The Rifle Rangers Part 44

She smiled, waving her forefinger in front of her nose.

Raoul informed the Irishman that this was a negative answer to his question.

"By my sowl, thin," said Chane, "I wudn't mind marryin' ye meself, an'

joinin' the thribe--that is, if they'll let me off from the hangin'.

Tell her that, Raowl."

As desired, Raoul explained his comrade's last speech, at which the woman laughed, but said nothing.

"Silence gives consint. But tell her, Raowl, that I won't buy a pig in a poke: they must first let me off from the hangin', de ye hear?--tell her that."

"_El senor esta muy alegre_," (The gentleman is very merry), said the woman; and, picking up her jar, with a smile, she left us.

"I say, Raowl, does she consint?"

"She hasn't made up her mind yet."

"By the holy vistment! thin it's all up wid Murt. The saints won't save him. Take another dhrap, Raowl!"

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE DANCE OF THE TAGAROTA.

Night fell, and the blazing f.a.gots threw their glare over the patio, striking upon objects picturesque at all times, but doubly so under the red light of the pine fires. The grouping of guerilleros--their broad, heavy hats, many of them plumed--their long black hair and pointed beards--their dark, flas.h.i.+ng eyes--their teeth, fierce and white--the half-savage expression of their features--their costumes, high-coloured and wild-like--all combined in impressing us with strange feelings.

The mules, the mustangs, the dogs, the peons, the slippered wenches, with their coa.r.s.e trailing tresses, the low roofs, the iron-barred windows, the orange-trees by the fountain, the palms hanging over the wall, the glistening cocuyos, were all strange sights to us.

The sounds that rang in our ears were not more familiar. Even the voices of the men, unlike the Saxon, sounded wild and sharp. It was the Spanish language, spoken in the _patois_ of the Aztec Indians. In this the guerilleros chatted, and sang, and swore. There was a medley of other sounds, not less strange to our ears, as the dogs howled and barked their bloodhound notes--as the mustangs neighed or the mules whinnied--as the heavy sabre clanked or the huge spur tinkled its tiny bells--as the _poblanas_ (peasant-women), sitting by some group, touched the strings of their bandolons, and chanted their half-Indian songs.

By a blazing pile, close to where we sat, a party of guerilleros, with their women, were dancing the _tagarota_, a species of fandango.

Two men, seated upon raw-hide stools, strummed away upon a pair of bandolons, while a third pinched and pulled at the strings of an old guitar--all three aiding the music with their shrill, disagreeable voices.

The dancers formed the figure of a parallelogram, each standing opposite his partner, or rather moving, for they were never at rest, but kept constantly beating time with feet, head, and hands. The last they struck against their cheeks and thighs, and at intervals clapped them together.

One would suddenly appear as a hunchback, and, dancing out into the centre of the figure, perform various antics to attract his partner.

After a while she would dance up--deformed also--and the two, bringing their bodies into contact, and performing various disgusting contortions, would give place to another pair. These would appear without arms or legs, walking on their knees, or sliding along on their hips!

One danced with his head under his arm, and another with one leg around his neck; all eliciting more or less laughter, as the feat was more or less comical. During the dance every species of deformity was imitated and caricatured, for this is the tagarota. It was a series of grotesque and repulsive pictures. Some of the dancers, flinging themselves flat, would roll across the open s.p.a.ce without moving hand or foot. This always elicited applause, and we could not help remarking its resemblance to the gymnastics we had lately been practising ourselves.

"Och, be me sowl! we can bate yez at that!" cried Chane, who appeared to be highly amused at the tagarota, making his comments as the dance went on.

I was sick of the scene, and watched it no longer. My eyes turned to the portale, and I looked anxiously through the half-drawn curtains.

"It is strange I have seen nothing of _them_! Could they have turned off on some other route? No--they must be here. Narcisso's promise for to-night! He at least is here. And she?--perhaps occupied within--gay, happy, indifferent--oh!"

The pain shot afresh through my heart.

Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a brilliant picture appeared within--brilliant, but to me like the glimpse which some condemned spirit might catch over the walls of Paradise. Officers in bright uniforms, and amongst these I recognised the elegant person of Dubrosc.

Ladies in rich dresses, and amongst these--. Her sister, too, was there, and the Dona Joaquiana, and half a dozen other ladies, rustling in silks and blazing with jewels.

Several of the gentlemen--young officers of the band--wore the picturesque costume of the guerilleros.

They were forming for the dance.

"Look, Captain!" cried Clayley; "Don Cosme and his people, by the living earthquake!"

"Hus.h.!.+ do not touch me--do not speak to me!"

I felt as though my heart would stop beating. It rose in my bosom, and seemed to hang for minutes without moving. My throat felt dry and husky, and a cold perspiration broke out upon my skin.

He approaches her--he asks her to dance--she consents! No: she refuses.

Brave girl! She has strayed away from the dancers, and looks over the bal.u.s.trade. She is sad. Was it a sigh that caused her bosom to rise?

Ha! he comes again. She is smiling!--he touches her hand!

"Fiend! false woman!" I shouted at the top of my voice as I sprang up, impelled by pa.s.sion. I attempted to rush towards them. My feet were bound, and I fell heavily upon my face!

The guards seized me, tying my hands. My comrades, too, were re-bound.

We were dragged over the stones into a small room in one corner of the patio.

The door was bolted and locked, and we were left alone.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

A KISS IN THE DARK.

It would be impossible to describe my feelings as I was flung upon the floor of our prison. This was cold, damp, and filthy; but I heeded not these grievances. Greater sorrows absorbed the less. There is no torture so racking, no pain so painful as the throbbings of a jealous heart; but how much harder to bear under circ.u.mstances like mine! She could sleep, smile, dance--dance by my prison, and with my jailer!

I felt spiteful--vengeful. I was stung to a desire for retaliation, and along with this came an eagerness to live for the opportunity of indulging in this pa.s.sion.

I began to look around our prison, and see what chances it afforded for escape.

"Good heavens! if our being transferred to the cell should destroy the plans of Narcisso! How is he to reach us? The door is double-locked, and a sentry is pacing without."

After several painful efforts I raised myself upon my feet, propping my body against the side of the prison. There was an aperture--a window about as large as a loophole for musketry. I spun myself along the wall until I stood directly under it. It was just the height of my chin.

Cautioning my companions to silence, I placed my ear to the aperture and listened. A low sound came wailing from the fields without. I did not heed this. I knew it was the wolf. It rose again, louder than before.

A peculiarity in the howl struck me, and I turned, calling to Raoul.

"What is it, Captain?" inquired he.

"Do you know if the prairie wolf is found here?"

"I do not know if it be the true prairie wolf, Captain. There is one something like the _coyote_."

I returned to the aperture and listened.