University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
VENGEANCE BAFFLED—VENGEANCE TAKEN.

The dreadful scream which she heard was one of agony
indeed, and of a thrilling danger, but it threatened Teresa
Davila with none. Let us leave her, therefore, and return
to the place where we left the treacherous and cowardly
Garabito, waiting, in equal terror and impatience, for the
coming of the matador who had gone to reconnoitre the
dwelling where his destined victim, like the moth about
the flame, still lingered in unprofitable pursuit, losing time
and risking life. After remaining some time absent, Ortado
returned in some hurry to his employer, having, in the
meanwhile, succeeded in obtaining a glance at the greater
part of the scene between Vasco Nunez and the woman
whom he sought, which we have just described.

“Dispose yourself, señor, he will be here anon,” were
the words of the professional assassin.

“You have seen him, Ortado?” demanded Garabito.

“Ah, that I have, and seen him too, nearly as low to
earth as my cross shall bring him.”

“How! what mean you?”

“He knelt to the proud señora, and got her foot instead
of her hand. Were the man not blind as all your silly lovers
are who run after women, he must have seen the scorn
in her eyes, even if the words of her mouth did not fill his
ears. Were a cavalier wise this business of love making
would always fall on the señoras; they need us more than
we need them, and it is against nature and reason that the
strong should bow to and supplicate the weak. The thing
will be changed some day, and, indeed, I know not that
it is not already changing, señor. I know some damsels
who do nothing from night to morning, but look after the

men; and, diablo, had they strength enough, would seize,
in spite of one's teeth, upon every good-looking fellow they
met. I have been in some danger more than once myself
from these man-devourers.”

“And the senora hath refused Vasco Nunez, thou sayest—but
I knew that well enough before. I thought as
much from the speech which she made to me when we
spoke together last.”

“What! thou thinkest thy own chance better with this
harpy?” replied the plain-spoken matador, as he inferred
from the self-complacent manner of the other's remark, that
his vanity was growing higher than his head, according to
the Indian proverb. “But thou blindest thyself, senor,
even like Vasco Nunez. This woman hath no care for one
man more than another, only so far as he may help to give
her place above the other man-devourers of her sex. She
is one of a kind, senor, and would freely marry your poor
matador, Ortado, to-morrow, if he could show her that the
power was in him to give her place in the ceremonial
higher than Donna Inez or the Senora Margarita, or any
other damsel who hath cocked her nose against the heavens
when the brag was the common business. A toss of a
castellano with thee, senor, that thou gettest an answer from
this proud woman like that of the Senor Vasco.”

The vanity of Garabito was annoyed by the bluntness
of the matador, but the moment was not one for controversy.

“We must be away and prepare ourselves, senor, for
this man, and send him to the devil as we best may. We
need give ourselves no trouble about the women—they
will find their way to him as Eve did, without any assistance.
Keep you here beneath this tree—I will advance
to the short banyan that stands within the path, and my
dagger shall pick his teeth ere he gets round it. From this
place you can see the whole, for the moonlight will shine
upon my back. You will know the proper moment to look,
when the light streams from the bohio as he comes out.
It will not be long to that time if I might judge from the
senora's answers and the senor's looks. And now, see
with both eyes, senor, for a better brand was never made
by matador than I shall make for you.”

“But should you fail at the first stroke, Ortado?” was
the timid suggestion of the coward.

“Try a second,” coolly responded the assassin.

“He will grapple with you?”

“Then comes your turn; set in while I cling to him,
and make your own mark. Cut the sinews if you can't
get at his vitals easily—hamstring him.”

Garabito could say no more, but a cold sweat stood upon
his forehead, clammy and thick, as the matador left him to
take the place determined on. His knees shook beneath
him, his pulse bounded with a flickering irregularity, and
as the moments passed rapidly to the completion of the
interval between the preparation and the deed, the nerves of
the base creature grew more and more unsteady and unstrung.
The delay was not great. The door of the bohio
opened, and the ruddy gleams of the light from within fell
among the leaves and upon the path along which a moment
after he beheld his hurrying victim. A thousand darting
lights gathered before his eyes at the same instant, and he
felt that any struggle between the murderer and Vasco Nunez
would find him utterly incapable of giving the least
help to his emissary. His strength failed him with his
sight, the point of his sword sunk in the sand at his feet,
and he sank forward with a stifled respiration, for support
upon the tree behind which he had been concealed.

Meanwhile, the same light streaming from the cottage
which had warned Garabito of the approach of his enemy,
announced to the matador to put himself in readiness for
his victim. This warning had no such effect upon the
assassin as upon his principal. It was with him a slight
matter of business, and frequent employment, and a mental
constitution of natural hardihood, had steeled him to a cool,
deliberate indifference of mood, which preserved him
from every exciting emotion, whether of hostility or fear.

When he saw the figure of Vasco Nunez along the path,
he passed one arm entirely round the trunk of the tree behind
which he stood, thus making it not only an impenetrable
shield for the protection of his breast, but a sort of
pivot upon which his body might revolve at pleasure. His
right hand, grasping the dagger, was free to act upon any
part of the narrow passage which remained between the
banyan and the grove opposite, which a thick undergrowth
of shrubs and pruned palmettoes rendered almost impenetrable,
and made it almost absolutely necessary that the
little pathway should be pursued by the footman under any

circumstances. No spot could have been better chosen
for the work of the assassin; and the matador regarded
the affair with as little doubt of the result, as he would
have had touching the most ordinary and unimportant occurrences
of daily life.

Defeated, disappointed, denied—angry with himself and
with all the world, and hopeless alike of both, the noble,
but down spirited, cavalier drew nigh, unconscious of danger,
and perhaps, in that moment of despondency, as utterly
indifferent to the death which threatened him, as he could
be in the thick of battle, with all his blood bounding in tumultuous
sympathy with its storms and terrors. His sword
hung unnoticed in its sheath—his hands were clasped together
and thrust out before him—his eyes upon the
ground, and his whole person as utterly unguarded, as if
he had studiously made himself bare to the murderer. The
arm of the matador was drawn back as he approached, that
the blow might have due force in descending; and already
the person of the victim had half mingled in shadow with
the tree which hid from him the danger, when a sudden
and terrific shriek—a shriek of agony and a bloody sweat
—the same cry of horror and of pain which inspired Teresa
Davila with such overwhelming dread—startled the
dreary and deep silence of the scene, and, in an instant,
drove from the musing and morbid mind of Vasco Nunez,
the enfeebling incertitude of thought and despondency of
feeling which had made him nerveless as he went, and
heedless of his way. He recoiled in the first moment of
his surprise, and thus avoided the blow, when another forward
step would have planted the dagger in his bosom. The
cry which continued to ring through the woods was no less
surprising to the matador, and his eyes were averted from
his victim, instinctively, to the spot where Garabito stood,
and whence the alarm proceeded. That instant was fortunately
employed by Vasco Nunez to rush forward, and the
murderer failing in his first plan—which depended upon
the use of a single instant—like the lurking tiger baffled in
his spring, slunk back into the thicker woods, and hurried,
with a caution that looked very much like cowardice, as
well from the man whom he had pledged himself to slay,
as from the miserable creature who had employed him.
But his flight was not the result of cowardice, but of a
calm, deliberate prudence, which was habitual. He had

seen enough, in that single backward glance, to justify him
in shrinking from a conflict which promised to be too unequal
to leave him any hope from its result. He beheld the
base-souled and mean-spirited Garabito crouching upon his
knee, imploring mercy from one who stood over him, with
a steel already reeking with his blood. The assailant was
of gigantic size, and in the imperfect light of the moon,
flickering among the trees, he seemed to dilate supernaturally
to the eyes of Vasco Nunez, as well as to those of the
matador. The broken words of Garabito, imploring his
life, reached the ears of the former, and he hurried forward
with mixed feelings of scorn and pity. But the words of
the coward were silenced by the repeated blows of his antagonist,
who, striking him beneath his feet, buried his
weapon in three rapid but unnecessary thrusts in his bosom;
then, crying aloud to Vasco Nunez as he came forward,
but without waiting his approach, he apprised him of the
true murderer.

“It is Caonabo, the rebel! It is thus that he laughs at
his enemies—it is thus that he drinks the blood of the
Spaniard. Would you follow on his footsteps?—Come!
He flings the blood of your brother in your face—he laughs
at your thunder, and your barking dogs! Ha! ha! ha!”
Thus, howling to Vasco Nunez, whom he regarded in
common with all the Spaniards, as a foe, he fled among
the trees, and as the cavalier advanced into the plain of the
city, he beheld him darting up the little eminences by which
it was environed to the north. Standing on one of these
eminences, the fierce Charaibee looked down upon the
city, and his hand was stretched over it, as if in maledictions.
But his words came not to the ears of Vasco Nunez,
whom a sentiment of respect, if not awe, fixed to the spot,
in mute survey of the bold savage, who had baffled so
many of the Spanish captains, and had dared at last to descend
from his secret mountain passes, to wreak his private
vengeance in the blood of his foe, even in the streets
of the guarded city. His fine, lofty figure, raised in the
moonlight—his daring valour, and the imposing and not
ungraceful attitude in which he stood, commanded the admiration
of one, who, like Vasco Nunez, was much more
of the cavalier than soldier; and was too deeply imbued
with the sentiment of romance, peculiar to the time, not
to feel admiration for the hardy virtue of the Indian, whose

patriotism had survived his people, and whose courage had
never faltered, though death, for many seasons, had dogged
his footsteps, and for ever hung upon his path in blood.
While he gazed, the rebel sunk from sight, melting as it
were into that pale hazy atmosphere, against which he had
seemed but a moment before to lean. Vasco Nunez returned
to the spot where he had seen the struggle, to recognise
his own cowardly foe in the victim, and to find
that he was dead. In a moment, the recollection of the
woman's wrong, and her murdered son, rushed upon his
mind, and though he knew not the connexion of Caonabo
and the victim, he yet found it easy to conceive that the
rebel came as the avenger of the boy.