 | CHAPTER IV. Guarica, the charib bride |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
Morning had dawned already, when
Hernando returned to the fortress of his
countrymen, and all was noise and bustle;
two companies were under arms without
the gates, and the whole esplanade between
the walls and the sea was alive with men
rolling down casks of ammunition or provisions
to a tall caravella, which lay in the
little basin at the wharf, with her foretop-sail
loose, in readiness to sail, as it seemed,
at a moment's notice.
As Hernando dismounted, two or three
officers, who were inspecting the arquebusers
and pikemen, stepped forward to
salute him.
“How soon will the tide serve, Señor
Gomez?” asked the young cavalier, addressing
the personage who had accompanied
Herreiro on the previous day.
“Not for two hours, at the earliest, Don
Hernando,” replied the sailor; “but I am
waiting only to have the soldiers put on
board, before I shove off into the stream.”
“I will give orders—I will give orders.
How soon shall you want me on board?”
“My boat shall wait you in an hour at
the port stairs.”
“I will be ready, señor. Don Luis Mandragone,
get your men on board instantly.
march!”
And for a few moments he stood still, observing
the movement of the troops, who,
with that steadiness of severe discipline
which rendered the Spanish infantry the
most famous in the world, went through the
requisite manœuvres, with equal speed and
facility.
This done, Hernando turned to the sentinels
on duty, and inquired if Don Guzman
de Herreiro was within the walls, but,
greatly to his disappointment, he was answered
in the negative; and, on making
farther inquiries, still more to his vexation,
he was informed that, although he had not
returned home till a late hour on the previous
evening, he had set out, alone, to
hunt before daybreak.
Not a word did De Leon utter in reply,
but his brow grew as black as night, and
he strode away, hastily, to his own barrack,
and locking himself in, to avoid interruption,
took pen and paper, and addressed a
long letter to his whilom friend and comrade.
For he was not deceived in the least by
the pretext of hunting; knowing, as he
did, that Herreiro was by no means so
ardent an admirer of field sports, as to get
up before the sun two following mornings,
to ride after the stanchest hounds that
ever opened upon game.
He doubted not, therefore, that, whatever
the pretence, his Guarica, his own betrothed,
was the true object of pursuit to a
man, whom he knew bold, resolute, voluptuous,
unscrupulous, and persevering. It
was a moment of strange agony! For
though he never so much as dreamed of
doubting Guarica's purity of soul, or power
to resist more potent fascinations than were
like to be brought against her—though he
imagined not that Herreiro would dare
resort to violence—still it was anguish to
believe that she, his soul's idol, would have
to endure the solications, to brook the insolent
addresses of this bold libertine.
It was now that he felt bitterly the folly
of his conduct, in so estranging himself
from his comrades; for he had no one to
whom he could confide his anxieties, of
whom he could ask comfort or advice.
The rather that the very man to whom it
would have been most natural that he
should apply, was he against whom he was
now called upon to take counsel.
Short was the space which was left to
him, either for action or deliberation, and
perhaps it was well for him that it was so;
for assuredly, under the spur of instant
necessity, he took a course which, if the
boldest, was the wisest he could have
adopted.
He sat down and wrote a long, frank
letter to Herreiro, as from one devoted
friend to another. He apologized in some
sort for his late strangeness and alienation,
by accounting for it; which he did—ingenuously,
frankly, truly. He wrote to him
of Guarica, as if he were ignorant that Herreiro
knew of her existence: he told him
of his first fascination, of his deep love
arising thence, of his intention to make her
his wife, immediately on the return of Columbus;
and then, touching on his compulsory
absence from Isabella, he commended
his mistress to the care of his
friend, in all loyalty and honor; conjuring
him to watch over her, to protect her in
case of any peril, to be to her, in short, if
necessity should arise, as a brother.
This packet finished, and confided to the
charge of Don Guzman's confidential servant,—which
was not done until the hour
of embarkation was at hand,—Hernando's
mind was more composed and tranquilized
than it had been since his discovery of Herreiro's
conduct.
“He cannot,” thought he, within himself,
“after receiving this—he cannot dream of
prosecuting any dishonorable suit toward
my destined wife. First, I cannot believe
his heart so treacherously base and evil:
second, he dare not; for he knows that, did
he so, within six hours of my return, he
would have ceased to draw the breath of
life: and third, as gentleman and belted
knight, he dare not meet the obloquy and
scorn of every honorable man, which would
frank and loyal trust.”
And in this renewed confidence, he
stepped on board the boat that was to bear
him to the stately caravella; and as he
climbed her castellated prow, and stood
upon her guarded deck, with the free, fair
breeze laughing in her shrouds and halyards,
and the blue waves of the bright
Caribbean rippling and gurgling round her
bows, sorrow and care, and sad anticipation
passed from his heart, as a cloud is
swept away by the autumnal wind from the
face of some rich champague, and in their
place the sunshine of ambition, and blithe
energetic action, possessed the spirit of the
adventurous soldier.
So true it is, that for man, however
deeply and devotedly he love, that love is
still but the amusement, the luxury, if you
will, of his existence; while, on the contrary,
to a woman it is the necessity of life
—nay, it is life itself.
It certainly is not possible that any man
on earth could have loved more sincerely,
more fervently, than Hernando; and yet,
from the instant when the brave frigate
left her moorings, spreading sheet after
sheet of snowy canvas to the favoring
breeze, and dashing the small seas asunder
in jets of flashing spray, not a thought of
anxiety or sadness came to disturb him, or,
if it did, it was banished by an effort of
strong will, as being, if not unmanly, at
least inconsistent with his bolder duties.
Fair blew the breeze, and rapidly the
good ship sped before it, and the cheer of
the stout mariners, and the jest and song
of the idle soldiery, to whom this summer
voyage was a gay holiday of rest from the
monotonous routine of the garrison, made
merry, though rough music. Action and
bustle, and perhaps strife—enthusiastic,
thrilling strife before them—the walls of
Isabella ere long sunk on their lee, and
they, and all that they contained, were soon
forgotten.
But in the forest-home of poor Guaric
there was no keen excitement, no hurried
action, to banish heavy shadows from the
heart—no change of scene to divert the
weary eyes from thoughts begotten by the
sight of familiar objects. No new, strange
sounds to distract the ear, filled as it were
with old memories, recalled at every moment
by old, accustomed noises.
There she sat in her wonted chamber,
where he had so lately sat beside her,
gazing upon the same sweet landscape
which so often they had admired together—
now turning to the books which he had
given her, now trying to distract her sorrows
by singing, to his mandolin, the Spanish
airs which he had taught her. But all
would not do; the one dread thought, the
one dread terror, sat on her heart, haunted
her as with a real presence—the fixed presentiment
of evil—evil from that dark, terrible
Don Guzman.
And, as if to increase the weight of that
terror, it chanced that Orozimbo, who, fearful
as herself of some deep laid and treacherous
stratagem, had resolved to devote the
whole time of Hernando's absence to watching
over Guarica—was called away at
dawn that very morning, with every vassal
he could muster, to attend a general
council of the tribe, convened by Caonabo,
whose mandate, as his uncle and his chief,
he neither dared dispute nor could resist.
Again, therefore, was she left alone with
her maidens, to whom, knowing the inutility
of awakening their terrors fruitlessly,
she had confided nothing of her apprehensions.
The day, however, passed, until the sun
had buried his lower limb in the green
summits of the tall forest which encompassed
the savannah; and no alarm had
occurred, nor any sound come from the
neighboring woodlands, to denote the vicinity
of any stranger. The lapse of time,
as it ever will, bred something of security,
and she began to reprove herself with cowardly
and shameful weakness, and to endeavor
to convince herself that, as Hernando
had assured her, Don Guzman's
visit must have been purely accidental.
It wanted, perhaps, two hours, or nearly
three of the true sunset, although the shadows
level lines of purple over the smooth savannah,
when her girls came in to announce
to her that they were going down
to bear the cotton cloths they had been
spinning to the bleach ground beside the
brook. Once, for a moment, it occurred to
her to retain one of the girls near her person,
but with a smile at her own cowardice,
she changed her mind, and suffered
them to leave her all alone, reflecting, as
she did so, that if danger should arise they
could afford her little or no protection; and
again, that should she be alarmed, a moment
would carry her to the spot where
they were assembled.
She sat still, therefore, for a space, listening
to the gay sound of their laughing
voices, until they were lost in the distance:
and them, although she held a volume
of some high Spanish poet in her
hand, she fell into a revery, which lasted
till the purple hues of evening were gradually
stealing toward the zenith. She had
just, partially aroused from her meditation,
began to marvel at the long tarrying of the
girls, when she felt, rather than saw, for
her eyes were lowered to the ground, that
some one had passed the window near
which she was sitting.
At the next moment a footstep, which
her quick Indian ear told her was a man's,
and a European's, fell heavily upon the
portico.
Instinctively her hand glanced down to
the hilt of the stiletto which she wore, as
she had said she would, next to her heart,
within her muslin and robe, and as she
loosened the keen weapon in the sheath, a
high and flashing smile illumined her dark
features.
At the same moment, the tall form of
Don Guzman de Herreiro stood on the
threshold of the door.
He was dressed in a full suit of black
cloth, with hat, plumes, mantle of the same
color, and the swift eye of the girl perceived
instantly that he was heavily, almost, indeed,
ostentatiously armed—for in addition
to the long Toledo blade which hung at his
left side, and the heavy dagger which
counterbalanced it, he had a pair of horseman's
pistols at his belt, so large and cumbrous
that they would appear almost out of
place in holsters at the saddle-how.
He did not speak a word, but, removing
the hat from his high pale brow, stood gazing
at her with an eye so fixed and baneful
that it seemed almost as if he believed
he could fascinate her.
And she rose instantly, and faced him,
tranquil and calm, and though paler than
usual, firm and untrembling.
Then stepping one pace forward, and
extending his hand, as if to take hers,
which hung by her side motionless, he said
in tones of affected softness—
“Well, my sweet princess of the forests,
happy am I, again, to find you all
alone.”
“Don Guzman de Herreiro,” she replied,
still confronting him with a quiet eye, and
rejecting his hand, as though she had not
perceived that he offered it—“Don Guzman
de Herreiro will perhaps condescend
to explain the motives that have led him
to this intrusion. There is no storm to-night,
nor has the chase, I think, this time
led him hither.”
“You know me, then—you know me,”
exclaimed the Spaniard, a bright color for
a moment kindling his sallow features.
“Fortunate that, my sweet Guarica; for
it will save the awkwardness of introductions.”
“I do know you, senor,” the young girl
answered steadily, “and when you have
answered me my question, you shall know
me, which I now perceive you do not.”
“Your question,” said Herreiro, with an
air half forgetful, and half supercilious;
“Ay! why I have come hither, is it not?
—to see you, then, my beauty. It is your
grace, your charms, that have brought me
hither—”
“And for what end, I pray you, or to
what purpose?”
“These things, sweet one,” he answered,
carelessly, “are, perhaps, explained better
by deeds than by words; some little time,
clear and simple, which, if told bluntly,
might alarm your sex's charming sensibility.”
“I prayed you yesterday, senor, to spare
yourself the trouble of paying me these fine
compliments, as they are merely thrown
away. I will now add, that if they be
meant as serious gallantry, they are, if possible,
more useless, than when regarded as
mere figurative flourishes, employed to
keep your tongue in tune.”
“So scornful—ha! so young and beautiful,
and so contemptuous withal.”
“How should I be other than scornful?”
answered Guarica, still perfectly unmoved,
“when your addresses can be regarded
only as mockery, or as insult.”
“Insult!—you err—sweet Guarica. What
if I come to lay my heart in all honor at
your feet—to say to you frankly—”
“Were that the case—which it is not,”
she answered, “as frankly would I tell
you, that I cannot accept your heart, having
none to bestow on you in return.”
“Again, what if I were to say that it is
not your heart, but your beauty—”
“Senor!”
“That overlooking all past frailties, all
tendernesses of the heart toward one—”
“To put a stop to all this matter at
once,” she interrupted him, speaking very
rapidly, and with a marked and thrilling
emphasis, “I will fill up your sentence.
To one, you say—to Don Hernando de
Leon, say I, whose promised bride I am.
You will see now the propriety of urging
me no further. Don Guzman, you are answered.
If that you be a gentleman, you
will leave me.”
“And do you really think, my angel,
that I believe such nonsense—that I even
suppose you to believe it? De Leon's paramour,
if you love the title, and much
honor you do to his good taste—but his wife
—his wife—ha! ha! you make me laugh,
By heavens! you make me laugh, Guarica!”
And with the word he advanced a little
way toward her; but she exclaimed in a
clear high note, that pierced his ear like
the blast of a silver trumpet—
“Stand back! stand back! I say not if
you be a gentleman—you, who are recreant
to every law of Spanish chivalry or knightly
honor! You, who are false to your noble
comrade's trust! you, traitor and knave,
and liar!—I say not, if you be a man, for
nothing worthy the name of man would so
insult and outrage a helpless solitary girl!
But still, I say, stand back! Back! not for
shame, or honesty, or honor! But for fear!
Back! lest, when he return, Hernando
scourge you like a vile cur as you are,
scourge you before the face of your chivalric
countrymen!”
“A fair defiance, lovely Guarica, a fair
but dangerous defiance. Never, if you will
be advised by me, taunt a man on his personal
courage. You are a brave girl to
defy me thus, when you are at my mercy,
when you are alone.
“I am not at your mercy! I am not
alone!”
“Not at my mercy? not alone? But you
know not that I have watched my time—
that I am thoroughly aware, that, save we
two, there is no living creature within
earshot!”
“I care not how you may have watched,
I care not what you know—I am not at
your mercy! I am not alone!”
“As how, sweet beauty? By heaven!
your daring lends fresh lustre to your loveliness!”
“I am the mistress of myself, and God is
with me!”
“See, then,” said Herreiro, sneeringly,
“if God will aid you. Come, girl, wilt
grant to love, what thou perforce must
yield to violence?”
Her lips moved rapidly, but no sound
reached his ear. Her eyes were turned upward.
But her right hand was firmly
clasped within the bosom of her robe.
“Come, Guarica, be wise—resistance is
in vain—submit thee—”
“Beware thou! I will not submit me!”
And she stood pale and motionless as
marble, but as firm at the same time, and
almost as fearless. Maddened by passion,
and excited almost to frenzy by her scornful
bearing, he sprung to seize her; his
right hand had already clutched her left
arm, as it hung by her side, his left was
flung about her waist, when, in an instant,
in the twinkling of an eye, the spell was
broken—the blood rushed in a torrent to
brow, cheek, neck and bosom of the pale
statue, her eye flashed fiery indignation,
her right hand sprung into the air, the
keen blade of Hernando's dagger glittering
through the dusky twilight.
“Die!” she cried; “ravisher and villain—die
in thy sin and shame!”
And with a quick and fiery energy that
made up for the want of strength, she
smote him three times in the bosom with
the speed of light, that the strong man let
go his hold, and staggered back a pace or
two, like one who has received a mortal
wound.
Yet Guarica knew that the villain was
unwounded, for every blow that she dealt
him had jarred her slight arm to the shoulder,
as the point of her weapon glanced
from the secret of chain mail which Herreiro
wore beneath his doublet. Had the
blade been of less perfect temper it had
been shivered to the hilt. As it was, it
had not lost one iota of its trenchant keenness,
and, as she started back, she coolly
tried its point with her finger.
“Best leave me, senor!” she exclaimed.
“From me you can gain nothing, even on
terms more shameful to your manhood,
than your success were dishonoring to
me!”
“You are mistaken, girl!” he replied,
fiercely, for he was no coward, and his
blood was up. “Your God will no more
aid you, than will your foolish bodkin pierce
my good Spanish mail. Prepare yourself
for the worst. It is now pride and vengeance.
Look to yourself—you will find
no mercy!”
“I expect none,” she answered, and as
he rushed toward her, his eyes glowing
and his cheeks flushed with fiendish passion,
she added, looking up toward heaven—“Yet
am I mistress of myself! come
one step nearer—and by the God whom
thou dost not believe, and who shall yet
smite thee in thy unbelief—in my own
heart I plunge this dagger, and on thy
head be the blood and the curse!”
And with the word she tore away the
cotton robe that scarce restrained her panting
bosom, and raised the long keen blade
aloft with proud determination.
“My flesh will hardly turn the point,
which thy mail armor scarce resisted!”
He read it in her firm and compressed
lip, he noted it in the steadfast gaze of her
earnest eye, he heard it in every note of
her clear, composed and unfaltering voice
—that resolution, fixed and sure as death.
He knew by the concentrated energy and
force with which she had stricken him,
that no weakness of her woman arm would
mar her purpose in the execution. He
was foiled, and he knew it—foiled and defeated
by a girl—a savage!”
Unable to persist in his base intent, unwilling
to retreat, he stood infirm of purpose,
speechless, and vacillating. At length
he faltered forth—
“Bravely played! bravely played, on my
soul! Guarica, it could not have been
done better had we been both in earnest,
which—ha! ha! ha! it makes me laugh!
ha! ha! it does, by St. Jago! which I believe
you really thought I was. Come,
confess—confess, noble Guarica, didst thou
not think that I was in earnest?”
“Didst thou think that I was?” replied
Guarica, with a smile of contempt and
loathing. “Well is it for thee that thou
wear'st a coat of proof when thou playest
these merry jests—else had my dagger
and thy heart's blood been acquainted.
Yes! senor,” she continued, changing her
tone of bitter scorn into an accent of deliberate
and firm assertion. “Yes, senor,
I do believe, or rather I do know that you
were in earnest, and on this night, seven
days hence, we will see what Hernando de
Leon will believe touching it. And now,
since, which I will repay by offering some
to you in turn. Betake yourself to your
horse as quickly as you may; I hear my
maidens' voices coming hitherward, it may
be there are men with them.”
“To hell! with your council, minion!”
cried Hernando, perceiving himself now
thoroughly detected, and yielding to his
furious hate and disappointed malice.
“You think yourself invincible, because
this time you have baffled me—but patience!
patience! and the time will come!
and hark you, girl! on that same day
whereon Hernando learns what has passed
this night, on that same day he dies! Ha!
do I touch you? Tell him, fool, tell him,
and you seal his death warrant!”
“Ha! ha!” shrilly laughed Guarica,
and sneeringly. “It is my time, now—
my time to laugh!” she cried. “Nay,
't would make dumb things laugh to hear
you threaten—you, and him!”
Enraged beyond endurance by her taunts,
he had half drawn a pistol from his belt—
would he have had the baseness to aim it
at a woman's life?—when the quick tread
of many men was heard without—then!
then, for the first time, when aid was close
at hand, and terror causeless, Guarica's
courage failed her—she uttered one long
shriek—the revulsion of her feelings was
too much for her, she fell to the ground
fainting.
One bound carried Herreiro clear through
the open window—his horse stood close at
hand—he was upon his back, the spur in
his side, the bridle lifted, when the loud
Charib war-cry pealed around him, and a
long arrow, shot in haste and aimlessly,
whistled close by his ear.
The good horse stretched into his gallop
—another and another shaft just grazed
him harmless—he was safe—safe by a few
short yards alone, so furiously did the
revengeful Charibs, headed by Orozimbo,
press the chase. And so long, and so
stanchly did they keep it up, that when
he crossed the echoing drawbridge, and
stood in safety within the battlemented
walls of Isabella, the dark forms of the
Indian runners were visible on the savannah,
at a short half mile's distance; and
their loud yells and whoops were heard
fearfully distinct in the quiet night.
| CHAPTER IV. Guarica, the charib bride | |