The silence began to grow embarrassing to all, and the count speedily noticed this. As a thorough gentleman, accustomed to command immediately the most exceptional and difficult positions, he rose, walked toward the stranger with outstretched hand, and turning to his officers, —

"Gentlemen," he said, with a peculiar inflection of voice, and bowing courteously, "allow me to present to you this caballero, whose name I am not yet acquainted with, but who, from what he has himself said, is one of my most intimate enemies."

"Oh, señor conde!" the unknown said, in a stifled voice.

"I am delighted at it," the count said quickly. "Pray do not contradict me, my dear enemy, but be good enough to take a seat by my side."

"I never was your enemy; the proof is that I have ridden two hundred leagues to ask a service of you."

"It is granted ere mentioned; so put off serious matters till tomorrow. Take a glass of champagne."

The unknown bowed, seized the glass, and said, bowing to the company, —

"Gentlemen, I drink to the fortunate issue of your expedition."

And lifting the glass to his lips, he emptied it at a draught.

"You are a famous companion, sir. I thank you for your toast; it is of good omen to us."

"Commandant, pray be kind enough," Lieutenant Martin said, "to tell us as speedily as possible your amusing relations with this caballero."

"I would do so with pleasure, señores; but I should first like to ask this caballero, who states he has ridden so far to see me, to break an incognito which has lasted too long already, and to inform us of his name, so that we may know whom we have the honour of greeting."

The stranger began laughing, and, allowing the fold of his cloak, which had hitherto concealed his face, to fall, replied: —

"With the greatest pleasure, caballeros; but I fancy that my name, like my face, will teach you nothing. We only met once, señor conde, and during that interview the night was too dark, and the conversation between yourself and my comrade too animated, for my features to have deeply imprinted on your memory, even had you seen them."

"It is true, señor," the count replied, after attentively examining his features. "I am free to confess that I do not remember ever having seen you before."

"I was sure of it."

"Then," the count exclaimed hotly, "why do you so obstinately hide your face?"

"Come, sir count, I probably had my reasons for doing so. Who knows if you may not some day have cause to regret making me break an incognito which I probably had reasons for maintaining?"

These words were pronounced in a sarcastic voice, mingled with a menace, which each could read in spite of the stranger's apparent coolness.

"It is of little consequence, señor," the count said haughtily. "I am one of those men whose sword supports his words; so now have the goodness to give me your name without further excuses or vacillation."

"Which will you have, caballero – my nom de guerre, or any other of my aliases?"

"Any one you please," the count said furiously, "so long as you give us one."

The stranger rose, and, turning a haughty glance on all present, said in a firm voice, —

"I told you on entering this room, caballero, that I had ridden two hundred leagues to ask a service of you. I deceived you. I expect nothing of you, neither service nor favour; on the contrary, I wish to be useful to you. I have come for that purpose, and no other. What need of your knowing who I am, or what my name is, as I shall not be your obligé, but you mine?"

"The greater reason, caballero, for you to unmask. I will respect the quality of guest you claim here, and not make you do by force what I ask of you; but remember this, I am resolved, whatever may happen, to listen to nothing, and beg you to withdraw immediately, if you refuse any longer to satisfy my wishes."

"You will repent of it, señor conde," the stranger replied, with a sardonic smile. "One word more, and a last one. I consent to make myself known to you privately, the more so as what I have to tell you must only be heard by yourself."

"By Bacchus!" Lieutenant Martin exclaimed, "this surpasses all belief, and such persistency is extraordinary."

"I know not if I am mistaken," the capataz exclaimed meaningly; "but I am certain I hold a great place in the mystery with which this caballero surrounds himself, and that if he fears anybody here it is I."

"You are quite correct, señor Don Blas," the stranger said with a bow. "You see that I know you. You know me too, if not by face, fortunately for me at this moment, by name and repute. Well, rightly or wrongly, I am convinced that were I to pronounce that name before you, you would induce your friend not to listen to me."

"And what would happen then?" the capataz interrupted him.

"A great misfortune probably," the stranger said in a firm voice. "You see that I act frankly with you, whatever your opinion may be. I only ask of the count ten minutes' conversation; after that he can do whatever he pleases with the secret I intrust to him, and the news I bring him."

There was a moment's silence. The count examined the stranger's calm face while reflecting profoundly. At length the unknown rose, and, bowing to the count, said, —

"Which am I to do, señor – stay or go?"

The count turned a piercing glance upon him, which the other endured without betraying the slightest emotion.

"Stay!" he said.

"Good!" the unknown remarked, and seated himself again on the butaca.

"Gentlemen," continued the count, addressing his guests, "you have heard, be kind enough to excuse me for a few moments."

The officers rose and withdrew without any reply. The capataz was the last to go, after bending on the unknown one of those glances which ransack the depths of a man's heart. But this glance, like the count's, produced no effect on the stranger's cold, impassive face.

"Now, señor," said the count to the stranger, as soon as they were alone, "I am awaiting the fulfilment of your promise."

"I am ready to satisfy you."

"What is your name? Who are you?"

"Pardon me, sir," the stranger replied with easy raillery, "if we go on thus it will take a long time, and you will learn nothing, or very little."

The count repressed with difficulty a gesture of impatience.

"Proceed as you think proper," he said.

"Good! In that way we shall soon understand each other."

"I am listening."

"You are strange, señor, in this country. Having arrived a few months back only, you do not yet know the habits and customs of the inhabitants. Relying on the knowledge you attained in your own country, you fancied, on arriving among us, that you could do exactly as you pleased, because your intelligence was so superior to ours, and you have acted accordingly."

"To your story, señor!" interrupted the count passionately.

"I am coming to it, señor. Owing to powerful protectors, you found yourself at once placed in an exceptional position. You have founded a magnificent colony in the richest province of Mexico, on the desert frontier. You then asked and obtained from government the rank of captain, with the right to raise a free corps composed exclusively of your own countrymen, specially intended to hunt the Apaches, Comanches, &c. That is easy to understand for we Mexicans are such cowards."

"Señor, señor! I would remind you that all you are now saying is at least useless," the count angrily exclaimed.

"Not so much as you suppose," the other said, still perfectly calm; "but set your mind at ease. I have finished, and now reach the point which specially interests you. I only wished to let you see that if you did not know me, I, on the other hand, know more of you than you imagined."

The count struck the table with his fist and stamped his foot as an outlet for his passion.

"I will go on," the unknown continued. "Certainly, on landing in Mexico, however great your ambition might be, you did not expect to gain such a brilliant position in so short a time. Facile fortune is a bad adviser. The too much of yesterday becomes the not enough of today. When you saw that you succeeded in everything, you wished to crown your work by a masterstroke, and shelter yourself for ever from the freaks of that fortune which is today your slave, but might suddenly turn its back on you tomorrow. I do not blame you. You acted like a clever gambler; and, being afflicted with that vice myself, I can appreciate in others a quality I do not myself possess.

"Oh," the count said.

"Patience! I am there now. You looked around you, and your eyes were naturally fixed on Don Sylva de Torrés. That caballero combined all the qualities you sought in a father-in-law, for what you wished was to contract a rich marriage. Ah! You no longer interrupt me. It seems that the account I am giving of your own history is becoming interesting. Don Sylva is kind-hearted and credulous; moreover, he has a colossal fortune, even for this country, where fortunes are so large; and Doña Anita is a charming girl. In short, you introduced yourself to Don Sylva. You asked his daughter's hand, which he promised you, and the marriage should have come off a month ago. And now, caballero, be good enough to redouble your attention, for I am entering on the most interesting part of my narrative."

"Continue, señor; you see that I am listening with all necessary patience."

"You shall be rewarded for your complaisance, caballero, be at rest," the unknown said with a tinge of mockery.

"I am anxious to hear the end of your story, señor."

"Here you have it. Unfortunately for your schemes, Doña Anita was not consulted by her father in the choice of a husband: for a long time she had secretly loved a young man who had done her important service."

"And you know the man's name?"

"Yes, señor."

"Tell it me."

"Not yet. This man returned her love. The two young people met without Don Sylva's knowledge, and swore an eternal love. When Doña Anita was constrained by her father to regard you as her husband she feigned submission, for she did not dare openly to resist her father; but she warned the man she loved, and the couple, after renewing their love vows, thought on a way to break off this fatal marriage."

The count had risen several moments back, and was now pacing the room. At the last words he stopped before the stranger.

"Then," he said in a gloomy voice, "the attempted assassination at the Rancho – "

"Was a means employed by the lover to get rid of you? Yes, señor," the stranger calmly said.

"This man, then, is only a dastardly assassin!" he said contemptuously.

"You are wrong, caballero; he only wished to compel you to retire. The proof is that your life was in his hands and he did not take it."

"To the point, then!" the count exclaimed. "Assassin or not, you will tell me his name, for you have finished now, I suppose?"

"Not yet. After the meeting at the Rancho you proceeded to your hacienda, accompanied by your future father-in-law and wife. Even then, without leaving you a moment's rest, the hatred of Doña Anita's lover pursued you: the Apaches attacked you.

"Well?"

"Well, need I give you further explanation? Cannot you understand that this man was in league with the redskins?"

"And Doña Anita knew it?"

"I will not affirm that positively, but it is probable."

"Oh!"

"Was not the game well played?"

The count bit his lips till the blood began to flow.

"And you know who carried Doña Anita off?"

"I do."

"It was not the redskins?"

"No."

"That man, then?"

"Yes."

"But her father was carried off to?"

"I know it; but it was not at all with his will, I assure you."

"Where is Don Sylva now?"

"Quietly at home at Guaymas."

"Is his daughter with him?"

"No."

"She is with that man, I suppose?"

"You are a perfect sorcerer."

"And you know where they are?"

"I do."

Quick as lightning the count bounded on the stranger, seized him by the collar with his left hand, and, placing a pistol against his breast, shouted in a hoarse voice, —

"Now, villain, you will tell me where they are!"

"Is that the game we are playing?" the stranger said. "Well, as you please, caballero."

Then throwing back his cloak quickly, he aimed at the count two pistols which he held in either hand. The stranger's movement had been so rapid that the count was unable to prevent it. Besides, a sudden idea occurred to him at the moment. Lowering his pistol, and thrusting it back in his girdle, he muttered, —

"I was mad: pardon that angry movement."

"Most heartily," the unknown replied, laying his pistols on the table within reach.

"Pardon me again. Now that I reflect on what you have just told me, I see that your object was to be of service to me."

The stranger made a gesture of affirmation.

"But there is one thing I cannot explain."

"What is that?"

"The manner in which you have told me all these details."

"Oh! That is simple enough."

"I shall feel obliged by your explanation."

"With pleasure, caballero. Two men attacked you at the Rancho."

"Yes."

"I am he who pulled you off your horse."

"Oh!" the count said, with a singular intonation in his voice.

"In a word, my name is Cucharés! I am a lepero; that is to say, I like the sun better than the shade, rest than work, and would sooner stab a man, when properly paid for it, than do a good action which brings in nothing. You comprehend me?"

"Perfectly."

"Then we can come to an understanding?"

"I think so."

"Well, so do I, and that is the reason I have come to you."

"One question more."

"Ask it."

"At this moment you are betraying your friends?"

"I? Who?"

"The persons you have hitherto served."

"A man like myself, caballero, has no friends, only customers."

"Friends or customers, you are betraying them."

"Pooh! We have settled our accounts. They owe me nothing, nor I them. We are quits. Look ye, caballero: in every business there are two sides, which a skilful man can work equally well. I have drawn all I could from the first, so I am going to try the other now."

The count heard the lepero develope this strange theory with an amazement mingled with terror. A cynicism so ripe and shameless terrified him and yet the count was not excessively thin-skinned.

"We will agree, then, that you have come to do me a service."

The lepero smiled.

"Let us understand one another," continued he. "I say so not to startle the consciences of the gentlemen who were present on my entrance; but between ourselves, I will be more frank."

"Which means?"

"That I have come to sell it to you."

"Be it so!"

"I shall want a long price."

"Good!"

"A very long price."

"No matter, if it is worth it."

"Come," the lepero exclaimed joyfully, "you are just the man I expected to find you. Well, you can trust in me."

"I must do so, I suppose."

"What would you? It is the way of the world. Today my turn, tomorrow yours. Bah! You will have no cause to regret a few thousand piastres."

"First, then, my rival's name."

"It will cost you fifty ounces, and you cannot think it dear."

"Here they are," the count said, arranging them on the table.

The lepero made them disappear in a second in his large pockets.

"The name of your rival, caballero, is Don Martial. He is a Tigrero, and very rich."

"I fancy I have heard Don Sylva mention that name."

"It is probable. Don Sylva cannot endure Don Martial, especially since he saved Doña Anita's life."

"I remember that circumstance too; Don Sylva frequently mentioned it to me. And now, how did Don Martial carry the girl off?"

"Very easily, the more so as she wished nothing better than to follow him. During your fight with the Apaches he placed Doña Anita in a canoe, into which I had already thrown her father, gagged and tied; then we went off, all four of us. All through the night we kept to the river, so as to leave no traces of our flight, and by daybreak had covered fifteen leagues. No longer fearing discovery, we landed. Indios Mansos sold us some horses. Don Martial ordered me to take the young girl's father to Guaymas, and I fulfilled this difficult commission with all honour. Don Sylva was unwilling to follow me; but at last I managed to get him into his own house, where I left him, and went back to Don Martial, who had requested me to bring him certain things, and was awaiting me at a spot agreed on between us."

"Ah!" the count said, "and how did you come to leave him?"

"Good gracious, caballero! We separated, as so often happens to the best of friends, in consequence of a misunderstanding."

"Very good! He turned you off?"

"Nearly so, I am obliged to confess."

"Have you left him long?"

The lepero winked his right eye.

"No," he answered.

"Can you lead me to the spot where he now is?"

"Yes, whenever you please."

"Very good! Is it far?"

"No, but pardon me, caballero, let us settle matters at once. Are you agreeable?"

"Let us see."

"How much will you give me to learn at what spot Don Martial and Doña Anita are concealed?"

"Two hundred ounces."

"Hand them over."

"Here they are."

The count took some handfuls of money from an iron box in a corner of the room, and gave them to the lepero.

"There is a pleasure in dealing with you," said Cucharés, as he sent these ounces to join the others with admirable celerity. "Thus you see I was quite right when I told you that I was going to do you a service."

"It is true, and I thank you. Where are Don Martial and the Doña?"

"At the mission of Don Francisco. But now I must ask permission to leave you."

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

"For two reasons; the first, because, in spite of all the confidence I have in you, nothing has yet proved to me that you have told the truth."

"Oh!" said the lepero with a gesture of denial.

"I know very well I am mistaken; but what would you have? I am naturally suspicious."

"Good! I will remain. But now for your second reason."

"This is it. I have in my turn a service to ask of you."

"To be paid for?"

"Of course."

"I am listening."

"I will give you a hundred ounces to lead me to my rival."

"Canarios!" the lepero exclaimed.

"One hundred ounces," the count said again.

"I understand you. One hundred ounces – a fine sum. But look ye, count: I am a costeño, and a lepero in the bargain. This desert life does not suit my temperament and injures my health. I have taken an oath to have no more of it. The road from here to the mission is difficult. We shall have to cross the desert. No, taking all things into consideration, it is impossible."

"That is unlucky," coldly replied the count.

"It is."

"Because," he continued, "I would have given you not one, but two hundred ounces."

"Eh?" asked the other, cocking his ears.

"But as you refuse – you do so, I think? – I shall be obliged, to my great regret to have you shot."

"What do you say?" the lepero exclaimed, with a movement of terror.

"By'r Lady!" the count said simply, "my dear fellow, you are so clever in business matters that, having found two sides of a question, I am terribly frightened lest you should find a third."

And before Cucharés could prevent him he seized the pistols that lay on the table. The lepero turned livid.

"Pardon me, pardon me," he said in an ill-assured voice. "As you desire it so eagerly, I must please you to the best of my power. I accept the two hundred ounces."

"Very good!" the count exclaimed. "I thought, too, that we should come to an understanding."

He went to fetch the money from the iron chest; but, as he turned his back on the lepero, he could not see the singular smile that curved his lips. Had he done so, he would not have chanted his victory so loudly.

CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH THE STORY GOES BACK

The lepero's story, true in its foundation, was utterly false and erroneous in its details. Perhaps, however, he had an interest in deceiving the Count de Lhorailles, which the reader will be able to judge of better after reading the following chapter.

After escaping so miraculously from the hands of the Apaches, into whose power he had fallen, Cucharés dived and sought the centre of the river. On mounting to the surface again to take breath, he looked around him: he was alone. The lepero stifled a cry of joy, and, after a moment's reflection, swam vigorously in the direction of the mangroves, where Don Martial, warned by the signal he had been compelled to give, had doubtlessly been awaiting him some time. With a few strokes he reached the trees, beneath whose shade he disappeared. But another piece of good luck awaited him there: the canoe, abandoned to itself, had floated up against the trunk of a tree, and remained stationary.

Cucharés, leaving the water, soon succeeded in emptying the canoe and making it float again. These boats are so light that they can be easily emptied, for in these regions they are made of birch bark, which the Indians strip from the tree by means of boiling water.

He had scarce landed ere a shadow bent over him and muttered in his ear: —

"You have been a long time."

The lepero gave a start of terror; but he recognised Don Martial. In a very few words he explained to him all that happened.

"It is all the better, as you have come here," the Tigrero said. "Hide yourself in the mangroves, and do not stir under any pretext until I return."

And he rapidly retired. Cucharés obeyed with more zeal because he heard at no great distance from him the sound of the obstinate contest going on at that moment between the French and Apaches. Don Martial, dagger in hand, in readiness for any event, had glided like a phantom up to a clump of floripondins, where Doña Anita awaited him all trembling. Just as he was going to pull back the branches that separated him from the young girl, he stopped with panting breast and frowning brow. She was not alone. Her voice, quivering with emotion or anger, was harsh and imperious, whom could she be speaking to? Who was the man that had succeeded in discovering her in this retired spot, where she fancied herself so well concealed, and who, it seemed, was trying to force her to follow him? The Tigrero listened. Soon he made a gesture of anger and menace. He had recognised the voice of the man with whom Doña Anita was talking: it was her father.

All was lost!

The hacendero was trying to lead his daughter in the direction of the buildings; while employing the most convincing reasons. He did not appear to suspect the motive which had brought his daughter to that spot. Doña Anita refused to go away, alleging the danger of being met by an Indian marauder, and thus falling into the danger she so earnestly wished to avoid.

Don Martial struck his brow; a singular smile played on his lips; his eyes flashed fire, and he noiselessly slipped back to the river bank. Still the combat was going on: at times it appeared to draw nearer – oaths and yells could be distinguished; at others, flashes lit up the scene, and a shower of bullets whizzed through the air with that sharp, hissing sound which terrifies novices in warfare.

"In the name of Heaven, my beloved daughter," Don Sylva urged, "come! We have not a moment to lose; in a few seconds our retreat may be perhaps cut off. Come, I implore you!"

"No, my father!" she said, shaking her head. "I am resigned: whatever may happen, I repeat to you, I will not leave this spot."

"It is madness," the hacendero exclaimed in great grief. "You wish to die, then?"

"What matter to me?" she said sorrowfully. "Am I not condemned in every way? Heaven is my witness, father, that I would gladly die to escape the marriage prepared for me."

"My daughter, in the Virgin's name – "

"What do you care, father, whether I fall into the hands of Pagan savages today, when tomorrow you would surrender me with your own hands to a man I detest?"

"Speak not to me thus, daughter. Besides, the moment is very badly chosen, it seems to me, for a discussion like this. Come, the shouts are growing more furious; it will soon be too late."

"Go, if you think proper," she said resolutely. "I shall remain here, whatever may happen."

"As it is so, as you obstinately resist me, I will employ force to compel your obedience."

The girl threw her left arm round the trunk of a cedar tree, and looking with intense resolution at her father, exclaimed, —

"Do so if you dare, O my father! But I warn you that, at the first step you take toward me, that will happen which you want to avoid. I will utter such piercing shrieks that they must reach the ears of the Pagans, who will run up."

Don Sylva stopped in hesitation: he knew his daughter's firm and determined character, and that she would at once put this threat in execution. A few minutes elapsed, during which father and daughter stood face to face, not uttering a word, or making even a gesture.

Suddenly the branches were noisily parted, yielding a passage to two men, or rather two demons, who, rushing with panther bounds on the hacendero, hurled him to the ground. Before Don Sylva was able to recognise the enemies who attacked him so unexpectedly by the pale beams of the stars, he was gagged and bound, while a handkerchief twisted round his head hid from him all external objects, and prevented him seeing what his daughter's fate might be. The latter, at this sudden attack, uttered a cry of terror, at once prudently checked, for she had recognised Don Martial.

"Silence!" the Tigrero hurriedly said in a low voice. "I could manage in no other way. Come, come, your father, you know, is a sacred object to me."

The girl made no reply. At a sign from Don Martial, Cucharés seized Don Sylva, threw him on his shoulders, and went toward the mangroves.

"Where are we going?" Doña Anita asked in a trembling voice.

"To a place where we can be happy together," the Tigrero answered gently, as he lifted her with a passionate movement, and ran off with her to the canoe. Doña Anita made no resistance: she smiled and threw her arms round her lover's neck to keep her balance during this steeplechase, in which Don Martial leaped from branch to branch, holding on by the creepers and encouraging his lovely burden by signs and looks. Cucharés had placed Don Sylva in the bottom of the canoe, and, paddles in hand, was impatiently awaiting the Tigrero's arrival: for the combat seemed doubled in intensity, although, from the number of musket shots, it was easy to see that victory would rest with the French.

"What shall we do?" Cucharés inquired.

"Get into the middle of the river, and slip down with the current."

"But our horses?"

"Let us save ourselves first; we will think of the horses afterwards. It is evident that the white men are the victors. As soon as the fight is over, Count de Lhorailles will send everywhere in search of his guests. It is important not to leave any trail, for the French are demons, and would find us again."

"Still, I fancy – " Cucharés timidly observed.

"Be off!" said the Tigrero in a peremptory tone, kicking the canoe vigorously from the bank.

The first moments of the voyage passed in silence: each reflected on the peculiar position in which he was placed.

Don Martial had assumed a tremendous responsibility by staking, as it were, on one throw the happiness of the girl he loved and his own. Besides, the hacendero lying at the bottom of the canoe gave him great subject for thought. The position was grave, the solution difficult.

Doña Anita, with drooping head and absent glance, was dreamily letting her dainty hand glide through the water over the side of the canoe.

Cucharés, while paddling furiously, was thinking that the life he led was anything rather than agreeable, and that he was far happier at Guaymas, as he lay with his head in the shade, and his feet in the sun, in the church porch, enjoying his siesta, refreshed by the sea breeze, and lulled to sleep by the mysterious murmur of the surf on the shingle.

As for Don Sylva de Torrés, he was not reflecting. A prey to one of those dumb passions which, if they lasted any length of time, must end in insanity, he frantically bit the gag that shut his mouth, and writhed in his bonds, while unable to break them.

The various sounds of the contest gradually died out. For some time longer the travellers remained silent, absorbed not only in their thoughts, but affected by that gentle melancholy produced on all nervous natures by that solemn calmness and striking harmony of the wilderness, whose sublime and majestic grandeur no human pen is capable of describing.

The stars were beginning to pale in the sky: an opal line was vaguely drawn in the horizon: the clumsy alligators were quitting the mud and going in search of their morning meal; the owls, perched on the trees, were saluting the approaching sunrise; the coyotes glided in startled bands along the shore, uttering their hoarse barks; the wild beasts were retreating to their hidden dens, heavy with sleep and fatigue; day was on the point of breaking. Doña Anita leaned coquettishly on Don Martial's shoulder.

"Where are we going?" she asked him in a gentle resigned voice.

"We are flying," he laconically answered.

"We have been descending the river in this way for more than six hours, borne by the current and helped by your four vigorously-pulled paddles. Are we not out of reach of danger?"

"Yes, long ago. It is not any fear of the French which troubles me now – "

"What then?"

The Tigrero pointed to Don Sylva, who, having exhausted his strength and passion, had at length tacitly recognised his powerlessness, and was sleeping quite exhausted.

"Alas!" she said, "You are right. Things can not go on thus, my friend; the position is intolerable."

"If you will allow me to act as I think proper, before a quarter of an hour your father will thank me."

"Do you not know that I am entirely yours?"

"Thanks!" he said. Turning to Cucharés, he muttered a few words in his ear.

"Ah, ah! That is an idea," the lepero said with a grin. Two minutes later the canoe ran ashore. Don Sylva, delicately borne by two powerful hands, was carried ashore without waking.

"Now it is your turn," Don Martial said to the girl: "for the success of the scheme I have formed you must allow yourself to be fastened to this tree."

"Do so, my friend."

The Tigrero took her into his vigorous arms, bore her ashore and in a twinkling had fastened her tightly by the waist to the stem of a tree.