Chapter 98 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
A Rough Courtship
The decision appeared to give satisfaction to all. A grim smile, upon his face testified that the renegade himself was pleased. How could he be otherwise? He had certainly the best of the suit—for what was a beautiful horse to a beautiful woman, and such a woman?
Even the white-haired chief seemed satisfied! Perhaps, of the two, the old savage jockey preferred the horse? It might have been different had Wakono been upon the ground. I was much mistaken if he would so tamely have acquiesced in the decision.
Yes, the renegade was satisfied—more than that, he was rejoiced. His bearing bespoke his consciousness of the possession of a rare and much-coveted thing. He was unable to conceal the gratification he felt; and with an air of triumph and exultation, he approached the spot where the captive sat.
As soon as the sentence was pronounced, the Indians who had been seated rose to their feet. The council was dismissed.
Some of the members strolled off on their own business; others remained by the great fire, mixing among their comrades—no longer with the solemn gravity of councillors, but chatting, laughing, shouting, and gesticulating as glibly and gaily as if they had been an assemblage of French dancing-masters.
The trial and its objects appeared to be at once forgotten; neither plaintiff, defendant, nor cause, seemed any longer to occupy the thoughts of any one. The horse had been delivered to a friend of Wakono—the maiden to Hissoo-royo—and the thing was settled and over.
Perhaps, here and there, some young brave, with a pain in his heart, may have bent wistful glances upon the lovely captive. No doubt there were many who looked with envious thoughts upon Hissoo-royo and his fortunes. If so, their emotions were concealed, their glances furtive.
After the council was over, no one interfered—no one seemingly took any interest either in the renegade or his pale-faced squaw; they were left to themselves.
And to me. From that moment, my eyes and thoughts rested only on them; I saw no one else; I thought of nothing else; I watched but the “wolf” and his victim.
The old chief had retired into the tent. Isolina was left alone.
Only a moment alone. Had it been otherwise, I should have sprung forward. My fingers had moved mechanically towards my knife; but there was not time. In the next instant, Hissoo-royo stood beside her.
He addressed her in Spanish; he did not desire the others to understand what was said. Speaking in this language, there would be less fear of them doing so.
There was one who listened to every word. I listened—not a syllable escaped me.
“Now!” began he, in an exulting tone—“Now, Dona Isolina de Vargas! you have heard? I know you understand the tongue in which the council has spoken—your native tongue. Ha, ha, ha!”
The brute was jeering her!
“You are mine—soul and body, mine; you have heard?”
“I have heard,” was the reply, in a tone of resignation!
“And surely you are satisfied; are you not? You should be. I am white as yourself—I have saved you from the embrace of a red Indian. Surely you are satisfied with the judgment?”
“I am satisfied.”
This was uttered in the same tone of resignation. The answer somewhat surprised me.
“’Tis a lie!” rejoined the brutal monster; “you are playing false with me, sweet señorita. But yesterday you spoke words of scorn—you would scorn me still?”
“I have no power to scorn you; I am your captive.”
“Carrambo! you speak truth. You have no power either to scorn or refuse me. Ha, ha, ha! And as little do I care if you did; you may like me or not at your pleasure. Perhaps you will take to me in time, as much as I may wish it; but that will be for your consideration, sweet señorita! Meanwhile, you are mine, body and soul, you are mine—and I mean to enjoy my prize after my own fashion.”
The coarse taunt caused my blood, already hot enough, to boil within my veins. I grasped the haft of my knife, and like a tiger stood cowering on the spring. My intent was, first to cut down the ruffian, and then set free the limbs of the captive with the blood-stained blade.
The chances were still against me. A score of savages were yet around the fire. Even should he fall at the first blow, I could not hope to get clear.
But I could bear it no longer; and would have risked the chances at that moment, had not my foot been stayed by some words that followed.
“Come!” exclaimed the renegade, speaking to his victim, and making sign for her to follow him—“Come, sweet señorita! This place is too public. I would talk with you elsewhere: I know where there are softer spots for that fair form to recline upon—pretty glades and arbours, choice retreats within the shadow of the grove. There, dearest, shall we retire. Vamos!”
Though hideous the signification of this mock-poetic speech, I joyed at hearing it. It arrested my hand and limb, both of which had been ready for action. The “choice retreats within the shadow of the grove” promised a better opportunity.
With an effort, therefore, I restrained myself, and resolved to wait.
I listened for the reply of Isolina; I watched her as well; I noted her every movement.
I saw that she pointed to her limbs—to the thong-fastenings around her ankles.
“How can I follow you?” she inquired, in a calm voice, and in a tone of surprise. Surely that tone was feigned. Surely she meditated some design?
“True,” said the man, turning back, and drawing the knife from his belt. “Carrai! I had not thought of that; but we shall soon—”
He did not finish the sentence; he stopped in the middle of it, and in an attitude that betokened hesitation.
In this attitude he remained awhile, gazing into the eyes of his victim: then, as if suddenly changing his mind, he struck the knife back into his sheath, and at the same time cried out—
“By the Virgin! I shall not trust you. You are too free of limb, sweet margarita! you might try to give me the slip. This is a better plan. Come! raise yourself up—a little higher—so. Now we go—now for the grove. Vamos!”
While delivering the last words, the ruffian bent himself over the half-prostrate captive; and, placing his arm underneath, wound it around her waist. He then raised her upward until her bosom rested upon his—the bosom of my betrothed in juxtaposition with the painted breast of this worse than savage!
I saw it, and slew him not; I saw it, and kept cool—I can scarcely tell why, for it is not a characteristic of my nature. My nerves, from being so much played upon during the preceding hours, had acquired the firmness of steel; perhaps this enabled me to endure the sight—this, combined with the almost certain prospect of an improved opportunity.
At all events, I kept cool, and remained in my place though only for a moment longer.