Another day dawns, and as the earliest rays of the sun light up the
Cerro Perdido, an unusual bustle is observed in the camp of the
besieged. Men are busy collecting the leaves of the _mezcal_-plant,
those that are withered and dry from having their corms cut out days
before; fortunately there are many of these lying all around. Other
men, armed with rudely-shaped mallets, beat them against the trunks of
trees, to separate the fibre from the now desiccated pulp; while still
others are twisting this into threads, by a further process to be
converted into thick ropes.
It is found that after all not so much will be needed; several lassoes
had been brought up, tied round the bundles of goods; and with these and
other odds and ends of cordage, a rope can be put together full two
hundred feet in length, strong enough to sustain the weight of any man.
So, long before night the lowering apparatus is ready, and, as before,
they await the darkness to make use of it.
Meanwhile Don Estevan, the two Tresillians, and Vicente spend most of
the morning on the cliff where the bighorn went over, surveying it from
every possible point, taking the bearings of its ledges, and estimating
their distances from one another. They are, as the _gambusino_ had
represented them, a succession of very narrow benches, but wide enough
for a man to find footing; some horizontal, others with a slope
downwards, then a zigzag bringing them lower, till within a hundred feet
from the cliff's base the _facade_ of rocks shows sheer and clear. Down
to this point all will be easy; and beyond it they anticipate little
difficulty, now that they are sure of having sufficient rope.
While engaged in their reconnaissance, an object comes under their eyes
which they gaze upon with interest. They are upon the western side of
the _mesa_ not far above its southern point, the plain on that side
being invisible from the camp of the besiegers; and on this, at the
distance of a mile or more, there is a spot of pasture due to a tiny
rivulet, which, filtering off from the side of the lake, becomes
dispersed over a considerable surface, which it moistens and makes
green.
Moving to and fro over this verdant stretch is the object which has
caught their attention--a horse of large size and coal-black colour,
which they know to be no other than Crusader. They are not surprised at
seeing him there. Habitually he frequents this spot, which has become
his accustomed pasturing-ground, and more than once had Henry Tresillian
stood on that cliff regarding him with fond affectionate gaze; more than
once, too, had the Indians again gone in chase of him, to be foiled as
before. There is he still unlassoed, free of limb as the antelopes seen
flitting over the _llano_ around him.
After completing the examination of their precipice, and noting all
details that may be needed to help out their design, they stand for a
time gazing at the horse, his young master with a thought in his mind
which he withholds from the others. Nor does he communicate it to them
till after their return to the camp, and the question comes up, who are
the ones to be lowered down; for it is thought better that two
messengers should be sent, as company and support to each other. That
is the question to be decided, and up to this hour all expect it to be
as before--by lottery.
In fine, when the time arrives for settling it, and the eligible ones
are again assembled for drawing lots, a proposal is made which takes
every one present by surprise. It comes from the youngest of the party,
Henry Tresillian, who says:
"Let me go alone."
All eyes turn upon him inquiringly and in wonder, none more than those
of his father, who exclaims:
"You go alone, my son! Why do you propose that?"
"Because it will be best, father."
"How best? I do not understand you."
"Crusader can only carry one."
"Ah! Crusader--that's what you're thinking of?"
"_Por Dios_!" exclaims the senior partner, "I see what your son means,
Don Roberto; his idea is admirable!"
"Yes," says the English youth in answer to his father; "I've been
thinking of it ever since yesterday. On Crusader's back I can be at
Arispe days before any foot messenger could arrive there. Once I had
him between my legs, no fear of Indians overtaking me."
"The very thing!" cries Don Estevan, delighted. "But, Senor Henrique,
are you sure you can catch the horse?"
"Catch him! he will come to my call. Once on the plain, and within
hearing of my voice, I've no fear of his soon being by my side."
"But why not let me take him?" puts in Pedro Vicente, as if to spare the
generous youth from undertaking such a risk. "I know the road better
than you, _muchacho_."
"That may be," returns the other. "But I know it well enough. Besides,
Crusader will let no one catch him but myself--much less ride him."
During all this conversation the bystanders regard the young Englishman
with looks of admiration. Never before have they seen so much courage
combined with intelligence. And all to be exerted in their favour; for
they have not forgotten the fate of their two comrades, put to death in
such a cruel fashion. Every one of them fears that the like may befall
himself, should it be his ill luck to draw a black _pinon_ out of the
_sombrero_.
Not the least in admiration is Robert Tresillian himself: his heart
swells with pride at the gallant bearing of the boy, his own son, worthy
of the ancestral name; and when Don Estevan turns to him to ask whether
he objects to the proposal, it is to receive answer:
"On the contrary, I approve of it. Foot messengers might not reach in
time, if at all. My brave boy will do it if it can be done; it may be
the means of bringing rescue to us all. If he fail, then I, like the
rest of you, must submit to fate."
"I'll not fail," cries the impetuous youth, rushing forward and throwing
his arms round his father. "Fear not. I have a belief that God's hand
is in it, else why should my noble horse have stayed? Why is he still
there?"
"_Virgen santissima_!" exclaims Don Estevan in devout tone. "It would
even seem so. Let us hope and pray that the Almighty's hand is in it.
If so, we shall be saved."
Henry Tresillian is the hero of the hour, though he has been a favourite
with the people of the caravan all along, doing kind offices to this one
and that one, helping all who needed help. But now, when they hear he
has volunteered on this dangerous service, as it were offering up his
life for theirs, encomiums are loud on all sides. Women fall upon their
knees, and, with crucifix in hand, offer up prayers for his protection.
But Gertrude? Oh, the sad thoughts--the utter woe that strikes through
her heart--when she hears tidings of what is intended! She receives
them with a wild cry, almost a shriek, with arms outstretched staggering
to the side of her mother for support.
"Mamma, father must not let him go. He will be lost, and then--then--"
"Have no fear. Think, _hija mia_, we may all be lost if he do not."
"But why cannot some other go in his place? There are many who know the
way as well as he, and that brave _gambusino_, I'm sure, would be
willing."
"No doubt he would, dearest; there's some reason against it I do not
quite understand. We shall hear all soon, when father returns to the
tent."
They do hear the reason; but not any the more to reconcile Gertrude.
The young girl is half beside herself with grief, utterly indifferent as
to who may observe it. The bud of her love has bloomed into a flower,
and she recks not that all the world know her heart is Henry
Tresillian's. The cousin left behind at Arispe, supposed to be an
aspirant to her hand, is forgotten. All are forgotten, save the one now
near, so soon to be cruelly torn away from her. Neither the presence of
her father and mother, nor that of his father, restrain her in her wild
ravings. She knows she has their approval of her partiality, and her
young heart, innocent of guile, yields to nature's promptings.
Her appeals are in vain: what must be must be, and she at length resigns
herself to the inevitable. For Henry himself tells her how it is, and
that no one possibly could take his place.
It is in dialogue between them, just as the twilight begins to cast its
purple shadows over the plain. For the time is drawing nigh for action,
and the two have gone apart from the camp to speak the last words of
leave-taking. They stand under a tree, hands clasped, gazing into each
other's eyes, those of the young girl full of tears.
"_Querida_" he says, "do not weep. 'Twill be all well yet--I feel sure
of it."
"Would that I could feel so, Henrique; but, oh! dearest, such danger!
And if the cruel savages capture you. _Ay Dios_! to think of what they
did with the others!"
"Let them catch me if they can. They never will if I once get alongside
Crusader. On his back I may defy them."
"True, I believe it. But are you sure of getting upon his back? In the
darkness you may not find him."
"If not, it will be but to return to the cliff and be drawn up again."
This assurance somewhat tranquillises her. There is at least the hope,
almost certainty, he will not, as the others, be sacrificed to a
fruitless attempt; and, so trusting, she says in conclusion: "Go, then,
_querido mio_. I will no more oppose it, but pray all night long for
your safety. I see now it is for the best, and feel that the blessed
Mary, mother of God, will listen to my prayers."
No longer hands clasped, but arms entwined, and lips meeting in a kiss
of pure holy affection, sanctified by parental consent. Then they
return to the camp, where the final preparations are being made for that
venture upon which so much depends.