One man threw mud, and it splashed on Don Carlos’s breast, but he refused to notice it. He had one arm around his wife, the other around his daughter, as if to give them what protection he could, and he was looking straight ahead.
There were some men of blood who witnessed the scene, yet took no part in the tumult. Some of them were as old as Don Carlos, and this thing brought to their hearts fresh, yet passive, hatred of the governor.
And some were young, with the blood running hot in their veins, and they looked upon the suffering face of Doña Catalina and imagined her their own mother, and upon the lovely face of the señorita and imagined her their sister or betrothed.
And some of these men glanced at one another furtively, and though they did not speak they were wondering the same thing—whether Señor Zorro would hear of this, and whether he would send word around for the members of the new league to gather.
The carreta stopped before the carcel finally, the mob of jeering natives and peons surrounding it. The soldiers made some pretense of holding them back, and the sergeant dismounted and forced Don Carlos and his wife and daughter to step to the ground.
Uncouth and intoxicated men jostled them as they walked up the steps to the door. More mud was thrown, and some of it spattered upon Doña Catalina’s gown. But if the mob expected an outburst on the part of the aged caballero, it was disappointed. Don Carlos held his head high, ignoring those who were striving to torment him, and so led his ladies to the door.
The sergeant beat against it with the heavy hilt of his sword. An aperture was opened, and in it appeared the evil, grinning face of the jailer.
“What have we here?” he demanded.
“Three prisoners charged with treason,” the sergeant replied.
The door was thrown open. There came a last burst of jeers from the mob; and then the prisoners were inside, and the door had been closed and bolted again.
The jailer led the way along an evil-smelling hall and threw open another door.
“In with you!” he directed.
The three prisoners were thrust inside, and this door was closed and barred. They blinked their eyes in the semigloom. Gradually they made out two windows, some benches, some human derelicts sprawled against the walls.
They had not even been given the courtesy of a clean, private room. Don Carlos and his wife and daughter had been thrust in with the scum of the pueblo, with drunkards and thieves and dishonored women and insulting natives.
They sat down on a bench in one corner of the room, as far from the others as possible. And then Doña Catalina and her daughter gave way to tears, and tears streamed down the face of the aged don as he tried to comfort them.
“I would to the saints that Don Diego Vega were only my son-in-law now!” the don breathed.
His daughter pressed his arm.
“Perhaps—my father—a friend will come,” she whispered. “Perhaps the evil man who caused this suffering will be punished!”
For it seemed to the señorita that a vision of Señor Zorro had appeared before her; and she had great faith in the man to whom she had given her love.
XXIX
Don Diego Feels Ill
One hour after Don Carlos Pulido and his ladies had been incarcerated in the carcel, Don Diego Vega, dressed most fastidiously, made his way slowly on foot up the slope to the presidio to make his call on his excellency, the governor.
He walked with swinging stride, gazing both to right and left as if at the hills in the distance, and once he stopped to observe a blossom that bloomed beside the path. His rapier was at his side, his most fashionable one with its jeweled hilt, and in his right hand he carried a handkerchief of flimsy lace, which he wafted this way and that like a dandy, and now and then touched it to the tip of his nose.
He bowed ceremoniously to two or three caballeros who passed him, but spoke to none beyond the necessary words of greeting, and they did not seek conversation with him. For, remembering that they had thought Don Diego Vega was courting the daughter of Don Carlos, they wondered how he would take the matter of her imprisonment along with her father and mother. They did not care to discuss the matter, for their own feelings were high, and they feared they might be betrayed into utterances that might be termed treasonable.
Don Diego came to the front door of the presidio, and the sergeant in charge called the soldiers to attention, giving Vega the salute due his station in life. Don Diego answered it with a wave of his hand and a smile, and went on to the comandante’s office, where the governor was receiving such caballeros as cared to call and express their loyalty.
He greeted his excellency with carefully chosen words, bowed over his hand, and then took the chair the governor was kind enough to indicate.
“Don Diego Vega,” the governor said, “I am doubly glad that you have called upon me today, for in these times a man who holds high office would know his friends.”
“I should have called sooner, but I was away from my house at the time you arrived,” Don Diego said. “You contemplate remaining long in Reina de Los Angeles, excellency?”
“Until this highwayman, known as Señor Zorro, is either slain or taken,” the governor said.
“By the saints! Am I never to hear the last of that rogue?” Don Diego cried. “I have heard of nothing else for these many days. I go to spend an evening with a fray, and in comes a crowd of soldiers chasing this Señor Zorro. I repair to the hacienda of my father to get me peace and
