 | CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SCALES CLOSING FAST OVER THE EYES OF THE EAGLE. The damsel of Darien |  |
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SCALES CLOSING FAST OVER THE EYES OF THE EAGLE.
The secretary of Vasco Nunez received his instructions
from Don Pedrarias before he was despatched to the presence
of his daughter.
“She hath consented—she will write,” were his words,
“and write as we would have her, beguiling the lion to
the pit, though she knows nothing of our purpose. She
would, however, first hear from thee those pleasant remembrances,
so sweet to dreaming boys and half-fledged
maidens, which, to such are natural enough, and which I
have persuaded her the Señor Vasco entrusted to thy
keeping for her ears. I have given her to believe that but
for pressing toils and urgent necessities, alone, he would
have written those tender matters at large, which he hath
otherwise been compelled to give to thy charge in spoken
words. I am but ill suited to repeat these toys which
thou wilt manage better than myself. See that thy invention
be more fertile than mine—let thy fancy couch
fairly, and spring with a free pinion, for I trow such is
the sort of speech of most lovers, and of the Señor
Vasco, chief among them. He hath a high and swelling
utterance, as if all Castile was mighty in his throat.
Manage thou thy part rightly, and this swelling spirit
shall be brought as low as revenge itself could wish.
Remember, only, she hath no thought of this. I fear me
she loves this traitor—traitor as he is—and would warn
him of the danger, did she fear it, though the warning
sped the arrow of death at the bosom of her own father.
Be ripe, Pedro, in thy caution. Weigh thy words
—let none which are light escape thee. Seest thou not
of this wily traitor, and hath not spared her censure
when she hath found me hostile. Wife, daughter, friend,
captain, all hath his cunning moved to work against my
will. Be thou faithful, and thou shalt grow superior to
them all in the favour of Pedrarias.”
The secretary heard this communication with ill-concealed
scorn.
“This base creature, who would make his own child
the instrument to destroy one whom he deems she loves,
he fancies that in this behalf I toil for him. Would it
were that I did not. That it were not needful, in securing
my own purpose of revenge, I should toil for his also.
I am his tool, his agent. Ha! ha! Have I not sharpened
his dull wits and jealous fears, that he should be
mine?”
Such were the thoughts of the secretary, as he left the
presence of the governor. The commission entrusted to
him now was in no wise disagreeable. A minor sentiment
made it gratifying. He was curious to note in how
much the maiden might suffer loss by the death of Vasco
Nunez.
“I believe not,” said he as he went, “this story of her
love for him. The old man, Micer Codro, hath more than
once, in mine own hearing, counselled Vasco Nunez
against too much faith in her words; and from other
tongues than his, I have learned to look upon her as
one selfish, cold, jealous, and malignant as Pedrarias.
We shall see. It is well I destroyed not the letter of
Vasco Nunez. It will help this purpose to yield it to her
hands. But how? It hath been told her that I brought
none. Stay! There is no trouble in this. The tender
speech of lovers is nothing for public ear. The doves go
apart from the flock in the season of their affections, and
it is easy to say, I was bidden to give this letter in secret
to my lady's own hands. This will do—this will do; and
for the rest, as the skies counsel.”
Teresa Davila was surprised by the presentation of the
letter from her lover—a circumstance that somewhat
added to the difficulty of comprehending the relation in
which her father stood with him. The plausible talk of
the secretary which naturally accounted for the ignorance
of Don Pedrarias on the subject of this communication,
something wrong between them; and, it followed, in the
perusal of the letter, which in fact contained nothing more
than those ordinary expressions of attachment which were
to be expected in such a communication, that her prompt
imagination did not fail to detect much that was occult
and mysterious. Single expressions were seized upon
here and there, upon which to build some considerable
structures of suspicious conjecture, and when, from her
conversation with Pedro, she discovered that Vasco Nunez
was in fact, if not in law, utterly independent of her
father, and might bid him defiance and prosper, her subtle
mind readily understood the fear which had seized upon
that of the governor, and in which she did not fail with
equal promptness to participate.
“With four brigantines, and nearly four hundred
men, Pedro,” said the lady, “the adelantado must surely
meditate some great exploit. He will not linger at Isla
Rica. He hath launched too boldly forth upon this strange
ocean to pause now, and return. Will he not adventure
upon noble conquests? Meditates he nothing of this
sort? Methinks thou shouldst know, being his favoured
secretary; methinks it were not unfitting that he should
stretch his sails for strange lands, of which we have not
heard in Darien. It were, perhaps, something against his
orders, but thou knowest the Señor Vasco is a great favourite
with the king, and such little excess might be suffered
in consideration of the wondrous discoveries he
hath already made, and may yet make in his journeys.
It were, I doubt not, easier for my father to forgive his
wanderings, than for me to forgive his absence.”
The secretary answered the maiden with a degree of
subtlety even greater than her own. He saw which way
her suspicions tended, and encouraged them. He gave a
glowing picture of the passion of adventure—another
name for ambition—on the part of his master; of whom
he declared himself a devoted admirer; and with an
enthusiasm which seemed to arise from the simple overflowings
of his zeal, he cunningly depicted the delights of
that sort of life to which he described Vasco Nunez as
particularly inclining. Isla Rica was declared to be a
paradise—the South Sea a world of wonders, which amply
atoned for the absence of all the world beside—and
forget the claims of the person before whom he stood,
he let fall certain judicious hints of the Indian damsel—of
her beauty, and her invariable attendance upon all those
expeditions which formed the constant business of the
chief.
“Enough, Pedro,” said the maiden, with an air of
hauteur which fully assured the secretary that he had
gained his object; “enough! ere sunset you will receive
a letter from me for the hands of the Señor Vasco.”
“She hath it!” exclaimed the secretary, exultingly, as
he left the presence. “She hath it, and he will have it
soon. The shaft hath hit the true mark, and the wound
rankles, and will be sore enough till all is over. A proud,
cold creature! Truly doth the Señor Vasco deserve his
doom, if it were only for the foolish crime of doing wrong
to one so pure, so lovely as Careta, in tribute to one,
lovely though she be, yet scant of soul, and utterly
heartless, as is this Lady Teresa. She, too, is my instrument—she,
and the vain old fool, her father—and the base
and brutal Pizarro—they are all my instruments—my
tools of might, my weapons of vengeance. I am weak
and feeble, am I!” He surveyed his slight frame and
slender arms as he spoke, while a smile of mingled
bitterness and triumph overspread his lips. “Who shall
say that I am weak, when I wield such instruments as
these? The strong man moves the sword, and I move
him. The ambitious and the cunning leap into station
and gain the eminence, and I command all the powers
due to their station. It is a just providence, indeed, that
my superior wit and wisdom reconciles the inequalities of
mere brute capacity. What is the lion's strength to the
serpent's fang—the rage of the wild bull to the agile anger
of the mountain eagle? Neither the strength of the beast,
nor the speed of the bird is in my limbs. Shall it be forbidden
me that I meet their anger with the wisdom and
the venom of the serpent?”
The letter of Teresa Davila was in readiness at the
time appointed. Shall we add that it fully answered the
contemplated objects of the father—that it answered the
fond protestations of her lover, with such protestations
as lovers are wont to love, yet fully kept itself within that
nice, yet well-marked boundary of reserve, which seems
when they are willing to forego what may
also be designated as a womanly policy. And yet, while
she penned the epistle which was intended to bring to
her feet the person whom she so professed to love, she
felt more than doubtful of the reception which he would
get from her father. She saw that the suspicions of
Don Pedrarias were already in arms, and all his caution
failed to blind her to the truth, that, if he had not determined
to hate where she was sworn to love, it was not
her love that would keep him from a condition of mind to
which he was rapidly hurrying, and which would give
activity to hate, and arm it with all the-weapons of unsparing
hostility.
Pedrarias had already prepared his despatches for
Vasco Nunez, and these, no less treacherously designed
than the letter of Teresa, were placed in the hands of the
messengers, who set forth for Acla by dawn of the day
following. When a day had elapsed from their departure,
he commanded Francisco Pizarro to put the whole force
of the settlement under arms. These he reviewed, and
from these selecting a strong body of the stoutest veterans,
he placed them under the command of the fierce
soldier just named, and sent him forth to meet the returning
messengers with their victim. This commission
against his old commander was readily received by the
unscrupulous Pizarro. No less base than bloody, the
ambition of the vulgar and selfish mind by which he was
wholly governed, made him regard with indifference, or,
at least, without shame or compunction, the office of arresting
a leader who had always treated him with distinguished
favour, and shared with him freely of his spoils
and glories. He followed the course of the messengers, prepared
with cool resolution to perform a farther part in that
treachery in which his share was already so considerable.
It was not to be supposed that these things could take
place in Darien, and these movements be made without
attracting some attention, and provoking some suspicion
among the people of the real purposes of the governor.
The arrest of Arguello, the special friend, and, indeed,
the partner of Vasco Nunez in several leading enterprises,
was enough to alarm the few persons in Darien who were
favourable to the adelantado. These, however, were too
apprising him of his danger; and the emissaries reached
Isla Rica and delivered their despatches to the warrior,
without his having the slightest suspicion of the true object
of their mission. The letters of Pedrarias were
couched in language of the most friendly confidence and
affection, and that of Teresa Davila, was a spell upon his
understanding, through the medium of his heart, which at
once deprived it of all acuteness. That she should use
such tender language—that she should declare so earnest
a desire for his presence, was a charm too potent to be
withstood. And while he pored over the beguiling billet,
he utterly forgot the Indian damsel, whose eye watched
his countenance the while with feelings of that instinct
apprehensiveness which is, perhaps, never utterly absent
from the bosom which truly loves. Long and fondly had
he lingered over the page, whose every accent found so
ready a response from the deepest chambers of his own
heart, ere his eye caught the sad, earnest, but sweet gaze
of the Indian girl, and then his conscience smote him, and
he averted his glance from hers while he said, in tones as
much hurried by delight as by his own rebuking spirit—
“Careta, I must leave thee—I am summoned to Darien.
Here are despatches from Don Pedrarias, urgently commanding
my presence. I will leave thee here at Isla
Rica, or thou wilt go with me to Acla; and—and—
Careta, wouldst thou not wish to go to thy father in
Coyba for a season?”
“Does my lord wish that Careta should go from his
sight? Is my lord sad to look upon the Indian?” she demanded
mournfully.
“Nay, Careta, why shouldst thou speak in this fashion?
Why should I be sorry to look on thee? Thou art lovely
to the sight; and do I not know that thou art good,
Careta, as thou art beautiful? Why, then, should I be
sad to look on thee?”
“Wherefore, then, would my lord send me from his
presence? Wherefore should I stay in Isla Rica when he
is away at Darien?”
“Nay, if thou wishest it, Careta, thou shalt go with me
to Acla. Thou canst remain at Acla in more safety until
I come from Darien; though, it may be, thou wouldst
better prefer to go for a season to thy father in Coyba?”
“Father and mother and people, did I leave to follow
my lord. Does my lord now say that I shall not follow
him?”
“No, Careta, I say not this—but wherefore shouldst
thou suffer the toil of this journey? It would kill thee
to go with me whithersoever I go, among dangers which
thou canst oppose with no strength, and taking upon thee
a fatigue which is needless, full of pain, and without
profit.”
“I have no pain—I feel no fatigue—I fear no danger—
when I can look upon my lord. I will go with thee, my
lord, to Darien, as I have gone with thee every where
before.”
Her pertinacity, expressed at the same time with so
much fondness and humility, gave him no small uneasiness.
A guilty conscience all the while working in his
breast, added to his annoyance, and enfeebled his judgment.
“I must put an end to this,” was the muttered resolution
of his mind. “If she goes with me to Darien, it will
be impossible to keep from her this knowledge. She will
see Teresa—she will hear from all around her, what
hitherto I have kept from her ears, and the worst will be
that Teresa will learn that which might be for ever fatal
to my hopes. On each side is vexation—but on that is
something more. Better she should know all at once—
better she should hear the truth at Isla Rica, than at
Darien. But I cannot speak it. Her looks crush me
with a weight of shame. Her sad, tearful eyes, sadder of
late than I have noted them before—her words of imperfect
speech, full of a mournful tenderness—these go to
my heart, and reproach me with the sorrows she has yet
to feel. I would to God I had never seen her. It were
less cruel for me to have slain her, after the brutal fashion
of our people, than to have taught her hopes and feelings
on which the cruel necessity makes me trample, as if I
cared for them nothing. It is a pledge to Pedrarias and
Teresa—it was the condition of my life and release. I
cannot, in honour, fly from this marriage. That is written—and
she—poor Careta—I dare not meet her eyes.”
His own desires taught Vasco Nunez a sophistry
which, under other circumstances, his judgment would
have scorned. If his honour was pledged to Teresa, it
however inferior they might be felt in some respects, were
at least superior from priority to all others; and the fact
that he obtained his release from prison, and probably his
life by such pledges, was no justification for a man no less
brave than honourable, who had faced death a thousand
times before, and should have faced it upon the scaffold,
sooner than have departed from that sworn faith which
formed the basis of another's love and life. Nor, indeed,
did Vasco Nunez succeed in justifying himself by such
reasoning. While he strove thus to deceive himself, the
burning blush upon his cheek, and the sinking of his
eyes when he met the glance of the untutored and inferior
Indian, were conclusive even to himself of the dishonourable
and worthless character of the plea. All that
may be said in his behalf, will fail of his defence in this
grand, and, we may add, almost the only leading error of
his conspicuous life; and it is only to be extenuated by
the fact that he was the victim of oppressive circumstances,
and of a passion which has been so long found
to be tyrannical, as almost to furnish a justification for
those perjuries of its victims at which Jove himself is
said to laugh. Vasco Nunez could not meet the eyes of
the poor Indian whose deep devotedness and fervent love
made his own infidelity so cruelly unjust. But his determination
was made, to apprise her of his engagement
with Teresa, as the only means, short of absolute harshness,
by which to prevent her going with him to Darien.
To do this in person he found to be impossible, and he
sought the friendly aid of the astrologer.
“Micer Codro, to you in part I owe my present position.
You made it the condition of my release with Pedrarias,
that I should wed his daughter. The time is at
hand. I return with these messengers to Darien, and if
I may presume upon the contents of the letter from Teresa,
we shall then be married. It will not do that Careta
should go with me to Darien; yet she persists in the desire
to do so. She must know the truth—she will know
it ere very long; and it were the best policy that she
should know it now, and keep from Darien. I would
have sent her to Coyba, but she is resolved to be with me
—to follow me wheresoever I go—and there is but one
way to check this resolution—and that is by a full declaration
I cannot. My voice cleaves to my throat when I approach
the subject, and my strength leaves me. It is to you I turn
to do for me this painful office.”
“Painful indeed!” replied the other, “painful and pitiful.
No Christian spirit was ever more pure—no woman
that ever lived, more fond, more true, more worthy of the
love of man. Vasco Nunez, my son, I share with you
the dishonour and the pang; and bitterly now do I repent
me of the share I had in this deed, since I feel the difficulty
that attends escape, and the faithlessness which, one
way or another, the attempt to escape involves.”
“There is no escape,” replied Vasco Nunez.
“Ay, but there is,” said the other, “and I have thought
painfully and long upon this matter, and not without the
hope that the Blessed Mother would guide my thought
rightly to the just conclusion.”
“What is thy thought. Micer Codro?”
“That thou shouldst not wed Teresa Davila.”
“Ha! This is strange! How canst thou counsel
me thus?—thou, too, from whom came that other counsel
which has led me to this tie.”
“A sad error of mine, but made in thy necessity—
committed when they cause was hopeless—when thou
wert threatened with a sharp and sudden death. It
was the condition of thy release—I prayed thee to accept
of escape and life, but not this woman. Thou
know'st, at all other times, how I bade thee beware of
her bonds.”
“Ay, ay! But thy connsel at the last was of easier
performance than all thy other counsels; and thy success
too great to leave thee or me hope of escape now.”
“Nay, but there is hope. Better thou shouldst break
with Pedrarias—and with Teresa, than do the great
wrong to this poor daughter of the heathen, which will
follow thy marriage with Teresa. She is worthy to be
thy wife—make her so.”
“And make Pedrarias mine enemy, and break my
plighted faith—my honour—”
“That is broken if thou wed other than this Indian
damsel. Thy honour binds thee doubly to her. Hear
me, son Vasco. Thou hast now no reason to fear Pedrarias,
and as little to love Teresa Davila. They neither
thy achievements.”
“I believe not that,” replied the other hastily. “Thou
wrongest Teresa, as thou hast ever wronged her. Hadst
thou read this, Micer Codro,” lifting the letter as he spoke,
“thou hadst held other language.”
“No! no! Hypocrisy speaks sweet words, when love
speaks only the truth. I care not for the letter—I would
not read it. Do thou, my son, do this Indian damsel justice.
Let the Jeronymite friar, Becerra, wed thee after the
custom of the Holy Church.”
“Micer Codro, it is too late. I am sworn otherwise.
Besides, were I to do this, it were at once to arm Pedrarias
against me.”
“And what needst thou care for the hate of Pedrarias,
and wherefore shouldst thou fear his arms? Can
he hurt—can he overtake thee? Hast thou not four
strong, well-manned vessels at thy command. Are not
thy warriors brave and numerous. Movest thou not
upon this great and glorious sea, which has never done
homage to any prow but thine own, and mayst thou
not bid defiance to the hostility of this tyrant, who hath
but too long trampled upon thy rights and upon thy
feelings, with all the insolence of power and all the
malevolence of hate. Thou art free, Vasco Nunez—
free at last—and no will but thine own can again enslave
thee. The winds are at thy wish. The barriers
of the sea are down—there is nothing to chain thy
footsteps—nothing to curb thy wing; and thy own
thought has already counselled thee to strive for a richer
dominion than any—ay, any—ever yet given to the
Spaniard. If thou not obey these calls to glory—if
the summons to freedom—the trumpet summons of the
soul—still sounds unheeded by thy spirit; then take
counsel even of thy fears, and be warned against this
union with Teresa. Nay, more—be warned against obedience
to this invitation of Pedrarias to meet with him
at Darien. There are bloody signs in the firmament—
there is death upon thy backward path. The blessed
stars counsel thee to flight—the threatening star striving
against them with unabated malignity. Oh, my son,
hearken for the last time to thy friend—to one who hath
Davila, thou weddest thy fate—thy death. Take this
Indian girl to thy heart in the eye of the Holy Church,
then speed, with the blessing of God upon thy path, from
the sight of Pedrarias. Speed to those southern lands of
which thy thought is so lively, and thy speech so warm.
Speed from thy foes to thy conquests—to what is more,
and what thou canst never have while thou hast communion
with Pedrarias—to thy freedom.”
“No more! no more! I cannot hear thee, Micer Codro.
I am pledged solemnly to Pedrarias and his daughter.
Truth, justice, honour—all forbid that I become a
traitor to my troth.”
“Truth, honour, justice—all forbid that thou shouldst
marry other than Careta.”
“Thou thought'st not thus, when thou thyself pledged
me to Pedrarias for his daughter.”
“The pledge was worthless, made by thee in bonds,
and with the terrors of death before thee.”
“I cannot think so, Micer Codro. I must keep my
faith.”
“Alas! my son—it is love which pleads against the
poor Careta—love pleading against love; and oh! worst
of all, pleading in behalf of hate—of heartlessness!—”
“Be it so!” exclaimed the other, interrupting him. “It
is now too late.”
“No! no! Not too late,—there is help—there is
flight!—”
“Let me die first!” said Vasco Nunez, resolutely.
“I am resolved, Micer Codro—wilt thou speak with
Careta?”
“I dare not! I cannot, my son. Looking in her eyes,
—beholding her sorrows so deep, so undeserved—I should
curse myself for my share in them—I should curse thee
too that can witness them in vain.”
“Enough! The task must be my own. Bitter as it
may be, I must perform it. I have lived too long, if my
tongue may not utter without fear, the resolution of my
soul!”
“Cruel! cruel resolution! Vasco Nunez, thy words
will kill her. This, from thy lips, will be her death. If
thou art, indeed, thus resolved, I will see her. She shall
invoke heaven's vengeance on my own head and thine.”
The head of Vasco Nunez rested against a palm-tree,
hot and heavy, while a strange sickness of heart and
feebleness of limbs seemed to paralyse his faculties. He
would have called out to the astrologer as he departed,
but the tongue refused its office—his lips were parched,
and even had they been willing, there was no coherent
thought in his mind to which words could have given
utterance.
| CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SCALES CLOSING FAST OVER THE EYES OF THE EAGLE. The damsel of Darien | |