Now that we are approaching the last pages of our book, we cannot repress a feeling of regret on thinking of the scenes of blood and murder which, in order to be truthful, we were compelled to unfold before our readers. If this narrative had been a fable, and we had been able to arrange our subject at our pleasure, most a.s.suredly many scenes would have been cut down and altered. Unhappily, we have been obliged to narrate facts just as they happened, although we have frequently been careful to tone down certain details whose naked truth would have scandalized the reader.

Were we to be reproached with the continual combats in which our heroes are engaged, we should reply; we describe the manners of a race which is daily diminishing in the convulsive grasp of the civilization against which it struggles in vain; this race is called upon by the fatal decree of fate to disappear ere long eternally from the face of the globe; its manners and customs will then pa.s.s into the condition of a legend and being preserved by tradition, will not fail to be falsified and become incomprehensible. It is therefore our duty, who have become the unworthy historian of this unhappy race, to make it known as it was, as it is still, for acting otherwise would have been a felonious deed on our part, of which our readers would have been justified in complaining.

Finishing this parenthesis, which is already too long, but which we believe to be not merely necessary but indispensable, we will resume our narrative at the point where we left it.

We will now lead the reader to the extreme outposts of the Mexican army.

This army, six thousand strong on its entrance into Texas, now amounted to no more than fifteen hundred, including a reinforcement of five hundred men, which General Cos had just brought up. The successive victories gained by Santa Anna over the Texans had therefore cost him just five thousand men. This negative triumph caused the President of the Mexican Republic considerable reflection. He began to understand the extraordinary difficulties of this war against an exasperated people, and he speculated with terror on the terrible consequences a defeat would have for him, if those intractable enemies he had been pursuing so long resolved at last to wait for him and succeeded in defeating him.

Unluckily, whatever Santa Anna's apprehensions might be, it was too late to withdraw, and he must try his fortune to the end.

A s.p.a.ce of five leagues at the most separated the two belligerent armies, and that s.p.a.ce was diminished nearly one-half by the position of their videttes. The vanguard of the Mexican army, composed of two hundred regulars, was commanded by Colonel Melendez, but a league further ahead was encamped a forlorn hope, which had to clear the way for the movements of the army. These were simply the pirates of the prairies, commanded by our old acquaintance Sandoval, whom we saw a short time back introduce himself to the Jaguar, and make so singular a bargain with him.

In spite of the extremely slight esteem in which the Mexican army held the honesty of the said Sandoval and his myrmidons, General Santa Anna found himself constrained to place a certain amount of confidence in these thorough-paced scoundrels, owing to their incontestable capability as guides, and above all, as flankers. The General, consequently, found himself obliged almost to close his eyes to the crimes they committed nearly daily, and to let them act as they pleased. Let us add, that the pirates conscientiously abused the liberty conceded them, and did not hesitate to indulge in the most extraordinary caprices, which we had better pa.s.s over in silence.

These worthy men, then, were bivouacked, as we have said, about a league in advance of the Mexican army, and as they liked to take their ease whenever the opportunity offered, they had found nothing better than quartering themselves in a pueblo, whose inhabitants had naturally fled at their approach, and the houses of which the pirates pulled down, in order to procure wood for their campfires. Still, either by accident or some other reason, one house, or rather hut, had escaped the general ruin, and alone remained standing. It was not only untouched, but shut up, and a sentry was stationed before the door. This sentry, however, did not appear to trouble himself much about the orders given him; for being probably annoyed by the sun, whose beams fell vertically on his head, he was lying cozily in the shade of a stall luckily standing opposite the house, and with his musket within reach, was smoking, sleeping, and dreaming, while waiting till his term of duty was over, and a comrade came to take his place.

As this house served at this moment as the abode of Dona Carmela, we will ask the reader to enter it with us. The maiden, sad and pensive, was reclining in a hammock suspended before a window, open, in spite of the heat of the day, and her eyes, red with weeping, were invariably fixed on the desolate plain, which the sun parched, and whose sand flashed like diamonds. Of what was the poor girl thinking, while the tears she did not dream of wiping away, coursed down her pallid cheeks, where they traced a furrow?

Perhaps at this age, when recollections do not go back beyond yesterday, she remembered in bitterness of spirit the happy days of the Venta del Potrero, where with Tranquil and Lanzi, those two devoted hearts to protect her, all smiled upon her, and the future appeared to her so gentle and calm. Perhaps, too, she thought of the Jaguar, for whom she felt such friendship, or of Colonel Melendez, whose respectful and profound love had made her so often dream involuntarily, in the way maidens dream.

But, alas! all this had now faded away; farewell to the exquisite dreams! Where were Tranquil and Lanzi, the Jaguar and Colonel Melendez?

She was alone, unfriended, and defenceless, in the power of a man the mere sight of whom filled her with terror. And yet, let us add, the man whom we have represented under such gloomy colours, this White Scalper, seemed to have become completely metamorphosed. The tiger had become a lamb in the presence of the maiden, he offered her the most delicate attentions, and did everything she wished--not that she ever expressed a desire, for the poor girl would not have dared to have done so, but he strove to divine what might please her, and then did it with unexampled eagerness. At times he would stand for hours before her, leaning against a wall, with his eyes fixed on her with an undefinable expression, without uttering a word. Then he would withdraw with a shake of the head, stifle a sigh, and murmur--"Good G.o.d! If it were she!" There was something touching in the timid and humble grief of this terrible man, who made all tremble around him, and yet himself trembled before a girl; although Dona Carmela, unaffected by the egotism of suffering persons, did not seem to perceive the influence she exercised over this powerful and stern nature.

The door opened, and White Scalper entered. He was still dressed in the same garb, he was still as upright, but his face no longer wore that expression of haughty and implacable ferocity which we have seen on it.

A cloud of sorrow was spread over his features, and his deep sunken eyes had lost that fire which had given his glance so strange and magnetic a fixity. The maiden did not turn at the sound of the Scalper's footsteps: the latter halted, and for a long time remained motionless, waiting, doubtless, till she would notice his presence. But the girl did not stir, and hence he resolved to speak.

"Dona Carmela!" he said in a voice whose roughness he tried to smooth.

She made no reply, but continued to gaze out on the plain. The Scalper sighed, and then said in a louder key:

"Dona Carmela!"

This time the maiden heard him, for a nervous tremor agitated her, and she turned quickly round.

"What do you want with me?" she asked.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, on perceiving her face bathed in tears, "you are weeping."

The maiden blushed and pa.s.sed her handkerchief over her face with a feverish gesture.

"What matter?" she muttered, and then, striving to recover herself, she asked, "What do you want with me, senor? Heavens, since I am condemned to be your slave, could you not at any rate allow me the free enjoyment of this room?"

"I thought I should cause you pleasure," he said, "by announcing to you the visit of an acquaintance."

A bitter smile contracted the maiden's lips.

"Who cares for me?" she said with a sigh.

"Pardon me, Senorita, my intention was kind. Frequently, while you sit pensively as you are doing today, unconnected words and names have pa.s.sed your lips."

"Ah! That is true," she answered; "not only is my person captive, but you will also like to enchain my thoughts."

This sentence was uttered with such an accent of concentrated anger and bitterness, that the old man started, and a livid pallor suddenly covered his face.

"It is well, Senor," the girl continued, "for the future I will be on my guard."

"I believed, I repeat," he replied with an accent of concentrated scorn, "that I should render you happy by bringing to you Colonel Melendez; but since I am mistaken, you shall not see him, Senorita."

"What!" she exclaimed, bounding up like a lioness; "What did you say, Senor? What name did you p.r.o.nounce?"

"That of Colonel Melendez."

"Have you summoned him?"

"Yes."

"Is he here?"

"He is awaiting your permission to enter."

The maiden gazed at him for a moment with an indescribable expression of amazement.

"Why, you must love me!" she at length burst forth.

"She asks that question!" the old man murmured sadly. "Will you see the Colonel?"

"One moment, oh, one moment; I want to know you, to understand you, and learn what I ought to think of you."

"Alas, I repeat to you, senorita, that I love you, love you to adoration; oh! Do not feel alarmed; that love has nothing of an insulting nature: what I love in you is an extraordinary, supernatural likeness to a woman who died, alas! On the same day that when my daughter was torn from me by the Indians. The daughter I lost, whom I shall never see again, would be your age, senorita: such is the secret of my love for you, of my repeated attempts to seize your person. Oh, let me love you, and deceive myself; in looking at you I fancy I see my poor dear child, and that error renders me so happy. Oh senorita! If you only knew what I have suffered, what I still suffer, from this miserable wound which burns my heart--oh! You would have pity on me."

While the old man spoke with an impa.s.sioned accent, his face was almost transfigured; it had a.s.sumed such an expression of tenderness and sorrow, that the maiden felt affected, and by an involuntary impulse offered him her hand.

"Poor father!" she said to him in a gentle and pitiful voice.

"Thanks for that word," he replied in a voice choking with emotion, while his face was inundated with tears; "thanks, senorita, I feel less unhappy now."

Then, after a moment's silence, he wiped away his tears.

"Do you wish him to come in?" he asked softly.

She smiled: the old man rushed to the door and threw it wide open. The Colonel entered and ran up to the maiden. White Scalper went out and closed the door after him.

"At last," the Colonel exclaimed joyously, "I have found you again, dear Carmela!"

"Alas!" she said.

"Yes," he exclaimed with animation, "I understand you, but now you have nothing more to fear; I will free you from the odious yoke that oppresses you, and tear you from your ravisher."

The maiden softly laid her hand on his arm, and shook her head with an admirable expression of melancholy.