University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

The day had been one of considerable bustle in Havana, and
Don Balthazar had been very busy all the morning. Juan de
Anasco, the contador, a brave, choleric little fellow, who united
all the qualities of the soldier, with the experience of the sailor,
had been a second time dispatched to coast the shores of Florida,
in order to find a proper harbor to which the expedition might
sail direct. He arrived the previous night, after a protracted
voyage of three months, during which great fears were entertained
that he had been lost at sea. His escape had been a narrow
one, and it will illustrate the superstitions of his time and
people, to show how he returned thanks to Heaven for his restoration
and safety. In fulfilment of a vow, made at a moment of
extreme peril, he and all his crew, the moment they reached the
shores of Havana, threw themselves upon their knees, and in
this manner crawled to church to hear mass. Then he made
his report of disasters and discoveries, and described a secure
harbor which he had found in Florida. The armament of De
Soto had been nearly ready for several days before. It needed
now but little further preparation, and waited, in fact, but a favorable
wind. The report of Anasco stimulated the industry of
all parties. De Soto was impatient to depart, and his desires
were so many keen spurs in the sides of the lieutenants, keeping
them incessantly employed. Don Balthazar, as we have mentioned,
had been very busy all the morning, and hence, perhaps,
his rather free indulgence in the pleasures of the wine-cup after
the toils of the day were over.

That night there was a great feast to be given by the Adelantado,
to the cavaliers and chiefs of his army, and the principal
persons of Havana. It was the policy of De Soto to keep up
the enthusiasm of his people in regard to the expedition, and to
conciliate the affections of those whom he was to leave behind him
under the government of his wife. To this feast, as a matter of
course, the two Portuguese brothers were invited, and Andres, the
younger, though just recovered from his illness, had resolved to
attend. Not so, Philip. He had fully resolved not to accompany
the expedition;—we have seen with what reason. He enjoyed
no command, and felt that he had not made himself friends
among the Spaniards, and that he could never become the favorite
of the Adelantado. But his chief reason, perhaps, lay in the
growth of his hopes of favor in the eyes of Olivia de Alvaro. If
she approved and consented to his prayer, the conquest of Florida
would possess no attractions in his eyes. His ambition had grown
moderate, as his love increased in fervor. His passion for adventure
had suddenly become subdued in the birth and growth
of a more powerful passion. If Olivia smiled, what was Florida
to him? He cared nothing for its golden treasures. The pearls
which it seemed to proffer were worthless, in comparison with
those of love. And he was hopeful. That Olivia loved him he
could scarcely doubt. Her eyes had shown it—her emotions—
the public voice seemed to proclaim it; and Nuno de Tobar, who
brought him the favorable reports of his gay young wife, held it
to be beyond all question, and solemnly assured him to this effect.
But Nuno was not prepared to countenance the lover in
his refusal to take part in the expedition. He himself was about
to leave the young and beautiful creature whom he had just wedded;
why should Philip de Vasconselos be more anxious than
himself? Why should so brave a cavalier refuse all opportunities
of glory and conquest, and great treasure, and power, simply
because he was a lover? The notion seemed to him perfectly
ridiculous, and he greatly resented the absence from the
feast upon which Philip had resolved.

“It will never do, Philip,” said he.

“But it must do, Nuno,” answered the other gayly. “What
should I do at this supper? I shall not be a favorite, if present.
I shall win none of De Soto's smiles, and, in truth, I care not to
win them;—and I shall not be missed if absent. There will be
enough to shout their hopes and desires, and to respond, with
sweet echoes, to the fine promises of De Soto. There will be
enough for the wine, at all events, and I should be only out of
place in a scene for which my temper does not fit me. Besides,
my presence will only have the effect of persuading the Adelantado
that I will yet accompany the expedition.”

“And you must, Philip; we cannot well do without you.”

“I have not been treated, Nuno, as if such were the common
opinion.”

“But it is, no matter how they have treated you; such is their
conviction, no less than mine!”

“Then are they the most ungrateful rascals in the world, and
the greater fools, too,” replied Philip. “But not to vex you,
Nuno, (and for your sake I should really wish to go, were it
proper that I should, under the present circumstances), I am
grown too tender-hearted for war! Its image now offends me. I
see nothing persuasive in the aspect of glory: there is nothing
sweet in the music of a trumpet charge, though it leads to victory.
My dream now is of repose, of a sweet solitude in the shade,
with a pair of loving eyes looking ever into mine, and the voice
of a true heart breathing ever in my ear the music of a passion
which asks first for peace—peace—peace! This dream haunts
me ever. It takes from me the passion as the pride of arms.
It compensates for all I lose. With Olivia in the country, I
shall be too happy to repine at any of your conquests.”

“Now do I almost wish that she may refuse thee.”

“No, thou dost not.”

“Thou deservest it!”

“What, for being truer and more devoted to love than to ambition?”

“No, but for thy desertion of thy comrades.”

“Comrades! Oh! good friend and brother of mine, as I will call
thee, for thou hast been true to me, and full of brotherly loving
since I have known thee—dost thou not smile within thyself at
thy own folly, when thou speakest of my comrades among the
cavaliers of De Soto?”

“Am I not thy comrade, and wilt thou suffer me to go alone
on this expedition of peril?”

“Thou goest with thy comrades, Nuno, but not with mine.
Thou art a favorite, where they look upon me with ill favor.
They will serve thee with loyalty, and support thee; and follow
thy lance to battle with a joy; and exult in thy victories. But
on mine they look only with evil eyes. Follow thy bent, Nuno,
and cherish thy passion for conquest; and none will more truly
rejoice in thy successes and good fortune than the poor knight
of Portugal. But thou obey'st a passion which I do not feel, and
thou hast encouragements in which I do not share. Art thou
not unreasonable, mi amigo, in thy demand that I shall partake
of the peril of an expedition which promises neither pride, nor
reward, nor favor of any sort?”

Nuno de Tobar was silenced. His friend had spoken but the
truth. He changed the subject.

“So, none of the Ethiops that I send thee will answer?
Verily, Philip, for a wise man thou hast strange notions of thine
own! Of what matter to thee that a negro slave should be
handsome?”

“Not handsome, but well-looking. Now, all those that were
offered me were among the ugliest and most ill-looking knaves
in the world—models of deformity and ugliness. I confess such
as these offend my sight.”

“It is the common aspect of the race.”

“Ay, but there are degrees, in which these aspects do not
offend.”

“It will be long ere thou art suited. But the silly knight,
De Sinolar, hath promised to send me some passable urchins for
inspection; but he will require a great price for his wares, particularly

when he knows they are for thee. He regards thee as
a dangerous rival.”

“What! aspires he to Olivia?”

“Yes, indeed; and with the approbation, it is thought, of her
uncle. De Sinolar was greatly annoyed at thy success in the
tourney, and would have taken lance himself—he avowed—to
encounter thee; but that he had no horse to be relied on, and
lances, he thought, were things quite too frail for a man to peril
his honor upon. He hath every confidence in his own skill,
strength and courage, but doubts if the wit of man hath yet conceived
any adequate weapons upon which these may securely
rest themselves in the tournament. He holds himself in reserve,
however, when the becoming implements of battle shall be
made.”

“There is wit in the knight's philosophy. Think you it came
from himself?”

“Verily, I do not. He reads much in Amadis and other adventures
of chivalry, and the excuse hath an antique fashion.
And thou didst not see the Lady Olivia yesterday?”

Philip told of the encounter with the outlaw and the alguazils,
and added,—

“But, with the blessing of the Virgin, I will seek her to-day.
While you are preparing for your feast I shall speed to her
dwelling, resolved to put to hazard all my hopes.”

“She loves thee, Philip! I know it, if I know anything of the
heart of woman. She will accept thee, my friend, and thou wilt
be happy! But should she refuse thee?”

“Then, perchance, thou wilt find me beside thee when thou
liftest lance against the Apalachian.”

“I could almost pray, Philip, that she should send thee from
her with the blessing of Abaddon, which is said to be very much
like a curse!”

And he grasped vigorously the hand of his friend. They separated
after some further conversation, and Philip retired to the
recesses of his humble lodging.

The day passed slowly to our knight of Portugal. He had

appointed to himself the afternoon for his purposed visit to Olivia.
He was impatient for its approach. His soul was teeming with
delicious fancies. Truly, as he had said to Nuno de Tobar, he
was delivered up to softer influences than those of war. The
sweet and balmy atmosphere he breathed, grateful though enervating,
contributed to the gentle reveries of the lover! The
hour chosen for his visit to the beloved one was especially appropriate
to such an object. Nobody who has not felt, can possibly
conceive of the balm and beauty-breathing sweetness, in
such a climate, of the hour which just precedes the sunset; when
his rays, bright without heat, stream with soft beauty through
the green forests, and wrap them in a halo, that makes them as
gloriously sweet as golden. There is a delicious mystery to the
soul that delights in gentle reveries in the shadows at this hour—
in the smiling glances of the sun, when he suffuses all the horizon
with the warmest flushes of orange, greon, and purple. In a
region where the excessive heat and glare of his light at noon are
ungrateful to the eye and oppressive to the frame, the day necessarily
offends, even at early morning; and the soul necessarily
sympathizes with its several agents, even as one spares his slave
or servant the task which exposes him to pestilence or storm.
Thus the spirits sink as the form suffers. The sunset hour in
the same region redeems the day. It is the day—the all of day
that the eye requires. It is by a natural instinct that, in this
region, he who seeks for love chooses this hour, or the night
which is lighted by a moon, for his purpose. These naturally
suggest themselves in all climates as the periods when the heart
may go forth in quest of its kindred. But here, these are the
only periods. Nobody could find eloquence for love-making in
Cuba during the noonday. No damsel would believe the loyalty
of the heart that so lacks discretion as to prefer its suit at
such a time. The day is obtrusive, and love demands secresy.
It is a thing of tremors and timidities. It haunts the shade. It
has a consciousness of something in its quest which it holds quite
too sacred for exposure, or the risk of exposure; and as it only
whispers when indifference would speak, so it shrinks and hides
when audacity and pride go forth.

The delicious softness of the hour sunk deeply into his soul, as
Philip de Vasconselos passed into the shady and silent defiles
leading through the thick woods which girdled the hacienda of
the lady of his love. The sweet light from the slant beams of
the declining sun flitted from tree to tree before him, like the
butterfly wings of a truant fancy. The bright droplets fell,
here and there, through the groves, lying about like eyes of fairies,
peering through the thick grasses along the slopes. Philip's
heart was fairly open to fairy eyes. His soul warmed and was
thawed beneath the spells of that winged and fanciful sunlight.
He had thrown aside all the restraints which held him in check,
through policy when amid the crowd. Here was solitude, and
silence, and the shade;—and the pathway led to love; and the
smiles of heaven were upon his progress! His step was free
as air; his soul buoyant with hope! He would soon feast his
eyes upon those precious features of the beloved one, which
seemed to them to make a heaven of the place where they inhabited!
And the great shadows gathered behind him as he went;
and the trees grew motionless; and the woods ceased to breathe
and murmur; and the silence deepened; and the pathways darkened;
and all was harmony and security! These transitions
increased the sweetness of the scene, and as the glances of the
sunlight grew less frequent, they seemed brighter, and softer, and
more tender and touching in the eyes of the lover. Philip went
forward, meeting with no interruption. He passed from pathway
to pathway along a route well known. The avenues widened:
he was approaching the dwelling. In a few moments he would
be in the sight, would be at the feet of her, upon whose word
hung all his world of hope and fear. Well might he tremble
with the increase of his emotions. What heart is wholly brave
at such a moment? and who does not feel, with great misgiving,
that, where the anticipation is so pregnant with delicious life,
its denial and defeat must bring a pang far greater than that of
death?

It was in the midst of his wildest anticipations and most trembling
hopes, that Philip was suddenly aroused to more common
associations, by the appearance of a man suddenly springing out
of the lemon thicket beside him. He drew back, and laid hand
upon his sword. But the voice of the stranger reassured him.
It was that of the outlaw Mateo, who was almost breathless,
evidently greatly excited, his eyes dilated, and his tones trembling
with emotion.

“Don't be alarmed, Señor. I am not your enemy! I am
your friend! You have done me service, and helped me to escape
from my enemies. I would not now harm a hair of your
head. I would serve you—ay, do you good service—would save
you from a great evil.”

“What evil?”

“Come with me!” and he laid his hand respectfully upon the
knight's arm, as if to conduct him forward.

“It is thither I am going,” said Philip, “but I must go alone,
my good fellow.”

“Yes, you must go alone! I know that. But you were going
to the house. She is not there. She is at the bower in the
woods. It is there you must seek her. You were going—pardon
me, Señor,—to declare your love for the Señorita.”

“How, sirrah!”

“Pardon me, Señor, I say again;—but I know it;—every
body in Havana expects it. I mean not to offend. I tell you I
want to serve you. I love you and honor you, and owe you
gratitude. It is this that makes me say what I do,—and lead
you this way. You must not make love to the Señorita. She
is not for you Señor,—she is not worthy of you!”

“How, fellow! Do not provoke me to anger!”

“Forgive me, Señor; but give me time, and give yourself
time. Just come with me now;” and he almost dragged him
forward. “There,—into that avenue—follow it—it will lead
you to the summer-house. Go forward—go alone—go quickly—
but go softly—softly—say nothing, but look;—see! Then, if

you will,—tell the Señorita that you love her—that you come to
make her your wife!”

There was something in all this proceeding which was so earnest
and so startling, that, though it offended the proud knight because
of the freedom of the outlaw's manner, he did not feel like
showing anger. Indeed, he was too much startled, too sensibly
impressed with a nameless terror, to be altogether conscious of
the extent of the liberty which Mateo had taken. He fancied
that Olivia was in danger, and vague notions of serpents and
tigers rose before his imagination. Intuitively, he obeyed his
tutor, and darted into the alley.

“Softly, softly!” cried the outlaw, following close behind.
In a few moments he reached the summer-house.

“Go up the steps—in—the Señorita is there. Go—look—
see; but softly, very softly, and do not speak!”

Philip obeyed, and ascended the steps of the verandah; the
curtains were lifted; he disappeared among the columns, and
Mateo waited without, among the groves. He had not long to
wait. Scarcely had Philip disappeared from his sight, when his
form was again seen, emerging from among the columns. A
single hollow groan escaped him. Mateo darted forward to
meet him, and the knight staggered down the steps, almost falling
into his arms. The outlaw hurried him into the thicket.

“Quickly, quickly!” said he.—“He will have heard that
groan.”

Philip staggered away, without offering opposition. His head
swam; his knees tottered beneath him.

“I am very faint!” said he.

“Rest here,” answered the outlaw, conducting him to a wooden
seat enveloped in shrubbery, and almost forcing him down upon
it, while he plucked an orange from the shrub-tree above him,
and in a second laid its rich juices open with a knife.

“No!” exclaimed Philip, after a pause, rejecting the orange,
and staggering up from the seat—“I cannot rest here, or any
where! Let us away! away from this place!”

“You have seen?”

“No more! Do not ask me;” and the knight of Portugal
covered his eyes with his hands.

“Stay for a moment!” said the outlaw—“while I go back,
and give him this!” and he lifted his huge machete as he spoke,
and looked the matador about to strike.

“No!” hastily answered the knight,—laying his hand upon
the arm of the outlaw. “It must not be! Put up your knife.
What is it to us? what is it to us? Let us go hence!”

And he started forward, blindly, and once more in the direction
of the summer-house.

“That is not the way! That leads you back—”

With a shudder, Philip wheeled about, and hurried off in the
opposite direction; the outlaw following him respectfully, and in
silence. In the same silence they wound their way through the
thickets of lemon and orange. When they approached the verge
of the estate, Mateo stopped suddenly:—

“I must go no further. Here I must leave you, Señor. I
must not risk exposure.”

Philip grasped his hand.

“Thanks, my good fellow, thanks! I have nothing more to
give. You have done me good service; but at what expense—
what suffering!”

“Could it be otherwise, Senor?”

“No! I thank you. It is well! you have saved me from a
great misery, by giving me a great hurt. I would I had the
means to reward you. But I thank you! I thank you!” and he
groaned heavily.

“I ask no reward, Señor. I am only too happy to serve you.
I wish I could serve you forever. I feel that I could work for
you, and for any true man like you! But I can't work for a bad
one, and a beast! I would be happy to go with you to Florida.
But there, Don Balthazar would know me through any disguises.
And yet, I might get over that. Let me go now, Señor.”

And a new impulse seemed to seize upon the outlaw, the expression

in his face declaring, as fully as words, the renewed
purpose in his mind.

“No! not till you promise me you will do nothing in this
matter. I see what you mean. But, if you slay him, you expose
her! Let him live. You cannot go with me to Florida. I know
not that I shall go myself. Stay where you are. Get back
to your mountains. But, as you live, and as you love me, breathe
not a syllable of this! Farewell!”

With these words, and having received the outlaw's promise,
Philip de Vasconselos turned away.

“It is gone!” he murmured to himself as he went. “It is
gone, the hope, the brightness, and the joy! all gone! Oh! Jesu!
what a ruin!” and he again covered his face with his hands, as
if to shut out a spectacle of horror. “Oh! would that I had the
monster in a fair field, with only sword and dagger!”

Thus exclaiming, he disappeared from sight. Mateo sank back
into covert, and soon he heard the voice of Juana in the thicket.
He suffered her to approach him. She had followed the steps
of her brother and the knight. She had seen them as they left
the summer-house, upon which it would seem that she, also, had
been keeping watch.

“What have you seen, Juana?” demanded the outlaw sternly.

“All!”

“Ah! all! You do not mean that—”

“Yes! I saw when you and Don Philip went towards the summer-house.
I was in the thicket. When the knight of Portugal
came down the steps and groaned so loud, it roused Don Balthazar.
He came out soon after you, and looked about him, and
I lay close. But, seeing nothing, he went back again.”

“Well! what's done can't be undone; but look you, Juana, if
you whisper a word of this to anybody, I'll slit your tongue.
Do you hear now? Well! remember; I am just the man to do
what I promise, though you are my own sister.”