 | CHAPTER XI.
THE GIFT OF THE WOMAN. The damsel of Darien |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE GIFT OF THE WOMAN.
The hurricane, which lasted several hours, had brought
the people of Santo Domingo to the close of the day. The
disaster which had struck so deeply at the resources of
Vasco Nunez, had not, as we have seen, impressed him
with so much sorrow at his loss while Teresa Davila
stood beside him. It is probable, indeed, that he would have
smiled with scorn upon his misfortunes, and held them in
slight regard, had it been, as he whispered in her ear, that
there was a sweet hope of his success with her. But she
spoke no more those tender words which had fallen from
her unconscious lips while his arm protected her from the
destroying blast. With the assurance which she felt of
safety when the hurricane had gone by, returned all that
capricious coldness of manner, which the fond cavalier ascribed
only to maidenly reserve and a proper dignity. The
astrologer was the wiser man in this respect. He well understood
the selfish nature of the woman whom Vasco Nunez
loved. He saw it in the sudden change in her deportment
when the services of the cavalier were needed no longer;
he saw it in the cold, indifferent tones with which she demanded
to know if his fortunes were, indeed, entirely dissipated
by the storm; he had seen it long before, in the
nice selfishness of character which enabled her to maintain
in doubt, and consequently in hope, a dozen lovers, each
of whom was made, at times, quite as happy and confident
as the most favoured of her train. He also knew, and this
conviction was of more force than any other in his mind,
that she had no feeling of veneration for that noble and high-reaching
ambition which filled the soul of Vasco Nunez.
She could only admire greatness, as it was the subject of
nothing of, and cared little for, its intrinsic excellencies.
The greatness of Vasco Nunez was of a sort which was
quite too towering for the really vulgar spirits who were
the habitual adventurers of the time, and whose pursuits
were chiefly those of avarice and murder. His finer ambition
having for its object great discoveries of unknown
realms, like those which Colon had given to Castile, he
was regarded by a great number as a mere dreamer who
was wasting a precious life, with his small resources, upon
the most empty illusions. This, too, had necessarily become
somewhat the faith of Teresa Davila—a faith only
qualified in her mind when she discovered the singular degree
of confidence which had been given by her miserly
uncle to his soaring schemes; and which, now that the
seas had swallowed up the very means by which he was
to effect his objects, returned with all its force to her bosom,
and taught her to resume her former habits of capricious
coldness, with the resumption of her former incredulity in
relation to his visions. The astrologer sighed when he
saw how completely the noble heart of the brave and accomplished
cavalier lay at the mercy of a creature, who, bright
and beautiful as she confessedly was, lacked all that nobleness
of aim which alone could make her brightness perfect,
and that confiding simplicity of soul, which could make
her beauty sweet. He turned away from the contemplation
of the two, as they walked on from the scene of devastation
to the bohio where she dwelt.
But when they were separated—when she no longer
stood beside the cavalier, looking on him with eyes whose
brightness seldom failed to occasion a happy confusion in
his thoughts and feelings—it was then that he could calmly
consider and estimate the prevailing extent of his loss. He
was, in fact, literally destitute. His own little accumulations
for years—those of his friend, the astrologer—were
all buried in the unrestoring waters. Never was wreck
more complete than that of the good ship, `The Maragnon.'
Goods and stores, and arms and men, were all swallowed
up in the storm; and the loan from Felipe Davila, as it had
been hurriedly paid away to the seamen at the opening of
the business in the Plaza de Armas, in order to forestal
the persuasions of Ojeda and Nicuesa, necessarily
shared the same fate with the poor fellows whom it purchased.
respect, were broken up and scattered abroad with the dismembered
fragments of his vessel. The morning found
him, as it were, triumphant over fortune—exulting in the
assurances of fate, exulting in the possession of means,
by which inevitably to secure success. A single hour had
sufficed to dissipate his hopes, and a single blast had defeated
all the promises of fortune. The evening found him
destitute of all those resources which it had been the toil
of years—his own toil and that of others—to accumulate
and preserve. He had lost not merely the means of adventure
and of greatness, but the means of life. The last
gold in his possession had been given in the casket of castellanos
to the hands of the astrologer, who regarding the
wants of Vasco Nunez as all satisfied in Santo Domingo
with the completion of his means for departure, had appropriated
all its contents in making his preparations as perfect
and extensive as he could. But a few pieces remained
in the keeping of the cavalier, and these were inadequate
to the need of a single week. He was not merely
destitute of means, but, in their loss, he was left destitute
of hopes. Where was he to find the material which was
to replace the good ship—to refit her for the meditated
voyage—to provide her with stores and men anew. His
past experience of the difficulties in supplying these wants,
taught him to regard as illusory now, any hope which he
might yet entertain of the future in Santo Domingo. The
hope of better fortune in Old Spain was no less illusory.
What had he, a single and destitute adventurer, to hope
for in competition and conflict with the thousands which
were sent forth daily from thence, having their own fortunes
in numberless instances, and strongly sustained by
active and able connexions? With the conviction of his
own hopelessness, came a momentary forgetfulness even
of Teresa and her charms, and the pang of his disaster
and the probable defeat of all his plans, can be conceived
only by those who have known the misery of losing, in a
single moment, the treasured object of a life—the darling
schemes of an intense ambition—and all the thousand anticipations
of honour and reward from man, which have
been the dream of the warm imagination, for ever grasping
at the things which are beyond it.
A new annoyance awaited him when he returned to the
the miser Felipe Davila, whom he found pouring
forth a thousand reproaches and as many threats in the
ears of Micer Codro, for having beguiled from him his money
to risk upon so unlucky a person. These reproaches
were all transferred to himself when he drew nigh.
“Old man,” said the cavalier with dignity—“you speak
as if I should have stayed the hurricane with my arm or
voice. You speak like a madman. I am sorry for your
loss, though it be much less great than mine own; yet thy
loss gives thee no license for insult and reproach. Why
dost thou upbraid Micer Codro, or myself.”
“He lied to me about thy star—thy star—a murrain on
thy star! He lied daily through all San Domingo of thy
star, and of the gold that grew beneath it. Why did I fall
into the deceit? why did I believe this folly? What right
hadst thou with such a star, thou a poor cavalier under
Moguer—thou hadst better been planting thy cabbages at
Salvatierra. But I will punish him and thee alike, for this
treachery. The alcalde shall give me judgment against
you as swindlers both—I will have ye in a prison where,
if ye incline to lie farther of your stars, ye shall yet see
none.—Ye base cheats and deceivers, that have spoiled me
of seven hundred castellanos.”
“You shall be paid, I tell you, Señor Felipe,” cried
the astrologer.
“Tell me nothing—pay me the castellanos and I will
then give ear to your promises. But now I will proclaim
ye as born swindlers through Santo Domingo. There
shall be a drum with the proclamation, though I lose the
cost of it with my other losses. I could have had the best
security—fool that I was—from the Bachelor Enciso; and
yet to think that I should be so blind, so deaf, so dumb, so
mad and blind as to believe in this story of his star. But
I tell you, Micer Codro, the alcalde shall give me judgment
against you, and hark you, Vasco Nunez—this fraud of
thine—”
The cavalier interrupted the insolent speech of the miser
in a voice and manner no less dignified than stern.
The indignation of a noble mind, nobly shown, is seldom
utterly without its effect upon the vulgar, and the soul of
Felipe Davila actually quailed within him, as the cold, but
resolute eye of Vasco Nunez looked upon him.
“Hark you, old man!” said he, “I have borne with
you, for the sake of one, to speak of whom in the same
breath with you, I feel compunction and dislike. But know
that even the feeling which I have for Teresa Davila, shall
not protect the base wretch who dares couple fraud with
the name of Vasco Nunez. Anger me not, therefore, with
thy foul language, lest neither thy age nor thy connexion
with one I love, shall protect thee from the chastisement
which thy insolence provokes.”
“I fear you not!” was the reply of the miser, but he
retreated as he spoke, and placed himself among the bystanders
whom his high words had brought nigh to hear
the conference. “I fear thee not; and as for the love thou
hast professed for Teresa Davila, know from me that she
looks on thee with scorn. She were a greater fool than
I who lent money to a knave, to bestow love upon a
beggar.”
“Ha, dog!” The sudden grasp of Vasco Nunez upon
the throat of the abusive wretch made him cry out in other
language, as he implored mercy in one breath from his assailant,
and assistance in another from the crowd. Micer
Codro interposed, but the better nature of Vasco Nunez
himself spared him the necessity of farther interposition.
“Away!” he cried, flinging the old man from him as
he spoke, and turning away from the group at the same
moment. “Thou art mad for thy losses, old man, and
knowst not what thou sayest. Thou blasphemest in thy
present mood, either to speak of thy niece or of the love I
bear her. Thy money shall be paid thee, and with usury,
in reasonable time!”
“The alcalde shall give me better assurance of payment
than I will take from thee,” was the reply of the miser, as
the cavalier departed.
“The alcalde!—why talkest thou of the alcalde, Felipe
Davila?” said the astrologer, “and wherefore wouldst
thou vex a noble gentleman in the moment of his distress?
Can it do thee good or give thee pleasure to put one into
prison who can only pay thee when he has privilege of
limb and liberty. Go to!—why errest thou in this
fashion.”
“Then wherefore is he so proud! Wherefore bears he
so loftily. I tell thee, Micer Codro, it is my will that my
into prison.”
“This will do for the base debtor, who means not payment
and would meet usury with fraud. But thou canst
not obtain such miserable concession from the high-souled
and accomplished cavalier. I tell thee, man, that wert
thou to bind the limbs of Vasco Nunez upon the cross,
and flay him with rods and pierce him with darts, he would
spit upon thee and scorn thee to the last. There is a nature
in him which thou canst not understand, and which all
the powers of alguazil and executioner could never move
from his resolved purpose.”
“We shall see—there shall be judgment ere another
sunset upon this matter —”
“Pshaw, Felipe Davila, thou art but an ass after all, if
thou talkest thus in this matter. Let thy passion mislead
thee thus, and thou art a loser of all thy castellanos,
which thou art most sure with a moderate patience to recover.
Wert thou wise now, thou wouldst make this
cavalier thy favourite, thou wouldest bestow thy niece upon
him if he seeks her, and devote all thy treasures to the
facilitation of his greatness; for I tell thee now, here, even
where we stand, with all the evidence of his late great loss
before our eyes, that the fates design this same Vasco Nunez
for an achievement before which all the successes of
all these gaudy cavaliers will be as nothing. Next to
Christovallo Colon, I tell thee that the name of Balboa
shall rank first among the great men of this new empire of
Spain. Come with me, that I may better advise thee of
these things.”
Growling his apprehension and anger as he went, the
miser yet followed the conduct of the astrologer, as they
drew off to a secret place of conference. The cavalier to
whom their conference had chief reference, meanwhile,
took his way along the more broken ledges of the rock
which overhung the bay, still vexed and chafing with the
tempest which had so lately stirred and ploughed it even
in its hollowest recesses. He took his seat upon a cliff
which looked forth upon those waters which had buried
his gallant vessel, and bitterly did he brood in silence upon
a misfortune, which the coarse and vulgar insolence of his
creditor had taught him almost to feel as a crime—a lesson
which the creditor but too often teaches to those who are
annoyance to which he had been exposed, that, manly as
was his real character, he felt that it would be but a small
pang were he then to perish. He had reached that stage of
disappointment, when he only did not despair. For it
must be remembered that for years had he laboured with
the unstifled idea in his bosom of achieving that great object
for which his vessel had been prepared; and all his
little gains and labours in that space of time had been preserved
and continued sedulously for the same object. The
catastrophe which had happened to his bark seemed to him
to falsify all the fond predictions of the astrologer, and if he
did not utterly despair, it may be said confidently that he also
did not know how to hope. The idle people who traversed
the town in contemplation of the ruins, respected his
sorrows. They kept aloof from the lonely crag upon which
he had seated himself. The sun was going down clear and
unclouded to his rest. A bright shaft of rosy light played
over the arch of heaven, shifting into thousand shapes,
each as bright and as sudden in its transitions as any of the
dreams of youth. The golden and bushy locks of the day-star,
seemed tossing above the sable waters in the distance,
the fainter rays stretching in a direct line toward him, as if
in promise and encouragement. But Vasco Nunez, wretched
and morbid, saw nothing but a humiliating mockery in the
lovely image. He turned his eye from that glance which
looked upon him so fondly, and gazed upon the sombre
masses of mountain in the north from which the hurricane had
descended. They too were now touched with the loveliest
lights of evening, and so soft was the crimson vapour that
encircled their brows, that even he who had but a little before
witnessed the whole passage of the hurricane, could
scarce believe a region so heavenly-hued to have been its
birth-place.
“Ah, treacherous mountains! ye mock me now with
your lovely and delusive aspects. Those folding wreaths
of crimson that lie around you have conceived of the storm
and their only birth shall be the whirlwind. Gather as ye
may, your vapours and your winds, they can harm me no
farther. Ye have taken from me all, and the triumph
which should have crowned my bark, must now be shared
among those of the rash Ojeda, or the no less rash but
more accomplished and noble Nicuesa. Could you not
had scarcely noted the loss of one. I owned but the one,
and that ye have taken; and now, ye may gather your
storms—I apprehend ye not! Ye can do me no more
harm!”
Night fell, and the cavalier was still a watcher among
the cliffs. The sullen murmurs of the seas, still groaning
from their recent lashings, were more grateful to his moody
mind than had been the sweetest music. The gathering
shadows of evening, which, in that lovely climate, are seldom
gloom, were yet less offensive to his soul than the
gold and crimson glories which they succeeded and dispersed.
The saffron and the purple, melted into dun; and a
bright star rose above the sun's pathway, as it seemed, even
from the deep, and stood over against the place where he
sat, looking as it were, into his very eyes. He could scarce
resist, under its pure and blessed aspect, the conviction of
a hope. Just then he heard the tread of a light footstep
behind him. He turned not to look upon the intruder, for
his soul was too sorrowful for curiosity, but a light, trembling
voice reached his ears:
“Master,” it said, humbly and low, as if fearing to offend
—“Master!”
He turned, as he recognized the accents; and the mother
of the boy whom Garabito had murdered stood before him.
She sank at his feet as she met his glance.
“Be not vexed, master, with the woman—it is the poor
Buru, master—only Buru.”
The heart of Vasco Nunez melted within him to behold
her, and his eyes filled with tears. He forgot his own afflictions
as he remembered that terrible one to which she
had been subjected. “Of a truth,” said he to himself,
when he reflected upon that most harrowing and heart-rending
privation which she had been doomed to endure,
and without reason or redress—“of a truth, I shame to
brood over this loss of mine when I look upon this poor
woman and think upon her boy! She hath lost the blossom
of her love—the life of her hope—the very fruit of her
heart's best affections—in whose life she was long to live,
even when the heavy sod lay upon her unconscious bones,
I have lost little but the labours of my own and the hands of
others—wood and iron—canvass, and the green spars which
these forests yield in inexhaustible abundance. Should the
Should I give myself up to the boy's agony who hath lost
the plaything on which his childish fancies have been set.
Surely, I should not become this weak and yielding creature.
I have gone through stripes and perils—I have not
shrunk from death. I am ready even now for any danger,
—then, wherefore, should I show this weight of wo to the
crowd, who will behold it but to deride. They will rejoice
to see my weakness, and the suffering which I have
for this miserable loss of timber and canvass. I have lost
nothing beside—nothing! Yes! the triumph—the great
triumph—the conquest of that Southern Sea! And yet—
what is even this loss to that of the poor woman! The
softening tears of the blessed Mother of God fall upon her
heart, and bring it healing!”
These musings passed through the mind of the cavalier
with the wonted rapidity of thought. Hope was already
beginning to assert itself anew within his bosom, as a
natural consequence of the just exercise of his intellect;
and, however he might come to the natural conclusion,
that, in all probability, the glory of his great discovery was
taken from his grasp, and the bright fame which he had
promised himself was now destined to adorn and perpetuate
some other more fortunate name, yet this, he well reasoned,
was not a just cause why the strong man should
forego his strength, and yield up his soul to the voluntary
impotence of despair. The worse affliction of the bereaved
mother at his side, taught him to estimate his own
more lightly.
“The world hath every where more misery than is mine!”
said he, with a natural exclamation. “What would you,
my poor woman—why do you seek me? I can do nothing
for you—nothing—I have nothing to give you. I have
lost all—every thing.”
“Buru wants nothing from the master. Can the master
give the boy to his mother—no, no! Buru comes for
nothing.”
“True, true, my poor woman, were the good ship mine
again, with all her stores, what could I do for you? what
could I give to the mother which would replace her child?”
The woman advanced, lifted his hand which she put
upon her head, then stooping to earth she placed her head
between his knees, and while thick-coming sobs made her
as follows:
“But the master would have struck for the mother—the
master would have saved the boy. Had the master been
nigh to Garabito, he had put by the sharp sword, and
the poor Zemi would walk beside Buru to-night when she
goes by the path of arrows up the hills. Buru will walk
and hear no Zemi as she goes: but the master would
have saved the boy,—Buru loves the good master who
struck the Spaniard for her child.”
“Alas! my poor woman, it is my sorrow that I struck
for thee in vain. Had I been less slow—had I deemed it
possible for the base creature to have touched the boy with
his weapon, I had been prompt to save—I had saved him!
But I believed not that he would strike the child—I could
not think that any Spaniard would have done so monstrous
a crime!”
“Ah! master, that you had been soon—that you had
struck the sword of Garabito from his hand. The boy was
good and had many words for his mother when the poor
Buru digs in the gray mountains for gold for the Spaniard.
He will have no more words again for his mother. But
the master would have saved, and Buru will love him.
See master—here is guanin—guanin from the hills. It
is all for you. Buru brings it for the good master who
would have struck for Zemi.”
While speaking these words she untwisted a single but
thick fold of her long black hair which was secured to the
cone of her head with considerable skill, in which was cunningly
concealed several bits of the mixed gold called guanin
which the Indians had been accustomed to work even
before the coming of the Spaniard, with a peculiar process
of their own. Remembering to have seen her, while in the
dance, with her hair seemingly unbound and flying in
all directions, Vasco Nunez was interested in observing
the neat and highly artificial manner in which a single
tress of the streaming volume might still be made to secure
from sight upon the head, a treasure, which, as she
unfolded it before his eyes, was far from inconsiderable.
“Buru saw the hurricane, master, when it fell on the
big canoe. It was all broken, and the thin pieces are gone
out on the waters. Buru hath heard them say that the good
master hath lost every thing—that he hath no ship, no
all for the master—take it, good master—the night is around
us, the Spaniard sleeps in the bohio—there are none to see.
Buru will bring more guanin when she goes back into the
mountains. The mountains have gold for Buru, when the
Spaniard gathers none. Buru will save it from the Spaniard,
and bring it all to the good master who would have
struck for her child.”
The heartfelt and devoted manner in which the poor Indian
gave up her treasures, in the grateful impulse of her
heart, to console the cavalier who had lost every thing,
touched his very soul. The big drops, gathered fast beneath
his eyelashes. Tears had been for long years before
strangers to his eyes, but they now gushed forth
freely and he did not seek to restrain them.
“The master hath a heart—he weeps—he is no Spaniard!”
were the exulting exclamations of the woman, as
she laid the gold at his feet. The earnest gratitude of the
poor savage saddened while it pleased him. A like proffer
from one of his own countrymen, in that moment of
moody despondency would, possibly, have only angered
him. His claim was better upon the one than the other,
yet how little reason had he to expect such a tribute
to his misfortunes from any Spaniard. But such a
proffer from the degraded Indian—from one of a people as
yet unacknowledged as human, and but too commonly the
victim of a licensed and legalized brutality filled his soul
with mortification. What a commentary upon the conduct
of his countrymen was this noble and unexpected
show of gratitude in the poor woman, whose best and
dearest affections had been so wantonly and cruclly outraged.
He felt that he could not receive her gold—he put
it away from his sight.
“Keep your gold, Buru—you will need it to buy cassavi
when you are hungry; and perhaps, it may help you
to procure some indulgences from your taskmaster. It
can do me little service and it may do you much. You
may share it with your people—it will procure pleasures
for you all.”
“Does my lord speak this?” said the woman mournfully—“does
the master speak of pleasures for the poor
Buru, when the boy is dead? Has the Spaniard any good
physic to make him to live? If he has, then there is pleasure
will feel none of the blows upon her back. The boy shall
play with the brown monkey beside her, and her heart
will jump when she hears him laugh light and sees him
running among the hills.”
“Alas! Buru, I tell thee with sorrow as I have already
told thee, that I cannot help thee. The Spaniard has no
physic which can bring back life. But, by the Holy Mother,
Buru, if I could help thee to thy living son, I would
not shrink to peril my own limbs—nay, my own life—in
the blessed purpose. I feel for thee, Buru—in my heart
I feel for thee.”
“Ah, master—when the lash fell upon the shoulders of
Buru, she smiled, for Zemi was there. When the heart
of the woman sank from the labour of her limbs, the heart
of the mother grew strong, for was not her child beside
her. There is no Zemi—there is no child now. She
would have bought the boy's life with the guanin—she
would have brought more guanin from the hills, had not
the bad master struck so soon. So soon he struck that
my good lord could not help me, and now that the guanin
cannot bring back life, let the good master take the guanin.
It is nothing to the mother who hath no child.”
“It will buy you clothes to wear, Buru. It will get
you food when you are hungry and sweet drink when you
thirst,” said the Spaniard, still refusing her proffer. But
the grateful but wretched creature was not to be baffled
thus. Her reply was ready.
“Buru has no thirst and no hunger now. The water
that runs out of the hill is a good drink for the woman. The
manioc is a good root even when it brings death; and
Buru would not sorrow to eat of that. There is much
cotton in Cibao, and that is clothes for the Indian. Oh,
master, will you not take the guanin from the poor Buru,
so that her heart shall be glad within her. The gold is
not good for the woman. She cannot buy with it, neither
she nor her people. The bad master of the Spaniard will
seize it from her hand, and with his knotted whip he will
scourge her that she brought it not before. Take it, master,
and buy with it a big canoe; and think not of the
black hurricane that came down from the mountains to
make thee sad. It will make the poor Buru too sorry
if the master takes not the guanin.”
She gathered it again as she was speaking, and once
more laid it at the feet of the cavalier. To refuse her any
longer would have been an unkindness of which Vasco
Nunez was incapable.
“I will take your gold, Buru, and do with it what I
can.”
“I thank thee, I thank thee, good master—I will bring
thee more,” she exclaimed, interrupting him in the fulness
of her joy.
“I will take it, and it will doubtless be of help to me,
though it will not buy me the canoe.”
“I will bring thee more, dear master,” she cried, again
interrupting him—“There is much gold in Cibao, and it
is good. The sister of Buru shall also bring gold for the
good master which she will hide from the Spaniard in her
hair. Look, my lord,—after so many suns,”—here she
counted on her fingers before his eyes—“so many suns,
and Buru will come with her sister, and bring good guania
in her hair. Her hair is thick like the hair of Buru—it
will hide the gold so that the Spaniard shall never find it.
It shall come for my good master, and he shall get with it
a bigger canoe than he lost by the black hurricane before.
Buru blesses the good master, and will love to serve him.”
“Nay, Buru, but this thou shalt not. I do not want
your gold, and you must bring me no more of it—bring
me nothing. It will do you harm with your master should
he detect you, and he might even take your life.”
“Ah! would he!” exclaimed the woman quickly—
“Buru were very glad if the sword of Garabito, which slew
the boy, would slay the poor mother. Ah, master, I tremble
to go back to the mountains. There will be one to say
to me—`where is Zemi?' and when he asks, what shall
Buru answer? She will fall down upon her face, and bury
the truth in the sand.”
“Thy husband!” said Vasco Nunez.
“Ah! yes! But thou knowest him not, master. Tell
me thou dost not know his name.”
“How should I, Buru?—thou hast never told me.”
“He has no name—I have no husband, and there is no
child.” These words were uttered wildly, and the miserable
mother seemed to be more agitated now that at any
previous moment in their interview.
“The master will take the guanin?” she said as she
prepared to depart.
“This!—but no more; and I take this, Buru, not because,
I desire it, but as I would not give thee pain by
refusing thee. Risk not your life by bringing to me any
more, for I will not receive it from thee. I will buy no
more ships, but go back to my farm at Salvatierra—give
up these dreams of glory—these fancies of discovery, and
think of greatness no longer. The fates work against me.”
These words were rather the fruit of Vasco's own melancholy
musings than as intending any answer to the
woman—and, but for the melancholy defiance in his manner
when he spoke of the hostility of the fates, she might
have found much in what he said that was greatly beyond
her comprehension. She understood, however,—and that
was the purpose of her visit—that she was at length permitted
in her own way to express her gratitude—that the
man who had striven to befriend her was not unwilling to
accept her humble acknowledgments. Satisfied with this
much, her features put on a smile of melancholy pleasure,
and bending once more upon her knee before him, she took
his hand in hers and placed it upon her head in token of
veneration. At this moment a slight whistle from a neighbouring
bush reached her ears. She caught his hand hurriedly,
carried it to her lips, rose from her suppliant posture
and, ere he could speak, without farther word, she darted
away, and disappeared in another moment behind the rock
on which he rested.
| CHAPTER XI.
THE GIFT OF THE WOMAN. The damsel of Darien | |