A YOUNG HEART.
Oliver Clary, when he left the Hacienda del Río, was not mistaken in saying to Count de Melgosa that he was afraid Don Melchior would commit some folly; the hunter's foreboding was destined to be realized even sooner than he thought. The young man, whose mind was made up beforehand, did not wish to argue with his two friends; but, satisfied with the information the hunter had given him, impatiently awaited the moment when he should be alone, in order to carry out the plan he had formed. This plan, of an audacity that trenched almost on insanity, he had been careful not to let the count or the Canadian suspect, as he felt sure they would oppose it with all their might.
Don Melchior, brought up on the Indian border, accustomed from his earliest youth to scour the woods in all directions in the pursuit of Indians or wild beasts, was habituated to desert life and thoroughly conversant with redskin habits; hence, he had no doubt he would be able to get to the prisoners. Hence, so soon as the count and Oliver had left the hacienda, the young man made his preparations; that is to say, he carefully inspected his firearms, placed provisions in his alforjas, and mounted his horse. It was about four in the afternoon. The great gate of the hacienda was open; hence he went out the more easily, because being merely regarded as a guest of the count, no one had received orders to impede his movements or prevent him doing what he thought proper. The young man slowly descended the mountain; at the moment when he reached the plain, the sound of a galloping horse made him turn round. Diego López was coming toward him at full speed, and Don Melchior waited for him.
"¡Viva Dios!" the worthy man exclaimed, "Where on earth are you going, Don Melchior?"
The young man looked at him haughtily.
"Am I your master's prisoner?" he replied, drily.
"Not at all, señor," the peon said, with the greatest politeness.
"In that case, by what right do you ask me such a question? Am I not at liberty to do what I please?"
"I do not say the contrary."
"If that is the case, what do you want with me?"
"Caballero, I beg you not to take in ill part what I am so free as to say to you. The Señor Conde feels a very lively interest in you; before leaving the hacienda, he ordered me to pay the greatest attention to you."
"Admitted."
"On seeing you mount your horse at so advanced an hour, and take provisions with you, I assumed that it was your intention to leave the hacienda."
"Your assumption was correct, I am really leaving the hacienda. What then?"
"Very good. You are at liberty to do so. I have no right to control your actions; but be kind enough to inform me where you are going, in order that I may tell my master."
"For what object?"
"I am merely obeying the orders I received, señor. I am but a servant;" and he added, with a marked stress on the words, "perhaps it is as well for your own sake that my master should know where you are going."
The young gentleman reflected for a moment.
"Forgive me, Diego López," he said, presently, "the rather rough way in which I received you. I did wrong to act thus, for you are a worthy man. Tell your master that I am resolved to try and save Doña Emilia and her daughter, and that is why I quitted his hospitable roof."
The peon shook his head sadly.
"Alone, señor?" he said; "take care."
"Heaven will aid me, my friend."
"I have no right to prevent you, I have no wish to do so, but if I may be permitted to make a remark?"
"Speak!"
"I would tell you that this plan is insane, that you are rushing to your destruction, and that you are attempting an expedition in which you will perish, perhaps without seeing the persons for whom you devote yourself."
"Yes, that is true," the young man answered sadly. "What you say to me I have said to myself, but my destiny carries me away. I must accomplish this sacrifice, while knowing that I am committing an act of madness; I will carry it through to the end."
"I have neither the strength nor the courage to blame you, señor, I can only pity you; put your trust in heaven. As for me, I shall go to my master and tell him what you are doing at this moment. If we do not succeed in saving you, at least we will avenge you, and if I may believe my foreboding, the vengeance will be terrible."
"Go, my friend; go, and thank you. Tell your master how truly grateful I am to him for all that he has done for me, but that fatality carries me away; and that I would sooner die than suffer from the grief which is devouring me. I wish to know the fate of the two unhappy prisoners, and, no matter what may happen, I will know it."
"May heaven protect you, señor! You are well acquainted with the redskins; perhaps by acting prudently you may foil their vigilance, although it is almost impossible. But," he added with a species of forced resolution, "what is the use of arguing longer. Perhaps your plan will succeed, through the very fact of its insanity. Children and lovers are privileged."
The young man blushed, and dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse, which started at a gallop. The peon looked after him, sorrowfully shaking his head several times.
"Well, good-bye, Don Melchior," he said, "I repeat, may God protect you, for He alone can save you."
The young man scarce heard him. The peon's voice struck his ear, but he did not understand the sense of his words. He waved his hand in farewell and disappeared in the tall grass that overgrew the banks of the stream. Diego López remained motionless for an instant.
"Poor boy!" he murmured, "He has a noble heart; a soul full of devotion; but what can he do? He is lost; death clutches him already, its hand is spread out over him. Let me go and warn the Señor Conde," he added, repressing a sympathetic sigh.
And loosening his bridle he galloped off in the direction of the Hacienda del Barrio.
Don Melchior, through the frequent excursions he had made in carrying out Doña Emilia's monomania for vengeance, had a thorough knowledge of the country for thirty or forty leagues round; several times accident had led him to the vicinity of the teocali, where the ladies were now held in captivity, and hence he was well aware of the exact position of this strange monument, the sole vestige of the ancient, civilization of the Indians.
While himself thoroughly convinced of the madness of his attempt in favour of the prisoners, he had drawn up his plans with the greatest prudence, ready to sacrifice his life, but not wishing to leave anything to chance, while unconsciously retaining in his heart a last glance of hope, that divine spark which is never completely extinguished in the human heart, and allows him a glimpse of success even in the most senseless undertakings.
So soon as Diego López parted from him, Don Melchior checked the speed of his horse in order not to reach the ford of the Río Grande del Norte till sunset. He was obliged to travel by night, for as the Indians are in their encampments at that period, the young man would have nothing to fear from their vigilance, and incurred no risk but that of meeting wild beasts, a trifling danger for an experienced hunter. Besides, so far as it was possible to calculate distances, Don Melchior believed himself only seven or eight leagues distant from the teocali. By galloping in a straight line, he would therefore only have a two hours' ride to make in a country which he had frequently traversed, and which was perfectly familiar to him.
We have already stated, on several occasions, that in hot countries there is no twilight, and that when the sun has set night arrives almost without transition. The young man had so well calculated, that he was a gunshot from the ford at the moment when the sun disappeared on the horizon in a glory of purple and gold. In spite of the complete absence of twilight, there is, however, a charming moment in American evenings. It is the one when, after night has quite set in, you witness the sudden awakening of the denizens of the darkness; when the night breeze agitates the majestic tops of the trees, and the wild beasts, leaving their lairs, bay the moon with their guttural notes, which are repeated in every way by the echoes of the ravines. The traveller, involuntarily affected by a vague respect at the sight of this immensity which he cannot comprehend, feels himself weak and paltry.
Don Melchior crossed the ford without obstacle, and then dashed at full speed into the desert, cutting through the tall grass in a straight line. For two hours he galloped in the pale light of the stars, with his hand on his weapons, and ready for any event. On coming within about two musket shots of the teocali he stopped, dismounted, and taking his horse by the bridle, led it into a thicket, where, after hobbling it, he fastened up its nostrils to prevent it neighing. Then thrusting his pistols in his belt, he seized his rifle, and proceeded toward the teocali, muttering in a suppressed voice one sentence, which completely represented the thought that impelled him to act as he was doing—
"Heaven be gracious to me!"
The night was calm and serene; the stars sparkled in a deep blue sky, and spread a gentle light, which allowed him to distinguish the diversities of the landscape for a long distance. A veiled silence, if we may employ the expression, reigned over the prairie, where no other sound was audible save that produced by the incessant murmurs of the infinitely little creatures buzzing beneath every blade of grass, and carrying on their laborious task under the ever open eye of the Creator. At times the distant echo bore down on the breeze the snapping bark of the coyotes, or the hoarse roar of the jaguars at the watering place.
Don Melchior advanced firmly and resolutely, having sacrificed his life beforehand, but determined only to succumb in an unequal struggle of one against a host. We fancy that we said in one of our previous chapters that the teocali in which the prisoners were detained stood in the middle of a plain, for a great distance round which the trees had been cut down. At the moment when the young man was preparing to emerge from the covert, and asked himself how he should manage to reach the mountain unseen, he perceived an Indian sentry leaning motionless against a sumach and on the watch.
Don Melchior stopped, for the situation was a critical one. The moon profusely shed its pale pallid beams upon this man, whose appearance had at a certain distance something gloomy and threatening about it. A cry uttered by this sentry would ruin Don Melchior. After a few seconds' hesitation his resolution was formed. Uncocking his gun, which might go off without his will, he lay down on the ground, and began crawling on his hands and knees in the direction of the sentry, before whom he must infallibly pass.
Anyone who has not been in the situation of our hero could not form an idea of it. Don Melchior was at this moment playing a terrible game. It was to him a question of life and death; the fall of a leaf, the breaking of a branch was sufficient to settle it. The hurried beating of his heart terrified him, and he took half an hour in proceeding a distance of twenty paces. At length, on coming close to the sentry, he suddenly rose behind him, and plunged his dagger straight into his neck, at the very spot where the head is attached to the spine. The redskin fell like a log, without uttering a cry or even giving a sigh.
The young man at once understanding the importance to himself of a disguise, in order to cross the clearing round the teocali, stripped the Indian of his clothes, put them on himself, and after dragging the corpse a few paces, in order that it might not be found immediately, he hid it under a pile of dry leaves. Then, assuming the calm and grave step of Indian warriors, the young man boldly quitted the shelter of the covert, and advanced slowly toward the teocali, now ready for all events, and keeping his finger on the trigger of his gun, which he laid carelessly on his shoulder.
Numerous watch fires burnt round the teocali; the Indians, wrapped, up in their buffalo hides, blankets, or zarapés, were sleeping peacefully, trusting to the vigilance of the sentry. Don Melchior walked right through the camp, unmolested. At times, as he passed, an Indian turned towards him, half opened his eyes, and then fell back on the ground again, muttering a few unintelligible words. The young man's heart beat as if going to burst his breast; the emotion he felt was so powerful that, on reaching the first steps of the teocali, he was involuntarily constrained to stop. Still, sustained by the feeling of the sacred mission he had taken on himself, he succeeded, by a supreme effort, in overcoming his emotion, and continued his walk.
No one opposed his passage. The Indians guard themselves badly. Under present circumstances, they could not suppose that a single man would enter their camp, and succeed in deceiving their sentries. This confidence caused the security of the bold young man, and once he reached the teocali, almost entirely insured his security.
I forgot who said that mad enterprises are those which succeed the beet owing to their extravagance, and this paradoxical remark is far truer than a person might be disposed to believe it. Don Melchior's plan of thus introducing himself alone into the presence of the prisoners, a project of wild boldness, would succeed entirely on account of its impossibility.
When the young man reached the top of the teocali he stopped, for he must discover the place where the prisoners were confined. He looked searchingly around him. The moon allowed him to distinguish clearly the smallest objects. Several Indians were lying round a smouldering fire, but Don Melchior's eyes did not dwell on them, he was examining the most obscure corner of the buildings that stood on the platform. His eye was caught by a man lying across a door, closed by a wickerwork frame; he gave a violent start, for the prisoners were behind that door. Stepping boldly over the sleeper, he Went up to it. At the moment he reached the Indian the latter rose before him, and set the sharp point of his lance against his chest.
"What does my brother want?" he asked in a guttural voice.
Don Melchior was not troubled. In spite of his interned emotion, his face remained calm and stoical.
"Good," he said in Comanche, a language which he spoke perfectly. "My brother was asleep. Is that the way in which he watches his prisoners?"
"The Opossum is not asleep," the Indian said haughtily. "He knows the importance of the duty entrusted to him."
"If he is not asleep, how is it that he is ignorant the hour has arrived when I am to take his place?" the young man continued.
"Is it so late? I have not heard the hoot of the owl."
"Yet it has been sounded twice. Good, my brother is tired; let him go and sleep, while I watch in his stead."
The Indian had no reason to doubt what Don Melchior said to him. Besides, he was really desirous of sleep, and was not sorry to catch up a few hours' rest. Hence he made no remark, but quietly surrendered his post, and five minutes later was lying by the side of his comrades fast asleep.
This last alarm had been serious, although Don Melchior had bravely gone through with it. Still his agitation was so great, partly to regain his coolness, he remained quiet for nearly a quarter of an hour before he ventured to enter the prisoners' room. At length he did so. Doña Emilia, seated in a corner, was holding her daughter's head on her lap.
"Who's there?" she asked, with a sudden start.
"A friend," the young man answered in a low voice. Doña Diana sprang up.
"Don Melchior!" she cried.
"Silence," he said, "silence, in heaven's name."
"Oh! I was certain he would come," the young lady continued, as she walked towards him.
"Thanks, Melchior," Doña Emilia said, as she offered him her hand. "Thank you for coming; however terrible my situation may be, your presence here is an immense consolation."
"Have you come to deliver us, Melchior?" the maiden continued.
"Yes," he answered simply, "such is my object; and believe me, señorita, all that a man can do, I will."
"What," Doña Emilia asked, "are you alone?"
"Alas, yes; but what matter?" Doña Diana fell back on her bed.
"Flight is impossible," she murmured with despair.
"Why so?" the young man continued boldly, "Have I not contrived to get in here alone?"
She shook her head sadly.
"Yes," she said; "but you were alone."
Don Melchior sighed, for he understood the meaning of the remark.
"Why despair?" Doña Emilia exclaimed, starting up impetuously. "We are three now. The Indians tremble at the sight of me, and we shall succeed in escaping."
"Mother, mother," the girl said entreatingly, "dismiss that thought. Alas! Flight is impossible, as you know well. Melchior is as well aware of it as we are."
The young man hung his head.
"If I cannot save you, señorita," he answered, "I can die with you."
"Die with us!" she exclaimed impetuously. "Oh no, that must not be, I insist."
"It was my hope in coming here," he said.
"Very good, Melchior," Doña Emilia said; "but cease to fear for us. The Indians will not dare, I feel firmly convinced, to make an attack on our lives, in spite of their frightful threats."
"Mother, undeceive yourself, our death is resolved. It is close at hand, for the conditions offered us compel us to die."
"That is true," Doña Emilia murmured despondingly. "Great God, what is to be done?"
"Fly," Don Melchior exclaimed boldly.
"No," the young lady continued, "the plan is impracticable, and it would be madness to dwell on it. If you have reached us by a miracle, it is impossible for you to convey us through the Indian camp and pass the sentries unseen. It would be precipitating our death instead of checking it."
"It is well, señorita," Don Melchior said, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "Since you refuse to attempt to fly, I shall come back to my first resolution."
"What is it?"
"To die with you."
The young lady took a step forward, and turned to Doña Emilia.
"Do you hear, mother?" she exclaimed in agony. "Do you hear what Don Melchior says? I will not have him die. Order him to go away."
"Why should I order him?" Doña Emilia coldly replied. "Don Melchior has ever been devoted to us. He has come to die with us, and neither you nor I have the right to prevent him."
"I must, I tell you, I must."
"And why so, my child?"
"Why?" she repeated, wild with grief. "Because, mother, I love him, and will not have him die!"
Doña Emilia stood for a moment as if annihilated by the sudden revelation of this love, which she suspected, though unwilling to believe in it. A reaction took place in her, and she laid her hand on the young man's arm.
"Go, Don Melchior," she said in a gentle voice, half choked by sobs. "My daughter loves you, and will not have you die."
"Thanks, thanks, mother!" the maiden exclaimed, as she fell into her arms, and hid her face in her bosom.
"Oh, let me, let me die with you!" Don Melchior said, clasping his hands imploringly.
"No," Doña Emilia repeated, "you must leave us."
"The night is getting on; I implore you, Melchior to be gone!" the maiden exclaimed.
The young man hesitated, and a violent combat took place in his heart.
"It is your wish," he muttered, with hesitation.
"In the name of our love, I command you!"
"Your will be done. Bless me, madam, for I shall return, and for your sake attempt impossibilities."
Doña Emilia wiped away the tears that ran down her cheeks against her will.
"Bless you, my son!" she said, in a voice choked by sobs. "God alone knows the future, Melchior. I thank you for not having deserted us. Embrace your betrothed; perhaps this first kiss will be the last."
The two young people fell into each other's arms.
"And now, farewell," Doña Emilia continued. "Begone, you must begone!"
Don Melchior tore himself with difficulty from the maiden's clasp.
"Oh, not farewell!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with hope. "We shall meet again," and he tottered out of the room.
"Mother, mother," Doña Diana said, throwing herself wildly into Doña Emilia's arms, "oh, now I wish to die!"
"Poor child!" her mother murmured, as she covered her with kisses. "Take patience; we have but a few hours longer to suffer."