Back Aa

Wild Huntress

Close

<h3>Chapter One Hundred.</h3> <h4>A Sister’s Appeal.</h4> I hastened to inform Marian of what had passed—having returned to the tents, without giving any sign of the excitement that was stirring within my breast. Why not to-night? Why not at once—within the hour? These were my reflections, put interrogatively, as I hurried over the ground. The huntress still remained within her tent; but, enjoying the fraternal privilege, I could enter; and, stooping, I passed under the covering of skins. “You have seen sister Lilian!” she said, affirmatively, as I entered. “I have.” “And spoken with her?” “No—I dared not trust myself to speak; but I have given her a token of recognition.” “In writing? I saw you. She knows, then, that you are here?” “By this time she should—that is, if she has found an opportunity to look at the paper.” “She will find that, I daresay. Oh, she is beautiful—very beautiful. I do not wonder, sir, that you love her! Were I a man—Knows she that I too am here?” “Not yet. I feared to tell her, even in writing. I feared that in the sudden transport of joy which such a discovery would produce, she might proclaim it to your father—perhaps to him!” “You are right—there might have been a risk of that. She must not know that I am here, till we can caution her against declaring it. How do you propose to act?” “I have come to take counsel from you. If we could only make known to her that you are present, she might find an opportunity of stealing forth; and in the darkness, all the rest could be accomplished. Even to-night—why not this very night?” “Why not?” echoed the huntress, catching eagerly at the idea. “The sooner the better. But how am I to see her? Should I enter their camp? Perhaps—” “If you write to her, I—” “Would, stranger? say could. Writing is not one of my accomplishments. My father cared little to teach me—my mother still less: she cared not at all. Alas! poor ignorant me: I cannot even write my own name!” “It matters not: dictate what you would say to her. I have here paper and pencil; and shall write for you. If she has read the other, she will be on the look-out—and no doubt we may find an opportunity of giving a note to her.” “And she of reading it, no doubt. Yes; it does seem the best course we can pursue—the surest and safest. Surely Lilian has not forgotten me? Surely she will follow the advice of a sister who dearly loves her?” Drawing out my pencil, and tearing a leaf from the memorandum-book, I stood ready to act as amanuensis. The intelligent though unlettered maiden, resting her forehead upon her hand—as if to aid in giving shape to her thoughts—commenced the dictation: “Beloved sister!—A friend writes for me—one whom you know. It is Marian who speaks—your own sister Marian—still living and well. I am here with others—in the disguise of Indians—those you have seen. We are here on your account alone. We have come to save you from a danger—O sister! a dreadful danger: which your innocent heart cannot have dreamt of!” I was not so certain of this. The shade I had observed upon Lilian’s countenance—produced by the taunting speeches of the mulatta—had convinced me that the young girl was not without some presentiment of her peril, however vaguely outlined. So much the better for our purpose; and, as I had already declared this belief to Marian, I did not interrupt her. She continued: “When you have read this, do not show it to any one. Do not make known its contents even to—” The maiden paused for a moment. Filial affection, too cruelly crushed, was causing her voice to falter. Tremblingly and low muttered came the words: “Our father—!” “Dear Lil!” proceeded she in a firmer tone, “you know how dearly I loved you? I love you still the same. You know I would have risked my life to save yours. I now risk that and more—ah! far more, if I could tell you; but some time you shall know all. And you, dear Lil! your danger is even greater than of life—for it is the danger of dishonour! Hear me, then, beloved sister, and do not refuse to follow my advice! When it is dark—and to-night if possible—steal out from the camp. Separate yourself from the vile people who surround you—separate yourself—O sister! it is hard to say the word—from him, our father—him who should have been our protector, but who, I fear—Alas! I cannot speak the thought. To-night, dear Lil! if possible, to-night! To-morrow it may be too late. Our disguise may be discovered, and all our plans frustrated. To-night—to-night! Fear not! your friend awaits you—as also your old favourite, Frank Wingrove, with other brave companions. Your sister will receive you with open arms.” “Marian.” Surely Lilian would not resist such an appeal? Surely it would be enough to separate her—even from him whose slight protection scarcely gave him claim to the sacred title of parent? Our next anxiety was, as to how the note might be delivered. We thought of Archilete; and in the end he might have been employed to convey it to her for whom it was intended. But just at that moment the Mexican was absent. In the performance of his métier as guide, he had entered the corral, and was engaged with the chief men of the caravan—giving them such counsel as might enable them to pursue their route, and no doubt concealing those points that might be prejudicial to our cause. I had no reason to doubt the fidelity of the man. It is true his betrayal of us would have been fatal; though it might afterwards have brought himself to punishment. But it never occurred to me to question his loyalty. His sentiment of hostility for the Mormon “hereticos” had been freely and repeatedly expressed; and I reposed perfect confidence in the honesty of his declarations. On discovering the absence of Archilete, the idea occurred to me, that it might not be necessary to await his return to the tents. Time was too valuable to be wasted. Already had the sun sunk to rest over the grand desert of the Colorado; and the sombre shadows of the Sierra San Juan were projected far into the plain—almost to the edge of the encampment. In these latitudes, the soft eve lingers but a few minutes; and night was already spreading her russet mantle over the earth. The white tilts of the waggons gleamed paler through the grey light; and the red glare of the camp-fires, burning within the corral, now shone upon the canvas—disputing the power to illumine it, with the last touches of the twilight. Another minute—scarcely another minute—and the day would be done. “Come!” I said to my companion, “we may go together. The guide has proclaimed us sister and brother—prophetic words, I hope. Believing in that relationship, these people will not see anything extraordinary in our taking a stroll together. Outside the camp, we may find the opportunity we are in search of?” Marian offered no objection; and, issuing together from the tent, we proceeded in the direction of the corralled waggons. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2