When Willie and Mary rode out of the Araucanian camp with Graviel, they had little or no notion in which direction to proceed, and small idea how to act. Graviel himself was half distraught with misery, and seemed quite beside himself. Wounded, suffering, still under the influence of the drug which Guaitu had administered, it may readily be supposed that he was not a fit subject from whom to seek counsel or advice. The youth was faithful and brave. He could sacrifice anything for the child of Piñone; he would fight to the death in her defence; but when that child had been spirited away by the evil machinations of the Gualichu, where could he turn, what could he do to find her again? To feel that she was gone—he knew not where—was maddening to the poor lad.
Silently, and utterly broken down with misery, Graviel sat on his horse, not seeming to care in which direction it proceeded, and hardly noticing Mary and Willie when they spoke to him. It was at once evident to the children that they must rely on their own ideas and plans in this emergency, and leave the Indian’s counsel out of the question.
“I tell you what we will do, Willie,” said Mary at length. “We will make for the plain where we caught the wild horses yesterday, and passing through the gorge where Topsie was last seen, ride on in that direction. It is quite possible that whoever stole the poor wee baby may have made for the forest, in which case we shall come upon his tracks, and at any rate meet Aniwee and the others returning with Topsie, for, Willie dear, I don’t for a moment think that any great harm will have befallen her; she is far too clever.”
It must be explained that Mary possessed the greatest admiration for Topsie, up to whom she looked with a veneration and awe inexpressible. Nothing that her beautiful cousin did was short of perfection in Mary’s eyes; and though she was anxious about her, she could not bring herself to believe that any difficulty existed out of which Topsie could not disentangle herself.
“All right,” assented Willie. The boy was game for anything which promised adventure of some sort or other, and was quite willing to be guided by his sister as to the direction they should take.
So they rode briskly forward, over the same ground across which they had galloped the previous day before sighting the wild horses, little dreaming that their father, mother, brother, cousin, and Aniwee were at that very moment struggling through the dense untrodden forest in the wake of Shag, and on the track of Topsie and her captor. Little did they dream either of the strange adventures through which their cousin had gone the previous day, of her meeting with the captive Araucanians, of her desperate attempt at escape, of her recapture and despairing abandonment thereafter. Ignorance is bliss, they say. Certainly on this occasion it was so to Mary, who, could she have seen Topsie at that moment, stretched outside the Trauco’s hut, where she had sobbed herself to sleep after her recapture, would certainly have endured throes of intense misery, the very idea of which is painful even to contemplate.
Suddenly Graviel looked up, and inquired in a quick, sharp voice, “Where are we going, Señors?”
“Where to, but in search of the young Cacique?” answered Mary, looking at him reprovingly. “It has struck me, Graviel, that her captor may have made for the forest; and as Guaitu will be searching eastward, I thought it best to ride westward.”
“Guaitu is a traitor!” burst out the youth furiously. “Graviel always hated him with his cunning, snake-like face. Is he not a Caciquillo in the pay of Inacayal? Did he not last night give Graviel to drink, and was there not poison in that hated water of hell? Then the Gualichu, with evil intent, took possession of Graviel and Blancha; he laid the hand of sleep heavy on their eyes, so that when the thief stole in they saw him not, and thus was La Guardia Chica spirited away. Ah! ma mia Guardia, where art thou? Child of Aniwee and Piñone, where art thou, my beautiful?”
He dropped the reins on his horse’s neck as he spoke, and stretched out his hand and arm with an imploring gesture. The other arm lay helpless in a sling, and his poor slashed face bore a most piteous expression. His whole appearance touched Mary deeply.