The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

       Table of Contents

      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 stand once more face to face, and eye to eye, with the beautiful Jarocha.

      In any case I could not continue to play the part of an eavesdropper. I could now perceive the indelicacy of the act—especially as my satisfied heart no longer needed soothing.

      I must either enter, or withdraw. I decided upon entering.

      But not till I had set my forage-cap more coquettishly upon my head, drawn my fingers through my hair, and given to my moustache its most captivating curl.

      I confess to all this weakness. I was at that time full of conceit in my personal appearance. I had heard the phrase, “handsome young officer,” applied to me by one from whose lips dropped the words like the honey of Hymettus; and, inspired by the flattering epithet, I left nothing undone to deserve it.

      Nevertheless I felt embarrassed, as I presented myself once more before the lovely Lola—an embarrassment heightened by the presence of her brother.

      Wonder at this, if you will. It is too easily explained. I entered the tent with the consciousness of a design that was not honourable. I stood before them both—the sister and brother—with a conscience not clear. At that moment—I confess it to my shame—I had no other СКАЧАТЬ