THE CHIEF'S PROPOSAL.
Ordinarily Indians do not travel by night, and it required
circumstances imperious as the present for the chief to resolve thus to
infringe the customs of the redskins. In truth, Don Melchior's flight
caused him great anxiety about the success of his expedition, and he
was anxious to cross the Indian border, as he felt persuaded that
once he had passed the river which served as the limit of the Spanish
possessions, and trod his native heath in a country all whose hiding
places were familiar to him, he would be comparatively safe from the
pursuit which would not fail to be begun so soon as the abduction of
the two ladies was known, and that would not be long first if, as he
feared, Don Melchior had succeeded in escaping.
The Indians galloped the whole night through in the direction of the
river, whose yellow waters at length became visible at sunrise. Without
even stopping to breathe the horses, tired by so long a gallop along
difficult and scarcely marked tracks, the chief ordered his warriors to
ford the river immediately.
During the whole of the sad night, which seemed as if it would never
end, Doña Emilia held to her bosom the head of her daughter, who was
crushed by so much emotion and terror. Not for an instant did the
courage of this extraordinary woman and true mother fail her. Not for a
second did her noble character break down. She remained ever calm and
impassive, not uttering a word of complaint, or showing the fatigue
that overpowered her. The very Indians, who are such connoisseurs of
courage, could not refrain from secretly admiring this firmness of mind
and perfect self-denial.
Although the river was very wide at the spot where the redskins forded
it, it was crossed without accident, and the Comanches at length found
themselves on Indian territory. The detachment, however, did not halt;
for the distance that separated them from the white men was not yet
sufficiently great for the Stag. He led his warriors to a forest about
four or five leagues off, whose tall trees formed a belt of foliage on
the horizon. During the whole journey the chief constantly galloped at
the head of the detachment, not appearing to trouble himself in any
way about his prisoners, though the deep wrinkles that furrowed his
brow and his constant frown might have led to the supposition that this
indifference was feigned, and that he was thinking out some bold plan.
At about two in the afternoon the little band reached the outskirts of
the forest, and boldly rode beneath its covert. The journey then became
more difficult, and, before all, more fatiguing, through the roots,
shrubs, and lianas which at each instant barred the passage, and which
the horses could only clear with the utmost difficulty.
The Stag, however, without neglecting entirely the precautions
employed by the Indians when they are on the war trail, in order to
throw out their enemies, felt so certain, however, that the white men
would not venture into the formidable solitudes of Apacheria, owing to
the innumerable obstacles which would rise at each step before them,
and, above all, through their ignorance of the topography of this
country, the last lurking place of the Indian braves, that he wasted
but little time in masking his trail, and continued to advance almost
in a straight line.
After marching thus for about two hours, crossing ravines and scaling
hills, they reached a completely unwooded spot, over which were
scattered shapeless ruins, proving that at a doubtless extremely remote
period the place had been inhabited. These ruins, spread over a very
considerable space, preserved a certain degree of symmetry; the walls,
still standing, showed by their thickness and the care with which they
were built, as well as materials employed, that an important town must
have stood here once on a time. In the centre stood a _teocali_ which
time had respected, on the top of which were the ruins of a temple,
whose vast and massive proportions testified to its ancient splendour,
which was now eternally fled. There was something at once gloomy and
majestic in the sight of these ruins suddenly rising in the midst of a
virgin forest. They were the last traces of a forgotten world, whose
memory the present inhabitants of the country have lost, and trample on
their dust with a careless foot.
The Stag had selected these ruins to camp in. The warriors therefore
established themselves in this city, probably founded by the Chichimecs
at the period when, compelled by the hand of God, they performed
their great migration, building in the course of their mysterious
halts those formidable cities whose imposing ruins are still visible
in different parts of New Spain. The Comanches during their vagabond
rambles about the desert had many times camped at this solitary spot,
whose strong position offered them a shelter against the attacks of
their numerous enemies, men and wild beasts, that incessantly prowl
about in search of a facile prey. It was at the summit of the teocali,
in the ruins of the temple, which had heard the death cries of many
victims offered as a holocaust to the implacable and sanguinary
Hiutzilopochtli, the god of war, that the chief resolved to establish
his camp.
When the horses had been hobbled in an excavation at the foot of the
teocali, the warriors placed the prisoners in their midst, scaled the
bramble and cactus covered steps that led to the top of the artificial
hill, and on reaching the temple, after lighting several fires to
prepare their meal, they cut down a quantity of branches, which they
intertwined so as to form a species of roof over one of the halls of
the temple. There, at a signal from the chief, the two ladies were
installed, who, however precarious this shelter might be, were glad
to take refuge in it, and escape for awhile from the stern glances of
their ferocious conquerors, and recover from the terrible shock they
had endured.
Doña Emilia's first care so soon as she was alone with her daughter,
whose weakness was extreme, was to lay her on a pile of furs which
the chief, doubtless through a feeling of compassion, had ordered to
be placed by the fire. The state in which the young lady was, was
really alarming. The prostration which had fallen on her after the
snare to which she had fallen victim, was succeeded by a violent fever
mingled with delirious and nervous attacks, which not only threatened
her reason, but caused apprehensions for her life; at any rate there
was reason to fear that her health would never entirely recover from
the shock given to her system by the terror she had felt, and the
extraordinary fatigue she had endured during nearly twenty hours; in
spite of the sort of brutal gallantry with which the chief had tried to
come to her help by ordering his men not to hurry, and by trying not
only to pay the captives the attentions of which his rough character
was capable, but by giving them all the relief he was able to offer
them under the circumstances.
Doña Emilia did not know what means she should employ to calm her
daughter's terrifying nervous excitement. Alone among savages, whom she
justly regarded as implacable foes, wanting the remedies which were
necessary for her poor child, she could only groan and hold her to her
heart to prevent her dashing her head against the wall in one of these
nervous attacks. Doña Emilia passed the whole night without sleep,
constantly watching over the girl whose madness had assumed a startling
character, and who no longer recognizing her mother, and unconscious
of the place where she was, made the strangest remarks to her, and
asked her the most singular questions with that volubility which fever
produces.
Toward the close of night, at the moment when the stars began to
disappear, the girl's frenzy gradually diminished; she closed her
eyes and fell into a sleep which restored her poor mother a little
hope and courage. At sunrise an Indian came in, placed provisions
on the ground, laid a packet of simples by Doña Emilia's side, and
withdrew without uttering a word. Several hours elapsed in this way;
the redskins, while attentively watching their captives, left them
constantly alone, supplying them all they required with a species
of affectionate eagerness, but not troubling them with indiscreet
questions or disagreeable intrusions into the refuge given them. Since
their arrival at the teocali the chief had not presented himself to
them, but seemed, on the contrary, desirous to remain invisible, while
paying them attentions which revealed an assiduous care on his part.
Doña Diana's condition had visibly improved, nature, youth, and
her powerful constitution had, after a trying struggle, eventually
triumphed over the disease. Nursed by her mother with attentive
tenderness, she at length became convalescent; but with health sorrow
re-entered her mind, and the frightful position in which fatality had
placed her appeared in all its horrible reality. She did not dare
reflect on the future, for, alas, that was perhaps a terrible death
amid torture, or dishonour a hundredfold worse than death. Hence a
gloomy sorrow took possession of the maiden. She spent her days leaning
over the wall, and with her eyes fixed on the imposing landscape that
surrounded her looked despairingly around her, while burning tears,
which she did not even think of drying, coursed slowly down her pale,
thinned cheeks.
Mother and daughter remained thus side by side, not daring to
confide to each other their terrible thoughts, awaiting the coming
catastrophe which it was impossible for them to foresee or avoid. Days
thus succeeded days without producing any change in their position;
nothing had revealed to them the fate which the Comanches reserved
for them, when on the morning of the tenth day after their arrival at
the teocali, the Indian who seemed specially told off to watch them
and supply them with food, informed them that the chief had arrived
on the previous evening at the teocali, on his return from a distant
expedition he had been obliged to make, and asked permission to speak
to them after breakfast. On hearing this request, which was, however,
made very politely, Doña Diana turned pale and shuddered with horror;
she understood that her fate would depend on this interview, and spite
of herself she trembled. Doña Emilia smiled ironically.
"Why pretend such great courtesy to captives?" she replied bitterly.
"Is not your chief our master? As far as I am aware a master does not
require to announce his coming to his slaves."
"The sachem ordered his warrior to speak as he has done," the Indian
made answer. "The warrior has obeyed; my mother must not be angry with
him."
"I am not angry with you, Indian," she said, less rudely, desiring not
to alienate this man, who, ever since he served them, had displayed a
species of rough pity. "I do not at all think of making you responsible
for orders which you must neither discuss nor hesitate to carry out;
still I will remark to you that as we are the prisoners of your sachem,
as you term him, we have no means to avoid the interview he requests,
and that, consequently, it is unnecessary for him to ask a permission
which he can very well do without."
"Good! My mother speaks well; hence the sachem may come after
breakfast?"
"He can come when he thinks proper. We will receive him, as he desires
it."
The Indian went out, and the two ladies were left alone. "We are
going to know our fate at last," Doña Emilia said, with a feigned
indifference she was far from feeling.
"Yes," her daughter replied sorrowfully. "Heaven grant that a feeling
of pity may still reside in the heart of this savage, and that the
propositions he makes us may not be of such a nature that we must
decline them."
"Heaven grant it, indeed, my daughter! Alas, who knows what fate
reserves for us! Perhaps you will regret that you did not die during
your illness." The girl remained silent for a moment, and then a gloomy
smile played round her pale lips.
"Mother," she asked, "have you kept your vial?"
"Yes," Doña Emilia answered; "it still contains enough to kill us both."
"In that case rejoice, mother," the maiden answered, almost gaily, "we
have nothing more to fear! Whatever proposition this crafty chief may
make to us, we are always certain of getting out of his clutches, and
finding refuge in death."
"It is well, daughter!" Doña Emilia replied, as she took Diana in her
arms, and pressed her passionately to her heart.
So great is the effect that a powerful resolution always produces,
that the two ladies awaited the chief's coming more calmly than they
had hoped. They had scarce finished breakfast ere he appeared. The
majordomo had, for this interview, doffed his Indian dress, and resumed
that of the Mexican campesinos. This change denoted a resolution formed
that he would allow no consideration to stop him. On recognizing him
the two ladies uttered a cry, of surprise on the part of Diana, but
of terror on that of her mother. She had discovered what she long
suspected, that is to say, that her husband's majordomo was a traitor.
On entering, he bowed to the ladies with ironical politeness; his face
was smiling, his manner firm, and his voice coaxing.
"I venture to hope, señoras," he said, "that you will pardon a poor
Indian."
"Oh," Doña Emilia said bitterly, "what a viper we have cherished!"
"Alas! Madam," he answered lightly, "why employ such ugly epithets?
Everybody in this world is obliged to bow before necessity. It was not,
be assured, of my own accord that I have so long remained a stranger to
you."
"You are, then, really the chief of the men who carried us off, and it
was you probably who prepared the odious snare into which we fell?"
"I will not attempt to deny it, madam," he said.
"What harm have I done you, who have been, living for more than twenty
years beneath my roof, where you were taken in through charity; you
whom my husband loves and places entire confidence in?"
"A confidence which I still possess, madam. But why lose our time in
vain discussions? The open step I have taken must prove to you that my
mind is irrevocably made up, and that I shall not hesitate or recoil in
the execution of the plan I have formed."
"What you are doing is horrible; you requite with the blackest
ingratitude the kindness with which my family has overwhelmed you."
"That is the very word, madam," he said, with a bitter smile; "but in
order to cut short useless recriminations, and lay down the question
distinctly, let me make a confession which will establish our position
to each other."
"Speak, speak! What frightful revelation have you to make to me?"
"I, madam," he replied, drawing himself up majestically, and fixing on
her a fiendish glance, "am the son of Running Water, the Chief of the
tribe of Red Buffaloes, whom your family so cowardly and obstinately
hunted down. Do you now understand why I hate you, and why you are
here?"
"Oh!" she shrieked, clasping her hands in despair, "We are lost."
Doña Diana was annihilated; she fancied it was all a fearful dream.
"No, madam," he replied in his calm and metallic voice, "your safety is
in your own hands."
"My safety?" she asked ironically.
"Yes, madam, your safety. You are really conscious of the situation in
which you are, I assume? You are thoroughly convinced that you are in
my power, and that no human help can save you?"
"Yes, but God remains--God, who sees, and will save us," she exclaimed
fervently, "God who will foil your odious machinations!"
"God!" he said, with a hoarse laugh. "You forget, madam, that I am
a Comanche, and that your God is not mine. Bow your head before the
fatality that crushes you. Your God, if He exist, is powerless against
me. I deride his power!"
"Silence, blasphemer! The God you dare to defy can, if He pleases,
crush you in a moment."
"Let Him do so then, and I will believe in Him." And he raised his head
and looked up defiantly at the heavens. "But, no," he added a moment
after, "all these things are falsehoods invented by the priests to hold
men in awe. You are here in my power, I repeat, and no power, human or
divine, will liberate you; but, as I said, it is easy for you to leave
this place in freedom within an hour, if you please."
"After insult, mockery, that is the right way," she said contemptuously.
"I am no more mocking you now than I insulted you before; I am speaking
frankly, and offering you an honourable bargain, which you can accept
or refuse as you please."
"A bargain," she murmured in a hollow voice.
"Yes," he continued, "a bargain; and why not? Listen to me. I hate your
family, madam, with all the hatred that a human heart can hold; but you
personally never offended me, and I have, therefore, no reason to wish
you harm. Then, there is another thing which pleads in your favour; why
should I conceal it any longer? I love your daughter."
"Villain!" Doña Emilia exclaimed, as she rose and walked toward him.
Doña Diana threw herself wildly into her mother's arms, and buried her
face in her hands, crying desperately.
"Mother, mother, save me!"
"Fear nothing, daughter," she replied; "this man can insult us, but he
will never succeed in humiliating us to his own level."
The Indian listened to these words without a muscle of his face
quivering.
"I expected this outburst," he said calmly; "but you will reflect; I
repeat that I love your daughter, and intend her to be mine."
"Never," the two ladies exclaimed desperately.
"At that price alone," he continued stoically, "you will be free; if
not, prepare for death."
"Yes, yes," Doña Emilia burst forth passionately, "yes, we will die,
but both by our own will. Ah! You feel very certain of the success of
your odious plot, but you have calculated badly, villain; the death
with which you threaten us, we invoke as the supreme refuge left us.
You are masters of our life, but not of our death. We defy you."
The Indian burst into a laugh.
"Look at your vial," he said, in his calm, cutting tone, "it no longer
contains any acid. Yesterday some harmless soporifics were mixed with
your food, and, during your sleep, you were robbed of the formidable
weapon in which you had trusted rather too prematurely. Believe me,
madam, you had better yield. I give you eight days to reflect; it would
be easy for me to carry off your daughter, but I prefer receiving her
voluntarily from you."
He accompanied these remarks with a mocking laugh, and left the room,
without waiting for an answer, which the two unhappy women could not
have given him, so annihilated were they by the frightful revelation
which had just been made to them.