Taking advantage of the distraction caused by Quackenboss and his troubles, I despatched the black upon his interesting errand, and with no slight anxiety awaited the result.
From my position on the roof, I saw my messenger climb the hill, leading the proud steed, and saw him enter the great portal of the hacienda.
Promptly—almost directly—the groom came out again without the horse. The present had been accepted. So far well.
I counted the moments, till heavy footsteps were heard upon the escalera, and a shining black face rose over the roof.
There was no letter, no message beyond “mil gracias.”
I felt a pang of chagrin. I had expected thanks more formal than this mere phrase of compliment.
My man appeared better satisfied. A gold onza gleamed in his purple palm—a handsome perquisite.
“By whom given?” I inquired.
“Golly, mass cap’n, a gal guv it! De handsomest quaderoom gal dis nigga ever see.”
Beyond a doubt, Isolina herself was the donor!
I could have broken the rascal’s thick skull, but that the queenly douceur gave proof of the satisfaction with which my offering had been received. Even on this trivial circumstance, I built my hopes of yet receiving a fuller meed of thanks.
Absorbed in these hopes, I continued to pace the azotea alone.
It was a dia de fiesta in the rancheria. Bells had already commenced their clangour, and other notes of rejoicing fell upon the ear. The poblanas appeared in their gayest attire—the Indians in bright naguas, with red and purple threads twisted in their black hair; the denizens of the ranchitos were pouring into the piazza, and processions were being formed by the church; jararas were twanging their guitar-like music; and pyrotechnic machines were set up at the corners of the streets. Tinsel-covered saints were carried about on the shoulders of painted maskers; and there were Pilate and the Centurion, and the Saviour—a spectacle absurd and unnatural; and yet a spectacle that may be witnessed every week in a Mexican village, and which, with but slight variation, has been exhibited every week for three centuries!
I had no eyes for this disgusting fanfarronade of a degrading superstition. Sick of the sight, wearied with the sounds, I had given orders for my horse to be saddled, intending to ride forth and seek repose for my spirit amid the silent glades of the chapparal.
While waiting for my steed, an object came under my eyes that quickened the beatings of my pulse: my gaze had been long turned in one direction—upon the hacienda of Don Ramon de Vargas.
Just then, I saw emerging from its gate, and passing rapidly down the hill, a horse with a rider upon his back.
The snow-white colour of this horse, and the scarlet manga of the rider—both contrasting with the green of the surrounding landscape—could not escape observation even at that distance, and my eyes at once caught the bright object.
I hesitated not to form my conclusion. It was the white steed I saw; and the rider—I remembered the manga as when first my eyes rested upon that fair form—the rider was Isolina.
She was passing down the slope that stretched from the hacienda to the river, and the minute after, the thick foliage of the platanus trees shrouded the shining meteor from my sight.
I noticed that she halted a moment on the edge of the woods, and fancied that she gazed earnestly towards the village; but the road she had taken led almost in the opposite direction.
I chafed with impatience for my horse. My resolve, made on the impulse of the moment, was to follow the white steed and his scarlet-clad rider.
Once in the saddle I hurried out of the piazza, passed the ranchos of yucca, and reaching the open country, pressed my horse into a gallop.
My road lay up the river, through a heavily timbered bottom of gum and cotton-woods. These were thickly beset with the curious tillandsia, whose silvery festoons, stretching from branch to branch, shrouded the sun, causing amongst the tree-trunks the obscurity of twilight.
In the midst of one of these shadowy aisles, I met or passed some one: I saw that it was a Mexican boy; but the sombre light, and the rapidity with which I was riding, prevented me from noting anything more. The lad shouted after me, uttering some words, which were drowned by the hoof-strokes of my horse. I deemed it some expression of boyish esprit, and, without heeding it, rode on.
Not until far out of sight and hearing did it occur to me that I knew the voice and the lad. I recollected a sort of errand-boy attached to the hacienda, and whom I had seen more than once at the rancheria. I now remembered the badinage of Wheatley, and would have returned to question the youth; but I had left him too far in the rear. After a moment’s reflection, I spurred on.
I soon arrived at the base of the hill on which stood the hacienda; and here leaving the main road, I followed a bridle-path that skirted the hill.
A few hundred yards brought me to the spot where I had last observed the object of my pursuit.
The hoof-track of the white horse now guided me, and upon his trail I entered the woods.
For some distance, it followed a well-trodden path—a cattle-track—but all at once it diverged from this, and struck off into a heavily timbered bottom, where not the semblance of path existed.
Keeping the trace in view, I rode after.
As I advanced, the timber grew thicker, and the path more difficult. A close underwood of arundinaria and sabal palms shut up the way and the view; trailing roots obstructed progress below; while higher up, the trelliswork of llianas, bamboo briars, sarsaparilla, and gigantic grape-vines, rendered it necessary to bend down in the saddle in order to pass onward.
To my surprise I noticed all this. For what purpose could she have chosen such a path? Was it indeed Isolina I had seen? A white horse and a scarlet manga are not uncommon things in Mexico. It might not be— But the hoof-print—
I dismounted and examined it: I knew it at a glance—it was that of the noble steed, and the rider could be no other than Isolina de Vargas.
No longer in doubt, though still wondering, I followed the tracks.
For a half-mile or more, the path meandered through thick forest, here turning around some giant trunk, there diverging to the right or left, to avoid the impervious network of canes and llianas.
At length it began to slope upwards; and I perceived by the ascent that I was climbing a hill. The woods became more open as I advanced—here and there alternating with glades—the trees were of slender growth, and the foliage lighter and thinner. I was no longer among the heavy trunks of platanus and liquidambar. The leguminoseae were the prevailing trees; and many beautiful forms of inga, acacia, and mimosa, grew around. Myrtles, too, mingled their foliage with wild limes, their branches twined with flowering parasites, as the climbing combretum, with its long flame-like clusters, convolvuli, with large white blossoms, and the beautiful twin-leaved bauhinia.
It was a wild garden of flowers—a shrubbery of nature’s own planting. The eye, wandering through the vistas and glades, beheld almost every form of inflorescence. There were the trumpet-shaped bignonias—convolvuli in pendulous bells—syngenesists disposed in spreading umbels; and over them, closely set upon tall spikes, rose the showy blossoms of the bromelias—aloes and dasylyrium. Even from the tops of the highest trees hung gaudy catkins, wafted to and fro by the light breeze, mingling their sheen and their perfume with the floral epiphytes and parasites that clustered around the branches.
I could not help thinking that these flowers are gifted with life, and enjoy, during their short and transient existence, both pleasure and pain. The bright warm sun is their happiness, while the cold cloudy sky is the reflection of their misery.
As I rode onward, another reflection passed through my mind; it was caused by my perceiving that the atmosphere was charged with pleasant perfumes—literally loaded with fragrance. I perceived, moreover, that the same breeze carried upon its breath the sweet music of birds, whose notes sounded clear, soft, and harmonious.
What closet-slanderer hath asserted that the flowers of this fair land are devoid of fragrance—that its birds, though brightly plumed, are songless?
Ah, Monsieur Buffon! with all your eloquence, such presumptive assertion will one day strip you of half your fame. You could never have approached within two hundred paces of a Stanhopea, of the epidendrum odoratum, of the datura grandiflora, with its mantle of snow-white blossoms? You could never have passed near the pothos plant, the serbereae, and tabernamon taneae, the callas, eugenias, ocotas, and nictiginas?—you could never have ridden through a chapparal of acacias and mimosas—among orchids whose presence fills whole forests with fragrant aroma?
And more, Monsieur! you could never have listened to the incomparable melody of the mock-bird—the full, charming notes of the blue song-thrush—the sweet warbling voices of the silvias, finches, and tanagers, that not only adorn the American woods with their gorgeous colours, but make them vocal with never-ending song?
No, Monsieur! you could never have inhaled the perfume of these flowers, nor listed to the melody of these sweet songsters; and sad it was of you, and silly as sad, to have yielded to the prejudice of a slender spirit, and denied their existence. Both exist—the singing birds and the fragrant flowers—both exist, and thou art gone.
On such reflections I dwelt but for a moment; they were merely the natural impressions of surrounding objects—short-lived sensations, almost instantaneously passing away. The soul, benighted with love, has neither eye nor ear for aught beyond the object of its passion. From the contemplation of that only does it derive pleasure; and even the fairest pictures of nature may be spread before it without challenging observation. It was only that the one through which I was passing was of such transcendent beauty—so like to some scene of paradise—that I could not help regarding it with momentary admiration.
But my eyes soon returned to the earth, and once more taking up the trace of the steed, I rode on.
I had advanced near the summit. The tracks were quite recent; the branches that had been touched by the flanks of the horse had not yet ceased to vibrate; the rider could not be far in advance. I fancied I heard the hoof-stroke.
Silently I pressed on, expecting every moment to catch the gleam of the scarlet manga, or the white sheen of the steed.
A few paces farther, and both were under my eyes, glittering through the feathery frondage of the mimosas. I had followed the true track. The rider was Isolina.
I saw that she had halted. She had reached the top of the hill, where the growth of timber ceased. An opening of about an acre there was, surrounded on all sides by the flowery woods—the very beau-idéal of a summer glade. The open summit commanded a view of the surrounding country—for the hill was a high one—while the charming spot itself enjoyed perfect privacy and repose.
In this glade, she had drawn up, and was sitting silently in the saddle as if to enjoy the warbling of birds, the hum of the bees, and the fragrance of flowers.
I myself drew rein, and remained for some moments in a state of hesitancy, as to whether I should ride forward or go back. A feeling of shame was upon me, and I believe I would have turned my horse and stolen gently away, but just then I saw the fair rider draw forth from her bosom something that glittered in the sun. It was a watch, and she appeared to note the time. I observed that she looked anxiously over the tops of the low trees, in the direction of the plain below.
These circumstances, trivial as they might appear, produced within me a quick sense of pain. I felt as if hot steel was passing through my heart. I had ridden to my ruin—I had followed to be present at an assignation. Thus only could I explain the solitary ride, and by such difficult and devious paths; thus only could I account for the oft-repeated anxious glance, the ear acutely bent. Beyond a doubt, she was listening for the footsteps of a lover!
The rein fell from my fingers. I sat irresolute—I scarcely breathed—my heart felt cold and feeble—the birds mocked me—the parrots screeched his name—the aras in hoarse concert cried out “Ijurra!”
The name nerved me, as blood knits the sinews of the tiger. Once more my fingers closed upon my bridle, my feet became firm in the stirrups, and heart and arm swelled to their full strength. ’Twas but a light rapier that hung against my thigh—no matter; he might be no better weaponed; but even armed from head to heel, I feared him not. Three passions—hatred, jealousy, and revenge—supplied an arm of treble strength, and under the influence of these I felt bold and sure of conquest. Yes, I felt at that moment, as though I could have slain my hated rival with my naked hands.
I was no longer troubled with scruples of etiquette. No; this monster owed me satisfaction—life itself: he had striven to take mine; and now his should be forfeit to my vengeance. On that spot—even in her presence—should he die, or I myself become the victim. The two of us should never go thence alive. “Oh, that he may reach the ground while my blood is thus hot, and my hand ready!”
The fierce thoughts stirring within me must have roused my horse, for at that moment he tossed his head and neighed wildly. A response came like an echo from the glade, and the instant after, a voice called out.—
“Hola! quien va?”
Concealment was no longer possible. I saw that I was observed; and, spurring my horse into the open ground, I rode up, and halted face to face with Isolina.
Face to face with my beautiful brunette. Her eyes flashed upon me with an expression of surprise. I felt abashed by the glance; my conduct was not en règle.
I bethought me of an apology. What excuse could I offer for such unceremonious intrusion? Accident? She would not believe it; the time and the place were against such a supposition. With an intellect like hers, it would be idle to adopt so shallow an artifice. No; I would not dissemble; I would boldly avow the truth. Jealousy had rendered me reckless of the result.
“Adios, cavallero!” said she, interrupting my hurried reflections. “Carrambo! where is your guide? How have you found this place?”
“Easily enough, señorita; I followed the tracks of your horse.”
“But so soon—I did not expect you—”
“No; you expected another?”
“Certainly. I thought Cyprio would arrive before you—”
“Cyprio!”
“Cyprio—yes, Cyprio.”
“Señorita! if this be another name for your Protean cousin, I have to say it will be better for him he should not arrive at all.”
“My cousin?—better not arrive? Holy Trinity, capitan! I do not comprehend you!”
Her large brown eyes were rolling in astonishment. I was as much puzzled as she, but I had begun my explanation, and was determined to carry it to the end.
“Then, Señorita de Vargas, I shall be more explicit. If Rafael Ijurra appear upon this ground, either he or I leave it not alive. He has attempted my life, and I have vowed to take his, whenever and wherever I may meet him.”
“Pray heaven you may keep your vow!”
“Your cousin?”
“My cousin—Rafael Ijurra—my worst foe—the direst enemy of our house!”
“Ha! and were you not waiting him?”
“Awaiting him! Ha, ha, ha! No. Little timid though I be, I should not desire to be here alone with Rafael Ijurra.”
“Lady! you astonish me; pray explain—”
“Por dios! gallant capitan, ’tis you who need explain. I sought this interview to thank you for your noble gift. You meet me with anger in your eye, and bitter words upon your tongue.”
“You sought this interview?—say you so, lady?”
“Certainly I did. For reasons already known to you, I dared not invite you to our house; so I have chosen this pretty glade for my drawing-room. How do you like it, cavallero?”
“In your society, señorita, the rudest spot would appear a paradise.”
“Again the poet’s tongue! Ah, capitan, remember the yellow domino! No more flattery, I pray; we are no longer en masque. Face to face, let us be candid with each other.”
“With all my heart I accept the conditions. Candour is the very thing I desire, for, to say the truth, I came prepared for a confession.”
“A confession!”
“Precisely so; but since you are an advocate for candour, may I first ask a question?”
“Ho! you wish to play the confessor with me?”
“I do, señorita.”
“Bravo, capitan! Proceed! I shall answer you in all sincerity.”
“Then, lady, what I would ask first—Who is this Cyprio whom you expected?”
“Cyprio! Ha, ha, ha! Who should Cyprio be but my mozo; he who carried my message to you. Why do you put such a question?”
“He who carried your message to me?”
“Of course. Yonder is the muchaco himself. Hola, Cyprio! you may return to the house. Carrambo capitan! both he and you must have sped well. I did not expect you for half-an-hour; but you soldiers are soon in the saddle. So much the better, for it is getting late, and I have a great deal to say to you.”
A light had broken upon me. ’Twas Cyprio I had passed in the forest shade; the boy was the bearer of a message—hence his having hailed me. ’Twas I who was expected to keep the assignation; ’twas I for whom the timepiece had been consulted—for whom those earnest glances had been given!
The bitter moments were past, and my heart swelled anew with proud and pleasant emotions.
As yet she knew not that I had come without invitation. Cyprio, at the word of command, had gone off without making any reply, and my prompt appearance upon the ground was still unexplained.
I was about to account for it, and offer some apology for my brusque behaviour, when I was challenged to the confession I had just promised.
Minor thoughts gave way before the important purpose I had formed, and to which the banter now recalled me. So fair an opportunity might never offer again. In the vicissitudes of a soldier’s life, the chance of to-day should not be disregarded—to-morrow may bring change either in the scene or the circumstances; and I was skilled enough in love-lore to know that an hour unimproved is often followed by an age of regrets.
But, in truth, I do some wrong to my character; I was but little under the influence of such cunning cognisance at that moment. I acted not by volition, but rather under pressure of a passion that held complete mastery over my will, and compelled me to the declaration I was about to make.
It was simple enough—three little words in either of the two sweet tongues in which we understood each other. I chose the one—of all others most attuned to the tones of the loving heart—and bending low to that fair face, and gazing into the liquid depths of those large inquiring eyes, I whispered the sweet, though oft-repeated phrase—
“Yo te amo.”
The words quivered upon my lips, but their tone proved the sincerity in which I had spoken. No doubt it was further manifest by the earnestness of my manner as I awaited her reply.
The habitual smile had departed from her lips; the damask red deepened and mounted higher upon her cheeks; the dark fringes drooped downward, and half-concealed the burning orbs beneath: the face of the gay girl had suddenly assumed the serious air of womanhood.
At first, I was terrified by the expression, and could scarcely control my dread; but I drew hope from the flushed cheek, the roseate neck, the swelling panting bosom. Strong emotions were stirring in that breast.
Oh, what emotions! will she not speak? Will she not declare them?
There was a long interval of silence—to me, it seemed an age.
“Señor,” she said at length—’twas the first time I had heard that voice tremble—“Señor, you promised to be candid; you have been so: are you equally sincere?”
“I have spoken from the depth of my soul.”
The long lashes were raised, and the love-light gleamed in her liquid eyes; for a moment it burned steadily, bathing my heart as with balm. Heaven itself could not have shed a brighter beam upon my spirit.
All at once a smile played upon her features, in which I detected, or fancied so, the gay insouciance that springs from indifference. To me it was another moment of pain. She continued—
“And pray, capitan, what would you have me do?”
I felt embarrassed, and replied not.
“Would you have me declare that I love you?”
“Oh! you cannot—you do not—”
“You have not asked the question!”
“No, lady. I too much dread the answer.”
“Ho! what a coward you have grown of late! A pity I am not masked. Shall I draw this veil? Ha, ha, ha!”
It was not the manner of love. Love laughs not. My heart was heavy; I made no reply, but with eyes upon the ground, sat in my saddle, feeling like one condemned.
For some moments her laughter rang in my ears, as I fancied, in mockery. Her sweet silvery voice only grated upon my heart. Oh, that I had never listened to its siren tones!
I heard the hoof-stroke of her horse; and, looking up, saw that she was moving away from the spot. Was she going to leave me thus?
She spurred towards the centre of the glade, where the ground was higher, and there again pulled up.
“Come hither, cavallero!” she cried, beckoning to me with her small gloved hand.
Mechanically, I moved forward to the spot.
“So, gallant capitan! you who are brave enough to meet a score of foes, have not the courage to ask a woman if she loves you!”
A dismal smile was my only reply to this bitter badinage.
“Ah! capitan,” she continued, “I will not believe it; ere now you have put that dreaded interrogatory—often, I fear too often.”
I looked at her with surprise. There was a touch of bitterness in the tone. The gay smile was gone; her eyelids drooped; her look was turned upon the ground.
Was this real, or only a seeming? the prelude to some abrupt antithesis? some fresh outburst of satire?
“Señorita!” said I, “the hypothesis, whether true or false, can have but little interest for you.”
She answered me with a smile of strange intelligence. I fancied there was sadness in it. I fancied—
“We cannot recover the past,” said she, interrupting my thoughts; “no, no, no! But for the present—say again—tell me again that you love me!”
“Love you!—yes, lady—”
“And I have your heart, your whole heart?”
“Never—can I love another!”
“Thanks! thanks!”
“No more than thanks, Isolina?”
For some moments she remained silent, her eyes averted from me; she appeared struggling with some emotion.
“Yes, more than thanks,” she replied at length; “gratitude! three things more—if they will suffice to prove my gratitude.”
“Name them!”
“Why should prudery tie my tongue? I promised to be candid. I, too, came here to make confession. Listen! Three things I have said. Look around you!—north, south, east, and west—the land you see is mine; be it yours, if you will.”
“Isolina!”
“This, too, can I bestow,”—she held forth her little hand, which I clasped with fervid emotion.
“More! more! the third?”
“The third, on second thoughts, I cannot give; ’tis yours already.”
“It is—?”
“Mia corazon” (My heart).
Those splendid steeds, like creatures of intelligence, appeared to understand what was said; they had gradually moved closer and closer, till their muzzles touched and their steel curbs rang together. At the last words, they came side by side, as if yoked in a chariot. It appeared delight to them to press their proud heaving flanks against each other, while their riders, closing in mutual clasp, leaned over and met their lips in that wild fervid kiss—the climax of love.
We parted upon the top of the hill. It was not prudent for us to be seen riding together, and Isolina went away first, leaving me in the glade.
We had bidden adieu in that phrase of pleasant promise, “hasta la mañana” (until to-morrow). To-morrow we should meet again. To-morrow, and to-morrow, we should visit that sweet spot, repeat our burning words, renew our blissful vows.
I remained some minutes on the ground, now hallowed and holy. Within, the tumult of triumphant passion had passed, and was succeeded by the calm repose of perfect contentment. My heart’s longings had been gratified; it had found all that it desired—even to the full reciprocity of its passion. What would it more? There is no more of mundane bliss. Life has no felicity to cope with requited love; it alone can give us a foretaste of future joys; by it only may we form some idea of the angel existence of heaven.
The world without was in harmony with the spirit within. The scene around me was rose-coloured. The flowers appeared fresher in tint, and breathed a sweeter fragrance in the air; the hum of the homeward bee, laden with treasures for his love-queen, fell with a dreamy pleasance upon the ear; the voices of the birds sounded softer and more musical; even the aras and paroquets, chanting in a more subdued tone, no longer pronounced that hated name; and the tiny Mexican doves, las palomitas—scarcely so large as finches—walked with proud gait over the ground, or side by side upon the branches of the myrtles—like types of tender love—told their heart’s tale in soft and amorous cooing.
Long could I have lingered by that consecrated spot, even hasta la mañana, but duty claimed me, and its calls must not be disregarded. Already the setting sun was flinging purple beams over the distant prairie; and, heading my horse down the hill, I once more plunged under the shadows of the mimosas.
Absorbed in my supreme happiness, I took no heed of aught else; I noticed neither track nor path.
Had I left my horse to himself, most likely he would have taken the right road; but in my reverie, perhaps I had mechanically dragged upon the rein, and turned him from it. Whether or not, after a lapse of time, I found myself in the midst of thick woods, with not the semblance of a trail to guide me; and I knew not whether I was riding in the right direction. I ought rather to say that I knew the contrary—else I must long before have reached the clearings around the village.
Without much reflection, I turned in a new direction, and rode for some time without striking a trail. This led me once more into doubt, and I made head back again, but still without success. I was in a forest-plain, but I could find no path leading anywhere; and amid the underwood of palmettoes I could not see any great distance around me. Beyond a question, I had strayed far out of my way.
At an early hour of the day, this would have given me little concern; but the sun had now set, and already under the shadow of the moss-covered trees, it was nearly dark. Night would be down in a few minutes, and in all probability I should be obliged to spend it in the forest—by no means an agreeable prospect, and the less so that I was thinly clad and hungry. True, I might pass some hours in sweet reflection upon the pleasant incident of the day—I might dream rosy dreams—but, alas! the soul is sadly under the influence of the body; the spiritual must ever yield to the physical, and even love itself becomes a victim to the vulgar appetite of hunger.
I began to fear that, after all, I should have but a sorry night of it. I should be too hungry to think; too cold either to sleep or dream; besides, I was likely to get wet to the shirt—as the rain had commenced falling in large heavy drops.
After another unsuccessful effort to strike a trail, I pulled up and sat listening. My eyes would no longer avail me; perhaps my ears might do better service.
And so it chanced. The report of a rifle reached them, apparently fired some hundred yards off in the woods.
Considering that I was upon hostile ground, such a sound might have caused me alarm; but I knew from the sharp whip-like crack that the piece was a hunter’s rifle, and no Mexican ever handled a gun of that kind. Moreover, I had heard, closely following upon the shot, a dull concussion, as of some heavy body dropped from a high elevation to the ground. I was hunter enough to know the signification of this sound. It was the game—bird or beast—that had fallen from a tree.
An American must have fired that shot; but who? There were only three or four of the rangers who carried the hunter-rifle—a very different weapon from the “regulation” piece—old backwoodsmen who had been indulged in their whim. It might be one of these.
Without hesitation, I headed my horse for the spot, and rode as rapidly as the underwood would permit me.
I kept on for five minutes or more without halting. I certainly must have passed the place where the shot had been fired, and yet I saw no one; but just as I was about to pull up again, a well-known voice reached me from behind with the words—
“By the jumpin Geehosophat! it ur the young fellur—the capt’n!”
Turning, I beheld my trapper comrades just emerging from the bushes, where they had cautiously cached themselves, on hearing the hoof-strokes of my horse, and lain hid till I had passed them.
Rube carried upon his shoulders a large turkey gobbler—the game I had heard drop—while upon Garey’s back I observed the choice portions of a deer.
“You have been foraging to some advantage,” I remarked as they came up.
“Yes, capt’n,” replied Garey, “we won’t want for rashuns. Not but that your rangers offered us a plenty to eat; but ye see we couldn’t in honour accept o’ it, for we promised to find for ourselves.”
“Ye-es, durn it!” added Rube, “we’re free mountainee men—ain’t a gwine to sponge on nobody—we ain’t.”
“An’, capt’n,” continued Garey, “thar don’t appear to be any great eatin’ fixins about the place for yurself neyther: if yu’ll just accept o’ the turkey, and one o’ these hyar quarters o’ the deer-meat, thar’s plenty left for Rube an’ me; ain’t thar, Rube?”
“Gobs!” was the laconic answer.
I was not loath to satisfy the wish of the hunters—for to say the truth, the village larder had no such delicacies as either wild turkey or venison—and having signified my assent, we all three moved away from the spot. With the trappers for my guides, I should soon get into the right road. They, too, were on their return to the post. They had been in the woods since noon. They were both afoot, having left their horses at the rancheria.
After winding about half-a-mile among the trees, we came out upon a narrow road. Here my companions, who were unacquainted with the neighbourhood, were at fault as well as myself: and knew not which direction to take.
It was dark as pitch, but, as on the night before, there was lightning at intervals. Unlike the preceding night, however, it was now raining as if all the sluices of the sky had been set open; and by this time we were all three of us soaking wet. The whole canopy of heaven was shrouded in black, without a single streak of light upon it—not even a star. Who could discover the direction in such a night?
As the lightning flashed, I saw Rube bending down over the road; he appeared to be examining the tracks. I noticed that there were wheel-tracks—deep ruts—evidently made by the rude block-wheels of a carreta. It was these that the trapper was scanning.
Almost as soon as a man could have read the direction from a finger-post, Rube raised himself erect, and crying out—
“All right—this-away!” set off along the road.
I was curious to know how he had determined the point, and questioned him.
“Wal, yur see, young fellur, it ur the trail o’ a Mexikin cart; an’ anybody as iver seed thet ur vamint, knows it hez got only two wheels. But thur are four tracks hyur, an’ thurfor the cart must a gone back an’ fo’th, for I seed they wur the same set o’ wheels. Now, ’tur raizonable to s’pose thet the back-track leads to the settlements, an’ thet’s thisaway.”
“But how could you tell which was the back-track?”
“Wagh! thet ur easy as fallin’ off a log. The back track ur the fresher by more’n a kupple o’ hours.”
Pondering upon the singular “instinct” that enabled our guide to distinguish the tracks, I rode on in silence.
Shortly after, I again heard the voice of Rube, who was some paces in the advance.
“I kud a knowd the way,” he said, “’ithout the wheel-tracks: they only made things more sartint sure.”
“How?” I asked. “What other clue had you?”
“The water,” replied he; “’ee see, or ’ee mout, ef you’d a looked into the tracks, thet it ur runnin’ this-away. Do ee hear thet thur?”
I listened. I heard distinctly the sound of running water, as of a small stream carried down a rough rocky channel.
“Yes—I hear it, but how should the water guide you?”
“Wal,” continued the trapper, “it ur a branch made by the rain: we’re a follerin it down; an’ thurfor must kum to the river jest whur we want to git. Oncest thur, we’ll soon find our way, I reck’n. Wagh! how the durned rain kums down! It ’ud drown a muss-rat. Wagh!”
The result proved the trapper’s reasoning correct. The road-water was running in the direction we had taken; and shortly after, the brawling branch shot out from among the bushes, and crossed our path, diverging from it at an acute angle. We could see, however, as we plunged through the now swollen streamlet, that the current, in its general direction, was the same with our road: it would certainly guide us to the river.
It did so. Half a mile farther on we came out upon its banks, and struck the main road leading to the rancheria.
A few minutes’ brisk travelling carried us to the outskirts of the village, and we expected soon to be under shelter, when we were all three brought to a sudden halt by the sharp hail of the sentry, who called out the usual interrogatory—
“Who goes there?”
“Friends!” I replied; “’tis you, Quackenboss?”
I had recognised the voice of the soldier-botanist, and under the lightning saw him standing by the trunk of a tree.
“Halt! Give the countersign!” was the response in a firm, determined tone.
I did not know this masonic pass-word. On riding out, I had not thought of such a thing, and I began to anticipate some trouble. I resolved, however, to make trial of the sentry.
“We haven’t got the countersign. ’Tis I, Quackenboss. I am—”
I announced my name and rank.
“Don’t care for all that!” was the somewhat surly rejoinder; “can’t pass ’ithout the countersign.”
“Yer durned fool! it’s yur captin,” cried Rube, in a peevish tone.
“Maybe,” replied the imperturbable sentry; “can’t let him pass ’ithout countersign.”
I now saw that we were in a real dilemma.
“Send for the corporal of the guard, or either of the lieutenants,” I suggested, thinking that that might be the shortest way to get over the difficulty.
“Hain’t got nobody to send,” came the gruff voice of Quackenboss from out the darkness.
“I’ll go!” promptly answered Garey—the big trapper thinking, in his innocence, there could be no reason why he should not carry the message to quarters—and as he spoke, he made a step or two forward in the direction of the sentinel.
“Halt there!” thundered the voice of Quackenboss; “halt! another step, and I’ll plug you with a bullet.”
“What’s thet? plug, he sez?” screamed Rube, leaping to the front. “Geezus Geehosophat! yu’ll plug ’im, eh? Yur durned mulehead, if ’ee shoot this way, it ’ll be the last time yu’ll ever lay claw to a trigger. Now then!” and Rube stood with his rifle half raised to the level, and threatening to raise it still higher.
At that moment, the lightning gleamed; I saw the sentry with his piece also at a level.
I well knew the accuracy of his aim; I trembled for the result.
In my loudest voice I called out—
“Hold, Quackenboss! hold your fire! we shall wait till some one comes;” and as I spoke, I caught both my companions, and drew them back.
Whether it was the commanding tone of my voice, which the ranger had heard before, or whether in the light he had recognised my features, I saw him, before it darkened, lower his piece, and I felt easy again.
But he still obstinately refused to let us pass.
Further parley was to no purpose, and only led to an exchange of rather rough compliments between Quackenboss and my two companions; so, after endeavouring to make peace between them, I stood still to await the chance of some one of the guard coming within hail.
Fortunately, at that moment, a ranger, somewhat the worse for aguardiente, appeared in the direction of the piazza.
Quackenboss condescended to call him up; and after a crooked palaver, he was despatched to bring the corporal of the guard.
The arrival of the latter ended our troubles, and we were permitted to reach the piazza without further hindrance; but as we passed the stern sentry, I could hear Rube mutter to him—
“Ee durned mulehead! ef I hed ye out upon the parairas, wudn’t I! Wagh!”
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow—a demi-lune of love, whose every hour was consecrated to its god. At earliest dawn, by the rosy rays of Aurora; at golden noon, shadowed under sweet acacias; in the gleam of the purple twilight; ’neath the silvery light of the moon.
That both laid our hearts upon his altar, and willing knelt before the shrine, witness ye bright birds and perfumed flowers!—ye green myrtles and mimosas!—witness ye blue skies of Anahuac! Ye alone were our witnesses.
For you who have loved, I need not portray the pleasure of this noble passion; for you who have not loved, I cannot. Love is a delight that may be known only to those who have experienced it.
Ours was a half-month of happiness without alloy. True, there were moments of pain—the moments of daily parting—but these were brief, and perhaps only prevented the cloyment of too much joy—if such a thing be possible.
Moreover, these short-lived sorrows were in part neutralised by the knowledge we should soon meet again; we never parted without exchanging that fair promise. In the morning, it was “hasta la tarde;” at night, our last words were “mañana por la mañana” Lovers have felt, and poets have sung, the pleasures of hope; oft the anticipation of a pleasure rivals in piquancy its actual enjoyment.
Let memory not be forgotten; it, too, has its joys; and oh, how sweet the retrospect of those blissful hours! If there was monotony, it was a monotone of which my heart could never tire. It was an intoxication I could have endured for life. There is no surfeit of such sweets. Why are we not permitted to enjoy them for ever? Alas! there is an ending.
There was so. A crisis came, and we must part—not with the pretty promise upon our lips—“until the morning,” “until the evening,” but for long weeks, months, maybe years—an uncertain time—“hasta se acabo la guerra” (until the war is over).
Oh, the misery of that parting! Cruel destiny of war! Never felt I so weary of wearing a sword.
There was a struggle ’twixt love and duty. No, not duty: I might have sheathed my sword, and wronged no one; I was but a cipher among thousands, whose blade would scarcely have been missed. Nor would I have wronged myself. I was simply, as I have already declared, an adventurer. The country for which I fought could not claim me; I was bound by no political conscience, no patriotic esprit. Perhaps, now and then, I entertained the idea that I was aiding the designs of “manifest destiny”—that I was doing God’s work in battling against the despotic form. Yes, I may confess that such sparks glowed within me at intervals, and at such intervals only did I feel enthusiasm in the cause. But it was no consideration of this kind that hindered me from deserting my banner. Far otherwise: I was influenced by a motive purely selfish—pride.
I could not—an adventurer almost penniless—I would not presume to claim that richly dowried hand. Fortune I might never have to equal hers, but fame is worthy wealth, and glory mates with beauty. I knew that I was gifted with an apt head and bold aspiring heart; I knew that I carried a keen blade, and hoped to hew my way to rank and fame. Perhaps I might return with a star upon my shoulder, and a better handle to my name, and then—
Ah, for all that, it was a bitter parting! It was hard to list unheeding to those earnest entreaties, adjuring me to stay—terrible to entwine those tender arms—terrible to utter that last adios!
Our troth was plighted within that same glade that had echoed our first vows. It had been plighted a hundred times, but never sadly as now, amidst sobs and tears. When the bright form, screened by the frondage, had passed out of sight, I felt as if the sun had become suddenly eclipsed.
I lingered not long, though I could have stayed for hours upon the hallowed spot. Again duty, that stern commander, summoned me away. It was already close upon sunset, and by to-morrow’s dawn I must be en route with my troop.
I was about heading my horse into the track, now well known to me; Isolina had gone down the hill on the opposite side, by a path that led more directly to the hacienda. From precaution this had been our habitual mode of parting; and we also met from opposite sides. In the wild region of the cerro—for by this name was the hill known—we never encountered a human being. There was no habitation near, and the vaqueros rarely strayed that way, so that our place of meeting remained a secret—at least we fancied so—and we acted without much apprehension, and perhaps without sufficient caution. Each hour we had grown more confident of security, and, blinded by love, had taken less pains to conceal the fact of our daily assignation. It was only that morning I had heard a whisper that our affair was known, and that they of the rancheria were not as benighted as we supposed them. Wheatley was my informant—Conchita, his. The lieutenant had added some friendly advice, cautioning me against the imprudence of going so far from the post unattended.
Perhaps I might have treated his remonstrance with less neglect; but as this was to be our last meeting for a long time, my heart grew heavy under the prospect of the parting scene. I preferred going companionless; I had no apprehension that any enemy was near. As for Ijurra, he was no longer in the neighbourhood; he had not been seen since the night of the battle; and we had positive information that he had joined his band with the guerrilla of the celebrated Canales, then operating on the road between Camargo and Monterey. Indeed, had Ijurra been near, he could hardly have escaped the keen search of Holingsworth and the rangers, who, night and day, had been upon the scout, in hopes of overhauling him.
I was about turning into the old track, when a yearning came over me—a desire to obtain one more look at my beloved. By this time she would have reached her home; I should pass near the house; perhaps I might see her upon the azotea—a distant glance—a wave of the hand—haply the sweet prayer “va con Dios!” wafted upon the breeze: something of the kind I anticipated.
My horse seemed to divine my wishes; scarcely waiting for the guidance of the rein, he moved forward upon the path taken by the steed of Isolina.
I soon reached the bottom of the hill, and, entering the heavy timber, traversed a tangled wood—similar to that on the other side of the cerro. There was no path, but the tracks of the white steed were easily followed, and, guiding myself by them, I rode forward.
I had not gone five hundred yards from the hill, when I heard voices through, the woods, directly in front of me, and apparently at no great distance. Years of frontier-life had imbued me with an intuitive caution that resembled instinct; and, as if by mechanical effort, I pulled up and listened.
A woman was speaking; and instantly I recognised the voice. There was but one that rang with that rich metallic tone. I might well remember it, for the sweet, sad sounds of the va con Dios had not yet ceased to vibrate in my ears.
With whom was she in converse? Whom had she encountered in such a place, amid the wild woods?
She ceased speaking.
With ears keenly set, I listened for the rejoinder. Naturally, I expected it in the voice of a man; but not that man. Oh, heavens! it was the voice of Rafael Ijurra!
Yes, the voice was Ijurra’s. I knew it well. While listening to it by the mesa, I had noted its tones sufficiently to remember them—round, sonorous, of true Spanish accent, and not inharmonious—though at that moment they grated harshly upon my ear.
An indescribable feeling came over me: it was not jealousy—I was too confident to be jealous—and yet, I shame to confess, I felt a sensation sadly akin to it. After those earnest oaths, those tears and frenzied kisses—so soon after! Oh, shame upon me!
Alas! the experienced heart no more enjoys the tranquil continuity of faith. Its belief is like a broken dream—an intermittence of light and shade. It was my misfortune, my error, perhaps my crime, to remember too many pairs of pretty perjured lips.
In a word, I was once more jealous, in spite of all that had passed—of sighs, and tears, and plighted vows—once more jealous of Ijurra!
But the moment before, his name was on her tongue, and spoken with scorn; in the same breath I was assured that he was no longer in the neighbourhood, that he was far away!
No; he was upon the spot, in close conversation with her, and scarcely five minutes after the oath had been sworn that bound her to me for life! Less wonder I was jealous. That the feeling lasted only for an instant might be some palliation, but it was no merit of mine that brought it so quickly to a termination. I cannot screen my conduct behind an act of volition; for although the poisoned sting rankled but for a few seconds of time, during that short period I yielded obedience to its demoniac promptings.
I slipped down gently from my saddle; and with the crouching gait and silent tread of the jaguar, approached the speakers. My horse, well trained to such tactics stayed where I had dismounted, without tie or hopple. No fear that his hoof would betray me.
Step by step I advanced, with my hands cautiously parting the boughs. The fronds of a curious sabal palm befriended me. They grew vertically on short petioles, like large green fans; and overlying one another, formed a perfect screen, through which the keenest eye could not perceive the approach of an intruder.
In a few seconds, I stood behind the last row that bounded the edge of a small opening; and peering through the serrate interstices of the leaves, I saw my betrothed and her cousin.
Isolina was still in the saddle. Ijurra was on foot, and standing by her stirrup, with one hand resting upon the pommel, the other grasping the rein.
Up to this moment, my heart had continued its painful throbbing; but the attitude of Ijurra, with his troubled and angry look, at once produced a revulsion in my feelings. I saw that the encounter had been accidental—at least on the part of Isolina; I saw that she was detained.
I could not see her face; it was turned in the opposite direction, and towards Ijurra; but the tones of her voice reached me, and by these I perceived that she addressed him in anger. Oh, how those accents of indignation ravished my heart; sweeter were they to me than the softest melody!
As yet, I had heard nothing of what had passed between them; the loud beating of my heart, the rustling of the leaves under my feet, of the boughs as I pressed through them, had prevented me from distinguishing what was said. These sounds ceased as I came to a stop; and although still fifty paces distant from the speakers, I could catch every word of their conversation, favoured by the loud tone in which it was carried on.
“So, then, you refuse?”
It was Ijurra who put this interrogatory.
“I have done so before, Rafael; your conduct has given me no cause to change my mind.”
“Ha! my conduct has nothing to do with it; you have other reasons. Isolina, do not imagine I am such a bobo. I know your secret: you love this gringo—this Yankee captain?”
“And suppose I do, that is my affair. Nay, more, sir, shall not even attempt to make a secret of it. I do love him—I do—I do.”
Ijurra’s eyes gleamed with malignant fire; his lips turned white, and tightened over his teeth; he seemed endeavouring to curb the exposure of his spleen.
“And you would marry him?” he asked with compressed emphasis.
“I shall marry him,” was the prompt reply.
“Por todos santos! it shall never be.”
“And who is to hinder it?”
“I!”
“Ha, ha, ha! You are raving, Rafael Ijurra!”
“You may love him to your heart’s content—I care not; but marry him—never! s’death! never!”
“Indeed?”
“By the saints, I swear it. I swear—”
“You have sworn enough; you are sufficiently perjured already.”
“Carrai!” furiously shouted Ijurra, as if losing patience. “Listen to me, Isolina de Vargas! I have something to say that may not be so pleasant—”
“You can say nothing pleasant; but I listen.”
“First, then, here are certain documents that concern you—both you and your father.”
I saw some folded papers in his hand, which he had taken from under his jacket. He opened and held them before her face, as he continued:—
“This safeguard is one given by the American commander-in-chief to the Dona Isolina de Vargas. Perhaps you have seen it before? And here is a letter from Don Ramon de Vargas to the commissary-general of the American army, enclosed within another from that functionary to your pet filibustero—a pretty piece of treason this!”
“Well, sir?”
“Not so well for you, madame. You forget that General Santa Anna is now chief of this republic. Think you he will not punish such traitorous correspondence! Carrambo! if I but lay these documents before his Excellency, I shall have an order for the arrest of both yourself and your father as quickly as it can be spoken. No more; the estate will be proscript and confiscated—it will become mine—mine!”
The speaker paused, as if for an answer.
Isolina remained silent. I could not see her face to notice the effect. I fancied that the threat had terrified her. Ijurra continued:—
“Now, señorita! you better comprehend our relative positions. Give your consent to become my wife, and these papers shall be destroyed on the instant.”
“Never!” was the firm response that delighted my ears.
“Never!” echoed Ijurra; “then dread the consequences. I shall obtain orders for your arrest, and as soon as this horde of Yankee ruffians has been driven from the country, the property shall be mine.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” came the scornful laugh in reply—“ha, ha, ha! you mistake, Rafael Ijurra; you are not so far-sighted as you deem yourself; you forget that my father’s land lies on the Texan side of the Rio Grande; and ere that horde of Yankee ruffians, as you term them, be driven out, they will establish this river for their boundary. Where, then, will lie the power of confiscation? Not with you, and your cowardly master. Ha, ha, ha!”
The reply maddened Ijurra still further, for he saw the probability of what had been said. His face became livid, and he seemed to lose all control of himself.
“Even so,” he shouted with the addition of a fierce oath—“even so, you shall never inherit those lands. Listen, Isolina de Vargas! listen to another secret I have for you: know, señorita, that you are not the lawful daughter of Don Ramon!”
I saw the proud girl start, as if struck with an arrow.
“I have the proofs of what I repeat,” continued Ijurra; “and even should the United States triumph, its laws cannot make you legitimate. You are not the heiress of the hacienda de Vargas!”
As yet not a word from Isolina. She sat silent and motionless, but I could tell by the rising and falling of her shoulders that a terrible storm was gathering in her bosom.
The fiend continued:—
“Now, madame, you may know how disinterested it was of me to offer you marriage: nay, more, I never loved you; if I told you so, it was a lie—”
He never lied in his life as he was doing at that moment. His face bespoke the falsehood of his words. It was the utterance of purest spleen. I read in his look the unmistakable expression of jealousy. Coarse as the passion may have been, he loved her—oh! how could it have been otherwise?
“Love you, indeed! Ha, ha, ha! love you—the daughter of a poor Indian—a margarita!”
The climax had come. The heaving bosom could bear silence no longer; the insult was unendurable.
“Base wretch!” cried she, in a voice of compressed agony, “stand aside from my path!”
“Not yet,” answered Ijurra, grasping the bridle more firmly. “I have something further to communicate—”
“Villain! release the rein!”
“Before I do, you shall promise—you shall swear—”
“Again! let go! or this bullet to your heart!”
I had sprung from out the thicket, and was running forward to her rescue. I saw her right hand raised on high, and something shining in its grasp. It was a pistol. Its muzzle was pointed at Ijurra.
No doubt the resolute character of her who held it was well known to him, for the threat produced an immediate effect; the coward relaxed his hold, the reins dropped from his fingers, and with a mingled look of hatred and fear, he stepped back a pace.
The moment the bridle became free, the steed, already startled by the spur, bounded forward; and after half-a-dozen springs, both horse and rider disappeared behind the screen of the palmettoes.
I was too late to play the knight-errant. The “ladye faire” had not needed my help; she neither saw nor heard me; and by the time I arrived upon the ground, she had passed out of sight, and Ijurra was alone.