THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GAMBLING-HOUSE.
As the planter uttered the horrible threat, contained in our last
chapter, every drop of blood fled from the cheeks and lips of Camillia
Moraquitos, leaving them pale and colder than marble.
"This morning you insulted me--to-night you are in my power!"
It was then as she expected--as she had feared. She was
entrapped--cajoled--in the power of a villain and a hypocrite.
She knew not even in what quarter of the city this mysterious house was
situated.
She was utterly ignorant of its character or its occupants.
It might be the den of a band of thieves--the haunt of a gang of
murderers--and she was alone, alone with a man who evidently hated her
with the vengeful hate of a wicked and vindictive soul.
Yet even in this terrible emergency, her courage did not forsake her.
Her high and noble spirit rebounded after the shock which had, for one
brief moment, depressed it.
She looked at Augustus Horton, gazing upon him with such a glance of
mingled horror and loathing, that the meanest hound would have shrunk
from the contemptuous expression of her superb countenance.
"I thought you a villain," she said, with cold deliberation, unmixed
with terror; "but I did not think you were capable of such a deed as
this. There were depths of black infamy which I had yet to fathom. I
thank you for teaching me their black extent."
"You shall thank me for a better lesson ere we part, Camillia
Moraquitos."
Again the Spanish girl looked at him with the same cold and withering
gaze.
"I do not fear you," she murmured between her clinched teeth; "I can
suffer--but I can also die!"
Her small white hand wandered almost mechanically to the bosom of her
silken dress, where, concealed by the rich folds of black lace, lurked
the jeweled hilt of a small dagger.
It was a glittering toy, a bauble which, after the custom of her
Spanish ancestry, she wore sometimes when the whim seized her--but,
plaything though it was, the blade was of the finest Toledo steel and
workmanship.
"I can die," she repeated, as her fingers entwined themselves
convulsively about the gemmed hilt of this tiny weapon.
"Ay, lady," answered Augustus, with the bitter irony of some triumphant
fiend, "you can die here, stabbed to the heart by your own hand, that
jeweled dagger buried in your breast. And when your corpse is found
here to-morrow, by the astounded police, what think you will be said by
the scandalmongers of New Orleans? If you knew them, Donna Camillia,
as well as I, you would be able to guess what they will say. They will
whisper to each other how the lovely and haughty daughter of Don Juan
Moraquitos went to meet her lover at midnight, in one of the secret
chambers of a certain gambling-house; where, on being pursued thither
by her infuriated father, the unhappy girl, overcome by despair, drew
a dagger from her bosom and stabbed herself to the heart. This is what
will be said, unless I am much deceived in human nature."
"Oh, misery!" exclaimed Camillia.
"And even should the worthy citizens of New Orleans fail to put this
interpretation upon your death, a few judicious whispers dropped by my
chosen friends--a smile of triumph, and a shrug of the shoulders from
myself will soon set afloat any report I please. So think twice before
you use that pretty plaything, Donna Camillia," added the planter,
pointing to the hilt she grasped in her hand; "think twice if you are
prudent, and remember that death to-night, and in this house, is not
death alone--it is disgrace!"
The young girl buried her face in her hands. She shuddered, but she did
not speak.
Augustus Horton perceived that involuntary shudder, and an exclamation
of triumph escaped his lips.
"Ah, proud Spanish woman, you whom the wealthiest and most aristocratic
creole of New Orleans is not worthy to wed, you no longer defy me then.
You tremble though those stubborn lips refuse to entreat--those haughty
knees cannot stoop to kneel--you tremble! Now listen to me!"
He pushed a chair toward her.
She sank into it and, as if with an effort, removed her hands from her
face.
Whatever struggle she had endured in these few brief moments, she had
conquered herself once more, and her face, though pale as death, was
calm as that of a statue.
"Listen to me, Camillia Moraquitos," repeated the planter, resting his
hand upon the back of her chair and addressing her with deliberate
and icy distinctness. "I sought to wed you for your beauty, your
aristocratic bearing, and your wealth. You, amidst all the beauties of
Louisiana, were the only woman whom I should have wished to place at
the head of my table--to make the mistress of my house. Your beauty
would have been mine--a part of my possessions; my pride, my boast. It
would have pleased me to see you haughty and capricious--treading the
earth as if the soil were scarcely good enough to be trodden by your
Andalusian foot. Your wealth would have swelled my own large fortune,
and made me the richest man in New Orleans. This, then, is why I sought
to wed you. This is why I seek to wed you still."
"And more vainly now than ever," murmured Camillia.
"Not so fast, lady; we will test your resolution by-and-by. I have told
you why I wooed you, but I have something yet more to tell you."
"I am listening, sir."
"I never loved you! No, beautiful as you are, I can gaze with rapture
upon your gorgeous face, but it is the rapture of an artist who beholds
a priceless picture in some Italian gallery. I admire, and that is
all. No throb of warmer emotion disturbs the even beating of my heart.
I love--but, like yourself, who have stooped to bestow your affection
upon the obscure and penniless dependent of your father--I love one
below me in station--below me so infinitely that even were I so weak
a fool as to wish it, the laws of New Orleans would not permit me to
make her my wife. I love a daughter of the accursed race--a slave--an
Octoroon."
"What motive, then, could you have in bringing me hither?" said
Camillia.
"What motive!" exclaimed the planter; "A motive far stronger than
love--that motive is revenge. You have insulted me, Donna Camillia, and
you have to learn that none ever yet dared to insult Augustus Horton
with impunity. I threaten no terrible punishment," he added, looking at
his watch; "it is now two o'clock; when the morning sun rises upon New
Orleans, and the streets begin to fill with traffic, I will reconduct
you to the Villa Moraquitos. You will suffer from this night's business
in no other way save one, and that is your reputation, which you can
only repair by accepting your humble servant as a husband."
"Coward, dastard, do you think I will ever consent to this?"
"I think on reflection you will see the prudence of doing so."
For a few moments Camillia remained silent, then, turning upon the
planter with a sudden energy that threw him completely off his guard,
she exclaimed:
"Augustus Horton, you talk to me of prudence. Shall I tell you what you
will do if you are wise."
"Yes, Donna Camillia. I am all attention."
"You will kill me here upon this spot. You will conceal my corpse in
one of the secret recesses with which this den of infamy no doubt
abounds. If you have one spark of prudence you will do this, for I
swear to you by the stars of heaven that if I ever leave this place
alive you shall pay dearly for your conduct of to-night."
"You threaten me, Donna Camillia--here!"
"Ay, here, though this house were tenanted with murderers. Do you
think my father, Don Juan Moraquitos, will spare the destroyers of his
daughter's unsullied name?"
"Don Juan will believe that which the rest of New Orleans will believe.
You will tell your story, but your father, fondly as he may love you,
will smile at its incredulity. Your midnight abduction, your being
brought hither to a strange house--whose very locality you will be
unable to name--your inability to call upon one witness to support your
story--all will confirm the scandal; and your father, who, yesterday
morning, refused to coerce your wishes, will to-morrow compel you to
become my wife."
"Sooner than my father should think me the base and degraded wretch
you would make me appear, I will die by my own hand, even though the
disgrace of this haunt of crime were to cling to me in death; but I
will not die without a struggle. Whoever the tenants of this house
may be, there may be one amongst them who yet retains one spark of
pity--there may be one who would not hear a woman's voice uplifted in
distress without one attempt to succor."
As she spoke she perceived a gathering look of alarm in the face of
Augustus Horton. That look determined her.
"Come the worst," she cried, "I will make the appeal!"
"Beware!" he cried. "The people here are not scrupulous."
"I care not!" she answered. "I can but die!"
"But you shall die in silence!" exclaimed the planter, springing toward
her, and clutching the hand which grasped the dagger.
He was too late. Her voice rang through the building in a shrill and
piercing scream.
In the deadly silence of the night that sound seemed multiplied by a
thousand echoes.
It vibrated in the furthest corners of the edifice.
To the planter's terrified ear it seemed as if the whole city of New
Orleans must have been aroused by that one woman's cry.
Desperate and infuriated he snatched the dagger from Camillia's grasp,
and placing his hand upon her mouth, was about to bury the weapon in
her breast, when the door was broken open by a tremendous blow from
without, and three men burst into the room.
These three men were Captain Prendergills, of the schooner Amazon, the
sailor who had carried Paul's letter to Camillia, and Paul Lisimon
himself.
"So," exclaimed the Captain, "we're right, are we? This is where the
noise came from. What do you mean by it, you thundering landlubber? How
is it that a gentleman can't take a fling at the dice without being
disturbed by a woman's squeal?"
Before Augustus could answer, Paul Lisimon pushed aside the Captain and
clasped Camillia in his arms.
"My Camillia," he cried; "my beloved, how is it that I find you
here--here, in a gambling-house at this hour of the night?"
"Ask me no questions," muttered the Spanish girl, "only take me from
this place. My brain is bewildered by what I have undergone."
"But this man--has he dared to insult you--to entrap you hither?" asked
Paul, pointing to Augustus Horton, who stood at bay, while the Captain
and the sailor threatened him with their drawn cutlasses.
"He has."
"You hear this fainting girl," exclaimed Paul, still holding Camillia
clasped in his left arm, while with his right he felt for a pistol in
the pocket of his waistcoat.
"Prendergills--Joe!--you are witnesses of the place in which we have
found the only daughter of Don Juan Moraquitos! There is some foul plot
here, and that man, Augustus Horton, is the mover of it. To-morrow,
sir, you shall account to me for this."
The planter laughed mockingly. "Account to you, Mr. Paul Lisimon; to
you--a thief! an escaped felon! The citizens of Louisiana do not cross
swords with such as you. You would have done wiser to keep clear of New
Orleans. Above all, it would have been better for you had you refrained
from crossing my path."
He touched a bell in the wall behind him, and it rang through the house
with a shrill peal.
"Now, Mr. Lisimon," he said, "we are quits."
A party of about twenty men crowded into the room. The bell had
summoned them from the gaming-table.
"Gentlemen," cried Augustus Horton, "I call upon you as citizens of New
Orleans to secure the persons of these three men who have this moment
made a murderous attack upon my life, and endeavored to carry away this
lady, who is here under my protection. One of them is an escaped felon
from the jail of this city."
The gamblers, who were almost all in some degree intoxicated, made a
rush at Paul and his companions, but they were many of them unarmed,
and those who had knives flourished them without aim or purpose.
"Prendergills--Joe!" exclaimed Lisimon, "follow me. Remember, it is for
life or death."
Then flinging the slender form of Camillia across his shoulder, the
young Mexican flung himself in the midst of the infuriated crowd, and,
pistol in hand, boldly made for the door.
This point gained, he stood upon the threshold with his back to
the passage, defending the ground inch by inch, until joined by
Prendergills and Joe.
The rest was comparatively easy. The three men fought their way
backward along the passage, down the winding staircase to the street
door. Here they were for a moment baffled by the mystery of the spring
which closed the entrance.
But they were not to be so easily foiled; the Captain of the Amazon
flung his gigantic frame against the door, the wooden panels cracked as
if they had been made of glass, and the spring was burst asunder.
The door--which was used all the night through for the entrance and
egress of the gamblers who frequented the house--was only fastened
by this spring, and therefore yielded to force more easily than an
ordinary barrier.
Once in the street, Paul and his friends were safe.
The gamblers dared not pursue them another step, for to do so would
have been to reveal the secret of the gaming-house, which, as the
reader knows, held its ground in defiance of the laws of Louisiana.
Mad with baffled rage and fury, Augustus Horton returned to his own
house to await the coming of the morrow which would perhaps dawn upon a
deadly encounter between himself and Don Juan Moraquitos.
To his surprise, he received no tidings from the Spaniard, but a little
after noon his mulatto valet handed him two letters.
One was in the handwriting of Camillia Moraquitos. It breathed the
contempt which a noble mind feels for the cowardice of a dastard. It
ran thus:
"As the life of a beloved father is far too valuable to be risked
in an encounter with a wretch so degraded as yourself, Don Juan
will never be told the true history of the events of last night.
Rest therefore in security beneath contempt, too low for revenge."
The second letter was from Paul Lisimon. It was even briefer than that
of Camillia.
"You shall yet answer to me for the outrage committed on one who
is dearer to me than life. For to-day you triumph; but a day of
reckoning will come ere long. I wait.
"PAUL LISIMON."