The Mark of Zorro (21 page)

“By the saints, what a speech!” Don Diego exclaimed, as if in admiration. “You have made my poor head ring with it! You really believe all this?”

“I do,
caballero.”

“Well, the Pulidos are returning to their own place tomorrow, I believe. I but asked them to be my guests so they could be away from the scenes of this Señor Zorro's deeds.”

“And Señor Zorro followed them to the
pueblo.
You see?”

“Can it be possible?” Don Diego gasped. “I must consider the matter. Oh, these turbulent times! But they are returning to their
hacienda
to-morrow! Of course, I would not have his excellency think that I harbored a traitor.”

He got to his feet, bowed courteously, and then stepped slowly toward the door. And there he seemed to remember something suddenly, and turned to face the captain again.

“Ha! I am at the point of forgetting all about the insult!” he exclaimed. “What have you to say, my captain, regarding the events of last night?”

“Of course,
caballero,
I apologize to you most humbly,” Captain Ramón replied.

“I suppose that I must accept your apology. But please do not let such a thing happen again. You frighten my
despensero
badly, and he is an excellent servant.”

Then Don Diego Vega bowed again and left the
presidio,
and Captain Ramón laughed long and loudly, until the sick men in the hospital-room feared that their
comandante
must have lost his wits.

“What a man!” the captain exclaimed. “I have turned him away from that Pulido
señorita,
I think. And I was a fool to hint to the governor that he could be capable of treason. I must rectify that matter in some way. The man has not enough spirit to be a traitor!”

The threatened rain did not come that day, nor that night, and the following morning found the sun shining brightly, and the sky blue, and the scent of blossoms in the air.

Soon after the morning meal, the Pulido
carreta
was driven to the front of the house by Don Diego's servants, and Don Carlos and his wife and daughter prepared to depart for their own
hacienda.

“It desolates me,” Don Diego said at the door, “that there can be no match between the
señorita
and myself. What shall I say to my father?”

“Do not give up hope,
caballero.”
Don Carlos advised him. “Perhaps when we are home again, and Lolita contrasts our humble abode with your magnificence here, she will change her mind. A woman changes her mind,
caballero,
as often as she does the method of doing her hair.”

“I had thought all would be arranged before now,” Don Diego said. “You think there is still hope?”

“I trust so,” Don Carlos said, but he doubted it, remembering the look that had been in the
señorita's
face. However, he intended having a serious talk with her once they were home, and possibly might decide to insist on obedience even in this matter of taking a mate.

So the usual courtesies were paid, and then the lumbering
carreta
was driven away, and Don Diego Vega turned back into his house with his head hanging upon his breast, as it always hung when he did himself the trouble to think.

Presently he decided that he needed companionship for the moment, and left the house to cross the plaza and enter the tavern. The fat landlord rushed to greet him, conducted him to a choice seat near a window, and fetched wine without being commanded to do so.

Don Diego spent the greater part of an hour looking through the window at the plaza, watching men and women come and go, observing the toiling natives, and now and then glancing up the trail that ran toward the San Gabriel road.

Down this trail, presently, he observed approaching two mounted men, and between their horses walked a third man, and Don Diego could see that ropes ran from this man's waist to the saddles of the horsemen.

“What, in the name of the saints, have we here?” he exclaimed, getting up from the bench and going closer to the window.

“Ha!” said the landlord at his shoulder. “That will be the prisoner coming now.”

“Prisoner?” said Don Diego, looking at him with a question in his glance.

“A native brought the news a short time ago,
caballero.
Once more a
fray
is in the toils.”

“Explain, fat one!”

“The man is to go before the
magistrado
immediately for his trial. They say that he swindled a dealer in hides, and now must pay the penalty. He wished his trial at San Gabriel, but that was not allowed, since all there are in favor of the missions and the
frailes.
”

“Who is the man?” Don Diego asked.

“He is called Fray Felipe,
caballero.”

“What is this? Fray Felipe is an old man, and my good friend. I spent night before last with him at the
hacienda
he manages.”

“No doubt he has imposed upon you,
caballero,
as upon others,” the landlord said.

Don Diego showed some slight interest now. He walked briskly from the tavern and went to the office of the
magistrado
in a little adobe building on the opposite side of the plaza. The horsemen were just arriving with their prisoner. They were two soldiers who had been stationed at San Gabriel, the
frailes
having been forced to give them bed and board in the governor's name.

It was Fray Felipe. He had been forced to walk the entire distance fastened to the saddles of his guards, and there were indications that the horsemen had galloped now and then to test the
fray's
powers of endurance.

Fray Felipe's gown was almost in rags, and was covered with dust and perspiration. Those who crowded around him now gave him jeers and coarse jests, but the
fray
held his head proudly and pretended not to see or hear them.

The soldiers dismounted and forced him into the
magistrado's
office, and the loiterers and natives crowded forward and through the door. Don Diego hesitated a moment, and then stepped toward the door. “One side, scum!” he cried; and the natives gave way before him.

He entered and pressed through the throng. The
magistrado
saw him and beckoned him to a front seat. But Don Diego did not care to sit at that time.

“What is this we have here?” he demanded. “This is Fray Felipe, a godly man and my friend.”

“He is a swindler,” one of the soldiers retorted. “If he is, then we can put our trust in no man,” Don Diego observed.

“All this is quite irregular,
caballero,”
the
magistrado
insisted, stepping forward. “The charges have been preferred, and the man is here to be tried.”

Then Don Diego sat down and court was convened.

The man who made the complaint was an evil-looking fellow who explained that he was a dealer in tallow and hides, and had a warehouse in San Gabriel.

“I went to the
hacienda
this
fray
manages and purchased ten hides of him,” he testified. “After giving him the coins in payment and taking them to my storehouse, I found that the hides had not been cured properly. In fact, they were ruined. I returned to the
hacienda
and told the
fray
as much, demanding that he return the money, which he refused to do.”

“The hides were good,” Fray Felipe put in. “I told him I would return the money when he returned the hides.”

“They were spoiled,” the dealer declared. “My assistant here will testify as much. They caused a stench, and I had them burned immediately.”

The assistant testified as much.

“Have you anything to say,
fray?”
the
magistrado
asked.

“It will avail me nothing,” Fray Felipe said. “I already am found guilty and sentenced! Were I a follower of a licentious governor instead of a robed Franciscan, the hides would have been good.”

“You speak treason?” the
magistrado
cried.

“I speak truth!”

The
magistrado
puckered his lips and frowned.

“There has been entirely too much of this swindling,” he said finally. “Because a man wears a robe, he cannot rob with impunity. In this case, I deem it proper to make an example, that
frailes
will see they cannot take advantage of their calling.

“The
fray
must repay the man the price of the hides. And for the swindle he shall receive across his bare back ten lashes. And for the words of treason he has spoken, he shall receive five lashes additional. It is a sentence!”

The natives jeered and applauded. Don Diego's face went white, and for an instant his eyes met those of Fray Felipe, and in the face of the latter he saw resignation.

The office was cleared, and the soldiers led the
fray
to the place of execution in the middle of the plaza. Don Diego observed that the
magistrado
was grinning, and he realized what a farce the trial had been.

“These turbulent times!” he said to a gentleman of his acquaintance who stood near.

They tore Felipe's robe from his back and started to lash him to the post. But the
fray
had been a man of great strength in his day, and some of it remained to him in his advanced years, and it came to him now what ignominy he was to suffer.

Suddenly he whirled the soldiers aside and stooped to grasp the whip from the ground.

“You have removed my robe!” he cried. “I am man now, not
fray!
One side, dogs!”

He lashed out with the whip. He cut a soldier across the face. He struck at two natives who sprang toward him. And then the throng was upon him, beating him down, kicking and striking at him, disregarding even the soldiers' orders.

Don Diego Vega felt moved to action. He could not see his friend treated in this manner despite his docile disposition. He rushed into the midst of the throng, calling upon the natives to clear the way. But he felt a hand grasp his arm, and turned to look into the eyes of the
magistrado.

“These are no actions for
caballero,”
the judge said in a low tone. “The man has been sentenced properly. When you raise hand to give him aid, you raise hand against his excellency. Have you stopped to think of that, Don Diego Vega?”

Apparently Don Diego had not. And he realized, too, that he could do no good to his friend by interfering now. He nodded his head to the
magistrado
and turned away.

But he did not go far. The soldiers had subdued Fray Felipe by now, and had lashed him to the whipping-post. This was added insult, for the post was used for none except insubordinate natives. The lash was swung through the air, and Don Diego saw blood spurt from Fray Felipe's bare back.

He turned his face away then, for he could not bear to look. But he could count the lashes by the singing of the whip through the air, and he knew that proud, old Fray Felipe was making not the slightest sound of pain, and would die without doing so.

He heard the natives laughing, and turned back again to find that the whipping was at an end.

“The money must be repaid within two days, or you shall have fifteen lashes more,” the
magistrado
was saying.

Fray Felipe was untied and dropped to the ground at the foot of the post. The crowd began to melt away. Two
frailes
who had followed from San Gabriel aided their brother to his feet, and led him aside while the natives hooted. Don Diego Vega returned to his house.

“Send me Bernardo,” he ordered his
despensero.

The butler bit his lip to keep from grinning as he went to do as he was bidden. Bernardo was a deaf and dumb native servant for whom Don Diego had a peculiar use. Within the minute he entered the great living-room and bowed before his master.

“Bernardo, you are a gem!” Don Diego said. “You cannot speak or hear, cannot write or read, and have not sense enough to make your wants known by the sign-language. You are the one man in the world to whom I can speak without having my ears talked off in reply. You do not ‘Ha!' me at every turn.”

Bernardo bobbed his head as if he understood. He always bobbed his head in that fashion when Don Diego's lips ceased to move.

“These are turbulent times, Bernardo,” Don Diego continued. “A man can find no place where he can meditate. Even at Fray Felipe's night before last there came a big sergeant pounding at the door. A man with nerves is in a sorry state. And this whipping of old Fray Felipe—Bernardo, let us hope that this Señor Zorro, who punishes those who work injustice, hears of the affair and acts accordingly.”

Bernardo bobbed his head again.

“As for myself, I am in a pretty pickle,” Don Diego went on. “My father has ordered that I get me a wife, and the
señorita
I selected will have none of me. I shall have my father taking me by the ear in short order.

“Bernardo, it is time for me to leave this
pueblo
for a few days. I shall go to the
hacienda
of my father, to tell him I have got no woman to wed me yet, and ask his indulgence. And there, on the wide hills behind his house, may I hope to find some spot where I may rest and consult the poets for one entire day without highwaymen and sergeants and unjust
magistrados
bothering me. And you, Bernardo, shall accompany me, of course. I can talk to you without your taking the words out of my mouth.”

Bernardo bobbed his head again. He guessed what was to come. It was a habit of Don Diego's to talk to him thus for a long time, and always there was a journey afterward. Bernardo liked that, because he worshiped Don Diego, and because he liked to visit the
hacienda
of Don Diego's father, where he always was treated with kindness.