During the latter part of this singular dialogue, I had been worming myself through the devious alleys of the thicket, and gradually drawing nearer to the speakers. Just as the Die, then! reached my ears, I caught sight of the man who had pronounced the terrible menace as well as of him to whom it was addressed.
Both were upon the other side of the little opening into which I had entered, the latter lying prostrate upon the grass; the former bending over him, with right arm upraised, and a long blade glittering in his grasp.
At the sight my sword leaped from its sheath, and I was about to rush forward; when, on calculating the distance across the glade, I perceived I should be too late.
Quick as the thought I changed my weapon, dropping the sword
at my feet, and drawing my revolver from its holster in my belt.
To cock the pistol, take aim, and pull the trigger, were three actions in one, the result being a crack, a flash, a cloud of smoke, a cry of commingled rage and pain; and succeeding to these sounds, a loud breaking among the bushes on the opposite side of the opening, as if some individual was making his way through the thicket, without staying to seek for a path, and with no other thought than to put space between himself and the form still recumbent upon the sward!
The latter I knew to be Carlos, or Calros, in the patois of his con-paisano . The fugitive was the salteador so lately threatening his life.
Had the murderer succeeded in his design? I saw his blade brandished aloft, as I drew my pistol from its holster. I had not seen the downward thrust; but, for all that, it might have been made.
With a heart brimful of anxiety, I ran across the glade. I say brimful of anxiety: for something, I could not tell what, had excited my sympathy for Calros Vergara.
Partly may it have been from hearing that speech off sombre but significant import, Soy moriendo! Lola! Lolita! a ver te nunca mas en este mundo ! and partly from admiration for a noble nature, that preferred even death to the disclosing of some secret, which might compromise the welfare of his beloved Dolores.
I thought no more of the robber, or his efforts to escape. My whole attention became devoted to the man whom he had marked out for his victim; and I made all haste to ascertain whether I had been successful in hindering his fell intent.
In a score of seconds I was standing by the side of the prostrate Jarocho, bending over his body. I held the pistol in my hand, my finger still pressing upon the trigger, just as after firing the shot that had disembarrassed him of his enemy.
Are you safe? I inquired, in the best Mexican-Spanish I could command. He has not succeeded in ?
Strike, villain! through my heart, if you will. Ah! Dolores! Better my death, and yours better far be in your grave than in the embrace of Ramon Rayas! O Santissima Madre ! I die I die! Mother of God protect Lola! Lolita! quer-i-da herm
The last phrase was pronounced in a whisper, gradually growing so indistinct that I could not make certain of the final words, though with my ear close to the lips of the speaker.
His voice was no longer heard even in whispers.
I raised my head, and looked down upon the face of Calros Vergara. His lips moved no more. His eyes still open, and glistening under the light of the moon, seemed no longer to see, no more to mistake me for his enemy. He appeared to be dead.
Story 1, Chapter IV An Angel Voice
Jarochos patoisStriking and rich as was the costume, it was still only that of the Mexican peasant. A few peculiarities, such at; the hat of palm-sinnet, and the checked kerchief, that had covered the back part of the head, both lying near, denoted their ci-devant wearer to be a denizen of the coast lands in short, a Jarocho.
These observations did not detain me, or only for a second of time, as I bent down over the prostrate form. My whole design was to examine the wound which I supposed to have been given by the robber, and which I really believed to have caused the Jarochos death.
To my astonishment, I could discover no wound, at least none that was
fresh. There was a blotch of coagulated blood on the left thigh, darker in the centre as seen through the torn calzoneros; but this was from the wound received in battle.
Where was that just given by the sword of the Salteador? Certainly I saw stains of blood recently spilt. There were several spots upon the white linen shirt, besprinkling the plaits upon the bosom, and others upon the sleeves; also the cheeks of the youth showed a drop or two on their pallid ground.
Whence had these blood-drops proceeded?
I could not guess. I could discover no recent stab on the Jarochos body, not a scratch to account for them!
Had the robber, after all, failed in his fatal thrust? Had the death of his intended victim been caused by the shot-wound in the thigh, hastened by the terror of that horrid threat?
While thus conjecturing, my eye fell upon an object glancing through the grass. I stooped down and took it up. It was a macheté half sword, half hunting-knife to be met with in every Mexican house, or seen hanging on the hip of every Mexican cavallero .