"Do it."

"Take holt o' one then, Cap. Unbuckle the neck strap and pull off the bridle, when you see me do so wi' t'other. It is a pity to act cruel to the poor brutes arter the sarvice they've did us; but thar ain't no help for 't. Riddy, air ye?"

"Ready!"

The Texan had taken out his knife; and in another instant its blade was through the horse's ear, the bridle jerked off at the same time. The animal, uttering a terrified snort, reared up, spun round, and broke away in frenzied flight through the thorny chapparal. The other, also released, bounded after, both soon passing out of sight.

"Bueno—bravo!" cried the Mexican, admiringly, relieved of his dilemma. "Now, senors, we must continue the march afoot, and over ground that'll need help from our hands, too. Vamonos!"

Saying which, he took up the bridles, and tossed them over the crest of the cliff; then ascended himself, helping Kearney. There was no path; but some projections of the rock—ledges, with the stems of cactus plants growing upon their—made the ascent possible. The Texan swarmed up after, with hunchback at his heels; as he got upon the top, turning suddenly round, laying hold of the chain, and with a "Jee up," hoisting the creature feet foremost!

Another second and they were all out of sight; though not a second too soon. For as they turned their backs upon the cliff, they could hear behind, on the farther edge of the thicket through which they had passed, the signal calls of a cavalry bugle.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THE PEDREGAL.

Interesting as is the Mexican Valley in a scenic sense, it is equally so in the geological one; perhaps no part of the earth's crust of like limited area offering greater attractions to him who would study the lore of the rocks. There he may witness the action of both Plutonic and Volcanic forces, not alone in records of the buried past, but still existing, and too oft making display of their mighty power in the earthquake and the burning mountain.

There also may be observed the opposed processes of deposition and denudation in the slitting up of great lakes, and the down wearing of hills by tropical rain storms, with the river torrents resulting from them.

Nor is any portion of this elevated plateau more attractive to the geologist than that known as "El Pedregal"; a tract lying in its south-western corner, contiguous to the Cerro de Ajusco, whose summit rises over it to a height of 6,000 feet and 13,000 above the level of the sea.

It is a field of lava vomited forth from Ajusco itself in ages long past, which, as it cooled, became rent into fissures and honey-combed with cavities of every conceivable shape. Spread over many square miles of surface, it tenders this part of the valley almost impassable. No wheeled vehicle can be taken across it; and even the Mexican horse and mule—both sure-footed as goats—get through it with difficulty, and only by one or two known paths. To the pedestrian it is a task; and there are places into which he even cannot penetrate without scaling cliffs and traversing chasms deep and dangerous. It bristles with cactus, zuccas, and other forms of crystalline vegetation, characteristic of a barren soil. But there are spots of great fertility—hollows where the volcanic ashes were deposited—forming little oases, into which the honest Indian finds his way for purposes of cultivation. Others less honest seek refuge in its caves and coverts, fugitives from justice and the gaols—not always criminals, however, for within it the proscribed patriot and defeated soldier oft find an asylum.

In the four individuals who had now entered there was all this variety, if he who directed their movements was what the Condesa Almonte described him. In any case, he appeared familiar with the place and its ways, saying to Kearney, as they went on—

"No thanks to me for knowing all about the Pedregal. I was born on its edge; when a boy bird-nested and trapped armadilloes all over it. Twisted as this path is, it will take us to a spot where we needn't fear any soldiers following us—not this night anyhow. To-morrow they may, and welcome."

Their march was continued, but not without great difficulty, and much exertion of their strength. They were forced to clamber over masses of rock, and thread their way through thickets of cactus, whose spines, sharp as needles, lacerated their skins. With the coupling-chains still on, it was all the more difficult to avoid them.

Luckily, they had not far to go before arriving at the place where their conductor deemed it safe to make a stop. About this there was nothing particular, more than its being a hollow, where they could stand upright without danger of being seen from any of the eminences around. Descending into it, Rivas said—

"Now, Don Florencio, you can finish the little job you were interrupted at, without much fear of having to knock off again."

At which he raised the chain, and held it rested on something firmer than the cushion of a carriage. So placed, the file made better progress, and in a short time the link was cut through, letting them walk freely apart.

"Caballero!" exclaimed the Mexican, assuming an attitude as if about to propose a toast; "may our friendship be more difficult to sever than that chain, and hold us longer together—for life, I hope."

Kearney would not have been a son of Erin to refuse reciprocating the pretty compliment, which he did with all due warmth and readiness.

But his work was not over. Rock and Zorillo had yet to be uncoupled; the former, perhaps, longing to be delivered more than any of the four. He had conceived a positive disgust for the hunchback; though, as already said, less on account of the creature's physical than moral deformity, of which last he had ample evidence during the short while they were together. Nor had it needed for him to understand what the latter said. A natural physiognomist, he could read in Zorillo's eyes the evil disposition of the animal from which he drew his name.

As Kearney approached him with the file, the Texan raising his foot, and planting it on a ledge of rock, said—

"Cut through thar, Cap—the link as air nixt to my ankle-clasp."

This was different to what had been done with the other, which had been severed centrally. It was not intended to take off the whole of the chains yet. The Mexican said there was no time for so much filing; that must be done when they got farther on.

"Yer see, Cap," added Rock, giving a reason for the request, "'fore it's all over, who knows I mayn't need full leg freedom 'ithoot any hamper? So gie the dwarf the hul o' the chain to carry. He desarve to hev it, or suthin' else, round his thrapple 'stead o' his leg. This chile have been contagious to the grist o' queer company in his perambulations roun' and about; but niver sech as he. The sight of him air enough to give a nigger the gut ache."

And in his quaint vernacular he thus rambled on all the time Kearney was at work, his rude speech being an appropriate symphony to the rasping of the file.

He at the other end of the coupling-chain lay squatted along the ground, saying not a word, but his eyes full of sparkle and mischief, as those of an enraged rattle-snake. Still, there was fear in his face; for though he could not tell what was being said, he fancied it was about himself, and anything but in his favour. He was with the other three, but not of them; his conscience told him that. He was in their way, too; had been all along, and would be hereafter. What if they took into their heads to rid themselves of him in some violent manner? They might cut his throat with one of the knives he had seen them make such dexterous use of! Reflecting in this fashion, no wonder he was apprehensive.

Something was going to be done to him different from the rest, he felt sure. After the chain had been got apart the other three drew off to a distance, and stood as if deliberating. It must be about himself.

And about him it was—the way to dispose of him.

"I hardly know what we're to do with the little beast," said Rivas. "Leave him here loose we daren't; he'd slip back again, good as certain, and too soon for our safety. If we tie him he will cry out, and might be heard. We're not far enough away. Oiga! They're beating up the cover we've just come out of. Yes; they're in the chapparal now!"

It was even so, as could be told by the occasional call of a bugle sounding skirmish signals.

"Why not tie and gag him, too?" asked Kearney.

"Sure we could do that. But it wouldn't be safe either. They might find their way here at once. But if they didn't find it at all, and no one came along—"

"Ah! I see," interrupted the Irishman, as the inhumanity of the thing became manifest to him. "He might perish, you mean?"

"Just so. No doubt the wretch deserves it. From all I've heard of him, he does richly. But we are not his judges, and have no right to be his executioners."

Sentiments not such as might have been expected from the lips of a bandit!

"No, certainly not," rejoined Kearney, hastening to signify his approval of them.

"What do you think we should do with him, Rock?" he added, addressing himself to the Texan, who quite comprehended the difficulty.

"Wal', Cap; 't 'ud be marciful to knock him on the head at onc't, than leave him to gasp it out with a stopper in his mouth; as ye say the Mexikin thinks he mout. But thar ain't no need for eyther. Why not toat him along? Ef he should bother us I kin heist him on my back, easy enuf. A ugly burden he'd be, tho' 'tain't for the weight o' him."

The Texan's suggestion was entertained, no other course seeming safe, except at the probable sacrifice of the creature's life. And that none of them contemplated for a moment. In fine, it was determined to take him on.

The colloquy now coming to an end, Rivas and the Irishman caught up the pieces of chain still attached to their ankles, each making the end of his own fast round his wrist, so as not to impede their onward march. This done, they all moved on again, the Mexican, of course, foremost, Kearney at his heels. After him, Cris Rock, chain in hand, half leading, half-dragging the dwarf, as a showman might his monkey.

In this way there was no danger of his betraying them. He could shout and still have been heard by those behind. But an expressive gesture of the Texan admonished him that if he made a noise, it would be the last of him.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

A SUSPICION OF CONNIVANCE.

"Suspicious, to say the least of it! If a coincidence, certainly the strangest in my experience, or that I've ever heard of. A score of other carriages passing, and they to have chosen that one of all! Carrai! it cannot have been chance—improbable—impossible!"

So soliloquised the Chief Magistrate of Mexico, after receiving a report of what had occurred in the Calle de Plateros. He had as yet only been furnished with a general account of it; but particularising the prisoners who had escaped, with their mode of making off, as also whose carriage they had seized upon. He had been told, also, that there were two ladies in it, but needed not telling who they were.

All this was made known by a messenger who came post-haste to the Palace, soon after the occurrence. He had been sent by Colonel Santander, who could not come himself; too busy getting the Hussars into their saddles for the pursuit—for he it was who led it. And never did man follow fugitives with more eagerness to overtake them, or more bitter chagrin in their flight.

Not much, if anything, less was that of Santa Anna himself, as he now sat reflecting over it. He, too, had seen the two Texans with Rivas in the sewers; the latter a well-known enemy in war, and, as he late believed, a dangerous rival in love. He had glanced exultingly at him, with the thought of that danger past. The rebel proscribed, and for years sought for, had at length been found; was in his power, with life forfeit, and the determination it should be taken. That but a short hour ago, and now the doomed man was free again!

But surely not? With a squadron of cavalry in pursuit, canon booming, bells ringing, every military post and picket for miles round on the alert, surely four men chained two and two, conspicuous in a grand carriage, could not eventually get off.

It might seem so; still the thing was possible, as Santa Anna had reason to know. A man of many adventures, he had himself more than once eluded a pursuing enemy with chances little better.

He sat chewing the cud of disappointment, though not patiently, nor keeping all the time to his chair. Every now and then he rose to his feet, made stumping excursions round the room, repeatedly touched the bell, to inquire whether any news had been received of the fugitive party.

The aide-de-camp in attendance could not help wondering at all this, having had orders to report instantly whatever word should be brought in. Besides, why should the great Generalissimo be troubling himself about so small a matter as the escape of three or four prisoners, seeming excited as if he had lost a battle.

The cause of this excitement the Dictator alone knew, keeping it to himself. He was still in the dark as to certain details of what had transpired, and had sent for the governor of the Acordada, who should be able to supply them.

Meantime he went about muttering threats against this one and that one, giving way to bitter reflections; one bitterest of all, that there had been a suspicion of connivance at the escape of the prisoners. But to this there was a sweet side as well; so some words uttered by him would indicate.

"Ah, Condesa! You may be clever—you are. But if I find you've had a hand in this, and it can be proved to the world, never was a woman in a man's power more than you'll be in mine. Title, riches, family influence, all will be powerless to shield you. In the cell of a prison where I may yet have the pleasure of paying you a visit, you won't be either so proud or so scornful as you've shown yourself in a palace this same day. Veremos—we shall see."

"Don Pedro Arias."

It was an aide-de-camp announcing the Governor of the Acordada.

"Conduct him in."

Without delay the prison official was ushered into the presence, looking very sad and cowed-like. Nor did the reception accorded him have a restoring influence; instead, the reverse.

"What's all this I hear?" thundered out the disposer of punishments and of places; "you've been letting your prisoners bolt from you in whole batches. I suppose by this time the Acordada will be empty."

"Excellentissimo! I am very sorry to say that four of them—"

"Yes; and of the four, two of them you had orders to guard most strictly—rigorously."

"I admit it, Sire, but—"

"Sirrah! you needn't waste words excusing yourself. Your conduct shall be inquired into by-and-by. What I want now is to know the circumstances—the exact particulars of this strange affair. So answer the questions I put to you without concealment or prevarication."

The gaol-governor, making humble obeisance, silently awaited the examination, as a witness in the box who fears he may himself soon stand in the dock.

"To begin: why did you send those four prisoners out with the chain-gang?"

"By order of Colonel Santander, Sire. He said it was your Excellency's wish."

"Humph! Well, that's comprehensible. And so far you're excusable. But how came it you didn't see to their being better guarded?"

"Sire, I placed them in charge of the chief turnkey—a man named Dominguez—whom I had found most trustworthy on other occasions. To-day being exceptional, on account of the ceremonies, he was pressed to take drink, and, I'm sorry to say, got well-nigh drunk. That will explain his neglect of duty."

"It seems there were two ladies in the carriage. You know who they were, I suppose?"

"By inquiry I have ascertained, your Excellency. One was the Countess Almonte the other Don Luisa Valverde, as your Excellency will know, the daughter of him to whom the equipage belonged."

"Yes, yes. I know all that. I have been told the carriage made stop directly opposite to where these men were at work. Was that so?"

"It was, Sire."

"And have you heard how the stoppage came about?"

"Yes, Excellentissimo. The horses shied at something, and brought the wheels into a bank of mud. Then the cochero, who appears to be a stupid fellow, pulled them up, when he ought to have forced them on. While they were at rest the four forzados made a rush, two right into the carriage, the other two up to the box; one of these last, the big Tejano, getting hold of the reins and whip, and driving off at a gallop. They had only one sentry to pass in the direction of San Francisco. He, like Dominguez, was too far gone in drink, so there was nothing to stop them—except the guards at the garitas. And, I am sorry to say, the sergeant at El Nino Perdita let them pass through without so much as challenging. His account is that, seeing the carriage belonged to one of your Excellency's Ministers, he never thought of stopping it, and should not. Why should he, Sire?"

This touch of obsequious flattery seemed to mollify the Dictator's wrath, or it had by this otherwise expended itself, as evinced by his rejoinder in a more tranquil tone. Indeed, his manner became almost confidential.

"Don Pedro," he said, "I'm satisfied with the explanation you give, so far as regards your own conduct in the affair. But now, tell me, do you think the ladies who were in the carriage had anything to do with the drawing up of the horses? Or was it all an accident?"

"Will your Excellency allow me a moment to reflect? I had thought something of that before; but—"

"Think of it again. Take time, and give me your opinion. Let it be a truthful one, Don Pedro; there's much depending on it."

Thus appealed to, the gaol-governor stood for a time silent, evidently cudgelling his brains. He made mental review of all that had been told him about the behaviour of the young ladies, both before they were turned out of the carriage and after. He was himself aware of certain relations, friendly at least, supposed to exist between one of them and one of the escaped prisoners, and had thought it strange, too, that particular equipage being chosen. Still, from all he could gather, after ample inquiry, he was forced to the conclusion that the thing was unpremeditated—at least on the part of the ladies.

This was still his belief, after reflecting as he had been enjoined to do. In support of it he stated the facts as represented to him, how the Senoritas had been forced from their carriage, almost pitched into the street, their costly dresses dirtied and damaged, themselves showing wildest affright. Still, this was strange, too, on the part of the Condesa; and, in fine, Don Pedro, after further cross-questioning, was unable to say whether there had been connivance or not.

After giving such an unsatisfactory account of the matter he was dismissed, rather brusquely; and returned to the Acordada, with an ugly apprehension that instead of continuing governor of this grand gaol, with a handsome salary and snug quarters, he might ere long be himself the occupant of one of its cells, set apart for common prisoners.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE REPORT OF THE PURSUER.

With unappeased impatience the Dictator awaited the return of the pursuing party, or some news of it. The last he in time received at first hand from the lips of its leader, who, after nightfall, had hastened back to the city and reported himself at the Palace.

"You have taken them?" interrogated Santa Anna, as the Hussar officer, no longer in a glitter of gold lace, but dim with sweat and dust, was ushered into his presence.

He put the question doubtingly; indeed, from the expression of Santander's face, almost sure of receiving a negative answer. Negative it was—

"Not yet, Sire; I regret to say they are still at large."

The rejoinder was preceded by a string of exclamatory phrases, ill becoming the Chief of the State. But Santa Anna, being a soldier, claimed a soldier's privilege of swearing, and among his familiars was accustomed to it as any common trooper. After venting a strong ebullition of oaths, he calmed down a little, saying—

"Give me a full account of what you've seen and done."

This was rendered in detail, from the time of the pursuit being entered upon till it had ended abortively, by the coming on of night.

Chancing to be in the Maza, the Colonel said, when word reached him of what had occurred in the Calle de Plateros, he made all haste to pursue with a squadron of Hussars. Why he took so many, was that he might be able to send a force along every road, in case it should be necessary.

He found the escapados had gone out by El Nino Perdido, the sergeant on guard there allowing them to go past.

"See that he be put under arrest!"

"He's under arrest now, your Excellency. I had that done as I was returning."

"Proceed with your relation!"

Which Santander did, telling how he had followed the fugitive party along the San Angel Road, and there met a troop of Lancers from Chapultepec. Some field-labourers had seen a carriage turn off towards Coyoacan; and taking that route he soon after came up with it. It was stopped on the roadside: empty, horses gone, the harness strewed over the ground hacked and cut; the cochero strapped to one of the wheels, and gagged with the handle of his whip!

When the man was released he could tell nothing more than that the four had mounted his horses, a pair upon each, and galloped off across the country, on a sort of bridle path, as if making for the San Antonio Road.

Turning in that direction, Santander soon discovered that they had entered into a tract of chapparal; and while this was being searched for them, the unharnessed horses were observed rushing to and fro in frenzied gallop, riderless of course. When caught, it was seen why they were now excited, one of them having its ear slit, the blood still dropping from the wound.

The chapparal was quartered in every direction; but he soon came to the conclusion it was no use searching for them there.

"Carramba!" interrupted his listener; "of course not I know the place well. And if you, Senor Colonel, were as well acquainted with that chapparal, and what lies alongside it, as one of those you were after, you'd have dropped the search sooner. You needn't tell me more; I can guess the finish; they got off into the Pedregal."

"So it would seem, your Excellency."

"Seem! So it is, por cierto. And looking for them there would be so much lost time. Around your native city, New Orleans, there are swamps where the runaway slave manages to hide himself. He'd have a better chance of concealment here, among rocks, in that same quarter you've just come from. It's a very labyrinth. But what did you afterwards? You may as well complete your narrative."

"There is not much more to tell, Sire; for little more could we do. The darkness came on, as we discovered they had taken to the rocks."

"You did discover that?"

"Yes, your Excellency. We found the place where they had gone up over a sort of cliff. There were scratches made by their feet, with a branch broken off one of the cactus plants; some of the sewer mud, too, was on the rock. But there was no path, and I saw it would be useless carrying the pursuit any further till we should have the light of morning. I've taken every precaution, however, to prevent their getting out of the Pedregal."

"What precautions?"

"By completely enfilading it, Sire. I sent the Lancers round by San Geromino and Contreras; the Hussars to go in the opposite direction by San Augustin. They have orders to drop a picket at every path that leads from it, till they meet on the other side."

"Well, Senor Colonel, your strategy is good. I don't see that you could have done better under the circumstances. But it's doubtful whether we shall be able to trap our foxes in the Pedregal. One of them knows its paths too well to let night or darkness hinder his travelling along them. He'll be through it before your pickets can get to their stations. Yes; and off to a hiding-place he has elsewhere—a safer one—somewhere in the Sierras. Confound those Sierras with their caverns and forests. They're full of my enemies, rebels, and robbers. But I'll have them rooted out, hanged, shot, till I clear the country of disaffection. Carajo! I shall be master of Mexico, not only in name, but deeds. Emperor in reality!"

Excited by the thought of unrestrained rule and dreams of vengeance— sweet to the despot as blood to the tiger—he sprang out of his chair, and paced to and fro, gesticulating in a violent manner.

"Yes, Senor Colonel!" he continued in tone satisfied as triumphant. "Other matters have hindered me from looking after these skulking proscripts. But our victory over the Tejanos has given me the power now, and I intend using it. These men must be recaptured at all cost— if it take my whole army to do it. To you, Don Carlos Santander, I entrust the task—its whole management. You have my authority to requisition troops, and spend whatever money may be needed to ensure success. And," he added, stepping close to his subordinate, and speaking in a confidential way, "if you can bring me back Ruperto Rivas, or his head so that I can recognise it, I shall thank you not as Colonel, but as General Santander."

The expression upon his face as he said this was truly Satanic. Equally so that on his to whom the horrid hint was given. Alike cruel in their instincts, with aims closely corresponding, it would be strange if the fugitive prisoners were not retaken.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

UP THE MOUNTAIN.

"We're going to have a night black as charcoal," said Rivas, running his eye along the outline of the Cordilleras, and taking survey of the sky beyond.

"Will that be against us?" queried the young Irishman.

"In one way, yes; in another, for us. Our pursuers will be sure to ride all round the Pedregal, and leave a picket wherever they see the resemblance of path or trail leading out. If it were to come on moonlight—as luckily it won't—we'd had but a poor chance to get past them without being seen. And that would signify a fight against awkward odds—numbers, arms, everything. We must steal past somehow, and so the darkness will be in our favour."

As may be deduced from this snatch of dialogue, they were still in the Pedregal. But the purple twilight was now around them, soon to deepen into the obscurity of night; sooner from their having got nearly across the lava field, and under the shadow of Ajusco, which, like a black wall, towered up against the horizon. They had stooped for a moment, Rivas himself cautiously creeping up to an elevated spot, and reconnoitring the ground in front.

"It will be necessary for us to reach the mountains before morning," he added after a pause. "Were we but common gaol-birds who had bolted, it wouldn't much signify, and we'd be safe here for days, or indeed for ever. The authorities of Mexico, such as they are at present, don't show themselves very zealous in the pursuit of escaped criminals. But neither you nor I, Senor Kearney, come under that category—unluckily for us, just now—and the Pedregal, labyrinth though it be, will get surrounded and explored—every inch of it within the next forty-eight hours. So out of it we must move this night, or never."

Twilight on the table-lands of the western world is a matter of only a few minutes: and, while he was still speaking, the night darkness had drawn around them. It hindered them not from proceeding onwards, however, the Mexican once more leading off, after enforcing upon the others to keep close to him, and make no noise avoidable.

Another half-hour of clambering over rocks, with here and there a scrambling through thickets of cactus, and he again came to a stop, all, of course, doing the same. This time to use their ears, rather than eyes; since around all was black as a pot of pitch, the nearest object, rock or bush, being scarcely visible.

For a time they stood listening intently. Not long, however, before hearing sounds—the voices of men—and seeing a glimmer of light, which rose in radiation above the crest of a low ridge at some distance ahead.

"Un piquet!" pronounced Rivas, in a half-whisper.

"Soto en la puerto—mozo!" (knave in the door—winner) came a voice in a long-drawn accentuation, from the direction of the light.

"Good!" mutteringly exclaimed the Mexican, on hearing it. "They're at their game of monte. While so engaged, not much fear they'll think of aught else. I know the spot they're in, and a way that will take us round it. Come on, camarados! The trick's ours!"

Sure enough it proved so. A path that showed no sign of having ever been trodden, but still passable, led out past the gambling soldiers, without near approach to them. And they were still absorbed in their game—as could be told by its calls every now and then drawled out, and sounding strange in that solitary place. Ruperto Rivas conducted his trio of companions clear of the Pedregal, and beyond the line of enfiladement.

In twenty minutes after they were mounting the steep slope of the Cerro Ajusco, amid tall forest trees, with no fear of pursuit by the soldiers, than if separated from them by a hundred long leagues.

After breasting the mountain for some time, they paused to take breath, Rivas saying—

"Well, caballeros, we're on safe ground now, and may rest a bit. It's been a close shave, though; and we may thank our stars there are none in the sky—nor moon. Look yonder! They're at it yet. 'Soto en la puerto—mozo!' Ha, ha, ha!"

He referred to a faint light visible at a long distance below, on the edge of the Pedregal, where they had passed that of a picket fire-camp, which enabled the monte players to make out the markings on their cards.

"We may laugh who have won," he added, now seemingly relieved from all apprehension of pursuit.

Nevertheless the fugitive party stayed but a short while there; just long enough to recover wind. The point they were making for was still further up the mountain, though none of them could tell where save Rivas himself. He knew the place and paths leading to it, and well; otherwise he could not have followed them, so thick was the darkness. In daylight it would have been difficult enough, yawning chasms to be crossed barransas—with cliffs to be climbed, in comparison with which the escarpments of the Pedregal were but as garden walls.

In a groping way, hand helping hand, all were at length got up and over, as the tolling of distant church bells, down in the valley below, proclaimed the hour of midnight. Just then Rivas, once more making a stop, plucked a leaf from one of the grass plants growing by, and placing it between his lips gave out a peculiar sound, half screech, half whistle—a signal as the others supposed; being assured it was, by the response soon after reaching their ears.

The signal was given again, with some variations; responded to in like manner. Then a further advance up the mountain, and still another halt; this time at hearing the hail:

"Quien viva!"

"El Capitan!" called out Rivas in answer, and received for rejoinder first an exclamation of delighted surprise, then words signifying permission to approach and pass.

The approach was not so easy, being up a steep incline, almost a cliff. But on reaching its crest they came in sight of the man who had challenged, standing on a ledge of rock. A strange-looking figure he seemed to Kearney and the Texan, wearing a long loose robe, girded at the waist—the garb of a monk, if the dim light was not deceiving them; yet with the air of a soldier, and sentinel-fashion, carrying a gun!

He was at "present arms" when they got up opposite; and wondering, but without saying aught, they passed him—their conductor, after a momentary pause and a muttered word to him, leading on as before.

Another ascent, this time short, but still almost precipitous, and this climbing came to an end.



CHAPTER FORTY.

A FAITHFUL STEWARD.

The spot where they had now made stop—final for the night—was still far below the summit of the mountain. It was a sort of platform or bench, formed by the crest of a projecting spur, the cliff rising sheer at its back. Its level surface was only a few acres in extent, supporting a thick growth of tall evergreen pines, the long-leaved species indigenous to Mexico. Centrally there was a place clear of timber, which ran up to the cliff's base, or rather to a building contiguous to it. In front of this they halted, Rivas saying—

"Behold my humble abode, caballeros! Let me bid you welcome to it."

There was light enough to let them see a massive pile of mason work outlined against the cliff's facade, while too dim for them to distinguish its features. They could make out, however, what appeared to be a pair of windows with pointed arches, and between them a large doorway, seeming more like the mouth of a cavern. Out of this came a faint scintillation of light, and as they drew up to it, a candle could be seen burning inside a sort of covered porch, resembling the lych-gate of a country church. There were some stone benches outside, from one of which a man started up and advanced toward them, as he did so putting the formal question—

"Quien es?"

"Yo, Gregorio!" was the answer given by Rivas.

"El Capitan!" exclaimed the questioner, in a tone also telling of pleased surprise. "And free again! I'm so glad, Don Ruperto! Praise to the Lord for delivering you!"

"Thanks, good Gregorio! And while you're about it, you may as well give part of your praise to a lady, who had something to do with it—indeed, two of them."

"Ah! Senor Capitan, I think I know one of them anyhow, and in all Mexico I can say—ay, swear it—"

"True, true!" interrupted the Captain. "But stay your asseveration. There's no time to talk about the Senoritas now. My friends and I are in want of something to eat. We're as hungry as coyotes. What have you got in the larder?"

"Not much, I fear, your worship. And the cook's gone to bed, with everybody else. But they'll only be too delighted to get up when they hear it's your worship come back. Shall I go and rouse them, Senor?"

"No, no. Let them sleep it out. Any cold thing will do for us. We're as much fatigued as famished, and wish to be in bed ourselves as soon as possible. So look out whatever eatables there are, and don't forget the drinkables. I trust the cellar isn't as low as the larder?"

"No, Senor. Of that I can speak with more confidence. Not a cork has been drawn since you left us—I mean of the best wines. Only the common Canario was drunk in your absence."

"In that case, mayor-domo, we may sup satisfactorily, so far as the liquids are concerned, should the solids prove deficient. Bring a bottle of Burgundy, another of the Brown Madeira, and, let me see—yes, one of old Pedro Ximenes. I suppose the brethren have used up all my best cigars?"

"Not one of them, Senor. The Havannahs have been under lock and key, too. I gave out only puros."

"What a faithful steward you've proved yourself, Gregorio! Well, along with the wine, let us have a bundle of Imperadores. We haven't tasted tobacco for days, and are all dying for a smoke."

By this time they had entered the porch, and were passing on through a long corridor, still more dimly illuminated. But there was light issuing from a side-door, which stood open. By this Rivas made stop, with word and gesture signifying to the others to pass on inside, which they did. Not all of them, however; only Kearney and Rock. A different disposition he meant making of the dwarf than giving him Burgundy and Madeira to drink, with the smoking of "Emperor" cigars. Pointing to the crooked semblance of humanity, at which Gregorio was gazing with a puzzled air, he whispered to the latter—

"Take the beast back, and shut him up in one of the cells. You may give him something to eat, but see to his being securely kept. Insignificant as he looks, there's mischief in him, and he might take it into his head to stray. You comprehend, Gregorio?"

"I do, your worship. I'll take care to stow him safe."

Saying which, the mayor-domo of the establishment, for such Gregorio was, caught the hunchback by one of his ears—grand auricles they were— and led him away along the corridor, with the prison chain trailing behind.

Rivas did not stay till they were out of sight, but turning, stepped inside the room into which he had ushered the other two.

It was rather a large apartment, but plainly and sparsely furnished; a deal table and half a dozen common chairs, with leathern backs and bottoms, such as may be seen in most Mexican houses. It was better supplied with arms than household effects; several guns standing in corners, with swords hanging against the walls, and a variety of accoutrements—all giving it more the appearance of a guard-house than the reception-room of a gentleman's mansion.

"Now amigos" said the Mexican, after rejoining his guests, on whose faces he could not fail to note an odd inquiring expression, "I can at last say to you, feel safe, if I can't assure you of a supper good as I'd wish to give. Still, if I mistake not, 'twill be superior to our prison fare. Por Dios! Having to put up with that was punishment enough of itself, without being set to work in the sewers."

"Ah," remarked Kearney, speaking for himself and the Texan, "had you been one of us prisoners from Mier up to Mexico, the diet you complain of would have seemed luxury for Lucullus."

"Indeed! What did they give you to eat?"

"Brown beans only half boiled, tortillas, usually cold; and sometimes, for a whole stretch of twenty-four hours, nothing at all."

"Carramba!" exclaimed the Mexican. "That was hard usage. But nothing to surprise. Just as Santa Anna might be expected to treat his captive enemies, whether of his own people, or as yourselves, foreigners. More cruel tyrant never ruled country. But his reign, thank Heaven, will not be long. I've reason for saying that, and better still for thinking it."

The little interlude of dialogue was brought to a close by the entrance of the mayor-domo loaded with bottles and glasses. He had orders to bring the wine first, the cigars along with it.

Lumping all down upon the table, he left them to wait upon themselves, while he went off to ransack the pantry soon to return with a sufficiency of viands, and savoury enough to satisfy men who had just come out of the Acordada. There was cold mutton, ham, and venison, maize bread, and "guesas de Guatemala," with a variety of fruit to follow. Verily a supper at which even a gourmand might not cavil; though it was but the debris of a dinner, which seemed to have been partaken of by a goodly array of guests.

Not long lingered they over it, before whom it was set a second time. Overcome by the toil and struggle of days, and more the mental worry attendant, even the wine freely quaffed failed to excite them afresh. Rest and sleep they more needed and much desired; all glad when Gregorio again showed his face at the door, saying—

"Caballeros, your sleeping rooms are ready."



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

ANXIOUS HOURS.

"See, Luisita! Yonder go soldiers!"

"Where?"

"Along the calzada of Nino Perdido—under the trees—by the thick clump—they're galloping!"

"Santissima, yes! I see them now. O Ysabel! if they overtake the carriage! Ay Dios!"

"Ay Dios, indeed! It's to be hoped they won't, though. And I have less fear of it now than ever. It must have gone that way, or the soldiers wouldn't be there; and as it couldn't have stopped at the garita, it should now be a good distance on. Keep up your heart, amiga mia, as I do mine. They'll soon be safe, if they're not yet."

This exclamatory dialogue was carried on while the alarm bells were still ringing, and the guns booming. The speakers were on the azotea of Don Ignacio's house, up to which they had hastened soon as home—having dismissed their escort below, and left orders for no visitors to be admitted.

In the mirador, with opera-glasses to their eyes, they had been scanning the roads which led south and south-west from the city. Only for a few minutes, as they had but just got back, and as the carriage having already rounded the turning to Coyoacan, they saw but the pursuing soldiers. Those were the Hussars, with Santander at their head, though the ladies knew not that.

Fortified by the hopeful speech of the Condesa, the other responded to it with an added word of hope, and a prayer for the safe escape of those they were concerned about.

Then for a while both remained silent, with the lorgnettes to their eyes, following the movements of the soldiers along the road. Soon these were out of sight, but their whereabouts could be told by the cloud of white dust which rose over the trees, gradually drifting farther and farther off.

At length it too disappeared, settling down; and as the bells ceased to ring, and the cannon to be fired, the city, with all around it, seemed restored to its wonted tranquillity.

But not so the breasts of Luisa Valverde and Ysabel Almonte. Far from tranquil they; instead, filled with anxiety, keen as ever. And now, as much on their own account as for those they had been aiding to escape. In their haste to effect this, they had taken no thought of what was to come after. But it was now forced upon them. As they looked back on what they had themselves done—the part they had been playing, with all its details of action—apprehensions hitherto unfelt began to steal over them, growing stronger the longer they dwelt upon them.

But what would be the upshot of all?

What if the carriage got overtaken with the fugitives in it, and beside them those knives and pistols, to say nothing of the file? A gentleman's cloak too, with mango and serape! Odd assortment of articles for ladies to take out on an airing! They had no fear of the cochero betraying them; but this paraphernalia surely would, if it fell into the hands of the pursuers. They might expect investigation, anyhow; but these things, if produced, would bring about an exposure unavoidable.

No wonder at their soon becoming seriously alarmed, henceforth nervously agitated. And they had no one to take council with. Soon after their coming home, Don Ignacio, seeing and hearing of what happened, had sallied forth to make inquiries, and direct pursuit. Furious about his fine carriage and horses carried off, he little dreamt that along with them were his duelling pistols and blue broadcloth cloak.

Nor would it do to tell him of those matters, unless they made up their minds to confess all, and fling themselves on his affection more than his mercy. Of course he was still in the dark about their doings— unsuspicious man—had not even been told who the forzados were that had taken away his equipage.

Closeted alone, for some time the alarmed ladies could not think of what they ought to do. They did not yield to despair, however; instead, kept on scheming and considering how they might meet the worst—if the worst came.

But one way seemed plausible—even possible—that depending on Don Ignacio. If they could prevail on him to tell a falsehood, all might be well. Only to say the carriage had been made ready for a journey to his casa de campo, whither he had intended to proceed that same evening, taking his daughter and the Condesa along with him. That would explain the presence of the weapons; no uncommon thing—rather the rule—for carriage travellers to take such with them, even going but outside the suburbs of the city. For good reason, there being footpads and robbers everywhere. And the cloaks for protection against the night air!

In this way they groped about, as drowning people clutch at sticks and straws, still without being able to get rid of their apprehensions. Even should Don Ignacio agree to the deception they thought of—he would, no doubt, when made aware of their danger—it was questionable whether it would serve them. For there was a file too—a small matter, but a most conspicuous link in the chain of circumstantial evidence against them. They in the carriage would have been using it, before being taken—if they should be taken. Finally, the worst of all, the relations known to exist between themselves and two of the men attempting escape.

A miserable time it was for them during the remainder of that afternoon and evening; a struggle amid doubts, fears, and conjectures. Nor did Don Ignacio's return home in any way relieve them. They were not yet prepared to surrender up their secret even to him. The time had not come for that. As the hours passed, things began to look better, and the suspense easier to bear. No report from the pursuers, which there would or should have been, were the pursued taken.

Something better still, at length. Jose back home with the carriage and horses, and nothing besides—no weapons nor spare wraps! All gone off, the tell-tale file along with them.

Pepita brought this intelligence in to the ladies, who longed to have a private interview with the cochero. But he had first to deliver his to Don Ignacio, who had sallied out into the stables to receive it.

A strange tale it was, imparted to an angry listener, who, while listening, looked upon his costly harness, patched and mended with ropes, where it had been cut. His fine frisones too, abused, possibly injured for good, the ear of one of them well-nigh severed from the head! Slow to wrath though he was, this was enough to make him wrathful, without the further knowledge of his other losses, about which Jose took care not to enlighten him.

At a later hour the circumspect cochero told his tale to other ears in terms somewhat different, and with incidents. His master, summoned to the Palace, gave the opportunity so much desired by his young mistress and the Condesa for speaking with him; and he was soon in their presence, getting interrogated with a volubility which made sober reply almost impossible.

His questioners, however, after a time calming down, listened to his narration in a detailed form, though not without repeated interruptions. He told them about the slow driving of the carriage along the garden wall of San Francisco, the putting on the disguises, and how cleverly they had outwitted the guard at the garita.

"Like Ruperto!" at this juncture exclaimed the Countess.

Then, of their onward course along the calzada, horses in a gallop, till stopped on the Coyoacan road, with the action taken there—quick as it was varied and strange.

Donna Luisa, in her turn, here interrupted in triumphant exclamation—

"Like Florencio!"

In fine, when made known to them how the fugitives had mounted and ridden off, both cried out together, in terms almost the same—

"Thanks to the Virgin, blessed Mother of God! We now know they are safe."

Their confidence was strengthened by further questioning, for the trusted cochero was able to tell them more. How his horses had been caught, and brought back to him by two Hussars, one of whom he chanced to have a speaking acquaintance with. From the soldier he had learnt all about the pursuit, after it had passed beyond him; how they had searched the chapparal, but fruitlessly; the latest reports being that the escapados had got into the Pedregal.

That was enough for the Countess, who, springing to her feet and clapping her hands, cried out—

"Joy, Luisita! They're safe, I'm sure. Ruperto knows the Pedregal, every path through it, as well as we the walks of the Alameda. I shall sleep this night better than the last, and you may do the same."

So assured, Luisa Valverde, devout as was her wont, responded with a phrase of thanksgiving, arms crossed over her bosom, eyes turned to the picture of Santa Guadalupe on the wall.

Jose stood waiting, not for any reward. Recompense for the service he had done them—so modestly declaring it—was not in his thoughts at that moment, though it might be after. But the Condesa was thinking of it then. Sure to promise and contract, she said to him—

"Faithful fellow—courageous as faithful—take this; you've fairly earned it."

Whilst speaking, she drew the jewelled watch from her waist, and, passing the chain over her head, held it out to him.

"And this too!" added the Donna Luisa, plucking a diamond ring from one of her fingers, and presenting it at the same time.

"No!" protested the faithful servitor. "Neither the one nor the other. Enough reward to me to know I've done your ladyship a service—if I have."

"But, good Jose," urged the Countess, "you must either take my watch or the worth of it in gold doblones! That was the understanding, and I shall insist on your adhering to it."

"Muy bein, Condesa; I consent to that. But only on the condition that the gentlemen get safe off. Till we're sure of that, I beg your ladyship won't look upon me as a creditor."

"If her ladyship should," here put in a third personage of the sex feminine, who had just entered upon the scene, "if she should, I'll pay the debt myself. I pay it now—there!"

It was Pepita who thus delivered herself, as she did so bounding forward, flinging her arms around his neck, and giving him a sonorous kiss upon the cheek! Then, as she released her lips after the smack, adding—

"I've given you that, hombre, for what? Why nothing more than doing your duty. Ha, ha, ha!"

The laughter neither disconcerted nor vexed him. It was not scornful, while the kiss had been very sweet. Long-coveted, but hitherto withheld, he looked upon it as an earnest of many others to follow, with a reward he would more value than all the watches and rings in Mexico— the possession of Pepita herself.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

A HOLY BROTHERHOOD.

"Where the deuce am I?"

It was Florence Kearney who asked this question, interrogating himself; time, the morning after their retreat up the mountain. He was lying on a low pallet, or rather bench of mason work, with a palm mat spread over it, his only coverlet the cloak he had brought with him from Don Ignacio's carriage. The room was of smallest dimensions, some eight or nine feet square, pierced by a single window, a mere pigeon-hole without sash or glass.

He was yet only half awake, and, as his words show, with but a confused sense of his whereabouts. His brain was in a whirl from the excitement through which he had been passing, so long sustained. Everything around seemed weird and dream-like.

Rubbing his eyes to make sure it was a reality, and raising his head from the hard pillow, he took stock of what the room contained. An easy task that. Only a ricketty chair, on which lay a pair of duelling pistols—one of the pairs found under the carriage cushions—and his hat hanging on its elbow. Not a thing more except a bottle, greasy around the neck, from a tallow candle that had guttered and burnt out, standing on the uncarpeted stone floor beside his own boots, just as he had drawn them off.

Why he had not noticed these surroundings on the night before was due to extreme fatigue and want of sleep. Possibly, the Burgundy, mixed with the Madeira and Old Pedro Ximenes, had something to do with it. In any case he had dropped down upon the mat of palm, and became oblivious, almost on the moment of his entering this strange sleeping chamber, to which the mayor-domo had conducted him.

"Queer crib it is," he continued to soliloquise, after making survey of the room and its containings, "for a bedroom. I don't remember ever having slept in so small a one, except aboard ship, or in a prison-cell. How like the last it looks!"

It did somewhat, though not altogether. There were points of difference, as a niche in the wall, with a plaster cast on a plinth, apparently the image of some saint, with carvings in the woodwork, crosses, and other emblems of piety.

"It must be an old convent or monastery," he thought, after noticing these. "Here in Mexico they often have them in odd, out-of-the-way places, I've heard. Out of the way this place surely is, considering the climb we've had to reach it. Monks in it, too?" he added, recalling the two men he had seen on the preceding night, and how they where habited. "A strange sort they seem, with a captain at their head—my prison companion! Well, if it give us sanctuary, as he appears to think it will, I shall be but too glad to join the holy brotherhood."

He lay a little longer, his eyes running around the room, to note that the rough lime-wash on its walls had not been renewed for years; green moss had grown upon them, and there were seams at the corners, stains showing were rainwater had run down. If a monastery, it was evidently not one in the enjoyment of present prosperity, whatever it might have been in the past.

While still dreamily conjecturing about it, the door of his room was gently pushed ajar, and so held by whoever had opened it. Turning his head round, Kearney saw a man in long loose robes, with sandalled feet and shaven crown, girdle of beads, crucifix, cowl, and scapular—in short, the garb of the monk with all its insignia.

"I have come to inquire how you have slept, my son," said the holy man, on seeing that he was awake. "I hope that the pure atmosphere of this, our mountain home—so different from that you've been so lately breathing—will have proved conducive to your slumbers."

"Indeed, yes," rejoined he inquired after, conscious of having slept well. "I've had a good night's rest—the best allowed me for a long time. But where—"

While speaking, he had dropped his feet to the floor, and raised himself erect on the side of the bed, thus bringing him face to face with the friar. What caused him to leave the interrogatory unfinished was a recognition. The countenance he saw was a familiar one, as might be expected after having been so close to his own—within a few feet of it—for days past. No disguise of dress, nor changed tonsure, could hinder identification of the man who had partaken of his chain in the Acordada; for he it was.

"Oh! 'tis you, Don Ruperto!" exclaimed Kearney, suddenly changing tone.

"The same, my son," rejoined the other, with an air of mock gravity.

At which the young Irishman broke out into a loud guffaw, saying:—

"Well, you're the last man I should ever have supposed to be a monk!"

He recalled some strong denunciations of the Holy Brethren he had heard pass the lips of his late fellow-prisoner.

"Ah! Senor Don Florencio, in this our world of Mexico we are called upon to play many parts, and make out home in many places. Yesterday, you knew me as a prisoner, like yourself in a loathsome gaol; to-day, you see me in a monastery. And no common monk, but an Abbot, for know, amijo mio, that I am the head of this establishment. But come! As your host I am not now playing the part I should. You must be half famished; besides, your toilet needs attending to. For the first, breakfast will be ready by the time you have looked to the last. Here, Gregorio!" this was a call to the mayor-domo outside, who instantly after appeared at the door. "Conduct this gentleman to the lavatory, and assist him in making his ablutions." Then again to Kearney: "If I mistake not, you will find a clean shirt there, with some other changes of raiment. And may I ask you to be expeditious? It has got to be rather a late hour for breakfast, and the Holy Brethren will be getting a little impatient for it. But, no doubt, your appetite will prompt you. Hasta Luega!"

With which salutation—the Mexican custom at parting for only a short while—he passed out of the room, leaving his guest to be looked after by Gregorio.

Surrendering himself to the mayor-domo, Kearney was conducted to an outer room, in which he found a washstand and dressing-table, with towel and other toilet articles—all, however, of the commonest kind. Even so, they were luxuries that had been long denied him—especially the water, a constant stream of which ran into a stone basin from some pure mountain spring.

And, sure enough, the clean shirt was there, with a full suit of clothes; velveteen jacket, calzoneras calzoncillas, scarf of China crape—in short, the complete costume of a ranchero. A man of medium size, they fitted him nicely; and arrayed in them he made a very handsome appearance.

"Now, your honour," said the individual in charge of him, "allow me to show you the Refectory."

Another turn along the main passage brought them to the door, from which issued a buzz of voices. His host had prepared him to expect company, and on stepping inside this door he saw it in the shape of some twenty-five or thirty men, all in the garb of monks of the same order as Rivas himself.

The room was a large one, saloon shape, with a table standing centrally, around which were benches and chairs. A cloth was spread upon it, with a multifarious and somewhat heterogeneous array of ware—bottles and glasses being conspicuous; for it was after eleven o'clock, and the meal almuerzo, as much dinner as breakfast. The viands were being put upon it; three or four Indian youths, not in convent dress, passing them through a hatch that communicated with the kitchen, and from which also came a most appetising odour.

All this the young Irishman took in with a sweep of his eye, which instantly after became fixed upon the friars who had faced towards him. They were standing in two or three groups, the largest gathered round an individual who towered above all of them by the head and shoulders. Cris Rock it was, clean shaven, and looking quite respectable; indeed, better dressed than Kearney had seen him since he left off his New Orleans "store" clothes. The Colossus was evidently an object of great interest to his new acquaintances; and, from the farcical look upon their faces, it was clear they had been doing their best to "draw" him. With what success Kearney could not tell; though, from the knowledge he had of his old comrade's cleverness, he suspected not much. There was just time for him to note the jovial air of the Brethren, so little in keeping with the supposed gravity of the monastic character, when the Abbot entering led him up to them, and gave him a general introduction.

"Hermanos!" he said, "let me present another of my comrades in misfortune, the Senor Don Florencio Kearney—an Irlandes—who claims the hospitality of the convent."

They all made bow, some pressing forward, and extending hands.

But there was no time for dallying over salutations. By this several dishes had been passed through the hatch, and were steaming upon the table. So the Abbot took seat at its head, Kearney beside him; while the Texan was bestowed at its foot, alongside one who seemed to act as vice-chairman.

If the table-cloth was not one of the finest damask, nor the ware costliest china and cut glass, the repast was worthy of such. In all the world there is no cuisine superior to that of Mexico. By reason of certain aboriginal viands, which figured on the table of that Aztec sybarite, Montezuma, it beats the cuisine of old Spain, on which that of France is founded, and but an insipid imitation.

The monks of this mountain retreat evidently knew how to live, course after course being passed through the hatch in a variety which seemed as if it would never end. There were pucheros, guisados, tomales, and half a score of other dishes Kearney had never before heard of, much less tasted. No wonder at their dinner of the preceding day having left such debris for supper.

And the wines were in correspondence—in quality, profusion, everything. To Kearney it recalled "Bolton Abbey in the olden time." Nor ever could the monks of that ancient establishment on the Wharfe have drunk better wines, or laughed louder while quaffing them, than they whose hospitality he was receiving on the side of the Cerro Ajusco.

Some strange speech, however, he heard passing around him, little in consonance with what might be supposed to proceed from the lips of religious men. But, possibly, just such as came from those of the Tintern and Bolton Brethren when around the refectory table. Not all of it, though. If the talk was worldly, it savoured little of wickedness— far less than that of the cowled fraternity of olden times, if chronicles are to be trusted. And never in convent hall could have been heard such toast as that with which the breakfast was brought to a close, when Rivas, rising to his feet, goblet in hand, the others standing up along with him, cried out—

"Patria y Libertad!"

Country and Liberty! Strange sentiment in such a place, and to be received with acclaim by such people!



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

WHAT ARE THEY?

The repast finished, the Holy Brethren, rising from the table together, forsook the Refectory. Some disappeared into cloisters on the sides of the great hallway, others strolled out in front, and seating themselves on benches that were about, commenced rolling and smoking cigarittos.

The Abbot, excusing himself to his stranger guests, on plea of pressing business, was invisible for a time. So they were permitted to betake themselves apart. Good manners secured them this. The others naturally supposed they might want a word in private, so no one offered to intrude upon them.

Just what they did want, and had been anxiously longing for. They had mutually to communicate; questions to be asked, and counsel taken together. Each was burning to know what the other thought of the company they had fallen into; the character of which was alike perplexing to both.

After getting hold of their hats they sauntered out by the great door, through which they had entered on the night before. The sun was now at meridian height, and his beams fell down upon the patch of open ground in front of the monastery, for a monastery they supposed it must be. A glance backward as they walked out from its walls showed its architecture purely of the conventual style; windows with pointed arches, the larger ones heavy mullioned, and a campanile upon the roof. This, however, without bells, and partially broken down, as was much of the outer mason work everywhere. Here and there were walls crumbling to decay, others half-hidden under masses of creeping plants and cryptogams; in short, the whole structure seemed more or less dilapidated.

Soon they entered under the shadow of the trees; long-leaved evergreen pines loaded with parasites and epiphytes, among these several species of orchids—rare phenomenon in the vegetable world, that would have delighted the eye of a botanist. As they wished to get beyond earshot of those left lounging by the porch, they continued on along a walk which had once been gravelled, but was now overgrown with weeds and grass. It formed a cool arcade, the thick foliage meeting overhead, and screening it from the rays of the sun. Following it for about a hundred yards or so, they again had the clear sky before them, and saw they were on the brow of a steep slope—almost a precipice—which, after trending a short distance right and left, took a turn back toward the mass of the mountain. It was the boundary of the platform on which the building stood, with a still higher cliff behind.

The point they had arrived at was a prominent one, affording view of the whole valley of Mexico, that lay spread out like a picture at their feet. And such a picture! Nothing in all the panoramic world to excel—if equal it.

But as scenery was not in their thoughts, they gave it but a glance, sitting down with faces turned towards one another. For there were seats here also—several rustic chairs under shady trees—it being evidently a favourite loitering place of the friars.

"Well, Cris, old comrade," said Kearney, first to speak, "we've gone through a good deal this day or two in the way of change. What do you think of these new acquaintances of ours?"

"Thar, Cap, ye put a puzzler."

"Are they monks?"

"Wal, them is a sort o' anymals I hain't had much dealin's wi'; niver seed any till we kim inter Mexiko, 'ceptin' one or two as still hangs round San Antone in Texas. But this chile knows little u' thar ways, only from what he's heerin'; an' judgin' be that he'd say thar ain't nerry monk among 'em."

"What then? Robbers?"

"Thar, agin, Cap, I'm clean confuscated. From what we war told o' Mr Reevus in the gaol, they oughter be that. They sayed he war a captain o' saltadores, which means highwaymen. An' yet it do 'pear kewrous should be sich."

"From what I know of him," rejoined Kearney, "what I learned yesterday, it would be curious indeed—remarkably so. I've reason to believe him a gentleman born, and that his title of captain comes from his having been an officer in the army."

"That mou't be, an' still wouldn't contrary his havin' turned to t'other. Down by the Rio Grande, thar are scores o' Mexikin officers who've did the same, from lootenants up to kurnels—ay, ginrals. Thar's Canales, who commanded the whole cavalry brigade—the 'Chaperal fox' as we Texans call him—an' thar ain't a wuss thief or cut-throat from Mantamoras up to the mountains. An' what air ole Santy hisself but a robber o' the meanest an' most dastardly sort? So, 'tain't any sign o' honesty their bearing military titles. When they've a war on in thar revolushionary way, they turn sogers, atween times takin' to the road."

"Well, Cris, supposing these to be on the road now, what ought we to do, think you?"

"Neery use thinkin', Cap, since thar's no choice left us. 'Tain't die dog, or eet the hatchet; and this chile goes for chawin' the steel. Whativer they be, we're bound to stick to 'em, an' oughter be glad o' the chance, seein' we haint the shadder o' another. If tuk agin' we'd be strung up or shot sure. Highwaymen or lowwaymen, they're the only ones about these diggin's that kin gie us purtekshun, an' I reck'n we may rely on them for that—so far's they're able."

For a time Kearney was silent, though not thinking over what the Texan had said, much of which had passed through his mind before. The train of his reflections was carried further back, to the point where he was first brought into contact with Rivas, by their legs getting linked together. Then forward throughout the hours and incidents that came after, recalling everything that had occurred, in act as in conversation—mentally reviewing all, in an endeavour to solve the problem that was puzzling them.

Seeing him so occupied, and with a suspicion of how his thoughts were working, the Texan forebore further speech, and awaited the result.

"If we've fallen among banditti," Kearney at length said, "it will be awkward to get away from them. They'll want us to take a hand at their trade, and that wouldn't be nice."

"Sartinly not, Cap; anything but agreeable to eyther o' us. It goes agin the grit o' a honest man to think o' belongin' to a band o' robbers. But forced to jine 'em, that 'ud be different. Besides, the thing ain't the same in Mexico as 'twud be in Texas and the States. Hyar 'tisn't looked on as beein' so much o' a disgrace, s'long's they don't practice cruelty. An' I've heern Mexikins say 'tain't wuss, nor yet so bad, as the way some our own poltishuns an' lawyers plunder the people. I guess it be 'bout the same, when one gits used to it."

To this quaint rigmarole of reasoning—not without reason in it, however,—Kearney only replied with a smile, allowing the Texan to continue; which he did, saying—

"After all, I don't think they're robbers any more than monks; if they be, they're wonderfully well-behaved. A perliter set o' fellers or better kump'ny this chile niver war in durin' the hull coorse of his experience in Texas, or otherwhars. They ain't like to lead us into anythin' very bad, in the way o' cruelty or killin'. So I say, let's freeze to 'em, till we find they ain't worthy of being froze to; then we must gie 'em the slip somehow."

"Ah! if we can," said his fellow-filibuster doubtingly. "But that is the thing for the far hereafter. The question is, what are we to do now?"

"No guess'n at all, Cap, as thar's no choosin' atween. We're boun' to be robbers for a time, or whatsomever else these new 'quaintances o' ours be themselves. Thet's sure as shootin'."

"True," returned the other musingly. "There seems no help for it. It's our fate, old comrade, though one, I trust, we shall be able to control without turning highwaymen. I don't think they are that. I can't believe it."

"Nor me neyther. One thing, howsomever, thet I hev obsarved air a leetle queery, an' sort o' in thar favour."

"What thing?"

"Thar not hevin' any weemen among 'em. I war in the kitchen this mornin' 'fore ye war up, and kedn't see sign o' a petticoat about, the cookin' bein' all done by men sarvents. Thet, I've heern say, air the way wi' monks; but not wi' the other sort. What do you make o't, Cap?"

"I hardly know, Cris. Possibly the Mexican brigands, unlike those of Italy, don't care to encumber themselves with a following of the fair sex."

"On t'other hand," pursued the Texan, "it seems to contrary their bein' o' the religious sort, puttin' out sentries as they do. Thar wor that one we passed last night, and this mornin' I seed two go out wi' guns, one takin' each side, and soon arter two others comin' in as if they'd been jest relieved from thar posts. Thar's a path as leads down from both sides o' the building."

"All very strange, indeed," said Kearney. "But no doubt we shall soon get explanation of it. By the way," he added, changing tone with the subject, "where is the dwarf? What have they done with him?"

"That I can't tell eyther, Cap. I haven't seen stime o' the critter since he war tuk away from us by that head man o' the sarvents, and I don't wish ever to set eyes on the skunk again. Cris Rock niver was so tired o' a connexshun as wi' thet same. Wagh!"

"I suppose they've got him shut up somewhere, and intend so keeping him—no doubt for good reasons. Ah! now we're likely to hear something about the disposal of ourselves. Yonder comes the man who can tell us!"

This, as the soi-disant Abbot was seen approaching along the path.



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

THE ABBOT.

"Amigo," said their host, as he rejoined them, speaking to Kearney, who could alone understand him, "permit me to offer you a cigar—your comrade also—with my apologies for having forgotten that you smoked. Here are both Havannahs and Manillas, several brands of each. So choose for yourself."

The mayor-domo, who attended him, carrying a huge mahogany case, had already placed it upon one of the rustic benches, and laid open the lid.

"Thanks, holy father," responded Kearney, with a peculiar smile. "If you have no objection, I'll stick to the Imperadoes. After smoking one of them a man need have no difficulty as to choice."

At which he took an "Emperor" out of the case.

"I'm glad you like them," observed the generous donor, helping him to a light. "They ought to be of good quality, considering what they cost, and where they come from. But, Don Florencio, don't let the question of expense hinder you smoking as many as you please. My outlay on them was nil—they were a contribution to the monastery, though not exactly a charitable one."

He said this with a sort of inward laugh, as though some strange history attached to the Imperadoes.

"A forced contribution, then," thought the Irishman, the remark having made a strange, and by no means pleasant impression upon him.

The Texan had not yet touched the cigars, and when with a gesture the invitation was extended to him, he hung back, muttering to Kearney—

"Tell him, Cap, I'd purfar a pipe ef he ked accomerdate me wi' thet 'ere article."

"What says the Senor Cristoforo?" asked the Abbot.

"He'd prefer smoking a pipe, if you don't object, and there be such a thing convenient."

"Oh! un pipa. I shall see. Gregorio!"

He called after the mayor-domo, who was returning toward the house.

"Never mind, reverend Father," protested Kearney; "content yourself with a cigar, Cris, and don't give trouble."

"I'm sorry I spoke o' it," said the Texan. "I oughter be only too gled to git a seegar, an' it may be he wudn't mind my chawin', stead o' smokin' it! My stammuck feels starved for a bit o' bacca. What wouldn't I gie jest now for a plug o' Jeemes's River!"

"There, take one of the cigars and eat it if you like; I'm sure he'll have no objection."

Availing himself of the leave thus vicariously accorded the Texan picked out one of the largest in the collection, and, biting off about a third, commenced crunching it between his teeth, as though it was a piece of sugar-stick. This to the no small amusement of the Mexican, who, however, delicately refrained from making remark.

Nor was Cris hindered from having a smoke as well as a "chew,"—the mayor-domo soon after appearing with a pipe, a somewhat eccentric affair he had fished out from the back regions of the establishment.

Meanwhile their host had himself lit one of the "Emperors," and was smoking away like a chimney. A somewhat comical sight at any time, or in any place, is a monk with a cigar in his mouth. But that the Abbot of the Cerro Ajusco was no anchorite they were already aware, and saw nothing in it to surprise them.

Seating himself beside Kearney, with face turned towards the valley, he put the question—

"What do you think of that landscape, Don Florencio?"

"Magnificent! I can't recall having looked upon lovelier, or one with greater variety of scenic detail. It has all the elements of the sublime and beautiful."

The young Irishman was back in his college classics with his countryman Burke.

"Make use of this," said the Abbot, offering a small telescope which he drew out. "'Twill give you a better view of things."

Taking the glass and adjusting it to his sight, Kearney commenced making survey of the valley, now bringing one portion of it within the field of telescopic vision, then another.

"Can you see the Pedregal?" asked the Abbot. "It's close in to the mountain's foot. You'll recognise it by its sombre grey colour."

"Certainly I see it," answered the other, after depressing the telescope. "And the thicket we came through on its further side—quite distinctly."

"Look to the right of that, then you'll observe a large house, standing in the middle of the maguey fields. Have you caught it?"

"Yes; why do you ask?"

"Because that house has an interest for me—a very special one. Whom do you suppose it belongs to; or I should rather say did, and ought to belong to?"

"How should I know, holy father?" asked Kearney, thinking it somewhat strange his being so interrogated. "True," responded the Abbot; "how could you, my son? But I'll tell you. That magueyal is mine by right, though by wrong 'tis now the property of our late host, the Governor of the Acordada. His reward at the last confiscation for basely betraying his country and our cause."

"What cause?" inquired the young Irishman, laying aside the glass, and showing more interest in what he heard than that he had been looking at. Country and cause! These were not the words likely to be on the lips of either monk or highwayman.

And that the man who had spoken to him was neither one nor other he had fuller proof in what was now further said.

"A cause, Senor Irlandes, for which I, Ruperto Rivas, am ready to lay down life, if the sacrifice be called for, and so most—I may say all— of those you've just met at almuerzo. You heard it proclaimed in the toast, 'Patria y Libertad!'"

"Yes. And a grand noble sentiment it is. One I was gratified to hear."

"And surprised as well. Is not that so, amigo?"

"Well, to be frank with you, holy father, I confess to something of the sort."

"Not strange you should, my son. No doubt you're greatly perplexed at what you've seen and heard since you came up here, with much before. But the time has come to relieve you; so light another cigar and listen."



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

THE FREE LANCES.

"Try a Manilla this time," said the Mexican, as Kearney was reaching out to take a cigar from the case. "Most people believe that the best can only come from Cuba. A mistake, that. There are some made in the Philippine Islands equal—in my opinion, superior—to any Havannahs. I speak of a very choice article, which don't ever get into the hands of the dealers, and's only known to the initiated. Some of our ricos import them by way of Acapulco. Those are a fair sample."

The young Irishman made trial of the weed thus warmly recommended; to discover what contradicted all his preconceived ideas in the smoking line. He had always heard it said that the choicest cigars are Havannahs; but, after a few whiffs from that Manilla, which had never seen a cigar shop, he was willing to give up the "Imperadores." His host, lighting one of the same, thus proceeded: "Pues, caballero; to give you the promised explanation. That the monks of my community are of an order neither very devout nor austere, you've already observed, no doubt, and may have a suspicion they're not monks at all. Soldiers, every man; most having seen service, and many who have done gallant deeds. When I speak of them as soldiers, you will understand it in its true sense, Senor. With one or two exceptions, all have held commissions in our army, and with a like limitation, I may say all are gentlemen. The last revolution, which has again cursed our country by restoring its chronic tyrant, Santa Anna, of course threw them out; the majority, as myself, being proscribed, with a price set upon their heads."

"Then you're not robbers?"

This was said without thought, the words involuntarily escaping Kearney's lips. But the counterfeit abbot, so far from feeling offence at them, broke out into a laugh, good-humouredly rejoining—

"Robbers, amigo mio! who told you we were that?"

The Irishman felt abashed, seeing he had committed himself.

"Don Ruperto," he exclaimed, hastening to make the best of his blunder, "I owe you every apology. It arose from some talk I heard passing around in the prison. Be assured, I neither did nor could believe it."

"Thank you, Senor!" returned the Mexican. "Your apologies are appreciated. And," he added, putting on a peculiar smile, "in a way superfluous. I believe we do enjoy that repute among our enemies; and, to confess the truth, not without some reason."

Kearney pricked up his ears, perplexity, with just a shade of trouble, again appearing upon his face. He said nothing, however, allowing the other to proceed.

"Carramba, yes!" continued the proscript. "'Tis quite true we do a little in the plundering line—now and then. We need doing it, Don Florencio. But for that, I mightn't have been able to set so good a breakfast before you; nor wines of such quality, nor yet these delectable cigars. If you look to the right down there, you'll see the pueblo of San Augustin, and just outside its suburbs, a large yellow house. From that came our last supply of drinkable and smokeable materials, including those here, mahogany and everything. A forced contribution, as I've hinted at. But, Senor, I should be sorry to have you think we levy blackmail indiscriminately. He from whom they were taken is one of our bitterest enemies; equally an enemy of our country. 'Twas all in the way of reprisal; fair, as you'll admit, when you come to comprehend the circumstances."

"I comprehend them now," returned the listener, relieved, "quite; and I trust you'll accept my apology."

"Sans arriere pensee," responded the Mexican, who could speak French, if not English, "I do frankly, freely. No reproach to you for supposing us robbers. I believe many others do, among whom we make appearance. Southward, however, in the State of Oaxaca, we are better known as 'the Free Lances'; a title not so appropriate, either, since our weapons are only at the disposal of the Republic—our lives as well."

"But," questioned Kearney, "may I ask why you are habited as I now see you?"

"For a good reason, amigo. It adds to our security, giving all sorts of opportunities. Throughout Mexico, the cowl of the monk is the best passport a man could be provided with. Wearing it, we go about among the mountain villages without suspicion, the people believing that this old monastery, so long abandoned as to have been forgotten, has again become the dwelling-place of a religious order. Of course we don't allow any of the rustics to approach it. Luckily, they are not curious enough to care for that, against the toil of climbing up here. If they attempt it, we have sentinels to stay them. For ourselves, we have learned to play the part of the holy friar, so that there would be difficulty in detecting the counterfeit. As it chances, we have with us one or two who once wore the cowl. These perverts have taught us all the tricks and passwords current among the fraternity. Hitherto they have availed us, and I trust will, till the time arrives for our casting off our cassock, and putting on the soldier's coat. That day is not distant, Don Florencio; nearer than I expected, from what my comrades have told me since we came up. The State of Oaxaca is disaffected; as, indeed, the whole southern side of Acapulco, and a grito is anticipated ere long—possibly within a month. Alvarez, who controls in that quarter, will be the man to raise it; and the old Pinto chief will expect to be joined by the 'Free Lances.' Nor will he be disappointed. We are all burning to be at it. So, caballero, you see how it is with us. And now," he added, changing tone and looking his listener earnestly in the face, "I have a question to put to yourself."

"What?" asked the Irishman, seeing that he hesitated putting it.

"Will you be one of us?"

It was now Kearney's turn to hesitate about the answer he ought to make. A proposition fraught with such consequences required consideration. To what would he be committing himself if he consented? And what if he should refuse? Besides, under the circumstances, was he free to refuse? That of itself was a question, a delicate one. He and his comrade, Cris Rock, owed their escape to this strange man, whatever he might be; and to separate from him now, even under full permission, would savour of ingratitude. Still more, after listening to what was further said. For, noting his embarrassment, and deeming it natural enough, the Mexican hastened to relieve him.

"If my proposal be not to your liking, Senor Irlandes, say so; and without fear of offence. All the same, you may rest assured of our protection while you remain with us; and I shall do what I can to get you safe out of the country. At all events, I won't send you back to the Acordada gaol, and the tender care of its governor. So you can speak frankly, without reserve. Are you willing to be one of us?"

"I am!" was the answer, given without further hesitation.

Why should he have either hesitated or said nay? In the heart of a hostile country, an escaped prisoner, his life, as he felt sure, forfeited should he be retaken. Joining Rivas and his Free Lances might be his sole chance of saving it. Even had they been banditti, he could not have done better then.

"Yes, Don Ruperto," he added; "if you deem me worthy of belonging to your brotherhood, be it so. I accept your invitation."

"And your comrade, Don Cristoforo. Will he be of the same mind, think you?"

"Sure to be. I take it I can answer for him. But you shall hear for yourself. Rock!"

He called to the Texan, who, not understanding their dialogue, had sauntered apart, chewing away at the Imperador.

"Wal, Cap; what's up now?" he asked on rejoining them.

"They're no robbers, Cris," said Kearney, speaking freely in their own tongue.

"Gled to hear it. I didn't think they war—noways. Nor monks neyther, I guess?"

"Nor monks."

"What then, Cap?"

"The same as yourself. Patriots who have been fighting for their country, and got defeated. That's why they are here—in hiding."

"Yes, Cap; I see it all, clar as coon's track on a mud bar. Enemies o' ole Santy, who've got beat it thar last risin'."

"Just so. But they expect another rising soon, and wish us to join them. I've agreed, and said so. What say you?"

"Lordy, Cap; what a questun to be axed, an' by yurself! Sure this chile air boun' to stick to ye, whatsomever ye do. Ef they'd been brigants, I shed 'a put my conscience in my pocket, and goe'd in wi' 'em all the same; s'long you're agreed. Nor I wudn't 'a minded turning monk for a spell. But men who intend foughtin' for freedom? Haleluyah! Cris Rock air all thar! Ye may tell him so."

"He consents," said Kearney, reporting to the Mexican; "and willingly as myself. Indeed, Don Ruperto, we ought both to regard it as a grace—an honour—to be so associated, and we shall do the best we can to show ourselves worthy of it."

"Mil gracias, Senor! The grace and honour are all given to us. Two such valientes, as I know you to be, will be no slight acquisition to our strength. And now, may I ask you to assume the garb which, as you see, is our present uniform? That by way of precaution for the time. You'll find suitable raiment inside. I've given Gregorio orders to get it ready. So you see, Camarades, I've been counting upon you."

"Gehosofat!" exclaimed the Texan, when told of the dress he was expected to put on. "What wi' New Orleens store close, an' prison duds, an' the like, this chile hev had a goodish wheen o' changes since he stripped off his ole huntin' shirt. An' now a-goin' in for a monk! Wal; tho' I mayn't be the most sanctified, I reck'n I'll be the tallest in thar mon'stery."



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

SAINT AUGUSTINE OF THE CAVES.

One of the pleasantest villages in the valley of Mexico is San Augustin de las Cuevas—Tlalpam by Aztec designation—both names due to some remarkable caverns in the immediate neighbourhood. It is some ten or twelve miles from the capital, on the southern or Acapulco road, just where this, forsaking the valley level, begins to ascend the Sierra, passing over which by Cruz del Marques, it continues on through the tierras calentes of Cuernavaca and Guerrero to the famed port of the Pacific.