Loe raamatut: «The Rifle Rangers», lehekülg 10

Chapter Twenty Three.
The Cocuyo

A night-ride through the golden tropical forest, when the moon is bathing its broad and wax-like frondage – when the winds are hushed and the long leaves hang drooping and silent – when the paths conduct through dark aisles and arbours of green vine-leaves, and out again into bright and flowery glades – is one of those luxuries that I wish we could obtain without going beyond the limits of our own land.

But no. The romance of the American northern forest – the romance that lingers around the gnarled limbs of the oak, and the maple, and the elm – that sighs with the wintry wind high up among the twigs of the shining sycamore – that flits along the huge fallen trunks – that nestles in the brown and rustling leaves – that hovers above the bold cliff and sleeps upon the grey rock – that sparkles in the diamond stalactites of the frost, or glides along the bosom of the cold black river – is a feeling or a fancy of a far different character.

These objects – themselves the emblems of the stony and iron things of nature – call up associations of the darker passions: strange scenes of strife and bloodshed; struggles between red and white savages; and struggles hardly less fierce with the wild beasts of the forest. The rifle, the tomahawk, and the knife are the visions conjured up, while the savage whoop and the dread yell echo in your ear; and you dream of war.

Far different are the thoughts that suggest themselves as you glide along under the aromatic arbours of the American southern forest, brushing aside the silken foliage, and treading upon the shadows of picturesque palms.

The cocuyo lights your way through the dark aisles, and the nightingale cheers you with his varied and mimic song. A thousand sights and sounds, that seem to be possessed of some mysterious and narcotic power, lull you into silence and sleep – a sleep whose dream is love.

Clayey and I felt this as we rode silently along. Even the ruder hearts of our companions seemed touched by the same influence.

We entered the dark woods that fringed the arroyo, and the stream was crossed in silence. Raoul rode in advance, acting as our guide.

After a long silence Clayey suddenly awoke from his reverie and straightened himself up in the saddle.

“What time is it, Captain?” he inquired.

“Ten – a few minutes past,” answered I, holding my watch under the moonlight.

“I wonder if the Don’s in bed yet.”

“Not likely: he will be in distress; he expected us an hour ago.”

“True, he will not sleep till we come; all right then.”

“How all right then?”

“For our chances of a supper; a cold pasty, with a glass of claret. What think you?”

“I do not feel hungry.”

“But I do – as a hawk. I long once more to sound the Don’s larder.”

“Do you not long more to see – ”

“Not to-night – no – that is until after supper. Everything in its own time and place; but a man with a hungry stomach has no stomach for anything but eating. I pledge you my word, Haller, I would rather at this moment see that grand old stewardess, Pepe, than the loveliest woman in Mexico, and that’s ‘Mary of the Light’.”

“Monstrous!”

“That is, until after I have supped. Then my feelings will doubtless take a turn.”

“Ah! Clayey, you can never love!”

“Why so, Captain?”

“With you, love is a sentiment, not a passion. You regard the fair blonde as you would a picture or a curious ornament.”

“You mean to say, then, that my love is ‘all in my eye’?”

“Exactly so, in a literal sense. I do not think it has reached your heart, else you would not be thinking of your supper. Now, I could go for days without food – suffer any hardship; but, no – you cannot understand this.”

“I confess not. I am too hungry.”

“You could forget – nay, I should not be surprised if you have already forgotten – all but the fact that your mistress is a blonde, with bright golden hair. Is it not so?”

“I confess, Captain, that I should make but a poor portrait of her from memory.”

“And, were I a painter, I could throw her features upon the canvas as truly as if they were before me. I see her face outlined upon these broad leaves – her dark eyes burning in the flash of the cocuyo – her long black hair drooping from the feathery fringes of the palm – and her – ”

“Stop! You are dreaming, Captain! Her eyes are not dark – her hair is not black.”

“What! Her eyes not dark? – as ebony, or night!”

“Blue as a turquoise!”

“Black! What are you thinking of?”

“‘Mary of the Light’.”

“Oh, that is quite a different affair!” and my friend and I laughed heartily at our mutual misconceptions.

We rode on, again relapsing into silence. The stillness of the night was broken only by the heavy hoof bounding back from the hard turf, the jingling of spurs, or the ringing of the iron scabbard as it struck against the moving flanks of our horses.

We had crossed the sandy spur, with its chaparral of cactus and mezquite, and were entering a gorge of heavy timber, when the practised eye of Lincoln detected an object in the dark shadow of the woods, and communicated the fact to me.

“Halt!” cried I, in a low voice.

The party reined up at the order. A rustling was heard in the bushes ahead.

“Quien viva?” challenged Raoul, in the advance.

“Un amigo,” (A friend), was the response.

I sprang forward to the side of Raoul and called out:

“Acercate! acercate!” (Come near!)

A figure moved out of the bushes, and approached.

“Está el Capitan?” (Is it the captain?)

I recognised the guide given me by Don Cosmé.

The Mexican approached, and handed me a small piece of paper. I rode into an opening, and held it up to the moonlight; but the writing was in pencil, and I could not make out a single letter.

“Try this, Clayley. Perhaps your eyes are better than mine.”

“No,” said Clayley, after examining the paper. “I can hardly see the writing upon it.”

“Esperate mi amo!” (Wait, my master), said the guide, making me a sign. We remained motionless.

The Mexican took from his head his heavy sombrero, and stepped into a darker recess of the forest. After standing for a moment, hat in hand, a brilliant object shot out from the leaves of the palma redonda. It was the cocuyo – the great firefly of the tropics. With a low, humming sound it came glistening along at the height of seven or eight feet from the ground. The man sprang up, and with a sweep of his arm jerked it suddenly to the earth. Then, covering it with his hat, and inverting his hand, he caught the gleaming insect, and presented it to me with the ejaculation:

“Ya!” (Now!)

“No muerde,” (It does not bite), added he, as he saw that I hesitated to touch the strange, beetle-shaped insect.

I took the cocuyo in my hand, the green, golden fire flashing from its great round eyes. I held it up before the writing, but the faint glimmer was scarcely discernible upon the paper.

“Why, it would require a dozen of these to make sufficient light,” I said to the guide.

“No, Señor; uno basti – asi;” (No, sir; one is enough – thus); and the Mexican, taking the cocuyo in his fingers, pressed it gently against the surface of the paper. It produced a brilliant light, radiating over a circle of several inches in diameter!

Every point in the writing was plainly visible.

“See, Clayley!” cried I, admiring this lamp of Nature’s own making. “Never trust the tales of travellers. I have heard that half a dozen of these insects in a glass vessel would enable you to read the smallest type. Is that true?” added I, repeating what I had said in Spanish.

“No, Señor; ni cincuenta,” (No, sir; nor fifty), replied the Mexican.

“And yet with a single cocuyo you may. But we are forgetting – let us see what’s here.”

I bent my head to the paper, and read in Spanish:

“I have made known your situation to the American commander.”

There was no signature nor other mark upon the paper.

“From Don Cosmé?” I inquired, in a whisper to the Mexican.

“Yes, Señor,” was the reply.

“And how did you expect to reach us in the corral?”

“Asi,” (So), said the man, holding up a shaggy bull’s hide, which he carried over his arm.

“We have friends here, Clayley. Come, my good fellow, take this!” and I handed a gold eagle to the peon.

“Forward!”

The tinkling of canteens, the jingling of sabres, and the echo of bounding hoofs recommenced. We were again in motion, filing on through the shadowy woods.

Chapter Twenty Four.
Lupé and Luz

Shortly after, we debouched from the forest, entering the open fields of Don Cosmé’s plantation. There was a flowery brilliance around us, full of novelty. We had been accustomed to the ruder scenes of a northern clime. The tropical moon threw a gauzy veil over objects that softened their outlines; and the notes of the nightingale were the only sounds that broke the stillness of what seemed a sleeping elysium.

Once a vanilla plantation, here and there the aromatic bean grew wild, its ground usurped by the pita-plant, the acacia, and the thorny cactus. The dry reservoir and the ruined acequia proved the care that had in former times been bestowed on its irrigation. Guardarayas of palms and orange-trees, choked up with vines and jessamines, marked the ancient boundaries of the fields. Clusters of fruit and flowers hung from the drooping branches, and the aroma of a thousand sweet-scented shrubs was wafted upon the night air. We felt its narcotic influence as we rode along. The helianthus bowed its golden head, as if weeping at the absence of its god; and the cereus spread its bell-shaped blossom, joying in the more mellow light of the moon.

The guide pointed to one of the guardarayas that led to the house. We struck into it, and rode forward. The path was pictured by the moonbeams as they glanced through the half-shadowing leaves. A wild roe bounded away before us, brushing his soft flanks against the rustling thorns of the mezquite.

Farther on we reached the grounds, and, halting behind the jessamines, dismounted. Clayley and myself entered the inclosure.

As we pushed through a copse we were saluted by the hoarse bark of a couple of mastiffs, and we could perceive several forms moving in front of the rancho. We stopped a moment to observe them.

“Quitate, Carlo! Pompo!” (Be off, Carlo! Pompo!) The dogs growled fiercely, barking at intervals.

“Papa, mandalos!” (Papa, order them off!)

We recognised the voices, and pressed forward.

“Afuera, malditos perros! abajo!” (Out of the way, wicked dogs! – down!) shouted Don Cosmé, chiding the fierce brutes and driving them back.

The dogs were secured by several domestics, and we advanced.

“Quien es?” inquired Don Cosmé.

“Amigos” (Friends), I replied.

“Papa! papa! es el capitan!” (Papa, it is the captain!) cried one of the sisters, who had run out in advance, and whom I recognised as the elder one.

“Do not be alarmed, Señorita,” said I, approaching.

“Oh! you are safe – you are safe! – papa, he is safe!” cried both the girls at once; while Don Cosmé exhibited his joy by hugging my comrade and myself alternately.

Suddenly letting go, he threw up his hands, and inquired with a look of anxiety:

“Y el señor gordo?” (And the fat gentleman?)

“Oh! he’s all right,” replied Clayley, with a laugh; “he has saved his bacon, Don Cosmé; though I imagine about this time he wouldn’t object to a little of yours.”

I translated my companion’s answer. The latter part of it seemed to act upon Don Cosmé as a hint, and we were immediately hurried to the dining-room, where we found the Dona Joaquina preparing supper.

During our meal I recounted the principal events of the day. Don Cosmé knew nothing of these guerilleros, although he had heard that there were bands in the neighbourhood. Learning from the guide that we had been attacked, he had despatched a trusty servant to the American camp, and Raoul had met the party coming to our rescue.

After supper Don Cosmé left us to give some orders relative to his departure in the morning. His lady set about preparing the sleeping apartments, and my companion and I were left for some time in the sweet companionship of Lupé and Luz.

Both were exquisite musicians, playing the harp and guitar with equal cleverness. Many a pure Spanish melody was poured into the delighted ears of my friend and myself. The thoughts that arose in our minds were doubtless of a similar kind; and yet how strange that our hearts should have been warmed to love by beings so different in character! The gay, free spirit of my comrade seemed to have met a responsive echo. He and his brilliant partner laughed, chatted, and sang in turns. In the incidents of the moment this light-hearted creature had forgotten her brother, yet the next moment she would weep for him. A tender heart – a heart of joys and sorrows – of ever-changing emotions, coming and passing like shadows thrown by straggling clouds upon the sun-lit stream!

Unlike was our converse – more serious. We may not laugh, lest we should profane the holy sentiment that is stealing upon us. There is no mirth in love. There are joy, pleasure, luxury; but laughter finds no echo in the heart that loves. Love is a feeling of anxiety – of expectation. The harp is set aside. The guitar lies untouched for a sweeter music – the music that vibrates from the strings of the heart. Are our eyes not held together by some invisible chain? Are not our souls in communion through some mysterious means? It is not language – at least, not the language of words; for we are conversing upon indifferent things – not indifferent, either. Narcisso, Narcisso – a theme fraternal. His peril casts a cloud over our happiness.

“Oh! that he were here – then we could be happy indeed.”

“He will return; fear not – grieve not; to-morrow your father will easily find him. I shall leave no means untried to restore him to so fond a sister.”

“Thanks! thanks! Oh! we are already indebted to you so much.”

Are those eyes swimming with love, or gratitude, or both at once? Surely gratitude alone does not speak so wildly. Could this scene not last for ever?

“Good-night – good-night!”

“Señores, pasan Vds. buena noche!” (Gentlemen, may you pass a pleasant night!)

They are gone, and those oval developments of face and figure are floating before me, as though the body itself were still present. It is the soft memory of love in all its growing distinctness!

We were shown to our sleeping apartments. Our men picketed their horses under the olives, and slept in the bamboo rancho, a single sentry walking his rounds during the night.

Note. Vds. Usted, contraction of Vuestra merced, “your grace”, usually written as Vd., is the polite form of address in Spanish.

Chapter Twenty Five.
A Tough Night of it after all

I entered my chamber – to sleep? No. And yet it contained a bed fit for Morpheus – a bed canopied and curtained with cloth from the looms of Damascus: shining rods roofed upwards, that met in an ornamental design, where the god of sleep, fanned by virgins of silver, reclined upon a couch of roses.

I drew aside the curtains – a bank of snow – pillows, as if prepared for the cheek of a beautiful bride. I had not slept in a bed for two months. A close crib in a transport ship – a “shake-down” among the scorpions and spiders of Lobos – a single blanket among the sand-hills, where it was not unusual to wake up half-buried by the drift.

These were my souvenirs. Fancy the prospect! It certainly invited repose; and yet I was in no humour to sleep. My brain was in a whirl. The strange incidents of the day – some of them were mysterious – crowded into my mind. My whole system, mental as well as physical, was flushed; and thought followed thought with nervous rapidity.

My heart shared the excitement – chords long silent had been touched – the divine element was fairly enthroned. I was in love!

It was not the first passion of my life, and I easily recognised it. Even jealousy had begun to distil its poison – “Don Santiago!”

I was standing in front of a large mirror, when I noticed two small miniatures hanging against the wall – one on each side of the glass.

I bent over to examine, first, that which hung upon the right. I gazed with emotion. They were her features; “and yet,” thought I, “the painter has not flattered her; it might better represent her ten years hence: still, the likeness is there. Stupid artist!” I turned to the other. “Her fair sister, no doubt. Gracious heaven! Do my eyes deceive me? No, the black wavy hair – the arching brows – the sinister lip —Dubrosc!”

A sharp pang shot through my heart. I looked at the picture again and again with a kind of incredulous bewilderment; but every fresh examination only strengthened conviction. “There is no mistaking those features – they are his!” Paralysed with the shock, I sank into a chair, my heart filled with the most painful emotions.

For some moments I was unable to think, much less to act.

“What can it mean? Is this accomplished villain a fiend? – the fiend of my existence? – thus to cross me at every point, perhaps in the end to – .”

Our mutual dislike at first meeting – Lobos – his reappearance upon the sand-hills, the mystery of his passing the lines and again appearing with the guerilla – all came forcibly upon my recollection; and now I seized the lamp and rushed back to the pictures.

“Yes, I am not mistaken; it is he – it is she, her features – all – all. And thus, too! – the position – side by side – counterparts! There are no others on the wall; matched – mated – perhaps betrothed! His name, too, Don Emilio! The American who taught them English! His is Emile – the voice on the island cried ‘Emile!’ Oh, the coincidence is complete! This villain, handsome and accomplished as he is, has been here before me! Betrothed – perhaps married – perhaps – Torture! horrible!”

I reeled back to my chair, dashing the lamp recklessly upon the table. I know not how long I sat, but a world of wintry thoughts passed through my heart and brain. A clock striking from a large picture awoke me from my reverie. I did not count the hours. Music began to play behind the picture. It was a sad, sweet air, that chimed with my feelings, and to some extent soothed them. I rose at length, and, hastily undressing, threw myself upon the bed, mentally resolving to forget all – to forget that I had ever seen her.

“I will rise early – return to camp without meeting her, and, once there, my duties will drive away this painful fancy. The drum and the fife and the roar of the cannon will drown remembrance. Ha! it was only a passing thought at best – the hallucination of a moment. I shall easily get rid of it. Ha! ha!”

I laid my fevered cheek upon the soft, cold pillow. I felt composed – almost happy.

“A Creole of New Orleans! How could he have been here? Oh! have I not the explanation already? Why should I dwell on it?”

Ah, jealous heart – it is easy to say “forget!”

I tried to prevent my thoughts from returning to this theme. I directed them to a thousand things: to the ships – to the landing – to the army – to the soldiers – to the buttons upon their jackets and the swabs upon their shoulders – to everything I could think of: all in vain. Back, back, back! in painful throes it came, and my heart throbbed, and my brain burned with bitter memories freshly awakened.

I turned and tossed upon my couch for many a long hour. The clock in the picture struck, and played the same music again and again, still soothing me as before. Even despair has its moments of respite; and, worn with fatigue, mental as well as physical, I listened to the sad, sweet strain, until it died away into my dreams.

Chapter Twenty Six.
The Light after the Shade

When I awoke all was darkness around me. I threw out my arms and opened the damask curtains. Not a ray of light entered the room. I felt refreshed, and from this I concluded I must have slept long. I slipped out upon the floor and commenced groping for my watch. Someone knocked.

“Come in!” I called.

The door opened, and a flood of light gushed into the apartment. It was a servant bearing a lamp.

“What is the hour?” I demanded.

“Nine o’clock, mi amo,” (my master), was the reply.

The servant set down the lamp and went out. Another immediately entered, carrying a salver with a small gold cup.

“What have you there?”

“Chocolate, master; Dona Joaquina has sent it.”

I drank off the beverage, and hastened to dress myself. I was reflecting whether I should pass on to camp without seeing any one of the family. Somehow, my heart felt less heavy. I believe the morning always brings relief to pain, either mental or bodily. It seems to be a law of nature – at least, so my experience tells me. The morning air, buoyant and balmy, dulls the edge of anguish. New hopes arise and new projects appear with the sun. The invalid, couch-tossing through the long watches of the night, will acknowledge this truth.

I did not approach the mirror. I dared not.

“I will not looked upon the loved, the hated face – no, on to the camp! – let Lethe – . Has my friend arisen?”

“Yes, master; he has been up for hours.”

“Ha! where is he?”

“In the garden, master.”

“Alone?”

“No, master; he is with the niñas.”

“Happy, light-hearted Clayley! No jealous thoughts to torture him!” mused I, as I buckled on my stock.

I had observed that the fair-haired sister and he were kindred spirits – sympathetic natures, who only needed to be placed en rapport to “like each other mightily” – beings who could laugh, dance, and sing together, romp for months, and then get married, as a thing of course; but, should any accident prevent this happy consummation, could say “good-bye” and part without a broken heart on either side; an easy thing for natures like theirs; a return exchange of numerous billets-doux, a laugh over the past, and a light heart for the future. Such is the history of many a love. I can vouch for it. How different with —

“Tell my friend, when he returns to the house, that I wish to see him.”

“Yes, master.”

The servant bowed and left the room.

In a few minutes Clayley made his appearance, gay as a grasshopper.

“So, good lieutenant, you have been improving your time, I hear?”

“Haven’t I, though? Such a delicious stroll! Haller, this is a paradise.”

“Where have you been?”

“Feeding the swans,” replied Clayley, with a laugh. “But, by the way, your chère amie hangs her pretty head this morning. She seems hurt that you have not been up. She kept constantly looking towards the house.”

“Clayley, will you do me the favour to order the men to their saddles?”

“What! going so soon? Not before breakfast, though?”

“In five minutes.”

“Why, Captain, what’s the matter? And such a breakfast as they are getting! Oh, Don Cosmé will not hear of it.”

“Don Cosmé – .”

Our host entered at that moment, and, listening to his remonstrances, the order was rescinded, and I consented to remain.

I saluted the ladies with as much courtesy as I could assume. I could not help the coldness of my manner, and I could perceive that with her it did not pass unobserved.

We sat down to the breakfast-table; but my heart was full of bitterness, and I scarcely touched the delicate viands that were placed before me.

“You do not eat, Captain. I hope you are well?” said Don Cosmé, observing my strange and somewhat rude demeanour.

“Thank, you, Señor, I never enjoyed better health.”

I studiously avoided looking towards her, paying slight attentions to her sister. This is the game of piques. Once or twice I ventured a side-glance. Her eyes were bent upon me with a strange, inquiring look.

They are swimming in tears, and soft, and forgiving. They are swollen. She has been weeping. That is not strange. Her brother’s danger is, no doubt, the cause of her sorrow.

Yet, is there not reproach in her looks? Reproach! How ill does my conduct of last night correspond with this affected coldness – this rudeness! Can she, too, be suffering?

I arose from the table, and, walking forth, ordered Lincoln to prepare the men for marching.

I strolled down among the orange-trees. Clayley followed soon after, accompanied by both the girls. Don Cosmé remained at the house to superintend the saddling of his mule, while Dona Joaquina was packing the necessary articles into his portmanteau.

Following some silent instinct, we – Guadalupe and I – came together. Clayley and his mistress had strayed away, leaving us alone. I had not yet spoken to her. I felt a strange impulse – a desire to know the worst. I felt as one looking over a fearful precipice.

Then I will brave the danger; it can be no worse than this agony of suspicion and suspense.

I turned towards her. Her head was bent to one side. She was crushing an orange-flower between her fingers, and her eyes seemed to follow the dropping fragments.

How beautiful was she at that moment!

“The artist certainly has not flattered you.”

She looked at me with a bewildered expression. Oh, those swimming eyes!

She did not understand me.

I repeated the observation.

“Señor Capitan, what do you mean?”

“That the painter has not done you justice. The portrait is certainly a likeness, yet the expression, I think, should have been younger.”

“The painter! What painter? The portrait! What portrait, Señor?”

“I refer to your portrait, which I accidentally found hanging in my apartment.”

“Ah! by the mirror?”

“Yes, by the mirror,” I answered sullenly.

“But, it is not mine, Señor Capitan.”

“Ha! – how? Not yours?”

“No; it is the portrait of my cousin, Maria de Merced. They say we were much alike.”

My heart expanded. My whole frame quivered under the influence of joyful emotions.

“And the gentleman?” I faltered out.

“Don Emilio? He was cousin’s lover —huyeron,” (they eloped).

As she repeated the last word she turned her head away, and I thought there was a sadness in her manner.

I was about to speak, when she continued:

“It was her room – we have not touched anything.”

“And where is your cousin now?”

“We know not.”

“There is a mystery,” thought I. I pressed the subject no farther. It was nothing to me now. My heart was happy.

“Let us walk farther, Lupita.”

She turned her eyes upon me with an expression of wonder. The change in my manner – so sudden – how was she to account for it? I could have knelt before her and explained all. Reserve disappeared, and the confidence of the preceding night was fully restored.

We wandered along under the guardarayas, amidst sounds and scenes suggestive of love and tenderness. Love! We heard it in the songs of the birds – in the humming of the bees – in the voices of all nature around us. We felt it in our own hearts. The late cloud had passed, making the sky still brighter than before; the reaction had heightened our mutual passion to the intensity of non-resistance; and we walked on, her hand clasped in mine. We had eyes only for each other.

We reached a clump of cocoa-trees; one of them had fallen, and its smooth trunk offered a seat, protected from the sun by the shadowy leaves of its fellows. On this we sat down. There was no resistance – no reasoning process – no calculation of advantages and chances, such as is too often mingled with the noble passion of love. We felt nothing of this – nothing but that undefinable impulse which had entered our hearts, and to whose mystical power neither of us dreamed of offering opposition. Delay and duty were alike forgotten.

“I shall ask the question now – I shall know my fate at once,” were my thoughts.

In the changing scenes of a soldier’s life there is but little time for the slow formalities, the zealous vigils, the complicated finesse of courtship. Perhaps this consideration impelled me. I have but little confidence in the cold heart that is won by a series of assiduities. There is too much calculation of after-events – too much selfishness.

These reflections passed through my mind. I bent towards my companion, and whispered to her in that language – rich above all others in the vocabulary of the heart:

“Guadalupe, tu me amas?” (Guadalupe, do you love me?)

“Yo te amo!” was the simple reply. Need I describe the joyful feelings that filled my heart at that moment? My happiness was complete.

The confession rendered her sacred in my eyes, and we sat for some time silent, enjoying that transport only known to those who have truly, purely loved.

The trampling of hoofs! It was Clayley at the head of the troop. They were mounted, and waiting for me. Don Cosmé was impatient; so was the Dona Joaquina. I could not blame them, knowing the cause.

“Ride forward! I shall follow presently.”

The horsemen filed off into the fields, headed by the lieutenant, beside whom rode Don Cosmé, on his white mule.

“You will soon return, Enrique?”

“I shall lose no opportunity of seeing you. I shall long for the hour more than you, I fear.”

“Oh! no, no!”

“Believe me yes, Lupita! Say again you will never cease to love me.”

“Never, never! Tuya – tuya – hasta la muerte!” (Yours – yours – till death!)

How often has this question been asked! How often answered as above!

I sprang into the saddle. A parting look – another from a distance – a wave of the hand – and the next moment I was urging my horse in full gallop under the shadowy palms.