to the mustang. “Keep the brave black; you well know how to ride him. Were he mine, no mortal could influence me to part with him.”
“There is but one who could influence me.”
As I said this, I looked anxiously for the answer. It was not in words I expected it, but in the glance. Assuredly there was no frown; I even fancied I could detect a smile – a blending of triumph and satisfaction. It was short-lived, and my heart fell again under her light laugh.
“Ha! ha! ha! That one is of course your lady-love. Well, noble capitan, if you are as true to her as to you brave steed, she will have no cause to doubt your fealty. I must leave you. Adios!”
“Shall I not be permitted to accompany you to your home?”
“Gracias! no, señor. I am at home. Mira! my father’s house!” She pointed to the hacienda. “Here is one who will look to the remains of poor Lola;” and she signalled to a vaquero at that moment coming from the herd. “Remember, capitan, you are an enemy; I must not accept your politeness; neither may I offer you hospitality. Ah! you know not us – you know not the tyrant Santa Anna. Perhaps even at this moment his spies are – ” She glanced suspiciously around as she spoke. “O Heavens!” she exclaimed with a start, as her eyes fell upon the form of a man advancing down the hill. “Santissima Virgen! it is Ijurra!”
“Ijurra?”
“Only my cousin; but – ” She hesitated, and then suddenly changing to an expression of entreaty, she continued: “O leave me, señor! Por amor Dios! leave me. Adieu, adieu!”
Though I longed to have a nearer view of “Ijurra,” the hurried earnestness of her manner overcame me; and without making other reply than a simple “Adios,” I vaulted into the saddle, and rode off.
On reaching the border of the woods, curiosity – a stronger feeling perhaps – mastered my politeness; and, under the pretence of adjusting my stirrup, I turned in the saddle, and glanced back.
Ijurra had arrived upon the ground.
I beheld a tall dark man, dressed in the usual costume of the ricos of Mexico: dark cloth polka-jacket, blue military trousers, with scarlet sash around his waist, and low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat upon his head. He appeared about thirty years of age, whiskered, moustached, and, after a fashion, handsome. It was not his age, nor his personal appearance, nor yet his costume, that had my attention at the moment. I watched only his actions. He stood confronting his cousin, or rather he stood over her, for she appeared before him in an attitude of fear! He held a paper in one hand, and I saw he was pointing to it as he spoke. There was a fierce vulture-like expression upon his face; and even in the distance I could tell, from the tones of his voice, that he was talking angrily!
Why should she fear him? Why submit to such rude rebuke? He must have a strange power over that spirit who could force it thus tamely to listen to reproach?
These were my reflections. My impulse was to drive the spurs into the sides of my horse, and gallop back upon the ground. I might have done so had the scene lasted much longer; but I saw the lady suddenly leave the spot, and walk rapidly in the direction of the hacienda.
I wheeled round again, and plunging under the shadows of the forest, soon fell into a road leading to the rancheria. With my thoughts full of the incident that had just transpired, I rode unconsciously, leaving my horse to his own guidance.
My reverie was interrupted by the challenge of one of my own sentries, which admonished me that I had arrived at the entrance of the village.
Chapter Seven.
An order to forage
My adventure did not end with the day; it was continued into the night, and repeated in my dreams. I rode the chase over again; I dashed through the magueys, I leaped the zequia, and galloped through the affrighted herd; I beheld the spotted mustang stretched lifeless upon the plain, its rider bending and weeping over it. That face of rare beauty, that form of exquisite proportion, that eye rotund and noble, that tongue so free, and heart so bold – all were again encountered in dreamland. A dark face was in the vision, and at intervals crossed the picture like a cloud. It was the face of Ijurra.
I think it was that awoke me, but the reveille of the bugle was ringing in my ears as I leaped from my couch.
For some moments I was under the impression that the adventure had been a dream: an object that hung on the opposite wall came under my eyes, and recalled the reality – it was my saddle, over the holsters of which lay a coil of white horsehair rope, with a silver ring at the end. I remembered the lazo.
When fairly awake, I reviewed my yesterday’s adventure from first to last. I tried to think calmly upon it; I tried to get it out of my thoughts, and return seriously to my duties. A vain attempt! The more I reflected upon the incident, the more I became conscious of the powerful interest its heroine had excited within me. Interest, indeed! Say rather passion– a passion that in one single hour had grown as large as my heart!
It was not the first love of my life. I was nigh thirty years of age. I had been enamoured before – more than once, it may be – and I understood what the feeling was. I needed no Cupid to tell me I was in love again – to the very ends of my fingers.
To paint the object of my passion is a task I shall not attempt. Beauty like hers must be left to the imagination. Think of the woman you yourself love or have loved; fancy her in her fairest moments, in bower or boudoir – perchance a blushing bride – and you may form some idea – No, no, no! you could never have looked upon woman so lovely as Isolina de Vargas.
Oh! that I could fix that fleeting phantom of beauty – that I could paint that likeness for the world to admire! It cannot be. The most puissant pen is powerless, the brightest colour too cold. Though deeply graven upon the tablet of my heart, I cannot multiply the impression.
It is idle to talk of wavy hair, profuse and glossed – of almond eyes with long dark fringes – of pearl-white teeth, and cheeks tinted with damascene. All these had she, but they are not peculiar characteristics. Other women are thus gifted. The traits of her beauty lay in the intellectual as much as the physical – in a happy combination of both. The soul, the spirit, had its share in producing this incomparable picture. It was to behold the play of those noble features, to watch the changing cheek, the varying smile, the falling lash, the flashing eye, the glance now tender, now sublime – it was to look on all this, and be impressed with an idea of the divinest loveliness.
As I ate my frugal breakfast, such a vision was passing before me. I contemplated the future with pleasant hopes, but not without feelings of uneasiness. I had not forgotten the abrupt parting – no invitation to renew the acquaintance, no hope, no prospect that I should ever behold that beautiful woman again, unless blind chance should prove my friend.
I am not a fatalist, and I therefore resolved not to rely upon mere destiny, but, if possible, to help it a little in its evolution.
Before I had finished my coffee, a dozen schemes had passed through my mind, all tending towards one object – the renewal of my acquaintance with Isolina de Vargas. Unless favoured by some lucky accident, or, what was more desirable, by the lady herself, I knew we might never meet again. In such times, it was not likely she would be much “out-of-doors;” and in a few days, hours perhaps, I might be ordered en route never more to return to that interesting outpost.
As the district was, of course, under martial law, and I was de facto dictator, you will imagine that I might easily have procured the right of entry
