CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
A YOUTHFUL VOLUNTEER.
Another day dawns, and as the earliest rays of the sun light up theCerro Perdido, an unusual bustle is observed in the camp of thebesieged. Men are busy collecting the leaves of the _mezcal_-plant,those that are withered and dry from having their corms cut out daysbefore; fortunately there are many of these lying all around. Othermen, armed with rudely-shaped mallets, beat them against the trunks oftrees, to separate the fibre from the now desiccated pulp; while stillothers are twisting this into threads, by a further process to beconverted into thick ropes.
It is found that after all not so much will be needed; several lassoeshad been brought up, tied round the bundles of goods; and with these andother odds and ends of cordage, a rope can be put together full twohundred feet in length, strong enough to sustain the weight of any man.So, long before night the lowering apparatus is ready, and, as before,they await the darkness to make use of it.
Meanwhile Don Estevan, the two Tresillians, and Vicente spend most ofthe morning on the cliff where the bighorn went over, surveying it fromevery possible point, taking the bearings of its ledges, and estimatingtheir distances from one another. They are, as the _gambusino_ hadrepresented them, a succession of very narrow benches, but wide enoughfor a man to find footing; some horizontal, others with a slopedownwards, then a zigzag bringing them lower, till within a hundred feetfrom the cliff's base the _facade_ of rocks shows sheer and clear. Downto this point all will be easy; and beyond it they anticipate littledifficulty, now that they are sure of having sufficient rope.
While engaged in their reconnaissance, an object comes under their eyeswhich they gaze upon with interest. They are upon the western side ofthe _mesa_ not far above its southern point, the plain on that sidebeing invisible from the camp of the besiegers; and on this, at thedistance of a mile or more, there is a spot of pasture due to a tinyrivulet, which, filtering off from the side of the lake, becomesdispersed over a considerable surface, which it moistens and makesgreen.
Moving to and fro over this verdant stretch is the object which hascaught their attention--a horse of large size and coal-black colour,which they know to be no other than Crusader. They are not surprised atseeing him there. Habitually he frequents this spot, which has becomehis accustomed pasturing-ground, and more than once had Henry Tresillianstood on that cliff regarding him with fond affectionate gaze; more thanonce, too, had the Indians again gone in chase of him, to be foiled asbefore. There is he still unlassoed, free of limb as the antelopes seenflitting over the _llano_ around him.
After completing the examination of their precipice, and noting alldetails that may be needed to help out their design, they stand for atime gazing at the horse, his young master with a thought in his mindwhich he withholds from the others. Nor does he communicate it to themtill after their return to the camp, and the question comes up, who arethe ones to be lowered down; for it is thought better that twomessengers should be sent, as company and support to each other. Thatis the question to be decided, and up to this hour all expect it to beas before--by lottery.
In fine, when the time arrives for settling it, and the eligible onesare again assembled for drawing lots, a proposal is made which takesevery one present by surprise. It comes from the youngest of the party,Henry Tresillian, who says:
"Let me go alone."
All eyes turn upon him inquiringly and in wonder, none more than thoseof his father, who exclaims:
"You go alone, my son! Why do you propose that?"
"Because it will be best, father."
"How best? I do not understand you."
"Crusader can only carry one."
"Ah! Crusader--that's what you're thinking of?"
"_Por Dios_!" exclaims the senior partner, "I see what your son means,Don Roberto; his idea is admirable!"
"Yes," says the English youth in answer to his father; "I've beenthinking of it ever since yesterday. On Crusader's back I can be atArispe days before any foot messenger could arrive there. Once I hadhim between my legs, no fear of Indians overtaking me."
"The very thing!" cries Don Estevan, delighted. "But, Senor Henrique,are you sure you can catch the horse?"
"Catch him! he will come to my call. Once on the plain, and withinhearing of my voice, I've no fear of his soon being by my side."
"But why not let me take him?" puts in Pedro Vicente, as if to spare thegenerous youth from undertaking such a risk. "I know the road betterthan you, _muchacho_."
"That may be," returns the other. "But I know it well enough. Besides,Crusader will let no one catch him but myself--much less ride him."
During all this conversation the bystanders regard the young Englishmanwith looks of admiration. Never before have they seen so much couragecombined with intelligence. And all to be exerted in their favour; forthey have not forgotten the fate of their two comrades, put to death insuch a cruel fashion. Every one of them fears that the like may befallhimself, should it be his ill luck to draw a black _pinon_ out of the_sombrero_.
Not the least in admiration is Robert Tresillian himself: his heartswells with pride at the gallant bearing of the boy, his own son, worthyof the ancestral name; and when Don Estevan turns to him to ask whetherhe objects to the proposal, it is to receive answer:
"On the contrary, I approve of it. Foot messengers might not reach intime, if at all. My brave boy will do it if it can be done; it may bethe means of bringing rescue to us all. If he fail, then I, like therest of you, must submit to fate."
"I'll not fail," cries the impetuous youth, rushing forward and throwinghis arms round his father. "Fear not. I have a belief that God's handis in it, else why should my noble horse have stayed? Why is he stillthere?"
"_Virgen santissima_!" exclaims Don Estevan in devout tone. "It wouldeven seem so. Let us hope and pray that the Almighty's hand is in it.If so, we shall be saved."
Henry Tresillian is the hero of the hour, though he has been a favouritewith the people of the caravan all along, doing kind offices to this oneand that one, helping all who needed help. But now, when they hear hehas volunteered on this dangerous service, as it were offering up hislife for theirs, encomiums are loud on all sides. Women fall upon theirknees, and, with crucifix in hand, offer up prayers for his protection.But Gertrude? Oh, the sad thoughts--the utter woe that strikes throughher heart--when she hears tidings of what is intended! She receivesthem with a wild cry, almost a shriek, with arms outstretched staggeringto the side of her mother for support.
"Mamma, father must not let him go. He will be lost, and then--then--"
"Have no fear. Think, _hija mia_, we may all be lost if he do not."
"But why cannot some other go in his place? There are many who know theway as well as he, and that brave _gambusino_, I'm sure, would bewilling."
"No doubt he would, dearest; there's some reason against it I do notquite understand. We shall hear all soon, when father returns to thetent."
They do hear the reason; but not any the more to reconcile Gertrude.The young girl is half beside herself with grief, utterly indifferent asto who may observe it. The bud of her love has bloomed into a flower,and she recks not that all the world know her heart is HenryTresillian's. The cousin left behind at Arispe, supposed to be anaspirant to her hand, is forgotten. All are forgotten, save the one nownear, so soon to be cruelly torn away from her. Neither the presence ofher father and mother, nor that of his father, restrain her in her wildravings. She knows she has their approval of her partiality, and heryoung heart, innocent of guile, yields to nature's promptings.
Her appeals are in vain: what must be must be, and she at length resignsherself to the inevitable. For Henry himself tells her how it is, andthat no one possibly could take his place.
It is in dialogue between them, just as the twilight begins to cast itspurple shadows over the plain. For the time is drawing nigh for action,and the two have gone apart from the camp to speak the last words ofleave-tak
ing. They stand under a tree, hands clasped, gazing into eachother's eyes, those of the young girl full of tears.
"_Querida_" he says, "do not weep. 'Twill be all well yet--I feel sureof it."
"Would that I could feel so, Henrique; but, oh! dearest, such danger!And if the cruel savages capture you. _Ay Dios_! to think of what theydid with the others!"
"Let them catch me if they can. They never will if I once get alongsideCrusader. On his back I may defy them."
"True, I believe it. But are you sure of getting upon his back? In thedarkness you may not find him."
"If not, it will be but to return to the cliff and be drawn up again."
This assurance somewhat tranquillises her. There is at least the hope,almost certainty, he will not, as the others, be sacrificed to afruitless attempt; and, so trusting, she says in conclusion: "Go, then,_querido mio_. I will no more oppose it, but pray all night long foryour safety. I see now it is for the best, and feel that the blessedMary, mother of God, will listen to my prayers."
No longer hands clasped, but arms entwined, and lips meeting in a kissof pure holy affection, sanctified by parental consent. Then theyreturn to the camp, where the final preparations are being made for thatventure upon which so much depends.