University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

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INTERVIEW BETWEEN LAFITTE AND CONSTANZA—ITS RESULT—
A CHANGE IN HER DESTINY.

Morning had advanced nearly into noon, when
the commander of the schooner, who, wrapped in
a cloak, had thrown himself upon the deck to refresh
his weary frame, was aroused by a slight touch
on his shoulder.

“The lady, sir!” said Théodore.

“What of her, Théodore?” he exclaimed, with
a foreboding air, springing to his feet.

“She desires to speak with you, sir.”

“Has she slept till now, Théodore?”

“No, sir, she has been all the morning weeping.
She is now calmer, and desires an interview.”

“Say to her, that her slightest wish shall be
obeyed. I will attend her,” he replied. And, turning
to ascertain the position of his vessel, and the
rate she had been running while he slept, he descended
into the cabin, and delaying, for a few moments,

to change his dress, marked with traces of
the late battle, for one more beseeming the presence
of a lady, the tapped lightly at the door of her state-room,
and was admitted by Juana into the presence
of his fair captive.

Constanza had recovered her usual self-possession,
and maidenly dignity of manner, though her
cheek was pale, her lip tremulous, and her eye
brilliant through tears. As he entered, she rose
from the ottoman, struck with his fine figure, displayed
to advantage by the rich dress he wore, and
motioned him to a seat.

“Señora, I have obeyed your summons,”—he
said, with deep respect.

“Nay, Señor, it becomes not the captive to issue
commands; it is for her to obey! Señor,” she
added, with dignity, and yet with timidity, “I have
solicited this interview with you, from my knowledge
of your native generosity of character—however
it may have been clouded and perverted by
circumstances, which, I am willing to do you the
justice to think, may have been beyond your control.
Now that I have seen you, and know how
nobly you can act, if you will be guided by the more
generous impulses of your own bosom—I feel that
I am not casting too much upon the success of this
interview.”

“Señora, you have only to speak to be obeyed,”
he replied, with much respect in his voice and manner.
“All that I can do, shall be done, to atone for
your injuries, and mitigate your grief.”

“Most sincerely do I thank you, Señor—I have
not, indeed, hoped too much!” Here she hesitated
to proceed, and her manner betrayed embarrassment.

“Speak, lady! what can I do for you?”

“Give me my liberty, Señor!” she replied, firmly
fixing her full dark eyes upon him, while her heart

palpitated, and her cheek paled, as she watched the
effect of this demand upon her captor.

He had anticipated her request, and replied, unmoved—

“Where, lady, will you go?—Your father!—
forgive me, that I inadvertently touched so sensitive
a chord! But, lady, have you where to go?”

“Oh! no, no! but any where but here!” and
she buried her face in the folds of the drapery.

“Señora,” said he, mournfully, and in a melancholy
voice, “this is the bitterest moment of my
life. That I am despised and proscribed of men,
I care not! I can fling back their taunts: but,
when so lovely a being turns from me with fear and
detestation, then do I feel the galling of the outlaw's
chain! Lady!” he continued, suddenly
changing his tone to one of deep earnestness, “it is
said, there is pardon of the Holy Virgin for the
greatest crimes: and will not one, who must so
nearly resemble her in person and spirit, also
forgive?”

“Oh, Señor, speak not blasphemously! You
have all the forgiveness I can bestow. Would it
could avail you hereafter! But oh, let me go
hence, if, then, you hope to be forgiven.”

“Where will you go, Señora? Why will you
go?” he said, with impassioned energy. “Here,
you shall be sacred from intrusion. No footstep
shall approach you unbidden. It shall be my
whole duty to render you happy—but oh, desert me
not!—You feel an interest in my welfare—then do
not leave me. You are the angel that would guide
me back to honour and virtue. I already feel the
holy influence of her presence upon my heart.
Leave me, lady; and with you, will depart, forever,
these better aspirations. Again the dark spirit of my
destiny, whose seat a purer spirit has assumed, will

usurp once more his empire! Oh, leave me not to
my own dark fate—extinguish not, forever, the
only star of hope that has ever beamed upon my
ill-fated bark! Lady—stay! behold me at your
feet!” and the impassioned outlaw, who had spoken
his feelings with that intenseness peculiar to his
impulsive character, kneeled before the maiden.

“Señor captain, kneel not to me,” she said, stepping
back with dignity—“Speak not to me, thus!
I cannot listen to language like this. I am your
captive,—but” she continued more earnestly, “oh,
talk not to me thus. I would speak of my deliverance.
If one so weak and simple as I am, can
aught avail your return to society, cheerfully will I
do all, that a free maiden, may do. Señor, my
prayers, my influence, if I can command any, shall
be yours—but—Oh! use not to me such language!
I would go, Señor!” she added, quickly.

“You, then, despise me,” he said, in a deeply-agitated
voice; “You, then, despise me! Just Heaven,
strike home—I am thy victim! Listen to me,
lady,” he added, in a calmer voice. “In youth, I
loved a maiden much like you; but my love met
no return; and for that passion I became an exile
from my father's halls. Love made me what I am
—may it not open for me a bright and virtuous
future? Speak, lady! and bid me live to virtue—
to heaven, and to you!” and he gazed earnestly,
his features beaming with the farvour of his passion,
up into the face of the troubled girl as he
kneeled before her. The maiden was deeply affected
by his impassioned appeal.

“Rise, Señor—I do not despise you—I deeply
feel for you—but I cannot, must not listen to your
language! Yet you have strong claims to my regard,
knowing you as I do. You have shown me
a character, which, while the exhibition of it has
surprised me, will ever command my esteem. I

must always honour the native nobility and generosity
of your character! fallen indeed, yet aspiring
to the height from which you have fallen. Oh,
sir, forget this hasty passion for a lonely maiden
who cannot return it, and be the being, proud in
conscious virtue, you seek to be! Let your desire
to return to the paths of honour, depend upon no
contingency in which I am involved. Go forward,
Señor, independently of extraneous circumstances,
and make your own just perception of duty your
guide, and you may yet be what you wish to be—
what the world would desire to have you—what I
sincerely pray you may become! But think—think
not of me—my affections”—and brow, cheek, and
bosom were mantled with rich blood, as she added
—“my heart—my love—is—anothers!”

The chief still kneeled at the feet of the fair Castillian.
The tones of her voice had long ceased, and
yet he moved not. His features became deathly
pale, his eye grew darker, and his lips were painfully
compressed, while his chest heaved with strong
emotion. For a moment he continued to kneel in
a silence that appalled the heart of Constanza.
Then slowly elevating his form, he stood up to the
full height of his commanding figure, folded his
arms upon his breast, and gazed upon her for an
instant with a bitter and sad expression upon his
features. But when, at last, with a great effort, he
spoke, there was a calmness in the deep tones of
his voice, which fell forebodingly upon her heart.

“Lady, it is well! Ever thus has been my wayward
and ill-directed destiny! Forgive me, Señora,
I will urge no more my fatal suit. I have loved
you, Señora (nay, listen, lady, I may tell you now)
I have loved you---how fervently, heaven and my
own heart alone can tell! But it has been a beautiful
and happy dream. No more may I look upon you
but as a distant worshipper upon the shrine of his

idolatry. A few short hours have changed me,
lady!---For your sake, I will seek a name of honour
among men; and when hereafter you shall
learn that Lafitte, the outlaw, earned laurels, and a
name, and perchance a death, in honourable war—
remember it was your love that guided his bark out
of the gulf of crime—your love that wafted it on to
honour. Then, lady, do justice to his memory!”

The rejected suitor, then, turning with much emotion
in his manner, hastily quitted the state-room.

“Sail, ho!” rung in his ears, as he entered his
own cabin. Hastily concealing his gay apparel
under a garment more befitting the deck of a piratical
vessel, and the presence of his men, he ascended
to the deck, and sought, in its bustle and activity,
to forget the causes which agitated his bosom.

“What do you make her out?” he shouted to
the man aloft, in a stern tone, that startled even
his men, with whom his trumpet-like voice was
well familiar.

“A brig, sir—standing to the south-east, with
her courses hauled up, and under top-gallant sails.”

“Can you see her hull?”

“Not yet, sir; but she rises rapidly.”

“Lay down out of that, sir,” said Lafitte, impatiently;
and immediately he sprung forward with
his glass, ascended the foremast, and standing on
the cross-trees, closely surveyed the stranger. In a
few minutes he descended, and ordered the helmsman
to steer so as to gain the wind of her.

“What do you make her out, sir?” inquired his
second in command, Ricardo, a swarthy Spaniard,
with an unpleasing eye, but otherwise a good-humoured
countenance, half shaded by a forest of
black whiskers, who was smoking a segar, as he
paced the leeward side of the deck.

“A merchantman, bound probably into Kingston.”

“Ho, there—men!” shouted the lieutenant; “to
your guns, and see that they are all prepared; and
be ready, boarders.”

“Aye, aye,” cheerfully responded the crew; and
there was at once a bustle of warlike preparation on
board. The crew, which numbered the day previous
about sixty, now cut down to forty, by the
severe losses of the preceding night, engaged with
alacrity in preparation for the expected fight.

“This preparation is useless, Ricardo,” said Lafitte;
“she will not resist us; and if she is bound
for Kingston, I shall not injure her—and the lady
below must be sent back in her.”

“Cielos! without ransom, señor?”

“No—I give my share of last night's booty as
her ransom. Does that serve your purpose?”

“Señor Captain, it does. I would give more for
the glitter of a good Mexican dollar, than the sweetest
smile that ever dwelt on pretty maiden's lip. Miraculo!
Captain, you soon weary of this lady's favours.”

“Silence, sir—the lady goes to Jamaica in yonder
vessel, if it be bound there,” replied Lafitte, sternly;
and descending into the cabin, he once more sought
the presence of his captive.

“Lady,” he said, without entering her state-room,
“there is a vessel now approaching, and if, as I
think, it is bound for the island, you are free to depart
in her. Where would you prefer making a
landing?”

“At Kingston, Señor—I have an uncle there.
I would land at Kingston! Oh, sir,” she continued
earnestly, and advancing towards him, “jest not
with my hopes—am I indeed at liberty?”

“Lady, the uncaged bird is not freer than you
shall be within the hour.”

“May God bless you, generous sir!”

“Nay, I dare not keep you here,” he replied;

I have not confidence in my own strength of purpose—I
fear for you, remaining—absent, you are
only safe; whilst I, who would wish to forget, must
live only in dwelling on your image. Adieu—I will
again wait on you when I ascertain the character
and destination of the vessel.”

When he gained the deck, she was plainly visible
about a league to leeward, under press of sail,
evidently endeavouring to escape. She had hauled
from her course several points since she first hove
in sight, and now stood south before the wind, about
a league distant.

“Shall we give chase, sir?” inquired the lieutenant.

“Aye, we must come up with her! put her
away;” and the schooner falling off a little, with a
freer wind, darted rapidly after the stranger, who
was using every exertion to escape. But the buccaneer
rapidly gained on her, and in about half an
hour the chase was within the range and command
of her guns.

Ten cannonades frowned along the pirate's deck,
and a gang of fierce and reckless men, some stripped
to their waists, and armed with pistols, knives, and
cutlasses, stood around each gun.

“Clear away that starboard gun amidships,”
shouted the lieutenant

“All clear, sir.”

“Pitch a shot then across her fore foot.”

The seaman stooped to the gun, and with his
eye on a level with the piece, gave it the proper
direction.

“All ready, sir.”

“Fire!”

The little vessel trembled and recoiled under the
loud report of the gun, which had scarcely ceased
ringing in the ears of the crew, who watched the
ball as it ricochetted over the water, marking a line

of foam as it passed just across the bows of the vessel,
when the brig threw her main-top-sail to the
mast, hoisted American colours, and awaited the
pleasure of the pirate.

“Lower and man the boat—go on board, Theodore,
and ascertain what she is, and where bound,”
said the pirate, as the schooner approached nearly
within hail of the stranger. The pirate lay to until
the return of the boat—Lafitte the while leaning
over the quarter, gazing in silence upon the vessel.

“Well Théodore?” he inquired, as his messenger
returned.

“She is an American brig from New Orleans,
bound to Porto Rico, but will touch at Kingston,
if there be gold to be made by it.”

“Aye, gold---gold! well, they shall have it.”

In a few minutes Constanza had changed the
warlike vessel, and gorgeous cabin of the pirate,
for the homelier accommodations of the peaceful and
plain merchantman.

“Lady, adieu,” he said, taking his leave on the
deck of the brig; “you may soon forget me, but
while my heart throbs with life, never can I forget
Constanza Velasquez. That name shall be the
talisman of a more honourable destiny---for I cannot
be linked with guilt, bearing your image in my
heart. Lady, farewell---Théodore will accompany
you to your friends, and you will also have Juana,
to wait upon you.”

“God bless you, Señor---how deeply I feel my debt
of gratitude to you---I shall ever remember you with
friendship---may God and your country receive
henceforth the duties you owe to each. Farewell,
and the blessed Maria be your protector!” and she
extended her hand to the chief as she spoke, who
tenderly and ardently pressing it to his lips, sprang
over the side into his boat. He waved his hand to

her distant figure, as he stood once more on the deck
of his schooner, which immediately resumed her
former course, while the merchant vessel, again
making sail, stood steadily towards the port of her
destination.