The Queen of the Savannah: A Story of the Mexican War

by Gustave Aimard

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  A YOUNG HEART.

  Oliver Clary, when he left the Hacienda del Rio, was not mistakenin saying to Count de Melgosa that he was afraid Don Melchior wouldcommit some folly; the hunter's foreboding was destined to be realizedeven sooner than he thought. The young man, whose mind was made upbeforehand, did not wish to argue with his two friends; but, satisfiedwith the information the hunter had given him, impatiently awaited themoment when he should be alone, in order to carry out the plan he hadformed. This plan, of an audacity that trenched almost on insanity, hehad been careful not to let the count or the Canadian suspect, as hefelt sure they would oppose it with all their might.

  Don Melchior, brought up on the Indian border, accustomed from hisearliest youth to scour the woods in all directions in the pursuit ofIndians or wild beasts, was habituated to desert life and thoroughlyconversant with redskin habits; hence, he had no doubt he would beable to get to the prisoners. Hence, so soon as the count and Oliverhad left the hacienda, the young man made his preparations; that isto say, he carefully inspected his firearms, placed provisions in hisalforjas, and mounted his horse. It was about four in the afternoon.The great gate of the hacienda was open; hence he went out the moreeasily, because being merely regarded as a guest of the count, no onehad received orders to impede his movements or prevent him doing whathe thought proper. The young man slowly descended the mountain; at themoment when he reached the plain, the sound of a galloping horse madehim turn round. Diego Lopez was coming toward him at full speed, andDon Melchior waited for him.

  "iViva Dios!" the worthy man exclaimed, "Where on earth are you going,Don Melchior?"

  The young man looked at him haughtily.

  "Am I your master's prisoner?" he replied, drily.

  "Not at all, senor," the peon said, with the greatest politeness.

  "In that case, by what right do you ask me such a question? Am I not atliberty to do what I please?"

  "I do not say the contrary."

  "If that is the case, what do you want with me?"

  "Caballero, I beg you not to take in ill part what I am so free as tosay to you. The Senor Conde feels a very lively interest in you; beforeleaving the hacienda, he ordered me to pay the greatest attention toyou."

  "Admitted."

  "On seeing you mount your horse at so advanced an hour, and takeprovisions with you, I assumed that it was your intention to leave thehacienda."

  "Your assumption was correct, I am really leaving the hacienda. Whatthen?"

  "Very good. You are at liberty to do so. I have no right to controlyour actions; but be kind enough to inform me where you are going, inorder that I may tell my master."

  "For what object?"

  "I am merely obeying the orders I received, senor. I am but a servant;"and he added, with a marked stress on the words, "perhaps it is as wellfor your own sake that my master should know where you are going."

  The young gentleman reflected for a moment.

  "Forgive me, Diego Lopez," he said, presently, "the rather rough wayin which I received you. I did wrong to act thus, for you are a worthyman. Tell your master that I am resolved to try and save Dona Emiliaand her daughter, and that is why I quitted his hospitable roof."

  The peon shook his head sadly.

  "Alone, senor?" he said; "take care."

  "Heaven will aid me, my friend."

  "I have no right to prevent you, I have no wish to do so, but if I maybe permitted to make a remark?"

  "Speak!"

  "I would tell you that this plan is insane, that you are rushing toyour destruction, and that you are attempting an expedition in whichyou will perish, perhaps without seeing the persons for whom you devoteyourself."

  "Yes, that is true," the young man answered sadly. "What you say tome I have said to myself, but my destiny carries me away. I mustaccomplish this sacrifice, while knowing that I am committing an act ofmadness; I will carry it through to the end."

  "I have neither the strength nor the courage to blame you, senor, Ican only pity you; put your trust in heaven. As for me, I shall go tomy master and tell him what you are doing at this moment. If we donot succeed in saving you, at least we will avenge you, and if I maybelieve my foreboding, the vengeance will be terrible."

  "Go, my friend; go, and thank you. Tell your master how truly gratefulI am to him for all that he has done for me, but that fatality carriesme away; and that I would sooner die than suffer from the grief whichis devouring me. I wish to know the fate of the two unhappy prisoners,and, no matter what may happen, I will know it."

  "May heaven protect you, senor! You are well acquainted with theredskins; perhaps by acting prudently you may foil their vigilance,although it is almost impossible. But," he added with a species offorced resolution, "what is the use of arguing longer. Perhaps yourplan will succeed, through the very fact of its insanity. Children andlovers are privileged."

  The young man blushed, and dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse,which started at a gallop. The peon looked after him, sorrowfullyshaking his head several times.

  "Well, good-bye, Don Melchior," he said, "I repeat, may God protectyou, for He alone can save you."

  The young man scarce heard him. The peon's voice struck his ear, buthe did not understand the sense of his words. He waved his hand infarewell and disappeared in the tall grass that overgrew the banks ofthe stream. Diego Lopez remained motionless for an instant.

  "Poor boy!" he murmured, "He has a noble heart; a soul full ofdevotion; but what can he do? He is lost; death clutches him already,its hand is spread out over him. Let me go and warn the Senor Conde,"he added, repressing a sympathetic sigh.

  And loosening his bridle he galloped off in the direction of theHacienda del Barrio.

  Don Melchior, through the frequent excursions he had made in carryingout Dona Emilia's monomania for vengeance, had a thorough knowledge ofthe country for thirty or forty leagues round; several times accidenthad led him to the vicinity of the teocali, where the ladies were nowheld in captivity, and hence he was well aware of the exact position ofthis strange monument, the sole vestige of the ancient, civilization ofthe Indians.

  While himself thoroughly convinced of the madness of his attempt infavour of the prisoners, he had drawn up his plans with the greatestprudence, ready to sacrifice his life, but not wishing to leaveanything to chance, while unconsciously retaining in his heart alast glance of hope, that divine spark which is never completelyextinguished in the human heart, and allows him a glimpse of successeven in the most senseless undertakings.

  So soon as Diego Lopez parted from him, Don Melchior checked the speedof his horse in order not to reach the ford of the Rio Grande del Nortetill sunset. He was obliged to travel by night, for as the Indians arein their encampments at that period, the young man would have nothingto fear from their vigilance, and incurred no risk but that of meetingwild beasts, a trifling danger for an experienced hunter. Besides, sofar as it was possible to calculate distances, Don Melchior believedhimself only seven or eight leagues distant from the teocali. Bygalloping in a straight line, he would therefore only have a two hours'ride to make in a country which he had frequently traversed, and whichwas perfectly familiar to him.

  We have already stated, on several occasions, that in hot countriesthere is no twilight, and that when the sun has set night arrivesalmost without transition. The young man had so well calculated, thathe was a gunshot from the ford at the moment when the sun disappearedon the horizon in a glory of purple and gold. In spite of the completeabsence of twilight, there is, however, a charming moment in Americanevenings. It is the one when, after night has quite set in, you witnessthe sudden awakening of the denizens of the darkness; when the nightbreeze agitates the majestic tops of the trees, and the wild beasts,leaving their lairs, bay the moon with their guttural notes, which arerepeated in every way by the echoes of the ravines. The traveller,involuntarily affected by a vague respect at the sight of thisimmensity which he cannot comprehend, feels himse
lf weak and paltry.

  Don Melchior crossed the ford without obstacle, and then dashed at fullspeed into the desert, cutting through the tall grass in a straightline. For two hours he galloped in the pale light of the stars, withhis hand on his weapons, and ready for any event. On coming withinabout two musket shots of the teocali he stopped, dismounted, andtaking his horse by the bridle, led it into a thicket, where, afterhobbling it, he fastened up its nostrils to prevent it neighing. Thenthrusting his pistols in his belt, he seized his rifle, and proceededtoward the teocali, muttering in a suppressed voice one sentence, whichcompletely represented the thought that impelled him to act as he wasdoing--

  "Heaven be gracious to me!"

  The night was calm and serene; the stars sparkled in a deep bluesky, and spread a gentle light, which allowed him to distinguish thediversities of the landscape for a long distance. A veiled silence,if we may employ the expression, reigned over the prairie, where noother sound was audible save that produced by the incessant murmursof the infinitely little creatures buzzing beneath every blade ofgrass, and carrying on their laborious task under the ever open eye ofthe Creator. At times the distant echo bore down on the breeze thesnapping bark of the coyotes, or the hoarse roar of the jaguars at thewatering place.

  Don Melchior advanced firmly and resolutely, having sacrificed hislife beforehand, but determined only to succumb in an unequal struggleof one against a host. We fancy that we said in one of our previouschapters that the teocali in which the prisoners were detained stoodin the middle of a plain, for a great distance round which the treeshad been cut down. At the moment when the young man was preparing toemerge from the covert, and asked himself how he should manage to reachthe mountain unseen, he perceived an Indian sentry leaning motionlessagainst a sumach and on the watch.

  Don Melchior stopped, for the situation was a critical one. The moonprofusely shed its pale pallid beams upon this man, whose appearancehad at a certain distance something gloomy and threatening about it.A cry uttered by this sentry would ruin Don Melchior. After a fewseconds' hesitation his resolution was formed. Uncocking his gun, whichmight go off without his will, he lay down on the ground, and begancrawling on his hands and knees in the direction of the sentry, beforewhom he must infallibly pass.

  Anyone who has not been in the situation of our hero could not form anidea of it. Don Melchior was at this moment playing a terrible game.It was to him a question of life and death; the fall of a leaf, thebreaking of a branch was sufficient to settle it. The hurried beatingof his heart terrified him, and he took half an hour in proceeding adistance of twenty paces. At length, on coming close to the sentry,he suddenly rose behind him, and plunged his dagger straight into hisneck, at the very spot where the head is attached to the spine. Theredskin fell like a log, without uttering a cry or even giving a sigh.

  The young man at once understanding the importance to himself of adisguise, in order to cross the clearing round the teocali, strippedthe Indian of his clothes, put them on himself, and after dragging thecorpse a few paces, in order that it might not be found immediately, hehid it under a pile of dry leaves. Then, assuming the calm and gravestep of Indian warriors, the young man boldly quitted the shelter ofthe covert, and advanced slowly toward the teocali, now ready for allevents, and keeping his finger on the trigger of his gun, which he laidcarelessly on his shoulder.

  Numerous watch fires burnt round the teocali; the Indians, wrapped, upin their buffalo hides, blankets, or zarapes, were sleeping peacefully,trusting to the vigilance of the sentry. Don Melchior walked rightthrough the camp, unmolested. At times, as he passed, an Indian turnedtowards him, half opened his eyes, and then fell back on the groundagain, muttering a few unintelligible words. The young man's heart beatas if going to burst his breast; the emotion he felt was so powerfulthat, on reaching the first steps of the teocali, he was involuntarilyconstrained to stop. Still, sustained by the feeling of the sacredmission he had taken on himself, he succeeded, by a supreme effort, inovercoming his emotion, and continued his walk.

  No one opposed his passage. The Indians guard themselves badly. Underpresent circumstances, they could not suppose that a single man wouldenter their camp, and succeed in deceiving their sentries. Thisconfidence caused the security of the bold young man, and once hereached the teocali, almost entirely insured his security.

  I forgot who said that mad enterprises are those which succeed the beetowing to their extravagance, and this paradoxical remark is far truerthan a person might be disposed to believe it. Don Melchior's plan ofthus introducing himself alone into the presence of the prisoners, aproject of wild boldness, would succeed entirely on account of itsimpossibility.

  When the young man reached the top of the teocali he stopped, for hemust discover the place where the prisoners were confined. He lookedsearchingly around him. The moon allowed him to distinguish clearlythe smallest objects. Several Indians were lying round a smoulderingfire, but Don Melchior's eyes did not dwell on them, he was examiningthe most obscure corner of the buildings that stood on the platform.His eye was caught by a man lying across a door, closed by a wickerworkframe; he gave a violent start, for the prisoners were behind thatdoor. Stepping boldly over the sleeper, he Went up to it. At the momenthe reached the Indian the latter rose before him, and set the sharppoint of his lance against his chest.

  "What does my brother want?" he asked in a guttural voice.

  Don Melchior was not troubled. In spite of his interned emotion, hisface remained calm and stoical.

  "Good," he said in Comanche, a language which he spoke perfectly. "Mybrother was asleep. Is that the way in which he watches his prisoners?"

  "The Opossum is not asleep," the Indian said haughtily. "He knows theimportance of the duty entrusted to him."

  "If he is not asleep, how is it that he is ignorant the hour hasarrived when I am to take his place?" the young man continued.

  "Is it so late? I have not heard the hoot of the owl."

  "Yet it has been sounded twice. Good, my brother is tired; let him goand sleep, while I watch in his stead."

  The Indian had no reason to doubt what Don Melchior said to him.Besides, he was really desirous of sleep, and was not sorry to catch upa few hours' rest. Hence he made no remark, but quietly surrendered hispost, and five minutes later was lying by the side of his comrades fastasleep.

  This last alarm had been serious, although Don Melchior had bravelygone through with it. Still his agitation was so great, partly toregain his coolness, he remained quiet for nearly a quarter of an hourbefore he ventured to enter the prisoners' room. At length he did so.Dona Emilia, seated in a corner, was holding her daughter's head on herlap.

  "Who's there?" she asked, with a sudden start.

  "A friend," the young man answered in a low voice. Dona Diana sprang up.

  "Don Melchior!" she cried.

  "Silence," he said, "silence, in heaven's name."

  "Oh! I was certain he would come," the young lady continued, as shewalked towards him.

  "Thanks, Melchior," Dona Emilia said, as she offered him her hand."Thank you for coming; however terrible my situation may be, yourpresence here is an immense consolation."

  "Have you come to deliver us, Melchior?" the maiden continued.

  "Yes," he answered simply, "such is my object; and believe me,senorita, all that a man can do, I will."

  "What," Dona Emilia asked, "are you alone?"

  "Alas, yes; but what matter?" Dona Diana fell back on her bed.

  "Flight is impossible," she murmured with despair.

  "Why so?" the young man continued boldly, "Have I not contrived to getin here alone?"

  She shook her head sadly.

  "Yes," she said; "but you were alone."

  Don Melchior sighed, for he understood the meaning of the remark.

  "Why despair?" Dona Emilia exclaimed, starting up impetuously. "We arethree now. The Indians tremble at the sight of me, and we shall succeedin escaping."

  "Mother, mother," the girl
said entreatingly, "dismiss that thought.Alas! Flight is impossible, as you know well. Melchior is as well awareof it as we are."

  The young man hung his head.

  "If I cannot save you, senorita," he answered, "I can die with you."

  "Die with us!" she exclaimed impetuously. "Oh no, that must not be, Iinsist."

  "It was my hope in coming here," he said.

  "Very good, Melchior," Dona Emilia said; "but cease to fear for us. TheIndians will not dare, I feel firmly convinced, to make an attack onour lives, in spite of their frightful threats."

  "Mother, undeceive yourself, our death is resolved. It is close athand, for the conditions offered us compel us to die."

  "That is true," Dona Emilia murmured despondingly. "Great God, what isto be done?"

  "Fly," Don Melchior exclaimed boldly.

  "No," the young lady continued, "the plan is impracticable, and itwould be madness to dwell on it. If you have reached us by a miracle,it is impossible for you to convey us through the Indian camp and passthe sentries unseen. It would be precipitating our death instead ofchecking it."

  "It is well, senorita," Don Melchior said, leaning his shoulder againstthe wall. "Since you refuse to attempt to fly, I shall come back to myfirst resolution."

  "What is it?"

  "To die with you."

  The young lady took a step forward, and turned to Dona Emilia.

  "Do you hear, mother?" she exclaimed in agony. "Do you hear what DonMelchior says? I will not have him die. Order him to go away."

  "Why should I order him?" Dona Emilia coldly replied. "Don Melchior hasever been devoted to us. He has come to die with us, and neither younor I have the right to prevent him."

  "I must, I tell you, I must."

  "And why so, my child?"

  "Why?" she repeated, wild with grief. "Because, mother, I love him, andwill not have him die!"

  Dona Emilia stood for a moment as if annihilated by the suddenrevelation of this love, which she suspected, though unwilling tobelieve in it. A reaction took place in her, and she laid her hand onthe young man's arm.

  "Go, Don Melchior," she said in a gentle voice, half choked by sobs."My daughter loves you, and will not have you die."

  "Thanks, thanks, mother!" the maiden exclaimed, as she fell into herarms, and hid her face in her bosom.

  "Oh, let me, let me die with you!" Don Melchior said, clasping hishands imploringly.

  "No," Dona Emilia repeated, "you must leave us."

  "The night is getting on; I implore you, Melchior to be gone!" themaiden exclaimed.

  The young man hesitated, and a violent combat took place in his heart.

  "It is your wish," he muttered, with hesitation.

  "In the name of our love, I command you!"

  "Your will be done. Bless me, madam, for I shall return, and for yoursake attempt impossibilities."

  Dona Emilia wiped away the tears that ran down her cheeks against herwill.

  "Bless you, my son!" she said, in a voice choked by sobs. "God aloneknows the future, Melchior. I thank you for not having deserted us.Embrace your betrothed; perhaps this first kiss will be the last."

  The two young people fell into each other's arms.

  "And now, farewell," Dona Emilia continued. "Begone, you must begone!"

  Don Melchior tore himself with difficulty from the maiden's clasp.

  "Oh, not farewell!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with hope. "Weshall meet again," and he tottered out of the room.

  "Mother, mother," Dona Diana said, throwing herself wildly into DonaEmilia's arms, "oh, now I wish to die!"

  "Poor child!" her mother murmured, as she covered her with kisses."Take patience; we have but a few hours longer to suffer."