The Bandolero: or, A Marriage among the Mountains. Reid Mayne

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СКАЧАТЬ returning the watch to its fob, I once more glanced towards the entrance of Don Eusebio’s dwelling – at a wicket in the great gate, through which I expected the cochero to come.

      The gate was still close shut; but, to my surprise, the man was standing outside of it! Either he, or some one else?

      I had heard no noise – no shooting of bolts, nor creaking of hinges. Surely it could not be the cochero?

      I soon perceived that it was not; nor anything that in the least degree resembled him.

      My vis-à-vis on the opposite side of the street was, like myself, enveloped in a cloak, and wearing a black sombrero.

      Despite the disguise, and the dim light afforded by the lard, there was no mistaking him for either domestic, tradesman, or lepero. His air and attitude – his well-knit figure, gracefully outlined underneath the loose folds of the broadcloth – above all, the lineaments of a handsome face – at once proclaimed the “cavallero.”

      In appearance he was a man of about my own age: twenty-five, not more. Otherwise he may have had the advantage of me; for, as I gazed on his features – ill lit as they were by the feebly glimmering lamp – I fancied I had never looked on finer.

      A pair of black moustaches curled away from the corners of a mouth, that exhibited twin rows of white regular teeth. They were set in a pleasing smile.

      Why that pain shooting through my heart, as I beheld it?

      I was disappointed that he was not the cochero for whom I had been keeping watch. But it was not this. Far different was the sentiment with which I regarded him. Instead of the “go-between” I had expected to employ, I felt a suspicion, that I was looking upon a rival!

      A successful one, too, I could not doubt. His splendid appearance gave earnest of that.

      He had not paused in front of the Casa Villa-Señor without a purpose – as was evident from the way in which he paced the banquette beneath, while glancing at the balcon above. I could see that his eyes were fixed on that very window – by my own oft passionately explored!

      His look and bearing – both full of confidence – told that he had been there before – often before; and that he was now at the spot – not like myself on an errand of doubtful speculation, but by appointment!

      I could tell, that he had not come to avail himself of the services of the cochero. His eyes did not turn towards the grand entrance-gate, but remained fixed upon the balcony above – where he evidently expected some one to make appearance.

      Shadowed by the portal, I was not seen by him; though I cared not a straw about that. My remaining in concealment was a mere mechanical act – an instinct, if you prefer the phrase. From the first I felt satisfied, that my own “game was up,” and that I had no longer any business with the domestic of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor. His daughter was already engaged!

      Of course I thought only of Mercedes. It would have been absurd to suppose that the man I saw before me could be after the other. The idea did not enter my brain – reeling at the sight of my successful rival.

      Unlike me, he was not kept long in suspense. Ten o’clock had evidently been the hour of appointment. The cathedral was to give the time; and, as the tolling commenced, the cloaked cavalier had entered the street, and hastened forward to the place.

      As the last strokes were reverberating upon the still night air, I saw the blind silently drawn aside; while a face – too often outlined in my dreams – now, in dim but dread reality, appeared within the embayment of the window.

      The instant after, and a form, robed in dark habiliments, stepped silently out into the balcony; a white arm was stretched over the balusters; something still whiter, appearing at the tips of tapering fingers, fell noiselessly into the street, accompanied by the softly whispered words:

      “Querido Francisco; va con Dios!” (God be with you, dear Francis!)

      Before the billet-doux could be picked up from the pavement, the fair whisperer disappeared within the window; the jalousie was once more drawn: and both house and street relapsed into sombre silence.

      No one passing the mansion of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor could have told, that his daughter had been committing an indiscretion. That secret was in the keeping of two individuals; one to whom it had, no doubt, imparted supreme happiness; the other to whom it had certainly given a moment of misery!

      Chapter Seven.

      Brigandage in New Spain

      Accustomed to live under a strong government, with its well-organised system of police, we in England have a difficulty in comprehending how a regular band of robbers can maintain itself in the midst of a civilised nation.

      We know that we have gangs of burglars, and fraternities of thieves, whose sole profession is to plunder. The footpad is not quite extinct; and although he occasionally enacts the rôle of the highwayman, and demands “your money or your life,” neither in dress nor personal appearance is he to be distinguished from the ordinary tradesman, or labourer. More often is he like the latter.

      Moreover, he does not bid open defiance to the law. He breaks it in a sneaking, surreptitious fashion; and if by chance he resists its execution, his resistance is inspired by the fear of capture and its consequences – the scaffold, or penitentiary.

      This defiance rarely goes further than an attempt to escape from the policeman, with a bull’s-eye in one hand and a truncheon in the other.

      The idea of a band of brigands showing fight, not only to a posse of sheriffs’ officers, but to a detachment, perhaps half a regiment, of soldiers – a band armed with swords, carbines, and pistols; costumed and equipped in a style characteristic of their calling – is one, to comprehend which we must fancy ourselves transported to the mountains of Italy, or the rugged ravines of the Spanish sierras. We even wonder at the existence of such a state of things there; and, until very lately, were loth to believe in it. Your London shopkeeper would not credit the stories of travellers being captured, and retained in captivity until ransomed by their friends – or if they had no friends, shot!

      Surely the government of the country could rescue them? This was the query usually put by the incredulous.

      There is now a clearer understanding of such things. The experience of an humble English artist has established the fact: that the whole power of Italy – backed by that of England – has been compelled to make terms with a robber-chief, and pay him the sum of four thousand pounds for the surrender of his painter-prisoner!

      The shopkeeper, as he sits in the theatre pit, or gazes down from the second tier of boxes, will now take a stronger interest in “Fra Diavolo” than he ever did before. He knows that the devil’s brother is a reality, and Mazzaroni something more than a romantic conceit of the author’s imagination.

      But there is a robber of still more picturesque style to which the Englishman cannot give his credibility – a bandit not only armed, costumed, and equipped like the Fra Diavolos and Mazzaronis, but who follows his profession on horseback!

      And not alone– like the Turpins and Claude Duvals of our own past times – but trooped along with twenty, fifty, and often a hundred of his fellows!

      For this equestrian freebooter – the true type of the highwayman – you must seek, in modern times, among the mountains, and upon the plains, of СКАЧАТЬ