Erema | Page 2

to say a syllable more than, "I was born,
and I shall die."

This made him very unpopular with the men, though all the women
admired it; and if any rough fellow could have seen a sign of fear, the
speaker would have been insulted. But his manner and the power of his
look were such that, even after ardent spirits, no man saw fit to be rude
to him. Nevertheless, there had always been the risk of some sad
outrage.
"Erema," my father said to me, when the dust from the rear of the
caravan was lost behind a cloud of rocks, and we two stood in the
wilderness alone--"do you know, my own Erema, why I bring you from
them?"
"Father dear, how should I know? You have done it, and it must be
right."
"It is not for their paltry insults. Child, you know what I think all that. It
is for you, my only child, that I am doing what now I do."
I looked up into his large, sad eyes without a word, in such a way that
he lifted me up in his arms and kissed me, as if I were a little child
instead of a maiden just fifteen. This he had never done before, and it
made me a little frightened. He saw it, and spoke on the spur of the
thought, though still with one arm round me.
"Perhaps you will live to be thankful, my dear, that you had a stern,
cold father. So will you meet the world all the better; and, little one,
you have a rough world to meet."
For a moment I was quite at a loss to account for my father's manner;
but now, in looking back, it is so easy to see into things. At the time I
must have been surprised, and full of puzzled eagerness.
Not half so well can I recall the weakness, anguish, and exhaustion of
body and spirit afterward. It may have been three days of wandering, or
it may have been a week, or even more than that, for all that I can say
for certain. Whether the time were long or short, it seemed as if it
would never end. My father believed that he knew the way to the house
of an old settler, at the western foot of the mountains, who had treated

him kindly some years before, and with whom he meant to leave me
until he had made arrangements elsewhere. If we had only gone
straightway thither, night-fall would have found us safe beneath that
hospitable roof.
My father was vexed, as I well remember, at coming, as he thought, in
sight of some great landmark, and finding not a trace of it. Although his
will was so very strong, his temper was good about little things, and he
never began to abuse all the world because he had made a mistake
himself.
"Erema," he said, "at this corner where we stand there ought to be a
very large pine-tree in sight, or rather a great redwood-tree, at least
twice as high as any tree that grows in Europe, or Africa even. From
the plains it can be seen for a hundred miles or more. It stands higher
up the mountainside than any other tree of even half its size, and that
makes it so conspicuous. My eyes must be failing me, from all this
glare; but it must be in sight. Can you see it now?"
"I see no tree of any kind whatever, but scrubby bushes and yellow
tufts; and oh, father, I am so thirsty!"
"Naturally. But now look again. It stands on a ridge, the last ridge that
bars the view of all the lowland. It is a very straight tree, and regular,
like a mighty column, except that on the northern side the wind from
the mountains has torn a gap in it. Are you sure that you can not see
it--a long way off, but conspicuous?"
"Father, I am sure that I can not see any tree half as large as a
broomstick. Far or near, I see no tree."
"Then my eyes are better than my memory. We must cast back for a
mile or two; but it can not make much difference."
"Through the dust and the sand?" I began to say; but a glance from him
stopped my murmuring. And the next thing I can call to mind must
have happened a long time afterward.

Beyond all doubt, in this desolation, my father gave his life for mine. I
did not know it at the time, nor had the faintest dream of it, being so
young and weary-worn, and obeying him by instinct. It is a fearful
thing to think of--now that I can think of it--but