Gustave Aimard
The Rebel Chief: A Tale of Guerilla Life

The room into which Oliver was thus introduced was elegantly furnished, large Venetian blinds interrupted the rays of the sun, the floor was covered with one of those soft pelates which the Indians alone know how to manufacture; a hammock of aloe fibre suspended by silver rings from hooks of the same material divided the room in two. A man was lying in this hammock fast asleep. It was Don Melchior de la Cruz; a knife with a curiously embossed silver hilt, with a wide long blade sharp as a viper's tongue, was placed on a low sandalwood table within reach, by the side of two magnificent revolvers.

Even in his own house, in the middle of Puebla, Don Melchior thought it right to be on his guard against a surprise or treachery. His fears, however, were not at all exaggerated, for the man who is at that moment before him might fairly be reputed one of his most formidable enemies.

The adventurer surveyed him for some minutes, then advanced softly to the hammock without producing the slightest noise. He took the revolvers, concealed them under his gown, seized the knife, and then gently touched the sleeper. Though the touch, was so light, it sufficed to arouse Don Melchior. He at once opened his eyes, and stretched out his arm to the table by a mechanical movement.

"It is useless," Oliver said to him, coldly; "the weapons are no longer there."

At the sound of this well-known voice Don Melchior sprang up as if moved by a spring, and fixing a haggard eye on the man standing motionless before him, he asked, in a voice choked by horror —

"Who are you?"

"Have you not recognized me yet?" the adventurer remarked, jeeringly.

"Who are you?" he repeated.

"Ah! You require a certainty: well, look!" and he threw back his hood on his shoulders.

"Don Adolfo!" the young man muttered, in a hollow voice.

"Why this astonishment?" the adventurer continued, in the same mocking voice. "Did you not expect me? Still, you should have supposed that I would come to seek you."

Don Melchior remained for a moment as if lost in thought. "Be it so," he at length said, "After all it is better to come to an end once for all," and he sat down again, apparently calm and careless, on the edge of the hammock.

Oliver smiled. "Very good," he said; "I would sooner see you thus: let us talk, we have time."

"Then you have not come with the intention of assassinating me?" he asked, ironically.

"Oh! What a bad thought that is of yours, my dear sir! I raise a hand against you! Oh, no! Heaven preserve me from it! That is the hangman's business, and I should be most sorry to poach on the manor of that estimable functionary."

"The fact is," he exclaimed, impetuously, "that you have entered my house as a malefactor, in disguise, of course, to assassinate me."

"You repeat yourself, and that is clumsy; if I have come to you in disguise it is because circumstances compelled me to take the precaution, that is all: moreover, I only followed your example," and suddenly changing his tone, he added – "by the by, are you satisfied with Juárez? Has he rewarded your treachery handsomely? I have heard say that he is a very greedy and mean Indian, and so, I suppose, he contented himself with making you promises?"

Don Melchior smiled disdainfully.

"Did you thus privily enter my house only to talk such trash to me?" he asked.

The adventurer rose, drew a revolver, stepped forward, and regarding him with a look of indescribable contempt, shouted, in a voice of thunder —

"No, scoundrel, I have come to blow out your brains if you refuse to reveal to me what you have done with your sister, Doña Dolores!"

CHAPTER XXI
THE PRISONERS

For some seconds there was a silence, pregnant with menace. The two men were standing face to face. This silence Don Melchior de la Cruz was the first to break.

"Ah, ah, ah!" he said, bursting into a hoarse laugh, and sinking again on the border of the hammock, "Was I so wrong in saying to you, my dear sir, that you entered my house for the purpose of assassinating me?"

The adventurer bit his lip savagely, and the unlucky revolver.

"Well, no!" he exclaimed, in a loud voice; "No, I repeat, I will not kill you, for you are not worthy to die by the hand of an honest man; but I will compel you to confess the truth to me."

The young man looked at him with a singular expression. "Try it," he said, with a disdainful shrug of the shoulders.

Then he began carelessly rolling in his fingers a dainty husk cigarette, lit it, and while sending up to the ceiling a puff of blue and perfumed smoke, he said —

"Come, I am waiting for you."

"Good! This is what I propose to you: you are my prisoner, well, I will restore you to liberty if you will deliver Doña Dolores, I will not say into my hands, but into those of Count de la Saulay, her cousin, whom she is going to marry immediately."

"Hum! This is serious, my dear sir; please to remember that I am my sister's legal guardian."

"How her guardian?"

"Yes, since our father is dead."

"Don Andrés de la Cruz dead?" the adventurer exclaimed, leaping up.

"Alas! Yes," the young man replied, hypocritically raising his eyes to heaven; "we had the grief of losing him the night before last, and he was buried yesterday morning; the poor old gentleman could not resist the frightful misfortunes which have overwhelmed our family. Sorrow crushed him: his end was most affecting."

There was a silence, during which Oliver walked up and down the room. All at once the adventurer stopped in front of the young man.

"Without any further circumlocution," he said to him, "will you, yes or no, restore your sister her liberty?"

"No!" Melchior replied, resolutely.

"Good," the adventurer coldly remarked; "in that case, all the worse for you."

At this moment the door opened, and a tall and elegantly-dressed young man entered the room. At the sight of this young man a cunning smile illumined Don Melchior's face.

"Eh!" he said, to himself, "Things may turn out differently from what this dear Don Adolfo supposes."

The young man bowed politely, and walked up to the master of the house, with whom he shook hands.

"I am disturbing you?" he said, taking a careless glance at the supposed monk.

"On the contrary, my dear Don Diego, you could not arrive more opportunely: but by what chance do I see you at so unusual an hour?"

"I have come to bring you good news: Count de la Saulay, your private enemy, is in our power; but, as he is a Frenchman, and certain considerations must be maintained, the general has decided to send him, under a good escort, to our most illustrious president. Another piece of good news, you are intrusted with the command of this escort."

"¡Demonios!" Don Melchior exclaimed, triumphantly, "You are a good friend. But now it is my turn: look carefully at that monk, do you recognize him? Well, this man is no other than the adventurer called Don Adolfo, Don Olivero, Don Jaime, or by a hundred names, who has so long been sought in vain."

"Can it be possible?" Don Diego exclaimed.

"It is true," Don Adolfo said.

"Within an hour you will be dead – shot like a traitor and bandit!" Melchior exclaimed.

Don Adolfo shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

"It is evident," Don Diego observed, "that this man will be shot; but the president alone has the right of deciding his fate, as he declares that he is a Frenchman."

"Why all the demons seem to belong to that accursed race!" Don Melchior exclaimed, quite disconcerted.

"Well, really I cannot tell you exactly; as regards this man, as he is a daring fellow, and you might be considerably embarrassed by him, I will send him to the president under a separate escort."

"No, no, if you wish to do me a service; let me take him with me; do not be alarmed, I will take such precautions, that, clever as he is, he shall not escape me; still, it will be as well to disarm him."

The adventurer silently handed his weapons to Don Diego. At this moment a footman came in, and announced that the escort was waiting in the street.

"Very good," said Melchior, "let us be off."

The servant gave his master a machete, a brace of pistols, and a zarapé, and buckled on his spurs.

"Now we can start," said Don Melchior.

"Come," said Don Diego, "Señor Don Adolfo, or whatever be your name, be kind enough to go first."

The adventurer obeyed without a word. Twenty-five or thirty soldiers attired in a rather fantastic uniform, mostly in rags, and resembling bandits, much more than honest soldiers, were waiting in the street.

These men were all well mounted and armed. In the midst of them were the Count de la Saulay, and his two servants under strict guard; a smile of joy lit up Don Melchior's face at the sight of the gentleman; the latter did not deign to appear to notice his presence. A horse was prepared for Don Adolfo; at a sign from Don Diego he mounted, and placed himself of his own accord by the side of the Count, with whom he shook hands. Don Melchior also mounted.

"Now, my friend," said Don Diego, "a pleasant journey to you. I am going back to the government house."

"Good bye then," said Melchior, and the escort set out.

It was about two in the afternoon, the greatest heat of the day had passed, the shops were beginning to open again, and the tradesmen standing in the door watched the soldiers pass with a yawn. Don Melchior rode a few yards ahead of his troop; his demeanour was cold and sedate, he made vain efforts to restrain the joy which he experienced on at length having his implacable enemies in his hands. After they had ridden some distance from the town, the lieutenant who commanded the escort, approached Don Melchior.

"Our men are fatigued," he said to him, "it is time to think about camping for the night."

"I am willing to do so," the other replied, "provided that the spot is a secure one."

"I know a few paces from here," the lieutenant continued, "a deserted rancho, where we shall be very comfortable."

"Let us go there then."

The lieutenant acted as guide, and the soldiers soon entered a path scarce traced through a very thick wood, and at the end of about three quarters of an hour reached a large clearing, in the middle of which stood the rancho announced. The officer gave his men orders to dismount. The latter eagerly obeyed; for they seemed anxious to rest after their fatigue.

Leaping from his horse, Don Melchior entered the rancho, in order to assure himself of the condition it was in. But he had hardly set his foot in the interior, ere he was suddenly seized, rolled in a zarapé, and bound and gagged, even before he had the time to attempt a useless defence.

At the end of some minutes, he heard a clanking of sabres, and a regular sound of footsteps outside the rancho; the soldiers, or at least a portion of them, were going away, without paying any attention to him.

Almost at the same moment he was seized by the feet and shoulders, lifted up, and carried off. After a few rapid steps, it seemed to him as if his bearers were taking him down steps that entered the ground; then, after about ten minutes march, he was softly laid on a bed, composed of furs as he supposed, and left alone. An utter silence prevailed around the prisoner, he was really alone. At length a slight noise became audible, this noise gradually increased, and soon became loud; it resembled the walk of several persons, whose footsteps grated on sand.

This noise suddenly ceased. The young man felt himself lifted up and carried off once more. They carried him for a very considerable distance, and the bearers relieved each other at regular distances.

At length they stopped again; from the fresher and sharper air that smote his face, the prisoner conjectured that he had left the tunnel and was now in the open country. He was laid down on the ground.

"Set the prisoner at liberty," a voice said, whose dry metallic sound struck the young man.

His bonds were at once unfastened, and the gag and the handkerchief that covered his eyes removed.

Don Melchior leaped on his feet and looked around him. The spot where he found himself was the top of a rather lofty hill in the centre of an immense plain. The night was dark, and a little to the right in the distance gleamed like so many stars, the lights of the houses in Puebla. The young man formed the centre of a rather large group, drawn up in a circle round him. These men were masked, each of them held in his right hand a torch of ocote wood, whose flame agitated by the wind, threw a blood red hue over the country, and imparted to it a fantastic appearance. Don Melchior felt a shudder of terror run over his whole body, he understood that he was in the power of that mysterious Masonic association, of which he was himself a member, and which spread over the whole of Mexico, the gloomy ramifications of its formidable ventas. The silence was so profound on the hill, all the men so thoroughly resembled statues in their cold immobility, that the young man could hear his own heart beating in his breast.

A man stepped forward.

"Don Melchior de la Cruz," he said, "do you know where you are, and in whose presence?"

"I know it," he replied through his clenched teeth.

"Do you recognise the authority of the men by whom you are surrounded?"

"Yes, because they have the might on their side; any attempt at resistance or protest would be an act of folly on my part."

"No, it is not for that reason that you come under the authority of these men, and you are perfectly aware of the fact; but because you voluntarily connected yourself with them by a compact. In making this compact, you accepted their jurisdiction, and gave them the right to be your judges, if you broke the oaths which you took of your own full accord – "

Don Melchior shrugged his disdainfully.

"Why should I attempt a useless defence?" he said; "for am I not condemned beforehand. Hence execute without further delay, the sentence which you have already tacitly pronounced."

The masked man darted at him a flashing glance through the openings in his mask.

"Don Melchior," he continued in a hard and deeply marked voice, "it is neither as parricide, nor as fratricide, nor as robber, that you appear before this supreme tribunal, I repeat to you, but as a traitor to your country, I call on you to defend yourself."

"And I refuse to do so," he replied in a loud firm voice.

"Very good," the masked man continued coldly; then, planting his torch in the ground, he turned to the spectators. "Brothers," he said, "what punishment has this man deserved?"

"Death!" the masked man answered, in a hollow voice.

Don Melchior was not at all affected.

"You are condemned to death," the man continued who had hitherto spoken. "The sentence will be executed at this spot. You have half an hour to prepare to meet your God."

"In what way shall I die?" the young man asked, carelessly.

"By the rope."

"That death as soon as another," he said, with an ironical smile.

"We do not arrogate the right of killing the soul with the body," the masked man continued; "a priest will hear the confession of your faults."

"Thanks!" the young man said, laconically.

The masked man stood for a second, as if expecting that Don Melchior would address another request to him; but seeing that he continued to maintain silence, he took up his torch again, fell back two paces, waved it thrice, and extinguished it beneath his foot. All the other torches were put out at the same moment. A slight rustling of dry leaves and broken branches was heard, and Don Melchior found himself alone. Still, the young man did not deceive himself as to this apparent solitude. He understood that his enemies, though invisible, continued to watch him. A man, however well tempered his mind may be, however great his energy, though he has looked death in the face a hundred times, when he is twenty years of age, that is to say, when he finds himself scarcely on the threshold of existence, and the future smiles on him through the intoxicating prism of youth, cannot thus completely forget himself, and, without any transition, pass from life to death, without feeling an utter and sudden enervation of all his intellectual faculties, and suffering a horrible agony and nervous contraction of all his muscles, especially this death which awaits him full of life and youth, is inflicted on him coldly at night, and has an indelible brand of infamy. Hence, spite of all his courage and resolution, Don Melchior suffered an awful agony. At the root of every hair, which stood on end with terror, gathered a drop of cold perspiration. His features were frightfully contracted, and a livid and earthy pallor covered his face. At this moment a hand was gently laid on his shoulder. He started as if he had received an electric shock, and sharply raised his head. A monk was standing before him, with his hood pulled down over his face.

"Ah!" he said, rising; "Here is the priest."

"Yes," said the monk in a low, but perfectly distinct voice; "kneel down, my son: I am prepared to receive your confession."

The young man started at the sound of this voice, which he fancied he recognised; and his ardent and scrutinising glance was fixed on the monk standing motionless before him. The latter knelt down, making him a signal to imitate him. Don Melchior mechanically obeyed. These two men thus kneeling on the desert crest of this hill, faintly lit up by the feeble and flickering light of the lanthorns, which rendered the darkness that surrounded them on all sides more profound, offered a strange and striking spectacle.

"We are watched," said the monk. "Display no agitation; keep your nerves quiet, and listen to me. We have not a moment to lose. Do you recognise me?"

"Yes," Don Melchior said, faintly; who, feeling a friend at his side, involuntarily clung to hope, the sentiment which last survives in the human heart: "Yes, you are Don Antonio de Cacerbas."

"Dressed in the garb I am now wearing," Don Antonio continued; "I was on the point of entering Puebla, when I was suddenly surrounded by masked men, who asked me whether I was in orders? On my affirmative reply – a reply made at all hazards, in order not to destroy an incognito which is my sole safeguard against my enemies, these men carried me off with them, and brought me here. I witnessed your trial while shuddering with terror for myself, if I were recognised by these men, from whom I escaped once before solely by a miracle; but, whatever may happen, I am resolved to share your fate. Have you weapons?"

"No. But of what use are weapons against so large a body of enemies?"

"To fall bravely, instead of being ignominiously hung."

"That is true!" the young man exclaimed.

"Silence, unhappy man!" Don Antonio said, sharply.

"Take this revolver and this dagger. I have the same for myself."

"All right!" he said, clutching the weapons to his chest; "Now I am no longer afraid of them."

"Good! That is how I wished you to feel. Remember this: the horses are waiting ready saddled down there on the right, at the foot of the hill. If we succeed in reaching them, we are saved."

"Whatever happens, thanks, Don Antonio. If Heaven decrees that we shall escape – "

"Promise me nothing," Don Antonio said, quickly; "there will be time hereafter to settle our accounts."

The monk gave his penitent absolution. A few minutes elapsed. At length Don Melchior rose with a firm and assured countenance, for he was certain of not dying unavenged. The masked men suddenly reappeared, and once more crowned the top of the hill. The one who hitherto had alone spoken, approached the condemned man, by whose side Don Antonio had stationed himself, as if to exhort him in his last moments.

"Are you ready?" the stranger asked.

"I am," Don Melchior coldly replied.

"Prepare the gallows, and light the torches!" the masked man ordered.

There was a great movement in the crowd, and a momentary disorder. The members were so convinced that flight was impossible, and besides, it was so improbable that the condemned man should attempt to escape his fate, that for two or three minutes they relaxed their watchfulness. Don Melchior and his friend took advantage of this moment of forgetfulness.

"Come!" Don Antonio said, hurling to the earth the man nearest him. "Follow me!"

"All right!" Don Melchior boldly replied, as he cocked his revolver, and drew his knife.

They rushed head foremost into the midst of the conspirators, striking right and left, and forcing a passage. Like most desperate actions, this one succeeded through its sheer madness. There was a gigantic mêlée, a frightful struggle for some minutes between the members, who were taken off their guard, and the two men who were resolved to escape, or perish with arms in their hands. Then the furious gallop of horses became audible, and a mocking voice shouting in the distance, —

"Farewell, for the present!"

Don Melchior and Don Antonio were galloping at full speed along the Puebla road. All hope of catching them was lost: however, they had left sanguinary traces behind them – ten corpses lay on the ground.

"Stop!" Don Adolfo shouted to the men who were running to their horses. "Let them fly. Don Melchior is condemned – his death is certain. But," he added, thoughtfully; "who can that accursed monk be?"

Leo Carral, the majordomo, leant over to his ear.

"I recognised the monk," he said; "he was Don Antonio de Cacerbas."

"Ah!" he said, passionately; "That man again!"

A few minutes later, a cavalcade, composed of about a dozen horsemen, were trotting sharply along the high road to the capital. This party was led by Don Jaime, or Oliver, or Adolfo, whichever the reader may please to call him.