University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE NIGHT ALALM.

All day they rode across the open
plains, presenting still the same invariable
aspect of rich green prairie land,
for the most part nearly level, but now
very rich and fertile, and becoming
more and more, with every mile our
party traversed. Many bright rivulets
and sparkling brooks they crossed, each
winding through its deep verdant swale,
fringed with luxuriant underwood, and
overhung with fine timber trees, all
overrun with woodbines and creepers
still covered with the densest foliage,
and many of them in full bloom, notwithstanding
the advanced season of the
year. One or two larger bodies of running
water, all tributaries of the Bravo,
crossed their path; but all, save one
which again put the light pontoon in requisition,
were passed at fords, through
which the lady rode without inconvenience,
and to which the Partitan conducted
them with the unerring instinct
of the North American frontiersman.

The park-like meadows over which
they rode, began, toward noon—by
which hour they had travelled nearly
thirty miles from their halting-place of
the previous night—to be interpersed
with open groves of fine trees, with
islands, as they are called, of musprit
bushes, mingled with bays, wild peaches
and wild myrtles, and here and there
with dense thorny thickets of the formdable
chapparal, or prickly pear.

Whenever the ground was open however,
it was covered with flowers of ten
thousand gorgeous hues, many of them
surpassing, both for perfume and beauty,
the most lovely of our garden favorites.

The thickets and groves were alive
with parroquets and other bright-winged
birds. Large flocks of quail, composed

of many broods or bevies associated,
sprang up before the feet of the horses,
and skimmed away on rapid wings toward
the nearest coverts; and, several
times, small herds of deer, or the yet
more graceful antelope, were seen
bounding across the ridge of some low
eminence, and pausing for a moment to
snuff the tainted breeze, and gaze at the
intruders on their solitude.

The air was pure and clear, as that
of a brisk October morning, but as
warm withal and as balmy as a summer's
day. The sky, overspread with
a slight filmy gauze-like haze, showed
like a vault of lapis lazuli half seen
through a lace curtain, while the great
sun, shorn of his else intolerable heat
and lustre, suffered his glories to be
contemplated with an undazzled eye.

No alarm had interrupted their progress—not
a sign of man or beast had
been observed, since their surprise of
the Mexican outpost. Pierre had announced
that he considered all danger
of pursuit, from any of the parties which
they had seen in the morning, to be at
an end; and had added further, that
they were already so far in the rear of
Carrera's force, and his line of operations,
that for the present he regarded
themselves in almost absolute safety.

Undisturbed, therefore, by any present
apprehension, exhilarated by that
most exciting of all movements, the
swift gallop of a thorough-bred over a
velvet lawn, amused by the quaint
speech and singular character of
Pierre, and emboldened by the companionship
of her young husband, Julia
had forgot all the hardships and perils she
had gone through, all that she must yet
encounter before she could even hope
to reach a place of safety; and gave
herself up altogether to the enjoyment
of the lovely scenery, the delicious climate,
and the exciting speed at which
they rode; and declared that she had
never been on a party of pleasure one
half so delightful.

At noon, they halted for three hours
under the shelter of a clump of magnificent
oaks over-canopying a little pool,
the well-head of as clear a streamlet as
ever was the haunt of Grecian wood-nymph.
The sylvan meal was spread
with all the simple luxuries of a frontiersman's
fare; and when the viands
were consumed, the leathern bottle of
the Partisan, not quite exhausted by the
assaults of the previous evening, was
again called into play, and the Indian
pipes were lighted, and an hour was
whiled away—none ever more agreeably—with
many a legend of the chase,
the foray, and the fight; many a tale
of wild adventure, or rude chivalry, as
stirring to the soul as the high feats recorded
in the old French of Froissart, or
Comines.

And to the legends of the wilderness,
and the true tales of border chivalry,
were mingled poetry and song; for Julia,
frank and unaffected as woman,
true woman ever should be, raised her
sweet voice at Frank Gordon's first request,
in a rich simple melody of ancient
days, and called an echo from the astonished
genii of the oaks, who listened for
the first time, then, to the thrilling sounds
of pure English poetry, chaunted in a rich
full soprano voice, by one who sang not
with her lips alone but with her heart;
and lived as it were, in the spirit of her
strain.

Pierre listened while she sang, with
his eyes fixed upon the green-sward a
his feet, and the lids drooping over them
so far that nothing of their expression
could be discerned; but the muscles
about his mouth worked and quivered
convulsively, and as the last soft cadence
died away, and the song was ended, he
looked up into the lovely lady's face, and
wistfully, wiping a tear from either eye,
with the back of his hard brown hand—

“You have made me do a thing, lady,
I have not done for many a year; nor
ever thought to do again. You have
made me weep—I don't know what it
means—for there was nothing in your
words pitiful or affecting, nor were the
tones of your voice melancholy. Nor,
indeed, do I feel sad, but on the contrary
very happy—happier than I have felt
for many a day. Yet I weep. I don't
know what it means. I should think
there was magic in it, did I not know
that all such ideas are mere folly. I
never felt so in my life before; and,
though it is a sweet as well as a strange
feeling, I hope never to feel so any more.
It cannot be good for a man to feel so—
it enervates, it unmans him.”

He paused, still gazing in her beautiful
innocent face, and then seeing a

bright sunny smile, yet like an April
sunbeam half tearful in its brightness,
steal over her face, he said almost sadly—

“Ah! you laugh at me, lady, you
laugh at me; and you do so rightly.
When an old woodland bear, such as I,
begins to talk about he knows not what,
he ought to be laughed at. Nay! nay!
don't answer me; but lay you down,
rather, on that dry mossy grass, and
try to sleep awhile; you have had fatigue
enough this morning to weary a
veteran soldier, and excitement enough
to exhaust a Turenne or a Conde. Try
to sleep for an hour or so, while I go
and take a round on the prairie. I see
a flock of buzzards yonder, whose motions
I don't exactly understand, and I
would have a nearer look at them.
We will not get to horse again for two
hours, but then we shall have to ride
late. Gordon, if you take my advice,
you will try a siesta too; and you, my
lads, sleep if you can, without a sentry.
There is no danger hereabout. Only
make that fellow secure, that he may
not give us the slip.”

And with the word, he took up his
rifle, tried it with the ramrod to see
that the ball had not fallen out, from the
speed at which he had ridden, as the
gun hung muzzle downward at his
back; renewed the copper caps, loosened
his woodknife in its sheath, and
walked off unaccompanied towards the
spot in the plain above which a flight of
the black vultures, commonly known
as Turkey Buzzards, were hovering
and swooping, at a distance so great that
they looked no larger than flies, and
that no ordinary eye could have distinguished
what they were.

As he moved away slowly, Julia's
eyes followed his departing figure, and
her face wore a very thoughtful expression
as she turned round to her husband.

“There goes an extraordinary man,”
she said, with an expression of deep
feeling. “A very singular, and very
noble character. I never have seen and
very seldom read of anything like him.”

“By heaven! I believe he is in love
with you, Julia,” replied Frank Gordon,
half laughing, halfin earnest. “I have
thought so all the morning.”

“I trust not,” replied the young wo
man. “I trust not, indeed, that would
be too great a misfortune.”

There was no tremor in her manner,
nor the slightest blush on her delicate
and lovely face. But Gordon observed
that she did not contradict his words,
or express an opinion of her own.

“How a misfortune, Julia?” he asked,
after a moment's pause; and though
his tone was light and bantering as he
spoke, his young wife observed, or fancied
she observed something peculiar in
his manner. “What do you mean?
I thought you pretty ladies ever esteemed
it a great honor to have men in
love with you, even when you do not
care for them, and did your utmost to
make them so.”

“You speak strangely, Frank,” she
answered with a slight sad smile.—
“Whatever heartless women may do,
sure am I, that you never saw anything
that could indicate such thoughts in me.
I said it would be a great misfortune,
because it requires no very acute eye
to see that such a man as that, if he once
loved, must needs love for ever; and
as I have no love to return, it would be
very sad and lamentable. For I can
dream of nothing in the whole range
of agony and anguish so terrible as unreturned
and hopeless love; and when a
man, with such a character, such energies
and such a soul as that loves, knowing
that he loves hopelessly, it must be
as an earthquake in his soul for ever.”

“Julia, I never heard you speak so
warmly or so strongly in all my life
before, what does this mean? what influence,
what fascination has this man
exercised over your mind, which is in
general so quiet and self-balanced?”

“The influence and fascination of
superior genius. I never met any one
the least like him.”

“Genius! genius in that rude woodsman—that
man hunter and rover of the
wilderness! Genius! are you mad Julia?”

“No, Frank dear,” she replied with
a merry little arch smile—“but you are
a little jealous, which is very silly.”

“Jealous! jealous of that leather
shirted rough rider! I should as soon
think of being jealous of sergeant Maitland
yonder, who is the better-looking
fellow of the two by odds.”

“Better looking!” cried Julia disdainfully.

“It seems to me that men
are ever thinking about looks—as if women
cared a pin how a man looks, provided
he looks like a gentleman, without
looking like a fool! and for Pierre
Delacroix, take my word for it, if ever
he loves a woman whose heart is disengaged,
he will prove as dangerous a
rival, as any man, how handsome or
how wise soever need desire.”

“You speak enthusiastically, madam.”

“Madam!” exclaimed the fair girl,
mournfully, “madam! and is this to
me, Frank? to your own Julia? to me,
who has followed you through perils,
and into places, no woman ever ventured
to essay for the love of man before?
oh! Frank, Frank Gordon, is not this
ungenerous?”

“I do not know,” he replied, still under
the influence of some lurking discomposure.
“I do not know. But I
know this, that I wish you would not
give way to such romantic nonsense.”

“I am sorry, that I have offended you,
Frank,” she replied, the big tears gushing
to her soft blue eyes, as she spoke.
“But more sorry yet that you so little
understand me. But I am tired with
my ride, and will try to sleep. Do so,
dear Frank, likewise; you are disturbed,
I think, and your blood is heated
by all this turmoil and excitement.”

“Sleep Julia, if you can. I am too
ill at ease to sleep,” answered her husband
moodily.

“Ill at ease—are you indeed, ill at
ease, dear Frank?” and as she spoke,
she drew herself closer to his side, and
threw one of her arms across his shoulder,
“and have I vexed you, oh! forgive
me, Frank. I did not mean to tease
you.”

“No! no! 'Tis I who am a fool, Julia,”
he replied, all his good humor returning,
and he kissed her fair forehead
as he spoke. I am a fool, and you are
all that is good and sweet. But I cannot
bear, dearest, to hear you speak so
warmly of any other man.”

“Silly, silly, Frank!” she answered
slapping his hand playfully with her
small white fingers. “Do not you
know, that they say jealous husbands
make false wives? and that you should
imagine that I could like any man but
you!”

“I did not think so, Julia dearest!
I did not think so; it was mere waywardness.”

“Then be not wayward any more,
I pray you, for if you be so often it will
make me miserable.”

“I will not, Julia, I will not by my
soul!” But lay you down love, and
take some rest. I will watch over you,
for, believe me, I am not weary. See,
I will fill a fresh pipe and keep guard,
for all our poor soldiers are overcome
with sleep already.”

He did immediately as he said he
would, and having replenished his pipe,
and lighted anew, returned to his place
in the shade, and his fair wife, pillowing
her head on his knee, and covered with
his watch cloak, gazed fondly upward
into his face in silence, 'till the lids
waxed heavy and closed over the bright
azure orbs, and she slept peacefully and
sweetly as a happy infant.

Above an hour elapsed before the
Partisan returned, bearing on his shoulders,
the saddle of a fat buck which he
had shot during his reconnoissance,
wrapped in its own hide, and in his
right hand, together with his rifle a long
Camanche arrow reddened with dry
gore.

He found the whole party sleeping so
soundly that he walked into the very
midst of them, without disturbing one of
the number, for Gordon, despite of his
assertion that he was in no wise weary,
had sunk into a deep slumber leaning
against the trunk of the huge oak which
overshadowed him, and nothing short of
the call to “boot and saddle,” would
have aroused the dragoons from their
death-like sleep.

“Poor things!” said the Partisan,
compassionately, as he looked down upon
them—“Poor young things! little
know they the toils and hardships of a
frontier life, when they set forth on
such a route as this. But love” he continued,
still looking at the sleepers wistfully—“Love
sweetens and disguises
all their toils and perils, and I doubt
me, if they were happier in the lap of
luxury at home, than here in the midst
of peril and terror. Ay me!” he added,
with a deep sigh, uttered he scarce knew
wherefore, “Ay me! it must be a sweet
thing to be so loved, and by such a woman.
But it is one of the sweet things

I shall never know—that much is certain.
No woman ever loved me, save
my mother—and none ever will again
in this world. But why should I think
of this, since I have chosen my own lot,
and by that, which I have chosen, must
abide. But come—come. This will
never do. I will saddle their horses,
that they may sleep to the latest moment.

He said, or rather thought no more,
for though he had murmured articulate
words occasionally, he had not uttered a
regular soliloquy—but applied himself
instantly to his self-appointed duty, collecting
the luggage, and saddling his
own charger, and the horses of his
friends. Nor until that was done did
he arouse the dragoons, and set them
to preparing for the march.

The bustle of their movements soon
aroused first Julia and then Gordon, and
in a few minutes the whole party were
again in the saddle, and in motion toward
the spot where the already westering
sun seemed to be tending across
the rolling plains which seemed at every
step of their horses to grow richer and
more luxuriant, and to be intersected at
briefer intervals by rivulets and forky
dingles.

For a short space the party rode in
silence; but at length Gordon broke it
by enquiring whether Pierre had discovered
the meaning of the vultures'
movements. He had scarcely spoken,
before he saw by the expression of the
Partisan's face, that he had committed an
error; but it was too late to remedy it,
and the Partisan, seeing that Julia's
eyes were turned towards him, answered
coolly, though with a meaning glance
addressed to the enquirer.

“They were about the carcase of a
dying elk, which they dared not attack,
until the life was quite extinct. He
had been shot yesterday or the day before
by a Camanche whose arrow I
found sticking in his ribs.”

“How can you tell that it was so long
since the poor animal was wounded?”
enquired Julia, turning rather pale, as
she heard the mention made of these
ferocious savages. How do you know
that we are not close among the Indians.”

“By many marks, lady,” replied the
Partisan, “which you would not comprehend,
even were I to describe them
to you. But by these above all—that the
blood was quite dry on the arrow and
about the wound; that the animal had
run many miles after he was shot, as
any one could see from the different
colored mud with which his hide was
splashed; and that he had lain where
I had found him many hours.”

“How could you discover that? your
instinctive knowledge seems to me, to
be almost supernatural.”

“Nothing more easily, lady. The
poor brute was unable to rise, and had
cropped all the pasture in a circle as far
as it could reach in every direction. To
one who notices the works of the great
Master closely, no one of them but has
a meaning and a voice. Let us, however
gallop forward. For I desire to
reach a spot, I know well, ere nightfall.

Nothing of consequence occurred during
their onward route. No signs of
men or horses disturbed their hopes of a
peaceful progress, and before the earliest
stars had gained their full intensity
of lustre in the darkening firmament,
they reached the halting place.

It was a little dell or basin, not overhung
with large trees, but surrounded
on all sides by low abrupt banks, covered
with impenetrable thickets of the
prickly pear, and having but one entrance
by which either man or horse
could gain admittance into the small
grassy amphitheatre which they enclosed.
That entrance was the gorge formed
by the streamlet which welled up suddenly
from a large clear springhead in
the centre of the basin; and so narrow
was the gorge, and so thickly were the
slopes on either hand set with the thorny
brakes that even there no other means
of entering presented itself, but by riding
up the mid channel of the gravelly
stream, almost belly deep in water.

Once within this fortress, the travellers
appeared to be in a state of perfect
security, and capable almost of standing
a siege, so long as provender and
ammunition should hold out; but no
thoughts of this nature occurred to their
minds—nor did they anticipate the slightest
disturbance during the night.

Fires were lighted, supper cooked,
and discussed, and then as before all lay
them calmly down to their night's repose,
the lady under the shelter of her small
pavillion, the rest on the green award

around her, the horses being picketted
securely, and the Mexican prisoner
bound to the left arm of the sergeant,
who was the strongest man of the party,
by his own right arm, while his left was
made fast to his side by a stout surcingle.

For many hours not a sound was
heard in the neighborhood of the little
encampment. The moon rose and soared
above it in her silver beauty, and
bathed everything for miles and miles
around in soft lustre—the stars rose and
set—and the first gray of morning was
just beginning to pale the eastern horizon,
when a deep, continuous, hollow sound,
like the roar of the distant surf aroused
every one in an instant.

“Indians! it is Indians!” exclaimed
Gordon. `Stand to the horses, lads.
Strike the tent like lightning. If one
of the beast neigh or stir, we are lost.”

Three of the dragoons who had risen
to their feet on the first alarm obeyed
his orders, in an instant, as regarded the
horses, Gordon himself struck the tent;
and in deep silence, speechless and almost
breathless they awaited the result.

Nearer and nearer drew the din.
Gordon was right, it was the fast falling
tramp of unshodden horsehoofs. Five
minutes, or less, after the first alarm,
the mounted hord swept by the mouth
of the gorge, so near that the travellers
could see their shaven and plumed
scalps, their easy martial seats on their
wild horses, and their long lances in relief
against the sky. But the darkness
which brooded over the little basin protected
them, and almost as soon as it was
there, the danger had passed over, and
was ended.

But as it ended and men had time to
look around them it was perceived at
once, that one of their number, Pierre
the Partisan was missing, and that the
sergeant, although that din might have
aroused the dead, still lay asleep on the
green sward.

Asleep, indeed! in that sleep which
knows no waking. Three deep knife
wounds in his bosom, his throat cut
from ear to ear, the cords severed which
had bound him to the prisoner, would
have sufficed to tell the tale.

But the Mexican and the sergeant's
charger had vanished, and the Partisan
and brown Emperor were absent.

Horror and a sense near akin to de
spair fell on the party thus abandoned.
For a little while they gazed in each
other's faces, mute and white with surprise
if not with terror.

Gordon was the first to recover from
his consternation and he spoke cheeringly.

“The prisoner has escaped, and the
Partisan has gone in pursuit of him;
that is clear,” he said. We have nothing
to do but to wait here until he returns.
We have food in abundance;
and water and forage for the horses,
and we can keep this pass against all
the Indians in the universe so long as our
ammunition lasts—and we can fire five
hundred rounds—if the Camanches
find us out, which I think they will not.
Keep good heart, therefore, men and
trust me, Pierre Delacroix will be back
here before sunset.”

“But the Camanches! have not they
cut him off?” whispered Julia, who
had not spoken one word since the first
alarm, but had behaved with the cool
passive, fortitude of a brave noble woman,
awaiting the end in silent resignation.

“Surely not,” replied Gordon, confidently.
“Had they fallen in with
him, his brave horse would surely have
outstripped them, and in his flight he
would surely have led them in a contrary
direction from this our strong
hold.”

“Surely he would! you are right!
you are right!” said the quick witted
girl—“God's name be praised, you are
right, Frank, he is safe.”

“And will be here among us before
the sun shall set which is now on the
point of rising,” was his cheerful answer.