The Pearl of the Andes: A Tale of Love and Adventure. Gustave Aimard
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Tadeo breathed more freely.
"Curumilla is my friend," he said; "no harm has happened to him, I hope?"
"Here are his poncho and his hat," Joan replied.
"Heavens!" Louis exclaimed – "he is dead!"
"No," said the Indian, "Curumilla is brave and wise. Joan had carried off the young, pale, blue-eyed maiden; Curumilla might have killed Joan; he was not willing to do so; he preferred making a friend of him."
"Curumilla is good," Don Tadeo replied; "his heart is large and his soul is not cruel."
"Joan was the chief of those who carried off the young white girl. Curumilla changed clothes with him," the Indian continued, sententiously; "and said 'Go and seek the Great Eagle of the Whites, and tell him that Curumilla will save the young maiden, or perish!' Joan has come."
"My brother has acted well," said Don Tadeo.
"My father is satisfied," he said – "that is enough."
"And my brother carried off the pale girl? Was he well paid for that?"
"The great cavale with the black eyes is generous," the Indian said, smiling.
"Ah! I knew it!" cried Don Tadeo, "still that woman! – still that demon!"
Louis rose and said, in a voice trembling with emotion, "My friend, Doña Rosario must be saved!"
"Thanks, boundless thanks, for your devotion, my friend!" said Don Tadeo; "but, you are very weak."
"Of what consequence is that!" the young man exclaimed eagerly. "Were I to perish in the task, I swear to you, Don Tadeo de León, by the honour of my name, that I will not rest till Doña Rosario is free."
"My friend," Don Tadeo said, "three men – three devoted men, are already on the trail of my daughter."
"Your daughter?" Louis said with astonishment.
"Alas! yes, my friend, my daughter! Why should I have any secrets from you? That blue-eyed angel is my daughter! the only joy left to me in this world."
"Oh! we will recover her! We must!" Louis cried with great emotion.
"My friend," Don Tadeo continued, "the three men of whom I spoke to you are at this moment endeavouring to deliver the poor child. However dearly it costs me, I think it is best to wait."
Louis moved uneasily.
"Yes, I comprehend that this inaction is painful to you. Alas! do you think it is less so to a father's heart? Don Louis, I endure frightful torments. But I resign myself, while shedding tears of blood at not being able to do anything."
"That is true," the wounded man admitted; "we must wait, Poor Father! Poor daughter!"
"Yes," said Don Tadeo, faintly, "pity me, my friend, pity me!"
"But," the Frenchman continued, "this inactivity cannot last. You see I am strong, I can walk."
"You are a hero as to heart and devotion," Don Tadeo said with a smile; "and I know not how to thank you."
"Oh! how much the better if you regain hope," cried Louis, who had blushed at his friend's words.
Don Tadeo turned towards Joan.
"Does my brother remain here?" he asked.
"I am at my father's orders," the Indian replied.
"May I trust my brother?"
"Joan has but one heart and one life."
"My brother has spoken well; I will be grateful to him."
The Indian bowed.
"Let my brother return here on the third sun; he shall place us upon the track of Curumilla."
"On the third sun Joan will be ready."
And saluting the three gentlemen gracefully, the Indian retired to take a few hours of a repose which his great exertions had rendered necessary.
CHAPTER III.
THE PURSUIT
We will return to Curumilla. The night was gloomy – the darkness profound. Urging their horses on with voice and gesture, the fugitives made the best of their way towards a forest which, if they could but reach, they would be safe.
A leaden silence brooded over the desert. They galloped on without uttering a word – without looking behind them. All at once the neighing of a horse fell upon their ears like the gloomy alarm call of a clarion.
"We are lost!" Curumilla exclaimed.
"What is to be done?" Rosario asked anxiously.
"Stop," he at length cried.
The young girl left everything to her guide. The Indian requested her to dismount.
"Have confidence in me," he said; "whatever a man can do I will undertake, to save you."
"I know you will!" she replied gratefully.
Curumilla lifted her up in his arms, and carried her with as much facility as if she had been a child.
"Why do you carry me thus?" she asked.
"We must leave no sign," he replied shortly.
He placed her on the ground with great precaution at the foot of a tree.
"This tree is hollow, my sister will conceal herself in it; she will not stir till I return."
"Oh! you will not abandon me," she said.
"I am going to make a false track, I shall soon return."
The poor girl hesitated, she was frightened. Curumilla divined what she felt. "It is our only chance of safety," he said, mournfully, "if my sister is not willing, I can remain."
Rosario was not one of the weak, puling daughters of our great European cities, who wither before they bloom. Her resolution was formed with the rapidity of lightning; she bore up against the fear which had taken possession of her mind, and replied in a firm voice —
"I will do what my brother desires."
"Good!" the Indian said. "Let my sister conceal herself, then."
He cautiously removed the cactus and creepers which surrounded the lower part of the tree, and exposed a cavity, into which the young girl crept, all trembling, like a poor sparrow in the eyrie of an eagle. As soon as Rosario was comfortably placed in the hollow of the tree, the Indian restored the plants to their primitive state, and completely concealed her hiding place with this transparent curtain. Then he regained the horses, mounted his own, led the other, and galloped off.
He galloped thus for many minutes without relaxing his speed, and when he thought himself sufficiently far from the place where Doña Rosario was concealed, he dismounted, listened for an instant, untied the sheep skins from the horses' feet and set off again with the speed of an arrow. He soon heard the galloping of horses behind him; at first distant, but rapidly drawing near and at last becoming distinct. Curumilla had a ray of hope, for his manoeuvre had succeeded. He still pressed on his horse, and leaving his heavy wooden stirrups, with their sharp angles, to beat against the sides of the still galloping animal, he stuck his long lance into the ground, threw his weight upon it, and raising himself by the strength of his wrists, sprang lightly to the ground, whilst the two abandoned horses held on their furious course. Curumilla glided in among the bushes, and made the best of his way back towards Rosario, persuaded that the horsemen would be misled by the false track.
Antinahuel had sent out his mosotones in all directions, in order to discover the traces of the fugitives, but himself had remained in the village. Antinahuel was too experienced a warrior to allow himself to be misled. His scouts returned, one after another, without having discovered anything. The last two that returned brought with them two stray horses bathed in steam. These were the two horses abandoned by Curumilla.
"Will she escape us then?" the Linda asked.
"My sister," the Toqui replied, coolly, with a sinister smile, "when Antinahuel pursues an enemy, he does not escape."
"And yet – " she