Gustave Aimard
The Pearl of the Andes: A Tale of Love and Adventure

CHAPTER I.
IN THE CABILDO

While Doña Rosario effected her escape by the assistance of Curumilla, as recorded in the "Adventurers," Don Tadeo was not long in regaining his senses. On opening his eyes he cast a bewildered look around him, but as soon as memory threw light into his brain, he let his head sink into his hands, and gave a free vent to his grief.

Don Tadeo wept! Don Tadeo, the King of Darkness, who a hundred times had smilingly looked death in the face – who had had such a miraculous escape – the man whose iron will had so rapidly crushed everything that opposed the execution of his projects; who by a word, a gesture, a frown, governed thousands of men submissive to his caprices, wept.

But Don Tadeo was not a man whom grief, however intense, could depress for a length of time.

"Oh, all is not ended yet," he cried. "But courage! I have a people to save before I avenge my daughter."

He clapped his hands, and Don Gregorio appeared. He saw at a glance the ravages which grief had made in the mind of his friend, but he saw that the King of Darkness had subdued the father. It was about seven o'clock in the morning.

"What are your intentions with regard to General Bustamente?" Gregorio asked.

Don Tadeo was calm, cold, and impassive; all traces of emotion had disappeared from his face, which had the whiteness and rigidity of marble.

"My friend," he replied, "we yesterday saved the liberty of our country, which was on the verge of ruin; but if, thanks to you and to all the devoted patriots who fought on our side, I have for ever overthrown Don Bustamente, and annihilated his ambitious projects, I have not on that account taken his place."

"But you are the only man – "

"Do not say that," Don Tadeo interrupted, "I do not recognise in myself the right of imposing upon my fellow citizens ideas and views which may be very good, or which I believe to be so, but which, perhaps, are not theirs. The right of freely choosing the man who is henceforward to govern them."

"And who tells you, my friend, that that man is not yourself?"

"I do!" Don Tadeo observed in a firm voice.

Don Gregorio gave a start of surprise.

"That astonishes you, does it not, my friend? But what is to be said? So it is. I am only anxious to lay down power, which is a burden too heavy for my worn-out strength, and to return again to private life."

"Oh! do not say that," Don Gregorio replied warmly; "the gratitude of the people is eternal."

"All smoke, my friend," Don Tadeo observed, ironically. "Are you sure the people are pleased with what I have done? But let us end this; my resolution is taken, and nothing can change it."

"But – " Don Gregorio wished to add.

"One word more," said Don Tadeo. "To be a statesman, my friend, a man must march alone in the way he has marked out for himself; he must have neither children, relations, nor friends. The man who is in power ought to be only human in appearance."

"What do you mean to do, then?"

"In the first place to send General Bustamente to Santiago: although the man merits death, I will not take upon myself the responsibility of his condemnation; enough blood has been shed by my orders. He shall depart tomorrow with General Cornejo and the senator Sandias, sufficiently escorted to secure him from a coup de main."

"Your orders shall be punctually obeyed."

"They are the last you will receive from me."

"But why?"

"Because this very day I will transfer my power to your hands."

"But, my friend – "

"Not a word more, I beg of you. Now come with me to this poor young Frenchman, who has so nobly defended my unfortunate daughter."

Don Gregorio followed him without reply.

The count had been placed in a chamber where he had received the greatest attention. His situation was satisfactory, and excepting great weakness, he felt himself much better. Loss of blood alone caused the weakness. Don Tadeo went towards him, and said warmly —

"My friend, it is God who has thrown you and your companion upon my passage. I have only known you a few months, and I have already contracted towards you a debt which it is impossible I can ever discharge."

"Why attach so high a value to the little I have been able to do, Don Tadeo." said Louis. "Alas! I would have given my life to preserve Doña Rosario."

"We shall find her again!" Don Tadeo observed, energetically.

"Oh! If I were able to get on horseback," the young man cried.

At this moment the door opened, and a peon who entered said a few words in a low voice to Don Tadeo.

"Let him come in! let him come in!" the latter cried, and turning towards Louis added, "We are about to hear some news."

An Indian entered; it was Joan, the man Curumilla had been unwilling to kill.

CHAPTER II.
JOAN

The sordid clothes which covered the person of the Indian were stained with mud, and torn by thorns and briers. It was evident that he had made a hasty journey through woods and along bad roads. He bowed with modest grace to the three gentlemen, and waited.

"Does not my brother belong to the valiant tribe of the Black Serpents?" Don Tadeo asked.

The Indian made a sign in the affirmative. Don Tadeo was well acquainted with the Indians, and knew that they only spoke when necessity required.

"What is my brother's name?" he resumed.

"Joan," the Indian said; "in remembrance of a warrior of the palefaces whom I killed."

"Good," Don Tadeo replied, with a melancholy smile; "my brother is a chief renowned in his tribe."

Joan smiled haughtily.

"My brother has arrived from his village; he has, no doubt, business to transact with the palefaces."

"My father is mistaken," the Indian replied sharply; "Joan asks the help of no one; when he is insulted, his own lance avenges him."

"My brother will excuse me," Don Tadeo said; "he must have some reason for coming to me."

"I have one," said the Indian.

"Let my brother explain himself then."

"I will answer my father's questions." said Joan, bowing.

Don Tadeo knew what sort of man he had to do with. A secret presentiment told him that he was the bearer of important news: he, therefore, followed up his questions.

"Whence does my brother come?"

"From the toldería of San Miguel."

"That is some distance from the city; is it long since my brother left it?"

"The moon was about to disappear and the Southern Cross alone shed its splendid light upon the earth, when Joan commenced his journey."

It was nearly eighteen leagues from the village of San Miguel to the city of Valdivia. Don Tadeo was astonished. He took from the table a glass, which he filled to the brim with aguardiente, and presented it to the messenger, saying —

"My brother will drink this coui of firewater; probably, the dust of the road sticking to his palate prevents him from speaking as easily as he could wish."

The Indian smiled; his eyes sparkled greedily; he took the glass and emptied it at a draught.

"Good," he said, smacking his lips. "My father is hospitable; he is truly the Great Eagle of the Whites."

"Does my brother come from the chief of his tribe?" Don Tadeo continued.

"No." Joan replied; "it was Curumilla that sent me."

"Curumilla!" the three men cried.

Don Tadeo breathed more freely.

"Curumilla is my friend," he said; "no harm has happened to him, I hope?"

"Here are his poncho and his hat," Joan replied.

"Heavens!" Louis exclaimed – "he is dead!"

"No," said the Indian, "Curumilla is brave and wise. Joan had carried off the young, pale, blue-eyed maiden; Curumilla might have killed Joan; he was not willing to do so; he preferred making a friend of him."

"Curumilla is good," Don Tadeo replied; "his heart is large and his soul is not cruel."

"Joan was the chief of those who carried off the young white girl. Curumilla changed clothes with him," the Indian continued, sententiously; "and said 'Go and seek the Great Eagle of the Whites, and tell him that Curumilla will save the young maiden, or perish!' Joan has come."

"My brother has acted well," said Don Tadeo.

"My father is satisfied," he said – "that is enough."

"And my brother carried off the pale girl? Was he well paid for that?"

"The great cavale with the black eyes is generous," the Indian said, smiling.

"Ah! I knew it!" cried Don Tadeo, "still that woman! – still that demon!"

Louis rose and said, in a voice trembling with emotion, "My friend, Doña Rosario must be saved!"

"Thanks, boundless thanks, for your devotion, my friend!" said Don Tadeo; "but, you are very weak."

"Of what consequence is that!" the young man exclaimed eagerly. "Were I to perish in the task, I swear to you, Don Tadeo de León, by the honour of my name, that I will not rest till Doña Rosario is free."

"My friend," Don Tadeo said, "three men – three devoted men, are already on the trail of my daughter."

"Your daughter?" Louis said with astonishment.

"Alas! yes, my friend, my daughter! Why should I have any secrets from you? That blue-eyed angel is my daughter! the only joy left to me in this world."

"Oh! we will recover her! We must!" Louis cried with great emotion.

"My friend," Don Tadeo continued, "the three men of whom I spoke to you are at this moment endeavouring to deliver the poor child. However dearly it costs me, I think it is best to wait."

Louis moved uneasily.

"Yes, I comprehend that this inaction is painful to you. Alas! do you think it is less so to a father's heart? Don Louis, I endure frightful torments. But I resign myself, while shedding tears of blood at not being able to do anything."

"That is true," the wounded man admitted; "we must wait, Poor Father! Poor daughter!"

"Yes," said Don Tadeo, faintly, "pity me, my friend, pity me!"

"But," the Frenchman continued, "this inactivity cannot last. You see I am strong, I can walk."

"You are a hero as to heart and devotion," Don Tadeo said with a smile; "and I know not how to thank you."

"Oh! how much the better if you regain hope," cried Louis, who had blushed at his friend's words.

Don Tadeo turned towards Joan.

"Does my brother remain here?" he asked.

"I am at my father's orders," the Indian replied.

"May I trust my brother?"

"Joan has but one heart and one life."

"My brother has spoken well; I will be grateful to him."

The Indian bowed.

"Let my brother return here on the third sun; he shall place us upon the track of Curumilla."

"On the third sun Joan will be ready."

And saluting the three gentlemen gracefully, the Indian retired to take a few hours of a repose which his great exertions had rendered necessary.

CHAPTER III.
THE PURSUIT

We will return to Curumilla. The night was gloomy – the darkness profound. Urging their horses on with voice and gesture, the fugitives made the best of their way towards a forest which, if they could but reach, they would be safe.

A leaden silence brooded over the desert. They galloped on without uttering a word – without looking behind them. All at once the neighing of a horse fell upon their ears like the gloomy alarm call of a clarion.

"We are lost!" Curumilla exclaimed.

"What is to be done?" Rosario asked anxiously.

"Stop," he at length cried.

The young girl left everything to her guide. The Indian requested her to dismount.

"Have confidence in me," he said; "whatever a man can do I will undertake, to save you."

"I know you will!" she replied gratefully.

Curumilla lifted her up in his arms, and carried her with as much facility as if she had been a child.

"Why do you carry me thus?" she asked.

"We must leave no sign," he replied shortly.

He placed her on the ground with great precaution at the foot of a tree.

"This tree is hollow, my sister will conceal herself in it; she will not stir till I return."

"Oh! you will not abandon me," she said.

"I am going to make a false track, I shall soon return."

The poor girl hesitated, she was frightened. Curumilla divined what she felt. "It is our only chance of safety," he said, mournfully, "if my sister is not willing, I can remain."

Rosario was not one of the weak, puling daughters of our great European cities, who wither before they bloom. Her resolution was formed with the rapidity of lightning; she bore up against the fear which had taken possession of her mind, and replied in a firm voice —

"I will do what my brother desires."

"Good!" the Indian said. "Let my sister conceal herself, then."

He cautiously removed the cactus and creepers which surrounded the lower part of the tree, and exposed a cavity, into which the young girl crept, all trembling, like a poor sparrow in the eyrie of an eagle. As soon as Rosario was comfortably placed in the hollow of the tree, the Indian restored the plants to their primitive state, and completely concealed her hiding place with this transparent curtain. Then he regained the horses, mounted his own, led the other, and galloped off.

He galloped thus for many minutes without relaxing his speed, and when he thought himself sufficiently far from the place where Doña Rosario was concealed, he dismounted, listened for an instant, untied the sheep skins from the horses' feet and set off again with the speed of an arrow. He soon heard the galloping of horses behind him; at first distant, but rapidly drawing near and at last becoming distinct. Curumilla had a ray of hope, for his manoeuvre had succeeded. He still pressed on his horse, and leaving his heavy wooden stirrups, with their sharp angles, to beat against the sides of the still galloping animal, he stuck his long lance into the ground, threw his weight upon it, and raising himself by the strength of his wrists, sprang lightly to the ground, whilst the two abandoned horses held on their furious course. Curumilla glided in among the bushes, and made the best of his way back towards Rosario, persuaded that the horsemen would be misled by the false track.

Antinahuel had sent out his mosotones in all directions, in order to discover the traces of the fugitives, but himself had remained in the village. Antinahuel was too experienced a warrior to allow himself to be misled. His scouts returned, one after another, without having discovered anything. The last two that returned brought with them two stray horses bathed in steam. These were the two horses abandoned by Curumilla.

"Will she escape us then?" the Linda asked.

"My sister," the Toqui replied, coolly, with a sinister smile, "when Antinahuel pursues an enemy, he does not escape."

"And yet – " she said.

"Patience," he replied; "they had a chance; their horses gave them a great advantage over me; but, thanks to my precautions, I have forced them to abandon their horses, which alone could have saved them. Within an hour they will be in our hands."

"To horse, then; and let us delay no longer," Doña Maria exclaimed impatiently.

"To horse, then, be it!" replied the chief.

This time no false route was pursued; they followed in a straight line the track by which the prisoners had escaped.

In the meantime Curumilla had rejoined Rosario.

"Well?" she asked, in a voice half choked by fear.

"In a few moments we shall be taken," the chief replied mournfully.

"What! have we no hope left?"

"None! We are surrounded on all sides."

"Oh, my Maker! What have I done?" the poor girl sobbed.

Curumilla reclined upon the ground; he had taken his weapons from his belt, and placed them beside him; and with the stoical fatalism of the Indian when he knows that he cannot escape a destiny that threatens him, he waited impassively, his arms crossed upon his breast, the arrival of the enemy. They heard the tramp of the horses drawing nearer and nearer. In a quarter of an hour all would be over.

"Let my sister prepare," Curumilla said coolly: "Antinahuel approaches."

"Poor man," said Rosario; "why did you endeavour to save me?"

"The young blue-eyed maiden is the friend of my pale brothers; I would lay down my life for her."

"You must not die, chief," she said, in her soft clear tones; "you shall not!"

"Why not? I do not dread torture; my sister shall see how a chief can die."

"Listen to me. You have heard the threats of that woman; my life is in no danger."

He replied by a gesture of assent.

"But," she continued, "if you remain with me, if you are taken, they will kill you."

"Yes," he remarked, coolly.

"Then who will inform my friends of my fate? If you die, chief, what can they do to deliver me?"

"That is true; they can do nothing."

"You must live, then, chief, for my sake."

"Does my sister wish it?"

"I insist upon it."

"Good!" said the Indian. "I will go, then; but let not my sister be cast down."

At this moment the noise of the approaching cavalcade resounded with a loudness that announced they were close at hand. The chief gathered up his arms, replaced them in his belt, and, after bestowing a last sign of encouragement upon Rosario, he glided among the high grass and disappeared. Antinahuel and the Linda were within ten paces of her.

"Here I am," she said, in a firm voice; "do with me what you please."

Her persecutors, struck with such an exhibition of courage, pulled up their horses in astonishment. The courageous girl had saved Curumilla.

CHAPTER IV.
SERPENT AND VIPER

Doña Rosario stood motionless, her arms crossed, her head haughtily raised, and her look disdainful. The Linda leaped from her horse, and seizing her by the arm, shook her violently.

"Oh, oh!" she said, in a bitterly mocking tone, "my pretty dear! This is the way you oblige people to come after you: is it?"

Doña Rosario only replied to this flood of words by a look of cold contempt.

"Ah!" the exasperated courtesan exclaimed, clutching her arm, "I will bring down that proud spirit!"

"Madam," Rosario replied, mildly, "you hurt me very much."

"Serpent!" the Linda shrieked, "why can I not crush you beneath my heel?"

Rosario staggered a few paces; her foot struck against a root, and she fell. In her fall her forehead came in contact with a sharp stone; she uttered a feeble cry of pain, and fainted. The Indian chief, at the sight of the large gash in the young girl's forehead, uttered a roar like that of a wild beast. He leant over her raised her tenderly, and endeavoured to stop the bleeding.

"Fie!" said the Linda, with a jeering laugh; "are you going to play the old woman – you, the first chief of your nation?"

Antinahuel remained silent; for an instant he felt an inclination to stab the fury: he darted a glance at her so loaded with anger and hatred, that she was terrified, and instinctively made a movement as if to put herself on the defensive. As yet the attentions of Antinahuel had no effect; Rosario remained still senseless. In a few minutes the Linda was reassured by observing that love occupied more of the thoughts of the chief than hatred.

"Come, tie the creature upon a horse," she said.

"This woman belongs to me," Antinahuel replied, "and I alone have the right of disposing of her."

"Not yet, chief; a fair exchange: when you have delivered the general, I will give her up to you."

"My sister forgets," said Antinahuel, "that I have fifty mosotones with me."

"What does that signify?" she replied.

"It signifies," he replied, "that I am the stronger."

"Indeed!" she said, sneeringly, "is that the way you keep your promises?"

"I love this woman," he said, in a deep voice.

"Caray! I know that well enough," she replied.

"I will not have her suffer."

"See there, now," she cried, still jeering; "I give her up to you expressly that she may suffer."

"If such is my sisters thought, she is mistaken."

"Chief, my friend, you do not know what you are talking about; you are ignorant of the hearts of white women."

"I do not understand my sister."

"No; you do not comprehend that this woman will never love you – that she will never entertain for you anything but contempt and disdain."

"Oh!" Antinahuel replied, "I am too great a chief to be thus despised by a woman."

"You will see you are, though; in the meantime I demand my prisoner."

"My sister shall not have her."

"Then try to take her from me!" she shrieked; and springing like a tiger cat, she pushed away the chief, and seized the young girl, to whose throat she applied her dagger so closely that blood stained the point.

Antinahuel uttered a terrible cry.

"Stop!" he shouted in consternation; "I consent to everything."

"Ah!" cried the Linda, with a smile of triumph, "I knew I should have the last word."

The chief bit his fingers with powerless rage but he was too well acquainted with this woman to continue a struggle which he knew must infallibly terminate in the maiden's death. By a prodigy of self command he forced his face to assume a smile, and said in a mild voice —

"Wah! my sister is excited! Of what consequence is it to me whether this woman is mine now or in a few hours hence?"

"Yes, but only when General Bustamente is no longer in the hands of his enemies, Chief."

"Be it so!" he said, "since my sister requires it; let her act as she thinks fit."

"Very well; but my brother must prove his faith to me."

"What security can I give my sister, that will thoroughly satisfy her?" he said with a bitter smile.

"This," she replied, with a sneer; "let my brother swear by the bones of his ancestors that he will not oppose anything it shall please me to do, till the general is free."

The chief hesitated; the oath the Linda requested him to take was one held sacred by the Indians, and they dreaded breaking it in the highest degree; such is their respect for the ashes of their fathers. But Antinahuel had fallen into a snare, from which it was impossible for him to extricate himself.

"Good!" he said, smiling; "let my sister be satisfied. I swear upon the bones of my father that I will not oppose her in anything she may please to do."

"Thank you," the Linda answered; "my brother is a great warrior."

Antinahuel had no other plausible pretext for remaining: he slowly, and, as if regretfully, rejoined his mosotones, got into his saddle, and set off, darting at the Linda a last glance, that would have congealed her with fear if she had seen it.

"Poor puling creature!" she said. "Don Tadeo, it is you I wound in torturing your leman! Shall I at length force you to restore to me my daughter?"

The Indian peons attached to her service had remained with her. In the heat of the pursuit the horses, abandoned by Curumilla and brought back by the scouts, had remained with the troop.

"Bring hither one of those horses!" she commanded.

The courtesan had the poor girl placed across one of the horses, with her face towards the sky; then she ordered that the feet and hands of her victim should be brought under the belly of the animal and solidly fastened with cords by the ankles and wrists.

"The woman is not firm upon her legs," she said, with a dry, nervous laugh.

The poor girl gave scarcely any signs of life; her countenance had an earthy, cadaverous hue, and the blood flowed copiously. Her body, horribly cramped by the frightful posture in which she was tied, had nervous starts, and dreadfully hurt her wrists and ankles, into which the cords began to enter. A hollow rattle escaped from her oppressed chest.