The Free Lances: A Romance of the Mexican Valley

“And this too!” added the Donna Luisa, plucking a diamond ring from one of her fingers, and presenting it at the same time.

“No!” protested the faithful servitor. “Neither the one nor the other. Enough reward to me to know I’ve done your ladyship a service – if I have.”

“But, good José,” urged the Countess, “you must either take my watch or the worth of it in gold doblones! That was the understanding, and I shall insist on your adhering to it.”

“Muy bein, Condesa; I consent to that. But only on the condition that the gentlemen get safe off. Till we’re sure of that, I beg your ladyship won’t look upon me as a creditor.”

“If her ladyship should,” here put in a third personage of the sex feminine, who had just entered upon the scene, “if she should, I’ll pay the debt myself. I pay it now – there!”

It was Pepita who thus delivered herself, as she did so bounding forward, flinging her arms around his neck, and giving him a sonorous kiss upon the cheek! Then, as she released her lips after the smack, adding —

“I’ve given you that, hombre, for what? Why nothing more than doing your duty. Ha, ha, ha!”

The laughter neither disconcerted nor vexed him. It was not scornful, while the kiss had been very sweet. Long-coveted, but hitherto withheld, he looked upon it as an earnest of many others to follow, with a reward he would more value than all the watches and rings in Mexico – the possession of Pepita herself.

Chapter Forty Two

A Holy Brotherhood

“Where the deuce am I?”

It was Florence Kearney who asked this question, interrogating himself; time, the morning after their retreat up the mountain. He was lying on a low pallet, or rather bench of mason work, with a palm mat spread over it, his only coverlet the cloak he had brought with him from Don Ignacio’s carriage. The room was of smallest dimensions, some eight or nine feet square, pierced by a single window, a mere pigeon-hole without sash or glass.

He was yet only half awake, and, as his words show, with but a confused sense of his whereabouts. His brain was in a whirl from the excitement through which he had been passing, so long sustained. Everything around seemed weird and dream-like.

Rubbing his eyes to make sure it was a reality, and raising his head from the hard pillow, he took stock of what the room contained. An easy task that. Only a ricketty chair, on which lay a pair of duelling pistols – one of the pairs found under the carriage cushions – and his hat hanging on its elbow. Not a thing more except a bottle, greasy around the neck, from a tallow candle that had guttered and burnt out, standing on the uncarpeted stone floor beside his own boots, just as he had drawn them off.

Why he had not noticed these surroundings on the night before was due to extreme fatigue and want of sleep. Possibly, the Burgundy, mixed with the Madeira and Old Pedro Ximenes, had something to do with it. In any case he had dropped down upon the mat of palm, and became oblivious, almost on the moment of his entering this strange sleeping chamber, to which the mayor-domo had conducted him.

“Queer crib it is,” he continued to soliloquise, after making survey of the room and its containings, “for a bedroom. I don’t remember ever having slept in so small a one, except aboard ship, or in a prison-cell. How like the last it looks!”

It did somewhat, though not altogether. There were points of difference, as a niche in the wall, with a plaster cast on a plinth, apparently the image of some saint, with carvings in the woodwork, crosses, and other emblems of piety.

“It must be an old convent or monastery,” he thought, after noticing these. “Here in Mexico they often have them in odd, out-of-the-way places, I’ve heard. Out of the way this place surely is, considering the climb we’ve had to reach it. Monks in it, too?” he added, recalling the two men he had seen on the preceding night, and how they where habited. “A strange sort they seem, with a captain at their head – my prison companion! Well, if it give us sanctuary, as he appears to think it will, I shall be but too glad to join the holy brotherhood.”

He lay a little longer, his eyes running around the room, to note that the rough lime-wash on its walls had not been renewed for years; green moss had grown upon them, and there were seams at the corners, stains showing were rainwater had run down. If a monastery, it was evidently not one in the enjoyment of present prosperity, whatever it might have been in the past.

While still dreamily conjecturing about it, the door of his room was gently pushed ajar, and so held by whoever had opened it. Turning his head round, Kearney saw a man in long loose robes, with sandalled feet and shaven crown, girdle of beads, crucifix, cowl, and scapular – in short, the garb of the monk with all its insignia.

“I have come to inquire how you have slept, my son,” said the holy man, on seeing that he was awake. “I hope that the pure atmosphere of this, our mountain home – so different from that you’ve been so lately breathing – will have proved conducive to your slumbers.”

“Indeed, yes,” rejoined he inquired after, conscious of having slept well. “I’ve had a good night’s rest – the best allowed me for a long time. But where – ”

While speaking, he had dropped his feet to the floor, and raised himself erect on the side of the bed, thus bringing him face to face with the friar. What caused him to leave the interrogatory unfinished was a recognition. The countenance he saw was a familiar one, as might be expected after having been so close to his own – within a few feet of it – for days past. No disguise of dress, nor changed tonsure, could hinder identification of the man who had partaken of his chain in the Acordada; for he it was.

“Oh! ’tis you, Don Ruperto!” exclaimed Kearney, suddenly changing tone.

“The same, my son,” rejoined the other, with an air of mock gravity.

At which the young Irishman broke out into a loud guffaw, saying: —

“Well, you’re the last man I should ever have supposed to be a monk!”

He recalled some strong denunciations of the Holy Brethren he had heard pass the lips of his late fellow-prisoner.

“Ah! Señor Don Florencio, in this our world of Mexico we are called upon to play many parts, and make out home in many places. Yesterday, you knew me as a prisoner, like yourself in a loathsome gaol; to-day, you see me in a monastery. And no common monk, but an Abbot, for know, amijo mio, that I am the head of this establishment. But come! As your host I am not now playing the part I should. You must be half famished; besides, your toilet needs attending to. For the first, breakfast will be ready by the time you have looked to the last. Here, Gregorio!” this was a call to the mayor-domo outside, who instantly after appeared at the door. “Conduct this gentleman to the lavatory, and assist him in making his ablutions.” Then again to Kearney: “If I mistake not, you will find a clean shirt there, with some other changes of raiment. And may I ask you to be expeditious? It has got to be rather a late hour for breakfast, and the Holy Brethren will be getting a little impatient for it. But, no doubt, your appetite will prompt you. Hasta Luega!”

With which salutation – the Mexican custom at parting for only a short while – he passed out of the room, leaving his guest to be looked after by Gregorio.

Surrendering himself to the mayor-domo, Kearney was conducted to an outer room, in which he found a washstand and dressing-table, with towel and other toilet articles – all, however, of the commonest kind. Even so, they were luxuries that had been long denied him – especially the water, a constant stream of which ran into a stone basin from some pure mountain spring.

And, sure enough, the clean shirt was there, with a full suit of clothes; velveteen jacket, calzoneras calzoncillas, scarf of China crape – in short, the complete costume of a ranchero. A man of medium size, they fitted him nicely; and arrayed in them he made a very handsome appearance.

“Now, your honour,” said the individual in charge of him, “allow me to show you the Refectory.”

Another turn along the main passage brought them to the door, from which issued a buzz of voices. His host had prepared him to expect company, and on stepping inside this door he saw it in the shape of some twenty-five or thirty men, all in the garb of monks of the same order as Rivas himself.

The room was a large one, saloon shape, with a table standing centrally, around which were benches and chairs. A cloth was spread upon it, with a multifarious and somewhat heterogeneous array of ware – bottles and glasses being conspicuous; for it was after eleven o’clock, and the meal almuerzo, as much dinner as breakfast. The viands were being put upon it; three or four Indian youths, not in convent dress, passing them through a hatch that communicated with the kitchen, and from which also came a most appetising odour.

All this the young Irishman took in with a sweep of his eye, which instantly after became fixed upon the friars who had faced towards him. They were standing in two or three groups, the largest gathered round an individual who towered above all of them by the head and shoulders. Cris Rock it was, clean shaven, and looking quite respectable; indeed, better dressed than Kearney had seen him since he left off his New Orleans “store” clothes. The Colossus was evidently an object of great interest to his new acquaintances; and, from the farcical look upon their faces, it was clear they had been doing their best to “draw” him. With what success Kearney could not tell; though, from the knowledge he had of his old comrade’s cleverness, he suspected not much. There was just time for him to note the jovial air of the Brethren, so little in keeping with the supposed gravity of the monastic character, when the Abbot entering led him up to them, and gave him a general introduction.

“Hermanos!” he said, “let me present another of my comrades in misfortune, the Señor Don Florencio Kearney – an Irlandes– who claims the hospitality of the convent.”

They all made bow, some pressing forward, and extending hands.

But there was no time for dallying over salutations. By this several dishes had been passed through the hatch, and were steaming upon the table. So the Abbot took seat at its head, Kearney beside him; while the Texan was bestowed at its foot, alongside one who seemed to act as vice-chairman.

If the table-cloth was not one of the finest damask, nor the ware costliest china and cut glass, the repast was worthy of such. In all the world there is no cuisine superior to that of Mexico. By reason of certain aboriginal viands, which figured on the table of that Aztec sybarite, Montezuma, it beats the cuisine of old Spain, on which that of France is founded, and but an insipid imitation.

The monks of this mountain retreat evidently knew how to live, course after course being passed through the hatch in a variety which seemed as if it would never end. There were pucheros, guisados, tomales, and half a score of other dishes Kearney had never before heard of, much less tasted. No wonder at their dinner of the preceding day having left such débris for supper.

And the wines were in correspondence – in quality, profusion, everything. To Kearney it recalled “Bolton Abbey in the olden time.” Nor ever could the monks of that ancient establishment on the Wharfe have drunk better wines, or laughed louder while quaffing them, than they whose hospitality he was receiving on the side of the Cerro Ajusco.

Some strange speech, however, he heard passing around him, little in consonance with what might be supposed to proceed from the lips of religious men. But, possibly, just such as came from those of the Tintern and Bolton Brethren when around the refectory table. Not all of it, though. If the talk was worldly, it savoured little of wickedness – far less than that of the cowled fraternity of olden times, if chronicles are to be trusted. And never in convent hall could have been heard such toast as that with which the breakfast was brought to a close, when Rivas, rising to his feet, goblet in hand, the others standing up along with him, cried out —

“Patria y Libertad!”

Country and Liberty! Strange sentiment in such a place, and to be received with acclaim by such people!

Chapter Forty Three

What are they?

The repast finished, the Holy Brethren, rising from the table together, forsook the Refectory. Some disappeared into cloisters on the sides of the great hallway, others strolled out in front, and seating themselves on benches that were about, commenced rolling and smoking cigarittos.

The Abbot, excusing himself to his stranger guests, on plea of pressing business, was invisible for a time. So they were permitted to betake themselves apart. Good manners secured them this. The others naturally supposed they might want a word in private, so no one offered to intrude upon them.

Just what they did want, and had been anxiously longing for. They had mutually to communicate; questions to be asked, and counsel taken together. Each was burning to know what the other thought of the company they had fallen into; the character of which was alike perplexing to both.