Chapter XXIII Rogelio Finds Gall and Wormwood
Pedro was extinguishing the lights of his cantina when he heard the clatter of a horse’s hoofs. They stopped at his door, and Rogelio entered, perspiring, breathless, and in violent perturbation.
“Ho, Señor Veedor, thou dost ride late!” exclaimed Pedro, in surprise. “There is something amiss?”
Rogelio sank upon the nearest stool, panting and wiping away perspiration, on the verge of apoplexy from exertion and rage combined. The danger of it seemed to strike Pedro at once. He hurried forward and commenced fanning the official vigorously with his apron.
“Steady, steady, Señor!” he urged, soothingly. “Do not try to talk. Take time and spare thy wind. Thou ’rt gasping like a ducked hen.—Nay, nay! Do not swear. Be tranquil. Calm thyself. Count ten, Señor—now do! Believe me, naught doth so soothe a fit of ferment. But—swearing again! Gently, gently, or thou’lt melt in thine own heat! Gods, man! Cease rolling thine eyes. Hast a cramp under thy belt? Let me thump thy back.—Ah!”
Pedro pummelled the agitated veedor between the shoulders with hearty vigor, and succeeded thereby in expelling what little breath he had remaining, rendering him still more helpless from exasperation. He saved himself by bolting from his seat and backing against the wall, where he stood waving his arms in speechlessness to keep the zealous cook away.
“Name of a saint, my friend!” said Pedro, with great concern, after Rogelio began to breathe more freely, “I never saw an over-gorged pup nearer a fit than thou. What hath gone wrong?”
“She—hath arrived!” gasped the veedor at length.
“Oh! She hath arrived, hath she? Well, she must be a very tarantula to work thee a spell like that, Señor! By the gods, even Bolio’s coming could not give me such a bedevilment of jerks and palpitations!”
The veedor was rendered speechless again. Pedro eyed him with great commiseration until he showed signs of recovery, then threw him into another spasm by inquiring with solicitude,
“Doth the lady pursue, Señor? If so, we will barricade the door.”
Rogelio held up his hands, violently shaking his head. “No, no!” he managed to say. “Damned—numskull! Let me—talk.”
“Why, talk, to be sure! ’T is what I’ve waited for,—to hear thee talk. What the devil dost think? that I’ve been standing here this while to see thee contort and strangle? I had liefer watch a pig in the colic. Proceed, Veedor, and talk. It may ease thy mind. Sensa animi tui libere profare—Latin, Señor, and it meaneth, speak freely. Prithee, begin. I listen.”
The veedor had collapsed into a chair, choking with rage. He sprang up, shaking both fists at the cook, and started toward the door; turned back, and waving his arms for silence, howled: “Accursed—rattle-teeth!—hear me!—I seek a servant!”
“Thou seekest a servant!” responded Pedro, with composure. “Well, by heaven, I could guess it! And thou needest, not one, but a dozen, I should say; and a strait-jacket withal. But, infierno! is the quest of a servant so delirious a pursuit?—Now, do be calm, Señor! Hold a minute, and I’ll bleed thee. No? But ’t would be wise, my friend, for if thou ’rt not on the edge of the staggers, then I never gave physic to a horse.—And now thou’rt swearing again! Fie, Veedor! Here! Let me get thee a wet rag.”
Pedro hurried away. When he returned the veedor had regained his utterance, and waving aside the proffered application, he shouted:—
“Keep off, thou babbling moon-calf! Wilt hear me? I need a servant—at once! A servant—dost hear? A servant—and may the fiend claw thy vitals! Canst get me one—to-night? I’ll pay thee well.”
“Well, stew me! if the need of a servant wrought me to such a state of mind, I’d——” Pedro seated himself. “But ’t is late, Veedor. Thy guest hath come, sayst thou?”
“Yes, yes! She is sick from weariness, and needeth a woman. Wilt find me one?”
Pedro became serious at once. “Sick! Then ’t is pressing. Let me think. There is Señora Bolio, for a possibility. She might consent to go, but she knoweth no Quichua. That, however, might be an advantage, not so? Less apt to connive at escape.” Pedro eyed the veedor watchfully.
“Yes! Diablo, yes!” said Rogelio, eagerly. “Canst persuade her?”
“I’ll try,” said Pedro, rising. He threw off his apron and started toward the door; halted, and came back, determined to test his suspicion. “Señor,” he said, abruptly, “how did they get her away from Peralta? Did they kill him? If not, then I swear to thee, Veedor, thou ’rt as good as dead!” and Pedro slowly shook his head in direst portent.
The veedor was unguarded. He started violently, and his face went ashy. “Oh, my soul and body! I—I forgot to ask them.” He scanned the cook with quick suspicion. “How in the devil’s name dost know?” he demanded. Pedro placed a finger beside his nose, wagged his head with deep significance, and went out. Now it was his turn to be agitated.
He pegged straight to the señora’s lodging, and pounded upon the door until it opened. “Quick!” he cried. “The Viracocha woman! There is sickness.”
The native made him repeat it, refastened the door, and left Pedro in a fume. When she opened again, it was with a request to follow, and led him across the court. The señora appeared at a door with an under-garment over her shoulders. “Is it thou, Pedro?” she asked, sleepily. “What is to do? This is an unholy hour to wake a body, dost not know it?”
Pedro pushed the door open, and entered. “’T is a crying need,” he said, and hastily explained.
“Who is this girl?” demanded the señora, with a pang of jealousy.
“Peralta’s enamorada,” replied the cook, thinking he lied, but venturing it to quiet her suspicion.
“And who this Rogelio?” asked the señora.
“A toad!” answered Pedro. “Wilt go? I will ride with thee to the fortress.”
The señora was retying the fagged end of her braid.
“A favor to me, carita,” urged Pedro.
“I will go,” said Señora Bolio.
“Then come to the cantina as soon as thou ’rt clad. I will have thy mule,” and he hastened away. By the time the animals were saddled the lady arrived, her battle-axe beneath her arm, wrapped in a bundle of apparel. Pedro strapped it to her saddle, and summoning the fevered veedor, assisted the señora to mount. As they rode out on the quiet road, Rogelio leading, the cook gave further history of the Ñusta, together with certain sidelights on the veedor. They reached the fortress, and having seen the two through the gate, Pedro returned, relieved for Rava, but sadly disturbed by thoughts of Cristoval.
The señora followed her conductor to his door. As he dismounted a sound of revelry stole out upon the night, and the veedor dashed in. The neglected lady sniffed after him scornfully, swung herself out of the saddle, unstrapped her belongings, led her mule into the patio, and followed the veedor to a half-open door. The unfortunate Rogelio was doomed to further bitterness. The room was lighted by all the lamps of the establishment. Duero and his companions were seated round a well-laden board, a bowl of steaming punch in the midst, and had arrived at the jovial stage. As Rogelio entered and stood blinking at the brilliancy, his fat chin wagging with renewed rage at their effrontery, they surveyed him a moment, and burst into a shout of laughter. Duero raised his cup.
“Hail, good host, liberal entertainer, most hospitable mate!” roared he. “Thou ’rt welcome. Enter! Come, leave diffidence outside. Thou ’rt not intruding—now is he, camaradas? No! Sit and make free. What is ours is thine—not so, camaradas? Segaramente! Hola!” He sprang to his feet as the señora appeared at the door. “Blessed angels of Heaven, what do I see? The Señora Bolio!” He advanced with a profound bow. “Welcome, Señora, most welcome! Upon my heart, ’tis like the sight of a nosegay from Old Castile! Ho, compañeros!—your courtesies to Señora la Conquistadora!” He bowed again, answered by the lady with a glare of cold disdain.
“Miscreants, knaves, cutthroats!” shrieked Rogelio. “You shall pay dear for this night!”
Duero surveyed him darkly, hunched his shoulder, and thrust out his chin, and the veedor sank into a chair. The soldier eyed him for a moment, and turned to the lady. “Señora, I surmise thou hast come to care for the girl. She needeth it, God knoweth, and the less time lost the better. Come. I have the key.”
Rogelio sprang up to follow, but once more the hunch of shoulder, the thrust of chin, and the scowling look askance, and he sat. Duero winked at the señora as he turned to lead the way, and ignoring her snort of resentment of the liberty, went out. She followed, and halting at the Ñusta’s door, he said, as he unfastened, “Pedro hath told thee of this Rogelio?”
“Briefly, that he is a toad,” responded the señora.
“Brief, but most precise! Pedro hath a good head. Now, Señora, I’ll leave thee to enter, and the door unlocked. If thou hast need of aught, thou’lt find us entertaining the veedor for an hour or more. I’ll have him send a bowl of broth at once. Adiós.”
Duero rejoined the others, and they sat long making their host unhappy; then, having promised him with evident sincerity that if he whispered a complaint he would find himself some morning with a severed windpipe, they took their leave.
Señora Bolio went to the couch. Rava had raised her head, but perceiving the invader was a woman, rose to her knees, her eyes streaming, and voice broken with sobs. With arms outstretched, she poured forth an impassioned supplication in words to the stranger unknown,—in words unknown, but with meaning clear, and an eloquence that went straight to the heart of the señora. For the señora had a heart. It beat somewhat wildly at times, and at times with vehement hostility toward the sex which had worked it countless wrongs; but like other hearts that flame, it had its gentler warmth. The appeal of the injured and helpless girl touched her womanliness, and she hastened to her side.
“Poor dearie!” she exclaimed, seating herself and drawing the sobbing prisoner to her breast. “Poor little waif! Have they been cruel, these men? Ah, may the devil roast them well! Do not weep, love. Do not weep, chiquita. They shall not harm thee more. Let the veedor beware. Let him come to trouble thee, and we’ll unjoint him—will we not, little one? We’ll put a twist in his neck, thou and I, that will let him look at his shoulderblades to his heart’s content—will we not, my dove? Ah! That we’ll do, and more, if he but roll his eyes aslant at thee!”
With soft voice and motherly caress, the señora soothed the heart-broken Rava; her words—perhaps quite as well—without meaning to the girl, but her tones replete with sympathy. Rava clung to her as to a last hope, becoming gradually more calm, until a knock at the door stirred her terror afresh. Releasing her, the señora sprang up. Grimly she stripped her battle-axe, and stepped to the door. The servant recoiled.
“Ah, ’tis thou!” the lady exclaimed, and received the broth.
The strength it gave aided her efforts to restore calm to the despairing captive, and in an hour Rava slept. Her guardian sat long, nursing a waxing enmity for the authors of the maiden’s sorrows, and for Rogelio in particular; then, having with fell purpose placed her weapon conveniently at hand, she lay down beside her protégée.
She awoke early, astonished to find Rava kneeling with hands clasped in prayer, a silver crucifix before her on her pillow, the Latin periods, in her quaint, hesitating accents, sounding strangely. The señora joined her orison, then turned to her in surprise.
“A Christian, thou?” she asked, taking her hand.
Rava understood the word, and assented eagerly. “Cristoval!” she said, and touched the crucifix, her eyes filling at the name.
“Ah! Peralta! The stout freebooter with the good voice. I know him,” and the señora nodded emphatically. “Art baptized, child?”
This word was familiar also, and Rava nodded her head; then said eagerly: “Father Tendilla! Father Tendilla!”
“Father Tendilla!” exclaimed Señora Bolio. “Thou knowest him? Blessed thought!—we’ll send a word to Father Tendilla. Aha, Rogelio, sniffling obesity, we shall see! We’ll choke thee with thine own unholy purpose, or I’m not Bolio. Rogelio, indeed! If, now, Pedro will but come!” She patted Rava’s arm reassuringly and arose.
Meanwhile the veedor, with eyes puffed and bloodshot from a night of scanty sleep and much exacerbation, was breakfasting. At intervals he paused, laid down his knife, and sat rubbing his hands in pleasing meditation while he chewed. Then his complacent smile would fade, and he would cease both to rub his hands and to chew while he irefully reviewed the night’s indignities. “Caitiffs! Perfidious scoundrels! Vipers! Only wait! Rogelio hath not done. If he live not to see the garrote at every one of your rascally throats, then ’t is because he shall be short-lived. Wait, my over-cheerful bullies: we’ll have another settling of this account, and ’t is Rogelio will split his sides! But, oh, my stars, what a cost! Four thousand—oh, calamities!” Then, as the matter slowly revolved in his mind and the other aspect came uppermost, he would begin to chew again with a returning smirk of satisfaction. “But what a prize! Eh, Rogelio, what a prize! And safely housed—in the cage, as Duero put it!—accursed knave! serpent! Four—oh, my soul and body!—But, oho! Mendoza, thou uncouth ruffian, how now? Rogelio hath overmatched thee, despite thy rant and swagger. He, he! The fox and the bull—the fox and the bull! Ah, but thou ’rt a rogue, Rogelio! a sad rogue and sly! And thou’lt be reimbursed the four thousand—oh, my life, yes! Her jewels ought to do that. Did she wear jewels last night? Murder! I did not think to look. But ’t is like Duero looked out for that—or that prison-bird, Peralta.” Rogelio’s countenance fell. Presently it brightened. “But we have her, and now it is to be seen how she will receive thee, Rogelio—her daring captor! Doubtless with charming terrors and maidenly trembling. Oh, these delightful women! Shy, timid, alluring! Bless their souls—if they have souls. He, he!”
He sat awhile blinking and chuckling at the remains of his meal; snuffled, arose, and went to make a toilet which he purposed should reconcile his captive. A zestful, engaging occupation, this decking for the admiration of a fair one; and most agreeable if one can, like Rogelio, achieve it with the flattering self-assurance that it cannot fail. Nevertheless, it was not without some rasping of temper, and more than once in the process Rogelio stamped and swore with squeaky emphasis. But at length, after a final glance at his mirror and a dubious fingering of his double chin and hanging jowls, he quit his room, creditably attired, considering all the circumstances. To be sure, his hose were mended in places, his doublet seedy in the strong light, and his ruff far from crisp and snowy; but these defects were offset by a profusion of rings, and a redolence of musk sufficiently overpowering to divert attention.
Señora Bolio answered his rap, and opening the door a little way, replied to his salutation with a brief nod, and stood surveying him from head to foot and back again from foot to head with disfavor as disconcerting as it was manifest. Indisputably, the señora’s aspect was unfriendly.
The veedor hesitated. “Is—ah—is the señorita within?”
The señora paused for another survey before she replied with asperity: “Is the señorita within! Of a surety the señorita is within. Prithee, where is she like to be—out chasing butterflies?”
Rogelio looked at her in blank surprise; then, with a feeble effort at a smile: “I would have a few words with her, Señora,—and alone! Pray, open the door.”
The señora made no move to open the door, but replied tartly: “The señorita hath no words to spare and no ear for listening. She is wearied.”
The veedor reddened slowly as astonishment turned to anger. “What—what, woman! Dost think to offer me hindrance in mine own house? Stand aside, then gather thy belongings. Thou ’rt dismissed, dost hear? dismissed!” He stepped forward.
For reply the lady thrust out her arm and in close proximity to his nose, snapped her fingers. The veedor gasped. His nerves were already unstrung, and his indignation set him a-quiver as if he had been some huge, fancifully-moulded jelly.
“Why—name of a—thou—my soul and body! What meanest thou, beldame? inconceivable termagant!”
Alas! Rogelio. That was unfortunate, ill-considered, rash. As if thou wert not enough distraught!—and now to invite the overflow of this brimming vessel of wrath! Before he could draw a second breath she was outside, arms akimbo, her face thrust so close into his that her features for a moment were a blur to his startled eyes. Then she unrolled the infinite scroll of her diatribe,—a withering flow of invectives garnered in years of rude experience; a schedule of strange metaphors, born of inspiration and chasing in so rapid sequence that his bewildered ears no sooner received the shock of one than another followed, twice more shocking; a torrent of hyperboles so weird in their personal application that his ideas staggered in a vague, wondering effort to comprehend, then floundered helpless in the stream; and each member of her discourse emphasized by a jab at his nose with thumb and finger that forced him back, step by step, across the court. The first flush of rage vanished from his countenance and left an expression of surprised impotency, his jaw working in a futile effort to articulate, until, turning with uplifted hands, he fled.
As his door slammed, the breathless señora became conscious of another man. A man at the moment was as a flaunt in the face of a maddened bull, and she turned upon him. It was Pedro. He had watched the episode from its beginning to its close. Now he was bowing low, cap in hand.
“Señora Bolio,” he said, with great unction, “my admiration! My admiration, my homage, my reverence! My veneration, my stupefaction, my awe! My——”
“Oh, drat thy gibberings!” interrupted the señora, with irritation. “Be done with thy bobbing, and come hither. Thou ’rt the very man I wished to see.”
“Heaven forfend!” murmured Pedro. “Hast yet more wind?”
She eyed him sternly, then her features gradually relaxed. “Not for thee, my chicken pie. But hearken, Pedro. I have news. This girl—dost know it?—is a Christian.”
Pedro stared. “No!” he exclaimed. “And ’t is the Ñusta Rava?”
“’T is she, and she a Christian, Pedro, as I live! And she calleth for Father Tendilla.”
“For Father Tendilla! Then stew me, she shall have him! I’ll fetch him.”
“Fetch him, Pedro. Go at once.” And taking him by the shoulder, the señora turned him toward the entrance of the court. “Make haste, and, Adiós.”
Pedro went a few paces, and halted; reflected a moment, and returned. As the señora looked back he nodded toward Rogelio’s dcor, and approaching it, rapped vigorously. There was silence, and he pounded again.
“Be off!” came a piping voice, not entirely steady.
Pedro pushed open the door, and heard a scurrying within. “Be off, woman! I’m armed. Enter at thy peril!” trebled the voice. Pedro thrust in his head. The veedor was intrenched behind his table, bathed in perspiration.
“Oh, thy pardon, Veedor! I thought thou didst bid me enter,” said Pedro, and closed the door with a grin.
“Hold, good Pedro! Wait! Tarry a moment, I pray thee, my dear friend,” called the veedor, but Pedro was gone. As he left the court the door opened, and Rogelio protruded his head, calling again; espied the señora across the court, and retired abruptly.