Beadle's New York Dime Library, No. 20 — page 33: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

:¥ y rg > = -_* Fee, F q - , .— = : = > on «eae The Bandit at Bay. 33 ter of a proscribed race, I am not so much your friend as your prisoner, or, at any rate, your hostage. Linspire your comrades with contempt, perhaps with hatred; for I am the daughter of their implacable foe—of the man whom they have sworn to sacrifice to their vengeance.’’ ‘Oh, 1 will protect—I will save you,” he exclaimed impetuously. ‘‘No,”’ she said firmly; ‘‘no, Don Pablo, for you must defend me against your own father; you would not dare do it; and if you did,” she added, with a flashing eye, ‘‘1 would not sufferit. Leave me to accomplish my destiny, Don Pablo; renounce this love which can have only one result—our mutu wretchedness: forget me!”’ ‘* Never! Whatever happens, I shall ever love you. Ellen! what do I care for yow family! Children are not responsible for the faults of their parents. You are noble you are holy: I love you, Ellen, [love you yy **And do you think { doubt it?’ she re- lied. ‘* Yes, you love me, Don Pablo; I ow it; 1 am sure of it; and shall I con- fess it? this love, which causes my despair, renders me at the same time happy. You and your comrades are on my father’s trail ; if, as is almost certain, you find him, nothing will save him, neither tears nor entreaties, but yo: will kill him. I can not be an un- moved witness of the death of the man to whom I owe my life. This man, whom you hate, on whom you wish to revenge yourself, is my father; he has always been kind to me. Be merciful, Don Pablo!” ‘“‘Speak, Ellen; whatever you may ask I will swear to do.’ “This evening, when we reach the spot where we are to bivouac, when your com- rades are asleep—”’ ‘‘ Well?” he said, seeing that she stop- ed. ar Let me fly, Don Pablo, [ implore you.” Don Pablo made no reply. ‘*You hesitate—you refuse,’’ she said, bitterly. ‘“* No,’”’? he answered. ‘‘ You ask, and your will shall be accomplished; you shall ‘* Thanks,’’ she said, joyfully, as she offer- ed the young man her hand, which he press- ed to his lips. ‘‘ And now,”’ she said, ‘“‘one last ser- vice.”’ She drew a small box from her bosom, and handed it to her companion. ‘‘Take this box,’’ she continued. “I know not what it contains; buf I took it from my father before escaping from his camp with your sister. Keep it preciously, in order that, if heaven allow us ever to meet again, you may restore it to me.” Je | promise it.”” ‘“‘Now, Don Pablo, whatever may hap- pen, know that I love you and that your moe will be the last word that passes my ps.’ : ‘“*Oh! let me believe, let me hope that one day sao, a ‘Never!’ she exclaimed. ‘* However great my love may be, my father’s blood will sepa- rate us eternally.” The young man bowed his head in de- spair. i ep continued their journey silently, side side. "The sachem of the Coras, as we said, act- elas guide tothe little party. On reaching aspot where the path he followed took a sudden bend in the river bank, he stopped, and imitated the cry of the jay. Atthis signal, Valentine dug his spurs into his horse and galloped up to him. ‘‘Ts there any thing new ?’’ he asked. “‘Nothing, except that in afew minutes weshall be opposite the islet where Red Ce- dar established his camp.”’ “ Ah, ah!’’ said Valentine; ‘‘in that case we will halt.’’ The hunters dismounted, and concealed themselves in the shrubs; the utmost silence prevailed on the river bank. ‘Hum!’ Valentine muttered; ‘‘I believe the bird has flown.”’ ‘“We shall soon know,”’ Eagle-wing re- plied. Then, with that prudence characteristic of the men of his race, he atepped cautious- ly from tree to tree, and soon disappeared from his comrades’ sight. The latter awaited him motionless and with their eyes fixed ou the spot where he had vanished, as it were. They had long to wait, but at the end of an hour aslight rust- ling was audible in the shrubs, and tke In- dian rose before them. It was easy to see that he had just emerged from the water, for his clothes were dripping. ‘* Well ?” said Valentine. ‘* Gone!” - “* How long ?”’ - Two days at least; the fires are ‘“‘ T suspected it,”’ saic the hunter, as if speaking to himself, ‘Oh |”? Don Miguel exclaimed, “‘ this de mon will constantly escape us.” ‘‘ Patience,” Valentine replied. ‘* Unless he has glided through the river likea fish, or risen in the air like a bird, we shall find his trail again—I swear it.”’ ‘‘ But what shall we do ?”’ ‘““ Wait,” said the hunter. “It is late, we will pass the night here; to-morrow, at daybreak, we will start in pursuit of our enemy.”’ The preparations for a hunter’s bivouac are not yay eb Harry and Eagle-wing lit a fire, nnsaddled and hobbled the horses, and then the sup- per was got ready. As soon as the meal was over, Valentine threw a rifle on his shoulder, and gave Curu- milla a sign to follow him. ‘‘Where are you going?’ Don Miguel asked. “To the isle where the gold-seekers’ camp ”? as. ‘‘Hang it all, and so will I,” said the General. “Very good,”’ The four men set out, and only Don Pablo, Ellen, the chief of the Coras, and Harr were left in the encampment. ; As soon as the footsteps of the hunters had died out in the distance, Ellen turned to Don Pablo. ‘¢ The time has arrived,” she said. The Mexican could not repress a nervous start. “You wish it?” sadly. ‘It must be,’’ she continued, stifling a sigh. he rose and walked up to Harry. ‘‘ Brother, I am going,’’ she said. Without any further explanation, he sad dled two horses, and waited with apparens indifference. Moukapec slept, or feigned to sleep. Ellen offered her hand to Don Pablo, and said, in a trembling voice : “Farewell |” ‘Oh! not farewell — we again.’’ The girl shook her head sadly, and leaped ~ the horse the Canadian held ready for er. a . Harry,” said Don Pablo, ** watch over er.’ ‘‘As over my sister,’’ the Uanadian an- swered, in a deep voice. Ellen gavea parting signal of farewell to Don Pablo, and loosened the bridle. Moukapec had not made a move; his sleep must have been very sound. Two hours later, Valentine and his friends returned from their trip to the island, and on Miguel at once noticed the absence of tae squatter’s daughter. ‘* Where is Ellen ?’”’ he asked, quickly. ‘*Gone !’? Don Pablo muttered. ** And you allowed her to fly ?’’ the hacien- dc -o exclaimed. ‘She was not a prisoner, hence I had no rig vt to oppose her departure.”’ “And the Canadian hunter ?”’ “ Gone, too.” ‘* But—’’ Don Miguel objected. V.ientine whispered a few words in his ear. The haciendero started. ‘You are right,’’ he muttered. ‘*Now,”’ the hunter went on, “let us sleep, for I promise you a hard day’s work to-imcrrow.’ a Every one seemed to acknowledge the justic: of this remark, and scarce a quarter of an hour after it had been made, the hunt- ers were lying asleep round the fire. | Curumilla alone was leaning against a larch tree, of which he seemed to form part, watch- ing over the common safety. he answered her, shall meet CHAPTER XXXIL FRAY AMBROSIO. WE will now return to the gold-seekers. Sutter and Nathan had not said a word to their brether; while he, for his part, did not Pgh to have recognized them. When all were preparing to sleep, Shaw also laid himself on the ground, while imperceptibly al tin 7 Donn Clara. he maiden, with her head buried in her | hands, and her elbows supported on her knees, was weeping silently. These tears broke Shaw’s heart, and he would have laid down his life to stop their flow. In the meanwhile, the night grew more and more dark; the moon, vailed by thick clouds which ee incessantly over its pale disk, only cast forth dim rays, too weak to pierce the dome of foliage under which the gold-seekers had sought shelter. Shaw, reassured by the complete immo- bility of his comrades and the mournful silence that brooded over the clearing, ven- tured slightly to touch the young lady’s ari. — “What do you want with me?’ she askea in a mournful voice. ‘“Speak low,’’ he replied; “tin heayen’s name, speak low, (lara, or one of the men lying there may overhear us. These villains have so fine an ear, that the slightest sighing of wind through the leaves is suflicient to awake them, and put them on their guard.”’ “ Why should I care whether they awake?’ she continued reproachfully; ‘“‘thaunks to youin whom I! trusted, have i not fallen into their hands again ?”’ ‘Oh!’ he said, writhing his hands in de- spair, ‘“‘ you can not believe me capable of such odious treachery.” ‘‘ Still, you see where we are.” “ Alas! Iam not to blame for it; fatality has done it all.”’ An incredulous smile hovered round the maiden’s pallid lips. “Have at Jeast the courage to defend hang bad deed, and confess you are a bandit ikc the men sleeping there. Oh!’’ she add- ed, bitterly, ‘‘I have no right to reproach you; on the contrary, I ought to admire you; for though you are still very young, you have displayed, under present circum- stances, a degree of skill and cunning I was far from expecting in you; you have played your part with consummate talent.” Each of these cruel words entered the un- happy young man’s heart like a dagger, and made him endure atrocious torture. ‘* Yes,”? he said, sadly, ‘‘ appearances are against me; in vain should I try to persuade ou of my innocence, for you would not be- ieve me; and yet heaven is my witness that I attempted all it was humanly possible to do, in order to save you.”’ ‘““You were very unfortunate then, sir,”’ she continued sarcastically; ‘‘for it must be allowed that all these attempts, of which you boast strangely, turned against you. Shaw uttered a deep sigh. ** Good heaven !’’ hesaid, ** what proof can I give you of my devotion ?”’ ** None,”’ she replied, coldly, “Ob! madam.” **Sir,’’ she interrupted him in a firm and ironical voice, “spare me, I beg of you, your lamentations, in whose sincerity | can not believe, as there are too many undeniable proofs against you; even more odious than treachery are the hypocritical protestations of atraitor. You have succeeded, so what more do you want? Enjoy your triumph. I repeat to you that I do not reproach you, for you have acted as your instincts and training urged you to do; you have been true to prt and faithful to your antece- dents; I need say no more. ow, if I ma be allowed to ask a favor of you, let us br off a conversation no longer possessing any interest, as you will not succeed in destroy- ing my impressions about you; imitate the example of your comrades, and let me in Guise in my grief without any obstacle.”’ Shaw, thunderstruck by these words, pro nounced in a tone that admitted of no reply; he saw the fearful position he was in, and a mad fury seized on him. ““Oh!’? he said, what pleasure you take in torturing my heart. You say I betrayed you—I who love you so!” | Dona Clara drew herself up, haughty and implacable, ‘* Yes,’”’? she answered ironically, ‘you love me, sir, but it is after the fashion of wild beasts, that carry off their prey to their den to rend it at their pleasure; yours is a — love.”’ | e seized her arm violently, and looked wt in her eyes. ““One word more, ove insult further, ma- dam,’’ he gasped, and I stab myself at your feet; when you see my corpse writhing on the ground, possibly you may then believe in my innocence.”’ Dona Clara, surprised, gazed at him fixedly. ‘* What do I care?’ she then said, coldly. “Oh!” the young man exclaimed in his despair, ‘‘ you shall be satisfied.”’ And witha movement rapid as thought, he drew his dagger. Suddenly a hand was roughly laid on his arm ; but Dona Clara had not stirred. Shaw turned round. Fray Ambrosio was standing behind him, smiling, bnt not relaxing his grasp. ‘* Let me go,” the young man said in a hollow vuice. “* Not so, my son,’’ the monk said gently, : aa first promise to give up your homicidal project.” ‘““Do you not see,’ Shaw exclaimed pas- sionately, ‘* that she believes me guilty ?” ‘*‘It must be so; leave it to me to per- suade her to the contrary.”’ “Oh! if you did that!” the young man muttered with an accent of doubt. ‘*T will do it, my son,’’ Fray Ambrosio said, still smiling; ‘“‘ but you must first be reasonable,” =~ comicbook x nu