“On the contrary, I approve of it. Foot messengers might not reach in time, if at all. My brave boy will do it if it can be done; it may be the means of bringing rescue to us all. If he fail, then I, like the rest of you, must submit to fate.”
“I’ll not fail,” cries the impetuous youth, rushing forward and throwing his arms round his father. “Fear not. I have a belief that God’s hand is in it, else why should my noble horse have stayed? Why is he still there?”
“Virgen santissima!” exclaims Don Estevan in devout tone. “It would even seem so. Let us hope and pray that the Almighty’s hand is in it. If so, we shall be saved.”
Henry Tresillian is the hero of the hour, though he has been a favourite with the people of the caravan all along, doing kind offices to this one and that one, helping all who needed help. But now, when they hear he has volunteered on this dangerous service, as it were offering up his life for theirs, encomiums are loud on all sides. Women fall upon their knees, and, with crucifix in hand, offer up prayers for his protection. But Gertrude? Oh, the sad thoughts—the utter woe that strikes through her heart—when she hears tidings of what is intended! She receives them with a wild cry, almost a shriek, with arms outstretched staggering to the side of her mother for support.
“Mamma, father must not let him go. He will be lost, and then—then—”
“Have no fear. Think, hija mia, we may all be lost if he do not.”
“But why cannot some other go in his place? There are many who know the way as well as he, and that brave gambusino, I’m sure, would be willing.”
“No doubt he would, dearest; there’s some reason against it I do not quite understand. We shall hear all soon, when father returns to the tent.”
They do hear the reason; but not any the more to reconcile Gertrude. The young girl is half beside herself with grief, utterly indifferent as to who may observe it. The bud of her love has bloomed into a flower, and she recks not that all the world know her heart is Henry Tresillian’s. The cousin left behind at Arispe, supposed to be an aspirant to her hand, is forgotten. All are forgotten, save the one now near, so soon to be cruelly torn away from her. Neither the presence of her father and mother, nor that of his father, restrain her in her wild ravings. She knows she has their approval of her partiality, and her young heart, innocent of guile, yields to nature’s promptings.
Her appeals are in vain: what must be must be, and she at length resigns herself to the inevitable. For Henry himself tells her how it is, and that no one possibly could take his place.