The Tigrero, without further pressing, at once reported, in the fullest details, his interview with Don Sebastian Guerrero's capataz. The three Frenchmen listened with the most serious attention, and when he had finished his story, Valentine rose —

"Let us be off, señores," he said, "we have no time to lose; perhaps heaven offers us, at this moment, the opportunity we have been so long awaiting."

The others rose without asking the hunter for any explanation, and a few minutes later Valentine and his comrades were galloping along the highway in the direction of Mexico.

"I do not know what diabolical plot they are forming," Ño Lusacho muttered, on seeing them disappear in the distance; "but they are worthy gentlemen, and let the ounces slip through their fingers like so much water."

And he entered the rancho, the door of which he now left open, for day was breaking.

CHAPTER XV.

THE CONVENT OF THE BERNARDINES

The history of colonies is the same everywhere, that is to say, that you find the old belief, the forgotten manners and customs of the mother country intact, and almost exaggerated.

Mexico was to Spain what Canada still is to France. In Mexico we, therefore, find the Spain of the monks, with all the abuses of a degenerate monastic life; for we are compelled to state that with few, very few exceptions, the monks of Mexico are far from leading an exemplary life. A few years ago a Papal legate arrived at Mexico, who had been sent to try and introduce into the monasteries reforms which had become urgent; but he soon recognized the impossibility of success, and returned as he came. This is the history of yesterday and today, and in the way things are going on, it will be the history of tomorrow.

In spite of the innumerable revolutions the Mexican monks are still very rich. Among other uses to which they put their money, the best is, perhaps, lending it out at six per cent., which, let us hasten to add, is a great blessing in a country where the ordinary interest on borrowed money is sixteen to eighteen per cent. Still, it appears to us, and we trust the remark will not be taken in bad part, but little in harmony with the vocation of the monks and the pure doctrines of religion, which is so opposed to lending money out at interest, for it has ever seen in it disguised usury.

We will add, at the risk of incurring the blame of some persons, and of appearing to emit a paradox, that in this collection of Christian religious buildings there seems to be kept up the tradition of the great Mexican Teocali, which contained within its walls seventy-eight buildings devoted to the Aztec worship.

In the first place, what is the religion professed in Spanish America? It certainly is not the Catholic faith; and this we can affirm with a safe conscience, and supply proof if necessary. The Americans of the south, like all southern peoples, are instinctively Pagans, fond of war and holidays, making a god of each saint, adoring the Virgin under a hundred different forms, digging up the old Aztec idols, placing them in all the Mexican churches, and offering them worship under the characteristic denomination of Santos antiguos, or ancient saints.

What can be said after this? Simply that the Hispano-Americans never understood the religion they were compelled to profess; that they care but very little for it, and in their hearts cling to their old worship in the terrific proportion of the native to the European population, that is to say two-thirds to one. Hence the demoralization of the masses, which is justly complained of, but is the fault of those persons who, at the outset, believed they could establish the religion of Christ in their countries by fire and sword – a system, we are bound to add, scrupulously followed by the Spanish clergy, up to the Proclamation of the Independence of the colonies.

The Convent of the Bernardines is situated but a short distance from the Paseo de Bucareli. Not one of the religious communities for women scattered over Mexico is so rich as this one, for the kings of Spain and nobles of the highest rank gave it large endowments, which, in the course of time, have grown into an immense fortune.

The vast site occupied by the Convent of the Bernardines, the thick walls that surround it, and the numerous domes that crown it, sufficiently indicate the importance it enjoys at the present day.

Like all the Mexican convents, and especially that at San Francisco, to which it bears a distant resemblance, the Convent of the Bernardines is defended by thick walls, flanked by massive buttresses, which give it the appearance of a fortress. Still the peaceful belfries, and their cupolas of enamelled porcelain covering so many chapels, allow the pious destination of the edifice to be recognized. An immense paved court leads to the principal chapel, which is adorned with a luxury that it would be difficult to form an idea of in our sceptical Europe.

Behind this first court is the space reserved for the nuns, consisting of immense cloisters, adorned with pictures by old masters, and white jasper basins from which limpid fountains rise. Next come immense huertas with umbrageous walks, wide courtyards, a rich and valuable library in which the scientific wealth of Mexico lies buried, eight spacious, comfortable, and airy dormitories, four hundred cells for the nuns, and a refectory in which four hundred guests can sit without crowding.

On the day when we introduce the reader into the Convent of the Bernardines, at about five in the evening, three persons, collected in a leafy arbour, almost at the end of the garden, were talking together with considerable animation.

Of these persons, one, the eldest, was a nun, while the other two, girls of from sixteen to eighteen years of age, wore the garb of novices.

The first was the Mother Superior of the convent, a lady of about fifty years of age, with delicate and aristocratic features, gentle manners, and noble and majestic demeanour, whose face displayed kindness and intelligence.

The second was Doña Anita; we will not draw her portrait, for the reader has long been acquainted with her.

See "Tiger Slayer." Same publishers.

The poor girl, however, was pale and white as a corpse, her fever-parched eyes were not easy, fixed on any object, and she looked about her hurriedly and desperately.

The third was Doña Helena Rallier, a light-haired, blue-eyed girl, with a saucy look, whose velvety cheeks, and noble and well-defined features, revealed the candour and innocence of youth, combined with the laughing expressions of a boarder spoiled by an indulgent governess.

Doña Helena was standing a little outside the arbour, leaning against a tree, and seemed like a vigilant sentry carefully watching lest the conversation between the Mother Superior and her companion should be disturbed.

Doña Anita, seated on a stone bench by the side of the Abbess, with her hand in the elder lady's, and her head resting on her shoulder, was speaking to her in a faltering voice and broken sentences which found difficulty in passing her parted lips, while the tears silently ran down her cheeks, which suffering had rendered pale.

"My kind mother," she said, and her voice, was harmonious as the sigh of an Æolian harp, "I know not how to thank you for your inexhaustible kindness towards me. Alas! you are at present my only friend; why may I not be allowed to remain always by your side? I should be so glad to take my vows and pass my life in this convent under your benevolent protection."

"My dear child," the Abbess said gently, "God is great, his power is infinite; hence, why despair? Alas! doubt leads to denial; you are still almost a child. Who knows what joy and happiness the future may still have in store for you?"

The maiden gave a heavy sigh. "Alas!" she murmured, "the future no longer exists for me, my kind mother; a poor orphan, abandoned without protection to the power of an unnatural relation, I must endure fearful tortures, and, under his iron yoke, lead a life of suffering and grief."

"Child," the Abbess said, with gentle sternness, "do not blaspheme; you are still ignorant, I repeat, of what the future may have in store for you. You are ungrateful at this moment – ungrateful and selfish."

"I ungrateful! holy mother!" the maiden objected.

"Yes, you are ungrateful, Anita, to us and to yourself. Do you consider it nothing, after the frightful misfortune that burst on you, to have returned to this convent in which your childhood was spent, and to have found among us that family which the world refused you? Is it nothing to have near you hearts that pity you, and voices that incessantly urge you to have courage?"

"Courage, sister," Doña Helena's sweet voice said at this moment, like a soft echo.

The maiden hid her lovely tear-bedewed face in the bosom of the Mother Superior.

"Pardon me, mother," she continued, "pardon me, but I am crushed by this struggle, which I have carried on so long without hope. The courage you attempt to give me cannot, in spite of my efforts, penetrate to my heart, for I have the fatal conviction that, whatever you may do, you will not succeed in preventing the frightful misfortune suspended over my head."

"Let us reason a little, my child, like sensible persons; up to the present, at least, we have succeeded in concealing from everybody the happy return of your senses."

"Happy!" she sighed.

"Yes, happy; for with the intellect faith, that is to say, strength, returned to you. Well, while your guardian believes you still insane, and is compelled, in spite of himself, to suspend his schemes with reference to you, I have been employing all the influence my high position gives me, and my family connections. I have had a petition on your behalf presented to the President of the Republic by sure hands; this petition is supported by the greatest names in Mexico, and I ask in it that the marriage with which you are menaced may not be contracted against your will; in a word, I ask that your guardian may be prevented taking any steps till you are in a proper condition to say yes or no."

"Have you really done that, my good mother?" the maiden exclaimed, as she threw her arms in real delight round the elder lady's neck.

"Yes, I have done so, my child, and I am expecting every moment a reply, which I hope will be favourable."

"Oh, mother, my real mother, if that succeeds I shall be saved."

"Do not go from one extreme to the other, my child; all is uncertain yet, and heaven alone knows whether we shall be successful."

"Oh, God will not abandon a poor orphan."

"God, my child, chastens those He loves; have confidence in Him, and his right hand will be extended over you to sustain you in adversity."

"Sister Redemption is coming this way, holy mother," Doña Helena said at this moment.

At a sign from the Mother Superior, Doña Anita withdrew to the other end of the bench on which she was seated, folded her arms on her chest, and let her head droop.

"Are you looking for our mother, sister?" Doña Helena asked a rather elderly lay sister, who was looking to the right and left as if really seeking somebody.

"Yes, sister," the lay sister answered, "I wish to deliver a message with which I am entrusted for our mother."

"Then enter this arbour, sister, and you will find her reposing there."

The lay sister entered the arbour, approached the Mother Superior, stopped modestly three paces from her, folded her arms on her breast, looked down respectfully, and waited till she was spoken to.

"What do you desire, daughter?" the Mother Superior asked her.

"Your blessing, in the first place, holy mother," the lay sister answered.

"I can give it you, daughter; and now what message have you for me?"

"Holy mother, a gentleman of lofty bearing, called Don Serapio de la Ronda, wishes to speak with you privately; the sister porter took him into the parlour, where he is waiting for you."

"I will be with him directly, daughter; tell the sister porter to apologize in my name to the gentleman, if I keep him waiting longer than I like, owing to my advanced age. Go on, I follow you."

The lay sister bowed respectfully to the abbess, and went away to deliver the message with which she was entrusted. The abbess rose, and the two girls sprang forward to support her; but she stopped them.

"Remain here till the Oración, my children," she said to them, "converse together; but be prudent, and do not let yourselves be surprised; after the Oración, you will come and converse in my cell."

Then after giving Doña Anita a parting kiss, the Mother Superior went away, sorely troubled in mind at this visit from a man she did not know, and whose name she now heard for the first time. When she entered the parlour, the abbess examined with a hasty glance the person who asked to see her, and who, on perceiving her, rose from his chair, and bowed to her respectfully. This first glance was favourable to the stranger, in whom the reader has doubtless already recognized Valentine Guillois.

"Pray resume your seat, caballero," the abbess said to him, "if your conversation is to last any time, we shall talk more comfortably when sitting."

Valentine bowed, offered the lady a chair, and then returned to his own.

"Señor Don Serapio de la Ronda was announced to me," the lady continued after a short silence.

"I am that gentleman, madam," Valentine said courteously.

"I am at your orders, caballero, and ready to listen to any communication you may have to make."

"Madam, I have nothing personal to say to you; I am merely commissioned by the Minister of the Home Department to deliver you this letter, to which I have a few words to add."

While uttering this sentence with exquisite politeness, Valentine offered the abbess a letter bearing the ministerial arms.

"Pray open the letter, madam," he added, on seeing that, through politeness, she held it in her hand unopened, "you must render yourself acquainted with its contents in order to understand the meaning of the words I have to add."

The abbess, who in her heart was impatient to know what the minister had to say to her, offered no objection, and broke the seal of the letter, which she hurriedly perused. On reading it a lively expression of joy lit up her face.

"Then," she exclaimed, "his excellency deigns to grant my request?"

"Yes, madam; you remain, until fresh orders, responsible for your young charge. You have only to deal with the minister in the matter; and," he added, with a purposed stress on the words, "in the event of General Guerrero, the guardian of Doña Anita, trying to force you into surrendering her to him, you are authorized to conceal the young lady, who is for so many reasons an object of interest, in any house of the order you please."

"Oh, señor," she answered, her eyes filling with tears of joy, "pray thank his excellency in my name for the act of justice he has deigned to perform in favour of this unfortunate young lady."

"I will have that honour, madam," Valentine said, as he rose; "and now that I have delivered my message, permit me to take leave of you, while congratulating myself that I was selected by his Excellency the Minister to be his intermediary with you."

At the moment when Valentine left the convent, Carnero entered it, accompanied by a monk, whose hood was pulled down over his face. The hunter and the capataz exchanged a side glance, but did not speak.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE CONFESSOR

Mexico, as we have already stated, was, after the conquest, completely rebuilt on the original plan, so that, at the present day, it offers nearly the same sight as struck Cortez when he entered it for the first time. The Plaza Mayor, especially, some years back, before the French innovations, more or less good, were introduced, offered towards evening a most picturesque scene.

This immense square is bounded on one side by the Portales de Mercaderes; heavy arches supported on one side by immense stones, and on the other by pilasters, at the foot of which are the alacenas or shops.

The ayuntamiento, the president's palace, the cathedral, the sagrario, the portal de las flores, an immense bazaar for merchandize, and the Parian, also a bazaar, complete, or rather completed, at the period when our history takes place, the fourth side of the square, for recently great changes have taken place, and the Parian, among other buildings, has disappeared. The handsomest streets, such as the Tacuba, Mint, Monterilla, Santo Domingo, etc., debouche on the great square.

The cathedral stands exactly on the site of the ancient great Mexican Teocali, all the buildings of which it has absorbed; unfortunately this building, which is externally splendid, does not come up internally to the idea formed of it, for its ornaments are in bad taste, poor and paltry.

Between five and six in the evening, or a few minutes before Oración, the appearance of the Plaza Mayor becomes really fairy-like. The crowd of strollers – a strange crowd were there ever one – flocks up from all sides at once, composed of horsemen, pedestrians, officers, priests, soldiers, campesinos, leperos, Indian women in red petticoats, ladies of fashion in their sayas, and all the people come, go, cross and jostle each other, mingling their conversation with the cries of children, the vociferations of the leperos, who torment purchasers with their impetuosity, and the shrill appeals of the sellers of tamales and queratero, crouching in the shade of the porticos.

A few minutes before the Oración, a Franciscan monk, recognizable by his blue gown, and silken cord round his waist, and whose large white felt hat, pulled down over the eyes, almost completely concealed his face, came from the Calle Monterilla, and entered the Plaza Mayor.

This man, who was tall and apparently powerfully built, walked slowly, with hanging head and arms crossed on his chest, as if plunged in serious reflection. Instead of entering the thronged Portales, he crossed the square and proceeded towards the Parian, which was very lively at the moment, for the Parian was a bazaar, resembling the Temple of Paris, and was visited at this period by persons, the leanness of whose purses only allowed them to purchase here their jewellery and smart clothing, which, in any other part of the city would have been much too expensive for them.

Not attending to the noise or movement around him, the Franciscan leant his shoulder against the stall of an evangelista, or public writer, and looked absently and wearily across the square. He did not remain long in this position, however, for just after he had reached the Parian, the Oración began. At the first peal of the cathedral bells, all the noises ceased in the square; the crowd stopped, heads were uncovered, and each muttered a short prayer in a low voice.

At the last stroke of the Oración, a hand was laid on the Franciscan's shoulder, while a voice whispered in his ear —

"You are exact to the rendezvous, Señor Padre."

"I am performing my duty, my son," the monk at once answered, turning round.

In the person who addressed him he doubtless recognized a friend, for he offered him his hand by a spontaneous movement.

"Are you still resolved to attempt the adventure?" the first speaker continued.

"More than ever, señor."

"Bear in mind that you must not mention my name; we do not know each other; you are a monk from the San Franciscan monastery, whom I fetched to confess a young novice at the Convent of the Bernardines. It is understood that you do not know who I am?"

"My brother, we poor monks are at the service of the afflicted; our duty orders us to help them when they claim our support; as we have no name for society, we are forbidden to ask that of those who summon us."

"Excellently spoken," the other replied, repressing a smile. "You are a monk according to my own heart. I see that I am not deceived with respect to you; come then, my father, we must not keep the person waiting who is expecting us."

The Franciscan bowed his assent, placed himself in the right of his singular friend, and both went away from the Parian, where the noise had become louder than ever, after the angelos had ceased ringing. The two men passed unnoticed through the crowd, and walked in the direction of the Convent of the Bernardines, going along silently, side by side.

We have said that at the convent gate they passed Don Serapio de la Ronda, that is to say, Valentine Guillois, and that the three men exchanged a side glance full of meaning. The sister porter made no objection to admitting the Franciscan; and his guide, so soon as he saw him inside the convent, took leave of him after exchanging a few commonplace compliments with the sister. The latter respectfully led the monk into a parlour, and after begging him to wait a moment, went away to inform the Mother Superior of the arrival of the confessor whom the young novice had requested to see.

We will leave the Franciscan for a little while to his meditations, and return to the two young ladies whom we left in the garden. So soon as the abbess had withdrawn, they drew closer together, Doña Helena taking the seat on the bench previously occupied by the abbess.

"My dear Anita," she said, "let me profit by the few minutes we are left alone to impart to you the contents of a letter I received this morning; I feared that I should be unable to do so, and yet it seems to me that what I have to tell you is most important."

"What do you mean, my dear Helena? Does the letter to which you refer interest me?"

"I cannot positively explain to you, but it will be sufficient for you to know that my brothers are very intimate with a countryman of ours who takes the greatest interest in you, and what I have to tell you relates to this Frenchman."

"That is strange," said Doña Anita, pausing. "I never knew but one Frenchman, and I have told you the sad story which was the cause of all the misfortunes that overwhelmed me. But the Frenchman whom my father wished me to marry died under frightful circumstances; then who can this gentleman be who takes so lively an interest in me – do you know him?"

"Very slightly," the young lady answered with a blush, "but sufficiently to be able to assure you that he possesses a noble heart. He does not know you personally; but," she added, as she drew a letter from her bosom, and opened it, "this is the passage in my brother's letter which refers to you and him. Shall I read it to you?"

"Pray read it, my dear Helena, for I know the friendship you and your family entertain for me; hence, it is with the greatest pleasure I receive news of your brothers."

"Listen then," the young lady continued, and she read, after seeking for the passage —

"'Valentine begs me, dear sister, to ask you to tell your friend' – that is you," she said, breaking off.

"Go on," Doña Anita answered, whose curiosity had been aroused by the name Helena had pronounced, though it was impossible for her to know who that person was.

"'To tell your friend,' Doña Helena continued, 'that the confessor she asked for will come to the convent this very day after the Oración. Doña Anita must arm herself with courage, which is as necessary to endure joy as grief, for she will learn today some news possessing immense importance for the future.' That is underlined," the young lady added, as she bent over to her friend, and pointed to the sentence with the tip of her rosy finger.

"That is strange," Doña Anita murmured. "Alas! what news can I learn?"

"Who knows?" said her young companion, and then continued – "'Before all, Doña Anita must be prudent; and however extraordinary what she hears may appear to her, she must be careful to conceal the effect produced by this revelation, for she must not forget that if she have devoted friends, she is closely watched by all-powerful enemies, and the slightest imprudence would hopelessly neutralize all the efforts that we are making to save her. You cannot, my dear sister, lay sufficient stress on this recommendation.' The rest," the maiden added, with a smile, "only relates to myself, and it is, therefore, unnecessary for me to read it to you."

And she refolded the letter, which disappeared in her dress again.

"And now, my darling, you are warned," she said; "so be prudent."

"Good heaven! I do not understand the letter at all, nor do I know the Valentine to whom it alludes. It was by your advice that I asked for a confessor."

"That is to say, by my brother's advice, who, as you know, Anita, placed me here, not merely because I love you as a sister, but also to support and encourage you."

"And I am grateful both to you and him for it, dear Helena; if I had not you near me, in spite of the friendship our worthy and kind mother condescends to grant me, I should long ago have succumbed to my grief."

"The question is not about me at this moment, my darling, but solely about yourself. However obscure and mysterious my brother's recommendation may be, I know him to be too earnest and too truly kind for me to neglect it. Hence I cannot find language strong enough to urge you to prudence."

"I seek in vain to guess what the news is to which he refers; and I acknowledge that I feel a secret repugnance to see the confessor he announces to me. Alas! I have everything to fear, and nothing to hope now."

"Silence," Doña Helena said, quietly. "I hear the sound of footsteps in the walk leading to this arbour. Someone is coming. So we must not let ourselves be surprised."

"In fact, almost at the same moment the lay sister, who had already informed the Mother Superior of the arrival of Don Serapio de la Ronda, appeared at the entrance of the arbour.

"Señorita," she said, addressing Doña Helena, "our holy mother abbess wishes to speak to you as well as to Doña Anita without delay. She is waiting for you in her private cell in the company of a holy Franciscan monk."

The maidens exchanged a glance, and a transient flush appeared on Doña Anita's pale cheeks.

"We will follow you, sister," Doña Helena replied. The maidens rose; Doña Helena passed her arm through her companion's, and stooping down, whispered in her ear —

"Courage, Querida."

They followed the lay sister, who led them to the Mother Superior's cell, and discreetly withdrew on reaching the door. The abbess appeared to be talking rather excitedly with the Franciscan monk; but, on seeing the two girls, she ceased speaking, and rose.

"Come, my child," she said, as she held out her arms to Doña Anita, "come and thank God who in his infinite goodness has deigned to perform a miracle on your behalf."

The maiden stopped through involuntary emotion, and looked wildly around her. At a sign from the abbess the monk rose, and throwing back his hood at the same time as he fell on his knees before the maiden, he said to her in a voice faltering with emotion —

"Anita, do you recognize me?"

At the sound of this voice, whose sympathetic notes made all the fibres of her heart vibra