A STORMY DISCUSSION.
Shaw was not timid, as we have said—he ought rather be accused of the opposite excess; he was not the man, once his resolution was formed, to let anything soever turn him from it. His hesitation was not long; he suddenly rose, and violently stamping his rifle butt on the ground, looked at the two men, while saying in a firm voice,—
"Be frank, my presence here at this hour astonishes you, and you ask yourselves what cause can have brought me."
"Sir," the monk said, with a certain degree of hesitation rendered highly natural by the young man's tone.
"Pardon me," Shaw exclaimed, interrupting him, "the cause you will seek in vain. I will tell you: I have come to deliver Doña Clara."
"Can it be possible?" the two men exclaimed with stupefaction.
"It is so; whether you like it or not, I care little. I am the man to hold my own against both of you, and no one can prevent me restoring the maiden to her father, as I have resolved on doing."
"What do I hear?" said Fray Ambrosio.
"Hum!" the young man continued quickly, "Believe me, do not attempt any useless resistance, for I have resolved, if needs must, to pass over your bodies to success."
"But we have not the slightest wish—"
"Take care," he interrupted him in a voice full of menace and frowning, "I will only leave this house accompanied by her I wish to save."
"Sir," the monk remarked, in an authoritative voice which momentarily quelled the young savage, "two words of explanation."
"Make haste!" he answered, "For I warn you that my patience is exhausted."
"I do not insist on your listening any length of time. You have come here, you say, with the intention of delivering Doña Clara?"
"Yes," he answered impatiently, "and if you attempt to oppose it—"
"Pardon me," the monk interrupted, "such a determination on your part naturally surprises us."
"Why so?" the young man said, raising his head haughtily.
"Because," Fray Ambrosio answered tranquilly, "You are the son of Red Cedar, and it is at least I strange that—"
"Enough talking," Shaw exclaimed violently; "will you or not give me up her I have come to seek?"
"I must know, in the first place, what you intend doing with her.
"How does that concern you?"
"More than you imagine. Since that girl has been a prisoner I constituted myself—if not her guardian, for the dress I wear forbids that—her defender; in that quality I have the right of knowing for what reason you, the son of the man who tore her from her family, have come so audaciously to demand her surrender to you, and what your object is in acting thus?"
The young man had listened to those remarks with an impatience that became momentarily more visible; it could be seen that he made superhuman efforts to restrain himself. When the monk stopped, he looked at him for a moment with a strange expression, then walked up so close as almost to touch him, drew a pair of pistols from his girdle and pointed them at the monk.
"Surrender Doña Clara to me," he said, in a low and menacing voice.
Fray Ambrosio had attentively followed all the American's movements, and when the latter put the pistol muzzles to his chest, the monk, with an action rapid as lightning, also drew two pistols from his girdle, and placed them, on his adversary's chest. There was a moment of supreme expectation, of indescribable agony; the two men were motionless, face to face panting, each with his fingers on a trigger, pale, and their brows dank with cold perspiration. Andrés Garote, his lips curled by an ironical smile, and his arms crossed, carelessly leaned against a table, watching this scene which had for him all the attractions of a play.
All at once the door of the rancho, which had not been fastened again after the squatter's entry was violently thrown back and a man appeared. It was Father Seraphin. At a glance he judged the position and boldly threw himself between the foemen, hurling them back, but not uttering a word. The two men recoiled, and lowered their weapons, but continued to menace each other with their glances.
"What!" the missionary said in a deep voice, "Have I arrived just in time to prevent a double murder, gentlemen? In Heaven's name, hide those homicidal weapons; do not stand opposite each other like wild beasts preparing for a leap."
"Withdraw, father; you have nothing to do here. Let me treat this man as he deserves," the squatter answered, casting at the missionary a ferocious glance—"his life belongs to me."
"Young man," the priest replied, "the life of a fellow being belongs only to God, who has the right to deprive, him of it; lower your weapons"—and turning to Fray Ambrosio, he said to him in a cutting voice, "and you who dishonour the frock you wear, throw away those pistols which sully your hands—a minister of the altar should not employ other weapons than the Gospel."
The monk bowed, and caused his pistols to disappear, saying in a soft and cautious voice, "My father, I was compelled to defend my life which that maniac assailed. Heaven is my witness that I reprove these violent measures, too frequently employed in this unhappy country; but this man came into the house with threats on his lips; he insisted on our delivering a wretched girl whom this caballero," he said, pointing to the gambusino, "and myself did not think proper to surrender."
Andrés corroborated the monk's words by a nod of the head.
"I wish to save that young girl from your hands," Shaw said, "and restore her to her father."
"Of whom are you speaking, my friend?" the missionary asked with a secret beating of his heart.
"Of whom should I speak, save Doña Clara de Zarate, whom these villains retain here by force?"
"Can it be possible?" Father Seraphin exclaimed in amazement. "Doña Clara here?"
"Ask those men," Shaw answered, roughly, as he angrily struck the butt of his rifle against the ground.
"Is it true?" the priest inquired.
"It is," the gambusino answered.
Father Seraphin frowned, and his pale forehead was covered with febrile ruddiness.
"Sir," he said, in a voice choking with indignation. "I summon you, in the name of that God whom you serve, and whose minister you lay claim to being, to restore at once to liberty the hapless girl whom you have so unworthily imprisoned, in defiance of all laws, human and divine. I engage to deliver her into the hands of those who bewail her loss."
Fray Ambrosio bowed; he let his eyes fall, and said in a hypocritical voice—
"Father, you are mistaken as regards myself. I had nothing to do with the carrying off of that poor child, which on the contrary, I opposed to the utmost of my power; and that is so true, father," he added, "that at the moment when this young madman arrived, the worthy gambusino and myself had resolved, at all risks, on restoring Doña Clara to her family."
"I should wish to believe you, sir; if I am mistaken, as you say, you will forgive me, for appearances were against you; it only depends on yourself to produce a perfect justification by carrying out my wishes."
"You shall be satisfied, father," the monk replied. At a signal from him Garote left the room. During the few words interchanged between the two men, Shaw remained motionless, hesitating, not knowing what he ought to do; but he suddenly made up his mind, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and turned to the missionary.
"Father," he said respectfully, "my presence is now needless here. Farewell; my departure will prove to you the purity of my intentions."
And turning suddenly on his heel, he hurried out of the rancho. A few moments after his departure the gambusino returned, Doña Clara following him.
Doña Clara no longer wore the dress of the whites, for Red Cedar, in order to render her unrecognizable, had compelled her to don the Indian garb, which the maiden wore with an innate grace which heightened its strange elegance. Like all Indian squaws, she was attired in two white chemises of striped calico—the one fastened around the neck, fell to the hips; while the other, drawn in at the waist, descended to her ankles. Her neck was adorned with collars of fine pearls, mingled with those small shells called wampum, and employed by the Indians as money. Her arms and ankles were surrounded by wide circles of gold, and a small diadem of the same metal relieved the pale tint of her forehead. Moccasins of deer hide, embroidered with wool and beads of every colour imprisoned her small and high-arched feet.
As she entered the room, a shadow of melancholy and sadness spread over her face, adding, were that possible, a further charm to her person. On seeing the missionary, Doña Clara uttered a cry of joy, and rushed toward him, fell into his arms, and murmured in a heart-rending voice:—
"Father! save me! save me!"
"Be calm, my daughter!" the priest said to her, gently. "You have nothing more to fear now that I am near you."
"Come!" she exclaimed, wildly, "Let us fly from this accursed house, in which I have suffered so greatly."
"Yes, my daughter, we will go; set your mind at rest."
"You see, father," Fray Ambrosio said, hypocritically, "that I did not deceive you."
The missionary cast at the monk a glance of undefinable meaning.
"I trust that you spoke truly," he replied; "the God who gauges hearts will judge you according to works. I will rescue this maiden at once."
"Do so, father; I am happy to know her under your protection."
And picking up the cloak which Don Pablo left after blinding Red Cedar, he placed it delicately on the shuddering shoulders of Doña Clara, in order to conceal her Indian garb. Father Seraphin drew her arm through his own, and led her from the rancho. Ere long they disappeared in the darkness. Fray Ambrosio looked after them as long as he could see them, and then re-entered the room, carefully bolting the door after him.
"Well," Andrés Garote asked him, "what do you think, señor Padre, of all that has happened?"
"Perhaps things are better as they are."
"And Red Cedar?"
"I undertake to render ourselves as white in his sight as the snows of the Caffre de Perote."
"Hum! it will be difficult."
"Perhaps so."