He hesitates to make answer, fearing the effect. But it must be made; and he at length rejoins, appealingly:

"Helen! I hope you won't be aggrieved, or blame me for hat I am going to do."

"What?"

"Leave you."

"Leave me!" she exclaims, her eyes interrogating his in wild bewilderment.

"Only for a time, love; a very short while."

"But why any time? Charles; you are surely jesting with me?"

"No, indeed. I am in earnest. Never more in my life, and never more wishing I were not. Alas! it is inevitable!"

"Inevitable! I do not understand. What do you mean?"

With her eyes fixed oh his, in earnest gaze, she anxiously awaits his answer.

"Helen Armstrong!" he says, speaking in a tone of solemnity that sounds strange, almost harsh despite its gentleness; "you are to me the dearest thing on earth. I need not tell you that, for surely you know it.

Without you I should not value life, nor care to live one hour longer.

To say I love you, with all my heart and soul, were but to repeat the a.s.surance I've already given you. Ah! now more than ever, if that were possible; now that I know how true you've been, and what you've suffered for my sake. But there's another--one far away from here, who claims a share of my affections--"

She makes a movement interrupting him, her eyes kindling up with an indescribable light, her bosom rising and falling as though stirred by some terrible emotion.

Perceiving her agitation, though without suspecting its cause, he continues:

"If this night more than ever I love you, this night greater than ever is my affection for her. The sight of that man, with the thought I've again permitted him to escape, is fresh cause of reproach--a new cry from the ground, commanding me to avenge my murdered mother."

Helen Armstrong, relieved, again breathes freely. Strange, but natural; in consonance with human pa.s.sions. For it was jealousy that for the moment held sway in her thoughts. Ashamed of the suspicion, now known to be unworthy, she makes an effort to conceal it, saying in calm tone--

"We have heard of your mother's death."

"Of her murder," says Clancy, sternly, and through set teeth. "Yes; my poor mother was murdered by the man who has just gone off. He won't go far, before I overtake him. I've sworn over her grave, she shall be avenged; his blood will atone for her's. I've tracked him here, shall track him on; never stop, till I stand over him, as he once stood over me, thinking--. But I won't tell you more. Enough, for you to know why I'm now leaving you. I must--I must!"

Half distracted, she rejoins:--

"You love your mother's memory more than you love me!"

Without thought the reproach escapes--wrung from her in her agony. Soon as made, she regrets, and would recall it. For she sees the painful effect it has produced.

He antic.i.p.ates her, saying:--

"You wrong me, Helen, in word, as in thought. Such could not be. The two are different. You should know that. As I tell you, I've sworn to avenge my mother's death--sworn it over her grave. Is that not an oath to be kept? I ask--I appeal to you!"

Her hand, that has still been keeping hold of his, closes upon it with firmer grasp, while her eyes become fixed upon him in look more relying than ever.

The selfishness of her own pa.s.sion shrinks before the sacredness of that inspiring him, and quick pa.s.ses away. With her love is now mingled admiration. Yielding to it, she exclaims:

"Go--go! Get the retribution you seek. Perhaps 'tis right. G.o.d shielding you, you'll succeed, and come back to me, true as you've been to your mother. If not, I shall soon be dead."

"If not, you may know I am. Only death can hinder my return. And now, for a while, farewell!"

Farewell! And so soon. Oh! it is afflicting! So far she has borne herself with the firmness derived from a strong, self-sustaining nature.

But hearing this word--wildest of all--she can hold out no longer. Her strength gives way, and flinging herself on his breast, she pours forth a torrent of tears.

"Come, Helen!" he says, kissing them from her cheeks, "be brave, and don't fear for me. I know my man, and the work cut out for me. By sheer carelessness I've twice let him have his triumph over me. But he won't the third time. When we next meet 'twill be the last hour of his life. Something whispers this--perhaps the spirit of my mother? Keep up your courage, sweet! Go back with Sime, who'll see you safe into your father's arms. When there, you can offer up a prayer for my safety, and if you like, one for the salvation of d.i.c.k Darke's soul.

For sure as I stand here, ere another sun has set it will go to its G.o.d."

With these solemn words the scene ends, only one other exchanged between them--the wild "Farewell!"

This in haste, for at the moment Woodley comes forward, exclaiming:--

"Be quick, Charley! We must git away from hyar instanter. A minuit more in this gleed, an' some o' us may niver leave it alive."

Jupiter and Harkness have brought up the horses, and are holding them in readiness. Soon they are mounted, Heywood taking Jessie on his croup, Helen having a horse to herself--that late belonging to Bosley--while the latter is compelled to share the saddle with Harkness.

Heywood leads off; the suspected men ordered to keep close after; while Woodley reserves the rear-guard to himself and his rifle. Before parting, he spurs alongside Clancy, and holds out his hand, saying:--

"Gi'e me a squeeze o' yur claws, Charley. May the Almighty stan' your frien' and keep you out o' Ole Nick's clutches. Don't hev' any dubiousness 'bout us. Tho' we shed k.u.m across Satan hisself wi' all his h.e.l.lniferous host, Sime Woodley 'll take care o' them sweet gurls, or go to gra.s.s trying." With this characteristic wind-up, he puts the spur to his horse, and closes upon the rest already parted from the spot.

Alone remain under the live-oak, Clancy and the mulatto, with horse, hound, and mule.

Varied the emotions in Clancy's mind, as he stands looking after; but all dark as clouds coursing across a winter's sky. For they are all doubts and fears; that most felt finding expression in the desponding soliloquy.

"I may never see her again!"

As the departing cavalcade is about to enter among the trees, and the floating drapery of her dress is soon to pa.s.s out of sight, he half repents his determination, and is almost inclined to forego it.

But the white skirt disappears, and the dark thought returning, becomes fixed as before. Then, facing towards Jupiter, he directs:--

"Mount your mule, Jupe. We've only one more journey to make; I hope a short one. At its end we'll meet your old master, and you'll see him get what he deserves--his _death shot_!"

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

FOR THE RENDEZVOUS.

Stillness is again restored around the crossing of the San Saba, so far as it has been disturbed by the sound of human voices. Nature has resumed her reign, and only the wild creatures of her kingdom can be heard calling, in tones that tell not of strife.

But for a short while does this tranquillity continue. Soon once more upon the river's bank resound rough voices, and rude boisterous laughter, as a band of mounted men coming from the Mission side, spur their horses down into its channel, and head to go straight across.

While under the shadow of the fringing timber, no one could tell who these merry riders are; and, even after they have advanced into the open moonlight, it would be difficult to identify them. Seeing their plumed heads with their parti-coloured complexions, a stranger would set them down as Indians; while a Texan might particularise their tribe, calling them Comanches. But one who is no stranger to them--the reader--knows they are not Indians of any kind, but savages who would show skins of a tripe colour, were the pigment sponged off. For it is the band of Borla.s.se.

They have brought their booty thus far, _en route_ for their rendezvous.

Gleeful they are, one and all. Before them on their saddle-bows, or behind on the croups, are the boxes of silver coin; enough, as they know, to give them a grand spree in the town of San Antonio, whither they intend proceeding in due time.