THE MISSIONARY.
With time the relations existing between the hunters and the Indians were drawn closer, and became more friendly. In the desert physical strength is the quality most highly esteemed. Man, compelled to struggle incessantly against the dangers of every description that rise each moment before him, is bound to look only to himself for the means to surmount them. Hence the Indians profess a profound contempt, for sickly people, and weak and timid nerves.
Valentine easily induced Unicorn to seize, during the hunt of the wild horses, the Mexican magistrates, in order to make hostages of them if the conspiracy were unsuccessful. What the hunter foresaw happened. Red Cedar had opposed stratagem to stratagem; and, as we have seen, Don Miguel was arrested in the midst of his triumph, at the very moment when he fancied himself master of the Paso del Norte.
After Valentine, Curumilla, and Don Pablo had seen, from their hiding place in the bushes, the mournful escort pass that was taking Don Miguel as a prisoner to Santa Fe, they held a council. Moments were precious; for in Mexico conspirators have the sad privilege over every other prisoner of being tried quickly, and not left to pine. The prisoner must be saved. Valentine, with that promptitude of decision which formed the salient point of his character, soon arranged in his head one of those bold schemes which only he could discover.
"Courage!" he said to Don Pablo. "As long as the heart beats in the breast there is hope, thank Heaven! The first hand is lost, I allow; but now for the second game."
Don Pablo had entire faith in Valentine: he had often been in the position to try his friend. If these words did not completely reassure him, they at least almost restored his hope, and gave him back that courage so necessary to him at this supreme moment, and which had abandoned him.
"Speak, my friend," he said. "What is to be done?"
"Let us attend to the most important thing first, and save Father Seraphin, who devoted himself for us."
The three men started. The night was a gloomy one. The moon only appeared at intervals: incessantly veiled by thick clouds which passed over its disc, it seemed to shed its sickly rays regretfully on the earth. The wind whistled through the branches of the trees, which uttered mysterious murmurs as they came into collision. The coyotes howled in the plain, and at times their sinister form shot athwart the skyline. After a march of about an hour the three men approached the spot where the missionary had fallen from the effect of Red Cedar's bullet; but he had disappeared. An alarm mingled with a frightful agony contracted the hunter's hearts. Valentine took a despairing glance around; but the darkness was too dense for him possibly to distinguish anything.
"What is to be done?" Don Pablo asked sadly.
"Seek," Valentine replied sharply: "he cannot be far."
Curumilla had already taken up the trail, and had disappeared in the gloom. The Araucano had never been a great speaker naturally: with age he had grown almost dumb, and never uttered a word save when absolutely necessary. But if the Indian did not talk, he acted; and in critical situations his determination was often worth long harangues. Don Pablo, obedient to Valentine's orders, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and prepared to execute them.
"Where are you going?" the hunter asked him, as he seized his arm.
"To look for Father Seraphin."
"Wait."
The two men stood motionless, listening to the mysterious sounds of the desert, that nameless melody which plunges the soul into a soft reverie. Nearly an hour passed thus, nothing revealing to the hunters that Curumilla's search had proved successful. Valentine, growing impatient at this long delay, was also preparing to go on, at once the weak, snapping cry of the walkon rose in the air.
"What's that?" Don Pablo asked in surprise.
"Silence!" Valentine muttered.
A second time the walkon sang, but this time stronger, and much nearer. Valentine raised his fingers to his lips, and imitated the sharp, shrill yell of the ocelot twice, with such perfection that Don Pablo started involuntarily, and looked round for the wild beast, whose eyes he fancied he could see flashing behind a thicket. Almost immediately the note of the walkon was heard a third time. Valentine rested the butt of his rifle on the ground.
"Good!" he said. "Do not be alarmed, Don Pablo. Curumilla has found Father Seraphin."
The young man looked at him in amazement. The hunter smiled.
"They will both arrive directly," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Child!" Valentine interrupted him, "In the desert the human voice is more injurious than useful. The song of birds, the cry of wild beasts, serve us as a language."
"Yes," the young man answered simply, "that is true. I have often heard it stated; but I was not aware you could understand one another so easily."
"That is nothing," the hunter answered good-humouredly: "you will see much more if you only pass a month in our company."
In a few moments the sound of footsteps became audible, at first faint, then gradually coming nearer, and two shadows were dimly drawn on the night.
"Halloa!" Valentine shouted as he Raised and cocked his rifle, "friend or foe?"
"Pennis (brothers)," a voice answered.
"It is Curumilla," said Valentine. "Let us go to meet him."
Don Pablo followed him, and they soon reached the Indian, who walked slowly, obliged as he was to support, almost carry, the missionary.
When Father Seraphin fell off his horse he almost immediately lost his senses. He remained for a long time lying in the ditch, but by degrees the night cold had brought him round again. At the first moment the poor priest, whose ideas were still confused, had cast anxious glances around him, while asking himself how he came there. He tried to rise; but then a poignant pain he felt in his shoulder reminded him of what had occurred. Still he did not despair. Alone, by night in the desert, exposed to a thousand unknown dangers, of which the least was being devoured by wild beasts, without weapons to defend himself, too weak, indeed, to attempt it, even if he had them, he resolved not to remain in this terrible position, but make the greatest efforts to rise, and drag himself as well as he could to the Paso, which was three leagues distant at the most, where he was sure of finding that care his condition demanded.
Father Seraphin, like the majority of the missionaries who generously devote themselves to the welfare of humanity, was a man who, under a Weak and almost feminine appearance, concealed an indomitable energy, and a resolution that would withstand all trials. So soon as he had formed his plan he began carrying it out. With extreme difficulty and atrocious pain he succeeded in fastening his handkerchief round his shoulder, so as to check the hemorrhage. It took more than an hour before he could stand on his legs: often he felt himself fainting, a cold perspiration beaded at the root of his hair, he had a buzzing in his ears, and everything seemed to be turning round him; but he wrestled with the pain, clasped his hands with an effort, raised his tear laden eyes to heaven, and murmured from the bottom of his heart,—
"O God! Deign to support thy servant, for he has set on thee all his hopes and confidence."
Prayer, when made with faith, produces in a man an effect whose consequences are immediate; it consoles him, gives him courage, and almost restores him the strength that has deserted him. This was what happened to Father Seraphin. After uttering these few words he set out boldly, supporting his tottering footsteps with a stick, which a providential chance had placed in his way. He walked thus for nearly half a league stopping at every instant to draw breath; but human endurance has limits beyond which it cannot go. In spite of the efforts he made, the missionary at length felt his legs give way under, him; he understood that he could not go further; and he sank at the foot of a tree, certain that he had attempted impossibilities, and henceforth resigning to Providence the care of saving him.
It was at this moment Curumilla arrived near him. The Indian aided him to rise, and then warned his comrades of the success of his search. Father Seraphin, though the chief offered to carry him, refused, and wished to walk to join his friends; but his strength deserted him a second time, he lost his senses, and fell into the arms of the Indian, who watched him attentively; for he noticed his increasing weakness, and foresaw his fall. Valentine and Curumilla hastily constructed a litter of tree branches, on which they laid the poor wounded man, and raising him on their shoulders, went off rapidly. The night passed away, and the sun was already high on the horizon, and yet the hunters—were marching. At length, at about eleven o'clock, they reached the cavern which served Valentine as a shelter, and to which he had resolved to carry his patient, that he might himself nurse him.
Father Seraphin was in a raging fever; his face was red, his eyes flashing. As nearly always happens with gunshot wounds, a suppurating fever had declared itself. The missionary was laid on a bed of furs, and Valentine immediately prepared to probe the wound. By a singular chance the ball had lodged in the shoulder without fracturing the blade bone. Valentine drew it; and then helped by Curumilla, who had quietly pounded oregano leaves, he formed a cataplasm, which he laid on the wound, after first carefully washing it. Scarcely had this been done ere the missionary fell into a deep sleep, which lasted till nightfall.
Valentine's treatment had effected wonders. The fever had disappeared, the priest's features were calmed, the flush that purpled his cheeks had given place to a pallor caused by the loss of blood; in short, he was as well as could be expected. On opening his eyes he perceived the three hunters watching him anxiously. He smiled, and said in a weak voice,—
"Thanks, my brothers, thanks for the help you have afforded me. Heaven will reward you. I feel much better."
"The Lord be praised!" Valentine answered. "You will escape, my father, more cheaply than I had dared to hope."
"Can it be possible?"
"Yes, your wound, though serious, is not dangerous, and in a few days you can, if you think necessary, resume your avocations."
"I thank you for this new good, my dear Valentine. I no longer count the times I have owed my life to you. Heaven, in its infinite goodness, has placed you near me to support me in my tribulations, and succour me in days of danger."
The hunter blushed.
"Do not speak so, my father," he said; "I have only performed a sacred duty. Do you feel strong enough to talk for a few minutes with me?"
"Yes. Speak, my friend."
"I wished to ask your advice."
"My talents are very slight: still you know how I love you, Valentine. Tell me what vexes you, and perhaps I may be able to be useful to you."
"I believe it, my father."
"Speak, then, in Heaven's name, my friend; for, if you have recourse to me, the affair must be very serious."
"It cannot be more so."
"Go on: I am listening."
And the missionary settled himself on his bed to hear as comfortably as he could the confession the hunter wished to make to him.