"THE LIVE-OAK."
At a pace necessarily slow, from the narrowness of the path and its
numerous obstructions, the painted robbers, with their captives, have
continued on; reaching their destination about the time Clancy and his
comrades turned back along the ford road.
From this they are now not more than three hundred yards distant, halted
in the place spoken of as a rendezvous.
A singular spot it is--one of those wild forest scenes by which nature
oft surprises and delights her straying worshipper.
It is a glade of circular shape, with a colossal tree standing in its
centre,--a live-oak with trunk full forty feet in girth, and branches
spreading like a banyan. Though an evergreen, but little of its own
foliage can be seen, only here and there a parcel of leaves at the
extremity of a protruding twig; all the rest, great limbs and lesser
branches, shrouded under Spanish moss, this in the moonlight showing
white as flax.
Its depending garlands, stirred by the night breeze, sway to and fro,
like ghosts moving in a minuet; when still, appearing as the water of a
cataract suddenly frozen in its fall, its spray converted into hoar
frost, the jets to gigantic icicles.
In their midst towers the supporting stem, thick and black, its bark
gnarled and corrugated as the skin of an alligator.
This grim Titan of the forest, o'ertopping the other trees like a giant
among men, stands alone, as though it had commanded them to keep their
distance. And they seem to obey. Nearer than thirty yards to it none
grow, nor so much as an underwood. It were easy to fancy it their
monarch, and them not daring to intrude upon the domain it has set apart
for itself.
With the moon now in the zenith, its shadow extends equally on all sides
of its huge trunk, darkening half the surface of the glade--the other
half in light, forming an illuminated ring around it. There could be no
mistaking it for other than the "big tree," referred to in the dialogue
between the two robbers; and that they recognise it as such is evident
by their action. Soon as sighting it, they head straight towards its
stem, and halting, slip down out of their saddles, having undone the
cords by which the captives were attached to them.
When dismounted, the lieutenant, drawing Bosley a step or two apart,
says:--
"You stay here, Bill, and keep your prisoner company. I want a word
with mine before our fellows come up, and as it's of a private nature,
I'm going to take her to the other side of the tree."
The direction is given in tone so low the captives cannot hear it; at
the same time authoritatively, to secure Bill's obedience. He has no
intention of refusing it. On the contrary, he responds with
alacrity:--"All right. I understand." This spoken as if implying
consent to some sinister purpose on the part of his superior. Without
further words, the lieutenant lays hold of his horse's rein, and leads
the animal round to the other side of the live-oak, his captive still in
the saddle. Thus separated, the two men are not only out of each
other's sight, but beyond the chance of exchanging speech. Between them
is the buttressed trunk many yards in breadth, dark and frowning as the
battlements of a fortress. Besides, the air is filled with noises, the
skirling of tree-crickets, and other sounds of animated nature that
disturb the tranquillity of the southern night. They could only
communicate with one another by shouting at the highest pitch of their
voices. Just now they have no need, and each proceeds to act for
himself.
Bosley, soon as left alone with his captive, bethinks him what he had
best do with her. He knows he must treat her tenderly, even
respectfully. He has had commands to this effect from one he dare not
disobey. Before starting, his chief gave him instructions, to be
carried out or disregarded at peril of his life. He has no intention to
disobey them--indeed, no inclination. A stern old sinner, his weakness
is not woman--perhaps for this very reason selected for the delicate
duty now intrusted to him. Instead of paying court to his fair captive,
or presuming to hold speech with her, he only thinks how he can best
discharge it to the satisfaction of his superior. No need to keep her
any longer on the horse. She must be fatigued; the attitude is irksome,
and he may get blamed; for not releasing her from it. Thus reflecting,
he flings his arms around her, draws her down, and lays her gently along
the earth.
Having so disposed of her, he pulls out his pipe, lights it, and
commences smoking, apparently without, further thought of the form at
his feet. That spoil is not for him.
But there is another, upon which he has set his mind. One altogether
different from woman. It is Dupre's treasure, of which he is to have
his share; and he speculates how much it will come to on partition. He
longs to feast his eyes with a sight of the shining silver of which
there has been so much talk among the robbers; and grand expectations
excited; its value as I usual exaggerated.
Pondering upon it, he neither looks at his captive, nor thinks of her.
His glances are toward the river ford, which he sees not, but I hears;
listening amid the water's monotone for the plunging of horses hoofs.
Impatiently, too, as between the puffs from his pipe, he ever and anon
utters a grunt of discontent at the special duty imposed upon him, which
may hinder him from getting his full share of the spoils.
Unlike is the behaviour of him on the other side of the oak. He, too,
has dismounted his captive, and laid her along the ground. But not to
stand idly over. Instead, he leaves her, and walks away from the spot,
having attached his horse to the trunk of the tree, by hooking the
bridle-rein over a piece of projecting bark. He has no fear that she
will make her escape, or attempt it. Before parting he has taken
precautions against that, by lashing her limbs together.
All this without saying a word--not even giving utterance to an
exclamation!
In like silence he leaves her, turning his face toward the river, and
striking along a trace that conducts to it.
Though several hundred yards from the ford, the bank is close by; for
the path by which they approached the glade has been parallel to the
trend of the stream. The live-oak overlooks it, with only a bordering
of bushes between.
Through this runs a narrow trace made by wild animals, the forest
denizens that frequent the adjacent timber, going down to their drinking
place.
Parting the branches, that would sweep the plumed tiara from his head,
the lieutenant glides along it, not stealthily, but with confidence, and
as if familiar with the way. Once through the thicket, he sees the
river broad and bright before him: its clear tranquil current in
contrast with the dark and stormy passions agitating his own heart. He
is not thinking of this, nor is there any sentiment in his soul, as he
pauses by the side of the stream. He has sought it for a most prosaic
purpose--to wash his face. For this he has brought with him a piece of
soap and a rag of cotton cloth, taken out of a haversack carried on the
pommel of his saddle.
Stepping down the slope, he stoops to perform his ablutions. In that
water-mirror many a fierce ugly face has been reflected but never one
fiercer or uglier than his, under its garish panoply of paint. Nor is
it improved, when this, sponged off shows the skin to be white; on the
contrary, the sinister passions that play upon his features would better
become the complexion of the savage.
Having completed his lavatory task, he throws soap and rag into the
river; then, turning, strides back up the bank. At its summit he stops
to readjust his plumed head-dress, as he does so, saying in soliloquy:--
"I'll give her a surprise, such as she hasn't had since leaving the
States. I'd bet odds she'll be more frightened at my face now, than
when she saw it in the old garden. She didn't recognise it then; she
will now. And now for her torture, and my triumph: for the revenge I've
determined to take. Won't it be sweet!"
At the close of his exultant speech, he dives into the dark path, and
gliding along it, soon re-enters the glade.
He perceives no change, for there has been none.
Going on to her from whom he had separated, he again places himself by
her recumbent form, and stands gazing upon, gloating over it, like a
panther whose prey lies disabled at its feet, to be devoured at leisure.
Only an instant stays he in this attitude; then stooping till his head
almost touches hers, he hisses into her ear:--
"So, Helen, at length and at last, I have you in my power, at my mercy,
sure, safe, as ever cat had mouse! Oh! it is sweet--sweet--sweet!"
She has no uncertainty now. The man exclaiming sweet, is he who has
caused all her life's bitterness. The voice, no longer disguised, is
that of Richard Darke!