It was not, as may well be believed, through fear, that General Bustamente had absented himself from Valdivia at the moment when one of his lieutenants so boldly proclaimed him from the top of the steps of the cabildo, before the populace. No, General Bustamente was one of those soldiers of fortune of whom so many are found in America, accustomed to set his life upon a cast of the die, and to be turned aside by nothing in the world from the accomplishment of his projects. He had hoped, by the means of the forces he had concentrated in this remote province of the republic, that the inhabitants, taken unawares, would only offer an insignificant resistance, and that he should be able, by joining his troops with those of Antinahuel, to make a forced march through Araucania, gain possession of Concepción, and thence, keeping the gathering snowball in motion, and dragging his companions after him, arrive at Santiago in time to prevent any movement, and oblige the inhabitants to capitulate and accept, as an accomplished fact, the change of government inaugurated by him in the distant provinces of the republic.

This plan was not deficient in audacity, or even in a certain degree of policy; it comprised great chances of success. Unfortunately for General Bustamente, the Dark-Hearts, whose spies were everywhere, had got wind of this project, and had countermined it by taking advantage of the opportunity offered them by their enemy to unmask their own batteries. We have seen under what conditions the struggle between the two parties had commenced in Valdivia. The General, who was ignorant of what was passing, felt in a state of perfect security. As soon as he was in his tent with Antinahuel, he let fall the curtain which closed it behind them, and, by a gesture, invited the toqui to be seated.

"Sit down, chief," he said, "I have something to say to you."

"I am at the orders of my white brother," the Indian replied, with a bow.

The General attentively examined the man before him; he endeavoured to read on his countenance the various feelings that acted upon him; but the features of the Indian were marble; no impression was reflected by them.

"Let us speak frankly, loyally, and as friends who wish no better than to understand each other plainly," he said.

Antinahuel bowed reservedly to this appeal to frankness, and the General continued —

"At this moment the people of Valdivia are constituting me, by acclamation, protector of a new confederation, formed of all the states."

"Good!" said the chief, with an almost imperceptible shake of the head; "is my father sure of that?"

"Certainly I am. The Chilians are tired of the continual agitations which disturb the country; they have forced this heavy burden upon me; but I owe myself to my country, and I will not disappoint the hopes my compatriots place in me."

These words were pronounced in a hypocritical tone of self-denial, of which the Indian was not in the least the dupe. A smile flitted across the lips of the chief, which the General affected not to perceive.

"To be brief," he continued, quitting the mild, conciliatory tone in which he had till that time spoken, to assume a more decided and abrupt manner, "are you prepared to keep your engagements?"

"Why should I not keep them?" Antinahuel remarked.

"Will you march with me to assure the success of my projects?"

"Let my father order, I will obey."

This readiness was displeasing to the General.

"Come," he said, angrily, "let us put an end to this; I have not time to enter into a contest of wits with you, or follow you through a labyrinth of Indian circumlocutions."

"I do not understand my father," Antinahuel replied, impassively.

"We shall never get to the end, chief," the General said, stamping his foot, "if you will not answer me categorically."

"I listen to my father; let him ask, I will reply."

"How many men can you have under arms within twenty-four hours?"

"Ten thousand," the chief said, drawing himself up proudly.

"All experienced warriors?"

"All."

"What do you require of me for them?"

"My father knows."

"I accept of all your conditions but one."

"Which is that?"

"The surrender of the province of Valdivia to you."

"Is not my father going to make up for that province on another side?"

"How so?"

"Am I not to assist my father in conquering Bolivia?"

"Yes."

"Well, then?"

"You are mistaken, chief, it is not the same thing; I may enlarge the Chilian territory, but honour forbids me to diminish it."

"Let my father reflect; the province of Valdivia was anciently an Araucanian Uthal-Mapus."

"Very possibly, chief; but, according to that principle, all Chili was Araucanian previous to the discovery of America."

"My father is mistaken; the Inca Sinchiroca had, a hundred years before, conquered the Chilian land as far as the Rio-Maulé."

"You seem to be well acquainted with the history of your country, chief," the General observed.

"Does not my father know the history of his?"

"That is not the question, now; do you accept my proposals or not?"

The chief appeared to reflect for an instant.

"Well!" the General exclaimed, impatiently, "time presses."

"That is true; I will, therefore, go and command a council, composed of the Apo-Ulmens and Ulmens of my nation, and submit the words of my father to them."

The General with difficulty suppressed an expression of anger.

"You must, doubtless, be joking, chief," he said – "your words cannot be serious."

"Antinahuel is the first toqui of his nation," the Indian replied, haughtily; "he never jokes."

"But you must give me your answer now – at once – in a few minutes!" cried the General; "who knows whether we may not be obliged to march within an hour from this time?"

"It is my duty, as much as it is my father's, to enlarge the territory of my people."

At this moment the gallop of a horse was heard approaching; the General flew to the entrance of the tent, where an orderly officer appeared. The face of this officer was bathed with perspiration, and spots of blood stained his uniform.

"General!" he said breathlessly.

"Silence!" the latter hissed, pointing to the chief, who, though apparently indifferent, followed all his movements attentively. The General turned towards Antinahuel.

"Chief," he said, "I have orders to give to this officer – pressing orders; if you will permit me, we will resume our conversation presently."

"Good!" replied the chief; "my father need not inconvenience himself; I can wait."

And after bowing, he left the tent slowly.

"Oh!" said the General to himself, "you demon! if, some day, I have you in my power!"

But perceiving that anger was making him forget himself, he turned towards the officer, who stood motionless:

"Well, Diego," he said, "what news have you? – are we conquerors?"

"No," the officer replied, shaking his head; "the people, excited by those incarnate demons, the Dark-Hearts, have rebelled."

"Oh!" the General cried, "shall I never be able to crush them? What has taken place?"

"The people have raised barricades; and Don Tadeo de Leon is at the head of the movement."

"Don Tadeo de Leon!" said the General.

"Yes, he who was so clumsily shot."

"Oh! this is war to the death then!"

"A part of the troops, seduced by their officers, who have sold themselves to the Dark-Hearts, have passed over to their side; at this moment they are fighting in all the streets with the fiercest inveteracy. I had to pass through a shower of bullets to come and inform you."

"We have not an instant to lose."

"No; for though the soldiers who have remained faithful to you are fighting like lions, I can assure you they are closely pressed."

"Maldición!" the General howled; "I will not leave stone upon stone of that accursed city!"

"Yes, but, in the first place, we must reconquer it, General, and that will prove rather a rough job, I promise you," replied the old soldier, who had preserved his blunt speech throughout.

"Very well!" said Bustamente; "let 'boot and saddle' be sounded, and every horseman take a foot soldier behind him."

Don Pancho Bustamente was a prey to the most violent rage; for several instants he stamped about his tent, like a wild beast in its cage. This unexpected resistance, in spite of all the measures of precaution he had taken, exasperated him. Suddenly the curtain of his tent was raised. "Who is there?" he cried. "Ah! chief, is that you? Well, what do you say?"

"I saw the chief come out, and I thought that perhaps my father would not be sorry to see me," the other replied, courteously.

"And you were right; I am delighted to see you; forget all we have said, chief; I accept all your conditions; are you satisfied, this time?"

"Yes. Including Valdivia?"

"That above all!" said the General, with concentrated rage.

"Ah!"

"Yes, and as that province has revolted, in order to be able to give it to you, I must bring it back to its duty, must I not?"

"To be sure you must!"

"Well, as I have it at my heart to fulfil all my engagements to you, I am going instantly to march against that city; will you help me to subdue it?"

"That will be but just, as I shall labour for myself."

"How many horsemen have you at hand?"

"Twelve hundred."

"Good!" said the General, "they will be more than we shall want."

"The troops are ready," said Diego, entering the tent, "and only await your Excellency's orders."

"To saddle, then; let us be gone! let us be gone! And you, chief, will you not accompany us?"

"Let my father move onward! my mosotones and I will tread in his steps quickly."

Ten minutes later, General Bustamente, with his soldiers, was again galloping along the road to Valdivia. Antinahuel followed him with his eyes attentively; then he rejoined his Ulmens, saying between his teeth, "Let us leave these Moro-Huincas to slaughter each other a little while; it will always be time enough to fall into the party."

CHAPTER XXXII
IN THE MOUNTAIN

Doña Rosario was so terrified, and such mortal anguish assailed her on beholding the Count fall under the knives of the assassins, that she fainted. When she recovered her senses, it was dark night. For several minutes her confused thoughts whirled about in her brain; and she endeavoured, but for a long time in vain, to recover the violently broken thread of her ideas. At length light returned to her mind; she breathed a deep sigh, and murmured in a low voice full of terror:

"My God! my God! what has happened to me?"

She then opened her eyes, and cast around a despairing look. We have said it was a dark night; but what made the darkness more complete for the poor girl, was a heavy covering of some kind which was spread over her face, as well as her person. Then, with that patience which characterizes all prisoners, and which is merely the instinct of liberty, the poor child endeavoured to ascertain what her position was. As well as she could judge, she was lying upon the back of a mule, between two bales; a cord, which passed round her waist, prevented her from rising, but her hands were free. The mule had that rough, irregular trot, peculiar to its species, which made the young girl suffer terribly at every step. Some horse cloths had been thrown over her, no doubt to protect her from the heavy dews of the night, or perhaps to prevent her from making out what road she was going. Doña Rosario, gently, and with great precaution, slipped the covering down from her face: after a few efforts her head was completely free. She then looked around her; but all was dark. The moon, closely veiled by the clouds which passed over its pale disc, only yielded, at rare intervals, a weak, uncertain light. By lifting her head softly, the young girl could distinguish several horsemen, riding before and behind the mule which carried her. As well as she could make out, from the obscurity which surrounded her, these horsemen were Indians.

The rather numerous party – it apparently consisted of a score of individuals – followed a narrow road deeply inclosed between two abrupt mountains, the rocky masses of which, throwing their shadow over the road, augmented the darkness. This road rose with a gentle ascent; and the horses and mules, probably fatigued with a long journey, travelled at a foot pace. The young girl, scarcely recovered from her fainting, had not been able to judge of the time that had elapsed since her abduction; and yet, by collecting her remembrances, and thinking at what hour she had been the victim of this odious attempt, she calculated that twelve hours must have passed away since she was made a prisoner. Overcome by the effort she had been forced to make in order to look around her, the poor girl let her head sink back again, stifling a sigh of despondency; and closing her eyes, as if to isolate herself the more, she plunged into sad and deep meditations.

She was at least ignorant of whom she was with. Many times, it was true, Don Tadeo had spoken to her of an inveterate enemy, inveterate for her destruction; of a woman whose hatred watched her incessantly, ready to sacrifice her on the first favourable opportunity. But who was this woman? What cause had she for her hatred? Was she in the hands of this woman at that moment? And if so, why had she not already sacrificed her to her vengeance? From what motive had she been spared? For what punishment was she reserved?

These thoughts and many others came in crowds to assail the maiden's bewildered mind. This uncertainty was for her an atrocious torture; at that moment, the truth would, perhaps, have been a consolation. Man is so constructed, that what he is most in dread of is the unknown; what he is ignorant of, assumes instinctively, in the prepossessed eyes of one whom a terrible danger menaces, gigantic proportions, a thousand times more terrific than the danger itself. The diseased imagination creates for itself phantoms which reality, however horrible it may be, puts to flight. In a word, the condemned prisoner who is led to punishment suffers more from the apprehensions which the fear of the death awaiting him inspires him with, than the physical pain of that death itself will cause him. Such was, at this moment, the situation of Doña Rosario; her mind, filled with inquietude and dark presentiments, made her dread nameless sufferings, the mere thought of which froze the young blood in her veins.

The caravan still proceeded; it had left the ravine, and was climbing a path traced along the edge of a precipice, at the base of which could be heard the dull murmur of invisible water. At times, a stone, half-broken beneath the hoof of a mule, became detached, and rolled with a sinister noise down the side of the mountain, to engulf itself in the waters, into which it plunged with a dull plash, the sound of which ascended from the abyss. The wind howled through the pines and larches, the clashing branches of which showered a deluge of dry cones upon the travellers. At intervals the owl, and the screech owl, concealed in the crevices of the rocks, poured out into the night their plaintive notes, breaking the silence dismally. Furious barkings were heard in the distance; by degrees they grew nearer, and ended by forming a frightful concert, broken by the sharp voices of women and children, endeavouring to quiet them; lights appeared, and the caravan stopped. They had evidently arrived at the halt, at which they were to pass the rest of the night.

The maiden cast an anxious but cautious look around her; but the flame of the torches agitated by the wind would not permit her to see anything but the dark outlines of some buildings and the shadows of several individuals who flitted about her, with cries and laughter – nothing more. The people of the escort were busily employed in unsaddling the horses and unloading the mules, amidst cries and oaths, and did not appear to bestow the least attention upon the young girl.

A considerable time passed away; Doña Rosario did not know to what to attribute this unaccountable forgetfulness. At length she felt that someone took the mule by the bridle, and she heard him shout in a hoarse voice, Arrea!– the word with which the arrieros are accustomed to excite their beasts. Had she, then, been deceived? Was it not here they were to stop? What was the meaning of the halt, then? Why did a portion of the escort leave her?

Her uncertainty was not of long duration; at the end of ten minutes at most, the mule stopped again, and the man who led it approached Doña Rosario. This man, clothed in the costume of the Chilian peasantry, wore an old straw Panama hat, the large brim of which, pulled down over his face, prevented her distinguishing his features. At the sight of this individual, the young girl felt an involuntary shudder run through her frame. The peasant, or pretended peasant, without addressing a word to her, withdrew the covering which enfolded her, untied the cord which bound her to the mule, and taking her in his arms, carried her with as much ease as if she had been a child, into a detached cabin a few paces distant, the door of which, standing open, seemed to invite them to enter.

The interior of this cabin was dark. The young girl was laid upon the ground with a care and attention she did not expect. At the moment when he let her sink softly down from his arms to the ground, the man bent his head down towards her, and in a voice as inaudible as a breath, he whispered, "Courage! and hope!" and recovering himself quickly, went hastily out of the cabin, closing the door after him.

As soon as he was gone, Doña Rosario sprang upon her feet. The two words pronounced by the unknown had sufficed to restore her presence of mind, and remove all her terrors. Hope, that universal panacea, that supreme good, which God, in His infinite mercy, has given to the unfortunate to help them to suffer, had suddenly re-entered her heart; she felt herself become strong, and ready to engage in the struggle with her unknown enemies. She knew now that a friend watched in secret over her, and, if required, his assistance would not be wanting; therefore it was almost with impatience, though still with fear, that she waited for her ravishers to signify their intentions.

The place in which she was confined was completely dark. At the first moment she in vain endeavoured to distinguish anything in this chaos; but, by degrees, her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and, in front of her, she perceived a faint light, which flitted between the badly-joined boards of a door. She then, with great precaution, for fear of arousing her invisible guardians, and stretching out her hand to keep her from contact with any obstacle she could not see, advanced cautiously, and listening attentively, towards the side from which came the light – a light which attracted her as instinctively as a flame attracts the imprudent moth whose wings it burns.

The nearer she approached, the more distinct the light became, and the sound of a voice reached her ears. At length her extended hands touched the door, and leaning forward, she applied her eye to the chink. She stifled a cry of surprise, and, as at that moment the conversation, which had been for a short time interrupted, recommenced, she listened with intensity.

CHAPTER XXXIII
ON THE WATCH

What she heard, but still more what she saw, necessarily powerfully interested Doña Rosario. In a vast room, dimly lighted by one of those yellow candles which the Chilians call velas de cebo, fastened to the wall by means of a ring, a woman, still young, and very handsome, attired in a riding dress of great richness, was seated on an ebony chair, covered with Cordova leather. With her right hand she played with a gold headed whip, and was speaking in an animated tone to a man who stood respectfully before her, hat in hand. This man, as well as Doña Rosario could make out, was the same who had carried her into the cuarto. The woman, whom Doña Rosario did not recollect ever to have seen, was no other than Doña Maria, the shameless courtesan, who, under the name of the Linda, enjoyed such a scandalous celebrity.

Doña Maria's position threw the light of the candle full upon her face, and gave Doña Rosario an opportunity of distinguishing her features. She contemplated them with deep interest, for she felt instinctively that this woman was the enemy who, from her birth, had fatally followed her steps. She imagined that a decisive conference between her and the unknown was about to take place, and that in a few minutes her fate would be made known to her. And yet, at the aspect of this woman, whose bent brows, clear and haughty look, coldly compressed lips, and cruel words, revealed with the hatred which devoured her, it was neither a feeling of terror, nor a feeling of hatred, that the young girl experienced. Without knowing why, a sadness and an undefined pity for the very woman who was giving orders that made her shudder, took possession of her. She listened breathlessly, fascinated, scarcely knowing whether what she heard was really true, and fancying herself at times under the influence of some terrible hallucination.

The two speakers, who knew not that they were either watched or overheard, resumed their conversation in an unrestrained voice. Doña Rosario, we may well suppose, did not lose a single word.

"How is it," said the Linda, "that Joan has not come? I expected him."

The man thus questioned cast a sharp look around him, and rolling up the broad brim of his hat in his fingers, replied with ill-dissembled embarrassment —

"Joan sent me in his place."

"And by what right," said the Linda, in a haughty tone, "does the fellow presume to confide to others the care of accomplishing the orders I give him?"

"Joan is my friend," the man replied.

"What are the ties that unite you to me: " she asked, contemptuously.

"The mission you charged him with is accomplished."

"Ay – but faithfully?"

"The woman is there," he said, pointing to the room in which Doña Rosario was; "during the journey she has spoken to nobody, and I can guarantee that she does not know to what place she has been brought."

At this assurance the look of Doña Maria softened a little, and it was in a less sharp and haughty tone she continued —

"But why did Joan give up his place to you?"

"Oh!" the man said with a feigned bluntness, belied by his cunning eye, "for a very simple reason; Joan is at this moment attracted towards the plain by the black eyes of the wife of a paleface, which sparkle like fireflies in the night. The woman's toldo is built in the country, near the toldería which you call, I think, Concepción. Although such conduct be unworthy of a warrior, his heart is flying constantly towards this woman, in spite of himself, and until he gain possession of her, he will never be in his senses."

"Well, then," the Linda interrupted, stamping her foot with vexation, "why does not the fool carry her off?"

"I proposed that to him."

"And what did he say?"

"He refused."

Doña Maria shrugged her shoulders with a smile of disdain. "Still," she remarked, "all that does not tell me who you are."

"I! I am an Ulmen in my tribe; a great warrior among the Puelches," he replied, proudly.

"Ah!" she said, with an air of satisfaction, "you are an Ulmen of the Puelches, are you? Good! then I can depend upon your fidelity."

"I am the friend of Joan," he remarked simply, with a respectful bow.

"Do you know the woman whom you have brought here?" the Linda asked, darting at him a mistrustful glance.

"How should I know her?"

"Are you ready to obey me in everything?"

"My obedience will depend on my sister; let her speak, and I will answer."

"This woman is my enemy," said the Linda.

"Must she die?" he asked, roughly, without lowering his eyes before the searching glances of the Linda.

"Oh, no!" she cried eagerly; "these Indians are brutes – they understand nothing of vengeance! What use would her death be to me? It is her life I want."

"Let my sister explain; I do not comprehend."

"Death! that is nothing but a few instants of suffering, then all is over."

"White death may be so, but an Indian death must be called for many hours before it answers."

"I wish her to live, I tell you!"

"She shall live. Ah!" he added, with a sigh, "the toldo of a chief is empty, its fires are extinguished."

"Oh! oh!" the Linda interrupted; "have you no wives?"

"They are dead."

"And where is your tribe at this moment?"

"Oh!" said the Indian, "far from here – ten suns' march, at least. I was returning to rejoin the warriors of my toldería, when Joan charged me with this mission."

There was a short silence, during which the Linda appeared to be reflecting. Doña Rosario redoubled her attention – she felt she was about to know her fate.

"And pray," Doña Maria resumed, fixing her keen eyes upon the Indian, "what great interest detained you on the plains near the seashore?"

"None; I came, as the other Ulmens did, to renew the treaties."

"Had you no other reasons?"

"None at all."

"Listen to me, chief. You have, doubtless, admired the four horses fastened at the gate of this house?"

"They are noble beasts," the Indian replied, his eyes glistening with the desire of possessing them.

"Well, it only depends upon yourself that I should give them to you."

"Oh! oh!" he cried, joyfully, "what must I do for that?"

"Obey me," said the Linda, with a smile.

"I will obey," he replied.

"Whatever I command you?"

"Whatever my sister commands."

"That is well; but remember what I am going to say to you. If you deceive me, my vengeance will be terrible – it will follow you everywhere."

"Why should I deceive my sister?"

"Because your Indian race is so constituted – astute and roguish, ever ready to betray."

A sinister flash gleamed from the downcast eye of the Puelche warrior; nevertheless, he replied in a calm tone —

"My sister is mistaken; the Araucanos are loyal."

"We shall see," she coldly remarked. "What is your name?"

"The Musk Rat."

"Very well; listen, Musk Rat, to what I am going to say."

"My ears are open."

"This woman, who, according to my orders, you brought here, must never again revisit the shores of the sea."

"She shall never see them again."

"I do not wish her to die – understand that; she must suffer," the Linda added, in a tone which made the unhappy girl tremble with fear.

"She shall suffer."

"Yes," said Doña Maria, with sparkling eyes, "I wish that, during a long course of years, she may suffer a martyrdom at every instant; she is young, she will have time to call upon death to deliver her from her misery before it deigns to listen to her. Beyond the mountains, far in the deserts, in the virgin forests of the Grou-Chaco, I am told that hordes of Indians exist who are ferocious and sanguinary, and bear a deadly hatred towards all of the white race."

"Yes," said the Puelche, in a melancholy tone, "I have heard of these men from the chiefs of my tribe; they live only for murder."

"That is it!" she said, with sinister delight. "Well, chief, do you think yourself able to traverse these vast deserts, and reach the Grou-Chaco?"

"Why should I not?" the Indian replied, raising his head proudly, "Do there exist obstacles strong enough to resist the Araucano warrior in his course? The puma is the king of the forests, the vulture that of the heavens; but the Aucas is the king of the puma and the eagle; the desert is his – Guatechu has given it to him; his horse and his lance render him invincible and master of immensity."

"Then my brother will accomplish this journey, which is impossible?"

A disdainful smile played for an instant round the lips of the savage warrior.

"I will accomplish it," he said.

"Good! my brother is a chief – I perceive he is one now."

The Puelche bowed modestly.

"My brother will go there, then, and when he arrives in the Chaco, he will sell the pale girl to the Guayacuras."

The Indian did not allow any mark of astonishment to be perceived upon his face.

"I will sell her," he replied.

"That is well! – my brother will be faithful?"

"I am a chief; I have but one word, my tongue is not forked; but why should I take this pale woman so far?"

Doña Maria cast a penetrating glance at him – a suspicion crossed her mind – the Indian perceived it.

"I only made a simple observation to my sister; it concerns me little, and she need not answer me if she does not think proper," he said, with indifference.

The brow of the Linda became serene again.

"The remark is just, chief; I will answer it. Why take her so far, you asked me; because Antinahuel loves this woman – his heart is softened by her – and perhaps he will suffer himself to be moved by her prayers, and restore her to her family. But it shall not happen; she shall weep tears of blood; her heart shall break under the incessant pangs of grief; she shall lose everything, even hope!"

After uttering these words, Doña Maria arose, with head erect, sparkling eyes, and extended arm; there was in her aspect something fatal and terrible, which terrified even the Indian, by nature so difficult to move.

"Go," she cried, in a tone of command, "before she departs for ever, I will see this woman once – only once, and speak with her for a few minutes; she shall at least know me: bring her hither!"

The Indian went out silently; this woman, so beautiful and so cruel, terrified him – she inspired him with horror.

Doña Rosario, on hearing this atrocious sentence pronounced against her, fell senseless to the ground.