The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Майн РидЧитать онлайн книгу.
desist from your unhallowed work, or I shall devote you to a worse fate than his whose noble remains you are defiling. Off to your quarters! Off, I say!”
The human wolf skulked away, unwillingly, and with an air of savage chagrin.
I never came nearer slaying a fellow creature—not to accomplish the act.
Better, perhaps, had I completed it on that occasion. It would have spared me a severe shot-wound, afterwards received, with certain other disagreeable contretemps, of which Johanna Laundrich was prime agent and promoter.
Story 1, Chapter VIII.
A Pleasant Explanation.
The peculiar spectacle thus witnessed for a while distracted my thoughts from the marquee and its occupants.
Only for a short while. Soon again the lovely face of Lola rose up before the eye of my imagination; and the longing to look upon it became stronger than ever.
Yielding to this fascination—for which I could scarcely account—I strolled back to the ci-devant head-quarters of the Mexican commander-in-chief.
On arriving in front of the entrance I paused.
Had the invalid been still asleep, I might have hesitated about disturbing him. But his voice warned me that he was awake, and in conversation with some one—who, of course, could be no other than Lola.
Even then I hesitated about going in; but while thus meditating, I could not help overhearing a portion of the dialogue that was passing between them. A name already known was on the lips of Calros, from which I could easily divine the subject of their conversation. It was the name of Ramon Rayas.
“Yes, dearest Lola,” said the invalid, as if replying to some interrogatory, “it was that villain. Not content with persecuting you with his infamous proposals, he has followed me, even to the field of battle? He would have killed me outright. Carrambo! I thought he had done so. I saw him standing over me with his macheté pointed at my breast. I was too weak to make resistance. I could not raise a hand to parry his thrust. He did not strike. I know not why. There was a shot; and then I saw him standing over me again, with a pistol, its muzzle held close to my body. Valga me Dios! I saw no more. I became unconscious.”
“Dear Calros! it was not Rayas who held the pistol.”
“Not him!—not Ramon Rayas. It was, Lola. I saw him. I heard and talked to him. I listened to his threats. He wanted me to tell him—Oh! too surely was it he—he, and no other.”
“Yes, he who threatened you with the macheté. That’s true enough; but the man who held the pistol—that was not Don Ramon; not an enemy either, though I also thought him one.”
“And who was it?” asked the invalid, with a puzzled look upon his countenance.
“The Americano—he who has had you carried here into the tent.”
“Which of them? There were several around me. Was it the medico who dressed my wound? He must be a doctor to have done it so skilfully.”
“No, it was not he.”
“Which, then, Lola?”
“You saw an officer among them, did you not?—a handsome young officer?”
My heart then thrilled with a pleasant emotion. I bent my eyes with keen scrutiny upon the face of the invalid. I expected to see there an expression denoting jealousy. I thought it strange that no such thought could be detected on the features of Calros Vergara.
“He must be brave, too,” continued the girl, “to have conquered the Capitan Rayas.”
“Conquered Rayas! How? What mean you, Lola?”
“You see those spots of blood on your shirt-bosom? There were others on your face, but I have washed them off. I thought it was yours, Calros.”
“And is it not?”
“No. This is fresh blood, as you may tell by looking at it. It is not yet quite dried. Thanks to the holy Virgin, it is not yours; to lose more would have killed you, Calros; the medico said so.”
“Carrambo! whose is it then?”
“Don Ramon’s.”
“How? Tell me, Lola!”
“You say he was threatening to run you through with his macheté. You heard a shot? It was not Ramon, but the young officer, who fired it; and the bullet was aimed at Rayas himself, and not at you. It must have hit him, for his macheté was found beside you, the hilt stained with blood; and these drops must have come from the wound he received. Ah! dear brother Calros! but for this brave Americano you would now have been in another world, and I left in this, alone, and without a protector.”
Brother Calros!
A load seemed lifted from my heart; the arrow, so lately entering it, and already beginning to rankle, appeared to be suddenly plucked from it without causing pain.
Brother Calros!
No longer did I wonder at the stoical indifference with which the Jarocho had listened to that flattering eulogy bestowed upon myself.
“No, Lola Vergara”—for that should be her name—“No! Never in this world, so long as I live, shall you, beautiful Jarocha, be without a protector!”
That was my thought, my mental resolution. I could scarcely restrain myself from rushing into the tent, and proclaiming it aloud!
Story 1, Chapter IX.
Evil Imaginings.
My discovery of the real relationship existing between Calros and Lola at once cured me of an incipient jealousy, which, though slight, had promised to become sufficiently painful.
Its very existence, however, would have proved to me that I was already in love, had such proof been required to convince me.
But I needed not to reason on that head. I knew that I was enamoured with Lola Vergara—had fallen in love with her at first sight—at that very moment when her accusing eyes flashed fiercely upon me, and through her dazzling teeth was hissed forth that angry epithet, proclaiming me a murderer! In the full tide of anger, with frowning face and furious look, had she appeared lovely—scarcely less lovely than now in her smiles!
I had since beheld these. She smiled on learning that Calros was in no danger of death. She smiled on me as the preserver of his life, gratefully—I fancied graciously. On that fancy I had founded a hope; and hence the jealousy that had so quickly and causelessly arisen.
The hope became strengthened on hearing that fraternal apostrophe, “Hermanita Calros!” pronounced in a language unequalled in the phraseology of affectionate endearment.
The words bespoke a relationship far different from that I had supposed to exist between them—leaving her bosom free for another affection—a passion compatible, if not kindred.
Was it my destiny to inspire this passion? Was that grand triumph to be mine?
Her singular speeches, not very honestly overheard, filled me with hope.
I hesitated about entering the tent. I no longer desired to interrupt a dialogue that had caused me such supreme pleasure; and yet I yearned to proffer my devotion—to