"The machete was given to me by a friend," said the Indian, "I do not know where he got it."
"Really," answered José with a brutal laugh, "perhaps you will remember presently. Here, father, warm the point of the machete in the lamp, will you, while I tell our guest how we are going to serve him and his daughter."
Don Pedro nodded, and, taking the sword, he held the tip of it over the flame, while José bending forward whispered into the Indian's ear, pointing from time to time to the girl, who, overcome with faintness or horror, had sunk to the ground, where she was huddled in a heap half hidden by the masses of her hair.
"Are you white men then devils?" said the old man at length, with a groan that seemed to burst from the bottom of his heart, "and is there no law or justice among you?"
"Not at all, friend," answered José, "we are good fellows enough, but times are hard and we must live. As for the rest, we don't trouble over much about law in these parts, and I never heard that unbaptised Indian dogs have any right to justice. Now, once more, will you guide us to the place whence that gold came, leaving your daughter here as hostage for our safety?"
"Never!" cried the Indian, "better that we two should perish a hundred times, than that the ancient secrets of my people should pass to such as you."
"So you have secrets after all! Father, is the sword hot?" asked José.
"One minute more, son," said the old man, quietly turning the point in the flame.
This was the scene that we witnessed, and these were the words that astonished our ears.
"It is time to interfere," muttered the señor, and, placing his hand upon the rail, he prepared to drop into the church.
Now a thought struck me, and I drew him back to the passage.
"Perhaps the door is open," I said.
"Are you going in there?" asked the girl Luisa.
"Certainly," I replied; "we must rescue those people, or die with them."
"Then, señors, farewell, I have done all I can for you, and now the saints must be your guide, for if I am seen they will kill me, and I have a child for whose sake I desire to live. Again, farewell," and she glided away like a shadow.
We crept forward down the stair. At the foot of it was a little door, which, as we had hoped, stood ajar. For a moment we consulted together, then we crawled on through the gloom towards the ring of light about the altar. Now José had the heated sword in his hand.
"Look up, my dear, look up," he said to the girl, patting her on the cheek. "I am about to baptise your excellent father according to the rites of the Christian religion, by marking him with a cross upon the forehead," and he advanced the glowing point of the sword towards the Indian's face.
At that instant Molas pinned him from behind, causing him to drop the weapon, while I did the same office by Don Pedro, holding him so that, struggle as he might, he could not stir.
"Make a sound, either of you, and you are dead," said the señor, picking up the machete and placing its hot point against José's breast, where it slowly burnt its way through his clothes.
"What are we to do with these men?" he asked.
"Kill them as they would have killed us," answered Molas; "or, if you fear the task, cut loose the old man yonder and let him avenge his own and his daughter's wrongs."
"What say you, Ignatio?"
"I seek no man's blood, but for our own safety it is well that these wretches should die. Away with them!"
Now Don Pedro began to bleat inarticulately in his terror, and that hero, José, burst into tears and pleaded for his life, writhing with pain the while, for the point of the sword scorched him.
"You are an English gentleman," he groaned, "you cannot butcher a helpless man as though he were an ox."
"As you tried to butcher us in the chamber yonder—us, who saved your life," answered the señor. "Still, you are right, I cannot do it because, as you say, I am a gentleman. Molas, loose this dog, and if he tries to run, put your knife through him. José Moreno, you have a sword by your side and I hold one in my hand; I will not murder you, but we have a quarrel, and we will settle it here and now."
"You are mad, señor," I said, "to risk your life thus, I myself will kill him rather than it should be so."
"Will you fight if I loose you, José Moreno?" he asked, making me no answer, "or will you be killed where you stand?"
"I will fight," he replied.
"Good. Let him free, Molas, and be ready with your knife."
"I command you," I began, but already the man was loose and the señor stood waiting for him, his back to the door, and grasping the Indian machete handled with the golden woman.
Now José glanced round as though he sought a means of escape, but there was none, for in front was the machete and behind was the knife of Molas. For some seconds—ten perhaps—they stood facing each other in the ring of the lamp–light, whilst the moonbeams played faintly about their heads. We watched in utter silence, the Indian girl shaking the long hair from her face, and leaning forward as far as her bonds would allow, that she might see this battle to the death between him who had insulted and tormented her, and the noble–looking white man who had appeared out of the gloom to bring her deliverance.
It was a strange scene, for the contrast of light and darkness, or of good and evil, is not greater than was that of these two men, and what made it stranger were the place and hour. Behind them was the half–lit emptiness of the deserted chapel, before them stood the holy crucifix and the desecrated altar of God, and beneath their feet lay the bones of the forgotten dead, whose spirits mayhap were watching them from the shadows as earnestly as did our living eyes. Yes, that midnight scene of death and vengeance enacted in the House of Peace was very strange, and even now it thrills my blood to think of it.
From the moment that I saw them fronting each other, my fears for the issue vanished. Victory was written in the calm features of the señor, and more especially in his large blue eyes, that of a sudden had grown stern as those of an avenging angel, while the face of José told only of baffled fury struggling with bottomless despair. He was about to die, and the terror of approaching death unnerved him.
Still it was he who struck the first, for, stepping forward, he aimed a desperate blow at the señor's head, who, springing aside, avoided it, and in return ran him through the left arm. With a cry of pain, the Mexican sprang back, followed by the señor, at whom he cut from time to time, but without result, for every blow was parried.
Now they were within the altar rails, and now his back was against one of the carved pillars of sapote wood—that to which the girl was tied. Further he could not fly, but stayed there, laying about him wildly, so that the woman at the other side of the pillar crouched upon the ground to avoid the sweep of his sword.
Then the end came, for the señor, who was waiting his chance, drew suddenly within reach, only to step back so that the furious blow aimed at his head struck with a ringing sound upon the marble floor, where the mark of it may yet be seen. Before Don José, whose arm was numbed by the shock, could lift the sword again, the señor ran in, and for the second time thrust with all his strength. But now the aim was truer, for his machete pierced the Mexican through the heart, so that he fell down and died there upon the altar step.
Now I must tell of my own folly that went near to bringing us all to death. You will remember that I was holding Don Pedro, and how it came about I know not, but in my joy and agitation I slackened by grip, so that with a sudden twist he was able to tear himself from my hands, and in a twinkling of an eye was gone.
I bounded after him, but too late, for as I reached the door it was slammed in my face, nor could I open it, for on the chapel side were neither key nor handle.