Chapter VIII: Part 8

If one did not see, at the close of the volume, the dates on which it was begun and concluded, he might believe that it had sprung forth complete, a spontaneous improvisation, a work of the instant, in which neither art, nor trammels of execution, nor imperfections of detail had had a part.

In the novel there is not a needless character, nor a useless incident, nor a single page which does not contribute to the completing of the action and which has not a direct relation to the plot. Even the descriptions, in which our novelists are prodigal to the degree of piling them up indiscriminately, are in _Suprema Ley_, only different modes in which the subject is impressed by reality. In Gamboa’s work, Belen, the Theatre, the Alameda--especially the Alameda--perform the part of the chorus in Greek tragedy.

The characters are enchantingly real, to the degree that, after reading the book, we feel that we have encountered, seen, and spoken with the actors. Ortegal is a degenerate, whom we all know; Clothilde is a fallen woman with a mask of sanctity, a profligate, who entered the world for man’s undoing; Berón, Holas, even the Comendador and Don Francisco are the very breath of life, are full of enchanting and noble realism.

One given to seek similarity between the old and the new would claim a likeness between Dr. Pascual, the learned man of the Rongón Macquart and the poor court writer, between Clothilde of Zola and the Clothilde of Gamboa, between the first night which the lovers spent united and the first night of Laurent and Therese Raquin, between the servant whose type Gamboa barely sketches and the Juliana Conseira de Eça of Quieros. These similarities may or may not exist, but no charge can be made against Gamboa on account of them; he painted reality and the other novelists painted reality, and nothing resembles itself more closely than truth.

Gamboa does not possess what I will call the epic faculty, that is, the faculty of describing external nature, as Delgado for instance; as little does he have, as Campo, the privilege of retaining, in memory, phrases and gestures; nor does he possess a vein of humor, as these writers and as Cuellar; he is, before all and beyond all, an analyst, a dissector of souls who sees to the bottom of hearts, who seeks the lust that dishonors, the meanness that kills, the hatred that causes horror. For this reason, in my opinion, he will never be popular, while his luckier fellows will gain proselytes and friends as long as they write.

This is not saying that his book lacks attractive characters. Prieto is a well depicted jester, Chucho an admirably cut figure, Don Eustaquio, though somewhat melodramatic and somewhat out of place in that collection of beings of flesh and bone, is the providence which, dressed in jeans and working in clay, is brought in to give some outlet from the tangle; but, above all, the family of Ortegal is of the most delicate and tender which has been here described. Lamartine and Daudet might well have drawn the picture, if Lamartine and Daudet had dedicated themselves to painting Mexican types of the humbler class.

There is no doubt that the world of Gamboa is, as that of Carlyle, a heap of fetid filth, shadowed by a leaden sky, where only groans and cries of desperation are heard; but, as in the terrible imagination of the British thinker, flashes of kindliness bringing counsel and resignation, cleave the sky of this Gehenna.

In fine, _Suprema Ley_ is a great success, a success which compensates for many failures and, by it, Señor Gamboa has placed himself among the first Mexican novelists--not, indeed, first of all, because for me, Delgado and _Micros_ hold yet a higher place.

IRENEO PAZ.

Ireneo Paz was born at Guadalajara, on July 3, 1836. His father died, when Ireneo was a child, leaving the widow in poverty. When a boy of thirteen years, he began his studies at the _Seminario_, laboring for his support throughout his course. By diligence and earnestness, he made an excellent record, gaining the respect and esteem of teachers and fellow-students. Graduating from the _Seminario_ in 1851, he took his baccalaureate in philosophy at the University in 1854, and was licensed as a lawyer in 1861. In his youth he wrote verse “as a tree sprouts leaves.” Identifying himself with the liberal party, he soon became prominent in politics. He was also a Captain in the national guard. During this period he published _El Independiente_ (The Independent), _El Dia_ (The Day), and _Sancho Panza_.

When the Imperial forces, in 1863, took possession of Guadalajara, Ireneo Paz withdrew to Colima, where he was editor of the Official Periodical of that State, and Magistrate of the Court of Justice. A year later, the approach of the Imperialists forced him to abandon these offices. He was with the Federal forces of the coast until their rout at Zapotlan, when he was one of the three to arrange the terms of capitulation with General Oroñoz. He was kept under surveillance at Guadalajara, where he, nevertheless, dedicated himself to the Republican cause, establishing _El Payaso_ (The Clown), which vigorously combatted monarchical ideas, with audacity and satire--replacing it later by _El Noticioso_ (The Well-Informed). Maximilian himself was impressed by the little sheet and ordered that a full set should be secured for him. On the occasion of an operatic triumph, at Guadalajara, by the prima donna, Angela Peralta,--Ireneo Paz gave vent to some democratic sentiments, which led to his arrest and imprisonment on November 12, 1866. His stay there was brief, as the Republican forces gained possession of the town, one month later. With the full re-establishment of the Republic, he was appointed in 1867 Secretary of State for Sinaloa. A few months later, he was again actively interested, against Juarez, in favor of the ideas of Diaz. The opposition failed and Paz was again in prison, this time in Santiago Tlaltelolco; he was later transferred to La Députacion. During his eleven months in prison, he vigorously assailed the Juarez regime in the popular anti-administration journal, _El Padre Cobos_ (Father Cobos). After his release, he continued his attacks in newspaper articles, in popular clubs, and in the secret plottings preceding the revolution known as La Noria. Notwithstanding all the efforts against him, Juarez was re-elected in 1871, but shortly died. Ireneo Paz was active in the revolution of La Noria and in that of Tuxtepec, four years later--supporting Diaz on both occasions and suffering imprisonment twice.

The mere list of the books written by Ireneo Paz is too long for quoting here. Many of them are historical novels dealing with Mexican themes. He has written too much for all of it to have great literary merit, but he is widely read and well known. His style is often tedious and prolix, but many interesting, and even thrilling, passages occur in his works. He has a quiet and dry humor and, sometimes, keen satire. His _Algunas Campañas_ (Some Campaigns), is practically a history of events in which he himself has participated. Our quotations are from it. In poetry Paz ranges from satire to love, from humor to philosophy.

Ireneo Paz has long lived in the City of Mexico, where he has been a member of Congress, in both houses and a Regidor. He has been, and is, editor of _La Patria_ (The Fatherland). He has been president of the _Prensa Asociada_ (Associated Press) and of the _Liceo Hidalgo_. He was a Commissioner from Mexico to the World’s Columbian Exposition, and as a result of his visit to our country wrote _La Exposicion de Chicago_ (The Chicago Exposition).

THE AGREEMENT OF EL ZACATE GRULLO.

In an hacienda, situated on the Autlan road, with an obscure name, which, nevertheless became famous in the annals of the period, we, the troops under command of the Generals Anacleto Herrera y Cairo, Antonio Neri and Toro Manuel, including a whole regiment of officers and some few common soldiers, pulled ourselves together, though truly in a pitiable state.

The name of this afterward celebrated hacienda deserves special mention--_El Zacate Grullo_.

At the hacienda of El Zacate Grullo we planned to impart some organization to those forces, the scanty remnants of what had been the Army of the Centre. It was agreed that, for the time, they should bear the name of the United Brigades. But, promptly, this other question had to rise--who was to command them?

The regular leaders at once fixed their eyes upon the valiant and sympathetic General Herrera y Cairo; but the chief obstacle to his taking command was in the great preponderance of irregulars. Would Rojas and his companions submit to the command of a man of fine manners and good education? The next thought was of Rojas or of Julio García; it was certain that two State Governors would not place themselves at the orders of the former, even though he had the greater forces, particularly as he had, among the French, the reputation of a bandit, for which reason they had declared him an outlaw and had proposed pursuing him and treating him as other bandits. Don Julio had the friendship of all and possessed qualities, which connected him with both of these opposite factions. He had been a companion of Rojas, he understood pillage, and he also knew how, at the proper time, to assert his dignity as a public man, rising above his antecedents; but no one gave him credit for military ability. That Don Julio was a sort of bond of union between the two leaders mentioned, served for nought then, in that emergency.

But to continue with the facts.

The Generals Herrera, García and Rojas, assisted by Aristeo Moreno, who was the secretary of the first and the very intimate friend of the last, passed the whole day in private conference. I supposed, and my supposition was later confirmed, that Rojas had refused to permit my presence in that council.

A general order was issued, that after the six o’clock roll-call, all the leaders and officers should present themselves at the lodgings of General Rojas, in order to be informed of what had been decided in the council of generals.

We all hastened to the meeting, hoping that from the discussion had flashed out the ray of light so much needed in escaping from the difficulties, in which we were entangled. Rojas occupied the centre of a table placed at one end of the main saloon of the hacienda. At the sides were Generals García and Herrera y Cairo, and at the end, near six candlesticks with lights was Aristeo Moreno, surrounded by papers. I do not know whether because the candles were of tallow, or because of the state of agitation in which our spirits were, we observed that the faces of those at the table appeared extremely pale.

When the hundred and more officers, of the grade of Lieutenant and upward, of which the United Brigades boasted, were gathered together in the hall, we observed that five hundred _galeanos_ surrounded the hacienda house. We were, then, to deliberate under pressure of five hundred bandits, who could pulverize us at the least signal from their chief.

Rojas solemnly said: “Mr. Secretary, read the agreement which we have made.”

Aristeo Moreno read the considerations of that abortion, which terminated with the following articles:

Article 1. The undersigned solemnly bind themselves, under oath, to defend the Republic against all intervention, battling, if need be, until death.

Art. 2. All those who do not approve the present compact, showing themselves indifferent to the national defense, will be considered enemies and shot.

Art. 3. Those who, in any manner whatever, shall be unfaithful to the Republic, and shall make alliance with the Empire, shall be shot.

Art. 4. Populations where the Republican forces are not received with rejoicing, open hospitality being refused, shall be burned and their inhabitants shall be compelled to fight as common soldiers or to be shot, according to the gravity of their offense.

Art. 5. All prisoners taken from the enemy, of whatever category they may be, will be immediately shot, without the necessity of personal identification.

Art. 6. All individual property becomes the property of the United Brigades; consequently all who refuse to furnish rations, fodder, money, or whatever else may be demanded, shall be shot.

Art. 7. All who compose the United Brigades are free to sign this agreement or not, but once having signed it, he who does not support it, or who shall commit the crime of desertion, shall be shot.

Given in the Hacienda del Zacate Grullo, etc.

When Aristeo Moreno had finished reading, General Rojas with a voice apparently calm, but with the black rings about his eyes unusually dark and deep, a certain sign that he was breathing out hatred and that bad sentiments animated him, said, addressing those of us who were in the hall:

“That is what I and my companions have sworn to sustain. Those who are in accord with the plan may come to sign it. Those, who are not, are free to ask for their passports.”

The profoundest silence reigned.

“Does no one wish his passport?” he asked.

And as an equal silence reigned, he said in a voice less abrupt: “Very well, let them come to sign.”

Some started to the table in order to sign, but as others vacillated or remained near the door, Rojas spoke again:

“No one can leave the hacienda, unless accompanied by one of my aides, after he has signed. That is the order I have given the guard which is watching the doors.”

In fact, the _galeones_ were watching the door from the hall to the corridor, that of the street, and all the other exits; there seemed no possible means of escape without placing one’s signature to the shameful document. Nudgings with the arms, joggings with the feet, and words said so low that they seemed rather the buzzing of a fly, were the only protests which worthy and honorable leaders, there present, dared make.

Rojas signed, and his secretary who was an insignificant Indian, signed; Herrera y Cairo followed, his secretary, Aristeo Moreno signing beside him; General Julio García was called and I felt a shiver run through me from head to foot, because I ought to follow him as his secretary, and, no less, the secretary of the republican government of Colima.... In that moment of supreme anxiety, I felt it the height of folly to publicly oppose the signing of that infernal abortion, which would be the same as to provoke an undesirable quarrel in which the probabilities were that we who were decent men, being few, would perish at the hands of the bandits, who were many. Fortunately three copies had to be signed; Don Julio wrote slowly and I had time to climb, unobserved, through a small window, which opened from the hall into the inner rooms of the hacienda, which served us as lodgings, where I arrived, greatly agitated, and, promptly undressing, went to bed. As a precaution, which served me well, I bound a white cloth around my head and surrounded myself with medicines.

Scarcely had I done all this, when an adjutant entered my room and asked if I were there.

“What is wanted?” I asked him.

“The generals need you.”

“Tell them to excuse me; my head aches terribly and you see that I am lying down.”

“Are you not coming to sign?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, rolling myself up in the bed.

“Why?”

“Because I do not wish to dishonor myself, even more in the eyes of my fellow-patriots than in those of the enemy.”

“Then you believe we have done badly in signing it?”

“Yes, sir; very badly.”

“Then you will not sign it?”

“No, sir.”

“But, what shall I say to Rojas?”

“That he may order me shot.”

“Very well,” he said and withdrew, annoyed.

Three copies were signed, one for each general, and when the act was concluded my room was filled with leaders and officers, who desired to know my opinion about that absurd agreement. I said to them all that it was unworthy and that I would not sign it.

Some said that there ought to be an uprising, others desired to fly, though they saw this pact, like an anathema, which would follow them everywhere, a sentence of death. Death and dishonor if they fulfilled it; death and dishonor if they did not. There were some who wept with rage. I attempted to console them as well as I could and gradually they departed until, finally, only Crispin Medina and Juan Valadéz were with me.

“Did you sign?” I asked them.

“Unfortunately yes, but only on one of the copies.”

“On which?”

“On that of Don Julio.”

At that moment, he entered.

“Are you still talking of that unhappy document?” he asked us.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what do you think?”

“We think, General,” I said to him, “as every worthy man, who respects himself and who desires an honorable career in politics, must think; this agreement is absurd because impracticable; it is hateful because it wars against all the good sentiments of mankind; and it is monstrous, immoral, iniquitous, because it orders destruction and slaughter.”

“You are right,” he answered. “I ought not to have agreed so far with Rojas, and for my part, the compact is broken from this moment.”

He drew forth his copy and tore it to pieces.

The next day on taking up our line of march, Rojas said to me: “You not only do not sign yourself but breed disaffection among the other leaders.”

I frankly told him my opinion, which he heard with interest. When I had finished he added:

“I am not shooting you now, because Julio and his people forbid it.... But, we will see later.... We have a lot of unsettled accounts.”

He cast a sinister glance at me and then left, urging his horse to a gallop.

JOSÉ LÓPEZ-PORTILLO Y ROJAS.

José López-Portillo y Rojas was born at Guadalajara May 26, 1850. His father was an eminent lawyer and teacher in the law school. Son of wealthy parents, the young man was given every opportunity for study, first in his home city and later at the capital. His final studies in law were made at Guadalajara, where, in 1871, he became _licenciado_. His parents then gave him an opportunity for foreign travel. He visited the United States, Great Britain and Ireland, France and Italy, Egypt and the Holy Land. On his return he published his _Impresiones de viaje_ (Impressions of Travel). Since that time Señor López-Portillo y Rojas, has practiced law, represented his state in the National Congress, taught in the law school and done important work in journalism. His writings are always clear, direct and marked by a literary style of unusual grace and purity. Besides his scattered articles and the book already mentioned, he has edited--with notable scholarship--the interesting _Cronica de Jalisco_ (Chronicle of Jalisco) of Fray Antonio Tello, and written a novel, _La Parcela_ (The Piece of Land). It is from this last work that our selections are taken.

In _La Parcela_ the author presents a sketch of characteristic country life. The novel has for purpose the illustration of the strong, almost morbid, affection for land felt by the native proprietor.

Don Pedro Ruiz is a wealthy and progressive _haciendero_ of pure Indian blood. He is noble-hearted, thoughtful, shrewd, intelligent and a man of resources. A widower, he is devotedly attached to his only son, Gonzalo, a fine young fellow of twenty-three years. The owner of the adjoining property, Don Miguel Diaz, has been a life-long friend, and between them exists the artificial relation of _compadre_. His wife, Doña Paz, is a cousin of Don Pedro; there is one daughter, a beautiful, gentle but rather weak lady named Ramona. The two young persons--Gonzalo and Ramona--have grown up like brother and sister; their childish affection has ripened into love, and at the beginning of the story they are engaged to be married. Don Pedro is by far the richest man of all the district. Don Miguel is also wealthy, but has seen with some jealousy and dissatisfaction the constantly increasing difference between their fortunes. This dissatisfaction, encouraged by a scheming lawyer, leads to his claiming a worthless bit of property on the borders of his and Don Pedro’s lands. The value of the land is but a trifle to either party; but Don Pedro, sure that right is on his side, refuses to yield to the unjust demands of his neighbor.

Don Miguel at first seizes the property by force, but is dispossessed by Don Pedro’s tenants. The bitter feeling aroused by this incident leads to a battle between two tenants of the two masters; both of the fighters are thrown into jail. Carried into the courts, the boundary line is infamously determined by a corrupted judge; a higher court reverses the decision and Don Pedro is supported in his rights. Furious with anger, Don Miguel seeks to injure his neighbor. Through a wicked scheme plotted with the local authority, the tenant of Don Pedro, who has been in jail, is assassinated. A great dam, which holds back a mighty volume of water for driving mills, irrigating the property, etc., is damaged by Don Miguel’s orders, with the idea that the inundation will ruin the property of Don Pedro.

Throughout these various exciting incidents--seizure, dispossession, law-suit, appeal, assassination and diabolical destruction--the love affairs of the young people are naturally more or less disturbed. Having carried things to such a climax, the author brings about a sudden reconciliation and the story ends.

EXTRACTS FROM LA PARCELA.

“Good morning, _compadre_ Don Miguel,” said Don Pedro as soon as he recognized the horseman who arrived.

“Good morning, _compadre_,” replied the newcomer, checking his horse and dismounting.

The servant who accompanied him quickly dismounted from his horse and went to hold, by the bridle, that of his master. Then he bent to remove his master’s spurs.

“No, Marcos,” said Don Miguel to him, “do not remove them. We shall go on at once.”

“How! _compadre_,” said Don Pedro; “then you will not remain to take breakfast with me?”

“No, not today, because I must arrive at Derramadero before 6, and it is yet distant.”

“That is true, _compadre_; but there will be another day, will there not? Pass in, pass in. Do you desire that we sit down here on the bench to enjoy the fresh air, or shall we go into the office?”

“We are very well here. Do not trouble yourself.”

“Very well. What are you doing so early?”

“It does not please me to visit. I come to treat of our business.”

“What business?”

“That which we have pending.”

“But we have nothing pending.”

“How not? The Monte de los Pericos.”

“What about it?”

“I want you to decide whether you will yield it to me.”

“Why do we speak of this? A thousand times I have told you that the Monte is mine.”

“That is what you say, but the truth is that it belongs to me.”

“_Compadre_, it is better that we talk of something else; leave this matter. Are we not friends?”

“We are so; but that is not to say that you may deprive me of my things. What sort of friendship is that?”

* * * * *

In fact, at a very short distance from where the group found itself, there were seen down below, through the shrubbery, the four men of Don Miguel. They were stretched out on the ground upon their blankets, and in the shadow of the trees conversed without suspicion, with their eyes fastened on the house of Palmar, which was visible from there. Their horses, unbridled and fastened to the trees, were pasturing on the green herbage.

“But man! How good was that blow?” said one of the _mozos_. “It still gives me delight.”

“What a surprise for the poor _montero_!” exclaimed another.

“What will Don Pedro say?”

“He will have to calm his rage.”

And they laughed with their mouths open. Just then they heard the tramp of horses, and turning their heads saw Don Pedro, followed by his men. They tried to rise to draw their pistols.

“Do not stir!” said Don Pedro in a terrible voice, “or we will shoot you.” And he and all his held their arms ready.

There was nothing to be done. The servants of Don Miguel comprehended that all resistance was useless.

“Master, we are taken,” said one of them.

“Do you surrender at discretion?”

“There is no way to avoid it.”

“Then give up your arms. Look, Roque, dismount and take away from the gentlemen their rifles, their pistols, their sabres and their cartridge boxes.”

They gave up with trembling hands the pistols and the cartridge boxes. The rifles were hanging from the saddles of their horses.

“Now,” continued Don Pedro, “tie their hands behind them and help them to get onto their horses. Distribute their arms so that their weight shall not be too great, and let each one take the halter of a horse in order that he may lead it.”

All was done with the rapidity of lightning. The men of Don Pedro strongly tied the hands of the conquered behind their backs with the satisfaction of the tyrant characteristic of all conquerors. One of the captured, Panfilo Vargas, was vexed and said:

“They gain advantage because they are more than we. Tie quickly for some day you will know who I am. We are _arrieros_, and we go through the country.”

“Shut your mouth, braggart!” said Don Pedro angrily. “How many were you this morning? There were six of you to take the poor _montero_, who was alone and not expecting anyone. As for you, you were left here to guard and had the obligation of not permitting yourselves to be surprised. You have lost because you are fools. Who told you to be careless? They shall know that I do not sleep nor neglect mine own. Let him who jokes with me be careful.” Then he turned to Oceguera, saying to him, “Where is the _montero_ hidden?”

“Here am I, master,” replied the _montero_ himself, appearing from the bushes.

“I was looking for you to order you to attend to your business in your place. Have no fear. I shall send reinforcements. Do not move from here until I tell you.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Let us go then,” ordered Ruiz. And the party put itself on the road to the _hacienda_, just as the sun began to set and the great shadows from the mountains were extending themselves across the valley.

* * * * *

Roque passed the _arroyo_ and entered the camp. Some time passed and he did not return. Panfilo began to believe that he did not come to the appointment because he was afraid; but soon he heard a whistle at the foot of the slope and saw Roque on horseback, striking his chest arrogantly, as if saying:

“Here you have me at your orders.”

On seeing him Panfilo hastened to meet him.

“Now yes,” said Roque, “here I am ready to serve you and give you all you want.”

“Well, you know what I want; that we shall have a good tussle.”

“It seems to me that here we have a good place.”

“Well, then, do me the favor,” exclaimed the impetuous Panfilo, drawing a revolver.

“Listen to me,” said Roque, drawing his also; “if really you desire that we shall kill each other, don’t let us create an excitement. Put away your pistol and take your machete.”

“I will do what I please. Are you afraid of the noise?”

“It is you who should be afraid of the noise, lest they hear us and come to part us. If we do not succeed at the first shot nothing will come of it, for they will come and separate us. Is that perhaps what you want?”

“You are right,” replied Panfilo. “Well, then, there is no time to lose. Let us get at it.”

* * * * *

Soon they found themselves on foot, lame, covered with dust, pale, horrible. They seemed not men, but fierce beasts.

* * * * *

The contest could not prolong itself for the combatants were exhausted. They could scarcely move; but they did not wish to yield, since although strength failed, anger more than abounded.

Chance finally settled the contest. When Roque raised his arm to deal a blow with his machete upon Panfilo’s head, the latter by a quick movement tried to parry the blow, to save his head from being cleft open. But he parried it, not with his blade, but with the haft, and the heavy weapon of his antagonist severed his smaller fingers. With this there fell to the ground the sword and the amputated fingers; that tinged with blood, these livid and convulsed.

“Now, yes, I have lost,” exclaimed the wounded man with a gesture of grief.

“Yes, friend,” replied Roque, filled with consternation. “What need was there of this?”

“It is a thing of bad luck; who may gain may lose. You have proved me a man; you cannot deny that.”

“How have I to deny it? The truth is that you have much courage. Let me bind your hand with this cloth to see if the blood can be staunched.”

Saying this Roque wrapped the hand with his great kerchief.

“Where do you desire that I take you?” he asked. “You cannot go alone.”

“Go and leave me; do not let them take you prisoner,” replied Panfilo.

“Though they take me to jail, I will not leave you.”

“Well, then, help me to get near to Chopo. When we are within sight of the hacienda save yourself.”

“Wherever you wish; let us walk along.”

They started. Panfilo advanced with difficulty; he murmured and suffered with thirst. He stopped frequently to drink in the _arroyos_ and Roque gave him water in the hollow of his hand.

“Friend,” he said, “it gives me sorrow to see you so injured.”

“There is no reason; I am to blame.”

“It had been better that we had not fought.”

“Why do we speak of this? There is now no remedy.”

The wounded man was presently unable to walk. Supported on Roque’s arm he progressed very slowly. Finally it was necessary to carry him like a child. Thus they came in sight of Chopo. Panfilo did not wish Roque to carry him farther.

“May God reward you,” he said to him. “Leave me upon this stone and hurry away that they may not come to seize you.”

“Though they seize me, how can I leave you alone?”

“Every little while the _peons_ and their women pass; they will carry me to my house. Go.”

“Good friend, since you wish it, I will go; but one thing is necessary first; without it I will not go.”

“What?”

“That we may henceforth be good friends.”

“With much pleasure--from now on.”

“Do not hold hatred toward me and forget the things that have happened.”

“Why should I hold hatred?”

“Because of what I did.”

“You did it like a man; it needs naught said.”

“Then give me the good hand.”

“Here it is,” answered the wounded man, extending his hot left hand. Roque grasped it with feeling.

“God grant that you may soon be well,” he murmured.

“With a maimed hand,” added the wounded man, his pallid and dry lips contracted in a sad smile.

“God’s will be done,” said Roque, sympathetically.

At this moment a whistle was heard from near by.

“Indeed it is time that you go,” said Panfilo. “Do you not see that persons are coming?”

He could scarcely speak; he was on the point of losing consciousness.

Roque hesitated.

“How leave you?” he said.

“Go, if you desire that we be friends; if not, remain.”

“Then I leave.”

“Farewell, and run fast that they may not overtake you.”

* * * * *

So urgent and impassioned was his request that the girl was moved in spite of herself. To quench the sympathy which rose in her bosom she recalled to herself that he who thus spoke was the nominal friend of Gonzalo, and on remembering this she felt that for her budding pity was substituted vexation and indignation. Thus this harsh reproach escaped her lips:

“And you call yourself the friend of Gonzalo.”

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Luis it would not have produced a more prostrating effect.

“Gonzalo is my friend, in fact,” he gasped.

“Not if he knew himself,” insisted Ramona, ironically. “If it were so you could not have spoken as you have just done.”

“Then are you yet in relations with him?”

“You know it very well.”

“No,” replied the unfortunate youth, pale as a corpse; “I give you my word as a gentleman that I did not know it. My father told me some days past that he knew these relations were broken; only for this reason have I forced myself to reveal to you my love. I may endure the fact that you do not love me, since such is my lot, but I cannot be willing that you should consider me disloyal. I desire that you should esteem me even if you may not love me.”

* * * * *

The youth in the meantime had arrived at his home, mounted his horse and immediately sallied forth to the house of Luis. He sent a message to his former friend by a servant, begging him that he would come outside, which Medina did immediately, well bred and polite as he was.

“Gonzalo!” said Medina, extending his hand.

“I come to arrange with you a very serious matter,” replied our youth, without extending his.

“You have me at your orders,” replied Luis, exchanging the friendly expression of his face for another more severe.

“Only we cannot do it here. Mount your horse and take your arms. I await you.”

And by the contraction of his features and the pallor of his countenance, Medina knew that Gonzalo had come on a warlike errand, and was not slow in divining what was the cause of his annoyance. Without replying a single word he entered the house and soon reappeared and mounted his horse, with a pistol at his belt and a sword at the saddle. “Here you have me,” he said to Gonzalo.

“Come,” replied Gonzalo, “let us go to the field.”

Together they took the street which most quickly would bring them to the end of the village, and went a considerable stretch outside the town. Leaving the road they went into the meadows and stopped at a little open space formed by four immense _camichines_, which, extending over the space, their broad, flat and immovable boughs projected a dense and heavy shadow around.

“I have brought you to this spot,” said Gonzalo, stopping his horse, “because it is retired and no one may see or hear us. It is unnecessary to enter into explanations; you know how gravely you have offended me, and in what way. That is sufficient. Now I desire that you shall give me satisfaction with arms in hand.”

“Although I am not valiant, I have some dignity and never will I yield before an enemy who challenges me,” answered Luis, tranquilly; “but I have one remark to make to you, which is, that my conscience does not reproach me with having done anything to offend you.”

“Yes, I was expecting that you would deny responsibility for your acts. Anything else was impossible.”

“Moderate your words. Do not let us pass to a serious occasion without some rational cause.”

“Pretext,” cried Gonzalo; “you do not desire to fight. You are a coward.” Saying this he placed his hand upon his pistol for a moment. Luis was livid and acted as if he would follow his example; but he stopped and left his arm in place, recalling his promise to Ramona at the ball.

“One moment,” he said, “only one moment; if you are a man and not a brute, as you seem to be, you must first hear me. By my mother’s honor, I assure you that I am disposed to fight; but not before we understand each other. What is the matter?”

“You love Ramona. Deny that if you can.”

“God save me from committing such a vile act! It is true.”

“You have courted her.”

“That is true.”

“You danced with her the night of the _fiesta_.”

“That also is true.”

“You made a declaration of love to her.”

“I cannot deny that.”

“You are a shameless being, because you knew she was my sweetheart and that we were engaged to be married.”

“That is not true.”

Gonzalo threw upon Luis a glance of infinite contempt on hearing these words.

“You are a wretch,” he cried, “and it is necessary that I punish you. Defend yourself.”

“Assassinate me if you wish; I will not draw my pistol until you have heard me. Come, dispatch me; here you have me,” and he exposed his breast to his challenger.

“There is nothing to do but hear you in order to quit you of every excuse for your cowardice. Speak, and hurry, for I am impatient to punish you.”

“I call God to witness that I believed your love relations with Ramona were broken. Don Miguel had told my father that with absolute certainty. Every one in Citala asserted the same. You did not come to town, and as your father and Don Miguel were quarreling it seemed to me probable and I believed it. For this reason I made love to Ramona. Had it not been for this I would have remained silent, as I have been silent for so many years, for my love to her is nothing new. I have always had it. Ramona informed me of my error, and accused me of perversity and treason, as you have just done. She herself can tell you how astonished I was when I learned that it was not true that all was ended between you and that you still loved each other. It caused me infinite grief. Now,” pursued the youth, “that you have heard me, I have done, and am at your orders.”

* * * * *

The caravan for some leagues journeyed silently, but seeing that the storm approached, the sergeant neared himself to one of the soldiers and said to him in a low voice:

“The storm is coming; here is a good place.”

“Yes, we have already gone six leagues and there has not been one person on the road.”

“Well, then, let us at once to what we have to do; then let us get back to the pueblo.”

“That is what I say,” responded the soldier.

“Go on then, you already know what you have to do; see if you can do it. I pretend not to look; I will fall behind.”

“I go then to see what happens.”

The soldier drew near to Roque.

“What cheer, friend? How goes it?”

“Diabolically, friend. How do you expect it goes with me with these cords?” replied the prisoner.

“Yes, it must go very unpleasantly. Why don’t you smoke a cigarette?”

“Friend, impossible. Don’t you see that I go tied?”

“‘Tis true, I see it with pity. Now you will see what we will do. At last the sergeant has fallen behind and will not see us. I’m going to untie you to give you a little rest.”

“But will not the sergeant see it? Thank you much; but will he not see?”

“Have no concern; anyway it is very dark.”

And the soldier leaned over and untied the knot which held Roque’s hands.

“May God reward you, friend,” said he, stretching his arms in front of him; “I was very tired. But tell me, why are your hands so cold? Are you chilled?”

“Nothing is the matter with me. The air is damp. But, take a cigarette. Here is the light;”--and he reined up.

The unsuspecting Roque rolled the cigarette and lighted it by that which the soldier was smoking. They then went on, talking. After talking for a little time of indifferent matters the gendarme said:

“Man, friend, I sympathize with you and it pains me that you are going to jail.”

“There is no alternative, friend! Some day I will be out. Anyway the jail does not eat people.”

“Good; but it is always atrocious to be a prisoner, and God knows for how long. Why not escape. I will dissemble and you will run. I will fire into the air and you race along into the country and no one can find you.”

“I am afraid they will shoot me.”

“Don’t be afraid; I will help you.”

The unfortunate man fell into the snare.

“Do you say it seriously? Are you not fooling?”

“I advise you in earnest. All you need is courage.”

“But you tell me when.”

“Right now--race along before the sergeant comes.”

Roque gave rein to his horse and urged it with quick strokes of his heels against its flanks, but he hardly succeeded in making it take a slow and measured gallop. He had gone but a few steps when a report sounded just behind him and a bullet passed, grazing the brim of his _sombrero_.

“Zounds,” he murmured, “what a scare this man has aimed to give me.”

And instinctively he tried to place himself in the field at one side of the road to hide himself in the brambles. But there was no time for anything. For all his urging the horse would not do better than his little gallop. He heard the nearing band of horses and various shots sounded. Then he understood that he had fallen into a trap and that he was about to lose his life through it. Impelled by the instinct of self-preservation, he tried to dismount to seek shelter; but it was too late. The gendarmes were upon him, firing with their rifles.

“Jesus help me! Mother receive my spirit!” he said in thought, and fell penetrated by the bullets. Two had entered at the shoulders and emerged at the chest, and the third entered at the neck and destroyed the skull.

* * * * *

What was it which the terrified Diaz then saw? Upon a plank, borne by four peasants, tied down with coarse cords, was a corpse, rigid and yellow. The miserable clothing which covered it, coarse cotton drawers and shirt, was soaked with blood, principally upon the breast, where the abundant and coagulated flow had darkened and become almost black. Above the forehead, in the black harsh hair, matted and stiffened with blood, were visible clots of red, mingled with whitish bits of brain. The livid face, turned toward heaven, bore an expression of anguish which was heart-rending; the eyes half opened and glazed fascinated by their glance; and the opened mouth, dark and full of earth, seemed to exhale inaudible groans and complaints.

The _gendarmes_ surrounded the body and the curious crowd followed it. In the midst of the group a woman walked, weeping and uttering cries of grief. She carried a babe at her breast--bearing it with her left arm, and as well as she could led with her right another boy about four years old, barefoot and tattered.

“Roque! my Roque! my husband,” cried the miserable woman. “They have killed my husband! They have killed him! Children! My little ones! Poor little ones! They are orphans! What shall I do? What shall I do? What shall I do? Ay! Ay! Ay!”

In passing close to Don Miguel she saw him and said to him, sobbing:

“Señor Don Miguel, do you see? They have killed my husband! That is what is there on the board! What shall I do Señor Don Miguel? What shall I do? Ay! Ay! Ay!”

MANUEL SÁNCHES MÁRMOL.

Manuel Sánches Mármol was born in the State of Tabasco. He displayed a literary tendency very early, and, while still a student, collaborated in such literary reviews as _La Guirnalda_ (The Garland), _El Album Yucateco_ (The Yucatecan Album), and _El Repertorio pintoresco_ (The Picturesque Repertoire). His first essays in the field of fiction were _El Misionero de la Cruz_ (The Missionary of the Cross), and _La Venganza de una injuria_ (The Revenge of an Injury).

At the time of the French Intervention, he joined the Republican forces. He acted as Secretary of State of Tabasco, and aroused the patriotism of his fellows by his writings. He founded _El Aguila Azteca_ (The Aztec Eagle), a paper devoted entirely to the national cause. During this period of disturbance he was a Deputy to the State Legislature, Secretary of Colonel Gregorio Méndez, and his Auditor of War. The course of local events during this stormy period was largely directed by him. (See p. 148.)

After the war had passed, Manuel Sánches Mármol continued his activity both in politics and letters. He has been Magistrate of the Supreme Court of the State of Tabasco, several times member of the Federal Congress, Director and Founder of the _Instituto Juarez_ of Tabasco. He has constantly contributed to those periodicals which represent the most pronounced liberal ideas--as _El Siglo XIX_ (The Nineteenth Century), _La Sombra de Guerrero_ (The Shade of Guerrero), _El Radical_ and _El Federalista_. He represented Mexico in the second Pan-American Congress, which met in the City of Mexico in 1902. He is now Professor of History in the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School).

Besides his early essays in fiction, he has written the following novels--_Pocahontas_, _Juanita Sousa_, and _Antón Pérez_ (titles untranslatable, as being personal names). He has now in press _Piedad_ (Mercy), and is preparing three others.

Our selections are taken from _Antón Pérez_, a novel dealing with the French Intervention in Tabasco. Antón Pérez was the son of poor but decent parents, but was _pardo_ (“_dark_”), a fact certain to be to his disadvantage, no matter what abilities he might possess. Having gone through the public school of the village, he attracted the attention of the priests, who had newly come to his town, the villa of Cunduacán. Their school was below Antón’s needs but the good priests taught him privately to the extent of their ability. He was their trusted protege and they encouraged him to high hope of a brilliant future. In the parochial school for girls was Rosalba del Riego. She was ugly and unattractive but of good family and aristocratic connection. She adored the big boy, handsome as a picture, who studied with the priests and aided them in all ways, occupying quite a lofty place in their little world, but her admiration merely irritated him, as it called down upon him the laughter of the little school boys. When Antón had learned all that his patrons could teach him they tried to secure for him a scholarship at the _Seminario_, at Merida; the effort appeared likely to be successful, but it failed;--a youth with more powerful influence behind him securing the appointment. The blow was keenly felt by the poor and ambitious boy. Soon after, his father died, the old priests left for new fields, and two old aunts who have been to him in place of mother depended upon him for support. The brilliant dreams of a career faded; life’s realities fell upon the boy. He was equal, however, to the demands and earned enough for their modest needs. He was busy, useful, respected, and content. He was lieutenant of the local guard and had some notions of military drill and practice. Meantime his little admirer, Rosalba, completed her education outside the State, and, at last, returned transformed. Beautiful as a dream, brilliant, educated, she was immediately the centre of attraction in the town. Antón was madly in love with her. But her childish admiration had given place to--at least, apparent--aversion. She insulted him openly on account of his inferior position. Rosalba had a maiden aunt, Doña Socorro Castrejón. Just as Antón’s love for Rosalba arose, Doña Socorro saw the boy, appreciated his handsome face and fine bearing, and was smitten with an infatuation, which had only a passionate and unworthy basis. She was a scheming and intriguing woman but not without charms and brilliancy. When events were in this condition the French Intervention took place. The foreign forces appeared in Tabasco; the governor, Dueñas, traitorously yielded the capital; later, pretending to arrange for local defense, he scattered the forces, so that they could present no obstacle to the invader. One after another these separated bodies of the national guard suffered defection. The Doña Socorro was an ardent imperialist. Antón, at Cunduacán, was lieutenant of the yet loyal forces, under Colonel Méndez. One day, while Colonel Méndez and his brother, Captain Méndez, were breakfasting with a friend Doña Socorro influenced Antón to “pronounce,” with his soldiers, in favor of the Empire. His deed was represented, in brilliant colors to the young commander of the Imperial forces, Arévalo, and Antón was rewarded. He was the confidential friend and trusted adviser of Arévalo, and, for a time, all their plans prospered. But Gregorio Méndez and Sánchez Magellanes gathered a handful of loyal men and made a stand. A battle was fought, the invading forces looking for an easy victory; they met with dire defeat. Antón Pérez was mortally wounded. The death of the youth, who had sacrificed loyalty, patriotism, and honor, to a foolish love, is depicted in dreadful detail.

EXTRACTS FROM ANTÓN PÉREZ.

Doña Socorro was somewhat irritated, that the compliment for which she sought was not given, and that only her niece was praised. She controlled herself, however, merely saying inwardly--“what a fool the boy is! he must be waked up.” Then she said aloud:

“Well, since you do not care to stay, feel that I am interested in your welfare. I should like to see you at my house, tomorrow.”

“I will be there, madam,” Anton answered respectfully. And slipping, timidly, through the crowd of guests, directing a furtive glance at Rosalba, he went to his work at the humble desk in Ajágan’s shop.

But he could not keep track of the figures; sums and differences came out badly; everything was topsy-turvy; seven times six was forty-eight and five would not contain three. His head was in a whirl. That night he could not sleep.

In the morning, he performed his usual duties and at midday, his heart high with vague, happy hopes, he went to his appointment with Doña Socorro.

He was expected. The lady received him with expressive signs of affection, and seating him, said:

“I have invited you here for your own good. You are poor; I wish to aid you. Do not be ashamed; speak to me frankly. What are your resources for living? Go into full particulars.”

Antón lowered his eyes and turned his hat around and around in his hands, until the lady again encouraged him:

“Go on; don’t be brief. Speak! boy.”

“Well then, lady,” answered the young man, hesitatingly, “I can’t say that it is so bad; I earn my twenty-five pesos a month.”

“And from whom?”

“From what persons, you mean”--continued Antón, with somewhat greater frankness,--“why then, Don Ascencio Ajágan gives me ten pesos because, every night, I go there for a little while to make up his accounts and to write a letter or two. Master Collado pays me five pesos for the class in arithmetic, which I teach in the public school; another five, the receiver of taxes, who scarcely knows how to sign his name, pays me for balancing his accounts at the end of the month; and the other five the town treasurer gives me for doing the same.”

“That is not bad; but Collado and the collector pay you a miserable price.”

“The latter, perhaps, yes; but the other, no--he receives a salary of barely twenty-five. As much as I earn.”

“Ah, well! bid farewell to Master Collado and Ajágan, and the collector and the town treasurer, and enter my employ. _La Ermita_ is wretchedly cared for; mayorsdomos succeed one another and all rob me. You shall go to _La Ermita_ as manager, with house and table, horses for your use, servants to do your bidding--that is to say, as master, because you will command there; the twenty-five pesos per month, which you now earn by your varied labors, will continue to be paid you and in addition fifteen per cent of the annual income of the place. I am making you not a bad offer!”[22]

“No, indeed, lady! I appreciate that it is more than liberal; but, I cannot accept it.”

“Why not?” asked Doña Socorro, thoroughly vexed.

“Because, I must not abandon my good aunts.”

“You need not do so. _La Ermita_ is only three leagues from here; a mere nothing. You can come here in the evenings, Saturdays, to spend Sundays, and Mondays you are at your duties again. Finally, in case they are not satisfied, take them out to the place.”

“They were not made for country life; still, for my good, they would make the sacrifice. But there is another--an insuperable--difficulty.”

“What?”

“I do not understand rural affairs and one who controls should know what he commands. I would not know where to begin; there would be neither head nor foot, and you would gain nothing, with your unhappy administrator.”