THE PRISONER.
That same day, about nine o'clock in the evening, the outlaw was seated
face to face with Captain Pierre Durand at a table covered with dishes,
plates, and empty bottles, which testified to the appetite of the two
men, and to the rude attack they had made upon everything in order to
satisfy it.
The two men were now smoking excellent cigars, while sipping, like true
amateurs, some mocha, served in real Japanese cups. Close at hand, in
addition, were bottles containing every conceivable kind of liquors and
spirits.
They had reached that precise period in the repast so prized by
gourmets, when, the mind elevated and the brain excited by succulent
food and generous libations, one feels a kind of happy state of being
that is simply charming.
For one whole quarter of an hour neither of the two men had spoken or
cared to speak.
It was the outlaw who first broke the charm.
"You are aware, my dear captain," he said, "that in half an hour I must
leave you and be off."
"Excuse me," cried Pierre Durand, starting, "if I believe a single word
of such a mad assertion."
"Yes, I am truly sorry to say, it is the exact fact. Doubtless you know
as well as I do, business before all."
"I have not the remotest idea of interfering with your affairs," cried
the sea captain, glumly.
"Then what do you mean?"
"That you are not going to leave me in the lurch."
"Still, when I tell you I must go," said the outlaw.
"All I mean is this, that if you go I go," cried Pierre.
"What! A night journey like this?" asked Tom.
"Night journey, day journey, it is all the same to me. I am an old
sailor," growled Pierre Durand; "and every kind of locomotion is
equally indifferent to me. Besides, I have known you a very long time,
haven't I? And I know what sort of trade you carry on," he added.
The outlaw kept his countenance.
"Of course, I shall not be surprised or scandalised at anything I see.
All I know is that here I should be bored to death, having nothing
to do. It would be a nice little change to join you in one of your
filibustering expeditions."
All this was said in a joking kind of way that excluded all idea of
giving offence.
"Well," said Tom Mitchell, smiling, "any way, you would find yourself
utterly disappointed."
"How is that?"
"I am not going to plunder, but to restore. Of course I don't pretend
it is my usual custom," said Tom.
"Very well," cried Pierre; "I think that will be much more funny. I
should like to join in the good work."
"But, my friend--" urged the outlaw.
"There is no but about it. I am a Breton, that is to say, as obstinate
as several mules," continued Pierre Durand; "and I mean to come,
unless, indeed, you tell me that my demand is in reality offensive and
intrusive."
"By no means," cried Tom; "come then. Who can resist anyone so
obstinate as you are, my friend?"
"You are a delightful fellow. I am ready."
"Not quite; there are conditions; at least, one."
"Pray let me know what it is."
"You must profit by the few minutes that remain to us to disguise
yourself, so as to be unrecognisable."
"To what purpose, in a country where nobody knows me?" cried Pierre
Durand; "Will you tell me a reason?"
"That is my secret. Will you consent? That is right. Now go there, and
you will find all things necessary."
Pierre Durand was about to leave the room, but the outlaw indicated
where everything was ready.
"There is another favour I must ask of you."
"Go ahead, nothing surprises me," said the captain, who, with
magnificent sang-froid had commenced his work.
"In case chance should bring us face to face with people we know,"
he said, earnestly, "you will still keep up your incognito, even if
you happen to see among these the face of the friend whom you have
travelled so far to see."
The captain, who was blacking his beard with soot and fat, having
already darkened his eyebrows, gave a start.
"Will he be there?" he asked.
"I do not say so. It is more than probable that he will not be there.
Still, I wish to exercise every precaution."
"Hum, still it appears very hard."
"Still, do you consent? Yes or no."
"I repeat what you just said. I suppose I must," said Pierre; "and as I
see you are in earnest, I promise, on my honour."
"Enough; then make haste."
After rendering his features and countenance utterly unrecognisable,
the captain threw off his outer clothes, and assumed the costume of a
planter of the frontier.
"What languages do you speak?" asked Tom.
"Nearly all civilised ones as easily as I do French," replied Durand;
"but, above all, English and Spanish."
"Very good," continued Tom; "then during our excursion I shall always
call you Don José Remero."
"Don José Remero be it."
"You must recollect that you are a captain in the Spanish navy, fled
from home after a fatal duel."
"All right," grinned Pierre.
"Do not forget to take weapons. I can strongly recommend this tison. It
is a perfect and choice rapier," said Tom; "have this long and pointed
knife in your right boot. You may want it when you least expect. Do you
ride?"
"Like a centaur," laughed the Frenchman.
"I am very glad to hear it; and now secure this carbine and this pair
of pistols," continued Tom.
"Why, I shall look like an arsenal."
"My friend, it is the custom of the country," said Tom; "no one thinks
of travelling in any other way."
"One does at Rome as Rome does. I'm your man," cried Pierre, laughing;
"what do you think of me?"
"Unrecognisable. I should not know you anywhere. You are clever; even
your accent is changed."
"That is always the first thing to be thought of," said Pierre Durand;
"and now what is the nature of the restitution?"
"We are going," replied the outlaw, with a smile, "to restore a young
girl to her friends and relatives."
"A young girl?" cried Durand.
"Yes--a most charming and interesting maiden, whom I captured the other
day. I can no longer resist her tender sorrow."
"Bah!" said the young sailor, with a grin.
"I swear to you, upon my honour," cried the outlaw, warmly, "that she
has been treated with the most profound respect and even tenderness."
"Spoken like an honest man," said the captain, warmly. "But may I ask
with what object you took her away?"
"I had a motive, which I fear me exists no longer. I even fear," he
said, gloomily, "I have entered upon a bad speculation. But it is
useless to discuss the matter anymore. Soon there shall be no mysteries
for you. Be seated again."
"Why?" asked the captain, puzzled at all these mysteries.
"She comes, and it is rather important I should say a few words to her
before we start on our journey."
"I am your humble servant to command."
Tom Mitchell struck a gong, and Camotte appeared.
"Have my orders been executed?" asked the outlaw.
"Yes, captain. The stranger is watched carefully, and yet without
creating suspicion," replied the lieutenant.
"Where is he now?"
"In his own room."
"If tomorrow he asks after me," said Tom Mitchell, "you will give him
the answer already agreed on."
"Yes, captain."
"What about the detachments?"
"Those have started within the hour, I shall start with the last as
soon as the moon rises," replied Camotte.
"Remember," said Tom, thoughtfully, "that tomorrow morning at sunrise,
if not before, you must be back."
"Be easy as to that, captain," said the other, significantly; "I shall
not leave the island without a chief just now."
"Humph!" observed the captain, suspiciously, "Is there anything fresh
in the air?"
"Nothing in appearance, much in reality."
"You can speak out here," said Tom Mitchell; "if you have anything to
say, say it without hesitation."
"About an hour ago, when I was going my round," said the matter-of-fact
and faithful Camotte, "I met that fellow Versenca at the water's edge;
he was wet through, and had evidently been swimming. When he saw me
he was utterly confounded, and then when I questioned him as to his
conduct he gave me a lot of silly reasons a child of five would have
seen through."
The captain reflected with a dark frown.
"Redouble your vigilance, my good Camotte," he said at last. "On the
first suspicion arrest him until I come back."
"For greater safety, captain," replied Camotte, "I shall take him with
me tonight, I can watch him."
"Mind he does not give you the slip. A traitor would be dangerous just
now. He is as cunning as an opossum."
"I know it, but two can play at the same game."
"Good. I leave it to you. Have Black Athol and Goliath saddled for us,
and Miss Lara for the prisoner, if safe."
"She is quite a lady's horse--an ambler. She will quite suit her
rider," replied Camotte.
"Mind you," continued Tom, "let the three be harnessed for
war--victuals, holsters, ammunition, and pistols."
"As a matter of course. When Black Athol and Goliath go out, I know you
are bent on mischief. What absence?"
"Three days at most," replied the captain; "and during that time never
leave the island."
"And you go alone?" asked Camotte, anxiously.
"With the gentleman, as I have already said."
"I think you should take Tête de Plume," said Camotte.
"Will you tell me why?" asked the captain, smiling.
"No one ever knows on an expedition what may happen," drily replied the
lieutenant, "and two are better than one."
"But I have told you, we are two already."
"Very good," he continued, "but you would be three."
"I tell you what it is, Camotte," said the captain, laughing, "you do
just as you like with me. Let him come."
"I thank you heartily," cried the delighted lieutenant.
"Above all, whatever happens, keep my absence a secret," said Tom
Mitchell; "that is above all essential."
"Your orders shall be obeyed in all things."
"And now bring in the prisoner," continued Tom. "By the way, have you
said anything to her?"
"Captain, you know I am no babbler," observed Camotte.
"Very true," said Tom, and then turning to Pierre, he added, laughing,
"that fellow does not put too much confidence in me."
"His manner is strange. Perhaps he distrusts me."
"No; Camotte is a bulldog for fidelity and discretion; but, like
bulldogs, he is both suspicious and jealous," replied Tom.
"I bear him no malice for his jealousy," said Pierre; "besides, I
myself always like those kind of men."
"Yes, they are indeed very precious," continued Tom; "unfortunately,
you have to give way to them a little."
"Well, when it is from pure devotion, nothing can be said."
At this moment the door opened, and a young girl entered the room,
effectually checking the conversation.
This young girl was Angela, or Evening Dew, whichever it may please the
reader to call her.
She gave a graceful curtsy, and then remained with downcast eyes before
the outlaw chief.
The two men rose from their seats and bowed respectfully.
"My sister is welcome," said the outlaw, smiling, and speaking in the
Indian tongue; "be seated."
"Evening Dew is a slave, and presumes not to sit down in the presence
of her master," responded the young girl, in a voice as melodious as
the song of a bird, but the tone of which was firm and distinct. "I
have said."
Evening Dew was a delicious child of seventeen at most, in whom the two
races, white and red, of both which she was the issue, seemed to have
vied which should produce the most wondrous chef d'oeuvre.
Her elegant and slight form, slightly bent forward with that serpentine
undulation which belongs to American women, her long hair, black as
the raven's wing, fell almost to her feet, and when loosened, might
have served her as a cloak. Her complexion had the golden tint of the
daughters of the sun; her great blue and dreamy eyes were fringed by
long velvet lashes; her mouth, revealing her vermilion lips, and a row
of dazzling white teeth, gave to her physiognomy that rare expression
scarcely ever found except in some virgin of Titian.
The sailor was dazzled at the really marvellous beauty of the young
girl. He had no idea that the whole continent of America could have
produced such a fairy.
The captain smiled at her reply.
"Evening Dew has no master here. She is with friends who will protect
her," he said, heartily.
"Friends!" she cried, clasping her hands together, while the pearly
tears went down her cheeks; "Is it possible?"
"I swear to you, young girl," he continued, "that what I say is true.
I have sent for you to apologise for what has happened, to demand
forgiveness for your cruel abduction."
"Oh, sir," she cried, in excellent French, "oh, sir, can I really
believe my ears! Is it true?"
"You would insult me by disbelieving," he replied, in the same
language; "tomorrow you will be with your friends."
"Thank you, sir, from my soul," she sobbed forth.
And before the captain could prevent her--before he suspected her
intention, the was on her knees kissing his hand.
Tom Mitchell respectfully raised her from the ground and led her to the
chair she had once refused.
"Then you are very unhappy here?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she cried, "I have indeed been very unhappy; how, in fact,
could I be otherwise?"
"And yet," said the captain, with a frown, "I have given the most
strict orders with regard to your treatment."
"I beg most earnestly to acknowledge, sir, that I have been treated in
the most honourable fashion, that I have been surrounded by the most
delicate attentions. But oh, sir, I was a prisoner, alas! Far away
from those I love, and whom my absence plunges, like myself, in utter
despair."
"Pardon me, miss," said the chief, "my wrong towards you will soon be
repaired, I promise you."
"Then you are good indeed!"
"Tomorrow," he added, with considerable emotion, "you shall be restored
to the bosom of your family."
"Do that, sir," she cried, "and I will love you. Ever after you shall
be as a brother to me."
"I will endeavour to merit the title, Miss Angela," he said, softly;
"henceforth you will no longer curse me."
"Curse you who give me back to those I love! No, I will bless you from
the bottom of my heart," she cried, earnestly, "and, believe me, God
will amply reward you."
"I have a strong conviction that way myself," he said, smiling; "even
heaven could scarcely be deaf to your prayer."
The girl coloured deeply at these words, which were uttered with such
earnest conviction as caused her to bow her head.
The captain simply smiled softly.
"Are you tolerably strong, miss?" he asked.
"Why do you ask me this question?" she said.
"Because," he answered, "we have a very long journey to go before we
find your friends."
"What matters about fatigue, sir? I am already strong. The very idea
has restored my vigour."
"We shall have to undertake a long night journey," he continued,
"through the prairies, by very rough ways."
She clapped her pretty hands together joyously; a charming smile
lightened up her physiognomy, and then she cried out in a delighted and
proud accent--
"I have Indian blood in my veins, sir," she cried; "I am the daughter
of a brave Canadian hunter. Fear nothing for me. I am not a woman of
the towns, who, I am told, can neither walk nor run."
"They are very much like it," growled Pierre.
"Try me, put me to any proof, and you will see of what I am capable to
get back to my friends."
"Come, I see, at all events, that you are as brave and noble a woman as
you are beautiful. Come, it is time."
"Do we go directly?" she cried.
"Yes," was his smiling answer.
"One moment," she said; "give me time to thank God for having touched
your heart. Let me pray."
"Do as you wish," he replied, respectfully.
The young girl folded her arms across her breast, raised her looks
heavenward with an inspired air for some minutes. One could see by her
thoughtful brow, from the compression of her coraline lips, that she
was praying. Her face was radiant, her eyes were full of tears. She
seemed transfigurated.
The two men, despite their rude aspect and rough natures, stood
respectfully beside her, utterly cowed, overcome, crushed under the
weight of her purity and innocence. They stood before her hat in hand.
When her short and ardent prayer was over, the girl turned to them with
an ineffable smile.
"Now, gentlemen," she said, bowing to the two men who she saw were
henceforth her slaves, "I am quite ready."
The outlaw and his companion bowed and followed behind as she led the
way outside.
Camotte was there, as was also the valorous Tête de Plume, holding the
horses.
Tom Mitchell led Miss Angela to the mare Lara, which he had ordered to
be saddled, and held the stirrup respectfully.
"Mount," he said, just as if he had been speaking to a princess in her
own right.
Then, as soon as the outlaw had given some last whispered directions to
Camotte, they started, Tom Mitchell riding at the head of the little
band.
By the time the ford was passed over in safety the moon had risen in
the sky above the trees.
The four travellers were now safe on terra firma.
"Now, Miss Angela," said Tom Mitchell, gallantly, "place yourself
between this gentleman and myself. Good. And now, Tête de Plume, my
boy, take the rearguard, and, whatever you do, look out."
The four cavaliers dashed off at a hand gallop, and soon disappeared in
the windings of the defile.