ON THE WATCH.
What she heard, but still more what she saw, necessarily powerfully interested Doña Rosario. In a vast room, dimly lighted by one of those yellow candles which the Chilians call velas de cebo, fastened to the wall by means of a ring, a woman, still young, and very handsome, attired in a riding dress of great richness, was seated on an ebony chair, covered with Cordova leather. With her right hand she played with a gold headed whip, and was speaking in an animated tone to a man who stood respectfully before her, hat in hand. This man, as well as Doña Rosario could make out, was the same who had carried her into the cuarto. The woman, whom Doña Rosario did not recollect ever to have seen, was no other than Doña Maria, the shameless courtesan, who, under the name of the Linda, enjoyed such a scandalous celebrity.
Doña Maria's position threw the light of the candle full upon her face, and gave Doña Rosario an opportunity of distinguishing her features. She contemplated them with deep interest, for she felt instinctively that this woman was the enemy who, from her birth, had fatally followed her steps. She imagined that a decisive conference between her and the unknown was about to take place, and that in a few minutes her fate would be made known to her. And yet, at the aspect of this woman, whose bent brows, clear and haughty look, coldly compressed lips, and cruel words, revealed with the hatred which devoured her, it was neither a feeling of terror, nor a feeling of hatred, that the young girl experienced. Without knowing why, a sadness and an undefined pity for the very woman who was giving orders that made her shudder, took possession of her. She listened breathlessly, fascinated, scarcely knowing whether what she heard was really true, and fancying herself at times under the influence of some terrible hallucination.
The two speakers, who knew not that they were either watched or overheard, resumed their conversation in an unrestrained voice. Doña Rosario, we may well suppose, did not lose a single word.
"How is it," said the Linda, "that Joan has not come? I expected him."
The man thus questioned cast a sharp look around him, and rolling up the broad brim of his hat in his fingers, replied with ill-dissembled embarrassment—
"Joan sent me in his place."
"And by what right," said the Linda, in a haughty tone, "does the fellow presume to confide to others the care of accomplishing the orders I give him?"
"Joan is my friend," the man replied.
"What are the ties that unite you to me:" she asked, contemptuously.
"The mission you charged him with is accomplished."
"Ay—but faithfully?"
"The woman is there," he said, pointing to the room in which Doña Rosario was; "during the journey she has spoken to nobody, and I can guarantee that she does not know to what place she has been brought."
At this assurance the look of Doña Maria softened a little, and it was in a less sharp and haughty tone she continued—
"But why did Joan give up his place to you?"
"Oh!" the man said with a feigned bluntness, belied by his cunning eye, "for a very simple reason; Joan is at this moment attracted towards the plain by the black eyes of the wife of a paleface, which sparkle like fireflies in the night. The woman's toldo is built in the country, near the toldería which you call, I think, Concepción. Although such conduct be unworthy of a warrior, his heart is flying constantly towards this woman, in spite of himself, and until he gain possession of her, he will never be in his senses."
"Well, then," the Linda interrupted, stamping her foot with vexation, "why does not the fool carry her off?"
"I proposed that to him."
"And what did he say?"
"He refused."
Doña Maria shrugged her shoulders with a smile of disdain. "Still," she remarked, "all that does not tell me who you are."
"I! I am an Ulmen in my tribe; a great warrior among the Puelches," he replied, proudly.
"Ah!" she said, with an air of satisfaction, "you are an Ulmen of the Puelches, are you? Good! then I can depend upon your fidelity."
"I am the friend of Joan," he remarked simply, with a respectful bow.
"Do you know the woman whom you have brought here?" the Linda asked, darting at him a mistrustful glance.
"How should I know her?"
"Are you ready to obey me in everything?"
"My obedience will depend on my sister; let her speak, and I will answer."
"This woman is my enemy," said the Linda.
"Must she die?" he asked, roughly, without lowering his eyes before the searching glances of the Linda.
"Oh, no!" she cried eagerly; "these Indians are brutes—they understand nothing of vengeance! What use would her death be to me? It is her life I want."
"Let my sister explain; I do not comprehend."
"Death! that is nothing but a few instants of suffering, then all is over."
"White death may be so, but an Indian death must be called for many hours before it answers."
"I wish her to live, I tell you!"
"She shall live. Ah!" he added, with a sigh, "the toldo of a chief is empty, its fires are extinguished."
"Oh! oh!" the Linda interrupted; "have you no wives?"
"They are dead."
"And where is your tribe at this moment?"
"Oh!" said the Indian, "far from here—ten suns' march, at least. I was returning to rejoin the warriors of my toldería, when Joan charged me with this mission."
There was a short silence, during which the Linda appeared to be reflecting. Doña Rosario redoubled her attention—she felt she was about to know her fate.
"And pray," Doña Maria resumed, fixing her keen eyes upon the Indian, "what great interest detained you on the plains near the seashore?"
"None; I came, as the other Ulmens did, to renew the treaties."
"Had you no other reasons?"
"None at all."
"Listen to me, chief. You have, doubtless, admired the four horses fastened at the gate of this house?"
"They are noble beasts," the Indian replied, his eyes glistening with the desire of possessing them.
"Well, it only depends upon yourself that I should give them to you."
"Oh! oh!" he cried, joyfully, "what must I do for that?"
"Obey me," said the Linda, with a smile.
"I will obey," he replied.
"Whatever I command you?"
"Whatever my sister commands."
"That is well; but remember what I am going to say to you. If you deceive me, my vengeance will be terrible—it will follow you everywhere."
"Why should I deceive my sister?"
"Because your Indian race is so constituted—astute and roguish, ever ready to betray."
A sinister flash gleamed from the downcast eye of the Puelche warrior; nevertheless, he replied in a calm tone—
"My sister is mistaken; the Araucanos are loyal."
"We shall see," she coldly remarked. "What is your name?"
"The Musk Rat."
"Very well; listen, Musk Rat, to what I am going to say."
"My ears are open."
"This woman, who, according to my orders, you brought here, must never again revisit the shores of the sea."
"She shall never see them again."
"I do not wish her to die—understand that; she must suffer," the Linda added, in a tone which made the unhappy girl tremble with fear.
"She shall suffer."
"Yes," said Doña Maria, with sparkling eyes, "I wish that, during a long course of years, she may suffer a martyrdom at every instant; she is young, she will have time to call upon death to deliver her from her misery before it deigns to listen to her. Beyond the mountains, far in the deserts, in the virgin forests of the Grou-Chaco, I am told that hordes of Indians exist who are ferocious and sanguinary, and bear a deadly hatred towards all of the white race."
"Yes," said the Puelche, in a melancholy tone, "I have heard of these men from the chiefs of my tribe; they live only for murder."
"That is it!" she said, with sinister delight. "Well, chief, do you think yourself able to traverse these vast deserts, and reach the Grou-Chaco?"
"Why should I not?" the Indian replied, raising his head proudly, "Do there exist obstacles strong enough to resist the Araucano warrior in his course? The puma is the king of the forests, the vulture that of the heavens; but the Aucas is the king of the puma and the eagle; the desert is his—Guatechu has given it to him; his horse and his lance render him invincible and master of immensity."
"Then my brother will accomplish this journey, which is impossible?"
A disdainful smile played for an instant round the lips of the savage warrior.
"I will accomplish it," he said.
"Good! my brother is a chief—I perceive he is one now."
The Puelche bowed modestly.
"My brother will go there, then, and when he arrives in the Chaco, he will sell the pale girl to the Guayacuras."
The Indian did not allow any mark of astonishment to be perceived upon his face.
"I will sell her," he replied.
"That is well!—my brother will be faithful?"
"I am a chief; I have but one word, my tongue is not forked; but why should I take this pale woman so far?"
Doña Maria cast a penetrating glance at him—a suspicion crossed her mind—the Indian perceived it.
"I only made a simple observation to my sister; it concerns me little, and she need not answer me if she does not think proper," he said, with indifference.
The brow of the Linda became serene again.
"The remark is just, chief; I will answer it. Why take her so far, you asked me; because Antinahuel loves this woman—his heart is softened by her—and perhaps he will suffer himself to be moved by her prayers, and restore her to her family. But it shall not happen; she shall weep tears of blood; her heart shall break under the incessant pangs of grief; she shall lose everything, even hope!"
After uttering these words, Doña Maria arose, with head erect, sparkling eyes, and extended arm; there was in her aspect something fatal and terrible, which terrified even the Indian, by nature so difficult to move.
"Go," she cried, in a tone of command, "before she departs for ever, I will see this woman once—only once, and speak with her for a few minutes; she shall at least know me: bring her hither!"
The Indian went out silently; this woman, so beautiful and so cruel, terrified him—she inspired him with horror.
Doña Rosario, on hearing this atrocious sentence pronounced against her, fell senseless to the ground.