IN THE FOREST.
Red Cedar, carried a long distance from the battlefield by the furious galloping of his steed, which he had no longer the strength to control, went on straight ahead, not knowing what direction he was following. In this man, hitherto so firm, and who possessed so energetic a will, the thoughts were overclouded as if by enchantment: the loss of blood, the repeated jolts his horse gave him, had plunged him into a state of insensibility. Had he not been so securely fastened to his saddle, he would have fallen from it twenty times.
He went on with hanging arms, body bent over his horse's neck, and eyes half closed, hardly conscious of what happened to him, or trying to discover. Shaken to the right, shaken to the left, he watched with unmeaning eye the trees and rocks fly past on either side: no longer thinking, but living in a horrible dream, a prey to the strangest and wildest hallucinations. Night succeeded to day: his horse continued its journey, bounding like a frightened jaguar over the obstacles that opposed it, followed by a pack of howling coyotes, and seeking in vain to get rid of the inert weight that oppressed it.
At length the horse stumbled in the darkness, and fell to the ground, uttering a plaintive neigh. Up to this moment Red Cedar had preserved—we will not say a complete and clear knowledge of the position in which he was—but at any rate a certain consciousness of the life that still dwelt in him. When his exhausted horse fell, the bandit felt a sharp pain in his head, and that was all; he fainted away while stammering an imprecation, the last protest of the villain, who, to the last moment, denied the existence of that God who smote him.
When he re-opened his eyes, under the impression of an indefinable feeling of comfort, the sun was shining through the tufted branches of the forest trees, and the birds, concealed beneath the green foliage, were singing their joyous concerts. Red Cedar gave vent to a sigh of relief, and looked languidly around him; his horse was lying dead a few paces from him. He was seated against the trunk of a tree, while Ellen, kneeling by his side, was anxiously following the progress of his return to life.
"Oh, oh," the bandit muttered hoarsely, "I am still alive then."
"Yes, thanks to God, father," Ellen answered softly.
The bandit looked at her.
"God!" he said, as if speaking to himself; "God!" he added with an ironical smile.
"He it was who saved you, father," the girl said.
"Child!" Red Cedar muttered, as he passed his left hand over his forehead; "God is only a word, never utter it again."
Ellen drooped her head; but with the feeling of life pain returned.
"Oh! How I suffer," he said.
"You are dangerously wounded, father. Alas! I have done what I can to relieve you; but I am only a poor ignorant girl, and perhaps what I have attempted was not the right treatment."
Red Cedar turned to her, and an expression of tenderness flashed in his eyes.
"You love me, then?" he said.
"Is it not my duty to do so, father?"
The bandit made no reply; the smile we know played round his Violet lips.
"Alas! I have been seeking you a long time, father; this night chance enabled me to find you again."
"Yes, you are a good girl, Ellen. I have only you left now. I know not what has become of my sons. Oh," he said with a start of fury, "that wretch Ambrosio is the cause of all; had it not been for him, I should still be at the Paso del Norte, in the forests of which I had made myself master."
"Think no more of that, father; your condition demands the greatest calmness; try and sleep for some hours—that will do you good."
"Sleep," the bandit said, "can I sleep? No," he added with a movement of repulsion, "I would sooner keep awake; when my eyes are closed, I see.... No, no, I must not sleep."
He did not finish his sentence. Ellen gazed on him with pity, mingled with terror. The bandit, weakened by the loss of blood and the fever produced by his wounds, felt something to which he had hitherto been a stranger—it was fear. Perhaps his conscience evoked the gnawing remorse of his crimes.
There was a lengthened silence. Ellen attentively followed the bandit's movements, whom the fever plunged into a species of somnolency, and who at times started with inarticulate cries, and looking around him in terror. Toward evening, he opened his eyes, and seemed to grow stronger: his eyes were less haggard, his words more connected.
"Thanks, child," he said, "you are a good creature; where are we?"
"I do not know, father; this forest is immense. I tell you, again, it was God who guided me to you."
"No, you are mistaken, Ellen," he replied with that sarcastic smile peculiar to him; "it was not God who brought you here, but the demon, who feared the loss of so good a friend as I am."
"Speak not so, father," the girl said sadly; "the night is rapidly setting in darkness will soon surround us; let me on the contrary, pray to Heaven to keep far from us the perils that threaten us during the night."
"Child! Does a night in the woods frighten you so, when your whole life has been spent in the desert? Light a fire of dry wood to keep the wild beasts at bay, and place my pistols near me, these precautions will be better, believe me, than your useless prayers."
"Do not blaspheme," the girl said hurriedly; "you are wounded, almost dying; I am weak, and incapable of helping you effectually. Our life is in the hands of Him whose power you deny in vain. He alone, if He will, can save us."
The bandit burst into a dry and snapping laugh.
"Let Him do so then, in the demon's name, and I will believe in Him."
"Father, in Heaven's name, speak not so," the maiden murmured in sorrow.
"Do what I tell you, you little fool," the squatter interrupted her brutally, "and leave me in peace."
Ellen turned to wipe away the tears this harsh language forced from her, and rose sorrowfully to obey Red Cedar, who looked after her.
"Come, you goose," he said to her again, "I did not intend to hurt your feelings."
The girl then collected all the dry branches she could find, which she made into a pile and kindled. The wood soon began cracking, and a long and bright flame rose to the sky. She then took from his holsters the squatter's still loaded pistols, placed them within reach of his arm, and then seated herself again by his side. Red Cedar smiled his satisfaction.
"There," he said, "now we have nothing more to fear; if the wild beasts pay us a visit, we will receive them; we will pass the night quietly. As for the morrow, well, we shall see."
Ellen, without replying, wrapped him up as well as she could in the blankets and hides that were on the horse, in order to protect him from the cold. So much attention and self-denial affected the bandit.
"And you, Ellen," he asked her; "will you not keep a few of these skins for yourself?"
"Why should I, father? The fire will be enough for me," she said gently.
"But, at any rate, eat something, you must be hungry; for, if I am not mistaken, you have had nothing the whole day."
"That is true, father, but I am not hungry."
"No matter," he said, pressing her, "too long a fast may be injurious to you; I insist on your eating."
"It is useless, father," she said with some hesitation.
"Eat, I say," he went on, "if not for your sake, for mine; eat a mouthful to restore your strength, for we know what awaits us in the next few hours."
"Alas! I would readily obey you," she said, letting her eyes sink; "but it is impossible."
"And why so, pray? When I tell you that I insist."
"Because I have nothing to eat."
These words crushed the bandit like the blow of a club.
"Oh, it is frightful," he muttered; "poor girl, pardon me Ellen, I am a villain, unworthy of such devotion as yours."
"Calm yourself, father, I implore you; I am not hungry, a night is soon passed, and tomorrow, as you said, we shall see; but before then, I am convinced God will come to our aid."
"God!" the squatter exclaimed, gnashing his teeth.
"God, ever God, father," the girl answered, with sparkling eye and trembling lip; "God, ever; for, however unworthy we may be of His pity; He is merciful, and perhaps will not abandon us."
"Build then on him, fool as you are, and you will be dead in two days."
"No," she exclaimed, joyfully, "for He has heard me, and sends us help."
The bandit looked and fell back on the ground, closing his eyes, and muttering in a hollow voice the words which for some time past had constantly risen from his heart to his lips, and involuntarily mastered him.
"God! Can He exist?"
A terrible question which he incessantly asked himself, and to which his obstinate conscience was beginning to respond, for the granite coating of his heart was beginning to crumble away beneath the repeated blows of remorse. But Ellen did not notice Red Cedar's state of prostration, she had risen and rushed forward, with outstretched arms, crying as loudly as her voice permitted her—"Help, help!"
The young girl had fancied she heard, for some minutes past, a peculiar rustling in the foliage. This noise, at first remote and almost unnoticeable, had rapidly approached; soon lights had glistened through the trees, and the footsteps of a numerous party had distinctly smitten her ear. In fact, she had scarce gone a dozen yards, ere she found herself in the presence of a dozen mounted Indians, holding torches, and escorting two persons wrapped in long cloaks.
"Help! Help!" Ellen repeated, as she fell on her knees, with outstretched arms.
The horsemen stopped; one of them dismounted, and ran to the girl, whom he took by the hands, and forced to rise.
"Help for whom, my poor girl?" he asked her in a soft voice.
On hearing the stranger's accent so full of tenderness, she felt hope returning to her heart.
"Oh!" she murmured with joy; "my father is saved."
"Our life is in the hands of God," the stranger said, with emotion; "but lead me to your father, and all a man can do to help him, I will."
"It is God who sends you, bless you, my father!" the maiden said, as she kissed his hand.
In the movement he had made to raise her, the stranger's cloak flew open, and the girl had recognised a priest.
"Let us go," he said.
"Come!"
The girl ran joyously forward, and the little party followed her.
"Father, father," she exclaimed, as she came near the wounded man, "I was certain that Heaven would not abandon us; I bring you succour."
At this moment the strangers entered the clearing where the bandit lay. The Indians and the other travellers remained some paces in the rear, while the priest, quickly approached Red Cedar, over whom he bent. At his daughter's words the bandit opened his eyes, and turned his head with an effort in the direction whence this unexpected help arrived. Suddenly his face, before so pale, was covered with a cadaverous tinge; his eyes were enlarged and became haggard, a convulsive quiver agitated his limbs, and he fell heavily back, muttering with terror—
"Oh! Father Seraphin!"
It was really the missionary; without appearing to remark the squatter's emotion, he seized his arm in order to feel his pulse. Red Cedar had fainted, but Ellen had heard the words he uttered, and though she could not understand their meaning, she guessed that a terrible drama was concealed beneath this revelation.
"My father!" she exclaimed mournfully, as she fell at the priest's knees, "My father, have pity on him, do not desert him!"
The missionary smiled with an expression of ineffable goodness.
"Daughter," he answered gently, "I am a minister of God, and the dress I wear commands me to forget insults. Priests have no enemies, all men are their brothers; reassure yourself, your father has not only his body to be saved, but also, his soul. I will undertake this cure, and God, who permitted me to take this road, will give me the necessary strength to succeed."
"Oh, thanks, thanks, holy father," the girl murmured, as she burst into tears.
"Do not thank me, poor girl; address your thanks to God, for He alone has done all. Now leave me to attend to this unhappy man, who is suffering, and whose miserable state claims all my care."
And gently removing the maiden, Father Seraphin opened his medicine box, which he took from the pommel of his saddle, and prepared to dress his patient's wounds. In the meanwhile the Indians had gradually approached, and seeing the state of affairs, they dismounted to prepare the encampment, for they foresaw that, with Red Cedar in his present condition, the missionary would pass the night at this spot.
The person who accompanied Father Seraphin was a female of very advanced age, but whose features, ennobled by years, had a far from common expression of kindness and grandeur. When she saw that the missionary was preparing to dress the wounds, she went up to him and said in a soft voice—
"Can I not help you in any way, holy father? You know that I am anxious to begin my apprenticeship in nursing."
These words were uttered with an accent of indescribable goodness. The priest looked at her with a sublime expression, and, taking her hand, he made her stoop over the wounded man.
"Heaven has decreed that what now happens should take place," he said to her; "you have hardly landed in this country, and entered the desert to seek your son, when the Omnipotent imposes on you a task which must rejoice your heart by bringing you face to face with this man."
"What do you mean, father?" she said with amazement.
"Mother of Valentine Guillois," he continued, with an accent full of supreme majesty, "look at this man well, so as to be able to recognise him hereafter; it is Red Cedar, the wretch of whom I have so often spoken to you, the implacable foe of your son."
At this terrible revelation the poor woman gave a start of fear; but surmounting with a superhuman effort the feeling of revulsion she had at first experienced, she answered in a calm voice—
"No matter, father, the man suffers, and I will nurse him."
"Good, Madam," the priest said, with emotion; "Heaven will give you credit for this evangelic abnegation."