The caçadores had escaped. The affair had been a rescue!
Rather relieved by this conjecture, which soon assumed the form of a conviction, Herbert and Cubina were about returning to the place where they had left the young Creole—whom they supposed to be still awaiting them.
But they had not calculated on the bravery of love—much less upon its recklessness.
As they faced towards the dark declivity of the mountain, a form like a white-robed sylph was seen flitting athwart the trunks of the trees, and descending towards the garden wall. On it glided—on, and downward—as the snow-plumed gull in its graceful parabola.
Neither was mystified by this apparition. At a glance both recognised the form, with its soft, white drapery floating around it.
Love could no longer endure that anxious suspense. The young Creole had forsaken her shelter, to share the danger of him she adored.
Before either could interfere to prevent the catastrophe, she had passed through the wicket—a way better known to her than to them—and came gliding across the garden, up to the spot where they stood.
An exclamation of joy announced her perception that her lover was still unharmed.
Quick as an echo, a second exclamation escaped from her lips—but one of a far different intonation. It was a cry of wildest despair—the utterance of one who suddenly knew herself to be an orphan. Her eyes had fallen upon the corpse of her father!