DOÑA EMILIA.
As we have said, the Stag, after diligent search, discovered a path
traced by the antelopes which ran from the foot of the precipice in a
zigzag to the top. The Indian chief ascended this path the more hastily
because, now that he was cool, and reflected on what had happened,
he in his heart cursed the madness which had led him to descend the
abyss in search of a foe he could not find, instead of remaining with
his warriors, in order to support and encourage them, and combat the
superstitious terrors they felt on the subject of the two prisoners,
and especially of Doña Emilia, whom they imagined to belong to a race
different from their own, and to be an omnipotent being whose wrath was
extremely formidable for them.
As he approached the spot where his warriors were, he heard, more and
more distinctly, cries which increased his anxiety, and made him hurry
on, at the risk of making a false step and rolling to the foot of the
precipice. In fact, he had scarce reached the prairie when two of his
confidants who were seeking him, rushed toward him with shouts of
delight.
"Come, come," they said to him; "if not, all is lost." The Stag,
without losing any time in questioning them, followed them to the
top of the hill. This is what had occurred during his absence. The
two ladies had been carried up the hill, and carefully laid on mats
in front of the fire. Doña Emilia, though greatly shaken by the fall,
speedily regained entire consciousness. Owing to the exaltation of her
mind, instead of being crushed, she had derived fresh courage from the
misfortunes which had suddenly burst over her. Her first care was to
look round her and attentively examine the persons who surrounded her,
in order to discover, were it possible, into what hands she had fallen.
At the first moment, deceived by the European dress of some of her
assailants, she imagined she had to deal with a party of those ruffians
who come to the surface in revolutionary times--the scum of the
population--who regard political questions entirely as a matter of
plunder, and who had for some years infested Mexico, recognizing no
other flag but their own, and waging war on their own account, serving
both parties indifferently, or rather injuring both by their cowardice,
barbarity, and instinct of rapine. At times, the villains, not being
numerous enough to attempt a bold stroke, allied themselves with the
Indians, and ravaged the country with them. The patriots and Spaniards
had both tried to put a stop to the depredations of these bandits by
mercilessly shooting and hanging all they caught, but it was of no
avail. Instead of diminishing their number seemed to increase, and
latterly they had grown really formidable, and their audacity knew no
bounds.
But a second and quieter glance made Doña Emilia understand that she
was in error, and that the persons she at first took for Europeans
were Indians in disguise. This discovery augmented her courage. She
believed herself certain of the influence she exerted over these men,
and she thought she would be able to terrify them sufficiently not to
have anything to fear from them. Moreover, the conduct of the Indians
towards her justified her expectations. It was only with a tremor that
they dared to approach her. A glance was sufficient to keep them back.
Even those who had associated with white men, and whom the Stag had
ordered to assume European attire, kept at a respectful distance from
the two ladies, and were apparently not desirous to be on more intimate
terms with them.
Doña Emilia rose, no one making any attempt to prevent her. She went up
to her daughter, sat down by her side, and raising her beautiful head,
laid it gently on her knees. She gazed at her tenderly for a moment,
then, after removing the long curls of light hair which veiled her
face, she covered it with kisses, murmuring in a soft voice, but with
an accent of ineffable tenderness--
"Poor, dear soul, her heart did not deceive her, her presentiments
were true. Alas! Why did I not put faith in her words? Oh, my adored
daughter! I alone am the cause of this frightful misfortune. Forgive
me, forgive me!"
And two burning tears, which the feeling of her position had been
unable to draw from her, fell on the girl's forehead. The latter feebly
opened her eyes.
"Mother," she murmured, in her childish voice. "Oh, mother, how I am
suffering!"
"Alas, poor darling!" Doña Emilia replied, "I am suffering too; but
what should I care for pain if I knew you were in safety? I am
accustomed to suffer, while you, alas!--"
She ceased, and a sigh burst from her bosom. The maiden continued--
"Courage, mother; perhaps all is not lost yet, and one hope is left us."
"A hope, poor child! Yes," she replied, bitterly, "that the men who
hold us prisoners may take pity on us, and kill us at once, instead of
torturing us."
"But," Doña Diana said, whose strength was gradually returning, and who
felt her courage coming back, "Don Melchior is not a prisoner. He has
escaped."
"I saw Don Melchior fall by our side, beneath the blows of one of the
ferocious men who captured us."
"He is dead!" she exclaimed, with a shriek of terror and despair.
"No, no," her mother objected eagerly, terrified by this grief, "I hope
not. Perhaps he has succeeded in escaping."
"Oh, no, I do not believe you, mother. He must be dead, since he is not
by our side. Don Melchior would never have consented to fly and abandon
us."
"It is probable, my child, that he has fled, in order to fetch
assistance. What could he have done, alone, against these men? Nothing.
He would have fallen without any advantage for us or himself. His
flight, on the contrary--and I really believe that he has succeeded in
escaping--leaves us a hope."
The girl shook her head doubtfully.
"You wish to restore my courage, thank you, mother," she answered, "but
it is not necessary. I am strong, and shall be able to endure without a
murmur the sufferings which fate has in store for me."
"Very good, daughter. I am pleased to hear you speak in that way. Rise,
my child, these men only respect the stoical courage of the condemned
wretch who laughs amid his tortures; so we will not give them the
spectacle of our weakness. By haughty behaviour we may succeed in
inspiring these men with respect, if not with commiseration."
The girl rose with passive obedience.
"Alas!" she murmured, "I am not like you, mother; I feel that my
strength is not equal to my courage."
"Let me speak to these ferocious men; the fear with which I have so
long inspired them is not yet extinct; perhaps the step I am about to
take will prove successful."
"Heaven grant it!" the maiden murmured, as she clasped her hands
fervently, and raised her eyes to heaven.
Doña Emilia walked towards the Indians, who, collected at a respectful
distance, watched her movements with ill-disguised anxiety. A singular
scene then took place. In proportion as Doña Emilia advanced towards
them, the Indians fell back, though without breaking the circle they
formed; at length one of them, bolder than the rest, stopped, and
placing the butt of his gun on the ground, said, in bad Spanish, to the
lady who was still advancing--
"What does the paleface squaw want? Why does she not remain by the
fire? The night is cold; it will be better for the stranger to remain
where the warriors placed her."
"Who are you, dressed in the garb of civilized men, although your
features are those of a ferocious redskin?" she answered haughtily. "By
what right do you address me before I spoke to you? If you have any
influence over the men who surround, us, order them to retire and let
me pass, before my patience is exhausted."
"The warriors must not let the paleface squaw pass until the return of
the chief."
Doña Emilia smiled disdainfully.
"Do you not know who I am?" she said. "The Wacondah is with me; he
inspires the words I utter. Tremble, lest you arouse my anger."
"The Wacondah loves the Indians," the redskin replied timidly; "he
would not wish to do them harm."
The warriors listened to this conversation with interest, although they
did not dare to take part in it. Doña Emilia made her daughter a signal
to join her; the latter obeyed, and tottered up to her mother's side.
"Courage!" the latter said.
Then she drew herself up, her features assumed an expression of
indescribable haughtiness, and her eyes seemed to flash fire, as she
said--
"I order you to let me pass; you must obey me."
She moved a few steps forward. The Indians fell back without breaking
line.
"Do you refuse?" she asked, as she looked imperiously at them.
No one answered.
"Good," she said, with a strange expression. "Recognize the power of
the Queen of the Savannah."
With a movement rapid as thought, she drew a vial from her bosom,
and threw a portion of the contents upon the Indian who was standing
motionless a couple of yards from her. The redskin uttered a terrible
yell, raised his hands to his face, and, falling to the ground, writhed
in fearful agony. The Comanches were alarmed. Although they had seen
Doña Emilia's motion, the vial she held in her hand was too small for
them to notice it. Not knowing to what they should attribute their
comrade's fall, all their superstitious terrors returned to them. They
rushed towards the wounded man; his face was horribly burnt. They
uttered a cry of horror, and fled in all directions, having but one
thought, that of escaping as rapidly as possible from the glances of
this strange creature, who by a mere gesture could produce death.
"Come, come, my daughter," Doña Emilia said; and dragging Doña Diana,
who mechanically followed her, she ran off to the spot where the horses
of the Indians were hobbled. The miracle performed by Doña Emilia
was very simple. Being incessantly exposed to fall into the hands
of the redskins, she always carried about her a vial of sulphuric
acid--probably intended to destroy her own life, in the event of the
Indians resolving to torture her, after their wont, if she fell into
their power. The desire of saving her daughter suggested to her this
way of displaying her power, and inspiring these stupid men with a
terror of which she would take advantage. The experiment was perfectly
successful.
The two ladies hurried down the hill, leaving behind them the unhappy
man, who was uttering atrocious yells, and reached the spot where the
horses were tied up. With a decision which could only be expected from
an exalted character like that of Doña Emilia, she cut the thongs of
two horses, lifted her daughter on one, and herself leapt on the back
of the other.
"Thank heaven," she exclaimed, with an outburst of delight, "we are
saved!"
"Not yet," a voice, gloomy as a death-knell, replied.
Several men dashed out of the chaparral, caught the horses' bridles,
and stopped them dead, at the moment when Doña Emilia was about to
start. These men, who appeared so suddenly, and so unfortunately for
the two fugitives, were the Stag and the warriors who had set out in
search of him. Falling at once from a paroxysm of joy into the last
stage of despair, Doña Emilia and her daughter endured frightful
suffering, and in a second passed through all the agonies of despair.
But the haughty Spanish woman, struggling against her grief, overcame
by a stoical effort the suffering which seared her heart like a red-hot
iron; comprehending that she was overcome, that any attempt at flight
had become futile, if not impossible, she disdained to continue the
struggle, and giving her foes a glance filled with all the hatred
boiling in her breast, she resolutely dismounted, and going up to her
daughter, who lay motionless before her, she raised her in her arms,
and went up the hill again with a slow and measured step. What we
have related had passed so rapidly, Doña Emilia had acted with such
resolution, that the Indians stood stupefied, still holding in their
hands the bridles, and unable to utter a word or make a noise. At
length the Stag regained his coolness and presence of mind. Leaving
the horses to be taken care of by his comrades, he ran towards the two
ladies, who were already some ten yards distant.
"Stop!" he shouted to them, "Stop!"
They obeyed without a word.
"It is useless for you to ascend the hill again," he said, "for we are
going to set out."
"I do not ask you for any explanation," Doña Emilia said drily; "you
are the stronger, so act as you please."
"That is what I intend doing," the Stag replied, with an expression of
dark fury.
"Oh, mother," the girl whispered in Doña Emilia's ear, "do not irritate
this man, for we are in his power."
"He is a dog!" Doña Emilia replied contemptuously; "I despise his anger
and brave his hatred; he can do nothing to me."
The Indian broke into an ill-omened screech, without replying otherwise
to this dire insult. He pointed to the foot of a tree, intimating to
his captives that they were to sit down there; then he went away,
followed by his two comrades, and the ladies remained alone. Doña
Emilia was too conversant with Indian habits to commit the fault which
any less experienced person would doubtless have done. Sitting by her
daughter's side, whose head rested on her shoulder, and whose hands she
held firmly clasped in hers, she made no second attempt at flight, as
she was well aware that the Indians never watch a prisoner so carefully
as when they pretend to leave him alone. The Spanish lady looked
sorrowfully around her, let her head fall on her bosom, and fell into
gloomy and despairing thoughts.
The cause of the Stag's sudden departure was simple. Informed by the
warriors who met him of the events which had occurred during his
absence, his first care was to go to the Indian whom Doña Emilia had
disfigured. The unhappy man was in a pitiable state; he was writhing in
fearful agony, and uttering heart-rending cries.
"Is my brother suffering greatly?" the chief asked him.
"Yes," the injured man howled. "I am suffering horrible pain. That
woman is most certainly the evil genius of our nation."
"Yes, but her hour has arrived; her punishment will soon begin."
"Oh, I should like torture resembling mine to be inflicted on her."
"She shall suffer a hundredfold more. My brother's tortures are as
nothing compared with those I reserve for her. Is my brother satisfied?"
"Yes, I am glad to know that I shall be avenged."
"Is my brother still suffering greatly?"
"More than ever. If honour did not forbid a warrior killing himself, I
should have already buried my knife in my heart."
"Good! What my brother cannot do I can, to render him a service."
"Will the chief consent to do me that service?" the Indian asked
doubtfully.
"Yes, to be agreeable to my brother, whom I love, I would consent."
"Oh! In that case the chief must not delay, for my agony is becoming
more and more unendurable."
"Be it so; let my brother prepare."
"Stay," the Indian remarked, "help me to rise. A Comanche warrior must
die standing."
"That is true," the chief answered.
He bent over the warrior, seized his arm, and helped him to get on
his feet. By an extraordinary effort of will the Indian succeeded in
overcoming his pain. He drew himself up proudly, and turned to the
chief.
"Strike," he said in a firm voice, "and may the Wacondah protect you
for the service you are doing me at this moment."
The Stag drew his knife, and plunged it into the warrior's heart. The
blow was dealt with such certainty and skill that the redskin fell dead
at his chief's feet without a sigh.
"Poor wretch!" the latter muttered sadly, as he wiped his knife blade
on a tuft of grass, and returned it to his belt. "I could not refuse
him this service." After this melancholy funeral speech the Stag began
digging a hole, in which to lay his comrade's body, as he did not
wish to leave it exposed to the insults of wild beasts. The last duty
accomplished, he went down the hill to rejoin his captives.
In the meanwhile the Indians had fled in all directions, suffering
from a panic produced by Doña Emilia's energetic action, but the two
warriors sent by the Stag in pursuit of them soon caught them up. It
took considerable time, however, before they succeeded in making them
consent to turn back, and enter again the presence of a woman whom they
regarded as an evil genius. It required all the diplomatic skill of
the chief's emissaries to convince them, combined with the influence
which the son of Running Water, the most revered sachem of the tribe,
had over them. When the young chief joined the captives, the warriors
were already mounted, and drawn up a short distance off, only awaiting
his return. The latter saluted them with a wave of the hand, and then
ordered the bridles of the two horses to be removed, after which he
went up to Doña Emilia, and pointed to the animals.
"Mount," was all he said.
This order must be obeyed.
"My daughter and I will ride the same horse," she remarked. "My
daughter is weak, and I will support her."
"Be it so," said the chief.
Doña Emilia mounted, placed her daughter in front of her, and holding
her tightly to her bosom, made her horse start without awaiting
the chief's signal. The Comanche smiled, and followed her with his
detachment. Doña Emilia, though a captive, seemed still to command
these men, who regarded her with superstitious terror.