was then that I first heard of your great loss.”
“Think you the Indians have her?” asked Philip, anxiously.
“Alas! who knows, Señor? The idolaters have been worshipping the devil stone greatly of late, and it may be that they have carried off Doña Dolores to assist in the ceremonies.”
“Not to sacrifice her?”
“Santissima Virgen! no, Señor,” rejoined the Padre, hastily. “The idolaters look on her as the guardian of the stone, as one under the protection of the god himself. If they have carried her off,” added the priest, emphatically, “her life is safe, and her honour. But my son, Don Hypolito?”
“Do you think——?”
“I know nothing, my son. But there is one Pepe.”
“The zambo? Yes, Padre.”
“He hired a boat this afternoon from one of the fishers, saying he was about to go up the coast to see his mother. I heard of that by chance, my children. When it was told to me that Pepe had been seen hanging about the doors of the cathedral, I went from my chapel to the sea-port at once, and there I find that the boat and Pepe are both gone.”
“Carajo!” swore Rafael, giving voice to the general opinion, “he has carried Dolores off to The Pizarro. Ladron!”
“It may not be so,” said Philip, thoughtfully; “Cocom is also missing. Doña Dolores may have gone with him.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Peter, angrily. “Cocom is a good fellow, and devoted to Doña Dolores. He would not harm a hair of her head.”
“It’s a queer business,” cried Tim, in perplexity; “‘tis either Cocom or Pepe. I am certain it is the last of them. The Pizarro wasn’t cruising up and down for nothing.”
“The torpedo-boats——”
“To the devil with them! Hasn’t Xuarez his spies in England as well as the Junta? He knows the torpedo-boats are not due here for at least a fortnight, so why should he waste time in searching for them now? By all the saints,” shouted Tim, raising his enormous fist, and crashing it down on the table, “‘tis Don Hypolito who has the poor girl.”
There was nothing more to be said in the matter as the opinions of everyone were divided. Don Rafael, Philip, and Peter believed that Dolores had been carried off by Don Hypolito, as also did Padre Ignatius; while Don Miguel, Tim, and Jack were equally confident that she was in the power of the forest Indians. The Englishmen went back to their house, and, as nothing could be done till morning, Philip spent most of the night trying to comfort Jack, who refused to go to bed, and walked up and down the sitting-room till close on dawn. At last the baronet persuaded him to lie down and have some rest, but he only slept fitfully. At dawn he was on his feet again, and away to the house of Maraquando, to hear if any news had arrived concerning Dolores.
“My poor Jack, you will kill yourself,” said Philip anxiously looking at the young man’s haggard face.
“No I won’t,” retorted Jack, grimly, “I’ll hold out until I find Dolores. And find her I will, whether she is in that d—d temple, or with the cursed Don Hypolito.”
“If she is with Don Hypolito,” said Philip, as he hurried along beside his friend, “we can go up to Acauhtzin in my yacht, and demand her to be given up; but if the Indians have her, I am afraid we shall never see her. No one knows where the temple is.”
“I don’t care if it is in the moon,” cried Duval, doggedly. “I’ll hunt those infernal Indians out and make them pay for this. Of two evils I choose the least, and I trust and believe she is with those opal-stone fanatics rather than at Acauhtzin.”
“Don Hypolito——”
“He is a devil!” rejoined Jack, fiercely. “If she is with him, God help her! And God help him!” added the young man, in a low voice of concentrated hatred, “if I get my fingers on his throat.”
Philip heartily endorsed this opinion; but, afraid of adding to Jack’s worry, kept his thoughts to himself. They speedily arrived at Casa Maraquando, and found Rafael on the azotea, looking seaward with a marine telescope. He turned round sharply as he heard their footsteps, and pointed due east.
“She is gone,” he said, with a gesture of despair.
“Dolores?” said Jack, whose brain only held one idea.
“Yes; and The Pizarro!”
“In that case, I am afraid Doña Dolores has been carried off by Don Hypolito,” observed Philip, taking the glass from Rafael. “No doubt that cursed zambo induced her to go down to the sea-gate on some pretext, and then took her off to the war-ship, which stood in to land under cover of darkness.”
“Have you heard anything?” asked Jack, paying no attention to this speech, but turning to Don Rafael.
“Of Dolores, nothing. All the messengers sent out have returned without tidings. It is stated that the Chalchuih Tlatonac is burning red, and thus proclaiming war. To propitiate the god, some great feast is to take place; but whether Dolores has been seized by the Indians and carried to their temple to assist at the ceremony I do not know. Not a single trace of her can be found.”
“And Cocom?”
“Cocom has disappeared—so has Pepe and Marina?”
“Marina?” cried Jack, starting.
“Yes; but that is not the worst. My father, as a member of the Junta, had plans of the fortifications to Tlatonac. These have been stolen——”
“Stolen?” interrupted Philip, who had been vainly sweeping the horizon in search of The Pizarro; “and by Marina.”
“So my father thinks. My belief of last night is true, Señores. That ladron Pepe is a spy in the service of Hypolito. He seduced Marina into stealing the plans from my father’s room, and now they have gone off together in that boat to The Pizarro.”
“Impossible, Rafael,” replied Cassim, decisively. “Doña Dolores was missing while Marina was in this house. She was still here when Padre Ignatius came with the news that Pepe and the boat were gone. Doubtless she has stolen the plans; but she could not have escaped as you say.”
“That is a mere detail,” said Jack, hastily. “Marina is an Indian, and knows the whole country round for miles. After stealing the plans, she doubtless slipped out of the country gate and travelled up the coast. There a boat from The Pizarro could pick her up.”
“Where is Don Miguel?”
“My father was summoned before dawn to a special meeting of the Junta. I believe the assemblage has been sitting all night to deliberate on what is to be done.”
“Oh, my poor Dolores,” groaned Jack, covering his face with his hands; “where are you now?”
“She is on board The Pizarro, I doubt not, Don Juan,” said Rafael, approaching the young English-man, “I feel sure this is the case. But courage, mi amigo, we will save your dear one yet.”
“My
