University of Virginia Library

50. CHAPTER L.

Our previous narrative of events has brought us to the opening
of the summer of the year 1542. We have reached the
melancholy close of all those glorious prospects, and triumphant
hopes, with which Hernando de Soto left the shores of Cuba, for
the country of the savage Apalachian. He was a subdued and
broken-hearted man; humbled in spirit, mortified in pride,
ruined in fortune. He had survived all his hopes. Despair had
taken possession of his soul. To crown his misery, physical
suffering was superadded to his griefs of mind, and wounds, and
travail, fatigue and fever, had combined to prostrate the iron
frame of him, who, in the pride of muscular vigor, had never
dreamed that any toil or trial should have forced him to succumb.
Nothing short of this utter prostration of his physical strength
and energies, would ever have compelled him to yield the point
to Fate—would ever have moved him to listen to the entreaties of
his followers—now urged with a stern resolution that would no
longer brook denial, to turn back from the forests to the sea,
and endeavor once more, to regain the shores of that beautiful
island, which, even the proud spirit of De Soto himself, bemoaned
in secret, with a fond and fearful anxiety. On the banks
of the vast and lonely Mississippi, occupying the Indian village
of Guachoya, the Adelantado gave his orders for the construction
of a couple of brigantines, such as would enable him to seek the
sea.

His people set themselves to this work, with the eagerness of
men, to whom the fruition of all their hopes is promised. While
bodies of them were engaged felling and seasoning timber, others
scoured the country, seeking adventures and provisions; and
above all, to prevent the too near approach of the swarming
hordes of red men, by whom, ever since their approach to the
territories of Tuscaluza, their fortunes had been followed. That
Fate, as De Soto himself esteemed it—which had hung upon
their steps and striven against them, with a bitter hostility from
the moment when Vasconselos was lost to the Castilian columns,
and Istalana suddenly sprang into existence, as the leader of those

of the Apalachian, was still present, still a haunting terror,
still making itself felt unseen, still cutting off detachments,
striking at posts, beating up the bivouac, carrying off, or smiting
down, the straggler, and showing itself as resolute as before, in
its evident purpose to root out and utterly destroy the invaders.
Tuscaluza's power and influence were everywhere brought to
serve this Fate and promote this terrible purpose. His runners
traversed the whole country, passing from tribe to tribe, bringing
tidings of the Spaniards where they came; of their bloody
character, selfish treachery, the power of their arms, the grasping
ferocity of their desires. The Captains of Tuscaluza presented
themselves as volunteers in the conduct of remote tribes. His
troops, as principals or auxiliaries, were to be found carrying the
banner of the Great King; with its bright ground of yellow, and
its three broad stripes of blue; a sign that now waved ominously
in the eyes of our Adelantado, whenever it appeared. It had
been to him the omen of evil always, and he trembled in his
secret soul when he beheld it. He associated it ever with the
aspect of that mysterious warrior of the red men—mysterious to
his followers, but too well known to himself, by whom he had been
overthrown in single combat! That overthrow rankled in his
soul, but it also tended to disarm his spirit. De Soto was cowed
by his Fate! The forest chieftains sent him insolent messages,
defying his arms and challenging him to combat. Once, and such
defiance would have spurred him to the most desperate achievement!
Now, he suffered it to go unheeded. Like a tiger, with
broken limb, he lay crouching in his lair, full of venom, but without
the power to spring upon his victim. The Adelantado was
sinking beneath his cares, growing daily worse and worse, more
morbid of mind, more feeble of body. His ferocity subsided
into melancholy. A fever preyed upon his blood, and affected
without exciting his brain. His physician at length despaired.
He himself had despaired some time before. But the doom was,
as yet, withheld from his people.

Meanwhile, the work of the brigantines was rapidly pressing
forward, under the eager anxieties of the Spaniards to leave the
inhospitable territories of the Apalachian. While companies
hewed timber, others gathered rosin from the trees; others again
wove ropes and wrought cordage out of vines and mosses; a
third division was employed for foraging; while a fourth was
kept in hand, vigilant and ready, for the protection of the camp.
So long as De Soto, himself, could give orders, or take any interest
in the business of the garrison, its vigilance was never once
permitted to relax. Guachoya was not, like Mauvila, a fortified

town, and the scattered dwellings of the place, required to be well
watched. De Soto, to his usual habits of precaution, had, of late,
adopted others of an extreme sort, betraying a morbid apprehension
of danger. His sentinels were doubled; each night his
cavalry mounted guard in the suburbs of the village, bridle in
hand, and ready for the sally or defence. A patrol of troops
alternated, during the night, between the several stations;
while, along the river, cross-bowmen in canoes kept vigilant
watch upon all approaches from the opposite shores.

But this vigilance was observed only while De Soto was himself
able to assert his authority. With his increasing illness, all
this organization fell to pieces. The extra sentinels were dispensed
with; the cavalry found it hard to mount guard during the
night, when they had probably been on a foray all day; the troopers
finding there were no alarms, gave up patrolling; the cross-bowmen
fell asleep in the canoes. The Spaniards were now steadfast
only in the labor of building their brigantines; and all duties
that seemed to interfere with the prosecution of this work, were,
either in part, or entirely foregone. Gradually, as the heats of
summer began to prevail, all toils in the sun were relaxed. The
forbearance of the red men, for several weeks, had persuaded the
Spaniards that they had endured the worst of their dangers from
this source. They little knew how much of this forbearance they
owed to that person, who had grown into the embodied Fate
of their great leader; and to whose agency, in especial, he ascribed
the defeat of his enterprise and the destruction of his fortunes.

Philip de Vasconselos—the Cassique Istalana,—who had now
the entire charge of the forces of Tuscaluza on the Mississippi—
seeing how the Spaniards were engaged in the construction of
their brigantines, readily divined their object. He had no motive
to prevent their departure, and, consequently no desire to embarrass
them in their progress. Still, there was one hostile feeling,
the gratification of which he had not enjoyed. His revenge
was incomplete. Could he have separated the Spaniards from
their Captain—could he have struck at him—him and another—
there had been nothing left him to desire! He well knew that
through him De Soto had been baffled—that he was a subdued
and broken-hearted man; but it must be confessed that he still
yearned for the opportunity to bring the long issue between
them, to the final settlement of blood! This was the black spot
in the soul of the Portuguese Cavalier.

It was a warm and sunny afternoon of summer. The Spaniards
might be seen in groups along the shore, strolling through

the camp, or fishing along the river in canoes. They little suspected
the near neighborhood of the mysterious warrior, who could
manage the war horse as bravely as themselves. He occupied
a close fortress of forest in the immediate proximity of the camp.
A bend of the river at Guachoya, somewhat isolated the spot. It
was a sort of promontory. An arm of the river penetrated, to
some distance, in the rear of the village. This was thickly shrouded
with canes, and the dense thickets natural to a swamp precinct.

Here Istalana found shelter with a select body of his warriors.
Here he kept sleepless watch upon the movements of the unsuspecting
Spaniards. With canoes always at hand, he crossed from
side to side at pleasure; and was thus enabled to change the place
of surveillance whenever he thought proper to do so. He now
harbors in the shadow of great trees which have pressed closely to
the banks of the river, their boughs hanging over and dipping into
the mighty stream. Here, in the great shadows, Istalana lies at
length along the slope; and the Princess Coçalla sits beside him;
and the page Juan leans sadly against a gigantic cotton-wood tree
in the rear, and looks gloomily upon the pair before him!

Vasconselos has been for some time silent,—deep in thought.
He has occasionally answered, but in monosyllables only, to the
questions of Coçalla. She has been very curious about that world
beyond the waters, which could send forth, without feeling his
loss, such a noble creature as the warrior whom she now boldly calls
her own! Juan has been listening with heedful and curious ear
also; but with growing sullenness of aspect. Suddenly Vasconselos
rises. He approaches Juan, and, speaking rather in the manner
of one who soliloquizes than asks a question, remarks:

“Verily there is one thing that troubles me. I have striven
in vain to encounter one bitter enemy, one foul spirit, in that
Spanish host; and always in vain! I have watched for him
whenever they have been upon the march. I have sought for
him through all the ranks of battle; yet never, since the fearful
hour when his bitter malice wrought my disgrace, have I been
able to see his accursed visage, or bring him within the stroke of
my weapon! Yet are his colors still visible among yonder
people. Still do I see his banneret waving aloft, when they are
upon the march, and I trow he hath never left the expedition.
Were he to escape me now, I should feel as if nothing had been
done for my own revenge;—nothing for the repair of his brutal
wrong to one,—but no, I must not speak of her!”

“Of whom does the Señor speak!” demanded Juan. “What
bitter enemy is this?”

“Of one, boy, of whom we have both had frequent cause of

anger and suspicion. Don Balthazar de Alvaro! Have you
seen ought of him since we have followed the fortunes of the
red men?”

“Had I known, my Lord, that such had been thy quest, in especial,
I had spared thee much search and unnecessary peril.
The Señor Balthazar was slain the very night upon which I fled,
in search of thee, from the camp at Chiaha.”

“Ha! slain! slain!—and why did'st thou tell me nothing of
this?”

“The Señor will remember how little hath been said between
us, safe from other ears, since that time.”

And the page looked gloomily in the direction of Coçalla.
Verily, the page had been suffered but few opportunities to commune
with his master.

“And wherefore thy reserve of speech in the hearing of the
Princess? She hath no reserves from us. She is faithful, boy!
what hadst thou to fear?”

“Fear, Señor!”

The words and manner were those of one who would rather
say—

“What had I not to fear?”

“Ay, fear! But speak, Juan, and tell me how the villain
perished! Thou sayst the very night when thou hadst that
perilous and maddening ride in search of me?”

“Even then Señor; that very night!”

“And how?—was it in sudden strife with the red men, that he
perished?”

“No, Señor.”

“Well?”

“He died of dagger stroke, Señor,—dagger stroke from some
unknown hand!”

“Ha! dagger stroke, and from unknown hand! Speak, boy,
tell me all that thou knowst. Where did this hap? and how
knowst thou that he who gave the blow was unknown? tell me
that!”

The lips of the page quivered. He cast his eyes upon the
ground. He was silent. Thronging memories and violent
emotions seem to confound his speech, and to shake his frame.
Philip beheld his emotion, and a new light seemed to gather
before his senses.

“What troubles thee, Juan? What hadst thou to do in this
matter? Ha! the night thou fledst; that fearful flight of thine!
Speak, boy, tell me where was the blow given; where did Balthazar
de Alvaro fall?”

It required a great effort of the page to articulate the answer.

“It was in the chamber of thy own lodge, Señor, that Don
Balthazar was slain.”

“And thou wert there—present—and beheldst it all! Boy,
boy! was it thy hand that struck the blow at the heart of mine
enemy?”

The boy nodded the answer that he could not speak.

“What! then thou wast my avenger on that base and brutal
wretch!”

“And mine own too!” was the half muttered sentence of the
page. But Philip did not hear. He caught the boy in his embrace.

“I thank thee, boy; next to mine own, it was perhaps most
proper for thy hand to do the deed! Yet would it had been
mine own! Enough! I must think no more of him. Then is
this no more a duty in my thought!”

He released Juan from his embrace as he felt the hand of
Coçalla upon his shoulder, and heard her voice in soft murmurs
in his ears.

“Philip—is Philip angry with Coçalla!”

Juan broke away from the group at this moment, and buried
himself in the thicket, with a heart quite too full for speech.

“Philip! Philip!” the boy murmured ever as he fled from
sight.

“One yet remains!” quoth Philip de Vasconselos to himself.
“One yet remains! There is a mystery here! I see him not.
Nuno de Tobar hath crossed the river with his lances: Andres,
my brother, hath gone above with his company. Who is now in
command? De Soto doth not show himself. He must not escape
me also! No arm shall deal with him but mine! Yet have
I resolved not to set upon the Spaniards again. My vengeance
now must light upon the only proper head. Never must he return
to Cuba; though well I know that it will prove to him a
pang worse than any death I can give, to have the eyes of Cuba
set upon him now;—now, when all his hopes are baffled, when
his pride is humbled, his fortune lost, his honor gone forever.
Oh! I have tasted of the bitter-sweet of vengeance; but it is not
enough! Herman De Soto, I tell thee, it is not enough! Thy
blood or mine, I tell thee!”

He shook his hand threateningly towards the Spanish camp,
then strode towards the edge of the creek which divided him
from the lodges of Guachoya. Here he leapt into a canoe
having a single paddle. He was seen by several of the red men

as he went; Juan also saw and followed him. He rowed himself
rapidly across the creek, and stood upon the opposite bank,
at no great distance from the line of lodges which the Spaniards
occupied.

All was quiet in the encampment. Groups of the soldiers and
workmen could be seen in the distance, along the banks of the
river. An occasional figure wound his way along the public
thoroughfares. The approach to the cabins was partly covered
by trees: but beneath them not a single sentinel could be seen.
Philip eagerly pushed forward, but with the subtle stealthiness of
the red man, and taking care always to cover his person from
sight. How was the page, Juan, astonished, when, crossing the
creek as rapidly as he could after his lord, and ascending also to
the level of the high ground leading to the Spanish camp, he
beheld the Knight entering one of the lodges of the enemy!

At that moment, he was called to by name from some one in
the rear. He looked back. Coçalla had crossed also; bow and
arrow in hand, and her face and voice equally declaring her
alarm. She was followed by several well manned canoes. Very
hateful was the beautiful and loving Coçalla in the eyes of the
page. He never answered her call, but, as if vexed by her presence
and pursuit, he too pushed forward, in the direction which
his lord had taken, seeming quite reckless of the peril which he
ran.

Hernan De Soto, a mere skeleton of himself, lay weak, emaciated,
weary of life, upon his bed of death! He was alone—he
had been left to sleep by his attendants who had withdrawn
to an outer apartment. The building was one of those great
lodges of the red men, which were capable upon occasion of
holding a thousand men. It had been divided by the Spaniards
into several compartments by the employment of quilted stuffs,
hides of wild beasts, and of their own horses, and mattings
wrought by Indian art from native grasses and the bright yellow
reeds which grew along the banks, woven together with wild
oziers which were every where found in great abundance. The
couch of De Soto was prepared of like materials, over which
soft dry rushes were strewn in sufficient quantity. The lodges,
thus divided, as we have described, afforded several capacious
chambers; the best of which, fronting the south west, was occupied
by De Soto, but having in front of it a verandah which had
been carefully enclosed with vines and mats, in order to the exclusion
of the fierce glare of the sunshine. In this verandah, lay
drowsing a group of his attendants; others were wont to occupy

the chamber immediately adjoining, which lay east of that of De
Soto, while one upon the north, was usually confided to his body
guard, a corps now reduced to half a dozen men. These, the
better to prevent the disturbance of the Chieftain's slumbers, had
been commanded to leave vacant this northern chamber, and retire
to the verandah beyond it. Here they usually kept watch.
But, after a little while, it was found that when they were not
drowsing in the verandah, they were at play in the court without.
Here they lay upon the long grasses, and, spreading a cloak or skin,
with the smooth side upward, they rolled the dice, to the perpetual
change, equally of mood and fortune. To pass from court to
court, from the north to the south, was a next and natural transition;
and in the languid influence of the climate, and in the utter
freedom for some weeks from all alarm, the Spaniards relaxed all
their vigilance, and soon—he himself totally unconscious—the
dying Adelantado grew to be even less guarded than the camp
itself.

Such was the condition of the scene the evening when we find
Philip de Vasconselos making his entrance into it unattended—
without shows or sounds of war—without followers; himself
armed only with battle-axe and dagger. Nothing, of course,
could take place within the Spanish encampment, which was not
well known to the vigilant red men who watched it sleeplessly by
day and night. The very lodgings of the several Spanish captains
had all been discovered by their spies. The lodge which De Soto
occupied, was, from its greater size and superior structure—it
having been that of the Cassique of Guachoya—necessarily indicated
as the one most proper for the Spanish adelantado. Vasconselos
approached it with direct aim and undeviating footstep.
Saving the natural caution which he observed, covering himself
with tree or shrub, wherever he could employ them while making
his approach,—he went not once aside from the single object.
The circumstances all favored his enterprise. The guards were
withdrawn. They might be seen in the shadows of the trees in
the court yard, on the South and West. Some loitered in the
Eastern court, others lay along the banks of the river, looking to
the south-west. The north and north-west showed no sign of
human being. Yet there, in the woods of the swamp opposite,
lay hosts of the red men of the Apalachian. It was from this
quarter that Istalana stole forward to the camp. In his course,
he caught frequent glimpses of the drowsy Spaniards. There
were groups at cards and dice. A score of them lay in the
shadows of the brigantines which they had been working upon
during the cooler portions of the day. Now they slept, or

gamed, or wandered in the shady thickets—they did anything
but watch. They left this duty to the foragers, who, under
several of the most active knights, usually made a daily progress
over a circuit of ten or fifteen miles along the higher country, and,
thus scouring it daily, persuaded themselves that they kept the
danger at a distance. It would have been easy to have darted in
upon the camp, thus loosely guarded, destroyed the growth of
the brigantines, and cut off, at one fell swoop, the entire garrison,
with its once brilliant captain. But the soul of Philip de Vasconselos,
even while it nursed fondly the passion for a great revenge,
was not prepared to fall upon the people with whom he had so
long marched as a companion. He found it easy to persuade the
Great King to consent to the wiser policy of suffering the Spaniards
to depart, rather than to risk the lives of thousands more of the
red men, in the effort at their violent extermination by battle.
Tuscaluza had lost so many of his bravest warriors already, that
he listened to the counsel thus given him, and the war, thenceforth,
was conducted at the discretion of Istalana.

But Philip de Vasconselos demanded his one victim. Had he
been able to see Hernan de Soto, in field or camp, he might have
curbed his passion until the opportunity should offer of cutting
him off when but few troops should be engaged on either side.
Not seeing him for so long a space, he began to apprehend that
he, too, might have fallen in battle, or by disease, and had been
buried secretly by his followers, who naturally dreaded lest the
red men should wreak their savage fury on his remains, should
they be discovered. Curious to ascertain the truth, eager to
pacify his great revenge, Vasconselos could no longer forbear the
inquiry, though urged at the peril of his own life and liberty.

Circumstances, as we have shown, favored his adventure.
There were no guards in attendance; there was no watch about
the lodge of De Soto, and though certain esquires occupied the
closed verandah upon the south-west, whom Philip could not see,
and whose presence he did not suspect, yet were these as little
prepared for danger, or assault; as were the several groups that
lay in the shadows of the trees, and brigantines, or who loitered
among the broad avenues of the woods. The greater body of
the Spaniards in camp, were distributed among the several
lodges, either gaming, or enjoying that repose which the heats of
the season began to render exceedingly grateful, after several
hours of labor in the sun. A deep silence overspread the dwelling
in which De Soto was sighing away his life, when Vasconselos
passed between its portals. He had been utterly unseen. He
paused in the ante-chamber, on the northern side of the building,

and listened. Sounds, as of a slight moaning, came to him from
the inner apartment. He drew aside the great bear-skin which
constituted the door-way, and advanced silently within the dim
shadows of the room. His moccasined footstep gave forth no
sound. The moaning continued. De Soto slept imperfectly,—
the sleep of exhaustion, and of approaching death.

Philip approached his bed-side, and gazed upon the bleached
and bloodless features of him whom he had seen in his hour of
pride and hope,—exulting in all the vigor of manhood,—and in
the indulgence of the most exulting hope, and the most eagle-eyed
ambition. His hand grasped the battle-axe, but the spectacle
disarmed his rage. He was chilled by the survey. For several
moments, he gazed in silence upon the foe, whom he had so long
destined as the one victim whose death alone could pacify his
rage. He now scarcely felt this emotion.

“And this then,” he murmured to himself—“this is the brilliant
cavalier, the haughty warrior, the proud chieftain, the insolent
and ambitious Castilian. This is the man by whose decree I
was dishonored—made to face and to endure a terror worse than
death—destroyed in hope—degraded from position, dishonored in
the sight of man forever. Verily, I would give the life that I have
passed when life was a joy and every emotion promised delight and
triumph,—could I once more behold thee, Hernan de Soto,—as
I have seen thee so oft,—as thou look'dst on that terrible day,
when thy doom gave my honor to disgrace, and left me to the
horrors of a beast's death in the wilderness of the Apalachian!”

The lips of the dying man parted, even as he slept, speaking in
feeble accents.

“Philip de Vasconselos,” he murmured faintly, but still intelligibly,
“give me back my forces. Philip de Vasconselos, thou
hast robbed me of all my fame. Thou hast destroyed me forever,
in hope and fortune. Oh! that I had thee here, and no arm
to interpose between us, with weapon bared, and thy life and
mine upon the issue!”

“Ha! he invokes me in his dream!”

“Thou art my Fate!” murmured the sleeper. “Thou hast
robbed me of all! Oh! that I could have thee in mine eyes
once more, and avenge upon thee the slaughter of my soldiers.”

“Open thine eyes, Hernan de Soto!” cried Vasconselos—
“Behold! I am with thee—The Fate thou hast summoned.
Would to Heaven thou wert as fit and ready for the strife as I.”

He laid his hand upon the skinny arm of the sleeper as he spoke,
and the eyes of the dying chief opened upon him. Very glassy
was the gaze they sent forth; for a while, very meaningless and

uncertain. But, as the light of consciousness gradually dawned
upon his mind, the gaze quickened with intelligence.

“Ha!” he said—“I dream! I do not see!”

“Thou dost see, Hernan de Soto! thou dost not dream. The
Fate thou hast challenged is beside thee.”

“Ha! then! It is true. Thou art here. Ah! wilt thou strike
when I have no weapon. Let me but prepare for thee, Philip
de Vasconselos, by the Holy Virgin, thou shalt see what is the
prowess of a true man, against the bosom of the renegade and
traitor!”

And the feeble chieftain lifted his hand and pointed to his
armor hanging against the wall, and motioned as if he would
have risen; but he sank back feebly and shut his eyes, murmuring—

“Be it as thou wilt! strike, if thou hast the heart for it! I
have no prayer to offer to thee, traitor as thou art.”

“That word alone should doom thee to sudden blow, Hernan
de Soto,” answered the Knight with stern emphasis,
“but I will not strike thee. I will lay no hand upon thee now
in anger. There is a more powerful grasp upon thee than any I
can lay. Thou art in the hands of the great master of life, and
I will do nothing more against thee. Yet, Heaven be my witness,
de Soto, if I would not gladly help thee to thy armor, and see
thee once more put on all thy strength, while I stood before
thee, with battle-axe, armed as now, and thou with any weapon
or armor that thou wouldst, with none to come between us,
and thy life and mine decreed to hang upon the justice of our
cause. Traitor! Who made me a traitor, if I be one? Who
robbed me of my rights, my good name, my honors and my
manhood? Who drove me into the arms of the red men,—who
despoiled me of my abode, and security among a christian
people? Who but thou? and it is thou that darest now, with
the hand of death upon thee, and the dread of eternal judgment
staring thee in the face—thou, to call me traitor! It is thou, I
tell thee, Hernan de Soto, that art the traitor and the criminal!
Thou that hast dishonored the noble order of knighthood by
dishonest judgment; thou that didst debase thee from the rank
of the gentle and the noble, in becoming the tool and the slave
of the cunning criminal, who warped thee to his villanous purpose,
making of thy soul a thing even fouler than his own!”

“Ha! shall I submit to this insolence!” answered De Soto in
louder accents. His soul, goaded by the speech of Vasconselos
became aroused for the moment. There was a sudden lighting

up of the fires in his eye and bosom. Nature, nerved by indignation,
put on the appearance of sudden strength.

“Shall I listen to this foul-mouthed renegade!” he exclaimed
in still louder accents; and, with the words, half rising from his
couch, he stretched his arm out suddenly, and with unexpected
vigor, the last fierce energetic action of expiring nature, he
grasped the throat of Vasconselos, crying aloud the while—

“What, ho! without there! Guards, soldiers, Castilians,
seize on the traitor. Help, that I may secure this renegade.”

Vasconselos shook off his grasp with ease, and the dying
Adelantado sank back upon the couch. The fire was exhausted
in the single expiring blaze. The momentary ebullition was
over. The effort was fatal. His eyes were suddenly glazed, the
spasmodic gasping declared the agonies of death.

“A Dios!” exclaimed Vasconselos, pointing upward. De
Soto lay before him a corse.

For a moment, the Portugese cavalier contemplated the rigid
features of his enemy—the unconscious glare of his widely
staring eyes. But, suddenly, he started, battle-axe in his grasp,
and strode across the chamber. There was a noise of armor in the
southern verandah. There was heard the tread of heavy and
hurrying feet in the chamber which lay between. De Soto's
dying summons had been heard by his drowsing attendants, and
they were approaching. Vasconselos lifted the bearskin, closing
the entrance from the northern chamber, and passed through,
just as a couple of the squires of De Soto entered from the
opposite chamber. He passed without interruption through the
northern apartments, through the verandah unseen, gained the
court, and sped with swift foot-steps, but only in a walk, towards
the forest cover whence he emerged. Suddenly, a wild cry, a
shout of mixed fury and horror, was heard to arise behind him.
He looked backward: a group of Spaniards was seen to rush
from the quarters of De Soto. They cried to other groups in
the squares, and, as they shouted their anger and alarm, the instinctive
defiance in the heart of Vasconselos, prompted the
fierce war-whoop with which he replied to them in the manner
of the red men.

There was pursuit; but Vasconselos did not increase his speed.
His soul was at its full stature, and he disdained to have recourse
for safety to the eager paces of the fugitive. He strode
onward with the gait of one who would rather welcome than
escape the danger. Nor did he need to hasten, unless to escape
the bolt or the shot of his pursuer. He was so fairly beyond
them that they could not have made him captive; could not have

crossed weapon with his own; and the river swamp was nigh, on
the edge of which lay his canoe.

At that moment, the voice of Juan was heard behind him, crying
aloud,

“Hasten, Señor Philip—hasten my lord, they prepare to
shoot.”

He turned with surprise, in the direction whence the sounds
arose, much wondering to perceive the boy behind him; when,
even at that instant, the bolt was delivered from the cross-bow of
one of the Spaniards, and he beheld the boy, as he threw himself
directly upon his path. The next instant he saw Juan roll over
upon the sward, with the arrow quivering in his bosom. The
boy had thrown off his armour of escaupil, as most of the red
men had done in that warm season, and not expecting strife; and
in his jacket of thin, unquilted cotton, the deadly shaft had met
with no resistance.

With a deep cry of sincere sorrow, Vasconselos darted backward
to where the boy lay upon the strand. To gather him up in
his powerful arms, and hurry with him down the slope, to the
canoe, was the work of a few moments only. As he reached the
shore, he heard the voice of Coçalla, crying—

“Hither, Philip, hither! Here is a great canoe.”

He followed the sounds, and safely entered the canoe with his
speechless burden. The rowers bent to their task, the boat shot
through the reedy thicket, and had nearly reached the opposite
shore, when a crowd of Spaniards, all armed with arquebuse and
cross-bow, appeared along the margin of the shore which they
had left. There were shots sent after the fugitives, bullet and
arrow, but with hurried aim,—they were delivered fruitlessly;
and while a thousand of the red men answered with their fearful
whoops, the shouts and threats of the Spaniards, the war canoe
of Coçalla shot safely into cover, in a lagune hidden from all
sight by the dense thickets of its reedy shore.

In a green lodge by the river side, they laid the insensible form
of Juan, the page, upon a bank of rushes; and Philip de Vasconselas,
with a grievous sadnesss at his heart—for he saw that the
wound of the boy was mortal—proceeded tenderly to withdraw
the deadly shaft from his bosom, where it was deeply lodged.
But, at the very first effort, when it became necessary to tear
open the vest of the boy, his eyes opened, and he raised his hands,
and pressed down his garments, and murmured that they should
desist. But in this effort he again fainted; and while he was
thus unconscious, Philip de Vasconselos cut the strings which
secured the jacket of the boy in front, and lo, when he had opened

the garment, the white skin beneath, and the full round white
bosom of a woman. “Ha! Philip!” cried Coçalla, who had assisted
the knight in his effort.

“Ha! Philip! It is a daughter of the pale faces. It is one of
your people. It is a woman who hath followed Philip to the
battle.”

And Philip greatly wondered, as much at his own blind ignorance,
which had kept him so long in darkness, as at the strange
revelation, the secret of which he now comprehended in a moment.

“Holy Maria!” he exclaimed. “Holy Maria!” and the
eyes of the page again unclosed; and she now knew what had
been done, and what had been discovered; and she sighed deeply,
and the tears gathered into her eyes, and she strove to cover
them with her hands. Then the knight said—

“My poor Olivia! Is it thou?”

And she murmured—

“Wilt thou forgive me, Senor?”

“Forgive! what have I to forgive?”

And the child again wept, and her sobs were long and deep;
and while she sobbed, the knight tenderly withdrew the barbed
arrow from the wound; and though he strove to save her from
pain, yet the agony was very great, and again she fainted. But the
blood issued freely from the wound, and when they strove to staunch
it, her eyes once more opened to the light, and she saw that it was
Coçalla who was busy about her, to stay the bleeding, and to
bind up the wound; and with a sharp word she pushed her away,
and tore off the bandages. Then Philip interposed, and she lay
silent, as he strove to do for her that which she had denied should
be done by Coçalla. But though the knight bound up the hurt,
and strove, with the help of liniments and styptics, which the
red men knew well how to use, yet was all his care in vain,—for
the wound bled inwardly, and they soon beheld that the hurt was
mortal, and that the life was fast ebbing out of the sweet fountain
which it had warmed with such fidelity, and made to glow
with so much passion, and such feminine devotion; and the girl
murmured to Philip, speaking of Coçalla,—

“Let her go hence, for a while, Señor. I have that to show
thee, to say to thee, which should have no ears but thine
own.”

And Philip whispered Coçalla away, and Olivia de Alvaros
said—

“It is well. Now, Philip, that I am about to lose thee, let me
tell thee how much I love thee.”

“Alas!” he said, “my poor Olivia, it needs not. Know I
not now!”

And she answered—

“But thou knowest not that I am innocent of wrong doing,
Philip, and this is what I would show thee.”

She spoke but little more, but of this she was most eager to
speak. And she bade him look into her jacket of escaupil, where
a packet had been sewn up, which should teach him all her cruel
history; how she had been wronged, but how she was innocent;
how she had been dishonored, but how she was an unwilling
and unconscious victim to the base and cruel arts of her
brutal kinsman. In this packet thus delivered, he read the terrible
history of her griefs, even as we have already delivered it.
But he did not read until she was no more.

She died in the arms of Philip; but she bade that Coçalla
should turn away her face, and leave the spot, ere the parting
moment came. Then she bade that Philip should lift her from
the rushes, and when he did so, she threw her arms about his
neck, and laid her head upon his bosom, and so her pure and
suffering spirit went, with a sweet sigh, and a fond embrace, the
memory of which, in long years after, sweetened greatly the solitude
to the heart of the knight of Portugal. They buried her,
in the great solitudes of the Mississippi, under the shades of many
guardian trees, and the river rolls ever along with a deep murmur
near the hallowed spot, as if it sang fond anthems for the
repose of a troubled soul.

Midnight, and there was a solemn stir in the Spanish encampment.
There was a roll of martial music, and the wail of solemn
voices, as they sang the awful dirge of death over the remains of
the once mighty Adelantado, Hernan de Soto. Then, in the
deepening darkness of the night, they placed the corse of the
Adelantado in the core of a green pine tree, which had been hollowed
out to receive it, and, nailing over this a cover of heavy
plank, they towed it from the shore, under an escort of an hundred
canoes, to the centre of the river, and there, with a solemn
service, they consigned it to a bed beneath the great stream,
sinking it deeply, lest the avenging red men should possess
themselves of the corse of him who had wrought them so much
evil while he lived, and wreak upon his unconscious frame the
fury which possessed their souls against him.

But Philip de Vasconselos, who beheld the scene, and readily
divined the nature of the solemn service, would not suffer his
warriors to disturb its progress; and from the banks of the river,

in the darkness of the night, his eye watched, and his soul brooded
gloomily over the close of De Soto's career, and he reflected upon
the strangeness of that ambitious fortune, which should have found,
in all its wild career, nothing so wonderful as the river which
became the burial-place of the hero. Nor, when De Soto was
thus consigned to his last repose, did Philip suffer that the
Spaniards should be troubled by his followers. He saw them
depart in their brigantines, following the flowings of the Mississippi
in its passage to the sea, and, when one of the vessels bearing
the banner of his brother Andres glided down the stream,
beneath the banks upon which he stood, as it went by, he cried
audibly—

“Farewell to thee, my brother; fare thee well, Andres de
Vasconselos; farewell for ever!”

And the Spaniards went from sight, and in due season, after
many strifes and trials, did they reach their homes. But Philip,
leading his warriors back to the great king, Tuscaluza, turned
away once more towards the mountains of the Apalachian; and
when he had left the territory of Tuscaluza, and once more got
back to that of Cofachiqui,—and when the warriors of Cofachiqui
once more assembled with greetings and songs of welcome about
their princess, the well-beloved Coçalla, then did that noble creature
lay her hands upon the shoulder of the knight and say,—

“Philip is now the great chief, the well-beloved of the people
of Cofachiqui.”

And the knight smiled with a sweet sadness upon the dusky
princess, as they passed into the great thickets leading to the
ancient village, where the two first met, on the banks of the Savannah.
And how the heart of the woman gladdened, when at
last, in reply to her frequent murmur of the name of Philip, he
answered with that of Coçalla!