The Adventurers

The rather numerous party – it apparently consisted of a score of individuals – followed a narrow road deeply inclosed between two abrupt mountains, the rocky masses of which, throwing their shadow over the road, augmented the darkness. This road rose with a gentle ascent; and the horses and mules, probably fatigued with a long journey, travelled at a foot pace. The young girl, scarcely recovered from her fainting, had not been able to judge of the time that had elapsed since her abduction; and yet, by collecting her remembrances, and thinking at what hour she had been the victim of this odious attempt, she calculated that twelve hours must have passed away since she was made a prisoner. Overcome by the effort she had been forced to make in order to look around her, the poor girl let her head sink back again, stifling a sigh of despondency; and closing her eyes, as if to isolate herself the more, she plunged into sad and deep meditations.

She was at least ignorant of whom she was with. Many times, it was true, Don Tadeo had spoken to her of an inveterate enemy, inveterate for her destruction; of a woman whose hatred watched her incessantly, ready to sacrifice her on the first favourable opportunity. But who was this woman? What cause had she for her hatred? Was she in the hands of this woman at that moment? And if so, why had she not already sacrificed her to her vengeance? From what motive had she been spared? For what punishment was she reserved?

These thoughts and many others came in crowds to assail the maiden's bewildered mind. This uncertainty was for her an atrocious torture; at that moment, the truth would, perhaps, have been a consolation. Man is so constructed, that what he is most in dread of is the unknown; what he is ignorant of, assumes instinctively, in the prepossessed eyes of one whom a terrible danger menaces, gigantic proportions, a thousand times more terrific than the danger itself. The diseased imagination creates for itself phantoms which reality, however horrible it may be, puts to flight. In a word, the condemned prisoner who is led to punishment suffers more from the apprehensions which the fear of the death awaiting him inspires him with, than the physical pain of that death itself will cause him. Such was, at this moment, the situation of Doña Rosario; her mind, filled with inquietude and dark presentiments, made her dread nameless sufferings, the mere thought of which froze the young blood in her veins.

The caravan still proceeded; it had left the ravine, and was climbing a path traced along the edge of a precipice, at the base of which could be heard the dull murmur of invisible water. At times, a stone, half-broken beneath the hoof of a mule, became detached, and rolled with a sinister noise down the side of the mountain, to engulf itself in the waters, into which it plunged with a dull plash, the sound of which ascended from the abyss. The wind howled through the pines and larches, the clashing branches of which showered a deluge of dry cones upon the travellers. At intervals the owl, and the screech owl, concealed in the crevices of the rocks, poured out into the night their plaintive notes, breaking the silence dismally. Furious barkings were heard in the distance; by degrees they grew nearer, and ended by forming a frightful concert, broken by the sharp voices of women and children, endeavouring to quiet them; lights appeared, and the caravan stopped. They had evidently arrived at the halt, at which they were to pass the rest of the night.

The maiden cast an anxious but cautious look around her; but the flame of the torches agitated by the wind would not permit her to see anything but the dark outlines of some buildings and the shadows of several individuals who flitted about her, with cries and laughter – nothing more. The people of the escort were busily employed in unsaddling the horses and unloading the mules, amidst cries and oaths, and did not appear to bestow the least attention upon the young girl.

A considerable time passed away; Doña Rosario did not know to what to attribute this unaccountable forgetfulness. At length she felt that someone took the mule by the bridle, and she heard him shout in a hoarse voice, Arrea!– the word with which the arrieros are accustomed to excite their beasts. Had she, then, been deceived? Was it not here they were to stop? What was the meaning of the halt, then? Why did a portion of the escort leave her?

Her uncertainty was not of long duration; at the end of ten minutes at most, the mule stopped again, and the man who led it approached Doña Rosario. This man, clothed in the costume of the Chilian peasantry, wore an old straw Panama hat, the large brim of which, pulled down over his face, prevented her distinguishing his features. At the sight of this individual, the young girl felt an involuntary shudder run through her frame. The peasant, or pretended peasant, without addressing a word to her, withdrew the covering which enfolded her, untied the cord which bound her to the mule, and taking her in his arms, carried her with as much ease as if she had been a child, into a detached cabin a few paces distant, the door of which, standing open, seemed to invite them to enter.

The interior of this cabin was dark. The young girl was laid upon the ground with a care and attention she did not expect. At the moment when he let her sink softly down from his arms to the ground, the man bent his head down towards her, and in a voice as inaudible as a breath, he whispered, "Courage! and hope!" and recovering himself quickly, went hastily out of the cabin, closing the door after him.

As soon as he was gone, Doña Rosario sprang upon her feet. The two words pronounced by the unknown had sufficed to restore her presence of mind, and remove all her terrors. Hope, that universal panacea, that supreme good, which God, in His infinite mercy, has given to the unfortunate to help them to suffer, had suddenly re-entered her heart; she felt herself become strong, and ready to engage in the struggle with her unknown enemies. She knew now that a friend watched in secret over her, and, if required, his assistance would not be wanting; therefore it was almost with impatience, though still with fear, that she waited for her ravishers to signify their intentions.

The place in which she was confined was completely dark. At the first moment she in vain endeavoured to distinguish anything in this chaos; but, by degrees, her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and, in front of her, she perceived a faint light, which flitted between the badly-joined boards of a door. She then, with great precaution, for fear of arousing her invisible guardians, and stretching out her hand to keep her from contact with any obstacle she could not see, advanced cautiously, and listening attentively, towards the side from which came the light – a light which attracted her as instinctively as a flame attracts the imprudent moth whose wings it burns.

The nearer she approached, the more distinct the light became, and the sound of a voice reached her ears. At length her extended hands touched the door, and leaning forward, she applied her eye to the chink. She stifled a cry of surprise, and, as at that moment the conversation, which had been for a short time interrupted, recommenced, she listened with intensity.

CHAPTER XXXIII

ON THE WATCH

What she heard, but still more what she saw, necessarily powerfully interested Doña Rosario. In a vast room, dimly lighted by one of those yellow candles which the Chilians call velas de cebo, fastened to the wall by means of a ring, a woman, still young, and very handsome, attired in a riding dress of great richness, was seated on an ebony chair, covered with Cordova leather. With her right hand she played with a gold headed whip, and was speaking in an animated tone to a man who stood respectfully before her, hat in hand. This man, as well as Doña Rosario could make out, was the same who had carried her into the cuarto. The woman, whom Doña Rosario did not recollect ever to have seen, was no other than Doña Maria, the shameless courtesan, who, under the name of the Linda, enjoyed such a scandalous celebrity.

Doña Maria's position threw the light of the candle full upon her face, and gave Doña Rosario an opportunity of distinguishing her features. She contemplated them with deep interest, for she felt instinctively that this woman was the enemy who, from her birth, had fatally followed her steps. She imagined that a decisive conference between her and the unknown was about to take place, and that in a few minutes her fate would be made known to her. And yet, at the aspect of this woman, whose bent brows, clear and haughty look, coldly compressed lips, and cruel words, revealed with the hatred which devoured her, it was neither a feeling of terror, nor a feeling of hatred, that the young girl experienced. Without knowing why, a sadness and an undefined pity for the very woman who was giving orders that made her shudder, took possession of her. She listened breathlessly, fascinated, scarcely knowing whether what she heard was really true, and fancying herself at times under the influence of some terrible hallucination.

The two speakers, who knew not that they were either watched or overheard, resumed their conversation in an unrestrained voice. Doña Rosario, we may well suppose, did not lose a single word.

"How is it," said the Linda, "that Joan has not come? I expected him."

The man thus questioned cast a sharp look around him, and rolling up the broad brim of his hat in his fingers, replied with ill-dissembled embarrassment —

"Joan sent me in his place."

"And by what right," said the Linda, in a haughty tone, "does the fellow presume to confide to others the care of accomplishing the orders I give him?"

"Joan is my friend," the man replied.

"What are the ties that unite you to me: " she asked, contemptuously.

"The mission you charged him with is accomplished."

"Ay – but faithfully?"

"The woman is there," he said, pointing to the room in which Doña Rosario was; "during the journey she has spoken to nobody, and I can guarantee that she does not know to what place she has been brought."

At this assurance the look of Doña Maria softened a little, and it was in a less sharp and haughty tone she continued —

"But why did Joan give up his place to you?"

"Oh!" the man said with a feigned bluntness, belied by his cunning eye, "for a very simple reason; Joan is at this moment attracted towards the plain by the black eyes of the wife of a paleface, which sparkle like fireflies in the night. The woman's toldo is built in the country, near the toldería which you call, I think, Concepción. Although such conduct be unworthy of a warrior, his heart is flying constantly towards this woman, in spite of himself, and until he gain possession of her, he will never be in his senses."

"Well, then," the Linda interrupted, stamping her foot with vexation, "why does not the fool carry her off?"

"I proposed that to him."

"And what did he say?"

"He refused."

Doña Maria shrugged her shoulders with a smile of disdain. "Still," she remarked, "all that does not tell me who you are."

"I! I am an Ulmen in my tribe; a great warrior among the Puelches," he replied, proudly.

"Ah!" she said, with an air of satisfaction, "you are an Ulmen of the Puelches, are you? Good! then I can depend upon your fidelity."

"I am the friend of Joan," he remarked simply, with a respectful bow.

"Do you know the woman whom you have brought here?" the Linda asked, darting at him a mistrustful glance.

"How should I know her?"

"Are you ready to obey me in everything?"

"My obedience will depend on my sister; let her speak, and I will answer."

"This woman is my enemy," said the Linda.

"Must she die?" he asked, roughly, without lowering his eyes before the searching glances of the Linda.

"Oh, no!" she cried eagerly; "these Indians are brutes – they understand nothing of vengeance! What use would her death be to me? It is her life I want."

"Let my sister explain; I do not comprehend."

"Death! that is nothing but a few instants of suffering, then all is over."

"White death may be so, but an Indian death must be called for many hours before it answers."

"I wish her to live, I tell you!"

"She shall live. Ah!" he added, with a sigh, "the toldo of a chief is empty, its fires are extinguished."

"Oh! oh!" the Linda interrupted; "have you no wives?"

"They are dead."

"And where is your tribe at this moment?"

"Oh!" said the Indian, "far from here – ten suns' march, at least. I was returning to rejoin the warriors of my toldería, when Joan charged me with this mission."

There was a short silence, during which the Linda appeared to be reflecting. Doña Rosario redoubled her attention – she felt she was about to know her fate.

"And pray," Doña Maria resumed, fixing her keen eyes upon the Indian, "what great interest detained you on the plains near the seashore?"

"None; I came, as the other Ulmens did, to renew the treaties."

"Had you no other reasons?"

"None at all."

"Listen to me, chief. You have, doubtless, admired the four horses fastened at the gate of this house?"

"They are noble beasts," the Indian replied, his eyes glistening with the desire of possessing them.

"Well, it only depends upon yourself that I should give them to you."

"Oh! oh!" he cried, joyfully, "what must I do for that?"

"Obey me," said the Linda, with a smile.

"I will obey," he replied.

"Whatever I command you?"

"Whatever my sister commands."

"That is well; but remember what I am going to say to you. If you deceive me, my vengeance will be terrible – it will follow you everywhere."

"Why should I deceive my sister?"

"Because your Indian race is so constituted – astute and roguish, ever ready to betray."

A sinister flash gleamed from the downcast eye of the Puelche warrior; nevertheless, he replied in a calm tone —

"My sister is mistaken; the Araucanos are loyal."

"We shall see," she coldly remarked. "What is your name?"

"The Musk Rat."

"Very well; listen, Musk Rat, to what I am going to say."

"My ears are open."

"This woman, who, according to my orders, you brought here, must never again revisit the shores of the sea."

"She shall never see them again."

"I do not wish her to die – understand that; she must suffer," the Linda added, in a tone which made the unhappy girl tremble with fear.

"She shall suffer."

"Yes," said Doña Maria, with sparkling eyes, "I wish that, during a long course of years, she may suffer a martyrdom at every instant; she is young, she will have time to call upon death to deliver her from her misery before it deigns to listen to her. Beyond the mountains, far in the deserts, in the virgin forests of the Grou-Chaco, I am told that hordes of Indians exist who are ferocious and sanguinary, and bear a deadly hatred towards all of the white race."

"Yes," said the Puelche, in a melancholy tone, "I have heard of these men from the chiefs of my tribe; they live only for murder."

"That is it!" she said, with sinister delight. "Well, chief, do you think yourself able to traverse these vast deserts, and reach the Grou-Chaco?"

"Why should I not?" the Indian replied, raising his head proudly, "Do there exist obstacles strong enough to resist the Araucano warrior in his course? The puma is the king of the forests, the vulture that of the heavens; but the Aucas is the king of the puma and the eagle; the desert is his – Guatechu has given it to him; his horse and his lance render him invincible and master of immensity."

"Then my brother will accomplish this journey, which is impossible?"

A disdainful smile played for an instant round the lips of the savage warrior.

"I will accomplish it," he said.

"Good! my brother is a chief – I perceive he is one now."

The Puelche bowed modestly.

"My brother will go there, then, and when he arrives in the Chaco, he will sell the pale girl to the Guayacuras."

The Indian did not allow any mark of astonishment to be perceived upon his face.

"I will sell her," he replied.

"That is well! – my brother will be faithful?"

"I am a chief; I have but one word, my tongue is not forked; but why should I take this pale woman so far?"

Doña Maria cast a penetrating glance at him – a suspicion crossed her mind – the Indian perceived it.

"I only made a simple observation to my sister; it concerns me little, and she need not answer me if she does not think proper," he said, with indifference.

The brow of the Linda became serene again.

"The remark is just, chief; I will answer it. Why take her so far, you asked me; because Antinahuel loves this woman – his heart is softened by her – and perhaps he will suffer himself to be moved by her prayers, and restore her to her family. But it shall not happen; she shall weep tears of blood; her heart shall break under the incessant pangs of grief; she shall lose everything, even hope!"

After uttering these words, Doña Maria arose, with head erect, sparkling eyes, and extended arm; there was in her aspect something fatal and terrible, which terrified even the Indian, by nature so difficult to move.

"Go," she cried, in a tone of command, "before she departs for ever, I will see this woman once – only once, and speak with her for a few minutes; she shall at least know me: bring her hither!"

The Indian went out silently; this woman, so beautiful and so cruel, terrified him – she inspired him with horror.

Doña Rosario, on hearing this atrocious sentence pronounced against her, fell senseless to the ground.

CHAPTER XXXIV

FACE TO FACE

The door of the cuarto in which Doña Rosario was confined was thrown open, and the Puelche warrior appeared; he held in his hand a rude earthen lamp, the flame of which, although feeble, sufficed to distinguish objects. He had replaced his shabby hat upon his head, and its wide brim served as a mask to his features.

"Come with me!" he said, in a rough voice, to the maiden.

Conscious of the inutility of a resistance which could only be dangerous to her amidst the bandits who surrounded her, and bowing her head with resignation, she followed her guide in silence. Doña Maria had resumed her place in the ebony chair; with arms crossed, and her head hanging upon her bosom, she was buried in dark meditations. At the slight noise made by the footsteps of the young lady, she drew herself up, a flash of hatred gleamed from her dark eyes, and with, a gesture she commanded the Indian to retire. The Puelche obeyed.

The two women examined each other intensely; their looks crossed; the hawk and the dove were face to face. A deathlike silence reigned in the apartment; at intervals the wind came in gusts and dismal moanings, through the ill-joined boards of the doors, shook the old building to its foundation, and agitated the flame of the only candle that illumined the vast gloomy room in which the two women were. After a sufficiently long pause, the Linda, who, with that instinct which women possess in such a high degree, had examined in detail, one by one, the numerous beauties of the charming girl who stood pale and trembling before her, at length spoke —

"Yes," she said, in a hollow voice, as if speaking to herself, and overcome by the evidence of the fact, "yes, this girl is beautiful; she has everything to make her an object of love – to see her must be to love her; well, this beauty, which up to this time has been her joy and her pride, grief shall wither rapidly; before one year has passed away I am resolved that she shall become an object of pity and contempt for all. Oh!" she added, in a piercing, shrill voice, "I have her at length within the power of my vengeance!"

"What have I done to you, madam, that you should hate me thus?" the maiden asked, in a plaintive voice, the sweet and melodious accent of which would have softened anyone but her to whom she spoke.

"What have you done to me, silly creature?" the Linda cried, bounding up like a wounded lioness, and placing herself close in front of Doña Rosario – "what have you done to me?" and then added, with a loud laugh – "Ah! ah! that's true, you have done nothing to me!"

"Alas, madam! I do not even know you; this is the first time I have been in your presence; I, a poor young girl, whose life to the present time has passed away in retirement – how can I have offended you?"

"Yes, I allow it," the Linda replied; "you have done nothing to me; and, personally, as you have just said, I have nothing to reproach you with; but, by making you suffer, learn that it is upon him I avenge myself."

"I do not understand what you mean, madam," the maiden said, simply.

"Senseless fool, do not play with the lioness who is ready to devour you, or pretend to feign an ignorance of which I am not the dupe; if you have not already divined my name, I will tell it you – I am Doña Maria, whom they call the Linda – do you understand me now?"

"Not more than I did before, madam," replied Doña Rosario, with an accent of frankness that shook the belief of her persecutor, in spite of herself; "I have never even heard that name."

"Can that be true?" she cried, doubtingly.

"I swear it is."

Doña Linda strode about the apartment with long, hasty steps. Doña Rosario, more and more astonished, looked stealthily at this woman, without being able to account to herself for the emotion which her presence, and the sound of her voice, caused her to experience; it was not fear, still less was it joy, but an incomprehensible mixture of sadness, joy, pity, and terror; an undefinable feeling, which, far from creating repulsion, drew her towards a woman whose odious projects were no secret to her, and from whom she knew she had so much to dread. Singular sympathy; what Doña Rosario felt towards the Linda, the Linda felt towards Doña Rosario: in vain she called to her aid the remembrance of all the wrongs with which she fancied she had to reproach the man whom she wished to strike in the person of the young girl; in the innermost recesses of her heart, a voice, which constantly gained strength, spoke to her in favour of the maiden whom she was about to sacrifice to her hatred; the more she endeavoured to overcome this sentiment, for which she could not account, the more powerless she found her efforts become; at length, she was on the point of being softened.

"Oh!" she murmured, passionately, "what is going on within me? Am I weak enough to allow myself to be subdued by the tears of that paltry creature?"

Like Indian warriors, who, when fastened to the stake of blood, sing their own exploits to encourage them to endure bravely the tortures which their executioners silently prepare, the Linda recalled the maddening remembrance of all the outrages Don Tadeo had loaded her with; and with flashing eyes and trembling lips, she stopped short in front of Doña Rosario.

"Listen to me, girl," she said, in a voice which passion caused to tremble, "this is the first and last time we shall be in the presence of each other; and you shall know why I bear you such hatred. What you will learn will be hereafter, perhaps, a consolation to you, and help you to bear with courage the miseries I reserve for you," she added, with the laugh of a demon.

"I will listen to you, madam," Rosario replied, meekly, "although I am certain that what you are about to say cannot, in any sense, render me guilty with respect to you."

"Do you think so?" the Linda said, in a tone of ironical compassion; "well, then, listen; we have time to talk, as you will not leave this place for an hour."

This allusion to her approaching departure made the poor girl shudder, by recalling to her all that the departure threatened.

"A woman," the Linda continued, "a young and beautiful woman, more beautiful than you, fragile child of cities, whom the least storm bends like a weak reed – a woman, I say, had for love married a man, also young, and handsome as the evil angel before his fall, who with perfidiously golden words, by opening before her immense and unknown horizons, had so seduced her, the poor, poor girl, that in a few days he induced her to abandon stealthily the roof which had sheltered her infancy, and to which her aged father in vain recalled her up to the day of his death, that he might bless and pardon her."