CHAPTER XXI. A NIGHT IN THE FOREST OF TEXAS
The friar ceased his efforts, and, calling the Mexican to one side, whispered something in a low, cautious manner. The other seemed to demur and hesitate, but, after a brief space, appeared to yield; when, replacing the poles beside the wagon, he turned the horses’ heads towards the road by which they had just come.
“We are about to try a ford some miles farther up the stream,” said the Padre, “and so we commend you to the Virgin, and wish you a prosperous journey.”
“All roads are alike to me, holy Father,” said I, with a coolness that cost me something to assume.
“Then take the shortest, and you’ll be soonest at your journey’s end,” said he, gruffly.
“Who can say that?” rejoined I; “it’s no difficult matter to lose one’s way in a dense forest, where the tracks are unknown.”
“There is but one path, and it cannot be mistaken,” said he, in the same tone.
“It has one great disadvantage, Father,” said I.
“What is that?”
“There is no companionship on it; and, to say truth, I have too much of the Irishman in me to leave good company for the pleasure of travelling all alone.”
“Methinks you have very little of the Irishman about you, in another respect,” said he, with a sneer of no doubtful meaning.
“How so?” said I, eagerly.
“In volunteering your society when it is not sought for, young gentleman,” said he, with a look of steadfast effrontery, – “at least, I can say, such were not the habits of the land as I remember it some forty years ago.”
“Ah, holy Father, it has grown out of many a barbarous custom since your time: the people have given up drinking and faction-fighting, and you may travel fifty miles a day for a week together and never meet with a friar.”
“Peace be with you!” said he, waving his hand, but with a gesture it was easy to see boded more passion than patience.
I hesitated for a second what to do; and at last, feeling that another word might perhaps endanger the victory I had won, I dashed spurs into the mare’s flanks, and, with the shout the ostler had recommended, rushed her at the stream. Over she went, “like a bird,” lighting on the opposite bank with her hind-legs “well up,” and the next moment plunged into the forest.
Scarcely, however, had I proceeded fifty paces than I drew up. The dense wood effectually shut out the river from my view, and even masked the sounds of the rushing water. A suspicion dwelt on my mind that the Friar was not going back, and that he had merely concerted this plan with the Mexican the easier to disembarrass himself of my company. The seeming pertinacity of his purpose suggested an equal obstinacy of resistance on my part. Some will doubtless say that it argued very little pride and a very weak self-esteem in Con Cregan to continue to impose his society where it had been so peremptorily declined; and so had it been, doubtless, had the scene been a great city ruled and regulated by its thousand-and-one conventionalities. But the prairies are separated by something longer than mere miles from the land of kid-gloves and visiting tickets. Ceremonial in such latitudes would be as unsuitable as a court suit.
Besides, I argued thus: “A very underdone slice of tough venison, with a draught of spring water, constitute in these regions a very appetizing meal; and, for the same reason, a very morose friar and a still sulkier servant may be accepted as very tolerable travelling companions. Enjoy better when it can be had, Con, but prefer even the humblest fare to a famine,” – a rule more applicable to mental food than to material.
In a little self-colloquy after this kind, I crept stealthily back, leading Charry by the bridle, and halting at intervals to listen. What a triumph to my skill in divination as I heard the Friar’s loud voice overtopping the gushing flood, while he exhorted his beasts in the most energetic fashion!
I advanced cautiously till I gained a little clump of brushwood, from which I could see the river and the group perfectly. The Friar had now mounted the wagon, and held the reins; the Mexican was, however, standing in the stream and leading the cattle, who appeared to have regained somewhat more of their courage, and were slowly proceeding, sniffing timidly as they went, and pawing the water fretfully.
The Mexican advanced boldly, till the water reached nigh the top of his great botas vaqueras, immense boots of buffalo hide, which, it is said, resist the bite of either cayman or serpent; and so far the horses went, doubtless from the encouragement. As soon, however, as the deepening flood warned the man to mount the wagon, they halted abruptly, and stood pawing and splashing the stream, while their ears flattened back, and their drawn-in tails evinced the terror that was on them.
Objurgations, entreaties, prayers, curses, menaces, were all in vain, – a step farther they would not budge. All that the Spanish contained of guttural was hurled at them without success; the cow-hide whip might welt their flanks and leave great ridges at every stroke, the huge pole of the Mexican might belabor them, with a running accompaniment of kicks, but to no purpose. They cared as little for the cow-hide as the “calendar;” neither saints nor thrashings could persuade them to move on. Saint Anthony and Saint Ursula, Saint Forimund of Cordova, with various others, were invoked, to no end. Saint Clement of Capua, to whom all poisonous reptiles, from boas to whip-snakes, owe allegiance, was called upon to aid the travellers; but the quadrupeds took no heed of these entreaties, but showed a most Protestant contempt for the whole litany.
There was a pause; wearied with flogging, and tired out with vain exhortations, both Friar and Mexican, ceased, and as if in compensation to their long pent-up feelings, vented their anger in a very guttural round of maledictions upon the whole animal creation, and in particular on that part of it who would not be eaten by alligators without signs of resistance and opposition. Whether this new turn of events had any influence, or that the matter was more owing to “natural causes,” I cannot say; but, just then, the horse which had been already bitten, reared straight up, and with a loud snort plunged forward, carrying with him the other. By his plunge he had reached a deep part of the stream, where the water came half way up his body. Another spring smashed one of the traces, and left him free to kick violently behind him, – a privilege he certainly hastened to avail himself of. His fellow, whether from sympathy or not, imitated the performance; and there they were, lashing and plunging with all their might, while the wagon, against which the strong current beat in all its force, threatened at every instant to capsize. The Friar struggled manfully, as did his follower; but, unfortunately, one of the reins gave way, and by the violent tugging at the remaining one, the animals were turned out of their course, and dragged round to the very middle of the stream. About twenty yards lower down, the river fell by a kind of cascade some ten or twelve feet, and towards this spot now the infuriated horses seemed rushing. Had it been practicable, a strong man might, by throwing himself into the water, have caught the horses’ heads and held them back; but the stream swarmed with poisonous reptiles, which made such an effort almost inevitable death.
It was now a scene of terrible and most exciting interest.
The maddened horses, alternately rising and sinking, writhed and twisted in agonies of pain. The men’s voices mingled with the gushing torrent and the splashing water, which rose higher and higher at each plunge, while a shrill shriek from within the wagon topped all, and in its cadence seemed to speak a heart torn with terror. As I looked, the sun had set; and as speedily as though a curtain had fallen, the soft light of evening gave way to a gray darkness. I rode down to the bank, and as I reached it, one of the horses, after a terrific struggle to get free, plunged head foremost down and disappeared. The other, unable by himself alone to resist the weight of the wagon, which already was floating in the stream, swung round with the torrent, and was now dragging along toward the cataract. The dusky indistinctness even added to the terror of the picture, as the white water splashed up on every side, and at times seemed actually to cover the whole party in its scattering foam. The Friar, now leaning back, tore open one of the curtains, and at the same instant I saw a female arm stretch out and clasp him, while a shrill cry burst forth that thrilled to my very heart.
They were already within a few yards of the cataract; a moment or two more, they must be over it and lost! I spurred Charry forward, and down we plunged into the water, without the slightest thought of what was to follow. Half swimming, half bounding, I reached the wagon, which now, broadside on the falls, tottered with every stroke of the fast rolling river. The Mexican was standing on the pole, and endeavoring to hold back the horse; while the Friar, ripping the canvas with his knife, was endeavoring to extricate the female figure, who, sunk on her knees, seemed utterly incapable of any effort for her own safety.
Whether maddened by the bite of some monster beneath the water, or having lost his footing, I know not, but the horse went over the falls, while the Mexican, vainly endeavoring to hold him, was carried down with him; the wagon, reeling with the shock, heeled over to the side, and was fast sinking, when I caught hold of the outstretched hand of the woman and drew her towards me. “Leap, spring towards him!” cried the Friar; and she obeyed the words, and, with a bound, seated herself behind me.
Breasting the water bravely, Charry bounded on, and in less than a minute reached the bank, which the Friar, by the aid of a leaping-pole, had gained before us.
Having placed the half-lifeless girl on the sward, I hastened to see after the poor Mexican. Alas! of him and the horse we never saw trace afterwards. We called aloud, we shouted, and even continued along the stream for a considerable space; but to no purpose, the poor fellow had evidently perished, – perhaps by a death too horrible to think of. The Friar wrung his hands in agony, and mingled his thanksgiving for his own safety with lamentations for his lost companion; and so intent was he on these themes that he never recognized me, nor, indeed, seemed conscious of my presence. At last, as we turned our steps towards where the girl lay, he said, “Is it possible that you are the caballero we parted with before sunset?”
“Yes,” said I, “the same. You were loth to accept of my company, but you see there is a fate in it, after all; you cannot get rid of me so readily.”
“Nor shall we try, Señhor,” said the girl, passionately, but with a foreign accent in her words, as she took my hands and pressed them to her lips.
The Friar said something hastily in Spanish, which seemed a rebuke, for she drew back at once, and buried her face in her mantle.
“Donna Maria is my niece, Señhor, and has only just left the convent of the ‘Sacred Heart.’ She knows nothing of the world, nor what beseems her as a young maiden.”
This the Friar spoke harshly, and with a manner that to me sounded far more in need of an apology than did the young girl’s grateful emotion.
What was to be done became now the question. We were at least thirty miles from Bexar, and not a village, nor even a log-hut, between us and that city. To go back was impossible; so that, like practical people, we at once addressed ourselves to the available alternative.
“Picket your beast, and let us light a fire,” said Fra Miguel, with the air of a man who would not waste life in vain regrets. “Thank Providence, we have both grass and water; and although the one always brings snakes, and the other alligators, it is better than to bivouac on the Red River, with iron ore in the stream, and hard flints to sleep on.”
Fastening my beast to a tree, I unstrapped my saddlebags and removed my saddle; disposing which most artistically in the fashion of an arm-chair for Donna Maria at the foot of a stupendous beech, I set about the preparation of a fire. The Friar, however, had almost anticipated me, and, with both arms loaded with dead wood, sat himself down to construct a species of hearth, placing a little circle of stones around in such a way as to give a draught to the blaze.
“We must fast to-night, Senhor,” said he; “but it will count to us hereafter. Fan the fire with your hat, it will soon blaze briskly.”
“If it were not for that young lady,” said I, “whose sufferings are far greater than ours – ”
“Speak not of her, Señhor; Donna Maria de los Dolores was called after our Mother of Sorrows, and she may as well begin her apprenticeship to grief. She is the only child of my brother, who had sent her to be educated at New Orleans, and is now returning home to see her father, before she takes the veil of her novitiate.”
A very low sigh – so low as only to be audible to myself – came from beneath the beech-tree; and I threw a handful of dry chips upon the fire, hoping to catch a glimpse of the features of my fair fellow-traveller. Fra Miguel, however, balked my stratagem by topping the fire with a stout log, as he said, “You are too spendthrift, Señhor; we shall need to husband our resources, or we ‘ll not have enough for the night long.”
“Would you not like to come nearer to the blaze, Senhora?” said I, respectfully.
“Thanks, sir, but perhaps – ”
“Speak out, child,” broke in the Father, “speak out, and say that you are counting your rosary, and would not wish to be disturbed. And you, Senhor, if I err not, in your eagerness to aid us have forgotten to water your gallant beast: don’t lead him to the stream, that would be unsafe; take my sombrero: it has often served a like purpose before now. Twice full is enough for any horse in these countries.” I would have declined this offer, but I felt that submission in everything would be my safest passport to his good opinion; and so, armed with the “Friar’s beaver,” I made my way to the stream.
Whatever his eulogies upon the pitcher-like qualities of his head-piece, to me they seemed most undeserved; for scarcely had I filled it, than the water ran through like a sieve. The oftener, too, was the process repeated the less chance did there appear of success; for, instead of retaining the fluid at all, the material became so saturated that it threatened to tear in pieces every time it was filled, and ere I could lift it was totally empty. Half angry with the Friar, and still more annoyed at my own ineptitude, I gave up the effort, and returned to where I had left him, confessing my failure as I came forward.
“Steep your ‘kerchief in the stream, then, and wash the beast’s mouth,” said he, upon his knees, where, with a great string of beads, he was engaged with his devotions.
I retired, abashed at my intrusion, and proceeded to do as I was directed.
“What if all these cares for my horse, and all these devotional exercises, were but stratagems to get rid of my company for a season?” thought I, as I perceived that scarcely had I left the spot, than the Friar arose from his knees, and seemed to busy himself about something in the trees. Full of this impression, I made a little circuit of the place; and what was my surprise to observe that he had converted his upper robe of coarse blanket-cloth into a kind of hammock for Donna Maria, in which, fastened at either end to the bough of a tree, she was now swinging to and fro, with apparently all the pleasure of a happy child.
“Don’t you like it, Uncle, after all?” said she laughing. “It’s exactly what one has read of in Juan Cordova’s stories, to be bivouacking in a great forest, with a great fire, to keep away the jaguars.”
“Hush! and go to sleep, child. I neither like it for thee nor myself. There are more dangerous things than jaguars in these woods.”
“Ah, you mean the bears, Uncle?”
“I do not,” growled he, sulkily.
“As for snakes, one gets used to them; besides, they go into the tall grass.”
“Ay, ay, snakes in the grass, just so!” muttered the Friar; “but this youth will be back presently, and let him not hear you talk such silly nonsense. Good night, good night.”
“Good night,” sighed she, “but I cannot sleep; I love so to see the fireflies dancing through the leaves, and to hear that rushing river.”
“Hush! he’s coming,” said the Friar; and all was still.
When I came up, “the Friar” was again sunk in holy meditation, so that, disposing myself beside the fire, with my rifle at one side, and my pistols at the other, I lay down to sleep. Although I closed my eyes and lay still, I did not sleep. My thoughts were full of Donna Maria, of whom I weaved a hundred conjectures. It was evident she was young; her voice was soft and musical too, and had that pleasant bell-like cadence so indicative of a light heart and a happy nature. Why was she called the “Los Dolores”? I asked myself again and again what had she in her joyousness to do with grief and care; and why should she enter a convent and become a nun? These were questions there was no solving, and apparently, if I might judge from the cadence of her now deep sigh, no less puzzling to herself than to me. The more my interest became excited for her, the stronger grew my dislike to the Friar. That he was a surly old tyrant, I perfectly satisfied myself. What a pity that I could not rescue her from such cruelty as easily as I saved her from the cataract!
Would that I could even see her! There was something so tormenting in the mystery of her concealment, and so, I deemed, must she herself feel it. We should be so happy together, journeying along day by day through the forest! What tales would I not tell her of my wanderings, and how I should enjoy the innocence of her surprise at my travelled wonders! And all the strange objects of these wild woods, – how they would interest and amuse, were there “two” to wonder at and admire them! How I wished she might be pretty; what a disappointment if she were not; what a total rout to all my imaginings if she were to have red hair, – how terrible if she should squint! These thoughts at last became too tantalizing for endurance, and so I tried to fall asleep and forget them; but in vain, they had got too firm a hold of me, and I could not shake them off.
It was now about midnight, the fire waxed low, and “the Friar” was sound asleep. What connection was there between these considerations and her of whom I was thinking? Who knows? I arose and sat up, listening with eager ear to the low long breathings of the Friar, who, with his round bullet-head pillowed on a pine-log, slept soundly; the gentle hum of the leaves, scarcely moved by the night wind, and the distant sound of the falling water, were lullabies to his slumber. It was a gorgeous night of stars; the sky was studded with bright orbs in all the brilliant lustre of a southern latitude. The fireflies, too, danced and glittered on every side, leaving traces of the phosphoric light on the leaves as they passed. The air was warm and balmy with “the rich odor of the cedar and the acacia,” – just such a night as one would like to pass in “converse sweet” with some dear friend, mingling past memories with shadowy dreams, and straying along from bygones to futurity.
I crept over stealthily to where the Friar lay: a lively fear prevailed with me that he might be feigning sleep, and so I watched him long and narrowly. No, it was an honest slumber; the deep guttural of his mellow throat was beyond counterfeiting. I threw a log upon the fire carelessly and with noise, to see if it would awake him; but he only muttered a word or two that sounded like Latin, and slept on. I now strained my eyes towards the hammock, of which, under the shadow of a great sycamore-tree, I could barely detect the outline through the leaves.
Should I be able to discern her features, were I to creep over? What a difficult question, and how impossible to decide by mere reasoning upon it! What if I were to try? It was a pure piece of curiosity, – curiosity of the most harmless kind. I had been, doubtless, just as eager to scan the Friar’s lineaments, if he had taken the same pains to conceal them from me. It was absurd, besides, to travel with a person and not see their face. Intercourse was a poor thing without that reciprocity which looks convey. I ‘ll have a peep, at all events, said I, summing up to myself all my arguments; and with this resolve I moved cautiously along, and, making a wide circuit, came round to the foot of the sycamore, at the side most remote from the Friar.
There was the hammock, almost within reach of my hand! It seemed to swing to and fro. I cannot say if this were mere deception; and so I crept nearer, just to satisfy my doubts. At last I reached the side, and peeped in. All I could see was the outline of a figure wrapped in a mantle, and a mass of soft silky hair, which fell over and shaded the face. It was some time before my eyes grew accustomed to the deep shadow of the spot; but by degrees I could perceive the profile of a young and beautiful face resting upon one arm, the other hung negligently at one side, and the hand drooped over the edge of the hammock. The attitude was the very perfection of graceful ease, and such as a sculptor might have modelled. What a study, too, that hand, whose dimpled loveliness the starlight speckled! How could I help touching it with my lips? – the first time, with all the hallowed reverence a worshipper would vouchsafe to some holy relic; the second, with a more fervent devotion; the third, I ventured to take the hand in mine and slightly press it. Did I dream? Could the ecstasy be no more than fancy? – I thought the pressure was returned.
She turned gently around, and in a voice of surpassing softness whispered, “Tell me your name, Senhor Caballero?” I whispered low, “Con Cregan.”
“Yes, but what do your sisters call you?”
“I have none, Señhora.”
“Your brothers, then?”
“I never had a brother.”
“How strange! nor I either. Then how shall I call you?”
“Call me your brother,” said I, trying to repossess myself of the hand she had gently withdrawn from my grasp.
“And will you call me Maria?” said she, gayly.
“If you permit it, Maria. But how will Fra Miguel think of it?”
“Ah! I forgot that. But what can he say? You saved my life. I should have been carried away, like poor Sancho, but for you. Tell me how you chanced to be here, and where you are going, and whence you come, and all about you. Sit down there, on that stone. Nay, you need n’t hold my hand while talking.”
“Yes, but I ‘m afraid to be alone here in the dark, Maria,” said I.
“What a silly creature it is! Now begin.”
“I ‘d rather talk of the future, Maria, dearest. I ‘d rather we should speak of all the happy days we may spend together.”
“But how so? Once at Bexar, I ‘m to wait at the monastery till my father sends his mules and people to fetch me home; meanwhile, you will have wandered away Heaven knows where.”
“And where do you call home, Maria?”
“Far away, beyond the Rio Grande, in the gold country, near Aguaverde.”
“And why should I not go thither? I am free to turn my steps whither I will. Perhaps your father would not despise the services of one who has some smattering of knowledge upon many a theme.”
“But a Caballero – a real Señhor – turn miner! They are all miners there.”
“No matter; Fortune might favor me, and make me rich, and then, – and then, – who is to tell what changes might follow? The Caballero might bid adieu to the ‘Placer,’ and the fair ‘Donna Maria’ wave a good-bye to the nunnery – and, by the way, that is a very cruel destiny they intend for you.”
“Who knows? I was very happy in the ‘Sacred Heart.’”
“Possibly, Maria; but you were a child, and would have been happy anywhere. But think of the future; think of the time when you will be loved, and will love in turn; think of that bright world of which the convent-window does not admit one passing glance. Think of the glorious freedom to enjoy whatever is beautiful in Nature, and to feel sympathies with all that is great and good; and reflect upon the sad monotony of the cloister, – its cold and cheerless existence, uncared for, almost unfelt.”
“And when the Superior is cross!” cried she, holding up her hands.
“And she is always cross, Maria. That austere habit repels every generous emotion, as it defies every expansion of the heart. No, no; you must not be a nun.”
“Well, I will not,” said she.
“You promise me this, Maria?”
“Yes, upon one condition, – that you will come to the ‘Placer,’ and tell my father all that you have told to me. He is so good and so kind, he ‘ll never force me.”
“But will he receive me? Will your father permit me so to speak?”
“You saved my life, Señhor,” said she, half-proudly; “and little as you reckon such a service, it is one upon which Don Estavan Olares will set some store.”
“Ah!” said I, sighing, “how little merit had I in the feat! It did not even cause me the slightest injury.”
“I am just as gratified as though you had been eaten by an alligator, Señhor,” said she, laughing with a sly malice that made me half suspect that some, at least, of her innocence was assumed.
From this we wandered on to speak of the journey for the morrow, which I proposed she should make upon “Charry,” while Fra Miguel and myself accompanied her on foot. It was also agreed between us that we should preserve the most rigid reserve and distance of manner in the Friar’s presence, rarely noticing or speaking with each other. One only difficulty existed, which was by what pretence I should direct my steps to Aguaverde. But here again Donna Maria’s ready wit suggested the expedient, as she said, laughing, “Are you not making a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady ‘des los Dolores ‘?”
“So I am,” said I. “Shame on me that I should have forgotten it till now!”
“Did you never tell me,” said she, archly, “that you intended to enter ‘an order’?”
“Certainly,” said I, joining the merry humor; “and so will I, on the very same day you take the veil.”
“And now, holy man,” said she, with difficulty repressing a fresh burst of laughter, “let us say, ‘Good night.’ Fra Miguel will awake at daybreak, and I see that is already near.”
“Good night, sweet sister,” said I, once again pressing her fingers to my lips, and scarcely knowing when to relinquish them. A heavy sigh from the Friar, however, admonished me to hasten away; and I crept to my place, and lay down beside the now almost extinguished embers of our fire.
“What a good thought was that of the pilgrimage,” said I, as I drew my cloak around me; and I remembered that “Chico’s” beads and his “book of offices” were still among my effects in the saddle-bags, and would greatly favor my assumption of the pious character. I then tried to recall some of my forgotten Latin. From this I reverted to thoughts of Donna Maria herself, and half wondered at the rapid strides we had accomplished in each other’s confidence. At last I fell asleep, to dream of every incongruity and încoherency that ever haunted a diseased brain. Nunneries, with a crocodile for the Abbess, gave way to scenes in the Placers, where Nuns were gold-washing, and Friars riding down cataracts on caymans. From such pleasant realities a rough shake of Fra Miguel aroused me, as he cried, “When a man laughs so heartily in his sleep, he may chance to keep all the grave thoughts for his waking. Rise up, Señhor; the day is breaking. Let us profit by the cool hours to make our journey.”
As day was breaking we set out for Bexar, in the manner I had suggested; Donna Maria riding, the Friar and myself, one either side of her, on foot. Resolved upon winning, so far as might be, Fra Miguel’s confidence, I addressed my conversation almost exclusively to him, rarely speaking a word to my fair companion, and then only upon the commonest questions of the way.
As none of us had eaten since the day previous, nor was there any baiting-place till we reached Bexar, it was necessary to make the best of our way thither with all speed. The Fra knew the road perfectly, and by his skill in detecting the marks on trees, the position of certain rocks, and the course of the streams, gave me some insight into the acute qualities necessary for a prairie traveller. These themes, too, furnished the greater portion of our conversation, which, I am free to own, offered many a long interval of dreary silence. The Fra’s thoughts dwelt gloomily on his late disaster, while Donna Maria and myself were condemned to the occasional exchange of a chance remark or some question about the road.
Once or twice Fra Miguel questioned me on the subject of my own history; but ere I had proceeded any length in detailing my veracious narrative, an accidental word or remark would show that he was inattentive to what I was speaking, and only occupied by his own immediate reflections.
Why, then, trouble myself with biographical inventions which failed to excite any interest? And so I relapsed into a silence plodding and moody as his own.
At length the path became too narrow for us all to go abreast, and as my duties were to guide Charry by the bridle, I became the companion of Maria by force of circumstances; still, Fra Miguel kept up close behind, and however abstracted at other times, he now showed himself “wide awake” on the subject of our intercourse. Denied the pleasure of talking to each other, we could at least exchange glances; and this was a privilege no surveillance, however rigid, could deny us. These are small and insignificant details, which were of little moment at the time, and led to even less for the future; but I record them as the first stirrings of love in a heart which might have been deemed too intent upon its own cares to admit of others. And here let me observe that the taste for stratagem – the little wiles and snares inspired by a first passion – are among the strongest incentives to its origin. It was the secrecy of our meeting at night, the little difficulties of our intercourse by day, the peril of discovery as we spoke together, the danger of detection as we exchanged glances, that, by giving us a common object, suggested a common feeling. Both engaged in the same warfare, how could we avoid sympathizing with each other? Then, there was that little “dash of romance” about our first meeting, so auxiliary to the tender passion; and, again, we were wandering, side by side, in a silent forest, with only one other near us. Would we could have disposed of him too! I shame to say it, but, in honest truth. I often wished that he had followed the Mexican!