Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

Now the shades of night no longer obscured the silent depths of the American forest – a silence in which there is something awful when the sun in its zenith sends forth burning rays like blades of crimson fire, when the flower of the lliana closes its chalice, when the stems of the grass drop languidly downwards, as though in search of nourishment, and the whole face of nature, silent and inanimate, appears buried in sleep. The distant roar of the cataract was the only sound which at this hour broke the stillness of the forest.

The travellers unsaddled, and having removed their horses’ bridles, fastened them at some distance off. As they had travelled all night to escape the heat of the sun, they determined to take their siesta under the shade of the trees.

Gayferos was the first who fell asleep. His affection for Fabian was not disturbed by any fears for the future. Pepé was not long in following his example. The Canadian only and Fabian did not close their eyes.

“You are not sleeping, Fabian,” said Bois-Rose, in a low voice.

“No, nor you. Why do you not take some rest, like our companions?”

“One cannot sleep, Fabian, in a spot consecrated by so many sacred memories,” replied the old hunter. “This place is rendered holy to me. Was it not here that, by the intervention of a miracle, I again found you in the heart of this forest, after having lost you upon the wide ocean? I should be ungrateful to the Almighty if I could forget this – even to obtain the rest which He has appointed for us.”

“I think as you do, my father, and listen to your words,” replied the young Count.

“Thanks, Fabian; thanks also to that God who ordained that I should find you with a heart so noble and so loving. See! here are still the remains of the fire near which I sat; here are the brands, still black, though they have been washed by the rain of an entire season. Here is the tree against which I leant on the happiest evening of my life, since it restored you to me; for now that I can again call you my son, each day of my existence has been fraught with happiness, until I learnt what I should have understood, that my affection for you was not that to which the young heart aspires.”

“Why so frequently allude to this subject, my father?” said Fabian, with that gentle submission which is more cutting than the bitterest reproach.

“As you will. Let us not again allude to that which may pain you; we shall speak of it after the trial to which I have submitted you.”

The father and son – for we may indeed call them so – now maintained a long silence, listening only to the voices of nature. The sun approached the horizon, a light breeze sprung up and rustled among the leaves; already hopping from branch to branch, the birds resumed their song, the insects swarmed in the grass, and the lowing of cattle was heard in the distance. It was the denizens of the forest who welcomed the return of evening.

The two sleepers awoke.

After a short and substantial repast, of which Gayferos had brought the materials from the Hacienda del Venado, the four travellers awaited in calm meditation the hour of their great trial.

Some time passed away before the azure sky above the open clearing was overcast.

Gradually, however, the light of day diminished on the approach of twilight, and then myriads of stars shone in the firmament, like sparks sown by the sun as he quitted the horizon. At length, as on that evening to which so many recollections belonged, when Fabian, wounded, reached the wood-rangers by their fire, the moon illumined the summits of the trees and the glades of the forest.

“Can we light a fire?” inquired Pepé.

“Certainly; for it may chance that we shall spend the night here,” replied Bois-Rose. “Is not this your desire, Fabian?”

“It matters little to me,” replied the young man; “here or yonder, are we not always agreed?”

Fabian, as we have said, had long felt that the Canadian could not live, even with him, in the heart of towns, without yearning for the liberty and free air of the desert. He knew also that to live without him would be still more impossible for his comrade; and he had generously offered himself as a sacrifice to the affection of the old hunter.

Bois-Rose was aware of the full extent of the sacrifice, and the tear he had that morning shed by stealth, was one of gratitude. We shall by-and-by enter more fully into the Canadian’s feelings.

The position of the stars indicated eleven o’clock.

“Go, my son,” said Bois-Rose to Fabian. “When you have reached the spot where you parted from the woman who perhaps loved you, put your hand upon your heart. If you do not feel its pulses beat quicker, return, for you will then have overcome the past.”

“I shall return, then,” replied Fabian, in a tone of melancholy firmness: “memory is to me like the breath of the wind which passes by without resting, and leaves no trace.”

He departed slowly. A fresh breeze tempered the hot exhalations which rose from the earth. A resplendent moon shone upon the landscape at the moment when Fabian, having quitted the shadow of the forest, reached the open space intervening between it and the wall inclosing the hacienda.

Until that moment he proceeded with a slow but firm step, but when, through the silver vapours of the night, he perceived the white wall with the breach in the centre partly visible, his pace slackened, and his knees trembled under him.

Did he dread his approaching defeat? for his conscience told him already that he would be vanquished – or was it rather those recollections which, now so painfully recalled, rose up before him like the floods of the sea?

There was a deep silence, and the night, but for a slight vapour, was clear. All at once Fabian halted and stood still like the dismayed traveller, who sees a phantom rise up in his path. A white and airy form appeared distinctly visible above the breach in the old wall. It resembled one of the fairies in the old legends of the north, which to the eye of the Scandinavian idolaters floated amidst vapours and mists. To the eye of Fabian it bore the angel form of his first and only love!

For one instant this lovely apparition appeared to Fabian to melt away; but his eyes deceived him, for in spite of himself they were obscured. The vision remained stationary. When he had strength to move, he advanced nearer, and still the vision did not disappear.

The young man’s heart felt as if it would burst, for at this moment a horrible idea crossed his mind. He believed that what he saw was Rosarita’s spirit, and he would rather a thousand times have known her living, though pitiless and disdainful, than behold her dead, though she appeared in the form of a gentle and benignant apparition.

A voice, whose sweet accents fell upon his ear like heavenly music, failed to dispel the illusion, though the voice spoke in human accents.

“Is it you, Tiburcio? I expected you.”

Even the penetration of a spirit from the other world could not have divined that he would return from such a distance.

“Is it you, Rosarita?” cried Fabian, in a scarcely perceptible voice, “or a delusive vision which will quickly disappear?”

And Fabian stood motionless, fixed to the spot, so greatly did he fear that the beloved image would vanish from his sight.

“It is I,” said the voice; “I am indeed here.”

“O God! the trial will be more terrible than I dared to think,” said Fabian, inwardly.

And he advanced a step forward, then paused; the poor young man did not entertain a hope.

“By what miracle of heaven do I find you here?” he cried.

“I come every evening, Tiburcio,” replied the young girl.

This time Fabian began to tremble more with love than hope.

We have seen that Rosarita, in her last interview with Fabian, chose rather to run the risk of death than confess that she loved him. Since then she had suffered so much, she had shed so many tears, that now love was stronger than virgin purity.

A young girl may sometimes, by such courage, sanctify and enhance her modesty.

“Come nearer, Tiburcio,” she said; “see! here is my hand.”

Fabian rushed forward to her feet. He seized the hand she offered convulsively, but he tried in vain to speak.

The young girl looked down with anxious tenderness upon his face.

“Let me see if you are much changed, Tiburcio,” she continued. “Ah! yes. Grief has left its traces on your brow, but honour has ennobled it. You are as brave as you are handsome, Tiburcio. I learned with pride that danger had never made your cheek turn pale.”

“You heard, did you say?” cried Fabian; “but what have you heard?”

“All, Tiburcio; even to your most secret thoughts. I have heard all, even of your coming here this evening. Do you understand? and I am here!”

“Before I dare to comprehend, Rosarita, – for this time a mistake would kill me,” continued Fabian, whose heart was stirred to its very depths by the young girl’s words, and the tenderness of her manner, “will you answer one question, that is if I dare to ask it?”

“Dare, then, Tiburcio,” said Rosarita, tenderly. “Ask what you wish. I came to-night to hear you – to deny you nothing.”