There was still a hope--the hope that, after all, Maurice Gerald might _not_ be in the Settlement.

It was at best but a faint ray. Surely _she_ should know--she who had penned the appointment, and spoken so confidently of his keeping it?

Still, as promised, he might have gone away; and upon this supposition hinged that hope, now scintillating like a star through the obscurity of the hour.

It was a delicate matter to make direct inquiries about--to one in the position of Louise Poindexter. But no other course appeared open to her; and as the shadows of twilight shrouded the gra.s.s-covered square of the village, she was seen upon her spotted palfrey, riding silently through the streets, and reining up in front of the hotel--on the same spot occupied but a few hours before by the grey steed of Isidora!

As the men of the place were all absent--some on the track of the a.s.sa.s.sin, others upon the trail of the Comanche, Oberdoffer was the only witness of her indiscretion. But he knew it not as such. It was but natural that the sister of the murdered man should be anxious to obtain news; and so did he construe the motive for the interrogatories addressed to him.

Little did the stolid German suspect the satisfaction which his answers at first gave to his fair questioner; much less the chagrin afterwards caused by that bit of information volunteered by himself, and which abruptly terminated the dialogue between him and his visitor.

On hearing she was not the first of her s.e.x who had that day made inquiries respecting Maurice the mustanger, Louise Poindexter rode back to Casa del Corvo, with a heart writhing under fresh laceration.

A night was spent in the agony of unrest--sleep only obtained in short s.n.a.t.c.hes, and amidst the phantasmagoria of dreamland.

Though the morning restored not her tranquillity, it brought with it a resolve, stern, daring, almost reckless.

It was, at least, daring, for Louise Poindexter to ride to the Alamo alone; and this was her determination.

There was no one to stay her--none to say nay. The searchers out all night had not yet returned. No report had come back to Casa del Corvo.

She was sole mistress of the mansion, as of her actions--sole possessor of the motive that was impelling her to this bold step.

But it may be easily guessed. Hers was not a spirit to put up with mere suspicion. Even love, that tames the strongest, had not yet reduced it to that state of helpless submission. Unsatisfied it could no longer exist; and hence her resolve to seek satisfaction.

She might find peace--she might chance upon ruin. Even the last appeared preferable to the agony of uncertainty.

How like to the reasoning of her rival!

It would have been idle to dissuade her, had there been any one to do it. It is doubtful even if parental authority could at that moment have prevented her from carrying out her purpose. Talk to the tigress when frenzied by a similar feeling. With a love unhallowed, the will of the Egyptian queen was not more imperious than is that of the American Creole, when stirred by its holiest pa.s.sion. It acknowledges no right of contradiction--regards no obstruction save death.

It is a spirit rare upon earth. In its tranquil state, soft as the rays of the Aurora--pure as the prayer of a child; but when stirred by love,--or rather by its too constant concomitant--it becomes proud and perilous as the light of Lucifer!

Of this spirit Louise Poindexter was the truest type. Where love was the lure, to wish was to have, or perish in the attempt to obtain.

Jealousy resting upon doubt was neither possible to her nature, or compatible with her existence. She must find proofs to destroy, or confirm it--proofs stronger than those already supplied by the contents of the strayed epistle, which, after all, were only presumptive.

Armed with this, she was in a position to seek them; and they were to be sought upon the Alamo.

The first hour of sunrise saw her in the saddle, riding out from the enclosures of Casa del Corvo, and taking a trail across the prairie already known to her.

On pa.s.sing many a spot, endeared to her--sacred by some of the sweetest souvenirs of her life--her thoughts experienced more than one revulsion.

These were moments when she forgot the motive that originally impelled her to the journey--when she thought only of reaching the man she loved, to rescue him from enemies that might be around him!

Ah! these moments--despite the apprehension for her lover's safety--were happy, when compared with those devoted to the far more painful contemplation of his treachery.

From the point of starting to that of her destination, it was twenty miles. It might seem a journey, to one used to European travelling-- that is in the saddle. To the prairie equestrian it is a ride of scarce two hours--quick as a scurry across country, after a stag or fox.

Even with an unwilling steed it is not tedious; but with that lithe-limbed, ocellated creature, Luna, who went willingly towards her prairie home, it was soon over--too soon, perhaps, for the happiness of her rider.

Wretched as Louise Poindexter may have felt before, her misery had scarce reached the point of despair. Through her sadness there still shone a scintillation of hope.

It was extinguished as she set foot upon the threshold of the _jacale_; and the quick suppressed scream that came from her lips, was like the last utterance of a heart parting in twain.

_There was a woman within the hut_!

From the lips of this woman an exclamation had already escaped, to which her own might have appeared an echo--so closely did the one follow the other--so alike were they in anguish.

Like a second echo, still more intensified, was the cry from Isidora; as turning, she saw in the doorway that woman, whose name had just been p.r.o.nounced--the "Louise" so fervently praised, so fondly remembered, amidst the vagaries of a distempered brain.

To the young Creole the case was clear--painfully clear. She saw before her the writer of that letter of appointment--which, after all, _had been kept_. In the strife, whose sounds had indistinctly reached her, there may have been a third party--Maurice Gerald? That would account for the condition in which she now saw him; for she was far enough inside the hut to have a view of the invalid upon his couch.

Yes; it was the writer of that bold epistle, who had called Maurice Gerald "querido;"--who had praised his eyes--who had commanded him to come to her side; and who was now by his side, tending him with a solicitude that proclaimed her his! Ah! the thought was too painful to be symbolised in speech.

Equally clear were the conclusions of Isidora--equally agonising. She already knew that she was supplanted. She had been listening too long to the involuntary speeches that told her so, to have any doubt as to their sincerity. On the door-step stood the woman who had succeeded her!

Face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if under one impulse--both distraught with the same dire thought--the two stood eyeing each other.

Alike in love with the same man--alike jealous--they were alongside the object of their burning pa.s.sion unconscious of the presence of either!

Each believed the other successful: for Louise had not heard the words, that would have given her comfort--those words yet ringing in the ears, and torturing the soul, of Isidora!

It was an att.i.tude of silent hostility--all the more terrible for its silence. Not a word was exchanged between them. Neither deigned to ask explanation of the other; neither needed it. There are occasions when speech is superfluous, and both intuitively felt that this was one. It was a mutual encounter of fell pa.s.sions; that found expression only in the flashing of eyes, and the scornful curling of lips.

Only for an instant was the att.i.tude kept up. In fact, the whole scene, inside, scarce occupied a score of seconds.

It ended by Louise Poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and gliding off to regain her saddle. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!

Isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other's dress. The same thought was in her heart--perhaps more emphatically felt. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!

Both seemed equally intent on departure--alike resolved on forsaking the spot, that had witnessed the desolation of their hearts.

The grey horse stood nearest--the mustang farther out. Isidora was the first to mount--the first to move off; but as she pa.s.sed, her rival had also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein.

Glances were again interchanged--neither triumphant, but neither expressing forgiveness. That of the Creole was a strange mixture of sadness, anger, and surprise; while the last look of Isidora, that accompanied a spiteful "_carajo_!"--a fearful phrase from female lips-- was such as the Ephesian G.o.ddess may have given to Athenaia, after the award of the apple.

CHAPTER SIXTY.

A FAIR INFORMER.

If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened away from the _jacale_. Her heart was a focus of fiery pa.s.sions, revenge predominating over all.

In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of her woe.

With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees. They are not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky smiling cheerfully above her. Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock her!