IV
SWIFTLY upon the gray dawn came the broad daylight. The clouds of creamy mist rose and broke and rolled away, letting the sunshine down into the jungle. The balmy air rang with the melodies of birds. Flocks of parrots passed overhead, screeching discordant clamor.
Presently it struck Muella that the trail was growing narrow and rough and overgrown. She had journeyed to Micas often enough to be familiar with the trail, and this, so wild and crooked, was not the right one.
“Augustine, have you missed the way?” she queried anxiously.
Briefly he replied that he was making a short cut. Muella did not believe him. She walked on, and began again to look back. When she caught Augustine doing likewise, she gave way to dread.
The morning wore on, the sun grew warm, and with the heat of day came the jungle flies and mosquitoes. Augustine was inured to their attacks, but Muella impatiently fought them, thus adding to her loss of energy.
When, at the crossing of a network of trails, Augustine chose one at random, Muella was certain of the worst. She asked him about it, and he admitted he was off the course, but as he was sure of his direction there was no need of fear. He assured her that he would have her at her sister’s home in Micas by noon.
Noon found them threading a matted jungle where they had to bend low along the deer and peccary trails. The character of the vegetation had changed. It was now dry, thorny, and almost impenetrable.
Suddenly Muella jerked her hand away from a swinging branch, which she had intended to brush aside.
“Look, Augustine, on my hand. Garapatas! Ugh, how I loathe them!”
Her hand and wrist were dotted with great black jungle ticks. Augustine removed them, and as he did so, Muella saw his fingers tremble. The significance of his agitation did not dawn upon her until she was free of the pests, and then she fancied that her touch had so moved him. It was wonderful, it warmed her blood, and she stole a glance at him. But Augustine was ashen pale; his thoughts were far from the softness and beauty of a woman’s hand.
“Augustine! You have lost your way!” she cried.
Gloomily he dropped his head, and let his silence answer.
“Lost in the jungle! We’re lost! And Tigre is on our trail!” she shrieked.
Panic overcame her. She tottered and fell against him. Her whole slender length rippled in a violent trembling. Then she beat her hands frantically on Augustine’s shoulders, and clutched him tight, and besought him with inarticulate speech.
“Listen, señora, listen,” he kept saying. “If you give up now, I can’t save you. We’re lost, but there’s a way out. Listen—don’t tear at me so—there’s a way out. Do you hear? You go on alone—follow these deer tracks till you come to water. Soon they’ll lead to water. That water will be the Santa Rosa. Follow up the stream till you come to Micas. It’ll be hard, but you can do it.”
“Go on alone! And you?” she said brokenly.
“I’ll turn on our back trail. I’ll meet Tigre and stop him.”
“Tigre will kill you!”
“He is blind and deaf. I shall be prepared. I’ve a chance, at least, to cripple him.”
“At the end of a trail Tigre is a demon. He has been trained to kill the thing he’s put to trail. You—with only a machete! Ah, señor, I’ve heard that you are brave and strong, but you must not go back to meet Tigre. Come! We’ll follow the deer tracks together. Then if Tigre catches us—well, he can kill us both!”
“Señora, I can serve you best by going back.”
“You think that if you took me to Micas the old women would talk—that my good name would be gone?” she asked searchingly.
“Señora, we waste time, and time is precious,” he protested.
Muella studied the haggard, set face. This man meant to sacrifice his life for her. Deep through the fire of his eyes she saw unutterable pain and passion. If she had doubted his love, she doubted no more. He must be made to believe that she had followed him, not alone to save him from Tigre, but because she loved him. Afterward he would be grateful for her deceit. And if her avowal did not break his will, then she would use a woman’s charm, a woman’s sweetness.
“Señor, you told Bernardo the truth—and I lied to him!” she said.
Stranger than all other sensations of that flight was the thrill in her as she forced herself to speak.
“What do you mean?” demanded Augustine.
“He asked you if you loved me. You told the truth. He asked me if—if I loved you. And—I lied!”
“Santa Maria!” the man cried, starting up impulsively. Then slowly he fell back. “Señora, may the saints reward you for your brave words. I know! You are trying to keep me from going back. We waste precious time—go now!”
“Augustine, wait, wait!” she cried.
Running blindly, she flung herself into his arms. She hid her face in his breast, and pressed all her slender, palpitating body close to his. As if he had been turned to stone, he stood motionless. She twined her arms about him, and her disheveled hair brushed his lips. She tried to raise her face—failed—tried again, and raised it all scarlet, with eyes close shut and tears wet on her cheeks. Blindly she sought his mouth with her lips—kissed him timidly—tremulously—and then passionately.
With that, uttering a little gasp, she swayed away and turned from him, her head bowed in shame, one beseeching hand held backward to him.
“Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”
“Dios!” whispered Augustine.
Presently he took the proffered hand, and, leading her, once more plunged into the narrow trail.