Instantly Chaleco seemed transformed; the evil light went out from his face, leaving that look of subtle cunning almost universal among Caloes. With sinister gentleness he strove to soothe me into forgetfulness of all the tiger so late rampant in his nature.
“Come, little one, look up and weep, if you can; this hot and fiery look never was your mother’s.”
“She had only her own wrongs to suffer and forgive; while I—oh, Father of mercies, how great is the load of evil that I inherit and must endure! Am I doomed like Ishmael? Must my hand be raised against all races and all people? Is there no brotherhood—no sisterhood—no humanity left for me on earth?”
“Hush!” said Chaleco, softly, and gliding to the back of my chair—“hush, little one, this is madness!”
As he spoke, I felt the soft touch of his hands upon my head. What unearthly power was it that possessed this man? Scarcely had his palm smoothed down my hair twice, when the oppression upon my chest was gone. A feeling of ineffable calm stole over me; the hate which a moment before had burned in my heart against him, sunk quietly down, as a tiger falls asleep. I remembered all that had been said of my father, it is true, but vaguely as one thinks of a dream; the sting and anguish, the sense of reality was gone. I slept a little, probably ten minutes, for it was not wholly dark when I awoke, but it seemed as if that sweet slumber had refreshed me for hours.
“Come now,” said the gipsy, bringing my bonnet, and a habit of dark green cloth that I usually wore in cold weather when on horseback, “get ready and let us ride. We must make a good night’s work of it!”
“My poor Cora,” I muttered, gathering up the riding-habit, “when you are found, what will there be for me to accomplish? What is before me after that?”
“Hush, Zana—have you no belief in the God you talk about? We of the Caloes, who expect nothing beyond this earth, fear nothing while here; but you, this hereafter makes cowards of you all; you are forever and ever flinging the present—all a man ever is sure of—after the past, or filling it with fears that blacken the future. Bah! what is your faith to be counted for, if it gives no better courage than this?”
I felt the rebuke, and without another complaint equipped myself to depart.
I saw no more of the old house that night, for we passed the secret panel in the winding staircase which led to the main building, and penetrating downward through cellars and vaulted passages, came to the open air through the floor of a dilapidated summer-house.