"Yes; for nothing presses on us. In an hour at the most we shall have arrived."

"May Heaven be thanked for the protection it has deigned to grant us,"

the young man said, looking up with a glance of grat.i.tude.

The little party continued to advance in the presumed direction of the village.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LOVE!

An hour later, the hunters, on reaching the top of a hill, perceived, about a mile ahead of them, a large village, before which three hundred Indian warriors were ranged in battle array.

At the sight of the whites the warriors advanced at a gallop, making their horses curvet and dance, and discharging their muskets in the air.

They uttered their war cry, and unfolded their buffalo robes, performing, in a word, all the usual evolutions in a friendly reception.

Valentine made his companions to imitate the Indians; and the hunters, who asked nothing better than to display their skill, descended the hill at headlong speed, shouting and discharging their rifles, amid the yells of joy from the redskins, who were delighted at this triumphal arrival among them.

After the usual salutations and expressions of welcome, the Comanches formed a semicircle round the hunters, and Pethonista advanced to Valentine, and held out his hand, saying:--

"My brother is an adopted son of the nation. He is at home. The Comanches are happy to see him. The longer he remains among them with the persons who accompany him, the more pleasure he will cause them. A calli is prepared for my brother, and a second for the White Lily of the Valley; a third for his friends. We have killed many buffaloes; my brothers will eat their meat with us. When our brother leaves us, our hearts will be swollen with sorrow. Hence my brother must remain as long as possible with his Comanche friends, if he wishes to see them happy."

Valentine, well versed in Indian customs, replied graciously to this harangue, and the two bands, smiling, made their entry into the village to the sound of the chichikouis, conches, and Indian instruments, mingled with the voices of the women and children, and the barking of the dogs, which produced the most horrible row imaginable.

On reaching the village square, the chief conducted the guests to the huts prepared to receive them, which stood side by side, after which he invited them to rest, with a politeness that a man more civilised than him might have envied, after telling them at twelve o'clock they would be summoned to the meal.

Valentine thanked Pethonista for the kind attention he displayed to him and his comrades: then, after installing Dona Clara in a hut with Sunbeam, he entered his own, after recommending the hunters to display the greatest prudence toward the Comanches, who, like all Indians, are punctilious, irascible, and susceptible to the highest degree.

Curumilla lay down without saying a word, like a good watchdog, across the door of the lodge inhabited by Dona Clara. So soon as the two females were alone, Sunbeam seated herself at the Mexican lady's feet, and, fixing on her a bright glance, full of tenderness, she said, in a soft and caressing voice--

"Is my sister, the White Lily of the Valley, satisfied with me? Have I faithfully fulfilled the obligation I contracted toward her?"

"What obligation was that, child?" the girl said, as she pa.s.sed her hand through the Indian's long hair which she began plaiting.

"That of saving you, my sister, and conducting you in safety to the callis of my nation."

"Yes, yes, poor girl," she said, tenderly, "your devotion to me has been unbounded, and I know not how I can ever requite it."

"Do not speak of that," the Indian said, with a charming pout. "Now that my sister has nothing more to fear, I will leave her."

"You would leave me, Sunbeam?" Dona Clara exclaimed anxiously. "Why so?"

"Yes," the young woman answered, as she frowned, and her voice became stern, "I have a duty to accomplish. I have taken an oath, and my sister well knows that is sacred. I must go."

"But where are you going, my poor child? Whence arises this sudden thought of leaving me? What do you intend? Where are you about to proceed?"

"My sister must not ask me. Her questions would only grieve me, for I cannot answer her."

"Then you have secrets from me, Sunbeam. You will not give me your confidence? Fool! Do you fancy I do not know what you intend doing?"

"My sister knows my plan!" The Indian interrupted her with flashing eye, while a convulsive tremor pa.s.sed over her limbs.

"Yes, I do," the other answered with a smile. "Unicorn is a renowned warrior, and my sister is doubtless anxious to rejoin him?"

The Indian shook her head in denial.

"No," she said, "Sunbeam is following her vengeance."

"Oh, yes, poor child," Dona Clara said, as she pressed the young squaw to her heart, "I know from what a fearful catastrophe Don Valentine saved you."

"Koutonepi is a great warrior. Sunbeam loves him; but Stanapat is a dog, son of an Apache devil."

The two women wept for several minutes, silently mingling their tears, but the Indian, overcoming grief, dried her red eyes with a pa.s.sionate gesture, and tore herself from the arms that held her.

"Why weep?" she said. "Only cowards and weak people groan and lament.

Indian squaws do not weep. When they are insulted they avenge themselves," she added, with an accent full of strange resolution. "My sister must let me depart! I can no longer be useful to her, and other cares claim my attention."

"Go, then, poor girl. Act as your heart orders you. I have no right either to retain you or prevent you acting as you please."

"Thanks," the Indian said. "My sister is kind. The Wacondah will not desert her."

"Cannot you tell me what you intend doing?"

"I cannot."

"At any rate, tell me in what direction you are going?"

The girl shook her head with discouragement.

"Does the leaf detached from the tree by a high wind know in what direction it will be carried? I am the leaf. So my sister must ask me no more."

"As you wish it, I will be silent; but before we separate, perhaps forever, let me make you a present, which will recall me to mind when I am far from you."

Sunbeam laid her hand on her heart with a charming gesture.

"My sister is there," she said, with emotion.

"Listen," the maiden continued: "last night I gave you a bracelet; here is another. These ornaments are useless to me, and I shall be happy if they please you."

She unfastened the bracelet, and fastened it on the Indian's arm. The latter allowed her to do it, and, after kissing the pearl several times, she raised her head and held out her hand to the young Mexican.

"Farewell!" she said to her, with a shaking voice. "My sister will pray to her G.o.d for me: He is said to be powerful, perhaps He will come to my help."

"Hope, poor child!" Dona Clara said, as she held her in her arms.