It was dark and warm in the forest at the bottom of the rocky hill. It was also silent. So silent that you could hear a... horse breathing on your neck.

The masked caballero, better known by the last letter in the Latin alphabet because of his talent to carve it so neatly on doors and shutters and sometimes on uniforms, rarely on skin though it did happen once, to a dangerous fellow that was then informed, not to say ordered and condemned all at once to retire to life of hermitage, the masked caballero that we will call by his name, Zorro, for the sake of clarity, sent a disapproving glance to his companion, a magnificent black stallion sweating adrenaline and danger by all his pores, the true scion of the goddess Night with Mars.

"Com'on, Tornado, just a couple more minutes. They will come," Zorro whispered in his horse's ear.

Zorro received a sharp nudge on his shoulder for all answer.

"I get it. You're impatient to go and swim in the pond. You're not the only one, mind you. Now be a good boy and-"

Zorro suddenly stopped in the middle of his reproach and smiled. At last, the three thugs that he was waiting for were there, up the dusty road, riding at a fast pace toward the Torres's hacienda. Without hesitation, Zorro jumped on Tornado's back and, valiantly for most of the people, foolishly for those who had the misfortune to not know him yet, blocked their way to deliver them a message.

"Gentlemen, I will offer you one chance to abandon your despicable project," he said with a calm but firm voice as soon as the horses, scared by his sudden appearance on their path, stopped neighing.

Being newcomers in the region, the three thugs fell in the latter category and laughed raucously.

It must be added in their defense that the darkness surrounding the cocky caballero did not help them see that the hand in a black glove held close to a black saddle on a black horse was holding a black whip. Three things happened in a quick sequence: first, their pistols flew out of their hands; second, a sharp crack echoed like a gunshot; third, terror seized them in a tight grasp. Horses neighing, they rode away without further ado, persuaded to have encountered some kind of vengeful demon because even in their superstitiously spiritual minds, no protective angel could be black-clad.

Covered by the sounds of hooves hitting the earth, Zorro's laugh sounded, short but conveying an unmistakable, genuine pleasure. Patting his loyal steed's neck, he then led him down the road toward the hacienda. It was barely past nine and he hoped to catch a glimpse of Elena Torres refreshing herself at her balcony. Sweet Elena made his heart beat faster than any bandido in all Alta California. Even the wild rides on Tornado's back paled in front of her beauty. Maybe not, but it was close enough to be noticed. How could this be possible, he did not know, but he guessed that love had something to do with the matter. What a pity that his feelings were not shared. Of course, he knew that if he approached her in this outfit, she would certainly give him more credit than when he spoke to her with his eyes uncovered. That was annoying, even disappointing to a certain extent, also strangely reassuring, but above all it was necessary. For her safety, she could not hear his real voice, nor she could see his real face.

Here she was, leaning over the guardrail, moving a lace fan in her hand close to her delicate face visible under the moon... A rose in a quiet night that he would never dare to pick, he wished to be a gentle breeze bringing her some peaceful measure to her heart, praying the Lord to allow him a little place in it.

Zorro stayed in a silent communion with her thoughts, time having no essence anymore until Tornado's pragmatism brought him back to reality. Fearing the steed would betray their presence, he surrendered his dream like one make a wish at a shooting star, and led his sweating companion toward the promised refreshment.

It was a little past midnight when they finally both emerged out of the shining waters and made their way to the fox's lair, a series of well-hidden caverns on Alejandro de la Vega's rancho. Feeling the weight of his long day and anticipating the next one with a certain melancholia not that different from the one he felt as a child when the freedom of summer break came to an end, Zorro closed Tornado's pen and walked into the tunnel leading to the hacienda.

Bernardo, his servant and accomplice, woke up at his arrival.

"You have a keen hearing, mi amigo. No matter how hard I try not to make any sound-"

Diego de la Vega stopped talking when he raised his eyes and saw his manservant pressing a finger on his mouth. After a few mimes, the young don felt his heart sinking further. One day early, his father was here. In the sala. He had knocked on his bedroom. Twice. Entered. Twice.

"When did he arrive?"

One hour ago, Bernardo showed on his watch.

"I'd better go down and wish him good night."

Giving one mask to Bernardo and putting on another, the invisible one of the disappointing son, Diego de la Vega turned the iron ring that opened the secret passage to his bedroom and walked out, thinking fast about an alibi for tonight. Illumination had still not revealed itself to him when he opened the entrance door a minute later. Reacting like the fox he was, he then decided to be a pain and flood his father with overwhelming attention.

"O! Father! Don't tell me you traveled at night once again! Have you been stolen? Hurt? Are you not aware of the many thieves of all kinds who roam the roads? He asked, going straight to the fireplace where the old don, sitting in his armchair, seemed to contemplate the empty hearth with a glass of wine in his hand.

"My son! Enough of this! I am perfectly fine," the old don snapped, leaping from his chair and starting to walk back and forth, straighter than Fray Felipe's old stick, the one that so many times fell on his young fingers at school to teach him punctuality among other things. Was it his fault if the rocky hills were bursting with entertainment?

A long sigh called Don Diego back to the present.

"Why do you keep on insisting traveling by night I don't understand! Such foolish risks are you taking. What would I do if by misfortune some ill fate fell upon you!"

"You would have to grow up and become a man! This is what would have to happen. But as I don't fathom this to be possible in the near future, you will feel better to know that I take precautions to preserve my health. I arrived in the late afternoon and spent some time with Don Nacho wishing I had a daughter like Elena to take care of me instead of a son whining about the hardships of life. Where were you by the way?! Certainly not out, scared by your shadow like you are!"

Feeling both hurt and satisfied by this broadside of reproaches but showing only the first, Don Diego straightened and claimed with arrogance:

"I was on the roof. The last safe place for a poet to be at night when he wants to be closer to the stars and the purity of the moon than to the filthy mortals too occupied to drink, copulate or rob one another."

At this, Alejandro realized he was still holding his glass of Xeres and put it down on the small, round table next to him.

"On the roof?! You?! Glad to hear that you are not afraid to break your neck," he said before casting an angry look at his glass.

"To hell with this," he muttered as he grabbed the bottle and filled his glass again. "Perhaps you should drink too sometimes, mi hijo."

The weariness with which his father pronounced those last words worried Don Diego. Time to soften the beast, he thought, now seeing the distress that dug his father's eyes and feeling sincerely concerned.

"You seem irritated by something else than me, Father. What is it that worries you to such extent?"

The old don let out a deep sigh and sat down in his armchair by the fireplace.

"The times are getting darker, my son. Thick, ominous clouds are gathering on the blue horizon, signs of a storm to come."

"And I say I am a poet... though unlike mine, your register seems to tend toward the Apocalypse."

"Everywhere I turn, Diego, I hear rumors, see small things, details of insignificant nature by themselves, but I fear now are part of a bigger scheme meant to... Ah, don't listen to me. I'm just an old fool too afraid to lose his possessions."

"The vultures will appear in the sky before Death comes to reclaim its prize."

"Well, you might have some use after all."

"Are the vultures coming, Father?"

"I don't think he would appreciate being called that way."

"Who, he?"

"A man. A powerful man, Diego. But do not worry, my son. This battle, if it comes, will not fall on your young shoulders. Go now. Wish me buenas noches and go to sleep. I need to be alone to think."

"As you wish, Father. Buenas noches."

Knowing better than to insist, Don Diego walked out of the sala, deeply worried by the news. To whom was his father referring to? Santa Ana? Was his army on its way to conquer what was left of Spain in America? His blood of true Spaniard would flow to defend the king's lands if necessary. With the dreadful knowledge of a hovering threat, he climbed the stairs and despite his exhaustion and desire to obey his father's orders, for once, he failed to find rest until the wee hours.