IN THE FOREST.
Red Cedar, carried a long distance from the battlefield by the furious
galloping of his steed, which he had no longer the strength to control,
went on straight ahead, not knowing what direction he was following. In
this man, hitherto so firm, and who possessed so energetic a will, the
thoughts were overclouded as if by enchantment: the loss of blood, the
repeated jolts his horse gave him, had plunged him into a state of
insensibility. Had he not been so securely fastened to his saddle, he
would have fallen from it twenty times.
He went on with hanging arms, body bent over his horse's neck, and eyes
half closed, hardly conscious of what happened to him, or trying to
discover. Shaken to the right, shaken to the left, he watched with
unmeaning eye the trees and rocks fly past on either side: no longer
thinking, but living in a horrible dream, a prey to the strangest and
wildest hallucinations. Night succeeded to day: his horse continued its
journey, bounding like a frightened jaguar over the obstacles that
opposed it, followed by a pack of howling coyotes, and seeking in vain
to get rid of the inert weight that oppressed it.
At length the horse stumbled in the darkness, and fell to the ground,
uttering a plaintive neigh. Up to this moment Red Cedar had
preserved--we will not say a complete and clear knowledge of the
position in which he was--but at any rate a certain consciousness of the
life that still dwelt in him. When his exhausted horse fell, the bandit
felt a sharp pain in his head, and that was all; he fainted away while
stammering an imprecation, the last protest of the villain, who, to the
last moment, denied the existence of that God who smote him.
When he re-opened his eyes, under the impression of an indefinable
feeling of comfort, the sun was shining through the tufted branches of
the forest trees, and the birds, concealed beneath the green foliage,
were singing their joyous concerts. Red Cedar gave vent to a sigh of
relief, and looked languidly around him; his horse was lying dead a few
paces from him. He was seated against the trunk of a tree, while Ellen,
kneeling by his side, was anxiously following the progress of his return
to life.
"Oh, oh," the bandit muttered hoarsely, "I am still alive then."
"Yes, thanks to God, father," Ellen answered softly.
The bandit looked at her.
"God!" he said, as if speaking to himself; "God!" he added with an
ironical smile.
"He it was who saved you, father," the girl said.
"Child!" Red Cedar muttered, as he passed his left hand over his
forehead; "God is only a word, never utter it again."
Ellen drooped her head; but with the feeling of life pain returned.
"Oh! How I suffer," he said.
"You are dangerously wounded, father. Alas! I have done what I can to
relieve you; but I am only a poor ignorant girl, and perhaps what I have
attempted was not the right treatment."
Red Cedar turned to her, and an expression of tenderness flashed in his
eyes.
"You love me, then?" he said.
"Is it not my duty to do so, father?"
The bandit made no reply; the smile we know played round his Violet
lips.
"Alas! I have been seeking you a long time, father; this night chance
enabled me to find you again."
"Yes, you are a good girl, Ellen. I have only you left now. I know not
what has become of my sons. Oh," he said with a start of fury, "that
wretch Ambrosio is the cause of all; had it not been for him, I should
still be at the Paso del Norte, in the forests of which I had made
myself master."
"Think no more of that, father; your condition demands the greatest
calmness; try and sleep for some hours--that will do you good."
"Sleep," the bandit said, "can I sleep? No," he added with a movement of
repulsion, "I would sooner keep awake; when my eyes are closed, I
see.... No, no, I must not sleep."
He did not finish his sentence. Ellen gazed on him with pity, mingled
with terror. The bandit, weakened by the loss of blood and the fever
produced by his wounds, felt something to which he had hitherto been a
stranger--it was fear. Perhaps his conscience evoked the gnawing remorse
of his crimes.
There was a lengthened silence. Ellen attentively followed the bandit's
movements, whom the fever plunged into a species of somnolency, and who
at times started with inarticulate cries, and looking around him in
terror. Toward evening, he opened his eyes, and seemed to grow stronger:
his eyes were less haggard, his words more connected.
"Thanks, child," he said, "you are a good creature; where are we?"
"I do not know, father; this forest is immense. I tell you, again, it
was God who guided me to you."
"No, you are mistaken, Ellen," he replied with that sarcastic smile
peculiar to him; "it was not God who brought you here, but the demon,
who feared the loss of so good a friend as I am."
"Speak not so, father," the girl said sadly; "the night is rapidly
setting in darkness will soon surround us; let me on the contrary, pray
to Heaven to keep far from us the perils that threaten us during the
night."
"Child! Does a night in the woods frighten you so, when your whole life
has been spent in the desert? Light a fire of dry wood to keep the wild
beasts at bay, and place my pistols near me, these precautions will be
better, believe me, than your useless prayers."
"Do not blaspheme," the girl said hurriedly; "you are wounded, almost
dying; I am weak, and incapable of helping you effectually. Our life is
in the hands of Him whose power you deny in vain. He alone, if He will,
can save us."
The bandit burst into a dry and snapping laugh.
"Let Him do so then, in the demon's name, and I will believe in Him."
"Father, in Heaven's name, speak not so," the maiden murmured in sorrow.
"Do what I tell you, you little fool," the squatter interrupted her
brutally, "and leave me in peace."
Ellen turned to wipe away the tears this harsh language forced from her,
and rose sorrowfully to obey Red Cedar, who looked after her.
"Come, you goose," he said to her again, "I did not intend to hurt your
feelings."
The girl then collected all the dry branches she could find, which she
made into a pile and kindled. The wood soon began cracking, and a long
and bright flame rose to the sky. She then took from his holsters the
squatter's still loaded pistols, placed them within reach of his arm,
and then seated herself again by his side. Red Cedar smiled his
satisfaction.
"There," he said, "now we have nothing more to fear; if the wild beasts
pay us a visit, we will receive them; we will pass the night quietly. As
for the morrow, well, we shall see."
Ellen, without replying, wrapped him up as well as she could in the
blankets and hides that were on the horse, in order to protect him from
the cold. So much attention and self-denial affected the bandit.
"And you, Ellen," he asked her; "will you not keep a few of these skins
for yourself?"
"Why should I, father? The fire will be enough for me," she said gently.
"But, at any rate, eat something, you must be hungry; for, if I am not
mistaken, you have had nothing the whole day."
"That is true, father, but I am not hungry."
"No matter," he said, pressing her, "too long a fast may be injurious to
you; I insist on your eating."
"It is useless, father," she said with some hesitation.
"Eat, I say," he went on, "if not for your sake, for mine; eat a
mouthful to restore your strength, for we know what awaits us in the
next few hours."
"Alas! I would readily obey you," she said, letting her eyes sink; "but
it is impossible."
"And why so, pray? When I tell you that I insist."
"Because I have nothing to eat."
These words crushed the bandit like the blow of a club.
"Oh, it is frightful," he muttered; "poor girl, pardon me Ellen, I am a
villain, unworthy of such devotion as yours."
"Calm yourself, father, I implore you; I am not hungry, a night is soon
passed, and tomorrow, as you said, we shall see; but before then, I am
convinced God will come to our aid."
"God!" the squatter exclaimed, gnashing his teeth.
"God, ever God, father," the girl answered, with sparkling eye and
trembling lip; "God, ever; for, however unworthy we may be of His pity;
He is merciful, and perhaps will not abandon us."
"Build then on him, fool as you are, and you will be dead in two days."
"No," she exclaimed, joyfully, "for He has heard me, and sends us help."
The bandit looked and fell back on the ground, closing his eyes, and
muttering in a hollow voice the words which for some time past had
constantly risen from his heart to his lips, and involuntarily mastered
him.
"God! Can He exist?"
A terrible question which he incessantly asked himself, and to which his
obstinate conscience was beginning to respond, for the granite coating
of his heart was beginning to crumble away beneath the repeated blows of
remorse. But Ellen did not notice Red Cedar's state of prostration, she
had risen and rushed forward, with outstretched arms, crying as loudly
as her voice permitted her--"Help, help!"
The young girl had fancied she heard, for some minutes past, a peculiar
rustling in the foliage. This noise, at first remote and almost
unnoticeable, had rapidly approached; soon lights had glistened through
the trees, and the footsteps of a numerous party had distinctly smitten
her ear. In fact, she had scarce gone a dozen yards, ere she found
herself in the presence of a dozen mounted Indians, holding torches, and
escorting two persons wrapped in long cloaks.
"Help! Help!" Ellen repeated, as she fell on her knees, with
outstretched arms.
The horsemen stopped; one of them dismounted, and ran to the girl, whom
he took by the hands, and forced to rise.
"Help for whom, my poor girl?" he asked her in a soft voice.
On hearing the stranger's accent so full of tenderness, she felt hope
returning to her heart.
"Oh!" she murmured with joy; "my father is saved."
"Our life is in the hands of God," the stranger said, with emotion;
"but lead me to your father, and all a man can do to help him, I will."
"It is God who sends you, bless you, my father!" the maiden said, as she
kissed his hand.
In the movement he had made to raise her, the stranger's cloak flew
open, and the girl had recognised a priest.
"Let us go," he said.
"Come!"
The girl ran joyously forward, and the little party followed her.
"Father, father," she exclaimed, as she came near the wounded man, "I
was certain that Heaven would not abandon us; I bring you succour."
At this moment the strangers entered the clearing where the bandit lay.
The Indians and the other travellers remained some paces in the rear,
while the priest, quickly approached Red Cedar, over whom he bent. At
his daughter's words the bandit opened his eyes, and turned his head
with an effort in the direction whence this unexpected help arrived.
Suddenly his face, before so pale, was covered with a cadaverous tinge;
his eyes were enlarged and became haggard, a convulsive quiver agitated
his limbs, and he fell heavily back, muttering with terror--
"Oh! Father Seraphin!"
It was really the missionary; without appearing to remark the squatter's
emotion, he seized his arm in order to feel his pulse. Red Cedar had
fainted, but Ellen had heard the words he uttered, and though she could
not understand their meaning, she guessed that a terrible drama was
concealed beneath this revelation.
"My father!" she exclaimed mournfully, as she fell at the priest's
knees, "My father, have pity on him, do not desert him!"
The missionary smiled with an expression of ineffable goodness.
"Daughter," he answered gently, "I am a minister of God, and the dress I
wear commands me to forget insults. Priests have no enemies, all men are
their brothers; reassure yourself, your father has not only his body to
be saved, but also, his soul. I will undertake this cure, and God, who
permitted me to take this road, will give me the necessary strength to
succeed."
"Oh, thanks, thanks, holy father," the girl murmured, as she burst into
tears.
"Do not thank me, poor girl; address your thanks to God, for He alone
has done all. Now leave me to attend to this unhappy man, who is
suffering, and whose miserable state claims all my care."
And gently removing the maiden, Father Seraphin opened his medicine box,
which he took from the pommel of his saddle, and prepared to dress his
patient's wounds. In the meanwhile the Indians had gradually approached,
and seeing the state of affairs, they dismounted to prepare the
encampment, for they foresaw that, with Red Cedar in his present
condition, the missionary would pass the night at this spot.
The person who accompanied Father Seraphin was a female of very advanced
age, but whose features, ennobled by years, had a far from common
expression of kindness and grandeur. When she saw that the missionary
was preparing to dress the wounds, she went up to him and said in a soft
voice--
"Can I not help you in any way, holy father? You know that I am anxious
to begin my apprenticeship in nursing."
These words were uttered with an accent of indescribable goodness. The
priest looked at her with a sublime expression, and, taking her hand, he
made her stoop over the wounded man.
"Heaven has decreed that what now happens should take place," he said to
her; "you have hardly landed in this country, and entered the desert to
seek your son, when the Omnipotent imposes on you a task which must
rejoice your heart by bringing you face to face with this man."
"What do you mean, father?" she said with amazement.
"Mother of Valentine Guillois," he continued, with an accent full of
supreme majesty, "look at this man well, so as to be able to recognise
him hereafter; it is Red Cedar, the wretch of whom I have so often
spoken to you, the implacable foe of your son."
At this terrible revelation the poor woman gave a start of fear; but
surmounting with a superhuman effort the feeling of revulsion she had at
first experienced, she answered in a calm voice--
"No matter, father, the man suffers, and I will nurse him."
"Good, Madam," the priest said, with emotion; "Heaven will give you
credit for this evangelic abnegation."