Green Mountain Freeman

It came at last—that dark cloud which for months had hung like a death shroud over the bosom of a great nation! It came at last—and young faces grew pale and haggard as fear drove them on to premature age; young hearts grew old and withered, as the voice of war congealed their pulses with a dread of foreboding ill. Still on and on it came, sweeping over groves and valleys, darkening the hearth stones of love and prostrating the peaceful temples of home, till at last, it burst in all its fury, and a beautiful country was deluged in a brave blood; the mighty were stricken down in their power; the intellectual in their glory. Matter usurped the empire of mind, and strength of soul became subservient to bodily fear. Still on it came—that fiend of war, with its ocean of living forms, rising wave after wave upon the hills, or retreating into the flowery thickets, till the echoes caught the sound, and ran with their fearful tidings to the distant hills. It was a fearful time for devoted wives whose eyes were dim for watching for the return of those dear beloved ones, whose hearts, alas, with all their yearning impulses were stilled forever. But there was another pair of eyes, deep, earnest, lustrous eyes, which told of the Mexican origin, that watched the enemies forces all day long, through the smoke of battle, too happy, but to catch one glimpse of a noble form that rode fearlessly at the head of an American regiment. There was another pure warm heart with its buds of love just bursting into bloom, whose yearnings followed the brave American through the thickest of the fight, murmuring his dear name the while, as if she would protect him amid the shower of bullets that were dealing death around. Poor Lolah Montana! This officer, whose form she singles out from the mass of soldiers, was a tenant of her father's cottage for weeks, when suffering from an almost fatal wound. The pure springs of her heart had been unlocked by sympathy for his affliction, and now its bright waters were to be embittered in their first gushings. She had sat by his couch all day, with her eyes earnestly looking into his own; she had knelt by his side in the still hours of night, with prayers upon her lips for his recovery, till her heart had forgotten father, home, friends, in its wild idolatry, and only remembered the only one dear vision that had shone upon her secluded life. Was it strange that the soldier's heart should return the devotions of one who had scattered so many blossoms around his path, who, when the mists of an early death were gathering round, still bent her brilliant eyes lovingly upon him, till their glances seemed to chain him back to a renewed sense of life? And yet, while both felt that they were beloved, no word of love had ever been uttered. The soldier had watched every movement of that sweet girl, as she glided like a sunbeam through the apartment, had listened to the thrilling tones of her low voice, and felt her beautiful hand fluttering like a white dove upon his throbbing temples, and yet feared by a word to create hopes which might never be realised.

The morning came for his departure, when Lolah was summoned to bid him good bye. Her haggard brow and swollen eyes told of a night of anguish and suffering. "You will remember me when I am gone, Lolah!" said the soldier taking her passive hands in his own, and for the first time pressing them to his lips with an irresistible impulse. Slowly the beautiful girl raised her eyes to his, as if only that moment comprehending how great would be her loss, and how little her capability of sustaining it. When he was gone! Where was her world now? She had bartered it for an empty vision, and now that the glitter was passing, she could only creep into some corner and die. Oh! how the heart aches when it is first startled from its glorious dreams of seeming love, and finds that love idolatry! How it longs for, yet dreads to meet a return of the deep floods of feeling which is wearing away the quivering chords of life. The power of intellect may control any outward manifestation of feeling, but when alone, with the memory of the loved one lingering like sunshine around her heart, if there is a moment of entire happiness this side of the grave, it is then, when soul and spirit and intellect are melting away into a beautiful dream of love. Lolah was the first to break the silence, for woman's heart is not governed by the strong will and power that characterizes the sterner sex, but her voice was agitated with emotion as she replied in answer to his question, "When once a Mexican woman has learned to love she never forgets."

They were married, and at the same moment which saw her a wife, the trumpet blast was heard to summon her husband to his duty as an American soldier, and her father's enemy. They had appointed a place of meeting with as much security as could be obtained in such perilous times, and night after night the graceful form of the Mexican girl was seen gliding like a spirit through the pale moonlight that lay like a misty veil over the battle ground. Heaps of dead bodies barred up her path to the chapparal, and more than once the glittering knife of the ranchero flashed in the distance. Horrible sights encompassed her on every way she turned, but what sacrifice was too great to purchase the dear delight of sitting by his side, with her head resting upon his bosom, and nothing but the bright stars to witness their devotion? What to them was the slow tread of distant soldiery—what to them was the howl of the jackall, that scenting the warm blood, crept from his ambush to secure his meal. The loved in each other's society—the world had no other power to disturb their happiness. One night, it was the second week of love's strange betrothal, she had bent her steps as usual to the chapparal, but not with her accustomed speed, for fearful forebodings were weighing like lead upon her heart. The moon was struggling through the dull clouds, looking lovely and weary; an unusual mist hung over the chapparal, and around the hills as if to hide the fearful sun of God's life, that had that day been wasted. "If any thing has happened to him," said Lolah, giving utterance to the vague fears that possessed her. At that moment a low moan attracted her attention, and almost flying to the spot whence it came, she discovered her husband lying in the agonies of death. He had battled with the bullets and bombshells all the day to meet his death by the chance shot of a ranchero. With a quietude almost startling, she bent over him and drew his form to her heart, breathing sweet words of tenderness from her lips. Her eyes kindled up with a fearful brilliancy, but no tear dimmed their drooping lids. Their pure source had been suddenly dried, and the glorious sun of intellect into a midnight of hopeless insanity. And all night long she sat under the dark shadows of the chapparal, with the lifeless form of her husband cradled in her arms and frightening by her holy presence the creatures of prey that were all too anxious to secure the prize; and when the morning came, and the mist drew itself up from the mountains to let in the sunlight, her weary lids closed over the bright glaring eyes, and pillowing her head upon the soldier's pulseless heart, she slept a few hours of quiet undisturbed sleep. And thus, they were found the living and the dead, clasped in each other's arms, with the long rich hair of the sleeping girl, rising and falling with the breeze, and winding around her husband like a dark pall over the tomb of love! They strove to separate them without waking her, but they need not have taken the precaution, for she had lost all knowledge of the past. The father who had been won by the affection of his only child, to afford protection and shelter to the wounded American, now looked with grief upon the wreck of that child, folded her in his arms and wept as if his heart was broken. They took her home to the lonely cottage by the hill side, where she was kept in close confinement, for with a phantasy peculiar to the insane she bewailed her father's cruelty in preventing her meeting her husband, whom she supposed was waiting for her by the side of the chapparal, but one sad evening, eluding pursuit, she stole out and flew to the scene of death—no trace was left of the horrors of that night, but she seemed to feel a strange weight upon her heart, as if something had occurred of which she retained some faint memory. Suddenly pressing her hands to her temples, she gave one wild look of anguish, and fell dead upon the spot where she had last seen her husband. Consciousness had returned for a moment with its awful sense of bereavement and in that moment her loving heart had broken: she had joined her husband in the grave.

Little was ever heard of her history, except that a beautiful Mexican girl was found dead near the chapparal in the vicinity of the American camp, but few ever guessed the cause of her death.