Part 49 (1/2)
”Patience, amigo! you shall see our white people; but they are not captives. They are our daughters, the children of Montezuma.”
The Indian descends to the third story of the temple. He enters a door, and presently returns, bringing with him five females dressed in the Navajo costume. They are women and girls, and, as anyone could tell at a glance, of the Hispano-Mexican race.
But there are those present who know them still better. Three of them are recognised by as many hunters, and recognise them in turn. The girls rush out to the parapet, stretch forth their arms, and utter exclamations of joy. The hunters call to them--
”Pepe!” ”Rafaela!” ”Jesusita!” coupling their names with expressions of endearment. They shout to them to come down, pointing to the ladders.
”Bajan, ninas, bajan! aprisa, aprisa!” (Come down, dear girls! quickly, quickly!)
The ladders rest upon the upper terraces. The girls cannot move them.
Their late masters stand beside them, frowning and silent.
”Lay holt thar!” cries Garey, again threatening with his piece; ”lay holt, and help the gals down, or I'll fetch some o' yerselves a-tumblin'
over!”
”Lay holt! lay holt!” shouted several others in a breath.
The Indians place the ladders. The girls descend, and the next moment leap into the arms of their friends.
Two of them remain above; only three have come down. Seguin has dismounted, and pa.s.ses these three with a glance. None of them is the object of his solicitude!
He rushes up the ladder, followed by several of the men. He springs from terrace to terrace, up to the third. He presses forward to the spot where stand the two captive girls. His looks are wild, and his manner that of one frantic. They shrink back at his approach, mistaking his intentions. They scream with terror!
He pierces them with his look. The instincts of the father are busy: they are baffled. One of the females is old, too old; the other is slave-like and coa.r.s.e.
”Mon Dieu! it cannot be!” he exclaims, with a sigh. ”There was a mark; but no, no, no! it cannot be!”
He leans forward, seizing the girl, though not ungently, by the wrist.
Her sleeve is torn open, and the arm laid bare to the shoulder.
”No, no!” he again exclaims; ”it is not there. It is not she.”
He turns from them. He rushes forward to the old Indian, who falls back frightened at the glare of his fiery eye.
”These are not all!” cries he, in a voice of thunder; ”there are others.
Bring them forth, old man, or I will hurl you to the earth!”
”There are no other white squaws,” replied the Indian, with a sullen and determined air.
”A lie! a lie! your life shall answer. Here! confront him, Rube!”
”'Ee dratted old skunk! That white har o' yourn ain't a-gwine to stay thur much longer ev you don't bring her out. Whur is she? the young queen?”
”Al sur,” and the Indian points to the south.
”Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” cries Seguin, in his native tongue, and with an accentuation that expresses his complete wretchedness.
”Don't believe him, cap! I've seed a heap o' Injun in my time; an' a lyiner old varmint than this'n I never seed yet. Ye heerd him jest now 'bout the other gals?”
”Yes, true; he lied directly; but she--she might have gone--”