Томас Майн Рид - Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

The stentorian voice of the Maroon lieutenant, audible above all other sounds, at once awakened the caçadores to a sense of their dangerous situation; and, like a brace of baboons, they commenced sprawling up the tangled stairway.

Too late had they taken this resolution. Before they had got a third of the way to the summit, half-a-dozen triggers were pulled; and their bodies, one after the other, fell with a heavy plunge into the water below.

Meanwhile Chakra, in the canoe, had kept up his life and death struggle, now going against the current – and now the watery element appearing to prevail.

For the moment the Maroons could not have decided that strife. They were engaged in re-loading their guns; and the Coromantee was left free to continue his struggles without interruption.

Chakra’s bitterest enemies could scarce have desired to bring that scene to a speedy termination. No avenger need have wished his victim in a more terrible situation than were he and his confederate at that moment.

The former, acting under the instinct of self-preservation, had not yet given way to despair; while the terrified look of the latter, who appeared to have already succumbed to it, might have restrained his deadliest foe from interference.

Between the long, sinewy arms of Chakra and the strength of the current, it was difficult to decide which would conquer. For many minutes the forces appeared to be equally balanced. But the strength of the man was declining, while that of the element remained the same. In the end, the waters must prevail. Chakra at length appeared to become convinced of this; and cast round him a glance of mingled inquiry and despair.

At that moment an idea seemed to strike him – some thought, perhaps, that promised him a chance of escape.

All at once he desisted from his hopeless efforts to stay the canoe, as if some resolution had suddenly become fixed; and, turning towards his companion, he bent down, apparently with the intention of whispering to him. His wild, dark look, however, declared his design to be far different.

When fairly within reach, he threw out his long arms with a sudden jerk, and, clutching the Jew by both shoulders, drew him up into his embrace, like some gigantic spider seizing upon its prey.

Suddenly changing his hold, he grasped an arm and limb; and, raising the body high in air, with an immense muscular effort, he projected it clear over the gunwale of the canoe.

One shriek from the Jew – emitted in the extremest accent of grief – was heard simultaneously with the plunge; and then the body of the unfortunate man disappeared beneath the dark waters of the lagoon.

His hat and umbrella alone floated on the surface, both rapidly carried along by the current.

The wretched creature rose again, but not to discover any chance of saving himself from destruction. The only gratification he could have drawn from his temporary emergence was to perceive that his false confederate must perish as well as himself.

Chakra had hoped that by lightening the canoe he might contend more successfully with the current; but it soon became evident that his hopes would prove vain.

In disembarrassing himself of his compagnon du voyage [593]he had lost way; and, before he could recover it, the canoe was sucked into a charybdis [594], from which even the power of the paddle could not have extricated it.

In less than ten seconds the craft entered the embouchure of the gorge, gliding downward with the velocity of an arrow.

It was but a despairing effort on the part of its occupant to seize upon a tree that grew horizontally from the rocks; though in his despair Chakra clutched it. Even had the bush been firmly rooted, his strength would not have sustained him against the fierce, resistless flood.

But it was not. The roots gave way; and, in another instant, the Coromantee and his canoe were precipitated an hundred feet sheer among the black rocks below!

His confederate had preceded him only by two seconds of time; and the dead bodies of both came once more in close contact – circling round and round, amidst the frothy spume that creamed over the cauldron below!

On the morning that succeeded the occurrence of these tragic events, one entering at the great gate of Mount Welcome estate, and directing his eye up the long, palm-shaded avenue, would have beheld but a mass of black, smoking ruins.

On any other morning, twelve months after, the eye of a person looking in the same direction, would have been gladdened by a sight far different. Smiling in all its splendour, at the end of that vegetable vista, once more could be seen the proud mansion of Mount Welcome – renaissant in every respect – its stone stairway still standing – its white walls and green-jalousied windows looking as if they had sprung, phoenix [595]-like, from the flames – every item of the architecture so closely in imitation of the former structure, that even the eye of an old acquaintance could have detected no trace of the transformation.

Outside, everything appeared as before. It was only upon entering the mansion that you might perceive a change, and this chiefly relating to its occupancy and ownership. Instead of a stout, red-faced, and somewhat plebeian personage, of over forty years old, you would see in the present proprietor of Mount Welcome a youth of noble mien, by age scarce claiming the privileges of manhood, but in aspect and demeanour evidently fit for the performance of its duties – deserving to be the master of that aristocratic mansion.

Near him – oh! certain to be near him – there is one upon whom the eye rests with still greater interest; one who had graced the old mansion – yet more gracing the new – the daughter of its former proprietor, the wife of its present one.

She has not even changed her name – only her condition. Lilly Quasheba is no longer Miss but Mrs Vaughan!

Both these personages may be seen seated in that great hall, with floor as smooth and furniture as resplendent as ever.

It is the hour after breakfast, and also, as of yore, the hour when the post may be expected. Not that either cared to look abroad for that diurnal messenger – more welcome to those around whom Hymen [596]has not yet wound his golden chain.

Equally indifferent were these two happy individuals to the actions of the outside world: neither cared for its news. Their love, still in the fresh flush of its honeymoon, was world enough for them; and what interest could either feel in the arrival of the mail?

But the post has no respect either for indifference or anxiety. It is transmitted alike to the grave and the gay. It brings joy to the heart heavy laden, and sorrow to that which the moment before its arrival may have been bounding with bliss.

In that great hall in the mansion of Mount Welcome there were two bosoms brimful of bliss, or a feeling near akin to it. Nay, why should we say akin to it, since they were two hearts in the enjoyment of a mutual love? If that be not bliss, there is no other – either on earth or in heaven.

Without any attempt at concealment, the eyes of both betrayed their mutual delight. Gazing on each other, in sweet reciprocal admiration, they saw not that dark form – rudely centaurean – that approached up the long avenue.

Had they seen it, it would have created no surprise. It was only the post-boy, Quashie, on his shaggy cob, returning from the Bay.

After this speculative peroration, the reader may be apprehensive of some dire development springing from the letter-bag slung over the shoulders of the darkey.

Nothing of the kind. There was a letter, but not one that might be unwelcome. But for the post-mark, it might have remained for hours unopened.