An eagle, scared from its perch on a scathed Cottonwood, with a scream,
soars upward into the air.
Startled by the outbreak of angry passions, it has risen to reconnoitre.
A single sweep of its majestic wing brings it above the glade. There,
poised on tremulous pinions, with eye turned to earth, it scans both the
open space and the chapparal that surrounds it. In the former it
beholds that which may, perhaps, be gratifying to its glance--a man
thrown from his horse, that runs neighing around him--prostrate--
apparently dead. In the latter two singular equestrians: one a woman,
with bare head and chevelure spread to the breeze, astride a strong
steed, going away from the glade in quick earnest gallop; the other,
also a woman, mounted on a spotted horse, in more feminine fashion,
riding towards it: attired in hat and habit, advancing at a slower pace,
but with equal earnestness in her looks.
Such is the _coup d'oeil_ presented to the eye of the eagle.
Of these fair equestrians both are already known. She galloping away is
Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos; she who approaches, Louise Poindexter.
It is known why the first has gone out of the glade. It remains to be
told for what purpose the second is coming into it.
After her interview with Zeb Stump, the young creole re-entered her
chamber, and kneeling before an image of the Madonna, surrendered her
spirit to prayer.
It is needless to say that, as a Creole, she was a Catholic, and
therefore a firm believer in the efficacy of saintly intercession.
Strange and sad was the theme of her supplication--the man who had been
marked as the murderer of her brother!
She had not the slightest idea that he was guilty of the horrid crime.
It could not be. The very suspicion of it would have lacerated her
heart.
Her prayer was not for pardon, but protection. She supplicated the
Virgin to save him from his enemies--her own friends!
Tears and choking sobs were mingled with her words, low murmured in the
ear of Heaven. She had loved her brother with the fondest sisterly
affection. She sorrowed sorely; but her sorrow could not stifle that
other affection, stronger than the ties of blood. While mourning her
brother's loss she prayed for her lover's safety.
As she rose from her knees, her eye fell upon the bow--that implement so
cunningly employed to despatch sweet messages to the man she loved.
"Oh! that I could send one of its arrows to warn him of his danger! I
may never use it again!"
The reflection was followed by a thought of cognate character. Might
there not remain some trace of that clandestine correspondence in the
place where it had been carried on?
She remembered that Maurice swam the stream, instead of recrossing in
the skiff, to be drawn back again by her own lazo. He must have been
left in the boat!
On the day before, in the confusion of her grief, she had not thought of
this. It might become evidence of their midnight meeting; of which, as
she supposed, no tongue but theirs--and that for ever silent--could tell
the tale.
The sun was now fairly up, and gleaming garishly through the glass. She
threw open the casement and stepped out, with the design of proceeding
towards the skiff. In the _balcon_ her steps were arrested, on hearing
voices above.
Two persons were conversing. They were her maid Florinde, and the sable
groom, who, in the absence of his master, was taking the air of the
_azotea_.
Their words could be heard below, though their young mistress did not
intentionally listen to them. It was only on their pronouncing a name,
that she permitted their patois to make an impression upon her ear.
"Dey calls de young fella Jerrad. Mors Jerrad am de name. Dey do say
he Irish, but if folks 'peak de troof, he an't bit like dem Irish dat
works on de Lebee at New Orlean. Ho, ho! He more like bos gen'lum
planter. Dat's what he like."
"You don't tink, Pluto, he been gone kill Massa Henry?"
"I doan't tink nuffin ob de kind. Ho, ho! He kill Massa Henry! no more
dan dis chile hab done dat same. Goramity--Goramity! 'Peak ob de
debbil and he dar--de berry individible we talkin' 'bout. Ho, ho! look
Florinde; look yonner!"
"Whar?"
"Dar--out dar, on todder side ob de ribber. You see man on horseback.
Dat's Mors Jerrad, de berry man we meet on de brack praira. De same dat
gub Missa Loode 'potted hoss; de same dey've all gone to sarch for. Ho,
ho! Dey gone dey wrong way. Dey no find him out on dem prairas dis
day."
"O, Pluto! an't you glad? I'm sure he innocent--dat brave bewful young
gen'lum. He nebba could been de man--"
The listener below stayed to hear no more. Gliding back into her
chamber she made her way towards the _azotea_. The beating of her heart
was almost as loud as the fall of her footsteps while ascending the
_escalera_. It was with difficulty she could conceal her emotion from
the two individuals whose conversation had caused it. "What have you
seen, that you talk so loudly?" said she, trying to hide her agitation
under a pretended air of severity, "Ho, ho! Missa Looey--look ober dar.
De young fella!"
"What young fellow?"
"Him as dey be gone sarch for--him dat--"
"I see no one."
"Ho, ho! He jess gone in 'mong de tree. See yonner--yonner! You see
de black glaze hat, de shinin' jacket ob velvet, an de glancin' silver
buttons--dat's him. I sartin sure dat's de same young fella."
"You may be mistaken for all that, Master Pluto. There are many here
who dress in that fashion. The distance is too great for you to
distinguish; and now that he's almost out of sight--Never mind,
Florinde. Hasten below--get out my hat and habit. I'm going out for a
ride. You, Pluto! have the saddle on Luna in the shortest time. I must
not let the sun get too high. Haste! haste!"
As the servants disappeared down the stairway, she turned once more
towards the parapet, her bosom heaving under the revulsion of thoughts.
Unobserved she could now freely scan the prairie and chapparal.
She was too late. The horseman had ridden entirely out of sight.
"It was very like him, and yet it was not. It can scarce be possible.
If it be he, why should he be going that way?"
A new pang passed through her bosom. She remembered once before having
asked herself the same question.
She no longer stayed upon the _azotea_ to watch the road. In ten
minutes' time she was across the river, entering the chapparal where the
horseman had disappeared.
She rode rapidly on, scanning the causeway far in the advance.
Suddenly she reined up, on nearing the crest of the hill that overlooked
the Leona. The act was consequent on the hearing of voices.
She listened. Though still distant, and but faintly heard, the voices
could be distinguished as those of a man and woman.
What man? What woman? Another pang passed through her heart at these
put questions.
She rode nearer; again halted; again listened.
The conversation was carried on in Spanish. There was no relief to her
in this. Maurice Gerald would have talked in that tongue to Isidora
Covarubio de los Llanos. The Creole was acquainted with it sufficiently
to have understood what was said, had she been near enough to
distinguish the words. The tone was animated on both sides, as if both
speakers were in a passion. The listener was scarce displeased at this.
She rode nearer; once more pulled up; and once more sate listening.
The man's voice was heard no longer. The woman's sounded dear and firm,
as if in menace!
There was an interval of silence, succeeded by a quick trampling of
horses--another pause--another speech on the part of the woman, at first
loud like a threat, and then subdued as in a soliloquy--then another
interval of silence, again broken by the sound of hoofs, as if a single
horse was galloping away from the ground.
Only this, and the scream of an eagle, that, startled by the angry
tones, had swooped aloft, and was now soaring above the glade.
The listener knew of the opening--to her a hallowed spot. The voices
had come out of it. She had made her last halt a little way from its
edge. She had been restrained from advancing by a fear--the fear of
finding out a bitter truth.
Her indecision ending, she spurred on into the glade.
A horse saddled and bridled rushing to and fro--a man prostrate upon the
ground, with a lazo looped around his arms, to all appearance dead--a
_sombrero_ and _serape_ lying near, evidently not the man's! What could
be the interpretation of such a tableau?
The man was dressed in the rich costume of the Mexican _ranchero_--the
horse also caparisoned in this elaborate and costly fashion.
At sight of both, the heart of the Louisianian leaped with joy. Whether
dead or living, the man was the same she had seen from the _azotea_; and
he was _not_ Maurice Gerald.
She had doubted before--had hoped that it was not he; and her hopes were
now sweetly confirmed.
She drew near and examined the prostrate form. She scanned the face,
which was turned up--the man lying upon his back. She fancied she had
seen it before, but was not certain.
It was plain that he was a Mexican. Not only his dress but his
countenance--every line of it betrayed the Spanish-American physiognomy.
He was far from being ill-featured. On the contrary, he might have been
pronounced handsome.
It was not this that induced Louise Poindexter to leap down from her
saddle, and stoop over him with a kind pitying look.
The joy caused by his presence--by the discovery that he was not
somebody else--found gratification in performing an act of humanity.
"He does not seem dead. Surely he is breathing?"
The cord appeared to hinder his respiration.
It was loosened on the instant--the noose giving way to a Woman's
strength.
"Now, he can breathe more freely. Pardieu! what can have caused it?
Lazoed in his saddle and dragged to the earth? That is most probable.
But who could have done it? It was a woman's voice. Surely it was? I
could not be mistaken about that.
"And yet there is a man's hat, and a _serape_, not this man's! Was
there another, who has gone away with the woman? Only one horse went
off.
"Ah! he is coming to himself! thank Heaven for that! He will be able to
explain all. You are recovering, sir?"
"S'norita! who are you?" asked Don Miguel Diaz, raising his head, and
looking apprehensively around.
"Where is she?" he continued.
"Of whom do you speak? I have seen no one but yourself."
"_Carrambo_! that's queer. Haven't you met a woman astride a grey
horse?"
"I heard a woman's voice, as I rode up."
"Say rather a she-devil's voice: for that, sure, is Isidora Covarubio de
los Llanos."
"Was it she who has done this?"
"Maldito, yes! Where is she now? Tell me that, s'norita."
"I cannot. By the sound of the hoofs I fancy she has gone down the
hill. She must have done so, as I came the other way myself."
"Ah--gone down the hill--home, then, to --. You've been very kind,
s'norita, in loosening this lazo--as I make no doubt you've done.
Perhaps you will still further assist me by helping me into the saddle?
Once in it, I think I can stay there. At all events, I must not stay
here. I have enemies, not far off. Come, Carlito!" he cried to his
horse, at the same time summoning the animal by a peculiar whistle.
"Come near! Don't be frightened at the presence of this fair lady.
She's not the same that parted you and me so rudely--_en verdad_, almost
for ever! Come on, _cavallo_! come on!"
The horse, on hearing the whistle, came trotting up, and permitted his
master--now upon his feet--to lay hold of the bridle-rein.
"A little help from you, kind s'norita, and I think I can climb into my
saddle. Once there, I shall be safe from their pursuit."
"You expect to be pursued?"
"_Quien sale_? I have enemies, as I told you. Never mind that. I feel
very feeble. You will not refuse to help me?"
"Why should I? You are welcome, sir, to any assistance I can give you."
"_Mil gracias, s'norita! Mil, mil gracias_!"
The Creole, exerting all her strength, succeeded in helping the disabled
horseman into his saddle; where, after some balancing, he appeared to
obtain a tolerably firm seat.
Gathering up his reins, he prepared to depart.
"Adios, s'norita!" said he, "I know not who you are. I see you are not
one of our people. Americano, I take it. Never mind that. You are
good as you are fair; and if ever it should chance to be in his power,
Miguel Diaz will not be unmindful of the service you have this day done
him."
Saying this El Coyote rode off, not rapidly, but in a slow walk, as if
he felt some difficulty in preserving his equilibrium.
Notwithstanding the slowness of the pace--he was soon out of sight,--the
trees screening him as he passed the glade. He went not by any of the
three roads, but by a narrow track, scarce discernible where it entered
the underwood.
To the young Creole the whole thing appeared like a dream--strange,
rather than disagreeable.
It was changed to a frightful reality, when, after picking up a sheet of
paper left by Diaz where he had been lying, she read what was written
upon it. The address was "Don Mauricio Gerald;" the signature, "Isidora
Covarubio de los Llanos."
To regain her saddle, Louise Poindexter was almost as much in need of a
helping hand as the man who had ridden away.
As she forded the Leona, in returning to Casa del Corvo, she halted her
horse in the middle of the stream; and for some time sate gazing into
the flood that foamed up to her stirrup. There was a wild expression
upon her features that betokened deep despair. One degree deeper, and
the waters would have covered as fair a form as was ever sacrificed to
their Spirit!