I knew too well what Matthew meant by this silent indication. He would have me to understand that the Ingas' slaughtered victims had been cast down the precipice (as the traces in the road bore out), and that the carrion birds were already feasting on their bodies.
My imagination could furnish forth no argument against the justice of this conclusion, and having now no hope to animate me, all about me appeared a blank, as if my heart could no longer feel, and all my faculties were stunned. So I stood there, watching the buzzard whirl round and round, as if I had nothing in the world to do but that.
I was aroused from this apathy by Matthew laying his hand on my shoulder, and saying in a gentle voice:
"Master, would it ease your mind to talk about her?"
Then I felt that I would like to pour out the grief from my heart, yet not to Matthew; so I turned away in an agony, thinking there was no one in the wide world to sympathize with me now she was gone. Who but I knew how gentle and sweet her nature was, and what words of mine could ever tell her praise as she deserved? Then recalling the sweet face, her delicate, gracious manner, the pretty tone of her voice, and in particular certain little kind words she had given me, with an encouraging look now and again, her brave habit of looking on the better side of our misfortunes to cheer me up, the dainty movement of her hands, and one or two little episodes wherein she had shown a pleasant wit—recalling these things, I say, and reflecting that they could never, never be repeated, my heart was wrung with bitter grief.
"Master," says Matthew again, seeing that I was in such great pain—"master, are you minded to find her body, and save her from those vile birds?"
I nodded eagerly; not because of my respect for the dead so much as that I longed to look once more upon that dear face, and kneel down beside her in secret, and weep, if the tears could find vent from my heart.
So we began to cast about how we might get down into that dark valley; and while I was spying below I noticed that the buzzard was perched on a point of rock about midway down, and near him were perched two others. Seeing this, a wild idea came across my mind, and calling to Matthew I bade him observe these birds, and then says I:
"Why are they there?"
He looked at me as not quite seeing my drift.
"If they are all dead below there, would those birds stand aloof? Why have they been soaring round and round above the trees this half-hour and more?"
"What you say, master," says he, "is very much to the point. Certainly they do not use to hold off in this manner, except there be sign of life in their prey. And yet" (looking down the abyss) "is it possible that any one hurled down from this height could survive the shock five minutes? Nay, even if the bough of a tree did somewhat break the fall, the poor wretch would be so broken that death were preferable to such a maimed existence."
I wasted no time in replying to this argument, for I had no thought but that my dear lady yet breathed. And I must needs think it was she of all those who had been thrown down that had escaped, though any one not distracted with a new-born hope would have seen that her frail body least of any could survive that terrible catastrophe.
I ran along the road, seeking a place to descend, with Matthew at my heels, imploring me to have a care of my own life, and not rashly expose myself to death for the sake of two minutes. However, I paid no heed to his warning, but at the first point where there seemed a possibility of climbing down the rocks to the valley I made the attempt.
"Master, master!" cries Matthew, "for the love of Heaven, don't go down there. 'Tis a hundred chances to one we be dashed to pieces that way. Look you a hundred yards ahead; there is a safer way."
"Nay," says I, "stay where you are, Matthew, or go a safer way. I make no doubt that Providence will help me here as before."
"If you go I go, master," says he, following without a moment's hesitation. "For I count upon Providence being as merciful to me as to you, though my legsbeshorter."
We got down the face of that mountain-side better than we might have expected from the look of it above (though how, I knew not), and with no great hurt, thanks be to God. And now, being at the top of that slope on which the trees grew, though still a prodigious height above the bottom of the valley, we made our way over the crags and scattered stones towards that part which lay below the road between the two bridges, which we made out at a distance clearly enough, because there the rock was straight down as any wall, and its side brushed by the arms of the great pine-trees we had observed from above. When we got amongst these trees, the first sign of the Ingas' business was seen in the timbers of the bridge, of which one stood on end, held so by the boughs of the pine through which it had passed, but the rest lay splintered amongst the rocks, Matthew said nothing, but I saw by a toss of his head and a desponding look in his face that he was asking himself how any human being could escape death by such a fall when these solid timbers had been shivered in pieces. Then perceiving we could be at no great distance from where the bodies had been flung down, I grew sick with the dread of seeing at the next footstep the crushed and mangled form of my dear lady, so that I could go no further for the weakness of my legs, but was forced to lean against a tree for support, while a cold sweat came out upon my face.
Observing my case, Matthew without a word slung round his wine-skin, which he had brought down (though our swords and all else that was dispensable we had left above), and gave me a drink, but would have me sit down to it, making out he could not lift the skin high enough else by reason it was nearly empty.
"Do you feel a bit stronger now, master?" says he kindly, when I had drunk.
"Ay," says I; "in a minute I shall be ready to go on."
While I was bracing up my courage, he silently went on a dozen paces, and then he comes to a stand, so that I knew he was in the presence of the dead; for had there been any room for hope he would not have stopped short. Then I forced myself to rise, and went to his side, where he stood with one hand on a pine-tree, looking beyond; indeed, the spectacle to be seen thence was enough to bring any one to a stand.
At another time we might have rested there in admiration of nature's handiwork, for we stood on the edge of a glade made fertile by a fountain which, springing from the mountain-side, fell into a rocky basin, and thence spread abroad over the hillside; and it seemed as if all rank and gross-growing things had been weeded out of this chosen spot, and only such plants left as might delight the eye. The trunk of every tree served as a pillar for creeping vines to twine around, and the boughs as a trellis for them to festoon and garland from end to side; which vines were gayly decked one and all with blossoms of every form and tint, so that above and around was naught but a transparent tapestry of bloom, through which the light penetrated in soft hues, as it might through the rich painted window of a cathedral; yet softer and more tender than ever I have yet seen. Then in contract with this gorgeous canopy of color, the ground spread out all carpeted with light feather-plants and slender grasses, while here and there stood up a rock coated over with long soft moss, all of a cool greenness most refreshing to the eye.
But now it was horror that brought us to a stand, since such a loathsome sight met our eyes as would have appalled the heart of a Nero. For some distance around the herbage was beaten down and strewn with what seemed rather the refuse and outcasting of a shambles than aught else; for only on looking close could one see that this torn flesh was from the head of man, that those broken bones were of a human body, etc.
This spectacle was made more ghastly by contrast with the life, the peace, the gayety, and loveliness of its surroundings. Terrible it was to see how this wreck of humanity was wreathed about with those sweet blooms they had torn down in falling through the boughs of the trees. 'Twas as if Death had arrayed himself in mockery with the flowers of Cupid. Here trailed a spray of tender green with purple blooms over the black and festering vitals torn from the chest of an arquebusier, and there from a bed of rose-pink buds gaped out a face (which I recognized presently for Lewis de Pino's) with dull, staring eyes, and a black, protruding tongue. Nor were our eyes alone shocked by this loathsome contrast; for in place of sweet odors from the flowers we were sickened by a stench of corruption which did seem to poison every breath I drew.
My first thought (when my horror abated, and I could reason at all) was that those Ingas Matthew spoke of were a race of cannibals, who, after casting down their victims, had descended to glut their abominable appetite here at leisure and in security; yet on closer inspection I could not believe this neither, for the bodies had not been stripped, but their clothes had been torn away with the flesh from their bones, so that it looked more as if a band of famished fiends had been to this feast than any mortal creatures.
I could no longer believe that Lady Biddy lived—nay, I could not hope that she did; yet my eye wandered wildly over the ground for some trace of her. Then thinking she might yet lie hid beyond one of those many stones I have mentioned, I set out upon this horrible quest, picking my way amidst the remains of these mangled enemies.
I had not gone far when Matthew, plucking me by the sleeve, says:
"Master, that is why the carrion birds have kept aloof."
And casting my eyes whither he pointed his finger I perceived, about twenty paces away, two great spotted ounces, which the Ingas call jagoaretes, stretched out at full length in the herbage—one with his paw set on a body which he had dragged thither.
At the sound of Matthew's voice the beasts raised their heads; then, seeing us, one of them got on his feet and the other sat up on his haunches. Presently he who was on his feet bared his teeth and gave a menacing growl, lashing his tail the while from side to side.
We had taken off our swords above and left them there, as I have said, for fear they should trip us in our descent, so that we had nothing to defend ourselves with against these brutes; nor could I see anything proper for that purpose, the savages having carried off all the Portugals' weapons. So here we stood, within a few bounds of those savage ounces, with no means of attack or defense.
"Don't stir, master, for the love of Heaven," says Matthew; "if we turn tail we shall be cat's-meat for a certainty."
And now the other ounce got on his feet, and, stretching out its neck, showed its teeth, yet without growling, for they were both gorged to their full, and heavy with their food.
Seeing they were not disposed to come at us, Matthew unslings his wine-skin, and, swinging it in his hand, makes pretense to draw nigh them, as if he would take them by surprise; on which the ounces, as not knowing what to make of it, dropped their tails and shrunk back their heads. Then one of them drawing back a pace, the other takes alarm, and, turning round, trots off; and the first, being in no mind to fight, presently does the same, whereupon Matthew, hallooing with all his might, runs after them with such good effect that they set up a howl of terror and were far out of sight ere he had gone a dozen yards.
The jagoaretes being gone, I advanced towards the place where they had been lying, to see what body they had dragged apart from the rest to devour. But ere I had made half a dozen paces I stopped, and the cold sweat burst out again upon my brow on observing, amidst the crushed and blood-blackened fertile plants, a fair pale body that had been stripped of clothing. At a glance I perceived that it was too slight and delicate for the corse of a man, nor could I for a moment think it was the body of a arquebusier and a Portugal. "'Tis she," thinks I, "'tis she. The savages have stripped her sweet body for their vile pleasure, or for the sake of her pretty gown; why else should this one be singled from the other bodies?" I covered my eyes with my hands to shut out the sight of that poor mangled body; yet I saw it still. All hope was gone from me, so that I had no desire to prove the truth of my conviction. Yet presently I felt that I must do my last duty by her and carry her whither those carrion birds and foul beasts might not further mutilate her mortal remains. So with my gorge rising I stepped forward again and uncovered my eyes. One arm had been torn from the trunk, but the head was untouched, and, as I turned my reluctant eyes upon it, my bitter feeling towards Providence for thus cruelly bereaving me of my darling was of a sudden changed to gratitude and thankfulness, for I perceived the face was none but that of the little Portugal boy Don Lewis had given my lady for her page.
Yet I had still my dear lady to find, and so once more I turned me round to scan once more the grizzly scene of havoc. And thus was I standing benumbed with despair when Matthew came briskly to my side, and, taking me by the arm, drew me rapidly on, saying in a low voice:
"Quick, master. Let us get back to the rocks, where we may at least have something to hurl for our defense. For though I count we have not an hour to live, yet will we sell our lives dearly, and die as becomes men."
Saying this he drew me towards a tree, and from that to another, and so to a third, as if seeking the shelter of their trunks. Yet, at the same time, edging away towards the scattered rocks at the foot of the precipice.
"Nay, friend," says I, "what is there to fear? You have scared off the ounces with your hallooing."
"Ay," says he, "and I wish to Heaven I had let 'em sleep on, and played no such silly trick; for in scaring away one enemy I have roused up another, with a plague to me. Behind that tree, master," shoving me to the right, and then adds he, "The ounces were surfeited with their meal; but these others have only had their appetite whetted for carnage."
"Which others?" says I, greatly perplexed, yet going forward as he would have me.
"The Ingas," says he; "I spied one of the naked wretches as I turned about to come back to you. He was squatting amidst the herbage at the back of us; but I reckon they have shifted their place as quick as we, and Lord knows whether we shall get amidst the rocks before they get a fair aim at us with their arrows."
Scarcely had these words passed his lips when an arrow flew past us and stuck in the tree we were about to pass.
"That's a nigh squeak," says Matthew. "Take no notice, master. Push on. If we get to yonder rock we shall have the mountain at our back for a comfort."
Another arrow flew past and stuck in a tree before us.
"That's odd," says Matthew; "they don't use to miss their mark in this manner."
Still making our way towards the rocks, a third arrow flew past with the same effect as before.
"Thrice they've missed us, and thrice hit a tree before us," says Matthew, "and every time on a level with our breasts. If this happens again, 'twill be a sign they are aiming at the trees, and not at us, though with what intent I know not."
As if his words had been heard, a fourth arrow flew by, straight to a tree a dozen paces ahead.
"We must look at that arrow, master," says Matthew. "'Tis on your side; drag it out or break it off as you pass."
Now this business had taken longer in the doing than I have spent in telling, for the rock we were making for lay at some distance, and we made a crooked way thither by reason of bobbing from one tree to another, which was labor we might have spared ourselves, for it only enabled our pursuer to arm his bow the more frequently. I make this explanation because it is the vicious practice of some men to cast doubt upon very true history since it is not of their writing; while others, by reason of their short sight, must have everything pointed out and magnified ere they will believe of its existence; but, Lord, I should never come to an end of this matter were I to set about satisfying every silly caviler. This by the way: now to continue my history.
Going to do Matthew's bidding, I stretched out my hand to lay hold of the arrow sticking in the tree; but ere my fingers touched it I stopped short with a cry of joy.
"Lord love you, master, what's the matter?" cries Matthew.
"Look," says I, pointing to the head of the arrow buried in the soft bark. "Do you see this shred of black lace bound to the shaft?"
"Ay," says he, "and 'tis the first time I ever saw an arrow feathered in that fashion."
"'Tis part of my dear lady's gown," cries I, snatching the arrow away, and pressing the lace to my lips, with a mad hope that she lived, and that this was a token sent by her.
Another arrow, being the fifth thus discharged, shot into the trunk close by the head of the fourth; and now I gave another joyful shout, for round the head of this was bound a little lock of hair that shone in the sun like burnished copper.
"'Tis a lock of her dear hair. My dearest lady, my darling lives! she lives—she lives!" says I, with the same extravagant joy as before. "'Tis a message from her."
"That may be," says Matthew cheerily; "but one thing is certain—the Ingas mean us no harm; for they might have riddled us like so many colanders by this, had they been so minded, for all our care."
Casting our eyes about, we now spied a young Inga (as naked as Adam) standing beside a tree at about a dozen yards off, with a bow in his hand, and a sheaf of arrows, in a long wallet, slung to his shoulder. He cried out something in his own tongue, upon which Matthew (who had got the language by one of his wives) turns to me and says:
"I don't know what this fellow means, master, for he wants to know which of us saved his wife from the Portugals. However, 'tis no good to stand nice about fibs at this time, so I shall tell him you did."
"That you may with truth," says I; "for though 'twas Lady Biddy who enabled the poor woman to get free, yet I struck up the arquebuse which was leveled to shoot her down," as it suddenly came home to my mind that this Indian's wife must be that poor slave my dear lady had set free and I had saved from the shot of the arquebusier. This history I gave to Matthew now, and he gave it again to the Inga, who, not liking this sign of hesitation, asked sternly (still with his arrow on the bow) why he had not answered at once before consulting me.
"Lord love you, master," says Matthew (as he afterwards told me), "Englishmen are so used to practising charity that we had to think a moment to recollect such a trifle as that. I'm an Englishman," he adds hastily, for fear the Inga might be minded to despatch him as having no personal call on his gratitude.
"Ask him," says I, "if Lady Biddy, who had his wife freed from her yoke, lives." When, in response to this question, the Inga bowed his head, I rushed forward with my arms wide to embrace him, for my joy knew no bounds. He let me take his hand in mine, and smiled kindly to see how I was moved; for he also had lost and found, being, as I say, the husband of that poor slave my Lady Biddy had saved. Then from the bottom of his wallet he drew out a piece of the lace my dear lady had given him, and also a thick tress of her hair; showing me that he had yet half a dozen arrows in his sheaf bound like those already shot.
"Master," says Matthew, who had moved up to my side, and was still in a mighty taking lest the Inga should do him a mischief, "while he is in a good humor do you put in a sign or two to signify I am your friend."
So I turned about, and grasped Matthew's hand without pretense (for I felt that I owed him my life and happiness), to show that I loved him much.
The Inga ceased to smile, and regarded Matthew from top to toe in silence; for these hunted Indians have need of all precautions, being so frequently tricked by treacherous Portugals; and he was the more doubtful of Matthew because he spoke the Inga tongue in the manner of those accursed Portugals.
"Oh, Lord!" says Matthew, "he don't like the look of me."
Then the Inga put many searching questions to him sharply, and might more readily have believed his replies but that poor Matthew, being of a quake of his life, did rub his hands together as if he were a-washing them, cringing and smiling like any chandler, which was altogether the wrong way to win over an Inga; for they are a proud race, but not sycophants. However, in the end this Inga laid his hand on Matthew's breast (as he had on mine) for a sign of faith and friendship, which brought a huge sigh of content from the bottom of the honest fellow's heart.
"For," says he, "if we are to go amongst these Indians, I shall stand in need of a friend, lest one of 'em knows me for having married into his family without consent of the parents."
"Ask," says I, "where Lady Biddy lies, and when I shall see her."
When Matthew had put the question, the Inga pointed to the southwest; and then turning his hand towards the sun lowered it to the horizon, to indicate that we should not overtake her before sunset. After looking around him once more searchingly, he bade Matthew be silent, and so led the way down the hillside. But for all this warning Matthew could not help communicating his thoughts to me in a low tone now and then, for he was a generous-hearted fellow in all things, and was as fond of the sound of his own voice as any starling.
"Look you, master," says he, "how gentleness does rule the world above all the craft and cunning of the wicked; for while these sinful Portugals could not compass the ruin of an unprotected maid with all their might, one act of love on her part has brought about their overthrow, and saved us from the arrows of this Inga."
"Ay, Matthew," says I; "and if we take Lady Biddy home to her friends, 'twill be due to your mercy when I lay a prisoner in the guardhouse."
"Mercy!" says he; "'twas nothing of the sort; 'twas but a yearning to hear honest English once more, for not one of my wives could I ever bring to speak it."
In this manner we whispered our thoughts when the difficulty of getting to the bottom of that valley did not interfere.
At length we came down to the side of that river we had passed upon our way to Valetta; and here Matthew begged the Inga to stay awhile and eat a bit of cold roast mutton and a crust of bread with us, as we were pretty nigh spent one way and another, having taken no food since daybreak. The Inga agreed to this, and we shared what was left of our food, and drained the wine-skin.
"Master," says Matthew to the Inga, "are we going to cross the river?"
The Inga nodded.
"I thought as much," says Matthew. "And we're to swim it?"
Again the Inga nodded.
"Now should I be in a bad way but for this wine-skin," says Matthew, "for I can swim no further than a frog may fly."
"And how is your wine-skin to help you, friend?" says I.
He winked his roguish eye, and putting his lips to the empty skin blew into it until it was full of his breath and tight as any blown bladder.
"There," says he, tying up the mouth, "with that in my arms I'll kick myself to the other shore for a wager."
About sunset (as the Inga had promised) we came to the place where his tribe were encamped, which was amidst the mountains on the further side of the river, approached by a very intricate winding way, and so encompassed with sharp, high rocks that no man not acquainted with those parts might find his way thither, though he searched a lifetime.
Coming through this tortuous defile to an open space, the Inga, being in advance some paces, suddenly came to a halt, and, turning to me, pointed in silence to a little rising hillock not far distant, where stood my Lady Biddy, shielding her eyes from the rays of the setting sun with her hand, and scanning the valley below.
For a moment my heart stood still, feeling as if it must burst with the great joy that flooded it. I think I must have cried aloud in my gladness (though I know not what I did), for she turned that moment like a startled doe, and came running down the hillock with her hands stretched out. So I flew to her, and we stood clasping each other's hands and gazing into each other's faces, she with a look of gladness in her face, yet a sad reproach in her eyes, as though she would ask me why I had been so long a-coming. But neither of us could say one word; so with a quick impulse, as if our two minds were but one, our silent, trembling lips drew together, and we exchanged the first kiss they had known since we were boy and girl.
This kiss was none but such as a brother and a sister might have shared; 'twas not the passionate overthrow of modesty which covers a maiden's face with blushes, and makes a man's limbs tremble under him; 'twas simply the overflowing of a sweet, innocent affection that can find no other mode of expression. After that kiss we looked in each other's hearts with open, unwinking eyes, and hands still clasped.
"Benet," says she faintly, "how long we have been sundered!"
"Have we?" says I, leading her to a little boulder where there was room for us to sit together.
"Why, an age!" says she, with a return of her usual merry laugh. "Have you not missed me?"
"Now I come to think of it," says I, "there has been trouble in my heart; but my joy is so great to be with you again that the past seems naught but an evil dream. And 'twas no more than a dream, the worst part of it; for one while I imagined you lost beyond recovery, and another while I imagined you dead and eat up by tigers; but this is real, and no idle fancy," holding her sweet fair hand up to look at it and make sure I was not stark mad. "But, Lord," says I, dropping my voice for pity, "'tis much thinner than it was."
"Ay, I shall be a sad old witch to look at ere long," says says she; "'tis well I have no glass to look into."
"Trust me for a faithful mirror," says I, "when I tell you that you never looked so sweet as now."
Indeed, I said no more than the truth, as far as my judgment went in this matter; yet I saw that her face was not so round as of old, and her skin was rarely pale, so that her eyes looked larger, darker, and more lustrous thereby. And thinking how she must have suffered by fright, etc., to have lost flesh and blood in this sort, I was greatly moved with compassion.
"A joyful heart makes a bright face," says she; "but what would it have been like had the Indians come back without you? What would have become of me?"
"Nay," says I, "These Ingas would never have harmed you."
"Is that all?" says she. "Do you think I hold your affection so lightly that I could have lived to forget you?"
Thus might our conversation have run on till she had expressed all that it was in her simple, affectionate heart to say to her kinsman, but that I became silent. For the pressure of her hand and kind looks did stir my smouldering passion and fan it to a flame, so I had much ado to restrain myself from flinging my arms about her waist and drawing her to my breast.
All the love that a warm-souled woman has for a dear brother she wished to bestow on me, but I had more than innocent love in my heart. Still, I had the sense to see that my own happiness, as well as hers, would be blighted if I let my mad desire be known, and I had also the strength to control it (God be praised!). Still, I dared not trust myself too far, and counted it best to let go her hand, and talk of other matters. So getting up, as if I would look about me, I begged her to give me an account of all that had happened to her. Whereupon she rose also, and slipping her hand through my arm walked beside me up and down that pleasant spot, in the waning twilight, telling me of her adventures; how Lewis de Pino had told her I was gone on with the first part of the train, seeming in an ill-humor, which appeared less remarkable to Lady Biddy because I had been particularly dull the day before; how, as they went on and came not up with me, she grew alarmed, yet had no means of discovering whether Lewis de Pino had told the truth or not, and so of force went on, yet with a sinking heart; how, being brought to a stand in that narrow road in the mountain-side by the bridge being gone, they were attacked with arrows from above in such sort that the arquebusiers only succeeded in wounding one of the Ingas, and were themselves shot down one after the other till not a man was left, even to the Indian stripling who served De Pino for a page; how the Indians then coming down from above, she recognized amongst them that poor slave whom she begged De Pino to take from her yoke; and how finally the dead Portugals, being rifled of their arms, were cast down over the precipice, the slaves liberated from their bonds, and they, with my lady (who from first to last had been treated with the utmost respect and courtesy), led back along the mountain-path till they came to a narrow way, by which they descended to the river. Also she told me how with signs she had given the Inga girl to understand her trouble about me, which she (being of a quick wit) readily comprehended, and, bringing forward her husband with further signs, bade her know that I should be sought and brought safely to her, etc. All these particulars agreed so well with what Matthew had suggested, and I have set down, that I need not dwell upon them, but may get on at once with fresh matter.
The light faded away over the western mountains till there was naught but a faint glow beyond the dark peaks, and still we strolled up and down, discoursing to one another of our various fortunes; and so forgetful was I of my late fatigue in the delight of these moments that it did not enter my head for some time that my lady might be weary; but suddenly bethinking myself of my selfish disregard to her comfort I begged to know if she was not weary.
"No," says she gayly; "'tis a relief to talk again, for I was getting heart-sick of silence. But you, Benet?—men do not care to chatter as we women do."
"Nay," says I, "you may be sure that I shall never weary of listening till you weary of talking." And then I ventured to tell her that I counted this the very happiest moment of my life. Upon which she gave my arm a little kindly pressure with her hand, which sent a thrill of inexpossible delight through every nerve of my being.
And so she began to gossip again as merrily as before, which was a great comfort to me, for I could have found never a word to say at this time for the tumult of joy in my heart. I would have lingered there till morning broke, feeling her hand so lightly lying on my arm, and listening to the sweet purling of her gentle voice; but presently spying Matthew, who had drawn up at a respectful distance, and stood there humming and coughing as if he would speak with me, but dared not approach, I bethought me that I had not yet introduced the faithful fellow to Lady Biddy. So I called to him, and when he drew near, scraping and shuffling with his hat in hand, I said:
"This is Lady Biddy Fane, Matthew."
"Your ladyship's humble and obedient servant," says he, with another scrape.
"My cousin has been talking about you, Matthew," says she, offering her hand to him; "and I hope you will forgive me being so tardy in acknowledging my gratitude, for in helping him you have befriended me."
"As for your ladyship's gratitude," says he, "I hope I may yet lay better claim to it; and as for tardy acknowledgment, I count you were better occupied; while as for the rest," adds he, "I wish you joy of your sweetheart."
At these words all the blood rushed into my face, and happy was I there was little light to reveal my confusion to Lady Biddy.
"How?" cries I angrily; "have I ever spoken so disrespectfully of my lady that you should take the liberty to speak of me in this relation?"
"Lord love you, master! no," says he; "but 'twas because you always spoke of her ladyship with such mighty respect that I reckoned she must be something more to you than a cousin. I meant no offence; and, indeed," adds he, with ready wit, "'twould have been but a mean compliment to her ladyship's charms or your understanding if I had set you down for aught but her admirer."
"Ay," says Lady Biddy, laughing, "and so should I." But I observed that she was a little more reserved towards me after this, as if she perceived the imprudence of giving expression to those feelings of simple, innocent affection which I might take for an acknowledgment of warmer sentiment.
Matthew's business was to tell us that the Ingas were waiting to hold council with us. As soon as we heard this we hastened from that pleasant, retired spot where we had been strolling, as I have said, to join them, not without some self-reproach for so slighting those to whom we owed better civility; but, to tell the truth, I had clean forget those good Indians, for where my sweet lady stood was all the world to me, and I was indifferent to all outside it.
Coming beyond those jutting rocks which had screened us from view we perceived the Ingas' camp. They had built a fire upon the further side of a little lake, fed by a stream running from the mountains, in the midst of the hollow, and here sat a score of Indians handling the arquebuses taken from the Portugals, and examining them by the light of the fire. At a little distance a dozen of their women were grouped together on their mats, about a pile of pack-saddles and merchandise. Hard by stood a couple of tents of rush mats, very curiously woven and stained. These objects, lit up by the dancing flames of the fire, with the deep shade of the rocks beyond, were a pleasure to see for all who love pictures of strange things; but that which gave it the finishing touch was an Inga with his spear, who stood on a high rock, keeping guard, and cut the rising moon in two halves with his dark, handsome figure.
When the Indians spied us approaching they rose to their feet, and their captain, coming to meet us with a very noble and courtly carriage, laid his hand on my breast, and I did likewise by him, seeing this was their mode of greeting. Then the Indian woman whose life I had saved came forward and went though the same ceremony; but, this done, she slipped beside my Lady Biddy and began to fondle her hand, stroking it gently, lifting it up to her cheek, etc., which I thought very pretty.
I begged Matthew to make my apologies to the captain for not having paid my respects to him; but this he would not do, telling me these Ingas were a mighty touchy sort of people in trifles, and were as like as not to take an apology as an admission of wrong, and a mean trick of getting cheaply out of a mess one ought never to have got into.
"How'mever," says he, "I have settled that matter by telling him that an Englishman's first duty is to pay his services to the females of his tribe, and, that being done, you are now at liberty to devote all your attention to him."
In this matter it seemed to me Matthew showed more sense than I or many better cultivated men, who never meet without some paltry excuse or other.
The Indians meanwhile led us to the tent, where a supper had been laid out on a mat, and insisted very civilly on our eating before entering upon business: then they withdrew to their place by the fire, where a space was left in their midst for us, every man smoking tobacco, for I believe there is no people in the world so given to the use of this herb.
When we had finished our meal, we escorted Lady Biddy to the second tent, which had been given for her use, Matthew telling us that the Indians never speak of their affairs before the sex. "Though why not," says he, "I can not say, except it be that their females are given overmuch to talk, which leads to blabbing of secrets."
Lady Biddy retained us a minute at the entrance to her tent to show how Wangapona, her Indian friend, had decked the floor with soft blooms of flowers, and bound knots of bright feathers to the head and foot of the net which served her as a bed; also placing for her use a bowl of fresh water, in which floated certain fruits to give it flavor and sweetness. Then bidding each other farewell, with a fervent wish that we might sleep peacefully, we separated; but she did not again offer to let me kiss her.
Coming to the fire with Matthew, we sat down with the Indians, and accepted of their tobacco-sticks, which they call zigaroes; and now, all smoking like so many chimneys, the chief spoke to the matter in hand, every one listening in solemn silence. And first of all he bade Matthew tell me that every enemy of the Portugals and Spaniards was regarded by them as a friend.
"Ay," says the chief, in his tongue, "we spare the lives of those serpents and jagoaretes that haunt the woods they hunt, and pray to our god, the Sun, not to dry up the festering marshes that poison the air they breathe, but to nourish with his rays all venomous fruits that they may eat, all loathsome reptiles whose fangs and stings may taint their blood, and to give strength to those beasts who tear their flesh and break their bones.
"Our forefathers," he goes on, "were mighty kings, and the meanest of our people lived in palaces, to which the richest abodes of these accursed Portugals are but dens and hovels. Our people spurned under their feet the gold for which our enemies sell their souls. Our men were wise; our women were faithful; our children were obedient: all were happy. Then came this troop of ravening jagoaretes into our slumbering camp. Jagoaretes! Nay, 'tis an insult to the divine Sun to compare the basest beast he has fashioned to a Portugal. The jagoarete kills; he does not yoke our warriors with oxen and scar their backs with whips; he does not put chains upon our hopeful boys and doom them to lifelong pain; he does not force our innocent maids to bear a race of slaves."
"Lord love us, master," says Matthew, after translating this to me, "I hope he isn't going to make a capital offence of this trifle."
"We are unhappy," continues the Inga, sinking his voice to a tone of mournful sadness. "Who can laugh in the still night? The very flowers hang their heads: in the morning you will find tears in their eyes. Our sun has sunk. Will it ever rise again?"
"Ay, that it will, I warrant," says Matthew to him stoutly.
The Indians held up their hands as a warning not to interrupt the chief.
"They are numberless as chesketaws[3]on the lagoons; they suck our blood like vampires in the night; we have no arms against them. We are scattered over the land like leaves after a tornado. Thus scattered, what can we do against our clustering enemies? We are hunted into the mountains and the desert; but even there our homes are not safe. The world is too small to give refuge to the Inga. There is no limit to the envious greed of our enemies; no bounds to their cruel spite. They want gold, but they will not buy it of us, for that would give us power and the means to live. They would not have a single Inga free, but all should be their slaves, to wear yokes and chains, and toil for them without hope. Is it all darkness?" says he piteously, looking round him; "is there no hope? Yes," cries he, facing the moon and stretching up his arms; "while the bride smiles, her god lives, and the moon's god is our god—the great father of all."
With this he slowly sank into his place upon the mat, saying never another word; and thus ended his speech, which seemed to me to be very fine for such as he to deliver.
After a few minutes' silence, given in respect to the chief, that his words might be duly digested, another Inga rose and spoke, and his speech was more practical and to the purpose. He said the tribe bore us a great affection, not only because were enemies to the Portugals, but also because in the face of that foe I had dared to strike up the musket leveled at the breast of Wangapona. As our true friends, they were prepared to give more consideration to our wishes than their own, and therefore the first thing they wished to know was in what manner they might serve us.
I told Matthew to ask if they could give us an idea of our position with regard to the sea; upon which the chief, taking a stick of wood, spread out the ashes of the fire in a plain to represent the face of the earth; then, with a handful of ashes, he built up a very fair presentment of the mountains, and after that traced furrows to show the course of rivers. That river we had crossed he called the Attrato, and another still a good distance to the west of the mountains where we lay he called the Cauca, and one yet further west the Magdalena (though he had another name for it), which joins the Cauca at some distance from its disemboguement. He also showed another stream rising from the mountains called the Meta, and this he assured us flowed into the Baraquan or Oronoque, through his knowledge of the country in that part was limited to hearsay.
"Now, Matthew," says I, "what are we to do? Our nearest way to the coast will be to follow the Cauca, and get into the Magdalena, which flows into the sea somewhere about Cartagena."
"Ay," says he, "but we must know if we are likely to flow with it into the hands of the Portugals."
To this question on this subject the Ingas replied that the whole of that coast was overrun with Portugals, who had, besides, several settlements on the Magdalena. They offered to guide us as far as they might go in safety, but could give us no encouragement of escaping our enemies.
"Then," says I, "we must strike out for the Meta, and so get to the Baraquan, where I doubt if any Portugals are to be met with."
The Ingas said they had heard of no enemies save certain tribes of hostile Indians on the Baraquan, and promised to guide us to the Meta, which they counted as three weeks' journey.
"If we take three weeks to get to the embers," says Matthew, regarding the plan of ashes, "Lord only knows when we shall get t'other side of the fire."
While we were discussing this difficulty, the Indians argued upon the possibility of descending the Meta.
"It seems to be a plaguy difficult job, master, even to these fellows, who are used to traveling those parts," says Matthew. "The open country is impassable by reason of the woods; and the river is not much better traveling, by reason of divers cataracts, lakes, and blind inlets, where one may be lost as in a maze, to say nothing of one part where we must go a hundred miles out of our way to avoid a race of hungry cannibals."
"Ask them," says I, "if they can offer any alternative by which we may come to our friends."
Upon this question a great discussion ensued, in which Matthew took part.
"Well, Matthew," says I, growing impatient, "what is it all about?"
"To begin with, master," says he, "when I told them we wished to join our friends, they put the very pertinent question, 'Where are they?' That was a poser. Hows'mever, for the glory of our country, I replied that Englishmen were to be found pretty nearly everywhere, especially where they are not wanted. At present, I told 'em, we were pretty well occupied in sweeping the seas of the Portugals, that we had made a very good beginning, and that when we had finished that business we should undoubtedly step ashore and turn them out of Guiana. But as we did not wish to wait here till then, we should take it as a kindness if they would put us in the way of getting to some part of the coast where there were no Portugals, and we might keep a smart lookout for a passing vessel of our own people."
"Was that the whole subject of discussion?" says I, when he paused.
"No, master. They don't doubt anything I said, and are ready to believe that our ships are as plentiful in the seas as herrings. But herrings are not always to be caught when they are wanted, and the possibility of our having to wait on the shore a week before being picked up by a passing Englishman lays open the difficulty of finding any spot on the coast where we are not likely to be picked up first by a passing Portugal. The west and north coasts are to be put out of the question. The only coast that may be safe is that they know nothing about, to be reached only by the Baraquan, of which they know as little."
"Then all this talk has resulted in nothing?" says I.
"No, master, it has not, but the subject will have to be sifted out by us slowly; and so I will let them know that we will give their proposal the consideration it deserves, and let them know our decision in the morning."
The reply he gave evidently pleased the Ingas, who, bidding us good-night after their fashion, lay down to sleep, while Matthew and I strolled in the moonlight to consider the proposal they had made.
"Master," begins Matthew, "the Ingas would have us go to their village, which lies, as I take it, among the mountains to the west, nigh that river Meta they have spoken about."
"There need be no hesitation in agreeing to that," says I; "for whether we resolve to make for the north seaboard board or the west, this village lies all in our way."
"You are in the right," says he; "but they would have us stay there."
"That needs no consideration neither," says I; "for we have no mind to become Ingas."
"Not so fast, master; hear me out," says he. "They would have us stay there until they have drawn together their scattered people in such force as we may assault the Portugals, and take one of their ports."
"That is easier said than done, Matthew."
"Ay," says he; "like descending the Baraquan, but with this difference—that in attacking a town we can ascertain pretty fairly what opposition we shall have to encounter, and what force we have to overcome it; while in t'other affair there's no knowing what obstacle may stand in our way, or what accidents of sickness and the like may happen to enfeeble us. Look you, master, the furthest an Englishman has penetrated into Guiana by the Oronoque is a matter of thirty or forty leagues, and that with the succor of lusty fellows well armed with boats and stores; now, what we two men, with no arms but what we can beg of the Ingas, and no stores but what we may carry on our backs, propose to compass is a journey through that same Guiana by untrodden ways and broken waters—a distance of three or four hundred leagues, as I reckon; and with a female, remember. Likewise I would have you reflect that ere we are many months on our way, we shall be overtaken by the rain, when we must seek high ground, or be swept away by the floods and torrents that pour through the valleys. For you and me a month or two of misery, more or less, may count for nothing; but how is the female to stand it, with not a dry thread to her back, and, as like as not, never a bit of shoe to her foot?"
This perspective was terrible enough, and yet, as I saw not overdrawn, but indeed favorable in comparison with the image that presented itself to my mind, of my poor lady falling sick under the hardships of privation, and having no shelter but chilly rocks, no remedy, no comfort, nor any hand to render those services which a woman can only receive from a woman.
"Now, Matthew," says I, "let me hear what you have to say in favor of t'other venture, for I see which song your voice is most in tune for."
"I will say what I think, master," says he, showing greater patience with me than I with him, "for I have no wish you should count me wiser or more foolish than I am. Yet that you may not be disinclined to the Ingas' design by thinking my wishes lead me to set it out in a fairer light than it deserves, I must tell you that I have no relish for meddling with the Portugals. I have seen enough of 'em to satisfy my stomach to the last day of my life, and would rather end my days in a wilderness than under the walls of a town. Anyhow, master, I will try to let you see their project as they laid it out to me. This tribe numbers about a hundred men and boys; females count for nothing. Ten of their number will be left with us in the village; the rest will go out to rouse up other tribes and bring them to their purpose. They will take with them the Portugals' muskets, as a proof of what they have done, and I warrant it will count for something in their inducement that they have for allies a couple of Englishmen who are accustomed to whipping Portugals; for it is certainly in the knowledge of these Indians that we beat them out of Cartagena in years gone by."
"How many Indians do they think to muster in this business?"
"Betwixt three and four hundred, according to the general opinion, and that within a month."
"Say they gather together all that they hope for," says I, "what can a band of naked savages do against a town fortified with guns and defended by trained soldiery, Matthew?"
"In the first place, master, let me tell you, 'tis no inconvenient to fight without clothes in these parts. As for their guns, I doubt if they will ever get a chance of firing at us. We shall take the town by surprise, for these Ingas know how to march easily through the woods by ways unknown to the Portugals. Against the trained soldiery we shall bring ten arquebuses, with good account, I'll answer for it, with galore of bows, blow-guns, and pikes, all wielded by fellows who are fighting for liberty and life."
"Supposing we carry the town, as very probably we may, what then? Unless every soul in the place is massacred the news must be carried to the Portugals, who will lose no time in sending ships and men to recover it. Supposing the Ingas can withstand an assault, how long can they stand out against an organized siege?"
"Why, that's their lookout," says Matthew. "What we have at heart is getting out of Guiana, and it will be odd indeed if we can't get some sort of craft to bear us thence ere the Portugals come down to lay siege to the place."
"What," says I, "would you desert the Ingas after leading 'em into this pitfall?"
"Nay," says he, "'tis their own wish to go there, and they know full well we have no wish to stay."
"Ay," says I; "but did you warn them of the vengeance the Portugals will certainly take? No! On the other hand, with your prating of our prowess on the sea, and the multitude of our ships, and drubbings in store for the Portugals, you may have led them to believe that we should come back with ships and men to help them, which can never be while we stand at peace with the Portugal."
Matthew scratched his head in silence for a minute, and then says he:
"'Twould be a scurvy trick to leave the poor fellows to fight the next battle alone, and that's a fact. If they could only hold their own—or anybody else's."
"But they can not, so we must set our faces against their design."
"I don't mind standing by 'em, master, if you're minded to let me take the responsibility of this business on my own shoulders. I warrant there's not a soul alive in England who remembers me, or would care to see me again."
"And what would become of you, my poor fellow?" says I, touched by the sadness of his speech. "Do you think you could hold the town against the Portugals?"
"No," says he; "but I wager I'd thin down the rascals before they took it from me."
"Come," says I, "let us think of something else, for you must know this can never be."
So I turned my thoughts to the Baraquan, and gloomy enough they were, so that I had not a word to say; but Matthew, though his hopes were dashed, still revolved the Ingas and their design in his mind, as it appeared, for presently, breaking silence, he says:
"I had no notion these Ingas were such a fine set of fellows, which only proves once again that we should never judge of a flock of sheep by the ewes in the pen."
"Why," says I, "did you not find your wives amiable and kind?"
"Ay," says he; "but what does a man want of such trumpery as amiability and kindness?" (As I have tried to show, he was himself remarkable for these qualities.) "Can you tell me anything about these Ingas, master, for I am no schollard?"
"Nor I neither, Matthew," says I. "I know no more of these people than what I have learnt from you and my own limited observation."
"You know enough to perceive they are better than the common ruck of mankind, I warrant," says he, "for they have the bearing and proud carriage of a noble race not used to base practices. For my own part I feel I could trust 'em with my life—as long as they learn nothing to my discredit."
"Ay," says I, "they do seem, as you say, a noble race of men."
"Then what a thousand pities it is," says he, "that they should be hunted from their homes, and worried to death by such a pack of dirty dogs as these Portugals."
I made no reply. Nor did he continue his theme for some time, but strolled beside me in silence, which was odd in him, who was wont to utter his thoughts as they came into his head. Yet I perceived his mind was still occupied, for, taking off his hat for the greater convenience of scratching his head, he would now and again give his thigh a slap with it, muttering occasionally betwixt his teeth, though I could catch no words but "dirty dogs of Portugals," and the like.
"What a plague it is, master," says Matthew presently—"what a plague it is for a man who has no learning to get a good notion in his mind. Here am I like a young blackbird who feels he has the makings of a sweet song in his head, and yet can do no more than squeak out of tune."
"Nay, then," says I, "do as the blackbird does—strive to sing, and I warrant the tune will come in time."
"Well, master," says he, "to begin with, do you think these Ingas, if they gathered together and made head against the Portugals, might recover themselves some little corner of their territory, where they could live in peace like Christians, and trade with other nations?"
"The difficulty is," says I, "to get them to combine steadfastly for any length of time, for, according to their own showing, they are divided into a hundred tribes, each more or less hostile to the other."
"Why," says he, "that is but the outcome of their misfortunes, for no men are so snappish as those who suffer continual persecution. Do think how ill-tempered and cross-grained a wife will be who has a tyrant for a husband, and how buxom and cheerful she is whose spouse is kind. These poor fellows are fighting for their lives. The Portugals will not trade with them, or suffer others to trade, so that they get no comfort, and are forced to seek subsistence in the woods; then if one finds a good cover of game he must hold it against others in order that he may exist."
"All that is very true," says I; "but how can their case be remedied?"
"By such economy as is practiced among people who have not half their resources. What would become of our peasants, master, if they lived only on what they could find in the woods? Now if these Ingas pitched upon a fertile and healthy valley beyond the range of the Portugals, they might enclose fields and breed creatures for their food; they might till the ground and grow proper fruits and grain, so that they would no longer have to go far afield for game and fight their brethren to hold it."
"And how would you have them till the ground when they have no iron plowshares?"
"As for that, master," says he, "I have seen the earth tilled with a stick in Cornwall; but these might make plowshares of gold if they were so minded."
I laughed at this notion, but bade him go on, seeing this objection was but a trifle.
"Well, master," says he, "I take it, they must have more comfort by this way of living than they now can get; and other tribes, seeing their state, would willingly enough come to partake their contentment. There would still be much lacking to their estate; but by laying their plans carefully, and preparing themselves with arms and leaders, they might in the end take some port from the Portugals, where the country about would give them protection against assault, and so come about to open trade with any nation who wished to take their commodity in exchange for what the Ingas need."
"Hold, Matthew," says I, "what commodity have these Ingas to dispose of?"
"Lord love you, master," says he, "they have that which no other nation ever yet refused—gold! The Ingas, with their knowledge of these mountains, can easily produce you gold by the bushel; while the Portugals, with pain, get it by the thimbleful. And look you, master, once the traders know where they can get gold cheap, they will take means to prevent the Portugals again closing that port. The project may seem wild at the first glance, as many another achievement has looked in the beginning, but is it impossible?"
"It is not impossible," says I; "but the Ingas must be taught."
"To be sure, master. And they are willing enough to learn. All they need is a leader, as appears clearly from their seeking our help against the Portugals."
"Ay," says I, "but where is this teacher to be found?"
"Not a great way off, master. In a word," says he, "you are the man who may save thousands from destruction by the Portugals, and raise up these poor Ingas from misery and despair to happiness and prosperity."
This proposal did fairly take away my breath, and ere it came again for me to speak, Matthew continues: "When I tell the Ingas that you refuse to save yourself by the means they suggest, because they could not hold the town and would suffer disaster, they must needs regard you with respect and admiration, for the virtues they do most prize are sagacity and generosity. Thus will they be well disposed to listen to a scheme for their surer advantage, especially when they know that you will not leave them untill they are in a condition to maintain the independence of the state you have set up."
"And how long do you reckon it will take to carry out your project, Matthew?" says I.
"Why, master, I count we may do a good deal in four or five years."
"Five years!" says I, with a gasp.
"Ay, master; but that's not half the time it would take to get down the Oronoque. And what are five years when you are happily and profitably occupied? Will it be a great joy to you to know that you are redeeming these poor folks?"
"Ay, to be sure," says I; "but Lady Biddy?" For she had been in my mind all this time.
"Why, master, I mistake her ladyship if she is the sort to sit down and cry for farthingales in the midst of wild woods. No, I do rather count upon her entering cheerfully into this business, and teaching the women, as you teach the men, with good result for her pains, and the blessing of every wife and mother that wears a tawny skin."
"Ay," says I, "they could not fail to be happier for her tenderness."
"No, master, nor she for having such a scope for her tenderness. There's many a thing I might teach 'em for I have earned wages as a blacksmith and a carpenter in my time. And if lords, as I have heard, do live to get drunk, to hunt, and go gallanting, then may you live here like the best of 'em; for," says he, dropping into his customary vein of humor, "you may have a score of sweethearts, and not a man to say you nay; hunt without fear of trespassing on another lord's preserves; and 'twill be odd if amongst the blessings of civilization we can not make up some sort of liquor to get drunk on."
"Master," says Matthew, "let us try and snatch a wink of sleep, for 'tis late, and the Ingas are early risers. Moreover, we shall do well to see how this design appears in the daylight, for I have known many a scheme that wore an excellent complexion overnight—like certain females—not worth two straws in the morning. Indeed," adds he, "we might with advantage keep this business to ourselves and say not a word of it to any one until we know these Ingas better, and judge whether they are ripe enough or too far gone for preservation."
I could but agree with him in this prudent suggestion, and so we bade each other good-night, and laid ourselves down in a pleasant spot.
But I could not close an eye all the night for considering of this mighty project, and the more I thought about it the more I liked it. Yet was I not so blind but that I perceived the difficulties which lay in the way of one man raising a downtrodden and helpless people into a body of such force as to overthrow the Portugals and hold their own hereafter. I knew I was only an ordinary man, with no special aptitude for governing men; nevertheless I thought that, with Lady Biddy at hand to temper my judgment with her practical good sense, I might yet manage to come out pretty well in the end.
And so all through the night I lay revolving my plans for the future without perceiving the folly of them any more than if I had been reasonably sleeping and these thoughts had taken the form of a dream.
As soon as the Ingas began to stir I roused up Matthew, who was so heavy with sleep that I believe he would have willingly abandoned his scheme of regenerating the Indians on the moment for the sake of another five minutes' doze, and bade him let our friends know at once that we could have nothing to do with their plan of attacking the Portugals.
"Nay," says he, "I'll hold my tongue on that matter until we have decided upon t'other; they will more readily believe in your wisdom if they see you are not in a hurry."
If I had taken these words to heart I might have seen what a fool I was; for here had I settled to take upon myself the most serious responsibility with rather less hesitation than I should have given to swallowing a toadstool.
We journeyed all that day and the next through the mountains, coming a little before nightfall within sight of the river Cauca; but we were still at a prodigious height, so that we were forced to rest there again.
An Inga pointed down to a part of the valley where their village lay, but we could see nothing of it for the woods that lay everywhere about like a thick mat. The sight of these vast unbroken woods took me aback somewhat, for my imagination had figured some gentle grassy slope that would serve as pasturage for our cattle; and Matthew seemed likewise to have fostered a pleasing hope of open country, for turning to me, with a rueful look in his honest face and round eyes, he says—
"Master, I perceive we shall have to go a-felling trees."
"We shall see," says I, putting on an air of indifference; "from this point to be sure, the land looks somewhat encumbered" (he nodded assent), "but we may find elsewhere a space where there are not so many trees."
"I hope to God we may, master," says he, "for, besides that, these trees are mighty big, and most of 'em like any iron and brass for toughness; I doubt if the Ingas have ever a saw or a hatchet to lay our hands to."
We turned away in silence, and I think Matthew was nothing loth to set the subject aside and go to sleep in quiet and peace, for I had kept him awake all the night before laying out my schemes, consulting him as to the building of houses, the digging of water-courses, the setting up of smithies, workshops, and the like—indeed my enthusiasm bore me along to such lengths that towards daybreak I got naught but grunts in reply to my questions, for the fellow, though he continued to keep his body in a sitting posture, could no longer manage to resist sleep. Nor had I grown cool upon this business during the day, but whenever occasion offered to talk with Matthew privily, I pursued the same theme, so that I do truly believe there was nothing left unsaid. Wherefore, as I say, he was in nowise put out by my present silence, but hied him to a remote place where he might lie at full length and sleep with his ears shut.
Going back with the Ingas to where the tents had been set up, we were met by Lady Biddy and Wangapona, who held her hand. The girl ran to her husband's side, and I, taking my lady, led her to the point that overlooked the valley. On the way she laughed merrily as she told me of her endeavor to learn a few Indian words from Wangapona; but being come there she became of a sudden silent, and looked over that immense sweep of wilderness that stretched from our feet right down to the river, and then up to the mighty mountains beyond, in wondrous admiration. And when she spoke, her voice was awed to a low tone.
"How magnificently grand it is, Benet," says she, "and yet how melancholy! These mountains and forests—so old, so grand, so silent—seem to reproach us for spending our little life so lightly."
"Is the reproach merited?" says I; "are we right to spend our lives lightly?"
"Nay," says she; "I can not think it wrong to employ the faculties that are given us for our enjoyment. You would not tear the wings from a butterfly because it is less laborious than the worm that creeps!" Then, turning her wondering eyes over that vast wilderness, she adds sadly, "Sure, these wilds are not for men to live in."
"The Ingas live in the midst of it," says I, pointing down into the valley.
"Then shame on those who have forced them to such an existence," says she, for I had told her how the Portugals had driven them from their cities. Then, with a tender sigh, "Poor souls!" says she, "no wonder they never laugh. The stillness of these mountains and the sadness of the woods have filled their hearts."
These words went home to my conscience; and just as a soap-bubble at the slightest touch will burst—its perfect shape and bright colors, that were a delight to the eye, disappearing in an instant, leaving naught behind but the drop of murky water from which it sprang—so did all those fine colorable hopes in which I had joyed for two whole days and nights vanish quite away at this prick, giving me to contemplate the selfish, paltry motive that gave 'em birth.
I took my lady in silence back to the tent, and, having bidden her good-night, I hied me again in great dejection to the rock, whence the valley looked now more gloomy and awesome than before, for the creeping darkness; and there sitting down I took myself plainly to task. For I did now plainly discern that I had been cheating and deceiving myself with false pretences, with a view to cheating and deceiving my dear Lady Biddy after. Why had I leapt so readily at Matthew's scheme? Not for the sake of the unhappy Ingas, but for my own delight; not because a generous emotion moved me to rescue them from the Portugals, but because of a base and selfish desire to keep Lady Biddy in the wilderness, sundered from her friends and companions by necessity; not to advance the welfare of others, but to stave off the inevitable moment when my lady and I must part forever. Nor could I excuse myself by pleading ignorance of any harmful intention, for surely I must have felt in my heart that this design was not to my lady's advantage, since I had not dared to mention one word of it to her. That in myself was enough to convict me of wickedness.
Looking down into the valley, which had now became a black, unfathomable gulf, I repeated Lady Biddy's words—"These wilds are not for men to live in"; and then again, "Would you tear the wings from a butterfly?" and after that, "Poor souls! no wonder they never laugh." And each phrase was a reproach that did stab my heart like an avenging knife; for I had in my wishes doomed her whom I loved to dwell in this gloom. I had meditated robbing her of all the cheerful delights of youth and liberty. I had planned to silence her merry laughter, and overcast that bright young face with the wan cast of grief and despair.
"Nay," says I, springing up, "I will stay not a day longer in these wilds than I can help. We will go hence. What matter how perilous and wearisome the way if she have hope to strengthen her heart? With God's help I will comfort her pillow every night with some prospect of better fortune on the morrow."
Just at that moment I heard in the woods below the cry of a bird that had often filled Sir Harry and me with amazement and delight (which bird I have since heard called by the IngasArara), and this put me in mind how I might dispel from my lady's mind those gloomy thoughts inspired by the sight of the valley; so coming to her tent I scratched gently on one of the mats to know if she were asleep, as I did use to do when we were imprisoned on the pirate ship.
"Is that you, Benet?" says she from within.
"Ay," says I! "if it be not too great trouble, do come hither and listen."
So presently she came out, and no sooner had she stood listening a minute, but she cries in a trembling voice:
"Oh, Benet, 'tis the bell of Falmouth church—hark!"
We stood quite silent again, and there came faintly to our ears, "Dong, dong—dong, dong—dong, dong!" to which we listened till it ceased and came no more.
"What is it, Benet?" says she, not louder than a whisper.
"'Tis but a bird," says I; "but I take it Providence has winged it hither for a promise and sign that ere long you shall hear Falmouth bells again."
"Oh! Benet, Benet," says she, choking with tears of joy, "how good you are!" and with that she pressed my hand and went back to her tent.