CHAPTER VII

The Ruined Nun—The Mysterious Note.

That evening Monteagle accompanied Blodget to one of those gay houses in Dupont street, already mentioned.

Wit, wine, and beauty sparkled on every side, and again was the imagination of Monteagle bewildered by the transcendent loveliness of Italian, English, North American and South American beauties, who, although accounted frail daughters of Eve, were a much more intellectual, sentimental, and educated class than is to be found in the halls of pleasure in any of the older cities.

While Blodget and Monteagle were thus spending the evening in converse with the nymphs of the town, the latter several times observed Blodget to pause a moment, and sit with lips apart and absent eye, as if listening for some sound in the street.

He was under the impression that Blodget looked for the arrival of some other person. At length a confused murmur was heard as of a crowd at a distance. The sound approached nearer, and at length, in full cry, burst upon the air, such exclamations as ‘Stop him! stop thief! Broke away! There he goes! Knock him down,’ and this was followed by the discharge of fire-arms, and then came the trampling of many feet, and a confused roar as of a mighty concourse in motion.

Every one in the house flew to the windows and doors; but nothing was to be seen except a crowd of people hurrying along with loud outcries.

‘What is the matter?’ inquired Monteagle of a person whom he knew, and who just then paused opposite the window.

‘Oh, nothing much, sir,’ was the careless reply. ‘A fellow confined for murder has broken loose; but that we shall always have while such a police exists.’

‘There’s next to no law in San Francisco,’ observed Blodget, ‘but do you think, my good man, that the Irishman,—that the prisoner—will get clear?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the other, moving on, while Monteagle quickly said, ‘So, you think it’s Jamie?’

‘Who else can it be?’ said Blodget, ‘he is the man who has been arrested for murder.’

‘Of course,’ returned the youth, and yet he thought it strange that Blodget had hesitated when he first mentioned the Irishman, and he connected it with the fact that Blodget had seemed to be listening all the evening as if in anticipation of some such occurrence.

These reflections were, however, soon swallowed up by the gay conversation that succeeded, and the pleasures of wine, music, and an interchange of sentiments with beings who, if virtuous, would have graced any drawing-room in the country. Still Monteagle was occasionally drawn to the contemplation of his friend who seemed quite restless and listened to every noise in the street.

Monteagle had attached himself to an Italian girl, who might be nineteen years of age. Round and plump—with black amorous eyes and good teeth, she seemed to be all alive, and wholly made up of kindness and affection.

Her history was somewhat romantic, as Monteagle learned it from another of the inmates of the house. She was called Loretto, but whether a real or a feigned name was not known. She had taken the vows of a nun from the purest and most sincere motives, but after being two years in the convent, she found it impossible to fulfil her vows. She was naturally formed for love, and could no longer endure to exist without yielding to the demands of an ardent nature, inflamed by a continual contemplation of imaginary love scenes, which always presented themselves to her mind when she would ponder upon more sacred matters.

She made her escape from the convent and returned to her father’s house; but found no rest under the paternal roof.—Her parents upbraided her, and were proceeding to have her returned to the convent, when she pretended to go to her chamber for repose. She escaped by the window, and as she fled through the garden she met a handsome young Englishman to whom she at once told her story. He took her under his protection, without the least hesitation, and they lived together, in a retired part of the country several weeks. This young man was of a warm temperament, and here comes the strangest part of the story. He was so smitten by her charms that they upset his reason, and he went raving mad. Though she was actually at his disposal, he imagined that she was some great princess whose love he had sought in vain, and under this strange belief, he, one day threw himself from a cliff into a bed of rocks on the sea-shore and was killed.—She took possession of his mangled body and his effects, found out his friends and delivered them into their hands.

She mourned long and bitterly for the loss of her lover; but her passionate nature again prevailed, and she accepted the offers of a native Count, who was soon killed in a quarrel.

Believing that a fatality attended her in her own land, and learning that spies had been placed upon her actions by her relatives, she came to Brazil, and from thence, soon afterwards, to San Francisco. Such was Loretto, the Italian maid, whose fervid passions were kindled by the manly graces of Monteagle.

She appeared to be all life and soul, and she made a lively impression upon our youth.

As the evening waned, and while he sat conversing with Loretto, Monteagle heard three distinct, though very low taps, on the outer door. At the same time, he saw Blodget raise his head and listen. Then he conducted himself as if nothing had happened, and conversed carelessly with the woman to whom he had attached himself. But in a very few moments, he arose and whispering in the ear of Monteagle, said—‘I must quit you for a little while. I have forgotten something: but I will return before long.’

Blodget then departed and soon afterwards, Monteagle withdrew with Loretto. He saw no more of Blodget on that night. In the morning, he learned that Jamie, the murderer, had made good his escape in a somewhat mysterious manner. He had disappeared behind the sand-hills although surrounded by several hundred men.

‘The earth must have opened and swallowed him up,’ said Mr. Brown, the junior partner.

‘I think that he was not the robber of our store,’ said Mr. Vandewater, thoughtfully, ‘for he would scarcely have remained here all night, if he had shared in the booty.’

‘What could have been his errand?’ said Brown.

‘The fellow might have blundered in here, in a fit of intoxication and gone to sleep,’ said Monteagle.

‘But why did he kill that tripeman?’ inquired Mr. Vandewater.

‘Oh, the fellow would kill anybody,’ said Monteagle.

Mr. Brown looked very mysterious, and finally seeming to muster up courage, he pulled a note from his pocket, and said to Monteagle—‘Perhaps you can tell why this note addressed to _you_ was picked up on the very spot where the murderer was sleeping.’

‘How!’ cried Vandewater. ‘What’s in the note?’

‘I have not taken the liberty to break the seal,’ returned Brown. ‘Its contents will be known to Mr. Monteagle whenever he chooses to do so.’

Brown handed the note to Monteagle. It was written on fine, gilt-edged paper, and directed to “Mr. Lorenzo Monteagle, Montgomery street.”

The astonished youth broke the seal, and opened the note. On the top was marked “_Strictly Private_.” It read thus:

‘Dear Sir: You may think it strange that you and I were separated so suddenly on that evening in Dupont street; but a particular friend of mine was the cause, as you saw. If you are at liberty this evening call without fail to see me, but not at that house. You know the cliff near which lies the English barque St. George. I will be under that cliff, on the sea-shore at 8 o’clock precisely. This is very private. Let no one see it. It is sent by a man who will hand it to you, privately if he has an opportunity. Come if you can.

MARIA.’

‘Ah—it is too late!’ said Monteagle aloud, and putting the note into his pocket.

‘It would seem that we are not to be edified by the contents of your note,’ said Mr. Brown, looking at Vandewater.

‘What shall I do?’ said the youth to himself. ‘This is something important, without doubt.’

‘Private is it not?’ inquired Vandewater.

‘Sir!’ said Monteagle, rather surprised at the question.

‘You must know that this is a peculiar occasion,’ said Mr. Brown, rightly interpreting Monteagle’s surprise. ‘At any other time, it would be highly improper to express any curiosity with regard to the purport of that note.’

‘This note is nothing,’ said the youth. ‘It is strictly confidential and has no relation to the robbery whatever.’

Vandewater looked at Mr. Brown, and the latter raised his eye-brows and slowly shook his head. The grimace was not observed by Monteagle, whose thoughts were with the young lady beneath the cliff.

‘You will observe, Mr. Monteagle,’ said Brown, in a very gentle and yet distinct tone, ‘that a heavy robbery has been committed. An atrocious malefactor is found asleep in the store that has been robbed; a letter, evidently dropped by him bears your address upon its back. If he is taken and brought to trial, of course that letter will be needed.’

‘So far I can satisfy your curiosity,’ said Monteagle. ‘It appears that Jamie was employed as messenger to bring me this letter. It is probable that he came here drunk and fell asleep.’

‘That seems to account fully for the man’s presence. It is as I thought, that he is guiltless of the robbery,’ said Vandewater.

Brown compressed his lips, partly nodded, partly shook his head, raised his eye-brows, and turned away, like a man who is only half convinced, and who has made some discovery that he hesitates to unfold.

At supper that evening, Julia Vandewater was as gracious as usual; but when he arose to go abroad, she said to him as he passed the door, ‘You keep very late hours, Sir Lorenzo; I must take you in charge, myself.’

Although this was said in a tone of raillery, yet there was the slightest possible air of reproof in it, enough to make Monteagle feel that the deluded girl considered herself entitled to express an opinion upon his conduct.

As he travelled over the hills towards the town, the youth said to himself—‘Would it be more cruel to break this bubble at once, or suffer it to collapse of itself in due time? Surely a flame that is never fed won’t burn long, and I have given Julia not the least reason to suppose that I regarded her with partiality.’

He had arrived at a thick clump of bushes, at a considerable distance from any house though a small rancho was in plain sight, when he heard something stir among the leaves and branches. He drew out his revolver.

‘Will you shoot me?’ inquired a silver voice, and in another moment, Maria stood before him.

‘Ah! Good night. I wanted to see you,’ said Monteagle. ‘I received your note—’

‘When?’

‘Not till to day,’ replied the youth, ‘although it must have been written two or three days ago.’

‘He’s longer than that,’ replied Maria, ‘I waited for you nearly all night.’

‘At the place you designated—under the cliff?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then your business must be important. I am sorry that I did not get the note in time.’

Maria remained silent some moments. At length, she began—‘My errand is no great things. I wanted to see you.’

The youth laid his hand on her shoulder kindly.

‘No—’said she—‘You don’t understand. All you, gentlemens, think girls love you always. Nothing to do but love man, when man laugh at her,’ and she shook her locks independently.

‘But I am glad to see you at any rate,’ said Monteagle.

‘Oh, yes, you are very glad to see me—some—but you are more glad to see—’

‘Whom?’

‘You know best.’

Monteagle thought of Loretto, whose witching graces and rich personal charms had, indeed, wrought powerfully upon his imagination.

‘Come tell me where she lives,’ said he.

‘You have just come from there,’ returned Maria.

‘No, upon my honor, I have not been there since last night.’

Maria started, and her eyes shone brilliantly as she gazed into his face.

‘Not been home to-day?’ cried she.

‘Ah, yes, I have just come from the house of Mr. Vandewater.’

‘And who lives _there_?’ inquired she, fixing her eyes keenly on the face of the youth.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Vandewater, their niece and the servants,’ replied he.

‘The niece! the niece!’ cried Maria. ‘What of _her_?’

‘A very fine young lady, I believe.’

‘Very fine? Yes, very fine—you find her so? Very fine.’

‘Maria,’ said he, in a decisive tone, ‘if you have been told that I love Julia Vandewater, or that I have ever given her the least reason to suspect so, you have been told a downright falsehood.’

‘You not love Julia? No? Not a little bit?’ and she seized his hand and gazed into his face earnestly.

‘No, Maria, I do not love her.’

Maria was silent, and looked much puzzled. She trotted her foot; she looked at Monteagle, and then she fixed her gaze upon the ground for several minutes.

Suddenly lifting her head, she said to Monteagle in a brisk tone, ‘You tell me one very big lie!’

‘No, upon my honor.’

After a moment’s silence, she said, ‘Where you have been last night?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Maria.’

‘Ah! I find you out. You love one pretty lady: you see her last night, and you say I not tell you where I go last night.’

‘No, Maria, I have answered one of your questions; but cannot answer the other.’

Maria looked down, and breathed a deep sigh.

Monteagle’s pride was a little touched. He said, ‘I do not know that I shall ever marry, Maria. But if I happened to fall in with a congenial spirit—a _virtuous_, _chaste_, respectable girl, I don’t know what might happen.’

Maria threw back her head, shook her raven tresses fiercely, and her nostrils dilated as she answered—‘What thing is men! they think of nobody but himself. Woman got soul for somebody besides herself,’ and she struck her breast forcibly, so much so that Monteagle heard a dagger rattle in its scabbard.

‘Oh, yes, Maria, I have feeling for others,’ returned Monteagle. ‘I have feeling for you, and although I may not wish to marry you—’

The girl whirled completely round on one foot, and interrupted Monteagle by a shout of laughter that might have roused the inmates of the distant ranch.

He looked at her surprised. Scarcely deigning him a glance, she began again, and laughed till her breath failed her.

‘Man is so fool!’ said she at length. ‘Here,’ she continued, taking a string of costly pearls from some place where they had been concealed about her person, and laying them on his hand. ‘You think that poor Maria give you these? You think I buy?’

Monteagle examined the precious gift by the twilight, and perceived that it was, indeed, too magnificent to have come from the poor nymph, and that it must be a gift from some unknown individual.

He perceived the drift of Maria’s questionings. He believed that this was the gift of some wealthy lady who was kindly disposed towards him; and that Maria had been commissioned to sound him on the subject of his reported attachment to Julia.

Here was an adventure, indeed, and his imagination was at once set on fire.

‘Tell me, Maria, the name of the lady?’

‘What lady?’

‘The lady who sent me these pearls.’

‘A Lady—ha! ha! ha! It was not a lady. It was one big gentleman.’

Monteagle’s vanity fell ninety degrees, at hearing these words.

‘Who was the gentleman?’ inquired he, impatiently.

‘Who is your lady that you saw last night?’ questioned the wilful girl.

‘Oh, nobody—nothing at all. Nobody that I shall ever fall in love with, I promise you that.’

‘Not fall in love? Where you go to-night?’

Monteagle smiled at this close question, for he felt a little caught. He was bound to Loretto when he met Maria.

The girl turned and began to leave him.

‘Stop, Maria, tell me more about these pearls. Who is the gentleman who sent them to me?’

‘Who is the lady you see last night and go to see to-night too?’ demanded she retreating.

Monteagle pursued, when she quickened her pace and finally fled with the fleetness of a fawn. Not caring to be seen chasing a woman by several travellers, whom he had observed coming that way, Monteagle slackened his pace. Maria was soon out of sight, and Monteagle was besieged by a thousand ideas at once.

‘She tells me that this valuable gift came from a man—a wealthy nabob—and yet she inquires as closely into the state of my heart as if she was the agent of one of her own sex who had an interest in knowing whether I was in love with Julia Vandewater or not. At any rate, she has gone off in the belief that I have a lady in view—That I am in love with her, with whom I spent last night and to whom I am now going!—Perhaps—yes, perhaps, after all, this is a present from a lady, and that Maria was charged not to tell that fact unless she should discover that my heart was disengaged, and that believing it to be otherwise, she feigned that these pearls came from a rich old fellow who had nothing to do with his wealth but to send it about the country by the hands of ladies of pleasure begging young men to accept of it! No, no, that won’t do. This gift has come from a lady.’

He thought of the veiled female, supposed to be a nun, who brought Maria the note. ‘Might not she be the giver?’

‘But no, her errand was to the girl, not me.’

A moment’s reflection taught him, that it would be improper to go with his valuable prize to the house whither he was bound, as Loretto might suppose, in case she discovered it that it was intended as a gift to her, and would experience a disappointment when informed that such was not its destiny.

He turned on his steps to return to the house, and a moment afterwards heard quick footsteps behind him. He turned, at the same time placing his hand on his revolver; but the two men who now approached him seemed to be peaceably inclined.

‘A fine night, sir,’ said one of the strangers.

‘It is indeed,’ replied Monteagle.

‘Have you seen anything of a large brown goat, hereabouts, sir,’ continued the man who had first spoken.

‘I have not,’ was the reply, and Monteagle, bidding them ‘good evening,’ turned to take his way to the city. At this moment his arms were firmly pinioned to his sides by one of the men, while the other quickly and adroitly drew his revolver from his pocket, and passed a strong cord several times tightly round his arms. The man who had heretofore held him in his iron gripe, in spite of his determined struggles, suddenly tripped up his heels, and he fell heavily upon the hard beach.

The sudden shock for a few seconds deprived him of his senses, and when recollection returned he found himself still lying on the wet shore, from which the tide had but just receded. His arms were tightly lashed behind his back, and his eyes closely bandaged.

For a few moments no sound was heard but the low murmuring of the small waves as they rolled upon the beach, and his own heavy breathing, for he had violently resisted the ruffians in their attempt to bind him; but the assault had been too sudden and unexpected for his efforts to be of any avail.

He now attempted to unbind his arms, but all his attempts were perfectly futile.

‘I hope you’re having a good time of it, casting off them stoppers. Nothing’ll open them lashings but a sharp knife, and if you get one at all it will be through your blasted ribs, if I had my way about it.’

‘Who are you, sir; and what means this rascally violence?’

‘Take it coolly, my young game-cock, and bless your stars you haven’t a brace of bullets through your bloody heart,’ said another voice, which he recognized as that of the person who had questioned him about the goat.

Monteagle revolved in his mind all the occurrences which had transpired in the last few days, in order to account for this strange outrage. At first he thought robbery might be their object; but this idea was put to flight when he remembered that while he lay senseless no attempts had been made to deprive him of the little gold he had about him.

Another person now joined the party, and he heard the three in low and apparently earnest consultation. Soon they ceased talking, and approached him.—Two of them raised him to his feet, and one of them said in a rough, brutal tone, ‘Now, stir your stumps, and walk where we lead you.’

‘But how if I refuse to walk?’ said Monteagle.

‘Then we’ll take you by the neck and drag you over the beach, if the sharp stones scrape the flesh from your cursed bones.’

‘Release me; or my cries shall bring assistance,’ said Monteagle, resolutely.

‘Speak one loud word, and the contents of this crash through your scull,’ said the last comer, in a firm calm voice, and our hero felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed against his temple, and at the same instant the sharp click announced it was at full cock.

Monteagle had as brave a heart as ever beat in mortal bosom; but here was a dilemma that would have made even Jack Hays pause for reflection.

But little time was given Monteagle for thought.

‘D—n,’ cried one of his captors, impatiently, ‘let’s be moving. We’ve got a long road, and a heavy night’s work before us yet.’

‘By —, you’re right, old hoss,’ said one of them, ‘there’s been fooling enough already.’

So saying, he seized Monteagle by the collar with no gentle grasp.

The latter seeing that resistance would only lead to his being dragged along by main force, if not to his instant death, told them to unbind him, and he would walk peaceably along with them.

‘That’s right, youngster, you’ll save us the price of a couple of bullets, and the trouble of reloading,’ said the fellow with the revolver.

After proceeding alongside the beach for some hundred yards, they clambered up the almost perpendicular face of the cliff, by the assistance of the dwarf trees and jutting rocks. Monteagle being aided by two of the men, who each held one of his arms.

Before gaining the summit of the cliff, one of the party gave a low, peculiar whistle, somewhat like the cry of a curlew. It was immediately responded to and they set out in the direction from whence proceeded what was evidently the pre-concerted signal.

‘All right, Jimmy,’ said one of Monteagle’s captors.

‘The divil a bit of noise I hear, I heard only the barking of them cursed lane wolfs that the uncivilized graysers call key-oats. And the d—d half starved things made me feel a bit afeard, for they sounded like a dog howling, and you know when a dog howls it’s sure some one that hears him is soon going under the sod.’

‘Shut up your Murphy-trap, Jim, or just open it, and take a swallow of this: I got it at the Sazerac as I passed, thinking you might need a little Dutch courage, and that brandy would put pluck into even John Chinaman’s chicken heart.’

‘Come, come, let’s mount and be off.’ This order was given by a voice which Monteagle recognized as that of the man who placed the pistol at his head, and who appeared to be the leader of the gang.

Monteagle was placed upon a horse, and with a mounted man on each side of him, one of whom held the lariat of his steed. The word was given to proceed, and they all started at a brisk trot.

‘What way?’ said Jimmy.

‘Right straight for the hut!’ was the response.

Monteagle and his assailants had just disappeared in a deep hollow, when a man suddenly emerged from the thick shrubbery that enclosed the spot from which the party had departed. He was a short, powerfully built man. Even in the moonlight one could see that there were more white than black hairs in the abundant locks that fell upon his variously colored blanket; but his eye-brows were coal-black, and bent over eyes as bright and keen as the point of a dagger.

‘Holy Barbara!’ ejaculated he in Spanish, while his hands almost mechanically made the sign of the Cross. ‘What in the name of _San_ Diabolo are they going to do with that youth? But I must be off, or it will be too late to save him. No wonder our dear mistress Donna Inez loves him. I owe him a good turn, too, for he certainly saved my life when them two ‘Pike’ hombres were going to give me ‘hell,’ as they called it, because I was sober on the Fourth of July.’ Thus soliloquizing, the Californian, for such he was, withdrew once more into the thicket, and in a second returned, followed by a noble looking steed, black as midnight.

‘You shall have a good run now, my handsome Cid,’ said the old Californian, as he patted the mane upon the forehead of the noble animal, as gently as a father would the curls that clustered on the brow of a favorite daughter.

Without touching foot to stirrups, he vaulted lightly into the saddle, shook the reins, and the next instant Cid was bearing his rider through the hollows and over the hills that lay between them and the Mission, near which was the rancho inhabited by the father of Donna Inez.

Sanchez, for such was the name of the horseman, never drew rein until he stopped abruptly at the gate of his mistress’ domicile. Here he alighted, entered the house, and sought an interview with the beautiful daughter of Signor Castro.

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