The Lone Ranch by Mayne Reid (books to read to increase intelligence TXT) 📖

The marquee occupied by Adela Miranda and her maid is not visible from the spot where her brother lies bound. The other tent is between, with some shrubbery further concealing it.

But from the tenour of his last speech, Don Valerian knows that Uraga has gone thither, as also his object.

Chagrined by the denial he has received from the brother, roused to recklessness, he resolves on having an answer from the sister, point-blank, upon the instant.

With slight ceremony he enters her tent. Once inside, he mutters a request, more like a command, for Conchita to withdraw. He does this with as much grace as the excited state of his feelings permits, excusing himself on the plea that he wishes a word with the senorita—one he is sure she would not wish to be heard by other ears than her own.

Aroused from a despondent attitude, the young lady looks up, her large round eyes expressing surprise, anger, apprehension, awe. The mestiza glances towards her mistress for instructions. The latter hesitates to give them. Only for an instant. It can serve no purpose to gainsay the wishes of one who has full power to enforce them, and whose demeanour shows him determined on doing so.

“You can go, Conchita,” says her mistress; “I will call you when you are wanted.”

The girl moves off with evident reluctance, but stops not far from the tent.

“Now, Don Gil Uraga,” demands the lady, on being left alone with the intruder, “what have you to say to me that should not be overheard?”

“Come, senorita! I pray you will not commence so brusquely. I approach you as a friend, though for some time I may have appeared in the character of an enemy. I hope, however, you’ll give me credit for good intentions. I’m sure you will when you know how much I’m distressed by the position I’m placed in. It grieves me that my instructions compel such harsh measures towards my two prisoners: but, in truth, I can say no discretion has been left me. I act under an order from headquarters.”

“Señor,” she rejoins, casting upon him a look of scornful incredulity, “you have said all this before. I suppose you had something else to speak of.”

“And so I have, senorita. Something of a nature so unpleasant I hesitate to tell it, fearing it may sadly shock you.”

“You need not. After what has passed I am not likely to be nervous.”

Despite her natural courage, and an effort to appear calm, she trembles, as also her voice. There is an expression on the face of the man that bodes sinister risings—some terrible disclosure.

The suspense is too painful to be borne; and in a tone more firm and defiant she demands the promised communication.

“Dona Adela Miranda,” he rejoins, speaking in a grave, measured voice, like a doctor delivering a prognosis of death, “it has been my duty to make your brother a prisoner—a painful one, as I have said. But, alas! the part I’ve already performed is nothing compared with that now required of me. You say you are prepared for a shock. What I’m going to say will cause you one.”

She no longer attempts to conceal alarm. It is now discernible in her large, wondering eyes.

“Say it!”

The words drop mechanically from her lips, drawn forth by the intensity of her apprehension.

“You are soon to be without a brother!”

“What mean you, señor?”

“Don Valerian dies within the hour.”

“You are jesting, sir. My brother has not been sick? He is not wounded? Why should he die?”

She speaks hurriedly, and with an incredulous stare at Uraga; while at the same time her heaving, palpitating bosom shows she too truly believes what he said.

“Don Valerian is not sick,” continues the unfeeling wretch, “nor yet has he received any wound. For all this, in less than an hour he must die. It is decreed.”

“Madre de Dios! You are mocking me. His death decreed! By whom?”

“Not by me, I assure you. The military authorities of the country have been his judges, and condemned him long ago, as also Don Prospero. It only needed their capture to have the sentence carried out. This disagreeable duty has been entrusted to me. My orders at starting were to have both shot on the instant of making them captives. For your sake, senorita, I’ve so far disobeyed the rigorous command—an act which may cost me my commission. Yes, Dona Adela, for your sake.”

The tale is preposterous, and might seem to her who hears it a lie, but for her knowledge of many similar occurrences in the history of her native land, “Cosas de Mexico.” Besides, her own and her brother’s experience render it but too probable.

“Dios de mi alma!” she cries out in the anguish of conviction, “can this be true?”

“It is true.”

“Colonel Uraga, you will not carry out this cruel sentence! It is not an execution—it is an assassination! You will not stain your soul with murder?”

“I must obey orders.”

“My poor brother! Have mercy! You can save him?”

“I can.”

“You will? You will?”

“I will!”

The emphasis with which these two words are pronounced brings a flush of gratefulness over her face, and she makes a forward movement as if to thank him by a pressure of the hand. She might have given it but for the cast upon his features, telling his consent not yet obtained, nor his speech finished. There is more to come—two other words. They are—

“Upon conditions!”

They check her bursting gratitude. Conditions! She knows not what they may be. But she knows the character of Gil Uraga, and can predict they will be hard.

“Name them!” she demands. “If it be money, I’m ready to give it. Though my brother’s property is taken from him, as we’ve heard, not so mine. I have wealth—houses, lands. Take all, but save Valerian’s life.”

“You can save it without expending a single claco; only by giving a grace.”

“What mean you, señor?”

“To explain my meaning I’ll repeat what I’ve said. Your brother’s head is forfeit. It can be saved by a hand.”

“Still I do not understand you. A hand?”

“Yes, your hand.”

“How?”

“Grasped in mine—united with it in holy wedlock. That is all I ask.”

She starts as if a serpent had stung her, for she now comprehends all.

“All I ask,” he continues in a strain of fervid passion, “I who love you with my whole soul; who have loved you for long hopeless years—aye, senorita, ever since you were a schoolgirl; myself a rough, wild youth, the son of a ranchero, who dared only gaze at you from a distance. I am a peasant no longer, but one who has wealth; upon whom the State has bestowed power to command; made me worthy to choose a wife from among the proudest in our land—even to wed with the Dona Adela Miranda, who beholds him at her feet!”

While speaking he has knelt before her, and remains upon his knees awaiting her response.

She makes none. She stands as if petrified, deprived of the power of speech.

Her silence gives him hope.

“Dona Adela,” he continues in an appealing tone, as if to strengthen the chances of an affirmative answer, “I will do everything to make you happy—everything a husband can. And remember your brother’s life! I am risking my own to save it. I have just spoken to him on the subject. He does not object; on the contrary, has given consent to you being mine.”

“You say so?” she inquires, with a look of incredulity. “I do not believe it—will not, without hearing it from his own lips.”

While speaking, she springs past the kneeling suppliant, and, before he can get upon his legs or stretch forth a hand to detain her, she has glided out of the tent, and makes for the place where she supposes the prisoners to be kept.

Starting to his feet, Uraga rushes after. His intent is to overtake and bring her back, even if he have to carry her.

He is too late. Before he can come up with her she has reached the spot where her brother lies bound, and kneels beside him with arms embracing, her lips pressing his brow, his cheeks moistened by her tears.