The Insurgent Chief
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"Among the strangers who have arrived this morning at Casa-Frama, one of them is charged with claiming your being immediately set at liberty, on the part of the Marquis de Castelmelhor – your husband, Madame – your father, Señora. This stranger is named Don Sebastiao Vianna, wears the costume of a Portuguese officer, and is, he says, aide-de-camp of General the Marquis de Castelmelhor. I ought to avow that in this matter Don Pablo Pincheyra has conducted himself as a true caballero. After having denied that you were his prisoners, he nobly refused the sum proposed for your ransom, and engaged to place you today in the hands of Don Sebastiao, who is, under his escort, to conduct you to your husband."
There was a minute's silence. The marchioness was pale, her eyebrows knitted under the influence of internal emotion, and her fixed look denoted an intense feeling, which she repressed with difficulty. Doña Eva, on the contrary, brightened up; the hope of liberty illuminated her features with a halo of happiness.
The young man looked at the marchioness without understanding this emotion, the cause of which he vainly sought. At last she said:
"Are you really certain, caballero," said she, "that the officer of whom you speak is named Don Sebastiao Vianna?"
"Perfectly, Señora. I have several times heard him called in my presence; besides, it would be quite impossible for me to invent a name that I have never before today heard pronounced."
"It is true; and yet what you tell me is so extraordinary, that I confess I do not dare to believe it, and that I fear a snare."
"Oh, my mother," cried Doña Eva, in a tone of reproach, "Don Sebastiao Vianna, the most loyal man, and the most – "
"Which assures you, my daughter," quickly interrupted the marchioness, "that this man is really Don Sebastiao."
"Oh, Madame," said the young man.
"Caballero Don Sebastiao was, scarcely two months ago, in Europe," answered the marchioness, in a peremptory tone.
This remark fell like a thunderbolt in the midst of the conversation, and suddenly chilled the hope in the heart of the young girl.
At the same moment a whistle sounded from without.
"Tyro warns me," said Emile, "that someone comes this way; I can stay no longer. Whatever happens, do not abandon yourself to despair, feign to accept, whatever they are, the propositions that will be made to you; anything is preferable to you than to remain longer here. I also will watch. I shall soon see you again – courage! Reckon on me."
And without waiting for the answer that the two ladies were doubtless preparing to make, the young man darted into the street.
Tyro, who was watching for his appearance, seized him quickly by the arm, and led him towards the toldo.
"Look!" said he.
The painter leant forward cautiously, and perceived Don Pablo Pincheyra, his sister, the Portuguese officer, and three or four other persons, who were going towards the habitation of the ladies.
"Hum!" he exclaimed; "it was time – "
"Is it not? But I was watching, happily."
"Come, Tyro, let us return to my place. Don Santiago must expect me."
"You have given me a rendezvous?"
"Yes."
"Well, have I deceived you, my friend?"
"No, certainly; what I have seen has surpassed my expectation. But who, then, is this Don Sebastiao?"
The Guaraní answered by a sneer of bad omen.
"There is something, is there not?" asked Emile, with uneasiness.
"With the Pincheyras there is always something, my friend," pursued the Indian, in a low voice; "but here we are at your toldo; be prudent."
"Inform the gauchos that probably we shall set out today; prepare all, so that we may be ready."
"We are going to leave?"
"I hope so."
"Oh, then, all is not yet lost."
They entered the toldo; it was deserted; Don Santiago had not yet appeared.
Whilst Tyro went to tell the gauchos to get ready, to saddle their horses, and to bring the baggage mules from the corral, the young man proceeded, with feverish rapidity, to make his preparations.
So when, half an hour later, Don Santiago entered the toldo, the suspicious look that he threw around him did not reveal anything which could give rise to a suspicion that the Frenchman had not commenced his task immediately after having quitted him.
"Ah! Ah!" exclaimed the young man on seeing him, "Welcome, Don Santiago, especially if you bring my safe conduct."
"I bring it you," laconically answered Don Santiago.
"Pardieu! It must be confessed that you are a valuable friend; Don Pablo has not made any difficulties?"
"None."
"Well, he is really very obliging to me; so I can set out?"
"Yes, on two conditions."
"Ah! There are conditions! And what are they?"
"The first is, that you will set out immediately, and without seeing anyone," added he, carefully emphasising the last part of his sentence.
"My people?"
"You shall take them with you; what do you think that we should do with them here?"
"You are right; well – but this condition pleases me much; you know that I especially desire to set out without taking leave of anyone whatever. It's all for the best, then. Now, what is the second condition; if it is like the first, I doubt not that I shall accept it without hesitation."
"Here it is: Don Pablo desires that I escort you, with a dozen horsemen, for a few leagues from here."
"Ah!" exclaimed the young man.
"Does that displease you?"
"Me!" answered Emile, laughing, for he had already recovered his coolness; "Why should it be displeasing to me? I am, on the contrary, very grateful to you, brother, for this new favour. He, no doubt, fears that I should wander in the inextricable mazes of these mountains," added he, with an ironical emphasis.
"I do not know; he has ordered me to escort you; I obey – that is all."
"That is right, and particularly logical."
"So you accept these two conditions?"
"With gratitude."
"Then we will set out when you like."
"I would say immediately, but, unfortunately, I am obliged to wait for my horses, which have not yet come from the corral."
"It is not yet late, so there is no time lost."
"Now that we are agreed, suppose we take a drop of brandy?"
"Upon my word I shall be delighted, Señor."
The Frenchman took a bottle and poured out some brandy into two horn goblets.
"To your health!" said he, drinking.
"To your pleasant journey!" answered Don Santiago.
"Thank you."
A sound of horses was heard from without.
"Here are your animals."
"Then we shall be ready in a few minutes. If you like, while we are loading, inform the men who are to accompany you."
"They have been told; they are waiting for us in the intrenchments."
Tyro and the gauchos then proceeded, aided by Emile and Don Santiago, to load the two mules and to saddle the horses.
The Frenchman, accustomed to travel in these countries, had very little luggage; he never carried with him anything but what was indispensable.
Half an hour afterwards the caravan started out at a gentle pace, accompanied by Don Santiago, who followed it on foot, smoking his cigarette, and talking with the young man in a friendly way.
As the Montonero had said, a dozen horsemen were waiting at the intrenchments.
The Pincheyra mounted his horse, gave the order of departure; the keepers opened the barriers, and the little troop quitted the camp in good order.
CHAPTER IX
IN THE MOUNTAIN
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon when Emile Gagnepain left the camp. Notwithstanding the rather suspicious escort by which he was accompanied, it was with a sigh of satisfaction that the young man at last saw himself clear of this repair of bandits, from which at one time he feared he should never again set out.
The route which the little caravan followed was most picturesque and varied. A narrow path wound on the side of the mountains, almost always close to unfathomable precipices, from the base of which arose mysterious murmurs produced by invisible waters. Sometimes a bridge formed by two trunks of trees thrown across a chasm, which suddenly interrupted the route, was crossed, as if in play, by horses and mules for a long time accustomed to walk over routes more perilous still.
Obliged to travel one behind the other, owing to the narrowness of the scarcely traced path which they were pursuing, the travellers could not talk to each other; it was scarcely possible for them to exchange a few words, and they were constrained to abandon themselves to their own thoughts, or to charm the weariness of the journey by singing or whistling. It was in thus examining the abrupt and wild landscape by which he was surrounded that the young man formed a good idea of the formidable and almost impregnable position chosen by the partisan for his headquarters, and the great influence that this position must give him over the dismayed inhabitants of the plain. He shuddered as he thought of the imprudence he had committed in allowing himself to be taken to this fortress which, like the infernal circles of Dante, was by nature surrounded by impassable intrenchments, and which never gave up the prey that had once been drawn into it. A crowd of melancholy stories of young girls, who had been carried away and had disappeared, recurred to his mind, and, by a strange reaction of thought, he experienced a kind of retrospective turn – if we may be allowed the expression – in thinking of the terrible dangers that he had run in the midst of these lawless bandits, by whom, in many instances, the law of nations – sacred among all civilised peoples – had not been respected.
Then, from reflection to reflection – by a very natural gradation – his mind fixed itself on the ladies whom he had left without support or protection in the midst of these men. Although he had only left them with the design of attempting a last effort for their deliverance, his conscience reproached him for having abandoned them; for, notwithstanding the absolute impossibility of his being useful to them at Casa-Frama, he was convinced that his presence was a check upon the Pincheyras, and that before him none of them would have dared to have subjected the captives to any brutal act.
A prey to these painful thoughts, he felt his spirits sadden by degrees, and the joy that he had at first experienced on seeing himself so unexpectedly at liberty gave place to the despondency which several times already had seized on him, and had destroyed his energy.
He was drawn from these reflections by the voice of Don Santiago, which suddenly fell upon his ear.
The young man quickly raised his head, and looked round him like a man suddenly awakened.
The landscape had completely changed. The path had by degrees become broader, and had assumed the appearance of a regular route; the mountains were lower; their sides were now covered with verdant forests, the leafy summits of which were tinted with all the colours of the rainbow by the mild rays of the setting sun. The caravan emerged at this moment into a rather extensive plain, surrounded by thick shrubbery and traversed by a narrow stream, the capricious meanderings of which were lost here and there in the midst of high and thick grass.
"What do you want?" asked the Frenchman, who, susceptible like all artists, had become absorbed, unknown to himself, by the influence of this majestic landscape, and felt gaiety replace the sadness which had for a long time oppressed him; "What do you want now, Don Santiago?"
"The devil!" exclaimed the latter; "It is fortunate that you have at last consented to answer me. For more than quarter of an hour I have been speaking to you without getting a word out of you. It seems as if you had been sound asleep, companion."
"Pardon me, Señor, I was not asleep; I was reflecting, which is often much about the same."
"¡Demonio! I will not quibble about that; but as you now consent to listen to me, will you be so good as to answer me?"
"I am quite agreeable; but that I may do so, it will be necessary, my dear Don Santiago, to repeat your question, of which I assure you I have not heard a word."
"I will do so, although, without exaggeration, I have done so at least ten times to no purpose."
"I have already begged you to excuse me."
"I know it, and I therefore will not be offended at your inattention. This is what I have to say: it is at least six o'clock; the sun is setting amidst coppery clouds of the worst kind; I fear a storm tonight."
"Oh! Oh!" exclaimed the young man; "Are you sure of that?"
"I have too much acquaintance with these mountains to be deceived."
"Hum! And what do you intend to do?"
"That is what I ask; that concerns you at least as much as me, I suppose."
"Just so – even more, since it is for my sake that you have agreed to accompany me. Well, what is your advice. I will at once adopt the expedients that your experience may suggest, and accept them without question."
"That is what I call speaking, and your answer is none the worse for making me wait for it. My advice, then would be to stop here, where we can – unless there is a deluge impossible to foresee – place ourselves under shelter from the hurricane, and camp for the night. What do you think of it?"
"I think that you are right, and that it would be folly, under circumstances like those, considering the advanced hour – especially the charming spot where we are – to persist in going further."
"Especially as it would be almost impossible for us to reach as good a refuge as this, before it is quite dark."
"Let us stop, then, without further discussion, and let us hasten to make our encampment."
"Well, dear Señor, as it is to be so, alight and let us unload the mules."
"Very good," said the young man, leaping from his horse – a movement immediately imitated by the Pincheyra.
Don Santiago had spoken truly. The sun was setting, drowned in waves of dull clouds; the evening breeze was rising with some force; the birds wheeled in large circles, uttering discordant cries – everything, in fact, foretold one of those terrible hurricanes called temporales, the violence of which is so great that the country over which they wreak their vengeance is in a few minutes completely changed and thrown into disorder, as if an earthquake had shattered it.
The painter had several times, since his arrival in America, been in a position to witness the terrifying spectacle of these frightful convulsions of nature in labour. Knowing the inconvenience of the danger then, he hastened to prepare everything, so that the tempest might do as little damage as possible. The baggage piled together in the centre of the valley, not far from the stream, formed a solid rampart against the greatest fury of the wind; the horses were left free and abandoned to that infallible instinct with which Providence has endowed them, and which in giving them a foreknowledge of the danger, suggests to them the means of escaping from it. Then, in a hole dug in haste, they lit the fire for cooking the slices of charqui, or wild bull's flesh dried in the sun, destined, with the harina tostada and a little queso of goat's flesh, for the evening meal. The water from the brook served to satisfy the thirst of the travellers, for, except Don Santiago and the painter, who were each provided with a large bota of white brandy, they did not carry with them either wine or liqueurs; but this forgetfulness, if it really was such, was of little importance for men of such great frugality as the Hispano-Americans – people who live, so to speak, on nothing, and whose hunger or thirst is appeased by the first thing which offers itself.
The meal was what it should be among men who expect from one moment to another to see a terrible and inevitable danger fall upon them – that is to say, sorrowful and silent. Each ate in haste, without holding conversation with his neighbour; then, hunger satisfied and the cigarette lighted, the travellers, without even wishing good night to each other, enveloped themselves in their frazadas and their pellones, and tried to sleep with that placid resignation which forms the foundation of the character of the Creoles, and makes them accept without useless murmurs the frequently disastrous consequences of the nomadic life to which they are condemned.
Soon, with the exception of the three or four sentinels placed on the outskirts of the encampment, in order to guard against the approach of wild beasts, and the two chiefs of the caravan – that is to say, Don Santiago and Emile – all were plunged into deep sleep.
The Pincheyra appeared thoughtful; he smoked his cigarette, his back leaning on a trunk of a tree, and his eyes directed straight forward, without looking on any object. The Frenchman, on the contrary, more wakeful and more gay than ever, was humming a tune and amusing himself by digging with the point of a knife a hole in which he piled some dry wood, evidently intending to light a watch fire to warm his feet, when he felt inclined to go to sleep.
"Eh! Don Santiago," said he at last, addressing Pincheyra, and touching him lightly on the shoulder, "what are you thinking of now? Is it that you are not going to try and sleep for a couple of hours?"
The Chilian shook his head without answering.
"What does it matter?" pursued the young man persistently – "You, who a little while ago reproached me for my melancholy – you seem to have inherited it, upon my word. Is it the weight of the atmosphere that influences you?"
"Do you take me for a woman?" answered he at last, in a surly tone; "What matters to me the state of the sky? Am I not a child of the mountains, accustomed from my infancy to brave the most terrible storms?"
"But, then, what is it that distresses you?"
"What is it? Do you wish to know?"
"Pardieu! Since I ask it."
Don Santiago shook his head, threw around him a suspicious look, and then at last made up his mind to speak in a low and almost indistinct voice, as if he feared to be heard, although all his companions were asleep at too great a distance for the sound of his voice to reach them.
"I have," said he, "but one thing which vexes me."
"You, Don Santiago – you much astonish me; can it be that you are on bad terms with your brother, Don Pablo?"
"My brother, it is true, has something to do with the affair, but with him personally I have no misunderstanding – at least I believe so, for with him one never knows how to act; no, it is only on your account that I am chagrined just now."
"On my account!" cried the young man with surprise, "I confess I do not understand you."
"Speak lower; there is no occasion for our companions to hear what we say. Look you, Don Emile, I wish to be frank with you. We are about to separate, perhaps never to see one another again – and I hope, for your sake, it may be so. I wish our parting to be friendly, and that you should not entertain any ill feeling against me."
"I assure you, Don Santiago – "
"I know what I say," interrupted he, with some vivacity; "you have rendered me a great service. I cannot deny that, to a certain extent, I owe my life to you, for when I met you in the cavern of the rancho my position was almost desperate; well, I have not, in appearance, conducted myself towards you as I ought to have done. I engaged myself to shelter you and yours from the danger which threatened you, and I have conducted you to Casa-Frama, when I ought, on the contrary, to have taken you in quite an opposite direction. I know that I have acted badly in this aspect, and you have a right to entertain ill feeling to me. But I was not free to do otherwise. I was forced to obey a will stronger than my own – the will of my brother – whom no one has ever dared to resist. Now, I acknowledge my fault, and I wish as much as possible to repair the evil I have done, and that I have allowed to be done."
"That is speaking like a caballero and a man of heart, Don Santiago. Be assured that, come what may, I shall be pleased at what you tell me at this moment; but, since you have begun so well, do not leave me any longer in the painful doubt in which I now am; answer me sincerely, will you?"
"Yes, as far as it depends on me."
"The ladies that I have been obliged to abandon, do they run any danger at present?"
"I think so."
"On the part of your brother?"
"Yes, on his, and others also. These two strangers have implacable enemies bent on their destruction."
"Poor women!" murmured the young man, sighing; "They will not, then, leave the camp?"
"Yes; tomorrow, at sunrise, they will quit it, escorted by the officer who, in our presence, claimed them of my brother."
"Do you know that officer?"
"A little."
"Who is he?"
"That I cannot say; I have sworn not to reveal it to anyone."
The Frenchman saw that he must not persist, so he modified his questions.
"What route will they take?" asked he.
"That which we are following."
"And they are going – "
"Towards the Brazilian frontier."
"So they will rejoin General Castelmelhor?"
The Pincheyra shook his head negatively.
"Then why take this direction?"
"I do not know."
"And, nevertheless, you think that danger threatens them?"
"Terrible."
"Of what kind?"
"I do not know."
The young man stamped his foot with vexation. These continual reticences on the part of the partisan disquieted him more than the truth, so frightful that he kept watching out to hear it.
"So," pursued he, after a pause, "supposing I remain here for some time, I shall see them."
"There is no doubt of it."
"What do you advise?"
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Nothing; I am not, like you, in love with Doña Eva," said he, with a certain tinge of raillery which made the young man start.
"In love with Doña Eva!" – cried he – "I!"
"What other motive could induce you, with all the chances against you, to risk your life to save her, if it were not so."
The young man did not answer. A light flashed suddenly on his mind. That secret, which he had hid from himself, others knew it; and when he did not dare to question himself on this insensate love which burned within him, the certainty of its existence was discovered even by strangers.
"Oh!" stammered he at last; "Don Santiago, do you think me capable of such a folly?"
"I do not know if it is a folly to love when one is young and ardent as you are," coldly answered the Pincheyra. "I have never loved but my horse and my gun; but I know well that the love of two young and handsome beings is a law of nature, and that I do not see what reason you should have to try and escape from it I do not blame you or approve you; I state a fact – that is all."
The young painter was astonished to hear a man speak thus who, up to that time, he had supposed to be endowed with a very moderate share of intelligence, and all whose aspirations seemed to him directed towards war and pillage. This half savage, uttering with so careless an air sentiments so humanely philosophic, seemed to him an incomprehensible phenomenon.
The Pincheyra, without appearing to notice the impression that he had produced on his companion, continued quietly —
"The officer who escorts these ladies, not only is ignorant of your love for the youngest of the two ladies, but he is not even aware that you know them. For particular and personal reasons, my brother has thought proper to keep silence on that subject. I give you this information, the correctness of which I guarantee, because it will be of service to you in case of need."
"Now, it is too late."
"Don Emile, know this – that immediately after our conversation my companions and I will withdraw, for our mission is terminated; and if I have remained so long with you, it is because I decided to tell you certain things."
"I thank you for it."
"Well, I am certain that you will not quit this place without having tried, not only to see these ladies again, but to carry them off from those who have them in charge – which, for that matter, would not be impossible, since they will be but a dozen at the most. I wish you good fortune from the bottom of my heart, for I like you. Only, take my advice – act with prudence; cunning has united more bonds than force has broken. Follow the counsel that I give you, and I hope that you will find it good. Now we must separate; I have, if not repaired, at least lessened the serious consequences of the fault I have been obliged to commit. Let us part as two friends. The only hope that I have is, that we shall never see one another again."