"Soon the soul of Maurice Gerald must go back to its God!"
It was the thought of every actor in that tragedy among the trees. No
one doubted that, in another moment, they would see his body hoisted
into the air, and swinging from the branch of the sycamore.
There was an interlude, not provided for in the programme. A farce was
being performed simultaneously; and, it might be said, on the same
stage. For once the tragedy was more attractive, and the comedy was
progressing without spectators.
Not the less earnest were the actors in it. There were only two--a man
and a mare. Phelim was once more re-enacting the scenes that had caused
surprise to Isidora.
Engrossed by the arguments of Calhoun--by the purposes of vengeance
which his story was producing--the Regulators only turned their
attention to the chief criminal. No one thought of his companion--
whether he was, or was not, an accomplice. His presence was scarce
perceived--all eyes being directed with angry intent upon the other.
Still less was it noticed, when the ruffians sprang forward, and
commenced adjusting the rope. The Galwegian was then altogether
neglected.
There appeared an opportunity of escape, and Phelim was not slow to take
advantage of it.
Wriggling himself clear of his fastenings, he crawled off among the legs
of the surging crowd.
No one seemed to see, or care about, his movements. Mad with
excitement, they were pressing upon each other--the eyes of all turned
upward to the gallows tree.
To have seen Phelim skulking off, it might have been supposed, that he
was profiting by the chance offered for escape--saving his own life,
without thinking of his master.
It is true he could have done nothing, and he knew it. He had exhausted
his advocacy; and any further interference on his part would have been
an idle effort, or only to aggravate the accusers. It was but slight
disloyalty that he should think of saving himself--a mere instinct of
self-preservation--to which he seemed yielding, as he stole off among
the trees. So one would have conjectured.
But the conjecture would not have done justice to him of Connemara. In
his flight the faithful servant had no design to forsake his master--
much less leave him to his fate, without making one more effort to
effect his delivery from the human bloodhounds who had hold of him. He
knew he could do nothing of himself. His hope lay in summoning Zeb
Stump, and it was to sound that signal--which had proved so effective
before--that he was now stealing off from the scene, alike of trial and
execution.
On getting beyond the selvedge of the throng, he had glided in among the
trees; and keeping these between him and the angry crowd, he ran on
toward the spot where the old mare still grazed upon her tether.
The other horses standing "hitched" to the twigs, formed a tolerably
compact tier all round the edge of the timber. This aided in screening
his movements from observation, so that he had arrived by the side of
the mare, without being seen by any one.
Just then he discovered that he had come without the apparatus necessary
to carry out his design. The cactus branch had been dropped where he
was first captured, and was still kicking about among the feet of his
captors. He could not get hold of it, without exposing himself to a
fresh seizure, and this would hinder him from effecting the desired end.
He had no knife--no weapon of any kind--wherewith he might procure
another _nopal_.
He paused, in painful uncertainty as to what he should do. Only for an
instant. There was no time to be lost. His master's life was in
imminent peril, menaced at every moment. No sacrifice would be too
great to save him; and with this thought the faithful Phelim rushed
towards the cactus-plant; and, seizing one of its spinous branches in
his naked hands, wrenched it from the stem.
His fingers were fearfully lacerated in the act; but what mattered that,
when weighed against the life of his beloved master? With equal
recklessness he ran up to the mare; and, at the risk of being kicked
back again, took hold of her tail, and once more applied the instrument
of torture!
By this time the noose had been adjusted around the mustanger's neck,
carefully adjusted to avoid fluke or failure. The other end, leading
over the limb of the tree, was held in hand by the brace of bearded
bullies--whose fingers appeared itching to pull upon it. In their eyes
and attitudes was an air of deadly determination. They only waited for
the word.
Not that any one had the right to pronounce it. And just for this
reason was it delayed. No one seemed willing to take the responsibility
of giving that signal, which was to send a fellow-creature to his long
account. Criminal as they might regard him--murderer as they believed
him to be--all shied from doing the sheriff's duty. Even Calhoun
instinctively held back.
It was not for the want of will. There was no lack of that on the part
of the ex-officer, or among the Regulators. They showed no sign of
retreating from the step they had taken. The pause was simply owing to
the informality of the proceedings. It was but the lull in the storm
that precedes the grand crash.
It was a moment of deep solemnity--every one silent as the tomb. They
were in the presence of death, and knew it,--death in its most hideous
shape, and darkest guise. Most of them felt that they were abetting it.
All believed it to be nigh.
With hushed voice, and hindered gesture, they stood rigid as the
tree-trunks around them. Surely the crisis had come?
It had; but not that crisis by everybody expected, by themselves
decreed. Instead of seeing Maurice Gerald jerked into the air, far
different was the spectacle they were called upon to witness,--one so
ludicrous as for a time to interrupt the solemnity of the scene, and
cause a suspension of the harsh proceedings.
The old mare--that they knew to be Zeb Stump's--appeared to have gone
suddenly mad. She had commenced dancing over the sward, flinging her
heels high into the air, and screaming with all her might. She had
given the cue to the hundred horses that stood tied to the trees; and
all of them had commenced imitating: her wild capers, while loudly
responding to her screams!
Enchantment could scarce have produced a quicker transformation than
occurred in the tableau formed in front of the jacale hut. Not only was
the execution suspended, but all other proceedings that regarded the
condemned captive.
Nor was the change of a comical character. On the contrary, it was
accompanied by looks of alarm, and cries of consternation!
The Regulators rushed to their arms--some towards their horses.
"Indians!" was the exclamation upon every lip, though unheard through
the din. Nought but the coming of Comanches could have caused such a
commotion--threatening to result in a _stampede_ of the troop!
For a time men ran shouting over the little lawn, or stood silent with
scared countenances.
Most having secured their horses, cowered behind them--using them by way
of shield against the chances of an Indian arrow.
There were but few upon the ground accustomed to such prairie escapades;
and the fears of the many were exaggerated by their inexperience to the
extreme of terror.
It continued, till their steeds, all caught up, had ceased their wild
whighering; and only one was heard--the wretched creature that had given
them the cue.
Then was discovered the true cause of the alarm; as also that the
Connemara man had stolen off.
Fortunate for Phelim he had shown the good sense to betake himself to
the bushes. Only by concealment had he saved his skin: for his life was
now worth scarce so much as that of his master.
A score of rifles were clutched with angry energy,--their muzzles
brought to bear upon the old mare.
But before any of them could be discharged, a man standing near threw
his lazo around her neck, and choked her into silence.
Tranquillity is restored, and along with it a resumption of the deadly
design. The Regulators are still in the same temper.
The ludicrous incident, whilst perplexing, has not provoked their mirth;
but the contrary.
Some feel shame at the sorry figure they have cut, in the face of a
false alarm; while others are chafed at the interruption of the solemn
ceremonial.
They return to it with increased vindictiveness--as proved by their
oaths, and angry exclamations.
Once more the vengeful circle closes around the condemned--the terrible
tableau is reconstructed.
Once more the ruffians lay hold of the rope; and for the second time
every one is impressed with the solemn thought:
"Soon must the soul of Maurice Gerald go back to its God!"
Thank heaven, there is another interruption to that stern ceremonial of
death.
How unlike to death is that bright form flitting under the shadows,--
flashing out into the open sunlight.
"A woman! a beautiful woman!"
'Tis only a silent thought; for no one essays to speak. They stand
rigid as ever, but with strangely altered looks. Even the rudest of
them respect the presence of that fair intruder. There is submission in
their attitude, as if from a consciousness of guilt.
Like a meteor she pauses through their midst--glides on without giving a
glance on either side--without speech, without halt--till she stoops
over the condemned man, still lying gagged the grass.
With a quick clutch she lays hold of the lazo; which the two hangmen,
taken by surprise, have let loose.
Grasping it with both her hands, she jerks it from theirs. "Texans!
cowards!" she cries, casting a scornful look upon the crowd. "Shame!
shame!"