Her beauty had not failed to make impression upon the heart of Aguara, long before his having become cacique. He has loved her too, in days gone by, ere he looked upon the golden-haired paleface. Both children then, and little more yet; for the Indian girl is only a year or two older than the other. But in this southern clime, the precocity already spoken of is not confined to those whose skins are called white, but equally shared by the red.
Nacena has been beloved by the son of Naraguana, and knew, or at least believed it. But she better knows, that she has been deceived by him, and is now slighted, about to be cast aside for another. That other will, ere long, be chieftainess of the Tovas tribe, while she—
She has reflected thus far, when the bitter thought overpowering causes her to start to her feet, a cry escaping her lips as if it came from a heart cleft in twain.
Nothing of this, however, shows in her face. The expression upon it is rather that of anger, as a jaguarete of her native plains, whose rage has been aroused by the arrow of the Indian hunter suddenly piercing its side. Hitherto silent, she is now heard to speak; but, though alone, the words to which she gives utterance are not in soliloquy: instead, as if spoken to some one who is near, though unseen. It is an apostrophe meant for no mortal ears, but addressed to the Divinity of the lake!
“Spirit of the Waters!” she cries, with arms outstretched and head aloft, “hear my prayer! Tell me if it be true! Will he make her his wife?”
She is silent for a second or two, as though expecting a reply, and listening for it. It comes, but not from the deity addressed. Out of her own heart she has the answer.
“He will; yes, surely will! Else, why has he brought her hither? A false tale he has told in the council of the elders; false as himself! Where are his words, his vows, made to me with lips that gave kisses? Perjured—broken—gone as his love, given to another! And I am soon to see her his queen, salute her as mine, and attend upon her as one of her waiting maids! Never! No, Spirit of the Waters! Rather than do that, I shall go to you; be one of your attendants, not hers. Rather than that, thou shalt take me to thy bosom!”
High-sounding speeches from an Indian girl, scarce fifteen years of age? But love’s eloquence is not confined to age, race, or rank, no more than that of jealousy. Both passions may burn in the breast of the savage maiden, as in the heart of the high-born lady—perhaps tearing it more. Not strange they should find like expression on the lips.
“Why not now?” continues Nacena in a tone that tells of despair, while the cloud upon her brow is seen to grow darker. “Ah! why not? No need waiting longer; I know all. A leap from yonder rock, and all would be over, my suspense, as my sufferings.”
For a moment she stands with eyes fixed upon a rocky promontory, which juts out into the lake near by. Its head overhangs the water, three fathoms deep, as she knows. Many the time has she sprung from that projecting point to swim, naiad-like, underneath it. But the plunge she now meditates is not for swimming, but to sink!