The mustang, whose saddle was to be fitted with the usual accompaniment of portmanteau and cloak, was also to have the leathern purse of the “craft,” with its massive silver lock, and a goodly ballast of doubloons within. Two days' provisions and a gourd of brandy, completed an equipment which to my eyes was more than the wealth of an empire.
“Are you content?” asked she, as she finished the catalogue.
I seized her hand, and kissed it with a warm devotion.
“Now for the reverse of the medal. You may be overtaken; pursuit is almost certain,—it may be successful; if so, you must tear the letter I shall give you to fragments so small that all detection of its contents may be impossible. Sell your life dearly; this I counsel you, since a horrible death would be reserved for you if taken prisoner. Above all, don't betray me.”
“I swear it,” said I, solemnly, as I held up my hand in evidence of the oath.
“Should you, however, escaping all peril, reach Guajuaqualla in safety, you will deliver this letter to the Señhor Estavan Olares, a well-known banker of that town. He will present you with any reward you think sufficient for your services, the peril of which cannot be estimated beforehand. This done,—and here, mark me! I expect your perfect fidelity,—all tie is severed between us. You are never to speak of me so long as I live; nor, if by any sun of Fortune we should chance to meet again in life, are you to recognize me. You need be at no loss for the reasons of this request: the position in which I am here placed—the ignominy of an unjust sentence, as great as the shame of the heaviest guilt—will tell you why I stipulate for this. Are we agreed?”
“We are. When do I set out?”
“To-morrow by daybreak; leave this a little before your usual time, pass out of the village, and, taking the path that skirts the beech wood, make for the Indian ground,—you know the spot. At the cedar-tree close to that you will find your horse all ready,—the letter is here.” Now for the first time her voice trembled slightly, and for an instant or two she seemed irresolute. “My mind is sometimes so shaken by suffering,” said she, “that I scarcely dare to trust its guidance; and even now I feel as if the confidence I am about to place in an utter stranger, in an—”
“Outcast, you would say,” said I, finishing what she faltered at. “Do not fear, then, one humbled as I have been can take offence at an epithet.”
“Nor is it one such as I am who have the right to confer it,” said she, wiping the heavy drops from her eyes. “Good-bye forever!—since, if you keep your pledge, we are never to meet again.” She gave me her hand, which I kissed twice, and then, turning away, she passed into the house; and before I even knew that she was gone, I was standing alone in the garden, wondering if what had just occurred could be real.