Chapter 49 - Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora by Mayne Reid
The Two Medianas Face to Face
Pedro Diaz speedily roused himself from the deep depression and astonishment which had for a moment overpowered him.
“According to the rules of war, I am your prisoner,” said he, raising his head, “and I am anxious to know your decision concerning me.”
“You are free, Diaz,” replied Fabian, “free without conditions.”
“Not so! not so!” said the Canadian, quickly interrupting him. “We must, on the contrary, impose a rigorous condition upon your liberty.”
“What is it?” asked the adventurer.
“You have now, in common with us,” replied Bois-Rose, “become possessed of a secret which we have long since known. I have my reasons for wishing that the knowledge of this secret should expire with those whose evil destiny makes them acquainted with it. You only,” added the Canadian, “will be an exception to the rule, because a brave man like yourself should be a slave to his word. I demand, then, before restoring you your liberty, a promise upon your honour, never to reveal to human being, the existence of the Golden Valley.”
“I never indulged any hope in acquiring this treasure,” replied the noble adventurer, in a melancholy tone, “beyond that of the freedom and aggrandisement of my country. The sad fate which threatens the man, to whom I looked for the realisation of my hopes, proves to me that in both cases I have entertained a delusive dream. Even should all the riches of the Golden Valley remain forever buried in these deserts, what would it avail me now? I swear then, and you may rely upon my honour, that I shall never reveal its existence to a living soul. I shall try to forget that I have ever, for an instant, beheld it.”
“It is well,” said Bois-Rose, “you are now free to go.”
“Not yet, with your permission,” replied the prisoner. “In all that has taken place, there is a mystery which I do not seek to penetrate—but—”
“Carramba! it is very simple,” answered Pepé. “This young man,” said he, pointing to Fabian—
“Not yet, Pepé,” replied the latter solemnly, making a sign to the hunter to postpone his explanations. “In the court of justice which is about to be convened—in the presence of the Supreme Judge (Fabian pointed to heaven), by the accusation as well as the defence, all will become clear to Diaz, if he will remain a short while with us. In the desert, time is precious; and we must prepare ourselves, by meditation and silence, for the terrible deed which we are now compelled to accomplish.”
“I am most anxious to obtain permission to stay. I do not know if this man be innocent or guilty; but, I do know that he is the chief whom I have freely chosen; and I will remain with him to the last, ready to defend him against you at the cost of my own life, if he is innocent—ready to bow before the sentence which condemns him, if he is guilty.”
“Be it so,” rejoined Fabian. “You shall hear and judge for yourself.”
“This man is of noble birth,” continued Diaz, sadly, “and he lies yonder in the dust, bound like the meanest criminal.”
“Unloose him, Diaz!” replied Fabian, “but do not endeavour to shield him from the vengeance which a son must claim for his mother’s murderer. Require from him a promise that he will not attempt to escape; we shall rely upon you in this matter.”
“I pledge my honour that he will not do so,” said the adventurer, “nor would I assist him in the attempt.” And Diaz, as he said this, proceeded towards Don Estevan.
In the mean time Fabian, oppressed by sad and anxious thoughts, seated himself at some distance, and appeared to deplore his unfortunate victory.
Pepé turned away his head, and for a while stood as if attentively observing the mists as they floated above the crests of the mountains.
Bois-Rose reclined in his usual attitude of repose, while his eyes, expressive of deep anxiety, were centred upon the young man, and his noble physiognomy seemed to reflect the clouds which gathered upon the brow of his beloved protégé.
Meanwhile Diaz had rejoined the prostrate captive.
Who can guess how many conflicting thoughts crowded upon the mind of the Spanish nobleman, as he lay upon the ground? His expression retained as much pride as when in his more prosperous days he had imagined the possibility of conquering, and bestowing, a throne upon the deposed heir of the Spanish monarchy. At the sight of Diaz, who, he believed had abandoned his cause, an expression of deep melancholy came over his countenance.
“Do you come as an enemy, or a friend, Diaz?” said he. “Are you one of those who take a secret pleasure in contemplating the humiliation of the man whom, in the days of his prosperity, you, like others, would have flattered?”
“I am one of those who flatter only the fallen,” replied Diaz, “and who are not offended by the bitterness of speech which is dictated by great misfortune.”
As he uttered these words, which were confirmed by the dejection of his manner, Diaz hastened to remove the cords with which the captive’s arms were bound.
“I have given my word that you will not endeavour to escape the fate, whatever it may be, which awaits you at the hands of these men, into whose power we have fallen by an unlucky chance. I believe you have not even thought of flight.”
“And you are right, Diaz,” replied Don Estevan; “but can you guess what fate these fellows have reserved for me?”
“They talk of a murder to be avenged, of an accusation, and a judgment.”
“A judgment!” replied Don Antonio with a haughty and bitter smile, “they may assassinate, but they shall never judge me.”
“In the former case, I shall die with you,” said Diaz, simply, “in the latter—but of what use is it to speak of that which cannot be? you are innocent of the crime of which they accuse you?”
“I have a presentiment of the fate which awaits me,” replied Don Estevan without answering the adventurer’s interrogation. “A faithful subject will be lost to his king—Don Carlos the First. But you will carry on my work? you will restore the prosperity of Sonora. You will return to the Senator Tragaduros—he knows what he has to do, and you will support him?”
“Ah!” cried Diaz, sadly, “such a work cannot be attempted but by you. In your hands I might have proved a powerful instrument; without you I shall sink into insignificant obscurity. The hope of my country expires with you.”
During this interval, Fabian and Bois-Rose had quitted the spot where the preceding scenes had so rapidly taken place. They had reached the base of the pyramid. It was there that the solemn assizes were to be held, in which Fabian and the Duke de Armada were about to act the parts of judge and criminal.
Pepé made a sign to Diaz; Don Estevan saw and understood it.
“It is not enough to have remained a prisoner,” said Diaz, “you must meet your fate; the conquered must obey the conqueror—come!”
As Diaz ceased speaking, the Spanish nobleman, armed with the pride which never deserted him, approached the pyramid with a firm step. Pepé had rejoined his two companions.
Don Estevan’s looks, as he advanced, displayed a dauntless composure equally removed from bravado or weakness—which won a glance of admiration from his three enemies—all of them excellent judges of courage.
Fabian rose and stepped forward to meet his noble prisoner. A few paces behind, Diaz also advanced—his head bowed low, and his mind oppressed by gloomy thoughts. Everything in the manner of the conquerors convinced him that, on this occasion, right would be on the side of power.
“My Lord of Mediana,” said Fabian, as, with head uncovered, he paused a few steps in advance of the noble Spaniard who had approached him, “you perceive that I recognise you, and you also know who I am.”
The Duke de Armada remained upright and motionless without responding to his nephew’s courtesy.
“I am entitled to keep my head covered in the presence of the King of Spain; I shall use that privilege with you,” he replied; “also I claim the right of remaining silent when I think proper, and shall now exercise that right if it please you.”
Notwithstanding this haughty reply, the younger son of the Medianas could not but remember how he, a trembling and weeping child, had, twenty years before, in the castle of Elanchovi quailed beneath the glance of the man whom he now presumed to judge.
The timid eaglet had now become the eagle, which, in its turn, held the prey in its powerful talons.
The glances of the two Medianas crossed like two swords, and Diaz contemplated, with mingled astonishment and respect, the adopted son of the gambusino Arellanos, suddenly transformed and raised above the humble sphere in which he had for an instant known him.
The adventurer awaited the solution of this enigma. Fabian armed himself with a pride which equalled that of the Duke de Armada.
“As you will,” said he, “yet it might be prudent to remember, that here the right claimed by power is not an empty boast.”
“It is true,” replied Don Antonio, who, notwithstanding his apparent resignation, trembled with rage and despair at the total failure of his hopes. “I ought not to forget that you are doubtless inclined to profit by this right. I shall answer your question then when I tell you that I am aware of but one fact concerning you, which is that some demon has inspired you continually to cast some impediment in the way of the object I pursue—I know—”
Here rage stifled his utterance.
The impetuous young man listened with a changing countenance to the words uttered by the assassin of his mother, and whom he even now suspected was the murderer of his adopted father.
Truly it is the heroism of moderation, at which those who do not know the slight value attached to human life in the deserts, cannot be sufficiently astonished—for here law cannot touch the offender—but the short space of time which had elapsed since Fabian joined Bois-Rose was sufficient, under the gentle influence of the old hunter, to calm his feelings immeasurably.
He was no longer the young man whose fiery passions were the instruments of a vengeance to which he yielded blindly. He had learnt that power should go hand in hand with justice, and may often be combined with mercy.
This was the secret of a moderation, hitherto so opposed to his temperament. It was not, however, difficult to trace, in the changing expression of his countenance, the efforts he had been compelled to make to impose a restraint upon his anger.
On his side, the Spanish noble concealed his passion under the mask of silence.
“So then,” resumed Fabian, “you know nothing more of me? You are not acquainted either with my name or rank? I am nothing more to you than what I seem?”
“An assassin, perhaps!” replied Mediana, turning his back to Fabian to show that he did not wish to reply to his question.
During the dialogue which had taken place between these two men of the same blood, and of equally unconquerable nature, the wood-rangers had remained at some distance.
“Approach,” said Fabian to the ex-carabinier, “and say,” added he, with forced calmness, “what you know of me to this man whose lips have dared to apply to me a name which he only deserves.”
If any doubt could still have remained upon Don Estevan’s mind with regard to the intentions of those into whose hands he had fallen, that doubt must have disappeared when he beheld the gloomy air with which Pepé came forward in obedience to Fabian’s command.
The visible exertion he made to repress the rancorous feelings which the sight of the Spanish noble aroused in him, filled the latter with a sad presentiment.
A shudder passed through the frame of Don Estevan, but he did not lower his eyes, and by the aid of his invincible pride, he waited with apparent calmness until Pepé began to speak.
“Carramba!” exclaimed the latter in a tone which he tried in vain to render agreeable. “It was certainly worth while to send me to catch sea-fish upon the borders of the Mediterranean, so that, at the end of my journey, I might, three thousand leagues from Spain, fall in with the nephew whose mother you murdered. I don’t know whether Don Fabian de Mediana is inclined to pardon you, but for my part,” added he, striking the ground with the butt end of his rifle, “I have sworn that I will not do so.”
Fabian directed a haughty glance towards Pepé, as though to command his submission; then addressing himself to the Spaniard:
“My Lord of Mediana, you are not now in the presence of assassins, but of judges, and Pepé will not forget it.”
“Before judges!” cried Don Antonio; “my peers only possess the right of judgment, and I do not recognise as such a malefactor escaped from jail and a beggarly usurper who has assumed a title to which he has no right. I do not acknowledge here any other Mediana than myself, and have therefore no reply to make.”
“Nevertheless I must constitute myself your judge,” said Fabian, “yet believe me I shall be an impartial one, since I take as a witness that God whose sun shines upon us, when I swear that I no longer entertain any feelings of animosity or hatred against you.”
There was so much truth in the manner with which Fabian pronounced these words, that, for an instant, Don Estevan’s countenance lost its expression of gloomy defiance, and was even lit up by a ray of hope, for the Duke de Armada recollected that he stood face to face with the heir for whom, in his pride, he had once mourned. It was therefore in a less severe tone that he asked—
“Of what crime am I then accused?”
“You are about to hear,” replied Fabian.