The Buccaneer Chief: A Romance of the Spanish Main

And he spiced this most ungallant observation by furiously digging the spurs into his horse, which started at a gallop.

Still, he was rapidly approaching the hatto, all the details of which it was already easy to distinguish.

It was a pretty and rather large mansion with a terraced roof, surmounted by a mirador and with a peristyle in front formed by four columns supporting a verandah.

A thick hedge surrounded the house, which could only be reached by crossing a large garden; behind were the corrals to shut in the beasts, and the cottages of the Negroes, miserable, low and half ruined huts, built of clumsily intertwined branches and covered with palm leaves.

This hatto, tranquil and solitary, in the midst of this plain of luxuriant vegetation, and half concealed by the trees that formed a screen of foliage, had a really enchanting aspect, which, however, did not seem to produce on the traveller's mind any other effect but that of profound weariness and lively annoyance.

The arrival of the stranger had doubtless been signalled by the sentry stationed on the mirador to watch the surrounding country, for a horseman emerged at a gallop from the hatto, and came toward the small party composed of the gentleman we have described and the four slaves who still ran behind him, displaying their white, sharp teeth, and blowing like grampuses.

The newcomer was a man of short stature, but his wide shoulders and solid limbs denoted far from common muscular strength, he was about forty years of age, his features were harsh and marked, and the expression of his countenance was sombre and crafty. A broad-brimmed straw hat nearly concealed his face, a cloak called a poncho, made of one piece, and with a hole in the middle to pass his head through, covered his shoulders; the hilt of a long knife peeped out of his right boot, a sabre hung on his left side, and a long fusil was lying across the front of his saddle. When he arrived within a few paces of the gentleman, he stopped his horse short on its hind legs, uncovered, and bowed respectfully.

"Santas tardes, Señor Don Sancho," he said in an obsequious voice.

"Ah, ah! It is you, Birbomono," the young man said, as he carelessly touched his hat; "what the deuce are you doing here? I fancied you were hung long ago."

"Your Excellency is jesting," the other replied, with an ill-tempered grimace, "I am the Señora's Major-domo."

"I compliment her on it, and you, too."

"The Señora was very anxious about your Excellency, and I was preparing, by her orders, to make a battue in the neighbourhood. She will be delighted to see you arrive without misadventure."

"What misadventure?" the young man said, as he loosened his rein; "What do you mean, scamp? And what had I to fear on the roads?"

"Your Excellency cannot be ignorant that the ladrones infest the savannahs."

The young man burst into a laugh.

"The ladrones! What a pleasant story you are telling me, too; come, run and announce my arrival to my sister, without further chattering."

The Major-domo did not let the order be repeated, but bowed, and set off at a gallop.

Ten minutes later, Don Sancho dismounted in front of the peristyle of the hatto, where a young lady of rare beauty, but cadaverous pallor, and who appeared hardly able to keep up, as she was so weak and ill, was awaiting his arrival.

This lady was the sister of Señor Don Sancho, and the owner of the hatto.

The two young people embraced each other for a long while without exchanging a word, and then Don Sancho offered his arm to his sister, and entered the house with her, leaving the Major-domo to look after his horse and baggage.

The young gentleman led his sister to an easy chair, fetched one for himself, rolled it up to her side, and sat down.

"At last," she said a moment later, in an affectionate voice, as she took one of the young man's hands in her own, "I see you again, brother; you are here, near me – how glad I am to see you."

"My dear Clara," Don Sancho replied, as he kissed her forehead, "we have been separated for nearly a year."

"Alas!" she murmured.

"And during that year many things have doubtless happened, of which you will inform me?"

"Alas! My life during this year may be summed up in two words – I have suffered."

"Poor sister, how changed you are in so little time, I could hardly recognize you; I came to St. Domingo with such joy, and no sooner had I landed than I went to your palace; your husband, who has not altered, and whom I found as heavy and silent as usual, with an increased dose of importance, doubtless the result of his high position, told me that you were not very well, and that the physicians had ordered you country air."

"It is true," she said, with a sad smile.

"Yes; but I fancied you merely indisposed, and I find you dying."

"Let us not talk of that, Sancho, I implore you; what matter if I am ill? Did you receive my letter?"

"Had I not, should I be here? Two hours after its receipt I set out; for three days," he continued with a smile, "I have been going uphill and down dale, along frightful roads, to reach you the sooner."

"Thanks, oh thanks, Sancho; your presence renders me very happy – you will remain for a while with me, will you not?"

"As long as you like, dear sister, for I am a free man."

"Free!" she repeated, looking at him with an air of amazement.

"Well, yes; his Excellency, the Duc de Peñaflor, my illustrious father and yours, the Viceroy of New Spain, has deigned to grant me an unlimited leave."

At her father's name a slight shudder ran over the young lady's person, and her eyes became dimmed with tears.

"Ah," she said, "my father is well?"

"Better than ever."

"And has he spoken about me?"

The young man bit his lips.

"He spoke to me about you very little," he said; "but I in revenge, said a good deal about you, which re-established the balance: I even believe that he granted me the leave I asked in great measure to free himself from my chattering."

Doña Clara hung her head without replying, and her brother fixed upon her a glance full of tender pity.

"Let us talk about yourself," he said.

"No, no, Sancho; we had better talk about him." she replied hesitatingly.

"Of him!" he said in a hollow voice, and with a groan; "Alas, poor sister, what can I tell you? All my efforts have been vain; I have discovered nothing."

"Yes, yes;" she murmured, "his measures were well taken to make him disappear. Oh, Heaven! Heaven!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands wildly, "Will you not take pity on me?"

"Calm yourself, I implore you, sister; I will see, I will seek – I will redouble my efforts, and perhaps I shall at length succeed – "

"No," she interrupted him, "never, never shall we be able to effect anything; he is condemned, condemned by my father; that implacable man will never restore him to me! Oh! I know my father better than you do; you are a man, Sancho, you can try to struggle against him, but he has crushed me, crushed me at a single blow; he broke my heart by a deadly pressure in making me the innocent accomplice of an infernal vengeance! Then he coldly reproached me with a dishonour which is his work, and at the same blow eternally destroyed the happiness of three beings who would have loved him, and whose future he held in his hands."

"And you, my dear Clara, do you know nothing – have you discovered nothing?"

"Yes," she replied, looking at him fixedly, "I have made a horrible discovery."