LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Sir!” continued he, in a voice trembling with emotion, “you have deeply wronged me.”

      “I know it not; I have not wronged you.”

      “What call you this? Trifling with my child!”

      “Trifling!” I exclaimed, roused to boldness by the accusation.

      “Ay, trifling! Have you not won her affections?”

      “I won them fairly.”

      “Pshaw, sir! This is a child, not a woman. Won them fairly! What can she know of love?”

      “Papa! I do know love. I have felt it for many days. Do not be angry with Enrique, for I love him; oh, papa! in my heart I love him!”

      He turned to her with a look of astonishment.

      “Hear this!” he exclaimed. “Oh, heavens! my child, my child!”

      His voice stung me, for it was full of sorrow.

      “Listen, sir!” I cried, placing myself directly before him. “I have won the affections of your daughter. I have given mine in return. I am her equal in rank, as she is mine. What crime, then, have I committed? Wherein have I wronged you?”

      He looked at me for some moments without making any reply.

      “You would marry her, then?” he said, at length, with an evident change in his manner.

      “Had I permitted our love thus far, without that intention, I should have merited your reproaches. I should have been ‘trifling,’ as you have said.”

      “Marry me!” exclaimed Zoe, with a look of bewilderment.

      “Listen! Poor child! she knows not the meaning of the word!”

      “Ay, lovely Zoe! I will; else my heart, like yours, shall be wrecked for ever! Oh, sir!”

      “Come, sir, enough of this. You have won her from herself; you have yet to win her from me. I will sound the depth of your affection. I will put you to the proof.”

      “Put me to any proof!”

      “We shall see; come! let us in. Here, Zoe!”

      And, taking her by the hand, he led her towards the house. I followed close behind.

      As we passed through a clump of wild orange trees, the path narrowed; and the father, letting go her hand, walked on ahead. Zoe was between us; and as we reached the middle of the grove, she turned suddenly, and laying her hand upon mine, whispered in a trembling voice, “Enrique, tell me, what is ‘to marry’?”

      “Dearest Zoe! not now: it is too difficult to explain; another time, I — ”

      “Come, Zoe! your hand, child!”

      “Papa, I am coming!”

      Chapter Sixteen. An Autobiography

      I was alone with my host in the apartment I had hitherto occupied. The females had retired to another part of the house; and I noticed that Seguin, on entering, had looked to the door, turning the bolt.

      What terrible proof was he going to exact of my faith, of my love? Was he about to take my life, or bind me by some fearful oath, this man of cruel deeds? Dark suspicions shot across my mind, and I sat silent, but not without emotions of fear.

      A bottle of wine was placed between us, and Seguin, pouring out two glasses, asked me to drink. This courtesy assured me. “But how if the wine be poi — ?” He swallowed his own glass before the thought had fairly shaped itself.

      “I am wronging him,” thought I. “This man, with all, is incapable of an act of treachery like that.”

      I drank up the wine. It made me feel more composed and tranquil.

      After a moment’s silence he opened the conversation with the abrupt interrogatory, “What do you know of me?”

      “Your name and calling; nothing more.”

      “More than is guessed at here;” and he pointed significantly to the door. “Who told you thus much of me?”

      “A friend, whom you saw at Santa Fé.”

      “Ah! Saint Vrain; a brave, bold man. I met him once in Chihuahua. Did he tell you no more of me than this?”

      “No. He promised to enter into particulars concerning you, but the subject was forgotten, the caravan moved on, and we were separated.”

      “You heard, then, that I was Seguin the Scalp-hunter? That I was employed by the citizens of El Paso to hunt the Apache and Navajo, and that I was paid a stated sum for every Indian scalp I could hang upon their gates? You heard all this?”

      “I did.”

      “It is true.”

      I remained silent.

      “Now, sir,” he continued, after a pause, “would you marry my daughter, the child of a wholesale murderer?”

      “Your crimes are not hers. She is innocent even of the knowledge of them, as you have said. You may be a demon; she is an angel.”

      There was a sad expression on his countenance as I said this.

      “Crimes! demon!” he muttered, half in soliloquy. “Ay, you may well think this; so judges the world. You have heard the stories of the mountain men in all their red exaggeration. You have heard that, during a treaty, I invited a village of the Apaches to a banquet, and poisoned the viands — poisoned the guests, man, woman, and child, and then scalped them! You have heard that I induced to pull upon the drag rope of a cannon two hundred savages, who know not its use; and then fired the piece, loaded with grape, mowing down the row of unsuspecting wretches! These, and other inhuman acts, you have no doubt heard of?”

      “It is true. I have heard these stories among the mountain hunters; but I knew not whether to believe them.”

      “Monsieur, they are false; all false and unfounded.”

      “I am glad to hear you say this. I could not now believe you capable of such barbarities.”

      “And yet, if they were true in all their horrid details, they would fall far short of the cruelties that have been dealt out by the savage foe to the inhabitants of this defenceless frontier. If you knew the history of this land for the last ten years; its massacres and its murders; its tears and its burnings; its spoliations; whole provinces depopulated; villages given to the flames; men butchered on their own hearths; women, beautiful women, carried into captivity by the desert robber! Oh, God! and I too have shared wrongs that will acquit me in your eyes, perhaps in the eyes of Heaven!”

      The speaker buried his face in his hands, and leant forward upon the table. He was evidently suffering from some painful recollection. After a moment he resumed — “I would have you listen to a short history of my life.” I signified my assent; and after filling and drinking another glass of wine, he proceeded.

      “I am not a Frenchman, as men suppose. I am a Creole, a native of New Orleans. My parents were refugees from Saint Domingo, where, after the black revolution, the bulk of their fortune was confiscated by the bloody Christophe.

      “I was educated for a civil engineer; and, in this capacity, I was brought out to the mines of Mexico, by the owner of one of them, who knew my father. I was young at the time, and I spent several years employed in the mines of Zacatecas and San Luis Potosi.

      “I had saved some money out of my pay, and I began to think of opening upon my own account.

      “Rumours had long been current that rich veins of gold existed upon the Gila and its tributaries. The washings had been seen and gathered in these rivers; and the mother of gold, the milky quartz rock, cropped out everywhere in the desert mountains of this wild region.

      “I started for this country with a select party; and, after traversing it for weeks, in the Mimbres mountains, near the head waters of

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