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The Bandolero: or, A Marriage among the Mountains

Chapter Thirteen.
A Pleasant Misconception

There was one of these frequenters of the saloon in whom I felt a peculiar interest. Our acquaintance did not commence at the monté table. I first saw him in the Calle del Obispo, and, on the same night, in the Callecito de los Pajaros. His name was Francisco Moreno: the man who had crossed me in love and saved my life!

I had ample opportunity of studying his character, without referring to either incident of that night. I had the advantage of him: for, although I remembered him well, and with strange emotions, he had no recollection of me!

I had reasons for keeping my incognito.

Though we had become otherwise acquainted – and were upon such terms of comity, as two strangers who meet over a gaming table – I could learn very little about him – beyond the fact that he was, or had been, an officer in the Mexican army. My own observation told me as much as this. His bearing, with an occasional speech that escaped him, proclaimed the military man: for in this, as in other callings, there is a freemasonry: and the rajpoot of one land will easily recognise his caste in another.

He was one of the Mexican officers on parole; but we had reason to believe that there were many others among us – during our long interval of inaction – who had no business to be there. We were not very particular about spies; and, in truth, they might have come and gone – and they did come and go – with as much freedom as if no guard had been kept. Successes unexpected – almost astounding – a series of them – had taught us to despise even the secret machinations of our enemy. His scouts might have entered our camp, partaken of hospitality in our tents – even in the marquee of the commander-in-chief – and departed again with as much facility as a man might obtain an interview with his hatter or tailor!

No one thought of suspecting Francisco Moreno. No one gave heed to him, any more than to remark what a fine, noble-looking young fellow he was.

I alone made a particular study of him. I knew that he was more than noble-looking – that he was noble.

It maddened me to think he was the first; though I could scarce he grieved at his being the last. Had it not been so, I should not have lived to take note of it. I had strange fancies – sometimes not very creditable ones – about captain Moreno.

It was plain that he was poor; though not one of those who had converted the military tunic into a civilian’s coat. His dress, if threadbare, would pass muster as a correct costume. Nor did he put down pesetas upon the tapis vert. His stake was usually a peso– sometimes two – but never rising to the onza. The dollar lost, he would retire from the table. Winning, he would remain.

One night I observed a reversion of the rule. His stakes were being doubled at each draw of the cards; and yet he rose from his seat, and hastily took his departure from the place!

Many wondered at this. A man must be mad to leave such luck? It was like flinging the favours of Fortune back into her face.

I had a clearer comprehension of what had caused his defection from the gaming circle. I divined, that he was going to worship the goddess elsewhere, and under another title.

I had heard the cathedral clock strike ten – the hour when I had first seen him in the Calle del Obispo. It suggested the conjecture that he was going thither.

Had my own luck at the game been ten times greater than it was – and I was winning – I could not have stayed to take advantage of it.

I clutched at my stake, as soon as it was covered by the coin of the croupier; and, starting up from the table, followed Francisco Moreno from the saloon.

Whether my abrupt departure created as much surprise, as that of the Mexican, I never knew.

It may have done; but at that moment I was absolutely indifferent, either to the thing itself, or the conjectures that might arise respecting it.

I had but one thought in my mind; and that was to witness a second of those interviews – the first of which had lacerated my heart to its core!

I felt as the bird may feel, fluttering into the jaws of the envenomed reptile; as the moth that goes voluntarily to have its wings scorched by the candle!

There was a fascination in the thought of thus rushing upon ruin! Perhaps it was the knowledge, that my heart could not be reduced to a greater desolation than it already knew.

For the first time in four weeks I entered the Calle del Obispo.

Francisco was before me. I had correctly divined his intent. He had forsaken the smiles of Fortune to bask in those of Mercedes!

We took different sides of the street; he going silently along the façade of the Casa Villa-Señor; I skulking, thief-like, under the portal of the opposite house.

We were not kept waiting for as much as an instant. Scarce had we taken our respective stands, when the blind was drawn back, and a woman appeared in the window. Of course it was Mercedes.

“You are late, Francisco!” said she, in an undertone, and with the slightest accent of reproach. “The cathedral has tolled ten minutes ago! It is very cruel. You know how I am watched, and that every moment is so precious!”

Francisco stammered out some excuse, which appeared to satisfy her. I could see she was not exacting – by the easy grace with which she forgave him. Even this increased my anguish.

“Do you know, dearest, papa is more suspicious than ever! Even now I am afraid he will be coming this way. He has not yet retired to his bed; and never does till both sister and I have gone to ours.”

“Why don’t you give him a sleeping draught? Put poppy-seed in his chocolate. Do that, niña, and we might have a better chance of a little conversation at this hour. I never see you now, or only for a moment. It’s very tiresome to be kept apart in this fashion. I hope it is the same to you?”

“Do you doubt it? You do not? But what help for it? He is so much against you. I think some one has been telling him something bad about you. When we go to matins he always sends Tia Josefa along with us, and I’m sure she has instructions to watch us. I know it’s only me. He’s not half so careful about sister. He allows her to drive out alone – to the Alameda – anywhere. If I go, I must be accompanied by Tia Josefa.”

“The deuce take Tia Josefa!”

“And do you know, Francisco, there’s something worse yet? I’ve only heard it this very day. Josefa told it me. I believe papa put it in her head to tell me. If I don’t consent to marry him– you know whom I mean – I’m to be shut up in a convent! Only think of it! Imprisoned for life in a dark cloister, or marry a man I can’t love – old enough to be my uncle! Ay Dios! What am I to do about it?”

“Neither one nor the other of those two things – if I can hinder it. Don’t be uneasy, love! I’ll find some way to save you from such a fate – which would be equally ruinous to myself. Your father can have nothing against me, except that I’m poor. Who knows but that I may become rich during this war. I have hopes of promotion, and – listen dearest!”

Here the voice of Francisco sank into a whisper, as if the communication he was making required peculiar secrecy.

The words were not audible across the street; neither were those murmured in response. I only heard some phrases that fell from the lady’s lips as she turned to go inside.

“Adios querido! Hasta la mañana!”

Far sweeter to my ear were some words spoken by Francisco himself.

“Stay! A moment, dear Dolores! one moment – ”

I did not hear the conclusion of his passionate appeal, nor the reply – if there was one.

Dolores might have stayed in the balcon, and chatted with her dear Francis for an hour by the cathedral clock, without giving me the slightest chagrin. I was too happy to listen to another word of their conversation.

Mercedes —my Mercedes – was not she who had dropped that little note, and said to him who received it, “Va con Dios!”

There was still a hope that her heart was free; that no “querido Francisco” had yet taken possession of it!

“God grant but that,” was my mental prayer, as I turned to take my departure, “and Mercedes may yet be mine!”

Chapter Fourteen.
Que Cosa?

Giving way to sweet imaginings, I stood for some seconds under the shadow of the portal.

Meanwhile the Mexican had passed out of the street.

As I believed that he had gone back to the saloon we had both lately forsaken, I started in the same direction.

I now longed to have a conversation with him; determined in my own mind that it should be more cordial than any that had yet taken place between us. I could at that moment have embraced him: for my gratitude, hitherto restrained by the thought of his being my rival, was suddenly exalted to a feeling of fervour.

I should seek an interview with the noble youth; make known who it was he had befriended; and ask if there was any way in which I could reciprocate his generosity?

My heart was overflowing towards Francisco Moreno! As he had been the cause of my late misery, I now looked upon him as the instrument of my regeneration.

“Oh! I shall make an ample return to him! But what is it to be?”

Just as I gave thought to the interrogatory, a harsh sound struck upon my ears – as if some one, suddenly stopped in the street, had uttered a cry of mixed anger and surprise. It was followed by the words:

“Que cosa caballeros? Que cosa comigo?” (What is it, gentlemen? What do you want with me?)

“Vuestra bolsa, señor; nada mas” (Your purse, sir; nothing more.)

“Carrambo! A modest demand! For all that, I’m not inclined to comply with it. You may have my purse; but not till after you’ve taken my life. Out of the way, scoundrels! Let me pass!”

“Upon him, camarados! He is loaded with doblones. Al tierra! Down with him!”

These words – not very loudly spoken – were succeeded by the sounds of a struggle, in which several men appeared to take part; five or six, as I could tell by the shuffling of their shoes upon the flagged pavement.

I no longer heard words; or only a few, that seemed spoken under restraint, and scarce louder than whispers!

Even he who had first called out appeared to have become suddenly silent!

For all that the struggle was continuing!

The street in which it was taking place was a sort of narrow passage – leading from one of the main thoroughfares towards the Piazza Grande – and not far from the entrance to the Calle del Obispo.

It was dimly illumined by a solitary lard lamp, whose feeble flickering only served to make the path more uncertain.

I had myself entered the lane – which chanced to be a near cut between the café to which I was returning, and the “calle” I had left behind. It was just as I had got into it that the cry fell upon my ears, followed by the challenge “Que cosa caballeros?”

The rest of the dialogue did not occupy ten seconds of time, before the conflict commenced; and, as the scene of strife was not more than ten paces from where I had paused, another half-score of seconds carried me up to the spot.

I had been thus prompt in rushing to the rescue, because I fancied that I knew the voice of the man who was being assaulted.

I was right. It was Francisco Moreno!

I found him in the midst of five men, forming a sort of quincunx around him; against all five of whom he was industriously defending himself; while they were as busy in the endeavour to get him down.

They were all armed with machetés; while he wielded a sword, which he had drawn from under his cloak.

I could see that the attacking party carried pistols, but did not attempt to use them – perhaps from fear of causing an alarm, and thus defeating their purpose: to all appearance plunder!

I was not so chary about the discharging of mine. The moment I caught sight of the Red Hats– for the assailants were so distinguished – I had a clear comprehension of the sort of gentry with whom the Mexican had to deal, as well as the character of the attack.

The blood ran scalding within my veins. But that very day I had been sickened at hearing the details of an atrocity, committed by these precious pets of our commander-in-chief; and I had mentally vowed, if I should ever chance to catch one of them at their tricks, to make short work with him.

The chance had come sooner than I expected; and I remembered my vow.

The shout with which I interrupted their pastime was almost loud enough to hinder them from hearing the report of my pistol; but one of them caught the bullet that came out of it, and went groaning into the gutter.

I might have shot down a second, or even a third, before they could get out of the way; though they were anything but slow in making disappearance.

I was satisfied with having put an end to one: for this had I done, as was evident from the silent lump of humanity that lay doubled up along the stones.

Chapter Fifteen.
Life for Life

“Gracias!” cried the young Mexican, “mil gracias, caballero! That’s all I can say till I get back my breath.”

He stopped. I could hear his respiration, quick and heavy, as that of a horse halted after a rapid run.

“I hope you have not received any serious injury?” I said, on becoming assured that the only Red Hat remaining in the street was the one lying along the kerb-stone. “Are you wounded?”

“Nothing to signify, I think. A cut or two, perhaps. They’re only scratches.”

“You’re sure?”

“Not quite, caballero; though I fancy I’m all right. I don’t feel disabled – only a little fatigued. It was rather quick play, keeping guard against all five at once. I had no chance to get a thrust at them, else I might have reduced the number. You’ve done that, I perceive. Once more let me thank you for my life.”

“There is no need. It is simply a debt paid in kind; and we are now quits.”

“Señor, your speech mystifies me. I cannot tell whether I have the honour of knowing the brave man who has done me such signal service. Your voice sounds like one I’ve heard before. You’ll excuse me. It’s so dark here – ”

“You and I are so much in the habit of having encounters in dark places, I begin to think there’s a fatality in it.”

“Carrambo!” exclaimed the Mexican, still further mystified by my remark. “Where have we had these encounters? Pray tell me, señor?”

“You don’t remember capitan Moreno?”

“It is my name! You know me?”

“I have good reason.”

“You astonish me. If I mistake not, you are in uniform – an American officer?”

“I am.”

“May I ask where we have met? At the monté table?”

“We have met at monté more than once. It was not there, however, that I had my first introduction to you, but – ”

“Where?”

“In your house.”

“Una burla, señor! No matter; you are welcome.”

“No jest, I assure you. Our first exchange of speech was under your own roof.”

“Caspita! You confound me.”

“’Tis true, I did not go inside – only just over the doorstep. There we met and parted – both a little unmannerly. For the first I was to blame. The last, I think, you ought to share with me. By your abrupt closing of the door, you gave me no chance of showing politeness; else I should have stayed to thank you for doing, what you say I have just done for you. I intended to seek an opportunity some day. It seems I have found it without seeking.”

“Santissima Virgen! you, then, are the gentleman – ”

“Who on a certain night so unceremoniously made entrance into the house of Don Francisco Moreno, in the Callecito de los Pajaros; who went in head-foremost, and no doubt would have been carried out feet foremost, but for the fortune that gave him such a generous host. Ah! captain Moreno,” I continued, in the ardour of my gratitude grasping the young soldier’s hand, “I said we were quits. Far, far from it; you owe me perhaps your life. To you I am indebted for mine; and – and much more.”

“Por Dios, caballero! you continue to mystify me. What more?”

Under the dominion of a sweet excitement, I was on the point of confessing my amourette with Mercedes, and telling him how he had interrupted it – in short, telling him all. No longer rivals, but fellow-suitors for two fair sisters, we were journeying along the same road. A common motive – each having a different object – instead of estranging, ought rather to unite us?

And yet there was a doubt. Something counselled me to reticence. My secret remained unspoken; not even mention being made of the Calle del Obispo.

“Oh!” I answered, taming down my tone of enthusiasm, “Much more depended on my life. Had I lost it – ”

“Had you lost it,” interrupted the young Mexican, relieving me from the necessity of further explanation, “it would have been a sad misfortune for me: since this night I should have lost mine. Five minutes more, and these footpads would have overpowered me. As for my having saved your life, that is scarcely correct. Your own comrades did it. But for their timely arrival, we might not have been able to withstand the assault of the angry patriotas; who were led by a man of no common kind.”

“So much the greater reason for my gratitude to you.”

“Well, you have amply acquitted the debt. But for your interference here – the more generous that you did not know for whom it was exerted – I might now be lying in the place of that red-hatted, red-handed wretch; who has been alike a traitor to his country and his God!”

The last words were pronounced with a scornful emphasis, as if the speaker’s patriotism had become fired at the sight of the renegade robber.

“But, caballero!” he continued, changing to a more tranquil tone, “you say we have also met at the monté table. Lately?”

“Our latest meeting has been to-night.”

“To-night!”

“About an hour ago. Perhaps a little less.”

“Carrambo! You must have been there at the time I left the saloon. You saw me go out?”

“Every one saw you. More than one remarked it as strange.”

“Why strange, señor?”

“It is not usual for a player to run away from such luck as you had – without a very powerful motive. Something of the kind carried you off, I presume?”

“Par Dios! Not much of that. Only a little errand that required punctuality. I executed it; and was on my way back, when these picarones attacked me. Thanks to you, sir, it may still be in my power to gain another onza or two; which I intend doing, if the luck has not been drawn out of me along with these drops of blood. But come, caballero! are you going back yourself? ’Tis not too late to have another albur.”

“I shall go with you, to see whether you’ve received any wounds that require looking after.”

“Thanks, thanks! They’re nothing; else I should have thought of them before now. No doubt they’re scarce worth dressing. A little soap and water will set them all right. Are we to leave him here?”

“If dead, yes. He don’t deserve even the scant honour of being carried upon a stretcher.”

“You are not partial to your red-hatted associates?”

“I detest them; and so does every officer in our army who cares for its escutcheon. They were regular professional robbers, these renegades – were they not?”

“Were, are, and will be. Salteadores del camino grande!”

“Many of us consider it a scandal. So the world will esteem it. A band of brigands taken into the service of a civilised nation, and treated as its own soldiers! Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“Ah, señor! I see you are a true soldier of civilisation. I am sorry to say that in my poor country such travesties are but too common. In our army – that is, the army of his most Illustrious Excellency, General Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna – you may discover captains, colonels – nay, even generals, who – . But no. It is not for me to pour these sad revelations into the ears of an enemy. Perhaps in time you may find out for yourself some strange things; which we of the country are accustomed to call —Cosas de Mexico!”

Chapter Sixteen.
Early Birds

I supped with Francisco. The goddess Fortuna did not show any grudge against him, for his short flirtation with the sister divinity; but, on his return to the monté table, again smiled upon him – as she did upon myself.

By way of a change we paid our addresses to Coena and Bacchus – to the latter more especially – keeping up our devotions to a late hour of the night.

It did not hinder me from being early abroad on the morning after. I saw the rose-tints upon the “White Sister,” as Phoebus imprinted his first kiss upon her snowy brow. I saw this as I entered the Calle del Obispo – the magnificent mountain appearing like a white wall stretched across at the termination of the street!

You will scarce ask why I was there? Only, why at such an early hour?

I could but gaze at the house – trace the frescoes on its façade– feast my eyes upon inanimate objects; or, if animate, only nest-building birds, or domestics of the mansion.

You are thinking of Park-lane – not Puebla, where the angels rise early. In Park-lane they sleep till a late hour, having “retired” at a late hour. In Puebla they are up with the sun, having gone to bed with the same.

The explanation is easy. Puebla is Catholic – a city of orisons. Park-lane is Protestant, and more given to midnight revels!

Had I not known the peculiarity of Mexican customs in this respect, I should not have been traversing the “Street of the Bishop” before seven o’clock in the morning.

But I did know them; and that the lady who, at that hour, or before it, is not on her way to church —capilla, parroquia, or cathedral – is either too old to take an interest in the confessional, or too humble to care for the Church at all!

Few there are of this sort in the City of the Angels. It was not likely that Mercedes Villa-Señor would be among the number. Her sister, Dolores, had let me into a secret – without knowing, or intending it.

In Mexico there are two twilights – equally interesting to those who make love by stealth. One precedes the rising, the other follows the setting, of the sun.

It seems like reversing the order of nature to say that the former is more favourable to the culte of the god Cupid – but in Mexico it is even so. While the Belgravian beauty lies asleep on her soft couch, dreaming of fresh conquests, the fair Poblana is abroad upon the streets, or kneeling before the shrine of the Virgin – in the act of making them!

Early as I had sallied out, I was a little behind time. Oracion bells had commenced tolling all over the town. As I entered the Calle del Obispo, I saw three female forms passing out at its opposite end. Two walked side by side: the third a little behind them.

I might have permitted them to pass on without further remark, had it not been that the great gate of the Casa Villa-Señor stood open.

The portero was closing it, as if a party had just passed out; and it could only be they who were going along the street.

The two in advance? Who should they be but the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor?

The third I scarce spent a thought upon; or only to conjecture, that she was Tia Josefa.

The Calle del Obispo had no further attractions for me. Folding my cloak around me, I followed the trio of señoras.

A spurt of quick walking brought me close upon the heels of Tia Josefa, and within good viewing distance of the two damsels – over whom she was playing dueña.

I had no longer any doubt of their being the daughters of Don Eusebio, though both were veiled to the eyes. Over the eyes in fact: since their shawls were carried tapado. Instead of hanging from the shoulder, they were drawn across the crown of the head, and held under the chin – so as completely to conceal the countenance!

The black Spanish eye sparkling in shadow was all that could have been seen; though I saw it not: as I was at some distance behind them.

I saw that of Tia Josefa – as she turned, on perceiving my shadow projected before her on the pavement.

There was a sudden glance, accompanied by the bristling of a fan, as the maternal hen ruffles her feathers when the shadow of the hawk is seen sailing towards her chicks.

Only for an instant was I the object of aunt Josefa’s suspicion. My meek look, directed towards the “White Sister,” at once reassured her. I was not the bird of prey she had been cautioned to keep guard against: and, after a cursory glance at me, she went on after her pair of protégés.

I did likewise.

Though they were dressed exactly in the same style – wearing black lace shawls, with high combs holding them above their heads – though their figures were scarce to be distinguished in height, shape, or tournure– though the backs of both were toward me – I could tell my chosen at a glance.

There is something in the physical form – less in its muscular development than its motion – in the play of the arms and limbs – that proclaims the spirit within. It is that unmistakeable, and yet undefinable essence we term grace; which Nature alone can give, and Art cannot acquire. It is a quality of the soul; and not belonging to the body – to the adornment of which it but lends itself.

It proclaimed itself in every movement of Mercedes Villa-Señor – in her step, her carriage, the raising of her hand, the serpentine undulation perceptible throughout her whole frame. Every gesture made was a living illustration of Hogarth’s line.

Grace was not denied to Dolores; though to her given in a lesser degree. There was a sprightliness about her movements that many might have admired; but which in my mind but poorly compared with the grand, queen-like, air that characterised the step of her sister.

I soon became aware that they were on their way to the Cathedral – whose matin bells were filling the streets with their clangour. Other intended devotees – most of them women, in shawls and rebosos– were hastening across the Piazza Mayor, in the same direction.

Dolores alone looked round. Several times she did so – turning again towards the Cathedral with an air of evident dissatisfaction.

Her seeing me made not the slightest difference – a stranger accidentally walking the same way.

I felt no chagrin at her indifference. I divined the cause of it. I was not “Querido Francisco.”

Mercedes appeared to be uninterested in aught that was passing around. Her air was that of one a little “out of sorts” – as was shown by the cold salutations she exchanged with the “caballeros” encountered upon the way, and who one and all seemed to court a more cordial “buenas dias.”

Only once did she show sign of being interested: – when an American officer in the uniform of the Mounted Rifles came galloping along the street. Then only during the six seconds spent in scrutinising him, as he swept past; after which her eyes once more turned towards the Cathedral.

Its massive door stood open to admit the early devotees, who were by this time swarming up the steps.

The sisters became part of the throng, and passed on inside – Tia Josefa closely following, and keeping up her espionage with as much strictness, as while passing along the streets!

I did the same – with a different intent.