Part 13 (1/2)
”Mamma, father must not let him go. He will be lost, and then--then--”
”Have no fear. Think, _hija mia_, we may all be lost if he do not.”
”But why cannot some other go in his place? There are many who know the way as well as he, and that brave _gambusino_, I'm sure, would be willing.”
”No doubt he would, dearest; there's some reason against it I do not quite understand. We shall hear all soon, when father returns to the tent.”
They do hear the reason; but not any the more to reconcile Gertrude.
The young girl is half beside herself with grief, utterly indifferent as to who may observe it. The bud of her love has bloomed into a flower, and she recks not that all the world know her heart is Henry Tresillian's. The cousin left behind at Arispe, supposed to be an aspirant to her hand, is forgotten. All are forgotten, save the one now near, so soon to be cruelly torn away from her. Neither the presence of her father and mother, nor that of his father, restrain her in her wild ravings. She knows she has their approval of her partiality, and her young heart, innocent of guile, yields to nature's promptings.
Her appeals are in vain: what must be must be, and she at length resigns herself to the inevitable. For Henry himself tells her how it is, and that no one possibly could take his place.
It is in dialogue between them, just as the twilight begins to cast its purple shadows over the plain. For the time is drawing nigh for action, and the two have gone apart from the camp to speak the last words of leave-taking. They stand under a tree, hands clasped, gazing into each other's eyes, those of the young girl full of tears.
”_Querida_” he says, ”do not weep. 'Twill be all well yet--I feel sure of it.”
”Would that I could feel so, Henrique; but, oh! dearest, such danger!
And if the cruel savages capture you. _Ay Dios_! to think of what they did with the others!”
”Let them catch me if they can. They never will if I once get alongside Crusader. On his back I may defy them.”
”True, I believe it. But are you sure of getting upon his back? In the darkness you may not find him.”
”If not, it will be but to return to the cliff and be drawn up again.”
This a.s.surance somewhat tranquillises her. There is at least the hope, almost certainty, he will not, as the others, be sacrificed to a fruitless attempt; and, so trusting, she says in conclusion: ”Go, then, _querido mio_. I will no more oppose it, but pray all night long for your safety. I see now it is for the best, and feel that the blessed Mary, mother of G.o.d, will listen to my prayers.”
No longer hands clasped, but arms entwined, and lips meeting in a kiss of pure holy affection, sanctified by parental consent. Then they return to the camp, where the final preparations are being made for that venture upon which so much depends.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
A RIDE IN MID-AIR.
It turns out just such a night as was wished for--moonless, still not obscurely dark. Too much darkness would defeat the end in view. They need light for the lowering down, a thing that will take some time with careful management.
But the miners are the very men for such purpose. Not one of them who has not dangled at a rope's end in a shaft hundreds of feet sheer down into the earth. To them it is habitude--child's play--as to him who spends his life scaling sea-coast cliffs for the eggs and young of birds.
It is yet early when the party entrusted with the undertaking a.s.semble on the edge of the precipice, at the point where the daring adventurer is to make descent. Some carry coils of rope, others long poles notched at the end for fending the line off the rocks, while the _gambusino_ is seen bearing a burden which differs from all the rest. A saddle and bridle it is; his own, cherished for their costliness, but now placed at the service of his young friend, to do what he will with them.
”I could ride Crusader without them,” says the English youth: ”guide him with my voice and knees; but these will make it surer, and I thank you, Senor Vicente.”
”Ah, _muchacho_! if they but help you, how glad 'twill make me feel! If they're lost, it wouldn't be for that I'd grudge the twenty _doblones_ the saddle cost me. I'd give ten times as much to see you seated in it on the _plaza_ of Arispe.”
”I'll be there, _amigo_, in less than sixty hours if Crusader hasn't lost his strength by too long feeding on gra.s.s.”
”I fancy you need not fear that, senorito; your horse is one that nothing seems to affect. I still cling to the belief he's the devil himself.”
”Better believe him an angel--our good angel now, as I hope he will prove himself.”