Is he dead, or is it a ruse to get me near? By our good Guadaloupe!
I shall leave others to decide.
There’s not much fear of his overtaking me, before I can reach home; and if he’s in any danger the people of the hacienda will get back soon enough to release him.
Good day, Don Miguel Diaz! Hasta luego!”
With these words upon her lips—the levity of which proclaimed her conscience clear of having committed a crime she drew a small sharp-bladed knife from beneath the bodice of her dress; severed the rope short off from her saddle-bow; and, driving the spur deep into the flanks of her horse, galloped off out of the glade—leaving Diaz upon the ground, still encircled by the loop of the lazo!
Chapter Forty Nine. The Lazo Unloosed.
An eagle, scared from its perch on a scathed Cottonwood, with a scream, soars upward into the air.
Startled by the outbreak of angry passions, it has risen to reconnoitre.
A single sweep of its majestic wing brings it above the glade.
There, poised on tremulous pinions, with eye turned to earth, it scans both the open space and the chapparal that surrounds it. In the former it beholds that which may, perhaps, be gratifying to its glance—a man thrown from his horse, that runs neighing around him—prostrate—apparently dead.
In the latter two singular equestrians: one a woman, with bare head and chevelure spread to the breeze, astride a strong steed, going away from the glade in quick earnest gallop; the other, also a woman, mounted on a spotted horse, in more feminine fashion, riding towards it: attired in hat and habit, advancing at a slower pace, but with equal earnestness in her looks.
Such is the coup d’oeil presented to the eye of the eagle.
Of these fair equestrians both are already known.
She galloping away is Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos; she who approaches, Louise Poindexter.
It is known why the first has gone out of the glade.
It remains to be told for what purpose the second is coming into it.
After her interview with Zeb Stump, the young creole re-entered her chamber, and kneeling before an image of the Madonna, surrendered her spirit to prayer.
It is needless to say that, as a Creole, she was a Catholic, and therefore a firm believer in the efficacy of saintly intercession.
Strange and sad was the theme of her supplication—the man who had been marked as the murderer of her brother!
She had not the slightest idea that he was guilty of the horrid crime.
It could not be.
The very suspicion of it would have lacerated her heart.
Her prayer was not for pardon, but protection.
She supplicated the Virgin to save him from his enemies—her own friends!
Tears and choking sobs were mingled with her words, low murmured in the ear of Heaven.
She had loved her brother with the fondest sisterly affection. She sorrowed sorely; but her sorrow could not stifle that other affection, stronger than the ties of blood.
While mourning her brother’s loss she prayed for her lover’s safety.
As she rose from her knees, her eye fell upon the bow—that implement so cunningly employed to despatch sweet messages to the man she loved.
“Oh! that I could send one of its arrows to warn him of his danger! I may never use it again!”
The reflection was followed by a thought of cognate character. Might there not remain some trace of that clandestine correspondence in the place where it had been carried on?
She remembered that Maurice swam the stream, instead of recrossing in the skiff, to be drawn back again by her own lazo. He must have been left in the boat!
On the day before, in the confusion of her grief, she had not thought of this.
It might become evidence of their midnight meeting; of which, as she supposed, no tongue but theirs—and that for ever silent—could tell the tale.
The sun was now fairly up, and gleaming garishly through the glass.
She threw open the casement and stepped out, with the design of proceeding towards the skiff.
In the balcon her steps were arrested, on hearing voices above.
Two persons were conversing. They were her maid Florinde, and the sable groom, who, in the absence of his master, was taking the air of the azotea.
Their words could be heard below, though their young mistress did not intentionally listen to them.
It was only on their pronouncing a name, that she permitted their patois to make an impression upon her ear.
“Dey calls de young fella Jerrad.
Mors Jerrad am de name.
Dey do say he Irish, but if folks ’peak de troof, he an’t bit like dem Irish dat works on de Lebee at New Orlean.
Ho, ho! He more like bos gen’lum planter.
Dat’s what he like.”
“You don’t tink, Pluto, he been gone kill Massa Henry?”
“I doan’t tink nuffin ob de kind.
Ho, ho! He kill Massa Henry! no more dan dis chile hab done dat same.
Goramity—Goramity! ’Peak ob de debbil and he dar—de berry individible we talkin’ ’bout.
Ho, ho! look Florinde; look yonner!”
“Whar?”