FRAY AMBROSIO.
We will now return to the gambusinos.
Sutter and Nathan had not said a word to their brother; while he, for his part, did not appear to have recognised them. When all were preparing to sleep, Shaw also laid himself on the ground, while imperceptibly approaching Doña Clara.
The maiden, with her head buried in her hands, and her elbows supported on her knees, was weeping silently. These tears broke Shaw's heart, and he would have laid down his life to stop their flow.
In the meanwhile, the night grew more and more dark; the moon, veiled by thick clouds which passed incessantly over its pale disc, only cast forth dim rays, too weak to pierce the dome of foliage under which the gambusinos had sought shelter. Shaw, reassured by the complete immobility of his comrades and the mournful silence that brooded over the clearing, ventured slightly to touch the young lady's arm.
"What do you want with me?" she asked in a mournful voice.
"Speak low," he replied; "in Heaven's name, speak low, señora, or one of the men lying there may overhear us. These villains have so fine an ear, that the slightest sighing of the wind through the leaves is sufficient to awake them and put them on their guard."
"Why should I care whether they awake?" she continued, reproachfully "Thanks to you, in whom I trusted, have I not fallen into their hands again?"
"Oh!" he said, writhing his hands in despair, "you cannot believe me capable of such odious treachery."
"Still, you see where we are."
"Alas! I am not to blame for it; fatality has done it all."
An incredulous smile hovered round the maiden's pallid lips.
"Have at least the courage to defend your bad deed, and confess you are a bandit like the men sleeping there. Oh," she added, bitterly, "I have no right to reproach you; on the contrary, I ought to admire you; for though you are still very young, you have displayed, under present circumstances, a degree of skill and cunning I was far from suspecting in you: you have played your part with consummate talent."
Each of these cruel words entered the unhappy young man's heart like a dagger, and made him endure atrocious torture.
"Yes," he said sadly, "appearances are against me; in vain should I try to persuade you of my innocence, for you would not believe me; and yet Heaven is my witness that I attempted all it was humanly possible to do, in order to save you."
"You were very unfortunate then, sir," she continued sarcastically; "for it must be allowed that all these attempts of which you boast strangely turned against you."
Shaw uttered a deep sigh.
"Good Heaven!" he said, "What proof can I give you of my devotion?"
"None," she replied coldly.
"Oh! madam."
"Sir," she interrupted him in a firm and ironical voice, "spare me, I beg of you, your lamentations, in whose sincerity I cannot believe, as there are too many undeniable proofs against you; even more odious than treachery are the hypocritical protestations of a traitor. You have succeeded, so what more do you want? Enjoy your triumph. I repeat to you that I do not reproach you, for you have acted as your instincts and training urged you to do; you have been true to yourself and faithful to your antecedents: I need say no more. Now, if I may be allowed to ask a favour of you, let us break off a conversation no longer possessing any interest, as you will not succeed in destroying my impressions about you: imitate the example of your comrades, and let me indulge in my grief without any obstacle."
Shaw thunderstruck by these words, pronounced in a tone that admitted of no reply; he saw the fearful position he was in, and a mad fury seized on him. Doña Clara had left her head fall again in her hands and was weeping: The young man felt a sob choking him.
"Oh!" he said, "What pleasure you take in torturing my heart. You say I betrayed you, I who loved you so!"
Doña Clara drew herself up, haughty and implacable.
"Yes," she answered ironically, "you love me, sir, but it is after the fashion of wild beasts, that carry off their prey to their den to rend it at their pleasure; yours is a tiger's love."
Shaw seized her arm violently, and looked firmly in her eyes.
"One word more, one insult further, madam," he gasped, "and I stab myself at your feet: when you see my corpse writhing on the ground, possibly you may then believe in my innocence."
Doña Clara, surprised, gazed at him fixedly.
"What do I care?" she then said, coldly.
"Oh!" the young man exclaimed in his despair, "You shall be satisfied."
And with a movement rapid as thought, he drew his dagger. Suddenly a hand was roughly laid on his arm; but Doña Clara had not stirred.
Shaw turned round. Fray Ambrosio was standing behind him, smiling, but not relaxing his grasp.
"Let me go," the young man said, in a hollow voice.
"Not so, my son," the monk said gently, "unless you first promise to give up your homicidal project."
"Do you not see," Shaw exclaimed passionately, "that she believes me guilty?"
"It must be so: leave it to me to persuade her of the contrary."
"Oh! if you did that?" the young man muttered, with an accent of doubt.
"I will do it, my son," Fray Ambrosio said, still smiling; "but you must first be reasonable."
Shaw hesitated for a moment, then let fall the weapon, as he muttered—
"There will still be time."
"Excellently reasoned," said the monk. "Now, sit down, and let us talk. Trust to me: the señora ere long will not feel the slightest doubt about your innocence."
During this scene Doña Clara had remained motionless as a statue of grief, apparently taking no interest in what passed between the two men.
"This young man has told you the perfect truth," he said; "it is a justice I take pleasure in rendering him. I know not what cause urged him to act so, but, in order to save you, he achieved impossibilities; holding you in his arms, he fought with a cloud of redskins thirsting for his blood. When Heaven sent us so miraculously to his assistance, he was about to succumb, and he rolled unconscious under our horses' hoofs, still holding against his bleeding breast the precious burthen which had doubtless been confided to him, and from which he had sworn only death should separate him. That is the real truth, madam: I swear it on my honour."
Doña Clara smiled bitterly.
"Oh," she answered, "keep these deceitful and useless protestations to yourself, father; I have learned to know you too, thanks be to Heaven, for some time past, and am aware what faith can be placed in your word."
The monk bit his lips spitefully.
"Perhaps, you are mistaken, madam," he answered, with a humble bow, "and too readily put faith in false appearances."
"Very false, in truth," the girl exclaimed, "since your conduct, up to this day, has only proved their correctness."
A flash shot from the monk's savage eye, which expired as soon as it burst forth; he composed his countenance, and continued with immoveable gentleness—
"You judge me wrongly too, señorita; misfortune renders you unjust. You forget that I owe all to your father."
"It is not I, but you, who have forgotten it," she said, sharply.
"And who tells you, madam," he said, with a certain degree of animation, "that if I am in the ranks of your enemies, it is not to serve you better?"
"Oh!" she answered, ironically; "it would be difficult for you to supply me with proofs of such admirable devotion."
"Not so much as you suppose; I have at this moment one at my service, which you cannot doubt."
"And that proof is?" she asked with a sneer.
"This, madam. My comrades are asleep; two horses have been tied up by myself fifty paces from here in the forest; I will lead you to them, and guided by this unhappy young man, who is devoted to you, although you have been cruel to him, after the perils to which he has exposed himself for your sake—it will be easy for you to get out of our reach in a few hours, and foil any pursuit. That is the proof, madam; can you now say it is false?"
"And who will guarantee me," she replied, "that this feigned solicitude you take in me, and which, I fancy, is very sudden, does not conceal a new snare?"
"Moments are precious," the monk said again, still imperturbable; "every second that slips away is a chance of safety you are deprived of. I will not argue with you, but limit myself to saying—of what use would it be to me to pretend to let you escape?"
"How do I know? Can I guess the causes on which you act?"
"Very good, madam, do as you think proper; but Heaven is my witness that I have done all in my power to save you, and that it was you who refused."
The monk uttered these words with such an accent of conviction, that, in spite of herself, Doña Clara felt her suspicions shaken. Fray Ambrosio's last observation was correct: why feign to let her escape, when he had her in his power? She reflected for a moment.
"Listen," she said to him, "I have sacrificed my life; I know not if you are sincere; I should like to believe so; but as nothing can happen to me worse than what threatens me here, I confide in you; lead on, therefore, to the horses you have prepared for me, and I shall soon know whether your intentions are honest, and I have been deceived in my opinion of you."
A furtive smile lit up the monk's face, and he uttered a sigh of satisfaction.
"Come," he said, "follow me; but walk cautiously, so as not to arouse my comrades, who are probably not so well disposed towards you as I am."
Doña Clara and Shaw rose and noiselessly followed the monk, the squatter's son walking before the maiden and removing all the obstacles to her passage. The darkness was thick, hence it was difficult to walk through the thickets, interlaced as they were with creepers and parasitical plants; Doña Clara stumbled at every step.
At the expiration of half an hour, they reached the skirt of the forest, where two horses, fastened to trees, were quietly nibbling the young tree shoots.
"Well," the monk said, with a triumphant accent, "do you believe me now, señora?"
"I am not saved yet," she sadly answered; and she prepared to mount. Suddenly, the branches and shrubs were violently parted, six or eight men rushed forward, and surrounded the three, ere it was possible for them to attempt a defence. Shaw, however, drew a pistol, and prepared to sell his life dearly.
"Stop, Shaw," Doña Clara said to him, gently; "I now see that you were faithful, and I pardon you. Do not let yourself be uselessly killed; you see that it would be madness to resist!"
The young man let his head droop, and returned the pistol to his girdle.
"Hilloh!" a rough voice shouted, which caused the fugitives to tremble, "I felt sure that these horses belonged to somebody. Let us see what we have here. A torch here, Orson, to have a look at them."
"It is unnecessary, Red Cedar, we are friends."
"Friends," Red Cedar answered, hesitating, for it was really he; "that is possible; still, I would sooner be convinced of it. Light the torch, lad, all the same."
There was a moment's silence, during which Orson lit a branch of candle wood tree.
"Ah, ah," the squatter said, with a grin; "in truth, we are among friends. But where the deuce were you going at this hour of the night, señor Padre?"
"We were returning to the camp, after a ride, in which we have lost our way," the monk answered, imperturbably.
Red Cedar gave him a suspicious glance.
"A ride!" he growled between his teeth; "It is a singular hour for that. But there is Shaw. You are welcome, my boy, though I little expected to meet you, especially in the company of that charming dove," he added, with a sarcastic smile.
"Yes, it is I, father," the young man answered in a hollow voice.
"Very good; presently you shall tell me what has become of you for so long, but this is not the moment. Did you not say that your camp was near here, señor Padre? Although, may the devil twist my neck, if I can understand how that is, as I was going to seek you on the isle where I left you."
"We were compelled to leave it."
"All right; we have no time to lose in chattering. Lead me to the camp, my master; at a later date, all will be cleared up, never fear."
Guided by the monk, and followed by the pirates, who had Shaw and Doña Clara in their midst, Red Cedar entered the forest. This unforeseen meeting once again robbed the poor girl of a speedy deliverance. As for Fray Ambrosio, he walked along apparently as calmly as if nothing extraordinary had happened to him.