University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
FLIGHT AND PURSUIT.

Soon after Adele left me, two Indians came and sat
down in the door of the lodge, and for an hour kept
up a low, but to me unintelligible, conversation. Then
one of them went away; and the other, whistling a
large dog to him, stretched himself out, as if to sleep,
leaving his canine companion on the watch. Finding
my position extremely painful, I now ventured to address
the savage, to inquire if a stronger guard could
not be put over me, and my aching limbs be freed
from their bonds.

He raised his head, looked at me, and saying, “Me
no Engles,” laid down again.

He added something to the dog, which immediately

took up a position where his eyes could rest upon
mine; and there he remained through that long night,
growling every time I moved. Well may I call it a
long night—for to me it seemed an age—and all the
good and evil of my life appeared to come up before
the mind for review.

Morning came at last; and with the rising of the
sun my guard left me, calling off his dog. Soon after
this my angel, for she looked to me like an angel, reappeared.

“Oh! what tortures you must have suffered through
the night!” she said, compassionately, her soft eyes
filling with tears, as she gazed upon my haggard features
and corded limbs.

“Oh! Adele,” I replied, “it is Heaven to look
upon your sweet face once more! But pray tell me
what you have learned concerning me? for this awful
suspense is one of the greatest tortures I have to
bear.”

“Ah! sir, I have learned nothing, except that your
fate will be decided when Waralongha returns. Ha!
he has come now, I think!” she added, as at the moment
a series of loud whoops, from a distance, broke
upon the ear. “I will go and see, and return and tell
you;” and she hurried out and disappeared.

I lay there for some minutes, listening to the unpleasant
noises without, which announced the arrival
of a party of warriors, and felt much as I suppose a
prisoner must feel awaiting a decision which will set
him free or consign him to death. At length Adele

suddenly burst into the lodge, pale and breathless,
and exclaimed:

“I fear it is all over with you, my dear friend!
Hark! do you not hear those wild cries of Indian
women lamenting the loss of some of their friends? I
have only seen enough to know that Waralongha has
returned with two white prisoners, and three Indian
corpses, and the rage of the nation will demand you
for a victim. Oh! my God! that I could die for
you!”

“You can do better!” cried I, from that strong impulse
of the mind which often acts with the force and
certainty of instinct. “Quick! cut my cords, and let
me take my chance!”

“But surely you cannot escape!”

“I may escape torture, if not death. Oh! Adele,
by the love of Heaven, I conjure you to cut these
bonds, ere my enemies come upon me!”

“I will,” she cried, “if I die for it! One moment!
I have no knife—but I just now saw one at the door
of an adjoining lodge;” and she darted out.

She was gone but a moment indeed; and as she
hurried back to me, and severed the cords that bound
my limbs, she fairly gasped out, under the wildest
excitement:

“Oh! Roland, perhaps you may escape! Oh, my
God! give me strength to speak! The whole village
has gone out to meet Waralongha. Only a few old
men and women are near you. Some chief or warrior
has left his horse, with a Mexican bridle and saddle

upon him, standing only a few rods off. Great God!
if you could reach him and escape! Oh! I faint to
think! There! there! you are free. Up! quick,
and away! and Holy Mary and all the saints protect
you!”

“And you, Adele?” returned I, as I hurriedly
chafed my limbs, which fortunately were not so benumbed
as to be useless.

“Think not of me; but fly! fly! and save yourself,
if in God's holy Providence you may be so permitted!”

“But come you with me! you must not, shall not,
remain behind!”

“No! no! no! Roland—fly and leave me! for the
love of holy angels, fly! I should only be a burden
to you; I should only retard your flight; and you
would be retaken; and then death by tortures would
be your fate. It is your only chance; the whole
village of chiefs and warriors will soon be here; do
you not hear them coming? And yet you stand!
“Oh, God! Roland, if you would not see me sink
dead at your very feet, fly, and save your precious
life!”

I looked at the slight, slender, beautiful girl before
me—dressed much as she was when I first presented
her to the reader—her dark hair, now somewhat disarranged,
floating around her neck and shoulders—
her black eyes, wild and sparkling, fixed beseechingly
upon mine—her upturned features picturing forth the
full agony of a soul upon the rack of desperate fear

and desperate hope—the contending emotions almost
tearing her spirit asunder: I looked at her, I say, as
she thus stood before me, and my resolution was instantly
taken. We would live or die together—or at
least I would not escape alone. The chances were all
against us—but Heaven might be on our side. She
was small, slight, and light—I was large and strong
—and suddenly throwing an arm around her slender
waist, I lifted her from the ground, and darted out
into the open air.

“This is my answer, dear Adele,” I said; “you
must go with me; I will not leave you; and if you
resist, I shall remain a prisoner. Quick! where is the
horse?”

She pointed to where he stood, too much excited to
speak; and I darted to his side, bearing my lovely
burden with the same ease that I would have borne
an infant. I looked around and saw the whole village,
with only a few exceptions—men, women, and children
—collected in a body, some four or five hundred
yards distant, and surrounding the returned warriors,
who were marching into the village in Indian state,
whooping and howling alternately—this for a loss—
that for a triumph. Most of the lodges were between
us and them, which concealed our movements and
favored our design; while fortunately, their attention
was occupied with matters in their immediate vicinity.
A decrepit old Indian, in a lodge near, perceived us,
and uttered a peculiar yell, intended to alarm his
distant friends, and bring them down upon us; but

luckily his lungs were weak, and his voice did not
reach far; and ere he had thrice repeated his cry, I
was upon the back of as fleet and noble a steed as
ever bore man from captivity, with the lovely and half
fainting Adele clasped in my arms.

I could scarcely restrain a shout of exultation, as I
jerked the reins, and struck the beast upon the flank
with the flat of my hand. Unused to such treatment,
he reared and plunged, and the next moment was
bounding away with a velocity that made my heart
leap with hope and joy. But we had scarcely gone
twenty yards, when, from several parts of the village,
arose those peculiar yells, which told us we were discovered
by the aged and infirm who had not gone out
to meet the returned warriors; and ere we had
advanced a hundred rods, the same fearful cry of
discovery came borne to our ears from the more
distant crowd of warriors.

“God help us!” I murmured; “it is life or death
now!”

As we cleared the last hut, and dashed away toward
the west, over the seemingly boundless prairie, I
looked back, and saw a great commotion among the
excited crowd; and the next moment some five or six
mounted warriors burst through the throng, and bore
down for us with all speed.

“There, the fiends are after us!” cried I, giving my
high spirited steed another blow with my hand, which
caused him to bound away with the speed of the
rushing wind.

“Holy Virgin, help us! holy saints, help us! Great
God, help us!” cried Adele, clinging shudderingly to
me. “Oh! Roland—can we—can we escape them?”

“God only knows!” said I, tightening my arm
around her waist. “This gallant beast seems fresh,
and their animals may be more or less fatigued. They
have not gained on us yet,” continued I, glancing
back, after a few minutes of breathless silence—“nor
can I perceive we have gained on them. God help
us!”

“He will, Roland—I feel He will!” replied Adele,
suddenly turning her sweet, sad face, and soft, dark,
speaking eyes up to mine. “Heaven certainly favors
us, or we should not be here now. Was not this
horse a Providence, my dear friend?”

“It seems so indeed,” I answered. “Who could
have dreamed, a short half hour since, while I lay a
bound prisoner, in the hands of a tribe numbering
several hundred warriors, that I should now be
mounted and flying from them, and bearing away the
captive I came to seek? Who knows, dear Adele,
but my very misfortune, as I supposed it to be,
was one of the mysterious ways of Providence for
your deliverence?”

“Oh, I am unworthy!” she replied—“I will pray.”

It was a fearful race—and seems now, as I recall it,
rather like a wild, terrible dream, than a reality. On,
on, we sped, over the seemingly boundless prairie,
with not a hill or tree to obstruct the view, and with
our enemies, yelling like fiends, in hot pursuit. For

two long hours we maintained the distance which
divided us on setting out, and many a long league
now lay between us and the Arrapahoe village. The
day was bright—the sun shone clear—and earth and
sky would have looked beautiful to our eyes, could
we have viewed them in peaceful freedom; and even
as it was, with the soft breeze from the west we drank
in hope, and felt our hearts beat with returning joy.
Oh! how I loved the noble animal beneath us! which
neither flagged nor faltered—but strained every nerve
to save us—and still sped onward with lightning
speed.

The sun was perhaps two hours and a half above
the horizon, when, glancing back, for the hundredth
time, I fairly shouted:

“Joy! joy! we shall escape! we shall be saved,
dear Adele! your prayers are heard!”

“Saved!” she murmured, clasping her hands—
“saved!”

“Yes, we are gaining on our pursuers; already
their animals begin to falter; while ours seems no
more fatigued than if his muscles were of iron.”

“And shall we be saved, dear Roland? Oh! what
joy! my heart is too full to speak! Oh, God! let the
gratitude which fills my soul be my offering to Thee
for this unexpected deliverance!”

During the next quarter of an hour, we gained
perceptibly on our foes; and at the end of that time, a
distance of more than half a mile divided us; and as

every moment increased it, they at length came to a
sudden halt and gave up the chase.

“There! see!” cried I—and my heart leaped to my
throat for joy; “our boldness and daring, under God,
have given us life and liberty!—our foes are turning
back.”

Adele clasped her hands, and burst into tears,
being too deeply affected to utter a single syllable. I
now gradually checked the speed of our foaming
steed; and, a few miles further on, curbed him down
to a quiet walk.

We were still upon the broad, almost barren
prairie, with a clear, blue sky overhead, and the
bright, warm sun rolling up the heavens in glory.
Save a small herd of buffaloes away to our right, our
retreating foes already dim in the distance, and a few
birds sailing high overhead, apparently bound on a
long flight, not a single living object met our view.
The prairie, covered with the short, brown, buffalo
grass, was almost as level as a floor; and away to the
north, away to the south, away to the east, away to
the west, as far as the straining eye could reach, it
drew its even line against the horizon. The scene
was grand, impressive, solemn; and as the first excitement
of rejoicing at our escape from captivity and
death began to die away, and the mind began to stretch
from the present into the future, I shuddered to think
what an awful fate might yet be ours. We were alone
upon this great desert, afar from the settlement of a
white man, in the territory of our enemies, surrounded

by foes, both animal and human, almost helpless as
infants, with nothing for defence and protection but
our fleet and gallant steed. I had not a single weapon
of any kind, and knew not which way to steer to reach
the nearest station; and any deviation from the right
course, might carry us far beyond, entangle us in new
difficulties, and prove fatal at last.

Adele observed the change in my features, as these
startling facts and fearful uncertainties pressed upon
my mind; and she said, with anxiety:

“You seem troubled, Roland?”

“I am, dear Adele—I am.”

“Oh, speak! what is it?”

“We have just made a narrow escape from our
foes behind—but what is before us?”

“What do you fear, Roland?”

“Everything. Where are we now? whither shall
we go? and how support life?”

“Ah! what do you mean?”

“I do not wish to startle or alarm you, Adele; but
I must tell you the painful fact, that I have not a
single weapon; even the knife with which you cut
my cords, was forgotten in my haste.”

“Well, we may not henceforth be menaced by man
or beast.”

“There is a danger greater still, dear Adele.”

“Indeed, Roland—what is it?”

“Starvation!”

“Ah! I did not think of that.”

“How are we to live?” I cried, despondingly,

“we may starve in sight of game; and even were
it killed, we have nothing with which to cut the flesh
asunder, and therefore could not use it.”

“It is dreadful!” returned Adele, with a shudder.
But the next moment she added, with a kind of
cheerful vivacity: “Let us not despair, Roland! but
trust something to that Providence which has so
signally delivered us from a fate worse than death.
We are, in one sense, dependent, helpless creatures,
be we where we may; and after what has just taken
place, surely we ought to leave the future to God, and
not despond till we have certain cause.”

“You are right,” said I, struck with admiration at
such noble sentiments of consoling reliance on Divine
Power—and which, as the stronger sex, and under
the circumstances, should rather have come from me
than her. “You are right, dear Adele; and I thank
you for teaching me better than to give way to sad
forebodings, at a moment when my heart should be
filled with rejoicing at our wonderful escape. And
wonderful—nay, almost miraculous—it seems, all
things being taken into consideration. How indeed
came this noble horse, saddled and bridled, to be
standing there, at the only moment of all others when
he could have saved us?”

“I do not know,” replied Adele; “but I think he
had been harnessed for some scouting expedition,
which his master temporarily deferred on hearing the
signal shouts of the returning warriors.”

“But is it not strange he did not ride out to meet
them?”

“It seems so to me, and I am almost superstitious
enough to regard it as the design of a superior intelligence.
Perhaps I should have no lingering doubts of
such being the case, did I not know myself unworthy
of superhuman aid.”

“And if you are unworthy, dear Adele, what can
be said of me? But this saddle and bridle—where
could the savages have procured these?”

“Doubtless taken from some victim, in one of their
marauding expeditions to the south; for these Arrapahoes
sometimes join the Camanches in their descent
upon caravans and the frontier towns of Mexico, and
sometimes the two tribes war against each other.”

“I would I knew the fate of my brave companions!”
I pursued; “if any, and how many, escaped—and
who were those you saw brought in prisoners. Poor
fellows! their's, at least, I think, will be a horrible
doom. And doubtless I should have suffered with
them, had it not been for you, my dear Adele.
Trust me, I shall not soon forget your devoted heroism.”

“The heroism is yours, Roland, not mine,” returned
Adele, quickly. “I only saved my noble deliverer
by a timely word, and can lay claim to no merit.
All the devoted heroism of the whole affair belongs
to him who ventured hundreds of miles, through
perils, into the country of the white man's foe, to set
the friendless captive free—risking fortune and life

for one who can never repay him. May God ever
bless my noble preserver, Roland Rivers! And surely,
sir, if you do not meet your reward in this world, you
will in the next.”

“I have it already,” I replied, in a low, tender tone;
“in clasping here, in freedom, the form of a being
which my heart tells me I love. Ah! my dear Adele,
I must confess it—all that I have done for you has
been more selfish than you seem inclined to suppose.
The impression which our first interview made upon
my heart, was too deep to be erased; and time and
circumstances have only increased it,

I did not then think I loved you—for I scarcely knew
what love was; but now I feel as if we were born for
each other; and I know that in your absence I could
not be happy. I then felt I could be a brother to
you—I now feel that I must be more. How is it with
you, Adele? You are now alone in the world—without
home, without relations, without friends—will
you look upon me as a protector? as something more
than a brother? In a word, are you willing to share
my fortune, be it good or ill?”

“Oh, Roland!” sobbed Adele; “I only know your
words make me happy, and I was never happy before.”

“God bless you!” cried I, impulsively straining her
to my heart, and venturing to press my lips to her's
for the first time. “You shall be mine! and my life

shall be devoted to making your happiness complete.”

It was a strange place, and time, and occasion—
there, on that wide prairie, just escaped from our foes
behind, and looking forward to new dangers—to
make such an avowal of my love; but the very scene,
and time, and circumstances, called it forth; and I
allowed my feelings to have full sway, and have not
lived to regret that my words then made happy the
heart of the being I truly loved. And what time and
place could have been more appropriate? Love sometimes
springs up in a moment; peculiar circumstances
may develope a passion stronger than mortal life;
affection, once seated in the heart, may never leave
it; and when such is felt to be the case, the sooner
there is a mutual understanding between two beings
who seem born for each other, the sooner will each
heart feel the influx of a holy joy which we trust will
be endless. Adele was alone with me—weak, friendless
and dependent—and was it not a virtue to let her
know it would make me happy to be allowed to
devote my time to her happiness?

After a pause of a few minutes, during which we
continued to ride slowly along, I resumed:

“But, my dear Adele, let me not in this happy
moment forget the noble generosity of one, a stranger
to you, without whose assistance I might not have
been in a condition to render you a service. I am
not the only one who has periled life, and used the
means in his power, to free you from a terrible captivity.

The name of the noble Juan El Doliente must
be remembered in your prayers; and if in this world
now, I fear, alas! he needs the interposition of Heaven
to save him from an awful death.”

“What do you mean, Roland?” inquired Adele,
looking up in surprise.

Hitherto I had only mentioned my companions in
general terms; but now I proceeded to speak of the
Spaniard in particular. I gave her an account of our
meeting, and the conversations I had at different
times held with him concerning her; told her of the
deep and apparently unaccountable interest he had
taken in her welfare; and clearly stated how much
we were both indebted to his noble generosity for the
events which had placed us in our present positions.

“Were he indeed your father, brother, or long-tried
friend, Adele,” I continued, “he could not have
shown more sympathy for your misfortunes, or have
done more for your rescue; and now I have reason to
fear that he has either been killed or made a hopeless
prisoner himself. As I before informed you, I left
the party separated, each going in pursuit of his
horse; and you yourself have seen enough to know
that there was subsequently a fight between them and
the Indians, under Waralongha, and that two at least
were made prisoners: it may be our noble friend was
one of these.”

“The saints forbid!” cried Adele. “Oh, Roland!
what can be done?”

“Nothing by us, dear Adele. We can, alas! do

nothing for him, or the rest of my brave companions;
if we can save ourselves, it is all we can hope for. I
only felt that justice required you should know that
not to me alone do you owe your deliverance.”

“You call him Juan El Doliente—Juan The Sufferer—it
is a singular name, and I will remember it in
my prayers. It is strange he should take such an
interest in me. Do you think he fancies he knows
anything of my early history?”

“I do not know what to think; he only said what
I have repeated.”

“Oh! I would that I could see him—perhaps he
does know something—and I am so eager to learn
anything. Was I ever blessed with the affection of a
mother? and where is that sweet being now? on
earth or in Heaven? For years, Roland, during my
lonely life, I have pondered this mystery by day, and
dreamed of it by night; and yet all is dark and
mysterious. Oh! if I could but see this stranger,
perhaps he could throw some light upon the subject!”

“I had hoped to see you meet, but I fear now you
never will—at least on earth.”

“Ah! it would be something if I could only have
one moment's interview, to offer him my poor thanks,
and tell him how grateful I feel!” she rejoined, with
a deep sigh. “But in this, as in all else that befalls
poor human nature, we must say, with resignation,
`God's will be done!”'

“Even so,” said I solemnly; “and blessed are they
whose hearts can add, `Amen!”'