Chapter Sixteen.
Dead!
Once more the sun is going down over the pampa, but still nothing seen upon it to cheer the eyes of the Señora Halberger, neither those first missing, nor they who went after. One after another she has seen them depart, but in vain looks for their return.
And now, as she stands with eyes wandering over that grassy wilderness, she can almost imagine it a maelstrom or some voracious monster, that swallows up all who venture upon it. As the purple of twilight assumes the darker shade of night, it seems to her as though some unearthly and invisible hand were spreading a pall over the plain to cover her dear ones, somewhere lying dead upon it.
She is in the verandah with her son, and side by side they stand gazing outward, as long as there is light for them to see. Even after darkness has descended they continue to strain their eyes mechanically, but despairingly, she more hopeless and feeling more forlorn than ever. All gone but Ludwig! for even her nephew may not return. Where Caspar, a strong man and experienced in the ways of the wilderness, has failed to find the lost ones, what chance will there be for Cypriano? More like some cruel enemy has made captives of them all, killing all, one after the other, and he, falling into the same snare, has been sacrificed as the rest!
Dark as is this hour of her apprehension, there is yet a darker one in store for her; but before it there is to be light, with joy—alas! short-lived as that bright, garish gleam of sun which often precedes the wildest burst of a storm. Just as the last ray of hope has forsaken her, a house-dog, lying outstretched by the verandah starts to its feet with a growl, and bounding off into the darkness, sets up a sonorous baying.
Both mother and son step hastily forward to the baluster rail, and resting hands on it, again strain their eyes outward, now as never before, at the same time listening as for some signal sound, on the hearing of which hung their very lives.
Soon they both hear and see what gives them gladness unspeakable, their ears first imparting it by a sound sweeter to them than any music, for it is the tread of horses’ hoofs upon the firm turf of the plain; and almost in the same instant they see the horses themselves, each with a rider upon its back.
The exclamation that leaps from the mother’s lips is the cry of a heart long held in torture suddenly released, and without staying to repeat it, she rushes out of the verandah and on across the patch of enclosed ground—not stopping till outside the palings which enclose it. Ludwig following, comes again by her side, and the two stand with eyes fixed on the approaching forms, there now so near that they are able to make out their number.
But this gives them surprise, somewhat alarming them afresh. For there are but three where there should be four.
“It must be your father and Francesca, with Caspar,” says the señora, speaking in doubt. “Cypriano has missed them all, I suppose. But he’ll come too—”
“No, mother,” interrupts Ludwig, “Cypriano is there. I can see a white horse, that must be his.”
“Gaspar then; he it is that’s behind.”
She says this with a secret hope it may be so.
“It don’t look like as if Gaspar was behind,” returns Ludwig, hesitating in his speech, for his eyes, as his heart, tell him there is still something amiss. “Two of them,” he continues, “are men, full grown, and the third is surely Cypriano.”
They have no time for further discussion or conjecture—no occasion for it. The three shadowy figures are now very near, and just as the foremost pulls up in front of the palings, the moon bursting forth from behind a cloud flashes her full light upon his face, and they see it is Gaspar. The figures farther off are lit up at the same time, and the señora recognises them as her husband and nephew. A quick searching glance carried behind to the croups of their horses shows her there is no one save those seated in the saddle.
“Where is Francesca?” she cries out in agonised accents. “Where is my daughter?”
No one makes answer; not any of them speaks. Gaspar, who is nearest, but hangs his head, as does his master behind him.
“What means all this?” is her next question, as she dashes past the gaucho’s horse, and on to her husband, as she goes crying out, “Where is Francesca? What have you done with my child?”
He makes no reply, nor any gesture—not even a word to acknowledge her presence! Drawing closer she clutches him by the knee, continuing her distracted interrogatories.
“Husband! why are you thus silent? Ludwig, dear Ludwig, why don’t you answer me? Ah! now I know. She is dead—dead!”
“Not she, but he,” says a voice close to her ear—that of Gaspar, who has dismounted and stepped up to her.
“He! who?”
“Alas! señora, my master, your husband.”
“O Heavens! can this be true?” as she speaks, stretching her arms up to the inanimate form, still in the saddle—for it is fast tied there—and throwing them around it; then with one hand lifting off the hat, which falls from her trembling fingers, she gazes on a ghastly face, and into eyes that return not her gaze. But for an instant, when, with a wild cry, she sinks back upon the earth, and lies silent, motionless, the moonbeams shimmering upon her cheeks, showing them white and bloodless, as if her last spark of life had departed!