University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
RED EWEN IS INITIATED.

—Texan MSS.

Red Ewen grasped the knife and pushed the
curtain aside. It was a wondrous sight that
met his gaze. He was a man of giant strength
and superhuman nerve, infernal beyond the
fancy of a devil in his remorseless cruelty,
but within half an hour a strange coldness,
succeeded by a burning senation, as sudden
and as strange, had robbed his iron sinews of
their vigor.

The knife trembled in his grasp.

He stood in a room, or cell, or vault, as you
may please to term it, hollowed out of the
living rock, not more than five yards in
diameter. The floor was level, the ceiling
shaped like a dome, but all was solid rock.—
In the centre of the vault, a square form of
stone arose, a block six feet long and three
wide, with its sides sculptured into every variety
of obscene or hideous hieroglyphic.

At the head of the block—it resembled an
ancient altar of sacrifice—towered a shape of
brownish rock, veined with bright scarlet and
re resenting in its ferocious eyes, embruted
features and upraised war club, the Aztec god
of war.

Around the altar were grouped four living
forms, clad in long robes, with a mantle falling
over every face.

The mantles were blue, the robes bright
scarlet. From every robe was extended an
arm grasping a lighted torch. Their mingling
rays filled the vault with light and scented
the air with grateful perfume.

Red Ewen stood like a statue, dumb with
amazement.

To understand his feelings we must call to
mind the incidents of his life, which took place
upon this eventful 9th of March, 1847.

This morning he writhed beneath the hang
man's lash, on board a ship of war bearing
the banner of the Stars.

Only a few hours ago he lay in his chains,
when a veiled man appear in the darkness,
and taught him the way to freedom.

An hour ago he danced in drunken madness
in the Aztec banquetting chamber, his
veins fired by something more than champaigne,
some deadlier poison than the venom
of alcohol.

Now a change had come over him. The
madness was gone. Cold, hot, fire, ice by
turns, he stood under the door of this strange
vault, knife in hand, and shuddered as he beheld
the four veiled forms whose heaving
breasts told that they were living, the solitary
shape whose horrible deformity spoke of the
dim ages, long since departed, when the quivering
victim, a strong man full of life, was
hewn to pieces in this very cell.

One by one, the living figues addressed the
escaped sailor,—

`Could you become a Free Ranger, admitted
to all the privileges of our Brotherhood?'

`The right to spoil and slay, wherever a
sure foot, a true steed, a good ship may bear
you?'

`To gather tribute from all nations, on
land and sea alike, and select from the loveliest
women of the earth the woman who you
shall call wife so long as it may please you
and no longer?'

`A short life and a merry one! A life with
the outcasts and oppressed of all nations, a jovial
band, who know no laws save those proclaimed
by their chief, who reward the traitor's
deed with the sharpest knife and the
strongest cord?'

Then their voices joined in chorus,—

`Would you, Ewen McGregor, escaped
slave from the American Navy, become a
free ranger of the land and sea?'

`I would!' faltered Ewen, as the light played
over his enormous chest and his broad
back seamed with weltering stripes.

With his brutal form and animal face, he
stood in that vault likd the appropriate demon
of the scene, his burly face, with blood-shot
eyes and thick lips, disclosing black and
broken teeth, encircled in his short, stiff, red
hair and long, matted beard.

His face was pale, his lip quivered as he
uttered the response.

`Then take the vow.'

Far be it from me to repeat that eloquent
liturgy of blasphemy.

It was loathsome enough, horrible enough,
in its crowded imprecations to satisfy the Demon
of Blasphemy himself. Even Ewen
shuddered, but that was with the fire and ice
which possessed his veins by turns.

`And if I fail in this to obey the commands
of my leader, or betray the secrets of the Free
Rangers, may the knife of the suicide sever
my heart, may earth deny me a grave when I
am dead, and the beasts feed on my senselass
corse.'

So ran the mildest part of the loathsome
ritual.

On his knees, before the altar, he took the
oath, `to obey the commands of the Leader,
whatever they might be,'—and knife in hand
he rose.

`Advance!'

The voice sounded deep and hollow as it
echod back from the dome.

Red Ewen drew near the altar, his animal
visage growing deathly pale.

`Uncover the form of the dead!'

At the word one of the figures robed in
scarlet, his face mantled in blue, extended
his hand and lifted the altar cloth, until a
small space of flesh, evidently a glimpse of
a human chest, on the left side, near the heart
was visible, the veins distinctly marked beneath
the clear olive skin.

`Prepare for the last act of initiation! Behold
this dead man—raise your knife and
strike deep into his chest. Do this,—prove
your defiance of all obligations, imposed by
what pious fools denominate morality—prove
that you fear nothing, either living or dead,
and we hail you as a brother.'

`Yet, I swear by — he lives!' faltered
Ewen, as an indefinable fear palsied his arm.
`Look—he is not dead—this man upon the
stone—he breathes.'

`Folly! your fancy deceives you—he is
dead—aye, dead. He was a traitor, and he
died according to our laws. Advance and
strike.'

The blood rushed to Red Ewen's face, filling
every vein with the sudden and ferocious
instinct of carnage. Each starting eyeball
was filled with ejected blood; his thick lips became
dark purple; he grasped the knife with
all the vigor of his Herculean arm and came
nearer to the altar.

Still it seemed to move, that chest, concealed
by the cloth, nay, the bared spot of brown
flesh seemed to glow, as with the sudden impulse
of strong emotion. True, the face of
the dead man was veiled in the altar-cloth

yet still the bosom seemed to quiver with
life.

Look—Ewen stands over the dead, the
knife raised—it is ten inches long—the point
poised over the bared flesh.

A hissing sound—it descends—it is buried
to the hilt in the breast of the dead man.

There was a pause, while Ewen with his
hand clutching the hilt, exerted all his strength
to withdraw the blade, and in the action, he
felt the body of the dead man writhe beneath
him.

At the same moment the altar-cloth was
partly raised and the face disclosed.

Ewen, the giant with an appetite for carnage
like the tiger's, staggered from the altar
as though the knife had pierced his own bosom,
instead of the bosom of the dead.

For that face was a fearful thing to look
upon.

The cloth bound around the jaws of the uncovered
face did not conceal the horrible
working of the features, nor hide the slow,
rolling motion of the eyeballs, terribly bright
with death, as they turned from side to
side.

A moan was indistinctly heard.

`Don Antonio Marin!' shouted Red Ewen,
as his veins seemed filled with an intolerable
heat, and staggering back, he gazed stolidly
upon the writhing features of the dying
man.

A figure dressed in blue and gold, stepped
lightly over the entrance of the vault, and
approached the altar.

The torch light which shone over the contorted
features of the dying—hark! that gurgling
moan!—played upon the broad chest,
the firm features of the intruder.

`John of Prairie Eden!' shouted Ewen, as
he stood rooted to the floor. `Hey! what's
this! By the living — there is some plot
in this! You here! Who lighted this vault
with those hellish flames, and sent the devils
dancing around that dying Spaniard? —
Ah!'

He fell, writhing in horrible convulsions, to
the floor, the foam frothing round his lips as
his fingers clutched the hard stone.

By the altars's head, his brow uncovered,
and his broad chest glowing with purple and
flashing with diamonds, stood John of Prairis
Eden, his features wearing a marble calmness,
only disturbed by a slight movement of
the nether lip.

There was a Satanic beauty about his face,
whose broad forehead, shaded by dark hair,
firm, aquiline nose, compressed lips—appearing
in the midst of his moustache and beard—
and large eyes, deep sunken beneath arching
brows, now wore an expression not the less
infernal because it struggled with a look of
quiet composure.

He bent over the uncovered face of Don
Antonio, and whispered—even as his beard
touched the brow of the dying man—as his
eyes, blazing with rapture, shot their glance
into the starting eyesballs of the wretched victim—whispered
in a soft voice, and with a
pleasant smile, these words:—

`When I withdraw the knife you will die,
my friend. Hold, you will injure yourself if
you attempt to speak again, for that bandage
on your mouth makes it difficult for you to
dreathe, much less speak. Be perfectly calm,
my dear friend, for I have much to say to you
ere you die. Do you know me? Do you
know me? Do you recognise these features?
Whom'—his breath swept the cheek of Don
Antonio—`whom do I resemble, brother
Harry—eh? Or do I look like my father?
Or, hold—do you not trace a resemblance in
my smile to the gay laugh of Isabel?'

The cloth over the mouth was agitated by
a convulsive motion, as the dying man made
a horrible effort to speak.

He knew the face. Look how his starting
eyeballs glare into the eyes of his Doomsman!

This scene seemed even to affect the forms
in robes of scarlet with blue mantles over
their faces. By the light of the torches which

they grasped you can see their robes heave,
as from the impulse of horror,—agony.

On the floor, his giant form distorted into
a shapeless heap of deformity—so horrible
was the fire which gnawed his intestines—
Red Ewen lay, the foam gathering in white
beads upon his swollen lips, the white surface
of his eyeballs suddenly turned to scarlet.

`Oh, it was horrible'—he raved—`to force
me to drink that goblet of melted lead, hot,
hissing hot! It burns!—it burns! O, water
—water! You have covered my brain with
hot coals! Take your knee from my breast,
old man of Prairie Eden; for you are a dead
man; your eyes are cold—I hung you myself
to the tree—'

`That is Red Ewen's voice, my dear
friend.' And John, smiling pleasantly, bent
over the face of Don Antonio. `Do you know
his voice? A pleasant voice! You heard it
once in Prairie Eden, I am glad you know
it. It was Red Ewen that stabbed you. Ungrateful
dog, to turn his fangs against his
master. My God!' he cried, with an air of
chagrin, `this man is dying—he has not more
than one minute's life in him, and I have so
much to say to him. So many important
things!'

Look yonder, where the curtain hangs over
the narrow entrance, and do not breathe lest
you disturb the beautiful vision. A lovely
face, with glossy black curls waving around
it, appears amid those curtain folds; the eyes,
dancing with wild light, gazing with wonder
and fear upon the strange group of this cavern
vault.

It is Isora, whose brother, pinioned and
gagged, the knife sunken to the hilt in his
breast, lies writhing in death agony upon the
altar.

One movement of John—the mere change
of his position, for a single inch to either side
will reveal the horrible face of the dying brother
to his sister's gaze. But John does not
move—all good angels be thanked—there is
a belt of shadow between the dying face and
the lustrous eyes of the sister,

`Ha!—that footstep! Isoro!'

Without moving one inch, John turned his
smiling face over his shoulder and whispered
gently,—

`My love, you have come. It is well, Remain
where you are, for a moment only,
beautiful Isora! How I love to linger on the
music of that name—Isora!'

The name rung through the vault in mellow
cadence.

She remained there, trembling on tip-toe,
in the narrow entrance of the vault, her azure
tunic relieved by the dark curtain which
touched her shoulder as it fell; her snowy
right arm raised upon her panting breast,
and half mantled by her unbound hair.

`Juan, I will stand here until you bid me
enter.'

How musical the low tones of that voluptuous
woman's voice! It broke like a whisper
from some blessed spirit upon the stillness
of the vault, and right upon it an infernal chorus
after angel music, clashed the howl of
Ewen, writhing on the floor; the faint moan
of Don Antonio gasping from the cloth that
bound his mouth,

He heard that voice, KNEW that his sister
was there, almost within arm's length, and
yet he could not speak to her, she could not
see him.

`Isora is here, my dear friend—Isora!'—
He whispered in the very ear of Don Antonio
—`would you like to speak to her? She loves
me, the beautiful girl; and is mine—mine
WITHOUT marriage! Are you perfectly sensible,
Don Antonio? Have courage man, for
you will need it. I am about to place the
cloth over your face—it will never be lifted
while you live. Never will you look upon a
human face again. And you will die, with
the voice of your own sister in your ears; that
voice, which you love to hear, invoking vengeance
on the murderer of the father and the

brother; eternal vengeance on the betrayer of
the sister.'

It was horrible to see the effort of the dying
man to unpinion his arms and make one intelligible
sound through the thick cloth which
bound his mouth. Once from side to side
rolled his glassy eyeballs. John beheld and
smiled. Once, the nerves of his face twitched
like the nerves of a corpse agitated by galvanism;
and then—

John quietly placed the cloth upon his face
and shut him from the light forever!

Turning from the altar, his face beaming
with a smile, he wound his arm around the
lithe waist of the young girl, and led her genly
forward.

Did the dying man hear that tripping footstep?

`Love—my own Isora!' He gaed his gaze
upon her face, glowing so rosy red, on the
lip and cheek, shooting such voluptuous
languor from the eyes. `You know my wrongs
—have heard me tell of the incarnate fiend
who hung my father, in his grey hairs, to the
felon's tree; who had no pity for poor Harry,
though he knelt to him in the Plaza of Saltillo,
and implored mercy with his blue eyes.—
The fiend, Isora, who bought my sister's dishonor
wlth the price of a father's life, and
bade her rise from his arms that she might
behold the dead face of that very father,
glowing in the rising sun. Isora, you have
heard it all!'

`Juan, speak of it no more—no more! Woman
as I am, weak and trembling, there is yet
the blood of old Castile burning in my veins!
I will roam the world with thee, Juan. Come
—we will find this wretch, and will look upon
his agonies while you avenge! Yes, I will
pray God to nerve your arm, as you strike
deep, exclaiming with every blow,—for my
brother, for my father, for my sister!'

Eye flashing, bosom panting, she laid her
white arms upon his shoulder and looked up
into his face.

Did the dying man hear that voice. Look!
the cloth on his breast quivers in the light.

`You need not roam far, my love. Look!
upon the altar lies the incarnate fiend, the remorseless
destroyer of my race.'

`There?—Let me look upon his face.'

She started forward; John held her by the
arms, but lightly, as though he hesitated; his
dark eye perusing all the while the passionate
warmth of her face.

`No, Isora! You must not gaze upon him,'
he said; `but hold.—Wretch, now quivering
on the altar, I see your chest heaving with its
last pang, and know that your moment is near.
I ask you now, in this moment whose flight
will leave you cold, would you like to look on
a woman's face, and hear her beautiful lips
curse you as you die? If your answer is `yes,'
utter but the slightest moan and your face
shall be uncovered.'

The wretch moaned.

Yes, rather than die thus in the dark, cut
off from the sight of a human face forever, he
would look upon his sister and hear her curse
him as he died. Little did he imagine that this
beautiful sister was unconscious of his presence;
that she did not know him as the `incarnate
fiend.' If there was one thought
darker than another in his dying heart, it was
the thought, `to be cursed by my own sister,
the beloved of my heart, as I d e!'

In that thought he felt, horribly felt, the
full retribution for his crimes.

`No! By the fiend whom you have served,
you shall not look upon a human face again.
Die in darkness, in the name of the father,
the brother, and Isabel!'

That movement of the altar-cloth.

`This form upon the floor, Juan, it frightens
me—this monster with the white foam on
his lips?'

`The accomplice of the fiend, who blindly
struck the blow which killed his master, and
now dies near him, his heart eaten by poison.
Ewen, I say; do you know me? Champaigne

is a glorious drink, but arsenic—ugh! Rise
man, and die with some courage—only brute
courage, if you will—don't writhe there like
a dog.'

The voice, thrilling in cold tones through
the vault, seemed to rouse Ewen from his
stupor.

He rose heavily into a sitting posture and
brushed his brawny hand across his bloodshot
eyes; the whole scene seemed to undulate
before him—the altar, the silent figures, the
beautiful Isora and the calm, smiling John of
Prairie Eden—all seemed to glide slowly to
and fro.

He brushed the white foam from his lips;
it was evident that his hour was near, for his
finger nails were blue, and the ruddy hue of
his face began to deepen into purple. The
change of death was on him.

`John, I know you,' he gasped, as though
every word was wrung from him by infernal
tortures. `A bad man, John—I've been.
In Philadelphia—my boy!—have mercy
on him!'

With those incoherent words, uttered with
hands clutching each other, and bloodshot
eyes rolling in death, he sank slowly into a
shapeless heap on the floor.

There was no groan—not even a gasp.—
His purple face became black, his swollen
lips the color of blueish clay, his broad chest
was frecked with crimson spots. Not one
quiver disturbed his sinewy form, nor did a
single tremor announce that a spark of life
yet lingered in his own muscles. He was
dead—horribly distorted, and blackened, and
swollen—dead as the rock upon which he
laid.

Why does that sudden paleness cross the
face of the Avenger? Does his heart quail
now?

When he taunted the poisoned man, and
bade him rise and die like a man, he anticipated
a volume of curses from his foamy lips
—he believed that Ewen would yell forth his
last breath in blasphemies.

But those incoherent words, uttered with
his last breath, in the voice so very strangely
softened and with a look of horrible entreaty,
`My boy—in Philadelphia—have mercy on
him!'

John of Prairie Eden, so remorseless in his
Satanic revenge, felt a sudden shudder pervade
his form, a horrible gulf, black, fathomless,
yawned before his eyes; he trembled and
sank on his knees, his face buried in the bosom
of Isora.

Her soft hands played upon his forehead;
her dark tresses waved over his shoulders.—
He could feel her heart beating warmly on
his cheek, but that voluptuous pulsation,
could not still the prayer of the poisoned
wretch which shrieked forever in the Avenger's
ears—`in Philadelphia—my boy—have
mercy on him.'

The figures in blue and scarlet are motionless,
the torches still burning in their extended
hands; Ewen is blackened and dead
upon the floor; Mexitili glares in horrible
grotesqueness at the head ef the altar; John
is kneeling, his head pillowed upon Isora's
breast, and for the last time heaves the altar
cloth, as a hollow sound, the death-rattle,
echoes round the vault.

Then over the threshold comes the form of
a woman, clad in a monkish gown, her bosom
panting, her breath trembling in gasps,
her pale face flushed in every pore. You see
her as she stands over the strange scene, her
white hands clutching the robe to her breast,
and her eyes—each pupil surrounded by a
white circle—glare in silent agony from face
to face.

Her dark hair, gathered like an ebony
crown around her brow—swollen in every
vein with intense emotions—burst its cincture
and waves in glossy tresses over her shoulder.
Glossy and dark, and yet, amid its
blackness, there are streaks of silver grey.

Then to the altar advanced the miserable
woman, whose life had been an ante-part of
hell since the dark day when her honor was

wrecked; she saw the clothed form on the al:
tar and lifted the cloth from the face,—
and—

But there are emotions of the heart, agonies
of the soul, which angels fear to behold, and
devils dare not look upon, and we will drop
the pall over the scene, over that sight which
we cannot witness,—

Isabel of Prairie Eden gazing upon the
dead face of her betrayer!