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“Oh leave the lily on its stem! Oh leave the rose upon the spray! Oh leave the elder bloom, fair maids, And listen to my lay!” “When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with sea-weed from the rocks.” |
By day and night, under sun or moon, and in breeze or calm––by the resounding shore––on the rippling water––in saloon and grove, picnicking and boating––under vine or awning––all around in the whirling waltz, the measured contra-danza––amid the tinkle of guitar or trill of piano, the rattle and crash of the full band on board the frigate––gently rocking on the narrow deck of the “Rosalie,” or down in the brig of teak, there was ever a white arm linked in the arm of blue––now timidly, then with a confiding pressure––now a furtive look of blue eyes into dark, then a fixed, steady gaze from the brown to the light––here a palpitating pause, and then the blue arms wound around the waving stem––two white arms clasping, with a passionate caress, the neck of the weed––and, yes! the lily floating on the white cheek of the pond had been caught by the strong weed, and with the reacting tide was going out to sea! Ay! the sailor had won the maiden!
But while the lily rocked hither and thither on the pond, with its blond leaves and petals of blue, and its pliant stem in danger at every tide, did the fond mothers watch it from the bank? That they did, thinking of the time when they were lilies of the pond themselves, with no fears of danger near. But at last it came, and, like blooming flowers, they swung to and fro in the rain, dropping a tear or two from their own rosy leaves––more in dewy sorrow than in fear––and waiting for sunshine; bending their beautiful heads of roses the while one toward another, peeping out with their dark violet eyes, and listening, as the wind shook them, with a tremble of apprehension, and clinging hopefully to the straight support on which they reclined.
By day and night, in burning sun with not a drop to drink, and in 263 the sultry night with no morsel of food to eat––through the searing sand in the streets and lanes, down by the quays––to every vessel in the crowded harbor––in every hotel and lodging-house in Kingston––up and down Spanish Town––away off to Port Royal––occasionally going on board the frigate for gold, then on shore again––in ribald wassail and drunken dance, gaming hells especially, and low crimping houses, maroon and negro huts, and wretched haunts of vice––scattering gold like cards, dice, rum, and water––no end to it––in large yellow drops too––and still striding on, questioning, gleaming with those revengeful eyes––never resting brain or body, without drink or meat––went Paul Darcantel.
Oh, Paul, that cowardly villain saw you from the very moment you took that pinch of snuff out of his blue enameled box––ay, even before, when you walked your mule slowly up the broken road, while a goaded barb was curbed back in the gloomy forest till you had passed, with his rider’s finger in his waistcoat pocket. And in all your ceaseless wanderings, by day and night, that now timid, terror-stricken villain has been following you; dodging behind corners––under the well-worn cloths of monté banks––in the back rooms of pulperias––hiding in nests of infamy––every where and in all places steering clear of you.
Oh, Paul! what a deceived man you are!
And while you are doing all this, just turn your eyes out to the calm spot off Montego Bay, where that leaky old brigantine is bobbing about. The dirty, surly capitano kicking and beating the hands from taffrail to bowsprit, particularly one great tall fellow, without a hat, and but a few dry thin hairs to shield his skull from the scorching sun; cursing him, as he puffs a cigarette, for being the most idle scoundrel of a skulk on board! But he––the scoundrel!––laughing with a hollow laugh up the sleeve of his filthy shirt, with never a dollar in his belt or an extra pair of trowsers in the forecastle, with bare feet, and still, cold eyes, now turned to green––eating nasty jerked beef and drinking putrid water––never sleeping for vermin––kicked and cuffed about the decks.
But yet he smiled with a devilish satisfaction, Paul, for he has escaped you, and was bound to St. Jago de Cuba! From there he would charter––steal, perhaps––a small boat, and run over to the Doçe Léguas Cays, where there were ten thousand pounds in mildewed gold!––if nobody had discovered it, which was not probable––and he––the scoundrel!––would gather it up in bags, and slink away to some other part of the world.
You must be very quick, Captain Brand, for the leaky brigantine does not sail so fast as the “Centipede,” and your ancient compadre, Don Ignaçio, is just out of prison. His old, fat, banana wife is very sorry for it, but that’s none of your business.