IN THE MOUNTAIN.
Doña Rosario was so terrified, and such mortal anguish assailed her
on beholding the Count fall under the knives of the assassins, that
she fainted. When she recovered her senses, it was dark night. For
several minutes her confused thoughts whirled about in her brain; and
she endeavoured, but for a long time in vain, to recover the violently
broken thread of her ideas. At length light returned to her mind; she
breathed a deep sigh, and murmured in a low voice full of terror:
"My God! my God! what has happened to me?"
She then opened her eyes, and cast around a despairing look. We have
said it was a dark night; but what made the darkness more complete
for the poor girl, was a heavy covering of some kind which was spread
over her face, as well as her person. Then, with that patience which
characterizes all prisoners, and which is merely the instinct of
liberty, the poor child endeavoured to ascertain what her position was.
As well as she could judge, she was lying upon the back of a mule,
between two bales; a cord, which passed round her waist, prevented her
from rising, but her hands were free. The mule had that rough, irregular
trot, peculiar to its species, which made the young girl suffer terribly
at every step. Some horse cloths had been thrown over her, no doubt to
protect her from the heavy dews of the night, or perhaps to prevent her
from making out what road she was going. Doña Rosario, gently, and with
great precaution, slipped the covering down from her face: after a few
efforts her head was completely free. She then looked around her; but
all was dark. The moon, closely veiled by the clouds which passed over
its pale disc, only yielded, at rare intervals, a weak, uncertain light.
By lifting her head softly, the young girl could distinguish several
horsemen, riding before and behind the mule which carried her. As well
as she could make out, from the obscurity which surrounded her, these
horsemen were Indians.
The rather numerous party--it apparently consisted of a score of
individuals--followed a narrow road deeply inclosed between two abrupt
mountains, the rocky masses of which, throwing their shadow over the
road, augmented the darkness. This road rose with a gentle ascent; and
the horses and mules, probably fatigued with a long journey, travelled
at a foot pace. The young girl, scarcely recovered from her fainting,
had not been able to judge of the time that had elapsed since her
abduction; and yet, by collecting her remembrances, and thinking at what
hour she had been the victim of this odious attempt, she calculated
that twelve hours must have passed away since she was made a prisoner.
Overcome by the effort she had been forced to make in order to look
around her, the poor girl let her head sink back again, stifling a sigh
of despondency; and closing her eyes, as if to isolate herself the more,
she plunged into sad and deep meditations.
She was at least ignorant of whom she was with. Many times, it was true,
Don Tadeo had spoken to her of an inveterate enemy, inveterate for her
destruction; of a woman whose hatred watched her incessantly, ready to
sacrifice her on the first favourable opportunity. But who was this
woman? What cause had she for her hatred? Was she in the hands of this
woman at that moment? And if so, why had she not already sacrificed
her to her vengeance? From what motive had she been spared? For what
punishment was she reserved?
These thoughts and many others came in crowds to assail the maiden's
bewildered mind. This uncertainty was for her an atrocious torture; at
that moment, the truth would, perhaps, have been a consolation. Man is
so constructed, that what he is most in dread of is the unknown; what he
is ignorant of, assumes instinctively, in the prepossessed eyes of one
whom a terrible danger menaces, gigantic proportions, a thousand times
more terrific than the danger itself. The diseased imagination creates
for itself phantoms which reality, however horrible it may be, puts
to flight. In a word, the condemned prisoner who is led to punishment
suffers more from the apprehensions which the fear of the death awaiting
him inspires him with, than the physical pain of that death itself will
cause him. Such was, at this moment, the situation of Doña Rosario; her
mind, filled with inquietude and dark presentiments, made her dread
nameless sufferings, the mere thought of which froze the young blood in
her veins.
The caravan still proceeded; it had left the ravine, and was climbing
a path traced along the edge of a precipice, at the base of which
could be heard the dull murmur of invisible water. At times, a stone,
half-broken beneath the hoof of a mule, became detached, and rolled with
a sinister noise down the side of the mountain, to engulf itself in the
waters, into which it plunged with a dull plash, the sound of which
ascended from the abyss. The wind howled through the pines and larches,
the clashing branches of which showered a deluge of dry cones upon the
travellers. At intervals the owl, and the screech owl, concealed in
the crevices of the rocks, poured out into the night their plaintive
notes, breaking the silence dismally. Furious barkings were heard in the
distance; by degrees they grew nearer, and ended by forming a frightful
concert, broken by the sharp voices of women and children, endeavouring
to quiet them; lights appeared, and the caravan stopped. They had
evidently arrived at the halt, at which they were to pass the rest of
the night.
The maiden cast an anxious but cautious look around her; but the flame
of the torches agitated by the wind would not permit her to see anything
but the dark outlines of some buildings and the shadows of several
individuals who flitted about her, with cries and laughter--nothing
more. The people of the escort were busily employed in unsaddling the
horses and unloading the mules, amidst cries and oaths, and did not
appear to bestow the least attention upon the young girl.
A considerable time passed away; Doña Rosario did not know to what to
attribute this unaccountable forgetfulness. At length she felt that
someone took the mule by the bridle, and she heard him shout in a hoarse
voice, _Arrea!_--the word with which the arrieros are accustomed to
excite their beasts. Had she, then, been deceived? Was it not here they
were to stop? What was the meaning of the halt, then? Why did a portion
of the escort leave her?
Her uncertainty was not of long duration; at the end of ten minutes at
most, the mule stopped again, and the man who led it approached Doña
Rosario. This man, clothed in the costume of the Chilian peasantry, wore
an old straw Panama hat, the large brim of which, pulled down over his
face, prevented her distinguishing his features. At the sight of this
individual, the young girl felt an involuntary shudder run through her
frame. The peasant, or pretended peasant, without addressing a word to
her, withdrew the covering which enfolded her, untied the cord which
bound her to the mule, and taking her in his arms, carried her with as
much ease as if she had been a child, into a detached cabin a few paces
distant, the door of which, standing open, seemed to invite them to
enter.
The interior of this cabin was dark. The young girl was laid upon the
ground with a care and attention she did not expect. At the moment when
he let her sink softly down from his arms to the ground, the man bent
his head down towards her, and in a voice as inaudible as a breath, he
whispered, "Courage! and hope!" and recovering himself quickly, went
hastily out of the cabin, closing the door after him.
As soon as he was gone, Doña Rosario sprang upon her feet. The two words
pronounced by the unknown had sufficed to restore her presence of mind,
and remove all her terrors. Hope, that universal panacea, that supreme
good, which God, in His infinite mercy, has given to the unfortunate
to help them to suffer, had suddenly re-entered her heart; she felt
herself become strong, and ready to engage in the struggle with her
unknown enemies. She knew now that a friend watched in secret over her,
and, if required, his assistance would not be wanting; therefore it was
almost with impatience, though still with fear, that she waited for her
ravishers to signify their intentions.
The place in which she was confined was completely dark. At the first
moment she in vain endeavoured to distinguish anything in this chaos;
but, by degrees, her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and, in
front of her, she perceived a faint light, which flitted between the
badly-joined boards of a door. She then, with great precaution, for
fear of arousing her invisible guardians, and stretching out her hand
to keep her from contact with any obstacle she could not see, advanced
cautiously, and listening attentively, towards the side from which came
the light--a light which attracted her as instinctively as a flame
attracts the imprudent moth whose wings it burns.
The nearer she approached, the more distinct the light became, and the
sound of a voice reached her ears. At length her extended hands touched
the door, and leaning forward, she applied her eye to the chink. She
stifled a cry of surprise, and, as at that moment the conversation,
which had been for a short time interrupted, recommenced, she listened
with intensity.