Chapter XV: The Pardon

The interview between the general and his niece was most touching.

The old soldier, so roughly treated for some time past, was delighted to press to his bosom the innocent child who constituted his whole family, and who, by a miracle, had escaped the misfortunes that had assailed her.

For a long time they forgot themselves in a delightful interchange of ideas; the general anxiously inquiring how she had lived while he was a prisoner--the young girl questioning him upon the perils he had run, and the ill-treatment he had suffered.

"Now, uncle," she said at length, "what is your intention?"

"Alas! my child," he replied, in a tone of sadness, and stifling a sigh; "we must without delay leave these terrible countries, and return to Mexico."

The heart of the young girl throbbed painfully, although she inwardly confessed the necessity for a prompt return. To leave the prairies would be to leave him she loved--to separate herself, without hope of a reunion, from a man whose admirable character every minute passed in sweet intercourse had made her more duly appreciate, and who had now become indispensable to her life and her happiness.

"What ails thee, my child? You are sad, and your eyes are full of tears," her uncle asked, pressing her hand affectionately.

"Alas! dear uncle," she replied, in a plaintive tone; "how can I be otherwise than sad after all that has happened within the last few days? My heart is oppressed."

"That is true. The frightful events of which we have been the witnesses and the victims are more than enough to make you sad; but you are still very young, my child. In a short time these events will only remain in your thoughts as the remembrance of facts which, thanks to Heaven! you will not have to dread in future."

"Then shall we depart soon?"

"Tomorrow, if possible. What should I do here now? Heaven itself declares against me, since it obliges me to renounce this expedition, the success of which would have made the happiness of my old age; but God is not willing that I should be consoled. His will be done!" he added, in a tone of resignation.

"What do you mean, dear uncle?" the maiden asked, eagerly.

"Nothing that can interest you at present, my child. You had better, therefore, be ignorant of it, and that I should suffer alone. I am old. I am accustomed to sorrow," he said, with a melancholy smile.

"My poor uncle!"

"Thank you for the kindness you evince, my child; but let us quit this subject that saddens you; let us speak a little, if you please, of the worthy people to whom we owe so many obligations."

"Of Loyal Heart?" Doña Luz murmured, with a blush.

"Yes," the general replied. "Loyal Heart and his mother; the excellent woman whom I have not yet been able to thank, on account of the wound of poor Belhumeur, and to whom it is due, you say, that you have not suffered any privations."

"She has had all the cares of a tender mother for me!"

"How can I ever acquit myself towards her and her noble son? She is blessed in having such a child! Alas! that comfort is not given to me--I am alone!" the general said, letting his head sink into his hands.

"And I?" said the maiden, in a faint voice.

"Oh! you?" he replied, embracing her tenderly; "you are my beloved daughter, but I have no son!"

"That is true!" she murmured, thoughtfully.

"Loyal Heart," the general continued, "is of too proud a nature to accept anything of me. What am I to do? how acquit myself towards him? how acknowledge, as I ought, the immense services he has rendered me?"

There was a moment of silence.

Doña Luz inclined towards the general, and kissing his brow, she said to him in a low tremulous voice, concealing her face upon his shoulder:

"Uncle, I have an idea."

"Speak, my darling," he replied, "speak without fear; it is, perhaps, God who inspires you."

"You have no son to whom you can bequeath your name and your immense fortune, have you, uncle?"

"Alas! I thought for a time, I might recover one, but that hope has vanished for ever; you know, child, I am alone."

"Neither Loyal Heart nor his mother would accept anything from you."

"That I believe."

"And yet, I think there is a way of obliging them, of forcing them even."

"What is it?" he said, eagerly.

"Dear uncle, since you regret so much not having a son to whom you could, after you, leave your name, why not adopt Loyal Heart?"

The general looked at her, she was covered with blushes, and trembling like a leaf.

"Oh! darling!" he said, embracing her, "your idea is a charming one, but it is impracticable. I should be happy and proud to have a son like Loyal Heart. You yourself have told me how his mother adores him; she must be jealous of his love, she will never consent to share it with a stranger."

"Perhaps she might!" the young girl murmured.

"And then," the general added, "if even, which is impossible, his mother through love of him, in order to give him a rank in society, should accept my offer, mothers being capable of the noblest sacrifices to secure the happiness of their children, he himself would refuse. Can you believe, dearest, that this man, brought up in the desert, whose whole life has been passed among unexpected, exciting scenes, in face of a sublime nature, would consent, for the sake of a little gold which he despises, and a name that is useless to him, to renounce that glorious life of adventures so full of pleasant and terrible emotions, which has become necessary to him? Oh, no! he would be stifled in our cities; to an exalted organization like his our civilization would be mortal. Forget this idea, my dear daughter. Alas! I feel convinced he would refuse."

"Who knows?" she said, shaking her head.

"God is my witness," the general resumed, earnestly, "that I should be most happy to succeed; all my wishes would be fulfilled. But why should I flatter myself with wild chimeras? He will refuse, I tell you! And I am forced to confess he would be right in doing so!"

"Well, but try, uncle!" she said, coaxingly; "if your proposal be repulsed, you will at least have proved to Loyal Heart that you are not ungrateful, and that you have known how to appreciate him at his just value."

"Do you wish it?" said the general, who asked no better than to be convinced.

"I _do_ wish it, uncle," she answered, embracing him to conceal her joy and her blushes. "I do not know why, but it appears to me you will succeed."

"Well, so be it, then," the general murmured, with a melancholy smile. "Request Loyal Heart and his mother to come to me."

"In five minutes they shall be here!" she cried, radiant with joy.

And, bounding like a gazelle, the young girl disappeared, running along the windings of the grotto.

As soon as he was alone, the general hung down his pensive head, and fell into melancholy and deep reflections.

A few minutes later, Loyal Heart and his mother, brought by Doña Luz, were before him.

The general raised his head, bowed with courtesy as they entered, and with a sign desired his niece to retire.

The young girl complied in great agitation.

There only prevailed in this part of the grotto a faint light, which did not allow objects to be seen distinctly; by a strange caprice, the mother of Loyal Heart had put on her rebozo in such a manner that it almost entirely covered her face; so that, notwithstanding the attention with which the general looked at her, he could not succeed in discerning her features.

"You have sent for us, general," Loyal Heart said, cheerfully, "and, as you see, we have hastened to comply with your desire."

"Thank you for your prompt attention, my friend," the general replied. "In the first place, receive the expression of my gratitude for the important services you have rendered me. What I say to you, my friend--I entreat you to permit me to give you that title--is addressed likewise to your good and excellent mother, for the tender care she has bestowed on my niece."

"General," the hunter replied, with emotion, "I thank you for these kind words, which amply repay me for what you think you owe me. In coming to your aid, I only accomplished a vow I have made never to leave my neighbour without help. Believe me I desire no other recompense but your esteem, and I am overpaid for the little I have done by the satisfaction I at this moment experience."

"I should wish, notwithstanding, permit me to repeat--I should wish notwithstanding to reward you in another fashion."

"Reward me!" the fiery young man cried, colouring deeply, and drawing back.

"Allow me to finish," the general resumed, warmly; "if the proposition I wish to submit to you displeases you, well then you can answer me, and answer me as frankly as I am about to explain myself."

"Speak, general, I will listen to you attentively."

"My friend, my journey into the prairies had a sacred object, which I have not been able to attain; you know the reason why--the men who followed me have died at my side. Left almost alone, I find myself forced to renounce a search which, if it had been crowned with success, would have constituted the happiness of the few years I have yet to live. God is chastising me severely. I have seen all my children die around me; one alone would, perhaps, still be left to me, but him, in a moment of senseless pride, I drove from my presence. Now, in the decline of life, my house is empty, my hearth, is solitary. I am alone, alas! without relations, without friends, without an heir to whom I could bequeath not my fortune, but my name, which a long line of ancestors have transmitted to me without stain. Will you replace for me the family I have lost? answer me, Loyal Heart, will you be to me a son?"

Whilst pronouncing these words, the general rose from his seat, seized the hand of the young man and pressed it warmly, his eyes filled with tears.

At this unexpected offer the hunter stood astonished, breathless, and not knowing what to reply.

His mother suddenly threw back her rebozo, and displaying her countenance glowing and transfigured, so to speak, with intense joy, stepped between the two men, placed her hand upon the shoulder of the general, looked at him earnestly, and in a voice rendered tremulous by emotion, exclaimed--

"At length, Don Ramón de Garillas, you recall that son whom twenty years ago you so cruelly abandoned!"

"Woman! what do you mean?" the general asked, in a broken voice.

"I mean, Don Ramón," she replied, with an air of supreme majesty, "that I am Doña Jesuita, your wife, and that Loyal Heart is your son Rafaël, whom you cursed."

"Oh!" the general cried, falling on his knees, and with his face bathed in tears, "pardon, pardon, my son!"

"My father!" Loyal Heart cried, springing towards him, and endeavouring to raise him up; "what are you doing?"

"My son," said the old man, almost wild with grief and joy, "I will not quit this posture till I have obtained your pardon."

"Arise, arise, Don Ramón!" said Doña Jesuita, in an affectionate tone; "it is long since the hearts of the mother and the son have felt anything for you but love and respect."

"Oh!" cried the old man, embracing them closely by turns; "this is too much happiness--I do not deserve to be so happy after my cruel conduct."

"Father," the young man replied, nobly, "it is owing to the merited chastisement you inflicted upon me that I have become an honest man; forget the past, then, which is now nothing but a dream, think only of the future, which smiles upon you."

At this moment Doña Luz appeared, blushing and timid.

As soon as he perceived her, the general sprang towards her, took her by the hand, and led her to Doña Jesuita, whose arms were opened to receive her.

"My niece!" he said, with a face radiant with joy, "you may love Loyal Heart without fear, for he is really my son. God, in his infinite goodness has permitted that I should find him again at the moment when I despaired of such happiness!"

The young girl uttered a cry of joy, and concealed her blushing face in the bosom of Doña Jesuita, abandoning her hand to Rafaël, who covered it with kisses, while he fell at her feet.