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EL OMBÚ




Uniform with this volume THE READERS' LIBRARY. 50 volumes
published. Full list of titles can be had from the Publishers
DUCKWORTH & CO. COVENT GARDEN, LONDON




El Ombú by W. H. Hudson

Author of "Green Mansions," "The Purple Land," "A
Crystal Age," "A Little Boy Lost"

     _Cada comarca en la tierra
     Tiene su rasgo prominente,
     Brazil tiene su sol ardiente,
     Minas de plata el Perú:
     Buenos Ayres--patria hermosa--
     Tiene su Pampa grandiosa;
     La Pampa tiene el Ombú._


LONDON
DUCKWORTH & CO.
3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN




_First Published 1902._

_Reissued under the title of "South American Sketches" 1909_

_Published in the Readers Library 1920_

_All rights reserved_


_Printed in Great Britain by R. Folkard & Son, London_




TO MY FRIEND

R. B. CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM

("_Singularisimo escritor ingles_")


Who has lived with and knows (even to the marrow as they would
themselves say) the horsemen of the Pampas, and who alone of European
writers has rendered something of the vanishing colour of that remote
life.




NOTE.


The two short stories included in this volume are reprints:--the
"Story of a Piebald Horse" from a book of travel and adventure in
South America, long out of print; the other, "Niño Diablo," is taken,
by permission, from _Macmillan's Magazine_. The two long stories now
appear for the first time, excepting only the incidents of the English
invasion told in "El Ombú," and the Appendix to the same story, which
formed part of an article describing the game of El Pato in the
_Badminton Magazine_.




CONTENTS

                                PAGE
1.  El Ombú                        1

2.  Story of a Piebald Horse      69

3.  Niño Diablo                   89

4.  Marta Riquelme               125

5.  Appendix to El Ombú          174




EL OMBÚ.

_This history of a house that had been was told in the shade, one
summer's day, by Nicandro, that old man to whom we all loved to listen,
since he could remember and properly narrate the life of every person
he had known in his native place, near to the lake of Chascomus, on the
southern pampas of Buenos Ayres._


In all this district, though you should go twenty leagues to this
way and that, you will not find a tree as big as this ombú, standing
solitary, where there is no house; therefore it is known to all as "the
ombú," as if but one existed; and the name of all this estate, which is
now ownerless and ruined, is El Ombú. From one of the higher branches,
if you can climb, you will see the lake of Chascomus, two thirds of a
league away, from shore to shore, and the village on its banks. Even
smaller things will you see on a clear day; perhaps a red line moving
across the water--a flock of flamingos flying in their usual way. A
great tree standing alone, with no house near it; only the old brick
foundations of a house, so overgrown with grass and weeds that you have
to look closely to find them. When I am out with my flock in the summer
time, I often come here to sit in the shade. It is near the main road;
travellers, droves of cattle, the diligence, and bullock-carts pass in
sight. Sometimes, at noon, I find a traveller resting in the shade, and
if he is not sleeping we talk and he tells me the news of that great
world my eyes have never seen. They say that sorrow and at last ruin
comes upon the house on whose roof the shadow of the ombú tree falls;
and on that house which now is not, the shadow of this tree came every
summer day when the sun was low. They say, too, that those who sit much
in the ombú shade become crazed. Perhaps, sir, the bone of my skull is
thicker than in most men, since I have been accustomed to sit here all
my life, and though now an old man I have not yet lost my reason. It
is true that evil fortune came to the old house in the end; but into
every door sorrow must enter--sorrow and death that comes to all men;
and every house must fall at last.

Do you hear the mangangá, the carpenter bee, in the foliage over
our heads? Look at him, like a ball of shining gold among the green
leaves, suspended in one place, humming loudly! Ah, señor, the years
that are gone, the people that have lived and died, speak to me thus
audibly when I am sitting here by myself. These are memories; but there
are other things that come back to us from the past; I mean ghosts.
Sometimes, at midnight, the whole tree, from its great roots to its
topmost leaves, is seen from a distance shining like white fire. What
is that fire, seen of so many, which does not scorch the leaves? And,
sometimes, when a traveller lies down here to sleep the siesta, he
hears sounds of footsteps coming and going, and noises of dogs and
fowls, and of children shouting and laughing, and voices of people
talking; but when he starts up and listens, the sounds grow faint, and
seem at last to pass away into the tree with a low murmur as of wind
among the leaves.

As a small boy, from the time when I was able, at the age of about
six years, to climb on to a pony and ride, I knew this tree. It was
then what it is now; five men with their arms stretched to their utmost
length could hardly encircle it. And the house stood there, where you
see a bed of nettles--a long, low house, built of bricks, when there
were few brick houses in this district, with a thatched roof.

The last owner was just touching on old age. Not that he looked aged;
on the contrary, he looked what he was, a man among men, a head taller
than most, with the strength of an ox; but the wind had blown a little
sprinkling of white ashes into his great beard and his hair, which
grew to his shoulders like the mane of a black horse. That was Don
Santos Ugarte, known to all men in this district as the White Horse,
on account of the whiteness of his skin where most men look dark; also
because of that proud temper and air of authority which he had. And
for still another reason--the number of children in this neighbourhood
of which he was said to be the father. In all houses, for many leagues
around, the children were taught to reverence him, calling him "uncle,"
and when he appeared they would run and, dropping on their knees
before him, cry out "_Bendicion mi tio._" He would give them his
blessing; then, after tweaking a nose and pinching an ear or two, he
would flourish his whip over their heads to signify that he had done
with them, and that they must quickly get out of his way.

These were children of the wind, as the saying is, and the desire of
his heart was for a legitimate son, an Ugarte by name, who would come
after him at El Ombú, as he had come after his father. But though he
had married thrice, there was no son born, and no child. Some thought
it a mystery that one with so many sons should yet be without a son.
The mystery, friend, was only for those who fail to remember that such
things are not determined by ourselves. We often say, that He who is
above us is too great to concern Himself with our small affairs. There
are so many of us; and how shall He, seated on his throne at so great
a distance, know all that passes in his dominions! But Santos was no
ordinary person, and He who was greater than Santos had doubtless had
his attention drawn to this man; and had considered the matter, and had
said, "You shall not have your desire; for though you are a devout
man, one who gives freely of his goods to the church and my poor, I am
not wholly satisfied with you." And so it came to pass that he had no
son and heir.

His first two wives had died, so it was said, because of his bitterness
against them. I only knew the third--Doña Mericie, a silent, sad woman,
who was of less account than any servant, or any slave in the house.
And I, a simple boy, what could I know of the secrets of her heart?
Nothing! I only saw her pale and silent and miserable, and because her
eyes followed me, I feared her, and tried always to keep out of her
way. But one morning, when I came to El Ombú and went into the kitchen,
I found her there alone, and before I could escape she caught me in
her arms, and lifting me off my feet strained me against her breast,
crying, _hijo de mi alma_, and I knew not what beside; and calling
God's blessing on me, she covered my face with kisses. Then all at
once, hearing Santo's voice without, she dropped me and remained like a
woman of stone, staring at the door with scared eyes.

She, too, died in a little while, and her disappearance made no
difference in the house, and if Santos wore a black band on his arm,
it was because custom demanded it and not because he mourned for her in
his heart.


II.

That silent ghost of a woman being gone, no one could say of him that
he was hard; nor could anything be said against him except that he was
not a saint, in spite of his name. But, sir, we do not look for saints
among strong men, who live in the saddle, and are at the head of big
establishments. If there was one who was a father to the poor it was
Santos; therefore he was loved by many, and only those who had done him
an injury or had crossed him in any way had reason to fear and hate
him. But let me now relate what I, a boy of ten, witnessed one day in
the year 1808. This will show you what the man's temper was; and his
courage, and the strength of his wrists.

It was his custom to pay a visit every two or three months to a
monastery at a distance of half-a-day's journey from El Ombú.

He was greatly esteemed by the friars, and whenever he went to see them
he had a led horse to carry his presents to the Brothers;--a side of
fat beef, a sucking-pig or two, a couple of lambs, when they were in
season, a few fat turkeys and ducks, a bunch of big partridges, a brace
or two of armadillos, the breast and wings of a fat ostrich; and in
summer, a dozen ostriches' eggs, and I know not what besides.

One evening I was at El Ombú, and was just starting for home, when
Santos saw me, and cried out, "Get off and let your horse go, Nicandro.
I am going to the monastery to-morrow, and you shall ride the laden
horse, and save me the trouble of leading it. You will be like a little
bird perched on his back and he will not feel your few ounces' weight.
You can sleep on a sheepskin in the kitchen, and get up an hour before
daybreak."

The stars were still shining when we set out on our journey the
next morning, in the month of June, and when we crossed the river
Sanborombón at sunrise the earth was all white with hoar frost. At
noon, we arrived at our destination, and were received by the friars,
who embraced and kissed Santos on both cheeks, and took charge of our
horses. After breakfast in the kitchen, the day being now warm and
pleasant, we went and sat out of doors to sip maté and smoke, and for
an hour or longer, the conversation between Santos and the Brothers
had been going on when, all at once, a youth appeared coming at a
fast gallop towards the gate, shouting as he came, "Los Ingleses! Los
Ingleses!" We all jumped up and ran to the gate, and climbing up by the
posts and bars, saw at a distance of less than half-a-league to the
east, a great army of men marching in the direction of Buenos Ayres.
We could see that the foremost part of the army had come to a halt on
the banks of a stream which flows past the monastery and empties itself
into the Plata, two leagues further east. The army was all composed of
infantry, but a great many persons on horseback could be seen following
it, and these, the young man said, were neighbours who had come out to
look at the English invaders; and he also said that the soldiers, on
arriving at the stream, had begun to throw away their blankets, and
that the people were picking them up. Santos hearing this, said he
would go and join the crowd, and mounting his horse and followed by me,
and by two of the Brothers, who said they wished to get a few blankets
for the monastery, we set out at a gallop for the stream.

Arrived at the spot, we found that the English, not satisfied with the
ford, which had a very muddy bottom, had made a new crossing-place for
themselves by cutting down the bank on both sides, and that numbers
of blankets had been folded and laid in the bed of the stream where
it was about twenty-five yards wide. Hundreds of blankets were also
being thrown away, and the people were picking them up and loading
their horses with them. Santos at once threw himself into the crowd
and gathered about a dozen blankets, the best he could find, for the
friars; then he gathered a few for himself and ordered me to fasten
them on the back of my horse.

The soldiers, seeing us scrambling for the blankets, were much amused;
but when one man among us cried out, "These people must be mad to throw
their blankets away in cold weather--perhaps their red jackets will
keep them warm when they lie down to-night"--there was one soldier who
understood, and could speak Spanish, and he replied, "No, sirs, we
have no further need of blankets. When we next sleep it will be in
the best beds in the capitol." Then Santos shouted back, "That, sirs,
will perhaps be a sleep from which some of you will never awake."
That speech attracted their attention to Santos, and the soldier who
had spoken before returned, "There are not many men like you in these
parts, therefore what you say does not alarm us." Then they looked at
the friars fastening the blankets Santos had given them on to their
horses, and seeing that they wore heavy iron spurs strapped on their
bare feet, they shouted with laughter, and the one who talked with us
cried out, "We are sorry, good Brothers, that we have not boots as well
as blankets to give you."

But our business was now done, and bidding good-bye to the friars, we
set out on our return journey, Santos saying that we should be at home
before midnight.

It was past the middle of the afternoon, we having ridden about six
leagues, when we spied at a distance ahead a great number of mounted
men scattered about over the plain, some standing still, others
galloping this way or that.

"El pato! el pato!" cried Santos with excitement, "Come, boy, let us
go and watch the battle while it is near, and when it is passed on we
will go our way." Urging his horse to a gallop, I following, we came
to where the men were struggling for the ball, and stood for a while
looking on. But it was not in him to remain a mere spectator for long;
never did he see a cattle-marking, or parting, or races, or a dance, or
any game, and above all games el Pato, but he must have a part in it.
Very soon he dismounted to throw off some of the heaviest parts of his
horse-gear, and ordering me to take them up on my horse and follow him,
he rode in among the players.

About forty or fifty men had gathered at that spot, and were sitting
quietly on their horses in a wide circle, waiting to see the result of
a struggle for the Pato between three men who had hold of the ball.
They were strong men, well mounted, each resolved to carry off the
prize from the others. Sir, when I think of that sight, and remember
that the game is no longer played because of the Tyrant who forbade
it, I am ready to cry out that there are no longer men on these plains
where I first saw the light! How they tugged and strained and sweated,
almost dragging each other out of the saddle, their trained horses
leaning away, digging their hoofs into the turf, as when they resist
the shock of a lassoed animal, when the lasso stiffens and the pull
comes! One of the men was a big, powerful mulatto, and the by-standers
thinking the victory would be his, were only waiting to see him wrest
the ball from the others to rush upon and try to deprive him of it
before he could escape from the crowd.

Santos refused to stand inactive, for was there not a fourth handle to
the ball to be grasped by another fighter? Spurring his horse into the
group, he very soon succeeded in getting hold of the disengaged handle.
A cry of resentment at this action on the part of a stranger went up
from some of those who were looking on, mixed with applause at his
daring from others, while the three men who had been fighting against
each other, each one for himself, now perceived that they had a common
enemy. Excited as they were by the struggle, they could not but be
startled at the stranger's appearance--that huge man on a big horse, so
white-skinned and long-haired, with a black beard, that came down over
his breast, and who showed them, when he threw back his poncho, the
knife that was like a sword and the big brass-barrelled pistol worn at
his waist. Very soon after he joined in the fray all four men came to
the earth. But they did not fall together, and the last to go down was
Santos, who would not be dragged off his horse, and in the end horse
and man came down on the top of the others. In coming down, two of the
men had lost their hold of the ball; last of all, the big mulatto, to
save himself from being crushed under the falling horse, was forced to
let go, and in his rage at being beaten, he whipped out his long knife
against the stranger. Santos, too quick for him, dealt him a blow on
the forehead with the heavy silver handle of his whip, dropping him
stunned to the ground. Of the four, Santos alone had so far escaped
injury, and rising and remounting, the ball still in his hand, he rode
out from among them, the crowd opening on each side to make room for
him.

Now in the crowd there was one tall, imposing-looking man, wearing a
white poncho, many silver ornaments, and a long knife in an embossed
silver sheath; his horse, too, which was white as milk, was covered
with silver trappings. This man alone raised his voice; "Friends
and comrades," he cried, "is this to be the finish? If this stranger
is permitted to carry the Pato away, it will not be because of his
stronger wrist and better horse, but because he carries firearms.
Comrades, what do you say?"

But there was no answer. They had seen the power and resolution of the
man, and though they were many they preferred to let him go in peace.
Then the man on a white horse, with a scowl of anger and contempt,
turned from them and began following us at a distance of about fifty
yards. Whenever Santos turned back to come to close quarters with
him, he retired, only to turn and follow us again as soon as Santos
resumed his course. In this way we rode till sunset. Santos was grave,
but calm; I, being so young, was in constant terror. "Oh, uncle," I
whispered, "for the love of God fire your pistol at this man and kill
him, so that he may not kill us!"

Santos laughed. "Fool of a boy," he replied, "do you not know that he
wants me to fire at him! He knows that I could not hit him at this
distance, and that after discharging my pistol we should be equal, man
to man, and knife to knife; and who knows then which would kill the
other? God knows best, since He knows everything, and He has put it
into my heart not to fire."

When it grew dark we rode slower, and the man then lessened the
distance between us. We could hear the chink-chink of his silver
trappings, and when I looked back I could see a white misty form
following us like a ghost. Then, all at once, there came a noise of
hoofs and a whistling sound of something thrown, and Santos' horse
plunged and reared and kicked, then stood still trembling with terror.
His hind legs were entangled in the bolas which had been thrown. With a
curse Santos threw himself off, and, drawing his knife, cut the thong
which bound the animal's legs, and remounting we went on as before, the
white figure still following us.

At length, about midnight, the Sanborombón was reached, at the ford
where we had crossed in the morning, where it was about forty yards
wide, and the water only high as the surcingle in the deepest parts.

"Let your heart be glad, Nicandro!" said Santos, as we went down into
the water; "for our time is come now, and be careful to do as I bid
you."

We crossed slowly, and coming out on the south side, Santos quietly
dropped off his horse, and, speaking in a low voice, ordered me to ride
slowly on with the two horses and wait for him in the road. He said
that the man who followed would not see him crouching under the bank,
and thinking it safe would cross over, only to receive the charge fired
at a few yards distance.

That was an anxious interval that followed, I waiting alone, scarcely
daring to breathe, staring into the darkness in fear of that white
figure that was like a ghost, listening for the pistol shot. My prayer
to heaven was to direct the bullet in its course, so that it might go
to that terrible man's heart, and we be delivered from him. But there
was no shot, and no sound except a faint chink of silver and sound of
hoof-beats that came to my ears after a time, and soon ceased to be
heard. The man, perhaps, had some suspicion of the other's plan and had
given up the chase and gone away.

Nothing more do I remember of that journey which ended at El Ombú at
cock-crow, except that at one spot Santos fastened a thong round
my waist and bound me before and behind to the saddle to prevent my
falling from my horse every time I went to sleep.


III.

Remember, Señor, that I have spoken of things that passed when I
was small. The memories of that time are few and scattered, like
the fragments of tiles and bricks and rusty iron which one may find
half-buried among the weeds, where the house once stood. Fragments that
once formed part of the building. Certain events, some faces, and some
voices, I remember, but I cannot say the year. Nor can I say how many
years had gone by after Doña Mericie's death, and after my journey to
the monastery. Perhaps they were few, perhaps many. Invasions had come,
wars with a foreigner and with the savage, and Independence, and many
things had happened at a distance. He, Santos Ugarte, was older, I
know, greyer, when that great misfortune and calamity came to one whom
God had created so strong, so brave, so noble. And all on account of a
slave, a youth born at El Ombú, who had been preferred above the others
by his master. For, as it is said, we breed crows to pick our eyes out.
But I will say nothing against that poor youth, who was the cause of
the disaster, for it was not wholly his fault. Part of the fault was in
Santos--his indomitable temper and his violence. And perhaps, too, the
time was come when He who rules over all men had said, "You have raised
your voice and have ridden over others long enough. Look, Santos! I
shall set My foot upon you, and you shall be like a wild pumpkin at
the end of summer, when it is dryer and more brittle than an empty
egg-shell."

Remember that there were slaves in those days, also that there was a
law fixing every man's price, old or young, so that if any slave went,
money in hand, to his master and offered him the price of his liberty,
from that moment he became a free man. It mattered not that his master
wished not to sell him. So just was the law.

Of his slaves Santos was accustomed to say, "These are my children, and
serve because they love me, not because they are slaves; and if I were
to offer his freedom to any one among them, he would refuse to take
it." He saw their faces, not their hearts.

His favourite was Meliton, black but well favoured, and though but a
youth, he had authority over the others, and dressed well, and rode his
master's best horses, and had horses of his own. But it was never said
of him that he gained that eminence by means of flattery and a tongue
cunning to frame lies. On the contrary, he was loved by all, even by
those he was set above, because of his goodness of heart and a sweet
and gay disposition. He was one of those whose can do almost anything
better than others; whatever his master wanted done, whether it was
to ride a race, or break a horse, or throw a lasso, or make a bridle,
or whip, or surcingle, or play on a guitar, or sing, or dance, it was
Meliton, Meliton. There was no one like him.

Now this youth cherished a secret ambition in his heart, and saved, and
saved his money; and at length one day he came with a handful of silver
and gold to Santos, and said, "Master, here is the price of my freedom,
take it and count it, and see that it is right, and let me remain at
El Ombú to serve you henceforth without payment. But I shall no longer
be a slave."

Santos took the money into his hand, and spoke, "It was for this then
that you saved, even the money I gave you to spend and to run with,
and the money you made by selling the animals I gave you--you saved it
for this! Ingrate, with a heart blacker than your skin! Take back the
money, and go from my presence, and never cross my path again if you
wish for a long life." And with that he hurled the handful of silver
and gold into the young man's face with such force, that he was cut and
bruised with the coins and well nigh stunned. He went back staggering
to his horse, and mounting, rode away, sobbing like a child, the blood
running from his face.

He soon left this neighbourhood and went to live at Las Vivoras, on the
Vecino river, south of Dolores, and there made good use of his freedom,
buying fat animals for the market; and for a space of two years he
prospered, and every man, rich or poor, was his friend. Nevertheless he
was not happy, for his heart was loyal and he loved his old master, who
had been a father to him, and desired above all things to be forgiven.
And, at length, hoping that Santos had outlived his resentment and
would be pleased to see him again, he one day came to El Ombú and asked
to see the master.

The old man came out of the house and greeted him jovially. "Ha,
Meliton," he cried with a laugh, "you have returned in spite of my
warning. Come down from your horse and let me take your hand once more."

The other, glad to think he was forgiven, alighted, and advancing, put
out his hand. Santos took it in his, only to crush it with so powerful
a grip, that the young man cried out aloud, and blinded with tears of
pain, he did not see that his master had the big brass pistol in his
left hand, and did not know that his last moment had come. He fell with
a bullet in his heart.

Look, señor, where I am pointing, twenty yards or so from the edge of
the shadow of the ombú, do you see a dark green weed with a yellow
flower on a tall stem growing on the short, dry grass? It was just
there, on the very spot where the yellow flower is, that poor Meliton
fell, and was left lying, covered with blood, until noon the next
day. For no person dared take up the corpse until the Alcalde had been
informed of the matter and had come to inquire into it.

Santos had mounted his horse and gone away without a word, taking the
road to Buenos Ayres. He had done that for which he would have to pay
dearly; for a life is a life, whether the skin be black or white, and
no man can slay another deliberately, in cold blood, and escape the
penalty. The law is no respecter of persons, and when he, who commits
such a deed, is a man of substance, he must expect that Advocates and
Judges, with all those who take up his cause, will bleed him well
before they procure him a pardon.

Ugarte cared nothing for that, he had been as good as his word, and
the devil in his heart was satisfied. Only he would not wait at his
estancia to be taken, nor would he go and give himself up to the
authorities, who would then have to place him in confinement, and
it would be many months before his liberation. That would be like
suffocation to him; to such a man a prison is like a tomb. No, he would
go to Buenos Ayres and embark for Montevideo, and from that place he
would put the matter in motion, and wait there until it was all settled
and he was free to return to El Ombú.

Dead Meliton was taken away and buried in consecrated ground at
Chascomus. Rain fell, and washed away the red stains on the ground.
In the spring, the swallows returned and built their nests under the
eaves; but Ugarte came not back, nor did any certain tidings of him
reach us. It was said, I know not whether truly or not, that the
Advocate who defended him, and the Judge of First Instance, who had the
case before him, had quarreled about the division of the reward, and
both being rich, proud persons, they had allowed themselves to forget
the old man waiting there month after month for his pardon, which never
came to him.

Better for him if he never heard of the ruin which had fallen on
El Ombú during his long exile. There was no one in authority: the
slaves, left to themselves, went away, and there was no person to
restrain them. As for the cattle and horses, they were blown away like
thistle-down, and everyone was free to pasture his herds and flocks on
the land.

The house for a time was in charge of some person placed there by the
authorities, but little by little it was emptied of its contents; and
at last it was abandoned, and for a long time no one could be found to
live in it on account of the ghosts.


IV.

There was living at that time, a few leagues from El Ombú, one Valerio
de la Cueva, a poor man, whose all consisted of a small flock of three
or four hundred sheep and a few horses. He had been allowed to make a
small rancho, a mere hut, to shelter himself and his wife Donata and
their one child, a boy named Bruno; and to pay for the grass his few
sheep consumed he assisted in the work at the estancia house. This
poor man, hearing of El Ombú, where he could have house and ground for
nothing, offered himself as occupant, and in time came with wife and
child and his small flock, and all the furniture he possessed--a bed,
two or three chairs, a pot and kettle, and perhaps a few other things.
Such poverty El Ombú had not known, but all others had feared to
inhabit such a place on account of its evil name, so that it was left
for Valerio, who was a stranger in the district.

Tell me, señor, have you ever in your life met with a man, who was
perhaps poor, or even clothed in rags, and who yet when you had looked
at and conversed with him, has caused you to say: Here is one who is
like no other man in the world? Perhaps on rising and going out, on
some clear morning in summer, he looked at the sun when it rose, and
perceived an angel sitting in it, and as he gazed, something from that
being fell upon and passed into and remained with him. Such a man was
Valerio. I have known no other like him.

"Come, friend Nicandro," he would say, "let us sit down in the shade
and smoke our cigarettes, and talk of our animals. Here are no politics
under this old ombú, no ambitions and intrigues and animosities--no
bitterness except in these green leaves. They are our laurels--the
leaves of the ombú. Happy Nicandro, who never knew the life of cities!
I wish that I, too, had seen the light on these quiet plains, under a
thatched roof. Once I wore fine clothes and gold ornaments, and lived
in a great house where there were many servants to wait on me. But
happy I have never been. Every flower I plucked changed into a nettle
to sting my hand. Perhaps that maleficent one, who has pursued me all
my days, seeing me now so humbled and one with the poor, has left me
and gone away. Yes, I am poor, and this frayed garment that covers me
will I press to my lips because it does not shine with silk and gold
embroidery. And this poverty which I have found will I cherish, and
bequeath it as a precious thing to my child when I die. For with it is
peace."

The peace did not last long; for when misfortune has singled out a man
for its prey, it will follow him to the end, and he shall not escape
from it though he mount up to the clouds like the falcon, or thrust
himself deep down into the earth like the armadillo.

Valerio had been two years at El Ombú when there came an Indian
invasion on the southern frontier. There was no force to oppose it; the
two hundred men stationed at the Guardia del Azul had been besieged
by a part of the invaders in the fort, while the larger number of the
savages were sweeping away the cattle and horses from the country all
round. An urgent order came to the commander at Chascomus to send
a contingent of forty men from the department; and I, then a young
man of twenty, who had seen no service, was cited to appear at the
Commandancia, in readiness to march. There I found that Valerio had
also been cited, and from that moment we were together. Two days later
we were at the Azul, the Indians having retired with their booty; and
when all the contingents from the various departments had come in, the
commander, one Colonel Barboza, set out with about six hundred men in
pursuit.

It was known that in their retreat the Indians had broken up their
force into several parties, and that these had taken different
directions, and it was thought that these bodies would reunite after
a time, and that the larger number would return to their territory by
way of Trinqué Lauquén, about seventy-five leagues west of Azul. Our
Colonel's plan was to go quickly to this point and wait the arrival of
the Indians. It was impossible that they, burdened with the thousands
of cattle they had collected, could move fast, while we were burdened
with nothing, the only animals we drove before us being our horses.
These numbered about five thousand, but many were unbroken mares, to
be used as food. Nothing but mare's flesh did we have to eat.

It was the depth of winter, and worse weather I have never known. In
this desert I first beheld that whiteness called snow, when the rain
flies like cotton-down before the wind, filling the air and whitening
the whole earth. All day and every day our clothes were wet, and there
was no shelter from the wind and rain at night, nor could we make fires
with the soaked grass and reeds, and wood there was none, so that we
were compelled to eat our mare's flesh uncooked.

Three weeks were passed in this misery, waiting for the Indians and
seeking for them, with the hills of Gaumini now before us in the south,
and now on our left hand; and still no sight and no sign of the enemy.
It seemed as if the earth had opened and swallowed him up. Our Colonel
was in despair, and we now began to hope that he would lead us back to
the Azul.

In these circumstances one of the men, who was thinly clad and had been
suffering from a cough, dropped from his horse, and it was then seen
that he was likely to die, and that in any case he would have to be
left behind. Finding that there was no hope for him, he begged that
those who were with him would remember, when they were at home again,
that he had perished in the desert and that his soul was suffering in
purgatory, and that they would give something to the priests to procure
him ease. When asked by his officer to say who his relations were and
where they lived, he replied that he had no one belonging to him. He
said that he had spent many years in captivity among the Indians at
the Salinas Grandes, and that on his return he had failed to find any
one of his relations living in the district where he had been born.
In answer to further questions, he said that he had been carried away
when a small boy, that the Indians on that occasion had invaded the
Christian country in the depth of winter, and on their retreat, instead
of returning to their own homes, they had gone east, towards the sea
coast, and had encamped on a plain by a small stream called Curumamuel,
at Los Tres Arroyos, where there was firewood and sweet water, and good
grass for the cattle, and where they found many Indians, mostly women
and children, who had gone thither to await their coming; and at that
spot they had remained until the spring.

The poor man died that night, and we gathered stones and piled them on
his body so that the foxes and caranchos should not devour him.

At break of day next morning we were on horseback marching at a gallop
toward sunrise, for our Colonel had determined to look for the Indians
at that distant spot near the sea where they had hidden themselves from
their pursuers so many years before. The distance was about seventy
leagues, and the journey took us about nine days. And at last, in a
deep valley near the sea, the enemy was discovered by our scouts, and
we marched by night until we were within less than a league of their
encampment, and could see their fires. We rested there for four hours,
eating raw flesh and sleeping. Then every man was ordered to mount
his best horse, and we were disposed in a half-moon, so that the free
horses could easily be driven before us. The Colonel, sitting on his
horse, addressed us, "Boys," he said, "you have suffered much, but now
the victory is in our hands, and you shall not lose the reward. All
the captives you take, and all the thousands of horses and cattle we
succeed in recovering, shall be sold by public auction on our return,
and the proceeds divided among you."

He then gave the order, and we moved quietly on for a space of half
a league, and coming to the edge of the valley saw it all black with
cattle before us, and the Indians sleeping in their camp; and just when
the sun rose from the sea and God's light came over the earth, with a
great shout we charged upon them. In a moment the multitude of cattle,
struck with panic, began rushing away, bellowing in all directions,
shaking the earth beneath their hoofs. Our troop of horses, urged on
by our yells, were soon in the encampment, and the savages, rushing
hither and thither, trying to save themselves, were shot and speared
and cut down by swords. One desire was in all our hearts, one cry on
all lips--kill! kill! kill! Such a slaughter had not been known for a
long time, and birds and foxes and armadillos must have grown fat on
the flesh of the heathen we left for them. But we killed only the men,
and few escaped; the women and children we made captive.

Two days we spent in collecting the scattered cattle and horses,
numbering about ten thousand; then with our spoil we set out on our
return and arrived at the Azul at the end of August. On the following
day the force was broken up into the separate contingents of which it
was composed, and each in its turn was sent to the Colonel's house
to be paid. The Chascomus contingent was the last to go up, and on
presenting ourselves, each man received two months' soldiers' pay,
after which Colonel Barboza came out and thanked us for our services,
and ordered us to give up our arms at the fort and go back to our
district, every man to his own house.

"We have spent some cold nights in the desert together, neighbour
Nicandro," said Valerio, laughing, "but we have fared well--on raw
horse flesh; and now to make it better we have received money. Why,
look, with all this money I shall be able to buy a pair of new shoes
for Bruno. Brave little man! I can see him toddling about among the
cardoon thistles, searching for hens' eggs for his mother, and getting
his poor little feet full of thorns. If there should be any change left
he shall certainly have some sugar-plums."

But the others on coming to the fort began to complain loudly of the
treatment they had received, when Valerio, rebuking them, told them to
act like men and tell the Colonel that they were not satisfied, or else
hold their peace.

"Will you, Valerio, be our spokesman?" they cried, and he, consenting,
they all took up their arms again and followed him back to the
Colonel's house.

Barboza listened attentively to what was said and replied that our
demands were just. The captives and cattle, he said, had been placed
in charge of an officer appointed by the authorities and would be sold
publicly in a few days. Let them now return to the fort and give up
their arms, and leave Valerio with him to assist in drawing up a formal
demand for their share of the spoil.

We then retired once more, giving _vivas_ to our Colonel. But no sooner
had we given up our arms at the fort than we were sharply ordered to
saddle our horses and take our departure. I rode out with the others,
but seeing that Valerio did not overtake us I went back to look for him.

This was what had happened. Left alone in his enemy's hands, Barboza
had his arms taken from him, then ordered his men to carry him out
to the patio and flay him alive. The men hesitated to obey so cruel a
command, and this gave Valerio time to speak; "My Colonel," he said,
"you put a hard task on these poor men, and my hide when taken will be
of no value to you or to them. Bid them lance me or draw a knife across
my throat, and I will laud your clemency."

"You shall not lose your hide nor die," returned the Colonel, "for I
admire your courage. Take him, boys, and stake him out, and give him
two hundred lashes; then throw him into the road so that it may be
known that his rebellious conduct has been punished."

This order was obeyed, and out upon the road he was thrown. A
compassionate storekeeper belonging to the place saw him lying there
insensible, the carrion-hawks attracted by his naked bleeding body
hovering about him; and this good man took him and was ministering
to him when I found him. He was lying, face down, on a pile of rugs,
racked with pains, and all night long his sufferings were terrible;
nevertheless, when morning came, he insisted on setting out at once on
our journey to Chascomus. When his pain was greatest and caused him
to cry out, the cry, when he saw my face, would turn to a laugh. "You
are too tender hearted for this world we live in," he would say. "Think
nothing of this, Nicandro. I have tasted man's justice and mercy before
now. Let us talk of pleasanter things. Do you know that it is the first
of September to-day? Spring has come back, though we hardly notice it
yet in this cold southern country. It has been winter, winter with
us, and no warmth of sun or fire, and no flowers and no birds' song.
But our faces are towards the north now; in a few days we shall sit
again in the shade of the old ombú, all our toil and suffering over,
to listen to the mangangá humming among the leaves and to the call of
the yellow ventevéo. And better than all, little Bruno will come to us
with his hands full of scarlet verbenas. Perhaps in a few years' time
you, too, will be a father, Nicandro, and will know what it is to hear
a child's prattle. Come, we have rested long enough, and have many
leagues to ride!"

The leagues were sixty by the road, but something was gained by leaving
it, and it was easier for Valerio when the horses trod on the turf.
To gallop or to trot was impossible, and even walking I had to keep
at his side to support him with my arm; for his back was all one
ever-bleeding wound, and his hands were powerless, and all his joints
swollen and inflamed as a result of his having been stretched out on
the stakes. Five days we travelled, and day by day and night by night
he grew feebler, but he would not rest; so long as the light lasted he
would be on the road; and as we slowly pressed on, I supporting him, he
would groan with pain and then laugh and begin to talk of the journey's
end and of the joy of seeing wife and child again.

It was afternoon on the fifth day when we arrived. The sight of the
ombú which we had had for hours before us, strongly excited him; he
begged me, almost with tears, to urge the horses to a gallop, but it
would have killed him, and I would not do it.

No person saw our approach, but the door stood open, and when we had
walked our horses to within about twenty yards we heard Bruno's voice
prattling to his mother. Then suddenly Valerio slipped from the saddle
before I could jump down to assist him, and staggered on for a few
paces towards the door. Running to his side I heard his cry--"Donata!
Bruno! let my eyes see you! one kiss!" Only then his wife heard, and
running out to us, saw him sink, and with one last gasp expire in my
arms.

Strange and terrible scenes have I witnessed, but never a sadder one
than this! Tell me, señor, are these things told in books,--does the
world know them?

Valerio was dead. He who was so brave, so generous even in his poverty,
of so noble a spirit, yet so gentle; whose words were sweeter than
honey to me! Of what his loss was to others--to that poor woman who was
the mother of his one child, his little Bruno--I speak not. There are
things about which we must be silent, or say only, turning our eyes up,
Has He forgotten us! Does He know? But to me the loss was greater than
all losses: for he was my friend, the man I loved above all men, who
was more to me than any other, even than Santos Ugarte, whose face I
should see no more.

For he, too, was dead.

And now I have once more mentioned the name of that man, who was once
so great in this district, let me, before proceeding with the history
of El Ombú, tell you his end. I heard of it by chance long after he
had been placed under the ground.

It was the old man's custom in that house, on the other side of the
Rio de la Plata where he was obliged to live, to go down every day to
the waterside. Long hours would he spend there, sitting on the rocks,
always with his face towards Buenos Ayres. He was waiting, waiting for
the pardon which would, perhaps, in God's good time, come to him from
that forgetful place. He was thinking of El Ombú; for what was life to
him away from it, in that strange country? And that unsatisfied desire,
and perhaps remorse, had, they say, made his face terrible to look at,
for it was like the face of a dead man who had died with wide-open eyes.

One day some boatmen on the beach noticed that he was seated on the
rocks far out and that when the tide rose he made no movement to escape
from the water. They saw him sitting waist-deep in the sea, and when
they rescued him from his perilous position and brought him to the
shore, he stared at them like a great white owl and talked in a strange
way.

"It is very cold and very dark," he said, "and I cannot see your faces,
but perhaps you know me. I am Santos Ugarte, of El Ombú. I have had
a great misfortune, friends. To-day in my anger I killed a poor youth
whom I loved like a son--my poor boy Meliton! Why did he despise my
warning and put himself in my way! But I will say no more about that.
After killing him I rode away with the intention of going to Buenos
Ayres, but on the road I repented of my deed and turned back. I said
that with my own hands I would take him up and carry him in, and call
my neighbours together to watch with me by his poor body. But, Sirs,
the night overtook me and the Sanborombón is swollen with rains, as you
no doubt know, and in swimming it I lost my horse. I do not know if he
was drowned. Let me have a fresh horse, friends, and show me the way to
El Ombú, and God will reward you."

In that delusion he remained till the end, a few days later, when he
died. May his soul rest in peace!


VI.

Señor, when I am here and remember these things, I sometimes say to
myself: Why, old man, do you come to this tree to sit for an hour in
the shade, since there is not on all these plains a sadder or more
bitter place? My answer is, To one who has lived long, there is no
house and no spot of ground, overgrown with grass and weeds, where a
house once stood and where men have lived, that is not equally sad. For
this sadness is in us, in a memory of other days which follows us into
all places. But for the child there is no past: he is born into the
world light hearted like a bird; for him gladness is everywhere.

That is how it was with little Bruno, too young to feel the loss of a
father or to remember him long. It was her great love of this child
which enabled Donata to live through so terrible a calamity. She never
quitted El Ombú. An embargo had been placed on the estancia so that it
could not be sold, and she was not disturbed in her possession of the
house. She now shared it with an old married couple, who, being poor
and having a few animals, were glad of a place to live in rent free.
The man, whose name was Pascual, took care of Donata's flock and the
few cows and horses she owned along with his own. He was a simple,
good-tempered old man, whose only fault was indolence, and a love of
the bottle, and of play. But that mattered little, for when he gambled
he invariably lost, through not being sober, so that when he had any
money it was quickly gone.

Old Pascual first put Bruno on a horse and taught him to ride after the
flock, and to do a hundred things. The boy was like his father, of a
beautiful countenance, with black curling hair, and eyes as lively as
a bird's. It was not strange that Donata loved him as no mother ever
loved a son, but as he grew up a perpetual anxiety was in her heart
lest he should hear the story of his father's death and the cause of
it. For she was wise in this; she knew that the most dangerous of all
passions is that of revenge, since when it enters into the heart all
others, good or bad, are driven out, and all ties and interests and all
the words that can be uttered are powerless to restrain a man; and the
end is ruin. Many times she spoke of this to me, begging me with tears
never to speak of my dead friend to Bruno, lest he should discover the
truth, and that fatal rage should enter into his heart.

It had been Donata's custom, every day since Valerio's death, to take
a pitcher of water, fresh from the well, and pour it out on the ground,
on the spot where he had sunk down and expired, without that sight of
wife and child, that one kiss, for which he had cried. Who can say what
caused her to do such a thing? A great grief is like a delirium, and
sometimes gives us strange thoughts, and makes us act like demented
persons. It may have been because of the appearance of the dead face
as she first saw it, dry and white as ashes, the baked black lips, the
look of thirst that would give everything for a drink of cold water;
and that which she had done in the days of anguish, of delirium, she
had continued to do.

The spot where the water was poured each day being but a few yards
from the door of the house was of a dryness and hardness of fire-baked
bricks, trodden hard by the feet of I know not how many generations of
men, and by hoofs of horses ridden every day to the door. But after a
long time of watering a little green began to appear in the one spot;
and the green was of a creeping plant with small round malva-like
leaves, and little white flowers like porcelain shirt buttons. It
spread and thickened, and was like a soft green carpet about two yards
long placed on that dry ground, and it was of an emerald greenness all
the year round, even in the hot weather when the grass was dead and dry
and the plains were in colour like a faded yellow rag.

When Bruno was a boy of fourteen I went one day to help him in making
a sheepfold, and when our work was finished in the afternoon we went
to the house to sip maté. Before going in, on coming to that green
patch, Bruno cried out, "Have you ever seen so verdant a spot as this,
Nicandro, so soft and cool a spot to lie down on when one is hot and
tired?" He then threw himself down full length upon it, and, lying
at ease on his back, he looked up at Donata, who come out to us, and
spoke laughingly, "Ah, little mother of my soul! A thousand times have
I asked you why you poured water every day on this spot and you would
not tell me. Now I have found out. It was all to make me a soft cool
spot to lie on when I come back tired and hot from work. Look! is it
not like a soft bed with a green and white velvet coverlid; bring water
now, mother mine, and pour it on my hot, dusty face."

She laughed, too, poor woman, but I could see the tears in her
eyes--the tears which she was always so careful to hide from him.

All this I remember as if it had happened yesterday; I can see and
hear it all--Donata's laugh and the tears in her eyes which Bruno
could not see. I remember it so well because this was almost the last
time I saw her before I was compelled to go away, for my absence was
long. But before I speak of that change let me tell you of something
that happened about two years before at El Ombú, which brought a new
happiness into that poor widow's life.

It happened that among those that had no right to be on the land, but
came and settled there because there was no one to forbid them, there
was a man named Sanchez, who had built himself a small rancho about
half a league from the old house, and kept a flock of sheep. He was
a widower with one child, a little girl named Monica. This Sanchez,
although poor, was not a good man, and had no tenderness in his heart.
He was a gambler, always away from his rancho, leaving the flock to be
taken care of by poor little Monica. In winter it was cruel, for then
the sheep travel most, and most of all on cold, rough days; and she
without a dog to help her, barefooted on the thistle-grown land, often
in terror at the sight of cattle, would be compelled to spend the whole
day out of doors. More than once on a winter evening in bad weather I
have found her trying to drive the sheep home in the face of the rain,
crying with misery. It hurt me all the more because she had a pretty
face: no person could fail to see its beauty, though she was in rags
and her black hair in a tangle, like the mane of a horse that has been
feeding among the burrs. At such times I have taken her up on my saddle
and driven her flock home for her, and have said to myself: "Poor lamb
without a mother, if you were mine I would seat you on the horns of the
moon; but, unhappy one! he whom you call father is without compassion."

At length, Sanchez, finding himself without money, just when strangers
from all places were coming to Chascomus to witness a great race and
anxious not to lose this chance of large winnings, sold his sheep,
having nothing of more value to dispose of. But instead of winning he
lost, and then leaving Monica in a neighbour's house he went away,
promising to return for her in a few days. But he did not return, and
it was believed by everybody that he had abandoned the child.

It was then that Donata offered to take her and be a mother to the
orphan, and I can say, señor, that the poor child's own mother, who
was dead, could not have treated her more tenderly or loved her more.
And the pretty one had now been Donata's little daughter and Bruno's
playmate two years when I was called away, and I saw them not again and
heard no tidings of them for a space of five years--the five longest
years of my life.


VII.

I went away because men were wanted for the army, and I was taken.
I was away, I have said, five years, and the five would have been
ten, and the ten twenty, supposing that life had lasted, but for a
lance wound in my thigh, which made me a lame man for the rest of my
life. That was the reason of my discharge and happy escape from that
purgatory. Once back in these plains where I first saw heaven's light,
I said in my heart: I can no longer spring light as a bird on to the
back of an unbroken animal and laugh at his efforts to shake me off;
nor can I throw a lasso on a running horse or bull and digging my heel
in the ground, pit my strength against his; nor can I ever be what I
have been in any work or game on horseback or on foot; nevertheless,
this lameness, and all I have lost through it, is a small price to pay
for my deliverance.

But this is not the history of my life; let me remember that I speak
only of those who have lived at El Ombú in my time, in the old house
which no longer exists.

There had been no changes when I returned, except that those five
years had made Bruno almost a man, and more than ever like his father,
except that he never had that I-know-not-what something to love in the
eyes which made Valerio different from all men. Donata was the same,
but older. Grey hair had come to her in her affliction; now her hair
which should have been black was all white--but she was more at peace,
for Bruno was good to her, and as a widow's only son, was exempt from
military service. There was something else to make her happy. Those
two, who were everything to her, could not grow up under one roof and
not love; now she could look with confidence to a union between them,
and there would be no separation. But even so, that old fear she had so
often spoken of to me in former days was never absent from her heart.

Bruno was now away most of the time, working as a cattle drover,
his ambition being, Donata informed me, to make money so as to buy
everything needed for the house.

I had been back, living in that poor rancho, half a league from El
Ombú, where I first saw the light, for the best part of a year, when
Bruno, who had been away with his employer buying cattle in the south,
one day appeared at my place. He had not been to El Ombú, and was
silent and strange in his manner, and when we were alone together I
said to him: "What has happened to you, Bruno, that you have the face
of a stranger and speak in an unaccustomed tone to your friend?"

He answered: "Because you, Nicandro, have treated me like a child,
concealing from me that which you ought to have told me long ago,
instead of leaving me to learn it by accident from a stranger."

"It has come," I said to myself, for I knew what he meant: then I spoke
of his mother.

"Ah, yes," he said with bitterness, "I know now why she pours water
fresh from the well every day on that spot of ground near the door. Do
you, Nicandro, think that water will ever wash away that old stain and
memory? A man who is a man, must in such a thing obey, not a mother's
wish, nor any woman, but that something which speaks in his heart."

"Let no such thought dwell in you to make you mad," I replied. "Look,
Bruno, my friend's son and my friend, leave it to God who is above us,
and who considers and remembers all evil deeds that men do, and desires
not that anyone should take the sword out of his hand."

"Who is he--this God you talk of?" he answered. "Have you seen or
spoken with him that you tell me what his mind is in this matter? I
have only this voice to tell me how a man should act in such a case,"
and he smote his breast; then overcome with a passion of grief he
covered his face with his hands and wept.

Vainly I begged him not to lose himself, telling him what the effect of
his attempt, whether he succeeded or failed, would be on Donata and
on Monica--it would break those poor women's hearts. I spoke, too, of
things I had witnessed in my five years' service; the cruel sentences
from which there was no appeal, the torments, the horrible deaths so
often inflicted. For these evils there was no remedy on earth: and
he, a poor, ignorant boy, what would he do but dash himself to pieces
against that tower of brass!

He replied that within that brazen tower there was a heart full of
blood; and with that he went away, only asking me as a favour not to
tell his mother of this visit to me.

Some ten days later she had a message from him, brought from the
capitol by a traveller going to the south. Bruno sent word that he was
going to Las Mulitas, a place fifty leagues west of Buenos Ayres, to
work on an estancia there, and would be absent some months.

Why had he gone thither? Because he had heard that General Barboza--for
that man was now a General--owned a tract of land at that place, which
the Government had given him as a reward for his services on the
southern frontier; and that he had recently returned from the northern
provinces to Buenos Ayres and was now staying at this estancia at Las
Mulitas.

Donata knew nothing of his secret motives, but his absence filled her
with anxiety; and when at length she fell ill I resolved to go in
search of the poor youth and try to persuade him to return to El Ombú.
But at Las Mulitas I heard that he was no longer there. All strangers
had been taken for the army in the frontier department, and Bruno, in
spite of his passport, had been forced to go.

When I returned to El Ombú with this sad news Donata resolved at once
to go to the capitol and try to obtain his release. She was ill, and it
was a long journey for her to perform on horseback, but she had friends
to go with and take care of her. In the end she succeeded in seeing the
President, and throwing herself on her knees before him, and with tears
in her eyes, implored him to let her have her son back.

He listened to her, and gave her a paper to take to the War Office.
There it was found that Bruno had been sent to El Rosario, and an order
was despatched for his immediate release. But when the order reached
its destination the unhappy boy had deserted.

That was the last that Donata ever heard of her son. She guessed why he
had gone, and knew as well as if I had told her that he had found out
the secret so long hidden from him. Still, being his mother, she would
not abandon hope; she struggled to live. Never did I come into her
presence but I saw in her face a question which she dared not put in
words. If, it said, you have heard, if you know, when and how his life
ended, tell me now before I go. But it also said, If you know, do not
tell me so that I and Monica may go on hoping together to the end.

"I know, Nicandro," she would say. "That if Bruno returns he will not
be the same--the son I have lost. For in that one thing he is not
like his father. Could another be like Valerio? No misfortune and no
injustice could change that heart, or turn his sweetness sour. In
that freshness and gaiety of temper he was like a child, and Bruno as
a child was like him. My son! my son! where are you? God of my soul,
grant that he may yet come to me, though his life be now darkened with
some terrible passion--though his poor hands be stained with blood, so
that my eyes may see him again before I go!"

But he came not, and she died without seeing him.


VIII.

If Monica, left alone in the house with old Pascual and his wife, had
been disposed to listen to those who were attracted by her face she
might have found a protector worthy of her. There were men of substance
among those who came for her. But it mattered nothing to her whether
they had land and cattle or not, or what their appearance was, and
how they were dressed. Her's was a faithful heart. And she looked for
Bruno's return, not with that poor half-despairing hope which had
been Donata's, and had failed to keep her alive, but with a hope that
sustained and made her able to support the months and years of waiting.
She looked for his coming as the night-watcher for the dawn. On summer
afternoons, when the heat of the day was over, she would take her
sewing outside the gate and sit there by the hour, where her sight
commanded the road to the north. From that side he would certainly
come. On dark, rainy nights a lantern would be hung on the wall lest
he, coming at a late hour, should miss the house in the dark. Glad,
she was not, nor lively; she was pale and thin, and those dark eyes
that looked too large because of her thinness were the eyes of one who
had beheld grief. But with it all, there was a serenity, an air of one
whose tears, held back, would all be shed at the proper time, when he
returned. And he would, perhaps, come to-day, or, if not to-day, then
to-morrow, or perhaps the day after, as God willed.

Nearly three years had passed by since Donata's death when, one
afternoon, I rode to El Ombú, and on approaching the house spied
a saddled horse, which had got loose going away at a trot. I went
after, and caught, and led it back, and then saw that its owner was a
traveller, an old soldier, who with or without the permission of the
people of the house, was lying down and asleep in the shade of the ombú.

There had lately been a battle in the northern part of the province,
and the defeated force had broken up, and the men carrying their arms
had scattered themselves all over the country. This veteran was one of
them.

He did not wake when I led the horse up and shouted to him. He was
a man about fifty to sixty years old, grey-haired, with many scars
of sword and lance wounds on his sun-blackened face and hands. His
carbine was leaning against the tree a yard or two away, but he had not
unbuckled his sword, and what now attracted my attention as I sat on
my horse regarding him, was the way in which he clutched the hilt and
shook the weapon until it rattled in its scabbard. His was an agitated
sleep; the sweat stood in big drops on his face, he ground his teeth
and moaned, and muttered words which I could not catch.

At length, dismounting, I called to him again, then shouted in his ear,
and finally shook him by the shoulder. Then he woke with a start, and
struggling up to a sitting position, and staring at me one like one
demented, he exclaimed, "What has happened?"

When I told him about his horse he was silent, and sitting there with
eyes cast down, passed his hand repeatedly across his forehead. Never
in any man's face had I seen misery compared to his. "Pardon me,
friend," he spoke at last. "My ears were so full of sounds you do not
hear that I paid little attention to what you were saying."

"Perhaps the great heat of the day has overcome you," I said; "Or maybe
you are suffering from some malady caused by an old wound received in
fight."

"Yes, an incurable malady," he returned, gloomily. "Have you, friend,
been in the army?"

"Five years had I served when a wound which made me lame for life
delivered me from that hell."

"I have served thirty," he returned, "Perhaps more. I know that I was
very young when I was taken, and I remember that a woman I called
mother wept to see me go. That any eyes should have shed tears for me!
Shall I now in that place in the South where I was born find one who
remembers my name? I look not for it! I have no one but this"--and here
he touched his sword.

After an interval, he continued, "We say, friend, that in the army
we can do no wrong, since all responsibility rests with those who
are over us; that our most cruel and sanguinary deeds are no more
a sin or crime than is the shedding of the blood of cattle, or of
Indians who are not Christians, and are therefore of no more account
than cattle in God's sight. We say, too, that once we have become
accustomed to kill, not men only, but even those who are powerless to
defend themselves--the weak and the innocent--we think nothing of it,
and have no compunction nor remorse. If this be so, why does He, the
One who is above, torment me before my time? Is it just? Listen: no
sooner do I close my eyes than sleep brings to me that most terrible
experience a man can have--to be in the midst of a conflict and
powerless. The bugles call: there is a movement everywhere of masses
of men, foot and horse, and every face has on it the look of one who
is doomed. There is a murmur of talking all round me, the officers are
shouting and waving their swords; I strive in vain to catch the word
of command; I do not know what is happening; it is all confusion, a
gloom of smoke and dust, a roar of guns, a great noise and shouting of
the enemy charging through us. And I am helpless. I wake, and slowly
the noise and terrible scene fade from my mind, only to return when
sleep again overcomes me. What repose, what refreshment can I know!
Sleep, they say, is a friend to everyone, and makes all equal, the rich
and the poor, the guilty and the innocent; they say, too, that this
forgetfulness is like a draught of cold water to the thirsty man. But
what shall I say of sleep? Often with this blade would I have delivered
myself from its torture but for the fear that there may be after death
something even worse than this dream."

After an interval of silence, seeing that he had recovered from his
agitation, I invited him to go with me to the house. "I see smoke
issuing from the kitchen," I said, "let us go in so that you may
refresh yourself with maté before resuming your journey."

We went in and found the old people boiling the kettle; and in a little
while Monica came in and sat with us. Never did she greet one without
that light which was like sunshine in her dark eyes; words were not
needed to tell me of the gratitude and friendliness she felt toward me,
for she was not one to forget the past. I remember that she looked well
that day in her white dress with a red flower. Had not Bruno said that
he liked to see her in white, and that a flower on her bosom or in her
hair was an ornament that gave her most grace? And Bruno might arrive
at any moment. But the sight of that grey-haired veteran in his soiled
and frayed uniform, and with his clanking sword and his dark scarred
face, greatly disturbed her. I noticed that she grew paler and could
scarcely keep her eyes off his face while he talked.

While sipping his maté he told us of fights he had been in, of long
marches and sufferings in desert places, and of some of the former men
he had served under. Among them he, by chance, named General Barboza.

Monica, I knew, had never heard of that man, and on this account I
feared not to speak of him. It had, I said, been reported, I knew not
whether truthfully or not, that Barboza was dead.

"On that point I can satisfy you," he returned, "since I was serving
with him, when his life came to an end in the province of San Luis
about two years ago. He was at the head of nineteen hundred men when it
happened, and the whole force was filled with amazement at the event.
Not that they regretted his loss; on the contrary, his own followers
feared, and were glad to be delivered from him. He exceeded most
commanders in ferocity, and was accustomed to say scoffingly to his
prisoners that he would not have gunpowder wasted on them. That was
not a thing to complain of, but he was capable of treating his own
men as he treated a spy or a prisoner of war. Many a one have I seen
put to death with a blunted knife, he, Barboza, looking on, smoking a
cigarette. It was the manner of his death that startled us for never
had man been seen to perish in such a way.

"It happened on this march, about a month before the end, that a
soldier named Bracamonte went one day at noon to deliver a letter from
his captain to the General. Barboza was sitting in his shirt sleeves in
his tent when the letter was handed to him, but just when he put out
his hand to take it the man made an attempt to stab him. The General
throwing himself back escaped the blow, then instantly sprang like a
tiger upon his assailant, and seizing him by the wrist, wrenched the
weapon out of his hand only to strike it quick as lightening into the
poor fool's throat. No sooner was he down than the General bending
over him, before drawing out the weapon, called to those who had run
to his assistance to get him a tumbler. When, tumbler in hand, he
lifted himself up and looked upon them, they say that his face was of
the whiteness of iron made white in the furnace, and that his eyes were
like two flames. He was mad with rage, and cried out with a loud voice,
"Thus, in the presence of the army do I serve the wretch who thought to
shed my blood!" Then with a furious gesture he threw down and shattered
the reddened glass, and bade them take the dead man outside the camp
and leave him stripped to the vultures.

"This ended the episode, but from that day it was noticed by those
about him that a change had come over the General. If, friend you have
served with, or have even seen him, you know the man he was--tall and
well-formed, blue eyed and fair, like an Englishman, endowed with a
strength, endurance and resolution that was a wonder to every one: he
was like an eagle among birds,--that great bird that has no weakness
and no mercy, whose cry fills all creatures with dismay, whose pleasure
it is to tear his victim's flesh with his crooked talons. But now
some secret malady had fallen on him which took away all his mighty
strength; the colour of his face changed to sickly paleness, and he
bent forward and swayed this way and that in the saddle as he rode like
a drunken man, and this strange weakness increased day by day. It was
said in the army that the blood of the man he had killed had poisoned
him. The doctors who accompanied us in this march could not cure him,
and their failure so angered him against them that they began to fear
for their own safety. They now said that he could not be properly
treated in camp, but must withdraw to some town where a different
system could be followed; but this he refused to do.

"Now it happened that we had an old soldier with us who was a
curandero. He was a native of Santa Fé, and was famed for his cures in
his own department; but having had the misfortune to kill a man, he
was arrested and condemned to serve ten years in the army. This person
now informed some of the officers that he would undertake to cure the
General, and Barboza, hearing of it, sent for and questioned him. The
curandero informed him that his malady was one which the doctors could
not cure. It was a failure of a natural heat of the blood, and only by
means of animal heat, not by drugs, could health be recovered. In such
a grave case the usual remedy of putting the feet and legs in the body
of some living animal opened for the purpose would not be sufficient.
Some very large beast should be procured and the patient placed bodily
in it.

"The General agreed to submit himself to this treatment; the doctors
dared not interfere, and men were sent out in quest of a large animal.
We were then encamped on a wide sandy plain in San Luis, and as we
were without tents we were suffering much from the great heat and the
dust-laden winds. But at this spot the General had grown worse, so that
he could no longer sit on his horse, and here we had to wait for his
improvement.

"In due time a very big bull was brought in and fastened to a stake in
the middle of the camp. A space, fifty or sixty yards round, was marked
out and roped round, and ponchos hung on the rope to form a curtain so
that what was being done should not be witnessed by the army. But a
great curiosity and anxiety took possession of the entire force, and
when the bull was thrown down and his agonizing bellowings were heard,
from all sides officers and men began to move toward that fatal spot.
It had been noised about that the cure would be almost instantaneous,
and many were prepared to greet the reappearance of the General with a
loud cheer.

"Then very suddenly, almost before the bellowings had ceased, shrieks
were heard from the enclosure, and in a moment, while we all stood
staring and wondering, out rushed the General, stark naked, reddened
with that bath of warm blood he had been in, a sword which he had
hastily snatched up in his hand. Leaping over the barrier, he stood
still for an instant, then catching sight of the great mass of men
before him he flew at them, yelling and whirling his sword round so
that it looked like a shining wheel in the sun. The men seeing that he
was raving mad fled before him, and for a space of a hundred yards or
more he pursued them; then that superhuman energy was ended; the sword
flew from his hand, he staggered, and fell prostrate on the earth. For
some minutes no one ventured to approach him, but he never stirred, and
at length, when examined, was found to be dead."

The soldier had finished his story, and though I had many questions to
ask I asked none, for I saw Monica's distress, and that she had gone
white even to the lips at the terrible things the man had related. But
now he had ended, and would soon depart, for the sun was getting low.

He rolled up and lighted a cigarette, and was about to rise from the
bench, when he said, "One thing I forgot to mention about the soldier
Bracamonte, who attempted to assassinate the General. After he had been
carried out and stripped for the vultures, a paper was found sewn up
in the lining of his tunic, which proved to be his passport, for it
contained his right description. It said that he was a native of this
department of Chascomus, so that you may have heard of him. His name
was Bruno de la Cueva."

Would that he had not spoken those last words! Never, though I live
to be a hundred, shall I forget that terrible scream that came from
Monica's lips before she fell senseless to the floor!

As I raised her in my arms, the soldier turned and said, "She is
subject to fits?"

"No," I replied, "that Bruno, of whose death we have now heard for the
first time, was of this house."

"It was destiny that led me to this place," he said, "or perhaps that
God who is ever against me; but you, friend, are my witness that I
crossed not this threshold with a drawn weapon in my hand." And with
these words he took his departure, and from that day to this I have
never again beheld his face.

She opened her eyes at last, but the wings of my heart drooped when I
saw them, since it was easy to see that she had lost her reason; but
whether that calamity or the grief she would have known is greatest who
can say? Some have died of pure grief--did it not kill Donata in the
end?--but the crazed may live many years. We sometimes think it would
be better if they were dead; but not in all cases--not, señor, in this.

She lived on here with the old people, for from the first she was quiet
and docile as a child. Finally an order came from a person in authority
at Chascomus for those who were in the house to quit it. It was going
to be pulled down for the sake of the material which was required for a
building in the village. Pascual died about that time, and the widow,
now old and infirm, went to live with some poor relations at Chascomus
and took Monica with her. When the old woman died Monica remained with
these people: she lives with them to this day. But she is free to come
and go at will, and is known to all in the village as _la loca del
Ombú_. They are kind to her, for her story is known to them, and God
has put compassion in their hearts.

To see her you would hardly believe that she is the Monica I have told
you of, whom I knew as a little one, running bare-footed after her
father's flock. For she has grey hairs and wrinkles now. As you ride
to Chascomus from this point you will see, on approaching the lake,
a very high bank on your left hand, covered with a growth of tall
fennel, hoarhound, and cardoon thistle. There on most days you will
find her, sitting on the bank in the shade of the tall fennel bushes,
looking across the water. She watches for the flamingoes. There are
many of those great birds on the lake, and they go in flocks, and when
they rise and travel across the water, flying low, their scarlet wings
may be seen at a great distance. And every time she catches sight of
a flock moving like a red line across the lake she cries out with
delight. That is her one happiness--her life. And she is the last of
all those who have lived in my time at El Ombú.




STORY OF A PIEBALD HORSE.


This is all about a piebald. People there are like birds that come down
in flocks, hop about chattering, gobble up their seed, then fly away,
forgetting what they have swallowed. I love not to scatter grain for
such as these. With you, friend, it is different. Others may laugh if
they like at the old man of many stories, who puts all things into his
copper memory. I can laugh, too, knowing that all things are ordered by
destiny; otherwise I might sit down and cry.

The things I have seen! There was the piebald that died long ago; I
could take you to the very spot where his bones used to lie bleaching
in the sun. There is a nettle growing on the spot. I saw it yesterday.
What important things are these to remember and talk about! Bones of a
dead horse and a nettle; a young bird that falls from its nest in the
night and is found dead in the morning: puffballs blown about by the
wind: a little lamb left behind by the flock bleating at night amongst
the thorns and thistles, where only the fox or wild dog can hear it!
Small matters are these, and our lives, what are they? And the people
we have known, the men and women who have spoken to us and touched us
with warm hands--the bright eyes and red lips! Can we cast these things
like dead leaves on the fire? Can we lie down full of heaviness because
of them, and sleep and rise in the morning without them? Ah, friend!

Let us to the story of the piebald. There was a cattle-marking at
neighbour Sotelo's estancia, and out of a herd of three thousand head
we had to part all the yearlings to be branded. After that, dinner
and a dance. At sunrise we gathered, about thirty of us; all friends
and neighbours, to do the work. Only with us came one person nobody
knew. He joined us when we were on our way to the cattle; a young man,
slender, well-formed, of pleasing countenance and dressed as few could
dress in those days. His horse also shone with silver trappings. And
what an animal! Many horses have I seen in this life, but never one
with such a presence as this young stranger's piebald.

Arrived at the herd, we began to separate the young animals, the men
riding in couples through the cattle, so that each calf when singled
out could be driven by two horsemen, one on each side, to prevent it
from doubling back. I happened to be mounted on a demon with a fiery
mouth--there was no making him work, so I had to leave the parters and
stand with little to do, watching the yearlings already parted, to keep
them from returning to the herd.

Presently neighbour Chapaco rode up to me. He was a good-hearted man,
well-spoken, half Indian and half Christian; but he also had another
half, and that was devil.

"What! neighbour Lucero, are you riding on a donkey or a goat, that you
remain here doing boy's work?"

I began telling him about my horse, but he did not listen; he was
looking at the parters.

"Who is that young stranger?" he asked.

"I see him to-day," I replied, "and if I see him again to-morrow then I
shall have seen him twice."

"And in what country of which I have never heard did he learn
cattle-parting?" said he.

"He rides," I answered, "like one presuming on a good horse. But he is
safe, his fellow-worker has all the danger."

"I believe you," said Chapaco. "He charges furiously and hurls the
heifer before his comrade, who has all the work to keep it from
doubling, and all the danger, for at any moment his horse may go over
it and fall. This our young stranger does knowingly, thinking that no
one here will resent it. No, Lucero, he is presuming more on his long
knife than on his good horse."

Even while we spoke, the two we were watching rode up to us. Chapaco
saluted the young man, taking off his hat, and said--"Will you take me
for a partner, friend?"

"Yes; why not, friend?" returned the other; and together the two rode
back to the herd.

Now I shall watch them, said I to myself, to see what this Indian
devil intends doing. Soon they came out of the herd driving a very
small animal. Then I knew what was coming. "May your guardian angel be
with you to avert a calamity, young stranger!" I exclaimed. Whip and
spur those two came towards me like men riding a race and not parting
cattle. Chapaco kept close to the calf, so that he had the advantage,
for his horse was well trained. At length he got a little ahead, then,
quick as lightning, he forced the calf round square before the other.
The piebald struck it full in the middle, and fell because it had to
fall. But, Saints in Heaven! why did not the rider save himself? Those
who were watching saw him throw up his feet to tread his horse's neck
and leap away; nevertheless man, horse, and calf, came down together.
They ploughed the ground for some distance, so great had been their
speed, and the man was under. When we picked him up he was senseless,
the blood flowing from his mouth. Next morning, when the sun rose and
God's light fell on the earth, he expired.

Of course there was no dancing that night. Some of the people, after
eating, went away; others remained sitting about all night, talking
in low tones, waiting for the end. A few of us were at his bedside
watching his white face and closed eyes. He breathed, and that was all.
When the sunlight came over the world he opened his eyes, and Sotelo
asked him how he did. He took no notice, but presently his lips began
to move, though they seemed to utter no sound. Sotelo bent his ear down
to listen. "Where does she live?" he asked. He could not answer--he was
dead.

"He seemed to be saying many things," Sotelo told us, "but I understood
only this--'Tell her to forgive me.... I was wrong. She loved him from
the first.... I was jealous, and hated him.... Tell Elaria not to
grieve--Anacleto will be good to her.' Alas! my friends, where shall I
find his relations to deliver this dying message to them?"

The Alcalde came that day and made a list of the dead man's
possessions, and bade Sotelo take charge of them till the relations
could be found. Then, calling all the people together, he bade each
person cut on his whip-handle and on the sheath of his knife the
mark branded on the flank of the piebald, which was in shape like
a horse-shoe with a cross inside, so that it might be shown to all
strangers, and made known through the country until the dead man's
relations should hear of it.

When a year had gone by, the Alcalde told Sotelo that, all inquiries
having failed, he could now take the piebald and the silver trappings
for himself. Sotelo would not listen to this, for he was a devout man
and coveted no person's property, dead or alive. The horse and things,
however, still remained in his charge.

Three years later I was one afternoon sitting with Sotelo, taking maté,
when his herd of dun mares were driven up. They came galloping and
neighing to the corral and ahead of them, looking like a wild horse,
was the piebald, for no person ever mounted him.

"Never do I look on that horse," I remarked, "without remembering the
fatal marking, when its master met his death."

"Now you speak of it," said he, "let me inform you that I am about
to try a new plan. That noble piebald and all those silver trappings
hanging in my room are always reproaching my conscience. Let us not
forget the young stranger we put under ground. I have had many masses
said for his soul's repose, but that does not quite satisfy me.
Somewhere there is a place where he is not forgotten. Hands there are,
perhaps, that gather wild flowers to place them with lighted candles
before the image of the Blessed Virgin; eyes there are that weep and
watch for his coming. You know how many travellers and cattle-drovers
going to Buenos Ayres from the south call for refreshment at the
_pulperia_. I intend taking the piebald and tying him every day at the
gate there. No person calling will fail to notice the horse, and some
day perhaps some traveller will recognise the brand on its flank and
will be able to tell us what department and what estancia it comes
from."

I did not believe anything would result from this, but said nothing,
not wishing to discourage him.

Next morning the piebald was tied up at the gate of the _pulperia_, at
the road side, only to be released again when night came, and this was
repeated every day for a long time. So fine an animal did not fail to
attract the attention of all strangers passing that way, still several
weeks went by and nothing was discovered. At length, one evening, just
when the sun was setting, there appeared a troop of cattle driven by
eight men. It had come a great distance, for the troop was a large
one--about nine hundred head--and they moved slowly, like cattle
that had been many days on the road. Some of the men came in for
refreshments; then the store-keeper noticed that one remained outside
leaning on the gate.

"What is the capatas doing that he remains outside?" said one of the
men.

"Evidently he has fallen in love with that piebald," said another, "for
he cannot take his eyes off it."

At length the capatas, a young man of good presence, came in and sat
down on a bench. The others were talking and laughing about the strange
things they had all been doing the day before; for they had been many
days and nights on the road, only nodding a little in their saddles,
and at length becoming delirious from want of sleep, they had begun to
act like men that are half-crazed.

"Enough of the delusions of yesterday," said the capatas, who had
been silently listening to them, "but tell me, boys, am I in the same
condition to-day?"

"Surely not!" they replied. "Thanks to those horned devils being so
tired and footsore, we all had some sleep last night."

"Very well then," said he, "now you have finished eating and drinking,
go back to the troop, but before you leave look well at that piebald
tied at the gate. He that is not a cattle-drover may ask, 'How can
my eyes deceive me?' but I know that a crazy brain makes us see many
strange things when the drowsy eyes can only be held open with the
fingers."

The men did as they were told, and when they had looked well at the
piebald, they all shouted out, "He has the brand of the estancia de
Silva on his flank, and no counter-brand--claim the horse, capatas, for
he is yours." And after that they rode away to the herd.

"My friend," said the capatas to the store-keeper, "will you explain
how you came possessed of this piebald horse?"

Then the other told him everything, even the dying words of the young
stranger, for he knew all.

The capatas bent down his head, and covering his face shed tears. Then
he said, "And you died thus, Torcuato, amongst strangers! From my
heart I have forgiven you the wrong you did me. Heaven rest your soul,
Torcuato; I cannot forget that we were once brothers. I, friend, am
that Anacleto of whom he spoke with his last breath."

Sotelo was then sent for, and when he arrived and the _pulperia_ was
closed for the night, the capatas told his story, which I will give you
in his own words, for I was also present to hear him. This is what he
told us:--

I was born on the southern frontier. My parents died when I was very
small, but Heaven had compassion on me and raised up one to shelter
me in my orphanhood. Don Loreto Silva took me to his estancia on the
Sarandi, a stream half a day's journey from Tandil, towards the setting
sun. He treated me like one of his own children, and I took the name of
Silva. He had two other children, Torcuato, who was about the same age
as myself, and his daughter, Elaria, who was younger. He was a widower
when he took charge of me, and died when I was still a youth. After
his death we moved to Tandil, where we had a house close to the little
town; for we were all minors, and the property had been left to be
equally divided between us when we should be of age. For four years we
lived happily together; then when we were of age we preferred to keep
the property undivided. I proposed that we should go and live on the
estancia, but Torcuato would not consent, liking the place where we
were living best. Finally, not being able to persuade him, I resolved
to go and attend to the estancia myself. He said that I could please
myself and that he should stay where he was with Elaria. It was only
when I told Elaria of these things that I knew how much I loved her.
She wept and implored me not to leave her.

"Why do you shed tears, Elaria?" I said; "is it because you love me?
Know, then, that I also love you with all my heart, and if you will be
mine, nothing can ever make us unhappy. Do not think that my absence
at the estancia will deprive me of this feeling which has ever been
growing up in me."

"I do love you, Anacleto," she replied, "and I have also known of your
love for a long time. But there is something in my heart which I cannot
impart to you; only I ask you, for the love you bear me, do not leave
me, and do not ask me why I say this to you."

After this appeal I could not leave her, nor did I ask her to tell me
her secret. Torcuato and I were friendly, but not as we had been before
this difference. I had no evil thoughts of him; I loved him and was
with him continually; but from the moment I announced to him that I
had changed my mind about going to the estancia, and was silent when
he demanded the reason, there was a something in him which made it
different between us. I could not open my heart to him about Elaria,
and sometimes I thought that he also had a secret which he had no
intention of sharing with me. This coldness did not, however, distress
me very much, so great was the happiness I now experienced, knowing
that I possessed Elaria's love. He was much away from the house, being
fond of amusements, and he had also begun to gamble. About three months
passed in this way, when one morning Torcuato, who was saddling his
horse to go out, said, "Will you come with me, to-day, Anacleto?"

"I do not care to go," I answered.

"Look, Anacleto," said he; "once you were always ready to accompany
me to a race or dance or cattle-marking. Why have you ceased to care
for these things? Are you growing devout before your time, or does my
company no longer please you?"

"It is best to tell him everything and have done with secrets," said I
to myself, and so replied--

"Since you ask me, Torcuato, I will answer you frankly. It is true that
I now take less pleasure than formerly in these pastimes; but you have
not guessed the reason rightly."

"What then is this reason of which you speak?"

"Since you cannot guess it," I replied, "know that it is love."

"Love for whom?" he asked quickly, and turning very pale.

"Do you need ask? Elaria," I replied.

I had scarcely uttered the name before he turned on me full of rage.

"Elaria!" he exclaimed. "Do you dare tell me of love for Elaria! But
you are only a blind fool, and do not know that I am going to marry her
myself."

"Are you mad, Torcuato, to talk of marrying your sister?"

"She is no more my sister than you are my brother," he returned. "I,"
he continued, striking his breast passionately, "am the only child of
my father, Loreto Silva. Elaria, whose mother died in giving her birth,
was adopted by my parents. And because she is going to be my wife, I
am willing that she should have a share of the property; but you, a
miserable foundling, why were you lifted up so high? Was it not enough
that you were clothed and fed till you came to man's estate? Not a
hand's-breadth of the estancia land should be yours by right, and now
you presume to speak of love for Elaria."

My blood was on fire with so many insults, but I remembered all the
benefits I had received from his father, and did not raise my hand
against him. Without more words he left me. I then hastened to Elaria
and told her what had passed.

"This," I said, "is the secret you would not impart to me. Why, when
you knew these things, was I kept in ignorance?"

"Have pity on me, Anacleto," she replied, crying. "Did I not see that
you two were no longer friends and brothers, and this without knowing
of each other's love? I dared not open my lips to you or to him. It is
always a woman's part to suffer in silence. God intended us to be poor,
Anacleto, for we were both born of poor parents, and had this property
never come to us, how happy we might have been!"

"Why do you say such things, Elaria? Since we love each other, we
cannot be unhappy, rich or poor."

"Is it a little matter," she replied, "that Torcuato must be our bitter
enemy? But you do not know every thing. Before Torcuato's father died,
he said he wished his son to marry me when we came of age. When he
spoke about it we were sitting together by his bed."

"And what did you say, Elaria?" I asked, full of concern.

"Torcuato promised to marry me. I only covered my face, and was silent,
for I loved you best even then, though I was almost a child, and my
heart was filled with grief at his words. After we came here, Torcuato
reminded me of his father's words. I answered that I did not wish to
marry him, that he was only a brother to me. Then he said that we were
young and he could wait until I was of another mind. This is all I have
to say; but how shall we three live together any longer? I cannot bear
to part from you, and every moment I tremble to think what may happen
when you two are together."

"Fear nothing," I said. "To-morrow morning you can go to spend a week
at some friend's house in the town; then I will speak to Torcuato, and
tell him that since we cannot live in peace together we must separate.
Even if he answers with insults I shall do nothing to grieve you, and
if he refuses to listen to me, I shall send some person we both respect
to arrange all things between us."

This satisfied her, but as evening approached she grew paler, and I
knew she feared Torcuato's return. He did not, however, come back that
night. Early next morning she was ready to leave. It was an easy walk
to the town, but the dew was heavy on the grass, and I saddled a horse
for her to ride. I had just lifted her to the saddle when Torcuato
appeared. He came at great speed, and throwing himself off his horse,
advanced to us. Elaria trembled and seemed ready to sink upon the earth
to hide herself like a partridge that has seen the hawk. I prepared
myself for insults and perhaps violence. He never looked at me; he only
spoke to her.

"Elaria," he said, "something has happened--something that obliges me
to leave this house and neighbourhood at once. Remember when I am away
that my father, who cherished you and enriched you with his bounty, and
who also cherished and enriched this ingrate, spoke to us from his
dying bed and made me promise to marry you. Think what his love was; do
not forget that his last wish is sacred, and that Anacleto has acted a
base, treacherous part in trying to steal you from me. He was lifted
out of the mire to be my brother and equal in everything except this.
He has got a third part of my inheritance--let that satisfy him; your
own heart, Elaria, will tell you that a marriage with him would be a
crime before God and man. Look not for my return to-morrow nor for many
days. But if you two begin to laugh at my father's dying wishes, look
for me, for then I shall not delay to come back to you, Elaria, and to
you, Anacleto. I have spoken."

He then mounted his horse and rode away. Very soon we learned the cause
of his sudden departure. He had quarrelled over his cards and in a
struggle that followed had stabbed his adversary to the heart. He had
fled to escape the penalty. We did not believe that he would remain
long absent; for Torcuato was very young, well off, and much liked,
and this was, moreover, his first offence against the law. But time
went on and he did not return, nor did any message from him reach us,
and we at last concluded that he had left the country. Only now after
four years have I accidentally discovered his fate through seeing his
piebald horse.

After he had been absent over a year, I asked Elaria to become my wife.
"We cannot marry till Torcuato returns," she said. "For if we take the
property that ought to have been all his, and at the same time disobey
his father's dying wish, we shall be doing an evil thing. Let us take
care of the property till he returns to receive it all back from us;
then, Anacleto, we shall be free to marry."

I consented, for she was more to me than lands and cattle. I put
the estancia in order and leaving a trustworthy person in charge of
everything I invested my money in fat bullocks to resell in Buenos
Ayres, and in this business I have been employed ever since. From the
estancia I have taken nothing, and now it must all come back to us--his
inheritance and ours. This is a bitter thing and will give Elaria great
grief.


Thus ended Anacleto's story, and when he had finished speaking and
still seemed greatly troubled in his mind, Sotelo said to him,
"Friend, let me advise you what to do. You will now shortly be married
to the woman you love and probably some day a son will be born to you.
Let him be named Torcuato, and let Torcuato's inheritance be kept
for him. And if God gives you no son, remember what was done for you
and for the girl you are going to marry, when you were orphans and
friendless, and look out for some unhappy child in the same condition,
to protect and enrich him as you were enriched."

"You have spoken well," said Anacleto. "I will report your words to
Elaria, and whatever she wishes done that will I do."


So ends my story, friend. The cattle-drover left us that night and
we saw no more of him. Only before going he gave the piebald and the
silver trappings to Sotelo. Six months after his visit, Sotelo also
received a letter from him to say that his marriage with Elaria had
taken place; and the letter was accompanied with a present of seven
cream-coloured horses with black manes and hoofs.




NIÑO DIABLO.


The wide pampa rough with long grass; a vast level disc now growing
dark, the horizon encircling it with a ring as faultless as that
made by a pebble dropped into smooth water; above it the clear sky
of June, wintry and pale, still showing in the west the saffron hues
of the afterglow tinged with vapoury violet and grey. In the centre
of the disc a large low rancho thatched with yellow rushes, a few
stunted trees and cattle enclosures grouped about it; and dimly seen
in the shadows, cattle and sheep reposing. At the gate stands Gregory
Gorostiaga, lord of house, lands and ruminating herds, leisurely
unsaddling his horse; for whatsoever Gregory does is done leisurely.
Although no person is within earshot he talks much over his task, now
rebuking his restive animal, and now cursing his benumbed fingers and
the hard knots in his gear. A curse falls readily and not without a
certain natural grace from Gregory's lips; it is the oiled feather
with which he touches every difficult knot encountered in life. From
time to time he glances towards the open kitchen door, from which issue
the far-flaring light of the fire and familiar voices, with savoury
smells of cookery that come to his nostrils like pleasant messengers.

The unsaddling over at last the freed horse gallops away, neighing
joyfully, to seek his fellows; but Gregory is not a four-footed thing
to hurry himself; and so, stepping slowly and pausing frequently to
look about him as if reluctant to quit the cold night air, he turns
towards the house.

The spacious kitchen was lighted by two or three wicks in cups of
melted fat, and by a great fire in the middle of the clay floor that
cast crowds of dancing shadows on the walls and filled the whole room
with grateful warmth. On the walls were fastened many deers' heads,
and on their convenient prongs were hung bridles and lassos, ropes of
onions and garlics, bunches of dried herbs, and various other objects.
At the fire a piece of beef was roasting on a spit; and in a large pot
suspended by hook and chain from the smoke-blackened central beam,
boiled and bubbled an ocean of mutton broth, puffing out white clouds
of steam redolent of herbs and cummin-seed. Close to the fire, skimmer
in hand, sat Magdalen, Gregory's fat and florid wife, engaged in frying
pies in a second smaller pot. There also, on a high, straight-backed
chair, sat Ascension, her sister-in-law, a wrinkled spinster; also, in
a low rush-bottomed seat, her mother-in-law, an ancient white-headed
dame, staring vacantly into the flames. On the other side of the fire
were Gregory's two eldest daughters, occupied just now in serving maté
to their elders--that harmless bitter decoction the sipping of which
fills up all vacant moments from dawn to bed-time--pretty dove-eyed
girls of sixteen, both also named Magdalen, but not after their mother
nor because confusion was loved by the family for its own sake; they
were twins, and born on the day sacred to Santa Magdalena. Slumbering
dogs and cats were disposed about the floor, also four children. The
eldest, a boy, sitting with legs outstretched before him, was cutting
threads from a slip of colt's hide looped over his great toe. The two
next, boy and girl, were playing a simple game called nines, once known
to English children as nine men's morrice; the lines were rudely
scratched on the clay floor, and the men they played with were bits
of hardened clay, nine red and as many white. The youngest, a girl of
five, sat on the floor nursing a kitten that purred contentedly on her
lap and drowsily winked its blue eyes at the fire; and as she swayed
herself from side to side she lisped out the old lullaby in her baby
voice:--


     _A-ro-ró mi niño_
     _A-ro-ró mi sol,_
     _A-ro-ró pedazos_
     _De mi corazon._


Gregory stood on the threshold surveying this domestic scene with
manifest pleasure.

"Papa mine, what have you brought me?" cried the child with the kitten.

"Brought you, interested? Stiff whiskers and cold hands to pinch your
dirty little cheeks. How is your cold to-night, mother?"

"Yes, son, it is very cold to-night; we knew that before you came in,"
replied the old dame testily as she drew her chair a little closer to
the fire.

"It is useless speaking to her," remarked Ascension. "With her to be
out of temper is to be deaf."

"What has happened to put her out?" he asked.

"I can tell you, papa," cried one of the twins. "She wouldn't let
me make your cigars to-day, and sat down out of doors to make them
herself. It was after breakfast when the sun was warm."

"And of course she fell asleep," chimed in Ascension.

"Let me tell it, auntie!" exclaimed the other. "And she fell asleep,
and in a moment Rosita's lamb came and ate up the whole of the
tobacco-leaf in her lap."

"It didn't!" cried Rosita, looking up from her game. "I opened its
mouth and looked with all my eyes, and there was no tobacco-leaf in it."

"That lamb! that lamb!" said Gregory slily. "Is it to be wondered at
that we are turning grey before our time--all except Rosita! Remind me
to-morrow, wife, to take it to the flock; or if it has grown fat on all
the tobacco-leaf, aprons and old shoes it has eaten--"

"Oh no, no, no!" screamed Rosita, starting up and throwing the game
into confusion, just when her little brother had made a row and was in
the act of seizing on one of her pieces in triumph.

"Hush, silly child, he will not harm your lamb," said the mother,
pausing from her task and raising eyes that were tearful with the smoke
of the fire and of the cigarette she held between her good-humoured
lips. "And now, if these children have finished speaking of their
important affairs, tell me, Gregory, what news do you bring?"

"They say," he returned, sitting down and taking the maté-cup from
his daughter's hand, "that the invading Indians bring seven hundred
lances, and that those that first opposed them were all slain. Some say
they are now retreating with the cattle they have taken; while others
maintain that they are waiting to fight our men."

"Oh, my sons, my sons, what will happen to them!" cried Magdalen,
bursting into tears.

"Why do you cry, wife, before God gives you cause?" returned her
husband. "Are not all men born to fight the infidel? Our boys are not
alone--all their friends and neighbours are with them."

"Say not this to me, Gregory, for I am not a fool nor blind. All their
friends indeed! And this very day I have seen the Niño Diablo; he
galloped past the house, whistling like a partridge that knows no
care. Why must my two sons be called away, while he, a youth without
occupation and with no mother to cry for him, remains behind?"

"You talk folly, Magdalen," replied her lord. "Complain that the
ostrich and puma are more favoured than your sons, since no man calls
on them to serve the state; but mention not the Niño, for he is freer
than the wild things which Heaven has made, and fights not on this side
nor on that."

"Coward! Miserable!" murmured the incensed mother.

Whereupon one of the twins flushed scarlet, and retorted, "He is not a
coward, mother!"

"And if not a coward why does he sit on the hearth among women and
old men in times like these? Grieved am I to hear a daughter of mine
speak in defence of one who is a vagabond and a stealer of other men's
horses!"

The girl's eyes flashed angrily, but she answered not a word.

"Hold your tongue, woman, and accuse no man of crimes," spoke Gregory.
"Let every Christian take proper care of his animals; and as for
the infidel's horses, he is a virtuous man that steals them. The
girl speaks truth; the Niño is no coward, but he fights not with our
weapons. The web of the spider is coarse and ill-made compared with
the snare he spreads to entangle his prey." Thus fixing his eyes on
the face of the girl who had spoken, he added; "therefore be warned in
season, my daughter, and fall not into the snare of the Niño Diablo."

Again the girl blushed and hung her head.

At this moment a clatter of hoofs, the jangling of a bell, and shouts
of a traveller to the horses driven before him, came in at the open
door. The dogs roused themselves, almost overturning the children
in their hurry to rush out; and up rose Gregory to find out who was
approaching with so much noise.

"I know, _papita_," cried one of the children. "It is Uncle Polycarp."

"You are right, child," said her father. "Cousin Polycarp always
arrives at night, shouting to his animals like a troop of Indians." And
with that he went out to welcome his boisterous relative.

The traveller soon arrived, spurring his horse, scared at the light and
snorting loudly, to within two yards o£ the door. In a few minutes the
saddle was thrown off, the fore feet of the bell-mare fettered, and the
horses allowed to wander away in quest of pasturage; then the two men
turned into the kitchen.

A short, burly man aged about fifty, wearing a soft hat thrust
far back on his head, with truculent greenish eyes beneath arched
bushy eyebrows, and a thick shapeless nose surmounting a bristly
moustache--such was Cousin Polycarp. From neck to feet he was covered
with a blue cloth poncho, and on his heels he wore enormous silver
spurs that clanked and jangled over the floor like the fetters of a
convict. After greeting the women and bestowing the avuncular blessing
on the children, who had clamoured for it as for some inestimable
boon--he sat down, and flinging back his poncho displayed at his waist
a huge silver-hilted knife and a heavy brass-barelled horse-pistol.

"Heaven be praised for its goodness, Cousin Magdalen," he said. "What
with pies and spices your kitchen is more fragrant than a garden of
flowers. That's as it should be, for nothing but rum have I tasted this
bleak day. And the boys are away fighting, Gregory tells me. Good!
When the eaglets have found out their wings let them try their talons.
What, Cousin Magdalen, crying for the boys! Would you have had them
girls?"

"Yes, a thousand times," she replied, drying her wet eyes on her apron.

"Ah, Magdalen, daughters can't be always young and sweet-tempered,
like your brace of pretty partridges yonder. They grow old, Cousin
Magdalen--old and ugly and spiteful; and are more bitter and worthless
than the wild pumpkin. But I speak not of those who are present, for I
would say nothing to offend my respected Cousin Ascension, whom may God
preserve, though she never married."

"Listen to me, Cousin Polycarp," returned the insulted dame so
pointedly alluded to. "Say nothing to me nor of me, and I will also
hold my peace concerning you; for you know very well that if I were
disposed to open my lips I could say a thousand things."

"Enough, enough, you have already said them a thousand times," he
interrupted. "I know all that, cousin; let us say no more."

"That is only what I ask," she retorted, "for I have never loved to
bandy words with you; and you know already, therefore I need not
recall it to your mind, that if I am single it is not because some men
whose names I could mention if I felt disposed--and they are the names
not of dead but of living men--would not have been glad to marry me;
but because I preferred my liberty and the goods I inherited from my
father; and I see not what advantage there is in being the wife of one
who is a brawler and a drunkard and spender of other people's money,
and I know not what besides."

"There it is!" said Polycarp, appealing to the fire. "I knew that I had
thrust my foot into a red ant's nest--careless that I am! But in truth,
Ascension, it was fortunate for you in those distant days you mention
that you hardened your heart against all lovers. For wives, like cattle
that must be branded with their owner's mark, are first of all taught
submission to their husbands; and consider, cousin, what tears! what
sufferings!" And having ended thus abruptly, he planted his elbows on
his knees and busied himself with the cigarette he had been trying to
roll up with his cold drunken fingers for the last five minutes.

Ascension gave a nervous twitch at the red cotton kerchief on her
head, and cleared her throat with a sound "sharp and short like the
shrill swallow's cry," when----

"_Madre del Cielo_, how you frightened me!" screamed one of the twins,
giving a great start.

The cause of this sudden outcry was discovered in the presence of
a young man quietly seated on the bench at the girl's side. He had
not been there a minute before, and no person had seen him enter the
room--what wonder that the girl was startled! He was slender in form,
and had small hands and feet, and oval olive face, smooth as a girl's
except for the incipient moustache on his lip. In place of a hat he
wore only a scarlet ribbon bound about his head, to keep back the
glossy black hair that fell to his shoulders; and he was wrapped in a
white woollen Indian poncho, while his lower limbs were cased in white
colt-skin coverings, shaped like stockings to his feet, with the red
tassels of his embroidered garters falling to the ankles.

"The Niño Diablo!" all cried in a breath, the children manifesting the
greatest joy at his appearance. But old Gregory spoke with affected
anger. "Why do you always drop on us in this treacherous way, like rain
through a leaky thatch?" he exclaimed. "Keep these strange arts for
your visits in the infidel country; here we are all Christians, and
praise God on the threshold when we visit a neighbour's house. And now,
Niño Diablo, what news of the Indians?"

"Nothing do I know and little do I concern myself about specks on the
horizon," returned the visitor with a light laugh. And at once all the
children gathered round him, for the Niño they considered to belong
to them when he came, and not to their elders with their solemn talk
about Indian warfare and lost horses. And now, now he would finish that
wonderful story, long in the telling, of the little girl alone and lost
in the great desert, and surrounded by all the wild animals met to
discuss what they should do with her. It was a grand story, even mother
Magdalen listened, though she pretended all the time to be thinking
only of her pies--and the teller, like the grand old historians of
other days, put most eloquent speeches, all made out of his own head,
into the lips (and beaks) of the various actors--puma, ostrich, deer,
cavy, and the rest.

In the midst of this performance supper was announced, and all
gathered willingly round a dish of Magdalen's pies, filled with
minced meat, hard-boiled eggs chopped small, raisins, and plenty of
spice. After the pies came roast beef; and, finally, great basins of
mutton broth fragrant with herbs and cummin-seed. The rage of hunger
satisfied, each one said a prayer, the elders murmuring with bowed
heads, the children on their knees uplifting shrill voices. Then
followed the concluding semi-religious ceremony of the day, when each
child in its turn asked a blessing of father, mother, grandmother,
uncle, aunt, and not omitting the stranger within the gates, even the
Niño Diablo of evil-sounding name.

The men drew forth their pouches, and began making their cigarettes,
when once more the children gathered round the story-teller, their
faces glowing with expectation.

"No, no," cried their mother. "No more stories to-night--to bed, to
bed!"

"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Rosita pleadingly, and struggling to
free herself; for the good woman had dashed in among them to enforce
obedience. "Oh, let me stay till the story ends! The reed-cat has said
such things! Oh, what will they do with the poor little girl?"

"And oh, mother mine!" drowsily sobbed her little sister; "the
armadillo that said--that said nothing because it had nothing to say,
and the partridge that whistled and said,--" and here she broke into
a prolonged wail. The boys also added their voices until the hubbub
was no longer to be borne, and Gregory rose up in his wrath and called
on some one to lend him a big whip; only then they yielded, and still
sobbing and casting many a lingering look behind, were led from the
kitchen.

During this scene the Niño had been carrying on a whispered
conversation with the pretty Magdalen of his choice, heedless of the
uproar of which he had been the indirect cause; deaf also to the bitter
remarks of Ascension concerning some people who, having no homes of
their own, were fond of coming uninvited into other people's houses,
only to repay the hospitality extended to them by stealing their silly
daughters affections, and teaching their children to rebel against
their authority.

But the noise and confusion had served to arouse Polycarp from a drowsy
fit; for like a boa constrictor, he had dined largely after his long
fast, and dinner had made him dull; bending towards his cousin he
whispered earnestly: "Who is this young stranger, Gregory?"

"In what corner of the earth have you been hiding to ask who the Niño
Diablo is?" returned the other.

"Must I know the history of every cat and dog?"

"The Niño is not cat nor dog, cousin, but a man among men, like a
falcon among birds. When a child of six the Indians killed all his
relations and carried him into captivity. After five years he escaped
out of their hands, and, guided by sun and stars and signs on the
earth, he found his way back to the Christian's country, bringing many
beautiful horses stolen from his captors; also the name of Niño Diablo
first given to him by the infidel. We know him by no other."

"This is a good story; in truth I like it well--it pleases me
mightily," said Polycarp. "And what more, cousin Gregory?"

"More than I can tell, cousin. When he comes the dogs bark not--who
knows why? his tread is softer than the cat's; the untamed horse is
tame for him. Always in the midst of dangers, yet no harm, no scratch.
Why? Because he stoops like the falcon, makes his stroke and is
gone--Heaven knows where!"

"What strange things are you telling me? Wonderful! And what more
cousin, Gregory?"

"He often goes into the Indian country, and lives freely with the
infidel, disguised, for they do not know him who was once their
captive. They speak of the Niño Diablo to him, saying that when they
catch that thief they will flay him alive. He listens to their strange
stories, then leaves them, taking their finest ponchos and silver
ornaments, and the flower of their horses."

"A brave youth, one after my own heart, cousin Gregory. Heaven defend
and prosper him in all his journeys into the Indian territory! Before
we part I shall embrace him and offer him my friendship, which is worth
something. More, tell me more, cousin Gregory?"

"These things I tell you to put you on your guard; look well to your
horses, cousin."

"What!" shouted the other, lifting himself up from his stooping
posture, and staring at his relation with astonishment and kindling
anger in his countenance.

The conversation had been carried on in a low tone, and the sudden
loud exclamation startled them all--all except the Niño, who continued
smoking and chatting pleasantly to the twins.

"Lightning and pestilence, what is this you say to me, Gregory
Gorostiaga!" continued Polycarp, violently slapping his thigh and
thrusting his hat farther back on his head.

"Prudence!" whispered Gregory. "Say nothing to offend the Niño, he
never forgives an enemy--with horses."

"Talk not to me of prudence!" bawled the other. "You hit me on the
apple of the eye and counsel me not to cry out. What! have not I, whom
men call Polycarp of the South, wrestled with tigers in the desert,
and must I hold my peace because of a boy--even a boy devil? Talk of
what you like, cousin, and I am a meek man--meek as a sucking babe; but
touch not on my horses, for then I am a whirlwind, a conflagration, a
river flooded in winter, and all wrath and destruction like an invasion
of Indians! Who can stand before me? Ribs of steel are no protection!
Look at my knife; do you ask why there are stains on the blade? Listen;
because it has gone straight to the robber's heart!" And with that he
drew out his great knife and flourished it wildly, and made stabs and
slashes at an imaginary foe suspended above the fire.

The pretty girls grew silent and pale and trembled like poplar leaves;
the old grandmother rose up, and clutching at her shawl toddled
hurriedly away, while Ascension uttered a snort of disdain. But the
Niño still talked and smiled, blowing thin smoke-clouds from his lips,
careless of that tempest of wrath gathering before him; till, seeing
the other so calm, the man of war returned his weapon to its sheath,
and glancing round and lowering his voice to a conversational tone,
informed his hearers that his name was Polycarp, one known and feared
by all men,--especially in the south; that he was disposed to live in
peace and amity with the entire human race, and he therefore considered
it unreasonable of some men to follow him about the world asking him to
kill them. "Perhaps," he concluded, with a touch of irony, "they think
I gain something by putting them to death. A mistake, good friends; I
gain nothing by it! I am not a vulture, and their dead bodies can be of
no use to me."

Just after this sanguinary protest and disclaimer the Niño all at once
made a gesture as if to impose silence, and turning his face towards
the door, his nostrils dilating, and his eyes appearing to grow large
and luminous like those of a cat.

"What do you hear, Niño?" asked Gregory.

"I hear lapwings screaming," he replied.

"Only at a fox perhaps," said the other. "But go to the door, Niño, and
listen."

"No need," he returned, dropping his hand, the light of a sudden
excitement passing from his face. "'Tis only a single horseman riding
this way at a fast gallop."

Polycarp got up and went to the door, saying that when a man was among
robbers it behoved him to look well after his cattle. Then he came
back and sat down again. "Perhaps," he remarked, with a side glance at
the Niño, "a better plan would be to watch the thief. A lie, cousin
Gregory; no lapwings are screaming; no single horseman approaching at a
fast gallop. The night is serene, and earth as silent as the sepulchre."

"Prudence!" whispered Gregory again. "Ah, cousin, always playful like
a kitten; when will you grow old and wise? Can you not see a sleeping
snake without turning aside to stir it up with your naked foot?"

Strange to say, Polycarp made no reply. A long experience in getting up
quarrels had taught him that these impassive men were, in truth, often
enough like venomous snakes, quick and deadly when roused. He became
secret and watchful in his manner.

All now were intently listening. Then said Gregory, "Tell us, Niño,
what voices, fine as the trumpet of the smallest fly, do you hear
coming from that great silence? Has the mother skunk put her little
ones to sleep in their kennel and gone out to seek for the pipit's
nest? Have fox and armadillo met to challenge each other to fresh
trials of strength and cunning? What is the owl saying this moment to
his mistress in praise of her big green eyes?"

The young man smiled slightly but answered not; and for full five
minutes more all listened, then sounds of approaching hoofs became
audible. Dogs began to bark, horses to snort in alarm, and Gregory rose
and went forth to receive the late night-wanderer. Soon he appeared,
beating the angry barking dogs off with his whip, a white-faced,
wild-haired man, furiously spurring his horse like a person demented
or flying from robbers.

"_Ave Maria!_" he shouted aloud; and when the answer was given in
suitable pious words, the scared-looking stranger drew near, and
bending down said, "Tell me, good friend, is one whom men call Niño
Diablo with you; for to this house I have been directed in my search
for him?"

"He is within, friend," answered Gregory. "Follow me and you shall see
him with your own eyes. Only first unsaddle, so that your horse may
roll before the sweat dries on him."

"How many horses have I ridden their last journey on this quest!" said
the stranger, hurriedly pulling off the saddle and rugs. "But tell
me one thing more; is he well--no indisposition? Has he met with no
accident--a broken bone, a sprained ankle?"

"Friend," said Gregory, "I have heard that once in past times the moon
met with an accident, but of the Niño no such thing has been reported
to me."

With this assurance the stranger followed his host into the kitchen,
made his salutation, and sat down by the fire. He was about thirty
years old, a good-looking man, but his face was haggard, his eyes
bloodshot, his manner restless, and he appeared like one half-crazed
by some great calamity. The hospitable Magdalen placed food before him
and pressed him to eat. He complied, although reluctantly, despatched
his supper in a few moments, and murmured a prayer; then, glancing
curiously at the two men seated near him, he addressed himself to
the burly, well-armed, and dangerous-looking Polycarp. "Friend," he
said, his agitation increasing as he spoke, "four days have I been
seeking you, taking neither food nor rest, so great was my need of your
assistance. You alone, after God, can help me. Help me in this strait,
and half of all I possess in land and cattle and gold shall be freely
given to you, and the angels above will applaud your deed!"

"Drunk or mad?" was the only reply vouchsafed to this appeal.

"Sir," said the stranger with dignity, "I have not tasted wine these
many days, nor has my great grief crazed me."

"Then what ails the man?" said Polycarp. "Fear perhaps, for he is white
in the face like one who has seen the Indians."

"In truth I have seen them. I was one of those unfortunates who first
opposed them, and most of the friends who were with me are now food for
wild dogs. Where our houses stood there are only ashes and a stain of
blood on the ground. Oh, friend, can you not guess why you alone were
in my thoughts when this trouble came to me--why I have ridden day and
night to find you?"

"Demons!" exclaimed Polycarp, "into what quagmires would this man lead
me? Once for all I understand you not! Leave me in peace, strange man,
or we shall quarrel." And here he tapped his weapon significantly.

At this juncture, Gregory, who took his time about everything, thought
proper to interpose. "You are mistaken, friend," said he. "The young
man sitting on your right is the Niño Diablo, for whom you inquired a
little while ago."

A look of astonishment, followed by one of intense relief, came over
the stranger's face. Turning to the young man he said, "My friend,
forgive me this mistake. Grief has perhaps dimmed my sight; but
sometimes the iron blade and the blade of finest temper are not easily
distinguished by the eye. When we try them we know which is the brute
metal, and cast it aside to take up the other, and trust our life to
it. The words I have spoken were meant for you, and you have heard
them."

"What can I do for you, friend?" said the Niño.

"Oh, sir, the greatest service! You can restore my lost wife to me.
The savages have taken her away into captivity. What can I do to save
her--I who cannot make myself invisible, and fly like the wind, and
compass all things!" And here he bowed his head, and covering his face
gave way to over-mastering grief.

"Be comforted, friend," said the other, touching him lightly on the
arm. "I will restore her to you."

"Oh, friend, how shall I thank you for these words!" cried the unhappy
man, seizing and pressing the Niño's hand.

"Tell me her name--describe her to me."

"Torcuata is her name--Torcuata de la Rosa. She is one finger's width
taller than this young woman," indicating one of the twins who was
standing. "But not dark; her cheeks are rosy--no, no, I forget, they
will be pale now, white than the grass plumes, with stains of dark
colour under the eyes. Brown hair and blue eyes, but very deep blue.
Look well, friend lest you think them black and leave her to perish."

"Never!" remarked Gregory, shaking his head.

"Enough--you have told me enough, friend," said the Niño, rolling up a
cigarette.

"Enough!" repeated the other, surprised. "But you do not know; she is
my life; my life is in your hands. How can I persuade you to be with
me? Cattle I have. I had gone to pay the herdsmen their wages when the
Indians came unexpectedly; and my house at La Chilca, on the banks of
the Langueyú, was burnt, and my wife taken away during my absence.
Eight hundred head of cattle have escaped the savages, and half of them
shall be yours; and half of all I possess in money and land."

"Cattle!" returned the Niño smiling, and holding a lighted stick to his
cigarette. "I have enough to eat without molesting myself with the care
of cattle."

"But I told you that I had other things," said the stranger full of
distress.

The young man laughed, and rose from his seat.

"Listen to me," he said. "I go now to follow the Indians--to mix with
them, perhaps. They are retreating slowly, burdened with much spoil. In
fifteen days go to the little town of Tandil, and wait for me there.
As for land, if God has given so much of it to the ostrich it is not
a thing for a man to set a great value on." Then he bent down to
whisper a few words in the ear of the girl at his side; and immediately
afterwards, with a simple "good-night" to the others, stepped lightly
from the kitchen. By another door the girl also hurriedly left the
room, to hide her tears from the watchful censuring eyes of mother and
aunt.

Then the stranger, recovering from his astonishment at the abrupt
ending of the conversation, started up, and crying aloud, "Stay! stay
one moment--one word more!" rushed out after the young man. At some
distance from the house he caught sight of the Niño, sitting motionless
on his horse, as if waiting to speak to him.

"This is what I have to say to you," spoke the Niño, bending down to
the other. "Go back to Langueyú, and rebuild your house, and expect
me there with your wife in about thirty days. When I bade you go to
the Tandil in fifteen days, I spoke only to mislead that man Polycarp,
who has an evil mind. Can I ride a hundred leagues and back in fifteen
days? Say no word of this to any man. And fear not. If I fail to
return with your wife at the appointed time take some of that money
you have offered me, and bid a priest say a mass for my soul's repose;
for eye of man shall never see me again, and the brown hawks will be
complaining that there is no more flesh to be picked from my bones."

During this brief colloquy, and afterwards, when Gregory and his
women-folk went off to bed, leaving the stranger to sleep in his rugs
beside the kitchen fire, Polycarp, who had sworn a mighty oath not to
close his eyes that night, busied himself making his horses secure.
Driving them home, he tied them to the posts of the gate within
twenty-five yards of the kitchen door. Then he sat down by the fire and
smoked and dozed, and cursed his dry mouth and drowsy eyes that were so
hard to keep open. At intervals of about fifteen minutes he would get
up and go out to satisfy himself that his precious horses were still
safe. At length in rising, some time after midnight, his foot kicked
against some loud-sounding metal object lying beside him on the floor,
which on examination, proved to be a copper bell of a peculiar shape,
and curiously like the one fastened to the neck of his bell-mare.
Bell in hand, he stepped to the door and put out his head, and lo!
his horses were no longer at the gate! Eight horses: seven iron-grey
geldings, every one of them swift and sure-footed, sound as the bell in
his hand, and as like each other as seven claret coloured eggs in the
tinamou's nest; and the eighth the gentle piebald mare--the _madrina_
his horses loved and would follow to the world's end, now, alas! with a
thief on her back! Gone--gone!

He rushed out, uttering a succession of frantic howls and imprecations;
and finally, to wind up the performance, dashed the now useless bell
with all his energy against the gate, shattering it into a hundred
pieces. Oh, that bell, how often and how often in how many a wayside
public-house had he boasted, in his cups and when sober, of its mellow,
far-reaching tone,--the sweet sound that assured him in the silent
watches of the night that his beloved steeds were safe! Now he danced
on the broken fragments, digging them into the earth with his heel; now
in his frenzy, he could have dug them up again to grind them to powder
with his teeth!

The children turned restlessly in bed, dreaming of the lost little
girl in the desert; and the stranger half awoke, muttering, "Courage,
O Torcuata--let not your heart break.... Soul of my life, he gives you
back to me--on my bosom, _rosa fresca, rosa fresca_!" Then the hands
unclenched themselves again, and the muttering died away. But Gregory
woke fully, and instantly divined the cause of the clamour. "Magdalen!
Wife!" he said. "Listen to Polycarp; the Niño has paid him out for
his insolence! Oh, fool, I warned him, and he would not listen!" But
Magdalen refused to wake; and so, hiding his head under the coverlet,
he made the bed shake with suppressed laughter, so pleased was he at
the clever trick played on his blustering cousin. All at once his
laughter ceased, and out popped his head again, showing in the dim
light a somewhat long and solemn face. For he had suddenly thought of
his pretty daughter asleep in the adjoining room. Asleep! Wide awake,
more likely, thinking of her sweet lover, brushing the dews from the
hoary pampas grass in his southward flight, speeding away into the
heart of the vast mysterious wilderness. Listening also to her uncle,
the desperado, apostrophizing the midnight stars; while with his knife
he excavates two deep trenches, three yards long and intersecting
each other at right angles--a sacred symbol on which he intends, when
finished, to swear a most horrible vengeance. "Perhaps," muttered
Gregory, "the Niño has still other pranks to play in this house."

When the stranger heard next morning what had happened, he was better
able to understand the Niño's motive in giving him that caution
overnight; nor was he greatly put out, but thought it better that an
evil-minded man should lose his horses than that the Niño should set
out badly mounted on such an adventure.

"Let me not forget," said the robbed man, as he rode away on a horse
borrowed from his cousin, "to be at the Tandil this day fortnight, with
a sharp knife and a blunderbuss charged with a handful of powder and
not fewer than twenty-three slugs."

Terribly in earnest was Polycarp of the South! He was there at the
appointed time, slugs and all; but the smooth-cheeked, mysterious,
child-devil came not; nor, stranger still, did the scared-looking de la
Rosa come clattering in to look for his lost Torcuata. At the end of
the fifteenth day de la Rosa was at Langueyú, seventy-five miles from
the Tandil, alone in his new rancho, which had just been rebuilt with
the aid of a few neighbours. Through all that night he sat alone by the
fire, pondering many things. If he could only recover his lost wife,
then he would bid a long farewell to that wild frontier and take her
across the great sea, and to that old tree-shaded stone farm-house in
Andalusia, which he had left a boy, and where his aged parents still
lived, thinking no more to see their wandering son. His resolution was
taken; he would sell all he possessed, all except a portion of land
in the Langueyú with the house he had just rebuilt; and to the Niño
Diablo, the deliverer, he would say, "Friend, though you despise the
things that others value, take this land and poor house for the sake of
the girl Magdalen you love; for then perhaps her parents will no longer
deny her to you."

He was still thinking of these things, when a dozen or twenty
military starlings--that cheerful scarlet-breasted songster of the
lonely pampas--alighted on the thatch outside, and warbling their gay,
careless winter-music told him that it was day. And all day long, on
foot and on horseback, his thoughts were of his lost Torcuata; and
when evening once more drew near his heart was sick with suspense and
longing; and climbing the ladder placed against the gable of his rancho
he stood on the roof gazing westwards into the blue distance. The sun,
crimson and large, sunk into the great green sea of grass, and from all
the plain rose the tender fluting notes of the tinamou-partridges, bird
answering bird. "Oh, that I could pierce the haze with my vision," he
murmured, "that I could see across a hundred leagues of level plain,
and look this moment on your sweet face, Torcuata!"


And Torcuata was in truth a hundred leagues distant from him at that
moment; and if the miraculous sight he wished for had been given, this
was what he would have seen. A wide barren plain scantily clothed with
yellow tufts of grass and thorny shrubs, and at its southern extremity,
shutting out the view on that side, a low range of dune-like hills.
Over this level ground, towards the range, moves a vast herd of cattle
and horses--fifteen or twenty thousand head--followed by a scattered
horde of savages armed with their long lances. In a small compact body
in the centre ride the captives, women and children. Just as the red
orb touches the horizon the hills are passed, and lo! a wide grassy
valley beyond, with flocks and herds pasturing, and scattered trees,
and the blue gleam of water from a chain of small lakes! There full in
sight, is the Indian settlement, the smoke rising peacefully up from
the clustered huts. At the sight of home the savages burst into loud
cries of joy and triumph, answered, as they drew near, with piercing
screams of welcome from the village population, chiefly composed of
women, children and old men.


It is past midnight; the young moon has set; the last fires are dying
down; the shouts and loud noise of excited talk and laughter have
ceased, and the weary warriors, after feasting on sweet mare's flesh to
repletion, have fallen asleep in their huts, or lying out of doors on
the ground. Only the dogs are excited still and keep up an incessant
barking. Even the captive women, huddled together in one hut in the
middle of the settlement, fatigued with their long rough journey, have
cried themselves to sleep at last.

At length one of the sad sleepers wakes, or half wakes, dreaming that
some one has called her name. How could such a thing be? Yet her own
name still seems ringing in her brain, and at length, fully awake,
she finds herself intently listening. Again it sounded--"Torcuata"--a
voice fine as the pipe of a mosquito, yet so sharp and distinct that
it tingled in her ear. She sat up and listened again, and once more it
sounded "Torcuata!" "Who speaks?" she returned in a fearful whisper.
The voice, still fine and small, replied, "Come out from among the
others until you touch the wall." Trembling she obeyed, creeping out
from among the sleepers until she came into contact with the side of
the hut. Then the voice sounded again, "Creep round the wall until you
come to a small crack of light on the other side." Again she obeyed,
and when she reached the line of faint light it widened quickly to an
aperture, through which a shadowy arm was passed round her waist;
and in a moment she was lifted up, and saw the stars above her, and
at her feet dark forms of men wrapped in their ponchos lying asleep.
But no one woke, no alarm was given; and in a very few minutes she was
mounted, man-fashion, on a bare-backed horse, speeding swiftly over
the dim plains, with the shadowy form of her mysterious deliverer some
yards in advance, driving before him a score or so of horses. He had
only spoken half-a-dozen words to her since their escape from the hut,
but she knew by those words that he was taking her to Langueyú.




MARTA RIQUELME.

(_From the Sepulvida MSS._)


I.

Far away from the paths of those who wander to and fro on the earth,
sleeps Jujuy in the heart of this continent. It is the remotest of our
provinces, and divided from the countries of the Pacific by the giant
range of the Cordillera; a region of mountains and forest, torrid heats
and great storms; and although in itself a country half as large as the
Spanish peninsula, it possesses, as its only means of communication
with the outside world, a few insignificant roads which are scarcely
more than mule-paths.

The people of this region have few wants; they aspire not after
progress, and have never changed their ancient manner of life. The
Spanish were long in conquering them: and now, after three centuries
of Christian dominion, they still speak the Quichua, and subsist in
a great measure on patay, a sweet paste made from the pod of the wild
algarroba tree; while they still retain as a beast of burden the llama,
a gift of their old masters the Peruvian Incas.

This much is common knowledge, but of the peculiar character of the
country, or of the nature of the things which happen within its
borders, nothing is known to those without; Jujuy being to them only a
country lying over against the Andes, far removed from and unaffected
by the progress of the world. It has pleased Providence to give me a
more intimate knowledge, and this has been a sore affliction and great
burden now for many years. But I have not taken up my pen to complain
that all the years of my life are consumed in a region where the
great spiritual enemy of mankind is still permitted to challenge the
supremacy of our Master, waging an equal war against his followers:
my sole object is to warn, perhaps also to comfort, others who will
be my successors in this place, and who will come to the church of
Yala ignorant of the means which will be used for the destruction of
their souls. And if I set down anything in this narrative which might
be injurious to our holy religion, owing to the darkness of our
understandings and the little faith that is in us, I pray that the sin
I now ignorantly commit may be forgiven me, and that this manuscript
may perish miraculously unread by any person.

I was educated for the priesthood, in the city of Cordova, that famous
seminary of learning and religion; and in 1838, being then in my
twenty-seventh year, I was appointed priest to a small settlement in
the distant province of which I have spoken. The habit of obedience,
early instilled in me by my Jesuit masters, enabled me to accept this
command unmurmuringly, and even with an outward show of cheerfulness.
Nevertheless it filled me with grief, although I might have suspected
that some such hard fate had been designed for me, since I had been
made to study the Quichua language, which is now only spoken in the
Andean provinces. With secret bitter repinings I tore myself from all
that made life pleasant and desirable--the society of innumerable
friends, the libraries, the beautiful church where I had worshipped,
and that renowned University which has shed on the troubled annals
of our unhappy country whatever lustre of learning and poetry they
possess.

My first impressions of Jujuy did not serve to raise my spirits. After
a trying journey of four week's duration--the roads being difficult and
the country greatly disturbed at the time--I reached the capital of the
province, also called Jujuy, a town of about two thousand inhabitants.
Thence I journeyed to my destination, a settlement called Yala,
situated on the north-western border of the province, where the river
Yala takes its rise, at the foot of that range of mountains which,
branching eastwards from the Andes, divides Jujuy from Bolivia. I was
wholly unprepared for the character of the place I had come to live in.
Yala was a scattered village of about ninety souls--ignorant, apathetic
people, chiefly Indians. To my unaccustomed sight the country appeared
a rude, desolate chaos of rocks and gigantic mountains, compared with
which the famous sierras of Cordova sunk into mere hillocks, and of
vast gloomy forests, whose death-like stillness was broken only by the
savage screams of some strange fowl, or by the hoarse thunders of a
distant waterfall.

As soon as I had made myself known to the people of the village, I set
myself to acquire a knowledge of the surrounding country; but before
long I began to despair of ever finding the limits of my parish in
any direction. The country was wild, being only tenanted by a few
widely-separated families, and like all deserts it was distasteful
to me in an eminent degree; but as I would frequently be called upon
to perform long journeys, I resolved to learn as much as possible of
its geography. Always striving to overcome my own inclinations, which
made a studious, sedentary life most congenial, I aimed at being very
active; and having procured a good mule I began taking long rides every
day, without a guide and with only a pocket compass to prevent me from
losing myself. I could never altogether overcome my natural aversion
to silent deserts, and in my long rides I avoided the thick forest and
deep valleys, keeping as much as possible to the open plain.

One day having ridden about twelve or fourteen miles from Yala, I
discovered a tree of noble proportions growing by itself in the open,
and feeling much oppressed by the heat I alighted from my mule and
stretched myself on the ground under the grateful shade. There was a
continuous murmur of lecheguanas--a small honey wasp--in the foliage
above me, for the tree was in flower, and this soothing sound soon
brought that restful feeling to my mind which insensibly leads to
slumber. I was, however, still far from sleep, but reclining with eyes
half closed, thinking of nothing, when suddenly, from the depths of the
dense leafage above me, rang forth a shriek, the most terrible it has
ever fallen to the lot of any human being to hear. In sound it was a
human cry, yet expressing a degree of agony and despair surpassing the
power of any human soul to feel, and my impression was that it could
only have been uttered by some tortured spirit allowed to wander for
a season on the earth. Shriek after shriek, each more powerful and
terrible to hear than the last, succeeded, and I sprang to my feet, the
hair standing erect on my head, a profuse sweat of terror breaking out
all over me. The cause of all these maddening sounds remained invisible
to my eyes; and finally running to my mule I climbed hastily on to its
back and never ceased flogging the poor beast all the way back to Yala.

On reaching my house I sent for one Osuna, a man of substance, able to
converse in Spanish, and much respected in the village. In the evening
he came to see me, and I then gave an account of the extraordinary
experience I had encountered that day.

"Do not distress yourself, Father--you have only heard the Kakué," he
replied. I then learnt from him that the Kakué is a fowl frequenting
the most gloomy and sequestered forests and known to every one in the
country for its terrible voice. Kakué, he also informed me, was the
ancient name of the country, but the word was misspelt Jujuy by the
early explorers, and this corrupted name was eventually retained. All
this, which I now heard for the first time, is historical; but when he
proceeded to inform me that the Kakué is a metamorphosed human being,
that women and sometimes men, whose lives have been darkened with great
suffering and calamities, are changed by compassionate spirits into
these lugubrious birds, I asked him somewhat contemptuously whether he,
an enlightened man, believed a thing so absurd.

"There is not in all Jujuy," he replied, "a person who disbelieves it."

"That is a mere assertion," cried I, "but it shows which way your
mind inclines. No doubt the superstition concerning the Kakué is very
ancient, and has come down to us together with the Quichua language
from the aborigines. Transformations of men into animals are common
in all the primitive religions of South America. Thus, the Guaranies
relate that flying from a conflagration caused by the descent of the
sun to the earth many people cast themselves into the river Paraguay,
and were incontinently changed into capybaras and caymans; while others
who took refuge in trees were blackened and scorched by the heat and
became monkeys. But to go no further than the traditions of the Incas
who once ruled over this region, it is related that after the first
creation the entire human family, inhabiting the slopes of the Andes,
were changed into crickets by a demon at enmity with man's first
creator. Throughout the continent these ancient beliefs are at present
either dead or dying out; and if the Kakué legend still maintains its
hold on the vulgar here it is owing to the isolated position of the
country, hemmed in by vast mountains and having no intercourse with
neighbouring states."

Perceiving that my arguments had entirely failed to produce any effect
I began to lose my temper, and demanded whether he, a Christian, dared
to profess belief in a fable born of the corrupt imagination of the
heathen?

He shrugged his shoulders and replied, "I have only stated what we, in
Jujuy, know to be a fact. What is, is; and if you talk until to-morrow
you cannot make it different, although you may prove yourself a very
learned person."

His answer produced a strange effect on me. For the first time in my
life I experienced the sensation of anger in all its power. Rising to
my feet I paced the floor excitedly, and using many gestures, smiting
the table with my hands and shaking my clenched fist close to his face
in a threatening manner, and with a violence of language unbecoming
in a follower of Christ, I denounced the degrading ignorance and
heathenish condition of mind of the people I had come to live with; and
more particularly of the person before me, who had some pretensions to
education and should have been free from the gross delusions of the
vulgar. While addressing him in this tone he sat smoking a cigarette,
blowing rings from his lips and placidly watching them rise towards the
ceiling, and with his studied supercilious indifference aggravated
my rage to such a degree that I could scarcely restrain myself from
flying at his throat or striking him to the earth with one of the
cane-bottomed chairs in the room.

As soon as he left me, however, I was overwhelmed with remorse at
having behaved in a manner so unseemly. I spent the night in penitent
tears and prayers, and resolved in future to keep a strict watch over
myself, now that the secret enemy of my soul had revealed itself to
me. Nor did I make this resolution a moment too soon. I had hitherto
regarded myself as a person of a somewhat mild and placid disposition;
the sudden change to new influences, and, perhaps also, the secret
disgust I felt at my lot, had quickly developed my true character,
which now become impatient to a degree and prone to sudden violent
outbursts of passion during which I had little control over my tongue.
The perpetual watch over myself and struggle against my evil nature
which had now become necessary was the cause of but half my trouble. I
discovered that my parishioners, with scarcely an exception, possessed
that dull apathetic temper of mind concerning spiritual things, which
had so greatly exasperated me in the man Osuna, and which obstructed
all my efforts to benefit them. These people, or rather their ancestors
centuries ago, had accepted Christianity, but it had never properly
filtered down into their hearts. It was on the surface still; and if
their half-heathen minds were deeply stirred it was not by the story
of the Passion of our Lord, but by some superstitious belief inherited
from their progenitors. During all the years I have spent in Yala I
never said a Mass, never preached a sermon, never attempted to speak of
the consolations of faith, without having the thought thrust on to me
that my words were useless, that I was watering the rock where no seed
could germinate, and wasting my life in vain efforts to impart religion
to souls that were proof against it. Often have I been reminded of
our holy and learned Father Guevara's words, when he complains of the
difficulties encountered by the earlier Jesuit missionaries. He relates
how one endeavoured to impress the Chiriguanos with the danger they
incurred by refusing baptism, picturing to them their future condition
when they would be condemned to everlasting fire. To which they only
replied that they were not disturbed by what he told them, but were,
on the contrary, greatly pleased to hear that the flames of the future
would be unquenchable, for that would save them infinite trouble,
and if they found the fire too hot they would remove themselves to a
proper distance from it. So hard it was for their heathen intellects to
comprehend the solemn doctrines of our faith!


II.

My knowledge of the Quichua language, acquired solely by the study
of the vocabularies, was at first of little advantage to me. I found
myself unable to converse on familiar topics with the people of Yala;
and this was a great difficulty in my way, and a cause of distress for
more reasons than one. I was unprovided with books, or other means of
profit and recreation, and therefore eagerly sought out the few people
in the place able to converse in Spanish, for I have always been fond
of social intercourse. There were only four: one very old man, who
died shortly after my arrival; another was Osuna, a man for whom I had
conceived an unconquerable aversion; the other two were women, the
widow Riquelme and her daughter. About this girl I must speak at some
length, since it is with her fortunes that this narrative is chiefly
concerned. The widow Riquelme was poor, having only a house in Yala,
but with a garden sufficiently large to grow a plentiful provision of
fruit and vegetables, and to feed a few goats, so that these women had
enough to live on, without ostentation, from their plot of ground. They
were of pure Spanish blood; the mother was prematurely old and faded;
Marta, who was a little over fifteen when I arrived at Yala, was the
loveliest being I had ever beheld; though in this matter my opinion
may be biased, for I only saw her side by side with the dark-skinned
coarse-haired Indian women, and compared with their faces of ignoble
type Marta's was like that of an angel. Her features were regular;
her skin white, but with that pale darkness in it seen in some whose
families have lived for generations in tropical countries. Her eyes,
shaded by long lashes, were of that violet tint seen sometimes in
people of Spanish blood--eyes which appear black until looked at
closely. Her hair was, however, the crown of her beauty and chief
glory, for it was of great length and a dark shining gold colour--a
thing wonderful to see!

The society of these two women, who were full of sympathy and
sweetness, promised to be a great boon to me, and I was often with
them; but very soon I discovered that, on the contrary, it was only
about to add a fresh bitterness to my existence. The Christian
affection I felt for this beautiful child insensibly degenerated into
a mundane passion of such overmastering strength that all my efforts
to pluck it out of my heart proved ineffectual. I cannot describe my
unhappy condition during the long months when I vainly wrestled with
this sinful emotion, and when I often thought in the bitterness of my
heart that my God had forsaken me. The fear that the time would come
when my feelings would betray themselves increased on me until at
length, to avoid so great an evil, I was compelled to cease visiting
the only house in Yala where it was a pleasure for me to enter. What
had I done to be thus cruelly persecuted by Satan? was the constant cry
of my soul. Now I know that this temptation was only a part of that
long and desperate struggle in which the servants of the prince of the
power of the air had engaged to overthrow me.

Not for five years did this conflict with myself cease to be a constant
danger--a period which seemed to my mind not less than half a century.
Nevertheless, knowing that idleness is the parent of evil, I was
incessantly occupied; for when there was nothing to call me abroad,
I laboured with my pen at home, filling in this way many volumes,
which in the end may serve to throw some light on the great historical
question of the Incas' Cis-Andine dominion, and its effect on the
conquered nations.

When Marta was twenty years old it became known in Yala that she had
promised her hand in marriage to one Cosme Luna, and of this person a
few words must be said. Like many young men, possessing no property
or occupation, and having no disposition to work, he was a confirmed
gambler, spending all his time going about from town to town to attend
horse-races and cock-fights. I had for a long time regarded him as an
abominable pest in Yala, a wretch possessing a hundred vices under a
pleasing exterior, and not one redeeming virtue, and it was therefore
with the deepest pain that I heard of his success with Marta. The
widow, who was naturally disappointed at her daughter's choice, came to
me with tears and complaints, begging me to assist her in persuading
her beloved child to break off an engagement which promised only to
make her unhappy for life. But with that secret feeling in my heart,
ever-striving to drag me down to my ruin, I dared not help her, albeit,
I would gladly have given my right hand to save Marta from the calamity
of marrying such a man.

The tempest which these tidings had raised in my heart never abated
while the preparations for the marriage were going on. I was forced
now to abandon my work, for I was incapable of thought; nor did all my
religious exercises avail to banish for one moment the strange, sullen
rage which had taken complete possession of me. Night after night I
would rise from my bed and pace the floor of my room for hours, vainly
trying to shut out the promptings of some fiend perpetually urging
me to take some desperate course against this young man. A thousand
schemes for his destruction suggested themselves to my mind, and when
I had resolutely dismissed them all and prayed that my sinful temper
might be forgiven, I would rise from my knees still cursing him a
thousand times more than ever.

In the meantime, Marta herself saw nothing wrong in Cosme, for love had
blinded her. He was young, good looking, could play on the guitar and
sing, and was master of that easy, playful tone in conversation which
is always pleasing to women. Moreover, he dressed well and was generous
with his money, with which he was apparently well provided.

In due time they were married, and Cosme, having no house of his own,
came to live with his mother-in-law in Yala. Then, at length, what I
had foreseen also happened. He ran out of money, and his new relations
had nothing he could lay his hands on to sell. He was too proud to
gamble for coppers, and the poor people of Yala had no silver to risk;
he could not or would not work, and the vacant life he was living began
to grow wearisome. Once more he took to his old courses, and it soon
grew to be a common thing for him to be absent from home for a month or
six weeks at a time. Marta looked unhappy, but would not complain or
listen to a word against Cosme; for whenever he returned to Yala then
his wife's great beauty was like a new thing to him, bringing him to
her feet, and making him again for a brief season her devoted lover and
slave.

She at length became a mother. For her sake I was glad; for now with
her infant boy to occupy her mind Cosme's neglect would seem more
endurable. He was away when the child was born; he had gone, it was
reported, into Catamarca, and for three months nothing was heard of
him. This was a season of political troubles, and men being required to
recruit the forces, all persons found wandering about the country not
engaged in any lawful occupation, were taken for military service. And
this had happened to Cosme. A letter from him reached Marta at last,
informing her that he had been carried away to San Luis, and asking her
to send him two hundred pesos, as with that amount he would be able to
purchase his release. But it was impossible for her to raise the money;
nor could she leave Yala to go to him, for her mother's strength was
now rapidly failing, and Marta could not abandon her to the care of
strangers. All this she was obliged to tell Cosme in the letter she
wrote to him, and which perhaps never reached his hands, for no reply
to it ever came.

At length, the widow Riquelme died; then Marta sold the house and
garden and all she possessed, and taking her child with her, went out
to seek her husband. Travelling first to the town of Jujuy, she there,
with other women, attached herself to a convoy about to start on a
journey to the southern provinces. Several months went by, and then
came the disastrous tidings to Yala that the convoy had been surprised
by Indians in a lonely place and all the people slain.

I will not here dwell on the anguish of mind I endured on learning
Marta's sad end: for I tried hard to believe that her troubled life was
indeed over, although I was often assured by my neighbours that the
Indians invariably spare the women and children.

Every blow dealt by a cruel destiny against this most unhappy woman
had pierced my heart; and during the years that followed, and when the
villagers had long ceased to speak of her, often in the dead of the
night I rose and sought the house where she had lived, and walking
under the trees in that garden where I had so often held intercourse
with her, indulged a grief which time seemed powerless to mitigate.


III.

Marta was not dead; but what happened to her after her departure from
Yala was this. When the convoy with which she journeyed was attacked
the men only were slain, while the women and children were carried away
into captivity. When the victors divided the spoil among themselves,
the child, which even in that long painful journey into the desert,
with the prospect of a life of cruel slavery before her, had been a
comfort to Marta, was taken forcibly from her arms to be conveyed
to some distant place, and from that moment she utterly lost sight
of it. She herself was bought by an Indian able to pay for a pretty
white captive, and who presently made her his wife. She, a Christian,
the wife of a man loved only too well, could not endure this horrible
fate which had overtaken her. She was also mad with grief at the loss
of her child, and stealing out one dark stormy night she fled from
the Indian settlement. For several days and nights she wandered about
the desert, suffering every hardship and in constant fear of jaguars,
and was at length found by the savages in a half-starved condition
and unable longer to fly from them. Her owner, when she was restored
to him, had no mercy on her: he bound her to a tree growing beside
his hovel, and there every day he cruelly scourged her naked flesh to
satisfy his barbarous resentment, until she was ready to perish with
excessive suffering. He also cut off her hair, and braiding it into a
belt wore it always round his waist,--a golden trophy which doubtless
won him great honour and distinction amongst his fellow savages. When
he had by these means utterly broken her spirit and reduced her to the
last condition of weakness, he released her from the tree, but at the
same time fastened a log of wood to her ankle, so that only with great
labour, and drawing herself along with the aid of her hands, could
she perform the daily tasks her master imposed on her. Only after a
whole year of captivity, and when she had given birth to a child, was
the punishment over and her foot released from the log. The natural
affection which she felt for this child of a father so cruel was now
poor Marta's only comfort. In this hard servitude five years of her
miserable existence were consumed; and only those who know the stern,
sullen, pitiless character of the Indian can imagine what this period
was for Marta, without sympathy from her fellow-creatures, with no hope
and no pleasure beyond the pleasure of loving and caressing her own
infant savages. Of these she was now the mother of three.

When her youngest was not many months old Marta had one day wandered
some distance in search of sticks for firewood, when a woman, one of
her fellow-captives from Jujuy, came running to her, for she had been
watching for an opportunity of speaking with Marta. It happened that
this woman had succeeded in persuading her Indian husband to take her
back to her home in the Christian country, and she had at the same
time won his consent to take Marta with them, having conceived a great
affection for her. The prospect of escape filled poor Marta's heart
with joy, but when she was told that her children could on no account
be taken, then a cruel struggle commenced in her breast. Bitterly she
pleaded for permission to take her babes, and at last overcome by her
importunity her fellow-captive consented to her taking the youngest of
the three; though this concession was made very reluctantly.

In a short time the day appointed for the flight arrived, and Marta
carrying her infant met her friends in the wood. They were quickly
mounted, and the journey began which was to last for many days, and
during which they were to suffer much from hunger, thirst and fatigue.
One dark night as they journeyed through a hilly and wooded country,
Marta being overcome with fatigue so that she could scarcely keep her
seat, the Indian with affected kindness relieved her of the child she
always carried in her arms. An hour passed, and then pressing forward
to his side and asking for her child she was told that it had been
dropped into a deep, swift stream over which they had swam their horses
some time before. Of what happened after that she was unable to give
any very clear account. She only dimly remembered that through many
days of scorching heat and many nights of weary travel she was always
piteously pleading for her lost child--always seeming to hear it crying
to her to save it from destruction. The long journey ended at last.
She was left by the others at the first Christian settlement they
reached, after which travelling slowly from village to village she made
her way to Yala. Her old neighbours and friends did not know her at
first, but when they were at length convinced that it was indeed Marta
Riquelme that stood before them she was welcomed like one returned from
the grave. I heard of her arrival, and hastening forth to greet her
found her seated before a neighbour's house already surrounded by half
the people of the village.

Was this woman indeed Marta, once the pride of Yala! It was hard to
believe it, so darkened with the burning suns and winds of years was
her face, once so fair; so wasted and furrowed with grief and the many
hardships she had undergone! Her figure, worn almost to a skeleton, was
clothed with ragged garments, while her head, bowed down with sorrow
and despair, was divested of that golden crown which had been her chief
ornament. Seeing me arrive she cast herself on her knees before me and
taking my hand in hers covered it with tears and kisses. The grief I
felt at the sight of her forlorn condition mingled with joy for her
deliverance from death and captivity overcame me; I was shaken like a
reed in the wind, and covering my face with my robe I sobbed aloud in
the presence of all the people.


IV.

Everything that charity could dictate was done to alleviate her misery.
A merciful woman of Yala received her into her house and provided
her with decent garments. But a for time nothing served to raise her
desponding spirits; she still grieved for her lost babe, and seemed
ever in fancy listening to its piteous cries for help. When assured
that Cosme would return in due time that alone gave her comfort. She
believed what they told her, for it agreed with her wish, and by
degrees the effects of her terrible experience began to wear off,
giving place to a feeling of feverish impatience with which she looked
forward to her husband's return. With this feeling, which I did all
I could to encourage, perceiving it to be the only remedy against
despair, came also a new anxiety about her personal appearance. She
grew careful in her dress, and made the most of her short and sunburnt
hair. Beauty she could never recover; but she possessed good features
which could not be altered; her eyes also retained their violet colour,
and hope brought back to her something of the vanished expression of
other years.

At length, when she had been with us over a year, one day there came a
report that Cosme had arrived, that he had been seen in Yala, and had
alighted at Andrada's door--the store in the main road. She heard it
and rose up with a great cry of joy. He had come to her at last--he
would comfort her! She could not wait for his arrival: what wonder!
Hurrying forth she flew like the wind through the village, and in
a few moments stood on Andrada's threshold, panting from her race,
her cheeks glowing, all the hope and life and fire of her girlhood
rushing back to her heart. There she beheld Cosme, changed but little,
surrounded by his old companions, listening in silence and with a
dismayed countenance to the story of Marta's sufferings in the great
desert, of her escape and return to Yala, where she had been received
like one come back from the sepulchre. Presently they caught sight of
her standing there. "Here is Marta herself arrived in good time," they
cried. "Behold your wife!"

He shook himself from them with a strange laugh. "What, that woman
my wife--Marta Riquelme!" he replied. "No, no, my friends, be not
deceived; Marta perished long ago in the desert, where I have been to
seek for her. Of her death I have no doubt; let me pass."

He pushed by her, left her standing there motionless as a statue,
unable to utter a word, and was quickly on his horse riding away from
Yala.

Then suddenly she recovered possession of her faculties, and with a
cry of anguish hurried after him, imploring him to return to her; but
finding that he would not listen to her she was overcome with despair
and fell upon the earth insensible. She was taken up by the people who
had followed her out and carried back into the house. Unhappily she was
not dead, and when she recovered consciousness it was pitiful to hear
the excuses she invented for the remorseless wretch who had abandoned
her. She was altered, she said, greatly altered--it was not strange
that Cosme had refused to believe that she could be the Marta of six
years ago! In her heart she knew that nobody was deceived: to all Yala
it was patent that she had been deserted. She could not endure it, and
when she met people in the street she lowered her eyes and passed on,
pretending not to see them. Most of her time was spent indoors, and
there she would sit for hours without speaking or stirring, her cheeks
resting on her hands, her eyes fixed on vacancy. My heart bled for her;
morning and evening I remembered her in my prayers; by every argument I
sought to cheer her drooping spirit, even telling her that the beauty
and freshness of her youth would return to her in time, and that her
husband would repent and come back to her.

These efforts were fruitless. Before many days she disappeared from
Yala, and though diligent search was made in the adjacent mountains
she could not be found. Knowing how empty and desolate her life had
been, deprived of every object of affection, I formed the opinion that
she had gone back to the desert to seek the tribe where she had been a
captive in the hope of once more seeing her lost children. At length,
when all expectation of ever seeing her again had been abandoned, a
person named Montero came to me with tidings of her. He was a poor
man, a charcoal-burner, and lived with his wife and children in the
forest about two hour's journey from Yala, at a distance from any other
habitation. Finding Marta wandering lost in the woods he had taken
her to his rancho, and she had been pleased to find this shelter,
away from the people of Yala who knew her history; and it was at
Marta's own request that this good man had ridden to the village to
inform me of her safety. I was greatly relieved to hear all this, and
thought that Marta had acted wisely in escaping from the villagers,
who were always pointing her out and repeating her wonderful history.
In that sequestered spot where she had taken refuge, removed from sad
associations and gossiping tongues, the wounds in her heart would
perhaps gradually heal and peace return to her perturbed spirit.

Before many weeks had elapsed, however, Montero's wife came to me with
a very sad account of Marta. She had grown day by day more silent and
solitary in her habits, spending most of her time in some secluded spot
among the trees, where she would sit motionless, brooding over her
memories for hours at a time. Nor was this the worst. Occasionally
she would make an effort to assist in the household work, preparing
the patay or maize for the supper, or going out with Montero's wife to
gather firewood in the forest. But suddenly, in the middle of her task,
she would drop her bundle of sticks and, casting herself on the earth,
break forth into the most heart-rending cries and lamentations, loudly
exclaiming that God had unjustly persecuted her, that He was a being
filled with malevolence, and speaking many things against Him very
dreadful to hear. Deeply distressed at these tidings I called for my
mule and accompanied the poor woman back to her own house; but when we
arrived there Marta could nowhere be found.

Most willingly would I have remained to see her, and try once more to
win her back from these desponding moods, but I was compelled to return
to Yala. For it happened that a fever epidemic had recently broken out
and spread over the country, so that hardly a day passed without its
long journey to perform and deathbed to attend. Often during those
days, worn out with fatigue and want of sleep, I would dismount from my
mule and rest for a season against a rock or tree, wishing for death
to come and release me from so sad an existence.

When I left Montero's house I charged him to send me news of Marta as
soon as they should find her; but for several days I heard nothing.
At length word came that they had discovered her hiding-place in the
forest, but could not induce her to leave it, or even to speak to them;
and they implored me to go to them, for they were greatly troubled at
her state, and knew not what to do.

Once more I went out to seek her; and this was the saddest journey
of all, for even the elements were charged with unusual gloom, as if
to prepare my mind for some unimaginable calamity. Rain, accompanied
by terrific thunder and lightning, had been falling in torrents for
several days, so that the country was all but impassable: the swollen
streams roared between the hills, dragging down rocks and trees, and
threatening, whenever we were compelled to ford them, to carry us away
to destruction. The rain had ceased, but the whole sky was covered
by a dark motionless cloud, unpierced by a single ray of sunshine.
The mountains, wrapped in blue vapours, loomed before us, vast and
desolate; and the trees, in that still, thick atmosphere, were like
figures of trees hewn out of solid ink-black rock and set up in some
shadowy subterranean region to mock its inhabitants with an imitation
of the upper world.

At length we reached Montero's hut, and, followed by all the family,
went to look for Marta. The place where she had concealed herself was
in a dense wood half a league from the house, and the ascent to it
being steep and difficult Montero was compelled to walk before, leading
my mule by the bridle. At length we came to the spot where they had
discovered her, and there, in the shadow of the woods, we found Marta
still in the same place, seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, which
was sodden with the rain and half buried under great creepers and
masses of dead and rotting foliage. She was in a crouching attitude,
her feet gathered under her garments, which were now torn to rags and
fouled with clay; her elbows were planted on her drawn-up knees, and
her long bony fingers thrust into her hair, which fell in tangled
disorder over her face. To this pitiable condition had she been brought
by great and unmerited sufferings.

Seeing her, a cry of compassion escaped my lips, and casting myself off
my mule I advanced towards her. As I approached she raised her eyes
to mine, and then I stood still, transfixed with amazement and horror
at what I saw; for they were no longer those soft violet orbs which
had retained until recently their sweet pathetic expression; now they
were round and wild-looking, opened to thrice their ordinary size, and
filled with a lurid yellow fire, giving them a resemblance to the eyes
of some hunted savage animal.

"Great God, she has lost her reason!" I cried; then falling on my
knees I disengaged the crucifix from my neck with trembling hands, and
endeavoured to hold it up before her sight. This movement appeared
to infuriate her; the insane, desolate eyes, from which all human
expression had vanished, became like two burning balls, which seemed to
shoot out sparks of fire; her short hair rose up until it stood like an
immense crest on her head; and suddenly bringing down her skeleton-like
hands she thrust the crucifix violently from her, uttering at the same
time a succession of moans and cries that pierced my heart with pain to
hear. And presently flinging up her arms, she burst forth into shrieks
so terrible in the depth of agony they expressed that overcome by the
sound I sank upon the earth and hid my face. The others, who were close
behind me, did likewise, for no human soul could endure those cries,
the remembrance of which, even now after many years, causes the blood
to run cold in my veins.

"The Kakué! The Kakué!" exclaimed Montero, who was close behind me.

Recalled to myself by these words I raised my eyes only to discover
that Marta was no longer before me. For even in that moment, when those
terrible cries were ringing through my heart, waking the echoes of the
mountain solitudes, the awful change had come, and she had looked her
last with human eyes on earth and on man! In another form--that strange
form of the Kakué--she had fled out of our sight for ever to hide in
those gloomy woods which were henceforth to be her dwelling place.
And I--most miserable of men, what had I done that all my prayers and
strivings had been thus frustrated, that out of my very hands the
spirit of the power of darkness had thus been permitted to wrest this
unhappy soul from me!

I rose up trembling from the earth, the tears pouring unchecked down
my cheeks, while the members of Montero's family gathered round me
and clung to my garments. Night closed on us, black as despair and
death, and with the greatest difficulty we made our way back through
the woods. But I would not remain at the rancho; at the risk of my
life I returned to Yala, and all through that dark solitary ride I was
incessantly crying out to God to have mercy on me. Towards midnight I
reached the village in safety, but the horror with which that unheard
of tragedy infected me, the fears and the doubts which dared not yet
shape themselves into words, remained in my breast to torture me.
For days I could neither eat nor sleep. I was reduced to a skeleton
and my hair began to turn white before its time. Being now incapable
of performing my duties, and believing that death was approaching I
yearned once more for the city of my birth. I escaped at length from
Yala, and with great difficulty reached the town of Jujuy, and from
thence by slow stages I journeyed back to Cordova.


V.

"Once more do I behold thee, O Cordova, beautiful to my eyes as the
new Jerusalem coming down from Heaven to those who have witnessed the
resurrection! Here, where my life began, may I now be allowed to lie
down in peace, like a tired child that falls asleep on its mother's
breast."

Thus did I apostrophize my natal city, when, looking from the height
above, I at last saw it before me, girdled with purple hills and bright
with the sunshine, the white towers of the many churches springing out
of the green mist of groves and gardens.

Nevertheless Providence ordained that in Cordova I was to find life and
not death. Surrounded by old beloved friends, worshipping in the old
church I knew so well, health returned to me, and I was like one who
rises after a night of evil dreams and goes forth to feel the sunshine
and fresh wind on his face. I told the strange story of Marta to one
person only; this was Father Irala, a learned and discreet man of
great piety, and one high in authority in the church at Cordova. I was
astonished that he was able to listen calmly to the things I related;
he spoke some consoling words, but made no attempt then or afterwards
to throw any light on the mystery. In Cordova a great cloud seemed to
be lifted from my mind which left my faith unimpaired; I was once more
cheerful and happy--happier than I had ever been since leaving it.
Three months went by; then Irala told me one day that it was time for
me to return to Yala, for my health being restored there was nothing to
keep me longer from my flock.

O that flock, that flock, in which for me there had been only one
precious lamb!

I was greatly disquieted; all those nameless doubts and fears which
had left me now seemed returning; I begged him to spare me, to send
some younger man, ignorant of the matters I had imparted to him,
to take my place. He replied that for the very reason that I was
acquainted with those matters I was the only fit person to go to Yala.
Then in my agitation I unburdened my heart to him. I spoke of that
heathenish apathy of the people I had struggled in vain to overcome,
of the temptations I had encountered--the passion of anger and earthly
love, the impulse to commit some terrible crime. Then had come the
tragedy of Marta Riquelme, and the spiritual world had seemed to
resolve itself into a chaos where Christ was powerless to save; in my
misery and despair my reason had almost forsaken me and I had fled
from the country. In Cordova hope had revived, my prayers had brought
an immediate response, and the Author of salvation seemed to be near
to me. Here in Cordova, I said in conclusion, was life, but in the
soul-destroying atmosphere of Yala death eternal.

"Brother Sepulvida," he answered, "we know all your sufferings and
suffer with you; nevertheless you must return to Yala. Though there in
the enemy's country, in the midst of the fight, when hard pressed and
wounded, you have perhaps doubted God's omnipotence, He calls you to
the front again, where He will be with you and fight at your side. It
is for you, not for us, to find the solution of those mysteries which
have troubled you; and that you have already come near to the solution
your own words seem to show. Remember that we are here not for our own
pleasure, but to do our Master's work; that the highest reward will
not be for those who sit in the cool shade, book in hand, but for the
toilers in the field who are suffering the burden and heat of the day.
Return to Yala and be of good heart, and in due time all things will be
made clear to your understanding."

These words gave me some comfort, and meditating much on them I took my
departure from Cordova, and in due time arrived at my destination.

I had, on quitting Yala, forbidden Montero and his wife to speak of the
manner of Marta's disappearance, believing that it would be better for
my people to remain in ignorance of such a matter; but now, when going
about in the village on my return I found that it was known to every
one. That "Marta had become a Kakué," was mentioned on all sides; yet
it did not affect them with astonishment and dismay that this should
be so, it was merely an event for idle women to chatter about, like
Quiteria's elopement or Maxima's quarrel with her mother-in-law.

It was now the hottest season of the year, when it was impossible to
be very active, or much out of doors. During those days the feeling of
despondence began again to weigh heavily on my heart. I pondered on
Irala's words, and prayed continually, but the illumination he had
prophesied came not. When I preached, my voice was like the buzzing
of summer flies to the people: they came or sat or knelt on the floor
of the church, and heard me with stolid unmoved countenances, then
went forth again unchanged in heart. After the morning Mass I would
return to my house, and, sitting alone in my room, pass the sultry
hours, immersed in melancholy thoughts, having no inclination to work.
At such times the image of Marta, in all the beauty of her girlhood,
crowned with her shining golden hair, would rise before me, until the
tears gathering in my eyes would trickle through my fingers. Then too
I often recalled that terrible scene in the wood--the crouching figure
in its sordid rags, the glaring furious eyes,--again those piercing
shrieks seemed to ring through me, and fill the dark mountain's forest
with echoes, and I would start up half maddened with the sensations of
horror renewed within me.

And one day, while sitting in my room, with these memories for only
company, all at once a voice in my soul told me that the end was
approaching, that the crisis was come, and that to whichever side I
fell, there I should remain through all eternity. I rose up from my
seat staring straight before me, like one who sees an assassin enter
his apartment dagger in hand and who nerves himself for the coming
struggle. Instantly all my doubts, my fears, my unshapen thoughts found
expression, and with a million tongues shrieked out in my soul against
my Redeemer. I called aloud on Him to save me, but He came not; and
the spirits of darkness, enraged at my long resistance, had violently
seized on my soul, and were dragging it down perdition. I reached forth
my hands and took hold of the crucifix standing near me, and clung to
it as a drowning mariner does to a floating spar. "Cast it down!" cried
out a hundred devils in my ear. "Trample under foot this symbol of a
slavery which has darkened your life and made earth a hell! He that
died on the cross is powerless now; miserably do they perish who put
their trust in Him! Remember Marta Riquelme, and save yourself from her
fate while there is time."

My hands relaxed their hold on the cross, and falling on the stones,
I cried aloud to the Lord to slay me and take my soul, for by death
only could I escape from that great crime my enemies were urging me to
commit.

Scarcely had I pronounced these words before I felt that the fiends had
left me, like ravening wolves scared from their quarry. I rose up and
washed the blood from my bruised forehead, and praised God; for now
there was a great calm in my heart, and I knew that He who died to save
the world was with me, and that His grace had enabled me to conquer and
deliver my own soul from perdition.

From that time I began to see the meaning of Irala's words, that it was
for me and not for him to find the solution of the mysteries which had
troubled me, and that I had already come near to finding it. I also saw
the reason of that sullen resistance to religion in the minds of the
people of Yala; of the temptations which had assailed me--the strange
tempests of anger and the carnal passions, never experienced elsewhere,
and which had blown upon my heart like hot blighting winds; and even
of all the events of Marta Riquelme's tragic life; for all these
things had been ordered with devilish cunning to drive my soul into
rebellion. I no longer dwelt persistently on that isolated event of
her transformation, for now the whole action of that tremendous warfare
in which the powers of darkness are arrayed against the messengers of
the Gospel began to unfold itself before me.

In thought I went back to the time, centuries ago, when as yet not one
ray of heavenly light had fallen upon this continent; when men bowed
down in worship to gods, which they called in their several languages
Pachacamac, Viracocho, and many others; names which being translated
mean, The All-powerful, Ruler of Men, The Strong Comer, Lord of the
Dead, The Avenger. These were not mythical beings; they were mighty
spiritual entities, differing from each other in character, some
taking delight in wars and destruction, while others regarded their
human worshippers with tolerant and even kindly feelings. And because
of this belief in powerful benevolent beings some learned Christian
writers have held that the aborigines possessed a knowledge of the
true God, albeit obscured by many false notions. This is a manifest
error; for if in the material world light and darkness cannot mingle,
much less can the Supreme Ruler stoop to share His sovereignty with
Belial and Moloch, or in this continent, with Tupa and Viracocho:
but all these demons, great and small, and known by various names,
were angels of darkness who had divided amongst themselves this new
world and the nations dwelling in it. Nor need we be astonished at
finding here resemblance to the true religion--majestic and graceful
touches suggesting the Divine Artist; for Satan himself is clothed
as an angel of light, and scruples not to borrow the things invented
by the Divine Intelligence. These spirits possessed unlimited power
and authority; their service was the one great business of all men's
lives; individual character and natural feelings were crushed out by
an implacable despotism, and no person dreamed of disobedience to
their decrees, interpreted by their high priests; but all men were
engaged in raising colossal temples, enriched with gold and precious
stones, to their honour, and priests and virgins in tens of thousands
conducted their worship with a pomp and magnificence surpassing those
of ancient Egypt or Babylon. Nor can we doubt that these beings often
made use of their power to suspend the order of nature, transforming
men into birds and beasts, causing the trembling of the earth which
ruins whole cities, and performing many other stupendous miracles to
demonstrate their authority or satisfy their malignant natures. The
time came when it pleased the Ruler of the world to overthrow this evil
empire, using for that end the ancient, feeble instruments despised of
men, the missionary priests, and chiefly those of the often persecuted
Brotherhood founded by Loyola, whose zeal and holiness have always been
an offence to the proud and carnal-minded. Country after country, tribe
after tribe, the old gods were deprived of their kingdom, fighting
always with all their weapons to keep back the tide of conquest.
And at length, defeated at all points, and like an army fighting in
defence of its territory, and gradually retiring before the invader to
concentrate itself in some apparently inaccessible region and there
stubbornly resist to the end; so have all the old gods and demons
retired into this secluded country, where, if they cannot keep out the
seeds of truth they have at least succeeded in rendering the soil it
falls upon barren as stone. Nor does it seem altogether strange that
these once potent beings should be satisfied to remain in comparative
obscurity and inaction when the entire globe is open to them, offering
fields worthy of their evil ambition. For great as their power and
intelligence must be they are, nevertheless, finite beings, possessing
like man, individual characteristics, capabilities and limitations;
and after reigning where they have lost a continent, they may possibly
be unfit or unwilling to serve elsewhere. For we know that even in the
strong places of Christianity there are spirits enough for the evil
work of leading men astray; whole nations are given up to damnable
heresies, and all religion is trodden under foot by many whose portion
will be where the worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched.

From the moment of my last struggle, when this revelation began to
dawn upon my mind, I have been safe from their persecutions. No angry
passions, no sinful motions, no doubts and despondence disturb the
peace of my soul. I was filled with fresh zeal, and in the pulpit felt
that it was not my voice, but the voice of some mighty spirit speaking
with my lips and preaching to the people with an eloquence of which I
was not capable. So far, however, it has been powerless to win their
souls. The old gods, although no longer worshipped openly, are their
gods still, and could a new Tupac Amaru arise to pluck down the symbols
of Christianity, and proclaim once more the Empire of the Sun, men
would everywhere bow down to worship his rising beams and joyfully
rebuild temples to the Lightning and the Rainbow.

Although the lost spirits cannot harm they are always near me,
watching all my movements, ever striving to frustrate my designs. Nor
am I unmindful of their presence. Even here, sitting in my study and
looking out on the mountains, rising like stupendous stairs towards
heaven and losing their summits in the gathering clouds, I seem to
discern the awful shadowy form of Pachacamac, supreme among the old
gods. Though his temples are in ruins, where the Pharaohs of the Andes
and their millions of slaves worshipped him for a thousand years, he
is awful still in his majesty and wrath that plays like lightning on
his furrowed brows, kindling his stern countenance, and the beard
which rolls downward like an immense white cloud to his knees. Around
him gather other tremendous forms in their cloudy vestments--the
Strongcomer, the Lord of the Dead, the Avenger, the Ruler of men, and
many others whose names were once mighty throughout the continent.
They have met to take counsel together; I hear their voices in the
thunder hoarsely rolling from the hills, and in the wind stirring the
forest before the coming tempest. Their faces are towards me, they are
pointing to me with their cloudy hands, they are speaking of me--even
of me, an old, feeble, worn-out man! But I do not quail before them; my
soul is firm though my flesh is weak; though my knees tremble while I
gaze, I dare look forward even to win another victory over them before
I depart.

Day and night I pray for that soul still wandering lost in the great
wilderness; and no voice rebukes my hope or tells me that my prayer is
unlawful. I strain my eyes gazing out towards the forest; but I know
not whether Marta Riquelme will return to me with the tidings of her
salvation in a dream of the night, or clothed in the garments of the
flesh, in the full light of day. For her salvation I wait, and when I
have seen it I shall be ready to depart; for as the traveller, whose
lips are baked with hot winds, and who thirsts for a cooling draught
and swallows sand, strains his eyeballs to see the end of his journey
in some great desert, so do I look forward to the goal of this life,
when I shall go to Thee, O my Master, and be at rest!




APPENDIX TO EL OMBÚ.

THE ENGLISH INVASION AND THE GAME OF EL PATO.


I must say at once that El Ombú is mostly a true story, although the
events did not occur exactly in the order given. The incidents relating
to the English invasion of June and July, 1807, is told pretty much as
I had it from the old gaucho called Nicandro in the narrative. That
was in the sixties. The undated notes which I made of my talks with
the old man, containing numerous anecdotes of Santos Ugarte and the
whole history of El Ombú, were written, I think, in 1868--the year of
the great dust storm. These ancient notes are now before me, and look
very strange, both as to the writing and the quality of the paper;
also as to the dirtiness of the same, which makes me think that the
old manuscript must have been out in that memorable storm, which, I
remember, ended with rain--the rain coming down as liquid mud.

There were other old men living in that part of the country who, as
boys, had witnessed the march of an English army on Buenos Ayres, and
one of these confirmed the story of the blankets thrown away by the
army, and of the chaff between some of the British soldiers and the
natives.

I confess I had some doubts as to the truth of this blanket story when
I came to read over my old notes; but in referring to the proceedings
of the court-martial on Lieutenant-General Whitelocke, published in
London in 1808, I find that the incident is referred to. On page 57 of
the first volume occurs the following statement, made by General Gower
in his evidence. "The men, particularly of Brigadier-General Lumley's
brigade, were very much exhausted, and Lieutenant-General Whitelocke,
to give them a chance of getting on with tolerable rapidity, ordered
all the blankets of the army to be thrown down."

There is nothing, however, in the evidence about the blankets having
been used to make a firmer bottom for the army to cross a river, nor is
the name of the river mentioned.

Another point in the old gaucho's story may strike the English reader
as very strange and almost incredible; this is, that within a very
few miles of the army of the hated foreign invader, during its march
on the capital, where the greatest excitement prevailed and every
preparation for defence was being made, a large number of men were
amusing themselves at the game of El Pato. To those who are acquainted
with the character of the gaucho there is nothing incredible in such a
fact; for the gaucho is, or was, absolutely devoid of the sentiment of
patriotism, and regarded all rulers, all in authority from the highest
to the lowest, as his chief enemies, and the worst kind of robbers,
since they robbed him not only of his goods but of his liberty.

It mattered not to him whether his country paid tribute to Spain or to
England, whether a man appointed by someone at a distance as Governor
or Viceroy had black or blue eyes. It was seen that when the Spanish
dominion came to an end his hatred was transferred to the ruling
cliques of a so-called Republic. When the gauchos attached themselves
to Rosas, and assisted him to climb into power, they were under the
delusion that he was one of themselves, and would give them that
perfect liberty to live their own lives in their own way, which is
their only desire. They found out their mistake when it was too late.

It was Rosas who abolished the game of El Pato, but before saying more
on that point it would be best to describe the game. I have never
seen an account of it in print, but for a very long period, and down
to probably about 1840, it was the most popular out-door game on the
Argentine pampas. Doubtless it originated there; it was certainly
admirably suited to the habits and disposition of the horsemen of the
plains; and unlike most out-door games it retained its original simple,
rude character to the end.

Pato means duck; and to play the game a duck or fowl, or, as was
usually the case, some larger domestic bird--turkey, gosling, or
muscovy duck--was killed and sewn up in a piece of stout raw hide,
forming a somewhat shapeless ball, twice as big as a football, and
provided with four loops or handles of strong twisted raw hide made of
a convenient size to be grasped by a man's hand. A great point was to
have the ball and handles so strongly made that three or four powerful
men could take hold and tug until they dragged each other to the ground
without anything giving way.

Whenever it was resolved at any place to have a game, and someone
had offered to provide the bird, and the meeting place had been
settled, notice would be sent round among the neighbours; and at the
appointed time all the men and youths living within a circle of several
leagues would appear on the spot, mounted on their best horses. On
the appearance of the man on the ground carrying the duck the others
would give chase; and by-and-by he would be overtaken, and the ball
wrested from his hand; the victor in his turn would be pursued, and
when overtaken there would perhaps be a scuffle or scrimmage, as in
football, only the strugglers would be first on horseback before
dragging each other to the earth. Occasionally when this happened a
couple of hot-headed players, angry at being hurt or worsted, would
draw their weapons against each other in order to find who was in the
right, or to prove which was the better man. But fight or no fight,
someone would get the duck and carry it away to be chased again.
Leagues of ground would be gone over by the players in this way, and
at last some one, luckier or better mounted than his fellows, would
get the duck and successfully run the gauntlet of the people scattered
about on the plain, and make good his escape. He was the victor, and
it was his right to carry the bird home and have it for his dinner.
This was, however, a mere fiction; the man who carried off the duck
made for the nearest house, followed by all the others, and there not
only the duck was cooked, but a vast amount of meat to feed the whole
of the players. While the dinner was in preparation, messengers would
be despatched to neighbouring houses to invite the women; and on their
arrival dancing would be started and kept up all night.

To the gauchos of the great plains, who took to the back of a horse
from childhood, almost as spontaneously as a parasite to the animal on
which it feeds, the pato was the game of games, and in their country
as much as cricket and football and golf together to the inhabitants
of this island. Nor could there have been any better game for men
whose existence, or whose success in life, depended so much on their
horsemanship; and whose chief glory it was to be able to stick on
under difficulties, and, when sticking on was impossible, to fall off
gracefully and like a cat, on their feet. To this game the people of
the pampa were devoted up to a time when it came into the head of a
president of the republic to have no more of it, and with a stroke of
the pen it was abolished for ever.

It would take a strong man in this country to put down any out-door
game to which the people are attached; and he was assuredly a very
strong man who did away with El Pato in that land. If any other man
who has occupied the position of head of the State at any time during
the last ninety years, had attempted such a thing a universal shout of
derision would have been the result, and wherever such an absurd decree
had appeared pasted up on the walls and doors of churches, shops, and
other public places, the gauchos would have been seen filling their
mouths with water to squirt it over the despised paper. But this man
was more than a president; he was that Rosas, called by his enemies
the 'Nero of America.' Though by birth a member of a distinguished
family, he was by predilection a gaucho, and early in life took
to the semi-barbarous life of the plains. Among his fellows Rosas
distinguished himself as a dare-devil, one who was not afraid to throw
himself from the back of his own horse on to that of a wild horse in
the midst of a flying herd into which he had charged. He had all the
gaucho's native ferocity, his fierce hates and prejudices; and it was
in fact his intimate knowledge of the people he lived with, his oneness
in mind with them, that gave him his wonderful influence over them, and
enabled him to carry out his ambitious schemes. But why, when he had
succeeded in making himself all-powerful by means of their help, when
he owed them so much, and the ties uniting him to them were so close,
did he deprive them of their beloved pastime? The reason, which will
sound almost ridiculous after what I have said of the man's character,
was that he considered the game too rough. It is true that it had
(for him) its advantages, since it made the men of the plains hardy,
daring, resourceful fighters on horseback--the kind of men he most
needed for his wars; on the other hand, it caused so much injury to the
players, and resulted in so many bloody fights and fierce feuds between
neighbours that he considered he lost more than he gained by it.

There were not men enough in the country for his wants; even boys of
twelve and fourteen were sometimes torn from the arms of their weeping
mothers to be made soldiers of; he could not afford to have full-grown
strong men injuring and killing each other for their own amusement.
They must, like good citizens, sacrifice their pleasure for their
country's sake. And at length, when his twenty years' reign was over,
when people were again free to follow their own inclinations without
fear of bullet and cold steel--it was generally cold steel in those
days--those who had previously played the game had had roughness enough
in their lives, and now only wanted rest and ease; while the young men
and youths who had not taken part in El Pato nor seen it played, had
never come under its fascination, and had no wish to see it revived.