University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER XLI.

The army of the Adelantado proceeded on its march along the
waters of the Coosaw, but Don Balthazar de Alvaro returned, with
his detachment of cavalry, to the village of Chiaha. To him was
allotted the duty of bringing up the rear-guard, with the heavy
baggage; and he was required to remain in Chiaha until the
smaller bodies which had been sent forth on exploring expeditions,
under Nuno de Tobar, Andres de Vasconselos and others,
should return. Chiaha was the appointed place of their rendezvous.

There was an exulting spirit in the bosom of Don Balthazar,
as he led his troopers away from the field where he had witnessed
the degradation of Philip de Vasconselos. He had triumphed
over his enemy; and there was now no danger that the knight
of Portugal would ever cross his path in the progress of the
expedition. The penalty of his return was death. Don Balthazar
would have preferred that this punishment should have been
the one inflicted. He did not, himself, attach much importance
to what he thought the fantastic notions of honor and shame,
which were taught by the laws of chivalry; and, were it not that
the punishment of Don Philip implied his utter banishment from
the army, and his almost certain death, in the condition in which
he had been left, from the fierce fangs of the wild beast, or the
reckless arrows of the savage, he might have been still ill at ease
in respect to some of his securities. In truth, he still had some
lurking apprehensions that Philip de Vasconselos was yet, in
some way, his evil genius; destined yet to re-appear, and confront
him with that danger which had so long haunted his imagination!
With this fear, it occurred to him, more than once,
to send back one of his troopers to dispatch secretly the degraded
knight; but this was placing himself too completely in
the power of his creature; and he well knew that such a fact,
revealed to De Soto and the army, would be necessarily his own

ruin; would confirm, to the Adelantado, the accusations made
by Vasconselos, and would arm the few friends of the latter—
few, but brave and powerful—with perpetual hostility and vengeance!
He was content to leave the doomed noble to his fate,
as it had been pronounced by De Soto, and executed before his
eyes.

Persuading himself that his death was inevitable, or, at all
events, that the danger from that one source had been driven
wholly from his own path, he went on his way to Chiaha with
rejoicing and exulting spirit. He reached the village late in the
night. There was still an eager mood hurrying him to other
performances; and when he had dismissed his troops to their
several stations, received the report of the officer left in command,
and refreshed himself with a bottle of canary, he threw
himself once more into the saddle. The soldier on duty before
his quarters, asked, “Shall I mount and follow you, Señor?”

“No! Keep your post. I want nobody.”

The expedition which now prompted the nocturnal movements
of Don Balthazar, was of a sort to require no witnesses.
The arch-fiend, now working, more than ever powerful within his
soul, and stimulating a crowd of passions into eager exercise,
was all-sufficient for his companionship. Don Balthazar galloped
off, in the direction of the cabin which had been occupied by
Philip de Vasconselos!

The page, Juan, did not sleep. He had fully executed the
trusts given him in charge by his master; had possessed himself
of the three papers, and destroyed the rest. This employment,
and the contemplation of the several addresses of the latter, had
filled the boy with the most melancholy mood. One of the letters
he did little but contemplate. With perpetual tears in his
eyes, he did nothing but read over the superscription. The day
was passed in sorrows and vague apprehensions. Vasconselos did
not return by noon. The boy inquired for him in vain, and could
only learn that he had ridden out with the detachment of horse
upon a secret expedition. But why had he not been permitted
to accompany this expedition? The privilege had never before
been denied him. There was a mystery in the affair which troubled
him, and he neither ate during the day, nor sought for sleep
during the night. He was sleepless from intense nervous excitement,
and sate, or walked, as the night advanced, in the
loneliness of that rude chamber of the red man, which was
dimly lighted by the brands of pine which blazed flickeringly
upon the hearth. While thus moodily employed, he heard the
gallop of a horse approaching. He trembled, and clasped his

hands; then felt that all the letters were safe within his bosom,
and experienced a strange and sudden dread lest the knight
should resume the charge of them. There was one letter which
he would not willingly give up,—the contents of which he dreaded,
yet desired to peruse.

“It is he—it is Philip!” murmured the boy, recovering, and
relieved of the apprehensions which had troubled him for the
safety of the knight. “It is Philip!” and he hastily undid the
fastenings of the entrance. The horseman threw himself off the
saddle at this moment, and hastily pushed his way into the
cottage.

“Señor!” said the page, somewhat taken by surprise at the
manner and hurried movement of the knight, so unlike that of
Vasconselos. “Señor Philip!” he said, timidly and inquiringly.

“Not he, my good lad, but one quite as good, I fancy!” answered
the stranger, grasping the boy's wrist and dragging him
towards the light. In the next moment, Juan identified the person
of the intruder. To recoil was an involuntary act, as he
exclaimed—

“Don Balthazar!”

“Ay, methinks, my good boy, I should be as well known to
thee by this time as the cavalier whom thou servest. But why
dost thou recoil? Dost thou fear me?”

“No, Señor, but—”

It was with very great effort that the boy was enabled to say
these latter words, which he did with husky and tremulous accents,
the sounds dying away in his throat.

“Ay, but thou dost. Yet thou shouldst not. Henceforth,
thou shalt look upon me as thy best friend and protector, since
thy late master can take care of thee no longer.”

“My late master! the Señor Philip—Don Philip de Vasconselos!
Speak, Señor, tell me what hath happened to my master?
Where is he? Hath he been wounded—is he —”

“Oh! thou hast got thy voice of a sudden. But I am too slow
of speech to answer thy rapid inquiries. No more of thy late
master, boy! Thou art henceforth to be my page. I shall give
thee lodgings as near my own as thou hast had to those of Don
Philip. Thou shalt be a sharer of my chamber, boy, as thou
hast been of his! Ay, and I will caress thee and care for thee
quite as tenderly. I know thy great merits as a page, and I see
thy virtues beneath the unnatural black coating which wrap them
up from all other eyes. His eyes never looked on thee more
tenderly than mine shall look, boy; and thou shalt lose nothing
of pleasure and indulgence by the exchange of one master

for another. What say'st thou? Is the thing pleasing in thy
sight?”

“I know not what thou meanest; I do not understand thee!
Only tell me, Señor, where is Señor Philip—Don Philip—”

“Señor Philip—Don Philip! nay, why not say to me, as thou
hast doubtless said a thousand times to him—Philip—Philip—
my Philip—dear, dear Philip! Is it so, my very perfect blackamoor?
Was it not thus that the dulcet accents ran, in every
possible variety of sweet and pleasant change? And by what
sweet name did our Philip requite thee, my gentle Moor?”

The boy was bewildered. It did not lessen his disquiet and
bewilderment, that the wine was evidently doing warm work with
the brain of the questioner: but Juan had acquired a strength
and confidence in army life, and in the daily communion with
Vasconselos, which now rendered him comparatively cool in
moments of difficulty, and under embarrassing relations. He
strove successfully to combat his nervous tremors and apprehensions,
and to answer calmly.

“The Señor Balthazar speaks very strange things to me, which
I do not understand!”

“Ay, but I will not leave thee in such blessed ignorance, my
good boy. Know then that thy old master is disposed of.”

“Slain! slain! Thou dost not tell me, Señor, that my master—”

“No! no! not exactly quiet yet, unless, indeed, the red men
have been about him with their stone hatchets and macanas,—or
unless some stray wolf, or pard, hath followed a keen scent to
where he lies on the field where the Adelantado hath but lately
camped.”

“Señor, for the love of the Holy Virgin, tell me truly of my
Lord!” And there was no restraint, now—no measure, in the
wild, earnest pleadings of that passionate voice. “Tell me what
hath happed—how he hath been circumvented—if still he
lives!”

“Ha! ha! Thou canst speak out now, in thy natural voice of
love and passion. Thou forget'st the blackamoor policy! Well!
Thou art in growing condition to hear the truth. Thou shalt
hear. Thy lord, thy master, thy Portuguese Don, hath paid the
penalty of his crimes—he hath been disgraced from knighthood,
stript of sword and armor, his spurs hewn from his heels, his
neck haltered to a tree, and beaten with blows of the executioner,
he is left to the storms of heaven and the hatchet of the
Apalachian!”

“Jesu! have mercy! And thou hast done this thing?”

“Nay, but a little towards it. I but sped the progress, and
nodded to the judgment, and smiled on the execution. I put the
arrow on the string and found the mark. 'Twas De Soto that
sped it from the bow!”

The boy clasped his hands wildly together. The knight began
to sing a vulgar ballad then current in the army. There was
something very fearful in the strong glance which the page set
upon the face of the singer, whose every look and tone betrayed
the full consciousness of his triumph. He stooped, while singing,
and threw fresh brands upon the fire. Juan suddenly darted
away as if to pass him; but the knight was not unobservant,
caught him by the arm, as he went forward, and whirled him
back to the corner of the chamber beyond him.

“No! no! thou dost not cease to be page, boy, in the loss of
one master! One but makes way for another; and I am instead
of thy Philip; with all his rights and privileges, my sweet Moor.
But thou shalt lose none of thine in becoming page to me. Oh!
no! thou shalt share my lodge, my couch, an thou wilt, for my
taste revolts not at thy dusky visage, when the features are so
fine, and the good faith of the owner so perfect. Thou art mine,
now, my boy!”

“Señor! I must go and seek Don Philip!” was the calmly
expressed resolution of the boy.

“Thou wouldst go in vain. Thou wouldst find his bones only.
He hath given rare picking to the panther.”

“Señor, I must go!”

“Stay where thou art!”

“If thou hast compassion in thy soul—”

“Pshaw! I know not such folly.”

“As a knight, thou know'st it is my duty to seek my lord.”

“Not when he is dishonored, boy! Henceforth, I am thy
knight, I tell thee! Thy master—in whose hands thy life lies,
even as an egg, which I can crush to atoms with a will! What!
thou pretendest that thou know'st me not! Thou wouldst not
admit to thyself that I know thee! Does thy imposture tickle
thee so much, that thou art resolute not to see and believe?”

The page, indeed, had seen but too well! Yet he was resolute,
as Don Balthazar had said, not to see! It was still possible
—so he persuaded himself—that his persecutor spoke from his
drunkenness, rather than his knowledge;—and that his secret,—
for he had one—was still unsuspected, or, at least, unknown.
He answered accordingly, with as much calmness of temper as he
could command.

“Señor, I know not what thou mean'st or intend'st; but thou

surely canst not design to keep me from the good knight, who hath
been my kind friend and benefactor,—my preserver frequently,
—in this weary march through the country of the Apalachian?
You tell me that he is gone from me and lost to me—you tell
me that he hath undergone a cruel judgment, for, I know not
what offence;—but you tell me that he still lives! Let me, as
in duty bound, go to the service of the good knight, Don Philip,
and succor him, if I may, and wait on him as I should! I entreat
this of thy nobleness and mercy, as a knight thyself, who
well knowest what the dutiful page oweth to the cavalier he
serves!”

The eyes of Don Balthazar answered the speaker with a wicked
leer.

“This passeth belief!” he exclaimed. “Well, it is a sort of
virtue to hold out denial to the last; though, when the mask is
torn from the face, it is but a stupid sort of virtue to do so!
And thou, too, who knowest me so well,—thou, Olivia de Alvaro
—to dream that I should not know thee through any disguise!
What a foolish child thou hast been, and art! But I knew thee
from the first day that we landed! I watched thee and thy paramour
in all thy progress! Thou hast slept with him beneath
the same tree; in the same shady thicket; under the same tent;
in the same hovel of the red man; and the same considerate
handmaiden, the night, hath drawn the curtains gently, to conceal
the loving embraces of the gallant Don and his Moorish
page!”

“Foul-mouthed, as false! It is untrue! We have slept together
in a thousand places, and the good knight hath watched and
sheltered me as a noble gentleman, but he hath never done me
wrong. Even now he knows me—wherever he be, and whatever
be his fate,—only as the boy that I appear to other eyes! But
I hope not to teach the truth of this to a soul so incapable of virtue
as is thine! It is enough that it is known to me, and to
the blessed angels, who have watched us from above!”

Don Balthazar passed to the door, and finally fastened it
within. He approached the damsel.

“It matters little, Olivia, whether he knew thee as boy or woman.
He will know thee no more. Thou art henceforth mine.
Thou shalt appear in the army as my page; and,—child,—thou
shalt sleep in my tent, and under the tree with me; and the night
shall yield us the same friendly veil which she granted to thee
and thy cavalier. It was no fault of the handmaid, I warrant, if
the knight made no discovery of thy secret! But I am wiser
than he; and my knowledge shall the better profit us both. Nor

need thou put on the airs of thy Biscayan mother with me now!
We have no such restraints here, as restrained our raptures and
made us fearful in Havana. Here, there is something more than
freedom! Thou know'st the license of the army. Thou hast
seen that it could not save a princess of the people. Suppose it
said to the soldiers, This blackamoor page is the girl whom
Philip de Vasconselos entertained par amour—and what will follow?
I tell thee, girl, in very love of thee, they will tear one
another to pieces, and tear thy delicate limbs to pieces also! Art
thou wise to see this, and to understand how much better it will
be, still to keep thy secret, and to serve me as a page, even as
thou hast served this knight of Portugal?”

For a time, a strong despair sate in the eyes of Olivia. But
she gathered strength and comparative composure, while he
was speaking, and when he was done, she said with closed lips
and teeth,—

“I will perish first!”

“Nay, nay, thou shalt not perish! I have done too much to
secure thee in my keeping to lose thee now; when I have at last
securely won thee. I have pursued this knight of Portugal, until
I destroyed him, because he knew the secret of thy shame and
my dishonor! He is no longer a danger to either of us.—And
thou art won! We are here, alone—in the deep midnight,—
with no eye to see, no hand to rescue thee from my grasp,—and,
with the treasure thus won,—and the precious beauty thus in my
embrace,—shall I now recoil from my possessions?—shall I
withdraw my claim, and abandon the very bliss for which I have
toiled in such secret ways, and perilled so many open dangers?
No, my Olivia, thou art now mine, more certainly than ever. It
needs now no subtle opiate to subdue thy senses. It needs now
no future watchful anxiety, to watch the paths, and dread ever
more the danger and detection! Here, we have perfect freedom.
Life means privilege, to take and keep! We have no laws but
such as justify the passions; and just now, the passions are the
only laws that require to be obeyed. Thou art mine, girl,—
mine, Olivia,—and I seize thee with a rapture, which, sweet as
thy embrace hath been of yore, promises now a blessing as far
beyond the past, as the joys of heaven are claimed to be beyond
those of earth! Wilt thou be mine, and submit to be my willing
page, as thou hast been, par amour, the page of Vasconselos?”

“Touch me not, Señor!”—she said as he approached her.
“Touch me not!”

“Ay, but I will touch thee, and take thee, and wind thee in
my embrace, I tell thee!—”

“Touch me not!” as he continued to approach.

“Thou art mine, I tell thee!” and he laid one hand upon her
shoulder, and tore wide the fastenings of the jacket of escaupil,
or cotton armor, which she wore, until the white bosom escaped
from its bonds, and grew revealed to the eyes of the satyr! At
the same moment, the three letters of Vasconselos escaped also,
and fell upon the ground.

“Ha!” said he, stooping to lift them, while he still kept one
hand upon her shoulder—“Ha! What love chronicles have
we here?”

He was about to gather them up, when, with broken accents,
she cried—

“It must be so! It hath been decreed! It is a command!
It is from God himself! I must do it! There is no escape! I
knew it would come to this at last. I felt sure that I should
have to do it!”

And while speaking thus, as if to herself, she drew the dagger
of the page, and smote the knight upon the neck, even as he
stood stooping. Had she been taught by anatomical science
where best to plant the blow for immediate death, her hand
could not have been more effectually guided than by its sudden
instinct. She smote but once, and while a husky and gurgling
sound issued, with a volume of blood, from the throat of the victim,
he fell forward upon the earth, and lay motionless at her
feet! She hastily gathered up the letters which his hands had
only touched—they were already spotted with his blood,—thrust
them once more into her bosom, opened the door, and darted
from the cabin! In a few moments more, she was mounted
upon her own steed and flying—flying far and fast, into the cover
of the forests! and ever as she rode, she murmured to herself,
gasping and breathing heavily—“I knew it must be so!—I felt
that it had to be done! It had to be done! It had to be done!
Holy Virgin! It had to be done, and by my hands!”