don Ignacio Valverde, a Minister of State; his daughter, a reigning belle of society, with no aspirations therefor, but solely on account of her beauty; Florence Kearney, late Captain of the Texan filibusters, with Cris Rock, guide, scout, and general skirmisher of the same—these last shut up in a loathsome prison, one linked leg to leg with a robber, the other sharing the chain of a murderer, alike crooked in soul as in body!

That for the Texan prisoners there was yet greater degradation in store—one of them, Kearney, was made aware the moment after the gaol-governor had so unceremoniously shut the door of their cell. The teaching of Don Ignacio in New Orleans had not been thrown away upon him; and this, with the practice since accruing through conversation with the soldiers of their escort, had made him almost a master of the Spanish tongue.

Carlos Santander either did not think of this, or supposed the cloister door too thick to permit of speech in the ordinary tone passing through it. It did, notwithstanding; what he said outside to the governor reaching the Irishman's ear, and giving him a yet closer clue to that hitherto enigma—the why he and Cris Rock had been cast into a common gaol, among the veriest and vilest of malefactors.

The words of Santander were—

"As you see, Senor Don Pedro, the two Tejanos are old acquaintances of mine. I met them not in Texas, but the United States—New Orleans— where we had certain relations; I need not particularise you. Only to say that both the gentlemen left me very much in their debt; and I now wish, above all things, to wipe out the score. I hope I may count upon you to help me!"

There could be no mistaking what he meant. Anything but a repayal of friendly services, in the way of gratitude; instead, an appeal to the gaol-governor to assist him in some scheme of vengeance. So the latter understood it, as evinced by his rejoinder—

"Of course you can, Senor Colonel. Only say what you wish done. Your commands are sufficient authority for me."

"Well," said Santander, after an interval apparently spent in considering, "as a first step, I wish you to give these gentlemen an airing in the street; not alone the Tejanos, but all four."

"Caspita!" exclaimed the governor, with a look of feigned surprise. "They ought to be thankful for that."

"They won't, however. Not likely; seeing their company, and the occupation I want them put at."

"Which is?"

"A little job in the zancas!"

"In which street?"

"The Calle de Plateros. I observe that its stones are up."

"And when?"

"To-morrow—at midday. Have them there before noon, and let them be kept until night, or, at all events, till the procession has passed. Do you quite understand me?"

"I think I do, Senor Colonel. About their jewellery—is that to be on?"

"Every link of it. I want them to be coupled, just as they are now— dwarf to giant, and the two grand gentlemen together."

"Bueno! It shall be done."

So closed the curious dialogue, or, if continued, what came after it did not reach the ears of Florence Kearney; they who conversed having sauntered off beyond his hearing. When he had translated what he heard to Cris Rock, the latter, like himself, was uncertain as to what it meant. Not so either of their prison companions, who had likewise listened to the conversation outside—both better comprehending it.

"Bueno, indeed!" cried the dwarf, echoing the gaol-governor's exclamation. "It shall be done. Which means that before this time to-morrow, we'll all four of us be up to our middle in mud. Won't that be nice? Ha! ha! ha!"

And the imp laughed, as though, instead of something repulsive, he expected a pleasure of the most enjoyable kind.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

ON THE AZOTEA.

In the city of Mexico the houses are flat-roofed, the roof bearing the name of azotea. A parapetted wall, some three or four feet in height, runs all round to separate those of the adjacent houses from one another when they chance to be on the same level, and also prevent falling off. Privacy, besides, has to do with this protective screen; the azotea being a place of almost daily resort, if the weather be fine, and a favourite lounging place, where visitors are frequently received. This peculiarity in dwelling-house architecture has an oriental origin, and is still common among the Moors, as all round the Mediterranean. Strange enough, the Conquistadors found something very similar in the New World—conspicuously among the Mexicans—where the Aztecan houses were flat or terrace-topped. Examples yet exist in Northern and New Mexico, in the towns of the Pecos Zunis, and Moquis. It is but natural, therefore, that the people who now call themselves Mexicans should have followed a pattern thus furnished them by their ancestry in both hemispheres.

Climate has much to do with this sort of roof, as regards its durability; no sharp frosts or heavy snows being there to affect it. Besides, in no country in the world is out-door life more enjoyable than in Mexico, the rainy months excepted; and in them the evenings are dry. Still another cause contributes to make the roof of a Mexican house a pleasant place of resort. Sea-coal and its smoke are things there unknown; indeed chimneys, if not altogether absent, are few and far between; such as there are being inconspicuous. In the siempre-verano (eternal spring) of Anahuac there is no call for them; a wood fire here and there kindled in some sitting-room being a luxury of a special kind, indulged in only by the very delicate or very rich. In the kitchens, charcoal is the commodity employed, and as this yields no visible sign, the outside atmosphere is preserved pure and cloudless as that which overhung the Hesperides.

A well-appointed azotea is provided with pots containing shrubs and evergreen plants; some even having small trees, as the orange, lime, camellia, ferns, and palms; while here and there one is conspicuous by a mirador (belvedere) arising high above the parapet to afford a better view of the surrounding country.

It would be difficult to find landscape more lovely, or more interesting, than that which surrounds the city of Mexico. Look in what direction one will, the eye is furnished with a feast. Plains, verdant and varied in tint, from the light green of the milpas (young maize), to the more sombre maguey plants, which, in large plantations (magueyals), occupy a considerable portion of the surface; fields of chili pepper and frijoles (kidney beans); here and there wide sheets of water between, glistening silver-like under the sun; bounding all a periphery of mountains, more than one of their summits white with never-melting snow—the grandest mountains, too, since they are the Cordilleras of the Sierra Madre or main Andean chain, which here parted by some Plutonic caprice, in its embrace the beautiful valley of Mexico, elevated more than seven thousand feet above the level of the sea.

Surveying it from any roof in the city itself, the scene is one to delight the eye and gladden the heart. And yet on the azotea of a certain house, or rather in the mirador above it, stood a young lady, who looked over it without delight in her eye or gladness in her heart. Instead, the impression upon her countenance told of thoughts that, besides being sad, dwelt not on the landscape or its beauties.

Luisa Valverde it was, thinking of another land, beautiful too, where she had passed several years in exile; the last of them marked by an era the sweetest and happiest of her life. For it was there she first loved; Florence Kearney being he who had won her heart. And the beloved one—where was he now? She knew not; did not even know whether he still lived. He had parted from her without giving any clue, though it gave pain to her—ignorant of the exigencies which had ruled his sudden departure from New Orleans. He had told her, however, of his becoming captain of the volunteer band; which, as she soon after became aware, had proceeded direct to Texas. Furthermore, she had heard all about the issue of the ill-fated expedition; of the gallant struggle made by the men composing it, with the havoc caused in their ranks; of the survivors being brought on to the city of Mexico, and the cruel treatment they had been submitted to on the march; of their daring attempt to escape from the Guards, its successful issue for a time, till their sufferings among the mountains compelled them to a second surrender—in short, everything that had happened to that brave band of which her lover was one of the leaders.

She had been in Mexico throughout all this; for shortly after the departure of the volunteers for Orleans, her father had received the pardon we have spoken of. And there she had been watching the Mier Expedition through every step of its progress, eagerly collecting every scrap of information relating to it published in the Mexican papers; with anxious heart, straining her ears over the lists of killed and wounded. And when at length the account came of the shootings at El Salado, apprehensively as ever scanned she that death-roll of nigh twenty names—the decimated; not breathing freely until she had reached the last, and saw that no more among these was his she feared to find.

So far her researches were, in a sense, satisfactory. Still, she was not satisfied. Neither to read or hear word of him—that seemed strange; was so in her way of thinking. Such a hero as he, how could his name be hidden? Gallant deeds were done by the Tejanos, their Mexican enemies admitted it. Surely in these Don Florencio had taken part, and borne himself bravely? Yes, she was sure of that. But why had he not been mentioned? And where was he now?

The last question was that which most frequently occupied her mind, constantly recurring. She could think of but one answer to it; this saddening enough. He might never have reached the Rio Grande, but perished on the way. Perhaps his life had come to an inglorious though not ignominious end—by disease, accident, or other fatality—and his body might now be lying in some lonely spot of the prairies, where his marching comrades had hastily buried it.

More than once had Luisa Valverde given way to such a train of reflection during the months after her return to Mexico. They had brought pallor to her cheeks and melancholy into her heart. So much, that not all the honours to which her father had been restored—not all the compliments paid to herself, nor the Court gaieties in which she was expected to take part—could win her from a gloom that seemed likely to become settled on her soul.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WAITING AND WATCHING.

As a rule, people of melancholy temperament, or with a sorrow at the heart, give way to it within doors in the privacy of their own apartments. The daughter of Don Ignacio had been more often taught to assuage hers upon the house-top, to which she was accustomed to ascend daily, staying there for hours alone. For this she had opportunity; her father, busied with State affairs, spending most of his time—at least during the diurnal hours—at Government headquarters in the Palacio.

On this day, however, Luisa Valverde mounted up to the azotea with feelings, and under an impulse, very different from that hitherto actuating her. Her behaviour, too, was different. When she made her way up and took stand inside the mirador, her eyes, instead of wandering all around, or resting dreamily on the landscape, with no care for its attractions, were turned in a particular direction, and became fixed upon a single point. This was where the road, running from the city to Tacubaya, alongside the aqueduct of Chapultepec, parts from the latter, diverging abruptly to the left. Beyond this point the causeway, carried on among maguey plants, and Peruvian pepper trees, cannot be seen from the highest house-top in the city.

Why on this day, more than any other, did the young lady direct her glance to the bend in the road, there keeping it steadfast? For what reason was the expression upon her countenance so different from that of other days? No listless look now; instead, an earnest eager gaze, as though she expected to see some one whose advent was of the greatest interest to her. It could only be the coming of some one, as one going would have been long since visible by the side of the aqueduct.

And one she did expect to come that way; no grand cavalier on prancing steed, but a simple pedestrian—in short, her own servant. She had sent him on an errand to Tacubaya, and was now watching for, and awaiting his return. It was the nature of his errand which caused her to look for him so earnestly.

On no common business had he been despatched, but one of a confidential character, and requiring tact in its execution. But Jose, a mestizo whom she had commissioned, possessed this, besides having her confidence, and she had no fear of his betraying her. Not that it was a life or death matter; only a question of delicacy. For his errand was to inquire, whether among the Texan prisoners taken to Tacubaya one was called Florence Kearney.

As it was now the third day after their arrival in Mexico, it may be wondered why the young lady had not sought this information before. The explanation is easy. Her father owned a country house in the environs of San Augustine, some ten miles from the city; and there staying she had only the day before heard that the captive train, long looked-for, had at length arrived. Soon as hearing it, she had hastened her return to town, and was now taking steps to ascertain whether her lover still lived.

She did not think of making inquiry at the Acordada, though a rumour had reached her that some of the prisoners were there. But surely not Don Florencio! If alive, it was not likely he would be thus disgraced: at least she could not believe it. Little dreamt she of the malice that was moving, and in secret, to degrade in her eyes the man who was uppermost in her thoughts.

And as little suspected she when one of the house domestics came upon the azotea and handed her a large ornamental envelope, bearing the State arms, that it was part of the malignant scheme.

Breaking it open she drew out an embossed and gilded card—a ticket. It came from the Dictator, inviting Dona Luisa Valverde to be present in a grand procession, which was to take place on the following day; intimating, moreover, that one of the State carriages would be at the disposal of herself and party.

There were but few ladies in the city of Mexico who would not have been flattered by such an invitation; all the more from the card bearing the name, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, signed by himself, with the added phrase "con estima particular."

But little cared she for the flattery. Rather did it cause her a feeling of disgust, with something akin to fear. It was not the first time for the ruler of Mexico to pay compliments and thus press his attentions upon her.

Soon as glanced over, she let the despised thing fall, almost flinging it at her feet; and once more bent her eyes upon the Tacubaya Road, first carrying her glance along the side of the aqueduct to assure herself that her messenger had not in the meanwhile rounded the corner.

He had not, and she continued to watch impatiently; the invitation to ride in the State carriage being as much out of her mind as though she had never received it.

Not many minutes longer before being intruded on. This time, however, by no domestic; instead a lady—like herself, young and beautiful, but beauty of an altogether different style. Though of pure Spanish descent, Luisa Valverde was a guera; her complexion bright, with hair of sunny hue. Such there are in Mexico, tracing their ancestry to the shores of Biscay's famous bay.

She who now appeared upon the azotea was dark; her skin showing a tinge of golden brown, with a profusion of black hair plaited and coiled as a coronet around her head. A crayon-like shading showed upon her upper lip—which on that of a man would have been termed a moustache— rendering whiter by contrast teeth already of dazzling whiteness; while for the same reason, the red upon her cheeks was of the deep tint of a damask rose. The tones of all, however, were in perfect harmony; and distributed over features of the finest mould produced a face in which soft feminine beauty vied with a sort of savage picturesqueness, making it piquantly attractive.

It was altogether a rare bewitching face; part of its witchery being due to the raza Andalusiana—and beyond that the Moriscan—but as much of it coming from the ancient blood of Anahuac—possibly from the famed Malinche herself. For the young lady delineated was the Condes Almonte—descended from one of Conquistadors who had wedded an Aztec princess—the beautiful Ysabel Almonte whose charms were at the time the toast of every cercle in Mexico.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A MUTUAL MISAPPREHENSION.

Luisa Valverde and Ysabel Almonte were fast friends—so fondly intimate that scarcely a day passed without their seeing one another and exchanging confidences. They lived in the same street; the Condesa having a house of her own, though nominally owned by her grand-aunt and guardian. For, besides being beautiful and possessed of a title—one of the few still found in Mexico, relics of the old regime—Ysabel Almonte was immensely rich; had houses in the city, haciendas in the country, property everywhere. She had a will of her own as well, and spent her wealth according to her inclinations, which were all on the side of generosity, even to caprice. By nature a lighthearted, joyous creature, gay and merry, as one of the bright birds of her country, it was a rare thing to see sadness upon her face. And yet Luisa Valverde, looking down from the mirador, saw that now. There was a troubled expression upon it, excitement in her eyes, attitude, and gestures, while her bosom rose and fell in quick pulsations. True, she had run up the escalera—a stair of four flights—without pause or rest; and that might account for her laboured breathing. But not for the flush on her cheek, and the sparkle in her eyes. These came from a different cause, though the same one which had carried her up the long stairway without pausing to take breath.

She had not enough now left to declare it; but stood panting and speechless.

"Madre de Dios!" exclaimed her friend in an accent of alarm. "What is it, Ysabel?"

"Madre de Dios! I say too," gasped the Condesa. "Oh, Luisita! what do you think?"

"What?"

"They've taken him—they have him in prison!"

"He lives then—still lives! Blessed be the Virgin!"

Saying which Luisa Valverde crossed her arms over her breast, and with eyes raised devotionally towards heaven, seemed to offer up a mute, but fervent thanksgiving.

"Still lives!" echoed the Condesa, with a look of mingled surprise and perplexity.

"Of course he does; surely you did not think he was dead!"

"Indeed I knew not what to think—so long since I saw or heard of him. Oh, I'm so glad he's here, even though in a prison; for while there's life there's hope."

By this the Condesa had recovered breath, though not composure of countenance. Its expression alone was changed from the look of trouble to one of blank astonishment. What could her friend mean? Why glad of his being in a prison? For all the while she was thinking of a him.

"Hope!" she ejaculated again as an echo, then remaining silent, and looking dazed-like.

"Yes, Ysabel; I had almost despaired of him. But are you sure they have him here in prison? I was in fear that he had been killed in battle, or died upon the march, somewhere in those great prairies of Texas—"

"Carramba!" interrupted the young Countess, who, free of speech, was accustomed to interlarding it with her country forms of exclamation. "What's all this about prairies and Texas? So far as I know, Ruperto was never there in his life."

"Ruperto!" echoed the other, the joy which had so suddenly lit up her features as suddenly returning to shadow. "I thought you were speaking of Florencio."

They understood each other now. Long since had their love secrets been mutually confessed; and Luisa Valverde needed no telling who Ruperto was. Independent of what she had lately learned from the Condesa, she knew him to be a gentleman of good family, a soldier of some reputation; but who—as once her own father—had the misfortune to belong to the party now out of power; many of them in exile, or retired upon their estates in the country—for the time taking no part in politics. As for himself, he had not been lately seen in the city of Mexico, though it was said he was still in the country; as rumour had it, hiding away somewhere among the mountains. And rumour went further, even to the defiling of his fair name. There were reports of his having become a robber, and that, under another name, he was now chief of a band of salteadores, whose deeds were oft heard of on the Acapulco Road, where this crosses the mountains near that place of many murders—the Cruzdel Marques.

Nothing of this sinister tale, however, had reached the ears of Don Ignacio's daughter. Nor till that day—indeed that very hour—had she, more interested in him, heard aught of it. Hence much of the wild excitement under which she was labouring.

"Forgive me, Ysabel!" said her friend, opening her arms, and receiving the Countess in sympathetic embrace; "forgive me for the mistake I have made."

"Nay, 'tis I who should ask forgiveness," returned the other, seeing the misapprehension her words had caused, with their distressing effect. "I ought to have spoken plainer. But you know how much my thoughts have been dwelling on dear Ruperto."

She did know, or should, judging by herself, and how hers had been dwelling on dear Florencio.

"But, Ysabel: you say they made him a prisoner! Who has done that, and why?"

"The soldiers of the State. As to why, you can easily guess. Because he belongs to the party of Liberals. That's why, and nothing else. But they don't say so. I've something more to tell you. Would you believe it, Luisita, that they accuse him of being a salteador?"

"I can believe him accused of it—some of those in power now are wicked enough for anything—but not guilty. You remember we were acquainted with Don Ruperto, before that sad time when we were compelled to leave the country. I should say he would be the last man to stain his character by becoming a robber."

"The very last man! Robber indeed! My noble Ruperto the purest of patriots, purer than any in this degenerate land. Ay-de-mi!"

"Where did they take him, and when?"

"Somewhere near San Augustin, and I think, several days ago, though I've only just heard of it."

"Strange that. As you know, I've been staying at San Augustin for the last week or more; and there was no word of such a thing there."

"Not likely there would be; it was all done quietly. Don Ruperto has been living out that way up in the mountains, hiding, if you choose to call it. I know where, but no matter. Too brave to be cautious he had come down to San Augustin. Some one betrayed him, and going back he was waylaid by the soldiers, surrounded, and made prisoner. There must have been a whole host of them, else they'd never have taken him so easily. I'm sure they wouldn't and couldn't."

"And where is he now, Ysabel?"

"In prison, as I've told you."

"But what prison?"

"That's just what I'm longing to know. All I've ye heard is that he's in a prison under the accusation of being a highwayman. Santissima!" she added, angrily stamping her tiny foot on the tesselated flags. "They who accuse him shall rue it. He shall be revenged on them. I'll see justice done him myself. Ah! that will I, though it costs me all I'm worth. Only to think—Ruperto a robber! My Ruperto! Valga me Dios!"

By this, the two had mounted up into the mirador—the Senorita Valverde having come down to receive her visitor. And there, the first flurry of excitement over, they talked more tranquilly, or at all events, more intelligibly of the affairs mutually affecting them. In those there was much similarity, indeed, in many respects a parallelism. Yet the feelings with which they regarded them were diametrically opposite. One knew that her lover was in prison, and grieved at it; the other hoped hers might be the same, and would have been glad of it!

A strange dissimilitude of which the reader has the key.

Beyond what she had already said, the Condesa had little more to communicate, and in her turn became the questioner.

"I can understand now, amiga mia, why you spoke of Don Florencio. The Tejano prisoners have arrived, and you are thinking he's amongst them? That's so, is it not?"

"Not thinking, but hoping it, Ysabel."

"Have you taken any steps to ascertain?"

"I have."

"In what way?"

"I've sent a messenger to Tacubaya, where I'm told they've been taken."

"Not all. Some of them have been sent elsewhere. One party, I believe, is shut up in the Acordada."

"What! in that fearful place? among those horrid wretches—the worst criminals we have! The Tejans are soldiers—prisoners of war. Surely they do not deserve such treatment?"

"Deserve it or not, some of them are receiving it. That grand gentleman, Colonel Carlos Santander—your friend by the way—told me so."

The mention of Santander's name, but more a connection with the subject spoken of, produced a visible effect on Luisa Valverde. Her cheek seemed to pale and suddenly flashed red again. Well she remembered, and vividly recalled, the old enmity between him and Don Florencio. Too well, and a circumstance of most sinister recollection as matters stood now. She had thought of it before; was thinking of it all the time, and therefore the words of the Condesa started no new train of reflection. They but intensified the fear she had already felt, for a time holding her speechless.

Not noticing this, and without waiting a rejoinder, the other ran on, still interrogating:

"Whom have you trusted with this delicate mission, may I ask?"

"Only Jose?"

"Well; Jose, from what I've seen of him, is worthy of the trust. That is so far as honesty is concerned, and possibly cleverness. But, amiga mia, he's only a humble servitor, and out there in Tacubaya, among the garrison soldiers, or if it be in any of the prisons, he may experience a little difficulty in obtaining the information you seek. Did you give him any money to make matters easy?"

"He has my purse with him, with permission to use it as he may see best."

"Ah! then you may safely expect his bringing back a good account, or at all events one that will settle the question you wish to have settled. Your purse should be a key to Don Florencio's prison—if he be inside one anywhere in Mexico."

"Oh! I hope he is."

"Wishing your amanti in a prison! That would sound strange enough, if one didn't understand it."

"I'd give anything to know him there—all I have to be assured he still lives."

"Likely enough you'll soon hear. When do you expect your messenger to be back?"

"At any moment. He's been gone many hours ago. I was watching for him when you came up—yonder on the Tacubaya Road. I see nothing of him yet, but he may have passed while we've been talking."

"Muy amiga mia! How much our doings this day have been alike. I, too, have despatched a messenger to find out all about Ruperto, and am now awaiting his return. I ran across to tell you of it. And now that we're together let us stay till we know the worst or the best. God help us both; for, to make use of the phrase I've heard among marineros, we're 'both in the same boat.' What is this?" she added, stooping, and taking up the gilded card which had been all the while lying upon the floor. "Oh, indeed! Invitation to an airing in one of the State carriages—with such a pretty compliment appended! How free El Excellentissimo is with his flattery. For myself I detest both him and it. You'll go, won't you?"

"I don't wish it."

"No matter about wishing; I want you. And so will your father, I'm sure."

"But why do you want me?"

"Why, so that you may take me with you."

"I would rather wait till I hear what father says."

"That's all I ask, amiga. I shall be contented with his dictum, now feeling sure—"

She was interrupted by the pattering of feet upon the stone stairway; two pairs of them, which told that two individuals were ascending. The heavy tread proclaimed them to be men. Presently their faces showed over the baluster rail, and another step brought them upon the roof. Both ladies regarding them with looks of eager inquiry, glided down out of the mirador to meet them.

For they were the two messengers that had been despatched separately, though on errands so very similar.

Returning, they had met by the front door, and entered the house together. Each having had orders to deliver his report, and without delay, was now acting in obedience to them.

Two and two they stood upon the azotea,—the men, hat in hand, stood in front of their respective mistresses; not so far apart, but that each mistress might have heard what the servant of the other said; for on their part there was no wish or reason for concealment.

"Senorita," reported Jose, "the gentleman you sent me to inquire about is not in Tacubaya."

Almost a cry came from Luisa Valverde's lips, as with paled cheek, she said,—"You've not heard of him, then?" But the colour quickly returned at the answer,—"I have, Senorita; more, I have seen him."

"Seen Don Florencio! Where? Speak, quick, Jose!"

"In the Acordada!"

"In the Acordada!" in still another voice—that of the Condesa speaking in a similar tone, as though it were an echo; for she, too, had just been told that her lover was in the same gaol.

"I saw him in a cell, my lady," continued the Countess's man, now taking precedence. "They had him coupled to another prisoner—a Tejano."

"He was in one of the cells, Senorita," spoke Jose, also continuing his report, "chained to a robber."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

POR LAS ZANCAS.

In all cities there is a street favoured by fashion. This in Mexico is the Calle de Plateros (street of the silversmiths), so called because there the workers in precious metals and dealers in bijouterie "most do congregate."

In this street the jovenes dorados (gilded youth) of modern Tenochtitlan strolled in tight-fitting patent leather boots, canary-coloured kid gloves, cane in hand, and quizzing-glass to the eye. There, too, the senoras and senoritas go shopping bareheaded, with but the shawl thrown over the crown hood-fashion.

When out only for promenade, none of these linger long in the street of the silversmiths. They but pass through it on their way to the Alameda, a sort of half-park, half-garden, devoted to the public use, and tastefully laid out in walks, terraces, and parterres with flowers, and fountains; grand old evergreen trees overshadowing all. For in that summery clime shade, not sun, is the desideratum. Here the jovenes dorados spent part of the afternoons sauntering along the arcaded walks, or seated around the great fountain watching the play of its crystal waters. But with an eye to something besides—the senoritas, who are there, too, flirting the fans with a dexterity which speaks of much practice—speaks of something more. Not every movement made by these rustling segments of circles is intended to create currents of air and cool the heated skin. Many a twist and turn, watched with anxious eyes, conveys intelligence interesting as words never spoken. In Mexico many a love tale is told, passion declared, jealous pang caused or alleviated, by the mute languages of fans and fingers.

Though the Calle de Plateros terminates at the gate of the Alameda, the same line of street is continued half a mile further on, to the fashionable drive of the Pasco Nuevo, sometimes called Pasco de Buccareli, from the Viceroy who ruled New Spain when it was laid out. It is the Rotten Row of Mexico, for it is a ride as well as a drive; and at a certain hour of the afternoon a stream of carriages, with strings of horsemen, may be seen tending towards it, the carriages drawn, some of them by mules, others by the small native horses, and a distinguished few by large English or American animals, there known as frisones. It is the top thing to have a pair of "frisones."

In the carriages, the senoras and senoritas are seen attired in their richest robes—full evening dress—bare-armed and bareheaded, their hair, usually black, ablaze with jewels or entwined with flowers fresh picked—the sweet-scented suchil, the white star-like jasmine, and crimson grenadine. Alongside ride the cavaliers, in high-peaked, stump-leather saddles, their steeds capering and prancing; each rider, to all appearance, requiring the full strength of his arms to control his mount, while insidiously using his spurs to render the animal uncontrollable. The more it pitches and plunges the better he is pleased, provided the occupants of the carriages have their eyes on him.

Every day in the year—except during the week of Guaresma (Lent), when capricious fashion takes him to the Paseo Viejo, or Lav Vigas, on the opposite side of the city—can this brilliant procession be seen moving along the Calle de Plateros, and its continuation, the Calle de San Francisco.

But in this same thoroughfare one may often witness a spectacle less resplendent, with groups aught but gay. Midway along the street runs a deep drain or sewer, not as in European cities permanently covered up, but loosely flagged over, the flags removable at will. This, the zanca, is more of a stagnant sink than a drainage sewer; since from the city to the outside country there is scarce an inch of fall to carry off the sewage. As a consequence it accumulates in the zancas till they are brimming full, and with a stuff indescribable. Every garbage goes there—all the refuse of household product is shot into them. At periodical intervals they are cleared out, else the city would soon be a-flood in its own filth. It is often very near it, the blue black liquid seen oozing up between the flagstones that bridge over the zancas, filling the air with a stench intolerable. Every recurring revolution make the municipal authorities of Mexico careless about their charge and neglectful of their duties. But when the scouring-out process is going on, the sights are still more offensive, and the smells too. Then the flags are lifted and laid on one side—exposing all the impurity—while the stuff is tossed to the other, there to lie festering for days, or until dry enough to be more easily removed. For all it does not stop the circulation of the carriages. The grand dames seated in them pass on, now and then showing a slight contortion in their pretty noses. But they would not miss their airing in the Paseo were it twenty times worse—that they wouldn't. To them, as to many of their English sisterhood in Hyde Park, the afternoon drive is everything—to some, as report says, even more than meat or drink; since they deny themselves these for the keeping of the carriage.

It may be imagined that the scouring-out of the zancas is a job for which labourers are not readily obtained.

Even the pelado turns up his nose at it, and the poorest proletarian will only undertake the task when starvation is staring him in the face. For it is not only dirty, but deemed degrading. It is, therefore, one of the travaux-forces which, as a matter of necessity, falls to the lot of the "gaol-bird." Convicts are the scavengers; criminals sentenced to long periods of imprisonment, of whom there are often enough in the carceles of Mexico to clean out all the sewers in the country. Even by these it is a task looked upon with repugnance, and usually assigned to them as a punishment for prison derelictions. Not that they so much regard the dirt or the smells; it is the toil which offends them—the labour being hard, and often requiring to be done under a hot, broiling sun.

To see them is a spectacle of a rather curious kind, though repulsive. Coupled two and two—for the precaution is taken, and not unfrequently needed—to keep their leg-chains on; up in mud to the middle of their bodies, and above bespattered with it—such mud too! many of them with faces that, even when clean, are aught but nice to look at; their eyes now flashing fierce defiance, now bent down and sullen, they seem either at enmity or out of sorts with all mankind. Some among them, however, make light of it, bandy words with the passers-by, jest, laugh, sing, shout, and swear, which to a sensitive mind but makes the spectacle more sad.

All this understood, it may well be conceived with what anxiety Florence Kearney listened to that snatch of dialogue between Santander and the gaol-governor outside the cell. He did not even then quite comprehend the nature of what was intended for them. But the sharer of his chain did, who soon after made it all known to him, he passing the knowledge on to Cris Rock. So when, on the next morning, the governor again presented himself at the door of their cell, saying:

"Now, gentlemen, get ready to take a little exercise,"—they knew what sort of exercise was meant.

He, however, believing them ignorant of it—for he was not aware they had overheard his out-door speech with Santander, added ironically:

"It's a special favour I'm going to give you—at the request of Senor Colonel Santander, who, as I've seen, takes a friendly interest in some of you. For your health's sake, he has asked me to give you a turn upon the streets, which I trust you will enjoy and get benefit by."

Don Pedro was a born joker, and felt conceit in his powers as a satirist. In the present instance his irony was shaftless, being understood.

The dwarf was the only one who deigned rejoinder.

"Ha, ha, ha!" he yelled in his wild unearthly way. "Turn upon the streets! That's fine for you, Don Pedro. A turn under the streets— that's what you mean, isn't it?"

He had been long enough in the gaol-governor's charge to know the latter's name, and was accustomed to address him thus familiarly. The deformed creature was fearless from his very deformity, which in a way gave him protection.

"Vayate Zorillo," returned the Governor, slightly put out and evidently a little nettled, "you're too fond of jesting—or trying. I'll take that out of you, and I mean to give you a lesson in good manners this very day." Then fixing his eyes upon Rivas, he added: "Senor Don Ruperto, I should be only too happy to let you off from the little excursion your prison companions are about to make and save you the fatigue. But my orders are rigorous. They come from the highest quarter, and I dare not disobey them."

This was all pure irony, intended but to torment him; at least so the robber seemed to understand it. For, instead of accepting it in a friendly sense, he turned savagely on his tormentor, hissing out:

"I know you daren't disobey them, dog that you are! Only such as you would be governor of a gaol like this: you, who turned coat and disgraced the sword you wore at Zacatecas. Do your worst, Don Pedro Arias! I defy you."

"Cascaras! how swelling big you talk, Senor Captain Rivas! Ah! well. I'll let a little of the wind out of you too, before you bid good-bye to the Acordada. Even the Condesa, grand dame though she is, won't be able to get you clear of my clutches so easy as you may be thinking. La Garrota is the lady likeliest to do that."

After thus spitefully delivering himself, he called to some prison warders in waiting in the court outside, and commanded them to come up to him.

"Here," he directed, "take these two pairs and hand them over to the guard at the gate. You know what for, Dominguez?" The half interrogatory was addressed to a big, hulking fellow, chief of the turnkeys, who looked all Acordada.

"Por cierto, Senor Gobernador," he rejoined with a significant look, after giving the prison salute to his superior. "I know all about it."

"See, moreover, that they be kept all day at it; that's my orders."

"Sure will I, Senor," was the compliant rejoinder.

After which the man twitted with turning his coat, turned his back upon the place where he had been so ungraciously received, going off to more agreeable quarters.

"Now, gentlemen!" said the gaoler, stepping up to the door of the cell, "Por las zancas!"



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

TYRANT AND TOOL.

El Excellentissimo Illustrissimo General Don Jose Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.

Such the twice sesquipedalian name and title of him who at this time wielded the destinies of Mexico. For more than a quarter of a century this man had been the curse of the young Republic—its direst, deadliest bane. For although his rule was not continuous, its evil effects were. Unfortunately, the demoralisation brought about by despotism extends beyond the reign or life of the despot; and Santa Anna had so debased the Mexican people, both socially and politically, as to render them unfitted for almost any form of constitutional government. They had become incapable of distinguishing between the friends of freedom and its foes; and in the intervals of Liberal administration, because the Millennium did not immediately show itself, and make all rich, prosperous, and happy, they leaped to the conclusion that its failure was due to the existing regime, making no account or allowance for the still uncicatrised wounds of the body politic being the work of his wicked predecessor.

This ignorance of political cause and effect is, alas! not alone confined to Mexico. There is enough of it in England, too, as in every other nation. But in the earlier days of the Mexican Republic, the baneful weed flourished with unusual vigour and rankness—to the benefit of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, and the blight of his country. Deposed and banished so many times that their number is not easily remembered, he was ever brought back again—to the wonder of people then, and the puzzle of historians yet. The explanation, however, is simple enough. He reigned through corruption that he had himself been instrumental in creating; through militarism and an abominable Chauvinism—this last as effective an instrument as the oppressor can wield. Divide et impera is a maxim of despotic state-craft, old as despotism itself; "flatter and rule" is a method equally sure, and such Santa Anna practised to its full. He let pass no opportunity of flattering the national vanity, which brought the Mexican nation to shame, with much humiliation—as the French at a later period, and as it must every people that aims at no higher standard of honour than what may be derived from self-adulation.

At the time I am writing of, the chief of the Mexican Republic was aiming at "Imperium"—eagerly straining for it. Its substance he already had, the "Libertas" having been long since eliminated from his system of government, and trodden under foot. But the title he had not acquired yet. He yearned to wear the purple, and be styled "Imperador," and in order to prepare his subjects for the change, already kept a sort of Imperial court, surrounding it with grand ceremonials. As a matter of course, these partook of a military character, being himself not only political head of the State, but commander-in-chief of its armies. As a consequence, Palacio, his official residence was beset with soldier-guards, officers in gorgeous uniforms loitering about the gates, or going out and in, and in the Plaza Grande at all times exhibiting the spectacle of a veritable Champ de Mars. No one passing through the Mexican metropolis at this period would have supposed it the chief city of a Republic.

On that same day in which Carlos Santander had shown himself at the Acordada, only at an early hour, the would-be Emperor was seated in his apartment of the palace in which he was wont to give audience to ordinary visitors. He had got through the business affairs of the morning, dismissed his Ministers, and was alone, when one of the aides-de-camp in attendance entered with a card, and respectfully saluting him, laid it on the table before him.

"Yes; say I can see him. Tell him to come in," he directed, soon as reading the name on the card.

In the door, on its second opening, appeared Carlos Santander, in the uniform of a colonel of Hussars, gold bedizened, and laced from collar to cuffs.

"Ah! Senor Don Carlos!" exclaimed the Dictator in a joyous, jocular way, "what's your affair? Coming to tell me of some fresh conquest you've made among the muchachas? From your cheerful countenance I should say it's that."

"Excellentissimo!"

"Oh! you needn't deny, or look so demure about it. Well, you're a lucky fellow to be the lady killer I've heard say you are."

"Your Excellency, that's only say-say; I ought rather to call it slander. I've no ambition to be thought such a character. Quite the reverse, I assure you."

"If you could assure me, but you can't. I've had you long enough under my eye to know better. Haven't I observed your little flirtations with quite half a score of our senoritas, among them a very charming young lady you met in Louisiana, if I mistake not?"

Saying this, he fixed his eyes on Santander's face in a searching, interrogative way, as though he himself felt more than a common interest in the charming young lady who had been met in Louisiana.

Avoiding his glance, as evading the question, the other rejoined—

"It is very good of your Excellency to take such interest in me, and I'm grateful. But I protest—"

"Come, come! amigo mio! No protestations. 'Twould only be adding perjury to profligacy. Ha, ha, ha!"

And the grand dignitary leaned back in his chair, laughing. For it was but badinage, and he in no way intended lecturing the staff-colonel on his morality, nor rebuking him for any backslidings. Instead, what came after could but encourage him in such wise, his chief continuing—

"Yes, Senor Don Carlos, I'm aware of your amourettes, for which I'm not the man to be hard upon you. In that regard, I myself get the credit—so rumour says—of living in a glass house, so I cannot safely throw stones. Ha, ha!"

The tone of his laugh, with his self-satisfied look, told of his being aught but angry with rumour for so representing him.

"Well, Excellentissimo," here put in the subordinate, "it don't much signify what the world says, so long as one's conscience is clear."

"Bravo—bravissimo!" exclaimed the Most Excellent. "Ha, ha, ha!" he continued, in still louder cachinnation. "Carlos Santander turned moralist! And moralising to me! It's enough to make a horse laugh. Ha, ha, ha!"

The staff-colonel appeared somewhat disconcerted, not knowing to what all this might be tending. However, he ventured to remark—

"I am glad to find your Excellency in such good humour this morning."

"Ah! that's because you've come to ask some favour from me, I suppose." Santa Anna had a habit of interlarding his most familiar and friendly discourse with a little satire, sometimes very disagreeable to those he conversed with. "But never mind," he rattled on, "though I confess some surprise at your hypocrisy, which is all thrown away upon me, amigo! I don't at all wonder at your success with the senoritas. You're a handsome fellow, Don Carlos; and if it weren't for that scar on your cheek—By the way, you never told me how you came by it. You hadn't it when you were last with us."

The red flushed into Santander's face, and up over his forehead to the roots of his hair. He had told no one in Mexico, nor anywhere else, how he came by that ugly thing on his jaw, which beard could not conceal, and which he felt as a brand of Cain.

"It's a scar of a sword-cut, your Excellency. I got it in a duel."

"Ah! An honourable wound, then. But where?"

"In New Orleans."

"Just the place for that sort of thing, as I know, having been there myself." (Santa Anna had made a tour of the States, on parole, after the battle of San Jacinto, where he was taken prisoner.) "A very den of duellists is Nuevo Orleans; many of them maitres d'escrime. But who was your antagonist? I hope you gave him as good as you got."

"I did, your Excellency; that, and more."

"You killed him?"

"Not quite. I would have done so, but that my second interposed, and persuaded me to let him off."

"Well, he hasn't let you off, anyhow. What was the quarrel about? Carrai! I needn't ask; the old orthodox cause—a lady, of course?"

"Nay; for once your Excellency is in error. Our desajio originated in something quite different."

"What thing?"

"An endeavour on my part to do a service to Mexico and its honoured ruler."

"Oh, indeed! In what way, Senor Colonel?"

"That band of filibusteros, of which, as your Excellency will remember—"

"Yes—yes," interrupted Santa Anna impatiently. He evidently knew all about that, and preferred hearing no more of it. "It was one of the filibusteros you fought with, I suppose?"

"Yes, Excellentissimo; the one they chose for their captain."

"You were angry at his being preferred to yourself, and so called him out? Well, that was cause enough to a man of your mettle. But what became of him afterwards? Was he among those at Mier?"

"He was."

"Killed there?"

"No, your Excellency; only taken prisoner."

"Shot at Salado?"

"Neither that, Excellentissimo."

"Then he must be here?"

"He is here, your Excellency."

"What's his name?"

"Kearney—Florence Kearney, un Irlandes."

A peculiar expression came over Santa Anna's features, a sort of knowing look, as much as to say the name was not new to him. Nor was it. That very morning, only an hour before, Don Ignacio Valverde had audience of him on a matter relating to this same man—Florence Kearney; in short, to obtain clemency for the young Irishman—full pardon, if possible. But the Minister had been dismissed with only vague promises. His influence at court was still not very great, and about the motive for his application—as also who it originated from—Santa Anna had conceived suspicions.

Of all this he said nothing to the man before him now, simply inquiring—

"Is the Irlandes at Tacubaya?"

"No, your Excellency; he's in the Acordada."

"Since you had the disposal of the Tejano prisoners, I can understand that," returned the Dictator, with a significant shrug. "It's about him, then, you're here, I suppose. Well, what do you want?"

"Your authority, Excellentissimo, to punish him as he deserves."

"For making that tracing on your cheek, eh? You repent not having punished him more at the time when you yourself had the power? Isn't it so, Senor Colonel?"

Santander's face reddened, as he made reply—

"Not altogether, your Excellency. There's something besides, for which he deserves to be treated differently from the others."

Santa Anna could have given a close guess at what the exceptional something was. To his subtle perception a little love drama was gradually being disclosed; but he kept his thoughts to himself, with his eyes still searchingly fixed on Santander's face.

"This Kearney," continued the latter, "though an Irishman, is one of Mexico's bitterest enemies, and especially bitter against your Excellency. In a speech he made to the filibusteros, he called you a usurper, tyrant, traitor to liberty and your country—ay, even coward. Pardon me for repeating the vile epithets he made use of."

Santa Anna's eyes now scintillated with a lurid sinister light, as if filled with fire, ready to blaze out. In the American newspapers he had often seen his name coupled with such opprobrious phrases, but never without feeling savagely wrathful. And not the less that his own innate consciousness told him it was all as said.

"Chingara!" he hissed out, for he was not above using this vulgar exclamation. "If it is true what you say, Don Carlos, as I presume it is, you can do as you like with this dog of an Irlandes! have him shot, or have him despatched by La Garrota, whichever seems best to you. But no—stay! That won't do yet. There's a question about these Tejanos with the United States Minister; and as this Kearney is an Irishman, and so a British subject, the representative of that country may make trouble too. So till all this is settled, the Irlandes mustn't be either shot or garrotted. Instead, let him be treated tenderly. You comprehend?"

The staff-colonel did comprehend; the emphasis on the "tenderly" made it impossible for him to mistake the Dictator's meaning, which was just as he desired it. As he passed out of the presence, and from the room, his countenance was lit up, or rather darkened, by an expression of fiendish triumph. He now had it in his power to humiliate them who had so humbled him.

"Quite a little comedy!" soliloquised Santa Anna, as the door closed on his subordinate, "in which, before it's played out, I may myself take a part. She's a charming creature, this Senorita Valverde. But, ah! nothing to the Condesa. That woman—witch, devil, or whatever I may call her—bids fair to do what woman never did—make a fool of Lopez de Santa Anna."



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A WOODEN-LEGGED LOTHARIO.

For some time the Dictator remained in his seat lighting cigarrito after cigarrito, and puffing away at them furiously. The look of light frivolity had forsaken his face, which was now overcast with gloom.

At this time, as said, he wielded supreme unlimited power over the Mexican people—even to life and death. For although he might not recklessly or openly decree this, he could bring it about secretly—by means which, if rumour spoke true, he had more than once made use of. Indeed, there stood against his name more than one well-confirmed record of assassination.

Thought of this may have had something to do with the cloud that had come over his features; though not for any qualms of conscience for the murders he may have committed or hired others to commit. More likely a fear that he himself might some day meet a similar fate; like all despots he dreaded the steel of the assassin. By his corrupt administration, he had encouraged bravoism till it had become a dangerous element in the social life of his country—almost an institution—and it was but natural he should fear the bravo's blade turned against himself.

Another apprehension may at this time have been troubling him. Although to all appearance secure in the dictatorial chair, with a likelihood of his soon converting it into a real throne, he had his misgivings about this security. By imprisonments, executions, banishments, and confiscations, he had done all in his power to annihilate the Liberal party. But though crushed and feeble now, its strength was but in abeyance, its spirit still lived, and might again successfully assert itself. No man knew this better than he himself; and no better teacher could he have had than his own life's history, with its alternating chapters of triumph and defeat. Even then there was report of a pronunciamento in one of the northern cities of the Republic—the State, by a polite euphemism, being still so designated. Only a faint "gritto" it was, but with a tone that resembled the rumbling of distant thunder, which might yet be heard louder and nearer.

Little, however, of matters either revolutionary or political was he thinking now. The subject uppermost in his mind was that latent on his lips—woman. Not in a general way, but with thoughts specially bent upon one of them, or both, with whose names he had just been making free. As his soliloquy told, a certain "Condesa" had first place in his reflections, she being no other than the Condesa Almonte. In his wicked way he had made love to this young lady, as to many others; but, unlike as with many others, he had met repulse. Firm, though without indignation, his advances not yet having gone so far, nor been so bold, as to call for this. He had only commenced skirmishing with her; a preliminary stroke of his tactics being that invitation to ride in the State carriage extended to Dona Luisita Valverde, while withheld from the Countess—an astute manoeuvre on his part, and, as he supposed, likely to serve him. In short, the old sinner was playing the old game of "piques." Nor did he think himself so ancient as to despair of winning at it. In such contests he had too often come off victorious, and success might attend upon him still. Vain was he of his personal appearance, and in his earlier days not without some show of reason. In his youth Santa Anna would claim to be called, if not handsome, a fairly good-looking man. Though a native Mexican, a Vera-cruzano, he was of pure Spanish race and good blood—the boasted sangre-azul. His features were well formed, oval, and slightly aquiline, his complexion dark, yet clear, his hair and moustaches black, lustrous, and profuse. But for a sinister cast in his eyes, not always observable, his countenance would have been pleasing enough. As it was he prided himself upon it even now that he was well up in years, and his hair becoming silvered. As for the moustaches, black pomatum kept them to their original colour.

One thing soured him, even more than advancing age—his wooden leg. 'Tis said he could never contemplate that without an expression of pain coming over his features, as though there was gout in the leg itself giving him a twinge. And many the time—nay, hundreds of times—did he curse Prince de Joinville. For it was in defending Vera Cruz against the French, commanded by the latter, he had received the wound, which rendered amputation of the limb necessary. In a way he ought to have blessed the Prince, and been grateful for the losing of it rather than otherwise. Afterwards the mishap stood him in good stead; at election times when he was candidate for the Chief Magistracy of the State. Then he was proud to parade the artificial limb; and did so to some purpose. It was, indeed, an important element in his popularity, and more than once proved an effective aid to his reinstatement. With a grim look, however, he regarded it now. For though it had helped him politically, he was not thinking of politics, and in what he was thinking about he knew it an obstruction. A woman to love a man with a wooden leg! And such a woman as Ysabel Almonte! Not that he put it to himself in that way; far from it. He had still too good an opinion, if not of his personal appearance, at least of his powers otherwise, and he even then felt confident of success. For he had just succeeded in removing another obstacle which seemed likely to be more in his way than the wooden leg. He had but late come to know of it; but as soon as knowing, had taken measures to avert the danger dreaded—by causing the imprisonment of a man. For it was a man he feared, or suspected, as his competitor for the affections of the Condesa. It had cost him no small trouble to effect this individual's arrest, or rather capture. He was one of the proscribed, and in hiding; though heard of now and then as being at the head of a band of salteadore—believed to have turned highwayman.

But he had been taken at length, and was at that moment in the gaol of the Acordada; which Santa Anna well knew, having himself ordered his incarceration there, and given other instructions regarding him to the gaol-governor, who was one of his creatures.

After sitting for some time, as he stretched out his hand, and held the end of his paper cigar to the red coals burning in a brazero on the table before him, the frown upon his features changed to a demoniac smile. Possibly from the knowledge that this man was now in his power. Sure was he of this; but what would he not have given to be as sure of her being so too!

Whether his reflections were sweet or bitter, or which predominated, he was not permitted longer to indulge in them. The door again opening— after a tap asking permission to enter—showed the same aide-de-camp. And on a similar errand as before, differing only in that now he placed two cards on the table instead of one; the cards themselves being somewhat dissimilar to that he had already brought in.

And with altogether a different air did Santa Anna take them up for examination. He was enough interested at seeing by their size and shape that those now desiring an audience of him were ladies. But on reading the names, his interest rose to agitation, such as the aide-de-camp never before had seen him exhibit, and which so much astonished the young officer that he stood staring wonderingly, if not rudely, at the grand dignitary, his chief. His behaviour, however, was not noticed, the Dictator's eyes being all upon the cards. Only for an instant though. If he gave ready reception to his late visitor, still readier did he seem desirous of according it to those now seeking speech with him.

"Conduct the ladies in," was his almost instantaneous command, as quickly retracted. For soon as spoken he countermanded it; seemingly from some afterthought which, as a codicil, had suddenly occurred to him. Then followed a chapter of instructions to the aide-de-camp, confidential, and to the effect that the ladies were not to be immediately introduced. He was to keep them in conversation in the ante-chamber outside, till he should hear the bell.

Judging by his looks as he went out the young subaltern was more than satisfied with the delay thus enjoined upon him. It was aught but a disagreeable duty; for, whether acquainted with the ladies who were in waiting, or not, he must have seen that both were bewitchingly beautiful—one being Luisa Valverde, the other Ysabel Almonte.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

A PAIR OF BEAUTIFUL PETITIONERS.

Soon as the aide-de-camp had closed the door behind him, Santa Anna sprang up from his seat and hastily stumped it to a large cheval glass which stood on one side of the room. Squaring himself before this he took survey of his person from crown to toes. He gave a pull or two at his moustaches, twisting their points, and turning them upward along his cheeks. Then running his fingers comb-like through his hair, he gave that also a jaunty set. In fine, straightening himself in his gold-braided uniform frock, with a last glance down to his feet—this resulting in a slight grimace—he returned to the state chair and reseated himself.

With all his gallantry and politeness—and to these he made much pretension—it was not his custom to receive lady visitors standing. In the upright attitude the artificial leg made him look stiff, and he preferred stowing it away under the table. Besides, there was his dignity, as the grand figure-head of the nation, which he now wished to have its full effect. Leaning forward, he gave a downward blow to the spring of the table bell; then assuming an attitude of expectant grandeur, sate expectant. This time the aide-de-camp required no passing to and fro; and the door again opening, the ladies were ushered into the august presence.

In their air and manner they betrayed agitation too, while the serious expression upon their features told they were there on no trivial errand.

"Pray be seated, ladies," said the Dictator, after exchanging salutations with them. "'Tis not often the Condesa Almonte honours the Palacio with her presence, and for the Senorita Valverde, were it not for official relations with her father, I fear we should see even less of her than we do."

While speaking he pointed to a couple of couch chairs that stood near the table.

They sat down rather hesitatingly, and slightly trembling. Not that either would have been at all timid had the occasion been a common one. Both were of Mexico's best blood, the Condesa one of the old noblesse who hold their heads higher even than the political chief of the State, when he chances to be—as more than once has occurred—an adventurer of humbler birth. Therefore, it was not any awe of the great dignitary that now unnerved them, but the purpose for which they were seeking speech with him. Whether Santa Anna guessed it, or not, could not be told by his looks. An experienced diplomatist, he could keep his features fixed and immovable as the Sphinx, or play them to suit the time and the tune. So, after having delivered himself, as above, with the blandest of smiles upon his face, he remained silent, awaiting the rejoinder.

It was the Condesa who made it.

"Your Excellency," she said, doing her utmost to look humble; "we have come to beg a favour from you."

A gratified look, like a gleam of light, illuminated Santa Anna's swarthy features. Ysabel Almonte begging favours from him! What better could he have wished? With all his command of features he but ill-concealed the triumph he now felt. It flashed up in his eyes as he said respondingly—

"A favour you would ask? Well, if it be within my power to grant it, neither the Condesa Almonte, nor the Dona Luisa Valverde need fear refusal. Be frank, then, and tell me what it is."

The Countess, with all her courage, still hesitated to declare it. For despite the ready promise of compliance, she did fear a refusal; since it had been asked for that same morning and though not absolutely refused, the answer left but little hope of its being conceded.

As is known, at an earlier hour Don Ignacio had paid a visit to the Palacio, to seek clemency for a prisoner-of-war, Florence Kearney. But pardon for a state prisoner was also included in his application—that being Ruperto Rivas. Of all this the ladies were well aware, since it was at their instigation, and through their importunity, he had acted. It was only, therefore, by the urgency of a despairing effort, as a dernier ressort, these had now sought the presence as petitioners, and naturally they dreaded denial. Noting the Condesa's backwardness—a thing new but not displeasing to him, since it gave promise of influence over her—Santa Anna said interrogatively:

"Might this favour, as you are pleased to term it, have ought to do with a request lately made to me by Don Ignacio Valverde?"

"'Tis the same, your Excellency," answered the Countess, at length recovering spirit, but still keeping up the air of meek supplication she had assumed.

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Dictator, adding, "that grieves me very much."

He made an attempt to look sorry, though it needed none for him to appear chagrined. This he was in reality, and for reasons intelligible. Here were two ladies, both of whom he had amatory designs upon, each proclaiming by her presence—as it were telling him to his teeth, the great interest she felt in another—that or she would not have been there!

"But why, Excellentissimo?" asked the Countess, entreatingly. "What is there to grieve you in giving their freedom to two men—gentlemen, neither of whom has been guilty of crime, and who are in prison only for offences your Excellency can easily pardon?"

"Not so easily as you think, Condesa. You forget that I am but official head of the State, and have others to consult—my Ministers and the Congress—in affairs of such magnitude. Know, too, that both these men for whom you solicit pardon have been guilty of the gravest offences; one of them, a foreigner, an enemy of our country, taken in arms against it; the other, I am sorry to say, a citizen, who has become a rebel, and worse still, a robber!"

"'Tis false!" exclaimed the Countess, all at once changing tone, and seeming to forget the place she was in and the presence. "Don Ruperto Rivas is no robber; never was, nor rebel either; instead, the purest of patriots!"

Never looked Ysabel Almonte lovelier than at that moment—perhaps never woman. Her spirit roused, cheeks red, eyes sparkling with indignation, attitude erect—for she had started up from her chair—she seemed to be the very impersonation of defiance, angry, but beautiful. No longer meek or supplicating now. Instinct or intuition told her it would be of no use pleading further, and she had made up her mind for the worst.

The traits of beauty which her excitement called forth, added piquancy to her natural charms, and inflamed Santa Anna's wicked passions all the more. But more than any of them revenge. For now he knew how much the fair petitioner was interested in the man whose suit she had preferred. With a cold cynicism—which, however, cost him an effort—he rejoined:

"That, perhaps, is your way of thinking, Condesa. But it remains to be proved—and the prisoner you speak of shall have an opportunity of proving it—with his innocence in every respect. That much I can promise you. The same for him," he added, turning to Luisa Valverde, "in whom, if I mistake not, the Dona Luisa is more especially interested. These gentlemen prisoners shall have a fair trial, and justice done them. Now, ladies! can you ask more of me?"

They did not; both seeing it would be to no purpose. Equally purposeless to prolong the interview; and they turned toward the door, the daughter of Don Ignacio leading where she had before followed.

This was just as Santa Anna wished it. Seemingly forgetful of his cork-leg, and the limp he took such pains to conceal, he jerked himself out of his chair and hurried after—on a feigned plea of politeness. Just in time to say to the Countess in a hurried, half-whisper:—

"If the Condesa will return, and prefer her request alone, it may meet with more favour."

The lady passed on, with head held disdainfully, as though she heard but would not heed. She did hear what he said, and it brought a fresh flush upon her cheek, with another flash of anger in her eyes. For she could not mistake his meaning, and knew it was as the serpent whispering into the ear of Eve.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A WOMAN'S SCHEME.

"My poor Ruperto is indeed in danger! Now I am sure of it. Ah, even to his life! And I may be the cause of his losing it."

So spoke the Countess Almonte half in soliloquy, though beside her sat her friend Luisa Valverde. They were in a carriage on return from their fruitless visit to the Dictator. It was the Countess' own landau which had remained waiting for them outside the Palace gates.

The other, absorbed with her own anxieties, might not have noticed what was said but for its nature. This, being in correspondence with what was at the moment in her own mind, caught her ear, almost making her start. For she, too, was thinking of a life endangered, and how much that danger might be due to herself. It was not poor Ruperto's life, but poor Florencio's.

"You the cause, Ysabel!" she said, not in surprise, save at the similarity of their thoughts. "Ah! yes; I think I comprehend you."

"If not, amiga, don't ask explanation of it now. It's a hateful thing, and I dislike to think, much more speak of it. Some other time I'll tell you all. Now we've work to do—a task that will take all our energies—all our cunning to accomplish it. However is it to be done? Valga me Dios!"

To her interrogatory she did not expect reply. And the desponding look of Luisa Valverde showed she had none to give that would be satisfactory; for she quite understood what was the task spoken of, and equally comprehended the difficulty of its accomplishment. Perplexed as the Countess herself, and possibly more despairing, she could but echo the exclamatory words—

"How indeed! Valga me Dios."

For a while they sat without further exchange of speech, both buried in thought. Not long, however, when the Countess again spoke, saying—

"You're not good at dissembling, Luisita; I wish you were."

"Santissima!" exclaimed her friend, alike surprised at the remark as at its abruptness. "Why do you wish that Ysabel?"

"Because I think I know a way by which something might be done—if you were but the woman to do it."

"Oh, Ysabelita! I will do anything to get Florencio out of prison."

"It isn't Florencio I want you to get out, but Ruperto. Leave the getting out of Florencio to me."

Still more astonished was Don Ignacio's daughter. What could the countess mean now? She put the question to her thus—

"What is it you desire me to do?"

"Practise a little deception—play the coquette—that's all."

It was not in Luisa Valverde's nature. If she had many admirers, and she had—some of them over head and ears in love with her—it was from no frivolity, or encouragement given them, on her part. From the day Florence Kearney first made impression upon her heart, it had been true to him, and she loyal throughout all. So much that people thought her cold, some even pronouncing her a prude. They knew not how warmly that heart beat, though it was but for one. Thinking of this one, however, what the countess proposed gave her a shock, which the latter perceiving, added, with a laugh—

"Only for a time, amiga mia. I don't want you to keep it up till you've got a naughty name. Nor to make fools of all the fine gentlemen I see dangling around you. Only one."

"Which one?"

She was not averse to hearing what the scheme was, at all events. How could she be, in view of the object aimed at?

"A man," pursued the Countess, "who can do more for us than your father; more than we've been able to do ourselves."

"Who is he?"

"Don Carlos Santander, colonel of Hussars on the staff—aide-de-camp and adjutant to El Excellentissimo in more ways than military ones—some not quite so honourable, 'tis said. Said also, that this staff-colonel, for reasons nobody seems to know, or need we care, has more influence at Court than almost any one else. So what I want you to do is to utilise this influence for our purpose, which I know you can."

"Ah, Ysabelita! How much you are mistaken, to think I could influence him to that! Carlos Santander would be the last man to help me in procuring pardon for Florencio—the very last. You know why."

"Oh yes; I know. But he may help me in procuring pardon for Ruperto. Luckily my good looks, if I have any, never received notice from the grand colonel, who has eyes only for you; so he's not jealous of Ruperto. As the obsequious servant of his master, hostile to him no doubt; but that might be overcome by your doing as I should direct."

"But what would you have me do."

"Show yourself complaisant to the Colonel. Only in appearance, as I've said; and only for a time till you've tried your power over him, and see with what success."

"I'm sure it would fail."

"I don't think it would, amiga mia; and will not, if you go about it according to instructions. Though it may cost you some unpleasantness, Luisita, and an effort, you'll make it for my sake, won't you? And as a reward," pursued the Countess, as if to render her appeal more surely effective, "I shall do as much for you, and in a similar way. For I, too, intend counterfeiting complacency in a certain quarter, and in the interest of a different individual—Don Florencio. Now, you understand me?"

"Not quite yet."

"Never mind. I'll make it more plain by-and-by. Only promise me that you'll do—"

"Dearest Ysabelita! I'd do anything for you."

"And Don Florencio. I thought that would secure your consent. Well, mil mil gracias! But what a game of cross-purposes we'll be playing; I for you, and you for me, and neither for ourselves! Let us hope we may both win."

By this the carriage had stopped in front of the Casa Valverde to set down Dona Luisa. The Countess alighted also, ordering the horses home. It was but a step to her own house, and she could walk it. For she had something more to say which required saying there and then. Passing on into the patio, far enough to be beyond earshot of the "cochero," and there stopping, she resumed the dialogue at the point where she had left off.

"We must set to work at once," she said; "this very day, if opportunity offer. Perhaps in the procession—"

"Oh! Ysabel?" interrupted the other. "How I dislike the thought of this procession—making merry as it were, and he in a prison! And we must pass it too—its very doors! I'm sure I shall feel like springing out of the carriage and rushing inside to see him."

"That would be just the way to ensure your not seeing him—perhaps, never more. The very opposite is what you must do, or you'll spoil all my plans. But I'll instruct you better before we start out."

"You insist, then, on our going?"

"Of course, yes; for the very reason—the very purpose we've been speaking of. That's just why I ask you to take me with you. It will never do to offend his High Mightiness, angry as we may be with him. I'm now sorry at having shown temper; but how could I help it, hearing Ruperto called a robber? However, that may be all for the best. So, upstairs; turn out your guarda-roba, and your jewel case; array yourself in your richest apparel, and be in readiness for the gilded coach when it comes round. Carramba!" she added after drawing out her jewelled watch,—one of Losada's best—and glancing at its dial, "we haven't a moment to spare, I must be off to my toilet too."

She had made a step in the direction of the street, when suddenly turning again she added—

"As a last word, lest I might forget it. When next you appear in the Grand Presence drop that forlorn doleful look. Misery is the weakest weapon either man or woman can make use of—the very worst advocate in any cause. So don't show it, especially in the company of Don Carlos Santander, where in all likelihood you will be before the end of another hour. Try to look cheerful, put on your sweetest smile, though it be a feigned one, as I intend doing for Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna."

She took her departure now; but as she passed out through the saguan a cloud could be seen upon her countenance, more than that from the shadow of the arched gateway, telling that she herself needed quite as much as her friend, admonition to be cheerful.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

IN THE SEWERS.

Along with a score of other prisoners, the "chain-gang" of the Acordada, Kearney, Rock, Rivas, and the dwarf were conducted out into the street, and on the Calle de Plateros. Dominguez, the gaoler, went with them— having received orders to that effect—carrying a heavy cuarta with hard raw-hide lash knotted at the end. Their escort consisted of two or three files of the prison guard, dirty looking soldiers of the infanteria, in coarse linen uniforms, stiff shakoes on their heads, their arm the old-fashioned flint-lock musket.

The scavengers had still their ankle chains on, coupled two and two, these lengthened, however, to give more freedom to their work. One reason for keeping them chained is to economise the strength of the guard, a single sentry thus being as good as a dozen. Of course, it is an additional precaution against escape, a thing which might seem impossible under the muzzles of muskets and bayonets fixed. But to desperadoes such as are some of the Acordada gaol-birds it would not be so if left leg free. More than once had the attempt been made, and with success; for in no city is it easier, or indeed so easy. In the Mexican metropolis there are whole districts where the policeman fears to show his face, and a criminal pursued, even by soldiers in uniform, would have every door thrown open to him, and every opportunity given for stowing himself away. Get he but out into the country, and up to the mountains—on all sides conveniently near—his chances are even better, since the first man there met may be either footpad or salteador.

As said, the street to which the scavengers were taken was the Calle de Plateros, where it ends at the Alameda Gate. The covering flags of the zancas had been already lifted off, exposing to view the drain brimful of liquid filth the tools were beside—scoops, drags, and shovels having been sent on before.

Soon, on arriving on its edge, Dominguez, who kept close by the two couples in which were the Tejanos, ordered them to lay hold and fall to.

There could be no question of refusal or disobedience. From the way he twirled the quirt between his fingers it looked as though he wished there was, so that he might have an excuse for using it. Besides, any hanging back would be rewarded by a blow from the butt of a musket, and, persisted in, possibly a bayonet thrust—like as not to lame the refractory individual for life.

There was no need for such violent measures now. The others of the gang had done scavenger work before; and knowing its ways, went at it as soon as the word was given. Nolens volens Kearney and Cris Rock, with their chain partners, had to do likewise; though, perhaps, never man laid hold of labourer's tool with more reluctance than did the Texan. It was a long shafted shovel that had been assigned to him, and the first use he made of the implement was to swing it round his head, as though he intended bringing it down on that of one of the sentries who stood beside.