Having mounted their steeds, the two sanguinary young gentlemen rode onwards, side by side, but in silence; for the souls of those who have resolved to slay each other find small delight in vain conversation. Moreover, there is that in the conscious proximity of death which stimulates to thought much more than to speech. But Freeman preserved an outward demeanor of complacent calm, as one who doubts not, nor dreads, the issue; and, indeed, this was not the first time by many that he had taken his life in his hand and brought it unscathed through dangers. Don Miguel, on the other hand, was troubled in spirit, and uneasy in the flesh. He was one soon hot and soon cold; and this long ride to the decisive event went much against his stomach. If the conflict had taken place there in the garden, while the fire of the insult was yet scorching him, he could have fought it out with good will; but now the night air seemed chiller and chiller, and its frigidity crept into his nerves: he doubted of the steadiness of his aim, bethought himself that the darkness was detrimental to accurate shooting, and wondered whether Senor Freeman would think it necessary to fight across a handkerchief. He could not help regretting, too, that the quarrel had not been occasioned by some more definite and satisfactory provocation,—something which merely to think of would steel the heart to irrevocable murderousness. But no blow had passed; even the words, though bitter to swallow, had been wrapt in the phrases of courtesy; and perhaps the whole affair was the result of some misapprehension. He stole a look at the face of his companion; and the latter’s air of confident and cheerful serenity made him feel worse than ever. Was he being brought out here to be butchered for nothing,—he, Don Miguel de Mendoza, who had looked forward to many pleasures in this life? It was too bad. It was true, the fortune of war might turn the other way; but Don Miguel was aware of a sensation in his bones which made this hope weak.
At length Freeman drew rein and glanced around him. They were in a lonely and—Don Miguel thought—a most desolate and unattractive spot. An open space of about half an acre was bounded on one side by a growth of wild mustard, whose slender stalks rose to more than the height of a man’s head. On the other side was a grove of live-oak; and in front, the ground fell away in a rugged, bush-grown declivity.
“It strikes me that this is just about what we want,” remarked Freeman, in his full, cheerful tones. “We are half a mile from the road; the ground is fairly level; and there’s no possibility of our being disturbed. I was thinking, this afternoon, as I passed through here, what an ideal spot it was for just such a little affair as you and I are bent on. But I didn’t venture to anticipate such speedy good fortune as your obliging condescension has brought to pass, Don Miguel.”
“Caramba!” muttered the senor, shivering. He might have said more, but was unwilling to trust his voice, or to waste nervous energy.
Meanwhile, Freeman had dismounted, and was tethering his horse. It occurred to the senor that it would be easy to pull his gun, send a bullet through his companion, and gallop away. He did not yield to this temptation, partly from traditional feeling that it would not be suitable conduct for a De Mendoza, partly because he might miss the shot or only inflict a wound, and partly because such deeds demand a nerve which, at that moment, was not altogether at his command. Instead, he slowly dismounted himself, and wondered whether it would ever be vouchsafed him to sit in that saddle again.
Freeman now produced his revolver, a handsome, silver-mounted weapon, that looked business-like. “What sort of a machine is yours?” he inquired, pleasantly. “You can take your choice. I’m not particular, but I can recommend this as a sure thing, if you would like to try it. It never misses at twenty paces.”
“Twenty paces?” repeated Don Miguel, with a faint gleam of hope.
“Of course we won’t have any twenty paces to-night,” added Freeman, with a laugh. “I thought it might be a good plan to start at, say, fifteen, and advance firing. In that way, one or other of us will be certain to do something sooner or later. Would that arrangement be agreeable to Senor de Mendoza?”
“Valga me Dios! I am content,” said the latter, fetching a deep breath, and setting his teeth. “I will keep my weapon.”
“Muy buen,” returned the American. “So now let us take our ground: that is, if you are quite ready?”
Accordingly they selected their stations, facing respectively about north and south, with the planet of love between them, as it were. “Oblige me by giving the word, senor,” said Freeman, cocking his weapon.
But Don Miguel was staring with perturbed visage at something behind his antagonist. “Santa Maria!” he faltered, “what is yonder? It is a spirit!”
Freeman had his wits about him, and perhaps entertained a not too high opinion of Mexican fair play. So, before turning round, he advanced till he was alongside his companion. Then he looked, and saw something which was certainly enigmatic.
Among the wild-mustard plants there appeared a moving luminosity, having an irregular, dancing motion, as of a will-o’-the-wisp singularly agitated. Sometimes it uplifted itself on high, then plunged downwards, and again jerked itself from side to side; occasionally it would quite vanish for an instant. Accompanying this manifestation there was a clawing and reaching of shadowy arms: altogether, it was as if some titanic spectral grasshopper, with a heart of fire, were writhing and kicking in convulsions of phantom agony. Such an apparition, in an hour and a place so lonely, might stagger a less superstitious soul than that of Don Miguel de Mendoza.
Freeman gazed at it for a moment in silence. It mystified him, and then irritated him. When one is bent heart and soul upon an important enterprise, any interruption is an annoyance. Perhaps there was in the young American’s nature just enough remains of belief in witches and hobgoblins to make him feel warranted in resorting to extreme measures. At any rate, he lifted his revolver, and fired.
It was a long shot for a revolver: nevertheless it took effect. The luminous object disappeared with a faint explosive sound, followed by a shout unmistakably human. The long stems of the wild mustard swayed and parted, and out sprang a figure, which ran straight towards the two young men.
Hereupon, Don Miguel, hissing out an appeal to the Virgin and the saints, turned and fled.
Meanwhile, the mysterious figure continued its onward career; and Freeman once more levelled his weapon,—when a voice, which gave him such a start of surprise as well-nigh caused him to pull the trigger for sheer lack of self-command, called out, “Why, you abominable young villain! What the mischief do you mean? Do you want to be hanged?”
“Professor Meschines!” faltered Freeman.
It was indeed that worthy personage, and he was on fire with wrath. He held in one hand a shattered lantern mounted on the end of a pole, and in the other a long-handled net of gauze, such as entomologists use to catch moths withal. Under his left arm was slung a brown japanned case, in which he presumably deposited the spoils of his skill. Freeman’s shot had not only smashed and extinguished the lantern which served as bait for the game, but had also given the professor a disagreeable reminder that the tenure of human life is as precarious as that of the silly moth which allows itself to be lured to destruction by shining promises of bliss.
“Upon my soul, professor, I am very sorry,” said Freeman. “You have no idea how formidable you looked; and you could hardly expect me to imagine that you would be abroad at such an hour——”
“And why not, I should like to know?” shouted the professor, towering with indignation. “Was I doing anything to be ashamed of? And what are you doing here, pray, with loaded revolvers in your hands?—Hallo! who’s this?” he exclaimed, as Don Miguel advanced doubtfully out of the gloom. “Senor de Mendoza, as I’m a sinner! and armed, too! Well, really! Are you two out on a murdering expedition?—Oho!” he went on, in a changed tone, glancing keenly from one to another: “methinks I see the bottom of this mystery. You have ridden forth, like the champions of romance, to do doughty deeds upon each other!—Is it not so, Don Miguel?” he demanded, turning his fierce spectacles suddenly on that young man.
Don Miguel, ignoring a secret gesture from Freeman, admitted that he had been on the point of expunging the latter from this mortal sphere.
The professor chuckled sarcastically. “I see! Blood! Wounded honor! The code!—But, by the way, I don’t see your seconds! Where are your seconds?”
“My dear sir,” said Freeman, “I assure you it’s all a mistake. We just happened to meet at the gen—er—happened to meet, and were riding home together——”
“Now, listen to me, Harvey,” the professor interrupted, holding up an expository finger. “You have known me since some ten years, I think; and I have known you. You were a clever boy in your studies; but it was your foible to fancy yourself cleverer than you were. Acting under that delusion, you pitted yourself against me on one or two occasions; and I leave it to your candid recollection whether you or I had the best of the encounter. You call yourself a man, now; but I make bold to say that the—discrepancy, let us call it—between you and me remains as conspicuous as ever it was. I see through you, sir, much more clearly than, by this light, I can see you. I am fond of you, Harvey; but I feel nothing but contempt for your present attitude. In the first place, conscious as you are of your skill with that weapon, you know that this affair—even had seconds been present—would have been, not a duel, but an assassination. You acted like a coward!—I say it, sir, like a coward!—and I hope you may live to be as much ashamed of yourself as I am now ashamed for you. Secondly, your conduct, considered in its relations to—to certain persons whom I will not name, is that of a boor and a blackguard. Suppose you had accomplished the cowardly murder—the cowardly murder, I said, sir—that you were bent upon to-night. Do you think that would be a grateful and acceptable return for the courtesy and confidence that have been shown you in that house?—a house, sir, to which I myself introduced you, under the mistaken belief that you were a gentleman, or, at least, could feign gentlemanly behavior! But I won’t—my feelings won’t allow me to enlarge further upon this point. But allow me to add, in the third place, that you have shown yourself a purblind donkey. Actually, you haven’t sense enough to know the difference between those who pull with you and those who pull against you. Now, I happen to know—to know, do you hear?—that had you succeeded in what you were just about to attempt, you would have removed your surest ally,—the surest, because his interests prompt him to favor yours. You pick out the one man who was doing his best to clear the obstacle out of your path, and what do you do?—Thank him?—Not you! You plot to kill him! But even had he been, as you in your stupidity imagined, your rival, do you think the course you adopted would have promoted your advantage? Let me tell you, sir, that you don’t know the kind of people you are dealing with. You would never have been permitted to cross their threshold again. And you may take my word for it, if ever you venture to recur to any such folly, I will see to it that you receive your deserts.—Well, I think we understand each other, now?”
Freeman’s emotions had undergone several variations during the course of the mighty professor’s harangue. But he had ended by admitting the force of the argument; and the reminiscences of college lecturings aroused by the incident had tickled his sense of humor and quenched his anger. He looked at the professor with a sparkle of laughter in his eyes.
“I have done very wrong, sir,” he said, “and I’m very sorry for it. If you won’t give me any bad marks this time, I’ll promise to be good in future.”
“Ah! very smooth! To begin with, suppose you ask pardon of Senor Don Miguel de Mendoza for the affront you have put upon him.”
To a soul really fearless, even an apology has no terrors. Moreover, Freeman’s night ride with Don Miguel, though brief in time, had sufficed to give him the measure of the Mexican’s character; and he respected it so little that he could no longer take the man seriously, or be sincerely angry with him. The professor’s assurance as to Don Miguel’s inoffensiveness had also its weight; and it was therefore with a quite royal gesture of amicable condescension that Freeman turned upon his late antagonist and held out his hand.
“Senor Don Miguel de Mendoza,” said he, “I humbly tender you my apologies and crave your pardon. My conduct has been inexcusable; I beg you to excuse it. I deserve your reprobation; I entreat the favor of your friendship. Senor, between men of honor, a misunderstanding is a misunderstanding, and an apology is an apology. I lament the existence of the first; the professor, here, is witness that I lay the second at your feet. May I hope to receive your hand as a pledge that you restore me to the privilege of your good will?”
Now, Don Miguel’s soul had been grievously exercised that night: he had been insulted, he had shivered beneath the shadow of death, he had been a prey to superstitious terrors, and he had been utterly perplexed by the professor’s eloquent address, whereof (as it was delivered in good American, and with a rapidity of utterance born of strong feeling) he had comprehended not a word, and the unexpected effect of which upon his late adversary he was at a loss to understand. Although, therefore, he had no stomach for battle, he was oppressed by a misgiving lest the whole transaction had been in some way planned to expose him to ridicule; and for this reason he was disposed to treat Freeman’s peaceful overtures with suspicion. His heart did not respond to those overtures, but neither was it stout enough to enable him to reject them explicitly. Accordingly, he adopted that middle course which, in spite of the proverb, is not seldom the least expedient. He disregarded the proffered hand, bowed very stiffly, and, saying, “Senor, I am satisfied,” stalked off with all the rigidity of one in whose veins flows the sangre azul of Old Castile. Freeman smiled superior upon his retreat, and then, producing a cigar-case, proceeded to light up with the professor. In this fragrant and friendly cloud we will leave them, and return for a few minutes to the house of General Trednoke.
It will be remembered that something was said of Grace being privy to the nocturnal advances of Senor de Mendoza. We are not to suppose that this implies in her anything worse than an aptness to indulge in romantic adventure: the young lady enjoyed the mystery of romance, and knew that serenades, and whisperings over star-lit balconies, were proper to this latitude. It may be open to question whether she really was much interested in De Mendoza, save as he was a type of the adoring Spaniard. That the scene required: she could imagine him (for the time-being) to be the Cid of ancient legend, and she herself would enact a role of corresponding elevation. Grace would doubtless have prospered better had she been content with one adorer at a time; but, while turning to a new love, she was by no means disposed to loosen the chains of a former one; and, though herself as jealous as is a tiger-cat of her young, she could never recognize the propriety of a similar passion on the part of her victims. She had been indignant at Freeman’s apparent infidelity with Miriam; but when she had (as she imagined) discovered her mistake, she had listened with a heart at ease to the protestations of Don Miguel. She had parted from him that evening with a half expressed understanding that he was to reappear beneath her window before day-light; and she had pictured to herself a charming balcony-scene, such as she had beheld in Italian opera. Accordingly, she had attired herself in a becoming negligee, and had spent the fore part of the night somewhat restlessly, occasionally emerging on the veranda and gazing down into the perfumed gloom of the garden. At length she fancied that she heard footsteps. Whose could they be, unless Don Miguel’s? Grace retreated within her window to await developments. Don Miguel did not appear; but presently she descried a phantom-like figure ascending the flight of steps to the veranda. Could that be he? If so, he was bolder in his wooing than Grace had been prepared for. But surely that was a strange costume that he wore; nor did the unconscious harmony of the gait at all resemble the senor’s self-conscious strut. And whither was he going?
It was but too evident that he was going straight to the room occupied by Miriam!
This was too much for Grace’s equanimity. She stepped out of her window, and flitted with noiseless step along the veranda. The figure that she pursued entered the door of the house, and passed into the corridor traversing the wing. Grace was in time to see it cross the threshold of Miriam’s door, which stood ajar. She stole to the door, and peeped in. There was the figure; but of Miriam there was no trace.
The figure slowly unfastened and threw back the hood which covered its head, at the same time turning round, so that its countenance was revealed. A torrent of black hair fell down over its shoulders. Grace uttered an involuntary exclamation. It was Miriam herself!
The two gazed at each other a moment in silence. “Goodness me, dear!” said Grace at last, in a faint voice, “how you have frightened me! I saw you go in, in that dress, and I thought you were a man! How my heart beats! What is the matter?”
“This is strange!” murmured the other, after a pause. “I never heard such words; and yet I seem to understand, and even to speak them. It must be a dream. What are you?”
“Why, Miriam, dear! don’t you know Grace?”
“Oh! you think me Miriam. No; not yet!” She raised her hands, and pressed her fingers against her temples. “But I feel her—I feel her coming! Not yet, Kamaiakan! not so soon!—Do you know him?” she suddenly asked, throwing back her hair, and fixing an eager gaze on Grace.
“Know who? Kamaiakan? Why, yes——”
“No, not him! The youth,—the blue-eyed,—the fair beard above his lips——”
“What are you talking about? Not Harvey Freeman!”
“Harvey Freeman! Ah, how sweet a name! Harvey Freeman! I shall know it now!—Tell him,” she went on, laying her hand majestically upon Grace’s shoulder, and speaking with an impressive earnestness, “that Semitzin loves him!”
“Semitzin?” repeated Grace, puzzled, and beginning to feel scared.
“Semitzin!” the other said, pointing to her own heart. “She loves him: not as the child Miriam loves, but with the heart and soul of a mighty princess. When he knows Semitzin, he will think of Miriam no more.”
“But who is Semitzin?” inquired Grace, with a fearful curiosity.
“The Princess of Tenochtitlan, and the guardian of the great treasure,” was the reply.
“Good gracious! what treasure?”
“The treasure of gold and precious stones hidden in the gorge of the desert hills. None knows the place of it but I; and I will give it to none but him I love.”
“But you said that... Really, my dear, I don’t understand a bit! As for Mr. Freeman, he may care for Semitzin, for aught I know; but, I must confess, I think you’re mistaken in supposing he’s in love with you,—if that is what you mean. I met him before you did, you know; and if I were to tell you all that we——”
“What are you or Miriam to me?—Ah! she comes!—The treasure—by the turning of the white pyramid—six hundred paces—on the right—the arch——” Her voice died away. She covered her face with her hands, and trembled violently. Slowly she let them fall, and stared around her. “Grace, is it you? Has anything happened? How came I like this? What is it?”
“Well, if you don’t know, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I had begun to think you had gone mad. It must be either that or somnambulism. Who is Semitzin?”
“Semitzin? I never heard of him.”
“It isn’t a man: it’s a princess. And the treasure?”
“Am I asleep or awake? What are you saying?”
“The white pyramid, you know——”
“Don’t make game of me, Grace. If I have done anything——”
“My dear, don’t ask me! I tell you frankly, I’m nonplussed. You were somebody else a minute ago.... The truth is, of course, you’ve been dreaming awake. Has any one else seen you beside me?”
“Have I been out of my room?” asked Miriam, in dismay.
“You must have been, I should think, to get that costume. Well, the best plan will be, I suppose, to say nothing about it to anybody. It shall be our secret, dear. If I were you, I would have one of the women sleep in your room, in case you got restless again. It’s just an attack of nervousness, probably,—having so many strangers in the house, all of a sudden. Now you must go to bed and get to sleep: it’s awfully late, and there’ll be ever so much going on to-morrow.”
Grace herself slept little that night. She could not decide what to make of this adventure. Nowadays we are provided with a name for the peculiar psychical state which Miriam was undergoing, and with abundant instances and illustrations; but we perhaps know what it is no more than we did twenty-five or thirty years ago. Grace’s first idea had been that Miriam was demented; then she thought she was playing a part; then she did not know what to think; and finally she came to the conclusion that it was best to quietly await further developments. She would keep an eye on Freeman as well as on Miriam; something, too, might be gathered from Don Miguel; and then there was that talk about a treasure. Was that all the fabric of a dream, or was there truth at the bottom of it? She had heard something said about a treasure in the course of the general conversation the day before. If there really was a treasure, why might not she have a hand in the discovery of it? Miriam, in her abnormal state, had let fall some topographical hints that might prove useful. Well, she would work out the problem, sooner or later. To-morrow, when the others had gone off on their expedition, she would have ample leisure to sound Don Miguel, and, if he proved communicative and available, who could tell what might happen? But how very odd it all was! Who was Semitzin?
While asking herself this question, Grace fell asleep; and by the time the summons to breakfast came, she had passed through thrilling adventures enough to occupy a new Scheherazade at least three years in the telling of them.
By nine o’clock in the morning, Professor Meschines and Harvey Freeman had ridden up to the general’s ranch, equipped for the expedition. The general’s preparations were not yet quite completed. A couple of mules were being loaded with the necessary outfit. It was proposed to be out two days, camping in the open during the intervening night. It was necessary to take water as well as solid provisions. Leaving their horses in the care of a couple of stable-boys, Meschines and Freeman mounted the veranda, and were there greeted by General Trednoke.
“I’m afraid we’ll have a hot ride of it,” he observed. “The atmosphere is rather oppressive. Kamaiakan tells me there was a touch of earthquake last night.”
“I thought I noticed some disturbance,——” returned the professor, with a stealthy side-glance at Freeman,—“something in the nature of an explosion.”
“Earthquakes are common in this region, aren’t they?” Freeman said.
“They have made it what it is, and may unmake it again,” replied the general. “The earthquake is the father of the desert, as the Indians say; and it may some day become the father of a more genial offspring. Veremos!”
“How are the young ladies?” inquired Freeman.
“Miriam has a little headache, I believe; and I thought Miss Parsloe was looking a trifle pale this morning. But you must see for yourself. Here they come.”
Grace, who was a little taller than Miriam, had thrown one arm round that young lady’s waist, with a view, perhaps, to forming a picture in which she should not be the secondary figure. In fact, they were both of them very pretty; but Freeman had become blind to any beauty but Miriam’s. Moreover, he was resolved to have some private conversation with her during the few minutes that were available. A conversation with the professor, and some meditations of his own, had suggested to him a line of attack upon Grace.
“I’m afraid you were disturbed by the earthquake last night?” he said to her.
“An earthquake? Why should you think so?”
“You look as if you had passed a restless night. I saw Senor de Mendoza this morning. He seems to have had a restless time of it, too. But he is a romantic person, and probably, if an earthquake did not make him sleepless, something else might.” He looked at her a moment, and then added, with a smile, “But perhaps this is not news to you?”
“He didn’t come—I didn’t see him,” returned Grace, wishing, ere the words had left her lips, that she had kept her mouth shut. Freeman continued to smile. How much did he know? She felt that it might be inexpedient to continue the conversation. Casting about for a pretext for retreat, her eyes fell upon Meschines.
“Oh, there’s the dear professor! I must speak to him a moment,” she exclaimed, vivaciously; and she slipped her arm from Miriam’s waist, and was off, leaving Freeman in possession of the field, and of the monopoly of Miriam’s society.
“Miss Trednoke,” said he, gravely, “I have something to tell you, in order to clear myself from a possible misunderstanding. It may happen that I shall need your vindication with your father. Will you give it?”
“What vindication do you need, that I can give?” asked she, opening her dark eyes upon him questioningly.
“That’s what I wish to explain. I am in a difficult position. Would you mind stepping down into the garden? It won’t take a minute.”
Curiosity, if not especially feminine, is at least human. Miriam descended the steps, Freeman beside her. They strolled down the path, amidst the flowers.
“You said, yesterday,” he began, “that I would say one thing and be another. Now I am going to tell you what I am. And afterwards I’ll tell you why I tell it. In the first place, you know, I’m a civil engineer, and that includes, in my case, a good deal of knowledge about geology and things of that sort. I have sometimes been commissioned to make geological surveys for Eastern capitalists. Lately I’ve been canal-digging on the Isthmus; but the other day I got a notification from some men in Boston and New York to come out here on a secret mission.”
“Secret, Mr. Freeman?”
“Yes: you will understand directly. These men had heard enough about the desert valleys of this region to lead them to think that it might be reclaimed and so be made very valuable. Such lands can be bought now for next to nothing; but, if the theories that control these capitalists are correct, they could afterwards be sold at a profit of thousands per cent. So it’s indispensable that the object of my being here should remain unknown; otherwise, other persons might step in and anticipate the designs of this company.”
“If those are your orders, why do you speak to me?”
“There’s a reason for doing it that outweighs the reasons against it. I trust you with the secret: yet I don’t mean to bind you to secrecy. You will have a perfect right to tell it: the only result would be that I should be discredited with my employers; and there is nothing to warrant me in supposing that you would be deterred by that.”
“I don’t ask to know your secret: I think you had better say no more.”
Freeman shook his head. “I must speak,” said he. “I don’t care what becomes of me, so long as I stand right in your opinion,—your father’s and yours. I am here to find out whether this desert can be flooded,—irrigated,—whether it’s possible, by any means, to bring water upon it. If my report is favorable, the company will purchase hundreds, or thousands, of square miles, and, incidentally, my own fortune will be made.”
“Why, that’s the very thing——” She stopped.
“The very thing your father had thought of! Yes, so I imagined, though he has not told me so in so many words. So I’m in the position of surreptitiously taking away the prospective fortune of a man whom I respect and honor, and who treats me as a friend.”
Miriam walked on some steps in silence. “It is no fault of yours,” she said at last. “You owe us nothing. You must carry out your orders.”
“Yes; but what is to prevent your father from thinking that I stole his idea and then used it against him?”
“You can tell him the truth: he could not complain; and why should you care if he did? I know that men separate business from—from other things.”
They had now come to the little enclosed space where the fountain basin was; and by tacit consent they seated themselves upon it. Miriam gave an exclamation of surprise. “The water is gone!” she said. “How strange!”
“Perhaps it has gone to meet us at our rendezvous in the desert.—No: if I tell your father, I should be unfaithful to my employers. But there’s another alternative: I can resign my appointment, and let my place be taken by another.”
“And give up your chance of a fortune? You mustn’t do that.”
“What is it to you what becomes of me?”
“I wish nothing but good to come to you,” said she, in a low voice.
“I have never wanted to have a fortune until now. And I must tell you the reason of that, too. A man without a fortune does very well by himself. He can knock about, and live from hand to mouth. But when he wants to live for somebody else,—even if he has only a very faint hope of getting the opportunity of doing it,—then he must have some settled means of livelihood to justify him. So I say I am in a difficult position. For if I give this up, I must go away; and if I go away, I must give up even the little hope I have.”
“Don’t go away,” said Miriam, after a pause.
“Do you know what you are saying?” He hesitated a moment, looking at her as she looked down at the empty basin. “My hope was that you might love me; for I love you, to be my wife.”
The color slowly rose in Miriam’s face: at length she hid it in her hands. “Oh, what is it?” she said, almost in a whisper. “I have known you only three days. But it seems as if I must have known you before. There is something in me that is not like myself. But it is the deepest thing in me; and it loves you: yes, I love you!”
Her hands left her face, and there was a light in her eyes which made Freeman, in the midst of his rejoicing, feel humble and unworthy. He felt himself in contact with something pure and sacred. At the same moment, the recollection recurred to him of the figure he had seen the night before, with the features of Miriam. Was it she indeed? Was this she? To doubt the identity of the individual is to lose one’s footing on the solid earth. For the first time it occurred to him that this doubt might affect Miriam herself. Was she obscurely conscious of two states of being in herself, and did she therefore fear to trust her own impulses? But, again, love is the master-passion; its fire fuses all things, and gives them unity. Would not this love that they confessed for each other burn away all that was abnormal and enigmatic, and leave only the unerring human heart, that knows its own and takes it? These reflections passed through Freeman’s mind in an instant of time. But he was no metaphysician, and he obeyed the sane and wholesome instinct which has ever been man’s surest and safest guide through the mysteries and bewilderments of existence. He took the beautiful woman in his arms and kissed her.
“This is real and right, if anything is,” said he. “If there are ghosts about, you and I, at any rate, are flesh and blood, and where we belong. As to the irrigation scrape, there must be some way out of it: if not, no matter! You and I love each other, and the world begins from this moment!”
“My father must know to-morrow,” said Miriam.
“No doubt we shall all know more to-morrow than we do to-day,” returned her lover, not knowing how abundantly his prophecy would be fulfilled: he was over-flowing with the fearless and enormous joy of a young man who has attained at one bound the summit of his desire. “There! they are calling for me. Good-by, my darling. Be yourself, and think of nothing but me.”
A short ride brought the little cavalcade to the borders of the desert. Here, by common consent, a halt was made, to draw breath, as it were, before taking the final plunge into the fiery furnace.
“Before we go farther,” said General Trednoke, approaching Freeman, as he was tightening his girths, “I must tell you what is the object of this expedition.”
“It is not necessary, general,” replied the young man, straightening himself and looking the other in the face; “for from this point our paths lie apart.”
“Why so?” demanded the general, in surprise.
“What’s that?” exclaimed Meschines, coming up, and adjusting his spectacles.
“I’m not at liberty, at present, to explain,” Freeman answered. “All I can say is that I don’t feel justified in assisting you in your affair, and I am not able to confide my own to you. I wish you to put the least uncharitable construction you can on my conduct. To-morrow, if we all live, I may say more; now, the most I can tell you is that I am not entirely a free agent. Meantime—Hasta luego.”
Against this unexpected resolve the general cordially protested and the professor scoffed and contended; but Freeman stayed firm. He had with him provisions enough to last him three days, and a supply of water; and in a small case he carried a compact assortment of instruments for scientific observation. “Take your departure in whatever direction you like,” said he, “and I will take mine at an angle of not less than fifteen degrees from it. If I am not back in three days, you may conclude something has happened.”
It was certainly very hot. Freeman had been accustomed to torrid suns in the Isthmus; but this was a sun indefinitely multiplied by reflections from the dusty surface underfoot. Nor was it the fine, ethereal fire of the Sahara: the atmosphere was dead and heavy; for the rider was already far below the level of the Pacific, whose cool blue waves rolled and rippled many leagues to the westward, as, aeons ago, they had rolled and rippled here. There was not a breath of air. Freeman could hear his heart beat, and the veins in his temples and wrists throbbed. The sweat rose on the surface of his body, but without cooling it. The pony which he bestrode, a bony and sinewy beast of the toughest description, trod onwards doggedly, but with little animation. Freeman had no desire to push him. Were the little animal to overdo itself, nothing in the future could be more certain than that his master would never see the Trednoke ranch again. It seemed unusually hot, even for that region.
There was little in the way of outward incident to relieve the monotony of the journey. Now and then a short, thick rattlesnake, with horns on its ugly head, wriggled out of his path. Now and then his horse’s hoof almost trod upon a hideous, flat lizard, also horned. Here and there the uncouth projections of a cactus pushed upwards out of the dust; some of these the mustang nibbled at, for the sake of their juice. Freeman wondered where the juice came from. The floor of the desert seemed for the most part level, though there was a gradual dip towards the east and northeast, and occasionally mounds and ridges of wind-swept dust, sometimes upwards of fifty feet in height, broke the uniformity. The soil was largely composed of powdered feldspar; but there were also tracts of gravel shingle, of yellow loam, and of alkaline dust. In some places there appeared a salt efflorescence, sprouting up in a sort of ghastly vegetation, as if death itself had acquired a sinister life. Elsewhere, the ground quaked and yielded underfoot, and it became necessary to make detours to avoid these arid bogs. Once or twice, too, Freeman turned aside lest he should trample upon some dry bones that protruded in his path,—bones that were their own monument, and told their own story of struggle, agony, exhaustion, and despair.
None of these things had any depressing effect on Freeman’s spirit. His heart was singing with joy. To a mind logically disposed, there was nothing but trouble in sight, whether he succeeded or failed in his present mission. In the former case, he would find himself in a hostile position as regarded the man he most desired to conciliate; in the latter, he would remain the mere rolling stone that he was before, and love itself would forbid him to ask the woman he loved to share his uncertain existence. But Freeman was not logical: he was happy, and he could not help it. He had kissed Miriam, and she loved him.
His course lay a few degrees north of east. Far across the plain, dancing and turning somersaults in the fantastic atmosphere, were the summits of a range of abrupt hills, the borders of a valley or ravine which he wished to explore. Gradually, as he rode, his shadow lengthened before him. It was his only companion; and yet he felt no sense of loneliness. Miriam was in his heart, and kept it fresh and bold. Even hunger and thirst he scarcely felt. Who can estimate the therapeutic and hygienic effects of love?
The mustang could not share his rider’s source of content, but he may have been conscious, through animal instincts whereof we know nothing, of an uplifting and encouraging spirit. At all events, he kept up his steady lope without faltering or apparent effort, and seemed to require nothing more than the occasional wetting which Freeman administered to his nose. There would probably be some vegetation, and perhaps water, on the hills; and that prospect may likewise have helped him along.
Nevertheless, man and beast may well have welcomed the hour when the craggy acclivities of that lonely range became so near that they seemed to loom above their heads. Freeman directed his steps towards the southern extremity, where a huge, pallid mass, of almost regular pyramidal form, reared itself aloft like a monument. He skirted the base of the pyramid, and there opened on his view a narrow, winding valley, scarcely half a mile in apparent breadth, and of a very wild and savage aspect. Its general direction was nearly north and south, and it declined downwards, as if seeking the interior of the earth. In fact, it looked not unlike those imaginative pictures of the road to the infernal regions described by the ancient poets. One could picture Pluto in his chariot, with Proserpine beside him, thundering downwards behind his black horses, on the way to those sombre and magnificent regions which are hollowed out beneath the surface of the planet.
Freeman, however, presently saw a sight which, if less spectacularly impressive, was far more agreeable to his eyes. On a shelf or cup of the declivity was a little clump of vegetation, and in the midst of it welled up a thin stream of water. The mustang scrambled eagerly towards it, and, before Freeman had had time to throw himself out of the saddle, he had plunged his muzzle into the rivulet. He sucked it down with such satisfaction that it was evident the water was not salt. Freeman laid himself prone upon the brink, and followed his steed’s example. The draught was cool and pure.
“I didn’t know how much I wanted it!” said he to himself. “It must come from a good way down. If I could only bring the parent stream to the surface, my mission would be on a fair road to success.”
An examination of the spring revealed the fact that it could not have been long in existence. Indeed, there were no traces whatever of long continuance. The aperture in the rock through which it trickled bore the appearance of having been recently opened; fragments were lying near it that seemed to have been just broken off. The bed of the little stream was entirely free from moss or weeds; and after proceeding a short distance it dwindled and disappeared, either sucked up in vapor by the torrid air, or absorbed into the dusty soil. Manifestly, it was a recent creation.
“And, to be sure, why not?” ejaculated Freeman. “There was an earthquake last night, which swallowed up the spring in the Trednokes’ garden: probably that same earthquake brought this stream to light. It vanished there, to reappear here. Well, the loss is not important to them, but the gain is very important to me. It is as if Miriam had come with a cup of water to refresh her lover in the desert. God bless her! She has refreshed me indeed, soul and body!”
He removed the saddle from the mustang, and turned him loose to make the best of such scanty herbage as he could find. Then he unpacked his own provisions, and made a comfortable meal; after which he rolled a cigarette and reclined on the spot most available, to rest and recuperate. The valley, or gorge, lay before him in the afternoon light. It was a strange and savage spectacle. Had it been torn asunder by some stupendous explosion, it could not have presented a rougher or more chaotic aspect. To look at it was like beholding the secret places of the earth. The rocky walls were of different colors, yellow, blue, and red, in many shades and gradations. They towered ruggedly upwards, sharply shadowed and brightly lighted, mounting in regular pinnacles, parting in black crevices; here and there vast masses hung poised on bases seemingly insufficient, ready to topple over on the unwary passer beneath. A short distance to the northward the ravine had a turn, and a projecting promontory hid its further extreme from sight. Freeman made up his mind to follow it up on foot, after the descending sun should have thrown a shadow over it. The indications, in his judgment, were not without promise that a system of judiciously-applied blastings might open up a source of water that would transform this dreadful barrenness into something quite different.
The shade of the great pyramid fell upon him as he lay, but the tumultuous wall opposite was brilliantly illuminated: the sky, over it, was of a peculiar brassy hue, but entirely cloudless. The radiations from the baked surface, ascending vertically, made the rocky bastion seem to quiver, as if it were a reflection cast on undulating water. The wreaths of tobacco-smoke that emanated from Freeman’s mouth also ascended, until they touched the slant of sunlight overhead. As the young man’s eyes followed these, something happened that caused him to utter an exclamation and raise himself on one arm.
All at once, in the vacant air diagonally above him, a sort of shadowy shimmer seemed to concentrate itself, which was rapidly resolved into color and form. It was much as if some unseen artist had swept a mass of mingled hues on a canvas and then had worked them with magical speed into a picture. There appeared a breadth of rolling country, covered with verdure, and in the midst of it the white walls and long, shadowed veranda of an adobe house. Freeman saw the vines clambering over the eaves and roof, the vases of earthenware suspended between the pillars and overflowing with flowers, the long windows, the steps descending into the garden. Now a figure clad in white emerged from the door and advanced slowly to the end of the veranda. He recognized the gait and bearing: he could almost fancy he discerned the beloved features. She stood there for a moment, gazing, as it seemed, directly at him. She raised her hands, and pressed them to her lips, then threw them outwards, with a gesture eloquent of innocent and tender passion. Freeman’s heart leaped: involuntarily he stretched out his arms, and murmured, “Miriam!” The next moment, a tall, dark figure, with white hair, wrapped in a blanket, came stalking behind her, and made a beckoning movement. Miriam did not turn, but her bearing changed; her hands fell to her sides; she seemed bewildered. Freeman sprang angrily to his feet: the picture became blurred; it flowed into streaks of vague color; it was gone. There were only the brassy sky, and the painted crags quivering in the heat.
“That was not a mirage: it was a miracle,” muttered the young man to himself. “Forty miles at least, and it seemed scarcely three hundred yards! What does it mean?”
The sun sank behind the hills, and a transparent shadow filled the gorge. Freeman, uneasy in mind, and unable to remain inactive, filled his canteen at the spring, and descended to the rugged trail at the bottom. Clambering over boulders, leaping across narrow chasms, letting himself down from ledges, his preoccupation soon left him, and physical exertion took the precedence. Half an hour’s work brought him to the out-jutting promontory which had concealed the further reaches of the valley. These now lay before him, merging imperceptibly into indistinctness.
“This atmosphere is unbearable,” said Freeman. “I must get a little higher up.” He turned to the right, and saw a natural archway, of no great height, formed in the rock. The arch itself was white; the super-incumbent stone was of a dull red hue. On the left flank of the arch were a series of inscribed characters, which might have been cut by a human hand, or might have been a mere natural freak. They looked like some rude system of hieroglyphics, and bore no meaning to Freeman’s mind.
A sort of crypt or deep recess was hollowed out beneath the arch, the full extent of which Freeman was unable to discern. The floor of it descended in ridges, like a rough staircase. He stood for a few moments peering into the gloom, tempted by curiosity to advance, but restrained partly by the gathering darkness, and partly by the oppressiveness of the atmosphere, which produced a sensation of giddiness. Something white gleamed on the threshold of the crypt. He picked it up. It was a human skull; but even as he lifted it it came apart in his hands and crumbled into fragments. Freeman’s nerves were strong, but he shuddered slightly. The loneliness, the silence, the mystery, and the strange light-headedness that was coming over him combined to make him hesitate. “I’ll come back to-morrow morning early,” he said to himself.
As if in answer, a deep, appalling roar broke forth apparently under his feet, and went rolling and reverberating up and down the canon. It died away, but was immediately followed by another yet more loud, and the ground shook and swayed beneath his feet. A gigantic boulder, poised high up on the other side of the canon, was unseated, and fell with a terrific crash. A hot wind swept sighing through the valley, and the air rapidly became dark. Again came the sigh, rising to a shriek, with roarings and thunderings that seemed to proceed both from the heavens and from the earth.
A dazzling flash of lightning split the air, bathing it for an instant in the brightness of day: in that instant Freeman saw the bolt strike the great white pyramid and splinter its crest into fragments, while the whole surface of the gorge heaved and undulated like a stormy sea. He had been staggering as best he might to a higher part of the ravine; but now he felt a stunning blow on his head: he fell, and knew no more.