University of Virginia Library

43. CHAPTER XLIII.

Olivia de Alvaro—or, as we shall continue to describe her in
her assumed character and sex—Juan, the Page of Vasconselos;
the deed done which avenged the wrongs of herself and lover
upon one, at least, and the worst of their enemies; fled upon her
fiery steed, with blood more fiery and wild, bounding madly in
her own bosom. She drove the rowel into the eager destrier, unwitting
what she did or where she flew. For a time, her progress
was the work of madness. Certainly, she gave herself no
single moment of thought. She obeyed an impulse—an instinct.
She made no moment's pause, she asked herself no single question.
It mattered not to her, in that fearful hour, with her hands
dyed deeply in kindred blood, and thick billows of the same red
sea, seeming to flow in upon her throbbing brain, in what direction
she flew, or what fate awaited her. There was a power,
seemingly beyond, if not foreign to her own, which drove her
forward recklessly. The passions held the reins. She followed
as they bade. The horse flew beneath her, yet it seemed as if she
would have flown beyond him. His speed was nothing to the
wild and headlong flight of her moods. She was scarcely conscious
of his movements. On, on—no matter whither—she
goads him terribly forward—and he snorts as he bounds away,
and the thick flakes of foam gather about his mouth, and the
white streaks rise upon his flanks, and yet the rowel rakes and
tears his reddening sides.

But the instincts of horse and rider are equally true. Juan
knew the general routes of the army. In forest countries, the
military traces are few and soon defined. The tread of a corps
of horse or foot through the woods soon makes itself perceptible.
The horse readily detects the beaten pathways of his fellows.
Our page, besides, had been previously advised of the
route of De Soto. He knew from the taunts of Don Balthazar,
that Vasconselos had been summoned to camp,—that it was there
he had been dishonored—and left;—and beyond this he desired
no more knowledge to give him a general notion of the route he

should pursue. He had become skilled, from the sinuous progress
which he had made with the army. He had gradually—
perhaps without his own consciousness—acquired all those general
laws of travel which the wayfarer in the great forests can
hardly forbear to learn. But to these he made no reference in
the present progress. His lessons came to him through his impulses.
They served him as instincts. In the ordinary processes
of thought and induction, he certainly did not once indulge
during the long, wild, but well-directed flight, in which we are to
trace his course.

He dashed headlong through the village of Chiaha, where the
command of Don Balthazar was still quartered. Little did his
cavaliers dream of the bloody fate of their superior. The fugitive
was challenged by the sentry as he entered one of the
sylvan avenues, and again challenged as he hurried through the
opposite end into the wilderness again. He heard not the demand—he
made no answer to the summons, and the matchlock
was emptied at him as he flew, and he knew not that he had
escaped any danger. The great thickets once more receive him
with such shelter as they afford. The dim lights of heaven suffice
for the steed, but he sees nothing, nor is he conscious of
any lack of light. If he does not reason, he is yet not unenlightened
by aspects that sufficiently fill his mind. Even as he
speeds, he sees, still receding as he approaches, yet still conspicuously
distinct before his eyes, the great encampment of De
Soto—the amphitheatre of trees and tents, and grouped soldiers
surrounding and grim warriors presiding in judgment, and a cruel
executioner with bloody axe prominent over all, and in the midst
a noble form, about to sink!—and he cries hoarsely as he spurs
the steed—hoarsely and feebly,—his voice subsiding to a whisper—

“But one moment, Philip—but one moment—and I am with
thee. With thee, Philip! with thee! To die with thee, Philip—
to die for thee! One moment, Philip—one moment—one!—”

And at each period of pause,—when the steed stopped to pant,
—or, with nose to the ground, to scent, or to feel, his way—such
would be the apostrophe. Then the dark or bloody aspects would
seem to rise more conspicuously and urgently before the gaze of
the fugitive—the arrested motion of the steed making him feel
that the delay was dangerous—that the event was in progress
which he alone could arrest—that not a moment was to be lost!
and this was all his thought! Then it was that the lingering
beast would be made anew to feel the severe inflictions of the
rowel,—and, snorting with terror to plunge forward with his burden

— fortunately a light one—resuming a flight which, for five
hours, had known no cessation. In this flight the rider had no
terrors—no consciousness of any danger. The beast had many.
Sometimes he shyed from the track, while every limb shook with
emotion. His keen scent had caught the wind borne to him from
the lairs of the wolf and panther. They, too, might have been
upon his track; doubtless were,—but that his flight had been so fast
and far, and that he seemed to their eyes to carry on his back
a wild terror, with eyes of madness, much more fearful than their
own. Of such as these the fugitive never thought. But, when
the steed swerved aside, he irked him with spur or dagger,—indignant—crying
out in shrillest tones—“Beast! we have not a
moment to lose. See you not they hasten!—ah! Philip, but a
moment more! But a moment!”

And with every word there was rowel stroke, or dagger
thrust, till the flanks and neck of the steed were clammy with
the red blood oozing forth.

And while the eyes of the rider stared out, dilating, wild and
red, into the infinite space and vacancy—filled only with confused
and dreadful aspects to his gaze—the day suddenly opened
the great portals of the world, and the steed went forward with
more confidence; but Juan saw not a whit more than had been
quite as apparent to him all the night. Nay, he saw less, for
night and darkness, and the solitude, had been favorable to the
creation of such illusions as had occupied his mind, and the glare
of day, and the sounds and sights of waking and creeping things,
did somewhat conflict with the mental power to create and make
its own individual impressions.

It was a dreadful ride, like that of Leonora and the Fiend
Lover, in the weird and fantastic legend of Bürger. And, if the
dead lover accompanied not our fugitive, there were yet terrible
aspects that rode beside, and fearful cries followed on the wind,
while ever and anon the voice of Don Balthazar thrilled in the
ears of the page, crying, “Back, you are mine! You are too
late!”

Then would the fugitive set his teeth closely together, and
clutch his dagger with determined gripe, and hiss through his
shut lips—“What! you have not had enough? You would taste
again, would you!”

And so muttering, he would behold the amphitheatre once
more, wherein De Soto's knights and soldiers environed the noble
victim; and so seeing, the boy would set on, with driving spur
anew, repeating his hoarse whisper in his throat the while—“But

a moment, Philip—but a moment! and I will be with thee and
die with thee!”

The day dawned, and the horse sped over a beaten track.
He was in the very route pursued the day before, when Don
Balthazar returned triumphant after the degradation of his enemy—returned,
as he fancied, to delights, and the safe renewal of
criminal but intoxicating pleasures, never once dreaming that
Fate stood with open arms welcoming him to the bloodiest embrace.

The steed of our page felt himself sure at every step. The
track was readily apparent. He went forward more confidently
and more cheerfully, but with less rapidity, for now it was that
the rider began to feel the gradual exhaustion of that strength
which had been too severely taxed by such a progress. The
page was no longer conscious of the diminished speed of the animal.
His own growing feebleness reconciled him to the more
sluggish pace of the beast. But ever and anon he would start
out of his stupor with a sort of cry, and using the rowel, would
expostulate—“Would you stop now, beast, when we are nigh
the spot? What, do you not hear him call to me? You know his
voice. Hear! He says—ah! what does he say! But I know,
I know. Wait but a moment, Señor,—but a moment—but a
moment!”

And the bridle grasp would relax,—and the form would seem
to turn in the saddle,—while the eyes would close for a while, to
open anew, only at the sudden short stopping of the horse, to
graze along the wayside. Then would the rider show a moment's
anger, and send him forward anew with prick of dagger, and mutter
as before—the poor beast submitting, with the wonted docility
of the well-trained war-horse, pursuing meekly the beaten
track until he stood—coming to a full halt—on the very ground
where De Soto's encampment had been made.

Then the page opened his eyes, and was about to smite the
beast and goad him forward—when the rude scaffolding which
the Adelantado had made his dais—on which had stood his
Chair of State, and where he had delivered judgment—became
suddenly apparent to his glance. With a sudden shriek as he
beheld, the boy stretched out his hands and plunged forward, falling
heavily upon the ground, with a sad murmur—

“It is too late! too late!”

He swooned away; while the horse, stepping carefully backward,
wandered off in search of water. And, for an hour, the
beast wandered thus from side to side. He found streams in which

he slaked his thirst. He found tender grasses in the shady
woods, which he cropped at leisure. And the day thus wore on.
The animal now began to be a little restive, and he whinnied for
companionship, looking round, from side to side, for some one
to approach, and strip off his furniture, and show that solicitude
for him to which he had been accustomed, and which the beast
craves no less than his master.

His whinny made its way to other ears than those of his late
rider. The page still lay insensible, in the shadow of a great
tree; nature thus seeking relief from the sufferings which it had
undergone, and obtaining respite from the fiery stress of thought
upon the brain. Soon, a figure emerged from the thicket, stealthily
approaching the spot where the horse had again begun to
feed. The stranger was one of the red men, a subject of the
Cassique of Chiaha. He was followed by two others, one of whom
was a woman. The leader of the party made his way towards
the steed, observing the while the greatest precaution. To the
red men the horse was still an object of terror. He had been
wont, at first, to confound him with his rider. He had thus perfectly
conceived the idea of the ancients of the East, to whom we
owe the classical monster, the Centaur. Disabused by experience
of this error, he did not yet divest the horse of all those
powers which really belonged to his rider. He fancied still that
fire issued from his nostrils. He did not doubt that his teeth
were quite as fearful as those of the tiger or the wolf. It required,
accordingly, no small degree of courage to approach the
monster of which so little was known, and of whose powers so
much was erroneously thought. But one red man did approach;
the horse seeming so innocent—so gentle and subdued—so quietly
grazing, and altogether inviting approach by the general docility
of his air and behaviour. The grasp of the forest hunter
was at length fairly laid upon the bridle of the steed, and he was
a captive.

The red man laughed out with delight. He called his comrades
to him, and they approached with trembling. He grew
bolder as he beheld their fears. He encouraged them. He
stroked the neck and mane of the beast, who seemed grateful
and submissive, and they all laughed. And they chattered
among themselves like parrots; until made bolder as he became
familiar, and as the animal continued to crop the grass, showing
himself quite passive, the captor leapt upon his back, and crept
forward to the saddle, and wreathed his hand in the mane, having
abandoned his grasp of the bridle, of the use of which he had no
notion. Pleased with his elevation, the savage persuaded his

comrades to follow him, and his brother warrior leapt up, then
the squaw followed, and as the horse moved slowly from side to
side, cropping the grass, and seemingly heedless of his burden,
but still walking, the simple savages clapped their hands and
yelled with delight.

But that yell awakened the destrier to new sensations. The
beast knew that he was in the power of his enemies. His character
changed on the instant. His moods, his passions, were all
stirred with excitement. He threw head and tail aloft. He
shook out his mane; the blood of the war-horse was aroused as
with the shrill summons of the clarion, and he dashed away at
headlong speed, to seek the spot where he had left his master.
At the first bound he shook himself free of the squaw, who rolled
away over his haunches, suffering no hurt but a prodigious fright,
as she settled down in a heap upon the earth, hardly knowing
whether she was dead or alive. The Indians yelled again with
sudden terror; and the shrill cry increased the speed of the animal.
Away he dashed with the headlong rapidity of a charge.
The foremost of the savages clung to his back like a cat, while he
wound his hands more firmly within the animal's mane. The
other clung to the body of his comrade. Then the animal threw
his head down, and both of them went over his neck. They
rolled away, on opposite sides, quite unhurt, but horribly
alarmed. The steed flew, as he felt relieved of his burden, and
he was quickly out of sight.

The two savages lay for several minutes upon the earth, not
daring to look up or speak. But as the sounds of the horse's
feet grew more distant, one of them rose to a sitting posture.
He called to the other in under tones. It required some thought
and examination to be assured of the fact that both of them still
lived, and that no bones were broken. One of them went back
for the squaw. She, too, was unhurt. They were soon brought
together, and a rapid consultation determined them to pursue
the monster who had treated them with so much indignity.
Bows were bent, arrows got in readiness, the stone hatchet was
seized in sinewy grasp, and the two warriors went forward—the
woman following at a little distance, and trembling for the event.

It was a matter of course that the red men should fasten instantly
upon the fresh track of the horse, and follow it with
unerring certainty. The beast, meanwhile, had made his way
back to where the page had fallen, and when the pursuers drew
nigh they found him smelling at the hands of his late rider and
pushing them with his nose. The boy was stirring slightly.
Suddenly, the horse receded. He had winded the red men. He

dashed backward, and as he did so, seizing their moment, they
both darted upon the half-awaking Juan, and had seized him
by the arms before he had become fully conscious. The rude
assault brought him back to consciousness. He strove to shake
off his captors, but his struggles were feeble; his arms fell uselessly,
unperformingly, beside him; and he showed his submission
by signs. Why should he struggle against fate? What had he
to live for? Why should he dread the death which he now
fancied to be certain?

The red men possessed themselves of the page's dagger, the
only weapon which he carried. With their stone hatchets
waving in his sight, they motioned him to rise. By signs they
bade him recover the horse, which he did without effort, but they
were sufficiently wary not to suffer him to mount. The beast
was led accordingly, and the boy proceeded with his captors all
on foot; the squaw having joined them in compliance with their
repeated halloos.

The destrier was now docile enough, following his master.
The page feebly led him on. But he soon sank down by the
way. One of the red men would have brained him with his
hatchet; but the other, who was the older, and the woman, interposed.
The latter soon perceived the boy's exhaustion, and
while one of the men went off in search of a spring or rivulet,
the squaw darted into the woods, bringing back with her, after a
little while, some leaves, and a small round acid fruit. The latter
she squeezed into the page's mouth. The leaves she pressed
upon his forehead. Water was brought in a leaf shaped like a
slipper, of which he drank freely. In a little while he was revived.
When he recovered sufficiently, he motioned them by
signs to let him ride, one of them taking the bridle within his
hands. The proposition was a startling one, and led to a long
discussion among the captors, which was finally settled by the
eldest of the party, who seized the bridle with the most heroic
air of self-sacrifice, in one hand, while with the other, waving
his stone hatchet, he threatened the head of the horse with sudden
stroke, at the first suspicious symptom. Juan mounted with
feeble heart and limbs, indifferently, and only resigned to the
wishes of his captors.

And thus the four travelled for six or eight weary hours.
Noon came and went. The sun at length was faintly smiling
farewell over the forest, at the closing of his pilgrimage, when
the party came in sight of the beautiful river, the Coosa, at the
spot where it first acquires an individual existence, from the
junction of the Etowah and the Oostanaula.

Here was an encampment of the red men. They could be
seen in crowds along the banks of the river. But the eyes of
Juan were fastened upon a group that was gathered beneath a
sort of canopy upon the hillside. They slowly approached this
station. The page's eyes brightened as he drew nigh. Surely,
it is Don Philip that he sees, seated upon the ground in front of
the canopy, while the red men wander about in the back-ground.
But the page doubts. Can it be that the savage-looking
man whom he sees,—woe-stricken, with matted and dishevelled
hair and beard,—is his noble master—the accomplished
knight of Portugal—the man of grace, and stature, and beauty;
of ease and sweetness, and clear bright eye, and generous aspect?
Can he have so altered in so short a space? Juan could scarcely
believe. But he had no conception of the change which he had
himself undergone. With a cry he threw himself from the steed
at the feet of the cavalier—

“Oh! Señor! Oh! Don Philip—”

The knight looked up for the first time as he heard the cry.

“My poor boy, my poor Juan, is it thou, indeed!”

And he took the boy suddenly to his embrace. He shrunk
from the grasp: he trembled like a leaf; tottered, and would
have fallen but that the knight held him up.

“God be praised, Juan, that thou art again with me! I had
feared that I should lose thee forever, my poor boy; and surely,
Juan, if there be any that I can now love, it is thyself.”

He again grasped the page and drew him to his embrace. The
head of the boy sank upon his shoulder. His eye was bright
with tears. The head was relieved. The heart enjoyed a strange
and sudden sensation of happiness. At that moment his ear
caught the sound of a well-known voice.

“Philip!” said, in the tenderest tones, the beautiful Coçalla,
the Princess of Cofachiqui; and she laid her hand affectionately
upon the shoulders of the knight.

“Philip!”

The word went like a dagger to the heart of the page. The
tenderness of tone in which it was spoken filled her soul with
bitterness. There was an agony in her bosom, as sudden and
extreme as the rapture which had filled it but a moment before,
and, with the seeming recovery of all her strength and senses,
she withdrew herself from the embrace of Vasconselos, who
gently released her.

“Go within, Juan,” said the knight, pointing him to the rude
tent of bushes before which stood the canopy of stained cotton;

“go within, boy, and await me, for I have much to hear from
thee.”

With the big tears gathering in his eyes like great pearls of
the ocean, the page did as he was commanded, having, ere he
went, beheld Coçalla take her place by the side of the knight,
while one of her hands rested proudly on his shoulder, and her
large brown eyes seemed to drink in rapture while gazing deeply
into his.