opal! The Chalchuih Tlatonac!”
“Yes!” cried the priest, emphatically; “by making use of that unholy stone! Xuarez is no true son of the Church, my children. He is a heretic, an idolater! He told me plainly that he worshipped and believed in the opal of Huitzilopochtli, and would make use of the superstition it engendered among the Indians, to further his own ends.”
Another roar of wrath arose from the assemblage which the President was quite unable to quiet. Padre Ignatius lifted his thin hand in token of entreaty, and the tumult ceased.
“I need not say what he said to me, what I said to him; but I forced him to make an offer to the Junta, which, if accepted, will suspend all hostility. I implore you, Señores, to accept this offer, and avert this fratricidal war!”
“The offer! the message!”
“As you know, Señores, the Presidency is held for four years, and that he who has been our ruler cannot be re-elected! His Excellency, Don Francisco Gomez, has now held this honourable office for three years and a half. In six months it becomes vacant, and Don Hypolito Xuarez offers, if you make him President of Cholacaca, to return to his allegiance.”
“Never!” cried Maraquando, springing to his feet, amid a deafening cheering. “What! elect Xuarez for our President—place the supreme power in his hands? Give to ourselves a Dictator who will rob us of our liberties! Never! Never! Never!”
“No, Francia! No Iturbide! No, Santa Anna!” yelled the excited members. Gomez called the assemblage to order.
“Are these the only terms on which Xuarez will return to his allegiance?” he asked the priest.
“The only terms. If they are accepted, fire one gun, and The Pizarro will steam to Acauhtzin to tell Xuarez that the war will not take place. Two guns, and then, oh, my children, the vessel will go northward to bring desolation upon us. There will be war—red war; brother will be arrayed against brother; our towns will be laid in ashes; our peaceful community will struggle in deadly strife. I urge you, implore you, to accept this offer and avert disaster!”
“There will be war!” sang out some man in the crowd. “The opal is red!”
“The opal is red! the opal is red!”
“Are you Catholics?” cried Padre Ignatius, his voice ringing forth like a trumpet. “Are you sons of the Church or children of the devil? That stone is the work of Satan! Obey it, and you will bring ruin on yourselves, on your families, on your country. In the name of this sacred symbol,” he thundered, holding up the cross, “I command you to put this evil from your hearts. The devil stone speaks war the holy cross commands peace. Obey it at the peril of your souls—of your salvation. I say Peace! Peace! Peace! In the name of the Church—Peace! At your peril—War!”
The whole man was transfigured as he stood intrepidly facing the furious assemblage with the uplifted cross. There was no fear in his eyes, there was no trembling of the hand which upheld the symbol of Christianity. He was no longer Padre Ignatius, the gentle priest whom they knew. It was a priest, the representative of the awful power of Rome, with the thunders of the Vatican at his back, with salvation in this world, and in the next at his will, holding their souls in the hollow of his hand.
“Richelieu,” murmured Philip, softly.
For a moment the assemblage was awed. Many were atheists who believed in nothing; some idolaters, who trusted in the devil stone, all were superstitious, and they quailed before that frail old man who faced them so dauntlessly. Suddenly, as it were, the influence passed away, the devil-stone conquered the cross.
“War! War!” yelled the deputies, springing to their feet. “No priests! no Jesuits! To the vote! to the vote!”
Gomez arose to his feet.
“Señores,” he cried, loudly, “I respect the Padre for his effort to avert the war. His mission is to bring peace, and he has striven to do so. But it cannot be. The Cholacacan Republic cannot yield to the insolent demands of Xuarez. We choose our rulers freely, without coercion. In six months I surrender my office and will you permit Don Hypolito Xuarez, traitor and scoundrel, to profane this chair? No, Señores; a thousand times no! We know the nature of this man who aspires to play the part of a tyrant. Place him in this seat of power, and he will break every law of our glorious constitution. Will that liberty which was won by the blood of our fathers, by the heroism of Zuloaga, be trodden under foot at the bidding of this man? He comes, not to implore you to elect him supreme magistrate of the Republic. He comes with an army at his back, and commands you—I say commands you—to make him Dictator!”
“War! War! Down with Xuarez!”
“Who is this traitor, to dare our power? He has the fleet, it is true—traitors that they are!—but we have the army. We have money. We can buy a new fleet. Our soldiers shall break up his power. Let us hurl back in his face this insolent defiance, and sweep away Xuarez and his partisans in torrents of blood!”
“War! War! The opal burns red.”
“Yes, the opal burns red. And our hearts burn with indignation at the insolence of this man. I swear,” cried the President, drawing his sword. “I swear, by my sword, by the Chalchuih Tlatonac, that I shall not sheath this weapon till it has exterminated these traitors, and purified the Republic. Hear me, God!”
“Hear us, God!” And a myriad swords flashed in the air.
“Will I put the offer of the traitor Xuarez to the vote?”
“No, no! War! war!”
Ignatius tried to speak, but he saw that the Junta was unanimous in proclaiming war. His cross fell from his nerveless hands; his head sunk on his breast.
“Holy Mary, have mercy on these misguided men.”
He passed out of the hall in dejected silence, and after him swept a whirlwind of men, headed by the President. Outside the Palacio Nacional, a crowd of people were waiting to hear the decision of the Junta. Standing on the marble steps of the palace, Don Francisco caused the standard of the Republic to be unfurled, and waved his bare sword in the air.
“In the name of the Junta! In the name of the free people of the great Republic of Cholacaca, I proclaim war against the traitor Xuarez!”
“War! war! war!” yelled the mob, frantically. “The opal burns red! War! war!”
Then, with one accord, the rabble dashed down to the sea-gate of the city.
“What are they going there for, Tim?” asked Philip, as they were borne along by the living torrent.
“To hear the cannon answer Xuarez, if I mistake not. Holy Virgin! what devils these are when their blood is up!”
From the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres the crowd rolled down the steep of the Calle Otumba, passed into the Calle Mayor, and in a few minutes the city was vomiting hundreds of infuriated men out of her gates on to the beach and wharf.
Far away on the azure sea lay the vast bulk of The Pizarro, with the flag of the Republic floating at her main-mast, in conjunction with the white pennant of peace. The crowd held their breath, and throughout the vast assemblage there was not a sound. The waves lapping on the beach could alone be heard, and each man in that mighty congregation
