g the huge blade, bent it down
before me, so as to obtain a better view of its surface. I read:--
"_Captured by Comanches_--_a war-party with many captives_--_women and
children_--_ay de mi! pobres ninas! north-west from this place. Saved
from death; alas! I fear_--"
The writing ended abruptly. There was no signature, but it needed not
that. I had no doubts about who was the writer; in fact, rude as was
the chirography--from the materials used--I easily identified the hand.
It was Isolina de Vargas who had written.
I saw that she had torn off the terminal spine, and using it as a
stylus, had graven those characters upon the epidermis of the plant.
Sweet subtle spirit! under any guise I could have recognised its
outpourings.
"Saved from death"--thank Heaven for that!--"alas! I fear." Oh, what
feared she? Was it worse than death? that terrible fate--too terrible
to think of?
She had broken off, without finishing the sentence. Why had she done
so?
The sheet was broad--would have held many more words--why had she not
written more? Did she dread to tell the cause of her fear? or had she
been interrupted by the approach of some of her tyrant captors? O
merciful Heaven! save me from thought!
I re-read the words over and over: there was nothing more. I examined
the other leaves of the plant--on both sides, concave and convex, I
examined them--not a word more could I find. What I had read was all
she had written.
CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT.
THE SOUTHERN SAVAGE.
I need not tell how deeply I was affected by the unexpected
communication. All at once were decided a variety of doubts; all at
once was I made aware of the exact situation.
Isolina still lived--that was no longer doubtful; and the knowledge
produced joy. More than this: she was still uninjured--able to think,
to act, to write--not only living, but well. The singular "billet" was
proof of all this. Another point--her hands must have been free--her
hands at least, else how could she have traced those lines? and with
such a pencil? It argued indulgence--perhaps kind treatment on the part
of her captors.
Another point yet. _She knew I was in pursuit_. She _had_ seen me,
then, as I galloped after. It _was_ her cry I had heard as the steed
dashed into the chapparal. She had recognised, me, and called back.
She knew I would still be following; she knew I was following, and for
me was the writing meant. Sweet subtle spirit!
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