The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ spilt. There were several spots upon the white linen shirt, besprinkling the plaits upon the bosom, and others upon the sleeves; also the cheeks of the youth showed a drop or two on their pallid ground.

      Whence had these blood-drops proceeded?

      I could not guess. I could discover no recent stab on the Jarocho’s body, not a scratch to account for them!

      Had the robber, after all, failed in his fatal thrust? Had the death of his intended victim been caused by the shot-wound in the thigh, hastened by the terror of that horrid threat?

      While thus conjecturing, my eye fell upon an object glancing through the grass. I stooped down and took it up. It was a macheté—half sword, half hunting-knife—to be met with in every Mexican house, or seen hanging on the hip of every Mexican cavallero.

      Was it the weapon of the wounded man, or that I had lately seen in the hand of his enemy?

      I took it up to examine it. The blade was bright: not a speck appeared on its polished surface!

      Between my fingers, as they grasped the hilt of riveted horn, I felt something wet. Was it dew from the grass?

      No. The moonlight fell upon something darker than dew. Both the haft of the weapon and my fingers encircling it were red as rubies. It was blood, and fresh from the veins of a human being!

      As it could not be the blood of Calros, I concluded it must be that of Ramon Rayas. My bullet must have been true to its aim.

      While thus occupied with conjectures, a new voice fell upon my ear, as different from either of those lately listened to as music from the rudest noise.

      “Calros! dear Calros!” called the voice, “was it you I heard? Speak, Calros! valga me Dios! That shot! Surely it was not for him? No—no—I heard him speaking after it. Calros! Answer me, if you are near. It is I who call—I, your own Lola!”

      Had it been the voice of an angel coming out of the chapparal, or from the sky above it could not have sounded sweeter, nor thrilled me with a stranger impulse.

      For some seconds I remained irresolute as to what answer should be made to the pathetic appeal. I hesitated to apprise the speaker of the presence of Calros. Only his body was present; his spirit was not there!

      What a sad spectacle for the eye of the loved Dolores—the loving Dolores—how could I doubt it? Looking upon the handsome Jarocho—graceful even in the attitude of death—I could not wonder at the earnestness of that feminine voice, pronouncing him her “querido Calros.”

      Once more it fell upon my ear, continuing the passionate appeal.

      “Calros! O Calros! Why do you not answer me? It is Lola—your own Lola!”

      “Lola!” I responded, yielding to an irresistible emotion, “this way; come this way! Calros is here.”

      An exclamatory phrase, expressing gratitude to the “Mother of God,” was heard in response; and quickly following the words, a female form, fair as the mother of men, parting the hushes that bordered the glade, stepped cut into the opening.

Story 1, Chapter V.

       Table of Contents

      An Unpleasant Misunderstanding.

      Yes, fair as the mother of men—it is no exaggeration to say it—was she who, answering my summons, had emerged from the shadowy chapparal, and now stood exposed to my view under the full light of the moon. It was a full moon—a Mexican moon, that delights to shine upon lovely woman; and no lovelier could its beams have ever embraced than she who now stood before me.

      It was beauty of a type peculiar to the land in which I viewed it—peculiar even to a single province—the tierra caliente, or coast-region, of Vera Cruz.

      The image of Lola is still upon the tablets of my memory, permanently impressed as I saw her at that moment; perhaps more deeply graven upon my heart as I beheld her afterwards.

      The picture presented to my eye, and viewed under the moon’s mellow light, was that of a girl just approaching the completeness of womanhood—or rather having completed it, for there seemed nothing wanting to make the perfect woman.

      A figure of medium height, neither sylphlike nor slender, but of full physical outline, in points even imposing.

      I do not deny that there is something sensual in this type, and I know there are those who incline more to the intellectual. For my part, I doubt the honesty of such ethereal admirers; and must still cling to the belief that bold elliptical outline is the true ideal of beauty in the feminine form.

      That of Lola, seen against the verdant background of the chapparal, exhibited this curve in all its luxuriant windings. It was displayed in the tournure of the head, the cheeks, the throat, and shoulders; it embraced bosom, waist, and limbs; it ran over her whole figure—a living, moving curve, like the undulations of some beautiful serpent, always tapering to an end, but never terminating.

      It was the curve discovered by Hogarth, though but poorly expressed in his pictures. It was perfectly presented in the outlines of the lovely apparition that came before my eyes in that moonlit glade, on the field of Cerro Gordo.

      Her dress did not destroy the voluptuous line. It could not, even had it been one of those monstrous contrivances of fashion for concealing the too-often distorted form. But it was not thus designed. The sleeveless chemise of snow-white cambric, and the translucent skirt of thin muslin, like the gown of Nora Creina, left—

      “Every beauty free

       To sink or swell as heaven pleases.”

      The slight scarf of bluish grey cotton (rebozo) drawn over the crown of the head, and falling loosely down in front, scarcely interfered with the symmetrical outlines of the bosom; while behind, two thick plaits of hair, escaping from under it, hung down to the level of its fringed ends, terminating in a tie of bright red ribbons.

      At first sight, I thought the girl was barefoot. The skirt and petticoat (enagua) permitted to be seen beneath them a pair of statuesque ankles, nude to mid-knee. But although thus stockingless, I soon perceived that her feet were in satin slippers, hidden behind the herbage. Neither the naked ankles, nor the slight but costly chaussure, gave me any surprise, however inappropriate either might be deemed to a walk through the thorny chapparal. I knew that both were in the fashion of the country.

      At the moment, I was not thinking of either circumstance, nor of the incongruity of bare feet in satin slippers. My eyes and thoughts were turned higher, gazing on a face of peculiar loveliness.

      It was a beauty I remember well, but can ill describe.

      To say that the complexion was a golden brown, with crimson in the cheeks; that the lips were like a pair of rose-leaves convexly curving against each other, and when parted, displaying a row of pearly teeth; that both eyebrows and lashes were crescent-shaped and black as ebony; that the eyes were of the same hue, but sparkling with liquid light; that the nose was slightly aquiline; the throat full and boldly rounded upward—to say all this, would only be to state СКАЧАТЬ