A YOUNG HEART.
Oliver Clary, when he left the Hacienda del Río, was not mistaken
in saying to Count de Melgosa that he was afraid Don Melchior would
commit some folly; the hunter's foreboding was destined to be realized
even sooner than he thought. The young man, whose mind was made up
beforehand, did not wish to argue with his two friends; but, satisfied
with the information the hunter had given him, impatiently awaited the
moment when he should be alone, in order to carry out the plan he had
formed. This plan, of an audacity that trenched almost on insanity, he
had been careful not to let the count or the Canadian suspect, as he
felt sure they would oppose it with all their might.
Don Melchior, brought up on the Indian border, accustomed from his
earliest youth to scour the woods in all directions in the pursuit of
Indians or wild beasts, was habituated to desert life and thoroughly
conversant with redskin habits; hence, he had no doubt he would be
able to get to the prisoners. Hence, so soon as the count and Oliver
had left the hacienda, the young man made his preparations; that is
to say, he carefully inspected his firearms, placed provisions in his
alforjas, and mounted his horse. It was about four in the afternoon.
The great gate of the hacienda was open; hence he went out the more
easily, because being merely regarded as a guest of the count, no one
had received orders to impede his movements or prevent him doing what
he thought proper. The young man slowly descended the mountain; at the
moment when he reached the plain, the sound of a galloping horse made
him turn round. Diego López was coming toward him at full speed, and
Don Melchior waited for him.
"¡Viva Dios!" the worthy man exclaimed, "Where on earth are you going,
Don Melchior?"
The young man looked at him haughtily.
"Am I your master's prisoner?" he replied, drily.
"Not at all, señor," the peon said, with the greatest politeness.
"In that case, by what right do you ask me such a question? Am I not at
liberty to do what I please?"
"I do not say the contrary."
"If that is the case, what do you want with me?"
"Caballero, I beg you not to take in ill part what I am so free as to
say to you. The Señor Conde feels a very lively interest in you; before
leaving the hacienda, he ordered me to pay the greatest attention to
you."
"Admitted."
"On seeing you mount your horse at so advanced an hour, and take
provisions with you, I assumed that it was your intention to leave the
hacienda."
"Your assumption was correct, I am really leaving the hacienda. What
then?"
"Very good. You are at liberty to do so. I have no right to control
your actions; but be kind enough to inform me where you are going, in
order that I may tell my master."
"For what object?"
"I am merely obeying the orders I received, señor. I am but a servant;"
and he added, with a marked stress on the words, "perhaps it is as well
for your own sake that my master should know where you are going."
The young gentleman reflected for a moment.
"Forgive me, Diego López," he said, presently, "the rather rough way
in which I received you. I did wrong to act thus, for you are a worthy
man. Tell your master that I am resolved to try and save Doña Emilia
and her daughter, and that is why I quitted his hospitable roof."
The peon shook his head sadly.
"Alone, señor?" he said; "take care."
"Heaven will aid me, my friend."
"I have no right to prevent you, I have no wish to do so, but if I may
be permitted to make a remark?"
"Speak!"
"I would tell you that this plan is insane, that you are rushing to
your destruction, and that you are attempting an expedition in which
you will perish, perhaps without seeing the persons for whom you devote
yourself."
"Yes, that is true," the young man answered sadly. "What you say to
me I have said to myself, but my destiny carries me away. I must
accomplish this sacrifice, while knowing that I am committing an act of
madness; I will carry it through to the end."
"I have neither the strength nor the courage to blame you, señor, I
can only pity you; put your trust in heaven. As for me, I shall go to
my master and tell him what you are doing at this moment. If we do
not succeed in saving you, at least we will avenge you, and if I may
believe my foreboding, the vengeance will be terrible."
"Go, my friend; go, and thank you. Tell your master how truly grateful
I am to him for all that he has done for me, but that fatality carries
me away; and that I would sooner die than suffer from the grief which
is devouring me. I wish to know the fate of the two unhappy prisoners,
and, no matter what may happen, I will know it."
"May heaven protect you, señor! You are well acquainted with the
redskins; perhaps by acting prudently you may foil their vigilance,
although it is almost impossible. But," he added with a species of
forced resolution, "what is the use of arguing longer. Perhaps your
plan will succeed, through the very fact of its insanity. Children and
lovers are privileged."
The young man blushed, and dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse,
which started at a gallop. The peon looked after him, sorrowfully
shaking his head several times.
"Well, good-bye, Don Melchior," he said, "I repeat, may God protect
you, for He alone can save you."
The young man scarce heard him. The peon's voice struck his ear, but
he did not understand the sense of his words. He waved his hand in
farewell and disappeared in the tall grass that overgrew the banks of
the stream. Diego López remained motionless for an instant.
"Poor boy!" he murmured, "He has a noble heart; a soul full of
devotion; but what can he do? He is lost; death clutches him already,
its hand is spread out over him. Let me go and warn the Señor Conde,"
he added, repressing a sympathetic sigh.
And loosening his bridle he galloped off in the direction of the
Hacienda del Barrio.
Don Melchior, through the frequent excursions he had made in carrying
out Doña Emilia's monomania for vengeance, had a thorough knowledge of
the country for thirty or forty leagues round; several times accident
had led him to the vicinity of the teocali, where the ladies were now
held in captivity, and hence he was well aware of the exact position of
this strange monument, the sole vestige of the ancient, civilization of
the Indians.
While himself thoroughly convinced of the madness of his attempt in
favour of the prisoners, he had drawn up his plans with the greatest
prudence, ready to sacrifice his life, but not wishing to leave
anything to chance, while unconsciously retaining in his heart a
last glance of hope, that divine spark which is never completely
extinguished in the human heart, and allows him a glimpse of success
even in the most senseless undertakings.
So soon as Diego López parted from him, Don Melchior checked the speed
of his horse in order not to reach the ford of the Río Grande del Norte
till sunset. He was obliged to travel by night, for as the Indians are
in their encampments at that period, the young man would have nothing
to fear from their vigilance, and incurred no risk but that of meeting
wild beasts, a trifling danger for an experienced hunter. Besides, so
far as it was possible to calculate distances, Don Melchior believed
himself only seven or eight leagues distant from the teocali. By
galloping in a straight line, he would therefore only have a two hours'
ride to make in a country which he had frequently traversed, and which
was perfectly familiar to him.
We have already stated, on several occasions, that in hot countries
there is no twilight, and that when the sun has set night arrives
almost without transition. The young man had so well calculated, that
he was a gunshot from the ford at the moment when the sun disappeared
on the horizon in a glory of purple and gold. In spite of the complete
absence of twilight, there is, however, a charming moment in American
evenings. It is the one when, after night has quite set in, you witness
the sudden awakening of the denizens of the darkness; when the night
breeze agitates the majestic tops of the trees, and the wild beasts,
leaving their lairs, bay the moon with their guttural notes, which are
repeated in every way by the echoes of the ravines. The traveller,
involuntarily affected by a vague respect at the sight of this
immensity which he cannot comprehend, feels himself weak and paltry.
Don Melchior crossed the ford without obstacle, and then dashed at full
speed into the desert, cutting through the tall grass in a straight
line. For two hours he galloped in the pale light of the stars, with
his hand on his weapons, and ready for any event. On coming within
about two musket shots of the teocali he stopped, dismounted, and
taking his horse by the bridle, led it into a thicket, where, after
hobbling it, he fastened up its nostrils to prevent it neighing. Then
thrusting his pistols in his belt, he seized his rifle, and proceeded
toward the teocali, muttering in a suppressed voice one sentence, which
completely represented the thought that impelled him to act as he was
doing--
"Heaven be gracious to me!"
The night was calm and serene; the stars sparkled in a deep blue
sky, and spread a gentle light, which allowed him to distinguish the
diversities of the landscape for a long distance. A veiled silence,
if we may employ the expression, reigned over the prairie, where no
other sound was audible save that produced by the incessant murmurs
of the infinitely little creatures buzzing beneath every blade of
grass, and carrying on their laborious task under the ever open eye of
the Creator. At times the distant echo bore down on the breeze the
snapping bark of the coyotes, or the hoarse roar of the jaguars at the
watering place.
Don Melchior advanced firmly and resolutely, having sacrificed his
life beforehand, but determined only to succumb in an unequal struggle
of one against a host. We fancy that we said in one of our previous
chapters that the teocali in which the prisoners were detained stood
in the middle of a plain, for a great distance round which the trees
had been cut down. At the moment when the young man was preparing to
emerge from the covert, and asked himself how he should manage to reach
the mountain unseen, he perceived an Indian sentry leaning motionless
against a sumach and on the watch.
Don Melchior stopped, for the situation was a critical one. The moon
profusely shed its pale pallid beams upon this man, whose appearance
had at a certain distance something gloomy and threatening about it.
A cry uttered by this sentry would ruin Don Melchior. After a few
seconds' hesitation his resolution was formed. Uncocking his gun, which
might go off without his will, he lay down on the ground, and began
crawling on his hands and knees in the direction of the sentry, before
whom he must infallibly pass.
Anyone who has not been in the situation of our hero could not form an
idea of it. Don Melchior was at this moment playing a terrible game.
It was to him a question of life and death; the fall of a leaf, the
breaking of a branch was sufficient to settle it. The hurried beating
of his heart terrified him, and he took half an hour in proceeding a
distance of twenty paces. At length, on coming close to the sentry,
he suddenly rose behind him, and plunged his dagger straight into his
neck, at the very spot where the head is attached to the spine. The
redskin fell like a log, without uttering a cry or even giving a sigh.
The young man at once understanding the importance to himself of a
disguise, in order to cross the clearing round the teocali, stripped
the Indian of his clothes, put them on himself, and after dragging the
corpse a few paces, in order that it might not be found immediately, he
hid it under a pile of dry leaves. Then, assuming the calm and grave
step of Indian warriors, the young man boldly quitted the shelter of
the covert, and advanced slowly toward the teocali, now ready for all
events, and keeping his finger on the trigger of his gun, which he laid
carelessly on his shoulder.
Numerous watch fires burnt round the teocali; the Indians, wrapped, up
in their buffalo hides, blankets, or zarapés, were sleeping peacefully,
trusting to the vigilance of the sentry. Don Melchior walked right
through the camp, unmolested. At times, as he passed, an Indian turned
towards him, half opened his eyes, and then fell back on the ground
again, muttering a few unintelligible words. The young man's heart beat
as if going to burst his breast; the emotion he felt was so powerful
that, on reaching the first steps of the teocali, he was involuntarily
constrained to stop. Still, sustained by the feeling of the sacred
mission he had taken on himself, he succeeded, by a supreme effort, in
overcoming his emotion, and continued his walk.
No one opposed his passage. The Indians guard themselves badly. Under
present circumstances, they could not suppose that a single man would
enter their camp, and succeed in deceiving their sentries. This
confidence caused the security of the bold young man, and once he
reached the teocali, almost entirely insured his security.
I forgot who said that mad enterprises are those which succeed the beet
owing to their extravagance, and this paradoxical remark is far truer
than a person might be disposed to believe it. Don Melchior's plan of
thus introducing himself alone into the presence of the prisoners, a
project of wild boldness, would succeed entirely on account of its
impossibility.
When the young man reached the top of the teocali he stopped, for he
must discover the place where the prisoners were confined. He looked
searchingly around him. The moon allowed him to distinguish clearly
the smallest objects. Several Indians were lying round a smouldering
fire, but Don Melchior's eyes did not dwell on them, he was examining
the most obscure corner of the buildings that stood on the platform.
His eye was caught by a man lying across a door, closed by a wickerwork
frame; he gave a violent start, for the prisoners were behind that
door. Stepping boldly over the sleeper, he Went up to it. At the moment
he reached the Indian the latter rose before him, and set the sharp
point of his lance against his chest.
"What does my brother want?" he asked in a guttural voice.
Don Melchior was not troubled. In spite of his interned emotion, his
face remained calm and stoical.
"Good," he said in Comanche, a language which he spoke perfectly. "My
brother was asleep. Is that the way in which he watches his prisoners?"
"The Opossum is not asleep," the Indian said haughtily. "He knows the
importance of the duty entrusted to him."
"If he is not asleep, how is it that he is ignorant the hour has
arrived when I am to take his place?" the young man continued.
"Is it so late? I have not heard the hoot of the owl."
"Yet it has been sounded twice. Good, my brother is tired; let him go
and sleep, while I watch in his stead."
The Indian had no reason to doubt what Don Melchior said to him.
Besides, he was really desirous of sleep, and was not sorry to catch up
a few hours' rest. Hence he made no remark, but quietly surrendered his
post, and five minutes later was lying by the side of his comrades fast
asleep.
This last alarm had been serious, although Don Melchior had bravely
gone through with it. Still his agitation was so great, partly to
regain his coolness, he remained quiet for nearly a quarter of an hour
before he ventured to enter the prisoners' room. At length he did so.
Doña Emilia, seated in a corner, was holding her daughter's head on her
lap.
"Who's there?" she asked, with a sudden start.
"A friend," the young man answered in a low voice. Doña Diana sprang up.
"Don Melchior!" she cried.
"Silence," he said, "silence, in heaven's name."
"Oh! I was certain he would come," the young lady continued, as she
walked towards him.
"Thanks, Melchior," Doña Emilia said, as she offered him her hand.
"Thank you for coming; however terrible my situation may be, your
presence here is an immense consolation."
"Have you come to deliver us, Melchior?" the maiden continued.
"Yes," he answered simply, "such is my object; and believe me,
señorita, all that a man can do, I will."
"What," Doña Emilia asked, "are you alone?"
"Alas, yes; but what matter?" Doña Diana fell back on her bed.
"Flight is impossible," she murmured with despair.
"Why so?" the young man continued boldly, "Have I not contrived to get
in here alone?"
She shook her head sadly.
"Yes," she said; "but you were alone."
Don Melchior sighed, for he understood the meaning of the remark.
"Why despair?" Doña Emilia exclaimed, starting up impetuously. "We are
three now. The Indians tremble at the sight of me, and we shall succeed
in escaping."
"Mother, mother," the girl said entreatingly, "dismiss that thought.
Alas! Flight is impossible, as you know well. Melchior is as well aware
of it as we are."
The young man hung his head.
"If I cannot save you, señorita," he answered, "I can die with you."
"Die with us!" she exclaimed impetuously. "Oh no, that must not be, I
insist."
"It was my hope in coming here," he said.
"Very good, Melchior," Doña Emilia said; "but cease to fear for us. The
Indians will not dare, I feel firmly convinced, to make an attack on
our lives, in spite of their frightful threats."
"Mother, undeceive yourself, our death is resolved. It is close at
hand, for the conditions offered us compel us to die."
"That is true," Doña Emilia murmured despondingly. "Great God, what is
to be done?"
"Fly," Don Melchior exclaimed boldly.
"No," the young lady continued, "the plan is impracticable, and it
would be madness to dwell on it. If you have reached us by a miracle,
it is impossible for you to convey us through the Indian camp and pass
the sentries unseen. It would be precipitating our death instead of
checking it."
"It is well, señorita," Don Melchior said, leaning his shoulder against
the wall. "Since you refuse to attempt to fly, I shall come back to my
first resolution."
"What is it?"
"To die with you."
The young lady took a step forward, and turned to Doña Emilia.
"Do you hear, mother?" she exclaimed in agony. "Do you hear what Don
Melchior says? I will not have him die. Order him to go away."
"Why should I order him?" Doña Emilia coldly replied. "Don Melchior has
ever been devoted to us. He has come to die with us, and neither you
nor I have the right to prevent him."
"I must, I tell you, I must."
"And why so, my child?"
"Why?" she repeated, wild with grief. "Because, mother, I love him, and
will not have him die!"
Doña Emilia stood for a moment as if annihilated by the sudden
revelation of this love, which she suspected, though unwilling to
believe in it. A reaction took place in her, and she laid her hand on
the young man's arm.
"Go, Don Melchior," she said in a gentle voice, half choked by sobs.
"My daughter loves you, and will not have you die."
"Thanks, thanks, mother!" the maiden exclaimed, as she fell into her
arms, and hid her face in her bosom.
"Oh, let me, let me die with you!" Don Melchior said, clasping his
hands imploringly.
"No," Doña Emilia repeated, "you must leave us."
"The night is getting on; I implore you, Melchior to be gone!" the
maiden exclaimed.
The young man hesitated, and a violent combat took place in his heart.
"It is your wish," he muttered, with hesitation.
"In the name of our love, I command you!"
"Your will be done. Bless me, madam, for I shall return, and for your
sake attempt impossibilities."
Doña Emilia wiped away the tears that ran down her cheeks against her
will.
"Bless you, my son!" she said, in a voice choked by sobs. "God alone
knows the future, Melchior. I thank you for not having deserted us.
Embrace your betrothed; perhaps this first kiss will be the last."
The two young people fell into each other's arms.
"And now, farewell," Doña Emilia continued. "Begone, you must begone!"
Don Melchior tore himself with difficulty from the maiden's clasp.
"Oh, not farewell!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with hope. "We
shall meet again," and he tottered out of the room.
"Mother, mother," Doña Diana said, throwing herself wildly into Doña
Emilia's arms, "oh, now I wish to die!"
"Poor child!" her mother murmured, as she covered her with kisses.
"Take patience; we have but a few hours longer to suffer."