BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

progressing. This was the excuse given by three of them; but it was false, as Tim well knew. He alone took an interest in politics. Even Peter had ceased to care about Don Hypolito, and the opal stone, and the possible war. He—under orders from Jack and Philip, who wanted the girls to themselves—made himself agreeable to Doña Serafina. Unaccustomed, by reason of her plain looks, to such attentions, she enjoyed the novelty of the thing, and thought this fat little Americano delightful. It is true that their conversation was mostly pantomimic; but as the doctor knew a few words of Spanish, and Serafina had learnt a trifle of English from Jack, filtered through Dolores, they managed between them to come to a hazy understanding as to what they were talking about.

      Never till that moment did Philip feel the infinite charm of that languorous Creole life, so full of dreams and idleness. Sitting beside Eulalia in the warm gloom, he listened to her sparkling conversation, and stared vaguely at the beauty of the scene around him. In the patio all was moonlight and midnight—that is as regards the shadows, for the hour was yet early. Here and there in the violet sky trembled a star with mellow lustre, and the keen, cold shafts of moonlight, piercing the dusk, smote the flowers and tessellated pavement with silver rays. Pools of white light lay on the floor welling into the shadow even to the little feet of Eulalia. The court wore that unfamiliar look, so mysterious, so weird, which only comes with the night and the pale moon. And then—surely that was music—the trembling note of a guitar sounding from the shadowy corner in which Jack and Dolores were ensconced.

      In the glimmering light Philip could see the grotesque gestures of Serafina and the doctor, as they pantomimed to one another on the azotea, and the red tip of Miguel’s cigar, as he strolled up and down on the flat roof talking seriously with Tim. Through the warm air, heavy with the perfume of flowers, floated the contralto voice of Dolores. The song was in Spanish, and that noble tongue sounded rich and full over the sweeping music of the guitar. As translated afterwards by Philip (who dabbled in poetry), the words ran thus:

      In Spain! ah, yes, in Spain!

      When day was fading,

      I heard you serenading,

       While shed the moon her silver rain,

       The nightingale your song was aiding,

       My tresses dark I then was braiding,

       When to my chamber upward springing

       There came the burden of your singing,

       Nor was that singing vain

       In Spain—dear Spain.

      From Spain! yes, far from Spain,

      We two now wander;

      And here as yonder

       A hopeless love for me you feign.

       Alas! of others thou art fonder,

       And I, forsaken, sit and ponder.

       Yet once again your voice is ringing,

       I hear the burden of that singing.

       Alas! I fled in vain

       From Spain—dear Spain.

      They applauded the song and the singer, Jack looking across to Philip as much as to say, “Isn’t she an angel?” If Philip thought so, he did not say so, being busy with Eulalia. They were talking Chinese metaphysics, a pleasant subject to discuss with a pretty girl well up in the intricacies thereof. As to Jack and his angel!

      “Querida!” murmured Dolores, slipping her hand into that of her lover’s under cover of the darkness; “how lonely has my heart been without thee.”

      “Angelito,” replied Jack, who was an adept at saying pretty things in Spanish; “I left behind my heart when I departed, and it has drawn me back to your side.”

      “Alas! How long will we be together, Juan? I am afraid of this war; should Don Hypolito conquer!” Here she paused and slightly shuddered.

      “He shall not conquer, cara. What can he do with a few adherents against the power of the Government?”

      “Still, the Indians——”

      “You are afraid they will join with him. To what end? Xuarez cannot restore the worship of the Chalchuih Tlatonac.”

      “Juan!” said Dolores, anxiously, “it is not of Xuarez I am so much afraid as of the Indians. If there is a war, they may carry me off.”

      “Carry you off!” repeated Jack, in a puzzled tone of voice. “Why, how could they do that? and for what reason?”

      “They could do it easily by some subtle device; bolts and bars and walled towns are nothing to them when they set their hearts on anything. And they would carry me away because I am the guardian of the Chalchuih Tlatonac.”

      “Who told you all this?”

      “Cocom.”

      “But he does not worship the opal or the old gods. He is a devout Catholic.”

      “So says Padre Ignatius; but I think he is one of those who go to the forest sanctuary. He knows much.”

      “And says nothing. It is death for him to betray the secrets of that Aztec worship.”

      “Listen, Juan, alma de mi alma. The life of Cocom was saved by my uncle Miguel, and with him gratitude is more powerful than religion. He told me while you were away, that the opal has prophesied war, and on that account the Indians are alarmed for me. Should there be no guardian of the opal, Huitzilopochtli will be angry, and lest I should be killed in the war as soon as the revolt takes place, the Indians will carry me for safety into the heart of the country—into those trackless forest depths more profound than the sea.”

      “They shall never do so while I am at hand,” said Jack, fiercely; “but I don’t believe this story of Cocom’s. You cannot be in such danger.”

      “I am afraid it is true; besides, that is not the only danger—Don Hypolito!”

      “What of him?”

      “He wishes to marry me, Juan.”

      Duval laughed softly, and pressed the little hand, that lay within his own.

      “You talk ancient history, querida; I thought we settled that I was to be the favoured one.”

      “It is true! ah, yes, thee alone do I love,” whispered Dolores, tenderly; “but when you departed, Juan, he came to me, this Don Hypolito, and spoke of love.”

      “Confound his impudence!” muttered Jack, in English.

      “What say you, Juan? Oh, it was terrible! He said, if I became not his wife, that he would plunge the country into war. I did not believe that he could do so or would dare to do so. I refused. Then he spoke of my love for you, and swore to kill you.”

      “He’ll have to catch me first, Dolores.”

      “‘There will be war,’ said this terrible one, ‘and I will tear down the walls of Tlatonac to seize you. This Americano will I slay and give his body to the dogs.’”

      “All idle talk, mi cara,” said Duval, scornfully; “I can protect myself and you. What more did he say?”

      “Little more; but it was the same kind of talk. When he departed, I spoke to my uncle; but Don Hypolito had by that time gone to Acauhtzin.”

      “Was Don Miguel angry?”

      “Very angry! But he could do nothing. Don Hypolito was far away on the waters.”

      “And will return with fire and blood,” said Jack, gloomily; “but never fear, Dolores. My friends and myself will protect you from this insolent one. If we are conquered, we shall fly to my own land in the vessel of Don Felipe!”

      “But what of Eulalia?”

      “Ah!” replied her lover, waggishly; “I think you can trust Don Felipe to look after Eulalia.”