 | CHAPTER XXI.
LOVE BAFFLES THE SHARP STROKE OF VENGEANCE. The damsel of Darien |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
LOVE BAFFLES THE SHARP STROKE OF VENGEANCE.
The winds slept, and the waters of the sea broke in
gentle murmurs that night upon the lovely shores of
Isla Rica. The serene clouds lay smiling among the
troops of stars that gathered in watchfulness above the
secret lands which were soon to be revealed to less holy
eyes and less gentle powers than their own. No sounds
but those of the ever-sounding deep broke upon the ear
of the evening. The little island on which the warriors
of Vasco Nunez slept, scarcely felt the motion of those
cradling billows by which it was encircled; and to the
half-opened eye of the dreaming cavalier, some more
curious stars than the rest, as if deceived by the universal
silence on the shore, stooped down from their high places,
and swung in air just above the hammock where he slumbered.
The deep, sweet, half-suppressed breathing of the
zephyr came afar across the waves, even from the gardens
of the Incas, and dropping odour where it lingered,
added the charm of mystery to the holier spell of silence;
—and strangely sweet, indeed, to those who still kept
wakeful among the Spanish host, were the passingly
serene effusions of that solemn night beside the sea; and
late, indeed, was the deepening hour when they all slept.
A sensation of fond disquiet, that prompting hope of the
future and the doubtful, which is always a discontent
with the ambitious nature, prolonged the musing meditations
of all; and, to a certain extent, the vague hopes
and expectations of Vasco Nunez,—the dreams and the
fancies, such as grew up naturally in the mind of one
who had found so many wonders, and was now professedly
in search of more—were also those even of the
meanest soldier under his command. The Spaniards of
that day, whatever may have been the avarice and brutal
bloodthirstiness of their natures, were yet of a soaring
utterly insensible to the desire of making themselves
famous among their fellow-men; and there was none so
humble of heart, or so lost to that desire to challenge the
moral echo which prolongs a favourite name among the
habitations of humanity, as to encourage no favourite
fancy, no chosen idol of his individual worship, sometimes,
indeed, even at the expense of the great idol of his
tribe. Each had his own faith in the particular influences
of fortune, and none of them despaired of the realization
of those dreams which, in another and a soberer hour,
they had themselves smiled at and derided. In a scene
such as that which they then occupied, in a night so surpassingly
lovely, on an island surrounded by the billows
of that ocean but a little while before discovered, and
upon which they had just then launched for the first
time—their prows pointed to strange lands, to the dominions
of people of whom wonder already spoke in
winged and fairy accents, while experience stood silent in
no less wonder—sleep might well grow a stranger to
their eyes. It was in vain that their leader strove to
sleep. The very hopes in his mind and heart—the successes
which he had achieved, and the wonders which
his imagination yet continued to create for him still to
conquer,—grew painfully exhausting to the spirit which
they suffered not to sleep. Hour after hour had passed
by, and still he watched, with burning and impatient
thoughts, the twinkling lustre of the starlight, as the
dropping silver of its rays fell among the green leaves by
which he was surrounded. The damsel, in the innocence
and confiding fondness of her heart, already long since
had sunk into a pleasant slumber beside him. He gazed
upon her imperfectly-seen but lovely features with a
painful interest; and his conscience smote him with a
keen pang when he thought of his engagement with
Teresa. She was the more beautiful, but how true had
been the Indian damsel—how faithful and how fond.
How she had clung to him when the danger from Pedrarias
first threatened him—how she had rushed to him in
prison—how she had declared her willingness to die for
him, as for him only she seemed to care to live. These
thoughts renewed the recollection of his own conduct and
the self-rebuke which was inevitable in a mind habituated
for its own sake, and to idolize virtue. He shrunk back
from the subject on which his heart did not seek to justify,
and failed utterly to excuse itself. Great as Vasco Nunez
was in the contemplation of the warlike and adventurous
world, he yet lacked that important essence of genuine
and enduring greatness, the rigid resolve, in spite of passion,
of prejudice, human fear or human hope, in all cases
to be just. The seductions of beauty, the clamours of the
crowd, the thirst for continued conquest, all combined to
make him set aside, if he was not utterly unmindful of,
the claims of the poor Indian; and with a guilty weakness
at his heart,—a cowardice of which the shame that he
felt could not relieve him—he turned his eyes away from
the placid and sweet features of the confiding woman
whose head lay upon his arm, and strove, with closed
eyes, to shut out, in forgetting sleep, the obtrusive and
exciting thoughts, no less than the reproachful memories
which had kept him so long wakeful. At length he slept.
His deep breathing soon apprised the anxious and revengeful
Pedro that the hour was come, and the victim
at his mercy. He put aside the tangled leaves among
which he had shrouded himself, with a calm and careful
hand. He advanced into the area of the sylvan antechamber,
and finally stood at the entrance of that into
which it led, and where Vasco Nunez lay. He stopped
at this spot. His grasp of the dagger, had taken hold,
along with the handle of the weapon, of a part of the long
sleeve of his doublet. He cautiously rolled up the sleeve,
and it was a subject of satisfactory surprise in his mind
that he felt himself so cool and collected. His limbs
seemed as rigid as if the flesh had been all muscle.
He stept, and felt as if his nerves had on a sudden been
hardened into steel.
“This is as it should be,” he muttered to himself. “If
there be little strength in my limbs, there are, at least, no
tremors in them. If my arm be feeble, there is yet no
feebleness or fear in my heart. A single stroke—but one
—well given and well placed—will acquit me of this
sworn performance. Hold your lights fairly, ye stars,
that I may see where to rest the keen point of my dagger.”
The same resolution attended him as he advanced into
rude forest couch on which Vasco Nunez and the damsel
slept. The broad manly bosom of the adelantado, from
which the covering, in the warm summer night of that
bland atmosphere, had been discarded, lay bare to the
stroke. He stood above him, and his arm was uplifted.
Deep sleep was upon the warrior. His limbs lay motionless.
But an ill-directed stroke—a blow to graze the
breast, not reach the heart, would rouse him into instantaneous
and dangerous life. For the first time, the assassin
felt an emotion. It was not fear, but anxiety that
moved him. Not the dread of his enemy, but that failing
to strike fatally, he should be for ever after defeated in
his purpose. He would most probably fall before the
powerful arm of the stricken man ere he could strike a
second. His own breathing for the first time became
suspended. It was needful that his blow should be justly
aimed, and he stood between the starlight and his victim's
breast. He changed his position—the full, broad chest
of the warrior, scarred already by many weapons, and
bronzed by frequent exposure to a fierce sun, lay open to
his sight and weapon. With an eye as clear, and a spirit
as free from any sentiment of fear or apprehension, as
might be found in the most obdurate of all bosoms, Pedro
prepared himself for the performance of his act of vengeance.
Yet, perilous as was delay in such a situation,
his nature was one of that contemplative character which
did not seem satisfied merely to strike. It was thought,
however erring, not impulse—not blind hate, or unreflecting
passion—which made him resolve to be an assassin;
and, indeed, but for this thought he had not proceeded so
coolly to his dreadful work.—He, a mere boy, feeble of
limb, unfamiliar with deeds of strife, unskilful with the
very weapon which he wielded!
“One blow, truly aimed, and this mighty man sleeps
for ever. This man that has conquered nations and is a
wonder to his own—whose giant energies have overpassed
and broken down all barriers—whose courage
has dared all dangers, and whose genius has left all other
wings behind him—lies now at the mercy of the feeblest
follower of his train. What a blow will that be which
slays him. Acla and Darien will hear his last groan.
His fall will shake, not Darien only, but Spain—and I!—
that the arm which struck the man of most might in this
strange world, was that of one feeble as a woman? It
matters little to me what they know or hear. It matters
less what they conjecture. Enough that I am sworn.
Jorge, my brother, be nigh me at this moment and approve!
This blow avenges thee on thy murderer! Vasco
Nunez, the smile and the dagger meet above thee—thou
diest!”
The bright steel gleamed suddenly upon the opening
eyes of the damsel. A wild shriek from her lips answered
his half-spoken soliloquy, while her hand, thrown up by
the prompt instinct of affection, caught and arrested the
arm of the assassin, ere the blow could reach the heart at
which it was directed. The dagger's point hung suspended
above it—its course controlled and defeated by
the two opposing hands.
“Ha! my lord! awake! arise! Help, help for my lord!”
was the rapid and renewed cry of Careta; but her words
were spoken in her native language. Forgetting her imperfect
Spanish in that moment of her terror, she could
articulate none other than her own. And vainly, by its
fervent and frequent repetition, did she strive to arouse
the sleeping warrior. Her terrors increased as she
found that, in spite of all her clamours, and the struggle
going on above him, between herself and the assassin,
she could not break that apathetic sleep which enveloped
his person; and which, so tenacious was it of the hold
taken upon the wearied limbs of the chief, almost led her
to fear that some blow, given by the murderer ere she
awakened, had already taken fatal effect upon his life.
His deep breathing only reassured her at length, and but
once, amidst all her cries and struggles, did it seem to be
suspended. He turned uneasily for an instant—muttered
some indistinct words, and relapsed into a sleep as heavy
as before. Bitter was the exclamation which in her own
language she made, as the conviction reached her mind
that the assassin might escape from her grasp and renew
his assault, before her efforts to arouse the sleeper to his
danger could prove successful. Her prayer was now in
Spanish to that protecting mother whom she had been so
recently taught to invoke. Her own strength was fast
violence on the part of the assassin.
“Blessed Virgin! Holy Mother of God! strengthen
me!—preserve my lord!”
A whisper from the assailant reached her ear. The
voice was disguised—the accents came to her with a
hoarseness that tended still farther to terrify her.
“Pray rather that he may be destroyed—he loves thee
not, Careta.”
“Who speaks thus to Careta—who art thou?”
“The enemy of Vasco Nunez.”
“Ha! Then I hate thee. Ho! my lord,—my dear lord!
Arouse thee—awaken! There is an enemy beside thee.
A man who would slay—”
“Fool! Thou takest pains against thyself. He loves
thee not. He loves and is to wed with Teresa, the daughter
of Don Pedrarias, who is now at Darien. Give me
way, that I may avenge both thyself and me!”
But his words tended only to impel the faithful woman
to renewed clamours and greater efforts. The struggle,
long as it may have taken to describe, so far had lasted
but a few moments only. The assassin vainly strove to
induce her silence, by whispering words of startling and
vexing import to her ears, and, failing in this, as he could
not hope that the warrior would possibly sleep on in spite
of the continued shrieks which she uttered, it became necessary
on his part to make an effort, at least, for his own
release. The desperateness of his situation rendered this
effort effectual. He broke from her hold, not without
some difficulty, and then, as he saw that Vasco Nunez
still slept, and unwilling to forego the opportunity in
availing himself of which he had been so far baffled, he
prepared in the next instant to renew his attempt. But
the moment of his extrication from the grasp of the
damsel found her erect, between him and his sleeping
victim, and ready to receive in her own bosom the weapon,
if she was no longer able to baffle it. But her
clamours, though even then they had failed to waken the
destined victim, yet roused up others in the encampment,
less rigidly bound than himself in the chains of sleep.
Lights waved in the woods and glared among the leaves,
and the sound of approaching voices might be heard in
more than one quarter of the encampment. Cursing his
prepared to depart. A single imprecation escaped his
lips, as his eye glared with furious animosity upon the
woman who had baffled him, and upon the victim, who
still lay, so far as his own powers of resistance were involved,
completely at his mercy. But the moment had
gone by, and he was now compelled to think of his own
escape—not that life might be saved, for of that the
avenger had little care—but that his vengeance might
yet find an opportunity, and use it with better fortune.
Still collected and resolved, he made his way out of the
enclosure with equal certainty and stealth, by the aperture
through which he had entered; and in the uncertainty of
vision produced by the glare of the approaching lights,
Careta knew not that he was gone until, under the guidance
of her now awakened lord, the search made after
him proved utterly unsuccessful. It was no small addition
to her annoyance that Vasco Nunez ascribed her terrors
solely to her fancy. He laughed at her fears—boldly
declared the assassin to have been the creation of her
dreams—for—
“How idle,” he continued, “to suppose that such a
strife should take place over a soldier's bosom—he quick
to waken at the smallest alarm,—and be prolonged, as
thou sayest, Careta, for such a space of time. Thou hast
dreamed a frightful dream, Careta; such as might have
troubled thee when I lay in prison at Darien. But thou
forgettest I am in Darien no longer—that my enemies there
are now my friends—that—”
The tears filled her eyes, and her accents—for she interrupted
him at this moment—were tremulous with pain
and fear. A new recollection filled her mind, and one
of the events of the struggle already related, came
freshly to her recollection for the first time since it occurred.
“It may be a dream, my lord; nay, now that I think
of it, it must have been a dream. I had speech of the
assassin—he spoke of thee, my lord, as his enemy—nay,
more, he said thou wert mine.”
“Thine—thy enemy!” exclaimed the chief, with a
laugh; “that is enough to show thee it was a dream that
troubled thee. None had surely told thee so great a folly
with a hope to have been believed in his falsehood.”
“I did not believe him, my lord; but he said thou wert
that thou didst not love thy poor Careta.”
“Ha! said he this, Careta?” demanded the adelantado;
and could she at that moment have beheld his pale and
guilty features, she would have found in them but a melancholy
confirmation of what his lips denied.
“Even such were his words, my lord.”
“It was a dream that troubled thee, Careta,” said the
chief, in slow accents, and after a brief pause. “Let it
trouble thee no more. Get thee to sleep, my girl—get
thee to sleep.”
But he himself returned not to the couch to which he
despatched the damsel. There was that of guilty reproach
in his heart, which would not suffer him to sleep.
There was a strange apprehension also. Things, so
far, strangely tallied with the prediction of the astrologer.
The dagger had threatened him—and the fact
stated by Careta, as having been communicated by the
assassin, convinced him against his own assurances to
her, that it was no dream. There was an enemy near
him, hostile to his life—base enough to attempt it while
he slept; and, though baffled for the moment, yet no
doubt sufficiently earnest in his resolution to renew his
bloody purpose. The threatening danger aroused his
wonted promptness and decision. He put on his armour,
and went forth into the encampment—commanding at the
same time the presence of all his little army at the brigantines.
His suspicions, if he had any in particular, lay
among his officers. He knew the jealousy and vain ambition
of that class of Spaniards, and his eye, in the keenness
of which he had great confidence, seemed to scarch
their very souls while he looked into their faces. But
he dismissed them, without discovery, to their several
duties.
“With the dawn,” he said to Francisco Compañon, the
captain of one of his brigantines, “be in readiness for
the cruise among the Pearl Islands. It lacks but little
more than two hours to the time. I shall be upon your
deck with the first glimmer of the gray. See that you
be not sleeping.”
Pedro, the secretary, appeared with the rest, with a
countenance more calm, and nerves less discomposed
than any among that array of hardened men. When
the tree where they had left the astrologer to his repose.
While they went they spoke of the late alarm in the encampment.
“I should have thought it but a dream,” said Vasco
Nunez, “even as thou say'st, but for the speech which
Careta tells me the assassin made her.”
He then related the communication touching his projected
marriage with Teresa.
“But why, my lord, may she not have dreamed this
also?”
“Scarcely, unless she had some previous knowledge of
the fact.”
“This she may have had.”
“Impossible! I have studiously withheld it from her;
for, to speak to you a truth, Pedro, my heart misgives
me that I do her grievous wrong. I would it were not
so—I would that she had less feeling for me—I dare not
send her from me; yet, ere long she must know all—and
then—”
A smile of bitterness passed over the secretary's lips
as he spoke: “What need the Adelantado of Darien to
heed this matter so greatly? The girl is but an Indian—”
“Hush, Pedro! I like neither the words thou say'st,
nor the tone in which thou speakest them. The girl is
but an Indian—but what an Indian! How true—how
fond—how faithful! True, fond, and faithful to Vasco
Nunez when nearly all other hearts in Darien were false.
No more of this. The matter is strange enough to
make me thoughtful, and threatens enough to make me
careful. Henceforward thou shalt sleep in my outer
chamber. I can trust thee, Pedro—thee, perchance, and
none other in all this array, unless it be Micer Codro.”
“I am sworn to thee, my lord!—even in death be sure
I shall not be far distant from thy side,” replied the youth
with a warmth that seemed to confirm the force of his
words, the equivocalness of which was unperceived by
the speaker.
“I thank thee, Pedro; and it is of no small consolation
to me in the strife with so many open foes, and so many
secret traitors, that I can turn to one, even though his
arm be feeble like thine, with confidence and trust.”
“Thou wilt not always deem my arm feeble, señor—
there will come a time—”
“Nay, Pedro, think not I reproach thee—I deem
thy arm strangely feeble, only when I contemplate the
strength of thy spirit. But this should be the tree. What
ho! Micer Codro!”
The summons was unanswered.
“Methinks,” said Pedro, “I behold the old man walking
upon the beach before us. His white beard gleams
like so much silver.”
“It is he. Let us join him.”
“My son,” said the astrologer, when they met, “since
thou left'st me I have been watching these strange signs.
The dagger threatens thee no more. It is the smile only
which thou hast need to fear.”
“Nay, I have no fear of either, Micer Codro, though if
all that is said be true, thy prophecy is sadly out; for this
night have I been threatened by the dagger when there
was too little starlight to behold a smile. But come—get
thyself in readiness for the brigantine—get thy scales,
thy glasses, and thy measures. This day will I take thee
over all the Pearl Islands, where, I trust, the treasures of
earth which thou shalt find, will make thee for awhile forget
those capricious and deceiving lights of heaven.”
“Shall I not also attend thee, señor?” demanded the
secretary.
“No, Pedro; thou wilt need this day to finish the despatches
for Don Pedrarias; and I have a note which thou
shalt copy for Hernando de Arguello. The Leon brigantine
departs for the Balsas this day, should the wind
favour, at noon; and that hour thy despatches must be in
readiness for Lope de Olano, whose messenger, with
tidings from Darien, will be at the Balsas awaiting her
arrival. There must be no delay in this. In our next
voyage thou shalt go with us—but now—there is yet
another reason”—in a whisper—“Keep thine eyes about
thee here at Isla Rica. Thine eyes are keener than most
others. I mistrust that some creature of Enciso is among
us. None other could have sought my place of rest with
the dagger of the assassin. Seize, if thou suspectest—I
give thee full power to this end.”
| CHAPTER XXI.
LOVE BAFFLES THE SHARP STROKE OF VENGEANCE. The damsel of Darien | |