University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

The public sports which the Adelantado had provided for the
gratification of the people of Cuba were all finally ended. We
have not thought proper to describe the amusements which followed
on the third day, however interesting to the spectators;
for the simple reason that they do not immediately affect the condition
of our dramatis personœ. They still demanded the personal
attendance of Don Balthazar de Alvaro, however, as warder
of the field; and this gave a little respite to the suffering
Olivia in her solitude. We have already noted an interview between
the niece and her uncle, after the third day of the tournament;
but there was one event, occurring at the close of that
day, which it becomes us not to suffer to pass unnoticed. After
the passages-at-arms, of all sorts, were fairly over, and the
trumpets had merrily sounded the signals for the dispersion of
the assembly — while the crowd, moving to and fro in all directions,
resembled the shifting scenes of a panorama—Don Balthazar
called to him an officer, and, speaking aside, said:

“Has the slave, Mateo, been taken—the mestizo, the matador,
whose capture I confided to thy hands?”

“He has not, Señor. He has eluded all our efforts.”

“Thou hast suffered these sports to keep thee from thy duty;
else, how should he escape thy search?”

“No, Señor—”

“It must be so, I tell thee; for the fellow is not likely to
leave Havana so long as these amusements last; and there
should be no places of hiding in the city which should be beyond

the reach of a good officer! See to it! This night is all
that is left thee to effect his capture, Half of these people will
be off to the country by the dawn; he, probably, among them.
Seek him at the tents and tables where they game. All of
his class have a terrible passion for cards and dice. At the cockpits
he may be found. He hath possibly brought with him some
favorite birds from the country. He drinks, too, with a rare
passion, which will no doubt carry him to the shops where the
aguardiente is to be had. Get thee a dozen of thy fellows, well
counselled, who know the man, and set them on the quest for
him in all these places. If you take him, you shall all be well rewarded.
If not, I shall endeavor to find officers who need no
exhortation to their duty. There is no reason why he should
not be found. He showed himself quite freely and fearlessly at the
bull-fight, relying, I suppose, on certain changes of dress and
costume. He is hardly in hiding any where, and, while in
Havana, will no doubt be found at one or other of the places
I have mentioned. Stint not your efforts, nor the numbers of your
men, nor the needful money; and, if you take him, bring him to
me at “the Grove;” at midnight, even; so that ye delay
not after you have taken him. Enough! see to it, Diego, as you
would be sure of my favors!”

“Señor, I will not sleep in this search.”

“Good! to it at once, for he will doubtless soon leave Havana
for the mountains.”

The Hidalgo separated from the Alguazil, and both disappeared
from sight. Within the same hour Don Balthazar might
be seen riding, on a famous black charger, towards the retreat,
without the city, where the Señorita, his niece, maintained her
solitude. It was but a little before this, that the very outlaw,
the mestizo slave, Mateo, might have been seen, on foot, pursuing
the same route. The latter had fairly entered the woods,
when he heard the sound of horse's feet behind him. He immediately
sheltered himself from sight in a dense thicket of
bamboo, and, from his place of retreat, beheld the knight ride
slowly by. The outlaw grinned savagely as he perceived his old

master, whom he remembered by numerous cruelties, such as, in
that day, but too much distinguished the fierce warriors of Spain
when dealing with their Indian and negro slaves. We have already
mentioned that Mateo was a fugitive; having fled, not simply from
the cruelty of his master, but from the consequences of his own
crimes. He had murdered, in a sudden broil, one of the officers
of the estate of the Señorita Olivia, to which, indeed, he belonged:
the control of Don Balthazar over him resulting only from his
being the guardian of his niece. From that moment, Mateo
disappeared, having sought shelter in the contiguous mountains,
which were, at that early period, entirely unexplored. He had
been subsequently heard of, on several occasions, but only in the
character of a robber. A price had been set upon his head, but
he had always contrived to elude the pursuit of justice. His
mother, the old woman Anita, in the employ of Don Balthazar,
as we have seen, and the willing creature of his infamous
arts and practices, had not forborne to plead the cause of her
son; and she probably would have succeeded, long before her
death, in procuring his pardon, could she have been successful in
persuading Mateo to take the essential initiative in such a matter,
by surrendering himself to the estate. But Mateo was not
ready to incur such a peril, and distrusted all the assurances of
the Don, whom he too well knew readily to confide in. Besides,
the violent and brutal character of his passions kept him continually
working against his own pardon, by the commission of
new crimes and misdemeanors. Like all of his race, he was too
fond of the pleasures of the crowd, and such as were promised
by the exhibitions of the bull-ring and the tournament, to
forego the temptation, at whatever hazard, of being a witness of
the grand spectacles offered to the public by the magnificence of
Don Hernan de Soto. But Mateo relied upon his disguises;
upon the shaggy hair, the wild beard, and the strange costume
which he wore; and upon the fact of a three years' absence from
all the eyes that knew him. He felt himself sufficiently estranged
from all eyes, and did not doubt that even his mother would
fail to recognize her son. But he did too little justice to the
keen sight and tenacious memory of Don Balthazar. Of the
death of the old woman, Mateo had learned nothing until he
reached Havana, a few days before. But, in that time, he had
seen his sister, the sullen girl, Juana, on several secret occasions;
had heard all her tidings; had listened to all her complaints, and
had decided upon the course to be pursued for attaining all
necessary remedies for his own and her alleged wrongs. Of
these remedies we shall learn hereafter. We need not say, perhaps,
that he laughed at all the labors of his mother, in striving
to procure his forgiveness, as a fugitive slave. He was one of
those reckless persons, too savage for subjection, too indolent for
toil, who prefer to appropriate the labors of others to the exercise
of any of his own; and, by the strong hand, or sleight of
hand, contrived to extract a very comfortable living out of a
world which he thought good for nothing else. Now that he
was in Havana, he was resolved to bring about the settlement
of all his affairs in that city; and his own and sister's accounts
promised to employ him actively for a time. His old master
was his chief debtor; and, that he did not emerge from his bamboo
shelter, and insist upon immediate payment, while the knight
was passing, was simply because he thought it very possible that
Don Balthazar did not carry a sufficient amount in funds about
with him, to enable him to make satisfactory settlement. It
would have been, otherwise, quite as easy to spring out from his
hiding-place upon the Don, as, from the corridor into the bull-ring,
giving the coup de grace to El Moro! The knight was suffered
to proceed in safety to his house, whither Mateo followed more
slowly, and not until the darkness had fairly covered the hacienda.

We shall suffer several hours to elapse without reporting their
events; but we must suppose that they have not been suffered
to pass unemployed either by the Hidalgo or the outlaw. Nay,
we beg to state that both parties have been busy, though we do
not just now care to go into a narrative of their several doings.
Enough, that towards midnight Don Balthazar ceased from his
labors for the night; and in his chamber, with his dressing-gown
about him, and his limbs released in some degree from the garments

worn throughout the day, he rests at length upon a wicker
settee of bamboo, and meditates through the graceful clouds of
aromatic smoke that ascend volume after volume from his much
beloved cigar. Don Balthazar, though somewhat blaze, is yet
not wholly insensible to the good things of this life, speaking
only of the physical enjoyments. Indeed, it is to the blazé
chiefly that the “creature comforts” rise into paramount value
and estimation. It is when the purer tastes and the proper desires
of the mind have been perverted, or abused, or lost, that
one seeks recompense by appeals to appetites which, until then,
are kept in honest subjection. Don Balthazar did not rely on
his cigar wholly for his happiness; a flask of generous wine
rested on a table beside him, from which, ever and anon, he replenished
his goblet. He emptied it, perhaps, much more freely
than he was aware. The troubles of his mind made him somewhat
unconscious of the frequency of his potations, and their
effects working favorably upon his mood, seemed to justify the
appetite in still further seeking succor from this source. Don
Balthazar had survived all the proper tastes. His appetites
were wholly artificial. His tastes had become prurient; his
passions had been succeeded by mere desires depending upon his
diseased fancies. These, as chronic, always exert a tyrannous
power over their possessor, and compel him to pursuits and objects
which, in calm moments, seem wholly undeserving of any
effort. A thousand times did the mere reason and common sense
of the knight counsel him to throw off habits and desires which
were equally evil and profitless; but in vain. A single moment
of dreaming revery brought back the tyrannous fancies in all
their power. The cigar, the wine,—these were potent influences,
though unsuspected, in behalf of his evil moods; and his will no
longer seconded the suggestion of his better moments. It
would be doing him great injustice to say that he did not repeatedly
deplore the weaknesses of his nature, and the crime and the
cruelty of which it was the source. But his strength was not a
strength in behalf of virtue. It was the strength of evil passions
only—of passions arriving at sole power by reason of their unscrupulous
exercise, and in their dying embers exerting a new
and more evil sort of influence in consequence of their very decay
and feebleness. He knew, and felt, and reproached himself
at moments for his terrible abuse of authority and advantage in
the case of his unhappy niece. He was sometimes made conscious
of the awful spectre of his deceased brother, looking down
upon him with loathing and anger, and the saddest reproach in
his face; sometimes he fancied his voice in his ears, and at other
times he beheld suddenly, as it were, a glimpse of the fierce
visage of “the Biscayan mother” of Olivia, flaming with indignation,
before his eyes. His conscience thus, at times, came to the
assistance of his better reason, and filled him with virtuous resolution.
But it is not easy for one accustomed for thirty years
to give the full reins to his moods and passions, to re-conquer
them and recover the ascendency of thought and will over habit.
Habit is the most unbending of all mortal tyrannies, and the
better genius of Don Balthazar struggled vainly against the appetites
which he had so constantly fed in its despite. And now,
when some better feelings were endeavoring to assert themselves
in his bosom—when a lingering feeling of commiseration for the
poor child whom he had so cruelly abused had prompted him to
reflections upon his own selfishness, which, seeking a momentary
and even mocking gratification, was destroying the very life of
hope in the bosom of the girl—destroying her peace for ever, and
all the gladdening impulses which make youth happy—he hardened
himself against the kindlier impression by a recourse to some
of those hard philosophies, which, in his case, had already overthrown
all the authority as well of humanity as religion.

“What matters it,” said he to himself, filling his goblet with a
fresh supply from the wine-flask,—“what matters it in the end?
These passions of love are in fact nothing but the caprices of
fancy; a brief space will reconcile her to the loss of this knight
of Portugal, whose youth, grace, and noble bearing are the only
attractions; when he has fairly embarked for Florida she will
forget him, and she will then remember me with as much tenderness
as any other lover. She will feel that, though I have

wronged her, it was because of my passion that I did so; and
my love will justify in her mind the exercise of the power which
I had upon her. If not, what is she but a woman, created for the
pleasure and the delight of man; and why should she not minister
to my delight as well as to another? Women, if well
treated, kindly, and without neglect, readily reconcile themselves
to the condition from which they cannot escape. She will hereafter
consent willingly to that which she has vainly thought to
oppose; and in the necessity of her case will become aware of
what is grateful in it. Already, I think, she begins to improve.
She grows milder every day. For a week she has exhibited
none of those fitful bursts of passion which she inherited from
that tigress mother; and her eyes, though they still look sadly
and reproachfully, show no longer that fierce hate and loathing
which distinguished them before. She grows pliant—she is
yielding. Let me but baffle this knight of Portugal, and I have
her wholly in my power. He must depart. She must reject
his petition; and if not, then I must find a way to silence him
forever.”

Don Balthazar deceived himself in one thing. The mildness
of Olivia's present aspect was scarcely in proof that she was now
more reconciled to his power than before. We may say, in this
place, that she was schooling herself to a more cunning policy—
that she was opposing art to art, and was never more resolved,
against her uncle, than at the moment when she appeared most
resigned to her fate. Her game was to lull to sleep his vigilance
by appearing more submissive. She was resolved to escape from
his tyranny as soon as she might hope to do so with safety. As
yet, however, she had formed no deliberate plan for doing so. She
had vague projects and purposes in her mind, ill-defined and aimless
at present; but, in any scheme, to quiet his suspicions and
disarm his vigilance, were the first objects, necessary to the success
of any other. These, in the end, might ripen into something
definite and clear, and in the meantime, her policy was single,
and thus far evidently successful. Don Balthazar was fatigued
with a struggle which brought only fear and exhaustion even with

its successes; and was quite willing to believe in the shows of
resignation, on the part of his victim, by which he hoped to enjoy
more easy triumphs.

As thus he lay, weaving conjectures, and hopes and doubts, in the
most intricate meshes for his own fancy, he was surprised by a sudden
and most unexpected visitor. But it becomes us to speak of
the proceedings of this visitor, before we formally introduce him
to our Hidalgo. We have seen that the fugitive, Mateo, was on
his way, pursuing a like route with Don Balthazar, when the appearance
of the latter drove the outlaw into shelter. He saw his
ancient master speed forward, and followed him at his leisure.
A little after nightfall, stationed in a lemon thicket near the dwelling,
Mateo gave a signal whistle, and in a few minutes after, was
joined by the servant girl, Juana. She was his sister; and, rude
and sullen in her intercourse with all other persons, on him she
bestowed nothing but tenderness and affection. Her whole deportment
and character seemed to change on their meeting. She
clung fondly to his neck; kissed him repeatedly; called him her
dear brother, and would have continued her transports, had he
not, with a sort of good-natured violence, shaken her off.

“That will do, that will do, Juana. There's no time now for
kissing and foolishness. I have come for work. What can be
done? Is there a good chance? Is there anybody in the house,
any man body I mean, besides Don Balthazar?”

“No! nobody! There's my young lady, and the old hound,
Sylvia; and there's the cook and Pedro; but she's in the kitchen,
and Pedro is gone off somewhere. There's nothing to prevent,
now.”

“Well, you must show me a way to get in, and come suddenly
upon the old woman. The master's in his room, eh?”

“Yes, he's planning some more wickedness, all to himself.
Even if Sylvia was to cry out, he could hardly hear where he is;
and you need n't go near him at all.”

“Ay, ay; but I must go near him. I've got some accounts to
settle with him, now I'm here.”

“Don't trust yourself with him, dear Mateo. He's got arms

in his room; matchlocks and guns, and sharp, bright swords.
He's never unprepared for mischief; and if he sets eyes on you,
he'll shoot you.”

“If I do n't shoot him: but that's a game that two can play at
just as well as one; and I hope to take him by surprise. I must
try to do so. Do n't you fear. I have arms too, just as well as
he, and I know just as well how to use them; and I'm not afraid
of his wickedness. I've got some of my own.”

“And you will get all the things of poor mammy?”

“Won't leave a hair for the old hag that robbed you. You
shall have everything. I'll have them carried off and hid away
for you, where you can get them when you want them.”

“But you will carry them with you to the mountains, Mateo.”

“And how will you get the use of them there?”

“Why, ain't I to go along with you, brother?”

“You go along with me? to the mountains? Why what
would you do there, poor child?”

“Why, live with you, and take care of your home for you.”

“Home!” with a fierce chuckle. “I have no home. I am
never a week in one place together. I pass from mountain
to mountain; and hide in one cave after another; and go in all
sorts of weather; and sleep twenty nights under the open sky,
where I sleep once in a human cabin. The outlaw has no home,
no place where he can sleep in safety; except where the wild
beast keeps watch for him along the mountain-top, and frightens
off the pursuer.”

“I don't care, Mateo! I am not afraid! I want to go with
you wherever you go, and I'll live with you, and work for you,
and fight for you, too; just as if I were a man and not a woman.”

“Well, I suppose you can fight; you've got the strength for
it, and I reckon you're not afraid; but—”

“And I may go with you?” eagerly.

“No, Juana, child. Not just yet. I'll come for you, whenever
I'm ready for you, and can fix you in some certain place.”

“Oh! but I do so want to get away from this place. You
don't know what I suffer. It's only a week ago that my Lord
beat me with his whip over my face and shoulders.”

“Pooh! Pooh! what of that! Do you suppose if you were
with me, I shouldn't beat you too when you deserved it?”

“But I didn't deserve it, Mateo.”

“Oh! that's all nonsense. Women always deserve a whipping,
and should get it once or twice a week to keep 'em sensible
and proper. You don't know when you're well off. With me,
you'd want bread often enough; and there would be no safety.
You'd have to start out of your bed at midnight, to fly, when
you hear the bloodhounds barking up the hills. It's sometimes
monstrous hard for me to get off. How would it be with you?
You'd be caught by the dogs. You'd be torn to pieces; or I'd
have to risk my own life to save you. Then, if you fell into the
hands of the hunters, you'd be a thousand times worse off than
ever. They'd send you to the Calabooza, and sell you to a hard
master, who'd put you into the fields, and whip the blood out of
your body, and the very heart out of your bosom. You'r well
off as you are. You've got a good mistress, and a comfortable
place, and plenty to eat and drink. But the master beats you,
you say. Well, once in a way, perhaps he does; but that does
you no harm. I'd have to beat you ten times as much, Juana,
if you were with me. 'Twould be for your good, I'd do it. I'd
know you wanted it; I know you of old. You'd be the last
person in the world to try and quit this place, if it hadn't spoiled
you. You've been treated too well here; that's the whole of it.
You're best off where you are; I know all about it. I'd have
been better off at the hacienda from which I ran away, but that
I was a bad fellow, who couldn't be satisfied anywhere, and would
rather steal than work. It's easier to me, and I feel better after
it. But I know it's not the best thing for me; and I know it
would be the very worst thing for you. It's because I love you
as my sister, Juana, that I'd rather you'd stay with the Señorita,
and be honest and quiet. She's good to you, I know. No! No!
you cannot go with me. Just now, you'd only be in my way,
and in the way of danger and all sorts of trouble. But I hope
soon to get a safe hiding-place, and then, if you'r ready and

willing, I'll take you off. For the present you must keep where
you are.”

It was in this way that the outlaw answered the entreaties of
his sister. He, no doubt, came to a right conclusion on the subject.
But she was not satisfied, and submitted sullenly to the
authority with which she had never been accustomed to contend.

“But,” she added, as a last argument,—“it's not the Señorita
only; she's to be married, they say, and there's to be a new
master.”

“Well: he won't eat you! There can't be any worse than
Don Balthazar; and no master in the world will hurt the slave
that serves him faithfully. He'd be a fool to do it.”

“But I don't like a new master; and I don't like to be under
a master that's a Portuguese.”

“Ho! it's one of the Portuguese that she is to marry!
Well, if it's the one that tumbled the handsome cavalier, Nuno
de Tobar, she'd be well officered. He's a noble soldier, I warrant—rides
a horse, and handles a lance, as if he was made for
nothing else. If I were sure that Don Balthazar would not go
to the country of the Apalachians, I'd volunteer to go in this
same knight's company. But if he went, he'd be sure to find
me out in time. I could serve such a man as the Portuguese,
and cheerfully acknowledge him my master. Every man, I
think, is born to have a master, and is never quite happy till he
finds the right one. I like this knight of Portugal. I don't see
what you've got to be afraid of if he marries your lady.”

“Ah!” said the girl stealthily,—“he'd never marry her, if he
only knew what I know.”

“What do you know?—But if it's any harm of her, Juana,
don't say it, for your life. The Señorita, you say, has always
been good to you. Don't you turn upon her like a snake. Hush
up, and keep her secrets, as if they were your own.”

“Well, it ain't so much her secret as my Lord's! Oh! Mateo,
if you knew what a born devil he is, and how he's killing the
poor young lady—murdering her very soul and body!”

“Ha!” exclaimed the outlaw, musingly—“Ha!” A new

light seemed to dawn upon him; and he paused, and laid his
hand upon Juana's shoulder. “I see! Don't you say a word
more! Don Balthazar—but no matter. Show me now how to
muzzle this old hag, Sylvia.”

In a few moments, the two had disappeared within the dwelling.