I watched them for a long while, till I thought that my eyes were growing heavy, and, after all, I might seep. The murmur of the arroyo helped to increase this inclination to repose, and, perhaps, I might have slept; but at that moment chancing to look around, my eyes rested upon an object that again drove sleep far away, and I was soon as wakeful as ever.
Close to where I had seated myself grew a large plant of the Mexican aloe (agave Americana). It was the wild maguey, of course, but of a species with broad fleshy leaves of dark-green colour, somewhat resembling the maguey of cultivation. I noticed that one of the great blades of the plant was bruised down, and the spine, which had terminated it, torn off.
All this would not have drawn my attention: I was already aware that the Indians had made a halt where we were encamped, and their sign was plenteous around—in the tracks of their animals, and the broken branches of trees. One of their horses or mules might have munched at the maguey in passing; and, viewing the bruised blade from a distance, I should have hazarded just such a conjecture. But my eyes were close to the plant, and, to my astonishment, I observed that there was writing upon the leaf!
I turned over upon my knees, and seizing the huge blade, bent it down before me, so as to obtain a better view of its surface. I read:—
“Captured by Comanches—a war-party with many captives—women and children—ay de mi! pobres niñas! north-west from this place. Saved from death; alas! I fear—”
The writing ended abruptly. There was no signature, but it needed not that. I had no doubts about who was the writer; in fact, rude as was the chirography—from the materials used—I easily identified the hand. It was Isolina de Vargas who had written.
I saw that she had torn off the terminal spine, and using it as a stylus, had graven those characters upon the epidermis of the plant.
Sweet subtle spirit! under any guise I could have recognised its outpourings.
“Saved from death”—thank Heaven for that!—“alas! I fear.” Oh, what feared she? Was it worse than death? that terrible fate—too terrible to think of?
She had broken off, without finishing the sentence. Why had she done so?