 | CHAPTER XVIII.
THE AVENGER STRENGTHENED FOR THE STROKE. The damsel of Darien |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THE AVENGER STRENGTHENED FOR THE STROKE.
The marriage-contract between Pedrarias on the one
hand, for his daughter, and Vasco Nunez on the other,
was formally drawn up and signed in presence of the
good bishop, who having, as he flattered himself, completed
the work of peace between the parties, set sail
shortly afterwards for Spain, leaving the colony in a condition
of quiet and hopeful promise, which it had not
known for many months before. “Behold now,” says
the worthy chronicler, Fray Agapida, “behold Vasco Nunez
once more in the high career of prosperity. His
most implacable enemy had suddenly been converted into
his dearest friend; for Pedrarias, now that he looked upon
him as his son-in-law, loaded him with favours.” The
favours of highest satisfaction to such a mind as Vasco
Nunez were, however, those only which gave it employment.
To carry on the conquest which he had begun,
to explore those waters from which he had taken off the
seal of ages, and, with that insatiate appetite which distinguishes
the soul of genius, to leave nothing to the unknown
which man might know, were now the grand desires
of his heart: and in their prosecution we find him—
the moment that he was freed from the tyranny of Pedrarias,
and secure, as his future son-in-law, in his confidence—preparing
to build, at vast pains and labour, an
armament for the navigation of the great southern sea.
The spot chosen for this labour was the port of Careta,
already known to the reader, and named after the Indian
damsel. A town had been founded at this port called
interests of a flourishing community, already active in all
respects, under the justly governing influence of our hero.
Two hundred men, under his sole command, enabled him
in a short time to do that which Pedrarias, with a thousand,
had failed to do in the weary space of protracted months;
and the labours of Vasco Nunez were carried on with a
degree of industry that derived no little impulse from
another cause than that of his ambition. There was a
gnawing and reproachful thought in his mind which he
vainly strove to banish. The consciousness of wrong
haunted him and kept him sleepless. Every glance at the
Indian maiden, whose humble but devoted affections he
had betrayed,—however necessary to his safety seemed
the wrong—stung him with a sorrow that drove him to
labour as to relief, and prompted him even in search of
danger, that he might escape the worse goadings of his
conscience. Meanwhile, the poor girl herself, was the
most happy of the happy. She knew nothing of the
terms by which Vasco Nunez had been released—she
did not dream that she herself was the sacrifice—but she
knew that he was no longer in danger from a power
which had harassed him from the first with every sort
of oppression; and in this conviction she was satisfied.
With the privilege of one who loves entirely, she chided
his downcast looks, his reluctant eyes, and the lethargy
which stifled the free tones of his voice and the graceful
life which had once distinguished every movement of his
limbs.
“When my lord was in the prison,” she said, “it was
a time for him to be sad. But wherefore is his sadness
now? Is he not free—hath he not warriors to do his bidding?—and
the governor, who was once his enemy, is he
not now his friend. Let not my lord look sorrowful—the
heart of Careta trembles with fear when my lord looks
not upon her with love.”
“Be not afraid, Careta—why should you be afraid?”
But the mind of the speaker was evidently wandering as
he made this answer; and the coldness of the tones, and
the lack of all expression in his eyes, as he looked upon
her, conveyed far more fear to her heart than his language
brought consolation. He noted this effect, and making a
commanding effort, thus endeavoured to soothe her—
Behold my labours—thou seest that I rise ere the dawn,
and my toils are not finished with the night. Thou also
knowest that I meditate adventures across the mountains
and the new sea with my vessels,—it is such meditations
as these that look like sadness in my face. Let not
Careta behold them. Let her believe that I think, not
that I grieve.”
“Ah!—did not my lord think when he first came to
Coyba? Then he had the great mountains to cross that
stood between him and the southern sea—then he had
few warriors, and many enemies among the warriors of
Darien, who are now his friends. My lord had meditations
then, but his steps were light, and he smiled upon
the poor girl of Coyba, and he laughed aloud, and he
looked up to the hill-tops, and not upon the earth at his
foot. Ah! the thoughts that trouble my lord at Acla, are
not the thoughts he had at Coyba, and when he crossed
the great mountains to the southern sea. The heart of
my lord is changed—it is sorrowful within him;—will he
not tell Careta of his sorrows that she may be sorry too?”
“Be you not sorry, Careta, because I am thoughtful.
These thoughts that trouble me will pass away, and thou
shalt soon behold me smile, as I used to smile when I first
came to Coyba. But I have been troubled as thou
knowest. Thou hast seen me stripped of power, and
thrown into chains, and threatened with death, and these
things have brought gloomy clouds over my face, which
are not yet dispersed.”
“But my lord has power more than before—he is free
from chains, and the governor that threatened him with
death, now loves him and seeks to do him honour.
Careta thinks it strange that he should love thee of a
sudden, when he once hated thee so badly, but her heart
is glad that it is so. My lord, there is one thing—”
She paused, and looked up, with a sad earnestness, into
his face.
“Speak, Careta,” he replied encouragingly.
“When my lord was in prison he was not so sad as
now when he is free. When the governor said he should
die, he laughed, and said to Careta—`Fear nothing,
Careta, I shall not die—he dare not slay me—thou shalt
lie in my bosom many long years yet to come.' Such
hands, to the poor damsel of Darien.”
“No more of this, girl—no more, Careta—thou madd'st
me, I tell thee. Leave me—leave me. Why shouldst
thou tell me of all this now? The time is past—the
chains are no longer on my hands. Seest thou not that
I am free?—ay, free! Thou art glad of my freedom art
thou not? Well! Thou knowest nothing of its price,
else, it might be, thou wert not half so glad.”
The girl, stunned by the sudden and vehement language
of the chief, shrank back in silence, not utterly
unaccompanied by fear. But there was nothing brutal in
the character of Vasco Nunez. He saw that his manner
gave her pain, and in another instant, recollecting himself,
his tones were changed to those of tenderness, as he
spoke again.
“Come hither, my poor Careta.”
The smile upon his lips, but, more than all, the tear
within his eye, which was clearly visible to her, unsealed
the fountains of delighted joy within her heart; she
rushed forward with a scream and threw herself into his
extended arms. He pressed her warmly for an instant
to his bosom, then released her, and rapidly hurried from
her presence.
“Ay,” he muttered to himself as he moved from the
dwelling where this scene had taken place—“ay, I have
indeed bought my freedom from chains, and my security
of life, at a grievous price to thee, Careta. Of a truth it
is a damning sin to sell this poor Indian's hope, as I have
sold hers, that I might look upon the sunlight, and prolong
the miserable hours of a life which has now so little left
for performance. And thou too, Micer Codro, hast counselled
me to this! Thou, too, one ever pleading for the
poor Indian—ever hostile to the woman whose charms,
too powerful in my heart, have made me sacrifice one
whose soul is more true and lofty by far in its forest
ignorance, than is hers for which I yield it up, in all the
glow and glory of her beauty, in all the grace and majesty
of her courtly skill and royal education:—thou hast
moved me to this cruel barter which makes me tremble,
with the consciousness of wrong, even before the simple
heathen of the hills. There is an evil destiny in this. It
is the toil of the stars against the mortal. Vainly have
thought, cunning scheme, and adventure that has taken
counsel from the desperate wing of the eagle, soaring
aloft when the storm was gathering among all his hills—
the cast of the dice has prevailed even against the plans
I have made—the defences I have set up—the skill, the
audacity, the hope; and my enemy hath forced conditions
upon me which, though they leave me life, leave me but
little honour. It is a snare of the foul fiend, and it hath
fastened upon my soul for ever.”
His secretary stood beside him.
“Despatches from Santa Maria, my lord,” he said,
handing him letters. “There is word of a new governor
coming out from Spain for Darien.”
“Ha! Say'st thou, Pedro—a new governor from
Spain—superseding Don Pedrarias! Strange! How
hearest thou this?”
“Lope de Olano, who comes as alcalde to Acla, brings
report. He hath sent you these advices, and will soon
report to you in person. It is farther mentioned that the
Señora Teresa, the daughter of Don Pedrarias hath just
reached Darien from Española.”
A rush of weakness went through the heart of Vasco
Nunez at the name, and the papers were shaken in his
hands by the trembling fingers which grasped them
nervously. Teresa was then once more near him—that
scornful beauty! He should once more behold her:—
nay, more, she was pledged to him as his. Love was to
be triumphant at last—and love was to be sacrificed.
The star of the haughty Christian, in love, as well as in
war, prevailed over that of the humble pagan!
“Poor Careta!” was the half muttered exclamation of
the adelantado, as he turned away to peruse the documents;
and while he read the page his thoughts were
wandering away to the heathen damsel, and all her devoted
humility;—the love that hopes much, and fears
much, and suffers much, grew visibly embodied to his
mind's eye, and rose more and more lovely to his thought,
as he remembered the haughty capriciousness of that
prouder beauty, whom his own heart had still been too
ready to receive as the price of that precious sacrifice
which he was about to make of her worthier, if less
beautiful sister.
The secretary contemplated the changing features and
sad, spiritless eye of his superior, with something more of
scorn than surprise. From the moment when Vasco
Nunez had accepted his life and freedom at the hands
of Pedrarias, he had sunk rapidly and greatly in the estimation
of the youth.
“I had thought this man perfect—the very model of
dominion, and a mighty spirit among men; and with this
thought, my own resolve to slay him was set aside, nay,
almost forgotten, in the contemplation of his greatness.
He hath indeed achieved a wondrous conquest—a vast discovery;
but this baseness to the poor Indian, who deems
herself his assured wife—she who hath clung to him with
a devotion like that which her people pay to their pagan
deities—hath stained the image in my mind—hath
tarnished the pure lustre of his fame. Wherefore
should he buy himself from the bondage of Pedrarias,
when brave men stood ready to set him free? Wherefore,
to give freedom to his body, sell his soul and its
affections to a woman who hath already spurned him
from her feet? He hath too surely fallen from his great
eminence by this wretched baseness, and in his fall, I
too have become freed. Never was spirit more enslaved
than mine in the contemplation of this man's greatness.
I sought him with the resolve of one, who beholds in his
enemy a brutal and common stabber; yet, when I looked
upon him, I forgot the purpose in my mind, the dagger in
my hand, and the sweet revenge which I had sworn to
take upon him for a brother's murder. I forget them no
more. Vasco Nunez, thy weakness hath strengthened
me. I am awake, and henceforward I sleep not again
until thou art laid for thy final sleep. The oath is renewed,
though my lips speak it not—here, looking upon
thee—here, with heaven looking into my heart—I bind
myself to the spirit of the dead against thee, as the
unsparing avenger. Hadst thou kept thyself white—
hadst thou not fallen into shame through a worthless
love of life—I had not found it in my heart to have aimed
weapon at thine. But that is over,—and now I only wait
my time.”
Such were the reflections rapidly passing through the
mind of the youth as he stood before the adelantado. That
very day the latter set off for Darien, leaving the Indian
damsel behind him at Acla.
| CHAPTER XVIII.
THE AVENGER STRENGTHENED FOR THE STROKE. The damsel of Darien | |