CHAPTER XIX.
THE HUMAN BLOODHOUND.
The morning after the duel, Augustus Horton returned to New Orleans. Even in his jealousy of Gilbert Margrave and his guilty passion for the beautiful Octoroon, he did not abandon the thought of more ambitious schemes; and he was still determined to win the hand and the fortune of Camillia Moraquitos.
The first intelligence that greeted him on his return was the news of Paul Lisimon's escape from prison.
The planter was furious. This dreaded rival was, then, at liberty.
The trial, which was to have ended in his disgrace and condemnation, would, perhaps, never take place, and Camillia might still believe in the honor and honesty of her lover.
That which he sought was to render Paul utterly contemptible in the sight of the haughty Spanish girl, and he felt that he had, in a great measure, failed.
He dispatched a special messenger to Iberville with a letter for Silas Craig, informing him of the young Mexican's escape.
"Lose no time in returning to New Orleans," he wrote. "I need the help of your craft in this business. There must be some mystery in this Lisimon's escape, and you are the man to unravel it."
This done, he ordered his horse, and attended by his groom, rode at once to Villa Moraquitos. He was determined to precipitate matters, and enlist the Spaniard in his behalf. This he knew would be an easy matter, as Don Juan had always encouraged his address.
Augustus Horton found the Spaniard alone in an apartment, which was called his study, though little trace of studious habits was to be found within its walls.
The paneling of this chamber was adorned with weapons of every kind, arranged in symmetrical order upon the walls. Cutlasses, pistols, and carbines, of polished steel, inlaid with gold and enamel, hung in glittering array, side by side with charts of that ocean upon which, if scandalous tongues were correct, Don Juan Moraquitos had for many years been a rover.
When Augustus Horton entered this room the Spaniard was standing near an open window, his arms folded, his head bent upon his breast, moodily puffing a cheroot. He started as his visitor was announced, and, recovering himself as if by an effort, advanced to greet him.
"This is kind, my dear Augustus," he said, "but I thought you had left New Orleans for Hortonville."
"It is quite true—I left yesterday."
"And returned this morning?"
"Yes."
"Capricious boy! So soon tired of your rural retreat?"
"You cannot guess the cause of my return?"
"No, indeed."
"What, Don Juan! Can you not imagine that there may be a loadstar shining in this city, which draws me back to it in spite of myself?"
"Ah! I begin to understand. And that loadstar is—"
"Your daughter, Camillia."
The Spaniard was silent for some moments, as if absorbed in thought. Then, turning to the planter, he said, gravely, "Augustus Horton, I have long foreseen this. I will freely own to you, that some time since, I cherished more ambitious views for my only child. We Spaniards are a proud race, and I once hoped that the husband of my daughter might be one of the haughty nobles of my distant native land. But that is past now," he added, with a sigh; "your rank is as high as that of any man in Louisiana. You are no penniless adventurer who seeks to enrich himself by marriage. You are young, handsome, wealthy. Win her, then, you have my free consent."
"And your assistance?"
"Yes."
"But if she should refuse?"
"I cannot force her wishes. She is my only child, the sole treasure of an old man's heart. If you cannot win her love, you must submit to her refusal of your hand."
Augustus Horton retired with many expressions of gratitude and affection, but once outside the chamber his brow darkened and he clinched his fist as he muttered with an oath:
"This Spaniard is like some foolish old woman. He cannot force his daughter's wishes, forsooth; and the double fortune of Don Juan Moraquitos and Don Tomaso Crivelli may go to any handsome adventurer upon whom Donna Camillia chooses to bestow her affection."
As these thoughts were busy in his brain, he crossed the spacious hall on his way to Camillia's apartments.
In the corridor leading to the young girl's boudoir he met Pauline Corsi.
He did not stop to speak to her, but passed her with a careless bow—such a salute as a man only bestows upon one whom he thinks far beneath him.
It did not escape the keen observation of the Frenchwoman. "So," she murmured, as she glanced back at the American, "I am a governess—a dependent—unworthy of your notice. Mr. Horton, the day may come when you will find me no weak enemy!"
She broke into the merry chorus of a gay French song, as she finished speaking, and tripped away, warbling like some joyous bird.
None could have dreamed the dark thoughts that lurked beneath that joyous exterior.
Augustus Horton entered the boudoir, and lifting a rose-colored silken curtain which shrouded the doorway, gazed in silence upon the occupant of the chamber.
The heiress was seated near the open window, her rounded elbow, firm and polished as unveined marble, resting on the cushion of her chair, her head leaning on her hand, her lustrous eyes veiled by the silken lashes that curtained them; her whole attitude bespeaking the profoundest melancholy.
The planter gazed upon her with admiration, but it was admiration unmingled with love.
It was with the same feeling he would have experienced in looking at some gorgeous picture.
His eye was bewitched by the exquisite coloring, the perfect form; but his heart was untouched.
Nothing could be more complete than the contrast between the Spanish girl and the Octoroon.
Both were beautiful—both had eyes of deepest black, but the orbs of Cora Leslie were soft and pensive, while those of Camillia Moraquitos flashed with the burning flames of a southern clime.
Cora's oval cheeks were pale as the unsullied leaf of the water-lily; Camillia's glowed with a rich crimson blush, of that splendid hue, rarely seen save in the petals of the damask rose.
But each had offended the pride of the planter, and he determined that each should pay a bitter penalty for having dared to prefer another.
He told his suit and was rejected with scorn.
Nay, more, he saw that not only was he utterly indifferent to the Spanish girl—there was something beyond indifference in her manner—something even more powerful than scorn—there was hatred!
Infuriated by this discovery, he determined to fathom her reason. "Camillia Moraquitos," he said, with outward calmness, beneath which raged suppressed passion, "you have rejected the offer of a devoted heart. Be it so! I cannot force your compliance. You love another; no doubt some honorable man, whose unsullied name will shed a luster upon the woman he weds."
The Spanish girl's head dropped as Augustus said this, with chilling irony.
She felt that he knew her secret, and the bitterness of the sneer wounded her to the heart.
"But this is not all," continued the planter; "not only do you love another, but you hate me. I ask you why this is so?"
"Shall I tell you?" she asked gravely, lifting her flashing eyes and looking him full in the face.
"Yes."
"Heaven forgive me if I wrong you, Augustus Horton, but some secret instinct tells me that you were associated with that pitiful wretch, Silas Craig, in the plot which brought disgrace upon the name of one—"
"Who is very dear to you! Is it not so, Donna Camillia?"
"Yes," she answered, proudly, "I have never before confessed my love to a mortal. I confess it now to you. It will at least prove my belief in his innocence."
"Mr. Paul Lisimon is a very happy man to possess so fair a defender," said Augustus, with studied sarcasm; "no doubt the escaped felon, the runaway thief, will return to New Orleans ere long to claim his bride, though I fear that the very first hour that he shows his face in this city he will find himself handcuffed and carried back to jail. In the meantime, I withdraw all pretensions to your hand. I cannot hope for success against such a rival."
He bowed haughtily, and withdrew, laughing bitterly. In the ante-room without, he found the negro, Tristan, lying on an embroidered rug, close against the boudoir door.
"Dog!" exclaimed Augustus; "You have been listening?"
"Do not be angry, massa, with the poor nigger. What if the dog can help you?"
"Help me?"
"Yes, dogs are sometimes useful. Have you ever seen a bloodhound hunt down a runaway slave, eh, massa? Ah! you have seen that. Many a time, I dare say, many a time have set the dogs on yourself to capture your lost property. There are human bloodhounds, massa, who can hunt down an enemy as the dog hunts the poor slave. Your enemy is Tristan's enemy too. Say, massa, shall we work together?"
The planter looked at the negro with a glance of contempt.
"What can we have in common?" he said, scornfully.
"Love, massa, love and hate! We both love the same woman, we both hate the same man."
Augustus laughed aloud, "You—you love Camillia Moraquitos?" he exclaimed, with consummate disdain.
"And why not?" cried the negro, striking himself upon the breast; "the heart within is of the same form, though the skin is of another color. I love her, love her, not as you white men love—but with the passionate fury of the African, which is stronger than death or fate. A jealous fever, which is close akin to hate and murder. I love her, and I know that she would look with loathing on this black face. I know that she can never be mine—but she shall not be his. No, no! I could better bear to see her wedded to you, for she would not love you. She would pine and die, and I would kill myself upon her grave, and know that she never blest the man she loved. Say, massa, shall I help you?"
Augustus Horton gazed at the negro for some moments, with a look of mingled surprise and disdain. There was something almost terrific in the fiery energy of the African. Something, which in its terror approached almost to sublimity.
"Shall I serve you, massa?" said Tristan.
"Yes," exclaimed the planter, "you shall be my bloodhound, and help me to hunt down my enemies."