"Ay de mi! we know not the way. It is a sacred place where they burn people! Ay de mi!"
"But, senor, it is in this temple; somewhere under the ground. He knows. None but he is permitted to enter it. Carrai! The estufa is a fearful place. So say the people."
An indefinite idea that his daughter may be in danger crosses the mind of Seguin. Perhaps she is dead already, or dying by some horrid means.
He is struck, so are we, with the expression of sullen malice that displays itself upon the countenance of the medicine chief. It is altogether an Indian expression--that of dogged determination to die rather than yield what he has made up his mind to keep. It is a look of demoniac cunning, characteristic of men of his peculiar calling among the tribes.
Haunted by this thought, Seguin runs to the ladder, and again springs upward to the root, followed by several of the band. He rushes upon the lying priest, clutching him by the long hair.
"Lead me to her!" he cries, in a voice of thunder; "lead me to this queen, this Mystery Queen! She is my daughter."
"Your daughter! the Mystery Queen!" replies the Indian, trembling with fear for his life, yet still resisting the appeal. "No, white man; she is not. The queen is ours. She is the daughter of the Sun. She is the child of a Navajo chief."
"Tempt me no longer, old man! No longer, I say. Look forth! If a hair of her head has been harmed, all these shall suffer. I will not leave a living thing in your town. Lead on! Bring me to the estufa!"
"To the estufa! to the estufa!" shout several voices.
Strong hands grasp the garments of the Indian, and are twined into his loose hair. Knives, already red and reeking, are brandished before his eyes. He is forced from the roof, and hurried down the ladders.
He ceases to resist, for he sees that resistance is death; and half-dragged, half-leading, he conducts them to the ground-floor of the building.
He enters by a pa.s.sage covered with the s.h.a.ggy hides of the buffalo.
Seguin follows, keeping his eye and hand upon him. We crowd after, close upon the heels of both.
We pa.s.s through dark ways, descending, as we go, through an intricate labyrinth. We arrive in a large room, dimly lighted. Ghastly images are before us and around us, the mystic symbols of a horrid religion!
The walls are hung with hideous shapes and skins of wild beasts. We can see the fierce visages of the grizzly bear, of the white buffalo, of the carcajou, of the panther, and the ravenous wolf. We can recognise the horns and frontlets of the elk, the cimmaron, and the grim bison. Here and there are idol figures, of grotesque and monster forms, carved from wood and the red claystone of the desert.
A lamp is flickering with a feeble glare; and on a brazero, near the centre of the room, burns a small bluish flame. It is the sacred fire-- the fire that for centuries has blazed to the G.o.d Quetzalcoatl!
We do not stay to examine these objects. The fumes of the charcoal almost suffocate us. We run in every direction, overturning the idols and dragging down the sacred skins.
There are huge serpents gliding over the floor, and hissing around our feet. They have been disturbed and frightened by the unwonted intrusion. We, too, are frightened, for we hear the dreaded rattle of the crotalus!
The men leap from the ground, and strike at them with the b.u.t.ts of their rifles. They crush many of them on the stone pavement.
There are shouts and confusion. We suffer from the exhalations of the charcoal. We shall be stifled. Where is Seguin? Where has he gone?
Hark! There are screams! It is a female voice! There are voices of men, too!
We rush towards the spot where they are heard. We dash aside the walls of pendant skins. We see the chief. He has a female in his arms--a girl, a beautiful girl, robed in gold and bright plumes.
She is screaming as we enter, and struggling to escape him. He holds her firmly, and has torn open the fawn-skin sleeve of her tunic. He is gazing on her left arm, which is bared to the bosom!
"It is she! it is she!" he cries, in a voice trembling with emotion.
"Oh, G.o.d! it is she! Adele! Adele! do you not know me? Me--your father?"
Her screams continue. She pushes him off, stretching out her arms to the Indian, and calling upon him to protect her!
The father entreats her in wild and pathetic words. She heeds him not.
She turns her face from him, and crouches down, hugging the knees of the priest!
"She knows me not! Oh, G.o.d! my child! my child!"
Again Seguin speaks in the Indian tongue, and with imploring accents--
"Adele! Adele! I am your father!"
"You! Who are you? The white men; our foes! Touch me not! Away, white men! away!"
"Dear, dearest Adele! do not repel me--me, your father! You remember--"
"My father! My father was a great chief. He is dead. This is my father now. The Sun is my father. I am a daughter of Montezuma! I am a queen of the Navajoes!"
As she utters these words, a change seems to come over her spirit. She crouches no longer. She rises to her feet. Her screaming has ended, and she stands in an att.i.tude of pride and indignation.
"Oh, Adele!" continues Seguin, more earnest than ever, "look at me!
look! Do you not remember? Look in my face! Oh, Heaven! Here, see!
Here is your mother, Adele! See! this is her picture: your angel mother. Look at it! Look, oh, Adele!"
Seguin, while he is speaking, draws a miniature from his bosom, and holds it before the eyes of the girl. It arrests her attention. She looks upon it, but without any signs of recognition. It is to her only a curious object.
She seems struck with his manner, frantic but intreating. She seems to regard him with wonder. Still she repels him. It is evident she knows him not. She has lost every recollection of him and his. She has forgotten the language of her childhood; she has forgotten her father, her mother: she has forgotten all!
I could not restrain my tears as I looked upon the face of my friend, for I had grown to consider him such. Like one who has received a mortal wound, yet still lives, he stood in the centre of the group, silent and crushed. His head had fallen upon his breast, his cheek was blanched and bloodless; and his eye wandered with an expression of imbecility painful to behold. I could imagine the terrible conflict that was raging within.
He made no further efforts to intreat the girl. He no longer offered to approach her; but stood for some moments in the same att.i.tude without speaking a word.
"Bring her away!" he muttered, at length, in a voice husky and broken; "bring her away! Perhaps, in G.o.d"s mercy, she may yet remember."
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.
THE WHITE SCALP.
We repa.s.sed the horrid chamber, and emerged upon the lowermost terrace of the temple. As I walked forward to the parapet, there was a scene below that filled me with apprehension. A cloud seemed to fall over my heart.
In front of the temple were the women of the village--girls, women, and children; in all, about two hundred. They were variously attired: some were wrapped in their striped blankets; some wore tilmas, and tunics of embroidered fawn-skin, plumed and painted with dyes of vivid colour; some were dressed in the garb of civilised life--in rich satins, that had been worn by the dames of the Del Norte; in flounces that had fluttered in the dance around the ankles of some gay maja.
Not a few in the crowd were entirely nude. They were all Indians, but of lighter and darker shades; differing in colour as in expression of face. Some were old, wrinkled, and coa.r.s.e; but there were many of them young, n.o.ble-like, and altogether beautiful.
They were grouped together in various att.i.tudes. They had ceased their screaming, but murmured among themselves in low and plaintive exclamations.
As I looked, I saw blood running from their ears! It had dappled their throats and spurted over their garments.
A glance satisfied me as to the cause of this. They had been rudely robbed of their golden hangings.
Near and around them stood the scalp-hunters, in groups and afoot. They were talking in whispers and low mutterings. There were objects about their persons that attracted my eye. Curious articles of ornament or use peeped out from their pouches and haversacks--bead-strings and pieces of shining metal--gold it was--hung around their necks and over their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. These were the plundered bijouterie of the savage maidens.