Part 53 (1/2)
”Miserably poor.”
”Would you like to make a great deal of money?”
”Dios! That is why I'm a soldier.”
”I will pay you well to get me two horses--”
But old Pancho shook his head vigorously. ”Impossible! General Longorio is going to marry you. We all got drunk last night to celebrate the wedding. Yes, and the priest is waiting.”
”I will make you rich.”
”Ho! I wouldn't live to spend a single peso. Felipe disobeyed orders, and the general shot him before he could cross himself. Boom! The poor fellow was in h.e.l.l in a minute. No. We will all be rich after we win a few battles and capture some American cities. I am an old man; I shall leave the drinking and the women to the young fellows, and prepare for my old age.”
Seeing that she could not enlist Pancho's aid, Alaire begged him to fetch the priest.
”You wish spiritual comfort, senora?”
”Perhaps.”
”Well, he doesn't look like much of a priest, but probably he will do.
As for me, I don't believe in such things. Churches are all very well for ignorant people, but we Mexicans are too intelligent; we are making an end of them.”
The priest was a small, white-haired man with a gentle, almost timid face, and at the moment when he appeared before Alaire he was in anything but a happy frame of mind. He had undergone, he told her, a terrible experience. His name was O'Malley. He had come from Monclova, whence the Rebels had banished him under threat of death. He had seen his church despoiled of its valuables, his school closed; he himself had managed to escape only by a miracle. During his flight toward the border he had suffered every indignity, and finally Longorio had intercepted him and brought him here, practically in chains.
”What a situation! What chaos!” he lamented. ”The land is overrun with bandits; there is no law, no authority, no faith; religion is made a mockery. The men are becoming infidels and atheists, and in many places they will not allow us to give comfort even to their women.”
”Is it as bad as that?”
Father O'Malley shook his head sadly. ”You've no idea. What do you think of a people who forbid the mention of G.o.d's name in their schools? That is what the revolutionists are doing. Candeleria claims that the churches are the property of the State. He confiscates them, and he charges admission. He has banished all except a few of us priests, and has shamefully persecuted our Sisters of Mercy. Oh, the outrages! Mexico is, today, the blackest spot on the map of Christendom.” His voice broke. ”That is the freedom, the liberty, the democracy, for which they are fighting. That is the new Mexico. And the Federals are not a bit better. This Longorio, for instance, this--wolf--he brings me here, as his prisoner, to solemnize an unholy marriage! He treats me like a dog. Last night I slept in a filthy hovel--”
”Oh! I'm sorry,” Alaire exclaimed. ”But I'm half crazed with my own troubles. You must come into the house; the best I have is yours. You shall be as much my guest as I can make you, and--perhaps you will help me to escape.”
”Escape?” The little man smiled mournfully. ”You are watched and guarded, and so am I. Even if you got away from here, what then? You can't imagine the condition of the country.”
”I won't marry him!” Alaire cried, with a shudder. ”I won't!”
”He can't very well force you to do so. But remember, these are war times; the man is a fiend, and he puts no restraint upon his desires.
If he is madly bent on having you, how can you prevent it? In normal times he would not dare injure one so prominent as you, but now--”
Father O'Malley lifted his hands. ”I only wonder that he suggests a lawful marriage. Suppose you refuse? Will he not sacrifice you to his pa.s.sions? He has done worse things.” After a moment's consideration he said: ”Of course it is possible that I misjudge him. Anyhow, if you desire me to do so I will refuse to perform the ceremony. But--I'm afraid it will just mean ruin for both of us.”
”Surely he wouldn't harm you?”
The Father shrugged. ”What am I? An obscure priest. Many of my brothers are buried in Mexico. However, I shall do as you wish.”
As the day wore on Alaire realized even more clearly the fact that she was Longorio's prisoner. His men, in spite of their recent debauch, kept a very good watch over her, and it was plain that they would obey his orders, no matter how extreme. It occurred to her finally that he was staying away purposely, in order to give her a fuller appreciation of her position--so that she might beat her wings against the cage until exhausted.
Afternoon came, then evening, and still Longorio did not return, Father O'Malley could give scant comfort; Dolores was a positive trial.
Half distracted, Alaire roamed through the house, awaiting her captor's coming, steeling herself for their final battle. But the delay was trying; she longed for the crisis to come, that this intolerable suspense might be ended. At such an hour her thoughts naturally turned to Dave Law, and she found herself yearning for him with a yearning utterly new. His love had supported her through those miserable days at Las Palmas, but now it was a torture; she called his name wildly, pa.s.sionately. He knew her whereabouts and her peril--why did he not come? Then, more calmly, she asked herself what he, or what any one, could do for her. How could she look for succor when two nations were at war?