The situation of our Maroon was one of considerable
difficulty. There was no pretext by which he
could avoid the contemplated exploration of his islet
by the woman who was the mistress of his fate, and,
as she naturally enough assumed, of his affections also.
What had she not perilled for those affections? The
conviction of her own sacrifices—the belief that she
had saved him from a cruel destiny, and that he felt
the profoundest gratitude for her love—had rendered
her more subdued, and gentle of tone and carriage,
than he had ever before seen her. She had no longer
to contend with the brutal passions of Velasquez or
the subtle and insolent spirit of his nephew. There
was no influence now to combat her imperious will,
and to oppose itself to the exercise of her own passions.
She had won the fearful game for which she
had played, and she might well give herself a brief
respite after the contest. The sweet and balmy climate
of the islet, the picturesque beauty of its aspects—
its delicious fruits—the novelty of such an abode—
and, above all, that romantic passion for solitude—

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with a companion—which accompanies the fresher
sensibilities of youth—all tended to excite in Maria
de Pacheco the desire which she expressed, at least, to
dream away a single night on the lonely domain of
the Maroon. Her early career in the haunts of
the gypsy, was recalled to memory; and she longed to
realize anew, the wild sense of pleasure which her
passionate childhood had felt, dreaming beneath the
arch of heaven, and gazing away long lapses of the
night, in mute communion with the sadly bright, down-looking
stars. Here, in a solitude which her lover
had maintained for near a month, she might surely
rest one night in safety. The boat might return to
the ship—nay, should return, and she should share,
for that night, with Lopez, the sovereignty of the
island.

“They shall maroon me also, Lopez.”

“They may!” was his suggestion.

“Nay, I fear not. Linares is faithful to me. He
cannot well do without me.”

“But he may be blown off with a tempest. They
are fierce and sudden in these latitudes, and terrible
in proportion to the beauty and serenity of the calmness
now.”

“Well, Linares will come back for us.”

“But, should he founder?”

“We, then, are safe, Lopez!”

The answer silenced him for awhile. But he renewed
the attempt—more cautiously, but with such
suggestions as might have influenced his own nature.
He described to her the unwonted terrors which had

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assailed him in his first acquaintance with the island.
The lowing of strange beasts of the sea, which sometimes
came to sleep by night upon the shore;—the
screams of unknown birds of great expanse of wing
and power, glimpses of which he caught, rising and
descending, as from the stars, at midnight;—the awful
plunges of wild monsters, from the shore into the
sea, and the bellowing of whole tribes of strange animals,
whose uproar seemed to shake the islet itself.
But these rather provoked the curiosity than the alarm
of the fearless woman. The novelty of such sights
and sounds precluded the images of terror which he
sought to raise. She declared the very loneliness
which still made him shudder, to be a consciousness
highly desirable to her heart; and as for the great
birds and beasts—she had seen the elephant, and had
heard the lion roar in his own desert of Sahara; and
the very safety of her lover was a sufficient proof that
she could be in no peril. Her will proved superior
to his fears. The boat was filled with fruit, and sent
back to the ship, and Linares was entreated to lay his
vessel at anchor for the night, when the two would
come on board in the morning.

To keep Maria from the cave, was now the object
of the Maroon;—to prolong his ramble until nightfall,
among the groves, and along the sea-shore—and,
in the night, while she slept, to steal away from her side—
regain the cave, repossess himself of his treasure, and
soothe the fears and the suspicions of Amaya, so that
he might abandon her in safety, and without detection
by the woman whom he most feared;—this was the

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notable scheme which he suddenly devised, when he
found that Maria was fixed in her purpose of remaining
on the islet. To leave his treasure was out of the
question. But for this treasure he had not cared to
leave the place. He was really very happy with the
Indian damsel—might have been completely happy
but for the dowry which she brought, and which filled
him with the proudest fancies of the figure that he
should make in Spain. To say that he had no compunctious
visitings of conscience at the thought of her
abused devotion—of his so soon and cruel abandonment
of one who so thoroughly confided to his affections—
would be to do him great injustice. But the
sympathies of the heart, unless sustained and strengthened
by a decisive will of the intellect, are never long
to be relied on. They are at the mercy of every
mind, who brings to its support a resolute and earnest
character. Lopez was humbled when he thought of
Amaya, but his remedy was to dismiss her from his
thoughts with all possible rapidity. He was compelled
to do so, for his companion required all his attentions.

We shall say nothing of her shows of fondness.
Maria de Pacheco was not feeble or childish—not
wanton, indeed—in the display of her attachments.
She was too proud for the exhibition of love in its
weakness and dependence. But she indulged the
mood somewhat after the fashion of the Sultana
of the East. She willed to love, and to be loved, and
she required obedience. It was necessary that Lopez
should prove that he was not ungrateful for the risks
which she had run, and the sacrifices which she had

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made, in his behalf. It was needful that his attachment
should be as fond, and his behavior as dutiful, as it
had been before the unfortunate discovery which had
placed them both at the mercy of Juan. That he
was reluctant, or forgetful in any respect, Maria was
not suffered to perceive. Excited as she was by her
own emotions—the consciousness of a great battle
fought, and a triumph gained—the last trophies of
which were now in her hands—she, perhaps, would
have been slow to detect the wandering mood and the
indifferent manner of her companion, even if he had
betrayed either. But the timid nature is always solicitous
how it alarms or offends the bold one; and on
the score of his devotedness, Maria beheld nothing,
as yet, to occasion her jealousy. But his will, which
kept him observant of her moods, was not sufficient
to prescribe to her the course to be pursued, or to arrest
her eager progress. Her impetuous spirit hurried
her forward; and the ground which—feeling his way at
every step—it had taken Lopez several days to traverse,
when he first undertook to explore his territory—
was now overcome in a few hours. Vainly did he
seek to detain her gaze—to arrest her progress, and
inspire in her an admiration of objects which had never
once fixed his own. His artifices, though never suspected,
were always fruitless. She still made fearful
progress. The sea-shore was abandoned, the cool
groves received them, the plain rose beneath her footsteps—
they were already upon the slopes of that elevation,
at the extremity of which lay the secret and
the treasure of the Maroon. He looked back in

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terror for the sun. His round red orb still shone
high and proudly in the heavens; and it was with
equal wonder and self-reproach that Lopez remembered
how long it was before his timid spirit had suffered
him to compass the same extent of territory. The
paths naturally opened for her footsteps. They had
often been traversed by his own; and it was with a
mortal fear that Lopez momently caught glimpses of
the small, naked footstep of Amaya, on the softer
sands, as she had wandered beside him in their rambles.
But these were never seen by Maria de Pacheco. The
earnest and intense nature seldom pauses for the small
details in progress. Her proud spirit was always
upward as well as onward—always above the earth.
She threw herself suddenly down beneath the thicket.
There was a pause. Our Maroon enjoyed a brief
respite from his terrors. He threw himself beside
her, and her eyes closed in his embrace. To a fierce
and intense nature such as hers, there is something
delicious in the pauses of the strife, but it is only because
they are momentary. The rest from conquest
is perhaps the only real luxury of enthusiasm;—but
the interval is brief, and is simply designed to afford
a renewal of the vitality necessary for continued action.

“How sweet, how beautiful, is the repose of sky,
and shore, and sea! What a delicious languor of atmosphere
is this!”—and a moment after speaking thus,
Maria de Pacheco shook off her own languor, and was
once more upon her feet.

“Will she now return to the shore—to the palms

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where I told her I had slept?” Such was the secret
inquiry of his heart. She had no such purpose. Her
curiosity was still unsatisfied. Besides, to walk simply
upon the solid earth, after weeks on shipboard, is itself
a luxury. The sun was still high, and bright,
though sloping gradually to the sea. The step of
Maria was taken forward, and Lopez followed, like a
criminal, with reluctant footsteps, as if going to execution.
They stood at length on the brow of the hill,
which looked over to the Caribbean shore. The abrupt
precipice arrested her farther progress, and she stood
gazing with eager satisfaction upon the small, snug,
and lovely domain of the Maroon.