"Pardon me," Valentine continued impressively. "I am alluding here to an incontestable right, which you cannot deny: do not get in a passion, but answer me categorically, yes, or no."
"Well, sir, yes; you had that right, and you still have it. What checks you? Why do you not use it?" she added, as she gave him a defiant look.
"Because it does not suit me to do so at this moment," Valentine said, coldly and drily.
These stern words suddenly checked the passion that was boiling in the girl's heart: she let her eyes fall, and replied:—
"Is that all you have to say to me?"
"No, it is not all; and I have a final question to ask you."
"Speak, sir, as I am condemned to listen to you."
"I will not occupy much of your time."
"Oh, sir," she answered ironically, "my time cannot be employed better than in conversing with so polished a gentleman as yourself."
"I thank you for the good opinion you are kind enough to have of a poor hunter like myself," he replied, with a tinge of sarcasm; "and I now reach the second question I wished to ask you."
"In truth, it seems, sir, that like thejuces de letras, your accomplices," she added bitterly, "you have classified in your head the questions that compose my examination: for, in spite of what you did me the honour of telling me, I persist in seeing only an examination in what it pleases you to call our conversation."
"As you please, madam," Valentine replied with imperturbable coolness. "Will you explain to me how it is, that, after having been treated, according to your own statement, by us so kindly, you laid aside all gratitude and feelings of honour last night, to join two villains in a plot for carrying off a girl to whom you owe your life, and handing her over as a slave to the most ferocious Indians on the prairies—the Sioux?"
If the lightning had struck the ground at the Spanish girl's feet, it would not have caused her greater terror than this revelation, which she was far from expecting, made in a dear, dry, and unmoved voice.
Her features were contracted—the blood mounted to her head—she tottered on her horse, and would have fallen off, had not Valentine held her. But overcoming by the strength of her will the terrible emotion that troubled her, she repulsed the young man, saying in a firm voice, and with an implacable accent:
"You are well informed, sir; such is my intention."
Valentine felt momentarily stupefied. He regarded this woman, who had hardly emerged from childhood, whose lovely features, distorted by the passions that agitated them, had become almost hideous: he recalled, as in a dream, another woman nearly as cruel whom he had once known. An indescribable feeling of sorrow pervaded his heart at the terrible reminiscence thus suddenly evoked. So much perfidity seemed to him to go beyond the limits of human wickedness; and for an instant he almost fancied himself in the presence of a demon.
"And you dare confess it to me?" he at length said, with badly concealed terror.
"And why not? What can you do to me? Kill me! A glorious revenge for a brave man! And, besides, what do I care for life? Who knows? perhaps, without wishing it, and fancying you are punishing me, you would do me an uncommon service by killing me."
"Kill you? Nonsense," the hunter said, with a smile of contempt. "Creatures of your kind are not killed. In the first flush of passion we crush them under our boot heel, like venomous reptiles: but, on reflection, we prefer plucking out their teeth. That is what I have done, viper? Now bite if you dare!"
A fearful rage took possession of the Spanish girl; she raised her whip, and with a movement more rapid than thought struck Valentine across the face, merely hissing the word:
"Coward!"
At this insult the hunter lost his coolness. He drew a pistol and fired it point blank at this woman, who sat before him motionless, and smiling. But she had not lost one of the Frenchman's movements out of sight. She made her horse leap on one side, and the bullet whistled inoffensively past her ear.
At the sound of the firing, the hunters felt alarmed, and they galloped up to the spot, to inquire what had occurred. The shot had been scarce fired ere Pedro Sandoval, who had hitherto listened with apparent indifference to the conversation, dashed at Valentine, brandishing a long knife which he had managed to conceal.
The hunter, who had regained his presence of mind, awaited him firmly; and as the pirate came up to him, he stopped him short with a bullet through his body. The villain rolled on the ground with a yell of disappointed rage.
The Spanish girl looked around her disdainfully, made her horse bound, and started at an incredible pace amidst the bullets that whizzed round her from all sides, crying in a hoarse voice:—
"We shall meet again, soon, Valentine. Till then, farewell."
The hunter would not allow her to be pursued, and she soon disappeared in the tall grass.
"Oh, oh, this scamp seems to me very ill," the general said, after dismounting. "What the deuce shall we do with him?"
"Hang him!" Valentine observed, drily.
"Well," the general continued, "that is not such a bad idea. In that way, we shall get rid of one of the villains, and, on reflection, that will prevent him feeling the pain of his wound."
"Let us finish with him," Don Miguel interrupted.
"Caspita!what a hurry you are in, my friend," the general answered. "Hum! I am certain he is not in such haste—are you, my good fellow?"
"Come," Valentine said, with that mocking expression he had through his Parisian birth, and which broke out at intervals—"our friend is in luck. He has fallen at the foot of a splendid tree, which will form an observatory whence he can admire the landscape at his ease. Curumilla, my worthy fellow, climb up the tree, and bend down that branch as much as you can."
Curumilla, according to his laudable habit, executed immediately the order given him, though without uttering a word.
"Now, my good fellow," the hunter continued, addressing the wounded man, "if you are not a thorough Pagan, and can recollect any prayer, I should recommend you to repeat it, for it will do you more good than ever it did."
And, raising Sandoval in his arms, who maintained a gloomy silence, he passed the cord round his neck.
"One moment," Curumilla remarked, as he seized with his left hand the bandit's thick hair.
"That is true," said the hunter. "It is your right, chief, so make use of it."
The Indian did not wait for this to be repeated. In a second he had scalped the Spaniard, who looked at him with flashing eyes, and coldly placed the dripping scalp in his girdle. Valentine turned away his head in disgust at this hideous sight, but the Spaniard did not give vent to a groan.
As soon as he had placed the running noose round the bandit's neck, Valentine threw the cord to Curumilla, who attached it firmly to the branch, and then came down again.
"Now that justice is done, let us go," said Valentine.
The witnesses of the execution remounted. The branch which had been held down flew back, bearing with it the body of the pirate.
Pedro Sandoval remained alone, quivering in the last convulsions of death.
So soon as Valentine and his comrades were out of sight, several Apaches, at the head of whom were Red Cedar and the White Gazelle, started out of a thicket. An Indian climbed up the tree, cut the rope, and the body of the Spaniard was gently laid on the ground. He did not give a sign of existence.
The girl and Red Cedar hastened to give him help, in order to recall life, were it possible, to this poor and fearfully mutilated body; but all their efforts seemed futile. Pedro Sandoval remained cold and inert in the arms of his friends. In vain had they removed the slip knot which pressed his throat—his swollen and blue veins would not diminish in size, or his blood circulate. All seemed over.
As a last chance, an Apache took a skinful of water, and poured the contents on the bare and bleeding skull of the Spaniard. At the contact of this cold shower, his whole body trembled, a deep sigh burst with an effort from his oppressed chest, and the dying man painfully opened his eyes, fixing a sad and languishing glance on those who surrounded him.
"Heaven be praised!" said the girl; "He is not dead."
The bandit looked at the girl with that glassy and wandering stare which is the infallible sign of a speedy death; a smile played round his violet lips, and he muttered in a low and inarticulate voice:
"No, I am not dead, but I shall soon be so."
Then he closed his eyes again, and fell back, apparently in his former state of insensibility. The spectators anxiously followed the progress of this frightful agony: White Gazelle frowned, and, bending over the dying man, put her mouth to his ear.
"Do you hear me, Sandoval?" she said to him.
The bandit suddenly quivered, as if he had received an electric shock. He turned toward the speaker, and partially opened his eyes.
"Who is near me?" he asked.
"I, Pedro. Do you not recognise me, old comrade?" Red Cedar said.
"Yes," the Pirate said, peevishly, "I recognise you; but it was not you I wished to see."
"Whom do you mean?"
"The Niña. Has she abandoned me too—she, for whom I am dying!"
"No, I have not abandoned you," the girl quickly interrupted him; "your reproach is unjust—for it was I who succoured you. Here I am, father."
"Ah," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction, "you are there, Niña; all the better. God, if there be a God, will reward you for what you have done."
"Do not speak of that, but tell me why you asked for me, father."
"Do not give me that name," the bandit said violently; "I am not your father!"
There was a moment's silence; at length the Pirate continued, in an almost indistinct voice, and as if speaking to himself—
"The hand of God is in this—it was He who decreed that at the last moment the daughter of the victim should see one of the principal assassins die."
He shook his head piteously, sighed and added, mournfully—
"That is the hand of God."
His hearers looked at each other silently; an instinctive fear, a species of superstitious terror had seized upon them, and they did not dare question this man. A few minutes elapsed.
"Oh, how I suffer!" he suddenly muttered; "my head is a red-hot furnace—give me drink."
Water was quickly brought him, but he repulsed it, saying—
"No, not water—I want to regain my strength."
"What will you have, then?" Red Cedar asked him.
"Give me aguardiente."
"Oh!" the girl said imploringly; "do not drink spirits—they will kill you."
The bandit grinned horribly.
"Kill me?" he said, "Why, am I not a dead man already, poor fool?"
The White Gazelle gave Red Cedar a glance.
"Let us do what he wishes," the latter whispered; "he is a lost man."
"Aguardiente," the sufferer said again; "make haste, if you do not wish me to die ere I have spoken."
Red Cedar seized his gourd, and in spite of the girl's entreaties, thrust the neck between the pirate's lips. Sandoval drank deeply.
"Ah!" he said, with a sigh of satisfaction; "at present I feel strong. I did not believe that it was so difficult to die. Well, if there be a God, may His will be done. Red Cedar, give me one of your pistols, and leave me your gourd."
The squatter did as his comrade requested.
"Very good," he went on; "now, retire all of you; I have to speak with the Niña."
Red Cedar could not conceal his dissatisfaction.
"Why weary yourself?" he said; "it would be better for you to let us pay you that attention your condition demands."
"Oh!" the bandit said, with a grin, "I understand you; you would sooner see me die like a dog, without uttering a syllable, for you suspect what I am about to say—well, I feel sorry for you, gossip, but I must and will speak."
The squatter shrugged his shoulders.
"What do I care for your wanderings?" he said; "It is only the interest I feel in you that—"
"Enough!" Sandoval interrupted him, sharply. "Silence! I will speak! no human power can force me in my dying hours to keep the secret longer; it has been rankling in my bosom too long already."
"My good father—" the girl murmured.
"Peace," the bandit went on authoritatively, "do not oppose my will, Niña. You must learn from me certain things before I render my accounts to Him who sees everything."
Red Cedar fixed a burning glance on the dying man, as he convulsively clutched the butt of a pistol; but he suddenly loosed his hold, and smiled ironically.
"What do I care?" he said; "It is too late now."
Sandoval heard him.
"Perhaps so," he replied; "Heaven alone knows."
"We shall see," the squatter retorted, sarcastically.
He made a signal; the Apaches retired silently with him, and the girl remained alone near the dying man.
White Gazelle was a prey to an extraordinary emotion, for which she could not account; she experienced a curiosity mingled with terror, that caused her a strange oppression and trouble. She regarded the man lying half dead at her feet, and who while writhing in atrocious pain, fixed on her a glance full of indescribable pity and irony.
She feared, and yet desired that the bandit should make to her the gloomy confession she expected. Something told her that on this man her life and future fortune depended. But he remained gloomy and dumb.
A few moments passed, during which the Pirate seemed painfully collecting his thoughts before speaking. White Gazelle, with her eyes fixed on him, waited with anxious curiosity.
At length, the bandit seized the gourd, raised it to his lips a second time, and after drinking heartily, replaced it by his side. A feverish flush immediately spread over his cheeks, his eyes grew brighter, and he said, in a firmer voice than might have been expected—
"Listen to me attentively, child, and profit by what you are about to hear. I am dying and men do not lie at such a moment. The words I shall utter are true. You well know me."
He stopped for some seconds, and then continued with an effort—
"I have not always been a pirate of the prairies, or tiger with a human face—one of those wretches whom it is permissible to hunt like wild beasts. No! there was a time when I was young, handsome, and rich; at that remote period I was called Walter Stapleton, and was so rich that I did not know the amount of my fortune. Like everyone else you fancied me a Spaniard, and have been equally deceived—I am a citizen of the United States, descended from an old puritan family, long settled at New York. My parents died before I was twenty years of age; master of an immense fortune, I had become connected with all the scamps in the city; two especially became my intimate friends, and succeeded in a short time in getting such a hold on me, that I only acted on their impulses and by their suggestions. One of them was born in New York like myself, the other was a Mexican. Both were, like myself, young, good-looking, and rich, or, at least, they appeared so, for they squandered enormous sums. Their names were—but why tell you them?" he added, "I am not speaking of them here, but only of myself. One day the Mexican came to me with a letter in his hand; his family called him home, for he was to enter the church; but he would not, or, at least, could not leave New York at the moment. I never knew the reason; but one month later we were all three compelled to seek a refuge in Mexico, after a mournful tragedy, in which my two friends played the chief part, leaving behind them a trail of blood. I repeat to you that I never learned the circumstances."
At this moment a rustling was audible in the bushes against which the bandit was leaning; but the Gazelle, overcome by the increasing interest of the story, did not notice it. There was an interruption for some minutes. Pedro Sandoval was growing perceptibly weaker.
"I must finish, however," he said; and making an effort, he continued: —"We were at Mexico, where we lived nobly. In a short time I gained the reputation of a finished gentleman. A great gambler, and adored by women, shall I repeat to you the follies and extravagances that filled my days? What good would it be? Suffice it for you to know that I deserved this reputation in every respect. One day, a stranger arrived in Mexico. He was, it was said, a caballero from an upcountry province, enormously rich, and travelling for his pleasure. This man in a short time displayed such recklessness, that his reputation soon equalled and even surpassed mine. I, who had always been the first in every wild scheme, was placed in the second rank. My friends laughed at the sudden change effected, and by this incessant raillery augmented my anger and detestation of this Don Pacheco de Tudela, as the man was called. Several times already we had met face to face at the tertulias, and each time our glances crossed like sword blades. I comprehended that this man hated me. For my part, a dull jealousy devoured me when his name was mentioned in my presence.
"A crisis was imminent, and we both sought it. One evening, when we were both at the tertulia of the Governor of Arispe, a game of monte was arranged. You know that game, which is the ruling passion of the Mexicans. I had held the bank for some hours, and an incredible run of luck had made me gain immense sums, which were piled up before me, and covered nearly the whole of the table. The gamblers, terrified by this constant good luck, retired in terror. I was about to collect and send off my money, when I heard a few paces from me Don Pacheco saying ironically to a party of friends:—'I am not jealous of señor Stapleton's good luck. I have allowed him to win that he may repair his ruined fortune, and stop the cries of his creditors, who have been yelping for a long time at his heels.'
"These words wounded me the more because they were true. My fortune, mortgaged beyond its value, only existed on paper, and numerous creditors incessantly pursued me. I walked up to Don Pacheco, and looked him boldly in the face.
"'To prove to you that I do not fear losing,' I said to him, 'I offer to stake on one hand with you all it has taken me so many hours to win.'
"The stranger looked at me in his turn; then he said, in his cutting voice, and with the sarcastic accent habitual to him:—
"'You are wrong, my dear sir. This money is very necessary to you; and, if I were mad enough to play with you, I warn you that you would lose.'
"He laughed in my face, and turned his back on me.
"'Oh!' I said to him, 'you are afraid—and then, again, you probably do not possess one quarter the sum there, and that is why you dare not play.'
"Don Pacheco shrugged his shoulders without replying to me, and addressed the richest banker of Arispe, who was standing near him:—
"'Señor Don Julio Baldomero,' he said to him, 'how much do you think there is on that table?'
"The banker took a glance in my direction, and then answered:—
"'Six hundred thousand piastres, or nearly so, señor.'
"'Very good,' the other said. 'Don Julio, be good enough to give me a bill for twelve hundred thousand piastres, payable at sight, on your bank.'
"The banker bowed, took out his pocketbook, and wrote a few words on a leaf which he tore out, and handed to Don Pacheco.
"'Do you believe, sir,' the Mexican said to me, 'that this bill represents the sum before you?'
"These words were accompanied by the sarcastic smile this man constantly had on his lips, and which drove me wild.
"'Yes,' I replied haughtily, 'and I am awaiting your determination.'
"'It is formed,' he said. 'Ask for new cards, and let us begin. Still, you can recall your word, if you like.'
"'Nonsense,' I said, as I undid a fresh pack of cards.
"Although our altercation had been short, as everybody knew our feelings toward each other, the conversation had broken off, and all the guests at the tertulia had collected around us. A profound silence prevailed in the room, and the faces expressed the curiosity and interest aroused by this strange scene. After shuffling the cards for some time, I handed them to my opponent to cut. The stranger laid his right hand on the pack, and said to me impertinently:—
"'There is yet time.'
"I shrugged my shoulders as reply. He cut, and I began dealing. At the fourth hand I had lost, and was ruined!"
The pirate stopped. For some time his voice had been growing weaker, and it was only by making extreme efforts that he succeeded in speaking distinctly.
"Drink!" he said so softly that the girl scarce heard him. She caught up a skin of water.
"No," he said, "brandy."
White Gazelle obeyed him.
The pirate eagerly drank two or three mouthfuls.
"All was over," he continued, in a firm voice, with sparkling eye, and face flushed by the fever preying on him. "Concealing my rage in my heart, I prepared to leave the table with a smile on my lips.
"'One moment, sir,' my opponent said. 'The game is not over yet.'
"'What do you want more?' I answered him. 'Have you not won?'
"'Oh!' he said, with a gesture of supreme contempt: 'That is true. I have won this wretched sum. But you have a stake still to risk.'
"'I do not understand you, sir.'
"'Perhaps so! Listen to me. There are on this table eighteen hundred thousand piastres, that is to say, a fabulous fortune, which would form the happiness of a dozen families.'
"'Well?' I answered in a surprise.
"'Well, I will play you for them, if you like. Hang it, my dear sir, I am in luck at this moment, and I will not let fortune escape me while I hold her.'
"'I have nothing more to stake, sir, and you know it,' I said in a loud and haughty voice. 'I do not understand what you are alluding to.'
"To this he replied, without seeming in the least disconcerted, 'You love Doña Isabella Izaguirre?'
"'How does that concern you?'
"'If I may believe public rumour, you are to marry her in a few days,' he continued calmly. 'Well, I too love Doña Isabel, and I have made up my mind she shall be mine by fair means or foul.'
"'And?' I interrupted him violently.
"'And, if you like, I will stake these eighteen hundred thousand piastres against her hand. You see that I appreciate her value,' he added, as he carelessly lit his panatellas.
"'Canario!A splendid game! What a magnificent stake! A man cannot act more gallantly!' Such were the remarks made around me by the witnesses of this scene.
"'You hesitate?' Don Pacheco asked me in his ironical way.
"I looked defiantly round me, but no one accepted my challenge.
"'No,' I answered in a hollow voice, my teeth clenched with rage. 'I accept.'
"The audience uttered a cry of admiration. Never in the memory of players at Arispe, had a game of monte afforded such interest, and all eagerly collected round the table. I felt for Doña Isabel that profound love which constitutes a man's existence.
"'Who is to deal?' I asked my adversary.
"'You!' he replied, with his infernal smile.
"Five minutes later, I had lost my mistress!"
There was a moment's silence; a nervous tremor had assailed the pirate, and for some instants it was only by an extraordinary effort that he had been enabled to utter the words that seemed to choke him. It was evident that the wound in his heart was as vivid as on the day when he received it, and that only a strong interest induced him to refer to it.
"At length," he continued with a certain volubility, as he wiped away the cold perspiration that beaded on his forehead, and mingled with the blood that oozed from his wound, "the stranger approached me.
"'Are you satisfied?' he said.
"'Not yet,' I replied in a gloomy voice: 'we have still one game to play out.'
"'Oh,' he said, ironically, 'I fancied you had nothing more to lose.'
"'You were mistaken. You have still my life to gain from me.'
"'That is true,' he said, 'and by heaven, I will win it from you. I wish to cover your stake to the end, so let us go out.'
"'Why do that?' I said to him. 'This table served as the arena for the first two games, and the third shall be decided upon it.'
"'Done!' he said. 'By Jupiter! You are a fine fellow! I may kill you, but I shall be proud of my victory.'
"People attempted in vain to prevent the duel; but neither the stranger nor myself would listen to it. At length they consented to give us the weapons we asked for; and then, moreover, this strange combat in the flower-adorned room, on the table covered with gold, among lovely young women, whose freshness and beauty the lights heightened, had something fatal about it which inflamed the imagination. The two heroes of Arispe, the men who had for so long a time formed the sole topic of conversation, had at length decided to settle which should definitely hold the palm.
"I leaped on the table, and my opponent at once followed my example. I enjoyed the reputation of being a fine swordsman, and yet, at the second pass, I fell with my chest pierced through and through. For three months I hovered between life and death, and when my youth and powerful constitution at length triumphed over my horrible wound, and I was approaching convalescence, I inquired about my adversary. On the day after our duel, this man had married Doña Isabel; a week later, both disappeared, and no one could tell me in what direction they had gone.
"I had only one object, one desire—to revenge myself on Don Pacheco. So soon as I was sufficiently recovered to leave the house, I sold the little left me, and quitted Arispe in my turn, followed by my friends, who were as poor as myself, for the blow that had struck me had struck them too, and, like myself, they only desired revenge on Don Pacheco. For a long time our researches were vain, and many years elapsed ere I grew weary of seeking their trail. There were only two of us now to do it, for the third had left us.
"What had become of him? I do not know, but one day, by chance, at an American frontier village where I had gone to sell my peltry, Satan brought me face to face with this friend, whom I never expected to meet again. He wore a monk's gown, and so soon as he perceived me, walked up to me. The first words he addressed to me after our lengthened separation were:
"'I have found them again.'
"I understood without it being necessary for him to make any further explanation, for my hatred had taken such deep root in my heart. What more shall I tell you, Niña?" he added, with an effort, while a fearful smile crisped his blue lips. "I took my revenge. Oh! This vengeance was long in coming, but it was terrible!... Our foe had become one of the richest hacenderos in Texas; he lived happily with his wife and children, respected and loved by all who surrounded him. I bought a farm near his, and then, on the watch, like a jaguar with its prey, I followed his every movement, and introduced myself into his house. So lengthened a period had elapsed since our last meeting, that he did not recognise me, although a foreboding seemed from the outset to warn him that I was his enemy.
"One night, at the head of a band of pirates and Apaches, my two friends and myself, after assuring ourselves that all were quietly sleeping in Don Pacheco's hacienda, glided like serpents through the darkness; the walls were escaladed, and our vengeance began. The hacienda was given up to the flames; Don Pacheco and his wife, surprised in their sleep, were pitilessly massacred, after undergoing atrocious tortures. I tore both yourself and your sister from the arms of your dying mother, who sobbed at our feet, imploring me to spare you in memory of my old love for her.
"I swore it, and kept my promise. I do not know what became of your sister; I did not even trouble myself about her. As for you, Niña, have you had ever any cause to reproach me?"
The girl had listened to this fearful revelation with frowning eyebrows and livid cheeks. When the bandit stopped, she said harshly:
"Then you are the murderer of my father and mother?"
"Yes," he replied, "but not alone; there were three of us, and we took our revenge."
"Wretch!" she burst forth; "Vile assassin!"
The girl uttered these words with such an implacable accent, that the bandit shuddered.
"Ah!" he said, "I recognise the lioness. You are truly my enemy's daughter. Courage, child, courage. Assassinate me in your turn. What restrains you? Rob me of the short span of life still left me, but make haste, or Heaven will prevent your vengeance."
And he fixed on her his eye, which was still proud, but already clouded by the hand of death. The girl gave no answer.
"You prefer seeing me die; well, receive this last present," he said, plucking from his bosom a bag, suspended from a steel chain; "in it you will find two letters, one from your father, the other from your mother; you will learn who you are, and what name you should bear in the world, for the one I mentioned is false; I wished to deceive you to the end. That name is my last vengeance.... Niña, you will remember me."
The girl bounded on to the bag and seized it.
"Now, good-bye," the Pirate said; "my work is accomplished on this earth."
And seizing the pistol Red Cedar had left him, he blew out his brains, fixing on the girl a glance of strange meaning. But she did not seem to notice this tragical end, for she was tearing the bag with her teeth. When she succeeded in opening it, she unfolded the papers it contained, and hurriedly perused them. Suddenly she uttered a shriek of despair, and fell back, clutching the letters in her hand.
The Indians and pirates ran up to help her, but, quicker than lightning, a horseman darted from the chaparral, reaching the girl without checking the speed of his horse; he bent down, raised her up in his powerful arms, threw her across his saddle-bow, and passed like a tornado through the astounded spectators.
"We shall meet again soon, Red Cedar," he said in a loud voice, as he passed the squatter.
Before the latter and his comrades could recover from their surprise, the horseman had disappeared in the distance in a cloud of dust.
The horseman was Bloodson!
Red Cedar shook his head sadly.
"Can what the priests say be true?" he muttered; "Is there really a Providence?"
After the tragic execution of the Pirate, the hunters slowly continued their journey. The scenes we have described in previous chapters had spread over them a gloom which nothing could dissipate. Since his daughter's disappearance, Don Miguel Zarate, who had been suddenly hurled from the height of his hopes, maintained a gloomy and stern silence. This man, so strong and energetic, at length conquered by misfortune, marched silently by the side of his comrades, who respected his grief, and offered him those little attentions to which suffering minds are so sensitive.
Valentine and General Ibañez were holding an animated conversation, the two Indians, Curumilla and Moukapec, going in front and serving as guides. Don Pablo and Ellen rode side by side; they alone of the small party seemed happy, and a smile now and then played over their faces. Alone of the little band the two young people had the faculty of forgetting past sufferings through the present joy.
During Sandoval's execution Ellen had been kept aloof, hence she was ignorant of what had occurred; and nothing happened to dull the pleasure she experienced at seeing herself reunited to the man to whom she had mentally given her heart.
One of the privileges of love is forgetting; the two young people, absorbed in their passion, remembered nothing, but the happiness of meeting again. The word "love" had not been uttered; still, it was so fully reflected in their glances and smiles, that they understood each other perfectly.
Ellen was describing to Don Pablo how Doña Clara and herself escaped from Red Cedar's camp, protected by the two Canadian hunters.
"Ah!" Don Pablo said, "talking of those hunters, what has become of them?"
"Alas!" Ellen replied, "One of them was killed by the Apaches, and the other—"
"Well and the other?"
"There he is," she said; "oh, he is devoted to me body and soul."
Don Pablo turned round with an angry movement, and a dull jealousy was inflamed in him. He looked at the hunter who rode a few paces in the rear, but at the sight of this open, honest face, over which a tinge of melancholy was spread, the young man seriously upbraided himself for his apprehensions. He quickly went up to the hunter, while Ellen regarded them with a smile; when he was at the Canadian's side, he offered him his hand.
"Thanks," he said to him simply, "for what you did for her."
Harry pressed the hand, and answered sadly but nobly: "I did my duty; I swore to defend her and die for her: when the hour arrives, I will keep my oath."
Don Pablo smiled gracefully,
"Why do you not ride by our side?"
"No," Harry answered with a sigh, as he shook his head; "I ought not, and do not wish to be the third in your conversation. You love each other, and be happy. It is my duty to watch over your happiness; leave me in my place and remain in yours."
Don Pablo thought for a moment over these words, then pressed the hunter's hand a second time.
"You have a noble heart," he said to him; "I understand you;" and he rejoined his companion. A smile played round the hunter's pallid lips.
"Yes," he muttered so soon as he was alone; "yes, I love her. Poor Ellen! She will be happy, and if so, what matter what becomes of me?"
He then reassumed his indifferent look; but at times he gazed with a feeling of sorrowful pleasure on the young people who had renewed their conversation.
"Is he not a glorious fellow?" Ellen said to the young man as she pointed to the hunter.
"I think so."
"And I have been certain of it for a long time. Harry watches over me; I have always found him at my side in the hour of danger: to follow me he has abandoned everything, country, friends, family, without hesitation or reflection, and has done it without any hope of ever being rewarded for such abnegation and devotion."
Don Pablo sighed.
"You love him," he murmured.
The maiden smiled.
"If you mean by those words that I place an unbounded confidence in him, that I feel a sincere and deep affection for him, in that sense, yes, I do love him."
Don Pablo shook his head.
"That is not what I mean," he said.
She gazed on him fixedly, and remained silent for some minutes, the Mexican not daring to question her. At length she turned to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder; at this touch the young man started, and quickly raised his head.
"Listen, Don Pablo," she said, in her clear and harmonious voice.
"I am listening," he answered.
"Accident one day brought us together," she continued, with a sort of feverish animation, "under extraordinary circumstance. On seeing you, I felt a sensation at once sweet and painful: my heart contracted, and when, after defying my brothers, you set off, I looked after you so long as I could perceive you through the trees. At length I returned dreamily to our cabin, for I felt that my fate was decided; your words echoed in my ears, your image was in my heart, and yet you had appeared to me as an enemy: the words you uttered in my presence were threats. Whence arose the strange emotion that agitated me?"
She stopped.
"Oh, you loved me!" the young man exclaimed impetuously.
"Yes, did I not?" she continued. "It is what is called love," she added, in a quivering voice, while two tears fell from her long lashes and coursed down her pale cheeks; "in what will that love result? The daughter of a proscribed race, I am not so much your friend as your prisoner, or, at any; rate, your hostage. I inspire your comrade with contempt, perhaps with hatred; for I am the daughter of their implacable foe—of the man whom they have sworn to sacrifice to their vengeance."
Don Pablo bowed his head, with a sigh.
"What I say is true, is it not?" she continued; "you are forced to allow it."
"Oh, I will protect—I will save you," he exclaimed impetuously.
"No," she said firmly; "no, Don Pablo, for you must defend me against your own father; you would not dare do it; and if you did," she added, with a flashing eye, "I would not suffer it."
There was a moment's silence: then Ellen continued—
"Leave me to accomplish my destiny, Don Pablo; renounce this love, which can have only one result—our mutual wretchedness: forget me!"
"Never," he exclaimed; "never! I love you, Ellen, so greatly as to sacrifice all for you—my life, if you order it."
"And I," she replied—"do you fancy that I do not love you?—have I not given you sufficient proof of that love?—I who betrayed my father for your sake. But you see, I am strong; imitate me, and do not enter on a mad struggle."
"Whatever happens, I shall ever love you. Ellen! What do I care for your family! Children are not responsible for the faults of their parents. You are noble, you are holy: I love you, Ellen, I love you!"
"And do you think I doubt it?" she replied. "Yes, you love me, Don Pablo; I know it; I am sure of it; and, shall I confess it? This love, which causes my despair, renders me at the same time happy. Well, you must forget me; it must be so."
"Never," he repeated wildly.
"Listen, Don Pablo; you and your comrades are on my father's trail; if, as is almost certain, you find him, nothing will save him, neither tears nor entreaties, but you will kill him."
"Alas!" the young man murmured.
"You understand," she said, with great agitation, "that I cannot be an unmoved witness of the death of the man to whom I owe my life. This man, whom you hate, on whom you wish to revenge yourself, is my father; he has always been kind to me. Be merciful, Don Pablo!"
"Speak, Ellen; whatever you may ask I will swear to do."
Ellen fixed on him a glance of strange meaning.
"Is it true? Can I really trust to your word?" she said, with marked hesitation.
"Order, and I will obey."
"This evening, when we reach the spot where we are to bivouac, when your comrades are asleep—"
"Well?" he said, seeing that she stopped.
"Let me fly, Don Pablo, I implore you."
"Oh, my poor child," he exclaimed; "let you fly! But what will become of you alone, and lost in this desert?"
"Heaven will guard me."
"Alas! It is death that you ask."
"What matter, if I have done my duty."
"Your duty, Ellen?"
"Must I not save my father?"
Don Pablo made no reply.
"You hesitate—you refuse," she said, bitterly.
"No," he answered. "You ask, and your will shall be accomplished; you shall go."
"Thanks," she said, joyfully, as she offered the young man her hand, which he pressed to his lips.
"And now," she said, "one last service."
"Speak, Ellen."
She drew a small box from her bosom and handed it to her companion.
"Take this, box," she continued. "I know not what it contains; but I took it from my father before escaping from his camp with your sister. Keep it preciously, in order that, if Heaven allow us ever to meet again, you may restore it to me."
"I promise it."
"Now, Don Pablo, whatever may happen, know that I love you, and that your name will be the last word that passes my lips."
"Oh! Let me believe, let me hope that one day perhaps—"
"Never!" she exclaimed, in her turn, with an accent impossible to describe. "However great my love may be, my father's blood will separate us eternally."
The young man bowed his head in despair at these words—a gloomy malediction, which enabled him to measure the depth of the abyss into which he had fallen. They continued their journey silently, side by side.
The Sachem of the Coras, as we said, acted as guide to the little party. On reaching a spot where the path he followed took a sudden bend in the river bank, he stopped, and imitated the cry of the jay. At this signal, Valentine dug his spurs into his horse and galloped up to him.
"Is there anything new?" he asked.
"Nothing, except that in a few minutes we shall be opposite the islet where Red Cedar established his camp."
"Ah, ah!" said Valentine; "In that case we will halt."
The hunters dismounted, and concealed themselves in the shrubs; the utmost silence prevailed on the riverbank.
"Hum!" Valentine muttered; "I believe the bird has flown."
"We shall soon know," Eagle-wing replied.
Then, with that prudence characteristic of the men of his race, he stepped cautiously from tree to tree, and soon disappeared from his comrades' sight.
The latter awaited him motionless, and with their eyes fixed on the spot where he had vanished, as it were. They had long to wait, but at the end of an hour a slight rustling was audible in the shrubs, and the Indian rose before them. It was easy to see that he had emerged from the water, for his clothes were dripping.
"Well?" said Valentine.
"Gone!"
"All?"
"All."
"How long?"
"Two days at least! the fires are cold."
"I suspected it," said the hunter, as if speaking to himself.
"Oh!" Don Miguel exclaimed, "this demon will constantly escape us."
"Patience," Valentine replied. "Unless he has glided through the river like a fish, or risen in the air like a bird, we shall find his trail again—I swear it."
"But what shall we do?"
"Wait," said the hunter. "It is late, we will pass the night here; tomorrow, at daybreak, we will start in pursuit of our enemy."
Don Miguel sighed, and made no answer. The preparations for a hunter's bivouac are not lengthy. Harry and Eagle-wing lit a fire, unsaddled and hobbled the horses, and then the supper was got ready. With the exception of Don Miguel and his son, who ate but little, though for different reasons, the hunters did honour to the frugal meal, which the fatigues of the day caused them to find delicious. So soon as the supper was over, Valentine threw his rifle on his shoulder, and gave Curumilla a sign to follow him.
"Where are you going?" Don Miguel asked.
"To the isle where the gambusinos' camp was."
"I will go with you."
"Hang it all! And so will I," said the general.
"Very good."
The four men set out, and only Don Pablo, Ellen, the Chief of the Coras, and Harry were left in the encampment. So soon as the footsteps of the hunters had died out in the distance, Ellen turned to Don Pablo.
"The time has arrived," she said.
The Mexican could not repress a nervous start.
"You wish it?" he answered her, sadly.
"It must be," she continued, stifling a sigh.
She rose and walked up to Harry.
"Brother, I am going," she said.
"It is well," the hunter replied.
Without any further explanation, he saddled two horses, and waited with apparent indifference. Moukapec slept, or feigned to sleep. Ellen offered her hand to Don Pablo, and said, in a trembling voice—
"Farewell!"
"Oh!" the young man exclaimed, "Remain, Ellen, I implore you!"
The squatter's daughter shook her head sadly.
"I must rejoin my father," she murmured; "Don Pablo, let me go."
"Ellen! Ellen!"
"Farewell, Don Pablo!"
"Oh!" he said, in his despair, "Can nothing move you?"
The maiden's face was inundated with tears, and her bosom heaved.
"Ungrateful man," she said, with an accent of bitter reproach, "he does not understand how much I love him."
Don Pablo made a final effort; he overcame his grief, and said, in a stammering voice—
"Go, then, and may Heaven protect you!"
"Farewell!"
"Oh! Not farewell—we shall meet again."
The girl shook her head sadly, and leaped on the horse the Canadian held ready for her.
"Harry," said Don Pablo, "watch over her."
"As over my sister," the Canadian answered, in a deep voice.
Ellen gave a parting signal of farewell to Don Pablo, and loosened the bridle. The young man fell on the ground in despair.
"Oh! All my happiness has fled me!" he muttered, in a broken voice.
Moukapec had not made a move; his sleep must have been very sound. Two hours later, Valentine and his friends returned from their trip to the island, and Don Miguel at once noticed the absence of the squatter's daughter.
"Where is Ellen?" he asked, quickly.
"Gone!" Don Pablo muttered.
"And you allowed her to fly?" the hacendero exclaimed.
"She was not a prisoner, hence I had no right to oppose her departure."
"And the Canadian hunter?"
"Gone too."
"Oh!" Don Miguel exclaimed, "We must start in pursuit of them without the loss of a moment."
A shudder of terror and joy ran over the young man's body, as he turned pale at this proposition. Valentine gave him a searching glance, and then laid his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"We will do nothing of the sort," he said, with a meaning smile; "on the contrary, we will allow Red Cedar's daughter to withdraw unimpeded."
"But—" Don Miguel objected.
Valentine bent down and whispered a few words in his ear. The hacendero started.
"You are right," he muttered.
"Now," the hunter went on, "let us sleep, for I promise you a hard day's work tomorrow."
Everyone seemed to acknowledge the justice of this remark, and scarce a quarter of an hour after it had been made, the hunters were lying asleep round the fire. Curumilla alone was leaning against a larch tree, of which he seemed to form part, watching over the common safety.
We will now return to the gambusinos.
Sutter and Nathan had not said a word to their brother; while he, for his part, did not appear to have recognised them. When all were preparing to sleep, Shaw also laid himself on the ground, while imperceptibly approaching Doña Clara.
The maiden, with her head buried in her hands, and her elbows supported on her knees, was weeping silently. These tears broke Shaw's heart, and he would have laid down his life to stop their flow.
In the meanwhile, the night grew more and more dark; the moon, veiled by thick clouds which passed incessantly over its pale disc, only cast forth dim rays, too weak to pierce the dome of foliage under which the gambusinos had sought shelter. Shaw, reassured by the complete immobility of his comrades and the mournful silence that brooded over the clearing, ventured slightly to touch the young lady's arm.
"What do you want with me?" she asked in a mournful voice.
"Speak low," he replied; "in Heaven's name, speak low, señora, or one of the men lying there may overhear us. These villains have so fine an ear, that the slightest sighing of the wind through the leaves is sufficient to awake them and put them on their guard."
"Why should I care whether they awake?" she continued, reproachfully "Thanks to you, in whom I trusted, have I not fallen into their hands again?"
"Oh!" he said, writhing his hands in despair, "you cannot believe me capable of such odious treachery."
"Still, you see where we are."
"Alas! I am not to blame for it; fatality has done it all."
An incredulous smile hovered round the maiden's pallid lips.
"Have at least the courage to defend your bad deed, and confess you are a bandit like the men sleeping there. Oh," she added, bitterly, "I have no right to reproach you; on the contrary, I ought to admire you; for though you are still very young, you have displayed, under present circumstances, a degree of skill and cunning I was far from suspecting in you: you have played your part with consummate talent."
Each of these cruel words entered the unhappy young man's heart like a dagger, and made him endure atrocious torture.
"Yes," he said sadly, "appearances are against me; in vain should I try to persuade you of my innocence, for you would not believe me; and yet Heaven is my witness that I attempted all it was humanly possible to do, in order to save you."
"You were very unfortunate then, sir," she continued sarcastically; "for it must be allowed that all these attempts of which you boast strangely turned against you."
Shaw uttered a deep sigh.
"Good Heaven!" he said, "What proof can I give you of my devotion?"
"None," she replied coldly.
"Oh! madam."
"Sir," she interrupted him in a firm and ironical voice, "spare me, I beg of you, your lamentations, in whose sincerity I cannot believe, as there are too many undeniable proofs against you; even more odious than treachery are the hypocritical protestations of a traitor. You have succeeded, so what more do you want? Enjoy your triumph. I repeat to you that I do not reproach you, for you have acted as your instincts and training urged you to do; you have been true to yourself and faithful to your antecedents: I need say no more. Now, if I may be allowed to ask a favour of you, let us break off a conversation no longer possessing any interest, as you will not succeed in destroying my impressions about you: imitate the example of your comrades, and let me indulge in my grief without any obstacle."
Shaw thunderstruck by these words, pronounced in a tone that admitted of no reply; he saw the fearful position he was in, and a mad fury seized on him. Doña Clara had left her head fall again in her hands and was weeping: The young man felt a sob choking him.
"Oh!" he said, "What pleasure you take in torturing my heart. You say I betrayed you, I who loved you so!"
Doña Clara drew herself up, haughty and implacable.
"Yes," she answered ironically, "you love me, sir, but it is after the fashion of wild beasts, that carry off their prey to their den to rend it at their pleasure; yours is a tiger's love."
Shaw seized her arm violently, and looked firmly in her eyes.
"One word more, one insult further, madam," he gasped, "and I stab myself at your feet: when you see my corpse writhing on the ground, possibly you may then believe in my innocence."
Doña Clara, surprised, gazed at him fixedly.
"What do I care?" she then said, coldly.
"Oh!" the young man exclaimed in his despair, "You shall be satisfied."
And with a movement rapid as thought, he drew his dagger. Suddenly a hand was roughly laid on his arm; but Doña Clara had not stirred.
Shaw turned round. Fray Ambrosio was standing behind him, smiling, but not relaxing his grasp.
"Let me go," the young man said, in a hollow voice.
"Not so, my son," the monk said gently, "unless you first promise to give up your homicidal project."
"Do you not see," Shaw exclaimed passionately, "that she believes me guilty?"
"It must be so: leave it to me to persuade her of the contrary."
"Oh! if you did that?" the young man muttered, with an accent of doubt.
"I will do it, my son," Fray Ambrosio said, still smiling; "but you must first be reasonable."
Shaw hesitated for a moment, then let fall the weapon, as he muttered—
"There will still be time."
"Excellently reasoned," said the monk. "Now, sit down, and let us talk. Trust to me: the señora ere long will not feel the slightest doubt about your innocence."
During this scene Doña Clara had remained motionless as a statue of grief, apparently taking no interest in what passed between the two men.
"This young man has told you the perfect truth," he said; "it is a justice I take pleasure in rendering him. I know not what cause urged him to act so, but, in order to save you, he achieved impossibilities; holding you in his arms, he fought with a cloud of redskins thirsting for his blood. When Heaven sent us so miraculously to his assistance, he was about to succumb, and he rolled unconscious under our horses' hoofs, still holding against his bleeding breast the precious burthen which had doubtless been confided to him, and from which he had sworn only death should separate him. That is the real truth, madam: I swear it on my honour."
Doña Clara smiled bitterly.
"Oh," she answered, "keep these deceitful and useless protestations to yourself, father; I have learned to know you too, thanks be to Heaven, for some time past, and am aware what faith can be placed in your word."
The monk bit his lips spitefully.
"Perhaps, you are mistaken, madam," he answered, with a humble bow, "and too readily put faith in false appearances."
"Very false, in truth," the girl exclaimed, "since your conduct, up to this day, has only proved their correctness."
A flash shot from the monk's savage eye, which expired as soon as it burst forth; he composed his countenance, and continued with immoveable gentleness—
"You judge me wrongly too, señorita; misfortune renders you unjust. You forget that I owe all to your father."
"It is not I, but you, who have forgotten it," she said, sharply.
"And who tells you, madam," he said, with a certain degree of animation, "that if I am in the ranks of your enemies, it is not to serve you better?"
"Oh!" she answered, ironically; "it would be difficult for you to supply me with proofs of such admirable devotion."
"Not so much as you suppose; I have at this moment one at my service, which you cannot doubt."
"And that proof is?" she asked with a sneer.
"This, madam. My comrades are asleep; two horses have been tied up by myself fifty paces from here in the forest; I will lead you to them, and guided by this unhappy young man, who is devoted to you, although you have been cruel to him, after the perils to which he has exposed himself for your sake—it will be easy for you to get out of our reach in a few hours, and foil any pursuit. That is the proof, madam; can you now say it is false?"
"And who will guarantee me," she replied, "that this feigned solicitude you take in me, and which, I fancy, is very sudden, does not conceal a new snare?"
"Moments are precious," the monk said again, still imperturbable; "every second that slips away is a chance of safety you are deprived of. I will not argue with you, but limit myself to saying—of what use would it be to me to pretend to let you escape?"
"How do I know? Can I guess the causes on which you act?"
"Very good, madam, do as you think proper; but Heaven is my witness that I have done all in my power to save you, and that it was you who refused."
The monk uttered these words with such an accent of conviction, that, in spite of herself, Doña Clara felt her suspicions shaken. Fray Ambrosio's last observation was correct: why feign to let her escape, when he had her in his power? She reflected for a moment.
"Listen," she said to him, "I have sacrificed my life; I know not if you are sincere; I should like to believe so; but as nothing can happen to me worse than what threatens me here, I confide in you; lead on, therefore, to the horses you have prepared for me, and I shall soon know whether your intentions are honest, and I have been deceived in my opinion of you."
A furtive smile lit up the monk's face, and he uttered a sigh of satisfaction.
"Come," he said, "follow me; but walk cautiously, so as not to arouse my comrades, who are probably not so well disposed towards you as I am."
Doña Clara and Shaw rose and noiselessly followed the monk, the squatter's son walking before the maiden and removing all the obstacles to her passage. The darkness was thick, hence it was difficult to walk through the thickets, interlaced as they were with creepers and parasitical plants; Doña Clara stumbled at every step.
At the expiration of half an hour, they reached the skirt of the forest, where two horses, fastened to trees, were quietly nibbling the young tree shoots.
"Well," the monk said, with a triumphant accent, "do you believe me now, señora?"
"I am not saved yet," she sadly answered; and she prepared to mount. Suddenly, the branches and shrubs were violently parted, six or eight men rushed forward, and surrounded the three, ere it was possible for them to attempt a defence. Shaw, however, drew a pistol, and prepared to sell his life dearly.
"Stop, Shaw," Doña Clara said to him, gently; "I now see that you were faithful, and I pardon you. Do not let yourself be uselessly killed; you see that it would be madness to resist!"
The young man let his head droop, and returned the pistol to his girdle.
"Hilloh!" a rough voice shouted, which caused the fugitives to tremble, "I felt sure that these horses belonged to somebody. Let us see what we have here. A torch here, Orson, to have a look at them."
"It is unnecessary, Red Cedar, we are friends."
"Friends," Red Cedar answered, hesitating, for it was really he; "that is possible; still, I would sooner be convinced of it. Light the torch, lad, all the same."
There was a moment's silence, during which Orson lit a branch of candle wood tree.
"Ah, ah," the squatter said, with a grin; "in truth, we are among friends. But where the deuce were you going at this hour of the night, señor Padre?"
"We were returning to the camp, after a ride, in which we have lost our way," the monk answered, imperturbably.
Red Cedar gave him a suspicious glance.
"A ride!" he growled between his teeth; "It is a singular hour for that. But there is Shaw. You are welcome, my boy, though I little expected to meet you, especially in the company of that charming dove," he added, with a sarcastic smile.
"Yes, it is I, father," the young man answered in a hollow voice.
"Very good; presently you shall tell me what has become of you for so long, but this is not the moment. Did you not say that your camp was near here, señor Padre? Although, may the devil twist my neck, if I can understand how that is, as I was going to seek you on the isle where I left you."
"We were compelled to leave it."
"All right; we have no time to lose in chattering. Lead me to the camp, my master; at a later date, all will be cleared up, never fear."
Guided by the monk, and followed by the pirates, who had Shaw and Doña Clara in their midst, Red Cedar entered the forest. This unforeseen meeting once again robbed the poor girl of a speedy deliverance. As for Fray Ambrosio, he walked along apparently as calmly as if nothing extraordinary had happened to him.
The dawn was just commencing to overshadow the horizon with transient opaline tints; a few stars were still glistening in the dark blue sky. The wild beasts were leaving their watering places, and slowly retiring to their dens, disturbing at intervals the solemn silence of the desert with their sinister howling.
Valentine opened his eyes, looked around him anxiously, and after employing a few seconds in shaking off his drowsiness, he rose slowly and awoke his comrades, who were still sleeping, rolled up in their blankets.
Soon, the whole little party were collected round the fire, on which the hunter had thrown a few armfuls of dry wood, and in whose brilliant flames the breakfast was now preparing.
The Mexicans, with their eyes fixed Valentine, silently awaited his explanation, for they guessed that he had important communications to make to them. But their expectations were foiled, at least for the present, and the Frenchman remained quite silent.
When the meal was ready, Valentine made his comrades a signal to eat; and for some twenty minutes no other sound could be heard save that caused by the formidable appetites of the hunters. When they had finished, Valentine quietly lit his Indian pipe, and indicated to his companions that he wished to speak. All turned toward him.
"My friends," he said, in his sympathetic voice, "what I feared has happened. Red Cedar has left his island camp; he has, if I am not mistaken, several days' start of us, and in vain did I try last night to take up his trail: it was impossible. Red Cedar is a villain, endowed with a fortunately far from common ferocity, whose destruction we have sworn, and I hope we shall keep our word. But I am compelled to do him the justice of saying, that he is one of the most experienced hunters in the Far West; and no one, when he pleases, can more cleverly hide his own trail, and discover that of others. We are, therefore, about to have a trial of patience with him, for he has learned all the stratagems of the redskins, of whom, I am not ashamed to say, he is the superior in roguery."
"Alas!" Don Miguel muttered.
"I have sworn to restore your daughter to you, my friend," Valentine continued, "with the help of heaven. I shall keep my oath, but I am about to undertake a gigantic task: hence I ask of you all the most perfect obedience. Your ignorance of the desert might, under certain circumstances, cause us serious injury, and make us lose in a few minutes the fruit of lengthened researches: hence I ask of your friendship that you will let yourselves be entirely guided by my experience."
"My friend," Don Miguel replied, with an accent full of majesty, "whatever you may order, we will do; for you alone can successfully carry out the difficult enterprise in which we are engaged."
"Good! I thank you for the obedience you promise me, my friend: without it, it would be impossible to succeed. Now leave me to arrange with the Indian chiefs."
Valentine rose, made a sign to Curumilla and Eagle-wing, and the three sat down a short distance off. Valentine passed his calumet to the Araucano, who took a few whiffs and then handed it to Eagle-wing, and he, after smoking also, returned it to the hunter.
"My brothers know why I have convened them in council," Valentine said presently.
The two chiefs bowed in reply.
"Very good," he continued; "now what is the advice of my brother? Let the Sachem of the Coras speak first. He is a wise chief, whose counsels can only be good for us."
"Why does Koutonepi ask the advice of his red brothers?" he said. "Koutonepi is a great warrior: he has the eye of the eagle, the scent of the dog, the courage of the lion, and the prudence of the serpent. No one can discover better than him a trail lost in the sand: what Koutonepi does is well done: his brothers will follow him."
"Thanks, chief," Valentine continued; "but in what direction should we proceed?"
"Red Cedar is the friend of Stanapat: after his defeat the scalp hunter will have sought a refuge with his friend."
"That is also my opinion," the hunter remarked. "What do you think, chief?" he said, turning to Curumilla.
The Araucano shook his head.
"No," he said, "Red Cedar loves gold."
"That is true," said Valentine: "besides, the Apaches are too near us. You are right, chief: we must therefore proceed northward?"
Curumilla nodded an assent.
"No horses," he said, "they destroy a trail."
"We will go on foot. Have you Red Cedar's measure?"