Chapter Fifty One.The Judgment of God.An instant of stupor succeeded to the murder so suddenly accomplished. Don Antonio did not stir; Fabian seemed to forget that the bandit had only hastened the execution of the sentence which he himself had pronounced.“Wretch!” cried he, rushing towards Cuchillo, with the barrel of his carbine in his hand, as though he did not deign to raise its butt against the executioner.“There, there!” said Cuchillo, drawing back, whilst Pepé, more ready to acquit Don Antonio’s murderer, interposed between them; “you are as quick and passionate as a fighting-cock, and ready every instant to sport your horns, like a young bull. The Indians are too busy elsewhere to trouble themselves about us. It was a stratagem of war, to enable me more speedily to render you the signal service required of me. Do not therefore be ungrateful; for, why not admit it? you were just now a nephew, most unsufferably encumbered with an uncle; you are noble, you are generous; you would have regretted all your life that you had not pardoned that uncle? By cutting the matter short for you, I have taken the remorse upon myself; and so the affair is ended.”“The rascal knows what he is about, undoubtedly,” remarked the ex-carabinier.“Yes,” replied Cuchillo, evidently flattered, “I pride myself upon being no fool, and upon having some notion of the scruples of conscience. I have taken your doubts upon mine. When I take a fancy to people, I sacrifice myself for them. It is a fault of mine. When I saw, Don Tiburcio, that you had so generously pardoned me the blow—the scratch I inflicted upon you—I did my best to deserve it: the rest must be settled between me and my conscience.”“Ah!” sighed Fabian, “I hoped yet to have been able to pardonhim.”“Why trouble yourself about it?” said the ex-carabinier. “Pardon your mother’s murderer, Don Fabian! it would have been cowardice! To kill a man who cannot defend himself, is, I grant, almost a crime, even after five years’ imprisonment. Our friend Cuchillo has saved us the embarrassment of choosing: that is his affair. What do you say, Bois-Rose?”“With proofs such as those we possess, the tribunal of a city would have condemned the assassin to atone for his crime; and Indian justice could not have done less. It was God’s will that you should be spared the necessity of shedding the blood of a white man. I say as you do, Pepé, it is Cuchillo’s affair.”Fabian inclined his head, without speaking, in acquiescence to the old hunter’s verdict—as though in his own heart he could not determine, amidst such conflicting thoughts, whether he ought to rejoice, or to grieve over this unexpected catastrophe.Nevertheless, a shade of bitter regret overspread his countenance; but accustomed, as well as his two companions, to scenes of blood, he assented, though with a sigh, to their inexorable logic.In the mean time, Cuchillo had regained all his audacity, things were turning out well for him.He cast a glance of satisfied hatred upon the corpse of him who could never more speak, and muttered in a low voice:“Why trouble one’s self about human destiny?—for twenty years past, my life has depended upon nothing more than the absence of a tree.”Then addressing himself to Fabian:“It is, then, agreed, that I have rendered you a great service. Ah! Don Tiburcio, you must resolve to remain in my debt. I think generously of furnishing you with the means of discharging it. There is immense wealth yonder; therefore it would not do for you to recall a promise given to him who, for your sake, was not afraid—for the first time, let me tell you—to come to an open rupture with his conscience.”Cuchillo, who, notwithstanding the promise Fabian had made—to satisfy his cupidity by the possession of the gold,—knew that to make a promise, and to keep one, are two different things. He waited the reply with anxiety.“It is true; the price of blood is yours,” said Fabian to the bandit.Cuchillo assumed an indignant air.“Well, you will be magnificently recompensed,” continued the young man, contemptuously; “but it shall never be said that I shared it with you:—the gold of this place is yours.”“All?” cried Cuchillo, who could not believe his ears.“Have I not said so?”“You are mad!” exclaimed Pepé and Bois-Rose, simultaneously, “the fellow would have killed him for nothing!”“You are a god!” cried Cuchillo; “and you estimate my scruples at their real value. What! all this gold?”“All, including the smallest particle,” answered Fabian, solemnly: “I shall have nothing in common with you—not even this gold.”And he made a sign to Cuchillo to leave the ground.The bandit, instead of passing through the hedge of cotton-trees, took the road to the Misty Mountains, towards the spot where his horse was fastened.A few minutes afterwards he returned with his serapé in his hand. He drew aside the interlacing branches which shut in the valley, and soon disappeared from Fabian’s sight. The sun, in the midst of his course, poured down a flood of light, causing the gold spread over the surface of the valley to shoot forth innumerable rays.A shudder passed though Cuchillo’s veins, as he once more beheld it.His heart beat quick at the sight of this mass of wealth. He resembled the tiger which falling upon a sheepfold cannot determine which victim to choose. He encompassed with a haggard glance the treasures spread at his feet; and little was wanting to induce him, in his transports of joy, to roll himself in these floods of gold.Soon, however, restored to calmer thoughts, he spread his mantle on the sand; and as he saw the impossibility of carrying away all the riches exposed to his view, he cast around him a glance of observation.In the meantime, Diaz, seated at some distance on the plain, had not lost a single detail of this melancholy scene.He had seen Cuchillo suddenly appear, he had imagined the part he would be required to fulfil, he heard the bandit’s cry of false alarm, and even the bloody catastrophe of the drama had not been unseen by him.Until then he had remained motionless in his place, mourning over the death of his chief, and the hopes which that death had destroyed.Cuchillo had disappeared from their sight, when the three hunters saw Diaz rise and approach them.He advanced with slow steps, like the justice of God, whose instrument he was about to become.His arm was passed through his horse’s bridle; and his face, clouded by grief, was turned downwards.The adventurer cast a look full of sadness upon the Duke de Armada lying in his blood; death had not effaced from that countenance its look of unalterable pride.“I do not blame you,” said he; “in your place I should have done the same thing. How much Indian blood have I also not spilt to satisfy my vengeance!”“It is holy bread,” interrupted Bois-Rose, passing his hand through his thick grey hair, and directing a sympathetic glance toward the adventurer. “Pepé and I can say that, for our part—”“I do not blame you, friends, but I grieve because I have seen this man, of such noble courage, fall almost before my eyes; a man who held in his hand the destiny of Sonora. I grieve that the glory of my country expires with him.”“He was, as you say, a man of noble courage, but with a heart of stone. May God save his soul!”A convulsive grief agitated Don Fabian’s breast. Diaz continued the Duke de Armada’s funeral oration.“He and I had dreamed of the freedom of a noble province and days of splendour. Neither he, nor I, nor others, will ever now behold them shine. Ah! why was not I killed instead of him? No one would have known that I had ceased, to exist, and one champion less would not have compromised the cause we served; but the death of our chief ruins it forever. The treasure which is said to be accumulated here might have aided us in restoring Sonora; for you do not, perhaps, know that near to this spot—”“We know it,” interrupted Fabian.“Well,” continued Diaz, “I will think no more about this immense treasure. I have always preferred the life of an Indian, killed by my own hands, to a sack of gold dust.”This common feeling of hatred towards the Indians still further added to the sympathy which Bois-Rose had felt for the disinterestedness and courage shown by Diaz.“We have failed at the onset,” continued Diaz, in a tone of great bitterness, “and all this through the fault of a traitor whom I wish to deliver up to your justice—not because he deceived us, but because he has destroyed the instrument which God was willing to grant, in order to make my country a powerful kingdom.”“What do you say?” cried Fabian; “is it Cuchillo of whom you speak?”“The traitor who twice attempted your life—the first time at the Hacienda del Venado, the second in the neighbouring forest—is the one who conducted us to this valley of gold.”“It was then Cuchillo who told you the secret. I was almost sure of it—but are you also certain?”“As certain as I am that I shall one day appear before God. Poor Don Estevan related to me how the existence and position of the treasure became known to Cuchillo; it was in assassinating his associate who had first discovered it.“And now if you decide that this man who has twice attempted your life deserves exemplary punishment, you have only to determine upon it.”As he finished these words, Pedro Diaz tightened his horse’s girths, and prepared to depart.“One word more!” cried Fabian, “has Cuchillo long possessed this grey horse, which, as you may be aware, has a habit of stumbling?”“More than two years, from what I have heard.”This last scene had escaped the bandit’s observation, the thicket of cotton-trees concealing it from his sight; besides, he was too much absorbed in the contemplation of his treasures to turn his eyes away from them.Seated upon the sand, he was crouched down amidst the innumerable pieces of gold which surrounded him, and he had already begun to pile up upon his serapé all those he had chosen, when Diaz finished his terrible revelation.“Ah! it is a fearful and fatal day,” said Fabian, in whose mind the latter part of this revelation left no room for doubt. “What ought I do with this man? You, who both know what he has done with my adopted father, Pepé—Bois-Rose—advise me, for my strength and resolution are coming to an end. I have experienced too many emotions for one day.”“Does the vile wretch, who cut your father’s throat, deserve more consideration than the noble gentleman, who murdered your mother, my son?” answered the Canadian, resolutely.“Whether it be your adopted father or any others who have been his victims, this brigand is worthy of death,” added Diaz, as he mounted upon his saddle, “and I abandon him to your justice.”“It is with regret that I see you depart,” said Bois-Rose to the adventurer, “a man who like yourself is a bitter enemy to the Indians, would have been a companion whose society I should have appreciated.”“My duty recalls me to the camp, which I quitted under the influence of Don Estevan’s unhappy star,” replied the adventurer, “but there are two things I shall never forget; they are, the conduct of generous enemies; and the oath I have taken never to reveal to a living creature the existence of this Golden Valley.”As he finished these words, the loyal Diaz quickly withdrew, reflecting upon the means of reconciling his respect for his word, with the care and safety of the expedition entrusted to him by its leader, previous to his death.The three friends speedily lost sight of him.The sun shone out, and, glancing down from the Golden Valley, discovered Cuchillo, greedily bending over his treasures, and the three hunters holding council amongst themselves respecting him.Fabian had listened in silence to Bois-Rose’s advice, as well as that given by Diaz previous to his departure; and he only waited the counsel of the old carabinier.“You have taken,” said the latter, in his turn, “a vow, from which nothing ought to release you; the wife of Arellanos received it from you on her death-bed; you have her husband’s murderer in your power; there is nothing here to deny it.”Then, observing a look of anxious indecision in Fabian’s countenance, he added, with that bitter irony which formed a part of his character; “But after all, if this duty is so repugnant to you, I shall undertake it; for not having the least ill will against Cuchillo, I can bang him without a scruple. You will see, Fabian, that the knave will not testify any surprise at what I am going to tell him. Fellows who have such a face as Cuchillo’s expect to be hung every day.”As he concluded this judicious reflection, Pepé approached the green hedge, which separated them from the outlaw.The latter, unconscious of all that had taken place around him—dazzled, blinded, by the golden rays, which reflected the sun’s light over the surface of the valley—had heard and seen nothing.With fingers doubled up, he was busied rummaging amongst the sand with the eagerness of a famished jackal disinterring a corpse.“Master Cuchillo! a word, if you please,” cried Pepé, drawing aside the branches of the cotton shrubs; “Master Cuchillo!”But Cuchillo did not hear.It was only when he had been called three times that he turned around, and discovered his excited countenance to the carabinier—after having, by a spontaneous movement of suspicion, thrown a corner of his mantle over the gold he had collected.“Master Cuchillo,” resumed Pepé, “I heard you a little while ago give utterance to a philosophical maxim, which gave me the highest opinion of your character.”“Come!” said Cuchillo to himself, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “here is someone else who requires my services. These gentry are becoming imprudent, but, por Dios! they pay handsomely.”Then aloud:“A philosophical maxim?” said he, throwing away disdainfully, a handful of sand, the contents of which would elsewhere have rejoiced a gold-seeker. “What is it? I utter many, and of the best kind; philosophy is my strong point.”Pepé, on one side of the hedge, resting upon his rifle, in a superb attitude of nonchalance, and the most imperturbablesangfroid, and Cuchillo, on the other side, with his head stretched across the green inclosure of the little valley, looked very much like two country neighbours, for the moment chatting familiarly together.No one, on seeing them thus, would have suspected the terrible catastrophe which was to follow this pacific intercourse. The countenance of the ex-carabinier, only exhibited a gracious smile.“You spoke truth,” replied Pepé. “What signifies human destiny; for twenty years past you say you have owed your life to the absence of a tree?”“It is true,” affirmed Cuchillo, in an absent tone, “for a long time I preferred shrubs, but lately I have become reconciled to large trees.”“Indeed!”“And yet it is still one of my favourite maxims, that a wise man must pass over many little inconveniences.”“True. And now I think of it,” added Pepé, carelessly, “there are on the summit of yonder steep hill, two magnificent pine trees which project over the abyss, and which, twenty years ago, might have caused you very serious anxiety.”“I do not deny it; but at present I am as easy about it as if they were only cactus plants.”“Indeed!”“Indeed!” repeated Cuchillo, with some impatience. “So then, you did me the honour to speak of me, and to what purpose?”“Oh! a simple remark. My two companions and myself had some reasons for suspecting that amongst these mountains a certain valley of gold was to be found; but nevertheless, it was only after long seeking that we found it. You also know it now, and even better than ourselves, since unhesitatingly, and without losing an instant, you have appropriated to yourself, between what you call a heap and what you have already collected, carramba—enough to build a church to your patron saint.”Cuchillo, at the recollection of the imprudence he had been guilty of, and at this indirect attack, felt his legs give way under him.“It is certainly my intention not to employ this gold to any other purpose than a godly one,” said he, concealing his anguish as well as he could. “As to the knowledge of this wonderful valley, it is to—it is to chance that I owe it.”“Chance always comes to the assistance of virtue,” replied Pepé, coldly. “Well, in your place, I should not, nevertheless, be without anxiety touching the vicinity of those two pine trees.”“What do you mean?” cried Cuchillo, turning pale.“Nothing—unless this may prove to you one of those trifling inconveniences, about which you just now said a man should not trouble himself. Por Dios! you have enough booty to render a king jealous.”“But I acquired this gold legitimately—I committed no murder to obtain it. What I did was not worthless. The devil! I am not in the habit of killing for nothing,” cried Cuchillo, exasperated, and who, mistaking the carabinier’s intentions, saw only in his alarming innuendoes regret at his defrauded cupidity.Like the sailor, who, overtaken by a storm, throws a part of his cargo overboard to save the rest, Cuchillo resolved with a sigh, to shun, by means of a sacrifice, the danger with which he was threatened.“I again repeat to you,” said he, in a low voice, “chance alone gave me a knowledge of this treasure; but I don’t wish to be selfish. It is my intention to give you a share. Listen,” he continued, “there is in a certain place, a block of gold of inestimable value; honest fellows should understand one another, and this block shall be yours. Ah! your share will be better than mine.”“I hope so,” said Pepé; “and in what place have you reserved me my portion?”“Up yonder!” said Cuchillo, indicating the summit of the pyramid.“Up yonder, near the pine trees? Ah, master Cuchillo, how glad I am to find that you have not taken my foolish little joke amiss, and that these trees do not affect you any more than if they were cactus plants! Between ourselves, Don Tiburcio, whom you perceive to be deeply absorbed, is only regretting in reality the enormous sum he has given you, for a service which he could equally well have performed himself.”“An enormous sum! it was but a very fair price, and at any rate I should have lost it,” cried Cuchillo, recovering all his habitual impudence of manner, on seeing the change that had taken place in the conduct and tone of the ex-carabinier.“Agreed,” continued the latter; “but in truth, he may have repented of the bargain; and I must avow that if he commanded me to blow your brains out, in order to get rid of you, I should be compelled to obey him. Allow me, then, to call him here so as to restore his confidence; or, better still, come and show me the portion, which your munificence destines for me. Afterwards we each go our own way; and notwithstanding all you have said about it, the share assigned to you will surpass all your expectations.”“Let us set off then,” resumed Cuchillo, happy to see a negotiation—the probable result of which began to cause him serious uneasiness—terminate so satisfactorily for him and, casting a glance of passionate tenderness upon a heap of gold which he had piled up upon his wrapper, he set off towards the summit of the pyramid. He had scarcely reached it, when, upon Pepé’s invitation, Fabian and Bois-Rose began to ascend the steep on the other side.“No one can escape his fate,” said Pepé to Fabian, “and I had already proved to you that the rascal would testify no astonishment. Be that as it may remember that you have sworn to avenge the death of your adopted father, and that in these deserts you ought to shame the justice of cities, where such crimes go unpunished. To show mercy towards such a knave is an outrage to society! Bois-Rose! I shall need the assistance of your arm.”The Canadian hunter, by a glance, interrogated him, for whom his blind devotion knew no bounds.“Marcos Arellanos craved pardon and did not obtain it,” said Fabian, no longer undecided, “and as this man did to others, so let it be done to him.”And these three inexorable men seated themselves solemnly upon the summit of the pyramid, where Cuchillo already awaited them. At sight of the severe aspect of those whom he had inwardly so many reasons to dread, Cuchillo felt all his apprehensions renewed. He endeavoured, however, to recover his assurance.“Do you see,” said he, pointing out behind the sheet of water, whose majestic torrent foamed beside them, “the spot where the block of gold sheds forth its dazzling rays?”But the eyes of his judges did not turn in the direction he indicated. Fabian rose slowly; his look caused the blood to curdle in the veins of the outlaw.“Cuchillo!” said he, “you saved me from dying of thirst, and you have not done this for one who is ungrateful. I have forgiven you the stab with which you wounded me at the Hacienda del Venado. I have pardoned another attempt you made near El Salto de Agua; also the shot which you only could have fired upon us from the summit of this pyramid. I might, in short, have forgiven every attempt you have made to take away a life you once saved; and with having pardoned you, I have even recompensed you, as a king does not recompense the executioner of his justice.”“I do not deny it; but this worthy hunter, who has informed me with a great deal of circumspection upon the delicate subject you wish to touch upon, ought also to inform you how reasonable he found me in the matter.”“I have forgiven you,” continued Fabian, “but there is one crime, amongst others, from which your own conscience ought not to absolve you.”“There is a perfect understanding between my conscience and myself,” resumed Cuchillo, with a graciously sinister smile, “but it seems to me that we are getting away from our subject.”“That friend whom you assassinated in such a cowardly manner—”“Disputed with me the profits of a booty, and faith, the consumption of brandy was very considerable,” interrupted Cuchillo. “But permit me—”“Do not pretend to misunderstand me!” cried Fabian, irritated by the knave’s impudence.Cuchillo collected his thoughts.“If you allude to Tio Tomas, it is an affair which was never very well understood, but—”Fabian opened his lips to form a distinct accusation with reference to the assassination of Arellanos, when Pepé broke in—“I should be curious,” he said, “to learn the real facts concerning Tio Tomas: perhaps Master Cuchillo has not sufficient leisure to recollect himself, which would be a pity.”“I hold it necessary,” continued Cuchillo, flattered at the compliment, “to prove that men own such a susceptible conscience as mine; here then are the facts—My friend Tio Tomas had a nephew impatient to inherit his uncle’s fortune; I received a hundred dollars from the nephew to hasten the moment of his inheritance. It was very little for such a capital will.“It was so little that I gave Tio Tomas warning, and receivedtwohundred dollars to prevent his nephew becoming his heir. I committed a fault in—despatching the nephew without giving him warning, as I ought to have done, perhaps. It was then I felt how inconvenient a quarrelsome conscience like mine may become. I seized upon the only means of composition which was left me. The nephew’s money was a continual remorse to me, and I resolved to get rid of it.”“Of the money?”“Not so.”“And you despatched the uncle as well?” cried Pepé.Cuchillo assented.“From that time my conscience had but little to reproach me with. I had gained three hundred dollars by the most ingenious integrity.”Cuchillo was yet smiling, when Fabian exclaimed—“Were you paid for assassinating Marcos Arellanos?”At this astounding accusation a livid paleness overspread Cuchillo’s features.He could no longer disguise from himself the fate that awaited him.The bandage which covered his eyes fell suddenly; and to the flattering delusions with which he had deceived himself succeeded a formidable reality.“Marcos Arellanos!” he stammered out in a weak voice, “who told you that? I did not kill him!”Fabian smiled bitterly.“Who tells the shepherd,” he cried, “where the den of the jaguar is to be found that devours his sheep?“Who tells the vaquero where the horse that he pursues has taken refuge?“To the Indian, the enemy he seeks?“To the gold-seeker the ore, concealed by God?“The surface of the lake only does not preserve the trace of the bird which flies over its waters, nor the form of the cloud which it reflects; but the earth, with its herbs and mosses, reveals to us sons of the desert, the print of the jaguar’s foot as well as the horse’s hoof and the Indian’s track; do you not know it, even as I do?”“I did not kill Arellanos,” repeated the assassin.“You did kill him; you cut his throat near to our common country; you threw his corpse into the river; the earth revealed it to me—since I noticed the defect in the horse you rode, as well as the wound in your leg, which you received in the struggle.”“Pardon, Don Tiburcio?” cried Cuchillo, overwhelmed by the sudden revelation of these facts, to which God alone had been witness. “Take back all the gold you gave me, but spare my life; and to show my gratitude, I will kill all your enemies everywhere, and always at a sign from you—for nothing—even my father, if you command me; but in the name of the all-powerful God, spare my life—spare me my life!” he continued, crawling forward and clutching at Fabian’s knees.“Arellanos also craved for mercy; did you listen to him?” said Fabian, turning away.“But when I killed him, it was that I might possess all this gold myself. Now I restore it all for my life—what can you want more?” he continued, while he resisted Pepé’s efforts, who was trying to prevent him from kissing Fabian’s feet.With features distorted by excess of terror, a whitish foam upon his lips, his eyes starting from his head, yet seeing nothing, Cuchillo still sued for mercy, as he endeavoured to crawl towards Fabian. He had by continued efforts reached the edge of the platform. Behind his head, the sheet of water fell foaming downwards.“Mercy, mercy!” he cried, “in the name of your mother—for Doña Rosarita’s sake, who loves you, for I know that she loves you—I heard—”“What?” cried Fabian, in his turn rushing towards Cuchillo, but the question expired upon his lips.Spurned along the earth by the carabinier’s foot Cuchillo with head and arms stretched back was hurled into the abyss!“What have you done, Pepé?” exclaimed Fabian.“The wretch,” said the ex-carabinier, “was not worth the cord which might have hung him, nor the bullet that would have sent him out of the world.”A piercing cry,—a cry which rose from the abyss—which drowned their voices and was heard above the roar of the cascade, caused Fabian to stretch his head forward and withdraw it again in horror. Hanging to the branches of a shrub which bent beneath his weight, and which scarce adhering to the sides of the rock, was fast giving way, Cuchillo hung over the abyss, howling forth his terror and anguish.“Help!” he shouted, in a voice despairing as the damned. “Help! if you are human beings—help!”The three friends exchanged a glance of unutterable meaning, as each one wiped the sweat from his brow.Suddenly the bandit’s voice grew faint, and amidst horrible bursts of laughter, like the shrieks of a lunatic, were heard the last inarticulate words that escaped his lips.A moment after, and the noise of the cascade alone broke the silence of the desert. The abyss had swallowed up him whose life had been a long tissue of crime.
An instant of stupor succeeded to the murder so suddenly accomplished. Don Antonio did not stir; Fabian seemed to forget that the bandit had only hastened the execution of the sentence which he himself had pronounced.
“Wretch!” cried he, rushing towards Cuchillo, with the barrel of his carbine in his hand, as though he did not deign to raise its butt against the executioner.
“There, there!” said Cuchillo, drawing back, whilst Pepé, more ready to acquit Don Antonio’s murderer, interposed between them; “you are as quick and passionate as a fighting-cock, and ready every instant to sport your horns, like a young bull. The Indians are too busy elsewhere to trouble themselves about us. It was a stratagem of war, to enable me more speedily to render you the signal service required of me. Do not therefore be ungrateful; for, why not admit it? you were just now a nephew, most unsufferably encumbered with an uncle; you are noble, you are generous; you would have regretted all your life that you had not pardoned that uncle? By cutting the matter short for you, I have taken the remorse upon myself; and so the affair is ended.”
“The rascal knows what he is about, undoubtedly,” remarked the ex-carabinier.
“Yes,” replied Cuchillo, evidently flattered, “I pride myself upon being no fool, and upon having some notion of the scruples of conscience. I have taken your doubts upon mine. When I take a fancy to people, I sacrifice myself for them. It is a fault of mine. When I saw, Don Tiburcio, that you had so generously pardoned me the blow—the scratch I inflicted upon you—I did my best to deserve it: the rest must be settled between me and my conscience.”
“Ah!” sighed Fabian, “I hoped yet to have been able to pardonhim.”
“Why trouble yourself about it?” said the ex-carabinier. “Pardon your mother’s murderer, Don Fabian! it would have been cowardice! To kill a man who cannot defend himself, is, I grant, almost a crime, even after five years’ imprisonment. Our friend Cuchillo has saved us the embarrassment of choosing: that is his affair. What do you say, Bois-Rose?”
“With proofs such as those we possess, the tribunal of a city would have condemned the assassin to atone for his crime; and Indian justice could not have done less. It was God’s will that you should be spared the necessity of shedding the blood of a white man. I say as you do, Pepé, it is Cuchillo’s affair.”
Fabian inclined his head, without speaking, in acquiescence to the old hunter’s verdict—as though in his own heart he could not determine, amidst such conflicting thoughts, whether he ought to rejoice, or to grieve over this unexpected catastrophe.
Nevertheless, a shade of bitter regret overspread his countenance; but accustomed, as well as his two companions, to scenes of blood, he assented, though with a sigh, to their inexorable logic.
In the mean time, Cuchillo had regained all his audacity, things were turning out well for him.
He cast a glance of satisfied hatred upon the corpse of him who could never more speak, and muttered in a low voice:
“Why trouble one’s self about human destiny?—for twenty years past, my life has depended upon nothing more than the absence of a tree.”
Then addressing himself to Fabian:
“It is, then, agreed, that I have rendered you a great service. Ah! Don Tiburcio, you must resolve to remain in my debt. I think generously of furnishing you with the means of discharging it. There is immense wealth yonder; therefore it would not do for you to recall a promise given to him who, for your sake, was not afraid—for the first time, let me tell you—to come to an open rupture with his conscience.”
Cuchillo, who, notwithstanding the promise Fabian had made—to satisfy his cupidity by the possession of the gold,—knew that to make a promise, and to keep one, are two different things. He waited the reply with anxiety.
“It is true; the price of blood is yours,” said Fabian to the bandit.
Cuchillo assumed an indignant air.
“Well, you will be magnificently recompensed,” continued the young man, contemptuously; “but it shall never be said that I shared it with you:—the gold of this place is yours.”
“All?” cried Cuchillo, who could not believe his ears.
“Have I not said so?”
“You are mad!” exclaimed Pepé and Bois-Rose, simultaneously, “the fellow would have killed him for nothing!”
“You are a god!” cried Cuchillo; “and you estimate my scruples at their real value. What! all this gold?”
“All, including the smallest particle,” answered Fabian, solemnly: “I shall have nothing in common with you—not even this gold.”
And he made a sign to Cuchillo to leave the ground.
The bandit, instead of passing through the hedge of cotton-trees, took the road to the Misty Mountains, towards the spot where his horse was fastened.
A few minutes afterwards he returned with his serapé in his hand. He drew aside the interlacing branches which shut in the valley, and soon disappeared from Fabian’s sight. The sun, in the midst of his course, poured down a flood of light, causing the gold spread over the surface of the valley to shoot forth innumerable rays.
A shudder passed though Cuchillo’s veins, as he once more beheld it.
His heart beat quick at the sight of this mass of wealth. He resembled the tiger which falling upon a sheepfold cannot determine which victim to choose. He encompassed with a haggard glance the treasures spread at his feet; and little was wanting to induce him, in his transports of joy, to roll himself in these floods of gold.
Soon, however, restored to calmer thoughts, he spread his mantle on the sand; and as he saw the impossibility of carrying away all the riches exposed to his view, he cast around him a glance of observation.
In the meantime, Diaz, seated at some distance on the plain, had not lost a single detail of this melancholy scene.
He had seen Cuchillo suddenly appear, he had imagined the part he would be required to fulfil, he heard the bandit’s cry of false alarm, and even the bloody catastrophe of the drama had not been unseen by him.
Until then he had remained motionless in his place, mourning over the death of his chief, and the hopes which that death had destroyed.
Cuchillo had disappeared from their sight, when the three hunters saw Diaz rise and approach them.
He advanced with slow steps, like the justice of God, whose instrument he was about to become.
His arm was passed through his horse’s bridle; and his face, clouded by grief, was turned downwards.
The adventurer cast a look full of sadness upon the Duke de Armada lying in his blood; death had not effaced from that countenance its look of unalterable pride.
“I do not blame you,” said he; “in your place I should have done the same thing. How much Indian blood have I also not spilt to satisfy my vengeance!”
“It is holy bread,” interrupted Bois-Rose, passing his hand through his thick grey hair, and directing a sympathetic glance toward the adventurer. “Pepé and I can say that, for our part—”
“I do not blame you, friends, but I grieve because I have seen this man, of such noble courage, fall almost before my eyes; a man who held in his hand the destiny of Sonora. I grieve that the glory of my country expires with him.”
“He was, as you say, a man of noble courage, but with a heart of stone. May God save his soul!”
A convulsive grief agitated Don Fabian’s breast. Diaz continued the Duke de Armada’s funeral oration.
“He and I had dreamed of the freedom of a noble province and days of splendour. Neither he, nor I, nor others, will ever now behold them shine. Ah! why was not I killed instead of him? No one would have known that I had ceased, to exist, and one champion less would not have compromised the cause we served; but the death of our chief ruins it forever. The treasure which is said to be accumulated here might have aided us in restoring Sonora; for you do not, perhaps, know that near to this spot—”
“We know it,” interrupted Fabian.
“Well,” continued Diaz, “I will think no more about this immense treasure. I have always preferred the life of an Indian, killed by my own hands, to a sack of gold dust.”
This common feeling of hatred towards the Indians still further added to the sympathy which Bois-Rose had felt for the disinterestedness and courage shown by Diaz.
“We have failed at the onset,” continued Diaz, in a tone of great bitterness, “and all this through the fault of a traitor whom I wish to deliver up to your justice—not because he deceived us, but because he has destroyed the instrument which God was willing to grant, in order to make my country a powerful kingdom.”
“What do you say?” cried Fabian; “is it Cuchillo of whom you speak?”
“The traitor who twice attempted your life—the first time at the Hacienda del Venado, the second in the neighbouring forest—is the one who conducted us to this valley of gold.”
“It was then Cuchillo who told you the secret. I was almost sure of it—but are you also certain?”
“As certain as I am that I shall one day appear before God. Poor Don Estevan related to me how the existence and position of the treasure became known to Cuchillo; it was in assassinating his associate who had first discovered it.
“And now if you decide that this man who has twice attempted your life deserves exemplary punishment, you have only to determine upon it.”
As he finished these words, Pedro Diaz tightened his horse’s girths, and prepared to depart.
“One word more!” cried Fabian, “has Cuchillo long possessed this grey horse, which, as you may be aware, has a habit of stumbling?”
“More than two years, from what I have heard.”
This last scene had escaped the bandit’s observation, the thicket of cotton-trees concealing it from his sight; besides, he was too much absorbed in the contemplation of his treasures to turn his eyes away from them.
Seated upon the sand, he was crouched down amidst the innumerable pieces of gold which surrounded him, and he had already begun to pile up upon his serapé all those he had chosen, when Diaz finished his terrible revelation.
“Ah! it is a fearful and fatal day,” said Fabian, in whose mind the latter part of this revelation left no room for doubt. “What ought I do with this man? You, who both know what he has done with my adopted father, Pepé—Bois-Rose—advise me, for my strength and resolution are coming to an end. I have experienced too many emotions for one day.”
“Does the vile wretch, who cut your father’s throat, deserve more consideration than the noble gentleman, who murdered your mother, my son?” answered the Canadian, resolutely.
“Whether it be your adopted father or any others who have been his victims, this brigand is worthy of death,” added Diaz, as he mounted upon his saddle, “and I abandon him to your justice.”
“It is with regret that I see you depart,” said Bois-Rose to the adventurer, “a man who like yourself is a bitter enemy to the Indians, would have been a companion whose society I should have appreciated.”
“My duty recalls me to the camp, which I quitted under the influence of Don Estevan’s unhappy star,” replied the adventurer, “but there are two things I shall never forget; they are, the conduct of generous enemies; and the oath I have taken never to reveal to a living creature the existence of this Golden Valley.”
As he finished these words, the loyal Diaz quickly withdrew, reflecting upon the means of reconciling his respect for his word, with the care and safety of the expedition entrusted to him by its leader, previous to his death.
The three friends speedily lost sight of him.
The sun shone out, and, glancing down from the Golden Valley, discovered Cuchillo, greedily bending over his treasures, and the three hunters holding council amongst themselves respecting him.
Fabian had listened in silence to Bois-Rose’s advice, as well as that given by Diaz previous to his departure; and he only waited the counsel of the old carabinier.
“You have taken,” said the latter, in his turn, “a vow, from which nothing ought to release you; the wife of Arellanos received it from you on her death-bed; you have her husband’s murderer in your power; there is nothing here to deny it.”
Then, observing a look of anxious indecision in Fabian’s countenance, he added, with that bitter irony which formed a part of his character; “But after all, if this duty is so repugnant to you, I shall undertake it; for not having the least ill will against Cuchillo, I can bang him without a scruple. You will see, Fabian, that the knave will not testify any surprise at what I am going to tell him. Fellows who have such a face as Cuchillo’s expect to be hung every day.”
As he concluded this judicious reflection, Pepé approached the green hedge, which separated them from the outlaw.
The latter, unconscious of all that had taken place around him—dazzled, blinded, by the golden rays, which reflected the sun’s light over the surface of the valley—had heard and seen nothing.
With fingers doubled up, he was busied rummaging amongst the sand with the eagerness of a famished jackal disinterring a corpse.
“Master Cuchillo! a word, if you please,” cried Pepé, drawing aside the branches of the cotton shrubs; “Master Cuchillo!”
But Cuchillo did not hear.
It was only when he had been called three times that he turned around, and discovered his excited countenance to the carabinier—after having, by a spontaneous movement of suspicion, thrown a corner of his mantle over the gold he had collected.
“Master Cuchillo,” resumed Pepé, “I heard you a little while ago give utterance to a philosophical maxim, which gave me the highest opinion of your character.”
“Come!” said Cuchillo to himself, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “here is someone else who requires my services. These gentry are becoming imprudent, but, por Dios! they pay handsomely.”
Then aloud:
“A philosophical maxim?” said he, throwing away disdainfully, a handful of sand, the contents of which would elsewhere have rejoiced a gold-seeker. “What is it? I utter many, and of the best kind; philosophy is my strong point.”
Pepé, on one side of the hedge, resting upon his rifle, in a superb attitude of nonchalance, and the most imperturbablesangfroid, and Cuchillo, on the other side, with his head stretched across the green inclosure of the little valley, looked very much like two country neighbours, for the moment chatting familiarly together.
No one, on seeing them thus, would have suspected the terrible catastrophe which was to follow this pacific intercourse. The countenance of the ex-carabinier, only exhibited a gracious smile.
“You spoke truth,” replied Pepé. “What signifies human destiny; for twenty years past you say you have owed your life to the absence of a tree?”
“It is true,” affirmed Cuchillo, in an absent tone, “for a long time I preferred shrubs, but lately I have become reconciled to large trees.”
“Indeed!”
“And yet it is still one of my favourite maxims, that a wise man must pass over many little inconveniences.”
“True. And now I think of it,” added Pepé, carelessly, “there are on the summit of yonder steep hill, two magnificent pine trees which project over the abyss, and which, twenty years ago, might have caused you very serious anxiety.”
“I do not deny it; but at present I am as easy about it as if they were only cactus plants.”
“Indeed!”
“Indeed!” repeated Cuchillo, with some impatience. “So then, you did me the honour to speak of me, and to what purpose?”
“Oh! a simple remark. My two companions and myself had some reasons for suspecting that amongst these mountains a certain valley of gold was to be found; but nevertheless, it was only after long seeking that we found it. You also know it now, and even better than ourselves, since unhesitatingly, and without losing an instant, you have appropriated to yourself, between what you call a heap and what you have already collected, carramba—enough to build a church to your patron saint.”
Cuchillo, at the recollection of the imprudence he had been guilty of, and at this indirect attack, felt his legs give way under him.
“It is certainly my intention not to employ this gold to any other purpose than a godly one,” said he, concealing his anguish as well as he could. “As to the knowledge of this wonderful valley, it is to—it is to chance that I owe it.”
“Chance always comes to the assistance of virtue,” replied Pepé, coldly. “Well, in your place, I should not, nevertheless, be without anxiety touching the vicinity of those two pine trees.”
“What do you mean?” cried Cuchillo, turning pale.
“Nothing—unless this may prove to you one of those trifling inconveniences, about which you just now said a man should not trouble himself. Por Dios! you have enough booty to render a king jealous.”
“But I acquired this gold legitimately—I committed no murder to obtain it. What I did was not worthless. The devil! I am not in the habit of killing for nothing,” cried Cuchillo, exasperated, and who, mistaking the carabinier’s intentions, saw only in his alarming innuendoes regret at his defrauded cupidity.
Like the sailor, who, overtaken by a storm, throws a part of his cargo overboard to save the rest, Cuchillo resolved with a sigh, to shun, by means of a sacrifice, the danger with which he was threatened.
“I again repeat to you,” said he, in a low voice, “chance alone gave me a knowledge of this treasure; but I don’t wish to be selfish. It is my intention to give you a share. Listen,” he continued, “there is in a certain place, a block of gold of inestimable value; honest fellows should understand one another, and this block shall be yours. Ah! your share will be better than mine.”
“I hope so,” said Pepé; “and in what place have you reserved me my portion?”
“Up yonder!” said Cuchillo, indicating the summit of the pyramid.
“Up yonder, near the pine trees? Ah, master Cuchillo, how glad I am to find that you have not taken my foolish little joke amiss, and that these trees do not affect you any more than if they were cactus plants! Between ourselves, Don Tiburcio, whom you perceive to be deeply absorbed, is only regretting in reality the enormous sum he has given you, for a service which he could equally well have performed himself.”
“An enormous sum! it was but a very fair price, and at any rate I should have lost it,” cried Cuchillo, recovering all his habitual impudence of manner, on seeing the change that had taken place in the conduct and tone of the ex-carabinier.
“Agreed,” continued the latter; “but in truth, he may have repented of the bargain; and I must avow that if he commanded me to blow your brains out, in order to get rid of you, I should be compelled to obey him. Allow me, then, to call him here so as to restore his confidence; or, better still, come and show me the portion, which your munificence destines for me. Afterwards we each go our own way; and notwithstanding all you have said about it, the share assigned to you will surpass all your expectations.”
“Let us set off then,” resumed Cuchillo, happy to see a negotiation—the probable result of which began to cause him serious uneasiness—terminate so satisfactorily for him and, casting a glance of passionate tenderness upon a heap of gold which he had piled up upon his wrapper, he set off towards the summit of the pyramid. He had scarcely reached it, when, upon Pepé’s invitation, Fabian and Bois-Rose began to ascend the steep on the other side.
“No one can escape his fate,” said Pepé to Fabian, “and I had already proved to you that the rascal would testify no astonishment. Be that as it may remember that you have sworn to avenge the death of your adopted father, and that in these deserts you ought to shame the justice of cities, where such crimes go unpunished. To show mercy towards such a knave is an outrage to society! Bois-Rose! I shall need the assistance of your arm.”
The Canadian hunter, by a glance, interrogated him, for whom his blind devotion knew no bounds.
“Marcos Arellanos craved pardon and did not obtain it,” said Fabian, no longer undecided, “and as this man did to others, so let it be done to him.”
And these three inexorable men seated themselves solemnly upon the summit of the pyramid, where Cuchillo already awaited them. At sight of the severe aspect of those whom he had inwardly so many reasons to dread, Cuchillo felt all his apprehensions renewed. He endeavoured, however, to recover his assurance.
“Do you see,” said he, pointing out behind the sheet of water, whose majestic torrent foamed beside them, “the spot where the block of gold sheds forth its dazzling rays?”
But the eyes of his judges did not turn in the direction he indicated. Fabian rose slowly; his look caused the blood to curdle in the veins of the outlaw.
“Cuchillo!” said he, “you saved me from dying of thirst, and you have not done this for one who is ungrateful. I have forgiven you the stab with which you wounded me at the Hacienda del Venado. I have pardoned another attempt you made near El Salto de Agua; also the shot which you only could have fired upon us from the summit of this pyramid. I might, in short, have forgiven every attempt you have made to take away a life you once saved; and with having pardoned you, I have even recompensed you, as a king does not recompense the executioner of his justice.”
“I do not deny it; but this worthy hunter, who has informed me with a great deal of circumspection upon the delicate subject you wish to touch upon, ought also to inform you how reasonable he found me in the matter.”
“I have forgiven you,” continued Fabian, “but there is one crime, amongst others, from which your own conscience ought not to absolve you.”
“There is a perfect understanding between my conscience and myself,” resumed Cuchillo, with a graciously sinister smile, “but it seems to me that we are getting away from our subject.”
“That friend whom you assassinated in such a cowardly manner—”
“Disputed with me the profits of a booty, and faith, the consumption of brandy was very considerable,” interrupted Cuchillo. “But permit me—”
“Do not pretend to misunderstand me!” cried Fabian, irritated by the knave’s impudence.
Cuchillo collected his thoughts.
“If you allude to Tio Tomas, it is an affair which was never very well understood, but—”
Fabian opened his lips to form a distinct accusation with reference to the assassination of Arellanos, when Pepé broke in—
“I should be curious,” he said, “to learn the real facts concerning Tio Tomas: perhaps Master Cuchillo has not sufficient leisure to recollect himself, which would be a pity.”
“I hold it necessary,” continued Cuchillo, flattered at the compliment, “to prove that men own such a susceptible conscience as mine; here then are the facts—My friend Tio Tomas had a nephew impatient to inherit his uncle’s fortune; I received a hundred dollars from the nephew to hasten the moment of his inheritance. It was very little for such a capital will.
“It was so little that I gave Tio Tomas warning, and receivedtwohundred dollars to prevent his nephew becoming his heir. I committed a fault in—despatching the nephew without giving him warning, as I ought to have done, perhaps. It was then I felt how inconvenient a quarrelsome conscience like mine may become. I seized upon the only means of composition which was left me. The nephew’s money was a continual remorse to me, and I resolved to get rid of it.”
“Of the money?”
“Not so.”
“And you despatched the uncle as well?” cried Pepé.
Cuchillo assented.
“From that time my conscience had but little to reproach me with. I had gained three hundred dollars by the most ingenious integrity.”
Cuchillo was yet smiling, when Fabian exclaimed—
“Were you paid for assassinating Marcos Arellanos?”
At this astounding accusation a livid paleness overspread Cuchillo’s features.
He could no longer disguise from himself the fate that awaited him.
The bandage which covered his eyes fell suddenly; and to the flattering delusions with which he had deceived himself succeeded a formidable reality.
“Marcos Arellanos!” he stammered out in a weak voice, “who told you that? I did not kill him!”
Fabian smiled bitterly.
“Who tells the shepherd,” he cried, “where the den of the jaguar is to be found that devours his sheep?
“Who tells the vaquero where the horse that he pursues has taken refuge?
“To the Indian, the enemy he seeks?
“To the gold-seeker the ore, concealed by God?
“The surface of the lake only does not preserve the trace of the bird which flies over its waters, nor the form of the cloud which it reflects; but the earth, with its herbs and mosses, reveals to us sons of the desert, the print of the jaguar’s foot as well as the horse’s hoof and the Indian’s track; do you not know it, even as I do?”
“I did not kill Arellanos,” repeated the assassin.
“You did kill him; you cut his throat near to our common country; you threw his corpse into the river; the earth revealed it to me—since I noticed the defect in the horse you rode, as well as the wound in your leg, which you received in the struggle.”
“Pardon, Don Tiburcio?” cried Cuchillo, overwhelmed by the sudden revelation of these facts, to which God alone had been witness. “Take back all the gold you gave me, but spare my life; and to show my gratitude, I will kill all your enemies everywhere, and always at a sign from you—for nothing—even my father, if you command me; but in the name of the all-powerful God, spare my life—spare me my life!” he continued, crawling forward and clutching at Fabian’s knees.
“Arellanos also craved for mercy; did you listen to him?” said Fabian, turning away.
“But when I killed him, it was that I might possess all this gold myself. Now I restore it all for my life—what can you want more?” he continued, while he resisted Pepé’s efforts, who was trying to prevent him from kissing Fabian’s feet.
With features distorted by excess of terror, a whitish foam upon his lips, his eyes starting from his head, yet seeing nothing, Cuchillo still sued for mercy, as he endeavoured to crawl towards Fabian. He had by continued efforts reached the edge of the platform. Behind his head, the sheet of water fell foaming downwards.
“Mercy, mercy!” he cried, “in the name of your mother—for Doña Rosarita’s sake, who loves you, for I know that she loves you—I heard—”
“What?” cried Fabian, in his turn rushing towards Cuchillo, but the question expired upon his lips.
Spurned along the earth by the carabinier’s foot Cuchillo with head and arms stretched back was hurled into the abyss!
“What have you done, Pepé?” exclaimed Fabian.
“The wretch,” said the ex-carabinier, “was not worth the cord which might have hung him, nor the bullet that would have sent him out of the world.”
A piercing cry,—a cry which rose from the abyss—which drowned their voices and was heard above the roar of the cascade, caused Fabian to stretch his head forward and withdraw it again in horror. Hanging to the branches of a shrub which bent beneath his weight, and which scarce adhering to the sides of the rock, was fast giving way, Cuchillo hung over the abyss, howling forth his terror and anguish.
“Help!” he shouted, in a voice despairing as the damned. “Help! if you are human beings—help!”
The three friends exchanged a glance of unutterable meaning, as each one wiped the sweat from his brow.
Suddenly the bandit’s voice grew faint, and amidst horrible bursts of laughter, like the shrieks of a lunatic, were heard the last inarticulate words that escaped his lips.
A moment after, and the noise of the cascade alone broke the silence of the desert. The abyss had swallowed up him whose life had been a long tissue of crime.
Chapter Fifty Two.The Man of the Red Kerchief.Six months have elapsed since the three hunters, without deigning to carry with them a single grain of the treasures of the valley of gold, directed their steps, following the course of the Rio Gila, to the plains of Texas. The rainy had succeeded to the dry season, without anything being known of their fate, or of the expedition commanded by Don Estevan de Arechiza.Diaz was no more, having carried with him to the tomb the secret of the wonderful valley—and Gayferos had followed his three liberators. What had become of these intrepid hunters who had willingly encountered fatigues, privations and dangers, instead of returning to civilised life? Were they as rich and powerful as they might have been? Had the desert claimed these three noble spirits, as it has done so many others? Like the monk, who seeks in the silence of cloister forgetfulness of the world’s vain show, had Fabian in the sublimity of solitude been able to forget the woman who loved him, and who secretly hoped for and expected his return?What we are about to relate will answer these questions.One sultry afternoon, two men, mounted and armed to the teeth, pursued the lonely road which leads from the utmost confines of the province of Sonora to the Presidio of Tubac. Their costume, the coarse equipment of their steeds, and the beauty of the latter, formed on the whole a striking contrast and seemed to indicate subalterns despatched by some rich proprietor, either to carry or to seek information.The first was clothed in leather from head to foot, like the vaquero of some noble hacienda. The second, dark and bearded like a Moor, though less simply attired than his companion, did not appear to be of much greater consideration.At the end of a journey of some days the white houses of the Presidio began to appear in the distance. The two cavaliers had probably exhausted every subject of conversation, for they trotted on in silence.The scanty vegetation which covered the plains they were crossing was again becoming parched by the sun, after the winter rains; and the dry grass harboured innumerable grasshoppers whose shrill note was heard incessantly, mingled with the scorching breath of the south wind. The foliage of the Peruvian trees drooped languidly over the burning sand, like the willows upon the banks of a stream.The two cavaliers arrived at the entrance of the Presidio just as the church clock sounded the eveningangelus.Tubac was then a village with two cross streets, its houses built of cement, with only a few windows in the front, as is the custom in places exposed to the sudden excursions of the Indians. Strong movable barriers, formed by trunks of trees, protected the four approaches to the village; and a piece of the artillery of the country, raised upon its carriage, was erected behind each of these barriers.Previous to following the new-comers into the Presidio, we must relate an incident which, insignificant in itself, nevertheless acquired some importance in the heart of a solitary village of Tubac.During the space of a fortnight a mysterious personage—inasmuch as he was unknown to the inhabitants of the Presidio—had frequently, and for a short time, appeared there. He was a man of about forty years of age, thin, but rough and vigorous in appearance, whose countenance seemed to tell of dangers overcome, but whose speech was as rare as his physiognomy was expressive. He replied shortly to any questions addressed to him; but, on the other hand, he asked a great many, and appeared particularly anxious to know what was passing at the Hacienda del Venado.Some of the inhabitants of the Presidency knew the rich proprietor very well by repute, but few amongst them—or, one might rather say, none of them—were so thoroughly acquainted with Don Augustin Peña, as to be capable of answering the questions of the stranger.Everybody in Tubac remembered the gold-seekers’ expedition which had set out six months previously; and according to some vague replies given by the mysterious personage, it was suspected that he knew more upon the matter than he chose to reveal. He had, he pretended, encountered in the deserts of the Apache country, a troop commanded by Don Estevan in a very critical position, and he had reason for believing that they must have fought a last and terrible engagement with the Indians, from the result of which he augured no good.The evening before the arrival of the two travellers, he had inquired what direction he ought to take to reach Don Augustin’s house; and, above all, he had testified a great wish to learn whether Doña Rosarita was still unmarried.The unknown always wore on his head a red checkered handkerchief, the folds of which hung down over his eyes; and in consequence of this head-dress he always went by the name of the “man with the red kerchief.”This being explained, let us now return to our two travellers.The new-comers—whose arrival created some sensation—on entering the presidency, directed their steps towards one of the houses of the village, at the door of which sat a man, who was soothing his leisure hours by playing upon the guitar.One of the cavaliers, addressing him, said—“Santas tardes! my master; will you afford hospitality to two strangers for a day and a night?”The musician rose and bowed courteously.“Pray dismount, noble cavaliers,” he answered, “this dwelling is at your service as long as you please to remain.”Such is the simple ceremonial of hospitality still in vogue in these distant countries.The cavaliers dismounted from their horses, in the midst of an idle group who had collected around them, and who observed the two strangers with considerable curiosity—for in the Presidio of Tubac an arrival is a rare event.The host silently assisted his guests to unsaddle their horses, but the more inquisitive of the crowd did not exercise so much discretion, and without scruple addressed a multitude of questions to the travellers.“Good people,” said one of the cavaliers, “let us first attend to our horses, and afterwards, when we have taken a mouthful of food, we shall have a chat. My comrade and myself have come here for that very purpose.”Thus saying, the bearded cavalier unfastened his gigantic spurs, threw them across his horse’s saddle, which he deposited, together with its woollen covering carefully folded, in the piazza attached to the house.The two strangers did not dwell long over their repast. They soon rejoined their host upon the threshold, and sat down beside him.Their questioners had not yet departed from the house.“I am the more inclined,” resumed the bearded traveller, “to inform you all of the object of our visit to the Presidio, since we are sent by our master to ask you a few questions. Will that be agreeable to you?”“Perfectly,” replied several voices, “and first, may we know who your master is?”“He is Don Augustin Peña; you are not without some knowledge of his name?”“The proprietor of the great Hacienda del Venado—a man worth three millions! Who does not know him?” replied one of the bystanders.“He is the same. This cavalier, whom you see, is a vaquero, entrusted with the care of the beasts of the hacienda; for myself, I am a major-domo attached to the service of the proprietor. Would you have the kindness, my dear friend, to give me a light for my cigar?” continued the bearded major-domo.He paused to light his cigar of maize husk, and then resumed:“Six months ago an expedition set out from here in search of gold dust. This expedition was headed by one named—let me see—carrai! I have heard him called by so many names that I cannot remember any!”“Don Estevan Arechiza!” replied one of the interlocutors, “a Spaniard, and one such as we do not often see in this country; one who seemed, by his noble deportment and majestic countenance, to have commanded all his life.”“Don Estevan Arechiza: the very same,” said the major-domo, “a man who as far exceeds all others in generosity as a gamester who has just won a fortune. But let me return to the expedition; about how many men composed it, do you guess?”“More than eighty started out with it.”“More than a hundred,” suggested another.“You are mistaken—the number was not a hundred in all,” interrupted a third.“That matters little to Don Augustin, my master. It is far more important to know how many returned.”Upon this point also there were two different opinions.“Not a single one,” remarked a voice.“Yes; there was one, and but one,” continued another.The major-domo rubbed his hands with an air of satisfaction.“Good!” said he, “then at least one is saved, provided this gentleman, who declares that all the gold-seekers are not dead, be rightly informed, as I hope he is.”“Do you not think,” said the last who had spoken, “that the man of the red handkerchief may not be one of those whose departure we witnessed six months ago? I would swear to it by the cross and Gospel.”“No! not so!” cried another, “that man never set foot in the Presidio before the other day.”“In any case,” interrupted a third, “the man of the red handkerchief has doubtless something of interest in store for Don Augustin Peña, since he has so often inquired about him. With these gentlemen, he will probably be more communicative than with us.”“That will be just what we desire,” resumed the major-domo.“You must know, then, and I may without indiscretion inform you,” continued he, “that Don Augustin Peña, whom God preserve, was the intimate friend of Señor Arechiza, and that he has had no news of him for six months past, which would be natural enough if he has been massacred by the Indians with all the rest. But my master is anxious for his return, that he may marry his daughter, Doña Rosarita, a beautiful and charming person, to the Senator Don Vicente Tragaduros. Months have elapsed, and since the hacienda is not on the main road from Arispe to Tubac, and that we cannot gain information from any one upon the subject of this deplorable expedition, Don Augustin determined upon sending us here to inquire about it. When he shall have established the fact that Don Estevan’s return is impossible—and as young girls do not readily meet with Senators in the heart of the desert—nor do the latter often find there girls whose marriage portion is worth two hundred thousand piastres—”“Carramba! that is a high figure.”“True, friend,” continued the major-domo, “then the projected marriage will take place to the mutual satisfaction of all parties. Such is the object of our journey to Tubac. If, therefore, you can conduct me to him whom you describe as the sole survivor of this expedition, we shall perhaps learn from him what we wish to discover.”The conversation had reached this stage, when, at some distance from the house where it was taking place, a man was seen passing, with his head bent downwards.“See!” said one of the party, pointing to the man in question; “there goes your sole survivor.”“In truth, it is a person whose conduct is sufficiently mysterious,” added the host. “For some days past he has done nothing but come and go, from one place to another, without informing any one of the object of his journeyings.”“If it please you, we shall question him?” proposed one.“Hola! friend!” cried another of the party; “come this way; here is a gentleman who is anxious to see and speak with you.”The mysterious unknown approached at the summons.“Señor cavalier,” said the major-domo, courteously addressing him, “it is not to gratify an idle curiosity that I now address you; but the master whom I serve feels a natural anxiety at the disappearance of a friend, whose death he would greatly deplore. What do you know of Don Estevan de Arechiza?”“Many things. But, pray what is the name of the master of whom you speak?”“Don Augustin Peña—proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado.”A ray of joy lit up the countenance of the unknown.“I am able,” he said, “to furnish Don Augustin with all the information he may desire. How many days’ journey is it from hence to the hacienda?”“Three days’ journey, with a good horse.”“I possess a capital one; and if you can wait for me until to-morrow evening, I shall accompany you, and communicate with Don Augustin in person.”“Be it so,” answered the major-domo.“Very well,” added the man of the red handkerchief; “to-morrow at this same hour we will start, so that we may travel by night, and so escape the heat.”Saying this, he took his departure, when the major-domo remarked:“It must be agreed, gentlemen, that nothing can exceed the complaisance of this cavalier of the red handkerchief.”The arrangement did not satisfy the bystanders, who were thoroughly disappointed; but their interest was renewed, on seeing the man of the red handkerchief pass by on horseback, and depart at full speed towards the north.The unknown kept his promise: and on the day following he returned at the hour of the eveningangelus.Don Augustin’s two envoys took leave of their host, assuring him of a kind welcome, if ever his affairs led him in the direction of the Hacienda del Venado. Even the poorest in this primitive country, would blush to receive any other reward for hospitality than sincere thanks, and a promise that they in their turn should receive it.The three horsemen set off at full speed; the horse of the unknown equalled in strength and mettle those of Don Augustin’s envoys. The journey was rapidly accomplished; and at dawn of the third day, they could trace in the distance the clock-tower of the Hacienda del Venado, and an hour afterwards they dismounted in the court-yard. Although it was at that early hour when the sun sheds its most enlivening rays, everything which surrounded this habitation bore the stamp of melancholy. One might have supposed that the gloomy nature of the inmates was reflected upon its exterior.Doña Rosarita was dying of grief; and this filled the haciendado with the deepest anxiety. Don Augustin’s daughter could not help the belief that Fabian yet lived. But why, then, had not Tiburcio, as she always called him, returned to the hacienda? Either he was dead, or he no longer loved her? It was this uncertainty that gave rise to Doña Rosarita’s deep dejection.Another source of anxiety to the haciendado, was the absence of all news from the Duke de Armada; and to this anxiety was added impatience. The projected marriage between Rosarita and the Senator had been devised by Don Estevan. Tragaduros had urged its fulfilment. Don Augustin had laid the proposal before his daughter, but she replied only by tears; and her father still hesitated.However, at the expiration of six months, it was determined to put an end to the uncertainty by sending to the Presidio for information concerning the expedition commanded by Don Estevan. It was the last respite that poor Rosarita had ventured to demand.The Senator had absented himself for some days from the hacienda, when the major-domo returned, and Don Augustin was informed of the arrival of a stranger who could remove his uncertainty. He ordered the stranger to be introduced into the chamber already known to the reader; and Doña Rosarita, who had been sent for, speedily joined her father.In a few moments the stranger presented himself. A wide felt hat, to which on entering he raised his hand without removing it, shaded his face, upon which a keen anxiety was visible. From beneath the broad brim of his hat a red handkerchief fell so low upon his forehead as almost to conceal his eyebrows, and from beneath its shadow he gazed with a singular interest upon the pale countenance of the young girl.
Six months have elapsed since the three hunters, without deigning to carry with them a single grain of the treasures of the valley of gold, directed their steps, following the course of the Rio Gila, to the plains of Texas. The rainy had succeeded to the dry season, without anything being known of their fate, or of the expedition commanded by Don Estevan de Arechiza.
Diaz was no more, having carried with him to the tomb the secret of the wonderful valley—and Gayferos had followed his three liberators. What had become of these intrepid hunters who had willingly encountered fatigues, privations and dangers, instead of returning to civilised life? Were they as rich and powerful as they might have been? Had the desert claimed these three noble spirits, as it has done so many others? Like the monk, who seeks in the silence of cloister forgetfulness of the world’s vain show, had Fabian in the sublimity of solitude been able to forget the woman who loved him, and who secretly hoped for and expected his return?
What we are about to relate will answer these questions.
One sultry afternoon, two men, mounted and armed to the teeth, pursued the lonely road which leads from the utmost confines of the province of Sonora to the Presidio of Tubac. Their costume, the coarse equipment of their steeds, and the beauty of the latter, formed on the whole a striking contrast and seemed to indicate subalterns despatched by some rich proprietor, either to carry or to seek information.
The first was clothed in leather from head to foot, like the vaquero of some noble hacienda. The second, dark and bearded like a Moor, though less simply attired than his companion, did not appear to be of much greater consideration.
At the end of a journey of some days the white houses of the Presidio began to appear in the distance. The two cavaliers had probably exhausted every subject of conversation, for they trotted on in silence.
The scanty vegetation which covered the plains they were crossing was again becoming parched by the sun, after the winter rains; and the dry grass harboured innumerable grasshoppers whose shrill note was heard incessantly, mingled with the scorching breath of the south wind. The foliage of the Peruvian trees drooped languidly over the burning sand, like the willows upon the banks of a stream.
The two cavaliers arrived at the entrance of the Presidio just as the church clock sounded the eveningangelus.
Tubac was then a village with two cross streets, its houses built of cement, with only a few windows in the front, as is the custom in places exposed to the sudden excursions of the Indians. Strong movable barriers, formed by trunks of trees, protected the four approaches to the village; and a piece of the artillery of the country, raised upon its carriage, was erected behind each of these barriers.
Previous to following the new-comers into the Presidio, we must relate an incident which, insignificant in itself, nevertheless acquired some importance in the heart of a solitary village of Tubac.
During the space of a fortnight a mysterious personage—inasmuch as he was unknown to the inhabitants of the Presidio—had frequently, and for a short time, appeared there. He was a man of about forty years of age, thin, but rough and vigorous in appearance, whose countenance seemed to tell of dangers overcome, but whose speech was as rare as his physiognomy was expressive. He replied shortly to any questions addressed to him; but, on the other hand, he asked a great many, and appeared particularly anxious to know what was passing at the Hacienda del Venado.
Some of the inhabitants of the Presidency knew the rich proprietor very well by repute, but few amongst them—or, one might rather say, none of them—were so thoroughly acquainted with Don Augustin Peña, as to be capable of answering the questions of the stranger.
Everybody in Tubac remembered the gold-seekers’ expedition which had set out six months previously; and according to some vague replies given by the mysterious personage, it was suspected that he knew more upon the matter than he chose to reveal. He had, he pretended, encountered in the deserts of the Apache country, a troop commanded by Don Estevan in a very critical position, and he had reason for believing that they must have fought a last and terrible engagement with the Indians, from the result of which he augured no good.
The evening before the arrival of the two travellers, he had inquired what direction he ought to take to reach Don Augustin’s house; and, above all, he had testified a great wish to learn whether Doña Rosarita was still unmarried.
The unknown always wore on his head a red checkered handkerchief, the folds of which hung down over his eyes; and in consequence of this head-dress he always went by the name of the “man with the red kerchief.”
This being explained, let us now return to our two travellers.
The new-comers—whose arrival created some sensation—on entering the presidency, directed their steps towards one of the houses of the village, at the door of which sat a man, who was soothing his leisure hours by playing upon the guitar.
One of the cavaliers, addressing him, said—
“Santas tardes! my master; will you afford hospitality to two strangers for a day and a night?”
The musician rose and bowed courteously.
“Pray dismount, noble cavaliers,” he answered, “this dwelling is at your service as long as you please to remain.”
Such is the simple ceremonial of hospitality still in vogue in these distant countries.
The cavaliers dismounted from their horses, in the midst of an idle group who had collected around them, and who observed the two strangers with considerable curiosity—for in the Presidio of Tubac an arrival is a rare event.
The host silently assisted his guests to unsaddle their horses, but the more inquisitive of the crowd did not exercise so much discretion, and without scruple addressed a multitude of questions to the travellers.
“Good people,” said one of the cavaliers, “let us first attend to our horses, and afterwards, when we have taken a mouthful of food, we shall have a chat. My comrade and myself have come here for that very purpose.”
Thus saying, the bearded cavalier unfastened his gigantic spurs, threw them across his horse’s saddle, which he deposited, together with its woollen covering carefully folded, in the piazza attached to the house.
The two strangers did not dwell long over their repast. They soon rejoined their host upon the threshold, and sat down beside him.
Their questioners had not yet departed from the house.
“I am the more inclined,” resumed the bearded traveller, “to inform you all of the object of our visit to the Presidio, since we are sent by our master to ask you a few questions. Will that be agreeable to you?”
“Perfectly,” replied several voices, “and first, may we know who your master is?”
“He is Don Augustin Peña; you are not without some knowledge of his name?”
“The proprietor of the great Hacienda del Venado—a man worth three millions! Who does not know him?” replied one of the bystanders.
“He is the same. This cavalier, whom you see, is a vaquero, entrusted with the care of the beasts of the hacienda; for myself, I am a major-domo attached to the service of the proprietor. Would you have the kindness, my dear friend, to give me a light for my cigar?” continued the bearded major-domo.
He paused to light his cigar of maize husk, and then resumed:
“Six months ago an expedition set out from here in search of gold dust. This expedition was headed by one named—let me see—carrai! I have heard him called by so many names that I cannot remember any!”
“Don Estevan Arechiza!” replied one of the interlocutors, “a Spaniard, and one such as we do not often see in this country; one who seemed, by his noble deportment and majestic countenance, to have commanded all his life.”
“Don Estevan Arechiza: the very same,” said the major-domo, “a man who as far exceeds all others in generosity as a gamester who has just won a fortune. But let me return to the expedition; about how many men composed it, do you guess?”
“More than eighty started out with it.”
“More than a hundred,” suggested another.
“You are mistaken—the number was not a hundred in all,” interrupted a third.
“That matters little to Don Augustin, my master. It is far more important to know how many returned.”
Upon this point also there were two different opinions.
“Not a single one,” remarked a voice.
“Yes; there was one, and but one,” continued another.
The major-domo rubbed his hands with an air of satisfaction.
“Good!” said he, “then at least one is saved, provided this gentleman, who declares that all the gold-seekers are not dead, be rightly informed, as I hope he is.”
“Do you not think,” said the last who had spoken, “that the man of the red handkerchief may not be one of those whose departure we witnessed six months ago? I would swear to it by the cross and Gospel.”
“No! not so!” cried another, “that man never set foot in the Presidio before the other day.”
“In any case,” interrupted a third, “the man of the red handkerchief has doubtless something of interest in store for Don Augustin Peña, since he has so often inquired about him. With these gentlemen, he will probably be more communicative than with us.”
“That will be just what we desire,” resumed the major-domo.
“You must know, then, and I may without indiscretion inform you,” continued he, “that Don Augustin Peña, whom God preserve, was the intimate friend of Señor Arechiza, and that he has had no news of him for six months past, which would be natural enough if he has been massacred by the Indians with all the rest. But my master is anxious for his return, that he may marry his daughter, Doña Rosarita, a beautiful and charming person, to the Senator Don Vicente Tragaduros. Months have elapsed, and since the hacienda is not on the main road from Arispe to Tubac, and that we cannot gain information from any one upon the subject of this deplorable expedition, Don Augustin determined upon sending us here to inquire about it. When he shall have established the fact that Don Estevan’s return is impossible—and as young girls do not readily meet with Senators in the heart of the desert—nor do the latter often find there girls whose marriage portion is worth two hundred thousand piastres—”
“Carramba! that is a high figure.”
“True, friend,” continued the major-domo, “then the projected marriage will take place to the mutual satisfaction of all parties. Such is the object of our journey to Tubac. If, therefore, you can conduct me to him whom you describe as the sole survivor of this expedition, we shall perhaps learn from him what we wish to discover.”
The conversation had reached this stage, when, at some distance from the house where it was taking place, a man was seen passing, with his head bent downwards.
“See!” said one of the party, pointing to the man in question; “there goes your sole survivor.”
“In truth, it is a person whose conduct is sufficiently mysterious,” added the host. “For some days past he has done nothing but come and go, from one place to another, without informing any one of the object of his journeyings.”
“If it please you, we shall question him?” proposed one.
“Hola! friend!” cried another of the party; “come this way; here is a gentleman who is anxious to see and speak with you.”
The mysterious unknown approached at the summons.
“Señor cavalier,” said the major-domo, courteously addressing him, “it is not to gratify an idle curiosity that I now address you; but the master whom I serve feels a natural anxiety at the disappearance of a friend, whose death he would greatly deplore. What do you know of Don Estevan de Arechiza?”
“Many things. But, pray what is the name of the master of whom you speak?”
“Don Augustin Peña—proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado.”
A ray of joy lit up the countenance of the unknown.
“I am able,” he said, “to furnish Don Augustin with all the information he may desire. How many days’ journey is it from hence to the hacienda?”
“Three days’ journey, with a good horse.”
“I possess a capital one; and if you can wait for me until to-morrow evening, I shall accompany you, and communicate with Don Augustin in person.”
“Be it so,” answered the major-domo.
“Very well,” added the man of the red handkerchief; “to-morrow at this same hour we will start, so that we may travel by night, and so escape the heat.”
Saying this, he took his departure, when the major-domo remarked:
“It must be agreed, gentlemen, that nothing can exceed the complaisance of this cavalier of the red handkerchief.”
The arrangement did not satisfy the bystanders, who were thoroughly disappointed; but their interest was renewed, on seeing the man of the red handkerchief pass by on horseback, and depart at full speed towards the north.
The unknown kept his promise: and on the day following he returned at the hour of the eveningangelus.
Don Augustin’s two envoys took leave of their host, assuring him of a kind welcome, if ever his affairs led him in the direction of the Hacienda del Venado. Even the poorest in this primitive country, would blush to receive any other reward for hospitality than sincere thanks, and a promise that they in their turn should receive it.
The three horsemen set off at full speed; the horse of the unknown equalled in strength and mettle those of Don Augustin’s envoys. The journey was rapidly accomplished; and at dawn of the third day, they could trace in the distance the clock-tower of the Hacienda del Venado, and an hour afterwards they dismounted in the court-yard. Although it was at that early hour when the sun sheds its most enlivening rays, everything which surrounded this habitation bore the stamp of melancholy. One might have supposed that the gloomy nature of the inmates was reflected upon its exterior.
Doña Rosarita was dying of grief; and this filled the haciendado with the deepest anxiety. Don Augustin’s daughter could not help the belief that Fabian yet lived. But why, then, had not Tiburcio, as she always called him, returned to the hacienda? Either he was dead, or he no longer loved her? It was this uncertainty that gave rise to Doña Rosarita’s deep dejection.
Another source of anxiety to the haciendado, was the absence of all news from the Duke de Armada; and to this anxiety was added impatience. The projected marriage between Rosarita and the Senator had been devised by Don Estevan. Tragaduros had urged its fulfilment. Don Augustin had laid the proposal before his daughter, but she replied only by tears; and her father still hesitated.
However, at the expiration of six months, it was determined to put an end to the uncertainty by sending to the Presidio for information concerning the expedition commanded by Don Estevan. It was the last respite that poor Rosarita had ventured to demand.
The Senator had absented himself for some days from the hacienda, when the major-domo returned, and Don Augustin was informed of the arrival of a stranger who could remove his uncertainty. He ordered the stranger to be introduced into the chamber already known to the reader; and Doña Rosarita, who had been sent for, speedily joined her father.
In a few moments the stranger presented himself. A wide felt hat, to which on entering he raised his hand without removing it, shaded his face, upon which a keen anxiety was visible. From beneath the broad brim of his hat a red handkerchief fell so low upon his forehead as almost to conceal his eyebrows, and from beneath its shadow he gazed with a singular interest upon the pale countenance of the young girl.
Chapter Fifty Three.The Stranger’s Story.Her head veiled by a silk scarf which partly concealed the luxuriant tresses of her dark hair as they fell in luxuriant clusters upon her bosom, Doña Rosarita’s countenance gave evidence of long and secret suffering.As she seated herself, a look of deep disquietude increased her paleness. It seemed as though the young girl feared the approach of a moment, in which she might be required to renounce those sweet dreams of the past, for the reality of a future she dared not contemplate.When the stranger was also seated the haciendado addressed him.“We are indebted to you, my friend,” he said, “for travelling thus far to bring us news which I have been forewarned may prove of a very sad nature; nevertheless we must hear all. God’s will be done!”“My news is in truth sad; but as you say, it is necessary,” and the stranger, laying a stress upon these last words, seemed to address himself more particularly to Doña Rosarita, “that you should hear all. I have been witness to many things yonder; and the desert does not conceal so many secrets as one might suppose.”The young girl trembled slightly, while she fixed upon the man of the red handkerchief, a deep and searching glance.“Go on, friend,” said she, in her melodious voice, “we shall have courage to hear all.”“What do you know of Don Estevan?” resumed the haciendado.“He is dead, Señor.”A sigh of grief escaped Don Augustin, and he rested his head upon his hands.“Who killed him?” he asked.“I know not, but he is dead.”“And Pedro Diaz—that man of such noble and disinterested feeling?”“He, like Don Estevan, is no more of this world.”“And his friends Cuchillo, Oroche, and Baraja?”“Dead as well as Pedro Diaz, all dead except—but with your leave, Señor, I shall commence my narrative at an earlier period. It is necessary that you should know all.”“We shall listen to you patiently.”“I need not detail,” resumed the narrator, “the dangers of every kind, nor the various combats in which we were engaged since our departure. Headed by a chief who inspired us with boundless confidence, we shared his perils cheerfully.”“Poor Don Estevan!” murmured the haciendado.“During the last halt in which I was present, a report spread through the camp that we were in the vicinity of an immense treasure of gold. Cuchillo, our guide, deserted us; he was absent two days. It was doubtless God’s will that I should be saved, since it inspired Don Estevan with the idea of sending me in search of him. He therefore commanded me to scour the country in the environs of the camp.“I obeyed him, notwithstanding the danger of the mission, and went in search of our guide’s footsteps. After some time I was fortunate enough to find his traces; when all at once I perceived in the distance a party of Apaches engaged in a hunt of wild horses. I turned my horse’s head round as quickly as possible, but the ferocious yells which burst out on every side told me that I was discovered.”The stranger, in whom the reader has doubtless recognised Gayferos, the unfortunate man who had been scalped, paused an instant as though overcome by horrible recollections. Then in continuation, he related the manner in which he was captured by the Indians, his anguish when he thought of the torments they were preparing for him, the desperate struggle by which he kept up in his race against them with naked feet, and the inexpressible sufferings he endured.“Seized by one of them,” said he, “I was struck by a blow which felled me to the earth; then I felt the keen edge of a knife trace, as it were, a circle of fire around my head. I heard a gun fired, a ball hissed close to my ears, and I lost all consciousness. I cannot tell how many minutes passed thus. The sound of a second shot caused me to open my eyes, but the blood which covered my face blinded me; I raised my hand to my head, which felt both burning and frozen. My skull was bare, the Indian had torn off the hair with the scalp attached to it. In short, they had scalped me! That is the reason, Señor, that I now wear this red handkerchief both by day and by night.”During his recital, a cold perspiration covered the narrator’s countenance. His two listeners shuddered with horror.After a momentary pause, he continued:“I ought perhaps to spare you, as well as myself, other sad details.”Gayferos then related to his auditors the unexpected assistance he had obtained from the three hunters who had taken refuge upon the little island, and was describing the moment in which Bois-Rose carried him off in the presence of the Indians, when this heroic action drew from Don Augustin’s lips a cry of admiration.“But there were then a score on this little island?” interrupted he.“Reckoning the giant who carried me in his arms there were but three,” continued the narrator.“Santa Virgen! they were trusty men then—but continue.”The adventurer resumed:“The companion of him who had carried me in his arms was a man of about the same age—that is, near five-and-forty. There was, besides, a young man, of a pale but proud countenance, a sparkling eye, and a sweet smile; by my faith, a handsome young man, Señorita; such a one as a father might with pride own as a son—such as a lady might be proud and happy to see at her feet. During a short interval of calm, which succeeded the horrible agonies I had suffered, I found time to question the preservers of my life concerning their names and occupation; but I could learn nothing from them except that they were hunters, and travelled for their own pleasure. That was not very probable, still I made no observation.”Doña Rosarita could not quite suppress a sigh: perhaps she expected to be reminded of a familiar name.Gayferos continued the recital of various facts with which the reader is already acquainted.“Alas, Señorita,” he continued, “the poor young man was himself captured by the Indians, and his punishment was to avenge the death of their companions.”At this part of the narrative, Doña Rosarita’s cheek became deadly pale.“Well, and the young man,” interrupted the haciendado, who was almost as much moved as the daughter, on hearing these sad events, “what became of him?”Rosarita, who had remained silent as the narrator proceeded, returned by a look of tender acknowledgment, the solicitude her father testified for the young man, for whom in spite of herself, she felt so deep an interest.“Three days and three nights were consumed in fearful anguish, relieved only by a feeble ray of hope. At length on the morning of the fourth day, we were able unawares to fall upon our sanguinary foes; and after a desperate struggle, the warlike giant succeeded in reconquering the youth, who, safe and sound, he again pressed to his heart, calling him his beloved child.”“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed the haciendado, with a sigh of relief.Rosarita remained silent, but her colour suddenly returning, testified to the pleasure she experienced: while a joyous smile lit up her countenance on hearing the last words of the narrator.“Continue!” said the haciendado; “but, in your recital, which is deeply interesting to a man who was himself during six months held captive by the Indians, I seek in vain for any details relative to poor Don Estevan’s death.”“I am ignorant of them,” continued Gayferos, “and I can only repeat the words spoken by the youngest of the three hunters, when I questioned him upon the subject.”“He is dead,” said the young man to me, “you yourself are the last survivor of a numerous expedition; when you shall have returned to your own country—for,” added he, with a sigh, “you have perhaps some one, who in grief numbers the days of your absence—they will question you concerning the fate of your chief, and the men he commanded. You will reply to them, that the men died fighting—as to their chief, that he was condemned by the justice of God, and that the divine sentence pronounced against him, was executed in the desert. Don Estevan Arechiza will never again return to his friends.”“Poor Don Estevan!” exclaimed the haciendado.“And you could never learn the names of these brave, generous, and devoted men?” asked Doña Rosarita.“Not at the moment,” continued Gayferos; “only it appeared strange to me, that the youngest of the three hunters spoke to me of Don Estevan, Diaz, Oroche, and Baraja, as though he knew them perfectly.”A pang shot through Doña Rosarita’s heart, her bosom heaved, her cheeks were dyed with a deep crimson, then became pale again as the flowers of thedatura, but she still remained silent.“I draw towards the close of my recital,” continued Gayferos. “After having recovered the brave warrior’s son from the Apaches, we journeyed towards the plains of Texas. I shall not relate to you all the dangers we encountered during six months of our wandering life, as hunters of the otter and the beaver, nevertheless, it had its charms; but there was one amongst us, who was far from finding this life agreeable. This was our young companion.“When I saw him for the first time I was struck by the melancholy expression of his countenance, but afterwards, as we journeyed together, I noticed that this melancholy, instead of decreasing, seemed daily to augment. The old hunter, whom I believed to be his father (I know now that he is not), took every opportunity of calling his attention to the magnificence of the vast forest in which we lived, the imposing scenes of the desert, or the charm of the perils we encountered. They were vain efforts, for nothing could banish the grief that consumed him. He seemed only to forget it in the midst of the dangers he eagerly sought. One might have supposed that life to him was no more than a heavy burden which he desired to get rid of.“Full of compassion for him, I often said to the old hunter—‘Solitude is only suited to an advanced age, youth delights in activity, and in the presence of its equals. Let us return to our habitations.’ But the giant only sighed without replying.“Soon afterwards the manner of the two hunters, who loved their young companion as a son, became also saddened.“One night while the young man and I were watching, I recalled a name which six months before he had uttered in his sleep. I then learned the secret of that grief which was slowly consuming him. He loved, and solitude had but increased a passion which he vainly sought to stifle.”Gayferos paused an instant to cast a searching glance upon the countenances of his auditors, especially upon that of Doña Rosarita. He appeared to take a secret pleasure in exciting the young girl by the recital of all the circumstances best calculated to touch the heart of a woman.As a warrior and a hunter, the haciendado did not attempt to conceal the interest with which the stranger’s narrative was inspiring him.Rosarita, on the contrary, endeavoured, under a mask of studied coldness, to conceal the charm she experienced on listening to this romance of heart and action, whose most stirring pages were so considerately opened to her by the intelligent narrator.But her heightened colour and the fire in her large dark eyes completely belied her efforts.“Ah!” cried Don Augustin, “if these three brave men had been under Don Estevan’s command, the fate of the expedition might have been far different.”“I am of the same opinion,” replied Gayferos, “but God had ordained it otherwise. Meanwhile,” he continued, “I felt a great longing again to see my native land, but gratitude required that I should conceal it. But the old warrior divined my thoughts, and one day addressed me on this subject.“Too generous to suffer me alone to brave the dangers of my homeward journey, the giant hunter resolved to accompany me as far as Tubac. His companion did not oppose his resolution, and we set out for the frontier. The young man alone seemed, to follow us reluctantly in this direction.“I shall not describe our fatigues and the various difficulties we surmounted, in the course of our long and perilous journey. I wish, however, to speak of one of our last encounters with the Indians.“In order to reach the Presidio we were obliged to cross the chain of the Rocky Mountains. It was towards the approach of night that we found ourselves amongst their gloomy solitudes, and we were obliged to halt.“This is a spot much frequented by the Indians, and we could not encamp without the greatest precaution.“Nothing, as it seems to me, can better resemble the abode of condemned souls than these mountains, where we spent the night. At every moment strange sounds, which appeared to proceed from the cavities of the rocks, broke upon our ears. At one time it was a volcano, which rumbled with dull and heavy noise beneath us, or the distant roar of a cataract: sometimes resembling the howling of wolves or plaintive cries; and from time to time dreadful flashes of lightning tore aside the veil of mist which eternally covers these mountains.“For fear of a surprise we had encamped upon a rock which projected, in the form of a table, above a wide open valley about fifty feet below us. The two elder hunters were asleep; the youngest alone kept watch. It was his turn, and as usual he had been compelled to insist upon it—for his companions seemed unwilling thus to allow him to share their toils.“As for myself, sick and suffering, I was stretched upon the ground. After many vain efforts to obtain a little rest, at length I slept, when a frightful dream awoke me with a start.“‘Did you hear nothing?’ I asked of the young man, in a low voice. ‘Nothing,’ he replied, ‘except the rumbling of the subterranean volcanoes in the mountains.’ ‘Say, rather, that we are here in an accursed spot,’ I continued, and then I related my dream to him.“‘It is, perhaps a warning,’ he said gravely. ‘I remember one night to have had just such a dream, when—’“The young man paused. He had advanced to the edge of the rock. I crawled after him mechanically. The same object arrested our attention at the same moment.“One of those spirits of darkness which might have inhabited such a spot, appeared suddenly to have acquired a visible form. It was a kind of phantom, with the head and skin of a wolf, but erect upon its legs like a human being. I made the sign of the cross, and murmured a prayer, but the phantom did not stir.“‘It is the devil,’ I whispered.“‘It is an Indian,’ replied the young man; ‘there are his companions at some distance.’“In short, our eyes, well practised in making out objects in the dark, could distinguish about twenty Indians, stretched upon the ground, and who, in truth, had no idea of our vicinity.“Ah, Señorita!” added the narrator, addressing himself to Doña Rosarita, “it was one of those opportunities fraught with danger, which the poor young man sought with so much avidity; and your heart, like mine, would have been torn at beholding the sad joy which sparkled in his eyes; for the further we travelled in this direction the more his melancholy seemed to increase.“‘Let us wake our friends,’ I suggested.“‘No; let me go alone. These two men have done enough for me. It is now my turn to run a risk for them and, if I die, I shall forget—’“As he spoke these words the young man quitted me, made a détour, and I lost sight of him—without, however, ceasing to behold the frightful apparition which continued immovable in the same spot.“All at once I saw another dusky shape, which rushed towards the phantom and seized it by the throat. The two forms grappled with one another. The struggle was short and noiseless, and one might have believed them two spirits. I prayed to God in behalf of the poor young man who thus exposed his life with so much indifference and intrepidity. A short time afterwards I saw him return; the blood was flowing over his face from a large wound on his head.“‘Oh, Heavens!’ I cried; ‘you are wounded.’“‘It is nothing,’ he said; ‘I will now wake our companions.’“What do you think, Señorita?” continued the narrator. “Was not my dream a warning from God? A party of Indians, whom we had put to flight on the other side of the mountains—had followed our track in order to revenge the blood of their companions, which had been spilt upon the banks of the Gila—at the place where we had rescued the young man.“But the Indians had to contend with terrible adversaries. Their sentinel was the phantom who had been killed by the courageous hunter before he had time to utter a cry of alarm, and the rest, surprised in their sleep, were nearly all stabbed; a few sought safety in flight.“The night had not passed before this new exploit was accomplished.“The tall hunter hastened to dress the wound of the young man, whom he loved as a son; and the latter, overcome with fatigue, stretched himself upon the ground and slept.“In the mean time his two friends watched by his side to guide his sleep, whilst I in sadness contemplated his altered countenance, his reduced figure, and the bloodstained bandage with which his head was bound.”“Poor youth,” interrupted Doña Rosarita, gently, “still so young, and yet compelled to lead a life of incessant danger. And his father, also, he must have trembled for the life of a beloved son?”“Beloved, as you say, Señorita,” continued the narrator.“During a period of six months I was a daily witness to the infinite tenderness of this father for his child.“The young man slept tranquilly, and his lips softly murmured a name—that of a woman—the same which had lately been revealed to me in his slumber.”Rosarita’s dark eyes seemed to question the narrator, but her words expired upon her parted lips; she dared not utter the name her heart was whispering in her ears.“But I encroach upon your time,” continued Gayferos, without appearing to notice the young girl’s agitation. “I draw towards the close of my narrative.“The young man woke just as day began to dawn. ‘Comrade,’ said the giant to me, ‘go down yonder and count the dead which these dogs have left behind them.’“Eleven corpses stretched upon the ground,” continued Gayferos, “and two captured horses, attested the victory of these intrepid hunters.”“Let all due honour be given to these formidable men,” cried Don Augustin, with enthusiasm, whilst his daughter, clapping her little hands together, exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, and an enthusiasm which equalled that of her father—“That is splendid! that is sublime! so young, and yet so brave.”Rosarita only lavished her praises upon the young unknown—though perhaps the acute perception which belongs to a woman, and which almost resembles a second sight, may have revealed to her his name.The narrator seemed to appreciate the praises bestowed upon his friends.“But did you not learn their names?” asked Doña Rosarita, timidly.“The elder was called Bois-Rose, the second Pepé. As to the young man—”Gayferos appeared vainly endeavouring to recall the name without remarking the anguish which was depicted in the young girl’s agitated frame, and visible in her anxious eyes.By the similarity of position between Tiburcio and the unknown, she could not doubt but that it was he; and the poor child was collecting all her strength to listen to his name, and not to utter, on hearing it, a cry of happiness and love.“As to the young man,” continued the narrator, “he was called Fabian.”At this name, which was unknown to the young girl, and which at once destroyed her pleasant delusions, she pressed her hand upon her heart, her lips became white, and the colour which hope had revived in her cheek faded away. She could only repeat mechanically.“Fabian!”At this moment the recital was interrupted by the entrance of a servant. The Chaplain begged the haciendado to come to him for an instant, upon some business he had to communicate to him.Don Augustin quitted the apartment, saying that he should speedily return.Gayferos and the young girl were now left alone; the former observed her some moments in silence, and with a delight he could scarcely conceal, saw that Rosarita trembled beneath the folds of her silk scarf. By a secret feeling the poor child divined that Gayferos had not yet finished. At length the latter said gently, “Fabian bore another name, Señorita; do you wish to hear it, while we are alone and without witnesses?”Rosarita turned pale.“Another name! oh, speak it?” she cried, in a trembling voice.“He was long known as Tiburcio Arellanos.”A cry of joy escaped the young girl, who rose from her seat, and approaching the bearer of this good news, seized his hand.“Thanks! thanks!” she exclaimed, “if my heart has not already spoken them.”Then she tottered across the chamber, and knelt at the feet of a Madonna, which, framed in gold, hung against the wall.“Tiburcio Arellanos,” continued the narrator, “is now Fabian, and Fabian is the last descendant of the Counts of Mediana—a noble and powerful Spanish family.”The young girl continued on her knees in prayer without appearing to listen to Gayferos’ words.“Immense possessions, a lofty name, titles and honours. All these he will lay at the feet of the woman who shall accept his hand.”The young girl continued her fervent prayer without turning her head.“And, moreover,” resumed the narrator, “the heart of Don Fabian de Mediana still retains a feeling which was dear to the heart of Tiburcio Arellanos.”Rosarita paused in her prayer.“Tiburcio Arellanos will be here to-night.”This time the young girl no longer prayed. It was Tiburcio and not Fabian, Count of Mediana. Tiburcio, poor, and unknown, for whom she had wept. At the sound of this name, she listened. Honours, titles, wealth. What were they to her? Fabian lived, and loved her still, what more could she desire?“If you will come to the breach in the wall, where, full of despair, he parted from you, you will find him there this very evening. Do you remember the place?”“Oh! my God!” she murmured, softly, “do I not visit it every evening?”And once more bending before the image of the Virgin, Rosarita resumed her interrupted prayer.The adventurer contemplated for some instants this enthusiastic and beautiful creature, her scarf partly concealing her figure, her nude shoulders caressed by the long tresses of her dark hair, which fell in soft rings upon their surface; then without interrupting her devotion, he rose from his seat and silently fitted the chamber.
Her head veiled by a silk scarf which partly concealed the luxuriant tresses of her dark hair as they fell in luxuriant clusters upon her bosom, Doña Rosarita’s countenance gave evidence of long and secret suffering.
As she seated herself, a look of deep disquietude increased her paleness. It seemed as though the young girl feared the approach of a moment, in which she might be required to renounce those sweet dreams of the past, for the reality of a future she dared not contemplate.
When the stranger was also seated the haciendado addressed him.
“We are indebted to you, my friend,” he said, “for travelling thus far to bring us news which I have been forewarned may prove of a very sad nature; nevertheless we must hear all. God’s will be done!”
“My news is in truth sad; but as you say, it is necessary,” and the stranger, laying a stress upon these last words, seemed to address himself more particularly to Doña Rosarita, “that you should hear all. I have been witness to many things yonder; and the desert does not conceal so many secrets as one might suppose.”
The young girl trembled slightly, while she fixed upon the man of the red handkerchief, a deep and searching glance.
“Go on, friend,” said she, in her melodious voice, “we shall have courage to hear all.”
“What do you know of Don Estevan?” resumed the haciendado.
“He is dead, Señor.”
A sigh of grief escaped Don Augustin, and he rested his head upon his hands.
“Who killed him?” he asked.
“I know not, but he is dead.”
“And Pedro Diaz—that man of such noble and disinterested feeling?”
“He, like Don Estevan, is no more of this world.”
“And his friends Cuchillo, Oroche, and Baraja?”
“Dead as well as Pedro Diaz, all dead except—but with your leave, Señor, I shall commence my narrative at an earlier period. It is necessary that you should know all.”
“We shall listen to you patiently.”
“I need not detail,” resumed the narrator, “the dangers of every kind, nor the various combats in which we were engaged since our departure. Headed by a chief who inspired us with boundless confidence, we shared his perils cheerfully.”
“Poor Don Estevan!” murmured the haciendado.
“During the last halt in which I was present, a report spread through the camp that we were in the vicinity of an immense treasure of gold. Cuchillo, our guide, deserted us; he was absent two days. It was doubtless God’s will that I should be saved, since it inspired Don Estevan with the idea of sending me in search of him. He therefore commanded me to scour the country in the environs of the camp.
“I obeyed him, notwithstanding the danger of the mission, and went in search of our guide’s footsteps. After some time I was fortunate enough to find his traces; when all at once I perceived in the distance a party of Apaches engaged in a hunt of wild horses. I turned my horse’s head round as quickly as possible, but the ferocious yells which burst out on every side told me that I was discovered.”
The stranger, in whom the reader has doubtless recognised Gayferos, the unfortunate man who had been scalped, paused an instant as though overcome by horrible recollections. Then in continuation, he related the manner in which he was captured by the Indians, his anguish when he thought of the torments they were preparing for him, the desperate struggle by which he kept up in his race against them with naked feet, and the inexpressible sufferings he endured.
“Seized by one of them,” said he, “I was struck by a blow which felled me to the earth; then I felt the keen edge of a knife trace, as it were, a circle of fire around my head. I heard a gun fired, a ball hissed close to my ears, and I lost all consciousness. I cannot tell how many minutes passed thus. The sound of a second shot caused me to open my eyes, but the blood which covered my face blinded me; I raised my hand to my head, which felt both burning and frozen. My skull was bare, the Indian had torn off the hair with the scalp attached to it. In short, they had scalped me! That is the reason, Señor, that I now wear this red handkerchief both by day and by night.”
During his recital, a cold perspiration covered the narrator’s countenance. His two listeners shuddered with horror.
After a momentary pause, he continued:
“I ought perhaps to spare you, as well as myself, other sad details.”
Gayferos then related to his auditors the unexpected assistance he had obtained from the three hunters who had taken refuge upon the little island, and was describing the moment in which Bois-Rose carried him off in the presence of the Indians, when this heroic action drew from Don Augustin’s lips a cry of admiration.
“But there were then a score on this little island?” interrupted he.
“Reckoning the giant who carried me in his arms there were but three,” continued the narrator.
“Santa Virgen! they were trusty men then—but continue.”
The adventurer resumed:
“The companion of him who had carried me in his arms was a man of about the same age—that is, near five-and-forty. There was, besides, a young man, of a pale but proud countenance, a sparkling eye, and a sweet smile; by my faith, a handsome young man, Señorita; such a one as a father might with pride own as a son—such as a lady might be proud and happy to see at her feet. During a short interval of calm, which succeeded the horrible agonies I had suffered, I found time to question the preservers of my life concerning their names and occupation; but I could learn nothing from them except that they were hunters, and travelled for their own pleasure. That was not very probable, still I made no observation.”
Doña Rosarita could not quite suppress a sigh: perhaps she expected to be reminded of a familiar name.
Gayferos continued the recital of various facts with which the reader is already acquainted.
“Alas, Señorita,” he continued, “the poor young man was himself captured by the Indians, and his punishment was to avenge the death of their companions.”
At this part of the narrative, Doña Rosarita’s cheek became deadly pale.
“Well, and the young man,” interrupted the haciendado, who was almost as much moved as the daughter, on hearing these sad events, “what became of him?”
Rosarita, who had remained silent as the narrator proceeded, returned by a look of tender acknowledgment, the solicitude her father testified for the young man, for whom in spite of herself, she felt so deep an interest.
“Three days and three nights were consumed in fearful anguish, relieved only by a feeble ray of hope. At length on the morning of the fourth day, we were able unawares to fall upon our sanguinary foes; and after a desperate struggle, the warlike giant succeeded in reconquering the youth, who, safe and sound, he again pressed to his heart, calling him his beloved child.”
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed the haciendado, with a sigh of relief.
Rosarita remained silent, but her colour suddenly returning, testified to the pleasure she experienced: while a joyous smile lit up her countenance on hearing the last words of the narrator.
“Continue!” said the haciendado; “but, in your recital, which is deeply interesting to a man who was himself during six months held captive by the Indians, I seek in vain for any details relative to poor Don Estevan’s death.”
“I am ignorant of them,” continued Gayferos, “and I can only repeat the words spoken by the youngest of the three hunters, when I questioned him upon the subject.”
“He is dead,” said the young man to me, “you yourself are the last survivor of a numerous expedition; when you shall have returned to your own country—for,” added he, with a sigh, “you have perhaps some one, who in grief numbers the days of your absence—they will question you concerning the fate of your chief, and the men he commanded. You will reply to them, that the men died fighting—as to their chief, that he was condemned by the justice of God, and that the divine sentence pronounced against him, was executed in the desert. Don Estevan Arechiza will never again return to his friends.”
“Poor Don Estevan!” exclaimed the haciendado.
“And you could never learn the names of these brave, generous, and devoted men?” asked Doña Rosarita.
“Not at the moment,” continued Gayferos; “only it appeared strange to me, that the youngest of the three hunters spoke to me of Don Estevan, Diaz, Oroche, and Baraja, as though he knew them perfectly.”
A pang shot through Doña Rosarita’s heart, her bosom heaved, her cheeks were dyed with a deep crimson, then became pale again as the flowers of thedatura, but she still remained silent.
“I draw towards the close of my recital,” continued Gayferos. “After having recovered the brave warrior’s son from the Apaches, we journeyed towards the plains of Texas. I shall not relate to you all the dangers we encountered during six months of our wandering life, as hunters of the otter and the beaver, nevertheless, it had its charms; but there was one amongst us, who was far from finding this life agreeable. This was our young companion.
“When I saw him for the first time I was struck by the melancholy expression of his countenance, but afterwards, as we journeyed together, I noticed that this melancholy, instead of decreasing, seemed daily to augment. The old hunter, whom I believed to be his father (I know now that he is not), took every opportunity of calling his attention to the magnificence of the vast forest in which we lived, the imposing scenes of the desert, or the charm of the perils we encountered. They were vain efforts, for nothing could banish the grief that consumed him. He seemed only to forget it in the midst of the dangers he eagerly sought. One might have supposed that life to him was no more than a heavy burden which he desired to get rid of.
“Full of compassion for him, I often said to the old hunter—‘Solitude is only suited to an advanced age, youth delights in activity, and in the presence of its equals. Let us return to our habitations.’ But the giant only sighed without replying.
“Soon afterwards the manner of the two hunters, who loved their young companion as a son, became also saddened.
“One night while the young man and I were watching, I recalled a name which six months before he had uttered in his sleep. I then learned the secret of that grief which was slowly consuming him. He loved, and solitude had but increased a passion which he vainly sought to stifle.”
Gayferos paused an instant to cast a searching glance upon the countenances of his auditors, especially upon that of Doña Rosarita. He appeared to take a secret pleasure in exciting the young girl by the recital of all the circumstances best calculated to touch the heart of a woman.
As a warrior and a hunter, the haciendado did not attempt to conceal the interest with which the stranger’s narrative was inspiring him.
Rosarita, on the contrary, endeavoured, under a mask of studied coldness, to conceal the charm she experienced on listening to this romance of heart and action, whose most stirring pages were so considerately opened to her by the intelligent narrator.
But her heightened colour and the fire in her large dark eyes completely belied her efforts.
“Ah!” cried Don Augustin, “if these three brave men had been under Don Estevan’s command, the fate of the expedition might have been far different.”
“I am of the same opinion,” replied Gayferos, “but God had ordained it otherwise. Meanwhile,” he continued, “I felt a great longing again to see my native land, but gratitude required that I should conceal it. But the old warrior divined my thoughts, and one day addressed me on this subject.
“Too generous to suffer me alone to brave the dangers of my homeward journey, the giant hunter resolved to accompany me as far as Tubac. His companion did not oppose his resolution, and we set out for the frontier. The young man alone seemed, to follow us reluctantly in this direction.
“I shall not describe our fatigues and the various difficulties we surmounted, in the course of our long and perilous journey. I wish, however, to speak of one of our last encounters with the Indians.
“In order to reach the Presidio we were obliged to cross the chain of the Rocky Mountains. It was towards the approach of night that we found ourselves amongst their gloomy solitudes, and we were obliged to halt.
“This is a spot much frequented by the Indians, and we could not encamp without the greatest precaution.
“Nothing, as it seems to me, can better resemble the abode of condemned souls than these mountains, where we spent the night. At every moment strange sounds, which appeared to proceed from the cavities of the rocks, broke upon our ears. At one time it was a volcano, which rumbled with dull and heavy noise beneath us, or the distant roar of a cataract: sometimes resembling the howling of wolves or plaintive cries; and from time to time dreadful flashes of lightning tore aside the veil of mist which eternally covers these mountains.
“For fear of a surprise we had encamped upon a rock which projected, in the form of a table, above a wide open valley about fifty feet below us. The two elder hunters were asleep; the youngest alone kept watch. It was his turn, and as usual he had been compelled to insist upon it—for his companions seemed unwilling thus to allow him to share their toils.
“As for myself, sick and suffering, I was stretched upon the ground. After many vain efforts to obtain a little rest, at length I slept, when a frightful dream awoke me with a start.
“‘Did you hear nothing?’ I asked of the young man, in a low voice. ‘Nothing,’ he replied, ‘except the rumbling of the subterranean volcanoes in the mountains.’ ‘Say, rather, that we are here in an accursed spot,’ I continued, and then I related my dream to him.
“‘It is, perhaps a warning,’ he said gravely. ‘I remember one night to have had just such a dream, when—’
“The young man paused. He had advanced to the edge of the rock. I crawled after him mechanically. The same object arrested our attention at the same moment.
“One of those spirits of darkness which might have inhabited such a spot, appeared suddenly to have acquired a visible form. It was a kind of phantom, with the head and skin of a wolf, but erect upon its legs like a human being. I made the sign of the cross, and murmured a prayer, but the phantom did not stir.
“‘It is the devil,’ I whispered.
“‘It is an Indian,’ replied the young man; ‘there are his companions at some distance.’
“In short, our eyes, well practised in making out objects in the dark, could distinguish about twenty Indians, stretched upon the ground, and who, in truth, had no idea of our vicinity.
“Ah, Señorita!” added the narrator, addressing himself to Doña Rosarita, “it was one of those opportunities fraught with danger, which the poor young man sought with so much avidity; and your heart, like mine, would have been torn at beholding the sad joy which sparkled in his eyes; for the further we travelled in this direction the more his melancholy seemed to increase.
“‘Let us wake our friends,’ I suggested.
“‘No; let me go alone. These two men have done enough for me. It is now my turn to run a risk for them and, if I die, I shall forget—’
“As he spoke these words the young man quitted me, made a détour, and I lost sight of him—without, however, ceasing to behold the frightful apparition which continued immovable in the same spot.
“All at once I saw another dusky shape, which rushed towards the phantom and seized it by the throat. The two forms grappled with one another. The struggle was short and noiseless, and one might have believed them two spirits. I prayed to God in behalf of the poor young man who thus exposed his life with so much indifference and intrepidity. A short time afterwards I saw him return; the blood was flowing over his face from a large wound on his head.
“‘Oh, Heavens!’ I cried; ‘you are wounded.’
“‘It is nothing,’ he said; ‘I will now wake our companions.’
“What do you think, Señorita?” continued the narrator. “Was not my dream a warning from God? A party of Indians, whom we had put to flight on the other side of the mountains—had followed our track in order to revenge the blood of their companions, which had been spilt upon the banks of the Gila—at the place where we had rescued the young man.
“But the Indians had to contend with terrible adversaries. Their sentinel was the phantom who had been killed by the courageous hunter before he had time to utter a cry of alarm, and the rest, surprised in their sleep, were nearly all stabbed; a few sought safety in flight.
“The night had not passed before this new exploit was accomplished.
“The tall hunter hastened to dress the wound of the young man, whom he loved as a son; and the latter, overcome with fatigue, stretched himself upon the ground and slept.
“In the mean time his two friends watched by his side to guide his sleep, whilst I in sadness contemplated his altered countenance, his reduced figure, and the bloodstained bandage with which his head was bound.”
“Poor youth,” interrupted Doña Rosarita, gently, “still so young, and yet compelled to lead a life of incessant danger. And his father, also, he must have trembled for the life of a beloved son?”
“Beloved, as you say, Señorita,” continued the narrator.
“During a period of six months I was a daily witness to the infinite tenderness of this father for his child.
“The young man slept tranquilly, and his lips softly murmured a name—that of a woman—the same which had lately been revealed to me in his slumber.”
Rosarita’s dark eyes seemed to question the narrator, but her words expired upon her parted lips; she dared not utter the name her heart was whispering in her ears.
“But I encroach upon your time,” continued Gayferos, without appearing to notice the young girl’s agitation. “I draw towards the close of my narrative.
“The young man woke just as day began to dawn. ‘Comrade,’ said the giant to me, ‘go down yonder and count the dead which these dogs have left behind them.’
“Eleven corpses stretched upon the ground,” continued Gayferos, “and two captured horses, attested the victory of these intrepid hunters.”
“Let all due honour be given to these formidable men,” cried Don Augustin, with enthusiasm, whilst his daughter, clapping her little hands together, exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, and an enthusiasm which equalled that of her father—
“That is splendid! that is sublime! so young, and yet so brave.”
Rosarita only lavished her praises upon the young unknown—though perhaps the acute perception which belongs to a woman, and which almost resembles a second sight, may have revealed to her his name.
The narrator seemed to appreciate the praises bestowed upon his friends.
“But did you not learn their names?” asked Doña Rosarita, timidly.
“The elder was called Bois-Rose, the second Pepé. As to the young man—”
Gayferos appeared vainly endeavouring to recall the name without remarking the anguish which was depicted in the young girl’s agitated frame, and visible in her anxious eyes.
By the similarity of position between Tiburcio and the unknown, she could not doubt but that it was he; and the poor child was collecting all her strength to listen to his name, and not to utter, on hearing it, a cry of happiness and love.
“As to the young man,” continued the narrator, “he was called Fabian.”
At this name, which was unknown to the young girl, and which at once destroyed her pleasant delusions, she pressed her hand upon her heart, her lips became white, and the colour which hope had revived in her cheek faded away. She could only repeat mechanically.
“Fabian!”
At this moment the recital was interrupted by the entrance of a servant. The Chaplain begged the haciendado to come to him for an instant, upon some business he had to communicate to him.
Don Augustin quitted the apartment, saying that he should speedily return.
Gayferos and the young girl were now left alone; the former observed her some moments in silence, and with a delight he could scarcely conceal, saw that Rosarita trembled beneath the folds of her silk scarf. By a secret feeling the poor child divined that Gayferos had not yet finished. At length the latter said gently, “Fabian bore another name, Señorita; do you wish to hear it, while we are alone and without witnesses?”
Rosarita turned pale.
“Another name! oh, speak it?” she cried, in a trembling voice.
“He was long known as Tiburcio Arellanos.”
A cry of joy escaped the young girl, who rose from her seat, and approaching the bearer of this good news, seized his hand.
“Thanks! thanks!” she exclaimed, “if my heart has not already spoken them.”
Then she tottered across the chamber, and knelt at the feet of a Madonna, which, framed in gold, hung against the wall.
“Tiburcio Arellanos,” continued the narrator, “is now Fabian, and Fabian is the last descendant of the Counts of Mediana—a noble and powerful Spanish family.”
The young girl continued on her knees in prayer without appearing to listen to Gayferos’ words.
“Immense possessions, a lofty name, titles and honours. All these he will lay at the feet of the woman who shall accept his hand.”
The young girl continued her fervent prayer without turning her head.
“And, moreover,” resumed the narrator, “the heart of Don Fabian de Mediana still retains a feeling which was dear to the heart of Tiburcio Arellanos.”
Rosarita paused in her prayer.
“Tiburcio Arellanos will be here to-night.”
This time the young girl no longer prayed. It was Tiburcio and not Fabian, Count of Mediana. Tiburcio, poor, and unknown, for whom she had wept. At the sound of this name, she listened. Honours, titles, wealth. What were they to her? Fabian lived, and loved her still, what more could she desire?
“If you will come to the breach in the wall, where, full of despair, he parted from you, you will find him there this very evening. Do you remember the place?”
“Oh! my God!” she murmured, softly, “do I not visit it every evening?”
And once more bending before the image of the Virgin, Rosarita resumed her interrupted prayer.
The adventurer contemplated for some instants this enthusiastic and beautiful creature, her scarf partly concealing her figure, her nude shoulders caressed by the long tresses of her dark hair, which fell in soft rings upon their surface; then without interrupting her devotion, he rose from his seat and silently fitted the chamber.