A CONVERSATION.
On leaving the cabin, Don Pablo recrossed the river, and found his way
back to the thicket where he had tied his horse up. The poor animal,
terrified by the lightning and the hoarse rolling of the thunder,
uttered a snort of pleasure at seeing its master again. Without loss of
a moment, the young man leaped into the saddle and started at a gallop.
The rain fell in torrents, the wind whistled violently, the young man
feared at each moment losing his way, and groped through the immense
solitude which stretched out before him, and which the darkness
prevented him from sounding. Like all well-gifted men habituated to an
adventurous life, Don Pablo de Zarate was well fitted for struggling.
His will grew in proportion to the difficulties that rose before him,
and instead of discouraging him, obstacles only confirmed him in his
resolution. So soon as he had chosen an object, he reached it in spite
of all.
His love for Ellen, born, as it were, through a thunderclap--as, in
fact, most true loves spring into life, where the unexpected always
plays the chief part--this love, we say, for which he was in no way
prepared, and which surprised him at the moment which he least dreamed
of it, had assumed, without his will, gigantic proportions, which all
the reasons which should have rendered it impossible, only augmented.
Although he bore the deepest hatred for Red Cedar, and, had the
opportunity presented itself, would have killed him without hesitation
like a dog, his love for Ellen had become a worship, an adoration about
which he no longer reasoned, but which he endured with that intoxication
and that delight felt in forbidden things. This girl, who had remained
so pure and chaste amid this family of bandits, possessed an
irresistible attraction for him. He had said in his conversation with
her he was intimately convinced that she could not be Red Cedar's
daughter. It would have been impossible for him to give his reasons; but
with that tenacity of purpose which only some few men possess he
necessarily sought the proofs of this conviction which nothing
supported, and, even more, he sought these proofs with the certainty of
finding them.
For a month past, he had discovered, by an inexplicable chance, Red
Cedar's retreat, which Valentine, the skilful trail-hunter, had been
unable to detect. Don Pablo had immediately profited by his good
fortune to see again the girl he had believed lost for ever. This
unexpected success appeared to him a good omen; and every morning,
without saying anything to his friends, he mounted his horse upon the
first excuse that offered, and rode thirty miles to speak with her he
loved for a few moments.
Every consideration was silent in presence of his love: he allowed his
friends to exhaust themselves in vain researches, preciously keeping his
secret in order to be happy, at least, for a few days; for he perfectly
foresaw that the moment must arrive when Red Cedar would be discovered.
But, in the meanwhile, he enjoyed the present. With all those who love
in this way, the future is nothing, the present is all in all.
Don Pablo galloped on by the glare of the flashes, feeling neither the
rain that inundated him, nor the wind that howled round his head.
Absorbed in his love, he thought of the conversation he had held with
Ellen, and pleased himself with recalling all the words that had been
exchanged during the hour, which slipped away almost too rapidly.
All at once, his horse, to which he paid no attention, neighed, and Don
Pablo raised his head intuitively. Ten paces ahead of him, a horseman
was standing motionless across his path.
"Ah, ah!" said Don Pablo, as he drew himself up on the saddle, and
cocked his pistols; "You are very late on the road, comrade. Let me
pass, if you please."
"I am no later than yourself, Don Pablo," was the immediate response,
"since I meet you."
"Halloh!" the young man shouted, as he uncocked his pistols, and
returned them to his holsters; "What the deuce are you doing here, Don
Valentine?"
"As you see, I am waiting."
"Whom can you be waiting for at this advanced hour?"
"For yourself, Don Pablo."
"For me!" the Mexican said in surprise; "That is strange."
"Not so much as you suppose. I desire to have a conversation with you,
which no one must overhear; and as that was impossible in camp, I came
to wait for you as you passed: that is simple enough, I fancy."
"It is; but what is less so, is the hour and spot you have selected, my
friend."
"Why so?"
"Hang it, a terrible storm is let loose over our heads; we have no place
here to shelter us; and I repeat, it is nearer morning than night."
"That is true; but time pressed, and I could not select the hour to my
fancy."
"You alarm me, my friend; has anything new occurred?"
"Nothing that I know of, up to the present; but ere long we shall see
something, you may feel assured."
The young man stifled a sigh, but made no reply. While exchanging these
hurried sentences, the Trail-hunter and the Mexican had joined, and now
rode side by side. Valentine continued--
"Follow me for a few moments. I will lead you to a spot where we can
converse at ease, without fear of being disturbed."
"What you have to say to me must be very important?"
"You shall soon judge of that."
"And are you going to lead me far?"
"Only a few paces; to a grotto which I noticed in the flashes."
"Let us go then."
The two men spurred their horses, and galloped silently side by side;
they went on thus for hardly a quarter of an hour in the direction of a
thick chaparral which skirted the river.
"We have arrived," said Valentine, as he checked his horse and
dismounted. "You had better let me go first, for it may happen that the
cave we are about to enter may have an occupier not at all disposed to
move for us, and it is as well to act prudently."
"What do you mean? To what occupier do you allude?"
"Hang it, I do not know," the Frenchman replied carelessly; "in any
case, it is as well to be on one's guard."
While saying this, Valentine produced from under his zarapé two
candlewood torches, which he lighted; he gave one to Don Pablo, and the
two men, after hobbling their horses, opened the bushes and advanced
boldly toward the cave. After walking a few steps, they suddenly found
themselves at the entrance of one of those magnificent natural grottos
formed by the volcanic convulsions so frequent in these parts.
"Attention!" Valentine muttered in a low voice to his comrade.
The sudden appearance of the two men startled a cloud of night birds and
bats, which flew away heavily in all directions, uttering shrill cries.
Valentine went on, not troubling himself about these funereal guests,
whose sports he so unexpectedly noticed. All at once, a hoarse and
prolonged growl came from a distant corner of the cave.
The two men stopped as if rooted to the ground. They found themselves
face to face with a magnificent black bear, whose usual residence this
cavern doubtless was, and which, standing on its hind legs with open
mouth, showed the troublesome persons who came to trouble it so
inopportunely in its lair, a tongue red as blood, and glistening claws
of a remarkable length. It balanced itself clumsily, according to the
fashion of its congeners, and its round and dazzled eyes were fixed on
the adventurers in a manner that would cause reflection. Fortunately,
they were not the men to let themselves be intimidated for long.
"Hum!" said Valentine, surveying the animal, "I was sure of it; there is
a young fellow who seems inclined to sup with us."
"My rifle, on the contrary, will make us sup with him," Don Pablo said
with a laugh.
"For Heaven's sake do not fire," the hunter said quickly, as he checked
the young man who had already shouldered his rifle; "a shot fired at
this spot will produce a fearful row: we do not know what sort of people
may be prowling around us; so we must not compromise ourselves."
"That is true," Don Pablo remarked; "but what is to be done?"
"That is my business," Valentine replied; "take my torch, and hold
yourself in readiness to help me."
Then, resting his rifle against the side of the cave, he went out, while
the Mexican remained alone, facing the bear, which, dazzled and
perplexed by the light, did not venture to stir. In a few minutes
Valentine returned; he had been to fetch his lasso, fastened to the
saddle bow.
"Now, stick your torches in the ground, to be ready for any accident."
Don Pablo obeyed; the hunter carefully prepared the lasso and whirled it
round his head, while whistling in a peculiar way.
At this unexpected appeal the bear moved heavily two or three paces
forward, but that was its ruin. The lasso started from the hunter's
hands, the slipknot fell on the animal's shoulders, and the two men
slipped back, tugging at it with all their strength. The poor quadruped,
thus strangled and stretching out a tongue a foot long, tottered and
fell, striving in vain to remove with its huge paws the unlucky collar
that compressed its throat. But the hunters were not conquered by their
enemy's tremendous efforts; they redoubled their strength, and did not
loose the lasso till the bear had given its last sigh.
"Now," said Valentine, after he had assured himself that Bruin was
really dead, "bring the horses in here, Don Pablo, while I cut off our
enemy's paws, to roast them in the ashes while we are talking."
When the young man re-entered the grotto, leading the horses, he found
Valentine, who had lighted a large fire, busied in flaying the bear,
whose paws were gently roasting in the embers, as he had said. Don Pablo
gave the horses their food, and then sat down before the fire near
Valentine.
"Well," said the latter with a smile, "do you fancy this a comfortable
place for a gossip?"
"Yes, it is," the young man carelessly replied, as he rolled between
his; fingers a husk cigarette with the dexterity apparently peculiar to
the Spanish race; "we are all right here: I am ready for your
explanation, my friend."
"I will give it you," the hunter said, who had finished skinning the
bear, and quietly returned his knife to his boot, after carefully wiping
the blade; "how long have you known Red Cedar's hiding place?"
At this point-blank question, which he was far from expecting, the young
man started; a feverish flush covered his face, and he did not know what
to answer.
"Why--?" he stammered.
"About a month, I think?" Valentine continued, not appearing to notice
his friend's confusion.
"Yes, about," the other replied, not knowing what he said.
"And for a month," Valentine continued, imperturbably, "you have left
your father's side each night to go and make love to the daughter of the
man who murdered your sister?"
"My friend," Don Pablo said, painfully.
"Would you assert that it is not true?" the hunter went on hastily, as
he bent on him a glance which made him look down: "explain yourself,
Pablo--I am waiting for your justification. I am curious to know how you
will manage to prove to me that you have acted rightly."
The young man, while his friend was speaking, had time to regain, at any
rate, a portion, if not all, of his coolness and presence of mind.
"You are severe," he said; "before accusing me, it would be, perhaps,
worthwhile to listen to the reasons I have to offer you."
"Stay, my friend." Valentine said, quickly, "let us not turn from the
question, but be frank; do not take the trouble to describe your love to
me, for I know it as well as you do--I saw it born and grow; still,
permit me to tell you certainly I thought that after the assassination
of Doña Clara, this love, which had hitherto resisted everything, would
die out. It is impossible to love those we despise. Red Cedar's daughter
can only appear to you through a blood-stained cloud."
"Don Valentine," the young man exclaimed, in grief, "would you render
that angel responsible for the crimes of a villain?"
"I will not discuss with you the famous theory which lays down that
faults and crimes are personal; faults may be so, but in desert life the
whole family must be responsible for the crimes of its chief; were it
not so, no security would be possible for honest people."
"Oh, how can you speak thus!"
"Very good--let us change the ground, as that is disagreeable to you.
You possess the noblest and most honourable nature of any man I know, Don
Pablo. I presume you never had a thought of making Ellen your mistress?"
"No!" the young man savagely protested.
"Would you make her your wife, then?" Valentine said, with a cutting
accent, as he looked him fixedly in the face.
Don Pablo bowed his head in despair.
"I am accursed!" he exclaimed.
"No," Valentine said, as he seized him sharply by the arm, "you are mad.
Like all young men, passion sways and overpowers you--you listen to that
alone; you despise the voice of reason, and hence commit faults which
may speedily become, in spite of yourself, crimes."
"Do not speak thus, my friend."
"You have only reached faults as yet," Valentine said, imperturbably;
"but take care."
"Oh, it is you who are mad, my friend, to say such things to me. Believe
me, however great my love for Ellen may be, I shall never forget the
duties imposed on me by the strange position in which fate has placed
me."
"And yet for a month you have known the hiding place of the most
implacable enemy of your family, and have kept it a profound secret, in
order to satisfy the claims of a passion which can only have a
disgraceful result for you! You see us vainly employing all the means in
our power to discover the traces of our enemy, and you betray us coldly,
deliberately, for the sake of a few love phrases which you find means
to exchange daily with a girl, while making us believe that, like
ourselves, you are engaged in fruitless researches. What name will you
give to your conduct save that of a traitor?"
"Valentine, you insult me, the friendship you have for me does not
authorise you to act thus; take care, for patience has its limits."
The hunter interrupted him by a coarse laugh.
"You see it, boy," he said sternly, "already you threaten me."
The young man rolled on the ground in despair.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "I have suffered enough."
Valentine looked at him for a moment with tender pity, then bent over
him, and touching his shoulder:
"Listen to me, Don Pablo," he said in a gentle voice.