"I do not understand."
"Why, nothing is easier, as you shall see."
"I wish for nothing better," the girl said, who was extraordinary amused by this conversation.
The stranger rose, placed the cards in his pocket with the respect every professional gambler shews to this operation, and, carelessly leaning on the neck of the girl's horse, he said:
"Owing to reasons too long to narrate, I find myself alone, lost in this immense prairie which I do not know, I an honest inhabitant of towns, not at all conversant with the manners and habits of the desert, and consequently exposed to die of hunger."
"Pardon me for interrupting you; I would merely observe that as we are some three hundred miles from the nearest town, you, the civilised man, must have been wandering about the desert for a considerable length of time."
"That is true: what you say could not be more correct, comrade, but that results from what I mentioned just now, and which would take too long to tell you."
"Very good; go on."
"Well, finding myself lost, I remembered the proverb of my country, and taking the cards from myalforjas, though I was alone, I began playing, feeling certain that an adversary would soon arrive, not to take a hand, but to get me out of my trouble."
White Gazelle suddenly reassumed her seriousness, and drew herself up in her saddle.
"You have won the game," she said; "for, as you see, Don Andrés Garote, I have come."
On hearing his name pronounced, the ranchero, for it was really our old acquaintance, suddenly raised his head, and looked the speaker in the face.
"Who are you, then," he said, "who know me so well, and yet I do not remember ever having met you?"
"Come, come," the girl said with a laugh, "your memory is short, master: what, do you not remember White Gazelle?"
At this name the ranchero started back.
"Oh, I am a fool: it is true; but I was so far from supposing—pardon me, señorita."
"How is it," White Gazelle interrupted him, "that you have thus deserted Red Cedar?"
"Caramba!" the ranchero exclaimed; "say that Red Cedar has deserted me; but it is not that which troubles me; I have an old grudge against another of my comrades."
"Ah?"
"Yes, and I should like to avenge myself, the more so, because I believe that I have the means in my hands at this moment."
"And who is that friend?"
"You know him as well as I do, señorita?"
"That is possible; but, unless his name be a secret—"
"Oh, no," the ranchero quickly interrupted her, "the man I mean is Fray Ambrosio."
The girl, at this name, began to take a great interest in the conversation.
"Fray Ambrosio!" she said, "What charge have you to bring against that worthy man?"
The ranchero looked the girl in the face to see if she were speaking seriously; but White Gazelle's face was cold and stern; he tossed his head.
"It is an account between him and me," he said, "which heaven will decide."
"Very good; I ask for no explanation, but, as your affairs interest me very slightly, and I have important matters of my own to attend to, you will permit me to retire."
"Why so?" the ranchero asked quickly; "we are comfortable together, then why should we separate?"
"Because, in all probability, we are not going the same road."
"Who knows, Niña, whether we are not destined to travel in company since I have met you?"
"I am not of that opinion. I am about to join a man whom I fancy you would not at all like to meet face to face."
"I don't know, Niña," the ranchero answered, with considerable animation; "I want to revenge myself on that accursed monk called Fray Ambrosio; I am too weak to do so by myself, or, to speak more correctly, too great a coward."
"Very good," the girl exclaimed, with a smile; "then how will you manage that your vengeance does not slip from you?"
"Oh, very simply; I know a man in the desert who detests him mortally, and would give a great deal to have sufficient proofs against him, for, unfortunately, that man has the failing of being honest."
"Indeed."
"Yes, what would you have? No man is perfect."
"And who is this man?"
"Oh, you never heard of him, Niña."
"How do you know? At any rate you can tell me his name."
"As you please; he is called Bloodson."
"Bloodson?" she exclaimed, with a start of surprise.
"Yes—do you know him?"
"Slightly; but go on."
"That is all; I am looking for this man."
"And you have, you say, in your possession the means of destroying Fray Ambrosio?"
"I believe so."
"What makes you suppose it?"
The ranchero shrugged his shoulders significantly; White Gazelle gave him one of those profound glances which read the heart.
"Listen," she said to him, as she laid her hand on his shoulder; "I can help you to find the man you seek."
"Bloodson?"
"Yes."
"Are you speaking seriously?" the gambusino asked, with a start of surprise.
"I could not be more serious; still, I must be sure that your statement is true."
Andrés Garote looked at her.
"Do you also owe Fray Ambrosio a grudge?" he asked her.
"That does not concern you," she answered; "we are not talking of myself, but of you. Have you these proofs? Yes, or no."
"I have them."
"Truly?"
"On my honour."
"Follow me, then, and within two hours you shall see Bloodson."
The ranchero quivered, and a smile of joy lit up his bronzed countenance as he leaped on his horse.
"Let us be off," he said.
In the meanwhile, day had surrendered to night, the sun had long been set, and an immense number of stars studded the heavenly vault; the travellers rode on silently side by side.
"Shall we soon arrive?" Andrés Garote asked.
White Gazelle stretched out her arm in the direction they were following, and pointed at a light flashing a short distance off through the trees.
"There it is," she said.
Red Cedar recovered but slowly in spite of the constant attention shown him by Father Seraphin, Ellen, and the hunter's mother. The moral shock the bandit had received on finding himself face to face with the missionary had been too powerful not to have a serious effect on his constitution. Still, the squatter had not relapsed since the day when, on returning to life, he had humbly bowed before the man of God. Whether it was true repentance, or a part he played, he had persevered on this path, to the edification of the missionary and the two women, who never ceased to thank Heaven from their hearts for this change.
So soon as he could rise and take a few steps in the cavern, Father Seraphin, who constantly feared Valentine's arrival, asked him what his intentions were for the future, and what mode of life he proposed adopting.
"Father," the squatter answered, "henceforth I belong to you: whatever you counsel me, I will do; still, I would remind you that I am a species of savage, whose whole life has been spent in the desert. Of what use should I be in a town among people whose habits or characters I should not understand?"
"That is true," the priest said; "and then, without resources as you are, old and ignorant of any other labour than that of a wood ranger, you would only lead a miserable existence."
"That would prove no obstacle, father, were it an expiation for me; but I have too deeply offended ever to return among them; I must live and die in the desert, striving to requite, by an old age exempt from blame, the faults and crimes of a youth which I hold in horror."
"I approve your design, for it is good; grant me a few days for reflection, and I will find you the means to live as you propose."
The conversation broke off here, and a month elapsed ere the missionary made any further allusion to it. The squatter had always shown Ellen a certain coarse and rough friendship, perfectly harmonising with the coarseness and brutality of his character; but since he had been able to appreciate the girl's utter devotion, and the self-denial she had displayed for his sake, a species of revolution had taken place in him; a new feeling was awakened in his heart, and he began loving this charming creature with all the strength of his soul.
This brutal man suddenly grew softer at the sight of the girl; a flash of joy shot from his savage eyes, and his mouth, habituated to curses, opened gladly to utter gentle words. Frequently, when seated on the mounted slope, near the cavern, he talked with her for hours, taking an infinite delight in hearing the melodious sound of that voice whose charms he had hitherto been ignorant of.
Ellen, hiding her sorrows, feigned a delight which was far from her mind, not to sadden the man she regarded as her father, and who seemed so happy at seeing her by his side. Certainly, if anyone at this moment had an ascendency over the old pirate's mind, and could bring him back to the right path, it was Ellen. She knew it, and used the power she had acquired cleverly, to try and convert this man, who had only been a species of evil genius to humanity.
One morning, when Red Cedar, almost entirely cured of his wounds, was taking his accustomed walk, leaning on Ellen's arm, Father Seraphin, who had been absent for two days, stood before him.
"Ah, it is you, father," the squatter said on seeing him; "I was alarmed at your absence, and am glad to see you back."
"How are you?" the missionary asked.
"I should be quite well if I had entirely recovered my strength, but that will soon return."
"All the better; for if my absence was long, you were to some extent the cause of it."
"How so?" the squatter asked, curiously.
"You remember you expressed a desire some time back to live in the prairie?"
"I did."
"It appears to me very prudent on your part, and will enable you to escape the pursuit of your enemies."
"Believe me, father," Red Cedar said, gravely, "that I have no desire to escape those I have offended. If my death could recal the crimes of which I have been guilty, I would not hesitate to sacrifice my life to public justice."
"I am happy, my friend, to find you imbued with these good sentiments; but I believe that God, who in no case desires the death of a sinner, will be more satisfied to see you repair, by an exemplary life, as far as in your power, all the evil you have done."
"I belong to you, father; whatever you advise me will be an order to me, and I will obey it gladly. Since Providence has permitted me to meet you, I have understood the enormity of my crimes. Alas! I am not alone responsible for them: never having had any but evil examples before me, I did not know the difference between good and evil. I believed that all men were wicked, and only acted as I did because I considered I was legitimately defending myself."
"Now that your ear is open to the truth, your mind is beginning to understand the sublime precepts of the gospel. Your road is ready traced; henceforth you will only have to persevere in the path on which you have so freely entered."
"Alas!" the squatter muttered, with a sigh, "I am a creature so unworthy of pardon, that I fear the Almighty will not take pity on me."
"Those words are an insult to Deity," the priest said, severely; "however culpable a sinner may be, he must never despair of the divine clemency; does not the gospel say, there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ten just men who have persevered?"
"Forgive me, father."
"Come," the missionary said, changing his tone, "let us return to the matter which brings me to you. I have had built for you, a few leagues from here, in a delicious situation, a jacal, in which you can live, with your daughter."
"How kind you are, father," the squatter said, warmly; "how much gratitude I owe you."
"Do not speak of that; I shall be sufficiently recompensed if I see you persevere in your repentance."
"Oh, father, believe that I detest and hold in horror my past life."
"I trust that it may ever be so. This jacal, to which I will take you so soon as you please, is situated in a position which renders it almost impossible to discover. I have supplied it with the articles requisite for your life; you will find there food to last several days, arms and gunpowder to defend you, if attacked by wild beasts, and to go hunting with; I have added nets, beaver traps—in a word, everything required by a hunter and trapper."
"Oh, how kind you are, father," Ellen said with tears of joy in her eyes.
"Nonsense, say nothing about that," the missionary remarked, gaily; "I have only done my duty. As a further security, and to avoid any possible indiscretion, I have not told the secret of your retreat to any one: the jacal was built by my own hands, without the assistance of a stranger. You can, therefore, feel certain that no one will trouble you in the hermitage."
"And when can I go to it, father?"
"Whenever you please; all is ready."
"Ah, if I did not fear appearing ungrateful, I would say I will go at once."
"Do you think you are strong enough to undertake a journey of fifteen leagues?"
"I feel extraordinarily strong at this moment, father."
"Come, then; for had you not made the proposition, I intended to do so."
"In that case, father, all is for the best; and you are not vexed to see me so anxious to leave you, father."
"Not at all, be assured."
While talking thus, the three persons had descended the mountainside, and reached the ravine, where horses were awaiting them, held by an Indian.
"In the desert," the missionary said, "it is almost impossible to do without horses, owing to the great distance one has to go; you will therefore oblige me by keeping these."
"It is too much, father, you really overwhelm me with kindness."
Father Seraphin shook his head.
"Understand me, Red Cedar," he said; "in all I do for you there is far more calculation than you suppose."
"Oh!" Red Cedar said.
"Calculation in a good action!" Ellen exclaimed, incredulously; "you must be jesting, father."
"No, my child, I speak seriously, and you will understand; I have tried to regulate your father's life so well, place him so thoroughly in a condition to become a brave and honest hunter, that it will be impossible for him to find the slightest pretext for returning to his old errors, and all the fault will attach to him if he does not persevere in the resolution he has formed of amendment."
"That is true," Red Cedar answered; "well, father, I thank you for this calculation, which makes me the happiest of men, and proves to me that you have confidence in me."
"Come, come, to horse!"
They started.
Red Cedar inhaled the air deliciously; he felt born again, he was once more free. The missionary examined him curiously, analysing the feelings which the squatter experienced, and trying to form some opinion of the future from what he saw. Red Cedar understood instinctively that he was watched by his comrade; hence, to deceive him as to his feelings, he burst out into a loud expression of his gratitude, part of which was certainly true, but which was too noisy not to be exaggerated. The missionary pretended to be taken in by this device, and talked pleasantly throughout the ride.
About six hours after leaving the cave, they reached the jacal. It was a pretty little hut of interlaced reeds, divided into several rooms, with a corral behind for the horses. Nothing was wanting; hidden in the bottom of a valley, very difficult to approach, it stood on the bank of a small stream that flowed into the Gila. In a word, the position of this wild abode was delightful, and nothing was more easy than to be perfectly happy in it.
When the travellers had dismounted, and led their horses into this corral, Father Seraphin went over the jacal with his twoprotégés. All was as he had stated; and if there was not much to increase comfort, at any rate everything strictly necessary had been provided. Ellen was delighted, and her father pretended, perhaps, to be more so than he really was. After spending an hour with them Father Seraphin took leave of the squatter and his daughter.
"Will you leave us, already, father?" Ellen said.
"I must, my child; you know that my time is not my own," he answered, as he leaped on his horse, which the squatter brought him.
"But I hope," Red Cedar said, "that your absence will not be long, and that you will remember this jacal, where two persons live who owe their all to you."
"I wish to leave you at liberty. If I visited you too frequently, you might see in that a species of inquisition, and that impression would annoy you; still I will come, do not doubt it."
"You can never come too often, father," they both said, as they kissed his hands.
"Farewell, be happy," the missionary said, tenderly; "you know where to find me, if you have need of consolation or help. Come to me, and I shall be ever ready to help you to the extent of my ability: little though I can do, God, I feel convinced, will bless my efforts. Farewell."
After uttering these words, the missionary set spurs to his horse, and trotted away.
Red Cedar and his daughter looked after him so long as they could see him, and when he disappeared in the chaparral, on the other side of the stream, they gave vent to a sigh, and entered the jacal.
"Worthy and holy man!" the squatter muttered, as he fell into a butaca. "Oh! I will not crush the hopes he has built on my conversion!"
At this moment Red Cedar was not playing a farce.
Red Cedar accustomed himself more easily than his daughter thought possible, to the life prepared for him. After all, no change had taken place in his existence; with the exception of the mode of procedure, it was still the same labour, that is to say, a desert life in all its splendid liberty; hunting and fishing, while Ellen remained at home to attend to household duties. At night, however, before retiring to rest, the girl read her father a chapter from a Bible Father Seraphin had given her. The squatter, with his elbow on the table, and a pipe in his mouth, listened to her with an attention that surprised himself, and which each day only increased.
It was an exquisite picture presented in this obscure nook of the great American desert, amid this grand scenery, in this wretched hut, which the slightest breath of wind caused to tremble, by this athletic old man, with his energetic and stern features, listening to this palefaced and delicate girl, whose fine features and shadowy outline formed so strong a contrast with those of her hearer.
It was the same life every day; the squatter was happy, or, at least, fancied himself so; like all men whose life has been but one long drama, and who are made for action, recollections held but little place in him; he forgot, and fancied himself forgotten.
Ellen suffered, for she was unhappy; this existence, with no outlet and no future, was full of disenchantment for her, as it condemned her to renounce for ever that supreme blessing of every human creature, hope. Still, through fear of afflicting her father, she carefully shut up in her heart her sorrow, and only displayed a smiling face in his presence. Red Cedar yielded more and more to the charms of a life which was pleasant to him. If, at times, the recollection of his sons troubled the repose in which he lived, he looked at his daughter, and the sight of the angel he possessed, and who had devoted herself to his happiness, drove any other thoughts far away.
In the meanwhile, Father Seraphin visited the tenants of the jacal several times; and if satisfied with the resignation with which the squatter accepted his new position, the dull sorrow that undermined the maiden had not escaped his clear-sighted glance. His experience of the world told him that a girl of Ellen's age could not thus spend her fairest years in solitude, without contact with society. Unfortunately, a remedy was difficult, if not impossible, to find; the good missionary did not deceive himself on this point, and understood that all the consolations he lavished on the maiden, were thrown away, and that nothing could effectually combat the listlessness into which she had fallen.
As always happens in such cases, Red Cedar did not in the slightest degree suspect his daughter's grief; she was gentle, affectionate, attentive to him; he profited by it all, finding himself perfectly happy, and in his egotism, not seeing further. The days slipped away, each resembling the other; in the meanwhile, the winter came on, game became rarer, and Red Cedar's absences from home grew longer. Around the tops of the mountains were collected the grayish clouds, which daily descended lower, and would eventually burst over the prairie in the shape of rain and snow.
Winter is a terrible season in the Far West: all scourges combine to assail the unhappy man whom his evil destiny has cast into these disinherited countries without the means to brave their frightful climate, and, victim to his want of foresight, he presently dies of hunger and misery, after enduring inconceivable tortures. Red Cedar knew the Far West too long and too thoroughly not to perceive the arrival of this season with a species of terror; hence he sought, by all possible means, to procure the necessary provisions and indispensable furs.
Rising at daybreak, he galloped over the prairie, exploring it in every direction, and not returning home till night compelled him to give up the chase. But, as we have said, game was becoming more and more rare, and consequently his journeys longer.
One morning Red Cedar rose earlier than usual, left the jacal noiselessly for fear of waking his daughter, saddled his horse, and started at a gallop. He had found, on the previous evening, the trail of a magnificent black bear, which he had followed to within a short distance of the cave to which it retired, and he intended to attack it in its lair. To do that, he must make haste, for the bear is not like other wild beasts: it seeks its food during the day, and generally leaves its abode at an early hour. The squatter, perfectly acquainted with the animal's habits, had therefore taken up the trail as soon as he could.
The sun had not yet risen; the sky of a dark blue, was only just beginning to assume on the extreme verge of the horizon those opaline tints which presently turn into pink, and are the precursors of sunrise. The day promised to be splendid: a light breeze slightly bowed the leafy summits of the trees, and scarce wrinkled the little stream whose bank the squatter was following. A light fog rose from the ground, impregnated with those sharp odours which expand the chest so gloriously. The birds woke one after the other beneath the leaves, and softly produced the melodious concert they perform each morning to salute the re-awakening of nature. By degrees the darkness was effaced, the sun rose brilliantly on the horizon, and the day broke splendidly.
Red Cedar, on reaching the entrance of a narrow gorge, at the end of which was the bear's den, in the midst of a chaos of rocks, stopped a few minutes to regain breath, and make his final preparations. He dismounted, hobbled his horse, and gave it its forage, then, after assuring himself that his knife played easily in the sheath, and his rifle was in good order, he entered the defile.
The squatter walked in with outstretched neck, and eye and ear on the watch, when suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a hoarse laugh smote his ear. He turned with surprise, but this surprise was converted into terror at the sight of the man who, standing before him with arms folded on his chest, was regarding him with a look of mockery.
"Fray Ambrosio!" he exclaimed, as he fell back a step.
"Halloh, gossip," the latter said; "on my soul, you must be hard of hearing: I called you a dozen times, and you did not deign to answer me.Satanas!I was obliged to touch you before you would see that somebody wanted you."
"What is your business with me?" the squatter asked in an icy tone.
"What I want, gossip? That's a strange question: don't you know it as well as I do?"
"I do not understand you," Red Cedar said, still perfectly calm; "so explain yourself, if you please."
"I will do so, my master," the monk answered, with a mocking smile.
"But make haste, for I warn you that I am in a hurry."
"Can it be possible! Well, I have plenty of time, so you must find some to listen to me."
The squatter gave a passionate start, which he, however, immediately checked.
"Yes, it is so," the monk said coolly; "I have been looking for you a long time."
"Come, a truce to talking! Here I am, explain yourself in two words. I say again, I am in a hurry."
"And I repeat that I do not care if you are. Oh! You may frown, gossip, but you must listen to me."
Red Cedar stamped his foot angrily, taking one step to the monk, he laid his hand on his shoulder, and looked fiercely in his face.
"Why, master," he said in a short, harsh voice, "I fancy, on my side, that we are changing parts, and that you treat me very curtly; take care, I am not patient, as you know, and if you do not mind, my patience might soon fail me."
"That is possible," the monk answered impudently; "but if we have changed our parts, whose fault is it, pray, mine or yours? Your sons are right in saying that you have turned monk, and are no longer fit for anything."
"Villain!" the squatter shouted, and raising his hand—
"That will do! Insults now! Don't be bashful: I like you better that way, at least I recognise you. Hum! what a change! I must confess that those French missionaries are real sorcerers: what a misfortune that since the independence the inquisition no longer exists!"
Red Cedar looked at the monk, who fixed on him his fierce eye with a diabolical expression; the squatter was suffering from one of those bursts of cold passion, which are the more terrible, because they are concentrated. He felt an extraordinary itching to crush the scoundrel who was mocking him, and made impotent efforts to repress the anger which was beginning to get the mastery of him. The monk was not so much at his ease as he pretended to be. He saw the squatter's frown grow deeper, his face become livid; all this foreboded a storm which he was not anxious to see burst to his presence.
"Come," he said, in a softer key, "why should old friends quarrel?Con mil demonios—I am only here with a good intent, and to do you a service."
The squatter laughed contemptuously.
"You do not believe me," the monk continued, with an air of beatitude; "that does not surprise me, it is always so. Good intentions are misunderstood, and a man believes his enemies in preference to his friends."
"A truce to your nonsense," the squatter said, impatiently; "I have listened to you too long already; let me pass, and you can go to the devil."
"Thanks for the proposition you make me," the monk said with a laugh; "but if you have no objection, I will not take advantage of it, at least for the present. But, jesting apart, there are two persons close by anxious to see you, and whom I am sure you will be delighted to meet."
"Whom do you mean? I suppose they are rogues of your own sort."
"Probably," the monk said; "however you shall judge for yourself, gossip."
And, not waiting for the squatter's answer, the monk imitated thrice the hiss of the coral snake. At the third time a slight movement took place in the shrubs a short distance off, and two men leaped into the defile. The squatter uttered a cry of surprise, almost of terror, on seeing them: he had recognised his two sons, Nathan and Sutter. The young men walked up quickly to their father, whom they saluted with a respect mingled with irony, which did not escape his notice.
"Ah, there you are, father," Sutter, said, roughly, as he banged the butt of his rifle on the ground, and rested his hands on the muzzle; "a man has a hard run before he can catch you up."
"It seems that since our separation father has turned Quaker; his new religion, probably, orders him not to frequent such bad company as ours."
"Silence, you villains!" the squatter shouted, stamping his foot; "I do what I please, and no one that I know of has a right to interfere."
"You are mistaken, father," Sutter, said drily; "I, for instance, consider your conduct unworthy of a man."
"Not mentioning," the monk supported him, "that you place your confederates in a fix, which is not right."
"That is not the question," Nathan said; "if father likes to turn Puritan, that is his business, and I will not find, fault with him; but there is a time for everything. To my mind, when a man is surrounded by enemies and tracked like a wild beast, he ought not to put on a sheepskin, and pretend to be harmless."
"What do you mean?" the squatter asked impatiently; "Explain yourself, once for all, and let us make an end of this."
"I will do so," Nathan went on; "while you are sleeping in a deceitful security, your enemies are watching and constantly weaving the web in which they have hopes of enfolding you shortly. Do you fancy that we have not known your retreat for a long time? Who can hope to escape discovery in the desert? We did not wish, however, to disturb your repose till the moment arrived for doing so, and that is why you did not see us before today."
"Yes," the monk remarked; "but at present time presses: while you trust to the fine words of the French missionary, who cured you and lulls you to sleep, in order always to keep you under his thumb, your enemies are silently preparing to attack you, and finish with you once for all."
The squatter gave a start of amazement.
"Why, that man saved my life," he said.
The three men burst into a laugh.
"What use is experience?" the monk said, turning to the young men with a significant shrug of his shoulders. "Here is your father, a man whose whole life has been spent in the desert, who forgets at once its most sacred law, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and will not understand that this man, who, he says, saved his life, merely cured him to torture him at a later date, and have the pleasure of depriving him of that life when he is in rude health, instead of the miserable amount left him when they met."
"Oh, no," the squatter shouted, "you lie! That is impossible!"
"That is impossible!" the monk replied, with pity; "Oh, how blind men are! Come, reflect, gossip; had not this priest an insult to avenge?"
"It is true," Red Cedar muttered with a sigh; "but he forgave me."
"Forgave you! Do you ever forgive anybody? Nonsense, you are mad, gossip! I see there is nothing to be got out of you. Do what you like—we leave you."
"Yes," said the squatter, "leave me; there is nothing I wish more."
The monk and his comrades went away a few paces, but Fray Ambrosio suddenly returned. Red Cedar was still standing at the same spot with hanging head and frowning brow. The monk saw the squatter was shaken, and the moment had arrived to deal the great blow.
"Gossip," he said, "a parting word, or, if you prefer, a last piece of advice."
"What is there now?" Red Cedar said, nervously.
"Watch over Ellen!"
"What!" the squatter yelled, as he bounded like a panther and seized Fray Ambrosio by the arm, "What did you say, monk?"
"I said," the other replied, in a firm and marked voice, "that your enemies wish to punish you through Ellen, and that if that accursed monk has hitherto appeared to protect you, it was because he feared lest the victim he covets might escape him."
At these fearful words, a horrible change took place in Red Cedar; a livid pallor covered his face, his body was agitated by a convulsive quivering.
"Oh!" he shouted with the roar of a tiger, "let them come, then!"
The monk gave, his comrades a triumphant glance; he had succeeded, and held his palpitating prey in his hands.
"Come," Red Cedar continued, "do not desert me; we will crush this herd of vipers. Ah, they fancy they have me," he added, with a nervous laugh; that almost choked him, "but I will show them that the old lion is not conquered yet. I can count on you, my lads, and on you, Fray Ambrosio?"
"We are your only friends," the monk replied, "as you know perfectly well."
"That is true," he went on; "forgive me for having forgotten it for a moment. Ah, you shall see."
Two hours later the three men reached the jacal, and on seeing them enter, Ellen felt a shudder of terror run over her; a secret foreboding warned her of misfortune.
So soon as Father Seraphin had installed Red Cedar and Ellen in the jacal, and assured himself that the new life he had procured them was supportable, he thought about keeping his promise to Valentine's mother.
The worthy female, in spite of all her courage and resignation, felt her strength daily growing less; she said nothing, she did not complain; but the certainty of being so near her son and yet unable to see him, to press him in her arms after such a lengthened separation, such cruel alternations of cheated hopes and frightful deceptions plunged her into a gloomy melancholy from which nothing could draw her; she felt herself dying by inches, and had arrived at the terrible point of believing that she would never see her son again, for he was dead, and that the missionary, through fear of dealing her a terrible blow, deceived her with a hope which could never be realised. Maternal love does not reason.
All that Father Seraphin had told her to cause her to be patient had only lulled her grief for a while, till it broke out again in redoubled impatience and anxiety. All she had seen and heard since her landing in America had only increased her anxiety, by showing her how life in this country often only hangs by a thread. Hence, when the missionary informed her that in a week at the latest she should embrace her son, her joy and anxiety were so great that she almost fainted.
At first, she did not believe in such happiness. Through hoping against hope so long, she had reached such a state of distrust that she supposed that the good priest only told her this to make her patient for a while longer, and that he promised this meeting just as hopeless sick people are promised things which can never be realised.
In the meanwhile, Father Seraphin, though certain that Valentine was at this moment on the prairie, did not know where to lay his hand on him. So soon as he reached the grotto he inhabited provisionally, he sent off the Indians in four different directions to obtain information and bring him positive news of the hunter. Valentine's mother was present when the missionary despatched these couriers; she heard the instructions he gave them, saw them start, and then began counting the minutes till their return, calculating in her mind the time they would employ in finding her son and in returning: the incidents that might delay them; in short, making those countless suppositions to which people give way who are impatiently awaiting anything they eagerly desire.
Two days elapsed, and none of the couriers returned; the poor mother, seated on a rock, with her eyes fixed on the plain, awaited them, motionless and indefatigable. At the close of the third day, she perceived, at a great distance, a black point, rapidly approaching the spot where she was; gradually, it became more distinct, and she recognised a horseman galloping at full speed up the valley.
The mother's heart beat as if ready to burst. It was evidently one of the missionary's messengers; but what news did he bring? At length, the Indian dismounted, and began scaling the hill side; the old woman seemed to regain her youthful limbs, so rapidly did she go to meet him, and cleared in a few minutes the space that separated them. But when they were face to face, another obstacle rose before her: the redskin did not understand a word of French; she, for her part, could not speak Indian. But mothers have a species of language, a freemasonry of the heart, which is understood in all countries; the Comanche warrior stopped before her, folded his arms on his chest, and bowed with a gentle smile, merely uttering the word—
"Koutonepi!"
Valentine's mother knew that the Indians were accustomed to call her son thus; and she suddenly felt reassured by the man's smile, and the way in which he had spoken her son's name. She took the warrior by the arm, and dragged him to the grotto, at the entrance of which Father Seraphin was reading his breviary.
"Well!" he asked on seeing her, "What news?"
"This man could tell me nothing," she replied, "for I do not understand his language; but something assures me he brings good news."
"With your leave, I will question him."
"Do so, for I am anxious to know what I have to expect."
The missionary turned to the Indian, who stood motionless a few yards off, and had listened to the few words spoken.
"The brow of my brother, the Spider, is damp," he said; "let him take a place by my side and rest: he has had a long journey."
The Indian smiled gravely, and bowed respectfully to the missionary.
"The Spider is a chief in his tribe," he said in his guttural and yet melodious voice; "he can bound like the jaguar, and crawl like the serpent: nothing fatigues him."
"I know that my brother is a great warrior," the missionary answered: "his exploits are numerous, and the Apaches fly on seeing him. Has my brother met the young men of his tribe?"
"Spider has met them: they are hunting the buffalo on the Gila."
"Was their great chief Unicorn with them?"
"Unicorn was with his warriors."
"Good! My brother has the eye of a tiger-cat: nothing escapes him. Did he meet the great paleface hunter?"
"Spider smoked the calumet with Koutonepi and several warriors, friends of the pale hunter, assembled round his fire."
"Did my brother speak with Koutonepi?" the priest asked.
"Yes, Koutonepi is glad at the return of the father of prayer, whom he did not hope to see again. When the walkon has sung for the second time, Koutonepi will be near my father with his comrades."
"My brother is a wise and skillful warrior: I thank him for the way in which he has carried out the mission with which he was entrusted, a mission which no other warrior would have performed with so much prudence and tact."
At this well-dressed compliment, a smile of joy and pride played round the Indian's lips, who withdrew after respectfully kissing the missionary's hand. Father Seraphin then turned to Madame Guillois, who anxiously awaited the result of this conversation, trying to read in the priest's looks what she had to hope or fear. He took her hand, pressed it gently, and said to her with that sympathetic accent which he possessed in the highest degree—
"Your son is coming, you will soon see him: he will be here this night, within two hours at the most."
"Oh!" she said with an accent impossible to render; "God! Be blessed!"
And, kneeling on the ground, she burst into tears. The missionary watched her anxiously, ready to help her if her extreme emotion caused her to break down. After a few moments she rose smiling through her tears, and took her place again by the priest's side.
"Oh!" she said eagerly, "he is my son, the only being I ever loved; the child I nursed at my breast, and I am going to see him again! Alas! We have been separated for ten years—for ten years the mark of my kisses has been effaced from his forehead. You cannot understand what I feel, father—it cannot be explained; to a mother her child is everything."
"Do not let your emotion overpower you."
"Then, he is coming?" she repeated eagerly.
"In two hours at the most."
"What a long time two hours are!" she said with a sigh.
"Oh! all human creatures are like that," the missionary exclaimed. "You, who waited so many years without complaining, now find two hours too long."
"But I am waiting for my son, my beloved child; I cannot see him soon enough."
"Come, calm yourself, you are quite in a fever."
"Oh! fear nothing, father, joy never kills. The sight of my son will restore my health, I feel sure."
"Poor mother!" the priest could not refrain from saying.
"Am I not?" she said. "Oh, it is a terrible thing, if you but knew it, to live in these continued horrors, to have only a son who is your joy, your delight, and not to know where he is, or what he is doing, whether he is dead or alive. The most cruel torture for a mother is this continual uncertainty of good and evil, of hope and disappointment. You do not understand this, you can never understand it, you men; it is a sense wanting in you, and which we mothers alone possess—love of our children."
There was a short silence, then she went on:
"Good heaven! How slowly time passes. Will not the sun soon set? Which way do you think my son will come, father? I should like to see him arrive, though I have not seen him for a long time. I feel certain that I shall recognise him at once; a mother is not mistaken, look you, for she does not see her child with her eyes, but feels him in her eyes."
The missionary led her to the entrance of the cave, made her sit down, placed himself by her side, and said, as he stretched out his arm in a southwestern direction:
"Look over there, he must come that way."
"Thanks!" she said, eagerly. "Oh, you are as kind as you are virtuous. You are good as a saint, father. God will reward you, but I can only offer you my thanks."
The missionary smiled softly.
"I am happy," he said, simply.
They looked out, the sun was rapidly sinking in the horizon; gloom gradually covered the ground; objects were confused, and it was impossible to distinguish anything, even at a short distance.
"Let us go in," Father Seraphin said; "the night chill might strike you."
"Nonsense," she said, "I feel nothing."
"Besides," he went on, "the gloom is so dense that you cannot see him."
"That is true," she said, fervently, "but I shall hear him."
There was no reply possible to this. Father Seraphin took his seat again by her side.
"Forgive me, father," she said, "but joy renders me mad."
"You have suffered enough, poor mother," he answered, kindly, "to have the right of enjoying unmingled happiness this day. Do what you please, then, and have no fear of causing me pain."
About an hour elapsed ere another word was uttered by them: they were listening; the night was becoming more gloomy, the desert sounds more imposing, the evening breeze had risen, and groaned hoarsely through thequebradas, with a melancholy and prolonged sound. Suddenly Madame Guillois sprang up with flashing eye, and seized the missionary's hand.
"Here he is," she said, hoarsely.
Father Seraphin raised his head.
"I hear nothing," he replied.
"Ah!" the mother said, with an accent that came from her heart, "I am not mistaken—it is he! Listen, listen again."
Father Seraphin listened with greater attention, and, in fact, a scarcely perceptible sound could be heard on the prairie, resembling the prolonging roaring of distant thunder. The noise became gradually louder, and it was presently easy to distinguish the gallop of several horses coming up at full speed.
"Well," she exclaimed, "was it fancy? Oh! A mother's heart is never mistaken."
"You are right, madam; in a few minutes he will be by your side."
"Yes," she muttered, in a panting voice.
That was all she could say—joy was stifling her.
"In Heaven's name," the missionary exclaimed, in alarm, "take care! This emotion is too great for you; you are killing yourself."
She shook her head with a careless gesture, full of inexpressible happiness.
"What matter?" she said; "I am happy—oh, very happy at this moment."
The horsemen entered the defile, and the gallop of their horses grew very loud.
"Dismount, gentlemen," a powerful voice shouted, "we have arrived."
"'Tis he! 'Tis he!" she said, with a movement as if going to rush forward; "it was he who spoke—I recognised his voice."
The missionary held her in his arms.
"What are you about?" he exclaimed, "you will kill yourself!"
"Pardon me, father, pardon me! But on hearing him speak, I know not what emotion I felt; I was no longer mistress of myself, but rushed forward."
"A little patience, he is coming up; in five minutes he will be in your arms."
She started back hurriedly.
"No," she said, "not so, not so, the recognition would be too hurried; let me enjoy my happiness without losing a morsel. I wish him to find me out as I did him."
And she hurriedly dragged Father Seraphin into the grotto.
"It is Heaven that inspires you," he said; "yes, this recognition would be too abrupt—it would kill you both."
"I was right, father, was I not? Oh, you will see—you will see. Hide me at some spot where I can see and hear everything unnoticed; make haste, here he is."
The cavern, as we have said, was divided into a number of cells, each communicating with the other; Father Seraphin concealed Madame Guillois in one of these, whose walls were formed of stalactites, that had assumed the strangest forms. After hobbling their horse, the hunters climbed the mountain. While coming up, they could be heard talking together; the sound of their voices distinctly reached the inhabitants of the grotto, who listened greedily to the words they uttered.
"That poor Father Seraphin," Valentine said; "I do not know if you are like myself, caballeros, but I am delighted at seeing him again. I feared lest he had left us forever."
"It is a great consolation for me in my grief," said Don Miguel, "to know him so near us; that man is a true apostle."
"What is the matter, Valentine?" General Ibañez suddenly asked; "Why do you stop?"
"I do not know," the latter replied, in a hesitating voice, "something is taking place in me which I cannot explain. When Spider told me today of the father's arrival, I felt a strange contraction of the heart; now it is affecting me again, though I cannot say for what reason."
"My friend, it is the joy you feel at seeing Father Seraphin again, that is all."
The hunter shook his head.
"No," he said, "it is not that, but something else; what I feel is not natural: my chest is oppressed, I am choking, what can be happening?"
His friends anxiously collected round him.
"Let me go on," he said, resolutely; "if I have bad news to hear, it is better to do so at once."
And, in spite of the exhortations of his friends, who were alarmed at seeing him in this state, he began running up the mountain side. He soon reached the platform, when he stopped to take breath.
"Come on!" he said.
He boldly entered the cavern, followed by his friends, but at the moment he went in, he heard his name called; at the sound of this voice the hunter started; he turned pale and trembled, and a cold perspiration covered his face.
"Oh," he murmured, "who calls me thus?"
"Valentine! Valentine!" the soft voice repeated.
The hunter hesitated and bent his body forward, his face assumed an indescribable look of joy and alarm.
"Again! Again!" he said, in an indistinct voice, as he laid his hand on his heart to check its beating.
"Valentine!" the voice repeated. This time Valentine bounded forward like a lion.
"My mother!" he cried; "My mother, here I am!"
"Ah, I felt certain he would recognise me," she exclaimed, as she rushed into his arms.
The hunter pressed her to his bosom with a sort of frenzy; the poor woman lavished her caresses on him, crying and half mad with joy and terror at seeing him in this state. She repeated the experiment she had made. He kissed her face, with her white locks, unable to utter a word. At length a hoarse groan burst from his chest, he breathed faintly, and he melted into tears, saying, in an accent of indescribable tenderness—
"My mother! Oh, my mother!"
These were the only words he could find. Valentine laughed and wept at once; as he sat on a rock, holding his mother on his knees, he embraced her with delirious joy, and was never wearied of kissing her white hair, her pale cheeks, and her eyes, which had shed so many tears.
The spectators of the scene, affected by this true and simple affection, wept silently round the mother and son. Curumilla, crouched in a corner of the cave, was looking fixedly at the hunter, while two tears slowly glided down his bronzed cheeks.
When the first emotion was slightly calmed, Father Seraphin, who had till then kept aloof, not to trouble the glorious outpourings of this interview, stepped forward, and said in a gently imperious voice, as he held up the simple copper crucifix in his right hand:
"My children, let us return thanks to the Saviour for His infinite goodness."
The backwoodsmen knelt down and prayed.
A man must have lived a long time apart from beings he loves, separated from them by immeasurable distances, without hope of ever seeing them again, in order to understand the sweet and yet painful emotions Valentine experienced on seeing his mother again. We, the greater part of whose life has been spent in the deserts of the New World, amid the savage hordes that occupy them, speaking languages having no affinity with our own, forced into habits not at all agreeing with those of our country—we can remember the tender feelings that assailed us whenever a straying traveller uttered in our presence that sacred name of France so dear to our heart.
Exile is worse than death; it is an ever bleeding wound, which time, in lieu of cicatrising, only increases every hour, every minute, and changes at length into such a craving to breathe one's native air, were it only for a day, that exile contracts that terrible and incurable disease to which physicians give the name of nostalgia. The moment comes when a man, remote from his country, feels an invincible desire to see his country again, and hear his language again; neither fortune nor honours can contend against the feeling.
Valentine, during the many years he had spent in traversing the desert, had always had this memory of his country present to his mind. During his conversations with Father Seraphin he had spoken to him of his mother, that good and holy woman whom he never hoped to see again, for he had given up all thoughts of returning home for a long time past. The feverish existence of the desert had so seduced him, that every other consideration yielded to it, especially after the misfortunes of his early youth and the wounds of his only love. When, therefore, he saw himself reunited to his mother, and understood they would never separate again, an immense joy occupied his mind.
The entire night passed away like an hour, in delicious conversation; the hunters collected round the fire, listened to mother and son describing with that accent that comes from the heart the various incidents of their life during the long conversation. A few minutes before sunrise; Valentine insisted on his mother taking rest; he feared lest, at her advanced age, after the piercing emotions of such a day, such a lengthened absence of sleep might injure her health. After various objections, Madame Guillois at length yielded to her son's wishes, and retired to a remote compartment of the grotto.
When Valentine supposed his mother asleep, he made his friends a sign to sit down near him; the latter, suspecting that he had a serious communication to make to them, silently obeyed. Valentine walked up and down the cavern with his hands behind his back and frowning brow.
"Caballeros," he said, in a stern voice, "day is about to break, it is too late for any of us to think about sleep, so be good enough to aid me with your counsels."
"Speak, my friend," Father Seraphin replied, "you know that we are devoted to you."
"I know it, and you more than anyone else, father—hence I shall be forever grateful to you for the immense service you have rendered me. You know I forget nothing, and when the moment arrives, be assured that I shall pay my debt to you."
"Do not speak about that, friend; I knew the intense desire you had to see your mother again, and the anxiety that tortured you on the subject of that cruel separation; I only acted as anyone else would have done in my place, so dismiss the affair, I beg; I desire no other reward than to see you happy.
"I am so, my friend," the hunter exclaimed, with emotion; "I am more so than I can say, but it is that very happiness which terrifies me. My mother is near me, 'tis true, but, alas! You know the life to which a desert existence, made up of fighting and privation, condemns us; at this moment especially, when following out our implacable revenge, ought I to make my mother, a woman of great age and weak health, share the changes and dangers of that life? Can we, without cruelty, compel her to follow us on the trail of the villain we are pursuing? No, not one of you, I feel convinced, would give me that advice; but what is to be done? My mother cannot remain alone in this cavern abandoned, far from all help, and exposed to numberless privations. We know not whither the duty we have sworn to accomplish may drag us tomorrow. On the other hand, will my mother, so happy at our meeting, consent so promptly to even a temporary separation—a separation which circumstances may indefinitely prolong? I therefore beg you all, my only and true friends, to advise me, for I confess that I know not what resolution to form. Speak, my friends, tell me what I should do."
There was a lengthened silence among the hunters. Each understood Valentine's embarrassment, but the remedy was very difficult to find, as all were in their hearts made rest by the thought of pursuing Red Cedar closely, and not giving him respite until he had been punished for all his crimes. As usual under such circumstances, egotism and private interests took the place of friendship. Father Seraphin, the only disinterested person, saw clearly, hence he was the first to speak.
"My friend," he answered, "all you have said is most just; I undertake to make your mother listen to reason; she will understand, I feel assured, how urgent it is for her to return to civilisation, especially at the present period of the year; still, we must spare her feelings, and lead her back quietly to Mexico, without letting her suspect the separation she fears, and you fear too. During the journey hence to the civilised frontier, we will strive to prepare her for it, so that the blow may not be so rude when the moment for parting arrives. That is the only thing, I believe, you can do under the present circumstances. Come reflect; if you have any plan better than mine, I will be the first to submit."
"That advice is really the best that can be given me," Valentine said, warmly; "hence I eagerly adopt it. You will consent then, father, to accompany us to the frontier?"
"Of course, my friend, and further, were it necessary. Hence, do not let that trouble you; all we have now to decide is our road."
"That is true," said Valentine; "but here lies the difficulty. We must lodge my mother at a clearing near enough for me to see her frequently, and yet sufficiently distant from the desert to guard her against any danger."
"I fancy," Don Miguel remarked, "that my hacienda, at the Paso del Norte, will suit admirably; the more so, as it offers your mother all the guarantees of security and comfort you can require for her."
"In truth," Valentine exclaimed, "she would be most comfortable there, and I thank you cordially for your offer. Unfortunately, I cannot accept it."
"Why not?"
"For a reason you will appreciate as well as I do; it is much too far off."
"Do you think so?" Don Miguel asked.
Valentine could not repress a smile at this question.
"My friend," he said quietly to him, "since you have been in the desert, circumstances have forced you to take so many turns and twists, that you have completely lost all idea of distances, and do not suspect, I feel assured, how many miles we are from the Paso."
"I confess I do not," Don Miguel said in surprise. "Still, I fancy we cannot be very far."
"Make a guess."
"Well, one hundred and fifty miles, at the most."
"My poor friend," Valentine remarked, with a shrug of his shoulders, "you are out of your reckoning; we are more than seven hundred miles from the Paso del Norte, which is the extreme limit of the civilised settlements."
"The deuce!" the hacendero exclaimed, "I did not fancy we had gone so far."
"And," Valentine went on, "from that town to your hacienda is a distance of about fifty miles."
"Yes, about that."
"You see, then, that, to my great regret, it is impossible for me to accept your generous offer."
"What is to be done?" General Ibañez asked.
"It is awkward," Valentine replied, "for time presses."
"And your mother cannot possibly remain here; that is quite decided," Don Miguel objected.
Curumilla had hitherto listened to the talk in his usual way, not saying a word. Seeing that the hunters could not agree, he turned to Valentine.
"A friend would speak," he said.
All looked at him, for the hunters knew that Curumilla never spoke save to give advice, which was generally followed. Valentine gave a nod of assent.
"Our ears are open, chief," he said.
Curumilla rose.
"Koutonepi forgets," he quietly remarked.
"What do I forget?" the hunter asked.
"Koutonepi is the brother of Unicorn, the great Comanche Sachem."
Valentine struck his forehead in his delight.
"That is true," he exclaimed; "what was I thinking about? On my honour, chief, you are our Providence: nothing escapes you."
"Is my brother satisfied?" the chief asked joyously.
Valentine pressed his hand warmly.
"Chief," he exclaimed, "you are the best fellow I know; I thank you from my heart: however, we understand each other, I think, and need say nothing about that."
The Araucano Ulmen warmly returned his friend's pressure, and sat down, merely muttering one word, which contained all his impressions—
"Good."
The other persons, however, had not understood this little scene. Although they had been living for a long time in the company of the Aucas, they had not yet grown accustomed to his silence or learned to translate it; they therefore anxiously waited till Valentine gave them the explanation of the few sentences he had exchanged with his friend.
"The chief," Valentine said quickly, "has found at once what we have been racking our brains in vain to discover."
"How so? Explain," Don Miguel asked.
"What, you do not understand?"
"On my honour I do not."
"Yet it is very simple; I have been for a long time an adopted son of the Comanches; I belong to Unicorn's tribe; that chief will not refuse, I feel sure, to shelter my mother at his village. The redskins love me; Unicorn is devoted to me; my mother will be nursed and kindly treated by the Indians, while, on the other hand, it will be easy for me to see her whenever I have a moment to spare."
"Canarios!" General Ibañez exclaimed, "On my honour, chief," he added, as he gaily tapped the Araucanian's shoulder, "I must allow that we are all asses, and that you have more sense in your little finger than we have in our whole body."
This discussion had lasted some time, and the sun had risen for nearly an hour, when it terminated. Madame Guillois, entirely recovered from the emotions of the night, appeared in the grotto and kissed her son. When breakfast was over, the horses were saddled, and they set out.
"Where are you taking me to, my son?" the mother asked the hunter; "you know that henceforth I belong entirely to you, and you alone have the right to watch over me."
"Be at your ease, mother," Valentine answered; "although we are in the desert, I have found you a retreat in which you will not only be protected from every danger, but where it will be possible for me to see you at least once a week."
Valentine, like all men endowed with a firm and resolute character, instead of turning the difficulty, had preferred to attack it in front, persuaded that the harder the blow he dealt was, the shorter time its effect would last, and he should be enabled to lessen its consequences more easily. The old lady stopped her horse instinctively and looked at her son with tear-laden eyes.
"What do you say, Valentine?" she asked in a trembling voice; "Are you going to leave me?"
"You do not quite understand me, mother," he replied; "after so long a separation I could not consent to keep away from you."
"Alas!" she murmured.
"Still, my dear mother," he continued stoically, "you will have to convince yourself of one fact, that desert life is very different from civilised life."
"I know it, already," she said sighing.
"Very good," he continued; "this life has claims which it would take too long to explain to you, and necessitate constant marches and counter marches, going at one moment here, at another there, without apparent reason, living from hand to mouth, and eternally on horseback."
"Come," my boy, "do not make me suffer longer, but tell me at once what you wish to arrive at."
"At this, mother, that this life of unending fatigue and danger may be very agreeable to a young man like myself, endowed with an iron constitution, and long accustomed to its incidents; but that it is materially impossible for you, at your age, weak and sickly as you are: now you are my only comfort and treasure, mother; I have found you again by a miracle, and am determined to keep you as long as possible. For that reason I must not expose you through an improper weakness, to fatigues and privations which would kill you in a week."
"Well, then?" asked the mother timidly, involuntarily conquered by her son's peremptory accent.
"This is what I have resolved," said he insinuatingly, "as I do not wish you to suffer; we must be together as much as we can, if not always."
"Oh, yes," she said; "I only ask to see you ever, my child; what do I care for aught else, provided I am near you, can console you in sorrow, and rejoice in your joy!"
"Mother," the hunter said, "I believe I have arranged matters as well as possible. Father Seraphin will tell you any other plan would be futile."
"Let me hear it," she murmured.
"I am taking you to the village of the Comanches, whose adopted son I am; their chief loves me as a brother; the village is only a few leagues off, and you will be there among friends, who will respect you and pay you the greatest attention."
"But you, my child?"
"I will visit you as often as I can, and, believe me, few days will pass without my seeing you."
"Alas! My poor child, why insist on leading this life of danger and fatigue? If you liked, we could be so happy in a little village at home. Have you forgotten France entirely, Valentine?"
The hunter sighed.
"No, mother," he said, with an effort, "since I have seen you again, all the memories of my youth have revived; I know now the desire I had to see France again some day; the sight of you has made me understand that a man cannot voluntarily resign those home joys, whose charm he can only truly understand when unable to enjoy them. Hence I soon intend to remove you from this country disinherited by Heaven, and return to our native land."
"Alas!" she said, with an accent of soft reproach, "We should be so happy there; why not return at once?"
"Because it cannot be, mother; I have a sacred duty to accomplish here; but I pledge you my word of honour that when I have fulfilled the duty I have imposed on myself and am free, we will not remain an hour longer here. So have patience, mother; perhaps we may start for France within two months."
"May Heaven grant it, my child," the old lady said, sadly; "well, your will be done, I am prepared to wait."
"Thanks, mother; your kindness renders me happier than I can describe to you."
The old lady sighed, but gave no answer, and the little party marched silently in the direction of the Comanche village, the outskirts of which they reached at about three in the afternoon.
"Mother," Valentine said, "you are not yet used to Indian fashions; do not be frightened at anything you may see or hear."
"Am I not near you?" she said "What can I feel afraid of?"
"Oh!" he said, joyfully, "you are a true mother."
"Alas!" she answered, with a stifled sigh, "You are mistaken, child, I am only a poor old woman, who loves her son, that is all."