 | CHAPTER VII. Guarica, the charib bride |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
The whole of the day on which Hernan
do de Leon returned from his nocturnal
chase, passed gloomily; no eye of sentinel
or warder beheld Don Guzman de Herreiro,
nor was he at the hall wherein his comrades
feasted. Hernando, on the contrary,
far from his wonted temper, was there the
gayest of the gay; his repartee the keenest
yet most polished; his laugh the merriest;
his song the most entrancing. Men who
had known him for long years—who had
fought by his side in the wild forays with
the Saracens of bright Grenada, and in the
scarce less desperate encounters of the
tameless Charib-men who had borne all
perils of the sea, the wilderness, and worse
than all, the lazar-house, with him; men
who had feasted at the jovial board, and
drained the wassail cup for years with him,
now marveled; they felt as though there
were something in his manner which they
had never known before; a melancholy in
the merriment, yet mingled with a recklessness
which baffled their sagacity; a
deep romantic sentiment, an all-pervading
tone of profound thought in his lightest
converse, blent with an air of strange abstraction—a
breaking off from graver subjects,
and plunging into bursts of wild and
furious mirth; and then again a softening
of the mirth into the sweetest and the saddest
touches of imagination that poet ever
dreamed, or minstrel sang. Thus passed
the evening meal; and when the comrades
parted, the souls of many who had felt
estranged, they scarce knew why, from the
young cavalier, yearned to partake again
his high and generous friendship, grasped
his hand more warmly than they had done
for months, although their present mood of
kindliness was in no less degree unmeaning,
than had been their suspicion and distrust.
Gaily they parted, with many merry comments
on the unwonted absence of Don
Guzman, and many a jocular conjecture as
to the cause of his feigned illness; for when
the trumpets had rung forth their gladsome
peals of invitation to the festive board, the
seneschal had borne to the presiding officer
his courteous greetings, and regrets that
he was ill at ease, and might not, for that
day, participate in their accustomed revelries.
They parted—and night fell dim and
silent over the Spanish fortress. Throughout
that long and weary night the lamp
was still replenished in the lone chamber
of Don Guzman; and still from hour to
hour the solitary inmate paced to and fro
the floor, his long spurs clanking with a
dull and heavy sound on the rude pavement;
and now pausing to mutter, with
clenched hands and writhing lip, fierce imprecations
on his own head—on the head of
his detested comrade, and on the weak
hand which had failed to execute his deadly
purpose; now hurrying onward with unequal
but swift strides, as though he would
have fled the torture of his own guilty
thoughts. Thus did he pass that night, in
agony more bitter than the direst tortures
that ever tyrant wreaked on mortal body;
and when the first gray light of dawning
morn fell cold and chill through the uncurtained
casements of his barrack-room, it
found him haggard and feverish, yet pale
withal, shivering as though he were an
ague-stricken sufferer. The morning gun
pealed sharp and sudden from the ramparts,
and far and long its echoes were repeated
from the dark forests which girt in, on
every side, with their interminable walls of
deathless verdure, the battlements of Isabella.
At the sound Guzman started, as
does the miserable guilty wretch who hears
the sullen bell toll the dread signal for his
execution! Manning himself, however,
with a start, while the blood rushed, as
though indignant at his former weakness,
to lip and cheek and brow, he instantly resumed
it off, nor give the smallest symptom of perception,
when a quick hurried blow was
struck upon the panel of the door; a second
and a third time was that low tap repeated,
but still Don Guzman heard it not, or if he
did hear, heeded not; then the door slowly
opened, and a gray-headed veteran, clothed
in the liveries of that noble house to which,
perchance, his master was the first scion
who had brought no lustre, thrust in his
time-blanched locks and war-worn visage.
“Your charger, waits, senor,” he whis
pered, “the hour has long gone by.”
“What hour? what meanest thou?—
Gone by! gone by! Would—would—oh,
would to Heaven it had indeed gone by!
Ha! what,” he went on, gathering strength
as he spoke, and rousing himself from his
wild waking dream to a perception of his
true position, “ha! what—hast thou then
dared to suffer me to neglect it? Death to
thy soul, slave! hast thou dared suffer
Guzman de Herreiro to fail his plighted
word?”
“Not so, not so, mine honored lord,” faltered
the faithful vassal; “the hour, indeed,
hath passed, when thou didst order
that thy steed should stand beside the
water-gate, and he hath stood and chafed
there this half hour; but scarce five minutes
have elapsed since, with his hawks
and hounds, and his gay page, Alonzo, the
gallant Don Hernando hath set forth into
the forest; put but spurs to your brave
Bobadil, and, ere the words are said, you
shall o'ertake him!”
“Hurry, then, hurry!” shouted Herreiro,
fiercely, and belting on his long Toledo,
and casting his broad-leafed sombrero on
his disordered locks, he rushed out with
wild haste, no less to the dismay than the
astonishment of his stanch servitor, whom
be had summoned, almost savagely, to follow
him.
Far otherwise had passed the hours of
darkness to Hernando de Leon. The banquet
ended he had withdrawn to his chamber,
as though he had no farther object
than to lie down upon a peaceful bed, that
he might thence arise with the succeeding
morn, to go about his wonted avocations.
He had sat down before his little escrutoire,
and, having finished several letters, sealed
and directed them—cast off his vest and
doublet, and drawn from his feet his falling
leathern buskins—then throwing himself
upon his knees beside his pallet-bed, buried
his head between his hands, and for some
time prayed, as it would seem, in deep
though silent fervor. Rising at length
erect, he spread his arms abroad, and in a
clear high voice, unconscious, evidently,
that he spoke aloud, “and above all, bear
witness Thou,” he cried, “bear witness
Thou who knowest and seest all things,
that not in any mortal wrath—not in the
mood of blind and senseless anger, nor in
that selfish strain of vengeance which thinks
of private injury, do I go forth unto this
strife, but as unto a high and solemn duty!
Not as mine own avenger—for to Thee,
and to Thee only, doth belong the right of
vengeance—but as the vindicator of society,
the punisher of crime, which else
must go unpunished—the righter of the
wronged—the champion of the weak—the
faithful, although frail defender of thine
holy law. If this be not so, forsake me
thou, oh Lord! Give me up to the mercies
of my direst foe—suffer me to fall unavenged,
unwept and unhonored! But if
in truth and honor, and in right I do go
forth, strike Thou, as is thy wont, for the
right, likewise.”
This said, he lay down quietly upon his
couch, and, ere five minutes had passed
over him, slept peaceably and sweetly as
an infant, until the self-same gun which
had aroused Don Guzman from the perturbed
visions of his guilty conscience, broke
his refreshing slumbers. Arising, instantly,
he, too, girt on his sword, buckled his
mantle over his broad chest, fixed his hat
firmly on his head, and strode forth, all unsummoned,
to the water-gate. There stood
four noble chargers; his own proud Andalusian,
with a less high-bred charger at his
side, backed by the page Alonzo, who, with
a merlin on his wrist, and the two powerful
Hernando ride forth into the wilderness,
crouching before him, sat patiently awaiting
the arrival of his lord. A little way
aloof a menial, clad in the rich liveries of
Isabel and silver, held the bay coursers of
Herreiro and his old squire.
No foot did Don Hernando set in stirrup,
but seizing the reins firmly in his left hand,
while with his right he grasped the cantle
of his demi-pique, he swung himself at once
with a light leap to his charger's back.
Bolt upright did the fiery creature bound
into the air, tossing his stag-like head and
long thin mane aloft, in glorious exultation;
but firm as though he had been, like
the fabled centaurs of olden time, a portion
of the animal which he bestrode so fearlessly
and well, the rider sat undaunted.
Flinging the reins free to the impulse of
the fiery horse, while he stood yet erect, he
curbed him tightly up as his feet struck the
sod, and slightly pricking him with his
long gilded spurs, dashed off at a handgallop
into the wild glades of the forest.
A short mile's distance from the walls of
Isabella, embosomed in deep woodlands,
there was a small savanna, scarcely a hundred
yards across, clothed with short mossy
grass, which, in that lovely climate, never,
at any season, lost the rich freshness of its
emerald verdure; for, in its farthest curve,
lurking beneath the shelter of a group of
tall and feathery palm-trees, there lay the
basin of a tiny crystal spring, whence welling
forth, in copious and perennial beauty,
a silver streamlet issued—and, compassing
two-thirds of that small plain with its refreshing
waters, stole away silently among
the devious wilds through which it flowed,
unmarked, into the neighboring sea. Here
it was—here, in this lovely and secluded
spot, far—far as it would seem removed
from the fierce turmoils, the stern bitterness,
the angry hatreds of the world, that
the two foemen were to meet. For half an
hour, at least, Hernando had sat there, motionless
as a statue, upon his docile charger,
awaiting, in the centre of that sylvan
solitude, the coming of the man to whom,
for having sought, on the preceding night,
to slay him with the secret shaft of the assassin,
he now extended the high privilege
of striving to amend his aim in the open
daylight, and fair conflict with the hidalgo's
weapon.
Hard by the lovely spring, the page
Alonzo had looped the bridle of his tall
gray charger to the tough stem of a mimosa,
and now sat on the mossy turf, toying
with the gigantic hounds, which he held
closely coupled, by a chain of tempered
steel, riveted firmly to their stout leathern
collars; while, perched on a projecting
limb of the same tree to which the horse
was fastened the hooded merlin dozed, with
its bells ready on its yellow legs, and its
light jesses hanging, all unfastened.
Just as Hernando had begun to marvel
at the protracted absence of his intended
slayer, the sharp and rattling clatter of a
horse's gallop, tearing his route through
the dense saplings of the tangled wood,
was heard approaching; and, in another
moment, his reins, and neck, and chest embossed
with flakes of snow-white foam, and
his flanks bleeding from incessant spurring,
Herreiro's charger bore him, at the top of
his speed, into the scene of action. As he
approached, Hernando raised his hat, with
the stern courtesy exacted by the strict
punctilio of the duel from every honorable
cavalier; yet, well schooled as he was to
suppress each outward token of every inward
sentiment, the noble cavalier half
started as he beheld the ravages worked by
a single night of anguish on the proud mein
and comely features of his antagonist.
His hair, which on the previons morning
had been as dark and glossy as the black
raven's wing, was now not merely tangled
most disorderly in hideous elf-locks, but
actually streaked with many a lock of gray.
While his whole visage, which, though
swart and somewhat stern, had yet been
smooth and seemly, was scored by many a
line and furrow, ploughed deep into the
flesh during those few fleet hours, by the
hot ploughshares of remorse and scorching
anguish. No salutation did he make in
but whirling his long rapier from
its sheath—“Draw!” he cried, “draw,
sir! Look on the sun for the last time and
die!” and, as he spoke, plunging his spurs
even more furiously than he had done before
into the bleeding flanks of his good
horse, he dashed at once upon him sword
in hand, hoping, it was most evident, to
take him at advantage, and bear him, unprepared,
to earth. If such, however, were
his ungenerous and foul intent, most grievously
was he frustrated by the calm skill
and perfect resolution of Hernando; who
merely gathering his reins a little tighter,
unsheathed his keen Toledo; and—without
moving one yard from the spot whereon
his Andalusian stood, watching with fiery
eye and broad expanded nostrils, the motions
of the other charger, yet showing by
no symptom, save the quivering of his
erected ears, that he was conscious of the
coming strife—extended it with the point
toward Herreiro's face. On came the fierce
assailant—on! with the speed of light—
his left hand clasping the reins firmly—his
right drawn back, in preparation for the
deadly thrust, far past his hip; while the
bright point of the long two-edged blade
was glittering in advance of the bay
charger's frontlet! Now they are within
half-sword's length—and now!—see! see
that quick, straight flash, bright as the
stream of the electric fluid, and scarce,
if any thing, less rapid!—it was the thrust
of Guzman, well aimed, and sped with
strength, that, had it reached the mark,
must have propelled it through the stoutest
corslet that ever bucklered breast; much
more through the slight silken jerkin which
was the only armor that would have opposed
its brunt. Midway, however, in its
glansing course it was met by the calm,
firm parry of Hernando's sword; and thus,
diverted from its true direction, passed
harmless, slightly grazing the bridle arm
of the young cavalier. On came Herreiro
still—and for an instant's space it seemed
as though the shock of his charger at full
speed must have borne down the slighter
Andalusian; but scarcely had he parried
that home thrust before, with a quick motion
of the bridle hand—so quick, indeed,
that it was scarce perceptible—and a slight
corresponding pressure of the spur on the
flank opposite, Hernando wheeled his
charger to the left; feinted a thrust at his
foe's face; and, circling quite around him,
delivered a full sweeping cut against the
back part of his neck. With perfect mastery
of steed and weapon, Don Guzman
met this perilous and unexpected movement.
Pulling so hard on his long Moorish
curb, that his horse checked at once, stood
upright and almost fell backward on his
haunches, he swung his sword round to the
guard so actively, that the strong blow fell
harmless. Then they closed hand to hand;
fragments of the short mossy turf flew high
into the air, spurned by the iron heels of
the excited chargers; sparks flew from the
collision of the well-tempered blades—feathers
were shorn, blood flowed on either
side! Yet neither failed nor faltered. At
length a furious down-right cut, aimed by
Don Guzman full at Hernando's head,
glanced from his guard, and falling on the
ear of the high-blooded Andalusian, almost
dissevered it! Maddened with torture, the
brave brute obeyed the bit no longer, but,
with a yell of agony, bolted, despite the
utmost efforts of the rider. Herreiro marked
his advantage, and as the horse uncontrollably
dashed by him, cut, by a second
rapid lounge, his adversary's rein asunder.
Frantic although his horse was with pain,
and freed from the direct restraint of the
half useless bridle, Hernando was not carried
far before he recovered mastery enough
to wheel him round once more to the encounter.
Perceiving, instantly, that all
chance of success by rapid turns or quick
manœuvring was at an end, he now—
adopting his opponent's system—dashed
straight upon him, and when within arm's
length, throwing his own reins loose,
caught, with his left hand, the long silver
cheek-piece of Herreiro's bit, wheeling his
own horse counter to flank upon him, by
the mere dint of spur without the slightest
the same time, his sword to plunge it from
above into the throat of the assassin.
It seemed as though no earthly power
could have availed to rescue Guzman from
his desperate situation. His horse, exhausted
by his own exertions, reeled visibly
beneath the shock; his rapier, far extended
and abroad, could by no means have parried
the down-thrust, which hung above him:
But in that very point of time—that very
second, long as a thousand ages, in which
he saw the dark glance of his injured comrade's
eye fixed banefully upon him; in
which he noted the grim smile mantling
upon his scornful lip; in which he shuddered
at the gleaming point of the suspended
rapier, which no effort of his own
could possibly avert—in that dread point of
time, a yelling shout arose from all the
circumjacent woodlands; a howl, as though
the fiends had all broke loose, to rend the
upper air with their discordant voices, and,
with the yell, a volley of flint-head arrows
came hurtling through the air—another,
and another! but, with the first, Hernando's
half-won triumph ended! For as he
brandished his avenging sword aloft, clear
through his elevated wrist drove the long,
Charib shaft; a second grazed his plume;
a third, most fatal of the flight, pierced
through the very heart of his proud Andalusian,
and hurled him lifeless to the earth.
Herreiro turned—turned for base flight;
but not long did his forfeit life remain to
him, for, with the second volley, down went
both horse and man, transfixed by fifty
shafts, gory and lifeless! And the last
words that smote upon his deafening ear,
among the yells and whoops of the wild
Charibs, were those shouted in his own
sonorous tongue—“This arrow for Guarica!”
And, in good truth, it was that arrow,
winged from the bow of Orozimbo, that
did, as he had sworn so deeply, drown the
flames of his lust in his heart's blackest
blood.
“Mount! mount, Alonzo—mount, boy,
and fly,” shouted the dauntless cavalier, as
he lay wounded, and encumbered by his
slaughtered horse.
The bold boy heard, but obeyed him not!
Forth he rushed, sword in hand—forth to
the rescue of his lord; and forth, at the
same instant, from the forest, forth sped the
Charib Caonabo and his unconquered
horde, with spear, and mace, and bow, and
barbarous war-cry! “Down with your
sword—'t is madness to resist,” cried the
young Spaniard: and the next second had
not passed, before the servant and the master
were both the fettered captives of the
invincible cacique.
| CHAPTER VII. Guarica, the charib bride | |