At the termination of one of those revolutions which have convulsed the Mexican States from their earliest formation, Herraras, who had been an active partizan, finding his own side in the minority, sought in retirement a refuge from the turmoils of political life, and protection for the innocence, with facilities for the education of his motherless daughter. This he realized, until it began to be rumored, and not without foundation, that he was secretly leagued with the piratical smugglers. He who intended to reap the chief advantage from a public prosecution, was young Velasque, a favorite of the Administration, whose sole motive was a vehement passion for the daughter of Herraras, which as yet the jealous fondness of the father for his own child, and the aversion of the adolescent Almirena herself, had with vexatious firmness resisted.
‘Surrender your daughter to my solicitations, and my influence with the Government shall secure your acquittal; otherwise, you must die, and—I will be avenged’—sternly uttered the wily amorado.
‘Leave me till morning, and you shall have my answer,’ replied the perplexed and indignant father.
That morning discovered him with his child many leagues from the Mexican coast, in a vessel bound to the United States, whose sudden departure he had procured by bribes, after having, under cover of the night, with the aid of a faithful servant, taken on board of it, a rich amount of his ill-gotten treasure.
On the borders of one of those lakes whose silvery surfaces may be frequently seen imbosomed among the wild highlands of New England, near the margin of a forest that encircled its waters with a drapery of dark green foliage, and luxuriant vines, and stretched far away over the circumjacent mountains, the outlaw had chosen his retreat. A few roods of ground were cleared around his lodge, which was secured from view in the direction of the lake, by a narrow file of trees and underwood, and on all other sides, by the unbroken forest. Here the refugee lived, sequestered from the world, his only companion his child; with a single attendant, an African, the menial of the lodge, and only visiter of the village that lay over the mountains, and was the nearest within many miles of circuit, where the servant went for the supplies of the family. The outlaw suffered no stranger to enter his precincts, partly because he feared lest justice should find an avenue to his guilt, and partly because he dreaded an interruption to the communion of affection between him and his daughter. He loved his child as few fathers love their offspring. He had always cherished her as the “apple of his eye.” But since his recent misfortunes, all other feelings had become extinct, or submerged in this one passion. He loved her because she was the image of her mother, who had been the young idol of his soul. He loved her because she was a part of himself, and his own dark eye flashed beneath her brow. She was all the world had left him which he could call his own. To make her father happy, and witness his cloudy features clear away in smiles, was the dearest delight of the affectionate daughter. He could not bear her a moment from his presence, which she, at the least sound of danger as instinctively sought, as the timid lamb bounds away to its dam. Music was to both father and child an exhilaration of pleasure, and relieved of its weariness many a lonely hour. He had instructed her to play the guitar, whose strings responding to the skilful touch of her fingers, trilled in his ear the sweet airs of his youth; while her zephyr-like voice poured forth, in rich harmony with his deep bass, those lays that awakened fostered memories in his bosom. She read to him from his favorite Spanish authors, a few of which he had brought to be companions of his exile. A daily and indulged employment for the Mexican was sailing upon the lake, and angling for fish that were numerous in its waters. He had constructed for his daughter a light canoe with which she accompanied her father. While he fished, she sported with her little bark, which she learned to scull with such art, that like the shell of the Nautilus, it seemed of itself to glide through the waters. When the wind was high, so lightly and fearless did she skim over the curling tops of the waves, and so shrill and clear she sounded her notes on the air, that her father called her his Bird of the Lake. When the summer’s sun was shining hot, she would oar her boat along the shore, under the archway of the trees; here she twanged her guitar, or decked her hair with flowers from the banks, or filled her basket from the grape vines that twined among the low hanging limbs.
One day she sailed farther up the shore, and had unconsciously steered her boat into a sheltered cove. She was seated platting a chaplet of leaves; and as she adjusted it to her head, she looked into the water, so darkly shaded by the surrounding trees that it reflected her image clear as a mirror, and bright as her beautiful self. Not like Narcissus was she in love with her own image; but her father had told her that her hair and forehead were like her mother’s—that mother whom she had never seen—that she wore wreaths in her hair; and the fond orphan smiled at the resemblance, and seemed, as she gazed, to be enamored of the beauty whose early blight her father so bitterly mourned.
But the real beauty of this illusion was not without its charms. A young man, in the guise of a sportsman, attracted by the murmuring echoes of the music this Nereid warbled, had silently approached the waters, and screened behind a tuft of laurel shrubbery was looking, in breathless wonder, and deeply fascinated, upon this seemingly unearthly visitant of his mountain lake.
That a gloomy browed foreigner with his child, had come to reside near the lake was known in the village. Many suspicions were afloat as to his character. Few had seen the renegade. Even young Clermont, whose hunting excursions were fearlessly and widely extended, had not ventured near the dwelling of the recluse; nor had he dreamed what a flower was blooming in the dark woods of his native hills.
Almirena raised herself in her boat and attempted to pluck a rose that grew wild from a projecting rock. A tropical sun had imbrowned her skin; but polished the jet of her eyes to a higher brilliance; and her raven tresses floated more luxuriantly over her unbared neck. Attired in the costume of her country, her light vest open in front, with its flowing collar, and gathered loosely about her waist, revealed a form of classic mould; while her silken skirt, with its rich embroidery, excited still more the surprise of Clermont, who had seen in that retired district, only the simple dresses of rural life.
Perceiving that she could not easily reach the flower, Clermont, who had been fixed in his concealment by the enchantment of the vision, advanced to her view and offered his assistance. She was startled at the sudden apparition, and seized her oar. She did not know his language, but his gentle tones and supplicating gestures, tempted her to come nearer the bank and take the rose he offered, and then like the timid bird that picks one kernel from your hand, not staying for more flowers, which he would have gathered, she flew away over the waters.