A night of dread suspense has been passed at the estancia of Ludwig
Halberger. No one there has thought of sleep. Even the dark-skinned
domestics--faithful Guano Indians--touched with sympathy for the senora,
their mistress, do not retire to rest. Instead, retainers all, outside
the house as within, sit up throughout the night, taking part with her
in the anxious vigil.
As the hours drag wearily along, the keener become her apprehensions;
that presentiment of the morning, which during all the day has never
left her, now pressing upon her spirit with the weight of woe itself.
She could scarce be sadder, or surer that some terrible mischance had
happened to her husband and daughter, had she seen it with her own eyes.
And were both to be brought back dead, 'twould be almost what she is
anticipating.
In vain her son Ludwig, an affectionate lad, essays to cheer her. Do
his best to assign or invent reasons for their prolonged absence, he
cannot chase the dark shadow from her brow, nor lift the load off her
heart. And Cypriano, who dearly loves his aunt, has no more success.
Indeed, less, since almost as much does he need cheering himself. For
although Francesca's fate is a thing of keen inquietude to the brother,
it is yet of keener to the cousin. Love is the strongest of the
affections.
But youth, ever hopeful, hinders them from despairing; and despite their
solicitude, they find words of comfort for her who hears them without
being comforted.
"Keep up heart, mother!" says Ludwig, feigning a cheerfulness he far
from feels. "'Twill be all right yet, and we'll see them home to-morrow
morning--if not before. You know that father has often stayed out all
night."
"Never alone," she despondingly answers. "Never with Francesca. Only
when Gaspar was along with him."
"Well, Gaspar's with him now, no doubt; and that'll make all safe. He's
sure to have found them. Don't you think so, Cypriano?"
"Oh! yes," mechanically rejoins the cousin, in his heart far from
thinking it so, but the reverse. "Wherever they've gone he'll get upon
their tracks; and as Gaspar can follow tracks, be they ever so slight,
he'll have no difficulty with those of uncle's horse."
"He may follow them," says the senora, heaving a sigh, "but whither will
they lead him to. Alas, I fear--"
"Have no fear, _tia_!" interrupts the nephew, with alacrity, an idea
occurring to him. "I think I know what's detaining them--at least, it's
very likely."
"What?" she asks, a spark of hopefulness for an instant lighting up her
saddened eyes; Ludwig, at the same time, putting the question.
"Well," replies Cypriano, proceeding to explain, "you know how uncle
takes it, when he comes across a new object of natural history, or
anything in the way of a curiosity. It makes him forget everything
else, and everybody too. Suppose while riding over the campo he chanced
upon something of that sort, and stayed to secure it? It may have been
too big to be easily brought home."
"No, no!" murmurs the senora, the gleam of hope departing suddenly as it
had sprung up. "It cannot be that."
"But it can, and may," persists the youth, "for there's something I
haven't yet told you, _tia_--a thing which makes it more probable."
Again she looks to him inquiringly, as does Ludwig, both listening with
all ears for the answer.
"The thing I'm speaking of is an ostrich."
"Why an ostrich? your uncle could have no curiosity about that. He sees
them every day."
"True, but it's not every day he can catch them. And it was only
yesterday I heard him tell Caspar he wanted one, a cock bird, for some
purpose or other, though what, he didn't say. Now, it's likely, almost
certain, that while on their way to the _tolderia_, or coming back, he
has seen one, given chase to it, leaving Francesca somewhere to wait for
him. Well, _tia_, you know what an ostrich is to chase? Now lagging
along as if you could easily throw the noose round its neck, then
putting on a fresh spurt--'twould tempt any one to keep on after it.
Uncle may have got tantalised in that very way, and galloped leagues
upon leagues without thinking of it. To get back to Francesca, and then
home, would take all the time that's passed yet. So don't let us
despair."
The words well meant, and not without some show of reason, fail,
however, to bring conviction to the senora. Her heart is too sad, the
presentiment too heavy on it, to be affected by any such sophistry. In
return, she says despairingly--
"No, _sobrino_! that's not it. It your uncle had gone after an ostrich,
you forget that Caspar has gone after him. If he had found them, they'd
all have been back before this. _Ay de mi_! I know they'll never be
back--never more!"
"Nay, mamma! don't say that," breaks in Ludwig, flinging his arms around
her neck, and kissing the tears from her cheek. "What Cypriano says
appears to me probable enough, and likely to be true. But if it isn't,
I think I can tell what is."
Again the sorrowing mother looks inquiringly up; Cypriano, in turn,
becoming listener.
"My idea," pursues Ludwig, "is that they went straight on to the
_tolderia_, and are there still--detained against their will."