Before the words were well out of Carmen's mouth, I let Pizarro go. He went like the wind. In six minutes I had reached my point and taken post in the throat of the pa.s.s, well in the shade. And I was none too soon, for, almost at the same instant, three _llaneros_ dashed into the clearing, and then, as if uncertain what to do next, pulled up short.

"Whereabout was it? What trail shall we take?" asked one.

"This" (pointing to the road I had just quitted).

"Don't you hear the shouts?--and there goes another pistol shot!"

"Better divide," said another. "I will stay here and watch. You, Jose, go forward, and you, Sanchez, reconnoitre the llanos trail."

Jose went his way, Sanchez came my way.

Still in the shade and hidden, I drew one of my pistols and c.o.c.ked it, fully intending, however, to reserve my fire till the last moment; I was loath to shoot a man with whom I had served only a few days before. But when he drew near, and, shouting my name, lowered his lance, I had no alternative; I fired, and as he fell from his horse, the others galloped into the glade.

"Forward! To the llanos!" cried Carmen; "they are close behind us. A fellow tried to stop me, but I rode him down."

And then followed a neck-or-nothing race through the pa.s.s, which was more like a furrow than a road, steep, stony, and full of holes, and being overshadowed by trees, as dark as chaos. Only by the marvellous cleverness of our unshod horses and almost miraculous good luck did we escape dire disaster, if not utter destruction, for a single stumble might have been fatal.

But Carmen, who made the running, knew what he was about. His seeming rashness was the truest prudence. Our pursuers would either ride as hard as we did or they would not; in the latter event we should have a good start and be beyond their ken before they emerged from the pa.s.s; in the former, there was always the off chance of one of the leading hors.e.m.e.n coming to grief and some of the others falling over him, thereby delaying them past the possibility of overtaking us.

Which of the contingencies came to pa.s.s, or whether the guerillas, not having the fear of death behind them, rode less recklessly than we did, we could form no idea. But their shouts gradually became fainter; when we reached the llanos they were no more to be heard, and when the moon rose an hour later none of our pursuers were to be seen. Nevertheless, we pushed on, and except once, to let our animals drink and (relieved for a moment of their saddles) refresh themselves with a roll, after the want of Venezuelan horses, we drew not rein until we had put fifty miles between ourselves and Generals Mejia and Griscelli.

CHAPTER XIX.

DON ESTEBAN'S DAUGHTER.

Ten days after our flight from San Felipe we were on the banks of the Apure. We received a warm welcome from Carmen's friend, Senor Morillones, a Spanish creole of the antique type, grave, courtly, and dignified, the owner of many square miles of fertile land and hundreds of slaves, and as rich in flocks and herds as Job in the heyday of his prosperity. He had a large house, fine gardens, and troops of servants. A grand seigneur in every sense of the word was Senor Don Esteban Morillones. His a.s.surance that he placed himself and his house and all that was his at our disposal was no mere phrase. When he heard of our contemplated journey, he offered us mules, arms, and whatever else we required and he possessed, and any mention of payment on our part would, as Carmen said, and I could well see, have given our generous host dire offense.

We found, moreover, that we could easily engage as many men as we wanted, on condition of letting them be our co-adventurers and share in the finds which they were sure we should make; for n.o.body believed that we would undertake so long and arduous a journey with any other purpose than the seeking of treasure. Our business being thus satisfactorily arranged, we might have started at once, but, for some reason or other--probably because he found our quarters so pleasant--Carmen held back. Whenever I pressed the point he would say: "Why so much haste, my dear fellow? Let us stay here awhile longer," and it was not until I threatened to go without him that he consented to "name the day."

Now Don Esteban had a daughter, by name Juanita, a beautiful girl of seventeen, as fresh as a rose, and as graceful as a gazelle, a girl with whom any man might be excused for falling in love, and she showed me so much favor, and, as it seemed, took so much pleasure in my company, that only considerations of prudence and a sense of what was due to my host, and the laws of hospitality, prevented me from yielding myself a willing captive to her charms. But as the time fixed for our departure drew near, this policy of renunciation grew increasingly difficult. Juanita was too unsophisticated to hide her feelings, and I judged from her ways that, without in the least intending it, I had won her heart. She became silent and preoccupied. When I spoke of our expedition the tears would spring to her eyes, and she would question me about its dangers, say how greatly she feared we might never meet again, and how lonely she should feel when we were gone.

All this, however flattering to my _amour propre_, was both embarra.s.sing and distressing, and I began seriously to doubt whether it was not my duty, the laws of hospitality to the contrary notwithstanding, to take pity on Juanita, and avow the affection which was first ripening into love. She would be my advocate with Don Esteban, and seeing how much he had his daughter's happiness at heart, there could be little question that he would pardon my presumption and sanction our betrothal.

Nevertheless, the preparations for our expedition went on, and the time for our departure was drawing near, when one evening, as I returned from a ride, I found Juanita alone on the veranda, gazing at the stars, and looking more than usually pensive and depressed.

"So you are still resolved to go, Senor Fortescue?" she said, with a sigh.

"I must. One of my princ.i.p.al reasons for coming to South America is to make an expedition to the Andes, and I want much to travel in parts. .h.i.therto unexplored. And who knows? We may make great discoveries."

"But you might stay with us a little longer."

"I fear we have trespa.s.sed too long on your hospitality already."

"Our hospitality is not so easily exhausted. But, O senor, you have already stayed too long for my happiness."

"Too long, for your happiness, senorita! If I thought--would you really like me to stay longer, to postpone this expedition indefinitely, or abandon it altogether?"

"Oh, so much, senor, so much. The mere suggestion makes me almost happy again."

"And if I make your wish my law, and say that it is abandoned, how then?"

"You will make me happier than I can tell you, and your debtor for life."

"And why would it make you so happy, dear Juanita?" I asked, tenderly, at the same time looking into her beautiful eyes and taking her unresisting hand.

"Why! Oh, don't you know? Have you not guessed?"

"I think I have; all the same, I should like the avowal from your own lips, dear Juanita."

"Because--because if you stay, dear," she murmured, lowering her eyes, and blushing deeply, "if you stay, dear Salvador will stay too."

"Dear Salvador! Dear Salvador! How--why--when? I--I beg your pardon, senorita. I had no idea," I stammered, utterly confounded by this surprising revelation of her secret and my own stupidity.

"I thought you knew--that you had guessed."

"I mean I had no idea that it had gone so far," I said, recovering my self-possession with a great effort. "So you and Carmen are betrothed."

"We love. But if he goes on this dreadful expedition I am sure my father would not consent, and Salvador says that as he has promised to take part in it he cannot go back on his word. And I said I would ask you to give it up--Salvador did not like--he said it would be such a great disappointment; and I am so glad you have consented."

"I beg your pardon, senorita, I have not consented."

"But you said only a minute ago that you would do as I desired, and that my will should be your law."

"Nay, senorita, I put it merely as a supposition, I said if I did make your wish my law, how then? Less than ever can I renounce this expedition."

"Then you were only mocking me! Cruel, cruel!"

"Less than ever can I renounce this expedition. But I will do what will perhaps please you as well. I will release Carmen from his promise. He has found his fortune; let him stay. I have mine to make; I must go."

"O senor, you have made me happy again. I thank you with all my heart. We can now speak to my father. But you are mistaken; it is not the same to me whether you go or stay so long as you release Salvador from his promise. I would have you stay with us, for I know that he and you are great friends, and that it will pain you to part."

"It will, indeed. He is a true man and one of the bravest and most chivalrous I ever knew. I can never forget that he risked his life to save mine. To lose so dear a friend will be a great grief, even though my loss be your gain, senorita."

"No loss, Senor Fortescue. Instead of one friend you will have two. Your gain will be as great as mine."

My answer to these gracious words was to take her proffered hand and press it to my lips.

"_Caramba!_ What is this? Juanita? And you, senor, is it the part of a friend? Do you know?"

"Don't be jealous, Salvador," said Juanita, quietly to her lover, who had come on the balcony unperceived. "Senor Fortescue is a true friend. He is very good; he releases you from your promise. And he seemed so sorry and spoke so n.o.bly that the least I could do was to let him kiss my hand."

"You did right, Juanita. I was hasty; I cry _peccavi_ and ask your forgiveness. And you really give up this expedition for my sake, dear friend? Thanks, a thousand thanks."

"No; I absolve you from your promise. But I shall go, all the same."