Gustave Aimard
The Queen of the Savannah: A Story of the Mexican War

"Dismiss such gloomy thoughts, Diana. Your mother is growing calmer with age. The expeditions, as you know, are more and more rare, the attacks less frequent, and soon, perhaps, we shall have the happiness of seeing them entirely disappear."

"I dare not flatter myself with that hope, my dear Melchior. No, no. Unless a miracle occurs, my mother will fall a victim to her monomania for vengeance on the redskins."

"My dear Diana, there are now two of us to devote ourselves to her. God is too just and good to desire the ruin of two innocent children who have never offended Him. You have my word, and my life belongs to you and to your mother; employ it as a thing that is your own. On the day when I lose it in serving you and saving you from sorrow, I shall be the happiest of men."

"Thanks, Melchior; I knew that I could reckon on you. Your generous words restore the courage which was fast deserting me. I will not break down in the task I have imposed on myself; henceforth we belong to one another, no matter what obstacles may arise."

From this day the compact was made between the young people – a sacred compact, which neither broke, and which was fated to have terrible consequences for them at a later date. But an invisible witness had overheard their conversation. This witness, whom they had not seen gliding like a snake through the shrubs, and listening to all their remarks with the greatest attention, was Pedro Sotavento, majordomo of the hacienda. What interest had this man in thus overhearing their conversation? He alone knew; for beneath an affable and inoffensive appearance, he concealed a deeply ulcerated heart, and evidently followed a plan resolved on long before, the realization of which would burst like a thunderclap upon those whose ruin he had so long meditated.

Sotavento kept to himself his knowledge of the love of the young people, which he had so treacherously surprised. He never ventured, in their presence, on the slightest allusion which might lead them to suspect that he was aware of it. On the contrary, he increased his politeness towards Melchior, and seemed trying, by overtures adroitly made each time an opportunity offered, to gain his confidence. This, however, let us hasten to add, he never succeeded in doing; for the young man felt for the worthy steward an instinctive and invincible aversion, which stopped in his throat a confession he was several times on the point of making to him.

CHAPTER X.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

We will now resume our story again at the point where we broke off. Don Melchior, after his short appearance in the saloon, hastily proceeded to a retired suite of rooms in the right wing of the hacienda. We will precede him and go in a few minutes before him.

This suite only consisted of two rooms, furnished with that severe luxury which the Spaniards so well understand, and which is appropriate to their grave and melancholy character. The first room, serving as withdrawing room, was hung with stamped Cordovan leather. Oak chairs, which had grown black with time, and were also covered with leather, were drawn up against the walls. In the centre of the room was a table, over which a green cloth was thrown. A crucifix of yellow ivory, three feet high, before which stood a curiously carved oak prie-dieu, faced one of those enormous Louis XIII. clocks, whose case could easily have contained a man, and, in a corner, was a species of oratory, surmounted by a white marble statue of the Virgin of Suffering, whose brow was girt with a crown of white roses, while before it burned a silver lamp, shaped like a censer, and suspended from the ceiling by a chain.

In this room, which looked more like an oratory than a drawing room, and which opened on a bedroom, the furniture of which was extremely plain, two ladies were seated near a window, and conversing in a low voice, at the moment when the exigencies of our narrative compel us to join them. Of these two, one had passed the age of thirty – that critical period for Spanish women; but although her face was pale as marble, and her features were worn with sorrow, it was easy to perceive that she must have been very lovely once. The person who kept her company was a light-haired, graceful, pale, and delicate girl. She was endowed with the ideal and dreamy beauty which renders painters desperate and which German poets have alone been able to describe. In her calm, pensive features were found again the dreamy, restless, and chaste physiognomy of Goethe's Marguerite, and the intoxicating and impassioned smile of Schiller's pale creations.

These two ladies were mother and daughter. Doña Emilia de Saldibar and Doña Diana. Their dress, through its severe simplicity, harmonized perfectly with the expression of sorrow and melancholy spread over their whole persons. They wore long gowns of black velvet, without embroidery or ornaments, fastened round the waist by girdles of the same colour. A rebozo of black lace covered their neck and chest, and could, if necessary, be thrown over their heads, and hide their faces. They were conversing in a low voice, looking out now and then absently into the courtyard, in which were assembled the numerous peons of the hacenderos who had responded to Don Aníbal's summons.

"No," Doña Emilia said, "no, my child, it is better to remain silent, for this information is anything but positive."

"Still, mother," the young lady answered, "the man seemed thoroughly acquainted with the whole story; and it appears to me, on the contrary – "

"You are wrong, Diana," her mother interrupted, with some sternness in her voice. "I know better than you what should be done under the circumstances. Be careful, Niña. You take the affair too much to heart, and let yourself be carried away."

The girl blushed, and bit her lips.

"You know how I love you, my child," Doña Emilia continued directly; "so do not try to thwart what I do, as you are well aware I have but one object, your happiness, so let me act as I think proper."

"My dear mother!" the young lady said affectionately.

"Yes," Doña Emilia replied with a cold smile, "I am your dear mother when I yield to your importunities."

"Oh, do not say that, mother! You know what deep love I have for you."

"Yes I know it, and I know too that I do not alone occupy your heart."

Doña Diana turned her head away to hide the blush that suffused her face at this remark; but her mother did not notice this emotion, and continued, as if speaking to herself, instead of addressing her daughter —

"But why should I complain? Ought it not always to be so? Woman is born to love, as the bird is to fly in the air. Love, my poor, dear child; for love constitutes a woman's entire life, for it enables her to learn joy and sorrow."

Her voice gradually grew weaker, and these words were spoken indistinctly. There was a rather long silence, which the girl did not venture to disturb by an indiscreet question. Respecting the sorrowful reverie into which her mother had fallen, her eyes were fixed more attentively on the courtyard. All at once she started.

"Ah!" she said, at once glad and troubled, "Here is Don Melchior."

"What did you say, Niña?" her mother asked, raising her head eagerly. "I think you mentioned the name of Don Melchior?"

"Yes, I did, mother," she answered timidly.

"Well, what did you say about him?"

"Nothing, mother, except that I just saw him in the yard, and I think he is coming here."

"He will be welcome, for I am anxiously expecting him. So soon as he comes in, Niña, you will be good enough to retire to your bedroom, and not come back till I call you. I have important matters to discuss with this young man, which it is unnecessary for you to hear."

"You shall be obeyed, mother," the young lady said as she rose. "I hear his footstep in the corridor, so I will withdraw, for he will be here directly."

"Go, my child; I shall soon recall you."

The girl bent over her mother, whose forehead she kissed, and ran away, light as a bird, at the moment when two raps on the door announced a visitor. Doña Emilia waited till the door of her daughter's bedroom was closed, and then cried, "Come in!" The door swung back slowly on its hinges, and Melchior appeared. So soon as the young man entered the room he doffed his hat, and walked respectfully toward Doña Emilia, who, without leaving her seat by the window, half turned and made him a sign to approach.

"You did me the honour of sending for me, madam," he said, as he stopped three or four yards from Doña Emilia.

"Yes, caballero," she replied. "You know that I have been absent from the hacienda for several days, and only returned a few hours ago; consequently I am ignorant of all that is going on, and thought you could give me the information I desire."

"You know, madam, that I am completely at your service for anything you may please to order."

"I doubt neither your courtesy nor your devotion, Don Melchior, and I think I have given you sufficient proof of that."

"Madam," the young man answered warmly, "your kindness to me has known no bounds. I feel for you the veneration I should have for a mother, for you have acted as such to me."

"I did what my religion commanded for an abandoned orphan. But enough on this head: tell me what there is new at the hacienda."

"When you left the house without warning me, contrary to your habit, madam, to get ready to accompany you, I was at first very sad, for I was afraid that I had displeased you; then, on reflection, and after seeking in my mind what the motive could be that urged you to exile me from your presence, I supposed that I should be more useful to you here than if I followed you."

"Quite right," she answered, with a smile. "Go on; but first sit down here by my side," she added, affectionately.

The young man bowed respectfully, and took the chair pointed out to him.

"I need not tell you, madam," he continued, "what is the motive of this day's meeting, or who the persons present are."

"No, pass over that."

"But among these persons there is one whose presence you are assuredly far from suspecting."

"Who is it?"

"Father Sandoval."

"Father Sandoval!" she exclaimed, with a start. "Impossible! He is a prisoner of the Spaniards."

"It is he, madam."

"That is strange. How is it that I have not been informed of his presence?"

"He arrived at the hacienda with Don Aurelio Gutiérrez."

"But I was close to Don Aurelio: he only had with him Yankee or Canadian wood rangers and two Mexican peons."

"Well, madam, one of those peons was no other than Father Sandoval. The reverend father thought it wise to assume this disguise in order, probably, more easily to escape the Spanish spies."

"Yes, that must have been the reason; prudence commanded him to act so. Go on."

"Father Sandoval has made himself known to all our adherents, and has been unanimously elected their chief."

"In truth, he alone possesses sufficient influence over the haughty hacenderos to command them. And what measures have been adopted?"

"Pardon me, madam, but I must tell you of another person whose presence was neither expected nor desired, and who arrived suddenly."

"The Count de Melgosa, I suppose. I was aware that he was coming. He was doubtless the bearer of some tremendous message. Has he gone again?"

"Not yet, madam; he will not leave the hacienda till sunrise tomorrow, accompanied by Colonel Don Oliver Clary, one of the Canadian adventurers brought by Don Aurelio, whom Father Sandoval has entrusted with his answer to the governor's manifesto."

"Very good, we have time before us; we will set out tonight. You will accompany us, Melchior; so be careful that everything is prepared for midnight, and our departure kept secret."

"You shall be obeyed, madam."

"And the majordomo?"

This question was asked in a tone which showed what importance Doña Emilia attached to it.

"Still impenetrable, madam," he answered; "ever full of zeal and devotion. His conduct does not offer the slightest pretext to suspect him of treachery."

"Strange," she murmured; "still it is evident to me that this man is a traitor, and playing a double part. How can I unmask him? Oh, a proof, a proof, however slight it be. Still it cannot always be so; heaven will not permit it. Patience, patience! I thank you, Don Melchior, for the zeal you have displayed; continue to be faithful. Now you can withdraw."

The young man rose.

"Madam," he ventured, timidly, "will you allow me to ask you one question."

"Speak."

"I have not had the happiness," he continued, with hesitation, "to see Doña Diana since her return. I trust that the fatigue she must have felt has not made her ill, and that her precious health is still good."

Doña Emilia frowned, and a cloud of dissatisfaction spread over her face; but at once recovering herself, she replied, gently —

"Doña Diana is well, Melchior."

"Oh, all the better, madam," he said, with an outburst of passionate joy which he could not repress.

Then, bowing deeply to Doña Emilia, he fell back to leave the room.

"Poor boy!" Doña Emilia murmured, as she looked after him.

At the moment when he reached the door, she called him back.

"I forgot," she said; "be kind enough to tell Father Sandoval that, if his occupations permit, I should like to speak with him for a few moments after oración this evening."

"I will tell him, madam. Have you any further commands for me?"

"No, you can go."

The young man bowed for the last time, and went out. Doña Emilia was hardly alone ere her daughter rushed from her bedroom, and ran up to her.

"Well," she said, "what is the meaning of this, Niña? Why have you come without being called?"

"Oh, mother," she answered, as she threw herself into her arms, "forgive me, but I was suffering too greatly."

Doña Emilia recoiled, and looked her daughter in the face.

"What is the meaning of these words, señorita!" she said to her, sternly. "To what are you alluding?"

The girl, ashamed of the confession she had allowed to escape her, buried her head in her hands, and burst into tears.

"Diana, Diana!" her mother said, with ineffable sadness, as she drew her daughter gently to her heart, "You are preparing great suffering both for yourself and me."

"Mother!" she murmured, with a sob.

"Silence, Niña!" Doña Emilia quickly interrupted, "Do not add a word which might, perhaps, cause, irreparable misfortunes. I know nothing, and wish to know nothing. Dry those tears which burn my heart, and take your place again by my side."

"Yes, mother," she answered, in a voice choked by sobs and trying to obey.

"Diana!" Doña Emilia continued presently, in a firm voice, "Remember that we have a mission of vengeance to accomplish against the Indians, and that they are the cause of the terrible misfortunes which have overwhelmed us."

These words were uttered in a tone which admitted of no reply. The maiden shuddered and hung her head sadly with no strength to answer. Her mother regarded her for a moment with an expression of pity, love, and grief impossible to describe, and pointed to the statue of the Virgin placed in a corner of the room.

"Pray to her who has drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of sorrow; she will have pity on you and give you the necessary courage to endure the grief which overwhelms you."

The maiden rose slowly; she went to the chapel, and kneeling down piously before the statue, to which she raised her tear-laden eyes, she prayed fervently; then, at a sign from her mother, she withdrew to her bedroom. In the evening, Doña Emilia had a conversation with Father Sandoval, which was carried on far into the night. This conversation, doubtless, very important, but which we will not describe here, left a sweet and consoling impression on the mind of Doña Emilia, for her features grew calmer, and, before retiring to rest, she gave her daughter's pale forehead a kiss full of maternal tenderness, as she murmured in a low voice —

"Hope!"

The girl started in her sleep, and a faint smile played round her rosy lips.

CHAPTER XI.
THE SORTIE

In all the countries of Spanish America the heat is so stifling during midday, that the wise plan has been adopted of only travelling in the morning and evening; that is to say, from sunrise till about half past eleven, and from five in the afternoon till midnight. In this way travelling is rendered far more convenient and less fatiguing for travellers as well as for animals.

About ten o'clock at night, with the exception of the bivouac fires lighted by the peons congregated in the yards and gardens, all the lights were extinguished in turn in the hacienda, and a deep silence soon reigned in this house, which, however, contained a thousand persons, while a much larger number were temporarily quartered round it. All were asleep, or seemed to sleep, with the exception of a few sentries standing motionless on the walls, and who stood out distinctly in the bright moonlight. The night, which was calm and starlit, was only disturbed by that indistinct murmur which is never extinct, either in city or desert, and is the incessantly ascending flood of life. At times a distant growl, or a half stifled bark, showed that the wild beasts had left their hidden dens and were wandering about the forest in search of prey.

All at once, on the side where the walls were the highest and rose perpendicularly over the precipice, a door was cautiously opened. Through its position over the precipice, this door could not be seen by the sentries, and the three persons who stepped through it one after the other, ran no risk of being perceived. These persons, who seemed perfectly acquainted with the dangerous road they were entering on, carefully closed the gate after them, and clinging to some projections probably arranged to facilitate the descent, descended the cliff without any hesitation, stopping at times to draw breath, or look inquiringly around them. The descent was a long one, for it could not be performed directly, and the bold adventurers were compelled to keep to their left, and often to march parallel with the gulf; but at length they reached the bottom without accident, and took a few minutes' rest by the side of a stream which ran silently at their feet.

Nearly opposite the spot where the bold adventurers reached the bottom of the abyss, was the yawning mouth of a natural cavern. After taking a parting glance above their heads, as if to feel certain that no one had noticed their departure, and that the same tranquillity continued to prevail in the hacienda, they disappeared in the grotto. Then the person who marched last took off his zarapé, which he held before the opening, while one of his companions struck a light and lit a torch of ocote wood, a considerable pile of which was collected in a hole of the rock. By the glare of the torch, which suddenly cast a reddish tinge over the interior of the grotto, a spy would have easily recognized in these three persons, Doña Emilia, her daughter, and Don Melchior.

When Doña Emilia, who held the torch, had gone far enough to prevent the light from being seen from the outside, Don Melchior pulled down his zarapé, and went off in his turn. The grotto had such numerous and sudden turns, that any stranger whom chance conducted to it would have been infallibly lost, and Doña Emilia and her companions must have known it for a long time when they ventured to enter it. After walking for about ten minutes, our friends reached a species of hall, on to which six passages opened, which ran in diametrically opposite directions probably for a great distance. This hall formed a rather large room, in which were several clumsily made equipales, a rickety table, and a sort of rack fastened to the wall, and filled with weapons of every description, lances, daggers, machetes, pistols, and muskets, with bullet bags of tapir hide and buffalo horns full of powder.

Three horses with eyes full of fire were lying on thick litter, and vigorously munching their stock of alfalfa. On seeing their owners, they gave a neigh of pleasure, and got up as if impatient to leave their dark stable. Don Melchior fetched the saddles, which were carefully arranged on a bench, and after rubbing down the noble animals he began saddling them without a moment's delay. Five minutes later, each of them, holding their horse by the bridle, left the circular hall, and after some turnings reached the mouth of the grotto. This opening, perfectly concealed by shrubs, led to a rarely visited arm of the Río del Norte; the water flowed up to the very entrance of the cavern, which in the rainy season it penetrated, which rendered all investigation impossible on this side at least, and insured the secrecy of this hiding place.

After parting the branches, the horses were led through, and Don Melchior again concealed the fissure by which they passed out. The travellers mounted and entered the river, following the watercourse till they reached a somewhat distant sandy point on which they landed. They found themselves in the heart of a dense forest, and all signs of cultivation had disappeared.

"Now," Doña Emilia said, with a peculiar smile, as she drew up her reins and leant over her horse's neck, "forward, and in Heaven's name!"

These were the first words uttered since leaving the hacienda; the horses started at a gallop and disappeared beneath the foliage. We will leave Doña Emilia for a season and return to the Hacienda del Barrio.

The two Canadians, as we have already stated, lay down on the ground, where they at once fell asleep. The Sumach could not have stated how long he had been slumbering, when he felt his shoulder slightly tapped. Adventurers and wood rangers, owing to the mode of life they lead, have an excessively light sleep; the adventurer at once opened his eyes and saw a man leaning over him with a finger laid on his lip as if urging silence on him.

"Quick," this person whispered; "get up and follow me."

"Well," the Canadian said to himself, "I know that where there is a mystery there are ounces to be gained; it is a fine time to assure one's self of the truth of the statement."

Without displaying the slightest surprise, the Sumach or Oliver, whichever the reader likes to call him, rose from his humble couch, carefully wrapped himself in his zarapé to guard against the night dew, and after making certain that his pistols were still in his girdle, and that his knife moved easily in its sheath, he followed his mysterious conductor without any hesitation. The latter, to whom the hacienda appeared familiar, led him through several passages and apartments feebly lighted by smoking candles fastened to the wall, into a room of small dimensions, completely devoid of furniture, with the exception of two equipales and a table. This stranger, who was wrapped up in a large cloak that completely concealed his features, opened a dark lantern, took a glance round the room, shut the door, placed the light on the table, sat down, and made the Canadian a sign to imitate him.

"Sit down and let us talk," he said.

The adventurer bowed; then, with the utmost coolness he laid his pistols on the table within reach, seated himself and rested his head on his hands, looking cunningly the while at the stranger.

"I am quite ready to talk."

"Why do you take this precaution?" the other said, pointing to the pistols.

"Hang it," he said, "for a very simple reason; it is that I may have an argument handy to convince you, should our conversation grow warm."

The stranger began laughing.

"You are prudent," he said.

"Prudence is the mother of safety," the Canadian answered, sententiously.

"I do not blame you," the stranger continued, still laughing. "I am free to confess, indeed, that I am delighted to see you behave thus."

"In that case, all is for the best."

"As for me, look," he said, as he opened his cloak. "I have not so much as a pin about me."

"That is easy to comprehend," said the adventurer, "for you are at home."

"What do you mean?" the stranger asked, in surprise. "What do you know about it?"

"I mean that you are in your own country, while I am a foreigner; that is all."

"Ah, very good; but in order to reassure you completely, and prove to you that I wish to deal above-board with you, look at me," he said, as he took off the broad-brimmed hat which concealed his face.

"Father Sandoval!" the Canadian exclaimed in surprise, recognizing the priest.

"Silence!" the latter said quickly. "Not so loud. Have you forgotten that our interview must be secret?"

The Canadian silently shook his head, and, uncocking his pistols, returned them to his belt.

"Why do you frown so?" the priest asked him after examining him attentively. "Are you vexed at recognizing me?"

"Oh no, it is not that," he answered.

"What is it, then?"

"On my word, I confess that I am trying in vain to discover what you, a person I do not know, have so secret and important to say to me."

"Are you sure of that."

"How, sure of it?" he exclaimed, with surprise.

"Yes," the priest remarked with a smile.

"Hang it," he said, "unless I have seen you in a dream, I am ready to swear that we meet today for the first time."

"Look at me closely, my friend," he said. "Will you really swear that you never saw me before?"

The Canadian, more and more surprised at this pressing, leant over to the singular speaker, and, taking up the lantern, made a careful inspection of him, which Don Pelagio permitted with the best possible grace. At the expiration of a moment, the adventurer deposited the lantern on the table again, and scratched his head with an embarrassed air.

"It is strange," he said. "I now fancy that you may be in the right. Certain of your features, to which I did not at first pay attention, are familiar to me, though it is perfectly impossible for me to recollect how or when chance brought us together, if, as you insist on assuring me, we have already met."

"I do not say that we were positively acquainted, but we have met, and remained together for two hours."

"Listen to me. I do not doubt your word, for I do not see what motive you could have in trying to make a fool of me. You appear to me too sober-minded a man for such jokes. Explain yourself frankly, for that will be the only way to settle the matter."

"I see that I must do so. I should have liked to avoid it, because I shall now appear to be compelling you to carry out a promise, by asking of you what I wished to obtain solely from your honour and good heart."

"My worthy father, you are becoming most mysterious, and I really do not know how all this will end."

"One word will give you the clue."

"Say it, then, at once, for deuce take me if I am not as curious as an old woman at this moment."

"Have you forgotten the Beaver pond and the sumach to which the Pawnee Indians fastened you, after smearing you with honey?"

The adventurer smote his forehead violently, and, hurriedly rising, seized the priest's hand.

"¡Viva Dios!" he exclaimed warmly. "Where could my brains be, that I should forget the features of the Christian who so generously saved me from a horrible death? My good father, forgive me; my eyes alone were guilty, for I have ever remembered you from the moment when you rendered me this immense service at the risk of your life."

Father Sandoval cordially returned the adventurer's squeeze, but he remained silent for a moment, with his eyes obstinately fixed on him, as if trying to read his most secret thoughts.

"What!" the Canadian said hotly, "Could you doubt me? I am only a poor devil of an adventurer, it is true, but I consider myself a man. We wood rangers, if we are rather quick at the use of the knife and in shooting an enemy, know better than town folk, perhaps, how to retain the recollection of an act of kindness. Speak, father, speak without fear. Whatever you bid me I will do. I belong to you, body and soul. I repeat that I am entirely yours; hence, do not be afraid about explaining yourself frankly, for I shall catch your meaning at a word."

"Indeed!" the priest at length answered. "Why should I doubt you? You have given me no cause to suspect your loyalty. Moreover, what I wish to ask of you, Don Oliver, is only conditional. I merely desire to make sure of your assistance in case of need, that is all."

"Speak, speak; have I not told you that you can count on me?"

"Well, so be it. This is what I expect of you. You are going to start in the morning. The mission I have intrusted to you is a dangerous one, though I have strong reasons for believing that you will get out of it safe and sound; but that is not the point at the present moment. You are about to start, I repeat; no one knows how long you may remain absent. For my part, I shall probably be obliged to push forward. Give me your word that, on whatever day or hour I need you, whatever you may be doing, when you receive a message from me summoning you, give me your word to abandon everything instantly, and run to my help, to aid me to the utmost of your power in the accomplishment of what I have resolved on, and without asking me for an explanation, however grave or terrible the matter in which I ask your support may be. Do you promise me this? Do not answer hastily; reflect before pledging your word, for the engagement you are going to make is serious, and may entail consequences which it is impossible to foresee."

The Canadian listened to these words with visible impatience. When Father Sandoval ended, he shrugged his shoulders carelessly.

"Why so much beating about the bush?" he said. "I am yours. You ask for my word, and I give it. Now, may heaven grant me the opportunity of fulfilling my pledge."

"Thanks! I trust, I repeat, that I may not be constrained to have recourse to you. Still, we are bound to take our precautions. In case of my being forced to send a messenger to you, take half this ring. The apparently most faithful man may, at a given moment, become a traitor; and I have learned the truth of that by sad experience. You will only follow the man who hands you the other half of this ring, and says, 'The hour is come – the master waits.' You will ask this man no questions, for he will be unable to answer you, as he will know nothing. Have you thoroughly understood me? Is this arranged?"