It is a man!”
“And who do you suppose he is?”
“How should I know, cousin Cash?
Do you?”
“I do.
That man is Maurice the mustanger!”
“And the woman?”
“Is Louise—your sister—in his arms!”
As if a shot had struck him through the heart, the brother bounded upward, and then onward, along the path.
“Stay!” said Calhoun, catching hold of, and restraining him. “You forget that you are unarmed! The fellow, I know, has weapons upon him.
Take this, and this,” continued he, passing his own knife and pistol into the hands of his cousin. “I should have used them myself, long ere this; but I thought it better that you—her brother—should be the avenger of your sister’s wrongs.
On, my boy!
See that you don’t hurt her; but take care not to lose the chance at him. Don’t give him a word of warning.
As soon as they are separated, send a bullet into his belly; and if all six should fail, go at him with the knife.
I’ll stay near, and take care of you, if you should get into danger.
Now!
Steal upon him, and give the scoundrel hell!”
It needed not this blasphemous injunction to inspire Henry Poindexter to hasty action.
The brother of a sister—a beautiful sister—erring, undone! In six seconds he was by her side, confronting her supposed seducer.
“Low villain!” he cried, “unclasp your loathsome arm from the waist of my sister.
Louise! stand aside, and give me a chance of killing him!
Aside, sister! Aside, I say!”
Had the command been obeyed, it is probable that Maurice Gerald would at that moment have ceased to exist—unless he had found heart to kill Henry Poindexter; which, experienced as he was in the use of his six-shooter, and prompt in its manipulation, he might have done.
Instead of drawing the pistol from its holster, or taking any steps for defence, he appeared only desirous of disengaging himself from the fair arms still clinging around him, and for whose owner he alone felt alarm.
For Henry to fire at the supposed betrayer, was to risk taking his sister’s life; and, restrained by the fear of this, he paused before pulling trigger.
That pause produced a crisis favourable to the safety of all three.
The Creole girl, with a quick perception of the circumstances, suddenly released her lover from the protecting embrace; and, almost in the same instant, threw her arms around those of her brother.
She knew there was nothing to be apprehended from the pistol of Maurice. Henry alone had to be held doing mischief.
“Go, go!” she shouted to the former, while struggling to restrain the infuriated youth. “My brother is deceived by appearances. Leave me to explain.
Away, Maurice! away!”
“Henry Poindexter,” said the young Irishman, as he turned to obey the friendly command, “I am not the sort of villain you have been pleased to pronounce me.
Give me but time, and I shall prove, that your sister has formed a truer estimate of my character than either her father, brother, or cousin.
I claim but six months. If at the end of that time I do not show myself worthy of her confidence—her love—then shall I make you welcome to shoot me at sight, as you would the cowardly coyote, that chanced to cross your track.
Till then, I bid you adieu.”
Henry’s struggle to escape from his sister’s arms—perhaps stronger than his own—grew less energetic as he listened to these words.
They became feebler and feebler—at length ceasing—when a plunge in the river announced that the midnight intruder into the enclosed grounds of Casa del Corvo was on his way back to the wild prairies he had chosen for his home.
It was the first time he had recrossed the river in that primitive fashion.
On the two previous occasions he had passed over in the skiff; which had been drawn back to its moorings by a delicate hand, the tow-rope consisting of that tiny lazo that had formed part of the caparison presented along with the spotted mustang.
“Brother! you are wronging him! indeed you are wronging him!” were the words of expostulation that followed close upon his departure. “Oh, Henry—dearest Hal, if you but knew how noble he is!
So far from desiring to do me an injury, ’tis only this moment he has been disclosing a plan to—to—prevent—scandal—I mean to make me happy.
Believe me, brother, he is a gentleman; and if he were not—if only the common man you take him for—I could not help what I have done—I could not, for I love him!”
“Louise! tell me the truth!
Speak to me, not as to your brother, but as to your own self.
From what I have this night seen, more than from your own words, I know that you love this man.
Has he taken advantage of your—your—unfortunate passion?”
“No—no—no.
As I live he has not.
He is too noble for that—even had I—Henry! he is innocent!
If there be cause for regret, I alone am to blame. Why—oh! brother! why did you insult him?” “Have I done so?” “You have, Henry—rudely, grossly.”
“I shall go after, and apologise.