for ‘no!’” muttered Jack, in Tim’s ear.
At that instant a puff of smoke broke from an embrasure of the rear fort, and a gun thundered out its defiance to Xuarez. In another minute, before the echo of the first died away, a second gun from the other fort roared out in the still air, and there was an answering roar from the crowd below.
The flag of peace! the flag of the opal were suddenly lowered from the mast of The Pizarro, and up went a fierce red banner, foretelling war and disaster. The mob yelled with rage, the guns of The Pizarro sent forth an insolent defiance, and in a few minutes, with the smoke pouring black and thick from her funnels, the great vessel stood out to sea.
The War of Cholacaca had commenced.
Chapter XI.
The Drama of Little Things
Many things happen!
They are the daily events of our lives, we note them with idle indifference.
The lover kisses his dear one, she sighs on his throbbing bosom,
He springs on his waiting horse, and waving his hand at parting,
Thinks that the morrow for certain, will bring her again to his kisses,
Alas! he knows not that Fate is capricious!
That never again will the dear one respond to his welcome caresses!
“Good-bye for an hour!” ah, sorrow. That good-bye means “farewell for ever.”
And yet they know not this future, and so, parting happy,
Go east and west gladly, to anguish apart till they perish.
“Quiere a fumar, Juan,” said Dolores, holding out a small case to Jack, with a coquettish smile.
“Campeacheanos!” replied her lover, selecting one carefully, “these are for men only. I hope you don’t smoke these, mi cara.”
“No! I but use cigarros de papel. This case belongs to my cousin, Don Rafael. Now it is yours.”
“What will Don Rafael say?”
“Say! Why, nothing, of course. He made me a present of the campeacheanos.”
“Oh, did he?” exclaimed Jack, suspiciously. “You seem to be fond of your cousin, Dolores!”
“Naturally! It is my duty,” replied Dolores, demurely, and dropped her eyes.
“Oh!” said Duval, briefly, and busied himself in lighting a cigarette.
It was late in the afternoon, and they were on the azotea of Maraquando’s house alone, save for the presence of Doña Serafina; but she was asleep, and, therefore, did not trouble them. As before stated, the Casa Maraquando was on the summit of the hill, and from the roof they could look down into the valley below. Ring after ring of houses encompassed the rise, and on the flat, trending towards the sea, street, and house, and plaza, and wall, were laid out as in a map. To the left, the vast space of the parade-ground; to the right, the crowded quarter of the peons, a mass of huddled huts, red-roofed, white-walled, and between the two the broad street leading from the foot of the hill down to the sea-gate.
On the parade-ground companies of soldiers were manœuvring. Here and there the bright colours of uniforms could be seen in the streets. Sometimes a distant trumpet rang out shrilly, or the muffled thunder of drums came faintly to their ears. Within the walls of the city all was bustle and military pomp, the place was one vast camp. Beyond, the white line of the walls and the infinite stretch of azure sea glittering in the sunshine.
Peter, in company with Cocom, had gone outside the inland walls for a final butterfly hunt before the outbreak of war, when, in view of the suburbs being deserted, he would have to abandon his favourite pursuit. Down in the Plaza de San Jago, Sir Philip Cassim was assisting Don Rafael to drill his men, and Tim was, as usual, haunting the telegraph-office and the Palacio Nacional. He spent all his time between these two places, collecting news, and despatching messages. Only Jack was idle; Jack, who, decked out in the gaudy uniform of the Regimient de los Caballeros, set on the azotea flirting with Dolores and smoking innumerable cigarettes. With masculine vanity, he had come there especially to show himself to the lady of his heart, in his new uniform, and, finding Doña Serafina asleep, had waited to speak to Dolores for a few minutes before joining Philip in the plaza below. The few minutes had, by this time, lengthened into half-an-hour.
Without doubt Jack looked remarkably handsome in his uniform, and Dolores acknowledged this to herself as she glanced at him from behind the safe shelter of her fan. He was as fine as a humming-bird, and tinted like a rainbow. The Mexican dress became him admirably, and in that brilliant climate the bright colours did not look too pronounced.
The uniform consisted of calzoneros of dark green velvet split from the thigh downward, slashed with braid, set with rows of silver buttons, and filled with the calzoncillos of white muslin. A short, tight-fitting jacket of yellow cloth embroidered with gold, over a full white shirt, puffing out at the hips, open sleeves, a scarlet-silk sash round the waist sustaining a brace of pistols and a Spanish knife. Finally, boots of tanned leather with heavy spurs hanging with little bells. Over all his finery, Jack wore a picturesque zarape of dark blue, and a sombrero of the same colour encircled with a broad band of gold. In this picturesque costume, his fine figure was seen to its best advantage; but Jack was already regretting his plain English riding-suit of unadorned grey.
At present, however, he was not thinking of his fine feathers, or of the two men waiting for him in the Plaza de San Jago, but of the last remark of Dolores.
Jack had no reason to be jealous of Don Rafael, as he, to all appearances, cared more for war than for women; yet, because Dolores admitted that she liked her cousin, this foolish young man began to sulk. The girl watched him with great amusement for a few minutes, and then made a malicious remark in reference to his uniform.
“Pajaro precoso!”
“Oh, I am a precious bird, am I?” said Jack, ungraciously; “but not precious to you, Dolores. Don Rafael——”
“Is my cousin—nothing more.”
“I don’t like cousins,” muttered Duval, obstinately, keeping his eyes away from her face, whereat Dolores rapped him smartly on the fingers with her closed fan.
“I will eat all the cousins of your killing, Juan. Turn your face to me, child that you are. Santissima! What a cross face! Señor Caballero, you are jealous!”
“Yes,” admitted Jack, reluctantly.
Dolores glanced at her aunt, to make sure that she was asleep, then bending towards this foolish lover, kissed him on the cheek.
“Are you jealous now, querido?”
“No,” answered Jack, returning the kiss with interest; “I am a fool not to trust you thoroughly.”
“You are! Hush! Enough! My aunt may awake.”
“Not she! So you
