ELLEN AND DOÑA CLARA.
Since she had fallen again into the power of Red Cedar, Doña Clara, a
prey to a gloomy sorrow, had yielded unresistingly to her abductors,
despairing ever to escape from them; especially since she had seen the
men in whose power she was, definitely take the road to the desert.
For a maiden, accustomed to all the refinements of luxury, and all those
little attentions which a father's love continually lavished on her, the
new existence commencing was an uninterrupted succession of tortures,
among half savage ruffians, whose brutal ways and coarse language
constantly made her fear insults she would have been too weak to
repulse.
Still, up to this moment, Red Cedar's conduct had been--we will not say
respectful, for the squatter was ignorant of such refinements--but, at
any rate, proper, that is to say, he had affected to pay no attention to
her while ordering his men not to trouble her in any way.
Doña Clara had been entrusted by the scalp hunter to his wife Betsy and
his daughter Ellen.
The Megera, after giving the maiden an ugly look, had turned her back on
her, and did not once address her--conduct which was most agreeable to
the young Mexican. As for Ellen, she had constituted herself, on her
private authority, the friend of the prisoner, to whom she rendered all
those small services her position allowed her, with a delicacy and tact
little to be expected from a girl educated in the desert by a father
like hers.
At the outset, Doña Clara, absorbed in her grief, had paid no attention
to Ellen's kindness, but gradually, in spite of herself, the young
American's unchanging gentleness, and her patience, which nothing
rebuffed, affected her; she had felt the services which the other
occasionally rendered her, and had gradually learned to feel for the
squatter's daughter a degree of gratitude which presently ripened into
friendship.
Youth is naturally confiding; when a great grief oppresses it, the need
of entrusting that grief to a person who seems to sympathise with it,
renders it expansive. Alone among the bandits, to whom chance had handed
her over, Doña Clara must inevitably--so soon as the first paroxysm of
suffering had passed--seek for someone to console her, and help her in
enduring the immense misfortune that crushed her.
And this had occurred much more rapidly than under ordinary
circumstances, thanks to the sympathising kindness of the young
American, who had in a few hours found the way to her heart.
Red Cedar, whom nothing escaped, smiled cunningly at the friendship of
the two maidens, which, however, he feigned not to perceive. It was a
strange thing, but this scalp hunter, this man that seemed to have
nothing human about him, who perspired crime at every pore, whose
ferocity was unbounded, had in his heart one feeling which attached him
victoriously to the human family, a profound, illimitable love for
Ellen--the love of the tiger for its cubs.
This frail girl was the sole creature for whom his heart beat more
violently. How great, how powerful was the love Red Cedar experienced
for this simple child! It was a worship, an adoration. A word from her
little mouth caused the ferocious bandit to feel indescribable delight;
a smile from her rosy lips overwhelmed him with happiness. By her
charming caresses, her gentle and insinuating words, Ellen had power to
govern despotically that gathering of birds of prey which was her
family. The chaste kiss his daughter gave him every morning, was the
sunbeam that for the whole day warmed the heart of the terrible bandit,
before whom everybody trembled, and who himself trembled at a slight
frown from her, who combined all the joy and happiness of his life.
It was with extreme satisfaction that he saw his daughter become his
innocent accomplice by acquiring the confidence of his prisoner, and
gaining her friendship. This gentle girl was in his sight the securest
gaoler he could give Doña Clara. Hence, in order, to facilitate, as far
as possible, all that could enhance the friendship, he had completely
closed his eyes, and feigned to be ignorant of the approximation between
the two girls.
It was Ellen who had listened to the conversation between the monk and
the Gambusino. At the moment she was re-entering the hut, the stifled
sound of voices induced her to listen. Doña Clara was speaking in a low
voice to a man, and that man was the Sachem of the Coras. Ellen,
surprised in the highest degree, listened anxiously to their
conversation, which soon greatly interested her.
After leaving the two Mexicans, Eagle-wing had, for some minutes, walked
about the camp with an affected carelessness, intended to remove the
suspicions of any who might have been tempted to watch his movements.
When he fancied he had dispelled any suspicions, the Indian chief
insensibly drew nearer to the cabin, which served as a refuge to the
maidens, and entered it, after assuring himself by a glance, that no one
was watching.
Doña Clara was alone, at this moment. We have told the reader where
Ellen was; as for the squatter's wife, faithful to her husband's
instructions not to annoy the prisoner in any way, she was quietly
asleep by the fire, in the clearing.
The maiden, with her head bowed on her bosom, was plunged in deep and
sad thought. At the sound of the Indian's steps, she raised her head,
and could not restrain a start of terror on seeing him.
Eagle-wing immediately perceived the impression he produced on her, he
stopped on the threshold of the cabin, folded his arms on his chest, and
bowed respectfully.
"My sister need not be alarmed," he said in a gentle and insinuating
voice, "it is a friend who is speaking to her."
"A friend!" Doña Clara murmured, as she took a side glance at him; "the
unfortunate have no friends."
The Indian drew a few steps nearer to her, and went on, as he bent over
her:
"The jaguar has been forced to put on the skin of the crafty serpent, in
order to introduce himself among his enemies, and gain their confidence.
Does not my sister recognise me?"
The Mexican girl reflected for a moment, and then answered with
hesitation, and looking at him attentively:
"Although the sound of your voice is not unfamiliar to me, I seek in
vain to remember where, and under what circumstances I have already seen
you."
"I will help my sister to remember," Eagle-wing continued. "Two days
ago, at the passage of the ford, I tried to save her, and was on the
point of succeeding, but before that my sister had seen me several
times."
"If you will mention a date and a circumstance, I may possibly succeed
in remembering."
"My sister need not seek, it will be useless; I prefer telling her my
name at once, for moments are precious. I am Moukapec, the great Chief
of the Coras, of the Del Norte. My sister's father and my sister herself
often helped the poor Indians of my tribe."
"That is true," the maiden said, sadly. "Oh! I remember now. Poor
people! They were pitilessly massacred, and their village fired by the
Apaches. Oh! I know that horrible story."
A sardonic smile played round the chief's lips at these words.
"Coyote does not eat coyote," he said, in a hollow voice; "the jaguars
do not wage war on jaguars. They were not Indians who assassinated the
Coras, but scalp hunters."
"Oh!" she said, in horror.
"Let my sister listen," the Coras continued quickly; "now that I have
told her my name, she must place confidence in me."
"Yes," she answered, eagerly, "for I know the nobility of your
character."
"Thanks! I am here for my sister's sake alone. I have sworn to save her,
and restore her to her father."
"Alas!" she murmured sadly, "that is impossible. You are alone, and we
are surrounded by enemies. The bandits who guard us are a hundredfold
more cruel than the ferocious beasts of the desert."
"I do not know yet in what way I shall set about saving my sister," the
chief said, firmly; "but I shall succeed if she is willing."
"Oh!" she exclaimed with febrile energy, "If I am willing! Whatever
requires to be done, I will do without hesitation. My courage will not
fail me, be assured of that, chief."
"Good!" the Indian said with joy; "My sister is truly a daughter of the
Mexican kings. I count on her when the moment arrives. Red Cedar is
absent for a few days; I will go and prepare everything for my sister's
flight."
"Go, chief; at the first sign from you I shall be ready to follow you."
"Good! I retire; my sister can take courage, she will soon be free."
The Indian bowed to the maiden, and prepared to leave the hut. Suddenly,
a hand was laid on his shoulder. At this unexpected touch, in spite of
his self-command, the chief could not repress a start of terror. He
turned, and Red Cedar's daughter stood before him, with a smile on her
lips. "I have heard all," she said in her pure and melodious voice.
The chief bent a long and sad look on Doña Clara.
"Why this emotion," Ellen continued, "which I read on your features? I
do not mean to betray you, for I am a friend of Doña Clara. Reassure
yourself; if accident has made me mistress of your secret, I will not
abuse it--on the contrary, I will help your flight."
"Can it be so? You would do that?" Doña Clara exclaimed, as she threw
her arms round her neck, and buried her face in her bosom.
"Why not?" she simply answered; "You are my friend."
"Oh! Oh! I love you, for you are good. You had pity on my grief, and
wept with me." Eagle-wing fixed on the maiden a glance of undefinable
meaning.
"Listen," Ellen said; "I will supply you with the means you lack. We'll
leave the camp this very night."
"We?" Doña Clara asked; "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Ellen continued, quickly, "that I shall go with you."
"Can it be possible?"
"Yes," she said, in a melancholy voice; "I cannot remain here longer."
On hearing these words, the Coras Chief quivered with joy; a sinister
ray flashed from his dark eyes; but he immediately resumed his stoical
appearance, and the maidens did not notice his emotion.
"But what shall we do to procure means of flight?"
"That is my affair, so do not trouble yourself about it. This very
night, I repeat, we shall start."
"May Heaven grant it!" Doña Clara sighed.
Ellen turned to the chief and said:
"Does my brother know, at a short distance from the spot where we now
are, any Indian pueblo where we can seek shelter?"
"Two suns from here, in a northwestern direction, there is a pueblo,
inhabited by a tribe of my nation. It was thither I intended to lead my
white father's daughter after her escape."
"And we shall be in safety with that tribe?"
"The daughter of Acumapicthzin will be as safe as in her father's
hacienda," the Indian answered, evasively.
"Good! Can my father leave the camp?"
"Who is strong enough to arrest the flight of the condor? Moukapec is a
warrior, nothing stops him."
"My brother will set out."
"Good!"
"He will proceed by the shortest road to the pueblo of his nation, then
he will return to meet us with the warriors he has collected, in order
that we may defend ourselves, in the event of being followed by the
Gambusinos."
"Very good," the Indian answered joyfully. "My sister is young, but
wisdom dwells in her heart; I will do what she desires--when may I
start?"
"At once."
"I go. What hour will my sister quit the camp?"
"At the hour when the owl sings its first hymn to the rising sun."
"My sister will meet me at the most four hours after her departure. She
must remember in her flight always to go in a northwestern direction."
"I will do so."
Eagle-wing bowed to the maidens and left the cabin.
The gambusinos were in a deep sleep round the fire; only Dick and Harry
were awake. The Coras glided like a phantom through the trees, and
reached the edge of the water unnoticed, which was the more easy to
effect, because the Canadians were not watching the island, from which
they had no danger to apprehend, but had their eyes fixed on the
prairie. The chief took off his clothes and made them into a parcel,
which he fastened on his breast; he slipped into the water, and swam
silently in the direction of the mainland.
So soon as the Indian left the cabin Ellen bent over Doña Clara, gave
her a loving kiss on the forehead, and said softly--"Try to sleep for a
few hours, while I prepare everything for our flight."
"Sleep!" the Mexican answered, "How can I with the restlessness that
devours me."
"You must!" Ellen insisted, "For we shall have great fatigue to endure
tomorrow."
"Well," Doña Clara said, softly, "I will try, as you wish it."
The maidens exchanged a kiss and a shake of the hand, and Ellen left the
hut in her turn, smiling to her friend, who followed her with an anxious
glance. When left alone, Doña Clara fell on her knees, clasped her
hands, and addressed a fervent prayer to God. Then, slightly
tranquilised by her appeal to Him, who is omnipotent, she fell back on
the pile of dry leaves that served as her bed, and, as she had promised
Ellen, attempted to sleep.