The Scalp Hunters Part 73

It is by Seguin's request that the instrument has been brought up, with the music, to chase away heavy memories; or, perhaps, from a hope that it may soothe those savage ones still dwelling in the bosom of his child.

Madame Seguin is about to play, and my companion and I go nearer to listen.

Seguin and Saint Vrain are conversing apart. Adele is still seated where we left her, silent and abstracted.

The music commences. It is a merry air--a fandango: one of those to which the Andalusian foot delights to keep time.

Seguin and Saint Vrain have turned. We all stand looking in the face of Adele. We endeavour to read its expression.

The first notes have startled her from her att.i.tude of abstraction. Her eyes wander from one to the other, from the instrument to the player, with looks of wonder--of inquiry.

The music continues. The girl has risen, and, as it mechanically, approaches the bench where her mother is seated. She crouches down by the feet of the latter, places her ear close up to the instrument, and listens attentively. There is a singular expression upon her face.

I look at Seguin. That upon his is not less singular. His eye is fixed upon the girl's, gazing with intensity. His lips are apart, yet he seems not to breathe. His arms hang neglected, and he is leaning forward as if to read the thoughts that are pa.s.sing within her.

He starts erect again, as though under the impulse of some sudden resolution.

"Oh, Adele! Adele!" he cries, hurriedly addressing his wife; "oh, sing that song; that sweet hymn, you remember; you used to sing it to her-- often, often. You remember it, Adele! Look at her. Quick! quick! O G.o.d! Perhaps she may--"

He is interrupted by the music. The mother has caught his meaning, and with the adroitness of a practised player, suddenly changes the tune to one of a far different character. I recognise the beautiful Spanish hymn, "La madre a su hija" (The mother to her child). She sings it, accompanying her voice with the bandolin. She throws all her energy into the song until the strain seems inspired. She gives the words with full and pa.s.sionate effect--

"Tu duermes, cara nina!

Tu duertnes en la paz.

Los angeles del cielo-- Los angeles guardan, guardan, Nina mia!--Ca--ra--mi--"

The song was interrupted by a cry--a cry of singular import--uttered by the girl. The first words of the hymn had caused her to start, and then to listen, if possible, more attentively than ever. As the song proceeded, the singular expression we had noted seemed to become every moment more marked and intense. When the voice had reached the burden of the melody, a strange exclamation escaped her lips; and, springing to her feet, she stood gazing wildly in the face of the singer. Only for a moment. The next moment she cried in loud, pa.s.sionate accents, "Mamma!

mamma!" and fell forward upon the bosom of her mother!

Seguin spoke truly when he said, "Perhaps in G.o.d's mercy she may yet remember." She had remembered--not only her mother, but in a short time she remembered him. The chords of memory had been touched, its gates thrown open. She remembered the history of her childhood. She remembered all!

I will not essay to describe the scene that followed. I will not attempt to picture the expression of the actors; to speak of their joyous exclamations, mingled with sobs and tears; but they were tears of joy.

All of us were happy--happy to exultation; but for Seguin himself, I knew it was the hour of his life.

C THE END.