University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE LADY OF VERA CRUZ.

—Texan MSS.

The white arm of a woman, thrust through
the staples of that massive door, with the
iron pressed against the delicate flesh, supplied
the place of a bolt and held the panels
firm.

It was a fearful thing to behold that arm,
quivering and almost crushed by the sturdy
blows which fell against the opposite side of
the door. And yet the arm was firm, pressed
by the heavy panels of the door, against the
rusted staples, into which it was inserted, it
trembled like a withered reed, the small fingers,
straightened with intense agony, the
skin was rent by the overwhelming pressure,
but still it was there—the only bolt of the
iron-bound door.

The scene was a narrow room, with a
lofty ceiling and floor of dark grey stone.—
From the tapestry on either side, marked with
the figures 1716, the portraits of grave Hidalgos,
encircled by heavy frames, and manifesting
in their steel armor, their bearded
faces and helmetted brows, distinct traces of
the age of chivalry, frowned gloomily on that
brave and lonely woman.

The only light which imparted its faint
glow to the place wrs a small lamp uplifted in
the left arm of the maiden. Her right arm
was inserted in the place of a bolt. For
some two or three feet around her the rays of
the lamp fell warm and glaring; beyond that
circle of light in which she stood all was
gloom, and the extreme end of the apartment
was enveloped in thick darkness.

For a single moment all is still as death.
While this dead silence broods on the place,
while the thick darkness hangs over its distant
extreme, and the faces of warrior Spaniards
frown from the tapestried walls, we will gaze
upon this brave yet delicate girl.

Her half-naked form is pressed quiveringly
against the dark mahogany panels. That massive
door supplies a black background to the
lithe outlines of her shape, and strongly relieves
the alabaster whiteness of her shoulders,
her feet, her arms and bosom.

A solitary garment, hastily gathered around
her waist, falls in careless and loosening folds
to the floor. Her young bosom heaves freely
in the light. You may trace the agitation
which swells her heart to bursting, in the almost
imperceptible quivering of the nostril.—
You may read it in that silent compression of
the warm, red lips. It brightens wildly in
those dark eyes, dilating in their sockets, and
gleaming a steady lustre from the shadow of
the long black lashes.

A single vein, swoollen as though it was
about to burst, shoots upward from her brows
and mars the pale beauty of her forehead.

Her hair—there is not a breath to stir it into

motion—falls in one mass of glossy blackness
over her right shoulder.

Her form is neither tall nor masculine.—
She trembles before us, one of that diminutive
shapes which supply in grace and lightness
what they lack in height and majesty. A
slender form, yet blooming freshly in the full
bosom; warm, almost voluptuous, in the flowing
outline of the broad shoulders and rounded
arms; beautiful in the stainless whiteness
of her small feet and hands, wild and flashing
with the light of large deep eyes that seem to
burn as they dilate. Altogether one of those
small yet impetuous daughters of the South,
who resemble the tigers in their stealthy tread
and, not in each movement only, but also in
their love and their revenge.

What means this picture, framed by the
darkmahogany panels of the massive door?
This solitary room, gloomy with tapestry and
moth eaten portraits, floored with stone, and
with a single doorway, at either extreme?—
the white arm, thrust through the iron staples,
the enlarging eye and bared bosom, throbbing
with death-like emotion?

Wherefore, with a picture, so mysterious
and yet so beautiful in its very danger and
mystery, commence this new page in this legend
of the golden and bloody land?

From this dim room, faintly illumined by
the lamp that quivers in the uplifted arm of
the maiden, we will go forth, on our pilgrimage,
through the dusky battle-gods and sepulceres
of Mexico. It is in the Home that the
bolt of war descends in its most terrible glare
and reaps its most precious harvest of blood;
in the Home we will raise the curtain, and
lay bare the awful theatre of revenge, over
whose blood-stained bounds glide the phantoms
of human passion.

Hark! this silence, so death-like, is broken
by the sound of repeated blows, hurled against
the opposite side of the door. Deep voices
are heard in the interval between each
blow.

`Open, sister! Your brother demands entrance
into this chamber!'

`Open, Isora; it is your betrothed that
calls!'

One quick and intense glance toward yonder
door, almost hidden in the gloom—it is
the door of her bed chamber; and the girl silently
withdrew her arm. The blood starts
from the white skin, and a livid streak deforms
its alabaster loveliness.

The door swings slowly into the room;—
two figures are disclosed, half-advanced from
the shadows of the doorway. A monk and a
soldier; the monk with his pale face sunken
on his folded arms; the soldier with an unsheathed
sword gleaming in the light.

`Sister!' said the monk, in a voice at once
sad and reproachful, `this dishonor is too
great to be borne. An American—aye, a
heretic, a spy, is discovered at dead of night,
in the streets of Vera Cruz. He is pursued
by Mexicans; his accursed life is in their
power; and lo! a Mexican girl, the orphan
child of Don Antonio Marin gives shelter to
this spy—a shelter in the home of her dead
father, shelter in the secresy of her bed-chamber!'

`Where is he?' hissed the soldier, as his
bearded face and tinselled form were disclosed
in the light; `this sword shall anticipate
the vengeance of the gibbet.'

The half-naked girl stood like a thing of
marble, the light raised in her uplifted arm.—

Silently she gazed with her large eyes on
her brother and her betrothed.

That brother, a man of some thirty years,
whose pale and beardless face stood out distinctly
from the long and flowing robe of his
order. There was a silent scorn about his
colorless lip; an agony of shame, in the
glance of his eyes, as they dilated in his death-like
face.

By his side, his drawn sword grasped in a
firm hand, stood the soldier, quivering with
silent rage Clad in a green uniform, spangled
with ornaments of every shape and device,

his w de trowsers glittering with gold lace, a
pistol in his belt, and his small eyes twinkling
from a mass of dark hair and beard, he
presented an effective contrast to the pale
face and sombre attire of the monk.

`Brother,' replied the girl, in a tone that
was firm in its very tremulousness, `it is
false; there is no spy here. Yonder is my
bed-chamber, search it.'

Her red lip curled in quiet scorn, and with
her blood-stained arm she silently lifted her
loosened robe upon her bosom, blushing like
a beautiful sunset, in that action of maidenly
modesty.

`But we saw him enter;' vociferated the
soldier. `We traced him along the corridor—aye,
to this very room! He is here and
his life is ours.'

You should have seen the girl turn the silent
scorn of her large dark eyes upon his
face.

`It is Don Augustin, then, who enters like
a robber, at dead of night, the bed chamber of
his betrothed. My brother may hold himself
excused; he is but a monk, and knows but
little of the respect due a woman, a maiden.
But you, the soldier, the cavalier, the gallant.
O! chivalric Don Augustin.

Her lip curling, her head thrown back, she
flashed the light of her dark eyes upon his
lowering visage.

His head drooped, the point of his sword
touched the floor. The scorn of that half-clad
and lonely maiden cut him to the very
quick.

Meanwhile the monk, with his arms folded,
his head sunken,regarded his sister with a silent
look — long, searching, and full of
agony.

`We traced the spy to this apartment,' he
said in a voice that scarcely rose above a
whisper. `There is but one door, besides
this through which we have entered. The
other door is yonder, and it leads into your
bed chamber. Sister, we will reach that
room.'

What means that head turned hurriedly
over her shoulder, that glance toward the
distant door? Does the maiden fear the
search?

Her face was very pale, as she turned once
more, and with flashing eyes, besought her
brother `not to profane with his midnight intrusion
the sanctity of her chamber and her
couch.'

The monk stood silent and confused—ashamed
to advance and unwilling to recede—
but the tinselled Don Augustin sprang forward,
sword in hand, toward the door of her
bed-room.

With one sudden and impetuous bound,
that slender girl darted before him, and shield
ed the door with her outspread arms. She
shone very beautiful in the action. Again the
dark robe fell, and with the darker hair, relieved
the soft loveliness of her virgin
breast.

`Back! It is not for you to enter here!'

And as the flash of her indignant eyes met
his cowering gaze, he started back, ashamed
of the meanness of his purpose.

`Brother advance! It is for you to commit
this outrage, alone.'

Slowly, ds though every step was clogged
with a leaden weight, the brother advanced
and laid his hands upon the dark panels of
the door.

`Why do you hesitate?' said the maiden,
as her bosom throbbed in long and deep pulsations.
`Are you afraid?'

Her words were brave, but pallor of her
face, the unnatural brightness of her eyes,
told the story of her intense agony.

It was a picture, to live upon the memory
forever.

The room so dark, and the dusks faces
frowning from the tapestried wall; these three
figures near the doorway,—the maiden, with
her bared bosom and uplifted light, shining
down upon her pale face; the monk, with
one foot advanced, one hand laid upon the
panels; the soldier with his head bowed, his

sword lowered, gazing with upturned eyes
upon the sister and the brother, his chest
heaving with suspense.

The strong light upon these figures, and the
gloom all around—it was a most impressive
scene; and a silence like the grave, added
awe to that moment of anxious hesitatation.

`I will enter,' said the monk.

He pushed open the door and disappeared
at the same moment. The sister sank on her
knees, while a groan of intense agony swelled
her bosom. Yes, with her hair, falling
over her face, she covered her eyes with one
hand, and the other, grasping the light drooped
by her side.

Don Augustin, like a statue of surprise,
stood as if chained to the floor, gazing in
mute horror upon the kneeling woman. He
was a soldier, and had done brave work in
many a battle, done hideous butchery in many
a memorable Texan field; but now the damps
of fear started from his cold forehead. He
was afraid.

He listened to the sound of footsteps within
that chamber, he heard a deep-toned ejaculation,
and then all was dead silence. The
sword of Don Augustin shook as the tremor
of his arm agitated the gilded hilt.

`Thou art false, Isora!' he whispered, as
his parting lips disclosed his white teeth firmly
set together.

She did not raise her head. Cowering on
the floor, her robe, her hair, mingled in wild
disorder, she pressed her left hand against her
forehead and laid her head against the panels
of her chamber door.

And thus they kept their fearful watch;
the maiden and her plighted husband. She,
the orphan child of an honored race of old
Castile, now trembling in fear and shame, as
her brother searched her chamber. He, a
brave and cruel soldier, quivering in fear of
that dishonor which seemed glaring in his
face from the sombre panelling of the fatal
door.

Within the chamber!

We will follow the footsteps of the monk.

He entered, and the sanctity of his sister's
bed room lay open to his gaze. It was a cool
and quiet place, hung with faint crimson curtains,
a single window opening on a garden
to the north, a solitary light placed in a niche
before an image of the Virgin Mary. The perfume
of flowers imparted a delicious sweetness
to the sultry air. Beautiful in their rainbow
hues, they were clustered in a vase near
the window. In one corner stood the maid's
couch, yet bearing the outlines of her shape
on its silken pillows.

The monk advanced—trembling he took
the light and searched the room. There was
no one there. All was silent and deserted.
That light fell over the bed, revealed the
folds of the silken hangings, the flowers by
the window, and the Virgin smiling from the
recess, but it did not disclose the form of a
living thing.

`The spy is not here!' he gasped, and approached
the window. `He cannot have escaped
in this way; the leap were certain
death!'

He looked down into the garden, where
flowers and shrubbery were grouped, in a
wilderness of perfume, and then, through the
interval of the vines which clustered round
the window frame, he saw the mild, sad light
of the stars.

`This is strange;' he murmured, as he approached
the image of the Virgin. `As I live,
he entered this room, and yet I can discern no
trace of his footsteps.'

As he spoke, a dim, distant, murmuring
sound, like the tramp of ten thousand men on
a sandy shore, came through the thick walls
of that ancient mansion. The monk groaned
as he bit his lips in impotent rage.

`They come, the heretics, the invaders!'

But what is the sight that fixes the glance
of his burning eyes? The statue of the Virgin
has been moved from its place in the recess:
the monk remembers the old-time legends

of his paternal mansion, and at a glance
discovers the entrance to that secret stairway,
leading from the bed-chamber to the
roof.

`Ah!' he groaned, with an oath in pure
Castilian, `I have tracked the wolf to his
lair!'

It was the work of second to spring forward
through that holy image, open wide the narrow
door and glide into the darkness of the
secret stairway.

Ten steps upward—steps of stone, built in
the thickness of the walls—and he stood upon
the flat roof, amid the battlemented walls of
the mansion, with the light of the stars upon
his brow.

A hand was laid upon his arm; the stern,
stern gripe of these iron fingers forced an involuntary
murmur of pain.

Fiercely the monk turned, his lip compressed,
his brow scowling—it was his impulse to
hurl the intruder from the roof.

But the scowl passed from his brow ere he
drew another breath. His lips parted, the indignant
flash of his eye was succeeded by a
vacant stare.

He felt his blood curdle in his veins. For
there, in the pale light of the stars, rose a tall
form, swelled to gigantic proportions by the
gloom, and a voice low and deep, which thrilled
to the inmost heart of the monk, whisperee
these words,—

`Remember the Rancho Saldo, and look
yonder!'

While that death-like clasp tightened on his
arm, the monk recognized the voice, and
trembled like a frightened child before the
spectre of some goblin story.

Quivering with a fear more terrible to behold
because its source is unknown to us, the
monk beheld the sight which spread before
him.

It was a sight to swell the heart with a
vague yet overwhelming sense of the sublime.

Let us stand beside him on the roof of the
mansion which overlooks the main square of
the town, and gaze upon the vision which he
beheld and feel its dusk sublimity rush thro'
the eyesight to our souls.