The Bandolero Part 17

"Knew what?"

"That El Capitan Carrasco is _un pocito de salteador_."

I was less astonished at the declaration, than the manner in which it was made.

The young Mexican appeared to treat the thing as of no great consequence, but rather a matter of course. He seemed to look upon it in the light of a levity--scarcely a crime--one of the _Cosas de Mexico_!

He was more serious when replying to my next question: "Has this Captain Carrasco any acquaintance with the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Senor?"

"Why do you ask, caballero?" he said, turning pale at the mention of the name; "You know them?"

"I have not the honour of knowing them, except by sight. I saw them this morning at matins. I saw Carrasco there too. He appeared to take an interest in their devotions."

"If I thought so I'd--. Bah! it is not possible. He dare not--. Tell me, caballero; _what_ did you observe?"

"Oh, nothing more than I've said. What do you know about it yourself?"

"_En verdad_, nothing either! It was only a thought I had--from something I once saw. I may have been mistaken. 'Tis of no consequence."

We spoke no more upon the subject. It was evidently painful to Francisco Moreno--as it was to myself.

At a later period--when our acquaintance became better established-- further confidence was exchanged between us; and I was told the story of Francisco's courtship--to a portion of which, without his knowing it, I had listened before.

It was as I had supposed. There was an objection to his being united to his _dear Dolores_--her father being chief objector. The young soldier was but a "poor gentleman"--with no other prospect, save that at the point of his sword--not much in Mexico, to a man with an _honest_ heart.

There was a rival who was rich; and to this "party" Don Eusebio had promised his daughter--with the threat of a convent in the case of her refusal.

Notwithstanding this menace, Francisco was full of hope--based upon the promises of Dolores. She had expressed her determination to share penury with him rather than wed the _rico_, who was not of her choice-- to die, or do anything rather than go into a convent!

I was not so communicative as my new acquaintance--at least as regarded my relationship with the family of Villa-Senor. To have spoken of Mercedes to another would have spoiled the romance of my pa.s.sion. Not a word said I to Francisco of that hopeful affair.

From that day I became noted, as one of the earliest risers on the muster-roll of the American army. Not a morning did I outsleep the _reveille_; nor once missed matins in the Cathedral.

Several times I again saw Mercedes. Each time there was an exchange of glances--each day becoming better understood between us.

And still not a word had we exchanged! I feared to risk speech--the humiliation that would follow, if perchance I was mistaken.

I was again on the eve of resorting to the epistolary mode of communication--and had actually written the letter, intending to deliver it--not second-hand through the _cochero_, but, in _propria persona_, to the lady herself.

At each succeeding _oracion_ I watched for an opportunity; when the fair worshipper, pa.s.sing out along with the crowd, might come within delivering distance.

Twice had I been disappointed. On the third time I had the chance, without taking advantage of it!

It was not needed. The wish I had expressed in my epistle was better worded by Mercedes herself. As she descended the steps on her way to the street, her lips came so close to my ear, that I was enabled to catch every syllable of that sweet whisper:

"_En la Alameda. A seis horas_!" (At six o'clock, in the Alameda!)

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

APPOINTMENT AND DISAPPOINTMENT.

In most Mexican cities of the first and second cla.s.s, there is both a "Paseo" and an "Alameda;" the former a public drive--riding included; the latter more especially set apart for pedestrians, though there is also a carriage way around it.

In the capital itself there are two Paseos--_Bucareli_ and _La Vega_.

The latter extending along the famed _chinampas_, or "floating gardens,"

is only fashionable at a certain season of the year--during the week of Carnival. At all other times it is neglected for the more magnificent drive of Bucareli.

The Paseo of Puebla is poor by comparison; but its Alameda is not without merits. It is a large quadrangle lying on the western edge of the city; with trees, walks, statues, flowers, fountains, and all the usual adornments of a public garden. Around it is a road for carriages and equestrians, as well as a path for promenaders--with benches at intervals on which they may rest themselves.

Its view includes the _teocalli_ of Cholula, with the church of the virgin "Remedios" on its top; beyond, the snow-cone of Popocatepec, and the twin _nevada_ of the "White Sister."

It was not to look upon these that I was "in the Alameda at six o'clock;" or, perhaps, a half-hour earlier.

With such an appointment as mine, no living man could have restrained himself from antic.i.p.ating the time.

As the place is devoted to the three several kinds of recreation-- walking, riding, driving--it was a question in which way Mercedes would present herself.

The last was the most likely; though the first would have been the more convenient--keeping in view the supposed purpose.

It was the mode I had myself adopted: having entered the enclosure as a simple pedestrian, and in civilian dress--to avoid observation.

I sauntered along the walks--apparently admiring the flowers, and criticising the statues. It was sheer pretence--to deceive the promenaders, who were moving before and behind me. At that moment I had no thought, either of the elegancies of Art, or the beauties of Nature; not even for its sublimities, displayed within sight on the snow-clad slopes of the great "Cordillera."

I was thinking only of the beauty of woman--impatient to behold it in its most perfect type.

Was it to appear on foot, on horseback, or between wheels?

Considering the character of the times--and that Red Hats were in the Alameda--the last was the most likely.

Notwithstanding this conjecture, I scrutinised every female pedestrian who came inside the enclosure--even those coifed by the cheapest _reboso_.

Though her sister had said otherwise, Mercedes might not always be free to go forth? She might have to take her recreation by stealth, and disguised?

My surmises soon came to an end; and, to my joy, proved erroneous.

Dolores had been right. The _cochero_ in black glaze hat and _jaqueta_ of blue camlet cloth, driving a pair of _frisones_, could be no other than he who had once lost a doubloon by staying too late over his stable duties?

I took no further note of him. Thenceforth my eyes were occupied with a countenance seen through the windows of the carriage. It was a _carretela_ of elegant construction--all gla.s.s in front--best plate, and clear as crystal.

The face inside was but improved by its interposition--toned to the softness of tinted wax.

It needed no scrutiny to identify it. There was no mistaking the countenance of Mercedes.

I had done this before; but that was under the uncertain glimmer of a street lamp.

I now saw it in the full light of day; and well did it bear the exposure. If possible it was more perfect than ever; and the jetty eyes, the carmine tinted checks, the lips--but I had no time to observe them in detail before the carriage came close up.