Phil and his comrades drew near. He saw the women glance at them, and he saw the youngest of them look at him several times. She stared with a vague sort of wonder in her eyes, and Phil's heart suddenly began to pound so hard that he grew dizzy. Since the letter, coming out of the unknown and traveling such a vast distance, had found him in the little town of Paris, Kentucky, he had felt at times the power of intuition.

Truths burst suddenly upon him, and for the moment he had the conviction that this was the woman. Moreover, she was still looking at him.

"Speak to her, Bill! Speak to her!" he exclaimed. "Don't let her go until you ask her."

But Breakstone had already noticed the curious glances the woman was casting at Phil, and in the Spanish patois of the region he bade them a light and courteous good morning. Here all the charm of Breakstone's manner showed at its very best. No one could take offense at it, and the three women, smiling, replied in a similar vein. Breakstone understood Phil's agitation. The boy might be right, but he did not intend to be too headlong. He must fence and approach the subject gradually. So he spoke of the little things that make conversation, but presently he said to the youngest of the women:

"I see that you notice my comrade, the one who is not yet a man in years, though a man in size. Does it chance that you have seen some one like him?"

"I do not know," replied the woman. "I am looking into my memory that I may see."

"Perhaps," said Breakstone smoothly, "it was one of the Texan prisoners whom they brought through here two or three years ago. A boy, tall and fair like this boy, but dusty with the march, bent with weariness, his feet cut and bleeding by the lava over which he had been forced to march, stood here at this well. He was blindfolded that he might not see which way he had come, but you, the Holy Virgin filling your heart with pity, took the cup of cool water and gave it to him to drink."

Comprehension filled the eyes of the woman, and she gazed at Breakstone with growing wonder.

"It is so!" she exclaimed. "I remember now. It was three years ago.

There was a band of prisoners, twelve or fifteen, maybe, but he was the youngest of them all, and so worn, so weak! I could not see his eyes, but he had the figure and manner of the youth who stands there! It was why I looked, and then looked again, the resemblance that I could not remember."

"It is his brother who is with me," said Breakstone. "Can you tell where these prisoners were taken?"

"I do not know, but I have heard that they were carried into the mountains to the south and west, where they were to be held until Texas was brought back to Mexico, or to be put to death as outlaws."

"What prisons lie in these mountains to the south and west?"

"I do not know how many, but we have heard most of the Castle of Montevideo. Some of our own people have gone there, never to come back."

She and her companions shuddered at the name of the Castle of Montevideo. It seemed to have some vague, mysterious terror for them.

It was now Bill Breakstone who had the intuition. The Castle of Montevideo was the place. It was there that they had taken John Bedford. He translated clearly for Phil, who became very pale.

"It is the place, Phil," he said. "We must go to the Castle of Montevideo to find him."

He drew from his pocket a large octagonal gold piece, worth fifty dollars, then coined by the United States.

"Give this to her, Bill," he said, "and tell her it is for the drink of water that she gave to the blindfolded boy three years ago."

Bill Breakstone translated literally, and he added:

"You must take it. It comes from his heart. It is not only worth much money, but it will be a bringer of luck to you."

She took it, hesitated a moment, then hid it under her red reboso, and, the jars being filled, she and her two companions walked away, balancing the great weights beautifully on their heads.

"To-night," said Phil, "we ride for the Castle of Montevideo."

CHAPTER XVI

THE CASTLE OF MONTEVIDEO

The Castle of Montevideo, as its name indicates, commanded a magnificent view. Set in a niche of a mountain which towered far above, it looked down upon and commanded one of the great roads that led to the heart of Mexico, the city that stood in the vale of Tenocht.i.tlan, the capital, in turn, of the Toltecs, the Aztecs, the Spaniards, and the Mexicans, and, for all that men yet knew, of races older than the Toltecs. But the Spaniards had built it, completing it nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, when their hold upon the greater part of the New World seemed secure, and the name of Spain was filled with the suggestion of power.

It was a gloomy and tremendous fortress, standing seven thousand feet above the level of the sea, and having about it, despite its lat.i.tude, no indication of the tropics.

Spain had lavished here enormous sums of money dug for her by the slaves of Mexico and Peru. It was built of volcanic pumice stone, very hard, and of the color of dark honey. Its main walls formed an equilateral triangle, eight hundred feet square on the inside, and sixty feet from the top of the wall to the bottom of the enclosing moat. There was a bastion at each corner of the main rampart, and the moat that enveloped the main walls and bastions was two hundred feet wide and twenty feet deep. Fifty feet beyond the outside wall of the moat rose a _chevaux de frise_ built of squared cedar logs twelve feet long, set in the ground and fastened together by longitudinal timbers. Beyond the _chevaux de frise_ was another ditch, fourteen feet wide, of which the outer bank was a high earthwork. The whole square enclosed by the outermost work was twenty-six acres, and on the princ.i.p.al rampart were mounted eighty cannon, commanding the road to the Valley of Tenocht.i.tlan.

Few fortresses, even in the Old World, were more powerful or complete.

It enclosed armories, magazines, workshops, and cells; cells in rows, all of which were duly numbered when Montevideo was completed in the eighteenth century. And, to give it the last and happiest touch, the picture of Ferdinand VII., King of Spain, Lord of the Indies and the New World, was painted over the doorway of every cell, and they were many.

Nor is this the full tale of Montevideo. On the inner side of each angle, broad wooden stairways ascended to the top, the stairways themselves being enclosed at intervals by wooden gates twelve feet high.

The real fortifications enclosed a square of nearly five hundred feet, and inside this square were the buildings of the officers and the barracks of the soldiers. The floor of the square was paved with thick cement, and deep down under the cement were immense water tanks, holding millions of gallons, fed by subterranean springs of pure cold water. By means of underground tunnels the moats could be flooded with water from the tanks or springs.

It has been said that the Spaniards are ma.s.sive builders, the most ma.s.sive since the Romans, and they have left their mark with many a huge stone structure in the southern part of the New World. What Montevideo cost the kings of Spain no one has ever known, and, although they probably paid twice for every stick and stone in it, Peru and Mexico were still pouring forth their floods of treasure, and there was the fortress, honey colored, lofty, undeniably majestic and powerful.

When Mexico displaced Spain, she added to the defenses of Montevideo, and now, on this spring day in 1847, it lowered, dark and sinister, over the road. It was occupied by a strong garrison under that alert and valiant soldier, Captain Pedro de Armijo, raised recently to that rank, but still stinging with the memories of Buena Vista, he was anxious that the Americans should come and attack him in Montevideo. He stood on the rampart at a point where it was seventy feet wide, and he looked with pride and satisfaction at the row of eighty guns. Pedro de Armijo, swelling with pride, felt that he could hold the castle of Montevideo against twenty thousand men. Time had made no impression upon those ma.s.sive walls, and the moat was filled with water. The castle, mediaeval, but grim and formidable, sat in its narrow mountain valley with the Cofre de Montevideo (Trunk of Montevideo) behind it on the north. This peak was frequently covered with snow and at all times was gloomy and forbidding. Even on bright days the sun reached it for only a few hours.

While Pedro de Armijo walked on the parapet, looking out at the range of mountain and valley and enjoying the sunlight, which would soon be gone, a young man stood at the window of cell No. 87, also looking out at the mountain, although no sunlight reached him there. He gazed through a slit four inches wide and twelve inches high, and the solid wall of masonry through which this slit was cut was twelve feet thick. The young man's ankles were tied together with a chain which, although long enough to allow him to walk, weighed twenty-five pounds. Once he had been chained with another man. Formerly the prisoners who had been brought with him to the Castle of Montevideo had been chained in pairs, the chain in no case weighing less than twenty pounds, but, since only John Bedford was left, Pedro de Armijo concluded that it was his duty to carry the chain alone.

John Bedford was white with prison pallor. Although as tall, he weighed many pounds less than his younger brother, Philip. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes were set in deep hollows. The careless observer would have taken him for ten years more than his real age. He had shuffled painfully to the slit in the wall, where he wished to see the last rays of the daylight falling on the mountainside. The depth of the slit made the section of the mountain that he could see very narrow, and he knew every inch of it. There was the big projection of volcanic rock, the tall, malformed cactus that put out a white flower, the little bunch of stunted cedars or pines--he could never tell which--in the shelter of the rock, and the yard or two of gully down which he had seen the water roaring after the big rains or at the melting of the snows on the Cofre de Montevideo.

How often he had looked upon these things! What a little slice of the world it was! Only a few yards long and fewer yards broad, but what a mighty thing it was to him! Even with the slit closed, he could have drawn all of it upon a map to the last twig and pebble. He would have suffered intensely had that little view been withdrawn, but it tantalized him, too, with the sight of the freedom that was denied him.

Three years, they told him, he had been gazing out at that narrow slit at the mountainside, and he only at the beginning of life, strong of mind and body--or at least he was. Never in that time had he been outside the inner walls or even in the court yard. He knew nothing of what had happened in the world. Sometimes they told him that Texas had been overrun and retaken by the Mexicans, and he feared that it was true.

They did not always put the chains upon him, but lately he had been refractory. He was easily caught in an attempt to escape, and a new governor of the castle, lately come, a young man extremely arrogant, had demanded his promise that he make no other such attempt. He had refused, and so the chains were ordered. He had worn them many times before, and now they oppressed him far less than his loneliness. He alone of that expedition was left a prisoner in the castle. How all the others had gone he did not know, but he knew that some had escaped.

Both he and his comrade of the chains were too ill to walk when the escape was made, and there was nothing to do but leave them behind. His comrade died, and he recovered after weeks, mainly through the efforts of old Catarina, the Indian woman who sometimes brought him his food.

John Bedford's spirits were at the bottom of the depths that afternoon.

How could human beings be so cruel as to shut up one of their kind in such a manner, one who was no criminal? It seemed to him that lately the watch in the castle had become more vigilant than ever. More soldiers were about, and he heard vaguely of comings and goings. His mind ran back for the thousandth time over the capture of himself and his comrades.

When taken by an overwhelming force they were one hundred and seventy in number, and there were great rejoicings in Mexico when they were brought southward. They had been blindfolded at some points, once when he walked for a long time on sharp volcanic rock, and once, when, as he was fainting from heat and thirst, a woman with a kind voice had given him a cup of water at a well. He remembered these things very vividly, and he remembered with equal vividness how, when they were not blindfolded, they were led in triumph through the Mexican towns, exactly as prisoners were led to celebrate the glory of a general through the streets of old Rome. They, the "Terrible Texans," as they were called, had pa.s.sed through triumphal arches decorated with the bright garments of women.

Boys and girls, brilliant handkerchiefs bound around their heads, and shaking decorated gourds with pebbles in them, had danced before the captives to the great delight of the spectators. Sometimes women themselves in these triumphal processions had done the zopilote or buzzard dance. At night the prisoners had been forced to sleep in foul cattle sheds.

Then had come the Day of the Beans. One hundred and fifty-three white beans and seventeen black beans were placed in a bowl, and every prisoner, blindfolded, was forced to draw one. The seventeen who drew the black beans were promptly shot, and the others were compelled to march on. He remembered how lightly they had taken it, even when it was known who had drawn the black beans. These men, mostly young like himself, had jested about their bad luck, and had gone to their death smiling. He did not know how they could do it, but it was so, because he had seen it with his own eyes.

Then they had marched on until they came to the Castle of Montevideo.

There the world ended. There was nothing but time, divided into alternations of night and day. He had seen n.o.body but soldiers, except the old woman Catarina, who seemed to be a sort of scullion. After he recovered from the prison fever of which his comrade of the chains died, the old woman had shown a sort of pity for him; perhaps she liked him as one often likes those upon whom one has conferred benefits. She yielded to his entreaties for a pencil for an hour or so, and some paper, just a sheet or two. She smuggled them to him, and she smuggled away the letter that he wrote. She did not know what would happen, but she would give it to her son Porfirio, who was a vaquero. Porfirio would give it to his friend Antonio Vaquez, who was leading a burro train north to Monterey. After that was the unknown, but who could tell? Antonio Vaquez was a kind man, and the Holy Virgin sometimes worked miracles for the good. As for the poor lad, the prisoner, he must rest now. He had been _muy malo_ (very sick), and it was not good to worry.

John tried not to worry. It was such easy advice to give and so very hard for one to take who had been buried alive through a time that seemed eternity, and who had been forgotten by all the world, except his jailers. That letter had gone more than a year ago, and, of course, it had not reached its destination. He ought never to have thought such a thing possible. Very likely it had been destroyed by Porfirio, the vaquero, old Catarina's son. He had not seen old Catarina herself in a long time. Doubtless they had sent her away because she had been kind to him, or they may have found out about the letter. He was very sorry.

She was far from young, and she was far from beautiful, but her brief presence at intervals had been cheering.

He watched the last rays of the sun fade on the volcanic slope. A single beam, livid and splendid, lingered for a moment, and then was gone. After it came the dark, with all the chilling power of great elevation. The cold even penetrated the deep slit that led through twelve feet of solid masonry, and John Bedford shivered. It was partly the dark that made him shiver. He rose from the stool and made his way slowly and painfully to his cot against the wall, his chains rattling heavily over the floor.

He heard a key turning in the lock and the door opening, but he did not look around. They usually came with his food at this hour, and the food was always the same. There was no cause for curiosity. But when he heard the steps of two men instead of one he did look around. There was the same soldier bringing his supper of frijoles and tortillas on a tin plate, and a cup of very bad coffee, but he was accompanied by the new governor of the castle, Captain Pedro de Armijo, whom John did not like at all. The soldier drew up the stool, put the food on it, and also a candle that he carried.

John began to eat and drink, taking not the slightest notice of de Armijo. The man from the first had given him the impression of cold, malignant cruelty. John Bedford had often thought that his own spirit was crushed, but it was far from being so. Pride was strong within him, and he resolved that de Armijo should speak first.

De Armijo stood in silence for some time, looking down at the prisoner.

He was not in a good humor, he had seldom been so since that fatal day when the whole army of Santa Anna was hurled back by the little force from the North. He knew many things of which the prisoner did not dream, and he had no thought of giving him even the slightest hint of them. In him was the venomous disposition of the cat that likes to play with the rat it has caught. A curious piece of mockery, or perhaps it was not wholly mockery, had occurred to him.