irst began to
appear on horseback at his right hand. Rendered proud and self-confident
by his successes, Ruiz no longer charged at the head of his partida, but
presumptuously, like a general directing the movements of an army,
he remained in the rear, well mounted and motionless on an eminence,
sending out his orders. She was seen repeatedly at his side, and for
a long time was mistaken for a man. There was much talk then of a
mysterious white-faced chief, to whom the defeats of our troops were
ascribed. She rode like an Indian woman, astride, wearing a broad-rimmed
man's hat and a dark poncho. Afterwards, in the day of their greatest
prosperity, this poncho was embroidered in gold, and she wore then,
also, the sword of poor Don Antonio de Leyva. This veteran Chilean
officer, having the misfortune to be surrounded with his small force,
and running short of ammunition, found his death at the hands of the
Arauco Indians, the allies and auxiliaries of Gaspar Ruiz. This was the
fatal affair long remembered afterwards as the 'Massacre of the Island.'
The sword of the unhappy officer was presented to her by Peneleo, the
Araucanian chief; for these Indians, struck by her aspect, the deathly
pallor of her face, which no exposure to the weather seemed to affect,
and her calm indifference under fire, looked upon her as a supernatural
being, or at least as a witch. By this superstition the prestige and
authority of Gaspar Ruiz amongst these ignorant people were greatly
augmented. She must have savoured her vengeance to the full on that day
when she buckled on the sword of Don Antonio de Leyva. It never left her
side, unless she put on her woman's clothes--not that she would or
could ever use it, but she loved to feel it beating upon her thigh as
a perpetual reminder and symbol of the dishonour to the arms of the
Republic. She was insatiable. Moreover, on the path she had led Gaspar
Ruiz upon, there is no stopping. Escaped prisoners--and they were not
many--used to relate how with a few whispered words she could change the
expression of his face and revive his flagging animosity. They told how
after every skirmish, after every raid, after every successful action,
he would ride up to her and look into her face. Its haughty-calm was
never relaxed. Her embrace, senores, must have been as cold as the
embrace of a statue. He tried to melt her icy heart in a stream of warm
blood. Some English naval officers who visited him at that time not