The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales. Reid Mayne
firing the shot that had disembarrassed him of his enemy.
“Are you safe?” I inquired, in the best Mexican-Spanish I could command. “He has not succeeded in – ?”
“Strike, villain! through my heart, if you will. Ah! Dolores! Better my death, and yours – better far be in your grave than in the embrace of Ramon Rayas! O Santissima Madre! – I die – I die! Mother of God protect —Lola! – Lolita! quer-i-da herm…”
The last phrase was pronounced in a whisper, gradually growing so indistinct that I could not make certain of the final words, though with my ear close to the lips of the speaker.
His voice was no longer heard even in whispers.
I raised my head, and looked down upon the face of Calros Vergara. His lips moved no more. His eyes still open, and glistening under the light of the moon, seemed no longer to see, no more to mistake me for his enemy. He appeared to be dead.
Story 1, Chapter IV
An Angel Voice
For some seconds I hung over what I supposed to be an inanimate form; it was that of a mere youth, and fair to behold, as was also the face, which was conspicuously upturned to the light of the moon. Notwithstanding its deathly pallor, it exhibited a fine type of manly beauty. The features were regular, the complexion brown, the cheek soft and smooth, the upper lip darkly bedecked with the young growth of virility, the eye rotund and of noble expression, the forehead framed in a garland of glossy black hair, whose luxuriant curls drooped down upon each side of the full rounded throat – all these I saw at a single glance. I saw also a faultless figure, habited in the costume of a peasant rather than of a soldier, but a peasant of a peculiar people, the Jarochos. In the words lately proceeding from the lips of the unfortunate youth, I had recognised the patois of this people, and was not surprised at seeing a richly-embroidered shirt of the finest linen, neatly fitting over the young man’s breast, a sash of China crape around the waist, calzoneros of velveteen, with rows of bell-buttons, and boots with spurs attached, apparently of silver.
Striking and rich as was the costume, it was still only that of the Mexican peasant. A few peculiarities, such at; the hat of palm-sinnet, and the checked kerchief, that had covered the back part of the head, both lying near, denoted their ci-devant wearer to be a denizen of the coast lands – in short, a “Jarocho.”
These observations did not detain me, or only for a second of time, as I bent down over the prostrate form. My whole design was to examine the wound which I supposed to have been given by the robber, and which I really believed to have caused the Jarocho’s death.
To my astonishment, I could discover no wound, at least none that was fresh. There was a blotch of coagulated blood on the left thigh, darker in the centre as seen through the torn calzoneros; but this was from the wound received in battle.
Where was that just given by the sword of the Salteador? Certainly I saw stains of blood recently spilt. There were several spots upon the white linen shirt, besprinkling the plaits upon the bosom, and others upon the sleeves; also the cheeks of the youth showed a drop or two on their pallid ground.
Whence had these blood-drops proceeded?
I could not guess. I could discover no recent stab on the Jarocho’s body, not a scratch to account for them!
Had the robber, after all, failed in his fatal thrust? Had the death of his intended victim been caused by the shot-wound in the thigh, hastened by the terror of that horrid threat?
While thus conjecturing, my eye fell upon an object glancing through the grass. I stooped down and took it up. It was a macheté– half sword, half hunting-knife – to be met with in every Mexican house, or seen hanging on the hip of every Mexican cavallero.
Was it the weapon of the wounded man, or that I had lately seen in the hand of his enemy?
I took it up to examine it. The blade was bright: not a speck appeared on its polished surface!
Between my fingers, as they grasped the hilt of riveted horn, I felt something wet. Was it dew from the grass?
No. The moonlight fell upon something darker than dew. Both the haft of the weapon and my fingers encircling it were red as rubies. It was blood, and fresh from the veins of a human being!
As it could not be the blood of Calros, I concluded it must be that of Ramon Rayas. My bullet must have been true to its aim.
While thus occupied with conjectures, a new voice fell upon my ear, as different from either of those lately listened to as music from the rudest noise.
“Calros! dear Calros!” called the voice, “was it you I heard? Speak, Calros! valga me Dios! That shot! Surely it was not for him? No – no – I heard him speaking after it. Calros! Answer me, if you are near. It is I who call – I, your own Lola!”
Had it been the voice of an angel coming out of the chapparal, or from the sky above it could not have sounded sweeter, nor thrilled me with a stranger impulse.
For some seconds I remained irresolute as to what answer should be made to the pathetic appeal. I hesitated to apprise the speaker of the presence of Calros. Only his body was present; his spirit was not there!
What a sad spectacle for the eye of the loved Dolores – the loving Dolores – how could I doubt it? Looking upon the handsome Jarocho – graceful even in the attitude of death – I could not wonder at the earnestness of that feminine voice, pronouncing him her “querido Calros.”
Once more it fell upon my ear, continuing the passionate appeal.
“Calros! O Calros! Why do you not answer me? It is Lola – your own Lola!”
“Lola!” I responded, yielding to an irresistible emotion, “this way; come this way! Calros is here.”
An exclamatory phrase, expressing gratitude to the “Mother of God,” was heard in response; and quickly following the words, a female form, fair as the mother of men, parting the hushes that bordered the glade, stepped cut into the opening.
Story 1, Chapter V
An Unpleasant Misunderstanding
Yes, fair as the mother of men – it is no exaggeration to say it – was she who, answering my summons, had emerged from the shadowy chapparal, and now stood exposed to my view under the full light of the moon. It was a full moon – a Mexican moon, that delights to shine upon lovely woman; and no lovelier could its beams have ever embraced than she who now stood before me.
It was beauty of a type peculiar to the land in which I viewed it – peculiar even to a single province – the tierra caliente, or coast-region, of Vera Cruz.
The image of Lola is still upon the tablets of my memory, permanently impressed as I saw her at that moment; perhaps more deeply graven upon my heart as I beheld her afterwards.
The picture presented to my eye, and viewed under the moon’s mellow light, was that of a girl just approaching the completeness of womanhood – or rather having completed it, for there seemed nothing wanting to make the perfect woman.
A figure of medium height, neither sylphlike nor slender, but of full physical outline, in points even imposing.
I do not deny that there is something sensual in this type, and I know there are those who incline more to the intellectual. For my part, I doubt the honesty of such ethereal admirers; and must still cling to the belief that bold elliptical outline is the true ideal of beauty in the feminine form.
That of Lola, seen against the verdant background of the chapparal, exhibited this curve in all its luxuriant windings. It was displayed in the tournure of the head, the cheeks, the throat, and shoulders; it embraced bosom, waist, and limbs; it ran over her whole figure – a living, moving curve, like the undulations of some beautiful serpent, always tapering to an end, but never terminating.
It was the curve discovered by Hogarth, though but poorly expressed in his pictures. It was perfectly presented in the outlines of the lovely apparition that came before my eyes in that moonlit glade, on the field of