Chapter Forty Nine
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.
Chapter Fifty
Lynch Law
On the frontiers of the America there exists a terrible law, yet it is not this clause alone which renders it so – “Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, blood for blood.” The application of this law is evident in all the ways of Providence, to those who observe the course of events here below. “He who kills by the sword shall perish by the sword,” says the gospel.
But the law of the desert is terrible by reason of the majesty with which it is invested, or claims to be invested.
This law is terrible in common with all laws of blood, and the more so, since those who have recourse to it usurp a power which does not belong to them, inasmuch as the injured party constitutes himself judge of his own cause, and executes the sentence which he himself has pronounced.
Such is the so-called “Lynch law.”
In the central parts of America, white men as well as Indians execute this law with cruel severity against each other. Civilised communities adopt it in a mitigated form as applied to capital punishment, but the untutored inhabitants of the desert continue to practise it with the same rigour which belonged to the first ages of mankind.
And may we not here make the remark, that the similitude of feeling on this point, between the white man and the savages, casts a stain upon the former which for his own honour he should endeavour to wipe out?
Society has provided laws for the protection of all men. The man who amongst us should assume the right of judgment, and take the law into his own hands, would thus violate it, and fall under the jurisdiction of those whom society has appointed to try, and to condemn.
We are not without a hope that at some future time, as civilisation advances, men will allow that they who deprive a culprit of that life which none can recall, commit an act of sacrilege in defiance of those divine laws which govern the universe and take precedence of all human decrees.
A time will come, we would fain believe, when our laws may spare the life of a guilty man, and suffer him to atone for his errors or his crimes by repentance. Such a law would respect the life which can never be restored; and while another exists which casts an irretrievable stain upon our honour, there would be a law of restoration capable of raising the man sanctified by repentance to the dignity which punishment would have prevented his attaining.
“There is more joy in heaven,” says the gospel, “over a sinner who repents, than a righteous man made perfect.” Why then are not human laws a counterpart of these divine decrees?
Now, however, liberty is the only boon which society confers upon him whose misfortunes or whose crimes have deprived him of it.
Misfortunes did we not say? Is there not in truth a law which assimilates the criminal with the upright though insolvent debtor, and compels him to the same fate in prison?
So much for this subject. Let us now return to the lynch law of the desert. It was before a tribunal without appeal, and in the presence of self-constituted judges, that Don Antonio de Mediana was about to appear. A court assembled in a city, with all its imposing adjuncts, could not have surpassed in solemnity the assizes which at this moment were convoked in the desert, where three men represented human justice armed with all its terrors!
We have described the singular and fantastic aspect presented by the spot, in which this scene was to be enacted. In truth, the sombre mountains, veiled in mist, the mysterious subterranean sounds, the long tufts of human hair agitated by every breath of wind, the skeleton of the Indian horse exposed to view, all combined to endue the place with a strange unearthly appearance in the eyes of the prisoner, so that he almost believed himself under the influence of some horrible dream.
One might have imagined himself suddenly transported into the middle ages, in the midst of some secret society, where previous to the admission of the candidate, were displayed all the terrors of the earth, as a means of proving his courage.
All this however was here a fearful reality.
Fabian pointed out to the Duke de Armada, one of the flat stones, resembling tombstones, which were strewed over the plain, and seated himself upon another so as to form with the Canadian and his companion a triangle, in which he occupied the most prominent position.
“It is not becoming for the criminal to sit in the presence of the judges,” said the Spanish noble, with a bitter smile, “I shall therefore remain standing.”
Fabian made no reply.
He waited until Diaz, the only disinterested witness in this court of justice, had chosen a convenient place.
The adventurer remained at some distance from the actors in the scene, yet sufficiently near to see and hear all that passed.
Fabian began:
“You are about to be told,” said he, “of what crime you are accused. You are to look upon me as the judge who presides at your trial, and who will either condemn or acquit you.”
Having thus spoken he paused to consider.
“It will first be necessary to establish the identity of the criminal. Are you in truth,” he continued, “that Don Antonio, whom men here call the Count de Mediana?”
“No,” replied the Spaniard in a firm voice.
“Who are you then?” continued Fabian, in a mingled tone of astonishment and regret, for he repudiated the idea that a Mediana would have recourse to a cowardly subterfuge.
“I was the Count de Mediana,” replied the prisoner, with a haughty smile, “until by my sword I acquired other titles. At present I am known in Spain as the Duke de Armada. It is the name I shall transmit to the descendant of my line, whom I may choose as my adopted son.”
The latter phrase, incidentally spoken by the prisoner, proved in the sequel his sole means of defence.
“Right,” said Fabian, “the Duke de Armada shall hear of what crime Don Antonio de Mediana is accused. Speak Bois-Rose! tell us what you know, and nothing more.”
The rough and energetic countenance of the gigantic descendant of the Norman race, as he stood motionless beside them, his carbine supported on his broad shoulder, was expressive of such calm integrity, that his appearance alone banished all idea of perjury. Bois-Rose drew himself up, slowly removed his fur cap, and in doing so discovered his fine open brow to the gaze of all.
“I will only speak of what I know,” said he.
“On a foggy night, in the month of November, 1808, I was a sailor on board a French smuggling-vessel called the Albatros.
“We had landed according to a plan formed with the captain of the carabiniers of Elanchovi, on the coast of the Bay of Biscay. I will not relate to you,” and here Pepé could not repress a smile, “how we were fired upon, and repulsed from the shore where we had landed as friends. It is sufficient for you to know that when we again reached our vessel, I was attracted by the screams of a child, which seemed to come from the depths of the ocean.
“These cries proceeded from a boat which had been abandoned.
“I pushed out towards it at the risk of my own life, since a brisk fire was opened upon our ship.
“In this boat I found a lady murdered, and lying in her blood. She was quite dead, and close to her was a little child who appeared to be dying.
“I picked up the child – that child is now the man before us; his name is Fabian.
“I took the child with me, and left the murdered lady in the boat. I do not know who committed the crime, and have nothing further to say.”
As he finished speaking, Bois-Rose again covered his head, and seated himself in silence.
A mournful silence followed this declaration.
Fabian lowered his flashing eyes for an instant to the ground, then raised them, calm and cold, to the face of the ex-carabinier, whose turn had now come to speak.
Fabian was prepared to act his terrible part, and the countenance as well as the attitude of the young man, though clothed in rags, expressed the nobility which characterised an ancient race, as well as the collected coolness of a judge. He cast an authoritative glance towards Pepé, and the half savage trapper was compelled to submit to it in silence.
Pepé at length rose, and advanced a few paces, by his manner showing a determination only to utter that which his conscience approved.
“I understand you, Count Mediana,” said he, addressing himself to Fabian, who alone in his eyes had the right to assume this title. “I will try to forget that the man here present is the same who caused me to spend so many long years among the refuse of mankind at Ceuta. When I appear before God He may require of me the words I have spoken, but I should again repeat them, nor regret that they had ever been uttered.”
Fabian made a gesture of approbation.
“One night in the month of November, 1808,” said he, “when I belonged to the Royal Carabiniers in the service of Spain, I was on duty upon the coast of Elanchovi, where three men disembarked from the open sea upon the beach.
“Our captain had sold to one of them the right of landing in a forbidden spot.
“I reproach myself with having been this man’s accomplice, and receiving from him the price of culpable neglect of my duty.
“The following day it was discovered that the Countess Mediana and her young son had left the castle during the night.
“The Countess was murdered – the young Count was never seen again.
“A short time after, his uncle appeared at Elanchovi and claimed his nephew’s fortune and titles. All was given up to him, and I, who believed that I had only sold my services to favour an intrigue or an affair of smuggling, found that I had been the accomplice of a murderer.
“I upbraided the present Count Mediana before witnesses, and accused him of this crime. Five years’ imprisonment at Ceuta was the reward of my presumption.
“Here before another and more righteous tribunal, and in the presence of God who is my witness, I again accuse the man before me. I declare him to be the murderer of the Countess, and the usurper of her son’s titles. He was one of the three men, who, during the night entered by escalade the chateau which Don Fabian’s mother never again beheld.
“Let the murderer refute the charge. I have done.”
“You hear him?” said Fabian, “what have you to say in your defence?”
A violent struggle between his conscience and his pride took place in Mediana’s breast.
Pride however triumphed.
“Nothing,” replied Don Antonio.
“Nothing!” answered Fabian, “but you do not perhaps know what a terrible duty I have to fulfil?”
“I can imagine it.”
“And I,” cried Fabian passionately, “shall not flinch in accomplishing it. Yet, though my mother’s blood cries out for vengeance, should you refute the charge, I would bless you still. Swear to me then, in the name of Mediana, which we bear in common, by your honour and the salvation of your soul, that you are innocent, and I shall be too happy to believe you.”
Then, oppressed with an intolerable anguish, Fabian awaited his reply.
But, gloomy and inflexible as the fallen archangel, Mediana was silent.
At this moment Diaz advanced towards the judges and the prisoner.
“I have listened,” said he, “with the utmost attention to your accusation again Don Estevan de Arechiza, whom I also know to be the Duke de Armada; may I express my thoughts freely?”
“Speak!” said Fabian.
“One point seems to me doubtful. I do not know whether the crime you attribute to this noble cavalier was committed by him; but, admitting that to be the case, have you any right to condemn him? In accordance with the laws of our frontier, where no court may be held, it is only the nearest relatives of the victim who are entitled to claim the blood of the murderer.
“Don Tiburcio’s youth was passed in this country. I knew him as the adopted son of Marcos Arellanos.
“Who can prove that Tiburcio Arellanos is the son of the murdered lady?
“How, after so many years, can it be possible for this hunter, formerly a sailor, to recognise in the midst of these solitudes, the young man, whom as a child he beheld only for an instant on a foggy night?”
“Answer, Bois-Rose,” said Fabian, coldly.
The Canadian again rose.
“I ought, in the first place, to state,” said the old hunter, “that it was not only for a few moments on a foggy night that I saw the child in question. During the space of two years, after having saved him from certain death, I kept him on board the vessel in which I was a sailor.
“The features of his son could not be more deeply impressed upon the memory of a father than those of that child were on mine.
“How then can you affirm that it is impossible I should recognise him?
“When you are travelling in the desert, where there is no beaten track, are you not guided by the course of streams, by the character of the trees, by the conformation of their trunks, by the growth of the moss which clothes them, and by the stars of heaven? and when at another season, or even twenty years afterwards, should the rains have swelled the streams, or the sun have dried them up, should the once naked trees be clothed with leaves, should their trunks have expanded, and moss covered their roots, even should the north star have changed its position in the heavens, and you again beheld it, would you not recognise both star and stream?”
“Doubtless,” replied Diaz, “the man who has experience in the desert, is seldom deceived.”
“When you meet a stranger in the forest, who answers you with the cry of a bird or the voice of an animal, which is to serve as a rallying signal to you or your friends, do you not immediately say, ‘This man is one of us’?”
“Assuredly.”
“Well, then; I recognise the child in the grown man, just as you recognise the small shrub in the tall tree; or the stream that once murmured softly in the roaring and swollen torrent of to-day. I know this child again by a mode of speech, which twenty years have scarcely altered.”
“Is not this meeting a somewhat strange coincidence?” interrupted Diaz, now almost convinced of the Canadian’s veracity.
“God,” cried Bois-Rose, solemnly, “who commands the breeze to waft across the desert the fertilising seeds of the male palm to the female date-tree – God, who confides to the wind which destroys, to the devastating torrent, or to the bird of passage, the grain which is to be deposited a thousand miles from the plant that produced it – is he not also able to send upon the same path two human beings made in his image?”
Diaz was silent a moment; then having nothing more to advance in contradiction to the Canadian’s truthful words whose honest manner of speech carried with it an irresistible conviction, he turned towards Pepé:
“Did you,” said he, “also recognise in Arellanos’ adopted child, the Countess de Mediana’s son!”
“It would be impossible for any one who ever saw his mother long to mistake him. Enough! let the Duke de Armada contradict me.”
Don Antonio, too proud to utter a falsehood, could not deny the truth without degrading himself in the eyes of his accusers, unless he destroyed the only means of defence to which his pride and the secret wish of his heart allowed him to have recourse.
“It is true,” said he, “that this man is of my own blood. I cannot deny it without polluting my lips with a lie, and an untruth is the offspring of cowardice.”
Diaz inclined his head, regained his seat, and was silent.
“You have heard,” said Fabian, “that I am indeed the son of the woman, whom this man murdered; therefore I claim the right of avenging her. What then do the laws of the desert decree?”
“Eye for eye,” said Bois-Rose.
“Tooth for tooth,” added Pepé.
“Blood for blood,” continued Fabian; “a death for a death!”
Then he rose, and addressing Don Antonio in measured accents, said: “You have shed blood and committed murder. It shall therefore be done to you as you have done to others. God commanded it to be so.”
Fabian drew his poignard from its sheath. The sun was shedding his first rays upon the scene, and every object cast a long shadow upon the ground.
A bright flash shot from the naked blade which the younger Mediana held in his hand.
Fabian buried its point in the sand.
The shadow of the poignard far exceeded its length.
“The sun,” he said, “shall determine how many moments you have to live. When the shadow disappears you shall appear before God, and my mother will be avenged.”
A deathlike silence succeeded Fabian’s last words, who, overcome with long suppressed emotions, fell, rather than seated himself upon the stone.
Bois-Rose and Pepé both retained their seats. The judges and the criminal were alike motionless.
Diaz perceived that all was over, but he did not wish, to take any part in the execution of the sentence.