University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE HOPE IN RESERVE—THRESHOLD OF EVENTS.

The night passed away, and the conspirators were each
busy with his particular design. The matador employed
by Garabito, to avenge his wrongs upon Vasco Nunez,
though he joined the debauch with his employer, in the
encomienda of Ribiero, gave not greatly away to its excesses;
and, before morning, he had summoned before
him a trusty villain, whom he used as a spy in all such
affairs as that now upon his hands. This creature was
an Italian by birth; a deformed, insignificant-looking imp
—crawling, silent, watchful; the quick sight in whom,
would never suggest itself to one unsuspicious of mankind,
who looked but passingly upon the unintelligible,
dead blank of stare, that made the prevailing expression
of his countenance. But there was no keener-witted or
sharper-eyed villain in all San Domingo; and for years
the same murderous employment which had proved profitable
to the matador, Ortado, had found, in Pavini, a convenient
and unscrupulous assistant. The only drawback
to his value, in the estimation of Ortado, was his utter
want of courage. He loved to be at the shedding of
blood—he seemed to find a strange pleasure even in the
strife, when it did not involve himself; but a moment of
peril was with him, instinctively, the signal for flight; and
the demand for help at his hands which, in some instances,
Ortado had been compelled to make, had ever
found him incapable of giving it. This defect, however,
did not materially impair his value in the regard of the
matador. “I ask him not to strike for me,” was the remark
of Ortado, whenever the imbecility of his assistant

was the subject—“that is my business, which I receive
pay to do, and my conscience commands that I leave it to
no other person; but Pavini is the eye of my dagger, and
he never fails to guide it to the right place. The sabueso
has no keener scent for his victim, and loves not better
to snuff up the thick blood with his nostrils. It is his
eye that I hire, not his arm.”

The spy appeared at the desire of Enciso—who seemed
to be familiar with the mode of proceeding of the matador—before
the company, to receive the commands of his
master.

“The Señor Garabito,” said Ortado, making at the same
time a motion with his head, which indicated the designated
person to the eyes of his assistant, “hath need of thee,
Pavini. He will give thee a token of service.”

The Italian stretched forth his open hand to receive the
reward, and the fee which custom had established, was
put into it by the docile Garabito, to whom the bachelor
proved an all-sufficient prompter.

“Thou knowest the Señor Vasco Nunez de Balboa?”
demanded Ortado.

“The Knight of the Dog—that hath Leonchico?” was
the answer.

“The same. Thou knowest his bohio?”

“Ay,—as I do my own.”

“Away, then, and know if he be in it. If he be, take
heed when he comes forth, and follow him whithersoever
he goes. When thou hast lodged him, come to me at the
casa of Gil Perez. Away.”

“Should the dog follow his master?” demanded Pavini.

“It is well thought on; Leonchico is an enemy that
should be cared for, if he come upon the ground. But
this will hardly be, if Vasco Nunez seeks the Señora Teresa.
He will leave him fast in the bohio.”

“It may be; but—”

“Thou art at thy old fears, Pavini,” interrupted the
other, “with thy `buts' and precautions. What wouldst
thou further?”

“Should the dog come forth?” said the other, repeating
the apprehension against which his employer had provided
no remedy.

“Well, should it be as thou sayst, speed thee then to
the slaughter-farm;—give him three more pesos, Senor

Garabito, that thy work be not half finished;—go to the
slaughter-farm of Bolaze, on the Jayna, which is nearest
to thy need, and get from him a gallon of warm blood,
and as much carrion as will gorge the hound; let him
scent of it from the blood, so that he may find the meat
at a good distance from his master. But beware that thy
hands reek not of the taint, nor thy garments, for then, of
a surety, Leonchico will not go beyond thy own throat to
satisfy his rage. Thou wert but a lost man to bring the
beast upon thee, and good though thy heels may be, they
will not carry thee where thy heart would have them.
Wouldst thou more?”

“Nothing; at the casa of Gil Perez, thou sayst?”

“Ay,—what wouldst thou say?”

“Thou hast a debt to him, of which the knave speaks
something freely.”

“Have I not the means of payment, thou infidel? He
is thy friend—tell him I have blood-money, and laugh at
all his clamours; but forget not thy better business;
away.”

Let us at the same time leave these precious villains,
and seek the cavalier in his bohio. His thoughts kept
him awake all that night, and at home all the ensuing
day. He had no wish to go abroad into the thoroughfare.
He had now but little or no business in the market-place,
and his pride revolted at the idea of meeting with the sneer
of those who had so lately envied him, and the mocking
pity of those whom he despised; the obtrusive sympathies
of his rivals, and the suppressed but exulting spirit of triumph
among his foes. The absence of the astrologer left
him without any companion but his faithful dog, and he,
as if conscious of his master's sufferings, crouched close
at his feet, and looked up with a keen, earnest glance into
his countenance, as if to ask in what way he could help
to alleviate them. The cavalier well understood the mute
appeal of his shaggy friend, and his heart warmed with
new hopes, as he felt the unspoken fidelity of his brave
companion.

“Thou at least art true, Leonchico. The man falters
in his duty, and betrays his trust. The tempter wins him
with gold, and he weighs the blood-drops of the heart's
best affections in a light scale when set off against the
yellow tribute of the mountains. The woman, on whom
he leans with love, glides away from the heart which

breaks when she leaves it, and betrays the strong man,
even as the harlot of Sorek, into the hands of his enemies.
But thou hast never betrayed thy master, neither in peace
nor in peril. Thou hast stood beside me, and gone before
me, in the hour of danger; and when thou couldst not
help, thou hast yet soothed my sorrow with a sorrow like
my own. Ah, Leonchico, shall there be a time for us yet?
Shall we have more battles—shall we win more victories
together?”

The dog rose and shook his bristling mane, and gnashed
his teeth, and lifted his paw to the knee of his master, as
if in assurance that such a period must yet come when
they should again triumph together.

“But thou shalt serve no other master, my brave
friend. If the day comes of our relief, and I may command,
then shalt thou partake with me my perils as before;
but never again will I hire thee, whatever be my
necessity, to serve in battle for the profit of another. I
will not sell thy life, when I scorn to sell my own. No!
no! I must be precious of thee, as of myself, for I have
no other friend but thee!”

A few moments' reflection brought a feeling of self-reproach
to the mind of the speaker. The manifest injustice
of his soliloquy was apparent to himself.

“I do Micer Codro wrong. What friend hath been
truer or kinder than he? Hath he not given me all, and,
when the seas swallowed up his treasure, had he any
reproaches? It were a shame and a sin to forget his
love, which has not grown jealous in my prosperity, and
which sinks not away in the hour of my misfortune.
Even now, though I marvel much where he can wander,
yet I well believe he is working in my behalf. God help
him, but he hath little need. I am one of those whom
the fates mark for their sport and merriment, and this
mockery of my star, in which he so much trusts, I know
not whether to answer in scorn or in bitterness, when he
fills my ear with the idle promises which have been
already baffled so long.”

The reference to the astrologer necessarily reminded
him of the promise which he had given him not to seek
Teresa till his return, and the restraint which had been
thus imposed upon him grew more and more irksome as

the day advanced, and when night came on was to be
endured no longer.

“He hath said to me that she loved me not; nay, he
hath striven to make her seem in mine eyes one of
whose love no heart can be secure. Bright and beautiful
as he confesses her to be, he yet—what shame!—esteems
her heartless; as if it were in nature that such monstrous
contradiction should exist—as if the blessed mother of
God should suffer the venomous temper of the gay,
shining and glossy snake, to fill the bosom of one so
shaped after a dream of heaven, and with a face in whose
beauty only, the most hopeful of heaven might find sufficient
charm. It cannot be; and as for this doubt which
presses upon me still, spite of my hope, that she loves
me not, even as he declares,—there is no better season
for assurance than this, when the storm has gone over
my fortunes, and there is no temptation, or in my greatness
or in my wealth, to persuade her into a yielding
which she had not otherwise resolved. Now, if she loves
me not, will she forbear the capricious paltering of the
vain-minded woman, and deprive me of my idle hope
and unprofitable dream for ever. But if she love—if the
poor cavalier, strong in himself only, and his unquestioned
truth, shall have won upon her secret regards,
even now, at this moment of my utmost destitution, will
she joy to speak, and the very poverty which I profess
will make her heart only rejoice the more that she has
any thing to bestow. What triumph to show this to
Micer Codro when he comes—to tell him,—`Thou hast
done her wrong, and thy knowledge of the woman's
heart is no less vain and erring than that which thou
hast gathered from the stars.”'

With such hopes and fancies as these, it was impossible
that the cavalier should refrain from the interview in
which he promised himself so much. He sallied forth,
and took his way towards the bohio of the maiden; the
spy, Pavini, following his footsteps to the dwelling, at a
cautious distance; then, when he had seen him lodged,
hastening away to his superior at the casa of Gil Perez.

“Now, Señor Garabito, thou shalt say where thy
enemy shall lie to-night;” said the matador to his employer
as he beheld the entrance of Pavini. “If I rightly

caught thy desire, thou wouldst have him die at a blow—
thou wouldst not have him account to thee, nor speak—”

“Nay, give him not a word—a single blow, my good
Ortado—deep, fatal death, at a stroke;” was the reply.

“Ah, well, that is soon over; but there are many
cavaliers who engage me in branding their cattle, who
have a strange pleasure to listen to their last words, their
very groans, thinking them sweetest music. I glad me
thou art not one of these. To my mind, such a desire
hath a look of malice and bad feeling in it, which I could
not love. Thou art the better gentleman as thou dealest
with thy foe so that he hath little pain. It is enough for
the satisfaction of one's honour that he knife his enemy;
there is a baseness to hack the goodly person with unnecessary
wounds. But thou wilt dip thy finger or thy napkin
in his blood?”

“Ay, the whole hand!” was the fierce reply. “His
blood upon my hands only can efface the dishonour of
my soul.”

“Amen!” exclaimed the matador decisively; “let us
away. Thy hand to the mug, Pavini, and thine eyes may
sleep when thou wilt.”

“An easier work than is thine,” responded the leering
Italian, now licensed to debauch. “So, Gil Perez, bring
me a flagon of thy best, and let me hear no voices. I
drink best in a corner, and when no one afflicts me with
speech or observation. As thou wouldst have it, Señor
Garabito, and the blood soon upon thy hands.”

The matador left the casa, followed slowly by Garabito.
The condition which made him a looker on, if not a partaker
in the deed, was more irksome to his spirit, than altogether
comported with the idea of true courage which filled
the mind of Ortado. He looked behind, and muttered as
he went,—

“Truly, there is nothing so noble after all, in striking a
fair blow at a stout heart, when the blow is to be given
for one who is neither stout of heart nor strong of hand.
This Señor Garabito—but, what matter? I have his
thirty pieces, and the gold is good, however base be the
hand from which it comes. Diablo! the moon is almost
too bright for business; I will have to blacken my dagger.
Thou loiterest, Sir Caballero; and yet, if thou look before
thee, the bohio, that holds thy foeman is at hand.”

The tall groves that encircled the cottage of Teresa
Davila were before them, and the moon, faintly shedding
her scattered drops of silver through the thick foliage of
the plantain and the palm, gave them glimpses of the white
dwelling itself, as it nestled close in the deepest shadow
of the wood. The heart of Garabito sank within him,
not with a feeling of compunction or reproach, but one
of absolute fear. The very idea of contact with Vasco
Nunez—with one by whom he had been so easily overcome—was
productive of the keenest terror in his mind;
and it was with difficulty that he could preserve the look
of confidence which his pride demanded he should wear
at such a time, as the matador bade him remain behind
for a space, while he went forward to reconnoitre. He
shrunk behind a gigantic ceiba, whose trunk would have
concealed a dozen, while Ortado, stealing from shade to
shade, in the direction of the bohio, soon disappeared
from his sight.