Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

One might have imagined himself suddenly transported into the middle ages, in the midst of some secret society, where previous to the admission of the candidate, were displayed all the terrors of the earth, as a means of proving his courage.

All this however was here a fearful reality.

Fabian pointed out to the Duke de Armada, one of the flat stones, resembling tombstones, which were strewed over the plain, and seated himself upon another so as to form with the Canadian and his companion a triangle, in which he occupied the most prominent position.

“It is not becoming for the criminal to sit in the presence of the judges,” said the Spanish noble, with a bitter smile, “I shall therefore remain standing.”

Fabian made no reply.

He waited until Diaz, the only disinterested witness in this court of justice, had chosen a convenient place.

The adventurer remained at some distance from the actors in the scene, yet sufficiently near to see and hear all that passed.

Fabian began:

“You are about to be told,” said he, “of what crime you are accused. You are to look upon me as the judge who presides at your trial, and who will either condemn or acquit you.”

Having thus spoken he paused to consider.

“It will first be necessary to establish the identity of the criminal. Are you in truth,” he continued, “that Don Antonio, whom men here call the Count de Mediana?”

“No,” replied the Spaniard in a firm voice.

“Who are you then?” continued Fabian, in a mingled tone of astonishment and regret, for he repudiated the idea that a Mediana would have recourse to a cowardly subterfuge.

“I was the Count de Mediana,” replied the prisoner, with a haughty smile, “until by my sword I acquired other titles. At present I am known in Spain as the Duke de Armada. It is the name I shall transmit to the descendant of my line, whom I may choose as my adopted son.”

The latter phrase, incidentally spoken by the prisoner, proved in the sequel his sole means of defence.

“Right,” said Fabian, “the Duke de Armada shall hear of what crime Don Antonio de Mediana is accused. Speak Bois-Rose! tell us what you know, and nothing more.”

The rough and energetic countenance of the gigantic descendant of the Norman race, as he stood motionless beside them, his carbine supported on his broad shoulder, was expressive of such calm integrity, that his appearance alone banished all idea of perjury. Bois-Rose drew himself up, slowly removed his fur cap, and in doing so discovered his fine open brow to the gaze of all.

“I will only speak of what I know,” said he.

“On a foggy night, in the month of November, 1808, I was a sailor on board a French smuggling-vessel called the Albatros.

“We had landed according to a plan formed with the captain of the carabiniers of Elanchovi, on the coast of the Bay of Biscay. I will not relate to you,” and here Pepé could not repress a smile, “how we were fired upon, and repulsed from the shore where we had landed as friends. It is sufficient for you to know that when we again reached our vessel, I was attracted by the screams of a child, which seemed to come from the depths of the ocean.

“These cries proceeded from a boat which had been abandoned.

“I pushed out towards it at the risk of my own life, since a brisk fire was opened upon our ship.

“In this boat I found a lady murdered, and lying in her blood. She was quite dead, and close to her was a little child who appeared to be dying.

“I picked up the child – that child is now the man before us; his name is Fabian.

“I took the child with me, and left the murdered lady in the boat. I do not know who committed the crime, and have nothing further to say.”

As he finished speaking, Bois-Rose again covered his head, and seated himself in silence.

A mournful silence followed this declaration.

Fabian lowered his flashing eyes for an instant to the ground, then raised them, calm and cold, to the face of the ex-carabinier, whose turn had now come to speak.

Fabian was prepared to act his terrible part, and the countenance as well as the attitude of the young man, though clothed in rags, expressed the nobility which characterised an ancient race, as well as the collected coolness of a judge. He cast an authoritative glance towards Pepé, and the half savage trapper was compelled to submit to it in silence.

Pepé at length rose, and advanced a few paces, by his manner showing a determination only to utter that which his conscience approved.

“I understand you, Count Mediana,” said he, addressing himself to Fabian, who alone in his eyes had the right to assume this title. “I will try to forget that the man here present is the same who caused me to spend so many long years among the refuse of mankind at Ceuta. When I appear before God He may require of me the words I have spoken, but I should again repeat them, nor regret that they had ever been uttered.”

Fabian made a gesture of approbation.

“One night in the month of November, 1808,” said he, “when I belonged to the Royal Carabiniers in the service of Spain, I was on duty upon the coast of Elanchovi, where three men disembarked from the open sea upon the beach.

“Our captain had sold to one of them the right of landing in a forbidden spot.

“I reproach myself with having been this man’s accomplice, and receiving from him the price of culpable neglect of my duty.

“The following day it was discovered that the Countess Mediana and her young son had left the castle during the night.

“The Countess was murdered – the young Count was never seen again.

“A short time after, his uncle appeared at Elanchovi and claimed his nephew’s fortune and titles. All was given up to him, and I, who believed that I had only sold my services to favour an intrigue or an affair of smuggling, found that I had been the accomplice of a murderer.

“I upbraided the present Count Mediana before witnesses, and accused him of this crime. Five years’ imprisonment at Ceuta was the reward of my presumption.

“Here before another and more righteous tribunal, and in the presence of God who is my witness, I again accuse the man before me. I declare him to be the murderer of the Countess, and the usurper of her son’s titles. He was one of the three men, who, during the night entered by escalade the chateau which Don Fabian’s mother never again beheld.

“Let the murderer refute the charge. I have done.”

“You hear him?” said Fabian, “what have you to say in your defence?”

A violent struggle between his conscience and his pride took place in Mediana’s breast.

Pride however triumphed.

“Nothing,” replied Don Antonio.

“Nothing!” answered Fabian, “but you do not perhaps know what a terrible duty I have to fulfil?”

“I can imagine it.”

“And I,” cried Fabian passionately, “shall not flinch in accomplishing it. Yet, though my mother’s blood cries out for vengeance, should you refute the charge, I would bless you still. Swear to me then, in the name of Mediana, which we bear in common, by your honour and the salvation of your soul, that you are innocent, and I shall be too happy to believe you.”

Then, oppressed with an intolerable anguish, Fabian awaited his reply.

But, gloomy and inflexible as the fallen archangel, Mediana was silent.