The young girl, who, up to this time, had been watching intently the labours of the naturalist, glided to a remote corner of the room, and taking up an instrument resembling the guitar, returned and seated herself by her mother. The bandolin was soon placed in concert with the harp, and the strings of both vibrated to the thrilling notes of the Marseillaise.

There was something exceedingly graceful in the performance. The instrumentation, as I thought, was perfect; and the voices of the players accompanied it in a sweet and spirited harmony. As I gazed upon the girl Zoe, her features animated by the thrilling thoughts of the anthem, her whole countenance radiant with light, she seemed some immortal being – a young goddess of liberty calling her children “to arms!”

The botanist had desisted from his labours, and stood listening with delighted attention. At each return of the thrilling invocation, “Aux armes, citoyens!” the old man snapped his fingers, and beat the floor with his feet, marking the time of the music. He was filled with the same spirit which at that time, over all Europe, was gathering to its crisis.

“Where am I? French faces, French music, French voices, and the conversation in French!” for the botanist addressed the females in that language, though with a strong Rhenish patois, that confirmed my first impressions of his nationality. “Where am I?”

My eye ran around the room in search of an answer. I could recognise the furniture: the cross-legged Campeachy chairs, a rebozo, the palm-leaf petate. “Ha, Alp!”

The dog lay stretched along the mattress near my couch, and sleeping.

“Alp! Alp!”

“Oh, mamma! mamma! écoutez! the stranger calls.”

The dog sprang to his feet, and throwing his fore paws upon the bed, stretched his nose towards me with a joyous whimpering. I reached out my hand and patted him, at the same time giving utterance to some expressions of endearment.

“Oh, mamma! mamma! he knows him. Voilà.”

The lady rose hastily, and approached the bed. The German seized me by the wrist, pushing back the Saint Bernard, which was bounding to spring upward.

“Mon Dieu! he is well. His eyes, doctor. How changed!”

“Ya, ya; moch better; ver moch better. Hush! away, tog! Keep away, mine goot tog!”

“Who? where? Tell me, where am I? Who are you?”

“Do not fear! we are friends: you have been ill!”

“Yes, yes! we are friends: you have been ill, sir. Do not fear us; we will watch you. This is the good doctor. This is mamma, and I am – ”

“An angel from heaven, beautiful Zoe!”

The child looked at me with an expression of wonder, and blushed as she said —

“Hear, mamma! He knows my name!”

It was the first compliment she had ever received from the lips of love.

“It is goot, madame! he is ver moch relieft; he ver soon get over now. Keep away, mine goot Alp! Your master he get well: goot tog, down!”

“Perhaps, doctor, we should leave him. The noise – ”

“No, no! if you please, stay with me. The music; will you play again?”

“Yes, the music is ver goot; ver goot for te pain.”

“Oh, mamma! let us play, then.”

Both mother and daughter took up their instruments, and again commenced playing.

I listened to the sweet strains, watching the fair musicians a long while. My eyes at length became heavy, and the realities before me changed into the soft outlines of a dream.

My dream was broken by the abrupt cessation of the music. I thought I heard, through my sleep, the opening of a door. When I looked to the spot lately occupied by the musicians, I saw that they were gone. The bandolin had been thrown down upon the ottoman, where it lay, but “she” was not there.

I could not, from my position, see the whole of the apartment; but I knew that someone had entered at the outer door, I heard expressions of welcome and endearment, a rustling of dresses, the words “Papa!”

“My little Zoe”; the latter uttered in the voice of a man. Then followed some explanations in a lower tone, which I could not hear.

A few minutes elapsed, and I lay silent and listening. Presently there were footsteps in the hall. A boot, with its jingling rowels, struck upon the tiled floor. The footsteps entered the room, and approached the bed. I started, as I looked up. The Scalp-hunter was before me!

Chapter Thirteen.

Seguin

“You are better; you will soon be well again. I am glad to see that you recover.”

He said this without offering his hand.

“I am indebted to you for my life. Is it not so?”

It is strange that I felt convinced of this the moment that I set my eyes upon the man. I think such an idea crossed my mind before, after awaking from my long dream. Had I encountered him in my struggles for water, or had I dreamed it?

“Oh yes!” answered he, with a smile, “but you will remember that I had something to do with your being exposed to the risk of losing it.”

“Will you take this hand? Will you forgive me?”

After all, there is something selfish even in gratitude. How strangely had it changed my feelings towards this man! I was begging the hand which, but a few days before, in the pride of my morality, I had spurned from me as a loathsome thing.

But there were other thoughts that influenced me. The man before me was the husband of the lady; was the father of Zoe. His character, his horrid calling, were forgotten; and the next moment our hands were joined in the embrace of friendship.

“I have nothing to forgive. I honour the sentiment that induced you to act as you did. This declaration may seem strange to you. From what you knew of me, you acted rightly; but there may be a time, sir, when you will know me better: when the deeds which you abhor may seem not only pardonable, but justifiable. Enough of this at present. The object of my being now at your bedside is to request that what you do know of me be not uttered here.”

His voice sank to a whisper as he said this, pointing at the same time towards the door of the room.

“But how,” I asked, wishing to draw his attention from this unpleasant theme, “how came I into this house? It is yours, I perceive. How came I here? Where did you find me?”

“In no very safe position,” answered he, with a smile. “I can scarcely claim the merit of saving you. Your noble horse you may thank for that.”

“Ah, my horse! my brave Moro! I have lost him.”

“Your horse is standing at the maize-trough, not ten paces from where you lie. I think you will find him in somewhat better condition than when you last saw him. Your mules are without. Your packs are safe. You will find them here,” and he pointed to the foot of the bed.

“And – ”

“Gode you would ask for,” said he, interrupting me. “Do not be uneasy on his account. He, too, is in safety. He is absent just now, but will soon return.”

“How can I thank you? This is good news indeed. My brave Moro! and Alp here! But how? you say my horse saved me. He has done so before: how can this be?”

“Simply thus: we found you many miles from this place, on a cliff that overlooks the Del Norte. You were hanging over on your lasso, that by a lucky accident had become entangled around your body. One end of it was knotted to the bit-ring, and the noble animal, thrown back upon his haunches, sustained your weight upon his neck!”

“Noble Moro! what a terrible situation!”

“Ay, you may say that! Had you fallen from it, you would have passed through a thousand feet of air before striking the rocks below. It was indeed a fearful situation.”

“I must have staggered over in my search for water.”

“In your delirium you walked over. You would have done so a second time had we not prevented you. When we drew you up on the cliff, you struggled hard to get back. You saw the water below, but not the precipice. Thirst is a terrible thing – an insanity of itself.”

“I remember something of all this. I thought it had been a dream.”

“Do not trouble your brain with these things. The doctor here admonishes me to leave you. I have an object, as I have said,” (here a sad expression passed over the countenance of the speaker), “else I should not have paid you this visit. I have not many moments to spare. To-night I must be far hence. In a few days I shall return. Meanwhile, compose yourself, and get well. The doctor here will see that you want for nothing. My wife and daughter will nurse you.”

“Thanks! thanks!”

“You will do well to remain where you are until your friends return from Chihuahua. They must pass not far from this place, and I will warn you when they are near. You are a student. There are books here in different languages. Amuse yourself. They will give you music. Monsieur, adieu!”

“Stay, sir, one moment! You seem to have taken a strange fancy to my horse?”

“Ah! monsieur, it was no fancy; but I will explain that at some other time. Perhaps the necessity no longer exists.”

“Take him, if you will. Another will serve my purpose.”

“No, monsieur. Do you think I could rob you of what you esteem so highly, and with such just reason, too? No, no! Keep the good Moro. I do not wonder at your attachment to the noble brute.”

“You say that you have a long journey to-night. Then take him for the time.”

“That offer I will freely accept, for indeed my own horse is somewhat jaded. I have been two days in the saddle. Well, adieu!”

Seguin pressed my hand and walked away. I heard the “chinck, chinck” of his spurs as he crossed the apartment, and the next moment the door closed behind him.

I was alone, and lay listening to every sound that reached me from without. In about half an hour after he had left me, I heard the hoof-strokes of a horse, and saw the shadow of a horseman passing outside the window. He had departed on his journey, doubtless on the performance of some red duty connected with his fearful avocation!

I lay for a while harassed in mind, thinking of this strange man. Then sweet voices interrupted my meditations; before me appeared lovely faces, and the Scalp-hunter was forgotten.

Chapter Fourteen.

Love

I would compress the history of the ten days following into as many words. I would not weary you with the details of my love – a love that in the space of a few hours became a passion deep and ardent.

I was young at the time; at just such an age as to be impressed by the romantic incidents that surrounded me, and had thrown this beautiful being in my way; at that age when the heart, unguarded by cold calculations of the future, yields unresistingly to the electrical impressions of love. I say electrical. I believe that at this age the sympathies that spring up between heart and heart are purely of this nature.

At a later period of life that power is dissipated and divided. Reason rules it. We become conscious of the capability of transferring our affections, for they have already broken faith; and we lose that sweet confidence that comforted the loves of our youth. We are either imperious or jealous, as the advantages appear in our favour or against us. A gross alloy enters into the love of our middle life, sadly detracting from the divinity of its character.

I might call that which I then felt my first real passion. I thought I had loved before, but no, it was only a dream; the dream of the village schoolboy, who saw heaven in the bright eyes of his coy class-mate; or perhaps at the family picnic, in some romantic dell, had tasted the rosy cheek of his pretty cousin.

I grew strong, and with a rapidity that surprised the skilful man of herbs. Love fed and nourished the fire of life. The will often effects the deed, and say as you may, volition has its power upon the body. The wish to be well, to live, an object to live for, are often the speediest restoratives. They were mine.

I grew stronger, and rose from my couch. A glance at the mirror told me that my colour was returning.

Instinct teaches the bird while wooing his mate to plume his pinions to their highest gloss; and a similar feeling now rendered me solicitous about my toilet. My portmanteau was ransacked, my razors were drawn forth, the beard disappeared from my chin, and my moustache was trimmed to its wonted dimensions.

I confess all this. The world had told me I was not ill-looking, and I believed what it said. I am mortal in my vanities. Are not you?

There was a guitar in the house. I had learnt in my college days to touch the strings, and its music delighted both Zoe and her mother. I sang to them the songs of my own land – songs of love; and with a throbbing heart watched whether the burning words produced any impression upon her. More than once I have laid aside the instrument with feelings of disappointment. From day to day, strange reflections passed through my mind. Could it be that she was too young to understand the import of the word love? too young to be inspired with a passion? She was but twelve years of age, but then she was the child of a sunny clime; and I had often seen at that age, under the warm sky of Mexico, the wedded bride, the fond mother.

Day after day we were together alone. The botanist was busy with his studies, and the silent mother occupied with the duties of her household.

Love is not blind. It may be to all the world beside; but to its own object it is as watchful as Argus.

I was skilled in the use of the crayon, and I amused my companion by sketches upon scraps of paper and the blank leaves of her music. Many of these were the figures of females, in different attitudes and costumes. In one respect they resembled each other: their faces were alike.

The child, without divining the cause, had noticed this peculiarity in the drawings.

“Why is it?” she asked one day, as we sat together. “These ladies are all in different costumes, of different nations; are they not? and yet there is a resemblance in their faces! They have all the same features; indeed, exactly the same, I think.”

“It is your face, Zoe; I can sketch no other.”

She raised her large eyes, and bent them upon me with an expression of innocent wonder. Was she blushing? No!

“Is that like me?”

“It is, as nearly as I can make it.”

“And why do you not sketch other faces?”

“Why! because I – Zoe, I fear you would not understand me.”

“Oh, Enrique; do you think me so bad a scholar? Do I not understand all that you tell me of the far countries where you have been? Surely I may comprehend this as well.”

“I will tell you, then, Zoe.”

I bent forward, with a burning heart and trembling voice.

“It is because your face is ever before me; I can paint no other. It is, that – I love you, Zoe!”

“Oh! is that the reason? And when you love one, her face is always before you, whether she herself be present or no? Is it not so?”

“It is so,” I replied, with a painful feeling of disappointment.

“And is that love, Enrique?”

“It is.”

“Then must I love you; for, wherever I may be, I can see your face: how plainly before me! If I could use this pencil as you do, I am sure I could paint it, though you were not near me! What then? Do you think I love you, Enrique?”

No pen could trace my feelings at that moment. We were seated; and the sheet on which were the sketches was held jointly between us. My hand wandered over its surface, until the unresisting fingers of my companion were clasped in mine. A wilder emotion followed the electric touch: the paper fell upon the floor; and with a proud but trembling heart I drew the yielding form to mine!

Chapter Fifteen.

Light and Shade

The house we inhabited stood in a quadrangular inclosure that sloped down to the banks of the river, the Del Norte. This inclosure was a garden or shrubbery, guarded on all sides by high, thick walls of adobe. Along the summit of these walls had been planted rows of the cactus, that threw out huge, thorny limbs, forming an impassable chevaux-de-frise. There was but one entrance to the house and garden, through a strong wicket gate, which I had noticed was always shut and barred. I had no desire to go abroad. The garden, a large one, hitherto had formed the limit of my walk; and through this I often rambled with Zoe and her mother, but oftener with Zoe alone.

There were many objects of interest about the place. It was a ruin; and the house itself bore evidences of better times. It was a large building in the Moro-Spanish style, with flat roof (azotea), and notched parapet running along the front. Here and there the little stone turrets of this parapet had fallen off, showing evidence of neglect and decay.

The walls of the garden impinged upon the river, and there ended; for the bank was steep and vertical, and the deep, still water that ran under it formed a sufficient protection on that side.

A thick grove of cotton-woods fringed the bank of the river, and under their shade had been erected a number of seats of japanned mason-work, in a style peculiar to Spanish countries. There were steps cut in the face of the bank, overhung with drooping shrubs, and leading to the water’s edge. I had noticed a small skiff moored under the willows, where these steps went down to the water.

From this point only could you see beyond the limits of the inclosure. The view was magnificent, and commanded the windings of the Del Norte for a distance of miles.

Evening after evening we sought the grove of cotton-woods, and, seated upon one of the benches, together watched the glowing sunset. At this time of the day we were ever alone, I and my little companion.

One evening, as usual, we sat under the solemn shadow of the grove. We had brought with us the guitar and bandolin; but, after a few notes had been struck, the music was forgotten, and the instruments lay upon the grass at our feet. We loved to listen to the music of our own voices. We preferred the utterance of our own thoughts to the sentiments of any song, however sweet. There was music enough around us; the hum of the wild bee as it bade farewell to the closing corolla; the whoop of the gruya in the distant sedge; and the soft cooing of the doves as they sat in pairs upon the adjacent branches, like us whispering their mutual loves.

Autumn had now painted the woods, and the frondage was of every hue. The shadows of the tall trees dappled the surface of the water, as the stream rolled silently on. The sun was far down, and the spire of El Paso gleamed like a golden star under the parting kiss of his beams. Our eyes wandered, and rested upon the glittering vane.

“The church!” half soliloquised my companion; “I hardly know what it is like, it is so long since I saw it.”

“How long?”

“Oh, many, many years; I was very young then.”

“And you have not been beyond these walls since then?”

“Oh yes! Papa has taken us down the river in the boat, mamma and myself, often, but not lately.”

“And have you no wish to go abroad through these gay woods?”

“I do not desire it; I am contented here.”

“And will you always be contented here?”

“And why not, Enrique? When you are near me, why should I not be happy?”

“But when – ”

A dark shadow seemed to cross her thoughts. Benighted with love, she had never reflected upon the probability of my leaving her, nor indeed had I. Her cheeks became suddenly pale; and I could see the agony gathering in her eyes, as she fixed them upon me. But the words were out —

“When I must leave you?”

She threw herself on my breast, with a short, sharp scream, as though she had been stung to the heart, and in an impassioned voice cried aloud —

“Oh! my God, my God! leave me! leave me! Oh! you will not leave me? You who have taught me to love! Oh! Enrique, why did you tell me that you loved me? Why did you teach me to love?”

“Zoe!”

“Enrique, Enrique! say you will not leave me!”

“Never! Zoe! I swear it; never, never!” I fancied at this moment I heard the stroke of an oar; but the wild tumult of my feelings prevented me from rising to look over the bank. I was raising my head when an object, appearing above the bank, caught my eye. It was a black sombrero with its golden band. I knew the wearer at a glance: Seguin! In a moment, he was beside us.

“Papa!” exclaimed Zoe, rising up and reaching forward to embrace him. The father put her to one side, at the same time tightly grasping her hand in his. For a moment he remained silent, bending his eyes upon me with an expression I cannot depict. There was in it a mixture of reproach, sorrow, and indignation. I had risen to confront him, but I quailed under that singular glance, and stood abashed and silent.

“And this is the way you have thanked me for saving your life? A brave return, good sir; what think you?”

I made no reply.

“Sir!” continued he, in a voice trembling with emotion, “you have deeply wronged me.”

“I know it not; I have not wronged you.”

“What call you this? Trifling with my child!”

“Trifling!” I exclaimed, roused to boldness by the accusation.

“Ay, trifling! Have you not won her affections?”

“I won them fairly.”

“Pshaw, sir! This is a child, not a woman. Won them fairly! What can she know of love?”

“Papa! I do know love. I have felt it for many days. Do not be angry with Enrique, for I love him; oh, papa! in my heart I love him!”

He turned to her with a look of astonishment.

“Hear this!” he exclaimed. “Oh, heavens! my child, my child!”

His voice stung me, for it was full of sorrow.

“Listen, sir!” I cried, placing myself directly before him. “I have won the affections of your daughter. I have given mine in return. I am her equal in rank, as she is mine. What crime, then, have I committed? Wherein have I wronged you?”

He looked at me for some moments without making any reply.

“You would marry her, then?” he said, at length, with an evident change in his manner.

“Had I permitted our love thus far, without that intention, I should have merited your reproaches. I should have been ‘trifling,’ as you have said.”

“Marry me!” exclaimed Zoe, with a look of bewilderment.

“Listen! Poor child! she knows not the meaning of the word!”

“Ay, lovely Zoe! I will; else my heart, like yours, shall be wrecked for ever! Oh, sir!”

“Come, sir, enough of this. You have won her from herself; you have yet to win her from me. I will sound the depth of your affection. I will put you to the proof.”

“Put me to any proof!”

“We shall see; come! let us in. Here, Zoe!”

And, taking her by the hand, he led her towards the house. I followed close behind.

As we passed through a clump of wild orange trees, the path narrowed; and the father, letting go her hand, walked on ahead. Zoe was between us; and as we reached the middle of the grove, she turned suddenly, and laying her hand upon mine, whispered in a trembling voice, “Enrique, tell me, what is ‘to marry’?”

“Dearest Zoe! not now: it is too difficult to explain; another time, I – ”

“Come, Zoe! your hand, child!”

“Papa, I am coming!”

Chapter Sixteen.

An Autobiography

I was alone with my host in the apartment I had hitherto occupied. The females had retired to another part of the house; and I noticed that Seguin, on entering, had looked to the door, turning the bolt.

What terrible proof was he going to exact of my faith, of my love? Was he about to take my life, or bind me by some fearful oath, this man of cruel deeds? Dark suspicions shot across my mind, and I sat silent, but not without emotions of fear.

A bottle of wine was placed between us, and Seguin, pouring out two glasses, asked me to drink. This courtesy assured me. “But how if the wine be poi – ?” He swallowed his own glass before the thought had fairly shaped itself.

“I am wronging him,” thought I. “This man, with all, is incapable of an act of treachery like that.”

I drank up the wine. It made me feel more composed and tranquil.

After a moment’s silence he opened the conversation with the abrupt interrogatory, “What do you know of me?”

“Your name and calling; nothing more.”

“More than is guessed at here;” and he pointed significantly to the door. “Who told you thus much of me?”

“A friend, whom you saw at Santa Fé.”

“Ah! Saint Vrain; a brave, bold man. I met him once in Chihuahua. Did he tell you no more of me than this?”

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