University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

Don Balthazar fled into the recesses of the thicket, and
buried himself amid dark and savage thoughts.

“He knows all, indeed!” he exclaimed, when he felt himself
alone. “Where was that scoundrel, Mateo, that he did
not slay him before this! But for those bungling alguazils!
they have marred his purpose. I forgot to warn them, and
hence all the mischief. But, if it were necessary that I should
have him put out of the way before, it is trebly necessary
now! He knows too much! He could blast me, at any moment,
by his speech! He must die! She must die! It is
now the only means of safety! Oh! would it had been done
the very hour that I resolved upon it! I should have done it
with my own hand, if I had only dreamed of this danger. I was
mad, blind, oblivious,—a very dolt,—not to see that his existence
was perilous to my safety!—Hers too! But I must be
heedful in this matter. It will not do here. It will not do till
I am gone. Then, I shall contrive it. I will send her off to the
country. She shall depart as soon as she is fit to travel. Sylvia
shall see to the rest. It shall be done. For him! ah! how
shall I manage that? Shall it be here? Shall it be in Florida?
Here, best, if Mateo can contrive it; but in Florida it will be
quite as easy. He has no followers;—few friends! If he is
found, with a knife in his bosom, it is by the hand of the red
man that he dies! Who will doubt? None! and he must die!
That is settled. It is his life or mine! Would I could see that
scoundrel Mateo!”

The devil is said to answer promptly whenever he is called.
The person invoked stood the next moment before the Don.

“Ha! Ha! You want Mateo, do you?—the scoundrel
Mateo!—well, you see him, I hope. He is here, and not so
much a scoundrel as some that wear much better reputation.”

The reckless outlaw laughed irreverently at his own sarcasm.
He felt his securities. Perhaps, he would have even relished a
hand-to-hand struggle with the knight; but he seemed to entertain
no hostile purpose, and stood quietly confronting him, looking
good-humored enough, considering the genuine feelings of

hatred which he felt for his superior. Don Balthazar was
not a timid man,—was not easily startled by any event or
presence,—and certainly had no fears of any individual foe;
but the appearance of the outlaw, so apropos to his summons,
brought up to his mind a vague image of the satanic presence,
which, in fact, was the true meaning of his requisition. It is the
hellish agent which we summon always when we design a hellish
deed. Don Balthazar, however, welcomed the fugitive after his
own fashion, with the air of a master who knew his rights, and
had reason to complain.

“You are here at last! But you have done nothing. You
promised finely! Where are your performances? Had you
done according to your pledges, I had been saved from a very
unpleasant affair!”

“Had I done!—and who is to blame, I beg to know, that I
have not done? You make a bargain with me, and when I set
about to do my work, I find your alguazils upon my heels.
Your alguazils, bearing your orders to seize and bind me, and
have me properly dressed for the honors of the garote vil! Ah!
indeed! The garote vil for your own ally—the man who is to
risk his life doing your business! What do you say to that?”

“What do I say! Why, that the thing was wholly a mistake.
The rascals did not understand me.”

“A mistake! Oh, it would have been precious consolation
to me, with my neck fitted with an iron cravat, to hear that it
was done wholly by mistake! I had as lief die by the law, as by
mistake, any day!”

“I tell you that the alguazils were ordered after you, before
I had spoken with you; I only forgot to see and speak to them,
and they continued the search in consequence. But I will put
a stop to their pursuit.”

“Oh! you forgot only! But that was strange on your part.
You're too much a man of business to forget such things in common.
But you'll remember now, you say; and I'm to be pursued
no more?”

“Yes: I shall see to it this very day; but you are to do the
business you undertook?”

“Ah! that business!”

“Yes; you will dispose of this knight of Portugal, shortly,
as you do your prayers;—send him to God by a quick conveyance?
You are not afraid? You will not shrink from your
engagements?”

“Afraid! O, no! I'm not afraid of your alguazils! As for
keeping my engagements, that will depend upon the way you

keep yours. I don't see that, so far, you've been very keen to
remember them.”

“You make too much of this forgetfulness of mine.”

“Oh! you may forget again! I never trust a bad memory;
not even my own. See this handkerchief; there are three knots
in it. Every one marks a life. This is one I put in it when I
engaged with you to send Don Philip by a short cut to paradise.
You must knot your handkerchief too, before I take this
knot out of mine.”

Don Balthazar received the suggestion rather literally. He
coolly took out his handkerchief, and proceeded to knot it; but
the outlaw laughed.

“Look you, Don Balthazar, the man who can't write, makes
his knot in the handkerchief; but that's not the rule for you.
You must make your knot on paper, with pen and ink; and
there must be a great seal to it. Get me the pardon, under the
hands of the Adelantado, for all past offences; that's one knot
you're to make. Prepare me the paper that proves mine and
Juana's freedom, and when you give me these, I shall take out
my knot here, and Don Philip will fly off to join the angels in
paradise; that will save you from finding him in your way
hereafter.”

And the fellow chuckled greatly at his own wit. Don Balthazar
was not so well pleased at these requisitions.

“But, when I have got you these papers, what security have I
that you will do what you promise for me?”

“Security! Well, it seems to me that your security will be
quite as good as mine. What security do you give me, when I
have slain Don Philip, that you will do for me what you have
promised?”

“Slave! Do you count the word of a nobleman, and a
soldier, as of no more value than that of a mestizo and an
outlaw?”

“Pooh, pooh, Señor; that sort of talk won't do between us!
It's you that are the outlaw, not me! I am to kill Don Philip
on your account, not on mine; because you hate him, and not
from any hate that I bear the Portuguese. Were I to kill him on
my own account, I should be outlawed: killing him for you, it's
your act, not mine, and you're the outlaw! Don't speak to me
as if there was any difference between us. There's none, I tell
you, but what's in my favor! I think myself a much better
man than you any way. I don't get other people to fight my
battles, or avenge my wrongs—there's where I'm the better
man; and as for strength and skill with the weapon, why, I could

slit your throat in the twinkling of an eye, and before you could
mutter an ave.”

Thus saying, he flourished his naked machete in fearful proximity
to the knight's face. The cheeks of the Don flushed crimson,
and he hastily drew his sword half-way from the sheath.

“Oh! put up,” said the outlaw; “it's no use—and besides, it's
not necessary. I'm not going to kill you; and if I were, you
could do nothing to help yourself. I wouldn't give you the
smallest chance, I'd be into you, and through you, before you
could get your toledo out of the scabbard. I'm none of your
fine knights of Castile and Portugal, to let you put yourself just
in your own attitude to fight; all that seems to me only foolishness.
Here's my enemy, and I'm to kill him. If I don't kill him, he
kills me. Now, I don't want to be killed, just yet; and I rather
he should die than me! What then? Will I give him a
chance? Not a bit of it! I'll slit his throat without saying,
`By your leave, señor.' And if it was my profit to slit yours,
I'd have done it without all this palaver. Don't be afraid.
We're on terms. I've a contract with you; and I'm willing to
work for you, on conditions. But you must get down from the
great horse when you speak to me. I can't bear to be ridden
over by any Don that ever came from Spain! and I won't!
There now; you know me. Is it a thing clear between us?
Will you get me the pardon, the free papers, with the big seal?
Shall I kill the knight of Portugal for you?”

“You're a bold fellow, Mateo;—it's a bargain!”

“Very good. When shall I have the papers? I must have
them, to see, and to show; for I can't read, señor, and must get
some one to read them for me, to see that all's right, before I
do my share in the business.”

“You are hard in your conditions, Mateo; but you shall have
your own way. Meet me here, at this hour, two days hence,
and you shall have the pardon and the papers!”

“Good, señor; I'll be punctual to the sun.”

When the two separated, the knight proceeded, almost immediately,
to take horse, and ride into the city; the outlaw disappeared
within the thickets. Don Balthazar did not return to the
hacienda that night. In his place, Olivia had another visitor.
While Sylvia slept, Juana conducted her brother to the chamber
of her mistress. The latter appeared to expect him; she was
certainly not unprepared for his coming.

It was surprising to behold her countenance, as the bold outlaw
entered the chamber. Where had she acquired that wonderful
composure—that strength of calm—so suddenly?—after

the overthrow of her hope and pride, so terrible and so recent?
—after that wild compulsion which seemed to have racked
equally the body and the soul, how had she so soon and
thoroughly recovered? In the utter wreck of her pride, her
sensibilities seemed suddenly to have become blunted. She
had the look of one who felt nothing. There was not in her
countenance the slightest show of suffering. Her eyes were
strong in their glare,—not sad. The muscles of her mouth
betrayed not the slightest emotion. She looked like one of
those wretched persons whom we sometimes encounter in society,
who grow prematurely wise—who never know youth or childhood—who
spring, at a single bound, into manhood, and the full
possession of their minds; and who do so, in almost all cases,
at the expense of their hearts—nay, to the utter death and burial
of their hearts! Such premature development always makes
monsters. The look of Olivia was that of one whose heart was
utterly dead within her, and who has survived and forgotten—if,
indeed, she ever knew—its loss. It was—to sum up in a word
already used—all stony! The calm was that of death—the
composure, that of insensibility—not apathy! Yet there was
life in her. There was a new-born energy working within
her soul. That had survived the heart—had acquired its
strength—only in the utter annihilation of the hope, if not the
affections. These still lived, however;—but in what manner?
We shall, perhaps, see as we advance; but they were not now to
declare themselves in the ordinary way, as is the case with those
who do not live to denial—who still indulge, if not in hope, in
dreams—in delirium! Olivia had her purposes still; and, through
these, her lingering and blighted affections were still destined to
exist, and work;—but she had no more feminine emotions. The
blissful though deceiving reveries of her woman heart were all
at an end! There were now no delicious fancies, tripping, like
nimble servitors, in obedience to thought or will; bringing gay
colors, and creatures of the element, to beguile her saddened
moods. Fancy had been stripped of all its wings—ruthlessly
stripped—and life now crept on like the worm deposited beneath
the precious flowers, to which it can no longer fly. But the
worm still had life; and a will, which continued to incline in the
direction of its former fancies. Olivia de Alvaro, we repeat,
has still a purpose,—whether of hate or love we have yet to
learn! Enough, that it is the purpose of a broken heart,—well
knowing how complete has been its ruin,—how utterly hopeless
is its condition,—how dread its humiliation,—how unrelieved
by solace, whether of mind, or heart, or soul. She is without
aspirations; yet she has a purpose! And that purpose? We shall
see as we proceed.

Whatever it is, she pursued it with such energies as she has
never before displayed in the prosecution of any object. They
are such as might become the strongest-willed person of the
other sex. She bends her whole soul upon the task. She excludes
all fears, all doubts, from consideration—everything
which may impair her efforts. Perhaps, we should rather say
that, feeling as she does, her soul is no longer accessible to fears.
She has endured the last sorrow, and the worst; and death has
no terrors, in a season, when life is not only without hope, but
without inspiration of any kind. She wrought, nevertheless, as
one dedicated to duty; as one, too, to whom the strength came,
physical and spiritual, only with the duty! An hour had made
her a new person; and, with the due consciousness of a fresh
impulse, she has no time for sorrows. Sorrows! How should
tears, or wailings even, or prolonged watching, give testimony
to such a woe as hers! To have been capable of either would
have implied very inferior sensibilities, or a smaller degree of
heart and suffering!

A night of stunning and strange sensations, that seemed rather
to afflict the body than the mind, and she stood up, a new being!
With the dawn she found herself employed,—active, watchful,
vigilant,—speaking few words, but firmly,—allowing no questions,—willing,
and causing to be done, according to her will!
Juana, now honestly prepared to serve, was put in requisition,
and kept busy. At night she was required, as we see, to bring
her brother, the outlaw, to the chamber of her mistress. When
there, the latter had few words, but they exhibited her in a
wholly new attitude, to both brother and sister. Juana she dismissed
to another chamber. From Mateo, now alone with her,
she demanded an account of his interview with Don Balthazar.
He revealed its purport—all! Olivia listened without seeming
emotion. When he was done, she said:

“I have presumed on your fidelity, Mateo. You dare not lie
to me! You will not! I am willing to believe you. You are
too much of a man to deceive me.”

“By the Blessed Virgin!”—he began.

“It does not need, Mateo, that you swear. I will believe you.
You shall work for me, and shed no blood! There is your pardon,
which I have procured for you through the Lady Isabella;
and there is the paper, which makes you and Juana free people—
no longer slaves of mine. Take them, and then listen to what I
would have you do.”

The outlaw fell at her feet,—seized her hand, and covered it
with kisses. She withdrew it, indifferently, without emotion.

“Enough,” she said: “Enough! How long, Mateo, will it
take you to procure me a supply of the roots for making the
tawny brown dye of the mountains?”

“I can get you any quantity, Señora, in a short twelve hours.”

“Be it so. You must set out for it as soon as I dismiss you.”

Juana here peered within the chamber, but the lady motioned
her away, and then, in a whisper, gave Mateo some other instructions.
Her manner was calm, resolute, emotionless wholly;
her words clear, though whispered; her purpose made fully
evident to his understanding, though at present it is withheld
from ours. He argued with her purpose, but in vain. He
finally submitted;—Juana was called in, and her brother hurriedly
disappeared. He returned by noon of the next day, and
brought her the roots of a native dye, such as she required. He
had other trusts to execute, which kept him actively employed.
Meanwhile, Juana kept diligent watch. The espionage of Sylvia
was baffled; and, more than once during the day and night,
Mateo penetrated the dwelling in safety,—sometimes with a
package beneath his arm; sometimes with only certain tidings
on his lips. He wrought submissively, beneath a will which it
was neither his policy nor his desire to disobey. Meanwhile,
his eyes filled, rough and savage as he was, as he gazed upon
Olivia, and remembered that it was by his agency that her pride
had received its fatal blow—to say nothing of her hope—in the
terrible moment when Philip de Vasconselos had entered the
summer-house. But he dared not make this confession.

“Yet, how could I help it?” quoth the outlaw, to himself, by
way of apology. “He had saved me, had served me, and was
a noble gentleman. Then, I knew her only as the kin of that
scoundrel, Don Balthazar! Yet, I wish it had not been so!”

The regret was unavailing, but it strengthened the desire in
the heart of the outlaw to serve her faithfully in all things; and
it softened him to survey her, so wholly changed,—a woman no
longer,—stern, inaccessible, hopeless,—having but one idea;
and that—he shrugged his shoulders as he thought of it. But he
was forbid to argue it again.

“I have heard of such things before; but, after all, it's only a
sort of madness! She will break down in it, or break out,—and
that's pretty much the same thing,—and then it's all over with
her! Oh! it is so pitiful! and she so young, so beautiful, and of
such a great family! Demonios! How I should like to cure
all the trouble, if it could be done, by making three cuts with
my machete on the black heart of that monster, Don Balthazar!

I Would make a cross for him should cross him out forever!
Well, let her break down, and I shall do it yet! He can't buy
me now, at any price. But I shall sell him at just what price I
please! Who'll buy on these terms? Who? Why the devil,
to be sure! Who else?”