THE RIVALS.
After the tragic execution of the Pirate, the hunters slowly continued
their journey. The scenes we have described in previous chapters had
spread over them a gloom which nothing could dissipate. Since his
daughter's disappearance, Don Miguel Zarate, who had been suddenly
hurled from the height of his hopes, maintained a gloomy and stern
silence. This man, so strong and energetic, at length conquered by
misfortune, marched silently by the side of his comrades, who respected
his grief, and offered him those little attentions to which suffering
minds are so sensitive.
Valentine and General Ibañez were holding an animated conversation, the
two Indians, Curumilla and Moukapec, going in front and serving as
guides. Don Pablo and Ellen rode side by side; they alone of the small
party seemed happy, and a smile now and then played over their faces.
Alone of the little band the two young people had the faculty of
forgetting past sufferings through the present joy.
During Sandoval's execution Ellen had been kept aloof, hence she was
ignorant of what had occurred; and nothing happened to dull the pleasure
she experienced at seeing herself reunited to the man to whom she had
mentally given her heart.
One of the privileges of love is forgetting; the two young people,
absorbed in their passion, remembered nothing, but the happiness of
meeting again. The word "love" had not been uttered; still, it was so
fully reflected in their glances and smiles, that they understood each
other perfectly.
Ellen was describing to Don Pablo how Doña Clara and herself escaped
from Red Cedar's camp, protected by the two Canadian hunters.
"Ah!" Don Pablo said, "talking of those hunters, what has become of
them?"
"Alas!" Ellen replied, "One of them was killed by the Apaches, and the
other--"
"Well and the other?"
"There he is," she said; "oh, he is devoted to me body and soul."
Don Pablo turned round with an angry movement, and a dull jealousy was
inflamed in him. He looked at the hunter who rode a few paces in the
rear, but at the sight of this open, honest face, over which a tinge of
melancholy was spread, the young man seriously upbraided himself for his
apprehensions. He quickly went up to the hunter, while Ellen regarded
them with a smile; when he was at the Canadian's side, he offered him
his hand.
"Thanks," he said to him simply, "for what you did for her."
Harry pressed the hand, and answered sadly but nobly: "I did my duty; I
swore to defend her and die for her: when the hour arrives, I will keep
my oath."
Don Pablo smiled gracefully,
"Why do you not ride by our side?"
"No," Harry answered with a sigh, as he shook his head; "I ought not,
and do not wish to be the third in your conversation. You love each
other, and be happy. It is my duty to watch over your happiness; leave
me in my place and remain in yours."
Don Pablo thought for a moment over these words, then pressed the
hunter's hand a second time.
"You have a noble heart," he said to him; "I understand you;" and he
rejoined his companion. A smile played round the hunter's pallid lips.
"Yes," he muttered so soon as he was alone; "yes, I love her. Poor
Ellen! She will be happy, and if so, what matter what becomes of me?"
He then reassumed his indifferent look; but at times he gazed with a
feeling of sorrowful pleasure on the young people who had renewed their
conversation.
"Is he not a glorious fellow?" Ellen said to the young man as she
pointed to the hunter.
"I think so."
"And I have been certain of it for a long time. Harry watches over me; I
have always found him at my side in the hour of danger: to follow me he
has abandoned everything, country, friends, family, without hesitation
or reflection, and has done it without any hope of ever being rewarded
for such abnegation and devotion."
Don Pablo sighed.
"You love him," he murmured.
The maiden smiled.
"If you mean by those words that I place an unbounded confidence in him,
that I feel a sincere and deep affection for him, in that sense, yes, I
do love him."
Don Pablo shook his head.
"That is not what I mean," he said.
She gazed on him fixedly, and remained silent for some minutes, the
Mexican not daring to question her. At length she turned to him, and
laid her hand on his shoulder; at this touch the young man started, and
quickly raised his head.
"Listen, Don Pablo," she said, in her clear and harmonious voice.
"I am listening," he answered.
"Accident one day brought us together," she continued, with a sort of
feverish animation, "under extraordinary circumstance. On seeing you, I
felt a sensation at once sweet and painful: my heart contracted, and
when, after defying my brothers, you set off, I looked after you so long
as I could perceive you through the trees. At length I returned dreamily
to our cabin, for I felt that my fate was decided; your words echoed in
my ears, your image was in my heart, and yet you had appeared to me as
an enemy: the words you uttered in my presence were threats. Whence
arose the strange emotion that agitated me?"
She stopped.
"Oh, you loved me!" the young man exclaimed impetuously.
"Yes, did I not?" she continued. "It is what is called love," she added,
in a quivering voice, while two tears fell from her long lashes and
coursed down her pale cheeks; "in what will that love result? The
daughter of a proscribed race, I am not so much your friend as your
prisoner, or, at any; rate, your hostage. I inspire your comrade with
contempt, perhaps with hatred; for I am the daughter of their implacable
foe--of the man whom they have sworn to sacrifice to their vengeance."
Don Pablo bowed his head, with a sigh.
"What I say is true, is it not?" she continued; "you are forced to allow
it."
"Oh, I will protect--I will save you," he exclaimed impetuously.
"No," she said firmly; "no, Don Pablo, for you must defend me against
your own father; you would not dare do it; and if you did," she added,
with a flashing eye, "I would not suffer it."
There was a moment's silence: then Ellen continued--
"Leave me to accomplish my destiny, Don Pablo; renounce this love, which
can have only one result--our mutual wretchedness: forget me!"
"Never," he exclaimed; "never! I love you, Ellen, so greatly as to
sacrifice all for you--my life, if you order it."
"And I," she replied--"do you fancy that I do not love you?--have I not
given you sufficient proof of that love?--I who betrayed my father for
your sake. But you see, I am strong; imitate me, and do not enter on a
mad struggle."
"Whatever happens, I shall ever love you. Ellen! What do I care for your
family! Children are not responsible for the faults of their parents.
You are noble, you are holy: I love you, Ellen, I love you!"
"And do you think I doubt it?" she replied. "Yes, you love me, Don
Pablo; I know it; I am sure of it; and, shall I confess it? This love,
which causes my despair, renders me at the same time happy. Well, you
must forget me; it must be so."
"Never," he repeated wildly.
"Listen, Don Pablo; you and your comrades are on my father's trail; if,
as is almost certain, you find him, nothing will save him, neither tears
nor entreaties, but you will kill him."
"Alas!" the young man murmured.
"You understand," she said, with great agitation, "that I cannot be an
unmoved witness of the death of the man to whom I owe my life. This man,
whom you hate, on whom you wish to revenge yourself, is my father; he
has always been kind to me. Be merciful, Don Pablo!"
"Speak, Ellen; whatever you may ask I will swear to do."
Ellen fixed on him a glance of strange meaning.
"Is it true? Can I really trust to your word?" she said, with marked
hesitation.
"Order, and I will obey."
"This evening, when we reach the spot where we are to bivouac, when your
comrades are asleep--"
"Well?" he said, seeing that she stopped.
"Let me fly, Don Pablo, I implore you."
"Oh, my poor child," he exclaimed; "let you fly! But what will become of
you alone, and lost in this desert?"
"Heaven will guard me."
"Alas! It is death that you ask."
"What matter, if I have done my duty."
"Your duty, Ellen?"
"Must I not save my father?"
Don Pablo made no reply.
"You hesitate--you refuse," she said, bitterly.
"No," he answered. "You ask, and your will shall be accomplished; you
shall go."
"Thanks," she said, joyfully, as she offered the young man her hand,
which he pressed to his lips.
"And now," she said, "one last service."
"Speak, Ellen."
She drew a small box from her bosom and handed it to her companion.
"Take this, box," she continued. "I know not what it contains; but I
took it from my father before escaping from his camp with your sister.
Keep it preciously, in order that, if Heaven allow us ever to meet
again, you may restore it to me."
"I promise it."
"Now, Don Pablo, whatever may happen, know that I love you, and that
your name will be the last word that passes my lips."
"Oh! Let me believe, let me hope that one day perhaps--"
"Never!" she exclaimed, in her turn, with an accent impossible to
describe. "However great my love may be, my father's blood will separate
us eternally."
The young man bowed his head in despair at these words--a gloomy
malediction, which enabled him to measure the depth of the abyss into
which he had fallen. They continued their journey silently, side by side.
The Sachem of the Coras, as we said, acted as guide to the little party.
On reaching a spot where the path he followed took a sudden bend in the
river bank, he stopped, and imitated the cry of the jay. At this signal,
Valentine dug his spurs into his horse and galloped up to him.
"Is there anything new?" he asked.
"Nothing, except that in a few minutes we shall be opposite the islet
where Red Cedar established his camp."
"Ah, ah!" said Valentine; "In that case we will halt."
The hunters dismounted, and concealed themselves in the shrubs; the
utmost silence prevailed on the riverbank.
"Hum!" Valentine muttered; "I believe the bird has flown."
"We shall soon know," Eagle-wing replied.
Then, with that prudence characteristic of the men of his race, he
stepped cautiously from tree to tree, and soon disappeared from his
comrades' sight.
The latter awaited him motionless, and with their eyes fixed on the spot
where he had vanished, as it were. They had long to wait, but at the
end of an hour a slight rustling was audible in the shrubs, and the
Indian rose before them. It was easy to see that he had emerged from the
water, for his clothes were dripping.
"Well?" said Valentine.
"Gone!"
"All?"
"All."
"How long?"
"Two days at least! the fires are cold."
"I suspected it," said the hunter, as if speaking to himself.
"Oh!" Don Miguel exclaimed, "this demon will constantly escape us."
"Patience," Valentine replied. "Unless he has glided through the river
like a fish, or risen in the air like a bird, we shall find his trail
again--I swear it."
"But what shall we do?"
"Wait," said the hunter. "It is late, we will pass the night here;
tomorrow, at daybreak, we will start in pursuit of our enemy."
Don Miguel sighed, and made no answer. The preparations for a hunter's
bivouac are not lengthy. Harry and Eagle-wing lit a fire, unsaddled and
hobbled the horses, and then the supper was got ready. With the
exception of Don Miguel and his son, who ate but little, though for
different reasons, the hunters did honour to the frugal meal, which the
fatigues of the day caused them to find delicious. So soon as the supper
was over, Valentine threw his rifle on his shoulder, and gave Curumilla
a sign to follow him.
"Where are you going?" Don Miguel asked.
"To the isle where the gambusinos' camp was."
"I will go with you."
"Hang it all! And so will I," said the general.
"Very good."
The four men set out, and only Don Pablo, Ellen, the Chief of the Coras,
and Harry were left in the encampment. So soon as the footsteps of the
hunters had died out in the distance, Ellen turned to Don Pablo.
"The time has arrived," she said.
The Mexican could not repress a nervous start.
"You wish it?" he answered her, sadly.
"It must be," she continued, stifling a sigh.
She rose and walked up to Harry.
"Brother, I am going," she said.
"It is well," the hunter replied.
Without any further explanation, he saddled two horses, and waited with
apparent indifference. Moukapec slept, or feigned to sleep. Ellen
offered her hand to Don Pablo, and said, in a trembling voice--
"Farewell!"
"Oh!" the young man exclaimed, "Remain, Ellen, I implore you!"
The squatter's daughter shook her head sadly.
"I must rejoin my father," she murmured; "Don Pablo, let me go."
"Ellen! Ellen!"
"Farewell, Don Pablo!"
"Oh!" he said, in his despair, "Can nothing move you?"
The maiden's face was inundated with tears, and her bosom heaved.
"Ungrateful man," she said, with an accent of bitter reproach, "he does
not understand how much I love him."
Don Pablo made a final effort; he overcame his grief, and said, in a
stammering voice--
"Go, then, and may Heaven protect you!"
"Farewell!"
"Oh! Not farewell--we shall meet again."
The girl shook her head sadly, and leaped on the horse the Canadian held
ready for her.
"Harry," said Don Pablo, "watch over her."
"As over my sister," the Canadian answered, in a deep voice.
Ellen gave a parting signal of farewell to Don Pablo, and loosened the
bridle. The young man fell on the ground in despair.
"Oh! All my happiness has fled me!" he muttered, in a broken voice.
Moukapec had not made a move; his sleep must have been very sound. Two
hours later, Valentine and his friends returned from their trip to the
island, and Don Miguel at once noticed the absence of the squatter's
daughter.
"Where is Ellen?" he asked, quickly.
"Gone!" Don Pablo muttered.
"And you allowed her to fly?" the hacendero exclaimed.
"She was not a prisoner, hence I had no right to oppose her departure."
"And the Canadian hunter?"
"Gone too."
"Oh!" Don Miguel exclaimed, "We must start in pursuit of them without
the loss of a moment."
A shudder of terror and joy ran over the young man's body, as he turned
pale at this proposition. Valentine gave him a searching glance, and
then laid his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"We will do nothing of the sort," he said, with a meaning smile; "on the
contrary, we will allow Red Cedar's daughter to withdraw unimpeded."
"But--" Don Miguel objected.
Valentine bent down and whispered a few words in his ear. The hacendero
started.
"You are right," he muttered.
"Now," the hunter went on, "let us sleep, for I promise you a hard day's
work tomorrow."
Everyone seemed to acknowledge the justice of this remark, and scarce a
quarter of an hour after it had been made, the hunters were lying asleep
round the fire. Curumilla alone was leaning against a larch tree, of
which he seemed to form part, watching over the common safety.