Part 74 (1/2)

”_Yo entiendo, Dona Isidora_.”

The mayor-domo moves away, and is soon lost to sight behind the crest of the hill.

The lady of the lazo is once more alone in the glade. She springs out of her saddle; dons serape and sombrero; and is again the _beau-ideal_ of a youthful hidalgo.

She remounts slowly, mechanically--as if her thoughts do not company the action. Languidly she lifts her limb over the horse. The pretty foot is for a second or two poised in the air.

Her ankle, escaping from the skirt of her _enagua_, displays a tournure to have crazed Praxiteles. As it descends on the opposite side of the horse, a cloud seems to overshadow the sun. Simon Stylites could scarce have closed his eyes on the spectacle.

But there is no spectator of this interesting episode; not even the wretched Jose; who, the moment after, comes skulking into the glade.

He is questioned, without circ.u.mlocution, upon the subject of the strayed letter.

”What have you done with it, sirrah?”

”Delivered it, my lady.”

”To whom?”

”I left it at--at--the _posada_,” he replies, stammering and turning pale. ”Don Mauricio had gone out.”

”A lie, _lepero_! You gave it to Don Miguel Diaz. No denial, sir!

I've seen it since.”

”O Senora, pardon! pardon! I am not guilty--indeed I am not.”

”Stupid, you should have told your story better. You have committed yourself. How much did Don Miguel pay you for your treason?”

”As I live, lady, it was not treason. He--he--forced it from me--by threats--blows. I--I--was not paid.”

”You shall be, then! I discharge you from my service; and for wages take that, and that, and that--”

For at least ten times are the words repeated--the riding whip at each repet.i.tion descending upon the shoulders of the dishonest messenger.

He essays to escape by running off. In vain. He is brought up again by the dread of being ridden over, and trampled under the hoofs of the excited horse.

Not till the blue wheals appear upon his brown skin, does the chastis.e.m.e.nt cease.

”Now, sirrah; from my sight! and let me see you no more. _Al monte! al monte_!”

With ludicrous alacrity the command is obeyed. Like a scared cat the discharged servitor rushes out of the glade; only too happy to hide himself, and his shame, under the shadows of the th.o.r.n.y thicket.

But a little while longer does Isidora remain upon the spot--her anger giving place to a profound chagrin. Not only has she been baffled from carrying out her design; but her heart's secret is now in the keeping of traitors!

Once more she heads her horse homeward. She arrives in time to be present at a singular spectacle. The people--peons, vaqueros, and employes of every kind--are hurrying to and fro, from field to corral, from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns. The men are on their feet arming in confused haste; the woman on their knees, praying pitifully to heaven--through the intercession of a score of those saints, profusely furnished by the Mexican hierarchy to suit all times and occasions.

”What is causing the commotion?”