Ashley smiled drearily. “The eagle is sometimes found in a dove’s nest,” he said. “Ah, with such a mother what a glorious woman that strange defiant creature might have become! But what powers for good have been debased in those low associations among which she was thrown!”
The young man stopped, remembering Doña Isabel; but she had moved away. She was already at the door. Gonzales, who was returning for her, led her silently to the carriage. The widow who had been with Herlinda had dismounted and joined Chata and the priest, as they issued from the gloomy chapel. The poor woman looked confused and wretched; it was a comfort to her to hear the muttered benediction of the friar.
Chata mounted the sorry beast on which she had come, despite the remonstrance of Ashley. “No, no, I cannot bear the accusing gaze of the Señorita Herlinda,” she protested. “You, Don ’Guardo, know who I am. My place is at Leon Vallé’s side, not here. O God, would that it were not so!”
The rain had ceased. There was a streak of dawn in the sky. The road lay like a pale yellow serpent, which grew brighter as they followed its sinuous twinings among the hills. There was a slight accident, which detained the carriage; but Chata, accompanied by Pepé,—who had recognized her with amazement, and who gave her a brief account of all that had happened in the life of Chinita since they had parted,—hastened on as speedily as was possible to her jaded beast. Just at the dawn she found herself entering the straggling town; and suddenly the mass of verdure beyond a broken wall which they were skirting, and over which she was gazing with eyes as heavy as the dripping herbage, sparkled as with a thousand diamonds. The sun had risen; and facing it—his eyes so dazzled that the figures upon the roadway were to him like the scattered trees, mere black, shapeless masses—was the object of her dread, yet also at that moment of her fondest anguish bloody and travel-stained with the marks of battle and flight upon him, the wreck of what she had last seen him.
Filial duty and womanly pity supplied the place of that love which she could not conjure even then, and with a cry she drew rein at the prostrate gate; and to the amazement of Pepé, who knew nothing of the relations between the young girl and the defeated chieftain, she sprang to the ground and rushed to the embrace of the hunted man. Looking back she saw the others approaching, and sought to repel them by an entreating gesture. Her voice was heard in warning; but Ramirez heeded it no more than he did the sound of wheels and the tread of horses on the roadway. He had known of late such strange vicissitudes and such unaccountable experiences, which had been so unforeseen, often so disastrous yet fleeting, that they seemed the phantasmagoria of a frightful dream. These noises, these figures, were but the same to his stunned senses. But this girl in his arms, who called him father,—she was real flesh and blood, and thrilling with life. He clung to her with rapture; and as he would have done in a dream, he saw her there without surprise,—only with a vague bewilderment, a fear that she too would fade away. No! She clung to him with tears, as though seeking to protect him from some menaced danger.
Ah, he understood: this man who had reached them was the American who had accused him at the grave of him whom he had murdered. Great God! Had beings of this world and the other combined against him? There was Pedro, or his ghost; there too was Herlinda! Yes, though it was years since he had seen her, and then only for a moment in her lover’s arms, he knew her instantly.
Ramirez recoiled before her glance. His arms fell from Chata. The released nun, who had not known that the young girl had been of their company, thrust her aside, then caught her hand and looked searchingly into her face. Her own face quivered as she looked. It grew whiter and whiter still, as Chata raised her eyes and returned the gaze.
“I saw you from the convent grate—at El Toro,” said Herlinda, breathlessly.
Carmen’s face brightened like that of one who solves a joyful mystery. Chata sighed deeply.
“Chata,” cried Ashley, who divined what must be in the mind of Herlinda, “speak! Tell the Señorita that you are not her daughter. Her suspense is terrible!”