I need not tell how deeply I was affected by the unexpected
communication. All at once were decided a variety of doubts; all at
once was I made aware of the exact situation.
Isolina still lived--that was no longer doubtful; and the knowledge
produced joy. More than this: she was still uninjured--able to think,
to act, to write--not only living, but well. The singular "billet" was
proof of all this. Another point--her hands must have been free--her
hands at least, else how could she have traced those lines? and with
such a pencil? It argued indulgence--perhaps kind treatment on the part
of her captors.
Another point yet. _She knew I was in pursuit_. She _had_ seen me,
then, as I galloped after. It _was_ her cry I had heard as the steed
dashed into the chapparal. She had recognised, me, and called back.
She knew I would still be following; she knew I was following, and for
me was the writing meant. Sweet subtle spirit!
Once more I devoured the welcome words; but my heart grew heavy as I
pondered over them. What had caused her to break off so abruptly? What
was it her intention to have said? Of what was she in fear? It was
thinking about this that caused the heaviness upon my heart and forced
me to give way to horrid imaginings.
Naturally my thoughts reverted to her captors; naturally I reflected
upon the character of the prairie savage--so different from that of the
forest Indian, opposite as is the aspect of their homes--and perhaps
influenced by this very cause, though there are many others. Climate--
contact with Spanish civilisation, so distinct from Saxon--the horse--
conquest over white foes--concubinage with white and beautiful women,
the daughters of the race of Cortez: all these have combined to produce
in the southern Indian a spiritual existence that more resembles
Andalusia than England--more like Mexico than Boston or New York.
Psychologically speaking, there is not so much difference between Paris
and the prairies--between the _habitat_ of the Bal Mabille and the
horse-Indian of the plains. No cold ascetic this--no romantic savage,
alike celebrated for silence and continence--but a true voluptuary, gay
of thought and free of tongue--amorous, salacious, immoral. In nine
cases out of ten, the young Comanche is a boastful Lothario as any
_flaneur_ that may be met upon the Boulevards; the old, a lustful
sinner--women the idol of both. Women is the constant theme of their
conversation, their motive for every act. For these they throw the
prairie dice; for these they race their swift mustangs. To win them,
they paint in hideous guise; to buy them, they steal horses; to capture
them, they go to war!
And yet, with all their wanton love, they are true tyrants to the sex.
Wife they have none--for it would be sheer sacrilege to apply this noble
title to the "squaw" of a Comanche. Mistress is scarcely a fitter
term--rather say _slave_. Hers is a hard lot indeed; hers it is to hew
the wood and draw the water; to strike the tent and pitch it; to load
the horse and pack the dog; to grain the skin and cure the meat; to
plant the maize, the melon, squash; to hoe and reap them; to wait
obsequious on her lounging lord, anticipate his whim or wish, be true to
him, else _lose her ears or nose_--for such horrid forfeiture is, by
Comanche custom, the punishment of conjugal infidelity!
But hard as is the lot of the native wife, harder still is that of the
white captive. 'Tis hers to endure all the ills enumerated, with still
another--the hostility of the squaw herself. The white captive is truly
the slave of a slave, the victim of a treble antipathy--of race, of
colour, of jealousy. Ofttimes is she beaten, abused, mutilated; and
rarely does the apathetic lord interfere to protect her from this
feminine but fiend-like persecution.
These were not imaginings; they were not fancies begot in my own brain.
Would they had been so! Too well did I know they were facts--horrid
realities.
Can you wonder that sleep was shaken from my eyelids?--that I could not
think of rest or stay, till I had delivered my loved one--my betrothed--
from the danger of such a destiny?
All thought of sleep was banished--even weariness forsook me. I felt
fresh as if I had slept; my nerves were strung for emprise. It was but
the excitement renewed by what I had read--the impatience of a new and
keen apprehension.
I would have mounted and gone forward, spurning rest and sleep;
regardless of danger, would I have followed; but what could I do alone?
Ay, and what with my few followers?
Ha! I had not thought of this; up to that moment, I had not put this
important question, and I had need to reflect upon the answer. What if
we should overtake this band of brigands? Booty-laden as they were, and
cumbered with captives, surely we could come up with them, by night or
by day; but what then? Ay, what then?
There were nine of us, and we were in pursuit of a war-party of at least
one hundred in number!--one hundred braves armed and equipped for
battle--the choice warriors of their tribe--flushed with late success,
and vengeful against ourselves on account of former defeat. If
conquered, we need look for no mercy at their hands; _if_ conquered--how
could it be otherwise? Nine against a hundred! How could _we_ conquer?
Up to this moment, I say, I had not thought of the result I was borne
along by only one impulse--the idea of overtaking the steed, and
rescuing his rider from her perilous situation. It was only within the
hour that her peril had assumed a new phase; only an hour since we had
learned that she had escaped from one danger to be brought within the
influence of another.
At first had I felt joy, but the feeling was of short existence, for I
now recognised in the new situation a greater peril than that she had
outlived. She had been rescued from death to become the victim of
dishonour!