They soon reverted to the objects around him – more especially to the demijohn in the corner. On this once more his eyes became fixed in a gaze, in which increasing covetousness was manifestly visible.
“Arrah, me jewel!” said he, again apostrophising the vessel, “ye’re extramely bewtifull to look at – that same ye arr. Shure now, yez wudn’t till upon me, if I gave yez a thrifle av a kiss? Ye wudn’t be the thraiter to bethray me? Wan smack only. Thare can be no harum in that. Trath, I don’t think the masther ’ud mind it – when he thinks av the throuble I’ve had wid this packin’, an the dhry dust gettin’ down me throat. Shure he didn’t mane me to kape that promise for this time – which differs intirely from all the rest, by razon av our goin’ away. A dhry flittin’, they say, makes a short sittin’. I’ll tell the masther that, whin he comes back; an shure it ’ll pacify him. Besoides, there’s another ixcuse. He’s all av tin hours beyant his time; an I’ll say I took a thriflin’ dhrap to kape me from thinkin’ long for him. Shure he won’t say a word about it. Be Sant Pathrick! I’ll take a smell at the dimmyjan, an trust to good luck for the rist. Loy down, Tara, I’m not agoin’ out.”
The staghound had risen, seeing the speaker step towards the door.
But the dumb creature had misinterpreted the purpose – which was simply to take a survey of the path by which the jacalé was approached, and make sure, that, his master was not likely to interrupt him in his intended dealings with the demijohn.
Becoming satisfied that the coast was clear, he glided back across the floor; uncorked the jar; and, raising it to his lips, swallowed something more than a “thriflin’ dhrap av its contints.”
Then putting it back in its place, he returned to his seat on the stool.
After remaining quiescent for a considerable time, he once more proceeded to soliloquise – now and then changing his speech to the apostrophic form – Tara and the demijohn being the individuals honoured by his discourse.
“In the name av all the angels, an the divils to boot, I wondher what’s kapin’ the masther! He sid he wud be heeur by eight av the clock in the marnin’, and it’s now good six in the afthernoon, if thare’s any truth in a Tixas sun. Shure thare’s somethin’ detainin’ him? Don’t yez think so, Tara?”
This time Tara did vouchsafe the affirmative “sniff” – having poked his nose too far into the ashes.
“Be the powers! then, I hope it’s no harum that’s befallen him! If there has, owld dog, fwhat ’ud become av you an me? Thare might be no Ballyballagh for miny a month to come; unliss we cowld pay our passage wid these thraps av the masther’s. The drinkin’ cup – raal silver it is – wud cover the whole expinse av the voyage. Be japers! now that it stroikes me, I niver had a dhrink out av that purty little vessel. I’m shure the liquor must taste swater that way. Does it, I wondher – trath, now’s just the time to thry.”
Saying this, he took the cup out of the portmanteau, in which he had packed it; and, once more uncorking the demijohn, poured out a portion of its contents – of about the measure of a wineglassful.
Quaffing it off at a single gulp, he stood smacking his lips – as if to assure himself of the quality of the liquor.
“Sowl! I don’t know that it does taste betther,” said he, still holding the cup in one hand, and the jar in the other. “Afther all, I think, it’s swater out av the dimmyjan itself, that is, as far as I cyan remimber. But it isn’t givin’ the gawblet fair play. It’s so long since I had the jar to me mouth, that I a’most forget how it tasted that way. I cowld till betther if I thryed thim thegither. I’ll do that, before I decoide.”
The demijohn was now raised to his lips; and, after several “glucks” was again taken away.
Then succeeded a second series of smacking, in true connoisseur fashion, with the head held reflectingly steadfast.
“Trath! an I’m wrong agane!” said he, accompanying the remark with another doubtful shake of the head. “Althegither asthray. It’s swater from the silver. Or, is it only me imaginayshin that’s desavin’ me? It’s worth while to make shure, an I can only do that by tastin’ another thrifle out av the cup. That wud be givin’ fair play to both av the vessels; for I’ve dhrunk twice from the jar, an only wanst from the silver. Fair play’s a jewil all the world over; and thare’s no raison why this bewtiful little mug showldn’t be trated as dacently as that big basket av a jar. Be japers! but it shall tho’!”
The cup was again called into requisition; and once more a portion of the contents of the demijohn were transferred to it – to be poured immediately after down the insatiable throat of the unsatisfied connoisseur.
Whether he eventually decided in favour of the cup, or whether he retained his preference for the jar, is not known. After the fourth potation, which was also the final one, he appeared to think he had tasted sufficiently for the time, and laid both vessels aside.
Instead of returning to his stool, however, a new idea came across his mind; which was to go forth from the hut, and see whether there was any sign to indicate the advent of his master.
“Come, Tara!” cried he, striding towards the door. “Let us stip up to the bluff beyant, and take a look over the big plain. If masther’s comin’ at all, he shud be in sight by this. Come along, ye owld dog! Masther Maurice ’ll think all the betther av us, for bein’ a little unazy about his gettin’ back.”
Taking the path through the wooded bottom – with the staghound close at his heels – the Galwegian ascended the bluff, by one of its sloping ravines, and stood upon the edge of the upper plateau.
From this point he commanded a view of a somewhat sterile plain; that stretched away eastward, more than a mile, from the spot where he was standing.
The sun was on his back, low down on the horizon, but shining from a cloudless sky. There was nothing to interrupt his view. Here and there, a stray cactus plant, or a solitary stem of the arborescent yucca, raised its hirsute form above the level of the plain. Otherwise the surface was smooth; and a coyoté could not have crossed it without being seen.
Beyond, in the far distance, could be traced the darker outline of trees – where a tract of chapparal, or the wooded selvedge of a stream stretched transversely across the llano.
The Galwegian bent his gaze over the ground, in the direction in which he expected his master should appear; and stood silently watching for him.
Ere long his vigil was rewarded. A horseman was seen coming out from among the trees upon the other side, and heading towards the Alamo.
He was still more than a mile distant; but, even at that distance, the faithful servant could identify his master. The striped serapé of brilliant hues – a true Navajo blanket, which Maurice was accustomed to take with him when travelling – was not to be mistaken. It gleamed gaudily under the glare of the setting sun – its bands of red, white, and blue, contrasting with the sombre tints of the sterile plain.
Phelim only wondered, that his master should have it spread over his shoulders on such a sultry evening instead of folded up, and strapped to the cantle of his saddle!
“Trath, Tara! it looks quare, doesn’t it? It’s hot enough to roast a stake upon these stones; an yit the masther don’t seem to think so. I hope he hasn’t caught a cowld from stayin’ in that close crib at owld Duffer’s tavern. It wasn’t fit for a pig to dwill in. Our own shanty’s a splindid parlour to it.”
The speaker was for a time silent, watching the movements of the approaching horseman – by this time about half a mile distant, and still drawing nearer.
When his voice was put forth again it was in a tone altogether changed. It was still that of surprise, with an approach towards merriment. But it was mirth that doubted of the ludicrous; and seemed to struggle under restraint.
“Mother av Moses!” cried he. “What can the masther mane? Not contint with havin’ the blankyet upon his showldhers, be japers, he’s got it over his head!
“He’s playin’ us a thrick, Tara. He wants to give you an me a surproise. He wants to have a joke agaynst us!
“Sowl! but it’s quare anyhow. It looks as if he had no head. In faix does it! Ach! what cyan it mane? Be the Howly Virgin! it’s enough to frighten wan, av they didn’t know it was the masther!
“Is it the masther? Be the powers, it’s too short for him! The head? Saint Patrick presarve us, whare is it? It cyan’t be smothered up in the blankyet? Thare’s no shape thare! Be Jaysus, thare’s somethin’ wrong! What does it mane, Tara?”
The tone of the speaker had again undergone a change. It was now close bordering upon terror – as was also the expression of his countenance.
The look and attitude of the staghound were not very different. He stood a little in advance – half cowering, half inclined to spring forward – with eyes glaring wildly, while fixed upon the approaching horseman – now scarce two hundred yards from the spot!
As Phelim put the question that terminated his last soliloquy, the hound gave out a lugubrious howl, that seemed intended for an answer.
Then, as if urged by some canine instinct, he bounded off towards the strange object, which puzzled his human companion, and was equally puzzling him.
Rushing straight on, he gave utterance to a series of shrill yelps; far different from the soft sonorous baying, with which he was accustomed to welcome the coming home of the mustanger.
If Phelim was surprised at what he had already seen, he was still further astonished by what now appeared to him.
As the dog drew near, still yelping as he ran, the blood-bay – which the ex-groom had long before identified as his master’s horse – turned sharply round, and commenced galloping back across the plain!
While performing the wheel, Phelim saw – or fancied he saw – that, which not only astounded him, but caused the blood to run chill through his veins, and his frame to tremble to the very tips of his toes.
It was a head – that of the man on horseback; but, instead of being in its proper place, upon his shoulders, it was held in the rider’s hand, just behind the pommel of the saddle!
As the horse turned side towards him, Phelim saw, or fancied he saw, the face – ghastly and covered with gore – half hidden behind the shaggy hair of the holster!
He saw no more. In another instant his back was turned towards the plain; and, in another, he was rushing down the ravine, as fast as his enfeebled limbs would carry him!
Chapter 44
“Arrah, me jewel!” said he, again apostrophising the vessel, “ye’re extramely bewtifull to look at – that same ye arr. Shure now, yez wudn’t till upon me, if I gave yez a thrifle av a kiss? Ye wudn’t be the thraiter to bethray me? Wan smack only. Thare can be no harum in that. Trath, I don’t think the masther ’ud mind it – when he thinks av the throuble I’ve had wid this packin’, an the dhry dust gettin’ down me throat. Shure he didn’t mane me to kape that promise for this time – which differs intirely from all the rest, by razon av our goin’ away. A dhry flittin’, they say, makes a short sittin’. I’ll tell the masther that, whin he comes back; an shure it ’ll pacify him. Besoides, there’s another ixcuse. He’s all av tin hours beyant his time; an I’ll say I took a thriflin’ dhrap to kape me from thinkin’ long for him. Shure he won’t say a word about it. Be Sant Pathrick! I’ll take a smell at the dimmyjan, an trust to good luck for the rist. Loy down, Tara, I’m not agoin’ out.”
The staghound had risen, seeing the speaker step towards the door.
But the dumb creature had misinterpreted the purpose – which was simply to take a survey of the path by which the jacalé was approached, and make sure, that, his master was not likely to interrupt him in his intended dealings with the demijohn.
Becoming satisfied that the coast was clear, he glided back across the floor; uncorked the jar; and, raising it to his lips, swallowed something more than a “thriflin’ dhrap av its contints.”
Then putting it back in its place, he returned to his seat on the stool.
After remaining quiescent for a considerable time, he once more proceeded to soliloquise – now and then changing his speech to the apostrophic form – Tara and the demijohn being the individuals honoured by his discourse.
“In the name av all the angels, an the divils to boot, I wondher what’s kapin’ the masther! He sid he wud be heeur by eight av the clock in the marnin’, and it’s now good six in the afthernoon, if thare’s any truth in a Tixas sun. Shure thare’s somethin’ detainin’ him? Don’t yez think so, Tara?”
This time Tara did vouchsafe the affirmative “sniff” – having poked his nose too far into the ashes.
“Be the powers! then, I hope it’s no harum that’s befallen him! If there has, owld dog, fwhat ’ud become av you an me? Thare might be no Ballyballagh for miny a month to come; unliss we cowld pay our passage wid these thraps av the masther’s. The drinkin’ cup – raal silver it is – wud cover the whole expinse av the voyage. Be japers! now that it stroikes me, I niver had a dhrink out av that purty little vessel. I’m shure the liquor must taste swater that way. Does it, I wondher – trath, now’s just the time to thry.”
Saying this, he took the cup out of the portmanteau, in which he had packed it; and, once more uncorking the demijohn, poured out a portion of its contents – of about the measure of a wineglassful.
Quaffing it off at a single gulp, he stood smacking his lips – as if to assure himself of the quality of the liquor.
“Sowl! I don’t know that it does taste betther,” said he, still holding the cup in one hand, and the jar in the other. “Afther all, I think, it’s swater out av the dimmyjan itself, that is, as far as I cyan remimber. But it isn’t givin’ the gawblet fair play. It’s so long since I had the jar to me mouth, that I a’most forget how it tasted that way. I cowld till betther if I thryed thim thegither. I’ll do that, before I decoide.”
The demijohn was now raised to his lips; and, after several “glucks” was again taken away.
Then succeeded a second series of smacking, in true connoisseur fashion, with the head held reflectingly steadfast.
“Trath! an I’m wrong agane!” said he, accompanying the remark with another doubtful shake of the head. “Althegither asthray. It’s swater from the silver. Or, is it only me imaginayshin that’s desavin’ me? It’s worth while to make shure, an I can only do that by tastin’ another thrifle out av the cup. That wud be givin’ fair play to both av the vessels; for I’ve dhrunk twice from the jar, an only wanst from the silver. Fair play’s a jewil all the world over; and thare’s no raison why this bewtiful little mug showldn’t be trated as dacently as that big basket av a jar. Be japers! but it shall tho’!”
The cup was again called into requisition; and once more a portion of the contents of the demijohn were transferred to it – to be poured immediately after down the insatiable throat of the unsatisfied connoisseur.
Whether he eventually decided in favour of the cup, or whether he retained his preference for the jar, is not known. After the fourth potation, which was also the final one, he appeared to think he had tasted sufficiently for the time, and laid both vessels aside.
Instead of returning to his stool, however, a new idea came across his mind; which was to go forth from the hut, and see whether there was any sign to indicate the advent of his master.
“Come, Tara!” cried he, striding towards the door. “Let us stip up to the bluff beyant, and take a look over the big plain. If masther’s comin’ at all, he shud be in sight by this. Come along, ye owld dog! Masther Maurice ’ll think all the betther av us, for bein’ a little unazy about his gettin’ back.”
Taking the path through the wooded bottom – with the staghound close at his heels – the Galwegian ascended the bluff, by one of its sloping ravines, and stood upon the edge of the upper plateau.
From this point he commanded a view of a somewhat sterile plain; that stretched away eastward, more than a mile, from the spot where he was standing.
The sun was on his back, low down on the horizon, but shining from a cloudless sky. There was nothing to interrupt his view. Here and there, a stray cactus plant, or a solitary stem of the arborescent yucca, raised its hirsute form above the level of the plain. Otherwise the surface was smooth; and a coyoté could not have crossed it without being seen.
Beyond, in the far distance, could be traced the darker outline of trees – where a tract of chapparal, or the wooded selvedge of a stream stretched transversely across the llano.
The Galwegian bent his gaze over the ground, in the direction in which he expected his master should appear; and stood silently watching for him.
Ere long his vigil was rewarded. A horseman was seen coming out from among the trees upon the other side, and heading towards the Alamo.
He was still more than a mile distant; but, even at that distance, the faithful servant could identify his master. The striped serapé of brilliant hues – a true Navajo blanket, which Maurice was accustomed to take with him when travelling – was not to be mistaken. It gleamed gaudily under the glare of the setting sun – its bands of red, white, and blue, contrasting with the sombre tints of the sterile plain.
Phelim only wondered, that his master should have it spread over his shoulders on such a sultry evening instead of folded up, and strapped to the cantle of his saddle!
“Trath, Tara! it looks quare, doesn’t it? It’s hot enough to roast a stake upon these stones; an yit the masther don’t seem to think so. I hope he hasn’t caught a cowld from stayin’ in that close crib at owld Duffer’s tavern. It wasn’t fit for a pig to dwill in. Our own shanty’s a splindid parlour to it.”
The speaker was for a time silent, watching the movements of the approaching horseman – by this time about half a mile distant, and still drawing nearer.
When his voice was put forth again it was in a tone altogether changed. It was still that of surprise, with an approach towards merriment. But it was mirth that doubted of the ludicrous; and seemed to struggle under restraint.
“Mother av Moses!” cried he. “What can the masther mane? Not contint with havin’ the blankyet upon his showldhers, be japers, he’s got it over his head!
“He’s playin’ us a thrick, Tara. He wants to give you an me a surproise. He wants to have a joke agaynst us!
“Sowl! but it’s quare anyhow. It looks as if he had no head. In faix does it! Ach! what cyan it mane? Be the Howly Virgin! it’s enough to frighten wan, av they didn’t know it was the masther!
“Is it the masther? Be the powers, it’s too short for him! The head? Saint Patrick presarve us, whare is it? It cyan’t be smothered up in the blankyet? Thare’s no shape thare! Be Jaysus, thare’s somethin’ wrong! What does it mane, Tara?”
The tone of the speaker had again undergone a change. It was now close bordering upon terror – as was also the expression of his countenance.
The look and attitude of the staghound were not very different. He stood a little in advance – half cowering, half inclined to spring forward – with eyes glaring wildly, while fixed upon the approaching horseman – now scarce two hundred yards from the spot!
As Phelim put the question that terminated his last soliloquy, the hound gave out a lugubrious howl, that seemed intended for an answer.
Then, as if urged by some canine instinct, he bounded off towards the strange object, which puzzled his human companion, and was equally puzzling him.
Rushing straight on, he gave utterance to a series of shrill yelps; far different from the soft sonorous baying, with which he was accustomed to welcome the coming home of the mustanger.
If Phelim was surprised at what he had already seen, he was still further astonished by what now appeared to him.
As the dog drew near, still yelping as he ran, the blood-bay – which the ex-groom had long before identified as his master’s horse – turned sharply round, and commenced galloping back across the plain!
While performing the wheel, Phelim saw – or fancied he saw – that, which not only astounded him, but caused the blood to run chill through his veins, and his frame to tremble to the very tips of his toes.
It was a head – that of the man on horseback; but, instead of being in its proper place, upon his shoulders, it was held in the rider’s hand, just behind the pommel of the saddle!
As the horse turned side towards him, Phelim saw, or fancied he saw, the face – ghastly and covered with gore – half hidden behind the shaggy hair of the holster!
He saw no more. In another instant his back was turned towards the plain; and, in another, he was rushing down the ravine, as fast as his enfeebled limbs would carry him!
Chapter 44
A Quartette of Comanches
With his flame-coloured curls bristling upward – almost raising the hat from his head – the Galwegian continued his retreat – pausing not – scarce looking back, till he had re-entered the jacalé, closed the skin door behind him, and barricaded it with several large packages that lay near.
Even then he did not feel secure. What protection could there be in a shut door, barred and bolted besides, against that which was not earthly?
And surely what he had seen was not of the earth – not of this world! Who on earth had ever witnessed such a spectacle – a man mounted upon horseback, and carrying his head in his hand? Who had ever heard of a phenomenon so unnatural? Certainly not “Phaylim Onale.”
His horror still continuing, he rushed to and fro across the floor of the hut; now dropping down upon the stool, anon rising up, and gliding to the door; but without daring either to open it, or look out through the chinks.
At intervals he tore the hair out of his head, striking his clenched hand against his temples, and roughly rubbing his eyes – as if to make sure that he was not asleep, but had really seen the shape that was horrifying him.
One thing alone gave him a moiety of comfort; though it was of the slightest. While retreating down the ravine, before his head had sunk below the level of the plain, he had given a glance backward. He had derived some gratification from that glance; as it showed the headless rider afar off on the prairie, and with back turned toward the Alamo, going on at a gallop.
But for the remembrance of this, the Galwegian might have been still more terrified – if that were possible – while striding back and forth upon the floor of the jacalé.
For a long time he was speechless – not knowing what to say – and only giving utterance to such exclamations as came mechanically to his lips.
As the time passed, and he began to feel, not so much a return of confidence, as of the power of ratiocination, his tongue became restored to him; and a continuous fire of questions and exclamations succeeded. They were all addressed to himself. Tara was no longer there, to take part in the conversation.
They were put, moreover, in a low whispered tone, as if in fear that his voice might be heard outside the jacalé.
“Ochone[251]! Ochone! it cyan’t av been him! Sant Pathrick protict me, but fwhat was it thin?
“Thare was iverything av his – the horse – the sthriped blankyet – them spotted wather guards upon his legs – an the head itself – all except the faytures. Thim I saw too, but wasn’t shure about eyedintifycashin; for who kud till a face all covered over wid rid blood?
“Ach! it cudn’t be Masther Maurice at all, at all!
“It’s all a dhrame. I must have been aslape, an dhramin? Or, was it the whisky that did it?
“Shure, I wasn’t dhrunk enough for that. Two goes out av the little cup, an two more from the dimmyjan – not over a kupple av naggins in all! That wudn’t make me dhrunk. I’ve taken twice that, widout as much as thrippin in my spache. Trath have I. Besoides, if I had been the worse for the liquor, why am I not so still?
“Thare’s not half an hour passed since I saw it; an I’m as sober as a judge upon the binch av magistrates.
“Sowl! a dhrap ’ud do me a power av good just now. If I don’t take wan, I’ll not get a wink av slape. I’ll be shure to kape awake all the night long thinkin’ about it. Ochone! ochone! what cyan it be anyhow? An’ where cyan the masther be, if it wasn’t him? Howly Sant Pathrick! look down an watch over a miserable sinner, that’s lift all alone be himself, wid nothin’ but ghosts an goblins[252] around him!”
After this appeal to the Catholic saint, the Connemara man addressed himself with still more zealous devotion to the worship of a very different divinity, known among the ancients as Bacchus.
His suit in this quarter proved perfectly successful; for in less than an hour after he had entered upon his genuflexions at the shrine of the pagan god – represented by the demijohn of Monongahela whisky – he was shrived of all his sufferings – if not of his sins – and lay stretched along the floor of the jacalé, not only oblivious of the spectacle that had so late terrified him to the very centre of his soul, but utterly unconscious of his soul’s existence.
There is no sound within the hut of Maurice the mustanger – not even a clock, to tell, by its continuous ticking, that the hours are passing into eternity, and that another midnight is mantling over the earth.
There are sounds outside; but only as usual. The rippling of the stream close by, the whispering of the leaves stirred by the night wind, the chirrup of cicadas, the occasional cry of some wild creature, are but the natural voices of the nocturnal forest.
Midnight has arrived, with a moon that assimilates it to morning. Her light illumines the earth; here and there penetrating through the shadowy trees, and flinging broad silvery lists between them.
Passing through these alternations of light and shadow – apparently avoiding the former, as much as possible – goes a group of mounted men.
Though few in number – as there are only four of them – they are formidable to look upon. The vermilion glaring redly over their naked skins, the striped and spotted tatooing upon their cheeks, the scarlet feathers standing stiffly upright above their heads, and the gleaming of weapons held in their hands, all bespeak strength of a savage and dangerous kind.
Whence come they?
They are in the war costume of the Comanche. Their paint proclaims it. There is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck behind it. The bare breasts and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts – everything in the shape of sign by which these Ishmaelites[253] of Texas may be recognised, when out upon the maraud.
They must be Comanches: and, therefore, have come from the west.
Whither go they?
This is a question more easily answered. They are closing in upon the hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate. The jacalé of Maurice Gerald is evidently the butt[254] of their expedition.
That their intentions are hostile, is to be inferred from the fact of their wearing the war costume. It is also apparent from their manner of making approach. Still further, by their dismounting at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continuing their advance on foot.
Their stealthy tread – taking care to plant the foot lightly upon the fallen leaves – the precaution to keep inside the shadow – the frequent pauses, spent in looking ahead and listening – the silent gestures with which these movements are directed by him who appears to be the leader – all proclaim design, to reach the jacalé unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it.
In this they are successful – so far as may be judged by appearances. They stand by the stockade walls, without any sign being given to show that they have been seen.
The silence inside is complete, as that they are themselves observing. There is nothing heard – not so much as the screech of a hearth-cricket.
Even then he did not feel secure. What protection could there be in a shut door, barred and bolted besides, against that which was not earthly?
And surely what he had seen was not of the earth – not of this world! Who on earth had ever witnessed such a spectacle – a man mounted upon horseback, and carrying his head in his hand? Who had ever heard of a phenomenon so unnatural? Certainly not “Phaylim Onale.”
His horror still continuing, he rushed to and fro across the floor of the hut; now dropping down upon the stool, anon rising up, and gliding to the door; but without daring either to open it, or look out through the chinks.
At intervals he tore the hair out of his head, striking his clenched hand against his temples, and roughly rubbing his eyes – as if to make sure that he was not asleep, but had really seen the shape that was horrifying him.
One thing alone gave him a moiety of comfort; though it was of the slightest. While retreating down the ravine, before his head had sunk below the level of the plain, he had given a glance backward. He had derived some gratification from that glance; as it showed the headless rider afar off on the prairie, and with back turned toward the Alamo, going on at a gallop.
But for the remembrance of this, the Galwegian might have been still more terrified – if that were possible – while striding back and forth upon the floor of the jacalé.
For a long time he was speechless – not knowing what to say – and only giving utterance to such exclamations as came mechanically to his lips.
As the time passed, and he began to feel, not so much a return of confidence, as of the power of ratiocination, his tongue became restored to him; and a continuous fire of questions and exclamations succeeded. They were all addressed to himself. Tara was no longer there, to take part in the conversation.
They were put, moreover, in a low whispered tone, as if in fear that his voice might be heard outside the jacalé.
“Ochone[251]! Ochone! it cyan’t av been him! Sant Pathrick protict me, but fwhat was it thin?
“Thare was iverything av his – the horse – the sthriped blankyet – them spotted wather guards upon his legs – an the head itself – all except the faytures. Thim I saw too, but wasn’t shure about eyedintifycashin; for who kud till a face all covered over wid rid blood?
“Ach! it cudn’t be Masther Maurice at all, at all!
“It’s all a dhrame. I must have been aslape, an dhramin? Or, was it the whisky that did it?
“Shure, I wasn’t dhrunk enough for that. Two goes out av the little cup, an two more from the dimmyjan – not over a kupple av naggins in all! That wudn’t make me dhrunk. I’ve taken twice that, widout as much as thrippin in my spache. Trath have I. Besoides, if I had been the worse for the liquor, why am I not so still?
“Thare’s not half an hour passed since I saw it; an I’m as sober as a judge upon the binch av magistrates.
“Sowl! a dhrap ’ud do me a power av good just now. If I don’t take wan, I’ll not get a wink av slape. I’ll be shure to kape awake all the night long thinkin’ about it. Ochone! ochone! what cyan it be anyhow? An’ where cyan the masther be, if it wasn’t him? Howly Sant Pathrick! look down an watch over a miserable sinner, that’s lift all alone be himself, wid nothin’ but ghosts an goblins[252] around him!”
After this appeal to the Catholic saint, the Connemara man addressed himself with still more zealous devotion to the worship of a very different divinity, known among the ancients as Bacchus.
His suit in this quarter proved perfectly successful; for in less than an hour after he had entered upon his genuflexions at the shrine of the pagan god – represented by the demijohn of Monongahela whisky – he was shrived of all his sufferings – if not of his sins – and lay stretched along the floor of the jacalé, not only oblivious of the spectacle that had so late terrified him to the very centre of his soul, but utterly unconscious of his soul’s existence.
There is no sound within the hut of Maurice the mustanger – not even a clock, to tell, by its continuous ticking, that the hours are passing into eternity, and that another midnight is mantling over the earth.
There are sounds outside; but only as usual. The rippling of the stream close by, the whispering of the leaves stirred by the night wind, the chirrup of cicadas, the occasional cry of some wild creature, are but the natural voices of the nocturnal forest.
Midnight has arrived, with a moon that assimilates it to morning. Her light illumines the earth; here and there penetrating through the shadowy trees, and flinging broad silvery lists between them.
Passing through these alternations of light and shadow – apparently avoiding the former, as much as possible – goes a group of mounted men.
Though few in number – as there are only four of them – they are formidable to look upon. The vermilion glaring redly over their naked skins, the striped and spotted tatooing upon their cheeks, the scarlet feathers standing stiffly upright above their heads, and the gleaming of weapons held in their hands, all bespeak strength of a savage and dangerous kind.
Whence come they?
They are in the war costume of the Comanche. Their paint proclaims it. There is the skin fillet around the temples, with the eagle plumes stuck behind it. The bare breasts and arms; the buckskin breech-clouts – everything in the shape of sign by which these Ishmaelites[253] of Texas may be recognised, when out upon the maraud.
They must be Comanches: and, therefore, have come from the west.
Whither go they?
This is a question more easily answered. They are closing in upon the hut, where lies the unconscious inebriate. The jacalé of Maurice Gerald is evidently the butt[254] of their expedition.
That their intentions are hostile, is to be inferred from the fact of their wearing the war costume. It is also apparent from their manner of making approach. Still further, by their dismounting at some distance from the hut, securing their horses in the underwood, and continuing their advance on foot.
Their stealthy tread – taking care to plant the foot lightly upon the fallen leaves – the precaution to keep inside the shadow – the frequent pauses, spent in looking ahead and listening – the silent gestures with which these movements are directed by him who appears to be the leader – all proclaim design, to reach the jacalé unperceived by whoever may chance to be inside it.
In this they are successful – so far as may be judged by appearances. They stand by the stockade walls, without any sign being given to show that they have been seen.
The silence inside is complete, as that they are themselves observing. There is nothing heard – not so much as the screech of a hearth-cricket.
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