The news was anything but agreeable to the Catalonian Lieutenant. In the alcavala—which he had for the past two years been accustomed to levy on all the traffic between Puebla and Oajaca—he had found excellent pay for his soldiers; and being a man not over scrupulous, though brave as a lion, he felt greatly disinclined to change his comfortable quarters. A fierce royalist, moreover, the news from Huajapam excited his fury against the insurgents to the highest pitch; and he blamed himself for the clemency he had displayed that very morning in hanging four of the guerilleros he had taken, up by the neck, instead of by the heels—as he had done with three of their comrades.

About an hour after Don Cornelio Lantejas and his travelling companions had passed Del Valle—and only a few minutes from the time, when, thanks to the darkness of the night, two of Arroyo's followers had found an opportunity to carry off the heads of their three comrades—two men presented themselves in front of the fortified hacienda.

They were Gaspar and Juan de Zapote, who had hidden themselves during the day, and awaited the friendly darkness, to enable them to make their way through the lines of the besieging force.

"I see no one," muttered Zapote, as they glided into the avenue. "The place appears to be deserted! It's likely enough that my ex-comrades have abandoned the siege."

"So much the better—let us keep on then!" rejoined Gaspar.

"Gently, gently, compadre!" counselled Zapote. "You forget that my costume is of the military kind, and likely to make a sentinel suspicious of me. A carbine shot might be the only hail we should get from one of these Royalists."

"Your physiognomy, amigo, is more likely than your costume to beget suspicions."

"Ah! that comes of the bad company I have been keeping of late."

"Never mind that. I shall go forward alone, and make myself known to the sentries. I can then introduce you as a comrade, devoted to the service of Don Rafael Tres-Villas, and who offers to assist in delivering the Colonel from danger."

"Precisely so, that is, if the Colonel be still alive."

"Quien viva!" came the sonorous hail of a sentinel from the crenelled parapet.

"Gente de paz!" replied Gaspar, advancing alone, while Zapote, notwithstanding the obscurity of the night, instinctively placed himself behind the trunk of a tree.

"What is your wish?" demanded the guard.

"I am the bearer of important news from the Colonel Tres-Villas," answered Gaspar.

"And we wish to communicate them to Lieutenant Veraegui," added Zapote, from behind, but without leaving the shelter of the tree.

"How many of you are there?" asked the sentinel.

"Two."

"You may advance, then," said the soldier, dropping his carbine to the "order arms."

The gate was soon opened; and Gaspar and Zapote, entering within the fortress, were conducted by the corporal of the guard towards the quarters of his commander.

The Lieutenant Veraegui was, at the moment, within one of the chambers of the mansion, engaged over a game of cards with a young alferez. On the table before them stood a bottle of Catalan brandy—the product of his own native province—clear and strong as alcohol. A couple of glasses flanked the bottle, and beside them lay a pile of Havana cigars.

Zapote, on entering, could not help a slight tremor; which was increased as the Catalan Lieutenant bent upon him an inquisitorial look of his grey eyes, that glanced keenly under eyebrows long and grizzled like his moustaches.

Veraegui was a soldier of fortune, of rude unpolished speech, and with manners not very different from those which he had practised while wearing the chevrons of a Sergeant.

From the examination of Zapote, he passed unceremoniously to that of Gaspar, whose features he instantly recognised.

"Ah! it is you?" he said, addressing the messenger. "Well, you have seen the Colonel, and bring news from him? He has, I trust, escaped from the disaster of Huajapam."

"Senor Lieutenant," replied Gaspar, "I know not of what affair you are speaking. All I know is, that this morning the Colonel Tres-Villas was in the woods between here and the Ostuta—where the bandits of Arroyo were tracking him like a wild beast."

"Ho!" cried the Lieutenant, angrily, as he started up from his chair; "and it is only now you tell me of this, when you might have brought the news in an hour?"

"Pardon, Lieutenant: both my companion and myself were also hunted by the same brigands; and we were not able to escape from the woods one minute sooner than we have done."

"Ah! in that case, I ask your pardon, and that of your companion there," continued the Lieutenant, turning to Zapote, "whom I should certainly have taken for a friend of Arroyo, rather than an enemy to that worthy individual. Where the devil have I seen you, my good fellow?" he added, fancying he recognised the features of the deserter.

"Oh! your honour, I have travelled a great deal," replied Zapote, whose presence of mind did not forsake him. "It would not be strange if—"

"So the Colonel has sent you to apprise me of his situation?" said the Lieutenant, without waiting for Zapote's explanation.

"We met the Colonel without knowing him," blundered out Gaspar. "It was only afterwards we learnt it was he."

"Ha! that is very strange!" remarked the Catalan, again turning his eye upon the men with a suspicious glance.

Gaspar now related how, as he and his companion were flying from the bandits of Arroyo, Don Rafael had leaped down between them from the branches of a tree; and how they had parted from him without recognising him.

So far the story was well enough; but the narrator was treading on ground that was dangerous for Juan el Zapote. It remained to be explained how they had been informed, by the ex-comrades of the deserter, that the fugitive they had encountered was the Colonel Tres-Villas.

At this point Gaspar hesitated, while the suspicion glances of the Lieutenant flitted alternately from one to the other. Zapote, however, came resolutely to the aid of his companion.

"My compadre," said he, "does not wish to tell the whole truth, out of regard for me. I shall speak for him; and this it is. In going away from here on his message to the Colonel, my friend Gaspar was captured by the scouts of Arroyo, and taken to the camp of the guerilleros. There he stood a very fair chance of losing his life, when, out of regard for our compadrazgo, and old acquaintance' sake, I consented to assist him at the risk of losing my head."

"Oh! you are then from the camp of Arroyo?"

"Yes," muttered Zapote, in a tone of compunction, "the lamb is sometimes found in the company of wolves."

"Especially when the lamb so nearly resembles a wolf, that it is difficult to distinguish them," rejoined the lieutenant with a smile.

"I have always been an honest man," affirmed Zapote, with a demure look. "Virtue has been my motto through life; and I assure your honour, that I was forced to consort with these brigands very much against my will. I was only too glad, when, to save my old compadre here, I found an opportunity of making some amends for the wicked life I have been obliged to lead in their company."

"Hum!" said the Lieutenant, with a dubious shrug of the shoulders, "I suppose you expect your virtue to be well rewarded. But how did you ascertain that the man you encountered so unexpectedly was the Colonel?"

Zapote now recounted their subsequent interview with the brigands; and how he had learnt from them the object of their pursuit—as well as the adroit ruse he had practised to secure the escape of himself and his "compadre."

"It's all true as gospel!" affirmed Gaspar, when his companion had finished the relation.

Zapote also made known the advice he had given to Don Rafael: to conceal himself among the bamboos.

"At what place?" demanded the Lieutenant.

"Just below the ford," answered the deserter.

"But, Senor Lieutenant," added he, "I shall be most happy to conduct you to the spot myself."

"You shall do no such thing, my brave fellow. You and your worthy compadre, as you call him, shall remain here as hostages, till Don Rafael is found. I have no confidence in lambs that have been so long in the company of wolves. If the Colonel be living, so may you; but if I find it otherwise, then your prospects—Ho, there!" cried the Lieutenant, without finishing the threat, "take these two men to the guard-house, and keep them there, till I order them to be set free."

So saying, the Catalan poured out a glass of his favourite liquor, and commenced drinking it.

"What, and me, too?" inquired Gaspar, in a tone not very complimentary to his companion in misfortune.

"A fig for you! my worthy fellow!" rejoined the Lieutenant. "You should have remembered the proverb, mas vale viajar in solo que mal acompanado." (Better travel alone than in bad company.)

"By the cross of Christ!" continued he, after quaffing off his glass, "I shall make short work of it with this bandit, Arroyo. To-night I shall finish with him and his band; and if I don't give the jackals and vultures a meal that will last them for a twelvemonth, my name's not Veraegui!"

At an order from his superior, the alferez flung down the cards, and hurried off to prepare the garrison troops for sallying out of the fort to the rescue of their Colonel; while the corporal of the guards conducted Gaspar and Zapote to the prison—the latter no little disconcerted at finding his first act of virtue so indifferently rewarded!



CHAPTER SEVENTY.

NEWS SWEET AND SAD.

From the middle of the cane-brake where Don Rafael had found shelter, he was able through the stems of the bamboos to see the camp of Arroyo and his bandits. He could note many of the movements passing within their lines; and at length perceived the guerilleros striking their tents, and riding off in a body from the banks of the river.

He still kept his place, however, until the night had fairly come on, and then wading back to the high bank where the bamboo thicket commenced, he looked out upon the open space between the river and the edge of the forest.

At first, all was silent along the bank of the stream; but shortly after three horsemen were seen riding past, and not far behind them two other men followed, also on horseback.

The first party were Don Cornelio and his companions, making for the ford of the river. The other horsemen were two of Arroyo's guerilla— who, by his orders, had remained near the hacienda Del Valle, for the purpose of taking down the heads of his three followers nailed over the gate—should an opportunity offer for their so doing. They had found the opportunity—as already known—and it was they who had passed Don Cornelio at the ford, and whose ambiguous speech had caused a difference of opinion, as to its meaning, between the Captain and Clara.

The first care of Don Rafael, as soon as he believed the road to be clear, was to recover his horse—which he had left tied in a thicket in the woods.

Like his master, Roncador had escaped the researches of the bandits; but so weak was he with thirst and hunger, that Don Rafael had doubts whether the poor animal would be able to carry him. It was necessary that he should take the horse to the river, in order to water him. This required to be done by stealth; for, although Don Rafael had witnessed the departure of the guerilleros from the ford, he did not know whether those who blockaded the hacienda had also gone away.

After giving Roncador his drink, just as he was leading the horse up the bank again, he perceived a man coming from the direction of the ford. As this man was on foot and alone, Don Rafael resolved to stop and question him. Sabre in hand, therefore, he placed himself in front of the pedestrian.

The latter, thus assailed by a man with a naked sword—and who was covered from head to foot with a coating of mud—was almost frightened out of his senses.

"Oh, Lord!" he cried, "help a poor servant who is seeking assistance for his master!"

"Who is your master?" demanded Don Rafael.

"Don Fernando Lacarra," answered the man.

"Of the hacienda San Carlos?"

"Si, Senor. You know him?"

"Yes: is he in any danger?"

"Alas!" replied this servant, "the hacienda is pillaged by guerilleros; and, just as I was leaving it, I heard the groans of my poor master under the lash of their Captain Arroyo—"

"Again this villain!" muttered Don Rafael, interrupting the narrator with his angry soliloquy.

"Ah! he is always committing some crime," rejoined the servant.

"And your mistress—the Dona Marianita—what of her?"

"It was to make him tell where she was concealed that Arroyo was flogging my master," replied the man. "Fortunately I was able to get her out of the way, by assisting her to descend from the window of the chamber where they had hidden her. Afterwards I got off myself, and am now on my way to the hacienda Del Valle, in hopes of getting assistance from its brave defenders, who themselves never violate the laws of war."

"But how will you get in there? Are not some of Arroyo's guerilleros still besieging the place?"

"No, Senor. The whole band is now at San Carlos."

"Good!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Come along with me, and I promise you a prompt and bloody vengeance."

Without further explaining himself, Don Rafael leaped upon his horse, directing the domestic to mount behind him, and then started off at a rapid trot in the direction of Del Valle.

"Where did you leave your mistress?" inquired Don Rafael, as they rode on.

"In truth, sir," replied the domestic, "I was so confused when she left me, that I did not think of reminding her to fly to Del Valle. I only told her to make into the woods near San Carlos. But the most important matter was for her to get out of the reach of Arroyo; and I hope she will be safe in the chapparal. Poor young creature! She was so happy this morning. She was expecting on this very night the arrival of her father and sister—neither of whom she has seen for a long time."

The Colonel could not hinder himself from shuddering.

"Are you sure that it is to-night that Don Mariano and Dona Gertrudis are expected at San Carlos?" he inquired, with a tone of anxiety in his voice.

"Yes; a letter had reached my master to say so. God forbid that they, too, should fall into the hands of these merciless men! They say, too, that Arroyo is an old servant of Don Mariano."

"Let us hope they may not come!" said the Colonel, with a choking effort.

"It may be," continued the domestic, "that the illness of Dona Gertrudis may detain them a day or two on the journey. That would be the luckiest thing that could happen."

"What say you? is Dona Gertrudis ill!"

"Senor!" exclaimed the domestic, "you, who appear to know the family, are you ignorant that Dona Gertrudis is only the shadow of her former self, and that some secret grief is wasting her away? But, Senor, why do you tremble?" inquired the man, who, with his arm round his waist, felt the nervous agitation of Don Rafael's body.

"Oh, nothing," replied the latter; "but tell me—does any one know the cause of her grief?"

"Rather say, who is there who don't know it, Senor? Dona Gertrudis was in love with a young officer; and so fondly, that it is said she cut off the whole of her beautiful hair, as a sacrifice to the Holy Virgin, for saving his life on an occasion when he was in danger! And yet for all this, he who was thus loved proved faithless, and deserted her!"

"Well?" mechanically interposed Don Rafael.

"Well," continued the servant, "the poor young lady is dying on account of being so deserted—dying by inches; but surely—why, Senor, you are certainly ill? I feel your heart beating against my hand as if it would leap out of your bosom!"

"It is true," answered Don Rafael, in a husky voice. "I am subject to severe palpitations; but presently—" The Colonel, for support, fell back against the domestic, his herculean strength having yielded to the powerful emotions which were passing within him. "Presently," he continued, "I shall get over it. I feel better already. Go on with your history. This man—this officer—did he ever tell Dona Gertrudis that he no longer loved her? Does he love any other?"

"I do not know," was the response of the domestic.

"Could she not have sent him word—say by some means agreed upon—which should bring him back to her from the farthest corner of the earth? Perhaps then—"

Don Rafael could not finish what he intended to have said. A bright hope, long time suppressed, began to spring up within his heart, and with such force, that he feared to know the truth—lest it should be crushed on the instant.

"Senor, you ask me more than I am able to answer," rejoined the domestic. "I have told you all I know of this sad story!"

Heaving a deep sigh, the Colonel remained for some moments silent. After a while, he resumed the conversation, by putting a question, the answer to which might terminate his doubts.

"Have you ever heard the name of this young officer?"

"No," replied the domestic; "but were I in his place, I should not leave this young lady to die, for one lovelier I never beheld in all my life."

These were the last words spoken on either side: for at that moment the voices of the sentinels, challenging from the walls of the hacienda, put an end to the conversation.

"Say to Lieutenant Veraegui," commanded Don Rafael, in reply to the challenge, "that it is Colonel Tres-Villas."

The sound of the trumpets inside soon after signalised the joy felt by the garrison at the return of their old commandant, while the domestic of Don Fernando flung himself promptly to the ground, asking a thousand pardons for not recognising the quality of his compagnon de cheval.

"It is I who have most reason to feel obliged," said Don Rafael. "Remain here till I see you again. I may, perhaps, need you for an important message."

The domestic bowed respectfully, taking hold of the bridle of Don Rafael's horse, while the Lieutenant Veraegui, the alferez, with several soldiers of the garrison, came forth with torches to congratulate their superior officer on his escape from the dangers that had so lately surrounded him.

As soon as their first greetings had been exchanged, Veraegui informed the Colonel that they were just about preparing to start upon an expedition against the banditti of Arroyo.

"You know where they are, then?" said Don Rafael.

"Not the precise spot. But it is not difficult to find the traces of these gentry," replied Catalan.

"True," rejoined the Colonel. "But I chance to know their whereabouts. They are just now at the hacienda of San Carlos. This faithful servant, who is holding my horse, has lately escaped from them, and come to beg your assistance to rescue his master from the brutal outrages they are at this moment inflicting upon him. Lieutenant Veraegui! see that your men are provided with a sufficient quantity of ropes. Let a piece of ordnance be mounted upon the back of a mule: we shall, no doubt, require it to force open the gate."

"But, Senor Colonel, what do you want with the ropes?" inquired the Lieutenant, with a significant smile.

"For the execution of these brigands. We shall hang them to the last man, my dear Veraegui."

"Good!" assented the Catalan, in a joyous accent, "and this time by the heels, I hope. I shall never forgive myself for my foolish indulgence—"

"What! you have spared some of them?" interrupted Don Rafael.

"I have been too merciful to four whom I captured yesterday—in hanging them by the necks. But, by the way, Colonel, now I think of it, two odd fellows came in a while ago, who say that they wish to speak with you."

"I cannot receive them now," answered Don Rafael, little suspecting the supreme happiness their message would have given him. "I shall see them on my return. We have already wasted too much time, while the worthy proprietor of San Carlos is no doubt counting the minutes in anguish. I shall not even stay to change my dress; so haste, and get your men upon horseback."

"Sound 'Boots and saddles!'" cried the Lieutenant, hurrying into the courtyard to give further orders; while Don Rafael, under the pretext of being alone for a few minutes, walked out into the garden, and directed his steps towards the spot where, two years before, he had deposited the remains of his father in the tomb.

His spirit once more excited by the revelations made by the domestic of Don Fernando, he felt he needed a moment of prayer to strengthen him for this final effort for the punishment of his father's assassins. The murder of his father had been for him a terrible blow, but, as time passed, even this grief, by little and little, had become appeased.

Far different was it with that other passion—which neither time, nor absence, nor the constant changing of scene, nor the duties of an active campaign, had been able to eradicate from his bosom.

He now knew that Gertrudis reciprocated his ardent love—that she was dying of it; and, in the midst of the mournful joy which this news had produced, he could have forgotten that his father's death was not yet avenged, as he had sworn it should be. One of the assassins was at no great distance from him, and yet he could scarcely restrain himself from yielding to the almost irresistible desire of galloping direct to Oajaca, where he supposed Gertrudis to be, and then, flinging himself at her feet, confessing that, without her, he could no longer live.

It was to steel his soul against this temptation, and enable him to keep the oath he had sworn, that Don Rafael now repaired to his father's grave.



CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

THE CAPTURE OF SAN CARLOS.

A few minutes sufficed for the performance of his sacred duty; and Don Rafael, returning to the courtyard, placed himself at the head of his troopers—already in their saddles. There were eighty in all ordered upon the expedition—only a small garrison of twenty men being left— just sufficient to defend the fortress. Two pack-mules accompanied the party—one carrying a small howitzer, while the other was laden with the necessary caisson of ammunition.

At a given signal the great gate of the hacienda was thrown open, and the troopers filing through, passed on down the avenue at a rapid trot, and in silence.

A dozen or so of light cavalry went in advance of the main body—for the purpose of reconnoitring the ground—and at the head of these was Don Rafael himself with the Lieutenant Veraegui.

On the way the Lieutenant, in brief language, rendered an account to his superior of the events that had happened since his last despatch to him—to all of which Don Rafael listened far from attentively. Absorbed in his thoughts, he sat abstractedly in his saddle until after they had forded the Ostuta.

On the other side of the river the advance guard halted to give the main body time to come up; and here Don Rafael ordered the domestic of Don Fernando to be brought into his presence.

"Do you know," said he, addressing the man, "if there be any road by which we can get round the hacienda, and approach it from the opposite side?"

The domestic replied in the affirmative. He knew a path by which he could conduct the troopers to the rear of the building, and by which they might advance up to the very walls without their approach being discovered.

"Go ahead then along with the scouts!" directed Don Rafael. "It is necessary we take these robbers by surprise, else they may get off from us as they have done before."

The guide obeyed the order, and placing himself at the head of the advance guard, the march was resumed.

The path by which the domestic conducted them made a detour round the foot of the hill, upon which the hacienda stood, and where, but a few hours earlier, Don Cornelio Lantejas had seen the flames shining so brightly through the windows. All was now silent as the tomb; and no sound of any kind announced that the approach of the assailing party was suspected.

A little further on the guide halted and pointed out to Don Rafael several paths that branched off from the one they were following, and by which the party, separating into several detachments, might completely encompass the hacienda. This was exactly what Don Rafael wanted.

Reserving to himself the command of the main body, he detached three smaller parties by these paths—one under the direction of Veraegui, the others each commanded by an alferez. These, at a given signal, were to attack on right, left, and in the rear; while Don Rafael himself with the howitzer would storm the building in front. Each party was provided with a supply of hand-grenades, to be thrown into the courtyard of the hacienda, or into such other places as the enemy might seek refuge in.

So long as the assailants were sheltered from view by the trees and shrubs that skirted the hill, they approached without being discovered: but the moment they became uncovered, on getting nearer to the walls, shouts of alarm and shots fired by the sentries summoned the garrison to the defence; and an irregular fusillade was commenced from the azotea of the building.

The different parties of the attacking force, without heeding this, kept on throwing their grenades as they advanced; while the party of Don Rafael, on arriving in front of the building, at once mounted the howitzer upon its carriage, and opened fire upon the main gateway.

The first shot crushed through the heavy timbers, carrying away one of the posterns of the gate.

Meanwhile, the grenades, falling within the courtyard began to burst upon the pavement—frightening the horses of the guerilleros to such an extent, that the animals broke from their fastenings, and galloped about, causing the greatest confusion. The shouts of alarm, the groans of the wounded, and the furious imprecations of the bandits, was for a time the only answer made to the reports of the bursting grenades, which were making such havoc in their ranks.

The loud explosion of the howitzer proclaimed a second discharge; and this time the shot penetrated into the courtyard, and cut its way through a mass of insurgents crowded near the further end of it.

"Once more! once more!" cried Don Rafael. "Batter down the other wing of the gate, and then, sword in hand, let us enter!"

So quickly did the practised artillerists of Veraegui handle their piece, that almost on the instant it was loaded and discharged for the third time. The ball passed once more through the heavy door; the leaf gave way and fell back with a crash, leaving the entrance open.

Tres-Villas, sword in hand, rushed into the gateway, followed by his faithful adherents.

"Where is the dog Arroyo?" cried he, bounding forward among the thick of the brigands, and cutting down every one within reach of his sword before an answer could be given. "On, my men!" he continued, "neither prisoners nor quarter!"

"I shall hang by the feet all who surrender!" thundered the voice of the Catalan from behind.

But despite this moderate promise of mercy, not one of the bandits offered to deliver himself up; and very soon the courtyard contained only a pile of dead bodies of the insurgents—the few who still lived having betaken themselves to the upper rooms of the building, where they secured themselves from present death by barricading the doors.

"Where is the dog Arroyo? A thousand pesos to the man who can lead me to the presence of the monster!" cried Don Rafael, vainly searching for the guerilla leader.

But Arroyo and his associate Bocardo were sought for in vain: since it will be remembered that both had gone off from the hacienda in search of its fugitive mistress.

The dead bodies were examined one after the other, and with care, but no Arroyo—no Bocardo—could be found among them.

"Let us on, Veraegui!" said Don Rafael. "We must attack them in their stronghold. The chiefs must be hidden up yonder! There is no time to be lost."

"Alas!" rejoined the Catalan, with a sigh, as he stood regarding the dead bodies with an air of regret, "I fear, Colonel, our ropes will be useless after all. These fellows are all dead; and, as for their comrades up there, we shall have to set fire to their retreat, and burn them alive in it. If we attempt to dislodge them otherwise, it will cost us a goodly number of our people."

"Oh! do not set fire to the house, Senor Colonel!" interposed the faithful domestic, in an appealing tone; "my poor master is there, and would suffer with the rest. All his people, too, are with him, and in the power of the brigands."

"It is true, what he says," rejoined Don Rafael, moved by the appeal of the domestic; "and yet it will never do to let these fiends escape. If we attack them, entrenched as they are, and knowing that certain death await them, they may cost us, as you say, more men than they are worth. What is your advice, Lieutenant?"

"That we reduce them by a siege, and starve them into surrendering. For my part, I don't wish to be baulked about the hanging of them— especially after the trouble we have taken in bringing these ropes along with us."

"It will cost time; but I agree with you, it seems the best thing we can do. They must soon yield to hunger; and perhaps before that time we may find some opportunity of getting Don Fernando out of their power. At all events, let us wait for sunrise before renewing the attack. Meanwhile, I leave you to conduct the blockade. The poor lady, Marianita, is, no doubt, wandering about in the woods near at hand. I shall myself go in search of her."

Saying this, and giving orders for half a dozen chosen men to follow him, Don Rafael leaped into his saddle, and rode off through the gateway of the hacienda.

He had scarcely passed out of sight, when the sentinels placed by Veraegui were signalled by two men who wished to enter the courtyard. Both were afoot, and appeared to have come in such haste that they could scarce get breath enough to proclaim their errand.

"What do you want?" asked the Catalan, before looking at the men. "Eh! my droll fellows!" he continued, recognising Gaspar and Zapote, "it is you, is it? How the devil did you get out of my guard-house?"

"The sentry allowed us to go, your honour," answered Zapote. "He knew that you did not wish us to be detained, if the Colonel should be found alive; and as we have an important message to him—"

"The Colonel is gone away from here," interrupted Veraegui.

"Gone!" exclaimed Zapote, with an air of extreme chagrin. "Where is he gone to, your honour?"

The Lieutenant, after pointing out the direction in which Don Rafael had ridden away, turned his back upon the two adventurers—who, instead of being offended at this rudeness, were only too glad to terminate their interview with the dreaded Catalan. They lost no time, therefore, in making their exit from the courtyard; and, as fast as their legs could carry them, they started off in the direction taken by him whom they had so long unsuccessfully followed.



CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

THE ENCHANTED LAKE.

It is ten o'clock at night, and a starry heaven is extended over a large expanse of level country—here clothed with virgin forests—there with broad, almost treeless savannas, now and then partaking of the character of marshes and covered with tall reeds. In the midst of this landscape a large lake opens to the view. Its aspect is sombre and sad—its dark, turbid waters scarce reflecting the stars that shine so brilliantly over it; while the waves beating against its sedge-encircled shores, utter only the most lugubrious sounds.

Near the centre of this lake rises a mountain of dark, greenish colour, resembling an immense cairn constructed by the hands of Titans. Upon its summit rests a cloud of white fog collected by evaporation from the surrounding water, which has been condensed by the freshness of the night. The numerous dark fissures distinguishable along the sides of this gigantic hill give it the appearance of being a mass of lava—the debris vomited forth by some extinct volcano—and at night, when the moon's rays fall obliquely upon its flanks, it presents a vague resemblance to the scales of an alligator. At the same time that this fancy is suggested, the huge saurian itself may be heard, plunging among the reeds at its foot, and causing their culms to rattle against the rhomboid protuberances of his hideous carapace.

The mournful and desolate aspect of this lake, as well as of the shores that surround it—the eternal silence that reigns over it—the bleak, lonely appearance of its island mountain—all combine to produce upon the spectator an irresistible impression of melancholy; and a spirit of superstitious inclinings cannot help giving way to thoughts of the supernatural. No wonder that in such a place the ancient Aztec priests should have erected an altar for their sanguinary sacrifices; and so strong is tradition, that even in modern times the lake of Ostuta and the mountain of Monopostiac, are invested with supernatural attributes, and regarded by the vulgar with feelings of awe.

It was to the shores of this lake that the domestic of Don Mariano de Silva had conducted his master, certain of finding there a secure resting-place for the night. He knew that the country surrounding the lake was entirely uninhabited; and the brigands of Arroyo would scarce extend their excursions to such an unprofitable foraging ground. The southern end of the lake was bordered by a strip of forest; and it was in this forest that Don Mariano had determined to make halt for the night.

A small glade surrounded by trees of many species was chosen by the travellers as a place of their bivouac. The ground was covered with a carpet of soft grass, and many flowering shrubs and blossoming llianas, supported by the trees that grew around, yielded to the night an odorous incense that was wafted over the glade. It was, in fact, a bower made by the hand of nature, over which was extended the dark blue canopy of the sky, studded with its millions of scintillating stars.

Don Mariano had selected this lovely spot with a design—that of distracting his daughter's spirit from the sad reflections which the more gloomy portions of the forest might otherwise have called up.

Shortly after halting, Dona Gertrudis had fallen asleep in her litera—through the curtains of which, only half closed, might be seen her soft cheek, white almost as the pillow upon which it lay.

Nature had almost repaired the outrage she had voluntarily committed on her long dark tresses; but the life within her seemed fast hastening to an end, and her breathing told how feeble was the spirit that now animated her bosom. She appeared like one of the white passion-flowers growing near, but more like one that had been plucked from the stem which had been the source of its life and sweetness.

Don Mariano stood near the litera—gazing upon the pale face of his child with feelings of sad tenderness. He could not help calling up this very comparison—although it was torture to his soul; for he knew that the flower once plucked must irrevocably wither and die.

At some distance from the litera, and nearer the edge of the lake, three of the attendants were seated together upon the grass. They were conversing, in low tones, for the purpose of passing the time. The fourth, who was the guide already mentioned, had gone forward through the woods—partly to search for the crossing, but also to reconnoitre the path, and find out whether the road to San Carlos was clear of the guerilleros.

Through a break in the forest that surrounded the glade, the enchanted mountain was visible—its sombre silhouette outlined against the blue background of the sky.

In all countries, every object that appears to vary from the ordinary laws of nature, possesses, for the vulgar imagination, a powerful interest; and the servants of Don Mariano were no exception to the rule.

"I have heard it said," whispered one of them, "that the waters of this lake now so muddy, were once as clear as crystal; and that it was only after they were consecrated to the devil, that they became as they are now."

"Bah!" rejoined another, "I don't believe what they say about the devil living up there upon the Cerro encantado. He would choose a more pleasant place for his residence, I should fancy."

"Well," said the first speaker, who was named Zefirino, and who was better acquainted with the locality than either of his companions, "whether the devil dwells there or not, some terrible things have taken place on that mountain; and it is said, still happen there. I have heard that the fog which you see upon its summit, and which always rests there at night, is extended over it by the god of the Indians—who is only the devil himself. He does that to hide what goes on up there. There's one strange story the Indians themselves tell."

"What is it? Let us hear it, Zefirino."

"Well, you've heard how in old times the Indian priests had an altar up yonder—upon which they used to sacrifice scores of human beings—so that the blood ran down the fissures of the rock like water after a shower of rain. Their plan was to cut open the breast of the victim, and tear out his heart while still alive. But why need I frighten you with a story that, by my faith, is fearful enough?"

"No—no—never mind! Go on, Zefirino."

"Stay!" cried the other domestic. "Did you not hear a noise—just down there by the edge of the lake?"

"Bah! it's only an alligator snapping his jaws together. Go on, Zefirino!"

"Well, comrades—the story is, that about five hundred years ago, one of the unfortunate victims was about to be sacrificed in this manner as usual. The cruel priest had opened his breast and taken out the heart; when, to the astonishment of all around, the Indian seized hold of his own heart, and endeavoured to put it back in its place. His hand, however, trembled, and the heart slipping from his grasp, rolled down the mountain side and into the lake. The Indian, uttering a terrible howl, plunged in after for the purpose of recovering his heart from the water, and was never seen again. Of course, a man like that could not possibly die; and for five hundred years the Indian has been wandering round the shores of the lake searching for his heart, and with his breast cut open, just as the priest had left it. It's not more than a year ago that some one saw this Indian, and just about here, too, on the southern shore of the lake."

As Zefirino finished his narration, his two companions involuntarily cast glances of terror towards the gloomy waters of the lake, as if in dread that the legendary Indian might suddenly show himself. Just at that moment, a rustling among the leaves caused all three of them to start to their feet, and stand trembling with fear.

Their alarm did not last long; for almost immediately after they perceived that the noise had been caused by Castrillo, the guide—who, in the next moment, stepped forward into the glade.

"Well, Castrillo! what have you seen?" demanded his fellow-servants.

"Enough to make it necessary that I should at once communicate with our master," and Castrillo passed on towards the litera, leaving his companions to form their conjectures about what he had seen as best they might.



CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

THE INVALID.

On perceiving the approach of the domestico, Don Mariano silently closed the curtains of the litera, in order that the slumbers of Gertrudis might not be disturbed.

"Speak softly!" said he to the man, "my daughter is asleep."

The domestic delivered his report in an undertone.

"I have been almost as far as the hacienda of San Carlos," said he. "The road to the house is clear; and I should have gone up to it, but for the strange sights which I saw there."

"Strange sight! what sights, Castrillo?"

"Oh, master! I can hardly tell you what I saw—at least I cannot explain it. The windows were all lit up, but with such lights! They were blue and red, and of a purple colour, and they appeared to be changing every instant, and moving about in the most mysterious manner. While I stood looking at them, and trying to think what it could mean, I saw a figure in white gliding past me in the darkness, like some one not of this world."

"My worthy Castrillo, fear was troubling your senses, I am afraid you only fancied these things?"

"Oh, my master! what I saw was but too real. If you had seen these lights as I, you could not have doubted it. May it please God that I may have been deceived!"

The tone of conviction in which the servant delivered his report produced its effect on Don Mariano; and he could not help feeling the unpleasant presentiment that some grand misfortune had happened to his daughter, Marianita, or her husband.

The information brought by Castrillo was only the reawakening of a doubt that had been already oppressing him.

A prey to afflicting thoughts, he remained for a while in that state of silent uncertainty which follows the receipt of calamitous news. The servant having finished his report had joined his three companions, and Don Mariano was alone.

Just then the curtains of the litera were drawn inside by a hand from within, and the voice of Gertrudis interrupted for the moment his gloomy reflections.

"My sleep has refreshed me," said the young girl; "do you intend soon to continue your journey, father? It is near daybreak, is it not?"

"It is not yet midnight, nina. It will be long before the day breaks."

"Then why do you not go to sleep, dear father? We are in safety here, I think; and there is no reason why you should keep awake."

"Dear Gertrudis, I do not desire to sleep until we are under the roof of Marianita, and I can see you both together."

"Ah! Marianita is so very happy," sighed the invalid. "Her life has been like one of the flowery paths we have been following through the forest."

"And so will yours be yet, Gertrudis," rejoined Don Mariano, with an effort to console her. "It will not be long before Don Rafael comes to see you."

"Oh, yes! I know he will come, since he has sworn it upon his word of honour. He will come, but what then?" murmured Gertrudis, with a melancholy smile.

"He will arrive to tell you that he still loves you," said Don Mariano, affecting a conviction which, in reality, he did not feel. "It is only a misunderstanding," he added.

"A misunderstanding that causes death, dear father," rejoined Gertrudis, as she turned her head upon the pillow to conceal her tears.

Don Mariano was unable to reply, and an interval of silence succeeded.

Then Gertrudis, by one of those sudden reactions common to invalids, seemed all at once inspired with a fresh hope, and raising her head, she inquired—

"Do you think the messenger has had time to reach Don Rafael?"

"He would be three days in getting from Oajaca to the hacienda Del Valle; and if Don Rafael, as we have since heard, is at Huajapam, in two days more the messenger should reach him. He has been gone four days; therefore, in four more, at the most, Don Rafael should arrive at San Carlos, where he will know we are awaiting him."

"Four days!" murmured Gertrudis. "Oh! it is a long, long time!"

Gertrudis did not dare to add, what she feared at the moment, that her life might not last so long.

After a moment of silence she continued—

"And besides, when, with a blush upon my cheeks, and my eyes turned away, I hear Don Rafael say to me, 'You have sent for me, Gertrudis, I have come,' what answer can I make? Oh, father! I shall die of grief and shame; for I shall then feel that he no longer loves me. He will see me as I am—a ruin—only the shadow of my former self, with my health gone, and my freshness faded. Likely enough, generosity will prompt him to feign a love which he does not feel, and which I could not believe in. What proof could he give that his words would only be spoken out of compassion for me?"

"Who can tell?" said Don Mariano. "Perhaps he may give you some proof that you cannot help believing in his sincerity."

"Do not wish it, father, if you love me; for if he should offer a proof I cannot refuse to believe in, I feel that I should die of joy. Poor father!" continued she, with a choking sigh, and throwing her arms round his neck, "in either case you are likely soon to have but one daughter."

At this mournful declaration Don Mariano could no longer restrain his grief; and returning the embrace of Gertrudis, he mingled his tears with hers. Both wept aloud, their voices being audible to the centzontle, on a neighbouring tree—that catching up the mournful tones repeated them to the ear of night.

Just then the moon shot out from behind a thick mass of clouds, that had hitherto been shrouding her from the sight; and the landscape, illuminated by her silvery light, all at once assumed a less lugubrious aspect.

The lake, as well as the forest on its shores, appeared less sombre; and the corrugated flanks of the enchanted hill glanced with a vitreous reflection like the greenish waves of an agitated sea. Upon the surface of the water could be seen the dark, hideous forms of huge alligators moving along the edge of the reeds, and now and then giving utterance to their deep bellowing notes, as they disported themselves under the light of the moon.

The domestics of Don Mariano, seated close together, more than once fancied that they could distinguish the voices of human beings, and all shivered with fear as they recalled the legend which Zefirino had just related.

"I wish, comrades," said one of them, speaking in a tone of subdued terror, "I wish that this night was well over. From the noises we have heard, and those strange lights that Castrillo has seen, one might fancy some terrible misfortune was to happen to-night! It only wants the scream of an owl from one of the trees around here, and then we may pray for the soul of our poor young mistress."

At that moment a voice—this time certainly a human voice—proceeding from the direction of the lake, interrupted the speaker. It seemed to arise out of the bosom of the water.

The four domestics started, and sat regarding each other with looks of affright. There could be no doubt of its being a human voice which they had heard, as if intoning a song or chaunt, but uttered in some unknown tongue—such as that in which the ancient Indians used to converse with their divinities.

"Santissima madre!" muttered one of the domestics, "what if it should be the Indian who searches for his heart?"

His companions made no other answer than by nodding their heads to signify that such had been the thought of each.

At this moment another noise reached them. It was a rustling as of leaves, and almost simultaneously they saw the figure of a man making his way through the reeds that grew by the edge of the water.

In the clear light of the moon they could see that the man was completely naked, and that his skin was of a bronze or copper colour—in other words, that he was an Indian.

As he passed through the reeds he parted their stems with his outstretched arms—at the same time keeping his eyes bent downwards as if searching for something.

After reaching the edge of the open water, he plunged in; and, swimming vigorously out into the lake, appeared to direct himself towards the enchanted hill.

"God of heaven!" muttered Zefirino, in an accent of terror. "It is the Indian searching for his heart!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

AN AERIAL COUCH.

After escaping from the company of Arroyo and his bandits, Don Cornelio mechanically followed the guidance of Costal—who was now aiming to reach the lake of Ostuta as soon as possible, in order that he might commence his incantations before the rising of the moon.

Don Cornelio knew that it would be breath thrown away to attempt persuading the Indian to abandon his absurd and superstitious design; and to propose accompanying him, and becoming either actor or spectator in the pagan ceremony, would be equally against the wishes of Costal.

After they had ridden for some distance towards the lake, the Captain admonished his companions of his intention to stay behind and wait for their return, after they should have accomplished their purpose, and had their interview with Tlaloc and his wife Matlacuezc. Costal was only too glad to agree to this proposition; and promised to find a proper halting-place for Don Cornelio at some distance from the shores of the lake. There was no house of any kind in the vicinity, not even the meanest hut. This, Costal, from his perfect knowledge of the locality, was aware of; but the night was a pleasant one, and a few hours might be passed in the open air without any great inconvenience.

Shortly after, the cool freshness of the breeze proclaimed that the lake was not far off; and a pleasant grove of shady palm-trees offered an inviting shelter to Don Cornelio. It was the spot which Costal had designed for his halting-place; and here, parting from the two acolytes, the Captain dismounted, and prepared to make himself as comfortable as possible during their absence. Meanwhile Costal and Clara kept on towards the lake, and were soon lost to view under the shadows of the forest.

Don Cornelio had not been long left to himself, ere he began to rue the disposition thus made of him. It now occurred to him, and not without reason, that the comrades of Gaspacho might fancy to avenge the brigand's death, and for that purpose follow him and his two attendants through the forest. Arroyo would now be absent from the hacienda; Don Cornelio had heard him proclaim his intention of going in search of its mistress; and his subalterns might pay less respect to the emissary of Morelos than their chief.

These considerations influencing the spirit of Don Cornelio, produced within him a certain degree of uneasiness—sufficient to make him discontented with the position he had chosen.

Determined to get nearer to Costal—whom he looked upon almost as his natural protector—he remounted his horse, and continued along the path that had been taken by the other two.

After riding a few hundred yards, he discerned rising up before his face a high hill crowned with mist; and shortly after, the woods becoming more open, he was enabled to perceive that this hill was surrounded by a large lake of dark, sombre aspect. Though he now looked upon both the lake and mountain for the first time, he had no difficulty in identifying them as the Lake Ostuta and the sacred mountain of Monopostiac.

A belt of forest still lay between him and the lake, extending around its southern end. Entering into the timber, he rode nearly across it, until the reedy shore of the lake came in view through the openings between the trees. Here he again halted, and after a moment's reflection, dismounted.

Although the change of locality might make it more difficult for the brigands of Arroyo to discover his retreat, he was still not so certain of being free from danger. To render his situation more secure, he determined upon climbing into a tree, and concealing himself among the branches.

He had another motive for freeing himself. At a short distance from the spot he saw the horses of Costal and Clara, standing tied to some bushes; and he knew that their owners could not be far off. No doubt it was there they intended to go through their absurd rites; and all at once Don Cornelio had become inspired with a curiosity to witness them. His Christian conscience slightly reproached him, for thus assisting, as it were, at a pagan ceremony; but he ended by persuading himself that there would be something meritorious in his being a witness to the confusion of the infidel.

A tree near at hand offered him a favourable point of observation. From its higher branches he could command a full view of the lake and its shores to a considerable distance on each side of him, and also the sacred mountain in its midst.

Securing his horse below, he ascended the tree, and seated himself among its topmost branches. He had taken the precaution to carry up his carbine along with him, which was hanging from his shoulders upon its sling.

He had just fixed himself commodiously upon his perch, when the full moon appeared, at once lighting up the waters of the lake with her most brilliant beams.

He looked to discover the whereabouts of Costal and the negro; but for some time he could see nothing of either. The enchanted hill, glistening with a vitreous translucence under the white moonbeams, presented a wild, weird aspect; and, from time to time, strange unearthly sounds appeared to proceed from it, as also from the woods around.

The nerves of the ex-student were at no time of the strongest; and he had not long occupied his elevated post before he began to rue his rashness, in having trusted himself alone in a place which seemed to be the abode of the supernatural.

All at once a sound reached him, proceeding from the margin of the lake; and, turning his eyes in that direction, he beheld the figure of a naked man moving among the reeds. It was the same apparition that had caused such alarm among the domestics of Don Mariano, who, although unseen by the Captain, were at that moment only fifty paces distant, screened behind the bushes that grew around the glade in which they had encamped.

The apparition, although it at first startled Don Cornelio, did not frighten him so much as it had the domestics; for, by the light of the moon, he was enabled to recognise the figure as that of his attendant, Costal. The Captain, moreover, saw—what, from their position, was invisible to the people in Don Mariano's camp—another human figure, naked like the first, but differing from it in the colour of the skin, which was black as ebony.

Both having passed through the reeds, plunged at once into the open water of the lake; and, swimming off towards the enchanted mountain, were soon lost to the eyes of Don Cornelio, as well as to those of the affrighted attendants of Don Mariano.

While the latter remained under the full conviction that they had seen the Indian who, for five hundred years, had been vainly searching for his heart, Don Cornelio knew that the two adventurers were his own followers, Costal and Clara.

From the direction they had taken through the water, he divined that it was their object to reach the mountain island, there, no doubt, to practise their superstitious ceremonial.

Although somewhat disappointed at being deprived of a spectacle he had felt curious to witness, he still remained on his perch upon the tree. His apprehension of being pursued by the bandits of Arroyo had not yet forsaken him; and in such a contingency, he believed that he would be safer among the branches than upon the ground. He could watch for Costal and Clara coming back through the water, and then rejoin them as they returned to take possession of their horses, which were still visible to him upon his elevated post.

For a short time he remained in his position without hearing any noise in particular, or seeing anything calculated to alarm him. Then a sound reached his ears that came from a direction opposite to that in which lay the lake. It was a booming sound, like the report of a cannon— shortly after followed by another and another of precisely similar intonation.

Don Cornelio had no suspicion that at that very moment the hacienda of San Carlos was being attacked by the garrison of Del Valle, and that the noise he heard was the report of the howitzer battering in the gates of the building.

Although at first rendered uneasy by these inexplicable sounds, as they soon after ceased to be repeated, Don Cornelio no longer troubled himself to explain them. He had heard so many others, as mysterious as they, that he despaired of finding an explanation. As time passed, however, and neither Costal nor Clara showed themselves, the Captain began to feel a strong desire to sleep, and his eyelids every moment grew heavier, until at length he felt that he could no longer resist the desire. Like Colonel Tres-Villas, on the preceding night, he took the precaution, before committing himself to slumber, of making secure against a fall; and for this purpose he attached himself with his sash to one of the branches. In another minute he was in the land of dreams, unconscious of the singularity of the couch on which he was reclining.



CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

THE GODDESS OF THE WATERS.

For the first hour the sleep of Don Cornelio was undisturbed, even by dreams. With the second it was very different; for, scarcely had he entered upon it, when a noise sounded in his ears, singular as it was terrible. He awoke with a start, on hearing what appeared to be the loud clanging of a bell rung at no great distance off.

At first he fancied he was dreaming, and that what he heard in his dreams was the bell of his native village; but a moment's reflection sufficed to convince him that he was awake, and couched in the fork of a tall tree.

The sounds that had ceased for a while, now recommenced; and Don Cornelio was able to count twelve strokes, clear and distinctly measured, as if some large clock was tolling the hour of midnight!

It was, in fact, just about that hour—as Don Cornelio could tell by the moon; but the observation did not hinder him from shuddering afresh at the mysterious sounds. From his elevated position he could see afar over both land and water; but no spire of village church or hacienda was visible—nothing but the sombre surface of the lake, the spray of the far-stretching forest, and the desert plains in the distance.

The tolling again vibrated upon the air; and Don Cornelio was now convinced that it was from the lake itself, or the enchanted mountain in its midst, that the sounds proceeded. It seemed as if it was a signal, to awaken the Indian divinities from their sleep of ages!

The moon was still rising higher in the heavens, and her brilliant beams broadly illumined the lake, even penetrating through the thickly-set stems of the reeds that bordered it.

Certain vague noises that had from time to time fallen upon the ear of Don Cornelio, while half slumbering, now that he was awake, were heard more distinctly; and after a little while these sounds became converted into prolonged and dismal howlings, such as he had never before heard in his life.

Upon just such another night he had been sorely frightened by the howling of jaguars; but all the tigers in the world could not have produced such a frightful noise as that with which his ears were now assailed. It was a chorus of voices entirely new to him, and that seemed to proceed from the powerful lungs of some gigantic creature hitherto unknown.

As thoughts of the supernatural came into his mind, the Captain shivered through his whole frame; and had he not been tied to its branches, he would certainly have fallen from the tree.

His horse, standing below, appeared fully to partake of his terror; for after dancing about, and causing the branches to crackle, the animal at length broke away from its fastenings, and, galloping off, joined company with the horses of Costal and Clara that stood nearer the edge of the water.

The terrible howlings, combined with the mysterious tolling of the bell, produced upon the mind of Don Cornelio other impressions besides those of mere dread. He began to believe in a supernatural presence; and that the sounds he heard were the voices of those pagan divinities whom Costal had the boldness to invoke.

Captain Lantejas was not the only person whom these strange noises had inspired with fear. At little more than gunshot distance from him, and hidden behind the trees, could be seen a number of men closely grouped together, and whispering their fears to one another. It need scarcely be said that they were the domestics of Don Mariano, who had counted with equal terror and astonishment the twelve strokes of the mysterious midnight bell.

Their master, too, had heard the tolling, and was vainly endeavouring to account for the singular phenomenon.

Just then the frightful howlings came pealing from the woods behind, awaking Gertrudis, and causing her to raise her head with a cry of terror. The seven sleepers themselves would have been awakened by such a terrible fracas of noises.

At this moment one of the domestics—Castrillo—appeared by the litera, his face blanched with affright.

"What misfortune have you to announce?" inquired Don Mariano, struck with the expression upon the servant's countenance.

"Not any, Senor Don Mariano," replied the domestic, "unless to say that we are here in some accursed place, and the sooner we get out of it the better."

"Get your arms ready," rejoined Don Mariano, "it must be the jaguars that are howling near us."

"Ah! Senor master," replied the domestic, with a shake of his head, "never did jaguar howl after that fashion; and all our weapons will be useless where the spirit of darkness is against us. Listen, there— again!"

Once more a series of prolonged vociferations came echoing through the forest, which certainly had but little resemblance to the voices either of jaguars or any other known animals.

"There have been many strange things during this night," gravely continued Castrillo. "Everything in nature seems to be turned upside down. Dead men have been seen by us wandering about; bells have been heard tolling where there is neither church nor dwelling, and now the devil himself is howling in the depths of the forest. Oh, master, let us fly from this place while we may!"

"But where to? where can we go?" rejoined Don Mariano, casting an anxious glance towards the litera. "My poor child—she can scarce endure the fatigues of the journey."

"Oh, father," said Gertrudis, "do not think of me. I shall be able to go on; and I would rather go afoot, than remain longer in this frightful place."

"Senor Don Mariano," continued the domestic, "if you will pray God to protect us from the danger that threatens, I and the others will go after the mules, and we shall get ready for marching. Above all, we must leave this place at once; for if you stay I could not hinder the rest from running away."

"Very well, then," said Don Mariano, "be it as you wish. Harness the animals and let us start at once. We shall endeavour to reach San Carlos."

That which Don Mariano and his people were about to make—a movement from the place apparently haunted—the Captain Lantejas would not have attempted for all the gold in Mexico. Glued by fear to the summit of his tree, and cursing the evil fortune that had conducted him thither— regretting, moreover, his foolish curiosity—he continued to listen, though almost mechanically, to what he believed to be a dialogue between some Indian divinity and his fearless worshipper, Costal.

All at once the noises came to a termination; and a profound silence succeeded, which was equally fearful to endure.

This was of short duration, however; for in a few moments the stillness of the night was once more interrupted by other and different noises, that resembled human voices uttered at a considerable distance from the spot.

Gradually the voices were heard approaching nearer, and Don Cornelio was under the impression that it was Costal and Clara returning to where they had left their horses. He was mistaken about this, however, and soon perceived his error. The voices proceeded from the direction he had himself followed in approaching the lake. Costal and Clara could not be coming that way. Moreover, he now saw lights that appeared to be torches carried by those who were talking; and from the rapidity with which the lights flitted from point to point, they could only be borne by men on horseback. The Indian and negro could not be mounted, since their horses were still standing tied where they had left them, along with his own steed, that had just taken refuge by their side. It could not be Costal and Clara who carried the torches.

"Who then?" mentally demanded Don Cornelio; "might it be Arroyo and his bandits?"

He had scarce given thought to the conjecture, when a troop of horsemen rode out upon the open ground near the edge of the lake; and two of them at the head of the others were instantly recognised by Don Cornelio. They were, in truth, Arroyo and his associate, Bocardo.

The horsemen carrying the torches were seen riding from one point to another, quartering the ground by numerous crossings, and exploring the thickets on every side, as if in search of some person that had escaped them.

On approaching the border of the lake, the horsemen turned off along the margin of reeds, without having perceived the three horses that stood under the trees.

The torches were now thrown away; and, riding off under the pale moonlight, the horsemen disappeared from the eyes of Don Cornelio.

He was not without uneasiness as to the peril in which his two companions would be placed, should they chance to fall once more into the hands of the bandits; and he would gladly have warned them of their danger, had he known how. But ignorant of the locality in which Costal and Clara were at that exact moment, he could do nothing more than hope that they might perceive the horsemen first, and conceal themselves while the latter were passing. From Costal's habitual wariness, Don Cornelio felt confident, that the ex-tiger-hunter would be able to keep himself clear of this new danger.

The captain followed with anxious eyes the forms of the retreating horsemen; and his heart beat more tranquilly when he saw them turn round an angle of the lake, and disappear altogether from his sight.

The moon at this moment shining more brilliantly, enabled him to command a better view of the waters of the lake, and the selvage of reeds growing around it. Once more silence was reigning over the scene, when all at once Don Cornelio fancied he saw a movement among the sedge, as if some one was making his way through it. In another instant a form, at first shadowy and indistinct, appeared before his eyes. Presently it assumed the outlines of a human form, and what astonished Don Cornelio still more, it was the form of a woman! This he saw distinctly; and perceived also that the woman was dressed in a sort of white garment, with long dark hair hanging in disordered tresses over her shoulders.

A cold perspiration broke out upon the brow of Don Cornelio, as the female form was recognised; and his eyes became fixed upon it, without his having the power to take them off. He doubted not that he saw before him the companion of Tlaloc, the terrible Matlacuezc, who had just risen from her watery palace in the Lake Ostuta, whence she had been summoned by the invocations of Costal, the descendant of the ancient rulers of Tehuantepec!



CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

TOLLING THE SUMMONS.

We return to Costal. We have seen the Zapoteque making his way through the sedge, and boldly launching himself into the muddy waters of the lake—his blind fatalism rendering him regardless of the voracious alligators of the Ostuta, as he had already shown himself of the sharks of the Pacific. Could the eye of Don Cornelio have followed him under the gloomy shadow which the enchanted hill projected over the lake, it would have seen him emerge from the water upon the shore of the sacred Cerro itself, his black-skinned associate closely following at his heels.

The mountain Monopostiac is neither more nor less than a gigantic rock of obsidian, of a dark greenish hue, having its flanks irregularly furrowed by vertical fissures and ridges. This peculiar kind of rock, under the sun, or in a very bright moonlight, gives forth a sort of dull translucence, resembling the reflection of glass. The vitreous glistening of its sides, taken in conjunction with the mass of thick white fog which usually robes the summit of the mountain, offers to the eye an aspect at once fantastic and melancholy.

At certain places, of which Costal had a perfect knowledge, are huge boulders of obsidian, resting along the declivities of the Cerro, and which, when struck by a hard substance, gives forth a sonorous ring, having some resemblance to the sound of a bell.

After climbing some way up the steep declivity of the mountain, Costal and his neophyte halted by one of these boulders. Now apparently absorbed in profound meditation, now muttering in a low tone, and in the language of his fathers, certain prayers, the Zapoteque awaited that hour when the moon should reach its meridian, in order to come to the grand crisis of his invocation.

It would be a tedious detail were we to describe the many absurd ceremonials practised by Costal to induce the genius of the waters to appear before him, and make known the means by which he might restore the ancient splendours of his race. Certainly, if perseverance and courage could have any influence with the Indian divinities, Costal deserved all the favours they could lavish upon him.

Although up to this moment neither Tlaloc nor Matlacuezc had given the least sign of having heard his prayers, his countenance exhibited such hopeful confidence, that Clara, gazing upon it, felt fully convinced that upon this occasion there was not the slightest chance of a failure.

Up to the time of the moon reaching her meridian—the moment so eagerly expected—more than an hour was spent in every sort of preparation for the grand crisis. Up to that moment, moreover, Costal had preserved a grave and profound silence, enjoining the same upon Clara. This silence related only to conversation between them. Otherwise Costal had from time to time, as already stated, given utterance to prayers, spoken, however, in a low muttered voice.

The moment had now arrived when the dialogue of the two acolytes was to be resumed.

"Clara," said the Zapoteque, speaking in a grave tone, "when the gods of my ancestors, invoked by a descendant of the ancient Caciques of Tehuantepec, who has seen fifty seasons of rains—when they hear the sounds which I am now about to make, and for which they have listened in vain for more than three centuries, some one of them will appear beyond any doubt."

"I hope so," responded Clara.

"Certain they will appear," said Costal; "but which of them it may be, I know not; whether Tlaloc or his companion Matlacuezc."

"I suppose it makes no difference," suggested the negro.

"Matlacuezc," continued Costal, "would be easily known. She is a goddess; and, of course, a female. She always appears in a white robe— pure and white as the blossom of the floripondio. When her hair is not wound around her head, it floats loosely over her shoulders, like the mantilla of a senora of high degree. Her eyes shine like two stars, and her voice is sweeter than that of the mocking-bird. For all that, her glance is terrifying to a mortal, and there are few who could bear it."

"Oh, I can bear it," said the negro; "no fear of that."

"Tlaloc," continued Costal, "is tall as a giant. His head is encircled with a chaplet of living serpents, that, entwined among his hair, keep up a constant hissing. His eye is full of fire, like that of the jaguar; and his voice resembles the roaring of an angry bull. Reflect, then, while it is yet time, whether you can bear such a sight as that."

"I have told you," replied Clara, in a resolute tone, "that I wish for gold; and it matters little to me whether Tlaloc or his wife shows me the placer where it is to be found. By all the gods, Christian and pagan! I have not come thus far to be frightened back without better reason than that. No!"

"You are firmly resolved, comrade? I see you are. Now, then—I shall proceed to invoke my gods."

On saying these words, the Indian took up a large stone, and advancing to the boulder of obsidian, struck the stone against one of its angles with all his might. The collision produced a sound resembling that of a brazen instrument; in fact, like the stroke of a bell.

Twelve times did Costal repeat the stroke, each time with equal force. The sounds echoed over the waters of the lake, and through the aisles of the forest on its shores; but their distant murmurings had scarce died upon the air, when a response came from the woods. This was given in a series of the most frightful howlings—the same which had terrified Captain Lantejas upon his tree, and which Don Mariano had found himself unable to explain.

Clara partook of a terror almost equal to that of Don Cornelio, but it arose from a different cause. He had no other belief, but that the howling thus heard was the response vouchsafed by the pagan gods to the invocation of his companion. After a moment his confidence became restored, and he signed to Costal to continue.

"Sound again!" said he, in a low but firm voice, "it is Tlaloc who has responded. Sound again!"

The Indian cast a glance upon his companion, to assure himself that he was in earnest. The moon showed his face of a greyish tint; but the expression of his features told that he spoke seriously.

"Bah!" exclaimed Costal, with a sneer, "are you so little skilled in the ways of the woods, as to mistake the voice of a vile animal for that of the gods of the Zapoteque?"

"What an animal to make a noise like that?" interrogated Clara, in a tone of surprise.

"Of course it is an animal," rejoined Costal, "that howls so. Sufficiently frightful, I admit—to those who do not know what sort of creature it is; but to those who do, it is nothing."

"What kind of animal is it?" demanded Clara.

"Why, an ape; what else? A poor devil of a monkey, that you could knock over with a bit of a stick; as easily as you could kill an opossum. Ah, hombre! the voice of the great Tlaloc is more terrible than that. But see! what have we yonder?"

As Costal spoke, he pointed to the shore of the lake whence they had come, and near the point where they had left their horses. It was in this direction, moreover, the howlings of the ape had been heard.

Clara followed the pointing of his companion, and both now saw what gave a sudden turn to their thoughts—a party of horsemen carrying torches, and scouring the selvage of the woods, as if in search of something they had lost.

The two worshippers watched until the torches were put out, and the horsemen passing round the shore disappeared under the shadows of a strip of forest.

Costal was about to resume his invocations; when, with his eyes still turned towards the point where the horsemen had left the shore of the lake, he beheld an apparition that caused even his intrepid heart to tremble. By the thicket of reeds, and close to the water's edge, a white form appeared suddenly, as if it had risen out of the lake. It was the same which had been seen by Don Cornelio from his perch upon the tree.

It was not fear that caused the Zapoteque to tremble. It was an emotion of exulting triumph.

"The time is come at last!" cried he, seizing the arm of his companion. "The glory of the Caciques of Tehuantepec is now to be restored. Look yonder!"

And as he spoke he pointed to the form, which, in the clear moonlight, could be distinguished as that of a woman, dressed in a robe as white as the floripondio, with long dark tresses floating over her shoulders like the mantilla of some grand senora.

"It is Matlacuezc," muttered the negro, in a low, anxious tone, and scarce able to conceal the terror with which the apparition had inspired him.

"Beyond doubt," hurriedly replied Costal, gliding down towards the water, followed by the negro.

On arriving at the beach, both plunged into the lake, and commenced swimming back towards the shore. Although the white form was no longer visible to them from their low position in the water, Don Cornelio could still see it glancing through the green stems of the reeds, but no longer in motion.

Costal had taken the bearings of the place before committing himself to the water; and, swimming with vigorous stroke, he soon reached the shore several lengths in advance of his companion.

Don Cornelio could see both of the adventurers as they swam back, and perceived, moreover, that the white form had been seen by them, and it was towards this object that Costal was steering his course. He saw the Indian approach close to it; and was filled with surprise at beholding him stretch forth his arms, as if to grasp the goddess of the waters, when all at once a loud voice sounded in his ears, crying out the words—

"Death to the murderer of Gaspacho!"

Along with the voice a light suddenly flashed up among the bushes, and the report of a carbine reverberated along the shores of the lake.

Costal and Clara were both seen to dive at the shot; and for a time Don Cornelio could not see either of them.

The white form had also sunk out of sight, but near the spot which it had occupied, the long reeds were seen to shake in a confused manner, as if some one was struggling in their midst.

Don Cornelio could hear their stems crackle with the motion; and he fancied that a low cry of agony proceeded from the spot; but the moment after all was silent; and the lake lay glistening under the pale silvery moonbeam, with nothing visible in its waters, or upon its shores, to break the tranquil stillness of its repose.



CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.

THE PURSUIT.

Only for a very short interval did the shores of the lake Ostuta preserve their tranquil silence. In a few moments after the white robe had disappeared from the eyes of Don Cornelio, he saw Costal and Clara rise to the surface of the water, and make their way rapidly through the reeds in the direction of the bank. Presently both appeared on dry land at less than a hundred yards distance from where he was perched.

The tragedy of real life which he was now witnessing, had so suddenly mingled its scenes with the fancies that had just passed through his mind, that for an instant his thoughts were thrown into confusion, and he could scarcely distinguish the true from the fantastic. Though he saw that his faithful followers were still alive and well, the words he had heard, and the shot that succeeded them, told him that they were in danger. That could be no fancy; and its reality was further confirmed on his perceiving two men, sabre in hand, rush forth out of the bushes and make after Costal and Clara, with threatening cries and gestures.

The latter ran towards their horses. The sight of his two followers in flight, completely restored Don Cornelio's senses; and almost mechanically he caught hold of his carbine, which he had by his side.

Resting the barrel over a fork of the branches, he sighted one of the pursuers, and fired. At the report a bandit fell forward on his face, who, after sprawling a while upon the ground, lay motionless. The other halted and bent over his comrade to see if he was dead.

The delay caused by this unexpected interruption of the pursuit enabled the Indian and negro to reach their horses, and both, naked as they were, their skins glistening with the water of the lake, at once leaped into their saddles, wheeled their horses round, and galloped back towards the pursuers.

It was now Costal's turn to pursue.

The bandit who still kept his feet had stopped only a moment over his fallen companion: but that moment proved fatal to him. Before he could reach his own horse—which, in order to effect his ambuscade, he had left behind him in the woods—the avenging Zapoteque was upon him, who, galloping over, trampled him under his horse's hoofs, and then riding back, ran his long rapier through the prostrate body without dismounting from his saddle.

Meanwhile Don Cornelio had made all haste to descend from the tree; and hurrying forward called his followers by name.

"Ah! Senor Capitan," cried Costal, seeing him advance, "I am glad you are still on your feet. Seeing your horse along with ours I had fears that some misfortune had happened to you. Quick!" continued he, addressing himself to Clara, and leaping out of the saddle, "we must back to the lake at once, else Matlacuezc—. Senor Don Cornelio, you will be good enough to wait for us here. We have important matters on hand, and need to be alone."

At this moment, however, a new incident arose to interrupt the designs of Costal. Five horsemen, and a litera carried by mules, appeared suddenly in the open ground by the edge of the wood. It was Don Mariano with his domestics.

Having heard Don Cornelio pronounce the well-known names of two of his old servitors, the haciendado had advanced in the direction whence the voice proceeded, full of hope in this unexpected succour which heaven seemed to have sent to him. He had seen the party of brigands as they rode past with the torches; and his people had easily recognised their old fellow-servants, Arroyo and Bocardo. It was a relief to know that two more faithful than they—Costal and Clara—were in the same neighbourhood. He advanced, therefore, calling them by name, while he also pronounced the name of Lantejas—asking if it were the Don Cornelio Lantejas who had once been his guest at the hacienda of Las Palmas.

"Yes; certainly I am the same," replied the Captain, agreeably surprised at thus finding himself among friends in a place which, up to that moment, had appeared to him so melancholy and desolate.

Before any conversation could take place between Don Cornelio and his former host, an incident of a still more thrilling character was to be enacted on the scene. From behind the belt of the cedrela forest—into which Arroyo and his followers had ridden but a few minutes before—six horsemen were seen debouching at full gallop, as if riding for their lives; while close upon their heels came six others, who appeared straining after them in eager pursuit!

For a moment the six in front seemed to waver in their course—as if undecided as to what direction they should take. Only for a moment, however, and then heading their horses along the shore of the lake, they pressed on in wildest flight. Galloping at such a rapid pace they appeared not to see either the party of Don Mariano or Don Cornelio and his two followers—who on their part had scarce time to draw back into the bushes, ere the horsemen went sweeping past the spot like a cloud of dust.

Despite the rapidity of their course, however, the keen eye of Costal enabled him to distinguish among the horsemen two of his old fellow-servants of Las Palmas—Arroyo and Bocardo.

"We are on dangerous ground here, comrade," said he in a whisper to Clara. "It is Arroyo and Bocardo, pursued, no doubt, by the royalists. Whichever wins it is no good for us."

He had scarce finished his speech, when the six horsemen in pursuit passed the group, going at a pace not less rapid and furious than the others. One of the pursuers, of commanding figure, was several lengths ahead of the other five. Bent down almost to the level of his horse's neck, he appeared to be straining every muscle in the pursuit; and although his horse seemed rather to fly than gallop, the rider still kept urging him with the spur.

Clutching convulsively his broad-brimmed sombrero—which the rapid course had lifted from his head—he crushed it down over his brows in such a manner that his face was almost hidden by it. His horse at the same instant, whether frightened by the litera of Gertrudis, or by some other object, shied suddenly to one side—as he did so giving utterance to a strange snorting sound, which was responded to by a feeble cry from behind the curtains of the litera.

The cry was not heard by the horseman, who, absorbed with the pursuit of his enemy, passed on without turning his head.

Gertrudis was not the only one who trembled with emotion on recognising the snort of the steed. It brought vividly to the remembrance of Captain Lantejas the chase he had sustained on the plain of Huajapam— just before the powerful arm of Colonel Tres-Villas had lifted him out of his stirrups.

Neither could Don Mariano fail to recognise the peculiarity of a steed that he had so long kept in his stables; and as for the rider, the figure appeared to answer for that of Don Rafael. Could it indeed be he whom they believed to be at the siege of Huajapam? Don Mariano could scarce doubt that it was Colonel Tres-Villas who had ridden past.

"By all the devils in hell!" cried Costal, swearing like a pagan, as he was; "what has set the world mad on this particular night? What sends everybody this way, to interrupt the worshippers of the great Tlaloc?"

"True, it is damnably vexatious," rejoined Clara, who was equally chagrined at this sudden and unexpected intrusion, upon what he regarded as the only chance they might ever have of an interview with the gold-finding goddess.

Putting off their invocations to a more favourable opportunity, both Indian and negro now hastened away to dress and arm themselves, in order that they might be in readiness for any untoward event; while Don Cornelio stayed beside the haciendado and his party.

As yet uncertain how to act, Don Mariano thought it better to remain where he was, and await the result of an action which he could not regard otherwise than with anxiety. It is needless to say that the occupant of the litera listened with still more vivid emotion, mingled with deep apprehension, to the sounds that rung back along the shores of the lake.

The chase was soon too distant to be witnessed by the eye, but upon the still night air could be heard confused cries of terror and vengeance— which indicated to all that the pursuers were closing rapidly upon the pursued.