University of Virginia Library

Scene Third.
Osma and the Chasseur Chief.

By the open window of a large vaulted apartment,
situated in a lonely tower by the water-side, and on the
same eve of St. Michael, leaned a tall, graceful young
man, who had risen from a pallet that stood near. He
was remarkable for the symmetry of his figure, and,
notwithstanding a languor pervaded his whole person,
also for the elegance and flexile ease of every motion
of his limbs. His hair was black as the raven's wing;
his eyes were large and equally black; while his complexion
was remarkable for the brilliancy of the red
that mingled with and redeemed the natural brown of
his skin.

His features, lighted by an iron lamp that stood near
him, on a projection of the rough stone wall against
which he leaned, were aquiline and singularly regular

in their contour. They were noble in their shape and
outline, but their expression, which marks the man
more than the features upon which it is called up, was
decidedly low and sensual, as if the mind that governed
the face was base and wicked, and the soul that illumined
it was subtle and suspicious, crafty and designing.
They now wore a look of physical pain, rage,
and deep mortification. One arm was suspended in a
sling against his breast, while with the other he supported
himself as if from bodily weakness. He was
looking forth upon the water, which reflected a thousand
stars in its sable mirror, seemingly another Heaven.
His thoughts were not in the scene; they were
ferociously brooding upon the misery of his own condition,
planning vengeance and bloody retribution.
Suddenly the sound of a horse galloping rapidly along
the shore caused him to start, and instantly change
his position so as to command the approach to the tower.
Through the gloom he caught a glimpse of a man
on horseback, riding at full speed towards the portal,
but the next moment lost sight of him behind an angle
of the building.

“If this be that false traitor De Thoyras, come to
laugh again at my mutilated limb, while he bids me
rise and draw sword to recover Azèlie from the Spaniard,
by the blood of St. Stephen! he shall die on the
threshold. It is not enough for him that he hath left
me here with two miserable slaves, and, at the head of
my band, gone playing the traitor by siding with this
Ethiopian Renault! What excuse is it that he is only
uniting against this Osma? I would rather be sworn
brother with Osma against the haughty and insufferable
quadroon-slave, than side with him were his sister to
be the price of my alliance! There sounds the horn!
If it be he, he shall die ere he can deliver the first sentence.
I have yet a hand remaining that can send a
bullet to a traitor's heart.”

Thus speaking, he took up (with his left hand) a
pistol that lay near, and, cocking it with his teeth, stood
with his eye fixed upon the entrance to the hall, and

thus awaited the approach of the visiter, whom he had
commanded his servant to admit. He saw at a glance
that the stranger, whose face was concealed by the falling
front of his hat, was not De Thoyras. To the bearing
and height of the intruder, he perceived also that
he was wholly a stranger. Without changing his hostile
attitude nevertheless, he waited his advance to the
middle of the apartment in silence; and then, in a
stern and menacing tone, demanded his business.

“If thou art the young Marquis Caronde,” answered
the Count of Osma, firmly, and in a tone to invite confidence,
“my business lies with thee.”

“Deliver thy words speedily and begone, for I would
be left alone,” answered the young man morosely, nay,
savagely, as if his whole soul was imbittered against
his fellow-men on account of his degrading dismemberment.

“I pray thee, noble sir, listen to me with patience,”
said the count, in a bland and soothing tone of voice;
“I know of thy sad loss, and—”

“May thy tongue be torn from thy throat by the foul
fiend! Hast thou come hither to cast it into my teeth!”

“Nay, pardon my inadvertence; I would discourse
with thee on a matter touching thine own interest, and,
as I well know, thy revenge!”

“Out with it,” cried Caronde, impatiently.

“Wouldst thou have in thy power the man who—”
and the count completed his sentence with a glance at
his arm.

“Would I? am I not human? Askest thou would
I? Ha, ha, ha!” and he gave so demoniacal a laugh
that the count stepped back appalled, and the old tower
echoed with it, as if a legion of imps were mocking
and deriding.

“I will give thee thy wish!”

“How?”

“Which dost thou love to gratify most, thy vengeance
or thy passion?”

“Vengeance, such as I meditate on the accursed
slave who hath done this—this!” and he tore his arm

from its sling, and thrust the mutilated stump before
the eyes of the count; “who hath thus maimed a Caronde,
swallows up all other feelings,” he answered,
with a deep and settled implacability of revenge that
was horrible to contemplate, while it showed how
keenly he felt his condition.

“Thou hast loved the sister of thy enemy,” asserted,
rather than asked, the count, venturing with caution,
but yet with boldness, upon his subject.

“Loved her! Yes, if that be love which begot hatred,
which makes the sister the instrument of revenge,
and, through her infamy, makes the barb of that hatred
triple-edged, and dipped in poison for the brother's
soul! If this be love, then Jules Caronde loved the
haughty sister of the quadroon Renault,” he said, with
a laugh of derision.

Osma looked upon him with wonder while giving
utterance to these sentiments, and confessed in his
heart that he had found a rival in wickedness. He
seemed now fully to understand with whom he had to
do; and, a degree of kindred feeling inspiring him, he
pursued with less embarrassment the object for which
he had sought the interview.

“This is as I would have it!” he said to himself,
reflectingly, but so loud as to be heard by the other.

“And who art thou that wouldst have things so!”
demanded Jules, scornfully and haughtily. “Thou
shouldst be a Spaniard by thy complexion and carriage.”

“Answer me first, Signor Marquis, one question, and
I will tell thee who I am. Wilt thou resign all claim
to the affections of this Azèlie for a price!”

“Am I a slave-merchant?” he fiercely demanded;
“if I am poor, yet am I noble! By the bright heaven,
there is a price I would sell her for, soul and body—”

“And that price is—”

“The quadroon Renanlt!”

“He is thine!”

“Who art thou, that darest to kindle a hope thou
mayst not have the power to feed with the fuel of
revenge?”

“I am Garcia of Osma!” answered the count, removing
his sombrero, and throwing back the folds of
his mantle from his breast.

“I did half suspect that thou wert he!” said Jules,
surveying him with surprise and curiosity. “There
is then no mystery between us. Azèlie, rumour hath
it, is to be tried on the morrow for her liberty. Had
I the parchments that thou hast obtained from that female
fiend Ninine, she had been my slave and mistress
ere this. I need not doubt, Sir Count, what will
be the result of the trial. Yet thy possession of the
sister will not place the brother in my hands—Hands?
demon incarné! does my own false tongue mock me?”

“Renault is my prisoner, in keeping for the trial!”
observed the count, with a smile.

“Thine—thy prisoner?” interrogated Caronde, with
the most eager interest.

“Under a close guard with the beautiful Azèlie.
Both are my prisoners.”

“Thou hast blessed me, count, with these tidings.
Azèlie is thine so thou give me the brother!”

“He shall be placed in thy ha—I would say in thy
power to-morrow, in the presence of the tribunal that
transfers his sister to mine.”

The young man looked an instant into the count's
face with suspicion, to discover if his allusion to his
lost hand had been only accidental, and, being apparently
satisfied that it was, he said,

“Wouldst thou have me appear there, signor, to be
the butt of scornful laughter, of finger-pointing, and
nodding heads?”

“I have lost, in a most mysterious manner, noble
marquis, the parchment which you heard that I received
from the quadroone-mother—”

“Lost it! Then are they both my slaves by right of
inheritance,” he cried, with sudden exultation. “Vengeance
will be doubly mine.”

“Nay, Signor Marquis,” interrupted Osma, with cutting
coolness, “they are, nevertheless, in my power,
not in thine! Thou canst have revenge of neither but

by my will. I am pleased to see that thou dost consider
my words with patience. In desiring the possession
of Azèlie, thou hast only Renault's pride and
arrogance to humble! Am I right?”

“My passion for her had its birth in no other feeling.”

“And this would be gratified by degrading the sister,
whom the brother, as well as her own ambition,
has elevated above her condition, scorning for her all
beneath honourable and wedded love. Is it not so?”

“It is.”

“Then, if this degradation be effected,” pursued the
count, “and Renault thereby humbled, it will matter
little to thee who is the instrument of it. I swear to
thee thou shalt have thy desire in the result. Wilt
thou give me the sister for the brother?”

“Hast thou not said that thou hast her already, Sir
Count, as well as the brother? Wherefore do you put
an empty question to me?”

“It hath this end,” answered Osma, coming closer
to him; “the loss of the parchment leaves me no
ground for claiming them as my slaves, save by an
open act of power and will. This I do not wish to
exercise in the present state of popular feeling, if I
may bring it about otherwise. Without doubt, Signor
Marquis, the title rests in you from the neglect of your
noble father to record the manumission. It is through
yourself, therefore, that I would have the title come to
me.”

“Darest thou insult me, Sir Count of Osma, with the
proposition to use me as a tool of thy lust?”

“Am I not made a tool of thy vengeance?” demanded
the wily Spaniard.

“Be it so,” answered Jules, after a moment's gaze
at the collected face of the count; “and here is my
—Sceleret! the incarnate fiend hath my tongue,” he
cried, with a torrent of fearful execrations, hastily
withdrawing the mutilated stump, which he had involuntarily
and impulsively extended to seal the compact.

The Count of Osma smiled with malicious pleasure.

Then, saying that he would immediately despatch a
party of horse to escort him to the city and to his
palace before midnight, he took his leave of the young
man, and was soon galloping with an exulting spirit
on his return to the town.

If Jules Caronde had entertained any other feelings
than those of deadly revenge against him who had so
terribly mutilated him, a revenge grafted upon years
of previous hatred, he would have borne himself with
the hostile bearing of an enemy towards the new
governor on discovering him in the person of his visiter;
or, in promising to enter the city, and place himself
in his power after the slaughter of his ambassador
and his body-guard, he would, at least, have apprehended
treachery and retribution. But he had no
room for any emotion or thought but that which so
completely filled his dark and bitter soul.