Carlos and his two companions, after riding to the farthest end of the ravine, also turned to the right, and re-entered the valley of San Ildefonso at its lower extremity. It was quite dark, but all of them knew the road well, and about midnight they arrived near the house of the young ranchero.
A reconnaissance was necessary before they dared approach. That was soon made, and the report brought back that all was right, and no troopers had yet made their appearance.
Carlos once more embraced his mother hurriedly, related what had passed, gave some instructions to Don Juan, and then, mounting his horse, rode off from the place.
He was followed by Antonio and a pack-mule loaded with provisions. They passed down the valley, and struck out in the direction of the Llano Estacado.
Chapter Thirty Nine
On the following day a new incident created a fresh surprise among the inhabitants of San Ildefonso, already excited by an unusual series of “novedades.” About noon a party of lancers passed through the town on their way to the Presidio. They were returning from a scout in search of the “assassin” – so Carlos was designated. Of him they had found no traces; but they had fallen in with a large body of “Indios bravos” among the spurs of the mountains, with whom they had had a terrific conflict! This had resulted in the loss of great numbers killed on the part of the Indians, who had contrived, as usual, to carry off their dead – hence, the soldiers had returned without scalps! They had brought, however, – a far more positive trophy of victory – a young girl belonging to the settlement, whom they had re-captured from the savages, and whom Captain Roblado – the gallant leader of the expedition —
supposed
to be the same that had been carried off few days before from a rancho at the lower end of the valley!
The captain halted in the plaza, with a few men – those in charge of the recovered captive. The remainder of the troop passed on to the Presidio. Roblado’s object in stopping in the town, or in coming that way – for it did not lie in his return route – was threefold. First, to deliver his charge into the hands of the civic authorities; secondly, to make sure that everybody should witness the delivery, and be satisfied by this living evidence that a great feat had been performed; and thirdly, that he might have the opportunity of a little swagger in front of a certain balcony.
These three objects the captain attained, but the last of them did not turn out quite to his satisfaction. Although the bugle had played continuously, announcing the approach of a troop – although the recovered captive was placed conspicuously in the ranks – and although his (Roblado’s) horse, under the influence of sharp spurs, pitched himself into the most superb attitudes, all went for nothing – Catalina did not show in the balcony! Among the faces of “dependientes” and “criados,” hers was not to be seen; and the triumphant look of the victorious leader, as soon as he had ridden past, changed to a gloomy expression of disappointment.
A few minutes after, he dismounted in front of the “Casa de Cabildo,” where he delivered the girl into the hands of the alcalde and other authorities of the town. This ceremony was accompanied by a grandiloquent speech, in which an account of the recapture was given with some startling details; sympathy was expressed for the parents of the girl,
whoever they might be
; and the speaker wound up by expressing his opinion that the unfortunate captive could be no other than the young girl reported to have been carried off a few days before!
All this was very plausible and proper; and Roblado, having resigned his charge to the keeping of the alcalde, mounted and rode off amidst a storm of complimentary phrases from the authorities, and “vivas” of applause from the populace.
“
Dios lo pague, capitan
!” (God reward you, captain!) was the prayer that reached his ears as he pushed through the crowd!
A keen physiognomist could at that moment have detected in the corner of Roblado’s eye a very odd expression – a mingling of irony with a strong desire to laugh. In fact, the gallant captain could hardly keep from bursting out in the faces of his admirers, and was only restrained from doing so by the desire of keeping the joke bottled up till he could enjoy it in the company of the Comandante – to whom he was now hastening.
Back to the captive.
The crowd pressed around her, all eager to gratify their curiosity. Strange to say that this feeling predominated. There was less appearance of sympathy than might have been looked for under the circumstances. The number of those that uttered the “pobrecita!” – that tender expression of Mexican pity – was few; and they were principally the poor dark-skinned native women. The well-dressed shopkeepers, both Gachupinos and Criollos, both met and women, looked on with indifference, or with no other feeling than that of morbid curiosity.
Such an indifference to suffering is by no means a characteristic of the New Mexican people – I should rather say of the females of that land – for the men are brutal enough. As regards the former, the very opposite character is theirs.
Their conduct would be unaccountable, therefore, but for the knowledge of a fact which guided it on this occasion. They knew who the captive girl was – they knew she was the sister of Carlos the cibolero – Carlos
the murderer
! This it was that checked the flow of their bettor feelings.
Against Carlos the popular indignation was strong. “Asesino,” “ladron,” “ingrato,” were the terms used in speaking of him. A wretch! to have murdered the good lieutenant – the favourite of the place; and for what motive? Some paltry quarrel or jealousy! What motive, indeed? There seemed no motive but a thirst of blood on the part of this “demonio,” this “güero heretico.” Ungrateful wretch, too, to have attempted the life of the valiant Comandante – he who had been striving all he could to recover the assassin’s sister from the Indian savages!
And now he had actually succeeded! Only think of it! There she was, brought safe home again by the agency of this very Comandante, who had sent his captain and soldiers for her, – this very man whom he would have killed!
Demonio! asesino! ladron
! They would all be glad to see him seated in the chair of the “garrote.” No “buen Catolico” would have acted as he had done – no one but a sinful “heretico” – a blood-loving “Americano”! How he would be punished
when caught
!
Such were the feelings of all the populace, except, perhaps, the poor slaves – the
mansos
– and a very few Criollos, who, although not approving of the acts of Carlos, held revolutionary principles, and hated the Spanish
régime
with all their hearts.
With such prejudice against the cibolero, no wonder that there was but little sympathy for the forlorn creature, his sister:
That it
was
his sister no one doubted, although there were few on the spot who knew either. Up to the day of the fiesta her brother, now so notorious, was but little known to the inhabitants of the town, which he rarely visited – she less; and there were but few in the place who had ever seen her before that hour. But the identity was unmistakeable. The fair, golden hair, the white skin, the glowing red of the cheeks, though common in other parts of the world, were rare characteristics in North Mexico. The proclamation upon the walls described the “asesino” as possessing them. This could be no other than his sister. Besides, there were those who had seen her at the fiesta, where her beauty had not failed to attract both admiration and envy.
She looked beautiful as ever, though the red was not so bright on her cheek, and a singular, wild expression appeared in her eyes. To the questions put to her she either answered not or returned vague replies. She sat in silence; but several times broke forth into strange, unintelligible, exclamatory phrases, in which the words “Indios” and “barbaros” repeatedly occurred.
“
Esta loco
!” (“She is mad!”) muttered one to another; “she fancies she is still with the savages!”
Perhaps it was so. Certainly she was not among friends.
The alcalde inquired if there was any one present – relative or friend – to whom he could deliver her up.
A young girl, a poblana, who had just arrived on the spot, came forward. She knew the “pobrecita.” She would take charge of her, and conduct her to her home.
A half-Indian woman was in company with the poblana. It might have been her mother. Between the two the restored captive was led away; and the crowd soon dispersed and returned to their various avocations.
The girl and her conductors turned into a narrow street that led through the suburb where the poorest people lived. Passing this, they emerged into the open country; and then, following an unfrequented path through the chapparal, a few hundred yards brought them to a small mud rancho, which they entered. In a few minutes after a carreta, in which sat a peon, was driven up to the door, and stopped there.
The poblana, leading the girl by the hand, came out of the house, and both mounted into the carreta. As soon as the two were seated upon the bunches of dry “zacato” thrown into the carreta for this purpose, the driver goaded his oxen and moved off. The vehicle, after passing out of the chapparal path, took the main road leading to the lower settlements of the valley.
As they moved on the poblana regarded her companion with kind looks, and assisted her in arranging her seat, so as to defend her as much as possible against the joltings of the carreta. She added numerous expressions of a sympathising and consolatory character, but none that bespoke recognition or old acquaintance. It was evident that the girl had never seen Rosita before.
When they had got about a mile from the town, and were moving along an unfrequented part of the road, a horseman was seen coming after, and at such speed as to overtake them in a few minutes. He was mounted on a pretty mustang that bore the signs of being well cared for. Its flanks were rounded with fat, and it capered as it galloped along.
As it came close to the carreta the rider called out to the driver to stop; and it then appeared that the
horseman
was a
woman
, as the soft sweet voice at once indicated. More than that, the rider was a
señorita
, as the soft cheek, the silky hair, and the delicate features, showed. At a distance it was natural enough to have taken her for one of the opposite sex. A common serapé covered her shoulders; a broad-brimmed sombrero concealed most of her black shining hair; and she rode according to the general custom of the country – the custom of its men.
“Why, Señorita! – is it you?” asked the poblana, in a tone of surprise, and with a gesture of respect.
“Ha! ha! you did not know me, then, Josefa?”
“No, Señorita; —
ay de mi
! how could I in that disguise?”
“Disguise do you call it? Why, it is the usual costume!”
“True, Señorita; but not for a grand señora like you.
Carrambo
!”
“Well, I think I must be disguised, as I passed several acquaintances who would not bow to me! Ha! ha!”
“
Pobrecita
—
ita
—
ita
!” continued she, suddenly changing her tone, and regarding Josefa’s companion with a look of kind sympathy. “How she must have suffered! Poor dear girl! I fear it is true what they have told me.
Santisima Virgen
! how like – ”
The phrase was left unfinished. The speaker had forgotten the presence of Josefa and the peon, and was delivering her thoughts in too loud a soliloquy. The unfinished sentence had involuntarily escaped from her lips.
Suddenly checking herself, she looked sharply towards the two. The peon was busy with his oxen, but the poblana’s face wore an expression of curiosity.
“Like whom, Señorita?” innocently inquired she.
“One whom I know. No matter, Josefa.” And, as the lady said this, she raised her finger to her lips, and looked significantly towards the peon.
Josefa, who knew her secret, and who guessed the “one” meant, remained silent. After a moment the lady drew her mustang nearer the carreta, upon the side on which Josefa sat, and, bending over, whispered to the latter: —
“Remain below till the morning; you will be too late to return to-night. Remain! perhaps you may hear something. Come early – not to the house. Be in time for
oration
. You will find me in the church. Perhaps you may see Antonio. If so, give him this.” A diamond set in a golden circlet sparkled a moment at the tips of the lady’s fingers, and then lay hid in the shut fist of the poblana. “Tell him
for whom
– he need not know who sent it. There is money for your expenses, and some to give her; or give it to her mother,
if they will accept it
.” Here a purse fell in Josefa’s lap. “Bring me news! oh, bring me news, dear Josefa!
Adios! adios
!”
The last salutation was uttered hurriedly; and, as the lady pronounced it, she wheeled her glossy mustang and galloped back towards the town.
She need not have doubted that Josefa would fulfil her instructions about “remaining below until the morning!” for the poblana was nearly, if not quite, as much interested as herself in this journey. The rather pretty Josefa chanced to be the sweetheart of the half-blood Antonio; and whether she saw Antonio or not, she was not likely to hurry back that night. If she did see him, so much the pleasanter to remain; if not, she should remain in the hope of such an event.
With a full purse of “pesos” – a sixth of which would pay all expenses – and the prospect of meeting with Antonio, the rough carreta seemed all at once transformed to an elegant coach, with springs and velvet cushions, – such as Josefa had heard of, but had never seen!
The kind-hearted girl readjusted the seats, placed the head of Rosita on her lap, spread her reboso over her to keep off the evening dew, and then told the peon to move on. The latter uttered a loud “ho-ha!” touched his oxen with the goad, and once more set them in motion along the dusty road.
Chapter Forty
Early morning prayer in the “iglesia” is a fashionable custom among the señoras of Mexico – particularly among those who dwell in cities and towns. Close upon the heels of daybreak you may see them issuing from the great doors of their houses, and hurrying through the streets towards the chapel, where the bell has already begun its deafening “ding-dong.” They are muffled beyond the possibility of recognition – the richer in their silken shawls and mantas, the poorer in their slate-coloured rebosos; under the folds of which each carries a little bound volume – the “
misa
.”
Let us follow them into the sacred temple, and see what passes there.
If we arrive late, and take station near the door we shall be presented with the spectacle of several hundred backs in a kneeling position – that is, the individuals to whom the backs belong will be found kneeling.
These backs are by no means alike – no more than faces are. They are of all shapes, and sizes, and colours, and classes in the social scale. You will see the backs of ladies in shawls – some of whom have permitted that elegant garment to fall to the shoulders, while others retain it over the crowns of their heads, thus creating two very distinct styles of back. You will see the backs of pretty poblanas, with the end of their rebosos hanging gracefully over them; and the back of the poblana’s mother with the reboso ill arranged, and not over clean. You will see the back of the merchant scarcely covered with a short cloth jacket, and the back of the “aguador” cased in well-worn leather; the back of the “guapo” muffled in a cloak of fine broad-cloth, and that of the “lepero” shrouded in a ragged scrape; and then you will see broad backs and slender ones, straight backs and crooked ones; and you run a good chance of beholding a hunch or two – especially if the church be in a large town. But wheresoever you enter a Mexican iglesia during prayer-time, I promise you the view of an extensive assortment of backs. Not classified, however. Quite the contrary. The back of the shawled lady may be inclusive between two greasy rebosos, and the striped or speckled back of the lepero may rise up alongside the shining broad-cloth of the dandy! I do not answer for any classification of the backs; I only guarantee their extensive number and variety. The only face that is likely to confront you at this moment will be the shaven phiz of a fat priest, in full sacerdotal robes of linen, that were once, no doubt, clean and white, but that look now as if they had been sent to the buck-basket, and by some mistake brought back before reaching the laundry. This individual, with a look as unlike heaven as the wickedest of his flock, will be seen stirring about on his little stage; now carrying a wand – now a brazen pot of smoking “incense,” and anon some waxen doll – the image of a saint; while in the midst of his manipulations you may hear him “murmuring” a gibberish of ill-pronounced Latin. If you have witnessed the performance of M. Robin, or the “Great Wizard,” you cannot fail to be reminded of them at this moment.
The tinkling of a little bell, which you will presently hear, has a magical effect upon the backs. For a short while you may have observed them in an odd attitude – not erect as backs ought to be, but slouching and one-sided. During this interval, too, you may catch a glance of a face – merely the profile – and if it be pretty, you will forget the back; but then the party is no longer a back in the proper sense. You won’t be struck with the devotion of the profile, if you are with its prettiness. You may observe it wink or look cunningly, and, if your observation be good, you may note another profile, of coarser mould, corresponding to that wink or cunning glance. This goes on while the backs are in their “slouch” or attitude of repose. How that attitude is produced will be to you a mystery, an anatomical puzzle; but it may be explained. It is simple enough to those who know it. It is brought about by the back changing its base from the marrow-bones to the hips; and this is done so adroitly, that, under cover of shawls, mantas, rebosos, and skirts, it is no wonder you are puzzled by it.
The little bell, however, brings the backs all right again. It is to these devotees what the “Attention!” is to the rank and file of an army; and the moment the first tinkle is heard, backs up is the movement, and all become suddenly elevated several inches above their former standard. Thus they remain, stiff and erect, while the priest mumbles a fresh “Ave Maria,” or “Pater noster,” and goes through a fresh exhibition of pantomime. Then the backs are suddenly shortened again, the profiles appear as before – nods, and winks, and cunning glances, are exchanged – and that till the little bell sounds a second time. And then there will be a third course of this performance, and a fourth, and so on, till the worship (!) is ended.
This ridiculous genuflexion and mummery you may see repeated every morning in a Mexican “iglesia,” long before the hour of breakfast. Both men and women engage in it, but by far the greater number of the devotees are of the gentler sex, and many of them the fashionable señoras of the place.
One is inclined to inquire into the motives that draw so many people out of their beds, to shiver through the streets and in the cold church at such an early hour. Is it religion? Is it superstition? Is it penance? Is it devotion? No doubt many of these silly creatures really believe that the act is pleasing to God; that these genuflexions and orisons, mechanically repeated, will give them grace in His eyes. But it is very certain that many of the most constant attendants on these morning prayers are actuated by very different feelings. In a land of jealous men you will find the women peculiarly intelligent and cunning, and the matutinal hour is to them the “golden opportunity.” He is a very jealous guardian, indeed, whose vigil tempts him from his couch at so chill an hour!
Await the end of the performance by the door of the “iglesia.” There stands a large vase filled with the consecrated water. Each, in passing out, takes a dip and a sprinkle. In this basin you will see the small jewelled hand immerse its finger-tips, and the next moment adroitly deliver a
carte d’amour
to some cloaked cavallero. Perhaps you may see the wealthy señora, in the safe disguise of the serapé, leave the church in a direction opposite to that by which she came. If you are curious enough to follow – which would be extremely ill-bred – you may witness under the trees of the “alameda,” or some unfrequented quarter, the forbidden “
entrevista
.”
The morning, in a Mexican city, has its adventures as well as the night.
The bell of the church of San Ildefonso had just commenced to ring for “oracion,” when a female form was seen issuing from the gateway of one of the largest mansions of the town, and taking the direction of the church. It was yet scarce daybreak, and the person thus observed was closely muffled; but her tall upright form, the dignity and grace of her carriage, and the proud elastic step told that she was a grand señora. As she reached the portal of the church she stopped for some moments and looked around. Her face was not visible, as it was “tapada” under the folds of a closely-drawn manta; but her attitude, with her head occasionally moving around, showed that she was scanning the figures that, at the summons of the bell, approached like shadows through the grey light. She was evidently expecting some one; and from the eager scrutiny with which she regarded each new form that entered the plaza, it was some one whose presence was much desired.
The last of the devotees had arrived and entered the church. It would be idle to remain longer; and, turning on her heel with an air that betokened disappointment, the lady glided across the portal, and disappeared through the door.
In another moment she was kneeling in front of the altar, repeating her orisons and telling over the beads of her rosary.
She was not the last to enter the church; still another devotee came later. About the time that she was leaving the portal a carreta drove into the plaza, and halted in a remote corner. A young girl leaped out of the carreta, tripped nimbly across the square, in the direction of the church, and passed within the portal. The dress of this new-comer – a flaming red “nagua,” broidered chemisette, and reboso – showed that she belonged to the poorer class of citizens. She was a poblana.
She entered the church, but before kneeling she threw an inquiring glance along the array of backs. Her eye became fixed upon one that was covered with a manta. It was that of the lady of whom we have spoken. This seemed to satisfy the poblana, who, gliding over the floor, knelt down in such a position that her elbow almost rested against that of the lady.
So silently had this movement been executed that the lady did not perceive her new neighbour until a slight “nudge” upon the elbow caus