At the termination of one of those revolutions which have convulsed the
Mexican States from their earliest formation, Herraras, who had been
an active partizan, finding his own side in the minority, sought in
retirement a refuge from the turmoils of political life, and protection
for the innocence, with facilities for the education of his motherless
daughter. This he realized, until it began to be rumored, and not
without foundation, that he was secretly leagued with the piratical
smugglers. He who intended to reap the chief advantage from a public
prosecution, was young Velasque, a favorite of the Administration,
whose sole motive was a vehement passion for the daughter of Herraras,
which as yet the jealous fondness of the father for his own child, and
the aversion of the adolescent Almirena herself, had with vexatious
firmness resisted.
‘Surrender your daughter to my solicitations, and my influence with
the Government shall secure your acquittal; otherwise, you must die,
and--_I will be avenged_’--sternly uttered the wily amorado.
‘Leave me till morning, and you shall have my answer,’ replied the
perplexed and indignant father.
That morning discovered him with his child many leagues from the
Mexican coast, in a vessel bound to the United States, whose sudden
departure he had procured by bribes, after having, under cover of the
night, with the aid of a faithful servant, taken on board of it, a rich
amount of his ill-gotten treasure.
On the borders of one of those lakes whose silvery surfaces may be
frequently seen imbosomed among the wild highlands of New England,
near the margin of a forest that encircled its waters with a drapery
of dark green foliage, and luxuriant vines, and stretched far away
over the circumjacent mountains, the outlaw had chosen his retreat. A
few roods of ground were cleared around his lodge, which was secured
from view in the direction of the lake, by a narrow file of trees and
underwood, and on all other sides, by the unbroken forest. Here the
refugee lived, sequestered from the world, his only companion his
child; with a single attendant, an African, the menial of the lodge,
and only visiter of the village that lay over the mountains, and was
the nearest within many miles of circuit, where the servant went for
the supplies of the family. The outlaw suffered no stranger to enter
his precincts, partly because he feared lest justice should find an
avenue to his guilt, and partly because he dreaded an interruption to
the communion of affection between him and his daughter. He loved his
child as few fathers love their offspring. He had always cherished
her as the “apple of his eye.” But since his recent misfortunes, all
other feelings had become extinct, or submerged in this one passion.
He loved her because she was the image of her mother, who had been
the young idol of his soul. He loved her because she was a part of
himself, and his own dark eye flashed beneath her brow. She was all
the world had left him which he could call his own. To make her father
happy, and witness his cloudy features clear away in smiles, was the
dearest delight of the affectionate daughter. He could not bear her
a moment from his presence, which she, at the least sound of danger
as instinctively sought, as the timid lamb bounds away to its dam.
Music was to both father and child an exhilaration of pleasure, and
relieved of its weariness many a lonely hour. He had instructed her
to play the guitar, whose strings responding to the skilful touch of
her fingers, trilled in his ear the sweet airs of his youth; while her
zephyr-like voice poured forth, in rich harmony with his deep bass,
those lays that awakened fostered memories in his bosom. She read to
him from his favorite Spanish authors, a few of which he had brought
to be companions of his exile. A daily and indulged employment for
the Mexican was sailing upon the lake, and angling for fish that were
numerous in its waters. He had constructed for his daughter a light
canoe with which she accompanied her father. While he fished, she
sported with her little bark, which she learned to scull with such
art, that like the shell of the Nautilus, it seemed of itself to glide
through the waters. When the wind was high, so lightly and fearless did
she skim over the curling tops of the waves, and so shrill and clear
she sounded her notes on the air, that her father called her his Bird
of the Lake. When the summer’s sun was shining hot, she would oar her
boat along the shore, under the archway of the trees; here she twanged
her guitar, or decked her hair with flowers from the banks, or filled
her basket from the grape vines that twined among the low hanging limbs.
One day she sailed farther up the shore, and had unconsciously steered
her boat into a sheltered cove. She was seated platting a chaplet of
leaves; and as she adjusted it to her head, she looked into the water,
so darkly shaded by the surrounding trees that it reflected her image
clear as a mirror, and bright as her beautiful self. Not like Narcissus
was she in love with her own image; but her father had told her that
her hair and forehead were like her mother’s--that mother whom she had
never seen--that she wore wreaths in her hair; and the fond orphan
smiled at the resemblance, and seemed, as she gazed, to be enamored of
the beauty whose early blight her father so bitterly mourned.
But the real beauty of this illusion was not without its charms. A
young man, in the guise of a sportsman, attracted by the murmuring
echoes of the music this Nereid warbled, had silently approached the
waters, and screened behind a tuft of laurel shrubbery was looking, in
breathless wonder, and deeply fascinated, upon this seemingly unearthly
visitant of his mountain lake.
That a gloomy browed foreigner with his child, had come to reside
near the lake was known in the village. Many suspicions were afloat
as to his character. Few had seen the renegade. Even young Clermont,
whose hunting excursions were fearlessly and widely extended, had not
ventured near the dwelling of the recluse; nor had he dreamed what a
flower was blooming in the dark woods of his native hills.
Almirena raised herself in her boat and attempted to pluck a rose that
grew wild from a projecting rock. A tropical sun had imbrowned her
skin; but polished the jet of her eyes to a higher brilliance; and her
raven tresses floated more luxuriantly over her unbared neck. Attired
in the costume of her country, her light vest open in front, with its
flowing collar, and gathered loosely about her waist, revealed a form
of classic mould; while her silken skirt, with its rich embroidery,
excited still more the surprise of Clermont, who had seen in that
retired district, only the simple dresses of rural life.
Perceiving that she could not easily reach the flower, Clermont, who
had been fixed in his concealment by the enchantment of the vision,
advanced to her view and offered his assistance. She was startled
at the sudden apparition, and seized her oar. She did not know his
language, but his gentle tones and supplicating gestures, tempted her
to come nearer the bank and take the rose he offered, and then like the
timid bird that picks one kernel from your hand, not staying for more
flowers, which he would have gathered, she flew away over the waters.
Elfred Clermont, the son of the wealthy merchant of the village to
which we have before alluded, was advanced in his professional studies,
and at the time we are narrating, passing a vacation at home. With
romance and enthusiasm commixed in his nature, refined in his feelings,
he met with little congeniality of spirit among the rustic yeomanry of
his native town; while amid the rugged scenery of the mountains, and
deep gloom of the forests, he found his soul’s fondest sympathy. Taking
his gun, and sometimes a musical instrument, he often pursued his
solitary rambles; in the last of which he so unexpectedly encountered
the outlaw’s daughter.
That night the sleep of Almirena was feverish. Her dreams were of
the fair browed youth and his kind attentions. She awoke wishing he
were her brother. Aware of her father’s inveterate aversion to any
intercourse with the inhabitants of the vicinity, she said nothing to
him of her adventure. But the next day, while he fished below, the
hare-hearted girl, now emboldened by a feeling which to her was new,
and which she did not probably analyze, again slowly propelled her
canoe near the cove. The sound of music struck her ear. She dropped
her oar, and taking her guitar, touched its chords. Its notes blended
symphoniously in the sylvan recess with the sweet sounds of the young
stranger’s flute; while their hearts were awakened to thrill in more
exquisite melody. The ravished Clermont ran down to the water’s edge,
and with a rich bouquet of flowers, which he held up to her view,
prevailed upon her to approach the shore. He kissed the deep blushes
from her cheek, as he assisted her to debark; and the stranger lovers
sat down together upon the moss covered bank.
They did not understand each other’s language. But Nature has a dialect
which she teaches all her children. The heart finds utterance not in
artificial characters, but in burning expression. Music too speaks in
glowing tones to the very ear of feeling.
They often met; he of the blue eyed Saxon race, she of the darker Roman
origin--both impassioned; he from the gushing enthusiasm of his being,
she from the ardent temperament of her southern skies. His love was
pure as if she had been his sister. Hers as confiding as if he were her
brother. Elfred soon acquired her native tongue, and instructed a ready
learner in his own.
Herraras had marked the change in his daughter, and forbade her
interviews with the young American. She implored; but he was
inflexible. He loved his child, but with a love that could not be
severed from its object. ‘What music is that?’ as a familiar air came
quivering through the latticed window of his cottage, inquired the
outlaw, with an emotion that was never kindled except at the voice
of his child, or the sound of her guitar. ‘Has a minstrel of our own
country wandered hither?’
‘Shall I call the player, father?’ eagerly asked the child.
‘I would see him.’
She ran for her lover.--Her artifice succeeded. Elfred was admitted to
the lodge. The music of his flute, his frequent conversations with the
Mexican in his own language, tended somewhat to revive humanity in the
seared breast of the outlaw. But the doting father could not be induced
to yield up his daughter to the solicitations of Clermont, who was at
length obliged, quite in despair, to cease pressing his suit with the
old man, though he still visited at the lodge. Almirena’s filial piety
was too closely interwoven with her father’s happiness to allow her to
thwart his wishes, yet at the same time she twined about Elfred in all
the artlessness and strength of her love.
The exiles were seated one afternoon in the front apartment of the
cottage, when the door was darkened by a strange form. The features
of Velasque broke upon them like a fiend’s, hellish with revenge,
blood-shot with lust. The outlaw stirred not, only hoarsely uttered
‘devil!’
‘I have come for my revenge,’ alternated the intruder, in a tone of
cool, malignant triumph.
Almirena shrieked out as the tiger-like eyes of Velasque gleamed upon
her.
The young Mexican immediately assumed a more familiar manner, and
declared to the imperturbed outlaw, that he had been convicted of
piracy in his own country, and that himself was accompanied by a party
of United States officers, who were furnished with a warrant for his
arrest from their Government. While they delayed in the woods, he had
advanced professedly to reconnoitre, but really to parley.
‘You may escape if’----
‘If!’ thundered out the infuriated father. He checked his words. For
a moment the storm of feeling raged within his breast. ‘I die,’ at
length he said. ‘But we will pray before we go. Yonder is the image
of our Mother.’ He led his daughter into a back room. ‘Now pray for
protection.’ He whispered in agony, ‘fly--fly to your boat--you will
be safe. I suffer for my guilt.’ The terrified child, the affectionate
daughter, would have stayed by her father. But he sternly urged
her forward. She sped her way to the lake. Velasque, suspecting an
artifice, advanced; and missing his victim, dashed impetuously by
Herraras, hurling the old man to the floor as he impotently endeavored
to oppose him, and ran down the wood-skirted path to the waters. The
resolute girl had pushed her canoe from the shore, and standing erect
was vigorously plying her oar. Her pursuer seized her father’s boat;
but the wind was up, and the waves mocked his strong-nerved efforts.
She seemingly leaped from crest to crest. He called after her. The wind
returned upon him his voice; and her flowing locks streamed in wilder
witchery to his view. Nearing the shore, she sprang from her boat, and
bounded away like a young fawn through the forest, leaving her vexed
pursuer far behind.
The outlaw, recovering from his violent fall, hurried for the water.
Velasque was far on the lake. The old man hastened along the shore to
meet his daughter on the upper extremity of the lake. He found her
in a branch-vaulted glen, concealed under an arbor that Clermont had
constructed for their stolen interviews; scarcely did he begin to
tranquillize his child, now fluttering with fear, and exhausted by her
efforts, when Velasque leaped down the side of the glen. They stood
face to face--the outlaw and the exasperated lover. ‘Obstinate old
man,’ said the latter, ‘thou shalt die, and thy defenseless daughter
shall be subdued to my wishes, if thou wilt not now acknowledge her
mine.’ The old man replied not. Almirena, deadly pale, staggered
forward to her father, and extending up to him her clasped hands,
groaned out, ‘Oh my father, let me be honorably his.’ Nature failed
her--she fell lifeless at his feet. Velasque stooped forward to raise
her. But the maddened old man, with unnatural nerve, ran upon him, and
precipitated him down a chasm in the rocks. The officers, who had been
on the alert in the woods, now came up.
They bore the unconscious form of Almirena to the lodge, and consigned
it to the care of her tender hearted slave. The wounded Velasque was
carried away on a litter. The outlaw was manacled. He was supposed to
be a bloody-handed, ferocious pirate. And as the girl was thought to be
an accomplice in her father’s guilt, the officers had little pity for
either. They did not permit the old man to go to his house and take a
last look of his child; but conveying him by a nearer way through the
valley of the lake, on the next morning they reached the sea-port, and
lodged the outlaw in prison, where he was to be confined until Velasque
should be sufficiently recovered to take charge of him to Mexico.
Herraras was not sorry that his daughter had died. He knew that his own
fate was sealed, and that she should live, exposed to the violence of
Velasque, would have been worse than death on the rack to himself. He
settled down in a calm, sullen submission to his destiny.
But Almirena lived. She had fainted; but awoke in a delirium. Clermont
did not come to the lodge till the following morning. She wildly
addressed him as he entered, ‘Farewell, Elfred, farewell. I have given
myself to Velasque, and he spares my father’s life. You would see me
before I go. Farewell. One kiss, one more;’ and she threw her arms
about his neck, as he leaned over her, and sobbed like a child. For
weeks did her lover watch in patient agony by her side. At length she
slowly recovered.
Velasque did die. Foiled in his chief design, his spirits sunk, and
he had not sufficient energy to counteract the effects of his wounds,
which soon terminated his existence. Velasque being the only witness
against the outlaw, and no one appearing to prosecute the case farther,
he might have been discharged; but a new suit was instituted by those
who had accompanied Velasque, charging him with the murder of the
Mexican. He possessed no evidence to countervail the accusation. A
stranger in a strange land, a condemned pirate immured in a prison, he
had not heard that his daughter was yet alive. The popular feeling was
against him. Clermont, who, being busy and remote, and also too fearful
of the guilt of Herraras in respect to piracy, had not interested
himself to learn what was transpiring, did not arrive at the court,
till the evidence on the part of the state had been received. He was
admitted to manage the defense. He called only one witness, the lovely
daughter of the prisoner. As the hard-visaged outlaw met his child,
the living from the dead, and held her in his embrace, his iron soul
seemed to melt, and flow out at his eyes; a sight that turned the
sympathies of the spectators in his favor. Almirena’s story was simple,
and touching, in manifestation of the villainy of Velasque. Clermont
conducted the case, to him, and all, now most intensely interesting, by
an ingenious and manly argument in point of the prisoner’s having acted
in defense of himself, and of the honor of his daughter. The outlaw was
acquitted.
Herraras cheerfully yielded his daughter to his noble deliverer, her
devoted lover; stipulating only that he might love her yet, for the
sake of her mother. In tranquillity, and penitence for early misdeeds,
the outlaw passed his days. Clermont, under another name, has arisen
to distinction; but yearly does he revisit with his still beautiful
Mexican wife, the lake of their romantic loves.