Chapter IX: Part 9

“What I gain or do not gain, does not concern you; it is not your affair. If you do not know rural affairs, I will instruct you, and, as you are not stupid, you will be, within two months, more dexterous than San Ysidro[23] himself. When shall we begin, come now?”

“But, lady, I am sorry; I believe I will not go. Agriculture does not attract me. The few studies I have made do not tend thither.”

“Ah! You aim at a literary career, to some public office!” replied Doña Socorro, sneeringly.

“Do not make sport of me, lady; I know right well, that I shall never fill the position of a general or a magistrate. You asked me to be frank, and I frankly admit that I have my aspirations.”

“Very good--what difficulty is that. Better and better. Go and fill this position, save money, put yourself in contact with people of consequence, and from _La Ermita_, you may go to be Regidor, or something higher. You know well that Alcaldes, and even Jefes Politicos, come from the country-places. What hinders?”

“Really, lady, speaking plainly, the position does not attract me in the least.”

“H’m!--You are not telling me the truth; at least, you are concealing something from me--something--what is the real cause of your refusal?”

Antón maintained silence: the lady urged him.

“Why are you not frank with me--who care so much for you?”

“It is”--he stammered--“the truth is that just now, less than ever, do I care to leave the town.”

“Come, come, tell it all”--insisted the lady, piqued with lively curiosity--“who is your sweetheart?”

“Sweetheart?--No; indeed I would rather----”

“Yes, indeed; who?”

“I say she is not my sweetheart--Perhaps----”

“Finish, man--perhaps what?”

“She may come to be----”

“And, who is the girl? Do I know her?”

“Very well.”

While Antón was silent, Doña Socorro thought over the riddle, and, after some minutes, declared:

“I’m sure I don’t know, child; give me a clew.”

“She is your relative.”

The lady passed over in her thought, to whom Antón could allude, and could not imagine which one of her relatives, the poor and obscure youth presumed to win. Suddenly, like a flash, came the remembrance of the words, which he had pronounced when she invited him to remain at the party; but it was a thing so unheard of, so unthinkable, that she dared not mention the name, but desired to assure herself, indirectly, that she was not on a false trail.

“Was she at the party last night?” she asked.

Antón replied by a nod of his head. The lady was confounded; her face lengthened, her eyes rounded, her mouth opened, and she exclaimed:

“Rosalba!--well, but, you are a fool!”

Antón was stupefied; it seemed as if the ground sank under him and he was raised into the air. Why, was he a fool?

Doña Socorro saw the boy’s emotion and something like pity stirred within her. Certain that, later, this senseless delirium would vanish, she said to him:

“Poor child! You will get over it. When you decide to accept my offer, you know that I am here. Think well over it. I wish only your own good.”

Antón, overwhelmed, could scarcely murmur a “thank you, madam,” rose half tremblingly and walked away, with bowed head.

Doña Socorro remained absorbed in reflection. “To think of it--but the child aims high--to aspire to Rosalba--he is handsome--who would have thought it--decidedly, he is a fool.”

* * * * *

Doña Socorro, attentive to what was passing in the Republican ranks, prompt to aid the triumph of her cause, had displayed all the resources of her astuteness to complete the demoralization of the remnants of the brigade and to foment desertion. Her efforts were meeting abundant success and in seeing the resources of war which had been grouped around Dueñas, completely disorganized, she was greatly rejoiced. Not content, however, with such signal successes, when she saw the companies of the coast guard,--the most loyal to the Republic--evacuate the villa, to the loyalty of which the Méndez brothers entrusted themselves for some hours, she had an inspiration, truly worthy of her brain. She conceived the idea of capturing the two officers, to offer to Arévalo, as a prized trophy. How to realize it? It was not beyond her power--capable as she was, of all in the domain of evil.

There was Antón Pérez; Rosalba would be the incentive.

“Paulina! Paulina!” she called, and a servant appeared.

“Run, at once, to the barracks; ask for Lieutenant Pérez, and urge him, from me, to come here immediately.”

Pauline departed, encountered Antón, and gave the message; the lieutenant shrugged his shoulders and replied, with evident dislike:

“I will come presently: I am busy, now.”

No more than five minutes had elapsed, when the servant returned with new and more urgent summons to Antón, who displayed no more interest than before, responding abruptly:

“I will come.”

Doña Socorro was dying with impatience; the moments seemed like hours to her and she paced restlessly to and from the door anxious for Antón’s coming; but, he came not.

Tired of waiting, she resolutely entered her room, threw a _rebozo_ over her shoulders, and went directly to the door of the barracks. Without her having to announce herself, a soldier ran to give notice to the lieutenant of the presence of the lady; this time, unable to escape, he advanced to the encounter.

Doña Socorro, plainly desirous of losing no time, threw aside her natural pride, and without a word of reproach to Antón, said, with affected surprise:

“But, what are you doing! child? Now is your time.”

“I do not understand, madam.”

“Then you are not in this world. If you let this chance escape, farewell to your hopes.”

“But, I do not understand, madam.”

“Ah! come now! then you no longer think of Rosalba----”

“As God is my witness, madam; with greater desperation, now, than ever.”

“Then, today is when you ought not to despair; today your hopes are realized. Your fate is in your own hands.”

“In my hands?” exclaimed the astonished youth.

“In your own hands, boy; Rosalba will be yours.”

“Where is she?” he asked yet more surprised.

“Here in your barracks.”

Antón believed Doña Socorro was trifling with him, but she, without giving time for further surprises, hastened to explain herself.

“You know that our party, the Imperialist, is composed of the best people of the country. If you join it, you will come into contact with the most elevated classes. Rosalba does not respond to your love for sheer pride, not because she is not interested in you, not because she does not love you--it is _I_, who tell this to you,--when she sees that you are not the insignificant ‘_pardo_’ of the village but a personage of consequence, or even of importance, she will herself make the advances and will surrender herself to you. I tell you true. Come--now or never! Place yourself in the first line, become the chief authority in the town, and who knows what more.--Your happiness depends upon yourself; it is in your own hands. Enter your barracks, ‘pronounce’ yourself and your soldiers for the Empire, and that the blow may be decisive, that you may at a single bound reach the greatest height, go and seize the two Méndez brothers, who are breakfasting at the house of Sánchez, make them prisoners, and you will gain the full favor and protection of General Arévolo. Go! do not hesitate.”

Doña Socorro had launched this speech at one breath, accompanying her words with gestures and posturings which the most consummate elocutionist might envy.

Poor Antón felt his head whirl; he was taken by surprise and only ventured this one objection:

“Pronounce myself, yes; but capture my old chief, who has loved me well, madam, that is too much! I have not the bravado for such a thing.”

“But what harm are you going to do to him, innocent? Do you think he runs any danger with Arévalo?”

“Who can say that he does not?”

“No one; no one. Perhaps he will catch them in arms on the field? No; on the contrary, they will become great friends, and the two Méndez will join our party also. Above all, it is to your interest to raise yourself as nearly to Rosalba’s level as possible, to dazzle her----”

“Very well, madam,” murmured Antón, with a trembling voice.

Without further hesitation, he entered the barracks, spoke with the two sergeants of the dwindled company, bade them form it, rapidly exchanged words with his men, and, then, drawing his sword and facing the files, cried out--his voice still trembling:

“Boys! _viva el Imperio!_” (May the Empire live).

“Viva!” (may it live)--one soldier answered.

“Sergeant Beltran,” said Antón, “fifteen men with you to guard the barracks; twenty-five, with Sergeant Federico, may follow me.”

The order was carried out to the letter, and at the head of his twenty-five men, Antón marched to the house, where the two Méndez brothers were gaily breakfasting.

At the moment when the colonel exclaimed, “Impossible,” denying Don Vencho’s report, there was heard, on the walk in front, the sound of guns, on falling to rest.

“Sergeant Federico!” ordered Antón, “advance and order Colonel Méndez and the officers who accompany him to yield themselves prisoners.”

There was no necessity for the sergeant to enter, since Captain Méndez rushed out at once, and standing, from the opposite sidewalk, with hair bristling and eyes flashing, as if he were the personification of indignation, burst forth in these cries, which issued in a torrent from his frothing lips:

“Bravo! Lieutenant Pérez! Thus you fulfil the oath of fealty, which you swore to your flag! thus do you employ the arms which your country placed in your hands for her defence! Traitors! traitors to your native land! What do you seek here? What wish you, of us? Assassinate us! We shall not defend ourselves. Lieutenant Pérez, complete your crime, fulfil your part as assassins! Here, am I! let them kill,” and, saying this, he stepped forward and drawing back the lapel of his coat, bared his breast. “What delays them? Traitors! Assassins!”

At that moment a soldier among those who heard the violent and insulting reproach raised his gun. Antón Pérez saw it and drawing his sword, threw himself upon the soldier, crying:

“Lower that gun! The first man who attempts to aim, I will run him through.”

Captain Méndez continued:

“I prefer death to the ignominy of finding myself in your company. Traitors! Assassins!”

“Assassins, we are not, my captain, that you have already seen,” replied Antón.

“I am not the captain of bandit-traitors, ex-Lieutenant Pérez.”

“We are not traitors,” returned Pérez, “we desire to save our country, from Yankee usurpation.”

“To save it indeed! and give it over to the foreigner! noble patriots! famous Mexicans!” continued Méndez. “Would that I had no eyes to behold you! Would that I were a lightning-stroke to destroy you. Cursed race! race of scorpions, who repay our country, our sacred motherland, by stinging her to the heart. One last word, Lieutenant Pérez; in the name of our native land, in the name of that oath of fealty, which you swore to the flag, in the name of a man’s sacred duty, I implore you to fulfil your obligations as a soldier, as a Mexican, as a man. Lay down those arms which you are converting from sacred to infamous. Lieutenant Pérez; worthy fellows of Cunduacán, _Viva la Republica_.”

No one responded.

* * * * *

The moon, in its second quarter, shed a yellowing light through the trees and impressed upon the night an infinite sadness. When the beams of dawn came, that funereal light paled, until completely extinguished, and the sky became tinted with a rosy flush, which kindled in measure as the new day neared. A trembling of leaves agitated the branches at the awakening of the birds, which after shaking themselves, took silently to flight. Suddenly earth and trees appeared enveloped in dense fog, as if a night of whiteness had substituted itself for that, which had just ended. The fog, thinned little by little, until it seemed like heaps of spider webs, piled one on another, through the elastic meshes of which was seen a sun of polished silver. Suddenly the spider webs broke into a thousand tatters, falling to the ground, converted into a tenuous rain, and the day shone forth in full splendor. The trees gleamed in their beauteous verdure, the flowers of vines and the morningglories opened their chalices, sprinkled with dew drops, to the glowing and incestuous kisses of their father and lover, the regal star of day. Meantime Antón Pérez, in an agony, which seemed endless, lay at the foot of the oak-tree, which, indifferent, spread forth its broad and abundant leaves to the solar heat.

In fact, Antón Pérez, braced between the roots of the tree, in the immovableness of death, the life concentrated in his eyes, participated in his own torture, like those guilty immortals, whom Alighieri’s pitiless fancy created. Bloodless, annihilated, yet he felt himself living. Who ever had seen the gleam of his eyes, would have known that his conscience was accusing him. What implacable moral law had he broken, that his punishment should be so horribly prolonged, by his marvelous vitality? Was it because he had loved madly? that he had aspired to raise himself to a sphere higher than that, in which he had been born? that he had endured, perhaps disgracefully, the scorn and the disdain of the human being whom he had worshiped? Why had he not deserved Rosalba? Why had God made her so bewitching? _Where_ was his sin? Perhaps that he had passed from the flag of the Republic to the Imperial standards? And was he, perchance, the only one? Were not a thousand distinguished Mexicans aiding and defending the new cause, shown to be pleasing to Heaven, by the rapidity with which it had spread and gained proselytes? Did not God’s ministers suggest it in the confessional and, even, preach it in the pulpit? Was not that cause, indeed, to be the savior of Mexico?--Where was his sin? Thus, in his moments of lucidity, the unhappy condemned being thought, and then fell into lethargies from which he again, presently, aroused himself. How slow and tedious the passage of the hours! And the sun continued to mount at its accustomed speed and, now, gained its greatest height. Piercing through the leafy branches, its rays designed odd patches of sunlight on the ground which every breeze complicated into fantastic deformations. The nymph of light amused herself at her fancy, with such sports.

At one moment, Antón raised his gaze, and before him, perched upon the pointed leaf of a _cocoyol_, found that he, at last, had a companion in that loneliness; it was a buzzard, which looked at him fixedly, moving his neck regularly, up and down, as one who meditates. The presence of that living being caused Antón a vague sensation of comfort; that, even, was much, at the end of so long and complete abandonment, to see in his last moments that he was not alone in the world. He then fell into a syncope,--condition which now came on more frequently and lasted, each time longer, sign that his agony was nearing its end. On returning to himself, he mechanically turned his gaze to the palm-tree and saw that now there was not only one, but three, of the buzzards, which with the same nodding movement of the neck, and with no less attention, looked at him. A sinister and dreadful thought shot through his sluggish brain; those birds were there, in expectation of his death, to devour him. Then, a horror of death seized him; a shudder of dread passed through his nerves, and he longed that his miserable existence might be prolonged, with the hope that some human being might draw near and discover him. The nervous disturbance, which that idea produced, provoked a new unconsciousness. On recovery, he could see that not three, but a considerable number of vultures had settled on the palm and on the neighboring trees. He believed they might take him for already dead, and to let them see that he was not, he attempted to raise and move his left arm, which, with enormous effort, he succeeded in doing. The scavengers seemed to understand their error since they looked at one another, exchanging guttural croakings. But night,--last refuge to which Antón trusted against the danger of being torn to pieces, while yet alive,--showed no signs of approach. It was now his duty to preserve the little remaining life. The vultures, on the contrary, ought to be impatient to gorge themselves with the banquet which they had before them, since others were constantly arriving, hovering, and settling, on the neighboring tree-tops, where they formed moving spots of black.

One, bolder than the rest, descended from the branch, on which he rested, to the ground and, like an explorer, was cautiously approaching Antón, who, divining, in his last gleams of lucidity, the purpose of the bird, renewed the effort, which he had made before, and continued to raise and, even, shake, his arm and to bend his undamaged leg, at the moments, when the buzzard stretched out his neck to give the first peck. The carrion-eater drew back his head and retreated a few steps, but did not take to flight. Encouraged by this his companions descended, one by one, from the tree and took possession of the space around, forming a semi-circle at the foot of the oak-tree.

Perhaps, through an instinctive respect to man’s superiority, felt by other animals, even though seeing him helpless, the line of vultures remained at a considerable distance from Antón and limited themselves to contemplating him, nodding and stretching out their heads, and repeatedly croaking. A Hoffmanesque fancy would have seen, in them, a group of zealots in prayer, making reverence.

But this did not last long. One of the vultures ventured to dash at the head of Antón, who still had enough energy to guard himself against the attack, raising his arm and striking the bird with his fist, so that it returned to stand on the ground again, though without any sign of fear. The effort Antón had made was so great that he fell into a new stupor. The same vulture again raised himself, but not to dash directly upon the dying man; he hovered a moment over his head and, then, hurling himself upon Antón’s face, tore out, at a single clutch, his right eye. The pain was so intense that the victim not only returned to consciousness but gave a cry of agony, which echoed like the last shriek of one who dies exhausted under torture. Yet, he could, by an instinctive sentiment of preservation, turn his head, so that the left eye was protected by the tree trunk. Then he felt that the crowd of vultures fell to tearing his clothing, doubtless to discover his wounds, to commence there with devouring him. So it happened. The shattered leg was the first to suffer tearing by the beaks, which tugged at the already lifeless tendons and muscles; his arm, though somewhat protected by the astrakan, which, finally, with no little difficulty, the vultures ripped open, was not long in suffering the same fate. Suddenly, Antón turned his face, which bore a frightful expression of pain, for which he had no sounds to express. A powerful beak had seized the anterior, branchial, muscle and was pulling furiously at it. The involuntary movement was fatal to Antón. Other vultures cast themselves upon the exposed face and dragged out the left eye. The last suffering of the unfortunate was only indicated by a convulsive trembling of all his members. He felt as if a black pall, very black, heavy, very heavy, fell upon him and then there came over him a sentiment of the profoundest joy--perhaps, that his nerves could no longer carry a sensation to his brain. The mouth opened, closed, and he lost himself, forever, in the night without end, in the loving bosom of Mother Nature, who received the remains of that organism, her creation, to decompose it into its component elements, and then to distribute these, as the materials of other organisms, in the endless chain of life.

Meantime, that other night, which with the sun engenders time and, with him, divides it, began to envelop the earth, and the carrion-eaters, not accustomed to eat in darkness, abandoned Antón’s corpse and perched themselves on the neighboring branches, to await the feast until the following day.

PORFIRIO PARRA.

Porfirio Parra was born in the State of Chihuahua. In 1869, when he was scarcely fourteen years of age, he was voted a sum of money by the State Legislature, to take him to the City of Mexico for purposes of study. From 1870 to 1872, he attended the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_ (National Preparatory School), where he stood first in his classes and where his conduct was so exemplary, as to gain him state aid until the time of his graduation. In 1871, entering the competition for the Professorship of History in the Girls High School, he gained the second grade, although three eminent historians were among the contestants. Entering the _Escuela Nacional de Medicina_ (National Medical School), in 1873, he maintained high rank there and took his degree in February, 1878. In March of that year, he was appointed Professor of Logic in the _Escuela Nacional Preparatoria_. In 1879, by competition, he received the Professorship of Physiology in the National School of Medicine, with which he has been associated in some capacity ever since. In 1880, by competition, he became Surgeon and Physician of the Juarez Hospital. In 1886, after a brilliant examination, he became a member of the _Academia de Medicina de México_ (Academy of Medicine). In the _Escuela Nacional de Agricultura y Veterinaria_ (National Agricultural and Veterinary School), he has held chairs of mathematics and zootechnology.

An alternate Deputy in 1882, he was in 1898 elected Deputy of the Federal Congress, and has been re-elected until the present time. He was made chairman of the House Committee on Public Instruction. In 1902 he was named Secretary of the Upper Council of Education. Dr. Parra has participated, officially, in several of the most important medical congresses held in Europe during recent years, sometimes as a delegate from his native State of Chihuahua, at others as delegate from the Mexican nation. In 1892, he was elected a member of the Mexican Academy.

Dr. Parra has written both in poetry and prose. Most of what he writes is in scientific lines. Even in poetry he is a scientist, and in a volume of his poems, we find odes to the mathematics and to medicine, a sonnet to a skull, and poems on the Death of Pasteur, Night, Water. Of very great importance is his _Nueva Sistema de Logica, inductiva y deductiva_ (New System of Logic, Inductive and Deductive). He has written one novel, _Pacotillas_, in which the life of the medical student is depicted. It is from this work that we have drawn our selections.

López (Santa Anna), Robles (El Chango--“the monkey”), Albarez (Patillitas) and Tellez (Pacotillas), are fellow-students in the School of Medicine. They are friends but present four quite different types of character. Santa Anna figures least in the story and attends most strictly to business; Patillitas is a dandy, anxious to make feminine conquests; El Chango drops out of school before he has completed his course, toadies in politics, rapidly rising to importance as the private secretary of a departmental minister, and marries great wealth. Pacotillas, the hero, is an astonishing combination of strong and weak qualities. Of lofty ideals, of great firmness in announcing and supporting them, and of brilliant intellectual powers, he is cold, morose, lacking in initiative, easily depressed, and procrastinating. He smokes constantly and excessively and readily yields to drink. He loves a beautiful and amiable girl and lives with her without marriage; though he realizes the injustice this is to her, the injustice--excused at the time by poverty--is never atoned for in his days of comparative prosperity. Pacotillas and his beautiful Amalia suffer enormous trials of poverty; Paco finally secures a position on the force of an opposition paper. He antagonizes the government, is arrested and thrown in jail, where he dies of typhus. The book is an interesting picture of Mexican life, but it is a particularly difficult task to make brief selections from it for translation.

EXTRACTS FROM PACOTILLAS.

The next day the vigilant argus, accompanied by a faithful friend, was at his post from nine o’clock in the morning. He was not on beat but he warned his fellow policeman to pay no attention to what was about to take place at the house, since it concerned a personage of consequence, closely connected with the official world, whose plans it were best not to disturb; that the gentleman did not ask something for nothing and would not fail to reward him; that everything would go on behind closed doors, and was really no more than a joke; that it concerned a private matter, with no political bearings; that the woman living in the house badly repaid him who supported her, and that he merely wished to scare her and put her to shame.

The policeman on the beat permitted himself to be convinced by Pablo’s diplomatic arguments; he demanded, indeed, a guarantee that nothing serious should take place, that there should be no fight, wounds, shots, or other scandal.

No, comrade, answered Pablo, it only concerns giving a thrashing to a young fellow who is accustomed to enjoy women, whom other men support. Put yourself in the place of the deceived man; what would you do? What would any other decent man do, in such a case? Just what he is going to do. I shall not compromise you. You see that I am also one of the police-force. Further, this may help you, the gentleman we are helping is in with the government, and he does not expect service for nothing.

Completely convinced, the policeman agreed that, at a signal from Pablo, he would walk slowly toward the Plazuela del Carmen, to see what was going on there.

The astute Pablo had arranged for two stout fellows of evil mien to meet him at the corner _pulqueria_; they arrived at the place appointed at half-past-nine carrying heavy cudgels as walking sticks.

A little before ten the servant of Mercedes left the house; Pablo, who had already made her acquaintance, overtook her and said:

“Where are you going so fast, my dear?”

“I am going far; I am taking a message to the Arcade of Belem and from there to Sapo street, to the _socursal_.”

“Does not my pretty one want a drop?”

The pretty one did want a drop, entered the _pulqueria_, drank, submitted to various pinches, and left. Pablo at once said to his friend: “Run and call the General,” and he planted himself where he could see the house.

A little later poor Mercedes, who suspected nought of what was plotting for her undoing, opened the windows and looked out. It was the signal, arranged between her and Patillitas, indicating that there were no Moors on the coast and that the happy lover might enter. He was not slow in appearing, strutting pompously as if enjoying in anticipation the pleasure he was about to have. He caught sight of his sweetheart, which was equal to seeing the gates of paradise opening, saluted her with much elegance and cautiously entered the doors of the court-yard, which were ajar.

“The fish falls into the net! how easy! how easy!”[24] murmured the malicious Pablo, humming the accompanying tune in a low voice.

A quarter of an hour had passed when, by San Pedro y San Pablo St., the General was seen approaching, as grave, as correct, and as arrogant as ever, smoking his unfailing cigar, without hastening his pace or displaying the least emotion.

As soon as Pablo saw him, he spoke to the policeman on the beat, who at once walked slowly in the direction of the Plazuela, as he had promised. Then Pablo summoned his assistants from the _pulqueria_ and all three joined the messenger, who had been sent to call the General and who had now returned; the whole party stopped on the sidewalk opposite Mercedes’ house.

The General, without quickening his pace, without looking at the men, nor making any signal to them, had already arrived before the house. When he had almost reached the gateway, the four men crossed the street and, when he entered, they cautiously followed.

López, with measured tread, crossed the court, followed by his men; he turned to the left and knocked at the house-door, which was fastened. No one responded, but noises of alarm were heard within, a sound as of a person running and finding some piece of furniture in his way, a stifled cry, and the murmur of troubled voices.

The General knocked a second, and a third time with briefer interval and with greater force. No one replied and now nothing was heard. The General knocked for the fourth time and said, in his stentorian voice, though without displaying anger or emotion: “Open, Mercedes, it is I.”

“I am coming,” shrilly answered a woman’s voice, “I am dressing; I was ill and had not yet risen.”

The General waited with the utmost calm. No escape was possible; from the hall one passed directly into the room, which was the scene of the guilty love and which received light by a grated window, that opened onto the _patio_ of the next house. The General, who knew all the hiding places and the location of the pieces of furniture in the room, was delighted, imagining the little agreeable plight of the student, who had already, tremblingly, hidden himself under the bed.

After ten minutes waiting, Mercedes, visibly pale with _chiquedores_[25] on her temples, her head tied up in a handkerchief, and covered with a loose gown, which she was still hooking, finally opened the door, smiled at the General, and attempting to overcome her manifest uneasiness, said: “Ah, sir! what a surprise!”

“Good morning, madam,” said the General, abruptly entering the hall and then the inner room, followed by his four men, and paying no attention to Mercedes, who, following them all, exclaimed, each time more afflicted:

“What do you wish, sir? What are you looking for? Why have these men come here?”

Once in the room, the General stopped near the door, and, as he expected, saw under the bed the coiled up body of the student who would gladly have given his whiskers to be elsewhere.

“Drag out that shameless fellow,” said the General to his men, “and beat him for me.”

“Señor, for God’s sake!” cried Mercedes.

The four men obeyed the order. The unhappy student did not even try to escape. One took him by the feet and dragged him out into the middle of the room; the others began to discharge a hail of blows upon him, distributing them evenly over the shoulders, back, seat, and legs of that unfortunate, who squirmed upon the floor like an epileptic, writhing, screaming, and howling, with a choked voice:

“Ay! ay! they are killing me! ay! ay! help! Ay! ay! infamous fellows! assassins!”

Meantime the General looked on at that calamitous spectacle, without a word; when the flogging seemed to him sufficient he exclaimed--“Hold!” and then, addressing the man who had been flogged, added: “Be warned by this experience and let the women of other men alone.”

The maltreated Patillitas arose, hurled some insolence at the General, and threw himself upon him with his fists clenched; the floggers started to seize him, but the General said, “Leave him to me.” And, with the greatest calmness, he allowed him to deal his inoffensive blow, and, then, seizing his wrist, gave it such a wrench that the poor fellow suffered more than from the beating, and, notwithstanding all his efforts to the contrary, fell upon his knees before his conqueror, howling with pain.

“Listen well, jackanapes,” said the General, without loosening his hold, “get away from here at once; and, if you prefer the least complaint or cause the least scandal, I will put you into jail and afterwards send you into the army as a vagabond and mischief-maker.”

He loosed his prisoner who rose uttering suffocated groans and muttering inarticulate insolences. Limping, and with his dress disordered, he started to walk away; he took his hat, which one of the floggers, at a signal from the General, handed him. Pablo followed him and at reaching the hall door gave him a kick behind, saying with a hoarse laugh:

“There! take your deserts, you!”

“Now,” said the General, addressing Mercedes, who, huddled on the sofa, with her kerchief thrown over her head and covering her face, was sobbing violently, “indicate what you wish to take with you and get out into the street.”

“Keep it all, horrible old man, monster without heart or entrails of pity,” said the unhappy woman, drying her eyes; and, arranging her dress as best she could and wrapping up her head, she left.

When she had disappeared, the General, as pleased as if he had consummated some great act of justice, dismissed the floggers, after paying them; then, he went out onto the street with a lofty air, and, smoking his ever-present cigar, closed the gate of the court, put the key into his pocket, and walked away.

* * * * *

The Chango did not pronounce this long discourse at one breath, but interrupted himself from time to time to sip coffee or to ask Pacotillas incident questions, which he answered in his usual laconic style. He expressed himself somewhat more upon his matrimonial troubles and the faults of his wife’s parents. Then, changing his tone, he said:

“Now I have tired you in speaking of myself and my affairs; now you must reciprocate, as a good friend, and tell me all about yourself.”

“I can do that in a few words: I am slowly continuing my course of study and with more or less of difficulty and labor gain my bread.”

“Spartan! You do wrong not to confide in me. Am I to understand that you desire nothing? that you do not care to better your condition?”

“I do not say so; I desire many things; I desire to escape from poverty; but, I am content with my situation.”

“What a fool you are! I could do much for you, because I love you well, and I would willingly offer you more than one chance of improving your condition.”

“I thank you for your good will but I see no means of taking advantage of it.”

“See Paco, let us speak frankly; notwithstanding your assertion that you are content with your situation, I cannot believe it; the fact is that you are very proud, that you do not care to ask anything from anyone; that is all right with strangers, but when I, your school-fellow and friend, anticipate your desires and offer----”

“I thank you and beg you to respect my freedom of action.”

“What a hard-shell you are! Come, consent to this anyway--separate yourself from the _Independiente_; I promise to supply resources for you to found a paper of your own, which will bring you at least double what Don Marcos can pay you, and also to secure you a grant to aid you in your studies, and, if you desire more, you shall have more.”

“But, truly, I desire nothing; I owe consideration to Don Marcos and cannot treat him cavalierly,” said Paco, at the same time saying to himself, “Oho, now I see!”

“You are fearfully stubborn,” said the Chango, “but you are your own master and I will not insist further; but, now, I come to one favor, begging you affectionately, in the name of our old friendship, to grant it; do not continue to discuss, in your bulletins, the objectionable question upon which you have been writing.”

“In my soul, I regret that I cannot gratify you, since I have resolved to examine that matter in all its aspects.”

“You are more tenacious than a Biscayan! Don’t you understand that in this you do me a personal injury and expose me to public criticism?”

“I do not see why? I have never mentioned your name, nor shall I mention it; nor are you responsible for that contract.”

“Don’t be a ninny; although you do not mention me by name; although, legally, you do not treat of me; yet the odium of the transaction falls on me.”

“Whether the part you play is odious or not, I am not to blame; you have chosen it freely. You act, and I judge. We are both within our rights.”

“In fine, Paco, if you continue to write as heretofore, you do me an injury, you attack me.”

“That is not my intention, nor do I believe it the necessary result of my procedure.”

“Of course, if you attack me, you give me the right to defend myself.”

“Granted,” answered Paco, coldly.

“And you know that I have many means of doing it?”

“I know it and they have no terrors for me.”

“Paco, you despise me,” said the Chango with annoyance.

“No, I merely answer you,” replied Paco, coldly.

“For the last time I will sum up the situation. If you consent to withdraw from the _Independiente_ you shall have whatever advantages you desire that I can give you; you shall have the same if you consent, at least, to speak no more of the contract. Do you agree?”

“I have already said no,” replied Paco with dignity.

“Very well; it is hard for me to proceed against a fellow-student, whom I have always esteemed for his talents and his brilliant promise; for that reason, I desired to speak with you beforehand and give you proofs of my friendship, but since you are obstinate, I warn you that I shall prosecute you criminally.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Do you reflect that you will be proceeded against, that you will be sent to jail, that you will be sentenced?”

“Yes, I consider all, and I am prepared for all; you will allow me to say that I appreciate the kindness and politeness, with which you have treated me; but now, as it seems your wish to induce me to maintain silence and to separate myself from the _Independiente_, and as I will never agree to this, I judge my further presence here to be useless and, with your permission, will leave.”

And the young man at once rose and left; the Chango followed him without a word; they went down the stairway, crossed the corridor, Pacotillas took his hat in the hall, and on saying adieu to Robles, the latter involuntarily moved by the dignity of Pacotillas, said to him: “Think yet, Paco.”

“I need not think; neither threats nor bribes can swerve me from what I believe to be my duty.”

EMILIO RABASA.

Emilio Rabasa was born in the pueblo of Ocozautla, State of Chiapas, on May 22, 1856. He studied law in the City of Oaxaca, being licensed to practice on April 4, 1878. He returned to his native State, where he was a Deputy to Congress and Director of the Institute during the years 1881 and 1882. He then removed to Oaxaca, where he was Judge of the Civil Court, Deputy to the State Legislature and Secretary to Governor Mier y Teran, during 1885 and 1886. Removing to the City of Mexico in 1886, he there filled various judicial and other offices. In 1891, he was elected Governor of Chiapas, which office he filled for two years, particularly interesting himself in improving the financial condition of the State. In 1894, he was elected Senator from the State of Sinaloa, an office which he still fills. He resides in the City of Mexico, where he is engaged in legal practice.

The work which has given him literary fame is a four volume novel, written under the _nom-de-plume_ of Sancho Polo. These volumes bear special titles--_La Bola_ (The Local Outbreak), _La gran Ciencia_ (The Grand Science), _El cuarto Poder_ (The Fourth Power), and _Moneda falsa_ (False Money). These novels have their importance in Mexican literature. Victoriano Salado Álbarez, speaking of the notable advancement of the Mexican novel in recent years, says: “The works of Sancho Polo, precious studies,--initiated this truly fecund and permanent movement.” Luis Gonzáles Obregón says of these books: “These are notable for the correctness of their style, for masterly skill in description, most rich in precious details, for the perfect way in which those who figure in them are characterized, for the natural and unexpected development, as well as for many other beauties, which we regret not being able to enumerate here.” Emilio Rabasa’s active public life has prevented his following up his early success in literature. Since the Sancho Polo series, he has written but one brief novel, _La Guerra de tres años_ (The Three Years War). In 1888, in connection with the well-known publisher, Reyes Spindola, he founded _El Universal_ (The Universal), which is still published, and which really initiated a new era in Mexican journalism.

The hero in the Sancho Polo novels is a youth named Juan Quiñones. Born and reared in an obscure village, he loves a pretty girl who lives with her uncle, a man of common origin and mediocre attainments. Don Mateo is, however, a rising man, and, as he mounts, his ambitions for his niece mount also. The boy has real ability, but is petulant and precipitate, throwing himself into positions from which there should be no escape, and learning nothing by experience. He passes through a series of remarkable experiences--a local outbreak, a State revolution, anti-governmental journalism in the capital city, a discreditable love affair--finally, of course, gaining the girl.

THE DAY OF BATTLE.

I attempted in vain to restrain and reduce the uneasiness and disquietude, by which I was possessed and which Minga and her mother but increased, now dragging me away from the window, now preventing me from drawing the bolt to open the door, now bringing me back from the courtyard whither I had desired to go to escape their oversight.

“What a Don Abundio!” said Minga, jeeringly. “Trust him! But have no fear; he will not now let the girl go.”

Nevertheless, I sent the old woman back to see Felicia, to beg her, if preparations for the journey were not immediately discontinued, to send me word by her servant. And the good old woman, who was brave and fearless, started out again, cautioning her daughter not to allow me to commit any imprudence.

What a day was that for me. The sun ran its course with desperate slowness, but finally stood in mid-heaven. The old woman had not yet returned, nor had Don Mateo made his attack, nor had I news of any one. I do not understand how I could remain shut up all those hours, without breaking out and letting myself be killed.

While thus chafing, and more often than ever peeping from the window to catch a distant glimpse of the old woman, a choked and panting voice, at my shoulder, cried:

“They are coming.”

It was ‘Uncle Lucas,’ who seemed in that one day to exhaust all his remaining life’s force. He seated himself on Minga’s bed, with his mouth open, his chest puffing like a blacksmith’s bellows, his head nodding in time to his heavy breathing.

In spite of his breathlessness, I made him speak, although his words were broken by his gasps for air. Don Mateo and his force were organizing at half a league’s distance. Uncle Lucas had told the Colonel all that the Sindico[26] had said and had returned with the order to unite as many men as possible from our quarter of the town, in order to impede and disconcert Coderas’s force, when it should return to town, as probably it would only skirmish in the open field. Just as he arrived at the creek, Uncle Lucas saw five men on horseback, the advance guard of Coderas, descend from the terrace.

In fact, while he was speaking we heard the noise of horses running through the street and the clank of swords against the stirrups. Almost at the same moment the door opened and Minga’s mother burst into the room, her face pale, her eyes flashing fire.

“A little more and those dogs had had me!” she cried angrily and hurled forth a tirade which I cannot repeat.

“What is the matter?” I asked, agitated.

“What is it! If it were not for my nephew Matias, who was in the trenches by the church, they would not have let me go. Cursed wolves. When Pedro comes I will tell him that they would not let me go and the foul words they said to me. As I told you, were it not for Matias, I would still be there in the Plaza.”

“And what did Felicia say?” I interrupted, impatiently.

“The horses are all ready; but Don Abundio told her to tell you to have no concern; Remedios need not go. But remember, Juanito, this man has no shame.”

Keeping her to the point, I made her tell me all that could concern us. Coderas and Soria had agreed upon a plan of defense, believing that Don Mateo could not take the Plaza in several days; meantime the auxiliaries from the next district, whose Jefe politico was in communication with San Martin, could arrive. At the last moment, it had been decided that Coderas should sally with two hundred men, for a skirmish just outside the town, falling back upon the hundred, who remained in the Plaza with Soria; if fortune should prove averse to them, which the intrepid leader did not believe, they would withdraw to the best entrenchments, in order to force Don Mateo to attack them there.

“Now for the main thing,” said the old woman to me. “Remedios told me to say that they plan to take the prisoners from the jail and put them in the trenches, to terrify the other party, who cannot fire without killing their own friends and relatives.”

My hair stood on end, I felt a giddiness and almost fell, with my face convulsed with emotion and with shortened breath, I could scarcely turn to Uncle Lucas. Terrified, he rose and tried to detain me; but I promptly regained my self-control and assumed the voice of command which, in such cases, constitutes me a leader of those about me.

“Run!” I said to him quickly. “Immediately collect all those who last night promised to follow us and bring them here at once.”

My voice was so authoritative and commanding that I scarce awaited a reply. The old man made none and directed his way to the door; on opening it, he started violently.

“There they come! they come!” he said in a whisper.

Minga drew me violently back from the window, and Coderas and his force galloped down the road from the creek.

Some villagers followed the force from curiosity, others appeared in their doorways, and some few shut themselves in, cautiously barring their doors.

My wisdom and patience were now completely exhausted, and, my excitement depriving me of all prudence, I rushed forth with Uncle Lucas, ordering him to promptly meet me at that spot.

With no attempt at concealment, without precaution and without fear, I ran to Bermejo’s house, to the houses of the imprisoned regidors, to the houses of all those who were suffering in jail, alarming all with the terrible notice which I had received. In this house, I secured a man; in that one, some weapon; from here I led forth a terrified son; from there, a half-crazed father. Everywhere I carried terror and awakened the most violent manifestations of hatred and affliction.

Half an hour later, in Pedro Martin’s _patio_, I had collected some thirty men, who, worthy followers of a leader such as I, would fight like tigers and would not be sated with three hundred victims. One proposed hanging the wife and children of Coderas; another proposed dragging Soria through the streets and casting his lifeless body on the dungheap; another suggested sacking of the house of the Gonzagas, and another, cutting the throats of all who lived in the ward of Las Lomas, with a few exceptions. To me, this all appeared excellent and I energetically approved these savage propositions, while I distributed arms to those who had none and issued my orders to Uncle Lucas.

At that moment, the first discharge of the battle was heard; a cold chill ran through my body, mixture of terror and of impatience for the combat. I felt myself impelled toward the Plaza, and from my lips issued a torrent of foul words, which I was astonished at myself for knowing. Evil predominated in me; under the kindled passions of the _bola_, I was unconsciously transformed, my nature becoming that of the mass around me.

In such moments I had no idea of forming a plan of campaign. I only knew that I was going in defence of my mother, whose life was gravely imperilled, and that I ought to hasten to achieve my object. I did not think how I should attain it, nor did it occur to me to think. Uncle Lucas ventured to remind me that the Colonel’s plan was for us to hamper the enemy in his retreat.

“All follow me!” I cried with authority.

And all, with resolution equal to my own, followed me.

Passing behind Minga’s house, to the edge of the village, we took the road to the right and marched at quickstep up the street parallel to that which led to the Plaza. On arriving in front of this we halted, to the terror of the neighbors, and then cautiously advanced until the jail was in sight.

Not dreaming of enemies so near, the soldiers in the Plaza were listening to the fusillade which was taking place, almost on the banks of the creek. In front of us was a gentle slope, from the gully up to the Plaza and the prison door; at that place, which could scarcely be seen, because of the village corral which intervened, a sentinel was visible.

“They have not yet taken out the prisoners,” I said to my companions; “we will wait here until we see some movement showing that they are about to remove them.”

Among our arms was a single gun; the rest were machetes, darts, or knives tied to the end of staves. I nevertheless believed myself invincible.

The distant noise of musketry, which, to tell the truth, was not great or terrible, consequent on the small number of the combatants and the still smaller number of the firearms, became less at the end of a few minutes, and the few shots heard seemed to me to be already discharged within San Martin. I ordered my party to approach the foot of the slope, I myself remaining where I was so as not to lose sight of the jail; and I ran to join them, when the discharges from the entrenchments showed me that Soria had entered the Plaza and that Don Mateo was in front of it.

We mounted to the jail, before the sentinel could give the alarm and at the moment when Coderas and Soria repulsed Don Mateo in his first assault. Taken by surprise, the sentinel fled to the Plaza, and we, without thought of the imprudence of our hasty action, hurled ourselves against the prison door, and, after a few efforts, burst it in, broken into fragments.

LA BOLA.

How many then, as I, wept orphaned and cursed the _bola_! In that miserable village, which scarcely had enough men to till its soil, and in which the loftiness of citizenship was unknown, its victims had floods of tears and despair, instead of laurels, the reward of right. Here the father, love and support of the family, was mourned; there, a son, hope and stay of aged parents; there, again, a husband, torn from the fireside to be borne to a field of battle, which had not even tragic grandeur, but only the caricaturing ridiculousness of a low comedy.

And all that was called in San Martin a revolution! No! Let us not disgrace the Spanish language nor human progress. It is indeed time for some one of the learned correspondents of the Royal Academy to send for its dictionary, this fruit harvested from the rich soil of American lands. We, the inventors of the thing itself, have given it a name without having recourse to Greek or Latin roots, and we have called it _bola_. We hold the copyright; because, while revolution, as an inexorable law, is known in all the world, the _bola_ can only be developed, like the yellow fever, in certain latitudes. Revolution grows out of an idea, it moves nations, modifies institutions, demands citizens; the _bola_ requires no principles, and has none, it is born and dies within short space, and demands ignorant persons. In a word, the revolution is a daughter of the world’s progress and of an inexorable law of humanity; the _bola_ is daughter of ignorance and the inevitable scourge of backward populations.