As soon as Costal perceived the approach of this new party--once more interrupting his designs--his fury became uncontrollable; and, making towards it on horseback, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a torch from the hands of one of the Indians who were in advance, and then rode straight up to the _litera_. The apparition of a gaunt horseman with a torch in one hand, and a b.l.o.o.d.y sword in the other, his countenance expressing extreme rage, produced an instantaneous effect on the bearers of the _litera_.
Without waiting to exchange a word, they dropped their burden to the ground, and ran back into the woods as fast as their legs could carry them.
A stifled cry came from the interior of the _litera_; while Don Cornelio, who had followed Costal, hastened to open the curtains. By the light of the torch which the Zapoteque still carried, they now saw stretched inside the body of a man, with a face wan, pallid, and stained with blood. Don Cornelio at once recognised the young Spaniard--the proprietor of the hacienda San Carlos--the victim of Arroyo"s ferocity, and of the cupidity of his a.s.sociate.
The dying man, on seeing Costal, cried out--
"Oh! do not harm me--I have not long to live."
Lantejas made signs for this Zapoteque to step aside; and bending over the _litera_, with kind and affectionate speeches endeavoured to calm the apprehensions of the unfortunate sufferer.
"Thanks! thanks!" murmured the latter, turning to Don Cornelio with a look of grat.i.tude. "Ah, Senor!" continued he, in a supplicating tone, "perhaps you can tell me--have you seen anything of her?"
The interrogatory caused a new light to break upon him to whom it was addressed. He at once remembered the phantom which he had seen while approaching the hacienda; the white form that had vanished into the woods, and again the same apparition just seen among the reeds. Both, no doubt, were one and the same unfortunate creature. Twice, then, had he seen living, one whom the young Spaniard was never likely to see again, except as a corpse.
"I have seen no one," replied Don Cornelio, hesitating in his speech, and unwilling to make known his dread suspicions, "no one, except two brigands, who had hidden themselves in the thicket, and who are now--"
"Oh! Senor, for the love of G.o.d, search for her! She cannot be far from this place. I am speaking of my wife. We have found just now her silk scarf, and not far off this slipper. Both I know to be hers. She must have dropped, them in her flight. Oh! if I could only once more see her--embrace her--before I die!"
And so speaking the young man bent a look of suppliant anguish upon Don Cornelio, while exhibiting the two objects which his attendants had found upon the path, and which had served to guide them in their search.
Don Cornelio, unable longer to endure the painful interview, allowed the curtains of the _litera_ to close over the wretched husband; and, stepping aside, rejoined the Zapoteque--who was still giving vent to his anger in strong and emphatic phraseology.
"Costal," said the Captain, "I fear very much that the wife of this young Spaniard is no longer alive. I saw a woman robed in white down there among the reeds, just as the brigand fired his carbine; and from what I saw afterwards, I am afraid that she must have been hit by the bullet. Surely it must have been her that they are now searching for."
"You are a fool!" cried Costal, in his ill-humour forgetting the respect due to his superior. "The woman you saw in white robes was no other than Matlacuezc, and I should have had her in my arms in another second of time but for that accursed coyote, who, by firing his carbine, caused her suddenly to disappear. Well! he has paid for his indiscretion: that"s some comfort, but, for all that--"
"It is you who are a fool, you miserable heathen," said Don Cornelio, interrupting Costal in his turn. "The poor creature, who has no doubt been struck with the bullet, is no other than the wife of this young Spaniard! Do you hear that?"
This last interrogatory had relation to a cry that came up from the reeds, where the Indians with their torches were still continuing their search.
"Look yonder!" continued Don Cornelio, pointing to them, "they have stopped over the very spot, and that wail--that is significant."
As Don Cornelio spoke a chorus of lamentations came back upon the breeze, uttered by the Indian searchers. It was heard by the dying man in his _litera_, and apprised him of that which Don Cornelio would otherwise have attempted to conceal from him. It was now too late, however, and the Captain ran towards the _litera_, in hopes of offering some words of consolation.
"Dead! dead!" cried the young Spaniard, wringing his hands in mortal anguish. "Oh G.o.d! she is dead!"
"Let us hope not," faltered Don Cornelio; "these people may be mistaken."
"Oh! no, no! she is dead! I knew it; I had a presentiment of it! O merciful Saviour! dead, my Marianita dead!"
After a moment, becoming more calm, the dying man continued:--
"What better fate could I have wished for her? She has escaped dishonour at the hands of these pitiless brigands, and I am about to die myself. Yes, friend! death is now sweeter to me than life: for it will bring me to her whom I love more than myself."
And like those who, calmly dying, arrange everything as if for some ordinary ceremonial, the young man laid his head upon the pillow; and then stretching out his hands, composed the coverlet around him--leaving it open at one side, as if for the funereal couch of her whom he would never see more.
Don Cornelio, turning away from the painful spectacle, advanced towards the lake, making signs for Costal to follow him.
"Come this way," he said, "and you shall see how much truth there is in your pagan superst.i.tions."
Costal made no objection: for he had already begun to mistrust the evidence of his own senses; and both proceeded together towards the spot where the torch-bearers had halted.
A white robe, torn by the thorns of the thicket, stained with blood, and bedraggled by the greenish sc.u.m of the water, enveloped the lifeless form of the young wife, whom the Indians had already deposited upon a couch of reeds. Some green leaves that hung over her head appeared to compose her last _parure_.
"She is beautiful as the Syren of the dishevelled hair," said Costal, as he stood gazing upon the prostrate form, "beautiful as Matlacuezc! Poor Don Mariano!" continued he, recognising the daughter of his old master, "he is far from suspecting that he has now only one child!"
Saying this the Indian walked away from the spot, his head drooping forward over his breast, and apparently absorbed in painful meditation.
"Well," said Don Cornelio, who had followed him, "do you still believe that you saw the spouse of your G.o.d Tlaloc?"
"I believe what my fathers have taught me to believe," replied Costal, in a tone of discouragement. "I believe that the descendant of the Caciques of Tehuantepec is not destined to restore the ancient glories of his race. Tlaloc, who dwells here, has forbidden it."
And saying this the Zapoteque relapsed into silence, and walked on with an air of gloomy abstraction that seemed to forbid all further conversation on the subject of his mythological creed.
CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.
TWO HAPPY HEARTS.
We have arrived at the final scene of our drama. The sh.o.r.es of the Lake Ostuta, which in so short a s.p.a.ce of time had witnessed so many stirring events, are once more to relapse into their gloomy and mournful silence.
Already Don Cornelio and his two companions have disappeared from the spot, and taken the road for Oajaca.
The funeral cortege is moving off towards the hacienda of San Carlos-- the Indians who carry the bier marching in solemn silence. On that bier two corpses are laid side by side--the Spaniard Don Fernando de Lacarra by the side of his youthful wife.
Don Mariano, accompanied by his attendants--to whom have been added Caspar and Zapote--follows at a short distance; and still further behind, the troopers of Don Rafael form a rearguard closing up the procession. The most profound and solemn silence is observed by all: as if all were alike absorbed by one common sorrow.
This, however, is only apparent; for there are two individuals in that procession whose hearts are not a prey to grief. On the contrary, both are at this moment in the enjoyment of the most perfect felicity which it is permitted for mortals to experience upon earth. Both are now a.s.sured of a mutual love, tried by long tortures, and scarce too dearly bought, since the past anguish has resulted in such delicious ecstasy.
At nearly equal distances from the escort of Don Mariano and the troopers forming the rearguard, these two personages appear: one borne in her _litera_, the other mounted upon horseback, and riding alongside.
It need not be told who is the occupant of the _litera_, nor who the tall horseman who, bending down from his saddle, whispers so softly and gently, that no one may hear his words, save her for whom they are intended.
Absorbed with this interchange of exquisite emotions, both are still strangers to the sad event that has occurred within the hour. Don Mariano, devouring his grief in silence, has left them ignorant of the terrible misfortune. G.o.d has been merciful to him in thus fortifying his soul against sorrow at the loss of one child, by permitting him to behold the unspeakable happiness of the other, who is thus preserved to him as an angel of consolation. He well knows the strong affection of Gertrudis for her sister, and fearing in her feeble state to announce the melancholy event, lest the shock would be too much for her, he has carefully concealed the sad news, until some opportunity may arise of preparing her to receive it. A few hours of the happiness she is now enjoying may strengthen her long-tortured spirit, and enable her to bear up against this new and unexpected sorrow.
Still riding by the side of the _litera_, his eyes fervently glancing through the half-open curtains, his ear close to them lest he might lose a single word that falls from the lips of Gertrudis, Don Rafael devours the sweet speeches addressed to him, with the avidity of the thirsty traveller who has reached the pure and limpid fountain, so eagerly yearned for on his long and weary route.
As the moon is now low in the sky, and gleams with an uncertain light through the curtains of the _litera_, Don Rafael can only trace indistinctly the features of Gertrudis. This half-obscurity, however, favours the young girl, concealing at the same time her happiness and confusion, both of which are betraying themselves in full blush upon her cheeks, hitherto so wan and pale.
Impelled by the strength of her love, from time to time she casts a furtive glance upon the face of her lover. It is a glance of strange significance; its object being to discover whether upon his features the tortures of long absence have not also left their imprint.
But the pa.s.sion which Don Rafael has suffered under, although as incurable as her own, has left no other trace upon his countenance than that of a profound melancholy, and at the moment, his heart filled with exquisite happiness, all traces of this melancholy have disappeared.
Gertrudis only looks upon a countenance that shows not a souvenir of suffering.
Don Rafael no longer doubts the love of Gertrudis. She has given him proofs no more to be questioned. But of his? What proof has he offered in return? Gertrudis cannot yet hinder herself from doubting!