Chapter Fifty One.
A Dispenser of Spells.
Fortunately Ludwig’s exclamation has been uttered in a subdued tone of voice; but lest in his agitation he may speak louder, the gaucho grasps him by the arm, and cautions silence, enjoining the same on Cypriano.
For several seconds not another word passes between them, all three remaining motionless, and silent as sphinxes.
Meanwhile the Indian girl having come opposite the place where they are seated, passes onward with cautious step and eyes that interrogate the ground in front, as if she anticipated seeing some one; like a young hind that has stolen timidly out of the covert, on hearing the call-bleat of the stag.
Soon she is far enough beyond to give them an opportunity of exchanging speech without her overhearing it; and of this the gaucho avails himself, whispering—
“She’s keeping an appointment with her lover, I suppose.”
He little thinks of the painful effect his words have produced upon Ludwig, as he adds—
“We’ll do best to let her go on to their place of meeting, which is no doubt somewhere near. She must return this way, and then we can have our interview with her. But where’s the amanté! A laggard, to let the girl be on the ground before him! That wasn’t my way, when— See! she’s coming to a stop.”
And to a stop she comes, just where the sloping path passes out at the upper end of the defile, entering among the scaffolds. There standing erect, she glances inquiringly around, her gaze ranging along the open spaces between the structures and the shadows underneath them.
For a minute or two she remains in this attitude, without changing it, or making the slightest noise—evidently looking for a form or listening for a footstep. But neither seeing the one, nor hearing the other, she at length calls out a name; at first timidly, but after an interval in bolder tone, “Shebotha!”
“Not her lover after all!” mutters Gaspar, who remembers the name thus pronounced, while Ludwig is relieved at hearing it, he also knowing something of the sorceress.
“Only that old hag!” the gaucho goes on; “I wonder now what the young sprout can be wanting with her, up here and at this hour of the night! Some mischief between them, I haven’t a doubt.”
His conjectures are suddenly brought to a close by a new noise now reaching their ears; a sort of scraping or shuffling, diversified by grunts and coughs—all coming up from below. Turning their eyes that way, they see ascending what appears to be a human figure, but stooped forward so as more to resemble a creature crawling on all fours. At the same instant the Indian girl has caught sight of it; and standing poised on the platform’s edge, she silently awaits its approach, knowing the bent form to be Shebotha’s.
Scrambling on up the steep, at intervals stopping to take breath, while she intermittently gives out hoarse grunts, the hag passes by them, at length reaching the spot where the girl stands awaiting her. Stopping by the side of the latter, both are now seen face to face in the full moonlight; and never did moon shine upon faces or figures more contrasting. On the one side age indicated by a spare body, thin skinny arms, features furrowed with wrinkles, of most repulsive aspect, and eyes sparkling with a sinister light; on the other, youth, with all its witching charms, a figure lithe and graceful as any palm growing on the plain below, features of classic type, and a face exquisitely beautiful, despite its tint of bronze, the eyes bright with the glow of a burning passion. For it is this last that has brought the girl thither.
Only a second or two do they remain silent, till the sorceress recovers breath; for it is she who breaks the silence, saying:—
“Nacena wants to speak with Shebotha? On what subject?”
“Need I tell you, Shebotha; you know!”
“I know that the sister of Kaolin is in love with our young cacique. That is no secret to others, any more than to me.”
“Oh! do not say that! I thought no one knew of it but—”
“But everybody,” interrupts the unfeeling hag. “And what if they do? Nacena is beautiful, the belle of our tribe, and need fear no rival; not even her with the eyes of blue, and the tresses of gold, who sleeps under Shebotha’s roof. Nacena is jealous of the paleface captive; she has no cause.”
“O, good Shebotha!” cries the young girl, in passionate tone, her heart heaving with rekindled hope, “can you assure me of that? If so, you shall have all I can give you; my armlets, neck ornaments, mantas, hamacas, everything. Fear not my rewarding you well!”
“Nacena is generous,” rejoins the sorceress, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at such a wholesale proffer of chattels. “She shall have that assurance; for Shebotha can give it without fail. See this!”
While speaking, she has drawn out, from under the skin robe that covers her bony breast, what appears to be a small horn, converted into a phial with bottom and stopper.
“In this,” she says, holding it up to the light, “is a fluid, one drop of which, given to Aguara will turn his heart whichever way Shebotha wishes it turned; make him love whomsoever she wants him to love; and that will be as Nacena wants it.”
“Oh! it is good of you, Mam Shebotha so good! How shall I ever enough thank or reward you?”
“No matter about thanks,” responds the hag with a knowing leer; “Shebotha likes better the reward. And what you’ve promised will content her. But promises, as Nacena herself knows, are sometimes badly kept, and should have something to secure them, by way of earnest. What can you give me now?”
The girl glances down to her breast, upon which lie several pendants, sustained by a massive chain of gold passing around her neck. Then she holds out her arms to show bracelets upon the wrists, beset with pearls and precious stones, that no doubt once clasped other wrists than hers—those of palefaced doncellas dwelling in Santiago or Salta. Unclasping the armlets, one after another, she delivers them to Shebotha.
But the avaricious beldame is not yet satisfied. With her eyes upon the chain necklet and its glittering attachments, she nods towards it, as much as to say, “That too.” And it, also, is detached; and handed over to her. Then her greedy eyes go to the fillet around the girl’s temples, and an embroidered belt which encircles her waist. But these, though pretty ornaments, are not of great intrinsic value; and as Shebotha has in view a further levy of blackmail at a future time, she can then take them too.
For the present she appears content, all the more as she gloats over the treasure, which for a while she feasts her eyes upon without speaking. Then slipping the various articles, one after another, into the bosom of her dress, she resumes speech, saying—
“Shebotha has other spells besides that spoken of; one powerful above all, which puts to sleep—ah! a sleep from which the sleeper never awakes. If the other should fail to act, and Aguara—”
“But you said it could not fail,” breaks in the girl, her countenance again clouding over. “Is there a doubt, Mam Shebotha?”
“There’s always uncertainty in these things,” rejoins the sorceress; “and in the love-spell more than any other. As you know, love is the strongest passion, and therefore the most difficult to control.”
All this, by way of making safe her bargain, for well knows she her spell will not bring back Aguara’s love, lost to Nacena; and as the bulk of the reward promised will depend upon this, she has yet another proposal to make that may ensure its payment. She acts as one who would hedge a bet, and drawing closer to the victim of her delusion, she says—
“If Nacena should ever want the paleface put to sleep by that other spell, Shebotha will administer it.”
As the fiendish suggestion is spoken in a whisper, the three listeners do not hear what it is. They can only guess by the behaviour of the young girl that some offer has been made which she indignantly rejects. This can be told by her rejoinder, and the air in which she delivers it.
“No!” she exclaims, starting back with an expression of horror upon her countenance. “Never, never! If Aguara be untrue to me, it is no fault of the paleface. I know that; and have no vengeance for her. But for him—ah! if he have deceived me, it is not she, but he should suffer punishment. And punished he shall be—by my brother.”
“Oh! your brother!” returns the sorceress with a sneer, evidently in anger at having her offer so rejected. “If Kaolin can right your wrongs, let him.” And she adds, making to move off, “I suppose you haven’t any more need for me, or my services.”
“If she haven’t I have,” cries Gaspar, springing out from the place of concealment and seizing hold of the hag, while at the same instant Cypriano flings his arms around the Indian girl.
“Come, Mam Shebotha!” continues the gaucho, “it’s my turn to have a talk with you.”
She makes an effort to escape, and would cry out; but cannot, with his sinewy fingers around her throat.
“Stop your struggling!” he commands, giving her a shake till her old bones crackle at every joint. “A cry, a word from you above a whisper, and I’ll close your windpipe so that you’ll never grunt through it again. Come, muchachos! Let’s to the other side! One of you bring on the girl. Vamos!”
Raising the hag in his arms he bears her off, with no more care for her comfort than if she were a trapped wolf. Nacena is borne more tenderly in Ludwig’s arms, into which she has been transferred, by a sort of tacit understanding between him and his cousin—the latter walking alongside. No threat hears the girl, nor needs it to enforce silence. For she is no more apprehensive of injury, now knowing him who carries her as her brother’s old playfellow. Above all, does she feel reassured, on hearing whispered in her ear—
“Have no fear, Nacena! Am not I the bosom friend of your brother? I will not deceive you.”
Does she note the earnestness of his words, and the significant emphasis given to those last pronounced? Whether or not, she refrains making rejoinder: but suffers herself to be borne on through the scaffold tombs without resistance, and silent as the forms reposing upon them.