Disconcerted, they seek an explanation, mutually questioning one another. But before either can make answer in speech, they have it under their eyes – in the shape of a brace of British naval officers.
Like themselves, the latter have just reached the summit of the ridge, and are moving on towards Don Gregorio’s gate. It is midway between; and keeping on at the same rate of speed, the two pairs will meet directly in front of it.
Before that moment, neither has ever set eyes on the other. Notwithstanding, there is an expression on the faces of all four, which tells of mutual recognition, and of no friendly nature.
Calderon whispers to De Lara:
“The English officers!”
Cadwallader says, sotto-voce to Crozier:
“The fellows we’ve heard about – our rivals, Ned, like ourselves, I suppose, going to visit the girls.”
De Lara makes no response to Calderon. Neither does Crozier to Cadwallader. There is not time. They are now close up to the gate, and there is only its breadth between them.
They have arrived there at the same instant of time, and simultaneously make stop. Face to face, silence on both sides, neither word nor salute offered in exchange. But looks are quite as expressive – glances that speak the language of jealous rivalry – of rage with difficulty suppressed.
It is a question of precedence, as to who shall first pass into the entrance. Their hesitation was not from any courtesy, but the reverse. The men on horseback look down on those afoot contemptuously, scornfully. Threateningly, too; as though they had thoughts of riding over, and trampling them under the hoofs of their horses. No doubt they would like to do it, and might make trial, were the young officers unarmed. But they are not. Crozier carries a pistol – Cadwallader his midshipman’s dirk, both weapons conspicuous outside their uniforms.
For a period of several seconds’ duration, the rivals stand vis-à-vis, neither venturing to advance. Around them is a nimbus of angry electricity, that needs but a spark to kindle it into furious flame. A single word will do it. This word spoken, and two of the four may never enter Don Gregorio’s gate – at least not alive.
It is not spoken. The only thing said is by Crozier to Cadwallader – not in a whisper, but aloud, and without regard to what effect it may have on the enemy.
“Come along, Will! We’ve something better to do than stand shilly-shallying here. Heave after me, shipmate!”
Crozier’s speech cut the Gordian knot; and the officers, gliding through the gateway, advance along the avenue.
With faces now turned towards the house, they see the ladies still upon the azotea.
Soon as near enough for Carmen to observe it, Crozier draws out the treasured tress, and fastens it in his cap, behind the gold band. It falls over his shoulder like a cataract of liquid amber.
Cadwallader does likewise; and from his cap also streams a tress, black as the plumes of a raven.
The two upon the house-top appear pleased by this display. They show their approval by imitating it. Each raises hand to her riding-hat; and when these are withdrawn, a curl of hair is seen set behind their toquillas– one chestnut-brown, the other of yellowish hue.
Scarce is this love-telegraphy exchanged, when the two Californians come riding up the avenue, at full speed. Though lingering at the gate, and still far-off, De Lara had observed the affair of the tresses, clearly comprehending the symbolism of the act. Exasperated beyond bounds, he can no longer control himself, and cares not what may come.
At his instigation, Calderon spurs on by his side, the two tearing furiously along. Their purpose is evident: to force the pedestrians from the path, and so humble them in the eyes of their sweethearts.
On his side, Crozier remains cool, admonishing Cadwallader to do the same. They feel the power of possession: assured by those smiles, that the citadel is theirs. It is for the outsiders to make the assault.
“Give a clear gangway, Will!” counsels Crozier; “and let them pass. We can talk to the gentlemen afterwards.”
Both step back among the manzanita bushes, and the ginetes go galloping past; De Lara on Crozier’s side scowling down, as if he would annihilate the English officer with a look. The scowl is returned with interest, the officer still reserves speech.
On the other edge of the avenue the action is a little different. The midshipman, full of youthful freak, determines on having his “lark.” He sees the chance, and cannot restrain himself. As Calderon sweeps past, he draws his dirk, and pricks the Californian’s horse in the hip. The animal, maddened by the pain, springs upward, and then shoots off at increased speed, still further heightened by the fierce exclamations of his rider, and the mocking laughter of the mid.
Under the walls the two horsemen come to a halt, neither having made much by their bit of rude bravadoism. And they know they will have a reckoning to settle for it – at least De Lara does. For on the brow of Crozier, coming up, he can read a determination to call him to account. He is not flurried about this. On the contrary, he has courted it, knowing himself a skilled swordsman, and dead shot. Remembering that he has already killed his man, he can await with equanimity the challenge he has provoked. It is not fear has brought the pallor to his cheeks, and set the dark seal upon his brow. Both spring from a different passion: observable in his eyes as he turns them towards the house-top. For the ladies are still there, looking down.
Saluting, he says:
“Dona Carmen, can I have the honour of an interview?”
She thus interrogated does not make immediate answer. Spectator of all that has passed, she observes the hostile attitude between the two sets of visitors. To receive both at the same time will be more than embarrassing. With their angry passions roused to such a pitch, it must end in a personal encounter.
Her duty is clear. She is mistress of the house, representing her father, who is absent. The English officers are there by invitation. At thought of this she no longer hesitates.
“Not now, Don Francisco de Lara,” she says, replying to his question; “not to-day. I must beg of you to excuse me.”
“Indeed!” rejoins he sneeringly. “Will it be deemed discourteous in me to ask why I am denied?”
It is discourteous; and so Doña Carmen deems it. Though she does not tell him as much in words, he can take it from her rejoinder.
“You are quite welcome to know the reason. We have an engagement!”
“Oh! an engagement!”
“Yes, sir, an engagement,” she repeats, in a tone telling of irritation. “Those gentlemen you see are our guests. My father has invited them to spend the day with us.”
“Ah! your father has invited them! How very good of Don Gregorio Montijo, extending his hospitality to gringos! And Doña Carmen has added her kind compliments with earnest entreaties for them to come, no doubt?”
“Sir!” says Carmen, no longer able to conceal her indignation, “your speech is impertinent – insulting. I shall listen to it no longer.”
Saying which, she steps back, disappearing behind the parapet – where Iñez has already concealed herself, at the close of a similar short, but stormy, dialogue with Calderon.
De Lara, a lurid look in his eyes, sits in his saddle as if in a stupor. He is roused from it by a voice, Crozier’s, saying:
“You appear anxious to make apology to the lady? You can make it to me.”
“Caraji!” exclaims the gambler, starting, and glaring angrily at the speaker. “Who are you?”
“One who demands an apology for your very indecorous behaviour.”
“You’ll not get it.”
“Satisfaction, then.”
“That