The second day beheld the same ceremonies, succeeded by the same labours and diversions, and still not a movement indicated the approach of a messenger. She looked upon the maidens around,—their faces were grave and placid. They gazed upon her no more, except when her eyes were averted. She imagined a thousand reasons to account for her seclusion. Was her brother, notwithstanding his assurances to the contrary, in a state of as much restraint as herself? Or—was it possible?—did it not depend upon himself?—was it possible, he did not desire to see her? She thought of his slowness to admit her claim of consanguinity; she thought of the words of Camarga,—of their wildness—Had not Juan said he was insane?—of their insufficiency. Nay, she remembered that Juan spoke of his father, whom he well remembered; and among the tears she shed of doubt and disappointment, she blushed at the boldness and warmth with which she had advocated her claims.
Another day came,—another, and still another; and her heart sickened and her cheek grew pale with suspense and humiliation. Then impatience waxed into anger, and she stalked among the maidens with looks of determination, as if she would have commanded them to lead her from what she justly conceived to be imprisonment. But how command them? Her language was as the language of the gods to them, and their words were to her as unmeaning as the songs of the birds at the windows. Eyes can speak many things, but not all; and signs are of too arbitrary a nature to serve as the medium of communication betwixt two hemispheres. If she strove to depart from the chamber, she was followed by the two slaves, who seemed to be specially devoted to her service, and who, attending her from room to room, yet arrested her with humble and supplicating gestures, when she seemed to be overstepping the limits of the harem. If she persisted, she found herself in the power of certain antique beldames, who prowled around the sacred chambers, bearing wands to indicate their authority, and who opposed themselves, though without rudeness, to further egress. If she still made her way through these, she found herself stopped by passages, in which were armed barbarians, who did not hesitate to block up the avenues with their shields and spears. In other words, she found that she was a prisoner, confined to a society as recluse, as peaceful, and perhaps as happy as that from which it had been her misfortune to be released. The pride and energy of her nature were here lost; for there was nothing with which to contend, except her feelings, and nothing to excite, save a sense of wrong, inflicted she knew not by whom, nor why.
This was precisely the state of things to tame her spirit into submission and inaction; and, almost insensibly to herself, she began to accommodate her deportment to her condition, substituting anxiety for anger, and despondence for decision. She began to think that Juan was, like herself, a prisoner; and the apprehension of his distresses weighed on her heart more heavily than the sense of her own; and, as with all her strength of mind and passion, there was a tinge of superstition running through all her thoughts, she beheld, in the singular train of calamities that had brought her so often to his side, a revelation and proof that she was ordained, finally, to rescue him from this, as well as the other ills, which oppressed him. Another thought brooded also in her bosom. Hitherto, whatsoever efforts she had made for his good, had ministered only to his griefs; and what had they brought to her? From the moment in which she had first attempted deceit, by concealing the sanctity of her profession, her life had been but a history of agony and shame. Had she avowed herself, immediately after the shipwreck, the bride of the cross, Hilario had not died under the knife of the assassin, Juan Lerma had not forfeited the favour of his general, and she herself had, perhaps, closed her life in the peace with which it had begun. She began to picture to herself the sinfulness of her evasions of vows, and to consider these the causes of her sufferings. Such thoughts as these, and a thousand others, divided and harassed her mind by turns, and confounded while they tormented. But one idea never left her—and that was, the uncertainty of the fate of Juan Lerma, and the hope that it might be reserved for her to free him from the bondage of infidels. But how was this to be effected? She knew not.
Her first vague desire was to gain a friend among the grave and passionless creatures, by whom she was surrounded. She examined all their countenances, and soon fixed upon several in which she thought she could trace kindly feelings and simplicity of character. She strove also to acquire a little of their language,—an effort which she soon gave up, not so much from the difficulty of acquisition, as from the remoteness of any benefit to be derived in that way.
She perceived that the Mexican lady who, each morning, for the first fortnight of her captivity, (after which time she was seen no more,) commenced the ceremonies of salutation, so humble, and indeed to her so irksome, must be of the highest rank,—perhaps the queen of Guatimozin himself; though it seemed improbable that one so exalted would condescend to homage so servile. She was conscious also, that the six maidens who attended upon this princess were of no mean rank; for though they frequently remained in the hall, engaged in labour, like the rest, it was clear that the others looked upon them with the greatest deference. Of these she had long singled out one who was superior to the others in beauty and mildness of countenance; and it seemed to her that this one, in going through the morning ceremony, endeavoured to make her sensible that she did so with sincerity and feeling. Thus, besides placing Magdalena's hand on her head, she carried it also to her lips, expressing as much desire as her countenance could convey, to be esteemed the Christian's friend.
These things almost escaped Magdalena's notice at first; but she afterwards remembered them, and strove to respond with manifestations of similar inclination. She observed, however, that the maiden gradually changed from tranquillity to melancholy, as if something preyed upon her spirits. She repeated, indeed, her salutation each morning, but it was no longer with smiles, and with a disposition to linger about Magdalena's person. On the contrary, she retired without delay to a little nook under a window, where she continued her task among feathers and flowers, seldom stirring from the spot. It was evident to the penetrating eye of Magdalena, that the Indian maiden was wasting away under some grief as poignant and enduring as her own; and though she attributed it only to some of the evils of war, the commencement of which had long since been indicated by the distant explosions of artillery, she was the more favourably impressed by the damsel's emotion, since none of the others seemed to share it, nor to betray either fear or anxiety.
She attempted then to come to some understanding with this maiden. She sat down by her in her little nook, and watched, with what, had she been in a better frame of mind, would have been admiration, the progress of her toils, as well as the effects of previous labours. She beheld, with surprise, garlands and bouquets of flowers, constructed of feathers, and imitated with such wonderful precision, that when they were mingled with a few natural ones, and impregnated with their odours, it seemed almost impossible that they could be artificial. The same art has existed in other parts of the continent, and is practised to this day, in some of the nunneries of Brazil. There were also pictures, worked with the same beautiful materials, upon a groundwork of prepared cloth, which were chiefly confined to the representation of flowers and birds. When Magdalena first visited the maiden, she found her engaged upon what seemed a wood-pigeon, surrounded by a little wilderness of flowers and leaves. The design, though simple, was pretty and spirited; yet the maiden seemed dissatisfied with her work, and altered it daily, as if each day still more displeased; until, at last, she seemed to have hit upon a plan more to her taste, when she pursued her task with what seemed a morbid ardour. When Magdalena looked at it last, she found the whole design and character of the work changed. The flowers had been displaced by stones and brambles; an arrow was represented sticking through the neck of the bird; and the story of a wounded heart was told in the metaphor of the poor flutterer, harmed by some wanton bolt, and left dying in a desert place.
When Magdalena beheld this painted sentiment, she took the hand of the artist, and pressing it as if with sympathy, pointed to her bosom. A faint tinge of blood passed over her embrowned visage, but she looked confidingly into Magdalena's face, as if not ashamed to confess her grief. When Magdalena was persuaded she was understood, she directed the painter's eyes to the bird, and then pointed expressively to her own bosom, as if to signify that she also was unhappy. The maiden bowed her head upon her breast, and Magdalena saw that tears were stealing from her eyes. She thought they were the tears of sympathy; and when the damsel looked up, she cast off all reserve, and indicated as plainly as she could, by gestures, that she desired to make her way into the garden.
The maiden shook her head, and would have departed, but that Magdalena, rendered indiscreet by her impatience, arrested her, to make trial of a new appeal. She took the jewels from her hair, and without reflecting that the rank of the maiden, indicated by gems quite as valuable as her own, might render her inaccessible to such temptation, she made as if she would have thrown them upon her head and neck. She was sorry for the act; for as soon as the maiden understood what she designed, she drew back with a look of offended dignity, and with cheeks burning at once with mortification and anger. Then, gathering up her little picture, her bodkins, and basket of coloured feathers, she left the apartment, and returned to it no more that day.
Amid all her grief at the disappointment of her hopes, Magdalena had yet generosity enough to appreciate the spirit of the young pagan, and to lament having outraged her feelings.