After the tragic execution of the Pirate, the hunters slowly continued their journey. The scenes we have described in previous chapters had spread over them a gloom which nothing could dissipate. Since his daughter's disappearance, Don Miguel Zarate, who had been suddenly hurled from the height of his hopes, maintained a gloomy and stern silence. This man, so strong and energetic, at length conquered by misfortune, marched silently by the side of his comrades, who respected his grief, and offered him those little attentions to which suffering minds are so sensitive.

Valentine and General Ibañez were holding an animated conversation, the two Indians, Curumilla and Moukapec, going in front and serving as guides. Don Pablo and Ellen rode side by side; they alone of the small party seemed happy, and a smile now and then played over their faces. Alone of the little band the two young people had the faculty of forgetting past sufferings through the present joy.

During Sandoval's execution Ellen had been kept aloof, hence she was ignorant of what had occurred; and nothing happened to dull the pleasure she experienced at seeing herself reunited to the man to whom she had mentally given her heart.

One of the privileges of love is forgetting; the two young people, absorbed in their passion, remembered nothing, but the happiness of meeting again. The word "love" had not been uttered; still, it was so fully reflected in their glances and smiles, that they understood each other perfectly.

Ellen was describing to Don Pablo how Doña Clara and herself escaped from Red Cedar's camp, protected by the two Canadian hunters.

"Ah!" Don Pablo said, "talking of those hunters, what has become of them?"

"Alas!" Ellen replied, "One of them was killed by the Apaches, and the other – "

"Well and the other?"

"There he is," she said; "oh, he is devoted to me body and soul."

Don Pablo turned round with an angry movement, and a dull jealousy was inflamed in him. He looked at the hunter who rode a few paces in the rear, but at the sight of this open, honest face, over which a tinge of melancholy was spread, the young man seriously upbraided himself for his apprehensions. He quickly went up to the hunter, while Ellen regarded them with a smile; when he was at the Canadian's side, he offered him his hand.

"Thanks," he said to him simply, "for what you did for her."

Harry pressed the hand, and answered sadly but nobly: "I did my duty; I swore to defend her and die for her: when the hour arrives, I will keep my oath."

Don Pablo smiled gracefully,

"Why do you not ride by our side?"

"No," Harry answered with a sigh, as he shook his head; "I ought not, and do not wish to be the third in your conversation. You love each other, and be happy. It is my duty to watch over your happiness; leave me in my place and remain in yours."

Don Pablo thought for a moment over these words, then pressed the hunter's hand a second time.

"You have a noble heart," he said to him; "I understand you;" and he rejoined his companion. A smile played round the hunter's pallid lips.

"Yes," he muttered so soon as he was alone; "yes, I love her. Poor Ellen! She will be happy, and if so, what matter what becomes of me?"

He then reassumed his indifferent look; but at times he gazed with a feeling of sorrowful pleasure on the young people who had renewed their conversation.

"Is he not a glorious fellow?" Ellen said to the young man as she pointed to the hunter.

"I think so."

"And I have been certain of it for a long time. Harry watches over me; I have always found him at my side in the hour of danger: to follow me he has abandoned everything, country, friends, family, without hesitation or reflection, and has done it without any hope of ever being rewarded for such abnegation and devotion."

Don Pablo sighed.

"You love him," he murmured.

The maiden smiled.

"If you mean by those words that I place an unbounded confidence in him, that I feel a sincere and deep affection for him, in that sense, yes, I do love him."

Don Pablo shook his head.

"That is not what I mean," he said.

She gazed on him fixedly, and remained silent for some minutes, the Mexican not daring to question her. At length she turned to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder; at this touch the young man started, and quickly raised his head.

"Listen, Don Pablo," she said, in her clear and harmonious voice.

"I am listening," he answered.

"Accident one day brought us together," she continued, with a sort of feverish animation, "under extraordinary circumstance. On seeing you, I felt a sensation at once sweet and painful: my heart contracted, and when, after defying my brothers, you set off, I looked after you so long as I could perceive you through the trees. At length I returned dreamily to our cabin, for I felt that my fate was decided; your words echoed in my ears, your image was in my heart, and yet you had appeared to me as an enemy: the words you uttered in my presence were threats. Whence arose the strange emotion that agitated me?"

She stopped.

"Oh, you loved me!" the young man exclaimed impetuously.

"Yes, did I not?" she continued. "It is what is called love," she added, in a quivering voice, while two tears fell from her long lashes and coursed down her pale cheeks; "in what will that love result? The daughter of a proscribed race, I am not so much your friend as your prisoner, or, at any; rate, your hostage. I inspire your comrade with contempt, perhaps with hatred; for I am the daughter of their implacable foe – of the man whom they have sworn to sacrifice to their vengeance."

Don Pablo bowed his head, with a sigh.

"What I say is true, is it not?" she continued; "you are forced to allow it."

"Oh, I will protect – I will save you," he exclaimed impetuously.

"No," she said firmly; "no, Don Pablo, for you must defend me against your own father; you would not dare do it; and if you did," she added, with a flashing eye, "I would not suffer it."

There was a moment's silence: then Ellen continued —

"Leave me to accomplish my destiny, Don Pablo; renounce this love, which can have only one result – our mutual wretchedness: forget me!"

"Never," he exclaimed; "never! I love you, Ellen, so greatly as to sacrifice all for you – my life, if you order it."

"And I," she replied – "do you fancy that I do not love you? – have I not given you sufficient proof of that love? – I who betrayed my father for your sake. But you see, I am strong; imitate me, and do not enter on a mad struggle."

"Whatever happens, I shall ever love you. Ellen! What do I care for your family! Children are not responsible for the faults of their parents. You are noble, you are holy: I love you, Ellen, I love you!"

"And do you think I doubt it?" she replied. "Yes, you love me, Don Pablo; I know it; I am sure of it; and, shall I confess it? This love, which causes my despair, renders me at the same time happy. Well, you must forget me; it must be so."

"Never," he repeated wildly.

"Listen, Don Pablo; you and your comrades are on my father's trail; if, as is almost certain, you find him, nothing will save him, neither tears nor entreaties, but you will kill him."

"Alas!" the young man murmured.

"You understand," she said, with great agitation, "that I cannot be an unmoved witness of the death of the man to whom I owe my life. This man, whom you hate, on whom you wish to revenge yourself, is my father; he has always been kind to me. Be merciful, Don Pablo!"

"Speak, Ellen; whatever you may ask I will swear to do."

Ellen fixed on him a glance of strange meaning.

"Is it true? Can I really trust to your word?" she said, with marked hesitation.

"Order, and I will obey."

"This evening, when we reach the spot where we are to bivouac, when your comrades are asleep – "

"Well?" he said, seeing that she stopped.

"Let me fly, Don Pablo, I implore you."

"Oh, my poor child," he exclaimed; "let you fly! But what will become of you alone, and lost in this desert?"

"Heaven will guard me."

"Alas! It is death that you ask."

"What matter, if I have done my duty."

"Your duty, Ellen?"

"Must I not save my father?"

Don Pablo made no reply.

"You hesitate – you refuse," she said, bitterly.

"No," he answered. "You ask, and your will shall be accomplished; you shall go."

"Thanks," she said, joyfully, as she offered the young man her hand, which he pressed to his lips.

"And now," she said, "one last service."

"Speak, Ellen."

She drew a small box from her bosom and handed it to her companion.

"Take this, box," she continued. "I know not what it contains; but I took it from my father before escaping from his camp with your sister. Keep it preciously, in order that, if Heaven allow us ever to meet again, you may restore it to me."

"I promise it."

"Now, Don Pablo, whatever may happen, know that I love you, and that your name will be the last word that passes my lips."

"Oh! Let me believe, let me hope that one day perhaps – "

"Never!" she exclaimed, in her turn, with an accent impossible to describe. "However great my love may be, my father's blood will separate us eternally."

The young man bowed his head in despair at these words – a gloomy malediction, which enabled him to measure the depth of the abyss into which he had fallen. They continued their journey silently, side by side.

The Sachem of the Coras, as we said, acted as guide to the little party. On reaching a spot where the path he followed took a sudden bend in the river bank, he stopped, and imitated the cry of the jay. At this signal, Valentine dug his spurs into his horse and galloped up to him.

"Is there anything new?" he asked.

"Nothing, except that in a few minutes we shall be opposite the islet where Red Cedar established his camp."

"Ah, ah!" said Valentine; "In that case we will halt."

The hunters dismounted, and concealed themselves in the shrubs; the utmost silence prevailed on the riverbank.

"Hum!" Valentine muttered; "I believe the bird has flown."

"We shall soon know," Eagle-wing replied.

Then, with that prudence characteristic of the men of his race, he stepped cautiously from tree to tree, and soon disappeared from his comrades' sight.

The latter awaited him motionless, and with their eyes fixed on the spot where he had vanished, as it were. They had long to wait, but at the end of an hour a slight rustling was audible in the shrubs, and the Indian rose before them. It was easy to see that he had emerged from the water, for his clothes were dripping.

"Well?" said Valentine.

"Gone!"

"All?"

"All."

"How long?"

"Two days at least! the fires are cold."

"I suspected it," said the hunter, as if speaking to himself.

"Oh!" Don Miguel exclaimed, "this demon will constantly escape us."

"Patience," Valentine replied. "Unless he has glided through the river like a fish, or risen in the air like a bird, we shall find his trail again – I swear it."

"But what shall we do?"

"Wait," said the hunter. "It is late, we will pass the night here; tomorrow, at daybreak, we will start in pursuit of our enemy."

Don Miguel sighed, and made no answer. The preparations for a hunter's bivouac are not lengthy. Harry and Eagle-wing lit a fire, unsaddled and hobbled the horses, and then the supper was got ready. With the exception of Don Miguel and his son, who ate but little, though for different reasons, the hunters did honour to the frugal meal, which the fatigues of the day caused them to find delicious. So soon as the supper was over, Valentine threw his rifle on his shoulder, and gave Curumilla a sign to follow him.

"Where are you going?" Don Miguel asked.

"To the isle where the gambusinos' camp was."

"I will go with you."

"Hang it all! And so will I," said the general.

"Very good."

The four men set out, and only Don Pablo, Ellen, the Chief of the Coras, and Harry were left in the encampment. So soon as the footsteps of the hunters had died out in the distance, Ellen turned to Don Pablo.

"The time has arrived," she said.

The Mexican could not repress a nervous start.

"You wish it?" he answered her, sadly.

"It must be," she continued, stifling a sigh.

She rose and walked up to Harry.

"Brother, I am going," she said.

"It is well," the hunter replied.

Without any further explanation, he saddled two horses, and waited with apparent indifference. Moukapec slept, or feigned to sleep. Ellen offered her hand to Don Pablo, and said, in a trembling voice —

"Farewell!"

"Oh!" the young man exclaimed, "Remain, Ellen, I implore you!"

The squatter's daughter shook her head sadly.

"I must rejoin my father," she murmured; "Don Pablo, let me go."

"Ellen! Ellen!"

"Farewell, Don Pablo!"

"Oh!" he said, in his despair, "Can nothing move you?"

The maiden's face was inundated with tears, and her bosom heaved.

"Ungrateful man," she said, with an accent of bitter reproach, "he does not understand how much I love him."

Don Pablo made a final effort; he overcame his grief, and said, in a stammering voice —

"Go, then, and may Heaven protect you!"

"Farewell!"

"Oh! Not farewell – we shall meet again."

The girl shook her head sadly, and leaped on the horse the Canadian held ready for her.

"Harry," said Don Pablo, "watch over her."

"As over my sister," the Canadian answered, in a deep voice.

Ellen gave a parting signal of farewell to Don Pablo, and loosened the bridle. The young man fell on the ground in despair.

"Oh! All my happiness has fled me!" he muttered, in a broken voice.

Moukapec had not made a move; his sleep must have been very sound. Two hours later, Valentine and his friends returned from their trip to the island, and Don Miguel at once noticed the absence of the squatter's daughter.

"Where is Ellen?" he asked, quickly.

"Gone!" Don Pablo muttered.

"And you allowed her to fly?" the hacendero exclaimed.

"She was not a prisoner, hence I had no right to oppose her departure."

"And the Canadian hunter?"

"Gone too."

"Oh!" Don Miguel exclaimed, "We must start in pursuit of them without the loss of a moment."

A shudder of terror and joy ran over the young man's body, as he turned pale at this proposition. Valentine gave him a searching glance, and then laid his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"We will do nothing of the sort," he said, with a meaning smile; "on the contrary, we will allow Red Cedar's daughter to withdraw unimpeded."

"But – " Don Miguel objected.

Valentine bent down and whispered a few words in his ear. The hacendero started.

"You are right," he muttered.

"Now," the hunter went on, "let us sleep, for I promise you a hard day's work tomorrow."

Everyone seemed to acknowledge the justice of this remark, and scarce a quarter of an hour after it had been made, the hunters were lying asleep round the fire. Curumilla alone was leaning against a larch tree, of which he seemed to form part, watching over the common safety.

CHAPTER XXXII
FRAY AMBROSIO

We will now return to the gambusinos.

Sutter and Nathan had not said a word to their brother; while he, for his part, did not appear to have recognised them. When all were preparing to sleep, Shaw also laid himself on the ground, while imperceptibly approaching Doña Clara.

The maiden, with her head buried in her hands, and her elbows supported on her knees, was weeping silently. These tears broke Shaw's heart, and he would have laid down his life to stop their flow.

In the meanwhile, the night grew more and more dark; the moon, veiled by thick clouds which passed incessantly over its pale disc, only cast forth dim rays, too weak to pierce the dome of foliage under which the gambusinos had sought shelter. Shaw, reassured by the complete immobility of his comrades and the mournful silence that brooded over the clearing, ventured slightly to touch the young lady's arm.

"What do you want with me?" she asked in a mournful voice.

"Speak low," he replied; "in Heaven's name, speak low, señora, or one of the men lying there may overhear us. These villains have so fine an ear, that the slightest sighing of the wind through the leaves is sufficient to awake them and put them on their guard."

"Why should I care whether they awake?" she continued, reproachfully "Thanks to you, in whom I trusted, have I not fallen into their hands again?"

"Oh!" he said, writhing his hands in despair, "you cannot believe me capable of such odious treachery."

"Still, you see where we are."

"Alas! I am not to blame for it; fatality has done it all."

An incredulous smile hovered round the maiden's pallid lips.

"Have at least the courage to defend your bad deed, and confess you are a bandit like the men sleeping there. Oh," she added, bitterly, "I have no right to reproach you; on the contrary, I ought to admire you; for though you are still very young, you have displayed, under present circumstances, a degree of skill and cunning I was far from suspecting in you: you have played your part with consummate talent."

Each of these cruel words entered the unhappy young man's heart like a dagger, and made him endure atrocious torture.

"Yes," he said sadly, "appearances are against me; in vain should I try to persuade you of my innocence, for you would not believe me; and yet Heaven is my witness that I attempted all it was humanly possible to do, in order to save you."

"You were very unfortunate then, sir," she continued sarcastically; "for it must be allowed that all these attempts of which you boast strangely turned against you."

Shaw uttered a deep sigh.

"Good Heaven!" he said, "What proof can I give you of my devotion?"

"None," she replied coldly.

"Oh! madam."

"Sir," she interrupted him in a firm and ironical voice, "spare me, I beg of you, your lamentations, in whose sincerity I cannot believe, as there are too many undeniable proofs against you; even more odious than treachery are the hypocritical protestations of a traitor. You have succeeded, so what more do you want? Enjoy your triumph. I repeat to you that I do not reproach you, for you have acted as your instincts and training urged you to do; you have been true to yourself and faithful to your antecedents: I need say no more. Now, if I may be allowed to ask a favour of you, let us break off a conversation no longer possessing any interest, as you will not succeed in destroying my impressions about you: imitate the example of your comrades, and let me indulge in my grief without any obstacle."

Shaw thunderstruck by these words, pronounced in a tone that admitted of no reply; he saw the fearful position he was in, and a mad fury seized on him. Doña Clara had left her head fall again in her hands and was weeping: The young man felt a sob choking him.

"Oh!" he said, "What pleasure you take in torturing my heart. You say I betrayed you, I who loved you so!"

Doña Clara drew herself up, haughty and implacable.

"Yes," she answered ironically, "you love me, sir, but it is after the fashion of wild beasts, that carry off their prey to their den to rend it at their pleasure; yours is a tiger's love."

Shaw seized her arm violently, and looked firmly in her eyes.

"One word more, one insult further, madam," he gasped, "and I stab myself at your feet: when you see my corpse writhing on the ground, possibly you may then believe in my innocence."

Doña Clara, surprised, gazed at him fixedly.

"What do I care?" she then said, coldly.

"Oh!" the young man exclaimed in his despair, "You shall be satisfied."

And with a movement rapid as thought, he drew his dagger. Suddenly a hand was roughly laid on his arm; but Doña Clara had not stirred.

Shaw turned round. Fray Ambrosio was standing behind him, smiling, but not relaxing his grasp.

"Let me go," the young man said, in a hollow voice.

"Not so, my son," the monk said gently, "unless you first promise to give up your homicidal project."

"Do you not see," Shaw exclaimed passionately, "that she believes me guilty?"

"It must be so: leave it to me to persuade her of the contrary."

"Oh! if you did that?" the young man muttered, with an accent of doubt.

"I will do it, my son," Fray Ambrosio said, still smiling; "but you must first be reasonable."

Shaw hesitated for a moment, then let fall the weapon, as he muttered —

"There will still be time."

"Excellently reasoned," said the monk. "Now, sit down, and let us talk. Trust to me: the señora ere long will not feel the slightest doubt about your innocence."

During this scene Doña Clara had remained motionless as a statue of grief, apparently taking no interest in what passed between the two men.

"This young man has told you the perfect truth," he said; "it is a justice I take pleasure in rendering him. I know not what cause urged him to act so, but, in order to save you, he achieved impossibilities; holding you in his arms, he fought with a cloud of redskins thirsting for his blood. When Heaven sent us so miraculously to his assistance, he was about to succumb, and he rolled unconscious under our horses' hoofs, still holding against his bleeding breast the precious burthen which had doubtless been confided to him, and from which he had sworn only death should separate him. That is the real truth, madam: I swear it on my honour."

Doña Clara smiled bitterly.

"Oh," she answered, "keep these deceitful and useless protestations to yourself, father; I have learned to know you too, thanks be to Heaven, for some time past, and am aware what faith can be placed in your word."

The monk bit his lips spitefully.

"Perhaps, you are mistaken, madam," he answered, with a humble bow, "and too readily put faith in false appearances."

"Very false, in truth," the girl exclaimed, "since your conduct, up to this day, has only proved their correctness."

A flash shot from the monk's savage eye, which expired as soon as it burst forth; he composed his countenance, and continued with immoveable gentleness —

"You judge me wrongly too, señorita; misfortune renders you unjust. You forget that I owe all to your father."

"It is not I, but you, who have forgotten it," she said, sharply.

"And who tells you, madam," he said, with a certain degree of animation, "that if I am in the ranks of your enemies, it is not to serve you better?"

"Oh!" she answered, ironically; "it would be difficult for you to supply me with proofs of such admirable devotion."

"Not so much as you suppose; I have at this moment one at my service, which you cannot doubt."

"And that proof is?" she asked with a sneer.

"This, madam. My comrades are asleep; two horses have been tied up by myself fifty paces from here in the forest; I will lead you to them, and guided by this unhappy young man, who is devoted to you, although you have been cruel to him, after the perils to which he has exposed himself for your sake – it will be easy for you to get out of our reach in a few hours, and foil any pursuit. That is the proof, madam; can you now say it is false?"

"And who will guarantee me," she replied, "that this feigned solicitude you take in me, and which, I fancy, is very sudden, does not conceal a new snare?"

"Moments are precious," the monk said again, still imperturbable; "every second that slips away is a chance of safety you are deprived of. I will not argue with you, but limit myself to saying – of what use would it be to me to pretend to let you escape?"

"How do I know? Can I guess the causes on which you act?"

"Very good, madam, do as you think proper; but Heaven is my witness that I have done all in my power to save you, and that it was you who refused."

The monk uttered these words with such an accent of conviction, that, in spite of herself, Doña Clara felt her suspicions shaken. Fray Ambrosio's last observation was correct: why feign to let her escape, when he had her in his power? She reflected for a moment.

"Listen," she said to him, "I have sacrificed my life; I know not if you are sincere; I should like to believe so; but as nothing can happen to me worse than what threatens me here, I confide in you; lead on, therefore, to the horses you have prepared for me, and I shall soon know whether your intentions are honest, and I have been deceived in my opinion of you."

A furtive smile lit up the monk's face, and he uttered a sigh of satisfaction.

"Come," he said, "follow me; but walk cautiously, so as not to arouse my comrades, who are probably not so well disposed towards you as I am."

Doña Clara and Shaw rose and noiselessly followed the monk, the squatter's son walking before the maiden and removing all the obstacles to her passage. The darkness was thick, hence it was difficult to walk through the thickets, interlaced as they were with creepers and parasitical plants; Doña Clara stumbled at every step.

At the expiration of half an hour, they reached the skirt of the forest, where two horses, fastened to trees, were quietly nibbling the young tree shoots.

"Well," the monk said, with a triumphant accent, "do you believe me now, señora?"

"I am not saved yet," she sadly answered; and she prepared to mount. Suddenly, the branches and shrubs were violently parted, six or eight men rushed forward, and surrounded the three, ere it was possible for them to attempt a defence. Shaw, however, drew a pistol, and prepared to sell his life dearly.

"Stop, Shaw," Doña Clara said to him, gently; "I now see that you were faithful, and I pardon you. Do not let yourself be uselessly killed; you see that it would be madness to resist!"

The young man let his head droop, and returned the pistol to his girdle.

"Hilloh!" a rough voice shouted, which caused the fugitives to tremble, "I felt sure that these horses belonged to somebody. Let us see what we have here. A torch here, Orson, to have a look at them."

"It is unnecessary, Red Cedar, we are friends."

"Friends," Red Cedar answered, hesitating, for it was really he; "that is possible; still, I would sooner be convinced of it. Light the torch, lad, all the same."

There was a moment's silence, during which Orson lit a branch of candle wood tree.

"Ah, ah," the squatter said, with a grin; "in truth, we are among friends. But where the deuce were you going at this hour of the night, señor Padre?"

"We were returning to the camp, after a ride, in which we have lost our way," the monk answered, imperturbably.

Red Cedar gave him a suspicious glance.

"A ride!" he growled between his teeth; "It is a singular hour for that. But there is Shaw. You are welcome, my boy, though I little expected to meet you, especially in the company of that charming dove," he added, with a sarcastic smile.

"Yes, it is I, father," the young man answered in a hollow voice.

"Very good; presently you shall tell me what has become of you for so long, but this is not the moment. Did you not say that your camp was near here, señor Padre? Although, may the devil twist my neck, if I can understand how that is, as I was going to seek you on the isle where I left you."

"We were compelled to leave it."

"All right; we have no time to lose in chattering. Lead me to the camp, my master; at a later date, all will be cleared up, never fear."

Guided by the monk, and followed by the pirates, who had Shaw and Doña Clara in their midst, Red Cedar entered the forest. This unforeseen meeting once again robbed the poor girl of a speedy deliverance. As for Fray Ambrosio, he walked along apparently as calmly as if nothing extraordinary had happened to him.