University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVII.
SPANISH HONOR.

“Margarita, come forth. The general
Carrera and his staff request your
hospitality.”

“It is even too much honor for us
to give it,” she answered, rising as if
entirely unem barassed; and, throwing
her mantilla around her, for she had
otherwise arranged herself a ready, she
advanced with a calm step and perfect
dignity of mien into the outer hall,
which was now filled by the brilliant
group of officers who had followed the
general, as was the court yard by three
or four hundred perfectly equipped lancers.

There was a mighty doffing of plumed
hats, and bowing to the lovely senorita
as she made her appearance in that
glittering presence, the only unadorned
and simply attired person who stood
there. Many and profound were the
courtly compliments, the professions of
ready service, and the like, in the sonorous
old Castillian tongue; and the general-in-chief
himself was the foremost
in what would, in any other country,
have been pronounced mere lip-loyalty
and mock-adulation.

“I regret deeply,” he said, after a
few moments spent in ordinary compliments,
“that we were unable to arrive
hither a few hours sooner, as our presence
would have, I hear, relieved you
of unpleasant visitors, of whom we
have been in pursuit some days.”

“We had unexpected visitors, indeed,
if not unwelcome,” she replied. “But
to say the truth, they were not uncivil,
and though we had not the power to refuse
them what they asked of us, they
behaved courteously, and but a short
stay.”

“Be sure of that,” answered Carrera,
twisting his moustache; “they
knew that I was at their heels.”

“They did not think, I fancy, that
your excellency was so near them. They
spoke something among themselves of
a skirmish they had seen between your
lancers and the Indians. They hoped
your pursuit of the savages would have
drawn you so far away that you woul
lose a day or two in time.”

“Ah! a trifle, lady, a mere trifle! an
affair of half an hour! We drove
them at the first charge, and had execution
of them for miles. But I rejoice
to hear that the Yankees were courteous,
and it is generous in you to say
so, for I know that you have little cause
to love them.”

“No Mexican has cause to love them
—no Mexican can do aught but hate
Americans through life and to death—
and I am a Mexican!” she said fervently
and proudly.

And so striking was her air, and so
electric her tone, that it spread a contagious
spirit through the gentleman
around, which manifested itself at first
in a low hum, increasing gradually till
it ended in a loud outburst of enthusiastic
vivas.

“But you in particular have cause
to hate them,” said the general, as the
shout subsided. “You have suffered
much at their hands.”

“Much, indeed!” she replied, with a
deep sigh, looking sadly around her.
“But these were not the same.”

“They were Americans.” said Carrera.

“Those were Texans! volunteers!”

“It is the same: Texans, Americans!—Americans,
Texans!—wolves
all of them! accursed people!”

And a volley of execrations succeeded
from all present. Meantime refreshments
were handed around, and apologies
offered for the impossibility of providing
food at so short a notice for all
the men, coupled with a proposal to
kill several sheep and oxen in order to
feed them at night-fall.

This was, however, courteously declined
by the general, on the ground
that they could not spare so much time
from the pursuit.

“They left you early last night, you
say, senorita?” asked Carrera. “At
what hour was it, think you?”

“An hour or two past midnight, I
think,” she replied, simply. “But I
am not sure, for they awoke me from
my sleep, and in truth I took no note
of the time.”

“And they had a lady with them?”

“A very young and very beautiful
lady!”

“They cannot then travel very fast,”
said the general, “wo shall overtake
them before night, gentlemen.”

“They spoke much of the lady's
courage, and her horsemanship, saying
that she rode as well as the dragoons;
and was so little weary, and, in truth,
she looked neither fatigued nor fearful.”

“Ha! is it so, indeed? Then we
will get to horse at once! Let the
trumpets sound `boot and saddle!' and
with many thanks to you, beauteous
lady, for your hospitality, we will leave
you for the present. If it please fortune,
we will halt here on our return and if
we take the dogs, we will shoot them
here, at the doors of the house they so
brutally destroyed!”

“What, prisoners of war, general?”
faltered poor Margarita.

“Spies, senorita. Death to all spies
and traitors!”

He arose from his chair as he spoke,
and, again bowing, was on the point of
leaving the apartment, and the poor girl
thought that the crisis was past and the
danger over.

When in the very midst of the bustle
and hurry of leave taking, an aid-de-camp
rushed in hastily and announced
that the riding horse of the American
lady had been found in the stable of
the rancho well groomed, and feeding
at a well-filled manger.

“Who groomed him?” asked Carrera,
sternly.

“A boy called Francisco.”

“Bring him in.”

And immediately the shepherd boy
was led in between two dismounted
lancers with escopetas trailed in their
hands.

“How came the lady's horse in the
stables?”

“It was tired, lame, who knows?—
they left it behind.”

“Who bade you groom and feed it?”

“No one. It was too good to lose—
American people are a cursed people—
American horses excellent.”

“This may be truth, Valdez,” said
Carrera to the officer who had brought
in the tidings. “The boy speaks steadily,
and to the point.”

But the aid-de-camp replied by a
scarcely perceptible shake of the head,
and the general resumed.

“Do you know, sirrah, the penalty
denounced against all who comfort or
suceor the Americaus?”

“It is death, senor!”

“And do you wish to die?”

“God forbid, your excellency,” stammered
the boy.

“Now mark me, if you speak one
lie you shall be shot to death within five
minutes. If you speak truth, the republic
will reward you. Where is that
lady?”

“Who knows?” was the evasive answer;
but as he uttered it his eyes wandered
to his master's face, as it to consult
his eyes before replying further.
He met their steadfast gaze, and continued
firmly—“She went with the
rest.”

“How went she?”

“They had a spare dragoon horse
with them, loaded with baggage, they
left the baggage, and she rode the horse.”

“There were some tracks, general,”
interposed one of the younger officers,
“and we know that there are but five
men and one woman.”

“Well said, Don Joseph. It is all
right, I fancy, Valdez. Let them sound
horse and away.”

“The lady's horse is quite fresh, and
as sound as a bell; my men are making
further searches, general. I pray you
for a short delay,” said the aid-de-camp.

“Be it so,” he answered sternly.—
and hark ye, Valdez,” he continued,
let six file prime and load, take this dog
down into the court-yard, and if he does
not confess within five minutes, shoot
him.”

The poor boy fell upon his knees and
poured out a volley of misericordias, and
por elamor de Dios, and every possible
form of Spanish supplication, he wept,
he wrung his hands, he tore his hair,
he called upon his master, his mistress
for aid, to save him for the love of God!
but not an offer did he make to reveal
or confess.

A dragoon entered, at this moment,
bearing a lady's side-saddle and bridle,
with girths and hangings all complete
and cast them down at the general's
feet. And then said as he saluted—

“We have found a dragoon horse
dead—shot within a few hours general,
in the corral, with all his accoutrements
upon him.”

Carrera's cold hard eye turned silently
and sternly on the miserable boy.
Speak!” he said, “or die. Take your
choice. Where is the lady?”

“Quien Sabe?”

“Away with him.”

Two stout dragoons seized him, and
despite his cries, his struggles, and entreaties,
dragged him away as if he had
been a mere infant.

There were five minutes dreadful,
death-like silence. Margarita stood
cold and impassive as a pillar of stone,
with her teeth set, and her hands clenched.
But for the heaving of her bosom,
and the quivering of her eyelid, she
gave no sign of life.

Juan de Alava preserved his soldier's
mien and aspect, but his eye wandered
wildly.

The next moment the sharp rattle of
a volley, succeed by one death groan,
rang through the hall, and the thin blue
smoke drifted in through the open door,
and half filled the apartment.

“Fiel hasta la muerte,” muttered
between his hard set teeth.

“Bring out the other servants,” roared
Carrera, furious at being frustrated.
Give them five minutes, also, to confess.
if they speak not, shoot them.”

After another short pause an orderly
entered and announced that they had
fled into the woods.

“Ha! this lies deeper than I thought
for, lady,” he added turning to Margarita,
“we must have your presence in
an inner chamber. Valdez, call in our
major, and six captains, a court-martial.
Senor de Alava follow us.”

And without more words, he stalked
into Margarita's private chamber, seated
himself in her own arm chair, and,
ordering his officers to form a half circle
round him, proceeded to arraign her as
a culprit.

“You know,” he said sternly, but not
uncourteously. “You know, Senorita,
the doom which our laws have pronounced
against all traitors who comfort,
protect, or harbor an American?”

“Senor, I know it.”

“It is?”

“Death!”

“You are very young to die.”

“I am young, senor. But when God
clls us hence, it is never early.”

A slight murmur of admiration ran
through the circle at her calm and dauntless
resolution; but found no echo from
the cold lips of Carrera.

“There are things worse than death,
senorita.”

“But one.”

“And that is?”

“Dishonor.”

“And do you not fear that?”

“I fear not that which I can never
know.”

“Others may dishonor you.”

“No! one can always die.”

“You are bold, lady.'

“Confident, senor, because prepared.”

“See that you answer what I shall
ask you now, truly.”

“If at all—truly.”

“Where is the lady gone who was
here last night?”

“The boy whom you murdered told
you that she went with the rest.”

“He lied—and lost his life by his
lie!”

She bowed her head and was silent.

“On your honor whither has the lady
gone?”

She looked in his face and was silent.

“On your honor, do you know where
the lady is at this moment?”

“I do know.”

“Where is she?”

“I have sworn to be silent.”

“That oath was treason to your
country.”

“By your proclamation.”

“You know it? You have read it?”

“I do—I have.”

“Enough. One question more, will
you reveal it?”

“I will not.”

“And you know the alternative?”

“Death!”

“And you are prepared to die, so
young, so beautiful, to die a traitress?”

“God will forgive me.”

“Mark me, reveal this, and we at
once pardon yourself and your household—nay!
but your brother, also, who
doubtless knows your guilt.”

“What would be her fate, should I
do so?”

“The will of the conqueror—the
soldier's pleasure.”

“A woman, a lady, and a prisoner of
war?”

“I have spoken, lady.”

“And I, general.”

“Colonel don Juan de Alava, on your
honor, as a soldier and a gentleman, do

you know where this American woman
now is?”

“I do know.”

“Where is she?”

“Do you think me less firm than a
woman?”

“Have you sworn secrecy?”

“I have not sworn.”

“Speak, I command you.”

He was silent. The general cast his
eyes sternly round the circle, reading
the judgment of each man by his face,
as he asked—

“Are they guilty of high treason?”

And each man nodded in silence as
the question came to him in turn.

“And your sentence?”

“Death!” replied Valdez, standing
up and uncovering, and all the others
arose in their order, and bowed in as
sent.

“General,” said Alava, “you said I
fought well at Palo Alto, again at Resaca
de la Palma—well when I captured
Thornton's horse, and well when I
saved your life from the Partisan. For
these things grant me one boon.”

“Name it.”

“A soldier's death.”

“A traitor's!—kneeling!—shot in
the back! are you answered?”

“General,” said Margarita firmly but
sadly; “I am a woman, a lady, the
daughter of your friend. Two years
ago a band of Texans sacked this rancho
in cold blood, killed my father, my
mother, my two brethren, all our blood
save him and me. Me too they would
have dishonored and then slain. A man,
an American, fought his way in and
rescued me. That man came to my
house last night and asked me: `for your
life which I gave you, for your honor
which I saved you, give me my sister's
life and honor!' I gave them. General,
before I die, a boon.”

“Name it?”

“Her life and liberty.”

“Who was the man?”

“Name him not, for your soul,”
shouted Juan de Alava. But his warning
came too late. She had spoken.

“His name is Pedro the Partisan.”

“Ten thousand furies! His sister!
His!” and as he spoke his olive-colored
face turned crimson with rage. “Give
her up—give her up to me this instant,
or death, which you seem to laugh at,
shall be as nothing to what you shall
undergo. No form of outrage, of indignity,
of dishonor, but the soldiers
shall wreak it upon you; and when you
die you shall hail death that it has
covered you from shame too deep to be
endured. Will you speak?”

“I have spoken.”

“Away with her! Cast her to the
troopers! Let them do with her as
they list!”

“General Carrera, you dare not.”

“And, hark ye, drag him out, also,
and let him look upon her shame, then
shoot him.”

“Never!” exclaimed two voices in
one cry, and as if by one movement
brother and sister drew, and raised on
high, a sheathless blade.

“Brother—sister—adieu!” and the
blades rose as if to strike—but ere the
blow was dealt a calm sweet voice cried
“Hold!”

“Hold! I am here!”

And at the words, there in the ninch
disclosed by the removal of that holiest
emblem, the christian's dying God—
there with her golden tresses floating
dishevelled like a halo of glory round her
with her blue eyes filled with the inaffable
lustre—the lustre of a martyred saint,
her innocent artless features glowing with
strange exultation, her lovely lips apart,
madonna-like, stood Julia Gordon.

“I am here, man of blood! Spare
them! But with me do your pleasure,
I am in the hands of my God, now as
ever.”

“You are in my hands now, my
beauty!” exclaimed the savage exultingly—“and
shall be in my men's
hands in five minutes. Fortunate fellows!
Such a pair of you! Valdez,
why don't you help the lady to descend.
By heaven! you are discourteous.”

The aid-de-camp, apt minister of his
bloody general's brutality arose to obey
his orders, when, at the first step he
took, he stooped short as if thunder-stricken.
His face was as pale as ashes,
his lips wide apart, his knees shaking
under him.

Nor was it wonderful! for as he took
that step, one sharp short crack came
echoing from without, the well-known
death shot of the certain rifle—then
pealed a bugle, high and shrill—the
terrified alarum!—and then crack!

crack! the rolling, rattling, irregular,
incessant volley of the most murderous
of weapons—the deadly rifle of the
west.

And then, all in one instant's space,
it would seem, the thundering noise of
charging horse, the clang of blades,
the groans, the shrieks, the awful sounds
of horro and of havoe which mark the
hand to hand encounter!

And high above all other sounds, and
high arose the war-cry of the Texans—
“Remember the Alamo, the Alamo!”
and Gordon's name was mingled with
the din, shouted by his dragoons; and
the fierce cheer of the Partisan, “Pierre!
Pierre! charge for Pierre and glory!”
compleated the dismay of the surprised
and baffled murderers.