As they might truly anticipate, the gaucho’s conjecture proves to be correct. A road runs up to the summit of the hill on its western side; not direct, but somewhat zigzagged, in consequence of the slope on that face being steeper, and the ground more rocky and uneven. Withal, it is much wider than that by which they ascended, the latter being only a path leading out to the uninhabited pampa: while the former is the main thoroughfare between town and cemetery. It debouches on the level summit through a slight hollow, or defile, possibly due to the wear and tear of travel, continued through the long ages. Many a funeral procession, and from the most remote time, may have wound its way up that steep slope, passing between two cliffs, which, like the posterns of some grand gateway, mark the entrance to this elevated burial-place.
They do not go direct to the point where the town road enters the cemetery ground, but first back to the fig-tree to get their guns, ponchos, and some other articles left under it in their haste to put the horses in a better place of security. Having recovered the weapons and chattels, they proceed in search of the road. It is easily found, as all the paths between the separate scaffolds run into it. The point where it comes up out of the defile is but a short distance from the fig-tree; and on reaching this point they take their stand under the cliff; the one on the right hand side: for the moon being behind this, its shadow is projected more than half across the causeway of the road, so giving them a safe spot to stand in.
But they do not remain long upon their feet. Gaspar, observing a low bench of rock at the cliff’s base behind them, repeats a Spanish synonym of the old saw, “It’s as cheap sitting as standing;” and with this drops down upon the ledge, the others doing likewise.
The spot thus chosen is in every way answerable for the object they have in view. They are right over the Indian town, and can see into its streets, so far as is permitted by the moon’s declining light. It commands, moreover, a view of the road, for a good reach below, to the first angle of the zigzag, and no one could ascend beyond that point without being seen by them so long as there is light; while there is no danger of being themselves seen. One passing up, even when opposite the place where they are seated, would not perceive them; since, in addition to the shadowing cliff, there is a thick scrub between them and the travelled track, effectually screening them.
The advantages of the position are apparent to all; and, soon as settled in it, Cypriano once more calls upon Gaspar to make known the plan he has hinted at.
Thus again challenged, the gaucho, who has meanwhile been doing his best to trace out some course of action, responds, speaking in a slow, meditative way. For as yet he has but a vague idea of what ought to be done.
“Well,” he says, “there’s but one plan I can think of as at all likely to be successful. It may be, if dexterously managed; and I dare say we can so manage it.”
He pauses, seeming to deliberate within himself; which the two youths perceiving, refrain to ask further questions, leaving him to continue at his own time.
Which at length he does, with the odd observation:—
“One of us must become an Indian.”
“Become an Indian!” exclaims Ludwig. “What mean you by that, Gaspar?”
“I mean counterfeit a redskin; get disguised as one, and so steal into their town.”
“Ah! now, I understand. But that will be a dangerous thing to do, Gaspar. If caught—”
“Of course it will be dangerous,” interrupts the gaucho. “If caught, whoever of us it be, would no doubt get his skull crushed in by a macana, or maybe his body burnt over a slow fire. But as you see everything’s dangerous for us now, one may as well risk that danger as any other. As to counterfeiting an Indian, I propose taking the part myself; and I should be able to play it pretty well, having, as you both know, had some experience in that line. It was by a trick of the same sort I got off from the Guaycurus when I was their prisoner up the Pilcomayo; and if I hadn’t done it neatly, you shouldn’t now see me here.”
“How did you manage it?” queries Ludwig mechanically, or rather, to know how he intended doing it now.
“Well, I borrowed the costume of an ugly savage, who was set to keep guard over me, having first taken a loan of his hardwood club. The club I returned to him, in a way he wouldn’t have wished had he been awake. But he was silly enough to go to sleep, and was sleeping when I took it—ah! and slept on after I returned it—ever after. His dress I kept, and wore for more than a week—in short, till I got back to Paraguay, for I was over a week on the road. It fitted me well; so well, that with some colouring stuff I found in the fellow’s pouch, I was able to paint Indian, pass among the tents of the Guaycurus, and through a crowd of the savages themselves, without one of them suspecting the trick. In that way I slipped out of their camp and off. So, by something of the same I may be able to get the dear little niña out of this town of the Tovas.”
“Oh! do it, Gaspar!” exclaims Cypriano; “do that, and all I have will be yours.”
“Yes! all we both have,” adds Ludwig; “all there is at the estancia. But rescue sister, and I’m sure my mother will make you welcome to everything.”
“Ta-ta!” returns the gaucho, in a tone of reproach at being thus bargained with; gentle, however, as he knows it is from their anxiety about Francesca. “Why, hijos mios, what are you speaking of? Promises to me,—a bribe for but doing my duty! ’Twill be a far day before Gaspar Mendez will need that for service done to either friend or relative of his dear dead master—ay, to the laying down of my life. Carramba! are we not all embarked in the same boat, to swim or sink together? But we sha’n’t sink yet; not one of us. No; we shall swim out of this sea of troubles, and triumphantly. Cease despairing, then; for after all there mayn’t be so much danger. Though Naraguana be dead, there’s one above him, above all, up there in Heaven, who will not forsake us in this our extremity. Let us kneel and pray to Him.”
And they do kneel; Ludwig, as called upon by Gaspar repeating the Lord’s prayer, with a solemnity befitting the occasion.
Rising from their knees, and resuming their seats upon the ledge, they return to the subject of discourse, interrupted by their devotional interlude; Caspar declaring it his fixed intention to disguise himself as an Indian, and so seek entrance into the town. No matter what the danger, he is ready to risk it.
The others consenting, the next question that comes before them is, how the disguise is to be got up. About this there seems a difficulty to Ludwig, and also to Cypriano; though recalling the transformation of the latter into a soldier-crane, so quickly done by the deft hands of the gaucho, they doubt not that he will also find the ways and means for transforming himself into a redskin.
“If we only had a Tovas Indian here,” he says, “as I had that sleepy Guaycuru, I’d not be long in changing clothes with him. Well, as we can’t borrow a dress, I must see what can be done to make one. Good luck, there’s no great quantity of cloth in a Tovas suit, and the stitching isn’t much. All that’s needed is a bit of breech-clout, which I can make out of the tail of my shirt; then the poncho over my shoulders, that will cover everything.”
“But the colour of your skin, Gaspar! Wouldn’t that betray you?”
Ludwig thus interrogates, not thinking how easily the dexterous gaucho can alter his complexion, nor recalling what he has said about his having done so to disguise himself as a Guaycuru.
“It might,” returns Gaspar; “and no doubt would, if I left it as it is; which I don’t intend doing. True, my face is not so fair as to need much darkening, beyond what the sun has done for it. I’ve seen some Tovas Indians with cheeks nigh as white as my own, and so have you, señoritos. As for my arms, legs, and body, they’ll require a little browning, but as it so happens I’ve got the stuff to give it them. After the service rendered me by a coat of that colour, you may trust this gaucho never to go on any expedition over the pampas without a cake of brown paint stowed away in some corner of his alparejas. For the poncho, it won’t be out of place. As you know, there are many of the common kind among the Tovas Indians, worn and woven by them; with some of better sort, snatched, no doubt, from the shoulders of some poor gaucho, found straying too far from the settlements.”
“But, Gaspar,” says Ludwig, still doubting the possibility of the scheme; “surely such a disguise as you speak of will never do? In the daylight they’d see through it.”
“Ah! in the daylight, yes, they might. But I don’t intend giving them that chance. If I enter their town at all, and I see no other way for it, that entry must be made in the darkness. I propose making it to-morrow evening, after the sun’s gone down, and when it’s got to be late twilight. Then they’ll all be off guard, engaged in driving their animals into the corrales, and less likely to notice any one strolling about the streets.”
“But supposing you get safe into the place, and can go about without attracting attention, what will you do?” questions Ludwig.
“What can you?” is the form in which Cypriano puts it.
“Well, señoritos, that will depend on circumstances, and a good deal on the sort of luck in store for us. Still you mustn’t suppose I’m trusting all to chance. Gaspar Mendez isn’t the man to thrust his hand into a hornet’s nest, without a likelihood—nay, a certainty, of drawing some honey out of it.”
“Then you have such certainty now?” interrogates Cypriano, a gleam of hope irradiating his countenance. For the figurative words lead him to believe that the gaucho has not yet revealed the whole of his scheme.
“Of course I have,” is Gaspar’s rejoinder. “If I hadn’t we might as well give everything up, and take the back-track home again. We won’t do that, while there’s a chance left for taking the muchachita along with us.”
“Never!” exclaims Cypriano, with determined emphasis. “If I have to go into their town myself, and die in it, I’ll do that rather than return without my cousin.”
“Be calm, hijo mio!” counsels Gaspar in a soothing tone, intended to curb the excitement of the fiery youth; “I don’t think there will be any need for you either to enter the town, or lay down your life in it. Certainly neither, unless my plan get spoiled by the ill luck that’s been so long hanging about us. It isn’t much of a plan after all; only to find one of the Indians, to whom I did a service when they were living at their old place. I cured the man of a complaint, which, but for the medicine I administered, would have carried him off to the happy hunting grounds—where just then he didn’t wish to go. That medicine wasn’t mine either. I had it from the dueño. But the sick man gave me credit for it all the same, and swore if I ever stood in need of his services, I could count upon receiving them, sure. From what I saw of him afterwards, and we came to know one another pretty well, I think I can. If ever there was a redskin to be trusted it’s he. Besides, he’s one of some authority in the tribe—a sort of sub-chief.”
“I know another,” breaks in Ludwig, as if suddenly recollecting; “one who’d help us too—if we could only have a word with him. That’s Nacena’s brother, Kaolin.”
Cypriano casts at his cousin a glance of peculiar meaning—something like surprise. Not because the latter has made mention of an Indian girl and her brother, both known to himself; but his giving the girl’s name first, as though she were uppermost in his thoughts. And she is; though that is a secret the young naturalist has hitherto kept close locked within his own breast.
Without noticing the glance of scrutiny bent upon him, he proceeds to explain himself.
“You may remember, Kaolin and I were the best of friends. He often went fishing with me, or rather I went with him. And I’m sure he’d stand by me now, in spite of Aguara.”
“So much the better,” rejoins Caspar. “If my man fail me, we can fall back upon yours. What I propose doing, then, is this. We must keep quiet, and of course concealed, all day to-morrow till after sunset. We can employ ourselves in the preparation of my masquerading costume. When it comes on twilight, or a little later, I can slip down among those toldos, and go sauntering about, like any other redskin, till I find my old patient. He being a big fellow, there shouldn’t be much difficulty in doing that. When found I’ll make appeal to him, to help us in getting the niña out of—” he has it on his tongue to say “Aguara’s clutches,” but thinking of the effect of such a phrase falling upon Cypriano’s ears, he concludes with the words, “whatever place they’re keeping her in.”
Caspar’s scheme thus at length declared, seeming feasible enough—and indeed the only one which any of them can think of as at all practicable—the other two signify assent to it; and its execution, or the attempt, is finally determined upon.
Going on to discuss the steps next best to be taken, they are interrupted by the sound of footsteps—some one ascending from below! The footfall is a light one, but distinct enough for them to tell, that whoever makes it is continuing on towards them, though yet unseen. As already said, the causeway is in part overshadowed by the cliff, and within this shadow keeps the person approaching. For all, on the footsteps drawing near, there is light enough for them to make out a figure; the better from its being clad in a drapery of white, loose and flowing, as though the wearer were a woman.
And so is she, or, to speak more correctly, a girl; her sex and age revealed to them, as at a certain point she steps to the off side of the path, and the moonlight falling upon her, exposes to their view a face beautiful as youthful.
Gaspar and Cypriano both recognise the face, but say nothing. Different Ludwig, who at the first glance got of it, unable to restrain himself, mechanically mutters the name—
“Nacena!”
Fortunately Ludwig’s exclamation has been uttered in a subdued tone of voice; but lest in his agitation he may speak louder, the gaucho grasps him by the arm, and cautions silence, enjoining the same on Cypriano.
For several seconds not another word passes between them, all three remaining motionless, and silent as sphinxes.
Meanwhile the Indian girl having come opposite the place where they are seated, passes onward with cautious step and eyes that interrogate the ground in front, as if she anticipated seeing some one; like a young hind that has stolen timidly out of the covert, on hearing the call-bleat of the stag.
Soon she is far enough beyond to give them an opportunity of exchanging speech without her overhearing it; and of this the gaucho avails himself, whispering—
“She’s keeping an appointment with her lover, I suppose.”
He little thinks of the painful effect his words have produced upon Ludwig, as he adds—
“We’ll do best to let her go on to their place of meeting, which is no doubt somewhere near. She must return this way, and then we can have our interview with her. But where’s the amanté! A laggard, to let the girl be on the ground before him! That wasn’t my way, when— See! she’s coming to a stop.”
And to a stop she comes, just where the sloping path passes out at the upper end of the defile, entering among the scaffolds. There standing erect, she glances inquiringly around, her gaze ranging along the open spaces between the structures and the shadows underneath them.
For a minute or two she remains in this attitude, without changing it, or making the slightest noise—evidently looking for a form or listening for a footstep. But neither seeing the one, nor hearing the other, she at length calls out a name; at first timidly, but after an interval in bolder tone, “Shebotha!”
“Not her lover after all!” mutters Gaspar, who remembers the name thus pronounced, while Ludwig is relieved at hearing it, he also knowing something of the sorceress.
“Only that old hag!” the gaucho goes on; “I wonder now what the young sprout can be wanting with her, up here and at this hour of the night! Some mischief between them, I haven’t a doubt.”
His conjectures are suddenly brought to a close by a new noise now reaching their ears; a sort of scraping or shuffling, diversified by grunts and coughs—all coming up from below. Turning their eyes that way, they see ascending what appears to be a human figure, but stooped forward so as more to resemble a creature crawling on all fours. At the same instant the Indian girl has caught sight of it; and standing poised on the platform’s edge, she silently awaits its approach, knowing the bent form to be Shebotha’s.
Scrambling on up the steep, at intervals stopping to take breath, while she intermittently gives out hoarse grunts, the hag passes by them, at length reaching the spot where the girl stands awaiting her. Stopping by the side of the latter, both are now seen face to face in the full moonlight; and never did moon shine upon faces or figures more contrasting. On the one side age indicated by a spare body, thin skinny arms, features furrowed with wrinkles, of most repulsive aspect, and eyes sparkling with a sinister light; on the other, youth, with all its witching charms, a figure lithe and graceful as any palm growing on the plain below, features of classic type, and a face exquisitely beautiful, despite its tint of bronze, the eyes bright with the glow of a burning passion. For it is this last that has brought the girl thither.
Only a second or two do they remain silent, till the sorceress recovers breath; for it is she who breaks the silence, saying:—
“Nacena wants to speak with Shebotha? On what subject?”
“Need I tell you, Shebotha; you know!”
“I know that the sister of Kaolin is in love with our young cacique. That is no secret to others, any more than to me.”
“Oh! do not say that! I thought no one knew of it but—”
“But everybody,” interrupts the unfeeling hag. “And what if they do? Nacena is beautiful, the belle of our tribe, and need fear no rival; not even her with the eyes of blue, and the tresses of gold, who sleeps under Shebotha’s roof. Nacena is jealous of the paleface captive; she has no cause.”
“O, good Shebotha!” cries the young girl, in passionate tone, her heart heaving with rekindled hope, “can you assure me of that? If so, you shall have all I can give you; my armlets, neck ornaments, mantas, hamacas, everything. Fear not my rewarding you well!”
“Nacena is generous,” rejoins the sorceress, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at such a wholesale proffer of chattels. “She shall have that assurance; for Shebotha can give it without fail. See this!”
While speaking, she has drawn out, from under the skin robe that covers her bony breast, what appears to be a small horn, converted into a phial with bottom and stopper.
“In this,” she says, holding it up to the light, “is a fluid, one drop of which, given to Aguara will turn his heart whichever way Shebotha wishes it turned; make him love whomsoever she wants him to love; and that will be as Nacena wants it.”
“Oh! it is good of you, Mam Shebotha so good! How shall I ever enough thank or reward you?”
“No matter about thanks,” responds the hag with a knowing leer; “Shebotha likes better the reward. And what you’ve promised will content her. But promises, as Nacena herself knows, are sometimes badly kept, and should have something to secure them, by way of earnest. What can you give me now?”
The girl glances down to her breast, upon which lie several pendants, sustained by a massive chain of gold passing around her neck. Then she holds out her arms to show bracelets upon the wrists, beset with pearls and precious stones, that no doubt once clasped other wrists than hers—those of palefaced doncellas dwelling in Santiago or Salta. Unclasping the armlets, one after another, she delivers them to Shebotha.
But the avaricious beldame is not yet satisfied. With her eyes upon the chain necklet and its glittering attachments, she nods towards it, as much as to say, “That too.” And it, also, is detached; and handed over to her. Then her greedy eyes go to the fillet around the girl’s temples, and an embroidered belt which encircles her waist. But these, though pretty ornaments, are not of great intrinsic value; and as Shebotha has in view a further levy of blackmail at a future time, she can then take them too.
For the present she appears content, all the more as she gloats over the treasure, which for a while she feasts her eyes upon without speaking. Then slipping the various articles, one after another, into the bosom of her dress, she resumes speech, saying—
“Shebotha has other spells besides that spoken of; one powerful above all, which puts to sleep—ah! a sleep from which the sleeper never awakes. If the other should fail to act, and Aguara—”
“But you said it could not fail,” breaks in the girl, her countenance again clouding over. “Is there a doubt, Mam Shebotha?”
“There’s always uncertainty in these things,” rejoins the sorceress; “and in the love-spell more than any other. As you know, love is the strongest passion, and therefore the most difficult to control.”
All this, by way of making safe her bargain, for well knows she her spell will not bring back Aguara’s love, lost to Nacena; and as the bulk of the reward promised will depend upon this, she has yet another proposal to make that may ensure its payment. She acts as one who would hedge a bet, and drawing closer to the victim of her delusion, she says—
“If Nacena should ever want the paleface put to sleep by that other spell, Shebotha will administer it.”
As the fiendish suggestion is spoken in a whisper, the three listeners do not hear what it is. They can only guess by the behaviour of the young girl that some offer has been made which she indignantly rejects. This can be told by her rejoinder, and the air in which she delivers it.
“No!” she exclaims, starting back with an expression of horror upon her countenance. “Never, never! If Aguara be untrue to me, it is no fault of the paleface. I know that; and have no vengeance for her. But for him—ah! if he have deceived me, it is not she, but he should suffer punishment. And punished he shall be—by my brother.”
“Oh! your brother!” returns the sorceress with a sneer, evidently in anger at having her offer so rejected. “If Kaolin can right your wrongs, let him.” And she adds, making to move off, “I suppose you haven’t any more need for me, or my services.”
“If she haven’t I have,” cries Gaspar, springing out from the place of concealment and seizing hold of the hag, while at the same instant Cypriano flings his arms around the Indian girl.
“Come, Mam Shebotha!” continues the gaucho, “it’s my turn to have a talk with you.”
She makes an effort to escape, and would cry out; but cannot, with his sinewy fingers around her throat.
“Stop your struggling!” he commands, giving her a shake till her old bones crackle at every joint. “A cry, a word from you above a whisper, and I’ll close your windpipe so that you’ll never grunt through it again. Come, muchachos! Let’s to the other side! One of you bring on the girl. Vamos!”
Raising the hag in his arms he bears her off, with no more care for her comfort than if she were a trapped wolf. Nacena is borne more tenderly in Ludwig’s arms, into which she has been transferred, by a sort of tacit understanding between him and his cousin—the latter walking alongside. No threat hears the girl, nor needs it to enforce silence. For she is no more apprehensive of injury, now knowing him who carries her as her brother’s old playfellow. Above all, does she feel reassured, on hearing whispered in her ear—
“Have no fear, Nacena! Am not I the bosom friend of your brother? I will not deceive you.”
Does she note the earnestness of his words, and the significant emphasis given to those last pronounced? Whether or not, she refrains making rejoinder: but suffers herself to be borne on through the scaffold tombs without resistance, and silent as the forms reposing upon them.
Straight across the cemetery goes Gaspar, with Shebotha in his arms, nor stops he till back on the spot where the path leads down to the outer plain. Arriving there, he deposits his living burden upon the earth; not gently, but dumping her down with a rude violence, as though it were a bunch of faggots. Still he does not let her out of his arms altogether; but with a threat, once more warning her to be silent, retains fast hold of her, till Cypriano has brought him a lazo from the saddle of one of the horses near by. Looping this round the body of the sorceress, and taking a few turns of it about her arms and ankles, he spreads his poncho over her head, then knots the rope around her neck, and so muffles her beyond the chance of either hearing or making herself heard. All this done, he again raises her from the ground, and carrying her some distance back among the scaffolds, he binds her to a corner post of one with the end of the lazo yet unused. His purpose in thus disposing of her is not clear to his companions, both of whom he has left in charge of the Indian girl; who, on her part, makes no attempt to escape. Instead, released from Ludwig’s arms, she stands silently by his side, neither trembling nor showing sign of fear. Why should she, with those words of friendly assurance which have been once more whispered in her ear?
And now Gaspar getting back to where they stand, and speaking in the Tovas tongue sufficiently well to be understood by her, says to Nacena—
“Muchacha mia! you see who we are, and know all three of us. We know you, Nacena—even to your tenderest secret; which has been revealed to us in the dialogue just held between yourself and Mam Shebotha. Every word of that we’ve heard, with the lies she’s been telling you. And let me tell you, that of all the wicked impostor’s promises, there’s but one she could have kept—that to rid you of her you deem a rival. And she could only have done that by doing murder; which was what she meant by her sleeping draught.”
The young girl shudders listening to what she knows is but the truth.
“’Twas good of you to reject the foul proposal,” goes on the gaucho, “and indignantly, as we know you did. We saw and heard it all. And now, I have a proposal to offer, which you won’t reject; I’m sure you won’t, Nacena.”
She makes no rejoinder, but stands waiting to receive it.
“It is,” he continues, “that you can still rid yourself of that rival, not by doing wrong, but right and justice. With your help we shall take her away to a place where Aguara will never more set eyes upon her. But as I’ve said, we stand in need of your assistance, and you must give it.”
“You will, you will!” interposes Cypriano, in tones of earnest appeal.
“Yes, dear Nacena,” follows Ludwig, in tenderer tones; “I’m sure you will. Remember, she is my sister, and that you yourself have a brother!”
Had they but known it, there was no need for all this petitioning. Even while Gaspar was speaking, and long before he had finished, the Indian girl, with the quick, subtle instinct of her race, divined what they were aiming at—the very end she herself desires, and might have proposed to them. The same instinct, however, prompts her to feign ignorance of it, as evinced by her interrogative rejoinder:—
“How can Nacena assist you? In what way?”
“By helping us to get the paleface out of her prison.” It is Gaspar who speaks. “She is imprisoned, is she not?”
“She is.”
“And where is she kept?” further questions the gaucho.
Cypriano trembles as he listens for the answer. He fears, half expecting it to be, “In the toldo of the cacique.”
It is a relief to him, when Nacena, pointing towards the dark object bound to the scaffold-post, says: “She has charge of the paleface captive.”
“Bueno!” ejaculates Gaspar with delight in his eyes, as in those of Cypriano. “Nothing could be better than that. And now that we have Shebotha here, no one will be guarding the prisoner—will there?”
“Alas, yes!” responds the Indian girl, her words with their tone telling that she has entered into the spirit of their enterprise.
“Who?” interrogates Gaspar. “What is he—if it be a man?”
“Yes, a man. A white man, like yourselves; one who has been long with our tribe—a captive taken many years ago from some of the countries south. He is Shebotha’s own slave, and watches over the paleface when she is out of the toldo.”
Again the gaucho ejaculates, “Bueno!” adding, in sotto voce, to his two companions, “It seems better still; a bit of rare good luck; that is, if this white man, whoever he be, isn’t grown Indianised, as I’ve known some to be.” Then to the girl. “Shebotha’s slave, you say? In that case, he should be wanting to regain his liberty, and we may give him the chance. If need be, we can take him along, too. You understand, Nacena?”
“I do.”
“Then you agree to assist us?”
“Say yes!” urges Cypriano.
“My sister, Nacena!” adds Ludwig.
In response to their united appeals, she points to the sorceress, saying—
“Her vengeance is to be dreaded. If I do as you wish me, Shebotha—”
“Won’t hurt a hair of your head,” says Gaspar, interrupting. “Nor can’t. She’ll not be near enough to do you any injury. That worthy woman is on the eve of a long journey, to be made in our company, if you agree to assist us in getting the paleface away. You do agree to it, amiga mia?”
The girl fully comprehending, and relieved at the thought of the dreaded sorceress being taken out of the way, at length not only signifies assent to their scheme, but embraces it with alacrity. Its success will be to her advantage as theirs, ridding her of that rival feared, and it may be, restoring to her the affections of him on whom she has fixed her own.
And now that confidence is established between her and her captors, she gives them a full account of how things stand in the tolderia, and the place where the captive is confined. Having heard which, Gaspar counsels her how to act, as a last word, saying—
“Tell this white man, who has charge of the niña, he need no longer be a prisoner himself, nor Shebotha’s slave. Say to him, that men of his own race and colour are near, ready to rescue and take him back to his people, wherever they may be. Surely that will be enough to gain him to our side, and get his help also.”
Nacena hesitates for a time; then answering, says—
“No, not enough, I fear.”
“But why?”
“The white man is not in his senses. He has lost them long ago. The little left him is given to Shebotha. He fears her, as all our people do; but he more than any. She has surely left him with commands to keep a close watch. He does not disobey her; and it may be impossible for me to speak with the paleface, much more get her away from him.”
“Caspita!” exclaims Gaspar, his countenance again turning grave. “There will be a difficulty there, I see it; if the man’s crazed, as you say he is, Nacena. You think he won’t let you speak with the prisoner, unless you have permission from Shebotha?”
“He will not—I am sure he will not.”
“In that case all may be idle, and our scheme go for nought. Por Dios! what’s to be done?”
Pressing his head between his hands, the gaucho stands considering, while the other three in silence await the result. His deliberation is not for long; a bright idea has flashed across his brain, and with his countenance also recovering brightness, he exclaims—
“Gracios a Dios! I know how it can be managed; I think I know.”
Ludwig and Cypriano have it on their tongues to inquire what he means. But before either can say a word, he is off and away in a rush toward the scaffold-post to which Shebotha is tied.
Reaching it, he is seen with arms outstretched and in rapid play, as though he were setting her free. Far from that, however, is his intention. He but undoes the knot around her neck, and raising the poncho, clutches at something which encircles her throat. He had noticed this something while throttling her when first caught; it had rattled between his fingers as the beads of a rosary, and he knew it to be such, with a slight difference—the beads being human teeth! A remembrance, moreover, admonishes him that this ghastly necklace was worn by the sorceress, not for adornment, but to inspire dread. It is, in fact, one of her weapons of weird mystery and power, and an idea has occurred to him that it may now be used as an instrument against herself.
Having detached it from her neck, and replaced the poncho upon her head, he returns to where he had left the others, and holding out the string of teeth, says to Nacena—
“Take this. Present it to the crazy paleface; tell him Shebotha sent it as a token authorising you to act for her; and, if he be not altogether out of his wits, I warrant it’ll get you admission to the presence of the paleface. For anything beyond, you will best know how to act of yourself.”
The girl grasps the hideous symbol, a gleam of intelligence lighting up her swarth but beautiful face. For she, too, anticipates the effect it will have on Shebotha’s slave, from actual knowledge—not by guessing, as with Gaspar.
Knowing herself now at liberty and free to depart, without saying another word, she turns her back upon them; and gliding away with the agile, stealthy step peculiar to her race, soon passes beyond their sight.
They stand looking after her, till her dark figure disappears amid the shadows of the scaffolds. But they have no doubt of her fidelity—no fear that she will fail to do what she can for the fulfilment of her promise. The keeping it is secured by her own interested motives: for the passion impelling her to act on their behalf, though purely selfish, can be trusted as truth itself.
Midnight’s hour is past, the moon has gone down, and in the Indian town there is darkness and silence. Every one is asleep, or seems to be; since no light shines either in toldo or tent, neither can a human figure be seen in the streets, or anywhere around.
At some distance from the houses, however, among thickly-standing trees, and close into the base of the hill, is the quaint dwelling-place of Shebotha—half cave, half hut—and inside this flickers a faint light, from a dip candle of crude beeswax, with a wick of the fibre of the pita plant. By its red flame, mingled with much smoke, a collection of curious objects is dimly discernible; not articles of furniture, for these are few, but things appertaining to the craft in which Shebotha is supposed to have skill—demonology. There are the bones and skins of monkeys, with those of snakes, lizards, and other reptiles; teeth of the alligator and jaguar; the proboscis-like snouts of the tapir and tamanoir, or great ant-bear, with a variety of other like oddities, furnished by the indigenous creatures of the Chaco in every department of the zoological world—birds, quadrupeds, insects, reptiles, and fishes.
This motley conglomeration is for the most part arranged against the inner wall of the hut, and opposite the entrance, so as to be observable by any one looking in at the door, or even passing by it. For its purpose is to impress the superstitious victims of Shebotha’s craft with a belief in her witching ways. And to give this a more terrifying and supernatural character, a human skull, representing a death’s head, with a pair of tibia for crossbones underneath, is fixed centrally and prominently against the wall.
The same light that so faintly illuminates this paraphernalia of repulsive objects, also shines upon one that is pleasing—this the figure of a young girl, with a face wonderfully fair. For she is Francesca Halberger.
At the hour spoken of she is the sole occupant of the hut; its owner, Shebotha, being abroad. For it is the self-same hour and instant when the sorceress has the rosary of teeth snatched so rudely from her neck. She is seated on the edge of a catré, or cane bedstead, of the pallet kind, her head buried in her hands, through the white fingers of which her long golden tresses fall in rich profusion, scattered over and mingling with the fur of the great pampas wolf which serves as a sort of mattress for the bed.
The candle has burnt down into the socket of its rude stick, but at intervals flares up, with a crackling, sputtering noise; as it it does so, showing upon her features that same sad look as when she was being carried hither, a captive; only that her face is now paler, and the expression upon it telling of a despair deeper and more settled. She has slept but little from the day of her entrance under Shebotha’s roof, and no great deal since she last lay on her own bed at home. What sleep she now gets is only in short snatches; when tired nature can no longer continue the struggle with thoughts all the while torturing her. No wonder at sweet slumber being thus long denied her, with such memories to keep her awake! In fancy, ever before her seems the face of her father with that look of agony she last saw upon it, as he lay upon the ground, weltering in his gore. And in fancy also, she beholds the ruffian, Valdez, standing above the prostrate form, waving over it his blood-stained spear, a very demon exultant!
But her painful thoughts are not all of the past. She has doubts and fears also for the future, dark as she reflects on her own situation, and what will be done to her; but still darker when she thinks of those left behind and far away. What will become of her dear mother and brother? What of him—dear, ah! perhaps dearer than either—her handsome cousin? For Cypriano’s affection for her is fully reciprocated.
Not strange then the sadness overspreading her features, nor the weight of woe in her heart; as she dwells on the fate that may be his and theirs. For she knows they are all in danger—great and certain danger; has known it ever since seeing Valdez, the vaqueano, consorting with the Tovas Indians, and on friendly terms with their chief. Oft had she asked herself the question whither he went afterwards! Did he return to Paraguay, or go direct to the estancia, there to complete his diabolical work—begun by murder, to end in the same with other crimes? In any case he would not likely leave them unharmed, as the captive girl too truly apprehends.
With such terrible thoughts to agitate her breast, no wonder she should be awake while everyone around seems slumbering. But on this night, and at this hour, something besides hinders her from seeking repose; that being the absence of Shebotha, which, for certain reasons, makes her more than ordinarily apprehensive. In truth, she is greatly alarmed by it. Never before has the sorceress been out of her toldo to stay for any continued time; above all, never during the hours of night. Why should she be absent now, and so long?
While asking herself these questions, the captive has not the slightest intention to take advantage of Shebotha’s absence, and make trial to escape. Well knows she that would be idle, and she could not get away if she tried. For though the owner of the hut is off watch, there is one on it—a man sitting, or squatted, just outside the door. No red man, but one with a white skin; himself a prisoner, and who possibly once, as she, felt distressed by his captivity. It may have been this very feeling which has made him what he now is—a witless idiot, resigned to his fate. In any case, he seems to be contented as Shebotha’s slave; and, perhaps ignorant of there being any better, serves her with a fidelity worthy of a better mistress. No watch-dog at that toldo’s door were more to be trusted than he.
She inside has no intention, nor ever had, of tempting him to be untrue to his trust. Even could he be induced to let her pass out, what purpose would it serve? She could not make her way home; and he is not the sort of man to see her safe through more than two hundred miles of wilderness. The idea is too hopeless to be entertained, and she does not for an instant entertain it.
The thoughts that now occupy her mind are not of how she may escape from her captivity, but dwelling upon a theme altogether different. She is thinking who will be the next one to darken the door of the hut; fearing it may be neither Shebotha herself, nor yet her slave, but the man who is master of both—Aguara!
True, the young cacique has not as yet offered her either outrage or insult; instead still approaches her with courtesy, and a pretence of friendship. For all, something—it may be instinct—admonishes her that he is acting under a mask, which he may at any moment cast aside, revealing the monster, as she believes him to be. And with sufficient reason, recalling that tragedy which deprived her of a father; and sure, despite all his protestations, that Aguara played a willing part in it.
While thus apprehensively reflecting, she hears footsteps, as of some one approaching the place. The sound causes her to start to her feet, and stand listening, with a heightened expression of fear upon her face. For, although the footfall is distant, and only distinguishable as such by the rustle it makes among the dead leaves, she can tell it is not that of Shebotha, with whose halting gait and shuffling step her ear has grown familiar. Whose, then? Who would be coming to the hut at that time of night—now morning—save Shebotha herself? None but she, and those of her belonging, dare do so either by night or by day? For the toldo of the sorceress is a sort of sanctuary, tabooed to the people of the tribe, and no one may enter or approach its sacred precincts, without having her permission, or being bidden by her. Yes; one may, and can—Aguara.
Still darker shows the fear upon the face of the captive girl, as she thinks of this special privilege accorded to the cacique, of which she has been made aware. It must be he who is drawing near, and with him a danger she has long vaguely apprehended.
For some seconds she remains intently listening, her young heart pulsing audibly within her breast. It beats easier as the footfall draws nigher, and she can tell it is not that of a man. The tread is too light and elastic. It cannot be Aguara who approaches.
She is still surer of its not being he, as the footsteps, having come close up to the hut, cease to be heard, and in their place a different sound enters through the open door—a feminine voice speaking in soft, dulcet tones.
The speech is not addressed to the captive herself, but to him who watches outside. After an interchange of ordinary salutation, and an inquiry by the watcher as to what is wanted—this evidently in tone of surprise—the soft voice responds, “I want to speak with the little pale free.”
“You cannot. Shebotha forbids it. No one may enter here without her permission.”
“But I have more than her permission—her commands. She has sent me with a message to the paleface. At this moment Mam Shebotha has a matter elsewhere, and could not come herself.”
“You may be speaking the truth, but how am I to know?” questions the man, as he regards the intruder with an incredulous stare. “I don’t go so far as to say you are telling a lie. All I say is, that the thing isn’t at all likely. Mam Shebotha’s not the sort to trust her affairs to such a chiquitita as you.”
“You know me, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes; you are Kaolin’s sister—her they call the belle of the tribe; your name’s Nacena.”
“It is so; and surely you’ll believe me? The sister of Kaolin would not speak false. You cannot suppose I am deceiving you?”
“Ah!” he rejoins, with his words heaving a sigh, “it is often those who are most beautiful who most deceive.”
Possibly the memory of some such deception, an experience of times long past, has been awakened within him. It embitters his speech as he continues—
“I can’t—I won’t believe you—though you are Kaolin’s sister, and ever so fair to look upon.”
“But you will, when you look upon this.”
She draws out the string of teeth snatched from the neck of the sorceress, and holds it up to his eyes, adding—
“That I bring from Shebotha herself. She gave it me to show you as a sign that I have her permission to speak with the paleface—nay, her command, as I’ve said. Now!”
At sight of the hideous symbol, which he instantly recognises, his incredulity is at an end. For he knows how jealously the sorceress guards this token, and that no one could have obtained it from her without some special purpose, or to do a service to herself. What it may be he questions not, nor longer forbids entrance to the hut, but nods towards the door, as much as to say—
“You can go in.”
Though the dialogue between Nacena and Shebotha’s slave was in the Tovas tongue, she who has overheard them inside the hut has sufficient acquaintance with it to make out that the Indian girl is seeking an interview with herself. But for what purpose, she has not the most distant idea, and cannot conceive why it should specially be sought at that strange hour, when everybody else is abed. She knows Nacena by name, as by sight; having on many occasions seen her at the old tolderia. But the two have never had acquaintance, nor held conversation; the sister of Kaolin always seeming shy with her, and never visiting the estancia, as did the other girls of the tribe. More than this, she remembers that whenever of late she by chance met the savage maiden, she had observed a scowl upon the latter’s face, which she could not help fancying was meant for herself. Nor had her fancy been astray; since in reality for her was that black look. Though for what reason Francesca could not tell, having never that she could think of done aught that should give offence to Kaolin’s sister. Besides, was not Kaolin himself the bosom friend of her brother Ludwig? Still, recalling that scowl so often seen upon Nacena’s countenance—with a suspicion, purely intuitive, of what may have caused it—not strange she should deem the visit of the Indian girl boding no good to her, but instead something of ill.
As the latter steps inside the toldo, however, and the light falls upon her face, the captive can there see no sign of malice, nor token of hostility. Instead, it is lit up by a smile which seems rather to speak of friendship and protection. And, in truth, such are among the sentiments now moving the Indian girl to action. At the prospect of being for ever rid of a rival she sees so helpless, the feeling of jealousy has passed away out of her heart, as its frown from her face, and she approaches the captive with the air of one who has both the wish and the power to give liberty. She is the first to speak, asking abruptly—
“Do you wish to be free?”
“Why do you ask that?” is the interrogative rejoinder, in a tone distrustful. For that smile may be but to deceive.
“Because Nacena has it in her power to give you freedom if you desire it.”
“Desire it!” exclaims the captive. “Nacena is but mocking me,” she adds, involuntarily falling into the figurative mode of speech peculiar to the American Indian. “Indeed, I do desire it. But how could Nacena set me at liberty?”
“By taking the paleface to her people.”
“They are far away—hundreds of miles. Would Nacena herself take me to them?”
“No. That is not needed. The paleface is mistaken. Her friends are not far away, but near. They wait for her to come out to them.”
The captive gives a start of surprise, the light of hope and joy, long absent from her eyes, rekindling in them, as another light breaks upon her.
“Of whom does Nacena speak?”
“Of your brother the fair-haired youth, your cousin the dark Paraguayan, and the gaucho who has guided them hither. All three are close to the tolderia, on the other side of the hill—as I’ve said, expecting you. Nacena has spoken with them, and promised she will conduct you to where they are. White sister!” she adds, in a tone of unmistakeable sincerity, at the same time drawing closer to the captive, and tenderly taking her by the hand, “do not show distrust, but let Nacena keep her word. She will restore you to your friends, your brother; ah! to one who waits for you with anxiety keener than all!”
At the last words the captive bends upon her would-be deliverer a bewildered, wondering look. Is it possible Nacena has knowledge of her tenderest secret? It must be so; but how can she have learnt it? Surely Cypriano—whom she says she has seen outside and spoken with—surely, he could not have revealed it; would not! Francesca forgets that the Indian girl was for years a near neighbour to her father’s estancia; and though never visiting there, with the keen intuition of her race was like enough to have learnt, that the relationship between her cousin and herself had something in it beyond mere cousinly affection.
While she is still cogitating as to how Nacena could have come to this knowledge, and wondering the while, the latter bleaks in upon her wonderment, and once more urges her to flight, again speaking of him who is near and dear, so anxiously expecting her.
It needs not such pressing appeal. For the captive girl, her surprise once past, is but too willing to embrace the opportunity so unexpectedly offered, and by one so unlikely to offer it. Therefore, without further hesitation, she signifies acceptance, saying, “I will trust you, Nacena. You have called me your white sister, and I believe you sincere. You would not speak so if you meant me harm. Take me where you will; I am ready to go with you.”
Saying which, she holds out her hand, as if offering to be led.
The Indian girl taking it, turns her face for the door, and is about to step towards it, when she remembers the watcher without; and obstruction she had for the time forgotten. Will he bar their exit? A cloud comes over her brow, as she asks herself the question; for, mentally answering it, she thinks he most probably will.
The other observing her hesitation, and quite comprehending it, makes no inquiry about the cause. That is already declared in the dialogue lately overheard by her; and as he outside is likely to be listening, the two now take counsel together, speaking in whispers.
Nacena, from a better knowledge of the situation, is of course the chief adviser, and it ends in her determining to show a bold front, and pass out as if already armed with Shebotha’s permission. If interrupted, they can then make a rush for it. In short, after a hurried consultation, they can think of no other way, much less a better one. For by the shuffling of footsteps, and a wheezing noise—Shebotha’s slave being afflicted with asthma—they can tell that he is close by the entrance.
Soon as resolved how to act, the Indian girl, still holding the captive by the hand, leads her on to the door; and, passing over the threshold side by side, they present themselves to the sentry, Nacena saying:
“In going in I forgot to tell you my errand from Mam Shebotha. She bade me bring the paleface to where she is herself. You see, I am taking her.”
“You cannot take her out of the toldo,” rejoins the man in a tone of dogged denial. “You must not; Shebotha would kill me if I permitted it.”
“But I have Shebotha’s command to do so.”
“How am I to know that?”
“You forget what I have said, and what I’ve given you.”
She points to the strange rosary, which he had taken from her, and still retains—possibly as a voucher against any mistake that may arise.
“No, I don’t,” he rejoins, holding the string up before her eyes, and shaking it till the teeth rattle. “There it is; but withal, I can’t allow her, the paleface, to go with you. It might be as much as my life is worth.”
“But what is your life worth without liberty?”
It is not Nacena who puts this question, but the paleface herself; speaking to him in her native tongue, as his. He gives a sudden start on hearing it, and regards the young girl with a stare of astonishment, rubbing his eyes as though just awakened from a long-continued sleep.
“Ah—eh!” he exclaims, excitedly. “What’s that? Liberty, did you say? Liberty? Mine’s gone long ago. I’m but a poor slave—Shebotha’s slave. I can never be free again; no, never!”
“You may be free now—this very moment—if you wish it.”
“If I wish it! Ha, ha, ha! That’s a good joke! If I wish it! Only show me the way, and let Mam Shebotha go to—”
“Never mind Mam Shebotha. Listen to me, who am of the same race and people as yourself. There are some of them now near, who have come to take me home to my friends. You must have friends too, whom you left long ago. Why should you not go back to them?”
“Carramba!” he cries out, as if the sound of his native tongue had brought back to remembrance one of its most common exclamations, and along with it a desire to return to the place where he last heard it spoken. “Why should I not? If you say you’ll take me, I will.”
“Ah! I’ll not only take you, but be glad of your company. Nos vamos!”
It is still Francesca who speaks, and at the last words, pronounced in a tone of half encouragement, half command, she stretches out her hand, and taking hold of that of her late jailer, leads him off, as a rough pampas colt just tamed and gentled.
Nacena, astonished at the spirit shown by the little paleface, and delighted with a success which may prove advantageous to herself, says not a word; but steps off forward in front of the other two—making mute pantomimic signs to guide them in the direction they are to go.