Part 21 (1/2)
”You are right,” I returned, ”forgive me for not answering you at once.
I was with Santa Coloma--the rebel.”
She held out her hand to me, but, before I could take it, withdrew it and, covering her face, began to cry. Presently recovering herself and turning towards the house, she asked me to follow.
Her gestures and tears had told me eloquently enough that she too belonged to the unhappy Blanco party.
”Have you, then, lost some relation in this fight, senora?” I asked.
”No, senor,” she replied; ”but if our party had triumphed, perhaps deliverance would have come to me. Ah, no; I lost my relations long ago--all except my father. You shall know presently, when you see him, why our cruel enemies refrained from shedding _his_ blood.”
By that time we had reached the house. There had once been a verandah to it, but this had long fallen away, leaving the walls, doors, and windows exposed to sun and rain. Lichen covered the stone walls, while, in the crevices and over the tiled roof, weeds and gra.s.s had flourished; but this vegetation had died with the summer heats and was now parched and yellow. She led me into a s.p.a.cious room, so dimly lighted from the low door and one small window that it seemed quite dark to me coming from the bright sunlight. I stood for a few moments trying to accustom my eyes to the gloom, while she, advancing to the middle of the apartment, bent down and spoke to an aged man seated in a leather-bound easy-chair.
”Papa,” she said, ”I have brought in a young man--a stranger who has asked for shelter under our roof. Welcome him, papa.”
Then she straightened herself, and, pa.s.sing behind the chair, stood leaning on it, facing me.
”I wish you good day, senor,” I said, advancing with a little hesitation.
There before me sat a tall, bent old man, wasted almost to a skeleton, with a grey, desolate face and long hair and beard of a silver whiteness. He was wrapped in a light-coloured _poncho_, and wore a black skull-cap on his head. When I spoke he leant back in his seatand began scanning my face with strangely fierce, eager eyes, all the time twisting his long, thin fingers together in a nervous, excited manner.
”What, Calixto,” he exclaimed at length, ”is this the way you come into my presence? Ha, you thought I would not recognise you! Down--down, boy, on your knees!”
I glanced at his daughter standing behind him; she was watching my face anxiously, and made a slight inclination with her head.
Taking this as an intimation to obey the old man's commands, I went down on my knees, and touched my lips to the hand he extended.
”May G.o.d give you grace, my son,” he said, with tremulous voice. Then he continued: ”What, did you expect to find your old father blind then? I would know you amongst a thousand, Calixto. Ah, my son, my son, why have you kept away so long? Stand, my son, and let me embrace you.”
He rose up tottering from his chair and threw his arm about me; then, after gazing into my face for some moments, deliberately kissed me on both cheeks.
”Ha, Calixto,” he continued, putting his trembling hands upon my shoulders and gazing into my face out of his wild, sunken eyes, ”do I need ask where you have been? Where should a Peralta be but in the smoke of the battle, in the midst of carnage, fighting for the Banda Oriental?
I did not complain of your absence, Calixto--Demetria will tell you that I was patient through all these years, for I knew you would come back to me at last wearing the laurel wreath of victory. And I, Calixto, what have I worn, sitting here? A crown of nettles! Yes, for a hundred years I have worn it--you are my witness, Demetria, my daughter, that I have worn this crown of stinging-nettles for a hundred years.”
He sank back, apparently exhausted, in his chair, and I uttered a sigh of relief, thinking the interview was now over. But I was mistaken. His daughter placed a chair for me at his side. ”Sit here, senor, and talk to my father, while I have your horse taken care of,” she whispered, and then quickly glided from the room. This was rather hard on me, I thought; but while whispering those few words she touched my hand lightly and turned her wistful eyes with a grateful look on mine, and I was glad for her sake that I had not blundered.
Presently the old man roused himself again and began talking eagerly, asking me a hundred wild questions, to which I was compelled to reply, still trying to keep up the character of the long-lost son just returned victorious from the wars.
”Tell me where you have fought and overcome the enemy,” he exclaimed, raising his voice almost to a scream. ”Where have they flown from you like chaff before the wind?--where have you trodden them down under your horses' hoofs?--name--name the places and the battles to me, Calixto?”
I felt strongly inclined just then to jump up and rush out of the room, so trying was this mad conversation to my nerves; but I thought of his daughter Demetria's white, pathetic face, and restrained the impulse.
Then in sheer desperation I began to talk madly as himself. I thought I would make him sick of warlike subjects. Everywhere, I cried, we had defeated, slaughtered, scattered to the four winds of heaven, the infamous Colorados. From the sea to the Brazilian frontier we have been victorious. With sword, lance, and bayonet we have stormed and taken every town from Tacuarembo to Montevideo. Every river from the Yaguaron to the Uruguay had run red with Colorado blood. In forests and sierras we had hunted them, flying like wild beasts from us; we had captured them in thousands, only to cut their throats, crucify them, blow them from guns, and tear them limb by limb to pieces with wild horses.
I was only pouring oil on the blazing fire of his insanity.
”Aha!” he shouted, his eyes sparkling, while he wildly clutched my arm with his skinny, claw-like hands, ”did I not know--have I not said it?
Did I not fight for a hundred years, wading through blood every day, and then at last send you forth to finish the battle? And every day our enemies came and shouted in my ears, 'Victory--victory!' They told me you were dead, Calixto--that their weapons had pierced you, that they had given your flesh to be devoured of wild dogs. And I shouted with laughter to hear them. I laughed in their faces, and clapped my hands and cried out, 'Prepare your throats for the sword, traitors, slaves, a.s.sa.s.sins, for a Peralta--even Calixto, devoured of wild dogs--is coming to execute vengeance! What, will G.o.d not leave one strong arm to strike at the tyrant's breast--one Peralta in all this land! Fly, miscreants!
Die, wretches! He has risen from the grave--he has come back from h.e.l.l, armed with h.e.l.l-fire to burn your towns to ashes--to extirpate you utterly from the earth!'”
His thin, tremulous voice had risen towards the close of this mad speech to a reedy shriek that rang through the quiet, darkening house like the long, shrill cry of some water-fowl heard at night in the desolate marshes.