WHICH TREATS OF THE TANGLED LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE PEARL OF CARACAS

CHAPTER IX

DISCLOSES THE HOPELESS PASSION BETWEEN DONNA MERCEDES DE LARA AND CAPTAIN DOMINIQUE ALVARADO, THE COMMANDANTE OF LA GUAYRA

Captain Dominique Alvarado stood alone on the plaza of the ancient castle which for over a century had been the home of the governors of La Guayra. He was gazing listlessly down over the parapet which bordered the bare sheer precipice towering above the seaport town. There was nothing in his eyes, but a great deal in his heavy heart.

Captain Alvarado, who filled the honorable station of commandante of the port, was a soldier of proven courage. The protege and favorite officer of his serene highness the Count Alvaro de Lara, Grandee of Spain and Viceroy of Venezuela, he had been honored with great responsibilities, which he had discharged to the satisfaction of his master. From a military point of view the office of Governor of La Guayra, which he then filled, was of sufficient importance to entitle him to high position and much consideration in the vice-regal court of Caracas.

Of unknown parentage, Alvarado had been received into the family of the viceroy when an infant. He had been carefully reared, almost as he had been de Lara’s son, and had been given abundant opportunity to distinguish himself. In the course of his short life he had managed to amass a modest fortune by honorable means. He was young and handsome; he had been instructed, for the viceroy had early shown partiality for him, in the best schools in the New World. His education had been ripened and polished by a sojourn of several years in Europe, not only at the court of Madrid but also at that of Versailles, where the Count de Lara had been sent as ambassador to the Grand Monarch during a period in which, for the sake of supervising the education of his only daughter, he had temporarily absented himself from his beloved Venezuela. That an unknown man should have been given such opportunities, should have been treated with so much consideration, was sufficient commentary on the unprecedented kindness of heart of the old Hidalgo who represented the failing power of His Most Catholic Majesty of Spain, Carlos II., the Bewitched, in the new world. Whatever his origin, therefore, he had been brought up as a Spanish soldier and gentleman, and the old count was openly proud of him.

With assured station, ample means, increasing reputation; with youth, health, and personal good looks, the young Governor should have been a happy man. But it was easy to see from the heavy frown upon his sunny face for he was that rare thing in Spain, a blue-eyed blond who at first sight might have been mistaken for an Englishman that his soul was filled with melancholy. And well it might be, for Alvarado was the victim of a hopeless passion for Mercedes de Lara, the Viceroy’s daughter, known from one end of the Caribbean to the other, from her beauty and her father’s station, as the Pearl of Caracas.

Nor was his present sadness due to unrequited passion, for he was confident that the adoration of his heart was met with an adequate response from its object. Indeed, it was no secret to him that Mercedes loved him with a devotion which matched his own. It was not that; but her father had announced his intention to betroth the girl to Don Felipe de Tobar y Bobadilla, a young gentleman of ancient lineage and vast wealth, who had been born in America and was the reputed head in the Western Hemisphere of the famous family whose name he bore.

The consent of Donna Mercedes to the betrothal had not been asked. That was a detail which was not considered necessary by parents in the year of grace 1685, and especially by Spanish parents. That she should object to the engagement, or refuse to carry out her father’s plan never crossed the Viceroy’s imagination. That she might love another, was an idea to which he never gave a thought. It was the business of a well-brought-up Spanish maiden to be a passive instrument in the carrying out of her father’s views, especially in things matrimonial, in which, indeed, love found little room for entrance. But Donna Mercedes loved Captain Alvarado and she cared nothing for Don Felipe. Not that Don Felipe was disagreeable to her, or to any one. He was a Spanish gentleman in every sense of the word, handsome, distinguished, proud, and gallant but she did not, could not, love him. To complicate matters still further de Tobar was Captain Alvarado’s cherished companion and most intimate friend.

The progress of the love affair between Alvarado and Donna Mercedes had been subjective rather than objective. They had enjoyed some unusual opportunities for meeting on account of the station the former filled in the Viceroy’s household and the place he held in his heart, yet the opportunities for extended freedom of intercourse between young men and women of the gentler class in those days, and especially among Spaniards of high rank, were extremely limited. The old count took care to see that his daughter was carefully watched and shielded; not because he suspected her of anything, for he did not, but because it was a habit of his people and his ancestry. The busy life that he led, the many employments which were thrust upon him, his military duties, had kept the days of the young soldier very full, and under the most favorable circumstances he would have had little time for love making. Fortunately much time is not required to develop a love affair, especially in New Spain and near to the equator.

But though they had enjoyed brief opportunity for personal intercourse, the very impossibilities of free communication, the difficulties of meeting, had but added fuel and fire to their affection. Love had flamed into these two hearts with all the intensity of their tropic blood and tropic land. Alvarado’s passion could feed for days and grow large upon the remembrance of the fragrance of her hand when he kissed it last in formal salutation. Mercedes’ soul could enfold itself in the recollection of the too ardent pressure of his lips, the burning yet respectful glance he had shot at her, by others unperceived, when he said farewell. The memory of each sigh the tropic breeze had wafted to her ears as he walked in attendance upon her at some formal function of the court was as much to her as the flower which she had artfully dropped at his feet and which had withered over his heart ever since, was to him.

The difficulties in the way of the exchange of those sweet nothings that lovers love to dwell upon and the impossibility of any hoped for end to their love making intensified their passion. Little or nothing had been spoken between them, but each knew the other loved. For the first moment the knowledge of that glorious fact had sufficed them but afterwards they wanted more. Having tasted, they would fain quaff deeply. But they could see no way by which to manage the realization of their dreams.

The situation was complicated in every possible way for Alvarado. Had he been a man of family like his friend, de Tobar, he would have gone boldly to the Viceroy and asked for the hand of his daughter, in which case he thought he would have met with no refusal; but, being ignorant of his birth, having not even a legal right to the name he bore, he knew that the proud old Hidalgo would rather see his daughter dead than wedded to him. Of all the ancient splendors of the Spanish people there was left them but one thing of which they could be proud their ancient name. De Lara, who belonged to one of the noblest and most distinguished families of the Iberian Peninsula, would never consent to degrade his line by allying his only daughter to a nobody, however worthy in other respects the suitor might prove to be.

Again, had Mercedes’ father been any other than the life-long patron and friend to whom he literally owed everything that he possessed, such was the impetuosity of Alvarado’s disposition that, at every hazard, he would have taken the girl by stealth or force from her father’s protection, made her his wife, and sought an asylum in England or France, or wherever he could. So desperate was his state of mind, so overwhelming his love that he would have shrunk from nothing to win her. Yet just because the Viceroy had been a father to him, just because he had loved him, had been unexampled in his kindness and consideration to him, just because he reposed such absolutely unlimited confidence in him, the young man felt bound in honor by fetters that he could not break.

And there was his friendship for de Tobar. There were many young gallants about the vice-regal court who, jealous of Alvarado’s favor and envious of his merits, had not scrupled in the face of his unknown origin to sneer, to mock, or to slight so far as it was safe to do either of these things to so brave and able a soldier. Amid these gilded youths de Tobar with noble magnanimity and affection had proved himself Alvarado’s staunchest friend. A romantic attachment had sprung up between the two young men, and the first confidant of de Tobar’s love affairs had been Alvarado himself. To betray his friend was almost as bad as to betray his patron. It was not to be thought of.

Yet how could he, a man in whose blood though it may have been ignoble for aught he knew ran all the passions of his race with the fervor and fire of the best, a man who loved, as he did, the ground upon which the Senorita de Lara walked, stand by tamely and see her given to another, no matter who he might be? He would have given the fortune which he had amassed by honorable toil, the fame he had acquired by brilliant exploits, the power he enjoyed through the position he had achieved, the weight which he bore in the councils of New Spain, every prospect that life held dear to him to solve the dilemma and win the woman he loved for his wife.

He passed hours in weary isolation on the plaza of the great castle overlooking the stretched-out town upon the narrow strand with the ceaseless waves beating ever upon the shore from the heavenly turquoise blue of the Caribbean wavering far into the distant horizon before him. He spent days and nights, thinking, dreaming, agonizing, while he wrestled vainly with the problem. Sometimes he strove to call to his mind those stern resolutions of duty which he had laid before himself at the beginning of his career, and to which he had steadfastly adhered in the pursuit of his fortunes; and he swore that he would be true to his ideals, that the trust reposed in him by the Viceroy should not be betrayed, that the friendship in which he was held by de Tobar should never be broken, that he would tear out of his heart the image of the woman he loved. And then, again, he knew that so long as that heart kept up its beating she would be there, and to rob him of her image meant to take away his life. If there had been a war, if some opportunity had been vouchsafed him to pour out, in battle against the enemy, some of the ardor that consumed him, the situation would have been ameliorated; but the times were those of profound peace. There was nothing to occupy his mind except the routine duties of the garrison.

Spain, under the last poor, crazed, bewitched, degenerate descendant of the once formidable Hapsburgs, had reached the lowest depths of ignominy and decay. Alone, almost, under her flag Venezuela was well governed from the Spanish standpoint, that is; from the native American point of view the rule of even the gentlest of Spaniards had made a hell on earth of the fairest countries of the new continent. Of all the cities and garrisons which were under the sway of the Viceroy de Lara, La Guayra was the best appointed and cared for. But it did not require a great deal of the time or attention from so skilled a commander as Alvarado to keep things in proper shape. Time, therefore, hung heavily on his hands. There were few women of rank in the town, which was simply the port of entry for St. Jago de Leon across the mountains which rose in tree-clad slopes diversified by bold precipices for ten thousand feet back of the palace, and from the commoner sort of women the young captain held himself proudly aloof, while his love safeguarded him from the allurement of the evil and the shameless who flaunted their iniquity in every seaport on the Caribbean.

On the other side of the mountain range after a descent of several thousand feet to a beautiful verdant valley whose altitude tempered the tropic heat of the low latitude into a salubrious and delightful climate, lay the palace of the Viceroy and the city which surrounded it, St. Jago, or Santiago de Leon, commonly called the City of Caracas.

Many a day had Alvarado turned backward from the white-walled, red-roofed town spread out at his feet, baking under the palms, seething in the fierce heat, as if striving to pierce with his gaze the great cordilleras, on the farther side of which in the cool white palace beneath the gigantic ceibas the queen of his heart made her home. He pictured her at all hours of the day; he dwelt upon her image, going over again in his mind each detail of her face and figure. The perfume of her hand was still fragrant upon his lips; the sound of her voice, the soft musical voice of Andalusia, still vibrated in his ear; her burning glance pierced him even in his dreams like a sword.

He was mad, mad with love for her, crazed with hopeless passion. There seemed to be no way out of his misery but for him to pass his own sword through his heart, or to throw himself from the precipice, or to plunge into the hot, cruel blue of the enveloping Caribbean the color of the sea changed in his eye with his temper, like a woman’s mood. Yet he was young, he hoped in spite of himself. He prayed for he was not old enough to have lost faith and he planned. Besides, he was too brave a soldier to kill himself, and she was not yet married. She was not formally betrothed, even; although it was well known that her father looked favorably upon de Tobar’s suit, no formal announcement had been made of it as yet. So in spite of his judgment he dreamed the thoughts of youth and love are long, long thoughts, indeed.

That morning the young captain, engrossed in his emotions, was not aware of the approach of a messenger, until the clank of the man’s sword upon the stone flags of the plaza caused him to lift his head. He was a soldier, an officer of the bodyguard of the Viceroy, and he bore in his hand a letter sealed with the de Lara coat of arms. The messenger saluted and handed the packet to the captain.

“Yesterday evening, His Excellency, the Viceroy, charged me to deliver this letter to you to-day.”

“Fadrique,” called Alvarado, to a servitor, “a flagon of wine for the cavalier. By your leave, sir,” he continued with formal politeness, opening the packet and reading the message:

“TO THE CAPTAIN ALVARADO, COMMANDANTE OF LA GUAYRA.

GREETING:

As one faithful to the fortunes of our family we would crave your honorable presence at our palace in Santiago to-morrow evening. In view of your service and devotion, we have done you the honor to appoint you as one of the witnesses to the formal betrothal of our daughter, Donna Mercedes, to your friend, Don Felipe de Tobar. After that, as we have received appeals for help from the Orinoco country, we propose to lead His Most Catholic Majesty’s Imperial troops thither in person to overawe the natives; and, reposing full trust in your fidelity and honor, we deign to commit the Donna Mercedes to your safe keeping in our city of La Guayra, until we return. Therefore make your preparations accordingly.

Given under our hand and seal,

DE LARA, Viceroy.”

It had come! The old man, as a last token of his respect, had nominated him as a witness to the contract which robbed him forever of hope and happiness. The young man went white before the keen eye of the messenger, who, in common with other officers of the Viceroy’s court, suspected what was, indeed, concealed from no one save the father and lover. The world swam before his vision. The blue sea seemed to rise up and meet the green hills until he could not distinguish the one from the other. His heart almost stopped its beating, yet summoning his resolution he recovered himself by an effort that left him trembling, the sweat beading his forehead.

“Are you in a state for a return journey at once, senor?” he asked of the young officer.

“At your service, captain.”

“That’s well. Say to His Excellency, the Viceroy, that I thank him for the honor he does me. I shall wait upon him to-morrow and obey his commands.”

CHAPTER X

HOW DONNA MERCEDES TEMPTED HER LOVER AND HOW HE STROVE VALIANTLY TO RESIST HER APPEALS

Alvarado was alone in the cabinet of the Viceroy, to which his rank and the favor in which His Excellency held him gave him access at all times.

He had ridden all day over the rough road that winds over the mountains from La Guayra to Caracas. The storm which had rushed down the mountain-side all afternoon matched the tumult in his soul, and the sheets of rain blown upon him by the fierce wind had not cooled the fever of his agitation. The unusual tempest was one of the most terrific that had swept over the coast in years. He had marked as he rode a huge ship far to seaward, staggering along under shortened canvas and laboring tremendously in the heavy seas. But his thoughts were so centered upon the situation in which he found himself that he had not particularly noticed the vessel, although passing ships were infrequent sights off the port of La Guayra. Pale, haggard, and distraught from his mental struggle he had crossed the pass at the summit of the mountain and descended into the fertile valley now adrip with rain and looking almost cold under the gray sky, and had presented himself at the palace of the Viceroy.

He had changed his apparel after his reception and his old sergeant had polished his breastplate until it fairly blazed with light, for though the occasion was one of peace he had felt that he could better sustain his part in the military uniform in which he had won his only title to consideration. He schooled himself to go through that part with the resolution of a Spanish gentleman. Although there was no evidence of gentle blood save such as was presented by his actions, he had always cherished the hope that could the secret of his birth be revealed he would not be found unfit for the honors that he had won and the ambitions that he cherished. Consequently his appearance in the brilliantly lighted hall of the palace among the gay courtiers resplendent in magnificent attire, blazing with jewels, threw a somber note over the proceedings.

It was as a soldier he had won fame and the consideration of the Viceroy; in no other capacity, so far as any man knew, had he the right to enter that assemblage of the rich and well born. It was as a soldier he would perform that hardest of all duties which had ever been laid upon him by his friend and patron, the Governor.

Pale, stern, composed, he stood an iron figure of repression. So severe was the constraint that he put upon himself that he had given no sign of his emotion, even at the near approach of Donna Mercedes, and the hand which signed his name beneath her father’s as the principal witness was as steady as if it held merely the sword in some deadly combat. He endured passively the affectionate greetings of the happy de Tobar, who was intoxicated at the assurance afforded by the betrothal of the coming realization of all his hopes. He sustained with firmness the confidence of the Viceroy and the admissions de Lara made to him in private, of his pleasure in the suitable and fortunate marriage which was there arranged. He even bore without breaking one long, piteous appeal which had been shot at him from the black eyes of the unhappy Mercedes.

To her he seemed preternaturally cold and indifferent. He was so strong, so brave, so successful. She had counted upon some interposition from him, but the snow-capped Andes were no colder than he appeared, their granite sides no more rigid and unsympathetic. It was with a feeling almost of anger and resentment at last that she had signed the betrothal contract.

But the restraint on the man was more than he could bear. The cumulative force of the reproach of the woman he loved, the confidence of the Viceroy, the rapturous happiness of his best friend, was not to be endured longer. Pleading indisposition, he early begged leave to withdraw from the festivities which succeeded the completion of the betrothal ceremony and the retirement of the ladies. At the suggestion of the Viceroy, who said he desired to consult with him later in the evening, he went into the deserted cabinet of the latter.

The palace was built in the form of a quadrangle around an open patio. A balcony ran along the second story passing the Viceroy’s cabinet, beyond which was his bedroom and beyond that the apartments of his daughter. The rain had ceased and the storm had spent itself. It was a calm and beautiful night, the moon shining with tropic splendor through the open window dispensed with the necessity of lights. There was no one in the cabinet when he entered, and he felt at last able to give way to his emotion; Mercedes though she was not married was now lost to him beyond recourse. After the women withdrew from the hall with Donna Mercedes there was no restraint put upon the young nobles, and from the other side of the patio came the sound of uproarious revelry and feasting his friends and comrades with generous cheer felicitating the happy bridegroom that was to be. Alvarado was alone, undisturbed, forgotten, and likely to remain so. He put his head upon his hands and groaned in anguish.

“Why should it not have been I?” he murmured. “Is he stronger, braver, a better soldier? Does he love her more? O Mother of God! Riches? Can I not acquire them? Fame? Have I not a large measure? Birth? Ah, that is it! My father! my mother! If I could only know! How she looked at me! What piteous appeal in her eyes! What reproach when I stood passive cased in iron, with a breaking heart. O my God! My God! Mercedes! Mercedes!”

In his anguish he called the name aloud. So absorbed and preoccupied in his grief had he been that he was not aware of a figure softly moving along the balcony in the shadow. He did not hear a footfall coming through the open window that gave into the room. He did not realize that he had an auditor to his words, a witness to his grief, until a touch soft as a snowflake fell upon his fair head and a voice for which he languished whispered in his ear:

“You called me; I am come.”

“Senorita Mercedes!” he cried, lifting his head and gazing upon her in startled surprise. “How came you here?” he added brusquely, catching her hands with a fierce grasp in the intensity of his emotion as he spoke.

“Is this my greeting?” she answered, surprised in turn that he had not instantly swept her to his heart.

She strove to draw herself away, and when he perceived her intent he opened his hands and allowed her arms to fall by her side.

“I have been mistaken,” she went on piteously, “I am not wanted.”

She turned away and stood full in the silver bar of the moonlight streaming through the casement. Her white face shone in the light against the dark background of the huge empty room that face with its aureole of soft dark hair, the face of a saint, pale yet not passionless, of the heaven heavenly, yet with just enough of earthly feeling in her eyes to attest that she was a very woman after all.

“Go not,” he cried, catching her again and drawing her back.

Gone were his resolutions, shattered was his determination, broken was his resistance. She was here before him, at all hazards he would detain her. They were alone together, almost for the first time in their lives. It was night, the balmy wind blew softly, the moonlight enveloped them. Such an opportunity would never come again. It was madness. It was fatal. No matter. She should not go now.

“I heard you,” she murmured, swaying toward him. “I heard you seemed to be suffering. I do not know why something drew me on. You whispered you were speaking I listened. I came nearer. Was your heart breaking, too? Despise me!”

She put her face in her hands. It was a confession she made. A wave of shame swept over her.

“Despise you? Ah, God help me, I love you!”

And this time he gathered her in his arms, and drew her back into the deeper shadow.

“And you were so cold,” she whispered. “I looked at you. I begged you with all my soul before I signed. You did nothing, nothing! O Mother of God, is there no help?”

“Dost love me?”

“With all my soul,” she answered.

“Poor ”

“Nay ”

“Obscure ”

“Nay ”

“Lowly perhaps ignobly born ”

“Nay, love, these are mere words to me. Rich or poor, high or low, noble or ignoble, thou only hast my heart. It beats and throbs only for thee. I have thought upon thee, dreamed upon thee, loved thee. I can not marry Don Felipe. I, too, have the pride of the de Lara’s. My father shall find it. I signed that contract under duress. You would do nothing. Oh, Alvarado, Alvarado, wilt thou stand by and let me be taken into the arms of another? But no, I shall die before that happens.”

“Donna Mercedes,” cried the unhappy young man, “I love thee, I adore thee, I worship thee with all my heart and soul! Were it not a coward’s act I would have plunged my dagger into my breast ere I witnessed that betrothal to-night.”

“Thou shouldst first have sheathed it in mine,” she whispered. “But could’st find no better use for thy weapon than that?”

“Would you have me kill Don Felipe?”

“No, no, but defend me with it. There are hidden recesses in the mountains. Your soldiers worship you. Take me away, away into the undiscovered countries to the southward. A continent is before you. We will find a new Mexico, carve out a new Peru with your sword, though I want nothing but to be with you, alone with you, my soldier, my lover, my king!”

“But your plighted word?”

“’Tis nothing. My heart was plighted to you. That is enough. Let us go, we may never have the chance again,” she urged, clinging to him.

A fearful struggle was going on in Alvarado’s breast. What she proposed was the very thing he would have attempted were the circumstances other than they were. But his patron, his friend, his military duty, his honor as a soldier the sweat beaded his forehead again. He had made up his mind at the betrothal to give her up. He had abandoned hope; he had put aside possibilities, for he could see none. But here she was in his arms, a living, breathing, vital, passionate figure, her heart beating against his own, pleading with him to take her away. Here was love with all its witchery, with all its magic, with all its power, attacking the defenses of his heart; and the woman whom he adored as his very life, with all the passion in his being, was urging, imploring, begging him to take her away. He was weakening, wavering, and the woman who watched him realized it and added fuel to the flame.

“The love I bear your father!” he gasped.

“Should it bind where mine breaks? I am his daughter.”

“And Don Felipe is my personal friend.”

“And my betrothed, but I hesitate not.”

“My oath as a soldier ”

“And mine as a woman.”

“Gratitude duty ”

“Oh, Alvarado, you love me not!” she cried. “These are the strongest. I have dreamed a dream. Lend me your dagger. There shall be no awakening. Without you I can not bear ”

As she spoke she plucked the dagger from the belt of the young soldier, lifted the point gleaming in the moonlight and raised it to her heart. He caught it instantly.

“No, no!” he cried. “Give back the weapon.”

The poniard fell from her hand.

“Thou hast taken me, I thank thee,” she murmured, thinking the battle won as he swept her once more in his arms. This time he bent his head to her upturned face and pressed kiss after kiss upon the trembling lips. It was the first time, and they abandoned themselves to their transports with all the fire of their long restrained passion.

“And is this the honor of Captain Alvarado?” cried a stern voice as the Viceroy entered the room. “My officer in whom I trusted? Death and fury! Donna Mercedes, what do you here?”

“The fault is mine,” said Alvarado, stepping between the woman he loved and her infuriated father. “I found Donna Mercedes in the cabinet when I came in. She strove to fly. I detained her by force. I poured into her ear a tale of my guilty passion. Mine is the fault. She repulsed me. She drove me off.”

“The dagger at your feet?”

“She snatched it from me and swore to bury it in her heart unless I left her. I alone am guilty.”

He lied instantly and nobly to save the woman’s honor.

“Thou villain, thou false friend!” shouted the Viceroy, whipping out his sword.

He was beside himself with fury, but there was a characteristic touch of magnanimity about his next action; so handsome, so splendid, so noble, in spite of his degrading confession, did the young man look, that he gave him a chance.

“Draw your sword, Captain Alvarado, for as I live I shall run you through!”

Alvarado’s hand went to his belt, he unclasped it and threw it aside.

“There lies my sword. I am dishonored,” he cried. “Strike, and end it all.”

“Not so, for Christ’s sake!” screamed Mercedes, who had heard as if in a daze. “He hath not told the truth. He hath lied for me. I alone am guilty. I heard him praying here in the still night and I came in, not he. I threw myself into his arms. I begged him to take me away. He spoke of his love and friendship for you, for Don Felipe, his honor, his duty. I did indeed seize the dagger, but because though he loved me he would still be true. On my head be the shame. Honor this gentleman, my father, as I love him.”

She flung herself at her father’s feet and caught his hand.

“I love him,” she sobbed, “I love him. With all the power, all the intensity, all the pride of the greatest of the de Laras I love him.”

“Is this true, Captain Alvarado?”

“Would God she had not said so,” answered the young man gloomily.

“Is it true?”

“I can not deny it, my lord, and yet I am the guilty one. I was on the point of yielding. Had you not come in we should have gone away.”

“Yet you had refused?”

“I I hesitated.”

“Refused my daughter! My God!” whispered the old man. “And you, shameless girl, you forced yourself upon him? Threw yourself into his arms?”

“Yes. I loved him. Did’st never love in thine own day, my father? Did’st never feel that life itself were as nothing compared to what beats and throbs here?”

“But Don Felipe?”

“He is a gallant gentleman. I love him not. Oh, sir, for God’s sake ”

“Press your daughter no further, Don Alvaro, she is beside herself,” gasped out Alvarado hoarsely. “’Tis all my fault. I loved her so deeply that she caught the feeling in her own heart. When I am gone she will forget me. You have raised me from obscurity, you have loaded me with honor, you have given me every opportunity I will be true. I will be faithful to you. ’Twill be death, but I hope it may come quickly. Misjudge me not, sweet lady. Happiness smiles not upon my passion, sadness marks me for her own. I pray God ’twill be but for a little space. Give me some work to do that I may kill sorrow by losing my life, my lord. And thou, Donna Mercedes, forget me and be happy with Don Felipe.”

“Never, never!” cried the girl.

She rose to her feet and came nearer to him. Her father stood by as if stunned. She laid her arms around Alvarado’s neck. She looked into her lover’s eyes.

“You love me and I love you. What matters anything else?”

“Oh, my lord, my lord!” cried Alvarado, staring at the Viceroy, “kill me, I pray, and end it all!”

“Thou must first kill me,” cried Mercedes, extending her arms across her lover’s breast.

“Donna Mercedes,” said her father, “thou hast put such shame upon the name and fame of de Lara as it hath never borne in five hundred years. Thou hast been betrothed to an honorable gentleman. It is my will that the compact be carried out.”

“O my God! my God!” cried the unhappy girl, sinking into a chair. “Wilt Thou permit such things to be?”

“And, Alvarado,” went on the old man, not heeding his daughter’s piteous prayer. “I know not thy parentage nor to what station thou wert born, but I have marked you from that day when, after Panama, they brought you a baby into my house. I have watched you with pride and joy. Whatever responsibility I have placed before you, you have met it. Whatever demand that hard circumstances have made upon you, you have overcome it. For every test there counts a victory. You have done the State and me great service, none greater than to-night. With such a temptation before thee, that few men that I have come in contact with in my long life could have resisted, you have thrown it aside. You and your honor have been tried and not found wanting. Whatever you may have been I know you now to be the finest thing on God’s earth, a Spanish gentleman! Nay, with such evidence of your character I could, were it possible, have set aside the claims of birth and station ”

“Oh, my father, my father!” interrupted the girl joyously.

“And have given you Donna Mercedes to wife.”

“Your Excellency ”

“But ’tis too late. The betrothal has been made; the contract signed; my word is passed. In solemn attestation before our Holy Church I have promised to give my daughter to Don Felipe de Tobar. Nothing can be urged against the match ”

“But love,” interjected Mercedes; “that is wanting.”

“It seems so,” returned the Viceroy. “And yet, where duty and honor demand, love is nothing. Donna Mercedes, thou hast broken my heart. That a Spanish gentlewoman should have shown herself so bold! I could punish thee, but thou art mine all. I am an old man. Perhaps there is some excuse in love. I will say no more. I will e’en forgive thee, but I must have your words, both of you, that there shall be no more of this; that no other word of affection for the other shall pass either lip, forever, and that you will be forever silent about the events of this night.”

“Speak thou first, Captain Alvarado,” said the girl.

“You have loved me,” cried the young man, turning toward Donna Mercedes, “and you have trusted me,” bowing to the old man. “Here are two appeals. God help me, I can not hesitate. Thou shalt have my word. Would this were the last from my lips.”

“And he could promise; he could say it!” wailed the broken-hearted woman. “O my father, he loves me not! I have been blind! I promise thee, on the honor of a de Lara! I have leaned upon a broken reed.”

“Never,” cried the old man, “hath he loved thee so truly and so grandly as at this moment.”

“It may be, it may be,” sobbed the girl, reeling as she spoke. “Take me away. ’Tis more than I can bear.”

Then she sank prostrate, senseless between the two men who loved her.

CHAPTER XI

WHEREIN CAPTAIN ALVARADO PLEDGES HIS WORD TO THE VICEROY OF VENEZUELA, THE COUNT ALVARO DE LARA, AND TO DON FELIPE DE TOBAR, HIS FRIEND

“We must have assistance,” cried the Viceroy in dismay. “Alvarado, do you go and summon ”

“Into the women’s apartments, my lord?”

“Nay, I will go. Watch you here. I trust you, you see,” answered the old man, promptly running through the window and out on the balcony toward the apartments of his daughter. He went quickly but making no noise, for he did not wish the events of the evening to become public.

Left to himself, Alvarado, resisting the temptation to take the prostrate form of his love in his arms and cover her cold face with kisses, knelt down by her side and began chafing her hands. He thought it no breach of propriety to murmur her name. Indeed he could not keep the words from his lips. Almost instantly the Viceroy departed there was a commotion in the outer hall. There was a knock on the door, repeated once and again, and before Alvarado could determine upon a course of action, Don Felipe burst into the room followed by Senora Agapida, the duenna of Donna Mercedes.

“Your Excellency ” cried the old woman in agitation, “I missed the Senorita. I have searched ”

“But who is this?” interrupted de Tobar, stepping over to where Alvarado still knelt by the prostrate girl. “’Tis not the Viceroy!” He laid his hand on the other man’s shoulder and recoiled in surprise.

“Dominique!” he exclaimed. “What do you here and who ”

“Mother of God!” shrieked the duenna. “There lies the Donna Mercedes!”

“She is hurt?” asked Felipe, for the moment his surprise at the presence of Alvarado lost in his anxiety for his betrothal.

“I know not,” answered the distracted old woman.

“She lives,” said Alvarado, rising to his feet and facing his friend. “She hath but fainted.”

“Water!” said Senora Agapida.

Both men started instantly to hand her the carafe that stood on a table near by. Don Felipe was nearer and got it first.

Senora Agapida loosened the dress of the young woman and sprinkled her face and hands with the water, laying her head back upon the floor as she did so and in a moment the girl opened her eyes. In the darkness of the room, for no lamp had as yet been lighted, she had not recognized in her bewilderment who was bending over her, for Alvarado had forced himself to draw back, yielding his place to de Tobar as if by right.

“Alvarado!” she murmured.

“She lives,” said Don Felipe, with relief and jealousy mingled in his voice, and then he turned and faced the other.

“And now, Senor Alvarado, perhaps you will be able to explain how you came to be here alone, at this hour of night, with my betrothed, and why she calls thy name! By St. Jago, sir, have you dared to offer violence to this lady?”

His hand went to his sword. To draw it was the work of a moment. He menaced the young soldier with the point.

“I could kill you as you stand there!” he cried in growing rage. “But the memory of our ancient friendship stays my hand. You shall have a chance. Where is your weapon!”

“Strike, if it please you. I want nothing but death,” answered Alvarado, making no effort whatever to defend himself.

“Hast deserved it at my hands, then?” exclaimed the now infuriated de Tobar.

“Stay!” interrupted the Viceroy re-entering the room. “What means this assault upon my captain? Donna Mercedes?”

“She revives,” said the duenna.

“Is it thou, Senora?” said the Viceroy. “I sought thee unavailingly.”

“Your Highness,” said the old woman, “I missed the senorita and found her here.”

“And how came you unbidden into my private cabinet, Don Felipe?”

“Your Excellency, Senora Agapida found me in the corridor. She was distraught over her lady’s absence. We knocked. There was no answer. We entered. I crave your pardon, but it was well I came, for I found my betrothed and my best friend alone, together, here,” he pointed gloomily. “A Spanish gentleman alone at this hour of the night with ”

“Silence!” thundered the Viceroy. “Would’st asperse my daughter’s name? Darest thou By heaven, you hold a weapon in your hand. I am old but Guard thyself!” he called, whipping out his sword with astonishing agility.

“I can not fight with you,” said de Tobar lowering his point, “but for God’s sake, explain!”

“The Donna Mercedes is as pure as heaven,” asserted Alvarado.

“Then why did you bid me strike and stand defenseless a moment since?”

“Because I love her and she is yours.”

“Death!” shouted de Tobar. “Take up thy sword!”

“Stay,” broke in the old Viceroy quickly, “keep silent, Alvarado, let me tell it all. I am her father. I would consult with the captain upon the journey of the morrow and other matters of state. With us here was my daughter. Is there aught to provoke thy jealousy or rage in this? Overcome by er the events of the day she fainted. One of us had to go for aid. ’Twas not meet that the young man should go to the women’s apartments, I left them together.”

“Alone?” queried de Tobar.

“Ay, alone. One was my daughter, a de Lara, and she was senseless. The other was almost my son, I knew him. He had proved himself. I could trust him.”

“Your Excellency, I thank you,” cried Alvarado, seizing the hand of the old nobleman and carrying it to his lips.

“You said you loved her,” said de Tobar turning to Alvarado.

“And so I do,” answered Alvarado, “but who could help it? It is an infection I have caught from my friend.”

“Have you spoken words of love to her? Have you pleaded with her? Did you meet here by appoint?”

“Don Felipe,” cried Donna Mercedes, who had kept silent at first hardly comprehending and then holding her breath at the denouement. “Hear me. Captain Alvarado’s manner to me has been coldness itself. Nay, he scarcely manifested the emotion of a friend.”

She spoke with a bitterness and resentment painfully apparent to Alvarado, but which in his bewilderment Don Felipe did not discover.

“I swear to you, senor,” she went on cunningly, “until this hour I never heard him say those words, ‘I love you.’ But this scene is too much for me, I can not bear it. Help me hence. Nay, neither of you gentlemen. With Senora Agapida’s aid I can manage. Farewell. When you wish to claim me, Don Felipe, the betrothal shall be carried out and I shall be yours. Good-night.”

De Tobar sprang after her and caught her hand, raising it respectfully to his lips.

“Now, senor,” he cried turning back, “we can discuss this question unhindered by the presence of the lady. You said you loved her. How dare you, a man of no birth, whose very name is an assumption, lift your eyes so high?”

“This from you, my friend,” cried Alvarado, turning whiter than ever at this insult.

“Sir,” interposed the voice of the Viceroy, “restrain yourself. ’Tis true we know not the birth or name of this young man whom I have honored with my confidence, upon whom you have bestowed your friendship. Perchance it may be nobler than thine, or mine, perchance not so, but he hath ever shown himself and I have watched him from his youth a gentleman, a Spanish gentleman whom all might emulate. You wrong him deeply ”

“But he loved her.”

“What of that?” answered the Viceroy.

“Ay,” cried Alvarado. “I do love her, and that I make no secret of it from you proves the sincerity of my soul. Who could help loving her, and much less a man in my position, for, in so far as was proper in a maiden, she has been kind to me since I was a boy. I cherish no hopes, no dreams, no ambitions. I locked my passion within my breast and determined to keep it there though it killed me. To-night, with her helpless at my feet, thrown on my pity, it was wrung from me; but I swear to you by my knightly honor, by that friendship that hath subsisted between us of old, that from this hour those words shall never pass my lips again; that from this hour I shall be as silent as before. Oh, trust me! I am sadly torn. Thou hast all, I nothing! If thou canst not trust me I bade you strike before, strike now and end it all. What supports life when love is denied? Friendship and duty. If these be taken from me, I am poor indeed, and I’d liefer die than live in shame. Your Excellency, bid him strike.”

“Thy life is not thine,” answered the older man, “it belongs to Spain. We have fallen on evil times and thy country needs thine arm. Thou hast said aright. Senor de Tobar,” he cried, “he is thy friend. Take him back to thy affection. I am an old man and a father, but were I young and one so beautiful crossed my path as Donna Mercedes by Our Lady he hath excuse for anything! He speaks the truth, though it be to his own hurt. Canst stand unmoved, senor, in thy happiness before such misery as that?”

“Dominique, forgive me!” cried de Tobar, “I was wrong. I am ashamed. Thou couldst not help it. I forgive thee. I love thee still.”

He made as if to embrace his friend, but Alvarado held him off.

“Wilt trust me fully, absolutely, entirely?”

“With all my life,” answered de Tobar.

“Thou shalt be tried,” said the Viceroy. “We march toward the Orinoco in three days. I had proposed to establish Donna Mercedes at La Guayra under care of Alvarado.”

“Not now, your Excellency,” cried the young man.

“Nay, I shall, provided de Tobar is willing.”

“A test, a test!” answered that young man. “Gladly do I welcome it. As thou lovest me, and as I love thee, guard thou my betrothed.”

“Your Excellency, take me with you to the Orinoco, and let Don Felipe stay at home with Donna Mercedes in La Guayra.”

“I am no experienced soldier to command a town,” protested de Tobar.

“Nay,” said the Viceroy, “it shall be as we have said. Wilt take the charge?”

“Ay, and defend it with all my soul!” answered Alvarado firmly.

“Senor Alvarado and Don Felipe, you have shown yourselves true Spanish gentlemen this night, hidalgos of whom Spain may well be proud,” cried the Viceroy in pleased and proud content. “To you, de Tobar, I shall give my daughter with assurance and pride, and were there another to bear my name I could wish no better husband for her than you, my poor friend. Now, the hour is late, I have much to say to Alvarado. Don Felipe, you will pardon me? Good-night.”

“Good-night, your Excellency,” promptly returned de Tobar. “I shall see you in the morning, Dominique, ere you set forth for La Guayra. I love thee and trust thee, my friend.”

CHAPTER XII

SHOWS HOW DONNA MERCEDES CHOSE DEATH RATHER THAN GIVE UP CAPTAIN ALVARADO, AND WHAT BEFEL THEM ON THE ROAD OVER THE MOUNTAINS

They set forth early in the morning. There was a cool freshness in the air from the storm of the day before and if they wished to avoid the necessity of traveling in the heat of the day early departure was necessary. Although the season was summer in a tropic land not far from the equator, the altitude of Caracas lowered the ordinary temperature to an agreeable degree, but after they crossed the pass of La Veta and began the descent toward La Guayra they would be within the confines of one of the hottest localities on the face of the globe.

Early as it was, the Viceroy and his officers, including, of course, de Tobar, were assembled in the patio to bid the travelers godspeed. While de Lara gave a few parting directions to Alvarado, Don Felipe took advantage of the opportunity and of his position as the publicly affianced of Donna Mercedes to address her a few words in farewell, which she received with listless indifference that did not bode well for the future happiness of either of them. The final preparations were soon over. Don Felipe lifted Donna Mercedes to the saddle of her Spanish jennet; some of the other gentlemen assisted the Senora Agapida to the back of the sure-footed mule which she had elected as her mount; Alvarado saluted and sprang to the back of his mettlesome barb, and, followed by a half-dozen troopers who constituted the escort, the rear being brought up by servants with pack mules carrying the personal baggage of the two ladies, the little cavalcade moved off, the gentlemen in the Viceroy’s suite standing bareheaded in the doorway as they disappeared under the trees and began the ascent toward the pass.

With the whispered assurance of his friend, “I trust you,” still ringing in his ear, with the sound of the Viceroy’s stern voice, “I know not what danger could befall my child in this peaceful time, but I have a premonition that something threatens, and I charge you to guard her welfare and happiness with your life,” still fresh in his mind, Alvarado, whose white, haggard face showed that he had passed a sleepless night, rode at the head of the column. Some distance in front of him rode a trooper, for there were even then thieves, wandering bands of masterless men who levied bloody toll on travelers from the capitol whenever they got opportunity. Next to the captain came the sergeant of the little guard, then the two women, followed closely by two more of the soldiers, after that the little pack train, which he had ordered to close up and keep in touch after they left the city, and, last of all, the two remaining soldiers to bring up the rear.

The soldiers, servants, and muleteers were in high spirits. There was little danger to be apprehended, for the party was too strong to fear attack from any of the brigand bodies, and the military order of march was taken more as a matter of habit than from any special need. The day was pleasant, the scenery, though familiar, was at the same time grand and beautiful, and they were happy all, that is, except Donna Mercedes, the duenna, and Alvarado.

The worthy Senora Agapida with womanly shrewdness more than suspected the true state of affairs. Indeed, Mercedes, who loved the old woman, who had been as a mother to her, her own mother having died when she was a mere child, had scarcely taken the trouble to conceal her misery, and the old woman’s heart was wrung whenever she looked at the drooping figure at her side. She would fain have brought the flush of happiness to the face of the girl she loved, by throwing her into the arms of Alvarado; but, as a distant connection of the de Laras herself, the worthy dame had her own notions of pride, and her honor would not permit her to do anything for which the Viceroy could properly fault her. The ancient duenna was an indifferent horsewoman, too, and although she had the easiest and surest footed beast of the party she journeyed with many sighs and groans of dissatisfaction. She bravely made an effort at first to cheer up her charge, but soon perceived that the task was beyond her powers, so she rode along in a silence unbroken save by her frequent ejaculations.

When Mercedes had met Alvarado early in the morning she had acknowledged his profound salutation with the curtest and coldest of nods. She was furiously and bitterly angry with him; for, between duty, honor, friendship, and her love, he had not chosen her. She knew that he loved her. She had known it a long time, and, if she had the slightest doubt, the sincerity with which he had spoken the night before, the fierce, passionate fervor of the kisses that he had pressed upon her lips, his utter abandonment to his passion, had more than satisfied her. Yet, when she had offered to throw everything to the winds love, duty, obedience, if he would only take her away he had hesitated. With her, a woman who had all Venezuela at her feet, held in his arms, he had repulsed her, refused her! He had heard the open confession of her overwhelming love for him, and he had resisted her! With the feel of her heart beating against his own, he had strained her to his breast and prated of honor and duty!

She was mad with anger and disappointment. She loathed him; she hated him; she raged against him in her heart. Why had he not killed de Tobar where he stood, seized her in his arms, braved the anger of her father, and galloped away anywhere out into the mysterious southland where they could be together? Well and good, she would marry Don Felipe. She would assume a happiness that she could not feel and kill him with the sight of it. He had disdained her; he should suffer, suffer in proportion to his love, such torments as he had made her suffer last night shame, disappointment, indignation.

She had not slept the entire night, either, thinking these things, yet it had not all been pain. How nobly he had lied to save her! He, to whom a lie was worse than death. He had tried to assume dishonor for her sake. He loved her; yes, there was no doubt of it. She closed her eyes with the thought and her whole being was filled with exquisite anguish. He loved her, he was made for her, yet when he might have taken her he refused. De Tobar was indeed a brave and gallant gentleman, but his qualities were as moonlight to the sunlight compared to those of Alvarado. In spite of herself, though the mere suggestion of it angered her, she found herself obliged to grant that there was something noble in that position he had assumed which so filled her with fury. It was not, with him, a question of loving duty and honor more than herself, but it was a question of doing duty and preserving honor, though the heart broke and the soul was rent in the effort.

Because he had the strength to do these things, not to betray his friend, not to return ingratitude to her father, who had been a father to him too, not to be false to his military honor; because he had the strength to control himself, she felt dimly how strong his passion might be. In spite of her careful avoidance of his eyes, her cold demeanor, that morning, she had marked the haggard, pale face of the young soldier to whom she had given her heart, which showed that he, too, had suffered. She watched him as he rode, superb horseman that he was, at the head of the little cavalcade. Tall, straight, erect, graceful, she was glad that he rode in advance with his back to her, so that she might follow him with her eyes, her gaze unheeded by any but Senora Agapida, and for her she did not care.

As he turned at intervals to survey his charges, to see that all were keeping closed up and in order, by furtive glances she could mark with exultation the pallor that had taken the place of the ruddy hue on the fair cheek of her lover. She could even note the black circles under the blue eyes beneath the sunny hair, so different from her own midnight crown.

How this man loved her! She could see, and know, and feel. Great as was her own passion, it did not outweigh his feeling. A tempest was raging in his bosom. The girl who watched him could mark the progress of the storm in the deeps of his soul, for his face told the tale of it.

And, indeed, his thoughts were bitter. What must she think of him? He had been a fool. Happiness had been his for the taking, and he had thrown it away. Why had he not brushed de Tobar out of his path, silenced the Viceroy no, not by death, but by binding him fast, and then taken the woman he loved and who loved him, for she had proved it by her utter abandonment of herself to him? Those old soldiers who had served him for many years would have followed him wherever he led. The Viceroy’s arm was long, but they could have found a haven where they could have been together. God had made them for each other and he had refused. He had thrust her aside. He had pushed the cup of happiness from his own lips with his own hand.

Honor was a name, duty an abstraction, gratitude a folly. What must she think of him? There had been no reservation in her declaration of affection. For him she was willing to give up all, and though he had vowed and protested in his heart that there was nothing she could ask of him that he would not grant her, he had been able to do nothing after all.

He wished it was all to do over again. Now it was too late. To the chains of duty, honor, gratitude, had been added that of his plighted word. Knowing his love, de Tobar, his friend, had trusted him. Knowing his daughter’s love, the Viceroy had also trusted him. He was locked with fetters, bound and sealed, helpless. And yet the temptation grew with each hour. He had suspected, he had dreamed, he had hoped, that Mercedes loved him, now he was sure of it. Oh, what happiness might have been his!

What was this mystery about his birth? He had been picked up a baby in a deserted village outside of Panama. He had been found by the young Count de Lara, who had led his troops to the succor of that doomed town, which, unfortunately, he had only reached after the buccaneers had departed. Search had been made for his parents but without success. The Viceroy finding none to claim the bright-faced baby, had given him a name and had caused him to be brought up in his own household. There was nothing in his apparel to distinguish him save the exquisite fineness and richness of the material. Thrown around his neck had been a curiously wrought silver crucifix on a silver chain, and that crucifix he had worn ever since. It lay upon his breast beneath his clothing now. It was the sole object which connected him with his past.

Who had been his father, his mother? How had a baby so richly dressed come to be abandoned in a small obscure village outside the walls of Panama, which would have escaped the ravages of the buccaneers on account of its insignificance, had it not lain directly in their backward path. They had destroyed it out of mere wantonness.

And there was another thought which often came to him and caused his cheeks to burn with horror. If, as his clothing had indicated, he had been the child of wealth, did not his obscure position indicate that he was at the same time the child of shame?

Since he had reached man’s estate he had thought of these things often and had prayed that in some way, at some time, the mystery might be solved, for the suspense was worse than any assurance, however dreadful. He had often thought with longing upon his father, his mother. This morning in the bitterness of his heart he cursed them for the situation in which he found himself. He despaired at last of ever finding out anything. What mattered it now? He might be of the proudest and most honorable lineage in New Spain, a Soto-Mayor, a Bobadilla, even a de Guzman. It would advantage him nothing since he had lost Mercedes. In spite of himself he groaned aloud, and the girl riding a little distance behind him heard the sound of anguish in his voice.

Her heart, which had been yearning toward him with increasing force, was stirred within her bosom.

“Ride thou here,” she said suddenly to Senora Agapida, “I go forward to speak with Captain Alvarado.”

“But, senorita, thy father ”

“Is it not permitted that I speak with the captain of the soldiery who escort me?”

“Certainly, if I am by.”

“I do not choose to have it so,” replied Mercedes, with all the haughtiness of her father. “Remain here. I will return presently.”

Brushing her aside with an imperious wave of her hand and a threatening glance before which the poor duenna quailed, for her charge had never shown such spirit before, Mercedes struck her Spanish jennet with the whip she carried, passed around the intervening soldier, who courteously gave way to her, and reined in her steed by Alvarado’s horse. So close, indeed, was she to the captain that she almost touched him. It was good to see the light leap in his eyes, the flush come into his pale cheek as he became aware of her presence.

“Donna Mercedes!” he cried in surprise. “Is anything wrong? Where is the Senora Agapida?”

“Nothing is wrong. I left her there.”

“Shall I summon her?”

“Art afraid to speak to me, to a woman, alone, sir captain?”

“Nay, senorita, but ’tis unseemly ”

“Wouldst thou lesson me in manners, master soldier?” cried the girl haughtily.

“God forbid, lady, but thy father ”

“He laid no injunction upon me that I should not speak to you, sir. Is that forbidden?”

“Of course not, but ”

“But what, sir? It is your own weakness you fear? You were strong enough last night. Have you, by chance repented?”

There was such a passionate eagerness in her voice, and such a leaping hope for an affirmative answer in the glance she bent upon him, that he could scarce sustain the shock of it. His whole soul had risen to meet hers, coming as she came. He trembled at her propinquity. The voice of the girl thrilled him as never before.

The sergeant who followed them, out of respect for their confidences checked the pace of his troop horse somewhat and the two advanced some distance from him out of earshot. The unhappy duenna watched them with anxious eyes, but hesitated to attempt to join them. Indeed, the way was blocked for such an indifferent horsewoman as she by the adroit manoeuvres of the sergeant. He was devoted to his young commander and he had surmised the state of affairs also. He would have had no scruples whatever in facilitating a meeting, even an elopement. The two lovers, therefore, could speak unobserved, or at least unheard by any stranger.

“Lady,” said Alvarado at last, “I am indeed afraid. You make the strong, weak. Your beauty forgive me masters me. For God’s sake, for Christ, His Mother, tempt me not! I can stand no more ” he burst forth with vehemence.

“What troubles thee, Alvarado?” she said softly.

“Thou and my plighted word.”

“You chose honor and duty last night when you might have had me. Art still in the same mind?”

“Senorita, this subject is forbidden.”

“Stop!” cried the girl, “I absolve you from all injunctions of silence. I, too, am a de Lara, and in my father’s absence the head of the house. The duty thou hast sworn to him thou owest me. Art still in the same mind as last night, I say?”

“Last night I was a fool!”

“And this morning?”

“I am a slave.”

“A slave to what? To whom?”

“Donna Mercedes,” he cried, turning an imploring glance upon her, “press me no further. Indeed, the burden is greater than I can bear.”

“A slave to whom?” she went on insistently, seeing an advantage and pressing it hard. She was determined that she would have an answer. No conviction of duty or feeling of filial regard was strong enough to overwhelm love in this woman’s heart. As she spoke she flashed upon him her most brilliant glance and by a deft movement of her bridle hand swerved the jennet in closer to his barb. She laid her hand upon his strong arm and bent her head close toward him. They were far from the others now and the turns of the winding road concealed them.

“A slave to whom? Perhaps to me?” she whispered.

“Have mercy on me!” he cried. “To you? Yes. But honor, duty ”

“Again those hateful words!” she interrupted, her dark face flushing with anger. “Were I a man, loved I a woman who loved me as I as I as one you know, I would have seized her in spite of all the world! Once she had fled to the shelter of my arms, while life beat in my heart none should tear her thence.”

“Thy father ”

“He thinks not of my happiness.”

“Say not so, Donna Mercedes.”

“’Tis true. It is a matter of convenient arrangement. Two ancient names, two great fortunes cry aloud for union and they drown the voice of the heart. I am bestowed like a chattel.”

“Don Felipe ”

“Is an honorable gentleman, a brave one. He needs no defense at my hands. That much, at least, my father did. There is no objection to my suitor save that I do not love him.”

“In time in time you may,” gasped Alvarado.

“Dost thou look within thine own heart and see a fancy so evanescent that thou speakest thus to me?”

“Nay, not so.”

“I believe thee, and were a thousand years to roll over my head thine image would still be found here.”

She laid her tiny gloved hand upon her breast as she spoke in a low voice, and this time she looked away from him. He would have given heaven and earth to have caught her yielding figure in his arms. She drooped in the saddle beside him in a pose which was a confession of womanly weakness and she swayed toward him as if the heart in her body cried out to that which beat in his own breast.

“Mercedes! Mercedes!” he said, “you torture me beyond endurance! Go back to your duenna, to Senora Agapida, I beg of you! I can stand no more! I did promise and vow in my heart my honor my duty ”

“Ay, with men it is different,” said the girl, and the sound of a sob in her voice cut him to the heart, “and these things are above love, above everything. I do not I can not understand. I can not comprehend. You have rejected me I have offered myself to you a second time after the refusal of last night. Where is my Spanish pride? Where is my maidenly modesty? That reserve that should be the better part of woman is gone. I know not honor duty I only know that though you reject me, I am yours. I, too, am a slave. I love you. Nay, I can not marry Don Felipe de Tobar. ’Twere to make a sacrilege of a sacrament.”

“Thy father ”

“I have done my best to obey him. I can no more.”

“What wilt thou do?”

“This!” cried the girl desperately.

The road at the point they had arrived wound sharply around the spur of the mountain which rose above them thousands of feet on one side and fell abruptly away in a terrific precipice upon the other. As she spoke she struck her horse again with the whip. At the same time by a violent wrench on the bridle rein she turned him swiftly toward the open cliff. Quick as she had been, however, Alvarado’s own movement was quicker. He struck spur into his powerful barb and with a single bound was by her side, in the very nick of time. Her horse’s forefeet were slipping among the loose stones on the edge. In another second they would both be over. Alvarado threw his right arm around her and with a force superhuman dragged her from the saddle, at the same time forcing his own horse violently backward with his bridle hand. His instant promptness had saved her, for the frightened horse she rode, unable to control himself, plunged down the cliff and was crushed to death a thousand feet below.

CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH CAPTAIN ALVARADO IS FORSWORN AND WITH DONNA MERCEDES IN HIS ARMS BREAKS HIS PLIGHTED WORD

“My God!” cried the young soldier hoarsely, straining her to his breast, while endeavoring to calm his nervous and excited horse. “What would you have done?”

“Why didn’t you let me go?” she asked, struggling feebly in his arms. “It would all have been over then.”

“I could not, I love you.”

The words were wrung from him in spite of himself by her deadly peril, by her desperate design which he had only frustrated by superhuman quickness and strength. He was pale, shaking, trembling, unnerved, for her. He scarce knew what he said or did, so little command had he over himself.

As he spoke those words “I love you,” so blissful for her to hear, she slipped her arm around his neck. It was not in mortal man to resist under such circumstances. He forgot everything honor, duty, his word, everything he threw to the winds. Before the passion which sought death when denied him his own powers of resistance vanished. He strained her to his breast and bent his head to kiss her. Again and again he drank at the upturned fountain of affection, her lips. The shock had been too much for him. Greater for him than for her. He had seen her upon the verge of eternity. She thought nothing of that in her present joy. She only realized that she was in his arms again, that he had kissed her, and between the kisses he poured out words that were even greater caresses.

The others were far behind. They were alone upon the mountain-side with the rocks behind and the great sapphire sea of the Caribbean before them. He held her close to his breast and they forgot everything but love as they gently pricked along the road. It was near noon now, and as the road a furlong farther debouched into an open plateau shaded by trees and watered by a running brook which purled down the mountain-side from some inaccessible cloud-swept height it was a fitting place to make camp, where the whole party, tired by a long morning’s travel, could repose themselves until the breeze of afternoon tempered the heat of the day. Here he dismounted, lifted her from horse, and they stood together, side by side.

“You have saved me,” she whispered, “you have drawn me back from the death that I sought. God has given me to you. We shall never be parted.”

“I am a false friend, an ungrateful servitor, a forsworn man, a perjured soldier!” he groaned, passing his hand over his pale brow as if to brush away the idea consequent upon his words.

“But thou hast my love,” she whispered tenderly, swaying toward him again.

“Yes yes. Would that it could crown something else than my dishonor.”

“Say not so.”

She kissed him again, fain to dispel the shadow that darkened his face.

“I had been faithful,” he went on, as if in justification, “had I not seen thee on the brink of that cliff, and then thou wert in my arms I was lost ”

“And I was found. I leaped to death. I shut my eyes as I drove the horse toward the cliff, and I awakened to find myself in your arms in heaven! Let nothing take me hence.”

“It can not be,” he said, “I must go to the Viceroy when he returns from the Orinoco war, and tell him that I have betrayed him.”

“I will tell him,” she answered, “or wilt thou tell him what I tell thee?” she went on.

“Surely.”

“Then say to him that I sought death rather than be given to Don Felipe or to any one else. Tell him you saved me on the very brink of the cliff, and that never soldier made a better fight for field or flag than thou didst make for thy honor and duty, but that I broke thee down. I had the power, and I used it. The story is as old as Eden the woman tempted ”

“I should have been stronger I should not have weakened. But I shall fight no more it is all over.”

“Ah, thou canst not,” she whispered, nestling closer to him. “And tell my father that should harm come to thee, if, in their anger, he or de Tobar lay hand upon thee, it will not advantage their plans, for I swear, if there be no other way, I will starve myself to death to follow thee!”

“I can not shelter myself behind a woman.”

“Then I will tell them both myself,” she cried. “You shall know, they shall know, how a Spanish woman can love.”

“And thou shalt know, too,” answered Alvarado firmly, “that though I break my heart, I, an unknown, can expatiate his guilt with all the pride of most ancient lineage and birth highest of them all.”

It was a brave speech, but he did not release his hold upon Mercedes and in spite of his words when, confident that whatever he might say, however he might struggle, he was hers at last, she smiled up at him again, he kissed her.

“When go you to my father, Senor Alvarado?” she asked.

“When he returns from the Orinoco.”

“And that will not be until ”

“Perhaps a month.”

“Wilt love me until then?”

“I shall love thee forever.”

“Nay, but wilt thou tell me so, with every day, every week, every hour, every moment, with kisses like to these?”

“Oh, tempt me not!” he whispered; but he returned again and again her caresses.

“Ah, my Alvarado, if you have once fallen, what then? Is not one kiss as bad as a thousand?”

“Be it so; we will be happy until that time.”

“One month, one month of heaven, my love, after that let come what may,” she answered, her cheeks and eyes aflame, her heart throbbing with exquisite pain in her breast. They would enjoy the day, the future could take care of itself.

“Some one approaches!” he said at last, and at the same moment the rest of the party came around the bend of the road. The poor duenna was consumed with anxiety and remorse.

“Bernardo,” said Alvarado to the sergeant, “we will take our siesta here. Unsaddle the horses and prepare the noon-day meal under the trees. Send one of the troopers ahead to bid Fadrique stop on the road until we rejoin him, keeping good guard. Senora Agapida, you must be tired from the long ride. Let me assist you to dismount.”

“The Senorita Mercedes!” she asked, as he lifted her to the ground. “Where is her horse?”

“He slipped and fell,” answered the girl promptly.

“Fell? Madre de Dios!”

“Yes, over the cliff. Captain Alvarado lifted me from the saddle just in time.”

“I shall make a novena of devotion to St. Jago for thy preservation, sweet Mercedes,” cried the duenna, “and you, young sir, must have a strong arm ”

“It is ever at your service,” answered Alvarado gravely, bowing before her.

The old woman’s heart went out to the gallant young man, so handsome, so brave, so strong, so distinguished looking.

“Why,” she mused under her breath, “could he not have been the one?”

By this time the little place was filled with soldiers, attendants, and muleteers. Some kindled fires, others unpacked hampers loaded with provisions, others prepared a place where the party might rest, and as, to restore order out of this confusion, Alvarado turned hither and thither he was followed in all his movements by the lovely eyes of the woman who had broken him, and who had won him.

During the interval of repose the young man allowed his party the two lovers were constantly together. Alvarado had made a faint effort to go apart and leave Mercedes to herself, but with passionate determination she had refused to allow it. She had thrown prudence to the winds. Careless of whoever might see, of whoever might comment, heedless of the reproving duenna, indifferent to ancient practice, reckless of curious glances, she had insisted upon accompanying the captain and he had yielded. He was doomed in his own soul to death. He intended to tell the Viceroy and de Tobar everything, and he had no doubt that one or the other would instantly kill him. It was a fate to which he would make no resistance. Meanwhile he would enjoy the day. There was a melancholy pleasure, too, in the thought, for this morning had assured him of it, that whatever awaited him Mercedes would belong to no one else. If they killed him she had sworn that she would not survive him. If they strove to force her into the arms of another, she had declared she would die rather than comply, and he believed her.

Other women in like circumstances might have resorted to a convent, but Mercedes was not of the temperament which makes that calm harbor an inviting refuge. If she could not have Alvarado, she would simply die that was all. Under the circumstances, therefore, as he had already forfeited his own esteem, he hesitated no more. Indeed, before the passion of the woman he loved, who loved him, it was not possible. In her presence he could do nothing else. They abandoned themselves with all the fervor of youth and passion to their transports of affection. They wandered away from the others and by the side of the brook beneath the shelter of the trees remained together and whispered all the love that beat within their freed breasts. They might die to-morrow, to-day they lived and loved. Fain would they have prolonged the Elysian dream forever, but the descending sun of the afternoon at last warned Alvarado, if they would reach La Guayra that night, that they must resume their journey. Reluctantly he gave the order to mount.

This time, utterly indifferent to the Senora Agapida, Mercedes, mounted on one of the led horses, rode openly by Alvarado’s side. Sustained by his presence, constantly in touch with him, she made the way down the difficult wanderings of the rocky mountain trail. They watched the sun set in all its glory over the tropic sea. The evening breeze blew softly about them riding side by side. Then the night fell upon them. Over them blazed the glorious canopy of the tropic stars, chief among them the fiery Southern Cross, emblem of the faith they cherished, the most marvelous diadem in the heavens. There below them twinkled the lights of La Guayra. The road grew broader and smoother now. It was almost at the level of the beach. They would have to pass through the town presently, and thence up a steep rocky road which wound around the mountain until they surmounted the cliff back of the city and arrived at the palace of the Governor upon the hillside, where Mercedes was to lodge. An hour, at least, would bring them to their destination now. There was nothing to apprehend. The brigands in the fastnesses of the mountains or the savages, who sometimes strayed along the road, never ventured so near the town.

Fadrique, by Alvarado’s orders, had fallen back nearer the main body so as to be within call.

“We shall be there in a little while. See yonder, the lights of the town,” said the captain.

“While thou art with me,” said the girl, “it matters little where we are. There are but two places in the world now ”

“And those are ?”

“Where thou art and where thou art not. If I may only be with thee, if we may be together, I want nothing else.”

She had scarcely spoken before the sound of a cry followed by a shot broke on the night.