Eugene P. Lyle

“... Now swell out, and with stiff necks
Pass on, ye sons of Eve! vale not your looks,
Lest they descry the evil of your path.”

–Dante.

The Grand Equerry was again the Dignitary of the hour. He held the Emperor’s stirrup, while the Emperor, fittingly attired, swung gracefully astride a curvetting charger. Behind was his coach, ready for him when he should tire of the saddle. It was already late in the afternoon, and he meant to travel all night. Flatterers begged him to consider the importance of his health, which but made him unyielding. Some slight martyrdom for his country appealed to Maximilian. No, he said, grave affairs might be afoot since the Confederacy’s surrender. The capital needed his presence, and he reminded them that the State came first, as always.

The retinue climbed into carriages. The escort, Dragoons, Austrians and Contra Guerrillas, formed in hollow square about their prince. Colonel Dupin scowled because he was going. Colonel Lopez, when unobserved, scowled because he was left behind. And Monsieur Éloin, at the Emperor’s side, thought well of himself in substituting for a rival favorite one so distant from favoritism as the Tiger. The Dragoons and Austrians who were to remain presented arms on the hacienda porch, and Lopez gave them the cue for a parting viva. The emancipated peons, still wet from spiritual grace, swelled the din gratefully and stridently, lured to it by their thoughtful pastor, the hacienda curate.

165But Maximilian still lingered. He looked from window to window under the colonnade, and seemed expectant. But Lopez signaled to the buglers, and the trumpet call and the redoubled huzzas of a people thrilled him out of his melancholy. With a sigh he gave over his private loves and poesy. He breathed deep and his eyes flashed. And as the grand monarch and good, he departed with the acclaim of posterity in his ears, conscious that the superb figure he made was for History’s contemplation.

At this time the Marquise d’Aumerle was half way up a ladder in the garden. She was picking the fragrant china blossoms, tossing them down to Berthe’s apron, and humming “Mironton, mironton, mirontaine” in blissful indifference to many things, to princes among them.

Nor was the other girl behind the hacienda shutters. Yet she, at least, saw him ride away. High up in the chapel tower, between the bell and the masonry, crouched a sobbing little figure. She gazed and gazed, with straining eyes. Over there below, in front of her father’s house, were glittering swords and dazzling helmets, and the sheen of gilded escutcheons on coach doors. And as the beautiful pageant wound its way along the highroad, she watched in fawn-like curiosity. The sobs were only involuntary. She was not thinking, then, that this was matter for grief. Her dark eyes, that had been weeping, and were now so dry, held to a certain one among the cavaliers, to the very tall and splendid one with the slender waist, and they kept him jealously fixed among the others, and were ever more impatient of the blurring distance. But when finally he was lost for an instant in the general bright haze of the company, and she could not be quite sure after that which was he, then indeed the eyelids fluttered in a kind of despair. Yet only after the last carriage had vanished under the giant banana leaves of the hill beyond, did the tears come and tremble upon her lashes.

166“He is married, the Emperor,” she told herself, as though the fact were that second written across the burning sky. At last, full, grim comprehension was hers.

The stones of the tower glowed like a brazier in the sun, but the girl, with her head on her arm against the parapet, shivered as with cold; and a numbness at her heart grew heavier and heavier, like weighted ice.

Below her the barren knoll, where an hour before swarthy stolid hundreds had crowded awaiting baptism, was lonely as the grave. The peons were dispersing to their village down by the river junction, or to their huts near the hacienda store, and on the air floated the falsetto nasal of their holiday songs, breaking ludicrously above the mumbling bass of loosely strung harps. Nearer by, the only life was an old man with a fife and a boy with a drum, who marched round and round the chapel, playing monotonously, while a second urchin every five minutes touched off a small cannon at the door. They did these things with solemn earnestness. It was to achieve an end, for San Felipe’s day would come soon, and meantime each and every lurking devil had to be driven off the sacred precincts. But there was one hideous fiend who grinned, and pinched, and shrieked. His abode was the girl’s heart, and he shrieked to her gleefully, that she could never, never in life, wed the man she loved. The fife and drum and the stupid little cannon simply made him the merrier.

The imps were left in peace for the night, and all about the chapel was dark and silent and desolate. But a man was working stealthily at one of the rear windows. It was a square, barred window, near the ground. The man chipped away at the granite sill with short, quick blows. The butt of his chisel was padded in flannel, so that even a chuckling that escaped him now and again made more sound than the steel. Soon he dropped his tools, and wrapping either hand around a 167window bar, he braced both feet together against the wall, and pulled. The two bars scraped slowly toward him across the stone. Then, with a sharp, downward jerk he tore them out. Quickly he climbed inside and cut the ropes of a man who lay bound on the floor. Both men emerged noiselessly through the window.

“Have a care how you step,” whispered the rescuer. “Your faithful guards are busy sleeping and don’t want any disturbance.”

“That candle-stinking sacristy!” grumbled the rescued.

“But it’s the only stone calaboose on the ranch. In fact, I suggested it, since Don Rodrigo should be kept tight and safe. That’s why Dupin left me behind.” The rescuer chuckled as before. “Careful, hombre, there’s a guard there, lying right in front of you!”

Rodrigo made out the prostrate form, and lifted a boot heel over the upturned face. But his liberator jerked him aside.

“Fool, you’ll wake the fat padre, and he doesn’t like my jests, says they’re inspired of the Evil One.”

“Thinking of the Bishop of Sonora’s waiting maid, was he?”

“Well, what of it? Didn’t he elope here with her?”

“And you, Don Tiburcio?”

“Of course; she naturally wanted to correct her first bad taste.”

“By running away with you? If you call that good taste––”

“I call that a good joke on the padrecito.”

Having by this time come safely to the front of the church, Rodrigo was for making certain his escape at once. But Tiburcio interposed. “There’s some talk still due between you and me,” he said. “Sit down, here in the doorway.”

“Well?” said the brigand uneasily.

“Well?” repeated his jocular friend.

“Well, there isn’t even a moon and we can’t deal monte, 168as if that weren’t the same as giving you what you want, anyway.”

“I risk my hide saving you for money, then?” Don Tiburcio’s tone was aggrieved.

“Oh no, for friendship,” the sardonic Rodrigo corrected himself, “and I think as much of you in my turn, amigo mio. Not half an hour ago I was wrapped in anxiety, imagining you trying to collect blackmail, and I not near to keep my patriots from your throat. Oh, the sorrow of it!”

“God be praised that a dear friend came and eased your worries! But you are not an ingrate. Since the Confederate Gringo took all my money the other morning––”

“Tiburcio, on oath, I haven’t had money either, not since our last game at cards. There was MurguÍa, I know, but I let him off for bringing me that French girl. She was good for a big ransom, only your same Gringo–curse the intruder! If ever the Imperialists catch him, and MurguÍa is there to testify against him––”

Tiburcio moved nearer on the church step. “And then?”

“That’s our secret, MurguÍa’s and mine.”

“But Rodrigo, he is caught. They are trying him and MurguÍa both this very minute. And do you know what for? For being your accomplices.”

The outlaw started exultantly. “Then, if you want him shot––”

“Well?–Oh don’t be afraid, maybe I can help.”

“Were you with Captain Maurel when we ambushed them near Tampico?”

“I can’t remember,” said Tiburcio tentatively.

“If you will hurry down to this court martial, perhaps you will remember better. Go, and I’ll leave you.”

“Not quite so fast, Rodrigo. You forget that your devoted rescuer is penniless.”

169“So am I, I tell you. We’ll both have to go to work, Don Tiburcio.”

“What’s the lay? Tell me.” The humorist’s tone was unmistakable.

Rodrigo looked about him in the dark. “Listen,” he whispered, “there’s a bullion convoy out of San Luis before long, but–you shall hear no more unless it is agreed that I am to meet them first.”

“Of course, hombre! How else could I threaten to expose them for contributing to the rebels?”

“Bien, it’s next week. You will meet them this side of Valles, some time Thursday or Friday.–Now I’m off. Adios.”

“Stay. You’ll find your horse down by the river. The administrator is waiting with it. And Rodrigo, don’t you want your pistol? Be more careful another time, and keep it loaded.”

Something in his tone nettled the brigand. “What do you mean? Give me my pistol.”

Tiburcio pointed it at him instead. “When you cool a little, yes. But it takes a good marksman to hit a Frenchman with an empty pistol–especially when one wakes up and finds himself tied.”

Rodrigo stiffened. This was menacing to his dignity.

“Both lassoed,” Tiburcio went on, “and no telling which was heifer and which vaquero, stampeding down on poor Max.–Ai de mi, I never thought it could be so funny!”

“Give me my pistol!”

“Slumbering like two babes in the wood, and your sweet innocent breaths perfuming the woody forest. I’d have covered you with leaves, like the little robins, only––”

“Was it you tied us, you––”

“Just like two babes, but,” and Tiburcio pointed his thumb to his mouth and shook his head sorrowfully, “that’s bad, very 170bad. Why didn’t you leave me some? Of the cognac, especially?”

“If you don’t explain––”

“Softly there, amigo. Yes, I tied you.”

“Another of your jokes––”

“Inspired of the Evil One? Oh no, it was–precaution. Yes, that was it, come to think; just precaution. You see, I and Dupin had scattered your guerrillas, and I was scouting ahead, to stir up any ambush waiting for us–which I did later, when we chased them, and burned Culebra. But going along, I heard snoring, and found you two, like two––Now sit still!”

“Why didn’t you wake me? Then we could have roped the Frenchman.”

“And have him identify me after we’d gotten the ransom? Oh, no, I’m a loyal Imperialist. Now listen a minute, will you?–Our Contras were following me not a half mile behind. That meant I had to work quick. You see, I wanted to find you both there when I could come back alone. And meantime, I didn’t want you to hurt each other. If either got killed, there’d be no ransom. So I took your knife and his sabre. Then I tied you both with my lariat. I was going to get your lariat too, and tether the pair of you to a tree, hoping you’d hold each other there till I got back. You would do it, for I meant to pin a note on your sleeve, explaining. But just that minute the Frenchman stirred, for the Cossacks were getting into his ears, so I had to run back and turn them into another path.”

“So long as it wasn’t any of your infernal farces?”

“Well, it was worth a ransom, the way it turned out.–Sit still, will you? You know I take you too seriously ever to think of any joke with you! Here’s your artillery and cutlery. Quick now, clear out!”

Both rose to go, each to his respective deviltry, but not six 171steps ahead in the black night Tiburcio stumbled over a soft, inert mass. He recovered himself, half cursing, half laughing.

“One of your guards, Rodrigo,” he muttered. “He must have got this far before the drug worked into his vitals.”

“Your mescal probably killed him,” said Rodrigo indifferently. “But a little knife slit will look more plausible in the morning, for you it will.”

Getting to his knees on the stone walk the outlaw groped over the body for a place to strike, holding his knife ready. But all at once he stopped and got up hastily, without a word. He only rubbed his left hand mechanically on his jacket.

“Well, what ails you?” asked Tiburcio.

Rodrigo gave a short, apologetic laugh. “It–it’s a woman!” He quit rubbing his hand, seeming to realize. “There’s blood,” he added.

“Here,” said Tiburcio, “you keep back, and run if anybody comes. I’m going to strike a match.”

By the flare they saw that it was a girl and that her head was crushed. Kneeling on either side, they peered questioningly, horrified, at each other. Their great sombreros almost touched. Their hard faces were yellow in the flickering light between, and the face looking up with its quiet eyes and dark purplish cleft in the brow was white, white like milk. With one accord the two men turned and gazed upward at the tower, whose black outline lost itself far above in the blacker shadows of the universe. They understood.

Tiburcio shrugged his shoulders, a silent comment on the tragedy from its beginning to this, its end. He threw the match away and arose, but Rodrigo still knelt, leaning over her, holding the poor battered head in his hands, half lifting it, and trying to look again into those eyes through the darkness. He would touch the matted hair, as if to caress, not knowing what he did, and each time he would jerk back his hand at the uncanny, sticky feeling. Roving thus, his fingers touched an 172ivory cross, and closed over it. With no present consciousness of his act, he placed the symbol in his jacket, over his breast.

Tiburcio touched him on the shoulder. “I’ll go now, and bring her father,” he said.

“Yes,” returned the other vaguely, stumbling to his feet.

“It’s going to kill the old man,” murmured Tiburcio, “or–God, if it should not kill him! He is a coward, but once he slapped you, Rodrigo, for so much as looking at her. And now, the Virgin help–may the Virgin help whoever’s concerned in this!–But here, you must go, do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Then go, go!”

“Yes,” said Rodrigo again, moving slowly away.

“By the river, remember. You’ll find your horse there.”

“Captain Maurel’s, the fine black one?”

“Yes, I slipped it out of the stables for you.”

“The fine black one?”

“Yes, yes, hombre!”

“And–and she never–she never saw–how magnifico I look on–on that fine black horse.”

He was still muttering as he reeled and staggered down the hill.

When he was gone, and no alarm of sentinels rang out, Tiburcio took off his serape and laid it over the dark blot on the stones. Then he too stole away, to tell her father.