“Ah! señor, I have not told you? She that I loved with all the love in my heart—the beautiful Gabriella Gonzales.”
Men of the Spanish race—however humble their social rank—are gifted with a certain eloquence; and in this case passion was lending poetry to the speech. No wonder I became deeply interested in the tale, and longed to hear more of Gabriella Gonzales.
“En verdad,” continued the Mexican, after a pause, “there are many things in the character of your countrywoman to remind me of my lost love—even in her looks. Gabriella, like her, was beautiful. Perhaps your comrade yonder might not think her so beautiful as the huntress; but that is natural. In my mind Gabriella was everything. She had Indian blood in her veins: we all have in these parts, though we boast of our pure Spanish descent. No matter; Gabriella was white enough—to my eyes white as the lily that sparkles upon the surface of the lagoon. Like yonder maiden, she inherited from her ancestors a free daring spirit. She feared neither our Indian enemies, nor danger of any kind—Por Dios! Not she.”
“Of course she loved you?”
“Ah! that truly did she—else why should she have consented to marry me? What was I? A poor cibolero—at times a hunter and trapper of beavers, just as I am now? I was possessed of nothing but my horse and traps; whiles he—Carrambo! señor, proud ricos pretended to her hand!”
It is possible that my countenance may have expressed incredulity. It was difficult to conceive how the diminutive Mexican—as he appeared just then in my eyes—could have won the love of such a grand belle as he was describing Gabriella to be. Still was he not altogether unhandsome; and in earlier life—before his great misfortune had befallen him—he might have been gifted with some personal graces. High qualities, I had heard of his possessing—among others courage beyond question or suspicion; and in those frontier regions—accursed by the continual encroachment of Indian warfare, and where human life is every day in danger—that is a quality of the first class—esteemed by all, but by none more than those who stand most in need of protection—the women. Often there as elsewhere—more often than elsewhere—does courage take precedence of mere personal appearance, and boldness wins the smile of beauty. It was possible that the possession of this quality on the part of Pedro Archilete had influenced the heart of the fair Gabriella. This might explain her preference.
The Mexican must have partially divined my thoughts, as was proved by the speech that followed. “Yes, amigo! more than one rich haciendado would have been only too happy to have married Gabriella; and yet she consented to become my wife, though I was just as I am now. May be a little better looking than at this time; though I can’t say that I ever passed for an Apollo. No—no—señor. It was not my good looks that won the heart of the girl.”
“Your good qualities?”
“Not much to boast of, cavallero. True, in my youth, I had the name of being the best horseman in our village—the best rastreador—the most skilful trapper. I could ‘tail the bull,’ ‘run the cock,’ and pick up a girl’s ribbon at full gallop—perhaps a little more adroitly than my competitors; but I think it was something else that first gained me the young girl’s esteem. I had the good fortune once to save her life—when, by her own imprudence, she had gone out too far from the village, and was attacked by a grizzly bear. Ay de mi! It mattered not. Poor niña! She might as well have perished then, by the monster’s claws. She met her death from worse monsters—a death far more horrible; but you shall hear.”
“Go on! From what you have disclosed, I am painfully interested in your tale.”