The door of the cuarto in which Doña Rosario was confined was thrown open, and the Puelche warrior appeared; he held in his hand a rude earthen lamp, the flame of which, although feeble, sufficed to distinguish objects. He had replaced his shabby hat upon his head, and its wide brim served as a mask to his features.

"Come with me!" he said, in a rough voice, to the maiden.

Conscious of the inutility of a resistance which could only be dangerous to her amidst the bandits who surrounded her, and bowing her head with resignation, she followed her guide in silence. Doña Maria had resumed her place in the ebony chair; with arms crossed, and her head hanging upon her bosom, she was buried in dark meditations. At the slight noise made by the footsteps of the young lady, she drew herself up, a flash of hatred gleamed from her dark eyes, and with, a gesture she commanded the Indian to retire. The Puelche obeyed.

The two women examined each other intensely; their looks crossed; the hawk and the dove were face to face. A deathlike silence reigned in the apartment; at intervals the wind came in gusts and dismal moanings, through the ill-joined boards of the doors, shook the old building to its foundation, and agitated the flame of the only candle that illumined the vast gloomy room in which the two women were. After a sufficiently long pause, the Linda, who, with that instinct which women possess in such a high degree, had examined in detail, one by one, the numerous beauties of the charming girl who stood pale and trembling before her, at length spoke —

"Yes," she said, in a hollow voice, as if speaking to herself, and overcome by the evidence of the fact, "yes, this girl is beautiful; she has everything to make her an object of love – to see her must be to love her; well, this beauty, which up to this time has been her joy and her pride, grief shall wither rapidly; before one year has passed away I am resolved that she shall become an object of pity and contempt for all. Oh!" she added, in a piercing, shrill voice, "I have her at length within the power of my vengeance!"

"What have I done to you, madam, that you should hate me thus?" the maiden asked, in a plaintive voice, the sweet and melodious accent of which would have softened anyone but her to whom she spoke.

"What have you done to me, silly creature?" the Linda cried, bounding up like a wounded lioness, and placing herself close in front of Doña Rosario – "what have you done to me?" and then added, with a loud laugh – "Ah! ah! that's true, you have done nothing to me!"

"Alas, madam! I do not even know you; this is the first time I have been in your presence; I, a poor young girl, whose life to the present time has passed away in retirement – how can I have offended you?"

"Yes, I allow it," the Linda replied; "you have done nothing to me; and, personally, as you have just said, I have nothing to reproach you with; but, by making you suffer, learn that it is upon him I avenge myself."

"I do not understand what you mean, madam," the maiden said, simply.

"Senseless fool, do not play with the lioness who is ready to devour you, or pretend to feign an ignorance of which I am not the dupe; if you have not already divined my name, I will tell it you – I am Doña Maria, whom they call the Linda – do you understand me now?"

"Not more than I did before, madam," replied Doña Rosario, with an accent of frankness that shook the belief of her persecutor, in spite of herself; "I have never even heard that name."

"Can that be true?" she cried, doubtingly.

"I swear it is."

Doña Linda strode about the apartment with long, hasty steps. Doña Rosario, more and more astonished, looked stealthily at this woman, without being able to account to herself for the emotion which her presence, and the sound of her voice, caused her to experience; it was not fear, still less was it joy, but an incomprehensible mixture of sadness, joy, pity, and terror; an undefinable feeling, which, far from creating repulsion, drew her towards a woman whose odious projects were no secret to her, and from whom she knew she had so much to dread. Singular sympathy; what Doña Rosario felt towards the Linda, the Linda felt towards Doña Rosario: in vain she called to her aid the remembrance of all the wrongs with which she fancied she had to reproach the man whom she wished to strike in the person of the young girl; in the innermost recesses of her heart, a voice, which constantly gained strength, spoke to her in favour of the maiden whom she was about to sacrifice to her hatred; the more she endeavoured to overcome this sentiment, for which she could not account, the more powerless she found her efforts become; at length, she was on the point of being softened.

"Oh!" she murmured, passionately, "what is going on within me? Am I weak enough to allow myself to be subdued by the tears of that paltry creature?"

Like Indian warriors, who, when fastened to the stake of blood, sing their own exploits to encourage them to endure bravely the tortures which their executioners silently prepare, the Linda recalled the maddening remembrance of all the outrages Don Tadeo had loaded her with; and with flashing eyes and trembling lips, she stopped short in front of Doña Rosario.

"Listen to me, girl," she said, in a voice which passion caused to tremble, "this is the first and last time we shall be in the presence of each other; and you shall know why I bear you such hatred. What you will learn will be hereafter, perhaps, a consolation to you, and help you to bear with courage the miseries I reserve for you," she added, with the laugh of a demon.

"I will listen to you, madam," Rosario replied, meekly, "although I am certain that what you are about to say cannot, in any sense, render me guilty with respect to you."

"Do you think so?" the Linda said, in a tone of ironical compassion; "well, then, listen; we have time to talk, as you will not leave this place for an hour."

This allusion to her approaching departure made the poor girl shudder, by recalling to her all that the departure threatened.

"A woman," the Linda continued, "a young and beautiful woman, more beautiful than you, fragile child of cities, whom the least storm bends like a weak reed – a woman, I say, had for love married a man, also young, and handsome as the evil angel before his fall, who with perfidiously golden words, by opening before her immense and unknown horizons, had so seduced her, the poor, poor girl, that in a few days he induced her to abandon stealthily the roof which had sheltered her infancy, and to which her aged father in vain recalled her up to the day of his death, that he might bless and pardon her."

"Oh, that is frightful!" cried Doña Rosario.

"Why so? as he had married her, morality was satisfied, in the eyes of the world. This woman was pure, and could thenceforward move with head erect before the crowd which had hailed her fall with laughter and contempt. But everything passes away in this world, and most quickly of all, the love of the most passionate man. Only a year after marriage this woman, alone in the most retired room of her dwelling, wept over the remembrance of the happiness which had left her for ever. Her husband had deserted her! A child born of this union, a little fair girl, a rosy-lipped cherub, whose eyes reflected the azure of the heavens, was the sole consolation which in her misfortunes was left to the poor abandoned mother. One night, when she was plunged in sleep, her husband stole like a thief into her house, seized the child, in spite of the cries of the desolate mother, who threw herself in tears at his feet, and implored him by all he held sacred in the world. After roughly repulsing the despairing mother, who sank dying on the cold slabs of the floor, this heartless and pitiless man disappeared with the child."

"And the mother?" Doña Rosario anxiously asked, much affected by the story which the Linda told, entirely to her own advantage.

"The mother," she continued, in a low, broken voice, "the mother was doomed never to see her child again. She never has seen her! Prayers, threats, everything in turn, have been employed without success. And now, this mother, who adores her child, and would sacrifice her life for her, – this mother has vowed a hatred against this man, whom she so fondly loved, and who showed no pity to her, which no vengeance can satisfy! Now, then, young girl, do you know the name of this mother? Say, do you know it? No, you do not? Well, then, I am this mother! and the man who ravished from her all her happiness – the man whom she hates as she does the demon whose heart he bears, is Don Tadeo de Leon!"

"Don Tadeo!" Rosario cried, starting back with surprise.

"Yes!" the Linda said, furiously; "yes, Don Tadeo, your lover!"

The maiden sprang towards Doña Maria, and seizing her arm violently, and placing her face, inflamed with anger, close to that of the courtezan, who was stupefied at the energy she could not have expected from this delicate creature, cried indignantly, —

"What have you dared to say, madam? Don Tadeo my lover! It is false, madam!"

"Can this be true?" the Linda asked, eagerly. "Can I have been so grossly mistaken? But then," she added, mistrustfully, "who are you? and by what title does he keep you always with him?"

"I will tell you who I am, madam!" Rosario replied, proudly.

All at once the hasty gallop of several horses was heard from without, mingled with cries and oaths.

"What can the matter be?" said Doña Maria, turning pale.

"Oh!" said Doña Rosario, clasping her hands fervently; "oh, my God! are you sending me liberators?"

"You are not free yet," the Linda said, with a bitter smile.

The tumult increased greatly; the door, violently pushed from without, flew open, and several men rushed into the room.

CHAPTER XXXV
THE REVOLT

The multiplicity of the scenes we have to describe, and the exigencies of our story, compel us to abandon Doña Rosario and the Linda, and return to Valdivia, where the revolt had assumed the gigantic proportions of a revolution. Electrified by the heroic conduct of the King of Darkness, the patriots fought with the greatest obstinacy. The Dark-Hearts appeared to have the gift of ubiquity; their numbers increased, they were everywhere at the head of the insurgents, exciting them by gesture and voice; but, above all, by their example. The city was completely cut up by barricades, against which the few troops who remained faithful to General Bustamente struggled in vain. Beaten back by the enemies who on all sides rose up against them to the thousand times repeated cries of "Our country!" "Chili Liberty!" the soldiers retreated, step by step, abandoning, one after another, the different posts of which they had been in possession at the commencement of the action, and rallied upon the Plaza Mayor, the outlets of which they had barricaded in their turn.

The city was in the power of the insurgents; for as the battle from this moment was concentrated at one point, it was not difficult to foresee with which party the victory would remain; for the soldiers, discouraged by the ill success of their coup de main, and sensible of being the champions of a lost cause, only fought to obtain honourable conditions. General Bustamente's officers, and the senators whom he had brought with him as partizans, trembled when thinking of the fate that awaited them if they fell into the hands of their enemies. Success justifies everything: from the moment they failed to succeed they became traitors to their country, and, as such, had no right to a capitulation. They therefore excited their soldiers to fight valiantly, promising them speedy assistance, and trying to revive their courage by telling them that their adversaries were merely citizens, whom they could easily overcome if they made a bold attempt, or even resisted for an hour longer.

The general who commanded the garrison, and whom we saw upon the steps of the cabildo read with so much arrogance the decree which changed the form of government, bit his lips with rage and performed prodigies of valour, to give Bustamente time to arrive. As soon as he saw the turn things had taken, he sent off an express for the General with the utmost promptitude. This express was Diego, the old soldier who was so devoted to General Bustamente.

"Lieutenant," he said, in conclusion, "you see in what a position we are; you must reach the General at all risks."

"I will reach him, General; be at ease on that head!" Diego replied, intrepidly.

"And I will endeavour to hold out till your return."

Don Diego, before he finished speaking, had ridden desperately at the ranks of the insurgents, spurring on his horse, and waving his sword with menacing rapidity round his head. The Dark-Hearts, astonished by such an attack on the part of a single man, at the first moment unconsciously opened their ranks before him as to a canister shot, incapable of resisting the impetuous shock of this apparently invulnerable demon, who mowed down all that came in his way. Diego skilfully took advantage of the disorder produced on the enemy by his furious assault; he kept pushing on, and, after incredible efforts, succeeded in getting out of the city. As soon as he was in safety, the overexcitement which till that time had sustained him, suddenly sank, and at a few paces from the gates he was forced to stop to take breath, and restore his confused ideas to a little order. The old soldier washed the sides and nostrils of his horse with a little brandy and water; and as soon as this duty was performed, aware that the fate of his companions depended upon his speed, he sprang into his saddle and set off with the fleetness of an arrow.

The General did not delay his return to Valdivia a minute, for he felt that success would be an immense advantage to him; and a check, if he were beaten, irreparable. As a conqueror, his march to Santiago would be nothing but a triumphant march; the authorities of the cities he passed through would rival each other in ranging themselves beneath his standard; whereas, if he were forced to abandon Valdivia as a fugitive, he would be tracked like a wild beast, and obliged to seek safety in a prompt flight, either in Bolivia or Buenos Aires, and the projects he had nourished so long, and of which he believed he had beforehand assured the success, would be deferred, or perhaps destroyed for ever. Thus the General was a prey to one of those cold furies, which are so much more terrible, because they cannot be exhibited outwardly.

The horsemen advanced amidst a cloud of dust raised by their precipitate course, rushing along the road like a whirlwind, and with a noise like thunder. Two lances' length in advance of the soldiers, Don Pancho, bending over the neck of his horse, with pale brow and clenched teeth, galloped at full speed, keeping his eyes fixed upon the lofty steeples of Valdivia, whose dark shadows became more enlarged on the horizon every minute. Within half a mile of the city he halted his squadron. The sharp pattering of musketry resounded strongly, mingled at intervals with the dismal, rolling bass of cannon; the battle, therefore, must still be going on. The General hastened to make his last preparations before attempting an attack he hoped would prove decisive. The foot soldiers dismounted, and formed in platoons, and firearms of all kinds were loaded.

The troops brought up by the General were not numerous from the European point of view, according to which we are accustomed to see great masses in conflict; they, at most, did not exceed eight hundred men. In Europe it is customary to say that victory is most likely to attend large battalions: in America, where the largest armies are frequently of not more than three thousand men, this idea becomes naturally modified, and it is generally the most skilful or the most brave man who remains master of the field of battle.

Don Pancho was a rough soldier, accustomed to the struggles of civil wars, which, for the most part, consist of audacious coups de main. Endowed with courage bordering on rashness, and devoured by ambition, he prepared, with the greatest coolness, to re-establish his compromised affairs by an irresistible attack. The country in the neighbourhood of Valdivia is a real English garden, interspersed with thickets, apple orchards, copses, and slender streams of water rippling away to the river. It was very easy for the General to conceal his arrival. Two soldiers were detached as scouts, in order to learn the state of things. At the expiration of a few minutes they returned. The outskirts of the city were deserted, the insurgents had driven the troops back into the centre, and, according to the scouts, with the imprudence of citizens metamorphosed suddenly into soldiers, they had left no reserve, or even placed sentinels, to secure their rear against a surprise.

This information, instead of restoring confidence to the General, made him knit his brows; he thought it must be a manoeuvre, and whilst his officers were laughing with all their might at the able tactics of the insurgents, he judged it necessary to redouble his precautions. The troops were divided into two bodies, which, in case of need, were to support each other; and, as they were attacking a city entirely barricaded, the lancers were ordered to dismount, and reinforce the infantry. Only one squadron of a hundred horsemen remained in the saddle, concealed about a quarter of a mile from the place, in order to support a retreat, or to put the fugitives to the sword, if the surprise succeeded. These arrangements made, the General made an earnest address to his soldiers, to whom he promised, in the event of success, the pillage of the city. He then placed himself at the head of the first detachment, and gave the order, "March! Forward!"

The troops advanced in the Indian fashion, taking advantage of every inequality in the ground, and of every tree to conceal themselves, and arrived thus, without giving alarm, to within pistol shot of the city. The dead silence which continued to prevail around him, contrasted in a dismal manner with the musketry and cannon which became more audible as they advanced, and greatly increased the General's anxiety. A dark presentiment warned him that he was threatened by some great danger, which he knew not how to avoid, from being ignorant of what kind it might be. The least hesitation at this critical minute might bring on irreparable misfortunes. The General grasped the hilt of his sword firmly in his clenched hand, and turning towards his soldiers, shouted in a loud, clear voice, "Forward!"

The detachment, which only awaited this order, rushed forward shouting, and, at double-quick time, cleared the space between them and the city. Windows, doors, all were closed; and had it not been for the distant report of musketry, the city might have been thought deserted. The first detachment, finding no obstacles before them, continued their march; and the second detachment also entered. But then, all at once, behind, before, and on the flanks of the troops, a loud cry burst forth; and at every window appeared men with muskets in their hands. Don Pancho Bustamente was surrounded, he had allowed himself to be taken – pardon us the triviality of the comparison – like a rat in a trap. The soldiers, astonished for a second, soon recovered themselves; they faced front and rear, and attacked the double barrier that enclosed them: but though they desperately rushed against it, they could not force it. They then plainly perceived they were lost, that they could expect no quarter, and prepared to die like brave men.

The General cast fierce and desperate glances around him, looking, but unsuccessfully, for a point of issue from the menacing forest of bayonets crossed before him, and which enclosed him as in a steel network. Some authors have amused themselves at the expense of the wars and battles of the Americans, in which they say the two armies always take care to place themselves out of reach of cannon shot, so as never to have a single man killed. This pleasantry, which is in very bad taste, has assumed the proportions of a calumny it is but just to refute, for it attacks the honour of the Americans of the South, who, I unhesitatingly assert, are endowed with intrepid courage – a courage that was brilliantly displayed during the wars of independence against the Spaniards. Unhappily, at present this courage is employed in fratricidal struggles, without any understood object. Thrice the soldiers rushed upon the insurgents, and thrice were they repulsed with enormous loss. The battle was horrible, without mercy on either side; they fought hand to hand, foot to foot, breast to breast, to the last breath, only falling to die. The troops, decimated by this frightful carnage, gradually gave ground; the space they occupied became narrower and narrower, and the moment did not appear distant when they would disappear under the popular flood which continued to ascend, and threatened to engulf them under its irresistible mass. The General collected about fifty men resolved to die or open a passage, and he made a desperate attempt. It was a collision of giants. For a few minutes, the two masses launched one against the other remained almost motionless, from the force of the blow with which they met; Don Pancho, flourishing his sword around him, and standing in his stirrups, struck down all who opposed his passage.

Suddenly a man placed himself before him, like a rock which rises from the depths of the sea. At the sight of him the General paused, in spite of himself, with a stifled cry of surprise and rage. This man was Don Tadeo de Leon, his mortal enemy; whom he had once condemned to death, and who had, in a miraculous manner, survived his execution. But, now! God seemed to place him fatally before him, to be the instrument of his vengeance, and the cause of his ruin and his shame.