sent on from the capital of the country.
It was not very pleasant to the commandant of Albuquerque to see Captain Gil Uraga in command of the subsidy thus granted him. But the lancer officer met him in a friendly manner, professing cordiality, apparently forgetful of their duelling feud, and, at least outwardly, showing the submission due to the difference of their rank.
Engaged in frequent affairs with the Indians, and expeditions in pursuit of them, for a while things seemed to go smoothly enough.
But as Adela Miranda had now returned home, and was residing with her brother, in the interludes of tranquillity he could not help having some concern for her. He was well aware of Uraga’s aspirations; and, though loathing the very sight of the man, he was, nevertheless, compelled to tolerate his companionship to a certain extent, and could not well deny him the entrée of his house.
At first the subordinate bore himself with becoming meekness. Mock humility it was, and soon so proved itself. For, as the days passed, rumours reached the distant department of New Mexico that the old tyrant Santa Anna was again returning to power. And, in proportion as these gained strength, so increased Gil Uraga’s confidence in himself, till at length he assumed an air of effrontery – almost insolence – towards his superior officer; and towards the sister, in the interviews he was permitted with her, a manner significantly corresponding.
These were few, and still less frequent, as his brusque behaviour began to manifest itself. Observing it, Colonel Miranda at length came to the determination that the lancer captain should no longer enter into his house – at least, by invitation. Any future relations between them must be in the strict execution of their respective military duties.
“Yes, sister,” he said, one afternoon, as Adela was buckling on his sword-belt, and helping to equip him for the evening parade, “Uraga must come here no more. I well understand the cause of his contumacious behaviour. The priest party is again getting the ascendency. If they succeed, heaven help poor Mexico. And, I may add, heaven help us!”
Drawing the girl to his bosom with a fond affectionate embrace, he gave her a brother’s kiss. Then, striding forth, he sprang upon a saddled horse held in waiting, and rode off to parade his troops on the plaza of Albuquerque.
A ten minutes’ trot brought him into their presence. They were not drawn up in line, or other formation, to receive him. On the contrary, as he approached the cuartel, he saw strange sights, and heard sounds corresponding. Everything was in confusion – soldiers rushing to and fro, uttering seditious cries. Among these were “Viva Santa Anna!”
“Viva el General Armijo!”
“Viva el Coronel Uraga!”
Beyond doubt it was a pronunciamento. The old regime under which Colonel Miranda held authority was passing away, and a new one about to be initiated.
Drawing his sword and putting spur to his horse, he dashed in among the disaffected men.
A few of the faithful ran up, and ranged themselves by his side.
Then commenced a struggle, with shouting, shooting, sabring, and lance-thrusts. Several fell – some dead, some only disabled; among the last, Colonel Miranda himself, gravely wounded.
In ten minutes it was all over; and the commandant of Albuquerque, no longer commanding, lay lodged in the garrison carcel; Captain Gil Uraga, now colonel, replacing him as the supreme military officer of the district.
While all around ran the rumour that Don Antonio Lopes de Santa Anna was once more master of Mexico; his satellite, Manuel Armijo, again Governor of Santa Fé.
Chapter Five.
“Why comes he not?”
“What delays Valerian? What can be keeping him?”
These questions came from Adela Miranda, on the evening of that same day, standing in the door of her brother’s house, with eyes bent along the road leading to Albuquerque. Valerian was her brother’s baptismal name, and it was about his absence she was anxious.
For this she had reasons – more than one. Though still only a young girl, she quite understood the political situation of the Mexican Republic; at all times shifting, of late more critical than usual. In her brother’s confidence, she had been kept posted up in all that transpired in the capital, as also the district over which he held military command, and knew the danger of which he was himself apprehensive – every day drawing nigher and nigher.
Shortly after his leaving her she had heard shots, with a distant murmur of voices, in the direction of the town. From the azolea, to which she had ascended, she could note these noises more distinctly, but fancied them to be salutes, vivas, and cheers. Still, there was nothing much in that. It might be some jubilation of the soldiery at the ordinary evening parade; and, remembering that the day was a fiesta, she thought less of it.
But, as night drew down, and her brother had not returned, she began to feel some slight apprehension. He had promised to be back for a dinner that was long since due – a repast she had herself prepared, more sumptuous than common on account of the saint’s day. This was it that elicited the anxious self-asked interrogatories.
After giving utterance to them, she paced backward and forward; now standing in the portal and gazing along the road; now returning to the sola de comida, to look upon the table, with cloth spread, wines decantered, fruits and flowers on the épergne – all but the dishes that waited serving till Valerian should show himself.
To look on something besides – a portrait that hung upon the wall, underneath her own. It was a small thing – a mere photographic carte-de-visite. But it was the likeness of one who had a large place in her brother’s heart, if not in her own. In hers, how could it? It was the photograph of a man she had never seen – Frank Hamersley. He had left it with Colonel Miranda, as a souvenir of their short but friendly intercourse.
Did Colonel Miranda’s sister regard it in that light? She could not in any other. Still, as she gazed upon it, a thought was passing through her mind somewhat different from a sentiment of simple friendship. Her brother had told her all – the circumstances that led to his acquaintance with Hamersley; of the duel, and in what a knightly manner the Kentuckian had carried himself; adding his own commentaries in a very flattering fashion. This, of itself, had been enough to pique curiosity in a young girl, just escaped from her convent school; but added to the outward semblance of the stranger, by the sun made lustrous – so lustrous inwardly – Adela Miranda was moved by something more than curiosity. As she stood regarding the likeness of Frank Hamersley she felt very much as he had done looking at hers – in love with one only known by portrait and repute.
In such there is nothing strange nor new. Many a reader of this tale could speak of a similar experience.
While gazing on the carte-de-visite she was roused from the sweet reverie it had called up by hearing footsteps outside. Someone coming in through the saggan.
“Valerian at last!”
The steps sounded as if the man making them were in a hurry. So should her brother be, having so long delayed his return.
She glided out to meet him with an interrogatory on her lips.
“Valerian?” – this suddenly changing to the exclamation, “Madre de Dios! ’Tis not my brother!”
It was not, but a man pale and breathless – a peon of the establishment – who, on seeing her, gasped
