“Married—but only for an hour.”
“Only for an hour!”
“Ah! señor; just so. One hour of wedded life, and then we were parted for ever. Death parted us. Death to her—to me worse than death; despair that has never left me—no—never will.”
The voice of the speaker trembled in sorrowful tone. It was manifestly a sorrow that defied any efforts I might have made at consolation. I made none; but in silence and with eager attention awaited to hear the dénouement of a drama, whose prologue promised such a tragical ending.
“Puez, señor,” proceeded the narrator, after a short silence, “Gabriella, as I have said, consented to marry me, and we were married. It was the day of our wedding. We had parted from the church; and with our friends had gone out into the country for a dia de campo. There were about twenty of us in all, young men and girls—about, an equal number of each—all in their holiday dresses, just as they had been to the church. Most of the girls were Gabriella’s bridesmaids, and still wore the flowers and jewels they had used at the ceremony. The place chosen for our dia de campo was a pretty spot, about a mile distant from the town. It was a glade in the midst of the chapparal, surrounded by beautiful trees, and sweet-smelling flowers. We went afoot: for the distance did not make it worth while for us to ride. Besides, we preferred enjoying the ramble, without being encumbered with horses. Well, señor; we had arrived on the ground, spread out the repast we had brought with us, uncorked the wine-bottles, and were in the full tide of enjoyment—talking and laughing gaily—when all of a sudden—we heard the trampling of horses. Not of one or two; but the hoof-strokes of a whole troop. At first we thought it might be the cavallada of some rich proprietor, galloping past the place. We knew that horses were pastured in that neighbourhood; and it was like enough to be one of the half-wild droves straying through the chapparal. Still we were not without apprehension: for it might also be a troop of Apachés—who in those times made frequent forays upon the defenceless settlements. Alas, cavallero! our apprehensions proved but too just. We had been seated on the grass, around our festive preparations. We had scarce time to spring to our feet, ere the yell of the savages sounded in our ears; and almost on the instant the glade was filled with dusky warriors. They were all upon horseback, brandishing their long lances, and winding their lazos around their heads. Fearfully painted, and whooping their wild cries, they resembled the very demonios! We could neither retreat nor defend ourselves. Against such odds it would have been idle to have attempted the latter: besides, we were all without weapons. On an occasion like that which had called us forth, one does not think of preparing for such an event. I own it was imprudent of us to go out unarmed—more especially when the country was filled with Indian novedades—but who could have dreamt that such was to be the fatal termination to our joyous dia de campo? Ay de mi! I may well call it fatal. Very few of our men survived that dreadful day. Two or three of the young fellows managed to retreat into the bushes; and afterwards got off. The others were killed upon the spot—most of them impaled upon the spears of the Apachés! The women were left untouched: for the Indians rarely kill our women. Them they reserve for a different destiny. Ah! cavallero! a destiny worse than death! Not one of them escaped. The poor niñas were all made captives; and each, borne off in the arms of a swarthy savage, was mounted upon his horse. Gabriella, the queen of all,—because by far the most beautiful—was chosen by the chief. I saw her struggling in his grasp, I saw him dragging her over the ground, and raising her to the withers of his steed. I saw him leap up behind her, and prepare to ride off—Gabriella, my beloved—my bride!”
Here the speaker paused—as if overcome by the very remembrance of the incidents he was relating; and it was some time before he became sufficiently composed to resume his narrative.