CHAPTER I.
“Nature did
Design us to be warriors, and to break through our ring, the sea, by which we
are environed; and we, by force, must fetch in what is wanting, or precious to us.”
Massinger.
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It is the province of romance, even more decidedly than history,
to recall the deeds and adventures of the past. It is to fiction
that we must chiefly look for those living and breathing creations
which history quite too unfrequently deigns to summon to her
service. The warm atmosphere of present emotions, and present
purposes, belongs to the dramatis personœ of art; and she
is never so well satisfied in showing us human performances, as
when she betrays the passions and affections by which they were
dictated and endured. It is in spells and possessions of this
character, that she so commonly supersedes the sterner muse
whose province she so frequently invades; and her offices are
not the less legitimate, as regards the truthfulness of things in
general, than are those of history, because she supplies those details
which the latter, unwisely as we think, but too commonly,
holds beneath her regard. In the work before us, however, it is
our purpose to slight neither agency. We shall defer to each of
them, in turn, as they may be made to serve a common purpose.
They both appeal to our assistance, and equally spread their possessions
beneath our eyes. We shall employ, without violating,
the material resources of the Historian, while seeking to endow
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them with a vitality which fiction only can confer. It is in pursuit
of this object that we entreat the reader to suppose the backward
curtain withdrawn, unveiling, if only for a moment, the
aspects of a period not so remote as to lie wholly beyond our
sympathies. We propose to look back to that dawn of the sixteenth
century; at all events, to such a portion of the historical
landscape of that period, as to show us some of the first sunny
gleams of European light upon the savage dominions of the
Western Continent. To review this epoch is, in fact, to survey
the small but impressive beginnings of a wondrous drama in
which we, ourselves, are still living actors. The scene is almost
within our grasp. The names of the persons of our narrative
have not yet ceased from sounding in our ears; and the theatre
of performance is one, the boards of which, even at this moment,
are echoing beneath their mighty footsteps. Our curiosity and
interest may well be awakened for awhile, to an action, the fruits
of which, in some degree, are inuring to our present benefit.
It is just three hundred years, since, in the spring season of the
year of Grace, one thousand five hundred and thirty-eight, the
infant city of Havana resounded with the tread of one of the
noblest bodies of Spanish chivalry that ever set foot in our Western
hemisphere. That gay and gallant cavalier, Hernando De
Soto—equally the courtier and the soldier—having won wealth,
no less than fame, under Francis Pizarro in Peru, had now resolved
upon an independent enterprise, in another region, for himself.
This enterprise, in the extravagant expectations of that
period, promised to be of even more magnificent results than
those of his great predecessor and companion, already distinguished
by his sovereign as the Adelantado of Florida.
Florida—that wondrous terra incognita, which, for so long a
time, led the European imagination astray—our ambitious cavalier
was now busied in making the grandest preparations for its
conquest. A thousand soldiers, many of whom were of the
noblest blood of Spain and Portugal, had assembled at Havana
for this enterprise, swelling his train with a strength which promised
to make certain all his anticipations. More than one third
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of this brilliant force—for such it was, if we compare it with the
small and ill-organized bands which were usually deemed sufficient
for the conflict with the Indian races of America—consisted
of cavalry;—belted knights, brave soldiers, already practised in
the wars of Mexico and Peru, and young, hopeful gallants, of high
blood, who had their fortunes to make, and who had expended
the last remains of their patrimony in the decorations, for this
enterprise, of their steeds and persons. The rest were stout bowmen
and arquebusiers,—men of tough sinews, and morals quite
as tough—rude, sturdy, desperate, in doublets of quilted cotton,
which were only not quite impenetrable to an Indian arrow.
Well might the ambitious spirit of Hernando de Soto become confident
of success as he reviewed his squadrons. Their numbers,
their manly vigor, their ardent enthusiasm, the splendor of their
armor, the admirable horsemanship of his cavaliers—all tended
to assure him of his future triumphs; neither Cortez nor Pizarro
had been half so fortunate in such an equipment; and our adelantado,
as he surveyed his forces, became impatient of the hour
when he should dart upon the conquest which he already regarded
as secure. Compelled, however, to await the tardy process of
getting ships and stores in readiness, he enlivened the interval of
delay, by exercising his gallants in all the military and social
amusements in which they took delight. While in Cuba, moved
by the policy of winning to his banner the wealth and enterprise
of the island, he cheerfully encouraged his knights and captains
to engage in all those exercises of chivalry which could possibly
beguile the affections of the people. The days were accordingly
consumed in tilts and tournaments, bull-fights, and other manly
sports. The nights were yielded to balls and masquerades, in
which the victor of the morning but too commonly found himself
vanquished by the feeblest as well as fairest of his foes. The
Spaniard, naturally a person of parade and pomp, but too frequently
sacrificed the substance of a life to the shadow which his
fancy loved. The resources of an entire household were sometimes
exhausted in making gay the graceful figure of its young
cadet. Beauty necessarily strove, with equal ardor, to render her
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taste and treasure appropriate auxiliaries to her natural charms;
and thus it was that the brief interval during which our adventurers
lingered in the island, after reaching it from Spain, passed
like a dream of enchantment—one of those fairy tales of pleasure
that we read of in the romances of Arabia. But the time was
fast approaching when these gay scenes of pleasure—the relaxations
and the mimicry of war—were to give place to its absolute
and hard realities. The arrangements of our adelantado were at
length nearly completed. The ships had taken in most of their
stores, and two of them had been already dispatched with the
view to a better exploration of the coast of Florida, and in search
of a fitting harbor for the descent of the armament. But a few
weeks—perhaps days—would elapse, and the little city would
sink into its ancient dullness and repose. The sad thought of
separation from such delights as had been enjoyed by all parties,
could only be dissipated by renewed efforts at enjoyment.
Gloomy reflections were only to be banished by fresh indulgences;
and, duly, as the time lessened for delay, the plans and
schemes for pleasure were hurriedly increased. The young damsels
of Cuba put forth all their attractions to arrest the fugitive
hearts whose heroic influences had but too much touched their
own; and more than one brave cavalier was found to hesitate as
the time drew nigh for his departure. His imagination painfully
contrasted the pleasures which he enjoyed, with the toils and
perils which were in prospect. Care and anxiety naturally followed
such comparisons; and, though the sports of the island were
not forborne until the armament had fairly taken its departure,
yet were they felt to be more or less deeply shadowed by the
consciousness of the change which was at hand. The song was
growing much less lively than at first—the tinkle of the guitar
less frequent and merry—the voice of the singer more subdued,
while the tremulous sighs that mingled with its strain, and formed
its tender echo and fitting accompaniment, bore evidence quite as
frequently of the really saddened fancy, as of the beguiling artifice
of the fair musician.
The cares of Hernando de Soto were of a different character.
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Though wedded to one of the most lovely of all the beauties of
Spain,—a princely dame, of family quite as distinguished as her
charms,—it was not the tender passion which disturbed his
fancies. Love satisfied—the early gush of youthful ardor lulled
to rest by gratification—and ambition, that sterner passion which
more particularly inspires the bosom of the matured man,
superseding all others, except avarice, took possession of his soul,
swaying it with little interruption or interval. He was only
anxious to be gone on his path of triumph; and every event
which was calculated to delay his departure was an additional
source of anxiety, and even bitterness. Of these delays, the
causes were frequent. The very sports and pleasures which he
encouraged sometimes embarrassed the toils of his subordinates
while diminishing his own resources, and the shows of reluctance
and hesitation on the part of some of his favorite officers, together
with certain awkward domestic occurrences, at which it is only
necessary that we should glance in passing, rendered active all
that was irritable and unamiable in his temper and deportment.
It is our fortune to place him before our readers at a moment
which found him particularly ruffled by the misconduct of one
favorite cavalier, and the expected falling off of another. In a
private chamber of the Governor's palace,—for he was Governor-General
of Cuba, as well as Adelantado of Florida,—he holds in
close conference one of his chief advisers. Hernando de Soto
was at this time about thirty-six years of age, in the very prime
of manhood, healthy, vigorous, accomplished, graceful in carriage,
commanding in deportment; above the middle height, of a
countenance dark and animated, and with a large and fiery eye.
Of noble family, a gentleman “by all four descents,” as was
the phrase, he had yet gone forth as a mere adventurer on the
conquest of Peru. There he had proved his personal merits to
be superior to those of birth; ranking next to Pizarro himself in
the use of lance and sword, and particularly distinguished by his
wonderful excellence in horsemanship. He might have retired in
ease and affluence on the wealth and reputation which he acquired in
Peru, but that the master passion of his soul forbade the sacrifice
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of endowments, of strength, skill and courage, which were too
precious and too conspicuous to be consigned to inactivity. It
was a fate that brought him once more from his native country
in search of greater distinctions than he had yet acquired, in a
perilous strife with the fierce natives that occupied the melancholy
wastes of Florida.
His companion, at the moment when we seek to present him
to the reader, was a person of a very different mood and character.
Don Balthazar de Alvaro was a cold, dark, and somewhat
ostentatious hidalgo,—a man of passions rather more intense
than fierce,—subtle, yet tenacious,—capable of secret vices, yet
equally capable of concealing them,—a prudent man, in the
worldly signification of the term, yet a profligate in every better
sense. But he outraged few external proprieties. He had the
cunning of the serpent, without the dove's innocence, and possessed
the art of hiding the fang and venom from discovery, even
at the moment when he most harbored and prepared both faculties
for use. He had been for ten years a resident of the island,
was a man of large estates, and larger enterprises, with involvements
more than corresponding with the former, and such as
might well be supposed to follow from a somewhat reckless
indulgence of the latter. He was now forty-five years of age,
and remarkably erect and vigorous, had frequently distinguished
himself in war with the Indians, and it surprised nobody in that
day that he should eagerly prepare to embark his fortunes with
those of Hernando de Soto. The public voice imputed to him
and other cavaliers no higher ambition in undertaking this enterprise
than the capture of such a number of red-men of the
continent as would enable them to stock with slaves their vast
landed estates in Cuba. Don Balthazar was a widower, without
family, save in the person of a single niece, the only child of a
brother, who, with his wife, had been dead for several years. The
child had been thrown upon the care of her uncle from an early
period. She was now seventeen, with considerable estates of her
own, upon which it was shrewdly conjectured that her uncle had
trespassed frequently, and with no light hand. She was as beautiful
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as young,—a tall, majestic woman, with pale but highly expressive
features, a deep, dark eye, full of tenderness and thought, with
an expression of melancholy in her countenance, which seemed
rather to heighten than disparage the eminent beauty of her face.
We shall see and hear more of her hereafter.
While the two cavaliers conferred together, De Soto paced the
apartment with an air of much vexation and anxiety. He showed
himself deeply chafed with matters, the discussion of which had
evidently occupied for some time before the thoughts and feelings
of the two. Don Balthazar kept in a sitting posture; he watched
the movements of his superior with eyes that sometimes gleamed
with a sinister expression. This seemed to show him not wholly
dissatisfied with the annoyances of the other; a slight smile at
moments played about his mouth,—but these were not allowed
to attract the notice of De Soto, who broke into speech occasionally
in regard to the subject of his vexation.
“Methinks, Don Balthazar, you make too light of this mischief!
You forget that it was to the particular care of my wife
that the Count de Gomera confided his daughter. What if she
were a natural child?—did he love her the less? Was she the
less honored by the people under her father's government? You
say that she had the mother's weakness! All women are weak;
and that she should yield when man persuades, is due rather to her
nature than to the vices in her heart. Her security is in our justice,
and if that fails, she fails also. But Leonora de Bovadilla should
have had additional securities in my household; and I hold it as an
outrage on myself, scarcely to be forgiven, with any atonement
made, that one of my own trusted Lieutenants should have been
the first to abuse these securities. It is a wrong done to my
wife's honor and mine own, which, but for the responsibilities of
this expedition, would impel me to punish the transgressor with
lance and sword, and compel him to make the last atonement
with his blood!”
“It is better that he should make atonement by marrying the
girl,” was the reply of the other. “I trow, it shall better please
one of the parties at least.”
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“It shall please them both! He shall marry her, or he makes
of me such an enemy as shall make death itself a desirable release
to him from punishment.”
“He is prepared for this,” said the other. “Let your anger
cool. Saving the offence to yourself and your honorable lady,
there will be no wrong done to the damsel. He will repair the
breach in her condition, and make an honest woman of her; so
that no one shall have reason to complain. Nuno de Tobar is a
free gallant. What he hath done hath not been of purpose, but
in the warmth of a passion, that has rather found its countenance
in the easy nature of the damsel herself,—perhaps in her own
willingness,—”
“Nay, nay; I will not have it so, Don Balthazar,” was the
impetuous response of De Soto;—“this is too much thy irreverent
way of speaking where woman is concerned. The virtue
and modesty of the Lady Leonora were above reproach.”
“Well, I mean not harm, your Excellency; we speak of
women as we have found them. It has been your fortune to
meet only with such as are pure; but I—”
“Let it pass, Señor,” was the interruption. “Thou wilt see
Nuno de Tobar, and teach him my desires—my demands. Let
him marry the Lady Leonora without delay. Myself and the
Lady Isabella shall grace the nuptials, which shall not be slighted.
There shall be state in the arrangements, such as becomes the
daughter of the Count de Gomera; such as becomes a lady in
the guardianship of my wife. I will give him no countenance till
this be done! I will not see him till the moment when he unites
his hand with the maiden he hath wronged, under the sanction of
the Holy Church.”
The speaker was suddenly answered from another quarter,—
“Alas! your Excellency, but the offender must again trespass,
and again rely upon your generous nature in the hope for pardon,”
said the voice of a third person, who entered the door of
the chamber at this moment.
“How now, Señor! wast thou not forbidden this presence?”
demanded De Soto, angrily. The intruder was the offending
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cavalier, Nuno de Tobar, whose liaison with the fair charge of the
adelantado had formed the subject of the preceding conference.
No more graceful or superb cavalier had ever found favor in the
eyes of woman; and, as now, with a softened demeanor, with the
air of a man conscious of offence, and sincerely regretting it, he
entered the presence of his superior, his frank and ingenuous
countenance, his noble though modest carriage, insensibly won
upon the mood of De Soto, and prepared him to listen patiently
to the apologies of the offender.
“I have erred,” he continued, “and I crave pardon for my
offence. I will make all the amendment in my power. Unhappily,
I can make but little —”
“Thou wilt wed with the Lady Leonora?”
“That were no atonement, your highness, since I shall esteem
it rather a reward for services yet to be performed, that you confer
upon me a prize the most precious to my fancy. That the
Lady Leonora has suffered me to know what is the power which
my heart exercises upon hers, rather commends her to my love,
than lessens the value which I set upon her. Believe me, Señor,
that, in giving me this lady, you offer the most powerful motives
to my courage and fidelity, in the progress which lies before us,
in the deep forests of the Floridian.”
This was so gracefully said that De Soto was disarmed. He
was only too glad of the opportunity, thus afforded him, by the
readiness of the offender to repair his misconduct, to take once
more into favor one of the most accomplished gallants in his
train.
“I have been angry with thee, Nuno de Tobar, but thy heart
has not meant to offend. Away with thee, then; I forgive thee!
See, if thy lady-love shall so readily forgive thee, in making her
ready to attend thee to the altar. Thou shalt be duly warned
of the time when it shall please my wife to see thee wedded to
thine. Meanwhile, prepare thee with all dispatch, for there must
be no needless delays in our expedition. Our departure is at
hand.”
Some farther conference ensued between the parties, and
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when the young cavalier had left the presence, which he did without
rendering necessary the commands of his superior, De Soto
resumed as follows:
“This passeth my hope! I had feared a struggle with the hot
passions of this youth. Few men tolerate compulsion in affairs
of love; still fewer the necessity of an alliance with the thing
they have dishonored. Strange that we should be so heedful of
a stain which is of our own making: but verily such is man's
nature. That Nuno de Tobar is so easy in this matter,—though
it likes me as repairing the shame of the Lady Leonora, and relieving
me of some of the trouble in my path,—yet somewhat
lessens him in my favor. He seemeth to me rather heedless on
the point of honor.”
“Nay, your excellency is now unreasonable,” was the answer
of Don Balthazar; “Nuno de Tobar is a philosopher somewhat
after my own fashion. He hath made no large calculation upon
the sex; therefore he shall not suffer greatly from experience
hereafter. Thou wilt do well to suffer him to see no diminution
of thy favor. Hast thou not declared him thy lieutenant-general?
Wilt thou revoke thy trust? If thou dost, the offence were more
grievous than the command which weds him to this damsel.
That were not so readily forgiven. Trust me, he is one to
resent a wrong done to his ambition, where he might submit to
one inflicted on his heart.”
“It may be so,” was De Soto's answer to this suggestion,
“yet I have resolved that he goes no longer as my lieutenant-general.
I think of this office for another. It shall certainly be
his no longer. He shall win his way to favor ere he gains it.
What thinkest thou of Vasco Porcallo for this station?”
“Does he join the expedition?” inquired the other.
“Will such an appointment fail to persuade him to the enterprise?
Such is the bait which I have passed before his eyes.”
“His treasures are an object, surely!”
“He is brave also, and full of spirit.”
“But he is old and capricious! a single skirmish with the red-men
will suffice for his ambition.”
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“Be it so; but he shall have made his investments! His castellanoes
will have embarked in the expedition. These are not
easily recalled. He may retire from toils which are too great
for his years; but what shall restore him his gold when it shall
have been expended in the enterprise?”
De Soto had made his calculations shrewdly. One of his
vices—the greatest—was avarice. This impaired the dignity
and virtue of his ambition. Don Balthazar was soon persuaded
to see, in the argument of the adelantado, good reasons for confirming
the office of lieutenant-general on the rich hidalgo, Vasco
Porcallo de Figueroa, and for deposing from it the poor but gallant
young cavalier who had so grievously offended. The subject,
however, was soon dismissed, to give way to another of considerable
interest to both the parties. But, for the discussion of this,
we reserve ourselves for a fresh chapter, as it will need the presence
of another of the persons of our drama.
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CHAPTER II.
“Go, Philostrate,
Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments;
Awake the pert and risible spirit of mirth;
Turn melancholy forth to funeral;
The pale companion is not for our pomp.”
—Shakspeare.
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“Have you sounded these Portuguese brothers, as I counselled
you?” was the inquiry of De Soto.
The brow of Don Balthazar slightly darkened as he answered:
“It is not easy to sound them. They are suspicious and resentful.
The jealousies of our people have made them so; and
you have been able to offer them no position. I should have
preferred, were this possible, that one of them should have this
very office you propose to confer upon Vasco Porcallo.”
“That is out of the question.”
“I feel it; and yet, beyond the hope of profit, which is felt
by the commonest arquebusier in the army, what is the motive
for the enterprise on the part of these brothers? They are both
young and noble—ambitious and full of valor. Their followers
are few, it is true, but they will make good fight; and really, the
abilities of the elder brother, Philip de Vasconselos, are probably
of greater value than those of any of your cavaliers. The
companion of De Vaça, he hath traversed all these wilds of Florida,
and probably knoweth all the secrets of which De Vaça made
such glorious boast and mystery Besides, he speaks and understands
the language of the natives; an advantage of which it
is difficult to measure the importance. Of his valor and conduct
we have sufficient testimony of our own eyes, even if the
evidence of other witnesses were wanting; De Vaça himself
spoke of him as one of the most prudent and valiant of his
cavaliers.”
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“All this, I wot,” answered the other impatiently, “but what
of thy mission? what mean they by the reserve which seeks
me not, and the change of mood which makes them declare
themselves doubtful whether or not to proceed upon the enterprise?”
“They have spoken somewhat of the evident dislike and
jealousies of certain of our knights, to say nothing of the rude
disfavor of the common soldiers.”
“This alone should show them how impossible it would be to
give them command over our Spaniards. Are they not satisfied
of this?”
“Yet doth it also afford sufficient reason why they should be
unwilling to proceed in any enterprise with companions so unreasonable,
for whom they will peril life and fortune, and from
whom they can expect nothing in return.”
“And thou hast gathered nothing further from thy inquiries
into this matter? Hath nothing occurred to thy own thought
and observation to add force to the difficulty which thou hast
seen so clearly, and which thou hold'st so weighty? Bethink
thee, Don Balthazar, hast thou not a niece, a damsel lovely as
any that ever blossomed in bright Castile? These knights of
Portugal have looked upon the maiden with eyes of love? Ha!
Is't not so? Dost thou not see it?”
The brow of the person addressed again darkened as this
suggestion met his ears. His lips might be seen more closely to
contract together. He was about to speak when the rustling of
silken garments at the entrance announced a new visitor; and
the door opened, a moment after, for the admission of the lady
of the adelantado. Both knights approached her as she appeared,
with shows of the most profound deference.
“Am I permitted to attend these solemn councils?” was the
inquiry of the noble lady as she passed into the apartment; her
voice softly attuned to the playful question, and her lips parting
with the sweetest smiles.
“To one who so admirably unites the wisdom of the one,
with the virtues of the other sex—the strength and dignity of
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manhood with the grace and loveliness of woman—counsel herself
must willingly incline her ear. We were foes to wisdom
did we refuse to hearken to the words of her best favorite.”
The stately compliment, so perfectly Spanish, was from the
lips of Don Balthazar, upon whom the lady smiled most
sweetly, not wholly insensible, it would seem, to the honeyed
flattery.
“Now, verily,” exclaimed De Soto, who beheld the expression
in her face; “now, verily, hath this politician won thy
whole heart by the silliest speech. He is like the cunning knave
who possesseth counterfeit castellanoes, who, knowing their just
worthlessness, yet circulates them for the value which they derive
only from the ignorance of him who receives. He hath put
his copper trinket upon thee, and will look for the golden one in
return, even as we look to our Floridian savage for the precious
metals, in exchange for others, which are as dear to his eyes, as
despicable in ours. Is it not so, my lady? And yet, if thou art
thus easily put upon, what shall be my security, leaving the
government of Cuba in thy hands?”
“Oh! fear nothing, my lord; I shall ere long become schooled
in all the subtleties of thy politicians, so that thy government
shall have no wrong during thy absence. Be not deceived, my
good lord, in the supposed estimate which our sex makes of the
flatteries of thine. We receive the coin that thou offerest, not
because we overvalue it or esteem it very highly, but simply as
we know that it is quite too commonly the most precious which
ye have to offer. Were sincerity one of the virtues of the man,
we should perhaps never listen to his flatteries; but it were unreasonable
to reject his false tokens, when we know that such
constitute his whole treasure; and we receive the tribute of his
lips only in the absence of all better securities lodged within his
heart. It is something of an acknowledgment, in behalf of our
authority, that he is solicitous to show the devotion which he
has not always the nobleness to feel.”
“Ha! Señor Balthazar, we gain nothing by this banter. Our
lady knows that our gold is copper. It is for such only that
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she takes it. Shrewdly spoken, by my faith; and yet it might
be as shrewdly said, in reply, why receive the counterfeit at all,
knowing so well its worthlessness, unless it were that the dependency
of the one sex upon the other, rendered any gift of
the man sufficiently precious, (though worthless in itself,) in the
eyes of the woman.”
“Now out upon thee for a heathen savage! Thou art not
satisfied with shaming Don Balthazar with his tribute, but thou
must shame me with the pleasure I feel in receiving it at his
hands. I would thou wert fairly on thy march among the Floridian,
that I might play the tyrant in thy government of Cuba,
to the peril of thy insolent sex! But proceed to thy councils,
if there be nothing unfit for the ears of the woman. I have
need to sound the depths of all thy policy in other respects,
since I am to play sovereign in thy place hereafter.”
The noble lady, speaking playfully, had, in the meanwhile,
with a grace peculiarly her own, sunk down upon the divan of
orange, from which Don Balthazar had risen to receive her. Few
persons, not actually born in the purple, were so well endowed
to honor it, and to wield authority with sweetness. The daughter
of Don Pedrarias Davila, a man distinguished, unhappily, quite
as much by his cruel treatment of the famous Vasco Nunez de
Balboa, the discoverer of the Pacific, as by his own deeds and
successes, Isabella de Bobadilla, inherited the pride and dignity
of her father's character, without those taints of vindictiveness
and passion which had rendered him odious among his inferiors.
She possessed that happy prudence which never forgets what
is due to the humanities and the affections in the moment of
power and good fortune. She was wiser than the greater number
of her sex; calm in the hour of trial, full of provident forethought,
with a mind quite equal to the government about to
devolve upon her, and with a heart devoted to that lord who
was about to leave her for a protracted season in a perilous progress,
to which he was induced by the single persuasions of ambition.
He had found her an admirable counsellor and ally, in
making his preparations for the expedition; and, in penetrating
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his chamber of council without a summons, she was yet satisfied,
from past experience, that her presence in such a place was
never wholly unacceptable or unprofitable! When, therefore,
she declared her pleasure to remain, unless the topics under
discussion should prove ungracious in the hearing of her sex, the
ready answer of her husband entreated her to do so, whilst
assuring her against the exception which she expressed.
“Nay, Isabella,” said he; “it particularly concerns thy sex,
that of which we are to speak, and much of what has been
spoken. Know then, in the first place, that thou art to prepare
thy lovely handmaid, the damsel Leonora, for her nuptials with
Nuno de Tobar.”
“Thou hast then adjusted that matter?” said the lady, with a
grave accent and demeanor.
“It is settled, and without anger or difficulty. It is for thee to
decide upon the hour of the bridal. Let it be soon, for we must
have dispatch, and advise with the damsel ere the day be sped.
But there is yet another matter connected with thy sex which
troubles me, and prevents my purpose. Their mischievous influence
hath been at work upon my bravest cavaliers. Thou
knowest these two young knights of Portugal. I need not tell
thee of their worth, their valor, and the great importance to the
expedition of the elder brother, Philip de Vasconselos, who hath
already sped over all the territory of the Floridian, and is familiar
with the heathen speech of its people. Now, it so happens
that these two young gallants grow indifferent to the enterprise.
They have held themselves somewhat aloof from me of late, and
words have been heard to fall from their lips, which declare their
doubts whether they will accompany the expedition, as was their
purpose when they joined our armament at Seville.”
“And canst thou not guess the reason for this change of purpose?”
demanded the lady, with a smile.
“Ay, verily! Thy smile tells me that I am right in ascribing
their fickleness of purpose to the persuasions and artifices of thy
sex. Our grave Señor, Don Balthazar de Alvaro, will have it
due only to the jealousies of our Spaniards, with whom these
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men of Portugal find but little favor. Something there may be
in this, doubtless; but, I trow, it would never be sufficient to
discourage such young gallants, known for their bravery, and
ambitious of wealth and distinction, were it not for the charms of
the Lady Olivia, his fair niece,—”
“It may be that thou art right in thy conjecture,” said Don
Balthazar, interrupting the speaker, his brow again darkening as
if with displeasure; “but it will profit them little that they turn
their eyes in the direction of my niece. Olivia de Alvaro is
scarcely the proper game for either of these knights of Portugal.”
“And wherefore, Señor?” was the quick inquiry of Doña
Isabella. “These are brave and honorable gentlemen, both; of—
as we know—a family as noble as any in Portugal. They
have not wealth, it is true, but they have the qualities of
strength, courage, and enterprise, which in these days of `Golden
Cathays,' everywhere achieve wealth, and make obscure
names famous. I see not why you should so sternly resolve
against the devotion which they seem disposed to offer to your
niece.”
Don Balthazar trod the floor in a stern silence, while the Adelantado
took up the words,—
“Thou hast forgotten another matter, my lady, which seemeth
to me of no small import in this case. If I mistake not greatly,
the decision of the Lady Olivia herself will surely be more indulgent
than that of her guardian, in relation to these young
knights of Portugal.”
“But I am her guardian, your excellency, and my niece is but
a child.—”
“Seventeen is a goodly age for female judgment, Señor, in
affairs of the affections,” was the answer of the lady. “But
thou surely wilt not oppose the authority of the guardian to the
wishes of thy niece, when these fasten upon a person of whose
worth and nobleness there can be no question.”
“Ah! but I know not that,” was the quick reply of Don Balthazar.
“I see not—I believe not—that the affections of Olivia
incline to either of these Portuguese adventurers.”
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“Deceive not thyself, Señor,” said the Lady Isabella. “Men
are seldom the best judges of such matters, especially where
they are grave senators and busy politicians. You have quite
too many concerns to demand your study—too many cares of
business and fortune to suffer you to give much heed to the tendency
of a young and feminine heart. I claim to understand it
better, and I tell thee, Señor, that if ever woman loved cavalier,
with all her soul, and with all her strength, then doth Olivia
de Alvaro love this elder knight of Portugal, whom they call
Philip de Vasconselos.”
“I believe it not! You are deceived, Lady Isabella. I am
sure that such is not the case. But if it were, I should be false to the
duties I have undertaken to suffer her inclinations to have sway
in this. This Philip de Vasconselos may have his virtues; yet
what is he but a beggarly adventurer, who has squandered his
birthright in wanderings where the better wisdom has always
succeeded in acquiring it?”
“Not always, Señor, unless old proverbs fail us. The best
wisdom is but too commonly the last to secure the smiles of Fortune.
Have not your poets made her feminine, and with twofold
sarcasm made her caprices to resemble ours? Say they
not, that he is most apt to win her favor who less does for, and
less deserves it; and shape they not their sarcasm in such wise
as to salve the hurts of self-esteem, by recognizing the propriety
of that favor which provides for him who would never be able,
of his own wits, to provide for himself? You shall do no slander
to this knight of Portugal, Philip de Vasconselos, who, verily, is
a man of thought as well as of valor. I have enjoyed his wisdom
with a rare delight, and if his valor keep any rate of pace
with his judgment, he should be a famous leader in such adventure
as that on which ye go. For the younger brother, I can
scarcely speak so favorably. He seemeth at once less wise and
more presuming. He speaks as one confident in himself, and I
should deem him quite as rash and ill-advised as valiant;—nay
more, he hath the manner of a man whom small griefs unreasonably
inflame,—who is irritable of mood, suspicious of those
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about him, jealous of the good fame of his companions, and one
of too little faith in others to be altogether worthy of faith himself.
But it is not of him that we need to speak. He hath, I
fancy, but little chance of success with our fair cousin, though it
is evident he hath a passion for her quite as earnest as that of his
elder brother.”
“What sayest thou, Señor?” demanded De Soto, as his wife
concluded.
“What should I say, your excellency,” replied the latter,
somewhat doggedly,—“save that my niece is in my keeping?
She will not, I think, gainsay my judgment in this matter by
opposing it with her own.”
“Will she not?” demanded the lady, with a smile. “We
shall see, Señor, who better understands the heart of woman.
Bethink you, it is upon no ordinary matter that you ask her to
forego her judgment. The fate of woman is in the resolve which
she shall make for or against her heart. Her whole life is in the
love which she feels; and this denied, or this possessed, determines
her existence. She hath a rare instinct which teaches her
all this. Submissive in all other respects, she here grows resolute
and strong; and she whom you knew for many seasons the
dove only, shall, when the heart demands such will and courage,
assume the fierce courage of the falcon. Believe it or not,
Olivia de Alvaro loves this knight of Portugal; and so loving,
you shall not say nay to her desire, and find no resistance to
your will.”
“It may be,” was the answer of the other, his brow still darkened,
but a sinister smile at the same moment curling his lips,
though scarce perceptible to those about him. That he was
chafed beyond his wont, was still apparent.
“Verily, Señor Balthazar,” said De Soto, “this thing hath
angered you. You will do well to bear it calmly. Our lady is
surely right. The heart of thy niece hath made its choice, as
certainly as that Philip de Vasconselos hath resolved on his; and
thou wilt be wise to put on a friendly countenance when they
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come to declare their desires. Thou wilt scarcely find a nobler
cavalier in all Spain upon whom to bestow her fortune.”
“And will you that I should encourage a passion which will
tend to baffle thy own desires?” demanded Don Balthazar.
“How so,—what meanest thou?” was the inquiry of De Soto,
who looked the alarm which he really felt.
“See'st thou not that the bridal of Philip de Vasconselos with
Olivia de Alvaro is conclusive against his progress with the expedition?
With her estates in Cuba to occupy his thoughts,—with
her wealth in which to luxuriate,—wherefore should he incur the
peril of the Floridian enterprise?”
“And wherefore should my lord himself incur such peril, Señor
Balthazar?” was the quick and energetic reply of the lady.
“Hath he not estates in Cuba, a government to demand his care,
and wealth enough with which to procure all the luxuries of the
island? Yet he will leave all these—he will leave me, but lately
his newly-wedded bride—and one, I trow, not wholly without hold
upon his heart—and go forth upon adventures of incomparable
peril. But this belongs to the passion of a knightly ambition—a
generous impatience of the dull paces of the common life;—an
eager and noble appetite after conquest, and the glory which it
brings! Of this same temper, seems to me the ambition of this
knight of Portugal, who hath been regardless of wealth only as
he hath been heedful of honor,—and whose pride it is rather to
win a glorious name, than a golden habitation. Thou shalt not
disparage this quest, Señor, since it is one which is ever precious
in the sight of a generous knighthood.”
“You speak it bravely, my lady; but shall not persuade me
that this knight of Portugal would wed my niece only to depart
from her. He shall need some time after the nuptials, ere his
ambition shall assert itself. His love of distinction will doubtless
bring him after the adelantado—but with slow footsteps, and
when his lance shall be no longer needful to success.”
“This is, indeed, a matter to be thought on, Don Balthazar,”
was the reply of De Soto, looking gravely, and evidently touched
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by the suggestion of the other. “There is surely reason in what
thou hast spoken. I had not thought of this before.”
The interruption of the Lady Isabella was almost instantaneous.
“Nor must you think of it now, my Lord, as a thing which
should move you to encourage Don Balthazar in his hostility to
the affections of his niece. Doubtless, the loss of this young
knight will be somewhat felt by you in this expedition. I can
easily understand the value of such a lance, and that which is due
to his particular experience with the Floridian. But shall these
things justify a wrong done to fond hearts that merit only fondness?
Are the affections of so sweet and tender a woman as
Olivia de Alvaro to be set at naught, because of thy or my ambition?
Let us be just and generous, my lord. Give these
young people way! Let them be happy, if they may, in mutual
love. That they do love, I see,—I am sure. It is a strange
blindness of Señor Balthazar which will not suffer him to see as
we do;—a strange blindness which refuses to see in this young
knight, a noble and a fitting husband for his niece. If we may
not move him to be friendly to their desires, let us not encourage
him in an opposition which I foresee will be only as fruitless as
unwise.”
“Fruitless!” exclaimed Don Balthazar, with a somewhat bitter
smile. “We shall see. We shall see!”
“Hear me yet farther, Don Hernan, my gracious lord.
There is one process by which to test the strength of this young
knight's passion. If his love shall falter in the struggle with his
ambition, then I shall rather glad me that Olivia goes far from
his regards. You owe to these good people of Cuba some special
ceremonials ere taking your departure. There needs a still more
imposing display of your power, at once to reward their devotion,
and to confirm your authority, during your absence, in my
feeble hands. Order a splendid tournament for an early day
preceding your departure. Let there be prizes for valor to win,
and beauty to bestow. Spare nothing that shall kindle to the
utmost the chivalrous ambition in your followers; and let all
things be done, as it were, to furnish a foretaste of the treasures
-- 022 --
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and the achievements which await the valiant among the heathen.
There shall be sharp trials of skill and strength among your
knights, and those of Portugal shall not be wanting. Build upon
this for the temptations which are to confirm them in their first
purpose of exploring and conquering the golden cities of the
Floridian.”
“Now hath Doña Isabella counselled truly, as hath ever been
her wont,” said Don Balthazar, eagerly seizing upon a suggestion
which promised somewhat, however vaguely, to assist in extricating
him from a difficulty which, it was evident to his superior,
was one of unusual annoyance.
“Both of these brothers,” he continued, “cherish an eager anxiety
for distinction in tilt and tourney. Thus far, they have suffered
no sports of this character to escape them; and one which
shall make an event in Cuba long to be remembered with wonder
and delight, shall surely reawaken in their bosom all their most
earnest appetites for fame. Let them but draw the eyes of all
cavaliers upon themselves in this tourney, and they shall scarcely,
through very shame, be enabled to escape the necessity of joining
in the enterprise.
“It shall be done,” said De Soto, with the air of a man suddenly
relieved from his anxieties. “Thou hast counselled, my
lady, with as just a knowledge of our sex and its vanities, as of
thine own and its sympathies. And now for the plan of this
tournament. We shall need for this, not only thy help, Señor
Balthazar, but that also of that scape-grace, Nuno de Tobar.
We have taken him to favor at the proper season.”
The difficulties of the discussion were fairly at an end. The
plans for the future festivities need not call for consideration
now.
-- 023 --
CHAPTER III.
“She's safe enough at home,
And has but half her wits, as I remember;
The devil cannot juggle her from my custody.”
—Shirley.
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
The day was consumed before Don Balthazar de Alvaro was
released from his duties near the person of the adelantado. It
had been, with the former, a day of protracted toil, not without
certain accompanying tortures. The tortures, however, did not
exactly follow from the toil. On the contrary, he could have
pursued the former, not only without the slightest feelings of annoyance
or inconvenience, but with an elasticity and sense of
satisfaction, the natural consequence of his deep sympathy in the
objects of the expedition. His tortures belonged entirely to a
subject, the annoyances of which, to him, were not by any means
suspected by De Soto or his noble lady. Little did they fancy
the deep and peculiar disquiet which Don Balthazar suffered from
any allusion to the probability of his niece's marriage. Had the
lover been any other than the knight of Portugal—had he been
the most unexceptionable person in the world—the case would
not have been altered. He would still have found a stern hostility
in the uncle of the lady, for which no reasons of ordinary policy
could possibly account.
But Don Balthazar had the strength of will to conceal from
his superior, as from all others, the degree of concern which he
felt in relation to this subject. His experienced and indurated
nature knew well how to clothe itself, externally, in the garments
of a rugged indifference, or of a pulseless apathy. But
he suffered not the less in secret; and, with the release from the
restraints of that companionship throughout the day, which had
fettered his secret feelings, they broke out in expressions of
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
corresponding force with the pressure that had been laid upon them.
Let us follow him as, after a long conference with the adelantado,
he took his way, at the approach of evening, toward the inviting
solitude of his own habitation.
This was situated in one of the loneliest, as well as the loveliest,
of the suburbs of the infant city. The retreat was one in
which love and ambition might equally delight to meditate; the
one on human sympathies, which are always sweetly associated
with the beauty and innocence of nature—the other upon proud
hope and prospects in the future, which present possessions
princely and beautiful, might naturally suggest to the fierce will
and the grasping, eager temperament. The site of the habitation
of Don Balthazar was happily found upon a gentle eminence,
which afforded equal glimpses of the city and the sea. Its horizon
was only circumscribed by its trees,—fruitage and flowers in
an excess of which the best taste, in a warm climate, would find
it difficult to complain. The air that breathed balm ever through
its atmosphere—the breeze swelling at frequent periods from its
tributary seas—the chirp of innocent insects, and the song of
uncaged, but never wandering birds—were all suggestive of that
condition of the dolce far niente of the fatal tyranny of which the
sage and moralist dilate in warning exhortation ever, yet to
which they are always most ready to submit with pleasure, and
to remember with regret and yearning. Fruits of every luscious
variety, flowers of the most golden and glorious hues and perfumes,
vines and leaves of all most grateful descriptions, harmonized
with this happy empire, where the passions, whether drooping
or triumphant, might here find themselves at home. The
shadiest palms, and other trees of equal verdure and fragrance,
compensated for the absence of grandeur and sublimity, which,
indeed, must have been inconsistent with the peculiar moral of
such an abode. The attractions of this sweet seclusion were not
wholly confined to the gifts and attributes of nature. The hand
of art had been made tributary, in high degree, to her virgin
wants. The sire of the Lady Olivia, who had left it for his child,
in the keeping of his brother, had made it after the fashion of his
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
own nature, which was meek in its desires, and a worshipper of
the graceful, the peaceful and the beautiful. The luxuries of such
an abode were doubly refined and spiritualized to the soul of
taste, by the sweet repose, the delicious security which hung, as
with a veil, over the partial solitude. At a little distance lay the
white dwellings of the infant city, the voices of its daily toil and
struggle rising only as a faint and pleasant murmur, most like
the sweet chiding of distant billows on a rocky shore. The sea, at a
like distance, had also a pleasant music for the dwelles in this
forest home, where, through long and complicated avenues of
greenest foliage, the fond and contemplative spirit might make its
way, with just enough of the consciousness of life for pleasure,
and not enough of its toils and apprehensions for anxiety or
care.
Here, then, with few attendants, and but one companion, the
subtle, the mercenary, and sleepless politician, Balthazar de Alvaro,
made his abode. Hither he took his way, with slower foot-step
than was his wont, after separating from the adelantado.
He had run a sort of gauntlet of inquiry, as he emerged from the
presence of De Soto, and made his way through the city, by
which his mood had undergone no peculiar sweetening. But it
was admirable to witness the strength of a much exercised and
well-trained will, in subduing the outbreaks of a temper which
had suffered a series of most painful provocations throughout the
day. He could smile graciously as he replied deferentially to his
equal; nor was he wanting in a certain kind of smile, when he
answered the inquiries of his inferior. The necessities and objects
of De Soto required much exercise of the arts of conciliation
on the part of his associates; nor was Don Balthazar wanting
in that policy which teaches that none are too humble to be
incapable of harm in season—none too worthless for use in certain
periods. He traversed the interval between the dwelling of
the adelantado and his own, vexed at every step in his progress,
yet without betraying his vexation to the most worthless
spectator.
It was only when he reached the secure shelter of his own
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[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
grounds that he gave freedom to his real emotions. Throwing
himself upon the earth, at the foot of a noble palm, which was
encircled by a dense thicket o tributary vines and shrubs, he
yielded to speech a portion of the troubles which had weighed
hitherto in silence upon his mind.
“Now, out upon this fortune, that seems ever bent to break
me on the rack of fear. You put your foot upon one danger,
and another springs up from its seed. A thousand times have I
flattered myself that all was safe—all sure; but even in the full
feeling of exultation the doubt, the dread, has thrust its hideous
face before my own, grinning and gibing at me, with the perpetual
threat of overthrow and exposure. These knights of
Portugal are the black dogs that hunt upon my heels. Would I
could brain or bane them both! Are they, as De Soto and his
lady think?—is he, rather, this Philip de Vasconselos, a person
to be feared? Has he, indeed, won his way to that heart?—but
no! Olivia de Alvaro cannot soon forget—cannot hide from
sight—from fear, if no other more grateful feeling, those memories—
that consciousness—which utterly forbid that she should
become the wife of this or of any man—unless, indeed, in the
utter depravation of nature, and the utter scorn and abandonment
of the world. And where would such a condition, for her, find
the faith and homage of this Philip de Vasconselos? Yet, let me
not deceive myself. She is no longer what she was. She
dreams—she dotes—she weeps—she has no voice for song,—she
who sung ever, and scarce had any other passion,—and she
broods, to utter forgetfulnes of the things around her—she, who
could sing, or sin, before, without any thoughts of this or any
other world. It may be as they think. What then? Shall she
have way? Shall this knight of Portugal have way? Shall
she wed with him, or with any, to my ruin and disgrace? No!
no! It is but to ask the question to find the answer. It is
here—it is here—either in my dagger, or in that of one as ready
as mine own!”
Such was the soliloquy. He clutched the handle of his weapon
as he spoke, and half drew it from the sheath. But he
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
thrust it back a moment after, drew his cap above his eyes, and
stretched himself along upon the sward, with his face downward.
Here he lay in complete silence, and scarcely stirring, the full
space of half an hour. Meanwhile, the day waned. The sun
was at his setting, and the night birds began wheeling, with faint
shrieks, about the place where he seemed to slumber. But
slumber was not upon his eyelids, or in his thoughts. It was not
his necessity just then. He rose, at length, with the deliberation
of one who has recovered the full sway over all his moods, and,
adjusting his garments, prepared to move towards his dwelling,
which was still at some distance, and hidden wholly from his
eyes by the sinuosity of the avenues, and the denseness of the
thicket. But he paused more than once on his progress, and,
more than once, did words of brief soliloquy break from his
lips.
“At least, I must soon know all. There must be an explanation.
I must fathom her secret. I must probe her heart to its
core. If that be safe—if she be what she hath been sufficiently
trained to be—what such training indeed should have made her,—”
and a grim smile passed over his features as he spoke,—“then
this Philip de Vasconselos can do no hurt. Let him live. He
will scarcely linger here. But if there be sentiment in her
bosom, newly born and from his agency, such as I would have
trampled out, if need be, in blood and fire,—a sentiment hostile
to my hold upon her—then must I strike,—strike fatally,—and
crush the danger in its very bud. But, I must penetrate her
secret. She hath grown subtle of late,—that is an evil sign.
It is enough that she hath a secret, and from me. That alone is
significant of danger! Doth her reserve signify distrust of
me? Ha! what else? Do her tears manifest a feeling for
another? Then is it a proof that she holds me in hate and
loathing. I must search, fathom this mystery, and be as swift
and stern as I am vigilant!”
This speech was not spoken all at once, but in snatches, during
his walk, and each soliloquy compelling his momentary pause.
In this manner he went forward, his features and manner
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
becoming more and more composed as he approached the dwelling.
At length the cottage and its gay verandahs opened before him.
and he paused as he caught a glimpse of his niece, where she lay
dreamily reclining, embowered in the grateful shades of the tall
trees by which the dwelling was surrounded.
Olivia de Alvaro, as we now behold her, her form disposed
at ease, stretched on ample cushions, in the airy recesses of the
verandah, would seem, from the half-shut eye, and the almost
motionless attitude in which she lay, to have been wrapt in the
most grateful slumbers. She was evidently unconscious of the
rays of the fast disappearing sunlight, which shot, faint and brokenly,
through the intervening foliage. She was a pale, proud
beauty, one whose high and aristocratic features seemed scarcely
consistent with that despondency of mood and dependency of nature,
which have been described as her present characteristics.
Her features were not regular, but there was a strange harmony
between them nevertheless; the lofty brow, corresponding well
with the distinctly rounded chin,—the large and well-formed
nose, and that `drooping darkness of the Moorish eye,' which, as
we know,—though it may slumber long in cloud and shadow,—
is still capable of such sudden lightnings as consume at the single
flash. We have already described her as very young—scarcely
more than seventeen;—but this youthfulness was not marked by
the usual frankness—the uncircumspect and exuberant flow, of
that period. Her countenance was marked by an earnestness,
an intensity of gaze and expression, which denoted a maturity of
thought and feeling quite beyond her years. It is surprising how
rapidly one lives, who has learned to feel, and been made to suffer.
Yet what had been the sources of suffering in her? Rich,
beautiful, well-beloved, what were the cares of Olivia de Alvaro,
by which she had grown so singularly mature? This we must
ascertain in future pages. Enough, if now we continue the description
of her person.
She was tall, and of commanding figure and demeanor. Her
features, significant of so much sweetness and beauty, were yet
marked by a tremulous and timid sadness of gaze, which
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
conveyed the impression of a sense of awe, compelling her fears, and
depressing her elasticity. This expression, particularly at those
moments when she seemed to become forgetful of every other
presence, commended her to sympathy, rather than offended
pride. There could be no jealousy of her superiority, in the evident
feeling of apprehension which she displayed. A vague
sense of danger seemed to accompany the consciousness of her
charms; and the effect was rather to humble and subdue all the
loftier indications that were yet inseparable from the graces
of her manner, and the conscious nobility of blood and beauty.
To these she was by no means insensible. Her carriage was
such as showed an habitual appreciation of all her possessions;
yet so modified as to make nature more conspicuous than habit
in her demeanor. The heart of a young damsel naturally, and
very soon, becomes sensible of the beauties of her person. Her
mirror, and the common language of society, read equally in
speech and manner, soon teach her all the value of her charms.
But a refined taste renders it impossible, if she really should be
attractive, that she should escape this conviction. It is her merit
when she does not presume upon her possessions, and is modestly
content in their enjoyment. It is in due degree with the development
of her intellect, and the experience of afflictions, that she
schools her vanity. That Olivia de Alvaro had, in large measure,
learned to tutor hers, might be gathered from many indications.
That she was not insensible to her own charms, was equally evident
from the exercises in which she employed them. Few damsels
knew so well how to train the glance, to give variety and
play to the expressive muscles, and the pleasing, persuasive
action; to subdue to sweetness, and the most touching tenderness
of tone, the murmurs of the obedient voice; to make the
fingers speak, as with an endowment of their own, and to inform,
with a nameless, but most winning flexibility, every movement
of the well-regulated and exquisitely symmetrical figure. Half
sitting, half reclining, in the western verandah of the dwelling,
her eyes vaguely pursuing the soft and fluctuating play of the evening
sunlight, that stole in golden droplets, as it were, through
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
the slightly waving leaves of the anana and the orange, she yet
appeared wholly regardless of the timid brightness that sprinkled,
as with fairy eyes, the apartment all about her feet. She seemed
to muse in far delicious fancies, that made her wholly unconscious
of the actual world in which she lived. Her person, unrestrained
by any human presence, had naturally subsided into an
attitude equally graceful and voluptuous; and this was altogether
the unstudied action of a grace, which, natural always, had yet
always recognized in art only the appointed assistant, the tiring
woman and handmaid, of the imperial nature. Her dark, glossy
hair, hung upon her shoulders, from which it descended in waving
but massive tresses. The art which had, without an effort, disposed
their flowing and magnificent folds, had never been more
successful in removing all proof of its own adorning fingers.
Slightly stirred by the fitful zephyrs of an afternoon in May, that
season which, in Cuba, recognizes the perfect presence of the fullbosomed
summer, her ringlets played upon her neck like young
birds, for the first time conscious of their wings, yet still fluttering,
timidly and fondly, about the parent nest. And thus she
reclined, clad in robes of white, slightly trimmed with blue and
orange, seemingly unconscious of all things but those which were
deeply hidden in her thoughts, at the moment when Don Balthazar
drew nigh to the dwelling.
The shrubbery had enabled him to approach unseen, until
within a few steps of the verandah. He could detect the familiar
outline of her person through the leaves of a gorgeous orange,
beneath which he stood silently beholding her. She dreamed not
of his presence. His footstep had been carefully set down, as if
not to disturb her; and thus unsuspected, he stood, for a few moments,
watching her with a singular and intense interest. Even
thus keen and concentrative the gaze which the fascinating serpent
fastens upon the unconscious bird that flies or flutters in his sight.
It was not malignity or hostility that was apparent in the expression
of his eyes. Nay, to the casual spectator, there might have
seemed fondness only, in the keen and earnest interest, which
seemed to study her every feature, as if prompted by the most
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
paternal affection. And yet there was a something bitter in the
smile which occasionally played upon his lips; and the slight
frown which darkened in his glance was significant of a disquiet
or disappointment, the sources of which we may not yet comprehend.
Suspicion, too, might be seen to lurk even beneath the
smile of the observer, and his secret watch might have been dictated
by a policy which was not above the indulgence of a
baseness.
And yet his purpose did not seem to be espionage. A sudden
and troublesome thought—perhaps a suddenly suggested curiosity—
appeared to arrest his footsteps on his approach. Her appearance,
her attitude, seemed to invite his study. It was to
muse, to meditate, or, perhaps, to prepare his mind for some
exigent duty, that he paused, without seeking to disturb the damsel
in her vacant mood. She, too, had her causes for meditation;
though one might readily ascribe the dreamy languor of her attitude
to the bland and seductive influences of the climate. To the
voluptuous idler, already familiar with that luxury of situation
which suspends the thought, and strips the fancy of everything
but wings, her appearance would seem natural enough, and her
conjectured reveries would only be the most grateful, yet unimpressive
in the world. It would be only to liken her bower to
the wizard domain of that archimage who wove his perpetual
snares in the Castle of Indolence, making all things dreamy and
delusive in the half-shut eye. But the meditations of Olivia de
Alvaro were of a sort, perhaps, even more deeply troublesome
than those of her uncle. Big tears might be seen to gather in
her eye—slowly, it is true, and few,—but they were such as we
seldom look to see in the eyes of young and innocent loveliness.
The great drops silently oozing from beneath their dark and
drooping fringes, like some gradual stream gliding silently forth
from the shade of overhanging alders, were not unseen by her
uncle. His features became graver as he beheld them, and he
looked aside—he looked down—as if anxious to shut them from
his sight. He turned away hastily a moment after, and, with
careful footstep, retreated silently from his place of watch.
-- 032 --
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Taking a hasty turn through the deeper ranks of foliage, he again,
after a little interval, was returning in the direction of the dwelling,
when his ear was aroused by the sound of approaching
voices. He promptly shrouded himself in a little copse of grenadilla.
Here he could easily distinguish the persons of the visitors,
himself unseen. In a few moments they had reached the spot
where he stood concealed. They proved to be the young gallant,
Nuno de Tobar, and his frail but beautiful betrothed, in whose
behalf we have seen how greatly the anger of De Soto had been
awakened. She was a pretty creature, light-hearted rather than
wanton, whose happiness was now wholly complete, and whose
faults were all about to be repaired. They walked unconsciously
beside the stern Balthazar, and their prattle once more wrought
his features into that sardonic expression so natural to a man
who despises the simplicity of young affections. They were on
a visit to the lovely Olivia, to whom, we may say in this place,
the betrothal of the happy couple brought at once a pang and a
pleasure. We must leave the explanation of this contradiction
to other chapters.
It was with something of chagrin and disquiet that Don Balthazar
discovered who were the approaching parties. He had
almost spoken his annoyances aloud, as they passed onward to
the cottage. His vexation was not long suppressed. As soon as
they had passed into the verandah, he retired from his place of
watch, to a spot of greater seclusion in the groves, and the passionate
soliloquy to which he gave utterance afforded some slight
clue to the nature of his secret meditations.
“Now,” said he, flinging himself down upon the sward, a thick
matting of grass, like that of the Bermuda, which completely
protects the garments from the red stains of the earth. “Now
will these fools, with happiness fancied in their grasp, possess her
spirit with all the passions which they feel themselves. If her
mind were yet free from any fancy in behalf of this knight of
Portugal, they would do much towards its graffing. They will
speak in raptures of hopes which they dream to be possessions,
of realities which seldom live through a season, and of sentiments
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which few, however cheated at first, but live to curse and to despise
in after times. This Nuno de Tobar is the sworn friend of
Vasconselos. He will labor in his cause. He perhaps knows all
his secrets. Perhaps he comes even now as an emissary. Demonios!
But does it need this? Let me not deceive myself,
though I would shut the truth from other eyes. Can I doubt
that Olivia de Alvaro looks with favor on this knight? That she
loves him—she, the — but hush! The thing is by no means
an absurdity. The insane passion does not stop to measure its
own claims. The cloud that receives and swallows up the star,
has no shame for such affrontery; and even guilt may worship with
hope at the altars of the pure and beautiful. I cannot doubt that
she loves him. Else why this change since he came upon the
island? Why these tears—this despondency—this drooping fear,—
this trembling and perpetual cloud and apprehension? She
shrinks from other eyes—from mine. Her own are cast upon
the earth, or closed from study. Could other eyes but read, like
mine, she would have no secret to reveal! It is well that she
dare not speak. The very passion that she feels for this stranger
is my security. She must subdue these inclinations. She must stifle
this working fancy which these meddling fools will blow into a flame.
She shall stifle it! Fortunately, I am her will. I have ever led her
as a child. She has known no impulses of her own, save those of
infancy, until now; and she will scarcely now withstand that governing
rule which hath hitherto swayed her as the breezes sway the
leaf. I would, now, that this had not been the case. I have perilled
upon a moment the security of a life; but regret is unavailing
now. I must continue as I have begun. I must still assert the
superior will of a master,—not simply to secure my slave, but to
assure myself of safety. It will be easy, and why should I scruple
to do it? Why this fear, this feebleness? I will overcome
it as before! She shall bend, she shall bow, or break in the
conflict! But there will be no conflict. She will offer no opposition—
none that I cannot soon disarm. Had it been her fierce
Biscayan mother, I should have no such victory. She would
have defied me in her paroxysm, and in the very passion of her
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rage, she would have left no secret unrevealed, even though instant
ruin followed on her speech. Fortunately, the child sucked
nothing from the mother. She hath no such temper. She has
the gentleness of poor Alphonso, all his meek submission, his
dread of strife, his shrinking dislike of struggle and excitement.
Had he not been so weak as to submit to her tyranny, he had
never suffered wrong from me. Olivia hath his feebleness of
will; but she hath warmer sensibilities. Still, they make nothing
against my power,—I have schooled them to submission and
self-denial. What if I have done her wrong—and she dreams
not yet of its extent—yet, even if she knew all, no desperation
of desire, or fear, could drive her to resistance. Here, I am secure!
Unlike her fiery dam, she is too heedful of the world's
voice to lift her own, where the very cry which would crush my
fortunes, would leave hers wrecked on the same shoals. On
this, I hold! Here, I am safe. I must still sway—still maintain
the mastery—but I foresee the struggle. I see it in those tears,—
in that deep despondency,—in the distaste which no longer
suffers her eyes to meet the gaze of mine,—in the cold and chilling
word which checks my speech,—and the reserve, almost like
aversion, with which she encounters my approach. I must prepare
for the struggle;—but shall we not escape it all if we once
get these knights of Portugal embarked? But how, if they
resolve to stay? That is a grief that must find its own
remedies!”
We care not now to pursue our subtle politician in his walks
or his soliloquies. Enough has been shown to develop the sort
of temper with which he views the supposed conquests of his
lovely niece, over the affections of two of the noblest adventurers
in the train of De Soto. These had not been her only conquests.
But none of her previous suitors had ever given her
uncle any cause for apprehension. It has been shown that he is
not simply averse to her marriage with either of the knights of
Portugal, but is alike hostile to the claims of all. As the guardian
of his niece, with small estates of his own, and ample possessions
of hers, to manage, his disquiet on this subject may well
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
be supposed to arise from motives of most singular selfishness
or baseness. But Olivia herself, aware of his aversion to her
marriage, has really no notion that avarice is the infirmity of her
uncle. She knows but little of his individual resources, but much
of himself. She has seen nothing in his expenditure, or conduct,
which would make him appear in her eyes to be a mercenary.
Her minority had been singularly managed, so as to keep her in
a state of mental vassalage, quite uncommon on the island.
She had been kept in almost complete seclusion until the appearance
of De Soto and his lady, when it was impossible to withhold
her from the court; her own wealth, her father's name, and
the position of her uncle, equally requiring it. Up to this period
she little dreamed of the treasures which the world had in
its keeping. She little knew the value of her own. But in the
course of a single night the germ of passion had blossomed, and
Love rapidly maturing beneath its fervid warmth, had taught
her a grief in teaching her a faith. Alas! she knew not till now
how precious, how radiant white, must be the first offerings demanded
for its shrine. Leaving the uncle to pursue his moody
walk through the umbrageous grounds of his domain, let us return
to the niece, and witness the reception of her guests.
-- 036 --
CHAPTER IV.
“But a month ago,
I went from hence, and then 'twas fresh
In murmur, (as you know what great ones do
The less will prattle of) that he did seek
The love of fair Olivia.”
—Twelfth Night.
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
The pleasant laughter, and gay voices of Nuno de Tobar, and
his betrothed, prepared Olivia de Alvaro for their approach. The
trace of tears was quickly obliterated from her eyes, and she
strove with smiles to welcome her visitors. Pride, as was
alleged by her uncle, was one of the chief securities for her
strength, no less than for his safety. She was one of those who
love not that the world should behold or suspect their sorrows.
But her pride was rather a habit than a passion. She had other
and more fiery qualities in her nature, for which he failed to give
her credit. He deceived himself when he thought he knew her
thoroughly. Some of her characteristics were yet in abeyance,
some moods and passions which are likely to confound and
astonish him hereafter. But these in proper season. She, herself,
is perhaps as little aware, as her uncle, of her natural
endowments.
Olivia received her guests on the steps of her verandah. The
cloud had disappeared from her face, the light had returned to
her large and lustrous eyes, and with the sweetest voice in the
world, she welcomed them to an abode which, to the casual
visitor, would seem to be entirely secure from sorrow. The
young creatures who now entered it, themselves newly made
happy, were certainly not the persons to make any discovery of
the latent troubles of its inmate; and assuming the happiness in
other hearts, which they felt in their own, they poured out upon
Olivia a torrent of congratulations, which it required
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[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
considerable strength of endurance to withstand. She had heard of their
betrothal, and of the forgiveness which De Soto had extended to
the erring gallant. Society at that day in Cuba was not particularly
jealous of propriety. That Leonora Bovadilla had
sinned, found its sufficient excuse with knight and lady, in the
simple fact that she loved; and it was only with that class of
ancients, of her own sex, who had survived even the hope of a
change from single to dependent blessedness—a number singularly
few in every community—that censure claimed the privilege
still to wag a slanderous tongue under the guise of a jealous
virtue. Olivia de Alvaro had never been of the number to
reproach the poor Leonora for her lapse, even when it was
doubtful whether the sense of virtue, the sentiment of honor,
or the feeling of love, in Nuno de Tobar, would prompt him
to repair his wrong according to the worldly usage, by
making her his wife. Having known her as a thoughtless child,
without guile as without experience, a creature of extreme levity,
but without any impulses to evil more than seemed naturally
to belong to the mercurial temper, Olivia was not prepared to regard
her as guilty, because she had been weak. She was
indulgent in proportion as the world showed itself severe. She
knew, according to a common history, that,
“Every woe a tear may claim,
Except an erring sister's shame,”
and rising above the prejudices of the world, as much through
sympathy as generosity, she suffered her manner towards the
frail offender to show none of those harsher aspects which forever
insist upon its faults. On the contrary, a tender solicitude
seemed desirous to soothe the humiliations of the sufferer, and
make her forgetful of those public disgraces which she could not
always hope to escape. Leonora felt all this, and repaid the
kindness of Olivia by as much devotion as could distinguish a
nature so thoughtless. The first visit which she made, after the
reconciliation of her guardian with her lover, was that which we
now witness. Of course, the peculiar case of the visitors was not
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
one to be spoken of openly. The silent pressure of Leonora's
hand by Olivia, the tender kiss which she impressed upon her
cheeks, and the single tear which gathered in her eye, as she
whispered a hurried word of congratulation, sufficiently assured
the former of the continuance of that sympathy which had already
afforded her so much solace. But she erred, perhaps, in
ascribing the tear to the sympathies of friendship. Had she but
beheld the big drops that fell from the same fruitful fountains,
but a little while before, she might have suspected other and
more selfish sources of sorrow in her friend.
Seated in the cool shadows of the verandah, the gay Leonora
soon opened her stores of prattle. She had gathered all the
rumors of the day, and she was impatient to unfold them.
“And O! dearest Olivia, have you heard of the tournament?
The town is full of it. It is to be the greatest and the gayest
of all the shows that we have had. They have begun the preparations
already. Such a painting of shields and banners,—
such a sharpening of swords and burnishing of lances,—such
a prancing of steeds—it will be something to remember a thousand
years to come! Nuno has been busy since noon making the
arrangements. The adelantado cannot do without him. He
will be busy for a week,—they will all be busy—your knight, as
well as mine; for you know, Olivia, you have a knight.”
The other shook her head very mournfully.
“Nay, never shake your head; you know it as well as I—two
of them, indeed; and you might have a dozen, if you were not
so proud.”
“Me proud, Leonora!” reproachfully.
“No! no! I don't mean that! I ought to know, if any one,
that you are any thing but proud. I should have said, so lofty—
so superior—”
“Ah! you mock me, child.”
“I am a child; but I don't mock you. It is so. I believe it
all, and everybody else thinks so. I'm sure you'd have a thousand
suitors, if they did not all feel that they are unworthy of
your smiles.”
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
The hand of Olivia was passed with a close pressure over her
brows. Little did the thoughtless Leonora dream that the action
was occasioned by a feeling of pain. She continued:
“But of the homage of the knights of Portugal, nobody has a
question. It is in every one's mouth; everybody sees that both
the brothers love you to distraction. The question with them all
is, which of them you favor. Now, I am for Don Andres, the
younger; but Nuno—”
Here she was interrupted by a look from her betrothed, for
which Olivia was properly grateful. The subject seemed to annoy
her.
“Hush, hush, dear Leonora!—Tell us of the tournament rather.
This is not the season to talk of love, but of war. See how the
adelantado treats the affections, when they come in conflict with
his ambition. Who so lovely, so stately, so noble, so like a
Queen, as the Lady Isabella?—yet will he leave her, a newly-wedded
wife, to go on wild adventures against the Floridians.
Fie upon such chivalry, such devotion, such love! What need
hath he of further wars?—hath he not wealth enough from Peru?—
hath he not grandeur enough as Governor of this goodly island,
and reputed one of the noblest cavaliers of Spain? Methinks
he wantonly flings from him a living and a glorious treasure, for
a dream—for a shadow which will mock his hope, and defraud
him of all his happiness.”
Olivia had spoken rapidly, in order, possibly, to divert the interest
of her companions to other subjects. In speaking, however,
of the projected conquest of Florida, she yet trenched upon
the province of Nuno de Tobar, and indirectly assailed his conduct
also. He, too, like De Soto, had acquired the love of a young and
beautiful woman; he had formed ties equally precious, which he
was about to abandon at the calls of ambition; and though his
state was neither secure, nor his possessions great like those of the
latter, yet the imputation, in some degree, lay against him, of a
like disregard to the claims of duty and domestic life. He answered
Olivia after the usual manner of knight-errants.
“And how else, dear lady, can chivalry display itself, unless
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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
by deeds of arms and conquest? It is by these deeds and this
conquest, that it brings home tribute to Beauty, and crowns love
with its proper jewels. It is to make love secure in state and
home, and refresh its bowers with lasting delight, that it encounters
peril for a season, the laurels and rewards of which shall endure
through future years. Love is not abandoned when the worshipper
carries ever with him in his heart a passionate devotion,
which makes him cry upon the beloved one's name in the storm of
battle, and pray for her prayers in the tempests of the deep, which
prompts him to build for her a temple in waste places, and to enwreathe
chaplets of her favorite flowers in forests which she may
never see. His devotion even warms with distance, and he remembers
her beauties and her virtues the better when he no
longer may enjoy them. If he goes forth, it is with the purpose
that he may return full-handed with spoils, that he may lay at
her feet in guerdon of his faith and homage.”
“Ah! Señor, you phrase it well, and it is such fine eloquence
that for a season reconciles the poor heart of woman to too many
of the errantries of chivalry. For me, I confess, 'twould better
please me should my knight leave to others the storm of battle
and the peril of the seas. Let me have the devotions of his
heart at the altars of home, rather than in the forests of the
Floridian. Let me have the idol of my eyes always present to
my sight. I should not need that he should wander away from
my eyes to be able to recall his virtues and grow fond of his
devotion.”
“Oh! Fie, Olivia, dear,—you have no sort of idea of what
belongs to true chivalry. Why, true chivalry lives on fighting
and conquest, on long wanderings over sea and land, into places
that were never heard of before, seeking all sorts of enemies to
overthrow, and coming home with treasures of gold, great emeralds,
such as they gather in Peru, and pearls,—pearls by the
bushel. They gather them, Nuno tells me, by the basketful
among the Floridians. Nay, you smile,—but the story comes
from your knights of Portugal—Philip, the elder, has been
among the savages in that country.”
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
“I have no knights, Leonora, and this reminds me that I have
really no interest in this game of war that is called chivalry.
Let those like it who may. Its splendid shows do not beguile
or satisfy my imagination.”
“Ah! but they will in the tournament, which is at hand.
Don't tell me that you have no knight. I promise you, dear
Olivia, that you will have knights enough to do battle for your
smiles, and to wear your favors. These knights of Portugal
will not be the only ones to break lances in your honor. But let
them beware how they cross with my Nuno. If he does not
unhorse every opponent, I will never, never, never love him any
more. And that's a vow to the Blessed —”
“Don't be rash, Leonora,” interrupted Nuno, with a smile.
“You may punish yourself by such a vow, much more than you
could ever punish me!”
“Ha! How?”
He evaded the query, and went on.
“As for overthrowing these knights of Portugal, it is no easy
matter. I should rather cross lances with any other foes! Philip
de Vasconselos —”
“How! Are you recreant? Will you allow these Portuguese
to pluck the honors from Castile?”
“Nay, nay! not if I can help it. But I should prefer other
hands than mine to make the attempt. The world has few
lances which can safely cross that of Philip de Vasconselos, and
mine, I fear, is not one of them; and I so love the man that I
should find no satisfaction in depriving him of a single glory
that he desires. But something, as you say, is due to the honor
of Castile, and if Philip overthrows all other combatants, he
must have a chance of including me among his captives.”
The eyes of Olivia were cast upon the ground. But her ears
drank in eagerly every syllable which had fallen from the generous
lips of Nuno de Tobar. She did not speak when he had
closed, nor for some time after, but remained apparently a silent
listener to the gay and desultory prattle of Leonora, who, in the
fulness of her heart, assured of her own happiness, and relieved
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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
of all doubts of the future, had given herself up to that fearless
and roving method which but too commonly distinguished her
mercurial temper. She was arrested when about to trench upon
dangerous ground—when about to renew her badinage in regard
to Olivia's feelings for the knights of Portugal,—by the appearance
of one of them. Fortunately, his approach had been heard
in season to prevent her speech.
The visitor was the younger of the two. Andres de Vasconselos
had many of the qualities of his elder brother, Philip. Their
persons were not unlike, their courage and the contour and expression
of their faces. They had both served as well against
the Moors of Spain as the red-men of the western continent.
But Philip, the elder, enjoyed the high distinction of being usually
understood when the family name was mentioned. He had
done famous things under Almagro in Peru. He had once before
traversed the neighboring continent of the Appalachian, at least
as far as Cabeza de la Vaca had carried his explorations. He
was wise, besides, prudent, circumspect and gentle, and these
were virtues to which the younger brother, Andres, had but little
claim. Of Philip we shall say more hereafter. Of Andres, the
world spake with many qualifications. He was described as
proud and passionate—quick of quarrel—arrogant in his assumptions,
and of enormous self-conceit. We have already had it intimated
that he, as well as his brother, was now in doubt whether
to continue in a future progress with the expedition of De Soto.
Yet they had both left Spain with this special object, coming over
to the New World as a portion of the armament. Something of
the reason for their change of purpose has already been suggested.
They had, in fact, found but little encouragement from
the adelantado,—less, perhaps, because of his inappreciation of
their merits—for he thought of the brothers very highly—as in
consequence of the bigotry and jealousy of the Spanish Chieftains—
their clannish prejudices, and a somewhat painful sense of
their inferiority, at least, to the elder of the knights of Portugal.
The neglect of De Soto had followed, perhaps, inevitably on this
feeling of his people. The brothers had been offered no
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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
distinctions in the army, and as their military passion became cooled,
that of love made its appearance to assist in usurping the place of
the former in their bosoms. Unhappily, their affections were
fixed upon the same lady. The devotion of Andres de Vasconselos
led him almost nightly to her dwelling. Philip was a frequent
visitor; but he so chose his periods as seldom to cross his
brother's progress. Andres little knew how much he owed to
this forbearance. He was slow to perceive, what was seen by all
the island, that, if the heart of Olivia de Alvaro inclined to either,
he certainly was not the suitor whom she most preferred. His
self-esteem was not willing to accept any such humiliating suggestion.
Olivia naturally received him with respect and kindness. She
felt uneasy at his attentions, but she respected him because of her
attachment to his brother. It was easy, with his temper, to mistake
the sources of this kindness. But he was not suffered to
presume upon it. A certain dignified but mild reserve, in the
manners of the lady, served to check every feeling of overweening
confidence, and to satisfy the bold gallant that the fortress must
undergo a regular leaguer before the garrison would be persuaded
to surrender. He endeavored accordingly to school his eager desires,
with as much patience as he could command; and to lessen
the duration of the siege, his attacks were rendered more and
more frequent. It was seldom that a night was suffered to pass
without finding him in her presence; and the gentleness of her reception,
and the sweetness of her manners, seldom suffered him
to leave her without giving his eager vanity sufficient assurance
of favorable progress. She beheld this confidence with pain, and
her reserves were increased accordingly;—but as these never put
on harsh aspects, nothing was done to arrest the self-delusion of
the lover.
A little awkwardness succeeded his first appearance within the
circle. Nuno de Tobar was the friend of Philip de Vasconselos
rather than his brother. He had never been altogether satisfied
with the latter. He was aware of the attachment of both for
his fair hostess—perhaps suspected the nature of her feelings for
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
his friend—and knew, besides, that the younger brother had
already begun to regard his senior with a feeling of rivalry.
Andres was naturally jealous of one whom he had reason to believe
was in his brother's confidence; while Nuno de Tobar,
though fond of Philip de Vasconselos, had anything but a friendly
feeling for Andres. The imperious temper of the latter had, more
than once, brought them to the verge of quarrel. Their interchange
of civilities on the present occasion was cold and formal;
and, though the fair hostess, seeing the feeling between them,
made an amiable effort to interest the party, still the atmosphere
for a while grew oppressive from mere stiffness and formality.
But the confidence of Andres de Vasconselos was of a sort not to
permit this influence to prevail to his discomfiture; and a perseverance
that suffered no discouragement from a freezing answer,
was soon rewarded by a conversation, which, if not actually animated,
was yet sufficiently so to keep the scene from becoming
absolutely oppressive. By a strong effort of will, for which her
previous exercise had not often prepared her, Olivia took a reasonable
share in the dialogue, and Don Andres was encouraged to
proceed as he found her interest somewhat rising in one of the
subjects which was started. This was the affairs of the army and
the expedition, and naturally enough of the tournament. The
thoughtless speech of Leonora conducted her to an inquiry, the
answer to which drew the eyes of Olivia directly upon the
knight of Portugal.
“They say of thee and of thy brother, Don Andres, that ye
are not minded to proceed on this expedition into the country of
the Floridian?”
“Of what Philip de Vasconselos designs, fair lady, it would be
presumption in me to conjecture. Of my own purpose I can
say nothing, but that it is still subject to such moods as may prevail
with me when the adelantado is about to depart.”
“Well, for my part, I see not how such brave cavaliers, well renowned
in sword, and battle-axe, and spear, can hold it doubtful
what they shall do when the trumpet invites them to glorious enterprise;
nor do I question that when the signal sounds, thou
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
wilt be among the first to hear and answer. But, of a surety,
thou wilt not be wanting to the tournament.”
“And yet,” answered the knight of Portugal, with a smile
that might have been mistaken for a sneer, “were it not as great
a rashness if I should venture in a passage at arms with such fortunate
gallants as Don Nuno de Tobar, who wears the favors of
one of the loveliest damsels of Cuba? It will need something
more than skill and valor to render a poor knight of Portugal
successful against the cavaliers of Castile, when they couch spear
under the smiles of the most invincible beauty.”
There was something equivocal in this remark that made Nuno
de Tobar wince, but his betrothed did not perceive it. She went
on, slily glancing, as she spoke, at the pale face of Olivia, which
put on an increasing gravity as she listened.
“Yet seems it to me, Señor, that thou wilt scarcely lack in the
auspices which befriend thy opponent. I doubt not but the
smiles of Beauty will give thee sufficient encouragement. At
least, it is scarcely fitting that a true knight should suffer from
such want.”
The eyes of Andres de Vasconselos followed those of Leonora,
as she looked mischievously in the direction of her friend. The
reference was quite unfortunate. There was no mistaking the
resolute gravity which absolutely gloomed the features of Olivia.
But her face was no longer pale. A warm flush rose
upon her cheeks at the same moment, of the source of which
Don Andres readily deceived himself. His vain and eager fancy
easily construed this flush into a confession of weakness,—and a
proud exulting glance, which he did not seek to restrain, betrayed
to Olivia the delightful conviction which he felt. But her eyes
made no answer to his own, and the flush passing immediately
from her cheeks, was succeeded by an almost mortal paleness,
which was by no means diminished while Andres continued to
speak in answer to the grateful suggestions of Leonora. He had
his reply, full of empressement, to the pleasing insinuation which
she had conveyed, quite as much, perhaps, by the direction of her
glance, as by the language which she had uttered. His reply,
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though the mere words might disclaim his sense of triumph, was
yet distinguished by a manner which betrayed the most confident
assurance.
“Alas! Lady Leonora, thou wouldst betray me to my ruin!
Would I could rejoice in any such hope as that which thou encouragest.
But how should it be for me, a poor knight of
Portugal, by no means in favor with your proud nobles of Castile,
to hope for better countenance from her proud and lovely
daughters? Yet the bird will spread his wings for the mansions
of the sun! The fond insect will dart, though it be to perish,
into the blazing flame or pyre;—and I fear that, hopeless of the
glory that I seek, and destined to equal peril in the pursuit, I
too am ambitious of the prize that but mocks my best endeavor.”
“Thou confessest then—thou lovest?” was the eager inquiry
of the gay and thoughtless Leonora.
“Ah! wouldst thou possess thyself of my secret? That were
only to make merry with my weakness. Surely, in the good
fortune which has smiled upon thy heart, it were scarcely generous
to find a pleasure to show to the world the disappointments
which mock the desire now preying hopelessly, perchance, upon
mine.”
“Not hopelessly, not fruitlessly, Señor Andres! Verily,
Señor, that is a speech more gallantly than truly spoken. I will
not believe that thou thinkest so humbly of thy hopes, or of the
noble qualities which thou bring'st into the field, as potent
against the maidens as against the lances of Castile. As I know
that our cavaliers esteem thee one of the best warriors in our
array, so am I sure that our ladies look upon thee with a favor
which does not misbeseem thy reputation as a knight.”
The flattery was not lost upon the person addressed. He was
in the mood to believe every syllable; and indeed, the thoughtless
woman, rating the judgment of her friend by her own, was
well prepared to believe that the preference of Olivia was bestowed
rather upon the younger than the elder brother. Don
Andres was not unwilling to continue a conversation which
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seemed to bring him so much nigher to his object. He did not
see the painful constraint which sat upon the features of Olivia.
“Ah!” was his reply. “But he who hath set his affections
upon the bird of paradise, can give but little heed to the plumage
or the strains of inferior songsters.”
His eyes again sought the pale countenance of the maiden
whom he worshipped. Her glance was equally wandering and
sad. Nuno de Tobar saw that she was troubled. He himself
was dissatisfied with the thoughtless play of his betrothed. He
felt its mischievous tendency, and his friendship for Philip de
Vasconselos made him unwilling to behold a progress on the
part of his brother which was adverse to his own. He interfered
to effect a diversion of the topic, which the fanciful allusion
of Don Andres now enabled him to do without an effort.
“Talking of birds and singing, dear Lady Olivia, reminds me
that in the cares of the camp, and in my long term of disfavor,
I have not enjoyed thy music for a weary season. I pray thee,
favor us with some one of those many ditties which never come
with due effect save from those who feel them. I would I could
persuade thee to one of those antique ballads of El Cid; but I
will not ask thee, remembering the flat denial which thou gavest,
in my presence, to that fine courtier, De Sinolar, when he craved
the ballad of Urraca, and the Moor who lost Valencia. Nathless,
some other strain, I pray thee, if it be only to persuade
Doña Leonora that Nuno de Tobar is not so entirely her slave
that he dare not seek a favor at the hands of another beauty. I
trust, Señor Andres, that thy ear, like mine, is accessible to all
the charms of music.”
“Verily, Señor,” was the reply, “that depends entirely on the
bird that signs. There are some whose plumage makes marvelously
against their strains. That thou hast had the wit to entreat
from the Lady Olivia that bounty which it has been my first
thought to solicit, is a great vexation. But I must content myself
now with repeating thy entreaty.”
The cavaliers both looked pleadingly to Olivia as they spoke.
But she needed no second soliciting. She was not one of those
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whose vanity requires persuasion, as well as audience; besides,
she was only too anxious to escape a further dialogue, which
pained her something more than either of the parties present
could imagine. She was not one of that common company who
delight in the imputation, so grateful to the vulgar damsel, of
conquests which they have made; and resented naturally, as offensive
no less to decency than good taste, a reference of this
nature in the presence of the very person who is suspected of feeling
their authority. But there were deeper sensibilities besides
these at work with her bosom, to prompt her to revolt at the conversation,
and the diversion of Nuno de Tobar was eagerly seized
upon as affording relief to troubled feelings. She had already
taken the guitar ere Don Andres had finished speaking, and, after
a few soft prelusive touches, with a voice that trembled with her
emotions, though full of compass and power, she sang in the
happiest style of art, yet with the most easy execution, the following
ballad, which seemed in some degree designed as a commentary
upon the preceding conversation:
AMINA.
Now why does fair Amina,
With gallant suitors near,
Still scornful hark the pleading
That woos no other ear?
Great nobles seek her beauty,
And knights for valor known,
And wealth displays its treasure,
Yet still she keeps her own.
She answers sighs with silence,
And heeds not, though she hears
The sorrows of the bosom,
That worships her in tears.
A scornful song requites them,
With answer such as shakes
The strong heart with its mockery—
The feeble one it breaks!
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And thus, while all are watchful,
Each eager in his quest,
She answers for the bosom
In maiden freedom blest:
“Ye call me now your mistress,
Ye bow beneath my word;
To change were sorry wisdom,
The subject to the Lord.
“I know ye well, my masters,
The gentlest of your kind,
To him who flies in freedom,
The sternest where ye bind.
“'Tis sweet to have your homage,
'Tis sweet to hear you plead,
And know that for our beauty's prize
Ye do each valiant deed.
“How well ye speed in tourney,
How gallant grace the hall;
How sweetly in the twilight groves
Your pleading murmurs fall!
“Your eloquence how gracious,
Your song forever sweet,
That lifts the heart on pinions
As exquisite as fleet.
“Too precious to the maiden
These treasures while they're true;
And sad to think, if change in her,
Should work a change in you.
“If 'tis to win our favor
Your graceful arts are shown,—
If valor strikes thus nobly,
That Beauty may be won—
“If 'tis for this the palace
Your courtly graces sees,—
For this ye plead in twilight bower,
With homage sure to please—
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“How great the fear of Beauty,
If, when ye gain the prize,
Ye deem no longer needful
The grace that won her eyes!
“Ye sing but for your mistress—
Ye sing not for your slave,—
And give no more, the object won,
The worship that ye gave.
“I will not brook a peril,
That sounds of joy the knell;
And will not yield my heart to love,
Because I love so well.”
The song was finished; and as the maiden laid the instrument
aside, a storm of gentle reproaches fell upon her ear, as well from
Nuno de Tobar as from the youthful knight of Portugal.
“Nay, nay!” exclaimed the fair Leonora de Borbadilla—“heed
her not, heed her not! She thinks not as she sings. She has
chosen this ballad in a perverse spirit, only to mock what I have
been saying. She is sworn in her secret heart, well I know,
against all such inhuman selfishness. Out upon your damsels like
Amina! She was but a Moorish damsel, I trow, and her heart
was given up to heathen divinities.”
“And love himself is one of them,” said De Tobar archly.
“Not our love, Don Nuno—not the love known to chivalry,
and before whose altars the true knight first buckles on his spurs.
He hath his birth in the gay regions of Provençe—a cavalier himself,
belted and spurred, with the addition of a pair of wings. See
you what John of Nostrodamus writes of him, and you will be
satisfied that he is not of heathen origin—a pure Christain, a noble
and a gentle—from whom comes the religion of the belted
knight.”
And the Portuguese chaunted the original description from the
ballad of the Troubadour.
“Censure not the Moor,” said Olivia to Leonora gently—“you
know not that I somewhat share in the blood of that misguided
people.”
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“But not of the infidel?” replied the other with a sort of holy
horror, crossing herself devoutly as she spoke.
“No, surely, but of a family that haply beheld the blessed
light of the Christian Church, and of their own free will sought
baptism. But the ballad I have sung comes not from the Moor.
It is pure Castilian. The damsel Amina was of the true faith.”
“Ay, lady, but she sang not wisely, knowing the wants of our
sex, and the better virtue in her own. Her ballad is in the perverse
spirit of the Moor, who, with the true heaven in his eye, yet
wilfully turned away his sight. In heart she was but a pagan.
It suits the creed of one who found in his slave the thing of his
affections. Of such only is it permitted to think ill of knighthood,
and to stifle all the free faith in the heart of woman. It suits for
a reproach to a race of misbelievers, who, though they bore themselves
manfully enough in battle, were yet little familiar with the
laws of Christian chivalry. The true knight loves not less the
treasure because it hath been won. If he keeps it no longer in
his eye, it is because he hath conveyed it to his heart. If he
boasts no longer of its beauty, it is because he fears to tempt the
avarice of others to seek his treasure. If he sings no longer in
her praise, it is because, when he hath wholly given himself up to
her charms, as he doth by marriage, he hath said the most in her
honor that could be spoken. Verily, I repeat, your Amina was
but a wretched heathen in heart, cold and selfish, and her doctrine
is only true of a people who believe with the infidel.”
Such was the eloquent commentary of Don Andres, conveyed
in a manner at once spirited and graceful.
“Thou hast made a right good and proper defence of thy sex
and mine, Don Andres,” exclaimed Leonora, “and I trow thou
wilt never lack lady's favor to grace thy helmet in the fields of
tourney. Thou wilt take thy part, I trust, in the tournament
which the adelantado has appointed; thou and thy valiant brother,
even if ye go not on the enterprise against the Floridian.”
With the mention of his brother, the eyes of Don Andres were
seen suddenly to sparkle with a keen and fiery expression. Nuno
de Tobar, knowing the conscious rivalry that existed between the
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two, watched him with interest, but said nothing. But Don Andres
was not so forbearing.
“Philip de Vasconselos must answer for himself,” said he,
somewhat equivocally—“we are both of us sufficiently old to
adopt our resolutions without much consultation with one another.”
With these words he passed quickly from the subject. The
evening was not much longer protracted, and soon De Tobar and
his betrothed took their departure, leaving the knight of Portugal
behind them. They were not conscious, as they descended the
verandah into the groves leading from the dwelling, of the movements
of another who led the way through the shady thickets.
This was no other than Philip de Vasconselos himself. Let us
not imagine that he had been a listener. He had been making
his way to the abode of Olivia, when arrested, almost on the
threshold, by the voice of his brother. He was about to retire,
as he had usually done under the same circumstances.
“Let him have all the chances,” he murmured to himself, as
he turned away. “He was the youngest born of our mother,
and had her fondest blessing. It were a grievous sorrow if he
had not mine.”
Just then the voice of Olivia in song, detained his departing
footsteps. He leaned sadly against a tree while he listened to
the satirical ballad with which the damsel had answered the solicitations
of his brother. The sentiment of the ballad was no
less ungracious in his ears than in those of Andres; and yet
there was a secret feeling of satisfaction in the heart of Philip,
that the ditty had been chosen in response to the prayer of a
rival. He retired, with mingled feelings, from his place of watch,
as the song ended, and strolled slowly through the alleys. In a
little while he heard the footsteps and the voices of De Tobar and
his companion, behind him, and perceived, with a pang, that his
brother did not accompany them. His pace was hurriedly increased.
He felt all the delicious opportunity which Andres
enjoyed, and readily conjectured that it was with a special purpose
that the latter remained after the departure of her other guests.
“Well!” he murmured to himself sadly, “be it so! If he
-- 053 --
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hath the word with which to win her, she is his! I will not envy
my brother. I would I had the strength to pray that he might
be successful. He hath wronged me—he will still wrong me—
and I will submit. He shall find in me no willing rival, whether
in love or war. Our mother gave him to my care. I will think
of her love, though he may never do justice to mine.”
The field was clear before Andres de Vasconselos. He was
alone with the woman whom he loved. He was not the
man to lose time, or dally long in a fruitless attendance at the
shrine of his devotions without making his petition heard. He
was one of those impetuous spirits whose fierce and eager will, in the
assertion of its desires, is apt to blind to the prospect of defeat—
to all prospect save that which is beheld through the medium
of a passionate and almost frenzied hope. Scarcely had Nuno de
Tobar and his betrothed disappeared, before he was at the feet
of Olivia. But not for us to watch the progress of the brief but
exciting scene which followed. Let it suffice that ere many
minutes had elapsed, Andres de Vasconselos was also speeding
away from the abode, darting headlong through the perfumed
alleys which surrounded it, and hurrying almost madly in the
direction of the neighboring hills.
With his disappearance, Don Balthazar de Alvaro once more
emerged from the cover of the neighboring thicket. His espionage
over his niece and her visitors seems to have been continued
throughout the evening. He had been sufficiently near, in his
place of concealment, to behold all that had taken place, and to
hear every syllable that was spoken. An exulting expression
was kindled in his face, and his satisfaction at the result was audibly
expressed.
“So far it is well! He hath his quietus. I had expected this;
but it is something to be sure. That danger is passed. There is
yet another, and a greater! Were I as confident of the answer she
would make to the prayer of Philip as of Andres—nay, were I
not so confident—I should feel at rest. This accursed anxiety!
It leaves me almost a coward. But I must arm myself for the
worst, and against the final struggle. It will come, and I must be
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prepared. Olivia de Alvaro must wed with neither of these
knights of Portugal. She must wed with none. The hour that finds
her a bride, finds me —. But it shall never come to this;
we must baffle him, or he must perish. Both shall perish ere
she wed this man!”
Did Olivia dream of the near neighborhood of her uncle all this
while! Could she fancy what were his resolves and reflections, in
respect to her future fate and fortunes! It might almost seem
that she did from the pallid features of her face, the big tears
swelling in her eyes, the drooping self-abandonment with which,
as soon as Andres de Vasconselos had disappeared, she suffered
herself to fall back upon the couch, her hands covering her face,
and, as it were, seeking to stifle the deep moan of agony which
perforce escaped from her lips. The sound reached Don Balthazar
in his place of concealment. Slowly he receded from the
spot and disappeared in the more distant shrubbery. He had
not the heart to meet her at that moment.
-- 055 --
CHAPTER V.
“Uso a vedirmi
Tremar tu sei; ma, piu non tremo.”
—Alfieri.
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
It was past midnight when Andres de Vasconselos returned to
the bohio or cottage, which was occupied by his brother and himself
His agitation was measurably subsided, but not his passions.
The quiet was only upon the surface. A violent storm
was still busy, raging in the depths of his spirit. His features
were rigidly composed, but stern almost to ferocity, and his
emotion was perhaps only concealed by the resolute compression
of his lips. It seemed as if he did not dare to trust to them
in speech. Though late, his brother had not yet retired for the
night. Philip de Vasconselos was busily engaged writing at the
table, the only one which the apartment contained. The light
by which he wrote was peculiar enough, however common to the
island. It consisted of a cluster of twelve or fifteen cocuyos,—
that larger sort of phosphorescent insect. These were enclosed in
a little wicker-work, or cage, made of the most delicate threads
of gold-wire. They emitted a light, of a color brilliantly green,
ample enough for all the purposes of the student. Philip looked
up, at the entrance of his brother, and discovered, at a glance,
that his emotions had been violently aroused and agitated. He
welcomed him, however, with a gentle word and smile, the answer
to which was at once brief and ungracious.
“Are you unwell, Andres?” was the inquiry, affectionately
made; for the elder brother was touched, rather than vexed, by
the repulsive accents of the other.
“And if I were, Philip de Vasconselos?” sternly and unsatisfactorily
replied the younger.
“And if thou wert, Andres! This to me, thy brother?”
-- 056 --
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“Why not? Why should grief or suffering of mine concern
thee? It is enough that thou hast neither.”
“Nay, Andres, that I myself am free from cares and sorrows
would be good reason only why I should seek to bring some
remedy to thine. But there is yet another cause for my anxiety.
The epistle, my brother, which is now growing beneath my
hands especially reminds me of my duty to succor and to comfort
thee. It is a letter to our mother, Andres; and I am even
now about to speak of thy health and happiness.”
“What warrant hast thou for assuming either? What knowest
thou of my happiness or health?”
“Nay, Andres, that thou hast vigorous and youthful health,
may not be denied. All who behold thee, speak loudly of thy
full cheek, thy elastic form, and the brightness of thine eye; and
these things speak for thy happiness also. It is vain to declare
the presence of a grief which leaves the beauty and vigor of the
form unwasted and untouched. Surely, my brother, thou art
not unhappy?”
“Why troublest thou me with such questions, Philip? Write
to our mother whatever it pleaseth thee to write. Say what thou
wilt. It matters but little to me what thou sayest!”
“But it matters much to her, Andres,” replied the other,
somewhat reproachfully. “Besides, I dare not speak to our
mother indifferently of him, her favorite son, whom she so commended
especially to my affection as a younger brother.”
“Philip de Vasconselos, both thou and our mother have erred
greatly when ye claim to believe that I need guardianship. I
tell thee, Señor, I am, like thyself, a man,—and fully capable of
taking care of my own health and fortunes.”
The reply to this rude speech was full of a sad solemnity.
“Something hath vexed thee, Andres, making thee unjust to
thy brother and ungrateful to the tender fondness of thy mother
for thy youth. Thou wilt find it less easy, when thou recoverest
thy calm of temper, to forgive thyself than to procure her forgiveness
or mine. I will finish my letter, making my own
report of thy condition, which, until this hour, Andres, hath
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seemed to all the island, as to myself, such as it would be most
grateful to any mother to behold or know.”
“As thou wilt; and yet!—Look at me, Philip de Vasconselos!—
look at me, ere thou writest down any delusive falsehood for
my mother's eyes! Look I like one whom the Gods have
marked for happiness?”
He approached the table as he spoke, and grasped, with some
violence, the hand that held the pen. The eyes of the brothers
encountered. Those of Andres were blood-shot, full of rage,
and expressive of a fury that seemed about to break through all
restraint. Philip rose, as he caught the fearful expression in the
other's face. His own features were calm and firm, but filled
with a tender concern and sympathy, such as spoke for the gentle
and noble attachment with which the elder brother regarded
the younger, and the favorite of their mother.
“Andres,” he said, “I know not that I am wise, or like to be
successful in asking thy confidence. Of late thou hast seemed to
regard me rather as an enemy than a brother —”
“Thou art! Thou art!” was the wild and reckless answer.
“Nay, I cannot answer thee, Andres, by any assurance in
words. It becomes not me patiently to strive to disprove thy
injustice. I look upon such speech as a sort of madness, on thy
part, rather than a wrong done to me. Enough, that I tell thee
I am here, ready, as thou hast always found me before, to serve
thy cause, to help thy progress, to fight thy battles—if need
be —”
“I ask not thy help in battle, Philip de Vasconselos. I am
equal to my own danger. But thou art willing to help my progress—
to serve my cause?—How sayest?—Eh!”
“Yea! with all my strength, and all my heart!” was the eager
reply.
“Hearken! wilt thou deign then to seek on my behalf, and to
solicit from Don Balthazar de Alvaro, the hand of his niece in
marriage? Wilt thou do this, Philip de Vasconselos?”
“Verily, of a truth will I do this, if the lady hath authorized
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thee so to solicit;” was the answer, in somewhat subdued accents.
“If the lady hath authorized thee to solicit!” was the mocking
repetition of the infuriate young man: “Go to, Philip de Vasconselos,
I well know that thou wouldst not, ay, thou couldst
not, serve me in this. Would I need to solicit the favor of the
uncle, were I sure of the favor of his niece?”
“Thou wouldst surely not seek the one, were the other denied
thee?”
“Not through thy eloquence, surely, Señor Don Philip, lest
thou shouldst haply forget thy client's claims in the prosecution
of thy own.”
“Andres, my brother,” said the other calmly, but with a sterner
show of expression than had before been apparent in his countenance,—
“it will not be easy to make me angry with thee. It
is in thy madness that thou dost me this gross injustice,—and I
forgive it. But let us speak no more in regard to this matter.
It needs not that I should tell thee what thou seemest already to
understand, that my affections have been placed, as well as thine,
upon the same lovely lady. I deny not this, though I have deemed
it only proper that I should be silent on the subject, seeing thy
secret in the same moment with mine own. It is surely our misfortune
that we have so loved. But I resolved, from the moment
when I discovered the bent of thy affections, that the field should
be open to thee from any obstruction of mine. I stood not in
thy way. I offered no rivalship to thee,—and, while thou hast
nightly sought the dwelling of the Lady Olivia, it was enough for
me to know that such was the course of thy footsteps, to turn
mine in the opposite direction. This very night, when I learned
that thou wast her guest, I left the garden of the lady—”
“Ha! thou wast there,—and thou hast heard?” was the interruption.
“I have heard nothing! When I found the verandah occupied
by thyself and Nuno de Tobar, with his betrothed, I turned
away in silence, seeking nothing farther. I left thee to thy own
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[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
progress, with the resolution to give thee all the opportunity;
and, if success were thine, to bury in silence, in the depths of
mine own heart, the secret affection which has troubled it. Thy
injustice hath not suffered this—”
A deep groan from the younger brother interrupted the speaker
for a moment. The latter would have proceeded, but Andres
broke in.
“Enough! Enough, my brother,” he exclaimed with a returning
sentiment of justice. “I am a madman and a fool. I
have wronged thee! Pursue thy fortunes. It needs not any
longer that thou shouldst yield thy hopes or purposes to mine.
This night hath resolved me. It finds me denied, where I had
hoped most strongly. It finds me destitute, where I had set all
my fortunes on the venture. I dare not wish that thou shouldst
be more fortunate. I am not generous enough for that. Yet I
stand in thy path no longer. Within the hour I have made a new
resolution; I will continue with Hernan de Soto. I will go with
him into Florida. In Cuba I should find but wreck and sorrow only.”
“Is it so, my brother!” said Philip sadly.
“Pity me not, if thou wouldst not madden me. Thou knowest
my pride and temper. Beware, lest I forget what is due to thee—
lest I forget thy justice, thy generosity, ever shown to me, even
when my perversity was most. Enough, now that my mood inclines
to thee, to do thee right, Philip; although I dread to think
that I no longer love thee as I did. I see thee destined for success
where I have failed—where I have been crushed and confounded
with unexpected denial. I fear—I feel—that, but for
thee, this had not been the case. Thou hast passed before me
as thou hast ever done before. It matters nothing that thou
shouldst tell me of thy forbearance. Thou hast given way to
me—thou hast yielded me opportunity—and, in thy secret heart,
perchance, it is like thou felt that thou couldst do so with safety.
I know the strength of thy will and hope, Philip de Vasconselos,
and fully believe that thou hast built thy expectations upon a confidence
in thy superior fortune, which might boldly give every
opportunity to mine—”
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[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
“Thou still wrong'st me, Andres!” mildly.
“Perhaps, perhaps!—do I not even wrong myself as well as
thee? We will speak no more of this. Enough, that the field
lies before thee—that I cross thy path no longer—that I go
on the expedition with De Soto—and as, most likely, thou wilt
be successful where I have failed, so thou wilt remain here, and
we will cast our shadows no more upon each other. Write this to
our mother, and say to her that my soul is now wholly yielded
to the ambition of conquest. Tell her what thou wilt of those
dreams of Dorado, which woo the adventurer to the wilds of the
Appalachian.”
“Brother —”
“Think not that I would wrong thee, Philip. Is it not enough
that even in my passion and my pang, I acknowledge thy forbearance?
I blame thee not, even while I curse in bitterness thy always
better fortune. It is thy fortune that prevents my love,
and not thyself.”
“But thou dost love me, Andres?”
“I know not that!—How should I love thee, when thou hast
been the barrier to my love?—the only one passion on which all
my affections have been set!”
“But I know not this, Andres; I have never spoken word of
love or tenderness to the Lady Olivia.”
“But thou wilt speak both; and she will hear thee, and respond
to thee in accents like thine own. No more of this, lest I grow
wild and foolish, and curse thee, Philip, for thy better fortune.”
“Nay, thou shalt not, brother,” and he threw his arms tenderly
about the unreasonable youth, who submitted but only for a moment
to the embrace; he shook himself free from it in the next
instant. Philip's eyes followed him with a deep and melancholy
interest, full of sorrow and affection, as he saw him preparing
once more to leave the cabin.
“Whither go you, my brother, at this late hour?”
“Forth! Forth once more into the night!”
“Nay, Andres; were it not better thou shouldst seek for
sleep?”
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“I cannot sleep! Thou knowest not what a stifling fullness
harbors here—and here!” was the reply of Andres, smiting his
head and bosom as he spoke. “I must hurry forth! I must
have air and solitude!”
With these words he disappeared from the cabin. Philip de
Vasconselos followed him to the door, and his eyes anxiously
pursued the retreating form by the imperfect starlight, until it
had wholly gone from sight. The elder brother then returned to
the table, where, seating himself, he rested his cheek upon his
palm, and sunk into a fit of melancholy, which was of mixed
character, at once pleasing and painful. The perverse and willful
pride of his brother, his suspicious and jealous temper, must
necessarily have been productive of great grief to one by whom
he was earnestly beloved; but it was in vain that Philip de Vasconselos
tried to stifle the feeling of satisfaction which enlivened
and pleasantly agitated his bosom, as he thought of the rejection
by Olivia de Alvaro of his brother's suit. Love is certainly
one of the most selfish and exacting of all the passions in the heart
of youth; perhaps because it is the passion which most completely
absorbs and swallows up the rest. Philip was really
fond of Andres; fond of him by reason of natural sympathies,
as a brother; fond of him by habit and association—fond of
all that was manly in his character—proud of his spirit and youthful
beauty—fond of him, on account of their mother, and particularly
so, as, for so long a time, he had been the guardian of his
youth and fortunes. But his heart reproached him for the still
grateful feeling of satisfaction, which he vainly endeavored to subdue,
and which continually reminded him that, in this quarter,
there was no longer an obstacle to his own successes. It was
to overcome this thought that he proceeded to resume the letter
which he had been writing to his mother when Andres had first made
his appearance. A few additional lines only were written, when
he flung the reed from him and closed the portfolio. His nervous
system was in too much agitation to suffer him to continue at
an employment which particularly demanded the utmost calm
-- 062 --
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of the spirit. He went once more to the entrance of the cabin,
and soliloquized, as if his brother were still in sight.
“Unhappy child of passion! forever erring and repenting—only
to repeat thy error; what a destiny is thine! How shall I watch
and save thee, when it is ever thus, that some cruel suspicion, the
offspring of thy wild temper and fierce will, continually begets
thy hostility against the hand that is outstretched in thy service!
Thou wilt go with Hernan de Soto, and it may be that I shall
not be with thee. Ha! Is this, then, a doubt? Is it so certain that
mine shall be a better fortune with Olivia de Alvaro than was
thine? She has refused thee,—thou, as brave, as noble, as comely
as any of the gentlemen of Castile! Will she be more likely
to hearken me? It is possible; and I have a hope, a hope in
which I gladden—though I shame to own it,—based upon a brother's
denial and defeat! Is there reason for this hope? Do I
not delude myself—does not Nuno de Tobar, when he encourages
my passion, does he not delude me also? The thought
that I too shall be scorned, makes it easy to pardon the violent
passions of my poor Andres. Well! We shall shortly see!
Now that he no longer pursues the quest, it will be for me to
know what is my fate. A few days, and it may be that I also
go with thee, my brother, into the wild forests of the Apalachian.
And yet, were there other fields of venture, Hernan de Soto
should have no help of mine. He hath favored, rather than
frowned upon, these jealousies of his Spanish followers. They
hold me in their hate, if not their disesteem; and envy me the
very skill and knowledge upon which they build somewhat for
their hope of success. Let Olivia but smile upon my prayer,
and I fling them off, with as little regard as I would fling off the
most worthless thing, in my dislike or indifference!”
We need not follow Philip de Vasconselos in his soliloquy.
Enough is given to show the temper of his mind and character.
We will leave him to his slumbers, such as he may snatch, in
the brief interval which now remains between the midnight and
the dawn; while we retrace our footsteps once more to the
dwelling of Don Balthazar de Alvaro.
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It might have been an hour after we saw him retiring, silently,
from his place of espionage among the groves which surrounded
the verandah where his niece had received her guests, that we
find him returning to the same spot. But it was no longer
to find concealment and to play the spy that he now appeared.
His step was set down firmly and fearlessly, and his lips parted
with a pleasant catch of Castilian song, as he drew near the
shrubbery. Don Balthazar was no mean musician. With no sensibilities
such as are vulgarly assumed to be absolutely necessary
to musical endowment, he was held to be something of a master,
and could shape corresponding melodies to the most difficult ditties,
with a readiness not unlike that of the Italian improvisatori.
His song on the present occasion, which might have been a
spontaneous utterance for aught we know, was sufficiently loud
to be heard within the dwelling. But it did not reach the senses
of Olivia, who lay stretched upon the divan, upon which we
beheld her sink suddenly at the departure of Andres de Vasconselos,
under the burden of a nameless sorrow, for which, with
Beauty in her endowment, and Devotion at her feet, it would be
very difficult to account. She beheld not the entrance of her uncle,
and yet she slept not. Her eyes were open, but the glance was
vacant; `the sense was shut.' It was fixed within, upon the
struggling passions of her own heart, and took no heed of external
objects. Don Balthazar approached her—he stood before
her—he spoke to her, yet she heard him not. He paused quietly,
and surveyed her. Very peculiar was the character of that
glance which he bestowed upon the lovely outline and perfect
beauty of the features within his gaze. It might be pride and
exultation, such as a father feels beholding the unsurpassable
charms of a favorite daughter. But there was something still
that was equivocal in the expression of his features. There was
a mysterious significance in that look, at once of steady and
circumspect watch, yet of eagerness and satisfaction, which baffled
the curiosity that it continued to provoke. Some moments
were consumed in this serpent-like gaze, and all the while she
remained absolutely unconscious of his presence. She was only
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aroused from this unconsciousness as he sat himself quietly beside
her, and folding his arms about her waist, lifted her with an
air of great affection in his embrace. Then it was that she
started, looked wildly about her for a moment, and then, distinguishing
the intruder, fixed upon him a countenance expressive
of any feeling but that of tenderness or regard. In an instant
the full, quick, keen vitality, came like a flood of light into her
great dark eyes; her lips quivered, and were suddenly closed
fast, as if with sudden resolution. She started from the cushions,
and shook herself free from his grasp, as if he had been a
viper.
“You!” she exclaimed in a tone of suspicion and apprehension.
“Even so, Olivia. Who else? But what now? Why this
passion? What has vexed you? What startles you?”
“How long have you been here?” she asked wildly.
“But this moment,” he answered: “I thought you slept.”
She drew a deep sigh, as if suddenly relieved.
“It is late,” she said; “I will retire.”
“Late! what of that? Have you any cares for to-morrow?
Sit, my beauty, and tell us who have been your guests—who
hath been here? What are your tidings?”
“I have none,” she answered coldly and timidly, still moving
to retire.
“Now, saints and demons! what is in the child!” he exclaimed,
as he endeavored once more to detain her in his grasp.
She shrunk from him with a visible shudder. A heavy scowl
passed over his forehead, and he spoke with closed teeth.
“What! still in thy Biscayan temper? Nay, nay, my precious
one, thou shalt not leave me thus.”
“Suffer me to go, uncle,” she entreated, as he caught her hand.
“Why, so I will, when thou hast answered me what has put
thee in this temper again? Methought, when I left thee last, that
thou hadst been sobered — hadst grown wiser. What has
wrought thee into this passion, at a moment when brave cavaliers
grow humble in thy train? Or dost thou repent thee for
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having dismissed with denial this famous young gallant of Portugal?”
What a change in her aspect followed this speech from his
lips! But a moment before she exhibited aversion, but it was
coupled with timidity and a feeble, tearful apprehension. In a
moment the timidity was gone—the tear—the apprehension.
Her eyes flashed full with indignation as she replied:—
“What! thou hast again descended to the office of the spy?
Thou hast once more placed thyself in secret watch upon my
actions?”
“Not upon thy actions, child—not upon thee, but upon those
who approach thee. I know thy danger from these gallants, and
it is in degree as I fear them, my Olivia, that I keep watch
over thee, as thy guardian—thy protector, child—”
He renewed the attempt to take her hand as he spoke.
“Touch me not,” she cried. “Oh, wolf assigned to keep the
lamb!”
“What wouldst thou have, child? It is surely needful that
I hold ever present in mind the treasure that I am set to keep.”
“Oh, fiend! and thou smil'st as thou speak'st thus dreadfully.”
“Nay, nay, not a fiend, Olivia, only, I grant you, not exactly
an angel. Believe me, I am not a whit worse than most other men.”
“Thou slanderest thy race.”
“No, truly, no. Most guardians, having such precious treasure
in their keeping, would take care of it as I have done. Have I
not kept thee well, my child—as tenderly, as closely? Shall
others rob me of the treasure before mine own eyes? Ah,
child! if I loved thee less, I had been spoiled of thee before.
It is in my fondness, Olivia,—”
“Oh! cease to vex me with these cruel taunts! What gain is it
to thee now, that thou shouldst add a sting to a sorrow? If to
thee I owe the loss of hope, why jibe me ever with this loss?
Why hold before mine eyes the terrible picture of the woe
thou hast planted forever in my soul? Forbear thy mockeries.
Suffer me to leave thee—suffer me to sleep—sleep—sleep! if
this be possible to-night.”
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“Nay, I would not mock thee, Olivia. I but speak to thee the
language of a sober truth. I do, indeed, love thee, my child—
love thee as my own—would have thee ever as mine own, and
thou mightst see in this fondness the secret of that distrust which
dogs the heels of all others. Give not way to this blindness and
madness, which can profit neither thee nor me, and see the love
which I feel for thee, my child!”
“Peace! Peace! thou maddenest me when thou talkest to
me of thy love!”
“A truce to thy passion, Olivia. Thou art not wise in its
indulgence. It spoils thy beauty. It takes too much from thy
charm of face, as it disturbs the peace of thy heart. Thus ruffled,
thou remind'st me painfully of thy Biscayan mother, who was fiercer
in her wrath than the hurricane of these tropic countries. She
would suddenly grow convulsed like thyself, with a tempest that
threatened everything with destruction; but she was not, as thou
art, capable of soothing all down again to the most beautiful
repose!”
“Her passion were much the most fitting to mate with thine!
O! would that she were here! Mother! O! mother! Where
art thou now? See'st thou thy child—into what hands—into
what fate she has fallen—without hope—as one who drowns,
with all the seas upon him, and no strength to struggle upward
into life?”
She threw herself once more upon the cushions of the divan,
her face downward. One single sob escaped her, but one, for
at that moment the hand of Don Balthazar, in seeming tenderness,
was placed upon her neck. His touch seemed to recall the
more fiery feeling with which she had at first received him. She
started up, and repulsed him with a spasmodic fierceness.
“Thy touch is like so much poison! Beware, lest I go mad!
Thou wilt drive me too far, as if thou hadst not already driven me
to perdition! Canst thou not pity—wilt thou not spare me? I
have been weak—I know that I am weak still—but I feel that I
have a strength in me that may become fearful for mischief, if
not for good. Uncle, it were better, far better, ere you rouse
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that strength into exercise, that you should drive your dagger
into both of our hearts.”
The brow of Don Balthazar was contracted; but a determined
effort dissipated the cloud. His róle was that of conciliation.
He was not unwilling to acknowledge and to respect that fearful
strength which she asserted herself to possess, though latent. He
felt that he had gone too far. He had given her no credit for
that character of which she was now making a fearful exhibition.
Nor, indeed, had he hitherto found any reason to suspect the
presence of such fierce energies. She had hitherto borne herself
so mildly, if not feebly, that he had come rather to slight, if
not to despise, the weakness of a nature, which had been almost
wholly controlled by his superior will. That he had been so
successful hitherto, in this respect, was due to causes already
glanced at—the seclusion of her mode of life, her extreme youth,
and her imperfect education. The instincts of her heart, suddenly
springing into birth, had opened to her eyes a new survey, and
filled her soul with a consciousness not less overwhelming and
oppressive than strange. He was beginning to discover the full
extent of her developments, when it was perhaps too late. Regarding
her as a child, a pliant creature in his hands, he had but
too much given way to that satirical temper which marked his
character. It was now his aim to soothe. He was not practised
in this art, but he seriously addressed himself to the endeavor.
“Truly, dear Olivia, thou art most perverse to-night. Is it at the
moment when I am most grateful to thee, that thou wouldst repulse
my acknowledgments? I do but seek to show how greatly
I prize that dutiful affection which alone, I doubt not, has caused
thee to dismiss this young and insolent knight of Portugal.”
“Dutiful affection!” she exclaimed, interrupting him with a
bitter look and accent, which effectually interpreted into scornful
irony the two words which she had borrowed from his speech.
“And was it not this, Olivia?”
“Once for all, Señor, let this folly cease. There is no policy
in this hypocrisy. Thou canst deceive me no longer. I have
no need to deceive thee. We know each other. Thou knowest
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me—thou hast sounded the hollows of my heart, and the knowledge
thou hast gained has been fatal to all my hopes. Thou
knowest that I owe thee neither duty nor affection—that, if anything,
I owe thee hate only—an unforgiving hate that should
dream of nothing but revenge. But I have no such dream.
Give me but peace—such peace, at least, as may spring from
thy forbearance, and if I meet thee with smiles no longer, I shall
at least assail thee with no reproaches. I rejected the suit of
Don Andres de Vasconselos simply because— alas! why
should I furnish thee with a reason for this rejection? Enough,
that it was with no regard to thy interests, or thy desires, that
I was moved to decline his prayer.”
“And yet, that thou didst so, is a great gain to me, as well as
to De Soto. Failing thee and thy hacienda, this knight will now
be ready to seek for a slower fortune amongst the Apalachian
of Florida. We had lost him but for this. He and his brother
both—that more wily adventurer—had set earnest eyes upon
thy possessions. I doubt not that they knew well the number
of thy slaves and acres, and the exact annual product of thy
lands.”
“Oh! be silent, Señor—be silent, for very shame. It befits
not thee, least of all, to impute such sordid passions to these
noble gentlemen.”
Even at this moment, when fully convinced of the necessity of
conciliation, and really desirous not to offend, the habitual sneer
of the uncle obtained the ascendency.
“And thou persuadest thyself—though I wonder not—that it
is thy charms alone which have wrought upon the affections of
these knights of Portugal.”
The sarcasm smote sharply on the woman sensibilities of the
damsel. She replied instantly:
“I think not of it! I would that I could think of neither them
nor thee. Small pleasure, indeed, do I find in thinking of thee,
and smaller the profit, in such condition as is mine, in giving
thought to knight or noble, on whose scutcheon there rests no
stain. Why wilt thou madden me with these things? If, for a
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moment, I have been weak and vain enough to think of any noble
gentleman, Heaven knows how suddenly and soon my own
heart has smitten me for the guilt and folly of such fancies. But
if the deadlier tongue of Remorse were not speaking ever at my
heart this language, there were rebuke sufficient in the consciousness
that, whatever speech is addressed to my ear, must be
heard also by thine;—that even did I presume to love, or to
listen to the pleadings of a lover, the precious sweetness of
such intercourse must be without secret or security. Thy watch
is ever upon my footsteps, and thy miserable spies —”
“Nay, but thou wrong'st me, child. I have set no eyes to
watch thee but mine own, and mine watch thee only because thou
art so precious in their sight.”
She gave him but a single look, so cold—so freezingly sad,
that he felt all its profound scorn and denial.
“Of a truth, Olivia, it is so. Hadst thou been my own child,
I could not have loved thee better”
“Father! Mother! Hear him! Alas! wherefore was I not
thine own! That might have secured me from this fate! And
yet, I know not! I know not what thou holdest sacred! I know
not what could have been safe in thy hands, from thy bad and
brutal nature. Oh! Señor Balthazar—I will call thee no more
mine uncle—when I look upon thee, as I do now, with eyes fairly
opened upon thy cruelties and crime,—I feel a doubt, a dread,
lest I be in the power of some fearful emissary of the enemy of
souls, whose study is how to cut me off from repentance and salvation.
Mother of God, be merciful! Jesu, descend to me and
cover me with thy holy shelter. Oh! I feel that I shall madden,
unless the white spirits whom I pray for shall come quickly to
my aid!”
A passion of tears followed this wild apostrophe, and somewhat
relieved the swollen heart and the overburdened brain. Don
Balthazar felt that he must pause. He did not dare to address
her in the moment of the paroxysm. He waited, watching her
patiently, till her tears flowed freely, and then subduing himself
to his policy—his bitter reckless mood to the necessity before
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him, and with which he felt that it would not do to trifle farther,—
he carefully adapted his speech to the task of soothing. In
some measure he succeeded. She grew calmer, and milder, and
he now approached her where she sat upon the divan, and without
interruption, save from her sobs occasionally, continued the
glozing speech which was to quiet her anger. She answered him
but seldom, and then capriciously—sometimes with tears only,
and again with some burst of indignant speech, that drove him
back to his first positions.
“Oh! why wilt thou, dearest Olivia, give way to these passionate
phrensies? of what profit to conjure up such wild and
gloomy reflections? They nothing help your situation or mine.
They restore us nothing that is lost, but tend rather to embitter
the only consolations that remain to us.”
“What are they?” she asked fiercely.
“To economize the better feelings. To forgive where we can—
to spare when we can—”
“Ah! I owe thee much for thy forbearance.”
“I feel that I deserve thy chiding; but, dearest child, I will do
better. I will give thee no cause for anger henceforward. Only
be merciful.—I owe thee much, Olivia,—much for the past.—
That thou hast sent off this young gallant with denial, leaves me
to-night with a light heart.”
“And mine! mine is breaking!”—was the wild finish which
her lips sobbed out at the conclusion of his sentence. The deep
despairing agony of her manner admirably suited the language
of her lips.
“Nay, nay, my child; not so! The world is but begun with
thee. There is sunshine for thee, and flowers in abundance. Thou
wilt forget—”
“Never! never! Oh! would it could break, break at once,
that I may feel no more this terrible struggle—this pang that is
worse than death! But its doom is not to break. There must
be more agonies. I must undergo many deaths,—and that blight
of all—that accursed bitter blight!”
The picture of her grief was beyond all practice. There could
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be no question of the terrible earnestness of her woe. With her
face buried in the cushions of the divan, she lay silent or sobbing,
without an effort to move, until he endeavored once more to raise
her up. Again she betrayed that shuddering horror at his touch,
which she had shown several times before; and, firmly repulsing
him, she again abandoned herself to her afflictions. His soothing
was in vain, or only offered new provocation to her sorrows.
“Olivia, dearest child, wherefore now this unwonted passion?
What grief hast thou now, that thou hadst not yesterday, and the
day before?—”
“Ay, Señor,” she answered, with a fearful vehemence, “and
last week, and months agone, even to that dark and damnable
hour, when—”
And she closed the sentence abruptly, covering her face with
her hands as she did so, as if to shut from sight some terrible
presence.
“Olivia—dear child!”
“Child me not! I am not thy child. Thou hast known me as
a child only to crush me as a woman. Away, I entreat thee—
let me never see thee more. If thou wouldst not drive me
into absolute phrensy, I implore thee to forbear—to depart forever.
It is those days, those weeks, those months, when in my
ignorance and weakness, I had not felt these agonies, as I feel
them now, to which I owe them all! Blot these out, Señor, from
my memory! make me forget them, I command thee, or take
this dagger, and thrust it into this heart, which thou hast filled
with death and misery. Do it, uncle—do it, if thou hast one
spark of the man within thy bosom—if, indeed, thou hast one
feeling of pity in thy soul for the poor orphan whose sire drew
milk from the same bosom with thy own.”
She clutched at the weapon in his girdle, and would have seized
it, but that he grappled her by the wrist, and held her fast.
“Oh! thou shouldst do it—such a blow would never shame
thy dagger. If thou wilt not, hence! Let me never see thee
more. If thou canst not bring me the forgetfulness I implore,
thou art my bane only, and canst bring no remedy. Thy words
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of soothing I despise. As I live, uncle, I loathe thy presence.
Thy voice sounds hissingly in mine ears., like that of the serpent,
who carries a deadly poison beneath his tongue.”
The inspired priestess, drunk with the sacred fury, never looked
so sublimely fearful. Her great flashing eyes, lighting up the
paleness of her cheeks—her widely distended nostril, her lofty
and erect figure, and the wild but beautiful action of her frame,
actually seemed to confound and overwhelm her companion. He
spoke—but how feeble now were his words of soothing—his entreaties—
his arguments!
“Olivia! This is, indeed, wilful. Of what avail now all this
horror, this professed loathing?”
“Professed! Oh! Man, man! Vain man! What seest
thou in me at this moment, to make thee dream that I could say
anything that I do not feel! But of what avail thou ask'st? Of
what avail, indeed, except for curses—perhaps for death! But
that the grief can bring no relief is sufficient cause for suffering.
Could it avail—could anything avail—would I suffer thus?
Would I seek no remedy? Would I not go through the furnace
in its search, and gladly give up the life which is tutored
to reconcile itself to all manner of sin and sorrow, as it is made to
see that nothing can avail! Oh! Blessed Virgin, if my lips may
now be permitted to name thy name, and to appeal to thee, what
hast thou suffered me to see? In the brief space of a single week
mine eyes have opened to the truth. I behold now what I neither
saw nor dreamed before. Oh! Señor,—brother of my wretched
father, what hast thou done! Thou hast slain the very hope—the
life of hope and happiness of his only child, given to thee in
blessings and in sacred trust, all of which thou hast trampled under
foot in scorn.”
“Not so, dearest Olivia. Thou seest this matter through a false
medium. The evil is not of the magnitude which thou deem'st it.
Who is there to betray our secret? Who is it that knows —”
“Is it not enough that I know,—that I feel—that the dreadful
consciousness is crushing me to the earth, making my soul a
thing of constant fear, and apprehensions the most terrible?”
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The wisdom of Don Balthazar was again at fault. He could
not forbear a remark, which, however true in respect to the subject
of her griefs, was yet very unseasonably referred to in the
present condition of her feelings.
“Olivia, this dreadful consciousness of which thou speakest,
never possessed thee until thine eyes beheld this Philip de Vasconselos.
Beware—my child, lest —”
The fearful spirit was roused again within her. She did not
suffer him to finish.
“And I say to thee, Balthazar de Alvaro, unworthy and
treacherous brother, base and cruel guardian—shameless and perjured
man—do thou beware! If I am to be crushed and cursed
by thee, I will not be reproached or threatened by thee! Thou
sayest justly, indeed, that until I beheld this knight of Portugal,
I did not well conceive the full extent of the wrong which thou
hadst done me. That thy perfidy, thy stealth, thy cunning, thy
pernicious malice and fatal power, which had wrought upon me
in moments of oblivion, had done me the cruellest of evils, I well
know! My tears, my reproaches have not been spared, as thou
well knowest, from the beginning! But of the awful wrecks of
which thou wert the sole cause, I had little knowledge. Mine
eyes are opened, and, as thou sayest, with the moment of my
knowledge of Philip de Vasconselos! Oh! make not my heart
feeble by compelling my tongue to repeat that name. It was
only when I knew him that I began darkly and hopelessly to
know myself. I then, for the first time, heard the terrible voice
speaking to my conscience as if from the depths of my own heart.
It is in the birth of what had been my blessing and my joy, that
I am made terribly sensible of what is now my privation and my
curse! Enough! It is wonderful that I have speech for this! But
thy wanton malice hath opened all the floods of my indignation.
No more to-night! Let us separate—though I go not to sleep.
Sleep! sleep! can I ever sleep again? Thou seest me changed;
and such a change! I am no more a child,—blind, weak, submissive—
overcome when my innocent sleep dreamed nothing of
danger, and blasted by a guilt in which, Holy Mother, be my
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witness, I had no share! I am a woman now. I have risen to
the highest intelligence of woman, only through despair. I now
know thee for what thou truly art—base, brutal,—and oh! shame
on thy pretence of manhood, with a corrupt selfishness that would
keep me still a victim!”
“Olivia!”
“Follow me not—touch me not—look no more upon me—if
thou art wise, and wouldst not see me a maniac beneath thine
eyes, raving aloud to the abashed people of thy and my miserable
secret.”
Thus speaking, with arms extended as if for judgment, and
eyes flashing almost supernatural fires, she waved him passionately
aside, and defying the obstruction, which he was too much
paralyzed to offer, darted headlong from the apartment.
-- 075 --
CHAPTER VI.
“Now will these damned conspirators 'gainst Virtue
Make such felonious traffic of her servants,
As move the night to shudder; cause her fair planets
To blush with secret passion that they may not
Come down with holy succor! Oh! that angels
Might put on armor when they would, and strangle
The enemy ere he strikes.”
—The Parricide.
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
She was gone from sight before he recovered himself. He
stood abashed—stunned rather—pale and almost trembling, at
the unexpected fury he had awakened. At length, but slowly,
he began to recover himself; and his gathering thoughts betrayed
themselves in broken soliloquy.
“This grows more serious. It must be looked to. It is a
danger to be hushed by the shortest method, if it passes not off
like all the rest. But I must prepare myself for the worst. She
must not be suffered to destroy me, even if she resolves to destroy
herself. I must cure these violences of passion—and I will.”
His hand, perhaps unconsciously, griped the handle of his
dagger. A moment after, he seized hurriedly the light, and left
the room, pursuing, at first, the passage which Olivia had entered,
as if about to proceed also in the direction of her chamber;
but he paused almost as soon as he had entered it, wheeled about,
passed once more into the apartment which he had left, and,
opening a door in the opposite wall, entered another passage conducting
to his own chamber. Here, setting the light down upon
a table, he threw himself into a light chair of bamboo work, and
with so little heed, and so heavily, that the slight wicker frame
of the fabric creaked and threatened to sink beneath his weight.
“I was a fool,” he said, soliloquizing moodily. “I was but a
fool to confront her in her paroxysm. It is then that she hath as
-- 076 --
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little measure in her anger as her fierce Biscayan mother. Yet
how lately hath this sort of fury developed itself in her. How
wonderfully to-night did she resemble her. There was the same
dark, fiery eye, sending out sudden flashes; the same sudden
swelling of the great vein across her forehead, till it seemed big
to bursting; the same show of the teeth, gleaming white, close
set, and gnashing at moments the thin lips that seemed to part
and turn over, like those of a hungry tiger. What a resemblance!
I never saw the like before. Yet, when I beheld the likeness,
that I should have dealt in the old sarcasm; that I should not
have forborne. I should have known enough of the mother, to
have waited for the moment of her exhaustion. Who takes the
fish will do wisely not to thwart him in the struggle. Why
should he not struggle, since it avails nothing against his capture?
He is so much the sooner in the toils. Let him beat the water
while he lists, until it becomes easier to die than to strive. Such
is the true art of dealing with women in their passion, especially
when they carry tempers of such intensity. It is in her exhaustion
only that she yields; and the exhaustion comes the sooner
where the flurry is so extreme. With opposition, she finds new
strength; but, taken in the lull, with fondness or persuasion, and
she cannot help but yield!”
He paused, rested his elbow on the table, and supported his
brow upon his hands for a while in silent meditation. A few moments
only passed thus; his mood was too much excited for quiet.
He started up from his seat, and again instantly resumed.
“Something has gone wrong,” he muttered. “She hath discovered
something of the secret. How much, it behooves that I
should know. She knows the worst, that is certain; but can she
have found out the agencies? I must summon Anita. That hag
of hate hath not betrayed me, I know. She too much loves the
evil to do aught which should prevent its exercise. She too
much hated the mother to be merciful to the daughter. She hath
too willingly served me in this matter to have repented of her
share in the performance. But she may have kept her secret
loosely; she may have been watched; that Olivia has suspected
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
her, I know; and, with suspicion once awakened, an intense spirit
will be sleepless till it makes discovery. I must see and examine
her.”
He touched a tassel depending from the wainscot; then resumed
his soliloquy, pursuing another train of thought.
“These accursed knights of Portugal! They vex me on every
side. She hath dismissed one of them, but he is no less a trouble.
Will he stay content with one rejection? These lovers,—
deeply filled with the one image, and of rare arrogance,—are not
easily satisfied with denial; but I will yet put my foot upon their
necks; or, failing in this, I shall thrust my dagger to their hearts.
Every man is haunted by some viper, or spider—venomous reptile,
or spiteful insect. These are mine! Yet, but for this wonderful
change in her, they should not give me cause of fear. But
yesterday, so meek; and now, a tigress! Well, there is always,
at the worst, one remedy, and this cannot fail me!”
Thus speaking, he drew forth his dagger from the sheath, and
contemplated the weapon darkly as he spoke. There was that in
his manner, and the cold intelligence in his eye, during this survey,
which denoted the reckless hardihood of a nature, originally
cold and selfish, and which had been thoroughly indurated by a
long and terrible criminal experience. It is not for us to go back
in his history, and recall the events of a life which have no absolute
connection with the progress which is before us. Enough,
that the past, once known, would leave us little doubt of the cool
indifference with which the bold, bad man before us, would school
himself to the execution of any crimes which it became his policy
to contemplate. See him as he turns the dagger, and passes his
finger over the rust-spots that darken its point, and dot the blade
freely upward on both sides! A fierce smile,—a demoniac grin
appears upon his face, as he makes the survey, and tells a sufficient
story.
“Ay, it is there still!” he muttered—“precious proof of my
revenge! Little did Nicolas de Vergaray fancy, when he
triumphed over my heart, that I should so soon find the way to
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
his! I would not cleanse the bright steel which his blood had
tainted. I preferred that the stains should forever remind me of
my triumph at the last;—ay, in the moment when he fondly
fancied he had all to himself the happiness which he had despoiled
me of! He, at least, enjoyed it only in his dreams!”
The door opened. The soliloquy was arrested. He restored
the dagger to its sheath, and looked up at the intruder. This
was an old woman of about sixty, a mestizo, a cross of the negro
and the red-man. She combined, in very equal degree, the most
conspicuous characteristics of the two. She had the high cheek
bones, the thin lips, the full chin, the glossy dark flowing hair of
the Indian, with the retreating forehead and flat nose of the black.
Her eyes were of the sly, sharp, gipsy cast, the brows quite gray,
and thus in singular contrast with her hair, which was quite as
black as in the days of her childhood;—if, indeed, days of childhood
had ever been known to her! She had not the appearance of
one who had ever been a child. The wear and tear of vexing passions
had scarred her face with every sign of premature old age.
Her skin was a series of wrinkles, like the ripples of spent billows
upon a gradually rising shore. Her teeth were gone, with the
exception of a couple of very sharp snags, that stood out in
front, between her thin lips, like those of a squirrel. She had no
flesh upon her bones, and her clothes, thin and light, according
with climate and season, hung upon her skeleton form as if from
a peg upon the wall! A gauze handkerchief, wrapped imperfectly
above her neck, suffered her skinny bosom to appear, but
without increasing her attractions. Her figure, thus betraying
the signs of age, was yet singularly erect. Her step was firm,
though stealthy. You saw that she set her foot down firmly,
though you did not hear it; and, though moving with caution,
she was yet quick of movement. She did not wait for a summons,
but advanced at once to her master, and stood up before
him; her eyes lighting up beneath the gray brows, like lamps of
naphtha in sepulchral caverns.
“Give me some wine, Anita,” was his first salutation.
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
She brought it forth from a cupboard, and placed it before
him; a flask encased in wicker-work of straw. The goblet was
brought at the same moment. She said nothing.
“Get another goblet for yourself, Anita, and sit!”
She did as she was commanded, quietly, and without hesitation;
as if to obey was a thing of course, and she had been accustomed
to all manner of commands.
Don Balthazar filled his glass, and swallowed the contents at a
single gulph. He filled it a second time, and seated it before
him.
“Drink,” said he, “Anita.”
She did as she was bade, emptied the goblet as soon as filled,
and her eyes glittered with a humid light, pale and intensely spiritual.
After a pause, in which she seemed wholly to wait on his
words, he spoke:
“Well, has she been troublesome?”
“No!” was the brief reply, in the short, shrill, yet soft manner
of the red-man.
“It is strange! She has been showing me the image of her
mother, as we both have seen it often, in other days; you, in particular,
Anita!”
The eyes of the woman glared with an expression of hatred,
which was absolutely fiendish.
“She shows the blood,” he continued, “as I never saw it
shown before! But how is it that she does not sleep? Has she
ate—has she drank?”
“Yes; but not much! Very little! She suspects. She is
uneasy. I see! She thinks something wrong.”
This was spoken in a patois common to the persons of her
class, but we do not choose to imitate her.
“Something more than thinks, I fancy! She knows. How
has she discovered?”
“I don't know that she has discovered anything. She said to
me once, about a week ago, that she wondered why she felt so
drowsy every day.”
“Ah!—and you? —”
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
“I wondered too! That was all!”
“There is something more. Are you sure, Anita, that she has
not found you sleeping? Are you sure that you have not happened
upon a flask of canary at the wrong moment?”
“No!”
“Well! I am sure that she has made some discovery! The
question is what?—and how much? She knows the worst—that
is certain.”
The woman grinned.
“But does she know by what means we have worked? You
say she eats and drinks little. Is this only the lack of appetite,
or does she suspect her food?”
The woman avowed her ignorance.
“But she ate and drank yesterday?”
“Yes; but very little.”
“Did she seem affected afterwards?”
“Very little! She was drowsy. She took her siesta; but
when I came in to look at her, she rose up.”
“Can she have become accustomed to it already? Does it
cease to affect her? You must increase the dose, Anita.”
“It may kill her!”
“Hardly! How much do you give her now?”
The woman took a small phial from her bosom and held it up
to the light. It contained a slightly greenish liquor. She designated,
with her finger upon the phial, the quantity given.
“That should be enough, certainly! But if she refuses the
draught—rejects the food! That is the question. The next
question is, whether she refuses from want of appetite, simply?
You must change the food, Anita. Tempt her appetite. Get
some new dishes, and forbear the drug, until her suspicions, if
she have any, are quieted;—say, for the next three days. Meanwhile,
be vigilant, and see that you are not surprised. You note
all who approach her?”
“All!”
“Now is the time for circumspection. She loves this knight
of Portugal.”
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
“She has just refused him.”
“Yes; the younger brother. But the other—”
“He comes seldom.”
“But is not the less powerful when he comes. They must be
closely watched, when together. He must not be suffered to
propose to her without interruption. If you find him, at any
time, when I am absent, becoming too impressive, show yourself,
and stop the progress. In that man I see my bane! She loves
him. How has she concealed it from you?”
The woman answered by a vacant stare.
“Ah! I see! There are some things quite too subtle for you,
Anita. But, let there be nothing which escapes your watch. If
necessary, you must increase the potion.”
“Unless you mean to kill her,—no! She now takes as much
as can be safely given.”
“Yes, if she takes it all! But, when she refuses to eat and
drink, or does so sparingly, then more may be given. You must
not forget what you owe her mother.”
The eyes of the woman glared fearfully.
“You have not forgotten your own daughter?”
Anita seized the flask, unbidden, and again filled the glass
before her, which she emptied at a draught.
“To-night, I have seen the mother in the daughter! She has
all her passions, though as yet suppressed. She will give us
trouble, unless we take heed to her. Our danger is in the passion
which she feels for this Portuguese knight—the elder, I mean—not
the younger. She cares nothing for him. If I can get them both
away to Florida, or otherwise disposed of, all may go well; and
she may subside into her old lethargy. Her passion for him has
brought out all her other passions. They make her vigilant and
thoughtful. They quicken her intelligence. She is not the same
woman she was a month ago. She is no longer in my power, or
in yours. If we heed not, she will escape us. She will marry
this Portuguese. She will expose us!—”
The woman grinned with exultation.
“She dare not! To expose us is to tell—”
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
“Very true; but you remember that, when her Biscayan
mother was aroused to passion, she had no prudence! She revealed
every thing! It will be so with Olivia. I am sure of it,
from what I have seen to-night. That is our danger. Let her,
in this paroxysm, be assured that all her hopes of this Portuguese
knight depend on escape from us, and she will rush into
the market-place with all her secrets! She will destroy herself
in the fury which would destroy us. And, Anita, if she can win
belief, she will not so surely destroy herself. We know that she
is guiltless, in her soul, of any crime;—we know that the whole
wrong is ours!”
“Yes; but the shame?”
“Is something in Spain; not so much here! and pity and
sympathy will lessen it anywhere! We must beware of any
extremity. Now is the time for all your subtlety, if we
would be safe. See to it; observe her closely; see that she and
this knight of Portugal—the elder, mark you—from the younger,
indeed, we have no cause of fear—do not meet, unless under
your eye or mine; and that they do not come to any understanding.
We must keep them from mutual confessions. They both
love passionately; but better for us that they were both dead,
than that either should speak of passion to each other's ears!
Let her but hear and answer him, and she is happy, Anita—happy!
think of that, Anita!—think of that! How will you relish
to see the daughter of that mother happy in the arms of her
lover, while you are led off to prison, knowing the fate of your
own daughter—the debt of thirty years unpaid; while your
son —”
“Tell me of him! Have you heard?” was the eager inquiry
of the woman, who, during the speech of the other—which was
evidently designed to goad her passions into phrensy,—had risen
from her seat, and moved hurriedly, with clasped hands, and
in intense agitation, over the floor.
“Tell me of him! Of Mateo;—have you heard, my master?”
She approached him closely as she made the inquiry, and bent
her face forward, almost touching his own. Her words, earnestly
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
and impressively spoken, were yet in such subdued accents as
barely to be audible to his ears.
“He is yet in the mountain fastnesses, and at the head of a
formidable band. I have sent to him by a special messenger.
I have sent him money.”
“Thanks, my master, thanks! But have you got his pardon
from the adelantado?”
“Not yet! But if we can get these Portuguese knights fairly
pledged for Florida, I shall succeed with Soto, or failing with him,
shall do so with Doña Isabella when he is departed.”
“You will not go with the expedition?”
“Until this night, I had resolved upon it. Now, my resolution
is half taken the other way. There is too much to care for here.
I must see to her!”
“Happy! She!” muttered the woman: “Ha! ha! As if
I am living here for nothing. As if I had no memory to make
bitter all my soul!”
“Drink, Anita.”
The hag willingly obeyed. The instincts of black and red man,
combined within her, made it easy to comply with such an order.
When she had finished, her eyes glittering with a moist white
light, her companion said—
“And now watch! She must eat and drink. If she will not
eat as you provide, put things in her way to tempt her. Leave
closets open to her search, only prepare what ye put there. Increase
the dose.”
“It will kill her, if she eats or drinks. But what then? Let
her die!”
The light reddened fiercely in the vindictive woman's eye.
Don Balthazar regarded her coldly and quietly for a moment,
then, as if indifferently, remarked—
“No! not yet—not that! it might peril everything—it might
subject us to suspicion—”
The woman approached him softly, and, with a significant lifting
of the finger, said, whisperingly—
“No fear of that. I have a potion which shall so silently steal
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
into the brain, that none shall suspect. It will leave no footprint,
no finger-marks,—no blood, no blackness, no sign behind
it, yet will it seize upon the life as surely and as suddenly, as if
the dagger had been driven right into the close places of the
heart. Say but the word—”
The dark-souled man shuddered, as he heard, and saw the
fierce, eager, intense glare of the speaker's eyes. He said hurriedly—
“No! Anita! no! I will not that. I will that she should
live—live—yes!—the time is not yet come!”
“It is as you say! Yet had I not forborne to give her this
poison, but that thou hadst in thy power a more terrible death!
I had rather thou shouldst slay her—thou, of her own blood:—
and I saw thee do it.”
“I slay her, Anita! Thou art mad! I tell thee, I would not
touch her life, for the world, if—”
“Ay, if,—if she saves thee not the danger and the trouble. But
it was the life of the heart and the hope, and the woman that I
beheld thee bent to slay, and thy poison was so much more fatal
than mine! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Oh! get thee hence, Anita! The wine begins to work in thee.
But help thyself to another goblet, and to sleep now. Thy watch
has been a weary one.”
The woman yawned at the suggestion, filled the goblet, drank,
and was about to retire without a word, when she seemed to recollect,
and again spoke, as usual, in those low, subdued tones,
which, when employed to utter passionate language, are so singularly
impressive.
“Do not forget Mateo! let me see him once more—bring him
to me—and I will drug for thee a thousand lives!”
Balthazar took her hand and wrung it warmly, nodded his head
affirmatively, but said nothing. The woman went away, without
obeisance or farther nod.
“Well, let the worst come!” muttered the Señor, after she
had departed, “and Anita has her own remedies. If it cannot
be otherwise, let her use the potion. She can burn afterwards to
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
prove me guiltless. But the time is not yet—not yet. May it
never be. I would escape that necessity, if I can!”
He seated himself, folded some strips of the fumous Cuban
weed together, and lighted an extempore cigar, and still he soliloquized.
Balthazar de Alvaro was a cold, unscrupulous villain;
but though his thoughts ran upon crime, it would be an injustice
to him now to suppose them dictated by hatred. It was not from
any sentiment of hostility that he pursued his victim, as his language
fully testified.
“It may kill her; true! What then? It will not hurt her;
nay, it will help. It will save her. The quality of her offence
is not such as will bring down punishment upon her head: and
the wrong she suffers may well atone for that which she has done.
If heaven be no fable, she is more worthy of its pity than its
loathing; and if hell be not a dream of the priesthood, as I deem
it, then my fate must assure her of a full revenge! Let these be
her consolation. At all events, I must seek mine own safety. She
must die, if needful to secure this! yet, we may escape this necessity.
If we can chain her tongue, my fears perish; and if my
fears perish, she may live. Time will show. I must have time.
Let this old hag but prove faithful, and all may yet go well.
These Portuguese knights disappear with the expedition. I must
see to that. I must move Soto to show better favor to this
Philip de Vasconselos than he hath yet done. He must encourage
him; must give him some distinctions—some command—and
win him from the paths of love, by opening better glimpses to
those of ambition.”
But we need not pursue the meditations of the subtle and bold
criminal who sits and muses before us. They conduct us no farther
in pursuit of the clues which are already in our grasp.
-- 086 --
CHAPTER VII.
“Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting
That would not let me sleep.... Rashly—
And praised be rashness for it!—Let us know,
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us
There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them how we will.”
—Hamlet.
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
The moment that Olivia reached her own chamber, she threw
herself prostrate before a fine portrait of the Virgin that hung
against the wall of the apartment. She uttered no prayer, no
sob, no sound; shed no tear; gave no outward sign, beyond her
prostration, of the object of her quest, or of the agony that
preyed upon her; asked not, in language, for the peace and security
which she sought, but lay at length, her humility and grief
apparent only in the one action, as if with the conviction that
all her woes were known; her contrition; the shame from which
she suffered; the faint hope which she dared not encourage; the
fond passion, which she felt to be pure as grateful, but which her
conscience bade her not to entertain. She did not once look up
to the benign and blessing features of that Mother of Love and
Mercy, whose eyes, she yet felt, were looking sweetly and tenderly
down, even into the secret recesses of her own full and
bursting heart. And thus she lay, prone, motionless, as if her
life and breathing had ceased in the utter prostration of her hope
and person.
There is something very touching in the spectacle of a person
totally ignorant of religion as a subject of thought and examination,
who yet welcomes it as a faith; who believes with spontaneous
consent; who receives it as a mystery; seeks not to analyze
or solve it; prefers it, indeed, as a mystery, and confides,
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
without misgiving, to all its promises! Though wealthy, and
of high birth and connections, Olivia de Alvaro was as little
versed in the doctrines of the theologian, as the simplest peasant
of the country. She knew not that there was anything needing
to be understood. She simply felt. Her faith, as perhaps is the
case always with the most pure of heart, was based wholly on the
sympathies, and a natural sense of weakness. It was a thing of
instinct, not of thought, and it reached her through a sensuous
medium. Better, indeed, as it was so. Doubting her strength,
her safety, and the good faith of those around her, she had no
doubt as to whom only and certainly, she could turn for refuge.
We may smile at her securities; we may hold her choice of the
medium of communication with Deity, to be a mistaken one;
but her confidence is unimpaired; and regarding the object sought
only—peace of mind—reliance—confidence;—the end was quite
to the full attained, in her case, as if the visible Saviour of mankind
stood before her. Nor are we permitted to doubt that the
benevolence of God accepts any medium of communication, with
himself, which a pure faith, however mistaken, may honestly
adopt. To suppose otherwise, would be to accuse his justice,
making feebleness and ignorance objects of punishment, equally
with offence and guilt.
Suddenly, while Olivia still lay in this position, the door of
her chamber opened; and a person entered—a girl of sixteen or
eighteen—a mulatto, who had been evidently just aroused from
her slumbers. She came in yawning; her face vacant, her eyes
still heavy with sleep. Her features were of a sort to show that
sleep was not necessary to impair her intelligence. They were
coarse and meaningless. She was one of those mulattoes, in
whom the more sluggish characteristics of the negro race predominated
over all others: and united, in singular degree, the
qualities of cunning, with an excessive stolidity. Olivia rose
at her approach, seated herself upon a little settle, and looked
up into the face of the mulatto with eyes of inquiry, if not of
hope. The suggestion occurred to her for a moment—“Can I
possibly make use of this creature? Is she capable of the
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
degree of faith and sympathy which I need in my present
strait?” The inquiry was a natural one. Every young damsel
inclines to put trust in her waiting maid, and in this relation
Juana stood to her mistress. But the latter had too long had
experience of the characteristics of the maid-servant. She
was not ignorant of her cunning, but she had good reason to
believe that this was all pledged to the service of her uncle,
through the medium of the old hag Anita, who was the grandmother
of the girl. As for her affections and sympathies, these
Olivia had never yet been able to awaken. She had been indulgent
and considerate; had bestowed her gifts freely, but beyond
the single moment in which they were bestowed, she had no
proof that the benefit was remembered with gratitude. The
blank, indifferent, stolid features which she surveyed were full of
discouragement, and after a brief examination of them, the unhappy
damsel, with a sigh, averted her eyes, abandoned her purpose
of solicitation—if she had entertained any—and submitted
to be disrobed in profound silence. The girl was not disposed to
break this silence. She performed her task drowsily. It was
not a protracted one: and this done, she retired for the night,
leaving her mistress alone, once more, to commune with her
own sorrows.
“There is no hope!” she exclaimed, mournfully, sitting in her
night dress where the maid had left her, her hands folded upon
her lap, and her moist eyes looking vacantly up at the Virgin
with an expression of the most woeful self-abandonment.
“Yet why should I hope! What is there to hope? What
have I to live for? The light is gone, the love! I dare not
love. It is criminal to love. It is now criminal to live! Yet,
Mother of Mercy, I dare not think of death. I cannot die! I
would not. Yet, it is not because I fear! Oh no! Yet, if it be
not fear, can it be hope that makes me unwilling? Oh! weak
and miserable sinner that I am, can I dream to unite the fate of
any brave cavalier with mine? Shall I glide like a serpent into
the bosom of so noble and gentle a knight as Philip de Vasconselos,
and beguile him into love for so base a thing as I—I that live
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
a lie to God and a loathing to myself! Shall I who know all
that I am—and who hate my own knowledge—shall I delude
such as he into a faith that I am worthy of his embrace and love?
Alas! if love alone could make me worthy, then were it not
unseemly that I should do so. Oh! I could requite his passion
with a fervor and a truth that should leave him nothing to reproach,
and nothing to regret! To grow to him—to cling to
him forever—to pass into his very heart—to drink life and joy
forever from his lips!—what a dream of happiness! Oh! why
do I cherish this dream? Am I base enough to hope, or to toil
for its fulfilment? Can I do so great a wrong to so noble a gentleman?
Down, foolish thought! Be still! What is the wrong?
Do I not love him? Will I not love him truly as never yet was
knight beloved by woman? Knows he aught—will he ever know
aught of what hath happ'd to me? will it lessen his trust or my
fidelity? Who dare speak—who reveal the terrible secret?—not
he—my uncle—my fate! my eternal enemy! whom—Mary,
mother, take the wild thought from me!—whom I sometimes
feel it in my heart to slay, even while he sleeps upon his couch
under the noonday heavens!”
And, speaking thus passionately, she threw herself once more
before the picture of the Virgin, whom she invoked, as with the
hope, by prayer, to silence her tumultuous passions. But the
refreshing mercies of prayer were not hers. Her soul was in
too wild a conflict to be subdued to quiet, unless by a miracle of
grace. There were other reasons for this conflict and this weakness.
The unhappy girl was really feeble, and in want of sustenance.
We have heard it intimated that she probably entertained
suspicions with regard to the food proffered her. Such
was the case. She now felt assured that her food was drugged;
and she knew with what cruel object. She left much of it untasted,
eating only in the necessity of life; and avoiding all those
dishes with which she had reason to believe the lethargic potion
to be mixed. Her caution and forbearance had not always availed
for her safety; for so subtly was her food prepared by the dexterous
agent employed in drugging it, that the drug had been
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introduced into fruits even, the integrity of which one would suppose
could not be invaded unless by some external proofs being
apparent. In this way only could she account for the dreamy
and prostrating moods which she had occasionally felt during the
day. Here, then, was a young woman, of high birth, proud connections,
and ample fortune, an unsuspected prisoner in her own
dwelling, denied, virtually, the necessary aliment of life. Truly
the case was a pitiable one!—Olivia de Alvaro, sustained during
all the scenes in which we have beheld her, chiefly by the intensity
of her excitements, was now near to fainting from absolute
want of food.
The cravings of nature were not to be withstood. She rose
from her prostrate position; seizing her lamp, which she shaded
carefully with a handkerchief on all sides but one, she cautiously
opened the door of her chamber and entered upon the passage
which, more or less directly, conducted to almost every apartment
in the house. Adjoining her own was a small room,
not much more than a closet, which had been assigned to the
waiting maid Juana. Into this she looked boldly; intending, if
the girl were yet awake, to speak to her of some object, any
but that which she really had in view. But the girl, as she expected,
from a previous knowledge of her habits, already slept
profoundly. She closed the door cautiously behind her, and,
with feet set down carefully, she stole along the passage leading
to the opposite quarter of the house. The passage, at a certain
point, divided, one arm conducting to the apartment of Don Balthazar,
the other to guest-chambers; opposite to these was a saloon
which was usually employed in the colder seasons of the year.
The stairway, terminating the passage, led below to servants'
apartments, kitchen, and store-rooms, and constituted, in particular,
the province over which Anita presided. Hither were the
footsteps of Olivia directed; but when she reached the place
where the passage divided—her own lamp being shaded—she
caught a glimpse of a light streaming from beneath the door of
her uncle's chamber. Up to this moment the house had been
apparently wrapt in silence; now she fancied she heard voices
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from this quarter. Who could be the parties? Who but her
cruel enemy, her uncle—the man who had abused his trust, and
made the very ties of blood the means by which to violate them
all,—who but he and the malignant creature whom she no less
feared?—the unnatural cross of races, to neither of which had nature
vouchsafed any of her most blessed and compensating qualities.
And what should be the subject of their discussion?—
Was she not their victim?—Were they not even then, as at all
times, meditating how best to circumvent her innocence, and
subdue her to the creature whom she could not think of but with
horror and self-loathing? Perhaps she may hear what they meditate,
may learn their secrets, and find a mean to escape their arts.
Olivia did not suffer any doubts of propriety to prevent her
from endeavoring to fathom their secrets. Her proceeding was
fully justified by her situation. She set down her lamp at an
angle of the passage, and covered it with the handkerchief; then
stole forward to the door of the chamber which held the conspirators.
Through a crevice—the joinery of that region, in that
day, gave little heed to finish—she was enabled to see a part of
the outline of her two enemies. They were both seated, and the
wine-cup was before them. They were speaking earnestly, but
in such subdued accents, that she strove vainly to gather more
than a word at intervals. We have been more fortunate; and,
except for her own sake, need not regret that she was disappointed.
But she could see; and it so happened that it was even
while she gazed, that Anita held up to Don Balthazar the little phial
containing her drug, in order to indicate to him the dose which
she usually bestowed upon her victim. Olivia beheld the phial
and the action, and inferred the rest. Oh! how her eyes flashed
and her soul flamed up as she beheld. Bitter was the feeling in
her heart, which nearly drove the unuttered curse of her spirit
out, aloud, through her closely compressed lips. But she grew
firm, surveyed silently, and saw the phial restored to the bosom
of the crone. After a while, as she found it impossible to hear
what was spoken, her former resolve returned to her; and,
though with some reluctance, she receded softly from the door,
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resumed her lamp, and proceeded by the little flight which conducted
below, to the apartments in the rear, which were assigned
especially to Anita. These were easily accessible; Anita never
suspecting any visitor, and least of all the one in question, during
her absence. Here, the poor girl, after curiously surveying the
region into which she had not before often penetrated, began her
search after food. She reasonably supposed that any provisions
which she should find in these precincts would be found undrugged.
There was a basket of cakes, such as had never been
brought to her; of these she gathered a small number, taking
care so to select them as not to disturb the general appearance
of the pile. She found some “cold baked meats,” also—some
fragments of a bird-pie, and other matters of the same sort, such
as had not been displayed among the cates usually provided for
her. Anita, it was apparent, was by no means regardless of her
own appetites. She had a taste for nice things, and, like most
persons of inferior race, was in the possession of an enormous
appetite. Olivia fed freely while storing her spoils away in a little
basket which she had appropriated from a collection in the
closet of the crone. With the basket in one hand and her little
half-shaded lamp in the other, she prepared to effect her return to
her own chamber; but hardly had she emerged from the old
woman's apartments, when she heard the shuffling of feet upon
the stair-flight, while a suppressed cough attested the approach
of the very person upon whose domain she had been trespassing.
Here was a dilemma. To say that she had any fears, in the
event of discovey, would be absurd. The domain was hers.
The food which she had seemed to pilfer was, in fact, the proceeds
of her own estates. But the action would have betrayed her secret
suspicions, which it was her policy for the present to conceal,
and would only prompt her enemies to resort to new schemes
which it might not be possible for her to detect and overthrow.
With the bitter feelings of her soul duly increased with the necessity
which she now felt of concealment under these circumstances, Olivia
silently receded along the path she had come. Still the shuffling of the
old woman's feet was heard, the cough increased in frequency
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and force. There was but one course for the unhappy girl, and
that was to hide herself in the very chamber of the enemy; if,
indeed, this were possible. Fortunately, her strength rose with
the emergency. Her mind became clearer under the pressure;
indignant feelings gave her resolution, and she stepped back
firmly to the tabooed region, as quickly as she might with safety,
and there looked about her for a place of refuge.
She was not long in resolving upon a spot in which to shroud
herself. The chamber was one of ample dimensions, and it had
two spacious closets. But Olivia was prudently apprehensive
that the old woman might look into these; she cast about for a
place of better promise. Anita had the negro faculty of accumulation
in high degree. To those who know anything of the
habits of this race of people, it will readily be conjectured that
a person in such a situation as that which she enjoyed, and of her
age, had gathered about her an infinite treasure of the cast-off
possessions of the whites. Her room was accordingly as well
crowded with old clothes as the warehouse of a London clothesman.
They hung about the walls; they lay upon the chairs;
they were suspended upon lines crossing the room obliquely; and
a huge wooden horse, occupying a large portion of one corner,
was absolutely massed with them. Behind this convenient bulk
Olivia succeeded in shrouding herself a few seconds before the
light which the withered crone carried began to glimmer in the
chamber. Here, scarce breathing, she crouched, with all the
patience and resolution which she could command, awaiting the
moment when the hag should sleep, in order to attempt her escape.
The interval was sufficiently tedious, and trying to fear
and patience. Anita had many things to do, and she brought
with her the remnant of the flask of wine of which Don Balthazar
and herself had been drinking. She had yet to try its quality
when alone. She did so, and drank with a rare gusto. Then
she munched of a biscuit, and then she adjusted her bed-clothes.
Finally, she opened and looked into certain boxes, and carefully
fastened them again, before she seated herself. In all these performances,
the poor girl behind the clothes-horse was kept in
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continual apprehension. Several times the old hag approached
the place of her concealment. Once she absolutely proceeded
to take from it some of its articles of bed-furniture; to dispose
of cloaks and shawls, and rearrange the disordered drapery.
Olivia, all the while, cowering and crouching like a guilty person,
dreading to be discovered and haled into the light. But she escaped;
the crone receded to other parts of the room, having, it
would seem, a variety of domestic cares, separate from those
which concerned the young lady and the Don, her uncle. Meanwhile,
the damsel watched all her proceedings with no small interest.
With careful finger, she made for herself an aperture between
the massed garments upon the horse, through which she
could behold all that took place within the chamber. And it was
with momently increasing interest that she saw what numerous
cares occupied the soul of that old woman, momently hovering
over the very verge of existence. How she had accumulated;
with what method she examined and arranged; with what caution
she put away; with what heed she counted and reviewed her
treasures, as if she was required to provide for a thousand years.
Olivia was confounded at the extent and sort of possessions which
the aged crone could show; the constant spoliations of a long life.
There were chests and boxes, all of which she opened and examined,
lifting to the light, and surveying some of the contents,
with the same gratification, no doubt, which she felt when she had
first pilled them from the noble lord or lady whom she served, her
master or their guests. Olivia beheld little trinkets there lifted
up to sight, which she herself might claim. She recognized
others, which had been the property of friends. These were all
commonly associated with treasures of quite another character.
Among the possessions of Anita there was quite an armory. There
were hauberk, and helm, and lance-head, and dagger, and silver
spur, and brass, and gorget, and coat-of-mail, and escanpil of cotton,
and bright targe of polished steel. But we forbear the catalogue.
Enough that this acquisitiveness of Anita had been for
sixty years without restraint, exercised in a variety of situations,
and of large opportunities, and that she had been as successful in
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concealing as she was avid in securing her spoil. Her treasures
thus acquired, included fruits and spices, silks and satins, rare
velvets, tiffany and lawn, jellies and syrops, tinct with rose and
cinnamon, fresh from Sanarcand and Ind. She had money, too,
in considerable store, and into the slit of a box in one of her
chests she dropped a newly-gotten castellano, probably the gift
of Don Balthazar that very night.
Olivia now began to grow weary of her watch, which had yet
proved so instructive. Her anxieties and apprehensions, as well
as weariness, promised, however, soon to be relieved. The
crone began to disrobe herself for the night. This performance,
but for a single circumstance, would have been totally without
interest to the spectator. But, one of the first necessities of
Anita, after stripping off her outer garments, was to take from her
bosom the little phial which Olivia had seen her exhibit to her
uncle. This she placed upon the table, where it fastened the eye
of the damsel, and held it with a singular fascination. In that
phial lay her fate! That was the potent spell which had so
chained her senses, until — but the thought almost maddened
her, and it was with difficulty that she restrained herself from
rushing forth, and giving utterance to her wild passion in the
wildest phrensies of speech and action. With a strenuous exertion
of her will only, did she forbear; and, still keeping her eye
upon the phial, she continued in her place of watch in quiet.
Meanwhile, Anita had assumed her night-dress. This done,
she addressed herself to her prayers. She, too, could pray; but
hers was not the prayer of agony, and a terrible strife. She
simply obeyed a habit, which but too commonly deceives the
miserable wretch into a false security. But her devotions seemed
to her sufficiently satisfactory. They were coupled with a sort of
penance, whether self-imposed or otherwise we need not inquire.
Kneeling before a little image of the dying Christ, she entreated
his mercy; then crawled on her hands and knees, without rising
once, across the room to her couch, which stood opposite, and
only raised herself that she might make her way into the bed.
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No doubt her conscience was quite satisfied with the Deity which
made her toils no weightier.
The soul of Olivia was in great agitation. Fettered in a constrained
position, anxiously dreading and expecting discovery, excited
by what she had seen, and moved by a purpose which she
had not yet declared to herself, and which was still working in
her thought, she was yet compelled to remain quiet until
the old woman slept. Now, age does not sleep easily, or very
soundly: and it was a long time still, before Olivia could be
sure of the proof which taught her that Anita could no longer
hear and see. At length, persuaded that she might venture out
with safety, she did so. The light in the apartment guided her
movements. She approached the bed, and surveyed the sleeper
with curiosity. The withered features, though composed in the
calm of sleep, still seemed to wear, in the eyes of the damsel, the
expression of that malignant hatred with which she felt sure
that Anita had always regarded her. She, herself, looked upon
the sleeper with features of indignant loathing. She turned away
quickly and proceeded to the table. The vague suggestion
which had been working in her mind had grown into a resolution.
She seized the phial, whose mysterious powers she believed
herself to have felt, and without hesitation poured a portion
of its contents into the wine-flask. There were still several
draughts of the liquor in it; she knew the old woman's appetite
for the juices of the grape, and pleased herself with the idea that
she would drink, and sleep;—such a sleep as had been so often
imposed upon her own senses, and to such cruel results. In that
sleep of twenty-four hours—for such was the term which Olivia
assigned to the action of the potion—she, herself, would enjoy a
measure of liberty which had been long unknown. She would
then explore the household, and provide herself—so moderate
was her calculation—such a sufficient supply of proper food,
from the stores of the housekeeper, as would keep her, for a
while, at least, free from the necessity of partaking of her dosed
dishes. Having executed her purpose, there was no longer a
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motive to remain, at the risk of detection, and seizing upon her
basket and lamp, she disappeared in safety. The clasp of the
door yielded, and was closed without noise; the passage proved
free; the light had disappeared from beneath the door of her
uncle; and Olivia regained her chamber without embarrassment.
Here she proceeded to satisfy her hunger, in some degree, upon
the cates of which she possessed herself. For the remainder
she sought a hiding-place, which she supposed to be unsuspected.
These put away, the poor girl threw herself once more before
the image of the Virgin, in prayer. She could pray. She was
conscious of suffering, but not of guilt; and, as she looked
up, she fancied that the picture smiled upon her. Upon this
smile she slept and dreamed pleasantly; and, in her dream, beheld
the image of Philip de Vasconselos, occupying the place of
the Virgin, and looking down upon her with even more loving
sweetness.
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CHAPTER VIII.
“Oh, detti!... Oh, sguardi!... A gran pena repiglio
I sensi miei. Che mai diss 'egli? Avrebbe
Forse il mio amor?... Ma, no! Racchiuso stammi
Nel piu addentro del core.”
—Alfieri.—Filippo.
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Thus dreaming, the sleep of Olivia de Alvaro was fortunately
a protracted one. Nature, thus, asserts for herself some happy
hours, even in a life which is one of unfailing sorrows. She slept
late. In the meantime, the girl Juana had been several times in
her chamber. Her movements finally awakened the sleeper, who
found that the day had considerably advanced. The morning repast
was already awaiting her. She arose, and her toilet was assisted
by the girl in waiting. This performed, Olivia dismissed
her, preferring to take her breakfast alone. A portion of this
she hurriedly put from sight, to be thrown away, or otherwise
disposed of, at a fitting opportunity. Meanwhile, she pacified her
appetite by a free use of the cates which she had appropriated
from the stores of the old woman. A more buoyant feeling prevailed
in her bosom, the natural effect of the temporary security
which she felt. She had found a respite—had gained time—which,
in the case of youth, is always felt to be a gain of importance.
At all events, she was for so many hours safe, so she thought, from
the dangers of that drugging influence which, for a long time, had
been sapping her strength, and placing her completely at the
mercy of those who had so terribly abused their advantages and
power. Juana reappeared, removed the breakfast things, and
proceeded to her household duties. Olivia, all this while, saw
nothing of her uncle; and finally ascertained that he had left the
dwelling at an early hour for the city. Her hope was, that, as
was usually the case, she would see no more of him during the
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day. To be free from his presence was now always a source of
relief to her. Whether she thought more favorably of the presence
of another we may conjecture only; but we may mention
that towards noon she proceeded to make her toilet anew, and
seemingly with some regard to visitors. Her dress was carefully
selected, and as carefully adjusted. She wore a rich necklace of
pearls; and a bandeau of pearls encircled her forehead, twined
tastefully in with the dark tresses of her glossy hair. She was,
amidst all her grief, as the Greek poet describes Electra in her
mourning, who clipt only the “extremity of her locks,” “heedful
of beauty, the same woman still!” Alas, Olivia de Alvaro was
still a child only,—scarcely more than seventeen. Grief, and a
terribly depressing sense of shame, had done much towards maturing
her passions. But she had enjoyed too little communion
with the world to have done much towards maturing her intellect.
She felt shame and sorrow, but she felt love also; and
girlhood was still strong within her; and hope was not wholly
crushed within her heart. Yet, even while she habited her person
as if with an eye to charm, she was troubled with misgivings
such as, more than once, caused her to droop and sadden,
and finally sink down upon her couch, and give way to a full flood
of sorrows. What right had she to hope; what hope to be happy;
how presume to dream of the precious affections of another,
when these could be given with the presumption only that she
was fully deserving of them all! The very truthfulness of her
own passion prompted this just consideration of what was due to
the affections of another. But youth and girlhood, and her own
desires, finally triumphed. She rose amidst her tears. She completed
her toilet. She arranged her tresses, and arrayed her jewels
for conquest. Why should she not love, and loving, why not
hope? Was not her love sufficiently warm,—her soul sufficiently
devoted,—to render Philip de Vasconselos happy? She had, it
is true, a secret, which it would be fatal to her hope were he to
know; but how should he ever know?—And, “O! Blessed Virgin,”
she exclaimed, looking up at the benign mother, “am I to
perish for the cruel deeds, the guilty passions of another!”
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It was not difficult, though the subject of a long, secret struggle
in her own soul, to reconcile herself to a conviction which
promised her the happiness which she desired. Her passion
proved too strong for her conscientiousness, and her reasons
readily gave themselves, as they but too commonly do, to the
requisitions of the former. Her philosophy is probably that of
thousands in like situations. The fond heart of woman is too
much dependent for its life on the affections, not to be easily
persuaded by an argument which sustains the cause of the latter.
The love which Olivia felt for Philip de Vasconselos was too
precious to her soul to yield in such a struggle; and the result
was, that she determined, though with shuddering and trembling,
should he offer her his hand, to subdue her fears, her sense of
justice, all scruples of whatever sort, and accept the blessing
which her heart craved as its very breath of life. What could
her uncle do? What could he dare? The word from his lips
that would blast her, would seal his own ruin and disgrace forever!
She would be true to Philip, as true as woman ever yet
was to man;—he would protect her from all abuse and outrage—
would rescue her from the hostile power from which she had
most reason to fear both; and in the pure devotion of the future,
might she not hope to repair the misfortunes of the past in which
she could conscientiously affirm, that, however much she might
have been the victim of the guilty, she had never been wittingly
the participator in his crime?
Soothed, if not wholly satisfied, assured in some degree, by the
solacing sort of argument through which her mind had past, Olivia
proceeded to the latticed verandah, and from thence descended
into the shrubbery. Ah! the innocent flower! ah! the unconscious
bloom, and the unsuspected blossom! How they appealed
to her! and whispered—such whispers as made her turn away
from them with averted head, while upon her pale cheek there
might have been seen a flush as deep and vivid as a warm sunset
in a humid sky. She returned to the verandah, closing its
lattices, letting down its curtains, and shutting out the sharper
glances of the day. Then she threw herself upon the settee of
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wicker-work and cane, and covered her sad eyes with her hands
in a sorrowful meditation. Leaving her thus abstracted for
awhile, let us proceed to other parties.
That morning, Philip de Vasconselos had eaten his humble
meal alone, and in silence. Andres was absent; whither he
knew not, and the younger brother was of a temper, and just
now in such a mood, that it was only a safe policy in the elder,
not to seem too curious in any of his affairs. Philip, though
naturally and humanely troubled about the fate of Andres,
sympathizing with him very sincerely in his disappointments,
was yet too human to be deeply grieved by the one misfortune—
over all—which his brother felt, in the denial of his mistress.
It would not, indeed, have been quite in nature, not to have felt
his own hopes revive pleasurably at the knowledge. He was
conscious of an exulting feeling in his bosom, accordingly;
which, knowing its source, he labored, though unsuccessfully, to
school and to rebuke. But this labor did not prevent him from
making his toilet that morning with extreme care, and resolving
to visit the fair Olivia. In this purpose he was seconded by the
counsels of the gay gallant Nuno de Tobar, who suddenly broke
in upon him, and finding him alone, gave free vent to his encouragements.
Somehow, he too had heard of the defeat of Andres,
and he urged it as one of the signs in favor of his friend. But
Philip shook his head gravely. He valued the Lady Olivia too
highly to fancy that she would be easy of attainment. His passion
was too earnest, not to prompt him to a very severe questioning
of his own merits, and to this effect was his reply to
Tobar. But the latter loudly denounced his excessive modesty,
and urged a thousand proofs, each conclusive to his own audacious
spirit, for the encouragement of his friend. In the end, they
proceeded together to the dwelling of the lady.
In the meanwhile, her uncle had suddenly made his appearance,
bringing with him another visitor. This was a gaily dressed
cavalier, sufficiently comely of person, and smooth of face,
to be satisfied with himself; but who possessed few distinguishing
traits by which to compel attention or respect. Still, if
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Olivia was to wed with any body, this was the person whom her
uncle was most pleased to tolerate. He may have had special
reasons for this preference. Such, at least, was the belief of
Olivia, to whom Don Balthazar had more than once spoken on
the subject. He himself frequently afforded to the young gallant
the means of being with his niece in private. Don Augustin
de Sinolar was one of the passable gentlemen that go to make
up what is called good society. He came of respectable family,
enjoyed respectable possessions, obeyed the usual laws of fashion,
and never trespassed upon the proprieties of the circle. He was
confident of speech, and was always in possession of the latest
intelligence which could please the persons present by disparaging
the absent. He was no less devotedly the lover of Olivia
than were the brothers Vasconselos—that is, so far as concerned
the externals of devotion. But the essentials of an earnest passion,
of any sort, were not within the nature of De Sinolar.
He was of marriageable years and person, and an establishment
was necessary to his position, a wife was necessary to his establishment,
and he required rank as a first condition in the damsel
he should espouse. Other requisites were wholly subordinate.
The ordinary secret of this ordinary gentleman, who, even in the
workings of his passions, obeys rigidly a conventional arrangement,
was that which made his policy; and to do the agreeable to
his mistress, as a carpet knight, was the extent of his performance
in the effort to secure favor. Had Olivia been of a like
temper, De Sinolar would have proved a formidable rival to
either of the Portuguese brothers. The small graces of society,
the tea-table heroics, were in the possession of neither. Philip
de Vasconselos was particularly deficient in such arts. He was
of a grave, calm, reserved nature, too earnestly in love to
meditate his conquests by any ordinary means. He could only
show, as he did without his own consciousness, perhaps, how precious
in his eyes was the object of his passion. The woman of
heart soon distinguishes between two such suitors, and if she determines
in favor of either, does not hesitate long in declaring for
him whose earnestness is congenial with her own. It is the woman,
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whose character has been too feeble to withstand the coercive
shaping of fashion merely, who is usually caught by him who
is cool enough always to make himself agreeable simply as a
companion.
The two friends found De Sinolar in possession of the ground,
and eagerly displaying to the eyes of the languid Olivia a collection
of silks and shawls, which he had purchased for the approaching
tourney. The entrance of Don Philip and De Tobar
afforded De Sinolar an opportunity of dilating to a larger audience
upon the excellence of his tastes in the choice of silks and
colors. De Tobar lent him a ready attention, the better to
afford his friend the desired opportunities with Olivia. Her eye
was cast down, but brightened, at his approach. He was not
annoyed at the presence of the others, since it was not his purpose
yet to approach the subject of his passion. The encouraging
assurances of his friend had failed as yet to prompt him so soon
to peril his hope upon the question. He seated himself near her,
however, and spoke to her in those subdued tones which are so
grateful to the ears of lovers; his deep, grave, almost sad glance,
looking all the while, as it were, down into her heart. She caught a
glimpse of this look, but suffered herself only a moment's gaze.
That moment was enough to remind her of her dreams by night,
when she had seen the same sweet, sad, soliciting glances gazing
upon her from the place which was occupied by the picture of
the Virgin. The approaching departure of the expedition for
Florida became naturally the subject of conversation, and afforded
a clue to De Sinolar, which prompted him to leave for awhile
his satins.
“Ah! yes! we shall shortly hear of your departure, Señor,”
said he; “and yet, by the way, I know not if I rightly include
you in the expedition. They say, Señor, that you have not yet
declared whether you accompany Don Hernan or not; and
some say, again, that you have half resolved not to go. Can it
be so? Now one should think that there could be no doubt about
your purpose. Else why should you come from Portugal, to
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the new Indies, if it were not to better fortune by conquest
among the savages?”
“Unless,” answered Tobar, with a laugh, “he might better
fortune by a conquest among the saints;”—and he looked mischievously
at Olivia as he spoke.
De Sinolar was for a moment at fault.
“Among the saints!—I don't see. Oh! yes! among the
ladies! Saints and angels! yes! well, that were certainly less
dangerous warfare, and one that I much prefer myself. If that
is the game of Don Philip, he is wiser, I am free to confess, than
most soldiers of my knowing. They have, methinks, precious
small value of ladies' favors; and show but little wisdom accordingly.
I beg you ten thousand pardons, Señor Don Philip,
but I am bold to say I have regarded you as too much of the
warrior to give heed to beauty—too fond of the tilt and spear,
to hold in overmuch estimation the darts from lady's eyes, and
the wounds they give;—wounds, I say it from my soul's experience,
such as no army surgeon can be found to heal!”
Here he smote his bosom affectedly, and looked to Olivia;
but her eyes were upon the floor. Even the sigh of the gallant,
which followed his speech, was lost upon her heedless senses.
They were all alive, however, the next moment, as the deep
tones of Vasconselos answered De Sinolar.
“You do me wrong, Don Augustin, and you do the character
of the noble warrior wrong, if you assume either me, or him, to
be insensible to the charms of love, or the claims of beauty.
Perhaps, it is the valiant man only, who is always prepared to
sacrifice himself where he hates, who feels love to be a sufficient
power to command self-sacrifice, if need be, also. But I trow there
can be no occasion for me now to defend the tenderness and softness
of the warrior's heart, which hath been sufficiently instanced
in all stages of the world, and is a thing usually acknowledged
among all classes of men. And for the soldier's regard for beauty,
what need have we to look beyond a present instance? For
what is this tournament provided, for which you are preparing
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these brilliant colors and silks, but that the valor of the soldier
may make grateful appeal to the smiles of love and beauty?”
He paused. Olivia, looking down the while, said in low tones—
“But, Señor, you have not yet answered to the doubts of Don
Augustin, touching your departure with the expedition.”
“Ah! true,” quoth De Sinolar—“They say that there are
doubts, yet was it my thought that Don Hernan had shown you
the better argument.”
“They say rightly, Señorita,” replied Vasconselos to Olivia,
and scarcely noticing De Sinolar—“who say that I have yet determined
nothing. I am truly but half resolved to depart, yet
fully half inclined to remain. There be private reasons for
this uncertainty. Whether Don Hernan will succeed in persuading
me—and it is one of my doubts if he desires so to do—
will greatly rest upon the force of other and opposite persuasions
than those of war. Perhaps, it were only wise with me,
to yield blindly to Don Hernan's arguments, and look nothing
farther.”
It was the tone with which this last sentence was spoken, and
the look which accompanied, which held the meaning more significantly
than the words themselves. The sweet, sad resignation
in both went direct to the heart of Olivia. But she cast
her eyes upon the floor and remained silent. But De Sinolar,
who was conscious of nothing but the words spoken, and who was
no adept in looking below the surface of any thing, proceeded in
his usual manner.
“Well, Señor, it will be needful that you should decide shortly.
In a few days we shall have the tournament, and in a few
more, the caravels will be all ready to receive the armament.
Then will you embark the horses and artillery. These the first.
Then will the foot soldiers go on board, and at the last the
knights and gentlemen. They are baking famous quantities of
bread, even now, at Roja's, and la Granja's. The adelantado is
eager to be at work among the heathen savages, stripping the
gold from the altars and the treasure from the rich cities of the
Apalachian. Ah! Lady Olivia, when these things are going on,
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we shall be as dull and quiet here as if we had never known
either dance or music.
“These gay knights will all be on the path of conquest. Well!
For my part, I say let them conquer! I have no passion for conquest,
and I have no faith in its fruits. I believe them to be all
delusions. One man gets off with a sound head and a full pocket,
but a hundred pays for him with deadly wounds, broken limbs,
and beggary forever! If one could be sure that he should be
the one, and not one of the hundred, why, it were pleasant to
adventure; but where there's but one white bean to a score of
black ones, I'm not the man to draw, if I can help it.”
“But the fame, Señor—the glory?” said Olivia.
“Fame and glory! They will neither plaister my head,
mend my limbs, nor find me in rations. My repartimiento, here,
answers all my ambition. It lacks but a mistress to be all the
empire I demand, and she, with the blessing of the Virgin, I hope
some day to find willing to my hands.”
And here he looked with a sudden tenderness towards Olivia.
“And have you never felt the eager desire for battle, Señor?”
quoth Tobar:—“That joyous desire for the strife of swords and
the crash of lances, which makes the head throb with delirium,
and the heart bound as if it had wings of its own, and was about
to soar to heaven—that feeling which the adelantado hath happily
described, from some old heathen Greek or Roman, as `the
rapture of the strife.'”
“No! indeed! no such raptures for me. Any other sort of
rapture in preference! Let it be eating, or drinking, or dancing,
or loving—I care not how vulgar or how simple—the bull-ring,
the cock-pit—nay, the siesta,—any thing but the shouts and the
struggle of combatants. The tournament is enough for me. I've
tried that. I'll try it no more. When I want to break a lance,
I have only to sally out into the mountains after some of my
runaways. I use a blunt spear on such occasions. Then, I charge
valiantly enough. Then, I overthrow and make captive. I don't
kill unless I can't help myself; since it is more profitable and
pleasant to beat my Indians than to bury them.”
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“Your humanity is commendable, Señor,” was the somewhat
cold response of Vasconselos, who, indeed, had scarcely heeded
what the other had been saying; and now turned from him with a
contempt which was sufficiently apparent. But the other was by
no means discomfited by an expression which he clearly beheld.
He replied very promptly and very indifferently, as if his social
position—his wealth—put him quite beyond reproach.
“Ah! you scarcely mean that, I know, Señor Don Philip:
but it matters nothing. I don't care who knows that I am resolved
to live while I can, and risk no bones upon reputation.
If heads are to be cloven, let them take the hardest: if brains
are to be scattered, it needs only that you choose such as can waste
little: if hard blows are to be struck, get those men only for
the work who have been trained to the boucan. If you love
fighting, Don Philip, it is well for you: not for me. I love it
not. You have tried your hand at it, and it suits you. You
have fought against the Moors. You have already had a taste
of Floridian fighting, and I have seen you carry yourself, even
sportively, against Bartolomeo de Gallegos, and Señor Nuno,
here, and I am free to confess that you are the last person whom
I should entreat to a supper of blades and lances. I am only at
conflict with gentle woman,” smiling sweetly on Olivia;—“and
leave the pagan to such brave knights as yourself. By the way,
Señor Don Philip, they tell me you served with Francis Pizarro
in Peru! I had forgotten that.”
“It mattered not,” answered Vasconselos coldly.
“Now there is a man for you, that Francis Pizarro. He's
the rough customer for a weak stomach. He's what I call a
hero! Talk of Cortez, indeed! How should Hernan Cortez
be a hero? I've seen him a hundred times when he was nothing
but a farmer, and had a hacienda not half the value of my own.
He was lucky, Señor—very lucky. I remember him well. I
was but a boy when he worked his farm and drove his mule,
like any other peasant,—though they make him now a born
nobleman; and how could he have got these great honors, were
it not for the blind fortune that puts one man on the horse while
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his betters hold the stirrups? No! no! If there be a truly
great man of these days and countries, it is of a certainty the
noble Marquis Pizarro.”
Nuno de Tobar could scarcely restrain his angry impatience
while the fopling continued to discourse thus freely of the great
masters in the art of war, whom in that day it was the fashion
to commend as above all Greek and Roman fame, and he sharply
responded to the flippancies of De Sinolar in respect to Cortez.
Vasconselos, on the contrary, gave him little heed, and seemed
not to think it necessary to gainsay his opinions. He was content
that he should “rabble on,” as it afforded him an opportunity
to murmur a quiet remark, in under tones, to his fair companion,
whose responses, brief and timid, were always delivered
in like subdued accents. It was only when his stock of small
talk was entirely exhausted that Don Augustin was content to
take his departure. This he did, when, at the close of a long
rambling speech, he had emptied his budget of accumulations;
what he said being only a repetition of what he had heard. He
did not seem to apprehend any danger from leaving the field to
his rival; persuading himself that Vasconselos, though good
enough where lances were splintered, possessed too few resources
of the courtier to make much progress where the game depended
on the ease of the dialogue and the liveliness of the humor.
His departure was a relief to all the parties. Nuno de Tobar
soon after rose, and upon some plea of flowers, passed from the
apartment into the garden. The lovers were alone together. A
wild thrill shot through the soul of Olivia at the consciousness.
Her cheek flushed—her frame trembled with emotion. But she
knew that she was watched—that the eyes of Don Balthazar
were upon her from some quarter—that love had no security in
that House of Fear. Vasconselos was free, of course, of all
such apprehensions. He knew that Don Balthazar had entered
the house with De Sinolar, but, as he had seen nothing of him
after, he presumed that he had quitted it, or was elsewhere employed.
He drew nigher to where she sate.
“The departure of this expedition, which threatens so much to
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lessen the pleasures of the ladies of Cuba, will give but little
concern, I fancy, to you, Señorita.”
“And wherefore not, Señor?”
“You take little delight, I fear, in such exercises as challenge
the best regards of knighthood. I have seen you at very few
of the gentle passages between the knights.”
“True; but I am not insensible. I have heard full reports
of their performances, and found delight in the accounts of such
grace and valor, and courtesy and skill, as has been rarely seen.”
“Yet would I have beheld you, Señorita, among the gay beauties
of this island court, who have stimulated courtesy by their
grace, and prompted achievement to great things by their approving
smiles. I have looked for you, Señorita, very often,
and,—may I say it,—have sometimes left the field, as, seeing
you not, it has seemed to me to lack its best attraction.”
“Ah! Señor, it is the wont of Cavaliers to use this sort of
speech to foolish damsels. And why should you leave a field,
where there have been so many beauties to cheer, and so many
sweet voices to encourage?”
“Yet was there one, of all,—one only, lady, whom I most
desired to behold.”
“Ah! and why should the Señor Philip be insensible to the
praises which have daily hailed his passages on every hand?
Who has won the applauses and the prizes at the several tourneys?
Whose lance hath been most honored in the conflict?—whose
name been most sounded?—in whose fame have the multitude
raised most frequently the shout of acclamation?”
“Alas! lady, all these tributes are of little value in the ears
of Philip de Vasconselos, compared with the sweeter assurances
that might fall from the lips of one, the loveliest virgin of all Cuba!”
The eyes of Vasconselos were fastened tenderly, as he spoke,
upon those of Olivia. Hers sunk, bashfully, beneath his glance;
and a warm red flush quickly overspread her cheeks. Her hand lay
beside him upon the sofa, which she partly occupied. His fingers
fell hesitatingly upon it; and it was not withdrawn. She was
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silent—the beatings of her heart were audible, and his bosom
rose also and sunk, in impetuous responses, to the excited emotions
which seemed to prevail in hers. He continued, more
eagerly, and more tenderly.
“It may be that mine is the sin of presumption, lady; but of
a truth it were a somewhat pardonable sin, since its hope is of
favor at the shrine of as chaste and holy a passion—”
The hand was instantly withdrawn, and so hastily, as evidently
to surprise the pleader. He looked inquiringly into her
face, and, as he did so, her cheeks paled so suddenly, and to such
an ashen white, that Vasconselos feared she was about to faint.
But she recovered herself with great effort, yet not so completely
as to prevent a sudden sobbing, like that of an infant in
its sleep, from escaping into sound.
“You are ill, Señorita; or am I so unhappy as to have offended
you?”
“You have not offended me, Señor Philip,—oh! no!” was the reply,
tremulously and hastily spoken—“a momentary pain only.”
He paused, waiting on her with a gentle and sweet solicitude
that allowed no change in her face to escape his eyes. Hers
sunk beneath his survey, and her cheeks were again suffused
with blushes. This seemed a grateful omen to the knight of
Portugal. He resumed his pleading—his hand again rested
upon her own; and hers was unwithdrawn, in spite of the gentle
pressure which detained it. She looked downwards as he
pleaded.
“I trust, dear Señorita, I have not spoken too rashly. Better
that I were dumb forever than now to offend. But, indeed, you
must suffer me to speak. Indeed, you must hear me. Ah! if
you but knew, Señorita, how pure is the tribute of affection
which I now offer to your charms! Too well I know the chaste
and holy homage which a virgin heart requires—”
The hand was suddenly withdrawn. An hysterical laugh escaped
from the lips of the damsel, as she replied—
“Ah! Señor, you are all too serious. You sadden me much.
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In faith, you do; and I must sing to you a merry song ere I grow
gloomy as the night. You shall hear a cheerful ditty, such as will
make you laugh, and make us forget—forget—be very forgetful.”
She would have risen, and motioned to the guitar lying upon a
table; but he held her firmly by the hand. He was bewildered
by her conduct, but grew more and more firm as he contemplated
her. He had seen too much of the world, and of human
nature, not to perceive that there was some mystery in the proceeding.
How else should he account for the feverish hurry of
her manner, at such a moment, so utterly unlike her conduct,
during all other periods?—how, for that sobbing sigh, that convulsive
shudder, and those forced husky accents while delivering
words ostensibly meant to be playful and sportive? Vasconselos
was now not to be deceived. He saw that the gaiety was all
assumed only;—yet wherefore? He was more ready to believe
that there was agony, rather than merriment, in her spirit at that
moment. Then why should she seek to sport with emotions, so
sacred, in his bosom, when she had always before shown him a
respect approaching to reverence? Vasconselos felt instinctively
that the damsel sought under the guise of levity only to conceal
the activity and presence of deep and painful emotions. He felt
and saw all this; but it was not the moment, nor was his the
mood, having advanced thus far, to be diverted from his object.
He still kept his grasp upon her hand. He looked steadily into
her eyes. They answered his gaze wildly. She trembled all
over. He spoke.
“Olivia—lady—I cannot now be baffled—I must speak, and
you must answer me. It is too great a matter, to me—too
vital to my soul's life, to suffer me to be silent longer, or to
leave you without having an answer. Yet you must not suspect
me of unkindness. I see that you suffer. I am not deceived by
this show of merriment. I feel that there is a secret sorrow which
you vainly struggle to conceal—”
“No! no! no secret—I—O! Señor, release me—let me go!”
And she burst into a passion of tears, and buried her face in
her hands upon the arm of the settee. Vasconselos bent over,
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clasped one of her hands in his own, and was about to pass his
arm about her waist, when a sudden footstep was heard in the
room. In the same moment Don Balthazar spoke,—but a single
word,—but it sounded in the ears of Olivia like the voice
of the Angel Monkir calling up the dead.
“Olivia!”
She started to her feet—looked wildly in the face of Vasconselos,
who had withdrawn a pace, and was observing Don Balthazar—
and then tottered towards her uncle. Philip darted forward
to help her, when she recovered herself, bowed slightly to
her lover, and followed her uncle from the room. Scarcely had
she got into the passage when Don Balthazar said to her quickly—
and she now observed that his face was very pale—
“When did you see Anita last?”
“Not since last night. Why?”
“She is dead!”
“Dead!”
“Ay, dead! of old age, I suppose. Died in a fit! But go
to her. You will find her in her room. Meanwhile, I will excuse
you to these gentlemen.”
He disappeared. Olivia was frozen to the spot, and speechless.
Her conscious soul was full of nameless terrors. She
too readily divined the cause of the old woman's death, and
though no purpose of crime was in her mind when she mixed
with the contents of the wine-flask the potion from the phial, she
shuddered with such a horror as might well become the guilt of
the murderess. When Don Balthazar returned from speaking
with Vasconselos and his friend, he found Olivia where he had
left her, rather the statue of a frozen woman than a living,
breathing sufferer. He was startled by her evident incapacity,
and putting his arms about her, was about to convey her to her
chamber; but the touch of his fingers recalled her energies. She
revolted from the contact with as great a shuddering as she felt
when first apprised of Anita's death.
“Touch me not!” she exclaimed solemnly—“I will go alone.”
She did go, but not to the sight of the dead woman. She
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felt that she could not endure that spectacle. She hurried to her
own chamber, and when there, threw herself half fainting upon
the couch. The new catastrophe, in which she had so much participated,
added to the gloomy horrors which had already taken
such full possession of her soul.
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CHAPTER IX.
“Mark me well:
I boldly tell thee that I bear a soul,
Prepared for either fortune. If thy hand
Be stronger, use thy power.”
Agamemnon.
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
Don Balthazar found no difficulty in sending off the two visitors.
After the departure of Olivia, they had but little motive
to remain. Her uncle was not much a favorite with them. He
was known to be a hard and selfish man, who was believed, and
rightly, to have no sympathies with either. Still, he was a man
of the court, and could put on, when he pleased, the manners of
a preux chevalier. He was now exceedingly courteous and conciliatory,
and apologized warmly for the unavoidable withdrawal
of his niece, and for those cares, of his own, which denied him
the pleasure of giving them further entertainment. He told
them, without scruple, the cause of the present confusion in his
household; and made quite a pretty story of it.
“His venerable housekeeper, who had been almost a mother
to Olivia, watching and tending her youth with more than parental
solicitude, was suddenly found dead in her seat. Well that
morning, to all appearance, at noon she had passed to judgment;
and this without alarming the family. Olivia was, of course,
terribly shocked by the event. She had retired inconsolable to
her chamber. She was so tenderly attached to Anita, and Anita
so tenderly attached to her! Her affection was very great,—
great indeed;—so great, that he, Don Balthazar de Alvaro, was
exceedingly anxious for her health;—and so forth.” “And so,
good morning to you, Señores.”
“An old hag!” exclaimed Nuno de Tobar to his companion
as soon as they had got fairly beyond the premises,—“one of
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the ugliest and most fiendish-looking human vultures you ever
beheld. As for her attachment to Olivia, or Olivia's to her, I don't
believe a word of it. I never saw any proofs of it myself, and
have heard many things which lead me to think there could be
no attachment between them. In fact, Leonora tells me that
Anita was no more than a spy upon the poor girl, whose steps
were watched as carefully as if every bush concealed a lover,
and behind every tree stood an armed man ready to snatch her
up and make off with her. Be sure, Don Balthazar has no desire
that she should pass from any keeping but his own. He
enjoys too much good picking from the estates of Olivia to give
her up without a struggle. There is a strange story about a
silver mine which he has somehow wholly appropriated to himself;
and by all accounts, he may well dread the day of reckoning
with the man who shall become her husband. For this reason
he keeps her immured as much as possible; and it is certain
that no gentleman can obtain access to his dwelling without finding
himself watched. You must continue, Philip, your visits
when the uncle is known to be busy elsewhere. There is something
gained, I am thinking, by the death of this old woman.
It is a special providence in your behalf. See that you make
use of it.”
The calculations of Nuno de Tobar, in respect to the advantages
gained in favor of the larger liberty of Olivia by the death
of Anita, were somewhat those of Olivia herself; for, in spite
of the shock which she had received by that event, and the natural
horrors which were taught her by her own secret consciousness
of the cause of it, she could not avoid reflecting upon the
probable increase of her own securities in consequence. They
were both deceived. That very night, the place of Anita was
filled by another old woman, another creature of Don Balthazar,
not so ugly, perhaps, or so old as her predecessor, but equally
hard favored and unscrupulous. Sylvia was a mestizo also,
brought from one of the haciendas of the estate, a few miles in
the country. Olivia had seen and known her before. The sight
of this woman, in her new situation, left her little hope of profit
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by the death of Anita. Sylvia was as subtle as the former, and
no less the willing tool of her employer. She had all the fierce
malignity of mood characteristic of the hybrid race to which
she belonged,—a people usually of fierce passions, sudden impulses,
capricious impulse, and tenacious of the sense of wrong
and injury to the latest moment of existence. Don Balthazar
knew his creatures well, and satisfied of this fact, Olivia, for the
moment, resigned herself to despair again.
But she found an unexpected ally, where she least looked for
one, in the person of the young serving girl, Juana. This girl
was the grand-daughter of Anita. The event which put another
in the place of her grandmother, had also its injurious consequences
to herself. She naturally regarded herself as the
heiress of her kinswoman; and knowing how large and various
had been the accumulations of the latter, her expectations were
correspondingly large. To her consternation, the successor to
the place of Anita at once usurped possession of all her stores.
Juana was driven out from the precincts altogether, and compelled
to confine herself to the little chamber which she had long
occupied, adjoining that of Olivia. Sylvia had assumed the entire
control of the household, and her usurpations, in a few hours,
were such as to satisfy Juana that her expectations from the
savings of her grandmother were all cut off. She was held in
no more favor than her mistress, and soon found herself under
an authority which was disposed to submit to no questioning.
Sylvia had her own children and grand-children to provide for.
Juana was dreadfully indignant. She did not dare to approach
Don Balthazar with her griefs; but she condescended to confide
to Olivia. In her passion she revealed to her all the secrets of
their mutual prison-house, all at least that she knew, and thus,
in a measure, confirmed the unhappy girl in the conviction which
she had already been compelled to feel, that she was the victim
of a thousand cruel arts. Juana swore to have her revenges,
and better to secure sympathy, she promised Olivia that she
should have redress also. What were her plans of vengeance
she did not declare; but when questioned in respect to her
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means and opportunities, contented herself with a knowing look,
and a sagacious shaking of the head. She was naturally a stupid
wench, but possessed that sort of animal cunning which is so
frequently found in connection with a base and feeble intellect.
For the present nothing could be extracted from her, and the
business of the household went on without disorder, and with
no apparent interruption. But, as we shall see in the sequel,
Juana was busy after a fashion of her own.
But the day, thus distinguished by the startling events which
we have recorded, was not at an end. Olivia sat alone in the
verandah. The evening meal had been set before her by Juana,
but had been carried out untasted. She had no appetite just
then for mortal food. Her soul was still agitated to its depths,
as the sea that heaves up tumultuously with all its waves, though
the winds which have swept it with fearful strife, have wholly
passed and gone. She lay reclined upon the settee of wicker-work
where we beheld her during her morning interview with
Vasconselos. There was no light in the apartment; none, in
fact, was necessary, while the moon glinting through groves of
orange and anana, sufficed for the desires of the sad and contemplative
spirit. The gay gleams flitted over the floor of the verandah,
and glided, stealthily and faintly, to the interior of the
apartment, otherwise dimly shaded by the massive foliage which
curtained the opening in front. Here, saddening under the
sad sweetness of the scene, Olivia brooded,—absorbed in ruminating
the events and the prospects of a life, which, at its very
budding, seemed already shrouded with a blight. Her heart
sunk within her as she thought; all was dark in the future; all
gloomy, grievous, and reproachful in the past. At length she
wept, and found a momentary relief in her tears. The big drops
forced their way through her fingers,—tears of a bitterness
which proved superior to all the sweets promised by an affection
which was only too precious to her hopes.
“He loves me!” was her exclamation. “He loves me—he—
the only man for whom this heart has ever felt a passion. I
cannot mistake his silent admiration. I cannot doubt the broken
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meaning,—the imperfect sentiment—in these hesitating words;
and oh! were it but that I could bear his glances with this
dreadful and humiliating secret in my heart, how heavenly were
such a love. But how to enjoy his affections, yet betray his
confidence! How, unworthy as I am, to receive his embraces!—
How place my head—how bury my face in the bosom whose
faith I have deceived! Impossible! no, Philip de Vasconselos,—
precious as I hold thee to my heart, I must deny myself even
more than I deny thee. Thou wilt come, but it must be for
denial only. I deny thee for thy better fortune. Thou wilt go
hence; go upon the path of conquest; and ambition will rightly
take the place of love! Though I die to own thee, yet I never
will be thine.”
She had spoken audibly this soliloquy. It made its way to
other ears, though her own were scarcely conscious of its import.
From the dense masses of shade at the foot of the verandah,
came a voice in answer:
“A wise resolution, Olivia,—a very wise resolution! But one
thou wilt hardly be prepared to keep. The morning sun will
bring thee fresh hopes and fancies; the evening will bring thee
thy lover with the moonlight; and thou wilt forget the vow as
if it were written in water!”
At the first sound of the speaker's voice, Olivia half started
from the settee on which she reclined. But, as she recognized
the accents of Don Balthazar, she schooled her mood to indifference;
drawing a long deep breath, and looking a mixed scorn and
hatred, which, could her features have been seen at the moment,
would have embodied a truthful portrait of those of Medea,
about to take her flight for Athens, in her chariot dyed with the
gore of her kindred. Intense and bitter was the momentary
feeling of indignation which darkened her cheeks with red, only
to subside, in the next instant, into a more than mortal paleness.
The uncle advanced from the thicket and ascended to the verandah.
He approached her, flung his cap upon a table, and seated
himself at her side. She recoiled from him, retreating to the
opposite end of the settee.
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“So hostile still!” said he. “Well! It is perhaps reasonable
enough, though it comports little with thy resolution. If thou
wilt shake off the knights of Portugal, there is no need to send
me with them. Nay, for the very reason that they depart,
should I be suffered to remain. Let me say, Olivia, that I rejoice
in thy resolution. It is wise—it is prudent. It would never
do for thee to wed with Philip de Vasconselos.”
“And wherefore not?”
“Ah! there are sufficient reasons.”
“None which concern thee, at least. If I have so resolved, it
is for a reason of mine own, the force of which it is little likely
that thou shouldst feel.”
“Be it so! It is enough that thou hast resolved. I care not
to know the motive for a decision which is yet grateful to my
mind. Thou hast resolved! and yet I somewhat wonder at thee,
Olivia.”
“Thou know'st me not.”
“Thou wilt scarce keep to thy resolution.”
“Thou know'st me not.”
“Ha! did I not see thee when he was urging thee, as still the
passionate lover knows how to urge his suit? Did I not see thee
tremble, even though thou recoiledst from his supplications? Did
I not see the yielding weakness in thy lip and eye—hear it in the
tremors of thy voice—know it in what I know of the passion for
him which stirs in all thy soul? Thou wouldst have yielded,
at one moment—nay, at another!—I am curious, Olivia. Wherefore,
at certain moments, when his hand had taken thine into close
keeping, and when thy whole heart was melting to his persuasive
words—wherefore, then, didst thou break away, and speak of
thy guitar, and of idle minstrelsy?”
“Said I not,—thou know'st me not?”
“But wherefore?”
“Thou didst not give heed to the words he uttered.”
“Nay, but I did. They were words of passion and devotion,
such as well befit such an occasion. They were well chosen
words of love, I trow; and they were passing sweet, I am
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certain, in thy ears. Why just then didst thou recoil from him, even
as from an adder thou hadst startled in thy path,—evade his supplications,—
changing the course of his thought, and of thy own,
and seeking to divert him from his purpose, only that he might
hear how deftly thou couldst finger thy guitar?”
“And think'st thou I had such motive?”
“What else?”
“I tell thee again, thou know'st me not! Heard'st thou the
words which he poured into mine ears?”
“What words? I noted that he was warming to thee with no
doubtful purpose. Didst thou mistake him?”
“No! I knew—I felt his purpose; and had his words been
otherwise chosen, I had probably been base enough to listen, and
weak enough to yield! Ah! uncle! hadst thou not utterly
hardened thy soul against all that is noble, the words which Don
Philip employed had smitten upon thy senses equally with mine,
and thou hadst felt a shudder and a cold shame pass over thee,
such as made me, perforce, refuse to listen to the devotion of
that love which I could not help but feel.”
“What words are these? They spoke for his love only!”
“More! more! There were words in his speech which were
as poisoned arrows to my heart.”
“How! what?”
“For my— but no! no! why should I repeat to thee? Thou
wilt not feel as I do—thou canst not! Enough, that I strove to
avoid the professions which I dared not trust myself to answer.
I would have him abandon his purpose, and seek me no more.
Let him find one who, though she may love him less profoundly,
will be more deserving of his affections. It is because I so much
love him, that I will deny his prayer. I dare not dishonor a heart
which is so precious to my own.”
The uncle rose from his seat, and stood intently gazing for a
moment, in silence, upon the excited features of the damsel. She
had exhibited to his mind a virtue beyond his understanding. He
approached and laid his hand upon her shoulder. She recoiled
from his touch.
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“Verily, Olivia, thou art but a very simple child.”
“Child! Oh! would to Heaven I were! but I am not. Thou
hast forced upon me too dreary an experience of age—of thy
age—to be a child—of thy sex, to be properly sensible of mine.
Thou hast crushed me with a deadly weight of knowledge! Thy
tutorship has taken from me all the sweet ignorance of childhood.
Alas! I know too much for childhood as well as peace! neither
shall I ever know again!”
“Thy fit is again coming on thee, Olivia!”
“Fit! I tell thee, Don Balthazar de Alvaro, that, though thou
hast the power to destroy me, and every hope which is mine, I
will not suffer thee to mock me with thy taunts! Fit! Verily,
if it were foaming madness, it were in reason, in proper accordance
with my wrongs and sorrows. Should I not be maddened!
Should I not rave from the house-top of such wrongs as might
move the heavens and the earth to shudder?”
“And wherefore rave? Thou seest how idle! I can well conceive
how much thou feel'st the loss of such a knight as Philip
de Vasconselos—for, of a truth, a more noble cavalier treads not
the Isle of Cuba—”
“No more! no more!”
It seemed the humor of Don Balthazar to chafe the sore spot
in her soul, and he continued:
“Well, what say'st thou to Augustin de Sinolar?”
“Why didst thou bring him hither to-day? He made suit to
thee before. Said I not then, that I scorn this man De Sinolar?”
“So!—thou rejectest De Sinolar because thou scorn'st him, and
Vasconselos because thou lovest him? This, my Olivia, is but
child's play. Let me show thee thy folly. Thou hast a secret.
It is my secret as well as thine, but I have every confidence that
thou wilt keep it faithfully. Now, to have a secret, such as she
never likes to reveal, is just the failing of every woman since the
days of Eve. Just such a secret as thine, troubles every damsel
fair as thou art!”
“Impossible!”
“True, my child! True! But should it make her miserable?
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She has eaten certain fruits which are forbidden, but she has sense
enough to wipe her mouth after eating, and who is the wiser?
Now, this act of wiping the mouth is very simple. Shalt thou
then deny thyself the privilege of eating again when it pleases
thee? Shalt thou deny thyself, because of a past error—if it
pleases thee so to call it—to partake of even more precious fruits,
which thou dost really desire? Wherefore? What wisdom in
it? No! no! I love thee, Olivia, and will teach thee better
policy. I have resolved for thee, and if thou ever wed'st, thou
shalt wed with De Sinolar.”
“Name not that thing, De Sinolar, to me.”
“True, he is a thing, that is certain;—and so far acceptable. I
rather prefer him on that account.”
“That thou may'st the better use him! For that thou may'st
make a dog of him without endowing him with a dog's courage.”
“Perhaps! perhaps!”
“But I shall never wed. So forbear this cruel talk, I pray thee.”
“I cannot trust thy resolution, Olivia. I fear that when Philip
de Vasconselos next approaches thee with the words of soliciting,
thou wilt answer him with the words of consent.”
“No! no! no!”
“Yet, verily, thou lovest that man!”
“I deny it not! It is my boast, when spoken to thy ears. It
were my pride, were I other than I am, to make declaration of my
love abroad to all mankind. I love him as man never was loved
before; and it is, as I have said to thee already, it is even because I
so much love, that I will not marry him. I will not do him such
grievous wrong! Oh! uncle, thou hast destroyed my hope and
happiness forever. Thou hast abused the trust of my dear father—
thou the shepherd, that hast thyself been the wolf to destroy
the lamb.”
A paroxysm of tears followed this speech. The uncle smiled
contemptuously. He knew that the more violent passion was
usually weakened in the access of tears. She looked suddenly up
and caught the expression; and a passionate pride rose up in her
soul to her relief.
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“Thou mock'st, I see! Now, I say to thee, Don Balthazar de
Alvaro! thou hadst better stay thy tortures. Thou know'st me
not, or the fires which prey upon my soul like those of a volcano.
Better thou shouldst, without weapon or preparation, arouse the
she-wolf in the cavern with her young, than vex me farther with
thy taunts. Beware! I have been weak, and thou hast taken me
at 'vantage. But if I am weak, I am blind no longer; and if not
strong to bear, I am, at least, tempered to resist and to resent.
The very passions thou hast goaded into existence will be my
avengers in the end. I counsel thee give heed to what I say. Beware!
I am capable of things even more evil than thou think'st
for, and there is a limit beyond which it were well for thee not to
go. Once more I warn thee. I have had such bitter thoughts
and feelings towards thee, that didst thou press me much further,
I feel as if I could slay thee with a dagger, even as I would strike
the serpent that crept to my bosom while I slept.”
She had risen while she spoke, and stood before him, wild and
passionate, with flashing dark eye, and white arm waving. He
surveyed her with a stern and frowning brow, but somewhat
coldly—his lips compressed, as if with a feeling of pride and
power,—and his eye looking into hers with the bright fixedness
which that of the serpent is said to show when fascinating the
bird from the tree. There was a pause; the parties still regarding
each other. She, standing, looking on him with a raised spirit, and
wild, fiery glance; he, sitting, returning the gaze steadfastly—
coolly if not calmly, and apparently reserving himself for the
proper moment. At length, he spoke, very deliberately, as if
measuring every syllable.
“I think I do know thee, Olivia de Alvaro, and something
know of what thou art capable in thy passion. Have I not, of
late, likened thee to thy Biscayan mother? and her I knew thoroughly.
Let me convince thee that I do not estimate too humbly
thy powers of evil. Sit down once more while I question
thee.”
There was something so calm and quiet in the authority of his
voice and words, that, from habit merely, the damsel submitted
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and resumed her seat. Steadily looking into her face, he proceeded
to speak again, as deliberately as before.
“Didst thou know, Olivia, that the poor old woman, Anita,
was poisoned? She died from no old age, but from a deadly
liquor which she was made to drink.”
The listener grew white as death. Her knees shook beneath
her. Her tongue was frozen.
“Ay, Olivia, some loving hand drenched her posset with a too
bountiful allowance! Dost thou know this kerchief, Olivia?”
He showed it. It was her own. She was silent.
“This kerchief did I find where the person was concealed who
drugged the old woman's draught.”
He paused, as if awaiting the answer. But none was spoken.
“Thou hast nothing to say. Well! It is enough. Not to
speak is sufficiently to answer at such a moment. But, let me
say to thee farther, my child, it is known to me that thou thyself
wast the last in the chamber of Anita last night! Shouldst thou
think, now, that I am ignorant of what thou art capable? It was
thy hand, Olivia de Alvaro, that drugged the old woman's
draught with death.”
“And if it were, Don Balthazar de Alvaro,” exclaimed Olivia,
rising, and resuming all her strength and courage, as she beheld
the air and listened to the tone of superiority which he employed—
“and if it were my hand, then were my hand rightly employed
in punishing one who has been a murderess to me. And
had my hand served thee with the same fatal drug, then were I
also justified in the sight of man and heaven. Go to, Señor, thou
shalt not alarm or confound me. I am prepared, when thou art
so pleased, to listen to thee as thou reportest all thy story to the
world. I fear thee not—I know not now that I fear anything in
life. Thou hast brought me to this desperation. Yet know, that
when I mixed the drug with the draught of Anita, I knew it not
as a deadly poison. I knew it only, and believed it to be no
more than a stupefying drug, such as wrap the senses in an unnatural
and temporary slumber. As thou knowest so much, it
is not unlikely that thou knowest, also, that I beheld thee and
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Anita in secret conference in regard to my fate, on the night
when that drug was mixed with her wine? I saw her, ay, and
thee, as the fatal phial was held between ye to the light, and ye
resolved together that my potion was to be increased. Was it
unreasonable if I thought the goodly medicine which ye designed
for me, in your charity, it was but fitting that ye also should
partake? I wished to commend ye also to such blessed visions
and dreams, as ye nightly and daily prepared for me. I would
have ye too enjoy that insensible respose, which ye decreed between
ye should lighten my cares, and keep me from the feeling
of my cruel wrongs; and had it been possible, Don Balthazar,
that I could have mingled the drug with thy own wine-cup, this
hand should fearlessly have done it;—not, I affirm, as meaning
that it should be fatal to thy life, but as forcing you to such trial
of those sufferings of mine which have never yet compelled your
pity and forbearance! Now, that you know of what I am capable,
I again bid ye beware! You know the terms between us.
I loathe you, and I fear you; yet so little do I fear the world of
man, that, were it not for one who lives among ye, I should commission
you freely to declare aloud all that you have made me
and all that I am! Nay, the time may come, when, heedless of
the shame which shall follow from this speech, I myself shall go
out into the highways of the city, and speak aloud the truth myself!”
Don Balthazar was silenced. For the moment, he had no
refuge. He rose and left the verandah, and passed into the groves
around it; while Olivia, thoroughly exhausted, but no longer
tremulous or fearful, rose with a firm frame and spirit, and
moved quietly to her chamber.
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CHAPTER X.
“Cymb.
The time is troublesome:
We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy
Does yet depend.”
Shakespeare.
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Philip de Vasconselos did not, as was anticipated by Don Balthazar,
and warmly counselled by Nuno de Tobar, return immediately
to the attempt upon the affections of Olivia de Alvaro.
It would have been quite enough to preclude his visit for that day
and the next, at least, that there had been a death in the family;
an event, however, to which his more reckless friend attached no
sort of importance. But there was another reason for delay and
hesitation: Philip had no such confidence in his own position,
no such faith in his own powers, no such conviction of the favorable
regards of the lady, as was asserted by Nuno. He was, on
the contrary, troubled with many misgivings, which grew in difficulty
the more he examined. The very fact that he really and
earnestly loved, made him tremble at the thought of precipitating
his fate; and the true lover is almost always prepared to think
humbly of his own claims, in view of that supposed perfection which
he recognizes in the lady of his love. Besides, with the natural
delicacy of a proud and honorable mind, conscious of his own
poverty, he felt the awkwardness of a suit to one who was in the
possession of great riches. He felt how easy it was to suspect
the motives of such a suitor, and dreaded lest such a suspicion
should taint the mind of the lady herself. Not that he was disposed
to forego his suit because of this, or any other consideration.
On the contrary, he was resolved to bring it to the trial,
and know the worst as soon as he could think it proper to do so.
But all his conclusions counselled him to delay. Nor must we
allow it to be supposed that he was without his encouragements.
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He persuaded himself that there was much in what had taken
place between himself and Olivia in that last interview, to show
that she was very far from insensible to his pretensions. It is
true that there were things in her carriage—some curious caprices
of mood and manner, which he found it not easy altogether
to comprehend. But there was still enough to please a lover;
and to persuade one, even less bold and ardent than our
hero, to continue a pursuit in which he had certainly suffered no
repulse. She had evaded his application, but she had shown a
peculiar sensibility at his approach. She had trifled somewhat
when he was seriously earnest, but what was the meaning of her
tremors when her fair white hand lingered within his grasp? and
had she not encouraged his return?—and had she not declared an
interest in his presence in Cuba, in language too impressive to be
wholly without that desirable signification which the lover seeks?
Vasconselos was very far from being discouraged—nay, without
heeding the confident assurance of Nuno de Tobar, he felt a new
hope springing within his bosom at every moment of increased
reflection; and, ere the day was well over, he had resolved to
bring his doubts to an issue, at least, before the departure of the
expedition. It was his farther resolution, if successful in his
suit, to abandon the adventure with De Soto. For that matter,
he had partly determined thus, whatever might be the result of his
courtship. This conclusion was reached that very night, and
the next morning, when he was visited by Tobar, he unhesitatingly
declared it, to the great consternation of that young gallant.
The latter enabled him to do so, without effort, by rallying him
on the score of his amour.
“Where were you last night, Philip? You promised to be
with us, and broke faith. Truth to say, we had the merriest
night of it in the tent of Juan de Anasco. Better flasks of Xeres
were never opened to Don Ferdinand. All cried aloud against
you, and cursed your drowsy courtship, which seems to be notorious
throughout the Island. Now, my good fellow, if you must
be in love, there is no good reason why you should be out of the
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world. Every body asks for you—they all look for you in vain.
You are lost to all good fellowship.”
“You are likely to lose me still more completely than you
do now, Nuno. Some day you will fail to see me altogether. I
mean, indeed, to separate myself wholly from such a band of
vicious profligates, who have no faith in anything more lovely
than a pearl oyster, and yield their hearts to nothing less persuasive
than a gold mine. What should I do with such people;—I
who still believe in love and beauty, and have a heart still open
to the pleadings of a woman? That I do love is sufficient reason
why I should leave such companions. From this day I am going
to quit you all. I propose even to forego the expedition to Florida.
It needs me not; and there are good reasons wherefore I
should abandon it.”
“Now the blessed saints forefend, that you should speak seriously
this resolution, my friend. Why, Philip de Vasconselos,
this is mere madness. What reasons can you have? That you
love and would marry, and may marry Olivia de Alvaro, is not
sufficient cause, I trow, since the one stands not in the way of the
other, if there be any settled purpose in your mind to go.”
“Aye, but there is none.”
“How! I thought your going with the expedition was quite a
settled matter. I know that the Adelantado counts confidently
upon your going, and holds it of large importance to the interest of
the expedition that you should go: for you are the only person of
all the party who knows the tongue of the Floridian, and the passages
to his country.”
“I did, in some degree, prepare and consent to depart with
the Adelantado, but if he counts upon my going and values my
performance, he hath taken but a strange course for showing me
the estimate he hath of my services.”
“Truth, he hath neglected you somewhat.”
“But this availeth little, and I have no regrets and no complaints.
Let it suffice for you, Nuno, that, for the time, the passion
for warlike adventure hath gone utterly out of my heart. I
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look with discomfort at all warlike panoply—I turn away from
lance and sword with feeling of discomfort, and my shield glares
at me with unpleasant brightness from the wall. Love hath subdued
me to simpler and sweeter desires. I dream now of long
floating hair and dewy eyes, and a sweet song and sweeter sigh
in the shade of lemon groves in the star-light.”
“Shame on thee, Vasconselos, that thou shouldst make such
confession! I will report thee for a haggard through the army.
I too have had my passions and my loves, as thou knowest, and
I could, on occasion, play me a merry turn of sadness upon the
guitar beneath my lady's lattice, even now; but that she should
wean me from my love of shield and spear, were impossible! I
must not believe thee.”
“Thou shalt! thou wilt! I am the very thing that I tell thee,
and care nothing for all the gold and treasure of the Floridian.”
“It will greatly anger the adelantado when he hears of thy
decision.”
“Nay, I think he is somewhat prepared for it. He hath
treated me with neglect from the beginning, in all substantial
things, and he now shows me a cold courtesy, which argues hostility.
This, of itself, were enough to move me to abandon his
banner. But thou also knowest how much are we Portuguese
the dislike of thy common soldiers. My brother, Andres, who
leads a troop of our people, and a goodly one, hath a certain
measure of independence. But I, who am only a single horse
and lance, I have no power, and lacking power, have no security.
I could only go as a simple volunteer, the aid to a superior who
hath shown me aversion. Seest thou not how little motive is
there left me for this adventure? Even the page who helped
me buckle on my armor is withdrawn from me, since he waits also
on my brother, and is his paid follower; and this reminds me,
Nuno, that I am seeking to buy me a well-made blackamoor;—
a boy who shall bring me water, unlace my helmet, and put on
my spurs; a meek and docile urchin, who shall be quick as willing,
and whom, by kindness, I can make faithful. Wilt thou
make it known abroad that the Portuguese knight, Philip de
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Vasconseles, is willing to pay a goodly sum in Castellanos for this
Moorish urchin?”
“It shall be done, Philip; but thou chafest me. I cannot lose
thee from this expedition.”
“It may be that the Lady Olivia will reject my hand. If it be
so —”
“Nay, I know her better. She will not reject thee. Leonora
vows to me that her heart is full of thee only.”
“Hath she said this to thy wife?”
“No! not in words; but she hath shown it in a thousand instances.
My wife is a laughter, but she hath an eye. She sees,
and I, too, see, Philip, and we have no doubts. It is your own
modesty alone that seeks for them, and builds them up into a
tower! I can tell you what the answer of the lady will be, and
upon this you may count with certainty. But you will scarcely
wed on the instant, even when she accepts thee. Some time
will pass, and why not yield this to a campaign in Florida?
How much better to bring home a dowry for your bride, in the
pearl and gold of the Apalachian? Nay, hath she not a noble
hacienda, one of the finest in all the island, at Matelos, which
needs nothing but an adequate supply of slaves, to make it an
empire? A single season in Apalachia will give thee any number.”
“Nay, let her consent to my love, Nuno, and there shall be
no delay. We shall instantly wed. I like not these long gaps
between promise and performance. They make the heart sick
and the soul weary. Unless there be good reason, there shall be
no delay. She shall be mine as soon after she hath said the
consenting word as the time will suffer for the coming of the
priest and the preparation of the altar.”
“And Don Balthazar! thinkest thou he is the person to suffer
thee so easily to take possession? I look for trouble from that
quarter.”
“Trouble! I tell thee, Nuno, there is something in the aspect
of that man which so offends my nature, that it will go hard with
me if I do not take him by the beard on the first occasion. I
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have somehow, among men, an infallible instinct for knowing
an enemy, even as most men have the instinct for knowing when
there is venom in reptile and insect. My soul seems to lift my
heel, as I behold him, with the feeling that I ought to crush.”
“Yet beware! He is one who hath power and policy. He
hath courage, too, and is known for a man of prowess in arms.
You know that the adelantado hath made him Captain-General
of the Fleet.”
“Ha! then he departs with the expedition? I had thought
this doubtful.”
“The appointment hath secured him, and some thousands of
Castellanos besides, drawn, I suspect, from the estates of the fair
Olivia.”
“Well, let him depart. It is even more important, if he
goes, that I should remain. Let Olivia but yield me her favor,
and I care not who departs. Nothing then should persuade me
to this wild enterprise.”
“Ah! Philip, thou didst not hold it so wild ere thou sawest
the fair niece of Don Balthazar.”
“I was but a wild person in that day myself.”
“And why shouldst thou now deem it so wild an enterprise?
Thou wert a companion with Cabeza de Vaça, and shared his
spoils, and held with him the opinion that the mountains of Apalachia
contained treasures of gold and silver even greater than
those of Peru and Tenochtitlan.”
“And think not otherwise now. But to me such treasures
have grown valueless in comparison with others yet more precious.
Thou shalt enjoy my share of them, Nuno. May they
make thee rich and leave thee happy. But, for my happiness,
I need not now to go on shipboard. I need not carry lance
again among the savages. My ears shall not prick at the summons
of the trumpet, and I shall soon learn to forget in the quiet
shadows of my fig-tree, that I ever had communion with wild and
profligate youth like thyself.”
“Now am I half persuaded to implore the Saints that they
move against thee, and forbid this damsel to give hearing to thy
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prayer. Thy passion for her bids fair to break the head from one
of the best lances of Castile! What shall we do without thee in
Florida—thou who know'st all about the country, and hast such
sufficient knowledge of the infernal dialect of these savages of Apalachia?
When this resolution of thine shall reach the ears of the
Adelantado, he will surely madden. He will carry thee, perforce,
Philip.”
“Be thine the tongue, Nuno, to make him the report, that the
first overflow of his anger will fall upon other heads than mine.”
“Upon mine, thou meanest? Yet thou scarcely deservest this
friendship from the comrade whom thou abandon'st at the entrance
of the field! But thou wilt decide otherwise, I trust; and
prove thyself true to thy vocation, if not to the sex. He who
keeps faith with his comrade, need not concern himself in regard
to pledges made to woman.”
“Out upon thee for a heretic! But that I know thee to speak
commonly a philosophy such as thou canst invent, and not such
as thou believest, I should lift lance against thee, though I never
strove in tilt or combat again! But get thee hence, and leave me to
my meditations. Thou, meanwhile, may'st employ thyself, and
amuse the island, by telling aloud this purpose of mine to abandon
the expedition.”
“But thou wilt take part in the tournament?”
“Ay, as a point of honor it is needful. We Portuguese have
been too much held in disesteem by your proud Spaniards, and I
am resolved to lower some of the haughty crests, which have
abused the courtesy of knighthood. It will be, perchance, a solemn
service, closing my career in chivalry. I will then dedicate my
spear to the Gods of the Harvest—and set up an altar to peace,
where hitherto I have bowed only to that of war!”
“A Dios!” exclaimed the young knight at parting. “I go sadly,
Philip, to make evil report of thee to all good companions!”
“A Dios!” replied the Portuguese—“I wish thee no worse evil
than that, in time, thou shalt come to be full believer in thy own
report.”
Nuno de Tobar needed no exhortations on the part of Philip
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de Vasconselos, to spread abroad the news of his resolution to
abandon the expedition. He was naturally given to talk freely
all that he knew. But, in publishing the matter, he aimed really
so to cause the expression of regret among the people, which he
knew would be very general, as to move the Adelantado to review
his conduct towards the Portuguese knights, and to repair the
evils which had followed his neglect. It was the notion of Nuno,
and it was probably not without justice, that a little more favor
shown to these adventurers would have secured their attachments,
and confirmed them in their desire for the adventure. It was not
too late, he fancied, to win Philip back to the enterprise, and he
resolved freely to declare himself, to this effect, to the ears of the
Adelantado. The command of a score or two of lances, and an
honorable appointment, would, he persuaded himself, so influence
Philip de Vasconselos, that, even if he married Olivia, he would
still accompany or follow the expedition. Was he not about to
abandon his own wife, who was both young and beautiful; and
did not the Adelantado himself do likewise, in respect to a woman
no less beautiful than noble? He could see no reason why the
Portuguese should exhibit a more feminine tenderness and affection
than either.
In these views and this policy he seconded the desires and opinion
of Don Balthazar de Alvaro. This person soon got tidings
of the avowed determination of the knight of Portugal. Nuno
de Tobar had given large currency to the report in a couple of
hours; but Philip, who was not without his policy, and whose desire
was to circulate his decision, set other agents to work in its
dissemination. Scarcely had Nuno de Tobar disappeared when
another visitor had sought his lodgings, and he was shortly succeeded
by a third. To all of these our knight was equally communicative,
and the news was soon dispersed, as upon the wings of
the wind, all over the city. Don Balthazar was one of the first
persons whom it reached.
“'Tis as I feared!” he muttered to himself. “This knight is hopeful
of success. He is not willing to forego his chances. He grows
confident: he will come again. He will propose. I cannot hide
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her from him. I cannot deny him entrance. I dare not hurry her
off to the mountains. He must see her. Well! she has resolved,
in her refinement of virtue, not to accept him—not to marry him
or any other. She loves him too well, she says, to dishonor him.
Very good! very satisfactory, could she keep her word—were she
firm in her resolution. But, is it possible? Can I trust her?
Is any woman to be trusted where her heart is full of the one object,
where the passions are young and vigorous, and where the
opportunities are free? She will tremble and hesitate, and be
coy—recede, yet loiter,—listen, and finally, forgetting everything
except the passion which she feels, she will fall into his arms, and
he will drink the moist, warm consent from her burning lips. So
it has been ever—so it will be ever—to the end of the history.
I have studied the sex in vain if it be not so!—and how to prevent
all this, for it must be prevented! The Adelantado must persuade
this knight to continue with the expedition. He must win him. He
hath the charm to do this, when he is persuaded to use it; and he
must use it now. He must make him a captain of twenties—nay,
hundreds—but he must bear him off; and meanwhile, it must be
for me to encourage him with a promise of Olivia on his return
from the expedition. To gain time is now the thing essential.
The rest may be left to the thousand casualties of such an adventure
as that on which we depart. But should these arts fail!
should the persuasions of the Adelantado come too late—should
the pride of this knight of Portugal reject our overtures with
scorn, as perchance he may—should my promise of Olivia, on
his return, not satisfy him—as, in faith, her encouragement hath
been sufficient to make it unsatisfactory—what remains? Verily,
but one remedy! We must try the sharp necessity of the dagger.
There will be opportunities enough, I trow. It must either
be my hand, or that of one whose soul and weapon I may buy
against any bosom in Cuba!”
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CHAPTER XI.
“Laf.
I have then sinned against his experience, and trangressed against his valor;
and my state that way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find it in my heart to repent.
Here he comes. I pray you make us friends. I will pursue the amity.”
All's Well that Ends Well.
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We have heard the cold and cruel determination of Don Balthazer
de Alvaro. We may be assured that it has not been
spoken idly, or with a mere braggart spirit, and that his resolution
and his will correspond too well, to make him pause, whenever
it shall seem necessary to carry out his purposes in action.
For the present, his conclusions led him at once to seek an interview
with the adelantado. As he expected, he found De Soto
already in possession of the rumor touching the withdrawal of
Philip de Vasconselos from the expedition.
“Is this report true, Don Balthazar?” demanded the adelantado,
who, proud as he was, and self-confident, could not help
showing in his tone and manner that the affair seriously disquieted
him.
“It is not improbable, your excellency: the report comes
through several persons who have his ear. Nuno de Tobar himself
assured me that his present mood inclined him to forego
the expedition, but he thought that, with proper efforts made,
Don Philip might be persuaded to review his decision.”
“And am I to stoop to solicit this Portuguese knight to be my
companion in my arms?” was the imperious demand of De Soto.
“Nay!” interposed, gently but earnestly, the more sedate
spirit of his wife, the Lady Isabella—“nay, my Lord, this is
an unreasonable spirit which possesses thee. Don Balthazar is
surely too much thy friend to counsel thee to any dishonor, or
descent from thy high dignity. He means not that thou shouldst
sink the spirit of the noble and the knight, to conciliate an
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exacting spirit, or win the countenance of the unworthy. He but
counsels, as I have striven to do, that in the case of these brave
knights of Portugal, whom none hold to be less than honorable
in very high degree, thou shouldst assume a different bearing
from that which is but too common for our Spaniards to show
to these gentlemen. Verily, I say myself, they have been quite
too much slighted in this adventure, the more especially when
we remember the claims of Don Philip, not merely as a brave
warrior, and polished gentleman, but on account of the special
qualities which he possesses from a former sojourn with the
Floridian of Apalachia. And where is the shame and the discredit
to thee of seeking and soliciting this noble and his brother?
Dost thou not solicit many,—many who are far less worthy?
What is all thy toil here, the parade which we daily make, the
court which we hold, the feasts we give, the pageants and tourneys
we exhibit, but the fruit of a solicitude which seeks men,
and money and horses,—and all that is deemed needful to the
success and glory of thy enterprise? Of a truth, my Lord, I
see, as I have long seen, that there is no true wisdom in looking
coldly on these brave spirits, who, I doubt not, will be most happy
of thy favor, and most hearty in thy cause.”
The Adelantado trode the floor with hasty strides while his
wife was speaking. When she had done, he spoke.
“I see not what ye would have. I gave these knights all the
countenance that was possible. They were entreated to our presence;
they were dealt honorably with when they came. I could
not strip command from other of my followers, born Castilians,
who brought with them their own retainers. I could not for my
own dignity, abridge my own command, that they should find
the followers whom they did not bring. I dared not give them
high places in the expedition, knowing well the jealousy of our
people towards the foreigners. But, I trow, all this complaint
of neglect had never been, Don Balthazar, had it not been for
thy niece. It is the passion of this knight for the Lady Olivia,
and, perchance, thy hostility to his object, which hath marred his
purpose, and not any lack of my favor. He had gone, as so
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many do, as an individual adventurer, a single lance and sword,
but for his passion for thy niece; and thou, I wot, hath put thy
ban upon his affection.”
“I have put no ban upon his affections, your excellency, nor
upon hers. He is free to come and go, and he sees my niece
when he will. I have not forbidden him; I do not purpose to
forbid. If he seeks her in marriage, and she affects him, I withhold
no consent.”
“Thou hast changed in thy resolve since we last spoke of
these parties!” said Donna Isabella.
“True, your Ladyship. I hearkened to your counsels, and resolved
in compliance with them. But it is, perchance, for this
very reason that he hath declined the expedition. Had I barred
his passage to the Lady Olivia, he had been less hopeful. I am
free to say that I believe she hath large power over him.”
“And he over her,” quoth the Lady Isabella, “or the woman's
eyes have in this greatly mistaken the usual signs of the woman's
heart.”
“Well!” exclaimed Hernan de Soto, breaking in with impatience,
“well, and what is to come of it? Will he sink into
the drudge upon a vineyard? Will he become fruit-pruner on
the hacienda of the Lady Olivia de Alvaro, and prepare his
monthly accounts, as steward and agent, for the examination of
the severe Señor Don Balthazar? Think'st thou to bring him
to this? Can it be that one of the bravest and best lances in
Portugal—ay, and Spain—will be content with this petty employ
in life while great deeds are done in Florida—he who, but a
month ago, had an ambition for conquest, and a passion for enterprise,
equal to that of the most eager adventurer in Cuba?
Then is knighthood greatly altered in spirit in the last decade;
and one as he reads may well wonder if the deeds of Hernan de
Cordova are not in faith a pure fable,—a silly invention of the
poet. Go to, Don Balthazar, you shall not persuade me to
this.”
“I would persuade you to nothing, your excellency, which you
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deem hurtful to your honor or your interests, or which you find
displeasing to your moods. You hear what is reported as coming
from Don Philip himself. I believe the rumor, and think
that he hath so expressed himself. It is for you to say whether
the loss of this knight,—perchance his younger brother also,—be
such loss as you can suffer without grievance.”
“Of a truth, not! we want every man whom we can get, and
every brave knight in especial,—particularly one who brings with
him such manifold resources as Philip de Vasconselos.”
“This being the case, your excellency, it may be well to ask,
in what way, without derogation from your high dignity, to persuade
him to the adventure. I have shown you wherefore I
think he hath resolved to quit your banner;—the neglect of
favor;—the jealousy of our Spaniards, and the passion which he
hath for my niece.”
“When thou sawest these things, and that the hope of thy
niece was that which made him hostile to the expedition, why
then didst thou give encouragement to this puling passion for the
damsel?”
“Nay, my lord, thou art again unreasonable,” interposed
Donna Isabella. “If there be offence in that, the guilt of it lies
at thy door and mine. Don Balthazar, as thou wilt recall, declared
himself in opposition to the suit of the knight of Portugal,
giving, as reason for it, the very peril which we now fear, that he
would abandon the expedition if successful with the lady. Was
it not so, Don Balthazar?”
Don Balthazar bowed assent, and then proceeded in reply to
De Soto.
“I gave no encouragement, your excellency, to this passion.
In truth, for many reasons I was greatly hostile to it. The calm,
and, as seemed to me, as I trow it did to you, the insolent pride
of this knight's bearing was rarely inconsistent with his poverty
of position and resource, and I felt a pride of nation which revolted
to think that the large possessions of my niece should fall
into the clutch of a beggarly and grasping stranger. I had
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chosen another suitor for her—one Don Augustin de Sinolar, a
worthy gentleman, and a handsome, whose estates lie adjoining
those of my niece at the hacienda Matelos.”
“And didst thou really seek to match thy niece with that thing
of silk and straw, De Sinolar? Fie upon thee, Don Balthazar—
fie upon thee, for designing a most unworthy sacrifice.”
The face of Don Balthazar flushed to the temples, as he listened
to the rebuke of the Lady Isabella, and felt the sharp indignant
glance of her eye upon him. But he had his reply.
“He is rich, lady, and hath a good exterior. He hath the
vanities of youth, perchance; I deny it not; but he hath few of
the vices of youth. He hath meekness, and gentleness, and simplicity,
and —”
“Oh! hush thee, Don Balthazar; as if the qualities of a chicken
or a hare were sufficient to satisfy the heart of a woman. Fie
upon thee.”
“Briefly,” interposed De Soto, “she rejects your favorite
De Sinolar, and must have your knight of Portugal.”
“My choice was not hers, and, though the Lady Isabella rebukes
me, I must say I am sorry for it. Olivia had been much
happier, I trow, with De Sinolar, than she ever could hope to be
with Philip de Vasconselos.”
“And why not, I pray you?” again spoke the Lady Isabella,
showing a feminine tenacity on a subject which so naturally interested
the pride and temper of the sex.
“Nay, it does not matter to our present quest,” said De Soto.
“The question is, does she resolve to wed the Portuguese?”
“She prefers him, beyond all question, but that she will wed
with him is still—as who can answer for the caprices of the
sex?”—and this was said with a sly glance at the Lady Isabella—
“is still a very questionable matter.”
“Nay, if she prefers him, and he seeks her, there is an end of
the doubt. You do not bar the progress, and none denies. She
will wed with him, I see, and he is lost to the expedition—a loss
greater than fifty matchlocks!”
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De Soto strode the apartment with a vexation which he did
not labor to conceal. Now, that the loss of the knight seemed
to be certain, he was at no pains to conceal his conviction of his
value. The truth is that, as Don Balthazar had indicated already,
the pride in the bearing of Don Philip de Vasconselos, and the
stately reserve which he maintained to the Castilian leaders, De
Soto among them, had touched the self-esteem of the latter.
Yet this conduct of the Portuguese was not properly a cause of
wonder or complaint, when it was remembered with what open
jealousy he was regarded by the Spaniards. Don Balthazar
watched his superior with keen eyes, but a calm, unspeaking
countenance. After a brief pause, he spoke as follows:
“Nay, your Excellency, it does not seem so necessary that the
Knight should be lost to the expedition, even should he wed with
my niece. He may be persuaded to follow it after he hath wedded—”
“Better before!” said the Lady Isabella with a smile.
“Yes, I grant you, better before; and, whatever attempts we
make upon him should be seasonably tried; but, failing to prevent
his bridal—which, I repeat, is by no means an assured thing—
then we may negotiate that he follow thee when the honey-moon
is over. Thou wilt suffer one or more small caravels to remain
from thy fleet, wherewith to bring stores after thee, and the sick
soldiers, and in one of these he may easily depart with others.
Thou wilt hardly feel his loss ere he is with thee. Thou wilt
consume several weeks in thy progress along, and thy descent
upon the coast—in the unloading of thy caravels, the landing of
the horses, hogs and cattle, and in other needful preparations.
When thou art ready to penetrate the country of the Apalachian,
he will, if we use the proper means of persuasion, be with
thee in season.”
“And these means of persuasion. Sant' Iago! Shall I go to
this Knight of Portugal, and bend myself before him, and say,
`Sir Knight, wilt thou honor thy servant by taking thy part in
this expedition?'”
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“Nay, nay, my lord —” began the lady, but the Adelantado
waved his hand impatiently, looking to Balthazar. The latter
did not delay his answer:—
“Will your Excellency leave this matter wholly to me? I
will use what proper arguments I may. I will in no respect commit
thy pride or honor. I will promise office, and the command
of a troop, yet in no way conflict with thy engagements.”
“How wilt thou do this?”
“Nay, will it not suffice that it shall be done?”
“In God's name, do it; I shall say no more. Thou wilt relieve
me of an embarrassment; and if thou succeed'st with this
churlish cavalier, will do help to the enterprise, as none better
knows than thou! Away, Don Balthazar, and let the grass not
grow beneath thy feet. To-morrow thou knowest the tournament
begins, and there is much work for thee here as elsewhere. To
thy papers, my secretary—my soul, rather!”
And with this superb compliment, the stately Don turned to
his wife, and proceeded to dictate as she wrote. Don Balthazar,
having carte blanche, made his bow and took his departure.
He lost no time in visiting Philip de Vasconselos. The office
was one which the uncle of Olivia would have cheerfully deputed
to another; but this was impossible; and he proceeded accordingly
to the work before him, with the promptitude of one to
whom the duty is apparent. His hope lay in the temptation
which he would hold forth to the ambition of the adventurer.
Having himself little faith in the affections as sufficiently compensative
to man, he persuaded himself that the aim of Philip de
Vasconselos was the fortune of his ward. If he could hold forth
a sufficient lure of the same character through another medium,
he flattered himself that he should be successful. None doubted
that Florida and the mountains of Apalachia concealed treasures
in gold and silver, gems and precious stones, equal to any in the
keeping of Peru. He knew that this faith was especially taught
by the Portuguese who had been one of the explorers of that
country with the Cavalier Cabeza de Vaça. All that seemed
essential, therefore, to beguiling him to the enterprise, was to
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mollify his pride, and secure him the means of going thither in a
style which should maintain his dignity and afford him an adequate
command. For this money was necessary, and De Soto
had none to spare. The resolution which Don Balthazar had
formed, was to use the means afforded him by the large income
from the estate of his niece, of which he had complete control.
To employ the wealth of Olivia in ridding her of two dangerous
lovers, seemed to him a perfectly legitimate measure; though,
in respect to the propriety of the proceeding, he never allowed
himself to doubt for a moment. Thus prepared with his general
plan of action, he entered the humble dwelling of the Knight
of Portugal.
Philip de Vasconselos beheld the approach of the unusual visitor
without surprise. He had, in fact, anticipated the unwonted
courtesy, and we may add, had partly designed it should be so,
when he instructed his friends to declare aloud his determination.
He knew quite as well as any other person, how necessary he
was to the purposes of De Soto. The appearance of Don Balthazar
seemed to assure him also of the conviction felt by the
latter that his niece would favor the suit of the Portuguese. The
instincts of Philip de Vasconselos on this subject had been
strengthened by the positive reports of Nuno de Tobar. They
were confirmed by the visit of the uncle. His hands were accordingly
strengthened. He was prepared for the interview.
Though yet a young man, hardly more than thirty, he had been
a soldier; had travelled much; mingled much with men; endured
those vicissitudes which strengthen patience, teach coolness,
and give insight; and with a mind naturally acute, and a judgment
well balanced and secure, he was more than a match for
men of greater age and as much experience. He was a politician
over whom the habitual cunning of Don Balthazar could obtain
no advantage. It was a curious study to watch the interview
between the parties—to behold the Castilian Don doubling like a
fox through all the avenues of his art; to see him circling around
his object, without approaching it; to note how warily he kept,
in regard to his secret fears, while holding forth his most
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beguiling lures;—in particular to note how sweetly he could insinuate
his flatteries of the man he hated in his soul, and had already resolved,
simpler remedies having failed him, to treat with sharp
medicine at the point of his dagger. He tried the pulse of Philip's
vanity and ambition with most laborious art, and a skill of
practice which had succeeded with ninety-nine in the hundred of
the young men of the time. But he tried in vain.
Yet Philip de Vasconselos gave him no direct denial. The
young man opposed art to art. He showed himself highly gratified
with the praises of the other. He made no effort to disguise
the ambition which he really felt, and suffered the old
politician to believe that all his flatteries had made their way to
his heart. He was never more frank and cordial in his life. He
spoke to Don Balthazar as to the uncle of Olivia, and in the strain
of one who regarded him as in no degree adverse to the free
course of her affections. He did not say to him, “I love your
niece,”—he did not even speak of her; yet he so shaped his
speech, as to a confidential friend, and so governed tone and countenance
equally as to indicate to the other the utter absence from
his thoughts of any doubt that he, Don Balthazar, could be other
than friendly to himself and objects. The confidence and ease
with which he gave himself out-apparently—just forebore the look
of self-complaisance, and expressed the sense and spirit of a man
who felt that his chances with fortune were quite even, or at least
looked so fair, as would render any reluctance to press them, a
something too dastardly for the toleration of any brave man.
In the end, all that Don Balthazar could obtain from the young
knight was a promise to consider his proffers—to deliberate
honestly upon them,—and resolve seasonably, giving his final
answer before the departure of the fleet.
“Demonios!” muttered the Castilian to himself, when he had
taken his departure: “This dog of a Moor thinks he already hath
the rabbit in a sack. But he shall lose his own skin ere he hath.
It is clear that he hopes for Olivia's consent. Now will it depend
on her whether he tastes my dagger or not. If her virtue—Ha!
ha! virtue!—if her virtue holds out to refusal of his hand, why
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let the dog drift where the seas may carry him! but if, as I fear,
her passion for him proves too strong for her magnanimity, he
must die! So be it! He shall never live to be her master—or
mine!”
He returned with all diligence to the presence of the Adelantado,
whom he found in the most joyous mood. The change of
a couple of hours had effected wonders. When he left his presence
De Soto was angry and sullen. Now his mirth was absolutely
boisterous. In this merriment, though more temperately,
Donna Isabella shared. Don Balthazar looked on with wonder,
and several times vainly essayed to speak. He was always
overborne by the laughter of his superior.
“Tell me nothing yet,” cried De Soto, at an interval in his
bursts of mirth,—“Nothing that shall qualify my pleasure. Ha!
ha! ha! wait, good Don Balthazar, till I can recover breath, when
you shall hear, and then, if it be not wholly against your principle,
you shall laugh too.”
“Ay, ay, your excellency, as Sancho counsels, `Let not thy
secret rot in thy keeping!'”
“Ere long it will be no secret. The story is too good to be
kept from air. It must be sent abroad, and no doubt will gain
addition as it goes. Thus, then, there were some barques that
put into port, as thou knowest, from stress of weather yesterday.
One of them had sprung aleak, and needed repair. On board of
this vessel came Hernan Ponce, an old comrade of mine in Peru.
We were dear friends in Peru, and we made a brotherhood between
us, which is, as thou knowest, a copartnership for common
interests and profits, to last through life. We were thus to share
our gains and losses equally, our honors as our profits.”
“Ah! and he now comes to claim of thee the half of thy state
here, and thy command in the expedition?”
“Nothing half so good, Don Balthazar. He claims nothing at
my hands, but his aim is to escape from claims of mine. Thou
must know, then, that Hernan Ponce hath made great profits in
Peru, and with immense wealth of gold and silver, jewels and
precious stones, he hath embarked at Nombre de Dios for Spain.
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It is greatly against his will that he hath put into Havana. So
great was his fear of my demands that he made great offers to the
Captain of the barque, Diego de Miruelos, who was an old follower
of mine, if he would steer wide of Havana, though he should
peril the ship's safety in doing so. But Diego, who has a keen
scent for a rogue's secret, and who knew the danger of his vessel,
was not to be overborne. So here he is; and yesterday he advised
me, by secret message, of him he hath on board. Whereupon
I sent a most courteous dispatch to Hernan Ponce, to compliment
and congratulate him on his arrival, and to entreat him to
come on shore, and in regard to our brotherhood, to share my
dwelling, my command, and the honors and profits of my expedition.”
“Ah! well—he hath complied?”
“No! no! There is something of the fox in Hernan Ponce,
it appears, who showed himself a true comrade only when he
was a poor adventurer. Now, that he hath grown rich, the nature
changes. He excused himself from coming ashore yesterday,
pleading fatigue; but he is to visit me to-day. Meanwhile,
Diego gave me to understand that Hernan held secret communication
with the shore, and counselled me to set eyes abroad,
such as might see clearly amid the darkness. Whereupon, I did
so, until every inlet and landing-place was covered with my
watchers. It was a wise precaution. Look at the fruits of it.”
Drawing a curtain, De Soto showed to his guest a couple of
goodly coffers, in which, the lids being removed, could be seen
stores of gold, and pearls, and precious stones, heaped to fullness.
“These,” continued De Soto, “were sent ashore last night, to
be hidden somewhere. But, even as they were landed, my spies
set upon the mariners, dispersed them, seized upon the treasure,
and it is here. I learn from Diego that Hernan kept nothing
on board but his coffers of silver. These, if pressed, he was to
share with me in compliance with our articles of brotherhood.
Have I not reason for merriment, think you? Ha! ha! ha! how
will he stare when he beholds them!”
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“Wilt thou show them?”
“Eh! why not? He shall see—the sordid runagate, that I
know him! I will shame him with my discovery.”
“Which is clearly forfeit.”
“Nay, the dog. I will not keep his treasure from him. I will
spit upon it, and force his shame upon him.”
“It is a gift of fortune. Thou wilt need it all, Don Hernan.”
“Nay, teach not that,” interposed Donna Isabella; “rather
let it go, lest we be haunted by the prayers of hate and avarice.
My lord will, I trust, need none of the treasure which is yielded
grudgingly. I would not have his honor reproached by scandal.”
“But it is his right, Señora.”
“Yes! but one may well forego a right when there would be
feeling of shame, and not pride, in its assertion. Better let my
lord do as he nobly resolves,—spit upon the treasure, and so
upon the baseness of the owner.”
It was probably the advice of the lady that led De Soto to his
determination. He was rather inclined to grasp at treasure from
whatever source, and his reputation is not above the reproach of
an unbecoming avarice. While they were yet speaking, the
attendants announced the approach of Hernan Ponce, upon
which Don Balthazar said,—
“My need requires me elsewhere. I will not stay to see thy
treatment of this partner of thine, particularly, as it seems to me,
thou dost unwisely in restoring him his treasure. Better wert
thou to help thyself, and punish him thus. It were the most
effectual manner for teaching him his baseness. He would then
surely feel it. Such a wretch will go off exulting, even though
thy spittle should somewhat stain his pearls.”
“What of the knight of Portugal? Dost thou make any thing
of him?”
“He speaks fairly, but does not yet decide. He will deliberate
upon my counsel and proposals.”
“Ah! he will deliberate. A curse upon the insolence of the
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Moor—for all these Portuguese are of mixed blood, I think!—
he will deliberate whether he will serve in ranks of honor—in
the service of a Castilian knight. I would he knew nothing of
the Apalachia, or that I had those about me who knew half so
much, then should he never set foot in this enterprise, which is
too great a glory for such as he.”
“Ah! my lord, thou dost this young knight a great wrong, I
fear,” said the lady.
“Break off,” said Don Balthazar—“here comes your wealthy
brother in arms and fortune. A Dios, your excellency. Se
ñora, I kiss your hands.”
“Let down the curtain upon the coffers,” said De Soto hastily,
as the footsteps sounded at the door without. In the next moment,
the unhappy Hernan Ponce was ushered into the apartment.
He had been apprised of the miscarriage of his treasure,
he suspected into whose hands it had fallen—and, in his loss, he
was taught to see his own baseness. His looks showed what he
feared and felt. But in those of the Adelantado and his noble
lady he saw nothing but cheering smiles, and a frank welcome.
De Soto received him as an old friend, and betrayed no suspicion,
and expressed no unkindness. He resolved to say nothing about
the captured treasure until Ponce should speak. For a long
time the latter forbore, talking about wholly indifferent subjects.
But where the treasure is, there will the heart be also,—and out
of the fullness of the heart will the mouth be forced to speak.
The luckless adventurer, at length, delivered himself of his secret,
and told the story of his misfortunes. The Adelantado had been
waiting for this opportunity.”
“What! Hernan Ponce, hadst thou then such a treasure as
thou describest, and wouldst thou have hidden it from me? Was
I not to share with thee in thy prosperity, even as I had shared
with thee in thy adversity? Lo! now the difference between
us. Behold these articles, properly devised, signed, and under
seal, in which, as thou seest, all that I have expended in my present
expedition, all the ships and munitions, the arms, the horses,
the men and money; all the titles, commands, and privileges
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which I have obtained from the crown, I have set down and
devised for our equal benefit, and made thy half secure to thee,
according to the articles of fraternity and copartnership between
us. Read the writings for thyself. See the names of the witnesses.
Hast thou cause of complaint? Wilt thou say that I
have not, in all things, fulfilled my part of the contract of brotherhood?”
Hernan Ponce read, and humbled himself. He admitted the
justice with which De Soto had proceeded, and confessed that
he had been unworthy of such a brother.
“It is not too late to atone, Hernan Ponce. The way is open
to thee still. If thou art pleased to share the expedition with
me, my titles and commands, my stores and possessions, I will
yield thee such as thou may'st prefer. The one half of all shall
be thine; the one half of the conquest and the treasures we may
win.”
The humiliation of Hernan Ponce increased, under the noble
treatment of his old companion in arms, but he said mournfully—
“It is vain now, since, except the silver which is on board the
vessel, I have no treasure of value left. It would be a shame and
a wrong to accept the half of thine, when I held back thy proper
share of what was mine.”
“Nay, Hernan Ponce, it is not so evil with thee yet. Thy
treasures hath fallen into friendly hands. Look, Señor, not a
pearl is missing from thy coffers.”
As he spoke, Donna Isabella raised the curtain, and the greedy
miser gasped with joyous wonder, as he eagerly lifted the cover
from the coffers, and saw that his gold and jewels remained untouched.”
But this episode need not detain us longer. The history is
briefly told by the chronicler. Hernan Ponce had no ambition
for conquest. He was content with the treasures in possession.
Now that his grasp was once more upon his coffers, he was for
incurring no further risks. The Spanish equivalent for our
English—“bird in the hand”—was tripping busily in his brain.
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The honors proposed to him seemed to be rather too expensive.
He had just left the land of savages and strife, and he had no
reason to suppose that the Apalachians were like to prove more
genial companions than those of Panama. He expressed himself
very grateful to his brother in arms, the noble Adelantado, but
really he could not think of depriving him of any share of his
well-won honors—any of the results likely to accrue from his
well-grounded hopes of conquest. For his own part, he needed
change of air from the new world to the old. His health required
it, and his treasures. He longed to air his pearls in the atmosphere
of Seville; he thought his ingots would be improved by
the coinage of his majesty. He was curious to look at the operations
of the mint. And there were many other reasons equally
strong and good. We do not mean to say that he urged all
these aloud. They were the unspoken arguments of his secret
soul. De Soto listened with contempt. Glad to get back his
treasures, and perhaps feeling some compunctions of conscience,
Hernan Ponce presented to the Lady Isabella ten thousand dollars
in gold, which he entreated her graciously to accept. Had
the story ceased here, we might have suffered Hernan Ponce to
depart, with the reputation of being less base and unworthy than
he originally appeared. But there is another scene in the drama
which, though occurring afterwards, may very well be given in
this place. His miser soul repented of this liberality, and waiting
until De Soto had sailed for Florida, he brought suit to recover
the ten thousand dollars from the Lady Isabella. But
this brave woman, to whom he really owed the restoration of
all his treasure, was not to be outwitted or alarmed. She replied
quietly that there was a long account between her husband
and the plaintiff, as might be seen in the articles of copartnership;
that the latter owed De Soto more than fifty thousand ducats,
being half of the outfit for the expedition; and concluded by demanding
the arrest of the debtor, and his detention until the judgment
should be given on the facts. Hernan Ponce got wind of
this replication in due season, and without waiting the return
of his ten thousand dollars, put out to sea, satisfied with his birds
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in hand, and leaving those in the bush to fly whither they thought
proper. They had already taken wing with a hundred thousand
more for the forests of the Apalachian. But we must not anticipate.
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CHAPTER XII.
`Weep not at thine own words, tho' they must make
Me weep.”
Shelley.
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“What cruel sufferings, more than she has known,
Canst thou inflict?”
Ib.
The household of Don Balthazar de Alvaro maintained its accustomed
serenity to the world without. Its order had undergone
no apparent disturbance since the death of old Anita, and
Sylvia, her mestizo successor, seemed to fall as naturally into
her habits, as if she had been trained directly under them. No
doubt the stern discipline of her master had tutored her to implicit
obedience, while his precaution had left nothing doubtful
in the directions which he gave her for her government during
his absence. But we may mention here, that the girl Juana, if
not refractory, was inattentive, and the old hag who now superintended
the household had occasion to notice her frequent and
prolonged absences, for which the girl, on her return, was unwilling,
or unable to account. Once or twice during the progress of
the last twenty-four hours, had Sylvia felt it incumbent on her
to administer an expressive cuff or two to the cheeks of the sullen
servant, winding up these salutary admonitions with threats
of more potent handling, and a final appeal to Don Balthazar.
But blows and threats did not much mend the matter. They
only increased the dogged obstinacy and sullenness of the girl;
who, however, did not spare her young mistress the recital of
her cruel wrongs. She concluded always, however, with a significant
and monitory shaking of the head, winding up with the
repeated assurance of redress, both for herself and mistress.
Olivia did not much heed these assurances, and listened, simply,
in that mood of listlessness, which had followed her despairing
determination not to wed with Philip de Vasconselos. She
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abandoned herself to this feeling, and its external exhibition was
apathy. Still, she somewhat wondered that she did not see her
lover—that he did not make his appearance, as her uncle feared,
as her friend Leonora de Tobar had asserted he would appear,
and as she felt it criminal to hope. A morning visit from Leonora,
the thoughtless, the joyous, upon whom neither shame nor
sorrow seemed to sit long, gave her all the little tattle of the
town; and she ran on, with tongue at random, discoursing of a
thousand matters in which Olivia took no interest. It was only
when Philip de Vasconselos became the subject, that the visitor
found an expression of eagerness and concern in the eyes of her
suffering hostess.
“It is certain that he loves you to distraction, Olivia. Nuno
says so, and he ought to know; and I suppose he could tell me
a great many things to prove it; but he won't. He says Philip
is his friend, and he can't betray his friend's secrets. As if a
husband should have any secrets from his wife; and as if I
couldn't keep a secret. Now you know, Olivia, nobody better
keeps a secret than I. I never tell any thing—never! My
mouth is sealed upon a secret, as solemnly and sacredly, Livy,
as if it were a—a what?—why a kiss, to be sure. He might trust
me, I'm sure, with every thing he knows—with every thing he's
seen and done, and not a syllable should ever pass my lips.
And yet, would you believe it, when I ask him about your Philip
and his secrets, only to tell you every thing, why he tells me
that Philip says he will tell me, and that I will tell you, and then
every body will know every thing. The fact is, Livy, one thing
is very certain to me, that if your Philip speaks in that way—
though I don't believe a word of it—he's a very saucy person,
and Nuno should not listen to him. But Nuno believes him the
best fellow in the world, and says he loves him next to me.
Not close, you know, but far off—that is, he has no friendship
for any body betwixt him and me. Now I'll let you into a great
secret that Nuno told me, and O! he was so positive that you
shouldn't hear, of all the world, and I promised him not to tell
you, Livy, but I didn't mean it, and I know better than all that;
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for what is a friend meant for, if one is to tell them no secrets
at all, and hear no secrets from them? Pretty friendship that,
indeed! No! no! I know better, and I'll be faithful to you,
Livy, and tell you every thing.”
The necessity of stopping to take breath alone arrested the
torrent. Meanwhile, Olivia had not the heart to reject the alleged
secret. That which was stirring in her own bosom, and making
her wretched, seemed to catch at every suggestion from without,
as if it brought with it a hope; and, indeed, we are half inclined
to think that very young girls, of the age of these two, have
not often been persuaded to reject a revelation in which those
great feminine interests, of love and marriage, are the understood
elements. Olivia, however, sat incurious—seemingly so, at least—
at all events, she was passive.
“Well! don't you ask what the secret is, Livy? you don't
meant to pretend that you don't care; for, don't I know you're
dying for this same Philip de Vasconselos, and that you think
more of the plumes in his helmet than of the heads of all other
men?”
Olivia shook her head.
“Oh! if you don't wish to know, Mary Mother, I don't wish
to force it upon you. I can get any number of girls to listen to
my secrets.”
And she pouted and affected a moment's reserve. But she
might as well have sought to stifle a volcano with a soup-plate,
as to endeavor to keep down her tidings when they had once
ascended to her tongue.
“Ah! I see you are sorry, now! Well, you shall hear it.
You must know, then, that Philip has determined not to go with
the Adelantado, and he told Nuno that it was because he loved
you so much. And Nuno says it has caused a great hubbub,
and the Adelantado is in quite a fix, and your uncle, the old Turk,
has been sent to your Philip to persuade him; and Nuno thinks
that Don Balthazar has made him a promise that if he goes with
the expedition, and makes but one campaign, that he shall then
have your hand. So that all is to end happily at last, Livy. My
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Nuno and your Philip will come home together, and when you are
married, we'll buy a hacienda alongside of yours at Matelos, and
we'll be as happy as birds of Paradise with our husbands. Isn't
it nice, Livy, and won't we be so happy—so very, very happy?”
“Never! never!” exclaimed the poor girl solemnly, her head
drooping upon her hands, through the fingers of which the big
tears were seen to trickle.
“Oh! but we will, I tell you. None of your nevers for me.
It must be so! Why, Livy, what do you cry for? Because
you will have the very person that you love.”
“No! no! I shall never marry, Leonora.”
“Oh! I know better than that! Why, what in the world
were you born for, Livy? What but to marry a noble gentleman,
and—and—oh, you know what I mean; so don't look so
like a simpleton.”
“I have resolved not to marry, Leonora. I hope”—here her
voice trembled—“I hope that Don Philip will never compel me
to refuse his offer.”
“Of course, he won't compel you to refuse. No, indeed; if I
were he I'd rather compel you the other way, for say what you
will, you love him, and you'll have him, if he ever asks you;
and he loves you, and he will ask you; and I shall be at the
wedding, and we will live alongside of each other, in our two
heavenly haciendas at Matelos, and there shall be no more wars,
and no more campaigns in Florida, and—and—”
There was another breathing spell necessary for farther progress.
This found, the gay, thoughtless creature resumed.
“But I haven't told you half of my secrets. Nuno says that
Philip and his brother Andres have quarrelled, and it is all on
your account. He told Philip that you had refused him —”
“He should not have done that.”
“No! and by the way, Livy, that's what I have to quarrel
with you about. You never told me, your own sister in love, a
word about that business. Oh! you sly, selfish thing. To keep
such a good secret to yourself, and never so much as give me a
peep at it. I wouldn't have served you so.”
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“You would have told it to Don Nuno?”
“No, indeed! I can keep a secret as close, you know, as anybody.
As for him, I never tell him anything. But, let me tell
you about the quarrel. There were high words between them.
Don Andres told Nuno himself. Philip never said a word;—
and Don Andres went off from him and took away all the Portuguese
soldiers, who were all followers of Don Andres. He
has the money, you know, though he is the younger brother.
Yet I doubt if he has any great deal of that! But Philip has still
less, having spent all his patrimony in Florida before, when he
went there with Cabeza de Vaça. Philip hasn't even a page to
buckle on his armor, and he has given Nuno his money—all that
he has, I suspect,—to buy him a negro boy to serve as a page
to bring his horse and buckle on his armor. Think of that—a
Moor to be the page of a noble knight. Oh! it is so pitiful!
I am very, very sorry for poor Philip.”
Olivia looked sorry too, but she never lifted her head and
never spoke; a deep sigh forced its way from her bosom, and she
thought—Oh! what dreadful thoughts were hers. How she
would have rejoiced to take the poor knight to her bosom, and
with her wealth to lift him into pride above the pity of the
wretched multitude. Her thoughts took speech in tears; and
every tear was wrung from a bleeding heart. Little did her
thoughtless companion dream of the anguish which she caused by
her wanton, though unmeaning babble. Unmeaning though it was
from her lips, it was full of meaning in the soul of the hearer.
It sunk deep, and settled firmly there, to be reproduced by a
perpetual and unsleeping memory.
“But, dear me, Livy, how can you be so sad after all I have
been telling you? Don't you see how every thing promises to
come out well? Your uncle relents; Don Philip loves you; you
love him; there will be nothing to prevent your marrying him
now, and your happiness is sure. Do you weep for that? What
a strange, foolish child, to weep because she is to be happy!”
“I shall never be happy, Leonora. I shall never marry Don
Philip, or any man. I shall go to a convent.”
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“A convent! What! with your face and fortune? Now I
know you are crazy. But you don't mean what you say. Leave
convents to the ugly and the poor, to those who have no hopes
and no pleasures —”
“I have no pleasures—no hopes!”
“And why not? It's because you won't have them, then. If
I were you, I should have nothing else. I should live in hope all
the day, and dream of pleasures all the night. The world should
bring me nothing but love and sunshine, and every thought of
my soul should be born in the odor of a thousand flowers. And
why should your happiness not be like mine—you who have the
means to make it so? Now don't think to cheat me with those
vacant looks. This sadness is only a sort of cloud, behind which
is the brightest moon of joy. The cloud will disappear with the
first breeze, and the moon will shine out, bright and full of happiness.
Wait a few days. To-morrow begins the sports
and the tourneys. Oh! Livy, such great preparations as they
have made. Nuno has had the arrangement of everything. He
took me with him yesterday, to see the lists and barriers. They
have raised them just without the city, in a natural amphitheatre
among the hills. There is a great enclosure for the bull-fights.
We are to have the most splendid bull-fights, as brave as any
thing they have in Spain. They brought in a dozen great beasts
yesterday from the mountains—the finest animals in the world;
all as wild as tigers. Several famous matadors have come with
them, and we are to have such sport. They have raised high
scaffolds for the noble people and the ladies, and in the centre is
one with a canopy for the Adelantado and the Lady Isabella, and
their immediate friends; we are to sit with them, Livy, but on
lower seats, and nearer to the lists, so that the gallant Cavaliers
can draw nigh to us, after each passage of arms, and each select
his Queen of Love and Beauty. Won't that be charming? Think
of that, Livy. I'm sure I know who will be among the most gallant
knights, and I'm sure I know who he'll choose as his Queen
of Beauty. Ah! but, Livy, you mustn't put on that sad and
solemn face! it will never do in such a scene as that!”
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“I will not be there, Leonora.”
“You can't help yourself. Your uncle will be compelled to
bring you. I heard the Lady Isabella herself say to him that she
will require you to be of her party, and he promised her that he
would bring you. No! no! on such an occasion nobody will
be allowed to stay away. In particular, what will be said if the
greatest beauty and fortune in the Island were not to appear?
Every body would say then, it was because Don Balthazar did
not wish you to be seen—did not wish you to be loved—was not
willing to give up the guardianship of your treasures. No! he
cannot help but bring you. He knows what an outcry would
follow your absence; and the blame would rest upon him. The
Adelantado will see to that.”
Olivia did not answer, but she felt the force of what her gay
companion had spoken. She had already had it signified to her
by her uncle, as a matter of course, that her presence had been
required; and she felt, perhaps, that there was no mode of escape
from the necessity. Possibly a lurking and natural curiosity
might help to reconcile her to the duty. Nay, was it a natural
reluctance, that which would forbear the sight of the noble performances
of the man she loved? Let her resolve as she might,
not to marry him, there was no need of a resolution to refuse to
see him in a public spectacle where he was seen by thousands
more. While they yet spoke of this matter, a servant appeared
with a billet from Don Balthazar, and a case containing rich silks
and ribbons. These amused the curious eyes of Leonora for half
an hour. The note simply confirmed what had been said by the
gay lady, touching the desires of Donna Isabella. In a short
space after, a billet from that lady herself, conveying an expression
of the same desire, was also brought her, accompanied by a
brilliant necklace and cross, which she was entreated to accept,
and wear at the tournament. Olivia received them, but without
any show of interest. Not so Leonora, who gloated over them
with a savage sort of admiration.
“You are the coldest creature in the world, Livy. Positively
you have no heart. I could weep over such beautiful presents.”
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“And I too can better weep than rejoice over them, Leonora.”
“What can be the matter with the child? Livy, there is something
wrong—it is unnatural that you should show such faces at such
a time—you, so young, so beautiful, with such a fortune, and with
such a lover—with every reason, too, for believing that nothing
can now stand in the way of your loves. Livy, I do think that
there is something wrong—something which I cannot guess.”
For a moment the gay young woman forgot all her levity, and
turning from the rich dresses and the jewels, fixed her eyes on the
gloomy features of Olivia, with such intense and penetrating curiosity,
that her cheeks flushed and her eyes fell; and she stammered
rather than spoke—afraid of that suspicious gaze:—
“No! nothing; only I am sick—sick at heart, Leonora. I am
very foolish and weak! Would to Heaven I were dead!”
“Shocking! was ever such a foolish child! But something is
the matter, and it must be very serious to make you look and
speak so;—and I must know it, Livy. As your friend, you must
tell me all. You know how well I can keep a secret. Come,
dear, tell me what it is that troubles you.”
This recalled Olivia to herself. The very appeal to her experience
in behalf of her friend's capacity to keep a secret, warned
her of the danger threatening her. She did not philosophize except
through her instincts; these sufficiently taught her that a
secret, once supposed to exist, is already half discovered; and by
a strong mental effort, she threw off her cloud for a space, and
allowed herself to answer prattle with prattle. She diverted her
friend's curiosity from herself to her garments, and in the examination
of silks, ribbons and jewels, Leonora forgot that there were
any other mysteries in the world. Thus the rest of the time was
consumed while she remained.
When her gay visitor was gone, Olivia sank into a seeming
stupor; yet her thought was busy all the while; the mournful,
dreary, ghostly speculation, which aimed at nothing, settled upon
nothing, hoped for nothing, and feared everything. The day passed
thus. She was unconscious mostly when Juana made her appearance
in the apartment, and only roused herself to reply to the salutations
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of Sylvia. Food was set before her, but she could not eat. Her
appetite failed her wholly thus, for long periods, to be roused at
periods into a sudden voracity. And she was alone—all alone!
She felt her loneliness, with her other and severer griefs, and the image
of Philip de Vasconselos only grew before her imagination
to compel her tears. How tenderly did she think of him, yet
how gloomily! He was at once her hope and her terror. She
could have died for him with a bound and cry of joy; but she
dared not resolve to live for him. On the edge of this al Sirat
of hope and delight she loitered long, but the nobler sentiment
rose superior to her love—nay, let us do her justice, rose out of
her love, and had its birth only in her truth and fondness. The day
passed and found her still resolute to deny him. “No!” was still
the utterance of her heart and will—“No! I too much love him,
and the nobleness which he loves, to dishonor him with hand of
mine! Oh! uncle, to what misery hast thou doomed the orphan
entrusted to thy keeping!”
While she broods, prostrate before the image of the Blessed
Mother, scarce knowing where she lies—scarce praying as
she purposes—her prayers, perhaps, more efficient from the
very incapacity of her wandering mind, to fix, connect and breathe
them, to the benign Being to whose maternal spirit she yet looks
for saving,—let us turn to the movements of that cruel kinsman
whom her condition loads with curses which her lips do not
speak.
It was only after a long day of toil, public and private, that he
returned to his habitation. He did not seek his niece, who had
retired for the night. He proceeded at once to the apartment
of Sylvia. The hag was prepared to meet him with complaints.
“You must send that idle wench, Juana, to the hacienda. She
must be made to work the ground. She is of no service here.
I can get nothing out of her. She is continually absent; when
she returns, and I scold her, she is insolent. She is after mischief.
These absences are for no good. You had best send her away,
and get one more willing in her place.”
At that moment Juana presented herself. Her first salutation
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was at the hands of Don Balthazar, in a blow from his double
fist, which smote her to the earth. She rose with the blood spirting
from her nostrils.
“Hence!” he exclaimed, with a voice of thunder and a brutal
oath. “Hence! To-morrow you go to the country.”
Juana disappeared—but not too far. She waited at the door
and listened, her nose dropping blood all the while. She did not
observe it. She scarcely felt the pain. The blood of the red
man in her veins supplied her with one feeling only, and that
was for the indignity. She listened. She reserved herself for
her own time; but resolved that she would not go to the country.
We shall see.
Meanwhile, a long conference followed between Don Balthazar
and Sylvia, in regard to Olivia.
“She eats nothing that I provide her. I know not how she
lives.”
“She has supplied herself secretly from other sources. That
girl—”
“Impossible! I have watched her. She has carried her nothing.”
Juana, as she listened, reproached herself that such was the
case. She had never thought of the wants of her young mistress.
She now resolved to supply them from her own stores. She
now became more resolved than ever to befriend the damsel,
who suddenly rose before her eyes as an object of sympathizing
interest. But she did not leave the door. She had still other
things to hear.
“Here is more of the potion!” said Don Balthazar, giving the
phial. “To-morrow I will see that she goes forth. In her absence
search her apartments. If you find food, you know what
to do with it.”
This is all that need concern us of this conference. When
Don Balthazar was about to leave the apartment, his eye caught
sight of the blood upon the floor which had fallen from the nostrils
of Juana.
“What is this?” he said, stooping.
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“Ha! ha!” laughed the old woman as she looked down.
“Her nose has caught it. Your hand is not a light one, Señor.”
“She shall find it heavier yet. But are your sure?”
“Yes; see here—drop—drop—drop—even to the door.”
The old woman pointed out the tracks; but on the outside
they found it in a puddle.
“Ha!” exclaimed the Don, “the wench has loitered here.
She has listened to all that has been said. But we must fix her
for it. Mix the potion with her food, also. If she shares it with
Olivia, well! our end is answered. That is the secret. Olivia has
bribed her. She supplies her with food, so that the girl can well
reject her own. Now we have her. But take all precautions;
and when she goes forth to-morrow, search her chamber. Meanwhile,
do you go to the room of Juana and see what she is about.
Put on a gentle manner with her. Beguile her. Do not spare
your reproaches of my violence. I will go to the chamber of
Olivia, and see in like manner after her.”
The old woman threw off her slippers and softly stole to the
room of Juana. Don Balthazar waited awhile, and then followed
slowly, on his way to the apartment of his niece, which was beyond
it. When he drew nigh, he found Sylvia emerging from
Juana's chamber.
“She is not there,” said she in a whisper.
“Ha! she is then here!” He pointed to Olivia's door. “Go
down and wait.” He spoke in a whisper also. The old woman
disappeared. Don Balthazar tried the door gently—it was locked
within. He drew a steel probe from his pocket, stooped, and
touched a secret spring in the panel. It silently unclosed; and
crouching nearly to the floor, he succeeded, without noise, in entering
the apartment. A dim light burned upon a table. The
uncle looked up, and was confounded to see his niece seated, her
eyes quietly beholding all his movements. Don Balthazar felt
all the shame and meanness of his proceeding, in the unexpected
discovery. Seared, reckless, indurated as he was, he could not
suppress the sudden flush that overspread his cheeks, nor conceal
the confusion which paralyzed his movement and for a moment
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arrested his speech. The face of Olivia declared her equal scorn
and loathing. She never rose, but looking on him with pitiless
composure, she exclaimed,—
“This, then, is the noble process for accomplishing my destruction!—
worthy of a noble knight—thrice worthy a Castilian
gentleman—and altogether becoming a guardian and a kinsman!”
The uncle rose, recovering himself, with the erect position.
“Thy destruction, girl! What dost thou mean? Dost thou
think I come to murder thee?”
“And what else should I think, when thou comest in such
fashion, at such an hour, and through an avenue which is secret
to thyself? Why shouldst thou not murder me? and why, if
such be not thy object, shouldst thou thus visit my place of sleeping?
But thou well knowest I meant not that! Thou know'st
that,—thanks to thy other means of destruction! I have now no
fear of any hurt thou canst do to this poor life. Wert thou capable
of a noble charity, I would entreat of thee to end it—to take
thy dagger from thy girdle, and here, with no witness but the
Holy Virgin, and that Heaven who will at last avenge my cause,
strike me to the heart, and close the eyes which now see nothing
but mine own shame.”
“Olivia, thou art quite too passionate and wild!”
“Am I then, with the sight of thee, at this hour, knowing what
thou art, knowing what terrible wrongs thou hast done to me, and
seeing, for the first time, one of the secret modes by which thou
hast destroyed the very life of my life,—my hope, my soul, forever!”
“Poh! Poh! How thou relatest these matters. I tell thee,
were it not for thy own thoughts and fancies, thou hast suffered no
wrong, no hurt,—nothing which should keep thee from being as
gay as the gayest, and as happy as the best. Look at thy friend,
Leonora de Tobar—”
“Speak to me nothing of her! Were it even as thou sayest,
that my grief and shame are only in mine own thoughts and fancies,
is it not the most terrible of wrongs that thou hast planted
them there, so that their dreadful forms and images keep me from
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joy by day, and haunt my sleep by night with worse terrors than
the grave! But, enough! Wilt thou not leave me to-night in
peace—with such peace as thy crime may permit to a hopeless
penitent?”
“Is no one with thee here? I look for the girl, Juana?”
“Did search of her bring thee hither? There is no one with
us but the Virgin Mother, and the Saints who have pity on the
orphan. Hence, and leave me.”
“One thing more before I depart. The Lady Isabella has commissioned
me to entreat thee to come to her to-morrow. She
wants thy help and taste in certain draperies. I have promised
that thou wilt attend her.”
“And what if I say I will not? What am I, with the consciousness
which I carry with me, that I should dare look in the
face of such pure and noble person! But go—leave me. I will
attend the Lady Isabella.”
“'Tis well!—Thou hast not seen Juana? She hath not been
with thee?”
“She is thy creature—one who hath helped for my destruction.
What should I do with her? I loathe the sight of all who belong
to thee!”
The Don, now thoroughly savage, replied—
“I go! But, mark me, girl, thou wilt one day so enrage me
with thy insolence that I shall make thee tremble with such a terror
as thou dost not dream of.”
“Be it what thou wilt of violence, only let it not be shame,
and there shall be no tremors.”
“We shall see! Open the door. I will leave thee.”
“Depart as thou cam'st!” she replied, rising and taking the
key from the lock, while for a moment the scorn upon her lips
was lightened by a bitter smile. He looked furiously upon her,
and made a step towards her, as if bent to wrest the key from
her grasp; but a more cautious mood prevailed with him, and
with anger that increased the awkwardness of his method of departure,
full under her eyes the while, he scrambled through the
panel, which instantly closed after him. Olivia hastily seized the
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light, and proceeded to examine it; but the secret spring was too
well adjusted not to elude her search.
Full of anger, and with a fierce oath upon his lips, Don Balthazar
rejoined the old woman, his creature and confederate,
below.
“Well,” said he, “hast thou found the wench, Juana?”
“She is gone. She is not within the house!”
“She shall taste the Calabózo to-morrow. See to what I have
told thee when the Señorita goes forth, and make the search
thorough. She hath concealments of which you know not. Do
thy duty well, Sylvia, in this business, if thou wouldst be sure
of my favor. In particular, do thou observe the outgoings of this
wench, Juana. She hath questionless been bribed by her lady.
See to her!”
Juana, meanwhile, was hidden in the groves with a companion.
In the shadow of the great orange trees the features of neither
were discernible; but he was a man, huge of size and bold of
speech. He treated her as if she were a child; but tenderly, as
if he were her father.
“Never you mind,” said he, at parting with her; “the goods
shall be had, and the blood shall be paid for! Only a little while.
To keep from the meat awhile, is to strengthen the stomach. It
is a strong man only who can wait. He drinks long who drinks
slowly. Swallow thy tears, lest they blind thee. To-morrow is
better for work than yesterday; and a good appetite better than
a bad digestion. Take thy sleep now, my child, that thou may'st
wake with both thine eyes open.”
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CHAPTER XIII.
“It is not safe
To tempt such spirits, and let them wear their swords.”
Beaumont and Fletcher.
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It is necessary that we should now take cognizance of other
parties to this true history, whom we have suffered too long to
remain in the back-ground. Our view is somewhat retrospective,
the scene we are now about to depict having been sketched
prior to the scenes which have occupied the two preceding chapters.
Let us return to the well-known lodge of the young knights
of Portugal, and see what are, if any, the changes which have
occurred in the awkward relations which existed between them,
the fruit of eager passions, and, unhappily, misplaced affections.
Several days have passed since the interview already described,
in which they were the sole and angry actors. Though the scene
on that occasion had terminated, if not amicably, at least quietly,
yet Philip de Vasconselos, with great sorrow, perceived, on the
return of his brother to the cabin which they occupied in common,
that he had relapsed again into his condition of moodiness—
a condition which did not always forbear rudeness. The elder brother,
from long experience, well understood and dreaded the jealous,
suspicious, and resentful spirit of the young man, which his impetuous
passions were too often disposed to infuse with violence.
He had striven, though without much good result, to soothe the
evil spirit in the mood of Andres, and to mollify the disappointment
which the latter still keenly felt in regard to his rejection
by Olivia. It was under this desire that Philip had, in the meanwhile,
forborne, however anxious, to visit the woman whom he
loved quite as passionately, though with more generosity and
prudence, than his brother. He made no allusions to her in his
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intercourse with Andres, and was studious so to select the subjects
of his conversation, as by no possibility to prompt the
mind of the youth to turn in the direction in which his heart had
suffered hurt. But Andres exhibited no sense of this prudence
and forbearance. He was one of those wilful and wrong-headed,
but otherwise noble and generous spirits, who prefer, under disappointment,
to suffer and complain; who, of themselves, irritate
the sore places which they feel, and steadily tear away the plaster
with which the physician would cure all their ailments. It
was in despair of saying or doing anything which could be acceptable
to his brother's mood, that Philip de Vasconselos finally
forbore the effort. For the last two days, therefore, an ominous
silence had prevailed in their cottage when they met. Nothing
was spoken which either might well avoid; and Philip felt with
sorrow, that the chasm between them was hourly growing greater
in depth and width. But he felt with still greater sorrow that
nothing could then be done to arrest its increase. It was to time
only, that great corrector, that the matter could be left.
But time was not allowed them. The tournament approached,
with all its excitements, appealing equally to their pride, their
renown, and the somewhat peculiar position in which they stood
in regard to the Castilian chivalry. Both of them, accordingly,
might be seen, a few days before the event, busily engaged burnishing
and preparing their armor. It had already been remarked,
as discreditable to the Spanish knights, that their Portuguese
auxiliaries were better armed, in a simpler and nobler style, and
kept their mail and weapons under better polish than the former.
De Soto himself had been compelled to refer to these knights in
compliment on this account, and to urge their example, in order
to prompt his Spanish cavaliers to get themselves serviceable
armor, and to keep it in order. They were better pleased to
show themselves in gewgaws and gilt than in the substantial
coverings which were essential to warfare. One of the historians
of this expedition thus contrasts the appearance of the knights
of the two nations: “And he (the Adelantado) commanded a
muster to be made, at the which the Portugales shewed
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themselves armed in verie bright armor, and the Castellans very gallant,
with silke upon silke, with many pinkings and cuts. The
Governour, because these braveries, in such an action, did not like
him, commanded that they should muster another day, and [that]
every one should come forthe with his armor: at the which the Portugales
came, as at the first, armed with very good armor.... The
Castellans, for the most part, did weare very bad and rustie shirts
of maile, and all of them head-pieces and steele caps, and verrie
bad lances.” The contrast mortified De Soto. In order to rebuke
his Castilians into an emulation of the Portuguese, he distinguished
the latter (perhaps unwisely) with unusual favors at the first,
and appointed them places near his own person. This was the
original source of that jealousy and hostility with which the
Spaniards encountered the farther progress into favor of the Portuguese
brothers. It showed itself so decidedly, and with marks
of such serious discontent, that the Adelantado committed the
further error of passing to the opposite extreme, and putting on
such a cold aspect to our adventurers, as to forfeit in great degree
their attachment to his cause and person, besides exposing
them to the neglect and contempt of those who naturally
take their cue from their superiors. We have not thought it
necessary to detail any instances of the unfriendly or insolent
treatment to which they were subject, but have satisfied ourselves
with showing what has been the result of it upon their
minds. Enough to mention that, in their own skill and spirit,
their ability in the use of their weapon, and their promptness
to resort to it, they found thus far a sufficient security against
any outrageous contempts, while the friendship of a few of the
Castilian knights, such as Nuno de Tobar, reconciled them in
some degree to endure the slights and indifference of the rest.
But the consequence of this false position in the Castilian army
was to excite their national as well as individual pride; to make
them resolve upon achievement; to keep their armor bright on
all occasions; to be always ready for service with their weapons,
and to pluck the chaplet, on all occasions, from the helms of their
boasting rivals. But their personal griefs were perhaps not
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necessary as incentives to performance, in the case of knights
with whom chivalry still prevailed with all the force of a
passion.
Our brothers pursued their task in silence. Occupying the
same dwelling, and with but little space in their somewhat narrow
limits for any performance unseen by either, this silence
was an irksome one. The elder brother had made repeated
efforts to break through the icy reserve which prevailed in the
demeanor of the younger from that fatal night, the events of
which have already been described. On that night, after their
passionate interview, Andres de Vasconselos had returned from
his lonely and gloomy wanderings, in no way improved for companionship.
His affections were more stubbornly congealed
than ever; his passions, if less explosive, not a whit more subdued
or placable. A sullen rigidness was conspicuous in all his
features; a gloomy inflexibility in his mood; a hostile reserve
in his actions and deportment. This continued, increased hourly
by the reports of the city, touching the supposed superior
good fortune of his brother in respect to the affections of the
lady of their mutual love. The kind words addressed to him
by Philip were answered only in monosyllables, which were
sometimes more than cold, and accompanied by looks which
the truly warm feelings of the elder brother regarded as little
less than savage. A becoming pity and sympathy, however,
led him to be indulgent to a nature which, naturally passionate,
was now suffering the stings of a peculiar provocation. Besides,
was not Andres the last born, and the favorite, of a mother who
was tenderly beloved by both? Philip did not forbear his efforts,
because they were received with indifference. He felt that
the moment was one which might form the tnrning point, the
pivot, of a sad and serious future. The chasm left unclosed in
season must only widen with time. The affections suffered to
remain ruptured, or hurt, would only become callous from the
lack of proper tendance, a gentle solicitude, a heedful care,
the patient sweetness of a loving watch, which, never obtrusive,
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never suffered the proper moment of consolation to be lost.
Such was the spirit with which Philip de Vasconselos regarded
his wayward brother.
It was two days yet to the opening scenes of the tourney, the
beginning of which we have already seen. The day was at its
close; a day all flushed with beauty, and sweet with the warm
breathings of the budding summer. The sun was at his setting.
His not ungrateful rays fell pleasantly gay upon the green slope
which led to the slight bohio, or cottage, made of poles and reeds,
thatched with straw, which the brothers occupied. Soft flickering
folds and remnants of purple, that seemed momently rolling
themselves up, and disappearing with the breeze, only to re-appear
and spread themselves out in increasing brightness, on higher
slopes of hill, won, at the same moment, the silent fancies of the
brothers. The hills were fringed with faint red tints that glorified
them as with heavenly halos; the woods, flushed with the
mingled drapery of spring and summer, lay gently waving in the
breeze of evening, rocked in the arms of beauty, and canopied
with the smiles of heaven. It was one of those delicious moments
when the world without passes with all its sweetness
into the heart, and takes the whole soul into its embrace of love.
The brothers, as by a common instinct, threw aside their toils,
and cast themselves down upon the hill-slope, their eyes ranging
over the blessed prospect. Their shields, of bright blue steel,
spotless, and shining like mirrors in the sun, reflected back the
mellow softness of his beams. They hung upon the upright poles
without the cottage, on each side of the entrance, to which they
furnished a rich and befitting decoration. Their long lances, of
well-sounded and seasoned ash, headed with broad shafts of bright
steel, that shone like silver in the sun, were leaned against the
wall of the dwelling, and also without the entrance. The page
of Andres, a gay boy of fourteen, had just made his obeisance,
and taken his departure, under instructions from his master; and
for a moment, the two brothers, reposing from their toils of the
day, seemed disposed to snatch a respite, in the sweet calm which
had descended upon all nature in the grateful approach of
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evening. Andres lay at length beneath the slender shadows of a
palm, which, at an earlier hour, could have yielded no shelter,—
none was needed now. His eyes were shrouded by his arm,
which was carelessly thrown across his brows. While in this
attitude, Philip rose suddenly from where he lay, and moved by
a brotherly impulse, approached him and threw himself quietly
by his side.
“Andres, my brother,” was the affectionate salutation of the
elder, “it is naturally expected that we shall both do our devoir
in the approaching tourney. It is due to our reputation, as good
knights, and particularly to our position among these gentlemen
of Castile, who would not be slow to remark upon any unwillingness
which we might betray in entering the lists. They will
do their best, and we must do ours. That we can maintain our
own, and the honor of our country, in a passage-at-arms, whether
with lance, sword, or battle-axe, with any of these cavaliers, I
nothing question; though there be knights among them, many
who, like Nuno de Tobar, will honor, by their prowess, those who
may strive against them. These will afford us sufficient exercise
and honor. It needs not, my brother, that we should cross weapon
with each other.”
A grim smile passed over the features of Andres, as he withdrew
his arm from above his eyes. The expression was an unpleasant
one to Philip. A brief pause ensued. At length the
younger replied:
“Verily, Philip de Vasconselos, it were not wise to suffer
these knights of Castile to suppose thee unwilling to cross weapons
with any warrior, even though he were of thy own blood
and nation. Such reluctance, in the minds of persons sworn to
cavil, might be construed into doubt of thy own capacity and
prowess.”
“I fear not, Andres,” replied the other, calmly, “that any idle
judgment of these or any cavaliers will do injustice to my reputation,
since it will be easy, at any moment, particularly as I
shall never be unwilling, to satisfy any doubting opponent, and to
silence any unfriendly one. But no man will venture to think
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that any feeling but that of a natural attachment between kinsmen
hath kept us from a trial of skill and prowess, which, though
it be but the mimicry of strife, is yet too nearly like it, and is
but too frequently apt to occasion the reality, not to plead against
our indulgence, adversely, in the exercise. It is not, however,
what the world without may think, my brother, but what we feel
within, which should control our wishes in this matter. It is
enough for me that, even in sport, I love not to confront with
weapon the bosom of a brother who is so very dear to mine.”
“Brother, mine, I do not quite understand these refinements.
We have crossed weapons in the tourney a thousand times ere
this, in our early exercises,—nay, in the very training which thou
hast given me, and which, as a grateful pupil,”—this was spoken
with a smile by no means pleasing in the eyes of Philip,—“I am
only too glad to have received at thy hands. What is there now
to make the difference?”
“Ask thy own heart, Andres,” replied the other, sadly. “Art
thou the same person that thou wast, when, without a care or
thought but of the art which thou hadst in thy desire, thou took'st
thy first lessons from my lance? Since that day thou hast
mingled, for thyself, in the press of knights; thou hast shared
the eager fury of the battle; thou hast won for thyself a name
which thou must maintain, at all perils, to thyself and others.
But thou hast other feelings, fears and hopes than those which
possessed thee when a boy; thou hast grown a man of cares;
and, I grieve to think it, my brother, thou no longer look'st upon
me, thy Philip, as the loving friend from whom came thy first
lessons in arts and arms. These make it prudent and proper
that we should not strive against each other. The accidents of
the tourney are, of themselves, sufficient to keep our arms asumder.
Men have been slain, unwittingly by their rival knights,
through false footing of their horse; through frailty and fault in
arm; through haste; through indiscretion, and those nameless
providences of the conflict, of which no man can well account, as
no wisdom can foresee. But chiefly do I desire that we should
not find our weapons crossed, inasmuch as I perceive in thee, my
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brother, a decline of that trust in me—that love, which, of old,
made it pleasant to me to teach thy inexperience.”
“I am no longer inexperienced, Philip de Vasconselos. I no
longer need thy teaching, or that of any man! Thou talk'st of
accidents from weakness, and defect of armor. Never better
armor than mine, as thou knowest, came from the forge of the
Milanese. It had its fashion from the same hands with thine, and
is, I warrant me, as free from frailty. My lance is under thine
eye. The sword which I carry has been a thousand times within
thy grasp. Thou canst tell the weight of my battle-axe, and
knowest the value of its tempered metal as certainly as thou dost
thine own. What remains? Methinks, my brother, there is no
such difference between the strength and size of my body and of
thine. Take the muscle of this arm within thy grasp. Doth it show
to thee a feebleness which should make it shrink from any struggle
with any cavalier, even though he be of redoubtable prowess,
like thyself? Thou speak'st of what is in my heart;—of a change
in my feelings towards thee!—it may be there is such a change!
Verily, I see nothing in my fortunes or in thine, Philip de Vasconselos,
which should make me regard thee with feelings such as
we bore to one another, when thou stood'st not in the way of my
hopes, and hadst not yet shrouded my heart, in the overwhelming
shadow of thy greater fame! I reproach thee not, that such
has been thy fortune; but verily, it is no longer seasonable with
thee, to discourse to me of the love of kinsmen; and I tell thee
more, Philip de Vasconselos, thou hast but too much the habit of
speaking to me as if I were still the boy, untaught, and only now
receiving from thee, for the first time, his infant lessons in the use
of blunt spear and shielded weapon.”
“And is it thus, my brother?” was the mournful answer of
Philip de Vasconselos.
“But I will not upbraid thee; and yet I will not forbear to entreat
thee. The feeling which thou showest is most certainly
enough to make me unwilling to encounter with thee in this tourney.
Were it possible, without shame and discredit, to refuse to
take lance in these gay passages, I should most surely withdraw
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myself from the field. But I am pledged to the encounter; with
lance, sword, and battle-axe, three strokes of each; with Luis de
Moscoso, with Balthazar de Gallegos, with Nuno de Tobar; and
it may be with others, whom I now recall not.”
“Thou canst not well escape thy devoir,” said Andres, with a
sneering smile.
“Nor, save on thy account,” replied the other “would I
desire to do so. But there is that within my bosom, Andres,
whatever may inhabit in thine, which makes me shrink from
the thought that we shall cross lances in the melée. I know
not that thou designest such a conflict; but I know thy ambition—
thy pride—and I fear that evil spirit which sometimes possesses
thee, making thee blind to thybetter feelings, and to the claims of
those about thee, and which, I grieve to say it, has but too frequently
shown itself in thy moods of late. Brother, hearken to
me;—I pray thee let us not meet! Thou wilt find many noble
knights to conquer, who will do thee honor. There will be no
lack of the fit antagonist, even though Hernan de Soto himself
shall take the field. Let us do nothing which may perchance
lessen or change that love which our mother gave us, and which
should be dear to us, because of her, as because of ourselves.”
“It is on my account—for me—that thou wouldst avoid the
encounter with me!” replied the younger brother. “Verily,
Philip, thou hast betrayed thy modesty. Is it so sure that my
lance must fail when it crosses thine?—is thy arm—”
“Nay, brother, why thus wilt thou mistake my purpose?—
thus cruelly outrage my affections? I do not reproach thy
prowess when I tell thee that it is on thy account, wholly, that I
would avoid this encounter. I fear that thou wilt wrong thyself;—
that thou wilt show a spirit in the field, which would not well
become a brother;—that thy pride, wrought upon by sudden passions—
by unjust suspicions—by unwise jealousies, will lead thee
into deeds of unmeasured violence, such as—”
“Such as thou fearest, eh?” was the mocking interruption.
The other answered proudly—his tones growing instantly colder,
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calmer, and with a slower enunciation, while his eye flashed
with a sudden fire, entirely different from its recent expression.
“I fear nothing, Andres de Vasconselos, as thou of all persons
should by this time know;—nothing but shame, dishonor, and
the reproach of knighthood;—nothing but a wrong done to our
mother's fondness—and that wrong which thy evil mood seems
resolute to do to our own. To escape this, I would have implored
thee to forbearance; for I know thy temper in the conflict, and I
somewhat dread my own! Unhappily, we share, in some degree,
the passions of one another. Thus it is that we have both loved,
where both may be luckless—”
“No! no!” exclaimed the other bitterly. Philip did not regard
the interruption.
“With our mutual passions roused—our pride endangered in the
field's regard, I dread the struggle that would follow: for, at such
moments, Andres de Vasconselos, I cannot easily distinguish the
kinsman from the foe! Love, pity, the ties of affection, and
friendship, are all obscured in the wild passion when the blood
rules triumphant in the brain, and I should bear thee down, my
brother, as unsparingly as the least regarded among the ranks of
all this Castilian chivalry.”
“By the Blessed Virgin, thou speakest, Don Philip, as if I
were already beneath thy spear—”
“Forgive me, brother, that I have done so! The Saints forefend
that lance of mine should ever threaten thee in any conflict!
I but—”
“And I tell thee, Don Philip, I no more reck of thy lance,
than I do of that of the least famous of all these Castilian cavaliers!
I know not of any prowess in thee that I have need to fear; and I
promise thee, should it ever hap that our weapons be crossed,
then look to do thy best, or I put thy boasted skill to shame.”
“I boast no skill, brother!”
“Thou dost—thou art all a boast! What else is it when thou
warn'st me that in the strife thou wilt be pitiless—that thou wilt
suffer no thought of kindred to disarm thee? Is it not as much
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as if thy victory were already sure, and thou hadst me trampled
under thy feet?”
“I have been in fault, brother; verily, I confess it. It is not for
me to boast; and still less to seem to boast of advantage over
thee. Believe me, I love thee too well to be pleased at any fortune
which shall be, or seem, better than thine—”
The jealous spirit of the younger brother construed this sentence,
which he interrupted, to refer to the disappointment of his
suit with Olivia de Alvaro.
“Indeed, thou approv'st the truth of thy disclaimer by thy
taunts. Have done, I pray thee, good Don Philip, and let the
time bring its own brood; whether of hawks or sparrows, it matters
not. I ask not of thy purpose, and feel myself scarcely free to
tell thee of mine. I know not that I have any purposes. I
know not that I shall oppose any lance in these passages. I but
put myself in readiness to obey my necessity—or my mood—
whichever it may please thee best to believe. I only know,
Philip de Vasconselos, that I am scorned and wretched, and thou
triumphant, as well in the love of woman as in fame. Go to:—
why wilt thou goad my sorrows, when such is thy own good fortune?”
“Andres, let not the sun set on this disagreement. I feel that
thou dost me wrong, but I implore thee as if the wrong were
mine.”
Philip extended his hand affectionately to his brother, as he
made this appeal. The other did not receive it; but, waving his
own in the direction of the orb now rapidly disappearing behind
the last distant billows of the sea, he said coldly—
“He sinks!” and, without another word, rose up and strode
down the slopes which conducted to the city. The elder brother
threw himself upon the earth, from whence, during the earnest
portions of the dialogue, he had risen at the same moment with
the other, and rested his aching forehead upon his hands.
“Verily!” he said to himself—“he is possessed of an evil demon!
What is to be done? Will he put himself in harness
against me? Can he purpose this? But no! no!—The evil
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mood will pass with the night. I will tent him no further with
the matter.”
That night beheld the two brothers, in the same apartment,
praying ere they slept; yet they prayed not together, nor at the
same moment. What was in their hearts while they appealed
to heaven? Alas! it is our fear, that, while the lips moved in
worship, the thought was foreign to the homage! Passion,
rather than prayer, was in their mutual hearts;—the one dreaming,
the while, of earthly loves and earthly distinctions;—the
other, filled with a wild conflict, in which pride and vanity, confounded
by defeat and humiliation, were busily brooding in worship
at the shrine of a divinity which they did not yet presume to
name.
The next day, without naming his purpose, Andres de Vasconselos
withdrew from the place of lodging with his brother, and
took up his abode with Antonio Segurado, one of his lieutenants.
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CHAPTER XIV.
“Now ringen trompes loud and clarioun
Ther is no more to say, but est and west,
In gon the speres sadly in the rest;
In goth the sharpe spore into the side:
Then see even who can juste, and who can ride.”
The Knightes Tale.
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
Havana, at the period of the events which we record, was a
growing hamlet of little more than a hundred dwellings. But
a brief space before the arrival of Don Hernan de Soto in the
island, there had been an invasion of the French, by whom the
little city had been laid in ashes. It had been one of his duties,
on his arrival, which had not been neglected in consequence of
his preparations for Florida, to rebuild the town, which he had
been doing with all his energy, and with a free exercise of his
powers as Adelantado. To him the Habanese owe the erection
of the first fort which the place ever possessed. It will be for
the Cuban antiquarians of the present time to fix its location. As a
matter of course, we are not to look to the works of De Soto, in
rebuilding the city, for the evidences of his architectural tastes,
or for any enduring proofs of the labor of his hands. The place
then afforded but an imperfect idea of the noble and imposing
city that we find it now. She then possessed none of those old
gray towers and massive structures, which now assail the vision,
and command the admiration of the spectator. Her heights and
harbors were not then, as now, covered with the mighty and
frowning fortresses that stretch themselves around her, with a
hundred thousand guardian hands grasping bolts of iron terror
for her protection. But, if less threatening and powerful, she was
not less lovely and attractive. Her beautiful bay, then as now,
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lacked but little of the helps of art to render it as wooing and
persuasive as that famous one of the Italian; and, in the luxuriance
of her verdure, which covered, with a various and delicious beauty,
all her heights; in the intense brilliancy and clearness of her moonlight,
which seemed rather to hallow and to soften, than to impair
the individuality and distinctness of objects, as beheld by day; in
the exquisite fragrance from her groves, and the soothing sweetness
of the sea-breeze—which, in that tropical climate, one regards
as the most blessing of all the angels who take part in the
destinies of earth—playing like a thoughtless and innocent child
among forests of vines and flowers—the fancy became sensible of
a condition, in which life can offer nothing more grateful, or more
fresh; and, to be sure of which always, ambition might well be
satisfied to lay aside his spear and shield forever. Her cottages,
each as it were enshrined amidst an empire of fruits and fragrance,
already wore that aspect which, in oriental regions, assures
us of the dolce far niente in possession of their inmates, justifying
vagabondage, and so irresistibly persuasive, that one who feels,
ceases to wonder that a people, having such possessions, should be
content to seek nothing farther—should demand nothing more
from nature—should even, in process of time, become indifferent
to the wants and appliances of art—should forget the civilization
which they have won—shake off the convention which has fettered
them, and lapse away into the stagnation, if not the savageism, of the
aboriginals; knowing life only in a delicious reverie, in which existence
is an abstraction rather than a condition; a dream, rather
than a performance; where living implies no anxiety, acquisition
no toil, enjoyment no cessation; in which nothing is apprehended
so much as change, even though such change may bring with it the
promise of a new pleasure. Such is the power of climate; such
the charm of that of Cuba; but we must not be understood as assuming
that such, at that period, was its effect upon the European
inhabitants. The luxuries of society in that day had not so much
accumulated, nor was the popular taste so much relaxed by the
process of social refinement, as to enfeeble the energies and exertions
of her people. They were still the hardy race which had
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been trained to endurance, strife, and all sorts of adventure, by
the unceasing struggles of three hundred years. The benign climate
had not yet done the work of emasculation—perhaps never
would have done this work, if the surrounding savages had been
left partially unconquered. Had the Spaniards, with the profound
policy which is said to have marked the history of Aztec supremacy,
suffered rival and hostile races still to exist, upon whom periodically
their young warriors could exercise their weapons, the
vigorous energies of their people might have been trained to resist
all the blandishments of climate. As yet, they remained
unimpaired by its insidious sweetness. The savage still harbored
in the mountains; the Caribbee still fed upon his captive along the
margin of the gulf; the Apalachian, a fearless warrior, still roved
unconquered in his mighty shades; and the Spaniard, still needy
with all his treasures, looked out, on every hand, for empires
which he must yet possess. He was sensible of the delicious luxury
of his Cuban climate, but did not yield to it his strength. That
fierce, vigorous life which distinguished the Castilian character, at
the period of the conquests of Spain in the new world,—to which
was due such a wonderful constellation of great captains—Cortez,
the Pizarros, Ojeda, Balboa, and a host besides—declared the
energies of a people in their prime, with a startling mission of performance
before them, demanding the equal exercise of the best
genius and courage. The compound passion of avarice and ambition
left them in no humor for repose. Without pause, yet not
blindly, they pursued their mission; and the impatient and fevered
restlessness which it demanded and excited, rendered them superior
to every persuasion that threatened conflict with their
strength. These could only prevail finally with the race which,
with ample luxuries in possession, find no longer in their thirst
the provocation to performance. For the present, no Spaniard
can enjoy the sweets of Cuban airs with comparative safety. They
have still a great work to do, are still goaded by fiery passions
which will not suffer them to sleep, and they seize their luxuries
with the mood of the hurrying traveller, in a strange land, who
plucks the flower along the wayside as he passes, and hastens on
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his way. The Spaniards of that day gathered all their luxuries
en route, and threw one acquisition away as soon as they made
another. The fresh desires of achievements kept them from all
loitering. Acknowledging the sweets and beauties of the scene, as
proffered them by Nature—acknowledging with due appreciation
the bounty in her gifts—they tasted only, and pressed forward.
They were, then, far from yielding to that base faith (for humanity),
which finds present possessions ample for their wants. It
needed yet the riper experience of a hundred coming years, and
enjoyments not yet within their grasp, to reconcile them to another
moral—to the surrender of all such as might be rising to
their hope! They are now driven by those fierce wants of Old
Spain, such as naturally rage in a condition of society, which toilsome
necessities still goad, and where the door to pride and power
is open always to the staff of gold. Mere ease is not the object.
This, in Cuba, is already in the possession of its people. They
have only to live in the sunshine, and let themselves alone, and
they live! But in the days of De Soto they did not hold such
life to be living. They had then fiercer impulses to appease, and
more exacting and earnest appetites to satisfy. They obeyed a
destiny! They were still chiefly sensible of passions taught in
the market-place; by the multitude; during the struggle; in
which to hope is to contend;—strife, blood, conquest, glory and
personal prominence, in all situations constituting the great argument
to heart and mind. Hence the individuality of the Spaniard;
his reference of all things to self; his swelling pride; his
stern magnificence; his audacious courage; the unfailing hardihood
of his adventure. How should a character such as this be sensible
to the unobtrusive beauties of the natural world—to the insinuating
sweetness of breeze and zephyr—to the charm of flower
and landscape? How slow will he be to value that soft repose
from all excitements, in which we are required to share, which
belongs naturally to such a life as that of the Cuban, where the
earth is always a bloom, where the air is always fragrance, where
the skies give out forever an atmosphere of love! Flowers and
fruits, the sweets of sky and air, and forests and oceans, all
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beautiful in turn, all linked together by assimilative beauties, and all
blessing, singly and together,—all nevertheless fail—perhaps,
fortunately then,—to supersede, in the minds of our Spaniards,
the habitual desires of their hearts. Still, the heroic pageant is
in the ascendant; the human passion. The crowded spectacle,
the strife of violent forces, the eager scene of human struggle and
conquest, make them heedless of all that is simply sweet and
lovely in their possession. Even women share the tastes with
the passions of the sterner sex, and turn from their groves and
gardens to the gory terrors of the bull-fight.
But why chide? These people are simply the pioneers for
other races, who shall more securely enjoy what they neglect
and despise. They work in obedience to laws of nature, which
regard rather the uses of men than their pleasures. One race
but paves the way for another. We blaze the pathways for future
generations, happy if they should be the children of our
loins, for whom we win empire and clear the way. The Spaniards
of the time of De Soto, in consequence of a fatal defect in
their morals, did not always conquer the inheritance for their own
children. But of this they did not dream! How should they?
Let us now return from our wanderings, and make generalization
give place to detail.
Following out his plan, for increasing the enthusiasm at once of
his own followers, and of the people at large of the island of Cuba,
Hernan de Soto was now busied with his preparations for the public
sports which he had appointed, and with which he was to delight
the fancies of the Cubans. It was good policy that he should do
these things; for it must be remembered that he was not merely
Adelantado of Florida, and of its imaginary treasures and
empires, but governor also of all Cuba; which beautiful and
prolific island was to be left in charge of the Lady Isabella while
he pursued his toils of conquests in the wild recesses of the
Apalachian. He had designed his preparation on no ordinary
scale of magnificence. Though reputed to be a close and avaricious
general—proverbially so—he was yet fully aware that there
are periods when it is necessary to be lavish and even profligate
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of expenditure. The objects which he now proposed to attain,
strongly urged and fully justified a large departure from his
usual habits of economy. His wife, the noble Lady Isabella,
was, however, in some degree the prompter of this liberality.
She was no common woman, but one born with a princely eye
to whatever is noble in the regards of man, whether in the externals
or the substances of society and State. A generous impulse,
at all times, made her anxious to satisfy the popular desires—
that is, wherever their cravings led them to the appreciation
of great deeds and graceful performance. Her knowledge
of the present objects to be attained by her lord from the common
sympathies, increased, in considerable degree, the naturally
gracious and free affluence of her disposition. She bent her
mind to the object, and consulted with all round her the various
schemes by which to render the projected display one of a
magnificence never before paralleled in Cuba; and though the
Adelantado groaned in secret over the excess of expenditure
which naturally followed from her plans, he was yet fully conscious
of the good policy by which they were dictated; and his
tastes readily acknowledged the beauty, skill and splendor which
promised to be the results of her exertions.
The day was at hand, set aside for the commencement of the
public sports, which had become official, and were to last three
days. We are not to suppose that, because the higher forms of
chivalry were dying out in Europe—because, in fact, the institution
no longer cherished there any of the nobler objects of
the order, and had sunk, from a social and political, into a mere
military machine,—that its displays had become less ostentatious
or less attractive when attempted. On the contrary, it is
usually the case that, with the decay of an institution, its efforts
at external splendor, are apt to be even greater than in the hour
of its most unquestioned ascendency; even as the fashionable
merchant is said to give his most magnificent parties when he
has made all his preparations for a business failure! In the new
world, in particular, where we might reasonably suppose that
the imitations were necessarily rude and inferior, of all these
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pageants, which seem, over all, to require the highest finish in
art and the utmost polish in society—which seem, in fact, to
belong only to an old civilization, such as that of Christian
Europe,—it was ordinarily found that the ambition for display
was more than commonly ostentatious and expensive. Certain
it is, that nothing of the sort in Spain, for a long time before, surpassed
the promise, whether as regards the taste or the splendor,
of the great preparations which had been made by De Soto for
his three days of tourney and feats of arms, in the infant city of
Havana. The lists, as our fair gossip, Donna Leonora de
Tobar, has already told us, were erected in the beautiful amphitheatre
just without the suburbs of the town. Here scaffoldings
had been raised for the spectators, running half way round the
barriers, inclosing a portion of the area. These were to be
draped with showy stuffs. On some slight elevations, along the
opposite space, a ruder sort of scaffoldings were reared for the
common people. These, in those days, did not assume that what
was given them in charity should be of a quality to compare
with the best. There was yet a third distinction made in behalf
of the persons in power, and their friends—the persons of noble
birth and high position. Their place was something higher than
the others, built of better materials, and in more careful manner.
In the centre was a gorgeous canopy, which might have served for
a prince of the blood. It covered a raised seat, richly cushioned.
This was designed for the Adelantado and his noble lady. His
immediate friends and chiefs, and the ladies of his court, were
honored with private places on either hand. Before this seat
were painted the arms of Spain, on a rich shield or escutcheon;
its great golden towers, significant equally of its pride and
strength, fronting the lists and the oi polloi, and forming a beautiful
exhortation to the indulgence of the amor patriœ. Directly
over the canopy, and streaming proudly from a staff that
rose from behind it, flaunted, in mighty folds of silk heavily
wrought with gold tissue, the armorial banner of Castile. A
long series of escutcheons of a smaller size, but similar in shape
to that in the centre, and not inferior in workmanship, formed a
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tier of very superb panels along the scaffoldings. These denoted
the seats which were assigned to the noble families, whose arms
they bore; each placed according to the rank of the owner, or
the degree of power, or influence, which he possessed in the
colony. Banners and bannerets, pennons and pennonceles, waved
from spears whose broad and massive darts were fashioned sometimes
of solid silver. The seats were cushioned with rich draperies;
with shawls of brilliant colors, and cotton fabrics dyed in
various unrivalled hues, such as the people of Peru and Mexico
had learned to fashion in a style superior to anything beheld in
Europe. Bright armor of various kinds, employed for ornament,
glittered and gleamed at proper intervals, along the splendid
scaffoldings; from which, at an early hour of the morning assigned
for the sports, choice instruments poured forth peals of
the most gay and inspiring music. The plan of the festivities required
that the cool hours of the day only should be employed
for the more active exercises of the combatants. The heat of the
noonday sun in that ardent clime was, even at this early period
of the year—the close of April—too intense to render agreeable
any violent displays of agility, under heavy armor, for mere
amusement. The first day was assigned to the young knights
and squires, who were to run at the ring, joust with blunt spears,
and smite the Turk's head—the English Quintain. There were
to be sports also for the arquebusiers, and the crossbowmen,—
the latter instrument of war not yet having been superseded by
firearms. To these a certain time was to be allotted, and bull-fights
were to follow, and to close the day. The amusements of
the evening, though all arranged, were yet of a private character,
and did not fall within the plan of the Adelantado. They were
also on a scale highly attractive and magnificent.
With the first glimpses of the dawn the spectators were to be
seen assembling. The citizens were turning out in all directions.
The people were crowding in from the country. The whole
island sent a delegation of eyes to see, and hands to clap, and
hearts to drink in and remember, long afterwards, the wondrous
sights presented in that memorable spectacle—a spectacle which
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was to be not unworthy of the future conquests, in the country
of the Apalachian. Very curious was the motley crowd that
showed itself on all the streets and avenues leading to the great
area of attraction. There were muleteers from the mountain;
wandering tribes akin to the gipsies; retired soldiers; and half-savage
groups, in which it was difficult to discern which race predominated
most, the white man, the red man, or the negro. They
constituted a curious amalgam; each exhibiting some trait or
characteristic, picturesque, wild, individual, such as Murillo
would delight to paint—such as would have risen into dignity
under the brush of Rembrandt. Girls came bounding along
with the castanets, by the side of mules on which sat tottering
grandmothers; boys loitered with the crossbow, eager to pick
up a real by shooting it down at twenty paces. Contrabandists
showed open faces, as, on pack mules, they brought the Aguardiente
for sale, in stone jugs, one on each side; its mouth opening
from the bosom of a panier. The stately owner of a rich
hacienda, where he marked his hundred calves each spring, rode
on a brave barb by the side of his family, occupying a vehicle
still in use, cumbrous but delightful of motion beyond all others,—
the volanté. We must not stop to describe it. As at the
present day in Old Spain, in the rural districts, nothing was more
curious than the various costumes and characters exhibited by the
appearance of the people from the country. Every department
in the old country had its fitting representative, tenacious, in the
new world, of all that distinguished his province in the old. The
gay and vivacious Andalusian, ribanded at wrist and shoulder,
breast and shoe;—the confident and swaggering Biscayan; the
dull native of Valencia; the haughty Catalan;—you might
mark them all at a glance. Groups wandered on together, the
highways to the city being for hours never without its strollers.
Old songs were to be heard, as they went, from natural musicians;
sad touches, oddly mingled with lively redondillas, and sometimes,
from some rude crowder, half soldier and half priest, or
poet, you might hear extempore ballads devoted to the deeds of
arms of Cortez and Pizarro. Mules in strings came down with
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fruit to the great market; lines of vehicles of all sorts, all adding
to the clamor. Sometimes, but rarely, the beggar held out
his cap for charity, and was laughed at as a cheat; for beggary
in the new world must needs be so always. There was room
and fruit for all. Sometimes the beggar, however, was a manola
of the lowest class, who never asked for alms, but got her fee
for the doleful ditties, which no one stopped to hear. There was
better music forward; and the crowds hurried on their march.
But, to enumerate is impossible. Fancy the most picturesque
region of the world, filled with the most picturesque of all people,
and the most contradictory; too proud for restraint, yet
with a curious conventional arrangement, which, making every
thing grave, admirably allowed of the mingling of the grand and
the ridiculous;—all at once thrown into disorder, under conditions
the most exciting;—all in highest state of emotion, yet all in
the most amiable temper;—happy in the moment, and prepared
to gather happiness from all possible sources.
Already, at early dawn, the trumpets began to pour forth their
most lively fanfares. Already, a thousand cries of hope and
expectation arose from the gathering and rapidly increasing
groups. Some of the young champions were already on the
ground, prepared for coursing, for shooting, for running with
spears at the ring, and with swords upon the Quintain. Others
were busy raising butts and preparing their shafts for the sports
of archery. Some had chosen their rivals, in passages with blunt
lance and muffled rapier. Jugglers and buffoons were on the
ground—tumblers began their antics, and, ever and anon, a loud
burst of clamor from the crowd announced some clever performance,
or the appearance of some favorite champion. Murmurs,
occasionally rising into shouts, declared the emotions which
wrought restlessly in the bosoms of the multitude, like the billows
of the troubled sea heaving up in the glorious sunshine. But we
have to describe for the present, not anticipate.
The lists were made sufficiently ample for the conflict of horse
as well as foot, and for the passages-at-arms of several as of single
combatants. But these did not confine the various exercises of
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many who aimed at sports of their own, and who found favorite
spots upon the sides of the surrounding hills. Rules had been
published, prescribing the various forms of combat which were
to be allowed within the lists, and the manner in which they were
to be conducted. These were all to be pacific in character, however
deadly might be the weapons which the parties thought
proper to employ. In the hands of the good knight or squire, it
was understood that the sharp spear, the sword, and the battle-axe,
might be used with the noblest shows of skill and power, yet
without hurt to life or limb. There were tilts appointed with the
lance, and duels with the sword; contests of strength were to be
tried with the mace and battle-axe, and of dexterity with the
dagger and the knife. But, in each case, the contest was invariably
to be decided, when one of the combatants should be put at
such disadvantage as would place him at the mercy of his opponent,
or render necessary for his relief a battle à l'outrance.
To compel respect to this regulation was not always easy when
the pride of the champion was mortified, and his passions roused;
but De Soto had reserved to himself, as of right, to be the judge
of the field, and his warder was Don Balthazar de Alvaro, a
person no longer young, of grave aspect, of high authority, and
quite learned, as well as experienced in the business of the tournament.
It was reasonable to suppose, therefore, that a due regard
to the regulations which had been published would be observed
among the combatants. Of these hereafter; we must pause
for the present.
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CHAPTER XV.
“Furious to the last,
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,
And foes disabled in the brutal fray:
And now the matadores round him play,
Shake the red cloak and poise the ready brand:
Once more, through all, he bursts his thundering way—
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,
Wraps his fierce eye—'tis past—he sinks upon the sand!”
—Byron.
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
Chivalry is only another name for enthusiasm. The one
never dies out in a community where the other may yet be
found. Enthusiasm must exist where there is enterprise and
courage; where there is zeal and sympathy; where the virtues
essential for performance do not entirely stagnate. We do not
make sufficient account of this great leavener of the passions and
the virtues, which purifies the one and stimulates the other.
When a people too greatly refines itself, it sneers at zeal and
enthusiasm. Empressement is vulgar in the eyes of an aristocracy;
and an aristocracy thus sinks into contempt! Whenever
the tastes show themselves wanting in enthusiasm, they are about
to destroy their possessors.
The Spaniards had not yet reached this condition in Cuba.
Never were people more easily aroused, or more enthusiastic.
To see them weep and smile, and shout and sing, without any
moving cause, apparently, you would suppose them simply
crazy; but their madness had its moving cause, however latent,
arising from the active sympathy of the real life within their
souls, and the grand and unmeasured passions which they daily
exercised. Give me a people for performance, who have not
yet learned to conceal their emotions.
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Havana swarmed with life. At an early hour of the morning,
as we have said—nay, long before the dawn—the hum and buzz
of preparation were to be heard in every quarter. The country
had poured itself into the city; the city had suddenly taken the
voice and wing of liberty, such as the country usually enjoys.
You might see, all night, the gleam upon the hill-sides of torches
guiding the footsteps of long cavalcades over all the routes from
the interior. Knights, nobles, artisans, peasants and mountaineers,
arrieros and contrabandistas, banished rogues, outlaws,
returning in disguise, and reckless of danger, in the passion which
the tournament inspired; we have seen already how motley and
various were the groups. Crowds, from far and near, came on
foot. A single mule sometimes contrived to bring a family;
the cart, the sedan, the volante, were all in requisition; and very
picturesque and beautiful was it to see the long trains, seeming,
for all the world, one great continuous procession, winding along
the circuitous paths; climbing suddenly to the hill-top, streaming
through the plain, and vaguely reappearing—recognized by
their torches only—in the deep dim avenues of the silent forest.
After a group on foot, gay and rambling, would you see the
stately and swelling hidalgo, on his great horse, showily caparisoned
in gaudy and costly garments. Noble ladies in their carriages,
of whatever sorts—sometimes in litters borne on the
shoulders of the slender natives of the island—followed under
the guidance of the Don. At a respectful distance in the rear,
came groups of peasants, and there, heedless of all, rambled forward
a savagely bearded mountaineer upon a donkey, whose
horrid screams at intervals, causes the gorge of the knight to rise
with the desire to punish the impertinence that dogs his heels so
closely with such a beast. But even the Baron grows indulgent
with the spirit of the scene, and the mountaineer rides nearer
and nearer, without suffering from the wrath which, at another
time, his approach would most certainly provoke.
But day opens the mighty pageant, and the sun hurries up
with his purple banner, to be present at the scene. Fancy, now,
the conflicting but mingling masses; the picturesque and oddly
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sorted costumes; the wild, but exhilarating mixture of voices;
the hum, the stir, the billowy swaying to and fro, with roar and
scream, and cry and hiss, and shout and laugh—that, however various,
all fuse themselves together, as it were, into one universal
voice of hope and enjoyment. The hills surrounding the amphitheatre
are already covered with tents and booths of reed, thatched with
straw; with vehicles of all sort; groups of mules and horses; stands
for food, and fruit, and liquor; shows of mountebanks, and tables
for the gamester. Gay steeds are fastened, and watched by
liveried pages, under clumps of palms affording shelter. Gay
banners stream from every tent or lodge, assigned to knights
and men-at-arms. These, raised as if by magic, during the preceding
night, occupied the more eligible vacant places contiguous.
Each bears without the armorial insignia of the noble, whether he
held due warranty from the legitimate herald, or owed his rank
only to the persevering ambition of the parvenu, who seeks, under
the shelter of a gray antiquity, to hide the short frock and
coarse frame of the adventurer.
At intervals a sweet strain of music rises from a curtained
verandah, and an occasional shrill blare of a sudden trumpet announces
the setting up of some banneret, or the arrival upon the
ground of the followers of some one of the many bold cavaliers
who designed to take a part in the business of the tourney.
Some of the pavilions of these knights are of silk, ornamented
with figures of gold-thread and brocade; not less splendid to the
eye are those of others, though made only of the cotton stuffs of
the island, of Mexico and Peru; but these are all glowing with
rich and living dyes of the new world, the art of preparing and
using which was peculiar to the country. The pursuivants are
busy, going forever to and fro, assigning places, according to degree
and rank, for the pavilions of the several champions.
Troops of cavalry flourished around, as a police, coercing order.
Small detachments of infantry march to and fro, their matchlocks
shining in the sun. The raised centre of the scaffolding around
the amphitheatre, which is assigned to the Adelantado and his immediate
circle, is already pavilioned with a gorgeous canopy.
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The banner of Castile and Leon is already rolling out, with its
great, gorgeous and gold folds above it. Not so loftily raised,
but yet so placed in the foreground as to attract all eyes, is the
personal banner of De Soto: a sheet of azure, on which is painted
a spirited picture of a cavalier, mounted on a fiery charger, both
armed to the teeth, and about to leap a precipice. The picture illustrated
one of the Adelantado's great feats in Peru. The motto
is Italian, in gold letters—“Fidati pur; che a trionfar ti guido.”
When De Soto was asked by Don Balthazar why he put so promising
a motto in a foreign language, which was known to so few of
his people, he answered—“That it may be more impressive!” The
Adelentado was something of a philosopher. Hardly was the
banner seen to wave than some one was ready to translate for
the curious multitude the mysterious promise. When told that
the gallant cavalier only swore in Italian that he would conduct
them to conquest, there was not a syllable of the inscription that
was not gotten instantly by heart, and that night it was sung as
the burden of a refrain, by a native rhymester, who was content
to encourage the enterprise upon which—he did not go himself!
Next to the pavilion of De Soto, on the right, was that of the
Captain General, Don Porcallo de Figueroa, his banner shining
above it, gleaming with a sun of gold. Don Balthazar de Alvaro
had his place on the left of the Adelantado, whom he was to assist
as warder or master of the tourney. We need not range the
places of the rest, nor enumerate the good, the old, and the influential
families, to whom conspicuous seats were assigned for
the survey of the spectacle. Going without the barriers, we approach
the tents or pavilions of the knights who were expected
to engage in the several passages-at-arms. Here they were to
dress and equip themselves; hither they were to retreat and rest
when wearied, and take refreshment. Each was sacred to its
owner, and great care was taken by the police of the field that
they were never trespassed upon by the crowd. In the rear
of each pavilion was a tent or shelter of more common material,
where the horse or horses of the cavalier were kept and groomed.
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Some of the knights, as the wealthy Señor Don Porcallo de
Figueroa, for example, had a score of horses; but the greater
number, like our poor knights of Portugal, had a single steed
only. But he was generally a good one, of great strength and
endurance, and admirably trained. We pass, in review, the several
pavilions without the barriers, of the knights first mentioned:
of Nuno de Tobar, of Balthazar de Gallegos, of Juan de Escalante,
of Christopher de Spinola, and many others, each of which
bears the especial shield and insignia of its proprietor. More simple
than all the rest, made of crimson cotton, were the tents of
the Portuguese brothers. It was remarked by curious observers,
that these tents were no longer pitched side by side; they were
now opposite each other, one on the right, the other on the left
of the centre. The banner which floated above the pavilion of
Philip, bore the image of a ruined castle, from which a falcon
had spread its wings and was away. That of Andres exhibited
a flight of meteors in a stormy sky. Both were significant. The
shields of the several cavaliers hung each at the entrance of his
tent, and in a situation favorable for that atteint, or stroke of the
adversary's spear, blunt or sharp, which was the customary mode of
conveying the challenge. At the opening of the passages, these
were transferred to conspicuous places within the area. As yet
none of the knights, challengers, or defenders, were to be seen
by the multitude. Squires, leading horses, or pages loitering
about the tents, alone were visible. It remains to mention only
that the torril, or pen for the bulls, was constructed beneath the
tiers of seats assigned to the common people. From this a
closed passage, the door opening right upon the area, conducted
directly to the ring. In the rear of the torril, pavilions were
raised for the toreadores, picadores, chulos and matadores, each
class separately; and these pavilions engaged no small degree
of the curiosity of the people. From these parties they
looked for their most grateful enjoyments. They knew the most
famous toreros by name; Cuba could boast of matadores
who were worthy to compare with any of Andalusia,—sons of
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her own mountains, who could administer the coup de grace to
the bull, while in his maddening bounds, and never exhibit an
emotion. But of these hereafter.
Drums roll, trumpets sound;—a wild burst of Saracenic music
rises from the amphitheatre; and the crowds rush forward to seek
their places. The Adelantado, at the head of a gorgeous cavalcade
of knights, rides into the ring. Already have the noble
ladies, with their several escorts, taken their seats upon the elevated
gallery which has been assigned them. The people are
fast filling up the humbler places around the barriers. De Soto,
amidst fresh bursts of music, ascends to his chair of state. Don
Balthazar seats himself below him. Both carry truncheons. The
signals are given; the sports begin. A troop of young squires
and pages are running at the ring. The old soldiers and experienced
cavaliers look on with the natural interest of veterans;
curious to see who are to be their successors in arms and distinction.
The riding is very creditable; some instances particularly
graceful and spirited; though one or two handsome youth are
rolled over in the dust. The ring is borne off triumphantly several
times; and this amusement ceases for a while. Then follows a less
experienced class of youth, who ride at the Quintain. The Quintain
is a lay figure, armed with a pole, which is freshly painted.
The stroke, to be successful and safe, must be delivered fairly, in
the centre of his shield or helmet. To miss these, or to touch
them unfairly, is to receive a blow from the pole of the figure,
who works upon a pivot, and is wheeled about by a moderate
assault. The stroke of his pole leaves its mark behind it. It not
unfrequently tumbles the assailant from his steed, and thus increases
the merriment of the spectators. In England, the Quintain
sometimes carried a bag of meal at the end of his pole, which,
in a false atteint, covered his awkward opponent with flour. On the
present occasion, the fresh black paint of his weapon is a more serious
danger to the garments; and the Quintain left indelible proofs
of his ability, and their own awkwardness, on the gaudy jackets
of many of his inexperienced assailants. These exercises, which
provoked a great deal of laughter, but did not much excite the
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spectators, were followed by a very pretty display of archery. In
each of these performances there were, of course, champions to
be distinguished; prizes were accordingly delivered, and the interest
of the spectators was agreeably maintained to the close.
But these were the mere preliminaries, the opening flourishes of
the entertainment; pleasant enough while they lasted; but not
provocative, nor calculated to appeal to those passions which lift
a people to their feet, and force them to cry aloud their exultations,
or their fears. The runners at the ring and Quintain, and the
sports of the archers, were simply the prologues to the crowning
entertainment of the day,—this was the Bull-Fight—the sport of
sports to the Spaniard, one in which all classes delight,—which
appeals equally to the sympathies and tastes of nobles and commons,
of knights and ladies, and which, strange as it may appear
to us, is said in no degree to impair the sweetness, the grace
and gentleness of nature in the tender sex.
A few words on this subject. When we denounce the humanity
of a people, who relish such an amusement, we commit the simple
error of placing our tastes in judgment upon theirs. The truth
is, that the question of humanity is really not involved at all in
the subject, even by our own standards. Our opinion is simply
superior to our humanity; and while society with us maintains
an even course, we are thus critical in respect to its practices.
Let events occur which disturb the habitual course of things, and
our opinion gives way as readily to our passions as that of any
people, and our moral sinks as low as our humanity. Men are
very much the same, in all countries, as respects the appetites;
and we have in our exercises, equivalent brutalities to those of
any people in the world. A boxing match will appeal to the
tastes of all of British blood as readily as bull-fight or knife
match to those of the Spaniard; and a cock-fight, when announced,
draws as large a crowd. We hunt the deer with a spirit quite
as murderous as that which the Andalusian knows when he descends
into the bull-ring with lance and rapier; and we course
with our dogs after the fox nightly, with a pleasure that grows
into a sort of madness, in proportion to the prolongation of the
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torturous sport. Opinion looks grave, and utters solemn humanities,
when she reads of Gordon Cumming's horrible butcheries
of the elephant, lion, gazelle, and giraffe—noble creatures
all, harmless where they are found—but passions and appetites—
our human nature, gloats over the murderous page; and we
pass, with keen anxiety, in the footsteps of the sportsman, and
hear with exultation the crack of his rifle, and rush in with wild
eyes of pleasure, to behold his victim, ere his dying agonies are
over. We take the fish by artful processes, so as to prolong his
struggles, so that our delights shall be prolonged also; and we
call the angler, “Gentle Master Izaak,” while he details the sev
eral arts by which a worm may be made to wriggle, and a trout
may be made to play, in pain. Our naturalists assert with wondrous
pains-taking, their own humanity, while they transfix the
living butterfly; and opinion, with us, sanctions with this definition,
the indiscriminate slaughter of innocent song-bird, and beautiful
fly, and wondrous insect, and curious reptile. Yet none of
these sports, which include all the cruelties which belong to the
Spanish bull-fight, involve the nobler conditions with which the
man engages in the latter. In the bull fight he makes his manhood
one of the conditions on which he wages the conflict. He
perils life upon his sport. He does not claim the right to take
and torture the life of the animal without giving the beast a
chance in the conflict. The inhumanity in all these practices is
pretty much the same; but much more may be said in favor of
the bull-fight than of all the rest. The stakes of the opposing
parties are equal in the game. Our opinion, in brief, is more
humane than our humanity. The Englishman and the American,
man or woman, who once witnesses a bull-fight, discovers that
his tastes are superior in strength to his morals—that his virtues
hold but little sway in the encounter with his blood—that his
opinion is unsustained by his resolution—that his own habits are
not a whit more heedful of the claims of the beast, than the
Spaniard's. He hunts one class, and the Spaniard another; and
whether he hunts more virtuously than the Spaniard, must be held
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very doubtful where he does not hunt half so bravely or at so
much peril to himself.
Our purpose, however, in these remarks, is not to defend the
bull-fight as a legitimate or proper amusement of men. We
simply design to suggest to self-deception a little modesty, and
to persuade cant to reconsider its pretensions. Humanity, nowhere,
is equal to the encounter with temptation. Opinion, everywhere,
is superior to humanity; and thus it is that the morale of
a community will be superior to the sentiment in every individual
composing the community. Our opinion excuses our brutalities,
while it lays bare those of another nation. So long as this is
the common practice of nations, so long shall we perpetuate both.
Let us look to what is intrinsic, not what is specious, and we
shall, perhaps, discover that in a comparison with our neighbor
we have no great deal to boast—and something, possibly, to lose.
But enough.
The bull-fight, as we have said, appeals equally to all conditions,
and to both sexes, among the Spaniards. When the sports
of the ring and the Quintain were over, and it was understood
that those which properly belonged to the amphitheatre were to
begin, there was a great increase among the audience. The groups,
all of them, deserted the hills. Scarce a vacant seat was to be
found in all the three high tiers of scaffolding which surrounded
the barriers; and the spectacle became very brilliant, wild and
picturesque, of that great and crowded circle. Beauty and
knighthood were there in all their glory; while the multitude
exhibited every variety of costume and character. The seats
were so disposed that the entire person of the spectator in every
quarter could be seen; each accordingly was clad in the richest
dresses he could command. Banners and bannerets were waving;
cavaliers wore their gaudiest colors; jewels flashed in such near
connection with bright eyes that one could scarce distinguish
between them; and ever and anon, long streaming flourishes of
music, passionate phrensies of variously endowed instruments,
and soft, melancholy touches, at frequent pauses, from simpler
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pipes, conspired to raise the emotions, to excite the sensibilities,
to lead the hearer and spectator out entirely from that common
world which swallowed up his ordinary life in one dreary monotony.
“Despéjo!” was the single word given out by Don Balthazar de
Alvaro, as Corregidor, or master of ceremonies—equivalent to
“clear the field”—“remove all obstructions from the amphitheatre.”
There is sufficient reason for this order, which is always an ungracious
one in the ears of “the fancy,” “the swell mob,” who
have generally taken possession of the ring. They leave it with
reluctance. But, at the order of the Corregidor, the splendid
body of infantry which De Soto had been training for the Florida
expedition, marched in, to the sound of martial music, and,
with horizontal lances, swiftly swept the circle. Their movements
were rapid; but the intruders retired slowly, simply
clearing the barriers, around which they continued to cling, anxious
to be nigh the scene; to see the minutest movements; and
to take such part in the affair themselves as fortune would allow
them;—their delight being found in beating the bull with their
sticks, or thrusting at him with iron-pointed staves, from this
safe entrenchment, whenever his course should bring him sufficiently
nigh the barriers. This duty done, the infantry disappeared
as rapidly as those whom they had driven out. But the ring
was not left vacant, for a moment. Their places were soon occupied
by the Toreadores, consisting of bands of Picadores, of Chulos or
Banderilleros, and Matadores. These now move in procession around
the area, showing themselves to the spectators;—the Picadores,
in the saddle, armed with lances. They wear short cloaks, the
sleeves of which are partly laid open and left loose. Their
small-clothes are of leather, the legs coated with a sort of
greaves of plate iron;—shoes and stockings are concealed by
white gaiters; and a flat, broad, round hat, well ribanded, completes
their costume, which is quite fanciful and jockey-like.
Not less so is that of men on foot, the Chulos, whose habits are
more costly, if not more imposing. Their silk vests are trimmed
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with a profusion of ribands; brilliant scarfs fall over them; a
silken net-work confines the hair, in place of which the fringes
of the net stream down the shoulders. Their cloaks are, some
of blue, and others of scarlet. In two parties they cross the
arena, and make their obeisance to the Adelantado. They are
in all—the footmen—about eighteen. This includes a couple of
matadores, or killers. With these comes a mediespada, or half-swordsman,
who is not often wanted. The picadores, or lancers,
three in number, follow them on horseback, in the performance
of the act of grace before the representative of the throne.
The toreadores take their stations, and declare themselves in
readiness. First, you behold the picadores. These plant themselves
on one side of the gate from whence the bull is to emerge,
and at a distance of twenty-five or thirty paces. Those on foot,
armed with their short javelins, called banderillos, meant to goad
and torture the bull, and for their defence, their cloaks of blue
and scarlet, take their places also, ready to assist the picadores,
but along the barriers. A trumpet sounds; an Alguazil advances,
and receives from Don Balthazar the key of the torril,
or den of the bull. The Adelantado waves his gilded truncheon;
Don Balthazar waves another; the bugles sound; wild shouts from
the multitude declare the acme of expectation to be reached, the
gate of the torril is thrown open, a rush is heard; and “El
Moro”—“the Moor”—the great black bull of the Cuban mountains,—
himself a mountainous mass of bone and muscle, darts
headlong upon the scene, and hushes all to silence.
He stops suddenly; throwing up his head. He has passed
from darkness into sudden light. The unwonted spectacle for a
moment confounds him. He looks up; around; stares with
dilating eye on all he sees; and then you may observe his tail
rise, and wave, to and fro, the hairs starting up, like those upon
his neck, and presenting a ridgy surface, a crested mane, showing
his excitement, and gradually rising anger. As yet, he
knows not where to look. On all sides, he sees so much! But,
a tremendous shout from the multitude seems to decide him;
and he answers it with a wild and sudden roar. Then, quick as
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a flash, he charges upon the nearest picador. His lance is ready
to receive him. He is repulsed; he recoils. But not far; and
with a fresh bound, he singles out his second enemy. He also
meets him with a cool front, and a piercing weapon. A second
time his neck is gored; but he darts upon the third picador;
only to meet a fresh repulse! He has felt his enemy; and is
either cowed or taught by his experience. Which? We shall see.
He recoils from all, receding slowly: his eyes gleaming now
with fire; his neck and shoulders streaming with blood; his head
to the ground, as if with a heretofore-unknown feeling of humility.
But do you think that he is humbled? No! He is only roused,—
only contracting himself to spring; gathering his muscles into
fold; gathering up his soul for newer effort, and growing momently
more and more vicious and dangerous from his forbearance!
Some of the spectators are deceived; as half the world
is apt to judge and decide from first impressions, and because of
their ignorance!
“A cow! a cow!” is the cry—“set the dogs upon him!”
“Ah! que! no vale ña!” “The beast is worth nothing. He is
a cow!”
“A cow, indeed!” cries the experienced mountaineer, who better
knows the signs which the brute exhibits. “Disparate!—
nonsense! Let me see the man who will milk that cow!”
He is right. “El Moro” is a hero, and has sense as well as
strength. He has felt his enemy; he begins to know him. The
picadores understand him better than the mob. They note his
immense frame,—the great head,—the enormous breadth of
neck,—the huge breast, like a rampart, which he spreads before
them; the wonderful compactness of his whole figure. They see
the lurking devil in his dilating eyes, looking up, though his
horns seem directed only to the ground. They note other signs
which escape the populace, and they prepare themselves, with
all their address, for a second assault. Their horses, which have
heard the roar of the bull, are trembling beneath them. They
do not see the animal, as they have been blinded, the better to
make them submit to the rein; but they feel their terrors the
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more. They are not the broken hackneys which are employed
in the cities of modern Spain, not worth their forage;—but brave
steeds, of fearless foresters, who have taken up the business of
the torero, con amore. Sleek of skin, large of frame, slender of
limb, with small heads, arching necks, bright, round, dilating
eyes, clean fetlocks! You see that they come of Arabian stocks,
and are not unworthy to carry fearless riders against the bull.
They tremble, but they obey. The picador, meanwhile, carries
his well-chosen lance beneath his right arm. He keeps a wary
eye upon his enemy. He knows that he is to be expected;—
that he must come;—that the struggle has not well begun, and
that it will require his utmost skill to conquer—and escape!
He does not mistake the ominous aspect in the sign of Taurus!
He has not read the Zodiac of the ampitheatre in vain. These
are all old stagers, these picadores. Each has a reputation to
lose. They are known by name among the multitude, and these
names have been cried aloud, already, by more than a hundred
voices, in recognition and encouragement. “Bravo! Pepe!”
“Bravo! little Juan!” “Bravo! Francisco Dias!” “Now
shall we see which of you all will pluck la devisa from the neck
of El Moro.” “La devisa” is a ribbon about the bull's neck,
containing the name of his breeder.
“Which of you has a mistress with eyes worthy of a death?
Bravo! good fellows! Let us see!”
The allusion, here, is to the practice of the picador, whose
object it is to snatch away the ribbon as a trophy for his sweet-heart.
This is a great point gained; and a difficult one. The
Bull, who is well aware of the honor of the thing, is, of course,
always careful to resent, with particular malice, every such
attempt upon the badge which proves his honorable breeding.
It requires rare agility—which, in such a conflict, implies rare
courage—to achieve the object.
But the crowd is clamorous. They are impatient at the delay
of “El Moro.” They regard him as too lymphatic. They
shout to him their scorn, and some endeavor to assail him, from
behind the barriers, with strokes of the chivata, or porro, sticks
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terminating in knobs, with which every rascal of the crowd goes
properly armed to the circus. Their auxiliary assaults, in fact,
are legitimated, and constitute a fair part of the exhibition.
They contribute greatly to goad a timid animal to the necessary
degree of desparation, work him up to madness; when, no
longer dreading the prick of the lance, though it buries itself an
inch deep in the flesh, he plunges headlong upon his enemies,
not to be again baffled in the assault, not to be turned aside;
and throwing all his brute force into one concentrated effort, puts
the picadores to all their arts for safety.
“El Moro” is a bull of blood. He is a bull of discretion
also. He has only paused to meditate in what manner to use
his force against the skill of his enemies. He has concluded his
plans; and, with a terrible snort, which ends in a roar, he rushes
again upon the picadores. They meet him handsomely, their
horses' heads a little turned on one side, their spears delivered
dexterously, piercing the neck and shoulders of the beast. This
is no pleasant sort of salutation. It is apt to turn off ten bulls
in the dozen. They all remember, with keen sensibilities, the
garrocha, or goad, by which the herdsmen have initiated them in
the lessons of obedience. “El Moro” has not lost his sensibilities,
or his memories; but “El Moro” has a prescience which
tells him that he is doomed; and that to feel the pricks too
keenly now, is only to prolong his tortures. He, accordingly,
resolves to “come up to the scratch” valiantly. Skulking, he
perceives, will avail him nothing. He must die, and he will not
die feebly. The spear-point is in his neck deep, deep; and the
blood spirts high, and crimsons his great swart breast and shoulders.
But he resolves not to feel his hurts. He does not
swerve: he plunges headlong forward; head downward; horns
tossing and tail erect, and shaking to and fro like that of the lion
in his bound, or the serpent in his coil.
“Bravo toro! Bravo El Moro!” is the delighted roar of the
multitude, as they witness his spirit. The horsemen turn about
like lightning; the first darts aside, with excellent skill, and sweeps
out of the track.
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“Bravo, Pepe!” cry the mob, as they witness this dexterity of
the first of the picadores; but the bull sweeps on; he receives
the spear-point of the second of his foes; but his own irresistible
rush, his own headlong bulk, prevents his recoil now, even if his
spirit quailed beneath the wound: but it does not. The picador
tries to wheel and escape his assault, but too late:—the
horns of “El Moro” are already buried in the flank of the steed;
he rends his sides, snaps the defensive ribs like glass; steed and
rider roll over upon the plain, the latter upon the off-side of the
animal. The body of the horse constitutes his rampart for a
moment. It is a fearful moment. Life and death hang on it.
An awful hush envelops the amphitheatre; women shriek,
men shout and swear; heads peer over each other; eyes are
starting almost from their sockets; anxiety and appetite, fear and
hope, horror and delight, are in wondrous strife in the multitudinous
soul of the assembly. Every body looks to see the bull
dash down upon the prostrate horse and rider. The latter lies
close and quiet, expecting the assault: his hope of escape is in
his insignificance. But “El Moro” is a bull of magnanimity—a
heroic bull, worthy of the fierce and fearless race after whom
they have named him. He disdains to touch the fallen victim.
He spurns the sands anew; he dashes after the remaining picadores,
who course round the amphitheatre, dexterously avoiding his
charge, and seeking to double upon and wound him anew at every
chance. Wonderful is the skill they exhibit, and great is the
cheering which they receive. Both bull and picador receive it
equally; nothing can be more fair than the applause; it is equally
merited: and gratitude for the sport alone requires that merit
should be equally acknowledged. “Bravo toro!” “Bravo Picador!”
“Bravo Little Juan!” “Bravo Moro!” These and similar
cries are heard from all quarters of the ring.
But “El Moro” is not content to share his fame with others,—
he is greedy of glory. Another picador is overthrown; horse
and man roll on the earth. Little Juan, who won the bravos
lately, is scrambling over the barriers, partly assisted in the
effort by the black brows of the bull himself—his horns just
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missing the haunches of the horseman, and grazing the barriers. It
was a narrow escape. The horse of the picador flies wild, with
his entrails hanging from a horrid wound in the belly. The bull
pursues; at every bound he goads the blinded and terrified animal
anew. Both are covered with blood. “Mira!” cries the
“fancy”—the “swell mob” from the corridor,—“Mira! que bel
cuerpo de sangre!” “See! see! what a beauteous body of blood!”
Thus goring as he goes, himself covered with gore, snorting
with fury, his eyes like red fires, flashing in flight, his mouth full
of foam and blood, his head tossing wildly, the blood and lather
covering his whole body, the bull keeps on his way of terror,
ripping and rending the wounded and agonized horse, until, with
a terrific roar and effort, he fairly lifts the victim from the earth,
dashes him down upon the sands, and strikes his hoofs on his neck,
as he bounds over him in pursuit of the remaining picador.
There is no parleying with so headstrong a brute as that. There
is no baffling him. He is not to be deluded of his proper prey.
He is not the fool to put nose to the ground, as ordinary bulls
do, wasting his fury upon the enemies he has already overthrown.
The fallen horse or horseman attracts none of his attention.
He sees and seeks him only who is on foot, in motion;
and he gives the surviving picador no respite. Never was
bull so determined, and so sensible. He is not merely a hero,
he is a general; and the audience is duly sensible of his wonderful
merits. They shout their vivas on every hand. “Long live
El Moro!” he whom they have yet resolved shall die that very
day. “Bravo toro! Bravo Moor!” They toss their hands aloft;
they fling up their caps; porros and chivatas thunder their applauses
against the barriers. “El Moro” seems aware of their
applause, and resolute still better to deserve it. He gives the
picador no moment of delay. He is upon him. The steed
doubles with wondrous dexterity, and eludes the shock; and he
now receives the vivas. But the bull is almost equally alert.
His evolutions are as sudden as his rage is high. He wheels,—
another bound, the lance of the picador but grazes him; the
horse darts away, but the bull is at his haunches, and rends him
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—a terrible gash—in the rear. Bleeding and torn, the steed
staggers forward, when a new thrust sends him over, and the rider
flings himself off on the opposite side, to escape the inveterate
assailant. It is a moment of extreme peril; every soul is hushed
almost to stifling in the assembly; and now the chulos with their
gaudy cloaks come fluttering upon the scene. They are to divert
the bull from his victim. They glide between, almost like shapes
of air. The red shawls flare before the eyes of El Moro. But
El Moro is none of your common bulls. He is not to be persuaded
that the shawl can work him injury. He has no vulgar
bull-hostility to crimson. He darts at the chulo, and not his shawl.
The banderillo flies—a little dart, ornamented with colored and
gilded paper—and sticks into his neck. Another is planted directly
opposite, buried deeply in the flesh. A third, a fourth,
until the beast is fairly covered with these proofs of the dexterity
of his new assailants, who trip along like dancing-masters
about the scene; relying upon their wonderful agility to dart
aside from his wild and passionate plunges. They scatter at his
approach. He drives them to the barriers, over which the rescued
picador has just clambered with a show of pain and labor,
that proves he has not gone through the fray unscathed. There
is a rent in his leathern breeches; there is an exceedingly sore place
beneath it. But the chulos are dispersed,—El Moro remains the
lord of the arena. He stamps as if for a new enemy; he roars
as if in triumph! He darts, seeing no moving object, at those
which lie still or writhing upon the plain. He tramples the gay
mantles; he rends the prostrate and still struggling horse. He
is impatient that they offer no resistance; for the goads still tear
his neck and sides, and the wounds are a ceaseless torture. The
amphitheatre rings with applauses of his prowess; but this subsides,
and the appetite of the multitude craves a renewal of the
excitement.
“Caballos! Caballos al toro!” is the cry. More horses are
required for the bull. New champions appear upon the scene;
and the battle is renewed. But we must not enter now upon
details; “El Moro” maintains his reputation. Another horse is
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slain—another wounded—two riders are hurt with broken ribs,
and the chulos again scatter themselves over the area for the rescue
of the third. “El Moro” scatters them in turn: but he is
exhausted by his victories. Covered with wounds, he staggers in
the centre of the ring. His eye grows filmy, his head droops,
his tail—but he is thus far the conqueror, and there is a moment
of silent admiration in tribute to his prowess. But the signs
show that he can make no more sport. He has done all that bull
could do for the popular holiday; and nothing remains but to
administer the coup de grace, and bring on his successors. The
trumpet sounds. The matador—the killer—appears alone upon
the scene. On his appearance, with lifted cap, he make his obeisance
to the Adelantado. In his right hand he holds a long toledo—
a beautiful rapier, of the best temper—in his left hand he waves
a little red flag, not much larger than a handkerchief, called the
muleta. He receives the permission which he requires. “El
Moro's” death-warrant is given out.
The matador exhibits the grace of a posture-master, with all
the coolness of the executioner. He turns towards the victim,
and advances slowly. He is pale; looks anxious; is evidently
wary. Well he may be. Such an adversary, showing as much
cunning as courage, is not often to be met. The matador stops,
and with all the coolness of which he is capable, surveys the foe.
He is a judge of character, and bulls have a character that requires
to be studied. Antonio Pico also has a character at stake.
He is greatly renowned among the Cubans. He has slain his
hundreds, and he must show himself worthy of his renown. His
movements were at once graceful and decided; and his thrusts
were as swift as dexterous. He was the master of his art. But,
sometimes, the master fails, and Pico was now evidently cautious.
It is a duel which he is about to fight. The bull is still dangerous—
his rage is still deadly. He has lost his energy, but not
his malice. Pico has no shield, nothing but the muleta, and his
beautiful rapier. His ball dress of silk, satin and ribbon, is at
strange variance with the duty to be done; but that is one of the
charming features of the performance. He commands himself;
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restrains himself; a thousand eyes are upon him; he knows it,
but he sees nothing but the eyes of the bull. Their tame, filmy
expression does not deceive him. He fancies that “El Moro”
understands the whole proceeding, what is to be done, and what
is to be feared; and that he is preparing himself with more than
bull subtlety, to make a fearful fight of it. It must be subtlety
now, opposed to subtlety;—the wisdom of the man to the excited
instincts of the beast. The expectation is, that the bull will
run at the red flag; when the matador will receive him at the
point of the weapon, which pierces him between the shoulder and
the bone blade. If the bull has much spirit left, he will do this.
The presumption is, if he will not, that he succumbs to his fate—
that his energies are exhausted.
Pico waves his muleta in front of the animal. “El Moro”
makes a single charge, but recoils—stops short, and stands with
head down, as if in waiting. A shout of contempt, from the
“fancy,” assails him for this ignoble conduct. It encourages Pico.
He advances, waves the flag anew; again the bull charges;
the steel flashes, quick as lightning;—strikes;—strikes;—all see;—
but it is an awkward stroke! Pico's nerves have been troubled.
The steel strikes the bone;—it flies from the hand of the matador;
and, with a roar, the recovering bull is upon him, with a dreadful
griding sweep. The brave fellow darts aside, but not unhurt.
He staggers,—he makes for the barriers: the cunning “El
Moro,” with brightening eye, surges after him. The suspense is
awful; the women scream; the men shout; the matador staggers
forward to the barriers; falls, without catching them; and, but a
moment remains for escape! a terrible anxiety prevails. In that
moment, a gigantic form leaps over the barriers from the corridor.
He is dark like the red man. He is of that race, mixed
with the white and the negro,—a most unnatural and atrocious
combination. But what he is, no one as yet can distinguish.
They see nothing clearly. They only know that he stands between
the fallen Pico and the charging El Moro. They see a
common red kerchief waving in one hand. They see not
the short, sharp knife in the other. They see, however, that he
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has succeeded in diverting the wrath of the bull, from the prostrate
matador, to himself. A moment more, and the plunging
animal stands where the stranger challenged. He has darted
aside like an arrow, leaving his kerchief upon the horns of the
bull, and waving before his eyes. The animal shakes his head,
and thrusts it down. In that moment the stranger advances silently.
A flash is seen; and the machete is fatally buried between
the shoulders of El Moro. A hoarse sound issues from
the nostrils of the mighty beast, and he sinks forward, the life
gone forever, on the spot where he had stood terribly, but the
instant before!
The crowd is relieved. They shout their gratification, and the
“swell mob” without are particularly rejoiced with the exquisite
feat of arms performed by one from among themselves. Scarcely
was the deed done, however, when Don Balthazar de Alvaro, in
a whisper to the sergeant of the guard, said,—
“Let that man who slew the bull be taken into custody. Let
it be done secretly, so as not to cause confusion. Set a watch
upon his footsteps, and when the crowd is dispersed, clap him
up. He is a slave—an outlaw—the notorious outlaw, Mateo
Morillo—slave of the estate of my niece. He has been in the
mountains for two years. See that you secure him. There is a
good reward to be got by his captivity!”
The sergeant promised obedience; but when he looked into the
amphitheatre, the man, Mateo Morillo, had disappeared among
the throng. He sought for him that day in vain.
Note.—For much of the detail in this chapter respecting the sports of
the Spanish amphitheatre, I am indebted to the volumes of Roscoe, Ford,
and the highly interesting and spirited sketches of Spain by our own
countryman, Mr. S. T. Wallis, of Maryland.
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CHAPTER XVI.
“The knight of the Redcrosse, when him he spide,
Spurring so hote with rage dispiteous,
'Gan fairely couch his speare, and towards ride:
Soone meete they both, both fell and furious,
That, daunted with their forces hideous,
Their steeds doe stagger, and amazed stand;
And eke themselves, too rudely rigorous,
Astonied with the stroke of their owne hand,
Doe backe rebutte, and each to other yealdeth land.”
—Spenser.
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The day's sports were by no means ended with the death of
“El Moro.” Other bulls were brought into the ring, and several
fierce fights followed, marked by sundry vicissitudes and
casualties. No less than six bulls perished before the day was
over; and twice this number of horses were more or less seriously
hurt. Three were killed outright. As many of the
toreadores went off—were carried off, rather—with shattered ribs;
so that, all things considered, the sports were highly satisfactory
to the people. That night there was merry-making in all quarters
of the city. The houses everywhere were thrown open for
the reception of guests. The country cousins were made welcome.
The voluptuous dances of the Spaniard succeeded to the
feast, and were prolonged through the night. Wild and sentimental
music burst from balcony and verandah, and the guitar
tinkled sweetly in the groves of lime and orange. Olivia de
Alvaro spent the night in the palace of the Adelantado, who
entertained a large party. But Philip de Vasconselos, though
invited, was not among the guests. Where is he? Why is he
not present? These were the questions which Olivia unconsciously
asked herself. Andres, his brother, was there; stern
and gloomy; but he did not approach her. She danced and sang
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at the entreaty, or rather the command, of the Lady Isabella;
but her heart was neither with the music nor the dance. She
went through the performances mechanically, sick at soul, and
longing to be away out of the painful glare of lights and company,
and buried in the deep shadows of her domestic groves.
We have no scene to exhibit, no picture to portray of the persons
or events of this night. We hurry to the performances of
the day following, which more immediately concern our progress.
The spectacle of the second day promised to exceed the first,
in its splendor and state, if not in its attractions. It is doubtful,
indeed, if any exhibition, short of battle itself, could, in that day,
furnish attractions to the Spanish people to compare with those
of the bull-fight. This was a strife of certain danger and frequent
loss of life. There must be bloodshed; terrible wounds,
great suffering, prolonged agonies, and momently increasing excitement.
In proportion to the anxiety, the peril, the blood and
agony, were the joys of the spectacle. But the tournament was
only a picture of strife; gentle passages of arms and joyous, as
the heralds described it; and, though full of noble displays, of
grace, spirit, strength, skill and admirable horsemanship, it yet
failed, usually, to provoke those intense anxieties which characterized
the conflicts of the bull with the toreadores. But bulls
are not to be slaughtered every day. The operation is an expensive
one. The owners of fine horses do not very often wish
to peril their ribs in the circus; and even the sorry hack has his
value, to be considered after the first flush of excitement is over.
The bull-fight, though the great passion of the Spaniards, is not,
for these reasons, an affair of frequent occurrence. One day for
this amusement was held quite sufficient for reasonable people;
and the “swell mob” were accordingly compelled to put up
with the (to them) inferior spectacle of deeds of chivalry.
With the first flashing of the morning sunlight upon bright
shield and glittering lance, a sweet, wild, prolonged and inspiriting
burst of music issued from the amphitheatre, announcing the
resumption of the sports. A thousand bosoms thrilled with
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delight, and a thousand voices hailed the signal with triumphant
shouts. The sounds and clamors from the spacious area were
echoed back from all the little hills around. They were all in
motion at the music, and clapping their hands with joy. Soon,
the fierce bray of the trumpet was heard mingling wildly with
sweeter music. Anon came the roll of the drum; and steeds
neighed, and squires shouted, and the mountain peasant began
to sing, in his exulting unconsciousness, the rude ballads of his
distant forests. There was shouting and clamor on every side;
and the rushing of crowds, and the din of conflicting sounds,
might have led the unadvised spectator to suppose that chaos
had come again, so extreme was the confusion. But in all this
confusion the truncheon of command prevailed. So well had
everything been organized by Don Balthazar de Alvaro, and so
native were such exercises to the multitude, that no conflict or
disorder followed, where all things appeared to promise nothing
less. The people knew their places; the officials their business.
The heralds, and pursuivants, and alguazils were all in sufficient
number and sufficiently active. But, where the popular consent
is with the given purpose, it is surprising how multitudes work
together to the common end. The officers skirted the barriers
within as well as without, and kept them free from encroachment;
and, gradually, the throngs, pressing forward like crowding
billows of the sea, subsided calmly into their places along
the galleries. The seats were filled as if by magic. The family
groups, or special parties, each unobstructed in its wish to keep
together, formed so many little domestic circles along the immensely
crowded tiers; and the hum and buzz of conversation,
free and unembarrassed as in private homes, went on. The
merry laugh, and the smart jest, and the careless comment, were
uttered aloud, as if none but friendly hearers were at hand to
listen. It is a common error that the Spaniard is inflexible as
well as proud. This is only true of a high state of convention
in the old communities. In the new world, where all were
adventurers, even nobility threw off some of its reserves, and
accommodated itself to a more democratic condition of things;—
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a result, indeed, inevitable from the necessities of the region. But
to our progress.
Suddenly, the bands struck up the national air, and this was
the signal for the approach and entrance of the Adelantado, the
noble knights and ladies who immediately attended him and
his lovely wife, and such favorites as were specially invited to the
more elevated platform which was assigned to the representative
of majesty. This platform, it may be well to state, though
elevated above the lower ranges of the seats assigned to the multitude,
was yet somewhat nearer to the circus. It was immediately
above the corridor, which, in all other parts of the area,
was uncovered. Indeed, it seemed to hang almost over the lists,
and was not so high but that it might be easily touched by a
lance in the hands of a knight on horseback. Along this platform,
and in the foreground, on well and richly cushioned seats, the
ladies were seated, occupying preferred places; the gallants in
attendance taking position in the rear. In the centre of this
former range, sate Don Balthazar de Alvaro, acting as warder;
and immediately behind, but on a dais above him, occupying a
richly garmented fauteuil, sate the Adelantado and his lady.
With the entrance of the two last, the vivas became wilder than
the music, and De Soto bowed impressively and gracefully to
the popular applause. His noble form and princely carriage, the
splendor of his costume, and a proper regard to the immense
amount of patronage which he had brought to the island, made
him a wonderful favorite. Nor was his noble wife less so. She
had virtues, indeed, superior to his, though of a less showy character;
and her personal beauty, her noble carriage, the richness
and exquisite taste of her dress, the equal grace and dignity of
her bearing, served to make her an object of like and equal attraction
with her lord. They took their seats, and the example
was followed by those who accompanied them. When the
places were all filled, the spectacle was one of wonderful brilliancy
and beauty. The seats were so constructed as to show
most of the persons of those who occupied the front, and these
were all naturally solicitous to appear in their richest habits.
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Olivia de Alvaro occupied one of these foremost seats, near her
uncle, and a little below, but quite close to, the Lady Isabella.
She too was splendidly habited; but she was perhaps the least
conscious of the fact of all in that assembly. She had made
her toilet with little heart for it, and little heed to appearances.
Her thoughts were of the saddest; and her face now was pale
as death. There was a brightness, however, in her eye, of singular
wildness, and occasionally it flashed out with a vivid and
peculiar intelligence. But she seldom trusted herself to gaze
about the amphitheatre. She seemed to dread the encounter
with other eyes. Beside her sate the frail, fair beauty, the wife
of Nuno de Tobar, whose little tongue kept up a surprising discharge
of small arms, without intermission. Her supply of
missiles seemed inexhaustible, and as they were mostly addressed
to the ears of Olivia, it is not a matter of wonder if she had nothing
to say in return. The lack of opportunity, indeed, was rather
grateful than otherwise. It saved her from all necessity of finding
apologies for her taciturnity. Behind Olivia stood the provincial
courtier, Don Augustin de Sinolar, redolent of perfume,
and diffuse and gay in silks and glitter. There were other gallants
in waiting: but we must not stop to enumerate. The
anxiety of the multitude has brought them to that hush of expectation
which, even more than military authority, is the best
security for order. The Adelantado, like every good actor, well
understood the impropriety of keeping the stage waiting. He
rose gracefully and waved his truncheon. At the signal, a sudden
blare from the trumpets, at the entrance, quickened the pulsation
in every bosom. The blast was answered from a dozen
quarters all around, the response from the tents of the challengers
to the signal which required them to appear. But a few moments
more elapsed when the trumpets within and without
pealed in unison; a lively and prolonged strain of wild and
cheerful music; and then was heard the heavy trampings of approaching
horse.
“They come! They come!” was the involuntary cry from a
thousand lately stifled voices. Then the heralds and pursuivants
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slowly cantered into the lists, skirting closely the barriers; and
when expectation was at the highest, the challengers, six in number,
made their appearance. And, truth to speak, they showed
themselves right comely chevaliers to the eye, and seemed well
able to carry themselves bravely and keep manfully the field.
They were headed, as was fitting, by the Lieutenant General of
the army, the stout and wealthy Hidalgo, Don Vasco Porcallos
de Figueroa. This cavalier, whatever may have been his personal
merits, was perhaps rather more indebted to his wealth,
for the distinction he enjoyed, than to his genius as a soldier.
We do not know that, up to this period, he had ever made any
remarkable figure in arms. He certainly had, thus far, taken no
such place in the popular imagination as was assigned to sundry
of their famous men, who had proved even unfortunate—such as
Alonzo de Ojeda, and many others. But wealth, with frequent
largesses, a right generous spirit, and a gracious carriage, will
work wonders towards achieving temporary distinction. The
reader may not have forgotten the policy of the Adelantado, already
indicated, by which he was moved to depose the amorous knight,
Nuno de Tobar, from the office which he subsequently conferred
on Vasco de Porcallos. We are not prepared to say that he rejoiced
in the pretext which enabled him to do so. But, it was
one certainly which he did not greatly regret. He was not displeased
at having the means wherewith to buy the favors of the
rich cavalier. And Vasco Porcallos did not defraud expectation.
He did not withhold his treasures from the expedition to Florida.
His castellanos were freely rendered to the wants of his superior,
with whose ambitious views no man of the army seemed so
deeply to sympathize. Vasco Porcallos was seized with a new-born
desire for fame, without foregoing a jot of his old passion
for acquisition. He was anxious to be known, hereafter, as one
of the conquerors in Florida; and, at the same time, he made
sundry shrewd calculations of the profit which would ensue
from his landed estates in Cuba, by concentrating upon them
the labor of the Apalachian savages whom he expected to
make captive in his progress. The two passions, glory and
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gain, strove equally together in his bosom; and, with such rare
harmony, that neither could be said to be, at any time, in the ascendant.
Vasco Porcallos was of a brave temper; and, though
never distinguished in war, as a captain, had yet enjoyed considerable
experience in the new world's conquests. Had he been
a few years younger, he might still have hoped great things from
his gallant spirit and generous ambition. But our cavalier was
on the wrong side of fifty, and few soldiers have ever acquired
reputation, or achieved successes in foreign invasion, after they
have passed the meridian line of life. It may be reasonably
doubted, if his prudence was at all conspicuous in his engaging
in a long and hazardous expedition. That he would endure well
enough the toils of a single campaign, was not questioned even
among those who were jealous of his wealth and great appointments;
and still less was it doubted that he would carry himself
well in such passages of arms as it should fortune him to encounter.
He was acknowledged to be a good lance and a proper
horseman, and as now he appeared in the amphitheatre, portly
of figure, tall, erect, covered with shining armor, riding a splendid
bay, whose form and color were equally free of blemish—for
the white spot, of crescent shape, conspicuous in the centre of
the horse's forehead, was held to be a beauty and not a blemish—
the loud shout of applause which welcomed him, seemed to
give assurance of the popular confidence in his prowess. His
steed was gayly caparisoned with his master's favorite colors,
green and gold, and his own bearing seemed to exhibit a full consciousness
of the distinction he enjoyed, in carrying so brave a
rider. The portly knight bestrode him with an air and spirit
worthy of so gallant an animal; and, as he pricked him forward
with the formidable Spanish rowel and made him caracole to the
balcony, where sate the Adelantado and his noble companions of
the fair sex, the populace again shouted their unsuppressible
admiration. Vasco Porcallos wore a brilliant armor, which betrayed
never a stain of the soil. A rich surcoat of green silk
(afterwards thrown off) hung somewhat loosely above his armor,
which was of polished steel, fretted in figures of gold and silver,
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vines and flowers appearing in the sort of jeweller's work which
is known as variegated gold. His helmet was of like material
and ornament, surmounted with a bunch of beautiful and costly
plumes of the heron. The small shield which he carried lightly
upon his left arm, was of steel also, inlaid with a circular bordering
of gold, of vines and flowers, in the centre of which,
splendidly illuminated, was the armorial ensign of the knight—
a bright, keen eye, looking out from a sun of blazing gold. The
arrogant motto spoke sufficiently for the insolent ambition of
the cavalier. “Es mio lo que veo!”—(“That is mine which I
see!”) But this confidence vexed no self-esteem in all the
assembly. It was but the embodiment of the national conceit,
and it was perhaps warranted by the fact. They had made
their own all that they had seen. It was an encouragement to
valor and enterprise, that the nation should thus believe, that
there was nothing, in reserve, which its warriors could not, in
like manner, make their own. The faith makes the victory.
Vasco Porcallos, known by his largesse much more than by his
valor, was readily assumed to possess a spirit and capacity
worthy of his bounty; and his graceful obeisance before the
dais upon which Hernan de Soto sate, was congratulated by the
repeated vivas of the multitude, and acknowledged by the gracious
smile and courtesy of the Adelantado. Backing his steed with
an elegant and measured, yet free motion, Don Vasco gave way
to his brother challengers to come forward.
He was followed by Balthazar de Gallegos, a stout and gallant
adventurer; who, without being quite so matured by time
as Vasco Porcallos, had, perhaps, seen quite as much service in
Indian warfare. His carriage was good, and his skill and grace
in managing his steed were quite equal to those of his predecessor;
but there was a lamentable disparity in their equipments.
The horse was a fine one, big-limbed, yet of lively motion; but
his furniture was rusty; and the armor of the rider was distinguished
equally by the antiquity of its appearance, and the
numerous dints of battle which it showed. Even the slight decorations
which Balthazar de Gallegos employed in honor of the
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occasion,—consisting of gaudy scarf and various colored shoulder
knots and ribbons, served rather to expose than to relieve the
defects and decayed places in his rusty harness. His shield was
large and cumbrous, but carried lightly on his muscular arm.
It was of a faded blue ground, on which was painted a volcanic
mountain in eruption, the jets of fire ascending without falling—
the motto indicative of a thoroughly Spanish ambition—“Mas
bien consumir que no exaltarme!”—(“Rather burn than not rise!”)
A few cheers followed the appearance of this cavalier; but they
sounded very coldly and meanly, succeeding those which had
honored the man of fortune; and after making his obeisance,
Balthazar de Gallegos, drew his steed into the background, as if
satisfied that his mountain would burn rather unprofitably at the
present moment.
Very different was the welcome which hailed the appearance
of the third challenger. This was our old acquaintance, the amorous
young cavalier, Nuno de Tobar. Nuno was a favorite with
all classes, poor and rich, men no less than women. His known
grace and bravery,—his frank carriage, easy, accessible, playful
manner,—the generosity of his heart,—the unaffected simplicity
of his nature,—all combined to secure for him the most sweet
voices of the multitude. These became clamorous as the spectators
beheld the elegance and excellence with which he managed
the iron-gray charger which he bestrode—the dexterity with
which he led him, caracoling, almost waltzing, around the lists,
to the foot of the gallery where the Adelantado presided. The
steed himself was one to delight the eye of all who beheld him,—
his symmetrical outline, his fiery grace, and the perfect obedience
which he displayed, even when his spirit seemed eager to
burst from the bondage of his own frame. The armor of Nuno
de Tobar was bright and polished. He had taken some lessons
on this subject from the Portuguese brothers, whom he aimed to
rival. It was not rich, like that of Vasco de Porcallos, nor in
such good taste. In truth, it must be admitted that the tastes
of Nuno were inclined to be gaudy. The decorations of his
armor, due probably as much to his gay young wife, as to his
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own tastes, were of a kind to suit the costume of a damsel rather
than a cavalier. But liveliness and gallantry in youth will be
permitted to excuse the offence of foppishness; and, where the
tastes of a knight showed themselves doubtfully, a gentle judgment
allowed his other personal qualities to repair the defect.
The spectators beheld nothing but his graces, the known kindness
of his heart, the strength of his arm, the spirit and the beauty of
his horsemanship; and, while the men made the welkin ring
with their clamor at his appearance, the damsels responded to
their welcomes, by a pretty effort at clapping hands, and a
swarming buzz of approving voices; for all which, our young
knight exhibited a due measure of the most grateful smiles. His
shield, we should mention, bore the representation of a ship
drifting at sea, with the motto, “El mar es mi puerto,”—(The
sea is my port,) conceived very much in the spirit of all the
Spanish enterprise of that day. Having finished his obeisance, and
made a laudable showing of his person and horsemanship, Nuno de
Tobar reined his steed backwards, and took his position beside
Balthazar de Gallegos; being the third of the knights on the list
of challengers.
He was followed by three cavaliers of good repute: Christopher
de Spinola, Gonzalo Sylvestre, (a youth not more than
twenty-one, but of fine figure, excellent skill and great courage,)
and Mateo de Aceytuno, a brave knight, who was also the
largest in frame of all the cavaliers in the army. Whether on
foot or mounted, his gigantic stature, like that of Saul, made it
easy for him to tower above all his associates. His spirit and
prowess were not unworthy of his size. Though somewhat slow
of movement, apathetic, and not easily aroused, he yet never
failed in any of the duties which were assigned him; and his behavior
was such always as to secure for him the approbation of
his superiors. He rode a famous steed, named Aceytuno, after
himself, that had a reputation of its own. He was claimed to
be of direct Barbary origin, and greatly valued by his owner, who,
however, subsequently presented him to De Soto, in consequence
of the frequent and warmly expressed admiration of the latter.
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Aceytuno was a brilliant animal; in color something between a
sorrel and a bay, but of a blood so rich that it seemed rather to
diffuse itself everywhere beneath the skin, through which it shone
like a purple dye, than to pursue its bounded course through the
ordinary channel of vein and artery.
Each of these knights had his motto and coat-of-arms. The
shield of Christopher de Spinola carried a pair of huge wings,
under which was written, “A solas me sostingo,” (Alone I sustain
myself,) not a bad image for a modest bachelor, who had neither
wife nor children, and was not required to feed the orphans of
any of his neighbors. That of the gallant youth, Gonzalo Sylvestre,
would be regarded in our day as something impious, even
for a lover, who is supposed to be excusable, by reason of the
amiable insanity under which he labors, for any infidelity except
that to his mistress. His shield represented the face of a very
beautiful woman, and the motto, “Sin vos, y sin Dios y mi,” (Without
thee I am without God and without myself,) was considered
by all the young damsels present as the most felicitous of all sweet
sayings, to which, whatever might be the objections of the Deity
himself, the Blessed Virgin ought by no manner of reason to
object at all. The figure upon the shield of Don Mateo de
Aceytuno was confined to his profession of arms. A mailed
hand grasps a lance; the device was, “No hay otro vinculo que el
nuestro,” (“There is no bond of union but ours,”—or, as understood,
if not expressed—“we part all bonds but our own.”)
Mateo de Aceytuno completed the number of the challengers.
They now rode together around the lists, prepared to undertake
all comers. The first passages were to be with the lance; to be
followed by the battle-axe or sword, according to the pleasure
of the contending parties; and the breaking of the lance, the
blow fairly delivered without defence offered, of the battle-axe;
or the sword wrested from the gripe of one or other of the combatants,
in the struggle, was understood to be conclusive of the
combat in each case, and sufficient for the victory.
By this time expectation was at the highest point of excitation
in the assembly. The galleries were all filled with spectators;
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the corridor girdled densely with the most reckless and eager;
the superior seats shone, without vacancy, with beauty and splendor.
Even along the surrounding hills, groups of the simple
natives might be seen looking on and listening, though unable
to catch more than a glimpse of events, and depending for their
interest upon the expression of emotions among those who saw.
Meanwhile, the eyes of the knights-challengers sought naturally
the forms of the fair ladies in the galleries. Of these, indeed,
the heralds kept them constantly reminded by their cries,—cries
immemorially preserved by the heralds of chivalry—encouraging
them to brave deeds for the reward of loving smiles.
“Bright eyes!” was the quaint form of the apostrophe;—
“bright eyes for the blessing of brave lances! Brave lances for
the honor of bright eyes! Smile, fair ladies, that your noble
lovers may take heart! Do brave deeds, noble lovers, that the
ladies of your hearts may smile! a trumpet for brave lances!—
and thrice a trumpet for the honor of bright eyes!”
Then blared the lively bugles in full blast together! Then
burst in mighty gushes the full torrents of the wild barbaric music,
which the Wisigoth had borrowed from the Moor, and the
Spaniard from both—drums, and flutes, and cymbals:—while the
excited pulses of the spectators were relieved by murmurs of
delight; by sudden cries of exultation—by shouts of applause and
encouragement.
The effect of all this was not less remarkable upon the knights-challengers
than upon the crowd. The enthusiastic veteran,
favorite of mammon, Don Vasco de Porcallos, could scarcely
keep his seat, so eagerly did his ears drink in the stimulating
sounds and murmurs, so fondly did his eyes traverse that fair
assembly, to whose bright glances he was bade to look. Nor
was the effect thus stimulating in his respect alone. Don Nuno
de Tobar did not fail to note the perpetual waving towards him
of the scarf of his newly-made and dutifully-loving wife; but it
must be confessed that his eyes requited other spectators in that
fairy circle, with quite as devout a regard as he paid to the beautiful,
but frail, Leonora de Bobadilla. The young knights,
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Christopher de Spinola and Gonzalo de Sylvestre, were not less heedful
of charms to which they might more properly assert their
claims; and, despite his rough exterior, Balthazar de Gallegos
showed himself as eager of the notice of the ladies as any of the
rest. Of whom, indeed, does not beauty, when it smiles, make
the fool? The rough soldier, seasoned to ill usage and strife,
callous to blows, and sworn to plunder, was quite as solicitous
of the approval of bright eyes, as the young gallant just about to
undertake his devoir to secure his spurs of knighthood.
But a rougher parley awaits all the parties. The Adelantado
gives the signal for the assailants to appear. Don Balthazar de
Alvaro waves his truncheon; the heralds shout, the trumpets
sound, and the trampings of horse again are heard. Soon, the
six assailing cavaliers begin to pass into the amphitheatre.
We shall be excused from such details, in respect to these, as
we have given of the challengers, and for obvious reasons. They
do not concern the actual business of this true chronicle, and enough
has been shown to afford a general idea of the habits, manners,
and characteristics of the times. We shall, accordingly, confine
ourselves, hereafter, to such persons only as belong to our dramatis
personœ.
Of the six assailants, then, we are required to report that
Don Philip de Vasconselos ranked only as the fifth. His own
modesty gave him this position. He might have led the party,
had it pleased him to do so. But he preferred simply to take
his place as one of several. His brother Andres was not of either
party; but this, it must be remembered, did not affect his claims
to take the field against all, or any, of those who might remain
the conquerors.
Philip was mounted upon a coal-black steed of famous nurture;
large of frame, strong of muscle, fleet of foot, hardy to
endure, and of a beautiful symmetry. It was a pleasure to behold
his form, simply as he stood, without motion, obedient to
the rein. His eyes flashed fire as he darted into the ring, and
heard the mingled cries and clamors from a hundred trumpets,
and a thousand voices. Though docile as a lamb, his forefoot
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pawed the earth impatiently, as if emulous of the laurels also,
and his breast heaved, like a rocking ship, that strains upon the
cordage, as if anxious to break away upon the billows. But
the firm hand of the rider was the anchor to his will. Very
calmly did Philip de Vasconselos approach the dais, and make
his obeisance with lifted lance, and graceful bend of his mailed
stature, to the Adelantado. There was no curvetting, no aim
to show either his riding or his bearing. De Soto received him
with a graceful, but not a cordial salutation. The smile upon his
lips was very faint and cold; very different, indeed, from that
of the noble lady his wife, who curtsied frankly, and smiled
cheeringly, while her eye declared her honest admiration of the
character and bearing of the knight of Portugal. De Soto could
not forgive the defection from his ranks of so experienced an
adventurer; and though very impolitic to discriminate in the
treatment of the knights, he was one of those men whose feelings
but too frequently escape the fetters of their policy. With a
further obeisance, Philip closed his visor, and rode back to his
place in the lists—a place which brought him to confront the
burly form of the gigantic Mateo de Aceytuno.
We must not forget to mention that his person was cased in
a beautiful, but plain suit of chain armor, of the purest fashion.
It was very brightly polished, and as free of spot or defect as of
ornament. This suit he did not wear in Indian battle, but in
place of it one of cotton, well wadded, which, strange to say, had
been found better defence against the arrows of the red man, than
the vaunted armor of the knights of Christendom. His helmet
was surmounted by a single plume, long and waving, and black
as the raven's. His shield was a series of circular steel plates,
the centre of which revealed his crest and device,—the figure, a
ruined tower, from which a falcon was about to fly, hovering
above it,—the device, in Latin: “Volucri non opus est nido,”—
(Having the wing, I no longer need the nest,)—a sufficient allusion
to his homeless fortunes, and to the independent courage
which enabled him to soar above them. He wore no lady's
favor, no gaud, no ribbon; but with uniform costume, there was
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a sort of sombre nobleness in his aspect that compelled respectful
attention. His known prowess, honored by those who were
jealous of his nation, increased the admiration of those who surveyed
his form and watched his movements. Of these he recked
little, and perhaps saw nothing; but there were eyes in that
great assembly whom it thrilled his bosom to feel were beholding
him also. In the brief moment of communion with the gallery,
where sate the grandees of the island and their families, his
glance had encountered with that of Olivia de Alvaro. She had
striven greatly to avoid the single look which she gave him, but
a terrible fascination forced her eyes upon him. His grew
brighter and prouder at the grateful encounter, and he did not
perceive that hers sunk upon the instant of meeting, and that her
cheek grew ashen pale. But her emotion did not escape the
keen glances of her uncle; and a close observer might have noted
the sudden contraction of his brows, which followed his discovery.
Sitting where he did, just below the Adelantado, and immediately
above the lists, he witnessed easily the sudden quickening of
light in the eyes of the Portuguese cavalier, and the as sudden
paling of the cheek of Olivia. But Philip and Olivia were, at
that moment, wholly unconscious of the watch maintained upon
them.
Here, let us pause and breathe. Our chapter is a long one,
and having placed our champions in opposition, let us reserve
the report of the joyous passage for another.
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CHAPTER XVII.
`Son dunque,” disse il Saracino, `sono
Dunque in si poco credito con voi,
Che mi stimiate inutile, e non buono
Da potervi difender da costui?”
—Ariosto.
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The temptation to describe the scene that followed must be
struggled with. It will not do for us to aim at successes, at this
late day, in a field which has employed the genius of Tasso, of
Ariosto, of Spenser, and Walter Scott, not to speak of hundreds
more, whose practised pens have painted for us the full details
of many a well-urged passages-of-arms between rival knights in
the presence of nobility and beauty. The reader is already sufficiently
imbued with such scenes to require no elaborate details;
and we shall, accordingly, confine ourselves mostly to those portions
of the tournament at Havana which concern immediately
the persons of our own drama, making the general description
as succinct as possible. With this caution to our audience,
against unreasonable fears or improper expectations, we proceed
to our task.
The champions, challengers, and defenders, being now confronted,
and all prepared, the truncheon of De Soto was raised,
giving the signal. The trumpets sounded the charge, and the
opposing parties rushed to the encounter like so many vivid
flashes from the cloud. The concussion threw up a sudden whirlwind
of dust, while the solid earth shook beneath the thunder of
their tread. At the very first encounter two of the assailing
party and one of the challengers went down, and were dragged
off the field by their squires. This result left Nuno de Tobar,
whose opponent had been one of those overthrown, to turn his
lance in whatsoever direction he thought proper; but, with the
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generosity of a noble nature, he preferred to keep himself in
reserve for such other inequality in the struggle as might yield
him an unembarrassed combatant wholly to himself. New
lances having been supplied to those who had fractured them fairly
in the passage and without disparagement to their arms, the signal
was given for a fresh encounter; the vacancies, meanwhile,
being supplied in the ranks of both parties. In this second passage,
Don Vasco de Porcallos carried himself so handsomely
against his opponent, who was a huge Fleming of nearly his own
dimensions, that the latter was incontinently overthrown, and
removed almost insensible from the field. A similar fortune,
though not with such serious hurt, befell Christopher de Spinola,
whose boast “a solas me sostingo,” was not justified by the result
of the encounter. He was handsomely lifted out of his saddle
by the lance of Diego Arias Tinoco, a brave captain, rough as a
porcupine, who was honored as standard-bearer of the army.
The latter, being now disengaged, was singled out by Nuno de
Tobar, and his horse failing, and swerving in the shock, he was
adjudged to have been worsted, and very reluctantly yielded for
the moment to a conqueror.
The successes of Nuno were welcomed right royally by the
cheers of the admiring spectators; whose comments, by the
way, were administered unsparingly, whether for praise or blame,
at every charge in the business of the field. Meanwhile, Philip
de Vasconselos has borne himself in a second encounter with the
gigantic Mateo de Aceytuno. In the first, a gentle and joyous passage,
as the heralds styled it, the advantage was decreed to rest
with neither. Their lances had been mutually well addressed, and
had shivered at the same moment, both knights preserving their
seats handsomely, though not, perhaps, with equal grace;—for
Philip had few equals in mere carriage—and recovered their
places in an instant; but proper judgments remarked, in the
strong patois of the mountains, that the horse of Mateo had too
little bone for his master's beef. In this, he certainly suffered
some disadvantage. But the second conflict was decisive; and
the knight of Aceytuno went down before his more adroit
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antagonist—his huge bulk thundering upon the earth like the concussion
of some mighty tower. Something of this advantage was said
to be due to a loosening of the girth, by which the saddle of the
heavy knight was secured; but others more liberal, perhaps just,
ascribed it to the better skill of Philip; at all events, the one
opponent disappearing from the field, Philip de Vasconselos found
himself in the presence of another, in the person of his friend,
Nuno de Tobar.
Perhaps, the whole tournament exhibited no two warriors better
matched in most respects. They were nearly of the same
size and age; of strength apparently nearly equal, equally expert
in the use of weapons, and equally accomplished in the management
of the horse. These were the comparisons made by most
persons; and as the two combatants, now almost alone engaged
in the area, confronted each other with fresh lances, the people,
and after them the heralds, sent up fresh cries of admiration and
encouragement.
“Ho! brave cavaliers, for the honor of your ladies! Ho!
bright lances, for the glory of the conquest!” And, sometimes,
the cry, “Ho! Santiago, and the lance of Spain!” indicated the
working of that feeling of nationality, which did not forget that
the opponent of Nuno de Tobar was from another, and, at that
time, a rival nation. The occasional murmurs, and snatches of
dialogue among the crowds, declared this prejudice more strongly.
“I like not that these Portuguese should come hither to glean
of our contests! Shall we find the countries and make the conquest
of the natives, that these should gather the gold? Now,
may the good lance of Nuno de Tobar send him from the saddle
with such shock, as shall make him think no more of the pearls
of Florida!”
Such was the sort of murmur occasionally spoken aloud.
“Out upon thee!” was the reply of some less selfish spirit.
“There is room for all, and gold for all, and there needs all the
brave men that we can muster for these wars with the Apalachian
savages. They are no such feeble wretches as these of Cuba, or
even of Peru, where Pizarro, I warrant you, and our Adelantado
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here, had work enough. They will make us glad of all the good
lances that will crowd thither under our banner. The Portuguese
is a good lance, and his brother, the younger, is a good
lance; though where he hides himself at this time, and wherefore,
I cannot guess. I had looked to see him here. Had he
been opposed to our fat Vasco Porcallos, instead of that clumsy
Fleming, I warrant you that he had made the other sweat! But,
hark! they prepare! Go to it, good knights! Go to it with a
stomach! Show that ye have fed on lances! That your daily
meat hath been bolt and spear-head, and your drink hath been
sword-blades, and Moorish scimitars! Ho! brave lances! Ho!
brave steeds! To it! to it! brave lances, noble steeds!”
This was one of a hundred voices, eagerly urging the cavaliers
to the conflict which was held so equal. Equal in many respects,
there were yet some, in which the knight of Portugal, or as they
called him, “the Knight of the Homeless Falcon,”—in allusion to
his crest—had much the advantage. His steed had been better
trained for such encounters; he himself had seen more various
service; and he possessed a sedate and temperate coolness of
mind, to which the somewhat mercurial nature of Nuno de Tobar
could not lay claim. Above all, he knew just in what
particulars he himself was strong and his opponent weak, and
he prepared rather to exercise his patience and watchfulness, than
his strength and skill. Nuno de Tobar, ambitious of excelling—
fighting in the presence of the army, and of that beauty which
was usually the source of his inspiration—resolved that Philip de
Vasconselos should have need of both. Besides, he was to fight
for the honor of Spanish lances. Though, personally, a devoted
friend of his present opponent, he had heard the popular cries
which insisted upon their Castilian representative, in opposition to
the foreign knight; and he was determined that Spain's honor
should suffer nothing at his hands.
But Philip de Vasconselos had also heard these cries. He
had long since been bitterly made to feel the jealousy and prejudices
which existed amongst the Castilians towards himself and
his Portuguese associates, and the pride of self and nation, which
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rendered resolute his courage, was mingled with something of
bitterness, which made him half forgetful that Nuno de Tobar
was his friend. Thus it was that, as if in recognition of the peculiar
wishes of the multitude, each knight was prepared to engage
in the struggle with a sentiment approaching that of a real
hostility. We have said nothing of the influence which the presence
of Olivia de Alvaro had upon this feeling of Philip. It is
enough to say that it did not, by any means, lessen his fixed resolution
to employ all the prowess of which he was master in
the approaching controversy.
The interval necessary in providing the champions with fresh
lances, tightening the girths of their saddles, and otherwise making
them ready for the combat, was consumed in much less time than
we have taken in describing it. The knights were both in their
places, and the trumpets sounded the charge. The passage was
a very beautiful one, which greatly delighted the heralds. Both
lances were shivered equally, the strokes being made at the same
moment, and each delivering it fairly upon the shield of his
enemy. Newly supplied with weapons, the encounter was renewed,
and with the same results. By this time, however, Nuno
de Tobar was growing impatient. He felt, rather than beheld,
the coolness of his opponent; in which he knew lay the chief advantage
of the latter; and with this feeling, it seemed quite in
vain that he strove to preserve his own. Philip de Vasconselos
discerned the restlessness of his adversary, in a little circumstance,
which drew down upon the Spanish champion the thoughtless
applauses of the multitude. In receiving a fresh lance from the
herald, and while wheeling about to recover his position in the
lists, De Tobar hurled the lance no less than three times into
the air, catching it dexterously as it fell, and each time by the
proper grasp. Such agility, which seemed conclusive to the
crowd of equal confidence and skill, appeared in the eyes of
Philip de Vasconselos a proof of a nervous excitation, rather than
strength of will, or coolness; and he prepared himself, accordingly,
to change somewhat his plan of combat. Hitherto, when
his steed had rushed to the encounter, his lance, like that of De
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Tobar, had been addressed to the shield of his opponent. This
was the common mark in the tournament of that day; the want
of exercise making the atteint more difficult when addressed to
the gorget, or the helm; but the cavalier of Portugal had practised
the one method as well as the other, and not designing a
surprise upon his opponent, he shook out his lance, ere the trumpets
sounded, and levelled it in the direction of De Tobar's visor.
The hint seemed to be taken, for the lance of the latter was at
once slightly elevated, receiving a new direction in his glance.
Thus prepared, the signal was given, and they hurried to the
shock. At the moment of crossing spears, his point still addressed
to the visor of his opponent, Vasconselos threw suddenly
the lower edge of his shield forwards, inclining it over his own
head, and watching the object of his aim from beneath the very
rim of the buckler. No time was left the other for providing
against this peculiar interposition of the shield, which required
him to have aimed so truly as to thrust his lance directly against
the visor of his antagonist, the crest of which was totally covered,
leaving the mark aimed at reduced to the smallest possible size.
The skill of Tobar was not equal to such a manœuvre. The
point of his lance accordingly struck the edge of the raised shield,
and glanced upward, and onward, over the smooth surface, expending
itself in air; while the point of Vasconselos, admirably
delivered, was riveted in the bars of his antagonist's visor, so
firmly, and so fairly, that there was no escape, no evasion of it
possible; and the gallant Nuno was borne from his saddle, without
seeming resistance. Indeed, the spear so fixed, the onward
rush of both steeds gave it an impulse which no skill, no strength,
at such a moment, could possibly withstand. It carried him
headlong to the ground, and the steed went free from under
him.
There was a cry, almost a howl, from the multitude, at the
fall of their favorite, and the national champion.
“Demonios!” sang out the swell mob in the corridor, who
flung up their arms with their voices, and swore, and tore their
hair, with as much vivacity as could be shown by the most
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mercurial Frenchman. A few voices shouted their applause of the
conqueror; not able to resist the emotion, more strong than
nationality, in favor of a deed of manhood. But these soon died
away; and then could be heard that angry sort of discussion, in
all parts of the amphitheatre, in which, though all persons were
agreed, there was yet no possibility of settling upon the reason
which should justify their anger, or soothe their disappointment.
Meanwhile, Philip de Vasconselos had thrown himself out of the
saddle, and was the first to hurry to assist and extricate his friend
from helm and gorget, and raise him from the ground. The
squires, however, were soon in attendance. The fall had been a
really severe one, and the Spanish knight was somewhat stunned
by it; but, otherwise, he was uninjured. But his head felt the
soreness, not his heart. His gloved hand, as soon as he had
sufficiently recovered to recognize his opponent, clutched that of
Vasconselos, in token of that friendly sympathy between them,
which such an event could never interrupt. He was assisted off
from the field, and Philip now rode back to his place, prepared
for the next encounter.
The caprices of the day had left him without other antagonist,
of all the challengers, than the portly Hidalgo, Don Vasco Porcallos
de Figueroa. In him, the Spanish multitude were disquieted
to think, that they beheld the only obstacle, now, in the
way of the knight of Portugal; who, if successful in this passage,
would remain the master of the field. The vain and wealthy
cavalier, thus distinguished by fate, as was Ulysses, to be “devoured
the last” of his comrades, had hitherto maintained himself
with equal spirit and success. He had been fortunate, perhaps,
in not having been confronted with the most formidable of the
knights by whom the challengers had been encountered. He
was, perhaps, not wholly unconscious of this fact; and it was
with some misgivings, accordingly,—which he shared equally
with his Castilian friends,—that he prepared to contend, not so
much for new conquests, as to maintain those which his lance
had already achieved. He had seen enough of the prowess of
the knight of the Falcon, by whom the favorite of the Spaniards
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had been so roughly handled, to entertain a reasonable apprehension
of the consequences to himself; and, if the truth were
known, he was in little humor for this last grand passage. Could
he have retired from the contest without discredit, and without
utter forfeiture of the honors he had already won, it is perhaps
doing him no injustice to say that he would most certainly have
declined it. He had not gone through his fatigues without suffering.
His portly frame, for a long time unused to harness,
was now shrinking beneath its incumbrance. He was reeking
with perspiration, which a brimming goblet of cool wine of Xeres,
which he had just swallowed, had not tended to diminish. But,
with all his annoyances and doubts, he put on a good countenance,
and, closing up his visor, prepared for the encounter, with his
best hope and spirit.
“The fat knight adds but another to the trophies of our Portuguese
cavalier. Philip de Vasconselos will remain master of
the field; certainly, he hath most admirable skill of horse and
weapon. He hath but a single joust before him, and then he
may elect the Queen of Love and Beauty!”
This was said by Don Balthazar de Alvaro. It was addressed
to the lady of the Adelantado. But it was meant for other
ears. At a little distance, on the left of Hernan de Soto, stood
Andres de Vasconselos. He had been a witness of all that had
taken place; and had heard the significant words of Olivia's uncle.
For a moment he gazed steadily upon the field; then, giving
a single glance at Olivia, whose color had been greatly heightened
by her emotions during the scene, he was about to leave the
scaffolding, when the words of the Adelantado reached his ears,—
not spoken aloud, but rather as if giving expression to a feeling
which he could no longer suppress, and which was stronger
than his policy:
“Now, would I give my best steed could Vasco Porcallos
maintain himself to the overthrow of this Portuguese cavalier.
It were shame to the lances of Spain should he bear away the
palm; and I would gladly see that arrogance rebuked, which but
too much distinguishes this stranger. Were it not for the
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position which I hold, I should myself take up lance, and mount
steed in this combat!”
“To be thyself overcome,” was the secret thought of Andres
de Vasconselos, which he found it difficult to suppress. Hernan
de Soto had not noticed the near neigborhood of the younger of
the two Portuguese knights, as he made his indiscreet remark;
but Balthazar de Alvaro was well aware of his presence. He
saw, too, the meaning of that fierce glance which flashed from
the eyes of Andres, when the speech of the Adelantado was
made. It was his policy to divert the anger of Andres de Vasconselos
from every but one object, and he quickly remarked,
still seeming not to perceive the youth:
“It were no easy matter to wrest the victory from this knight
of Portugal, at this moment. There are, if I mistake not, bright
eyes in this assembly, the favoring smiles of which will arm
him with invincible power. He who fights in the sight of beauty
is always brave; but he who fights in the eyes of a beloved one,
who, at the same time looks love in return, is unconquerable.”
This was carelessly said, but the glance of the uncle led the
eyes of Andres de Vasconselos to the spot where sate the niece.
She saw nothing but the one presence in the field; and in her
face, more than ever beautiful, glowed the fires of an affection
which was not to be misunderstood. Her cheek was no longer
sad and pale, as Andres had usually beheld it. It was now
flashed with an emotion, betraying a joy and a triumph which
was forgetful wholly of itself. Andres followed the direction of
her eye, and he saw his brother, proud and eager, with visor uplifted,
and gazing, with the most intent delight, upon the beautiful
creature whom he had loved in vain. Bitter was the pang at
his heart, and, with emotions of hate and envy, which could not be
controlled, he dashed away from the stage, and disappeared
among the pavilions in the rear. Balthazar de Alvaro beheld
his departure, almost the only one of the assembly who did so,
with a keen feeling of gratification.
“He has it!” muttered the wily politician to himself, as he
once more addressed his attention to the business of the tourney:
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“He has it—and the time is not distant, when he will make
another feel the fury of that dark passion which is working in
his heart.”
Don Balthazar judged rightly of the feelings of Andres, when
he allowed his own nature to provide the standards of judgment.
Why had Andres gone to his pavilion? we shall see hereafter.
Enough, that he summons his squire to his aid; that he cases
himself in armor; that he bids them get ready his destrier, that
he buckles sword to his side, and shakes aloft the heavy lance,
and tries its burden with his hands. Let us leave him, and return
to the amphitheatre.
-- 233 --
CHAPTER XVIII.
“Clashing of swords! Brother opposed to brother!
Here is no fencing at half-sword. Hold! hold!”
Beaumont and Fletcher.
[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]
This episode, between parties not mingling with the action,
offered no obstruction to the progress of the tourney. The preparations
still went on for the passage-at-arms between our knight
of the Falcon, and the redoubtable millionaire, Don Vasco de
Porcallos. These were soon completed, and the knights took
their places. “Laissez aller!” The signal being given, the two
champions dashed forward to the encounter with a desperate
speed that threatened to annihilate both combatants. There was
no reluctance in the carriage and conduct of the rich cavalier,
however great might have been his secret misgivings. While
he, no doubt, questioned his own resources of skill and strength
against an opponent who had always proved himself most formidable,
yet the doubts of Don Vasco never once occasioned any
fears in his bosom. He was brave enough when the trial was
to be made. He was not destined to be successful, but he was
spared some of the mortifications of defeat. A misfortune happened
to him, while in mid career, which probably saved our
corpulent cavalier from a much worse evil. His steed, which
was as high-spirited as he was powerful, trod upon the barbed
head of a broken lance which had been partly buried out of sight
beneath the sands of the arena. The sharp point of the steel
touched the quick of the animal's foot, and, with a snort of terror,
he wheeled about at the very moment when the lances should
have crossed. He became suddenly unmanageable. Quick as
lightning, as he beheld the straits of his opponent, the knight of
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Portugal elevated his own lance, and, having full control of his
steed, drew him suddenly up, arresting him in his full speed so
admirably, that he stood quivering upon the spot; the unexpended
impulse which he had received now shaking him as with an ague.
In another instant, Philip de Vasconselos was on his feet, and
had grasped the bridle of the unmanageable steed of his rival,
which, by this time, was in a state of fury, occasioned by the
agony of his hurt, which threatened momently to unseat his
rider. The timely service enabled Don Vasco to alight, and
gratefully acknowledging the assistance rendered, he at the same
time acknowledged himself vanquished. The courtesy of his
opponent, indeed, had alone spared him this misfortune. Don
Philip gracefully rejected this acknowledgment, and, ascribing
the event solely to the sufferings of his rival's horse, proposed
that Don Vasco should find another. But, by this time, the
chivalrous feelings of the latter had somewhat subsided. He felt
much less enthusiastic than before, and was rather pleased now
at a means of evasion, which, while it lost him the final honor of
the day, at least left him in possession of the credit which he had
acquired in the previous passages. The knight of the Falcon
remounted his own steed, and resumed his place within the lists.
He stood alone, and in expectation. No champion stood before
him, challenging the triumph which he had won,—the crowning
triumph of the field. There was a sudden and deep silence
throughout the assembly. The feeling was everywhere adverse
to his claims and expectations; and it was with something of
contempt, not unmixed with bitterness, that our knight of Portugal
was reminded of the national prejudice, which felt reluctant
to do justice to the achievements of the stranger. There
was no other reason for the silence and forbearance of Don
Hernan de Soto, who, in the case of a Castilian champion, or
in that of one to whom he felt no personal prejudice, would, no
doubt, have promptly risen in his place, and summoned the successful
knight forward, to choose the Queen of Love and Beauty,
and to receive the chaplet of honor at her hands. There was no
reason why the award should not be promptly made. There
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was no challenge pending. No opponent had announced himself
for the combat. All who had presented themselves had been
disposed of. Yet the knight of the Falcon was allowed to stand
in waiting, unemployed, alone, for a space of several minutes,
not a word being spoken to him, and a dead silence hanging over
the multitude, significantly declaring the general reluctance to
make the necessary award. In the silence of the crowd, De Soto
felt his justification. But the gallant Nuno de Tobar, who had,
by this time, joined the ladies about the Adelantado, warmly
interposed to demand that justice should be done to the conquering
champion. It was with a cold severity of look that De Soto
prepared to comply with a requisition which he could not longer
escape with decency, when Don Balthazar de Alvaro interposed.
“But a moment more, your excellency.”
“Wherefore?” demanded Tobar. “Will you keep the knight
of Portugal in waiting all day, without a cause?”
“Let him wait!” said De Soto, sharply, though in subdued
tones. “The warder hath a reason for it.”
Don Balthazar whispered to Tobar:
“There is cause. The tourney is not yet ended. There is
another challenger. He will soon appear.”
“Ha! who?”
How did Don Balthazar know that there was another challenger?
The simple Nuno de Tobar himself never dreamed of
it; still less did he conjecture in what guise the new claimant
for the laurels should appear. At that moment, silencing all
further conversation and speculation, a sudden sharp flourish from
a trumpet without awakened Philip de Vasconselos to the conviction
that his crown was not secure. By this time, his feelings
had become sufficiently embittered for genuine anger, and a real
conflict. He turned his glance quickly, as he heard the tread of
the approaching cavalier, and beheld emerging into the amphitheatre
the form of Andres his brother. The spectacle was one
of extreme sorrow and mortification to the elder brother. The
moment he beheld him, Philip muttered to himself, closing his
visor:
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“Thou too, my brother! Thou hast then joined with mine
enemies—ay, and thy enemies too—against me!”
The visor of Andres was already closed, and Philip could not
behold his face; but he could readily conjecture the crimson
flush which covered it,—the usual sign of his intemperate passion.
He had been somewhat surprised, that Andres had taken
no part in the tournament before; but the feeling was not one
of regret, since, as we have seen, he had already entertained some
misgivings that his brother might take the field against himself.
We have not forgotten the fierce dialogue which had taken place
between them on this subject. Of course, Philip de Vasconselos
entertained no personal apprehensions from the encounter. His
pride was in no way alarmed, lest he should meet with overthrow,
in the passage-at-arms with his brother. Indeed, to speak
plainly, Philip knew too well his own superiority of training,
art, and muscle; though the vanity of Andres was such that he
had persuaded himself to a very different estimate of their mutual
powers. He was yet to be taught a better knowledge of
their disparity. The reluctance of Philip to engage in such a
contest, even though the tournament implied neither strife nor
malice, was based upon his just knowledge of human nature;
upon his thorough experience in respect to the mood and character
of Andres—his passionate blood; his disappointments of
heart; his jealousy of the superior influence and reputation of
his brother. We can readily divine the several reasons which
governed Philip in his anxiety to escape a conflict, in regard to
which he yet entertained no fears. Now that they stood confronted,
and the contest was inevitable, he endeavored to calm
his own blood, and control his temper, somewhat excited by the
circumstances which had marked his treatment by the Adelantado
and the assembly. But this was not so difficult. The reception
of Andres, by the audience, was of a sort to kindle in
the elder brother a sentiment of passionate indignation, as it
declared how grateful to the common feeling would be his overthrow.
The multitude hailed the entry of the new champion
with the wildest plaudits, not simply as he promised to prolong
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their sports, but as he afforded still another chance for the defeat
of the person whose triumph had chafed the national pride.
It was true that, even if Andres should succeed against Philip,
the honor would be lost to Castile; but to this finality, their
vision did not extend. All that they now required was the
defeat of the one cavalier, to whom their own favorites had been
compelled to succumb.
There was still another reason for the excitement of the multitude,
on the unexpected appearance of Andres de Vasconselos.
It is a curious fact, that the instincts of the vulgar rarely err in
respect to the passions which goad and afflict the natures of distinguished
men. The common people seem readily to conjecture
in what points superiority is weak. They all knew, by sure instinct,
that the brothers were rivals. They had seen and heard
enough, touching their mutual attachment to the fair beauty,
Olivia de Alvaro, to imagine that the approaching conflict was
to be marked by other feelings than those of chivalrous ambition,
and the pride that looks only to the momentary triumph.
They guessed all the bitter vexation that stimulated the one
champion, and they inferred like feelings in the bosom of the
other. And the two were to fight in the presence of the woman
whom they both loved. A thousand eyes turned involuntarily
to where Olivia sate, pale and breathless with anxiety and apprehension.
She, too, partook of the convictions of the multitude.
They were brothers; they were rivals; and she had reason to
fear that they were enemies. She had heard of the separation
of their tents; and that there had already been sharp words between
them. And now they stood, face to face, fronting each
other with sharp weapons. What had she not to fear? The
very manner in which Andres de Vasconselos appeared within
the field; the moment chosen, when his elder brother was in
full possession of the victory; when but a moment was needed
to afford him the laurel crown for which he had striven! This
was a circumstance full of significance. That Andres had not
sought the conflict with other champions, or previously, at any
period, was a sufficient proof that its honors were not the objects
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of his desire. Why should he take the field now, unless with
the aim to pluck them from the brow of his brother? It was a
bad passion—hate, revenge, anything but an honorable ambition—
which prompted his appearance now, at the last moment.
Olivia thought all these things. Such were the thoughts of
Philip also. But he strove to restrain and silence them; and, in
the brief interval allowed him, his inward struggle was to subdue
himself,—to keep his own bad passions in subjection, and to offer
no such provocation to those of his brother, as would place him
entirely beyond control of human reason. He resolved to be
forbearing in all respects. But this did not imply that he would
forego any of his resources of skill or strength in the conflict.
He was not, by any means, to yield his claims to the honors of
the field, in favor of any opponent. On this point he was resolute;
and, thus resolved, it became him, if he would effect his
triumph, and avoid giving unnecessary provocation, or inflicting
mortification upon his brother, that he should maintain the coolest
temper, and suffer nothing to disturb his passions. It required
some effort to do this, for he had felt bitterly his isolation
in the last few moments,—a feeling sadly increased, when, as he
phrased it, his own brother had joined his enemies against him.
We must not allow it to be supposed that the Adelantado
beheld the opening of the new issue between these parties, without
being somewhat sensible to the strangeness of its aspects.
His instincts, too, were at work; and remembering to have
heard of the quarrel between the brothers, he began to think
there was something unnatural in the approaching combat. His
conscience reproached him for the ungenerous delay which had
kept Philip de Vasconselos from the crown of victory, and afforded
the opportunity for the event, of the results and character
of which he had grown apprehensive; and he looked dubiously
at the warder of the field, Don Balthazar de Alvaro, and for
the first time felt suspicious of those motives, on his part, which
had moved him to urge the delay in closing the lists. But there
was now no moment for arrest and interposition, unless by the
exercise of a seemingly arbitrary authority, which would show
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ungraciously in all eyes. Accordingly, the affair was suffered to
go on. Both champions were already prepared for it.
Andres de Vasconselos, as we have already described him,
was a handsome and vigorous youth, well made, of considerable
muscle and agility, well skilled in arms, an admirable rider, and
utterly fearless of soul. He was mounted on a fine blooded
mare, of great hardihood and life. His armor, though sombre
also, was more gay than that of his brother, and he wore a rich
chain of gold, with a medallion pendant, around his gorget. A
gay crimson scarf crossed his bosom, and contrasted effectively
with his sable armor. His shield was very much like that of
his brother; and crest and device equally declared that haughty
ambition, which, in that day, marked pretty equally the Spanish
and Portuguese adventurer. It bore for figure, a shower of
meteors amidst cloud and storm, with the Latin words—“Inter
turbas illustris”—“Glory amidst the storm.” He was certainly
the man to prefer always that his successes should be the fruits
of the most unmeasured conflict. But we need linger no more
in our preliminaries. The signal sounds; the truncheon of the
warder is waved aloft; the trumpet sounds the charge; the
heralds cry their encouragement.
“To it, gallant gentlemen! honor awaits brave deeds; your
ladies look on you with smiles. Glory is for him that conquers,—
`Glory amid the storm'— The falcon has her wings; why
should he not soar to the heights of glory?”
These, and a hundred other cries, from the audience as well
as the heralds, rang throughout the amphitheatre, as the brothers,
parting from their places, rushed to the encounter with a shock
that thundered along the earth. The lances were shivered famously;
new ones were supplied in a moment; again, the wild
rush was heard, rather than seen; and again came the fearful
concussion. The lances were again shivered at the encounter,
but it was observed that Andres de Vasconselos was nearly unseated
in the shock. In truth, he had a narrow escape, and he
felt it; and his anger was heightened, and, as he stood again
confronting his opponent, a bitterer feeling of hostility than he
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had known before, worked within his bosom; and his teeth were
gnashed together; and grasping the new spear with which he
had been furnished, he muttered to himself, as he shook it aloft,—
“If thou fail me, I will look to surer weapon.”
The third passage was waited for with great impatience by the
multitude. The previous combats seemed to have been mere
child's play to these. Every one felt that the present passages
were marked by passion much more serious than those of chivalric
courtesy, even when stimulated by ambition, or urged
by the desire of doing greatly in the eyes of love and beauty.
The spectators were now hushed and breathless. The occasional
cries of the heralds, repeating the old formulas of encouragement,
seemed very unmeaning sounds in respect to such a conflict.
They were felt almost as impertinences; and, indeed, by this
time, the heralds themselves seemed to arrive at this opinion, for
they suddenly became silent. All now was eager expectation.
The signal followed, and the passage. There was the same
fearful concussion, as before; the clouds of dust; the confusion.
But the results were more decided, and the encounter was followed
by a wild, sharp cry, full of rage and fury. Soon, Philip
de Vasconselos emerged out of the dust-cloud, and coursed once
round the ring; a moment after, Andres was beheld, on foot,
with his battle-axe in his hand, and darting after his brother with
the ferocity and speed of a tiger. The steed of the younger
knight was down, rolling over in the sand; by what hurt or accident,
no one could conjecture. He, himself, had all the action
of a madman. His fine scarf was riven; his armor covered with
dust, and his helmet thrown off. His hair, which was long,
floated wildly; his face was crimson with passion, and his eyes
glared with a fury which threatened to destroy everything in his
path. He made headlong way towards Don Philip, who had
now drawn up his steed, and stood quietly, if not calmly, awaiting
him at the barriers, which was as far back as he could recede.
Here he must stop and encounter what should happen,
if he would not incur the disgrace of seeming to fly, which would
have befallen him should he again put his horse in motion to
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escape from further assault. He had not long to wait. Blinded
with rage and mortification, Andres soon made up to him, and
at once sprang towards him, swinging the battle-axe above his
head. Then it was that Philip exhibited, in highest degree, the
wonderful spirit and activity which he possessed. In an instant
he threw himself off from his steed, and, without weapon of any
kind in his grasp, confronted his brother. The latter at first
seemed not to perceive the unarmed condition of Don Philip,
and all expected that he would strike, from the manner in which
he shook his battle-axe and pushed forward. But, seeing ere he
struck that his brother was unarmed, he cried out hoarsely —
“Get thee thy weapons!”
“Put down thine, Andres!” was the calm reply of Don
Philip—“wherefore this madness?”
“Madness!” cried Don Andres; “if thou darest call me a
madman, I will brain thee as thou stand'st! Get thy weapons, I
tell thee; thy triumph is not complete. There must be other
trials between us!”
“Go to, Andres: thou art foolish; thou art fevered! would'st
thou strike at thy brother in anger?”
“I see no brother; I know no brother! I know thee as mine
enemy only, and I will slay thee as a dog. Thou shalt have no
triumph over me!”
With these passionate words, showing him entirely beyond
control of reason, he at once strode forward, and struck, with
deadly and determined aim and stroke, full at the crest of Don
Philip! But the latter was prepared and watchful, though unarmed.
He lightly stepped aside from the blow, which was such,
that, if it had encountered his head, had certainly brought him
down, powerful as he was. He stepped aside and escaped it; and,
before the younger brother could recover his position, he grasped
him by the arm; and with such a vigor as no one deemed him
to possess, he wrested the axe from the grasp of the infuriate
youth, with as little seeming effort as if the latter had been only
a child in his hands. All this occupied far less time than we
have employed in telling it; but the interval had been sufficient
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to have allowed the warder of the field to have thrown down
his truncheon if he had pleased to do so, and for the heralds and
guards to have interposed. Nuno de Tobar had entreated Don
Balthazar to arrest the combat when it promised to be bloody,
but he was unheeded.
“There is danger, I tell thee, Don Balthazar! Don Andres
hath no control of himself in his passion, and see you not that
the victory already rests with Don Philip?”
“Nay,” said the other—“three strokes may be taken with
the sword or battle-axe, according to the wishes of the combatants,
after the passage with the lance.”
“Only where the passage with the lance results in no advantage
to either,” was the reply of Tobar.
“Yet, I see not why they should be checked in a new passage,
if the parties desire it.”
“But Don Philip, you perceive, does not desire it.”
“Then, by my troth, he loses some of his renown as a warrior.
He should face his foe with any weapon.”
Nuno de Tobar was furious at these words, and greatly apprehensive;
and his passion might have exploded in a violent
challenge of the justice and magnanimity of the Adelantado
himself, to whom he now turned in impatient appeal, when he
was arrested by the sudden termination of the combat, as we
have described it. The next moment beheld Don Andres disarmed,
and the battle-axe in the grasp of his brother. Then it was
that Don Balthazar threw down his truncheon, and the trumpets
sounded the retreat. But Don Andres heeded not these signals.
He confronted Don Philip with a passion as reckless as before, but
this time with the feelings of despair and shame, rather than of rage
and hate.
“Slay me!” he cried, “strike, Philip de Vasconselos, as at
thy enemy! Thou hast the weapon. Thou hast disgraced me
eternally. Put a finish to thy work. Smite! my head is uncovered
to thy blow!”
“Go to, Andres; this is folly; thou hast fever in thy veins,
my brother. It is the madness of thy blood, not thy heart, that
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has wrought thee to this unhappy conduct. I cannot harm thee,
Andres. I love thee, my brother, whatever thou may'st do, or
feel, or say!”
With these words, Philip flung the battle-axe to a distance.
Andres cast himself down, with his face upon the earth; but, as
the heralds and squires came up, he rose again quietly, and suffered
himself to be led out. He was borne away with a raging
fever in his veins, and that night was in high delirium.
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CHAPTER XIX.
“We charge these women leave the court,
Lest they should swoon.”
Middleton.—The Old Law.
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The effect of this scene was prodigious upon the whole assem
bly. Its events were just of that sort to fill the minds and excite
the imaginations of such a swelling, earnest, grave yet passionate
people as the Spaniards; and, for awhile, they were all hushed,
as if overwhelmed with emotion, and still expecting other events
of even greater excitement to follow. They were conquered by
the Portuguese. The deportment of Philip de Vasconselos had
been such as to impress every spectator with the full sense
of his noble character and perfect heroism, and there were
none now so bold as to challenge his triumph or his fame!
Verily, he had gone through the most fearful of all trials for such
a soul. He had survived them, though he suffered from them
still. He had overcome those worst enemies, his own passions,
which, wronged on every hand, and fiercely assailed by the one,
above all others, who should have approached them with nothing
but love and veneration, had been able to subdue themselves
within just limits, and permitted him to rise equally above his
enemies and his own rebellious blood! This was not lost upon the
spectators. Their hush was only the prelude to their applause.
Their instincts, kept in lively play all the while, and making them
forgetful of all their former dislikes and jealousies, had brought their
final judgments right. Their souls, as they beheld, became fully
conscious of the rare beauty of his carriage and his performances
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throughout; and the gentle humanity, which, at the closing
scene, had appeared so conspicuously in unison with the most
determined courage and the coolest conduct. The wildest shouts
testified their admiration, and declared the complete triumph of
the hero of the day, not only over all opponents, but over their
own stubborn and ungenerous prejudices. They did not see the
bitter smile that mantled the face of Philip as he heard these uproars
of admiration. He knew the value of popular applause,
and quietly remounting his steed, he stood in silence waiting for
the summons of the warder, to the foot of the dais, where the
Adelantado was to place the crown upon the lance of the conqueror,
who was required, in turn, to lay it at the foot of the
lady whom he should designate as the Queen of Love and Beauty.
It was her task to accept the tribute, and, lifting up the trophy so
deposited, to place it on the head of her champion.
There was no reluctance, now, on the part of the Adelantado,
to do justice to the knight of the Falcon. De Soto, it is true,
had his prejudices as well as his people; and his pride had been
somewhat stung by the reserve which had been exhibited towards
him by Philip de Vasconselos; to say nothing of the offence
which the latter had given, in announcing his doubts in respect to
his farther connection with the expedition to Florida. But,
though a proud and selfish person, De Soto was not a base one.
He had his moments of prejudice and passion, but was by no
means insensible to greatness of soul and heroic character, even
in the instance of an enemy. He was thoroughly disarmed by
the conduct of Philip; and some compunctious visitings of conscience
now made him anxious to atone, as far as possible, by
the most prompt acknowledgment, for his past coldness and neglect.
He bade the warder do his duty, and, at a signal given,
and amidst a passionate fanfare from the whole corps of trumpeters,
the knight of the Falcon was led up to the foot of the dais.
Here he dismounted, uncovered his head, ascended the rude
steps, which had been hastily placed for the purpose, and presented
his lance at the bidding of De Soto, who, in a warm and
graceful speech, of a few sentences, placed upon it the trophy
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assigned to the conqueror. This was a beautiful coronet, or cap,
of rich purple velvet, encircled with a chaplet of pearls, in the
centre of which flamed a single but large diamond, surrounded
by rubies and other precious stones. Don Philip received the
prize with the most graceful obeisance, but in profound silence;
then advancing to the foot of the seat occupied by Olivia de Alvaro,
he knelt, and laid the coronet before her, dropping his lance
at the same moment beside him. Again the trumpets sounded
in a soft but capricious Saracenic strain, while the heralds cried
aloud the name of the lady; and De Soto, rising, proclaimed
her the Queen and Beauty of the tournament. We shall say
nothing of the envy sparkling all the while in the eyes of the
other fair dames in that fair assemblage; in the breast of each
of whom, no doubt, there had lurked hopes more or less lively,
during the progress of the day. However slight their hopes,
when it was seen who was to be the successful champion, we can
still easily understand how there should be many disappointments.
Of course, there was much criticism, also, upon the choice
of the knight of Portugal; and while most of them could admit
cheerfully his superior claims as a warrior,—his skill, spirit,
and address, in the tourney,—there were not a few to regret
that so much heroism should be accompanied by so very bad a
taste. But the multitude applauded the taste, no less than the
valor and conduct of the knight.
It was now the task of Olivia de Alvaro to place the coronet
on the brows of her champion. This was no easy task, however
grateful. She had been an excited spectator of the scene; she
had felt, with constant tremblings of heart and frame, all the
vicissitudes of the conflict. These were rendered trebly acute in
consequence of that secret history of grief of which we know
something already; the action of which, on a system whose
nerves were all disordered, was of a sort to enfeeble and excite
at the same moment; so that but little strength was left her for
the performance of her task at the closing scene of the day. But
she arose, after a brief delay; the Knight of the Falcon still on
his knees before her. There was a dead silence now in the
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assembly. All were curious to hear what she would say; for she
was not simply to place the crown upon the head of the champion,—
she was to accompany the act with words of acceptance
of the honor conferred upon herself,—to bestow applause upon
his performances, and to utter those exhortations to future deeds
of chivalry and valor, which are supposed naturally to follow,
where Beauty encourages, and Love is the gentle counsellor.
She arose slowly, amid that general hush of expectation, which,
by the way, increased her confusion; stooped to the crown which
rested upon the footstool where Philip had laid it; lifted it, and
advanced a step, in order to place it on his head. At this moment
their eyes met; a sudden and ashen paleness overspread
her cheeks; her heart, beating wildly but a moment before,
seemed at once frozen within her; and she tottered, sunk forwards,
and would have fallen to the floor, but that the swift arms
of her lover caught and sustained her. She had fainted from the
conflict of emotions which she could no longer sustain and live!
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CHAPTER XX.
“Invention is ashamed,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say thou dost not.... thy cheeks
Confess one to the other.”
All's Well that Ends Well.
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Then it was, while all was commotion in the assembly, that
the passionate love of Don Philip for the unconscious damsel in
his arms, overcame and banished all the previous calm and
steadfastness in his manner. He thought her dead. There was
no color in her cheeks, no life in her eyes, no pulsation in her
veins. He cried aloud for succor, while drawing her closely to
his bosom, as if to warm her anew with his own tumultuous
fires. Before any one could interpose, he had borne her back to
the seat, supporting her with vigorous arm, and appealing to her
consciousness by the most endearing efforts and expressions. He
was at that moment freed from all the conventional restraints
which had hitherto made his passion cautious, and taught concealment
as the proper policy of love. He was now not unwilling
that the world should hear what he had hitherto never declared
to her, and with the sense of her danger and his loss, he
became indifferent to the opinion of those around, a regard to
which is so characteristic of the proud and sensitive nature. But
he was not suffered long to indulge in a situation which he found
so painfully sweet. He was brought to consciousness by the interposition
of other persons. Don Balthazar de Alvaro was soon
at his side, and, laying his hand with rather a rude grasp upon
the shoulder of our knight, he bade him release the lady to those
who could better effect her restoration, and who were the most
proper persons to attempt it. Next came the wife of Tobar, followed
by the lady of the Adelantado and others, to whom Philip was
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compelled to resign her. To these he yielded her, though with
reluctance. He shook off the grasp of Don Balthazar, and answered
his looks and words with an abruptness of manner, and a
glance of fire, which declared the hostility and scorn which he
truly felt, and in which the uncle was taught to read the language
of defiance. Olivia was borne away by the female attendants.
The Lady Isabella would have had her conveyed to her palace,
but Don Balthazar, in a very resolute manner, resisted this arrangement,
and she was conveyed at once to his own residence.
The amusements of the day were over. The trumpets sounded the
retreat; the audience slowly melted away; but long before the
assembly was dispersed, Philip de Vasconselos had disappeared
from the public sight.
He proceeded at once to the lodgings of his brother, but did
not see him, as he feared that his presence would only increase
the disorder of the latter. He ascertained, however, that his delirium
and fever did not increase, and that he was well attended.
The physician of De Soto himself had been sent him,
and had administered some soothing drugs, after taking from
him a goodly quantity of blood. He still remained with him,
and would not suffer him to be disturbed. The attack had been
severe as sudden, but it was not of prolonged duration; and judicious
treatment, seconded by the youth and vigor of his constitution,
enabled him, after a few days, to rise again to his feet. In a
week he was able to resume his armor, and to exercise at the
head of his little company. But he remained comparatively feeble
for some time, and the mortification which he had suffered
hung like a dark shadow upon his soul. He became habitually
gloomy and morose; addressing himself wholly to military studies
and exercises, and never suffering himself to be seen in sosciety.
Gradually he began to entertain more just and generous
feelings towards his brother, though from this period there was
no longer any cordiality between them. The events which were
yet to occur served, in great degree, to disarm him of that
jealous hostility to Philip which had been the sole cause of his
recent madness. Philip, though solicitous of his health and
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safety, never obtruded himself upon him. He was content to
leave to time the work of repair. But we must not anticipate.
The recovery of Olivia de Alvaro was much more rapid than
that of her rejected lover. What remedies were employed
in her case, were not suffered to be known; but the very next day
found her able to sit up and converse. Leonora de Tobar sate some
time with her. Donna Isabella was also pleased to visit her,
and other ladies shared in their friendly attentions. But while
recovering her consciousness, and in some degree her health, Olivia
sank into a sort of sober melancholy, which no arts or attentions
of her female companions could possibly reach. An exterior of the
most stolid indifference encountered the friendly solicitude which
sought to soothe and heal; and while her deportment was all gentleness
and meekness, her heart was yet closed against all efforts to
probe its secret, or ascertain its apprehensions or its wants. To Leonora
de Tobar her case seemed a singularly mysterious one. She
knew that she loved Philip de Vasconselos beyond all other men.
She was now sure, as was all the world, that he loved her beyond
all other women. What more? Why should either of them be unhappy?
The whole affair was very incomprehensible to her, and
afforded her a fruitful and constant subject for expostulation with
the sufferer, and speculation with all other parties.
Don Balthazar was the only person who properly understood
the whole difficulty. He had his fears of the case, as well as a
full knowledge of its peculiarities. His hope of security, strange
to say, was based upon what he knew to be the virtues of the
damsel. He relied wholly upon her justice and magnanimity, to
defeat the suit of the Knight of Portugal. But his fears were still
active. He apprehended that the weakness of the woman would
get the better part of her sense of justice. He knew the sensuous
nature of the sex, and the paramount strength of their feelings.
Could Olivia really be capable of rejecting the lover whom
she preferred before all others, simply because of a cold sentiment
of honor and propriety? Why should she not keep her secret,
and thus secure her triumph? He still dreaded that she
would resolve on this. He had too little nobleness himself to
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rely upon that of another; and the recent event lessened materially
his confidence in the firmness of her virtue, which was at
present all his security. Of course it is understood that he can
never be reconciled to her union with Philip, or, indeed, with any
man. We have but imperfectly unfolded our narrative thus far,
if it be now necessary that we should endeavor to establish this
fact. His selfishness, at once of avarice and passion, was a settled
necessity, and utterly adverse to her finding happiness, according
to the dictates of her affections.
But it was necessary to confirm her in her previously expressed
and virtuous resolution of self-denial. He was required to
strengthen her determination against the pleadings of her own
heart, as well as of her lover, to lessen the strength of her feelings
by stimulating her propriety, and to keep her virtuous magnanimity
active, as a barrier against her passion. This he now
perceived to be more powerful than he, or even she, had previously
suspected. He had watched her through all the caprices
of the tournament, and had seen the warmth and violence of her
feelings, written in her face and action amidst all the changes of
the struggle. “She is not to be trusted to her own sentiments,”
was his reflection. “She may resolve as she pleases, in her quiet
moments of thought; but let Philip de Vasconselos kneel imploring
at her feet, and she will probably forget all her honorable
resolves. She will yield to his entreaties, before she is conscious
of the extremity of her admissions. I must provide against this.”
Let us see what are his processes for effecting his objects.
Olivia was reclining upon a couch in the apartment opening
upon the verandah. There Don Balthazar suddenly presented
himself. She looked up at his appearance, with eyes full of so
sad a reproach, that, had he been capable of a generous impression,
would have made him instantly contrite. But he was not
capable of the nobleness of self-reproach. A more cold, selfish,
heartless nature, never dwelt in the breast of man. He took
his seat beside her, and assumed his most conciliating manner.
“Well, my child, you are better, and I am glad to see it; but
you have quite too many chattering visitors. They will only
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weary and distress you. The tongue of that silly wife of Tobar
is enough to madden any invalid, and there are others of like
sort, who do not so much desire to soothe or amuse, as to exercise
their tongues and curiosity. What you want is peace and
quiet.”
“Peace and quiet! where am I to find them?”
“Why not? There is no reason why you should not find both,
if you are only moderate in your expectations. It is the unreasonable
and extravagant hopes of youth alone that keep peace and
quiet from any bosom.”
“Hopes! Do you really suppose that I entertain any hopes?”
“Indeed! Do you not? and why, if you entertain no hopes,
do you encourage these painful and oppressive sensibilities, that
keep you only in a continual agony?”
“It is for this very reason, that I can entertain no hopes, that
these agonizing sensibilities are mine. But I surely need not say
this to you.”
“My dear child, do not deceive yourself. You do entertain
hopes and expectations, and it is these that keep alive and active
these moods and sensibilities. I know you better than you do
yourself. You may deceive yourself, in moments of solitude,
with the idea that you have nothing to live for. But events will
be apt to put all these notions out of your head. You are now
so much better that you will soon have other visitors.”
“Who! what mean you?”
“Your Portuguese cavalier will soon be here, no doubt, and on
his knees before you. It is inevitable, after what has taken place,
that he will come, and must. He has fairly committed himself
in the eyes of the world; he will soon find it necessary to complete
his progress by a formal offer of his hand.”
“And you think I will accept him?”
“Well; there is some danger of it. The truth is, my dear
child, you are not the mistress of your own affections. He has
too much enslaved your imagination to suffer you to escape him.
You love him quite too intensely to reject his prayer.”
“Alas! It is because I so much love him that I will reject him.
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I may be degraded, uncle—I am—and you well know why I am,
and who has degraded me;—but I am not base! I will not sink
lower in my own esteem, in doing such a terrible wrong to a nature
so noble as that of the knight of Portugal, by uniting his
honor with my shame!”
“Who knows that there is any shame?”
“God!”
“Ah! perhaps! But you have no apprehension that he will
be at any pains to make it known?”
“I know not that. Guilt is ever in danger of exposure.
Shame is like the cloud, that, whether the star will or will not,
rises at any hour, with the winds, to blot its beautiful surface.
But whether the world knows or not—whether God permits the
truth to be revealed or not—alters not the case to me. It is
enough that I know the terrible shame that hangs upon my soul
like night. Enough, that I too much love Don Philip de Vasconselos
to bestow my consciousness of ignominy upon him.”
“This is all mere sentiment, my child.”
“Sentiment! But you speak as if you really desired that I
should wed with the knight of Portugal?”
“No! By Satan, no! I hate, I loathe the man, and I love
you, my child. Never, with my consent, shall you take him to
your arms.”
“Why, then, leave it to doubt? Why impose upon me the
task which you yet think me too weak to execute? Forbid him
the house—forbid him the quest—and put an end to all your apprehensions.”
“Would that process be effectual? No, no! my child, that
will never answer. Our customs here, in Cuba, would not suffer
it. What would everybody say of me? It would wrap me in
a thousand strifes and embarrassments. Besides, Don Philip de
Vasconselos would not suffer any such evasion; and the Adelantado
would sustain him in the assertion of the right to see you.
No! no! he must not be denied every opportunity, and the whole
matter must be left to your own decision.”
“That is already made! I can never be the wife of Don
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Philip. Were I other than the thing I am, I should know no
greater happiness. As I am, it is impossible that I should think
of happiness, or should so wrong him in my desire for it, as to
unite my grief and shame to his honor and his fortunes.”
“And I repeat, you know not yourself. You have not the
strength for this. You mean as you say, no doubt, now that you
are comparatively calm, and when he is not present; but when
he appears, and you see him before you—at your feet,—where
will be your fine resolutions? You will yield. You will consent,—
you will forget all your nice sentiments, and keep your
secret, and be happy!”
“Leave me,” she said calmly. “You do not know me. Still
less do you know how you annoy and humble me. Enough for
you that you are secure in your wishes, whatever may be mine.
I cannot marry Don Philip; I will not; though I tell you frankly,
that I should know no greater secret of happiness than this, were
this possible. You have doomed me to loss of all! Leave me
now.”
“But you must take your medicine, Olivia.”
“I will take nothing at your hands.”
“Why not?”
“You have drugged me enough. I fear to drink—to eat—almost
to breathe—knowing upon what poisons you have fed me.”
“This is foolish. On my honor, you have nothing to fear
now.”
“Oh! if you asseverate so solemnly, I am sure there is danger!
Take it away! I will not drink, though I perish.”
“Obstinate! I tell you, this is the potion provided by the
physician.”
“It has passed through your hands.”
“Am I poison?”
“Ay, death! worse than death! shame, horror, hell! Do not
vex me;—leave me! I will trust you in nothing, I tell you! Is
it not enough that you have destroyed every hope; would you
torture me without a purpose?”
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“You are mad! Is it torture that I should give you the very
medicine which has been prescribed for you?”
“I am not sure that it is the same! You have the art to alter
the nature of all things that approach me. You change the helpful
to the hurtful—the good to the bad. By the Holy Virgin,
uncle, were it not for the wrong that I should do to another, I
should wed with the knight of Portugal, if only to find an
avenger—to be sure of one to whom I might say—Slay me this
monster, who has destroyed me, soul and body!”
Don Balthazar hurled the cup of physic to the floor, and with
a look of the fiercest anger, and a half-muttered curse, he strode
hastily out of the apartment.
“Thank God!” said the poor girl as he disappeared, “I breathe
more freely!”
And she sunk into a long, sad revery; and the thought of Don
Philip came to her, and brought with it fancies of the most bright
and cheering felicity. She fancied him at her feet; she thought
of herself in his arms. The world shut out, in the lone security
of their mountain hacienda, she said to herself—“Surely this is
happiness,—this is security and peace! And why,” she asked of
herself, “should I not enjoy this peace, this security, this happiness?
What have I done that I should deny myself to live? Am
I guilty of this crime—this shame? Is it mine? Am I not a
wretched victim only of the toils, and the arts, and the superior
powers of another? Have I, in my own soul, consented to this
surrender of my innocence to the spoiler? Wherefore should I
suffer more? Have I not suffered enough? Why should I not
be happy with him I love, true to him ever, and never willingly
false to Heaven or myself? It is a secret from all but one, this
shame that is my sorrow; and that one, for his own sake, dare
not whisper it to the bird that flies! Alas! alas! my heart,
whither would you carry me? Would you have me abuse
his noble trust for your pleasure? Oh! be still, lest in my
weakness I commit a wrong as great as that which I have suffered!”
Such, in brief, were the prolonged meditations of the unhappy
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woman throughout the melancholy hours of her solitude. Her
passion for Philip de Vasconselos was now perpetually suggesting
to her mind fresh arguments against the virtuous resolution
which, in cooler moments, had been the conclusion of her thought.
She felt that her resolution was growing momently more and
more weak; but still she combated herself; argued with her
own thought, strove nobly against her heart, and all its really
innocent desires, and bewildered finally, and exhausted, she surrendered
herself at last to the dreamiest revery, such as naturally
occurs to the sensuous nature, in the delicious climate in which
she dwelt. In this revery, in which every breath was soft, every
glance fair and wooing, every influence possessing the magic of a
spell upon the affections, she found temporary refuge, against
that severer virtue which counselled nothing less than self-denial
and sacrifice! Ah! who is strong for such a sacrifice when every
passion of the dependent and loving nature wars against it!
Will Olivia de Alvaro be able to keep her vow, when Philip de
Vasconselos bows before her? She trembles as she thinks of it;
but still—she thinks of it! Her thought evermore recurs, after
long wandering, to his expected coming! Will he come? will
he not? Can he otherwise? And, should he come,—and when
he comes,—then—shall she find the strength to say to him “depart!”—
And should he linger—should he deny to go—should
he ask “wherefore?”—what answer shall she make? Can she say,
I have no love to give in return, when she really has nothing in
her heart but love for him? And if she cannot, in truth, and
from her heart say this, what plea shall justify her denial of his
prayer? It is thus that she begins to conjure up, for her own
conscience, the difficulties which stand in the way of her own
self-sacrifice. It is thus that the ingenious passions argue the
case with the honest thought. Which shall triumph in the end?
Olivia de Alvaro is a most weak, most loving woman—she is
passionate, too, with all the intense fires of the south. She
means nobly, her thought is rightly advised; and she would act
according to the dictates of a justly governed conscience; but,
when the passions strive, what mind is strong against them?—
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when the heart loves, with entire devotion, where are the thoughts
which shall extinguish its glowing fires? As well say to the rising
floods of ocean—“Sink back, with all your billows, and rest
calmly in the bosom of your floods.” The struggle between soul
and heart, in the case of Olivia de Alvaro, is but begun. How
will it end? Verily, there is very good reason why Don Balthazar
should be apprehensive. Truly, he knows, better than
his niece, how great is her weakness! But he will not leave
her wholly alone, to fight the battle with her passions. He will
frequently come mockingly to her succor, and, by torturing her
pride into passion, will seek to subdue the force of other passions.
He has all the subtlety of the serpent: will he use it
successfully? It is very certain that he will spare no arts to
defeat the hopes of the two young hearts, who, but for his evil
working, had long since been rendered happy.
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CHAPTER XXI.
“Hold thee: there's my purse. I give thee not this to suggest thee from thy master
thou talkest of: serve him still.”
All's Well that Ends Well.
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The public sports which the Adelantado had provided for the
gratification of the people of Cuba were all finally ended. We
have not thought proper to describe the amusements which followed
on the third day, however interesting to the spectators;
for the simple reason that they do not immediately affect the condition
of our dramatis personœ. They still demanded the personal
attendance of Don Balthazar de Alvaro, however, as warder
of the field; and this gave a little respite to the suffering
Olivia in her solitude. We have already noted an interview between
the niece and her uncle, after the third day of the tournament;
but there was one event, occurring at the close of that
day, which it becomes us not to suffer to pass unnoticed. After
the passages-at-arms, of all sorts, were fairly over, and the
trumpets had merrily sounded the signals for the dispersion of
the assembly — while the crowd, moving to and fro in all directions,
resembled the shifting scenes of a panorama—Don Balthazar
called to him an officer, and, speaking aside, said:
“Has the slave, Mateo, been taken—the mestizo, the matador,
whose capture I confided to thy hands?”
“He has not, Señor. He has eluded all our efforts.”
“Thou hast suffered these sports to keep thee from thy duty;
else, how should he escape thy search?”
“No, Señor—”
“It must be so, I tell thee; for the fellow is not likely to
leave Havana so long as these amusements last; and there
should be no places of hiding in the city which should be
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beyond the reach of a good officer! See to it! This night is all
that is left thee to effect his capture, Half of these people will
be off to the country by the dawn; he, probably, among them.
Seek him at the tents and tables where they game. All of
his class have a terrible passion for cards and dice. At the cockpits
he may be found. He hath possibly brought with him some
favorite birds from the country. He drinks, too, with a rare
passion, which will no doubt carry him to the shops where the
aguardiente is to be had. Get thee a dozen of thy fellows, well
counselled, who know the man, and set them on the quest for
him in all these places. If you take him, you shall all be well rewarded.
If not, I shall endeavor to find officers who need no
exhortation to their duty. There is no reason why he should
not be found. He showed himself quite freely and fearlessly at the
bull-fight, relying, I suppose, on certain changes of dress and
costume. He is hardly in hiding any where, and, while in
Havana, will no doubt be found at one or other of the places
I have mentioned. Stint not your efforts, nor the numbers of your
men, nor the needful money; and, if you take him, bring him to
me at “the Grove;” at midnight, even; so that ye delay
not after you have taken him. Enough! see to it, Diego, as you
would be sure of my favors!”
“Señor, I will not sleep in this search.”
“Good! to it at once, for he will doubtless soon leave Havana
for the mountains.”
The Hidalgo separated from the Alguazil, and both disappeared
from sight. Within the same hour Don Balthazar might
be seen riding, on a famous black charger, towards the retreat,
without the city, where the Señorita, his niece, maintained her
solitude. It was but a little before this, that the very outlaw,
the mestizo slave, Mateo, might have been seen, on foot, pursuing
the same route. The latter had fairly entered the woods,
when he heard the sound of horse's feet behind him. He immediately
sheltered himself from sight in a dense thicket of
bamboo, and, from his place of retreat, beheld the knight ride
slowly by. The outlaw grinned savagely as he perceived his old
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master, whom he remembered by numerous cruelties, such as, in
that day, but too much distinguished the fierce warriors of Spain
when dealing with their Indian and negro slaves. We have already
mentioned that Mateo was a fugitive; having fled, not simply from
the cruelty of his master, but from the consequences of his own
crimes. He had murdered, in a sudden broil, one of the officers
of the estate of the Señorita Olivia, to which, indeed, he belonged:
the control of Don Balthazar over him resulting only from his
being the guardian of his niece. From that moment, Mateo
disappeared, having sought shelter in the contiguous mountains,
which were, at that early period, entirely unexplored. He had
been subsequently heard of, on several occasions, but only in the
character of a robber. A price had been set upon his head, but
he had always contrived to elude the pursuit of justice. His
mother, the old woman Anita, in the employ of Don Balthazar,
as we have seen, and the willing creature of his infamous
arts and practices, had not forborne to plead the cause of her
son; and she probably would have succeeded, long before her
death, in procuring his pardon, could she have been successful in
persuading Mateo to take the essential initiative in such a matter,
by surrendering himself to the estate. But Mateo was not
ready to incur such a peril, and distrusted all the assurances of
the Don, whom he too well knew readily to confide in. Besides,
the violent and brutal character of his passions kept him continually
working against his own pardon, by the commission of
new crimes and misdemeanors. Like all of his race, he was too
fond of the pleasures of the crowd, and such as were promised
by the exhibitions of the bull-ring and the tournament, to
forego the temptation, at whatever hazard, of being a witness of
the grand spectacles offered to the public by the magnificence of
Don Hernan de Soto. But Mateo relied upon his disguises;
upon the shaggy hair, the wild beard, and the strange costume
which he wore; and upon the fact of a three years' absence from
all the eyes that knew him. He felt himself sufficiently estranged
from all eyes, and did not doubt that even his mother would
fail to recognize her son. But he did too little justice to the
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keen sight and tenacious memory of Don Balthazar. Of the
death of the old woman, Mateo had learned nothing until he
reached Havana, a few days before. But, in that time, he had
seen his sister, the sullen girl, Juana, on several secret occasions;
had heard all her tidings; had listened to all her complaints, and
had decided upon the course to be pursued for attaining all
necessary remedies for his own and her alleged wrongs. Of
these remedies we shall learn hereafter. We need not say, perhaps,
that he laughed at all the labors of his mother, in striving
to procure his forgiveness, as a fugitive slave. He was one of
those reckless persons, too savage for subjection, too indolent for
toil, who prefer to appropriate the labors of others to the exercise
of any of his own; and, by the strong hand, or sleight of
hand, contrived to extract a very comfortable living out of a
world which he thought good for nothing else. Now that he
was in Havana, he was resolved to bring about the settlement
of all his affairs in that city; and his own and sister's accounts
promised to employ him actively for a time. His old master
was his chief debtor; and, that he did not emerge from his bamboo
shelter, and insist upon immediate payment, while the knight
was passing, was simply because he thought it very possible that
Don Balthazar did not carry a sufficient amount in funds about
with him, to enable him to make satisfactory settlement. It
would have been, otherwise, quite as easy to spring out from his
hiding-place upon the Don, as, from the corridor into the bull-ring,
giving the coup de grace to El Moro! The knight was suffered
to proceed in safety to his house, whither Mateo followed more
slowly, and not until the darkness had fairly covered the hacienda.
We shall suffer several hours to elapse without reporting their
events; but we must suppose that they have not been suffered
to pass unemployed either by the Hidalgo or the outlaw. Nay,
we beg to state that both parties have been busy, though we do
not just now care to go into a narrative of their several doings.
Enough, that towards midnight Don Balthazar ceased from his
labors for the night; and in his chamber, with his dressing-gown
about him, and his limbs released in some degree from the
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garments worn throughout the day, he rests at length upon a wicker
settee of bamboo, and meditates through the graceful clouds of
aromatic smoke that ascend volume after volume from his much
beloved cigar. Don Balthazar, though somewhat blaze, is yet
not wholly insensible to the good things of this life, speaking
only of the physical enjoyments. Indeed, it is to the blazé
chiefly that the “creature comforts” rise into paramount value
and estimation. It is when the purer tastes and the proper desires
of the mind have been perverted, or abused, or lost, that
one seeks recompense by appeals to appetites which, until then,
are kept in honest subjection. Don Balthazar did not rely on
his cigar wholly for his happiness; a flask of generous wine
rested on a table beside him, from which, ever and anon, he replenished
his goblet. He emptied it, perhaps, much more freely
than he was aware. The troubles of his mind made him somewhat
unconscious of the frequency of his potations, and their
effects working favorably upon his mood, seemed to justify the
appetite in still further seeking succor from this source. Don
Balthazar had survived all the proper tastes. His appetites
were wholly artificial. His tastes had become prurient; his
passions had been succeeded by mere desires depending upon his
diseased fancies. These, as chronic, always exert a tyrannous
power over their possessor, and compel him to pursuits and objects
which, in calm moments, seem wholly undeserving of any
effort. A thousand times did the mere reason and common sense
of the knight counsel him to throw off habits and desires which
were equally evil and profitless; but in vain. A single moment
of dreaming revery brought back the tyrannous fancies in all
their power. The cigar, the wine,—these were potent influences,
though unsuspected, in behalf of his evil moods; and his will no
longer seconded the suggestion of his better moments. It
would be doing him great injustice to say that he did not repeatedly
deplore the weaknesses of his nature, and the crime and the
cruelty of which it was the source. But his strength was not a
strength in behalf of virtue. It was the strength of evil passions
only—of passions arriving at sole power by reason of their
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unscrupulous exercise, and in their dying embers exerting a new
and more evil sort of influence in consequence of their very decay
and feebleness. He knew, and felt, and reproached himself
at moments for his terrible abuse of authority and advantage in
the case of his unhappy niece. He was sometimes made conscious
of the awful spectre of his deceased brother, looking down
upon him with loathing and anger, and the saddest reproach in
his face; sometimes he fancied his voice in his ears, and at other
times he beheld suddenly, as it were, a glimpse of the fierce
visage of “the Biscayan mother” of Olivia, flaming with indignation,
before his eyes. His conscience thus, at times, came to the
assistance of his better reason, and filled him with virtuous resolution.
But it is not easy for one accustomed for thirty years
to give the full reins to his moods and passions, to re-conquer
them and recover the ascendency of thought and will over habit.
Habit is the most unbending of all mortal tyrannies, and the
better genius of Don Balthazar struggled vainly against the appetites
which he had so constantly fed in its despite. And now,
when some better feelings were endeavoring to assert themselves
in his bosom—when a lingering feeling of commiseration for the
poor child whom he had so cruelly abused had prompted him to
reflections upon his own selfishness, which, seeking a momentary
and even mocking gratification, was destroying the very life of
hope in the bosom of the girl—destroying her peace for ever, and
all the gladdening impulses which make youth happy—he hardened
himself against the kindlier impression by a recourse to some
of those hard philosophies, which, in his case, had already overthrown
all the authority as well of humanity as religion.
“What matters it,” said he to himself, filling his goblet with a
fresh supply from the wine-flask,—“what matters it in the end?
These passions of love are in fact nothing but the caprices of
fancy; a brief space will reconcile her to the loss of this knight
of Portugal, whose youth, grace, and noble bearing are the only
attractions; when he has fairly embarked for Florida she will
forget him, and she will then remember me with as much tenderness
as any other lover. She will feel that, though I have
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wronged her, it was because of my passion that I did so; and
my love will justify in her mind the exercise of the power which
I had upon her. If not, what is she but a woman, created for the
pleasure and the delight of man; and why should she not minister
to my delight as well as to another? Women, if well
treated, kindly, and without neglect, readily reconcile themselves
to the condition from which they cannot escape. She will hereafter
consent willingly to that which she has vainly thought to
oppose; and in the necessity of her case will become aware of
what is grateful in it. Already, I think, she begins to improve.
She grows milder every day. For a week she has exhibited
none of those fitful bursts of passion which she inherited from
that tigress mother; and her eyes, though they still look sadly
and reproachfully, show no longer that fierce hate and loathing
which distinguished them before. She grows pliant—she is
yielding. Let me but baffle this knight of Portugal, and I have
her wholly in my power. He must depart. She must reject
his petition; and if not, then I must find a way to silence him
forever.”
Don Balthazar deceived himself in one thing. The mildness
of Olivia's present aspect was scarcely in proof that she was now
more reconciled to his power than before. We may say, in this
place, that she was schooling herself to a more cunning policy—
that she was opposing art to art, and was never more resolved,
against her uncle, than at the moment when she appeared most
resigned to her fate. Her game was to lull to sleep his vigilance
by appearing more submissive. She was resolved to escape from
his tyranny as soon as she might hope to do so with safety. As
yet, however, she had formed no deliberate plan for doing so. She
had vague projects and purposes in her mind, ill-defined and aimless
at present; but, in any scheme, to quiet his suspicions and
disarm his vigilance, were the first objects, necessary to the success
of any other. These, in the end, might ripen into something
definite and clear, and in the meantime, her policy was single,
and thus far evidently successful. Don Balthazar was fatigued
with a struggle which brought only fear and exhaustion even with
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its successes; and was quite willing to believe in the shows of
resignation, on the part of his victim, by which he hoped to enjoy
more easy triumphs.
As thus he lay, weaving conjectures, and hopes and doubts, in the
most intricate meshes for his own fancy, he was surprised by a sudden
and most unexpected visitor. But it becomes us to speak of
the proceedings of this visitor, before we formally introduce him
to our Hidalgo. We have seen that the fugitive, Mateo, was on
his way, pursuing a like route with Don Balthazar, when the appearance
of the latter drove the outlaw into shelter. He saw his
ancient master speed forward, and followed him at his leisure.
A little after nightfall, stationed in a lemon thicket near the dwelling,
Mateo gave a signal whistle, and in a few minutes after, was
joined by the servant girl, Juana. She was his sister; and, rude
and sullen in her intercourse with all other persons, on him she
bestowed nothing but tenderness and affection. Her whole deportment
and character seemed to change on their meeting. She
clung fondly to his neck; kissed him repeatedly; called him her
dear brother, and would have continued her transports, had he
not, with a sort of good-natured violence, shaken her off.
“That will do, that will do, Juana. There's no time now for
kissing and foolishness. I have come for work. What can be
done? Is there a good chance? Is there anybody in the house,
any man body I mean, besides Don Balthazar?”
“No! nobody! There's my young lady, and the old hound,
Sylvia; and there's the cook and Pedro; but she's in the kitchen,
and Pedro is gone off somewhere. There's nothing to prevent,
now.”
“Well, you must show me a way to get in, and come suddenly
upon the old woman. The master's in his room, eh?”
“Yes, he's planning some more wickedness, all to himself.
Even if Sylvia was to cry out, he could hardly hear where he is;
and you need n't go near him at all.”
“Ay, ay; but I must go near him. I've got some accounts to
settle with him, now I'm here.”
“Don't trust yourself with him, dear Mateo. He's got arms
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in his room; matchlocks and guns, and sharp, bright swords.
He's never unprepared for mischief; and if he sets eyes on you,
he'll shoot you.”
“If I do n't shoot him: but that's a game that two can play at
just as well as one; and I hope to take him by surprise. I must
try to do so. Do n't you fear. I have arms too, just as well as
he, and I know just as well how to use them; and I'm not afraid
of his wickedness. I've got some of my own.”
“And you will get all the things of poor mammy?”
“Won't leave a hair for the old hag that robbed you. You
shall have everything. I'll have them carried off and hid away
for you, where you can get them when you want them.”
“But you will carry them with you to the mountains, Mateo.”
“And how will you get the use of them there?”
“Why, ain't I to go along with you, brother?”
“You go along with me? to the mountains? Why what
would you do there, poor child?”
“Why, live with you, and take care of your home for you.”
“Home!” with a fierce chuckle. “I have no home. I am
never a week in one place together. I pass from mountain
to mountain; and hide in one cave after another; and go in all
sorts of weather; and sleep twenty nights under the open sky,
where I sleep once in a human cabin. The outlaw has no home,
no place where he can sleep in safety; except where the wild
beast keeps watch for him along the mountain-top, and frightens
off the pursuer.”
“I don't care, Mateo! I am not afraid! I want to go with
you wherever you go, and I'll live with you, and work for you,
and fight for you, too; just as if I were a man and not a woman.”
“Well, I suppose you can fight; you've got the strength for
it, and I reckon you're not afraid; but—”
“And I may go with you?” eagerly.
“No, Juana, child. Not just yet. I'll come for you, whenever
I'm ready for you, and can fix you in some certain place.”
“Oh! but I do so want to get away from this place. You
don't know what I suffer. It's only a week ago that my Lord
beat me with his whip over my face and shoulders.”
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“Pooh! Pooh! what of that! Do you suppose if you were
with me, I shouldn't beat you too when you deserved it?”
“But I didn't deserve it, Mateo.”
“Oh! that's all nonsense. Women always deserve a whipping,
and should get it once or twice a week to keep 'em sensible
and proper. You don't know when you're well off. With me,
you'd want bread often enough; and there would be no safety.
You'd have to start out of your bed at midnight, to fly, when
you hear the bloodhounds barking up the hills. It's sometimes
monstrous hard for me to get off. How would it be with you?
You'd be caught by the dogs. You'd be torn to pieces; or I'd
have to risk my own life to save you. Then, if you fell into the
hands of the hunters, you'd be a thousand times worse off than
ever. They'd send you to the Calabooza, and sell you to a hard
master, who'd put you into the fields, and whip the blood out of
your body, and the very heart out of your bosom. You'r well
off as you are. You've got a good mistress, and a comfortable
place, and plenty to eat and drink. But the master beats you,
you say. Well, once in a way, perhaps he does; but that does
you no harm. I'd have to beat you ten times as much, Juana,
if you were with me. 'Twould be for your good, I'd do it. I'd
know you wanted it; I know you of old. You'd be the last
person in the world to try and quit this place, if it hadn't spoiled
you. You've been treated too well here; that's the whole of it.
You're best off where you are; I know all about it. I'd have
been better off at the hacienda from which I ran away, but that
I was a bad fellow, who couldn't be satisfied anywhere, and would
rather steal than work. It's easier to me, and I feel better after
it. But I know it's not the best thing for me; and I know it
would be the very worst thing for you. It's because I love you
as my sister, Juana, that I'd rather you'd stay with the Señorita,
and be honest and quiet. She's good to you, I know. No! No!
you cannot go with me. Just now, you'd only be in my way,
and in the way of danger and all sorts of trouble. But I hope
soon to get a safe hiding-place, and then, if you'r ready and
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willing, I'll take you off. For the present you must keep where
you are.”
It was in this way that the outlaw answered the entreaties of
his sister. He, no doubt, came to a right conclusion on the subject.
But she was not satisfied, and submitted sullenly to the
authority with which she had never been accustomed to contend.
“But,” she added, as a last argument,—“it's not the Señorita
only; she's to be married, they say, and there's to be a new
master.”
“Well: he won't eat you! There can't be any worse than
Don Balthazar; and no master in the world will hurt the slave
that serves him faithfully. He'd be a fool to do it.”
“But I don't like a new master; and I don't like to be under
a master that's a Portuguese.”
“Ho! it's one of the Portuguese that she is to marry!
Well, if it's the one that tumbled the handsome cavalier, Nuno
de Tobar, she'd be well officered. He's a noble soldier, I warrant—
rides a horse, and handles a lance, as if he was made for
nothing else. If I were sure that Don Balthazar would not go
to the country of the Apalachians, I'd volunteer to go in this
same knight's company. But if he went, he'd be sure to find
me out in time. I could serve such a man as the Portuguese,
and cheerfully acknowledge him my master. Every man, I
think, is born to have a master, and is never quite happy till he
finds the right one. I like this knight of Portugal. I don't see
what you've got to be afraid of if he marries your lady.”
“Ah!” said the girl stealthily,—“he'd never marry her, if he
only knew what I know.”
“What do you know?—But if it's any harm of her, Juana,
don't say it, for your life. The Señorita, you say, has always
been good to you. Don't you turn upon her like a snake. Hush
up, and keep her secrets, as if they were your own.”
“Well, it ain't so much her secret as my Lord's! Oh! Mateo,
if you knew what a born devil he is, and how he's killing the
poor young lady—murdering her very soul and body!”
“Ha!” exclaimed the outlaw, musingly—“Ha!” A new
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light seemed to dawn upon him; and he paused, and laid his
hand upon Juana's shoulder. “I see! Don't you say a word
more! Don Balthazar—but no matter. Show me now how to
muzzle this old hag, Sylvia.”
In a few moments, the two had disappeared within the dwelling.
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CHAPTER XXII.
“Here be rare plottings. There's more mischief in that one head, and that oily tongue,
than in all the country.”
The Parish.
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Sylvia, that arch beldame, as Juana esteemed her, in the sovereignty
of her domain, below stairs, was, at this moment, in the
enjoyment of her highest felicity. She had a good supper before
her; her toils of the day were ended, and she was congratulating
herself upon the ease and security with which she could
command all the comforts which were necessary to the creature.
Supper over, she would sleep, and the dreams that would
follow might reasonably be expected to be all very pleasant ones.
But Fortune plays fine tricks with human securities, and the
Fates are always busy to thwart pleasant anticipations; making
no sort of difference between those of the nobleman and those of the
drudge. Humble as was Sylvia's secret of happiness, it was destined
to disappointment; and care nestled in the cup, the grateful
beverage of which she was about to carry to her lips. In this
very moment, the cruel and capricious fortune, in the aspect of
the mestizo, Mateo, stood quietly behind the old woman, prepared
to cast the sack over her head. Suddenly she felt a rude gripe
of huge, strange fingers about her throat, utterly denying her
the privilege to scream;—almost to breathe! Hardly had she
been thus surprised, when a shawl was passed about her jaws,
effectually shutting out the supper, and just as effectually shutting
in all sound. She strove desperately to shriek, but the voice died
away in a hoarse but faint gurgling in her throat. She was in the
hands of an adroit enemy. Mateo was dexterous in his vocation.
He had enjoyed some practice in his outlawed life. The eyes of
the old woman were soon enveloped in another bandage, and as
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completely denied to see, as her mouth to speak or swallow. A
stout cord was then passed about her arms, and thus rendered
hors du combat, she might be trusted safely. Every obstacle was
thus removed from the way of the conspirators, and Mateo now
gave the signal for the appearance of Juana, who, till this moment,
had kept in the background. She was not long in showing
herself. Mateo, in the meanwhile, coolly took his place at the
table which bore the supper of Sylvia, and his appetite being invigorated,
we may suppose, by long abstinence and previous toils,
he proceeded to its demolition in a manner which would have
shocked the true proprietor, could she have seen. She suspected
no doubt what was in progress, but there was no remedy. She had
to submit with as much resignation as she could command.
Meanwhile, Juana was otherwise busied in making inquest into
the secrets of the prison-house. Mateo soon joined her, and the
leading purpose of the conspirators was soon made apparent.
There were closets thrown wide, and boxes torn open. All the
goods and chattels, the accumulations of old Anita, to which Sylvia
had so quietly succeeded, were brought out from their hiding-places.
One may conjecture the variety of treasures which
had been accumulated by both these ancient beldames, in the
course of half a century of peculation. But the details must be
left to conjecture. Our purpose is not a catalogue. Mateo and
Juana were equally busy. The latter knew where to look, and the
former how to secure. His machete did good service in forcing
open boxes; and every sack which could be found, was appropriated
to the compact accumulation of the scattered treasures.
Slung upon the broad, strong shoulders of the outlaw, they disappeared
one by one; transferred, in brief space, from the house
to the adjoining woods, where, it seems, the mestizo had seasonably
provided a sort of cart for their better conveyance to other
hiding-places. The work was done by a practiced hand, and very
effectually.
Sylvia could readily conjecture what was going on, but she was
only able to groan and grieve internally. She did not remain
passive, however, and rose up, blinded and muzzled, and corded
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as she was, with more than one effort to interfere. It was only
by one or two emphatic exhortations from the heavy fists of the
outlaw, that she was persuaded of the better policy of submitting,
without farther struggles, to her fate.
Supposing this work to be fairly over, and Mateo in full possession
of all his mother's chattels; perhaps of others also, to
which that amiable woman could never assert any claim, the outlaw
found it becoming to transfer his attentions to another of the
household. His next work was with the master.
We have seen that Don Balthazar de Alvaro was disposed to
indulge in a somewhat meditative mood; one, however, in which
conscience was allowed to play only a subordinate part to philosophy.
The pleasant fumes of the cigar, the grateful potency of
the wine-flask, the genial sweetness of the climate, had together,
as we have seen, induced finally a very grateful condition of revery,
in which the thoughts of the mind accommodated themselves,
with a rare condescension, to the humors of the body. The result
was a condition of complacent happiness, which was stripped
of all apprehensions. There were no clouds in his sky, that he
could perceive; and for the troubles of his hearth, it was surprising
how slight they seemed, and how soon they were dispersed,
as he meditated his good fortune, his own resources, and
brought the energies of his will to bear upon the future. It was
only to get Philip de Vasconselos out of his path;—and for this
object he had several schemes, even if the love-sick damsel should
fail to assert her virtuous resolution to reject him;—to get Olivia
out to her plantation, and under proper surveillance there; and
then for the gold regions of the Apalachian, and one or two campaigns.
His ambition was not asleep during all these speculations.
His appetites demanded free floods of gold; he required captive
red men for slaves; he had fancies of royal favor, and did not see
why he, too, should not become the Adelantado of newly-discovered
and treasure-yielding provinces. It is rarely that ambition
is satisfied with a single field of conquest. It throws out its antenn
œ in all directions; it grasps wide, right and left, and baits
for all the fish in the sea; is as eager after power as money;
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after slaves as conquest; after love, or lust, as in the soul-starving
search after gold. Don Balthazar, reclined on his cane sofa,
head thrown back, cigar in mouth, and wine-flask at his elbow,
was in the enjoyment of a great variety of very grateful anticipations.
How the coldest and sternest of men may become
dreamers, it is scarcely necessary to insist, with the experienced
reader.
It was the very moment when his dreaming mood was most
active, and most serenely secure in the possession of the most
teeming fancies, that Mateo, the outlaw, chose for appearing in
the presence of the knight. Now, we must do the mestizo the
justice to say that it was no part of his design to disperse the
pleasant fancies of the Don, or to overthrow the castles of delight
and strength which his imagination was erecting. To Mateo it
would be of no sort of moment, how wildly, or how pleasantly,
the knight might dream. He might smile contemptuously
upon such employments, but that he should deliberately set himself
in hostility to the worker for their overthrow, is really not
to be thought of. Bad fellow as he undoubtedly was, Mateo
was not so malicious. He had very different, and more solid
purposes. If, in his prosecution of these, the dreams of Don
Balthazar happened to be dispersed, the evil was unintended;
and, we have no doubt, if properly apprised of what he had unwittingly
done, he would have expressed his devout contrition.
Certainly he little conjectured of what a golden domain he dispossessed
his ancient master in the course of a very little space
of time.
Mateo entered the apartment of the Hidalgo without disturbing
his revery. He did not enter, after the fashion of ordinary
visitors, through the door. Mateo was no ordinary outlaw. Not
that he preferred the more laborious process of ascending a
column of the verandah and climbing in through the window.
But simply because the door was bolted on the inside. Don
Balthazar was a man of precautions—a politician who knew that
reveries were not properly to be enjoyed, unless with all reasonable
securities first taken. That he left his window unfastened,
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which opened upon the verandah, was simply to admit the breeze,
and he never once fancied that his reveries could render him
oblivious to the approach of any less light-footed visitor. He
was mistaken. Mateo made his way in, without disturbing his
sense of security. Not that he was not heard. Don Balthazar
was sensible to the rustling of the orange-tree beside the verandah;
he heard the branches scrape rather roughly upon the
column. But that might be occasioned by the puff of wind that
smote just then gratefully over his brow and bosom; and so
believing, his eyes were shut, and the thick volume of smoke
went up from his cigar, increasing in mass as the exciting vision
of future lordships in Florida rose before his imagination.
On a sudden he was awakened to full consciousness. His
atmosphere grew heavier. It seemed as if his fancies found some
obstruction, and could no longer spread their wings as freely as
before. He felt as if there were some antagonist influence in his
sky, which had suddenly darkened all his bright stars. And this
consciousness certainly preceded the opening of his eyes. He
had not yet opened them, when his ears were saluted with the
tones of a strange speaker, and in language well calculated to
startle and drive him from his world of visions.
“Well, I must say, your Excellency, that you are very comfortable
here.”
We have preferred putting the patois of our mestizo into
tolerably correct language, taking for granted that the reader
will readily suppose that there were certain differences between
the speech of the outlaw and his superior. This will suffice for
explanation. We have no taste for that sort of literature which
makes the vulgar speak viciously, when what they have to say
can as well be said in tolerable phrase and grammar.
Don Balthazar forgot to smoke. The cigar dropped from his
opening lips. His eyes unclosed. His head was partly raised.
Never did visage more express confounding wonderment. There,
quietly seated on the settee directly opposite, was the outlaw,
whom he had given it in charge to his alguazils to arrest. How
came he there? Was he not in bonds? Were the alguazils in
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waiting? They had probably taken the fugitive, and were at
hand. All these conjectures, and many others, passed through
the brain of the Hidalgo in a single moment of time. But they
were dismissed as rapidly as conceived. The outlaw had no
appearance of constraint. He looked rather like a conqueror
than a captive. There were no chains about his body or his
wrist. Never sat mortal so perfectly at his ease, his great bulk
covering half of the slight cane settee of which he had taken possession.
There was a good-natured mockery, too, in his face,
that betrayed no sense of inconvenience. It was evident, at a
second glance, that he was not only no prisoner, but not aware,
himself, of any risk of becoming one. There was a great knife
in his belt, conspicuous, which the eyes of Don Balthazar fastened
upon. It was the very weapon with which the matador had slain
the bull. The Don began to feel uneasy.
“Who is that?” he inquired; though he need not have done
so; for he knew the intruder the instant he set eyes upon him.
“Don't your Excellency know?”
“No!—who?”
“Your Excellency has a bad memory for old acquaintance.
Don't you remember Mateo, that once belonged to the estate of
Don Felix?”
“You?”
“Yes, Señor, the same! I was a bad fellow, you know, and
wouldn't work. Work don't suit me. If it hadn't been for that,
I'd have kept on the estate forever, for I rather liked the place,
and the living was very good. But it's too hard to have to work
for the bread one eats, and I always preferred to take it where I
could get it without work. I don't object to other people doing
all the work they can. It's necessary, perhaps;—some must do
it, indeed, where all must feed; but I am for leaving it to those
that like it. I don't like it, and as long as I can get my bread
without digging for it, I'll do so.”
“You killed Pedro Gutierrez?”
“Exactly: because he would make me work! It was all his
fault. I warned him that I wouldn't work; that it didn't agree
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with me; that I didn't like it. He tried to force me, and blows
followed; and he got the worst of them. If he was killed, he
brought it on his own head.”
“You are a murderer, and an outlaw.”
“Good words, your Excellency,—good words! What's the use
of fouling your Excellency's mouth with bad ones? I don't care
much about words at any time; but sometimes they make me
angry. I don't want to be angry now, as I'm in a special good
humor, and there's no need to quarrel with old acquaintance. I
have not seen you so long that it does me real good to look upon
you. Your Excellency don't seem to be much changed. There's
a little more of the salt in your hair, your Excellency, and it
shows a little in your beard, now that you let it grow so long.
You should use some of our black root die, which will make the
hair as young as when you were only twenty!”
The blood of the knight was boiling in his veins. But he tried
to be cool, and with great apparent calmness, said—
“Do you know, Mateo, that if you are once taken you will be
garoted without trial?”
“One must take the tiger, your Excellency, before you can
draw his teeth.”
“But they will take you! You cannot resist a dozen men—
a troop—an army. Now, I happen to know that you have been
heard of in Havana, and that the alguazils are in search of
you.”
“Ah! well! They will hardly look for me here, your Excellency,
and I shall not be here very long. I shall soon be off for
the mountains. Meanwhile, I must take my choice. Alguazils
are very fine trencher men, but scarcely of much account where
the only feed is steel and bullet. I shall probably escape from
these of Havana.”
“But what brings you here now?”
“Well, you're something concerned in the affair, though perhaps
you don't know it. I heard of the death of my poor
mother, Anita —”
“Ah! yes; true, she was your mother.”
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“I rather think your Excellency ought to know, since you've
been promising the old woman to get me pardoned for a long
time past. I suppose you had good reasons for not keeping your
promise.”
“Yes; your mother knew. I told her that no pardon was
possible until you should come in.”
“Very clear, your Excellency; and now that I've come in,
you tell me that the alguazils are already looking after me, and
that I shall be garoted if caught. How do the two stories tally,
your Excellency?”
“To come in and surrender, is quite a different thing from
coming in as you do now.”
“Perhaps so; but it don't matter much any way. As for my
surrender, your Excellency, before I have the pardon under the
seal of the king's governor, it's not to be talked of, it's so foolish.”
“Then what brings you now?”
“Ah! I was telling you. My mother died, your Excellency,
very suddenly, nobody knows how. I hear that she was poisoned,
Señor.”
“From whom do you hear this?”
“That's not necessary to be said. She was poisoned, and I
have to find out the poisoner and settle with him”—here he
handled his machete. “It's his blood or mine, your Excellency.”
This was said with significant emphasis, and such a look as
showed the Don that he himself was the object of suspicion.
“But suppose she was poisoned by a woman?”
“Then it's only a little harder upon my conscience, and I must
use a smaller knife than this. But what woman, your Excellency?”
“Nay, I do not know by whom the deed was done. I have a
suspicion only.”
“Your Excellency's suspicions are like to be as good as another
man's evidence. Was it the woman Sylvia?”
“No, I think not; and as I suspect only, I cannot say.”
“The thing must be found out, your Excellency. I am not the
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man to let my mother be baited, like a dog we hate, with poisoned
beef. Your Excellency will find it necessary to give me help
in this discovery. You have not done right by me. You let
this woman Sylvia take possession of all my mother's property.”
“Property! Why, what property had your mother? She
was a slave!”
“Yes, by the laws, I know; but your Excellency knows I
don't mind laws, and have my own. Now, I have already taken
possession of all my mother's property.”
“The devil you have!”
“Exactly; I took possession just an hour ago. I tied up the
old hag below—”
“You have not murdered the woman?”
“No! Only tied her up, hand and tongue. You will find
her after I am gone rather stiff in her limbs, and feeling the want
of her supper, which I have eaten. The goods I have carried off
already, and the plunder, were worth having, I assure you. There
will be fine sights of treasure in the mountains when I get back.”
The knight grew more and more uneasy. The cool insolence
of the outlaw was almost intolerable. He looked about him
with impatience, and his eyes turned involuntarily to the wall
upon which he had hung his sword and dagger. To his surprise,
they were gone. How had they been taken away? It was evident
that Mateo had been in the chamber already that night, or
some emissary; and he found himself completely in the power
of the ruffian. Don Balthazar did not lack for courage; but the
gigantic frame of his companion discouraged at a glance the momentary
impulse which he felt suddenly to spring upon and
grapple with him; and he now gazed upon the person whom he
feared with an eye of vacancy. Mateo seemed to read his
thoughts. He had followed his glance to where the weapons had
been wont to hang, and divined his feelings. The outlaw laughed
securely, with a bold, honest chuckle of security and triumph.
“'Twont do, your Excellency; the game's in my hand. I
could strangle you in a moment, and slit your pipe before you
could make any music out of it. But that's not what I want to
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do. I'll not be hard upon you; that is, if it is not by you that
the old woman was poisoned. I don't say 'twas you, but I
have my thoughts. I know you deal in poisons sometimes, and
I've got a trail to some of your secrets. What do you think
now of the Señorita, the Lady Olivia? She's a beauty, I know;—
but what do you think?”
The knight winced.
“I certainly think with you. She is a beauty.”
“Ah! Don Balthazar, what a pity it is that you are her uncle,
and that your hair is so salty!”
“Hark ye, Mateo!” said the Hidalgo, suddenly rising to his
feet.
“Sit down,” cried the outlaw imperatively, and putting his
hand to his knife. “You can talk, and I can hear just as well
when both of us sit.”
“Do you think I mean to harm you?”
“Oh! no! that you can't. I could settle your accounts in a
moment; but don't want the trouble of it. I want you to get
my pardon, I tell you, for I want to be free to come and go where
I please. I am sometimes cut off from a good bull-fight and a
festa, because of the trouble with the alguazils.”
“You want a pardon, do you?”
“Exactly; and something more, your Excellency. I said that
I liked the sort of living at the old estate, and I should like it
still if I had no work to do. Now, what I want of you is not
only to get me a pardon, but to make me overseer for the
estate of the Señorita.”
“Demonios! What more does your modesty require?”
“Very little after that.”
“Put the wolf to take care of the sheep, eh?”
“Not quite so bad as that, your Excellency. The fact is, you
can't do a better thing for the interests of the estate. It's a good
rule to set a thief to catch a thief; and the man that won't work
is either too lazy or too knowing. Now, your Excellency, it's
not because I'm lazy that I won't work. It's because I'm too
proud; and I'm too proud because I'm too knowing. I can
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make others work, and I know as well as any man how the work
ought to be done. Try me, and you shall see. If you had tried
me before instead of putting a blind bull over me, you'd have
done better, and Pedro Gutierrez would never have had his skull
opened suddenly, to his great disgrace showing that he had no
brains in the shell. Many a man don't do, and won't do, because
the right work is not given him, and the right confidence. Now,
do you try me, and you'll see what I can do. Make me your
overseer, get my pardon made out with the royal seal, and give
my sister to live with me, and you will find Mateo as faithful as
a dog. Refuse me, and you keep me the tiger and the outlaw
that you have made me.”
Rapid were the thoughts which coursed through the knight's
brain. The philosophy of the outlaw began to strike him favorably.
He reflected—“This fellow can be bought. He will do
any service in return for these things. He will strike my foe,
as coolly as butcher smites ox; he will obey my finger without
questioning. I leave for Florida. Olivia retires to the hacienda.
There, he is supreme in my absence. Ah! well! I
see!”
Then aloud:
“'Pon my soul, Mateo, you are moderate in your wishes.
But suppose I comply with them?”
“It will be wise!”
“Perhaps so! But are you prepared to show your devotion
to him who will do for you all this?”
“Am I prepared to make a profitable bargain?”
“Suppose there be a hateful serpent in my path?”
“I will put my heel upon his head!”
“Suppose there be a wolf in my close?”
“I will put my knife across his throat!”
“A mad bull, fierce as El Moro, and as strong?”
“Here is the very machete that slew El Moro!”
“It shall be done! Fill yourself a cup of wine, and we will
speak farther of this matter. We understand each other. It is
a bargain between us!”
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CHAPTER XXIII.
“This day is ominous,
Therefore, come back.”
Troilus and Cressida.
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It will not be difficult to conjecture what were the terms which Don
Balthazar was prepared to make with the outlaw, or the character
of the services which the latter was to render, by which to secure
the pardon which he desired and the office which he claimed.
The knight saw, in the appearance of Mateo, the means by which
to relieve himself from all danger at the hands of Philip de Vasconselos.
He was one of those persons who readily adapt the
tool to their uses which offers itself most readily to their hands;
and saw, at a glance, in what way the outlaw could promote his
purposes. We are not now to be told that he was a man of few
scruples when he was eager for his objects; his fears and virtues
equally failing to suggest considerations of doubt to a very ductile
conscience. Strange to say, the conditions which he demanded
of the outlaw, were not so readily accepted by this person.
Mateo was not without his own rude virtues. He had been impressed
with the knightly graces and valor of Vasconselos—had
seen with delight his wonderful skill in the tournament, and had
hailed his successes as if he shared in them. Besides, he was
aware of the isolation of the Portuguese cavalier, and well knew
the reluctance with which the Spaniards had acknowledged his superiority.
Mateo had too little of the Spanish blood in him to
feel with them, and adversely to one whose isolation so much reminded
him of his own; and he gave him his sympathies on this
account, as well as because of his valiant bearing. But he was
a person in a situation which did not suffer him to withstand the
tempter; and, though slowly and reluctantly, he, at length,
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yielded to the temptation. He was bought by the promise of pardon,
and the hope of reward; and consented to become the assassin
of the knight of Portugal. That night he confided the
whole secret to his sister, Juana, expecting her to be gratified
with an arrangement which promised him security and trust, and
freedom to herself. But he was confounded to find that she saw
the affair in a very different aspect.
“Do n't you believe Don Balthazar, my brother!” said the
girl. “He has some snare for your feet. It was because you
had him in your power that he made this bargain with you. He
keeps terms with no one; and I am only afraid that he throws
dust in your eyes, while he puts the alguazils upon your foot-steps!
Besides, you don't know what a noble gentleman this
knight of Portugal is.”
“Do n't I, then! Haven't I seen him with lance and sword;
on horse and foot; and do n't I know how these Spaniards hate and
fear him? Jesu! It did my heart good to see how he carried himself;—
how he managed the horse and lance, and made the sword
fly, here and there, at every point in the heavens, wherever the
enemy attacked. Oh! but I do know him, and I was very loth
to promise to lift knife against his breast!”
“And why did you do it?”
“Demonios! What was I to do? Here was my own pardon
offered me, your freedom, and the whole charge of the hacienda.”
“You will get none of these! Don Balthazar means only to
betray thee. He wishes, no doubt, to get this knight of Portugal
out of his way; for there are precious reasons, my brother,
why he should fear the presence of the Portuguese. Ah! if thou
knew'st! But when thou hast done the service, then will he be
the first to denounce thee. He is a bitter traitor. His whole
life is a treachery. His heart is full of serpents. He has lied
to thee with sweetness, and thou hast tasted of the sweetness
till thou dost not feel the poison! He is a poisoner! Ah! if
thou knew'st! Know I not that he keeps many poisons in his
closet? Did I not tell thee that our mother died by poison?
Whence did it come?”
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“He says a woman poisoned her.”
“A woman! He might just as well have said that I did it,
or the Lady Olivia. There was none other to do it; for Sylvia
came hither only after our mother was dead. No! no! Mateo,
he was the poisoner, be sure; and thou hast sold thyself to do
this bad man's bad work, making the good man thy victim, only
to feed on his poison thyself, when thou little dream'st of such
danger!”
“Hush up, child! He dare not deceive me! Let him try it!
Let me but find him at his treachery, and I will slit his throat
with a whistle.”
“Ah! if he be not too quick for thee. I nothing doubt that
he will have the alguazils upon thy steps before another day is
over.”
“I shall keep mine eyes about me, girl; and, hark thee, I shall
hide here in these thickets, and thou shalt feed me from the
house. They will never dream of looking for me here. I know
the hours when to steal forth, but hither will I come to sleep.
Dost thou hear?”
“Yes! It is best, perhaps. The plan is a good one. But
thou wilt not kill this knight of Portugal to pleasure this bad
man?”
“It must be done! I will do as I have said; and if Don Balthazar,
then, does not as he hath sworn to me, I will cut out his
lying tongue, and he shall see me eat it ere he dies!”
We need not farther pursue the conference, which ended in an
arrangement by which the outlaw, unknown to any but Juana,
was to find his nightly refuge, in the groves and harboring places
belonging to the grounds of the knight's own dwelling, and be
supplied with food at her hands. He was also to time carefully
his moments of sallying forth; and it was deemed only a proper
precaution that Don Balthazar was not to know where he harbored,
or be permitted any knowledge of his movements; at all
events, until it was certain that Juana's suspicions were groundless.
This conference took place outside of the house, and among
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the thick groves by which it was environed. While it was in
progress, Don Balthazar contrived to find his way into the domain
of Sylvia, and free her from her unpleasant bandagings.
He affected great surprise at her condition, and gave her no clues
to the secret of it. Nor, while he was present, did she conjecture
who was the bold ruffian by whom she had been plundered.
But scarcely had the knight retired, when she received a gleam
of intelligence from a simple discovery enough. The bandage
about her eyes was a scarf which she had often seen in the possession
of Juana—that, or one very much like it. Now, where
one is disposed to dislike, or suspect, the proofs rapidly accumulate.
This discovery, though by no means conclusive—since the
ruffian might very well have caught up, and made use of, the scarf
of the innocent serving-maid—yet set the memories and wits of
old Sylvia busy. She saw the mystery at a glance. Was not
Mateo the brother of Juana;—was not Mateo an outlaw;—and
had she not heard that Mateo had been seen in the bull-fight,
and that her excellent master—ever to be honored—had actually
set certain alguazils upon his footsteps? Nay, did not Don Balthazar,
only two nights before, give her warning to keep a close
eye upon Juana, for that the outlaw, her brother, was at hand?
And, O, shame to her prudence, had she not been too careless
of this counsel; and was it not for this very incautiousness that
she had fallen a victim to the robber! Now it was that she
remembered the frequent stealthy absences of the girl at night—
her window open—her chamber empty—and a hundred other
matters; which, in her present keen suspicions, were proofs like
holy writ—confirmations strong—not to be gainsayed in any
court of justice.
Sylvia was resolved in her suspicions. They were clear
enough as proofs. “And now,” mused the sagacious old woman,
“how to recover my property—how to enjoy my revenges! I
see through the whole affair. Juana harbors her brother here!
Truly, a most excellent notion, that of making the house of the
most noble knight, Don Balthazar, the place of refuge for the
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very outlaw whom he has sent the alguazils to find! But I will
be too much for them both—they shall see! they shall see!”
Her plans were soon devised, and the very next morning,
bright and early, she sallied forth on some professedly innocent
pretences. We need not follow her footsteps, but content ourselves
with reporting, in brief, the object of her expedition. It
was to seek out the alguazils—the chief of them, rather—and bestow
upon him the benefit of her discovery. She made an effort
to see Don Balthazar, and to enlighten him on the subject; but,
to her surprise, he seemed to have left the hacienda after relieving
her of her bonds. He did not again, that night, occupy his
own chamber; possibly, because of its assumed insecurity; and
during the day following, he did not re-appear. He was busy
in the city.
Meanwhile, what of Olivia—the poor victim, torn by love on
the one hand, by a bitter consciousness of wrong and shame on
the other; by passions which she could not control, by fears
which she dared not name; by vague, vain hopes, which fluctuated
in a sort of shadowy existence in her soul, keeping her
restless, dreaming of possibilities, and the most mocking fancies,
which left her, half the time, in the greatest uncertainty of reason!
Her health seemed to improve, however, and, though pale and
sad as ever, there were symptoms of better spirits and a greater
cheerfulness. Love itself was her only stimulant, while it was
also one of her most disturbing griefs. The image of Philip de
Vasconselos was ever present to her imagination, coming always
clothed with promise. The more she reflected upon the probability
of his addressing her, the more she began to doubt of her
own strength to say him nay. But, even then, her conscience
smote her with the criminality of consent; and she would thus
sink back into hopelessness and sorrow. But why was it that
he came not? To this inquiry, which again suggested a painful
doubt of her conquest—painful still, though she had resolved to
reject his suit—her lively friend, Leonora de Tobar, brought a
sufficiently explanatory answer. He was close in attendance
upon, and anxious for the safety of, his sick brother. Now,
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however, that Andres was out of danger, Olivia might look to see
him soon. She spent that morning with the unhappy damsel,
and her lively prattle alternately cheered and depressed her.
When she was gone, Olivia made her toilet with more than
usual care. Why? The words of Leonora assured her that she
might surely look for Don Philip's coming soon—that very day,
perhaps; and it was with an interest which the poor girl dared
not acknowledge to herself, that she arrayed her charms to the
best possible advantage; and gazed with a sorrowful sort of satisfaction
into the mirror which reflected them to her eyes. Then
she sighed, with the sudden rush of her fancies from the seat of
conscience, rebuked by the stern judgment of that sacred monitor.
“Wherefore,” she murmured to herself; “wherefore this
beauty—this solicitude to appear beautiful in his eyes? Alas!
my soul, I cannot do him this great dishonor. I can never
doom his noble heart to such infamy as embrace of me will
bring!”
She sank away from the mirror—she threw herself upon her
couch, and buried her face within her hands. The next moment
the girl, Juana, was gazing upon her with a look of sympathizing
interest, which touched her soul. The girl looked into the chamber
only to disappear.
“Madre de Dios!” Olivia murmured to herself: “Can it be
that she knows—that she suspects?”
And with the doubt, the apprehension grew to terror.
“I am at the mercy, O! Heavens, of the meanest slave!”
The fear was followed by an agonizing burst of grief! The
day was one of perpetual doubts and apprehensions. But it
passed away without events. Vasconselos did not appear, as
Leonora had conjectured, and as Olivia had hoped—and feared!
Her doubts and fears grew strengthened. If her secret was in
the possession of the slave, Juana, it was a secret no longer!
That it should have reached the ears of Philip, was her new
terror! It prostrated her for awhile! Half the night was passed
in tears and terrors, which were so many agonies. She could
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bear his loss—she could be content to give him up forever—but
that he should know her shame; that his noble soul should become
conscious of the deadly stain upon hers—that she could
never bear, and live! She prayed for death. In her secret
thought arose a vague feeling, which brought, and commended
to her, the fatal poison, with which, unwittingly, her hand had
bestowed death upon Anita. Were there not other drops of
silence, and sleep, and safety in that fatal phial? Where was it?
She would look for it! She would find it, and at the worst, she
would sleep; and all these terrible agonies of thougt would
have an end! In the deep stillness of the midnight hour, the
unhappy damsel resolved on suicide. But there were other
drops of bitterness in her cup of misery, which she was yet to
drink to the dregs. Let us not anticipate, but follow the fortunes
of other persons of our drama.
Sylvia had made her way to the alguazils, and had put them
in possession of all the clues which she had procured, leading to
the pathways and hiding-places of the outlaw, Mateo. Once
roused to suspicion, she had found numerous reasons for confirming
her in her conjectures. She noted all the outgoings of
Juana. She watched her with secrecy, and comparative success;
and though she did not see Mateo, she yet arrived at a very
shrewd notion of the thickets in which he might be found. The
hacienda which Don Balthazar and his niece occupied, though
smaller than the estate which he cultivated for her, was yet one
of considerable range in grove and forest. It had numerous dim
avenues of shade and silence. There were solitary walks which
no one frequented. There were hollows among the wooded hills
which might have harbored a hermit. It seems that Mateo
knew the place. He possessed himself of its various haunts;
and, but for the too eager desire of Juana to seek him out, and
be with him when there was no necessity for it, the old woman
would probably never have guessed his propinquity. Had the
girl been content to seek him only at night, and to carry him
food but once in the twenty-four hours, and then under cover of
the darkness, he had been safe. But the girl loved her brother,
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and was very proud of his prowess. Besides, after the death of
Anita, she needed the solace of association with the only kinsman
left her. She gratified this desire, and sought to gratify him,
twenty times a day, perhaps; stealing forth with fruits and delicacies,
with nice morsels from the kitchen, and with an occasional
wine-flask, or the remains of one, whenever she could appropriate
it with impunity. But the eye of Sylvia was upon her; and
she noted the direction taken by the footsteps of the girl. It was
surprising with what correctness she conjectured the harboring
places of the fugitive, from these observations, and her own
knowledge of the grounds. She put all her clues into the keeping
of the alguazils. The result was, that before sunset, some
half dozen of them were quietly skirting the hacienda, divided
into two parties, and gradually contracting their circuits about
the suspected place of refuge.
Mateo, meanwhile, never dreamed of danger from this source.
It is true that Juana had her doubts of the good faith of Don
Balthazar, and labored to inspire him with similar doubts. In
some degree she succeeded, so as in fact to make him circumspect
as possible. But the great gain of security, of freedom,
and high trust, which the Hidalgo had promised, were considerations
quite too grateful and tempting not to prevail in the argument
addressed to the confidence of the outlaw; who, besides,
seemed to understand very well why the uncle of Olivia should
desire to get Don Philip de Vasconselos removed from the path.
It was not with any satisfaction that Mateo contemplated the
duty assigned him. He would rather have killed any two other
men in Havana than this one Portuguese. But, as he said,
“What am I to do? I can't be a fugitive always, flying for safety;
and to be my own master is a great deal to one who don't
like to work; and to get into a snug office, where I can compel
others to do the thing which I don't like to do myself, is certainly
very pleasant! Besides, if I don't take the Portuguese in hand,
Don Balthazar will only employ somebody else—some bungler,
who will not do it half so well; who will botch the business;
who will give the good knight unnecessary pain, and perhaps
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keep him lingering. Now I will dispatch him at a blow. It is
but a stroke over the shoulders, and he is caught up by the
angels; for he is a good young man, and in a very proper state
to die! It must be done—and shall be! But let Don Balthazar
beware how he plays me false. If I have one death for Don
Philip, whom I rather love, I have a dozen deaths for him whom
I hate; and he shall taste them all if he tries to make a fool of
me!”
In this state of mind was he musing, while the alguazils were
skirting his hiding-place; which happened, at this moment, to be
on the verge of the hacienda, the point nearest the city. Here
the thicket was most dense; without pathways or avenues, except
such as nature had left in a very tangled piece of forest,
portions of which were clothed in a mass of brush and vine almost
too close for the progress of a wild-cat or fox, but through
which Mateo fancied he could burrow with tolerable ease, assisted
by a few strokes of his machete. The common pathway from
the city to the hacienda ran along the margin of this thicket, and
was skirted by some very lofty trees.
It happened that Philip de Vasconselos had taken this very
evening to visit the damsel whom his admiring fancies had chosen
as the Queen of the tournament. The duty would have been
done before, but for her indisposition, the reports of which,
abroad, had been very contradictory. Philip, though anxious,
and now very hopeful, was too generous, whatever his anxiety,
to appear before her while she suffered. He had learned that
day, however, from Nuno de Tobar, that she was at length well
enough to receive visitors; and he had chosen the most delicious
of the hours of the day, in that clime and season, to approach her
with his congratulations, his thanks, and possibly with the assurances
of a sympathy, far beyond any thing implied by these, in
his love and admiration! The purpose, not wholly decided
on—for the truly chivalrous are always timid in an affair of the
affections—of offering her his hand, and imploring hers, yet fluctuated
as a restless impulse in his bosom. It would be idle to
say that he did not hope, and hope strongly, for success. Even
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the modesty of his character could not be deceived on a subject
on which the common voice of society allowed no doubts, and he
was resolved to bring his own doubts, if any, to a close, as soon
as possible, and terminate a condition of suspense which had
many vexations. But, whether he should address Olivia that
evening or not, was to depend upon his reception, her health, and
other circumstances which need not be mentioned. Enough,
that he is at last on his way to her hacienda.
He had just entered upon the estate, and, with slow step, and
musing spirit, was penetrating the avenue of great trees which
led to the dwelling, when he was startled from a pleasant revery,
by a sudden outcry from the depths of the thicket on his right.
There were clamors, as of threatened violence; the shouts of man
to man; a rushing and crackling among the shrubs and branches
of the wood, followed by a fierce, wild, savage oath or two,
which came very distinctly to his ears, and which declared for
angry passions ready to do mischief. The sun had set. The interval
of twilight is brief in that region. A sudden glory suffuses
the sky, as the great eye of day is about to close; the glory
disappears, a faint misty light lingers in the sky, which gradually
deepens into dusk. Such was the hour. The dusk was nearly
darkness in the wood; and, for a moment, Don Philip could
see nothing, though he impulsively took a few steps into the
thicket in order to trace the secret of the outcry. He was not
left long in doubt. Suddenly, a gigantic figure, that seemed to rise
from the earth where he had fallen, bounded close beside him.
He was followed by three others, who now rushed out of the
wood and made after the fugitive, armed with swords and knives.
They were close upon his heels, and he turned about to confront
them. Three upon one! The struggle was too unequal. The
chivalry of Don Philip was aroused as he beheld. With the natural
impulse of a brave man, sympathizing with the weak, he
drew his sword, and threw himself in the way of the pursuers;
the outlaw, for it was he, being some twenty steps in advance.
“Stand aside!” cried one of the alguazils, who seemed to be
the leader:—“we are officers of justice.”
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“I know not that!” was the answer. “Where is your warrant?
Let me see your authority.”
“No time for that now! We are under the authority of Don
Balthazar de Alvaro, and these are his grounds. We are to arrest
yonder outlaw.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” was the fierce chuckle of the outlaw, who,
taking advantage of the diversion in his favor, had sheltered
himself among the trees, but who did not seem disposed to
fly much farther. He had obtained a momentary respite, which,
probably, was all that was now necessary to his safety.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Send Don Balthazar himself to me, and
we shall see who is the outlaw!”
Don Philip heard the words distinctly.
“Who is the man?” he asked.
“Mateo, the outlaw, the fugitive, the murderer. Beware,
Señor, how you arrest the officers of justice, and help the escape
of the criminal! I know you, Don Philip de Vasconselos; you
will have to answer for it, if you delay us.”
“If you know me, you know that I cannot stand by and see
three men opposed to one. Show me your authority for taking
this man, before you pass me. The penalty be upon my head!”
It is probable that the alguazils would have attempted to
beat the knight out of their path, but knighthood had its prestige,
and they well remembered the potent weapon of the Portuguese.
The officer remonstrated.
“You cannot read the paper,” he said, “by this light. But it
is here. Let us pass, or there will be trouble.”
“Let them pass, Señor,” cried the fugitive. “They will have
fleeter legs than Spanish alguazils usually carry, if they hope to
overtake Mateo; and better skill and courage than usual, if they
conquer when they overtake! Come on, rascals, that I may
carry you with me to the devil.”
The confidence with which the outlaw spoke determined Philip
to oppose the officers no farther. He probably saw that it
would be prudent only to forbear a quarrel with the public
authorities, knowing, as he did, how doubtful were his own
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relations with the Adelantado, and how small his popularity with
the Spaniards at large.
“You are right,” said he to the officers; “I have nothing to
do with this business!” and he turned aside, and put up his
weapon. The alguazils started again in pursuit. A shrill whistle
sounded from the opposite quarter. It was the signal of the
other party in search of the fugitive. The outlaw was between
two squads of enemies, and he bounded away to the covert, both
parties after him. For several minutes, Don Philip listened to
their outcries, as they severally crashed their way into the
thickets. He half regretted that he had not still farther delayed
the chase after the bold outlaw. In a little while the sounds
ceased. The alguazils were at fault, bewildered in the wood;
and the fugitive laughed at them securely in its deep recesses.
But, of this escape, Philip knew not at the moment. He resumed
his progress towards the dwelling, his mood having become
somewhat sterner by the momentary excitement. Hardly
had he advanced a dozen steps, however, when he encountered
the girl, Juana, wringing her hands, and showing many signs of
terror.
“Who is this?”
“Oh! Señor Don Philip, how I thank you! You have saved
my poor brother. They will give him to the garote vil, if they
take him; and it is I who have betrayed him.”
“You! Are you not the girl, Juana, belonging to Don Balthazar
de Alvaro?”
“Oh! not to him, but to the poor young lady, the Señorita
Olivia?”
“And he is your brother? And why do they pursue him?
What has he done?”
“Oh! nothing in the world, Señor; nothing in the world; only
he is too good to do work at the hacienda. They charge him with
murder and other things. But it is not true. He is the best person
in the world, Señor, and the best brother, and he killed the
great bull, El Moro; and would be as good a Christian as Father
Paul himself, if they'd only let him have his own way.”
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The knight smiled at the moderate conditions which were required
for Mateo's Christianity.
“Certainly, Juana, they are very unreasonable with your brother.”
“Oh! I knew you'd think so, Señor. He is only too good for
the like of them. He is the best brother in all Cuba.”
“Well, you are a good girl for believing thus of your brother.—
But how is your lady—how is the Señorita de Alvaro? I was
just going to visit her.”
“Ah!” said the girl quickly—“But you can't see her this evening.
She is not well, and she bade me leave her, and that's the
reason that you see me here. I stole off, as the Señorita retired—
only to see and talk with Mateo, and the alguazils—may the
Devils burn them in pitch and sulphur!—they followed after me,
and I led them to the very place where he was sleeping. Oh! they
had SQ nearly caught him; and if they had, and they had put him
to the garote vil, I would have drowned myself in the sea, forever
and forever!”
The visit of Philip de Vasconselos was arrested by the intelligence
which Juana gave him of her lady; but the girl deceived
him. Olivia had not retired; and we may add, that she really
expected the cavalier. She had been taught to look for him by
the garrulous assurances of Leonora de Tobar, who had gathered
from her husband's report that Don Philip would surely come
that night. And, but for this interruption, how might the events
of this truthful history have been altered!—whether for good or
evil we do not pretend to say. But altered they must have
been. Don Philip might have made the visit in vain; he might
have been denied; probably would have been; though it is difficult
to say. The task of denial would have been a hard one to
the poor damsel, loving him as she did; and reluctant as she was
to say him nay—to say nay to the pleadings of her own passion,
no less than his. She had dressed herself for Philip—she had
been solicitous of charms which, perhaps, needed little help from
art or ornament for conquest. Yet she had adorned herself richly
with her jewels! Would she have had the firmness—the virtue
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—to refuse the prayer of one whom she was yet so anxious to
please? It is probable that Don Balthazar knew her weaknesses
better than she did herself. At all events, the lie of the girl,
Juana, told with no malignant purpose, but simply to prevent the
discovery of her unlicensed absence by her mistress, changed,
very completely, the whole current of our history—changed the
fortunes of Don Philip, no less than those of the lady of his
love. Not that he did not again seek her—but this must be a
matter for future revelation. Philip de Vasconselos turned away
from Juana, and from the hacienda, and with a parting word of
kindness to the girl, slowly took his route back to his lonely
lodgings.
“Praise the Holy Virgin that he is gone! and the Saints be all
praised because he came. If he had not come between these
cursed alguazils, they would have been, all of them, upon poor
Mateo. They can hardly take him now, it is so dark, and he
knows the thickets so well. He will escape. He is safe. I
don't hear them now. Oh! I am so glad that the good knight of
Portugal came! And Mateo wanted to kill him, and all to
please that great cayman, my master. But he shan't touch him
now. If he's to kill anybody, I know who it shall be. It shan't
be the good Don Philip, I know. He is a good knight. I love
him. And my lady loves him too, better than all things in this
world. But if he knew! If he only knew what I know! But
he shall never know for me! And if he marries her, I shall be
so glad.”
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CHAPTER XXIV.
“Now help ye charming spells and periapts
And ye choice spirits that admonish me,
And give me signs of future accidents.”
Shakspeare.
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Day passed, night came and went, with all her train of thoughtful
stars, and the hours grew more and more sad to Olivia de
Alvaro, in the solitude of her chamber. The sense of pain and
apprehension increased to absolute terror, as it became certain
that she was not to see Don Philip that night. She sate beside
the verandah below stairs till a very late hour; and O! the
hopelessness and woe of that sick suffering soul, left to its own
miserable musings, and struggling against its own terrible consciousness.
Youth has wonderful resources against every evil but the
sense of shame. Beauty maintains a glorious elasticity in its own
ecstasies of hope, provided you do not crush it with a doubt of its
own purity. But if this doubt be present, it hangs above the
heart with all the threatening terrors of the thunder-cloud. You
dare not trust the sunshine. You cannot confide to the breeze.
The whispers of the grove seem to repeat the secret of your
fears. The stars seem mournful witnesses against you, and you
dread lest the fierce glances of the noonday sun will suddenly
penetrate your prison-house, and lay bare to the world its dreadful
mysteries. Shame is a haunting spectre that will down at no
man's bidding. It is thus terrible to man; but to woman,
young, beautiful, pure in spirit, and hopeful still, in the possession
of generous passions and loving sympathies, it is the demon that
implies all horrors, past and future; that mars all felicity with a
voice of doom, and threatens every breath of hope and feeling
with the tortures of eternal sorrow. The soul thus haunted cannot
well be said to live. It enjoys nothing. It distrusts all
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pleasures, all friendships, loves, associations. The eyes that look upon
it seem spies, the voices that address it seem accusers. The very
passions and sympathies, thus overshadowed, grow to scorpions,
that fasten upon the being in whose heart they harbor. To
describe the sorrows of such a being, in detail, would be impossible.
This would be to analyze enery emotion, thought, fancy;
and to discern the self-suggested doubt and apprehension which
the mind continually conjures up for its own agony. If, from
such a knowledge of her situation as we have been enabled to give,
the reader cannot conceive of the miserable melancholy of Olivia's
mood, nothing now may be said more fully to enlighten him.
There are some agencies which are indescribable; beyond which
we may not go—beyond which we may not see—over which the
curtain drops of itself, and which we thence only venture to contemplate
through means of conjectures, which still, for the sake
of humanity, imply uncertainty. We give to the sufferer the
benefit of the doubt, and in some degree feel a relief from having
done so. It is a relief not to believe too much. We prefer to
suppose that the victim has some alternative by which to escape
from a situation the agonies of which are too exquisite for endurance.
How, in what gloomy wakefulness, and torturing thought,
Olivia passed the night, we shall not pretend to describe. Nature
at last, in her utter exhaustion, compelled thought to silence. She
slept, but not till a very late hour. It was midnight when Don
Balthazar reached home. She heard him enter the house, and
immediately proceeded to assure herself that her door was fastened.
The secret door leading to her chamber, of which she only
recently had knowledge, she also contrived to provide against by
a heavy piece of furniture, which promised to render it unavailable
to the intruder. This done, the eyes of the damsel grew
weary, and after a sobbing prayer, she soon sank to slumber. She
slept late the next day, and was awakened by Juana tapping at
the entrance. Don Balthazar had already departed for the city,
and Olivia felt relieved at the intelligence. She took a light
breakfast, but was oppressed by heaviness after it. Her eyes
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drooped, and her spirits. She looked about her, made efforts to
shake off the feeling, which she ascribed to her previous wakefulness,
and bustled accordingly about her chamber. But the feeling
increased. She remarked with surprise that the beaufet, in
which she kept certain little delicacies, sweetmeats, cocoa, bon-bons,
and other trifles of like sort, was unfastened. She had secured
it, as she believed, the night before, and as she had always been
particularly careful to do so, she was annoyed by the circumstance.
It flashed across her mind that some one must have visited
her chamber while she slept. But it was evident that the secret
door could not be penetrated from without, fastened as it was by a
massive piece of furniture, and the ordinary entrance had not
been disturbed. She was compelled to dismiss the suspicion,
which, could she have entertained, might have led her to another
mode of accounting for her drowsiness. This increased as the
day proceeded. She was, however, somewhat kept alive by the
unwonted freedom of Juana's communications. Hitherto she
had kept the girl at a distance; holding her to be an object of as
much suspicion as her mother, Anita. But of late, and since the
advent of the hateful Sylvia, Juana had been more devoted to her
young mistress, more solicitous to serve her, and had shown her
sympathy on several occasions, when sympathy from the humblest
source must necessarily be grateful to the torn and suffering
heart of the unhappy damsel. Juana's own heart was too full
now, any longer to keep the secret of her brother. She told the
whole story of his presence in Havana, his discovery, the pursuit
of him, urged by the beagles of the law, at the instance of
Don Balthazar, and his lucky escape. But she said not a syllable
of the interposition of Don Philip de Vasconselos. Her communications
did not rest here. She told most of the particulars
of the midnight conference between Don Balthazar and the outlaw,
the lures held out to the latter, the promises made of freedom
for himself and her, and the future management of the
estate,—not forgetting the criminal condition by which the outlaw
was to secure these benefits. Once opened, the stream of revelation
was unbroken until the whole fountain was emptied. But
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there was another reservation which the girl made. She did not
say who was the victim whom the hate of Don Balthazar required
the outlaw to assassinate. In reply to the eager and apprehensive
inquiry of Olivia, she professed not to know. But Olivia knew.
Her instincts readily divined the secret, as she, better than any
body else, knew well what were her uncle's necessities and danger,
and how naturally he regarded Philip de Vasconselos as his worst
enemy.
“Holy Maria!” murmured the poor girl to herself: “Will
he murder him because he hath destroyed his hope as well as
mine! Oh! surely, I must do something here!”
Then aloud, to Juana, she said—
“But your brother will never do this horrid deed, Juana?”
“No! no! Señorita; not now, I'm thinking. He might have
done it yesterday, perhaps; but now, when he finds that Don
Balthazar keeps no faith with him, and puts the alguazils at his
back, just as he has made a solemn bargain with him before the
angels,—Mateo will never trust him, or work for him in any
way.”
“Hear me, Juana! I will give Mateo and yourself freedom.
It is to me you belong—”
“Yes, Señorita, to be sure; but you are not of age yet, you
know, and your uncle is your guardian till then; and he—”
“I know all that, Juana; but do you and your brother serve
me faithfully—do all that I shall require in the meantime, and I
will provide that you shall both have your freedom as soon as I
am of legal age. Meanwhile, I will see the Lady Isabella, who
is very kind to me, and through her I will get Mateo's pardon
for the crimes of which he has been guilty.”
“Oh! will you, dear Señorita, my most dear Señorita? But
what do you want us to do?”
“I will tell you hereafter. At present I hardly know myself.
I must think. I see that there is something to be done, but now,
I scarcely know what. My head feels very confused, and I am
so drowsy. I slept but little last night. I shall think of everything
during the day. Meanwhile, do you contrive to see your
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brother, and tell him what I have said. Tell him, above all
things, not to lift hand or weapon against Don Philip—”
“But I didn't say 'twas Don Philip, Señorita.”
“No matter! I know! It can be no other. If he hurts one
hair of Don Philip's head, I will have him hunted up in the
mountains by all the troops of the Adelantado, and I will never
sleep till they bring him to the garote vil. Now, warn him.
Let him be faithful to me, and I will make you both free. See
him soon. Go, now. Hasten! Find him. Do not rest till
you tell him all. But whisper not a word of this to any other
living soul.”
Juana did not need a second command to depart in search of
her brother. Her absence was noted by Sylvia, who was furious
at the escape of Mateo from the alguazils. She was soon upon
the track of the serving-girl, whose superior agility, however, enabled
her finally to elude the pursuit of the old woman. Meanwhile,
Olivia had a visitor in the gay young wife of Nuno de Tobar,
who found her sinking back into that state of languor and apathy
from which the communication of Juana had momentarily aroused
her. Her energies had risen, with the temporary excitement,
to subside as suddenly; and the lively prattle of Leonora seemed
to be wasted entirely upon the ears to which it was addressed.
The gay young woman came in with a bound, full of anticipations
in respect to her young hostess.
“Well, my child,” said she, “it is all settled, I suppose?”
“What is settled, Leonora?”
“Why, that you are to be the bride of Don Philip.”
“No! It is settled only that I am not to be the bride of Don
Philip!” was the sad reply.
“What! Olivia, you have not been so foolish as to refuse
him? You who really love him so!”
“He has not given me the opportunity, Leonora.”
“How! But he has been here?”
“No!”
“Is it possible! Well, that is very strange! I got from
Nuno that he was surely to come to see you yesterday.”
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“He did not come!” was the answer, in sad tones.
“That is certainly very curious. He told Nuno that he would
visit you in the evening. That was yesterday morning. Nuno
spent the morning with him, and said he was in the greatest
spirits; that he did nothing but talk of you, and of your beauty
and sweetness, and grace and innocence!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Olivia, with a sudden flushing of the cheek,
while she pressed her hand upon her side as if in pain.
“What is the matter? Are you sick?”
“A sudden pain!”
“You have these sudden pains too frequently. You keep too
much at home. Home always fills me with pains. It don't
agree with the health of any young woman not to go frequently
abroad, where she can see and be seen. That's what I tell Nuno
when he wants to quarrel with me for going out so much.
Though, in truth, I do not go out so very often. I visit nobody
but you, and the Lady Isabella, and Donna Vicente de Ladrone,
and the Señoritas Guzman, and dear little Maria de Levoine,
and Theresa Moreno, and a few others. But I tell Nuno that it
is not for the love of it that I visit; it is only for my health. I
should have just those sort of pains that trouble you, if I did not
show myself everywhere every day; and I tell Nuno I am not
going to make myself sick by minding what he says. Oh! he's
like all other men, and would be nothing less than a tyrant if
I'd let him. And do you be warned in time. When you marry
Don Philip take your position firmly at the outset; and seize
the first opportunity of putting your foot down so—and saying,
`'Twont do, Don Philip! You are quite mistaken in your woman.
I am my own mistress, Don Philip, and if you were a
wise gentleman, and a gallant, I should be yours also!' That's
what you must say and do, Olivia, if you'd be a free woman
and a ruling, happy wife. It's the only way!”
And she stamped very prettily, with a properly graceful emphasis,
with her pretty little left foot, and tossed her tresses with
the air of a sultana. But Olivia only smiled sadly in reply, and
shook her head.
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“Oh! don't shake your head so pathetically. You are troubled
with the blues only, and will recover as soon as Don Philip
comes singing—`Will you, will you,—won't you, Olivia?' And
he will come, I assure you. I only wonder, after what he said
yesterday, that he was not here last evening. He will be sure
to come this, so take care and see to your toilet. Put on your
best smiles, and be sure to wear your pearls, they are so becoming
to you. Oh! when he goes to Florida he will send you
bushels of them. Nuno promises me any quantity; and what
do you think, Olive? he tells me that, in that country, the Apalatchies
raise them from the seed. Think of that. I can hardly
believe him. Only think of planting your garden with seed-pearl,
and raising them in any quantity and size. He says that
they can be grown larger than the largest fowl-egg, only by
manuring them with star-dust. But what is star-dust? He
wouldn't tell me that. Only said there was a plenty of it to be
had in every country, and more in Cuba than any other.”
To all this Olivia had to smile only, but in such a sort did she
smile, that even the lively visitor was somewhat chilled by it.
“Oh do!” said she, “Olivia, shake off these gloomy fits. I
tell you he will come, and will be at your feet within twenty-four
hours; and you will pout, and hesitate, and tremble, and say
nothing. Then he will take your hand, and he will carry it to
his lips, and you will tremble more than ever; but you will
never think to draw your hand away, which is a thing so easily
done that it does not seem worth while to do it; and then he
will rise and seat himself beside you on the settee, and with one
hand holding yours he will put the other about your waist, and
suddenly he will mistake your mouth for the hand he has been
kissing, and he will kiss that; and after he has gone so far, you
will see that there is no sense in refusing him the use of the
things that he knows so well what to do with.”
“Never, Leonora. Do not speak of it. I do not think that
Don Philip cares for me, and I assure you we shall never be
married.”
“Oh! I know better! You mustn't refuse Don Philip on
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any account. He will take you out of the custody of your uncle,
who is only a sort of great Moorish bull, such as fought the
other day in the ring; and a monstrous pretty fight he made,
indeed! If I could see Don Balthazar fighting in the same manner,
till he was killed, and dead outright, and lying sprawling in
red blood, and with his neck and shoulder stuck full of banderillas,
I think I should like him a great deal better. But now I don't
like him at all. Here he keeps you no better than a prisoner.
In fact, Olivia, I half suspect he likes you better, as a woman,
than as a niece, and would rather not see you married to anybody.”
Olivia started at this random shaft; rose from the settee; and
with staring eye and flushed cheek, gazed her answer; vague,
wild, utterly unmeaning, as it seemed, to the remark of Leonora.
“What! dear child, another of those cruel pains? I must
send you some famous drops I have. Sit down again! Lie down,
Olive, dear. I can speak to you just as well when you lie as
when you sit. There, rest yourself for awhile. Poor, dear
creature, how your cheek pales and flushes, in an instant, and
what an odd look you have in your eyes! You must take some
of my drops, and take more exercise, and take advice, Olive, and
what's more and better, take Don Philip. Oh! he will cure you
of all these infirmities. That's the good of a husband! Now
don't be looking so woeful and low-spirited. Positively, there
are big tears in your eyes! What have I been saying to make
you so sad? I'm sure I meant to be very lively and very good-natured,
and to tell you only such things as would please you.
By the way, something odd of your Don Philip. You must
know that he has the most eccentric tastes in the world. What
do you think? He gave Nuno a commission to buy him a negro
boy, a sort of lacquey, fifteen or sixteen—a lad to go on messages,
and polish his armor, and help lace him in it, and perhaps
dress his hair—who knows what sort of duties the page of a
young gallant has to perform? Well, Nuno, who knows everybody,
busies himself to procure this lad for him, and sends him
half a hundred, more or less, of the best black boys, for such a
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purpose, in all Havana. And none pleases our excellent Don
Philip. He has a taste, would you believe it, even in the choice
of a negro. He requires the boy to be graceful and good-looking,
as if such a thing was to be found! He must needs have a
negro handsome! Was ever such an absurdity! Such a whim!
So ridiculous! To one, he objects because he is bowlegged; to
another, because he squints; to a third, because his forehead is
back of his ears; to a fourth, because his mouth is like a cavern, as
huge as that of Covandonga, and forever open. He says that sleeping
some night in Florida, a cayman will go down his throat,
and he shall lose his negro and his money. And thus, positively,
he has refused every negro that has been brought him. What's
to be done with such a man? But I tell Nuno, these are only
his humors, because he's unsettled. He's not thinking of the
negro at all; only of you, Olivia—only of you! Now, for my
part, as I told Nuno, I don't wish a good-looking negro about
me. The idea of a handsome negro is unreasonable and unnatural.
The uglier the better. Beauty and good looks would be
entirely out of place in such an animal.”
We despair fully of success, in the endeavor to keep pace, as
a reporter, with the tongue of the lively Leonora. Enough that, after
a certain period, its exertions were relaxed. Even she herself
tired finally of the fruitless effort to provoke interest or curiosity
in what she said, in a mind so utterly absorbed, a spirit so
utterly subdued and sad, as that of Olivia. The latter drooped,
and became more and more apathetic in proportion to the efforts
of Leonora to arouse her; and, giving up the task, in no satisfied
humor, she at length took her departure, with a promise to return
as soon as she could hear that Don Philip had made his
visit.
Olivia yielded to her apathy as soon as her companion had
gone. It grew to absolute drowsiness, in spite of sundry efforts
which she made to arouse herself; which she did the rather to
shake off a feeling which oppressed her, than with any necessity
for doing the several things about the house which she undertook.
But, as the hour for the siesta drew nigh, she yielded to the subtle
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influence which possessed her, and which she persuaded herself
was due to the heat of the day, and the absence of the freshening
breezes of the sea. She had disposed herself on the settee as for
sleep, when Juana reappeared, much flurried and exhausted.
She had failed to find her brother, after a long and very fatiguing
search in all the well-known places. It was probable, so
Juana thought, that the late pursuit of the alguazils had driven
Mateo from the estate. We, however, knew better. He had
simply found it necessary to shift his quarters, and to exercise a
little more caution. He may have temporarily left the grounds,
but he did not abandon them. In truth, to state a fact which
poor Juana did not conjecture, he found it necessary for his own
safety to elude her search. She it was, who, with a foolish fondness,
had brought old Sylvia and the alguazils upon his track. He
kept from her sight, and changed his ground at her approach.
The girl was very much troubled by the failure of her search.
Olivia might have felt and shown quite as much concern on hearing
her report, but for the torpor that had now seized upon her
faculties. She repeated her commands to Juana to find her
brother, and arrest his knife, in so many murmurs.
“It is very warm and oppressive, Juana. We shall have a
thunder-storm. I am very drowsy.”
Juana shook her head. She ascribed her mistress's drowsiness
to a very different cause. She had enjoyed some of the experience
of old Anita, and she muttered to herself—“She has had the
spice!” Aloud, she said,—
“It is warm, Señorita, and close, but I don't think there will
be any thunder-storm. In a little while the sea-breeze will wake
up, and you will feel better, perhaps.”
“I will go to the summer-house, Juana, and take my siesta, if
you think there will be no thunder-storm. Carry my dress for
the evening over there, and my jewel-case. I will make my toilet
there. We need apprehend no visitors now until evening, I think,
and you need not disturb me until the proper time to dress.”
She gave other directions—had some oranges, now in their
prime, carried to the summer-house, and with languid limbs
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went thither, after awhile, herself; her whole appearance being
that of one not only indifferent, but insensible to external things.
The summer-house was a retreat happily conceived for a climate
like that of Cuba. It held a neatly furnished, airy apartment,
surrounded by a colonnade which effectually excluded the
sunlight from its floors. It was surrounded by ample thickets,
which added to the shade, and seemed to give security. It was a
sweet solitude, the chosen retreat of contemplation. Here silence
had full empire. A happy succession of small courts and avenues
through the thickets, opening in all directions, gave free admission
to the breeze. These avenues ran through long tracts of the palm,
the orange, the grenadilla, and the anana. Their several fruits,
more or less ripe, hung lusciously in sight, in close proximity, and
drooping to the hand. On each side, the passages were cut
through seeming walls of thicket, affording arched walks of the
most noble natural Gothic. These all conducted to the one centre,
in the light and airy octagon cot to which Olivia had retired. This
fabric was very slight, a mere framework of wood; the columns
around it being more solid than the structure; and at a glance
seemed to be constructed literally of palm, bamboos, and other
flexible and tenacious shrub trees, peculiar to that region; which,
lopt from their roots, will sometimes bud and blossom, like the
miraculous rod of the prophet. The bamboos were artfully interwoven,
and roofed with the thick leaves of palm, and plantain,
and fig. These were all so many plates and shields, green, broad,
and with glossy velvet coating that might effectually baffle the
fierce glances of the sun, even if there were no loftier shadows
from great trees, that stretched their broad and massive boughs between.
Art had done its best, within the cottage, to emulate the
handiwork of nature without. There was no lack of the necessary
supply of curtains and cushions. The former drooped in
green or blue before the several openings of the cottage, which
was, in fact, only a group of verandahs, placed in parallelism,
shutting out the light, but readily yielding to the pressure of the
breeze. Upon one of the piles of cushions Olivia sunk down;
taking naturally an attitude of grace, and exhibiting an outline
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exquisitely rounded, such as frequently distinguishes the figure of
the woman trained in a life of luxurious ease, and in that delicious
climate. She seems, at once, to sleep. Her eyes close.
Her sense is steeped in oblivion. She dreams, yet she does not
sleep. She feels, but she is not conscious. Her blood stagnates
in her veins; yet it works potently in her brain. She is in a
morbid and unnatural condition. She is under the influence of
“periapts”—spells, which steep the sense in oblivion—in unconsciousness
of evil,—making the victim deaf to the very thunders
that roll above his head, and blind to the forms of terror,
or of danger, that flit before his eye. She has partaken of “the
insane root that takes the reason prisoner.” The potent medicine
which now seals up her consciousness was one of the secrets
of her fearful uncle. She has suspected him;—she has,—
as we have already seen, endeavored to evade his arts; but they
have been too much for her. She little dreams that he possesses
avenues to all her hiding-places, keys of power to persuade to
yielding, every lock and bolt which she deems secure. At the
very moment when she fancied herself most safe, and was beginning
to exult in the conviction that she could baffle and defy his
arts, her strength failed her—her powers all frozen by his terrible
spells. Late that day he reached home and asked for Olivia. He
was told by Juana that she was in the summer-house—that she
slept. A knowing smile slightly curled his lip. Dinner was
served him in his chamber. The wine of Xeres sparkled before
him. He drank with the manner of one who enjoys a temporary
respite from all the cares of life. He finished the goblet;
refilled it; finally emptied the flask, and threw himself into his
hammock, with a cigar. He smoked for a while, then rose, drew
forth another flask of wine, broached it and drank freely; finished
his cigar in his hammock, and after a little while, restlessly worked
himself out of it. His eye was humid, his cheeks flushed, his
steps uncertain. He looked about him with an air of hesitation,
then repeated his draught from the flask, and, with a sudden impulse,
hurried out into the verandah, and down the steps into the
garden. The keen eyes of Juana followed him from below.
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She saw that he made his way towards the summer-house, while
he fancied himself unseen.
“Oh!” she muttered sotto voce, as she watched, “Oh! if the
garote vil only had its teeth in the neck of the right one, I know
who would never drink two whole wine-flasks at a sitting, and
then!—” The sentence was left unfinished, unless the final
ejaculation, after some pause, may be considered a proper part
of it:—“Oh! the poor Señorita!”
Juana was not much given to pity. It was hate to the uncle,
rather than sympathy for the niece, that caused her ejaculations!
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CHAPTER XXV.
“Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight
With a new Gorgon.”
Macbeth.
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The day had been one of considerable bustle in Havana, and
Don Balthazar had been very busy all the morning. Juan de
Anasco, the contador, a brave, choleric little fellow, who united
all the qualities of the soldier, with the experience of the sailor,
had been a second time dispatched to coast the shores of Florida,
in order to find a proper harbor to which the expedition might
sail direct. He arrived the previous night, after a protracted
voyage of three months, during which great fears were entertained
that he had been lost at sea. His escape had been a narrow
one, and it will illustrate the superstitions of his time and
people, to show how he returned thanks to Heaven for his restoration
and safety. In fulfilment of a vow, made at a moment of
extreme peril, he and all his crew, the moment they reached the
shores of Havana, threw themselves upon their knees, and in
this manner crawled to church to hear mass. Then he made
his report of disasters and discoveries, and described a secure
harbor which he had found in Florida. The armament of De
Soto had been nearly ready for several days before. It needed
now but little further preparation, and waited, in fact, but a favorable
wind. The report of Anasco stimulated the industry of
all parties. De Soto was impatient to depart, and his desires
were so many keen spurs in the sides of the lieutenants, keeping
them incessantly employed. Don Balthazar, as we have mentioned,
had been very busy all the morning, and hence, perhaps,
his rather free indulgence in the pleasures of the wine-cup after
the toils of the day were over.
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That night there was a great feast to be given by the Adelantado,
to the cavaliers and chiefs of his army, and the principal
persons of Havana. It was the policy of De Soto to keep up
the enthusiasm of his people in regard to the expedition, and to
conciliate the affections of those whom he was to leave behind him
under the government of his wife. To this feast, as a matter of
course, the two Portuguese brothers were invited, and Andres, the
younger, though just recovered from his illness, had resolved to
attend. Not so, Philip. He had fully resolved not to accompany
the expedition;—we have seen with what reason. He enjoyed
no command, and felt that he had not made himself friends
among the Spaniards, and that he could never become the favorite
of the Adelantado. But his chief reason, perhaps, lay in the
growth of his hopes of favor in the eyes of Olivia de Alvaro. If
she approved and consented to his prayer, the conquest of Florida
would possess no attractions in his eyes. His ambition had grown
moderate, as his love increased in fervor. His passion for adventure
had suddenly become subdued in the birth and growth
of a more powerful passion. If Olivia smiled, what was Florida
to him? He cared nothing for its golden treasures. The pearls
which it seemed to proffer were worthless, in comparison with
those of love. And he was hopeful. That Olivia loved him he
could scarcely doubt. Her eyes had shown it—her emotions—
the public voice seemed to proclaim it; and Nuno de Tobar, who
brought him the favorable reports of his gay young wife, held it
to be beyond all question, and solemnly assured him to this effect.
But Nuno was not prepared to countenance the lover in
his refusal to take part in the expedition. He himself was about
to leave the young and beautiful creature whom he had just wedded;
why should Philip de Vasconselos be more anxious than
himself? Why should so brave a cavalier refuse all opportunities
of glory and conquest, and great treasure, and power, simply
because he was a lover? The notion seemed to him perfectly
ridiculous, and he greatly resented the absence from the
feast upon which Philip had resolved.
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“It will never do, Philip,” said he.
“But it must do, Nuno,” answered the other gayly. “What
should I do at this supper? I shall not be a favorite, if present.
I shall win none of De Soto's smiles, and, in truth, I care not to
win them;—and I shall not be missed if absent. There will be
enough to shout their hopes and desires, and to respond, with
sweet echoes, to the fine promises of De Soto. There will be
enough for the wine, at all events, and I should be only out of
place in a scene for which my temper does not fit me. Besides,
my presence will only have the effect of persuading the Adelantado
that I will yet accompany the expedition.”
“And you must, Philip; we cannot well do without you.”
“I have not been treated, Nuno, as if such were the common
opinion.”
“But it is, no matter how they have treated you; such is their
conviction, no less than mine!”
“Then are they the most ungrateful rascals in the world, and
the greater fools, too,” replied Philip. “But not to vex you,
Nuno, (and for your sake I should really wish to go, were it
proper that I should, under the present circumstances), I am
grown too tender-hearted for war! Its image now offends me. I
see nothing persuasive in the aspect of glory: there is nothing
sweet in the music of a trumpet charge, though it leads to victory.
My dream now is of repose, of a sweet solitude in the shade,
with a pair of loving eyes looking ever into mine, and the voice
of a true heart breathing ever in my ear the music of a passion
which asks first for peace—peace—peace! This dream haunts
me ever. It takes from me the passion as the pride of arms.
It compensates for all I lose. With Olivia in the country, I
shall be too happy to repine at any of your conquests.”
“Now do I almost wish that she may refuse thee.”
“No, thou dost not.”
“Thou deservest it!”
“What, for being truer and more devoted to love than to ambition?”
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“No, but for thy desertion of thy comrades.”
“Comrades! Oh! good friend and brother of mine, as I will call
thee, for thou hast been true to me, and full of brotherly loving
since I have known thee—dost thou not smile within thyself at
thy own folly, when thou speakest of my comrades among the
cavaliers of De Soto?”
“Am I not thy comrade, and wilt thou suffer me to go alone
on this expedition of peril?”
“Thou goest with thy comrades, Nuno, but not with mine.
Thou art a favorite, where they look upon me with ill favor.
They will serve thee with loyalty, and support thee; and follow
thy lance to battle with a joy; and exult in thy victories. But
on mine they look only with evil eyes. Follow thy bent, Nuno,
and cherish thy passion for conquest; and none will more truly
rejoice in thy successes and good fortune than the poor knight
of Portugal. But thou obey'st a passion which I do not feel, and
thou hast encouragements in which I do not share. Art thou
not unreasonable, mi amigo, in thy demand that I shall partake
of the peril of an expedition which promises neither pride, nor
reward, nor favor of any sort?”
Nuno de Tobar was silenced. His friend had spoken but the
truth. He changed the subject.
“So, none of the Ethiops that I send thee will answer?
Verily, Philip, for a wise man thou hast strange notions of thine
own! Of what matter to thee that a negro slave should be
handsome?”
“Not handsome, but well-looking. Now, all those that were
offered me were among the ugliest and most ill-looking knaves
in the world—models of deformity and ugliness. I confess such
as these offend my sight.”
“It is the common aspect of the race.”
“Ay, but there are degrees, in which these aspects do not
offend.”
“It will be long ere thou art suited. But the silly knight,
De Sinolar, hath promised to send me some passable urchins for
inspection; but he will require a great price for his wares,
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particularly when he knows they are for thee. He regards thee as
a dangerous rival.”
“What! aspires he to Olivia?”
“Yes, indeed; and with the approbation, it is thought, of her
uncle. De Sinolar was greatly annoyed at thy success in the
tourney, and would have taken lance himself—he avowed—to
encounter thee; but that he had no horse to be relied on, and
lances, he thought, were things quite too frail for a man to peril
his honor upon. He hath every confidence in his own skill,
strength and courage, but doubts if the wit of man hath yet conceived
any adequate weapons upon which these may securely
rest themselves in the tournament. He holds himself in reserve,
however, when the becoming implements of battle shall be
made.”
“There is wit in the knight's philosophy. Think you it came
from himself?”
“Verily, I do not. He reads much in Amadis and other adventures
of chivalry, and the excuse hath an antique fashion.
And thou didst not see the Lady Olivia yesterday?”
Philip told of the encounter with the outlaw and the alguazils,
and added,—
“But, with the blessing of the Virgin, I will seek her to-day.
While you are preparing for your feast I shall speed to her
dwelling, resolved to put to hazard all my hopes.”
“She loves thee, Philip! I know it, if I know anything of the
heart of woman. She will accept thee, my friend, and thou wilt
be happy! But should she refuse thee?”
“Then, perchance, thou wilt find me beside thee when thou
liftest lance against the Apalachian.”
“I could almost pray, Philip, that she should send thee from
her with the blessing of Abaddon, which is said to be very much
like a curse!”
And he grasped vigorously the hand of his friend. They separated
after some further conversation, and Philip retired to the
recesses of his humble lodging.
The day passed slowly to our knight of Portugal. He had
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appointed to himself the afternoon for his purposed visit to Olivia.
He was impatient for its approach. His soul was teeming with
delicious fancies. Truly, as he had said to Nuno de Tobar, he
was delivered up to softer influences than those of war. The
sweet and balmy atmosphere he breathed, grateful though enervating,
contributed to the gentle reveries of the lover! The
hour chosen for his visit to the beloved one was especially appropriate
to such an object. Nobody who has not felt, can possibly
conceive of the balm and beauty-breathing sweetness, in
such a climate, of the hour which just precedes the sunset; when
his rays, bright without heat, stream with soft beauty through
the green forests, and wrap them in a halo, that makes them as
gloriously sweet as golden. There is a delicious mystery to the
soul that delights in gentle reveries in the shadows at this hour—
in the smiling glances of the sun, when he suffuses all the horizon
with the warmest flushes of orange, greon, and purple. In a
region where the excessive heat and glare of his light at noon are
ungrateful to the eye and oppressive to the frame, the day necessarily
offends, even at early morning; and the soul necessarily
sympathizes with its several agents, even as one spares his slave
or servant the task which exposes him to pestilence or storm.
Thus the spirits sink as the form suffers. The sunset hour in
the same region redeems the day. It is the day—the all of day
that the eye requires. It is by a natural instinct that, in this
region, he who seeks for love chooses this hour, or the night
which is lighted by a moon, for his purpose. These naturally
suggest themselves in all climates as the periods when the heart
may go forth in quest of its kindred. But here, these are the
only periods. Nobody could find eloquence for love-making in
Cuba during the noonday. No damsel would believe the loyalty
of the heart that so lacks discretion as to prefer its suit at
such a time. The day is obtrusive, and love demands secresy.
It is a thing of tremors and timidities. It haunts the shade. It
has a consciousness of something in its quest which it holds quite
too sacred for exposure, or the risk of exposure; and as it only
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whispers when indifference would speak, so it shrinks and hides
when audacity and pride go forth.
The delicious softness of the hour sunk deeply into his soul, as
Philip de Vasconselos passed into the shady and silent defiles
leading through the thick woods which girdled the hacienda of
the lady of his love. The sweet light from the slant beams of
the declining sun flitted from tree to tree before him, like the
butterfly wings of a truant fancy. The bright droplets fell,
here and there, through the groves, lying about like eyes of fairies,
peering through the thick grasses along the slopes. Philip's
heart was fairly open to fairy eyes. His soul warmed and was
thawed beneath the spells of that winged and fanciful sunlight.
He had thrown aside all the restraints which held him in check,
through policy when amid the crowd. Here was solitude, and
silence, and the shade;—and the pathway led to love; and the
smiles of heaven were upon his progress! His step was free
as air; his soul buoyant with hope! He would soon feast his
eyes upon those precious features of the beloved one, which
seemed to them to make a heaven of the place where they inhabited!
And the great shadows gathered behind him as he went;
and the trees grew motionless; and the woods ceased to breathe
and murmur; and the silence deepened; and the pathways darkened;
and all was harmony and security! These transitions
increased the sweetness of the scene, and as the glances of the
sunlight grew less frequent, they seemed brighter, and softer, and
more tender and touching in the eyes of the lover. Philip went
forward, meeting with no interruption. He passed from pathway
to pathway along a route well known. The avenues widened:
he was approaching the dwelling. In a few moments he would
be in the sight, would be at the feet of her, upon whose word
hung all his world of hope and fear. Well might he tremble
with the increase of his emotions. What heart is wholly brave
at such a moment? and who does not feel, with great misgiving,
that, where the anticipation is so pregnant with delicious life,
its denial and defeat must bring a pang far greater than that of
death?
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It was in the midst of his wildest anticipations and most trembling
hopes, that Philip was suddenly aroused to more common
associations, by the appearance of a man suddenly springing out
of the lemon thicket beside him. He drew back, and laid hand
upon his sword. But the voice of the stranger reassured him.
It was that of the outlaw Mateo, who was almost breathless,
evidently greatly excited, his eyes dilated, and his tones trembling
with emotion.
“Don't be alarmed, Señor. I am not your enemy! I am
your friend! You have done me service, and helped me to escape
from my enemies. I would not now harm a hair of your
head. I would serve you—ay, do you good service—would save
you from a great evil.”
“What evil?”
“Come with me!” and he laid his hand respectfully upon the
knight's arm, as if to conduct him forward.
“It is thither I am going,” said Philip, “but I must go alone,
my good fellow.”
“Yes, you must go alone! I know that. But you were going
to the house. She is not there. She is at the bower in the
woods. It is there you must seek her. You were going—pardon
me, Señor,—to declare your love for the Señorita.”
“How, sirrah!”
“Pardon me, Señor, I say again;—but I know it;—every
body in Havana expects it. I mean not to offend. I tell you I
want to serve you. I love you and honor you, and owe you
gratitude. It is this that makes me say what I do,—and lead
you this way. You must not make love to the Señorita. She
is not for you Señor,—she is not worthy of you!”
“How, fellow! Do not provoke me to anger!”
“Forgive me, Señor; but give me time, and give yourself
time. Just come with me now;” and he almost dragged him
forward. “There,—into that avenue—follow it—it will lead
you to the summer-house. Go forward—go alone—go quickly—
but go softly—softly—say nothing, but look;—see! Then, if
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you will,—tell the Señorita that you love her—that you come to
make her your wife!”
There was something in all this proceeding which was so earnest
and so startling, that, though it offended the proud knight because
of the freedom of the outlaw's manner, he did not feel like
showing anger. Indeed, he was too much startled, too sensibly
impressed with a nameless terror, to be altogether conscious of
the extent of the liberty which Mateo had taken. He fancied
that Olivia was in danger, and vague notions of serpents and
tigers rose before his imagination. Intuitively, he obeyed his
tutor, and darted into the alley.
“Softly, softly!” cried the outlaw, following close behind.
In a few moments he reached the summer-house.
“Go up the steps—in—the Señorita is there. Go—look—
see; but softly, very softly, and do not speak!”
Philip obeyed, and ascended the steps of the verandah; the
curtains were lifted; he disappeared among the columns, and
Mateo waited without, among the groves. He had not long to
wait. Scarcely had Philip disappeared from his sight, when his
form was again seen, emerging from among the columns. A
single hollow groan escaped him. Mateo darted forward to
meet him, and the knight staggered down the steps, almost falling
into his arms. The outlaw hurried him into the thicket.
“Quickly, quickly!” said he.—“He will have heard that
groan.”
Philip staggered away, without offering opposition. His head
swam; his knees tottered beneath him.
“I am very faint!” said he.
“Rest here,” answered the outlaw, conducting him to a wooden
seat enveloped in shrubbery, and almost forcing him down upon
it, while he plucked an orange from the shrub-tree above him,
and in a second laid its rich juices open with a knife.
“No!” exclaimed Philip, after a pause, rejecting the orange,
and staggering up from the seat—“I cannot rest here, or any
where! Let us away! away from this place!”
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“You have seen?”
“No more! Do not ask me;” and the knight of Portugal
covered his eyes with his hands.
“Stay for a moment!” said the outlaw—“while I go back,
and give him this!” and he lifted his huge machete as he spoke,
and looked the matador about to strike.
“No!” hastily answered the knight,—laying his hand upon
the arm of the outlaw. “It must not be! Put up your knife.
What is it to us? what is it to us? Let us go hence!”
And he started forward, blindly, and once more in the direction
of the summer-house.
“That is not the way! That leads you back—”
With a shudder, Philip wheeled about, and hurried off in the
opposite direction; the outlaw following him respectfully, and in
silence. In the same silence they wound their way through the
thickets of lemon and orange. When they approached the verge
of the estate, Mateo stopped suddenly:—
“I must go no further. Here I must leave you, Señor. I
must not risk exposure.”
Philip grasped his hand.
“Thanks, my good fellow, thanks! I have nothing more to
give. You have done me good service; but at what expense—
what suffering!”
“Could it be otherwise, Senor?”
“No! I thank you. It is well! you have saved me from a
great misery, by giving me a great hurt. I would I had the
means to reward you. But I thank you! I thank you!” and he
groaned heavily.
“I ask no reward, Señor. I am only too happy to serve you.
I wish I could serve you forever. I feel that I could work for
you, and for any true man like you! But I can't work for a bad
one, and a beast! I would be happy to go with you to Florida.
But there, Don Balthazar would know me through any disguises.
And yet, I might get over that. Let me go now, Señor.”
And a new impulse seemed to seize upon the outlaw, the
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expression in his face declaring, as fully as words, the renewed
purpose in his mind.
“No! not till you promise me you will do nothing in this
matter. I see what you mean. But, if you slay him, you expose
her! Let him live. You cannot go with me to Florida. I know
not that I shall go myself. Stay where you are. Get back
to your mountains. But, as you live, and as you love me, breathe
not a syllable of this! Farewell!”
With these words, and having received the outlaw's promise,
Philip de Vasconselos turned away.
“It is gone!” he murmured to himself as he went. “It is
gone, the hope, the brightness, and the joy! all gone! Oh! Jesu!
what a ruin!” and he again covered his face with his hands, as
if to shut out a spectacle of horror. “Oh! would that I had the
monster in a fair field, with only sword and dagger!”
Thus exclaiming, he disappeared from sight. Mateo sank back
into covert, and soon he heard the voice of Juana in the thicket.
He suffered her to approach him. She had followed the steps
of her brother and the knight. She had seen them as they left
the summer-house, upon which it would seem that she, also, had
been keeping watch.
“What have you seen, Juana?” demanded the outlaw sternly.
“All!”
“Ah! all! You do not mean that—”
“Yes! I saw when you and Don Philip went towards the summer-house.
I was in the thicket. When the knight of Portugal
came down the steps and groaned so loud, it roused Don Balthazar.
He came out soon after you, and looked about him, and
I lay close. But, seeing nothing, he went back again.”
“Well! what's done can't be undone; but look you, Juana, if
you whisper a word of this to anybody, I'll slit your tongue.
Do you hear now? Well! remember; I am just the man to do
what I promise, though you are my own sister.”
-- --
CHAPTER XXVI.
“I've done my journey here; my day is out;
All that the world has else, is foolery,
Labor and loss of time. What should I live for?”
Beaumont and Fletcher.
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“What remains, but that I should seek Florida—seek the
wilderness—the solitude—the strife!—forget—forget! Oh! Lethe,
would thou wert not a fable!”
Such were the muttered exclamations of Philip de Vasconselos,
as he went, almost blindly forward, on his way to his lowly
abode.
“It is all over! all blasted! The dream—the too precious
dream! Jesu! that it should end thus! How should it be so!
How should she—so fair, so gentle, so seeming pure and angelic!—
Ha! Ha! Ha! It is not wonderful! It is a truth—
an experience old as the hills! When came the tempter ever,
save in garments of an angel of light! It is the one power
which he possesses, over all others, of seeming, to mortal eyes,
the thing he is most unlike! And how nearly had I fallen into
the snare! How blind, neither to see nor to suspect! But for
this outlaw—this slave—I had been a lost man—sold to a delusion—
expending my soul upon a phantom—laying my best
affections in tribute upon an altar which devotes them all to
shame! Yet, I cannot thank him! He hath, at a word, in a moment,
by a spell, robbed me of the one glad, joyous vision of
my life! I had but one hope, and he hath destroyed it! I knew
but one desire, and he hath made it death! What now should
I live for? Of what avail that I am young, and fearless, and
skilled in arms, and all noble exercises? The motive for performance
is gone, and the life goes with it. All is a blank
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before me; all cheerless, all bitterness; a long waste of darkness
and denial!”
And he threw himself down hopelessly by the way-side.
Darkness had settled down; but the stars were coming out, silently
and palely, looking like the spectres of past pleasures.
The distant lights of the city were present to his eyes also. There
were torches flaming upon the farthest hills, and pyres were burning
before booths and camps, from which rose faintly, at intervals,
the sounds of merriment. Gay laughter and shouts, he
heard, or fancied, rising from rustic groups engaged in the fandango;
and anon, but more faintly, he caught the tinkle of a
guitar rising from some bohio or cottage, in the contiguous hollow
of the hills.
“They laugh! they shout! they sing; as if there were not
a shadow upon the earth—as if guilt and shame had not fouled
the fairest aspect under heaven! Jesu, to be so beautiful and
sweet to the eye—to acquire such power, through sunniest charms,
over the soul, and yet to fail in the one great virtue which alone
makes all dear things precious to the heart! But, is it so? Is
it true? Have I not been deceived? Am I not betrayed by
treachery and cunning? May it not all be a delusion of the
senses? Is it sure that it was she? Did not mine eyes deceive
me; and, while there is a doubt, shall I give faith to an assurance
so terrible—so revolting—so fatal to the loveliest work of heaven!
It was dusk—the woods were thick—the sunbeams did not
pierce them—the curtains hung around, darkening the chamber!—
there was a woman, but is it certain that she was Olivia—my
Olivia! the pure, the proud, the beautiful? Was I not too ready
to believe the accursed suggestion of the outlaw; was there no
contrivance for my ruin—for her ruin? What if I return and see;
and, if it be true, what should keep me from slaying him, at
least, and looking her to stone with eyes of scornfulness and
hate!”
But he did not rise. He could not doubt. He could not delude
himself into the thought that what he had seen was a mere
delusion of the senses. It was too true—too real—and the more
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he strove to dispel the conviction, the more it grew to strength,
and took possession of his soul; filling it with a nameless and
indescribable horror. For an hour he lay thus upon the earth,
delivered to despair. There was no refuge for hope in thought,
and he lay brooding, with an aimless mind, and an agonized
spirit. At last, he rose. The strong man rarely sinks below a
certain point. He may be overwhelmed, like the weakest, by a
shock, at once terrible, revolting, and unexpected: but the heart
gathers its forces after a season, and nature compels the proper
efforts for her own recovery and repose. The grief may remain,
but it does not overcome. It may prove a lasting blight to the
hope, the fancy, the affections; but there is a calm resolution
which enables the sufferer to live and to perform; for performance
is, beyond all other things, the natural law, and the necessity
of the true man; and even the sorrow, which wounds and
blights the heart, serves to strengthen the noble courage and the
indomitable will. Philip de Vasconselos rose from the earth
at last. He had become somewhat more composed. His will
and character were beginning to assert themselves. He was still
the master of himself! He rose and went forward, sadly, slowly,
but resolutely; endeavoring, with all the calm he could command,
to shape the course for his progress in the future. This
was soon decided in his mind.
The lights of the city grew before his eyes. The torches and
camp-fires, along the hills that skirted the city, became more
glaring, and cast their great red shadows upon his path. The
voices of merriment, the songs, the shouts, the joyous cries and
laughter, with the tinkle of pleasant instruments, became louder
and more frequent on his ear. Suddenly, his eye caught a
glimpse of the long, temporary structure, of poles, covered with
palm branches, and the broad leaves of other trees, in which the
knights were revelling at the last festivities of the Adelantado.
“What remains,” murmured Philip, “but that I go with this
expedition? What matters it to me, now that I am no favorite?
I ask no favors. There are blows and danger to be encountered
among the Apalachian, and he who is armed as I am now, against
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all terrors, can make himself a favorite, by making himself fearful.
What better region in which to bury my sorrows, and
hide my anguish from vulgar eyes? Where can I more surely
escape from this agony of thought? In the fierce strife, there
will be forgetfulness; and forgetfulness will be the most precious
of hopes, even though it comes only through the embrace with
death. I will go with Nuno!”
Under this new impulse, he hurried forward rapidly towards
the scene of festivity, as if fearing to trust himself to think further
upon the subject of his progress. It was not long before he
reached the place; the shouts from within, the music, assailing
his ears with a sense of pain, without, however, impairing his
resolution to join the revellers,—to engage in their expedition.
The structure in which the Adelantado and his Floridian chivalry
held their feast was, as we have said, a rude, simple fabric, designed
only for the temporary purpose. It consisted of slender
shafts, green trees freshly cut, and thatched with bamboo and
fresh bushes. It was fantastically adorned in a style which the
climate and productions of the country naturally suggested to the
eye of taste. The flag of Spain, the banners of De Soto, and of
the several captains, were disposed happily around the apartment.
Green leaves and gorgeous flowers were wreathed about
the columns, declaring visibly the wealth of the delicious region
of which they were the natural tribute. Fruits in gay festoons
hung down within reach from the rafters: the luscious pine, the
mellow banana, the juicy and fragrant orange. Of the provision
for the feast, it will be much easier for the reader to imagine
than for us to describe. Enough that the Adelantado and the
knights of the expedition had done their best to requite the hospitalities
of the Islanders in a fashion worthy of their own. They
had expended no small part of the treasures remaining from their
outfit, in doing the honors gallantly and with becoming ostentation.
They not only provided, as it was the custom of the gentry
of the city and country to provide, but they studiously procured
dishes such as they had merely heard described, and fancied
others, the better to outdo description—“Exhausted cates, and then
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imagined new.” The turtle, fresh from the sea, furnished the only
soup,—a first course, which was served up in the uncouth monster's
own shell; game and domestic poultry, including doves
from the côte; young peacocks, their plumage artfully disposed
about the birds after they were made ready by the cook for the
table, so as almost to represent the living creature, his gay
streamers of green, and purple, and gold, looking as bright and fairy
like as when he unfolds them to sight, strutting and spreading
himself abroad from court and verandah. Some dishes were prepared
formed wholly of the tongues of singing birds; and we
may add, were eaten with an appetite such as might be assumed
to originate only with a hope to win the musical powers of the
member thus hushed forever. The unripened plantain was
sliced and browned in sugar by the fire; or, roasted, was macerated
with the inspissated juices of the cane. This course, by the
way, was preceded by one consisting wholly of sea and shell-fish,
and was succeeded by fruits of more than twenty kinds, all natives
of the island. Fresh guayavas, fragrant ananas, bananas
and sapadillos, yielded themselves to delighted palates in delicious
sympathy with wines of Xeres, which had already began to
circulate with potency before Philip de Vasconselos entered the
assembly.
He entered at a moment when De Soto was addressing his
audience. The Spanish language is one of equal grandeur and
beauty; the Spanish character is necessarily one of ambition and
hyperbole. The language of a people usually declares for its
character in its best days. We know from other histories how
a language may exhibit more vitality than a people; how gloriously
it survives them. A language, known through its literature,
is perhaps the only durable monument of a people. De Soto,
as is well known, was an accomplished cavalier, greatly distinguished
at a period when Spain could claim a host of heroes. It
is not so well known that he was an accomplished speaker,
thoroughly master of the arts of language, versed in its delicacies,
and practised in all its graces. His audience listened to him
with ecstasy, and rounded his sentences with their vivas and
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bravas. He dwelt upon that superiority of character which exulted
in adventure. The art of war, he contended, and its prosecution
in new lands, was, perhaps, the very noblest and most
god-like of all human arts. He spoke of the greatness of his
nation, as particularly renowned for the use of this art, in its most
inspiring exercises. He painted fame and glory, brightly and
purely, and grandly, as they appear always to youth and enterprise,
and dwelt upon the progresses of Cortez and Pizarro in Mexico
and Peru—subjects, in hearing the report of which, the Castilian
ear could never tire. By a natural transition he came to speak
of their present adventure in the wilds of Florida. He did not
disparage the valor of the red men of Apalachia, nor seek to lessen
the picture of danger which he drew as a necessary consequence of
the enterprise; but he insisted upon the utter impossibility of any
valor of the red-men as able to stand for a moment before such
warriors as he led to the encounter. He particularly dwelt upon the
great treasures of the country, its glorious cities hidden in the bosom
of mighty mountains; its treasures of gold and silver; its pearls
to be gathered in heaps along its shores; arguments which, he
well knew, were beyond all others, in persuading young ambition
and greedy avarice to his banners. At the close, seeing
Philip de Vasconselos enter, he took the opportunity of throwing
out a few bitter sarcasms upon the timid, the laggard, the weak,
the souls deficient in true courage and noble enterprise, who hung
back when an occasion so glorious was offered to their eyes.
The glances of the assembly followed those of the Adelantado,
and rested upon the flushed countenance of Philip. He saw the
direction given to the words of De Soto, and felt the purpose of
the latter to inflict a sting upon his pride and heart. He rose
proudly when the Adelantado had finished, and looked sternly
around the assembly. It was surprising how composed he was.
He appeared fully to have recovered himself, and though very
grave, as the occasion seemed to require, he was quite as firm
and calm as if he labored under no other provocation than that
which he had just received. Never was individual less daunted by
the circumstances in which he stood. He saw that there was
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dissatisfaction—certainly constraint—in the faces of nearly all around
him; reflecting that in the countenance of the Adelantado, who
scarcely acknowledged, with a stately bend of the head, the
measured but courteous approach of our hero, and the deepening
shadows upon whose brow argued no friendly welcome for what
he might say. But Philip was little moved by these unfriendly auspices.
He respected De Soto as a brave and noble cavalier,
distinguished equally by talents and graces, and high in favor of
his sovereign; but his respect and admiration were not so profound
as to cause him to suffer any mortification from the loss of
his favoring countenance. He advanced towards the dais which
had been assigned to the Adelantado, raising him a little above
the rest of the assembly,—passing through the crowd with exceedingly
deliberate pace, until he stood but a few paces from the
person he addressed.
“Your Excellency,” said he, “has been pleased to indulge in
certain remarks of censure upon that unambitious, unperforming
and timid class, who, bred to arms, are yet reluctant to engage
in the honorable adventure to which you invite them. I cannot
deceive myself as to the fact, that certain in this assembly
are disposed to make these remarks applicable to the person
who now addresses you. I trust it is not necessary to say
here that for any one who would impute to me the want of
courage, I have but a single answer, and that lies at the point of
my weapon; be it lance, or sword, battle-axe, or dagger. I am
ready to encounter any questioner. That I have been slow in
resolving to accompany this expedition, has been no fault of
mine. I came hither from my own land for this very purpose;
and until I reached Havana, I knew no disposition to change my
determination. It will be admitted, I think, that the encouragements
offered to me for this adventure, however, have been very
few; and, perhaps, were I to say the truth, I should describe the
course taken with me as designed specially to rebuke the presumption
which had prompted me to seek a place under the
banner of Castile.”
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“Not so, Señor, not so, by God!” exclaimed De Soto, interrupting
him energetically.
“Be this as it may, your Excellency, it is one of those things
upon which I do not dwell; for, to me, war and adventure carry
their own encouragements; and it is found, always in the time
of danger, that no one's sword is amiss that does good service
on our side. I have no fear that in the day of trial, I shall fail
to prove my right to be present where blows are given and
received. Encouragement I need not,—discouragement will
never chill my enterprise or lessen my strength. That I hesitated
to engage under your banner when I came here was due to
other influences, which —”
De Soto smiled grimly. Philip saw the smile, and his face
was suddenly flushed with crimson.
“But it matters not,” he proceeded, “to say wherefore I hesitated
to declare my purpose. It will suffice, your Excellency,
to say that I am now prepared, if permitted, to accompany your
expedition to the country of the Apalachian—a country which I
somewhat know already—a people with whom I have already
had fierce as well as amicable intercourse,—and among whom, it
may be found, that my presence shall work for good to your
Excellency's enterprise.”
This said, Philip de Vasconselos bowed courteously, and
calmly wheeling about, made his way back to the place where
he had entered the apartment. The Adelantado—the audience—
was taken completely by surprise. Nothing could have been
more unexpected to all ears. De Soto spoke in reply approvingly,
and with warm compliment. Other voices followed with
the same burden. But Philip neither heard nor listened. He
was making his way out, when his hand was suddenly seized by
that of his brother Andres.
“Brother!” was all that the latter said.
“Andres, my brother!” exclaimed Philip, throwing his arm
around the neck of the youth, while a sudden gush of tears from
overfull fountains blinded his eyes. No more was said between
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them. Such was their reconciliation. The speech of Philip had
taught Andres—strangely enough—that the passion of his brother
for Olivia de Alvaro had proved as fruitless as his own. Why?
This was the mystery which none could solve. Philip tore himself
away from the brief embrace, and was hurrying out, when
Nuno de Tobar rushed up, and, warmed with wine, caught him
exultingly in his arms.
“But how is all this, Philip?”
At that moment Don Balthazar de Alvaro suddenly entered,
and was passing very near them. Instinctively, Philip grasped
the handle of his sword, and his eyes were fastened upon the
uncle of Olivia, with such an expression as made the latter start,
as at the approach of a famished tiger. Philip recovered himself
in a moment, turned away from the face of him whom he
longed to destroy, and was followed out by Nuno into the open
air.
“Tell me,” said the latter, “how comes this change?”
“Do not ask me, Nuno; enough that I go with you.”
“Holy Mother, but your looks, Philip —”
“Heed them not—heed me not—let me leave you, Nuno, I
am not fit for this assembly.”
“But you have been to see Olivia—you have seen her?”
“I have seen her!”
“And she refused you?”
“No!—I have not spoken with her.”
“Seen her—but not spoken!—What! Your courage failed
you at the last moment—you had not the heart?”
“I had not the heart!”
“Jesu! man! What weakness is this?”
“No weakness! No more, Nuno. There is that which puts
an eternal barrier between Olivia de Alvaro and myself—a barrier
deep as the grave, impassable as hell. I can tell you nothing.
You but distress me when you ask—ask nothing. From this
moment name her not to me, Nuno, unless you would make me
your foe for ever!”
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CHAPTER XXVII.
“Cenci.
Speak, pale slave! what said she?
Andrea.
My Lord, 'twas what she look'd. She said:
`Go, tell my father that I see the gulf
Of Hell between us two, which he may pass;
I will not,'”
Shelley.—The Cenci.
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Don Balthazar was greatly surprised by what he heard in the
assembly, of the declared purpose of Philip de Vasconselos to
accompany the expedition. It was a surprise to everybody—
how much more to him! Such unexpected good fortune was
hardly to be hoped for. The danger, now, of a suitor to his
niece, so likely to be successful, no longer threatened him. At
the first moment when he learned the fact, he felt an exhilarating
sense of triumph. But soon he asked himself, how was so
sudden a change wrought in the purposes and feelings of the
knight of Portugal? But a day before, he was known to be
eager and determined in his purpose to address Olivia. His
hope of success was good, and every voice encouraged the prosecution
of his suit. Why the change in his purpose? That
Philip had not addressed his niece, Don Balthazar was quite certain.
That they had no interview, he was assured. That she
had received no written communication he was equally confident.
It was clear that Philip, without testing his hopes at all, had suddenly
abandoned them. Wherefore? The question began to
stagger the inquirer. Guilt is always a thing of terror, and the
discovery of such guilt as that of Don Balthazar, was doubly
terrible to the conscious fears within his bosom. He now saw
the significance of that look which Philip had cast upon him as
he came into the assembly, and readily divined the mystery
which puzzled all other persons.
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“He has discovered all!” was his secret thought. “Yet how?”
Here was the farther difficulty. “What was the discovery which
Philip had made?' “To what degree was he committed by it?”
His anxieties increased with his unuttered inquiries, addressed to
himself. But Don Balthazar had a rare faculty of self-concealment.
His secretiveness was a large development in his moral
organization. He could smile, and look calmly about him, and
engage in the frivolous conversation of society,—in all the
business of the crowd—seemingly unmoved,—while the vultures
of doubt, and dread, and conscience, were all at work tearing at
his vitals. He joined in the talk going on in the assembly. In
this way he might obtain some clues to the secret of Philip.
But he learned nothing satisfactory. One fact, however, he
gathered from all that was said, which seemed to weigh upon his
thoughts; and that only related to the sudden appearance of the
knight of Portugal, at a late hour, in fact not many minutes before
himself. “Where had he been till that hour?” While asking
himself this question, Nuno de Tobar reappeared within the
circle. “I will sound him!” was the unexpressed resolution of
the Don, as he sauntered around, gradually winding his way
towards the place where Nuno had taken his seat. The countenance
of the latter was troubled. His mind was in some confusion,
as well from the wine he had taken, as from the conference
with Philip. But the approach of Don Balthazar served, in some
degree, to steady his intellect, and make him cautious. He knew
that Olivia's uncle had been hostile to his friend. It had not escaped
the notice of Nuno, that the glance with which Philip had
met Don Balthazar, but a few moments before, was that of a determined,
if not a savage hatred. Sympathizing earnestly with
his friend, Nuno shared, in some degree, his hostile sentiments.
He had himself never been the friend of Don Balthazar, and
was now more than ever disposed to regard him as an enemy.
In some way, he felt assured that the present sufferings of Vasconselos,
and his abandonment of Olivia, were due to the evil influence
of her uncle.
Thus feeling, he was sobered by the approach of the Don;
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made reserved and cautious; as the good soldier is apt to feel
when in an enemy's country, and marching through a region
proper for snares and ambuscades. Besides, by prudent management,
might he not find out something in respect to this mystery?
Don Balthazar probably knew the cause of Philip's conduct.
There might have been an open rupture between them:—Don
Balthazar, like Philip, had been absent from the festivities until a
late hour. They had reached the assembly at nearly the same
time. Might not their mutual absence, and arrival, have been
due to a common cause? Nuno determined to search this matter.
He would probe the inquirer. His mind co-operating with
his feelings and his instincts, became cool, searching and vigilant,
and Don Balthazar extracted nothing from him. That he was as
little successful in penetrating the bosom of the Don—habitually
cool and circumspect—was, perhaps, to be expected. They separated
after a profitless and brief conference, which satisfied neither.
But if Don Balthazar extracted nothing from Nuno, the young
wife of the latter was something more successful. From her he
had few concealments. Scarcely had he reached home that night,
warmed with the festivities in which he had shared so freely, and
excited by the nature of the mystery which oppressed him, when
he began his revelations.
“Would you believe it, Leonora, it is all over with Philip and
Olivia? There is a breach between them, which Philip says is
impassable! He has joined the expedition. What has caused
it, he does not say; but he tells me that there is an end of the
matter; that she is nothing to him now.”
“Blessed Maria! what does it mean? Has she refused him?
Foolish, foolish creature! But she always said that she would.”
“But she has not! He has not asked her! He told me so in
so many words.”
“And I don't believe a word of it! You men are so proud
and vain that you never like to confess to a rejection. It's the
way with all of you. Be assured that Philip has been refused.
She said she would refuse him, but I did not believe her. I know
she loves him. But she is so strange. It does appear to me,
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sometimes, as if she were not in her right mind. And to refuse
so nice a cavalier! I wonder where she expects to find another
like him. But it's not her doing, I'm sure, not her own heart!
It's that cross-grained uncle that she has. He has done it all. I
wonder what is the secret of his power over her. I'm sure she
hates him. But he rules her in spite of it; and he has compelled
her to refuse him.”
“I don't believe it, child; for I believe Philip, and he positively
assured me that he had not asked her. He's not the man to lie,
or to be ashamed of rejection. He has no such weakness. He
was very earnest about it—very miserable,—and entreated me
never again to speak to him on the subject.”
“Then I'm sure she has refused him. Did he say he had not
seen her?”
“No! I knew that he went to the hacienda late in the afternoon,
and he admits that he saw her, but did not speak to her.”
“Now, as if that were reasonable, Nuno.”
“It is certainly very strange. I can't see into it.”
“But I do; and the whole mystery lies in the one fact that he
has simply been rejected, and his pride will not confess it. He
has been mortified by refusal, when he counted confidently on
success. And I confess, I counted on it too; for though Olivia
always said that she would refuse him, yet I know that she loves
him desperately, and as she will love no other man. But it is all
the doing of Don Balthazar. He hates Don Philip—he hates
both the brothers—I have seen that a thousand times. But what
are his hates to her, and how has he succeeded in making her sacrifice
her love to them? What is the secret of his power to
control her against her own happiness and will? That is the secret
which I should like to find out!”
“You are right, I suspect, in ascribing it all to her uncle.
Philip is not the man to be rejected by any woman in a hurry,
and I am convinced, like yourself, that Olivia really loves him as
she will be likely to love no other person. But there is some
mystery in the whole affair. The poor girl is very unhappy.
That I have long seen, and Don Balthazar is at the bottom of all
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her troubles. He manages her property, and has, I suspect, but
little of his own. He will be very unwilling to resign the power
which this gives him into the hands of any other person. The
only wonder is that she does not see this, and assert her independence.
She has sense enough to understand her rights; but she
is so weak,—so timid—”
“You mistake her there! Olivia is a woman of very strong
passions, and can be very firm and obstinate upon occasion.
What surprises me is, that she does not assert her will, and show
the strength of her passion, in an affair which so deeply concerns
her own happiness, and where her heart is evidently so much interested.
This is the difficulty. I do not wonder that Don
Balthazar should oppose and deny, but that she should submit;
and the question is, how does he obtain this power, by which to
rule her as he pleases, against her own affections, when he himself
is possessed of none of them.”
“Yet, it is his influence certainly, that has somehow brought
the affair to this unfortunate conclusion, and Philip feels this.
Had you but seen the look which he gave Don Balthazar when
they met to-night. His fingers clutched the handle of his sword
convulsively, and the gleam of hatred in his eyes was mixed up
with such an expression of horror and disgust, as I never saw
in mortal eye before. I shall never forget it.”
“Still, I think that they will come together yet. She loves
him, I tell you, beyond all other persons. She will never suffer
herself to be deprived of him, if she can help it; and I don't
think she could survive it. I tell you, Nuno, she idolizes
Don Philip, and she will marry him yet, in spite of Don Balthazar.”
“Yes, perhaps;—and yet, from what Philip said to-night, it
will hardly depend upon her. He used the strongest language—”
“Oh! a fig for the strong language of a lover. I know what it
means always! He will forget his resolution as soon as he lays
his eyes upon her, and looks into her pale sweet face, and hears
the soft silvery voice that answers to his own. He is now only
under the first feeling of vexation and anger. He talks as if he
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would tear her to pieces, no doubt; but let him sleep upon it, and
he will rise in the morning to renew his worship.”
“Philip de Vasconselos is like no other man, I know.”
“Ah! you are mistaken. In some things all men are pretty
much alike; and in an affair of love—where there is real love—
your strong cavalier and stately Don are just as feeble as the
man of silk and velvet. You are all pretty much alike—all
easily overthrown—where women are concerned.”
“It is a very strange affair throughout.”
“I'll find it out to-morrow, if I live. I'll see Olivia in the
morning, and she must have sharper wits, and greater strength,
than I believe, if she can hide the secret much longer from my
eyes. You will admit that if Philip has seen her, then the probability
is that she has refused him.”
“He himself admits that he has seen her—seen her this very
day, but denies that he has spoken with her. There is the difficulty—
that is the surprising fact.”
“Seen her, but not spoken with her! You say he went to
see her, and did see her, but said nothing?”
“Yes; that is precisely what he asserts.”
“Oh! he means no more than this—that he did not propose.”
“It may be—yet he spoke very precisely and positively.”
“Well, Olivia will be able to answer that. She will, at all
events, confess that there was an interview; though she may tell
me nothing of what passed between them. If she says so much
as that, you will readily suppose that Don Philip has simply
kept back something which his pride will not suffer him to confess.”
“Yes;—though how to believe it of Philip—how to suppose
him so weak, or to think that he should keep back the truth from
me—that is what troubles me.”
“Well, leave it till the morrow!” said the wife.
With the morrow, eager to penetrate the mystery, Leonora
de Tobar prepared, at an early hour, to visit her friend. She
found, unexpectedly, the uncle and niece together. Olivia was
looking paler than usual, and wore an exhausted and suffering
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appearance. Her eyes were dull, heavy, unobservant and expressionless.
Her whole mental nature seemed stagnant; she
moved like an automaton; welcomed her guest as one in a
dream; and sunk back upon the settee, after the exertion, like
one worn out with long watching. Leonora was quite as flippant
as ever, and for a while talked about a hundred nonsensical matters
quite foreign to the one which filled her thoughts. She
longed and waited anxiously for the moment when the withdrawal
of Don Balthazar would afford her the opportunity which she
desired for broaching the one subject for which alone she came.
But, as if he divined her object, he seemed no ways disposed to
take his departure. He bore patiently the torrent of small talk,
which, with the hope of driving him away, she poured out from
a most inexhaustible fountain. But in vain. He fortified himself
with a pile of papers, which he displayed upon the parlor
table soon after her arrival. Busying himself in army and navy
estimates,—for Don Balthazar filled several different departments
in the bureau of the Adelantado—he strove to busy himself in
the midst of details; and, though the incessant buzzing in his
ears must certainly have defeated every attempt at thought or
investigation, he persevered in the appearance of both, with unwearied
industry. The patience of Leonora was not of a sort
to contend with that of the veteran, resolved upon an object.
She gave way at last, but by no means with the intention to beat
a retreat. She only prepared to change her operations, and, failing
at blockade and starvation, she determined boldly to effect
her purpose by assault. Olivia, all this while, seemed quite unconscious
of—certainly indifferent to,—all that was going on. She
neither looked up nor listened, nor had a word to say. Never
was there a more perfect exhibition of apathy, or we might say
despair. What to her was all this childish prattle, of her child
friend? What cared she for that small personal talk which made
the burden of all her conversations? She had neither mood, nor
heart, nor head, nor memory, nor sense, for all that was saying
or had been said. She was, in truth, laboring under a sort of
aberration of mind, the result of drugs and evil practice, of the
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whole extent of which, though, in her sane moments, she had
suspicions, she had really no conscious knowledge except by her
prolonged sufferings day by day. But, very soon, the conversation
aroused her. The daring Leonora, according to her new
plan of operation, now addressed herself to the uncle. Turning
to him very abruptly, and when he was least prepared for the
assault, she said—
“So, Don Balthazar, we are to lose Don Philip de Vasconselos
after all. The report is, that he joined the expedition last night,
after a very eloquent speech. But you must have heard it all,
and can tell us much better than anybody else.”
Olivia looked up with a wild and vacant stare, but the sense
seemed to be slowly kindling in her eyes. With a frown, Don
Balthazar replied:
“I do not see what there is to tell. No more, it appears, than
you know already. Your husband was present. He, perhaps,
remembers the speech, since he regards the knight of Portugal
as something of an orator. Let him report it.”
“Well, I suppose, after this, the fact may be held undeniable;
and now the wonder is why he should have left his purpose
doubtful so long. Why, but a week ago, it was in everybody's
mouth that he was not to go at all—that he had abandoned the
expedition altogether.”
“Well, you admire him the more, I suppose, because of his
feminine caprices,” was the surly answer.
“No, indeed, though I don't see anything amiss in caprices
now and then. They are rather agreeable, to my notion. But,
in his case, people found good reasons for his refusal to go; better,
indeed, than I can find for his present change of mind.”
“Ah! well! good reasons?”
“To be sure! Very excellent reasons, Señor; they gave him
credit for discovering more precious treasures in Havana than he
was like to find in Florida, and at less peril of life and comfort;
and these were surely good reasons for staying.”
“Humph!” quoth the Don, looking askance at Olivia, in
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whose eyes the returning light of thought was momently growing
more intelligent.
“The truth is,” continued Leonora, “nobody could question
the admiration of Don Philip for our dear Olivia here. Everybody
saw it; it was in everybody's mouth; and to confess my
conviction, I was very sure that Olivia had just as much regard
for Don Philip as he felt for her.”
Olivia sighed involuntarily. The knight looked very savage,
and turned over his papers diligently. After a pause, he
said,—
“I know no law which forbids fools to talk about their neighbors.
I suppose it is hardly punishable, since such people are
not to be held strictly to account for what they say; but I trust
my niece has given no sufficient reason for the assumption, on
the part of any body, that she had given away her affections
gratuitously to any man—to one, indeed, who had never sought
them.”
“Well, Señor, that is well said by a guardian; but hearts are not
always regulated by the strict letter of domestic law. They are
like birds, which will break out of cage if you leave the door
open. Affections are strangely wilful things, Señor, and very
apt to fly in the face of authority.”
“You have good reason for saying so, Señora!” was the
scornful sneer of the Don in return, emphasising with a pause
the pronoun, and thus making an allusion sufficiently obvious to
her amour (which the church had not sanctioned) with Nuno de
Tobar. But she received it with a cool indifference that silenced
all further attacks of the same sort.
“Oh! if you allude to me, I confess that I have been wilful
enough and sinful enough, and that my affections very readily
ran away with my prudence; and but that Nuno was a blessed
good boy, and loved me for my heart, and not for my wisdom,
I should have been a sad piece of scandal for all Cuba. I was
born a woman, Señor, and I believe I will always be one, let me
live never so long. Now, a woman has a natural faith in man,
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as her born guardian, and protector, and lover, and friend; and
if he wrongs her faith, he discredits himself, not her. That's
my notion in such cases. Don't suppose that you make me feel
at all uncomfortable by your hints; for I am willing to admit,
to all Cuba, that I was very weak, and very loving—too loving
to believe evil of the man I fancied! So now, Don Balthazar,
if it pleases you to talk of my affairs, I can't prevent you. It's
the fool's privilege, as you have just said, against which there is
no law, to say what one pleases of his friends; and you have
certainly the same rights as other people; but, in truth, if you
will suffer me, I will speak rather of Olivia and Don Philip, as
being just now much better subjects, and about which I feel
much more concerned.”
The little woman's good nature actually endowed her with
wit and wisdom. Don Balthazar was quite astounded by her
audacity. She was invulnerable to his shafts. He looked up,
and glared upon her more savagely than ever, but remained silent;
and in a moment after, seemed more than ever busy with
his documents. But Leonora went on, and somehow, his instincts
prompted him to listen. She might have heard from her
husband what the latter had withheld from him; and his doubts
had been by no means quieted by the reflections of the past
night. Leonora now especially addressed herself to Olivia.
“I confess, dear Olivia, that I am surprised and disappointed.
I feel vexed at this strange determination of Don Philip, knowing
that he loves you, and believing that you love him, that he
should resolve to go without addressing you. But perhaps he
has done so, and you have been so foolish as to refuse him! Ah,
my child, can it be possible?”
The sad eyes of Olivia, now full of expression, anticipated the
reply of her lips.
“He has not addressed me, Leonora; he has not even been
here. I have not seen him since the moment when I was taken
sick at the tournament.”
“Is it possible?”
“True!” said Olivia, very mournfully. “True!”
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“Nay,” continued Leonora, after a thoughtful pause—“nay,
there must be some mistake in this. You certainly have seen
him within the last two days, though he may not have proposed
to you.”
“No! I have not.”
“That is strange!”
“Why strange?”
“He has certainly seen you since the tournament.”
“Why do you think so?”
“He told Nuno that he had! Told him so only last night.”
Don Balthazar could not keep his eyes upon the papers. He
looked up inquiringly to Leonora. She noted the curious expression
in his eyes, and was determined to withhold nothing
which should either obtain for herself the secret which she desired,
or should goad the haughty Don with revelations which
she somehow fancied would annoy him. When, therefore, Olivia
anxiously besought her, as to the alleged visit of Philip, she prepared
to tell all that she knew.
“Well, I know that he has been to see you twice in the last
two days. He came day before yesterday, and was a party to
an encounter which took place in your grounds here between a
troop of alguazils and a certain outlaw.”
“A slave—a mestizo?” involuntarily asked the Don.
“Even so: one Mateo! Philip told Nuno all about it. He
interposed, finding half a score of persons upon one; until the
officers told him how the matter stood, and then he suffered them
to proceed. The outlaw made his escape, however; and Don
Philip then proceeded to visit you, when your girl, Juana, met
him, and told him that you were sick and had retired for the
night.”
“When was this?” demanded Olivia, with strange calmness.
“Two days ago only.”
Olivia rose and called Juana. The girl was close at hand—
had been listening, in fact, at the door. She made her appearance,
and on being asked, confirmed the story.
“Why did you speak a falsehood, Juana?”
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The girl hung her head and made no answer. Olivia turned
to Leonora.
“You say that Don Philip came here again, Leonora? Was
here yesterday?”
“Yes—so he assured Nuno last night.”
“When? at what hour?”
“Last evening—about dusk.”
“And saw me?”
“So he said; but, strangely enough, he mentioned that though
he saw you, he did not speak to you. Yet he came to speak.
He came to offer you his hand.”
Olivia pressed her hands upon her heart, with a look of indescribable
suffering. Don Balthazar arose, somewhat agitated,
and approached Leonora.
“You say, Señora, that Don Philip was here last evening?
Last evening!”
“Yes.”
“And at dusk?”
“About that time. He came hither about sunset. Nuno saw
him when he left his lodgings to make the visit, and he told him
all about it.”
“And he saw me?” said Olivia. “Where was I?”
“In the summer-house, Señorita!” was the voluntary reply
of Juana, who had been eagerly waiting to speak.
“It is a mistake!” said Don Balthazar—“He was not here.
I tell you, Señorita, it is altogether a mistake.”
This was said with a vehemence meant to cover an agitation
which the knight could not otherwise subdue. Olivia beheld this
agitation through the effort to conceal it. His asseveration went
for nothing, particularly as Leonora insisted that Don Philip had
declared the fact to her husband, only last night, and after the
former had made his speech.
“It is impossible!” said Don Balthazar, in a manner meant
to silence all further discussion; but the malignant element in the
bosom of the slave, Juana, was not prepared to suffer him to
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escape thus easily. She could not suppress the grin of malice
from her features, as she hastily replied:—
“Oh! yes, Señor; Don Philip was certainly here; and was
at the summer-house. I saw him when he was leaving it. It
was there he must have seen the Señorita. You came out of
the summer-house just after Don Philip had gone.”
“I!” exclaimed the Don with troubled aspect—“I!”
“You, Señor!” cried Olivia, rising and striding across the
interval that separated her from her uncle—while her eyes, dilating
beyond their orbs, were fixed upon him with an expression
of mixed agony and horror.
“You!—you!—were you in the summer-house last evening—
you,—when I was there!”
He was silent.... Juana supplied the answer.
“Yes, my lady—the Señor went to the summer-house after
he had dined. But it was dusk before I saw Don Philip. I did
not see Don Philip when he came, but only when he was coming
down the steps of the summer-house, and was going away; and
I was quite frightened to see his face. He looked like a man
that was going crazy; and O! how he did groan! I heard him!
I was quite afraid to go near him.”
“What did he here at that hour!” cried Don Balthazar, furiously—
“How dare he intrude upon my privacy! — How
dared you —”
He was arrested in his speech by the action of Olivia, who
suddenly pressed closer to him, so as almost to touch him, her
hands clasped together, and with such a look—so like madness,
in her face—that, involuntarily, the uncle recoiled from her, and
the words died away upon his lips.
“Oh! you have done your worst now!” she exclaimed. “I
see it all! I know it all! Fiend and monster as you are,—you
feel it, too, do you not! You see it! You will burn for this!
Your rages shall be endless! There shall be no drop of water
for your tongue! There must be a hell, if it be for your use
only! There must be devils, if it be only for your torture!
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Oh! do not start, and recoil! I will not harm you! Daggers
would be no punishment for such crimes as yours. Hell! hell
only! Hell! hell! hell!”
She clasped her head with both her hands, and reeled about
dizzily. Leonora caught her in her arms in time to save her
from falling upon the floor. She was in a swoon! It came seasonably
to save her from madness. We close the scene. Let
us suppose that Leonora clung lovingly, and nursed heedfully
her suffering friend; and that Don Balthazar fled from the presence
which, with all his brutal heartlessness of character, he dared
not face.
-- 342 --
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“I swear
To dedicate my cunning and my strength,
My silence, and whatever else is mine,
To thy commands.”
Shelley.
[figure description] Page 342.[end figure description]
Don Balthazar fled into the recesses of the thicket, and
buried himself amid dark and savage thoughts.
“He knows all, indeed!” he exclaimed, when he felt himself
alone. “Where was that scoundrel, Mateo, that he did
not slay him before this! But for those bungling alguazils!
they have marred his purpose. I forgot to warn them, and
hence all the mischief. But, if it were necessary that I should
have him put out of the way before, it is trebly necessary
now! He knows too much! He could blast me, at any moment,
by his speech! He must die! She must die! It is
now the only means of safety! Oh! would it had been done
the very hour that I resolved upon it! I should have done it
with my own hand, if I had only dreamed of this danger. I was
mad, blind, oblivious,—a very dolt,—not to see that his existence
was perilous to my safety!—Hers too! But I must be
heedful in this matter. It will not do here. It will not do till
I am gone. Then, I shall contrive it. I will send her off to the
country. She shall depart as soon as she is fit to travel. Sylvia
shall see to the rest. It shall be done. For him! ah! how
shall I manage that? Shall it be here? Shall it be in Florida?
Here, best, if Mateo can contrive it; but in Florida it will be
quite as easy. He has no followers;—few friends! If he is
found, with a knife in his bosom, it is by the hand of the red
man that he dies! Who will doubt? None! and he must die!
That is settled. It is his life or mine! Would I could see that
scoundrel Mateo!”
The devil is said to answer promptly whenever he is called.
The person invoked stood the next moment before the Don.
“Ha! Ha! You want Mateo, do you?—the scoundrel
Mateo!—well, you see him, I hope. He is here, and not so
much a scoundrel as some that wear much better reputation.”
The reckless outlaw laughed irreverently at his own sarcasm.
He felt his securities. Perhaps, he would have even relished a
hand-to-hand struggle with the knight; but he seemed to entertain
no hostile purpose, and stood quietly confronting him, looking
good-humored enough, considering the genuine feelings of
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hatred which he felt for his superior. Don Balthazar was
not a timid man,—was not easily startled by any event or
presence,—and certainly had no fears of any individual foe;
but the appearance of the outlaw, so apropos to his summons,
brought up to his mind a vague image of the satanic presence,
which, in fact, was the true meaning of his requisition. It is the
hellish agent which we summon always when we design a hellish
deed. Don Balthazar, however, welcomed the fugitive after his
own fashion, with the air of a master who knew his rights, and
had reason to complain.
“You are here at last! But you have done nothing. You
promised finely! Where are your performances? Had you
done according to your pledges, I had been saved from a very
unpleasant affair!”
“Had I done!—and who is to blame, I beg to know, that I
have not done? You make a bargain with me, and when I set
about to do my work, I find your alguazils upon my heels.
Your alguazils, bearing your orders to seize and bind me, and
have me properly dressed for the honors of the garote vil! Ah!
indeed! The garote vil for your own ally—the man who is to
risk his life doing your business! What do you say to that?”
“What do I say! Why, that the thing was wholly a mistake.
The rascals did not understand me.”
“A mistake! Oh, it would have been precious consolation
to me, with my neck fitted with an iron cravat, to hear that it
was done wholly by mistake! I had as lief die by the law, as by
mistake, any day!”
“I tell you that the alguazils were ordered after you, before
I had spoken with you; I only forgot to see and speak to them,
and they continued the search in consequence. But I will put
a stop to their pursuit.”
“Oh! you forgot only! But that was strange on your part.
You're too much a man of business to forget such things in common.
But you'll remember now, you say; and I'm to be pursued
no more?”
“Yes: I shall see to it this very day; but you are to do the
business you undertook?”
“Ah! that business!”
“Yes; you will dispose of this knight of Portugal, shortly,
as you do your prayers;—send him to God by a quick conveyance?
You are not afraid? You will not shrink from your
engagements?”
“Afraid! O, no! I'm not afraid of your alguazils! As for
keeping my engagements, that will depend upon the way you
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keep yours. I don't see that, so far, you've been very keen to
remember them.”
“You make too much of this forgetfulness of mine.”
“Oh! you may forget again! I never trust a bad memory;
not even my own. See this handkerchief; there are three knots
in it. Every one marks a life. This is one I put in it when I
engaged with you to send Don Philip by a short cut to paradise.
You must knot your handkerchief too, before I take this
knot out of mine.”
Don Balthazar received the suggestion rather literally. He
coolly took out his handkerchief, and proceeded to knot it; but
the outlaw laughed.
“Look you, Don Balthazar, the man who can't write, makes
his knot in the handkerchief; but that's not the rule for you.
You must make your knot on paper, with pen and ink; and
there must be a great seal to it. Get me the pardon, under the
hands of the Adelantado, for all past offences; that's one knot
you're to make. Prepare me the paper that proves mine and
Juana's freedom, and when you give me these, I shall take out
my knot here, and Don Philip will fly off to join the angels in
paradise; that will save you from finding him in your way
hereafter.”
And the fellow chuckled greatly at his own wit. Don Balthazar
was not so well pleased at these requisitions.
“But, when I have got you these papers, what security have I
that you will do what you promise for me?”
“Security! Well, it seems to me that your security will be
quite as good as mine. What security do you give me, when I
have slain Don Philip, that you will do for me what you have
promised?”
“Slave! Do you count the word of a nobleman, and a
soldier, as of no more value than that of a mestizo and an
outlaw?”
“Pooh, pooh, Señor; that sort of talk won't do between us!
It's you that are the outlaw, not me! I am to kill Don Philip
on your account, not on mine; because you hate him, and not
from any hate that I bear the Portuguese. Were I to kill him on
my own account, I should be outlawed: killing him for you, it's
your act, not mine, and you're the outlaw! Don't speak to me
as if there was any difference between us. There's none, I tell
you, but what's in my favor! I think myself a much better
man than you any way. I don't get other people to fight my
battles, or avenge my wrongs—there's where I'm the better
man; and as for strength and skill with the weapon, why, I could
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slit your throat in the twinkling of an eye, and before you could
mutter an ave.”
Thus saying, he flourished his naked machete in fearful proximity
to the knight's face. The cheeks of the Don flushed crimson,
and he hastily drew his sword half-way from the sheath.
“Oh! put up,” said the outlaw; “it's no use—and besides, it's
not necessary. I'm not going to kill you; and if I were, you
could do nothing to help yourself. I wouldn't give you the
smallest chance, I'd be into you, and through you, before you
could get your toledo out of the scabbard. I'm none of your
fine knights of Castile and Portugal, to let you put yourself just
in your own attitude to fight; all that seems to me only foolishness.
Here's my enemy, and I'm to kill him. If I don't kill him, he
kills me. Now, I don't want to be killed, just yet; and I rather
he should die than me! What then? Will I give him a
chance? Not a bit of it! I'll slit his throat without saying,
`By your leave, señor.' And if it was my profit to slit yours,
I'd have done it without all this palaver. Don't be afraid.
We're on terms. I've a contract with you; and I'm willing to
work for you, on conditions. But you must get down from the
great horse when you speak to me. I can't bear to be ridden
over by any Don that ever came from Spain! and I won't!
There now; you know me. Is it a thing clear between us?
Will you get me the pardon, the free papers, with the big seal?
Shall I kill the knight of Portugal for you?”
“You're a bold fellow, Mateo;—it's a bargain!”
“Very good. When shall I have the papers? I must have
them, to see, and to show; for I can't read, señor, and must get
some one to read them for me, to see that all's right, before I
do my share in the business.”
“You are hard in your conditions, Mateo; but you shall have
your own way. Meet me here, at this hour, two days hence,
and you shall have the pardon and the papers!”
“Good, señor; I'll be punctual to the sun.”
When the two separated, the knight proceeded, almost immediately,
to take horse, and ride into the city; the outlaw disappeared
within the thickets. Don Balthazar did not return to the
hacienda that night. In his place, Olivia had another visitor.
While Sylvia slept, Juana conducted her brother to the chamber
of her mistress. The latter appeared to expect him; she was
certainly not unprepared for his coming.
It was surprising to behold her countenance, as the bold outlaw
entered the chamber. Where had she acquired that wonderful
composure—that strength of calm—so suddenly?—after
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the overthrow of her hope and pride, so terrible and so recent?—
after that wild compulsion which seemed to have racked
equally the body and the soul, how had she so soon and
thoroughly recovered? In the utter wreck of her pride, her
sensibilities seemed suddenly to have become blunted. She
had the look of one who felt nothing. There was not in her
countenance the slightest show of suffering. Her eyes were
strong in their glare,—not sad. The muscles of her mouth
betrayed not the slightest emotion. She looked like one of
those wretched persons whom we sometimes encounter in society,
who grow prematurely wise—who never know youth or childhood—
who spring, at a single bound, into manhood, and the full
possession of their minds; and who do so, in almost all cases,
at the expense of their hearts—nay, to the utter death and burial
of their hearts! Such premature development always makes
monsters. The look of Olivia was that of one whose heart was
utterly dead within her, and who has survived and forgotten—if,
indeed, she ever knew—its loss. It was—to sum up in a word
already used—all stony! The calm was that of death—the
composure, that of insensibility—not apathy! Yet there was
life in her. There was a new-born energy working within
her soul. That had survived the heart—had acquired its
strength—only in the utter annihilation of the hope, if not the
affections. These still lived, however;—but in what manner?
We shall, perhaps, see as we advance; but they were not now to
declare themselves in the ordinary way, as is the case with those
who do not live to denial—who still indulge, if not in hope, in
dreams—in delirium! Olivia had her purposes still; and, through
these, her lingering and blighted affections were still destined to
exist, and work;—but she had no more feminine emotions. The
blissful though deceiving reveries of her woman heart were all
at an end! There were now no delicious fancies, tripping, like
nimble servitors, in obedience to thought or will; bringing gay
colors, and creatures of the element, to beguile her saddened
moods. Fancy had been stripped of all its wings—ruthlessly
stripped—and life now crept on like the worm deposited beneath
the precious flowers, to which it can no longer fly. But the
worm still had life; and a will, which continued to incline in the
direction of its former fancies. Olivia de Alvaro, we repeat,
has still a purpose,—whether of hate or love we have yet to
learn! Enough, that it is the purpose of a broken heart,—well
knowing how complete has been its ruin,—how utterly hopeless
is its condition,—how dread its humiliation,—how unrelieved
by solace, whether of mind, or heart, or soul. She is without
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aspirations; yet she has a purpose! And that purpose? We shall
see as we proceed.
Whatever it is, she pursued it with such energies as she has
never before displayed in the prosecution of any object. They
are such as might become the strongest-willed person of the
other sex. She bends her whole soul upon the task. She excludes
all fears, all doubts, from consideration—everything
which may impair her efforts. Perhaps, we should rather say
that, feeling as she does, her soul is no longer accessible to fears.
She has endured the last sorrow, and the worst; and death has
no terrors, in a season, when life is not only without hope, but
without inspiration of any kind. She wrought, nevertheless, as
one dedicated to duty; as one, too, to whom the strength came,
physical and spiritual, only with the duty! An hour had made
her a new person; and, with the due consciousness of a fresh
impulse, she has no time for sorrows. Sorrows! How should
tears, or wailings even, or prolonged watching, give testimony
to such a woe as hers! To have been capable of either would
have implied very inferior sensibilities, or a smaller degree of
heart and suffering!
A night of stunning and strange sensations, that seemed rather
to afflict the body than the mind, and she stood up, a new being!
With the dawn she found herself employed,—active, watchful,
vigilant,—speaking few words, but firmly,—allowing no questions,—
willing, and causing to be done, according to her will!
Juana, now honestly prepared to serve, was put in requisition,
and kept busy. At night she was required, as we see, to bring
her brother, the outlaw, to the chamber of her mistress. When
there, the latter had few words, but they exhibited her in a
wholly new attitude, to both brother and sister. Juana she dismissed
to another chamber. From Mateo, now alone with her,
she demanded an account of his interview with Don Balthazar.
He revealed its purport—all! Olivia listened without seeming
emotion. When he was done, she said:
“I have presumed on your fidelity, Mateo. You dare not lie
to me! You will not! I am willing to believe you. You are
too much of a man to deceive me.”
“By the Blessed Virgin!”—he began.
“It does not need, Mateo, that you swear. I will believe you.
You shall work for me, and shed no blood! There is your pardon,
which I have procured for you through the Lady Isabella;
and there is the paper, which makes you and Juana free people—
no longer slaves of mine. Take them, and then listen to what I
would have you do.”
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The outlaw fell at her feet,—seized her hand, and covered it
with kisses. She withdrew it, indifferently, without emotion.
“Enough,” she said: “Enough! How long, Mateo, will it
take you to procure me a supply of the roots for making the
tawny brown dye of the mountains?”
“I can get you any quantity, Señora, in a short twelve hours.”
“Be it so. You must set out for it as soon as I dismiss you.”
Juana here peered within the chamber, but the lady motioned
her away, and then, in a whisper, gave Mateo some other instructions.
Her manner was calm, resolute, emotionless wholly;
her words clear, though whispered; her purpose made fully
evident to his understanding, though at present it is withheld
from ours. He argued with her purpose, but in vain. He
finally submitted;—Juana was called in, and her brother hurriedly
disappeared. He returned by noon of the next day, and
brought her the roots of a native dye, such as she required. He
had other trusts to execute, which kept him actively employed.
Meanwhile, Juana kept diligent watch. The espionage of Sylvia
was baffled; and, more than once during the day and night,
Mateo penetrated the dwelling in safety,—sometimes with a
package beneath his arm; sometimes with only certain tidings
on his lips. He wrought submissively, beneath a will which it
was neither his policy nor his desire to disobey. Meanwhile,
his eyes filled, rough and savage as he was, as he gazed upon
Olivia, and remembered that it was by his agency that her pride
had received its fatal blow—to say nothing of her hope—in the
terrible moment when Philip de Vasconselos had entered the
summer-house. But he dared not make this confession.
“Yet, how could I help it?” quoth the outlaw, to himself, by
way of apology. “He had saved me, had served me, and was
a noble gentleman. Then, I knew her only as the kin of that
scoundrel, Don Balthazar! Yet, I wish it had not been so!”
The regret was unavailing, but it strengthened the desire in
the heart of the outlaw to serve her faithfully in all things; and
it softened him to survey her, so wholly changed,—a woman no
longer,—stern, inaccessible, hopeless,—having but one idea;
and that—he shrugged his shoulders as he thought of it. But he
was forbid to argue it again.
“I have heard of such things before; but, after all, it's only a
sort of madness! She will break down in it, or break out,—and
that's pretty much the same thing,—and then it's all over with
her! Oh! it is so pitiful! and she so young, so beautiful, and of
such a great family! Demonios! How I should like to cure
all the trouble, if it could be done, by making three cuts with
my machete on the black heart of that monster, Don Balthazar!
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I Would make a cross for him should cross him out forever!
Well, let her break down, and I shall do it yet! He can't buy
me now, at any price. But I shall sell him at just what price I
please! Who'll buy on these terms? Who? Why the devil,
to be sure! Who else?”
-- 350 --
CHAPTER XXIX.
Soffri, che poco
Ti rimane a soffrir. Non ti spaventi
L'aspetto della pena: il mal peggiore
E de' mali il timor.”
Artaserse
[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]
It required, in fact, no effort on the part of Don Balthazar to
procure the pardon of Mateo, the outlaw, from the hands of the
Adelantado. He had only to place the paper before him, with
a crowd of other papers, for signature, and the sign-manual was
set down without scruple or examination. This was the usual
process. It was thus that, at the entreaty of Olivia, the Lady
Isabella had already procured the pardon of the mestizo; and
thus it was that the affair had escaped the knowledge of the
knight. In neither instance had De Soto been made aware of
what he had done, and Don Balthazar was thus naturally kept
ignorant of the peculiar interest which his niece had manifested
in the outlaw, and of her intimacy with him. He was utterly
without suspicion in this quarter; the consequence of his impression
of her ignorance of affairs, and of her utter indifference and
apathy upon most subjects. The pardon procured, the Don prepared
the legal discharge of Mateo, and his sister, from the service
of his ward. He signed the latter papers as her guardian,
and, as usual, without consulting her. The deed of emancipation
which she had prepared was, in fact, void, in consequence
of her minority; and this was quite as well known to Mateo as
to herself. But it was understood between them that he was to
keep aloof until she should reach maturity, when he could boldly
defy the uncle. The parties did not deceive themselves, or one
another; and though the discharge of Olivia was, for the present,
of less value than that of Don Balthazar, still Mateo much
preferred to receive the boon at her hands, though of questionable
validity, than to incur any obligation at the hands of a person
whom he meditated to murder at the first decent opportunity.
Armed with the desired papers, Mateo did not think proper to
keep his engagement with the Don. He was to have met him
in the thicket, where we have already beheld their interview,
but the knight waited for him in vain; and, after lingering
for an hour, becoming impatient, he took his way towards
the summer-house, and thence proceeded to the dwelling. He
little dreamed that the person he hoped to see was closely
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following and observing all his movements. So was Juana.
Mateo had counselled the latter carefully on certain points,
and the watch maintained by one or the other of them left
no single proceeding of Don Balthazar, when at home, unnoticed!
While at the summer-house, the Don had divested himself
of the papers with which he had proposed to meet the outlaw.
As it was in this neighborhood that he still calculated to
encounter him, he thought to have them always ready by leaving
them there. He fastened them up securely in a huge chest
which he kept in a closet. But Mateo, who watched all his steps,
soon wormed his way into the closet and the chest. He was
armed with a bit of iron wire, his machete, and a small drill and
mallet; and it was surprising with what rapidity he persuaded
locks to give up their secrets. Such is the advantage of being in
high practice, wherever the arts are concerned. The worthy outlaw,
however, did not immediately possess himself of the documents
of the Don. For the present, he was content to know where
they were hidden. He preferred that their loss should not be
discovered until the last moment, when the Don should be
ready for departure to Florida, and he to his native mountains.
He had much yet to do in Havana, and did not care to
be disturbed again by the alguazils, while pursuing his pleasant
occupations. He continued in the employment of Olivia; and
her present purposes, steadily pursued, with a mind now profoundly
concentrated on the one object, found him enough to do.
But there was a slight interruption to their intercourse. In carrying
out his purposes, Don Balthazar, as we have seen, had resolved
to send his niece to the plantation,—the hacienda, or
country-seat of his ward at Matelos,—where her large estates
chiefly lay. This was in order to his own security. Here, he
might best practise against her peace—perhaps her life. Here,
she would be removed from frequent association with the Lady
Isabella, who had taken a greater interest in her happiness than
Don Balthazar cared to see, or to encourage. She was to proceed
thither under the conduct of De Sinolar, whose hacienda was
contiguous, and whom Don Balthazar was not unwilling that
Olivia should marry. De Sinolar was his creature,—silly creature,
as we have seen,—vain and weak,—who feared the Don,
and whom the latter regarded as a useful mask to shelter his
own proceedings. If she would wed with De Sinolar, she might
live; and the latter was to be allowed every opportunity of
winning his way to her favor. Don Balthazar, however, had now
but little hope of this, unless through her utter despair of the
knight of Portugal, and the desperation of soul which his own
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cruel conduct had occasioned. The expedition once departed,
carrying with it Don Philip, and the uncle was satisfied to trust
somewhat to time. Time might effect his object, and if not—
the dagger! This latter remedy was to be entrusted to Mateo;
unless, indeed, Sylvia should prove herself as expert with the
bowl as her predecessor, Anita, had been.
According to these plans, Olivia was suddenly apprised that
she was to travel that very day under the escort of De Sinolar.
She was silently submissive. She was not allowed words of
parting with her friends, the Lady Isabella, or the fair, frail wife
of Nuno de Tobar. To this also she was reconciled. She had
no desire to see either. She had survived friendship. Mere
society had no attractions for her, and nothing compensative.
She lived but for a single purpose, and this was of a nature to
be rather helped than defeated by her removal from the city;—
that is to say, by her seeming or temporary removal. She was
prepared to go,—but her secret resolution was taken to return;
and that, too, before the sailing of the expedition. We shall see,
hereafter, in what manner. Don Balthazar was rather surprised
at her submission. He had expected a struggle. But she heard
his requisition with a cold indifference, and answered it with a
single word of resignation.
“I am ready now!”
He was surprised, and said something about her friends.
“Would you not desire to see and part with the Lady Isabella,—
with Leonora de Tobar?”
“No! What are friends and friendship to me?”
“It might be done in an hour. It were proper, perhaps.”
“I do not care to see them.”
“Well, as you please! You can see them as frequently as
you think proper after I am gone. Indeed, as Leonora will remain
in Cuba, you might have her as your guest.”
Olivia was silent. The uncle proceeded:
“De Sinolar has gallantly undertaken to be your escort, and
you can command his services during my absence, in any matter
in which you may need assistance. He has kindly volunteered
his good offices. I have given him instruction.”
“When does the expedition sail?” she coldly inquired.
“Within two days. We are all ready, and the wind promises
to be fair.”
She asked no more.
“When we separate, Olivia, it may be forever! I go upon
an expedition of great peril. I may never return. Do you forgive
me, child?”
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A terrible scorn rose into her stony gaze.
“Forgive!” she exclaimed—“Forgive!—ask it of the ghost
of my murdered happiness;—at the grave of my wronged innocence;
of the hope which you have banished from my heart forever;
of all that I was, and might have been, and am not! Ask
it not of me, as I am, Don Balthazar, lest I curse you with a
doom!”
“We are now to part! Perhaps never again to meet. My
life is henceforth to be one of constant peril. You may hear of
me as a victim to the darts and fiery tortures of the Apalachian!
Will you not forgive me, Olivia?”
“Play the hypocrite with me no longer. Do I not know that,
in your soul, you scorn the very prayer for forgiveness which
your false lips utter? Hence! Better that we should both
forget! So long as I can remember, it is not possible to forgive!”
And little more was spoken between them, ere they separated.
De Sinolar soon made his appearance. The vehicle was packed,
and stood in readiness at the door. Don Balthazar conferred
privately with De Sinolar.
“You will have her pretty much under your own eye at the
hacienda. You will have her to yourself. Play the bold lover,
if you would succeed with such a woman. Make her your own
at every hazard. These Knights of Portugal once gone, she will
show herself less coy.”
De Sinolar curled his moustache, and grinned gratefully.
“I flatter myself, señor—”
“Pooh, pooh! Don't flatter yourself, man! Flatter her! The
man who perpetually flatters himself offends everybody. This
is your fault. It is in the way of your own successes.”
The carpet knight was a little discomfited by this abrupt speech,
but he contrived to conclude his sentence, and succeeded in saying
that he flattered himself he should finally succeed in flattering
her; and so they parted. It was but half a day's journey to the
hacienda. We find nothing to interest us along the route,
since the wit and humor of De Sinolar are of a sort which is too
ethereal to keep, or too heavy to be borne, and Olivia could only
listen, and did not reply to his gallantries. But we must not
forget that Juana accompanied her mistress, and that Mateo, on
a fine horse, hovered along the track, keeping the party in sight,
but being himself unseen. It was some consolation to Olivia,
that Sylvia was no longer her guardian. The poor girl never
dreamed that she was destined to follow her; having been kept
back only to receive the final instructions of her master in respect
to his victim.
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The hacienda of Matelos was reached in safety about dusk.
Olivia, pleading fatigue, dismissed Don Augustin to his own
abode, which lay contiguous, on an adjoining plantation. She
retired to her chamber for awhile, but it was not long before
Mateo made his appearance. Certain signals, previously agreed
upon, announced his arrival to Juana, and he was stealthily conducted
by that damsel to the chamber of her mistress. Olivia
was sitting with hands clasped, and eyes fixed upon a picture of
the Virgin which hung upon the wall opposite, when the outlaw
entered the room. She at once rose.
“You are true, Mateo, and I thank you. You must now get
the horses ready.”
“Ah! my lady,” said the outlaw, “I have been thinking you
can never stand this trial. It is a hard life you propose to undertake.
You will never have the strength for it. You do not
know the toil, the danger. You will surely sink under it; you
will perish, and there will be no one to help you.”
“I shall need no help, Mateo; and if I perish, it is only an
end of a long and terrible struggle.”
“But why engage in this struggle, Señorita? Of what avail?”
“The easiest form of death is in the struggle, Mateo. Do not
argue with me now; I am resolved.”
“But, I must argue, dearest mistress—I, who know what are
the toils of such a life, day by day, on the back of a horse.”
“You forget, Mateo, that my father taught me how to ride;
that I have been a horse-rider from my childhood, over the ruggedest
mountain passes. I fear no steed that was ever bridled.
My poor father, you remember him, Mateo?”
“Ah! my lady, do I not? Had he lived, I should never have
been a bad fellow; never been an outlaw,—never shed human
blood.”
“Well, as he had no son, he made a boy of me, and taught me
the exercises of boyhood. He showed me the uses of the matchlock
and the cross-bow, until I ceased to fear the shock and the report
of fire-arms, and could bring down the mountain eagle with
my arrows. I have grown into the woman, but I have never lost
the spirit, nor the practice, which he taught me. Toil, trial, danger,
have no fears for me. I am bolder and braver now than ever.
Do you have no apprehensions, my good Mateo; for there is that
in my soul now which makes me laugh at danger.”
The outlaw continued to expostulate, when she abruptly and
sternly silenced him.
“Have you not sworn to serve me, Mateo, without questioning?”
she demanded, with an air of calm authority.
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“And have I not done so, dearest lady? I will still do as you
require, if you command me; but I would entreat you—would
show you what it is that you propose to encounter and to undertake.”
“No more! You mean well; but you know not. You speak
in vain. I am resolved! My life is on it, Mateo! I live now
for the one object only, and this executed, I shall gladly lay down
my life. But while I do live, I must thus work, thus toil, thus
peril life, and know life only in this peril. If there be storm and
strife, and battle—ay, blood—it is even so much the better. I
can now better endure the tempest than the calm. It is in this
calm, that I can encounter a thousand terrors worse than any
which the storm may bring.”
He would have still entreated, but she spoke decidedly.
“No more! I tell you, I am resolute as death. Do as I command
you, or tell me that you will do nothing. I will then seek
some servant who thinks himself less wise, and proves more
faithful.”
“Ah! be not angry with me, dear Señorita. I am not wise,
and I am faithful. None can be more so. It is because of my
love for you—”
“Enough, Mateo; I do not doubt your fidelity; and to any
other woman,—to a woman in any less wretched case than mine,
your counsel would be sensible and proper. But—you know,
perhaps, Mateo—but mine is not the common fate of woman!
If you knew my misfortune, you must know that I am doomed
to a ceaseless agony while I live; and that toil, and physical pain,
and death itself, have no tortures such as I must inevitably endure
in life! I have resolved! Let me hear if I may hope for
further help from you?”
The big tear gathered in the eye of the Mestizo, as he looked
into her sad, wan face. She was tearless; and the intense spiritual
gleam from her eyes almost filled him with terror. How
should such a glare,— such an expression—gleam forth from such
beautiful, such childlike eyes! How should such a resolution
inform so delicate a creature!
“I'd sooner fight for you, a thousand times,” he exclaimed:
“but I'm ready to do what you ask, and what I promised.”
“Do it, then! We have little time to lose. Leave me, and
procure the horses.”
He obeyed sadly, and in silence. The horses were soon ready,
and she was apprised of it. She did not delay. One moment in
silent prayer she sank down before the image of the Madonna,
then rose with a step of firmness and walked forth into the grove
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where the saddled steed was in waiting. It was an hour short of
midnight. The stars were few in heaven. The gusts swept, with
a sad soughing, through the woods, and seemed filled with mournful
and warning voices. The ear of the outlaw was sensible to
the sounds, and his more superstitious nature held them to be
ominous. But Olivia seemed not to hear or heed them. She
wrung the hand of Juana in silence, leapt into the saddle, and, followed
by Mateo on horseback also, she turned once more in the
direction of Havana. Juana remained behind to plead the indisposition
of her mistress, and baffle, for awhile, the curiosity of De
Sinolar.
The wayfarers rode hard and fast. In a low and seemingly unoccupied
hovel in the suburbs of the city, we find Olivia safely
housed before daylight. The place had been selected and procured
for her by Mateo, agreeably to previous instructions. There
was a rude couch, upon which she rested for awhile. But not long.
She was soon up and busy. Mateo was summoned, and was
promptly in attendance.
“Are all the things here, Mateo?”
“You will find them in that box, my lady.”
“Have you prepared—”
“Every thing, Señorita. I have done all; I am ready for all
things: but O! my lady, it is not yet too late.”
“What do you fear, Mateo?”
“Every thing for you, Señorita—nothing for myself. Nay,
if you will believe me, I would sooner cut for you the throats of
a dozen such villains as Don Balthazar, than see you go on this
fearful business.”
“Nay, Mateo, I wish no throats cut for me! Still less that
of—”
“Oh! if you would only listen to me, Señorita.”
She answered with a strange smile, and so calmly, that he was
disturbed by the very repose of her voice and manner, as it argued
a resolution so utterly immovable.
“Well,—what would you say, Mateo?”
The poor fellow could only repeat what he had so idly urged
already.
“Say, my lady, say?—Why, I would say that you know not
what it is you are about to undertake and undergo! That you
are not fit—not strong enough!—”
“Is it fatigue, pain, peril, loss of life, the agony of wounds?
I am prepared for all these! Must I repeat to you that I should
gladly welcome either, or all, of these, if I could lose those horrors
which oppress me now! Horrors! but if you know not—”
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“But if you are discovered?”
“Ah! that is the terror! that!”—after a pause: “But I must
brave it! I tell you, Mateo, I cannot remain here! I cannot survive
thus! I must extort from new griefs, troubles, privations
and dangers, such excitement as shall obliterate the past! I
know not what you know, of my cause of agony; but I suspect,
Mateo, that you know enough to understand that I can fly to
nothing worse, in the shape of woe, than I have already had to
meet! If you know this, be silent! If you are prepared to
serve me faithfully, be submissive! Let me have no further entreaty.”
“The Virgin be with you, my dear lady, and bring you help and
succor! I go to do all as you have commanded.”
With these words he left her. She closed and fastened the
door behind him; and, for a while, stood where she had been
speaking; wholly absorbed in thought; looking like a statue rather
than a breathing woman! Then she spoke, half in prayer,
half in soliloquy:
“Ay! the Blessed Virgin! Succor! Succor! I surely need her
help! Would she have come sooner! Oh! how wild the pathway
seems before me! What clouds, how torn! How flitting
with the wind: and what a crowd of changing and frightful aspects!
They drift along, with the force of the tempest, which
they vainly offer to resist! Now, they cry to one another for help
and succor! But they disappear, even as they cry, swallowed up
in the fearful void, and making way for other forms and aspects!
There is no sun, no moon, no stars; but there is a light as from
the eyes of death; sepulchral, and filled with myriads of floating
spectres! What can it mean! Where am I! What do I see?
Ah! these are Hernan de Soto, and his troops and followers!
That is Nuno de Tobar: yonder rides—Oh! how my heart
loathes him as he rides!—and yonder is—Oh! Blessed Virgin,
it is myself I see! But the spectre lives and moves,—and
serves! It is Don Philip that charges away in front—away!
away! and—see, how the boy follows him! Ah!....”
The highly wrought and febrile condition of Olivia's brain,
must account for her apparent vision, in which she sees the known
and the conjectured; in which she mingles a past knowledge with
her own future purposes. The madness lasted but for a brief
space! She seemed suddenly to recover, and sank upon her
knees before the image of the Virgin. She now prayed inaudibly;
then rose, calm,—rigid rather in every muscle, and then proceeded
to unfold the contents of trunks and chests, as if with the
view of making her toilet. Let us leave her to this performance.
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CHAPTER XXX.
“I have surely seen him:
His favor is familiar to me.
Boy, thou hast looked thyself into my grace,
And art mine own.”
Cymbeline.
[figure description] Page 358.[end figure description]
The eighteenth day of May, in the year of grace, one thousand,
five hundred and thirty-nine—more than three hundred
years ago!—was marked with a white stone in the calendar of
Don Hernan de Soto; for, on that day, his squadron, eight large
vessels (small-sized schooners of our days), a caravel (a sloop)
and two brigantines—things with scarce a deck at all—sailed from
the noble harbor of Havana, with their prows turned east in the
direction of the opposite coast of Florida. But it was rather
late in the day before they took their departure; and though
the armament had been supposed in readiness several days before,
yet, when the time came, there were many things that required
to be hurried. Of these, the Adelantado had his share:
and Don Balthazar more than his share; all needing to be attended
to, and sped. But, of the cares of these great personages,
we will say nothing in this place. They scarcely affect our narrative.
We shall confine ourselves to those of Don Philip de
Vasconselos, chiefly; and relate how he was provided with a
Moorish page, almost at the last moment, and on the most liberal
terms.
The sun was just warming the tops of the Cuban mountains,
when the good knight was summoned to the entrance of his lodgings,
to hearken to an unexpected visitor. This was no other
than our old acquaintance, Mateo, the outlaw. Don Philip was
on the alert, and was not found napping even at that early hour.
He was busy brushing up his armor; condensing his wardrobe
into the smallest possible compass; preparing his steed and furniture;
for transfer to one of the caravels where a place had been
appointed him; and adjusting his affairs, in general, for that removal
which had now become inevitable.
Don Philip met the outlaw with a grave, but gentle welcome;
spoke and looked him kindly; and asked what he could do for
him. The sight of the features of the Portuguese knight, seemed
to occasion some difficulty in the speech of the outlaw. The
sadness, approaching confirmed melancholy, which his face wore,
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and which the tones of his voice so well expressed, reminded Mateo
of many matters, and in particular, of one very terrible scene,
in which he had beheld the brave cavalier wounded to the very
soul; crushed, as it were, into the earth, and partly by his
proceedings. The whole scene came back to both parties as
they met; and, as the gloom darkened on the visage of Don
Philip, the mind of Mateo became agitated and confused, in a
way wholly unwonted with the rough, wild, half-savage character
of the Mestizo. But he plucked up resolution to reply, and
in tones as simple and unconstrained as possible.
“Well, Señor, it's not so much what you can do for me, as
what I can do for you!—You've been wanting a page or squire,
Señor,” said the outlaw, “and you haven't got one yet?”
“It is true, Mateo. I did not like the looks of any that were
brought me. Can you help me to one? Do you know?—”
“I can provide you with a Page, Señor; not a servant; a
young lad, a kinsman, a nephew of my own; brown like myself,
but the child of a free woman of the mountains; who has heard
of you, and would like to see a little of the world, and of armies,
under such a brave leader; but he can't be bought. He's
the son of a free woman, Señor, as I tell you, and will serve you
for love, not for money; and will bring his own horse, and provide
his own means; and will only expect to be treated kindly,
and to be taught the art of war; and—”
“Will he submit—will he obey me?”
“Certainly, as a page, Señor: and will be happy to do so. I
can answer for all that, Señor. He will do for you, I am sure,
as no bondman would ever do—will be faithful always—and be
very glad when you employ him, for he is pleased with you,
Señor,—he has seen you often, and admires you very much!
He longs to go with you, and hasn't let me rest, for the last week,
for urging me to come to you and make the offer. He don't
want pay—he has means of his own, as I told you: his mother,
a free woman of the mountains, Señor, has property; cattle
and horses; and though the boy is quite young, and slightly
built, yet he has health and strength, and can stand a good deal
of trouble and fatigue; all he wants is to be with you;—that is,
to see war under your lead;—and as he's the son of a free woman,
Señor, I thought it right, perhaps, that he should have such
desires, and should learn from the best teacher.”
“Bring him to me, Mateo.”
“He is here at hand—I could not well keep him away, Señor.
He is so anxious!”
Here the outlaw turned away for a moment from the lodge of
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the knight, and, stepping down to the highway, he gave a slight
halloo. In sight, stood a boy holding a stout and spirited steed.
He approached at the signal, leading the horse. When he drew
nigh, the knight, who had retired into the lodge for a moment,
reappeared, and gazed steadily upon the new-comer.
“Let the boy fasten the horse to yon sapling, Mateo, and
draw nigh, that I may have some talk with him. He has a fine
horse, Mateo.”
“Yes, Señor, I raised him myself. He walks like the wind,
and will go like an eagle to the charge. Suppose you step out,
and look at him closely, Señor. You must love a fine animal,
Señor, and this is one for a brave man to love, without feeling
ashamed of his choice.”
How the heart, already vitally sore, applies the most remote
allusion to the cause of its secret suffering! This casual remark
of Mateo, smote on the sensibilities of Philip de Vasconselos,
like a sneer. But the face of Mateo was innocent of any occult
meaning; and Philip showed that he felt, simply by an increased
solemnity of voice and visage. He followed the outlaw out to
where the horse stood, still held by the boy in waiting. The
first regards of the knight were given entirely to the steed.
“He is certainly a very fine animal, Mateo. You do not
praise him more than he deserves.”
“See what a chest he carries, Señor, broad like a castle. See
what legs, so clean, so wiry. There's not an ounce of fat to
spare from those quarters. There's not a long hair that you'd
like to pull out from those fetlocks. And, look at his eye!
It's like that of a great captain! Cortez, I warrant, does not
open a finer when he looks down from the towers of the Mexican.
See what a mane of silk! It is like the hair of a Princess.
And he's young, but a quarter over four, Señor; and he comes
of a breed that lasts till forty.”
“Unless no shaft from an Apalachian savage cuts him short;”
was the remark of Vasconselos, sadly made, as he turned to bestow
a look upon the boy.
There seemed to be a new interest springing into the eyes of
Philip as he gazed. The boy was of fine, dark bronze complexion,
looking more like the native race of Indians, than the Mestizo
cross, from which he was said to have sprung: he was well
made, and symmetrical; with good limbs and much grace of outline.
But Vasconselos dwelt not so much upon the form, as
the face, of the youth. This seemed to rivet his attention for
awhile. And the effect of his gaze was to disquiet the boy himself,
and Mateo, his uncle. The former closed his eyes,
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involuntarily, under the steadfast glance of the knight; and the outlaw
hurriedly said:
“The boy is bashful, Señor: he has never before stood in the
presence of a great captain, or a knight, or even a fine gentleman.
He is from the mountains, as I said, and don't know
about the fine behavior of a young man of the city, who is always
expected to look up, you know, as if he was born to
say to the sun—`stop a little—I must talk with you.' Now,
Juan—”
“Juan?—Is that his name?”
“Yes, Juan, Señor; his mother's name is Juana, a free woman
of the mountains, Señor—”
“His face reminds me very much of one that I have seen
somewhere. I have certainly seen him before, Mateo.”
“Never him, Señor,—never!” replied the other sturdily.
“Juan has never been to the city before last week; and you, I
know, have never been into the mountains, Señor. He is a
mountain boy, your Excellency,—son of a free woman of the
mountains. He has seen you, but you could not have seen him
before. But what's in a likeness, Señor? You will see them
every day, every where. I have seen thousands of likenesses,
in my time, for which there was not the slightest bit of reason.
Now, Juan looks like several people I know, and you may have
seen them. He looks very like Antonio Morelos, a creole of
Havana, here. You must have seen him. Then, he looks monstrous
like his mother, and she has been a thousand times to the
city. Oh! likenesses are nothing now, we see so many. You
never could have seen our Juan's face before, Señor.”
Mateo talked rapidly, rather than earnestly, as if against time
and the wind. Vasconselos did not seem to hear half what he
was saying. He still kept an earnest eye upon the boy, as if
deeply interested; evidently communing with every feature of
his face—as far, that is to say, as he was allowed to see them.
But the boy's eyes were cast down. He saw nothing; yet felt,
evidently, that the keen eyes of the knight were upon him.
“The boy is young, very young, Mateo, and I very much fear
will hardly be able to stand the fatigues of such a campaign as
that we shall have to endure in Florida.”
“Oh! he is strong, Señor. His looks are deceptive. He
comes of a hardy race. He can stand fire and water.”
“But he seems unusually timid. Art thou sure that he has
courage? Will he look danger in the eye?”
The boy seemed disposed to answer for himself. He looked
up—he looked Don Philip in the eye, and without blenching.
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Nay, there was so much of a settled calm—an unflinching resolution
in his sudden glance, that the knight was struck with it.
“Certainly,” quoth he, “that was something like a lightening
up of the spirit. He is capable of flashes, Mateo.”
“Ay, and of fire and flame too, Señor! Faggots! Give him
time, your Excellency, and you will see the blaze. But he's
naturally bashful when you're looking on him. It's not a bad
sign in a boy, Señor.”
“No, truly! But I like his looks, Mateo. There is something
in those features that please me much. Were I sure of
the strength and courage of the boy,—his capacity to endure,—
I should not hesitate: I should feel sure of his fidelity.”
“Oh! that I can promise, Señor. He's as faithful to the man
he loves as if he were a woman.”
“Pity but he were more so!” responded the knight quickly.
The outlaw felt that he had blundered, and he promptly strove
to recover his false step.
“As a woman is expected to be, your Excellency; that's what
I mean! I can answer for Juan; for his courage, his hardihood,
not less than his honesty, Señor. He's a boy of good principles.”
“Let him answer for himself! Somehow, Mateo, I am a little
doubtful of your answers. You are too quick to be quite sure of
what you say! Hark ye, Juan, are you sure you desire to go
with me, to Florida?”
The boy evidently trembled: but promptly enough, in a rather
hoarse voice, answered—
“Yes, Señor! I wish to go with you.”
The voice was a strange one, yet, its tones seemed to interest
the knight, as if there was something familiar in them also.
“He has a very peculiar voice, Mateo.”
“Yes, Señor, strange enough to those who heard him only a
year ago. Now, his voice is getting the cross 'twixt man and
boy. It's rather more a squeak than a song, your Excellency.
But I reckon, Señor, we all underwent some such change about
the same time in our lives.”
Don Philip. But, my good boy, you don't know the toil and
trouble; the daily marching in that country; where there are
no roads; only rank forests, great swamps, wild beasts, deadly
reptiles; where, half the time, you may be without food; and
perhaps, quite as frequently without water.
Juan. Yes, Señor, but if one would be a soldier, it's a part
of his education to taste these things. I am to be a soldier, you
know.
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Philip. True; but you begin early! There is a certain
hardening necessary before one can be a soldier
Juan. This campaign will give it me, Señor.
Mateo. You see, your Excellency, his heart is set on being a
soldier.
“True; but one does not begin training for it, in the midst
of a campaign,” quoth Philip, not heeding the outlaw.
Juan. You forget, Señor, that I was bred among the mountains.
Philip. If you had been bred upon the plains, my boy, it
might be more in your favor, going to Florida. But you forget
the danger.
Juan. It is that of war, Señor, and I am not afraid to die.
Philip. So young, and not afraid to die? but you speak what
you cannot know! Bethink you of the terrors of the strife; the
savage arrows,—his cannibal sacrifices,—his bloody rages,—the
scalping knife,—the fiery torture!
Juan. Yet you are to encounter them, Señor
Philip. I am a man, boy, accustomed to the encounter; and
life is to me of little worth. I have survived its hopes.
Juan. And I have none, Señor.
Philip. Thou no hopes, at a season when the heart is all hope,
or should be?
Mateo. Ah! you don't know Juan, Señor. He was always
a saddish sort of boy; loving the glooms; the dark woods; the
lonely rocks! He never played like other boys! He was never
like other boys.
Philip. But he will outgrow this sadness, Mateo. He will
grow to hopes. It would be cruel to peril one so young, so tender
yet, in such a warfare as that with the Floridian savage!
Juan. You allow nothing for the will, Señor,—the heart—
nothing—
Philip. Every thing, boy! will and heart are the great essentials
of all achievement. Can it be that thou art already ambitious?
Mateo. That he is, your Excellency. It's his great folly,
Señor; I've told him so a thousand times. For what can his
ambition do, for him, a mestizo? Let him be as brave as Francis
Pizarro, and as wise as Hernan Cortez, who'll give him command
of armies, and authority in counsel? Here am I now, as
brave, I think, as any man that ever stepped in leather; yet
what am I but an outlaw! I don't think I'm wanting in a sort of
sense either, yet who listens to me?
Philip. The boy talks sensibly, Mateo, yet he is very young.
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Mateo. If he lives much longer, Señor, he'll grow much older.
And if he don't live long, he'll only be more sure of being young
all the days of his life.
Philip. Logical enough, Mateo; yet I have no wish to shorten
his days.
“Try me, Señor,” murmured the boy, in very low but earnest
tones, not daring to look up. There was a pleasant change
in the voice, which seemed to interest the hearer. He put his
hand on the head of the boy, who started from under the touch,
and visibly trembled. But Philip was not permitted to see his
face.
“Do you not overrate both your courage and your strength,
my boy? You start and tremble at my touch.”
“'Tis not with fear, Señor!” was the subdued reply, still in
the same low, sweet accents.
“No! For why should you fear me, child? But you seem
naturally timid—nervous, I should say;—and such wars as that
we go upon, require hardihood above all other things. There
must be no agitation when the trumpet rings the alarm. There
must be no faltering when we are bade to charge. The page of
the knight will be expected to do good service, and to follow
close after his master, even if he does not emulate him. Canst
thou carry a lance, Juan?”
“I am provided with a cross-bow, Señor, and can shoot. The
lance will come—”
“Thou art so eager for it, Juan—”
“Oh! take me with you, Señor!”
“I like thee, boy. Thou hast something about thee which appeals
strangely to my imagination.”
And the good knight sighed deeply. His instincts, rather than
his memory, perhaps, guided his asseverations. The boy hung
his head also. He dared not, at that moment, look up in the
face of Don Philip.
“I will take thee with me, boy, and fight thy battles, if need
be; will keep thee as much from harm as possible, and share
with thee my spoils—”
“I ask nothing, Señor!” said the boy hastily.
“Oh! no, Señor!” quoth Mateo. “My sister is a free woman
of the mountains. Her son is able to pay his own way. He
wishes to go to see service and learn a profession, and will share
no one's spoil. He hopes to make his own. Besides, my sister
is resolute that her son shall take no pay for his services. Remember
that, Señor. She has provided him, as you see, with a
good horse. She has given him a well-filled pouch besides! she
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has made all provisions for his support and equipment; and I
am commissioned to get even the needful weapons and armor.
So you see, Señor, he is to go with you for love, not for money.”
“For love!” murmured the boy.
“Be it so, Juan,” said the knight, taking his hand. “Be it as
thou wilt. Thou shalt go with me, boy. Thou shalt be my
companion, rather than my page. But thou wilt find me a sad
companion, Juan—a melancholy master. I tremble for thee,
besides, when I behold thy slight frame, thy timidity, thy tenderness
and youth. We must be true to each other, Juan; for
we go with those who are true only to themselves. We must
love each other, Juan; for in all that assembled host, there will
be few worthy of any pure heart's love. Wilt thou love me,
boy, spite of my gloomy visage, and melancholy moods?”
“I will love thee, Señor—I do love thee!” was the murmured
reply, and this time the boy looked up. The glances of the two
met. Then it was that the knight saw how large and expressive
were the eyes of the boy, and what a soft and dewy brightness
shone through the dilating orbs. But they sunk in a moment
beneath the searching gaze of the knight. They sunk, and the
boy again trembled.
“Truth, Mateo, he is bashful! But a campaign soon cures
that infirmity. Well, Juan, you are mine now.”
And he gave the boy his hand, who kissed it passionately,
murmuring—
“Thine! Thine!”
The knight turned away to the tent with Mateo, the boy leading
his horse and following. Before the close of the day, knight
and page were upon the waters of the gulf, rolling forward in a
good vessel towards the gloomy shores of the Apalachian.
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CHAPTER XXXI.
“Æsop.
What do we act to-day?
Latinus.
Agavi's phrensy,
With Pentheus' bloody end.”
Massinger. The Roman Actor.
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But we are not yet permitted to depart, and must follow, for
a brief space, the fortunes of some other of our dramatis personœ.
The novelist cannot do always, as he would, with his own creations.
He cannot linger always with those whom he prefers.
We must suffer the Fates to exercise their controlling agencies
just as certainly as they do in real life, and among the living people
whom we know. He may create, but he cannot control. It
is upon this very condition that he is permitted to create. The
Being, once filled with the breath of life, and having made his
appearance upon the stage of human action, must thenceforward
conform to necessities over which the author exercises no authority.
These will have their origin in the character, the actions, and the
impulses, of his persons; in the events which flow from their
performances; in their conflicts with rival actors on the scene;
in their strength or imbecility; with some allowance made for
the operation of external causes, which, we are told, will always,
more or less, affect the destinies equally of mice and men! Let
us leave Philip de Vasconselos, and the dusky page, Juan, to their
progress over the blue waters of the gulf, while we follow the
steps of Mateo, the outlaw.
As soon as the Mestizo had closed the arrangement, by which
his “nephew, the son of a free woman of the mountains,” had
been secured a place in the service of the knight of Portugal, he
disappeared from the vicinity of the Spanish encampment. He
had, we may mention, used some precautions when “about town,”
by which he had kept his person from all unnecessary exposure.
He had still some decent regard for the existence of a class of
persons, the Alguazils, with whom he entertained few special
sympathies; and, in leaving the lodgings of Vasconselos, he had
stolen away into covert, by the most secluded passages. A single
moment, in private, and under the cover of a clump of trees,
densely packed with shrubbery, had sufficed for his parting with
Juan. There he might be seen wholly to change the manner of
speech and address which he had employed, with regard to the
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boy, when the knight, his master, was a looker-on. He seized
his hand and kissed it repeatedly, and there was a reverence in
the expression of his face, and in the words of his mouth, which
denoted the existence of relations, between the parties, very different
from those which he has been pleased to assert in the conference
which has been reported. On leaving the boy, he concluded
with a promise to see him, and the good knight of Portugal,
at the shore, in the moment of his embarkation.
“It may be,” he said, “that I shall follow you—nay, go with
you, to the country of the Apalachian; for I long to see great
things; and be where the good knights rush to the meeting of
the spears! It may be! We shall see!”
When they had separated, and while Mateo pursued his way
through the woods, alone, his lips opened in frequent soliloquy.
“Yes!” quoth he, “were it not for that devil of all the devils,
Don Balthazar de Alvaro, I should follow the expedition. I
would take lance under this good knight. I would fight like the
best among them. He hath no followers; but, with me, he
should have at least five. I am as good as any five of these men
with the cross-bow. And would I not have a good horse of my
own? worthy to be straddled by any cavalier in Don Hernan's
army? Ah! it would be glorious! How I should smite!
Verily, I have a strength in my arm, and a skill with horse and
weapon, that would show where blows are thickest. I could
clear the track with a sweep! And I am a young man, and in
my best strength. It is hard that I should have nothing great to
do! Very hard!”
And his speed was accelerated; and his arm could be seen
waving, as if he were about to make a mighty swoop with the
broadsword.
“But I dare not go, while that black wolf is with the army!
He hath an eye to see through me. He hath already known me
in a disguise which had baffled the eyes of my own sister; and,
failing to do for him this murder of the good knight, he would
have me garotted without a scruple! Would his throat were cut!
I have half a mind to slip off with the rest, and put my knife into
him, the first dark night he walks alone. Were I now to meet
him, I would slay him!”
And he felt in his girdle for his machete, and looked up, and
around him, with glaring eye, and distended nostril, as if already
snuffing the atmosphere breathed by an enemy. But all
was still and quiet where he walked, among the thick groves, inclining
to the hills, and now beyond the city suburbs. It was still
the cool of early morning, and the whole realm of nature around
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him seemed to murmur of repose. The inanimate life of the
forest declared no unrest—no unruly passions,—no wretched
discontent. The sky was now beautifully clear, and if a voice
was heard besides his own, it was that only of some very tiny
bird, such as harbors only in the stunted shrubbery, where a single
leaf will afford instant and close shelter for its form. But the
very repose spoke to the violent passions of the outlaw, with a
stimulating accent.
“Ah!” said he, “if I only had him here!” and he clenched his
fist savagely.
“But I must get those papers! He will be in the camp
soon to-day. He will be among the last to sail. In an hour, he
will have left the hacienda. But may he not return to it, in
the hope to see me, and to learn that I have done his work?
Perhaps; but hardly! He will scarce have time! Humph!
Done his work! I must do my own! Verily, if I meet him
there, I will do it thoroughly! Shall I cut throats except to my
own liking? By the Blessed Devils, no! I will cut his throat
if I can! And if I do, what is to keep me from the expedition?
I am a man for the wars. I will see how the lances cross with
the shock of thunder. But I must get me those papers. He
little dreams that I know their hiding-place. When he goes to
the city this morning, it will be to make ready. He will hardly
return to the hacienda. Then will I take possession. Juana
knows what to do. When the ships have all gone, she goes off
to the mountains. She will be doubly safe with the papers of the
Señorita, and of that Uncle-devil. She shall be safe! Then, if
I should find him there, and feel my way into his ribs, we are all
safe! Oh! If I should only find him there! If he goes on
this expedition, will my poor lady be safe a moment? No!
No! There's no blinding his snake-eyes! He will see, and I
know there will be trouble—and more than trouble;—there will
be a great danger always in the path of the good knight. Oh!
it must be that I shall split his black heart with my knife, and
let out all its poison with its blood! It must be, when there's
so much good to come of it—when there's no safety for anybody
while he lives! I owe him a stroke of my machete! And if
the Blessed Devils give me half a chance, I will pay him with a
vengeance!”
We have here the passions of the outlaw's soul, and the
plans of his mind, fairly mingled up together, in that sort of web
of thought, which is the usual mental process in the sensuous
nature. Don Balthazar, at this moment little dreamed of the
danger which threatened him. While Mateo, making his way
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to the hacienda of the knight, was thus soliloquizing, the haughty
Don was savagely meditating, in his turn, upon some of the disappointments
which he had experienced. That the Portuguese
knight still lived, was a present annoyance, and a vital danger.
He now knew himself to be at the mercy of this cavalier, so far
as his moral position was concerned. The revelation of his
secret, he well knew, would be fatal to his reputation in Cuba,
and the army;—so long as the government of both was administered
by persons so severely virtuous as he believed Don Hernan
de Soto and his noble wife to be. True, he had a certain
security for his secret, in the very regard which Philip de Vasconselos
evidently entertained for Olivia. So long as she lived,
Philip would probably be silent, in respect to that which would
hurt her reputation. But who was to secure the unfaithful guardian
against the speech of Olivia herself? Her passionate blood
had evidently escaped wholly from the control of her tyrant.
He had made her desperate, in making her desolate; and he
felt that, in death alone, could his safety be made certain. He
knew the nature of passionate women too well; and now perceived
that Olivia, in this respect, too much resembled her Biscayan
mother, of whom his experience was sufficiently vivid, and who,
he well knew, in the madness of her awakened passions, had
neither fear nor prudence, nor scruple of any sort. He trembled,
accordingly; proud, fearless and powerful as he was; lest the
reckless, or the thoughtless word of either the knight of Portugal
or Olivia de Alvaro, should, at any moment, hurl him headlong
from position, making him odious to all, and subjecting him
to legal, as well as social, persecution. Why had not the outlaw,
Mateo, done his work upon the knight? There were surely
opportunities enough; and Mateo was too well known, as a desperado,
to suppose that he had either moral scruples, or personal
fears! The question troubled the Don, since, from his own conjectures,
he vainly sought an answer.
While he meditated these doubts, an aide of the Adelantado
arrived, and brought him despatches from Don Hernan, which
required his early presence in the city. He dismissed the messenger
with a reply which promised that he would soon be there,
and was now simply making his final preparations for joining the
expedition, and superintending the work of embarkation. The
officer disappeared, riding fast, and was seen at a distance, as he
left the hacienda, by the approaching outlaw.
“Demonios!” muttered Mateo, between his closed teeth,
“there goes my last chance! Had I come an hour sooner!”
He had mistaken the rider for Don Balthazar. He now more
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leisurely continued his progress, and at length found himself
amidst the silent groves surrounding the summer-house of the
knight,—that lovely and secluded lodge which had been so fruitful
in events affecting the destinies of some of the persons of our
drama. It was fated to furnish yet another scene of deep interest
to the parties.
Don Balthazar, burning or preserving papers, arranging arms,
and armor, was busy and thoughtful in his chamber, when the
old hag, Sylvia, suddenly burst into the apartment. He looked
up at the intrusion, with a haughty frown; but she was not appalled
by it. She was wild with excitement; and her sinister
and withered features were now absolutely fiendish in the expression
of rage which they exhibited. She could scarcely speak, so
agitating were her emotions. When she did succeed in giving
utterance to the cause of her excitement, she was surprised to
find that her master did not partake of her wrath, and seemed
lightly to listen to her communications.
“He is here, Señor;” she exclaimed,—“the villain, Mateo;
the outlaw; the murderer; the robber of the old woman! He
is here, Señor, in the groves; he is even now gone to the garden
house!”
Mateo had evidently neglected his usual precautions. Satisfied
that the horseman whom he had seen pushing for the city, at
full speed, was Don Balthazar himself, he had been at no pains
to make his movements secret.
“Ah! he is here, then,—Mateo?” and the knight smiled with
a grim complaisance, and muttered, sotto voce—“He has done it,
then, perhaps, and comes for his reward! Good! He knows his
time, and has, no doubt, done it efficiently! Well! I must see
him.”
He at once rose, and, with his sword only at his side, moved
quickly from the chamber. Sylvia was quite confounded; and
followed, muttering her surprise as she went. Don Balthazar
never once looked behind, and did not see her; or he would
have dismissed her with severity. And then!—But we must not
anticipate!
He hurried on; and so rapid were his movements, that the
stiffened limbs of the old woman utterly failed to enable her to
keep any sort of pace with the progress which he made. He
was soon in the groves; had soon overpassed the space; and,
walking in the buckskin shoes, the use of which the Spaniards
had borrowed from the red men,—wearing them commonly when in
their peaceful avocations,—he entered the garden house unheard.
He was confounded at what he beheld. The outlaw had coolly
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taken possession of the premises. He was on his knees, in the
recess where stood the army chest in which Don Balthazar had
stored the papers which the outlaw sought; his head was fairly
buried in the chest, and he was busily engaged evidently in the
examination of all its contents. The surprise was complete.
For a moment, the knight stood motionless, watching the cool
intruder! He saw the secret of the proceeding at a glance.
“The scoundrel,” said he to himself, “has seen me put away
the papers in the chest, and he now comes to steal them, without
having done the service!” Then, aloud, advancing as he spoke,
and laying his hand upon the outlaw's shoulder, he said—
“How now, rascal, what are you doing here?”
The cool, hardy, daring character of Mateo, was such as to
render surprises less dangerous to him, and less difficult of evasion,
than would be the case with most people. At the sound
of the knight's voice, he immediately conceived the predicament
in which he stood. But, that Don Balthazar spoke, and only laid
his hand on his shoulder, when he might have run him through
the body, as a first salutation, was an absolute surrender of all
the advantages of the surprise; and afforded to the bold ruffian
the chance of operating a surprise in turn. Certainly, most
persons, taken thus at advantage, would have lost something of
their moral resources in consequence of their position. But
Mateo was not an ordinary ruffian. The forbearance of the knight
showed the outlaw that the former would not be likely, under
the circumstances, to anticipate resistance, still less assault, from
the person he appeared to think so completely in his power;—
and the exercise of his thought, to this effect, at such a moment,
exhibited Mateo in possession of a more deeply searching mind
than his superior. In the twinkling of an eye, with a rare agility,
which, in the outlaw, was a possession fully equal to his wonderful
strength, he suddenly slipped from under the grasp of the Don,
and, before the latter dreamed of his danger, had changed positions
with him; had thrown himself upon him, and forced him
down upon the chest, with his head buried among its recesses.
To do this was the work of an instant only. Fortunately for
the knight, the assailant had not a single weapon in his grasp.
He had been using his machete, in prying open the cover of the
chest, and had thrown it down upon the floor a few feet distant.
But his fingers seemed to be made of steel, and these grappled
the throat of Don Balthazar, with a gripe so close and fierce,
that in a single moment of time, the latter had grown purple in
the face, while his eyes dilated wildly in their sockets.
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“Villain, would you murder me?” gasped the cavalier, vainly
struggling to rise, and making efforts as desperate as unavailing.
“You have come for it! I thought you safe, and I cursed the
Blessed Devils, that helped you off. But I did 'em wrong! They
have delivered you into my hands! You thought to buy me, did
you, to kill the good knight of Portugal? I'll kill you for him!
I'll kill you for the poor young lady, my mistress! Oh! didn't
I see, with my own eyes, just as Don Philip saw? You ought
to die a hundred deaths! But, as it's only once for you as for
other men, the sooner you taste it, the sooner you get your wages.
You shan't have time to say a prayer; not one: for you shan't
have any mercy from God any more than from me! Die! I
say; die! Die! Die!”
The knight succumbed; he had neither room nor strength for
struggle. Hands and head buried in the chest, and face downwards,
he was helpless! The hoarse gurgle of his breath in the
throat was already painful to the ear, and the writhings of his
form were those of a man vainly struggling with the last potent
enemy; when, suddenly, a sound was heard by the writhing and
almost suffocated man,—a sound,—a stroke!—another, and another!—
and the gripe of his enemy relaxed; and there was a wild
yell above him;—but one!—and Don Balthazar felt relieved.
He began once more to breathe. He felt no longer the incumbent
weight of the gigantic ruffian upon his back! Gradually, he
recovered consciousness. He heard a voice calling him by name.
He felt hands officiously helping him to rise; he felt a cool but
grateful shock of water. His eyes opened to the day once more.
He looked about him: slowly, but fully, at length, his glance
took in the objects around him. He found himself seated beside
the chest, from which he had been rolled out rather than lifted;
and, before him, stiff in death, lay the corse of the outlaw, who,
but a little before, had been so completely in his power! The
old hag, Sylvia, stood at hand to help her master, and soon explained
the agency by which his life had been saved. She had
followed him to the summer-house, curious to see and hear, and
anxious for the recovery of her goods, of which Mateo had deprived
her. She had come not a moment too soon! Seeing the
knight's danger, she had caught up the hatchet which was employed
for trimming the trees and shrubbery of the grove, and
which lay in the verandah of the summer-house, convenient, with
saw and other implements; and, without a word,—governed by
instincts which always prompt to decisive action where the mind
has few thoughts to trouble it,—had stolen behind the outlaw.
He, bent only on strangling his enemy,—with passions which
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deadened the sense,—heard nothing of her approach! A stunning
blow from the hatchet made him conscious of his danger,
while almost taking all consciousness away! He was not allowed
a moment. Stroke after stroke followed, with the hammer,
as with the edge of the hatchet; delivered without regard to the
appropriate use of the weapon, but delivered with such a will as
made every stroke tell fatally; until the head was cleft wide; the
skull beaten in;—and the strong, fierce, wild, savage man rolled
upon the floor;—a ghastly spectacle of death; wallowing in blood;—
in a moment, torn from life; in the moment of his greatest
strength of arm and passion; and, by the withered arm of a despised
old woman! The outlaw knew not by whose arm, or by
what weapon he perished. He saw not his assailant. He was not
allowed to turn and face his danger: the reiterated blows fell
crushingly and fast, and he sunk under them, a helpless mass, in
less time than we have employed in describing the event.
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CHAPTER XXXII.
“Master, go on, and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.”
As You Like It.
[figure description] Page 374.[end figure description]
It was a goodly hour after the event, before Don Balthazar
had sufficiently recovered from his sufferings to resume his activity,
or comply with the summons of the Adelantado, to return
to the city. When able to rise and look about him, he gave his
orders with customary sang froid, for the removal and disposition
of the dead body of the outlaw, which was publicly exposed
during the day, and finally hung in chains by the public executioner.
But this exhibition did not take place till after the departure
of the expedition; and the good Knight of Portugal, and
his page Juan, were somewhat surprised at not exchanging farewells
with the bold outlaw, as he had promised them should be
the case. They little anticipated for him, such a short and hurried
transition, from the extreme health, hope and vigor of
impetuous and eager manhood, to the stagnating and corrupting
embrace of death; and did not learn, until they had arrived in
Florida, the history of the bloody and fatal conflict which we
have narrated. It was with a feeling of disappointment, that
they turned their eyes upon the wide waste of waters before
their prows, from the crowds upon the shore, gradually melting
into masses, and to be individualized no longer. As the night
came on, Philip de Vasconselos threw himself upon the deck of
the caravel, musing sadly upon the stars as they silently stole
out to sight, and hardly knew that the boy Juan crouched as
silently behind him. There was scarcely a word spoken between
them that night, yet, somehow, this silent attendance, and
simple devotion of the page, strengthened, at each moment, the
feeling of sympathy, with which the knight, from the very first,
regarded him.
“The boy hath a heart,” quoth Philip to himself;—“he can
feel. He hath not yet survived his tenderness. But it will not be
for long. The world rarely leaves us long in possession of such
a treasure. Were he wise, now, the sooner he flings it from him,
or puts it to silence, the more sure were he to escape its sorrows.
What profits it to us that we have the wealth that keeps
us wakeful; when sleep,—sleep,—is the best blessing that we
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need, and ought to pray for? Oh! that I might shut out thought
when I shut mine eyes; or hush the heart into silence that only
wounds me with its cries!”
Thus, the knight. The boy, no doubt, had his musings
also. They both slept upon the deck, nightly, in close neighborhood,
throughout the voyage. Neither spoke much; but they
grew silently together. If Don Philip showed himself wakeful
and restless, and strode the deck at times throughout the night,
the boy watched him the while, and sometimes followed his
footsteps; though always at a distance. Gradually, this distance
lessened between them. The page followed close his master.
Voyagers in a frail barque, upon the lonely wastes of ocean,
rarely observe the restraining barriers which keep the souls of
men apart on shore; and the devotion of the boy, his silent
watchfulness, his unobtrusive attention, at length, won the
knight's regard; and he called him to his side in frequent remark;
and he bade him observe the stars; and he called them
by their several names; and taught him their uses to the mariner;
and he discoursed of the winds; of their mysterious birth
and origin: how some of them were gracious, always, in regard
to the seaman; how others brought poison to the atmosphere.
Then he spoke of the new wild world of the Apalachian to which
they were approaching, and of which Vasconselos taught the
page many strange things; all of which he had learned from his
own experience, in the famous adventure which he had pursued
along with Cabeza de Vaca on his famous expedition; — thus
teaching his young companion various matters of which one so
young and untutored could not be expected to know. And the
boy reverently listened, and loved to listen, though in sooth, he
knew much more of these things than the good knight supposed,
and had enjoyed much better sources of knowledge than might
beseem his present position. Of this Philip de Vasconselos had
no conjecture, though he could see that the page was by no
means an ordinary boy; was quick to conceive, and to apprehend;
and when he replied, did so shrewishly, and with an intelligence
and thought as much beyond his apparent age, as beyond
his situation and race. But, it was in the delicate sensibilities of
Juan, that the knight took most interest. Now, these sensibilities
of youth do not declare themselves usually in words, or in
ordinary fashion. Where the heart feels quickly, and the emotions
wait ever in readiness for the summons, words are not
always present to serve the wants or wishes of the superior endowment.
This must show itself to the eye and mind of him
who would understand and love it; and it requires, accordingly,
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mind and eye, capable of reading a very subtle, profound and mysterious
language. Now the secret of this capacity is to be found
only in very active susceptibilities, on the part of him who reads.
His open sensibilities must be keen and watchful; he must
possess a gentle spirit at the core: he must have loved and
suffered; must still love and suffer; must be full of pity and
sorrow, though he speaks little and doth not complain; and
there must be a rare delicacy of sentiment in his soul, so that
there shall be no change in the aspect of the other whom he seeks
or esteems, however slight, that he shall not see, and comprehend
at a single glance. Nor wants he to see, except to be solicitous;
nor comprehend that he may slight. It is enough, here to say,
that these conditions, by which kindred spirits seek, meet, and
link themselves with one another, were all found in the respect
of Don Philip and the boy Juan; so that a look, a tone, a gesture,
of one or the other, did not fail to make itself fully understood
by both, and to command at the same time the most
genial sympathy. And it shall be no long time, after such is
found to be the case between two such parties, when it will be
impossible to maintain cold barriers of society, keeping them
separate; when the two hearts shall so yearn for the close communion,
that the mind shall forget all the distinctions of men
on land, and there shall be a gentle law controlling both, which
shall do away utterly with all common usages of constraint,
substituting others of a finer fabric, more subtle, apparent, and
not less strong; which shall grow out of veneration and sympathy.
Thus it was that Philip de Vasconselos soon learned—
even in that short voyage—to love the boy, Juan, as a boy of
truly loyal and devout soul; as of tender and sweet sympathies;
and of tastes so delicate, as equally to confound the knight at
their possession by one of his sex and race. The boy, on the
other hand, might be supposed to love the knight because of his
justice, his noble purpose and princely thoughts; his great courage
and skill in arms; his graceful carriage; and for all that was
manly and great in his character. It might be that, had Philip
been of the other sex, these traits would have proved less imposing
in the estimation of the page! But it matters little as to
what were the causes, respectively working, by which the two
gradually grew to be so well attached to each other. Enough,
that such is the fact, and that they held frequent communion.
With whom else should Philip commune? Never was noble
knight more desolate of soul, and lone of place, than he. Often
did the eyes of Philip rest searchingly upon the bronze features
of the boy, with a curious and tender interest. It seemed to
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him that the features which he perused, were such as had been
known to him before; that they were, in some sort, precious to
his memory, as they were grateful to his sight. At such moments,
the eyes of the page would be cast down, and the
knight fancied that there was an expression of emotion, in his
countenance, amounting to compassion, when he was conscious
of this silent study. But Philip spoke nothing of the thoughts
which this conduct occasioned: yet he did not the less continue
to examine the features of the youth; and he found a strange secret
pleasure in this study. Nor did he, because of the study,
continue the less to teach, and to commune with the young
mind which he was pleased to instruct. And thus it happened
that the two scarcely sought, or found, much communion with
any others of the ship. The boy knew none, of all in the army,
but Philip, and he, with few friends in the expedition, had, as it
happened, none of them in the same vessel with himself. Nuno
de Tobar, his only close associate in Cuba, and his own brother
Andres, had both been taken on board the same barque which
bore the Adelantado and Don Balthazar de Alvaro.
The expedition, according to one of the accounts, had set sail
from Havana on the 12th of May, 1539; other authorities say
the 18th of the same month. In all probability the latter was
the true date. The fleet, in safety, reached the coast of Florida
on the 25th, being seven days at sea. But whether it sailed on
the 12th or 18th, in either case, the voyage had not been a long
one, for that period, in those capricious seas,—and in that season
of the year. The fleet entered the Bay of Tampa, to which
De Soto gave the name of Espiritu Santo. The soul of the
Adelantado was greatly lifted at the success of the voyage,—
all his ships arriving in good order, and at the same time;—and
at the noble display of his armament on the shores of the Apalachian.
Never before had so splendid an army been sent from
the old world to the new. It consisted of no less than a thousand
men, of whom three hundred and fifty were cavaliers on horseback.
These were, many of them, of the noblest families of Castile.
The knights were provided with helmets, and cuirasses, and
shields, and steel armor; armed with swords of the best temper,
and with well-tried lances of Biscay; a complete and admirable
equipment. The great body of the troops wore coats of escaupil,
a sort of thick buff coats, wadded with cotton, the better to resist
the fearful arrows of the red men. They were armed with arquebus
or crossbow, and carried with them a single piece of artillery.
Fleet greyhounds were provided to run down the fugitives,
and well-trained bloodhounds were held in leash, to do
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good duty in the thickest of the fight,—to rend or devour the
naked savages, upon whom they had been taught to feed. The
chivalry of that day found nothing inhuman in the use of such an
agency in war. But, as mere conquest were nothing without
taking heed to its acquisitions, workmen, and the necessary apparatus,
were carried, for the purpose of smelting and refining the
precious metals which they confidently expected to find. Nor
were the chains, handcuffs, and collars of iron, forgotten, by which
their captives were to be secured, in order to be shipped safely
to the plantations of the Cuban. Droves of cattle, mules, and
hogs, constituted a more benevolent provision, made for the wants
of the expedition, when it should reach the country, where the
hogs and cattle were to be let go free.
Accustomed to the easy conquest of such feeble tribes as the
Peruvian, De Soto felt that such an armament, so far surpassing
those of Cortez and Pizarro, was quite equal to the conquest over
the whole country of the Apalachian. Never a doubt of this
result crossed the mind of the haughty Adelantado, and he made
instant preparations for throwing a body of troops on shore, and
taking possession of the territory in the name of his monarch,
the Emperor, Charles the Fifth. The wealthy knight, Vasco
Porcallos, claimed the high honor of leading this party, and performing
this act of sovereignty; and the privilege was conceded
him. He was to have the command of a force of three thousand
men, being, in fact, all those who could be prepared for disembarkation
during that day. The shipping, meanwhile, were gradually
warping in shore, a performance not so easy on account of
the rapid shoaling of the water, and for which they had to depend
upon the tides. Meanwhile, more for the purposes of solemnity
and state, than because he felt the need to be taught anything, the
Adelantado called a council of his chief officers. Philip de Vasconselos
was invited to this conference. He, by the way, had been
one of those designated to land with Vasco Porcallos, the better
that he might act as interpreter, should there be any meeting with
the red men. With regard to this sort of service, De Soto now
more than ever felt the importance of having one with him who
not only had some knowledge of the country, but who could thus
become a medium of communication with its people. Though
still a little too lofty and reserved towards our knight of Portugal,
he yet descended somewhat from his pride of place in order
to solicit him. He had already distinguished him by the request,
that he would serve about his person as one of his Lieutenants,—
a request which the other had no motive to refuse; and he cheerfully
consented to disembark among the first with Vasco
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Porcallos. His first counsel to the Adelantado, and the other chiefs,
was that every step should be taken with great circumspection;
that there should be horse patrols on every side; that the most
unrelaxing watchfulness should be required of every sentinel;
that the troops should sleep in their armor, and have their weapons
constantly at hand.
“These Apalachians, Señores,” said he, “are a fierce and fearless
race; they are no such feeble and timid people, as those of
Cuba and Peru. They love the fight with a passion which prefers
it as their best delight. They ask no mercy, and they accord
none. It will need all our valor and prudence, and we shall triumph
rather less through our valor, than our modes of delivering
battle,—the peculiarity of our weapons,—the terrors inspired
by our arquebuses,—which shall seem to the savages no
less than thunder and swords of the subtle lightning; and the
awe with which they shall behold our horses; to them so many
unknown and devouring monsters; which they shall endeavor to
escape in vain, and whose speed shall mock their own fleetness
of foot; which, compared with that of other men, is truly marvellous!”
The Adelantado smiled rather contemptuously at this counsel,
having, as he thought, sufficient experience himself, in warfare
with the red men, to know what precautions to take, and how to
manage the encounter with the enemy.
“Truly, we are thankful for your zeal and wisdom, Don Philip,
though with some experience of our own, in the warfare with the
heathen, and some small reputation gained in other wars, it might
be held reasonable to suppose that I should omit none of the
precautions which are needful to the safety of my followers when
embarking on the shores of the Floridian.”
There was no pique in the tone or manner of our knight of
Portugal, as he replied calmly:
“Your Excellency says rightly, and I were greatly deserving
of rebuke, had I designed to cast a doubt upon your perfect sufficiency
for the toils of war in any land: but I meant nothing more
than a general warning that the circumspection which would suffice
against an ordinary race, will hardly be adequate for security
against this of the Apalachian, whose subtleties far exceed
those of all other races of red men, and who are as valiant in
perilling their persons as they are ingenious in their warlike devices.”
With this apologetic speech, he paused, seeing that he spoke to
an unwilling auditory. The Adelantado addressed his council
without giving the slightest heed to what had been urged by the
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knight of Portugal; and the latter, shrugging his shoulders, consoled
himself with the reflection, that the lesson which he strove
in vain to enforce, would probably be taught, though at a greater
cost to his hearers, by the Apalachian himself.
“The experience which tutors pride to a just humility,” he
mused within himself, “is perhaps, the best sort of lessoning;
and he who would succeed, when the warfare is somewhat with
his own vanity, cannot be saved from the punishment which follows
close upon its indulgence. It is well, perhaps, that he will
not hear, since it is only right that he should be made to feel;
and our safety and success, perhaps, must equally depend upon
our being made to feel, at the beginning of the adventure, rather
than at a later time, when we are too deeply engaged in it. But,
so sure as there are Fates, Hernando de Soto will be certain
to receive his lesson before he hath gone very deeply into his
books.”
The conference,—such as it was—where there could be no
dissent and no deliberation,—was soon at an end. De Soto
simply detailed his plans at length, and gave his order for the
disembarkation, the conduct of which was entrusted to the
wealthy Don Vasco Porcallos; and never was ambitious mortal
more eager than he to set forth on his adventures. His appetites
for gold and captives had been growing with every league
of progress which he had made on the watery waste, and still
less than the Adelantado was he prepared to apprehend the possibility
of failure or reverse of any sort in his present frame of
mind. He dreamed only of riding down myriads of naked and
panic-stricken savages, selecting the most vigorous captives and
spearing the rest. But Vasconselos better knew the danger, and
hence the duty. He knew they were not to triumph without
hard fighting, great firmness, and constant caution.
Scarcely had the vessels appeared in sight of the coasts, than
the balefires smoked on all the heights and tumuli that lined the
shore, attesting the watch and vigilance of the Floridians. These
were signals of danger, and announced to the warriors in the interior
to gather from all quarters. Philip pointed out these signals
to the page. “See you, Juan,” said he,—“already the red
men have taken alarm. Those smokes that rise every where in
sight, will kindle other smokes, which shall give warning to all
the separate tribes. They will fire piles throughout the mighty
forests, until the answering smokes shall ascend from the great
mountains of the Apalachian. Where a people are thus vigilant
to note and prepare for the first dangers of invasion, they are
warlike; they will fight famously; they will give us work to
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do, and task equally our skill and valor. So, be you watchful
always, my boy, that you be not at any time surprised. In a
counry of deep forests, and great swarded meadows, such as we
shall here encounter, filled with races of fearless hunters, there is
no moment secure from danger; there is scarcely a position safe
against surprise. One lies down never at night, without the apprehension
that he shall suddenly be summoned by the deathly
whoops of the savage, to face the danger in the dark. It needs to
sleep always, lance or sword in hand, and with one eye and one
ear ever open to sights and sounds of most terrible import. Be
watchful, as you shall behold me ever; and be sure that you
cling closely to my footsteps, when the work of death begins.”
Could the good knight, at this moment, have felt the quick,
deep beatings of the boy's heart; could he have seen the tremulous
quiver of his lips; could he have conjectured what emotions,
strange and oppressive, all crowded for utterance in that young
bosom;—all, however, kept down by a will that was perfectly
wonderful, in so young a frame! But the eyes of Philip were
scarcely set upon the boy as he addressed him. He spoke while
they were both busy, preparing their equipments, and getting in
readiness to obey the command to disembark. It was with prodigious
effort that the boy controlled his emotions sufficiently to
speak.
“And are we, even now, to land upon the shores of the Apalachian,
Señor?”
“Within the hour, Juan, a party of three hundred men, commanded
by Don Vasco Porcallos, will take possession of the
country in the name of the Emperor, and I am to accompany
him, as interpreter of the speech of the red man, should we
happen to meet with any of his race. But he will be more apt
to speak through his darts and arrows, than with civil tongue;
and now I think of it, Juan, it is perhaps needless that you
should go with me on shore, until the whole command shall disembark.
You are yet quite young, and had better gather glimpses
of the strife from a distance at first, than be a sharer in one
of which thou hast no experience. Keep thine ears open, and
after midnight thou shalt hear the hellish clamors of the savage
as they howl and rage around our camp. I shall not need thee
in this adventure, for which thou art yet scarcely well fitted.”
The boy's lip quivered, but his words were firmly delivered.
“Señor, when shall I be fitted, if I never begin? Some time
I must begin, and the longer the day is put off, the slower will be
my teaching. I do not fear. I shall be with you, Señor; if you
please, I will go on shore with you to-night.”
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“In God's name, boy, have your wish. You say rightly.
There must be a time, when this lesson must be taught, and
learned, and the sooner, as you say, the better. Get on your
escaupil, and see that your weapons are such as will serve to
risk a life upon. Bring them hither, that I may see.”
We must not linger on these details. Suffice it that all parties
were soon prepared for the landing. It was on the last day of
the month of May, soft, serene and sweet, that the gallant Hidalgo,
Don Vasco Porcallos, led the way for his detachment of
three hundred, and took final possession of the soil of the Floridians
in the name of Spain. The solemnity was a very stately
one, but needs not that we describe it. The banner of Castile
was unrolled and elevated in the free air of the Apalachians, and
was planted upon one of the elevations nearest to the shore.
The region was thickly wooded, the forests were all clad in the
freshest verdure of the opening summer; the breeze was charged
with odors from worlds of flowers, the choicest natives of the
country; and a natural delight filled every bosom, and exhilarated
the spirits of the soldiery with an enthusiasm that seemed
already in possession of the fullest successes. In pitching their
camp, Philip de Vasconselos again ventured to give such hints
to Don Vasco, as became his experience and caution. But the
latter was even more sanguine than De Soto, and less heedful;
and the manner in which he received these counsels of the knight
of Portugal, seemed to have been borrowed from that of the
Adelantado on the occasion already shown. He was civilly
scornful, and Vasconselos saw, with chagrin and apprehension,
that the ground chosen for the night was such as would rather
invite and facilitate than discourage from attack. But he could do
no more. He had only to submit, and hope against his fears,
and provide as well as he might, against the emergency that he
anticipated. But lacking all command, with but the single follower,
he a child, inexperienced and evidently tired, what could
be done?
“Come,” said he cheerfully to Juan, “come, my boy, and let
us seek out our quarters. We are limited to a certain precinct,
but this affords choice of sleeping-place, and upon this choice
may rest chance of safety.”
The boy followed in silence. The knight rambled over the
ground assigned for the encampment, and chose a little clump of
wood, which afforded sufficient cover for a small group, yet stood
apart, as it were, from the rest of the forest: affording an interval,
over which the eye could range with tolerable freedom for
some space, and thus note any hostile approaches. To find this
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particular spot, Vasconselos made his way to the very verge of the
encampment, but not much farther from the shore than any of
the rest of the detachment. Here he hung his buckler upon a
bough, while, in the rear of the thicket, he secured his steed.
He was one of the few, but seven in number, who had succeeded
in bringing their horses ashore that evening. “The good
knight must love his good steed, and care for him, Juan, as he
values his own life. Help me now to rub him down. Bring
me some of those dried grasses, my boy. His legs are stiffened
by his narrow lodgings, and ship-board, and lack of exercise.
The rope? Hast thou brought it?”
“It is here, Señor.”
“Ah! now this will give him range to feed, yet keep him fast;
but an armful of these young reeds, with their fresh leaves upon
them, will help his appetite. Let us cut them, boy.”
The grass was quickly cut with their machetes, with one of
which each was properly provided, and the soft green cane-tops
were spread before the haltered animal, who fed with eagerness.
“It rejoices the knight's heart to see his charger feed with appetite.
The grateful beast knows what we do for him. He will
be content through the night. Thine own shall be brought ashore
to-morrow, and then, if thou hast never practised these little
toils, thou shalt learn from me. But evermore be careful of thy
steed. In a strange wild country like this, of the Apalachian, if
he fail thee, thou art lost. Never feel thyself at ease until thou
seest him eat and drink with a will; and it were well always to
give him chance to wallow in the sands. A little toil, nightly
taken, ere thou sleep'st thyself, and thy steed sleeps well also;
and thy own conscience is at peace in thy bosom, and thy safety
is so far secure. But remember thy beast, always, if thou
wouldst sleep with a good conscience.”
And thus, as they cared for the wants and comforts of the gallant
destrier, did Vasconselos speak to his page; and the latter
occasionally murmured a sentence in reply or inquiry; but it
was a delightful thing to see how, first, they cared for the animal,
before seeing how they themselves had wants. Juan found a
strange satisfaction, thus employed, the more perhaps, because he
toiled for such a master; and as he passed the rough, dry grasses
of the forest over the animal's sides and thighs, his arms sometimes
crossing with those of the good knight, and their eyes meeting,
and the gentle words of the latter melting into his ears, the
heart of the boy beat with emotions of a singular pleasure, such
as he had seldom felt before. The horse stripped and chafed, and
his furniture hidden away in the thicket at hand, but always
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convenient, they selected their own place of repose. The dried
leaves of the forest furnished a sufficient couch; the forest pines
and other trees yielded a goodly shelter. The evening was calm
and grateful. The warm serenity of the season required no
closer lodgings. The most perfect repose prevailed throughout
the forest, and save the clamor made by the troops, not a sound
was to be heard, whether on land or sea. The soldiers dispersed
themselves about the woods, chose their places of repose
as Vasconselos had done, but without any regard to his precautions.
They saw no danger, and apprehended none, as they beheld
no foe, and all was confidence, and all was excitement.
“Surely, Señor,” said Juan, “these quiet woods harbor no
enemies.”
“It is in the quiet seas, Juan, that the shark prevails. In the
tempest he retires to his ocean caverns. The wolf prowls in the
stillness of the night. The adder is a great traveller in the dark
hours. It is because these forests are so quiet now, that I feel
there are enemies at hand. But let us sup ere we speak of them,
lest we forfeit something of appetite. Where is thy wallet?”
It was produced. The page displayed its contents, and stood
in waiting.
“Sit, boy, and eat with me. Thou art my companion, child,
not slave. Sit!”
With a strange tremor in his limbs, and vacant look which
did not escape the eye of Philip, the boy took his seat before
him, but scarcely nigh. This emotion the knight ascribed to
the humility of the page. He strove to soothe this by condescension,
by the utmost gentleness of manner and fondness of
discourse; but the effect was not such as he expected—not just
then, at least.
“Time will wear off these fears,” said the knight to himself, as
he broke the bread and passed it to the boy.
“Eat, Juan! Thou wilt need to learn how to eat and sleep at
all seasons; if thou wouldst become a soldier. We shall have
to wake and fight, when it shall not please us, the summons; and
shall not be summoned to our food always, or our sleep, when
most the appetite shall call for both.”
When they had supped, Philip said—
“Now, Juan, thou wilt watch while I sleep. I will take advantage
of the early hours of the night, when the red man seldom
prowls or strikes, and in the middle of it, I will wake, or thou
shalt waken me, that I may take thy place as watcher for the rest
of the night. See, from this place, where we both lie concealed,
you are enabled to note all that happens around you for some
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distance. You will observe who approaches; note all things that
seem unwonted; and arouse me instantly. Do not trust to your
own courage, or weapon, wholly, if it need that any thing be
done! See, on every side but one, lies the encampment. On
the left, the interval is open which separates us from the denser
forest. From that quarter the danger may arise. Watch that
well! Behind us, at a little distance, is the sea; in which, with
a few fleet bounds, we may bury our forms from an enemy, and
be within speech and succor from the ships. Thou canst watch
for three goodly hours, without feeling the heavy weight of sleep
upon thee. That time over, I shall surely rise to relieve thee,
and should I not, do thou then awaken me.”
Without further speech, Philip de Vasconselos, in his armor,
as he stood, threw himself at length at the foot of the great tree.
His hand grasped his sword, which he had unstrapped from his
shoulders. It was not long before he slept; for he was one of
those to whom the experience of such a life had taught the wisdom
of securing and encouraging the blessings of sleep whenever
he could, knowing, as he had said to Juan, that the summons
to arouse for battle might come at any moment in a savage
country, and might not always please the sleeper; and he possessed
the faculty of commanding sleep at almost any moment.
He slept; and gradually the boy drew nearer, crawling softly,
to the head of the knight, whose face was turned upon the side
opposite. But with this scarcely audible movement, Philip
showed himself restless. The boy receded, and gathering up his
cross-bow, raised it to the level of the eye, and ranged it from
side to side, upon the open spaces between the trees in front.
The stars shone very brightly, and in that region served to reveal
objects of small size at considerable distance. Juan meditated
within himself very seriously the question:
“What if some red warrior should suddenly appear?”
His heart beat with quickened pulses, as he asked the question.
“Should I have the strength, the courage, the confidence to
shoot?—But he bade me not! I was to awaken him. I was to
watch only, and report the danger.”
He laid the bow aside, and once more crept closely to the
sleeping cavalier. The face of Philip was still averted. But
the boy did not seem anxious to gaze upon it. His object appeared
to be attained when he was beside him. There he sate,
quietly, his eyes looking out with sufficient watchfulness, intent
enough, but with a sense wandering in quite other fields of survey.
With hands clasped upon his lap, he yielded himself up to
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fancies, dreaming and delicious, yet so touched with a peculiar
sadness, that the bitter predominated over the sweet, and the big
tears might be seen, moulding themselves into melancholy jewels
in the starlight, rounding themselves gradually upon his cheek,
and dropping one by one, as they grew to brilliants. The hours
swam along with the stars, and the stars waned in their silent
progress for the blessing of other eyes, and the eyes of Juan
drooped at last with the heaviness upon them. He strove to
shake off the drowsiness which he felt; but there was something
in that foreign atmosphere which could not be withstood, and
while he strove to range along the barrel of the cross-bow,
(which he had taken up with some vague notion that it would
keep him wakeful,) over the intervals which spread between him
and the gloomy shadows of the wood which he had been especially
enjoined to watch;—it seemed to him as if the wood itself
were swimming, like waves of the sea, and as if the stars
descended to the plain, only to ascend once more; to and fro;
upward and downward and onward, till all things appeared to
mix and mingle in his sight. Then suddenly, he started, with a
strange confusion, as he fancied he heard the voice of Don Philip.
This, for a moment, aroused him; but looking down, he saw
Don Philip still sleeping; and, satisfied to see thus, he was conscious
of little more after this for some time, though he might
have been just as watchful as before. But very soon after this,
Don Philip really awakened. He found the boy fast asleep, with
his arm thrown over his neck. He gently unloosed it, and rose.
“Poor boy!” said the knight—“Thou hast taken on thee a
perilous labor, which thy slight figure will scarce endure. But
sleep, and I will watch thee. I could wish thee stronger, for my
sake, no less than thine; for verily, of all this host, I have now
none but thee!” After a pause—“And there is that about the
child which binds me to him; which makes me love him almost!
Wherefore? It is because I am alone! It is because the nature
of the strong man requires a charge, a trust, a burden, so that
his strength shall be healthfully at exercise; so that his muscles
shall not shrink, lacking due employment! Well! I will protect
and help him so long as I can help any thing, and then—but
why look into the vast vacancy of that dark realm of the future,
in which no flower shall ever grow for me?”
He rose suddenly, as if startled; seized his sword, buckled it
to his side, and caught up the cross-bow of the page. He stole
forward a few paces, and seemed to listen; then returned to his
place, and laid the bow again by the side of the sleeping Juan.
His next attentions were bestowed upon his steed. The beast
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had eaten plentifully, and now slept; but raised his head, and
seemed to recognize his master as he drew nigh. Philip patted
his neck affectionately, then bade him rise, and proceeded with
the utmost care and silence to put on his war harness, his saddle
and bridle, and have him in readiness for instant use. But he
did not loose the animal; simply shortened his halter that he
might not again lie down. Meanwhile, every thing was still as
death in the encampment. Philip saw no sentinels; heard no
guards relieved; knew nothing of the cautionary steps which
Don Vasco Porcallos might be supposed to have taken. The
night was lapsing towards the dawn. This he felt in the coolness
of the atmosphere. He stole cautiously out to the edge of the
wood in his quarter of the camp, and looked to the black range
of the forest beyond. Nothing was stirring, not a leaf seemed
to be disturbed, in the cold thin air of the morning.
“Well,” said he, as he returned to where he left the boy
sleeping, “it may be that we shall escape to-night. The savages,
perhaps, have not yet had time for a gathering of their warriors.
They would otherwise have never suffered the night to pass,
without giving us a taste of battle. I know them of old; fierce,
restless, impatient, fearless: cunning as valiant; and never relenting
in their purposes. We shall enough of them yet, though we
escape them now.”
He returned to his late resting-place. Juan was still bound
fast in the embrace of sleep. He threw himself beside the boy,
and in the imperfect light of the stars, which looked down
through the openings of the trees, he steadily perused his features.
In this examination the interest of the knight appeared to
be very great, and the study seemed to sadden him. But the
bronze features, in the imperfect starlight, revealed nothing. The
face was sweet and girlish, and the face, if fair, might be counted
beautiful. So the musing knight thought, during the long
watch of hours which he maintained beside the unconscious boy.
But he was not suffered to continue the unembarrassed study, until
the better light of the morning should enable him to persue
the intelligible features. He fancied that he heard unwonted
sounds; a stick was broken in the woods. His steed whinnied.
There was an interruption of the silence which he could not define,
and seizing his sword, he rose to his feet, and quietly stole
away to where his steed was fastened.
Meanwhile, Juan slept on, never once conjecturing aught of
the sad and silent watch which the good knight had kept above
him. But he was awakened rudely from his dream. At that
moment, Vasconselos heard a cry, that sounded in his ears like
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the voice of a woman. It appeared also to proceed from the spot
where Juan had been left sleeping. He, by this time, had ventured
out again to the edge of the wood, and was looking over
the intervening space towards the dark forests lying beyond.
The cry alarmed him; though it bore no resemblance to the
usual whoop of Indian battle. It might be that some wild
beast had found his way to where the boy slept—the panther's cry
is like that of a child or girl,—and, with excited pulses, and
the blood rapidly coursing through his veins, Philip darted back
to the place where the boy was left. He reached the spot just
in time to discover two dark forms,—clearly men,—who were
drawing Juan away to the thickets. He readily divined the
purpose in the action. Again a shriek: and this time he knew
it for the boy's; but so full of a feminine terror, that his heart
sickened as he thought of the strange simplicity and ignorance
which had prompted one so feeble to venture upon an enterprise
so perilous. He thought and felt thus, even in that moment of
alarm. He saw that the boy struggled, and he further saw that
the dusky forms, by whom he had been seized, were brandishing,
each, a heavy mace above his head. There was no time for
further thought, or for hesitation. To dart forward, and with a
single stroke of his keen sword, to smite down one of the assailants;
to grasp the other by the throat and tear him from the
boy, then, as he staggered back, to run him through the body,—
was the work of a few moments. The two savages lay at his
feet in the agonies of death. The boy staggered, gasping, towards
him, an hysterical sob only breaking from his lips. With a stern
voice, the knight said:—
“Seize thy cross-bow, Juan, and collect thyself. This is no
time for fears. The Apalachian is on us.”
To confirm his words, at that very instant, the wild yells of
the savages rose up in all quarters of the encampment. The
Spaniards struggled out of sleep only to encounter their enemies.
The sentinels had slept. Few were awake. The surprise was
complete.
“Follow me,” cried Philip to the boy, and his stern accents,
by enforcing obedience, in some degree disarmed Juan of his
terrors; at all events, he obeyed. He followed by instinct, cross-bow
in hand, and was at the side of the knight as the latter
leaped upon his steed.
“Up with thee, behind me, boy—we have not a moment.”
And the light form, assisted by the powerful arm of Philip,
sprang at once upon the steed. The spur was instantly driven
into the beast's sides, and he was made to go! The wild rush,
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the monstrous form, the gigantic bulk, of the animal, made its
impression. A hundred naked savages darted out of the wood
through which he went, and fled before his path. The knight
shouted aloud, in the language of Castile; then blew a wild flourish
upon his bugle, and joyed to hear the answers of the Spaniards
from sundry quarters. Vasco Porcallos was soon on horseback,
for though vain as a peacock, and pursy as an alderman,
he had the blood and energy of a true cavalier. The other five
troopers were soon in saddle, and, charging among the red men,
now yelling and darting amidst the forests, in the doubtful light
of morning, they soon changed the character of the event. But,
until this demonstration of the knights on horseback, the affair
was seriously against the whites. The Spaniards had been
not only surprised, but fairly routed. Started out of their profoundest
sleep, they had made but little opposition to the savages.
They fled in tumultuous confusion to the sea-side, clamoring for
succor to the ships. Many of these were wounded; all would
have perished, but for the spirited charge of the knights on
horseback, and the strange terrors occasioned by the horses,
animals whom the red men had never seen before. The savages
disappeared in the forests, as soon as they found themselves
seriously resisted, almost as swiftly and suddenly as they had
appeared. Vasco Porcallos was greatly delighted with this, his first
essay in arms against the Floridian. But, even while he boasted
of his prowess, his noble steed fell suddenly dead beneath him,
slain by an arrow which had buried itself out of sight in his
body. When they reached the shore, the red men all dispersed,
and the troops issuing in boats with drum and trumpet from the
shipping, Juan slipped, from behind Philip de Vasconselos, upon
the ground.
“Art thou hurt, boy?” demanded the knight.
“No, Señor, thanks to your care, I have no hurt.”
“But thou tremblest still, Juan.”
“Yes, Señor, but it is not now with fear. I think I shall never
be afraid again.”
“Ay, boy, thou hast tasted of the strife. Many a warrior who
grew famous afterwards, has felt the terrors of thy heart, Juan.
But I had never forgiven myself hadst thou been slain. I
but left thee for a moment, and thou seest how these cunning
savages came upon thee. I had watched thee for two goodly
hours as thou slept'st, and fancied we should hear nothing of
them.”
“Alas! Señor, thou left'st me to watch, and I slept. I knew
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not that I slept. I knew not when mine eyes closed, and I knew
not of thy awakening.”
“I had too much tasked thee, Juan,” answered the knight gently.
“Thou slept'st ere I awakened. It was thy arm falling over my
neck that awakened me.”
“My arm over thy neck, Señor! Oh! what have I done?”
and the boy hung his head.
“Foolish boy, and where is thy offence in this?”
But the boy turned away without speaking, and little did Philip
fancy how wildly the tides were rising and falling in his bosom.
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CHAPTER XXXIII.
“Methinks amongst yon train,
And habited like them, I well could pass,
And no one mark me.”
Van Artevelde.
[figure description] Page 391.[end figure description]
It does not lie within the plan of this legend to follow in detail
all the progresses of De Soto in his weary marches, his long
wanderings and fierce battles with the Floridian and other Indian
races of our country. These details must be sought in
other histories, and are available in many, to the reader. We
shall only notice the general route pursued by the expedition,
through what regions, and dwell upon those events only, which
concern the persons of the drama, with whom we have already
travelled through so many pages.
The encounter with the red men of Apalachia, which, as we
have seen, took place almost on the very moment of De Soto's
landing in the country, was only the beginning of a long history
of conflicts. From tribe to tribe, from village to village, he
pressed onward, only to encounter the fiercest foes, or the most
treacherous friends. But, at the very outset of his career, he recovered
a Spaniard, one Juan Ortiz, who had been a follower of
Pamphilo de Narvaez, and had become a captive to the Apalachians.
In a captivity of several years, he had acquired the language
of many of the tribes, and almost lost his own. This acquisition
rendered De Soto somewhat independent of the services of
Philip de Vasconselos. The latter was soon made aware of this
consciousness of independence, on the part of the Adelantado.
Eager for the attainment of the great objects of the expedition,
the famous cities, and the golden treasure, which were believed
to be locked up in the Apalachian mountains, Soto lost no time
in unnecessary delays. Dispatching his largest vessels to Havana,
with the view to cutting off all thought on the part of his
followers, of returning home—in this policy, emulating Cortez,
and other great leaders,—Soto retained but a single caravel, and
two brigantines, to keep possession of the sea-coast and the bay
where he had cast anchor. To this charge, he appointed Pedro
Calderon, an old soldier. He next proceeded to send forth various
small expeditions into the country, seeking gold and information.
None of the parties thus sent forth failed to experience
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curious and exciting adventures; but they do not affect our legend.
We must not forget, however, that, from this moment,
we lose our famous millionaire, Don Vasco Porcallos, whom an
adventure in a swamp, in which he narrowly escaped suffocation,
cured effectually of all his warlike ambition, and who returned
with the fleet to Cuba.
Soto set forth himself, after no great delay, for the interior.
His splendid cavalry were free for use, by the employment of
hordes of captive Indians who carried the heavy luggage of the
expedition. His foot marched at an easy rate, the cavalry procuring
supplies, and clearing the forests as they went. In this
way, the army marched from Tampa to Anaica, near the modern
Tallahassee. The brigantines, meanwhile, coasting the shore, discovered
the harbor of Ochoa, now Pensacola. Moving from
Anaica, Soto marched east, and successively crossed the rivers
Ockmulge, Oconee and Ogechee. He finally reached the Savannah.
These marches were not made in peace. War and terror
hung upon the footsteps of the Spaniards. Every where they
met with foes;—not such foes as the feeble Cuban or Peruvian—
but fierce, stern, strong, implacable enemies,—accustomed to
hard blows, and to a life of incessant warfare. The advantages
lay with the Spaniards, but only as a consequence of their superior
civilization. They owed their victories to their cavalry and
firearms, rather than their valor. In this quality, the Apalachians
were equal to any people that ever lived. The Spaniards
proved merciless conquerors. They mutilated where they did
not destroy, or desire to make captive. They had brought with
them handcuffs of iron, for securing their prisoners, and thus
ironed, the miserable wretches bore the baggage of their captors
through the wilderness. Their conquest was not easily made.
Thousands of the red men perished in the conflict, and the Spaniards
did not always escape. It was not easy to ride down these
fierce savages. Many of the whites perished. De Soto, himself,
had several narrow escapes in close personal conflict, in which, but
for his companions in arms, he must have been slain. We need
not say that, on all these occasions, Philip de Vasconselos maintained
himself according to his reputation. He suffered no disaster.
His page was equally fortunate. The latter had risen in
his master's esteem, as he had subsequently shown more courage
than had been promised by his first encounter, at the landing of
the troops. From that moment, he exhibited no signs of fear.
He was ever near the good knight, and proved always ready with
the cross-bow. Of what effect were the arrows he discharged,
we have no means of knowing. Enough that he contrived to
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satisfy the spectators—if any may be thought to have been spectators
at such a time, and in such fields—of his stoutness of
heart and readiness of aim. Philip de Vasconselos himself was
satisfied, and felt more at ease in respect to the boy's safety, than
he had been at the first opening of the campaign.
He was more than satisfied in other respects. The boy proved
an intelligent companion. In his society the knight found solace,
and often did he feel surprise, at the equal taste and intellect, so
different from his race, which, as they grew more and more intimate,
the boy betrayed. Of course, Philip had not forgotten
what Mateo had told him, that Juan, the son of a free woman of
the mountains, had been carefully nurtured, and had not been
wanting in such education as could be procured by money, in
such a region, during that early period. But the intellect of the
boy declared for gifts, quite as much as acquisition—such gifts
as were not often found in any other than the white race. But,
though such exhibitions surprised Philip, quite as much as they
delighted him, yet his moods and present employments were not
of a sort to suffer him much speculation upon them. He was,
after a while, quite content to enjoy their benefits, in the solace
which they brought, without questioning their source; and he
needed all this solace. He was still alone, and still, in spite of
his services and valor, quite as much as before an object of jealousy
among the Spaniards. Nuno de Tobar, indeed, was still
his friend, and he knew others in the army, who were kindlily
inclined; but it was not often that the parties saw each other.
They were in different commands, and frequently detached on
expeditions, aside from the main route. There had been no
absolute reconciliation between the Portuguese brothers; and
Andres still kept aloof; though we may state that his bitterness
of mood had been modified. But they rarely met. Philip was
a frequent volunteer when perilous or adventurous service was
required. It was in this way, mostly, that he exercised his skill
in arms, save when summoned to the special assistance of the
Adelantado, to whom he was nominally an aide; but this rarely
happened except when captives or embassies were to be examined,
and interpretations made from their language. This requisition,
too, had been of unfrequent occurrence since Juan Ortiz
had been recovered. He, however, sometimes failed to understand
the tongues of foreign tribes, and thus it was that Philip
was needed. But for this, his uses in the army, according to the
estimates seemingly put upon them by his superior, were of little
moment.
Philip felt this treatment, and his boy showed that he felt it
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also. The two lived to themselves apart. They lay beneath the
same trees at night: they harnessed their horses in the same
glade. They sat together at the same repast; Juan retired behind
his lord, and speaking with him thus, except when, at times,
as finally was frequently the case, Philip bade him to sit beside
him, or before him—a proceeding which the knight adopted, the
better to encourage the boy, and to overcome his excessive shyness.
And he gradually succeeded. The boy, who shrank from
all other associations, gradually grew to him, as the vine grows
to the mighty tree. Soon he came to speak freely even of his
own secret fancies and emotions, and it really pleased the knight
to hearken the language, still timidly spoken, of a young confiding
heart, possessed of the deepest and tenderest feelings, which
the isolation in which he lived, and the wild seclusion of that
realm of shade and forest, seemed rather to expand and develop,
than subdue and overcome. The deep solitude which received
them as they went, seemed to open the warmer fountains
of their human nature, as society rarely opens them. Thrown
together incessantly—forced to communion by the repulsive
treatment of the rest—sleeping near each other by night, encountering
the same toils and dangers by day,—breaking the
same loaf when they ate, and naturally inclined to each other by
kindred sensibilities,—it was soon evident to each that the charm
of their lives lay chiefly in the regards of one another. There
was a sad simplicity in both their natures,—a grave tenderness
of soul, which still further helped to cement their intimacy; and
it was soon felt—by Philip, at least,—that, in this new and
seemingly incongruous relationship, the peculiar pangs and disappointments
which he had experienced in Cuba, were fast losing
the sharpness and severity of their sting. He sometimes wondered
at himself that he so much craved the companionship of
the boy; but he was too much pleased with the enjoyment of it
to question its sources. When they were apart he mused upon
his fondness with curiosity. Why should he, a knight of Portugal,
feel such sympathy for this Moorish urchin? It was in vain
that he recalled the boy's devotion to himself,—his goodness of
heart, his gentleness of mood, the quickness of his mind, the
delicacy of his fancy, and his general intelligence. These did not
suffice to account for the hold upon his affections which the boy
had taken. In all his meditations when left to himself, he found
no solution of his problem. When the boy was at hand, and
they spoke together, there was no problem. It seemed to him
quite natural, at such moments, all the affection that he felt,—
all the sympathy that warmed him to the dusky page.
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To all others, Juan was a stone,—insensible, unattractive—a
sullen, reserved and silent boy,—submissive, but retiring; humble,
but not soliciting; one of whom nobody entertained thought
or question; of whom the common speech in camp was, that this
page was just suited to the haughty and sullen master. There
was an exception perhaps to this general judgment. Don Balthazar
de Alvaro was observed to note the boy with a persevering
eye. Juan was the first to be aware of this. It did not finally
escape the notice of Philip; but it did not occasion his surprise
or curiosity. In the case of Juan, however, it was something
of an annoyance. Had he been watched, it would have been
seen that he sought to avoid the eyes of Don Balthazar—that he
was somewhat agitated when they met suddenly—that he spoke
with a slight tremor of voice in the hearing of the Don, and especially
when, as was sometimes the case, he was required to
answer his demands. It sometimes happened that Don Balthazar
sought Vasconselos at his post, or where he had cast himself
down for the night. On such occasions—as he considered the
ostensible subject upon which the former came,—he could not
forbear musing upon its inadequacy as a plea for coming. The
parties did not love each other. Their instincts were hostile.
There could not be any cordiality between them; and, such being
the case, why Don Balthazar should seek him, unless with reasons
of necessity, was a frequent subject of Philip's surprise. At such
times, he always drew an unfavorable augury from his coming.
“He means mischief,” said he aloud, one evening, after the
departure of Don Balthazar from the place where he had laid
himself down to rest. “Why should he come to me, and on
such pretext? What is it to me whither we move to-morrow,
or what new dreams fill the brain of the Adelantado? Let him
march, east or west, along the plains, or among the mountains,
I care nothing! and, sure, he knows it. He knows, too, that I
love not his serpent nature, and his subtle and treacherous eye.
He knows, too, that I am not to be deceived in him! Besides,
what can he seek of me? I am poor and powerless. He can
win nothing from my weakness. If he comes, he can only come
in hate! Yet what have I to fear? Him I fear not, and he knows
it too. Verily I believe, that did he not fear me, he would have
sought to slay me ere this,—nevertheless—I feel it—by sure
instinct, I feel it—this man means mischief.”
“He is a villain!” was the bitter speech of Juan from behind
the tree, where he had crept quietly.
“Ha! Juan, are you there, boy? But what do you know
about Don Balthazar? Ah! Juan, if you knew what I know of
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that man—had you but seen what mine eyes have looked on—”
“Seen, Senor?—” was the faltered inquiry.
“Aye, boy, seen! But it is not for you to hear—not for mortal
to hear. Yet, were it not for another—his victim—one dear
to me once as my own eyes,—but for her,—I had long since
taken the monster by the throat, and declared his crime aloud,
while I strangled him in deadly punishment! You say right,
Juan; though you know nothing. Don Balthazar de Alvaro is
one of the blackest of all the black villains that poison and deface
the blessed things of earth. He hath been my fate—that
man!”
The boy sobbed, “And mine!” but the words did not reach
the ears of Philip, and when he looked round, and called again to
the page, he was nowhere to be seen. Ere he returned that night,
Vasconselos was asleep. The boy had eaten no supper. He crept
close by his sleeping master, and watched over him for weary
hours, with big tears gathering fast in his eyes the while. When,
at the dawn, the knight awakened, he saw Juan sleeping, with his
head sunk against his own shoulder, and the stain of tears was
still upon his cheek.
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CHAPTER XXXIV.
“Hell put it in
The enemy's mind to be desperate.”
Massinger.
[figure description] Page 397.[end figure description]
We can only give glimpses of a progress, every form of
which was distinguished by its own interest and capricious varieties.
We have shown, thus far, the relationships of our parties;
and how they grew, and what were their developments. Each
day gradually contributed to unfold the increasing dependence of
Don Philip and his page upon one another; and both were
watched, though neither perhaps saw to what extent, by the serpent
eyes of Don Balthazar de Alvaro. Meanwhile, Philip de
Vasconselos seemed to grow less and less in favor with the Adelantado,
who now rarely summoned him to his service; and,
except when they met, seemed to have forgotten his existence.
On such occasions there was an evident distance of manner in
the bearing of De Soto, amounting almost to repugnance, which
increased the regrets of Philip that he had ever joined the expedition.
His mortification at having done so, would have been
unendurable, but for a certain indifference of mood, which rendered
him reckless what became of him,—reckless of all things,
indeed; and made him just as well satisfied to rove without a
purpose, and fight without a cause, as to sleep beneath his tree,
when the day had closed in exhaustion. Latterly, his feeling
grew less indifferent. He seemed to be slowly acquiring a new
interest in life. He was conscious of more impulse, of aim,
and objects, vague, indeed, enough, and which he did not seek to
pursue, but which served to show that life for him still had its
resources, even its attractions, and was not wholly denied an
object. But if the question as to that object was asked of Don
Philip, he would have been without an answer. Enough that
under existing circumstances, he could find his associations still
endurable;—without an object in life, he could yet find life not
wholly a burden and a curse!
The brooding mind was not suffered much opportunity for exercise,
in the progress pursued by De Soto. That ambitious chieftain,
in his appetite for conquest and power, kept his followers
sleepless. We may now, with tolerable certainty, follow the
route of the Spaniards upon the map, and trace their course from
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the Bay of Tampa, into and through Georgia, even to South
Carolina. Their progress was erratic. They were easily tempted
aside by lures of gold, in this or that quarter; and the imperfectly
understood reports of this or that Indian guide, frequently
misled them from the direct course, to wild adventures, and
strange episodes, which diverted them from the true discovery.
In all their progresses danger hung upon them in the rear, and
disappointment stood in waiting for their approach. One or two
adventures briefly narrated, will serve to illustrate their daily
history; and we linger over a single instance, which enabled
Vasconselos to recover a portion of De Soto's favor.
There was a Floridian Chieftain, or King, named Vitachuco,
who had stubbornly resisted all the approaches of Soto. The
latter, by treachery, contrived to secure the person of this Chieftain.
His next object was to win his favor—a measure conceived
to be by no means difficult, inasmuch as the Adelantedo, in
making captive the Chief, had slaughtered near a thousand of his
warriors, who had sought to rescue his person. Vitachuco, though
kept as a prisoner, and watched, was still allowed certain privileges.
He ate at the table of Soto. He was still able to commune
with his subjects, hundreds of whom were employed about
the Spaniards, as slaves and drudges. To these Vitachuco communicated
his secret thoughts and purposes. He was not a
willing captive. But he was politic. He met subtlety with
subtlety. He suppressed his indignation,—appeared not to see
the restraint put upon his footsteps, and so behaved, as entirely
to disarm the suspicions of his captors. But the fiery indignation
was working in his soul, and he only wanted the proper
moment and opportunity, in which to break his bonds, and
avenge himself upon his captors. This design was reserved for
a day of feasting, when Soto entertained his captive along with
other nobles and princes of the Apalachians, held in similar
bonds with their superior, or of other tribes whom he desired to
conciliate. Vitachuco was too impatient of his injuries to think
wisely, or to resolve with prudence. He did not heed the fact
that himself and followers were unarmed, and were to grapple,
if grapple they did, with foes who never laid aside their weapons
or their mail. The fearless savage resolved to try the struggle
at all odds, unprepared as he was, at the approaching repast; of
which he had due intimations. The four pages or servants, that
waited upon him, were all boys, but he entrusted them with his
secret. They communicated with such warriors as he himself
could not see; and the plan was rapidly matured for execution
the very next day, being the day assigned for the feasting.
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According to their plan, Vitachuco was to spring upon the Adelantado,
and kill him if he could, while they were at dinner; his
followers doing the same good service for all the Spaniards present—
and, without, for all others upon whom they could lay
hands. The village of Vitachuco was to be the scene of action.
It happened, the evening before the event, that Juan, the page
of Vasconselos, remarked the activity of Vitachuco's pages, and
that they held frequent communications with their people.
Crowds of the red men were seen coming to the encampment,
or crowding stealthily about it. The place where Vasconselos
found shelter, usually, on the verge of the encampment, was favorable
to observation; and the constant coming and departure
of the Floridians, compelled the boy's observation, and prompted
him to communicate with the knight, his master. They both
watched, and discovered enough, at all events, to render them
suspicious. They redoubled their vigilance, and found that some
provisions, rather novel for a feast, had been made by the savages.
They found hidden in the contiguous woods, large bundles
of darts, barbed with flints, that were ready for use; and scores
of huge macanas or war maces, edged with flint also, a single
blow from which, in a moderately strong hand, would cleave the
skull of any Spaniard, though covered with helm of steel.
To effect these discoveries, and to guard in some degree against
the designs of the savages, by putting the army on the qui vive,
was a work of time, and the Adelantado was already at dinner
with his treacherous guests, ere Philip de Vasconselos was prepared
to unfold his discoveries. Now,—speaking of things
without regard to persons—the Spaniards were quite as treacherous
as the Floridians; and it was with a bitter smile and sneer
that Philip, commenting upon the small claims of the former
upon his fidelity, said to Juan:—
“It is liar against liar, serpent against serpent!—what have
we to do with it, boy? It were just as well that we should see
them strive together, and clap hands equally to behold the good
stroke delivered by Floridian or Spaniard!”
But the sympathies of race and education prevailed, and the
white chieftain, with a feeling of unutterable scorn, which he concealed
under the most courtly demeanor, suddenly appeared at
the place of feasting,—to which he had not been invited,—when
all was most hilarious, and the Adelantado as little dreaming of
the dessert which the Floridian had provided, as of any other
good blessing, with which he might profitably dispense. Vasconselos,
as we say, suddenly appeared within the circle, and for
a moment, quietly surveyed it without speaking.
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Whether it was that the scorn which he felt, somewhat showed
itself in his features, or that the Adelantado was in no mood to
behold him with toleration, whom he had not received to favor,
is not easy to be said. It is certain, however, that Soto somewhat
forgot his courtesy in the reception which he gave the
knight of Portugal. With a stern look and chilling accents, he
cried out, as he beheld him:—
“How now, Sir Knight of Portugal, what is it brings you to
this presence at this unseemly moment? We had not anticipated
the honor of your attendance.”
The brow of the knight of Portugal grew black as he replied:
“Señor Don Hernan de Soto, Philip de Vasconselos asks no
favor or courtesy from any man alive! He comes not now as a
courtier, or as a guest, but as a soldier, who shrinks from no duty
even when it needs that he should appear where he is never welcome!
What I have to say, by way of apology for my presence
now, is soon spoken. Ask of the savages whom you feast, why
our camp is girdled by a thousand red warriors, why the pages
of their prince have been in such frequent communion with them,
and why, all on a sudden, such provision as this is made, at convenient
places, in all the neighboring woods?”
Saying these words, he took from an attendant, and threw
down upon the board, and amidst the guests, bundles of darts,
wrapt in skins of the rattle-snake, and a score of the heavy
macanas, such as we have described already. At the sight of
these objects, and before the Adelantado could reply to what he
conceived the insolent speech of Vasconselos—insolent in sense
as in tone—the war-whoop rang wildly through the hall; a terrible
yell that shook the hearts of the assembly, as with a sudden
voice of doom. Vitachuco, from whom the signal came, started
to his feet at the same moment, and, in the twinkling of an eye,
he sprang, like a tiger, full upon Soto. With one hand he
seized him by the collar, while, with the other, he dealt him such
a blow between the eyes, as made the blood fly, and prostrated
the Adelantado to the floor, as heavily as falls the ox beneath the
stroke of the butcher!
All was confusion in that moment. Terribly did this war-whoop
of the savages ring throughout the hall;—and without—
through all the avenues of the village, where the followers of
Vitachuco were collecting at the signal, as had been agreed on
among them. The Spaniards, never dreaming of attack from unarmed
savages, were taken completely by surprise. The Adelantado
lay stunned and senseless beneath the grasp of Vitachuco,
and all was confusion, and uncertainty, within and
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without. The Indians, everywhere, seized whatever implements they
could lay hands upon for weapons. Some grasped the pikes and
swords of the Spaniards; others snatched the pots from the fire,
and emptied the contents over their foes, while beating them
about the head with the vessels. Plates, pitchers, jars, the pestles
from the mortars wherein they pounded maize; stools,
benches, tables, billets of wood; in the hands of the fierce Floridians
became instruments of war and vengeance! Never had
such a fight been seen; so promiscuous; urged with such novel
weapons; and so full of terror and confusion. The terror and
danger of the scene were duly increased by others yet, who,
plucking the flaming brands of lightwood from the fire, darted
into the thickest of the fray, shouting like furies, and looking
more like demons from the infernal regions than mere mortal
combatants!
Such was the scene and the character of the struggle throughout
the village. The Spaniards recovered themselves promptly
and fought desperately, and conquered finally; but they suffered
severely. Besides those who perished, many were terribly
bruised, scalded, burnt, and maimed. Arms were broken, teeth
knocked out, faces scarred for ever; the very handcuffs on the
wrists of many of the savages, becoming fearful means of injury
and assault in the promiscuous and close struggle, hand to
hand.
In the hall of the great house of the village where the Adelantado
had feasted the Cassique, the conflict, though involving
smaller numbers, was no less fearful and savage in its character.
But for the presence of Philip de Vasconselos, and his active
energies and vigilance, Soto, and all the party, must have perished.
The Adelantado, as we have seen, was stunned by the
first desperate assault of the Indian Chief. The latter clung to
his victim, and would very soon have finished his work, but for
the quick movement of Philip, who darted to the rescue, and
passed his sword through the body of the savage, while, tiger-like,
he was tearing the neck of the Adelantado. The Spanish knights,
at this sight, recovered from their consternation, and a dozen
swords were crossed in an instant in the body of Vitachuco.
The furious savage died without a groan, glaring, with fellest rage,
upon his enemies, in the very moment when his last breath was
passing. The Indians who remained in the hall were dispatched
in like manner, but not before they had inflicted hurts upon the
Spaniards which left their ghastly marks through life. The end
was massacre. Discipline prevailed over rude and ferocious
valor. The people of Vitachuco, thirteen hundred warriors, the
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flower of his nation, perished in the affair, or were butchered
after it. Such is a sample of the fierce character of the red men
of Florida, their desperate valor, and the sleepless passion for
freedom, which they indulged at every peril. The character remains
unchanged to this day. The people of Vitachuco occupied
the same region which the Seminoles maintained, with such surprising
skill and courage, for five years, against the army of the
United States, in recent times.
-- 403 --
CHAPTER XXXV.
Paul.
—“Did you note
The majesty she appears in?
Cleon.
—Yes, my good Lord;
I was ravished with it.”
Massinger
[figure description] Page 403.[end figure description]
This event had a considerable effect in restoring Vasconselos
to the favor of De Soto. The Adelantado could not ungraciously
forbear to acknowledge a service to which he owed his own
life and probably the safety of his army. He, accordingly,
thanked Philip in stately language, hidalgo-fashion, in the presence
of all his troops. But his pride kept him still in memory
of that haughty reserve of the Portuguese cavalier, which had so
offended his amour propre at first; and as Philip, while as courteously
receiving the compliment of the Adelantado, in a style not
dissimilar from that in which it was couched, abated nothing of
his own dignity, it followed, that the debt which De Soto felt,
of gratitude, was rather irksome and burdensome, than grateful
to that haughty cavalier. He had, besides, ever at hand, whispering
insidious suggestions in his ear, the wily Don Balthazar
de Alvaro. This knight did not suffer the natural feelings of De
Soto to have full play at any time, in his relations to the Portuguese.
But for his constant labors, it might have been that what
was naturally noble in the bosom of the Adelantado, would have
asserted itself to the extent of doing full justice to the merits of
Philip; and giving full exercise to his own proper courtesy and
honor. As it was, the intercourse between the knight of Portugal
and the Spanish Chief, though more courteous and gracious
than before, was scarcely more cordial; and Philip remained, as
before, companioned only by the page Juan, who clung to him
more closely than ever, and grew daily more and more necessary
to his affections.
We pass now over a considerable tract of time, of which we
shall make no record, but which, though full of toils and strifes,
trials and vicissitudes, found our dramatis personœ unchanged in
their several relations. The army, meanwhile, had marched from
Florida into Georgia, had crossed that State, and at length approached
the waters of the Savannah. In the province of Cofa,
however, De Soto experienced an embarrassment in his progress,
which rendered it necessary that Philip de Vasconselos should be
again conciliated. The dialect of the red men changed, and the
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interpreter, Juan Ortiz, was no longer competent to act in this
capacity. Philip had traversed this very region. He took the
place of Ortiz; negotiated with the Cassique of Cofa; and once
more had the satisfaction, if any it were, of seeing the eyes of the
Adelantado turned upon him with favor. But the Portuguese
knight regarded these kindly demonstrations with indifference.
He had survived all care, in respect to the carriage of the Castilian
Captain, and his followers; and simply contented himself
with the performance of his duty, as it rose, without giving any
heed to the profit or the loss which might follow upon his toils.
With the Cassique of Cofa, he concluded an amicable treaty,
which secured the support and friendship of a very potent savage.
From him, however, it was learned that there were more powerful
potentates, yet beyond them, to the east, whom it was even
more necessary to conciliate. Much was said of a Princess, or
Queen of Cofachiqui,—a province just beyond; the population
of which was very numerous, and the territory very fertile. It
was reported to be very rich, also, in gold, pearls, and other precious
treasures. The young Princess who ruled the country had
lately come to her throne. She was pronounced to be beautiful
beyond description, and the imagination of the Adelantado was
greatly inflamed by what he heard, of the surpassing beauty of
the maiden, her vast empire, her great treasures, and the wealth
and power of her connections. Her blood mingled with that of
the great Chieftains and Princes who ruled along the waters of
Chatahoochie, Alabama, and Mississippi. The Cassique of Cofa,
very powerful as he himself claimed to be, yet acknowledged his
inferiority to this Princess; his incapacity to encounter her troops
in war, and the fear which he felt of provoking her hostility.
Patofa, the chief in question, hated as he feared; and we may
add that, with savage cunning and ferocity, he continued, under
the sheltering wing of the Spaniards, to execute no little mischief
upon the people and country of the power which he loathed and
dreaded; butchering without remorse, and plundering, whenever
he had the opportunity of doing so in secret. For these reasons,
De Soto was compelled, however reluctantly, to dismiss the
savage chieftain to his own country, with all his followers. His
policy was conciliation; particularly in the case of a Princess so
beautiful, so well connected, so wealthy and powerful, as her of
Cofachiqui, whose territories he had already penetrated, and
whose chief settlements, on the banks of the Savannah, he was
now approaching with all possible expedition.
It was at a spot on the west side of the Savannah, just where
the river sweeps boldly beneath the shining walls of Silver Bluff,
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that the Adelantado, with a select detachment of a hundred
cavalry, and as many infantry, emerged from the great forests,
with the view to the passage of the stream. The noble river lay
broad before him in the cloudless light of a noon-day sun. On
the depressed position which he occupied, an esplanade of swamp,
liable to occasional overflow of the freshets from the rapid rising
of the waters, he looked up to the high banks on the opposite shore—
now of Carolina—and surveyed a prospect before him with unqualified
admiration. The mighty forest ranges had been scarcely
broken in any quarter; and the gigantic oak, the hickory, the mulberry,
and black walnut, stood up, and spread away in mighty
ranks, solemnizing the scene as far as the eye could reach. Terminating
long vistas, rose the rustic cots and cabins of the people
of Cofachiqui, stretching in a half circle, which followed the course
of the stream, and sufficiently nigh to enable the inhabitants to
take their fish from its waters, without inconvenience, to their
homes. Conical mounts, and terraces, artificial areas, consecrated
to religious rites, or public sports and gatherings, relieved, with
the villages, the monotony of the unbroken forest. Upon a bold
promontory to the right, surrounded by trees of the greatest age,
and most remarkable aspect, rose up the temple of the tribe:
a rude but picturesque edifice of logs, encircled with pillars,
around which the wild vine had been trained to run. So that the
whole fabric, relieved of all rudeness to the eye, seemed to be the
handiwork of the endowing Spring herself; a green and purple
trophy, vines, flowers and fruit, worthy to be the scene of innocent
rites, and the religion of a pure and simple-hearted people.
It was surrounded by tumuli—by the graves of ages, overgrown
in like manner with shrubs and vines. In the recesses of the
temple, were other treasures of nature and trophies of art.
There, subsequently, the Adelantado gathered heaps of pearl—
bushels of treasure to the Spaniards;—and there also were found
some melancholy memorials of their own and other European
people. Shields, and helmets, and daggers, and spear-heads,
cast away by the followers of Cabeza de Vaca, or more probably
by those of the cruel and luckless Vasquez de Ayllen, at the
mouth of the Combahee, which, according to Indian computation,
was but two days' journey from Silver Bluff. But we must not
anticipate.
When the brilliant cavalcade of the Spanish Chieftain arrived
at the west bank of the Savannah, he found the opposite shore
covered with groups of the red men, looking out and watching
his approach. The signs of vigilance and confident strength
were every where present to his eyes. The boats were numerous
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along the banks, but they were all on the eastern side of the river.
Bands of warriors might be seen hastily arraying themselves in
their rude armor, and hurrying,—each as he made himself ready—
with javelin, and spear, and bow, to join the crowds that gathered
by the river. Conspicuous among those upon the banks,
were to be noticed a group of six persons, of very noble appearance,
all of whom had passed the middle period of life. To
these, great deference was shown, and soon a great canoe, propelled
by several strong rowers, approached the spot where they
stood. They entered the canoe in silence, and, a moment after,
it shot across the stream to the spot where De Soto had arrived,
at the head of his array. The fearless chieftains of the forest
approached him with a calm dignity, and a noble grace, which
struck the Adelantado with surprise, and compelled his respect.
He soon perceived that he stood in the presence of a people, very
far superior to those whom he had hitherto encountered in the
forests of the Floridian—superior in grace and art, if not in valor.
De Soto hastily seated himself in a chair of state, which he carried
with him for occasions like the present. The deputation of Chiefs
made three reverences as they drew nigh,—one to the east, a
second to the west, and a third to the Spanish Chieftain. Then,
they spoke through one of their party, a lofty and venerable man,
whose brow and bearing declared for habitual authority, and the
consciousness of power. He demanded briefly—
“Wherefore do you come, stranger? Is it for peace or war?”
Philip de Vasconselos interpreted, and reported the answer for
the Adelantado in the language of Cofachiqui.
“For Peace! we are friends. We ask only for a free passage
through the lands of your people, and their help, with raft and
canoe, in crossing your big rivers. We will pay for these helps
in goods of our country.”
A long and pacific conference followed. The red men were too
well assured of their own power to dread the small array of
strangers before them. They knew not of the fearful weapons
which they bore, and the powerful arts which they possessed.
At the close of the conference, the Chief of the deputation, repeating
his friendly assurances, said that he must receive the
commands of Coçalla, the young Queen, his mistress. She was
young— had but lately assumed dominion over them, and they
were required to consult deliberately before they perilled her
authority, or the peace of the country, by any action of their
own. But he did not doubt, that, from the generous nature of
this princess, she would do all in her power to promote the objects
of the strangers.
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[figure description] Page 407.[end figure description]
They did not err in this conjecture. Perhaps, their own report
prompted her compliance, or, at all events, provoked her curiosity.
It was not long after their return to the settlements, when
the attention of the Spaniards was drawn to shows of great bustle
and preparation along the opposite shore. The crowd continued
to gather. There were sounds of conchs, and the occasional
clamor of rattle and drum, regularly timed, and significant
of a gathering and a march. While the Spaniards gazed,
curious and anxious, a procession was beheld emerging from the
woods, in the midst of which, seated upon a sort of palanquin,
and borne upon the shoulders of six able men, was the form of
a young maiden, who was readily conceived to be the Princess
of the country. The palanquin was wreathed with vines and
flowers, and gay streamers of stained cotton floated above it on
every side. The cushions upon which the damsel half reclined,
rather than sat, were spread with robes of the same richly dyed
material. She was clad in similar stuffs, but of finer quality,
and rich fringe depended from her skirts and shoulders. Her
hair, black as ebony, and glossily bright, floated free, but was
woven thick with ropes of pearl; frequent strands of pearl encircled
her neck, falling free upon her bosom. Her sandals
were also sown with pearl, and she wore anklets of the same
precious decorations. Numerous young girls, bearing baskets of
flowers, and habited like herself, followed in her train; and she
was attended by goodly bands of spearmen and archers, all
richly and picturesquely habited, and equally prepared for action
and display. Before her, went several musicians, who blew the
conch, shook the rattle, beat the drum, and played upon a rude
sort of syrinx made of reeds, which gave forth a long succession
of sweet but melancholy sounds. Others kept pace close beside the
litter, whose office it was to wave before her huge fans of particolored
feathers, the plumage of the wild birds of the Floridian,
gathered from all quarters, and wrought with an art which leaves
the modern fan of Europe but little of superiority to boast.
In this state, the Spaniards were allowed to behold her progress
through the forests for awhile, when she suddenly disappeared
in its deeper recesses with all her train. But her disappearance
was for a brief space only. Very soon a great canoe,
of the largest size and most magnificently decorated, with cushions,
and canopies, and broad fringes and streamers of richly and
variously stained cotton, was seen to emerge from the mouth of
a creek that ran close beside the promontory on which stood the
sylvan temple of Cofachiqui. In this canoe, under the canopy,
reclined the princess in the stern, upon a pile of cushions. She
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was attended by eight beautiful girls, only less richly habited
than herself. Her barge was accompanied, or rather led, by
another of like dimensions, in which sat the six chieftains who
had constituted the deputation. A cloud of canoes, of all sizes,
filled with warriors, followed after and closed the procession,
which now, under the impelling strokes of hardy rowers, soon
made its way to the opposite shore. When arrived, the young
princess, unassisted, but followed by all her train, stept fearlessly
to the land, and the Spaniards were greatly struck by the elegant
grace of her movements, the admirable symmetry of her form,
the beauty and innocence, as well as intelligence of her face,
and the picturesque appropriateness of her costume. De Soto
made the most imposing preparations to give her corresponding
welcome. Her obeisance to the Adelantado was full of grace
and dignity; and this made, she seated herself on a sort of stool,
which her attendant had brought with her for the purpose, though
De Soto motioned her to the chair of state from which he himself
had arisen.
A long and interesting conference ensued between the parties,
carried on through Philip de Vasconselos, on whom, it was observed
by more than one, that the fair princess bestowed the
most encouraging smiles, speaking with as much sweetness, as
ease and dignity. But the sad face of Philip never once changed
through the whole conference. He was gentle and respectful,
but calm, subdued, and too melancholy to note how flattering to
himself were the looks of the beautiful Cassique. But Juan, the
page, noted it as well as others; and he turned away from the
sight as if disquieted, and retired iuto the rear, seating himself
gloomily, beneath the old trees of the forest. Juan Ortiz, the
former interpreter, too, was among the persons who thought the
princess was quite too gracious in her bearing to a poor knight
of Portugal, when an Adelantado of the Castilian was present;
and De Soto himself more than once looked on with cloudy
visage, as he beheld the smiles given to Philip, which he thought
were properly due only to himself. The conference was long,
but satisfactory in high degree to the Spaniards. At the close,
and when the princess was about to depart, she rose, and unwinding
the strings of pearl from about her neck, would have
thrown them over that of the interpreter, but he recoiled from
the dangerous honor, and motioned to De Soto. But the princess
hesitated.
“Will not the warrior who speaks of strange things in the ear
of Coçalla, the Queen, wear the pearls which have been about
her neck?”
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“Such gifts, beautiful Coçalla, are only for a great chief to
wear. In the noble person who sits in the chair of state, you
behold the great-chief of our people. He will be proud to wear
the pearls of the Queen of Cofachiqui.”
She looked reproachfully at the knight of Portugal, and still
hesitated, the pearls hanging from her hands. De Soto had observed
her movements keenly. He suspected the truth.
“What says she, Don Philip?” was his stern and sudden question
to the knight.
It was with a blush that Philip felt the necessity of evading,
or suppressing, the truth.
“The princess would bestow upon the Adelantado the pearls
which she carries in her hands, but fears to violate decorum. She
would have me bestow them; but I have counselled her that
the honor will be more graciously felt, if she will make the gift
with her own hands.”
“Thou art right,” was the reply of the Adelantado, and he approached
more closely and bowed his head. Slowly and reluctantly
still, but obeying the sign made by Don Philip, the
princess cast the heavy strands over the shoulders of the Adelantado,
who, seizing her hand as she did so, passed a rich gold ring,
with a ruby, over one of her fingers.
With this ceremonial, the conference ended. The princess had
complied with the desires of the Spaniards. Her boats conveyed
them across the river; her people brought them provisions; she
received them in her village with favor; and, for a season, there
was nothing but mutual pleasure and gratification among the
parties. The Spaniards were delighted with the grace and beauty
of the queen, at which they greatly wondered; and she, as well
as her people, was equally charmed with the curious strangers
who brought with them so many strange and charming objects.
In particular, she thought long, and dwelt much, to her attendants,
upon the handsome warrior, whose voice was so sweet within
her ears. She likened his speech to that of the `trick tongue' (the
mock-bird), when it is the season for him to seek out a mate, and
win his favorite by the pleasings of his song.
But Philip retired to sad, rather than sweet thoughts and fancies.
That night, as he sat at his evening meal beneath a tree,
with Juan in attendance, he was unusually sad and spiritless.
Juan was very gloomy, too, but made an effort to revive the
spirits of his master. He was curious, too, and he chose for his
subject the beautiful queen, who was the topic of universal eulogium
among the Spaniards.
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“Think you, my Lord, that this woman is so very beautiful?”
asked the boy.
“Woman? Forget you, sirrah, that you are speaking of a
great Princess among her people!” was the sharp reply.
“Pardon me, Señor, but I meant not to offend;” answered
the page with becoming humility—“but—does my Lord think
her so very beautiful?” he persisted.
“She is very beautiful, Juan.”
“That is to say, for a savage Indian?”
“She is one of God's creatures, Juan, and there is no race
without its beauties.”
“But these beauties do not suit the better tastes of a refined
people, Señor. They are too rude; and besides, these beauties
are of the form only; they lack the correspondences of education
and learning, and the charm of accomplishments, such as are
needful to satisfy the desires of a Christian people.”
“Aye, boy; but if the tastes lack, the virtues are not wanting.
There is heart, at least, in the savage rudeness, though it may
lack the artful accomplishments of the refined European. There
is no treachery here—no false faith—no base, degrading passions,
nursed, though they are felt to be vicious, and practised by those
who boast of their higher virtues and their purer tastes. Better
far that there be no accomplishments, such as thou pratest of, if
they are to be allied with foul lusts, practised in secret, to the
grievous peril of the soul, and in despite of that very education
of the mind, which teaches the sin, and the shame, and the horror
of such practice. Better far, the embrace with the rude and
simple woman of the Apalachian, than the whited sepulchres of
Christendom, where all is smooth and shining without, and all
loathsomeness and corruption within. I would rather lay my
head upon the bosom of the simple savage, who is innocent as
she knows nothing, than upon hers, who sins with all her knowledge,
and is treacherous to the very faith which she professes
and believes. Ah! boy—speak to me no more. Thou little
knowest into what a gaping wound thou hast thrust thy torturing
fingers.”
The page said no more that night. He stole away to the solitude
of another thicket, and bitterly did he weep the night away,
with his face buried in the long grasses of the plain.
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CHAPTER XXXVI.
“Deh! non tradir' mi, amico.”
Artaserse.
[figure description] Page 411.[end figure description]
At first, nothing could exceed the mutual satisfaction of the
red men and the Spaniards in their commerce and communion.
The latter delighted their simple hosts with gifts of curiosity and
use, which were at once new to them and serviceable. The Indians,
on the other hand, stript their houses and persons, and even
their graves, of the pearls which they possessed in great quantities,
to glut the desires of the strangers. To these gifts were
added others which still further aroused the cupidity of our adventurers.
Bits of gold and silver were mingled with their
spoils, prompting a thousand curious inquiries as to the region
whence they came. When told of the provinces of Xualla and
Chalaque, where the gold grew, De Soto resolved upon the exploration
of these regions also. But he proposed awhile to remain
where he was; satisfied that he was even now in a world of
great mineral treasures. The very appearance of the bluffs of
Cofachiqui, shining with isinglass and mica, led to dreams of silver
ore, which, a few bits found along the shore, seemed greatly
to encourage; and while he remained in this neighborhood, he
actually undertook the prodigious toil of cutting off an elbow of
the river, and turning its water for several miles, in order to lay
bare the bed of the stream for the possession of the precious
treasures which were supposed to pave it. The proofs of this
great labor, pursued with stern industry and a large body of
workmen, for awhile, are still to be found in the canal, shown
to this day in these precincts, and which still goes by the name of
the Spanish Cut. But the Adelantado was compelled, though
reluctant, to dismiss this pleasant fancy, and abandon the painful
labors to which it led. His silver proved to be even less valuable
than lead. It crumbled away at his touch. Better accounts
reached him from the interior; accounts which we now know to
have been strictly true.
Meanwhile, the pleasant relations between the red men and
the white underwent a change. The Spaniards soon began to
show the simple natives the sterner aspects of their character.
Their eager, grasping, despotic temper, began to manifest itself,
as they grew more confident in their position, and more familiar
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with the people. Violence took the place of kindness. In wanton
mood, in mere levity, the intruders usurped the possessions
of the savages, defiled their women, and brutally assailed their
persons as their pride. Strife followed, and frequent struggle.
The granaries of the red men lessened under the wasteful demands
of their visitors, and the beautiful Princess herself, who
had been at first so much charmed by the pale warriors,—and
who still craved to be permitted to love and honor—her feelings,
perhaps, being much more interested than her judgment—even
she found how difficult it was to keep on terms with a people, so
avaricious, so tyrannical, and selfish. She looked sternly upon the
Spaniards in general, she looked coldly upon the Adelantado,
whom an equal inflexibility of will and appetite made hard-favored
and perpetually exacting. It was upon the noble interpreter,
only, that she cast always sweet and loving glances.
To him she spoke freely of the respects in which the Spaniards
vexed and troubled her.
“They rob and wrong my people; they destroy their fields;
beat them when they complain, and murder them when they resist.
It is no longer easy to procure the provisions which shall
feed so many mouths. My people grow very impatient. My
chiefs counsel me to expel the intruders; my warriors would
take up arms against them. It remains only that I give the signal,
and the shout of war would rise above the forests, and the
shaft of death would fly from every thicket. But, I am silent,
noble Philip, as they call thee;—silent! I feel for my people,
and I chafe at the insolences of thine. Why am I silent? It is
ecause I would not harm thee: because I would not see thee
depart, Philip.”
Philip beheld her with a sad and drooping eye. What a history
of grief and hopelessness did her tender words and looks recall!
“I am but a leaf in the wind, noble Coçalla; a bubble upon the
stream; a spent arrow, whose course through the air is lost as
soon as made. Think not of me. Persuade thy warriors to
forbearance. The Adelantado will, I think, depart soon from thy
provinces. Better not provoke his anger. He hath a power of
which thy people know nothing: to which they must succumb in
strife, or perish. He hath but little reason to remain here much
longer, and will most likely depart ere the coming moon! Till
then be patient—keep thy people in patience, and let them bring
in good supplies of provisions, that we may the sooner leave thee.”
“But thou need'st not leave Cofachiqui, Philip. Thou wilt
stay here, and dwell in the village of Coçalla. It is a Queen
among her people who implores thee to stay.”
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Before Philip could reply, his page Juan, with aspect gloomy
and anxious, suddenly entered the apartment, and after a hurried
obeisance, said—
“Señor, your presence is needed without. There is trouble.
The Indians are arming and surrounding some of our people.
There have been blows already between them, and there is danger
of insurrection.”
“I must see to this!” said Vasconselos. In a few words he
conveyed to the Princess what he had heard from Juan, and
hurriedly took his departure. Juan was about to follow, when
the Princess beckoned him, and throwing a rich robe of furs upon
his shoulders, motioned him to accept it, in a sweet and gracious
manner. But the boy shook the garment from his shoulders, and
with a single glance, of a strange and almost savage sternness, at
the noble giver, wheeled about and hastily followed his lord.
The Princess was confounded at this treatment. She had bestowed
the gift upon the boy as she had beheld his devotion to
his master. It was a tribute prompted entirely by her regard for
the latter. She could not conjecture the meaning of the boy, or
the dark and savage look which he gave her; and the rejection of
her gift, apart from the manner in which the thing was done, was
itself an insult. She expressed her wonder, in her own language,
and hastily summoned her attendants. These had hardly made
their appearance, when one of her grave and venerable forestcouncillors
entered also. His brow was full of trouble. He
hurriedly confirmed the report which she had just heard from
Vasconselos, of the difficulty between her people and the Spaniards,
and, anxious about the result, she hurried forth also with
the aged chief, in the hope, by her presence, to quiet the aroused
passions of her subjects.
When Philip de Vasconselos appeared upon the scene of commotion,
the conflict seemed inevitable. The red men were arming
every where, and gathering to the conflict. They had been
goaded beyond their endurance, by the brutalities of some of the
Spanish rabble, had resented with blows an unprovoked injury;
and, unwillingly restrained so long, by the authority of their
queen, it was now apparent that the outbreak would be proportionately
extreme, from the enforced authority which had hitherto
kept in subjection their usually untameable passions. The
warriors had submitted to the presence and the aggressions of
the Spaniards, against their habitual practice, and against their
nature. Fierce, proud, always prepared for, and fond of, war,—
the conquerors of all the surrounding tribes,—how should they
submit to the insolence of this handful of strangers, whom it
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seemed so easy to destroy? The moment had arrived, at last,
for the assertion of their strength and independence!
The moment was inauspicious for De Soto. One half of his
forces had been despatched in different bodies, and directions, in
the exploration of the country. Nuno de Tobar was probably
fifty miles off, with a select body of forty horses, on the route to
Achalaque. Juan de Anasco, with a similar force, was away on
another route. So was Gonzalo Sylvestre; so was Andres de
Vasconselos, with his Portuguese, and other knights. The remains
of the army, with De Soto, at the moment of commotion,
were scattered along the river banks, or in the forests, fishing or
fowling. Unless he could quell the commotion without the extreme
of struggle, without absolute violence, he was in danger of
being utterly destroyed. The princess of Cofachiqui could bring
several thousand warriors into the field. It was under these circumstances
that the Adelantado hurried forth, as Philip de Vasconselos
had done, in order to interpose his person and authority
for the prevention of the strife. It was here that he showed the
resources of a good head and a long experience. To the surprise
equally of his own soldiers and the red men, he seized a
cudgel and began to belabor the Spaniards, seconded in the operation
most heartily by Philip, who had reached the scene in
season for this proper, if not pleasant exercise. The princess
appeared at this juncture, and clapped her hands with a sort of
girlish delight, which contributed to the success of De Soto's
policy. The chiefs and sages went amongst their warriors with
words of counsel; and the outbreak was quelled almost as soon
as it had taken place. The red men retired to their woods,
hardly satisfied, but subdued, they knew not well in what manner.
The Adelantado escorted the princess to her dwelling, and
partook of a feast which she had prepared. For the moment
harmony seemed restored. But it was a hollow amnesty. There
were wounds that rankled on both sides, and refused to be healed.
Pride was at work equally in the hearts of the Spaniards and
red men, and passions, of even a worse order, which the artifices
of both only labored to conceal—not overcome.
That night, the Adelantado called a council of his chief officers
at his quarters. Philip de Vasconselos was present with the
rest.
“I have summoned you, Señores,” said De Soto, “that we
may confer together as to the policy before us. You have seen
to-day what is the temper of these savages. For some days past
we have witnessed a rising spirit of insolence among them. They
bring in their maize and beans very reluctantly. With all our
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exertions, we scarcely get an adequate supply, and the return of
the several parties, we have sent out, will find too many mouths
for our granaries. The princess, herself, no longer looks on us
with friendly eyes. She treats us coldly; she denies herself,
sometimes, when I seek to see her; and there can be no question
that she looks upon our continued presence with dislike. Speak
forth, Señores; declare your opinions freely, and say what is left
to us in this condition of our affairs.”
There were many speakers, to all of whom the remarks of the Adelantado
furnished the key-note. All were agreed that the queen
and her subjects were changed in temper towards them; that it
was evident they were regarded no longer as grateful guests, but
as burdensome and offensive intruders. But no one suggested
the course of action. They all well knew that, while De Soto
listened patiently to all, he followed no counsel but his own, or
that to which he fully inclined himself. Vasconselos alone was
silent.
“We would hear from Don Philip,” said De Soto, with a smile
which had in it something of a sneer. Philip quietly and
promptly answered.
“There is no question but it is true that these people are tired
of us. We have worn out their patience. We have consumed
their provisions, occupied their houses, controlled and commanded
their labor, enjoyed their hospitality to the full extent of their resources;
and in return, have beaten and despoiled their men and
women, and shown ourselves very ungrateful for all that they
have done with us. For my part, I only wonder that they have
tolerated us so long. The admirable drubbing which your Excellency
administered this day to some of the runagates who have
turned the hearts of this simple people against us, was quite as
much due to justice as to good policy. It might have been well to
have administered a little more of it, and to a score or two of
other offenders.”
“Well, but admitting the truth of all this, Señor Don Philip,”
responded De Soto, rather impatiently,—“the question is, what
are we to do,—how repair the evil—how put ourselves in security
against such mischance as had so nearly befallen us to-day?”
“The question is an embarrassing one, your Excellency,
and, perhaps, were better addressed to some of your older and
closer councillors. The solution of it will depend upon your objects.
Why should we linger here? The silver which we hoped
to gather from these banks of earth turns out a delusion. The
gold, as we learn on every hand, is to be found many leagues
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above, and in the region of mighty mountains. You have abandoned
the idea of changing the bed of the stream, since there is
no probability that it will afford a treasure which the banks on its
sides do not possess. Wherefore, then, remain in a region which
promises nothing, and where we have evidently exhausted the
hospitality, with the provisions of its people? Our delay can give
us neither food, nor profit, nor security.”
“True again, but still not satisfactory. There is a subject besides
which we need to consider. If we depart from these people
thus, and while they keep their present mood, we lose credit
among them. They will feel that they have had a sort of triumph.
It will make them insolent. Their runners will precede
us where we go; they will disparage our arms and valor; they
will lose us that authority which makes our progress go without
question; and we shall have to fight every step of our way.”
“We have had to do this already in most cases. In the
country of the savage this can scarce be otherwise. We can
look only to our arms and courage to carry us through. But
where this needs not—where we are received in kindness—it is
scarcely wise to force hatred upon the people that welcome us at
first with love. This is what we have been doing. We have
manacled, maimed, and even burned these people, for small offences,
which, in their ignorance, they have committed. Yet they
have borne with all, through the kindness of their Queen. They
cannot endure starvation. We have brought them to this. Let
us leave them in season, before we have made them desperate;
and carry their friendly wishes with us, if we can carry nothing
better. They have yielded to us all their treasures of gold and
pearls.”
“Ay, but their favor is already lost. They will send us forward
with no good wishes. They will rather send before us
tidings of evil which shall prejudice our progress wherever we
appear. The Princess Coçalla has grown haughty and indifferent,
Señor Don Philip, to all among us, but yourself.”
Philip regarded the savage smile upon the countenance of the
Adelantado, with a quiet, cold, immovable look. He did not
attempt to answer. Don Balthazar de Alvaro now took up the
parole.
“I suspect that few will doubt the necessity of our leaving
this place, your Excellency; and just as few will be prepared to
deny the danger of which your Excellency speaks, from the malicious
and unfriendly reports of these people. We have had
sufficient proofs of their growing hostility. The mother of this
Princess keeps aloof from us, and has eluded pursuit and search.
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The young Indian Chief whom we sent to her with a message,
slew himself rather than approach her after he had been forbidden;
and I am sure that we should have lost the favor of the
Princess here, but for the special regard which possesses her soul,
in behalf of one of us. How long this will secure us is a problem
which we shall soon be able to solve, if it be true that the natives
are out of provisions. Now, we are all agreed to depart from a
region in which we shall find famine only instead of gold; and
we are agreed also, that we may have to fight our way at every
step, and get our provisions only at the end of our weapons.
Well, with your Excellency's leave, we are in precisely the same
strait with those great men, Hernan Cortez and Francis Pizarro,
and I see not that we can do better than adopt their policy.”
“What policy?” quoth the Adelantado.
“That of seizing upon the sovereign of the country, and making
her a hostage for the good behavior of her people. This Princess
of Cofachiqui is in your power. Her people hold her in an
esteem little short of reverence. Seize her, keep her in close
custody, under watchful guardianship, and you secure the good
conduct of her people. You are required now to traverse hundreds
of miles over which she possesses acknowledged sway: as
you pass west, if you need to do so, you are told that she is
closely allied to the great powers of the Apalachian, the Alabamous,
the Mechachebe! What follows? The people, in all these
places, obey her decrees, bring provisions, bear burdens, submit
without blows. The policy of Cortez and Pizarro must be that
of Hernan de Soto, if he hopes for like success with these heathen
savages. It is the only policy for safety.”
“And I deem it a base and horrid policy, Señor!” cried Vasconselos,
rising, and speaking with all the warmth of a noble
and ingenuous soul, shocked at the cold cruelty and baseness of
the counsel given. “O! Don Hernan de Soto, beware how you
stain an honorable fame, by the adoption of a policy so shameful,
so shocking, so dreadfully ungrateful. This young Princess
has received you with highest honors, has treated you with unvarying
kindness, has yielded from her stores all that she possesses.
As a Christian gentleman, and loyal cavalier, you cannot follow
counsels which shall violate every trusted virtue, every security
of feeling and of honor.”
The brow of De Soto darkened terribly.
“You employ strong language, Don Philip de Vasconselos;
but you may have special reasons for doing so. You, at least,
would seem to owe special favors to this dusky Princess.”
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The pale cheeks of Philip reddened, but he was silent. The
Adelantado proceeded:
“But our obligations are general only, and shared with all the
chiefs of my army. You hear how they express themselves, and
what they counsel. In great necessities, nice scruples are vicious
impediments, and we may not apply to great embarrassments, the
principles we submit to when the currents of life flow smoothly
on as we would have them, under ordinary laws. I hold the
counsel of Don Balthazar to be the only means of escape and
progress in this our emergency. It is our necessity, which we
cannot escape.”
“O! say not so, your Excellency—” began Philip de Vasconselos,
but the truncheon of the Adelantado came down heavily
upon the table,—and he thundered out—
“We have decided, gentlemen—we are resolved—the council
is dissolved. We shall see to these things with early morning.
Be you each prepared, in armor, to second all my orders.”
The council dispersed, each to his own quarters, all leaving the
Adelantado, except Don Balthazar, who had other matters to
insinuate when he did not counsel. Philip de Vasconselos, grieved
to the heart, retired to his lowly lodgings, where he sat down to
his silent supper, of which he scarcely ate, attended by Juan in
silence.
“O! boy, boy!” he exclaimed, suddenly—“thou little knowest,
boy,” he proceeded—“but if the heart of woman be incurably
false, that of man is terribly base! If her heart be weak
as water, his is more hard and unfeeling than the pitiless rock.
I am sick, Juan, very sick of all things that live!”
And the supper was pushed away; and the knight threw himself
on his couch of reeds and brush, under the roof of his simple
Indian lodge which had given him shelter, and he felt to what a
base use his ruler had put all the benefits of the simple and confiding
red men, and their sweet and lovely sovereign. And Juan
lay between two rustic pillars, in the shade, half watching the
words of his master all the while. And he drowsed while watching:
but Philip slept not. He could not sleep because of too
much thought, and long after midnight he arose, and he muttered
to himself—
“It shall not be! I will prevent this dreadful treachery!”
And he stole forth even as he spoke, carrying his sword beneath
his arm, and he made his way, amidst the dim woods,
guided only by the starlight, and certain scattered fires of the
village, until he was lost in the thickets that lay between the
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Spanish encampment and the grounds which environed the
abode of the Princess. He knew not that the only half-sleeping
Juan, aroused by his exclamation, had started to his feet, and
caught up a weapon also, and was following stealthily upon his
footsteps.
-- 420 --
CHAPTER XXXVII.
“E chi poteva,
Mio ben, senza vedir-ti
La patria abbandonnar?”
Artaserse.
[figure description] Page 420.[end figure description]
Meanwhile, the Adelantado and his prime minister, Don
Balthazar de Alvaro, sate late at their private councils, after the
rest of the noble Knights and Captains had retired. They had
much to discuss and determine which was not proper to be submitted
to the common ear. But a portion only of this conference
properly concerns our drama. It was at the close of their
discourse that De Soto gave it in charge to Don Balthazar, to
arrest the Princess and put her under safeguard.
“There need be no violence, Señor Balthazar, if your proceedings
are prompt and secret. All outward forms of respect must
be maintained. We must only see that she does not escape.
See to it by sunrise.”
“Better an hour or two before,” was the answer of the Don.
“The Indians may be put on the alert by sunrise.”
“What! you do not suspect Don Philip?”
“He is a favorite with the Princess.”
“But I should think her no great favorite with him. He seems
to treat her with great reserve, if not coldness.”
“Reserve is apt to be only a prudent masking of the passions.”
“But would he dare to play us false!”
“Ah! this would scarcely be considered a treachery; or only
such as were becoming in a good knight. We can, at all events,
better guard against than punish such a treachery.”
“Ay, by the holy cross, but I should punish such a treachery,
were the offender the best knight in Christendom.”
“Verily, and I should hark on, and say well done, your Excellency;
but still I repeat, better in this case prevent, than have
to punish such treachery. In brief, the Princess must not be
allowed to escape. Were she to do so, we should fare badly in
our future progress through her dominions. With your Excellency's
leave, I will make the arrest before the dawn of another
day.”
“It is as you please. You are no doubt right in the
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precaution; though, let me find this Knight of Portugal playing me
false, and —”
The threat was unspoken, or was sufficiently expressed in the
angry gesture, and the heavy stroke with which, with clenched
fist, he smote the rude table at which the parties were seated.
In a little while after this, Don Balthazar took his leave.
He proceeded almost instantly to collect a select body of his
followers, all armed, for the capture of the Princess Coçalla.
This labor occupied some time. He had to move with all precautions,
rout up soldiers who were sleeping, and hunt up others
who were scattered; and this brought him to a tolerably late hour
in the night. By that time Philip de Vasconselos had already
proceeded on his generous mission, of arousing the Princess to
the necessity of flight, and ere Don Balthazar had set his little
squad in motion: but the latter was not delayed much longer.
Still, the Portuguese Knight is in season for his object, if there
should occur no embarrassments.
It was no small one, however, that of finding access to the
Princess. She occupied a centre mansion, rude enough for royalty,
so far as we refer to the agencies of art, but a most royal
abode if we look only to the natural accessories. That great
home of forest oaks, and hickories, and walnuts, towering masses
of wood and shrubbery—a mighty colonnade of gigantic forms,
conducting through numerous airy avenues to the lowly mansion
of logs, surrounded by a shady roof of thatched poles,—an ample
verandah of green, surrounding the habitation, which nestled
in the great shelter of the ancient forest—was an abode for an
Emperor. In this verandah slept a score or more of warriors
always ready, armed with feathered shaft, and flint-headed spear,
and obsidian bludgeon, stone tomahawk and knife of flint. No
Emperor ever possessed subjects more faithful and devoted. The
space of forest surrounding the abode of the Princess was filled
up with scattered parties of other warriors, who slept beneath
the trees when the weather was fair, and who kept watch from
hidden huts, when the storm descended. They were as vigilant
as faithful.
Hardly had Philip de Vasconselos entered the tabooed precincts,
when a dozen spears were at his breast.
“Lead me to your queen,” he said in calm, but commanding
accents—“she is in danger. I must see her.”
A brief and rapid consultation ensued among the forest watchers.
The result was favorable to the wishes of the knight, simply
as all knew him to be the favorite of Coçalla. He was
scarcely a less favorite among her people. He was conducted
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silently through the green glades, and amidst the dark avenues of
thicket; the boy Juan stealthily and closely following, unnoticed
by Philip, and permitted by the red men, as a matter of course,
as he was the attendant of the master. When they reached the
lodge, a conch, which hung from one of the pillars of the verandah,
was sounded by one of the watchers at the porch. A door
opened, and a whispered conversation ensued between the guard
and some one within. A brief space, and Philip was admitted
to an antechamber, a great hall, indeed, at one side of which stood
a maiden with a blazing torch. Juan remained in waiting without
the verandah, anxious to press forward, and trembling with
anxiety, yet dreading what he should behold. But, for awhile,
his courage failed him, leaving his anxiety unrepressed.
But a few moments had elapsed, after Philip's entrance into
the hall, when the princess made her appearance. She was clad
in simple white cotton garments, hastily caught up. It needed
but little time or effort to adjust the costume of the native princess.
She was followed by a group of damsels, and one or two
matrons. In a few moments after, several old men made their
appearance from contiguous dormitories.
There was a joyous eagerness in the face of the bright-eyed
Coçalla, as she looked upon the knight.
“Philip!” She had learned to call his name very prettily—
“Philip!” and the rest she spoke in her own language, taking his
hand frankly as she spoke.
“What would the voice of the Spaniard with Coçalla? It is
not the hour of council. The bird that sings by day, sleeps in
the darkness. The warrior sleeps, with the spear beneath his
arm. Why comes Philip to me now? Would he make his
home with the red warriors of the forest? Philip shall be a
chief for Cozalla.”
“It is not for that I come, noble Coçalla. But there is danger
for the princess. My people have said Coçalla must be ours!
She must march with our army to the great mountains. She
must be the hostage for her people. She must follow the path
as we mark it out for her footsteps. Let Coçalla fly to the great
thickets and escape from captivity.”
“Does the Spanish chief say this of the Queen of Cofachiqui?”
was the indignant answer.
“The Spanish chiefs have so spoken!”
“What! They see not my warriors? They know not their valor
their skill, their numbers, and the fatal weapons which they carry.”
“Neither numbers nor weapons will avail against the arms of
the Spaniards.”
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“Ha! say'st thou! Thou shalt see.” And she whispered to
her attendants, one of whom disappeared.
“The princess must fly to the deep forests,” continued Vasconselos.
“There alone can she be safe from our people.”
“Fly! and from my home,—while my warriors are around
me? Never! never!—And yet—” speaking quickly—“Will
Philip go with me to my lodge in the great forests? Will he
become a warrior of Cofachiqui? Say, Philip,—wilt thou go
with me, and find a lodge among my people—and become a
chief—the great chief—the `well-beloved of Cofachiqui?' And
she caught his hand eagerly.
“Alas!” he said, “I cannot, beautiful Coçalla—my lot is cast
among the Spaniards.”
“Then will I meet them here. I will gather my warriors.
They shall fight these Spaniards—they shall fall upon them, and
slay them all—all but thee, Philip. Thou shalt be a great chief
of Cofachiqui.”
A group of old men entered at this moment, and were apprised
of what Vasconselos had reported. They received the information
gravely. They heard their princess as she inveighed
loudly against the insolent purpose of the Spaniards. She bade
them gather the warriors together, and meet their enemy. She
was resolved not to fly, unless—and she turned again to the
knight—
“Will not Philip go with Coçalla to the great forests of her
people, and be a chief of Cofachiqui?”
He shook his head mournfully. The old chiefs interfered.
Philip understood all that they spoke, though in low tones, to
their queen. They, too, exhorted her to take the counsel of Vasconselos,
and seek safety in flight. At the moment, they were
unprepared for conflict. Their warriors about the village were
few in number, hardly more than necessary for a body-guard of
honor for their sovereign. It required time to call in the warriors,
and to prepare for such enemies as those with whom they
had to deal, and the terrible resources of which were already, in
part, known to the chiefs. But the princess grew unreasonable;
still recurring, at the close of her speech, to the one burden,
in the appeal to Philip—“to find a lodge among, and be a
chief over her people—the chief!” The old warriors looked
grave. They renewed their counsels and expostulations. They
were seconded by the earnest entreaties of Vasconselos. She
said to him reproachfully—
“Does Philip bid me go from him where I can see him no
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[figure description] Page 424.[end figure description]
more? Does Philip say to Coçalla—let the forests grow between
us, so that our eyes shall never meet again? Ah! Philip!”
and she laid her hand, as if with pain, upon her heart. The
knight felt very wretched at the wretchedness he was compelled
to inflict, and a vague but beguiling thought passed through his
fancy for an instant, with the rapidity of an arrow of light.
“And why should I not depart with this true-hearted and innocent
princess?—She is young and beautiful, and powerful, and
more than all, pure of thought and feeling. Why should I follow
in the steps of those who hate, when I am persuaded by
those who love?”
But he dismissed the seductive argument with the resolute exertion
of his will. The very thought of love, and of another woman,
while his heart was still so sore with the most humiliating
experience of the sex, was a revolting thought. He hastily expelled
it from his mind.
“Heed not me,” he said, “noble Princess:—I am but an insect
in thy path. I am nothing.”
“Thou art every thing, Philip, to Coçalla. My people will
honor thee for my sake, and thou shalt be a chief among them.
And thou shalt dwell in a lodge with Coçalla, and there shall be
no Spaniards in the great forests where we go. Thou shalt be
a chief of my people, Philip,—thou shalt be the only chief for
Coçalla.”
And with these words, in the eager impulse of a passion which
was no less pure than warm,—the passion of a nature wholly unsophisticated,
no longer able to restrain her feelings, she threw
her arms around the neck of Vasconselos, and laid her head upon
his breast. Her long, dark tresses fell like a shower of starry
night over his shoulders.
At that moment, and before the knight could recover himself,
he felt his arm plucked from behind, and the voice of Juan
sounded huskily in his ears.
“See you not, Señor, that unless you tear yourself away from
her, she will not depart? She will be captured, unless you leave
her at once! Already Don Balthazar is gathering his troop to
surround the village of the princess. Fly from her in season, or
she is surely taken. These moments are fatally lost.”
Vasconselos heard, and tenderly but firmly he unwound the
arms of the princess from about his neck. At this act, silently
performed, she turned, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, and
threw herself on the bosom of one of the matrons, while her
sobs sounded distinctly through the apartment.
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“Now—now!” cried Juan, in quick, eager accents, as Philip
lingered—“Now is the moment, Señor. She will fly when you
are gone from sight.”
“You are right, boy, right!” answered the knight. The hand
of Juan eagerly grasped that of his superior, and led him away
from the apartment and into the woods, without a moment's delay.
They were within a few paces of the lodging of Vasconselos,
when they heard a slight blast of a trumpet in the thicket
between them and the abode of the Princess.
“It is the signal of Don Balthazar,” said Juan hurriedly. “We
are safe;” and he drew the knight into the lodge.
“But Coçalla?” said Philip.
“She has had time enough for escape if she willed it; but methinks
she would rather be a captive were Don Philip the jailer,
than be the free Princess of all these forests.”
There was something of bitterness in the accents of the boy.
Philip noted it, but his mind was too full of anxiety, in respect
to the escape of Coçalla, to dwell upon minor matters.
“Now may the Saints forbid!” he ejaculated.
“This princess seems very precious to the Señor!” quoth
Juan, moodily.
“As nobility, and generosity of soul, and true virtue in a woman,
should ever be to every noble knight!” responded Philip,
somewhat sternly; and Juan shrunk away, as if an arrow had
pierced him suddenly in the breast; and Vasconselos heard no
more words from him that night. The boy had gone aside to
bury his face in the leaves of his couch, and to weep in secret, as
was his nightly custom and necessity.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII.
“Va! se hai cara la vita.”
Alfieri.
[figure description] Page 426.[end figure description]
The effort of Don Philip had been made in vain. The Princess
Coçalla gave herself up to a passion of grief, that resisted
argument and entreaty. She became fully conscious of her
danger (of which even the assurance of Vasconselos had failed
to possess her mind)—of the danger which awaited her, only
when it was too late. It was only when the shrill blast of the
Spanish trumpet, speaking in signal to the co-operating squad,
and the crash of conflicting weapons, had struck upon her senses,
that she consented to make the attempt to escape. But, by this
time, the building was entirely surrounded, and she was seized
by a group of common soldiers, as she strove to steal away from
the rear during the struggle between her warriors and the assailants.
Her people fought desperately, even the old chiefs and
counsellors, but only to be butchered. The dawn saw her village
smoking with blood, and herself a captive.
The Princess was from this moment kept under close restraint,
well watched and guarded, but treated with forbearance, if not
with kindness. She was allowed a litter to be borne upon the
shoulders of her own people, when she was indisposed to walk.
The Adelantado, for awhile, paid her a morning visit, as Cortez
had done to Montezuma, in which he maintained all the most
deferential externals. She did not reproach, nor entreat; but
from the moment when she became a captive, she habited herself
in the stern reserve of character so peculiar to the red men
of America, and haughtily refused communion with her treacherous
and ungrateful guest. But her captivity disarmed her
people. They dared not rebel against the authority whose simple
decree might destroy the head of the nation. They submitted
every where—submitted as Tamenes, or porters, to bear the
luggage of the army, and brought in provisions throughout the
country, wherever the Spaniards came or sent.
The army was set in motion soon after the arrest of the Princess,
and the young and noble Coçalla was borne along with it, unresisting,
as recklessly as the tides of ocean bear away upon their discordant
billows, the beautiful and innocent flower which the
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tempest has flung upon them from the shores. In this manner was she
conducted up the Savannah to its sources, passing into that region
of glorious scenery which we now find in the county of Habersham,
in Georgia. Pursuing a direct western course across the
northern parts of that State, the expedition reached the head
waters of the Coosa. From town to town—still submitted to
wherever it came—the Spanish army proceeded to the Conasauga,
the Oostanaula, and other streams. They explored the
country as they went, lodged in the villages, and secured the
submission of the chiefs; some of whom they also kept in captivity,
the better to secure the obedience of their people. Occasionally,
De Soto sent out detachments, right and left, in quest of
gold and silver.
It was while two of these detachments, under the knights,
Villabos and Silvera, had gone forth to explore the mountains
of Chisca, that the Spanish army rested for a space of more than
thirty days, at a populous Indian town, called Chiaha, the chief
of which was a cousin of our Princess of Cofachiqui. This chief,
influenced by the situation of his kinswoman, had received the
Spaniards with a seeming good-will, which left them wholly without
cause of complaint. But, with the rest from their fatigue,
the passions of the invaders passed beyond all ordinary limits,
and they made a formal demand upon the Cassique for a certain
number of the young women of the nation. Hitherto, the men
had not been denied to serve the Spaniards, in the capacity of
Tamenes. The demand for women, implied a reckless disregard
to all the sensibilities of the people; and, in a single night, the
Cassique of Chiaha, who was also held somewhat in the position
of a captive, found himself abandoned by all his followers.
Wild was the rage of the Spaniards at the flight of their destined
victims, and vain were all the efforts of the Cassique to propitiate
their anger. They ravaged his country, with fire and sword,
slaughtering and burning without mercy.
It was at this moment, and while the invaders were showing
themselves most licentious and reckless, that the Princess Coçalla,
still a captive, and still watched, though more carelessly than
usual, attempted to make her escape. She had been confided to
the guardianship of two soldiers, Pedro Martin, and Gil Torres.
Her followers had laid down her litter, and she had descended to
drink at a spring by the wayside. The two soldiers, meanwhile,
had taken advantage of the pause to produce their dice, and were
busily engaged in perilling some of their pearls and other acquisitions,
as was the universal practice, upon the hazards of the
game. Suddenly, they missed the Princess and her followers.
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They instantly sought, by a vigorous search in the neighboring
woods, to repair the consequences of their fault. Unfortunately,
they had missed the captive too soon after her flight, to enable
her to escape very far. She was found; her followers gallantly
threw themselves in the path of the pursuers, and armed only
with sticks or billets, hastily snatched up in the forest, endeavored
to defend their mistress. But they were immediately butchered.
Coçalla, who had continued her flight, was soon overtaken, and
violently seized by Pedro Martin. The bold ruffian, goaded by
licentious passions, dragged her into the covert, while Gil Torres
stood by, as if keeping sentry. Her cries rang through the
woods, and not in vain. They called up a champion in the perilous
moment.
Don Philip de Vasconselos had not lost sight of the beautiful
Princess who had so fearlessly shown him how precious he was
in her eyes. But he forbore to trespass upon the indulgence
which she had shown him, and, with a rare modesty and forbearance,
a delicacy of consideration, which had few parallels in that
day amongst these wild adventurers, he steadily rejected the
temptations which were held out to him by the warmth of her
affection and the confiding innocence of her nature. He studiously
forbore her presence, except when specially required to
communicate with her by De Soto himself. In fact, there was
a policy, as well as propriety, in this forbearance. Vasconselos
had discovered that he was watched. Juan, his page, had made
some discoveries to this effect, and had made them known immediately
to the knight. He was watched by the creatures of Don
Balthazar. This was the amount of the discovery: and there
were suspicious circumstances, coupled with the conduct of Juan
Ortiz, the interpreter, whose jealousy had been kindled, at the
expense of Vasconselos, in consequence of the better knowledge
of the Indian tongues which the latter possessed. He had lost
some of his authority with the Spaniards during the period when
the Portuguese knight served wholly as the medium of communication
between the red men and the white. Ortiz possessed,
however, a rare natural capacity for the acquisition of language,
and, with a strong motive to goad his industry, in his pride, his
mortification, and his love of ease—for, when not interpreting,
he was required to serve in the ranks as a common soldier—he
addressed himself to the task of picking up the dialect of the
people of the new regions into which he passed. He had become
to a certain extent successful, so that he was now able to understand
and conjecture the purport of the various conversations
between the Princess and the knight, whenever they took place in
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public. On all these occasions, Coçalla freely gave vent to her
affections, and spoke with Vasconselos as frankly in respect to
her love, as if no other ear but his own could comprehend the
purport of her speech. All this matter was reported to Don
Balthazar, who, by the way, had been repulsed by the Princess
in every approach which he had made to familiarity with her.
How Juan, the Moorish page, had ascertained these facts, may
not now be said, but he had learned enough to set his master on
his guard against the subtle Ortiz and other spies employed by
his enemy.
But though cautious, and avoiding as much as possible all intercourse
with the Princess, Vasconselos watched over her safety
as tenderly as if he returned her affection. He had seen the
growing indifference of De Soto to the claims and character of
the Princess, and he strove, whenever he could do so without
provoking suspicion, to lighten her bonds and soften her mortifications.
The boy, Juan, was sometimes sent with tributes to
Coçalla, with delicacies which she might not else procure; and
we may add that, though he obeyed the knight, he yet did so
with some reluctance. More than once he expostulated with
Philip upon the risk which he incurred, by his attentions, and
strove to alarm his fears; but he soon found that such suggestions
only inspired the knight with audacity. He then ventured
to change his mode of attack, and would speak, with a sneer,
about the incapacity of the red woman to appreciate either the
delicacy of his gifts or his attentions. But to this suggestion,
also, the reply of the knight was apt to silence, for awhile, the
presumption of the page.
“Cease,” one day he said to Juan—“cease, boy, to prate of
what thou knowest not. I tell thee that this heathen princess
is a more beautiful soul in my sight, than any that I know
of paler blood. And why shouldst thou, a blackamoor, presume
to sneer at the complexion which is more akin to that of
the Christian than thine own? Go to, for a foolish boy, and say
nothing more in this wise; for verily, sometimes, when thou
speakest thus, I am almost tempted to hold thee an enemy to this
most gracious yet luckless princess; whom I hold in such esteem,
boy, and regard, that if I had yet a heart to give, or a faith to
yield, to woman, I should prefer to trust in her, than to any living
beauty in all Spain or Portugal.”
Such speeches were always apt to humble and to silence the
page for a season. The knight no ways withheld his kindnesses
and protection from the princess, because of the counsels of the
boy. Yet he suffered her not to see that he watched over her;
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and now, when the passions of the rude and licentious ruffian
Pedro Martin had dragged her into the deep thickets, and she
shrieked aloud in her last and worst terrors for a champion to
save her, she had little reason to think that the chief whom she
loved before all, would suddenly appear to her rescue.
Philip de Vasconselos was fortunately at hand. He heard
the cries of the captive princess. He recognized the voice. He
knew the present licentious moods of the Spaniards. He had
denounced, as a terrible crime, that requisition upon the Cassique
of Chiaha, which had outraged his people, and driven them away
to the shelter of the woods. His instinct instantly conceived the
danger of the princess; the neglect and disregard of De Soto
tending to encourage the audacity of those who were appointed to
watch over her. He called to Juan, and hurried with sword
drawn into the thickets. He was suddenly confronted by Gil
Torres.
“It is nothing, Señor Don Philip, but the cries of the heathen
woman, the Princess of Cofachiqui, who has been seeking to make
escape from us, and whom my comrade, Pedro, has just secured.”
“Stand aside, fellow—I must see this comrade of thine.”
Martin raised his lance, and caught the knight by the wrist to
detain him. With one blow of his gauntletted fist, Vasconselos
smote him to the earth, where he lay senseless. Philip hurried
into the thicket, where Coçalla still struggled with all her might
against the brutal assailant. But she was almost exhausted.
She could no longer shriek. She could only oppose. Her long
black hair, which swept the ground, was floating dishevelled, her
garments were torn, her hands were bloody. At this perilous
moment she saw the approach of the knight of Portugal. She
knew him at a glance. She could only murmur, “Philip,” and
her strength failed her. She sank down senseless. At the sight
of Vasconselos, the ruffian fled.
The knight raised the princess from the ground.
“Bring water, Juan.”
The boy obeyed, bringing the water in the knight's helmet,
which he threw to him for the purpose. He dashed the face of
the princess with the cooling sprinkle. He poured the grateful
draught into her lips. She opened her eyes. They lightened
with joy. She threw her arms round his neck, and cried—
“Philip! O Philip!”
“You must fly,” he said—“fly, Coçalla. Do not waste the
precious moments now. It is your only chance. Use it. I will
keep off these villains.”
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He shook himself free from her, and darted away. She stood
mournfully looking at him for a while, then waved her hand to
him, and cried—
“Philip! Philip!”
He disappeared in the opposite woods; and she turned away,
with clasped hands, and moving with slow footsteps, bending
form, and a very mournful aspect, murmuring as she went, the
one word “Philip.” She too was soon buried, out of sight, in
the sheltering bosom of the mighty forest.
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CHAPTER XXXIX.
“There is my pledge! I'll prove it on thy heart,
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing, less
Than I have here proclaimed thee.”
King Lear.
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While these events were in progress, in and about the precincts
of the Indian town of Chiaha, Hernando de Soto was absent from
the place. He had led a portion of his forces in pursuit of the
fugitive red men, who had left their village in consequence of the
brutal requisition to render up their women; and a report of the
gathering of a large body of the savages, in a hostile attitude,
not far off, had aroused all the eager fury of the Spanish governor,
to pursue and punish them. He had pursued with his
usual energy, but without encountering the subtle enemy, who,
when they pleased, could readily cover themselves, in such perfect
concealment in the deeper forests, that the whole army of the
Adelantado could never ferret them out, or bring them to battle.
De Soto rested his troops, after the fruitless pursuit, in a beautiful
wood, about half a day's journey from the town of Chiaha.
Here he waited the return of certain of his officers, whom he had
sent on exploring journeys higher up the country. Nuno de
Tobar was thus absent with twenty lances: Andres de Vasconselos
had been sent forward with his Portuguese, to feel his way
along the banks of the Coosaw, and to prepare for the coming
of the army. There were a few other leaders of the Spanish
host, who, like these, might have had sympathies with Philip de
Vasconselos, who were also most inopportunely absent. There
was probably some design and management in an arrangement,
which, at this juncture, removed from the neighborhood the few
persons who might have resisted the perpetration of a cruel wrong,
and brought back the moods of De Soto to such a condition, as
would, at least, have tempered the severities which he might else
suppose were required by justice.
The star of Don Balthazar de Alvaro was, at this moment,
completely in the ascendant. He had been left in charge of the
village of Chiaha, when De Soto undertook the pursuit of the
fugitive Indians. It was his task to assign the guards to the
Princess of Cofachiqui; to regulate and control, in fact, all the
operations within his command, according to his own discretion.
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It was not the purpose of De Soto to return to the village,
but to proceed onward, following the footsteps of the pioneer
force of Andres de Vasconselos to the country of the Alabamas.
With this large discretion in his hands, Don Balthazar was
not the person to forego the gratification of any of his passions.
The persons whom he had appointed to take charge of the princess
Coçalla, were his own creatures, the most despicable of the
common soldiers of his division. Don Balthazar had been
scorned by the princess. He knew the wild licentiousness which
at this time possessed the army. He knew the character of those
to whose tender mercies he entrusted her. He might have predicted
the event, if he did not,—perhaps he anticipated it; perhaps
he anticipated other fruits from the epidemic of license which
prevailed among the soldiers. It is not improbable that when he
was found by the ruffian, Pedro, who fled from the rapier of Don
Philip, conveniently in waiting in a lonely lodge on the edge of
the forest, that he himself had prompted his myrmidons to their
brutality, and that he had other passions to gratify, not less wild
and intense than that of revenge.
Great was the wrath of Don Balthazar when Pedro Martin
made his report. Gil Torres, with a bloody sconce, made his
appearance soon after, which confirmed it. The report was such
that, by their own showing, no good Christians could have been
more innocent of evil, or virtuously set upon doing good. The
subordinates saved their superior from much of the necessity of
invention; and where they failed as artists, he supplied the defects
in their case. They were prepared to affirm it with due
solemnities; and, thus armed, Don Balthazar smote one hand
with the other, and exclaimed exultingly,—
“Now, Señor Don Philip, I have thee at extremity. Thou
canst not escape me now.”
He dismissed the two soldiers. He called up Juan Ortiz, the
interpreter, to a private conference. He had secured the agency
of this simple fellow, who was naturally hostile to the Potuguese
knight, as the latter had so often superseded him in that employment,
from which he derived so much of his importance with the
army. Don Balthazar had tutored Ortiz already to his purposes,
while persuading the interpreter that they were entirely his own.
He, too, had certain evidence to give in respect to the treason of Don
Philip—for this was the serious charge which Don Balthazar was
preparing to bring against our knight of Portugal. For some
time he had been concocting his schemes in secret. Like some
great spider, lurking unseen in obscure corner, he had spread
forth his numerous silent, unsuspected snares, like fine threads,
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to be wrought by patient malice into meshes, so strong as to
bind utterly the unwary victim. His meshes were now complete.
The victim was in the toils, and he had now only to proceed to
destroy him at his leisure.
Furious that the Princess Coçalla should escape, he was yet
delighted that the event afforded him evidence so conclusive
against Vasconselos. He prepared his despatches with all care
to De Soto. He set forth the facts in the case, and his inferences.
He suggested the course of procedure. He knew but too well
in what way to act upon the enormous self-esteem of the Adelantado,
already sufficiently provoked with Don Philip, and by
what subtle artifices of suggestion to open to his eyes the most
vast and various suspicions of the guilt of the man he sought to
destroy. Yet all this, though done boldly, was done adroitly,
so that De Soto never fancied himself taught or counselled; and,
acting promptly, on the very suggestions given by Don Balthazar,
he yet fancied, all the while, that he was the master of his
own purposes.
He sent back instant despatches in reply to those which he
received. It followed that, at midnight, Philip de Vasconselos
was summoned, in most respectful terms, to the quarters of Don
Balthazar.
He prepared at once to obey. Juan, the page, would have
followed him; but the summons of the Don had entreated him
to a secret conference, and Philip gave the boy in charge of his
lodge, and commanded him to remain where he was, awaiting
his return. The quarters of Don Balthazar might have been
half a mile from those of Philip; but the latter took horse to
compass the interval. He went in armor also. Such was the
practice; and, in seasons of excitement, and with doubtful friends
around them, such was the proper policy. But Philip was not
at his ease. His instincts taught him to dread treachery. He
knew Don Balthazar too well to put faith in his smooth accents.
He knew that the latter must hate, and would strive to destroy
him. Juan, the page, had like instincts, and an even better
knowledge of the man than had his master. He plucked the
knight by his sleeve, and whispered—
“Beware, Señor:—this summons—this man—”
Philip laid his hand gently on the boy's mouth, and said, also in
a whisper—
“The good knight must be bold, Juan, and being so, must always
beware that he is not too bold. But to caution him at one
hour of a danger which he must confront, by force of duty, at
all hours, is surely an idle lesson. Hear me, boy:—do thou
beware that thou neglectest not the duty which I now assign thee.
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I have, for a long while, mediated to give thee a solemn charge,
in anticipation of this danger of death which walks ever, side by
side, with the soldier. There are three letters, sealed with my
signet, and folded in silk, which you will find in the little leathern
case with which I travel. When I have left thee to-night,
detach them from this case, and take them into thy own keeping.
They are addressed, one of them, to my mother, in Portugal:—
another to my brother Andres; and a third to a lady of the
island of Cuba,—whose name—but thou wilt read it on the
missive. These thou shalt, if thou survivest me, in good faith
deliver. All other papers in the case shalt thou this very night
destroy, as soon as I have left thee, and thou find'st thyself alone.
Swear to me, boy, on the Holy Cross, that thou wilt do these
things which I have bidden!”
The knight held up the cross hilted sword as he spoke, and the
boy, with a convulsive emotion, seized and kissed it. Then, with
a sob, he cried—
“Oh! Señor Don Philip, suffer that I follow thee now—that
I go with thee to this meeting with thy enemy.”
“Not so: but I will send thee word how and when to follow,
should I not return before noon to-morrow. For this night, boy,
farewell!”
And he laid his hand gently on Juan's shoulder, and turned
off a moment after. But the boy caught the hand quickly in
his grasp, pressed it fervently in both of his own, then released
it, and turned away. The knight looked at the Moor with almost
loving eyes.
“Verily,” he murmured to himself—“verily, this boy hath a
noble heart and soul, and he is very loving; and with such a
depth of feeling as is seldom witnessed at his years. Where
the heart groweth so fast, and drinks in so much, it is rarely
destined for long life. Life lingers only with the hard, and the
cold, and those who are economical with the affections. The cold
toad, it is said, remaineth—it cannot be said that he liveth—for
a full thousand years, locked up in stone.”
Thus musing, the knight left the lodge, and joined the young
Lieutenant who brought the message from Don Balthazar, and
who awaited him at the entrance. They mounted horse instantly,
and went towards the village; but scarcely had they entered the
narrow streets, when Vasconselos found himself surrounded by a
score or two of horse, from the centre of whom advanced a Captain,
who said, in stern accents—
“Señor Don Philip de Vasconselos, some time of Elvas in
Portugal, and now in the service of His Most Catholic Majesty,
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the King of Spain, &c., I arrest thee, by orders of his Excellency,
Don Hernando de Soto, Governor of Cuba, and Adelantado
of Florida, under a charge of High Treason. Yield thysword!”
“Treason!” exclaimed Don Philip indignantly. “Treason!
Where is my accuser?”
“Thou shalt see and hear all in due season! At present, I
am commanded to bring thee, without speech with any one, to
the presence of the Adelantado.”
Resistance,—even if Don Philip had been disposed to offer
any—would have been perfectly idle. He submitted with quiet
dignity.
“Be it so!” he answered, quietly yielding his sword—“conduct
me to the Adelantado.”
The party set off that very instant. The knight of Portugal
did not once see Don Balthazar until they met in the presence
of De Soto. The wily spider had only waited to see Vasconselos
fairly in the clutches of the party placed in waiting for his
arrest, when he set off, with another party of horse, bringing up
the rear, and watchful that the captive should find no means of
escape.
It was nearly noon of the next day when they reached the
army. It was encamped on a pleasant plain, overshadowed
every where with great trees of the forest. De Soto, with pride
and passion equally roused, was impatiently waiting for the
arrival of the offender. No delay was allowed him; and the preparation
for his trial had been made before he came. A rude
scaffolding, upon which the chair of state had been placed in
readiness, had been raised for the Adelantado. His chief knights
were grouped immediately around him. The troops, horse and
foot, including the parties just arrived,—all under arms,—were
dispersed so as to form a half-circle about the dais, in which
every thing could be heard and seen by the meanest soldier.
There they stood, in grim array, with burnished weapons, in
mail and escaupil, banner and banneret flying, and the gorgeous
flag of Spain floating in the midst. De Soto was not the person
to omit any of the blazonry and pageantry, the state and ceremonial,
which belonged to his authority. Seated in his chair of
state, surrounded by his knights, he ordered that the prisoner
should be brought before him.
Philip de Vasconselos, conducted by his guards into the circle,
abated nothing of his dignity or noble firmness, as he stood before
the presence in which he could see none but enemies. He
looked around for the few persons whose sympathies and
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support he might have hoped for, had they been at hand. Where
was Nuno de Tobar at that moment? Where was his brother,
Andres? In their absence, he readily divined that no precautions
had been omitted by his enemies, for effecting their object.
He saw that his doom was written.
This conviction, which threw him so completely upon God and
his own soul, raised him, with a strength of will and character, to
face the event, whatever it might be.
“I am here, under bonds, as a criminal, Don Hernan de
Soto,” spoke Philip, in clear, manly tones, his eye fixed brightly
the while upon the face of the Adelantado:—“I demand to know
of what I am accused, and that my accuser shall be set before
me!”
“Thou shalt have thy wish, Philip de Vasconselos. The
charge against thee is that of high treason to His Catholic Majesty,
with whom thou hast taken service.”
“I brand the charge with falsehood. I am no traitor.”
“That shall we see. Thou shalt behold and see thy accusers,
and the witnesses shall be brought before thee, who shall prove
thy offence.”
Vasconselos folded his arms patiently, and looked coldly
around the assembly, while Hernan de Soto, who did not
think amiss of his own eloquence, descanted in a sort of general
speech upon the affairs and necessities of the army; the duties
of a good knight, and faithful subject; the high trusts and confidence
which had been given to the knight of Portugal, and the
imperative necessity for condign punishment, wherever trusts had
been forfeited, and the trusted person had shown himself unfaithful.
Philip smiled scornfully, in a bitter mood, as he listened to
certain portions of the speech; and the cheeks of De Soto reddened
as he noticed the expression. His conscience smote him,
though not sufficiently, when he reflected upon the notorious
slight to which the knight of Portugal had been subjected from
the beginning, and how small had been the trust and favor shown
him.
His speech over, he proceeded to his specifications under it.
“Thou art charged, Philip de Vasconselos, by the noble
Señor, Don Balthazar de Alvaro, with having betrayed to the
Princess of Cofachiqui the secret councils of the conference,
when thou wast present as a member, and when it was resolved
that the safety of the army required that we should take that
person into close custody. It is alleged that thou didst betray
that conference to the Princess, in order to persuade her to escape
from our hands.”
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“It is true that I did so endeavor to persuade the Princess
Coçalla to escape, and in this was I faithful to my oath of chivalry.
I were no true knight to have kept silence, when so gross a
wrong was meditated against that gentle and lovely young Princess.
But the council knew my sentiments in reference to that
measure. I did not conceal what I thought, that it was a baseness
which would forever dishonor the Spanish name.”
“That gave thee no right to betray the councils to which thou
wert admitted on the implied condition of thy secrecy. Thy
faith was pledged to us; and the crime, if crime there were, fell
upon our heads, not thine. Thou hast admitted the charge, which
we should ele establish against thee by no less than three reputable
witnesses.”
“It is admitted,” said the knight.
“It is next charged that thou didst recently set upon the two
soldiers appointed for the safe keeping of the princess, didst assault
them with naked weapons, didst wound one of them, and
put in mortal fear the other, and didst succeed in wresting this
princess from their keeping, so that she has made full escape from
our care and custody, thus depriving this army of all the benefits
which grew naturally out of our charge of her person.”
“I found the two ruffianly soldiers to whom the princess had
been confided, setting upon her with brutal violence and foul purpose,
and as true knight and gentleman, I did so rescue her from
their keeping. I had no purpose in this, but the safety and innocence
of the noble woman.”
The two soldiers were brought forward, and loudly protested
their innocence, making affirmation on the Holy Evangel.
“Thou hear'st?” said De Soto.
“I hear, Señor. Is it to be allowed to these wretches, thus
charged with a heinous crime, to acquit themselves by their own
asseverations?”
“It is thy offence, Señor, and not theirs, which is now before
this tribunal.” Such was the interposition of Don Balthazar.
“And it is in answer to the charge against me, that I do accuse
these ruffians and acquit myself.”
“Were such privilege awarded to the criminal, there would
be no witness to be found innocent,” replied De Soto. “Thou
dost not deny the rescue of the princess from her keepers?”
“I glory in the act too greatly to deny it,” was the answer.
“I am proud of the noble service.”
“Ha! We shall see how far thy exultation in the deed will
suffice to acquit thee of its penalties! Hear further:
“It is charged that thou hast been a wooer to this princess for
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her love; that the tie of marriage exists between thee, according
to the fashion among the heathen Apalachians, and in despite
of all Christian rites; and that she hath pledged to thee,
and thou hast accepted the gift, of the whole empire of the Apalachian,
which thou mean'st to hold adversely to the crown of
Spain, to which thy sworn faith is strictly held.”
“The charge is no less false than foolish!”
“There shall be proof to confound thee! There are yet other
charges. It is alleged—and this shall be proved by Juan Ortiz,—
that on a certain occasion, when at Cofachiqui, thou wast called
upon as an Interpreter to demand of the princess that her people
be required to bring in supplies of maize and beans; that thou
didst counsel her not to comply with our demands; and didst
tell her that, by this means, she could starve us out of the country,
or so enfeeble us that the very children of the Apalachian
should then be the masters over us in fight.”
“The charge is wholly false! By whom could such charge be
made, seeing that no one of the army but myself understood
the language of the people? Who, then, could say what words
were spoken between the princess and myself?”
“That will not avail thee! Our interpreter, Juan Ortiz, hath
a keen ear and quick comprehension; and so far hath he learned
of this language, that he hath been enabled to follow thee, and
scan thy proceedings, and detect thy treacheries. He asserts
boldly that such was thy speech to the princess.”
“He hath misunderstood me,” replied the knight of Portugal,
“from a too imperfect knowledge of what he heard. What, in
truth, was spoken, was to the effect that the Spaniards were not
a people to be starved out, because of the refusal of the red men
to bring in their supplies—for such had been the nature of the
princess's own speech—and that they would seize them where
found, and, would never suffer themselves to starve, even though
they fed upon the children of the tribe. I was only too faithful
to the Spaniards when I spoke to the princess.”
“Ha! in painting them as heathen cannibals?”
“It was but a threat, your Excellency.”
“A threat! But wherefore, when this princess spoke in threats
to thee, didst thou not repeat her language to us?”
“Of what need! the provisions were brought.”
“But we should have been allowed to judge of the propriety
of thy arguments, Señor. It were a matter to be weighed solemnly,
whether we should suffer thee to depict, even to the
Heathen, the Christian warriors of Castile, as so many cannibals,
eager to feed on human flesh.”
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“If your Excellency is pleased to speak of this bold threat
with so much solemnity, I can make no answer to thee.”
“Ay, thou need'st not! Thou hast made answer sufficient for
thy ruin. Thou hast thyself admitted the charges which would
condemn thee; and if thou did it not, here are the witnesses who
should prove thy treachery. Hast thou any who can say aught
in thy defence?”
“None, Señor; since I see that the few gentlemen who have
best knowledge of my nature and performances, are not in this
assembly; it will be for those to answer to their consciences,
by whom they have been sent away at this juncture.”
“Does the Knight of Portugal impute to me a wrong?—for it
was I by whom they were sent away, and by the Holy Cross,
I swear that when they were thus sent away, I had no thought
that thou, or any other, should be arraigned for trial, on these,
or any other charges.”
“Your Excellency is, no doubt, free of offence in this matter,
but there is one person, at least, for whom truth could never say
so much, and who hath wrought this scheme for my ruin. There
is one proof that I might offer—one witness—” and he paused.
De Soto quickly said—
“Speak, Señor, and he shall be brought. I will gladly accord
them all chance of speech and hearing.”
“Nay, Señor, I know not that it will need or avail. It was of
my page, the boy Juan, that I had thought. He knows best of
my acts and motives. Besides, he hath gathered even more of
this language of the Apalachian, than this man, Ortiz, could possibly
have done.”
“The boy is a slave, your Excellency—a wretched Moor,” interposed
Don Balthazar; “he can give no evidence in a case affecting
both Christian knights and Castilian gentlemen.”
“But I would, nevertheless, have had him here, Señor Don
Balthazar,” answered De Soto, with some asperity in his accents.
“Why was he not brought?”
“It was not known, your Excellency, that his presence would
be required as a witness, or for any other purpose. The Señor
Don Philip did not signify any wish upon the subject.”
“And how should I have done so, your Excellency,” answered
Philip, with a scornful look at Don Balthazar, though addressing
De Soto, “when I was not suffered to suspect the strait in which
I stood—when I was beguiled from my lodgings, upon false pretences
of kindness and counsel, and seized without warning or
summons, by a troop of cavalry at midnight? I saw not the
boy after my arrest, and until the moment when I met with him
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here, Don Balthazar de Alvaro did not permit that I should see
him.”
“I trust, Señor,” said De Soto to Don Balthazar, “that thou
hast not proceeded in any way in this matter unbecoming a true
knight.”
“It were sorry policy, your Excellency,” was the cool reply,
“to give warning to the traitor of your purpose to tie his hands
till the cord is ready.”
“Surely there is no hardship in such proceeding. The suspected
person is not to be suffered chances of escape; but when
the knight of Portugal was in thy hands, thou shouldst have
seen that he lacked no proper agency in making his defence.
Not that this Moorish boy could serve thee, Señor, for his evidence
could not make weight against the better testimony of
Christian witnesses.”
“And I know not that he could say any thing, your Excellency,
in my behalf. He could only asseverate his own ignorance
of all treachery on the part of Philip de Vasconselos, such
as would discredit knight or gentleman. I have no witnesses but
God and the blessed Saviour. To them I make appeal against
my enemy. But I claim the privilege of combat, your Excellency,
with my accuser, my guilt or my innocence to rest on the
issue of the combat. I throw down my gauntlet in mortal
defiance, and challenge to the field of battle, his body against
mine, with lance or sword, and battle-axe and dagger, or with
any other weapon that he pleases, the foul, base, dishonest,
and perjured knight, Don Balthazar de Alvaro, as one who has
done me cruel wrong, and has sought, by false slanders, suborned
witnesses, to do me to death, and to stain with shame a scutcheon
that has always hitherto been pure and without dishonor. There
is my glove! Your Excellency will not deny me to assert my
truth according to the laws of arms. I claim the wager of battle!”
He advanced calmly and firmly as he spoke, and throwing
down his glove at the feet of Don Balthazar, exclaimed, sotto voce,
but still loud enough to be heard by others than the person addressed—
“Lift it, Señor, if thou wouldst not be known for the dastard,
as I know thee for the villain and the knave!”
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CHAPTER XL.
“Take this life,
And cancel these cold bonds.'
Cymbeline.
[figure description] Page 442.[end figure description]
There was a marked and lively sensation throughout the
assembly. The savage and mercenary soldiers of that day were
not wholly insensible to the courage of a truly noble soul, and,
little loving, as they were, of the foreigners who had mortified
their pride, on such frequent occasions, the Castilians were compelled
to acknowledge how admirable, calm, fearless and chivalrous
was the whole bearing of Philip de Vasconselos.
But Don Balthazar did not lift the glove. There might have
been seen a red suffusion coloring suddenly his swarthy cheeks
as he heard the epithets applied by the knight of Portugal; but,
otherwise, he was apparently unmoved. He answered with a
cool and quiet indifference, which betrayed the long and hard
training of his political life.
“Nay, Señor, thy glove is no longer such as an honorable
knight and gentleman may lift without stain upon his fingers.
Thou hast not the right to claim the ordeal of battle. This would
be thy right were I the accuser, and the only witness against thee!
Then mightst thou claim to put thy body as thy word against
mine, and cry upon God to defend the right! But such is not
now the case. Thy crimes, partially confessed by thyself, are
also proven by sundry Christian witnesses, sworn on Holy
Evangel. I claim the judgment, your Excellency,”—turning
to De Soto,—“upon the arch traitor, Philip de Vasconselos, who
hath betrayed the counsels and the trusts of His Most Catholic
Majesty, given him in keeping, and hath meditated and devised
still further treasons, as hath been shown by sworn witnesses.
I claim the judgment upon the said traitor, and that he be done
to death without delay!”
There was a momentary start,—a slight recoil on the part of
Vasconselos, as he heard the words. It is barely possible that he
had not apprehended that the malice of his enemies would attain
to this extremity; but, if his emotion expressed surprise, it was
without fear. He looked on and listened, without other show of
emotion.
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“What hast thou to say, Philip de Vasconselos, against this
plea for judgment?” demanded the Adelantado.
“What should I say, Señor?—what could I say, that would
avail for my safety? To endeavor to speak at all—to seem to
hope, indeed, any thing from my speech, or any speech, in this
juncture of affairs,—would only show me as ignorant of the malice
of the base, as they are of the virtues which are always hateful
in their sight! I would not seem weak and foolish even in
the eyes that hold, or pretend to hold me, dishonored! I have
no more to say. I am in the power of mine enemies. I shall
only speak to God!”
“You are in my power, Philip de Vasconselos.”
“And you, Señor,” replied the other boldly, “assured as you
deem yourself of the powers which control your will and passions,
are yet serving the passions of others—passions which make
thee as fearfully mine enemy, as if thy deliberate will and thy
own bitter prejudices and dislike had made thee so. The power
that is passionate and proud, and the pride that is prejudiced,
are thus ever the instruments of injustice, and the blind creatures
of the cooler and subtler criminal. The cunning arts
which, taking advantage of thy passionate moods, have made
thee to look coldly and even harshly upon me from the beginning,
have not been unseen by me, though unsuspected by
thee. They have triumphed, in this present consummation,
over my life and honor, as they have triumphed over thy magnanimity
and prudence. I can in no way oppose them. No words
of mine can now enlighten thee. Thou must work thy will, according
to thy sense of what is justice. I yield to the fate to which I
can oppose neither argument nor valor. But, if I perish by thy
doom, and by the arts of that foul and subtle knave and slanderer,
who has woven around me these snares and meshes, I perish
without shame or dishonor. Nor do I perish without redress.
Here, now, in the last words which I address to thy ears, Hernan
de Soto, I cite thee for judgment with myself before the Sovereign
of Judges, whom no arts can mislead, whom no pride, or passion,
or prejudice can turn from paths of justice! Thou shalt
meet me before God's tribunal! There shalt thou behold that
traitor confounded eternally, who now sits, smooth and smiling,
cold and cunning, exulting in the base consciousness of a triumph
over one who knows his baseness, and who could, this day, as he
well knows, speak of him such things as should make the foulest
heart in this assembly turn from him with horrid shudder, and a
hideous loathing. I shall say no more. Do with me as thou wilt.”
The patient submission which resigns itself calmly to
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inevitable fate, always wears an aspect of great nobleness. When
Philip de Vasconselos was led from the presence of the assembly,
he was followed, on all sides, by glances of silent admiration and
a compelled respect. He was withdrawn, by the guards, while
the Adelantado and his council sate in private judgment on his
fate. Long was the conference that followed. Don Balthazar
strenuously urged the doom of death. But De Soto, filled with
chivalrous notions, was not prepared to yield to the malignant
suggestion. It is possible that he somewhat suspected that there
was some truth in the charge of malignity and slander which
Philip had brought against Don Balthazar. He had long been
aware of the dislike which they mutually felt for each other. He
said to the latter—
“Verily, Don Balthazar, this knight of Portugal hath bitter
thoughts of thee.”
“When had the criminal other thoughts of him who declares
his crime?”
“But I somewhat fear that thou hast pushed this matter to the
uttermost.”
“Grant it be so, Señor;—there is enough, besides, in the confession
which he made to suffice for his conviction.”
“True! True! He hath confessed to the betrayal of our
purpose to the princess, and to the charge of assault upon our
officers, and her rescue.”
“These are crimes worthy of death! This is treason! What
had Cortez or Pizarro done to the knight, or knights, who had
rescued Montezuma and the Inca from their guards, and set
them free to work the ruin of the army and the enterprise?”
“They had been made to taste of the sharp edge of the axe!—
But I will not slay this knight of Portugal! He hath done us
good service, and there is some rebuke of conscience that I feel,
for his too much neglect, and for the cold aspect which I have
shown him. Besides, I owe him a life. But for his succor I
had probably perished under the savage assault of the fierce Floridian,
Vitachuco. I cannot forget these things. I will not take
the life of this man!”
“What! Wilt thou forgive such treachery? Wilt thou suffer
this traitor still to harbor with thee and devise new treasons?”
“No! the army shall be purged of him! nor shall he escape
without due punishment. He is proud! He is a belted knight,
and hath won his spurs in Christendom! I will degrade him,
according to the proper laws of chivalry, which he holds in such
veneration! His shield shall be reversed; his scutcheon shall
be defaced; his armor shall be taken from his breast, and shall
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be battered into shapelessness; his sword shall be broken before
his eyes; his helmet shall be fouled in the morass; and, with
rope about his neck, his spurs shall be hewn from his heels, by
the axe of the common executioner! Then shall he be driven
with blow and buffet from the army, and, tied to a tree of the
forest, he shall be left to the mercies of these red savages of Apalachia,
to whom he hath shown such favor. Doubtless, they
will remember the service, and take him into some sheltering
wigwam!”
De Soto having declared his purpose, there was no further argument.
Don Balthazar, however, though confounded for a moment
at the novel terrors of the proposed punishment, would
yet have greatly preferred the sharp and summary judgment of
the axe. `Dead men tell no tales'—and so long as Philip de
Vasconselos had the power to speak, so long did he feel for the
safety of his terrible secret. He did not appreciate the hurts of
honor so highly as De Soto.
The knight of Portugal was once more brought before the Adelantado.
From the lips of his haughty judge he heard the doom
pronounced, even as we have already heard it. Then did the
cheeks of the brave cavalier grow pale; then did his lips quiver;—
then was his soul thrown back upon itself, without being able
to find support! Hoarsely, with a cry almost, as he heard the
judgment, he implored for a change of doom!
“Death! Death, rather than such doom as this!”—was the
passionate entreaty.
And shuddering, he knelt—the proud man knelt—humbling
himself before man—before the man who had already wronged
him,—who wronged him still; — but in whose power he stood,
and who, alone, in that world of wilderness, possessed the power
to save him! In our day, we should fail justly to appreciate
the terrible character of the doom pronounced by De Soto upon
the knight of Portugal. The fantastic chivalry was still a religion
with its sworn followers. Such degradation as was decreed
by the Adelantado, was the obliteration of the whole previous
life! It inured to the future. It tainted the name of fame forever!
It was the reproach of all former deeds of valor! It
was the death of the soul, and of all the hope, and pride, and
glory, which the spirit of chivalry held most precious in esteem!
Philip de Vasconselos succumbed beneath it! He sank upon his
knees—he humbled himself as we have seen,—he prayed for the
axe—for death,—for any doom but this!
He was denied—denied with words and looks of scorn!
Then he rose, stern, silent, resolved —and strong to endure,
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because of that denial, and those words and looks of scorn! He
arose, erect, and looked coldly on his judges. But there was a
terrible glare from his eyes, which made all other eyes look aside!
His lips were now compressed, but big drops of blood could be
seen slowly to ooze from between them, and to form themselves
in beads upon his beard. He stood, and for a few moments
there was a deep pause in the assembly. Then, at a signal from
De Soto, the executioner came forward with his assistants. They
passed a halter about his neck. He offered no resistance. He
did not even turn his glances upon them, when they laid hands
upon his shoulder. But as they led him out, he looked steadily
at De Soto, and said solemnly:
“A Dios!”
The words were not spoken by way of farewell. They were
in the nature of a citation; and so De Soto understood them;
and a sudden paleness, the shadow of a presentiment, overspread
his face. But the emotion passed from his soul. The drums and
trumpets sounded. The assembly was broken up, and the army,
forming a grand procession, was marched at once to the place of
execution.
And there, the central object of that great array, stern, lofty,
helpless, but resigned, stood the noble victim—resolute to submit,
but not wholly able to conceal the terrible emotions which
racked his soul! There, bound by the degrading halter to the tree,
by the hands of the common executioner, he was subjected to all
the details of the cruel and malignant judgment, as we have reported
them. His sword was broken, his shield reversed, its
blazonry obliterated, before his eyes! The armor was torn from
his person, and battered with blows of a club; his helmet was
hurled into a neighboring morass. And he saw and was silent,—
looking the while steadily upon the Adelantado, with eyes of
a deep mysterious solemnity, that spoke for dread and terrible
thoughts, as well as sufferings!
But when the executioner approached with his axe—when the
prisoner was made to lift his feet and place them upon the block,
and when, one by one, the golden spurs of knighthood were hewn
from his heels by repeated blows, then broke the groan of agony
from his overcharged bosom, and he threw out his powerful arms
and grasped the stalwart executioner, even as he had been an
infant in his grasp, and hurled him away, staggering, while a howl,
rather than a cry, following the groan, seemed sent up to heaven—
by way of reproach, for that it looked on, and beheld this terrible
injustice, while the great eye of the sun peered down from
the noon-day skies, as bright and serene as if all below was as
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becoming in heaven's eye as it was beautiful to that of man!
Vasconselos hurled away the executioner, but not before his task
was done! The spurs had been smitten off, clean at the heel,
and the work of degradation was complete. His violence was
the sudden impulse of an accumulated despair, which was no
longer suppressible.
A moment after this one demonstration of agony and violence,
and the knight of Portugal remained passive. Still fettered
by the cord of the hangman, and, by the neck, to a sapling of the
forest, he looked on the rest of the proceedings with a strange,
but not unnatural calm.
Then De Soto made a speech to his army, the substance of
which we may conjecture. The bugles sounded; the cavalry
wheeled into compact squadrons, the infantry shouldered arms,
and, to the sound of triumphant music, the whole army marched
from the ground. Fettered to the tree, with only a sufficient
length of rope to enable him to sink down at its foot, Philip de
Vasconselos was left alone, in the centre of that now dreary
forest.
The army was under marching orders. Preparations for the
renewal of its progress had been made before the trial, and that
act consummated, the legions of De Soto departed the spot to
see it no more! Philip was left to his fate—the fangs of the
wolf, the scalping-knife of the savage, or the crueller death, by
remorseless hunger! He could hear the distant music, gradually
growing fainter: finally, the faint bugle-note advised him of the
movement of the rear-guard; and soon, this too melted away in
the great world of space, and he remained with silence, in the
depths of the Apalachian solitudes!
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CHAPTER XLI.
“Had they known,
A woman's hand secured that deed her own....
The worst of crimes had left her woman still.”
Corsair.
[figure description] Page 448.[end figure description]
The army of the Adelantado proceeded on its march along the
waters of the Coosaw, but Don Balthazar de Alvaro returned, with
his detachment of cavalry, to the village of Chiaha. To him was
allotted the duty of bringing up the rear-guard, with the heavy
baggage; and he was required to remain in Chiaha until the
smaller bodies which had been sent forth on exploring expeditions,
under Nuno de Tobar, Andres de Vasconselos and others,
should return. Chiaha was the appointed place of their rendezvous.
There was an exulting spirit in the bosom of Don Balthazar,
as he led his troopers away from the field where he had witnessed
the degradation of Philip de Vasconselos. He had triumphed
over his enemy; and there was now no danger that the knight
of Portugal would ever cross his path in the progress of the
expedition. The penalty of his return was death. Don Balthazar
would have preferred that this punishment should have been
the one inflicted. He did not, himself, attach much importance
to what he thought the fantastic notions of honor and shame,
which were taught by the laws of chivalry; and, were it not that
the punishment of Don Philip implied his utter banishment from
the army, and his almost certain death, in the condition in which
he had been left, from the fierce fangs of the wild beast, or the
reckless arrows of the savage, he might have been still ill at ease
in respect to some of his securities. In truth, he still had some
lurking apprehensions that Philip de Vasconselos was yet, in
some way, his evil genius; destined yet to re-appear, and confront
him with that danger which had so long haunted his imagination!
With this fear, it occurred to him, more than once,
to send back one of his troopers to dispatch secretly the degraded
knight; but this was placing himself too completely in
the power of his creature; and he well knew that such a fact,
revealed to De Soto and the army, would be necessarily his own
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ruin; would confirm, to the Adelantado, the accusations made
by Vasconselos, and would arm the few friends of the latter—
few, but brave and powerful—with perpetual hostility and vengeance!
He was content to leave the doomed noble to his fate,
as it had been pronounced by De Soto, and executed before his
eyes.
Persuading himself that his death was inevitable, or, at all
events, that the danger from that one source had been driven
wholly from his own path, he went on his way to Chiaha with
rejoicing and exulting spirit. He reached the village late in the
night. There was still an eager mood hurrying him to other
performances; and when he had dismissed his troops to their
several stations, received the report of the officer left in command,
and refreshed himself with a bottle of canary, he threw
himself once more into the saddle. The soldier on duty before
his quarters, asked, “Shall I mount and follow you, Señor?”
“No! Keep your post. I want nobody.”
The expedition which now prompted the nocturnal movements
of Don Balthazar, was of a sort to require no witnesses.
The arch-fiend, now working, more than ever powerful within his
soul, and stimulating a crowd of passions into eager exercise,
was all-sufficient for his companionship. Don Balthazar galloped
off, in the direction of the cabin which had been occupied by
Philip de Vasconselos!
The page, Juan, did not sleep. He had fully executed the
trusts given him in charge by his master; had possessed himself
of the three papers, and destroyed the rest. This employment,
and the contemplation of the several addresses of the latter, had
filled the boy with the most melancholy mood. One of the letters
he did little but contemplate. With perpetual tears in his
eyes, he did nothing but read over the superscription. The day
was passed in sorrows and vague apprehensions. Vasconselos did
not return by noon. The boy inquired for him in vain, and could
only learn that he had ridden out with the detachment of horse
upon a secret expedition. But why had he not been permitted
to accompany this expedition? The privilege had never before
been denied him. There was a mystery in the affair which troubled
him, and he neither ate during the day, nor sought for sleep
during the night. He was sleepless from intense nervous excitement,
and sate, or walked, as the night advanced, in the
loneliness of that rude chamber of the red man, which was
dimly lighted by the brands of pine which blazed flickeringly
upon the hearth. While thus moodily employed, he heard the
gallop of a horse approaching. He trembled, and clasped his
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hands; then felt that all the letters were safe within his bosom,
and experienced a strange and sudden dread lest the knight
should resume the charge of them. There was one letter which
he would not willingly give up,—the contents of which he dreaded,
yet desired to peruse.
“It is he—it is Philip!” murmured the boy, recovering, and
relieved of the apprehensions which had troubled him for the
safety of the knight. “It is Philip!” and he hastily undid the
fastenings of the entrance. The horseman threw himself off the
saddle at this moment, and hastily pushed his way into the
cottage.
“Señor!” said the page, somewhat taken by surprise at the
manner and hurried movement of the knight, so unlike that of
Vasconselos. “Señor Philip!” he said, timidly and inquiringly.
“Not he, my good lad, but one quite as good, I fancy!” answered
the stranger, grasping the boy's wrist and dragging him
towards the light. In the next moment, Juan identified the person
of the intruder. To recoil was an involuntary act, as he
exclaimed—
“Don Balthazar!”
“Ay, methinks, my good boy, I should be as well known to
thee by this time as the cavalier whom thou servest. But why
dost thou recoil? Dost thou fear me?”
“No, Señor, but—”
It was with very great effort that the boy was enabled to say
these latter words, which he did with husky and tremulous accents,
the sounds dying away in his throat.
“Ay, but thou dost. Yet thou shouldst not. Henceforth,
thou shalt look upon me as thy best friend and protector, since
thy late master can take care of thee no longer.”
“My late master! the Señor Philip—Don Philip de Vasconselos!
Speak, Señor, tell me what hath happened to my master?
Where is he? Hath he been wounded—is he —”
“Oh! thou hast got thy voice of a sudden. But I am too slow
of speech to answer thy rapid inquiries. No more of thy late
master, boy! Thou art henceforth to be my page. I shall give
thee lodgings as near my own as thou hast had to those of Don
Philip. Thou shalt be a sharer of my chamber, boy, as thou
hast been of his! Ay, and I will caress thee and care for thee
quite as tenderly. I know thy great merits as a page, and I see
thy virtues beneath the unnatural black coating which wrap them
up from all other eyes. His eyes never looked on thee more
tenderly than mine shall look, boy; and thou shalt lose nothing
of pleasure and indulgence by the exchange of one master
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for another. What say'st thou? Is the thing pleasing in thy
sight?”
“I know not what thou meanest; I do not understand thee!
Only tell me, Señor, where is Señor Philip—Don Philip—”
“Señor Philip—Don Philip! nay, why not say to me, as thou
hast doubtless said a thousand times to him—Philip—Philip—
my Philip—dear, dear Philip! Is it so, my very perfect blackamoor?
Was it not thus that the dulcet accents ran, in every
possible variety of sweet and pleasant change? And by what
sweet name did our Philip requite thee, my gentle Moor?”
The boy was bewildered. It did not lessen his disquiet and
bewilderment, that the wine was evidently doing warm work with
the brain of the questioner: but Juan had acquired a strength
and confidence in army life, and in the daily communion with
Vasconselos, which now rendered him comparatively cool in
moments of difficulty, and under embarrassing relations. He
strove successfully to combat his nervous tremors and apprehensions,
and to answer calmly.
“The Señor Balthazar speaks very strange things to me, which
I do not understand!”
“Ay, but I will not leave thee in such blessed ignorance, my
good boy. Know then that thy old master is disposed of.”
“Slain! slain! Thou dost not tell me, Señor, that my master—”
“No! no! not exactly quiet yet, unless, indeed, the red men
have been about him with their stone hatchets and macanas,—or
unless some stray wolf, or pard, hath followed a keen scent to
where he lies on the field where the Adelantado hath but lately
camped.”
“Señor, for the love of the Holy Virgin, tell me truly of my
Lord!” And there was no restraint, now—no measure, in the
wild, earnest pleadings of that passionate voice. “Tell me what
hath happed—how he hath been circumvented—if still he
lives!”
“Ha! ha! Thou canst speak out now, in thy natural voice of
love and passion. Thou forget'st the blackamoor policy! Well!
Thou art in growing condition to hear the truth. Thou shalt
hear. Thy lord, thy master, thy Portuguese Don, hath paid the
penalty of his crimes—he hath been disgraced from knighthood,
stript of sword and armor, his spurs hewn from his heels, his
neck haltered to a tree, and beaten with blows of the executioner,
he is left to the storms of heaven and the hatchet of the
Apalachian!”
“Jesu! have mercy! And thou hast done this thing?”
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“Nay, but a little towards it. I but sped the progress, and
nodded to the judgment, and smiled on the execution. I put the
arrow on the string and found the mark. 'Twas De Soto that
sped it from the bow!”
The boy clasped his hands wildly together. The knight began
to sing a vulgar ballad then current in the army. There was
something very fearful in the strong glance which the page set
upon the face of the singer, whose every look and tone betrayed
the full consciousness of his triumph. He stooped, while singing,
and threw fresh brands upon the fire. Juan suddenly darted
away as if to pass him; but the knight was not unobservant,
caught him by the arm, as he went forward, and whirled him
back to the corner of the chamber beyond him.
“No! no! thou dost not cease to be page, boy, in the loss of
one master! One but makes way for another; and I am instead
of thy Philip; with all his rights and privileges, my sweet Moor.
But thou shalt lose none of thine in becoming page to me. Oh!
no! thou shalt share my lodge, my couch, an thou wilt, for my
taste revolts not at thy dusky visage, when the features are so
fine, and the good faith of the owner so perfect. Thou art mine,
now, my boy!”
“Señor! I must go and seek Don Philip!” was the calmly
expressed resolution of the boy.
“Thou wouldst go in vain. Thou wouldst find his bones only.
He hath given rare picking to the panther.”
“Señor, I must go!”
“Stay where thou art!”
“If thou hast compassion in thy soul—”
“Pshaw! I know not such folly.”
“As a knight, thou know'st it is my duty to seek my lord.”
“Not when he is dishonored, boy! Henceforth, I am thy
knight, I tell thee! Thy master—in whose hands thy life lies,
even as an egg, which I can crush to atoms with a will! What!
thou pretendest that thou know'st me not! Thou wouldst not
admit to thyself that I know thee! Does thy imposture tickle
thee so much, that thou art resolute not to see and believe?”
The page, indeed, had seen but too well! Yet he was resolute,
as Don Balthazar had said, not to see! It was still possible—
so he persuaded himself—that his persecutor spoke from his
drunkenness, rather than his knowledge;—and that his secret,—
for he had one—was still unsuspected, or, at least, unknown.
He answered accordingly, with as much calmness of temper as he
could command.
“Señor, I know not what thou mean'st or intend'st; but thou
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surely canst not design to keep me from the good knight, who hath
been my kind friend and benefactor,—my preserver frequently,—
in this weary march through the country of the Apalachian?
You tell me that he is gone from me and lost to me—you tell
me that he hath undergone a cruel judgment, for, I know not
what offence;—but you tell me that he still lives! Let me, as
in duty bound, go to the service of the good knight, Don Philip,
and succor him, if I may, and wait on him as I should! I entreat
this of thy nobleness and mercy, as a knight thyself, who
well knowest what the dutiful page oweth to the cavalier he
serves!”
The eyes of Don Balthazar answered the speaker with a wicked
leer.
“This passeth belief!” he exclaimed. “Well, it is a sort of
virtue to hold out denial to the last; though, when the mask is
torn from the face, it is but a stupid sort of virtue to do so!
And thou, too, who knowest me so well,—thou, Olivia de Alvaro—
to dream that I should not know thee through any disguise!
What a foolish child thou hast been, and art! But I knew thee
from the first day that we landed! I watched thee and thy paramour
in all thy progress! Thou hast slept with him beneath
the same tree; in the same shady thicket; under the same tent;
in the same hovel of the red man; and the same considerate
handmaiden, the night, hath drawn the curtains gently, to conceal
the loving embraces of the gallant Don and his Moorish
page!”
“Foul-mouthed, as false! It is untrue! We have slept together
in a thousand places, and the good knight hath watched and
sheltered me as a noble gentleman, but he hath never done me
wrong. Even now he knows me—wherever he be, and whatever
be his fate,—only as the boy that I appear to other eyes! But
I hope not to teach the truth of this to a soul so incapable of virtue
as is thine! It is enough that it is known to me, and to
the blessed angels, who have watched us from above!”
Don Balthazar passed to the door, and finally fastened it
within. He approached the damsel.
“It matters little, Olivia, whether he knew thee as boy or woman.
He will know thee no more. Thou art henceforth mine.
Thou shalt appear in the army as my page; and,—child,—thou
shalt sleep in my tent, and under the tree with me; and the night
shall yield us the same friendly veil which she granted to thee
and thy cavalier. It was no fault of the handmaid, I warrant, if
the knight made no discovery of thy secret! But I am wiser
than he; and my knowledge shall the better profit us both. Nor
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need thou put on the airs of thy Biscayan mother with me now!
We have no such restraints here, as restrained our raptures and
made us fearful in Havana. Here, there is something more than
freedom! Thou know'st the license of the army. Thou hast
seen that it could not save a princess of the people. Suppose it
said to the soldiers, This blackamoor page is the girl whom
Philip de Vasconselos entertained par amour—and what will follow?
I tell thee, girl, in very love of thee, they will tear one
another to pieces, and tear thy delicate limbs to pieces also! Art
thou wise to see this, and to understand how much better it will
be, still to keep thy secret, and to serve me as a page, even as
thou hast served this knight of Portugal?”
For a time, a strong despair sate in the eyes of Olivia. But
she gathered strength and comparative composure, while he
was speaking, and when he was done, she said with closed lips
and teeth,—
“I will perish first!”
“Nay, nay, thou shalt not perish! I have done too much to
secure thee in my keeping to lose thee now; when I have at last
securely won thee. I have pursued this knight of Portugal, until
I destroyed him, because he knew the secret of thy shame and
my dishonor! He is no longer a danger to either of us.—And
thou art won! We are here, alone—in the deep midnight,—
with no eye to see, no hand to rescue thee from my grasp,—and,
with the treasure thus won,—and the precious beauty thus in my
embrace,—shall I now recoil from my possessions?—shall I
withdraw my claim, and abandon the very bliss for which I have
toiled in such secret ways, and perilled so many open dangers?
No, my Olivia, thou art now mine, more certainly than ever. It
needs now no subtle opiate to subdue thy senses. It needs now
no future watchful anxiety, to watch the paths, and dread ever
more the danger and detection! Here, we have perfect freedom.
Life means privilege, to take and keep! We have no laws but
such as justify the passions; and just now, the passions are the
only laws that require to be obeyed. Thou art mine, girl,—
mine, Olivia,—and I seize thee with a rapture, which, sweet as
thy embrace hath been of yore, promises now a blessing as far
beyond the past, as the joys of heaven are claimed to be beyond
those of earth! Wilt thou be mine, and submit to be my willing
page, as thou hast been, par amour, the page of Vasconselos?”
“Touch me not, Señor!”—she said as he approached her.
“Touch me not!”
“Ay, but I will touch thee, and take thee, and wind thee in
my embrace, I tell thee!—”
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“Touch me not!” as he continued to approach.
“Thou art mine, I tell thee!” and he laid one hand upon her
shoulder, and tore wide the fastenings of the jacket of escaupil,
or cotton armor, which she wore, until the white bosom escaped
from its bonds, and grew revealed to the eyes of the satyr! At
the same moment, the three letters of Vasconselos escaped also,
and fell upon the ground.
“Ha!” said he, stooping to lift them, while he still kept one
hand upon her shoulder—“Ha! What love chronicles have
we here?”
He was about to gather them up, when, with broken accents,
she cried—
“It must be so! It hath been decreed! It is a command!
It is from God himself! I must do it! There is no escape! I
knew it would come to this at last. I felt sure that I should
have to do it!”
And while speaking thus, as if to herself, she drew the dagger
of the page, and smote the knight upon the neck, even as he
stood stooping. Had she been taught by anatomical science
where best to plant the blow for immediate death, her hand
could not have been more effectually guided than by its sudden
instinct. She smote but once, and while a husky and gurgling
sound issued, with a volume of blood, from the throat of the victim,
he fell forward upon the earth, and lay motionless at her
feet! She hastily gathered up the letters which his hands had
only touched—they were already spotted with his blood,—thrust
them once more into her bosom, opened the door, and darted
from the cabin! In a few moments more, she was mounted
upon her own steed and flying—flying far and fast, into the cover
of the forests! and ever as she rode, she murmured to herself,
gasping and breathing heavily—“I knew it must be so!—I felt
that it had to be done! It had to be done! It had to be done!
Holy Virgin! It had to be done, and by my hands!”
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CHAPTER XLII.
“Now shall we pluck him from his wretched plight,
And make misfortune favor.”
Old Play
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The army of De Soto marched down the west side of the
Coosa, and were soon buried deeply in the virgin wildernesses
of Alabama. They gave but few thoughts to the noble victim
whom they had dishonored and left to perish in the ravening
solitudes of the forest. To him, the short remnant of the day
passed in such a dreariness as may better be imagined than described.
Fettered rigidly to the tree, at the foot of which he was
barely suffered to repose in a half-crouching position, Vasconselos
was scarcely conscious of the hours as they glided from daylight
into darkness. A savage gloom covered up his soul, and shut
out the ordinary transitions and aspects of external life from his
vision. In the case of one so noble of soul, so proud of spirit, so
sensitive to shame and honor, we may fancy how terribly intense
were the horrors of such a doom as that which he had been made
to endure. We may equally understand how regardless he had
become in respect to the future, from his endurance of the past.
The day passed blankly, before his eyes; the stars came out,
looking down upon him with sad aspects through the overhanging
boughs of the forest trees, with like blankness of expression.
He heeded not, he did not behold the tender brightness in their
looks. He lay crouching, a grim savage, denied the only prayer
which his soul could possibly put up in that dreary trial, that of
a manly death, through a fierce and terrible struggle with his
enemies.
And so, hour after hour, in a hopeless craving for freedom of
limb, and the exercise of a mighty muscle in the deadly strife!
and the hopeless craving became at length debility. Mental and
physical exhaustion began to supervene. He became conscious
of aspects and influences which taught to his waning faculties the
fear of approaching madness. He was conscious of an incertitude
of thought and sense, which was the most appressive of all
the painful feelings which he now endured. He felt that his
senses were escaping him, or becoming so diseasedly acute as to
confound his judgment. He felt that he could no longer bring
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to bear upon his faculties the exercise of a controlling will and a
sober mind. Strange hues and colors, and gleams, were flashing
before his eyes; strange sounds, and murmurs, and voices, were
mingling in his ears; and he could feel, as it were, the touches
of tongues of flame that were put out to meet the ends of his
fingers, thrilling them with curiously painful sensations of cold
and heat alternately. It was not the stars that he saw, but great
eyes that swept down to him from above, wheeling about him in
mazy dances, and pausing in troops to look down into his own.
In the midst of these aspects, which were those of the mind
rather than the eye, his physical senses were made conscious
of the flight of some great bird whose wings he heard, as
they wheeled about him in slow gyrations, gradually ceasing, as
the heavy frame settled down upon the bough of the tree just
over him, whence he heard the great wings flapping, the sound
soon followed by a piercing scream, which seemed the utterance
of a savage voice of exultation—that of the vulture already in
possession of his prey. And with a natural instinct, the knight
threw up his arms, and waved his hand feebly aloft, as if to scare
away the obscene and voracious cormorant. There was a momentary
creeping of his flesh in horror, as he reflected upon the
hour—not long to be delayed—when the winged savage would
fasten upon his heart, and when he should not possess the power
to struggle against his blood-seeking beak. But the lingering
thought still strove to reconcile him to a probability, however
terrible, which yet promised him release from the mortifying
consciousness of the moral doom which his life had received—
the shame, dishonor, and humilitation of his present situation.
The strife of thought and consciousness, though but for a single
moment, in such a condition as that in which he lay, was itself a
long eternity of torture. It was not to be endured for a longer
period with mortal consciousness; and insensibility soon came
to the relief of a misery which human strength found it impossible
to sustain. Thought left him, and murmuring insane things,
Philip de Vasconselos sunk at length prostrate, and in utter
senselessness, at the foot of the tree.
And the great bird dropped heavily beside him from the
bough, and walked about him, and stood with gradually shutting
and unclosing wings above his head, as if fanning him into deeper
slumbers. But suddenly he strode away, and lifted himself
lightly again into the tree, as he heard a child-like cry in the
thicket. A moment after, a stealthy cat-like tread was to be
heard upon the leaves; and soon a long gaunt form, beautifully
spotted, stole forth, and approached the unconscious cavalier.
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And the wild savage of the woods,—the most savage, perhaps,
in all the forests of America, the panther, encircled the sleeping
man; and he stooped his nose to the unconscious ears; and there
was a faint murmur of speech from the lips of the knight; and
once more the panther retired into his thicket, and the great
vulture again dropped from the tree-top to the ground. And he,
too, encircled the sleeper. And once more he spread his great
wings above his head, and he fanned slowly the drowsy air about
him: then he sounded a fierce wild note—a great shriek through
the forest—and the sleeper stirred slightly with a lifted arm;
and the vulture resumed the fanning with his wings. But soon
another shriek from the depths of the night was heard in answer
to the signal of the watchful bird; and another followed after it.
And ere many moments there was a family group of the ravenous
birds about their victim, and each spread forth his wings,
beating slowly the drowsy atmosphere, and drawing nigher momently
until they stood about the head and breast of the unconscious
knight, like so many hooded priests about the corse of
a brother. And still it seemed as if the knight were not unconscious,
though unable. A murmur broke from his lips, and ever
and anon his arm was thrown up spasmodically, but only to fall
supine upon the earth beside him.
Again was the child-like cry heard in the forest, and the savage
panther once more issued from its depths, stealthily as the cat,
passing along timorously beside the edge of the wood, and pursuing
a circling course towards his victim; and this time he came
not alone. He was accompanied by his more savage mate, followed
by her cubs, and they drew near, whining as they did so,
like kittens that are beckoned to their food. The obscene birds
angrily flapped their wings and shrieked at their approach; but
still retreated, and once more lifted themselves upon slow
pinions to the trees above, where they looked down, watching
the common prey, and waiting for their moment with impatience.
Now, could we see clearly the condition of the exhausted
cavalier, we should behold him covered with a cold and clammy
sweat, the proof that there was still a lurking consciousness, a
faculty of life, which, though lacking every essential capacity for
struggle and defence, was yet not wanting in the acutest sensibilities
of horror. Again was there a feeble murmur of speech
from his pallid lips, and again were his nerveless arms stirred, but
this time unlifted, as if striving to defy or to drive away the assailant.
He was not thus to be expelled. Heedless of the murmur,
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heedless of the moving arms, the savage dam, crying to her cubs,
planted her stealthy foot firmly upon the bosom of the victim.
The male panther, meanwhile, stood above his head, watchful of
every movement, and ready to rend with fierce teeth and talons,
at the first shows of life or struggle. And the cold sweat breaks
in great drops from brow and bosom of the knight, and his eyes
open, and he shouts,—or strives to shout, but how feebly!—and
his arm strikes out wildly, but with the most child-like feebleness;
and on the instant the grim savage who stands above his
head, leaps terribly upon his breast. And the eyes of the knight
are now widely open, and he sees and feels, but he has no
strength, no hope! He murmurs a prayer to Heaven, and his
eyes close upon the rest! He resigns himself to the fate which
he can no longer oppose, and from which he sees no means of
escape. Not that he desires escape from death. It is the animal
instinct only that would struggle now, and for this the animal is
incapable. It is the manner of the death only from which the
mind revolts, and the mind rapidly lapses into trance. In his
latest consciousness he hears the sharp, shrill cry of the gigantic
and savage beast upon his breast.
He little dreams that the cry is one of annoyance and fear,
and not of triumph. Suddenly the vultures scream from the
tree, and the beasts cry angrily beneath it. They are startled
from their prey. The woods gleam with sudden lights, that flash
offensively in the eyes of the midnight prowlers of the jungle.
The great natural alleys of the forests echo with cheerful voices.
The lights dart from side to side; they are torches borne by
troops of the red men that gather at the summons of a group
that now approach, armed with flaming brands also, towards the
spot where the Portuguese cavalier lies at length unconscious.
The beasts growl and whine, fiercely glaring upon the backward
path, as they retire from before the gleaming torches. Blazing
brands are flung at them by the red men, to hurry them in flight,
and they slink away from the victim whom they were just about
to rend. The vultures in turn lift their vans and sail off to higher
trees of the forest. There they sit, brooding sullenly on what
they see. So the panthers, with their savage young, disappointed
of their feast, lurk angrily upon the edge of the dark jungle in
which they make their abode. They still lurk, watchful, hopeful
of their victim; and woe to the Indian, particularly if a woman,
should he or she wander too nigh the spot where he crouches, and
neglects to wave before the path the brand of fire which offends
his eyes!
In place of obscene bird and savage beast, groups of the red
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men surround the prostrate knight. In the midst, bent over
him with solicitous care and passionate affection, kneels a young
and beautiful woman of the dusky race. Her cares revive him.
He opens his eyes to see, by the light of the blazing torches, the
fond and sweet features of Coçalla, the Princess of Cafachiqui.
“He lives! His eyes open to Coçalla! Oh! Philip, thou
shalt be mine now, and forever, and a great chief among my
people!”
He swoons again, but he is in fond and faithful keeping.
-- 461 --
CHAPTER XLIII.
“Faithful, she flies, in search of him she loves,
But droops at last! Ah! hapless, that the soul
Finds no sufficient succor from the frame,
T' achieve the wondrous virtue that it wills!”
Old Play.
[figure description] Page 461.[end figure description]
Olivia de Alvaro—or, as we shall continue to describe her in
her assumed character and sex—Juan, the Page of Vasconselos;
the deed done which avenged the wrongs of herself and lover
upon one, at least, and the worst of their enemies; fled upon her
fiery steed, with blood more fiery and wild, bounding madly in
her own bosom. She drove the rowel into the eager destrier, unwitting
what she did or where she flew. For a time, her progress
was the work of madness. Certainly, she gave herself no
single moment of thought. She obeyed an impulse—an instinct.
She made no moment's pause, she asked herself no single question.
It mattered not to her, in that fearful hour, with her hands
dyed deeply in kindred blood, and thick billows of the same red
sea, seeming to flow in upon her throbbing brain, in what direction
she flew, or what fate awaited her. There was a power,
seemingly beyond, if not foreign to her own, which drove her
forward recklessly. The passions held the reins. She followed
as they bade. The horse flew beneath her, yet it seemed as if she
would have flown beyond him. His speed was nothing to the
wild and headlong flight of her moods. She was scarcely conscious
of his movements. On, on—no matter whither—she
goads him terribly forward—and he snorts as he bounds away,
and the thick flakes of foam gather about his mouth, and the
white streaks rise upon his flanks, and yet the rowel rakes and
tears his reddening sides.
But the instincts of horse and rider are equally true. Juan
knew the general routes of the army. In forest countries, the
military traces are few and soon defined. The tread of a corps
of horse or foot through the woods soon makes itself perceptible.
The horse readily detects the beaten pathways of his fellows.
Our page, besides, had been previously advised of the
route of De Soto. He knew from the taunts of Don Balthazar,
that Vasconselos had been summoned to camp,—that it was there
he had been dishonored—and left;—and beyond this he desired
no more knowledge to give him a general notion of the route he
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should pursue. He had become skilled, from the sinuous progress
which he had made with the army. He had gradually—
perhaps without his own consciousness—acquired all those general
laws of travel which the wayfarer in the great forests can
hardly forbear to learn. But to these he made no reference in
the present progress. His lessons came to him through his impulses.
They served him as instincts. In the ordinary processes
of thought and induction, he certainly did not once indulge
during the long, wild, but well-directed flight, in which we are to
trace his course.
He dashed headlong through the village of Chiaha, where the
command of Don Balthazar was still quartered. Little did his
cavaliers dream of the bloody fate of their superior. The fugitive
was challenged by the sentry as he entered one of the
sylvan avenues, and again challenged as he hurried through the
opposite end into the wilderness again. He heard not the demand—
he made no answer to the summons, and the matchlock
was emptied at him as he flew, and he knew not that he had
escaped any danger. The great thickets once more receive him
with such shelter as they afford. The dim lights of heaven suffice
for the steed, but he sees nothing, nor is he conscious of
any lack of light. If he does not reason, he is yet not unenlightened
by aspects that sufficiently fill his mind. Even as he
speeds, he sees, still receding as he approaches, yet still conspicuously
distinct before his eyes, the great encampment of De
Soto—the amphitheatre of trees and tents, and grouped soldiers
surrounding and grim warriors presiding in judgment, and a cruel
executioner with bloody axe prominent over all, and in the midst
a noble form, about to sink!—and he cries hoarsely as he spurs
the steed—hoarsely and feebly,—his voice subsiding to a whisper—
“But one moment, Philip—but one moment—and I am with
thee. With thee, Philip! with thee! To die with thee, Philip—
to die for thee! One moment, Philip—one moment—one!—”
And at each period of pause,—when the steed stopped to pant,—
or, with nose to the ground, to scent, or to feel, his way—such
would be the apostrophe. Then the dark or bloody aspects would
seem to rise more conspicuously and urgently before the gaze of
the fugitive—the arrested motion of the steed making him feel
that the delay was dangerous—that the event was in progress
which he alone could arrest—that not a moment was to be lost!
and this was all his thought! Then it was that the lingering
beast would be made anew to feel the severe inflictions of the
rowel,—and, snorting with terror to plunge forward with his
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burden — fortunately a light one—resuming a flight which, for five
hours, had known no cessation. In this flight the rider had no
terrors—no consciousness of any danger. The beast had many.
Sometimes he shyed from the track, while every limb shook with
emotion. His keen scent had caught the wind borne to him from
the lairs of the wolf and panther. They, too, might have been
upon his track; doubtless were,—but that his flight had been so fast
and far, and that he seemed to their eyes to carry on his back
a wild terror, with eyes of madness, much more fearful than their
own. Of such as these the fugitive never thought. But, when
the steed swerved aside, he irked him with spur or dagger,—indignant—
crying out in shrillest tones—“Beast! we have not a
moment to lose. See you not they hasten!—ah! Philip, but a
moment more! But a moment!”
And with every word there was rowel stroke, or dagger
thrust, till the flanks and neck of the steed were clammy with
the red blood oozing forth.
And while the eyes of the rider stared out, dilating, wild and
red, into the infinite space and vacancy—filled only with confused
and dreadful aspects to his gaze—the day suddenly opened
the great portals of the world, and the steed went forward with
more confidence; but Juan saw not a whit more than had been
quite as apparent to him all the night. Nay, he saw less, for
night and darkness, and the solitude, had been favorable to the
creation of such illusions as had occupied his mind, and the glare
of day, and the sounds and sights of waking and creeping things,
did somewhat conflict with the mental power to create and make
its own individual impressions.
It was a dreadful ride, like that of Leonora and the Fiend
Lover, in the weird and fantastic legend of Bürger. And, if the
dead lover accompanied not our fugitive, there were yet terrible
aspects that rode beside, and fearful cries followed on the wind,
while ever and anon the voice of Don Balthazar thrilled in the
ears of the page, crying, “Back, you are mine! You are too
late!”
Then would the fugitive set his teeth closely together, and
clutch his dagger with determined gripe, and hiss through his
shut lips—“What! you have not had enough? You would taste
again, would you!”
And so muttering, he would behold the amphitheatre once
more, wherein De Soto's knights and soldiers environed the noble
victim; and so seeing, the boy would set on, with driving spur
anew, repeating his hoarse whisper in his throat the while—“But
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a moment, Philip—but a moment! and I will be with thee and
die with thee!”
The day dawned, and the horse sped over a beaten track.
He was in the very route pursued the day before, when Don
Balthazar returned triumphant after the degradation of his enemy—
returned, as he fancied, to delights, and the safe renewal of
criminal but intoxicating pleasures, never once dreaming that
Fate stood with open arms welcoming him to the bloodiest embrace.
The steed of our page felt himself sure at every step. The
track was readily apparent. He went forward more confidently
and more cheerfully, but with less rapidity, for now it was that
the rider began to feel the gradual exhaustion of that strength
which had been too severely taxed by such a progress. The
page was no longer conscious of the diminished speed of the animal.
His own growing feebleness reconciled him to the more
sluggish pace of the beast. But ever and anon he would start
out of his stupor with a sort of cry, and using the rowel, would
expostulate—“Would you stop now, beast, when we are nigh
the spot? What, do you not hear him call to me? You know his
voice. Hear! He says—ah! what does he say! But I know,
I know. Wait but a moment, Señor,—but a moment—but a
moment!”
And the bridle grasp would relax,—and the form would seem
to turn in the saddle,—while the eyes would close for a while, to
open anew, only at the sudden short stopping of the horse, to
graze along the wayside. Then would the rider show a moment's
anger, and send him forward anew with prick of dagger, and mutter
as before—the poor beast submitting, with the wonted docility
of the well-trained war-horse, pursuing meekly the beaten
track until he stood—coming to a full halt—on the very ground
where De Soto's encampment had been made.
Then the page opened his eyes, and was about to smite the
beast and goad him forward—when the rude scaffolding which
the Adelantado had made his dais—on which had stood his
Chair of State, and where he had delivered judgment—became
suddenly apparent to his glance. With a sudden shriek as he
beheld, the boy stretched out his hands and plunged forward, falling
heavily upon the ground, with a sad murmur—
“It is too late! too late!”
He swooned away; while the horse, stepping carefully backward,
wandered off in search of water. And, for an hour, the
beast wandered thus from side to side. He found streams in which
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he slaked his thirst. He found tender grasses in the shady
woods, which he cropped at leisure. And the day thus wore on.
The animal now began to be a little restive, and he whinnied for
companionship, looking round, from side to side, for some one
to approach, and strip off his furniture, and show that solicitude
for him to which he had been accustomed, and which the beast
craves no less than his master.
His whinny made its way to other ears than those of his late
rider. The page still lay insensible, in the shadow of a great
tree; nature thus seeking relief from the sufferings which it had
undergone, and obtaining respite from the fiery stress of thought
upon the brain. Soon, a figure emerged from the thicket, stealthily
approaching the spot where the horse had again begun to
feed. The stranger was one of the red men, a subject of the
Cassique of Chiaha. He was followed by two others, one of whom
was a woman. The leader of the party made his way towards
the steed, observing the while the greatest precaution. To the
red men the horse was still an object of terror. He had been
wont, at first, to confound him with his rider. He had thus perfectly
conceived the idea of the ancients of the East, to whom we
owe the classical monster, the Centaur. Disabused by experience
of this error, he did not yet divest the horse of all those
powers which really belonged to his rider. He fancied still that
fire issued from his nostrils. He did not doubt that his teeth
were quite as fearful as those of the tiger or the wolf. It required,
accordingly, no small degree of courage to approach the
monster of which so little was known, and of whose powers so
much was erroneously thought. But one red man did approach;
the horse seeming so innocent—so gentle and subdued—so quietly
grazing, and altogether inviting approach by the general docility
of his air and behaviour. The grasp of the forest hunter
was at length fairly laid upon the bridle of the steed, and he was
a captive.
The red man laughed out with delight. He called his comrades
to him, and they approached with trembling. He grew
bolder as he beheld their fears. He encouraged them. He
stroked the neck and mane of the beast, who seemed grateful
and submissive, and they all laughed. And they chattered
among themselves like parrots; until made bolder as he became
familiar, and as the animal continued to crop the grass, showing
himself quite passive, the captor leapt upon his back, and crept
forward to the saddle, and wreathed his hand in the mane, having
abandoned his grasp of the bridle, of the use of which he had no
notion. Pleased with his elevation, the savage persuaded his
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comrades to follow him, and his brother warrior leapt up, then
the squaw followed, and as the horse moved slowly from side to
side, cropping the grass, and seemingly heedless of his burden,
but still walking, the simple savages clapped their hands and
yelled with delight.
But that yell awakened the destrier to new sensations. The
beast knew that he was in the power of his enemies. His character
changed on the instant. His moods, his passions, were all
stirred with excitement. He threw head and tail aloft. He
shook out his mane; the blood of the war-horse was aroused as
with the shrill summons of the clarion, and he dashed away at
headlong speed, to seek the spot where he had left his master.
At the first bound he shook himself free of the squaw, who rolled
away over his haunches, suffering no hurt but a prodigious fright,
as she settled down in a heap upon the earth, hardly knowing
whether she was dead or alive. The Indians yelled again with
sudden terror; and the shrill cry increased the speed of the animal.
Away he dashed with the headlong rapidity of a charge.
The foremost of the savages clung to his back like a cat, while he
wound his hands more firmly within the animal's mane. The
other clung to the body of his comrade. Then the animal threw
his head down, and both of them went over his neck. They
rolled away, on opposite sides, quite unhurt, but horribly
alarmed. The steed flew, as he felt relieved of his burden, and
he was quickly out of sight.
The two savages lay for several minutes upon the earth, not
daring to look up or speak. But as the sounds of the horse's
feet grew more distant, one of them rose to a sitting posture.
He called to the other in under tones. It required some thought
and examination to be assured of the fact that both of them still
lived, and that no bones were broken. One of them went back
for the squaw. She, too, was unhurt. They were soon brought
together, and a rapid consultation determined them to pursue
the monster who had treated them with so much indignity.
Bows were bent, arrows got in readiness, the stone hatchet was
seized in sinewy grasp, and the two warriors went forward—the
woman following at a little distance, and trembling for the event.
It was a matter of course that the red men should fasten instantly
upon the fresh track of the horse, and follow it with
unerring certainty. The beast, meanwhile, had made his way
back to where the page had fallen, and when the pursuers drew
nigh they found him smelling at the hands of his late rider and
pushing them with his nose. The boy was stirring slightly.
Suddenly, the horse receded. He had winded the red men. He
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dashed backward, and as he did so, seizing their moment, they
both darted upon the half-awaking Juan, and had seized him
by the arms before he had become fully conscious. The rude
assault brought him back to consciousness. He strove to shake
off his captors, but his struggles were feeble; his arms fell uselessly,
unperformingly, beside him; and he showed his submission
by signs. Why should he struggle against fate? What had he
to live for? Why should he dread the death which he now
fancied to be certain?
The red men possessed themselves of the page's dagger, the
only weapon which he carried. With their stone hatchets
waving in his sight, they motioned him to rise. By signs they
bade him recover the horse, which he did without effort, but they
were sufficiently wary not to suffer him to mount. The beast
was led accordingly, and the boy proceeded with his captors all
on foot; the squaw having joined them in compliance with their
repeated halloos.
The destrier was now docile enough, following his master.
The page feebly led him on. But he soon sank down by the
way. One of the red men would have brained him with his
hatchet; but the other, who was the older, and the woman, interposed.
The latter soon perceived the boy's exhaustion, and
while one of the men went off in search of a spring or rivulet,
the squaw darted into the woods, bringing back with her, after a
little while, some leaves, and a small round acid fruit. The latter
she squeezed into the page's mouth. The leaves she pressed
upon his forehead. Water was brought in a leaf shaped like a
slipper, of which he drank freely. In a little while he was revived.
When he recovered sufficiently, he motioned them by
signs to let him ride, one of them taking the bridle within his
hands. The proposition was a startling one, and led to a long
discussion among the captors, which was finally settled by the
eldest of the party, who seized the bridle with the most heroic
air of self-sacrifice, in one hand, while with the other, waving
his stone hatchet, he threatened the head of the horse with sudden
stroke, at the first suspicious symptom. Juan mounted with
feeble heart and limbs, indifferently, and only resigned to the
wishes of his captors.
And thus the four travelled for six or eight weary hours.
Noon came and went. The sun at length was faintly smiling
farewell over the forest, at the closing of his pilgrimage, when
the party came in sight of the beautiful river, the Coosa, at the
spot where it first acquires an individual existence, from the
junction of the Etowah and the Oostanaula.
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Here was an encampment of the red men. They could be
seen in crowds along the banks of the river. But the eyes of
Juan were fastened upon a group that was gathered beneath a
sort of canopy upon the hillside. They slowly approached this
station. The page's eyes brightened as he drew nigh. Surely,
it is Don Philip that he sees, seated upon the ground in front of
the canopy, while the red men wander about in the back-ground.
But the page doubts. Can it be that the savage-looking
man whom he sees,—woe-stricken, with matted and dishevelled
hair and beard,—is his noble master—the accomplished
knight of Portugal—the man of grace, and stature, and beauty;
of ease and sweetness, and clear bright eye, and generous aspect?
Can he have so altered in so short a space? Juan could scarcely
believe. But he had no conception of the change which he had
himself undergone. With a cry he threw himself from the steed
at the feet of the cavalier—
“Oh! Señor! Oh! Don Philip—”
The knight looked up for the first time as he heard the cry.
“My poor boy, my poor Juan, is it thou, indeed!”
And he took the boy suddenly to his embrace. He shrunk
from the grasp: he trembled like a leaf; tottered, and would
have fallen but that the knight held him up.
“God be praised, Juan, that thou art again with me! I had
feared that I should lose thee forever, my poor boy; and surely,
Juan, if there be any that I can now love, it is thyself.”
He again grasped the page and drew him to his embrace. The
head of the boy sank upon his shoulder. His eye was bright
with tears. The head was relieved. The heart enjoyed a strange
and sudden sensation of happiness. At that moment his ear
caught the sound of a well-known voice.
“Philip!” said, in the tenderest tones, the beautiful Coçalla,
the Princess of Cofachiqui; and she laid her hand affectionately
upon the shoulders of the knight.
“Philip!”
The word went like a dagger to the heart of the page. The
tenderness of tone in which it was spoken filled her soul with
bitterness. There was an agony in her bosom, as sudden and
extreme as the rapture which had filled it but a moment before,
and, with the seeming recovery of all her strength and senses,
she withdrew herself from the embrace of Vasconselos, who
gently released her.
“Go within, Juan,” said the knight, pointing him to the rude
tent of bushes before which stood the canopy of stained cotton;
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“go within, boy, and await me, for I have much to hear from
thee.”
With the big tears gathering in his eyes like great pearls of
the ocean, the page did as he was commanded, having, ere he
went, beheld Coçalla take her place by the side of the knight,
while one of her hands rested proudly on his shoulder, and her
large brown eyes seemed to drink in rapture while gazing deeply
into his.
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CHAPTER XLIV.
Auf.
“Say, what's thy name?
Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face
Bears a command in 't; though thy tackle's torn
Thou show'st a noble vessel. What's thy name?”
Coriolanus.
[figure description] Page 470.[end figure description]
Meanwhile, the Spanish army pursued its progress into the
rich, wild provinces of the Alabamous. They were now approaching
the territories of the great Indian Cassique, called Tuscaluza,
or the Black Warrior,—a ruler at once remarkable for
the extent of his sway, his haughty valor, and his gigantic stature.
He had heard of the approaching Spaniards, of their power, their
wonderful arms and armor, their strange appearance, and the
mystery which seemed to envelop their origin. He was naturally
curious to see the strangers, and was too great a potentate
himself, and too valiant a chief to entertain any apprehension of
their power. Of their treatment of his kinswoman, Coçalla, he
had up to this period heard nothing, and his invitation, accordingly,
through his inferior cassiques, was cordially extended to
the Spanish commander to visit him in the recesses of his wild
domain. His chief settlements were along the banks of the river
which still bears his name—his territories stretched away indefinitely,
even beyond the waters of the Mississippi. As the strangers
drew nigh to his royal precincts, he despatched his son to give
them special welcome—a youth of eighteen, but tall like himself,
his stature far overtopping that of the tallest soldiers in the
Spanish army. His bold and noble carriage contributed, with
his stature, to compel the respect and admiration of the Adelantado
and his cavaliers.
But ere the arrival of this youth, as an ambassador, there was
some stir in the Spanish camp, in consequence of the treatment
which Philip de Vasconselos had received. The return of Nuno
de Tobar, and Andres de Vasconselos, led to warm words, angry
passion, and finally to a re-examination of the affair. If Andres
felt coldly towards his brother—and no doubt his conscience had
long since rebuked him severely for his conduct, for which his boyish
pride would suffer him to make no atonement—his feelings of
kindred were by no means subdued. Now that his brother was
dishonored, and had probably perished in consequence of the
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exile and exposure which followed his sentence, the better nature
of the young man obtained the ascendant, and he felt his error to
its full extent, and bitterly lamented the little sympathy which
he had shown to a brother to whom he was indebted for the best
training and affection of his early years. Nor was Nuno de
Tobar less eagerly aroused than Andres to the necessity of vindicating
the fame of Philip, and, if possible, of recovering and restoring
him to the army. To this end their earnest efforts were
directed. The woods were scoured where the victim had been
left to perish, but in vain. He was already in the close keeping
of the Princess of Copachiqui—not so far, indeed, from the camp
of the Spaniards—not so much beyond their reach—but that, had
he himself been willing, he might have been found. But in what
way could it be conveyed to him that he was not pursued with
malice, and that justice should be done to his worth at last? He
might well question the motives for the search on the part of
those from whom he had never yet experienced sympathy or
confidence.
Coçalla and her followers were all well aware of the neighborhood
of the Spanish parties sent out in search of Philip—nay, he
himself was not ignorant, and he might possibly have suspected
their better motives, knowing as he did that his brother and
Nuno de Tobar were at the head of these detachments; but he
now no longer cared to resume a connection with the associates
who had abandoned him, and with an expedition whose daily progresses
revolted all his human and chivalrous sentiments. Besides,
he had been inexpiably disgraced according to all the laws
of chivalry, and there was no adequate power to do him justice,
and to restore his honors. A savage scorn of all social relations
took the place in his bosom of the gentler sympathies he had once
so loved to cherish. A fierce mood preyed like a vulture upon his
thoughts, and he brooded only upon revenge. This was now the
atoning, the compensative sentiment which he encouraged, and his
thought was wholly addressed to the modes by which he should
wreak the full measure of his vengeance upon the two whom he
regarded as the principals in his great disgrace, and the bitter
defeat of all his hopes and honor. His thought by day, his dream
by night, found him ever engaged in the hot struggle of the gladiator
with Don Balthazar de Alvaro and the haughty Adelantado;
and he sat or wandered with his savage associates, grim
and silent, following the progress of the Spaniards with eye and
mind; a Fate, himself, threatening but too truly the melancholy
doom which attended upon their footsteps.
It was with a gloomy feeling of bitterness and self-reproach that
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Andres de Vasconselos and Nuno de Tobar gave up the search
after the fugitive. They naturally concluded that he had perished—
the victim of the red men. But they addressed themselves
to the business of the inquiry touching the charges brought
against him, and, in particular, as concerned the agency of Don
Balthazar in the affair. In respect to this person, Nuno de Tobar
could give considerable evidence. The conviction that Don
Balthazar had been the vindictive pursuer of his brother to destruction,
prompted Andres de Vasconselos to hurry to the village
of Chiaha, where the former had been left in command, resolved
to disgrace him by blows, and force him to single combat. He
was met on his arrival by the intelligence, already known to us,
of the murder of the knight, and of the flight of the page Juan—
the latter being supposed by some the assassin; by others, the
red men were credited with the achievement, the boy being
thought their captive.
Andres de Vasconselos was disarmed by this intelligence, which
had the further effect of relieving Hernan de Soto of much of the
responsibilities of his situation. Though bold and haughty enough,
it was yet quite too important to the safety, not less than the
success, of the Adelantado, to venture to defy the complaints and
indignation of some of his bravest knights. He now began to
feel that he should need the very meanest of his force to carry
through the objects of his expedition, and in propitiating the captains
who had interested themselves in the case of Philip, the
death of Don Balthazar afforded a ready agency. He was, in
fact, the chief criminal, and De Soto was really but his creature.
Facts were exposed by Tobar, showing the bitter malice of Don
Balthazar; and the very creatures whom he had suborned against
the knight of Portugal, were now not unwilling to expose the
influences which were brought to bear for his destruction. De
Soto, after the farce of a solemn reconsideration of the case, was
brought to revoke his judgment; but it was too late! Philip de
Vasconselos had undergone a fearful change of character. He
was now the vulture of revenge, hovering in the rear of the devoted
cavalcade, waiting his moment when to swoop down in
blood upon the quarry.
Close and ominous watch, indeed, did he keep upon the movements
of the Spaniards through the agency of the red men of Cofachiqui.
They were gathering daily in numbers, well armed,
and eager for revenge. They were joined by the warriors of
Chiaha, and tacitly, as it seemed, did they refer the whole conduct
of their people to the direction of Philip de Vasconselos. In this
they naturally obeyed the wishes of the Princess; but this
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influence might not have sufficed to confer upon him this authority,
were it not that they were instinctively impressed by himself, by
the great injuries which had made him the incarnation of that
wild revenge which the red men so much love and honor, and
by his unquestionable ability as a commander. He, himself,
seemed to take their lead as a matter of course. He neither
asked them nor himself in respect to the matter. He willed, and
they submitted. He pointed with his finger hither or thither, and
they sped. They saw his purpose in his look. They took their
directions from his eye and hand; and there was that of the terribly
savage in his fearful glance, and so much of the sublimely
fearful in the embodied woe which seemed to speak in every silent
look and gesture, that to submit and obey was the voluntary impulse
of all who looked upon the noble outlaw.
The one purpose which occupied his mind, sufficed to concentrate
all his faculties. The Spaniards now began daily to experience
the influence of a will and a power which threatened them
with the greatest dangers, the more formidable, as it was still impossible
to conjecture what shape the danger was to take, or when
and where the blow was to fall. An ominous gloom seemed to
hang upon their hearts. Superstitious apprehensions haunted
their souls—a cloud seemed to hang upon their pathway, in no
degree relieved by the courteous invitations of the great cassique,
Tuscaluza. Weariness, exhaustion, daily toil and march, and
continued disappointments, no doubt combined to render them
especially sensible to such fears and doubts. But there were
external evidences daily offered them which had their effect, also,
in compelling and arousing their superstitious fears. The red
men seemed to have altered their whole policy. They hovered
about the advancing army, but without coming to blows. They
no longer rushed out boldly from beneath the forest trees, in
groups, or single men, challenging the invader to the crossing of
the spears. But if they did not fight, they did not fly. There, in
front, and flank, and rear, they might be seen to hover like so
many threatening clouds, retiring into safety when approached,—
not to be overtaken,—but still giving proofs that they were unrelaxing
in that haunting watch and pursuit which they had begun
from the moment when Vasconselos took command. It may be
that De Soto and others suspected his presence and authority
among the red men, and that a gloomy prescience, and vague
terrors, were the result of this suspicion. To these feelings, each
day added large increase. The Spaniards now longed for the
strife; they felt how much easier and more grateful it would be
to bring this annoyance to prompt and desperate issue, which vexed
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their pride and perpetually troubled their securities. But they
strove for this in vain. Many were the efforts which they made
to beguile the savages to battle,—to ensnare them in ambush,—
to run them down with their mounted men; but the vigilant
generalship of the Portuguese cavalier held them in close hands,
and they hung about the wearied Spaniards like clouds of voracious
birds, sufficiently nigh to seize their prey when occasion
offered, but at a safe distance from any danger. Daily they succeeded
in picking up some victim from the ranks of the invader.
Not a loiterer escaped the bow-shaft or the macana. The
straggler invariably perished—pierced with sharp arrows, or
brained with the heavy hatchet of stone. It was death to turn
aside into the covert; it was fatal to charge beyond the ranks
which offered immediate support. One newly adopted policy
of the red men seemed particularly ominous to the Spaniards.
They now addressed their shafts to the breasts of the horses,
rather than the cavaliers, and every now and then some fine
steed fell a victim under the unexpected arrow, despatched from
unsuspected coverts where the assailants found impenetrable
shelter.
Thus haunted, thus troubled with evil omens, the Spanish army
made its way into the thickly settled countries of the Alabamous.
This people, under the sway of Tuscaluza, were probably composed
of the Choctaws, Chickasaws, and the remnants of other
tribes. They were numerous, in comparison with the other
nations of the red men, and were as fearless and practised in
warfare as they were numerous. De Soto, in entering their
great towns and villages, did so with unusual precaution. His
mind was impressed evidently with a far greater sense of the responsibilities
and difficulties of his situation than had ever been the
case before. His apprehensions and disquiet were greatly increased
at this period by a new evil; an epidemic appeared
among his troops, which was fatal to many. They were seized
with a low fever, which seemed to prostrate them instantly. At
the end of a very few days they perished; the skin, even before
death, becoming of a discolored and greenish hue, and their bodies
emitting a fetid odor. A terrible fear possessed the army, that
they were poisoned—that the subtle savages had mixed their
maize, or the waters of the streams, with some vegetable poison
of great potency. We may imagine the terror that seized upon
all hearts from a conjecture so full of horror. Some of their
Tamenes, however, suggested a native remedy for the disease,
which was probably due rather to exhaustion and unsatisfactory
food. A ley, made from the ashes of a certain herb, and
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mingled with their food instead of salt—of which they had none—
was found to afford security against attack. But many of
them perished of the disorder before the remedy was made
known.
Tuscaluza met De Soto at one of his villages, at some distance
from his capital city. He probably did not design that the
Spaniards should penetrate to that place. But he did not know
the character of the invaders. The haughty chieftain welcomed the
Adelantado in a truly royal manner, with great show of forest
state, and a dignity which might have furnished a model to the
noblest sovereign of Christendom. His immense stature, erect
carriage, haughty demeanor, perfect composure, insensibility to
surprise of any kind, had the effect of awing the Spaniards into
something like reverence, for a season. The Adelantado presented
him with a dress of scarlet, and with a flowing mantle of
the same material. These he wore with a natural grace which
showed him superior to the efforts of the artist. With his own
towering plumes, he became the crowning and central figure, of
right, amid the grand assemblage of native chieftains and steelclad
warriors by whom he was surrounded. The Adelantado
added to his gifts that of a horse also; though it was with great
difficulty that a beast was found sufficiently powerful to endure
the weight of so colossal a warrior.
The courtesy of De Soto, his gifts and attentions were not
unpleasing to the haughty Cassique, and he cheerfully accompanied
them in a march of three days, to one of his first-class
villages, called after himself, Tuscaluza. This village stood upon
a peninsula of the Alabama River. The river was crossed without
difficulty, and the army encamped for the night in a beautiful
valley, about a league beyond the place of passage. There was
feasting and great state for some hours in the Spanish camp, and
Tuscaluza was a guest at supper with the Adelantado. But
when he retired, it was without the precincts of the camp, and
the Spaniards, though on the watch to discover his place of retreat
for the night, failed to trace his progress through the wild
forests through which, with his attendants, he made his easy
way. But there were other watchers more successful, and when
Tuscaluza entered his sylvan lodge, but two miles from the
Spanish camp, he found the beautiful Princess Coçalla, his
own niece, awaiting him in the lodge; and seated upon a pile of
bearskins, a stern, silent, savage-looking man, one of the palefaced
warriors, in whose grim aspect we recognize the once
gentle, graceful, and courtly knight of Portugal.
Coçalla threw herself upon the neck of Tuscaluza, and was
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welcomed with such a degree of fondness as was consistent with
the pride and power of so haughty a monarch. He received her
with tenderness even, and she wept sweet tears upon the breast
of him who had been the well-beloved brother of her mother.
What fool was it who first taught that the red men lacked the
sensibilities of humanity?
But we must defer our further report to another chapter.
-- 477 --
CHAPTER XLV.
Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent.”
Hamlet.
[figure description] Page 477.[end figure description]
The gigantic and haughty sovereign of the Alabamous was
sensibly awed by the stern aspect which encountered him, when
he turned from the beautiful Coçalla to welcome to his abode the
outlawed knight of Portugal. Stern self-possession, calm inflexible
endurance—as significant of the big heart and the unyielding
courage—are among the master virtues of the red men. In brief
words, Coçalla had conveyed to her uncle the simple outline of
the fortunes of Vasconselos, as well as her own, since she had
first come to a knowledge of the Spaniards. Tuscaluza had heard
enough to compel his respect for the knight, and to secure his
gratitude and confidence in consideration of what he had done for
the Princess. But when he looked on Philip, he saw before him
no ordinary warrior. He felt himself in the presence of a Fate—
of a terror and a power, the resources and purpose of which
he could instantly conjecture from the mixed aspect of concentrated
woe and vengeance which confronted him. He welcomed
the knight, but the latter had no answer; and the savage prince,
who seemed at once to comprehend the nature and the necessity
of the cavalier, sate quietly beside him upon the bear skins, and
yielded himself composedly, while Coçalla proceeded to unfold
the details of that long history which she had hitherto rendered
him in the briefest possible manner.
To one who should regard only the outer aspects of the red
man, the features of Tuscaluza betrayed not the slightest secret
of the impression which this narrative made upon his soul. But
the pride, anger, fierce hatred, and eager impulse to war, were
not the less active in his bosom, because there were no external
signs of their presence. At the close of the story, he simply rose
and threw off the scarlet robes with which De Soto had decorated
his person, cast them contemptuously upon the earthen floor of
his cabin, and, as he paced the apartment to and fro, he walked
over the rich silks unheedingly. Then, after a brief interval, he
stretched his hand out to Vasconselos. The latter took it without
a word, and rose. He laid his own hand upon his breast,
and said, in the Choctaw dialect:—
“Philip is a warrior. He will fight the battles of the great
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Tuscaluza. Will the Cassique say to his warriors—Go! follow
Philip, that we may drive the Spaniards to their homes beyond
the sea?”
“That we may drive them into the sea!” was the fierce response,
as the savage monarch again eagerly grasped the hand of
the knight. He added—“Philip shall be a great chief of the Alabamous.
He shall have many warriors to go with him to battle.
He shall show to the Black warrior of the Alabamous how we
may best feed on these Spaniards, and capture the mighty beasts
upon which they ride.”
“It shall be done. Let Philip be clad in the war-paint of the
Alabamous, and bring him garments for a chief of the red men.”
When Philip had spoken these words, Coçalla threw her arms
about his neck. He did not return her caresses, but he looked
into her face with a tender sadness, which for a moment smoothed
the terrible expression from his visage. At this moment the
page Juan entered the apartment. Coçalla caught his glance,
and instantly withdrew her arms from the neck of Vasconselos.
How subtle are the feminine instincts. The forest Princess
seemed to know that Juan looked not favorably upon the passion
which she felt for Philip. The page, meanwhile, recoiled
from the glance of Tuscaluza, who, as he regarded the intruder,
stopped in his walk, exclaiming—“Hah!”
Coçalla calmly bade the page enter, and explained his relation
with Vasconselos.
“It is good,” replied the Cassique, resuming his walk. “It is
good; but let him go, till one shall come to him and say, `thy
master hath use for thee,' and his finger conveyed the same directions
to the page himself. With a sad, longing look towards
Philip—who did not seem to heed him, or, indeed, to heed anything—
Juan turned away, and left the hovel.
It was then that Tuscaluza brought forth sundry rich garments
of native furs and cotton, the latter stained brightly with yellow,
the color of the nation, and crossed with bars of blue. The banner
of Tuscaluza was thus designed, the bars of blue being three
in number. These were presented to Philip, who received them
as a matter of course, with something of indifference in his manner,
while he stooped carefully and picked up the scarlet robes
upon which Tuscaluza had so scornfully trampled. These he restored
to the Cassique.
“Why should the great warrior show to the Spaniards that he
is angry, and cast his gifts upon the ground? Let the robe disguise
the wrath. Let the great warrior rather persuade the
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Spaniards that he is a friend; nor tell him when he means to
strike.”
The suggestion corresponded happily with the genius of savage
warfare.
“Good!” said the chief, resuming and shaking the robes, but
without freeing them from the stains which they had already
taken from the earth. When the next day, these stains were
visible to the eyes of the Spaniards, the cavaliers enjoyed a pleasant
laugh at the expense of the grim warrior.
“He drank quite too much of the Canaries last night, your
Excellency,” said Nuno de Tobar. “He hath been rolling down
hill, and methinks hath had a taste of the river, which doubtless
failed to relish after the wine.”
“Nay, Señor Nuno,” was the reply, “he walked away with
all the erectness which he showed at the beginning.”
“Yes; but did you not see that he never trusted himself to the
back of his horse. It was led off by one of his followers, and he
strode away on foot.”
“Yes; and had thine eyes but followed him as he sped, then
wouldst thou have seen that his movement was solid and square,
like a tower. He went not to the right nor to the left, till the
great forests received him.”
“Then hath he had a brew of his own ere he slept, for verily
those stains of the scarlet are those of a man who hath wallowed
upon the bosom of his mother, without knowing well what arms
have embraced him. All these savages possess the art of making
strong drink.”
“And upon that thou found'st thy argument for its necessity
and justification. Go to, Señor Nuno, and let not this heathen
Prince suspect that you laugh at his weakness—if such it be—for
verily he is as proud and jealous of his state as ever was Lucifer,
when he had sway among the stars. Away to thy post, and see
that thy detachment be in marching order! Remember, he is not
to suspect that there are guards upon his person.”
Such was the policy of the Spaniards. That of Tuscaluza,
tutored as he was by Vasconselos, was a few shades more profound.
All that night these two chiefs communed together in the
hovel; Coçalla, after a while, having retired. Juan was kept in
waiting, but in an adjacent cabin.
We design that the strategies of the red men shall gradually
unfold themselves. It is enough to mention here that Philip conveyed
to the Black Warrior a full idea of the importance to the
Spaniards of their horses, and the necessity of capturing them,
or slaying them. He counselled the latter course as by far the
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best, but urged, in the meanwhile, that, in the event of a conflict,
the scene of action should always be so chosen as to deprive the
cavalry of all share in the battle. It was this counsel that finally
determined Tuscaluza to conduct the enemy to one of his largest
towns, named Mauvila. This was a walled town, and is supposed
to have stood upon the northern bank of the Alabama, at a place
now called Choctaw Point. The town of Mauvila occupied a
noble plain. The walls were rude, being high embankments of
earth and wood, filled in between great forest trees; the wood
being fastened in piles with vines and reeds, and the face of the
wall being plastered with a thick coating of native clay or earth,
which hardened into smooth consistency in the sun and air. The
defences were slight, of course—such as strong arms and good
axes could hew down in short time, and through which the small
falconets of that day could have easily blown a capacious opening.
But the Spaniards were without artillery of any kind. Still, they
had adequate implements for breaking their way, if time were
allowed them. The wall was pierced with loop-holes for arrows,
and at certain moderate distances it was surmounted by numerous
towers, each capable of holding a score of fighting men.
There were but two gates, one on the east, the other on the west
side. In the centre of the village was a great square, or paradeground,
around which the buildings were erected. These did not
exceed a hundred in number, but they were mostly vast fortresses,
capable of containing entire tribes, from five hundred to fifteen
hundred persons in each—great halls only, without rooms; the
red men lodging together as in caravanserais.
To this place, thus constructed, the Black Warrior conducted
his destined victims. He was accompanied by few personal attendants,
and no warriors. To this he had been counselled by
Vasconselos. But he had made preparations elsewhere for the
part which his followers had to play, and the consciousness that
he was held a close prisoner by the very courteous knight who
attended him, did not lessen his purpose of giving the Spaniards
such sauce to their supper as would effectually spoil their appetites.
When the vanguard of De Soto's army appeared before
the town, the Adelantado leading and accompanied by Tuscaluza,
a splendid array of the native warriors, flaunting in feathers, in
robes of fur and cotton, of various and brilliant colors, came
forth to meet them. To these succeeded long lines of beautiful
damsels—and they were beautiful though dusky—“dark but
comely” as was the maid who was sung by the erring muse of
Solomon the Wise.—These came forth with songs and dances,—
rude pipes of reed, the simple flutes of the region—cymbals and
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drums, made of the gourd, covered with skins tightly drawn, and
long clarions, hollowed out of the soft woods common to the
swamps.
So far, all seemed to go as merrily as marriage bells, and De
Soto had no cause for apprehension; but he had some occasions
for doubt, when, on entering the town, he found that, while he,
himself, his officers and immediate attendants, were assigned a
couple of the best houses of the place, his troops were to be
lodged in cabins without the walls. The great body of the army
had not yet arrived, but followed on, somewhat too tardily, under
the charge of Luis de Moscoso.
Hanging closely, but unseen, upon the steps of Moscoso—like
a gathering thunder cloud that marshals its mighty legions on the
very verge of the horizon—Philip de Vasconselos followed with
a force of some three thousand warriors. A dozen times was
he tempted by the heedless manner of Moscoso's march to dart
upon him with his cloud of savages, and destroy him, if possible,
before he could unite with De Soto; and long afterwards did
he reproach himself with not having done so. Could he have
seen the banneret of Don Balthazar de Alvaro flaunting amidst
the gay array, he could scarcely have foreborne the effort. It
was against Don Balthazar first, and De Soto next, that his concentrated
vengeance was directed. Neither of these were present
to stimulate his rage. Besides, he might mar the plot concluded
upon with the Black Warrior, by anticipating the designated
moment, and some fugitives might escape on horseback,
and convey to the very victims whom he sought, the intelligence
which should enable them to guard effectually against the attack.
Hungering, therefore, for the action, he was compelled to control
himself and his red followers—no easy task—and which he, perhaps,
never could have done but that he was supported by the
presence and authority of Coçalla, the Princess. She kept close
beside him as he went, the two followed by Juan, with wild emotions
of a passionate love and anger mixed. The wretched boy!
He, too, had his temptations, and more than once he found himself
meditating to lift his lance, and strike it into the back of the
beautiful Princess, though with the certainty of immediate death
himself, that he might end his pangs of jealousy forever. Verily,
they were great, and the tender devotion of the Princess to
Philip, never suffered them to sleep for a single moment. It
was still a feminine consideration that restrained him. How
should his dying eyes meet the anger in those of Philip, were
he thus to strike?
Tuscaluza had a considerable body of warriors with him at
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Mauvila—possibly three or four thousand. There were still
other bodies collecting. The always extravagant statements of
the Spanish and Portuguese authorities, by which they have
sought to exaggerate the importance of the event, and to lessen
the seeming losses of the Spaniards in the struggle, are to be
received with many grains of allowance. Let it suffice that the
Black Warrior was embodying, and had embodied, a considerable
number of warriors, quite enough to have devoured his enemies—
using his own language—had there been any equality in
their defences and armor. But the Spaniards were clad in
mail, covering the most vulnerable parts; their faces only partially
exposed, their thighs and legs. The darts and arrows had
but small marks. The savages, on the other hand, might as
well have been naked. Their furs, bear skins, and even shields
of hide, afforded no sort of protection from the bullet of the fusileer,
or even the sword-cuts, the lance-thrusts, and arrows of
the horsemen and archers. Philip de Vasconselos knew too
well the greatness of this inequality between the combatants,
and felt that the very numbers of the savages, within a certain
range, were rather hurtful than helpful in the action. The very
valor of the red men was a danger, since they had not yet learned
to appreciate their foes. He strove, in every possible way, and
by every argument, to teach this to the Black Warrior, and his
favorite captain, without offending their self-esteem. Unfortunately
for them he succeeded but imperfectly. The pride and
passions of Tuscaluza both operated fatally to precipitate events
and make him forgetful of all the counsels of the Portuguese
knight.
It was early in the morning of the 18th of October that De
Soto, with the Black Warrrior, and the vanguard of the Spanish
army, entered the village of Mauvila. The town, as we have
seen, was strongly fortified, impregnable, indeed, to such assaults
as were common to the experience of the red men. The arrangements
of Tuscaluza for the disposition of his troops were
such as to offend the military caution of the Adelantado. He
was advised, too, of other suspicious circumstances in the conduct
of the red chief—of the gradual accumulation of large bodies
of troops—of the collection of vast piles of weapons of war,
shafts and macanas—and of several missing soldiers—stragglers
who had probably been massacred. De Soto was aroused and
anxious, but felt that it was necessary to temporize until the
coming of Moscoso with the main body of the army. He
affected to be satisfied, and felt that he was safe so long as he
had Tuscaluza in his custody. But the haughty spirit of the
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Sovereign precipitated the issue. They had scarcely entered the
town when he signified to De Soto the abode which had been
assigned him, while he indicated his own purpose to occupy another.
But the Adelantado replied, cavalierly perhaps—that he
did not approve of the arrangement.
“The Black Warrior will remain with me.”
The haughty soul of Tuscaluza then blazed out—
“The Black Warrior is the king in all these countries. It is
for him to command. It is for all others to obey. The Spanish
chief is at liberty to depart, but he must not pretend to say
to Tuscaluza, here shalt thou remain, or thither shalt thou
go. Does the Spaniard hear? Such is the speech of the Black
Warrior.”
The moment was not auspicious for a decisive reply to this
speech, such as, under other circumstances, De Soto would have
given. Tuscaluza waited for no answer to his words. He entered
the dwelling which he had indicated as his own abode,
leaving the Spanish chief to find his way to the other. That in
which he took shelter contained a thousand warriors. De Soto
quietly proceeded to the dwelling appointed for his use, and instantly
sent out his officers to go secretly among his troopers,
and command them to hold themselves in readiness for action.
Meanwhile, he resolved still to keep up the appearance of friendship
and cordiality. Breakfast being prepared, he sent Juan
Ortiz, the interpreter, to invite the Black Warrior to his table.
He was refused admittance, but his message was delivered, and
the reply was civil—“The Black Warrior will come.”
But the Black Warrior did not come. Some time elapsed,
and Juan Ortiz was sent with a second message, receiving the
same answer as before. The same result followed. There was
a long delay; and again Juan Ortiz was despatched with a third
message. Now, whether it was that the interpreter, vexed at
his repeated miscarriages, became insolent in his tone and language,
or whether the red men now found themselves ready for
a change in theirs, must be a subject of conjecture; but, when
Juan Ortiz, standing at the door of the Sovereign, cried aloud to
his subjects—“Tell Tuscaluza, that the food grows cold upon
the table; that the Adelantado awaits him, and sends to him to
come forth at once,”—then the long suppressed storm broke
out in fury. A red warrior sallied forth to the entrance, crying
aloud, while his eyes flashed fire, and all his face was inflamed
with anger—
“Vagabond and robber, begone! Is it such as thou that
darest clamor aloud at the doors of a great chief, crying, come
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forth, come forth! Away to thy robber master, and say to him,
that when Tuscaluza comes forth it is to destroy him. Hence,
vagabond!” And as Juan Ortiz, half frightened out of his
senses, sped away, he could hear the grim savage exclaim
proudly—
“By the sun and moon! This is no longer to be borne. To
your weapons, warriors of Mauvila, and let us put an end to the
insolence of these wandering wretches!”
The speaker was the great leader of the Mauvilians—their
general—in their own phrase, the Big Warrior. He had led
them in a hundred conflicts. He had won fame and glory from
them all. His triumphs were about to end with his conflicts.
Having spoken, he beheld a group of Spaniards in the great
square, closely huddled together. There were other Spaniards
near at hand, but passing singly. He did not notice these, but
making a signal to one of his followers, a bow and arrows were
handed him. He seized the bow, threw back from his shoulders
the flowing mantle of skins which he wore, and was about fixing
the arrow to the string, when his purpose was arrested and his
movements anticipated by the action of one of those cool, always
ready and prompt warriors, to whom constant strife has served
to impart resolve and instantaneous action—one Balthazar de
Gallegos. The sword from this warrior, already bared in his
grasp, flashed in air the moment, when the Big Warrior grasped
the bow, and before the arrow could leave the string, the sharp
blade was ranging through the vitals of the red man, who fell
dead upon the spot. And thus commenced a conflict of a character
the most terrible and bloody, destined to paralyze the fortunes
of Hernan de Soto. The fate which had been hovering
like a storm-cloud above his head, was swooping down at last
upon his victim.
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CHAPTER XLVI.
“Ha! what shout is this?”
Coriolanus.
[figure description] Page 485.[end figure description]
The soup of the Adelantado that day was cooled uneaten.
Scarcely had Juan Ortiz entered the dwelling which his master
occupied, and declared his tidings, when the war-whoop rang
throughout the village, echoed by five thousand vigorous voices.
The warriors poured forth from a thousand unsuspected vomitories.
They slaughtered the scattered Spaniards, as, heedless of their
leader's order, they lounged about street and square. The latter
fought, but vainly. They were driven from the town; numbers
of the cavaliers saw their horses slain, shot down before their
eyes; a loss which they held to be even more serious than of
the soldiery. To slay the horses was especially the labor of one
large portion of the savages. To this had they been counselled
by their chiefs, under instructions of Vasconselos. Unluckily for
themselves, this was almost the only part of his instructions which
they seem to have remembered. But, for a time, their successes
were too flattering to suffer them to pause. The vanguard of the
Spaniards expelled from their walls, several slain, many more
wounded, more than thirty horses killed outright, or maimed forever,
and the whole of the baggage of the invading army, with the
single exception of one knight's effects; these were successes calculated
to turn the heads of any savage people, ignorant of their
enemy, and incapable of any true estimate of the means by which
they had won success.
And such had been the advantages gained by the red men in
their first demonstration against the Spaniard, at Mauvila. They
had lost their general, the fierce brave who had so summarily
dismissed Juan Ortiz with defiance to his master, and who had
perished under the sudden sword-thrust of Balthazar de Gallegos.
His son, a noble young warrior, had perished also, in the effort to
avenge his death, but not before he had pummelled Gallegos
about the head and ears with his bow, until the Spaniard was
blinded with his blood, and stunned, almost to perishing, beneath
his blows. The gallant savage had in vain sent his arrows
at the mailed bosom of the Castilian knight. In slaying half a
score of Spaniards the red men had lost hundreds; but there was
no lack of numbers to take their places, and they scarcely felt
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their losses. It was not so with the white warriors, who were too
few, not to feel severely the loss of such a large proportion of
their whole disposable force. The result, whatever the inequality
of loss, was a temporary triumph with the Mauvilians. They
had beaten the invader from their fastnesses, and they were in
possession of all the spoils of the field. They had also released
the captive Tamenes from the chains of their masters, had put
weapons into their hands, and thus more than made up for the
number which had been lost by the battle to their ranks. Exulting
in the successes which they had won, the red men closed their
gates, displayed their spolia opima from the walls, and running
to and fro along the parapets, brandished their arms with exultation,
while the welkin rang with their wild shouts of triumph and
defiance.
Goaded with fury by what they saw, the Spanish chivalry without
the walls, organizing themselves, rapidly dashed forward to
the gates with the view of assailing them, or, at least, for the purpose
of covering the foot soldiers, who advanced with their axes
for this purpose. But the brave Mauvilians—too valiant, eager
and exulting to observe a becoming prudence—never suffered
them to approach the gates, but leaping the walls in hundreds,
resolutely took the field, exposing their naked bosoms fearlessly
to the superior weapons of the Castilians. A desperate conflict ensued:
the numbers and reckless valor of the red men proving
quite a match for the superior civilization of their foes, while the
struggle was confined to those who fought entirely on foot. Fierce,
indeed, was the affray. Mercy was neither asked nor expected.
The shafts of the savages answered to the lances of the Spaniards;
the stone battle-axe and thundering macana did not recoil from
the sharp collision with the polished blade of the Toledan. It was
only when the cavaliers of Spain dashed in to the support of their
comrades that the Mauvilians gave ground, and retreated to the
cover of their fortress. Thither the mounted men pursued them,
but were driven back by showers of stones and arrows from the
walls and loop-holes of the town. As they wavered and recoiled,
the Mauvilians again sallied forth, closing with the cavaliers, seizing
on their very bridles, grasping their lances, tearing them
from their hands, and clinging to the retiring horses until dragged
away hundreds of paces from the walls. Such a conflict, valor so
inflexible, afforded but small encouragement to the hopes of the
invader, and De Soto groaned over the tardy progress of Moscoso,
and the absence of more than half his little army.
In this manner had they fought, without decisive results—unless
in favor of the Mauvilians—for three mortal hours, when Luis de
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Moscoso made his appearance with the main body of the Spanish
forces, and at once engaged in the melée. But with his appearance
in the field, that of Philip de Vasconselos took place also.
For a moment let us pause in this place, to say that none of the
relations of this great event, as given by the Spanish and Portuguese
narrators, are to be entirely relied on. The history which the
lion might give of his achievements has yet to be written. The
accounts of the white men are grievously confused and contradictory,
for the simple reason that they labored to obscure to modify,
and even to pervert the details whose results were so disastrous
to their progress, and, as they fancied, in their national pride
and vanity, so discreditable to their arms. Now, the reader will
please to understand that our version of the story is drawn chiefly
from the narratives of the Mauvilians themselves, as contained in
the celebrated MSS. of the Great Iawa, or High Priest of Chickasah,
Oolena Ithiopoholla, who wore the sacred symbols, somewhere
about the year 1619, only about 70 years after this event.
The narrative is written on the bark of trees, in the Choctaw character,
and, bating some few injuries from exposure and time (which do
not affect it in the portions relating to the battle of Mauvila), may
still be read in the keeping of my excellent red friend Mico Tuskina
Ithiopolla, a lineal descendant of the venerable Iawa, by
whose hands it was written. Our account of the affair, which we
modestly venture to assert is the only one deserving of perfect
confidence, is drawn almost entirely from this ancient and veracious
chronicle.
To resume from its pages:
“Now had the battle lasted three mortal hours, when another
and a larger army of the Spaniards, under one of their great generals,
by name Luis de Moscoso, made his appearance in the field.
He had been closely watched and followed during the march from
Tuscaloosa by the white chief, to whom had been given the name
of Istalana, and of whose cruel treatment by the Spaniards, and
happy escape, by the help of the great Princess Coçalla, of Cofachiqui,
we have already related the account. Istalana (or `the
chief that broods') led a force of three thousand brave warriors of
Tuscaloosa and Cofachiqui, full command over whom had been
given him by the Great King. Now, so soon as Istalana beheld
the warriors of Moscoso preparing to join with the troops under
Soto, the Castilian, and to advance against the walls of Mauvila,
he set upon him suddenly, with a terrible assault from behind. Mooscoso
was greatly astonied at this assault, for he knew not that he
was so closely watched and followed. But he turned upon Istalana
and his men and made good fight for the victory; and he was joined
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by the men upon the horses of Soto, the Castilian, and great were
the deeds of arms that followed, and many were the blows given
and received, and glorious was the slaughter. The earth and sun
drank great streams of blood that day; and, for that the warriors
of Mauvila were too brave to need coverings for their
breasts against the darts of their enemies, the slaughter fell most
heavily upon them; while the Spaniards, being covered with
scales of hard metal, or wrapped in many folds of a thick garment,
which shook off the shafts of the Mauvila warriors when
delivered from a distance, they suffered less grievously, and
many were but hurt and wounded, when, but for reason of their
armor of metal, they would have died outright. But the Mauvilians
hurt and smote them sorely, and bruised them with many
blows, so that none of them utterly escaped, while many were
slain with shafts rightly delivered between the eyes, and, when
they chanced to turn their backs, with arrows that drove through
the body beneath the shoulders and rested against the metallic
plates in front. Hundreds carried with them grievous wounds
in the legs and thighs, which were less sheltered by armor; and
wherever the warriors of Castile and Mauvila strove together
hand to hand, the one with bright sword shining in the sun, the
other with the heavy macana, or the thundering stone hatchet,
then did the armor prove no help, but rather a hurt to the white
warriors, and they fell crushed beneath the blows of Mauvila, and
they fled before the might of her warriors. And great was the
destruction of the strange beast which they call the horse, of
whom the Spaniards took great account, and, for which reason,
the warriors of Mauvila smote and slew them without sparing.
Verily, they slew more than seventy of these giant beasts in the
course of the day's fighting, sending the arrows right through
their huge bodies, so that the feathers only lay hidden in the
bowels of the beast.
“And when the warriors within the walls of Mauvila, who
were commanded by the great king himself, beheld how that the
Spaniards were set upon by the troops of Istalana from behind,
then did he rise and cry aloud:
“`Now is the time for ye to go forth, ye warriors of Mauvila,
and all the followers of the great king! Now send ye up the
great shout of war which leads to victory, and get ye out from
the fortress to the fight, while your women, and the young
daughters of Mauvila gather upon the walls and cry to ye with
words of love and welcome, and sing the while sweet songs of
victory and vengeance! Now to your arms! and go forth and
fight against the Spaniards from the walls, while Istalana, the
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white warrior, who is our general, deals death upon them from
behind!'
“`And they went forth, even as he commanded, with a mighty
whoop of victory, which shook the earth and struck terror to the
hearts of the pale faces. And the Spaniards, who rode the mighty
horses, rushed together, like a great hurricane, between the warriors
of Mauvila, who came forth from the fortress, and the footsoldiers
of the chief Moscoso. And they rushed over many of
our people, and they trampled them under the iron hoofs of the
mighty beasts; but the rest parted each way from before them,
then closed behind them as they sped, delivering swift arrows
that pierced the beasts to the bowels, and pierced the riders to
the brain, so that they rolled together in sore agony, and with
grevious cries upon the stricken earth. And even as the warriors
of Mauvila sank down beneath their beasts, other braves
darted hotly forth to take their places, and it gladdened the big
heart of the great king that day, to behold with what a joy his
braves died for his honor, and to save his country from the
Spaniards. Verily, it is too much to tell; for they alone who
saw could truly report what glorious deaths were that day given
and received, and how the blood gushed from the big heart, and
the brains of brave warriors were beaten out, and how the
bowels of the mighty beasts fell down at the sharp passage of the
lance and knife; for the cunning warriors of Mauvila, while they
lay wounded beneath the horses, smote them suddenly under their
great bellies. And then the beasts grew maddened, and they
fled swiftly as the arrow flies, with a horrid scream, and grievous
groans, the bowels trailing as they sped, until they could fly no
more, and rolled over their riders, the chiefs in armor, whom
they crushed beneath their own weight. And at every horse
thus slain the women and the maidens upon the walls of Mauvila
made a new song of rejoicing. And they sang—
“`Great is the Brave of the Mauvilian who hath slain the
mighty beast of the pale faces.
“`He shall be named the Slayer of the Beast forever, and there
shall be a totem for his bosom, with the picture of the beast.
“`And his name shall be sung forever by the maidens of Mauvila;
and the warriors shall go ever into battle with a cry
upon his name.
“`Verily, he shall pass the blue mountains upon the spirit of
the beast that he hath slain. He shall hunt in the Happy Vallies
on the body of the beast; and when he enters the lodge of
the Great Master of Souls, then shall a voice welcome him with
a cry, saying, make way there—give place all of ye, for hither
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comes the warrior that hath slain the Great Beast of the Pale
Faces.'
“`Verily, as the Mauvilian hearkened to this song, great was
the desire of many to become the slayer of the beasts which the
Spanish warriors rode. Yet there were some who sought rather
to take them captive; for wherefore should the warriors of Mauvila
not bestride them, even as the Castilians? But the greater
number preferred to slay them, for they knew not by what
words to make the beasts know their masters, and they feared
the danger from their heels, and they wist not how to guide
them in their flight. So they slew them, whenever they could,
save in few cases, when, as was the counsel of the chief Istalana,
they caught them by their bridles after they had slain their
riders, and led them off into the thickets.
“Now, Istalana, the white warrior, himself had one of these
beasts, upon which he made to ride a strange boy who followed
him in silence—a creature black as the great bear of Nolichucky.
But, when the battle drew nigh, and when he was about to set
upon the troops of Moscoso, he bade this black boy take shelter
with the Princess Coçalla in the thicket, which was at hand, and
where many harbored close unseen. And Istalana raised himself
with a single bound upon the back of this beast; and he had
strong thongs of bear skin with which to guide him; and a great
chair of bear skin, with horns, but without feet, was beneath him,
and upon the back of the beast. And Istalana armed himself
with a long lance which he had made, thrice as great and heavy
as that borne by our people. And he carried besides a great
battle axe of metal which had been taken from the Spaniards.
And, thus armed and mounted, he prepared to ride into the battle
even as the Spaniards rode. But first, he put large bodies
of our warriors in ambush, close in the woods, but beside the
field of battle; and he bade them not show themselves until he
gave them command to do so. And he led but one third of the
Mauvilians into battle against Moscoso, being but a thousand
men. And to these he gave command that they should greatly
scatter themselves; that they should shelter themselves beneath
the trees, wherever these stood, and thus escape the wrath of the
mighty beasts, whom they were to transfix with their arrows. And
he taught them truly, moreover, to aim their darts only at the
faces and the thighs of the Spaniards, for `Verily,' said he,
`What matters if you slay them not outright. Wound them
only, so that they shall become disabled, and how easy then to
run in and brain them with the hatchet of stone.' And, of a
truth, had they followed this counsel of Istalana, then had not so
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many great warriors of Mauvila fallen on that day. But it was
in the wildness of their valor, which suffered them to fear no
danger, that so many of them yielded their naked life to the death
shaft of the Spaniard.
“Now, it was even in the moment when the Spanish warriors
who rode were trampling down the braves of Mauvila, striving
to keep them back from the conflict which had begun between
the troops of Istalana and Moscoso, that the chief Istalana appeared
in front, mounted on one of the great beasts of the Spaniards.
Verily, the beast was of a beautiful strength and majesty,
and he had a name with his master, and he was called Bajardo.
And when the Spaniards beheld the beast—though they knew
nothing of the great chief Istalana, (for he was no longer of the
pale sickly color of the white men, but had been made comely
by the war paint of the Mauvilians, and he wore feathers of the
birds of Mauvila and Apalachia, and a robe off saffron-cotton of
our people, and upon his shoulders a rich robe of fur which the
Great King had given him when he made him a chief,)—when, I
say, the Spaniards beheld the beast, they said one to another,
`Is not that Bajardo, the horse which was ridden of old by the
Blackamoor Juan, the Page of the knight of Portugal?' And
they answered, `Verily, it doth seem so. Yet hath he long been
missing.'
“But they saw nothing of the Blackamoor, and they knew not
the knight of Portugal, in the costume and the war paint of the
Mauvilian. And the knight of Portugal, now the chief Istalana,
rode forth towards the warriors of Spain, even to where was
seen, making great show above the rest, the chief, Soto, of Castile,
their general and great warrior. And Soto and his warriors
marvelled much when they saw a red warrior of Mauvila
so gallantly riding towards them; and they wondered more
when they saw him shake out his lance in defiance, waving it
towards Soto himself, and, in the manner of the pale warriors,
thus seeming to bid him come to the conflict. And the captains
and chiefs around Soto were angry, and they said, `Let us go
and punish this insolent savage;' but Soto said—
“`Nay! It is for me to punish his insolence!' And he rode
forth alone, a little ahead of the rest; and, seeing this, Istalana
said to the Mauvilians—
“`Get ye back all, and leave Soto, of Castile, to me. Only see
that others come not between us. If I slay him, or ye see me
overthrown, then fall fiercely upon the chiefs that follow him;
and heed ever the things that I have told ye.'
“And the warriors of Mauvila fell back. And Istalana
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prepared himself for Soto, though he carried no weapon but the
heavy lance, and the great axe of metal, such as the Spaniards
bore. And he had no armor upon his limbs, and he wore no
buckler upon his arm. And he went unafraid to the encounter
with Soto, of Castile. And Soto came on briskly, with his lance
couched for the encounter, and he little wist of the enemy who
stood before him; and knew not but that it was a brave native
warrior of Mauvila; for he saw that they were a people the most
daring of all the world, who were willing to fight with any foe, and
with any weapons, or according to any fashion. And knowing
this, Soto said within himself—
“`Now, verily, these warriors of Mauvila have a world of
impudence. Here is a savage that hath gotten him a beast
which he knows not how to manage, yet would he undertake
the warfare with me after my own fashion. Yet, in sooth, he
keeps his seat with a tolerable grace and steadiness, and with
proper teaching might be rendered a right comely and formidable
cavalier. Yet shall I have to punish him with a death thrust,
that I may rebuke the overweening presumption of his people.'
“And so thinking and speaking to himself, Soto, the Castilian,
spurred his beast forward to the meeting with Istalana, who,
nothing loth, or slow, made his beast go to meet him, with a
great rushing. And the two leveled their long lances, and
there was a great cloud that wrapt them; and lo, when the cloud
lifted, there could be seen Soto, the cavalier, falling upon the
ground, and Istalana wheeling his great beast backward, and
making towards Soto, with his lance ready to do him to death
with a thrust.”
-- --
CHAPTER XLVII.
“Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery
Against these saucy walls.”
King John.
[figure description] Page 493.[end figure description]
We have given a sufficient specimen of our Choctaw chronicler
for a while. Relying on his authority as heretofore, we shall yet
forego the stately simplicity, and the quaint solemnity of his style,
as far as possible in the future, and trust to that which is more
natural to ourselves and readers. We need repeat, after this
sample of our authority, that his account is the most trustworthy
of all the parties; and our materials will show that he supplies a
thousand deficiencies, in the details, which the vexed vanity of the
Spanish invaders would never allow them to put on record.
We proceed now to our history.
The fall of De Soto occasioned naturally a tremendous sensation.
The wild exultation of the red men rang throughout the
field as for a victory already gained, and a most unexpected triumph
rendered certain. The Adelantado of the Spaniards was
considered by the simple natives in the light somewhat of a godman—
a demi-god, who was in some degree invincible, or like
Achilles, only vulnerable in some small region not easily reached
by dart or tomahawk. They were now disabused of this superstition,
and their spirits rose in consequence to the highest pitch
of hope and enthusiasm. They knew not but that he was already
slain; at least, he was in the power of their champion; that
seemed certain, and a single stroke of the terrible lance which
Vasconselos carried was alone needed for the coup de grace.
Istalana, now doubly glorious, and a favorite in their eyes, seemed
prepared to satisfy their expectations. Wheeling about to return
to the charge, his lance was couched, and the vulture, commissioned
by the fates for his destruction, already threatened De
Soto with the consummation of his doom.
But the Spanish chivalry were not prepared to suffer the conqueror
to complete his work of vengeance. They had seen the
fall of their governor; and, with a mixed howl and shout, the gallant
cavaliers who had attended him, and who had only remained
a short distance from the scene of the passage between himself
and Istalana, now dashed forward to his rescue. They were just
in season. Our Portuguese Mauvilian was already upon his
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enemy. De Soto who had succeeded in recovering his feet, had
drawn his sword, and was ready to defend himself.
“Hernan de Soto,” cried Vasconselos, to the complete astonishment
of his opponent, “thy hour is come! The doom for thee
is written! Thou shalt die beneath the hand and curse of the
man thou hast basely dishonored!”
He knew the voice. He could no longer doubt the person.
“Philip de Vasconselos!”
“Ay! and thy fate! Prepare thee!”
“I fear thee not, renegade and traitor!”
“Ha! thou shalt feel me!”
And the lance was couched at his breast. De Soto raised his
sword in defence. Philip would have sprung from his steed and
encountered him on more equal footing with the battle-axe, but
just then the rush behind him required him to guard himself.
The Spanish knights were upon him. There were Nuno de Tobar,
and Balthazar de Gallegos, and many others. Philip gave
the rowels to Bajardo. He dashed through the thick array.
Gonzalo de Sylvestre was rolled over upon the earth; Alonzo de
Piños was reached by the lance which failed to slay him, but
knocked out several of his front teeth, and greatly disfiguring his
mouth, spoiled the prettiest face in the army. Others were
handled only less roughly, and thundering through them as the
great buffalo thunders through a forest of prairie dogs, the wonderful
cavalier of the red men broke away from the network of
foes which for a moment seemed to threaten him with captivity
or death. His forest followers were not idle. The warriors of
Mauvila launched themselves, with desperate valor, into the
thickest of the wild array, and the battle, with all its terrors, was
resumed on every side.
It raged with no abatement for more than an hour, and with
no seeming change of fortune. Many of the Spaniards perished;
many of their horses. Hardly one escaped without wounds;
but the naked red men suffered death, and not wounds, with every
hurt. More than a thousand had perished in the strife, when
Istalana, whose plans had been wholly baffled by the impatient
pride and haughty valor of Tuscaluza and his general, succeeded
in drawing off a portion of his forces to the shelter of the forest,
into recesses where the horses could not pursue, and whence the
arrow could be shot with unerring and unexpected aim. The
red men disappeared almost in the twinkling of eye, leaving the
field strewn with their bodies.
Coçalla was the first to receive Vasconselos. But where was
Juan? Philip looked about him with inquiry. The page was
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behind him carrying bow and arrows, and was covered with the
dust and blood of the field.
“Ah! boy; and I bade thee not?” said Vasconselos reproachfully.
“I saw them as they surrounded thee, Señor, and I could no
longer remain away.”
Philip smiled sadly on the Moor. But when he looked a
second time on Coçalla, he beheld that she too had had shared the
dangers of the fray. She had been more fortunate than Juan,
and had been wounded in the arm. Oh! what were the pangs
of that young attendant when he beheld Vasconselos take the
beautiful arm of Coçalla into his hands and carefully help to
bind up the still bleeding limb. The hurt was fortunately slight.
But it was a wound received in his defence; and, more fortunate
still, it was an arrow from her bow that stuck in the thigh of
De Soto himself, giving a painful wound, which would have
driven from the field that day any cavalier of merely ordinary
courage. Vasconselos had seen, before the action was over, that
De Soto was hurt. He saw it by his riding, though he knew not
the nature of the wound. Little did he dream what hand had
sent the shaft. When he did know, when he conceived fully that
page and princess had both gone forth to his rescue the moment
that they beheld his peril, the heart of the melancholy knight
was very full. No tears gathered in his eyes. He had forgotten
how to weep; but never did eyes declare such tender emotions;
and he looked from Juan to Coçalla, and he took the
hand of the princess and kissed it, while he drew the trembling
Moor to his bosom, and said to him fondly—
“Boy, thou shalt evermore be brother to me. I have no
other brother now but thee.”
Andres de Vasconselos had been one of the cavaliers whose
ranks that day he had so fiercely broken through. But he had
raised no lance against that young kinsman's bosom.
Juan trembled with terrible emotions as, for the first time,
he was strained so warmly to the breast of his lord. He felt
that the heart within him was like a molten sea—all fire, all
tears, scalding and streaming, but ready all the while to break
through all barriers and be poured out like water on the sands.
But the tenderness was for a moment only, and even while the
knight strained the Moorish page to his bosom, the Princess
Coçalla interposed, and laid her hand first, and then her head
upon his shoulder, and said in the most melting manner—
“Ah! Philip! Ah! brave Philip.”
But, just then, Juan cried out with a change of feeling:—
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“Oh! Señor, thou art wounded.”
The red stain was apparent through the white cotton of his
vest. The garments were sticking to the wound upon his
bosom.
“Let it remain,” said Philip, as page and princess, now both
excited with fear, proposed to attend the hurt.
“Let it remain. It is nothing, and now bleeds no longer.”
It was but a flesh-wound made by the partly spent shaft from
a cross-bow. He had pulled out the arrow during the fight, and,
pressing the garments upon the wound, had succeeded in stopping
the flow of blood. There was no time now for surgery.
The Spaniards had renewed the action, and Istalana was required
to go forth again.
Furious with the sanguinary courage of the Mauvilians, conscious
of the peril which awaited his own and the fortunes of his
army and mortified deeply with the disgrace of his overthrow in
the sight of foes and followers, Hernan de Soto only delayed the
action long enough to enable his followers to recover from exhaustion.
It was necessary to obtain possession of the town.
There his people would find shelter and provisions, both of which
they began to need. There had the red men stored their supplies
for the winter. Several of the houses were great granaries of
maize, beans, and potatoes. There, too, were their great armories—
arrows, arrow-bolts, and macanas, darts, and stone hatchets.
To possess himself of these, was to supply his own soldiers, and
greatly to impoverish and enfeeble the red men. There, too, exulting
in his savage pride and power, was the hateful and insolent
Tuscaluza, the only cassique among the native princes who had
ever shown himself really formidable to the Spaniards in Apalachia,
up to the present moment. All his passions and all his
reflections conspired to goad him to the most desperate efforts to
make his way into the fortress of Mauvila. To remain without,
exposed to the perpetual assaults of thousands of enemies, springing
up in the twinkling of an eye, and melting away as suddenly
into their great forest shelters, was a prospect that threatened
nothing short of ruin.
But it was necessary to plan the attack upon the fortress with
a due regard to the thousands who guarded it, and of the other
thousands who swarmed throughout the forests in his rear. The
latter, too, were led by one who knew equally well what was proper
to the warfare of the red men and the Spaniards. Bitter and
savage were the moods which possessed De Soto as he thought
of Philip de Vasconselos.
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“And I have fallen beneath his lance this day; and, but for
my followers, I had been slain by the very man whom I had
doomed to dishonor and left to death!”
His gloomy musings were interrupted by the entrance of
several of his cavaliers, Nuno de Tobar and Andres de Vasconselos
among them. He was about to declare the secret which
he alone possessed, that of the identity of the red warrior Istalana
with the outlawed knight of Portugal. But the sight of Andres,
and the recollections of the old affectionate intimacy between
Tobar and Philip, led him to a prudent secrecy.
“No!” said he to himself. “Not yet! Let them once know
that Philip lives, and that this is he—remembering too that he
hath been wrongly doomed—and will they strive so bravely
against him? will they not, rather this brother of his, strive in
his behalf? May he not go over to him? May he not carry
others? In the moment of disaster, who clings to an old leader?
What numbers will gladly seize the moment to pass into the
embraces of the successful party? And know we not that many
have sought occasion to drop away upon the march, and wiving
with these savage women to grow to power among the tribes?
No! no! I must hush and hide this damnable discovery close
in the heart, where it only works to torture.”
Such were the brief, hurried, and natural, but unspoken thoughts
which occurred to the Adelantado, when he beheld his knights
enter to receive their orders. De Soto could not throw off the
savage gloom that possessed his soul and filled his countenance,
but he gave it an expression of swift ferocity.
“Well, señors, you are ready. It is time. Let us now to
work, with all our soul and strength, to scourge these savages to
the uttermost. Before the sun shall set this day, we must be in
in possession of yonder fortress. If we fail, our day has ended!
Do you heed me, all? While this sun lasts we must conquer
yon town, and hold it in possession. Yonder forests,”—and he
shuddered as he pointed to them—“harbor ten thousand enemies,
hateful and hating us, without pity or affection; with numbers
destined to hourly increase, pouring in ever as the vultures
throng about the carcass. Let us go forth.”
They were soon in full array, and in the field. De Soto had
already matured his plans. He had detailed the greater and better
portion of his cavaliers for the defence of his rear, while a
chosen body assailed the fortress. The horsemen were particularly
reserved, the better to avoid the shafts shot securely from
the walls. They were appointed to that better service upon the
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plain in which the steed can exercise the chief faculty, that of
fleetness, which confers upon him his peculiar uses in war.
The battle was resumed. Tuscaluza and his warriors prepared
for the Spaniards along the walls. Istalana led forth his troops
from the forest, and against their rear. He was encountered by
the picked chivalry of De Soto which, in separate bodies of ten
men each, occupied the plain in their front, and, cased in armor—
all the vital parts protected except the eyes—offered but small
marks for the archery of the red men, while in their successive
charges they swept down hundreds. The horse was more vulnerable,
however, though some pains had been taken to proteet
him in the more exposed and sensitive regions of his body. Istalana,
or, as we shall henceforth prefer to call him, Vasconselos,
aimed at two objects—to bring his troops, only as archers, into
full play, and at the same time to cover them as much as possible
with the trees of the forest from the sweeping charges of the
horsemen. But, if he kept the cover of the forest wholly, he
failed to reach the cavalry with his arrows, the plain being of
such extent; and not to drive them from it, was to leave the
garrison without succor, or diversion, to endure the whole weight
of De Soto's assault. He accordingly prepared to throw a body
of five hundred active warriors, good with spear and battle axe,
between the detachment of cavalry in front of him and the forces
with which De Soto assailed the walls, while the rest of his troops,
covered as much as possible by the forest, kept the horse in full
employment with their arrows. He, himself, on foot, prepared
to lead his spear-men into the thickest of the fight, and between
the two divisions of the Spanish army.
“And now,” saith our old Choctaw chronicler, “the glorious
fight began once more, with a shock as of many thunderbolts.
And Soto, of Castile, led his great men close up against the
walls of Mauvila; and the great king confronted him there with
a terrible flight of arrows; and with heavy stones he drove him
back from the fortress. And when Soto, of Castile, was thus
driven back, he fell upon the warriors of the great chief Istalana,
and very terrible was the battle that ensued between these
mighty men of war. But, though many of the Spaniards were
slain and more hurt, yet, by reason of the armor of tough metal
which they wore, many escaped, who else had been done to
death, by the valiant strokes of Istalana and his spearmen. These,
on the other hand, being all men of naked valor, were sore
stricken by the Spanish bolts and darts; and the wise chieftain,
Istalana, when that he beheld how the battle went against his
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people, he drew them cunningly away from between the ranks
of the Spaniards, and gave them shelter for a season among the
great trees of the forest. And De Soto, of Castile, again strove
with the great king against the walls of Mauvila, and his axe-men
toiled to cut though the walls, and to beat down the gates of the
fortress; and a second time were they driven back, sorely smitten,
because of the heavy stones delivered from the fortress. And
again did the brave Istalana give battle to the retreating
Spaniards, and to those who fought from the backs of the mighty
beasts. And the battle went now one way, and now the other,
and, for a season, neither party prevailed in the conflict. But
great was the loss, and grievous the blows of blood which were
delivered on both sides among the champions. And, among the
people of Mauvila, there was great slaughter. Many cassiques
of fame perished in valiant agonies, crying to the gods to open
the blue mansions in the happy valley, and to send for them the
bright maidens, each bearing a cheering bowl to quench the thirst
of the wearied spirit. The mighty Oolenoe Ifisto was the first
to fall, having slain many foes. Then Chinabee Himantla gave
up the ghost, wearing more than thirty scalp locks upon arm
and thigh; and there were many more, brave like these, who
sang that day the song of the last fight. And many other great
chiefs were stricken and hurt in the fighting of this day. Istalana,
the great chief himself, was stricken twice, but he said nothing of
his hurts, while he gave death to other men to drink, sorely
against the will of him who hath no thirst.
“But it was not only to the chiefs of Mauvila that the hurts and
the death were given. The Great Chief of the Spaniards, Soto of
Castile, felt the sharp arrows in his thigh and side; but he was not
slain. The lying prophet of the pale faces was scored with a flying
shaft, like a coward, in the back. But he lived, that men
might say, this is the mark of one who fled. And there was a
goodly youth, a kinsman of Soto, of Castile, one whom they call
Carlos, whose throat the arrow filled, so that he never called for
drink again. And many were the warriors and chiefs besides,
for whom they made bitter moaning that night in the camp of
the Spaniards.
“But the truth demands that I declare, that, on the third assault
upon the walls of Mauvila, the warriors of Soto, of Castile,
prevailed. And they prevailed by reason of the fact, that the
Great King was hurt with a lance that entered his bosom even
where he strove with a great warrior at the gate of the fortress.
And when the warriors of Mauvila beheld the Great King fall,
they sent up a mighty cry. And the women, with foolish tongues,
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spread it along the walls and through the town, that the Great
King was slain, even Tuscaluza; but, of a truth, it was not so.
Grievous was his hurt, and glorious, since it was made upon his
open breast, in full front, and even in the moment when, with his
mighty stone-hatchet, he clove the brain of a great warrior of
the Spaniards. But, nevertheless, men thought him slain; and
when his people bore him away from the gate to a place of safety
without the walls, and into the forests on the other side—as was
counselled by the prophet—then the women lamented, and the
foolish warriors broke their weapons and fled from the walls
which they were bade to defend, and went hither and thither, not
knowing what to do; and, by reason of this folly, the followers
of Soto, of Castile, broke their way through the walls, and beat
down the gates, and their great captains, on their mighty beasts,
rode headlong through the streets of Mauvila, smiting as they
went. Then was it too late, when our warriors hastily caught up
their arms, and renewed the fight.
“And the women of Mauvila strove, too, in the ranks of battle,
and very great and glorious was the slaughter. But the
Spaniards prevailed in battle against our people, and when this
was beheld by the brave women of Mauvila, they seized bright
torches of the living flame. And they gave it wings; and they
sent it from housetop to housetop; and they hid it away in the
hearts of the houses. And where they had their husbands slain,
they flung themselves into the burning houses, and they welcomed
the coming of the Spaniards with arms of flame, waving
them on, as they passed over the walls and through the gates
with songs of triumph and defiance. It was a day of rich
blood. And the people of Mauvila left for the Spaniards only a
feast of famine, and music of agony and groans, with a raging
fire to quench the thirst which they knew, from eating at such a
banquet. The brave Tuscaluza, the son of the Great King, was
slain; but the Great King himself was made safe in the big
forests lying toward Chickasah. Thither came also the mighty
chief Istalana, who had grevious hurts upon his breast, upon his
face, upon his arms and side. Sorely was he stricken; and
they brought him upon the shoulders of the Tamenes toward
Chickasah, and the princess Coçalla, of Cofachiqui, tended him,
while he lay hurt, and the strange black page, Juan, watched beside
him nightly when he slept.”
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CHAPTER XLVIII.
“He bears
A tempest which his mortal vessel tears.
Pericles.
[figure description] Page 501.[end figure description]
Such was the terrible battle of Mauvila. The Spaniards had
obtained the victory. They had won the chief fortified city of
the Mauvilians. They had expelled the inhabitants or destroyed
them. Thousands of the redmen had perished—not so many,
by thousands, as the conquerors claim to have destroyed, but still
the havoc had been terrible, and the victims were five times as
numerous as the whole army of De Soto. The rash valor of the
Mauvilians, their naked bosoms, the superiority of the Spanish
arms and armor, had naturally rendered the defeat a massacre!
But the triumph of the invaders was dashed by their own
terrible losses, and De Soto lamented his victory in the language of
Pyrrhus. Nay, it did not require such another victory to leave
the Castilian conqueror undone. He was already undone, and
he felt it. The gloom of despair was on his soul. His face wore
a perpetual scowl. His language was harsh to all when he
spoke. He was no longer the confident, frank, impulsive cavalier,
who could sweetly smile upon his friends, and who bore in
his bosom an exulting hope and consciousness of desert, which
filled all who beheld with unvarying auguries of success. He
was now stern, savage, suspicious; distrustful of friends and fortune;
with the mortifying conviction that he had not only failed,
in the great hopes which had inspired his enterprise, but doomed
to other failures, involving fame as well as fortune; perilous to
life as to success. He thought of the noble woman, his wife, left
behind him in the Government of Cuba, and bitterly remembered
that between her and himself rolled the great sea, and between
that sea and his warriors, spread hundreds of miles of impenetrable
forest, every thicket of which harbored its hosts of implacable
and sleepless enemies.
And as the details of his real condition met his ear, the gloom
grew deeper upon his visage and within his soul. Very wretched
was the condition of the Spaniards after the battle of Mauvila.
More than two hundred of them had been slain or put hors de
combat. Scarcely a man had escaped entirely unhurt. De Soto
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himself was thrice wounded, and though not, in either instance,
severely, yet the hurts were of a sort to goad, to mortify his
passions, and to vex his pride. We have seen, what were his
personal humiliations also. But he was not allowed to brood on
them. The condition of his army demanded all his thoughts.
His soldiers, covered with wounds, were attended by a single
surgeon, and he was at once slow and unskilful. There was
neither lint, nor linen, nor liniments; neither medicines nor
bandages; neither ointments nor instruments; not even clothing
and shelter. The fires of the wild Mauvilians had consumed all
the stores of commissary and surgeon—all the food and physic—
all that was needful for the healthy, no less than the suffering and
sick. The dwellings were all consumed, and but a poor shelter
was found in the miserable tents of boughs and branches, which
could be raised by the feeble efforts of the least wounded among
the Spaniards. For bandaging wounds, they tore the shirts from
their backs; to procure unguents for the hurt, the slain Indians
were torn open, and the fat taken from their bodies; the slain
horses were cut up and their flesh preserved, for sustenance for
all. Even their devotions were interrupted, in the loss of the
wine and wheaten flour which they had used in the performance
of the mass; and to the superstitious, the question became one of
serious importance, whether bread of Indian meal might be employed
for the sacrament,—a question gravely discussed among
them, and terminating in the unfavorable resolve, that it was not
tolerated by the canons of the church. When to the real physical
miseries of their situation, we add those of their spiritual hunger,
we may conjecture the terrible gloom which overspread the encampment
of the Spaniards.
This gloom of his followers was naturally of deeper and darker
complexion in the soul of De Soto, than it was among his people.
His had been the loftiest ambition, the most exulting hope. His
pride, and station, and responsibility, were greater than all the
rest. He was proportionately overwhelmed in the common catastrophe.
He was utterly unmanned by his reverses. Not that
he was unwilling to fight and peril himself as before; but that he
was no longer able to control his passions, and hide his infirmities,
and develop the strength and resources of his genius,
moody irritable and savage, he was now purposeless in his aim,
and utterly hopeless of favorable events in his future progress.
He had no longer the heart for enterprise, or the spirit for adventure;
and, for eight days, he lay in his rude and inadequate
encampment, among the ruins of Mauvila, like a wounded tiger,
licking his wounds in his jungle. Meanwhile, the wounded
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suffered, or recovered, died or lived; without seeming to arouse his
active sensibilities. The army, under his gallant cavaliers, began
slowly to repair its hurts, and to recover, after a fashion, from its
maims and bruises. But it was the skeleton only of its former
strength, and symmetry and beauty. The despondency of their
chief oppressed the spirits of all. Hope had deserted them, and
they now only sighed for the opportunity to return to those distant
homes which few of them were ever destined to behold
again.
It was while they lay thus, and suffered, in the town of the
Mauvilians,—groaning with their hurts, and dreading every
moment that the red men would surround, and compel them to
resume the struggle to which they felt themselves so unequal,
that they received intelligence which was calculated to cheer
them with the hope of escape from the perilous meshes in which
their enterprise had involved them. Tidings reached them, unexpectedly,
of the arrival, at Achuzi (now Pensacola) of certain
ships from Cuba, under the command of Gomez Arias and Diego
Maldonado. The moment this news was received, both officers
and men began to calculate the distance between Mauvila and
Achuzi. It was—according to their eager estimate—but eight
days journey to the sea coast; and all hearts began to cheer
themselves with the hope of soon reaching the ships, the succor
of their comrades, and finally the pleasant country which all
now were prepared to regret that they had so idly left. No one
thought to remain in a region which yielded them no golden
cities, and the people of which betrayed such implacable hostility,
such indomitable courage, and such sanguinary fierceness of
character. They discussed the matter among themselves. They
encouraged each other with their new born hopes of escape from
a country, in which they beheld nothing but sleepless and bloody
enemies—in which they could now anticipate nothing but disaster
and a gloomy fate for all. These resolves and desires were freely
spoken. They were not confined to the common soldiers; and De
Soto, by accident, overheard one of these discussions, in which the
same opinions and wishes were expressed by his favorite cavaliers.
From that moment, his resolve was taken. He could not return
a vagabond to Cuba. He who had gone forth in such state
and splendor, could not crawl back in the sight of his people, a
maimed and stricken fugitive. He must first conquer. He
must win the spoils he sought. He must carry back the proofs
and the trophies of the golden cities which he had promised.
He still had faith in the hidden treasures of the Apalachian. He
still looked to the conquest of a semi-civilized people, such as
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those of Mexico and Peru, the overthrow and dominion of whom
would crown the close of his life with glory, and redeem and repair
the hurts of character and credit which had confessedly
accrued from his enterprise, up to the present moment. He
resolved to confound his cowardly followers, and to baffle all
their imbecile calculations. He determined that they should
share his fortunes, in spite of all their fears. He did not suffer
them to know that he was aware of their secret hopes. He
simply gave his orders—to turn their backs upon his shipping, and
go forward, deeper, deeper, into the wild abodes of the savage
Apalachian.
His cavaliers, as soon as they heard these orders, boldly undertook
to expostulate with him upon them. They spoke of
the sea, of the shipping at Achuzi, of their hopes and homes in
Cuba.
“Tell me not of sea, or ships, or Cuba!” was the angry reply
of the Adelantado. “I will see neither, until I have conquered
these savage Apalachians, and won possession of their great
cities.”
They would still have expostulated. “There were no great
cities” was the answer. “These people are mere savages. Our
people despond. They have not the heart for further adventure.
Their hearts are set only on returning to the sea coast, and
availing themselves of the shipping, of once more reaching Cuba.
They are already discontent with the delay. They will
mutiny—.”
“Ha! mutiny! Tell you this to me? Then get ye ready your
executioner, and prepare to do as I require, for by the Holy Cross,
so long as I breathe, the Vice-Gerent here of our Royal Master,
I will put to sharp justice the soldier who shall only dare to
murmur. Away, Sir Knights, and let me hear no more of
this.”
“The habitual exercise of authority had imparted to De Soto
a power of command, which was admirably seconded by a submission
as habitual, as well among his cavaliers, as common
soldiers. The obedience of the one, necessarily enforced that of
the other. The army was put under marching orders, and, with
weary footsteps and desponding hearts, the remnant of the army
took its way into the great solitudes once more.
But the one purpose of progress, in De Soto's mind, was undirected
by that aim and design which constitute the first true
essentials of succesful adventure on the part of the soldier.
Disappointed hitherto in the results which followed his several
enterprises, he knew not now whither to direct his footsteps.
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From this moment, his only labor seemed to be to increase the distance
between his people and the sea. Haunted by the dread of their
desertion, he simply hurried forward, on a route that perpetually
changed its direction, now east, now west, hither and thither, but
always to no purpose. He knew not, nor seemed to care to
know, whither he sped. Stern, silent, irritable, he scorned
counsel and forbade expostulation. He wandered thus, in
weary pilgrimage, day by day, passing from forest to forest,
from village to village, fighting wherever the red men crossed his
path—which they did perpetually—and fighting always without
an object. One is forced to think, seeing how erratic was his
progress, and how recklessly he incurred all perils, that his real
purpose was to end a struggle which brought him vexation only,
and a life which, his pride taught him, was dishonored by the defeat
of all his expectations.
While our Spaniards were recreating themselves in Mauvila,
what of the people of the Great King, Tuscaluza? what of the
Portuguese Knight, whom we now know as Istalana, the immediate
confidant of the Mauvilian Cassique, sorely wounded
in the final battle with the Spaniards. Both of these chiefs were
seasonably borne away by their red followers to a place of
safety in the contiguous forests. As these proceedings were all
transacted with the greatest secrecy, by a people practised in the
utmost subtleties of savage warfare, as cunning as the serpent,
and as stealthy as the cat, the Spaniards never dreamed of the
vast numbers, that, more or less hurt, were carried safely from
the melée; and the still greater numbers, who escaped when the
conflict went too decidedly against them. The Mauvilians had
lost probably three thousand warriors, and a few score of women
had perished also fighting in their ranks; but a numerous army
still remained to the Great King, even of those engaged at Mauvila;
while others daily poured into his assistance, led by the
Cassiques of tributary provinces. Had he or Istalana been able
to take the field, the Spaniards had never been suffered to rest a
moment in Mauvila; had never been permitted time to repair
their disasters and to recruit themselves for a fresh campaign.
Had their quarters been beat up daily and nightly with incessant
alarm; had their foragers been cut off whenever they went forth;
it is probable, that the eight days of rest at Mauvila, would have
been so many days of struggle and starvation, ending in their utter
annihilation. They were then in no condition to fight, and as
little to endure.
But, in the wounds and incapacity of their great leaders, the
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red men did not dare to venture upon the enterprise for themselves.
They were content to gather and prepare themselves;
to provide a new armory; to lay in supplies of provisions; to
guard their wounded monarch; and watch closely all the movements
of the Spaniards. Tuscaluza had been severely hurt, but
the red men, rarely outraging nature with the too frequently impertinent
pretensions of art, were good nurses, and not bad surgeons,
in that day, when they did not feel their own deficiencies
and had not learned to succumb to the genius of the white man.
They had considerable knowledge of pharmacy, and dealing with
green wounds, which were not necessarily mortal, they were
singularly successful. The conquering people have borrowed
many good lessons, and much knowledge, from their skill in
medicine.
Of course, Istalana shared with the Great King, in the best attentions
of his people. Nay, he had probably even better attendance,
for was not Coçalla his nurse, and was not Juan nigh,
jealous of her cares, and watchful of every opportunity to interpose
his own? Vasconselos had suffered from several wounds.
He had been brought from the field in a state of utter insensibility.
Borne on a litter through the forests to a place of
safety, remote from the scene of action, he had undergone a long
struggle with the mortal enemy of life. Youth, great vigor of
constitution, fond and sleepless cares, and a loving solicitude that
neglected nothing; to those he owed his recovery. During all
his sufferings, through a long insensibility, fever and delirium,
Coçalla never slept. Ah! the devotedness of the loving heart—
the loving woman! How it galled the soul of Juan to see her
officious tenderness, when he could not interpose—when he dared
not. How it angered him, when Coçalla bound the fever balm
to the forehead of the unconscious Knight—when she bathed his
hands and arms in cooling waters; when she applied the bruised
herbs to his wounded side and bosom, when she poured the cooling
beverages into his burning lips, when she sate by him, and
lifted his head upon her arms, and against her bosom, and murmured
softly in his ears, her fond, exulting consciousness—“oh!
Philip! my Philip.”
Then would the page chafe with vexation. He betrayed his
anger. He was rude to Coçalla. He complained even of her
officious zeal, and sleepless attendance.
And Coçalla pleaded with him as if she had been no princess.
She knew that the boy loved the cavalier, and for this she
forgave him all his offences. It was quite enough with her, that
the rude boy was devoted to his master. That, she saw. She
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was not anxious to see further. But she said to Juan, one day,
when he was absolutely insolent?
“Why does the page of Philip grow angry? Doth he not
love his master? And loving Philip, doth he not see that Coçalla
loves him too, and because she loves him, that she watches him, and
tends him, and dresses his wounds, and makes his couch of suffering
soft and easy? What would Juan desire but to make well
and happy his master? would he have Coçalla to hate Philip?
Coçalla will not hate Philip! Coçalla loves Philip with her
whole heart. She loves nothing, nobody, so well as Philip.”
But this was precisely what Juan did not desire. But, to this,
what could he answer? He could only turn away, and conceal
his tears, and curse his fate, that suffered other hands and other
cares than his own, to nurse and tend, and minister to the being
whom he so much loved, with a like love also. Verily, great were
the tortures of the page, during that long trial, while Vasconselos
lay wounded and insensible upon the fringed couch of the beautiful
princess, and so long as she alone had power to watch beside
him.
But gradually both Tuscaluza and Istalana grew better from
their hurts, and the eyes of the Portuguese Knight opened to a
knowledge of his friends; and he took the hand of Coçalla within
his own,—and the hand of Juan too; as they stood on opposite
sides of the couch; and he kissed the hand of Coçalla; while the
princess laughed merrily with joy, and kissed his forehead in
return. But as for Juan, he could only turn away, and weep.
The joy of the princess was the sorrow of the page.
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CHAPTER XLIX.
“Set we forward:—
Never was a war did cease,
Ere bloody hands were washed.”
Cymbeline.
[figure description] Page 508.[end figure description]
The warriors of the Apalachian had been set in motion, by the
impatient Tuscaluza, before Vasconselos was able to take the
field. His pride made him impatient. Advised of every step
in the progress of the Spaniards, he had commanded that their
steps should be followed; and, taking counsel, for awhile, from
Istalana, he had pursued a cautious policy, which studiously forebore
risking anything on a general battle. His present chief
warrior was Chicaza, who controlled an immense district of
country, and could bring at least five thousand warriors into the
field. The progress of De Soto had now brought him into the
territories of this Chief. To him, Tuscaluza — preparing himself
to take the field—had sent instructions to harass the Spaniards,
cut off detachments and supplies, whenever occasion offered, but,
on no account, to engage in general action. It was the fortune of
the Great King to Apalachia, to possess great Captains, who, like
the ambitious Chiefs among more civilized nations, have too
much self-esteem to hearken to the words of counsel, or even to
obey the commands of their superiors always. Chicaza ventured
battle with the enemy, and was defeated. But not till a dreadful
massacre had taken place, as terribly murderous to the red
men as that of Mauvila, and quite as fatal to the Spaniards.
De Soto had possessed himself of the village of Chicaza.
The first act of the fierce Cassique was the destruction of his own
town. He decreed it to the flames. It was a bitter cold night
in February, the north wind blowing wildly, and dark clouds
scudding across the sky, when the Cassique led his forces, in
three separate bodies, to the attack. The Spaniards knew not of
their danger, till the dwellings, in which they had sheltered themselves,
were all in flames. Scouts and sentinels, officers and
men, had been alike neglectful of duty. The red men stole into
an unwatched camp. They gave no alarm, until they had laid
their inflammable torches beneath the cottages, and until their
shafts, tipped with lighted matches, had swept to the straw-roofed
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lodges, and fastened themselves inextricably among the reeds.
Then did the war-whoop sound the signal for assault; then did
the wild conchs deliver their mournful blasts, and the wooden
drums, and rattles of the Chicazas resound fearfully about the
beleaguered habitations. Then did the red men, three thousand
in number, rush to the battle, surrounding the village on every
side, and dealing their effectual arrows whenever the Spaniards
sallied forth.
We must not enter into the details of this battle. We can
only give results. The red men were beaten,—that is, they were
driven off, for shelter, to their thickets, and several hundred of
them were slain. But the victory, like that of Mauvila, was one
over which the Spaniards could only groan, not exult! Fifty
of their soldiers had been slain, with several hidalgos among
them; as many horses had perished also, and a like number
were more or less hurt. At one time, but for Nuno de Tobar and
Andres de Vasconselos, the Spaniards must have been utterly
destroyed. An entire company fled in panic from the scene of
action, and were brought back by Tobar. The Portuguese
captain and his veterans, in fact, were the true saviors of the
army. When the morrow's sun shone upon the work, the hot
tears, spite of himself, gushed forth from the eyes of the haughty
Adelantado, who felt, with the onward progress of each day, how
nearer he approached the complete annihilation of all his hopes.
His gloom and vexation of spirit increased the gulph between
himself and his followers. He had for them no words of patience.
He was guilty of daily injustice. He mortified their pride by
his haughty disregard to their sufferings and wishes; he discouraged
their sympathies, by the rejection of all communion
with them. His best officers, among them Nuno de Tobar and
Andres de Vasconselos, approached him with entreaty and exhortation.
But the presence of the latter—of both in fact—only
reminded him painfully of one, to whom he ascribed the ruin of
his fortunes. Though he named not Philip de Vasconselos to
either—though, in their ignorance of what he knew, he offered
them no clues to the secret origin of his own agonies, he yet replied
to them with a bitterness that seemed to take for granted
their perfect knowledge of his secret.
“Oh, ye do well to exhort and to entreat, and counsel. Why
do ye not go further? Why not command. Ye know not the
presence of this fiendish fate that pursues our steps. Ye know
not the damnable presence that haunts our fortunes with daily
terrors. Yet ye wear his aspect. Ye are innocent forsooth;
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Yet why do ye go with him in your hearts, that ye may the
better pluck down ruin on my head.”
“What means his Excellency,” demanded the confounded
Nuno de Tobar. The scowling eyes of De Soto were set upon
Andres de Vasconselos. The latter proudly answered, and with
a calm cold sterness of manner, which made the resemblance
between himself and brother much more evident than ever.
“I know not what your Excellency designs to say, for a truth
all that you have spoken sounds strange and unmeaning in mine
ears; but if their be any purpose to charge aught of our disasters
upon my neglect of duty or want of loyalty, then do I demand
that you name my accuser, and my sword shall answer to his falsehood.”
“Even thus he spoke! Thus he looked! Thus he defied me
ever!” cried De Soto, his memory still retaining full recollection of
the reserve and self-esteem which in the case of Philip de Varcomelos
had always offended the amour propre of the Castilian.
“Of whom speaks the Adelantado?” demanded Tobar.
“Of whom! Jesu! one would think you had slept, without
hearing the cries of war, without feeling the shock of battle,
without scathing in the scorching flames that swept over us by
night, during the last thirty days of strife and honor.”
Such was the sudden burst of seeming astonishment, with which
the adelantado replied to his lieutenant. He continued, ardently
and wildly—
“Of whom should I speak, but of that insolent Jate which has
dogged our steps from Chiala, and which hangs over us with ruin.
Oh! ye know not. Ye are blind. Ye will remain blind until the
knife is at your throats, and there is no means left ye for escape.
Hark ye! Ye have seen De Soto overthrown, for the first time
overthrown, in single combat; man opposed to man, lance to lance
steed to steed. And ye have seen all this achieved by a naked
savage of the Apalachian! No mail upon his breast, no helmet
upon his brow, no crest upon gleaming shield, declaring his deeds
in war. Yet he had a name. Once he had crest and shield, and
cuirass. Ha! Ha! A red savage! and ye thought it was a mere
savage, a naked Apalachian of the hills, whose lance could foil that
of Hernan De Soto, whose charge and thrust could roll the Castilian
warrior into the dust. Oh! blind! Hark ye! It was no
red man no Apalachian, though wearing his semblance. It was
this accursed Fate, I tell you, that pursues us now, that will still
pursue us, that will feed upon us all, even as the vulture and the
wolf glean among our bones bleaching in the wilderness. But I
will not fall in vain! There will be a bloody issue yet. His crest
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against mine, and so help me, Blessed Jesu, as I shall yet plant a
fatal stroke of the battle-axe between his accursed eyes—that Fate
of mine! He shall not overthrow me quite. In my fall, ye shall
behold his also! ay, ay! but a little while. But a few days now—
so gentlemen, get ye ready for march, away.”
The officers stared aghast. The mind of De Soto was evidently
affected. His brain was wild and fevered; and such for
several days continued to be the mood which prevailed with him,
and the manner of his speech. But his inflexible will was still
active and commanding, and sufficed for authority. He drove
his reduced regiments still forward, after a very brief delay,
spent in repairing swords and armor, and giving rest to the
wounded. But dreadful were the sufferings of the troops. The
winter was very cold, and, dreading the torches of the red men,
they could no longer venture to occupy the villages.
Tuscaluza and Istalana were now both in the field once more,
and the authority of the latter prevailed with the Great King.
The redmen were no longer so confident of their prowess as to
risk a general action. They contented themselves with guerilla
warfare. They hung upon the wings, and in the rear of the
Spaniards, harrassing them at every step. They encountered
them in front with sudden darts, whenever the thickets enabled
them to cover themselves readily from the cavalry. De Soto,
maddening with every day's experience, with fever burning high
in his temples, and uncicatrized wounds scalding him beneath his
armor, grew more savage in his moods, and more and more
persuaded himself that a Fate hung above his banner, which
should finally swoop down in vengeance, burying it in blood forever.
With such a superstition working in his soul, he was no
longer the great Captain, who had won eminent position in arms,
with a glory second not even to that of Cortes and Pizarro.
He was now moody and capricious, unstable of resolve,
changeable of purpose, without purpose in fact, and wandering,
like a vagrant with his army, to and fro, as the winds blew and
the waters ran.
At length they told him of a red man seen on horseback, even
then in sight of the army, though at a distance.
“Ha!” he cried—“It is the Fate! He seeks me; we shall
meet once more! we shall meet! we shall end it soon. Ha! Ha!
now shall we see!”
And he bade them help buckle on his armor, and he rode forth
at the head of his army, and lo! upon a little eminence, there
stood the mounted warrior of the Apalachian, as if awaiting him.
“Now,” cried De Soto to his followers—“Now, do ye keep
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back, while ye see me transfix this insolent enemy—this Fate
that haunts my footsteps to destroy—with but a single thrust of
my good spear. Ho! Sant Iago, to the rescue!”
And with the famous slogan of Spanish battle, the maddened
cavalier dashed forward to the assault.
Meanwhile, as the Spaniards clearly saw, the red warrior welcomed
the encounter; for he waved his long lance aloft in the
sunlight, and he, too, advanced as if glad to engage in the mortal
struggle with the noble Castilian. But it was no part of the
policy of the Spanish knights or soldiers to suffer the Adelantado
to peril himself in single combat, in his present diseased and
feeble state. Besides, they had seen the wonderful and unaccountable
prowess which the red warrior had shown on horseback.
They naturally concluded the one before them to be the same
who had already overthrown their leader, and they began to share
in the superstitions which he had taught them to respect. They
dashed forward in a body to the support of De Soto, and, with
their approach, the strange warrior of Apalachia melted from
sight, man and horse, into the dim shadows of the impenetrable
forest.
“Whither went he?” demanded the Adelantado. “Did the
earth swallow him? Did ye see him ride away?”
“Verily,” said one, “he disappeared as suddenly as he came!
We saw not how! Perhaps into the forest.”
“But had he not been a fiend from hell, could he have sped
from sight unseen—unheard?”
The knights crossed themselves solemnly, and each muttered
to himself a prayer.
“It is the Fate—my Fate!” exclaimed De Soto as they led
him back; “but I shall cross weapon with him yet! Sant Iago
against the Fiend, my friends! I will conquer mine enemy!”
Days passed; the Spaniards still pressed forward; still harassed
by their sleepless enemies, and unable, with all their arts,
to bring the wily red men to a general action. But De Soto was
told of a fortress into which Chicaza, the Cassique, had thrown
himself, upon the very borders of his province, and where he
appeared preparing to defend himself. The news seemed to concentrate
all the energies and purposes of De Soto. It gave him
a definite purpose. The fortress was called Alabama, and stood
upon the banks of the Yazoo river. The garrison was large.
The fortress was strong and built like that of Mauvila. The
Adelantado at once led his army against it; clouds of the red men,
under Tuscaluza and Istalana, hanging upon his wings and rear.
A terrible fight ensued; the infantry of the Spaniards assailing
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the fortress, while their cavalry was required to defend their rear
against the forest rangers that hovered on their flanks. The
Spaniards were again victorious, at the usual price of victory.
They lost some twenty of their bravest soldiers. The loss of
the red men was more severe, but not such as the superlatively
extravagant chroniclers of their people would have us believe. In
fact, the defence of the fortress was only one of those modes
which the policy of the Apalachians taught them to employ, by
which gradually to waste and exhaust the strength of the invaders.
They did not expose themselves unnecessarily; those
who fought without the fortress had the woods for a convenient
shelter, with a thousand avenues open to their light-heeled rangers
for flight, while they were almost impenetrable to the cavalry of
their enemies. The garrison, on the other hand, when closely
pressed on three sides of the fortress, simply leapt the river, and
swam over to the other side. In this conflict, both De Soto and
Philip de Vasconselos were again wounded, but neither severely.
A snare was laid by the Spanish knights for taking the mysterious
horseman of the Apalachians; but the plan was badly conceived,
or badly managed. It was suspected, and Istalana fought on foot,
with battle-axe and macana. Once he came nearly to blows with
De Soto, and, but for the sudden fluctuations of the combat, would
have succeeded in his efforts to do so. A press of knights suddenly
threw a wall of iron and defensive spears between him and
his prey, and he was baffled. The red men melted away from
before the Spaniards, even as the morning mists before the sun,
satisfied with what was done, and leaving to their enemies but a
barren conquest.
The event of this battle was to confirm De Soto in the bitterness
of his moods, and that strange phrenzy—not, however, unnatural—
which had taken possession of his brain. He was a
terribly stricken man, and his mind frequently wandered, while
his frame seemed no longer capable of that hardy endurance; was
certainly no longer seen to exhibit that elastic energy, which had
hitherto distinguished it in every progress. But still he pressed
his people forward, heedless whither, except that he always religiously
strove to leave the sea behind him. He dared not contemplate
the sea. He dared not move the heads of his columns
in that direction, lest he should so madden his followers as to be
unable to control their future course. They had too fully shown
him the lingering passion in their hearts to return; and this return
was what his pride could not contemplate. Failing to conquer
as he had promised, he preferred to bury his fortunes and his
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shame together in the depths of the wilderness. He was a fine
example of the terrible selfishness of ambition.
The erratic progress of De Soto at length brought him to the
banks of the Mississippi. His was the first European eye, according
to the authentic history in our possession, which ever beheld
the vast, turbid and wondrous streams of the “Father of
Waters.” De Soto gazed upon them with but little interest.
He dreamed not of the glorious territories which they watered.
He saw not, through the boundless vistas of the future, the numerous
tribes who should dwell upon their prolific borders,
crowning them with the noblest evidences of life, and with the
loveliest arts of civilization. The spirit of the Adelantado was
crushed. The fires of ambition were quenched in his bosom.
His heart was withered: his hope was blasted forever. He was
now a dying man; not exactly a maniac, but with a mind ill at
ease, disordered, vacant, capricious; striving with itself: weary,
and longing only for the one blessing, which he had never suffered
himself to enjoy;—Peace! His heart did not exactly crave a restoration
to his home in Cuba, but the image of the noble woman,
his wife, rose frequently, reproachful in his sight. He had
loved her, as fervently as he could have loved any woman; but,
in the ambitious soul, love is a very tributary passion. It craves
love, but accords little in return. Its true passion is glory!
We have foreborne a thousand details of strife, anxiety, dread and
suffering, which the Spaniards were doomed to experience before
they reached the Mississippi. They were haunted by the perpetual
terrors of the Apalachians. Tuscaluza and his Portuguese Lieutenant
Istalana gave them no respite. They crossed the Mississippi.
They penetrated the country of the Kaskaskias, and still they
were under the eye and the influence of the Great King of the
Apalachians. The terrors of his name met them on every side.
The powers of his arm smote them in all their progresses. “The
Fate! The haunting and pursuing Fate! Oh! Philip de Vasconselos!”
cried De Soto to himself—“thou art terribly avenged.
Would that we could meet, mine enemy! would that, alone, we
stood naked, front to front, on the borders of this great heathen
river, spear to spear, and none to come between. Then, then!
Thy spear or mine! Thy fate or mine! I have wronged thee,
Philip de Vasconselos, but I should slay thee nevertheless.
Verily, thou art terribly avenged. I have wronged thee, but
what had these done to thee, thy christian brethren, that thou
should'st decree their destruction also? Yet thou shalt not!
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Sant Iago! there shall come an hour when thou shalt be delivered
into my hands.”
The griefs, the sufferings of De Soto prompted a revival of his
religious enthusiasm. He commanded that a pine of gigantic
height should be hewn into the form of a cross. He had it planted
with solemn ceremonials upon the banks of the stream, and
consecrated its inauguration with great solemnity, and with propitiatory
sacrifices. His secret thought was to persuade the
blessing influences to resist and defeat the terrors of that fiend,—
that Fate,—with which he now believed himself to be pursued.
Thus then, more than three hundred years ago, the emblem of
Christian faith towered above the Father of Waters, and Christian
rites consecrated his mighty billows as they hurried with
glad tidings to the sea.
But these solemn ceremonials compelled no friendly auguries.
The further marches of De Soto only brought him to the bloody
embrace of newer enemies. How the arms and influence of
the Apalachians pursued him wherever he sped—how they roused
against him the warriors of Capaha, Tula and other tribes; what
were the combats, what the losses, the surprises, the fears, the sufferings
of the Spaniards, in their daily progresses, may be faintly
gathered from their own meagre chronicles. Incessant strifes,
sleepless nights, weary marches, wounds and toil, these, with final
mutiny among his own followers, utterly broke down the soul of
De Soto, and took from him all his strength. Let it suffice that
the noble Castilian at last consented to retrace his steps. The
decision came too late for his own safety. But he despatched a
small force, following the great river, with the hope to find the
sea at no great distance. Meanwhile, warring at every step with
new enemies, De Soto planted himself at length at a village which
he had captured, called Guachoya, on the western banks of the
Mississippi. Here he prepared to build brigantines, and make
his way out of a country in which death hunted forever at his
heels, and an angry Fate welcomed, with a constant defeat of
hope, wherever he ventured to plant his footsteps.
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CHAPTER L.
“Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history.”
Shakspeare.
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Our previous narrative of events has brought us to the opening
of the summer of the year 1542. We have reached the
melancholy close of all those glorious prospects, and triumphant
hopes, with which Hernando de Soto left the shores of Cuba, for
the country of the savage Apalachian. He was a subdued and
broken-hearted man; humbled in spirit, mortified in pride,
ruined in fortune. He had survived all his hopes. Despair had
taken possession of his soul. To crown his misery, physical
suffering was superadded to his griefs of mind, and wounds, and
travail, fatigue and fever, had combined to prostrate the iron
frame of him, who, in the pride of muscular vigor, had never
dreamed that any toil or trial should have forced him to succumb.
Nothing short of this utter prostration of his physical strength
and energies, would ever have compelled him to yield the point
to Fate—would ever have moved him to listen to the entreaties of
his followers—now urged with a stern resolution that would no
longer brook denial, to turn back from the forests to the sea,
and endeavor once more, to regain the shores of that beautiful
island, which, even the proud spirit of De Soto himself, bemoaned
in secret, with a fond and fearful anxiety. On the banks
of the vast and lonely Mississippi, occupying the Indian village
of Guachoya, the Adelantado gave his orders for the construction
of a couple of brigantines, such as would enable him to seek the
sea.
His people set themselves to this work, with the eagerness of
men, to whom the fruition of all their hopes is promised. While
bodies of them were engaged felling and seasoning timber, others
scoured the country, seeking adventures and provisions; and
above all, to prevent the too near approach of the swarming
hordes of red men, by whom, ever since their approach to the
territories of Tuscaluza, their fortunes had been followed. That
Fate, as De Soto himself esteemed it—which had hung upon
their steps and striven against them, with a bitter hostility from
the moment when Vasconselos was lost to the Castilian columns,
and Istalana suddenly sprang into existence, as the leader of those
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of the Apalachian, was still present, still a haunting terror,
still making itself felt unseen, still cutting off detachments,
striking at posts, beating up the bivouac, carrying off, or smiting
down, the straggler, and showing itself as resolute as before, in
its evident purpose to root out and utterly destroy the invaders.
Tuscaluza's power and influence were everywhere brought to
serve this Fate and promote this terrible purpose. His runners
traversed the whole country, passing from tribe to tribe, bringing
tidings of the Spaniards where they came; of their bloody
character, selfish treachery, the power of their arms, the grasping
ferocity of their desires. The Captains of Tuscaluza presented
themselves as volunteers in the conduct of remote tribes. His
troops, as principals or auxiliaries, were to be found carrying the
banner of the Great King; with its bright ground of yellow, and
its three broad stripes of blue; a sign that now waved ominously
in the eyes of our Adelantado, whenever it appeared. It had
been to him the omen of evil always, and he trembled in his
secret soul when he beheld it. He associated it ever with the
aspect of that mysterious warrior of the red men—mysterious to
his followers, but too well known to himself, by whom he had been
overthrown in single combat! That overthrow rankled in his
soul, but it also tended to disarm his spirit. De Soto was cowed
by his Fate! The forest chieftains sent him insolent messages,
defying his arms and challenging him to combat. Once, and such
defiance would have spurred him to the most desperate achievement!
Now, he suffered it to go unheeded. Like a tiger, with
broken limb, he lay crouching in his lair, full of venom, but without
the power to spring upon his victim. The Adelantado was
sinking beneath his cares, growing daily worse and worse, more
morbid of mind, more feeble of body. His ferocity subsided
into melancholy. A fever preyed upon his blood, and affected
without exciting his brain. His physician at length despaired.
He himself had despaired some time before. But the doom was,
as yet, withheld from his people.
Meanwhile, the work of the brigantines was rapidly pressing
forward, under the eager anxieties of the Spaniards to leave the
inhospitable territories of the Apalachian. While companies
hewed timber, others gathered rosin from the trees; others again
wove ropes and wrought cordage out of vines and mosses; a
third division was employed for foraging; while a fourth was
kept in hand, vigilant and ready, for the protection of the camp.
So long as De Soto, himself, could give orders, or take any interest
in the business of the garrison, its vigilance was never once
permitted to relax. Guachoya was not, like Mauvila, a fortified
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town, and the scattered dwellings of the place, required to be well
watched. De Soto, to his usual habits of precaution, had, of late,
adopted others of an extreme sort, betraying a morbid apprehension
of danger. His sentinels were doubled; each night his
cavalry mounted guard in the suburbs of the village, bridle in
hand, and ready for the sally or defence. A patrol of troops
alternated, during the night, between the several stations;
while, along the river, cross-bowmen in canoes kept vigilant
watch upon all approaches from the opposite shores.
But this vigilance was observed only while De Soto was himself
able to assert his authority. With his increasing illness, all
this organization fell to pieces. The extra sentinels were dispensed
with; the cavalry found it hard to mount guard during the
night, when they had probably been on a foray all day; the troopers
finding there were no alarms, gave up patrolling; the cross-bowmen
fell asleep in the canoes. The Spaniards were now steadfast
only in the labor of building their brigantines; and all duties
that seemed to interfere with the prosecution of this work, were,
either in part, or entirely foregone. Gradually, as the heats of
summer began to prevail, all toils in the sun were relaxed. The
forbearance of the red men, for several weeks, had persuaded the
Spaniards that they had endured the worst of their dangers from
this source. They little knew how much of this forbearance they
owed to that person, who had grown into the embodied Fate
of their great leader; and to whose agency, in especial, he ascribed
the defeat of his enterprise and the destruction of his fortunes.
Philip de Vasconselos—the Cassique Istalana,—who had now
the entire charge of the forces of Tuscaluza on the Mississippi—
seeing how the Spaniards were engaged in the construction of
their brigantines, readily divined their object. He had no motive
to prevent their departure, and, consequently no desire to embarrass
them in their progress. Still, there was one hostile feeling,
the gratification of which he had not enjoyed. His revenge
was incomplete. Could he have separated the Spaniards from
their Captain—could he have struck at him—him and another—
there had been nothing left him to desire! He well knew that
through him De Soto had been baffled—that he was a subdued
and broken-hearted man; but it must be confessed that he still
yearned for the opportunity to bring the long issue between
them, to the final settlement of blood! This was the black spot
in the soul of the Portuguese Cavalier.
It was a warm and sunny afternoon of summer. The Spaniards
might be seen in groups along the shore, strolling through
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the camp, or fishing along the river in canoes. They little suspected
the near neighborhood of the mysterious warrior, who could
manage the war horse as bravely as themselves. He occupied
a close fortress of forest in the immediate proximity of the camp.
A bend of the river at Guachoya, somewhat isolated the spot. It
was a sort of promontory. An arm of the river penetrated, to
some distance, in the rear of the village. This was thickly shrouded
with canes, and the dense thickets natural to a swamp precinct.
Here Istalana found shelter with a select body of his warriors.
Here he kept sleepless watch upon the movements of the unsuspecting
Spaniards. With canoes always at hand, he crossed from
side to side at pleasure; and was thus enabled to change the place
of surveillance whenever he thought proper to do so. He now
harbors in the shadow of great trees which have pressed closely to
the banks of the river, their boughs hanging over and dipping into
the mighty stream. Here, in the great shadows, Istalana lies at
length along the slope; and the Princess Coçalla sits beside him;
and the page Juan leans sadly against a gigantic cotton-wood tree
in the rear, and looks gloomily upon the pair before him!
Vasconselos has been for some time silent,—deep in thought.
He has occasionally answered, but in monosyllables only, to the
questions of Coçalla. She has been very curious about that world
beyond the waters, which could send forth, without feeling his
loss, such a noble creature as the warrior whom she now boldly calls
her own! Juan has been listening with heedful and curious ear
also; but with growing sullenness of aspect. Suddenly Vasconselos
rises. He approaches Juan, and, speaking rather in the manner
of one who soliloquizes than asks a question, remarks:
“Verily there is one thing that troubles me. I have striven
in vain to encounter one bitter enemy, one foul spirit, in that
Spanish host; and always in vain! I have watched for him
whenever they have been upon the march. I have sought for
him through all the ranks of battle; yet never, since the fearful
hour when his bitter malice wrought my disgrace, have I been
able to see his accursed visage, or bring him within the stroke of
my weapon! Yet are his colors still visible among yonder
people. Still do I see his banneret waving aloft, when they are
upon the march, and I trow he hath never left the expedition.
Were he to escape me now, I should feel as if nothing had been
done for my own revenge;—nothing for the repair of his brutal
wrong to one,—but no, I must not speak of her!”
“Of whom does the Señor speak!” demanded Juan. “What
bitter enemy is this?”
“Of one, boy, of whom we have both had frequent cause of
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anger and suspicion. Don Balthazar de Alvaro! Have you
seen ought of him since we have followed the fortunes of the
red men?”
“Had I known, my Lord, that such had been thy quest, in especial,
I had spared thee much search and unnecessary peril.
The Señor Balthazar was slain the very night upon which I fled,
in search of thee, from the camp at Chiaha.”
“Ha! slain! slain!—and why did'st thou tell me nothing of
this?”
“The Señor will remember how little hath been said between
us, safe from other ears, since that time.”
And the page looked gloomily in the direction of Coçalla.
Verily, the page had been suffered but few opportunities to commune
with his master.
“And wherefore thy reserve of speech in the hearing of the
Princess? She hath no reserves from us. She is faithful, boy!
what hadst thou to fear?”
“Fear, Señor!”
The words and manner were those of one who would rather
say—
“What had I not to fear?”
“Ay, fear! But speak, Juan, and tell me how the villain
perished! Thou sayst the very night when thou hadst that
perilous and maddening ride in search of me?”
“Even then Señor; that very night!”
“And how?—was it in sudden strife with the red men, that he
perished?”
“No, Señor.”
“Well?”
“He died of dagger stroke, Señor,—dagger stroke from some
unknown hand!”
“Ha! dagger stroke, and from unknown hand! Speak, boy,
tell me all that thou knowst. Where did this hap? and how
knowst thou that he who gave the blow was unknown? tell me
that!”
The lips of the page quivered. He cast his eyes upon the
ground. He was silent. Thronging memories and violent
emotions seem to confound his speech, and to shake his frame.
Philip beheld his emotion, and a new light seemed to gather
before his senses.
“What troubles thee, Juan? What hadst thou to do in this
matter? Ha! the night thou fledst; that fearful flight of thine!
Speak, boy, tell me where was the blow given; where did Balthazar
de Alvaro fall?”
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It required a great effort of the page to articulate the answer.
“It was in the chamber of thy own lodge, Señor, that Don
Balthazar was slain.”
“And thou wert there—present—and beheldst it all! Boy,
boy! was it thy hand that struck the blow at the heart of mine
enemy?”
The boy nodded the answer that he could not speak.
“What! then thou wast my avenger on that base and brutal
wretch!”
“And mine own too!” was the half muttered sentence of the
page. But Philip did not hear. He caught the boy in his embrace.
“I thank thee, boy; next to mine own, it was perhaps most
proper for thy hand to do the deed! Yet would it had been
mine own! Enough! I must think no more of him. Then is
this no more a duty in my thought!”
He released Juan from his embrace as he felt the hand of
Coçalla upon his shoulder, and heard her voice in soft murmurs
in his ears.
“Philip—is Philip angry with Coçalla!”
Juan broke away from the group at this moment, and buried
himself in the thicket, with a heart quite too full for speech.
“Philip! Philip!” the boy murmured ever as he fled from
sight.
“One yet remains!” quoth Philip de Vasconselos to himself.
“One yet remains! There is a mystery here! I see him not.
Nuno de Tobar hath crossed the river with his lances: Andres,
my brother, hath gone above with his company. Who is now in
command? De Soto doth not show himself. He must not escape
me also! No arm shall deal with him but mine! Yet have
I resolved not to set upon the Spaniards again. My vengeance
now must light upon the only proper head. Never must he return
to Cuba; though well I know that it will prove to him a
pang worse than any death I can give, to have the eyes of Cuba
set upon him now;—now, when all his hopes are baffled, when
his pride is humbled, his fortune lost, his honor gone forever.
Oh! I have tasted of the bitter-sweet of vengeance; but it is not
enough! Herman De Soto, I tell thee, it is not enough! Thy
blood or mine, I tell thee!”
He shook his hand threateningly towards the Spanish camp,
then strode towards the edge of the creek which divided him
from the lodges of Guachoya. Here he leapt into a canoe
having a single paddle. He was seen by several of the red men
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as he went; Juan also saw and followed him. He rowed himself
rapidly across the creek, and stood upon the opposite bank,
at no great distance from the line of lodges which the Spaniards
occupied.
All was quiet in the encampment. Groups of the soldiers and
workmen could be seen in the distance, along the banks of the
river. An occasional figure wound his way along the public
thoroughfares. The approach to the cabins was partly covered
by trees: but beneath them not a single sentinel could be seen.
Philip eagerly pushed forward, but with the subtle stealthiness of
the red man, and taking care always to cover his person from
sight. How was the page, Juan, astonished, when, crossing the
creek as rapidly as he could after his lord, and ascending also to
the level of the high ground leading to the Spanish camp, he
beheld the Knight entering one of the lodges of the enemy!
At that moment, he was called to by name from some one in
the rear. He looked back. Coçalla had crossed also; bow and
arrow in hand, and her face and voice equally declaring her
alarm. She was followed by several well manned canoes. Very
hateful was the beautiful and loving Coçalla in the eyes of the
page. He never answered her call, but, as if vexed by her presence
and pursuit, he too pushed forward, in the direction which
his lord had taken, seeming quite reckless of the peril which he
ran.
Hernan De Soto, a mere skeleton of himself, lay weak, emaciated,
weary of life, upon his bed of death! He was alone—he
had been left to sleep by his attendants who had withdrawn
to an outer apartment. The building was one of those great
lodges of the red men, which were capable upon occasion of
holding a thousand men. It had been divided by the Spaniards
into several compartments by the employment of quilted stuffs,
hides of wild beasts, and of their own horses, and mattings
wrought by Indian art from native grasses and the bright yellow
reeds which grew along the banks, woven together with wild
oziers which were every where found in great abundance. The
couch of De Soto was prepared of like materials, over which
soft dry rushes were strewn in sufficient quantity. The lodges,
thus divided, as we have described, afforded several capacious
chambers; the best of which, fronting the south west, was occupied
by De Soto, but having in front of it a verandah which had
been carefully enclosed with vines and mats, in order to the exclusion
of the fierce glare of the sunshine. In this verandah, lay
drowsing a group of his attendants; others were wont to occupy
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the chamber immediately adjoining, which lay east of that of De
Soto, while one upon the north, was usually confided to his body
guard, a corps now reduced to half a dozen men. These, the
better to prevent the disturbance of the Chieftain's slumbers, had
been commanded to leave vacant this northern chamber, and retire
to the verandah beyond it. Here they usually kept watch.
But, after a little while, it was found that when they were not
drowsing in the verandah, they were at play in the court without.
Here they lay upon the long grasses, and, spreading a cloak or skin,
with the smooth side upward, they rolled the dice, to the perpetual
change, equally of mood and fortune. To pass from court to
court, from the north to the south, was a next and natural transition;
and in the languid influence of the climate, and in the utter
freedom for some weeks from all alarm, the Spaniards relaxed all
their vigilance, and soon—he himself totally unconscious—the
dying Adelantado grew to be even less guarded than the camp
itself.
Such was the condition of the scene the evening when we find
Philip de Vasconselos making his entrance into it unattended—
without shows or sounds of war—without followers; himself
armed only with battle-axe and dagger. Nothing, of course,
could take place within the Spanish encampment, which was not
well known to the vigilant red men who watched it sleeplessly by
day and night. The very lodgings of the several Spanish captains
had all been discovered by their spies. The lodge which De Soto
occupied, was, from its greater size and superior structure—it
having been that of the Cassique of Guachoya—necessarily indicated
as the one most proper for the Spanish adelantado. Vasconselos
approached it with direct aim and undeviating footstep.
Saving the natural caution which he observed, covering himself
with tree or shrub, wherever he could employ them while making
his approach,—he went not once aside from the single object.
The circumstances all favored his enterprise. The guards were
withdrawn. They might be seen in the shadows of the trees in
the court yard, on the South and West. Some loitered in the
Eastern court, others lay along the banks of the river, looking to
the south-west. The north and north-west showed no sign of
human being. Yet there, in the woods of the swamp opposite,
lay hosts of the red men of the Apalachian. It was from this
quarter that Istalana stole forward to the camp. In his course,
he caught frequent glimpses of the drowsy Spaniards. There
were groups at cards and dice. A score of them lay in the
shadows of the brigantines which they had been working upon
during the cooler portions of the day. Now they slept, or
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gamed, or wandered in the shady thickets—they did anything
but watch. They left this duty to the foragers, who, under
several of the most active knights, usually made a daily progress
over a circuit of ten or fifteen miles along the higher country, and,
thus scouring it daily, persuaded themselves that they kept the
danger at a distance. It would have been easy to have darted in
upon the camp, thus loosely guarded, destroyed the growth of
the brigantines, and cut off, at one fell swoop, the entire garrison,
with its once brilliant captain. But the soul of Philip de Vasconselos,
even while it nursed fondly the passion for a great revenge,
was not prepared to fall upon the people with whom he had so
long marched as a companion. He found it easy to persuade the
Great King to consent to the wiser policy of suffering the Spaniards
to depart, rather than to risk the lives of thousands more of the
red men, in the effort at their violent extermination by battle.
Tuscaluza had lost so many of his bravest warriors already, that
he listened to the counsel thus given him, and the war, thenceforth,
was conducted at the discretion of Istalana.
But Philip de Vasconselos demanded his one victim. Had he
been able to see Hernan de Soto, in field or camp, he might have
curbed his passion until the opportunity should offer of cutting
him off when but few troops should be engaged on either side.
Not seeing him for so long a space, he began to apprehend that
he, too, might have fallen in battle, or by disease, and had been
buried secretly by his followers, who naturally dreaded lest the
red men should wreak their savage fury on his remains, should
they be discovered. Curious to ascertain the truth, eager to
pacify his great revenge, Vasconselos could no longer forbear the
inquiry, though urged at the peril of his own life and liberty.
Circumstances, as we have shown, favored his adventure.
There were no guards in attendance; there was no watch about
the lodge of De Soto, and though certain esquires occupied the
closed verandah upon the south-west, whom Philip could not see,
and whose presence he did not suspect, yet were these as little
prepared for danger, or assault; as were the several groups that
lay in the shadows of the trees, and brigantines, or who loitered
among the broad avenues of the woods. The greater body of
the Spaniards in camp, were distributed among the several
lodges, either gaming, or enjoying that repose which the heats of
the season began to render exceedingly grateful, after several
hours of labor in the sun. A deep silence overspread the dwelling
in which De Soto was sighing away his life, when Vasconselos
passed between its portals. He had been utterly unseen. He
paused in the ante-chamber, on the northern side of the building,
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and listened. Sounds, as of a slight moaning, came to him from
the inner apartment. He drew aside the great bear-skin which
constituted the door-way, and advanced silently within the dim
shadows of the room. His moccasined footstep gave forth no
sound. The moaning continued. De Soto slept imperfectly,—
the sleep of exhaustion, and of approaching death.
Philip approached his bed-side, and gazed upon the bleached
and bloodless features of him whom he had seen in his hour of
pride and hope,—exulting in all the vigor of manhood,—and in
the indulgence of the most exulting hope, and the most eagle-eyed
ambition. His hand grasped the battle-axe, but the spectacle
disarmed his rage. He was chilled by the survey. For several
moments, he gazed in silence upon the foe, whom he had so long
destined as the one victim whose death alone could pacify his
rage. He now scarcely felt this emotion.
“And this then,” he murmured to himself—“this is the brilliant
cavalier, the haughty warrior, the proud chieftain, the insolent
and ambitious Castilian. This is the man by whose decree I
was dishonored—made to face and to endure a terror worse than
death—destroyed in hope—degraded from position, dishonored in
the sight of man forever. Verily, I would give the life that I have
passed when life was a joy and every emotion promised delight and
triumph,—could I once more behold thee, Hernan de Soto,—as
I have seen thee so oft,—as thou look'dst on that terrible day,
when thy doom gave my honor to disgrace, and left me to the
horrors of a beast's death in the wilderness of the Apalachian!”
The lips of the dying man parted, even as he slept, speaking in
feeble accents.
“Philip de Vasconselos,” he murmured faintly, but still intelligibly,
“give me back my forces. Philip de Vasconselos, thou
hast robbed me of all my fame. Thou hast destroyed me forever,
in hope and fortune. Oh! that I had thee here, and no arm
to interpose between us, with weapon bared, and thy life and
mine upon the issue!”
“Ha! he invokes me in his dream!”
“Thou art my Fate!” murmured the sleeper. “Thou hast
robbed me of all! Oh! that I could have thee in mine eyes
once more, and avenge upon thee the slaughter of my soldiers.”
“Open thine eyes, Hernan de Soto!” cried Vasconselos—
“Behold! I am with thee—The Fate thou hast summoned.
Would to Heaven thou wert as fit and ready for the strife as I.”
He laid his hand upon the skinny arm of the sleeper as he spoke,
and the eyes of the dying chief opened upon him. Very glassy
was the gaze they sent forth; for a while, very meaningless and
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uncertain. But, as the light of consciousness gradually dawned
upon his mind, the gaze quickened with intelligence.
“Ha!” he said—“I dream! I do not see!”
“Thou dost see, Hernan de Soto! thou dost not dream. The
Fate thou hast challenged is beside thee.”
“Ha! then! It is true. Thou art here. Ah! wilt thou strike
when I have no weapon. Let me but prepare for thee, Philip
de Vasconselos, by the Holy Virgin, thou shalt see what is the
prowess of a true man, against the bosom of the renegade and
traitor!”
And the feeble chieftain lifted his hand and pointed to his
armor hanging against the wall, and motioned as if he would
have risen; but he sank back feebly and shut his eyes, murmuring—
“Be it as thou wilt! strike, if thou hast the heart for it! I
have no prayer to offer to thee, traitor as thou art.”
“That word alone should doom thee to sudden blow, Hernan
de Soto,” answered the Knight with stern emphasis,
“but I will not strike thee. I will lay no hand upon thee now
in anger. There is a more powerful grasp upon thee than any I
can lay. Thou art in the hands of the great master of life, and
I will do nothing more against thee. Yet, Heaven be my witness,
de Soto, if I would not gladly help thee to thy armor, and see
thee once more put on all thy strength, while I stood before
thee, with battle-axe, armed as now, and thou with any weapon
or armor that thou wouldst, with none to come between us,
and thy life and mine decreed to hang upon the justice of our
cause. Traitor! Who made me a traitor, if I be one? Who
robbed me of my rights, my good name, my honors and my
manhood? Who drove me into the arms of the red men,—who
despoiled me of my abode, and security among a christian
people? Who but thou? and it is thou that darest now, with
the hand of death upon thee, and the dread of eternal judgment
staring thee in the face—thou, to call me traitor! It is thou, I
tell thee, Hernan de Soto, that art the traitor and the criminal!
Thou that hast dishonored the noble order of knighthood by
dishonest judgment; thou that didst debase thee from the rank
of the gentle and the noble, in becoming the tool and the slave
of the cunning criminal, who warped thee to his villanous purpose,
making of thy soul a thing even fouler than his own!”
“Ha! shall I submit to this insolence!” answered De Soto in
louder accents. His soul, goaded by the speech of Vasconselos
became aroused for the moment. There was a sudden lighting
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up of the fires in his eye and bosom. Nature, nerved by indignation,
put on the appearance of sudden strength.
“Shall I listen to this foul-mouthed renegade!” he exclaimed
in still louder accents; and, with the words, half rising from his
couch, he stretched his arm out suddenly, and with unexpected
vigor, the last fierce energetic action of expiring nature, he
grasped the throat of Vasconselos, crying aloud the while—
“What, ho! without there! Guards, soldiers, Castilians,
seize on the traitor. Help, that I may secure this renegade.”
Vasconselos shook off his grasp with ease, and the dying
Adelantado sank back upon the couch. The fire was exhausted
in the single expiring blaze. The momentary ebullition was
over. The effort was fatal. His eyes were suddenly glazed, the
spasmodic gasping declared the agonies of death.
“A Dios!” exclaimed Vasconselos, pointing upward. De
Soto lay before him a corse.
For a moment, the Portugese cavalier contemplated the rigid
features of his enemy—the unconscious glare of his widely
staring eyes. But, suddenly, he started, battle-axe in his grasp,
and strode across the chamber. There was a noise of armor in the
southern verandah. There was heard the tread of heavy and
hurrying feet in the chamber which lay between. De Soto's
dying summons had been heard by his drowsing attendants, and
they were approaching. Vasconselos lifted the bearskin, closing
the entrance from the northern chamber, and passed through,
just as a couple of the squires of De Soto entered from the
opposite chamber. He passed without interruption through the
northern apartments, through the verandah unseen, gained the
court, and sped with swift foot-steps, but only in a walk, towards
the forest cover whence he emerged. Suddenly, a wild cry, a
shout of mixed fury and horror, was heard to arise behind him.
He looked backward: a group of Spaniards was seen to rush
from the quarters of De Soto. They cried to other groups in
the squares, and, as they shouted their anger and alarm, the instinctive
defiance in the heart of Vasconselos, prompted the
fierce war-whoop with which he replied to them in the manner
of the red men.
There was pursuit; but Vasconselos did not increase his speed.
His soul was at its full stature, and he disdained to have recourse
for safety to the eager paces of the fugitive. He strode
onward with the gait of one who would rather welcome than
escape the danger. Nor did he need to hasten, unless to escape
the bolt or the shot of his pursuer. He was so fairly beyond
them that they could not have made him captive; could not have
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crossed weapon with his own; and the river swamp was nigh, on
the edge of which lay his canoe.
At that moment, the voice of Juan was heard behind him, crying
aloud,
“Hasten, Señor Philip—hasten my lord, they prepare to
shoot.”
He turned with surprise, in the direction whence the sounds
arose, much wondering to perceive the boy behind him; when,
even at that instant, the bolt was delivered from the cross-bow of
one of the Spaniards, and he beheld the boy, as he threw himself
directly upon his path. The next instant he saw Juan roll over
upon the sward, with the arrow quivering in his bosom. The
boy had thrown off his armour of escaupil, as most of the red
men had done in that warm season, and not expecting strife; and
in his jacket of thin, unquilted cotton, the deadly shaft had met
with no resistance.
With a deep cry of sincere sorrow, Vasconselos darted backward
to where the boy lay upon the strand. To gather him up in
his powerful arms, and hurry with him down the slope, to the
canoe, was the work of a few moments only. As he reached the
shore, he heard the voice of Coçalla, crying—
“Hither, Philip, hither! Here is a great canoe.”
He followed the sounds, and safely entered the canoe with his
speechless burden. The rowers bent to their task, the boat shot
through the reedy thicket, and had nearly reached the opposite
shore, when a crowd of Spaniards, all armed with arquebuse and
cross-bow, appeared along the margin of the shore which they
had left. There were shots sent after the fugitives, bullet and
arrow, but with hurried aim,—they were delivered fruitlessly;
and while a thousand of the red men answered with their fearful
whoops, the shouts and threats of the Spaniards, the war canoe
of Coçalla shot safely into cover, in a lagune hidden from all
sight by the dense thickets of its reedy shore.
In a green lodge by the river side, they laid the insensible form
of Juan, the page, upon a bank of rushes; and Philip de Vasconselas,
with a grievous sadnesss at his heart—for he saw that the
wound of the boy was mortal—proceeded tenderly to withdraw
the deadly shaft from his bosom, where it was deeply lodged.
But, at the very first effort, when it became necessary to tear
open the vest of the boy, his eyes opened, and he raised his hands,
and pressed down his garments, and murmured that they should
desist. But in this effort he again fainted; and while he was
thus unconscious, Philip de Vasconselos cut the strings which
secured the jacket of the boy in front, and lo, when he had
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opened the garment, the white skin beneath, and the full round white
bosom of a woman. “Ha! Philip!” cried Coçalla, who had assisted
the knight in his effort.
“Ha! Philip! It is a daughter of the pale faces. It is one of
your people. It is a woman who hath followed Philip to the
battle.”
And Philip greatly wondered, as much at his own blind ignorance,
which had kept him so long in darkness, as at the strange
revelation, the secret of which he now comprehended in a moment.
“Holy Maria!” he exclaimed. “Holy Maria!” and the
eyes of the page again unclosed; and she now knew what had
been done, and what had been discovered; and she sighed deeply,
and the tears gathered into her eyes, and she strove to cover
them with her hands. Then the knight said—
“My poor Olivia! Is it thou?”
And she murmured—
“Wilt thou forgive me, Senor?”
“Forgive! what have I to forgive?”
And the child again wept, and her sobs were long and deep;
and while she sobbed, the knight tenderly withdrew the barbed
arrow from the wound; and though he strove to save her from
pain, yet the agony was very great, and again she fainted. But the
blood issued freely from the wound, and when they strove to staunch
it, her eyes once more opened to the light, and she saw that it was
Coçalla who was busy about her, to stay the bleeding, and to
bind up the wound; and with a sharp word she pushed her away,
and tore off the bandages. Then Philip interposed, and she lay
silent, as he strove to do for her that which she had denied should
be done by Coçalla. But though the knight bound up the hurt,
and strove, with the help of liniments and styptics, which the
red men knew well how to use, yet was all his care in vain,—for
the wound bled inwardly, and they soon beheld that the hurt was
mortal, and that the life was fast ebbing out of the sweet fountain
which it had warmed with such fidelity, and made to glow
with so much passion, and such feminine devotion; and the girl
murmured to Philip, speaking of Coçalla,—
“Let her go hence, for a while, Señor. I have that to show
thee, to say to thee, which should have no ears but thine
own.”
And Philip whispered Coçalla away, and Olivia de Alvaros
said—
“It is well. Now, Philip, that I am about to lose thee, let me
tell thee how much I love thee.”
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“Alas!” he said, “my poor Olivia, it needs not. Know I
not now!”
And she answered—
“But thou knowest not that I am innocent of wrong doing,
Philip, and this is what I would show thee.”
She spoke but little more, but of this she was most eager to
speak. And she bade him look into her jacket of escaupil, where
a packet had been sewn up, which should teach him all her cruel
history; how she had been wronged, but how she was innocent;
how she had been dishonored, but how she was an unwilling
and unconscious victim to the base and cruel arts of her
brutal kinsman. In this packet thus delivered, he read the terrible
history of her griefs, even as we have already delivered it.
But he did not read until she was no more.
She died in the arms of Philip; but she bade that Coçalla
should turn away her face, and leave the spot, ere the parting
moment came. Then she bade that Philip should lift her from
the rushes, and when he did so, she threw her arms about his
neck, and laid her head upon his bosom, and so her pure and
suffering spirit went, with a sweet sigh, and a fond embrace, the
memory of which, in long years after, sweetened greatly the solitude
to the heart of the knight of Portugal. They buried her,
in the great solitudes of the Mississippi, under the shades of many
guardian trees, and the river rolls ever along with a deep murmur
near the hallowed spot, as if it sang fond anthems for the
repose of a troubled soul.
Midnight, and there was a solemn stir in the Spanish encampment.
There was a roll of martial music, and the wail of solemn
voices, as they sang the awful dirge of death over the remains of
the once mighty Adelantado, Hernan de Soto. Then, in the
deepening darkness of the night, they placed the corse of the
Adelantado in the core of a green pine tree, which had been hollowed
out to receive it, and, nailing over this a cover of heavy
plank, they towed it from the shore, under an escort of an hundred
canoes, to the centre of the river, and there, with a solemn
service, they consigned it to a bed beneath the great stream,
sinking it deeply, lest the avenging red men should possess
themselves of the corse of him who had wrought them so much
evil while he lived, and wreak upon his unconscious frame the
fury which possessed their souls against him.
But Philip de Vasconselos, who beheld the scene, and readily
divined the nature of the solemn service, would not suffer his
warriors to disturb its progress; and from the banks of the river,
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in the darkness of the night, his eye watched, and his soul brooded
gloomily over the close of De Soto's career, and he reflected upon
the strangeness of that ambitious fortune, which should have found,
in all its wild career, nothing so wonderful as the river which
became the burial-place of the hero. Nor, when De Soto was
thus consigned to his last repose, did Philip suffer that the
Spaniards should be troubled by his followers. He saw them
depart in their brigantines, following the flowings of the Mississippi
in its passage to the sea, and, when one of the vessels bearing
the banner of his brother Andres glided down the stream,
beneath the banks upon which he stood, as it went by, he cried
audibly—
“Farewell to thee, my brother; fare thee well, Andres de
Vasconselos; farewell for ever!”
And the Spaniards went from sight, and in due season, after
many strifes and trials, did they reach their homes. But Philip,
leading his warriors back to the great king, Tuscaluza, turned
away once more towards the mountains of the Apalachian; and
when he had left the territory of Tuscaluza, and once more got
back to that of Cofachiqui,—and when the warriors of Cofachiqui
once more assembled with greetings and songs of welcome about
their princess, the well-beloved Coçalla, then did that noble creature
lay her hands upon the shoulder of the knight and say,—
“Philip is now the great chief, the well-beloved of the people
of Cofachiqui.”
And the knight smiled with a sweet sadness upon the dusky
princess, as they passed into the great thickets leading to the
ancient village, where the two first met, on the banks of the Savannah.
And how the heart of the woman gladdened, when at
last, in reply to her frequent murmur of the name of Philip, he
answered with that of Coçalla!
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