She knew that all the obstacles to an exchange of their affection had been removed; that her lover only waited his opportunity to hear from her own lips the answer that was even now struggling at her heart.And yet she hesitated and drew back, half frightened in the presence of her great happiness.How she longed, and yet dreaded, to meet him! What if anything should have happened to him?--what if he should be the victim of some treachery?--what if he did not come?--what if?--"Good heavens! what was that?"She was near the door of the sacristy, gazing into the dim and shadowy church.Either she was going mad, or else the grotesque Indian hangings of the walls were certainly moving towards her.
She rose in speechless terror, as what she had taken for an uncouthly swathed and draped barbaric pillar suddenly glided to the window.Crouching against the wall, she crept breathlessly towards the entrance to the garden.Casting a hurried glance above her, she saw the open belfry that was illuminated by the misty radiance of the moon, darkly shadowed by hideously gibbering faces that peered at her through the broken tracery.With a cry of horror she threw open the garden-door; but the next moment was swallowed up in the tumultuous tide of wild and half naked Indians who surged against the walls of the church, and felt herself lifted from her feet, with inarticulate cries, and borne along the garden.Even in her mortal terror, she could recognize that the cries were not those of rage, but of vacant satisfaction; that although she was lifted on lithe shoulders, the grasp of her limbs was gentle, and the few dark faces she could see around her were glistening in childlike curiosity.Presently she felt herself placed upon the back of a mule, that seemed to be swayed hither and thither in the shifting mass, and the next moment the misty, tossing cortege moved forward with a new and more definite purpose.She called aloud for Father Esteban and Mrs.Markham; her voice appeared to flow back upon her from the luminous wall of fog that closed around her.
Then the inarticulate, irregular outcries took upon themselves a measured rhythm, the movement of the mass formed itself upon the monotonous chant, the intervals grew shorter, the mule broke into a trot, and then the whole vast multitude fell into a weird, rhythmical, jogging quick step at her side.
Whatever was the intent of this invasion of the Mission and her own strange abduction, she was relieved by noticing that they were going in the same direction as that taken by Hurlstone an hour before.Either he was cognizant of their movements, and, being powerless to prevent their attack on the church, had stipulated they were to bring her to him in safety, or else he was calculating to intercept them on the way.The fog prevented her from forming any estimation of the numbers that surrounded her, or if the Padre and Mrs.Markham were possibly preceding her as captives in the vanguard.She felt the breath of the sea, and knew they were traveling along the shore; the monotonous chant and jogging motion gradually dulled her active terror to an apathetic resignation, in which occasionally her senses seemed to swoon and swim in the dreamy radiance through which they passed; at times it seemed a dream or nightmare with which she was hopelessly struggling; at times she was taking part in an unhallowed pageant, or some heathen sacrificial procession of which she was the destined victim.
She had no consciousness of how long the hideous journey lasted.
Her benumbed senses were suddenly awakened by a shock; the chant had ceased, the moving mass in which she was imbedded rolled forward once more as if by its own elasticity, and then receded again with a jar that almost unseated her.Then the inarticulate murmur was overborne by a voice.It was HIS! She turned blindly towards it; but before she could utter the cry that rose to her lips, she was again lifted from the saddle, carried forward, and gently placed upon what seemed to be a moss-grown bank.Opening her half swimming eyes she recognized the Indian cross.The crowd seemed to recede before her.Her eyes closed again as a strong arm passed around her waist.
"Speak to me, Miss Keene--Eleanor--my darling!" said Hurlstone's voice."O my God! they have killed her!"With an effort she moved her head and tried to smile.Their eyes, and then their lips met; she fainted.
When she struggled to her senses again, she was lying in the stern-sheets of the Excelsior's boat, supported on Mrs.Markham's shoulder.For an instant the floating veil of fog around her, and the rhythmical movement of the boat, seemed a part of her mysterious ride, and she raised her head with a faint cry for Hurlstone.