INTERIOR OF A SPANISH POSADA Page 221INTERIOR OF A SPANISH POSADAPage 221
NNight had come on before Lucius, on foot, and carrying a small carpet-bag, entered the lane in which stood the lonely posada. The night was dark, for the sky was unusually cloudy, and the moon had not yet risen. Lucius was guided by the lights which gleamed from the window of the inn to which he was bound.
Night had come on before Lucius, on foot, and carrying a small carpet-bag, entered the lane in which stood the lonely posada. The night was dark, for the sky was unusually cloudy, and the moon had not yet risen. Lucius was guided by the lights which gleamed from the window of the inn to which he was bound.
"What shall be my plan of operations?" thought the young Englishman, as he groped his way along the dark road, not infrequently stumbling against the large stones which lay in his path. "I must conceal my object, or I am likely to defeat it. I must make no inquiries regarding Chico, but keep both my eyes and ears open to receive whatever information may come in my way. Heaven speed my efforts, and keep me from stumbling blindly on the difficult and possibly dangerous course on which I have entered!"
Lucius reached the posada, of which the entrance, as usual, was open. There was neither porter nor hostler visible, and the Englishman, unquestioned, crossed the threshold, and found himself in a large stone-paved apartment which, from its scent, he judged to be a stable. This communicated through an open archway with another similarly paved apartment, which from the same organ of smell was easily recognized as the kitchen of the posada.
It was a strange and wild-looking place, that Spanish hostelry, as the interior was seen by the light of a single iron lamp suspended from the bare rafters, and a fire in the kitchen, round which a group of dark figures appeared, engaged in smoking. Several other forms, enwrapped in mantles, and apparently sleeping, encumbered the floor of the stable. Its recesses were probably occupied by mules,—at least so thought Lucius, from the occasional sound of a snort, or the click of a hoof striking the stones; but the place was too dark for him to take in at a glance all that its depths might contain.
Lucius, taking care not to brush against the sleepers as he passed them, walked through the stable into the kitchen, the atmosphere of which was heavy with mingled odours of stale tobacco, puchero, rancid oil, and garlic.
"I wish you good evening, gentlemen," saidLucius, raising his hat to the smokers before the fire, who scarcely turned their heads as he entered. "Where is the landlord of the posada?"
The question was answered by a heavy, dark-featured man slowly rising from the cane-bottomed chair which he had occupied, and taking a cigarillo from his mouth. The landlord, for it was he, turned and surveyed the stranger with a scrutinizing stare which was not expressive of welcome.
"Can I lodge here to-night?" asked Lepine.
"A caballero and Inglesito," muttered the landlord gruffly, after his survey of his guest. "He must have a room to himself, I trow."
"Presently," replied young Lepine; "but I should now prefer joining these gentlemen at the fire." He hoped that something might be dropped in conversation that might serve as a clue to guide him in his search for Chico.
No one, not even the surly landlord, gave up his place to the stranger; the courtesy so natural to Spaniards was not shown on the present occasion. There being no unoccupied seat, Lucius set down his bag on the floor, folded his arms, and stood near enough to the huge fireplace to scrutinize by the red glare the features of those who formed a semicircle before it. An ill-favoured set they mostly were, but Chico was not amongst them.
Politics appeared to be the favourite topic of conversation amongst these Spaniards. Lucius made several not very successful attempts to turn it into the channel which would have better suited his views. The Englishman spoke of the arrest of De Aguilera; some of the smokers had heard of it, but merely shrugged their shoulders and went on puffing their cigarillos, as if the affair were one in which they felt no deep concern.
"Is reading the Scriptures an offence against the law?" inquired Lucius.
"The law!" mockingly repeated one of the Spaniards, who wore his peaked hat with a suspiciously brigand-like air. "The law is a net that spreads its meshes far and wide to catch the flies and mosquitoes; but the big wasps, with their rings of gold, break through it easily enough."
"So the net wants mending," growled a comrade at his side.
"Or tearing to bits," laughed another of the guests; and the laugh was echoed by his companions.
Lucius perseveringly renewed his inquiries as soon as the rude mirth had subsided.
"Is the report true," he demanded, "that Don Alcala's own servant is his accuser?" The Englishman purposely addressed the question to the landlord.
"Who knows? I do not trouble myself about the matter," was the careless reply. There was nothing in the hard, stolid countenance, though Lucius surveyed it keenly, to betray the slightest intelligence on the subject. Lucius was unable to draw the smallest information from either the landlord or his guests.
The conversation reverted to politics. Some of the sentiments of the speaker were expressed in language so enigmatical as to be almost unintelligible to a stranger. Lucius noticed that one of the men sharpened his huge knife against the sole of his boot; and that he who looked like a brigand examined the priming of his pistol.
After about an hour had been spent in smoking and talking, one after another the Spaniards rose from their seats; each wrapped himself in his mantero, and without further toilet stretched himself to rest on the floor. Lucius then asked the landlord to show him his room.
The Spaniard lighted a torch, and with slow deliberate steps led the way up a rude staircase, which might more properly be termed a ladder. When he had reached the top, he ushered his guest into an attic-room, sufficiently spacious, but so low that the head of the Englishman almost touched the smoke-blackened rafters, for ceiling there was none.
The landlord stuck the torch into an iron ring which projected from the wall, but ere he did so, held it near to Lucius, so that the light might flash on the Englishman's face.
"I take it you're the Inglesito who brought the Book to the house of Don Alcala," said he.
"How know you that an Englishman ever visited that house?" asked the young man quickly. He half repented that he had put the question, such an expression of dark suspicion and threatening insolence passed across the visage of the Spaniard. That look was the landlord's only reply; as soon as he had fitted the torch into the iron ring, he left the chamber without even the common courtesy of bidding his guest "good-night."
Lucius examined his lodging-place carefully as soon as he found himself alone. There was scarcely an article of furniture within the room, save a three-legged stool and a bed. The latter was so disgustingly filthy, that for a resting-place Lucius would have preferred even the unswept, dirt-stained floor. There was no ornament in the apartment, unless a little plaster image of some saint in a niche could be called by that name. Almost all the panes in the window had been broken away, and the night-breeze, finding free passage, made the torch flicker and flare. This dreary guest-chamber in the lonely posada wasjust one which imagination might picture as the scene of a midnight murder.
Lucius was on his guard; he had no intention of sleeping that night; he made no attempt to undress; ablutions were out of the question, for the room contained neither basin nor water. The young man looked to the priming of his pistol, then seated himself near the window, and gave himself up to reflection.
"I am as certain as I am of my own existence that yon landlord knows of the robbery committed by Chico, and that he is the villain's accomplice. The thief is probably at this moment concealed in the house, for he is scarcely likely, encumbered with his booty, to have travelled far from Seville by daylight. That Chico should willingly stay to appeal at the trial of his deeply-wronged master I cannot for a moment believe. The robber's one object will be to get clear off with the jewels and plate, for it would be ruin to him were it to be known that such treasure is in his possession. But how could I—even should I succeed in discovering the lurking-place of this Chico—rescue that treasure from his grasp, and restore it to its rightful owner? I am not in England, where I should have the power of the law to back me. Unless report do them injustice, some of the alguazils are as much robbers as arethe brigands whom they affect to pursue; nay, the very magistrates themselves, it is said, can scarcely be trusted. A foreigner like myself, destitute of interest or money, would have as much chance of wrenching the property of Aguilera out of the clutch of thieves, licensed or unlicensed, as of moving the rock of Gibraltar. I am far more likely to get myself into trouble, than Aguilera out of it, by any appeal to Spanish justice. It seems probable enough that I shall never have the opportunity even of making such appeal; I do not now hold the safest of positions, if I have read the look of that landlord aright. I may have unwelcome visitors to-night, and may as well look to the fastenings of the door."
Lucius rose from his seat and went up to the door; there was neither bolt nor bar on its inner side, nothing but a rusty latch; the occupant of the room had no means whatever of shutting out an intruder. This confirmed the suspicions of Lucius: he lifted the latch, and tried to pull open the door, but it resisted all his attempts. The door had been locked on the outside, and the young Englishman started to find himself indeed a prisoner in his attic. To add to his alarm, at the same moment the flame of the torch suddenly went out, and the room was left in total darkness, save for a faint white light through the window which told that the moon was rising.
The position of the young man was one to try the mettle of a hero. Lucius found himself, for the first time, confronted with serious danger, and that danger of a kind from which the boldest might shrink. The idea of possible assassination in a lonely inn, under the cover of darkness, and in a country where deeds of blood were too common to make it likely that there would be any strict search for his body, made a creeping sensation of horror thrill through the Englishman's frame. But the spirit of Lucius struggled against and overmastered the feeling of fear. He ejaculated a prayer to One who can see in darkness, and protect in danger, and braced himself with firm resolution to encounter the worst that might happen.
"They shall find me no easy victim, if it come to a struggle," said the young man to himself; "with God and a good cause I will not fear the villany of man."
There being no means of exit by the door, the captive naturally turned to the window. Like the rest of the building, the casement had been very roughly constructed, and had never been made to open. The dry-rot had, however, got into the wood, and the whole framework was much decayed.
"I think that this might give way under the strong wrench of the arm of a desperate man," mutteredLucius to himself; and he forthwith made an energetic attempt to force out some of the bars. A few violent shakes did the work, and the Englishman had soon broken away enough of the frame to make an aperture sufficiently wide to admit of the passage of his body. Gasping from the physical effort, Lucius paused to listen whether the noise which he had made had roused any of the inmates of the posada. The attic was not over the kitchen; apparently no one had heard him, for the dead silence was only broken by the wail of the wind.
Lucius leaned out of the window and glanced down, to judge if escape were practicable. The room was at the back side of the posada, and the casement opened on a waste bit of ground which, as far as could be seen in the dim light, appeared to be a mere receptacle for rubbish, and not fenced in by any paling or wall. The height of the casement from the ground was not so considerable that an active man, holding by the window-sill, might not drop down without any very great risk of breaking a limb. Had the iron ring fixed in the wall been near enough to the window to have been available for a fastening, Lucius might have torn the sheet into strips, and by means of such an improvised rope have let himself down to the ground. But the ring was at the further corner of the room, and therewere such difficulties in the way of making such a rope that Lucius dismissed from his mind a scheme which must have involved considerable delay, when every minute was precious.
The young man was cool enough to take every needful precaution to avoid crippling himself by a fall. The cloak, which would have impeded his motions, he flung out at the window, and the bedclothes followed, to lessen the chance of his spraining an ankle, or breaking a bone. His pistol the young man replaced in his belt; it must indeed add to the difficulty of passing through a narrow aperture, but Lucius would not leave so trusty a friend behind him.
"They will find the bird flown," said Lucius to himself, as, with as little noise as possible, he passed first one limb, and then another, through the hole in the broken frame. He had no small trouble in trying to avoid cutting himself with the fragments of glass which still, here and there, stuck in the wood. It was a work of time and difficulty to get his whole body free, while he retained a firm grasp on the sill. At last this task was effected; for an instant Lucius hung by his hands—then let go—and with a gasp of relief the late prisoner found himself safe on the ground.
HHeaven be praised!" was the intuitive expression of thankfulness which burst from the lips of Lucius Lepine, when he stood, a free man, beneath the window of that posada which he had scarcely hoped to quit alive. He resolved at once to return to Seville, grateful for being permitted to come forth unharmed from an adventure which he now suspected that it had been folly to undertake. The young man was so well pleased with his escape, that he was not at first troubled by the thought that he had failed of success. Chico had not been detected; the chances were as remote as ever of the stolen property being restored.
Heaven be praised!" was the intuitive expression of thankfulness which burst from the lips of Lucius Lepine, when he stood, a free man, beneath the window of that posada which he had scarcely hoped to quit alive. He resolved at once to return to Seville, grateful for being permitted to come forth unharmed from an adventure which he now suspected that it had been folly to undertake. The young man was so well pleased with his escape, that he was not at first troubled by the thought that he had failed of success. Chico had not been detected; the chances were as remote as ever of the stolen property being restored.
Lucius had descended, as the reader is aware, on waste ground at the back of the lonely posada; he had now to find his way to the road. As the young man was quietly and cautiously groping along, feeling his way by the wall of the house, he was arrested inhis movements by sounds which betrayed that some one was moving in front of the dwelling. Lucius remained perfectly still, and so close to the wall, which lay in partial shadow, that it was scarcely possible that his figure should be seen from the lane. The full orb of the moon was now visible above the broken line of the eastern horizon, and every intervening object cast long shadows upon the ground whitened with silvery light. Lucius saw three forms moving as noiselessly as they could in the direction of the highroad; they had evidently just issued forth from the wayside inn. One, the tallest, carried a carbine,—his outline resembled that of the man who, to the eye of Lucius, had looked like a brigand; the second, who led a loaded mule, was suspiciously like the landlord himself; the third man was short, and in his awkward gait Lepine recognized that of the bandy-legged Chico.
"There goes the robber, then, stealing away with his plunder, and little dreaming that he is detected and watched!" said Lucius to himself. "But what now is to be done? Were Chico alone I would at once pursue, and arrest him as soon as he should be far enough from this inn to prevent his shouts bringing any of his accomplices to his assistance. But he has a body-guard of two of them already, one carrying fire-arms, and doubtless all three men havelong Spanish knives under their cloaks. To encounter such odds would be simply to throw life away, I having no weapon but one old pistol—and I have never fired one in my life! Shall I return to Seville, and as quickly as possible set the police on the track of the robbers? To follow this plan would take time, and during that time the scent might be lost; the alguazils are not wont to be quick in their movements. Even were the treasure to be recovered by the police of Seville, it is doubtful that any of it would reach the hands of its rightful possessors. Shall I follow these men at a little distance, watch their movements, and be ready, should opportunity occur, to have them taken up as robbers caught in the act of carrying away stolen goods? It is all-important that I should not lose sight of Chico, or of that mule which doubtless carries his spoils."
The resolution of Lucius was quickly taken. His was a bold adventurous spirit; and though he had been but a few minutes before congratulating himself on preservation from one great danger, he was ready to throw himself into another. If a doubt crossed the young man's mind, he cast it from him when he thought of the penury of Inez, and the prison of Alcala.
But Lucius had hardly calculated on the extremedifficulty of carrying out his plan of tracking the thieves. At first, indeed, it was comparatively easy to do so, as they pursued a beaten track, and a kind of hedge of prickly pear, which divided the Englishman from the robbers, afforded the former an effectual screen. But the Spaniards soon diverged from the highway and took their course across open country, so that Lucius could scarcely keep them in sight without incurring great risk of himself being seen. It was a strange chase, where the hunter was in greater danger than the quarry whom he was stalking! The moonlight was now only too bright for the safety of Lucius, to whom detection would have been almost certain death. It was well for him that the night was windy, and the sky dotted with many a cloud that was drifted on by the gale. Lucius followed the rifleman's practice when secretly approaching a foe: many times, when the moonlight was clear, the young man lay almost flat on the ground, when the nature of that ground afforded no cover. Then, if a cloud was borne across the face of the moon, Lucius took advantage of the temporary darkness to follow with what speed he might in the direction which the robbers had taken. Since the pursuer could not then trace their dark forms against the horizon, he would listen intently for the slight sound made bythe hoofs of their mule. Whenever the brightening edge of the cloud-veil showed that the moon was emerging again to bathe the landscape in light, Lucius would resume his prostrate position, or take advantage of such screen as cactus-bush or lonely aloe, planted here and there, might afford.
During the frequent pauses which he thus necessarily made, the pursuer had ample time for reflection.
"How would my poor mother feel could she see me here, creeping onwards stealthily as the wolf on the track of his prey, myself the more probable victim! Shall I ever live to tell by an English fireside the story of my wild moonlight adventure on the Dehesa?" The memories of home which gushed on the mind of Lucius as he made this reflection almost changed his resolution to pursue his perilous chase. Life was so sweet, when viewed in connection with the home delights which he hoped one day to enjoy, to be lightly parted with, even for the sake of a friend.
But when the mind of the Englishman recurred to Aguilera, now suffering affliction for that faith to which Lucius himself had been a means of converting the Spaniard; when Lepine remembered the tears of Inez, he resolved that, come what might, he would persevere in his efforts to redeem his promise, and save a noble family from ruin. Wasnot the eye of his heavenly Father upon him? was not danger met in the path of duty? It was to gratify no idle craving for excitement, no vain desire for man's applause, that Lucius was acting the part of a detective under circumstances which rendered that part one of peculiar difficulty and peril. The young Englishman, as he crouched low on the ground, prayed for help and protection, firmness not to give up his chase, and such success that he might not find that he had risked his life in vain.
Ever and anon the robbers paused and turned to look or to listen, as if, like deer, they scented the hunter. Ha! have they not caught sight of him now, as, while resting his chest on the sod, he has incautiously raised his head a little to gain a clearer view of their retreating forms? The three men have stopped at the skirt of a wood; one, the landlord, retraces his steps; the carbine of the bandit seems to be pointed towards the spot where lies the pursuer. The heart of Lucius throbs fast; tightly he grasps his pistol, his sole defence,—his finger is on the trigger! Shall he fire at the nearest man, then spring from the earth and trust to his speed, and the chance that the robber's bullet may miss its mark? The landlord approaches nearer, glancing cautiously from right to left on the ground; heis now so near that Lucius half closes his eyes, lest their glitter in the moonlight should betray his lurking-place behind the small bush, whose shadow affords so poor a screen! Within a few yards of Lucius the Spaniard stoops and picks up some object, it might be a purse or a cigar-case, that he had dropped on the ground. Then he turns round, and, to the great relief of his hidden pursuer, strides back to rejoin his companions. Then the three, with their mule, enter the covert of the wood, whose dark mass of shade lies before them.
Lucius now feared that, unless he should lessen the distance between himself and the robbers, he might, from the intricacies of the wood, lose trace of them altogether. The Englishman therefore rose, and for a time exchanging cautious advance for rapidity of motion, made his way quickly towards the place where the figures of the Spaniards had disappeared in the shadow of the trees. Chico and his comrades had hitherto moved forward in silence; or if they conversed together, it had been in tones too low to reach their pursuer. But the silence was soon to be fearfully broken. Just as Lucius had gained the edge of the wood, a fearful cry, as of one in mortal agony or terror, suddenly thrilled on his ear. The shriek of "Murder!" the cry for help, was repeated again and again, and then came thesharp report of a carbine. There was evidently a death-struggle going on in the wood.
Lucius could not hear that cry and stand still. He could not coldly calculate on the probability that crime was only meeting its due reward, nor reflect that when thieves fall out and slay one another, honest men may be gainers. Obeying the generous impulse of his heart, the young Englishman plunged through the crackling brushwood, shouting loudly as he did so to give notice that help was at hand, and for the same purpose firing off the pistol which he held in his grasp. The latter act was perhaps one of imprudence; yet rash daring oftentimes commands more success than calculating caution. The report of fire-arms, the loud crackling of underwood over which Lucius was forcing his way, his shouts which rang through the wood, alarmed the murderers into the belief that a body of alguazils was upon them. The cries suddenly ceased, and were followed by sounds as of men in flight, pushing through bushes and brambles to make their escape from pursuers. When Lucius came up to the spot which had been the scene of a terrible struggle, he only found a dead mule lying on the blood-stained turf, and a dying man beside it.
AA priest!—for the love of the Virgin, bring a priest!" groaned forth the wretched Chico, for it was he who had fallen under the murderer's steel. Lucius knelt beside him, and raised the head of Chico. Ghastly looked his face in the moonlight, which streamed upon it from an opening between the trees; the stamp of death already was there, seen in the livid hue and the glazing eye. The betrayer had been betrayed, the robber had been robbed, the false servant had been murdered for the sake of the gold to obtain which he had bartered his soul. Yet superstition still retained some hold on the dying wretch. Though his dull ear could not take in the words of Holy Writ uttered by Lucius in the faint hope that even at the last moment the sinner might find grace, Chico's dying breath was expended in calling for a priest to save him from the worstpenalty of his crimes! But conscience was not to be soothed by fatal opiates in the moment of spirit and body's parting; Chico was not to be given that false comfort which has deluded so many at the solemn hour of death. Without a priest near him to hear confession or pronounce absolution, the soul of the murdered man passed forth to its dread account.
A priest!—for the love of the Virgin, bring a priest!" groaned forth the wretched Chico, for it was he who had fallen under the murderer's steel. Lucius knelt beside him, and raised the head of Chico. Ghastly looked his face in the moonlight, which streamed upon it from an opening between the trees; the stamp of death already was there, seen in the livid hue and the glazing eye. The betrayer had been betrayed, the robber had been robbed, the false servant had been murdered for the sake of the gold to obtain which he had bartered his soul. Yet superstition still retained some hold on the dying wretch. Though his dull ear could not take in the words of Holy Writ uttered by Lucius in the faint hope that even at the last moment the sinner might find grace, Chico's dying breath was expended in calling for a priest to save him from the worstpenalty of his crimes! But conscience was not to be soothed by fatal opiates in the moment of spirit and body's parting; Chico was not to be given that false comfort which has deluded so many at the solemn hour of death. Without a priest near him to hear confession or pronounce absolution, the soul of the murdered man passed forth to its dread account.
Chico was dead,—no one could look on the face of the corpse and doubt that all was over. Lucius gently laid down on the turf the head that he had been supporting, and spread Chico's mantle over his mangled body. The Englishman then rose from his knees, and went up to the mule, which lay stiff and dead. Lucius could but conjecture that, in the struggle between Chico and those who had slain him, the robber's carbine might accidentally have been discharged and have killed the beast of burden, as it seemed to have but one wound, and that from a bullet. Lucius, with a strange sensation, as if he were robbing the dead, examined the load which was still on the back of the mule. He removed the sacking in which it was wrapped, and then, even by the uncertain light of the moon, easily recognized the treasure-box, with its hinges and bands of metal, by the description of it which he had received from Inez.
"The treasure is then actually in my possession!" thought Lepine, scarcely able at first to realize that success in his difficult search had indeed been obtained. "But my difficulties are by no means over. The robbers may return to this spot—they will not readily abandon so rich a booty." Lucius put down the box on the ground, and took the precaution of reloading his pistol, that, should the murderers come back to seize the fruit of their crime, they at least should not find him unarmed. Conquering a strong feeling of repugnance, Lucius also went to the corpse of Chico, and possessed himself of the large clasp-knife which was stuck in the dead man's belt. It was unopened and unstained; the assailants of the miserable man had given him no time to draw forth his weapon.
Lucius was now at least armed for any encounter; but the more he thought over his position, the more difficulties appeared to surround it.
"I cannot carry so heavy a box as this back to Seville on my shoulder; and even had I the strength to do so, how could I hope to pass unchallenged through the city at night, bearing so suspicious-looking a burden? It is likely enough that I should be arrested as guilty of robbery, perhaps of murder besides, for the blood of that wretched Chico now stains my garments!" Lucius flushed at the merethought of being thrown into prison as a criminal, and under circumstances which might render it difficult—nay, almost impossible—for him, a foreigner, to make his innocence clear. He could produce no witnesses in his defence; he would, he feared, have interested accusers, and prejudiced judges.
The result of the young man's anxious reflections was a resolve to bury the treasure which he could not remove. Lucius at once began his search for some favourable spot in which the box might be thoroughly hidden from view. It must not be too near the scene of the murder, lest the robbers, recovering from their alarm, should return and find it; and it must be in some locality which Lucius himself should be able to recognize when he should revisit the spot. The young Englishman searched for some time before he could satisfy himself in regard to these necessary points.
Lucius fixed at last on a spot just outside the thicket, where in a rough bank there appeared a hole, probably the burrow of some wild creature. A neighbouring palm, towering high above the other trees of the wood, formed a natural landmark. Lucius, with the knife which he had taken, began to enlarge the hole, that it might be wide and deep enough to conceal the box of treasure.
Perhaps even the firm nerves of the young man had been somewhat shaken by the horrors of that night, for never before had Lucius found any task so tedious, nor felt such fear from the slightest sound. Often did he interrupt himself to listen, when the wind shook the branches or rustled the leaves, almost certain that he could detect the noise of footsteps, and in constant expectation of being assailed from behind, while his hands were engaged with his work.
"I am ashamed of my weakness. Where is the boasted courage of an Englishman?—I am like a nervous girl!" muttered Lucius, when for the twentieth time he had turned his head to look round, that a foe might not take him unawares. "It is harder to await the approach of danger alone, and in the dead hours of night, with the brain excited by a scene of murder such as I have just witnessed, than it would be to encounter any open danger under the clear light of day. There!—happily my task is over at last!" exclaimed Lepine, as he covered in the entrance of the hole in which he had buried the box. "The plate and jewels of Alcala are safe, and nothing remains for me to do but to find my way back to the city."
But again difficulties beset the young stranger, who had never before traversed the cross-countryway along which his pursuit of the robbers had led him. It would perhaps have been easy to Lucius to have retraced his steps if he had had daylight to guide him, but the beams of the moon were not sufficient to direct his course through that wild and desolate tract. Lucius wearied himself in vain attempts to regain the highroad to Seville. Seen by the uncertain light, one clump of trees so much resembled another that none could serve as a landmark. Of dwellings there seemed to be none.
Lucius came at last to a stream, on whose sluggish current the moonshine faintly glimmered. He was at least certain that he had crossed no brook when following the track of the thieves, therefore he must have diverged from the way. The weary wanderer was glad to slake his thirst by the stream, and he then, by means of its water, removed as completely as he could the dark red stains from his dress.
"There is no use in my wandering further till day dawn and show me the way," said the youth to himself. "I will lie down and try to sleep. There is little hardship in passing a night on the ground in such a climate as this, and under such a glorious sky."
Before Lucius gave way to the drowsiness which now overpowered him, he repeated, with the simplefaith of a child, the prayer which he had first learned at his mother's knee, at the close of it returning fervent thanks for preservation in great danger, and almost unhoped-for success in a difficult quest. With Lucius and Aguilera religion showed its power over the soul in somewhat different ways. Lucius had not the impetuosity of character, the passion which, under the veil of reserve, animated the Spaniard born under more southern skies. Alcala's devotion had all the fervour of a first love. Had he continued to be a Romanist when his deepest feelings were stirred by religion, he would probably have become a missionary or a monk—have been a Dominic in asceticism, or a Xavier in active zeal. Alcala's love for his newly-found Lord was like a glorious stream bursting from mountain snows, springing over every obstacle, throwing up diamond spray, and wearing its own bright rainbow as a jewelled tiara. The religion of Lucius was a current, quiet but deep, which had flowed on through childhood, so that not even his mother could have told where it had first risen to light. Lucius would not, like Alcala, have begun his work of ministering to souls by reading aloud in a sick-room or preaching in a prison, no more than he would, like Alcala when yet unconverted, have dared death in the Plaza de Toros from an overstrained sense of honour.The one man was an Englishman, the other a Spaniard, and each showed national characteristics; but both had given themselves heart and soul to the Saviour, sought to live to His glory, and would have died for His sake.
AAlcala, in his noisome prison, might well have envied Lucius his couch on the earth, and the pure fresh breezes which fanned the slumberer's brow. Whenever the prisoner awoke, it was with a sensation of stifling suffocation, which made him doubt how long his physical powers could hold out.
Alcala, in his noisome prison, might well have envied Lucius his couch on the earth, and the pure fresh breezes which fanned the slumberer's brow. Whenever the prisoner awoke, it was with a sensation of stifling suffocation, which made him doubt how long his physical powers could hold out.
"Perhaps," thought Alcala, "a messenger more speedy than Spanish justice may one day come to release me. In the meantimelet patience have its perfect work, my heavenly Father will bring a blessing out of all;" and, composed by such reflections, the cavalier would sink into slumber again. It was well that Alcala was able thus to snatch some hours of sleep, for the coming day was to be one of the most eventful and exciting ones of his life.
It has been said, "Happy is the nation that has no history;" the words express wisdom condensedinto wit; we read its truth in its converse. In England, during late years, the progress of political events has produced none of those sudden, violent convulsions which shake society to its centre; the movement has rather resembled that of the earth in its orbit, so quiet and regular that the bulk of the people scarcely know that motion goes on. But in unhappy Spain, instead of calm progress, there has ever and anon come a violent shock, as of an earthquake, overturning loftiest houses, throwing down highest pinnacles into the dust; an upheaving of the earth which, while it destroys much that is evil, endangers much that is good. We can only look for settled peace and prosperity in Spain to days when the Bible shall guide the counsels of her Senate, and control the passions of her people.
Not many hours had passed since the light of morning, forcing its way through gratings into the prison of Seville, had aroused its inmates to commence, as they thought, the dreary monotony of another day, when even the dungeon's depths were stirred by a consciousness that exciting scenes were passing outside the walls. A look of expectation was on every face, every ear was bent to listen.
"Hark to the distant roar! One might deem that we were near the sea!" cried one of the smugglers.
"It's a sea, I warrant ye, that will send many a proud galley to the bottom ere the sun go down," observed a thief, whom his previous conversation had shown to be also a keen politician.
"It's a sea that won't be stilled by Claret's sprinkling drops of holy oil upon it!" said a gipsy; and what a devout Romanist must have deemed a profane jest, was received with a burst of laughter.
"Let the sea rage as it will," observed Diego the chulo to Aguilera, "so that it bear back to old Spain the noblest man that ever drew breath in her air. I'll drink the health of Prim yet in a bumper of wine, and down with—"
The chulo had not time to conclude his sentence, when the louder, nearer noise ofvivasfrom a thousand voices showed that the massive prison door no longer dulled outer sounds, or obstructed the free passage of the mob into the building. In surged the rushing human torrent; in one minute the corridor was, as their voices showed, filled by an excited rabble; the next minute the dividing door was burst open! The mob rushed into the dungeon, its walls resounded with loudvivas, re-echoed by most of the prisoners thus suddenly released from confinement, and let loose to swell the numbers of the wild crowd. The noise and confusion which prevailed were so great that it was difficult at thefirst instant to gain a clear idea of what had occurred; but it was soon as well known in the prison as it was already through every corner of Seville, that great and exciting news had arrived from Madrid during the course of the night. The reins of power had suddenly been wrenched from the hand of Queen Isabella; the sovereign of Spain had fled the kingdom; her minions had barely escaped with their lives; the fabric of government was overthrown, and no one could tell what would replace it. Like the criminals from the dungeon, all the fiercer passions of men were let loose, and who would have power to rule them?
If the prison of Seville had been suddenly filled almost to suffocation, it was nearly as suddenly emptied. There was nothing in it to tempt cupidity, nothing to retain the excited mob; and those who had been inmates of the gloomy abode were the most eager of the throng to rush forth into the free air. Robbers and murderers remembered that there might be palaces to plunder, and enemies to pursue. Aguilera found himself almost alone in the dungeon where, but a few minutes before, he had hardly had space wherein to breathe. Diego only remained by him still.
"Shall we follow the rest, señor?" asked the chulo. "There's not a jailer dare draw a bolt onus now. Methinks your prayer last night, like that of St. Paul, has been answered by an earthquake."
"I will return to my house, if I have strength to reach it," replied Alcala, making an effort to walk to the door. The cavalier was very desirous that at a time when anarchy and confusion prevailed throughout Seville, he should be in his home to protect the ladies of his family.
"You will scarcely reach the Calle de San José on foot, illustrious caballero," observed the chulo. "If it please you to wait in the corridor for awhile, it will go hard with me if I cannot find a mule, or some kind of conveyance, to bear you back to your home."
"I am greatly indebted to you, my friend," gratefully answered Alcala, who felt that without such aid as that proffered by Diego, it would be hardly possible for him to return to his dwelling.
"The debt is on my side, señor," said the chulo, looking steadily into the pallid face of the young cavalier. "You gave me such a message last night as was never brought to me by shaven monk or friar,—a message that Diego will never forget. Lean on my arm, señor; there's fresher air and a seat near the entrance. Hark! how the people are shouting and yelling now in the streets! They areas mad in their rush after freedom as the bull when the toril is opened, and he bursts into the circus, ready to tear down everything that stands in his way! It is to be hoped," added the chulo, uttering the words under his breath, "that this wild, excited people meet not the same fate as the bull!"
WWe will now return to an English acquaintance.
We will now return to an English acquaintance.
If there was one thing on which Mr. Passmore prided himself more than another, it was on being a steady man of business, one "who stuck to his work, and did not care to take a holiday from the first of January till the thirty-first of December."
But if Peter Passmore regularly gave his week-days to work, he as regularly gave his Sundays to amusement. No idea of devotion was linked with the Sabbath in the mind of the money-making man. Passmore considered time wasted that was spent on anything that brought no immediate return of worldly profit or pleasure.
As surely as Sunday came round, unless Seville offered some peculiar attraction, so surely at Mr. Passmore's door appeared a travelling carriage drawn by two stout horses. This was to bear the manufacturerto some agreeable spot several miles out of the city, where he could, as he expressed it, "get beyond hearing of the din of the bells of Seville, and the smell of its cigarillos." A picnic basket was always carefully placed in the carriage,—a basket well filled with bottles of champagne,pâtés-de-foie-gras, or other such portable dainties. For Passmore was not a man to content himself with such fare as he might find in a Spanish posada. "I'll not make my Sunday dinner off puchero or saffron-soup," he would say, "or dishes prepared with oil, the very smell of which would spoil the appetite of a trooper!"
On this eventful Sunday morning Mr. Passmore, like every one else in Seville, had received tidings of the revolution which had taken place in the Spanish capital. But the manufacturer took little interest in politics, save as they might affect trade, especially trade in ironware goods. Whether Isabella or Carlos, prince or republican, Narvaez or Prim bore sway, it mattered nothing to Peter Passmore, so long as his furnaces blazed undisturbed, and he received a high price for his wares.
"Not take my Sunday drive!—why on earth should I not take it?" cried Passmore to the Spanish servant who had come to receive his orders. "The wheels of government may have come off,but my wheels roll steadily enough; Claret and his rascally crew have fallen, but my horses keep on their legs!"
But though Passmore found it easy enough to order his carriage, enter his carriage, and set out on his journey, he did not find it so easy on that September forenoon to drive through Seville. The coachman did his utmost to avoid meeting with obstructions from the excited rabble of the town, by driving through little frequented streets, but he had more than once to turn his horses sharply, and hurry them down some lane where, had another vehicle met that which he was guiding, both must have come to a stand-still, as there was not breadth enough of road to admit of their passing each other. More than once Mr. Passmore thrust his bald head and broad shoulders out of the carriage-window to demand, in an angry voice, whither the coachman was driving, and whether he meant to smash the vehicle through a shop-front. The shouts andvivasheard on turning every corner; the walls chalked over with political squibs or fierce denunciations against late rulers,—"muera Claret," "muera Rivadeo,"—gave the Englishman a more intelligible answer to his questions than any which he received from his frightened servant.
"Drive over the bridge to Triana, and through itto the open country!" cried out Passmore to his coachman, in the best Spanish which he could command.
The driver did his best to obey, but the bridge itself was crowded with people, and it was no easy matter to make a way through the throng. There was no special enmity, however, at that time entertained against the English by the Spanish mob, and the more ferocious of the population of Seville did not chance to be at the bridge. Bare-legged boys, indeed, climbed up at the back of the carriage, and dark visages were thrust in at the windows; but as Passmore was perfectly ready and willing to shoutvivafrom his stentorian lungs for any one and every one whom the mob chose to favour, no serious opposition was made to his onward progress. The bridge was safely although not rapidly passed over, the rabble were left behind, and the coachman, still seeking in the suburb, as he had done in the city, the quietest streets, had soon almost reached the nearer end of the Calle de San José.
Here the onward course of the carriage was again arrested, but in a different way. A voice, which was one of mingled command and entreaty, in tones which could scarcely be resisted, ordered the driver to stop. A hand on the rein of the nearer horse enforced the command. Before Passmore had timeto shout out "Drive on!" the door of the vehicle was flung open, and to Peter's amazement a lady, shrouded in a military cloak, was rather thrust than lifted into the carriage. She was instantly followed by a Spaniard whose features were so distorted by fear, so disordered were hair and beard, that Passmore could scarcely recognize in the fugitive the proud governor of Seville, Don Lopez de Rivadeo. The lady, who was his daughter, wore neither mantilla nor veil; she looked as if she had been suddenly dragged away while in the act of performing her morning toilette. A cloak had been hastily thrown over the dress of Antonia; one of her feet was slipperless; her long black tresses streamed down her back; she was mute with horror and fear, and breathless from the rapid pace at which she had been hurried along.
"Drive on—drive for your life!" shouted out Rivadeo to the coachman, and the lash which followed the command made the horses bound forward furiously.
The governor was too full of alarm and impatience to get beyond reach of the vengeful people whom he had fleeced, cheated, and oppressed, and who would fain pursue him to the death, even to apologize to Mr. Passmore for so unceremoniously taking possession of his carriage. The manufacturerwas revolving in his mind how he could best explain to the Spaniard that he was not a man to be made chivalrous or benevolent against his will, when, with a violent jerk, the coachman again stopped the horses. The carriage had just been turned into the Calle de San José, and the driver saw that the further end of the street was blocked up by a furious mob that, with yells like the howling of wolves, were demanding the blood of Don Lopez.
Antonia shrieked aloud in the agony of her terror; Rivadeo started up in the carriage and drew his stiletto, as one to whom no hope was left but that of selling his life dearly.
"What's to be done?" exclaimed Passmore, who retained his presence of mind, and a certain bull-dog courage characteristic of his race. "Here's an opening into a house which looks strong enough to resist anything short of cannon. Lift out the girl!" he cried, as he pushed open the carriage door; "be quick, or the ruffians will be upon us before we can get under cover."
There was no need to urge speed; in the twinkling of an eye the carriage was vacated by its terrified occupants. Antonia stumbled in her haste as she rushed under the archway of the house of the Aguileras, and was lifted up by the arm of a stranger who at the same moment was entering the dwelling.
"Ha, Lepine, you here!" exclaimed Peter Passmore; there was no time for another word. The last of the party had barely cleared the vestibule, and passed through the grating, which was instantly closed behind them, before the mob, bent on slaughter, swarmed into the archway.
"Muera Rivadeo! muera Rivadeo!" How horrible sounded that cry for blood yelled from the throats of the savage rabble, mingled with the clash of weapons furiously struck against the iron grating.
Antonia dropped her cloak as she staggered forward into the patio; the once proud queen of beauty, now disrobed and discrowned, with torn dress and dishevelled hair, stood in the presence of Alcala and Inez,—of the admirer whom she had slighted, the woman whom she had insulted! Rivadeo's daughter, who had shown no mercy, must seek for mercy from them!
But no feeling of triumph swelled in the breast of the gentle Inez on beholding the humiliation of one who had treated her with cruelty and scorn. The maiden's heart had in it now only room for tender compassion. With such sympathy as she might have shown to a dear friend in distress, Inez welcomed the fugitive lady, took her by the trembling hand, and drew her away from the patio intoan inner apartment, that the horrible sound of voices demanding a father's life might be less audible to the ear of the governor's daughter. Inez made Antonia rest on her own bed, spoke softly and soothingly to her, and then left her to give directions to Teresa to bring wine to revive the spirit of the terrified lady. Inez could not bear to be herself long absent from her newly-recovered brother; she dreaded lest his harbouring Don Lopez should bring Alcala into new peril. But even if it were so, Inez would never regret that her hand had thrown open the grating to receive the hunted fugitives.
The delicacy and tenderness of Inez were by no means shared by Teresa. It was very unwillingly indeed that, in obedience to her young lady's orders, the old servant poured out for Antonia the very last glassful of wine from the very last bottle left in the once well-filled cellars. Teresa, her visage looking more grim and ill-tempered than usual, carried the beverage which she grudged to the daughter of Don Lopez de Rivadeo.
"There—take it, Donna Antonia," said Teresa bitterly, as she proffered the glass. "If I were you, it would choke me! Remember Don Alcala de Aguilera—he of whose love you never were worthy—lying bleeding, for your pride, under the horn of a bull!"
Antonia's hand shook so violently, that she could scarcely raise the glass to her lips.
"Remember Donna Inez," continued the tormentor, "the descendant of countless generations of heroes, stooping to sue for a boon from you, who were but too much honoured if a lady of the house of Aguilera deigned to enter your gate. Remember—"
"Oh, those yells! O holy Virgin!" shrieked Antonia, dropping the glass, as a louder ebullition of popular fury from without made her start in alarm. "Shut the door, woman! oh, shut it and bolt it! the wretches may rush in even here!"
Teresa turned, and gloomily obeyed, muttering half-aloud as she did so, "An Aguilera would have had no thought of self, when a father was so near to the knives of assassins!"