"Durnashun!" he shrieked out, still brandishing the tool and looking the soldier straight in the face. "If 'twarn't that the thing 'ud be o' no use, an' you ain't the one as is to blame, I'd brain ye on the spot, ye ugly yaller-belly. Wage! Let me get back to Texas, and grip o' a good rifle, the Mexikin as kums my way may look out for partickler forked lightnin'!"

Though not comprehending a word of what was said the little manikin of a militario was so frightened by the big fellow's gestures as to spring back several feet, with a look of alarm so intense, yet so comical, as to set the Texan off into a roar of laughter. And still laughing, he faced towards the sewer, plunged in his implement, and set to work with the others.

At first the task was comparatively clean and easy—a sort of skimming affair—the scavengers keeping upon the pavement. The necessity had not yet arisen for them going down into the drain.

After a time, however, as the liquid got lower and the sediment at the bottom too stiff to be conveniently scooped up, a number of them were ordered to "step in." It was a cruel, brutal order, and Bill Sykes would have declined sending his "bull-dawg" into that sewer after rats. But Dominguez, a sort of Mexican Bill Sykes, had no scruples about this with the unfortunates he had charge of, and with a "carajo," and a threatening flourish of his whip, he repeated the order. One or two of the forzados took the plunge good-humouredly, even to laughing, as they dropped into the stuff, waist deep, sending the mud in splashes all round. The dainty ones went in more leisurely, some of them needing a little persuasion at the point of the bayonet.

Cris Rock was already down, having gone voluntarily. Only one of each couple had been ordered below; and, much as he disliked the dwarf, he had no wish to see him drowned or suffocated, which the diminutive creature would well-nigh have been in the horrible cesspool. Tall as the Texan was, the stuff reached up to his thighs, the surface of the street itself being on a level with his arm-pits, while only the heads of the others could be seen above the stones.

Neither Kearney nor Rivas had yet taken the plunge. They still stood on the brink, discussing the question of precedence. Not that either wished the other to do the disagreeable; instead, the reverse. Strange as it may appear, knowing or believing him to be a bandit, the young Irishman had taken a liking to the Mexican, and the feeling was reciprocated, so that each was now trying to restrain the other from entering the ugly gulf.

But their friendly contest was cut short by the brutal gaoler; who, advancing, grasped Rivas by the shoulder, and with his other hand pointing downward shouted "Abajo!"

There was no help for it but obey; the alternative sure of being something worse. For the man so rudely commanded went down willingly; indeed, with alacrity, to satisfy his impulse of friendship for the Irlandes.

Had Carlos Santander been there likely the position would have been reversed, and Kearney compelled to "take the ditch." But the Governor of the Acordada had control of details, and to his hostility and spleen, late stirred by that wordy encounter with Rivas, the latter was no doubt indebted for the partiality shown him by Don Pedro's head turnkey.

In time, all were disposed of: one of each couple down in the sewer, pitching out its sweet contents; the other pressing them back upon the pavement to prevent their oozing in again. Either way the work was now nasty enough; but for those below, it was a task too repulsive to set even the lowest pariah at.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE PROCESSION.

Disagreeable as was their job, some of the forzados made light of it, bandying jests with the street passengers, who did not find it safe to go too near them. A scoopful of the inky liquid could be flung so as to spoil the polish on boots, or sent its splashes over apparel still higher. Even the vigilance of the sentries could not prevent this, or rather they cared not to exercise it. The victims of such practical jokes were usually either of the class felado, or the yet more humble aboriginals, accustomed to be put upon by the soldiers themselves, who rather relished the fun.

But only the more abandoned of the gaol-birds behaved in this way, many of them seeming to feel the degradation more than aught else. For among them, as we know, were men who should not have been there. Some may have seen friends passing by, who gave them looks of sympathy or pity, and possibly more than one knew himself under eyes whose expression told of a feeling stronger than either of these—love itself. Indeed this last, or something akin to it, seemed the rule rather than the exception. In Mexico, he must be a deeply disgraced criminal whose sweetheart would be ashamed of him; and every now and then, a brown-skinned "muchacha" might be seen crossing to where the scavengers were at work, and, with a muttered word or two, passing something into a hand eagerly outstretched to receive it. The sentries permitted this, after examining the commodity so tendered, and seeing it a safe thing to be entrusted to the receiver. These gifts of friendship, or gages d'amour, were usually eatables from the nearest cook-shop; their donors well knowing that the fare of the Acordada was neither plentiful nor sumptuous.

But beyond these interested ones, few of the pedestrians stopped or even looked at the chain-gang. To most, if not all, it was an ordinary spectacle, and attracted no more attention than would a crossing-sweeper on a London street. Not as much as the latter, as he is often an Oriental. On that particular day, however, the party of scavengers presented a novelty, in having the two Tejanos in it; with a yet greater one in the odd juxtaposition of Cris Rock and his diminutive "mate." In Mexico, a man over six feet in height is a rarity, and as Cris exceeded this by six inches, a rarer sight still was he. The colossus coupled to the dwarf, as Gulliver to Lilliputian—a crooked Lilliputian at that—no wonder that a knot of curious gazers collected around them, many as they approached the grotesque spectacle uttering ejaculations of surprise.

"Ay Dios!" exclaimed one. "Gigante y enano!" (a giant and a dwarf)—"and chained together! Who ever saw the like?"

Such remarks were continually passing among the spectators, who laughed as they listened to them. And though the Texan could not tell what they said, their laughter "riled" him. He supposed it a slur upon his extraordinary stature, of which he was himself no little proud, while they seemed to regard it sarcastically. Could they have had translated to them the rejoinders that now and then came from his lips, like the rumbling of thunder, they would have felt their sarcasm fully paid back, with some change over. As a specimen:—

"Devil darn ye, for a set of yaller-jawed pigmies! Ef I hed about a millyun o' ye out in the open purairu, I'd gie you somethin' to larf at. Dod-rot me! ef I don't b'lieve a pack o' coycoats ked chase as many o' ye as they'd count themselves; and arter runnin' ye down 'ud scorn to put tooth into yur stinkin' carcasses!"

Fortunately for him, the "yaller-jawed pigmies" understood not a word of all this; else, notwithstanding his superior size and strength, he might have had rough handling from them. Without that, he was badly plagued by their behaviour, as a bull fretted with flies; which may have had something to do with his readiness to go down into the drain. There, up to his elbows, he was less conspicuous, and so less an object of curiosity.

————————————————————————————————————

It had got to be noon, with the sun at fire heat; but for all the forzados were kept on at work. No rest for them until the task should be completed, and they taken back to their prison quarters at a late hour of the afternoon. The cruel gaoler told them so in a jeering way. He seemed to take a pleasure in making things disagreeable to them, as he strutted to and fro along their line, flourishing his quirt, and giving grand exhibition of his "brief authority."

A little after midday, however, there came a change in their favour, brought by unlooked-for circumstances. Groups of people began to gather in the Calle de Plateros, swarming into it from side streets, and taking stand upon the foot-walk. Soon they lined it all along as far as the eye could reach. Not pelados, but most of them belonging to a class respectable, attired in their holiday clothes, as on a dia de fiesta. Something of this it was, as the scavengers were presently told, though some of them may have had word of it before without feeling any concern about it. Two, however, whom it did concern—though little dreamt they of its doing so—were only made aware of what the crowd was collecting for, when it began to thicken. These were Kearney and Rivas, who, knowing the language of the country, could make out from what was being said around them that there was to be a funcion. The foundation-stone of a new church was to be laid in the suburb of San Cosme the chief magistrate of the State himself to lay it—with all ceremony and a silver trowel. The procession, formed in the Plaza Grande, would, of course, pass through the Calle de Plateros; hence the throng of the people in that street.

Funcions and fiestas are of such frequent occurrence in the Mexican metropolis—as indeed everywhere else in that land of the far niente— that this, an ordinary one and not much announced, excited no particular interest, save in the suburb of San Cosme itself—a quarter where a church might be much needed, being a very den of disreputables. Still, a large number of people had put on their best apparel, and sallied forth to witness the procession.

This did not delay long in showing itself. It came heralded by the stirring notes of a trumpet, then the booming of the big drum in a band of music—military. A troop of cavalry—Lancers—formed the advance, to clear the way for what was to follow; this being a couple of carriages, in which were seated the Bishop of Mexico and his ecclesiastical staff, all in grand, gaudy raiments; on such an occasion the Church having precedence, and the post of honour.

Behind came the gilded coach of the Dictator—flanked on each side by guards in gorgeous uniform—himself in it. Not alone, but with one seated by his side, whose presence there caused Florence Kearney surprise, great as he ever experienced in his life. Despite the coat of diplomatic cut and its glittering insignia, he easily recognised his ci-devant teacher of the Spanish tongue—Don Ignacio Valverde.

But great as was his astonishment, he was left no time to indulge in it, or speculate how his old "crammer" came to be there. For close behind the Dictator's carriage followed another, holding one who had yet more interest for him than Don Ignacio—Don Ignacio's daughter!



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

SIGNIFICANT GLANCES.

Yes; the lady in the carriage was Luisa Valverde. Too surely she, thought Florence Kearney; for seeing her there was painful to him—a shock—as one who sees the woman he loves in the jaws of some great danger. And so he believed her to be, as a host of unpleasant memories came crowding into his mind like hideous spectres. No imagination either, but a danger real and present before his eyes at that moment, in the person of a man, riding by the side of the carriage in which she sat—Carlos Santander. He it was, in a gold-laced uniform, with a smile of proud satisfaction on his face. What a contrast to the craven, crestfallen wretch who, under a coating of dull green ooze, crawled out of the ditch at Pontchartrain! And a still greater contrast in the circumstances of the two men—fortunes, positions, apparel, everything reversed.

The Hussar colonel appeared not to be one of the regular escorts attending upon the Dictator, but detached, and free to choose his place in the procession. Well had he chosen it, any one would say; for there was a second lady in the carriage, young and beautiful, too; as may be guessed—the Condesa Almonte. But he seemed to have no eyes for her, nor words; his looks and speech all bestowed upon Luisa Valverde. For he was smilingly conversing with her, and she appeared to listen attentively, returning his smiles!

A spectacle to Kearney not only saddening, but maddening. Through his soul, dark as winter now, swept dire bitter misgivings.

"Are they married? No. 'Tis not the behaviour of man and wife. Soon will be—engaged, no doubt. Yes; he has won her heart, after all; likely had it then, when I believed it mine. Such deception? O God!"

These unspoken questions and conjectures passed through his mind rapidly as thought itself.

They were interrupted by his seeing the ladies—the carriage being now nearly abreast—turn their faces towards him in an odd interrogative way. The movement, abrupt and sudden, seemed prompted; and so had it been by him on horseback. Florence Kearney saw him nod in that direction, his lips moving, but the distance was too great to hear what he said.

"Mira! Los Tejanos!" were Santander's words, indicating the group of which they formed part. "One of them is, if I mistake not, an old acquaintance of yours, Don Luisa? And how strange!" he added, feigning surprise. "Chained to a criminal—no, let me not call him that—an individual in whom the Condesa Almonte takes an interest, if rumour's to be believed. Is it so, Condesa?"

Neither of them made response, for neither was now listening to him. Each had her eyes upon that which engrossed all her attention, one fixedly gazing at Florence Kearney, the other at Ruperto Rivas. For, by the grace, or rather negligence, of their guards, the latter was now up on the pavement.

What an interchange of glances between the pairs thus brought face to face! What a variety of expression upon their features! For varied and strong were their emotions at this moment—surprise, sadness, sympathy, indignation, and, amidst all, conspicuous above all, looks of unchanged, ever-confiding love!

He who had brought about this odd interview—for it had been pre-arranged—was riding on the left and near side of the carriage, the sewer being on the right and off; which, of course, placed him behind the backs of the ladies as they now were, and hindered his observing their faces. Could he have seen them just then, he might have doubted the success of his scheme, and certainly could not have accounted it a triumph. For the eyes, late turned smilingly upon himself, were now regarding Florence Kearney with earnest, sympathetic gaze.

And the man, to whom this was given, was trying his best to interpret it. He saw that she turned pale as her eyes first fell upon him. That might be but surprise seeing him there, with the consciousness of her own guilt. Or was it pity? If so, he would have spurned it. All the tortures the Acordada could inflict upon him, all the toil and degradation would be easier to bear than that. But no. It could not be pity alone. The sudden start and paling cheek; the look of interest in those eyes, beautiful as ever, and so well remembered; a flash in them that recalled the old time when he believed her heart his; all spoke of something more than mere sympathy with his misfortune. Before the carriage, moving slowly on, had carried her out of his sight, the jealous fancies so late harrowing his soul, seemed to be passing away, as though an angel was whispering in his ear, "She loves you—still loves you!"

Needless to say, he was too much occupied in reading the expression on Luisa Valverde's face to give even a look to the other beautiful one beside it. And alike was he forgetful of the man who stood beside himself. Yet, between these two neglected individuals, glances were being exchanged also in earnest, and watchful glances, which told of their being as much interested in one another as he in Luisa Valverde, or she in him. Better comprehending one another, too, as a physiognomist could have told, observing the play of their features. The first expression on those of the Condesa was surprise, quick changing to indignation, this as suddenly disappearing or becoming subdued, restrained by a thought, or possibly a sign, given by her "dear, noble Ruperto." As evinced by the fond, yet proud, sparkle of her eyes, he was no less dear now, no less noble in that degrading garb, than when she knew him in a gold-laced uniform, splendid as that worn by Santander, and he, in her eyes, ten times more worthy of wearing it. If he had turned bandit, she did not believe it; though, believing it, she would have loved him all the same. Nor in this would she have so much differed from the rest of her sex. Blameable as it may be, love—even that of a lady—has but little to do with the moralities; and of a Mexican lady perhaps less than any other. Certain, that Ruperto Rivas, robber or no, in that crossing of glances with the Condesa Almonte showed no sign of jealousy; instead, full confidence of being beloved by her.

Though the account of this little episode seems long, the actual occurrence—gestures, thoughts, looks, changes of facial expression—was all comprised within a few seconds of time, scarce so much as a minute.

Then the carriage containing the two ladies passed on out of sight, other carriages following, with other ladies in them; more cavalry— Lancers, Hussars, and heavy Dragoons—more music, mingling with the shouts and cheers of the fickle populace, as they swarmed along the foot-walk, every now and then vociferating—

"Viva, Santa Anna el Illustrissimo! Viva, el Salvador de la Patria!"



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

A MYSTERIOUS MISSIVE.

"O! Ysabel! To think of it! In the chain-gang—in the sewers! Madre de Dios!"

Thus passionately exclaimed Luisa Valverde, half addressing herself to the Condesa Almonte in her father's house again, to which they had just returned from the ceremony of the procession. They were in the sala, seated upon the chair, into which they flung themselves, as if overcome with fatigue.

And weariness it was, but not of the body. Their souls were a-wearied through being unable to give utterance to the thoughts and passions that for hours had been convulsing them. Ever since passing the chain-gang they had been forced to keep up faces, seem as they felt not, smile when they could have wept. This the Condesa had counselled for reasons already hinted at; and now back home, with no one to see or hear, they were giving way to the wild tumult of emotion so long pent up.

For a time the Condesa made no rejoinder, herself as much affected as her friend. Both sat in despairing attitudes, heads drooped, and hands clasping them as though they ached; bosoms rising and falling in laboured undulation, the hearts within them painfully pulsing. All so unlike themselves, in such discordance with their great beauty, and the rich robes they wore. Looking at two such women, one could ill believe it possible for them to be otherwise than happy; yet, at that moment, both were miserable as misery itself.

"Ah, yes!" sighed the Countess, at length, and like as if awakening from some weird dream, its impress still upon her face. "To think of it; and fearful it is to think of. I understand things better now. My Ruperto is indeed in danger—more than I this morning believed. And your Florencio too. I could read his death in the eyes of Don Carlos Santander; and one told me the Tejanos are all to be shot!"

"O Ysabel, say not that! If they kill him, they may kill me! The man I love! Santa Guadalupe—Blessed Virgin! Save, oh, save him from such a fate!"

Against the wall was a picture of this, the patroness Saint of Mexico— for there is one in every Mexican house—and, while speaking, the young girl had risen from her chair, glided across the room, and fallen upon her knees before it. In this attitude she remained for some moments, her hands crossed over her breast, her lips moving as though she muttered a prayer.

Altogether differently acted the Condesa. She was not of the devotional sort, where it seemed unlikely to be of practical service. Good Catholic enough, and observant of all the ceremonies, but no believer in miracles; and therefore distrustful of what Santa Guadalupe, or any other saint, could do for them. She had more belief in the Cromwellian doctrine of keeping the powder dry; and that she meant to practise it, not with powder, but with her purse, was soon made evident by her speech.

"It's no use kneeling there," she said, starting to her feet, and again showing spirit. "Let us pray in our hearts. I've been doing that already, and I'm sure so have you. Something else should be done now— another effort made—this time with money; no matter how much it takes. Yes, Luisa, we must act."

"I want to act," rejoined the other, as she forsook the kneeling posture, with an abruptness not common to devotees; "only tell me how. Can you?"

For some seconds the Condesa let the question remain unanswered. Once more her hand had gone up to her head, the jewelled fingers met and clasped upon her brow—this time to quicken reflection; some scheme, already half conceived, needing further elaboration.

Whatever the plan, it was soon worked out complete, as evinced by her words following.

"Amiga mia; is there in your service one we can implicitly trust?"

"Jose. You know we can trust him."

"True. But he won't do for the first step to be taken: which is, indeed, only to deliver a letter. But it needs being adroitly done, and a woman will be the better for that. Besides, Jose will be wanted for something else, at the same time. There are two or three of my own female following could be relied on, so far as fidelity is concerned; but, unluckily, they're all known on the Calle de Plateros, as well as the street itself; and there isn't any of them particularly intelligent or dexterous. What we stand in need of now is one possessed of both these qualities—either woman or girl."

"Would Pepita do?"

"You mean the little mestizo, who was with you at New Orleans?"

"The same. She's all that; and, besides, devoted to me."

Don Ignacio's daughter had reason to know this, from experience in the Casa de Calvo, in which Pepita had played a part.

"She'll do," said the Countess; "the very individual, from what I've seen of her. Get me pen, ink, and paper—quick! At the same time summon Pepita!"

The Countess was now all action; and, responding to her roused energies, the other rushed towards the bell-pull, and gave it two or three vigorous jerks.

As it chanced, there were writing materials in the room; and, while waiting for the bell to be answered, the Countess made use of them, hastily scribbling some words on a sheet of paper, which she folded without putting into an envelope; instead, twisted it between her finger, as if dissatisfied with what she had written, and designed cancelling it. Far from this her intention, as was soon made manifest.

"Muchacha!" she said to Pepita, who, being lady's maid, had answered the bell herself. "Your mistress tells me you can be trusted on a matter which calls not only for confidence, but cleverness. Is that so?"

"I can't promise the cleverness, your ladyship; but for the other, I think the Dona Luisa knows she can rely on me."

"You'd be good at delivering a letter, without letting all the world into the secret, I suppose?"

"I'll do my best, your ladyship, if Duena command it."

"Yes, I wish it, Pepita," interposed Dona Luisa, herself the "Duena."

"Muy bien Senorita. Into whose hands is it to be put?"

Though speaking direct to her own mistress, the interrogatory was more meant for the Condesa, between whose fingers and thumb she saw the thing she was to take charge of.

The answer to her query called for some consideration. The note was for Ruperto Rivas; but the girl knew him not; so how could she give it him?

Here was a difficulty not before thought of, for a time perplexing both the ladies. In this case Dona Luisa was the first to see a way out of it, saying in a whisper:—

"Let her give it to Florencio; she knows him, and he can—"

"Carramba!" exclaimed the Countess interrupting. "How wonderfully wise you are, amiga! The very thing! And it never occurred to me! No, you tell her what to do."

"This, Pepita," said her mistress, taking the crumpled sheet from the Condesa, and passing it to her maid, "this is to be delivered to a gentleman you've seen, and should know."

"Where have I seen him, senorita?"

"In New Orleans."

"Do you mean Don Carlos, my lady?"

"No;" the abrupt negative accompanied with a dissatisfied look.

"Who then, senorita?"

"Don Florencio."

"Ay Dios! Is he here? I did not know it. But where am I to find him?"

No need to repeat the dialogue as continued. Suffice it that, before leaving the room, Pepita received full instructions where to find Don Florencio, and when found what she was to do and say to him.

So far all this was easy enough. More difficult the commission to be entrusted to Jose—more dangerous too. But it was made known to him in less than twenty minutes after; receiving his ready assent to its execution—though it should cost him his life, as he said. One motive for his agreeing to undergo the danger was devotion to his young mistress; another to stand well with Pepita, who had a power over him, and as he knew had entered upon her part with an ardent alacrity. But there was a third stimulus to keep up his courage, should it feel like failing—this having to do with the Condesa. Drawing out her grand gold watch—good value for a hundred dollores, and holding it up before his eyes, she said:

"That's your reward, Jose; that or its worth in money."

No need saying more. For the commission he was to execute much preparation was to be made, in all haste too. And in all haste he set to making it—determined to win the watch.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE PLAY OF EYES.

The ceremony of laying the foundation-stone had been brief and it was yet only an early hour of the afternoon when the procession passed back along the Calle de Plateros. The scavengers were still at work, and it is scarcely necessary to say that two of their number were earnestly on the lookout for a certain carriage. Sorry plight as they were in, neither felt ashamed or reluctant to come again under those eyes, after the expression they had observed in them. Rivas had hopes that in another exchange of glances with the Condesa, he might see something still further to instruct him; while Kearney, not so confident about his interpretation of those given to himself, longed to have a second reading of them.

Nor was he disappointed. The procession returned sooner than they expected, the looked-for carriage still holding its place in the line; the ladies in it, but now no officer of Hussars, nor any other, riding alongside. Santander, an aide-de-camp as known, had likely been ordered off on some official errand, and likely, too, his chief did not relish seeing him so near that particular equipage. Whatever the cause, his absence gave gratification to the two men noting it. With less constraint glances might now be exchanged—even gestures.

And both were. The look Kearney had given to him was accompanied by a nod of recognition; slight and timid, for it could not well be otherwise under the circumstances. But the eyes spoke more eloquently, telling him of respect undiminished, faith that had never faltered, love strong and true as ever. If he read pity in them too, it was not such as he would now spurn.

To Rivas were accorded signs of a very different sort. He had them not only from eyes, but the movement of a fan and fingers. They seemed satisfactory to him; for as the carriage passed out of sight, he turned to the other and said in a cheerful whisper:

"Keep up heart, camarado! I perceive you're not unknown to a friend of my friend. You heard the brute of a gaol-governor taunt me about a certain Condesa?"

"I did."

"Well; that's the lady, alongside her who's just been making eyes at you. An old acquaintance of yours, I see; and I think I could say where it was commenced. Never mind about that now. Enough for you to know that if friendship can get us out of this fix, with gold to back it, we may yet have a chance of giving leg-bail to the turnkeys of the Acordada."

Their dialogue was terminated by Dominguez, who, temporarily absent for a swill at one of the neighbouring pulquerias, now returned to the superintendence of his charge, and roughly commanded them to resume their work.

For nearly another hour the work went on, though not so regularly as before. The stream of returning sightseers still lined the foot-walks, many of them showing by their behaviour they had been paying a visit to pulquerias too, and more than once. Some stopped to fraternise with the soldiers, and would have done likewise with the forzados, if permitted. They were not hindered, however, from holding converse with the former, and extending hospitality to them in the shape of treats; sentry after sentry stealing away from his post after the proffered and coveted toothful. Nor was Dominguez an exception, he too every now and then repeating his visit to the dram-shop.

All this gave the scavengers licence of speech, with some liberty of action, or rather rest from their disagreeable task. And in the interval, while they were thus idling, the young Irishman noticed that the eyes of his chain companion were kept continuously on the foot-walks, now on one side now the other, his face towards the Plaza Grande—as though he expected to see some one coming that way. Kearney himself was regarding the people who came along—but only from curiosity—when his attention was more particularly drawn to one who had come to a stop on the sidewalk nearly opposite. This was a girl of rather diminutive stature, dressed in the ordinary fashion of the common people, short-skirted petticoat, sleeveless camisa, arms, ankles, and feet bare; but the head, breast, and shoulders all under one covering— the reboso. Even her face was hidden by this, for she was wearing it "tapado," one eye only visible, through a little loop in the folded scarf, which was kept open by the hand that held it. The girl had drawn up in front of a jeweller's window, as though to feast that eye on the pretty things therein displayed. And thus Kearney would not have noticed her, any more than the others, many of them in like garb passing to and fro. But, just as his eye happened to light upon her, he saw that hers—literally a single one—was fixed upon him, regarding him in a way altogether different from that which might be expected on the part of a chance stranger. Her attitude, too, was odd. Though facing nearly square to the shop window, and pretending to look into it, her head was slightly turned, and the eye surely on him.

At first he was puzzled to make out what it could mean, and why the girl should be taking such an interest in him. Possibly, had she been wearing shoes and stockings, he might have come easier to the comprehension of it. But a little brown-skinned, barefooted muchacha, in a petticoat of common stuff, and cheap scarf over her shoulders, he could think of no reason why she should have aught to do with him.

Only for a few seconds, however, was he thus in the dark. Then all became clear, the eclaircissement giving him a start, and sending the blood in quick rush through his veins—pleasant withal. For the girl, seeing she had caught his attention, relaxed her clasp upon the scarf, partially exposing her face, and the other eye.

Kearney needed not seeing the whole of it for recognition now. Well remembered he those features—pretty in spite of the dark skin—he had often seen wreathed with pleasant smiles, as their owner used to open the door for him in the Casa de Calvo.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A LETTER DEXTEROUSLY DELIVERED.

Pepita it was, though in a different style of dress to what he had been accustomed to see her in; as at New Orleans she had not kept to her national costume. Besides, there was a soupcon of shabbiness about her present attire, and then the shoeless feet!

"Dismissed the Valverde service—out of a situation—poor girl!"

He would not have so pityingly reflected, had he seen her as she was but a short half-hour before, in a pretty muslin dress, snow-white stockings, and blue satin slippers. Since then she had made a change in her toilet under direction and by help of the Condesa, who had attired her in a way more befitting the task intended.

Kearney, in full belief of her being a discharged servant, remembering her many little kindnesses to himself in the Casa de Calvo, was about to call her up, and speak a word of sympathy for old time's sake. Dominguez was still absent, and the nearest sentry engaged in a chaffing encounter with some one in the crowd.

Just then he observed a slight tremor of her head, and with a sudden movement of the hand which seemed to say, "No, don't speak to me." She, too, could talk that mute language, so well understood in her country.

So restrained, he kept silent; to see her now glance furtively around, as if to make sure no one else was observing her. She had again closed the scarf over her face, but in the hand that held it under her chin something white—a piece of paper he supposed—appeared; just for one instant, then drawn under. Another significant look accompanied this gesture, saying plain as word could speak it:—

"You see what I've got for you; leave the action all to me."

He did, for he could not do otherwise; he was fixed to this spot, she foot free. And the use she now made of this freedom was to walk straight out into the street, though not as coming to him; instead, her steps, as her eyes were directed towards Cris Rock and the hunchback, who were at work some paces further on. She seemed bent on making a closer inspection of the odd pair, nor would any one suppose she had other object in crossing over to them. No one did, save Kearney himself. Rivas had been again ordered into the sewer, and was at work in it. Besides, he did not know Pepita, though he was the one she most wished to be near. Chiefly for him was the communication she had to make.

It could not be, however, without a demonstration likely to be observed, therefore dangerous. But her wit was equal to the occasion, proving how well the ladies had chosen their letter-carrier.

"Ay Dios!" she exclaimed aloud, brushing past the young Irishman, and stopping with her eyes bent wonderingly on the strangely contrasted couple; then aside in sotto voce to Kearney, whom she had managed to place close behind her, apparently unconscious of his being there—"A billetita, Don Florencio—not for you—for the Senor Rivas—you can give it him—I daren't. Try to take it out of my hand without being seen." Then once more aloud. "Gigante y enano!" just as others had said, "Rue cosa estranja!" (what a strange thing).

She need not say any more, nor stay there any longer. For while she was speaking the crumpled sheet had passed through the fringe of the scarf, out of her fingers into those of Don Florencio, who had bent him to his work bringing his hand to the right place for the transfer.

Her errand, thus vicariously accomplished with another wondering look at the giant and dwarf, and another "Ay, Dios!" she turned to go back to the side walk. But before passing Kearney she managed to say something more to him.

"Carriage will come along soon—two ladies in it—one you know—one dear to you as you to her."

Sweet words to him, though muttered, and he thanked her who spoke them— in his heart. He dared not speak his thanks, even in whisper; she was already too far off, tripping back to the flagged foot-walk, along which she turned, soon to disappear from his sight.

What she had said about the coming of a carriage was to Kearney not altogether intelligible. But, no doubt, the note, now concealed inside his shirt bosom would clear that up; and the next step was to hand it over to him for whom it was intended.

Luckily, Rivas had not been unobservant of what was going on between the girl and his companion. Her look seeming strange to him, had attracted his attention, and though keeping steadily at work, his eyes were not on it, but on them, which resulted in his witnessing the latter part of the little episode, and having more than a suspicion it also concerned himself. He was not taken by surprise, therefore, when Kearney, drawing closer to the edge of the drain, spoke down to him in a half-whisper—

"I've got something for you. Bring the point of your tool against mine, and look out when you feel my fingers."

"Muy bien! I understand," was the muttered response.

In a second or two after the shafts of their implements came into collision accidentally, it appeared. He would indeed have been sharp-witted who could have supposed it intentional, and lynx-eyed to have seen that scrap of twisted paper passed from one to the other—the second transfer dexterously done as the first. All any one could have told was, that the two scavengers seemed sorry for what had occurred, made mutual apologies, then separated to the full length of their coupling-chain, and went to work again, looking meek and innocent as lambs.

It was now Rivas' turn to prove himself possessed of quick wit. He had reason to think the letter required immediate reading; and how was this to be done? To be seen at it would surely bring the sentries upon him, even though Dominguez was not there. And for them to get possession of it—that was a calamity perhaps worst of all! Possibly to compromise the writer; and well knew he who that was.

For a time he was perplexed, looking in all directions, and thinking of every way possible for him to read the letter unobserved. But none did seem possible. He could stoop down, so as to be unseen by those passing along the sidewalk; but close to the sewer's edge were two or three of the sentries, who would still command view of him.

All at once a look of satisfaction came over his countenance, as his eyes rested on a side drain, which entered the main one, like many others, from adjacent dwellings. He had just scraped the mud out of its mouth, and was close to it.

The very thing, was his thought—the very place for his purpose. And shortly after he might have been seen standing before it, in bent attitude, his arms busy with his shovel, but his eyes and thoughts busier with a sheet of paper which lay at the bottom of the branch drain, some two or three feet inside it. It was the billetita, and though the creases were but hastily pressed out, he contrived to make himself master of its contents. They were but brief and legibly written—the script familiar to him.

"Querido,—Soon after receiving this—say, half an hour—look for a carriage—landau shut up—two ladies inside—pair of large horses—frisones—grey. When opposite, be ready—with him who shares your chain. Leave manners in the mud—make a rush, storm the carriage, eject the occupants rudely—violently—and take their places. You can trust the cochero. Some danger in the attempt, I know; but more if not made. Your old enemy implacable—determined to have your life. Do this, dearest, and save it—for your country's sake, as also that of Ysabel."



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

LOOKING OUT FOR A LANDAU.

From the way Rivas treated the "billetita" after he had finished reading it, one unacquainted with its contents might have supposed they had made him either mad angry, or madly jealous. Instead of taking it up tenderly, and treasuring it away, he planted his muddy boot upon it, with a back scrape brought it into the main sewer, still keeping it under the mud and trampling it with both feet, lifted and set down alternately, the while shovelling away, as though he had forgotten all about it. Not so, however. The tread-mill action was neither accidental nor involuntary, but for a purpose. The writer had committed herself in sub-signing a portion of her name, as by other particulars, and should the letter fall into hands he knew of, her danger would be as great as his own.

In a few seconds, however, any uneasiness about this was at an end. The most curious chiffonier could not have deciphered a word written on that sheet, which by the churning he had submitted it to must have been reduced to a very pulp.

During all this time no one had taken notice of his proceedings, not even the man chained to him, except by an occasional side glance. For Kearney, well aware of what he was at, to draw attention from him had got up a wordy demonstration with the dwarf—to all appearance a quarrel. There was real anger on the side of the latter; for the "gringo," as he contemptuously called the Irishman, had cruelly mocked his deformity. A cruelty which gave pain to the mocker himself; but he could think of no other way to secure inattention to Rivas, and this efficiently did. Both talking the tongue of the country, their war of words, with some grotesque gestures which Kearney affected, engrossed the attention of all within sight or hearing; so that not an eye was left for the surreptitious reader of the letter.

When the sham quarrel came to an end—which it did soon as he who commenced it saw it should—the knot of spectators it had drawn around dispersed, leaving things as before. But not as before felt Rivas and Kearney. Very different now the thoughts stirring within them, both trying to appear calm while under the greatest agitation. For they had again contrived to bring their ears together, and the latter now knew all about the contents of the Condesa's letter, their purport being fully explained, nor did they draw apart, till a thorough understanding had been established between them as to the action they should take.

All this without loss of time was translated to Cris Rock, who was told also of their resolve to attempt to escape, in which the Texan was but too glad to take part. Kearney would have stayed there, and gone back into the Acordada, loathsome gaol though it was, sooner than leave his old filibustering comrade behind. He could never forget the incident of El Salado, nor cease to feel gratitude to the man who had offered to give up life for him.

But there was no need for Rock being left behind. Rivas himself wished it otherwise, for more than one reason; but one good one, that instead of obstructing their escape he would be an aid to it.

The hunchback alone was not let into their secret. No doubt he too would be glad to get free from his chains, since he was under a sentence of imprisonment for life. But who could tell whether at the last moment he might not purchase pardon by turning out and betraying them? They knew him to be vile enough even for that, and so kept him in the dark about their design.

There was no need of further premeditation or contrivance of plans. That had all been traced out for them in the singular epistle signed "Ysabel," and a few whispered words from one to the other completed the understanding of it, with what was to be done. From the time this was settled out, never looked three pair of eyes more eagerly along a street than did theirs along the Calle de Plateros; never was a carriage more anxiously awaited than a landau which should show itself with hood up, drawn by a pair of grey horses.

It is now well on the afternoon, and the "beauty and fashion" of the Mexican metropolis were beginning to appear in carriages, with chivalry on horseback, along the line of streets leading to the Paseo Nuevo. The procession of the morning would little affect the usual evening display; and already several equipages had rolled past the place where the chain-gang was at work. But as yet appeared not the one so anxiously looked-for, and the half-hour was up!

Still ten minutes more without any sign of it!

More anxious now were the three prisoners, who contemplated escape, though not at all to the same degree, or for the same reason. Kearney feared there had been a failure, from betrayal by the coachman spoken of as so trustworthy; he did not think of suspecting Pepita. The Texan, too, believed some hitch had occurred, a "bit o' crooked luck," as he worded it. Not so Rivas. Though, as the others, chafing at the delay, he still had confidence in the carriage coming, as he had in the directing head of one he expected to see inside it. It was being purposely kept back, he fancied; likely as not, lest it might attract attention by being too early on the street.

Whatever the cause, his conjectures were soon brought to an end—and abruptly—by seeing the thing itself.

"Bueno!" he mentally exclaimed, then muttering to the others—"Yonder it comes! Frisones pardes coachman in sky-blue and silver—be ready camarados."

And ready they were, as panthers preparing to spring. Rock and Rivas, as Kearney himself, were now out of the sewer and up on the street; all three still making believe to work; while the dwarf seemed to suspect there was something in the wind, but could not guess what.

He knew the instant after, when a strong hand, grasping him by the collar, lifted him off his feet, raising and tossing him further aloft, as though he had been but a rat.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A CLUMSY COCHERO.

Perhaps no people in the world have been more accustomed to spectacular surprises than they who perambulate the streets of the Mexican metropolis. For the half-century preceding the time of which I write, they had witnessed almost as many revolutions as years, seen blood spilled till the stones ran red with it, and dead bodies lying before their doors often for hours, even days, unremoved. As a consequence, they are less prone to curiosity than the dwellers in European cities, and the spectacle or incident that will stir their interest in any great degree must needs be of an uncommon kind.

Rare enough was that they were called on to witness now—such of them as chanced to be sauntering along the Calle de Plateros, where the chain-gang was at work. They first saw a carriage—a handsome equipage of the landau speciality—drawn by a pair of showy horses, and driven by a coachman in smart livery, his hat cockaded, proclaiming the owner of the turnout as belonging to the military or diplomatic service. Only ladies, however, were in it—two of them—and the horses proceeding at a rather leisurely pace. As several other carriages with ladies in them, and liveried coachmen on the boxes, had passed before, and some seen coming behind, there was nothing about this one to attract particular attention; unless, indeed, the beauty of the two "senoritas" inside, which was certainly exceptional. Both were young, and, if related, not likely to be sisters; in contour of features, complexion, colour of eyes and hair, everything different, even to contrast. But alike in that each after her own style was a picture of feminine loveliness of the most piquantly attractive kind; while their juxtaposition made it all the more so, for they were seated side by side.

Such could not fail to draw the eyes of the street passengers upon them, and elicit looks of admiration. So far from courting this, however, they seemed desirous of shunning it. The day was one of the finest, the atmosphere deliciously enjoyable, neither too warm nor too cold; other carriages were open, yet the hoods of theirs met overhead, and the glasses were up. Still, as these were not curtained they could be seen through them. Some saw who knew them, and saluted; gentlemen by raising the hat, lady acquaintances by a nod, a quivering of the fingers. For it was the hour of promenade to the Alameda. Others to whom they were unknown inquired whose carriage it was. But not a few noticed in the faces of its fair occupants an expression which struck them as singular; something of constraint or anxiety—the last so unlike what should have been there.

And so all along the line of street, until the carriage came nearly opposite the entrance gate of the Alameda, still going slowly; at which the pampered, high-spirited horses seemed to chafe and fret. Just then, however, they showed a determination to change the pace, or at all events the direction, by making a sudden start and shy to the right; which carried the off wheels nearly nave-deep into the ridge of mud recently thrown out of the sewer.

Instinctively, or mechanically, the coachman pulled up. No one could suppose designedly; since there was sufficient likelihood of his having an overturn. Still, as the mud was soft, by bearing on the near rein, with a sharp cut of the whip, he might easily clear the obstruction.

This was not done; and the spectators wondered why it was not. They had already made up their minds that the balk was due to the coachman's maladroit driving, and this further proof of his stupidity quite exhausted their patience. Shouts assailed him from all sides, jeers, and angry ejaculations.

"Burro!" (donkey) exclaimed one; a second crying out, "What a clumsy cochero!" a third, "You're a nice fellow to be trusted with reins! A rope tied to a pig's tail would better become you?"

Other like shafts, equally envenomed, were hurled at Josh's head; for it scarce needs telling that he was the driver of the carriage, and the ladies inside it his mistress and the Condesa Almonte. For all he seemed but little to regard what was being said to him—indeed nothing, having enough on hand with his restive horses. But why did he not give them the whip, and let them have more rein! It looked as if that would start them off all right again, and that was what every one was shouting to him to do, he instead doing the very opposite, holding the animals in till they commenced plunging.

The ladies looked sorely affrighted; they had from the first, for it was all but the occurrence of an instant. Both had risen to their feet, one tugging at the strap to get the sash down, the other working at the handle of the door, which perversely refused to act, all the while uttering cries of alarm.

Several of the passengers rushed to the door in the near side to assist them, that on the off being unapproachable by reason of the open drain. But on this also appeared rescuers—a pair of them—not street promenaders, but two of the chain-gang! All muddy as these were, they were advancing with as much apparent eagerness as the others—more in reality—to release the imperilled senoritas. A proof that humanity may exist even in the breast of a gaol-bird; and the spectators, pleased with an exhibition of it, so rare and unexpected, were preparing to applaud them enthusiastically.

Their admiration, however, received a rude and almost instantaneous check, changing to wild astonishment, succeeded by equally wild indignation. The forzados got their door open first; but the ladies, apparently terrified at the rough, unclean creatures, refused to go out that way, and only shrank back. Luckily, the other was by this also opened, and they made through it into the street. But not before the two scavengers had leaped up into the carriage beside them, and, as if angry at their earlier offer being declined, given them a rude shove outward!

That was not all the spectators saw to astonish them. Other incidents followed equally unlooked-for, and with lightning rapidity. One was indeed of simultaneous occurrence; a second couple of the scavengers— the gigante y enano—rushing towards the coachman's box, clambering up to it, Rock flinging the dwarf before him as one would an old carpet-bag, and mounting after. Then, jerking the reins and whip out of Josh's hands—letting him still keep his seat, however,—he loosened the one, and laid the lash of the other on the horses' hips, so sharply and vigorously, as to start them at once into a gallop.

Meanwhile, the uncouth couple inside had pulled-to the doors, shutting themselves in, and taken the seats late occupied by the elegantly dressed ladies—a transformation so grotesque as to seem more dream than reality. And so off all went, leaving behind a crowd as much amazed as any that ever witnessed spectacle on the streets of the Mexican metropolis.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE POOR LADIES.

Quite a combination of circumstances had favoured the escape of the four forzados—the balking of the horses, the absence of Dominguez, and the relaxed vigilance of the guards—from their brains bemuddled with drink. But there was yet another lucky chance that stood them in stead—the point from which they had started. The line of sentries ended at the Alamedas Gate, and, as the one posted there was he who had them in particular charge, once past him they had only to fear a single bullet sent after them.

As it turned out, they did not even get that, fortune favouring them in every way. This sentry, though last on the line outward, was the first encountered by the people returning from the ceremony at San Corme; therefore made most of by passing friends, with the bottle oftener presented to his lips. As a consequence, when the carriage whirled past him he had but an indistinct idea of why it was going so fast, and none at all as to who were in it. With eyes drowned in aguardiente he stood as one dazed, looking after, but taking no measures to stop it. When at length some one bawled the truth into his ear and he brought his flint-lock to an unsteady level, it would have been too late—had the piece gone off. Luckily for those on the sidewalk, it did not; missing fire by a flash in the pan, as might have been anticipated.

Never were sentries more completely taken by surprise than they guarding the chain-gang. Nor more disagreeably. They knew they had been neglecting their duty, and might expect severe punishment! possibly set at the very task they were now superintending! Still, they made no attempt to pursue. They were not cavalry; and only mounted men could overtake that landau with its curious load, soon to vanish from their sight. So they stood gazing after it in helpless bewilderment, their faces showing a variety of expressions, surprise, anger, fear, mingled in a most ludicrous manner. Deserting their posts they had gathered into a knot, and it was some time before they had so far recovered their senses as to think of despatching one of their number to the Plaza Grande after cavalry sure to be there.

It was a fine opportunity for others of the gaol-birds to make a bolt; but for the obstructive coupling-chains no doubt some would avail themselves of it. These, however, hindered the attempt. There were no more restive horses, nor blundering coachmen to bring another carriage near enough for a rush.

But the most interesting group now on the ground was that which had collected round the ladies left carriage-less; some offering services, others speaking words of sympathy. "Las senoritas pobres!"

"Pobrecitas!"—("The poor young ladies!" "Poor things!") were exclamations uttered over and over again.

It was a trying situation for the "poor things" to be in, sure enough. But they acquitted themselves admirably; especially the Condesa, who, young though she was, for courage and coolness had few to equal her. In that emergency no man could have shown himself her superior. Her look of still untranquillised terror, the intermittent flashes of anger in her eyes as she loudly denounced the ruffians who had carried off their carriage, was a piece of acting worthy of a Rachel or Siddons. He would have been a keen physiognomist who could have told that her emotions were counterfeit. Little dreamt the sympathising spectators that while being pushed out of the carriage she had contrived to whisper back to the man so rudely behaving: "Look under the cushions, querido! You'll find something. Dios te guarda!"

Still less could they have supposed that the other young lady, looking so meek, had at the same time spoken tender words to the second ruffian who had assailed them.

The part the pobrecitas were playing, with the sympathy they received, seemed to themselves so comically ludicrous that, but for its serious side, neither could have kept countenance. Alone the thought of the lovers not yet being beyond danger hindered their bursting out into laughter.

And lest this, too, might cease to restrain them they seized upon the earliest pretext to get away from the spot.

Glad were they when some of their gentlemen acquaintances, who chanced to be passing the place, came up and proposed escorting them home. A service accepted and, it need not be said, offered with as much alacrity as it was received.

Their departure had no effect in dispersing the crowd which had gathered by the Alamedas Gate. A spot signalised by an episode so odd and original, was not to be forsaken in that quick inconsiderate way. Instead, the throng grew quicker, until the street for a long stretch was packed full of people, close as they could stand. Only one part of it remained unoccupied, the central list showing the open sewer with its bordering of black mud. In their holiday attire the populace declined invading this, though they stood wedging one another along its edge; their faces turned towards it, with hilarity in their looks and laughter on their lips. It was just the sort of spectacle to please them; the sentries in a row—for they had now sneaked back to their post— appearing terribly crestfallen, while those over whom they stood guard seemed, on the contrary, cheerful—as though expecting soon to be released from their chains. With them it was the esprit de corps of the galley slave, glad to see a comrade escape from their common misery, though he cannot escape himself.

All this, however, was tame; but the winding up of the spectacle in a quiet natural way. It would soon have been over now, and the sightseers scattered off to their homes; but just as they were beginning to retire, a new incident claimed their attention. A scene almost as exciting as any that had preceded, though only a single personage appeared in it. This Dominguez, the gaoler, who had been absent all the while at his pulqueria, and only just warned of the event that had so convulsed the Calle de Plateros, breaking through the crowd like an enraged bull, rushed along the sewer's edge, nourishing his whip over the heads of the forzados, at the same time reviling the sentries for their scandalous neglect of duty! To tell the truth, he was more troubled about his own. He had received particular instructions to be watchful of four prisoners—the very ones that had escaped. Well might he dread the reckoning in store for him on return to the gaol. However could he face his governor?

For some time he strode to and fro, venting his drunken spleen alike on soldiers or scavengers. Some of the former would have retaliated; but they knew him to have authority in high places, and therefore kept silent, sullenly enduring it. Not so the spectators, many of whom, knowing, hated him. Possibly, more than probably, some of them had been under his care. But to all he was now affording infinite amusement. They laughed at his impotent anger, and laughed again, one crying out, "He's as good as a bull in a ring!" another exclaiming, "Viva el Senor Dominguez rey de las bastoneros!" ("Hurrah for the Senor Dominguez, king of the turnkeys!")—a sally which elicited roars of applauding laughter.

If angry before, he was now infuriated. Purple in the face, he was making a dash at the man whom he suspected of mocking him, when his foot slipped and down he went into the drain head foremost.

He had altogether disappeared, and was for some seconds out of sight; the laughter, which had become a yelling chorus, all the while continuing. Nor did it cease when he re-appeared; instead, was louder and more uproarious than ever. For his face, late blue with rage, was now black with a limning of the sewer liquid.

But he was less mad than sad, after the ill-timed tumble. The douche had tamed, if not sobered him; and his only thought now was how to get away from that place of repeated discomfitures, anywhere to hide and wash himself.

Luck declared for him at last, in the approach of a squadron of Hussars, drawing off from him the eyes of the spectators; who had now enough to do looking out for themselves and their safety. For the Hussars were coming on at a gallop, with drawn sabres.

A crush and a scampering followed, as they forced their way through the crowd, shouting, and striking with the back of their blades. After they had passed, the people were no longer in a humour for laughing at the "King of the turnkeys," nor any one else; neither was he there to be laughed at.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A TRANSFORMATION.

While the ladies set down upon the street were still plaintively appealing to those around, the carriage from which they had been so unceremoniously ejected was tearing along the Calle de San Francisco, going direct for the Acordada! But nothing could be farther from the thoughts of those in it than a return to that grand gaol, or even approaching its door. All of them knew there was a regular guard there; and instead of a single musket missing fire, they would more likely be saluted with a full volley, sending a shower of bullets about their ears. Bad marksmen as the Mexican soldiers are, they could not all miss. But even if they passed through that unscathed, beyond was the garita of San Cosme, with another guard there. Indeed, go what way they would, there was none leading out into the country without a garita to be got through—and for the country they were aiming.

In these gates, however, there was a difference as to the strength of their guard detail, and the possibilities of their being passed. All of which one of the fugitives well understood—Rivas, who, as a matter of course, had assumed direction of everything relating to their flight. When opposite the old convent, which gives its name to the street, he leaned his head out of the carriage window, and said to the cochero:—

"Take the route by El Nino Perdido. You know the way; show it to him."

The "him" was Cris Rock, who still had hold of the reins, and who, not understanding Spanish, could not be addressed direct.

The result of the order was, that shortly after, the horses were headed into a side street, indicated to the Texan by a nod perceptible only to himself. It would not do for the real coachman to appear as aiding their escape; though there was no danger of the dwarf observing it—the latter having been crammed down into the boot—where he was held with his head between Rock's huge thighs, as in a vice.

The street into which they had turned was a narrow one running along a dead wall—that of the ancient monastery, which occupies acres of ground. And in its strip of sidewalk just then there was not a pedestrian to be seen—the very thing Rivas had been wishing for. Again speaking out, he said:—

"Slowly for a bit. I see a seraph out there. Tell the Tejanos to put it on."

For the next hundred yards or so—along the dead wall—the horses went at a walk, they inside the carriage, as also one on the box, all the while busy as bees. And when they came out at the end of the quiet street entering upon a more frequented thoroughfare, the brisk pace was resumed; though no one could have believed it the same party, seen but a minute or two before driving at a racecourse speed along the Calle de Plateros. Jose alone looked the same, in his sky-blue livery and cockaded hat. But the big man by his side had so far effected a change that his mud-stained habiliments were hidden under an ample seraph, which covered him from neck to ankles; while the little one was altogether invisible, and under a threat of having his skull kicked in if he attempted to show himself.

Alike quick and complete had been the transformation of the "insides." There now sat two gentlemen, decently, indeed rather stylishly dressed— one wearing a blue cloth cloak with velvet collar; the other a scarlet "manga," with gold bullion embroidery from neck to shoulders.

About the equipage there was little now to make remark upon, or cause it to be regarded with suspicion. Some rich haciendado, who had been at the laying of the foundation-stone, on return to his country house, taking a friend along with him. The strapping fellow on the box might be mayor-domo of the estate—they are usually tall men—who had taken a fancy to try his hand at driving, and the coachman had surrendered him the reins. All perfectly natural, and en regle, even to the rapid speed at which the horses were put. The driver not accustomed to handling the ribbons would account for this. Besides, the sun was getting low, the casa de campo might be a good distance from town, and such a splendid turnout, belated on a country road would be like tempting Providence, and certainly the salteadores!

How little would its occupants have regarded an encounter with highwaymen. Perhaps just then they would have welcomed it. Nor much did Rivas anticipate further trouble in the streets of the city. He was familiar with those they were now driving along, and felt no fear of being obstructed there—at least by the people. Had they hung their chain out of the carriage window and exposed the prison dress, no one in that quarter would have cried "Stop thief!" The man who should so cry, would run the risk of having his clamour suddenly silenced.

For all they had apprehensions of the keenest. If they were in no danger while in the streets, they would be when parting from them—at El Nino Perdido. That gauntlet had yet to be run.

But while thinking of it, they had not been idle; instead, all the while planning and preparing for it; Rivas instructing the others as to how they should act.

"A garita of the usual kind," he said to Kearney, making known the nature of the anticipated obstruction; "a gate across the road, with a guard-house alongside. There's sure to be a sergeant and eight or ten files in it. If, by good luck, the gate be open, our best way will be to approach gently, then go through at a gallop. If shut, we'll be called upon to show our best diplomacy. Leave all that to me. Failing to fool the guard, we must do battle with it. Anything's better than be taken back to the Acordada. That would be sure death for me; and, if I mistake not, for yourself, Senor."

"I'm sure of it. If we can't get through without, let us fight our way, whatever the result."

"Take this pair, then. They seem the most reliable. You Americanos are more skilled in the use of fire-arms than we. With us steel is preferred. But I'll do the best I can with the other pair."

This had reference to two pairs of pistols discovered under the carriage cushions. Nor were they the only weapons there; besides them were two long-bladed knives, and a pearl-handled stiletto—the last a tiny affair, which looked as though taken from the toilet case of a lady.

"See that yours are loaded and in firing order," Rivas added, at the same time looking to his own.

The injunction was not needed, as the Irishman was already examining the weapons put into his hand, with a view to their efficiency.

Both pair of pistols were of the old-fashioned duelling kind— flintlocks, with barrels nearly a foot in length. Like as not the Condesa's father and Don Ignacio Valverde, in days long gone by, had vindicated honour with them.

The inspection was quick and short, as had been all that preceded; pans sprung open, showing them filled with powder; rammers run into the barrels, then drawn out again, and replaced in their thimbles.

"Mine," said Kearney, first to report, "are good for two lives."

"And mine the same," rejoined Rivas, "unless I'm laid low before I can pull the second trigger. Now to dispose of the knives. My countryman, the cochero, however trustworthy, mustn't show fight. That would ruin all afterwards. But, if I mistake not, your colossal comrade is the man to make play with one of them in a pinch."

"You may be sure of it. He was in the Alamo with Bowie, and at Goliad with Fanning. Don't fear putting a knife into his hands; he'll make good use of it if we're driven to close quarters."

"Let him have it, then. You give it, and tell him all."

Kearney getting hold of one of the two knives, that seeming best suited for the hands he designed putting it in, passed it on to Cris Rock—not through the carriage window, but a hole cut in the leathern hood by the blade itself. Speaking through the same, he said—

"Cris! we've got to run a gate where there's a guard of soldiers—maybe a dozen or so. You're to drive gently up, and, if you see it open, pass through—then lay on the whip. Should it be shut, approach more briskly, and pull up impatient-like. But do nothing of yourself—wait till I give you the word."

"Trust me, Cap; ye kin do that, I kilk'late."

"I can, Cris. Take this knife, and if you hear pistols cracking behind, you'll then know what to do with it."

"I gie a guess, anyhow," rejoined the Texan, taking hold of the knife, in a hand passed behind him. Then bringing it forward and under his eyes, he added, "'Taint sech a bad sort o' blade eyther, tho' I weesh 'twas my ole bowie they took from me at Mier. Wal, Cap; ye kin count on me makin' use o't, ef 'casion calls, an' more'n one yaller-belly gittin' it inter his guts; notwithstandin' this durnation clog that's swinging at my legs. By the jumping Geehosophat, if I ked only git shet o' that I'd—"

What he would do or intended saying, had to stay unsaid. Rivas interrupted him, pulling Kearney back, and telling him to be ready with the pistols. For they were nearing the place of danger.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR SALUTE.

In a strict military sense the capital of Mexico cannot be called a fortified city. Still, it has defences, one being an enceinte wall, which envelops it all round, leaving no straggled suburb, scarce so much as a house, outside. Compact and close stand the dwellings of the modern city as those of ancient Tenochtitlan, whose site it occupies, though the waves of Tezcuco and Xochimilco no longer lap up to its walls.

The enceinte spoken of is a mere structure of "adobes," large sun-baked blocks of mud and straw—in short, the bricks of the Egyptians, whose making so vexed Moses and the Israelites. Here and there may be seen a little redoubt, with a battery of guns in it; but only on revolutionary occasions—the wall, so far as defence goes, more concerning the smuggler than the soldier; and less contraband from abroad than infringement of certain regulations of home commerce—chief of them the tax called "alcabala," corresponding to the octroi of France, and the corvee of some other European countries.

The tax is collected at the "garitas," of which there is one on every road leading out of the city, or rather into it; for it is the man who enters, not he making exit, who is called upon to contribute to the alcabala. It is levied on every article or commodity brought from the country in search of a city market. Nothing escapes it; the produce of farm and garden, field and forest—all have to pay toll at the garitas, so losing a considerable percentage of their value. The brown aboriginal, his "burro" laden with charcoal, or skins of pulque, or himself staggering under a load of planks heavy enough to weigh down a donkey, which he has transported from a mountain forest—ten or twenty miles it may be—is mulcted in this blackmail before he can pass through a garita.

Not unfrequently he is unable to meet the demand till he have made sale of the taxed commodity. On such occasions he hypothecates his hat, or frezada, leaving it at the gate, and going on bareheaded or bare-shouldered to the market, to redeem the pawned article on return.

Save through these gates there is no access to, or egress from, the Mexican capital; and at each, besides the official having charge of the revenue matters, a soldier-guard is stationed, with a guard-house provided; their duties being of a mixed, three-cornered kind—customs, police, and military. Five or six such posts there are, on the five or six roads leading out from the city, like the radiating limbs of a star-fish; and one of these is the garita El Nino Perdido—literally, the gate of the "Lost Child." It is, however, one through which the traffic is of secondary importance; since it is not on any of the main routes of travel. That which it bars is but a country road, communicating with the villages of Mixcoac, Coyoacan, and San Angel. Still, these being places of rural residence, where some of the familiares principes have country houses, a carriage passing through the gate of the Lost Child is no rarity. Besides, from the gate itself runs a Calzada, or causeway, wide and straight for nearly two miles, with a double row of grand old trees along each side, whose pleasant shade invites, and often receives, visits from city excursionists out for a stroll, ride, or drive. Near the end of the second mile it angles abruptly to the right, in the direction of San Angel—a sharp corner the writer has good reason to remember, having been shot at by salteadores, luckily missed, while passing round it on his way from country quarters to the city. A horse of best blood saved his blood there, or this tale would never have been told.

Asking the reader's pardon for a personal digression—with the excuse that it may throw light on the scene to follow—it will be understood how easily the guard on duty at the gate might be "thrown off guard" by a carriage passing through it; especially on that day when there were so many, by reason of the grand doings in the city.

Several had just passed, going country-wards; for it was the season of rural sojourn among the "ricos." So, when another appeared, heading in the same direction, the guard-sergeant at Nino Perdido saw nothing amiss, or to be suspicious of; instead, something to inspire him with respect. He had been on guard at the Palace scores of times; and by appearance knew all who were accustomed to pass in and out, more especially those holding authority. Liveries he could distinguish at any distance; and when he saw a carriage approaching along the street, with a coachman in sky-blue and silver, cockaded, he did not need its being near to recognise the equipage of one of the Cabinet Ministers.

Though a non-commissioned officer, he was a man of ambitious aims; dreaming of gold bullion in the shape of epaulettes; and he had long had his eye on the epaulette of an alferez—officers of this rank being allowed only one. The good word of a Cabinet Minister, whether war, navy, or Hacienda, could give him what he was wishing for, easy at a nod; and here was an opportunity of winning it.

"Cabo!" he cried out to his corporal, in a flurry of excitement, "throw open the gate—quick! Fall in, men! Dress up—ready to present arms! See that you do it handsomely!"

It was in his favour, and so he congratulated himself that the carriage came on rather slowly, so that he had ample time to get his half-dozen files well set-up and dressed for the salute.

There was some buttoning of jackets, stocks to be adjusted round shirtless necks, with shakos to be searched for inside the guard-house, and hurriedly clapped on. Still, it was all got through in good time; and, when at length the carriage came abreast, the guard was found standing at "present arms," the sergeant himself saluting in the most gracious manner.

They inside, knowing how, returned the salute in true soldier style, though with a surprised expression upon their faces. No wonder. Where they had anticipated difficulty and danger, they were received with more than civility—accorded military honours!



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

"IS IT A GRITO?"

The soldiers of the guard had grounded arms, and were sauntering back to their benches, when something came into the sergeant's mind which caused him misgiving.

Was it possible he had been paying honours to those undeserving of them?

He was sure of it being the carriage of Don Ignacio Valverde; his horses and livery too. But nothing more. None of the party was known to him as belonging to Don Ignacio's family or servants. For Jose was but groom or second coachman, who occasionally drove out his young mistress, but never to the Palace, or other place where the sergeant had been on duty.

Equally a stranger to him was the big fellow on the box, who had hold of the reins, as also one of the gentlemen inside. It occurred to him, however, that the face of the other was familiar—awakening the memories of more than ordinary interest.

"Mil diablos!" he muttered to himself as he stood gazing after the retreating equipage. "If that wasn't my old captain, Don Ruperto Rivas, there isn't another man in Mexico more like him. I heard say he had turned salteador, and they'd taken him only the other day. Carria! what's that?"

The carriage, as yet not over a hundred yards from the garita, still going on at a rather moderate pace, was seen suddenly to increase its speed: in fact, the horses had started off at a gallop! Nor was this from any scare or fright, but caused by a sharp cut or two of the whip, as he could tell by seeing the arm of the big man on the box several times raised above the roof, and vigorously lowered again. Extraordinary behaviour on his part; how was it to be accounted for? And how explain that of the gentleman inside, who appeared satisfied with the changed pace? At all events they were doing naught to prevent it, for again and again the whip strokes were repeated. None of the party were intoxicated; at least they had no appearance of it when they passed the gate. A little excited-looking, though no more than might be expected in men returning from a public procession. But an elegant light equipage with horses in full gallop, so unlike the carriage of a Cabinet Minister! What the mischief could it mean?

The guard-sergeant had just asked himself the question, when, hark! a gun fired at the citadela! Soon after another from the military college of Chapultepec! And from the direction of the Plaza Grande the ringing of bells. First those of the Cathedral, then of the Acordada, and the convent of San Francisco, with other convents and churches, till there was a clangour all over the city!

Hark again! A second gun from the citadel, quickly followed by another from Chapultepec, evidently signals and their responses!

"What the demonio is it? A pronunciamento?" Not only did the sergeant thus interrogate, but all the soldiers under his command, putting the question to one another. It would be nothing much to surprise them, least of all himself. He was somewhat of a veteran, and had seen nigh a score of revolutions, counting ententes.

"I shouldn't be surprised if it is," he suggested, adding, as a third gun boomed out from the citadel; "it must be a grito!"

"Who's raising it this time, I wonder?" said one of the soldiers, all now in a flurry of excited expectancy.

Several names of noted militarios were mentioned at a venture; but no one could say for certain, nor even give a guess with any confidence. They could hardly yet realise its being the breaking out of a pronunciamento, since there had been no late tampering with them—the usual preliminary to revolutions.

It might not be, after all. But they would be better able to decide should they hear the rattle of small arms, and for this listened they all ears.

More than one of them would have been delighted to hear it. Not that they disliked the regime of the Dictator, nor the man himself. Like all despots he was the soldiers friend; professed and giving proofs of it, by indulging them in soldierly licence—permission to lord it over the citizen. But much as they liked "El Cojo" (Game leg), as they called him, a grito would be still more agreeable to them—promising unlimited loot.

The sergeant had views of his own, and reflections he kept to himself. He felt good as sure there was something up, and could not help connecting it with the carriage which had just passed. He now no longer doubted having seen his old captain in it. But how came he to be there, and what doing? He had been in the city, that's certain—was now out of it, and going at a speed that must mean something more than common. He could get to San Augustin by that route. There were troops quartered there; had they declared for the Liberals?

It might be so, and Rivas was on his way to meet and lead them on to the city. At any moment they might appear on the calzada, at the corner round which the carriage had just turned.

The sergeant was now in a state of nervous perplexity. Although his eyes were on the road his thoughts were not there, but all turned inward, communing with himself. Which side ought he to take? That of the Liberales or the Parti Pretre? He had been upon both through two or three alternate changes, and still he was but a sargento. And as he had been serving Santa Anna for a longer spell than usual, without a single step of promotion, he could not make much of a mistake by giving the Republican party one more trial. It might get him the long-coveted epaulette of alferez.

While still occupied with his ambitious dreams, endeavouring to decide into which scale he should throw the weight of his sword, musket, and bayonet, the citadel gun once more boomed out, answered by the canon of Chapultepec.

Still, there was no cracking of rifles, nor continuous rattle of musketry, such as should be heard coincident with that cry which in the Mexican metropolis usually announces a change of government.

It seemed strange not only to him, but all others on guard at El Nino. But it might be a parley—the calm before the storm, which they could not help thinking would yet burst forth, in full fusillade—such as they had been accustomed to.

Listening on, however, they heard not that; only the bells, bells, bells, jingling all over the city, as though it were on fire, those of the cathedral leading the orchestra of campanule music. And yet another gun from the citadel, with the answering one from the "Summer Palace of the Monctezunas."

They were fast losing patience, beginning to fear there would be no pronunciamento after all, and no chance of plundering, when the notes of a cavalry bugle broke upon their ears.

"At last!" cried one, speaking the mind of all, and as though the sound were a relief to them. "That's the beginning of it. So, camarados! we may get ready. The next thing will be the cracking of carbines!"

They all ran to the stack of muskets, each clutching at his own. They stood listening as before; but not to hear any cracking of carbines. Instead, the bugle again brayed out its trumpet notes, recognisable as signals of command; which, though only infantry men, they understood. There was the "Quick march!" and "Double quick!" but they had no time to reflect on what it was for, nor need, as just then a troop of Hussars was seen defiling out from a side street, and coming on towards them at a charging gallop.

In a few seconds they were up to the gate, which, being still open, they could have passed through, without stop or parley. For all, they made both, the commanding officer suddenly reining up, and shouting back along the line—

"Alto!"

The "halt" was proclaimed by the trumpeter at his side, which brought the galloping cohort to a stand.

"Sargento!" thundered he at their head to the guard-sergeant, who, with his men re-formed, was again at "Present arms!"

"Has a carriage passed you, guard—a landau—grey horses, five men in it?"

"Only four men, Senor Colonel; but all the rest as you describe it."

"Only four! What can that mean? Was there a coachman in light blue livery—silver facings?"

"The same, Senor Colonel."

"That's it, sure; must be. How long since it passed?"

"Not quite twenty minutes, Senor Colonel. It's just gone round the corner; yonder where you see the dust stirring."

"Adelante!" cried the colonel, without waiting to question further, and as the trumpet gave out the "Forward—gallop!" the Hussar troop went sweeping through the gate, leaving the guard-sergeant and his men in a state of great mystification and no little chagrin; he, their chief spokesman, saying with a sorrowful air—

"Well hombres, it don't look like a grito, after all!"



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

AN ILL-USED COACHMAN.

"Such forethought?" exclaimed Rivas, as the landau went rattling along the road with the speed of a war-chariot, "wonderful!" he went on. "Ah, for cleverness, commend me to a woman—when her will's in it. We men are but simpletons to them. My glorious Ysabel! She's the sort for a soldier's wife. But don't let me be claiming all the credit for her. Fair play to the Senorita Valverde; who has, I doubt not, done her share of the contriving—on your account, Senor."

The Senor so spoken to had no doubt of it either, and would have been grieved to think otherwise, but he was too busy at the moment to say much, and only signified his assent in monosyllables. With head down, and arms in see-sawing motion, he was endeavouring to cut their coupling-chain; the tool he handled being a large file; another of the "something" to be found under the cushions—as found it was! No wonder Don Ruperto's enthusiastic admiration of the providence which had placed it there.

Handy with workmen's tools as with warlike weapons, the young Irishman had laid hold of it as soon as they were safe through the garita, and was now rasping away with might and main; the other keeping the chain in place.

It was not a task to be accomplished without time. The links were thick as a man's finger, and would need no end of filing before they could be parted. Still, there was little likelihood of their being interrupted until it could be done. There was nobody on the road, and only here and there some labourers at work in the adjoining fields, too busy to take note of them, or what they were at. The sight of a passing carriage would be nothing strange, and the horses going at a gallop would but lead to the supposition of its being a party of "jovenes dorados" driving out into the country, who had taken too much wine before starting.

But, even though these poor proletarians knew all, there was nothing to be apprehended for any action on their part. Conspiracies and pronunciamentos were not in their line; and the storm of revolution might burst over their heads without their caring what way it went, or even inquiring who was its promoter. So the escaping prisoners took little pains to conceal what they were at. Speed was now more to their purpose than strategy, and they were making their best of it, both to get on along the road, and have their legs free for future action.

"We might have passed safely through that gate," said the Mexican, who still continued to do the talking, "even had they known who we were."

"Indeed! how?"

"You saw that sergeant who saluted us?"

"Of course I did, and the grand salute he gave! He couldn't have made it more impressive had it been the Commander-in-Chief of your army, or the Dictator himself who was passing."

"And I fancy it was just something of the kind that moved him. Doubtless, the livery of the coachman, which he would know to be that of Don Ignacio Valverde."

"You think he got us through?"

"Yes. But it wouldn't have done so if he'd known what was up. Though something else might—that is, his knowing me."

"Oh! he knows you?"

"He does; though I'm not sure he recognised me in passing, as I did him. Odd enough, his being there just then. He was corporal in a company I once commanded, and I believe liked me as his captain. He's an old schemer, though; has turned his coat times beyond counting; and just as well there's been no call for trusting him. He'll catch it for letting us slip past without challenge; and serve him right, wearing the colours he now does. Ha! they've waked up at last! I was expecting that."

It was the first gun at the citadel which called forth these exclamations, soon followed by the ding-dong of the city bells.

"Carrai!" he continued, "we're no doubt being pursued now, and by cavalry; some of those we saw in the procession. It begins to look bad. Still, with so much start, and this fine pair of frisones, I've not much fear of their overtaking us, till we reach the point I'm making for; unless, indeed—"

"Unless what?" asked Kearney, seeing he had interrupted himself, and was looking out apprehensively.

"That! There's your answer," said the Mexican, pointing to a puff of smoke that had just shot out from the summit of an isolated hill on which were batteries and buildings. "Chapultepec—a gun!" he added, and the bang came instantly after.

"We'll have it hot enough now," he continued, in a tone telling of alarm. "There's sure to be cavalry up yonder. If they're cleverly led, and know which way to take, they may head us off yet, in spite of all we can do. Lay on the whip," he shouted out to the coachman.

And the whip was laid on, till the horses galloped faster than ever, leaving behind a cloud of dust, which extended back for more than a mile.

The road they were on was the direct route to San Angel; and through this village Rivas had intended going, as he had no reason to believe there were troops stationed in it. But Chapultepec was nearer to it than the point where they themselves were, and cavalry now starting from the latter could easily reach San Angel before them. But there was a branch road leading to Coyoacan, and as that would give them some advantage, he determined on taking it.

And now another gun at the citadel, with the response from Chapultepec, and, soon after, the third booming from both. But meanwhile, something seen at the castle-crowned hill which deepened the anxious expression on the face of the Mexican.

"Santos Dios!" he exclaimed; "just as I expected. Look yonder, Senor!"

Kearney looked, to see a stream pouring out from the castle gates and running down the steep causeway which zig-zags to the bottom of the hill. A stream of men in uniform, by their square crowned shakos and other insignia, recognisable as Lancers. They had neither weapons nor horses with them; but both, as Rivas knew, would be at the Cuartel and stables below. He also knew that the Lanzeros were trained soldiers— a petted arm of the service—and it would not take them long to "boot and saddle."

More than ever was his look troubled now, still not despairing. He had his hopes and plans.

"Drop your file, Senor," he said hurriedly; "no time to finish that now. We must wait for a better opportunity. And we'll have to leave the carriage behind; but not just yet."

By this they had arrived at the embouchure of the branch road coming out from Cayocaon, into which by his direction the horses were headed, going on without stop or slackening of speed. And so for nearly another mile; then he called out to those on the box to bring up.

Rock, anticipating something of the sort, instantly reined in, and the carriage came to a stand. At which the two inside sprang out upon the road, Kearney calling to the Texan—

"Drop the reins, Cris! Down; unhitch the horses. Quick!"

And quick came he down, jerking the dwarf after, who fell upon all fours; as he recovered his feet, looking as if he had lost his senses. No one heeded him or his looks; the hurry was too great even to stay for unbuckling.

"Cut everything off!" cried Kearney, still speaking to Rock. "Leave on only the bridles."

With the knife late put into his hands the Texan went to work, Kearney himself plying the other, while Rivas held the horses and unhooked the bearing reins.

Soon pole-pieces and hame-straps were severed; and the frisones led forward left all behind, save the bridles and collars.

"Leave the collars on," said Rivas, seeing there was no time to detach them. "Now we mount two and two; but first to dispose of him."

The "him" was Jose, still seated on the box, apparently in a state of stupor.

"Pull him down, Cris! Tie him to the wheel!" commanded Kearney. "The driving reins will do it."

The Texan knew how to handle tying gear, as all Texans do, and in a trice the unresisting cochero was dragged from his seat and bound, Ixion-like, to one of the carriage wheels.

But Rock had not done with him yet. There was a necessity for something more, which looked like wanton cruelty—as they wished it to look. This was the opening of the poor fellow's mouth, and gagging him with the stock of his own whip!

So, rendered voiceless and helpless, he saw the four forzados, two-and-two, get upon his horses and ride off, the only one who vouchsafed to speak a parting word being the dwarf—he calling back in a jocular way—

"Adios, Senor cochero! May your journey be as pleasant as your coach is slow. Ha, ha, ha!"



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

DOUBLE MOUNTED.

The labourers hoeing among the young maize plants, and the tlachiquero drawing the sap from his magueys, saw a sight to astonish them. Two horses of unusual size, both carrying double, and going at full gallop as if running a race—on one of them two men in cloaks, blue and scarlet; the other ridden by a giant, with a mis-shapen monkey-like creature clinging on the croup behind—harness bridles, with collars dancing loose around their necks—chains hanging down and clanking at every bound they made—all this along field paths, in an out-of-the-way neighbourhood where such horses and such men had never been seen before! To the cultivator of "milpas" and the collector of "aguamiel" it was a sight not only to astonish, but inspire them with awe, almost causing the one to drop his hoe, the other his half-filled hog-skin, and take to their heels. But both being of the pure Aztecan race, long subdued and submissive, yet still dreaming of a return to its ancient rule and glories, they might have believed it their old monarchs, Monctezuna and Guatimozin, come back again, or the god Oatluetzale himself.

In whatever way the spectacle affected them, they were not permitted long to look upon it. For the galloping pace was kept up without halt or slowing; the strange-looking horses—with the men upon their backs, still stranger to look at—soon entered a chapparal, which bordered the maize and maguey fields, and so passed out of sight.

"We're near the end of our ride now," said Rivas to Kearney, after they had been some time threading their way through the thicket, the horses from necessity going at a walk. "If 'twere not for this ironmongery around our ankles, I could almost say we're safe. Unfortunately, where we've got to go the chains will be a worse impediment than ever. The file! Have we forgotten it?"

"No," answered Kearney, drawing it from under his cloak, and holding it up.

"Thoughtful of you, caballero. In the haste, I had; and we should have been helpless without it, or at all events awkwardly fixed. If we only had time to use it now. But we haven't—not so much as a minute to spare. Besides the lances from Chapultepec, there's a cavalry troop of some kind—huzzars I take it—coming on from the city. While we were cutting loose from the carriage, I fancied I heard a bugle-call in the direction cityward. Of course, with guns and bells signalling, we may expect pursuit from every point of the compass. Had we kept to the roads, we'd have been met somewhere. As it is, if they give us another ten minutes' grace, I'll take you into a place where there's not much fear of our being followed—by mounted men, anyhow."

Kearney heard this without comprehending. Some hiding-place, he supposed, known to the Mexican. It could only mean that. But where? Looking ahead, he saw the mountains with their sides forest-clad, and there a fugitive might find concealment. But they were miles off; and how were they to be reached by men afoot—to say nothing of the chains— with cavalry in hue and cry all around them? He put the question.

"Don't be impatient, amigo!" said the Mexican in response; "you'll soon see the place I speak of, and that will be better than any description I could give. It's a labyrinth which would have delighted Daedalus himself. Mira! You behold it now!"

He pointed to a facade of rock, grey, rugged, and precipitous, trending right and left through the chapparal far as they could see. A cliff, in short, though of no great elevation; on its crest, growing yuccas, cactus, and stunted mezquite trees.

"The Pedregal!" he added, in a cheerful voice, "and glad am I to see it. I've to thank old Vulcan or Pluto for making such a place. It has saved my life once before, and I trust will do the same now, for all of us. But we must be quick about it. Adelante!"

The horses were urged into a final spurt of speed, and soon after arrived at the base of the rocky escarpment, which would have barred them further advance in that direction, had the intention been to take them on. But it was not.

"We must part from them, now," said Rivas. "Dismount all!"

All four slipped off together, Rock taking hold of both bridles, as if he waited to be told what to do.

"We mustn't leave them here," said the Mexican. "They might neigh, and so guide our pursuers to the spot. In another hour, or half that, we needn't care; it'll be dark then—"

He interrupted himself, seeming to reflect, which, the Texan observing, said to Kearney—

"He weeshes the anymals sent off, do he?"

"Just that, Cris."

"I war thinkin' o' thet same, meself. The groun' for a good spell back hez been hard as flint, an' we hain't left much o' trail, nothin' as a set o' bunglin' yaller-bellies air like ter take up. As for startin' the horses, that's easy as fallin' off a log. Let me do it."