CHAPTER XXXVI.
A THUNDERCLAP
The Araucanos, spread about the camp, saw with surprise these two persons, both in apparent agitation, pass them. Doña Maria rushed into the toldo, followed by Don Tadeo. Doña Rosario was fast asleep upon a bed of dry leaves, covered with sheepskins. She had the appearance of a dead person. Don Tadeo, deceived by this, sprang towards her, exclaiming in a tone of despair —
"She is dead! oh, heavens, she is dead!"
"No, no," said the Linda, "she is asleep."
"Still," he exclaimed, "this sleep cannot be natural, for our coming in should have awakened her."
"Well! perhaps it is not natural."
Don Tadeo cast an inquiring glance at her.
"Oh," she said, ironically, "she is alive; only it was necessary to send her to sleep for awhile."
Don Tadeo was mute with confused astonishment.
"You do not understand me," she resumed. "Well, I will explain; this girl whom you love so much – "
"Oh, yes, I love her!" he interrupted.
"It was I who took her from you," said the Linda, with a bitter smile.
"Wretch, miserable wretch!"
"Why, I hated you, and I avenged myself; I knew the deep love you bear this creature. To take her from you was aiming a blow at your heart."
"Miserable!" Don Tadeo cried.
"Ah, yes," the Linda replied, smiling, "that revenge was miserable; it did not at all amount to what I intended; but chance offered me what could alone satisfy me, by breaking your very heart."
"What frightful infamy can this monster have imagined?" Don Tadeo murmured.
"Antinahuel, the enemy of your race, your enemy, became enamoured of this woman."
"What!" he exclaimed, in a tone of horror.
"Yes, after his fashion, he loved her," she continued, coolly; "so I resolved to sell her to him, and I did so; but when the chief wished to avail himself of the rights I had given him, she resisted, and arming herself suddenly with a dagger, threatened to plunge it into her own heart."
"Noble girl!" he exclaimed, deeply affected.
"Is she not?" said the Linda, with her malign vacant smile; "so I took pity on her, and as I had no particular wish for her death, but a very anxious one for her dishonour, I this evening gave her some opium, which will place her, without means of defence, in the power of Antinahuel. Have I attained my object this time?"
Don Tadeo made no reply, this utter depravity in a woman absolutely terrified him.
"Well," she continued, in a mocking tone, "have you nothing to say?"
"Mad woman, mad woman!" he cried, in a loud voice, "you have avenged yourself, you say? Mad woman! Could you a mother, pretending to adore your daughter, coolly, unhesitatingly, conceive such crimes? I say, do you know what you have done?"
"My daughter, you named my daughter! Restore her to me! Tell me where she is, and I will save this woman. Oh! if I could but see her!"
"Your daughter, wretch? You serpent bursting with venom! Is it possible you think of her?"
"Oh, if I found her again, I would love her so."
"Do you fancy that possible?" said Don Tadeo.
"Oh, yes, a daughter cannot hate her mother."
"Ask herself, then!" he cried, in a voice of thunder.
"What! what! what!" she shrieked. In a tone of thrilling agony, and springing up as if electrified; "What did you say? What did you say, Don Tadeo?"
"I say, miserable wretch! that the innocent creature whom you have pursued with the inveteracy of a hungry hyena, is your daughter! – do you hear me? your daughter! She whom you pretend to love so dearly, and whom, a few minutes ago, you demanded of me so earnestly."
The Linda remained for an instant motionless, as if thunderstruck; and then exclaimed, with a loud, demoniac laugh —
"Well played, Don Tadeo! well played, by Heaven! For a moment I believed you were telling the truth."
"Oh!" Don Tadeo murmured, "this wretched being cannot recognise her own child."
"No, I do not believe it! It is not possible! Nature would have warned me that it was my child!"
"God renders those blind whom He would destroy, miserable woman! An exemplary punishment was due to His insulted justice!"
The Linda turned about in the toldo like a wild beast in a cage, uttering inarticulate cries, incessantly repeating in a broken voice —
"No, no! she cannot be my daughter!"
Don Tadeo experienced a feeling of deadly hatred, in spite of his better nature, at beholding this profound grief; he also wished to avenge himself.
"Senseless woman," he said, "had the child I stole from you no sign, no mark whatever, by which it would be possible for you to recognise her?"
"Yes, yes," she cried, roused from her stupor; "wait! wait!"
And she threw herself down upon her knees, leant over the sleeping Rosario, and tore the covering from her neck and shoulder.
"My child!" she exclaimed; "it is she! it is my child!"
She had perceived three small moles upon the young girl's right shoulder. Suddenly her body became agitated by convulsive movements, her face was horribly distorted, her glaring eyes seemed staring from their sockets; she, clasped her hands tightly to her breast, uttered a deep rattle, more like a roar than a sound from a human mouth, and rolled upon the ground, crying with an accent impossible to describe —
"My daughter! my daughter! Oh, I will save her!"
She crawled, with the action of a wild beast, to the feet of the poor girl.
"Rosario, my daughter!" she cried, in a voice broken by sobs; "it is I, it is your mother! Know me, dear!"
"It is you who have killed her," Don Tadeo said, implacably; "unnatural mother, who coolly planned the dishonour of your own child."
"Oh, do not speak so!" she cried, clasping her hands; "She shall not die! I will not let her die! She must live! I will save her, I tell you!"
"It is too late."
"I tell you I will save her," she repeated, in a deep tone.
At this moment the steps of horses resounded.
"Here is Antinahuel!" said Don Tadeo.
"Yes," she replied, with a short, determined accent, "of what consequence is his arrival? Woe be to him if he touch my child!"
The curtain of the toldo was lifted by a firm hand, and an Indian appeared: it was Antinahuel. A warrior followed with a torch.
"Eh, eh!" said the chief, with an ironical smile.
"Yes," Linda replied smiling; "my brother arrives opportunely."
"Has my sister had a satisfactory conversation with her husband?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Good! the Great Eagle of the Whites is an intrepid warrior; the Aucas warriors will soon put his courage to the test."
This brutal allusion to the fate that was reserved for him was perfectly understood by Don Tadeo.
"Men of my temperament do not allow themselves to be frightened by vain threats," he retorted.
The Linda drew the chief aside.
"Antinahuel is my brother," she said, in a low voice; "we were brought up together."
"Has my sister anything to ask for?"
"Yes, and for his own sake my brother would do well to grant it me."
Antinahuel looked at her earnestly.
"Speak," he said, coolly.
"Everything my brother has desired I have done."
The chief bowed his head affirmatively.
"This woman, who resisted him," she continued, "I have given up to him without defence."
"Good!"
"My brother knows that the palefaces have secrets which they alone possess?"
"I know they have."
"If my brother pleases it shall not be a woman cold, motionless, and buried in sleep, that I surrender to him."
The eye of the Indian kindled with a strange light.
"I do not understand my sister," he said.
"I am able," the Linda replied, earnestly, "in three days so completely to change this woman's feelings for my brother, that she will be towards him loving and devoted."
"Can my sister do that?" he asked, doubtingly.
"I can do it," she replied, resolutely.
Antinahuel reflected for a few minutes.
"Why did my sister wait so long to do this?"
"Because I did not think it would be necessary."
"Ooch!" said the Indian, thoughtfully.
"Besides," she added, carelessly, "if I say anything about it now, it is only from friendship for my brother."
Whilst pronouncing these words, an internal shudder agitated her whole frame.
"And will it require three days to effect this change?"
"Three days."
"Antinahuel is a wise chief – he will wait."
The Linda experienced great inward joy; if the chief had refused, her resolution was formed – she would have stabbed him to the heart.
"Good!" she said; "my brother may depend upon my promise."
"Yes," the Toqui replied; "the girl is sick; it would be better she should be cured."
The Linda smiled with an undefinable expression.
"The Eagle will follow me," said Antinahuel; "unless he prefers giving me his word."
"No!" Don Tadeo answered.
The two men left the toldo together. Antinahuel commanded his warriors to guard the prisoner strictly.
At sunrise the camp was struck, and the Aucas marched during the whole day into the mountains without any determinate object.
"Has my sister commenced?" asked the chief of Linda.
"I have commenced," she replied.
The truth was she had passed the whole day in vainly endeavouring to induce the maiden to speak to her; the latter had constantly refused, but the Linda was not a woman to be easily repulsed. As soon as the chief had left her, she went to Doña Rosario, and stooping to her ear, said in a low, melancholy voice —
"Pardon me all the ill I have done you – I did not know who you were; in the name of Heaven, have pity on me – I am your mother!"
At this avowal, the young girl staggered as if she were thunderstruck. The Linda sprang towards her, but Doña Rosario repulsed her with a cry of horror, and fled into her toldo.
"Oh!" the Linda cried, with tears in her eyes, "I will love her so that she must pardon me."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
UPON THE TRACK
It was the evening of the eighth day, after twenty leagues from Arauca. In a virgin forest of myrtles, cypresses, and espinos, which cover with their green shade the lower parts of the Cordilleras – four men were seated round a fire. Of these four men, two wore the Indian costume, and were no other than Trangoil-Lanec and Curumilla; the others were the count and Valentine.
The spot on which our travellers had halted was one of those glades so common in American forests. It was a vast space covered with the trunks of trees that have died from age, or been struck by lightning, deeply inclosed between two hills.
The Indians were too experienced to commit the fault of stopping of their own accord in this place; and it was only from the impossibility of going further that they had consented to pass the night there.
The day had been a rough one, but the night promised to be mild and tranquil. The travellers attacked their supper bravely, in order to be the sooner able to enjoy the repose they stood so much in need of. They did not exchange a word during the repast; the last morsel swallowed, the Indians threw upon the fire a few armfuls of dry wood, of which they had an ample provision at hand, then folded themselves in their ponchos, and fell asleep. Valentine and Cæsar alone were left to keep guard.
It was almost an hour since he had taken Valentine's place, when Cæsar, who had till that time lain carelessly stretched before the fire, sharply raised his head, sniffed the air in all directions, and gave a surly growl.
"Well, Cæsar," said the young man whilst patting the animal, "what's the matter, my good dog?"
The Newfoundland fixed his large intelligent eyes upon the count, wagged his tail, and uttered a growl much stronger than the first.
"Very well," said Louis; "we will go on the lookout. Come along, Cæsar."
The count examined his rifle and his pistols, and made a sign to the dog, who watched all his motions.
"Now, Cesar," he said, "look out, my fine fellow!"
The animal, as if he had only waited for this order, sprang forward, followed step by step by his master, who examined the bushes, and stopped at intervals to cast an inquiring glance around him.
At length, after numberless windings, the dog crouched, turned its head towards the young man, and uttered one of those plaintive howls, so like a human complaint, which are peculiar to the race. The count started; putting the bushes and leaves apart with precaution, he looked, and with difficulty repressed a cry of painful astonishment at the strange spectacle which presented itself to his eyes. Within twenty paces from him, in the centre of a vast glade, fifty Indians were lying round a fire, buried in the sleep of intoxication, as could be divined from the leather bottles scattered without order upon the sand, some full of aguardiente, others empty.
But what attracted the particular attention of the young man was the sigh of two persons, a man and a woman, firmly bound to two trees. The head of the man reclined upon his breast, his large eyes were flooded with tears; deep sighs seemed to rise from his very heart, as he looked towards a young girl standing bound before him.
"Oh!" the count murmured, "Don Tadeo de León! My God! Grant that that woman be not his daughter!"
Alas! it was she. At their feet lay the Linda, bound to an enormous post.
The young man felt the blood flow back to his heart; forgetful of his own preservation, he seized a pistol in each hand, and was about to spring forward, when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice whispered in his ear —
"Prudence!"
"Prudence!" the young man repeated, in a tone of painful reproach; "look there!"
"I have seen," replied Trangoil-Lanec, "but my brother will look in his turn," he added.
And he pointed to a dozen Indians, who, awakened by the cold of the night, or perhaps by the involuntary noise made by the two men, in spite of their precaution, rose and looked suspiciously around.
"That is true!" Louis murmured, quite overcome. "Oh, my God! Will you not come to our aid?"
The chief took advantage of the momentary prostration into which his friend had fallen, to lead him back a little, so as to avoid increasing the aroused suspicions of the Indians.
"Still," the young man exclaimed, "we shall save them, shall we not, chief?"
The Araucano shook his head.
"At this moment it is impossible," he replied.
"Brother, now that we have recovered their track, which we had lost, they must be saved."
A smile passed over the lips of the Indian warrior.
"We will try," he said.
"Thanks! thanks, chief," the young man cried.
"Let us return to the camp," said Trangoil-Lanec. "Patience, my brother," the Indian added in a solemn voice; "nothing is urgent – in an hour we shall be on their track again."
"That is true," the young man said, hanging down his head with forced resignation.
The two men regained their encampment, where they found Curumilla and Valentine still asleep.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE LYNX
In the course of the past few days certain events had taken place in Araucania which we must explain. The policy adopted by General Fuentes had produced the best results. The chiefs restored to liberty had returned to their tribes, where they had warmly persuaded their mosotones to conclude a definite peace. These persuasions had been eagerly listened to.
The Huiliches, who asked no better than to resume the course of their peaceful labours in safety, warmly gave their adhesion to the conditions their Ulmens submitted to them.
A grand council was solemnly convoked on the banks of the Carampangne, at the closing of which six deputies, chosen from among the wisest and most respected chiefs, having at their head an Apo-Ulmen named the Lynx, and followed by a thousand well-armed horsemen, were sent to Antinahuel, in order to communicate to him the resolutions of the council, and demand his assent.
When he perceived at a distance this numerous troop advancing amidst clouds of dust, Antinahuel breathed a sigh of satisfaction, thinking what a noble reinforcement was coming: for the malocca which he was so anxious to attempt upon the Chilian frontier.
The troop which Antinahuel had perceived continued to approach, and soon came within speaking distance. The Toqui then observed with secret dissatisfaction that it was commanded by the Lynx, who had always been tacitly opposed to him. When the horsemen had arrived within ten paces of the camp the Lynx made a sign, and the troop halted; a herald stopped in front of the chiefs, and saluted them respectfully.
"Toqui of the four Uthal-mapus," he said, in a loud voice, "and you Ulmens who hear me – the Lynx, the venerated Apo-Ulmen of Arauca, followed by six Ulmens no less celebrated than himself, is sent to you to enjoin obedience to the orders emanating from the supreme Auca-coyog."
After speaking thus the herald bowed respectfully and retired. Antinahuel and his Ulmens looked at each other in astonishment, for they could not comprehend what it all meant. The Toqui alone suspected some treachery planned against himself; but his countenance remained impassive, and he asked his Ulmens to accompany him to the council fire. At the expiration of a minute the Lynx arose, made two steps forward, and spoke as follows: —
"The grand Auca-coyog of Arauca, in the name of the people, to all persons who are at the head of warriors, salutation! Certain that all our compatriots keep their faith, we wish them peace in that genius of goodness, in which alone reside true health and holy obedience. This is what we have resolved: war has fallen unexpectedly upon our rich plains, and has changed them into deserts; our harvests have been trampled under the feet of horses, our cattle have been killed or driven away by the enemy, our crops are lost, our toldos are burnt, our wives and children have disappeared in the tempest. We will have no more war, and peace must be immediately concluded with the palefaces. I have spoken."
A profound silence followed this speech. Antinahuel's Ulmens were struck with stupor, and looked towards their chief with great anxiety.
"And upon what conditions has this peace been concluded?" asked the Toqui.
"The conditions are these," the Lynx replied; "Antinahuel will immediately release the white prisoners; he will dismiss the army; the Araucanos will pay the palefaces two thousand sheep, five hundred vicunas, and eight hundred head of cattle; and the war hatchet is to be buried."
"Hum!" said the Toqui with a bitter smile; "these are hard conditions. If I should on my part refuse to ratify this shameful peace?"
"But my father will not refuse," the Lynx suggested.
"But I do refuse!" he replied, loudly.
"Good! my father will reflect; it is impossible that can be his last word."
Antinahuel, cunning as he was, had no suspicion of the snare that was laid for him.
"I repeat to you. Lynx," he said, in a loud voice, "and to all the chiefs who surround me, that I refuse to ratify these dishonourable conditions. So, now you can return whence you came."
"Not yet!" said the Lynx, in his turn, as sharply as the Toqui. "I have not finished yet!"
"What else have you to tell me?"
"The council, which is composed of the wise men of all the tribes, has foreseen the refusal of my father."
"Ah!" Antinahuel cried. "What have they decreed in consequence?"
"This: the hatchet of Toqui is withdrawn from my father; all the Araucanian warriors are released from their oath of fidelity to him; fire and water are refused to my father; he is declared a traitor to his country, as are all those who do not obey, and remain with him. The Araucanian nation will no longer serve as a plaything, and be the victim of the wild ambition of a man unworthy of commanding it."
During this terrific peroration Antinahuel had remained motionless, his arms crossed upon his breast.
"Have you finished?" he asked.
"I have finished," the Lynx replied; "now the herald will go and proclaim in your camp what I have told you at the council fire."
"Well, let him go!" Antinahuel replied. "You are welcome to withdraw from me the hatchet of Toqui. Of what importance is that vain dignity to me? You may declare me a traitor to my country; I have on my side my own conscience, which absolves me; but what you wish above all else to have you shall not have and that is my prisoners. Farewell!"
And with a step as firm as if nothing had happened to him, he returned to his camp. But there a great mortification awaited him. At the summons of the herald all his warriors abandoned him. One after the other, some with joy, others with sorrow. He who five minutes before counted more than eight hundred warriors under his orders, saw their numbers diminish so rapidly that soon only thirty-eight were left.
The Lynx called out an ironical farewell to him from a distance, and departed at a gallop with all his troop. When Antinahuel counted the small number of friends left to him, an immense grief weighed upon his heart; he sank down at the foot of a tree, covered his face with his poncho, and wept.
In the meantime, thanks to the facilities which the Linda had procured Don Tadeo, the latter had been able for some days past to approach Rosario. The presence of the man who had brought her up was a great consolation to the young lady; but when Don Tadeo, who had thenceforward no reasons for secrecy, confessed to her that he was her father, an inexpressible joy took possession of the poor child. It appeared to her that she now had no longer anything to dread, and that since her father was with her she should easily escape the horrible love of Antinahuel. The Linda, whom Don Tadeo allowed from pity to be near her, beheld with childish joy the father and daughter talking together.
This woman was really a mother, with all the devotedness and all the abnegation which the title implies. She no longer lived for anything but her daughter.
Whilst the events we have described were taking place, the three Chilians, crouched in a corner of the camp, absorbed by their own feelings, had attended to nothing – seen or heard nothing. Don Tadeo and Rosario were seated at the foot of a tree, and at some distance the Linda, without daring to mingle in their conversation, contemplated them with delight. His first grief calmed, Antinahuel recovered himself, and was as haughty and as implacable as ever. On raising his eyes his looks fell mechanically upon his prisoners.
Antinahuel, whose attention was roused, had watched Maria carefully, and was not long in acquiring the moral proof of a plot being laid against him by his ancient accomplice. The Indian was too cunning to let them be aware of his suspicions; still he held himself on his guard, waiting for the first opportunity to change them into certainty. He ordered his mosotones to tie each of his prisoners to a tree, which order was immediately executed.
At sight of this, the Linda forgot her prudence; she rushed, dagger in hand, towards the chief, and reproached him with his baseness. Antinahuel disdained to reply to her reproaches; he merely snatched the dagger from her hand, threw her down upon the ground, and ordered her to be tied to a large post with her face turned towards the ground.
"Since my sister is so fond of the prisoners," he said "it is but just that she should share their fate."
"Cowardly wretch!" she replied, vainly endeavouring to release herself. The chief turned from her in apparent contempt; then, as he fancied that he must reward the fidelity of the warriors who followed his fortunes, he gave them several bottles of aguardiente. It was at the end of these orgies that they were discovered by the count, thanks to the sagacity of the Newfoundland dog.
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