Chapter Forty Four.
An Indian Belle.
If the Tovas chief be in danger of receiving punishment from his people for carrying into captivity the daughter of his father’s friend, there is also danger to the captive herself from another and very different source. Just as the passion of love has been the cause of her being brought to the Sacred Town of the Tovas, that of jealousy is like to be the means of her there finding an early grave.
The jealous one is an Indian girl, named Nacena, the daughter of a sub-chief, who, like Naraguana himself, was an aged man held in high regard; and, as the deceased cacique, now also sleeping his last sleep in one of their scaffold tombs.
Despite her bronzed skin, Nacena is a beautiful creature; for the brown is not so deep as to hinder the crimson blush showing its tint upon her cheeks; and many a South American maiden, boasting the blue blood of Andalusia, has a complexion less fair than she. As on this same evening she sits by the shore of the lake, on the trunk of a fallen palm-tree, her fine form clad in the picturesque Indian garb, with her lovely face mirrored in the tranquil water, a picture is presented on which no eye could look, nor thought dwell, without a feeling of delight; and, regarding her thus, no one would believe her to be other than what she is—the belle of the Tovas tribe.
Her beauty had not failed to make impression upon the heart of Aguara, long before his having become cacique. He has loved her too, in days gone by, ere he looked upon the golden-haired paleface. Both children then, and little more yet; for the Indian girl is only a year or two older than the other. But in this southern clime, the precocity already spoken of is not confined to those whose skins are called white, but equally shared by the red.
Nacena has been beloved by the son of Naraguana, and knew, or at least believed it. But she better knows, that she has been deceived by him, and is now slighted, about to be cast aside for another. That other will, ere long, be chieftainess of the Tovas tribe, while she—
She has reflected thus far, when the bitter thought overpowering causes her to start to her feet, a cry escaping her lips as if it came from a heart cleft in twain.
Nothing of this, however, shows in her face. The expression upon it is rather that of anger, as a jaguarete of her native plains, whose rage has been aroused by the arrow of the Indian hunter suddenly piercing its side. Hitherto silent, she is now heard to speak; but, though alone, the words to which she gives utterance are not in soliloquy: instead, as if spoken to some one who is near, though unseen. It is an apostrophe meant for no mortal ears, but addressed to the Divinity of the lake!
“Spirit of the Waters!” she cries, with arms outstretched and head aloft, “hear my prayer! Tell me if it be true! Will he make her his wife?”
She is silent for a second or two, as though expecting a reply, and listening for it. It comes, but not from the deity addressed. Out of her own heart she has the answer.
“He will; yes, surely will! Else, why has he brought her hither? A false tale he has told in the council of the elders; false as himself! Where are his words, his vows, made to me with lips that gave kisses? Perjured—broken—gone as his love, given to another! And I am soon to see her his queen, salute her as mine, and attend upon her as one of her waiting maids! Never! No, Spirit of the Waters! Rather than do that, I shall go to you; be one of your attendants, not hers. Rather than that, thou shalt take me to thy bosom!”
High-sounding speeches from an Indian girl, scarce fifteen years of age? But love’s eloquence is not confined to age, race, or rank, no more than that of jealousy. Both passions may burn in the breast of the savage maiden, as in the heart of the high-born lady—perhaps tearing it more. Not strange they should find like expression on the lips.
“Why not now?” continues Nacena in a tone that tells of despair, while the cloud upon her brow is seen to grow darker. “Ah! why not? No need waiting longer; I know all. A leap from yonder rock, and all would be over, my suspense, as my sufferings.”
For a moment she stands with eyes fixed upon a rocky promontory, which juts out into the lake near by. Its head overhangs the water, three fathoms deep, as she knows. Many the time has she sprung from that projecting point to swim, naiad-like, underneath it. But the plunge she now meditates is not for swimming, but to sink!
“No!” she exclaims, after a pause, as she withdraws her gaze from the rock, the expression upon her face changing back to that of the jaguarete! “No, Spirit of the Waters! not yet. Nacena fears not to die, but that is not the death for the daughter of a Tovas chief. If wronged, she must resent it, and will. Revenge first, and the deceiver shall first die. After that, O Spirit, thou canst take me; Nacena will no longer care to live.”
As she says this, the sad look returns to her countenance, replacing that of anger; and for a time she stands with head drooped down to her bosom, and arms hanging listlessly by her side—a very picture of despair.
At length, she is about to leave the spot, when a footstep warns her of one making approach; and, turning, she sees who it is. A youth, but to manhood grown, and wearing the insignia of a sub-chief. Though many years older than herself, he is her brother.
“Sister!” he says, coming up to her, and closely scanning her face, “you have thoughts that trouble you. I would know what they are.”
“Oh, nothing,” she rejoins, with an effort to appear calm. “I’ve only been looking over the lake, at the birds out yonder. How they enjoy themselves this fine evening!”
“But you’re not enjoying yourself, Nacena; nor haven’t been for some time past. I’ve noticed that; and more, I know the reason.”
She starts at his words; not to turn pale, but with the blood mantling into her brown cheeks. Still she is silent.
“You need neither deny, nor declare it,” he continues. “’Tis all known to me, save one thing. That alone I wish to ask you about. I must have an answer, and a truthful one. As your brother I demand it, Nacena.”
She fixes her eyes upon him, in a look half-frightened, then timidly asks:
“What thing, Kaolin?”
“Has he deceived you?”
“Deceived!” she echoes, the blush upon her cheeks mounting up to her brow, and becoming deeper red. “Brother! Had any one but you asked that question, I would— Deceived! No; your sister would die before that could have been. As you seem to know all, I will no longer conceal the truth from you. You speak of Aguara. I loved him; ah! love him still. And he told me my love was returned; spoke it solemnly; vowed it. Now I know his words were false, and he was but beguiling me.”
“Then he has trifled with you,” exclaims the brother, his indignation now beyond bounds. “You, my sister, the daughter of a Tovas chief, of birth and blood equal to his own! But he shall repent it, and soon. The time has not come; it will ere long. Enough now, Nacena. Not a word to anyone of what has passed between us. Be patient and wait. For your wrongs, I promise, you snail have revenge.”
And with this threat, he turns away; leaving her on the lake’s edge, as he found her.
Soon as he is out of sight, and his footfall beyond hearing, she reseats herself on the trunk of the palm; and, supporting her head upon her hands, gives way to weeping—a very cataract of tears.
It seems to relieve her from the tumult of emotions late harassing her heart, and after a time she looks up with an expression in her eyes different from all that have preceded. It is of hope; as can be told by the words which fall in low murmuring from her lips:
“After all I may be mistaken. Can I? If so, and he is still true, then I am wronging him, and Kaolin may commit a crime that will bring both punishment and repentance. Oh, that I knew the truth! But surely, Shebotha knows, and can tell it me. She will, for the reward I shall offer her. This night she has promised to meet me on the hill, and then, then—”
She breaks off abruptly, and with countenance again clouding over. For the words “I shall learn the worst” are on her lips, and the thought in her mind.
It is hope’s last spark, love-lighted from embers nearly extinguished, still flickering, faint, and vainly struggling to burn on.