A night-ride through the golden tropical forest, when the moon is
bathing its broad and wax-like frondage--when the winds are hushed and
the long leaves hang drooping and silent--when the paths conduct through
dark aisles and arbours of green vine-leaves, and out again into bright
and flowery glades--is one of those luxuries that I wish we could obtain
without going beyond the limits of our own land.
But no. The romance of the American _northern_ forest--the romance that
lingers around the gnarled limbs of the oak, and the maple, and the
elm--that sighs with the wintry wind high up among the twigs of the
shining sycamore--that flits along the huge fallen trunks--that nestles
in the brown and rustling leaves--that hovers above the bold cliff and
sleeps upon the grey rock--that sparkles in the diamond stalactites of
the frost, or glides along the bosom of the cold black river--is a
feeling or a fancy of a far different character.
These objects--themselves the emblems of the stony and iron things of
nature--call up associations of the darker passions: strange scenes of
strife and bloodshed; struggles between red and white savages; and
struggles hardly less fierce with the wild beasts of the forest. The
rifle, the tomahawk, and the knife are the visions conjured up, while
the savage whoop and the dread yell echo in your ear; and you dream of
_war_.
Far different are the thoughts that suggest themselves as you glide
along under the aromatic arbours of the American _southern_ forest,
brushing aside the silken foliage, and treading upon the shadows of
picturesque palms.
The cocuyo lights your way through the dark aisles, and the nightingale
cheers you with his varied and mimic song. A thousand sights and
sounds, that seem to be possessed of some mysterious and narcotic power,
lull you into silence and sleep--a sleep whose dream is _love_.
Clayey and I felt this as we rode silently along. Even the ruder hearts
of our companions seemed touched by the same influence.
We entered the dark woods that fringed the arroyo, and the stream was
crossed in silence. Raoul rode in advance, acting as our guide.
After a long silence Clayey suddenly awoke from his reverie and
straightened himself up in the saddle.
"What time is it, Captain?" he inquired.
"Ten--a few minutes past," answered I, holding my watch under the
moonlight.
"I wonder if the Don's in bed yet."
"Not likely: he will be in distress; he expected us an hour ago."
"True, he will not sleep till we come; all right then."
"How all right then?"
"For our chances of a supper; a cold pasty, with a glass of claret.
What think you?"
"I do not feel hungry."
"But I do--as a hawk. I long once more to sound the Don's larder."
"Do you not long more to see--"
"Not to-night--no--that is until after supper. Everything in its own
time and place; but a man with a hungry stomach has no stomach for
anything but eating. I pledge you my word, Haller, I would rather at
this moment see that grand old stewardess, Pepe, than the loveliest
woman in Mexico, and that's `Mary of the Light'."
"Monstrous!"
"That is, until after I have supped. Then my feelings will doubtless
take a turn."
"Ah! Clayey, you can never love!"
"Why so, Captain?"
"With you, love is a sentiment, not a passion. You regard the fair
blonde as you would a picture or a curious ornament."
"You mean to say, then, that my love is `all in my eye'?"
"Exactly so, in a literal sense. I do not think it has reached your
heart, else you would not be thinking of your supper. Now, I could go
for days without food--suffer any hardship; but, no--you cannot
understand this."
"I confess not. I am too hungry."
"You could forget--nay, I should not be surprised if you have already
forgotten--all but the fact that your mistress is a blonde, with bright
golden hair. Is it not so?"
"I confess, Captain, that I should make but a poor portrait of her from
memory."
"And, were I a painter, I could throw _her_ features upon the canvas as
truly as if they were before me. I see her face outlined upon these
broad leaves--her dark eyes burning in the flash of the cocuyo--her long
black hair drooping from the feathery fringes of the palm--and her--"
"Stop! You are dreaming, Captain! Her eyes are not dark--her hair is
not black."
"What! Her eyes not dark?--as ebony, or night!"
"Blue as a turquoise!"
"Black! What are you thinking of?"
"`Mary of the Light'."
"Oh, that is quite a different affair!" and my friend and I laughed
heartily at our mutual misconceptions.
We rode on, again relapsing into silence. The stillness of the night
was broken only by the heavy hoof bounding back from the hard turf, the
jingling of spurs, or the ringing of the iron scabbard as it struck
against the moving flanks of our horses.
We had crossed the sandy spur, with its chaparral of cactus and
mezquite, and were entering a gorge of heavy timber, when the practised
eye of Lincoln detected an object in the dark shadow of the woods, and
communicated the fact to me.
"Halt!" cried I, in a low voice.
The party reined up at the order. A rustling was heard in the bushes
ahead.
"_Quien viva_?" challenged Raoul, in the advance.
"_Un amigo_," (A friend), was the response.