SCENE VIII.

The same; also Blanca, who has broken open the door.

B.: (Addressing Sancho.) You lie! You do not abhor me!

V.: Blanca!

S.: (Pointing at Blanca.) Look at her--! look at her--! She was _there_--! (Indicating his inner apartments, where she was.) And when, soon, you die at my hand, Viceroy of Mexico, you will _have suffered two deaths_!

V.: (To Blanca.) And is it true----?

B.: Sancho! Save me from this dishonor!

S.: (Paying no attention to her; to the Viceroy.) When finally a father meets----

V.: (Trying to stop Sancho’s mouth.) Silence, cursed wretch, silence----!

S.: Blanca; this is not your guardian, he is--your father!

V.: Ah----!

B.: My father! (The viceroy and Blanca stand as if stupefied.)

S.: (Contemplating them.) And how much a father’s heart must suffer in presenting himself with this sacred title for the first time, to a daughter’s heart. She cannot let him kiss her brow--no, she cannot.

B.: (Supplicatingly.) Sancho!

S.: He cannot feel his eyes wet with tears of joy--but only with tears of vengeance! How much she must suffer and how much he!

V.: Infamy.

S.: Infamy, no! because her suffering is multiplied a hundred-fold in yours.

V.: (Drawing his sword.) Blanca, you die!

B.: (Shrinking, horrified.) Ah!

S.: (Throwing himself upon the viceroy.) Do not touch her; look at her--she is innocent! Love has robbed me of my prey. I love her so much that my love conquered my vengeance. (Joy appears on the face of the viceroy.) But do not rejoice, Viceroy. You who rob women of their honor, and assassinate old men, do not rejoice. Only God and you and I know that she is pure. I have not dared to outrage her by a single glance; but, tomorrow----

V.: Ah!

S.: Tomorrow the whole court shall know that she’s your daughter.

V.: No!

S.: And that she passed the night here. (Pointing to the inner rooms.)

V.: Thou shalt die.

S.: My squire knows it----

V.: (Drawing his sword.) Enough!--blood!--what thirst so frightful----!

S.: (Unsheathing.) ’Tis less than mine!

B.: Señors, hold! Sancho, is this possible?

S.: Her voice again--again the cry of her love here in my heart! Withdraw your glance from me Blanca, since at its influence my heart fails and the coward steel trembles in my hand.

B.: Sancho! enough!

S.: Hear it----! Hear it, my father! She asks it----! Have pity on me, since, now that the hour has come for avenging thee, the pardon struggles to issue from my lips! My father, pardon!

V.: Your father, you have said! Who was your father? What is your name?

S.: My name is Juan de Paredes.

V.: You--you are the son of Don Diego and Doña Mencia?

S.: Why do you remind me of it? Why do you summon before me their bloody spirits? Yes, I am--I am he, whom you have robbed of all.

V.: You, who dishonored _her_!

S.: Yes.

V.: It seems as if Satan possesses you and hell inspires your words!

B.: What does he say?

S.: What do you say?

V.: Unhappy being, know that those secret _amours_ with Doña Mencia bore fruit and that fruit is----

S.: She! oh cursed love! She is my sister----! Oh, almighty God!

* * * * *

JOSÉ MARÍA ROA BÁRCENA.

José María Roa Bárcena was born at Jalapa, State of Vera Cruz, on September 3, 1827. His father, José María Rodriguez Roa, was long and helpfully engaged in local politics. The son entered upon a business life, and literary work was, for him, at first, but a relaxation. His youthful writings, both in prose and poetry, attracted much attention. In 1853 he removed to the City of Mexico, at that time a center of great political and literary activity, where he devoted himself to a politico-literary career. As a contributor or editor he was associated with important periodicals,--_El Universal_, _La Cruz_, _El Eco Nacional_ and _La Sociedad_. He favored the French Intervention and the Imperial establishment. Soon disapproving of Maximilian’s policy, he came out strongly against that ruler and refused appointments at his hands. When the Empire fell, he returned to business life, but was arrested and detained for several months in prison.

Señor Roa Bárcena has ever been associated with the conservative party, but has always commanded the respect of political foes by his firm convictions and regard for the calls of duty. He is eminently patriotic and in his writings deals with Mexican life and customs, national history, and the lives and works of distinguished Mexicans. His writings are varied. His poetry has been largely the product of his early years and of his old age; his prose has been written in his middle life.

Of his early poems _Ithamar_ and _Diana_ were general favorites. In 1875 his _Nuevas Poesias_ (New Poems) appeared, in 1888 and 1895, two volumes of “last lyric poems”--_Ultimas Poesias liricas_. In 1860 he published an elementary work upon Universal Geography; in 1863 an _Ensayo de una Historia anecdotica de Mexico_ (Attempt at an Anecdotal History of Mexico). This _Ensayo_ was in prose and was divided into three parts, covering ancient Mexican history to the time of the Conquest. In 1862, in _Leyendas Mexicanos_ (Mexican Legends) he presented much the same matter in verse. These three charmingly written books, while conscientious literary productions, were intended for youth. Of stronger and more vigorous prose are his political novel, _La Quinta modelo_ (The Model Farm) and his famous biographies of _Manuel Eduardo Gorostiza_ and _José Joaquin Pesado_. Of the latter, often considered his masterpiece, one writer asserts, it shows “rich style, vast erudition, admirable method, severe impartiality in judgment, profound knowledge of the epoch and of the man.” Famous is the _Recuerdos de la invasion Norte-Americana 1846-1847_ (Recollections of the American Invasion: 1846-1847), which appeared first in the columns of the periodical _El Siglo_ XIX, and was reprinted in book form only in 1883. But it is in his short stories that Roa Bárcena appears most characteristically. His _Novelas, originales y traducidas_ (Novels, original and translated) appeared in 1870. They are notable for delicacy of expression, minute detail in description and action, some mysticism, and a keen but subtle humor. In his translations from Dickens, Hoffman, Byron, Schiller, our author is wonderfully exact and faithful both to sense and form.

COMBATS IN THE AIR.

Some of Roa Bárcena’s characteristics are well illustrated in the little sketch, _Combates en el aire_ (Combats in the air). An old man recalls the fancies and experiences of his boyhood. To him, as a child, kites had character and he associated individual kites with persons whom he knew; they had emotions and passions; they spoke and filled him with joy or terror. One great kite, a bully in disposition, was, for him, a surly neighbor, whom all feared. This dreadful kite had ruined many of the cherished kite possessions of his young companions. Once his teacher, the boy himself, and some friends, fabricated a beautiful kite. In its first flight it is attacked by the bully and the battle is described.

* * * * *

The preliminaries of the sport began with the manufacture of the kite. The kinds most used were _pandorgas_, parallelograms of paper or cloth, according to size and importance, with the skeleton composed of strong and flexible cane, called _otate_, with hummers of gut or parchment or rag, at the slightly curved top or bottom--or they bore the name of _cubos_ (squares), made with three small crossed sticks covered with paper and with a broad fringe of paper or cloth at the sides. Both kinds usually displayed the national colors or bore figures of Moors and Christians, birds and quadrupeds. The tails were enormously long and were forms of tufts of cloth, varying in size, tied crosswise of the cord, which ended in a bunch of rags; in the middle of the cord were the ‘cutters,’ terribly effective in battles between kites; they were two cockspur-knives of steel, finely sharpened, projecting from the sides of a central support of wood, with which the bearer cut the string of his opponent, which, thus abandoned to its fate on the wings of the wind, went whirling and tumbling through the air, to fall at last to the ground, at a considerable distance. Night did not end the sport; they had messengers or paper lanterns, hanging from a great wheel of cardboard, through the central opening in which the kite-string passed, and which, impelled by the wind, went as far as the check-string and whirled there, aloft, with its candles yet lighted.

* * * * *

A neighbor of gruff voice, harsh aspect, and the reputation of a surly fellow, was, for me, represented by a great _pandorga_, with powerfully bellowing hummer, which on every windy day sunk--if we may use the term--some eight or ten unfortunate _cubos_, thus being the terror of all the small boys of our neighborhood. It was made of white cloth, turned almost black by the action of sun and rain; its long tail twisted and writhed like a great serpent, and even doubled upon itself midway, at times, on account of the weight of its large and gleaming cutters. Its hoarse and continuous humming could be heard from one end of the town to the other and sounded to me like the language of a bully.

* * * * *

Just then was heard a bellowing, as of a bull, and, black and threatening, the well known _pandorga_ bully appeared in the air, more arrogant than ever, glowering with malicious eyes upon its unexpected rival and preparing to disembowel it, at the least. For a moment the members of our little company shuddered, because, in the anxiety and haste to raise the _cubo_, we had forgotten to attach the cutters. To lower it then, in order to arm it, would have looked like lowering a flag, which was not to Martínez’s taste. Trusting, then, to his own dexterity, he prepared for the defence, intending to entangle the cord of our _cubo_ in the upper part of the tail of the enemy, which would cause the kite and its tail to form an acute angle riding upon our attaching cord, and would hurl it headlong to the earth.... The bully rose to the north, in order to fall almost perpendicularly, on being given more string, upon the cord of the _cubo_, and then, on ascending again with all possible force, to cut it. Once, twice, three times it made the attempt, but was foiled by our giving the _cubo_ extra cord, also, at the decisive moment. Raging and bellowing, the enemy drew much nearer, and taking advantage of a favorable gust, risked everything in a desperate effort to cut us. As its sharp set tail, keen as a Damascus blade, grazed our cord, the watchful Martínez gave this a sudden, sharp jerk against the tail itself, causing both it and the kite to double and plunge. In its headlong dash, it cut loose the _cubo_, which, alone, and whirling like a serpent through the air, went to fall a quarter of a league away. But the aggressor too fell, and fell most ignominiously. Thrown and whirled by the treacherous cord of its victim, it could not regain its normal attitude, and like the stick of an exhausted rocket, fell almost vertically to the earth, landing in the center of our court, where it was declared a just prisoner.

NEAR THE ABYSS.

In _Noche al raso_, the coach from Orizaba to Puebla breaks down a little before reaching its destination. The passengers beguile the night hours with stories. The story told by “the Captain” is entitled _Á dos dedos del Abismo_ (At two fingers from the abyss). An exquisite, Marquis del Veneno, is the hero. Of good birth and well connected, with no special wealth or prospects, frequenting good society, he has never yielded to feminine charms. A young lady, Loreto, daughter of an aged professor of chemistry, is beautiful and socially attractive, but a blue-stocking, fond of mouthing Latin, of poetry and of science. The Marquis has no idea of paying attentions to Loreto, in fact he despises her pedantry. But gossip connects their names and a series of curious incidents give color to the report that they are betrothed. The aged chemist clinches the matter, despite desperate efforts on the part of the Marquis to explain, and the engagement is announced. In his dilemma the Marquis seeks advice and aid from his _padrino_, General Guadalupe Victoria, and from his friend, the famous Madame Rodriguez. All, however, seems in vain. Just as he decides to accept the inevitable, an escape presents itself. The passages selected are those which describe the interview between the old chemist and the Marquis and the opening of a way of escape.

* * * * *

Somewhat disquieted as to the purport of such an appointment, del Veneno, after many turns, back and forth, in his chamber, was inclined to believe that reports of his supposed relations having come to the ears of Don Raimundo, the old man proposed to hear from his own lips the facts. Basing himself on this supposition, the Marquis, whose conscience was entirely clear, decided to be frank and loyal with the old gentleman, explaining fully his own conduct in the matter, and endeavoring to dissipate any natural vexation which the popular gossip had caused him;--gossip, for which the Marquis believed he had given no cause. Having decided upon this procedure, he succeeded in falling asleep and the following day, with the most tranquil air in the world, he directed himself, at the hour set, to the place of appointment, feeling himself, like the Chevalier Bayard, without fear and without reproach.

... He installed himself at one of the least conspicuous tables of the café and soon saw Don Raimundo, who saluted him, and seating himself at his side, spoke to him in these terms:

“Dissimulation is useless, my friend, in matters so grave and transcendental as that which you and my daughter have in hand; I do not mean that I disapprove the prudence and reserve with which you have both acted. It is true that you, as Loreto, have carried dissimulation and secrecy to such an extreme, that----”

“Permit me to interrupt you, Don Raimundo, to say that I do not understand to what matter you refer----”

“My friend, you young people believe that, in placing your fingers over your eyes you blot out the sun for the rest of us. But, we old folks, we see it all! We decompose and analyze; further--what will not a father’s insight and penetration discover? From the beginning of your love for Loreto----”

“But, sir, if there has not been----”

“Nothing indecorous, no scandal will come from the relations between you--that I know right well; it could not be otherwise in a matter involving a finished gentleman, to whom propriety and nobility of character have descended from both lines, and a young lady who, though it ill becomes me to say it, has been perfectly educated, has read much, and knows how to conduct herself in society. I tell you, friend Leodegario, that for months past no one has needed to whisper in my ear, ‘These young people love each other,’ because the thing was evident and had not escaped me. Accustomed, from my youth, to decomposition and analysis, I have questioned my wife, ‘Do they love each other?’ and she has answered, ‘I believe they do.’ I then inquired, ‘Have you spoken with Loreto about it?’ and she replied, ‘Not a word.’ Days pass and your mutual passion----”

“It is my duty, Don Raimundo, to inform you----”

“It is your duty to hear me without interrupting me. Days pass and your mutual passion, arrived at its height, enters the crucible of test. You withdraw from Loreto and she pretends not to notice it. Thoughtless people say, ‘They have broken with each other’; but I say, ‘Like sheep they separate for a little, to meet again with the greater joy.’ Others say, ‘The Marquis is fickle and changeable’; but I say, ‘He gives evidence of greater chivalry and nobility than I believed him to possess.’ Friend Leodegario, what do not the eyes of a father discover? What, in the moral as in the physical world, can resist decomposition and analysis? With a little isolation and examination of the elements composing such an affair, the truth is precipitated and shows itself at the bottom of the flask! I know it all; I see it, just as if it were a chemical reaction! You--delicate and honorable to quixotism, knowing that the grocer Ledesma is attentive to Loreto, and considering yourself relatively poor, have said to yourself, ‘I will not stand in the way of the worldly betterment of this young lady,’ and have abruptly left the field. Loreto, in her turn, offended that you should believe her capable of sacrificing you upon the altar of her self-interest, has determined to arouse your jealousy by pretending to accept the attentions which Ledesma offers in the form of raisins, almonds, codfish and cases of wine. I repeat that this is all very plain; but it is a sort of trifling that can not be prolonged without peril, and which I have ended so far as my daughter is concerned. Your future and hers might both suffer from the rash actions of irritated love; no, my dear sir: let Ledesma keep his wealth, or lavish it upon some Galician countrywoman; and let respectable financial mediocrity, accompanied by the noble character and the delicacy and chivalry which distinguish you, triumphantly bear away the prize. A bas Galicia! viva Mexico!”

“The complete mistake under which you labor----”

“My friend, one who, like myself, decomposes and analyzes everything, rarely or never makes mistakes! Last night, I brought my wife and daughter together and, to assure myself of the state of mind of the latter, made use of this stratagem: ‘Loreto,’ I said, ‘Don Leodegario has asked me for your hand; what shall I answer him?’ Immediately both mother and daughter flushed as red as poppies and embraced each other. Loreto then replied, ‘I am disposed to whatever you may determine.’ ‘But do you love him?’ I asked. ‘Yes, I love him,’ she answered with downcast eyes. With this, my friend, the mask fell and these things only remained to be done, what I have done this morning and what I am doing now; to wit: to intimate to Señor Ledesma that he desist from his aspirations regarding a young lady who is to marry another within a few days, and to tell you that Loreto’s parents, duly appreciative of the noble conduct of the aspirant for their daughter’s hand, yield her to him, sparing all explanations and steps unpleasant to one’s self-respect, and desiring for you both, in your marriage relation, a life longer than Methuselah’s and an offspring more numerous than Jacob’s.”

“But, sir, Don Raimundo----”

“Neither buts nor barrels avail.[19] You were marvelously self-controlled, in believing yourself unworthy of Loreto, and in refusing the happiness for which your heart longed; but I am also master[20] of my daughter’s lot and I desire to unite her to you and render you happy perforce. Come, friend Leodegario, there is no escape. Dr. Román has promised to marry you in the church; I have ordered my wife to announce the approaching marriage to her lady friends and I am making the announcement to the gentlemen. Everyone cordially congratulates me upon my selection of a son-in-law.”

* * * * *

With this object, he took up his hat and gloves. Just then he heard a noise and voices in altercation in the corridor; the door opened violently and Don Raimundo entered the room in his shirt sleeves and a cap, his face pallid, and a breakfast roll in his hand. He entered, and saying nothing to the Marquis beyond the words, “They pursue me,” ran to hide himself under the bed, frightened and trembling.

Seeing this, the young man seized a sword from the corner of the room and set forth to meet the pursuers of Don Raimundo.

He found, in the next room, Fabian, Don Raimundo’s servant, almost as old as his master himself. With him were two porters, bearing no arms more serious than their carry-straps. The Marquis having asked Fabian what this meant, the faithful old servant took him to one side and said, “The master has left home, against the doctor’s orders, and we have come to fetch him, as my lady and her daughter do not wish him wandering alone on the streets.”

Without yet understanding the enigma, del Veneno further questioned Fabian and learned that Don Raimundo, after some days of symptoms of mental disturbance, had become absolutely deranged and, for a week back, had been locked up in the house.

Immediately the Marquis understood the conduct of his father-in-law-to-be toward himself and a gleam of hope appeared. But, moved by sympathy and without thinking of his own affairs, he tried to persuade the old man to leave with Fabian, which, with great difficulty, he at last did.

He then hastened to the house of Madame Rodriguez, where he was received almost gaily. “I was about to send for you,” said that lady, “because I have most important matters to communicate to you. Perhaps you know that the unfortunate Don Raimundo is hopelessly insane. Ah, well, Loreto and her mamma, after cudgelling their brains vainly to explain why you never whispered a word about the wedding, of which Don Raimundo only spoke, as soon as they knew the old man was deranged, understood everything else, and I have confirmed them in their conclusions. It is needless to dwell upon the mortification the matter has caused them: you can imagine it; but, fulfilling the commission which they have intrusted to me, I tell you that they consider you free from all compromise and that they are greatly pleased at the prudence and chivalry you have displayed in so unpleasant and disagreeable a matter.”

“But I am not capable,” impetuously exclaimed the Marquis, “of leaving such a family in a ridiculous position. No, my dear lady, pray tell Loreto that, decidedly and against all wind and sea, I _will_ marry her, and that in the quickest possible time.”

“Marquis! tempt not God’s patience! Now that a door is opened, escape by it without looking back and consider yourself lucky. Moreover, although Loreto babbles in Latin and writes distiches, she is not so stupid as you think, and knows well how to take care of herself. She has understood conditions perfectly and knows her advantage; a single glance has sufficed to draw to her feet the grocer, more attentive and enamored than ever.”

“How, madam? Is it possible that Loreto would----”

“Loreto marries Ledesma within a week.”

Who can know the chaos of the human heart? The Marquis, who a moment before had been supremely happy at the mere idea of his release, now felt vexed and humiliated in knowing that Loreto so promptly replaced him. His pupils grew yellow, his nervous attack returned and this, without doubt, was all that prevented his hovering about Loreto’s house as a truly enamored swain and challenging Ledesma to the death.

JUSTO SIERRA.

Justo Sierra was born January 26, 1848, at Campeche, the capital city of the State of the same name. The son of a man known in the world of letters, he early showed himself interested in literary pursuits. Determining to follow the career of law, he was licensed to practice at the age of twenty-three. Chosen a member of the Chamber of Deputies, he promptly gained a reputation as an orator. He became one of the justices of the Supreme Court. At present he is Sub-Secretary of Public Instruction and has been connected with all recent progress in Mexican education. For some years he was professor of general history in the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School). Among his works are _Cuentos románticos_ (Romantic Tales), _En Tierra Yankee_ (In Yankee Land), and _México y su evolución social_ (Mexico and its Social Evolution). In style Sierra is poetical and highly fantastic, with a strain of humor rare in Mexicans. Our selection is a complete story from _Cuentos románticos_.

THE STORY OF STAREI: A LEGEND OF YELLOW FEVER.

Examining a volume, pretentiously styled _Album de Viaje_ (Album of Travel), which lay amid the sympathetic dust, which time accumulates in a box of long-forgotten papers, I encountered what my kind readers are about to see.

We were in the _diligencia_ coming from Vera Cruz, a German youth, Wilhelm S.--with flaxen hair and great, expressionless, blue eyes,--and myself. We had not well gained the summit of the Chiquihuite, when the storm burst upon us. The coach halted, in order not to expose itself to the dangers of the descent over slopes now converted into rivers. I neared my face to the window, raising the heavy leather curtain, which the wind was beating against the window-frame; it looked like night. Above us, the tempest, with its thousand black wings, beat against space; its electric bellowings, rumbled from the hills to the sea, and the lightning, like a gleaming sword tearing open the bosom of the clouds, revealed to us, within, the livid entrails of the storm.

We were literally in the midst of a cataract, which, precipitating itself from the clouds, rebounded from the mountain summit, and rushed, with torrential fury, down the slopes.

“I am drenched in oceans of perspiration,” said my companion to me in French, “and I have an oven inside of me.”

“Go to sleep,” I replied, “and all this will pass,” and, joining example to counsel, I wrapped myself in my cloak and closed my eyes.

Two hours later the tempest had passed, drifting to the west, over the wooded heights. It was five in the evening and the declining sun was nearing the last low-lying patches of cloud. The light, penetrating through the exuberant vegetation, colored everything with a marvelous variety of hues, which melted into a glow of gold and emerald. To the east an infinite sheet of verdure extended itself, following all the folds and irregularities of the mountain mass, flecked here and there with the delicate and brilliant green of banana patches, and undulating over that stairway of giants, became blue with distance and broke like a sea against the broad strip of sand of the Vera Cruz coast. The road which we had followed in our ascent, wound like a serpent among trees, which scarcely distinguished their foliage masses amid the dense curtain of vines and creepers, passed over a lofty bridge, descended in broad curves to a little settlement of wooden buildings, and went, between dense and tangled patches of briers, to confound itself with the bit of railroad which led from the foot of the mountain to the port. At the bottom of the picture, there, where the sea was imagined, were rising superb cloud masses against whose blue-gray ground were defined the black and immovable streaks of stratus, seeming a flock of seabirds opening their enormous wings to the wind, which delayed its blowing.

The German slept as one much fatigued and from his panting bosom issued heavy sobs; he seemed afflicted with intense suffering; a suspicion crossed my mind; if he should----!

The branches of a neighboring tree projected, through an open window, into the _diligencia_, which was standing still, until the torrents should have spent something of their force. Upon a yellowed leaf trembled a raindrop, the last tear of the tempest. Preoccupied by the dismal fear which the condition of my companion caused me, I looked attentively at that bead of crystal liquid. This is what I saw:

The drop of water was the Gulf of Mexico, bordered by the immense curve of hot coast and cut off, on the east, by two low breakwaters, crusted with flowers and palms,--Florida and Yucatan, between which, in flight, extended a long string of seabirds, the Antilles, headed by the royal heron, Cuba, slave served by slaves.

In the midst of the Gulf, surmounted by a yellow crown, which gilded the sea around like an enormous sunflower which reflects itself in a flower of water, arose a barren island of the color of impure gold, where currents deposited the seaweeds like the wrappings which swathe Egyptian mummies. Above that rocky mass the sun gleamed like copper, the rapid moon passed veiled by livid vapors, and on days of tempest the storm-birds described wide circles around it, uttering direful croakings. A voice, infinitely sad, like the voice of the sea, sounded in that lost island; listen, it said to me.

The very year in which the sons of the sun arrived at the islands, there lived in Cuba a woman of thirteen years, named Starei (star). She was very beautiful; black were her eyes and intoxicatingly sweet like those of the Aztecs; her skin firm and golden as that of those who bathe in the Meschacebé; celestial her voice as that of the _shkok_, which sings its serenades in the zapote groves of Mayapán; and her little feet were as graceful and fine as those of Antillean princesses, who pass their lives swinging in hammocks, which seem to be woven by fairies. When Starei appeared one morning on the strand, seated on the red shell of a sea-turtle, she seemed a living pearl and all adored her as a daughter of god, of Dimivan-caracol. The priestess of the tribe prayed all night near the sacred fire, in which smouldered leaves of the intoxicating tobacco, and at last heard the divine voice, which resounded within the heart of the great stone fetish, saying: “Kill her not; guard and protect her; she is the daughter of the Gulf and the Gulf was her cradle; God grant that she return there.”

Starei completed her thirteen years and the old and the young, prophets and warriors, caciques and slaves, abandoned their villages, temples, and hearths, to run after her on the seashore. All were crazy with love, but, if one of them approached her, the Gulf thundered hoarsely and the storm-bird flew screaming across the sky.

Starei sang like the Mexican _zenzontl_, and her song soothed like the seabreeze which kisses the palms in hot evenings, and in laughing she opened her red lips like the wings of the _ipiri_ and her bosom rose and let fall in enticing folds, the fine web of cotton that covered it. Men on seeing her wept, kneeling, and women wept also, seeing their palm huts deserted and their beds of rushes chilled and untouched.

One stormy night, the divine Starei returned to the village, after one of her rambles on the shore, in which she passed hours watching the waves, as if waiting for something; those who followed her determined to heap high their dead and bury them; the aged who had died from weariness in the pursuit of the Gulf’s daughter, the youths who had thrown their hearts at her feet, the mothers who had died of grief and the wives who had died of despair.

It was a night of tempest; Hurakan, the god of the Antilles, reigned with unwitnessed fury. The priests spoke of a new deluge and of the legendary gourd in which were the ocean and the sea-monsters, which, one day, broke and inundated the earth, and, terrified, they ascended to the summit of their temple-pyramid and took refuge in the shadow of their gods of stone, which trembled on their pedestals. The people of the island, overwhelmed with terror, forgot Starei. All the night was passed in prayer and sacrifice; but at daybreak, they ran, infatuated, to where the song of the maiden called them.

Starei was on the shore, seated on the trunk of one of the thousands of palm trees, which the wind had uprooted and thrown upon the sand; upon her knees rested the head of a white man, who appeared to be a corpse. The beauty of that face was sweet and manly at once and the just appearing beard indicated the youthfulness of the man, whom Starei devoured with eyes bathed in tears.

“Whoever saves him,” she exclaimed, “shall be my husband, my life companion.”

“He is dead,” solemnly replied an aged priest.

“He lives,” cried a man, opening his way through the crowd.

The astonished Indians fell away from him; never had they seen so strange a being among them. He was tall and strong; his hair, the color of corn-silk, rose rigidly above his broad and bronzed forehead and dividing into two masses fell thick and straight upon his shoulders; his eyebrows were two delicate red lines, which joined at the root of his aquiline nose; his mouth, of the purple hue of Campeche wood, bent upward at the tips, in a sensual and cruel arch. The oval of his face, unbroken by even a trace of beard, did not so much attract attention as his eyes, of the color of two coins of purest gold, set in black circles. He was naked, but splendidly tattooed with red designs; from the gold chain that encircled his waist hung a skirt, deftly woven of the feathers of the huitzitl, the humming-bird of Anahuac.

That man, who, many believed, came from Hayti, approached that which seemed to be a corpse, without paying attention to the glance, of profound anger, of Starei. He laid one hand upon the icy brow of the white man, and, on placing the other to the heart, instantly withdrew it as if he had touched a glowing brand; rapidly he tore open the still-drenched shirt of linen, which covered the youth’s breast and seized an object that hung at the neck. This object Starei snatched from him. Was it a Talisman? When that singular man no longer had beneath his hand that, which had, doubtless, been to him a hindrance, he placed it upon the stilled heart of the shipwrecked stranger and said to the maiden, “Kiss him on the lips,” and had scarcely been obeyed when the supposed dead man recovered and, taking the piece of wood from Starei’s hand, knelt, placing it against his lips and bathing it in tears. It was a cross.

“Adieu, Starei,” said he of the eyes of gold; “yonder is the hut of Zekom (fever) among the palms; there is our nuptial couch; I await you because you have promised.”

The daughter of the Gulf could not restrain a cry of anger at hearing the words of the son of Heat; she approached the Christian, clasped his neck in her arms and covered his mouth and eyes with kisses. “No! no! leave me, thou loved of Satan,” cried the youth, trying to release himself from the beautiful being. Starei took him by the hand, led him to her hut, and said to him, in expressive pantomime, “Here we two will live.”

Then her companion replied in the language of those of Hayti, which was perfectly understood in Cuba:

“I cannot be thy husband; I will be thy brother.”

“Why not? Who are you?”

“I am from far, far beyond the sea. I come from Castile. With many others, I arrived, some months ago, at Hayti, and knowing that this, your isle, had not been visited by Christians, we desired to visit it, but were shipwrecked in the fearful tempest of last night and I was about to perish, when thy hand seized me amid the waves and brought me to the shore.”

“And why do you not wish to be my husband?”

“Because I am a priest and my god, who is the only god, orders his priests not to marry; he orders us to preach love. I come to preach it here, but not the love of the world,” added the Spaniard, sighing.

“This cannot be; it is not true,” replied the island woman, with vigor, “remain here with me in my hut, and we will be the rulers of the island and our children will be heirs of all.”

“I will be thy brother,” replied the missionary.

And the Indian woman left, weeping. In the way she met Zekom, who fixed his terrible yellow glance upon her.

“Comest to my hut, Starei?” he asked her.

“Never,” she answered firm and brave.

“We will be the rulers of all the islands of the seas and our children will be gods on earth, because we are children of the gods; the Gulf begot you in a pearlshell; the glowing Tropic begot me in a reef of gold and coral.”

Starei paused; she was upon the summit of a rock, from which the whole coast was visible.

“Look,” continued Zekom, “this will be our kingdom.” And before the fascinated eye of the daughter of the Gulf there was spread out a surprising panorama. In the midst of an emerald prairie, a _cu_ or _teocalli_ reared its high pyramid of gold, which shed its light around, even to the distant horizon. Over that gleaming plain were prostrated innumerable people with fear depicted on their faces. Genii, clad in marvelous garments, discharged upon these people, innumerable flaming arrows, the touch of which caused death. And upon the summit of the _cu_, she stood erect, as on a pedestal, more beautiful than the sun of springtime. The daughter of the Gulf remained long in silent ecstasy.

“Come, Starei,” murmured Zekom in her ear, “tomorrow I await thee in my hut.”

Starei departed thinking, dreaming. When the new day dawned, she saw the Spaniard, hidden in the forest, kneeling, with his eyes turned heavenward. At seeing him, the Indian maiden felt all her love rekindled; she threw herself, anew, upon him and clasping him within her arms, repeated:

“Love me; love me, man of the cold land. I will adore thy god, who cannot curse us because we fulfil his law, the law of life. Come to my nuptial hut; I will be thy slave; we will pray together and I will be as humble and as cowardly as thou; but love me as I love you.”

“I will be thy brother,” replied the missionary, pale with emotion.

“Cursed art thou!” said Starei, and fled.

The priest made a movement, as if to follow her, but restrained himself, casting one sublime glance of grief toward heaven.

Again, through all that night, the Gulf thundered frightfully. At break of day, Zekom and Starei issued from the nuptial hut, but as the maiden received the first rays of the sun in her languid eyes, they lost their luminous blackness like that of the night and turned yellow with the color of gold, like those of her lover. He cast a stone into the sea and instantly there appeared, in the west, a black pirogue, which neared the shore impelled by the hurricane, which filled its blood-red sails.

“Come to be my queen,” said Zekom to the daughter of the Gulf and they entered into the bark, which instantly gained the horizon.

Then the missionary appeared upon the shore, crying:

“Come, Starei, my sister, I love thee.”

The silhouette of the pirogue, like a black wing, was losing itself in the indistinct line where the sea joins the sky. Starei had joined herself in marriage to the devil.

And the voice which resounded, sad and melancholy, from the rock, continued--this is the centre of the domain of Starei; from here her eternal vengeance against the whites radiates. The missionary died soon after, of a strange disease, and his cold body turned horribly yellow, as if from it were reflected the eyes of gold of Zekom. Since then every year Starei weeps for him, disconsolate, and her tears evaporated by the tropic heat poison the atmosphere of the Gulf, and woe for the sons of the cold land.

The raindrop fell to the ground; the coach proceeded on its way, and I turned to glance at my friend; he was insensible; a livid, yellow hue was invading his skin and his eyes seemed to start from their orbits. “I die, I die, oh, my mother,” said the poor boy. I did not know what to do. I clasped him in my arms trying to sooth his sufferings, to give him courage. We reached Cordoba. The poor fevered patient said: “Look at her--the yellow woman.” “Who? Is it Starei?” I asked him. “Yes. It is she,” he answered.

It was necessary for me to leave him. On arriving at Mexico I read this paragraph in a Vera Cruz paper: “The young German, Wilhelm S., of the house of Watermayer & Co., who left this city in apparent health, has died of yellow fever at Cordoba, R. I. P.”

VICTORIANO SALADO ÁLBAREZ.

Victoriano Salado Álbarez was born at Teocaltoche, in the State of Jalisco, September 30, 1867. He studied law in the _Escuela de Jurisprudencia_ in the city of Guadalajara, taking his title of _Abogado_, on August 30, 1890. He has long been engaged in journalistic work, serving as editor of various periodicals. For three years past he has lived in the City of Mexico and has represented the State of Sonora in the Chamber of Deputies of the National Congress. He is also professor of the Spanish language in the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School). He is a member of the Mexican Academy.

In literature, Señor Álbarez stands for the careful and discriminating use of pure Spanish, and for the treatment of truly Mexican themes in a characteristically Mexican way. He is an uncompromising antagonist of the present tendency, in Mexico, to copy and imitate the “modern” (and quite properly called “decadent”) French writings. His _De mi cosecha_ (From My Harvest) is a little volume of reviews and criticisms, in which he assails this modern school and pleads for a sane and truly national literature. _De autos_ (From Judicial Records), is a collection of tales, original and reworked. His largest work so far in print is _De Santa Anna á la Reforma_ (From Santa Anna to the Reform), an anecdotal treatment of that period of the national history. His latest work, _La Intervencion y el Imperio_ (The Intervention and the Empire) is now being published in Barcelona, Spain. It is of similar character to the preceding, but deals with the time of Maximilian. The two first parts of this, _Las ranas pidiendo rey_ (The Frogs Begging for a King) and _Puebla_, are in press as this notice is being written.

Our selections are from _De autos_ and _De mi cosecha_.

DE AUTOS.

In the village of Huizache, on the twentieth day of February, one thousand nine hundred, having received the accompanying summons, we went to the place known by the name of _Corral de Piedra_, situated about one kilometre distant, and held an inquest upon the body of a man about twenty-two years of age, tall, dark, with a light down on his upper lip, with black hair, eyebrows, and eyes; he showed, in the precardial region, an opening produced by the entrance of a bullet, which had its hole of exit in the left scapula, and another wound, produced by a sabre, in the forehead, the wound measuring eleven centimetres in length, by one centimetre in breadth, the depth not being ascertainable for lack of suitable instruments for its examination. With the body were found a red serape sprinkled with blood, a leather pouch containing cigarettes, twenty-two cents in copper, twenty-five cents in silver, a copy of the religious print known as the _anima sola_, and a recommendation signed by Manuel Tames, of Guadalajara, in which the good character of a person, whose name cannot be made out, is attested. After the inquest, it was ordered that the corpse should be buried in the village cemetery, after first being exposed to public view, clad in the garments in which it was found--which are white drill pantaloons, calico shirt, sash, sandals, a palm hat--for possible recognition. Near the spot, where it is supposed that the deed was committed, a piece of a sabre was found, which is believed to be one of the weapons used in the attack.

Thus stands the record, signed by the Alcalde, and the other witnesses, as, also, the citizen, Gregorio López, practising physician, forty years of age, married, citizen of a neighboring town, there being no licensed physician in this jurisdiction. No autopsy was ordered, there being no suitable instruments for making it.

* * * * *

On this date appears a complainant, who after being duly sworn, says that she is named Damiana Pérez, married, without vocation, seventy years of age, native and inhabitant of Guadalajara; that the corpse here present is that of her son, Ignacio Almeida, twenty years old, carpenter, son of deponent and her husband Pedro Almeida; that said mentioned son died by the police force of this place, the matter occurring as follows: That for some time past the said mentioned son maintained honorable relations with Marta Ruiz, resident in the same house with the complainant in Guadalajara, which house is the _alcaiceria_[21] called _La Calavera_, that, as the parents of the Ruiz girl unreasonably opposed the relation of the lovers, Ignacio arranged to carry the girl away, which he did, coming to this village, where he proposed to work at his trade; that the deponent, being acquainted with the whole matter, and having gained consent of the parents of the Ruiz girl, who is a minor, desired to legalize the marriage and, for that purpose, had come to Huizache, where she learned that Ignacio had been put in prison and that he had afterward been killed; that this is all that she has to declare and that Don Juan Cortes, his employer, Don Manuel Tames, and many others who knew him can testify to the good character and conduct of her son.

* * * * *

This same day, appears a witness, who stated, after the customary oath, that he was named Antonio Vera, married, fifty-five years of age, native of Ixtlan, and now chief of police of this place; that the body present is that of a person, who yesterday morning was sent to him by the municipal President, to be conducted to the capital of the district, accused, if he does not remember wrongly, of vagrancy, disorderly conduct, and abduction of a girl, who accompanied him; that, as is known, these accusations were made to the Señor President by Señor Don Pedro Gómez Gálvez, owner of the Hacienda de San Buenaventura, who also made complaint against the now defunct, that he had lost from one of his pastures two horses, which were there enclosed, one of them being known by the name of _El Resorte_, and the other being called _El Jaltomate_, as well as twenty pesos in money, and other objects which had disappeared from the general store on his place; that, this morning at dawn, he commanded his subordinates that they should saddle and mount their horses, which they did, and lead the prisoner, who walked bound with cords, between them riding in two files; that on reaching the place known as _Corral de piedra_, the now defunct, who had succeeded in loosening his cords, on account of the darkness, tried to escape, crying “_Viva la libertad de los hombres_; chase me, if you wish,” for which reason, those who accompanied the deponent, discharged their arms against him who was escaping, ceasing their attack when they saw that the prisoner fell dead; that Almeida, in attempting to escape fired two shots, of which one pierced the hat worn by one of the police and the other imbedded itself in deponent’s saddle; that he did not know how the prisoner could have secured the revolver, nor where he threw it when he ran; that he was equally ignorant as to how the body received the gash which it showed, as none of his subordinates used his sabre against the accused.

The declaration having been read, he approved it, not knowing how to sign his name.

* * * * *

(Similar declarations of the four auxiliaries.)

Thereupon the coroner was shown a gray hat, with brim and crown pierced by a shot, apparently of a fire-arm, and a cowboy’s saddle with signs of a bullet shot in the horn.

* * * * *

On the twenty-fourth of February appeared a witness, who, being duly sworn, stated that she was named Marta Ruiz, unmarried, sixteen years of age, without vocation, native and inhabitant of Guadalajara; that she knew Ignacio Almeida, with whom she had lived in illicit relations for six months, having before been in honorable relations with the purpose of contracting marriage; not succeeding in their desires, on account of the opposition of deponent’s parents, they agreed to run away together, intending to marry later; that, arriving at this place, and being without work, Almeida sought and secured it at the Hacienda de San Buenaventura, situated a half league’s distance from here; that, at first they lived there content; but that, soon, the Señor Don Pedro Gómez Gálvez, owner of that place, began to pay attention to her, urging her to abandon Almeida, and that she resisted; that Don Pedro was angered and threatened her to incriminate her lover, which he afterward did, since, about two weeks later Almeida was taken prisoner, without deponent’s having succeeded in seeing him meantime; that it is false that Ignacio had a pistol, and, more so, that he had shot at anyone; that she knows that the hat and the saddle (given in evidence at the inquest) are shown in all the cases similar to this, to prove that they were pierced; but that said marks are ancient, as she had been told that, in the inquest held two years ago on the death of Perfecto Sánchez, they were in evidence; that three days since, on the death of her lover being known in San Buenaventura, the Señor Gómez Gálvez came to her and said “Now, ingrate, you see what has happened. You may blame yourself for this.” And, that then he attempted to embrace her and when deponent resisted him, the Señor Don Pedro ordered that they should put her off the place, which was done without permitting her to remove her possessions.

The declaration having been read, she approved it, not knowing how to sign her name.

* * * * *

On the fourteenth of June, when it was known that Señor Don Pedro Gómez Gálvez was there, the personnel of the court went to the house of said person, for the purpose of interrogating him. After the affirmation prescribed by law, he stated that he was married, forty years of age, native of the Hacienda de San Buenaventura and inhabitant of Guadalajara; that he knew Ignacio Almeida, carpenter, who worked on his place for the space of six months; that, finally, having lost various animals from San Buenaventura, as well as money and other things, and having suspicion that the thief might be Almeida, he had informed the Municipal President, who ordered the arrest of the criminal; that he knows the said Almeida was killed by his guards, when attempting escape, at the place called _Corral de piedra_, and that he shot a pistol at the said policemen; that he does not know Marta Ruiz, nor has ever made love advances to her, nor was this the motive of his denunciation of Almeida, but the desire to recover the property, which he had lost.

* * * * *

On this date, the preceding deponent was confronted with the witness Marta Ruiz (who was brought by force from her house), on account of the discrepancies found in their statements. The Ruiz woman, greatly excited, said to Señor Gálvez, “You demanded my love and told me, if I gave you no encouragement, you would incriminate Ignacio.” The Señor Gómez Gálvez replied to the Ruiz woman, “It is false: I do not even know you.”

It was impossible to proceed further in the matter, as the Ruiz woman could not reply, having suffered a nervous attack; the investigation was therefore held as closed; the presiding Judge, the Alcalde, and the witnesses signed the records.

* * * * *

Huizache, July 1, 1900. No grounds for proceeding against any specific person, having resulted from the investigation, these records may be placed in the archives. It is so ordered. Thus decreed the first constitutional Judge, acting in accord with the assisting witnesses.

FEDERICO GAMBOA.

If I must confess the truth, Don Federico Gamboa was not agreeable, as a writer, to me. His book, _Del Natural_, seemed to me the effort, not always well sustained, of a beginner of promise; his _Aparencias_, I considered a translated and adapted novel, after the fashion of the dramas and comedies which formerly were “adapted” for the Mexican stage; his _Impresiones y Recuerdos_, in which the author describes and discusses the time when he smoked his first cigarette, the color of the eyes of his first sweetheart, the ferrule with which his teacher punished his boyish pranks, and other equally interesting matters, made on me the impression of an immense exhibition of personal vanity, in which the writer announced his _res et gesta_, with the gravity with which a Goncourt or a Daudet might make known what he had done in life.

Thus, then, his new book, _Suprema Ley_, surprised me agreeably, constituted a revelation,--of a truthfulness so admirable, so vivid, so passional, so full of that well-founded realism, which does not permit a book to remain on the shelf of the bookseller, but places it upon the table of the reader and in the memory of the lover of the beautiful.

If one did not see, at the close of the volume, the dates on which it was begun and concluded, he might believe that it had sprung forth complete, a spontaneous improvisation, a work of the instant, in which neither art, nor trammels of execution, nor imperfections of detail had had a part.

In the novel there is not a needless character, nor a useless incident, nor a single page which does not contribute to the completing of the action and which has not a direct relation to the plot. Even the descriptions, in which our novelists are prodigal to the degree of piling them up indiscriminately, are in _Suprema Ley_, only different modes in which the subject is impressed by reality. In Gamboa’s work, Belen, the Theatre, the Alameda--especially the Alameda--perform the part of the chorus in Greek tragedy.

The characters are enchantingly real, to the degree that, after reading the book, we feel that we have encountered, seen, and spoken with the actors. Ortegal is a degenerate, whom we all know; Clothilde is a fallen woman with a mask of sanctity, a profligate, who entered the world for man’s undoing; Berón, Holas, even the Comendador and Don Francisco are the very breath of life, are full of enchanting and noble realism.

One given to seek similarity between the old and the new would claim a likeness between Dr. Pascual, the learned man of the Rongón Macquart and the poor court writer, between Clothilde of Zola and the Clothilde of Gamboa, between the first night which the lovers spent united and the first night of Laurent and Therese Raquin, between the servant whose type Gamboa barely sketches and the Juliana Conseira de Eça of Quieros. These similarities may or may not exist, but no charge can be made against Gamboa on account of them; he painted reality and the other novelists painted reality, and nothing resembles itself more closely than truth.

Gamboa does not possess what I will call the epic faculty, that is, the faculty of describing external nature, as Delgado for instance; as little does he have, as Campo, the privilege of retaining, in memory, phrases and gestures; nor does he possess a vein of humor, as these writers and as Cuellar; he is, before all and beyond all, an analyst, a dissector of souls who sees to the bottom of hearts, who seeks the lust that dishonors, the meanness that kills, the hatred that causes horror. For this reason, in my opinion, he will never be popular, while his luckier fellows will gain proselytes and friends as long as they write.

This is not saying that his book lacks attractive characters. Prieto is a well depicted jester, Chucho an admirably cut figure, Don Eustaquio, though somewhat melodramatic and somewhat out of place in that collection of beings of flesh and bone, is the providence which, dressed in jeans and working in clay, is brought in to give some outlet from the tangle; but, above all, the family of Ortegal is of the most delicate and tender which has been here described. Lamartine and Daudet might well have drawn the picture, if Lamartine and Daudet had dedicated themselves to painting Mexican types of the humbler class.

There is no doubt that the world of Gamboa is, as that of Carlyle, a heap of fetid filth, shadowed by a leaden sky, where only groans and cries of desperation are heard; but, as in the terrible imagination of the British thinker, flashes of kindliness bringing counsel and resignation, cleave the sky of this Gehenna.

In fine, _Suprema Ley_ is a great success, a success which compensates for many failures and, by it, Señor Gamboa has placed himself among the first Mexican novelists--not, indeed, first of all, because for me, Delgado and _Micros_ hold yet a higher place.

IRENEO PAZ.

Ireneo Paz was born at Guadalajara, on July 3, 1836. His father died, when Ireneo was a child, leaving the widow in poverty. When a boy of thirteen years, he began his studies at the _Seminario_, laboring for his support throughout his course. By diligence and earnestness, he made an excellent record, gaining the respect and esteem of teachers and fellow-students. Graduating from the _Seminario_ in 1851, he took his baccalaureate in philosophy at the University in 1854, and was licensed as a lawyer in 1861. In his youth he wrote verse “as a tree sprouts leaves.” Identifying himself with the liberal party, he soon became prominent in politics. He was also a Captain in the national guard. During this period he published _El Independiente_ (The Independent), _El Dia_ (The Day), and _Sancho Panza_.

When the Imperial forces, in 1863, took possession of Guadalajara, Ireneo Paz withdrew to Colima, where he was editor of the Official Periodical of that State, and Magistrate of the Court of Justice. A year later, the approach of the Imperialists forced him to abandon these offices. He was with the Federal forces of the coast until their rout at Zapotlan, when he was one of the three to arrange the terms of capitulation with General Oroñoz. He was kept under surveillance at Guadalajara, where he, nevertheless, dedicated himself to the Republican cause, establishing _El Payaso_ (The Clown), which vigorously combatted monarchical ideas, with audacity and satire--replacing it later by _El Noticioso_ (The Well-Informed). Maximilian himself was impressed by the little sheet and ordered that a full set should be secured for him. On the occasion of an operatic triumph, at Guadalajara, by the prima donna, Angela Peralta,--Ireneo Paz gave vent to some democratic sentiments, which led to his arrest and imprisonment on November 12, 1866. His stay there was brief, as the Republican forces gained possession of the town, one month later. With the full re-establishment of the Republic, he was appointed in 1867 Secretary of State for Sinaloa. A few months later, he was again actively interested, against Juarez, in favor of the ideas of Diaz. The opposition failed and Paz was again in prison, this time in Santiago Tlaltelolco; he was later transferred to La Députacion. During his eleven months in prison, he vigorously assailed the Juarez regime in the popular anti-administration journal, _El Padre Cobos_ (Father Cobos). After his release, he continued his attacks in newspaper articles, in popular clubs, and in the secret plottings preceding the revolution known as La Noria. Notwithstanding all the efforts against him, Juarez was re-elected in 1871, but shortly died. Ireneo Paz was active in the revolution of La Noria and in that of Tuxtepec, four years later--supporting Diaz on both occasions and suffering imprisonment twice.

The mere list of the books written by Ireneo Paz is too long for quoting here. Many of them are historical novels dealing with Mexican themes. He has written too much for all of it to have great literary merit, but he is widely read and well known. His style is often tedious and prolix, but many interesting, and even thrilling, passages occur in his works. He has a quiet and dry humor and, sometimes, keen satire. His _Algunas Campañas_ (Some Campaigns), is practically a history of events in which he himself has participated. Our quotations are from it. In poetry Paz ranges from satire to love, from humor to philosophy.

Ireneo Paz has long lived in the City of Mexico, where he has been a member of Congress, in both houses and a Regidor. He has been, and is, editor of _La Patria_ (The Fatherland). He has been president of the _Prensa Asociada_ (Associated Press) and of the _Liceo Hidalgo_. He was a Commissioner from Mexico to the World’s Columbian Exposition, and as a result of his visit to our country wrote _La Exposicion de Chicago_ (The Chicago Exposition).

THE AGREEMENT OF EL ZACATE GRULLO.

In an hacienda, situated on the Autlan road, with an obscure name, which, nevertheless became famous in the annals of the period, we, the troops under command of the Generals Anacleto Herrera y Cairo, Antonio Neri and Toro Manuel, including a whole regiment of officers and some few common soldiers, pulled ourselves together, though truly in a pitiable state.

The name of this afterward celebrated hacienda deserves special mention--_El Zacate Grullo_.

At the hacienda of El Zacate Grullo we planned to impart some organization to those forces, the scanty remnants of what had been the Army of the Centre. It was agreed that, for the time, they should bear the name of the United Brigades. But, promptly, this other question had to rise--who was to command them?

The regular leaders at once fixed their eyes upon the valiant and sympathetic General Herrera y Cairo; but the chief obstacle to his taking command was in the great preponderance of irregulars. Would Rojas and his companions submit to the command of a man of fine manners and good education? The next thought was of Rojas or of Julio García; it was certain that two State Governors would not place themselves at the orders of the former, even though he had the greater forces, particularly as he had, among the French, the reputation of a bandit, for which reason they had declared him an outlaw and had proposed pursuing him and treating him as other bandits. Don Julio had the friendship of all and possessed qualities, which connected him with both of these opposite factions. He had been a companion of Rojas, he understood pillage, and he also knew how, at the proper time, to assert his dignity as a public man, rising above his antecedents; but no one gave him credit for military ability. That Don Julio was a sort of bond of union between the two leaders mentioned, served for nought then, in that emergency.

But to continue with the facts.

The Generals Herrera, García and Rojas, assisted by Aristeo Moreno, who was the secretary of the first and the very intimate friend of the last, passed the whole day in private conference. I supposed, and my supposition was later confirmed, that Rojas had refused to permit my presence in that council.

A general order was issued, that after the six o’clock roll-call, all the leaders and officers should present themselves at the lodgings of General Rojas, in order to be informed of what had been decided in the council of generals.

We all hastened to the meeting, hoping that from the discussion had flashed out the ray of light so much needed in escaping from the difficulties, in which we were entangled. Rojas occupied the centre of a table placed at one end of the main saloon of the hacienda. At the sides were Generals García and Herrera y Cairo, and at the end, near six candlesticks with lights was Aristeo Moreno, surrounded by papers. I do not know whether because the candles were of tallow, or because of the state of agitation in which our spirits were, we observed that the faces of those at the table appeared extremely pale.

When the hundred and more officers, of the grade of Lieutenant and upward, of which the United Brigades boasted, were gathered together in the hall, we observed that five hundred _galeanos_ surrounded the hacienda house. We were, then, to deliberate under pressure of five hundred bandits, who could pulverize us at the least signal from their chief.

Rojas solemnly said: “Mr. Secretary, read the agreement which we have made.”

Aristeo Moreno read the considerations of that abortion, which terminated with the following articles:

Article 1. The undersigned solemnly bind themselves, under oath, to defend the Republic against all intervention, battling, if need be, until death.

Art. 2. All those who do not approve the present compact, showing themselves indifferent to the national defense, will be considered enemies and shot.

Art. 3. Those who, in any manner whatever, shall be unfaithful to the Republic, and shall make alliance with the Empire, shall be shot.

Art. 4. Populations where the Republican forces are not received with rejoicing, open hospitality being refused, shall be burned and their inhabitants shall be compelled to fight as common soldiers or to be shot, according to the gravity of their offense.

Art. 5. All prisoners taken from the enemy, of whatever category they may be, will be immediately shot, without the necessity of personal identification.

Art. 6. All individual property becomes the property of the United Brigades; consequently all who refuse to furnish rations, fodder, money, or whatever else may be demanded, shall be shot.

Art. 7. All who compose the United Brigades are free to sign this agreement or not, but once having signed it, he who does not support it, or who shall commit the crime of desertion, shall be shot.

Given in the Hacienda del Zacate Grullo, etc.

When Aristeo Moreno had finished reading, General Rojas with a voice apparently calm, but with the black rings about his eyes unusually dark and deep, a certain sign that he was breathing out hatred and that bad sentiments animated him, said, addressing those of us who were in the hall:

“That is what I and my companions have sworn to sustain. Those who are in accord with the plan may come to sign it. Those, who are not, are free to ask for their passports.”

The profoundest silence reigned.

“Does no one wish his passport?” he asked.

And as an equal silence reigned, he said in a voice less abrupt: “Very well, let them come to sign.”

Some started to the table in order to sign, but as others vacillated or remained near the door, Rojas spoke again:

“No one can leave the hacienda, unless accompanied by one of my aides, after he has signed. That is the order I have given the guard which is watching the doors.”

In fact, the _galeones_ were watching the door from the hall to the corridor, that of the street, and all the other exits; there seemed no possible means of escape without placing one’s signature to the shameful document. Nudgings with the arms, joggings with the feet, and words said so low that they seemed rather the buzzing of a fly, were the only protests which worthy and honorable leaders, there present, dared make.

Rojas signed, and his secretary who was an insignificant Indian, signed; Herrera y Cairo followed, his secretary, Aristeo Moreno signing beside him; General Julio García was called and I felt a shiver run through me from head to foot, because I ought to follow him as his secretary, and, no less, the secretary of the republican government of Colima.... In that moment of supreme anxiety, I felt it the height of folly to publicly oppose the signing of that infernal abortion, which would be the same as to provoke an undesirable quarrel in which the probabilities were that we who were decent men, being few, would perish at the hands of the bandits, who were many. Fortunately three copies had to be signed; Don Julio wrote slowly and I had time to climb, unobserved, through a small window, which opened from the hall into the inner rooms of the hacienda, which served us as lodgings, where I arrived, greatly agitated, and, promptly undressing, went to bed. As a precaution, which served me well, I bound a white cloth around my head and surrounded myself with medicines.

Scarcely had I done all this, when an adjutant entered my room and asked if I were there.

“What is wanted?” I asked him.

“The generals need you.”

“Tell them to excuse me; my head aches terribly and you see that I am lying down.”

“Are you not coming to sign?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, rolling myself up in the bed.

“Why?”

“Because I do not wish to dishonor myself, even more in the eyes of my fellow-patriots than in those of the enemy.”

“Then you believe we have done badly in signing it?”

“Yes, sir; very badly.”

“Then you will not sign it?”

“No, sir.”

“But, what shall I say to Rojas?”

“That he may order me shot.”

“Very well,” he said and withdrew, annoyed.

Three copies were signed, one for each general, and when the act was concluded my room was filled with leaders and officers, who desired to know my opinion about that absurd agreement. I said to them all that it was unworthy and that I would not sign it.

Some said that there ought to be an uprising, others desired to fly, though they saw this pact, like an anathema, which would follow them everywhere, a sentence of death. Death and dishonor if they fulfilled it; death and dishonor if they did not. There were some who wept with rage. I attempted to console them as well as I could and gradually they departed until, finally, only Crispin Medina and Juan Valadéz were with me.

“Did you sign?” I asked them.

“Unfortunately yes, but only on one of the copies.”

“On which?”

“On that of Don Julio.”

At that moment, he entered.

“Are you still talking of that unhappy document?” he asked us.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what do you think?”

“We think, General,” I said to him, “as every worthy man, who respects himself and who desires an honorable career in politics, must think; this agreement is absurd because impracticable; it is hateful because it wars against all the good sentiments of mankind; and it is monstrous, immoral, iniquitous, because it orders destruction and slaughter.”

“You are right,” he answered. “I ought not to have agreed so far with Rojas, and for my part, the compact is broken from this moment.”

He drew forth his copy and tore it to pieces.

The next day on taking up our line of march, Rojas said to me: “You not only do not sign yourself but breed disaffection among the other leaders.”

I frankly told him my opinion, which he heard with interest. When I had finished he added:

“I am not shooting you now, because Julio and his people forbid it.... But, we will see later.... We have a lot of unsettled accounts.”

He cast a sinister glance at me and then left, urging his horse to a gallop.

JOSÉ LÓPEZ-PORTILLO Y ROJAS.

José López-Portillo y Rojas was born at Guadalajara May 26, 1850. His father was an eminent lawyer and teacher in the law school. Son of wealthy parents, the young man was given every opportunity for study, first in his home city and later at the capital. His final studies in law were made at Guadalajara, where, in 1871, he became _licenciado_. His parents then gave him an opportunity for foreign travel. He visited the United States, Great Britain and Ireland, France and Italy, Egypt and the Holy Land. On his return he published his _Impresiones de viaje_ (Impressions of Travel). Since that time Señor López-Portillo y Rojas, has practiced law, represented his state in the National Congress, taught in the law school and done important work in journalism. His writings are always clear, direct and marked by a literary style of unusual grace and purity. Besides his scattered articles and the book already mentioned, he has edited--with notable scholarship--the interesting _Cronica de Jalisco_ (Chronicle of Jalisco) of Fray Antonio Tello, and written a novel, _La Parcela_ (The Piece of Land). It is from this last work that our selections are taken.

In _La Parcela_ the author presents a sketch of characteristic country life. The novel has for purpose the illustration of the strong, almost morbid, affection for land felt by the native proprietor.

Don Pedro Ruiz is a wealthy and progressive _haciendero_ of pure Indian blood. He is noble-hearted, thoughtful, shrewd, intelligent and a man of resources. A widower, he is devotedly attached to his only son, Gonzalo, a fine young fellow of twenty-three years. The owner of the adjoining property, Don Miguel Diaz, has been a life-long friend, and between them exists the artificial relation of _compadre_. His wife, Doña Paz, is a cousin of Don Pedro; there is one daughter, a beautiful, gentle but rather weak lady named Ramona. The two young persons--Gonzalo and Ramona--have grown up like brother and sister; their childish affection has ripened into love, and at the beginning of the story they are engaged to be married. Don Pedro is by far the richest man of all the district. Don Miguel is also wealthy, but has seen with some jealousy and dissatisfaction the constantly increasing difference between their fortunes. This dissatisfaction, encouraged by a scheming lawyer, leads to his claiming a worthless bit of property on the borders of his and Don Pedro’s lands. The value of the land is but a trifle to either party; but Don Pedro, sure that right is on his side, refuses to yield to the unjust demands of his neighbor.

Don Miguel at first seizes the property by force, but is dispossessed by Don Pedro’s tenants. The bitter feeling aroused by this incident leads to a battle between two tenants of the two masters; both of the fighters are thrown into jail. Carried into the courts, the boundary line is infamously determined by a corrupted judge; a higher court reverses the decision and Don Pedro is supported in his rights. Furious with anger, Don Miguel seeks to injure his neighbor. Through a wicked scheme plotted with the local authority, the tenant of Don Pedro, who has been in jail, is assassinated. A great dam, which holds back a mighty volume of water for driving mills, irrigating the property, etc., is damaged by Don Miguel’s orders, with the idea that the inundation will ruin the property of Don Pedro.

Throughout these various exciting incidents--seizure, dispossession, law-suit, appeal, assassination and diabolical destruction--the love affairs of the young people are naturally more or less disturbed. Having carried things to such a climax, the author brings about a sudden reconciliation and the story ends.

EXTRACTS FROM LA PARCELA.

“Good morning, _compadre_ Don Miguel,” said Don Pedro as soon as he recognized the horseman who arrived.

“Good morning, _compadre_,” replied the newcomer, checking his horse and dismounting.

The servant who accompanied him quickly dismounted from his horse and went to hold, by the bridle, that of his master. Then he bent to remove his master’s spurs.

“No, Marcos,” said Don Miguel to him, “do not remove them. We shall go on at once.”

“How! _compadre_,” said Don Pedro; “then you will not remain to take breakfast with me?”

“No, not today, because I must arrive at Derramadero before 6, and it is yet distant.”

“That is true, _compadre_; but there will be another day, will there not? Pass in, pass in. Do you desire that we sit down here on the bench to enjoy the fresh air, or shall we go into the office?”

“We are very well here. Do not trouble yourself.”

“Very well. What are you doing so early?”

“It does not please me to visit. I come to treat of our business.”

“What business?”

“That which we have pending.”

“But we have nothing pending.”

“How not? The Monte de los Pericos.”

“What about it?”

“I want you to decide whether you will yield it to me.”

“Why do we speak of this? A thousand times I have told you that the Monte is mine.”

“That is what you say, but the truth is that it belongs to me.”

“_Compadre_, it is better that we talk of something else; leave this matter. Are we not friends?”

“We are so; but that is not to say that you may deprive me of my things. What sort of friendship is that?”

* * * * *

In fact, at a very short distance from where the group found itself, there were seen down below, through the shrubbery, the four men of Don Miguel. They were stretched out on the ground upon their blankets, and in the shadow of the trees conversed without suspicion, with their eyes fastened on the house of Palmar, which was visible from there. Their horses, unbridled and fastened to the trees, were pasturing on the green herbage.

“But man! How good was that blow?” said one of the _mozos_. “It still gives me delight.”

“What a surprise for the poor _montero_!” exclaimed another.

“What will Don Pedro say?”

“He will have to calm his rage.”

And they laughed with their mouths open. Just then they heard the tramp of horses, and turning their heads saw Don Pedro, followed by his men. They tried to rise to draw their pistols.

“Do not stir!” said Don Pedro in a terrible voice, “or we will shoot you.” And he and all his held their arms ready.

There was nothing to be done. The servants of Don Miguel comprehended that all resistance was useless.

“Master, we are taken,” said one of them.

“Do you surrender at discretion?”

“There is no way to avoid it.”

“Then give up your arms. Look, Roque, dismount and take away from the gentlemen their rifles, their pistols, their sabres and their cartridge boxes.”

They gave up with trembling hands the pistols and the cartridge boxes. The rifles were hanging from the saddles of their horses.

“Now,” continued Don Pedro, “tie their hands behind them and help them to get onto their horses. Distribute their arms so that their weight shall not be too great, and let each one take the halter of a horse in order that he may lead it.”

All was done with the rapidity of lightning. The men of Don Pedro strongly tied the hands of the conquered behind their backs with the satisfaction of the tyrant characteristic of all conquerors. One of the captured, Panfilo Vargas, was vexed and said:

“They gain advantage because they are more than we. Tie quickly for some day you will know who I am. We are _arrieros_, and we go through the country.”

“Shut your mouth, braggart!” said Don Pedro angrily. “How many were you this morning? There were six of you to take the poor _montero_, who was alone and not expecting anyone. As for you, you were left here to guard and had the obligation of not permitting yourselves to be surprised. You have lost because you are fools. Who told you to be careless? They shall know that I do not sleep nor neglect mine own. Let him who jokes with me be careful.” Then he turned to Oceguera, saying to him, “Where is the _montero_ hidden?”

“Here am I, master,” replied the _montero_ himself, appearing from the bushes.

“I was looking for you to order you to attend to your business in your place. Have no fear. I shall send reinforcements. Do not move from here until I tell you.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Let us go then,” ordered Ruiz. And the party put itself on the road to the _hacienda_, just as the sun began to set and the great shadows from the mountains were extending themselves across the valley.

* * * * *

Roque passed the _arroyo_ and entered the camp. Some time passed and he did not return. Panfilo began to believe that he did not come to the appointment because he was afraid; but soon he heard a whistle at the foot of the slope and saw Roque on horseback, striking his chest arrogantly, as if saying:

“Here you have me at your orders.”

On seeing him Panfilo hastened to meet him.

“Now yes,” said Roque, “here I am ready to serve you and give you all you want.”

“Well, you know what I want; that we shall have a good tussle.”

“It seems to me that here we have a good place.”

“Well, then, do me the favor,” exclaimed the impetuous Panfilo, drawing a revolver.

“Listen to me,” said Roque, drawing his also; “if really you desire that we shall kill each other, don’t let us create an excitement. Put away your pistol and take your machete.”

“I will do what I please. Are you afraid of the noise?”

“It is you who should be afraid of the noise, lest they hear us and come to part us. If we do not succeed at the first shot nothing will come of it, for they will come and separate us. Is that perhaps what you want?”

“You are right,” replied Panfilo. “Well, then, there is no time to lose. Let us get at it.”

* * * * *

Soon they found themselves on foot, lame, covered with dust, pale, horrible. They seemed not men, but fierce beasts.

* * * * *

The contest could not prolong itself for the combatants were exhausted. They could scarcely move; but they did not wish to yield, since although strength failed, anger more than abounded.

Chance finally settled the contest. When Roque raised his arm to deal a blow with his machete upon Panfilo’s head, the latter by a quick movement tried to parry the blow, to save his head from being cleft open. But he parried it, not with his blade, but with the haft, and the heavy weapon of his antagonist severed his smaller fingers. With this there fell to the ground the sword and the amputated fingers; that tinged with blood, these livid and convulsed.

“Now, yes, I have lost,” exclaimed the wounded man with a gesture of grief.

“Yes, friend,” replied Roque, filled with consternation. “What need was there of this?”

“It is a thing of bad luck; who may gain may lose. You have proved me a man; you cannot deny that.”

“How have I to deny it? The truth is that you have much courage. Let me bind your hand with this cloth to see if the blood can be staunched.”

Saying this Roque wrapped the hand with his great kerchief.

“Where do you desire that I take you?” he asked. “You cannot go alone.”

“Go and leave me; do not let them take you prisoner,” replied Panfilo.

“Though they take me to jail, I will not leave you.”

“Well, then, help me to get near to Chopo. When we are within sight of the hacienda save yourself.”

“Wherever you wish; let us walk along.”

They started. Panfilo advanced with difficulty; he murmured and suffered with thirst. He stopped frequently to drink in the _arroyos_ and Roque gave him water in the hollow of his hand.

“Friend,” he said, “it gives me sorrow to see you so injured.”

“There is no reason; I am to blame.”

“It had been better that we had not fought.”

“Why do we speak of this? There is now no remedy.”

The wounded man was presently unable to walk. Supported on Roque’s arm he progressed very slowly. Finally it was necessary to carry him like a child. Thus they came in sight of Chopo. Panfilo did not wish Roque to carry him farther.

“May God reward you,” he said to him. “Leave me upon this stone and hurry away that they may not come to seize you.”

“Though they seize me, how can I leave you alone?”

“Every little while the _peons_ and their women pass; they will carry me to my house. Go.”

“Good friend, since you wish it, I will go; but one thing is necessary first; without it I will not go.”

“What?”

“That we may henceforth be good friends.”

“With much pleasure--from now on.”

“Do not hold hatred toward me and forget the things that have happened.”

“Why should I hold hatred?”

“Because of what I did.”

“You did it like a man; it needs naught said.”

“Then give me the good hand.”

“Here it is,” answered the wounded man, extending his hot left hand. Roque grasped it with feeling.

“God grant that you may soon be well,” he murmured.

“With a maimed hand,” added the wounded man, his pallid and dry lips contracted in a sad smile.

“God’s will be done,” said Roque, sympathetically.

At this moment a whistle was heard from near by.

“Indeed it is time that you go,” said Panfilo. “Do you not see that persons are coming?”

He could scarcely speak; he was on the point of losing consciousness.

Roque hesitated.

“How leave you?” he said.

“Go, if you desire that we be friends; if not, remain.”

“Then I leave.”

“Farewell, and run fast that they may not overtake you.”

* * * * *

So urgent and impassioned was his request that the girl was moved in spite of herself. To quench the sympathy which rose in her bosom she recalled to herself that he who thus spoke was the nominal friend of Gonzalo, and on remembering this she felt that for her budding pity was substituted vexation and indignation. Thus this harsh reproach escaped her lips:

“And you call yourself the friend of Gonzalo.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Luis it would not have produced a more prostrating effect.

“Gonzalo is my friend, in fact,” he gasped.

“Not if he knew himself,” insisted Ramona, ironically. “If it were so you could not have spoken as you have just done.”

“Then are you yet in relations with him?”

“You know it very well.”

“No,” replied the unfortunate youth, pale as a corpse; “I give you my word as a gentleman that I did not know it. My father told me some days past that he knew these relations were broken; only for this reason have I forced myself to reveal to you my love. I may endure the fact that you do not love me, since such is my lot, but I cannot be willing that you should consider me disloyal. I desire that you should esteem me even if you may not love me.”

* * * * *

The youth in the meantime had arrived at his home, mounted his horse and immediately sallied forth to the house of Luis. He sent a message to his former friend by a servant, begging him that he would come outside, which Medina did immediately, well bred and polite as he was.

“Gonzalo!” said Medina, extending his hand.

“I come to arrange with you a very serious matter,” replied our youth, without extending his.

“You have me at your orders,” replied Luis, exchanging the friendly expression of his face for another more severe.

“Only we cannot do it here. Mount your horse and take your arms. I await you.”

And by the contraction of his features and the pallor of his countenance, Medina knew that Gonzalo had come on a warlike errand, and was not slow in divining what was the cause of his annoyance. Without replying a single word he entered the house and soon reappeared and mounted his horse, with a pistol at his belt and a sword at the saddle. “Here you have me,” he said to Gonzalo.

“Come,” replied Gonzalo, “let us go to the field.”

Together they took the street which most quickly would bring them to the end of the village, and went a considerable stretch outside the town. Leaving the road they went into the meadows and stopped at a little open space formed by four immense _camichines_, which, extending over the space, their broad, flat and immovable boughs projected a dense and heavy shadow around.

“I have brought you to this spot,” said Gonzalo, stopping his horse, “because it is retired and no one may see or hear us. It is unnecessary to enter into explanations; you know how gravely you have offended me, and in what way. That is sufficient. Now I desire that you shall give me satisfaction with arms in hand.”

“Although I am not valiant, I have some dignity and never will I yield before an enemy who challenges me,” answered Luis, tranquilly; “but I have one remark to make to you, which is, that my conscience does not reproach me with having done anything to offend you.”

“Yes, I was expecting that you would deny responsibility for your acts. Anything else was impossible.”

“Moderate your words. Do not let us pass to a serious occasion without some rational cause.”

“Pretext,” cried Gonzalo; “you do not desire to fight. You are a coward.” Saying this he placed his hand upon his pistol for a moment. Luis was livid and acted as if he would follow his example; but he stopped and left his arm in place, recalling his promise to Ramona at the ball.

“One moment,” he said, “only one moment; if you are a man and not a brute, as you seem to be, you must first hear me. By my mother’s honor, I assure you that I am disposed to fight; but not before we understand each other. What is the matter?”

“You love Ramona. Deny that if you can.”

“God save me from committing such a vile act! It is true.”

“You have courted her.”

“That is true.”

“You danced with her the night of the _fiesta_.”

“That also is true.”

“You made a declaration of love to her.”

“I cannot deny that.”

“You are a shameless being, because you knew she was my sweetheart and that we were engaged to be married.”

“That is not true.”

Gonzalo threw upon Luis a glance of infinite contempt on hearing these words.

“You are a wretch,” he cried, “and it is necessary that I punish you. Defend yourself.”

“Assassinate me if you wish; I will not draw my pistol until you have heard me. Come, dispatch me; here you have me,” and he exposed his breast to his challenger.

“There is nothing to do but hear you in order to quit you of every excuse for your cowardice. Speak, and hurry, for I am impatient to punish you.”

“I call God to witness that I believed your love relations with Ramona were broken. Don Miguel had told my father that with absolute certainty. Every one in Citala asserted the same. You did not come to town, and as your father and Don Miguel were quarreling it seemed to me probable and I believed it. For this reason I made love to Ramona. Had it not been for this I would have remained silent, as I have been silent for so many years, for my love to her is nothing new. I have always had it. Ramona informed me of my error, and accused me of perversity and treason, as you have just done. She herself can tell you how astonished I was when I learned that it was not true that all was ended between you and that you still loved each other. It caused me infinite grief. Now,” pursued the youth, “that you have heard me, I have done, and am at your orders.”

* * * * *

The caravan for some leagues journeyed silently, but seeing that the storm approached, the sergeant neared himself to one of the soldiers and said to him in a low voice:

“The storm is coming; here is a good place.”

“Yes, we have already gone six leagues and there has not been one person on the road.”

“Well, then, let us at once to what we have to do; then let us get back to the pueblo.”

“That is what I say,” responded the soldier.

“Go on then, you already know what you have to do; see if you can do it. I pretend not to look; I will fall behind.”

“I go then to see what happens.”

The soldier drew near to Roque.

“What cheer, friend? How goes it?”

“Diabolically, friend. How do you expect it goes with me with these cords?” replied the prisoner.

“Yes, it must go very unpleasantly. Why don’t you smoke a cigarette?”

“Friend, impossible. Don’t you see that I go tied?”

“‘Tis true, I see it with pity. Now you will see what we will do. At last the sergeant has fallen behind and will not see us. I’m going to untie you to give you a little rest.”

“But will not the sergeant see it? Thank you much; but will he not see?”

“Have no concern; anyway it is very dark.”

And the soldier leaned over and untied the knot which held Roque’s hands.

“May God reward you, friend,” said he, stretching his arms in front of him; “I was very tired. But tell me, why are your hands so cold? Are you chilled?”

“Nothing is the matter with me. The air is damp. But, take a cigarette. Here is the light;”--and he reined up.

The unsuspecting Roque rolled the cigarette and lighted it by that which the soldier was smoking. They then went on, talking. After talking for a little time of indifferent matters the gendarme said:

“Man, friend, I sympathize with you and it pains me that you are going to jail.”

“There is no alternative, friend! Some day I will be out. Anyway the jail does not eat people.”

“Good; but it is always atrocious to be a prisoner, and God knows for how long. Why not escape. I will dissemble and you will run. I will fire into the air and you race along into the country and no one can find you.”

“I am afraid they will shoot me.”

“Don’t be afraid; I will help you.”

The unfortunate man fell into the snare.

“Do you say it seriously? Are you not fooling?”

“I advise you in earnest. All you need is courage.”

“But you tell me when.”

“Right now--race along before the sergeant comes.”

Roque gave rein to his horse and urged it with quick strokes of his heels against its flanks, but he hardly succeeded in making it take a slow and measured gallop. He had gone but a few steps when a report sounded just behind him and a bullet passed, grazing the brim of his _sombrero_.

“Zounds,” he murmured, “what a scare this man has aimed to give me.”

And instinctively he tried to place himself in the field at one side of the road to hide himself in the brambles. But there was no time for anything. For all his urging the horse would not do better than his little gallop. He heard the nearing band of horses and various shots sounded. Then he understood that he had fallen into a trap and that he was about to lose his life through it. Impelled by the instinct of self-preservation, he tried to dismount to seek shelter; but it was too late. The gendarmes were upon him, firing with their rifles.

“Jesus help me! Mother receive my spirit!” he said in thought, and fell penetrated by the bullets. Two had entered at the shoulders and emerged at the chest, and the third entered at the neck and destroyed the skull.

* * * * *

What was it which the terrified Diaz then saw? Upon a plank, borne by four peasants, tied down with coarse cords, was a corpse, rigid and yellow. The miserable clothing which covered it, coarse cotton drawers and shirt, was soaked with blood, principally upon the breast, where the abundant and coagulated flow had darkened and become almost black. Above the forehead, in the black harsh hair, matted and stiffened with blood, were visible clots of red, mingled with whitish bits of brain. The livid face, turned toward heaven, bore an expression of anguish which was heart-rending; the eyes half opened and glazed fascinated by their glance; and the opened mouth, dark and full of earth, seemed to exhale inaudible groans and complaints.

The _gendarmes_ surrounded the body and the curious crowd followed it. In the midst of the group a woman walked, weeping and uttering cries of grief. She carried a babe at her breast--bearing it with her left arm, and as well as she could led with her right another boy about four years old, barefoot and tattered.

“Roque! my Roque! my husband,” cried the miserable woman. “They have killed my husband! They have killed him! Children! My little ones! Poor little ones! They are orphans! What shall I do? What shall I do? What shall I do? Ay! Ay! Ay!”

In passing close to Don Miguel she saw him and said to him, sobbing:

“Señor Don Miguel, do you see? They have killed my husband! That is what is there on the board! What shall I do Señor Don Miguel? What shall I do? Ay! Ay! Ay!”

MANUEL SÁNCHES MÁRMOL.

Manuel Sánches Mármol was born in the State of Tabasco. He displayed a literary tendency very early, and, while still a student, collaborated in such literary reviews as _La Guirnalda_ (The Garland), _El Album Yucateco_ (The Yucatecan Album), and _El Repertorio pintoresco_ (The Picturesque Repertoire). His first essays in the field of fiction were _El Misionero de la Cruz_ (The Missionary of the Cross), and _La Venganza de una injuria_ (The Revenge of an Injury).

At the time of the French Intervention, he joined the Republican forces. He acted as Secretary of State of Tabasco, and aroused the patriotism of his fellows by his writings. He founded _El Aguila Azteca_ (The Aztec Eagle), a paper devoted entirely to the national cause. During this period of disturbance he was a Deputy to the State Legislature, Secretary of Colonel Gregorio Méndez, and his Auditor of War. The course of local events during this stormy period was largely directed by him. (See p. 148.)

After the war had passed, Manuel Sánches Mármol continued his activity both in politics and letters. He has been Magistrate of the Supreme Court of the State of Tabasco, several times member of the Federal Congress, Director and Founder of the _Instituto Juarez_ of Tabasco. He has constantly contributed to those periodicals which represent the most pronounced liberal ideas--as _El Siglo XIX_ (The Nineteenth Century), _La Sombra de Guerrero_ (The Shade of Guerrero), _El Radical_ and _El Federalista_. He represented Mexico in the second Pan-American Congress, which met in the City of Mexico in 1902. He is now Professor of History in the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School).

Besides his early essays in fiction, he has written the following novels--_Pocahontas_, _Juanita Sousa_, and _Antón Pérez_ (titles untranslatable, as being personal names). He has now in press _Piedad_ (Mercy), and is preparing three others.

Our selections are taken from _Antón Pérez_, a novel dealing with the French Intervention in Tabasco. Antón Pérez was the son of poor but decent parents, but was _pardo_ (“_dark_”), a fact certain to be to his disadvantage, no matter what abilities he might possess. Having gone through the public school of the village, he attracted the attention of the priests, who had newly come to his town, the villa of Cunduacán. Their school was below Antón’s needs but the good priests taught him privately to the extent of their ability. He was their trusted protege and they encouraged him to high hope of a brilliant future. In the parochial school for girls was Rosalba del Riego. She was ugly and unattractive but of good family and aristocratic connection. She adored the big boy, handsome as a picture, who studied with the priests and aided them in all ways, occupying quite a lofty place in their little world, but her admiration merely irritated him, as it called down upon him the laughter of the little school boys. When Antón had learned all that his patrons could teach him they tried to secure for him a scholarship at the _Seminario_, at Merida; the effort appeared likely to be successful, but it failed;--a youth with more powerful influence behind him securing the appointment. The blow was keenly felt by the poor and ambitious boy. Soon after, his father died, the old priests left for new fields, and two old aunts who have been to him in place of mother depended upon him for support. The brilliant dreams of a career faded; life’s realities fell upon the boy. He was equal, however, to the demands and earned enough for their modest needs. He was busy, useful, respected, and content. He was lieutenant of the local guard and had some notions of military drill and practice. Meantime his little admirer, Rosalba, completed her education outside the State, and, at last, returned transformed. Beautiful as a dream, brilliant, educated, she was immediately the centre of attraction in the town. Antón was madly in love with her. But her childish admiration had given place to--at least, apparent--aversion. She insulted him openly on account of his inferior position. Rosalba had a maiden aunt, Doña Socorro Castrejón. Just as Antón’s love for Rosalba arose, Doña Socorro saw the boy, appreciated his handsome face and fine bearing, and was smitten with an infatuation, which had only a passionate and unworthy basis. She was a scheming and intriguing woman but not without charms and brilliancy. When events were in this condition the French Intervention took place. The foreign forces appeared in Tabasco; the governor, Dueñas, traitorously yielded the capital; later, pretending to arrange for local defense, he scattered the forces, so that they could present no obstacle to the invader. One after another these separated bodies of the national guard suffered defection. The Doña Socorro was an ardent imperialist. Antón, at Cunduacán, was lieutenant of the yet loyal forces, under Colonel Méndez. One day, while Colonel Méndez and his brother, Captain Méndez, were breakfasting with a friend Doña Socorro influenced Antón to “pronounce,” with his soldiers, in favor of the Empire. His deed was represented, in brilliant colors to the young commander of the Imperial forces, Arévalo, and Antón was rewarded. He was the confidential friend and trusted adviser of Arévalo, and, for a time, all their plans prospered. But Gregorio Méndez and Sánchez Magellanes gathered a handful of loyal men and made a stand. A battle was fought, the invading forces looking for an easy victory; they met with dire defeat. Antón Pérez was mortally wounded. The death of the youth, who had sacrificed loyalty, patriotism, and honor, to a foolish love, is depicted in dreadful detail.

EXTRACTS FROM ANTÓN PÉREZ.

Doña Socorro was somewhat irritated, that the compliment for which she sought was not given, and that only her niece was praised. She controlled herself, however, merely saying inwardly--“what a fool the boy is! he must be waked up.” Then she said aloud:

“Well, since you do not care to stay, feel that I am interested in your welfare. I should like to see you at my house, tomorrow.”

“I will be there, madam,” Anton answered respectfully. And slipping, timidly, through the crowd of guests, directing a furtive glance at Rosalba, he went to his work at the humble desk in Ajágan’s shop.

But he could not keep track of the figures; sums and differences came out badly; everything was topsy-turvy; seven times six was forty-eight and five would not contain three. His head was in a whirl. That night he could not sleep.

In the morning, he performed his usual duties and at midday, his heart high with vague, happy hopes, he went to his appointment with Doña Socorro.

He was expected. The lady received him with expressive signs of affection, and seating him, said:

“I have invited you here for your own good. You are poor; I wish to aid you. Do not be ashamed; speak to me frankly. What are your resources for living? Go into full particulars.”

Antón lowered his eyes and turned his hat around and around in his hands, until the lady again encouraged him:

“Go on; don’t be brief. Speak! boy.”

“Well then, lady,” answered the young man, hesitatingly, “I can’t say that it is so bad; I earn my twenty-five pesos a month.”

“And from whom?”

“From what persons, you mean”--continued Antón, with somewhat greater frankness,--“why then, Don Ascencio Ajágan gives me ten pesos because, every night, I go there for a little while to make up his accounts and to write a letter or two. Master Collado pays me five pesos for the class in arithmetic, which I teach in the public school; another five, the receiver of taxes, who scarcely knows how to sign his name, pays me for balancing his accounts at the end of the month; and the other five the town treasurer gives me for doing the same.”

“That is not bad; but Collado and the collector pay you a miserable price.”

“The latter, perhaps, yes; but the other, no--he receives a salary of barely twenty-five. As much as I earn.”

“Ah, well! bid farewell to Master Collado and Ajágan, and the collector and the town treasurer, and enter my employ. _La Ermita_ is wretchedly cared for; mayorsdomos succeed one another and all rob me. You shall go to _La Ermita_ as manager, with house and table, horses for your use, servants to do your bidding--that is to say, as master, because you will command there; the twenty-five pesos per month, which you now earn by your varied labors, will continue to be paid you and in addition fifteen per cent of the annual income of the place. I am making you not a bad offer!”[22]

“No, indeed, lady! I appreciate that it is more than liberal; but, I cannot accept it.”

“Why not?” asked Doña Socorro, thoroughly vexed.

“Because, I must not abandon my good aunts.”

“You need not do so. _La Ermita_ is only three leagues from here; a mere nothing. You can come here in the evenings, Saturdays, to spend Sundays, and Mondays you are at your duties again. Finally, in case they are not satisfied, take them out to the place.”

“They were not made for country life; still, for my good, they would make the sacrifice. But there is another--an insuperable--difficulty.”

“What?”

“I do not understand rural affairs and one who controls should know what he commands. I would not know where to begin; there would be neither head nor foot, and you would gain nothing, with your unhappy administrator.”

“What I gain or do not gain, does not concern you; it is not your affair. If you do not know rural affairs, I will instruct you, and, as you are not stupid, you will be, within two months, more dexterous than San Ysidro[23] himself. When shall we begin, come now?”

“But, lady, I am sorry; I believe I will not go. Agriculture does not attract me. The few studies I have made do not tend thither.”

“Ah! You aim at a literary career, to some public office!” replied Doña Socorro, sneeringly.

“Do not make sport of me, lady; I know right well, that I shall never fill the position of a general or a magistrate. You asked me to be frank, and I frankly admit that I have my aspirations.”

“Very good--what difficulty is that. Better and better. Go and fill this position, save money, put yourself in contact with people of consequence, and from _La Ermita_, you may go to be Regidor, or something higher. You know well that Alcaldes, and even Jefes Politicos, come from the country-places. What hinders?”

“Really, lady, speaking plainly, the position does not attract me in the least.”

“H’m!--You are not telling me the truth; at least, you are concealing something from me--something--what is the real cause of your refusal?”

Antón maintained silence: the lady urged him.

“Why are you not frank with me--who care so much for you?”

“It is”--he stammered--“the truth is that just now, less than ever, do I care to leave the town.”

“Come, come, tell it all”--insisted the lady, piqued with lively curiosity--“who is your sweetheart?”

“Sweetheart?--No; indeed I would rather----”

“Yes, indeed; who?”

“I say she is not my sweetheart--Perhaps----”

“Finish, man--perhaps what?”

“She may come to be----”

“And, who is the girl? Do I know her?”

“Very well.”

While Antón was silent, Doña Socorro thought over the riddle, and, after some minutes, declared:

“I’m sure I don’t know, child; give me a clew.”

“She is your relative.”

The lady passed over in her thought, to whom Antón could allude, and could not imagine which one of her relatives, the poor and obscure youth presumed to win. Suddenly, like a flash, came the remembrance of the words, which he had pronounced when she invited him to remain at the party; but it was a thing so unheard of, so unthinkable, that she dared not mention the name, but desired to assure herself, indirectly, that she was not on a false trail.

“Was she at the party last night?” she asked.

Antón replied by a nod of his head. The lady was confounded; her face lengthened, her eyes rounded, her mouth opened, and she exclaimed:

“Rosalba!--well, but, you are a fool!”

Antón was stupefied; it seemed as if the ground sank under him and he was raised into the air. Why, was he a fool?

Doña Socorro saw the boy’s emotion and something like pity stirred within her. Certain that, later, this senseless delirium would vanish, she said to him:

“Poor child! You will get over it. When you decide to accept my offer, you know that I am here. Think well over it. I wish only your own good.”

Antón, overwhelmed, could scarcely murmur a “thank you, madam,” rose half tremblingly and walked away, with bowed head.

Doña Socorro remained absorbed in reflection. “To think of it--but the child aims high--to aspire to Rosalba--he is handsome--who would have thought it--decidedly, he is a fool.”

* * * * *

Doña Socorro, attentive to what was passing in the Republican ranks, prompt to aid the triumph of her cause, had displayed all the resources of her astuteness to complete the demoralization of the remnants of the brigade and to foment desertion. Her efforts were meeting abundant success and in seeing the resources of war which had been grouped around Dueñas, completely disorganized, she was greatly rejoiced. Not content, however, with such signal successes, when she saw the companies of the coast guard,--the most loyal to the Republic--evacuate the villa, to the loyalty of which the Méndez brothers entrusted themselves for some hours, she had an inspiration, truly worthy of her brain. She conceived the idea of capturing the two officers, to offer to Arévalo, as a prized trophy. How to realize it? It was not beyond her power--capable as she was, of all in the domain of evil.

There was Antón Pérez; Rosalba would be the incentive.

“Paulina! Paulina!” she called, and a servant appeared.

“Run, at once, to the barracks; ask for Lieutenant Pérez, and urge him, from me, to come here immediately.”

Pauline departed, encountered Antón, and gave the message; the lieutenant shrugged his shoulders and replied, with evident dislike:

“I will come presently: I am busy, now.”

No more than five minutes had elapsed, when the servant returned with new and more urgent summons to Antón, who displayed no more interest than before, responding abruptly:

“I will come.”

Doña Socorro was dying with impatience; the moments seemed like hours to her and she paced restlessly to and from the door anxious for Antón’s coming; but, he came not.

Tired of waiting, she resolutely entered her room, threw a _rebozo_ over her shoulders, and went directly to the door of the barracks. Without her having to announce herself, a soldier ran to give notice to the lieutenant of the presence of the lady; this time, unable to escape, he advanced to the encounter.

Doña Socorro, plainly desirous of losing no time, threw aside her natural pride, and without a word of reproach to Antón, said, with affected surprise:

“But, what are you doing! child? Now is your time.”

“I do not understand, madam.”

“Then you are not in this world. If you let this chance escape, farewell to your hopes.”

“But, I do not understand, madam.”

“Ah! come now! then you no longer think of Rosalba----”

“As God is my witness, madam; with greater desperation, now, than ever.”

“Then, today is when you ought not to despair; today your hopes are realized. Your fate is in your own hands.”

“In my hands?” exclaimed the astonished youth.

“In your own hands, boy; Rosalba will be yours.”

“Where is she?” he asked yet more surprised.

“Here in your barracks.”

Antón believed Doña Socorro was trifling with him, but she, without giving time for further surprises, hastened to explain herself.

“You know that our party, the Imperialist, is composed of the best people of the country. If you join it, you will come into contact with the most elevated classes. Rosalba does not respond to your love for sheer pride, not because she is not interested in you, not because she does not love you--it is _I_, who tell this to you,--when she sees that you are not the insignificant ‘_pardo_’ of the village but a personage of consequence, or even of importance, she will herself make the advances and will surrender herself to you. I tell you true. Come--now or never! Place yourself in the first line, become the chief authority in the town, and who knows what more.--Your happiness depends upon yourself; it is in your own hands. Enter your barracks, ‘pronounce’ yourself and your soldiers for the Empire, and that the blow may be decisive, that you may at a single bound reach the greatest height, go and seize the two Méndez brothers, who are breakfasting at the house of Sánchez, make them prisoners, and you will gain the full favor and protection of General Arévolo. Go! do not hesitate.”

Doña Socorro had launched this speech at one breath, accompanying her words with gestures and posturings which the most consummate elocutionist might envy.

Poor Antón felt his head whirl; he was taken by surprise and only ventured this one objection:

“Pronounce myself, yes; but capture my old chief, who has loved me well, madam, that is too much! I have not the bravado for such a thing.”

“But what harm are you going to do to him, innocent? Do you think he runs any danger with Arévalo?”

“Who can say that he does not?”

“No one; no one. Perhaps he will catch them in arms on the field? No; on the contrary, they will become great friends, and the two Méndez will join our party also. Above all, it is to your interest to raise yourself as nearly to Rosalba’s level as possible, to dazzle her----”

“Very well, madam,” murmured Antón, with a trembling voice.

Without further hesitation, he entered the barracks, spoke with the two sergeants of the dwindled company, bade them form it, rapidly exchanged words with his men, and, then, drawing his sword and facing the files, cried out--his voice still trembling:

“Boys! _viva el Imperio!_” (May the Empire live).

“Viva!” (may it live)--one soldier answered.

“Sergeant Beltran,” said Antón, “fifteen men with you to guard the barracks; twenty-five, with Sergeant Federico, may follow me.”

The order was carried out to the letter, and at the head of his twenty-five men, Antón marched to the house, where the two Méndez brothers were gaily breakfasting.

At the moment when the colonel exclaimed, “Impossible,” denying Don Vencho’s report, there was heard, on the walk in front, the sound of guns, on falling to rest.

“Sergeant Federico!” ordered Antón, “advance and order Colonel Méndez and the officers who accompany him to yield themselves prisoners.”

There was no necessity for the sergeant to enter, since Captain Méndez rushed out at once, and standing, from the opposite sidewalk, with hair bristling and eyes flashing, as if he were the personification of indignation, burst forth in these cries, which issued in a torrent from his frothing lips:

“Bravo! Lieutenant Pérez! Thus you fulfil the oath of fealty, which you swore to your flag! thus do you employ the arms which your country placed in your hands for her defence! Traitors! traitors to your native land! What do you seek here? What wish you, of us? Assassinate us! We shall not defend ourselves. Lieutenant Pérez, complete your crime, fulfil your part as assassins! Here, am I! let them kill,” and, saying this, he stepped forward and drawing back the lapel of his coat, bared his breast. “What delays them? Traitors! Assassins!”

At that moment a soldier among those who heard the violent and insulting reproach raised his gun. Antón Pérez saw it and drawing his sword, threw himself upon the soldier, crying:

“Lower that gun! The first man who attempts to aim, I will run him through.”

Captain Méndez continued:

“I prefer death to the ignominy of finding myself in your company. Traitors! Assassins!”

“Assassins, we are not, my captain, that you have already seen,” replied Antón.

“I am not the captain of bandit-traitors, ex-Lieutenant Pérez.”

“We are not traitors,” returned Pérez, “we desire to save our country, from Yankee usurpation.”

“To save it indeed! and give it over to the foreigner! noble patriots! famous Mexicans!” continued Méndez. “Would that I had no eyes to behold you! Would that I were a lightning-stroke to destroy you. Cursed race! race of scorpions, who repay our country, our sacred motherland, by stinging her to the heart. One last word, Lieutenant Pérez; in the name of our native land, in the name of that oath of fealty, which you swore to the flag, in the name of a man’s sacred duty, I implore you to fulfil your obligations as a soldier, as a Mexican, as a man. Lay down those arms which you are converting from sacred to infamous. Lieutenant Pérez; worthy fellows of Cunduacán, _Viva la Republica_.”

No one responded.

* * * * *

The moon, in its second quarter, shed a yellowing light through the trees and impressed upon the night an infinite sadness. When the beams of dawn came, that funereal light paled, until completely extinguished, and the sky became tinted with a rosy flush, which kindled in measure as the new day neared. A trembling of leaves agitated the branches at the awakening of the birds, which after shaking themselves, took silently to flight. Suddenly earth and trees appeared enveloped in dense fog, as if a night of whiteness had substituted itself for that, which had just ended. The fog, thinned little by little, until it seemed like heaps of spider webs, piled one on another, through the elastic meshes of which was seen a sun of polished silver. Suddenly the spider webs broke into a thousand tatters, falling to the ground, converted into a tenuous rain, and the day shone forth in full splendor. The trees gleamed in their beauteous verdure, the flowers of vines and the morningglories opened their chalices, sprinkled with dew drops, to the glowing and incestuous kisses of their father and lover, the regal star of day. Meantime Antón Pérez, in an agony, which seemed endless, lay at the foot of the oak-tree, which, indifferent, spread forth its broad and abundant leaves to the solar heat.

In fact, Antón Pérez, braced between the roots of the tree, in the immovableness of death, the life concentrated in his eyes, participated in his own torture, like those guilty immortals, whom Alighieri’s pitiless fancy created. Bloodless, annihilated, yet he felt himself living. Who ever had seen the gleam of his eyes, would have known that his conscience was accusing him. What implacable moral law had he broken, that his punishment should be so horribly prolonged, by his marvelous vitality? Was it because he had loved madly? that he had aspired to raise himself to a sphere higher than that, in which he had been born? that he had endured, perhaps disgracefully, the scorn and the disdain of the human being whom he had worshiped? Why had he not deserved Rosalba? Why had God made her so bewitching? _Where_ was his sin? Perhaps that he had passed from the flag of the Republic to the Imperial standards? And was he, perchance, the only one? Were not a thousand distinguished Mexicans aiding and defending the new cause, shown to be pleasing to Heaven, by the rapidity with which it had spread and gained proselytes? Did not God’s ministers suggest it in the confessional and, even, preach it in the pulpit? Was not that cause, indeed, to be the savior of Mexico?--Where was his sin? Thus, in his moments of lucidity, the unhappy condemned being thought, and then fell into lethargies from which he again, presently, aroused himself. How slow and tedious the passage of the hours! And the sun continued to mount at its accustomed speed and, now, gained its greatest height. Piercing through the leafy branches, its rays designed odd patches of sunlight on the ground which every breeze complicated into fantastic deformations. The nymph of light amused herself at her fancy, with such sports.

At one moment, Antón raised his gaze, and before him, perched upon the pointed leaf of a _cocoyol_, found that he, at last, had a companion in that loneliness; it was a buzzard, which looked at him fixedly, moving his neck regularly, up and down, as one who meditates. The presence of that living being caused Antón a vague sensation of comfort; that, even, was much, at the end of so long and complete abandonment, to see in his last moments that he was not alone in the world. He then fell into a syncope,--condition which now came on more frequently and lasted, each time longer, sign that his agony was nearing its end. On returning to himself, he mechanically turned his gaze to the palm-tree and saw that now there was not only one, but three, of the buzzards, which with the same nodding movement of the neck, and with no less attention, looked at him. A sinister and dreadful thought shot through his sluggish brain; those birds were there, in expectation of his death, to devour him. Then, a horror of death seized him; a shudder of dread passed through his nerves, and he longed that his miserable existence might be prolonged, with the hope that some human being might draw near and discover him. The nervous disturbance, which that idea produced, provoked a new unconsciousness. On recovery, he could see that not three, but a considerable number of vultures had settled on the palm and on the neighboring trees. He believed they might take him for already dead, and to let them see that he was not, he attempted to raise and move his left arm, which, with enormous effort, he succeeded in doing. The scavengers seemed to understand their error since they looked at one another, exchanging guttural croakings. But night,--last refuge to which Antón trusted against the danger of being torn to pieces, while yet alive,--showed no signs of approach. It was now his duty to preserve the little remaining life. The vultures, on the contrary, ought to be impatient to gorge themselves with the banquet which they had before them, since others were constantly arriving, hovering, and settling, on the neighboring tree-tops, where they formed moving spots of black.

One, bolder than the rest, descended from the branch, on which he rested, to the ground and, like an explorer, was cautiously approaching Antón, who, divining, in his last gleams of lucidity, the purpose of the bird, renewed the effort, which he had made before, and continued to raise and, even, shake, his arm and to bend his undamaged leg, at the moments, when the buzzard stretched out his neck to give the first peck. The carrion-eater drew back his head and retreated a few steps, but did not take to flight. Encouraged by this his companions descended, one by one, from the tree and took possession of the space around, forming a semi-circle at the foot of the oak-tree.

Perhaps, through an instinctive respect to man’s superiority, felt by other animals, even though seeing him helpless, the line of vultures remained at a considerable distance from Antón and limited themselves to contemplating him, nodding and stretching out their heads, and repeatedly croaking. A Hoffmanesque fancy would have seen, in them, a group of zealots in prayer, making reverence.

But this did not last long. One of the vultures ventured to dash at the head of Antón, who still had enough energy to guard himself against the attack, raising his arm and striking the bird with his fist, so that it returned to stand on the ground again, though without any sign of fear. The effort Antón had made was so great that he fell into a new stupor. The same vulture again raised himself, but not to dash directly upon the dying man; he hovered a moment over his head and, then, hurling himself upon Antón’s face, tore out, at a single clutch, his right eye. The pain was so intense that the victim not only returned to consciousness but gave a cry of agony, which echoed like the last shriek of one who dies exhausted under torture. Yet, he could, by an instinctive sentiment of preservation, turn his head, so that the left eye was protected by the tree trunk. Then he felt that the crowd of vultures fell to tearing his clothing, doubtless to discover his wounds, to commence there with devouring him. So it happened. The shattered leg was the first to suffer tearing by the beaks, which tugged at the already lifeless tendons and muscles; his arm, though somewhat protected by the astrakan, which, finally, with no little difficulty, the vultures ripped open, was not long in suffering the same fate. Suddenly, Antón turned his face, which bore a frightful expression of pain, for which he had no sounds to express. A powerful beak had seized the anterior, branchial, muscle and was pulling furiously at it. The involuntary movement was fatal to Antón. Other vultures cast themselves upon the exposed face and dragged out the left eye. The last suffering of the unfortunate was only indicated by a convulsive trembling of all his members. He felt as if a black pall, very black, heavy, very heavy, fell upon him and then there came over him a sentiment of the profoundest joy--perhaps, that his nerves could no longer carry a sensation to his brain. The mouth opened, closed, and he lost himself, forever, in the night without end, in the loving bosom of Mother Nature, who received the remains of that organism, her creation, to decompose it into its component elements, and then to distribute these, as the materials of other organisms, in the endless chain of life.

Meantime, that other night, which with the sun engenders time and, with him, divides it, began to envelop the earth, and the carrion-eaters, not accustomed to eat in darkness, abandoned Antón’s corpse and perched themselves on the neighboring branches, to await the feast until the following day.

PORFIRIO PARRA.

Porfirio Parra was born in the State of Chihuahua. In 1869, when he was scarcely fourteen years of age, he was voted a sum of money by the State Legislature, to take him to the City of Mexico for purposes of study. From 1870 to 1872, he attended the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School), where he stood first in his classes and where his conduct was so exemplary, as to gain him state aid until the time of his graduation. In 1871, entering the competition for the Professorship of History in the Girls High School, he gained the second grade, although three eminent historians were among the contestants. Entering the _Escuela Nacional de Medicina_ (National Medical School), in 1873, he maintained high rank there and took his degree in February, 1878. In March of that year, he was appointed Professor of Logic in the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_. In 1879, by competition, he received the Professorship of Physiology in the National School of Medicine, with which he has been associated in some capacity ever since. In 1880, by competition, he became Surgeon and Physician of the Juarez Hospital. In 1886, after a brilliant examination, he became a member of the _Academia de Medicina de México_ (Academy of Medicine). In the _Escuela Nacional de Agricultura y Veterinaria_ (National Agricultural and Veterinary School), he has held chairs of mathematics and zootechnology.

An alternate Deputy in 1882, he was in 1898 elected Deputy of the Federal Congress, and has been re-elected until the present time. He was made chairman of the House Committee on Public Instruction. In 1902 he was named Secretary of the Upper Council of Education. Dr. Parra has participated, officially, in several of the most important medical congresses held in Europe during recent years, sometimes as a delegate from his native State of Chihuahua, at others as delegate from the Mexican nation. In 1892, he was elected a member of the Mexican Academy.

Dr. Parra has written both in poetry and prose. Most of what he writes is in scientific lines. Even in poetry he is a scientist, and in a volume of his poems, we find odes to the mathematics and to medicine, a sonnet to a skull, and poems on the Death of Pasteur, Night, Water. Of very great importance is his _Nueva Sistema de Logica, inductiva y deductiva_ (New System of Logic, Inductive and Deductive). He has written one novel, _Pacotillas_, in which the life of the medical student is depicted. It is from this work that we have drawn our selections.

López (Santa Anna), Robles (El Chango--“the monkey”), Albarez (Patillitas) and Tellez (Pacotillas), are fellow-students in the School of Medicine. They are friends but present four quite different types of character. Santa Anna figures least in the story and attends most strictly to business; Patillitas is a dandy, anxious to make feminine conquests; El Chango drops out of school before he has completed his course, toadies in politics, rapidly rising to importance as the private secretary of a departmental minister, and marries great wealth. Pacotillas, the hero, is an astonishing combination of strong and weak qualities. Of lofty ideals, of great firmness in announcing and supporting them, and of brilliant intellectual powers, he is cold, morose, lacking in initiative, easily depressed, and procrastinating. He smokes constantly and excessively and readily yields to drink. He loves a beautiful and amiable girl and lives with her without marriage; though he realizes the injustice this is to her, the injustice--excused at the time by poverty--is never atoned for in his days of comparative prosperity. Pacotillas and his beautiful Amalia suffer enormous trials of poverty; Paco finally secures a position on the force of an opposition paper. He antagonizes the government, is arrested and thrown in jail, where he dies of typhus. The book is an interesting picture of Mexican life, but it is a particularly difficult task to make brief selections from it for translation.

EXTRACTS FROM PACOTILLAS.

The next day the vigilant argus, accompanied by a faithful friend, was at his post from nine o’clock in the morning. He was not on beat but he warned his fellow policeman to pay no attention to what was about to take place at the house, since it concerned a personage of consequence, closely connected with the official world, whose plans it were best not to disturb; that the gentleman did not ask something for nothing and would not fail to reward him; that everything would go on behind closed doors, and was really no more than a joke; that it concerned a private matter, with no political bearings; that the woman living in the house badly repaid him who supported her, and that he merely wished to scare her and put her to shame.

The policeman on the beat permitted himself to be convinced by Pablo’s diplomatic arguments; he demanded, indeed, a guarantee that nothing serious should take place, that there should be no fight, wounds, shots, or other scandal.

No, comrade, answered Pablo, it only concerns giving a thrashing to a young fellow who is accustomed to enjoy women, whom other men support. Put yourself in the place of the deceived man; what would you do? What would any other decent man do, in such a case? Just what he is going to do. I shall not compromise you. You see that I am also one of the police-force. Further, this may help you, the gentleman we are helping is in with the government, and he does not expect service for nothing.

Completely convinced, the policeman agreed that, at a signal from Pablo, he would walk slowly toward the Plazuela del Carmen, to see what was going on there.

The astute Pablo had arranged for two stout fellows of evil mien to meet him at the corner _pulqueria_; they arrived at the place appointed at half-past-nine carrying heavy cudgels as walking sticks.

A little before ten the servant of Mercedes left the house; Pablo, who had already made her acquaintance, overtook her and said:

“Where are you going so fast, my dear?”

“I am going far; I am taking a message to the Arcade of Belem and from there to Sapo street, to the _socursal_.”

“Does not my pretty one want a drop?”

The pretty one did want a drop, entered the _pulqueria_, drank, submitted to various pinches, and left. Pablo at once said to his friend: “Run and call the General,” and he planted himself where he could see the house.

A little later poor Mercedes, who suspected nought of what was plotting for her undoing, opened the windows and looked out. It was the signal, arranged between her and Patillitas, indicating that there were no Moors on the coast and that the happy lover might enter. He was not slow in appearing, strutting pompously as if enjoying in anticipation the pleasure he was about to have. He caught sight of his sweetheart, which was equal to seeing the gates of paradise opening, saluted her with much elegance and cautiously entered the doors of the court-yard, which were ajar.

“The fish falls into the net! how easy! how easy!”[24] murmured the malicious Pablo, humming the accompanying tune in a low voice.

A quarter of an hour had passed when, by San Pedro y San Pablo St., the General was seen approaching, as grave, as correct, and as arrogant as ever, smoking his unfailing cigar, without hastening his pace or displaying the least emotion.

As soon as Pablo saw him, he spoke to the policeman on the beat, who at once walked slowly in the direction of the Plazuela, as he had promised. Then Pablo summoned his assistants from the _pulqueria_ and all three joined the messenger, who had been sent to call the General and who had now returned; the whole party stopped on the sidewalk opposite Mercedes’ house.

The General, without quickening his pace, without looking at the men, nor making any signal to them, had already arrived before the house. When he had almost reached the gateway, the four men crossed the street and, when he entered, they cautiously followed.

López, with measured tread, crossed the court, followed by his men; he turned to the left and knocked at the house-door, which was fastened. No one responded, but noises of alarm were heard within, a sound as of a person running and finding some piece of furniture in his way, a stifled cry, and the murmur of troubled voices.

The General knocked a second, and a third time with briefer interval and with greater force. No one replied and now nothing was heard. The General knocked for the fourth time and said, in his stentorian voice, though without displaying anger or emotion: “Open, Mercedes, it is I.”

“I am coming,” shrilly answered a woman’s voice, “I am dressing; I was ill and had not yet risen.”

The General waited with the utmost calm. No escape was possible; from the hall one passed directly into the room, which was the scene of the guilty love and which received light by a grated window, that opened onto the _patio_ of the next house. The General, who knew all the hiding places and the location of the pieces of furniture in the room, was delighted, imagining the little agreeable plight of the student, who had already, tremblingly, hidden himself under the bed.

After ten minutes waiting, Mercedes, visibly pale with _chiquedores_[25] on her temples, her head tied up in a handkerchief, and covered with a loose gown, which she was still hooking, finally opened the door, smiled at the General, and attempting to overcome her manifest uneasiness, said: “Ah, sir! what a surprise!”

“Good morning, madam,” said the General, abruptly entering the hall and then the inner room, followed by his four men, and paying no attention to Mercedes, who, following them all, exclaimed, each time more afflicted:

“What do you wish, sir? What are you looking for? Why have these men come here?”

Once in the room, the General stopped near the door, and, as he expected, saw under the bed the coiled up body of the student who would gladly have given his whiskers to be elsewhere.

“Drag out that shameless fellow,” said the General to his men, “and beat him for me.”

“Señor, for God’s sake!” cried Mercedes.

The four men obeyed the order. The unhappy student did not even try to escape. One took him by the feet and dragged him out into the middle of the room; the others began to discharge a hail of blows upon him, distributing them evenly over the shoulders, back, seat, and legs of that unfortunate, who squirmed upon the floor like an epileptic, writhing, screaming, and howling, with a choked voice:

“Ay! ay! they are killing me! ay! ay! help! Ay! ay! infamous fellows! assassins!”

Meantime the General looked on at that calamitous spectacle, without a word; when the flogging seemed to him sufficient he exclaimed--“Hold!” and then, addressing the man who had been flogged, added: “Be warned by this experience and let the women of other men alone.”

The maltreated Patillitas arose, hurled some insolence at the General, and threw himself upon him with his fists clenched; the floggers started to seize him, but the General said, “Leave him to me.” And, with the greatest calmness, he allowed him to deal his inoffensive blow, and, then, seizing his wrist, gave it such a wrench that the poor fellow suffered more than from the beating, and, notwithstanding all his efforts to the contrary, fell upon his knees before his conqueror, howling with pain.

“Listen well, jackanapes,” said the General, without loosening his hold, “get away from here at once; and, if you prefer the least complaint or cause the least scandal, I will put you into jail and afterwards send you into the army as a vagabond and mischief-maker.”

He loosed his prisoner who rose uttering suffocated groans and muttering inarticulate insolences. Limping, and with his dress disordered, he started to walk away; he took his hat, which one of the floggers, at a signal from the General, handed him. Pablo followed him and at reaching the hall door gave him a kick behind, saying with a hoarse laugh:

“There! take your deserts, you!”

“Now,” said the General, addressing Mercedes, who, huddled on the sofa, with her kerchief thrown over her head and covering her face, was sobbing violently, “indicate what you wish to take with you and get out into the street.”

“Keep it all, horrible old man, monster without heart or entrails of pity,” said the unhappy woman, drying her eyes; and, arranging her dress as best she could and wrapping up her head, she left.

When she had disappeared, the General, as pleased as if he had consummated some great act of justice, dismissed the floggers, after paying them; then, he went out onto the street with a lofty air, and, smoking his ever-present cigar, closed the gate of the court, put the key into his pocket, and walked away.

* * * * *

The Chango did not pronounce this long discourse at one breath, but interrupted himself from time to time to sip coffee or to ask Pacotillas incident questions, which he answered in his usual laconic style. He expressed himself somewhat more upon his matrimonial troubles and the faults of his wife’s parents. Then, changing his tone, he said:

“Now I have tired you in speaking of myself and my affairs; now you must reciprocate, as a good friend, and tell me all about yourself.”

“I can do that in a few words: I am slowly continuing my course of study and with more or less of difficulty and labor gain my bread.”

“Spartan! You do wrong not to confide in me. Am I to understand that you desire nothing? that you do not care to better your condition?”

“I do not say so; I desire many things; I desire to escape from poverty; but, I am content with my situation.”

“What a fool you are! I could do much for you, because I love you well, and I would willingly offer you more than one chance of improving your condition.”

“I thank you for your good will but I see no means of taking advantage of it.”

“See Paco, let us speak frankly; notwithstanding your assertion that you are content with your situation, I cannot believe it; the fact is that you are very proud, that you do not care to ask anything from anyone; that is all right with strangers, but when I, your school-fellow and friend, anticipate your desires and offer----”

“I thank you and beg you to respect my freedom of action.”

“What a hard-shell you are! Come, consent to this anyway--separate yourself from the _Independiente_; I promise to supply resources for you to found a paper of your own, which will bring you at least double what Don Marcos can pay you, and also to secure you a grant to aid you in your studies, and, if you desire more, you shall have more.”

“But, truly, I desire nothing; I owe consideration to Don Marcos and cannot treat him cavalierly,” said Paco, at the same time saying to himself, “Oho, now I see!”

“You are fearfully stubborn,” said the Chango, “but you are your own master and I will not insist further; but, now, I come to one favor, begging you affectionately, in the name of our old friendship, to grant it; do not continue to discuss, in your bulletins, the objectionable question upon which you have been writing.”

“In my soul, I regret that I cannot gratify you, since I have resolved to examine that matter in all its aspects.”

“You are more tenacious than a Biscayan! Don’t you understand that in this you do me a personal injury and expose me to public criticism?”

“I do not see why? I have never mentioned your name, nor shall I mention it; nor are you responsible for that contract.”

“Don’t be a ninny; although you do not mention me by name; although, legally, you do not treat of me; yet the odium of the transaction falls on me.”

“Whether the part you play is odious or not, I am not to blame; you have chosen it freely. You act, and I judge. We are both within our rights.”

“In fine, Paco, if you continue to write as heretofore, you do me an injury, you attack me.”

“That is not my intention, nor do I believe it the necessary result of my procedure.”

“Of course, if you attack me, you give me the right to defend myself.”

“Granted,” answered Paco, coldly.

“And you know that I have many means of doing it?”

“I know it and they have no terrors for me.”

“Paco, you despise me,” said the Chango with annoyance.

“No, I merely answer you,” replied Paco, coldly.

“For the last time I will sum up the situation. If you consent to withdraw from the _Independiente_ you shall have whatever advantages you desire that I can give you; you shall have the same if you consent, at least, to speak no more of the contract. Do you agree?”

“I have already said no,” replied Paco with dignity.

“Very well; it is hard for me to proceed against a fellow-student, whom I have always esteemed for his talents and his brilliant promise; for that reason, I desired to speak with you beforehand and give you proofs of my friendship, but since you are obstinate, I warn you that I shall prosecute you criminally.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Do you reflect that you will be proceeded against, that you will be sent to jail, that you will be sentenced?”

“Yes, I consider all, and I am prepared for all; you will allow me to say that I appreciate the kindness and politeness, with which you have treated me; but now, as it seems your wish to induce me to maintain silence and to separate myself from the _Independiente_, and as I will never agree to this, I judge my further presence here to be useless and, with your permission, will leave.”

And the young man at once rose and left; the Chango followed him without a word; they went down the stairway, crossed the corridor, Pacotillas took his hat in the hall, and on saying adieu to Robles, the latter involuntarily moved by the dignity of Pacotillas, said to him: “Think yet, Paco.”

“I need not think; neither threats nor bribes can swerve me from what I believe to be my duty.”

EMILIO RABASA.

Emilio Rabasa was born in the pueblo of Ocozautla, State of Chiapas, on May 22, 1856. He studied law in the City of Oaxaca, being licensed to practice on April 4, 1878. He returned to his native State, where he was a Deputy to Congress and Director of the Institute during the years 1881 and 1882. He then removed to Oaxaca, where he was Judge of the Civil Court, Deputy to the State Legislature and Secretary to Governor Mier y Teran, during 1885 and 1886. Removing to the City of Mexico in 1886, he there filled various judicial and other offices. In 1891, he was elected Governor of Chiapas, which office he filled for two years, particularly interesting himself in improving the financial condition of the State. In 1894, he was elected Senator from the State of Sinaloa, an office which he still fills. He resides in the City of Mexico, where he is engaged in legal practice.

The work which has given him literary fame is a four volume novel, written under the _nom-de-plume_ of Sancho Polo. These volumes bear special titles--_La Bola_ (The Local Outbreak), _La gran Ciencia_ (The Grand Science), _El cuarto Poder_ (The Fourth Power), and _Moneda falsa_ (False Money). These novels have their importance in Mexican literature. Victoriano Salado Álbarez, speaking of the notable advancement of the Mexican novel in recent years, says: “The works of Sancho Polo, precious studies,--initiated this truly fecund and permanent movement.” Luis Gonzáles Obregón says of these books: “These are notable for the correctness of their style, for masterly skill in description, most rich in precious details, for the perfect way in which those who figure in them are characterized, for the natural and unexpected development, as well as for many other beauties, which we regret not being able to enumerate here.” Emilio Rabasa’s active public life has prevented his following up his early success in literature. Since the Sancho Polo series, he has written but one brief novel, _La Guerra de tres años_ (The Three Years War). In 1888, in connection with the well-known publisher, Reyes Spindola, he founded _El Universal_ (The Universal), which is still published, and which really initiated a new era in Mexican journalism.

The hero in the Sancho Polo novels is a youth named Juan Quiñones. Born and reared in an obscure village, he loves a pretty girl who lives with her uncle, a man of common origin and mediocre attainments. Don Mateo is, however, a rising man, and, as he mounts, his ambitions for his niece mount also. The boy has real ability, but is petulant and precipitate, throwing himself into positions from which there should be no escape, and learning nothing by experience. He passes through a series of remarkable experiences--a local outbreak, a State revolution, anti-governmental journalism in the capital city, a discreditable love affair--finally, of course, gaining the girl.

THE DAY OF BATTLE.

I attempted in vain to restrain and reduce the uneasiness and disquietude, by which I was possessed and which Minga and her mother but increased, now dragging me away from the window, now preventing me from drawing the bolt to open the door, now bringing me back from the courtyard whither I had desired to go to escape their oversight.

“What a Don Abundio!” said Minga, jeeringly. “Trust him! But have no fear; he will not now let the girl go.”

Nevertheless, I sent the old woman back to see Felicia, to beg her, if preparations for the journey were not immediately discontinued, to send me word by her servant. And the good old woman, who was brave and fearless, started out again, cautioning her daughter not to allow me to commit any imprudence.

What a day was that for me. The sun ran its course with desperate slowness, but finally stood in mid-heaven. The old woman had not yet returned, nor had Don Mateo made his attack, nor had I news of any one. I do not understand how I could remain shut up all those hours, without breaking out and letting myself be killed.

While thus chafing, and more often than ever peeping from the window to catch a distant glimpse of the old woman, a choked and panting voice, at my shoulder, cried:

“They are coming.”

It was ‘Uncle Lucas,’ who seemed in that one day to exhaust all his remaining life’s force. He seated himself on Minga’s bed, with his mouth open, his chest puffing like a blacksmith’s bellows, his head nodding in time to his heavy breathing.

In spite of his breathlessness, I made him speak, although his words were broken by his gasps for air. Don Mateo and his force were organizing at half a league’s distance. Uncle Lucas had told the Colonel all that the Sindico[26] had said and had returned with the order to unite as many men as possible from our quarter of the town, in order to impede and disconcert Coderas’s force, when it should return to town, as probably it would only skirmish in the open field. Just as he arrived at the creek, Uncle Lucas saw five men on horseback, the advance guard of Coderas, descend from the terrace.

In fact, while he was speaking we heard the noise of horses running through the street and the clank of swords against the stirrups. Almost at the same moment the door opened and Minga’s mother burst into the room, her face pale, her eyes flashing fire.

“A little more and those dogs had had me!” she cried angrily and hurled forth a tirade which I cannot repeat.

“What is the matter?” I asked, agitated.

“What is it! If it were not for my nephew Matias, who was in the trenches by the church, they would not have let me go. Cursed wolves. When Pedro comes I will tell him that they would not let me go and the foul words they said to me. As I told you, were it not for Matias, I would still be there in the Plaza.”

“And what did Felicia say?” I interrupted, impatiently.

“The horses are all ready; but Don Abundio told her to tell you to have no concern; Remedios need not go. But remember, Juanito, this man has no shame.”

Keeping her to the point, I made her tell me all that could concern us. Coderas and Soria had agreed upon a plan of defense, believing that Don Mateo could not take the Plaza in several days; meantime the auxiliaries from the next district, whose Jefe politico was in communication with San Martin, could arrive. At the last moment, it had been decided that Coderas should sally with two hundred men, for a skirmish just outside the town, falling back upon the hundred, who remained in the Plaza with Soria; if fortune should prove averse to them, which the intrepid leader did not believe, they would withdraw to the best entrenchments, in order to force Don Mateo to attack them there.

“Now for the main thing,” said the old woman to me. “Remedios told me to say that they plan to take the prisoners from the jail and put them in the trenches, to terrify the other party, who cannot fire without killing their own friends and relatives.”

My hair stood on end, I felt a giddiness and almost fell, with my face convulsed with emotion and with shortened breath, I could scarcely turn to Uncle Lucas. Terrified, he rose and tried to detain me; but I promptly regained my self-control and assumed the voice of command which, in such cases, constitutes me a leader of those about me.

“Run!” I said to him quickly. “Immediately collect all those who last night promised to follow us and bring them here at once.”

My voice was so authoritative and commanding that I scarce awaited a reply. The old man made none and directed his way to the door; on opening it, he started violently.

“There they come! they come!” he said in a whisper.

Minga drew me violently back from the window, and Coderas and his force galloped down the road from the creek.

Some villagers followed the force from curiosity, others appeared in their doorways, and some few shut themselves in, cautiously barring their doors.

My wisdom and patience were now completely exhausted, and, my excitement depriving me of all prudence, I rushed forth with Uncle Lucas, ordering him to promptly meet me at that spot.

With no attempt at concealment, without precaution and without fear, I ran to Bermejo’s house, to the houses of the imprisoned regidors, to the houses of all those who were suffering in jail, alarming all with the terrible notice which I had received. In this house, I secured a man; in that one, some weapon; from here I led forth a terrified son; from there, a half-crazed father. Everywhere I carried terror and awakened the most violent manifestations of hatred and affliction.

Half an hour later, in Pedro Martin’s _patio_, I had collected some thirty men, who, worthy followers of a leader such as I, would fight like tigers and would not be sated with three hundred victims. One proposed hanging the wife and children of Coderas; another proposed dragging Soria through the streets and casting his lifeless body on the dungheap; another suggested sacking of the house of the Gonzagas, and another, cutting the throats of all who lived in the ward of Las Lomas, with a few exceptions. To me, this all appeared excellent and I energetically approved these savage propositions, while I distributed arms to those who had none and issued my orders to Uncle Lucas.

At that moment, the first discharge of the battle was heard; a cold chill ran through my body, mixture of terror and of impatience for the combat. I felt myself impelled toward the Plaza, and from my lips issued a torrent of foul words, which I was astonished at myself for knowing. Evil predominated in me; under the kindled passions of the _bola_, I was unconsciously transformed, my nature becoming that of the mass around me.

In such moments I had no idea of forming a plan of campaign. I only knew that I was going in defence of my mother, whose life was gravely imperilled, and that I ought to hasten to achieve my object. I did not think how I should attain it, nor did it occur to me to think. Uncle Lucas ventured to remind me that the Colonel’s plan was for us to hamper the enemy in his retreat.

“All follow me!” I cried with authority.

And all, with resolution equal to my own, followed me.

Passing behind Minga’s house, to the edge of the village, we took the road to the right and marched at quickstep up the street parallel to that which led to the Plaza. On arriving in front of this we halted, to the terror of the neighbors, and then cautiously advanced until the jail was in sight.

Not dreaming of enemies so near, the soldiers in the Plaza were listening to the fusillade which was taking place, almost on the banks of the creek. In front of us was a gentle slope, from the gully up to the Plaza and the prison door; at that place, which could scarcely be seen, because of the village corral which intervened, a sentinel was visible.

“They have not yet taken out the prisoners,” I said to my companions; “we will wait here until we see some movement showing that they are about to remove them.”

Among our arms was a single gun; the rest were machetes, darts, or knives tied to the end of staves. I nevertheless believed myself invincible.

The distant noise of musketry, which, to tell the truth, was not great or terrible, consequent on the small number of the combatants and the still smaller number of the firearms, became less at the end of a few minutes, and the few shots heard seemed to me to be already discharged within San Martin. I ordered my party to approach the foot of the slope, I myself remaining where I was so as not to lose sight of the jail; and I ran to join them, when the discharges from the entrenchments showed me that Soria had entered the Plaza and that Don Mateo was in front of it.

We mounted to the jail, before the sentinel could give the alarm and at the moment when Coderas and Soria repulsed Don Mateo in his first assault. Taken by surprise, the sentinel fled to the Plaza, and we, without thought of the imprudence of our hasty action, hurled ourselves against the prison door, and, after a few efforts, burst it in, broken into fragments.

LA BOLA.

How many then, as I, wept orphaned and cursed the _bola_! In that miserable village, which scarcely had enough men to till its soil, and in which the loftiness of citizenship was unknown, its victims had floods of tears and despair, instead of laurels, the reward of right. Here the father, love and support of the family, was mourned; there, a son, hope and stay of aged parents; there, again, a husband, torn from the fireside to be borne to a field of battle, which had not even tragic grandeur, but only the caricaturing ridiculousness of a low comedy.

And all that was called in San Martin a revolution! No! Let us not disgrace the Spanish language nor human progress. It is indeed time for some one of the learned correspondents of the Royal Academy to send for its dictionary, this fruit harvested from the rich soil of American lands. We, the inventors of the thing itself, have given it a name without having recourse to Greek or Latin roots, and we have called it _bola_. We hold the copyright; because, while revolution, as an inexorable law, is known in all the world, the _bola_ can only be developed, like the yellow fever, in certain latitudes. Revolution grows out of an idea, it moves nations, modifies institutions, demands citizens; the _bola_ requires no principles, and has none, it is born and dies within short space, and demands ignorant persons. In a word, the revolution is a daughter of the world’s progress and of an inexorable law of humanity; the _bola_ is daughter of ignorance and the inevitable scourge of backward populations.

We know revolutions well, and there are many who stigmatize and calumniate them; but, to them we owe the rapid transformation of society and of institutions. They would be veritable baptisms of regeneration and advancement, if within them did not grow the weed of the miserable _bola_. Miserable _bola_? Yes! There operate in it as many passions as there are men and leaders engaged; in the one it is avenging ruin; in the other a mean ambition; in this one the desire to figure; in that one to gain a victory over an enemy. And there is not a single common thought, not a principle which gives strength to consciences. Its theatre is the corner of some outlying district; its heroes, men who perhaps at first accepting it in good faith, permit that which they had to be torn to tatters on the briers of the forest. Honorable labor is suspended, the fields are laid waste, the groves are set on fire, homes are despoiled, at the mere dictate of some brutal petty leader; tears, despair, and famine are the final harvest. And yet the population, when this favorite monster, to which it has given birth, appears, rushes after it, crying enthusiastically and insanely, _bola! bola!_

THE INDEPENDENT PRESS.

Albar came down into the editorial room and, approaching me, picked up, one by one, the yet fresh sheets. He was satisfied, extremely so.

“Very good,” he said to me, “this will cause a sensation, and will exalt your name yet more. Attack fearlessly.”

At twelve, he called me up to his writing-room, not without my feeling a strange fear, presentiment of danger.

“I want you to take one matter on yourself,” he said, “because this Escorroza is of no use sometimes. Besides, I know you are from the State of X---- and I suppose you know its men, its history, its conditions, better than anyone else on the force.”

“I think so,” I replied, trembling.

“It is so,” affirmed Albar. “Put special care on the articles relative to the matter, to which I refer; because it is of importance to me and I entrust it to you because you are the best man on the staff.”

“You are very kind----”

“Not at all; it is mere justice----”

“And the matter----”

“In a moment, in a moment; you shall hear.”

The interest of the Director must indeed be great, when he was so friendly and courteous with me. His dark skin wrinkled more violently and a forced smile incessantly contracted his lips, separating yet more widely from each other, the two halves of his typically Indian moustache.

We heard, sounding in the patio, the footsteps of several persons. My suspicions had grown with Albar’s words, my fears increased, and that noise caused me such disturbance that I was forced to rise from the sofa to conceal it.

In spite of my efforts to control myself, I felt that I turned pale, when Don Mateo entered the room, accompanied by Bueso and Escorroza. Instinctively, I stepped back a step or two and appeared to occupy myself with something lying on the table.

Don Mateo awkwardly saluted Albar, with scant courtesy, and passed with him and Bueso into an adjoining room. As he passed near me, I noticed that the General looked at me and hesitated a moment as if he wished to stop. Albar, who went last, indicated to Escorroza, by a sign, that he might retire, and when he, in turn, repeated the signal to me, Albar said, shortly, “Wait here; I will call you.”

Escorroza withdrew, casting at me a glance of terrible hatred, which in some degree compensated me for my anxieties, by the vain satisfaction it caused me; but, hearing the first phrases exchanged between the three men, I understood at once that Pepe was right in telling me that I had lost my cause. I should have fled from the place, on feeling myself so completely routed, at comprehending the event and its significance to me; but, I know not what painful desire to know the end, held me, as if bound, to the chair in which I had seated myself near the door.

At first Don Mateo himself desired to present the matter; but his rustic awkwardness, little suited to the presentation of so difficult a matter, overcame him, and it was necessary that Bueso should take up the conversation for him.

For some minutes his tranquil, unvarying, and unemotional voice was heard; for him, no matter was difficult of presentation, no circumlocutions were necessary to express the most delicate affairs. The General had seen, with surprise, a paragraph in _El Cuarto Poder_ which demanded evidence proving what _El Labaro_ had stated concerning him; that his surprise was the greater from the fact that he had before considered Albar as his friend, although they had had merely business relations through correspondence. All that was printed in _El Labaro_, and much more, was true, as could be testified by thousands of persons, who knew the General as their own hands. It could be proved (indeed it could!) with documents from State and Federal governments; with periodicals of different epochs which he had preserved; with this and with that----

But, why? Albar could not doubt the word of a gentleman. The important matter now is that the eminent Director should recognize in the General a good friend, and in place of raising doubts in regard to his glorious past, should strive, as a good friend, to make it well known, appreciated, and recompensed by the applause to which a man so distinguished as the General is entitled. While he understood this involved considerable expense, that was no obstacle.

At this critical point Albar interrupted Bueso with a grunt, which said neither yes nor no. It is not necessary to mention that; no, sir. The unlucky paragraph in question had crept into the paper, without the Director’s knowledge; but, as soon as he discovered it, he determined to apply the remedy; which would consist in publishing a complete biography of the General, stating that it had been written after inspection of convincing and authentic documents; and, even, that the portrait of the General should be printed in the paper, if he would have the kindness to furnish a photograph.

Clouds of blood, blinding me, passed before my eyes; my whole body trembled convulsively; with my contracted fingers I clutched the arms of the chair and dug my nails into the velvet upholstery. In the fury of my rage and anger, I scarcely heard some words about thirty subscriptions, which Don Mateo would send the following day, to be mailed to his friends in the State. Bueso asserted that this was important for the General, because the General was a man with a great political future, that he ought, therefore, to act promptly and vigorously, to augment his prestige and propagate his renown everywhere.

To me, nailed to my chair, that scene appeared for some minutes the horrible illusion of a cruel nightmare. I was perspiring and choked.

The door suddenly opened and the three actors in the comedy entered the writing-room. Trying to compose myself, and rising, I heard Albar, who, pointing at me, said:

“Here is the best pen on my staff; this young man will be charged with writing all relative to your life.”

Don Mateo and I faced each other, exchanging a glance of profound hatred; hatred, kneaded with the passion of purest love, as mud is kneaded with water from the skies.

I knew not what to say, much as I desired to speak, but Don Mateo, incapable of controlling himself, said insultingly:

“This young man going to write? And what does _he_ know?”

And, filled with rage, he turned his back on me, pretending to despise me.

“I know more than will suit you, for writing your biography,” I replied, “but I warn Señor Albar that my pen shall never be employed in the service of a man like you.”

Don Mateo made a motion as if he would throw himself upon me, and I made one as if seizing a bust of bronze to hurl at him.

Albar leaped between us.

“What is this?” he cried, in terror.

“You are a miserable puppet,” thundered Don Mateo, shaking his fists at me above Albar’s head. “When I meet you in the street I will pull your ears.”

“We shall see,” I replied.

“Wretched, insignificant boy.”

“Stop! enough of this,” cried Albar, with all the force of his lungs. “What is the matter?”

“Señor Albar,” I said, “I heard all that was said. I can write nothing about this man; not a word.”

“Nor will I permit that he shall write,” bellowed Don Mateo, choked with rage; “I will not consent to it.”

“Then he shall not write; enough said,” replied Albar.

Bueso stood before me undisturbed; with his hands in his pockets he looked me over with an air of curiosity.

“That means that Javier will write it,” he said completing Don Pablo’s thought.

Escorroza, at the sound of voices, had come upstairs and, at this moment, arrived.

“Very well,” said the Director, “let it be so. As Quiñones refuses and the General does not consent, Escorroza will be charged with writing all relative to----”

“To the Señor General? With the greatest pleasure,” broke in Don Javier.

“And he will do it much better,” said Bueso.

Don Mateo looked at me with an air of triumph and derision.

“The Señor Director may order what seems best to him,” I said, restraining myself with difficulty, “but I ought to inform him that I withdraw from the staff, the moment when the paper publishes the least eulogy of this man.”

And without saluting, with clenched fists and gritted teeth, I left the room. While in the corridor I heard the voices of Cabezudo, Bueso, and Escorroza, who cried at once:

“Canasto! this puppet----”

“Talked to you, in that manner!”

“How can you permit----”

The noise of the loud voices reached the editorial room. Pepe and Carrasco asked me what had happened, but I simply shrugged my shoulders and the two became discreetly silent.

The noise continued for half an hour. At the end of that time the footsteps of the three men were heard in the _patio_, and their yet angry voices. As they passed the doorway I heard them saying:

“Astonishing how much Don Pablo thinks this boy to be!”

“Canasto! recanasto! this I will never forgive.”

Elevated pride, satisfied hatred, gratified and exalted vanity, almost choked me and I had to rise for breath. Pepe and Sabas looked at me astonished, and I, my face twitching and working with a nervous smile, threw my pen upon the table.

“This pen is worth more than most persons imagine.”

RAFAEL DELGADO.

Rafael Delgado was born in Cordoba, State of Vera Cruz, August 20, 1853, of a highly honorable and respected family. His father was for many years the Jefe politico of Cordoba, but at the close of his service retired to Orizaba. This removal was made when Rafael was but two months old, and it was in Orizaba that he was reared and has spent most of his life. After receiving his earlier instruction in the _Colegio de Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe_, he was sent, in 1865, to the City of Mexico, where, however, on account of the turbulence of that time, he spent but one year. On account of the disturbances due to civil war his father lost the greater part of his fortune. In May, 1868, Rafael entered the _Colegio Nacional de Orizaba_, then just organized, where he completed his studies. From 1875 on, for a space of eighteen years, he was teacher of geography and history in that institution. The salary was so small and irregular that, at times, he was compelled to give elementary instruction in other schools in order to meet expenses. In his own personal studies, outside of his professional work, he was especially interested in the drama, and he carefully read and studied the Greek, Latin, French and Italian dramatists, as well as the Spanish. In 1878 he wrote two dramas, _La caja de dulces_ (The Box of Sweets), prose in three acts, and _Una taza de te_ (A Cup of Tea) in verse in a single act. These were staged and met a good reception. At a banquet tendered to the author after the first rendering of _La caja de dulces_, his friends presented him a silver crown and a gold pen. In 1879, Rafael Delgado published a translation of Octave Feuillet’s _A Case of Conscience_ and later an original monologue--_Antes de la boda_ (Before the Wedding).

Between the ages of sixteen and thirty years, Delgado wrote much lyric poetry. Francisco Sosa compares his work in this field with that of Pesado, and adds: “Greater commendation cannot be given.” From the time when he was a student in the _Colegio Nacional_ at Orizaba, Delgado always received the helpful encouragement of his old teacher, the head of that school, Silvestre Moreno Cora. It was due to this truly great man’s efforts that the _Sociedad Sánchez Oropeza_ was founded in Orizaba, in the literary section of which Rafael Delgado was active. At this society he gave a series of brilliant _Conversaciones_ and to its Bulletin he contributed both prose and verse. He has written _Cuentos_ (Tales) of excellence, showing the influence of Daudet. More important, however, than his lyric poems and his stories, are Delgado’s novels, three in number, _La Calandria_, _Angelina_, _Los parientes ricos_ (Rich Relations). In fiction he is a realist. He prefers to deal with the common people; he is ever a poet in form and spirit; his satire is never bitter; beauty in nature ever appeals strongly to him. Without being a servile imitator, he has been influenced by Daudet and the Goncourts. His plots are simple--almost nothing. In regard to this, he himself, in speaking of _Los parientes ricos_, says: “Plot does not enter much into my plan. It is true that it gives interest to a novel, but it usually distracts the mind from the truth. For me the novel is history, and thus does not always have the machinery and arrangement of the spectacular drama. In my judgment it ought to be the artistic copy of the truth; somewhat, that is, as history, a fine art. I have desired that _Los parientes ricos_ should be something of that sort; an exact page from Mexican life.”

In _Calandria_, the story opens with the death of Guadalupe, an abandoned woman, poor and consumptive. The man of wealth, who betrayed her, has a lovely home and a beautiful daughter. Carmen, “the Calandria,” as she is nicknamed by those about her on account of her singing, the illegitimate daughter of Don Eduardo by Guadalupe, is left in poverty. An appeal, made in her behalf, by a priest to Don Eduardo fails to secure her full recognition and reception into his home, but leads to his arranging for her care in the tenement where she lives and where Guadalupe died. An old woman, Doña Pancha, who had been kind to her mother, receives the orphan into her home. Her son, Gabriel, an excellent young man, a cabinet-maker by trade, loves her, and she reciprocates his love. A neighbor in the tenement, Magdalena, exerts an unhappy influence upon Carmen, leading to estrangement between her and Doña Pancha. Magdalena encourages her to receive the attentions of a worthless and vicious, wealthy youth named Rosas. At a dance given in Magdalena’s room, Rosas is attentive, and Carmen, flattered and dazzled, is guilty of some indiscretions. This leads to a rupture between her and Gabriel. To escape the persecutions of Rosas, Carmen goes with the friendly priest to a retreat at some little distance. The troubles between the lovers approach adjustment, but at the critical moment Rosas appears upon the scene, and the girl, though she rejects him, is compromised. Gabriel stifles his love and actually casts her off. In despair, the girl yields to the appeals of Rosas, who promises marriage. He is false, and soon tiring, abandons her. From then her downward career is rapid and soon ends in suicide.

EXTRACTS FROM CALANDRIA.

And she sighed and spent long hours in gazing at the landscape; attentive to the rustling of the trees, to the flitting to and fro of the butterflies, to the echoes of the valley, which repeated, sonorously, the regular stroke of the woodman’s axe, to the rushing of the neighboring stream, to the cooing of the turtle-dove living in the neighboring cottonwood.

I need to be loved and Gabriel has despised me. I need to be happy and cannot because Gabriel, my Gabriel, is offended. He has repulsed me, he has refused my caresses, he has not cared for my kisses. I desire to be happy as this sparrow, graceful and coquettish, which nests in this orange tree. How she chirps and flutters her wings when she sees her mate coming. I cannot forget what took place that night. Never did I love him more, never! I was going to confess all to him, repentant, resolved to end completely with Alberto, to say to Gabriel: “I did this; pardon me! Are you noble, generous, do you love me? Pardon me! I do not covet riches, nor conveniences, nor elegance. Are you poor? Poor, I love you. Are you of humble birth? So, I love you! Pardon me, Gabriel! See how I adore you! I have erred--I have offended you--I forgot that my heart was yours. Take pity on this poor orphan, who has no one to counsel her. Pardon me! You are good, very good, are you not? Forget all, forget it, Gabriel. See, I am worthy of you. I do not love this man; I do not love him. I told him I loved him because I did not know what to do. I let him give me a kiss because I could not prevent it. Forgive me! And he appears to be of iron. He showed himself haughty, proud, and cruel as a tiger. But, he was right; he loved me, and I had offended him. One kiss? Yes--and what is a kiss? Air, nothing! I wanted to calm his annoyance, sweetly, with my caresses, and I could not. Weeping, I begged him to pardon me, and he refused. I said to him--resolved to all--what more could I do?--I said to him, here you have me--I am yours--do with me what you will! And, he remained mute, reserved, did not look at me. He did not see me; he did not speak to me, but I read distrust, contempt, restrained rage, in his face. He almost insulted me. If he had not loved me so much, I believe he would have killed me! Again I tried to conquer him with my caresses. I wished to give him a kiss--and he repulsed me! Ah, Gabriel! How much you deceive yourself! How self-satisfied you are! You are poor, of humble birth, an artisan--and you have the pride of a king! Thus I love you, thus I have loved you. Haughty, proud, indomitable, thus I would wish you for my love! I would have softened your character; I would have dominated your pride; I would have conquered you with my kisses. You love me, but my tears have not moved you! You are strong and boast of your strength, for which I adore you! You are generous, and yet you do not know how to pardon a weak woman! And we would have been happy. One word from you and nothing more! If it were still possible--and--why not?”

* * * * *

But, when he heard from the mouth of Angelito that Carmen had responded to the gallantries of Rosas, when the boy described the scene which he had witnessed, and in which, yielding to the desires of Alberto, the orphan had permitted herself to be kissed, the very heavens seemed to fall; he raged at seeing his love mocked and dragged in the mud, and promptly told Doña Pancha all he had learned. The old woman strove to calm him; made just remarks about Carmen’s origin, telling him that she might have inherited the tendency to evil from her mother and the desire for luxury, which had been _her_ perdition; she begged him to cut completely loose from the orphan, and, fearful that he might, after the first impression caused by what Angelito described had passed, involve himself in humiliating love entanglements, appealed to her son’s generous sentiments, not to again think of the girl. And she succeeded.

Gabriel armed himself with courage and fulfilled his promise. Hard, most cruel, was the interview; his heart said: _pardon her_. Offended dignity cried: _despise her_. Love repeated: _she loves you; is repentant, have pity on her; see how you are trifling with your dearest illusions, with all your hopes_; but in his ears resounded his mother’s voice, tender, trembling with sympathy, supplicating, sad, _Gabriel, my boy, if you love me, if you wish to repay me for all my cares, if you are a good son, forget her!_ He loved her and he ought not to love her. He wanted to despise her, to offend her, to outrage her, but he could not. He loved her so much! Wounded self-esteem said with stern and imperious accent: _leave her_.

When the cabinetmaker left his home that night, wishing to escape from his grief, almost repenting what he had done, wandering aimlessly, he journeyed through street after street, without note of distance. The main street of the city, broad and endless, lay before him, with its crooked line of lamps on either side, obscure and dismal in the distance. So the future looks to us, when we are victims of some unhappy disappointment, which shakes the soul as a cataclysm,--with not a light of counsel, not a ray of hope on the horizon.

He arrived at the end of the city and on seeing the broad cart-road that began there, passed a bridge, at the foot of a historic hill; he felt tempted to undertake an endless journey to distant lands, where no one knew him; to flee from Pluviosilla, that city fatal to his happiness, forever. But, he thought--my mother?

The river flowed serene, silent. The cabinet-maker, with his elbow on the hand-rail of the bridge, contemplated the black current of the river; the great plain which lost itself in the frightful shadow of the open country. A sentiment of gentle melancholy, consoling and soothing, came over his soul. Meantime, the more he dwelt on his misfortune, the more desolate appeared his life’s horizon, and something akin to that sad homesickness, which he experienced in his soul, when the maiden first said to him, _I love you_, passed like a refreshing wave through his soul. The abyss at his feet attracted him, called him. What did Gabriel think in those moments? Who can know? “No!” he murmured, turning and taking his way to the city.

The next day, he told Doña Pancha in a few words what had happened and then said no more of the matter. In vain Tacho, Solis, and López questioned him, on various occasions. He did not again mention Carmen. He learned that she had left Pluviosilla, but made no effort to learn where she had gone; and, not because he had forgotten her, but because he had resolved never to speak of her again. The journeyman and Doña Pancha repeated to him the conversation of Alberto and his friends, what they said of the planned elopement, but he scarcely deigned to listen, and answered with a scornful and profoundly sad smile.

When Angelito found him and told him that Carmen was at Xochiapan, repeating all that she had said, he hung his head as if he sought his answer on the ground, and exclaimed:

“Say you have not seen me. No--tell her that I beg she will not think of me again.”

And he turned away, disdainful and sad.

* * * * *

The young man placed himself in a good position, resolved to hear the mass with the utmost devotion; but he could not do it. There, near by, was Carmen; there was the woman for whom he would have given all that he had, even to his life. He did not wish to see her, and yet did nothing else. He turned his face toward the altar, and without knowing how, when he least expected it, found his eyes fixed upon the maiden, whose graceful head, covered with a rebozo, did not remain still an instant, turning to all sides, in search of him. Gabriel remained concealed behind the statue of San Ysidro which, placed on a table, surrounded by candles and great sprays of paper roses, served him as a screen.

Why had he come? Was he determined to reunite the interrupted loves? Would he yield to Carmen’s wishes? He had come to look at her, not desiring to see her; he had come to Xochiapan dragged by an irresistible power, but he would not yield. How could he blot out of his memory that kiss, that thundered kiss, which he had not heard but, which, nevertheless resounded for him like an injury, like an insulting word which demands blood? And yet he had seen her; there she was, near him, never so beautiful.

At the close of the service, at the _ite misa est_, Gabriel left promptly, so that when the faithful flocked out to the market-place, he was mounting his horse. On crossing the _plaza_, he met some _rancheros_, his friends, who invited him to drink a cup and then to eat at the ranch, which was not far distant. He accepted; it was necessary to distract himself. To leave the _plaza_, on the way to the house of his friends, it was necessary to pass along one side of the church; almost between the lines of vendors.

The Cura, Doña Mercedes, Angelito and Carmen were in the graveyard. Gabriel did not wish nor dare to greet his love; he turned his face away, but could see and feel the gaze of those dark eyes fixed upon him, a gaze profoundly sad which pierced his heart.

After dinner he returned to the town to take the road to Pluviosilla. His friends proposed to accompany him, but he refused their offer. He wished to be alone, alone, to meditate upon the thought which for hours had pursued him.

She loves me--he was thinking as he entered the town.--She loves me! Poor child! I have been cruel to her.--I ought to forgive her.--Why not? I will be generous. I will forgive all.

The energetic resolutions of the young man became a sentiment of tender compassion. His dignity and pride, of which he gave such grand examples a month before, yielded now to the impulses of his heart. He could resist no longer. Carmen triumphed; love triumphed.

I will speak with her; yes, I will speak with her; I will tell her that I love her with all my soul; that I cannot forget her; that I cannot live without her! I will tell her that I pardon; that we shall again be happy. Poor child! She is pale, ill----. I do not wish to increase her unhappiness.

At the end of the street, through which at the moment he was passing, the cabinet-maker saw two men on horseback, one on an English, the other on a Mexican saddle. Apparently, people of Pluviosilla.

The riders stopped a square away from the Curacy. The one dressed in _charro_, dismounted and cautiously advanced along the hedge. A terrible suspicion flashed through the young man’s mind. He quickly recognized the cautious individual. While this person was going along on tiptoe, as if awaiting a signal to approach, Gabriel took the lane to the right, then turned to the left and passed slowly in front of the window of the Curacy, at the moment when Rosas was speaking with Carmen at the grating.

His first idea was to kill his rival like a dog and then the infamous woman who was thus deceiving him--but--he was unarmed. He cursed his bad luck, hesitated a moment, between remaining and going, and, at last, whipping up his horse, went almost at a gallop, by the Pluviosilla road.

FEDERICO GAMBOA.

Federico Gamboa was born in the City of Mexico, December 22, 1864. After his elementary studies he attended the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School), for five years, and the _Escuela de Jurisprudencia_ (Law School) for three more. After an examination, he entered the Mexican Diplomatic Corps, October 9, 1888, and was sent to Guatemala in the capacity of Second Secretary of the Mexican Legation in Central America. In 1890, he was appointed First Secretary of the Mexican Legation to Argentina and Brazil. In 1896, he returned to Mexico, where he remained until the end of 1898, as Chief of the Division of Chancery of the Department of Foreign Affairs. He was then sent again to Guatemala, as _Charge-d’affaires_. In December, 1902, he was appointed Secretary of the Mexican Embassy at Washington, which position he now holds.

Through the year 1898, Señor Gamboa was Lecturer on the History of Geographical Discovery in the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_. From 1886 to 1888, inclusive, he was engaged in newspaper work in the City of Mexico. In June, 1888, he presented on the Mexican stage a Spanish translation of the Parisian operetta, _Mam’selle Nitouche_, under the title, _La Señorita Inocencia_ (Miss Innocence). In 1889, he presented a translation _La Moral Electrica_ (Electric morality) of a French vaudeville. Besides these translations, Señor Gamboa has produced original dramatic compositions--_La Ultima Campaña_ (The Last Campaign), a three act drama, and _Divertirse_ (To amuse oneself), a monologue; these appeared in 1894. Señor Gamboa has written several books. _Del Natural--Esbozos Contemporáneos_ (Contemporary Sketches: from nature) was published when he was first in Guatemala and has gone through three editions. _Apariencias_ (Appearances), a novel, was published while he was at Buenos Ayres, in 1892. _Impresiones y Recuerdos_ (Impressions and Recollections) appeared in 1894. Three novels, which have been well received are _Suprema Ley_ (The Supreme Law), 1895, _Metamorfosis_ (Metamorphosis), 1899, and _Santa_, 1900. At present Señor Gamboa is writing a new novel _Reconquista_ (Reconquest), and his biographical _Mi Diario_ (My Journal), the latter in three volumes.

As may be seen from this brief sketch Señor Gamboa has been a considerable traveler. He has made two European journeys, has twice visited Africa, and has traveled over America from Canada to Argentina. He lived in New York in 1880 and 1881 and holds a city schools certificate for elementary teaching. He was elected a Corresponding Member of the Royal Spanish Academy in 1889, an officer of the French Academy in 1900, and a Knight Commander of Carlos III in 1901.

In _Suprema Ley_ we have a tale of common life. Julio Ortegal is a poor court clerk, of good ideals, decent, married, and the father of six children. His wife Carmen is hard-working, a good wife and a devoted mother. Clothilde, well-born and well-bred is a native of Mazatlan, where she becomes infatuated with a young man named Alberto; they live together and, on the discovery of dishonest dealings on his part, flee to the interior and to the City of Mexico, where he suicides. Clothilde, suspected of his murder, is thrown into jail; there she meets Julio, in the discharge of his duties, whose kindness awakens her gratitude. After her acquittal, her father, who does not wish her return to Mazatlan, arranges, through Julio, for her support in Mexico. She goes first to Julio’s home and, later, to a hired house. Julio’s love for her is kindled; it grows during the time she lives in his house and is the real cause of her removal. He finally abandons wife and children although he still turns over his regular earnings at court to their support, working nights at a theatre for his own necessities. Meantime, consumption, from which he has long suffered, continues its ravages. Clothilde’s parents, who can no longer endure her absence, finally send her aunt to bear their pardon and implore her return. Clothilde, repentant, casts off Julio and returns to Mazatlan. He is furious, crushed; but repentant he determines to rejoin his abandoned wife and family; his old and normal love revives, but in that moment, he dies.

EXTRACTS FROM SUPREMA LEY.

Julito no longer resisted and he also lay down to sleep; he would make his aunt’s acquaintance in the morning. Carmen, sitting by the spread table, solitary and silent, after the fatiguing day, could not sleep.

She was thinking----.

Through her thoughts passed vague fears of coming misfortunes and dangers; of a radical change in her existence. Her poor brain, of a vulgar and unintellectual woman, performed prodigies in analyzing the unfounded presentiments; what did she fear? On what did she base these fears? While she attempted to define them they weakened, though they still persisted. She reviewed her whole life of hard struggle and scanty rewards; she examined her conduct as an honorable wife and a decent mother of a family, and neither the one nor the other, justified her fear. This stranger woman, this stranger who was about to come; would she rob her of something? Of what? Her children? Surely, no. Of her husband, perhaps? Her presentiment was founded in this doubt; yes, it was only of her husband that she could rob her. And her humble idyl of love, which she had cherished among the ancient things of her memory, as she cherished in her clothes-press some few artificial flowers, shriveled and yellowed, from her bridal crown, her idyl revived, shriveled and yellowed also, but demanding an absolute fidelity in Julio; not equal to her own; no, Julio’s fidelity had to be different, but it must be; but, however much Carmen assured herself, with the mute assurances of her will, that Julio was faithful, she continued to be possessed by the idea that he would sometime prove unfaithful, just because of the long period of their marriage, that cruel irony of the years which respect nothing, neither a loving marriage nor the hearth which belonged to us in infancy; the marital affection is choked by the ivy of disgust and the bind-weed of custom; the home disappears covered by the weeds, which grow and grow until they overtop the very pinnacle of the façade. Carmen then appreciated some things before not understood; all the little repugnances and the shrinking apart of two bodies, which had long lived in contact and no longer have surprises to exchange, no new sensations to offer, no curves that are not known, no kisses that are unlike those other kisses, those of sweethearts and the newly-wed, then novel and celestial, afterward repeated without enthusiasm as a faint memory of those gone never to return. Believing that Julio was yet in word and deed her own, she resolved to carry on a slow reconquest, displaying the charms of a chaste coquetry; her instincts of a woman, assuring her that this was the infallible mode of salvation.

But on considering her attractions marred by child-bearing; her features sharpened by vicissitude; her hands, the innocent pride of her girlhood, deformed by cooking and washing; she felt two tears burn her eyeballs and, unable to gain in a contest of graces and attractions, her face fell upon the table, supported by her arms, in silent grief for her lost youth and her perished beauty.

* * * * *

At two o’clock in the morning there was a knocking at the gate and then at her door. It was they, Clothilde and Julio.

“Carmen, the Señora Granada.”

They embraced, without speaking; Clothilde, because gratitude sealed her lips; Carmen, because she could not.

The supper was disagreeable; the dishes were cold, the servant sleepy, those at the table watching one another.

When, in the silence of the night and of the sleeping house, Julio realized the magnitude of what he had done, he read, yes, he read in the darkness of the room, the fatal and human biblical sentence, and began to understand its meaning:

“The woman shall draw thee, where she will, with only a hair of her head.”

* * * * *

Clothilde’s first impulse was to conceal herself; to tell her servant that she was not accustomed to receive evening visits; but, besides the fact that Julio had certainly already seen her, the truth is that she felt pleasure, a sort of consolation and discreet satisfaction. Thank God the test was about to commence; she was about to prove to herself the strength of her resolution.

Julio, now nearer, saluted, lifting his hat; Clothilde answered with a wave of the hand, in all confidence, as two friends ought to salute. She waited for him smilingly, without changing her place or posture, determined not only to show a lack of love but even of undue friendliness. Julio, paler than usual, crossed the threshold.

“Bravo, Señor Ortegal, this is friendly; come in and I will give you a cup of coffee.”

Julio gave her his hand with extraordinary emotion and looked searchingly into her eyes as if to read her thoughts. Clothilde, scenting danger, led the way to the dining-room. How were they all at home? Carmen and the children? Do they miss her a little?

Julio promptly answered that all were well, all well but himself, and that is her fault, Clothilde’s.

“My fault?”

“Yes, your fault. And I ought to have spoken with you alone, long ago.” And, saying this he covered his face with his hands.

The coffee-pot boiled noisily; the servant placed two cups upon the table and Clothilde, not entirely prepared, because she had not counted upon so abrupt an attack, betook herself to her armory of prayers. She served the coffee with a trembling hand, putting in two lumps of sugar, which she remembered Ortegal always took.

“Will you tell me the truth?” he burst out.

“Certainly.”

Ortegal collected all his nervous energy and without taking his hands from his face, as if he did not desire to look at Clothilde, and poured out his words in a torrent:

“Clothilde, I am a wretch to offend you; to dare to speak to you as I do, but I can endure it no longer; I adore you, Clothilde, I adore you and you know it! You have known it---- Pardon me, I beg you; and love me just a little--nothing more,” he added, sobbing, “have pity on my life and soul. Do you love me sometimes?”

“No,” replied Clothilde, closing her eyes, with a transport of cruelty and the consciousness that she caused immense suffering, and terrified at having caused such a passion. “I can never love you because I idolize and will ever idolize the memory of Alberto.”

When he heard the sentence, Julio bowed his head upon his arm as it rested on the table; pushed back the coffee without tasting it and rose.

“You forgive me?”

“Yes,” said Clothilde, “and I pray God to cure you.”

“Will you not come to my house? Will I not see you again?” exclaimed Julio with a sweeping gesture of his arm that indicated that his suffering was incurable.

“Yes, yes, but the least possible.”

The two felt that the interview was ended; and Julio believed himself finally cast off. As in all critical situations, there was a tragic silence; Clothilde looked at the floor; Julio gazed at her with the yearning love, with which the dying look for the last time upon the familiar objects and the dear faces, never so beautiful as in that awful moment. Thus he gazed, long, long, taking her hand and kissing it with the respect of a priest for a holy thing. Then he passed the wicket of the little garden, and departed without once turning his head, staggering like a drunken man; he was lost on the broad pavement, his worn garments of the poor office hack, hanging in the sunlight in such folds as to throw into relief the narrow shoulders of the consumptive.

I am dismissed, he thought, and I am glad that it was with a “no.” What folly to think that a woman like Clothilde could ever care for a man like me! What can I offer her?--A worthless trifle, an illegal love, a legitimate wife, children, poverties! How could I pay her house rent, the most necessary expenses, the most trifling luxuries? Better, much better, that they despise me, the more I will occupy myself with my wife and my children, what is earned they will have; I will return to the path of rectitude, to my old companion; I will cure myself of this attack of love. And walking, walking, he reached the Alameda, seated himself in the Glorieta of San Diego, on a deserted bench, in front of two students, who were reading aloud.

* * * * *

“But what has happened to you, Señorita?” and the lie presenting itself for sole response; the lie which augments the crime and the risks of what is foreseen. Her situation was not new; the eternal sufferings, one day a little worse than another. Then, in the little alcove, where she had thought herself strong enough to resist, the encounter with Alberto’s portrait, a life-size bust photograph, in a plain frame, with an oil lamp and two bunches of violets on the bureau, upon which it stood. It was there waiting for her, as it waited for her every night, to watch her undressing as he had in life, seated on the edge of the bed or on a low chair, mute with idolatrous admiration, until she had completed her preparations, and, coquettish and submissive, came to him, who, with open arms and waiting lips embraced her closely, closely, saying, between kisses, “How much I love you.”

Clothilde remained leaning against the bureau, unable to withdraw her gaze from the portrait or her thought from what had just happened. Why had she yielded? Why had she not screamed, or drawn the cord of the coach, or called the passersby or the police? Scarcely a year a widow, because she _was_ a widow although the marriage ceremony had not been performed, and she had already forgotten her vows and promises, and had already enshrined within her heart another man, who was not the dead, her dead, her poor dear dead, lying yonder in his grave between two strangers, without protest or opposition to infidelity and perjury; enclosed in the narrow confines of the grave, without light, nor air, nor love, nor life; lost among so many tombs, among so many faded flowers, among so many lies written in marbles and bronzes. She could redeem her fault with nothing, not only was she not content to dwell at the graveside, but she had given herself to another and still dared to present herself before his portrait, defying its wrath. Trembling with terror she recalled a mutual oath sworn in those happy times, when in their flight across half the Republic, they enjoyed a relative calm in hotels and wayside inns. The sight of a country graveyard, peculiarly situated, had saddened them; with hands clasped, they were walking after supper before the inn, when Alberto, affected by one of those presentiments which so often appear in the midst of joy, as if to remind us that no happiness is lasting, clasped her to his bosom, and stroking her hair, had asked her: “What would you do, if I should die?”

She had answered him with tears, shuddering; had stopped his mouth with her hand; had promised him, sincerely, with all her loving heart and her voice broken with sobs, that she would die also, but Alberto had insisted, who can say whether already possessed with his coming suicide, had begged her to make him an answer.

“Come tell me what you will do, since that will not cause it to happen, and I will tell you what I would do if you should prove false.”

“Why do you say such things? Why do you invoke death?” And Alberto, with solemn face had replied, what she had never since forgotten. “Because disillusionment and death are the two irreconcilable enemies of life and one ought ever to reckon with them.”

As Clothilde remained silent, Alberto, after drying her eyes, which were immediately again filled with tears, demanded a solemn oath from her, not of the many with which sweethearts constantly regale each other, but of those which fix themselves forever, which impress us by their very solemnity; would she swear it by her mother? Would she fulfil it whatever happens? Truly--? If--?

“Then swear to me, that only in honest wedlock will you ever belong to another man!”

And Clothilde swore; and now, before that portrait and that scene as it rose in her memory, she felt herself criminal, very criminal, lost, and unhappy. She did not leave the bureau; she could see the road, obscure in the night; she could see the little inn; some muleteers, the tavernkeeper, who spoke of robbers, ghosts, crops, and horses; she could see Alberto and now she dared not raise her eyes to look at his face in the plain frame. Turning her back to it, she lay down in the bed, buried her head among the pillows, and closed her eyes; but instead of conciliating sleep, there presented themselves before her, pictures of her brief domestic life with Alberto; and, worst of all, amid these pictures, the figure of Julio, of Julio supplicating and ill, of Julio wearied and weighed down with cares, was not hateful to her.

* * * * *

“Here is the fortnight’s pay, do me the favor of handling it.”

In the handling the cashier came out bankrupt, but could never make up her mind to tell Julio that to meet necessities she was forced to take in sewing, at night, while others slept and her loneliness was emphasized. The little Julio kept her company, studying his lessons or reading aloud one of those continued stories, which delight women and children by the complexity of their plot and by the happy exit, which ever favors virtue. Sometimes, the romantic history contrasted with her own, so mean and prosaic, and a tear or two, unnoticed by the reader absorbed in the story, fell upon the white stuff of the sewing and expanded in it as in a proper handkerchief. But if Julito learned of the tears, he stopped his reading and kneeling before his mother dried them, more by the loving words with which he overwhelmed her, than with his coarse schoolboy’s kerchief.

“Come, foolish mama; why are you crying? Don’t you know it isn’t true? The whole book is made up.”

He never added that he knew well that she was not weeping for the characters of the story, but for the neglect of her husband; but, as her husband was also his father, he employed this pretext in order not to condemn Julio, openly and aloud, to Carmen. Thus, there happened, what was to be expected, that between Carmen and Julito there grew up love in one of its sublimest forms, the love of mother and son, with open caresses, but caresses the most pure, with no touch of sin; and ideal love which illumines our spirit and assures us that we would have loved our mother so, had we not lost her too early.

Julito’s fifteen years spent in tenements and public schools, had acquired for him an undesirable stock of had habits, of which perhaps the least was smoking, inveterate, demanding his withdrawal at the end of each chapter, to the corridor to smoke a cigarette in the open air. One night Carmen, who knew not how to show him the extreme affection, which by his treatment of her he had gained, said, unexpectedly: “If you wish to smoke, you may do it before me.” And the boy, who, on the streets, at school, and in the neighborhood, was a positive terror, could not smoke near Carmen, look you! He could not; he loved her too much to be willing to puff smoke from mouth and nostrils in her presence. He did not smoke secretly, but as before, in the corridor, after each chapter.

How sadly beautiful was the sight of these two in the dismantled dining room of their miserable tenement! The immense house, the squalid quarter, so noisy and turbulent during the day, presented the silence of the tomb in the late hours of the night. Carmen and Julito, separated by a corner of the table with its tattered cover of oil-cloth, and a tallow dip, which needed snuffing every little while; Julito greatly interested in his reading and Carmen, sewing at her fastest, contemplating, with infinite love the black and curly head of her son, when she stopped a moment to thread her needle. Now and again, the coughing of the other children came to them from the adjoining room, and Julito exclaimed: “Listen to my brothers.”

“Yes, I hear them; poor little things.”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The word used is _espejismo_, literally, mirroring.

[2] There is a hard drive here upon the old teacher, which will be understood only by those who have seen him.

[3] The second is, it will be costly.

[4] Little Chavero: half-affectionate, half-jocular diminutive of Chavero.

[5] This and the following Aztec terms are either actually fictitious or have meanings which are ridiculous in the connections given.

[6] Public granary.

[7] A scourge.

[8] A band or strip of wire netting with sharp points, to be bound upon the body for self-torture.

[9] Mas solemne culto.

[10] A pretty mestizo girl, of the common people.

[11] Seller of fruit waters, including one made with _chia_.

[12] Night watchman.

[13] Soldier police.

[14] Street cars.

[15] Regular frequenters of _tertulias_--i. e., social, literary gatherings.

[16] A holy Christ, two candle bearers, and three gawks.

[17] Village Christ.

[18] Tolsa.

[19] There is here a play on words not easy to render well. _Pero_--but: _pera_--pear; _aguacate_ is a sort of fruit. The text runs:

“Pero--señor Don Raimundo” “No hay peros, ni aguacates que valgan.”

The exact translation is:

“But--señor Don Raimundo----“ There are no pears, nor aguacates, which avail.

[20] Here again is a _double-entendre_. The same word _dueno_, owner, is here translated as self-controlled, and master. The young man is master (of himself), the old man is master of his daughter’s lot.

[21] Market for raw stuffs or materials.

[22] _Moco de pavo_; literally, a turkey’s crest.

[23] The patron of agricultural labor.

[24]

Cayo el pez en la remanga: Qué ganga! qué ganga!

[25] Small round plasters stuck upon the temples for the relief of headache.

[26] Town treasurer.