TWO WOMEN'S HEARTS.
Ellen felt moved with pity at the sight of this young and lovely woman,
who lay on the floor of the hut, and whom life seemed to have quitted
forever. She felt for her, although she never remembered to have seen
her before, a sympathy for which she could not account, and which
instinctively attracted her.
Who was this woman? How had she, still so young, become mixed up in
these scenes of murder and associated with these savage prairie men, to
whom every human being is an enemy, every valuable article a booty?
Whence arose this strange ascendancy which she exerted over outlaws,
whom she made cry like children?
All these thoughts crossed Ellen's mind, and heightened, were that
possible, the interest she felt in the stranger. And yet, in her heart,
a vague fear, an undefinable presentiment warned her to be on her guard,
and that this woman, gifted with, a strange character and fatal beauty,
was an enemy, who would destroy her happiness forever.
As Ellen was one of those rare women for whom evil sentiments did not
exist, and who made it a principle to obey, under all circumstances, the
impulse of her heart, without reflecting on the consequences that might
result from it, she silenced the feeling of revolt within her, and bent
over White Gazelle.
And with that exquisite tact, innate in the female heart, she sat down
by the side of the sufferer, laid her beautiful head on her knees,
loosened her vest, and gave her that busy attention of which the other
sex alone possess the secret.
The two maidens, thus grouped on the uneven floor of a wretched Indian
hut, offered an exquisite picture. Both deliciously lovely, though of
different beauty--for Ellen had the most lovely golden locks ever seen,
while the Gazelle, on the contrary, had the warm tint of the Spanish
woman, and hair of a bluish black--presented the complete type, in two
different races, of the beau-ideal of woman, that misunderstood and
incomprehensible being, the fallen angel in whose heart God seems to
have let fall a glorious beam of His divinity, and who retains a vague
reminiscence of that Eden which she made us lose.
The American woman, that perfect whole, a composition of graces,
volcanic and raging passions, angel and demon, who loves and hates
simultaneously, and who makes the man she prefers feel in the same
second the joys of paradise and the nameless tortures of the Inferno!
Who could even analyze this impossible nature, in which virtue and
vices, strangely amalgamated, seem to personify the terrible convulsions
of the soil on which she lives, and which has created her?
For a long time, Ellen's cares were thrown away. White Gazelle remained
pale and cold in her arms. The maiden began to grow alarmed. She knew
not to what she should have recourse, when the stranger made a slight
movement, and a faint ruddiness tinged her cheeks. She uttered a
profound sigh, and her eyelids painfully rose. She looked round her in
amazement, and then closed her eyes again.
After a moment, she opened them once more, raised her hand to her brow
as if to dissipate the clouds that obscured her mind, fixed her eyes on
the person who was attending to her, and then, with a frown and
quivering lips, she, tore herself from the arms that entwined her, and,
bounding like a panther, sought shelter in one of the corners of the
hut, without ceasing to gaze fixedly at the young American, who was
startled at this strange conduct, and could not understand it.
The two girls remained thus for a few seconds, face to face, devouring
each other with their eyes, but not exchanging a syllable. No other
sound could be heard in the hut, save the panting respiration of the two
females.
"Why do you shun me?" Ellen at length asked in her harmonious voice,
soft as the cooing of a dove. "Do I frighten you?" she added, with a
smile.
The Spaniard listened to her as if she did not catch her meaning, and
shook her head so passionately that she broke the ribbon confining her
hair, which fell in thick ringlets over her white shoulders, and veiled
them.
"Who are you?" she asked, impetuously, with an accent of menace and
anger.
"Who am I?" Ellen replied, in a firm voice, in which a slight tinge of
reproach was perceptible. "I am the woman who has just saved your life."
"And who told you I wished it to be saved?"
"In doing so, I only consulted my own heart."
"Oh, yes, I understand," the Gazelle said, ironically. "You are one of
those women called in your country Quakeresses, who spend their life in
preaching."
"I am nothing of the sort," Ellen said, softly. "I am a woman who
suffers like yourself, and whom your misfortunes affect."
"Yes, yes," the Spaniard shrieked, as she writhed her hands
despairingly, and burst into tears--"I suffer all the torments of hell."
Ellen regarded her for a moment with compassion, and walked towards her.
"Do not cry, poor girl!" she said to her, mistaking the cause that made
her shed tears. "You are in safety here. No one will do you any harm."
The Spaniard threw up her head haughtily.
"Nay!" she said, impetuously. "Do you fancy, then, that I am not in a
condition to defend myself, were I insulted? What need have I of your
protection?"
And, roughly seizing Ellen's arm, she shook her passionately as she
said:--
"Who are you? What are you doing here? Answer!"
"You, who were with the bandits when they attacked this village, should
know me," Ellen replied, drily.
"Yes, I know you," the Spaniard said presently, in a hoarse voice. "You
are the woman whom the genius of evil brought across my path to rob me
of all my happiness! I did not expect to find you here, but I am
delighted at doing so, for I can at length tell you how I hate you," she
added, stamping her foot passionately. "Yes, I hate you!"
Ellen, in her heart, was alarmed at the stranger's violence; she tried
in vain to explain her incomprehensible words.
"You hate me!" she replied, softly. "For what reason? I do not know you.
This is the first time that accident has brought us together. Up to this
day, we never had any relations together, near or remote."
"Do you think so?" the Spaniard continued, with a cutting smile. "In
truth," she added, "we never had any relations together. You are right,
and yet I know you thoroughly. Miss Ellen, daughter of the squatter, the
scalp hunter, the bandit, in a word, Red Cedar, and who dares to love
Don Pablo de Zarate, as if you did not belong to an accursed race. Have
I forgotten aught--are those all your titles? Answer, will you?" she
said, thrusting her face, inflamed with passion, close to Ellen's, and
shaking her violently by the arm.
"I am, indeed, Red Cedar's daughter," Ellen answered, coldly; "but I do
not understand what you mean by your allusion to Don Pablo de Zarate."
"Do you not, innocent lamb!" the Spaniard retorted with irony.
"And supposing it were so," the American answered with some haughtiness,
"what does it concern you? By what right do you cross-question me?"
"By what right?" the Spaniard said, violently, but suddenly checked
herself, and, biting her lips till the blood came, she folded her hands
on her breast, and, surveying Ellen with a glance full of the utmost
contempt, she continued:--
"In truth, you are an angel of purity and gentleness; your life has
passed calmly and softly at the hearth of honest and respectable
parents, who inculcated in you at an early age all the virtues they
practice so well--ah, ah! Is not that what you meant to say to me?--
while I, who am an associate of brigands, who have spent my whole life
on the prairie, who understand nothing of the narrow exigencies of your
paltry civilisation, who have always breathed the sharp and savage air
of liberty--by what right should I come to interfere in your family
arrangements, and interfere in your chaste loves, whose sentimental and
insipid incidents are so well regulated by feet and inches? You are
right, I cannot, with my savage manner, and burning heart, cross your
love, and destroy for a caprice all your combinations--I am, indeed,
mad," she added, as she rudely repulsed the maiden.
She folded her arms on her chest, and leant against the wall of the hut
in silence. Ellen looked at her for a while, and then said, in a soft
and conciliating voice--
"I try in vain to understand your allusions, but if they refer to any
fact effaced from my mind, if, under any circumstance, I may have
unconsciously offended you, I am ready to offer you all the apologies
you may require. Our position among these ferocious Indians is too
critical for me not to try, by all means in my power, to draw more
closely together the bonds of friendship between ourselves, the only
representatives of the white race here, which alone can enable us to
escape the snares laid for us, and resist the attacks that threaten us."
The Spaniard's face had gradually lost the hateful and wicked expression
that disfigured it, and her features had become calmer. Now that she had
reflected, she repented the imprudent words she had uttered on the first
outburst of passion. She would have liked to recall her secret; still she
hoped that it was not too late to do so; and with that craft innate in
woman, and which renders her so dangerous under certain circumstances,
she resolved to deceive her companion, and efface from her mind the bad
impression which her foolish words must have left there.
Hence it was with a smile, and in her softest voice, that she answered
the American--
"You are good-hearted; I am not worthy of the attention you have paid
me, or of the gentle words you address to me, after what I dared to say
to you. But I am more unfortunate than wicked. Abandoned when a child,
and adopted by the bandits with whom you saw me, the first sounds that
struck my ear were cries of death, the first light I saw was the glare
of incendiary fires. My life has been passed in the desert, far from the
towns, where people learn to grow better. I am an impetuous and
obstinate girl; but, believe me, my heart is good; I can appreciate a
kindness, and remember it. Alas! A girl in my position is more to be
pitied than blamed."
"Poor child!" Ellen said, with involuntary emotion, "So young, and
already so unhappy."
"Oh, yes, most unhappy," the Spaniard went on; "I never knew the
sweetness of a mother's caresses, and the only family I have had is
composed of the brigands, who accompanied the Apaches when they attacked
you."
The girls remained seated side by side, with their arms intertwined and
head on each other's shoulder, like two timid doves. They talked for a
long time, describing their past life. Ellen, with the candour and
frankness that formed the basis of her character, allowed her companion
to draw from her all her secrets, harmless as they were, not perceiving
that the dangerous woman who held her beneath the charm of her
blandishments, continually excited her to confidence, while herself
maintaining the utmost reserve.
The hours passed thus rapidly, nearly the whole night slipped away in
their confessions, which did not terminate till sleep, which never
surrenders its sway over young and animated people, closed the drooping
eyelids of the American girl.
The Spaniard did not sleep; when the other maiden's head fell on her
chest she raised it cautiously, and laid it delicately on the skins and
furs arranged to act as a bed; then, by the flickering and uncertain
light of the pinewood torch fixed in the ground, which lit up the hut,
she gazed long and attentively on the squatter's daughter.
Her face had lost its placid mask and assumed an expression of hatred of
which such lovely features would have been thought incapable; with
frowning brow, clenched teeth, and pallid cheeks, as she stood before
the maiden, she might have been taken for the genius of evil, preparing
to seize the victim which it holds fascinated and gasping beneath its
deadly glance.
"Yes," she said, in a hollow voice, "this woman is lovely; she has all
needed to be beloved by a man. She told me the truth--he loves her! And
I," she added, with a movement of rage, "why does he not love me? I am
lovely too--more lovely than this one, perhaps. How is it that he has
been at least twenty times in my presence, and his heart has never been
warmed by the fire that flashed from my eyes? Whence comes it that he
has never noticed me, that all my advances to make him love me have
remained futile, and that he has never thought of anyone but the woman
lying asleep there, who is in my power, and whom I could kill if I
pleased?"
While uttering these words she had drawn from her girdle a small
stiletto, with a blade sharp as the tongue of a cascabel.
"No!" she added, after a moment's reflection, "No, it is not thus that
she must die! She would not suffer enough. Oh, no! I mean her to endure
all the sufferings that are lacerating me. Jealousy shall torture her
heart as it has done mine for so long. _Voto a Dios!_ I will avenge
myself as a Spanish woman should do. If he despise me, if he will not
love me, neither of us shall have him; we shall both suffer, and her
torture will alleviate mine. Oh! Oh!" she said, with a smile, as she
walked round the sleeping girl with the muffled tread of a wild beast;
"fair-haired girl, with lily complexion, your cheeks covered with the
velvety down of a peach, will ere long be as pale as mine, and your
eyes, red with fever, will no longer find tears to soothe them."
She bent over Ellen, attentively listened to her regular breathing, and
certain that she was plunged in a deep sleep, she walked toward the
curtain door of the hut, raised it cautiously, and after looking around
her in the obscurity, feeling assured by the calmness that surrounded
her, she stepped over the body of Curumilla, who was lying across the
door, and started off hurriedly, but with such light steps that the most
practised ear could not have noticed the sound.
The Indian warrior had taken on himself the duty of watching over the
two women. When the scalp dance was ended he returned to install himself
at the spot he had selected, and, in spite of the remarks of Valentine
and Don Pablo, who assured him that they were in safety, and it was
unnecessary for him to remain there, nothing could make him give up his
resolution.
Phlegmatically shaking his head at his friend's remarks, he took off his
buffalo robe without any further response; he stretched it on the
ground, and lay down on it, wishing them good night with a brief but
peremptory nod. The others, seeing the Araucano's immoveable resolve,
philosophically went away, shaking their heads.
Curumilla was not asleep--not one of the Spanish girl's movements
escaped him; and she had scarce gone ten yards when he was already on
her trail, watching her carefully. Why he did so he was himself
ignorant; but a secret foreboding warned him to follow the stranger, and
try to learn for what reason, instead of sleeping, she traversed at so
late an hour the camp in which she was a prisoner, and where she
consequently exposed herself to come in contact at each step with a
ferocious enemy, who would have killed her with delight.
The reason that made her brave so imminent a danger must be very
powerful, and that reason the Indian chief determined on knowing.
The girl had difficulty in finding her way through this inextricable
labyrinth of huts and tents, against which she stumbled at every step.
The night was dark; the moon, veiled under a dense mass of clouds, only
displayed its sickly disc at lengthened intervals; not a star gleamed in
the sky.
At times the girl halted on her journey, stretching forth her hand to
listen to any suspicious sound, or else returned hurriedly on her
footsteps, turning in the same circle, while careful not to go far from
Ellen's hut.
It was evident to Curumilla that the prisoner was seeking, though unable
to find, a tent that contained the person she wished to speak with. At
length, despairing probably of ever succeeding in this search of which
she did not hold the thread, the girl stopped and imitated twice the
snapping bark of the white coyote of the Far West. This signal, for it
was evidently one, succeeded better than she expected, for two similar
barks, uttered at points diametrically opposed, answered her almost
immediately. The girl hesitated for a second; a dark flush passed over
her face, but recovering at once, she repeated the signal.
Two men appeared simultaneously at her side--one, who seemed to rise out
of the ground, was Red Cedar, the second, Pedro Sandoval.
"Heaven be praised!" the Spaniard said, as he pressed the girl's hand,
"You are saved, Niña, and I fear nothing more now. _Canarios!_ You may
flatter yourself with having caused me a terrible fright."
"Here I am," said Red Cedar; "can I be of any service to you? We are
ambushed a few steps from here, with two hundred Apaches; speak, what is
to be done?"
"Nothing at present," the Gazelle said, as she returned the pressure of
her two friends' hands. "After our ill success of this evening, any
attempt would be premature, and fail. At daybreak, from what I have
heard, the Comanches will set out to take up your trail. Do not let
their war party out of sight. It is possible that I may require your
help on the way; but till then do not show yourself; act with the
greatest prudence, and before all try to keep your enemies in ignorance
of your movements."
"You have no other recommendations to give me?"
"None; so retire; the Indians will soon wake up, and it would not be
well for you if they surprised you."
"I obey."
"Above all, do what I told you."
"That is agreed," Red Cedar repeated.
He glided into the gloom and disappeared among the tents. Curumilla was
inclined to follow him and kill him as he fled; but after a short
hesitation he allowed him to escape.
"It is now your turn," the Gazelle continued, addressing Sandoval; "I
have a service to ask of you."
"A service, Niña; say rather an order to give me; do you not know that I
am happy to please you in everything?"
"I am aware of it, and feel grateful to you, Pedro; but this time what I
have to ask of you is so important and so serious, that, in spite of
myself, I hesitate to tell you what I expect from you."
"Speak without fear, my child, and whatever it may be, I swear to you to
do it."
"Even if the life of a person were at stake?" she said, with a bright
and fixed glance, resembling that of a wild beast.
"All the worse for him: I would kill him."
"Without hesitation?"
"Yes. Has anyone insulted you, my child? If so, point him out to me,
that you may be the sooner avenged."
"What I would ask of you is worse than killing a man."
"I do not understand you."
"I wish--you understand me clearly, my dear Pedro?--I wish that on the
road we should escape--"
"If it is only that, it is easy."
"Perhaps so! But that is not all."
"I am listening."
"When we escape, you must carry off and take with us the girl to whom
you entrusted me last evening."
"What the deuce would you do with her?" the pirate exclaimed, astonished
at this singular proposition, which he was far from expecting.
"That is my business," the Gazelle answered rudely.
"Of course, still it seems to me--"
"After all, why should I not tell you? There is, I think, in a country a
long distance from here, a savage and ferocious race called the Sioux?"
"Yes, and they are precious scoundrels, I can assure you, señorita; but
I do not see what connection there is--"
"You shall see," she sharply interrupted him. "I wish that the girl you
carry off tomorrow shall be handed over as a slave to the Sioux."
This proposition was so monstrous, that Pedro Sandoval could not refrain
from a glance of stupefaction at the young Spaniard.
"You have heard me," she continued.
"Yes, but I should prefer killing her: it would be sooner done, and the
poor girl would suffer less."
"Ah, you pity her!" she said with a demoniac smile; "the fate I reserve
for her, then is very atrocious? Well, that is exactly what I want; she
must live and suffer for a long time."
"This woman must have terribly insulted you?"
"More than I can tell you."
"Reflect on the horrible punishment to which you condemn her."
"All my reflections are made," the girl replied in a sharp voice; "I
insist on it."
The Pirate hung his head silently.
"Will you obey me?" she asked.
"I must, for am I not your slave?"
She smiled proudly.
"Take care, Niña! I know not what has happened between this girl and
yourself, but I am conscious that vengeance often produces very bitter
fruits, Perhaps you will repent hereafter what you do today?"
"What matter? I shall be avenged. That thought will render me strong,
and give me the courage to suffer."
"Then, you are quite resolved?"
"Irrevocably."
"I will obey."
"Thanks, my kind father," she said, eagerly; "thanks for your devotion."
"Do not thank me," the Pirate said, sadly; "perhaps you will curse me
some day."
"Oh, never!"
"May Heaven grant it!"
With these words, the accomplices separated.
Pedro re-entered the tent allotted to him, while the Gazelle rejoined
Ellen, who was still sleeping her untroubled sleep, smiling at the
pleasant dreams that lulled her.
Curumilla lay down again at the entrance of the lodge.