For many days the young Kentuckian remains unconscious of all that is
passing around. Fortunately for him, he has fallen into the right
hands; for the old gentleman in spectacles is in reality a medical man--
a skilled surgeon as well as a physician, and devotes all his time and
skill to restoring his patient to health.
Soon the wound shows signs of healing, and, along with it, the fever
begins gradually to abate. The brain at length relieved, reason resumes
its sway.
Hamersley becomes conscious that he still lives, on hearing voices.
They are of men. Two are engaged in a dialogue, which appears to be
carried on with some difficulty, as one is speaking English, which the
other but slightly understands. Neither is the English of the first
speaker of a very correct kind, nor is his voice at all euphonious. For
all that, it sounds in Hamersley's ears sweet as the most seraphic
music, since in its tones he recognises the voice of Walt Wilder.
A joyous throb thrills through his heart on discovering that his comrade
has rejoined him. After their parting upon the plain he had his fears
they might never come together again.
Walt is not within sight, for the conversation is carried on outside the
room. The invalid sees that he is in a room, a small one, of which the
walls are wood, roughly-hewn slabs, with furniture fashioned in a style
corresponding. He is lying upon a _catre_, or camp bedstead, rendered
soft by a mattress of bearskins, while a _serape_ of bright-coloured
pattern is spread over him, serving both for blanket and counterpane.
In the apartment is a table of the rudest construction, with two or
three chairs, evidently from the hand of the same unskilful workman,
their seats being simply hides with the hair on. On the table is a cup
with a spoon in it, and two or three small bottles, that have the look
of containing medicines.
All these objects come under his eyes at the first dim glance; but as
his vision grows clearer, and he feels strength enough to raise his head
from the pillow, other articles are disclosed to view, in strange
contrast with the chattels first observed. Against the wall hang
several articles of female apparel--all of a costly kind. They are of
silk and silk-velvet, richly brocaded; while on a second table, slab
like the first, he can distinguish bijouterie, with other trifles
usually belonging to a lady's toilet.
These lie in front of a small mirror set in a frame which appears to be
silver; while above is suspended a guitar, of the kind known as
_bandolon_.
The sick man sees all these things with a half-bewildered gaze, for his
senses are still far from clear. The costly articles of apparel and
adornment would be appropriate in a lady's boudoir or bed chamber. But
they appear strange, even grotesque, in juxtaposition with the
roughly-hewn timbers of what is evidently a humble cottage--a log cabin!
Of course he connects them with her, that singular being who has
succoured, and perhaps saved his life. He can have no other conjecture.
He remembers seeing a house as they approached its outside. It must be
that he is now in; though, from the last conscious thought, as he felt
himself swooning in the saddle, all has been as blank as if he had been
lying lifeless in a tomb. Even yet it might appear as a dream but for
the voice of Walt Wilder, who, outside, seems labouring hard to make
himself intelligible to some personage with whom he is conversing.
Hamersley is about to utter a cry that will summon his comrade to his
side, when he perceives that the voices are becoming fainter, as if the
two speakers had gone outside the house and were walking away from it.
Feeling too weak even for the slightest exertion, he remains silent,
taking it for granted they will soon return.
It is broad daylight, the sun glancing in through an aperture in the
wall that serves for a window. It has neither frame nor glass, and
along with the bright beams there drifts in a cool breeze laden with the
delicious fragrance of flowers, among which he can distinguish the
aromatic perfume of the wild China tree. There are voices of birds
mingling their music with the sough of falling water--sounds very
different from those of the desert through which he has of late been
straying.
He lies thinking of the beautiful being who brought him thither, shaping
conjectures in regard to the strangeness of the situation. He has no
idea how long he may have been unconscious; nor has the whole time been
like death--unless death have its dreams. For he has had dreams, all
with a fair form and lovely face flitting and figuring in them. It is
the wild huntress.
He has a fancy that the face seemed familiar to him; or, if not
familiar, one he has looked upon before. He endeavours to recall all
those he had met in Mexico during his sojourn there; for if encountered
anywhere, it must have been there. His female acquaintances had been
but few in that foreign land. He can remember every one of them. She
is not of their number. If he has ever seen her before their encounter
on the Staked Plain, it must have been while passing along the street of
some Mexican city.
And this could scarcely be, in his silent reflection; for such a woman
once seen--even but for a moment--could never be forgotten.
He lies pondering on all that has passed--on all he can now recall.
Walt had got back, then, to the place where they parted. He must have
found food and water, though it matters now no more. Enough that he has
got back, and both are in an asylum of safety, under friendly
protection. This is evident from the surroundings.
Still feeble as a child, the effort of thought very soon fatigues him;
and this, with the narcotic influence of the flower perfume, the songs
of the birds, and the soothing monotone of the waters, produces a
drowsiness that terminates in a profound slumber. This time he sleeps
without dreaming.
How long he cannot tell; but once more he is awakened by voices. As
before, two persons are engaged in conversation. But far different from
those already heard. The bird-music still swelling in through the
window is less sweet than the tones that now salute his ear.
As before, the speakers are invisible, outside the room. But he can
perceive that they are close to the door, and the first words heard
admonish him of their design to enter.
"Now, Conchita! Go get the wine, and bring it along with you. The
doctor left directions for it to be given him at this hour."
"I have it here, senorita."
"_Vaya_! you have forgotten the glass. You would not have him drink out
of the bottle?"
"_Ay Dios_! and so I have," responds Conchita, apparently gliding off to
possess herself of the required article, with which she soon returns.
"Ish!" cautions the other voice; "if he be still asleep, we must not
wake him. Don Prospero said that. Step lightly, _muchacha_!"
Hamersley is awake, with eyes wide open, and consciousness quite
restored. But at this moment something--an instinct of dissembling--
causes him to counterfeit sleep; and he lies still, with shut eyelids.
He can hear the door turning upon its hinges of raw hide, then the soft
rustle of robes, while he is sensible of that inexpressible something
that denotes the gentle presence of woman.
"Yes, he is asleep," says the first speaker, "and for the world we may
not disturb him. The doctor was particular about that, and we must do
exactly as he said. You know, Conchita, this gentleman has been in
great danger. Thanks to the good Virgin, he'll get over it. Don
Prospero assures us he will."
"What a pity if he should not! Oh, senorita, isn't he--"
"Isn't he what?"
"Handsome--beautiful! He looks like a picture I've seen in the church;
an angel--only that the angel had wings, and no mustachios."
"Pif, girl; don't speak in that silly way, or I shall be angry with you.
_Vayate_! you may take away the wine. We can come again when he
awakes. _Guardate_! Tread lightly."
Again there is the rustling of a dress; but this time as if only one of
the two were moving off. The other seems still to linger by the side of
the couch.
The invalid queries which of the two it is. There is an electricity
that tells him; and, for an instant, he thinks of opening his eyes, and
proclaiming consciousness of what has been passing.
A thought restrains him--delicacy. The lady will know that he has been
awake all the while, and overheard the conversation. It has been in
Spanish, but she is aware that he understands this, for he has no doubt
that the "senorita" is she who has saved him.
He remains without moving, without unclosing his eyelids. But his ears
are open, and he hears a speech pleasanter than any yet spoken.
It is in the shape of a soliloquy--a few words softly murmured. They
are, "_Ay de mil_ 'Tis true what Conchita says, and as Valerian told me.
_He is, indeed, handsome--beautiful_!"
More than ever Hamersley endeavours to counterfeit sleep, but he can
resist no longer. Involuntarily his eyes fly open, and, with head
upraised, he turns towards the speaker.
He sees what he has been expecting, what he beheld in fancy throughout
his long, delirious dream--the fair form and beautiful face that so much
interested him, even in that hour when life seemed to be forsaking him.
It is the angel of the desert, no longer in huntress garb, but dressed
as a lady.
There is a red tinge upon her cheek, that appears to have flushed up
suddenly, as if suspecting her soliloquy has been heard. The words have
but parted from her lips, and the thought is yet thrilling in her heart.
Can he have heard it? He shows no sign.
She approaches the couch with a look of solicitude, mingled with
interrogation. A hand is held out to her, and a word or two spoken to
say she is recognised. Her eyes sparkle with joy, as she perceives in
those of the invalid that reason is once more seated on its throne.
"I am so happy," she murmurs, "we are all so happy, to know you are out
of danger. Don Prospero says so. You will now get well in a short
time. But I forget; we were to give you something as soon as you should
awake. It is only some wine. Conchita, come hither!"
A young girl is seen stepping into the chamber. A glance would tell her
to be the maid, if the overheard conversation had not already declared
it. A little brown-skinned damsel, scarce five feet in height, with
raven hair hanging in double plait down her back, and black eyes that
sparkle like those of a basilisk.
Provident Conchila has brought the bottle and glass with her, and a
portion of the famed grape juice of El Paso is administered to the
invalid.
"How good and kind you've all been!" he says, as his head once more
settles down upon the pillow. "And you especially, senorita. If I
mistake not, I'm indebted to you for the saving of my life."
"Do not speak of that," she rejoins; "I've shown you no kindness in
particular. You would not have one leave a fellow creature to perish?"
"Ah! but for you I should now have been in another world."
"No, indeed. There you are mistaken. If I had never come near you,
you'd have been saved all the same. I have good news for you. Your
comrade is safe, and here. He returned to your trysting-place, with
both food and drink; so, as you see, I have no merit in having rescued
you. But I must not talk longer. Don Prospero has given instructions
for you to be kept quiet. I shall bring the doctor at once. Now that
you are awake it is necessary he should see you."
Without waiting for a reply, she glides out of the room, Conchita having
gone before.