University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

But we are not yet permitted to depart, and must follow, for
a brief space, the fortunes of some other of our dramatis personœ.
The novelist cannot do always, as he would, with his own creations.
He cannot linger always with those whom he prefers.
We must suffer the Fates to exercise their controlling agencies
just as certainly as they do in real life, and among the living people
whom we know. He may create, but he cannot control. It
is upon this very condition that he is permitted to create. The
Being, once filled with the breath of life, and having made his
appearance upon the stage of human action, must thenceforward
conform to necessities over which the author exercises no authority.
These will have their origin in the character, the actions, and the
impulses, of his persons; in the events which flow from their
performances; in their conflicts with rival actors on the scene;
in their strength or imbecility; with some allowance made for
the operation of external causes, which, we are told, will always,
more or less, affect the destinies equally of mice and men! Let
us leave Philip de Vasconselos, and the dusky page, Juan, to their
progress over the blue waters of the gulf, while we follow the
steps of Mateo, the outlaw.

As soon as the Mestizo had closed the arrangement, by which
his “nephew, the son of a free woman of the mountains,” had
been secured a place in the service of the knight of Portugal, he
disappeared from the vicinity of the Spanish encampment. He
had, we may mention, used some precautions when “about town,”
by which he had kept his person from all unnecessary exposure.
He had still some decent regard for the existence of a class of
persons, the Alguazils, with whom he entertained few special
sympathies; and, in leaving the lodgings of Vasconselos, he had
stolen away into covert, by the most secluded passages. A single
moment, in private, and under the cover of a clump of trees,
densely packed with shrubbery, had sufficed for his parting with
Juan. There he might be seen wholly to change the manner of
speech and address which he had employed, with regard to the

boy, when the knight, his master, was a looker-on. He seized
his hand and kissed it repeatedly, and there was a reverence in
the expression of his face, and in the words of his mouth, which
denoted the existence of relations, between the parties, very different
from those which he has been pleased to assert in the conference
which has been reported. On leaving the boy, he concluded
with a promise to see him, and the good knight of Portugal,
at the shore, in the moment of his embarkation.

“It may be,” he said, “that I shall follow you—nay, go with
you, to the country of the Apalachian; for I long to see great
things; and be where the good knights rush to the meeting of
the spears! It may be! We shall see!”

When they had separated, and while Mateo pursued his way
through the woods, alone, his lips opened in frequent soliloquy.

“Yes!” quoth he, “were it not for that devil of all the devils,
Don Balthazar de Alvaro, I should follow the expedition. I
would take lance under this good knight. I would fight like the
best among them. He hath no followers; but, with me, he
should have at least five. I am as good as any five of these men
with the cross-bow. And would I not have a good horse of my
own? worthy to be straddled by any cavalier in Don Hernan's
army? Ah! it would be glorious! How I should smite!
Verily, I have a strength in my arm, and a skill with horse and
weapon, that would show where blows are thickest. I could
clear the track with a sweep! And I am a young man, and in
my best strength. It is hard that I should have nothing great to
do! Very hard!”

And his speed was accelerated; and his arm could be seen
waving, as if he were about to make a mighty swoop with the
broadsword.

“But I dare not go, while that black wolf is with the army!
He hath an eye to see through me. He hath already known me
in a disguise which had baffled the eyes of my own sister; and,
failing to do for him this murder of the good knight, he would
have me garotted without a scruple! Would his throat were cut!
I have half a mind to slip off with the rest, and put my knife into
him, the first dark night he walks alone. Were I now to meet
him, I would slay him!”

And he felt in his girdle for his machete, and looked up, and
around him, with glaring eye, and distended nostril, as if already
snuffing the atmosphere breathed by an enemy. But all
was still and quiet where he walked, among the thick groves, inclining
to the hills, and now beyond the city suburbs. It was still
the cool of early morning, and the whole realm of nature around

him seemed to murmur of repose. The inanimate life of the
forest declared no unrest—no unruly passions,—no wretched
discontent. The sky was now beautifully clear, and if a voice
was heard besides his own, it was that only of some very tiny
bird, such as harbors only in the stunted shrubbery, where a single
leaf will afford instant and close shelter for its form. But the
very repose spoke to the violent passions of the outlaw, with a
stimulating accent.

“Ah!” said he, “if I only had him here!” and he clenched his
fist savagely.

“But I must get those papers! He will be in the camp
soon to-day. He will be among the last to sail. In an hour, he
will have left the hacienda. But may he not return to it, in
the hope to see me, and to learn that I have done his work?
Perhaps; but hardly! He will scarce have time! Humph!
Done his work! I must do my own! Verily, if I meet him
there, I will do it thoroughly! Shall I cut throats except to my
own liking? By the Blessed Devils, no! I will cut his throat
if I can! And if I do, what is to keep me from the expedition?
I am a man for the wars. I will see how the lances cross with
the shock of thunder. But I must get me those papers. He
little dreams that I know their hiding-place. When he goes to
the city this morning, it will be to make ready. He will hardly
return to the hacienda. Then will I take possession. Juana
knows what to do. When the ships have all gone, she goes off
to the mountains. She will be doubly safe with the papers of the
Señorita, and of that Uncle-devil. She shall be safe! Then, if
I should find him there, and feel my way into his ribs, we are all
safe! Oh! If I should only find him there! If he goes on
this expedition, will my poor lady be safe a moment? No!
No! There's no blinding his snake-eyes! He will see, and I
know there will be trouble—and more than trouble;—there will
be a great danger always in the path of the good knight. Oh!
it must be that I shall split his black heart with my knife, and
let out all its poison with its blood! It must be, when there's
so much good to come of it—when there's no safety for anybody
while he lives! I owe him a stroke of my machete! And if
the Blessed Devils give me half a chance, I will pay him with a
vengeance!”

We have here the passions of the outlaw's soul, and the
plans of his mind, fairly mingled up together, in that sort of web
of thought, which is the usual mental process in the sensuous
nature. Don Balthazar, at this moment little dreamed of the
danger which threatened him. While Mateo, making his way

to the hacienda of the knight, was thus soliloquizing, the haughty
Don was savagely meditating, in his turn, upon some of the disappointments
which he had experienced. That the Portuguese
knight still lived, was a present annoyance, and a vital danger.
He now knew himself to be at the mercy of this cavalier, so far
as his moral position was concerned. The revelation of his
secret, he well knew, would be fatal to his reputation in Cuba,
and the army;—so long as the government of both was administered
by persons so severely virtuous as he believed Don Hernan
de Soto and his noble wife to be. True, he had a certain
security for his secret, in the very regard which Philip de Vasconselos
evidently entertained for Olivia. So long as she lived,
Philip would probably be silent, in respect to that which would
hurt her reputation. But who was to secure the unfaithful guardian
against the speech of Olivia herself? Her passionate blood
had evidently escaped wholly from the control of her tyrant.
He had made her desperate, in making her desolate; and he
felt that, in death alone, could his safety be made certain. He
knew the nature of passionate women too well; and now perceived
that Olivia, in this respect, too much resembled her Biscayan
mother, of whom his experience was sufficiently vivid, and who,
he well knew, in the madness of her awakened passions, had
neither fear nor prudence, nor scruple of any sort. He trembled,
accordingly; proud, fearless and powerful as he was; lest the
reckless, or the thoughtless word of either the knight of Portugal
or Olivia de Alvaro, should, at any moment, hurl him headlong
from position, making him odious to all, and subjecting him
to legal, as well as social, persecution. Why had not the outlaw,
Mateo, done his work upon the knight? There were surely
opportunities enough; and Mateo was too well known, as a desperado,
to suppose that he had either moral scruples, or personal
fears! The question troubled the Don, since, from his own conjectures,
he vainly sought an answer.

While he meditated these doubts, an aide of the Adelantado
arrived, and brought him despatches from Don Hernan, which
required his early presence in the city. He dismissed the messenger
with a reply which promised that he would soon be there,
and was now simply making his final preparations for joining the
expedition, and superintending the work of embarkation. The
officer disappeared, riding fast, and was seen at a distance, as he
left the hacienda, by the approaching outlaw.

“Demonios!” muttered Mateo, between his closed teeth,
“there goes my last chance! Had I come an hour sooner!”

He had mistaken the rider for Don Balthazar. He now more

leisurely continued his progress, and at length found himself
amidst the silent groves surrounding the summer-house of the
knight,—that lovely and secluded lodge which had been so fruitful
in events affecting the destinies of some of the persons of our
drama. It was fated to furnish yet another scene of deep interest
to the parties.

Don Balthazar, burning or preserving papers, arranging arms,
and armor, was busy and thoughtful in his chamber, when the
old hag, Sylvia, suddenly burst into the apartment. He looked
up at the intrusion, with a haughty frown; but she was not appalled
by it. She was wild with excitement; and her sinister
and withered features were now absolutely fiendish in the expression
of rage which they exhibited. She could scarcely speak, so
agitating were her emotions. When she did succeed in giving
utterance to the cause of her excitement, she was surprised to
find that her master did not partake of her wrath, and seemed
lightly to listen to her communications.

“He is here, Señor;” she exclaimed,—“the villain, Mateo;
the outlaw; the murderer; the robber of the old woman! He
is here, Señor, in the groves; he is even now gone to the garden
house!”

Mateo had evidently neglected his usual precautions. Satisfied
that the horseman whom he had seen pushing for the city, at
full speed, was Don Balthazar himself, he had been at no pains
to make his movements secret.

“Ah! he is here, then,—Mateo?” and the knight smiled with
a grim complaisance, and muttered, sotto voce—“He has done it,
then, perhaps, and comes for his reward! Good! He knows his
time, and has, no doubt, done it efficiently! Well! I must see
him.”

He at once rose, and, with his sword only at his side, moved
quickly from the chamber. Sylvia was quite confounded; and
followed, muttering her surprise as she went. Don Balthazar
never once looked behind, and did not see her; or he would
have dismissed her with severity. And then!—But we must not
anticipate!

He hurried on; and so rapid were his movements, that the
stiffened limbs of the old woman utterly failed to enable her to
keep any sort of pace with the progress which he made. He
was soon in the groves; had soon overpassed the space; and,
walking in the buckskin shoes, the use of which the Spaniards
had borrowed from the red men,—wearing them commonly when in
their peaceful avocations,—he entered the garden house unheard.

He was confounded at what he beheld. The outlaw had coolly

taken possession of the premises. He was on his knees, in the
recess where stood the army chest in which Don Balthazar had
stored the papers which the outlaw sought; his head was fairly
buried in the chest, and he was busily engaged evidently in the
examination of all its contents. The surprise was complete.
For a moment, the knight stood motionless, watching the cool
intruder! He saw the secret of the proceeding at a glance.

“The scoundrel,” said he to himself, “has seen me put away
the papers in the chest, and he now comes to steal them, without
having done the service!” Then, aloud, advancing as he spoke,
and laying his hand upon the outlaw's shoulder, he said—

“How now, rascal, what are you doing here?”

The cool, hardy, daring character of Mateo, was such as to
render surprises less dangerous to him, and less difficult of evasion,
than would be the case with most people. At the sound
of the knight's voice, he immediately conceived the predicament
in which he stood. But, that Don Balthazar spoke, and only laid
his hand on his shoulder, when he might have run him through
the body, as a first salutation, was an absolute surrender of all
the advantages of the surprise; and afforded to the bold ruffian
the chance of operating a surprise in turn. Certainly, most
persons, taken thus at advantage, would have lost something of
their moral resources in consequence of their position. But
Mateo was not an ordinary ruffian. The forbearance of the knight
showed the outlaw that the former would not be likely, under
the circumstances, to anticipate resistance, still less assault, from
the person he appeared to think so completely in his power;—
and the exercise of his thought, to this effect, at such a moment,
exhibited Mateo in possession of a more deeply searching mind
than his superior. In the twinkling of an eye, with a rare agility,
which, in the outlaw, was a possession fully equal to his wonderful
strength, he suddenly slipped from under the grasp of the Don,
and, before the latter dreamed of his danger, had changed positions
with him; had thrown himself upon him, and forced him
down upon the chest, with his head buried among its recesses.
To do this was the work of an instant only. Fortunately for
the knight, the assailant had not a single weapon in his grasp.
He had been using his machete, in prying open the cover of the
chest, and had thrown it down upon the floor a few feet distant.
But his fingers seemed to be made of steel, and these grappled
the throat of Don Balthazar, with a gripe so close and fierce,
that in a single moment of time, the latter had grown purple in
the face, while his eyes dilated wildly in their sockets.

“Villain, would you murder me?” gasped the cavalier, vainly
struggling to rise, and making efforts as desperate as unavailing.

“You have come for it! I thought you safe, and I cursed the
Blessed Devils, that helped you off. But I did 'em wrong! They
have delivered you into my hands! You thought to buy me, did
you, to kill the good knight of Portugal? I'll kill you for him!
I'll kill you for the poor young lady, my mistress! Oh! didn't
I see, with my own eyes, just as Don Philip saw? You ought
to die a hundred deaths! But, as it's only once for you as for
other men, the sooner you taste it, the sooner you get your wages.
You shan't have time to say a prayer; not one: for you shan't
have any mercy from God any more than from me! Die! I
say; die! Die! Die!”

The knight succumbed; he had neither room nor strength for
struggle. Hands and head buried in the chest, and face downwards,
he was helpless! The hoarse gurgle of his breath in the
throat was already painful to the ear, and the writhings of his
form were those of a man vainly struggling with the last potent
enemy; when, suddenly, a sound was heard by the writhing and
almost suffocated man,—a sound,—a stroke!—another, and another!—and
the gripe of his enemy relaxed; and there was a wild
yell above him;—but one!—and Don Balthazar felt relieved.
He began once more to breathe. He felt no longer the incumbent
weight of the gigantic ruffian upon his back! Gradually, he
recovered consciousness. He heard a voice calling him by name.
He felt hands officiously helping him to rise; he felt a cool but
grateful shock of water. His eyes opened to the day once more.
He looked about him: slowly, but fully, at length, his glance
took in the objects around him. He found himself seated beside
the chest, from which he had been rolled out rather than lifted;
and, before him, stiff in death, lay the corse of the outlaw, who,
but a little before, had been so completely in his power! The
old hag, Sylvia, stood at hand to help her master, and soon explained
the agency by which his life had been saved. She had
followed him to the summer-house, curious to see and hear, and
anxious for the recovery of her goods, of which Mateo had deprived
her. She had come not a moment too soon! Seeing the
knight's danger, she had caught up the hatchet which was employed
for trimming the trees and shrubbery of the grove, and
which lay in the verandah of the summer-house, convenient, with
saw and other implements; and, without a word,—governed by
instincts which always prompt to decisive action where the mind
has few thoughts to trouble it,—had stolen behind the outlaw.
He, bent only on strangling his enemy,—with passions which

deadened the sense,—heard nothing of her approach! A stunning
blow from the hatchet made him conscious of his danger,
while almost taking all consciousness away! He was not allowed
a moment. Stroke after stroke followed, with the hammer,
as with the edge of the hatchet; delivered without regard to the
appropriate use of the weapon, but delivered with such a will as
made every stroke tell fatally; until the head was cleft wide; the
skull beaten in;—and the strong, fierce, wild, savage man rolled
upon the floor;—a ghastly spectacle of death; wallowing in blood;
—in a moment, torn from life; in the moment of his greatest
strength of arm and passion; and, by the withered arm of a despised
old woman! The outlaw knew not by whose arm, or by
what weapon he perished. He saw not his assailant. He was not
allowed to turn and face his danger: the reiterated blows fell
crushingly and fast, and he sunk under them, a helpless mass, in
less time than we have employed in describing the event.