CHAPTER II.
IN THE FOREST.
The unknown had struck into a dense forest, the last skirts of whichdwindled away close to the banks of the Rio Bermejo.
American forests have little resemblance to those of the Old World: inthe former, the trees shoot up hap-hazard, crossing and interlacingeach other, and sometimes leaving large spaces completely open, strewnwith dead trees, uprooted, and piled on each other in the strangestmanner.
Some trees, partially or wholly withered, show in their hollow remnantsof the strong and fruitful soil; others, equally ancient, are supportedby the entangled creepers, which, in process of time, have almostattained the size of their former props--the diversity of foliageforming here the most agreeable contrast; others, concealing withintheir hollow trunks a hotbed, formed from the remains of their leavesand half-dead branches, which has promoted the germination of the seedthat fell from them, seem to promise an indemnification for the loss ofthe parent trees in the saplings they nourish.
One could imagine that nature had determined to put beyond the ravagesof time some of these old trees, when sinking under the weight of ages,by clothing them in a mantle of gray moss, which hangs in long festoonsfrom the topmost branches to the ground. This moss, called _barbed'Espagnol_, gives to the trees a most fantastic aspect.
The ground of these forests, formed from the remains of trees falling,in successive generations, for centuries, is most eccentric: sometimesraising itself in the shape of a mountain, to descend suddenly intoa muddy swamp, peopled by hideous alligators wallowing in the greenslime, and by millions of mosquitoes swarming amidst the fetid vapoursexhaled, sometimes extending itself endlessly in plains of a monotonyand regularity truly depressing.
Rivers, without a name, traverse these unknown deserts, bearing nothingon their silent waters save the black swans, which let themselvescarelessly float down the currents; while rosy flamingoes, postedalong the banks, fish philosophically for their dinners, with eyeshalf-closed and sanctimonious air.
Even where the view seems most contracted, sudden clearings sometimesopen out prospects picturesque in the extreme and deliciouslyfortuitous.
Incessant noises, nameless sounds, make themselves heard withouta break in these mysterious regions--the grand voices of thesolitude--the solemn hymn of the invisible world, created by theAlmighty.
In the bosom of these redoubtable forests the wild beasts and reptiles,which abound in Mexico, find refuge; here and there one meets withpaths incessantly trodden for centuries by jaguars and bisons, andwhich, after countless meanderings, all debouch on unknown drinkingholes.
Woe to the daring mortal who, without a guide ventures to tempt theinextricable mazes of these immense seas of verdure! After ineffabletortures, he succumbs, and falls a prey to the savage beasts. Howmany hardy pioneers have died thus, without the possibility of theveil being lifted which shrouds their miserable end! Their blanchedbones, discovered at the foot of some tree, alone can teach those whocome upon them that on that spot men have died, a prey to infinitesuffering, and that the same fate, perchance, awaits the finders.
The stranger must have been the constant guest of the forest into whichhe had so audaciously plunged at the moment when the sun, quitting thehorizon, had left the earth to darkness--darkness rendered still denserin the covert, in which the light even at midday could only struggle inat intervals through the tufted branches.
Bending a little forward, eye and ear on the watch, the unknownadvanced as rapidly as the nature of the ground under his horse's hoofswould let him, following unhesitatingly the capricious deviations of awild animal's path, whose traces were scarcely discoverable amidst thetall grasses which strove continually to efface it.
He had already ridden for several hours without having slackened thepace of his horse, plunging deeper and deeper into the forest.
He had forded several rivers, scaled many a steep ravine, hearing at ashort distance, on right and left, the hoarse growlings of the jaguarand the mocking wailing of the tiger cat, which seemed to follow himwith their menacing yells.
Taking no heed of roar or tumult, he continued his route, although theforest assumed a more dreary aspect at every step.
The bushes and trees of low growth had disappeared, to make room forgigantic mahogany trees, century old cork trees, and the acajou, whosesombre branches formed a vaulted roof of green eighty feet above hishead. The path had grown wider, and stretched, in a gentle incline,towards a hillock of moderate height, entirely free from trees.
Arrived at the base of the hillock, the stranger halted; then, withoutdismounting, cast a searching glance on all around.
The stillness of death pervaded everything; the howling of the wildbeasts was lost in the distance; no noise was audible, save that causedby a slender stream of water, which, trickling through the crevices ofa rock, fell from a height of three or four yards into a natural basin.
The sky, of the deepest blue, was spangled with an infinite numberof brilliant stars; and the moon, sailing amidst a sea of whitishclouds, cast her silvery rays in profusion on the hillock, whose sides,fantastically lighted up, formed a striking contrast with the rest ofthe landscape, merged, as it was, in the deepest obscurity.
During several minutes the unknown remained motionless as a statue,listening to the faintest sound, ready to fire at the slightestappearance of danger.
Convinced, at last, that all around was peaceful, and that nothingunusual disturbed the silence of the solitude, he prepared to dismount,when suddenly his horse threw up his head, laid back his ears, andsnorted loudly.
A moment more, and a violent crashing was heard among the underwood; anoble moose deer rose from amidst the bushes, and, bounding to within ashort distance from the cavalier, rapidly traversed the path, tossinghis antlers in terror, and vanished in the darkness.
For a time the noise of its headlong course resounded over the dryleaves, crushed under its feet in the constantly increasing speed ofits flight.
The cavalier, with a scarcely perceptible motion of the hand, backedhis horse gradually to the foot of the hillock, with his head alwaysturned in the direction of the forest, like a vidette who retiresbefore a superior force.
As soon as he reached the spot he had selected, the unknown leapedlightly to the ground; and, making a rampart of his horse's body,levelled his rifle, steadied the barrel across the saddle, and waitedpatiently.
He had not to wait long: after a while the tread of several persons washeard approaching his place of ambush.
Most likely the unknown had already divined who these persons might be,even before he saw them; for he quitted his temporary shelter, passedhis arm through his horse's reins, and, uncocking his rifle, let thebutt drop on the ground, with every symptom of complete security, whilea smile of indefinable expression played about his lips.
At last the branches parted, and five persons appeared on the scene.
Of these five persons, four were men; two of them supported thetottering form of a woman, whom they almost carried in their arms. And,what was most wonderful in these regions, the strangers, whom it waseasy to recognise as white men by their dress and the colour of theirskin, had no horses with them.
They continued to advance without being aware of the presence of theunknown, who, still motionless, marked their approach with mingled pityand sadness.
Suddenly one of the strangers happened to lift his eyes.
"Praise be to God!" cried he, in Mexican, with lively satisfaction;"We are saved. Here is a human being at last."
The five stopped. The one who had first observed the unknown camerapidly towards him, and exclaimed, with a graceful inclination:
"Caballero, I entreat you to grant, what is seldom refused in thewilderness, aid and protection."
The unknown, before he replied, threw a searching look at the speaker.
The latter was a man of some fifty years; his manner was polished, hisfeatures noble, although his hair was growing white about his temples;his figure, upr
ight and compact, had no more bent an inch, nor hisblack eyes lost a particle of their fire, than if he had been onlythirty. His rich dress and the ease of his manner clearly proved him tobelong to the highest grade of Mexican society.
"You have committed two grave errors in as many minutes, caballero,"answered the unknown: "the first, in approaching me without precaution;the second, in demanding aid and protection without knowing who I am."
"I do not understand you, senor," replied the stranger, withastonishment. "Do not all men owe mutual assistance to each other?"
"In the civilised world it may be so," said the unknown, with a sneer;"but in the wilderness, the sight of a man always forebodes danger: weare savages here."
The stranger recoiled in astonishment.
"And thus," said be, "you would leave your fellow creatures to perishin these horrible solitudes without stretching forth a hand to helpthem?"
"My fellow creatures!" cried the unknown, with biting irony; "My fellowcreatures are the wild beasts of the prairie. What have I in commonwith you men of towns and cities, natural enemies of every being thatbreathes the pure air of liberty? There is nothing in common betweenyou and me. Begone, and weary me no more."
"Be it so," was the stranger's haughty answer. "I would not importuneyou much longer; were it only a question of myself, I would not haveuttered a single prayer to you. Life is not so dear to me, that Ishould seek to prolong it on terms repugnant to my honour; but it isnot a question of myself alone; here is a female, still almost a child,my daughter who is in want of prompt assistance, and will die if it isnot rendered."
The unknown made no reply; he had turned away, as if reluctant to carryon any further conversation.
The stranger slowly rejoined his companions, who had halted at the edgeof the forest.
"Well?" he asked uneasily.
"The senorita has fainted," sorrowfully replied one of the men.
The stranger uttered an exclamation of grief. He remained for somemoments fixing his eyes on the girl, with an indescribable expressionof despair.
All of a sudden he turned abruptly, and rushed towards the unknown.
The latter had mounted, and was on the point of retiring.
"Stop!" called the stranger.
"What is it you want with me?" replied the unknown once more. Thenhe added fiercely, "Let me begone; and thank God that our unforeseenmeeting in this forest has not been productive of graver consequencesto you."
The menace contained in these enigmatical words disturbed the strangerin spite of himself. However, he would not be discouraged.
"It is impossible," he resumed vehemently, "that you can be as cruel asyou wish us to believe. You are too young for all feeling to have diedout of your heart."
The unknown laughed strangely.
"I have no heart," he said.
"I implore you, in the name of your mother, not to abandon us!"
"I have no mother."
"Then I beseech you in the name of the being you love most upon earth,whoever that may be."
"I love no one."
"No one?" repeated the stranger, shuddering; "Then I pity you, for youmust be most unhappy."
The unknown trembled; a feverish glow stole over his face; but soonrecovering himself, he exclaimed:
"Now let me go."
"No; not before I learn who you are."
"Who I am! Have I not already told you? A wild beast; a being with onlythe semblance of humanity, with a hatred towards all men which nothingcan ever appease. Pray to God you may never again encounter me on yourpath. I am like the raven--the sight of me foretells evil. Adieu!"
"Adieu!" murmured the stranger; "And may God have mercy on you, and notvisit your cruelty upon you!"
Just at this moment a voice, feeble, but in its sad modulationssweet and melodious as the notes of the _centzontle_, the Americannightingale, rose through the stillness.
"My father, my dear father!" it uttered. "Where are you? Do not abandonme."
"I am here, I am here," exclaimed the stranger tenderly, as he turnedquickly to run to her who thus called him.
A cloud passed over the face of the unknown at the sound of thesemelodious accents; his blue eye flashed like the lightning. He placedhis hand on his heart, trembling as if he had received an electricshock.
After a short hesitation, he forced his horse to make a sudden boundforward, and placing his hand on the stranger's shoulder:
"Whose voice is that?" he asked in singular accents.
"The voice of my daughter, who is dying, and calls me."
"Dying?" stammered the unknown, strangely moved. "She!"
"My father, my father!" repeated the girl in a voice which grew weakerand weaker.
The unknown raised himself to his full height; his face assumed anexpression of indomitable energy.
"She shall not die!" said he in a low voice. "Come!"
They rejoined the group.
The young girl was stretched upon the ground, with her eyes closed, herface pale as a corpse; the feeble gasps of her breathing alone evincingthat life had not completely left her.
The persons surrounding her watched her in profound sadness, whiletears rolled silently down their bronzed cheeks.
"Oh!" cried the father, falling on his knees beside the young girl,seizing her hand and covering it with kisses, while his face wasinundated with tears; "My fortune--my life--to him who will save mycherished child!"
The unknown had dismounted, and observed the girl with sombre andpensive eye. At last, after several minutes of this mute contemplation,he turned towards the stranger.
"What ails this girl?" he asked abruptly.
"Alas! An incurable ailment: she has been bitten by a grass snake."
The unknown frowned till his eyebrows nearly met together.
"Then she is lost indeed," said his deep voice.
"Lost! O Heavens! My daughter, my dearest daughter!"
"Yes; unless--" then, arousing himself: "How long is it since she wasbitten?"
"Scarcely an hour."
The face of the unknown lighted up. He remained silent for a moment,during which the bystanders anxiously bent towards him, awaiting withimpatience the opinion he would probably pronounce.
"Scarcely an hour?" said he at last. "Then she may be saved."
The stranger uttered a sigh of joy.
"You will answer for it?" he cried.
"I?" returned the unknown, shrugging; his shoulders; "I will answer fornothing, except that I will attempt impossibilities for the chance ofrestoring her to you."
"Oh, save her, save her!" eagerly exclaimed the father; "And, whoeveryou may be, I will bless you."
"It matters not to me what you may do. I do not try to save this girlfor your sake; and, whatever may be the motives inducing me, I exemptyou from all feelings of gratitude."
"You may possibly harbour such thoughts; but for myself--"
"Enough," rudely broke in the unknown; "we have already lost too muchtime in idle words; let us make haste, if we would not be too late."
All were silent.
The unknown looked around.
We have already said that the strangers had halted at the edge of theforest; over their heads the last trees of the covert expanded theirmighty branches.
Approaching the trees, the unknown examined them carefully, apparentlyin search of something he could not find.
All of a sudden, he uttered a cry of joy; and, unsheathing the longknife fastened to his right knee, he cut a branch from a creeper, andreturned to the strangers, who were anxiously watching his proceedings.
"Here," said he to one of the party, who looked like a _peon_ (a serf),"strip all the leaves from this branch, and pound them. Be quick; everysecond is worth a century to her whom we wish to save."
The _peon_ set himself actively to the allotted task.
Then the unknown turned to the father:
"In what part of the body has this child been bitten?"
"A little below the left a
nkle."
"Has she much courage?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Answer! Time presses."
"The poor child is quite worn out; she is very weak."
"Then we must hesitate no longer; the operation must be performed."
"An operation!" cried the stranger, affrighted.
"Would you rather she should die?"
"Is this operation indispensable?"
"It is: we have already lost too much time."
"Then perform it. God grant you may succeed!"
The girl's leg was horribly swollen; the part round the serpent's bite,terribly tumefied, was already taking a greenish hue.
"Alas," muttered the unknown, "there is not a moment to spare. Hold thechild so that she cannot stir while I perform the operation."
In these last words the voice of the unknown had assumed such an accentof command, that the strangers obeyed without hesitation.
The former seated himself on the ground, took the limb of the girlupon his knee, and made his preparations. Luckily the moon shone atthis moment so clearly, that her vivid rays flooded the landscape, andeverything was almost as visible as in broad daylight.
When the girl had first felt the bite, she had immediately, and happilyfor herself, torn off her silk stocking. The unknown grasped the bladeof his knife an inch from the point, and, lowering his brow withterrible determination, buried the point in the wound, and made acruciform incision about six lines deep, and more than an inch long.
The poor child must have felt terrible anguish; for she gave utteranceto a dreadful scream, and twisted herself about nervously.
"Hold her tight, _cuerpo de Cristo!_" shouted the unknown in a voice ofthunder, while with admirable coolness and skill he pressed the lipsof the wound, so as to force out the black and decomposing blood itcontained; "And now the leaves--the leaves!"
The _peon_ ran up.
The unknown took the leaves, parted asunder the lips of the wound,and gently, carefully expressed their juice on the palpitating flesh.Making a kind of plaster of the same leaves, he applied it to thewound, tied it down firmly with a bandage, placed the foot carefully onthe ground, and rose.
As soon as a certain quantity of the sap of the creeper had fallenupon the wound, the girl had seemed to experience a sensation of greatrelief; the nervous spasms began to abate; she closed her eyes; andfinally she leaned back without attempting to struggle any longer withthe persons who held her in their arms.
"You may leave her now," whispered the unknown; "she is asleep."
In fact, the regular though feeble breathing of the patient proved herto be plunged in a profound slumber.
"God be praised!" exclaimed the poor father, clasping his hands inecstasy; "Then she is really saved?"
"She is," answered the unknown leisurely; "bating unforeseen accidents,she has nothing more to fear."
"But what is the extraordinary remedy you have employed to obtain sucha happy result?"
The unknown smiled with disdain, and did not seem willing to reply;however, after a short hesitation, yielding perhaps to that secretvanity which induces us all to make a parade of our wisdom, he decidedupon giving the information demanded.
"The pettiest things astonish you fellows who dwell in cities," said heironically; "the man who has passed his whole life in the wildernessknows many things of which the inhabitants of your brilliant townsare ignorant, although, with the sole aim of humiliating, they takepleasure in parading their false science before us poor savages.Nature hides not the secret of her mysterious harmonics from him whoceaselessly pries into the darkness of night and the brightness ofday, with a patience beyond proof, without suffering himself to bediscouraged by failure. The sublime Architect, when he had createdthis immense universe, did not let it fall from his omnipotent handsuntil it had been made perfect, nor till the amount of good shouldcounterbalance everywhere the amount of evil--placing, so to say, theantidote side by side with the poison."
The stranger listened with increasing surprise to the words of thisman, whose real character was an enigma to him, and who at everymoment showed himself in lights diametrically opposed, and under formsentirely distinct.
"But," continued the unknown, "pride and presumption make man blind.Accustomed to make all things bear upon himself, imagining that allexistence has been specially created for his convenience, he takes nopains to study the secrets of nature further than they seem to have adirect influence on his personal welfare, not caring to make inquiryinto her simplest actions. So, for instance, the region in which wenow are, being low and marshy, is naturally infested with reptiles,which are so much the more dangerous and to be dreaded, because theyare half-calcined and rendered furious by the rays of a torrid sun.Therefore provident nature has produced in abundance throughoutthese same regions a creeper called _mikania_--the one I have justused--which is an infallible remedy for the bites of serpents."
"I cannot doubt it, after having witnessed its efficacy; but howwere the virtues of this creeper discovered?" said the stranger,involuntarily interested in the highest degree.
"A hunter of the woods," continued the unknown, with a certainself-complacency, "observed that the black falcon, better known asthe _guaco_, a bird which feeds chiefly upon reptiles, takes specialdelight in exterminating serpents. This hunter had also observed thatif, during the struggle, the serpent contrived to wound the _guaco_,the latter immediately retired from the combat, and flying to the_mikania_, tore off a few leaves, which it bruised in its beak. Itafterwards returned to the fight more resolute than ever, until it hadvanquished its redoubtable enemy. The hunter was an astute man, and ofgreat experience; one who knew that animals, being devoid of reason,are more especially under the providence of God, and that all theiractions proceed from laws laid down at the beginning. After maturereflection, he resolved to test his experience upon himself."
"And did he execute his project?" cried the stranger.
"He did. He let a coral snake bite him, the deadliest of all; but,thanks to the _mikania_, the bite proved as harmless to him as theprick of a thorn. That is the manner in which this precious remedy wasdiscovered. But," added the unknown, suddenly changing his tone, "Ihave complied with your wishes in bringing help to your daughter; sheis safe. Adieu! I may stay no longer."
"You must not go before you have told me your name."
"What good will this pertinacity do you?"
"I wish to embalm the name in my memory as that of a man to whom I havevowed a gratitude which will only end with my life."
"You are mad!" rudely answered the unknown. "It is useless to pronounceto you a name which you will very likely learn but too soon."
"Let it be so; I will not persist, nor ask the reasons which compelyou to act thus. I will not seek to learn it in despite of you; but,if you refuse to teach me your name, you cannot prevent my making youacquainted with my own--I am called Don Pedro de Luna. Although untiltoday I have never penetrated thus far into the prairies, my residenceis not very far off. I am proprietor of the Hacienda de las Noriasde San Antonio, close to the frontiers of the Despoblado, near the_embouchure_ of the Rio San Pedro."
"I know the Hacienda de las Norias de San Antonio. Its owner ought tobelong to the happy ones of earth, according to the opinion of thosewho dwell in cities. So much the better: if it does belong to you, I donot envy riches with which I should not know what to do. Now, you havenothing more to say, have you? Well, then, adieu!"
"What! Adieu! You will leave us?"
"Certainly; do you think I intend to remain all night with you?"
"I hoped, at least, you would not leave unfinished the work you haveundertaken."
"I do not understand you; caballero."
"Will you abandon us thus? Will you leave my daughter in her presentstate, lost in the wilderness, without the means of escape,--in thedepths of this forest, which has been so nearly fatal to her?"
The unknown frowned several times, then cast a stolen look on the girl.A violent struggle seemed
to commence in his bosom; he remained silentfor several minutes, uncertain how to decide. At last he raised hishead.
"Listen," said he in a constrained voice; "I have never learnt to lie.At a short distance I have a _jacal_ (hovel), as you would call themiserable _calli_ (cottage) which shelters me; but, believe me, it isbetter for you to remain here than to follow me there."
"And why?" said the stranger, surprised.
"I have no explanation to give you, and I will not lie. I only repeat:believe me, and remain here. Nevertheless, if you persist in followingme, I will not oppose it; I will be your faithful guide."
"Danger menace us under your roof? I will not stop on such anhypothesis: hospitality is sacred in the prairies."
"Perhaps so; I will neither answer yes nor no. Do you decide; only makeyour resolve quickly, for I am in haste to have the matter decided."
Don Pedro de Luna threw a sorrowful look at his daughter; thenaddressing the unknown--
"Whatever may happen," said he, "I will follow you. My daughter cannotstay here; you have done too much for her not to wish to save her. Iconfide in you; show me the way."
"Agreed," replied the unknown laconically. "I have warned you; takecare you are on your guard."