 | CHAPTER III. Guarica, the charib bride |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
The strangers had not ridden many yard
acroas the meadow, before one of the servants
spurred his horse sharply forward
and riding up alongside of his master,
said—
“I do not know, my lord, what the girl
meant, when she said there was no stabling;
for I never laid my eyes, in all my
life, on a neater rack and manger than
were in that shed or outhouse—and a good
steel chain with a running billet, and
head-stall of Spanish leather, fit for
count's charger. Good store there was of
bedding, too, and better maize than we
have at the fort for the troop horses. Nor
was that all, senor, for there had stood
horse there within twelve hours—there
was fresh dung in the stall.”
“I know—I know, Pacheco, all about
it,” replied Guzman, “and thou shalt know
too, one of these days—so thou wilt only
hold thy peace—one word blabbed at the
guard-room or canteen will spoil every
thing.”
“You may trust me, my lord—I never
talk!”
“I know you never do, Pacheco,” answered
Herreiro; “you are a faithful fellow,
as well as a stout soldier.”
The man touched his bonnet, and fell
back to his companion, highly gratified
and began inculcating to him the necessity
of silence.
“Well—I hope you are now satisfied,”
said the sailor. “I hope you are satisfied
that, as you runagate Charib dog informed
you, Hernando comes hither to court yon
Indian beauty. She is temptation enough,
truly, without bringing treason in to aid
Why, she would set half Ferdinand's court
afire with those eyes of hers, half passionate
lustre and half sleepy languor!”
“Satisfied am I, right well, that thou art
a fool, Gomez,” said Herreiro; “I doubt not
now that you fancy I shall abandon it—”
“I do n't see, for my part, what there is
to abandon, or to prosecute either. Here
Indian, and passes all his spare time fondling
her—well! there is no sin against
martial law in that, I trow—or if there be,
few of us here shall escape the provost
marshal. Or if you like it better, he is
wooing her to honorable marriage—and
that the old admiral is like to consider it
an especial service; particularly when the
wooer stands so high for prowess as Hernando;
and when the bride is the niece of
the unconquered Caonabo—why, he will
deem it a sure pledge of the pacification of
the race.”
“I thought as much—just such an argument
as a thick-skulled, addle-brained sailor
like yourself would be sure to draw
from it. But I—I can see farther. I will
so plot it, that I will brew from these ingredients—”
“Beware that your brewing,” interrupted
the other, “return not bitterly to your
own lips. For all that I can see, all you
are like to gain in this matter, is that Hernando
will knock your brains out, like a
mad dog's, for meddling with his inamorata.”
“Would God! that he would try it—I
ask nothing better—any thing, any thing
to give me a chance of one fair thrust at
his accursed heart!”
“I' faith, you are a good hater—whatever
you may be beside,” answered the sailor
Gomez; “but, for my part, I cannot see
why you hate the lad so deadly. They
tell me he has saved your life some three
or four times—”
“Thrice! thrice! curses be on his head!”
replied Don Guzman, gnashing his teeth
with deadly spite. “It is for that—for
that I hate him! From the first time I
ever saw him, I felt that in him was my
bane. In every thing he has crossed my
path—in every thing outdone me, foiled,
defeated me—his praises are the deadliest
poison to my soul—and, from my school-days
upward, his praises have never for a moment
ceased to ring trumpet-like in my ears.
Then, as in veriest spite of Fortune, he
must make me the very butt whereon to
prove his valor, his magnanimity, his self-devotion—he
must force me, whom it well
nigh choked in the utterance, to swell the
burthen of his glory. Death to his soul!
how I hate him!—and then, here, here is
new cause for hatred, if there were none
before.”
“Here?—new cause here?—in what, I
prithee?”
“Here!—art thou blind, Gomez? Here
in this girl, this angel, this Guarica!—but
if I call the fiend himself to aid, here I will
outdo him.”
Gomez looked long and steadily in his
companion's face, as if he would fain have
read something there, which he expected;
but, disappointed, he withdrew his eyes,
and shook his head doubtfully.
“What, in the name of all the fiends of
hell! dost thou stare so for? What seest
thou in my face, man, to fascinate thee?”
“Naught! Guzman—naught! I looked
to see utter madness—stark lunacy—sheer
frenzy! but I see none of these things—
and yet so surely as there is a God in heaven,
thou must be mad—”
“For what should I be mad—I pray
thee?” answered Herreiro, angrily; “my
pulse is as cool as thine, my brain a thousand
times more clear, and vivid in conception—for
what should I be mad?—for
loving this most perfect of Heaven's creatures?”
“Ay! for that very thing—most wildly
mad!” replied the sailor. “I knew you
ever for a fierce and voluptuous devil, but
thy blood must indeed be like Greek fire
to blaze out thus unquenchable at one
spark from a brown wench's eye!—most
wildly mad in this—and absolutely frenzied,
when you would dream of winning
her from De Leon. Why he hath had her
heart, possessed her soul, these six months
—and think you that he is so weak a rival,
and that too, when so 'stablished in her favors?
Why, if you and he were to start
fairly, he could give you his topsails and
beat you; as I have seen an Algerine felucca
run our best caravellas hull down in
an hour. Tush! man, think better of it—
were you the only man on the island, she
would have none of you!”
“I will have her—or die for it!” answered
Don Guzman, fiercely. “So let
that bethe end of it!”
“The end of it, then, let it be—as it will
sure enough! For Hernando will kill you
like a rat, as soon as he finds you meddling
with his Bonnibella. But we had better
ride on somewhat quickly now, and get
out of his track; for we are in the very
path he always rides; and he is off his
guard by this time, and is now flying
hitherward, I warrant me, upon the wings
of hot anticipation!”
“That is the first word of sense you
have spoken to-night,” said Herreiro; “let
us gallop.”
And with the word they put their horses
to their speed, and dashed along the sort of
forest path, which had been worn in the
virgin soil by the hoofs of De Leon's Andalusian,
so constantly during the last six
months had he passed and repassed between
the cottage of his love and the Spanish
fortress. After an hour's riding they came
to a spot where a broad shallow rivulet,
flowing upon a pebbly bed, rippled across
the path, and turning abruptly into its
channel to the left hand of Hernando's
track, they descended it slowly, the waters
rarely mounting above their horses
fetlocks, for something better than a mile,
where it flowed out of the shadowy woods,
into an open plain or bega, wide of Hernundo's
route, across which they sped rapidly
toward Isabella.
It was not, probably, half an hour after
the time of their turning into the stream
that the tramp of a horse, had there been
any one there to listen, might have been
heard coming up from the settlements, and
in a moment or two, De Leon, followed by
his trusty hounds, cantered along the path;
but as he reached the little ford he pulled
up suddenly, for there, in the centre of the
horse track, stooping down as if to examine
some late footprints in the moist soil, stood
the Charib boy Orozimbo.
“Ha! Orozimbo—what hath brought
thee so far from home, at this untimely
hour?”
“Knavery, if not villany, Hernando,”
answered the youth, in Spanish, which he
spoke now with much more accuracy, both
of pronunciation and of syntax, than he
had done at his first meeting with De
Leon; but still not nearly with so correct
an emphasis as his beautiful sister—
“and perchance treason!”
“Treason!” cried the young Spaniard,
“by whom, or whom against? what do you
mean, boy?”
“By whom, I know not,” answered Orozimbo,
“but against thee, if I err not.”
And he proceeded to relate to him the circumstances
of the visit Guarica had received
that day; and their reasons for suspecting
that all was not right, nor as it
seemed to be. He described the persons
of the riders with a degree of minute accuracy,
extending to the smallest details of
their dress, to the fashion of their spurs, the
ornaments of their sword hilts, the marks
and colors of their horses, the very spots
on their hounds; such things as no mortal
eye, save of an Indian, could have observed
in so short a period, as had enabled him to
take in and comprehend the whole.
At first, Hernando de Leon listened half
carelessly, thinking in his own mind that
the visit must have been purely accidental,
attaching little consequence to the details,
and half inclined to smile at the habitual
suspicion of the Indian, so characteristically
and so needlessly displayed.
Soon, however, it appeared that his attention
was excited, for he now listened
eagerly, asked two or three quick and pertinent
questions, to which he received answers
as intelligent and clear—and, after
the boy had ceased speaking, pondered for
a few moments deeply, and then said—
“That is odd—it must have been Gomez
Aria, with Guzman de Herreiro—there are
no others in the fortress to whom this description
could apply—”
“Yes! yes!” interrupted Orozimbo,
eagerly; “I had forgotten that—Guarica
It was they, I am sure of it. Are
they friends of yours?—are they true
men?”
“Herreiro is; I would stake my soul's
salvation on it! I have saved his life thrice,
at the risk of my own. And as for Gomez,
he is a good blunt sailor—and I have never
wronged him. Yet it is passing strange.
You say they rode home by this path?”
“To this spot—and here they have
turned off down the rivulet's bed to avoid
meeting you—knew they the hour at which
you would leave Isabella?”
“Herreiro did, for he asked me to ride
out with him to-day, and I told him I was
officer of the guard until eight o'clock at
night. I wondered somewhat, when he
asked me; for I have noted a shade of coolness
in his manner lately.”
“Beware of him!” said Orozimbo—“he
means you no good. They had not been
hunting; no! not they—they had not so
much as uncoupled their blood hounds.
And neither one nor other of them noticed,
or seemed to see, the Spanish books or the
music which you left the other day; or
even your gun and bugle horn. Had they
been honest, they would have naturally inquired
about those things, which are not
to be found, you know, in every Indian's
cabin.”
“He can mean me no evil,” said Hernando,
thoughtfully; “he never had a
cause—”
“He has one now!” answered Orozimbo,
quickly.
“He has a cause now?—a cause to mean
me ill? How so—what cause?”
“Guarica.”
“Guarica?—how?—a cause to injure
me! Guarica?”
“Yes! yes! Guarica. For he loves
her.”
“Loves her? Why he hath never seen
her, but for an hour to-day—and do you
say he loves her?”
“Ay!” said the boy, drily—“loves her,
as much as you Spanish ever love Indian
maidens. He lusts after her young
beauty—”
“Hold, Orozimbo!” said De Leon, looking
him steadily and sternly in the face—
“was that meant to me?”
“Perhaps!” answered the youth, gloomily—“perhaps!—and
yet no! no!—I believe
thou art honest, De Leon. Yet I
doubt, sometimes, even thee.”
“Mark me, Orozimbo,” replied Hernando,
leaning from his tall charger, and pressing
the naked shoulder of the Charib heavily
with his right hand—“Mark me. For
myself, I care not for your suspicions—but
if I deemed that your rash tongue dared
syllable one doubt of Guarica's purity—
that your brain had surmised, even for a
second's space, that she would listen to a
dishonorable suit—her brother though you
be—”
“What then—her brother though I be—
what then?” cried Orozimbo, under strong
excitement.
“I would strike you to my feet!” the
young Spaniard answered gravely—“to
my feet! for calumniating, in your own
sister, one of God's angels!”
“You would do well!” cried the boy,
grasping his hand; “I should deserve it!
But I doubt neither of you—least of all her!
But when I think of the wrongs you Spaniards
have done to us—of our hearths defiled,
our names disgraced, our wives and
sisters torn from our bosoms, wooed and
caressed and courted until your passions or
your whims are satisfied, and then sent
back dishonored and undone to be a blot
upon the homes they once adorned—when
I think on these things, Hernando de Leon,
my soul grows black within me, and I doubt
all things!—and I tell you—you who love
her—I marked you Guzman's dark and
snakelike eye dwell on Guarica's form, as
never man's eye dwelt on maiden whom
he hoped not to dishonor, whom he lusted
not to destroy. I tell you he gloated on
every heave of her swelling bosom, on
every undulation of her limbs—not a movement,
not a turn of her figure could escape
soul burned to slay him where he sat. Let
him come here again, and a shaft from this
bow, that never misses, shall drown the
flames of his accursed lust in his black
heart's blood!”
“Nay! nay, my friend, and soon to be
my brother, be not rash, Orozimbo. I trust
thou art too hasty. I trust that, in this at
least, thou art too suspicious. But if it
were so, if it were as thou thinkest, dost
imagine that I—I, Hernando de Leon—
would leave to any other man alive, were
that other the Cid Ruy Diaz of Bivar, the
right of avenging a wrong offered to my
promised wife—the privilege of shedding
his life blood that dared but to look on her
too warmly? No! no! believe me, Orozimbo—if
it be so, he dies upon this blade,
which twice has beat death back from the
gates of his existence! But not a word of
this—not a word, on thy life, to Guarica!
I will myself speak with Don Guzman,
when I return to-morrow. I think he will
not dare, even if he should wish it, to show
aught but respectful courtesy to my promised
bride.”
“It shall be done as you wish, Hernando,”
answered the youth, “but beware of
him. Certain am I, that he is no true
man, or honest friend; and for the rest, he
knows even now, as well as I do, that you
daily visit Guarica; though it may be he
fancies her your paramour, and not your
destined wife. But, as I said, beware of
him; and let him beware of me—for as
surely as there is a God, who witnesses
our thoughts, as clearly as our actions, so
surely will I shoot him, like a dog, if I
catch him lurking about her. And now
go on your way to Guarica—she waits for
you.”
“And you, Orozimbo?”
“I will pursue these men, until I house
them fairly; that I may learn to a foot the
path in which they travel; for by that same
path will they return again.”
“No violence, my friend, promise me
that there shall be no violence.”
“I do,” replied the Charib, laying his
tawny hand on his bare bosom; “I do promise
you. Why should I harm them until
I am certain? I am not quite so mad as
that, Senor Hernando.”
“Then go—it is as well thou shouldst—
and keep good watch—for I am ordered
hence, with a detachment to the new fortress
eastward, and shall be absent seven
days, or perhaps longer. Watch over her
while I am gone—for if he dare attempt
aught, it will be then—though I think it
not of him.”
“Ordered hence—ha!—ordered away!”
cried the boy; “when was that? When
did you hear of that? Are you sure he
had naught to do with it?”
“The order was conveyed to me this
morning from my superiors. Don Guzman
had no voice in it, save as one of the council;
besides, it is a high and honorable post!
Farewell, and be thou prudent; ere I set
forth I will seek occasion to hold converse
with him. Good night, and fare thee well,
if thou return not to the cottage ere I
leave it.”
And shaking hands kindly with the
young and gallant Indian, he cantered forward,
full of high hopes and tender dreams,
to join his beautiful Guarica; while, with
the patient and doglike sagacity of his
race, her brother set himself to track out,
neh by inch, the route of those strangers,
from whose visit his suspicions pointed to
so much of evil.
But though Hernando—partly from a reluctance
to admit himself the possibility of
such a surmise; and still more from a prudent
apprehension of wakening the fiery
soul of the Charib boy to some deed of signal
vengeance, the consequence of which
might be to cause a war of extermination
between the races—but though Hernando
had expressed his confidence so strongly in
the good faith of Herreiro, that confidence,
as he rode onward in deep self-communion,
began to wane; and if not quite extinguished,
was much weakened before he
reached the dwelling of his lady love; and
in her witching smile forgot all thought of
peril.
As soon as Orozimbo left him, he began
to reflect within himself upon the altered
conduct of Don Guzman; for he could not
deny to his own heart that it was altered
strangely. From having been at one time
his most constant and familiar comrade, he
now remembered, that for many weeks past
Herreiro had avoided him; and, if compelled
by the routine of duty to exchange a
few words with him, had done so hurriedly,
and without any longer pause than was necessary.
When he thought upon this, he
began naturally enough to think upon the
reason, why he, so late the idol of his friends
and fellow—soldiers, should have now carned
their suspicion and dislike. Nor could he
but confess that in some sort the fault had
been his own—that he had been so utterly
engrossed by his passion for the princess,
as to neglect all else except his duty—and
almost that also! Nor could he wonder
that his own sudden alienation from the
pastimes and pursuits of his associates,
should have given rise in them not only to
a like alienation, but to a feeling of resentment
and distrust, and perhaps even of hatred,
ever the child of irritated vanity.
He struck his hand on his breast with
a gloomy feeling of self-condemnation.
“Alas!” he muttered to himself—“Alas!
how often do even our best feelings lead us
astray—how often do we by our own first
injustice toward others, beget that injustice
toward ourselves, of which we afterward
so bitterly complain. But I will speak with
him to-morrow, ere I start; I will speak
with him openly and frankly, and all shall
be well. And now for Guarica.”
By this time he had traversed the tract
of forest land, and reached the edge of the
lone savannah, whence he could mark the
cottage home of his beloved, o'ercanopied by
its tall palms, and feathery mimosas; the
moon was hanging like a lamp of silver in
the serene and cloudless sky, wherein a
thousand glorious constellations unknown
to our colder hemispheres were burning
with a clear and deathless lustre, undimmed
by any mist or earthly vapor. Myriads
of fire-flies were glancing in the thick
foliage of the trees, or flitting to and fro
over the dewy grass—perfumes were steaming
up from every herb and flower, and the
light air that fanned the face of the young
Spaniard was loaded with a rich and spicy
fragrance, almost too powerful for the
senses. There was a hum of melody upon
the soft night breeze, the blended voices of
ten thousand small nocturnal insects, but
sweeter, clearer, more melodious far than
all swelled up from the distant cottage, the
pure voice of young womanhood, rising in
notes of sacred song to the very throne of
Holiness. The young man paused to listen
with a soul thrilling with delight—it was
the hymn to the Virgin, and though the
intermediate words were lost in distance,
the burthen Ave Purissima pealed in her
clear and silvery accents high as the swell
of a seraphic trumpet. While he yet stood
and listened, the light, which beamed fair
and uninterrupted from the casement of
Guarica's chamber, was suddenly obscured,
and he might see the slight and exquisite
proportions of the fair girl penciled, distinct
and sharp, against the glowing background,
as she stood looking out into the
night, awaiting his approach, who, though
unseen, was so nigh to her.
He gave his horse the spur, and in five
minutes was beside her. It is not in the
power of words to describe such meetings
Those who have loved, as did the young
Hernando, fervently, wildly, passionately,
(yet withal so chastely and so purely that
his most ardent wish had called no blush to
the chariest maiden's cheek,) can remember,
can conceive. To all beside, the high
and holy aspirations, the sweet blending of
those kindred souls, is a sealed book; and
sealed it must remain, until to them, too,
love shall give the key.
Suffice it they were happy; as happy as
aught of mortal mould may be. No thought
of care or evil came nigh them: lapped in
the dreams of young romance—absorbed
in their unselfish, fond affection—they had
no thoughts but of the blissful present—
no hopes but of a blessed future.
Long they sat, hand-in-hand, in that
deep, too full of thought, to find vent in
many words; and afterward, long they
conversed of their future prospects, anticipating
the arrival of the great and good
Columbus, who was soon hourly expected
to return from Old Spain, and whose consent
alone, and presence, they awaited, in
order to be made one in the sight of man
and God.
The night was wearing late, and the
slight meal of fruits and cake, and sweet,
palm wine had been tasted, yet not once
had Guarica ever thought of mentioning
the visit of her lover's countrymen; nor
had Hernando found courage yet to tell her
that seven days must elapse before he
should again behold her.
But now, when the time had arrived to
say, farewell, and he was forced reluctantly
to tell her all—reluctantly, not only
that it was painful to himself to dwell even
on his temporary absence—but that he
could not bear to see those sweet eyes swim
in tears, that charming bosom swell with
the sob of suppressed agony—now, in the
agitation and the anguish of that parting
moment, the fears, which she had that day
for the first time experienced, came back
upon her, dark and gloomy.
And, hanging on Hernando's shoulder,
she owned, even while she strove to smile
at her own weak and womanish dismay—
she confessed that she, too, had read in the
dark eye of Guzman, she knew not what,
that had filled her soul with harrowing
dread; with forebodings such as she never
had entertained, or thought of before;
which had hung all the evening like a
heavy storm-cloud darkening her very soul;
and which, though banished for a space by
his presence, had again returned, sadder,
and heavier, and darker than before.
It was in vain that Hernando argued
with her, as he had argued with her
brother; that he used every faculty of his
powerful mind to convince, to soothe, to
reassure her—it was in vain—she would
not be consoled.
“I know it,” she said, in reply to all that
he could urge; “I feel it here, and I know
it will be so—I know that the time of my
trial is at hand. God grant me strength to
pass through it stainless and unscathed—
but I foresee my peril, and the quarter
whence it cometh. I know that you must
leave me—I would not have you stay, or
loiter—no, not to save my life: for what
should you be, with your soldier's honor
tarnished—or what would be left for me, if
I should tempt you to dishonor? No! my
beloved, no!—You must begone, and leave
Guarica to her trials and her God! Pray
for me, my beloved, pray for me—and oh!
whatever shall fall out, be well assured of
this—that never will Guarica survive her
honor, or her love for De Leon. Farewell,
then, dear Hernando; but, ere you go,
grant me one boon—will you not, dearest?
—the first boon Guarica ever asked of her
Hernando?”
“Can you ask, if I will, Guarica? Take
any thing—take all! my life, my very soul
is thine. What shall I give thee, dearest?”
“This!” said the girl, laying her hand
on the hilt of a small, slight, though long
stiletto, with a square blade, scarce thicker
than a lady's bodkin, which he wore in a
golden scabbard at his girdle—“give me
this, only!”
“Nay! nay! this were an ominous gift,
Guarica; ask any thing but this.”
“Will you refuse me my first prayer,
Hernando?”
“I would not willingly refuse—but there
is an ancient saw, about sharp-edged gifts.
I am not superstitious, and yet—and yet—
I will own the truth—I do not like to give
it!”
“Then will I buy it of you: what shall
I give you? See,” she continued, smiling,
“the other day you asked me for a lock of
hair: give me the dagger quick, and you
shall have it!”
And with the words she drew it from the
sheath, and severed a long, silky ringlet.
“Give me the scabbard, now, and you shall
have this—and—”
“And what, Guarica?”
“And what you never would have dared
eyes; and a quick blush shot across her
sunny features; and a visible thrill shook
her frame, as if she half repented the words
she had uttered.
“A kiss, Guarica?”
She raised her eyes again, timidly but
unshrinkingly, to meet her lover's ardent
gaze:
“You will not think me overbold, or
unmaidenly, Hernando?”
“You! you unmaidenly, Guarica!—the
saints in heaven as soon!”
And as he spoke, he unlinked the jeweled
scabbard from his girdle, and laying
it in her hand, folded her for one moment
in his arms, and printed one long, chaste
kiss, on lips that returned not the pressure.
“But for what can you want such a
keepsake, dearest?—what will you do with
it?” he asked, as he released her.
“Wear it next to my heart,” she answered,
her soft eye lightening with a
bright, enthusiastic inspiration, and her
whole form appearing to dilate with energy
and soul. “Now I am mistress of myself—
now I am mistress of my honor!”
“Lovely enthusiast!—and think'st thou,
thou couldst find the courage or the strength
to use it?”
“Think I—think I, Hernando? No! I
think not—I know it. Should that man
dare to wrong me, so surely as I hope to
live in heaven hereafter, where he stood,
there should he die by a girl's hand; or, if
that should fail, I have a heart myself, that
lies not so deep but this would reach it.
Now, I am happy, love—now I am strong
and fearless. Fare thee well—fare thee
well, Hernando, and dread nothing. Spotless
you leave me now, and loving, and
spotless you shall find me, ay! and loving,
whether it be on earth or there!” and she
pointed with the gleaming dagger to the
calm, azure heavens, as she spoke, in a
voice so tranquilly harmonious, and with
an air of majesty so perfect, that Hernando
almost asked himself whether she were not
a being of a nature too pure and ethereal,
to be the object of mere mortal love, and
fitter for man's adoration as a guardian
saint or angel.
“Beautiful, glorious creature!” he exclaimed,
almost involuntarily, “it will be
needless all: there lives no man on earth
daring enough to dream of harming thee;
and if there were, the Lord, who watches
over all his virtuous creatures, would surely
send down legions of thy kindred angels to
defend thee!”
“Hernando!”
“Guarica! sweet Guarica! Farewell!”
And the young lovers parted. Sad
word, alas!—sad thought. For who that
part can dream when they shall meet again,
or what shall pass before that meeting?
| CHAPTER III. Guarica, the charib bride | |