The Headless Horseman Part 64

"Oh! that I could send one of its arrows to warn him of his danger! I may never use it again!"

The reflection was followed by a thought of cognate character. Might there not remain some trace of that clandestine correspondence in the place where it had been carried on?

She remembered that Maurice swam the stream, instead of recrossing in the skiff, to be drawn back again by her own lazo. He must have been left in the boat!

On the day before, in the confusion of her grief, she had not thought of this. It might become evidence of their midnight meeting; of which, as she supposed, no tongue but theirs--and that for ever silent--could tell the tale.

The sun was now fairly up, and gleaming garishly through the gla.s.s. She threw open the cas.e.m.e.nt and stepped out, with the design of proceeding towards the skiff. In the _balcon_ her steps were arrested, on hearing voices above.

Two persons were conversing. They were her maid Florinde, and the sable groom, who, in the absence of his master, was taking the air of the _azotea_.

Their words could be heard below, though their young mistress did not intentionally listen to them. It was only on their p.r.o.nouncing a name, that she permitted their patois to make an impression upon her ear.

"Dey calls de young fella Jerrad. Mors Jerrad am de name. Dey do say he Irish, but if folks 'peak de troof, he an't bit like dem Irish dat works on de Lebee at New Orlean. Ho, ho! He more like bos gen'lum planter. Dat's what he like."

"You don't tink, Pluto, he been gone kill Ma.s.sa Henry?"

"I doan't tink nuffin ob de kind. Ho, ho! He kill Ma.s.sa Henry! no more dan dis chile hab done dat same. Goramity--Goramity! 'Peak ob de debbil and he dar--de berry individible we talkin' 'bout. Ho, ho! look Florinde; look yonner!"

"Whar?"

"Dar--out dar, on todder side ob de ribber. You see man on horseback.

Dat's Mors Jerrad, de berry man we meet on de brack praira. De same dat gub Missa Loode 'potted hoss; de same dey've all gone to sarch for. Ho, ho! Dey gone dey wrong way. Dey no find him out on dem prairas dis day."

"O, Pluto! an't you glad? I'm sure he innocent--dat brave bewful young gen'lum. He nebba could been de man--"

The listener below stayed to hear no more. Gliding back into her chamber she made her way towards the _azotea_. The beating of her heart was almost as loud as the fall of her footsteps while ascending the _escalera_. It was with difficulty she could conceal her emotion from the two individuals whose conversation had caused it. "What have you seen, that you talk so loudly?" said she, trying to hide her agitation under a pretended air of severity, "Ho, ho! Missa Looey--look ober dar.

De young fella!"

"What young fellow?"

"Him as dey be gone sarch for--him dat--"

"I see no one."

"Ho, ho! He jess gone in 'mong de tree. See yonner--yonner! You see de black glaze hat, de s.h.i.+nin' jacket ob velvet, an de glancin' silver b.u.t.tons--dat's him. I sartin sure dat's de same young fella."

"You may be mistaken for all that, Master Pluto. There are many here who dress in that fas.h.i.+on. The distance is too great for you to distinguish; and now that he's almost out of sight--Never mind, Florinde. Hasten below--get out my hat and habit. I'm going out for a ride. You, Pluto! have the saddle on Luna in the shortest time. I must not let the sun get too high. Haste! haste!"

As the servants disappeared down the stairway, she turned once more towards the parapet, her bosom heaving under the revulsion of thoughts.

Un.o.bserved she could now freely scan the prairie and chapparal.

She was too late. The horseman had ridden entirely out of sight.

"It was very like him, and yet it was not. It can scarce be possible.

If it be he, why should he be going that way?"

A new pang pa.s.sed through her bosom. She remembered once before having asked herself the same question.

She no longer stayed upon the _azotea_ to watch the road. In ten minutes' time she was across the river, entering the chapparal where the horseman had disappeared.

She rode rapidly on, scanning the causeway far in the advance.

Suddenly she reined up, on nearing the crest of the hill that overlooked the Leona. The act was consequent on the hearing of voices.

She listened. Though still distant, and but faintly heard, the voices could be distinguished as those of a man and woman.

What man? What woman? Another pang pa.s.sed through her heart at these put questions.

She rode nearer; again halted; again listened.

The conversation was carried on in Spanish. There was no relief to her in this. Maurice Gerald would have talked in that tongue to Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. The Creole was acquainted with it sufficiently to have understood what was said, had she been near enough to distinguish the words. The tone was animated on both sides, as if both speakers were in a pa.s.sion. The listener was scarce displeased at this.

She rode nearer; once more pulled up; and once more sate listening.

The man's voice was heard no longer. The woman's sounded dear and firm, as if in menace!

There was an interval of silence, succeeded by a quick trampling of horses--another pause--another speech on the part of the woman, at first loud like a threat, and then subdued as in a soliloquy--then another interval of silence, again broken by the sound of hoofs, as if a single horse was galloping away from the ground.

Only this, and the scream of an eagle, that, startled by the angry tones, had swooped aloft, and was now soaring above the glade.

The listener knew of the opening--to her a hallowed spot. The voices had come out of it. She had made her last halt a little way from its edge. She had been restrained from advancing by a fear--the fear of finding out a bitter truth.

Her indecision ending, she spurred on into the glade.

A horse saddled and bridled rus.h.i.+ng to and fro--a man prostrate upon the ground, with a lazo looped around his arms, to all appearance dead--a _sombrero_ and _serape_ lying near, evidently not the man's! What could be the interpretation of such a tableau?

The man was dressed in the rich costume of the Mexican _ranchero_--the horse also caparisoned in this elaborate and costly fas.h.i.+on.

At sight of both, the heart of the Louisianian leaped with joy. Whether dead or living, the man was the same she had seen from the _azotea_; and he was _not_ Maurice Gerald.

She had doubted before--had hoped that it was not he; and her hopes were now sweetly confirmed.

She drew near and examined the prostrate form. She scanned the face, which was turned up--the man lying upon his back. She fancied she had seen it before, but was not certain.

It was plain that he was a Mexican. Not only his dress but his countenance--every line of it betrayed the Spanish-American physiognomy.

He was far from being ill-featured. On the contrary, he might have been p.r.o.nounced handsome.

It was not this that induced Louise Poindexter to leap down from her saddle, and stoop over him with a kind pitying look.

The joy caused by his presence--by the discovery that he was not somebody else--found gratification in performing an act of humanity.

"He does not seem dead. Surely he is breathing?"

The cord appeared to hinder his respiration.

It was loosened on the instant--the noose giving way to a Woman's strength.