All at once a long, startling, strident howl, bearing some resemblance to the miauling of a cat, burst through the air, and fell on the maiden's ear with an ill-omened echo. Suddenly startled from her reverie, Doña Marianna looked up, and took an anxious glance around her. A slight shudder of fear passed over her body, for her horse, so long left to its own devices, had left the beaten track, and the maiden found herself in a part of the forest unknown to her—she had lost her way. A person lost in an American forest is dead!
These forests are generally entirely composed of trees of the same family, which render it impossible to guide oneself, unless gifted with that miraculous intuition which the Indians and hunters possess, and which enables them to march with certainty in the most inextricable labyrinths. Wherever the eye may turn, it only perceives immense arcades of verdure, infinitely prolonged, wearying the eye by their desperate monotony, and only crossed at intervals by the tracks of wild beasts, which are mixed strangely together, and eventually lead to unknown watering places, nameless streams, that run silently and gloomily beneath the covert, and whose windings cannot possibly be followed.
The spot where the maiden was, was one of the most deserted in the forest; the trees, of prodigious height and size, grew closely together, and were connected by a network of lianas, which, growing in every direction, formed an impassable wall; from the end of the branches hung, in long festoons to the ground, that greyish moss known as Spanish beard, while the tall straight grass that everywhere covered the ground, showed that human foot had not trodden the soil here for a lengthened period. The maiden felt an invincible terror seize upon her. Night had almost completely set in; then the stories her foster brother had told her in the morning about the jaguars returned to her mind in a flood, and were rendered more terrible by the darkness that surrounded her, and the mournful howling that burst forth on all sides. She shuddered, and turned pale as death at the thought of the fearful danger to which she had so imprudently exposed herself.
Then, collecting all her strength for a last appeal, she uttered a cry; but her voice died out without raising an echo. She was alone—lost in the desert by night. What could she do? What would become of her?
The maiden tried to find the route by which she had come, but the road followed haphazard through the herbage no longer existed; the grass trodden by her horse's hoof had sprung up again behind it. Moreover, the night was so dark that Doña Marianna could not see four paces ahead of her; and she soon found that her efforts to find the road would only result in leading her further astray. Under such circumstances, a man would have been in a comparatively far less dangerous position. He could have lit a fire to combat the night chill, and keep the wild beasts at bay; in the event of an attack, his weapons would have allowed him to defend himself: but Doña Marianna had not the means to light a fire; she had no weapons, and had she possessed them, she would not have known how to use them. She was forced to remain motionless at the spot where she was for the whole night, at the hazard of dying of cold or terror.
This position was frightful. How she now regretted her imprudent confidence, which was the cause of what was now occurring! But it was too late; neither complaints nor recrimination aught availed. She must yield to her fate. With energetic natures, however little accustomed they may be to peril, when that peril proves inevitable, and they recognise that nothing can protect them from it, a reaction takes place; their thoughts become clearer, their courage grows with their will, and they accept, with a proud and resolute resignation, all the consequences of the danger they are compelled to confront, however terrible they may be. This was what happened to the maiden when she perceived that she was really lost. A profound despair seized upon her—for a moment the weakness natural to her sex gained the upper hand, and she fell sobbing on the ground; but gradually the reaction set in, and, pious as all Spanish women are, she clasped her bands, and addressed a fervent and touching prayer to God, who was her last hope.
It has been justly said that prayer not only consoles, but strengthens and restores hope. Prayer, with those who sincerely believe, is the expression of the real feelings of the soul; only those who have looked death in the face, either on the battlefield or during a storm at sea, will understand the sublimity of prayer—the last appeal of the weak victim to the omnipotent Intelligence which can alone save him. Doña Marianna prayed, and then rose calmer, and, above all, stronger. She had placed herself in the hands of Deity, and, in her simple faith, was convinced that He would not abandon her.
Her horse, whose bridle she had not let loose, was standing motionless by her side. The maiden gently patted the noble animal, the only friend left to her; then, by a sudden inspiration, she began unfastening the girths, tearing her little hands without knowing it, and lacerating her fingers with the iron tongues of the buckles.
"Poor Negro," she said, in a soft voice, as she removed the trappings, "you must not be the victim of my imprudence; resume your liberty; for the noble instinct with which your Creator has endowed you will perhaps enable you to find your road. Go, my poor Negro; you are now free."
The animal gave a whinnying of delight, made a prodigious leap, and disappeared in the darkness. Doña Marianna was alone—really alone, now.
It is impossible to imagine what terrors night brings with it under its thick mantle of mist, when the earth is no longer warmed by the sparkling sunbeams, and darkness reigns as supreme lord. At that time everything changes its aspects, and assumes in the flickering rays of the moon a fantastic appearance; the mountains seem loftier, the rivers wider and deeper; the trees resemble spectres—gloomy denizens of the tomb, watching for you to pass, and ready to clutch you in their fleshless arms. The imagination becomes heated, ideas grow confused, you tremble at the fall of a leaf, at the moaning of the night breeze, at the breakage of a branch; and, suffering from a horrible nightmare, you fancy at every moment that your last hour is at hand.
In the American forests, night has mysteries still more terrible. Beneath these immense domes of verdure, which the sun is powerless to pierce even at midday, and which remain constantly buried in an undecided clear obscure, the darkness may, so to speak, be felt; nothing could produce a flash in this chaos, excepting, perhaps, the luminous eyeballs of the wild beasts, that dart electric sparks from the thickets. Here Night is truly the mistress; the darkness is peopled by the sinister denizens of the forest, whom the obscurity drives from their unknown hiding places, and who begin their mournful prowling in search of prey. From each clump, from each ravine, issue confused sounds that have no name in human language; some clear and sharp, others hoarse and low, and others, again resembling miauling, or sardonic laughter, are blended in horrible concert. Then come the heavy footfalls on the ground, and the sullen flapping of birds' wings, as well as that incessant indistinct murmur, which is nought else but the continual buzz of the infinitely little, mingled with the hollow moan always heard in the desert, and which is only the breath of Nature travailing with her incomprehensible secrets. A night passed in the forest, without fire or weapons, is a terrible thing for a man; but the situation becomes far more frightful for a woman—a girl—a frail and delicate creature, accustomed to all the comforts of life, and unable to find within herself those thousand resources which a strong man, habituated to struggle, manages to procure, even in the most desperate situations.
Without dwelling further on the subject, the reader can imagine without difficulty the painful situation in which Doña Marianna found herself. So long as she could hear the sound of her horse's hoofs, as it fled at full speed, she stood with her body bent forward and outstretched ears, attaching herself to life, and, perchance, to hope, through the sound which was so familiar to her; but when it had died out in the distance, when a leaden silence once again weighed on her, the maiden shuddered, and, folding her hands on her chest, sank in a half-fainting condition at the foot of a tree—no longer thinking or hoping, but awaiting death. For what succour could she expect in the tomb of verdure, which, though so spacious, was not the less secure?
How long did she remain plunged in this state of prostration, which was only an anticipated death—one hour or five minutes? She could not have said. For wretched people, whom everything, even hope, abandons, time seems to stand still—minutes become ages, and an hour seems as if it would never end. All at once a feeble, almost indistinguishable sound smote her ear, and she instinctively listened. This sound grew louder with every second, and ere long she could not be mistaken; it was a rapid mad gallop through the forest. This sound Doña Marianna recognised with terror; for it was produced by the return of her horse. For the noble animal to come back with such velocity, it must be pursued, and that closely, by ferocious animals, such was Doña Marianna's idea, and, unfortunately, she only too soon recognised its correctness. The horse gave a snort of terror, which was immediately answered by two loud, sharp growls. Then, as if dreaming, Doña Marianna heard prodigious leaps; she saw ill-omened shadows pass before her with the rapidity of a lightning flash, and then a fearful struggle, in which groans of agony were mingled with yells of delight.
However terrible the maiden's position might be she felt tears slowly course down her cheeks—her horse, her last comrade, had succumbed—the liberty she had granted it had only precipitated its destruction. Strange to say, though, at this supreme moment Doña Marianna did not think for an instant that the death of her horse probably only preceded her own by a brief space, and that it was a sinister warning to her to prepare for being devoured.
When terror has attained a certain degree, a strange effect is produced upon the individual; animal life still exists in the sense that the arteries pulsate, the heart palpitates; but intellectual life is completely suspended; the brain, struck by a temporary paralysis, no longer receives the thought; the eyes look without seeing; the voice itself cannot force its way through the contracted throat; in a word, terror produces a partial catalepsy, by destroying for a period, longer or shorter, all the noblest faculties of man. Doña Marianna had reached such a point that, even had she possessed the means of flight, she would have been incapable of employing them, so thoroughly was every feeling extinct in her—even the instinct of self-preservation, which usually remains when all the others are destroyed.
Fortunately for the girl, the jaguars—for there were several of them—were to leeward; moreover, they had tasted blood, and this was a double reason which temporarily saved her, by depriving their scent of nearly all its delicacy. No other sound was audible, save that produced by the crushing of the horse's bones, which the wild beasts were devouring, mingled with growls of anger, when one of the banqueters tried to encroach on its neighbour's share of the booty. There could be no doubt about the fact; the animals enjoying this horrible repast were the jaguars, so long hunted by the tigrero, and which her evil star had brought across the maiden's track.
By degrees, Doña Marianna became—not familiarized with the danger hanging over her head, for that would have been impossible; but as, according to the law of nature, anything that reaches its culminating point must begin to descend, her first terror, though it did not abandon her, produced a strange phenomenon. She felt involuntarily attracted towards these horrible animals, whose black outlines she could distinguish moving in the darkness; suffering from a species of vertigo with her body bent forward, and her eyes immoderately dilated, without, even accounting for the strange feeling that urged her to act thus, she kept her eyes eagerly fixed upon them, following with a febrile interest their slightest movements, and experiencing at the sight a feeling of inexplicable pleasure, which produced a mingled shudder of joy and pain. Let who will try to explain this singular anomaly of human nature; but the fact is certain, and among our readers many will, doubtless, bear witness to its truth.
All at once the jaguars, which had hitherto been greedily engaged with the corpse of the horse, without thinking of anything beyond making a hearty meal, raised their heads and began sniffing savagely. Doña Marianna saw their eyes, sparkling like live coals, fixed upon her; she understood that she was lost; instinctively she closed her eyes to escape the fascination of those metallic eyeballs, which seemed in the darkness to emit electric sparks, and prepared to die. Still the jaguars did not stir; they were crouching on the remains of the horse, and, while continuing to gaze at the maiden, gracefully passed their paws over their ears with a purr of pleasure—in a word, they were coquettishly performing their toilet, appearing not only most pleased with the meal they had just ended, but with that which was awaiting them.
Still, in spite of the calmness affected by the two animals—for the cubs were sleeping, rolled up like kittens—it was evident that for some unknown motive they were restless; they lashed the ground with their weighty tails, or laid back their ears with a roar of anger, and, turning their heads in all directions, sniffed the air. They scented a danger; but of what nature was it? As for Doña Marianna, they appeared so sure of seizing her whenever they thought proper, and saw how harmless she was, that they contented themselves with crouching before her, and did not deign to advance a step. All at once the male, without stirring, uttered a sharp, quick yell. The female rose, bounded forward, seized one of her cubs in her mouth, and with one backward leap disappeared in a thicket; almost immediately she reappeared, and removed the second in the same way; then she returned calmly and boldly to place herself by the side of the male, whose anxiety had now attained formidable proportions.
At the same instant a flash traversed the air—a shot echoed far and wide—and the male jaguar writhed on the ground with a roar of agony. Almost immediately a man dashed from the tree at the foot of which Doña Mariana was crouching, stood in front of her, and received the shock of the female, which, at the shot, had instinctively bounded forward. The man tottered, but for all that kept his feet: there was a frightful struggle for a few minutes, and then the jaguar fell back with a last and fearful yell.
"Come," the hunter said, as he wiped on the grass the long machete with which he had stabbed the beast, "my arrangements were well made, but I fancy that I arrived only just in time. Now for the cubs; for I must not show mercy to any member of this horrible family."
Then this man, who seemed to possess the faculty of seeing in the darkness, walked without hesitation towards the spot where the female had hidden her cubs. He resolutely entered the thicket, and came out again almost immediately, holding a cub in either hand. He smashed their heads against the trunk of a tree, and threw the bodies on those of their father and mother.
"That is a very tidy butchery," he said; "but what on earth is Don Hernando's tigrero about, that I am obliged to do his work?"
While saying this, the hunter had collected all the dry wood within reach, struck a light, and within a few minutes a bright flame rose skywards. This duly accomplished, the stranger hurried to the assistance of Doña Marianna, who had fainted.
"Poor girl!" he muttered, with an accent of gentle pity, as he lifted her in his arms, and carried her to the fire; "How is it that the fright has not killed her?"
He gently laid her on some firs he had arranged for her bed, and gazed at her for a moment with a look of delight impossible to describe. But then he felt considerably embarrassed. Accustomed to the hardships of a desert life, and a skilful hunter as he had proved himself, this man was naturally a very poor sick nurse. He knew how, at a pinch, to dress a wound or extract a bullet, but he was quite ignorant how to bring a fainting woman round.
"Still, I cannot leave her in this state, poor girl," gazing on her sorrowfully; "but what am I to do?—how can I relieve her?"
At length he knelt down by the young lady's side, gently raised her lovely head, which he laid on his knee, and, opening with his dagger point her closed lips, poured in a few drops of Catalonian refino contained in a gourd. The effect of this remedy was instantaneous. A nervous tremour passed over the maiden's body; she heaved a sigh, and opened her lips. At the first moment she looked around her wildly, but ideas seemed gradually to return to her brain; her contracted features grew brighter, and fixing her eyes on the hunter, who was still bending over her, she muttered, with an expression of gratitude which made the young man's heart beat, "Stronghand!"
"Have you recognised me, señorita?" he exclaimed, with joyous surprise.
"Are you not my Providence?" she answered. "Do you not always arrive when I have to be saved from some fearful danger?"
"Oh, señorita!" he murmured, in great embarrassment.
"Thanks! Thanks, my saviour!" she continued, seizing his hand, and pressing it to her heart; "Thanks for having come to my help, Stronghand, for this time again. I should have been lost without you."
"I really believe," he said, with a smile, "that I arrived just in time."
"But how is it that you came so opportunely?" she asked, curiously, as she sat up and wrapped herself in the furs, for the feminine instinct had regained its power over her.
At this question, simple though it was, the hunter turned red.
"Oh," he said, "it is very simple. I have been hunting in these parts for some days past. I had tracked this family of jaguars, which I obstinately determined to kill, I know not why; but now I understand that it was a presentiment. After pursuing them all day, I had lost them out of sight, and was seeking their trail, when your horse enabled me to recover it."
"What!—my horse?" she exclaimed, in amazement.
"Do you not remember that it was I who gave you this poor Negro on our first meeting?"
"That is true," she murmured, as she let her eyes fall beneath the hunter's ardent glance.
"I saw you for a moment this morning when you were going to Sanchez' rancho."
"Ah!" she remarked.
"Sanchez is a friend, of mine," he continued, as if to explain his remark.
"Go on."
"On seeing the horse, which I at once recognised, I feared that some accident had happened to you, and set out after it. But the jaguars had scented it at the same time, and in spite of my thorough acquaintance with this forest, it was impossible for me to run as fast as they did. Luckily, they were hungry, and amused themselves by devouring poor Negro; otherwise I should not have arrived in time."
"But how was it that you came by this strange road?"
"In the first place, I was bound to save your life, as I knew that if I killed one jaguar, the other would leap upon you, in order to avenge it."
"But you ran the risk of being torn in pieces by the horrible animals," she said, with a shudder of retrospective terror, as she thought of the frightful dangers from which she had been so miraculously preserved.
"That is possible," he said, with an unmistakable expression of joy; "but I should have died to save you, and I desired nothing else."
The maiden made no reply. Pensive and blushing, she bowed her head on her chest. The hunter thought that he had offended her, and also remained silent and constrained. This silence lasted several minutes. At length Doña Marianna raised her head and offered her hand to the young man.
"Thank you again!" she said, with a gentle smile.
"Your heart is good. You did not hesitate to sacrifice your life for me, whom you scarce know, and I shall feel eternally grateful to you."
"I am too amply repaid for my services by these words, señorita," he replied, with marked hesitation; "still I have a favour to ask you, and I should be pleased if you would deign to grant it."
"Oh, speak, speak! Tell me what I can do!"
"I know not how to explain it; my request will appear to you so strange, so singular—perhaps so indiscreet."
"Speak; for I feel convinced that the favour you pretend to ask of me is merely another service you wish to render me."
Stronghand bent a searching glance on the maiden, and then seemed to make up his mind.
"Well, señorita," he said, "it is this:—should you ever, for any reason neither you nor I can foresee, need advice, or the help of a friend, either for yourself or any member of your family, do nothing till you have seen me, and explained to me unreservedly the motives that impelled you to come to me."
Doña Marianna reflected, while the hunter gazed at her attentively.
"Be it so," she at length said; "I promise to act as you wish. But how am I to find you?"
"Your foster brother is my friend, señorita; you will request him to lead you to me, and he will do so; or, if you prefer it, you can warn me through him to proceed to any place you may point out."
"Agreed."
"I can count on your promise?"
"Have I not passed my word?"
All at once a loud noise, resembling the passage of a wild beast, was heard in the forest glade; the maiden started, and instinctively clung to the hunter.
"Fear nothing, señorita," the latter said; "do you not recognise a friend?"
At the same moment the tigrero's dog leaped up to fondle her, followed almost instantaneously by Mariano.
"Heaven be blessed!" he said, joyfully, "She is saved!" and pressing the hunter's hand cordially, he added, "Thanks; it is a service I owe you, brother."
How was it that the tigrero, whom we saw leave the rancho almost as soon as Doña Marianna, and follow in her track, arrived so late? We will explain this in a few sentences. The young man, feeling certain that his foster sister thoroughly knew the road she had to follow, which was, moreover, properly traced, had not dreamed of the chance of her missing her way, and not troubling himself to follow the horse's footmarks, he pushed straight on, fancying Doña Marianna ahead of him, crossed the forest, and then entered the plain, without perceiving the person he fancied he was following.
Still, on reaching the cultivated land, he looked carefully ahead of him, for he was surprised at the advance the young lady had gained on him in so short a time. But, though he examined the horizon all around, he saw nothing of her. Mariano was beginning to grow anxious; still, as there was a chaparral some distance ahead, whose tufted trees might conceal her whom he sought, he became reassured, and pushed onward, increasing the already rapid pace of his steed. It took him some time to pass through the chaparral; when he reached its skirt, and again entered the plain, the sun had set about half an hour previously, and darkness was invading the earth; the darkness was, indeed, so thick, that in spite of all his exertions, he could distinguish nothing a few paces ahead of him.
The tigrero halted, dismounted, placed his ear on the ground, and listened. A moment later he heard, or fancied he heard, a distant sound resembling a horse's gallop; his alarm was at once dissipated. Convinced that the young lady was in front of him, he mounted again and pushed on. As he was only two leagues from the Hacienda del Toro, he soon reached the foot of the rock. Here he stopped, and asked himself whether he had better go up, or regard his mission as fulfilled, and turn back. While unable to form any decision, he saw a black outline gliding along the path, and soon distinguished a horseman coming toward him.
"Buena noche, Caballero," he said, when the latter crossed him.
"Dios le de a usted buena," the other politely replied, and he passed on, but suddenly turned round again. The tigrero rode to meet him.
"Ah!" the horseman said, when they met, "I felt sure that I was not mistaken. How is No Mariano?"
"Very well, and at your service," the tigrero answered, recognising the majordomo; "and you, No Paredes?"
"The same, thank you; are you going up to the toro, or returning to the rancho?"
"Why that question?"
"Because in the former case I would bid you good night, while in the latter we would ride together."
"Are you going to the rancho?"
"Yes; the Señor Marquis has sent me."
"Tell me, No Paredes, would there be any indiscretion on my part in asking you what you are going to do at the rancho at so late an hour?"
"Not the slightest, compadre. I am simply going to fetch Doña Marianna, who has remained today later than usual with her nurse. Her father is anxious about her long absence, and asked me to go and meet her if she were on her road home, or if not, push on to the rancho."
This revelation was a thunderclap for the young man, who fancied that he had misunderstood.
"What!" he exclaimed, anxiously, "Is not Doña Marianna at the hacienda?"
"It seems not," the majordomo answered, "since I am going to fetch her."
"Why, that is impossible!" the other continued, in extreme agitation.
"Why so?" said Paredes, beginning to grow anxious in his turn. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that Doña Marianna left the rancho full three hours ago; that I followed her without her knowledge to watch over her safety, and that she must have been at the hacienda for more than half an hour."
"Are you quite sure of what you assert?"
"¡Caray! I have asserted it."
"In that case, Heaven have pity on the poor girl! For I apprehend a frightful misfortune."
"But she may have entered the hacienda without your seeing her."
"Nonsense, compadre; that is impossible. But come, we'll convince ourselves."
Without losing time in longer argument the two men dashed up the rock at a gallop, and in a few minutes reached the first gate of the hacienda. No one had seen Doña Marianna. The alarm was instantly given; Don Hernando wished to ride off at the head of his people, and beat up the country in search of his daughter; and it was with great difficulty that he was induced to abandon the project. Don Ruiz and the majordomo, followed by some twenty peons, provided with ocote wood torches, started in two different directions.
Mariano had an idea of his own. When he was quite certain that his foster sister had not returned, he presumed the truth—that she was lost in the forest. He did not consider for a moment that she had been carried off by Indian marauders, for he had not noticed any trace of a party of horsemen; and Bigote, whose nose was infallible, had evinced no anxiety during the ride. Hence Doña Marianna must be lost in the forest. The tigrero let Don Ruiz, the majordomo, and the peons pass him, and then bent his steps towards the rancho, closely followed by his dog, in spite of the exhortations of his young master and No Paredes, who wanted him to accompany them. When he was in the forest he stopped for a moment, as if to look round him; then, after most carefully examining the spot where he was, he dismounted, fastened his horse's bridle to the pommel, tied the stirrups together to keep them from clanking, and gave his horse a friendly smack on the crupper.
"Go along, Moreno," he said to it; "return to the rancho. I shall not want you again tonight."
The horse turned its fine intelligent head to its master, gave a neigh of pleasure, and started at a gallop in the direction of the rancho. The tigrero carefully examined his gun, the priming of which he renewed, and began inspecting the ground by the light of a torch. Bigote, gravely seated on its hind legs, followed its master's every movement, and was evidently much perplexed. After a very lengthened search, the tigrero probably found what he was looking for, for he rose with an air of satisfaction, and whistled his dog, which at once ran up.
"Bigote," he said, "smell these marks; they were made by the horse of your mistress, Marianna; do you recognise them?"
The noble animal did as its master ordered, then fixed its sparkling eyes upon him with an almost human expression, and wagged its tail with delight.
"Good, Bigote! Good, my famous dog!" the tigrero continued, as he patted it; "And now let us follow the trail; forward, Bigote, pick it up clean."
The dog hesitated for a moment, then it set out with its nose to the ground, closely followed by its master, who had extinguished his torch, which would henceforth be useless. But all we have narrated occupied considerable time; and the tigrero would have arrived too late to save the maiden, had not Heaven sent the hunter across her path. The dog did not once check its speed through the numberless windings of the course Negro had followed; and master and dog together reached the spot where the horrible drama we recently described occurred.
"When I heard Stronghand's shot," the tigrero added, as he concluded his narrative, "I experienced a sound of deadly agony, for I understood that a frightful struggle was going on at the moment, and that the beast might conquer the man. Well, tocaya, will you now believe in the jaguars?"
"Oh, silence, Mariano!" the young lady said, with a shudder; "I almost went mad with terror when I saw the eyes of the horrible animals fixed upon me. Oh! Had it not been for this brave and honest hunter, I should have been lost."
"Brave and honest, indeed!" the tigrero, said, with frank affection; "You are right, señorita, for Stronghand might just as fairly be called Goodheart, for he is ever so ready to assist strangers, and relieve the unfortunate."
Doña Marianna listened with lively pleasure to this praise of the man who had saved her life; but Stronghand felt terribly embarrassed, and suffered in his heart at a deed which he thought so simple, and which he was so delighted to have done, being rated so highly.
"Come, come, Mariano," he said, in order to cut short the young man's compliments, "we cannot remain here any longer; remember that while we are quietly resting by the fireside and talking nonsense, this young lady's father and brother are suffering from deadly anxiety, and scouring the plain without any hope of finding her. We must arrange how to get away from here as soon as possible, and return to the hacienda."
"Caray, master, you are right, as usual; but what is to be done? Both you and I are on foot, and we cannot dream for a moment that the señorita could walk such a distance."
"Oh, I am strong," she said with a smile; "under your escort, my friends, I fear nothing, and can walk."
"No, señorita," the hunter said, with an accent of gentle authority, "your strength would betray your courage; on so dark a night, and in a forest like this, a man accustomed to desert life could hardly expect to walk without falling at every step. Put yourself in our hands, for we know better than you do what is best to be done under the circumstances."
"Very good," she answered; "act as you think proper. I have suffered enough already today, by refusing to listen to the advice of my tocayo, to prevent me being obstinate now."
"That is the way to talk," the tigrero said gaily. "What are we going to do, Stronghand?"
"While you skin the jaguars—for I suppose you do not wish to leave them as they are—"
"What!" the tigrero interrupted him, "Those skins belong to you, and I have no claim to them, as you killed the beasts."
"Pooh!" the hunter said with a laugh, "I am not a tigrero, except by accident; the skins are yours, and fairly so; so you had better take them."
"Since that is the case I will not decline; but as for my part, I promised to give my foster sister the skins to make a rug, I will beg her to accept them."
"Very good," she answered, giving the hunter a look which filled him with joy; "they will remind me of the fearful danger I incurred, and the way in which I escaped it."
"That is settled, then," the hunter said; "and I will; cut down with my machete some branches to form a litter."
"Caray, that is an idea which would not have occurred to me," Mariano remarked, with a laugh; "but it is very simple. To work."
Hunters and trappers are skilful and most expeditious men; in a few minutes Mariano had skinned the jaguars, and Stronghand formed the litter; the skins, after being carefully folded, were securely fastened on the back of Bigote, who did not at all like the burden imposed on him; but after a while he made up his mind to put up with it. Stronghand covered the litter with leaves and grass, over which he laid the saddlecloth of the horse the jaguars had devoured; then he requested the young lady to seat herself on this soft divan, which was so suddenly improvised, and the two men, taking it on their strong shoulders, started in the direction of the hacienda, joined by Bigote, who trotted in front with glad barks.
Although the hunters had, from excess of precaution, formed torches of ocote wood to help them, the darkness was so complete—the trees were so close together—that it was with extreme difficulty that they succeeded in advancing in this inextricable labyrinth. Forced to take continualdetours—obliged at times to walk in water up to their waists—deafened by the discordant cries of the birds, which the flash of the torches aroused—they saw all around them the wild beasts flying, with hoarse roars and eyes glaring through the darkness. It was then that Doña Marianna fully comprehended what frightful peril she had escaped, and how certain her death would have been, had not the hunter come to her assistance with such noble self-devotion; and at the remembrance of all that had occurred, and which was now but a dream, a convulsive tremor passed over her limbs, and she felt as if she were about to faint. Stronghand, who seemed to guess what was going on in the maiden's mind, frequently spoke to her, in order to change the current of her ideas by compelling her to answer him. They had been marching for a long distance, and the forest seemed as savage as when they started.
"Do you believe," Doña Marianna asked, "that we are on the right road?"
"Even admitting, señora, what might be possible," the hunter answered, "that Mariano and myself were capable of falling into an error, we have with us an infallible guide in Bigote, who, you may be quite certain, will not lead us astray."
"Within ten minutes, señorita," the tigrero said, "we shall enter the road that runs from the rancho to the hacienda."
All at once the two men stopped. At the same moment Doña Marianna heard shouts that seemed to answer each other in various directions.
"Forward! Forward!" said Stronghand; "Let us not leave your relatives and friends in anxiety longer than we can help."
"Thanks," she answered.
They continued their march; and, as the tigrero had announced, in scarce ten minutes they reached the road to the hacienda.
"What shall we do now?" Marianna asked.
"I think," Stronghand answered, "that we ought to announce our presence by a cry for help, and then proceed in the direction of those who answer us. What is your opinion, señora?"
"Yes," she said, "I think we ought to do so; for otherwise we run a risk of reaching the hacienda without meeting any of the persons sent to seek me, and who might continue their search till morning, which would be ingratitude on my part."
"You are right, niña; for all these worthy people are attached to you, and besides, your brother and Don Paredes are also seeking you."
"That is a further reason why we should hasten to announce our return," the young lady answered.
The two hunters, after consulting for a moment, uttered together that long shrill yell, which, in the desert as in the mountains, serves as the rallying cry, and may be heard for an enormous distance. Almost immediately the whole forest seemed to be aroused; similar cries broke out in all directions, and the hunters noticed red dots running with extreme rapidity between the trees, and all converging on the spot where they stood, as if they radiated from a common centre. Certain of having been heard, the hunters once again uttered their shout for help. The reply was not delayed; the galloping of horses soon became distinct, and then riders, holding torches, appeared from all parts of the forest coming at full speed, waving their hands, and resembling the fantastic huntsmen of the old German legends. In a few minutes all the persons were assembled round the litter on which the young lady reclined; and Don Ruiz and the majordomo were not long ere they arrived. We will not describe the joy of brother and sister on seeing each other again.
"Brother," Doña Marianna said to Don Ruiz, "if you find me still alive, you owe it to the man who before saved us both from the pirates of the prairies; had it not been for him, I should have been lost."
"You may safely say that, and no mistake," Marianna said, in confirmation.
"Where is he?" Don Ruiz asked—"Where is he? that I may express all my gratitude to him."
But he was sought for in vain. During the first moment of confusion, Stronghand had summoned a peon to take his place—had glided unnoticed into the forest and disappeared—no one being able to say in what direction he had gone.
"Why this flight?" Doña Marianna murmured, with a stifled sigh; "Does this strange man fear lest our gratitude should prove too warm?"
And she thoughtfully bowed her head on her bosom.
Although he allowed nothing to be visible, Don Ruiz was vexed at heart with the affectation the hunter seemed to display in avoiding him, and escaping from his thanks. This savageness in a man to whom he owed such serious obligations appeared to him to conceal either a disguised enmity, or dark schemes whose accomplishment he feared, though he could not assign any plausible motive for them, especially after the manner in which the hunter had not hesitated on two occasions to imperil his life in assisting himself and his sister. These thoughts, which incessantly thronged to the mind of Don Ruiz, plunged him into deep trouble for some moments; still, when the peons he had sent off to seek the hunter all returned one after the other, declaring that they could not possibly find his trail, the young man shook his head several times, frowned, and then gave orders for the start.
Doña Marianna's return to the hacienda was a real triumphal procession. The peons, delighted at having found their mistress again safe and sound, gaily bore her on their shoulders, laughing, singing, and dancing along the road, not knowing how otherwise to express their joy, and yet desirous to make her comprehend the pleasure they felt. In spite of the fatigue that crushed her, and the state of exhaustion into which she had fallen through the terrific emotions she had undergone, Doña Marianna, sensible of these manifestations of gratitude, made energetic efforts in order to appear to share their joy, and prove to them how greatly she was affected by it. But, although she gave them her sweetest smiles and gentlest words, she could not have endured much longer the constraint, and she was really exhausted when the little party at length reached the hacienda.
The Marquis, who was suffering the most frightful agitation, had gone to the last gate to meet them, and would possibly have gone further still, had not Don Ruiz taken the precaution, so soon as his sister was found, to send off a peon to tranquillize his mind and announce the successful result. At the first moment the Marquis completely forgot his aristocratic pride, only to think of the happiness of pressing to his heart the child he feared he had lost for ever. Don Rufino Contreras, carried away by the example, shared in the general joy, and pretended to pump up a tear of sympathy while fixing on the young lady his huge grey eyes, to which he tried in vain to give a tender expression.
The maiden threw herself with an outburst of tears into her father's arms, and at length, yielding to her feelings, fainted—an accident which, by arousing the anxiety of the spectators, cut short all the demonstrations. Doña Marianna was conveyed to her apartments, and the peons were dismissed after the majordomo had, by the order of the Marquis, distributed among thempesetasand tragos of refino, which set the crown of the delight of these worthy fellows.
In spite of the offer of No Paredes, who invited him to spend the night at the hacienda, the tigrero would not consent; and after freeing Bigote from the jaguars' skins, which seemed to cause the dog considerable pleasure, they both started gaily for the rancho. It was about two o'clock, a.m., and a splendid night, and the tigrero, with his gun under his arm and his dog at his heels, was walking at a steady pace while whistling a merry jarana, when, just as he was entering the shadow of the forest, Stronghand suddenly emerged from a thicket two paces ahead of him.
"Hilloh!" the tigrero said, on recognising him; "Where the deuce did you get to just now, that it was impossible to find you? What bee was buzzing in your bonnet?"
The hunter shrugged his shoulders.
"Do you fancy," he replied, "that it is so very pleasant to be stared at by those semi-idiotic peons for performing so simple a deed as mine was?"
"Well, opinions are free, compadre, and I will not argue with you on that score; still, I should not have run off in that way."
"¿Quién sabe? You are more modest than you like to show, brother; and I feel certain that, under similar circumstances, you would have acted as I did."
"That is possible, though I do not believe it; still, I thank you," he added, with a laugh, "for having discovered in me a quality which I was not aware I possessed. But where on earth are you going at such an hour?"
"I was looking for you."
"In that case all is for the best, since you have found me; what do you want of me?"
"To ask hospitality of you for a few days."
"Our house is not large, but sufficiently so to contain a guest, especially when you are he; you can remain with us so long as you please."
"I thank you, gossip, but I shall not abuse your complaisance; I am obliged to remain for a few days in these parts, and, as the nights are fresh, I will confess that I prefer passing them under a roof instead of the star spangled arch of heaven."
"As you please, Stronghand; the door of my humble rancho is ever open to let you in or out. I do not want to know the reason for your stay here; but the longer you remain with us, the greater honour and pleasure you will afford us."
"Thanks, comrade."
All was settled in a few words. The two men continued their walk, and soon reached the rancho. The tigrero led the hunter to his bedroom, where they lay down side by side, and soon fell asleep. A few days elapsed, during which the hunter saw Doña Marianna several times, while careful not to let her notice him, although it was evident to Stronghand that the young lady would have liked nothing better than meeting him; perhaps she really desired it, without daring to confess it to herself.
One day, about a week after the scene with the jaguars, the hunter was lying half asleep in a copse whose leafy branches completely hid him from sight, and quietly enjoying his siesta during the great midday heat, when he fancied he heard the sound of footsteps not far from the spot where he was. He instinctively opened his eyes, raised himself on his elbow, and looked carefully around him; he checked a cry of surprise on recognising the man, who had stopped close to the thicket and dismounted, like a man who has reached the spot he desired. This man was Kidd, the bandit, with whom the reader has already formed acquaintance.
"What does that scoundrel want here?" the hunter asked himself. "He is doubtless plotting some infamy, and I bless the chance that brings him within earshot, for this demon is one of the men who cannot be watched too closely."
In the meanwhile Kidd had removed his horse's bit, in order to let it graze freely; he himself sat down on a rock, lit a husk cigarette, and began smoking with all thenonchalanceof a man whose conscience is perfectly at its ease. Stronghand racked his brains in vain to try and discover the motive for the presence of the bandit in these parts, so remote from the ordinary scene of his villainy, when chance, which had already favoured him, gave him the clue to the enigma, which he had almost despaired of obtaining. A sound made him turn his head, and he saw a stout horseman, with rubicund face and handsomely dressed, coming up at an amble. When he reached the adventurer, the latter rose, bowed respectfully, and assisted him to dismount.
"Ouf!" the stout man said, with a sigh of relief, "What a confounded ride!"
"Well," the bandit replied with a grin, "you must blame yourself, Don Rufino, for you arranged it. May the fiend twist my neck if I would damage myself, no matter for what purpose, and ride across the plain at this hour of the day."
"Everybody is the best judge of his own business, Master Kidd," Don Rufino remarked, drily, as he wiped his steaming face, with a fine cambric handkerchief.
"That is possible; but if I had the honour to be Don Rufino Contreras, enormously rich, and senator to boot, hang me if I would put myself out of my way to run after an adventurer like Master Kidd, whatever pleasure I might take at other times in the conversation of that worthy caballero."
The senator began laughing.
"Ha! Ha! Scoundrel; you have scented something."
"Hang it!" the bandit replied, impudently, "I do not deceive myself, and am well aware that whatever attractions my conversation may offer, you would not have come this distance expressly to hear it."
"That is possible, scamp. However, listen to me."
"I can see from your familiarity that the job will be an expensive one; well, I do not dislike that way of entering upon the subject, for it forebodes a good business."
The senator shrugged his shoulders with ill-disguised contempt. "Enough of this," he said, "let us come to facts."
"I ask nothing better."
"Are you fond of money?"
"I certainly have a weakness for gold."
"Good. Would you hesitate about killing a man to earn it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I ask you, scoundrel, whether in a case of necessity you would kill a man for money?"
"I perfectly understood you."
"Then why make me repeat it?"
"Because your doubt is offensive to my feelings."
"How so?"
"Hang it, I fancy I speak clearly. Killing a man is nothing when you are well paid for it."
"I will pay well."
"Beforehand?"
"Yes, if you like."
"How much?"
"I warn you that the man I refer to is but a poor fellow."
"Yes, a poor fellow who is troublesome to you. Well, go on."
"One thousand piastres. Is that enough?"
"It is not too much."
"Confound it, you are expensive."
"That is possible; but I do my work conscientiously. Well, tell me who the man is that is in your way."
"José Paredes."
"The majordomo at the Toro?"
"Yes."
"Do you know that he is not an easy man to kill? You must owe him a sore grudge, I suppose?"
"I do not know him."
The bandit looked in amazement at the speaker.
"You do not know him, and yet offer one thousand piastres for his death? Nonsense!"
"It is so."
"But you must have a reason. Caray, a man is not killed as one twists a fowl's neck. I know that, bandit though I am."
"You said it just now. He is in my way."
"That is different," the adventurer replied, convinced by this peremptory reason.
"Listen to me attentively, and engrave my words on your mind."
"Go on, señor. I will not lose a word."
"In two or three days the majordomo will leave for Hermosillo, carrying bills to a considerable amount."
"Good," the bandit said, rubbing his hands gleefully; "I will kill him as he passes, and take possession of the bills."
"No, you will let him go on in peace, and you will kill him on his return, when he has cashed the bills."
"That is true. Where the deuce was my head? That will be much better."
Don Rufino looked at him ironically.
"You will deliver to me the sum this man is the bearer of," he said.
The bandit gave a start of alarm,
"I suppose the sum is large?"
"Fifty thousand piastres."
"¡Viva Dios! Surrender such a fortune? I would sooner be burned alive."
"You must, though,"
"Never, señor."
"Nonsense," the senator remarked, contemptuously. "You know you are in my hands. All the worse for you if you hesitate, for you will then lose two thousand piastres."
"You said one thousand."
"I made a mistake."
"And when will you give them to me?"
"At once."
"Have you the amount about you?"
"Yes."
Suddenly the bandit's eye gleamed with a sinister flash; he drew himself up, and leaped, knife in hand, upon the senator. But the adventurer had a powerful adversary. Don Rufino had long known the man he was treating with, and, while conversing, had not once taken his eye off, and attentively watched all his movements. Hence, though Kidd's action was so rapid, Don Rufino was before him; he seized his arm with his left hand, while with the right he placed a pistol to his chest.
"Hilloh, my master," he said, coldly, and with the most perfect tranquillity, "are you mad, or has a wasp stung you?"
Abashed by his failure, the bandit gave him a savage look.
"Let me loose!"
"Not before you have thrown your knife away, scoundrel!"
Kidd opened his hand, the knife fell on the ground, and Don Rufino put his foot upon it.
"You are not half clever enough," he said, sarcastically; "you deserve to have your brains blown out, in order to teach you to take your measures better another time."
"I do not always miss my mark," he replied, with a menacing accent.
There was a moment of silence between the two men. Stronghand still watched them, not losing one of their words or gestures, which interested him to the highest degree. At length Don Rufino spoke.
"Have you reflected?" he asked the bandit.
"Of what?" the latter remarked, roughly; "Of this proposal?"
"Yes."
"Well, I accept."
"But you understand," the senator continued, laying a stress upon every word, "you must deal frankly this time. No trickery, eh?"
"No, no," Kidd answered, with a shake of the head; "you may be sure of that."
"I reckon on your honesty. Moreover, profit by what has occurred today. I am not always so good tempered; and if a misunderstanding, like that just now, again arose between us, the consequences might be very serious to you."
These few words were uttered with an intonation of voice, and accompanied by a look, that produced a profound impression on the bandit.
"All right," he said, shrugging his shoulders savagely; "there is no need to threaten, as all is settled."
"Very good."
"Where shall I come to you after the business?"
"Do not trouble yourself about that. I shall manage to find you."
"Ah!" he said, with a side-glance; "then that is your affair?"
"Yes."
"Very good. Give me the money."
"Here it is. But remember, if you deceive me—"
"Nonsense," the bandit interrupted him. "Did I not tell you that it was all settled?"
The senator drew from his pocket a long purse, through whose meshes gold coins could be seen. He weighed it for an instant in his hand, and then threw it twenty paces from him.
"Go and fetch it," he said.
The bandit dashed at the gold, which as it fell produced a ringing sound. Don Rufino took advantage of this movement to get into his saddle.
"Good-bye," he said to the bandit. "Remember!" and he started at a gallop. Kidd made no reply, for he was too busy counting the ounces contained in the purse.
"All right," he at last said, with a smile upon his features, as he hid the purse in his bosom. "No matter," he added, as he looked savagely after the senator, "I allow that I am in your power, demon; but if I ever had you in my hands as you had me today, and I manage to discover one of your secrets, I should not be so mad as to show you any mercy."
After this soliloquy the bandit went up to his horse, tightened the girths, and set out in his turn, but in a direction opposite to that which the senator had taken. So soon as he was alone, the hunter rose.
"Oh, oh!" he muttered, "That is a dark plot. That man cannot want to kill Paredes merely to rob him; it is plain that the blow is meant for the Marquis. I will be on my guard."
We have already seen that the hunter religiously kept his promise.
Now that we have given the reader all necessary information about the events accomplished at the Hacienda del Toro, we will resume our narrative at the point where we were compelled to leave it—that is to say, we will return to the village of the Papazos, and be present at the conversation between Thunderbolt and Stronghand in the Pyramid. The two men, walking side by side, went up to the top of the Pyramid. They traversed the bridge of lianas thrown over the Quebrada at a great height, and entered the Pyramid on the right. They descended to the first floor—the Indians they met bowing respectfully to them—and stopped before a securely fastened door. On reaching it, Thunderbolt gave it two slight taps; an inner bolt was drawn, the door opened, and they went in. They had scarce crossed the threshold ere the young Indian who had opened the door closed it again after them. A strange change had taken place in the two men; the Indian stoicism they had hitherto affected made way for manners that revealed men used to frequent the highest society of cities.
"Maria," Thunderbolt said to the girl, "inform your mistress that her son has returned to the village." In giving this order the old gentleman employed Spanish, and not the Comanche idiom which he had used up to the present.
"The señora was already aware of her son's return,mi amo," Maria answered, with a smile.
"Ah!" said the old man, "then she has seen somebody."
"The venerable Padre Fray Serapio came an hour ago to pay the señora a visit, and he is still with her."
"Very good; announce us, my child."
The girl bowed and disappeared, returning a moment after to tell the two gentlemen that they could enter. They were then introduced into a rather spacious room, lighted by four glazed windows—an extraordinary luxury in such a place—in front of which hung heavy red damask curtains. This room, entirely lined with stamped Cordovan leather, was furnished in the Spanish style, with that good taste which only the Castilians of the old race have kept, and was, through its arrangement, half drawing room, half oratory. In one corner an ebonyprie-dieu, surmounted by an ivory crucifix, which time had turned yellow, and several pictures of saints, signed by Murillo and Zurbaran, would have caused the apartment to be taken for an oratory, had not comfortable sofas, tables loaded with books, and butacas, proved it to be a drawing room. Near a silver brasero two persons were sitting in butacas.
Of these, one was a lady, the other a Franciscan monk; both had passed midlife, or, to speak more correctly, were close on fifty years of age.
The lady wore the Spanish garb fashionable in her youth—that is to say, some thirty years before. Although her hair was beginning to grow white, and a few deep wrinkles altered the purity of her features, still it was easy to see that she must have been very lovely once on a time. Her skin, of a slightly olive hue, was extremely fine, and in the firm marked lines of her face, the distinctive character of the purest Aztec race could be recognised. Her black eyes, shaded by long lashes, and whose corners rose slightly, like those of the Mongolians, had an expression of strange gentleness, and her whole face revealed mildness and intelligence. Although she was below the ordinary height of women, she still retained the elegance of youth; and her exquisitely modelled hands and feet were almost of a microscopic smallness. Fray Serapio was the true type of the Spanish monk—handsome, majestic, and dreamy—and seemed as if he had stepped out of a picture by Zurbaran. When the two gentlemen entered, the lady and the Padre rose.
"You are welcome, my darling child," the old lady said, opening her arms to her son.
The latter rushed into them, and for some minutes there was an uninterrupted series of caresses between mother and son.
"Forgive me, Padre Serapio," Stronghand at length said, as he freed himself from the gentle bondage; "but it is so long since I had the pleasure of embracing my mother, that I cannot leave off."
"Embrace your mother, my child," the monk answered, with a smile; "a mother's caresses are the only ones that do not entail regret."
"What are you about, Padre?" Thunderbolt asked; "Are you going to leave us already?"
"Yes; and pray excuse me for going away so soon; but after a lengthened separation, you must have much to say to one another, and a third person, however friendly he may be, is always in the way at such a time. Moreover, my brothers and I have a good deal to do at present, owing to so many white hunters and trappers being in the village."
"Are you satisfied with your neophytes?"
The monk shook his head mournfully.
"No," he at length answered; "the Indians love and respect us, owing to the protection you have deigned to afford us, Señor Don—"
"Silence!" the chief interrupted him, with a smile; "no other name but that of Thunderbolt."
"That is true; I always forget that you have surrendered the one received at your baptism; still it is one of the most noble in the martyrology. Well," he continued with a sigh, "the will of Heaven be done! The glorious days of conversion have passed since we have become Mexicans; the Indians no longer believe in the Spanish good faith, and sooner than accept our God, persist in their old errors. This makes me remember that I have a favour to ask of you."
"Of me? Oh, it is granted beforehand, if it be in my power to satisfy you."
"Doña Esperanza, with whom I have spoken about it, leads me to hope that you will not refuse it."
"Did you not say to me one day that the señora's name brought you good luck? It will probably be the same today."
The monk took a furtive glance at the old lady.
"This is the matter, my dear," she said, mingling in the conversation; "the good father wishes your authority to follow, with another monk, the warriors during the coming expedition."
"That is a singular idea, father; and what may your object be? For I presume you do not intend to fight in our ranks."
"No," the monk answered with a smile, "my tastes are not warlike enough for that; but if I may judge from the preparations I see you making, this will be a serious expedition."
"It will," the old man answered, pensively.
"I have noticed that generally, during these expeditions, the wounded are left without assistance. I should like to accompany the Indians, in order to attend to their wounds, and console those whose hurts are so serious that they cannot recover; still, if the request appear to you exorbitant, I will recall it, though I shall do so reluctantly."
The old gentleman gazed at the monk for a moment with an expression of admiration and tenderness impossible to describe.
"I grant your request, Padre," he at length said, affectionately pressing his hand. "Still, I am bound to make one remark."
"What is it?"
"You run a risk of falling into the hands of the Mexicans."
"Well, what matter? Can they regard it as a crime if I perform on the battlefield the duties which my religion imposes on me?"
"Who knows? Perhaps they will regard you as a rebel."
"And in that case—"
"Treat you as such."
"That is to say—"
"You will run a risk, father, of being shot; and that is worth thinking about, I suppose."
"You are mistaken, my friend; between duty and cowardice no hesitation is possible. I will die, if it be necessary—but with the conviction that I have fulfilled to the close the sacred mission I have undertaken. Then you grant my request?"
"I do so, father, and thank you for having made it."
"Blessings on your kindness, my son; and now the Lord be with you. I shall retire."
In spite of much pressing, the worthy father insisted on going away, and was conducted to the door of the apartment by the two gentlemen, in spite of his efforts to escape a mark of honour of which he considered himself unworthy. When the door closed after him, and the three persons were really alone, Doña Esperanza, after a long look at her son, gently drew him towards her, and obliging him to sit down on an equipal, she lovingly parted off his forehead his clustering locks, and said in a sweet, harmonious voice, in which all the jealous tenderness of a mother was revealed—
"I find you sad, Diego; your face is pale, your features are worn, and your eyes sparkle with a gloomy fire. What has happened to you during your absence?"
"Nothing extraordinary, mother," he answered, with an embarrassment he tried in vain to conceal. "As usual, I have hunted a great deal, travelled a long distance, and consequently, endured great fatigue; hence, doubtless, comes the pallor you notice upon my face."
The old lady shook her head with an incredulous air.
"A mother cannot be deceived, my boy," she said, gently. "Since you have been a man I have seen you return only too often, alas, from long and perilous expeditions. You were fatigued—at times ill, but that was all; while today you are gloomy, restless—"
"Mother!"
"Do not argue, for my mind is made up, and nothing will alter it. If you refuse me your confidence, Heaven grant that you may select a confidant who understands you so thoroughly."
"Oh, mother! This is the first time a reproach has passed your lips."
"Because, Diego, this is the first time you have refused to let me read your heart."
The young man sighed and hung his head, without replying. Thunderbolt, who had hitherto been a silent spectator of the scene, gave Doña Esperanza a meaning glance, and walked up to her son.
"Diego," he said to him, as he laid his hand on his shoulder, "you forget that you have to give me a report of the mission I entrusted to you."
Stronghand started, and eagerly sprang up.
"That is true, father," he replied; "forgive me. I am ready to furnish you with all the details you desire of what I have been doing during my absence from the village."
"Sit down, my son; your mother and I give you permission."
The young man took a chair, and after reflecting for a few seconds, at a further remark from his father, he commenced the recital of all he had been doing while away. The narrative was long, and lasted nearly two hours; but we will not relate it, because the reader is acquainted with most of the facts the young man stated. Thunderbolt and Doña Esperanza listened without interruption, and gave unequivocal signs of the liveliest interest. When he had concluded his story, his mother fondly embraced him, while congratulating him on his noble and generous conduct. But Thunderbolt regarded the matter from another point of view.
"Then," he asked his son, "the man who arrived with you is the majordomo of this Don Hernando de Moguer?"
"Yes, father."
"Though I am an Indian by adoption, I will not forget that Spanish blood flows in my veins. You will pay this Paredes, as you call him, the amount of the bills, and I will send them to Hermosillo to be cashed hereafter. You did well in bringing him with you, for an honest man must not fall a victim to a villain. Although this affair does not in any way concern us, I am not sorry to do a service to an old fellow countryman. Let the majordomo leave the village this very night; in order to prevent any accident on the road, you will have him escorted to the hacienda by Whistler and Peccary, and three or four warriors. They will be more than sufficient to frighten any scoundrels that may attempt to stop him; and as, moreover, we are in a direction entirely opposed to that in which the Hermosillo road runs, no one will think of stopping him."
"I can accompany him myself, with your permission, father."
The old gentleman gave him a piercing glance, which compelled him to look down.
"No," he replied; "I want you here."
"As you please, father," he said, with feigned indifference.
And he rose.
"Where are you going?"
"To carry out your orders, father."
"There is no hurry; the day is not very advanced yet, and I want to talk with you; so return to your chair."
The young man obeyed. Thunderbolt reflected for a moment, and then said—
"How do you call this hacienda?"
"El Toro."
"Let me see," the old man continued, as if striving to remember; "it is not built on the exact site of the ancient Cosala?"
"So people say, father."
Doña Esperanza listened to this conversation with considerable anxiety. In vain did she try to discover her husband's meaning, and ask herself why he thus obstinately brought the conversation back to so hazardous a subject.
"Is it not a strong place?" the sachem continued.
"Yes, father; substantially built, and crowned with almenas."
"In truth, I now remember having seen it formerly! It is an excellent strategical position."
Doña Esperanza looked at her husband with amazement blended with alarm; she could neither account for his coldness nor his persistence. He continued—
"Have you ever entered this hacienda."
"Never, father."
"That is vexatious; still, I presume you are acquainted with some of its inhabitants. A man cannot save," he added, ironically, "the life of such a man as this Don Hernando de Moguer must be, without his trying to testify his gratitude to the man who did him the service."