Full Text

THE

CAR OF DESTINY

BY

C. N. AND A. M. WILLIAMSON

[Logo]

Illustrations by Armand Both

NEW YORK

THE McCLURE COMPANY

MCMVII

*OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHORS*

Lady Betty Across the Water,

My Friend the Chauffeur,

The Princess Virginia,

etc.

_Copyright, 1907, by The McClure Company_

Copyright, 1906, by McClure, Phillips & Co.

[Lady Monica]

LADY MONICA

_To_

_Doña María del Pilar Harvey,_

_We Dedicate This Spanish Story_

_C.N. and A.M. Williamson_

CONTENTS

The King’s Car

The Girl

The Guest Who Was Not Asked

“I Don’t Threaten—I Warn”

A Mystery Concerning a Chauffeur

Puzzle: Find the Car

The Impudence of Showing a Handkerchief

Over the Border

A Stern Chase

The Unexpectedness of Miss O’Donnel

María del Pilar to the Rescue

Under a Balcony

What Happened in the Cathedral

Some Little Ideas of Dick’s

How the Duke Changed

A Secret of the King’s

Like a Thief in the Night

The Man Who Loved Pilar

A Parcel for Lieutenant O’Donnel

The Magic Word

The Duchess’s Hand

The Luck of the Dream-Book

The Glorification of Monica

The Goodwill of Mariquita

What Cordoba Lacked

In the Palace of the Kings

Moonlight in the Garden

Let Your Heart Speak

The Garden of Flaming Lilies

The Hand Under the Curtains

Behind an Iron Grating

On the Road to Cadiz

The Seven Men of Ecija

The Race

The Moon in the Wilderness

Wiles and Enchantments

Dreams and an Awakening

The Fountain

Day After To-morrow

Through the Night

The Fifth Bull; and After

I

THE KING’S CAR

“Motor to Biarritz? You must be mad,” said Dick Waring.

“Why?” I asked; though I knew why as well as he. “A nice way to receive an

invitation.”

“If you must know, it’s because the King of Spain will be there, visiting

his English fiancée,” Dick answered.

“I wish him happiness,” said I. “I hear he’s a fine young fellow. Why

isn’t there room in Biarritz for the King and for me?”

“The detectives won’t think there is, nor will they give you credit for

your generous sentiments,” said Dick.

“They won’t know I’m there.”

“They knew when you went to Barcelona, from Marseilles.”

This was a sore subject. It is not my fault that my father was as

recklessly brave a general, and as obstinately determined a partisan as

Don Carlos ever had. If I had been born in those days, it is possible that

I should have done as my father did; but I was not born, and therefore not

responsible. Nor was it the King’s fault that we lost our estates which my

ancestors owned in the days of Charles V; nor that we lost our fortune, we

Casa Trianas; nor that my father was banished from Spain. For the King was

not born, therefore he was not responsible; so why should I blame him for

anything that has happened to me?

It was perhaps ill-judged to visit my father’s land, since to him it had

been a land forbidden. But a few months after his death, when I was

twenty-one, the longing to see Spain had become an obsession. And it must

have been my evil star which influenced an anarchist to throw a bomb at a

royal personage on the very day I arrived at Barcelona, thinly “disguised”

under an English name.

My identity was discovered at once, as the son of the great dead Carlist.

I was suspected and clapped into a cell, to wait until my innocence could

be proved. This was not easy; but, on the other hand, there was no proof

against me; and after an experience which scourged my pride and emptied my

purse, I was released, only to be politely but firmly advised never again

to show the undesirable face of a Casa Triana in Spain.

It was after this that I flung myself off to Russia, and through friendly

influence got a commission in the army. I had some adventures in the Boxer

rising; and though Heaven knows I have no grudge against the Japanese, the

fight I made later on the Russian side gave me something to do for two

years. After the Peace with Idleness, came the motor mania, and I thought

of nothing else for a time. But when you have run your car for months,

motoring for its own sake ceases to be all in all. You ask yourself what

country you would like best to visit with the machine you love.

Pride kept me from answering that question with the name of “Spain”; but

it was because Biarritz is at the door of Spain that I had just invited

Dick Waring—the best of friends, the most delightful of Americans, who

fought side by side with me, for fun, in China—to drive there in my Gloria

car.

“Yes, they knew when I went to Barcelona,” I admitted; for Dick was

familiar with the story. “But that was different. Anyhow, I’m going to

Biarritz, whatever happens. You can do as you like.”

“If you _will_ go, I’ll go too,” said Dick; “and if anything happens I’ll

be in it with you. But you may regret your rashness.”

“I’ve never yet regretted rashness,” I said. “Things done on impulse

always turn out for the best.”

So we started from Paris the next day, and had a splendid run, through

scenery to set the spirit singing in tune with the thrumming of the motor.

Whatever was to happen in Biarritz, and I was far enough from guessing

then, nothing happened by the way; and we arrived on a morning of blue and

gold.

We put up at a private hotel out of the way from fashionable

thoroughfares; and, as my childhood and early youth were passed in

England, I could use an English name without making myself ridiculous by a

foreign accent. As for my brown face and black eyes, many a Cornishman has

a face as brown and eyes as black; therefore, I edited the name of Triana

into Cornish Trevenna, and changed Cristóbal, my middle name, into

Christopher.

We took our first meal in the restaurant, and everyone at the little

tables near by, was talking of the King and “Princess Ena”; how pretty she

was, how much in love he; how charming their romance. My heart quite

warmed to my youthful sovereign, who has had seven fewer years on earth

than I. I felt that, if I had had a fair chance, I should have been his

loyal subject.

“I’d like to have a look at him,” said I to Waring after lunch. “The lady

with the nose who sat on our left said to her husband with the chin, that

the King and the two Princesses motor every afternoon. We’ll motor too;

and where they go, there we’ll go also.”

“Take care,” said Dick.

“A cat may look at a king. So may Chris Trevenna.”

“No good advising you to be cautious.”

“Of course not. You wouldn’t care a rap for me if there was.”

“Shouldn’t I? Anyhow, Chris Trevenna might as well wear goggles.”

“There’s no dust to-day,” said I. “It rained in the night.”

“I give you up,” said Dick. And if giving me up meant going out with me in

my big blue car directly after lunch, then he kept his word. Ropes, my

chauffeur, and right-hand man, who sits always in the tonneau, had already

heard all about the King’s automobile, and was primed with particulars. He

leaned across to describe its appearance, as well as mention the make; and

when such a car as he was in the act of picturing passed us, going round a

bend of the road which leads to Spain, there was no mistaking it.

“Let’s follow,” said I.

Dick sighed, but naturally I paid no attention to that.

There were five persons in the King’s car. The slim young owner, three

ladies, two very slender and young, and the chauffeur, all five masked or

goggled, so that it was impossible to see their faces.

“I wish something would happen to them,” I said.

Waring looked shocked.

“Just enough of a something to stop the car, and tempt the ladies to take

off their motor-veils. I may never have another chance to see the future

Queen of Spain.”

When I was a small lad in England, I used to lie under a favourite

apple-tree in the orchard of the old place where we lived, and wish with

all my might for the fall of a certain apple on which eyes and heart were

fixed. It was extraordinary how often the apple would fall.

In a flash I remembered those wishes and those apples as we began to gain

upon the King’s car. Its pace slackened, and then it stopped. The

chauffeur jumped out, and two of the ladies were raising their thick veils

as we came up.

As we were not supposed to know the King, who was “incog,” the ordinary

civilities between motorists were in order. I slowed down, and taking off

my hat, inquired in French if there were anything I could do.

The two girls, who had hastily whipped off their veils, turned and glanced

at me. Both were more than pretty; blond, violet-eyed, with radiant

complexions; but one seemed to me beautiful as the Blessed Damozel looking

down from the star-framed window of heaven; and I was suddenly sick with

jealousy of the King, because I believed that she was his Princess.

It was he who answered, in French better than mine. He thanked me for my

kind offer, and referred me to his chauffeur, who had not yet discovered

the cause of the car’s sudden loss of power. But even as he spoke, the

mystery was solved. There was a leak in the petrol-tank, near the bottom;

the last drop of _essence_ had run away, and, as they had come out for a

short spin, there was none in reserve.

An odd chance it seemed that brought me, the son of a banished rebel, to

the King’s aid; but life is odd. I rejoiced because it was odd, and more

because of the girl.

I had a spare _bidon_ of petrol which, with conventional expressions of

pleasure, I gave to my fellow motorist. We exchanged compliments, and as

nobody stared at me askance, I had reason to believe that neither words,

actions, nor looks were out of the way. Yet what I said and did was said

and done with no more guidance of the mind than the gestures and speech of

a mechanical doll.

I was conscious only of the girl’s eyes, for I had done that unreasonable,

indefinable thing—fallen in love at first sight, and I had fallen very

far, and very deep. She did not glance at me often, and after the first I

scarcely glanced at her at all, lest my eyes should be indiscreet. It was

the most curious thing in the world, and far beyond anything that had ever

happened to me; but already I knew that I could not lose her out of my

life. Sooner could I lose life itself. If she were the Princess who was to

be Queen of Spain, I would follow her to Madrid, come what might, just for

the joy of breathing the air she breathed, of seeing her drive past me in

her carriage sometimes. I had wondered, knowing the traditions of our

family, many of them tragic, when love would come to me. Now it had come

quickly, in a moment; but not to go as it had come. It and I would be one,

for always. The girl was little more than a child, but I knew she was to

be the one woman for me; and that was what I feared my eyes might tell

her. So I would not look; yet the air seemed charged with electricity to

flash a thousand messages, and my blood tingled with the assurance that

she had had my message, that unconsciously she was sending back a message

to me.

All this was going on in my inner self, while the outer husk of self

delivered itself of conventional things.

A leak was mended, a tank filled, while my life was being remade. Then

there were bows, lifting of caps, many politenesses, and the King’s car

shot away.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Waring by and by.

“Nothing,” I answered. “Why do you ask?”

“You act as if you’d had a stroke. Aren’t you going to drive on?”

“No. Yes. I’m going back,” I said, and turned the car.

“You don’t mean to follow, then?”

“There’s something I need to do at once at Biarritz,” I answered. It was

true. I needed to find out whether she was the Princess, or—just a girl.

II

THE GIRL

It was easy to learn that she was not the Princess. I did that by going

into a stationer’s shop and asking for a photograph of the royal lovers.

It was not quite so easy to find out who she was, without pinning my new

secret on my sleeve; but luckily everyone in Biarritz boasted knowledge of

the King’s affairs, and the affairs of the pretty Princess. Christopher

Trevenna made himself agreeable after dinner to the lady with the nose,

who would probably have shrunk away in fear if she had known that she was

talking with the Marqués de Casa Triana.

I, in my character of Trevenna, found out that the Princess had a friend,

Lady Monica Vale, daughter of the widowed Countess of Vale-Avon, who, when

at home, lived in the Isle of Wight. At present, the two were staying at

Biarritz, in a villa; and Lady Monica, a girl of eighteen or nineteen,

sometimes had the honour of going out with the Princesses, in the King’s

motor.

There were other privileged friends as well; but the description of Lady

Monica Vale, though painted with a colourless brush, was unmistakable.

Casually I inquired the name of the house where Lady Vale-Avon and her

daughter were staying, and having learned it, I made an excuse to escape

from the lady with the nose.

It was half-past ten o’clock, and a night flooded with moonlight. I

strolled out, smoking a cigarette, and in ten minutes stood before the

garden gate of the Villa Esmeralda.

There were lights in three or four of the windows, sparkling among

close-growing trees; and I had not finished my second cigarette, when a

carriage drove round the corner and stopped.

I moved into the background. A groom jumped down, unfastened the gate, and

having opened the brougham door, respectfully aided a middle-aged lady to

descend.

The moonlight showed me a clear, proud profile, and fired the diamonds in

a tiara which crowned a head of waved grey hair.

There were billows of violet satin and lace to keep off the ground; and as

the groom helped the wearer to adjust them under her chinchilla coat, a

girl sprang out of the carriage, her white figure and rippling hair of

daffodil gold in full moonlight.

I stood as a man might stand who sees a vision, hardly breathing. I made

no sound, yet she turned and saw me, sheltered as I was by the dappled

trunk of a tall plane-tree. It was as if I had called, and she had

answered.

I knew she remembered me, and that she did not misunderstand my presence.

There was no anger in her face, only surprise, and a light which was

hidden as she dropped her head, and passed on through the gate.

I could have sung the song of the stars. She had not forgotten me since

the afternoon. The look in my eyes then, had arrested some thought of

hers, and set me apart in her mind from other men.

It was no stupid conceit which made me feel this, but a kind of exalted

conviction.

When the gate was shut, I took off my hat and looked at the lighted

windows. I could make her care. I said to myself, “We’re meant for each

other. And if that’s true, though all the mountains in the world were

piled up as barriers between us, I’d cross them.”

That was a vow. And through the remaining hours of the night I tried to

plan how it would be best to begin its fulfilment.

Men who have gone through a campaign as close friends, have few secrets

from one another; and I had none from Dick Waring. Nevertheless, I would

now have kept one if it were possible; but it was not. If I had not told

him, he would have guessed, and then he might have thought that he had the

right to chaff me on losing my head.

It is only a happy lover who can bear to be chaffed, however, and a few

words were enough to show my tactful American where to set his feet on the

slippery path.

He too had seen the girl; therefore he could not be surprised at my state

of mind. But he regretted it, and urged that the best I could do was to go

away, before the thought of her had taken too deep a hold upon me.

“You see,” he said, “you’re in a hopeless position; and it’s better to

look facts in the face. If you’d fallen in love with almost any other

girl, except Princess Ena herself, you might have hoped. But as it is,

what have you to look forward to? You oughtn’t to have come to Biarritz.

In the circumstances, and with the King here, it was bravado. Friends of

his, enemies of yours, might even say it was bad taste, which is worse.

And then, having come, you proceed to follow the King’s motor-car; you

fall head over ears in love with a girl in it, a friend of the

bride-elect, to whom your real name, if she’s not heard it already, could

easily be made to seem anathema maranatha. But that’s not all. You’re here

under a name not your own. If you should by luck or ill-luck get a chance

to meet Lady Monica, you couldn’t be introduced to her as Christopher

Trevenna; it would be a false pretence; still less could you throw your

real name in her face; for between the King of Spain as a friend, and you

as an acquaintance, the girl would be in an uncomfortable position, to say

the least. No, my dear fellow, you can’t meet this young lady; and the

only thing for your peace of mind, if you’ve really fallen in love, is to

go away.”

I had no arguments with which to meet Dick’s. I listened in silence, but—I

made no preparation for departure. If there was nothing to be gained by

staying, at least there was as little to be gained by going; for I knew

that I should not forget the girl. If I were struck blind, her face would

still live for my eyes, white and pure against a background of darkness.

We stayed on at Biarritz, but I behaved with circumspection, and made no

further attempts to put myself in the King’s Way, though he arrived at the

Villa Mouriscot every morning from San Sebastian. Dick approved my conduct

and, pitying my depression, perhaps repented his hardness. He found

several Parisian friends at Biarritz, and when we had been there for three

days, he came back to the hotel from the Casino one night with an

important air.

“Strange how one’s tempted to do things one knows one oughtn’t to do,”

said he. “Now, it’s unwise to tell you I’ve met a man who knows Lady

Monica Vale, yet I’m doing it.”

“What did the man say?” I asked.

“A number of things—charming, of course. She’s not engaged, if that’s any

consolation.”

“Oh, I knew that.”

“How?”

“By her eyes.”

“Apparently she observed yours also.”

“What? She’s spoken of—she—”

“The sister of my man is a friend of Lady Monica’s. She told the sister

about the motor-car adventure.”

“For goodness sake don’t force me to ask questions.”

“I won’t. I’ve a soft heart, which has often been my undoing. She said

she’d seen the most interesting man in the world. Don’t faint.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“I’m not chaffing. She did say that—honest Injun. At least, I’ve Henri de

la Mole’s word for it. His sister was at school at the convent of the

Virgin of Tears with Lady Monica Vale. Lady Monica supposed the other day

that we were both French, which is a compliment to your accent. She said

she wished she could find out ‘who was the brown man with the eyes.’ I’m a

fool to have told you that though, eh? It can’t do you any good, and will

probably make you worse.”

“But it has done me good.”

“Flattered your vanity. However, I haven’t told you all yet. De la Mole

says the mother’s a dragon, hard as iron, cold as steel, living for

ambition. She was left poor, on her husband’s death, as the Vale-Avon

estates went with the title to a distant relative, and the girl’s been

brought up to make a brilliant match. She’s been given every

accomplishment under Heaven, to add to her beauty; and as the family’s one

of the oldest in Great Britain, connected with royalty in one way or

another, in Stuart days, Lady’s Monica’s expected to pull off something

from the top branch, in the way of a marriage. De la Mole’s heard that the

present Lord Vale-Avon has been first favourite with the mother up till

lately, though he’s next door to an idiot. Princess Ena’s engagement to

the King of Spain has changed everything. You see, Lady Vale-Avon and her

daughter live not far from the Princess, in the Isle of Wight. When the

King came a-courting to England, came also, though not exactly in his

train, another Spaniard, the Duke of Carmona, and—”

“Don’t,” I cut in; “I won’t hear his name in connection with her’s. That

half Moorish brute!”

“He may have a dash of Moorish blood, but he’s not half Moorish; and if

he’s a brute, he’s a good-looking brute, according to de la Mole, also

he’s one of the richest young men in Spain. Lady Vale-Avon—”

I jumped up and stopped Dick. “I’m in earnest,” I said. “I can’t bear to

listen. I know the sort of things you’d say. But don’t. If you do, I think

I’ll kill the fellow.”

“Ever met him?”

“No. The men of my house and of his have been enemies for generations. But

I’ve heard of certain exploits.”

“He’s coming here to stop with his mother, the old Duchess, who’s been

spending the winter at Biarritz. Another reason for you to vamose.”

“You mean, to stay. At least, he shan’t have a clear coast.”

“I don’t see how you can hope to block it.”

“I will—somehow.”

“No doubt you’re a hundred times the man he is, but—fate’s handicapped you

for a show place in the matrimonial market. You are—”

“A man countryless and penniless. Don’t hesitate to state the case

frankly.”

“Well, _you’ve_ said it. While the other’s rich, and a grandee of Spain.

And, though de la Mole says the King doesn’t care for him, on account of

something or other connected with the Spanish-American War, he’s bound to

become a _persona grata_ at Court if he marries a friend of the young

Queen; and, no doubt, that influences his choice.”

“Thank Heaven, Lady Monica isn’t Spanish.”

“Ah, but Spain’s the fashion now. And you haven’t heard all my news. Henri

de la Mole says Lady Monica is asked to be a maid of honour for the young

Queen of Spain, the one Englishwoman she’s to have in attendance.”

“At least the wedding won’t be till June. It’s only the end of February

now. I’ve got more than three months.”

“You haven’t got one. Soon after the Princesses leave Biarritz, Lady

Vale-Avon and Lady Monica are going to visit the old Duchess of Carmona in

Spain.”

“What, they’re going to Seville?”

“If her house is there. I’m telling you what I’ve been told.”

“The principal house of the Duke is in Seville, though he has a place near

Granada, and a flat in Madrid as a substitute for a fine house that was

burned down.”

“Then Seville’s where they’ll be. Anyhow, they’re to see the great show in

Holy Week there.”

It was as if Dick had suddenly drenched me with iced water.

For a few seconds I did not speak. Then I said, “Are you trying to break

it to me that the match is arranged?”

“I told you Lady Monica wasn’t engaged.”

“And I told you I knew she wasn’t. But that isn’t to say the mother, the

woman ‘as hard as iron and cold as steel,’ hasn’t planned her daughter’s

future, a girl so young, and always kept under control.”

“It looks as if the wind was setting in that quarter. A person of Lady

Vale-Avon’s type would hardly accept such an invitation if she didn’t

intend something to come of it.”

“You’re certain the invitation’s been accepted?”

“Certain. Angèle de la Mole has been with her brother in Spain, and Lady

Monica’s been asking her advice about what to take and what to wear. The

Duke himself is in Paris, buying a new automobile; at least, so his mother

says; but other people say he’s at Monte Carlo. Anyhow, he’s expected here

in time for the ball.”

“What ball?”

“Didn’t I tell you? A masked ball the old Duchess is giving in honour of

Princess Ena. A grand affair it will be, says de la Mole. There’s been

jealousy about the invitations, which have been carefully weeded.”

“You and I’ll accept,” said I.

“We’re not likely to have the chance.”

“Sometimes a man must make a chance. I shall meet Lady Monica at the

Duchess’s ball.”

“All right. Suppose you go in the garb of a palmer?”

“Eh?”

“I was thinking of another first meeting, case not dissimilar, you know,

Romeo and Juliet. My poor, mad friend, there’s more hope for a Montague

with a Capulet than for a Casa Triana with a friend of the future Queen of

Spain, and the daughter of a Lady Vale-Avon.”

“Romeo won Juliet.”

“It wasn’t exactly a fortunate marriage. See here, if you’re going in for

the part of Romeo, it’s no good asking me to play Mercutio.”

I looked at Dick and smiled. “I shall ask nothing,” I said. “Yet—”

“Yet, you know mighty well, if you want a Mercutio, I’ll be ready to take

up the rôle at a moment’s notice all for the sake of your _beaux yeux_.

Well, you’re right. There’s something queer about you, Ramón, which makes

us others glad to do what we can, even if it were to cost our lives. If

you’d been a king in exile, you’d have had no trouble in finding

followers. From your French valet to your Russian soldiers; from your

English chauffeur to your American friend, it’s pretty well the same. I

expect you’ll get to that masked ball.”

“If I don’t, it won’t be for lack of trying,” said I.

“But—”

“But what—”

“This affair of yours is going to end in tragedy—for someone,” said Dick.

III

THE GUEST WHO WAS NOT ASKED

During the next two or three days I found more to do. I got Dick to

introduce me to his friend Henri de la Mole, not as Christopher Trevenna,

but under my own name, and when he and his sister had been interested in

what they chose to think a romance, I was able to learn through them that,

curiously enough, Lady Vale-Avon had arranged for her daughter to appear

at the ball as Juliet.

The costume, it seemed, decided itself, because there happened to be among

Lady Vale-Avon’s inherited and most treasured possessions, an interesting

pearl head-dress of the conventional Juliet fashion. This had been sent

for from England; and if I could succeed in getting to the ball, as I

fully intended to do, I should have little difficulty in identifying the

head that I adored.

Had I not taken de la Mole more or less into my confidence, he would have

done nothing to further my interests; but, if I really have any such power

as Dick Waring hinted, I used it to enlist de la Mole upon my side.

Finally he not only agreed, but offered to help me enter the Duchess of

Carmona’s house as one of her masked guests. He had been asked to stand at

the door that night, and request each person, or in any case the man of

each party, to raise his mask for an instant. This, in order to keep out

reporters and intruders of all sorts; and his promise was to let me pass

in unchallenged. I might count on his good offices, not only in that way,

but in any other way possible, for “all the world loves a lover,” said he.

And he wished me the best of luck, though he looked as if he hardly

expected me to have it.

Probably it was foolish and conceited, but I could not resist playing up

to the rôle Dick suggested. She was to be Juliet. I would be Romeo.

By this time, no doubt, the Duchess’s invited guests had their costumes

well under way; I had to get mine, and the only way to have something

worthy of the occasion was to go to Paris for it. I did go, and was back

in Biarritz in two days.

The rest moved easily, without a hitch. The night of the ball came. I

dressed and went alone, rather than drag Dick into an affair which might

end disagreeably.

I did not put myself forward, but stood for a while and watched the

dancers, waiting for my chance.

Carmona had arrived the day before. I had never met him, but what I had

heard I did not like; and having seen him once or twice in London, at a

distance, he was recognizable in a costume copied from a famous portrait

of that Duke of Alba who loomed great in Philip the Second’s day. Because

of a slight difference one from the other, in the height of his shoulders,

he was difficult to disguise; and though the arrangement of the costume

was intended to hide the peculiarity, it was perceptible.

When the “Duke of Alba” had danced twice in succession with Juliet

Capulet, I could bear my rôle of watcher no longer. Besides, I knew that I

had not much time to waste. For the sake of de la Mole, who had run the

risk of admitting a stranger, I must vanish before the hour for the masks

to fall. When I took off my cap and bowed before this white Juliet with

the pearl-laced plaits of gold, she gazed at me through her velvet mask in

the silence of surprise. I could not guess whether she puzzled herself as

to what was under my yellow-brown wig and my mask; but at least she must

know it was Romeo who begged a dance.

I did not urge my claim on such a plea, however, least it should rouse

Carmona’s opposition, and cause him to keep the girl from me if he could.

I merely said, “The next is our dance,” risking a rebuff; but it did not

come.

“Yes,” she said, almost timidly. It was the first time I had heard her

speak, and her voice went to my heart.

The Duke stared, as though he would have stripped off my mask by sheer

force of curiosity. But he had to let the girl go; and as the music began

she was in my arms. I hardly dared believe my own luck. Neither of us

spoke. I was lost in the sense of her nearness, the knowledge that it was

the music which gave me the right to hold her thus, and that when the

music died I must let her go.

But a quick thought came. If we danced the waltz through, Carmona or

someone else would claim her for the next. If I could hide the girl before

it was over, perhaps I might keep her for a little time. Indeed, I must

keep her, if this meeting were not to end in failure; for there were

things I had to say.

The conservatory was too obvious; and the shallow staircase with its

rose-garlanded balusters, and its fat silk cushion for each step, would

soon be invaded by a dozen couples. What to do, then? I would have given

much to know the house.

“I must speak with you,” I said at last. “Where can we go?”

She did not say in return, “Do you know me, then?” or any other

conventional thing. The hope in me that she had remembered well enough to

guess who I was, brightened. She would not have answered a person she

regarded as a stranger, as she answered me,

“There’s a card-room at the end of the corridor to the left, off the big

hall, where we might rest for a moment or two,” she said. “But I mustn’t

stop long.”

“No,” I promised. “I won’t try to keep you. I ask only a few moments. I

can’t tell how I thank you for giving me those.”

I threw a glance round for Carmona, and saw him dancing with a stately

Mary Stuart. I guessed his partner to be Lady Vale-Avon; and if I were

right, it was a bad omen. She was not a woman to care for extraneous

dancing, therefore she favoured Carmona in particular.

Still, for the moment he was occupied; and when his back was turned I

whisked Lady Monica out of the ball-room, past the decorated staircase in

the square hall, and to the room at the end of the corridor. There I

pushed aside a portière and followed her in.

She had been right; the room was unoccupied, though two or three bridge

tables were ready for players. In one corner was a small sofa. The girl

sat down, carefully leaving no place for me, even had I presumed; and,

leaning forward, clasped her little hands nervously round her knees.

Then she looked up at me through her mask; and I did not keep her waiting.

“I’ve no invitation to-night,” I said. “But I had to come. I came to see

you. Do you forgive me for saying this?”

“I—think so,” she answered.

“You would be sure, if you knew all.”

“I do know. At least—I mean—but of course, I oughtn’t to be here with

you.”

“According to convention you oughtn’t. Yet—”

“I’m not thinking of conventions. But—oh, I should hate you to

misunderstand!”

“I could never misunderstand.”

I snatched off my mask and stood looking down at her, knowing that my face

would say what was in my heart, and not now wishing to hide the secret.

“You know,” I said, “that I’ve worshipped you since the first moment I saw

you. It was impossible to meet you in any ordinary way, for you have no

friend who would introduce to you the Marqués de Casa Triana. Have you

ever heard that name before, Lady Monica?”

“Yes,” she answered frankly. “I heard it yesterday. From Angèle de la

Mole.”

“Her brother’s a friend of my best friend.”

“I know.”

“If it hadn’t been for him, I should have had great trouble in getting

here to-night. Yet I would have come. Did Mademoiselle de la Mole tell you

that I loved you?”

Lady Monica dropped her head and did not answer, but the little hands were

pressed tightly together.

“I’ve always been proud of my name,” I said, “though it’s counted a

misfortune to bear it; but when I saw you, then I knew for the first time

how great a misfortune it may be.”

“Why?”

“Because my only happiness can come now in having you for my wife; and

even if I could win your love, you wouldn’t be allowed to marry my

father’s son.”

“Your father may have been mistaken,” the girl faltered. “I do think he

was. But he was a gloriously brave man. Even the enemies against whom he

fought must respect his memory. I—I’ve read of him. I—bought a book

yesterday. You see—I’ve thought about you. I couldn’t help it. We saw each

other only those few minutes, and we didn’t even speak; yet somehow it was

different from anything else that ever happened to me.”

“It was fate,” I said. “We were destined to meet, and I was destined to

love you. If I thought I could make you care, that would give me a right I

couldn’t have otherwise; the right to try and win your love, and beat down

every obstacle.”

“I could—I _do_ care,” she whispered. “Even if I were never to see you

again, I shouldn’t forget. This—would be the romance of my life.”

“Angel!” I said. And then she took off her mask, with such a divine smile

that I could have knelt at her feet as at the shrine of a saint.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she asked. “I didn’t find out your name till

yesterday, though I tried before; and we don’t know each other at all—”

“Why, we’ve known each other since the world began. My soul had been

waiting to find yours again, and found it the other afternoon, on the road

to my own land. That’s what people who don’t understand call ‘love at

first sight.’ ”

“I think it must be so; because there was never anything like that first

minute when you looked at me.”

“If I could have known, it would have saved me sleepless nights. For now

you’re mine, my dearest, just as I am yours. Nothing can take you from me

now.”

“Ah, I’m afraid! Even if—everything were different in your life, it would

be difficult; for—there’s someone else in mine already.”

“There can be no one else, since you care for me.”

“Not _truly_ in my life. But there’s someone my mother wants me to marry.”

“The Duke of Carmona.”

“You knew?”

“You see, I’ve thought of nothing but you; and I’ve learned all I could

about what concerns you.”

“I don’t like him, not even as a friend. He’s handsome enough, but I’m

sure he has a most horrible temper. I could be afraid of him. I believe I

_am_ afraid. And mother—you don’t know her, but—when she makes up her mind

that you’re to do a certain thing, you find yourself doing it. That’s one

reason I was so glad when you came to-night, and said, ‘The next is our

dance,’ in such a determined way. Not only did you take me away from

_him_, but—I felt you’d try to _keep_ me from him, in the end.”

“Try!” I echoed. “I will keep you. Trust me my darling. I’ve been foolish

to come to Biarritz under another name. This isn’t Spain; and even a Casa

Triana has a right to be here. But luckily not much harm’s done. Through

the de la Moles I’ll be presented to Lady Vale-Avon; I’ll tell her that,

though compared to the days when my people counted for something in the

history of Spain, I’m penniless, still my father left me enough to live on

and keep a wife who loves me better than she loves society. I’ll tell Lady

Vale-Avon that there are countries in which my name’s well thought of,

even in these piping times; that there I’ll do something worth doing—”

“You’ve already done things worth doing,” the girl broke in; “splendid

things.”

“I’ve done nothing yet, but I’ll change that. I’ll ask your mother to give

me a chance—to wait—”

“No,” she insisted. “Mother would refuse, and everything would be worse

than ever.”

“Darling one, they couldn’t be worse. Because now, I’m doing what I

oughtn’t to do, although it’s been forced upon me by my love. To deserve

you in the faintest degree, I must be open in my dealings. I must speak to

Lady Vale-Avon.”

“She’ll never consent.”

“At least I shall have done the right thing. Now we’ve had this talk, now

you know that you’re all the world, and heaven besides, to me, even for

your mother’s sake you won’t throw me over, will you?”

“No, a thousand times no. I didn’t dream loving would be like this. It

would kill me to give you up.”

“Then nothing can part us.”

“It makes me feel brave to hear you say so. But—you don’t know mother.”

“I know myself, and I trust you.”

“I’m so young, and—I’ve never been allowed to have my own way. I’ve always

given up.”

“Because you were alone, with no one to help you. Now you have me.”

“That’s true. But—”

“Precious one, there’s no ’but.’”

“I wish I could think so! Yet something seems to say that if you speak to

mother, we shall be lost. I love you—but—_do_ let it be kept secret for a

while.”

“With what end?”

“I hardly know. Only, I’ve the strongest presentiment it would be best.”

“And I’ve the strongest conviction that not only would it be wrong, but

that you wouldn’t respect me if I consented.”

“I beg of you, wait at least till the royalties leave Biarritz before you

tell mother, or anyone, who you are.”

I could not help smiling, though rather bitterly. “You’ve heard about my

adventure in Barcelona?”

“Yes, from Angèle. I couldn’t bear it if you were to have trouble here.”

“There’s no danger of that.”

“One can’t tell. Circumstances which you don’t foresee might seem to

involve you in some plot. Oh, if you love me, wait till the royalties have

gone.”

How could I refuse those soft eyes, and those little clasped hands?

I caught the hands and crushed them against my lips, the rosy fingers that

smelled of orris, and the polished nails like pink jewels. As I bent over

my love, the curtain which covered the doorway waved as in a gust of wind.

Quick as light, Monica snatched away her hands, but it was too late.

Carmona was holding back the portière for Lady Vale-Avon.

He must have been watching. He must have known that I had brought Lady

Monica to this room. He must have fetched the girl’s mother on purpose to

find us together.

These were the thoughts in my mind as I faced the two, mask in hand.

They had seen me kissing Monica’s fingers. It was useless to hope that

they had not.

“Leave the room instantly, my daughter,” said Lady Vale-Avon, in a low

voice. She too had taken off her mask.

It was a disastrous situation for me, and one all too difficult to carry

off with dignity.

“Madame,” I said. “I am the Marqués de Casa Triana. I met Lady Monica some

time ago, and have this moment told her that I love her. Now, I ask your

consent to—”

“Casa Triana here!” exclaimed Carmona, in a tone which could have

expressed no more of horror, had I been a bandit at large.

“Have no fear for your house,” I could not help sneering.

He gave me a look not to be forgiven a man by a man. “I have no such

fear,” he said; “but there are those here whose safety is dear to me; and

your name is not one which should be spoken under the same roof.”

It was thus that he chose to inform Lady Vale-Avon, if she had been

ignorant of it, that I was a notorious character.

“Will you tell me,” he went on, “how you found your way into my mother’s

house, where no one of your name could be an invited guest?”

“There’s a window,” said I, thinking to save de la Mole, “by which the

world and his wife might enter.”

“I saw you, masked, in the ball-room half an hour ago.”

Half an hour ago! Perhaps he was not exaggerating. But the thirty minutes,

if there had been thirty, had passed like one.

“I was there,” I admitted, “looking for Lady Monica Vale. We danced

together, and I brought her here—”

“Who is this man, Duke?” Though she spoke to him, Lady Vale-Avon’s eyes,

cold as points of steel, pierced mine.

“A person who, whatever his intentions may be, ought not to be in Biarritz

while King Alfonso’s here.”

“I remember the name now. And he has come to your house, uninvited; he

proposes to marry my daughter—a man whom I’ve never seen! You have your

answer, Marqués de Casa Triana, if you need an answer. It is, no. Pray

accept it quietly, and cease to persecute us, otherwise I must ask the

Duke to act for me, as I have no husband or son. Is that enough?”

“It is not enough,” I echoed. “I love your daughter, and I trust she cares

for me. I will not give her up.”

“Monica, I told you to go, and you disobey me,” exclaimed Lady Vale-Avon.

“Now, I tell you to send this man away.”

“Mother—I love him,” faltered the girl. “Wait—when you’ve heard—when you

know what he is—”

“You talk like a child, Monica,” her mother said. “You are a child. It’s

your one excuse; but this man, who must have hypnotized you, has reached

years of discretion. If he will not leave the room, we must.”

“I’ll go, Lady Vale-Avon,” I said, “but first let me say once more,

frankly, I will never give up your daughter.” Then I looked straight at

Monica. “Trust me,” I said, “as I trust you; and have courage.”

With that I bowed, and walked out at the window by which I hoped the Duke

thought I had come in.

“I’m not sure,” I heard him say to Lady Vale-Avon, “that I oughtn’t to

inform the police. In Barcelona, six or seven years ago—”

I waited for no more.

IV

“I DON’T THREATEN—I WARN”

In the garden I stopped, hiding away a scrap of a lace handkerchief I had

stolen; wondering if I had been altogether wrong, yet not able to see what

other course had been open.

Lingering near the window I saw Lady Vale-Avon go to Monica, and hold the

girl by the hand while she talked with Carmona. They spoke only a few

words. Then the Duke opened the door, and the two ladies went out, Monica

not once looking up.

No sooner had they gone than Carmona walked to the window, and seeing me

in the glimmering night joined me.

“This is my mother’s house,” he said in Spanish.

“And her garden, you would add,” I answered.

“Yes.”

“But there’s something here that is mine.”

“There is nothing here that is yours.” His voice, studiously cold at

first, warmed with anger.

“It will be mine some day, in spite of—_everything_.”

“You boast, Marqués de Casa Triana.”

“No. For Lady Monica Vale has promised to marry me.”

Carmona caught his breath on a word by which, if he had not stopped to

think, he would have given me the lie. But something restrained him and he

laughed instead. “I wouldn’t count on the fulfilment of her promise if I

were you,” he said. “Lady Monica’s a schoolgirl. I would tell you, for

your own sake, that the best thing you can do is to forget you ever saw

her; but that will be a waste of breath. What I will say is, you’ll be

wise to leave Biarritz before anything disagreeable happens.”

“I intend to leave Biarritz,” I said quietly.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“When Lady Monica and her mother leave.”

“You intend to persecute these ladies!”

“Not at all. But when they go to visit the Duchess of Carmona, that will

be—the time I shall choose for leaving Biarritz.”

“Who has spoken of such a visit?”

“A person I trust.”

He was silent for a moment, whether in surprise or anger I could not tell.

But at last he said, “I’m less well-informed than your friend as to the

plans of Lady Vale-Avon and her daughter. They may return to England; they

may go to friends in Paris, they may visit my mother. But this doesn’t

concern strangers like yourself; and my advice to the Marqués de Casa

Triana is, _whatever happens, keep out of Spain_.”

“Do you threaten me?” I asked.

“I don’t threaten—I warn.”

“Thanks for your kind intentions. They give me food for thought.”

“All the better. You’ll be less likely to forget.”

“I shan’t forget,” I answered. “Indeed, I shall profit by your advice.”

And with that I walked away, putting on my mask.

As Romeo had not known at what hour he might wish to leave the house of

Capulet, he had ordered neither his own motor-car nor a carriage; but

luckily a cab was lingering in the neighbourhood on the chance of a fare.

I was glad not to walk to my hotel in the guise of Romeo; and I gained my

quarters without meeting curious eyes in the corridors.

As I expected, Dick was in our private sitting-room, smoking and reading a

novel.

“Well, what luck, friend Romeo?” he asked.

“Luck, and ill luck,” said I. Then I told the story of the evening.

“Humph! you’ve gone and got yourself into a pretty scrape,” was his

comment at the end.

“You call it a ‘scrape’ when by a miracle the sweetest girl alive has

fallen in love with you?”

“Just that, if the girl isn’t old enough to know her own mind, and has a

mother who wouldn’t let her know it if she could. You’ve gone so far now,

you’ll have to go further—”

“As far as the end of the world, if necessary.”

“Oh! you _Latin_ men, with your eyes of fire, your boiling passions, and

your exaggerated expressions! What do we Yankees and other sensible

persons see in you?”

“Heaven knows,” said I, shrugging my shoulders.

“I doubt it. Why, in the name of common sense, as you’d got to the age of

twenty-seven without bothering about love, couldn’t you wait till the age

of twenty-seven and a quarter, go quietly over to my country with me, a

long sight better than the ‘end of the world,’ and propose to a charming

American girl of rational age and plenty of dollars?”

“A rational age?”

“Over eighteen, anyhow. I believe you Latins have a fancy for these little

white _ingénues_, who don’t know which side their bread’s buttered, or how

to say anything but ‘Yes, please,’ and ‘No, thank you.’ When my time

comes, the girl must be twenty-two and a good, patriotic American.”

“American girls are fascinating, but I happen to be in love with an

English one, and it’s her misfortune and mine, not our fault, that she’s

eighteen instead of twenty-two.”

“A big misfortune. You mustn’t kidnap an infant. That’s what makes it

awkward. As I said, you can’t back out now.”

“Not while I live.”

“Don’t be so Spanish. But come to think of it, I suppose you can’t help

that. What do you mean to do next?”

“Watch. And get word to Monica.”

“Angèle de la Mole will do what she can for you.”

“I hope so. Then everything else must depend on the girl.”

Dick’s lean, tanned face was half quizzical, half sad.

“Everything else must depend on the girl,” he repeated. “I wonder what

would happen if anybody tried to prop up a hundred pound weight against a

lilybud?”

V

A MYSTERY CONCERNING A CHAUFFEUR

For many days after this the young King of Spain motored back and forth

between San Sebastian and Biarritz to visit the lady of his love; but at

last the two Princesses bade good-bye to the Villa Mouriscot, and went to

Paris. Lady Vale-Avon and Monica remained; but for the moment the girl was

safe from Carmona, for the Duke followed the King to Madrid.

Lovely as Monica was, is, and always will be, and genuinely in love with

her as I had no doubt Carmona was, still I began to believe that Dick

Waring was right, and that the Duke’s desire to win Princess Ena’s friend

was as much for Court favour as for the girl herself. Several weeks

passed, and Monica and her mother continued to be tenants of the Villa

Esmeralda. They went out little, except to visit the old Duchess of

Carmona, who evidently did all she could to advance her son’s interests

with invitations to luncheons and dinners; but try as I might I was never

able to obtain an interview.

Fortunately for me, Lady Vale-Avon had seen me only in fancy dress; the

costume of Romeo, with a ridiculous yellow-brown, wavy wig, upon which the

_costumier_ had insisted against my arguments. Now, I blessed him for his

obstinacy; for I was able to pass Lady Vale-Avon in the street without

being recognized, and once got near enough to slip into Monica’s hand a

note I had hastily scribbled on the leaf of a note-book.

“Are you willing that I should try my luck again with your mother?” I had

written. “If not, will you consent to a runaway marriage with a man who

loves you better than his life?”

Next day came an answer through Mademoiselle de la Mole.

Monica begged that I would not speak to her mother. “She fancies that you

have gone away,” the girl wrote. “If you came forward I think she would

wire the Duke of Carmona, for she writes to him nearly every day as it is;

and she would do everything she could to make me marry him at once. Don’t

hate me for being a coward. I’m not, except with mother. I can’t help it

with her. She’s different from everyone else. I heard the Duchess saying

to her yesterday, that if I were to marry a grandee of Spain, I would be

made a lady-in-waiting to the Queen instead of maid of honour; so I know

what they’re thinking of always. But while mother hopes you have given me

up, and that I’m quite good, they will perhaps let me alone.

“I wish I dared write to the Princess about you; only, you see, on account

of your father and that horrid accident which happened, in Barcelona, she

might misunderstand you, and things would be worse than before. But if I

find that mother means actually to try and force me, then I _will_ go away

with you. Otherwise, I would rather wait, for both our sakes.

“When I go back to England, there are some dear cousins of mine who might

help us, but it’s no use writing. I would have to see and talk to them

myself. Anyway, if I were there they’d manage not to let me be married to

a foreigner I hate; and you and I could go on being true to each other for

a little while, until everything could be arranged.

“The worst is, mother doesn’t mean to go back to England yet. That’s what

I’m afraid of, and that she has some plan about which she doesn’t mean to

talk till the last minute. But she hasn’t said anything lately about

visiting the Duchess of Carmona in Spain, and I hope she’s giving it up.

As soon as I hear anything definite I’ll somehow let you know. I think I

can promise that, though it may be difficult, as mother will never let

Angèle and me be alone together for a minute if she can help it. The day

after the ball we are having a talk in my room when my mother came, and

perhaps guessed I had been telling Angèle things. Since then I haven’t

been allowed to go to Angèle’s; and though Angèle comes to see me, mother

always makes some excuse for being with us.”

After this letter of Monica’s I had at least some idea of how matters

stood; and in the circumstances there seemed nothing to do but to be near

her, and to wait.

It was not until the latter part of March that the Duke of Carmona came

back to his mother’s villa at Biarritz.

His arrival was not announced in the local paper, nevertheless I heard of

it; and the day after, Mademoiselle de la Mole sent me another letter from

Monica, only a few lines, evidently written in great haste.

They were to pay the visit to the Duchess of Carmona in Seville, and were

to arrive there in time for the famous ceremonies of Holy Week; that was

all she knew. The time of starting was either not decided, or else it was

not considered best that she should know too long beforehand.

“I’m miserable about going,” wrote the girl; “but what can I do? I used to

think it would be glorious to see Spain, but now I’m frightened. I have a

horrible feeling that I shall never come back. I know it’s too much to

ask, and I don’t see how you can do it if I do ask, since I can tell you

nothing of our plans; but if only, _only_, you could keep near me, within

call, I should be safe. I suppose it’s useless to hope for that? Anyway,

whatever happens, I shall always love you.”

To this I wrote an answer, but Angèle feared she might fail in getting it

to her friend. The lease of Lady Vale-Avon’s Biarritz villa had just

expired, and the mother and daughter were moving to the Duchess of

Carmona’s for a few days. For some reason, the Duchess had not once

invited Angèle to come to her house since the ball. She might not be able

to see Monica; and it would be very unsafe to trust to the post.

It was on the evening of the day on which I had this news that my

chauffeur knocked at the door of our sitting-room at the hotel.

“I thought,” said he, “I’d better tell your lordship something which has

just happened. It may be of importance; it may be of none.”

Now I may as well explain that Peter Ropes is no common chauffeur. He is

the son of the old coachman who served my father for many years in

England; was groom to my first pony; went abroad with me as handy man; was

with me through most of my adventures; when I took up motoring,

volunteered to go into a factory and thoroughly learn the gentle art of

chauffeuring; and at this time understood an automobile, and loved it, as

he understood and loved a horse; he is of my age almost to the day; and I

suppose will be with me in some capacity or other till one of us dies. He

has a brown face, which might have been carved from a piece of oak; the

eyes of a soldier; and never utters a word more than he must.

“You said I could go to the _pelota_ this afternoon,” he continued. “When

I came back I went to the garage, and found a strange chauffeur examining

your Gloria. I stood at a distance, behind the King of England’s car, and

watched what he would do. M. Levavasseur, the proprietor of the garage,

came in just then, and I inquired in a low voice who the fellow was. He

didn’t know; but the man had asked for Mr. Trevenna’s chauffeur, saying,

when he heard I was out, that he was a friend of mine. I gave Levavasseur

the hint to keep quiet, and got out of the way myself. Presently the

chauffeur walked over to Levavasseur, and said, in French, that he

wouldn’t wait any longer.”

“Well, what then, Ropes?” I asked.

“He went away, and I went after him. He didn’t see me, and I don’t believe

he would have known me from Adam if he had. He stopped at another garage,

and I thought best not to go in there. But I waited, and after a while a

very dark, tall gentleman, who looked Spanish, walked into the garage.

Five minutes later he and the chauffeur came out together. They parted at

the entrance, and it was the gentleman I followed this time. He went to a

large, handsome villa; and a person I met told me it was the Duchess of

Carmona’s house. That is the reason I thought the thing important.”

“But why, exactly?” I persisted, guessing what Ropes would say.

“Because I think the gentleman was the Duke of Carmona.”

“And if he were?”

“I’ve heard gossip that he’s anxious to stand well with the King of Spain.

It occurred to me he might have some political interest in trying to learn

the real name of Mr. Trevenna, if you pardon my having such a thought. He

might have sent his chauffeur to look at your car, and make a report; and

if he did, whatever the reason was, it would mean no good to your

lordship. I thought you ought to know, and be upon your guard, in case of

anything happening.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re right to speak, and it may be you’ve done me

an invaluable service.”

Ropes beamed; but having said all he had to say, another word would have

been a waste of good material, which he was not the man to squander.

VI

PUZZLE: FIND THE CAR

“What do you think it means?” asked Dick, when the chauffeur had gone.

“It’s just struck me, it may mean that Carmona intends to slip away with

his guests in his new automobile, and that he wanted to find out something

about my car, what it was like, and so on, in case I got wind of the idea,

and followed.”

“The identical thing struck me. He wouldn’t go spying himself, but sent

his chauffeur, a new importation, probably, to have a look at the Gloria

and describe it. I wonder how he heard you had one.”

“Easy enough to do that. Of course he’s found out somehow, perhaps through

employing a detective, that Chris Trevenna and Casa Triana are one man. He

can’t make much use of the knowledge to bother me on this side the

frontier, but—”

“Yes; a big but.”

“It seems pretty certain that his own car must have come, or be coming

here, and that he means to use it going into Spain, or he wouldn’t have

developed this sudden interest in mine.”

“It looks like it. Now he knows, if a dark blue Gloria crosses his path,

it’s the car of the pursuing lover, and—”

“I was just thinking that a dark blue Gloria will not cross his path.”

“You don’t mean—”

“I mean that it won’t be prudent for either Casa Triana’s or Chris

Trevenna’s car to follow his, wherever he means to go.”

“What, you’ll give up—”

“Is it likely?”

“You’re getting beyond me.”

“What I want is to stay with you, in your car.”

“Wish I had one!” said Dick.

“You’re going to have the loan of one. Would a grey or a red car suit you

best?”

“I see. Red, please. They say red paint dries quickest.”

We both laughed.

“Your red car must have new lamps,” I went on, “and a new number, and any

other little things that can be put on in a hurry. And you’d better get a

passport if you haven’t one. Gentlemen touring in foreign lands are

sometimes subjected to cross-questionings which might be inconvenient

unless they’ve plenty of red tape up their sleeves.”

“I’ll lay in a stock. How would you like me to be the accredited

correspondent, for the Spanish wedding festivities, of a newspaper or

two?”

“Rattling good idea. Could you work it?”

“Easy as falling off a log, or puncturing a tyre. I’ll arrange by

telegraph, London and New York.”

“Grand old chap.”

“Thanks. Better wait till I’ve done something. What about your part in the

show?”

“A humble friend, accompanying the important newspaper correspondent in

his travels.”

“That’s all right. But the Trevenna business is played out.”

“A new travelling name’s as easy to fit as a travelling-coat.”

“Not quite, unless you can match it with a new travelling face.”

“Luckily Carmona knows Romeo’s face better than mine. And, anyhow, a

motoring get-up can be next door to a disguise.”

“That’s true. Behind goggles Apollo hasn’t much advantage over Apollyon,

and you can develop a moustache. Yes. I think we can work it as far as

that goes. But one’s always heard that Spanish roads are impossible.”

“They’ll be no worse for us than for Carmona,” I argued. “Besides, most of

the best known books about Spain are out of date. The King has made

motoring fashionable lately, and there must have been some attempts to get

the roads into passable condition.”

“I happened to hear an American who’s here with a sixty horse-power

Panhard, wanting to go to Seville, say to another fellow that he’d been

warned he couldn’t get beyond Madrid.”

“I’ve never bothered much about warnings in my life. I’ve generally gone

ahead, and found out things for myself.”

“We’ll continue on the same lines. And, anyhow, wherever we go, we’re sure

of a leader; our friend the enemy.”

It was next in order to find out whether the Duke really had brought an

automobile to Biarritz; but try as we might, we could learn nothing.

Inquiries were made at the railway stations, both at Bayonne and Biarritz,

as to whether an automobile had lately been shipped through; but as it

happened, no car of any description had arrived by rail in either

direction during the last fortnight.

All the principal garages of Bayonne and Biarritz were visited also, in

the hope of finding a mysterious car which might be the Duke of Carmona’s;

but there was not one of which we could not trace the ownership. We then

sent to Bordeaux, and even to St. Jean de Luz; but in both cases our

errand was vain. If Carmona had an automobile in the South of France, it

was well hidden.

As for the chauffeur who had inspected my car, and afterwards met Carmona

at another garage, he had disappeared, apparently, into thin air.

Nevertheless, Dick and I formed a theory that the new automobile, of which

we had heard so many rumours, was actually in Biarritz; that it had been

driven into the town after dark, and was now being kept by some friend of

Carmona’s in a private garage. And if we were right in our conjectures, we

felt we might take it as a sure sign that the Duke was not only planning

an important tour, but was not forgetting a detail of precaution which

could prevent my learning his intentions.

As we could not set a watch upon the chauffeur, we set a watch upon the

Duke; and it was Ropes who, with considerable relish, undertook the task.

I did not wish to bring a stranger into the affair; and Ropes I could

trust as I trusted myself. Therefore Ropes it was who unobtrusively dogged

Carmona’s footsteps from the time the Duke went out in the morning, up to

the time he went in again at night.

Meanwhile, Dick took steps to become correspondent for _The Daily

Despatch_ of London, and _The New York Recorder_, the editors of which

papers he knew personally. He spent a great deal of money in wiring long

messages, but his reward was success, and, as he said, he was “proud of

his job,” which he intended to carry out as faithfully as if writing

impressions for newspapers were the business of his life.

Also, we got the car repainted; bought lamps of a different sort; ordered

side baskets to be attached, of a red to match the new colour; had Dick

Waring’s monogram, in execrable taste, put on the doors; while last and

most important change of all, from being number A12,901, the automobile

became, illegally but convincingly, M14,317. Cunningest device of all,

Ropes changed the wheel-caps of my Gloria for those of a Frenzel, as like

a Gloria as a Fiat is like a Mercédès; so that only an expert of much

experience would know that the car was not a Frenzel.

A quick dryer was used, and in two days we were ready for anything. I

still hoped for a letter from Monica, with some hints as to her mother’s

plans, but nothing came; and when we had had a blank day, with no news of

activity in the enemy’s camp, it was a relief to have Ropes arrive at the

hotel in the morning just as I was dressed.

I knew the moment I saw his face that something exciting had happened.

“The Duke’s gone, my lord,” he reported; “gone in a dark grey, covered

car; I couldn’t get near enough to make sure what it was, but it looks

like a Lecomte. He’s this moment got off.”

“Not alone?”

“No, my lord. I’ll tell you exactly what took place. I was at the window

in the little room I hired over a shop three days ago, in sight of the

entrance gates of the Villa Isabella. It was just seven o’clock this

morning when a smart, big grey car drove in, might be a forty horse, and

of the Lecomte type. The chauffeur wore goggles, but his figure was like

the fellow’s who came the other day to our garage. About half an hour

later, out slipped the car again, the Duke driving, a lady sitting beside

him, two other ladies in the tonneau, the chauffeur at the Duke’s feet,

and a good deal of luggage on the roof. At the gate they turned as if to

go to San Sebastian; and I came to let you know.”

“That’s right. Get ready at once for a start, and have the car here as

soon as you can.”

“Car’s ready now, my lord, and so am I.”

“Good. But don’t ‘my lord’ me. Now that I’m Mr. George Smith that’s even

more important to remember than in Trevenna days. And don’t forget that

the car’s Mr. Waring’s car.”

“I won’t forget, sir.”

He was off to the garage, and I was knocking at Dick’s door.

Dick was tying his necktie. “Ready to start in five minutes,” said he.

“How did you guess what was up?”

“Your face, d’Artagnan.”

“Why d’Artagnan? Haven’t I a large enough variety of names already?”

“I’ve selected one suitable for the situation. D’Artagnan took upon

himself a mission. So have you; and you’ll have as many difficulties to

overcome before you fulfil it, if you do, as he had.”

“Nonsense. We’re starting out to keep in touch with another party of

motorists.”

“In a country forbidden to one of us.”

“That one can look out for himself. If a lady in another motor should need

someone to stand by her, we’re to be on the spot to stand by, that’s all.”

“Yes; that’s all,” said Dick, laughing. “And all that d’Artagnan had to do

was to get hold of a few diamond studs which a lady wanted to wear at a

ball. Sounds simple, eh? But d’Artagnan had some fun on the way, and I’d

bet the last dollar in my pile we will. Hang this necktie! There; I’m

ready. Have we time for coffee and a crust?”

VII

THE IMPUDENCE OF SHOWING A HANDKERCHIEF

Fifteen minutes later we were off.

I love driving my car, as I love the breath of life, and I’m conceited

enough to fancy that no one else, not even Ropes, can get out of her what

I can. Still, this was not destined to be precisely a pleasure trip, and

prudence bade me give the helm to Dick. He is a good enough driver; and

the car was his car now; I was but an insignificant passenger, with a case

of visiting cards in his pocket, newly engraved with the name of Mr.

George Smith. I sat on the front seat beside Dick, however, silently

criticising his every move; Ropes was in the tonneau; such luggage as we

had, on top.

It was scarcely eight o’clock, and there was so little traffic in the town

that we did not need to trouble about a legal limit. We slipped swiftly

along the rough white road to the railway station, past large villas and

green lawns, and took the sharp turn to the right that leads out from the

pleasant land of France straight to romantic Spain, the country of my

dreams. We sped past houses that looked from their deep sheltering woods

upon a silver lake, and away in the distance we caught glimpses of the

sea. Before us were graceful, piled mountains, the crenelated mass of Les

Trois Couronnes glittering with wintry diamonds. Against the morning sky,

stood up, clear and cold, the cone of far La Rune.

Looking ahead, in my ears sang the song of my blood, sweet with hope, as

the name of the girl I love and the land I love, mingled together in

music.

Gaining the first outskirts of straggling St. Jean de Luz my eyes and

Dick’s fell at the same time upon something before us; a big grey

automobile, its roof piled with luggage, stationary by the roadside, a

chauffeur busy jacking up the driving wheels, a tall man standing to watch

the work, his hands in the pockets of his fur coat. Instantly Dick slowed

down our car, to lean out as we came within speaking distance, while I sat

still, secure from recognition behind elaborately hideous goggles.

“Is there anything we can do?” asked Dick with the generosity of an

automobilist in full tide of fortune to another in ill fortune. I noticed

as he spoke, that he made his American accent as marked as possible; so

marked, that it was almost like hoisting the stars and stripes over the

transformed and repainted Gloria.

“No, thank you,” said Carmona; for it was he who stood in the road looking

on while his chauffeur worked. He had glanced up with anxiety and vexation

on his ungoggled, dark face, at the first sound of an approaching car, and

I knew well what thought sprang into his head. But a red car, with an

American driving, was not what he had half expected to see. He was visibly

relieved; nevertheless, he was slow enough in answering to bring us to a

standstill, while he peered at our wheel-caps.

The deceitful name, glittering up to his eyes, so evidently reassured him

that a temptation seized me, and I yielded without a struggle.

I had come prepared for a quick signal to Monica whenever an opportunity

should arise, and, as I was anxious to let her know that she was not

unprotected, it seemed to me that the first chance of doing so was better

than the second.

In an inner breast pocket of my coat I had the lace handkerchief which I

had stolen on the night of the ball. As Dick questioned Carmona, and

Carmona answered, I flashed out the wisp of lace and passed it across my

lips, not turning to look full at the slim, grey-coated figure on the

front seat, yet conscious by a side glance that a veiled face regarded us.

What I did was done so quickly, that I think it would have passed

unnoticed by the Duke; but Monica, taken completely by surprise, bent

suddenly forward; then, remembering the need for caution, hurriedly leaned

back against the cushions.

Carmona caught her nervous movement, saw how self-consciously, almost

rigidly, she sat when she had recovered herself, and, suspicion instantly

alert, turned a searchlight gaze on us.

The lace handkerchief had vanished. I was sitting indifferently, with arms

folded, my interest concentrated upon the busy chauffeur. Still I felt

there was no detail of my figure and motoring clothes that Carmona was not

noting as he explained to Dick the nature of his mishap.

“A simple puncture,” he said. “And we have all necessary means to mend it,

thank you.”

Dick and I lifted our caps to the ladies and went our way; but it was not

until we had passed the charming Renaissance house where Louis Quatorze

was born, that Waring made any comment on the incident.

“If that Moor-faced chap isn’t on to the game, he’s getting mighty ‘warm,’

as the children say,” he remarked dryly.

“He can’t possibly be certain,” said I. “Even if he saw my face, he

couldn’t swear to identifying it, as the only sight he ever had of me was

in that asinine, yellow Romeo wig. Besides, Romeo had no moustache, and,

thanks to your advice, I have. It’s the one thing that’s conspicuous under

the goggles.”

“A sort of ‘coming event casting its shadow before.’ I didn’t say he

_knew_. I said he guessed. See here, while he’s waiting for his tyre,

could we wire from this town to the frontier in time to have you stopped?”

“We ought to get there before any telegram he could send,” said I,

hopefully. “However, there’ll be a lot of formalities at the custom-house.

They might catch us before we finished. But, uncertain as he must be, it

would hardly be worth his while—”

“I wouldn’t bet much on that,” said Dick.

“Let’s rush it,” said I.

“Too risky. You’d feel such a limp ass to be detained by a fat policeman

at the door of Spain, while Carmona and Lady Monica went through, and

disappeared.”

“I’d shoot the fat policeman first.”

“There you are, being Spanish again, just when you ought to develop a

little horse-sense.”

This put me on my mettle, and in two minutes I had thought out a plan,

while Dick whistled and reflected.

It was rather an odd plan, and could only be carried out by the aid of

another. But that other had never failed me yet, when loyalty or devotion

were needed; and I had not got out half the suggestion when he understood

all, and begged to do what I had hardly liked to ask.

We took exactly eight minutes, by Dick’s watch, in making arrangements to

meet an emergency which I hoped might not arise if our speed were good and

our luck held.

Already Hendaye, the last French town, was but just beyond our sight. We

ran through it at high speed, passed on through little Béhobie; and next

moment our tyres were rolling through a brown mixture of French and

Spanish mud on the international bridge that crosses the swirling Bidasoa.

We had passed from Gaul to Iberia. At the central iron lamp-post, carrying

on one side the “R.F.” of France, on the other the Royal Arms of Spain, I

lifted my cap in salutation to my native land, just where, had I been an

Englishman, I should have lifted it to memories of grand old Wellington.

The broad river was rushing, green and swift, down to Fuenterrabia and the

sea, eddying past the little Ile des Faisans, where so much history has

been made; where Cardinals treated for royal marriages; where Francis the

First, a prisoner, was exchanged for his two sons. We were across the

dividing water now, in Irun, and on Spanish soil. High-collared Spanish

soldiers lounging by their sentry boxes, looked keenly at us, but made no

move, little guessing that the accused bomb-thrower of Barcelona was

driving past them through this romantic gate to Spain. We turned abruptly

to the right, and, hoping still to escape trouble, pulled up at the

custom-house.

To hurry a Spanish official, I had often heard my father say, in old days,

is a thing impossible, and we avoided an air of anxiety. The three men in

the big red car appeared to desire nothing better than to linger in the

society of the _douaniers_. Nevertheless, the chauffeur was as brisk in

his movements as he dared to be.

He it was who jumped from the tonneau, and in passable Spanish asked our

inquisitor which, if any, of our suit-cases he wished to open. At the same

instant a propitiatory cigarette was offered and accepted.

Carefully the overcoated man selected with his eye a piece of luggage on

the car roof. Luck was with us. It was the one easiest to unlock.

In the twinkling of an eye (an American, not a Spanish eye), the thing was

down and in the office. The _douanier_ was about to inspect, in his

leisured way, when a peasant entered with some bags to be weighed.

Naturally the official fell into chat with the new-comer, and it was

necessary to remind him that we had the right of precedence. Every moment

was of importance, for already there was time for a telegram to have

arrived. Presently there would be time for its instructions to be acted on

as well. And at this moment I realized, as I had not fully realized

before, all that it would mean to me of humiliation and defeat to fail

ignominiously on the threshold of my adventure.

It was hard to show no impatience as the _douanier’s_ lazy,

cigarette-stained hand wandered among the contents of the suit-case. When

any article puzzled him, he paused; another precious minute gone. But

eventually, having had a safety-razor explained, he was satisfied with the

inspection of the luggage, and indicated that it might be replaced. Then

came the question of the deposit of money for the car, on entering Spain.

Very carefully did the imperturbable official examine each Spanish

bank-note we tendered; laboriously did he make out the receipt. Had he

meant to detain us, his movements, his words, could not have been more

deliberate. How I had longed to hear again the Spanish language spoken by

Spaniards in Spain, yet how little was I able to appreciate the fulfilment

of my long-cherished wish! At last, however, every formality was complied

with, and we were free to go.

With all speed we took our man at his word. The leather-coated,

leather-legginged chauffeur set the engine’s heart going in time with his

own, flung himself into the tonneau, and had not shut the door when Waring

slipped in the clutch, muttering “Hooray!”

Another second and we should have been beyond recall; but hardly was the

brake off than it had to go crashing on again to avoid running over a

sergeant and two soldiers who rushed up and sprang in front of us, puffing

with unwonted haste.

In his hand the sergeant held an open telegram.

“You speak Spanish?” he panted.

“A little,” said Dick. “French better.”

“I have no French, señor,” replied the sergeant, “But my business is not

so much with you as with this gentleman,” he glanced at the telegram, “in

the grey coat with the fur collar, the grey cap, the goggles in a grey

felt mask, the small dark moustache, the grey buckskin gloves.” (Carmona

had noticed everything.) “Our instructions are to prevent the Marqués de

Casa Triana from going into Spain.”

“Casa Triana? What do you mean?” cried Dick. Then he laughed. “Is the

person you’re talking about a Spaniard?”

“He is, señor.”

Dick laughed a great deal more. “Well, I guess you’ll have to look

somewhere else. There’s a mistake. The gentleman in the grey coat and all

the other grey things has hardly enough Spanish to know what you’re

driving at.”

The sergeant shrugged his shoulders and looked determined. “There is no

mistake in my instructions, señor. I am sorry, but it is my duty to detain

that gentleman. If there is an error there will be apologies.”

“I should say there jolly well was an error,” sputtered Dick, in his wild

combination of Spanish and English and American. “George, show your card.

He thinks you’re a Spaniard, who’s ‘wanted.’ ”

The gentleman in the grey coat showed the visiting cards of Mr. George

Smith, and the Spanish soldier examined them gloomily. “Anybody might have

these,” said he, half to us, half to a group of his countrymen. “Señor, I

must reluctantly ask you to descend and to come with me. It will be much

better to do so quietly.”

“Of all the monstrous indignities,” shouted Dick. “I’m a newspaper

correspondent on a special detail. I’ll wire the American minister in

Madrid, and the English Ambassador too. I’ll—”

But the gentleman in the grey coat had obeyed the sergeant. He had also

taken off his goggles.

“It will be all right in a few hours, or a few days,” said he in English.

“You must go on. Don’t worry about me.”

“Go on without you?” echoed Dick, breaking again into astonishing Spanish

for the benefit of the official. “Well, if you really don’t mind, as I’m

in the dickens of a hurry. You can follow by train, you know, as soon as

you’ve proved to these blunderers that you’re George Smith.”

“If you are Señor George Smith, you will be free as soon as the photograph

of the Marqués de Casa Triana has been sent on by the police at Madrid,”

said the sergeant. “If not—” he did not finish his sentence; but the break

was significant. And the soldiers closed in to separate the alleged George

Smith from his companions of the car, lest at the last moment they should

attempt a rescue.

“We’ll make them sorry for this, George,” said Dick. “But as we really

can’t do much for you here, we’ll get on somewhere else, where we can.”

“I must ask also for the name of the owner of this automobile, and for

that of his chauffeur,” insisted the sergeant, “before I can let you go.”

“Oh, all right,” said Dick, crossly, producing his passport, and cards

with the names of the papers for which he had engaged to correspond.

“Ropes, fork out your credentials.”

The chauffeur brought forth his French papers, and pointed to the name of

Peter Ropes. The sergeant industriously wrote down everything in his

note-book, a greasy and forbidding one.

“It is satisfactory,” he said with dignity; “you can proceed, señores.”

The engine had not been stopped during the scene; and as the gentleman in

the grey coat was marched off to the guard-house with a jostling Spanish

crowd at his heels, the red car in which he had lately been a passenger

slipped away and left him behind.

Through the streets of Irun it passed at funeral pace, as if in respect

and regret for a friend who was lost; but once out in the green,

undulating country beyond, it put on a great spurt of speed, after the

chauffeur had scrambled into the front seat.

“Great Scott, but I’m as hot as if I’d come out of a Turkish bath,”

growled Dick.

“It was a warm ten minutes,” said I. “Poor old Ropes—bless him!” And I

sent back a sigh of gratitude to the staunch friend in my grey overcoat,

cap, goggles, and gloves, to whose loyalty I owed freedom.

VIII

OVER THE BORDER

Here I was in Spain, my Spain—thanks to Ropes; and, again thanks to him,

probably out of danger from Carmona’s suspicions for some time to come,

barring accidents.

He would make inquiries at Irun when he arrived there, and learning that

the obnoxious person had been detained according to information received

from him, would pass on triumphantly. Even when fate brought his car and

ours together, as I hoped it often would, a sight of the two remaining

travellers, the American automobilist and his hideously-goggled chauffeur,

would cause him amusement rather than uneasiness.

He would say to himself that, so far as he was concerned, no harm had been

done, even if no good had been accomplished; for if the banished passenger

were indeed Casa Triana, he had done well to get rid of him. If, after

all, his quick suspicion had been too far-fetched, and he had caused the

arrest of an innocent tourist, that tourist would never know to whom he

owed his adventure, and would be powerless to trouble the Duke of Carmona.

As for Ropes, when the photograph taken of me years ago by the police in

Barcelona should reach the police in Irun, it would be seen that two young

men who are twenty-seven, tall, slim, and have dark moustaches, do not

necessarily resemble each other in other details. Mr. George Smith would

be generously pardoned for having occupied the attention of the police in

place of the Marqués de Casa Triana, and he would be free to rejoin his

fellow-travellers.

During the three or four minutes of discussion we had had before making

the “quick change” which transformed master into man, we had arranged to

communicate with Ropes by means of advertisements in _La Independencia_.

We would forward money in advance to that journal, enough to pay for

several advertisements, and could then telegraph our whereabouts at the

last minute, whenever the movements of Carmona’s car gave us our cue.

This was the best arrangement we could make in a hurry, and when we had

time to reflect, it did not seem to us that, in the circumstances, we

could have done better.

And so, come what might, the outlaw had crossed the border, and was in the

forbidden country of his hopes and heart.

In spite of compunction on Ropes’ account, I was happy, desperately happy.

I was free to watch over the girl I loved and who loved me; and I was

drinking in the air of the fatherland. It did actually seem sweeter and

more life-giving than in any other part of the world.

Dick laughed when I mentioned this impression, and said I ought to try the

climate of America before I judged; but he admitted the extraordinary, yet

almost indefinable individuality of the landscape as well as the

architecture, which struck the eye instantly on crossing the frontier.

It was easy to classify as peculiarly Spanish the old Basque churches, the

long, dark lines of sombre houses bristling with little balconies, and

sparkling with projecting windows, whose intricate glass panes gave upward

currents of air in hot weather. All this, and much more was obvious in

town or village; but Dick and I argued over the distinctive features of

the landscape without fathoming the mystery which set it apart from other

landscapes.

What was so peculiar? There were hedges, and poplars, and other trees

which we had seen a thousand times elsewhere. There was a pretty, though

not extravagantly pretty, switchback road of fair surface stretching

before us, roughly parallel with the sea, giving glimpses here and there

of landlocked harbours with colliers and trampships at anchor. There was a

far background of snow mountains and a changing foreground of spring grass

and spring blossoms; interlacing branches embroidered with new leaves of

that pinky yellow which comes before the summer green.

There ought to have been nothing remarkable, save for the moving figures

which here and there rendered it pictorial; dark, upstanding men in red

waistcoats, driving donkeys; velvet-eyed girls, with no covering for their

heads but their shining crowns of jet-black hair, and none at all for

their tanned feet and ankles, though they carried shoes in their hands;

black-robed priests; brown-robed monks; smart officers; soldiers with

stiff, glittering shakos, and green gloves; oxen with pads of wool on

their classic, biscuit-coloured heads. Nevertheless, Dick agreed with me

in finding the landscape remarkable.

At last we began to wonder if the difference did not lie in colouring and

atmosphere. The sky effects were radiant enough to set the soul of an

artist singing, because of the opal lights, the violet banks of cloud with

ragged, crystal fringes of rain, the diamond gleams struck out from snow

peaks; and yet, despite this ethereal radiance, there was a strange

solemnity about the wide reaches of Spanish country, a rich gloom that

brooded over the landscape with its thoughtful colouring, never for a

moment brilliant, never gay.

“It’s painted glass-window country,” I said. “Old glass, painted by some

famous artist who died in the fourteenth century, and a little faded—no,

subdued by time.”

“You’ve hit it,” said Dick. “There _is_ an

old-glass-window-in-a-dim-cathedral look about the sky. It gives one a

religious kind of feeling, or anyway, as if you’d be thrown out of the

picture if you were too frivolous.”

“I feel far from frivolous,” said I. “But I’m excited. Look here; we’ll be

in San Sebastian and out of San Sebastian soon, if we keep on. But we

mustn’t keep on; for if we do we may miss the other car, and then I should

be as badly off as if I were in Ropes’ place at Irun.”

“We know they’re going to Seville,” said Dick.

“It’s a long cry to Seville. And Carmona may mean to travel by way of

Madrid, through Vitoria and Burgos, or he may mean to take a road which

Levavasseur in Biarritz told me was better, steering for Seville _via_

Santander and Salamanca. It depends on whether he wants to stop at the

capital, I suppose. Anyhow, as he’s unconsciously making our arrangements

as well as his own, there’s nothing for it but we must halt until he

passes and gives us our lead.”

“It’s all the same to me whether we halt or scorch,” said Dick. “I’ve got

more time than anything else. This is your circus; I’m only the

‘prisoner’s best friend,’ as they say in a court-martial. But if we should

go to Burgos, I’ve got an errand to do, if you don’t mind.”

“Why should I mind?” I asked.

“It’s to call on a young lady.”

“You never mentioned having friends there.”

“She’s Angèle de la Mole’s friend. All I know is that she’s Irish, name

O’Donnel; that she’s got a harmless, necessary father, and a brother in

whom my prophetic soul tells me Angèle is interested; that Papa and

Daughter are visiting Brother, who’s in the Spanish army for some weird

unexplained reason, and stationed in Burgos. I promised to take a package

with a present from Angèle to Miss O’Donnel if we stopped long enough at

Burgos, or, if we didn’t go there, to post it. I’ve also a letter

introducing us to Papa. Angèle said it was possible he might have known

your father, so probably he’s lived a good deal in Spain at one time or

another, or the idea wouldn’t have occurred to her. She thought, if we

went to see the O’Donnels, Papa might be useful in case you told him who

you really were; but I wasn’t to bother you about going out of your way

for their sakes; which is the reason I didn’t mention them until now, when

you spoke of Burgos.”

“If Carmona goes in that direction, he’s almost certain to spend the night

there,” said I, on the strength of such knowledge as much study of Spanish

road-maps had given me. “In that case, we shall spend the night too, and

there’ll be time for you to call on your O’Donnels; but as for me, I don’t

know that it would be wise to take extraneous people into my confidence.

And, if it won’t disappoint you, I hope we won’t have to go by Burgos,

although they say the cathedral’s one of the finest in the world, for if

the road’s as bad as rumour paints it, it must be abominable.”

“Well, you’ve got your springs bound up with a million yards of stout

cord, on purpose; and those extra buffers of India rubber Ropes put on to

keep the tyres from grinding against the mud guards; so we ought to get

off pretty well at worst,” remarked Dick. “As for me, I shall feel

defrauded if the car doesn’t soon begin to bound like a chamois from one

frightful obstacle to another, along the surface of the road, such ghastly

things have been dinned into my ears about Castile and La Mancha. So far,

we’ve nothing to complain of, and have been on velvet, compared to some of

the _pavé_ atrocities one remembers in Belgium and northern France.”

“I daresay we shall come to the chamois act yet,” said I. “But, so far,

we’re still in the heart of civilization. Here’s San Sebastian, and here’s

a café close to where Carmona must pass, so let’s stop and lie in wait.”

IX

A STERN CHASE

We were on the outskirts of San Sebastian, and to reach the café we turned

off the main road and ran the car into a side street. There, without being

ourselves conspicuous, we could see all that passed along the road beyond.

We had some vermouth, sitting at a little iron table outside the café

door, to excuse our presence. Every moment we expected to see the Duke’s

car shoot by, but time went on, and it did not come. We finished our first

edition of vermouth and had a second, with which we toyed and did not

drink, by way of keeping our place.

Had they punctured another tyre? Had Carmona stopped in Irun, and had any

mischance occurred there which might, after all, put the police on my

track?

Dick and I were beginning to get restive, and question each other with

raised eyebrows, when the big grey automobile charged past the end of our

street. Not a head in the car turned in our direction; and laying a couple

of pesetas on the table we sprang to the manning of our own road-ship. So

quick was our start that, when we spun out into the road, there was our

leader still within sight.

I had heard my father speak often of San Sebastian, which, situated in the

heart of the Basque country, had been the great Carlist centre, and even

when Carlist hopes died, retained most stoutly the Carlist traditions.

But, Carlist as he was at heart till the day of his death, he could not

fail to appreciate the tact of Queen Cristina, by whose wish a royal

summer villa had risen over the waters of the bay. Owing to this stroke of

clever policy, a poor and discontented town was transformed into the most

fashionable watering place of Spain, and surely if slowly disaffection

merged into prosperous self-satisfaction.

Because of stories I had heard my father tell, I should have liked to

explore the place; but the one thing of importance now was to keep the

grey car in sight until we could be certain which road it would take; so

there was time only for brief glances to right and left as we flashed on.

Through streets with high modern houses, more Parisian than Spanish, we

came at last upon a broad boulevard that led us by the sea. There had been

a picture at home of the deep, shell-like bay, guarded by the imposing

headlands of Monte Urgull and Monte Igueldo, the scene of much fighting in

the Carlist war. The royal palace, Villa Miramar, was new to me save for

the many photographs I had seen of it in Biarritz; but we had no more than

a glimpse of the unpretending red brick house on the hill, before we swept

through a tunnel that pierced a rocky headland, and came out into open

country.

Now our progress developed into a stern chase. By a wrong turn in a San

Sebastian street we lost the car ahead for a few moments, but beyond the

town, where mud, fresh after a recent shower, lay inch thick on the road,

we came upon the track of the flying foe.

There was the trail of the “pneus” as clear to read as a written message,

and we followed, relieved of doubt.

On, on we went towards the south, and the mountains of Navarre, and my

mind was free enough from strain at last to exult in each new glimpse of

the land for which I longed.

Ever since I was old enough to read, I had steeped myself in the history

and legend of my own country. I knew all its wars, and where they were

fought; I knew the names of the towns and villages, insignificant in

themselves, perhaps, made famous by great victories or defeats; and there

was time to think of them now, as we passed along the way the heroes of

the Peninsular War had taken; but there was no time to linger over

landmarks, not even at Hernani, where De Lacy Evans’ British legion was

shattered by the Carlist army in 1836, and where, in the church, we might

have seen the tomb of that Spanish soldier who, at Pavia, took prisoner

Francis I.

Rain fell in swift, fierce downpourings, but left us dry under the cover

of our car; and as we sped on, sudden gleams of sunlight shining on the

wet stone pavements of small brown villages, turned the streets to

glittering silver; while beyond, the trees sprayed gold like magic

fountains against the white sheen of far snow-peaks.

Thus we ran up the winding road by the river Urumea, worming our way deep

into the heart of the mountains; climbing ever higher with a wider view

unfolding to our eyes—a view as new, as strange to me as to Dick Waring.

And yet I felt at home with it, as if I had known it always.

As we ascended, the roads did what they could to deserve their evil

reputation. The rain of a few days ago had been snow in the mountains. The

surface of the road became like glue, and despite non-skidding bands, and

Waring’s careful steering, the car declared a sporting tendency to waltz.

Presently the glue liquefied. We were speeding through sheets of yellow

soup, which spouted from our pneus in two great curving waves, spattering

from head to foot the few wayfarers we met. Down the front glass coursed a

cataract of mud, and Waring could steer only by looking out sideways.

Thrown up by the steering-wheels, the yellow torrent thudded on the roof,

so that we were driving under a flying arch of liquid Spanish earth.

With the approach to a town, however, the way improved. The place was

Tolosa, and at the sound of our motor in the distance, a cry of

“Automovile, automovile,” came shrilly from a score of childish throats.

Even the grown-ups rushed out, and were far more excited than we should

have expected in this motor-frequented part of Spain between Biarritz and

Madrid. In a French town of the same size scarcely a head would be turned

if an automobile passed; here people were as pleased as if we had been a

circus, though only a few moments before they must have had the joy of

seeing Carmona’s car go by.

“If it’s like this in the north, what must it be south of Madrid?” said I.

“Here they’re all wonderfully good-natured; delighted with us in towns and

villages—I believe they’d pay to see us if they had to!—the road-menders

give military salutes, and even the men whose mules and donkeys are

frightened grin as they cover up the silly beasts’ faces with their

shawls.”

“That’s because we behave like decent human beings instead of

marble-hearted scorpions,” said Dick, with an originality of simile which

he cultivates. “When we see that we’re frightening anything we slow down,

slip out the clutch, and glide so stealthily by that the creature gets no

excuse for hysterics. I used to think before you taught me to drive, and I

had the experience and the responsibility myself, that you wasted time

grovelling to animal prejudices; but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve learned

there’s no fun to be got out of pig-selfishness on the road, and leaving a

trail of distress behind.”

“If you hadn’t come to feel that, I couldn’t have made over my car to

you,” said I. “Road brutality would be peculiarly brutal in Spain, where

motoring’s a new sport, and peasants must be made accustomed to it. Every

motorist who slows down for frightened animals, or gets out to help, is

paving the way for future motorists.”

“Somehow I don’t believe Carmona’ll lay much pavement for us,” said Dick,

chuckling.

“Monica won’t stand it if he doesn’t,” said I. “He’s got her sitting

beside him, the beggar; and it’s his _métier_ to please her.”

We had lost the trail of the pneus, but as the country changed we picked

it up again. We were among trees now, and the mountain sides were green

with oak and poplar, though as we dropped the landscape darkened into

desolation. The bleak corner of the world towards which we were speeding

had that formless, featureless look which one sees on common faces, as if

it had been shaken together carelessly by the great Creator in an

absent-minded moment.

No scenery can be unattractive to a motorist while his car goes well, and

the sweet wind flutters against his face; but even I had to admit that

this country—illumined only by snow mountains walling the horizon—would be

irredeemable in dead summer heats.

My map, which I consulted as Dick drove, said that we had passed out of

Navarre into Alava; and suddenly I noticed that we had crossed the

watershed, for the bright streams, instead of running down to the Bay of

Biscay, were spinning silver threads towards the Ebro, on the way to

tumble into the Mediterranean by Tarragona.

Here and there my longing for the strange and picturesque was gratified by

the tragic grace of a tall, ruined watch-tower crowning a desolate hill, a

vivid reminder of days when red fire-signals flashed from hill to hill to

call good Christian men to arms against the Moors. Sometimes creamy

billows of Pyrenean sheep surged round our car, graceful and beautiful

creatures with streaming banners of wool, and faces only less intelligent

than those of the grey dog that rallied them to order, and the brown

shepherd in fluttering garments of red and blue.

The farther south we came, the darker grew the mild-eyed oxen our

automobile frightened. At Biarritz and beyond they were pale

biscuit-coloured; here, the sun seemed to have baked them to a richer

brown.

Nevertheless, that sun had no warm welcome for us to-day. We were nipped

by the bitter wind, which struck us the more coldly as we were hungry; and

about two o’clock we were not sorry to see in the middle of a

wide-stretching plain, the Concha de Alava—a large town which we knew to

be Vitoria.

Luncheon there might be counted upon. It was too chilly for a picnic meal

to be feasible with ladies, therefore Carmona’s car must stop for an hour

or two, and it was clear now that he would go by way of Burgos;

consequently, it was on the cards that Angèle de la Mole’s letter would be

delivered by hand.

We sneaked stealthily into Vitoria, glancing furtively about for a large

grey Lecomte; but it was not long before we caught sight of it in the

distance, in the main street, and drawn up before the principal hotel.

I would have given a good deal if I could have got word to Monica; for,

even if she had happened to see the red car following since Irun, she was

probably miserable in the thought that I had been turned back at the door

of Spain.

Of course, in the fear of disgusting her, Carmona might have kept the

curtain down on the little drama which he had stage-managed. Concealment

would have been difficult, however, as he must have signed his telegram to

the police; and on arriving at the custom-house, some of the facts would

have been liable to leak out in Monica’s hearing.

It was hard that she should be distressed for my sake as well as her own;

but my first fencing bout with the Duke had warned me against rashness,

and I decided that nothing could be done till we reached Burgos. There,

somehow, I would find a way to let her know that it was I, and not the

Duke, who had come out best.

Before joining Dick at lunch I engaged a small boy who sold newspapers in

the street to let us know when the other car started. This was to prevent

our being given the slip by any chance; but it proved a needless

precaution, as we scrambled through a Spanish menu, and still the grey car

slept in its coat of greyer mud before its chosen hotel; therefore Dick

and I bolted a hasty impression of Vitoria, as we had bolted our lunch.

He read aloud as we walked, bits out of a guide-book about Wellington, and

King Joseph, and the battle of Vitoria that had decided the fate of the

Peninsular War; but as it happened, I was more interested in a strange

effect of light and darkness in the sky which for a moment made an

unforgetable picture.

Another wild, April storm was boiling up, and where we stood in the

square, below the long flight of stone steps, the high cathedral above

seemed built against a cloud-wall of ebony. A long sabre of sunlight

struck upon the tower and threw a ray of reflected gold on the white

Virgin in her niche. Over all the town there was no other gleam of light,

and so had the afternoon darkened that it was as if a mourning veil hung

between our eyes and the solemn sky.

Suddenly the deep-toned bells of the cathedral boomed; and the doors

opening, hundreds of women clad in black, with close-folded black

mantillas poured out, down the double stairway to the square.

As they came nearer, and each figure took individual significance with the

breaking of the cloud, the rich browns and blue-shadowed greys of the

buildings—deep and soft as velvet—attained fine value as a background for

lace-framed faces, and the vivid colours of little children’s cloaks.

For a single instant I forgot even Monica, in the tingling sensation that

the life of Spain was throbbing round me, but a touch on my arm brought me

back to her with a bound.

“The grey car is getting ready to start, señor,” murmured a Spanish voice,

as two Spanish eyes looked up—hopeful of pesetas—into mine.

X

THE UNEXPECTEDNESS OF MISS O’DONNEL

I think that not once did Carmona or anyone else in the Lecomte spy the

car which, with the unflagging obstinacy of a bloodhound, kept on the

fresh trail of the pneus that began again outside Vitoria; for while we

had the trail we were satisfied to hover always beyond eyeshot of those in

front.

We had a crowd to see us leave the town, a laughing crowd who seemed to

wonder why people in their senses should rush about the world when they

could stop at home and take siestas. And the peasants by the roadside were

amazingly good-natured too, though we disturbed their avocations and upset

the calculations of their animals.

Stately Spanish señores, whose long brown or indigo _capas_ trailed over

their mules’ backs, smiled thoughtfully and envied us not, rather pitied

us, perhaps. Barefooted women in yellow shawls gave kind smiles, and

flashed looks from eyes like stars, as often blue as black, but always

singularly Celtic. Scarcely a face but was furnished with grave Celtic

features; for Celts these people were long before they were Spaniards; and

there is no type so persistent, except the Jewish.

One handsome old man on a donkey so lost control of his beast when we

swept into view, that he was dislodged, and would have fallen on his face

had he not enmeshed his knees in some intricate tracery of rope. Round and

round spun the frightened animal in the midst of the road, like a cat

chasing its own tail, the rider toppling over, his well-cut nose all but

scraping the ground.

Our car was stopped and I was out in a moment, though it must have been a

long and giddy moment to that human spinning-jenny. A few tangled seconds,

and I had him unwound and reseated, expecting no gratitude. But to my

surprise, when I got the old fellow right side up, I found him wreathed in

smiles, pouring out thanks and wishes for my good speed. Remembering

experiences in other lands which call themselves enlightened, I glowed

with pride of my country folk, especially when the victim of progress

politely refused five pesetas.

As we came nearer to Old Castile, the ancient land of many castles, I felt

as a man must when at last he comes to a house which is his, though never

until now has he held the key and been free to enter.

The northern provinces, peopled by mysterious Basques alien to us in blood

and language, I could scarcely look upon as Spain. But in Castile I saw

the heart and citadel of my native country. My father was Andaluz; my

mother Castiliana, and she used to say that in my nature were united the

qualities of the two provinces—Castilian pride and stubbornness; the

gaiety and recklessness of the true Andaluz.

I hoped that some change of scenery, some sign given by Nature, might mark

the passage into Castilla la Vieja; therefore I was grateful when the car

ran upon a stately bridge, hung above a broad river that was a flood of

tarnished gold. Thence we looked across to the old buttressed and

balconied town of Miranda del Ebro, strange and even startling in its wild

setting of white mountains; and as we slowed down in admiration, from a

dark secretive tunnel which was the principal street of the place, there

seemed to blow out, like wind-driven petals of flowers, a flock of girls

in golden yellow, tulip red, and iris blue. Then, as we looked, followed a

string of black mules with crimson harness, pressed forward by a dozen

young men in short blue trousers, capped like Basques with the red birret.

It was like coming into a picture which our arrival had, in some magic

way, endowed with life; and the effect did not wear off as we ran into the

shadow-tunnel, where the brown dust lit up with flames of colour. Under

the balconies bristling over narrow _calles_, little shops and booths

blazed with red and green peppers, glowed with oranges and the paler gold

of lemons, glimmered with giant pearls which were Spanish onions.

Miranda, I thought, was worthy of Old Castile; and when but a short

distance further on, the way seemed blocked by a high ridge of mountains

flung across our path, I began to hope that my mother’s country—that home

of highest Spanish pride and honour—had some real magnificence of scenery

to give us. We wound into the splendid gloom of the gorge of Pancorbo, cut

like a sword-cleft in the rock; and I said that this scene alone was worth

a journey into Spain.

There was room only for the road, and the foaming Oroncillo tearing its

way through the mountain. High over our heads, where fingers of sunlight

groped, the railway from Paris to Madrid looped its spider’s web along the

precipice, winding through tunnel above tunnel in miniature rivalry with

the sublimities of the St. Gothard. Below, deep in the shadow of the

gorge, crouched the sad village of Pancorbo itself, stricken, desolate,

articulate only in its two ruined castles on the height, Santa Engracia

and Santa Marta, imploring Heaven with silent appeal. Still higher,

towered a guardian mountain of astonishing majesty, seeming to bear aloft

on a petrified cushion a royal crown of iron. It was a place to call up in

memory with eyes shut. This was the majestic entrance into Castile; but it

raised my hopes only to dash them down. Once past the serrated needles and

fingers of Dolomite rock which made the grandeur of the gorge, we came

again to monotony of outline, and began to realize Castile as it is; a

vast and lonely steppe, wind swept, bounded by an infinite horizon.

Treeless, silent, unbroken by hedge or boundary, guarded by a ruined

watch-tower on each swelling hill, the illimitable plain lay sombre and

impressive.

No labourers were to be seen; no villages were in sight, whence men could

come to till the land; nevertheless, everywhere were signs of cultivation

by invisible hands, harvests to be reaped by men who would spring from one

knew not where.

Yet the monotony of these tremendous spaces was redeemed by such changeful

splendour of colour as I had never seen. Swelling undulations, worthy to

be named mountains, were warm with the purple of heather, though no

heather grew upon them. Sometimes you could have fancied, from a sudden

outburst of radiance on a distant hilltop, that a rainbow had lain down to

rest. And through all there was never absent that impression that this was

painted-glass-window country with its rich tones of crimson and violet,

its palely luminous skies, and the solemnity of its blended hues. Always

there was a haunting effect of sadness, even in the spring purity of those

white blossom-arches which decorated the brown monotony of our roads.

The sky still burned dusky red when in the midst of a wide plain, the

soaring twin-spires of Burgos stood up for our eyes against a rose veil of

sunset pinned with the diamond heads of stars. Away to our left, as we ran

towards the town, was a dark building like Eton College chapel standing on

a wind-swept hill; and this I knew to be the convent of Miraflores, where

Isabel la Católica employed Gil de Siloe to make for her father and mother

the “most beautiful tomb in the world.”

I felt a sense of possession in the grand old town, coming upon it thus at

its best; and I was glad that fate had driven me into my own land _en

automobile_. Even though, in following Carmona to watch over the girl we

both loved, I might have to keep often to the beaten track made

commonplace by tourists, the way would never be really commonplace, as to

sightseers who take the ordinary round by train.

Each new hour of life on the road would build up knowledge for me of my

people and my country. I should not be studying it in any obvious,

guide-book way, and I should learn more of real Spain in a few weeks than

in months of conscientious railway plodding from one point to another.

There was no question which hotel Carmona might choose. He would go to the

best; consequently unobtrusive persons whose hopes lay in keeping to the

background, must select one less good.

We halted outside the town, while I consulted a guide-book for the most

Spanish _fonda_ in Burgos. When, straining my eyes in the twilight, I read

out a name, Dick exclaimed, “That’s where Angèle’s friends the O’Donnels

are staying.”

“All the better,” said I. “You can carry out your commission without

trouble. Perhaps you’ll see them at dinner. They’re sure to be the only

foreigners there, so it will be easy to pick out their Irish faces in a

dining-room full of Spaniards.”

There was little room in my mind for the O’Donnel family, however. We were

near Monica now, and my one desire was to let her know that I had not

failed.

We drove through a fine old gateway, up a broad street, and past big

barracks, opposite to which was the hotel where Carmona would stop. But

his Lecomte had already disappeared; and though Dick clamoured for dinner,

I waited only long enough to secure rooms at our own _fonda_ and put up

the car, before going out in search of information.

By this time the Duke and his friends would be dining, and I could venture

as far as the lower offices of their hotel without much fear of being seen

by Carmona’s sharp eyes. In any case, I decided to risk it, and on the way

mapped out a plan of action.

A couple of porters were in the bare hall of the ground floor as I

entered. Walking in with a businesslike air, I said in Spanish, “Have you

some people here who came in a red automobile? They ought to have arrived

this evening.”

“No, señor,” replied one of the men. “We have a party staying for the

night who came in a grey automobile.”

Good fellow, how well he played into my hands! Hiding delight under a look

of disappointment, I said that my friends were in a red automobile. “They

may have been belated,” I went on. “They’ll probably turn up before

midnight. I hope you’ll have good rooms to give them, at the front of the

house. They’re very particular.”

“I’m afraid all our best rooms are occupied,” said the man. “The señor who

came in the grey automobile has taken five rooms along the front, on the

first floor, with a private sitting-room. Unfortunately, your friends will

have to put up with something at the back.”

I expressed regret, and went away joyful, having astonished the porter by

pressing upon him two pesetas. I now knew all I wanted to learn,

even—roughly speaking—the position of Monica’s room; and I saw a way of

sending her a message.

Dick was ready for dinner when I got back, but I did not try his patience

long. He had inquired if the O’Donnels were still in the hotel, and had

been told that they were, though they were leaving in a day or two. This

was all we knew when we entered the dining-room, but, as a good many

people were still seated at the long table and the numerous small ones, we

glanced about in search of Mademoiselle de la Mole’s friends.

There was not a face to be seen which you would not confidently have

pronounced to be Spanish, if you had met it at the North Pole.

Dick and I sat down at a little table and began to talk in English, while

round us on every side the Spanish language—pure Castilian, and slipshod,

mellifluous Andaluz—gushed forth like a golden fountain.

Hunger, long unappeased, at first inclined Dick to a cynical view of life

in general, and Spanish hotel life in particular, but his temper improved

as the meal went on, and he even forgave me for deserting a starving man.

“No sign of the O’Donnels,” said he. “Perhaps they’ve a private

dining-room.”

“I doubt there’s one in the house,” said I.

“Well, I’ll inquire later,” Dick went on. “I’ve looked at every face here,

and—”

“At one in particular,” I cut in.

Dick reddened. “I hope I haven’t been staring,” said he; “but she _is_ the

ideal Spanish girl, isn’t she? If I were an artist, I’d want to paint

her.” As he spoke, his eyes wandered towards the table next ours, which,

since a dish of Spanish peppers, rice, and chicken made a man of him, had

monopolized all the attention he could spare from dinner.

I had noticed this; hence my gibe. But Dick was not far wrong about the

girl.

Her place at the table put her opposite him; and her companion was a

rotund, brown man, with the beaming face of a middle-aged cherub, and the

habit of murmuring his contributions to the conversation in an Andalucían

voice, with an Andalucían accent mellifluous as Andalucían honey.

The girl herself was true Andaluza, too, though of a very different type

from the cherubic person who (Dick hoped) was her father. No such brown

stars of eyes ever opened to the world outside Andalucía; nor did any save

an Andaluza know, without being taught, how to give such liquid, yet

innocent, glances as those, which occasionally sparkled from under her

long lashes for Dick, when the Cherub was not looking.

She was a slim young thing, with a heart-shaped face of an engaging olive

pallour; a pretty, self-conscious mouth, which changed bewitchingly from

moment to moment; and heavy masses of dark hair piled high after the

Spanish fashion, as if to suit a mantilla—hair so smooth and glossy that,

from a little distance, it had the effect of being carved from a block of

ebony.

“She’s perfect of her kind,” said I; “but I thought you preferred American

types.”

“Rot!” said Dick. “Comparisons are odious. I say, thank Heaven for a

pretty girl, whatever she may be. But there’s something particularly

fascinating about this one.”

“I see a serious objection to her from your point of view,” I went on.

“She’s too young. You draw the line at them under twenty-two. I’ll bet you

she won’t see twenty-two for a couple of years yet.”

“She might be worth waiting for,” said Dick.

“No good. She’ll be married long before twenty-two. All self-respecting

Spanish girls are. You’d better not think of her any more. Forget her, and

look up Miss O’Donnel.”

“Angèle de la Mole says Miss O’Donnel’s pretty,” said Dick. As he spoke,

he beckoned a waiter; and I noticed that the girl with the eyes no longer

made any pretence of hiding her interest in Dick. She even whispered to

her companion, who, after listening to what she had to say, turned to look

at us with benign curiosity.

“Ask whether he knows Colonel O’Donnel and Miss O’Donnel by sight,” Dick

commanded when the waiter appeared, to breathe benevolence and garlic upon

us in equal quantities. He was shy of airing his own Spanish before a

roomful of Spanish people.

I asked; the waiter looked surprised, and to Dick’s confusion and my

astonishment, indicated the occupants of the next table.

“The colonel and the señorita,” said he. It was so startlingly like an

introduction that the cherubic brown man sprang up and bowed; and the

girl, bending over the _mazapan_ in her plate, let us see the very top

coil on her crown of black hair.

Dick, overwhelmed, and recalling every word we had said, as a drowning man

recalls each wicked deed of his life from childhood up, got to his feet,

and began stammering explanations.

“Well, that shows what an idiot a man can make of himself,” said he.

“Miss—Mademoiselle de la Mole gave me a letter of introduction, and a

parcel with some little present, and I was looking around for you. My

name’s Richard Waring; I don’t know whether mademoiselle’s written about

me. Anyhow—”

“Señor,” announced Colonel O’Donnel, grieved at Dick’s distress; “no

entiendo.”

“Habla usted español?” asked the girl. “No Inglees, we, much.” And she

smiled a dimpled smile, straight at Dick, with one side glint for me.

Dick was, to use against him a favourite word of his own, flabbergasted.

“Then you’re not Colonel and Miss O’Donnel?” said he. “I though you

couldn’t be, but—”

“Si, si,” the Cherub reassured him, nodding. “O’Donnel. Aw—right.” He

laughed so contagiously that we laughed too; and I found my heart warming

to these unexpected, surprising friends of Angèle de la Mole’s.

“Me María del Pilar Inés O’Donnel y Alvarez,” the girl introduced herself.

“Angèle de la Mole, mi—mi _fren_.” Having wavered so far, between Spanish

and English, she flung herself headlong into her native tongue. This was

the signal for the Cherub also to begin fluent explanations, both fluting

Andaluz together, and so fast, that Dick (painstakingly taught a little

Castilian by me in leisure moments) found himself at sea, and drowning.

I had to translate for him such facts in the O’Donnel family history as I

could unravel from the tangled web. The mystery of Angèle de la Mole’s

Spanish-speaking Irish friends (which she must have refrained from

explaining in order to play a joke upon Dick) was solved in a sentence. An

O’Donnel grandfather had fought in Spain under Wellington in the

Peninsular War, and stayed in Spain because he loved a Spanish girl who

had many acres. The Cherub’s father was born in Spain, and spoke little

English. The Cherub himself spoke none, or but a word or two. He was a

colonel in the Spanish army, now retired. That was all; except that his

son and daughter had once studied an English grammar, until they came to

the verbs; then they had stopped, because life was short and full of other

things. “But,” said Miss O’Donnel proudly, “me know, two, three, word.

Lo-vely. Varry nice. Aw raight. Yes.”

When she thus displayed the store of her accomplishments, punctuated with

dimples, any man not head over ears in love with another girl, would have

given his eyes to kiss her. I was sorry for Dick. As for me—I found myself

longing to tell Doña María del Pilar Inés O’Donnel y Alvarez all about

Lady Monica Vale, with the conviction that her help would be of

inestimable value.

Such is the power of a girl’s eyes upon weak man, even when he adores a

very different pair of eyes; and already it was strange to remember my

stiff disclaimer of a wish to know the O’Donnels. I had called them

“extraneous.” What a dull ass!

XI

MARÍA DEL PILAR TO THE RESCUE

At last, when the general confusion had subsided, I was able to impress

upon the delightful pair that, if they would but speak very slowly, and

kindly trouble themselves to give a word of three syllables, say, two of

them (a punctilious habit disapproved in Andalucía) Señor Waring would be

able to join the conversation. With true Spanish goodheartedness they did

their best, though Heaven knows what it must have cost them. Dick also did

his best, with a conscientious American pronunciation; but where tongues

halted, eyes spoke a universal language, and we all got on so well that in

ten minutes we might have known each other for ten years.

By the end of those minutes we were asked to the O’Donnel’s sitting-room,

which had been furbished up out of a bedroom; and there Dick brought the

famous letter of introduction and the white paper parcel tied with pink

ribbon.

My name had not been mentioned by Angèle. I was merely a “friend of Mr.

Waring’s”; and, it seemed, I had been designated vaguely thus in a

previous letter in which our arrival had been prophesied. This had been

Angèle’s way of leaving it open for me to introduce myself as I pleased;

but now there was no secret with which I would not have felt safe in

trusting our old friends the O’Donnels, so I gave them my real name.

The Cherub’s face lit up. “I knew your father well,” said he. “We learned

soldiering together as boys, though he was four or five years my senior,

and the hero of my youth. Our ideas”—--he coughed in an instant’s

embarrassment—“were different. This separated us. But I never forgot him.

He was a great man; and it’s an event to meet his son. When I saw you

downstairs in the dining-room, it was like going back thirty years. Such a

young man as you are now, was your father when I had my last sight of him.

You are his living portrait.”

We shook hands; and I believe, with the slightest encouragement, the dear

old fellow would have planted a kiss on each of my cheeks. That he did

not, was a tribute to my English education.

The next thing was, that at Dick’s request I was telling them everything;

and as Pilar listened to the story which prefaced my errand in Spain, her

eyes, which had been stars, became suns. When I spoke Carmona’s name, she

and her father uttered an exclamation.

“El Duque de Carmona!” echoed the Cherub.

“He!” cried Pilar. And they looked at each other.

For a single second, I asked myself if my frankness had been a mistake.

“You know the Duke?” I asked.

“Santa María, but do we know him!” breathed the girl. “I wish we could

tell you no.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Do we like the Duke, Papa?”

The good Cherub shook his head portentously. “The Duke of Carmona is a bad

man,” he said. “He has not done _us_ any harm—”.

“Oh—oh!” Pilar cut him short. “He has not driven into a convent one of my

best-loved friends?”

“My daughter refers to a sad story,” explained her father. “In Madrid it

made a stir at the time. He jilted a school friend of Pilarcita’s. That is

almost an unheard-of thing in Spain; but he did it. The young girl’s

family got into trouble at Court—an insignificant affair; but the Duke is

ambitious of favour. He had something to retrieve, after the scandal

during the Spanish-American War, when he was quite a young man—not more

than twenty-four—and—”

“You mean, the story that he speculated in horses—bought wretched crocks

cheap and sold them to the army for the cavalry, with the connivance of

the vets he’s supposed to have bribed?”

“Yes. He managed to clear himself; but the royalties looked at him coldly,

and he is not a man to bear that. The father of the girl—Pilarcita’s

friend—was at one time much liked by the young King, and people thought it

was Carmona’s motive for engaging himself. With the first breath of the

storm the Duke was off; and the discarded fiancée entered as a novice the

convent where she and my daughter went to school. That is why Pilarcita so

much dislikes him—”

“But it’s not all!” cried the girl. “What about the grey bull, poor

Corcito.”

Colonel O’Donnel laughed his gentle, chuckling laugh.

“Our home is close to a _ganadería_—a bull-farm of the Duke’s near

Seville,” he explained indulgently. “The places adjoin; and as I’ve

allowed this Pilarcita to grow up a wild girl, very different from the

young ladies of Seville she should emulate, she has made friends of the

Duke’s cattle. There were, some years ago, a grey bull that was as tame

with her as a pet dog; but it took a dislike to the Duke, who came to have

a look at his bulls once, and attacked him. The saying is that the Moorish

blood in the Carmonas gives them a cruel temper. At all events, Carmona

could not forgive the bull its disrespect, and promptly had it sent off to

the slaughter-house, though it was a _toro bravo_.”

“That’s like him,” said I.

“There’s nothing he wouldn’t do against an enemy, or to gain a thing he

wanted,” said Pilar, turning to me. “Take care, now he wants something you

want.”

“It’s been so between our families for generations,” I said. “My

grandfather ran away with the girl his grandfather wanted to marry, and my

father and his in their youth had a furious lawsuit.”

“Which won?” asked the girl.

“My father.”

“Be sure he will remember,” said she. “Oh, how I wish we could help you!

It would be such a revenge upon him for poor Eulalia and for Corcito.

Papa, _can’t_ we do something?”

“If we could,” echoed the Cherub, “_for his father’s son!_”

Suddenly the girl jumped up and clapped her hands. “Oh, I have thought of

the thing!” she cried “It would be like a play.” But her face fell. “I

don’t know how to propose it,” said she. “Perhaps you and Mr. Waring would

disapprove. And how could we invite ourselves—”

She stopped; but I made her go on. “Please tell us,” I said. “It’s sure to

be a splendid plan. And anything associated with you would bring luck.”

“This would be very much associated with us,” said she, laughing; “for the

idea is that, instead of going home by rail as we meant to do, day after

to-morrow, we go on in your car with you, pretending to be Mr. Waring’s

guests, and you supposed to be my brother Cristóbal.”

“Pilarcita, some wild bird has built its nest in your brain,” said the

Cherub.

“Wait till I finish!” the girl commanded. And it was easy to see that,

though her father shook his head, she was a spoilt darling who could do

nothing wrong.

“I only wish Cristóbal were here,” she went on, breathlessly; “but there

was a regimental dinner, and he had to leave us. He’ll come in later, and

you shall meet him, and hear what he says to the plan. Oh, there’s not

much fear that he’ll object, when you are Angèle’s friend, and she’s doing

all she can for you. He’d walk through fire to please Angèle. And this

would be but to give up his leave—or at least the going home with us—and

lending you his uniform, which I’m sure would fit you sweetly.”

I could not help laughing at the way she disposed of her brother and his

plans, to say nothing of those she was making for me; but she rushed on,

anxious to justify her counsel.

“You don’t understand yet,” she insisted. “It’s a _wonderful_ idea. You

see, papa and I have met the Duke in Madrid, at friends’ houses. I’ve

scarcely spoken to him, for Spanish girls don’t have much chance to talk

with men, but he’ll remember me, and papa too. The lucky thing is, he’s

never seen my brother since Cristóbal was a little boy, and then no more

than once or twice, when he came out to his _ganadería_. He must know, if

he stops to think, that papa has a son; that’s all. And you say the Duke

only saw you at the fancy dress ball, in a Romeo costume, with a fair wig.

When Lady Monica Vale gave that start forward, and looked at you in the

automobile, although you’d made your car different he fancied you might be

in it, and telegraphed to have the man he suspected kept back at Iran.

Well, it was clever of you to change with your chauffeur; but all the

same, if you go on, dressed as a chauffeur, you can never have a chance to

get near Lady Monica. And if you appear as yourself, even though the Duke

isn’t sure it’s _you_, he’ll keep Lady Monica out of your way. And her

mother will help him, as she wants them to marry. But think how different

for my brother! We all happen to meet—suppose it’s in the cathedral—and

papa says: ‘How do you do? You don’t remember Cristóbal?’ He’d simply have

to accept you as Cristóbal, although he might find Cristóbal rather like

that troublesome Marqués de Casa Triana.”

“Casa Triana is also Cristóbal,” I laughed. “Ramón Cristóbal.”

“All the better. We shouldn’t any of us have to fib. I always said

Cristóbal is the luckiest saint to have for a patron. See how he’s

_offering_ his help to you. And oh, _did_ you know he’s the patron saint

of automobilists? To-morrow I’ll give you a Cristóbal medal to nail on

your car. They’re made on purpose; such ducks! But now do you begin to

understand what I’m driving at, and that it wasn’t just _impudence_ to

suggest our going in your automobile, papa and I? What with us, and San

Cristóbal, you ought to get your foot on the Duke’s head.”

“But what about your brother Cristóbal?”

“Oh, he! We must all thank San Cristóbal that he has this leave, otherwise

the Duke could easily find out; but instead of going home he can go—why,

he can go to Biarritz, where he will see Angèle, so it will be nice all

round. And imagine yourself in his uniform, walking with us in the

cathedral, where the Duke is sure to take Lady Monica and her

mother,—otherwise, why stop at Burgos? One comes for that, and nothing

else, unless one has a little brother in the garrison. _Now_ what do you

say, Don Ramón?”

“I say you’re an angel,” I replied with promptness. “But I also say that

Colonel O’Donnel won’t allow such an arrangement.”

“Oh, won’t he?” exclaimed Pilar. “Do you think I’m an ordinary girl of

southern Spain, who says ‘yes, yes,’ and ‘no, no,’ as her parents wish,

and looks down on the ground while life passes? Only to think of being

like that is enough to make a woman grow a moustache and have an

_embonpoint_ out of sheer ennui. It’s my Irish heart which keeps my father

and brother alive; and when I want to do a thing they hurry to let me do

it lest I have a fit—of which I would be capable.”

“As you are a Cristóbal,” said the Cherub mildly, “it might be managed, if

you liked, without our having to go more than an extra time to confession.

I could wear the sin upon my conscience, if you could; and if you could

wear also the uniform of my son.”

“I’d like to see Carmona’s face when you’re introduced,” remarked Dick, in

his slow Spanish.

“You will see it,” exclaimed Pilar; and with this, the door opened and the

other Cristóbal came in.

XII

UNDER A BALCONY

I liked the brother because he had his sister’s eyes, and—being the

ordinary, selfish, human man—I liked him still better for his enthusiastic

desire to help the last of the Casa Trianas. Whether his enthusiasm was

for the sake of Casa Triana, or Angèle de la Mole, was a detail. It had

the same effect upon my affairs; and having taken very little time for

reflection. I let myself be hurried away on the tide.

Pilar—as unlike a Spanish girl in mind as she was like one in

face—stage-managed us all. We merely accepted our parts in the play, I

thankfully, the others calmly.

Brother Cristóbal was, perhaps, not sorry to make an unexpected flight to

Biarritz, with news of Dick and me as an excuse, instead of spending his

leave tamely at home. There was, at all events, a suspicious alacrity

about the way in which he agreed to disappear as early as possible the

following day. As he was wearing the uniform which was to be made over to

me, it was decided that he should bring it to my room next morning before

hearing mass at the cathedral. It was Pilar’s idea that I should go there

with him, getting off before the _fonda_ was fully astir, and seek

sanctuary in dusky corners of remote chapels until my friends arrived.

“We’ll find out when the Duke and his mother take Lady Monica to look at

the cathedral,” said the girl, delighting in her own ingenuity; “and then

we’ll start too. Though we can’t bear the Duke, we’ve always been civil to

him and his mother whenever we’ve met in Madrid, praise the saints, so

they can’t be rude to us now. If we go up and speak, they’ll have to

introduce us to Lady Vale-Avon and Lady Monica. I shall take a _great_

fancy at first sight to Lady Monica, of course; and I shouldn’t wonder if

I can make her like _me_. The rest will be easy for the whole trip. Oh, we

shall have fun!”

I began to think we should, and that, thanks to a girl’s counter-plotting,

I should have pretty plain sailing in spite of Carmona. But because I

began to see land ahead, I was the more anxious to give Monica peace of

mind; and when we said good-night to the O’Donnels about half-past ten, I

set out to carry through the plan I had thought of before dinner.

On the wall of the landlord’s office, off the main hall, I had seen a

guitar hanging. It belonged to his son, a romantic-looking young fellow,

whose sympathetic soul delighted in lending the national aid to courtship,

without asking a single question.

I would be no true Spaniard if I could not play the guitar; and in fact my

mother had given me some dexterity with the instrument, before I was ten

years old. I had neglected it for years; nevertheless, my fingers had but

to touch the strings to be on friendly terms with them.

Madrid and Seville would probably be waking up to fullest life at this

hour; but in provincial towns one goes to bed early because there is

nothing more amusing to do.

At eleven the windows of the principal hotel were dark; and without being

stared at curiously by any passer-by, I stationed myself under the first

floor balconies, with my guitar.

I did not know which room was Monica’s, but I did know that it could not

be far away; and I counted on the chance that anxious thoughts might keep

her from sleeping soundly.

Softly, and then more boldly, I began to thrum the air of the Hungarian

waltz which they had played that night at the Duchess of Carmona’s, while

I told Monica I loved her. Often its passionate refrain had echoed in my

ears since, and brought the scene before me. I hoped that Monica also

might remember.

Five minutes passed, and still I played on, yet nothing happened. Then,

when I had begun to fear failure, I heard a faint sound overhead. A window

was opening. There was no gleam of light, no whisper; but something soft

and small fell close to my feet. I stooped and picked it up. It was a

rose, weighted by a grey suède glove, tied round the stem; and the glove

was scented with orris, the same delicate fragrance which had come to me

when I kissed Monica’s hand, and her letters.

She had had my message, and answered it.

XIII

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CATHEDRAL

Before six next morning, Cristóbal O’Donnel was tapping at my door, with

the promised uniform and accoutrements concealed under the military

overcoat which was also to be put at my disposal.

Hearing our voices, Waring appeared, yawning, at the door of the adjoining

room, and there was a good deal of stifled laughter among the three of us,

as I got into my borrowed red and blue. The things fitted well enough, as

I have only an inch or two the advantage of the other Cristóbal, and even

the cap accommodated itself to my head almost as if it had been made for

me. When I was ready for the part assigned by Pilar, Dick said that I had

never looked so well before, and probably never would again.

My suit-cases were packed, and the programme which Dick had to carry out

when O’Donnel and I had gone, was to settle our account at the hotel, get

the luggage bestowed on the roof of the car, and finally to drive round to

the cathedral door, in order to start from there in the end, without going

back to the _fonda_ or garage. We were grumbling at the absence of poor

Ropes, when there was a discreet knock at the door, and Ropes himself

appeared as we opened it, like a jack-in-the-box.

His happy smile was changed to a stare of surprise at sight of me in the

uniform of a Spanish officer, but true to his training he ironed all

expression out of his features in an instant, and allowed himself to look

only decorously pleased when Dick and I welcomed him with enthusiasm.

“Well done!” said I. “Did you break out of gaol?” But to tell the truth I

was faintly uneasy; because, if he had, it would mean trouble for us all

presently, when we had been traced by the police. But I need not have

doubted the faithful Ropes.

“No, sir, I didn’t break out,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have done that in

any case, though I didn’t like to think of my work on your hands. But I’ll

tell you how it was, if I won’t be disturbing you.”

O’Donnel, who could not understand a word, thought that he must be off, as

he wanted to hear mass and catch the train for Biarritz. I let him go

without me, therefore; and after our good-byes, Dick and I clamoured for

Ropes’ story.

“It was a rum go altogether, sir,” said he. “They took me off to the head

police office at Irun, and the chief asked me all manner of questions; but

I kept on repeating ‘no comprendo,’ and showing the cards of Mr. George

Smith. I couldn’t understand all their jabber, but they mentioned your

name, and from the way they looked when I put on my stupid airs, I thought

they began to have their doubts. The chief policeman motioned me to stop

where I was, and ordered two of the men to go somewhere. From my place, I

could see the bridge, and the two policemen who seemed to be looking for

something.

“By and by came the thrum of an automobile, and I could tell it was a

Lecomte. A minute later the chaps outside were talking to the Duke of

Carmona, who stopped his car where they were. They talked a bit; then he

gave the wheel to his chauffeur and came into the police office. The chief

treated him very deferential; they laid their heads together in a corner,

but I could see them reading a telegram, and once and again they had a

squint at me.

“I knew too much to let on I suspected the Duke of a hand in the business,

but having heard him answer Mr. Waring about the tyre in English as good

as my own, I jumped up and asked if he’d interpret for me with the police.

I explained what had happened, showed my card, and said there’d been a

silly mistake which was causing me no end of annoyance. Then I said I’d

write to _The Times_, about the sort of thing that happened to Englishmen

travelling in Spain, and talked of the Embassy at Madrid.

“All the time I was speaking the Duke pulled his moustache and stared so

hard, if I’d had on a false moustache or wig, or any of that kind of

business, he’d have been sure to find it out. He looked cross and puzzled

too; but finally he said, as I was English, and he believed they were

wanting a Spaniard, there must be a mistake, and he would do the best he

could to help me. I suppose he must have told them they were on the wrong

job after all, for after he’d gone, and they’d buzzed awhile and made out

a lot of papers, they said that as a very important person certified to my

being Mr. George Smith, I could go.

“By this time it was afternoon, and I wanted to get on as soon as

possible, so I took the next train for San Sebastian, and hunted up a

place to hire a motor bike. I didn’t know where you’d have gone after

that, so I couldn’t book by train; but I counted on picking up your trail

if I kept the road.”

“How could you expect to do that, since there must be a lot of automobiles

going back and forth between Biarritz and San Sebastian, even at this time

of year?” said I.

“Why, from the non-skids, sir. I’d know ours anywhere. There’s three of

the steel studs worn close down on the off driving wheel, which makes a

queer little mark in dust or mud. I could even see, once I got on to the

tracks, that you’d followed the Duke’s car, for your tracks came sometimes

on his, almost obliterating his trail for a bit. I can tell you, sir, it

cheered me up to be coming on your tracks like that. Made me feel at home

in a strange country. The bike took me along pretty well, too; but do the

best I could, night came on without my overtaking you. For fear of losing

the tracks, I put up at a _posada_, got under way the minute there was a

streak of dawn, and found you here by inquiring.”

“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes as well as a thorough brick, Ropes,”

said I. “Now, have something to eat; get the motor bicycle back to San

Sebastian by rail, and be ready for another start.”

With this I was off, leaving him to Dick. I turned the collar of

Cristóbal’s big coat up to my eyes, pulled the cap down far enough almost

to meet it, and went out, praying to meet none of Cristóbal’s

fellow-officers.

The wild wind for which Burgos is famed wailed through the long, arcaded

streets with their tall yellow buildings, and tried to hurl me back from

the great honey-coloured gateway with its towers and pinnacles, where I

would have paused to pick out the statue of the Cid from other battered

statues in weather-beaten niches.

The few men who passed, wrapped in black _capas_ turned over with blue or

crimson, had the fine-cut, melancholy features of those who live in

northern cold, and their glances were as chill as the weather. But that

was better than if they had taken too much interest in a strange face in a

familiar uniform; and it would have needed more than a freezing stare to

blight the spring in my heart, for I was going to Monica.

I was ready to love Burgos for the sake of my childhood’s hero, the brave

old Cid, with whom every stone seemed to be associated. This was the city

of the Cid as well as the country of the Cid; and if I had come into my

fatherland as a sightseer, and not as a lover, I should have gone on a

pilgrimage to his tomb at the convent of San Pedro de Cárdeña, only a few

kilometres out of Burgos—that City of Battles.

As it was, I should have to be content with reading about it in some book,

for Carmona would not desert his car to go; and where Carmona went, there

must I go also.

At least I had a cup of coffee at “The Café of the Cid” on my way to the

cathedral; and the first landmark I sought in that triumph of Gothic

grandeur was the coffer of the Cid. I might have hours to wait, I knew,

before the others would come, though in order to reach Valladolid at a

decent hour, they must not delay too long. But sooner or later they would

certainly arrive, for Carmona could not, for shame’s sake, rush Monica out

of Burgos without showing her the glory of Burgos. And meanwhile, for none

save a paltry soul could Time have halted, heavy-footed, as a companion in

that realm of shadowed splendour.

It was the first of the famous cathedrals of Spain on which I, an outcast

son, had set my eyes; and a glimpse of the twin-spires from afar had given

me some inkling of its beauty. Wrapped in sunset flames, I had seen the

towers as if cut in precious stones, chiselled, according to legend by

angels, like a queen’s bracelet, adorned like an old reliquary. I had said

to myself that the vast building was a wild festival in a stone, a bravura

song in architecture. And if I remembered, as I looked, other twin towers

which are the glory of the Rhine, I tried to put the reminiscence away,

because I wanted the cathedrals of Spain to be different from those of any

other country. I wanted them to speak to me with their own national

inspiration. And this morning, as I flitted with the other shadows into

the solemn dusk of the great nave, I was satisfied. I found no German

inspiration here. Each detail struck the same curiously national note,

from the rare iron-work to the octagonal lantern, a miracle of Plateresque

design, which lifted itself, clear and bright, above the centre of the

great church. Perhaps the effect lay partly in the gorgeous colour, colour

never tawdry, never vulgar, as I had seen it sometimes in Italy; or else

in the wonderful reliefs; statues in niches of gold, flowering stones,

arabesques, alabaster columns, richly-toned pictures; but no matter whence

it came, it was there, and could have been nowhere except in Spain.

I wandered from chapel to chapel, saw the strange mummy-like figure of the

Christ of Burgos, supposed to shed blood every Friday; admired the

treasures of the sacristy; and, I am half-ashamed to say, had just

dedicated a candle to propitiate San Cristóbal, when my heart gave a leap

at sight of four persons who appeared from behind the grand coro which

fills the nave.

The old Duchess of Carmona, brown, stout, yet somehow stately, and the

tall figure of Lady Vale-Avon advanced towards me, side by side. Behind

came Monica, fresh and sweet in her white-winged grey hat and travelling

dress, and the Duke of Carmona, dark as a Moor in contrast with her young

fairness.

I dared not break upon her unexpectedly, after my experience of yesterday,

so I turned away, and entering a chapel interested myself in a tomb which

is the cherished jewel of the cathedral.

How long I could have kept my patience under provocation I can’t tell; but

my strength of mind had not been tested for five minutes when I heard the

voice of my adopted sister Pilarcita. She and the excellent Cherub were

claiming acquaintance with the Duke.

They were close to the chapel in which I stood. Half turning I saw the

group, which consisted of six persons. Dick was not among them, and I

wondered whether he were absent by design or accident.

Now the Duchess and the Cherub were talking together. Now the O’Donnel’s

were being introduced to Lady Vale-Avon and Monica. The two girls began

chatting together. Dear Pilar, what a jewel of a sister she was!

“Do you remember Cristóbal?” I heard her suddenly ask Carmona, in a voice

raised to such clear distinctness that I guessed she had seen a uniform

behind the iron-work of the half-open chapel door. “You saw my brother, I

think, when he was a little boy. He’s stationed here now; we’ve been

visiting him.”

I took this as my cue, and turning from the sleeping figure of Bishop

Alonso de Cartagena, I walked out of the chapel to join my adopted family.

“Why, here’s Cristóbal now!” exclaimed Pilar.

Then, in a flash, she had me introduced to all, leaving Monica till the

last, so that the girl might have time to get her breath after the first

shock of surprise.

Whether it was that yesterday had given her a lesson in self-control, or

whether Pilar had contrived to whisper some word concerning her brother, I

could not tell; but if Monica changed colour I could not see it, perhaps

because a darkening of the sky outside had begun to deepen the rich dusk

of the cathedral.

For her own sake I scarcely dared look at her; and my silence must have

passed with the others for the shyness of a young soldier among strangers.

But I did look at Carmona, feeling his eyes upon me, and met a stare as

searching as Röntgen rays.

His face is not one easy to read; but for once the windows of his mind

were wide open. If he had recognized me, and guessed the trick which had

been played on him he would have worn a very different expression; but he

was bewildered, uneasy, as he had been yesterday when he saw Monica lean

forward, blushing, to gaze at a masked man in a motor-car.

He realized the likeness between Cristóbal O’Donnel y Alvarez and his own

dangerous, though ineligible rival, Casa Triana. I could see the thought

dart into his mind and rankle; I could see him push it into a dark corner

kept for the rubbish of imagination. I knew how he was telling himself

that there could be no connection or collusion between the O’Donnel family

and Casa Triana. I hoped he also soothed his anxiety by reminding himself

that in all probability Casa Triana, in the blue Gloria car once seen by

his chauffeur, was busily forgetting Monica Vale in some distant part of

Europe. Carmona had admitted one mistake yesterday: he would not be ready

to fall into another to-day.

Lady Vale-Avon was also gazing somewhat sharply at the young Spanish

officer, a brother of those old acquaintances of the Duke’s. But now she

coaxed her eyesight by lifting a lorgnette which, as Mary Stuart, she had

not been able to carry on the night of our former meeting; and when a

questioning glance at Carmona met with no alarming answer, the suspicious

frown faded from her forehead.

After a few words we all, as if with one accord, began to move on upon the

tour of inspection; and still there was no sign of Dick.

I would defy anyone to hold out for more than five minutes against the

charm of the Cherub. Without raising his voice above a honeyed murmur, and

with nothing particular to say, by sheer force of cherubic, Andaluz charm

of manner he fascinated the Duchess of Carmona, and even Lady Vale-Avon,

to whom he was a new type. She had been studying Spanish with an eye to

the future, for she understood and answered Colonel O’Donnel; but with

apparent innocence and real subtlety he contrived to keep the Duke busy

explaining him, and murmured so many funny things that even Carmona was

obliged occasionally to burst out laughing.

Meanwhile, Monica, Pilar, and I were left to follow behind, greatly

against the will of the Duke, as I guessed by the sulky set of his

shoulders.

“Quick, quick, into this chapel,” whispered Pilar, “before they look

round. Then they won’t know where we’ve disappeared, and you’ll have five

minutes grace.” As she spoke, she caught Monica by the arm, and whisked

her into the Capilla del Condestable. Once behind the iron lattice, she

darted away as if moved by a sudden passion to gaze at the carved altar

piece.

“How wonderful!” said Monica. I caught her hands, which she held out to

me, and then we laughed into each other’s eyes, in sheer happiness and

triumph over fate. “To think that you’re here, after all.”

“Wherever you are, I’m going to be, while you want me,” said I, “and until

we know whether I shall have to take you away.”

“I might have known you wouldn’t fail me,” she said. “But I was so unhappy

yesterday. When I saw that handkerchief I knew at once who you were,

though I should never have guessed, with those awful goggles, and I

couldn’t help giving a jump, and getting red. But I shall never be so

stupid again. I’ll be prepared for anything. Just a whisper from Señorita

O’Donnel was enough this time. While we shook hands she said, ‘Something’s

going to happen.’ So I was ready. Only it does seem too good to be true.”

“Here’s the glove and the rose you threw me,” I said, showing them inside

my coat.

“Here’s the music you played to me,” she answered, touching her heart; and

I would have given a year of my life to kiss her. “Oh, tell me, is Miss

O’Donnel any relation to you, really?”

“Only a very good and clever friend,” said I, for there was not much time

to waste in explaining things more or less irrelevant. “All this was her

idea, to give me a chance of getting near you. And, as Cristóbal’s my name

too, as well as her brother’s, the thing has been managed without a fib.

Brother Cristóbal has leave. Friend Cristóbal will spend it with the

family; that is, they’re all going in that red car you saw

yesterday—wherever you go. It would save a lot of anxiety if you could

tell where that will be.”

“I can’t,” said Monica. “I fancy mother’s afraid I might find some way of

letting you know; anyway, the Duke is always talking about how pleasant it

is not to make plans beforehand, but to let each day arrange itself. I

don’t know how or where we’re to spend the time before we get to Seville;

but for Holy Week we’re to be at the Duke’s house. I’m not afraid of

anything, though, now you’re near; and I think I shall let myself be

happy, in spite of the Duke, for your Spain is glorious, and I love it. I

wish it weren’t the Duke’s Spain too!”

“He thinks it’s all his,” said I. “Is he bothering you much?”

“No. He’s being nice to me. You know, I refused him in Biarritz; but

mother came in while I was doing it, and told him that I was too young to

know my own mind; that he must be patient, and she could almost promise

I’d change it. I said I wouldn’t, but that made no difference. And as

mother wanted to come on this trip, I had to come too. I have an idea

they’ve made up a plan between them that I shall be left in peace till

Seville, if I behave myself. If they suspect who you really are, though,

it will be dreadful. I don’t know what will happen.”

“They can’t make you marry Carmona,” I said.

“No. How could they? such things can’t be done nowadays; at least, I

suppose they can’t; and yet, when people are strong and determined, and

unscrupulous too, one never knows what they may be planning, what they may

be capable of doing. Often, in the night, I try to think what they _could_

do, and tell myself they could do _nothing_, unless I consented, which, of

course, I never would. Oh, I shall be very happy and safe now. It will

even be amusing, or it would be if I were sure the Duke couldn’t harm

_you_.”

“He tried yesterday and failed,” said I. “If he tries again, he’ll fail

again. But for the present, he thinks it was a false alarm, and perhaps

believes I’ve stopped in Biarritz, sulking.”

“It was dangerous for you to come,” said Monica.

I laughed. “Don’t I look like the sort of fellow who can take care of

himself—and maybe the girl he loves, too?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered. “How I love you, and how proud I am of you. If

you should stop caring—if you should find it wasn’t worth while—”

“We’ve too few moments together to discuss impossibilities.”

“Ah, but you have known me such a short time. Suppose you should see

someone else—” and she glanced at Pilar’s pretty, heart-shaped face, and

the velvet eyes raised in contemplation of a carved Madonna.

“There’s nobody else but you in the world,” I had begun, when Pilar

beckoned. “They’re coming,” she said. “You must be looking at this sweet

little panel, Lady Monica. Cristóbal, go instantly and stare as hard as

you can at San Gerónimo on the other side. See, that pet who is twisting

his dear feet.”

It was thus they found us; the two girls chatting over the perfection of

the tombs of the constable and his wife; the soldier blind to the charms

of his sister’s companion, and wrapped in reverent contemplation of a

wooden masterpiece.

“We were so stupid to lose you,” said Pilar. “But we thought you’d be sure

to come back this way by and by.”

XIV

SOME LITTLE IDEAS OF DICK’S

We said good-bye presently, still in the cathedral, all very polite and

conventionally interested in each other’s affairs. Pilar ingenuously hoped

that we might meet again in Madrid. The Duke said he hoped so too, but did

not know, as they were motoring, and stopped each day where fancy

prompted. Pilar thought this charming, and said that we were going to have

a little trip with an automobile, too. An American friend had invited us.

At that very moment the American friend was visible in the dim distance,

standing with his back to us, gazing at an alabaster tomb. One would have

thought he had some reason for avoiding us, or else escaping an

introduction to the others, for he let them leave the cathedral before he

tore himself away from his study of the sleeping cardinal. When they had

vanished, however, he came towards us with a briskness which showed that

he had taken more interest in our movements than he appeared to do.

“It’s gone off beautifully!” Pilar informed him. “And you did exactly

right, Señor Waring. You see,” she said to me, “on second thoughts one saw

he’d better keep out of the way, for fear the Duke might begin to put two

and two together, just as he was noticing that Cristóbal looked rather

like someone else. He caught a glimpse of Señor Waring’s face yesterday,

in the car, and it will be safer for him not to see _us_ in that car until

we have gone on a little further. Then, he will have had time to get used

to my brother’s face, as my brother’s. Wasn’t that a clever idea of mine?”

We all praised her; and praised her again when she explained her policy in

having dropped a hint about our American motoring friend, so that she need

not be suspected of having tried to conceal anything when the car appeared

on the scene.

“The Duke’s auto was at the door when I came in,” said Dick. “He must have

seen ours.”

“Yes. But he saw you, too, prowling round the cathedral by yourself. I

suppose you have as much right to be motoring in Spain as he has, seeing

the sights?”

This was true. And as the grey car had now probably gone off, it was time

that ours persued.

Ropes was in his seat, coated and legginged once more in leather, and so

well goggled that there was no reason why he should be associated in any

mind with that Mr. George Smith who had threatened to air his wrongs in

_The Times_. He had seen the other car go, so we must follow. We crossed

the Arlanzon and I looked back regretfully at the citadel of Burgos,

rising in the middle of the town. We had had no time to visit that castle

in which so much history has been made. There the Cid was married; there

he held prisoner Alfonso of Leon; there was Edward the First of England

married to Eleanor of Castile; and there Pedro the Cruel first saw the

light. But if there was one regret more pressing than another, it was that

I could not go to the Town Hall and pay my respects to those bones of the

Cid, and Ximena his wife, so strangely restored to Burgos, after their

extraordinary wanderings to far Sigmaringen.

“Who is this _Thith_ you all keep talking about?” demanded Dick, as the

car spun along the river bank.

“Heavens, don’t tell me that you’ve been brought up in ignorance of our

national hero!” I exclaimed. “If I’d dreamed of such a thing, I couldn’t

have made a friend of you. Why, this was his town. He was married in the

citadel. He—”

“How do you spell him?” asked Dick, cautiously.

“C-i-d, of course.”

“Great Scott! you don’t mean to say my old friend the Cid was the _Thith_

all the time, and I never knew it? What a blow! I don’t see why C-i-d

shouldn’t spell Cid, even in Spanish; as a Thith I can’t respect him.”

“Then let him go to the grave with you as the Cid,” said I. “But you know,

or ought to know, that ‘C,’ and ‘Z,’ and sometimes ‘D’ are ‘th’ with us.”

“I never bothered much with trying to pronounce foreign languages,” said

Dick. “I just wrestle with the words the best I can in plain American. But

now—I always thought it rude to mention it before—I understand why you

Spaniards seem to lisp, and hiss out your last syllables like secrets. As

for the place we’re going to next—”

“Valladolid?” I pronounced it as a Spaniard does, “Valyadoleeth.”

“Yes. That beats the Thith. My tongue isn’t built for it, and I shall call

it simply Val.”

With murmured regrets from the Cherub that we strangers were turning our

backs on Burgos without seeing all its treasures, and sighs from Pilar for

the Cartuja de Miraflores, and the most beautiful carved tomb on earth, we

turned our faces towards Valladolid.

Our road cut through the arid plain that had stretched before us

yesterday. Few trees punctuated the sad song of its monotony; but always

in the distance rose yellow hills like lions crouched asleep, lights and

shadows sailing above their heads with the bold swoop of the Titanic

birds. More than once we crossed the poor, single line of railway, the

main thoroughfare between Paris and Madrid, and Dick said that Spain

needed a few Americans to wake her up. Three trains a day indeed, and a

speed of fifteen miles an hour! People shook their heads and told you that

Spain was no country to motor in. Well, it was certainly no country to

travel in by rail, unless you wanted to forget where you were going before

you got there. He wished he were a managing director; or no, on second

thoughts, the thing he’d prefer would be to improve the future of the

motor industry. Why, there was a fortune to be picked up by some chap with

a little go, and a little capital. Look at these roads, now; not so bad,

any of them, as far as we had seen; some, as good as in France; others,

only rough because science hadn’t been employed in making them; after rain

they got soft and muddy, and then hardened into ridges. But a few

thousands of dollars, well laid out, would change that. Then, with a good

service of automobiles, see what could be done in the way of conveying

market produce and a hundred other things. What was the matter with

Spaniards that they didn’t fix up some scheme of this sort?

The Cherub, listening politely to Dick’s remarkable Spanish, and

understanding perhaps half, answered mildly that it would be a great deal

of trouble, and Spaniards didn’t like trouble.

“But I suppose Spaniards like getting rich, don’t they?” said Dick, who

was resting, and letting Ropes drive, while he made a fourth in the

tonneau.

“They are not anxious. It is better to be comfortable,” murmured the

Irish-Spaniard. “Besides, it is vulgar to be too rich, and makes one’s

neighbours unhappy. It is a thing I would not do myself.”

“That is true,” said Pilar. “It isn’t what you call sour grapes. Papa

could be rich if he liked. We have copper on our land, much copper. Men

came and told papa that if he chose to work it he might have one of the

best copper mines in Spain.”

“And he wouldn’t?” asked Dick.

“Not for the world,” said Colonel O’Donnel, with a flash of pride in his

mild, brown eyes. “I do not come of that sort of people. I am an officer.

I am not a miner.”

“But,” pleaded Dick, bewildered by this new type of man, who refused to

open his door and let money, tons of money, roll in, “but you could sell

the land and make an enormous profit. You could keep shares, and—”

“I have no wish to sell,” replied the Cherub.

“Well, you might let others work the mine for you.”

“But I prefer living over it. It’s beautiful land. I would not have it

made ugly. My ancestors would rise from their graves and cry out against

me.”

“Still, we are poor,” said Pilar. “New brother, pray be careful of

Cristóbal’s clothes,” and she laughed merrily. “It will be a long time

before we can afford to buy others.”

“And all that copper eating its head off underground,” gasped Dick.

“We have cousins who are prouder than we about such things,” said Pilar.

“Two girls and their mother, who live in Seville. They’ve a beautiful old

house with lovely grounds, but nothing else. How they manage not to

starve, the saints know. They’ve sold their china and jewels—everything

but their mantillas—to keep their carriage; and they have to share that

with two other families of cousins, each taking it in turn; but they have

three doors to the carriage—a door with the family crest of one, a door

with the crest of the second, and another with the third; so nobody

outside knows. A Scotch company want to buy their house and land for an

hotel, and have offered enough money to make them rich for life; but

they’d rather die than give up the place. And although one of my cousins

can paint beautifully, and could make a great deal by selling pretty

sketches of Seville, her mother won’t allow it. I do think it’s carrying

pride too far; but there are lots of people I know who are like that.”

“It makes me feel as if I’d came through a week’s illness just to hear it

all,” said Dick. “I can’t get over that copper.”

Through village after village we sped smoothly, everyone delighted to see

us except the dogs, who resented our coming, and made driving a

difficulty, until Ropes picked up a trick which usually served to keep

dogs and car out of danger from one another. He would throw up his arms

suddenly and the dog, thinking of a whip or a stone, would mechanically

spring out of harm’s way. By that time we would have whizzed past.

After a short run we reached Torquemada, home of the Grand Inquisitor;

crossed the Pisuerga by a long-legged bridge straddling across the

river-bed; had a fleeting glimpse of Venta de Baños; came to a

straight-cut canal of beryl-green water (which Dick gloomily pronounced a

surprising evidence of energy in Spain), and slowed down to wonder at a

village of cave dwellings, hollowed out in tiers in the hillside, above

the road on our right.

It was such a place as Crockett describes excitingly in one of his books

of adventure. All the long, yellow flank of the hill was honeycombed with

little, dark doorways and leering windows, whence wild faces looked. From

hummocky chimneys rose the smoke of hidden fires burning in the heart of

the earth; while down in the road a donkey or two, with their heads in

yellow bags and their forefeet tied together with rope, tried to hop away

up the steep hill, as if they were gigantic rabbits.

By the waterside stood pollarded trees, scraggy and black, ranged along

the shore like naked negro boys, big-headed, with shaggy lumps of wool,

hesitating before a plunge. The sandy roads were welcome after stones, and

suddenly the landscape began to copy Africa, with shifting yellow sand

deserts, brushed by purple shadows of the Sahara. Far away, the mountains,

rolling along the wide horizon, glimmered blue, rose, ochre, and white,

like coloured marble or a Moorish mosaic. Again we flashed past a

troglodyte village in a hillside; crossed a magnificent bridge, which even

Dick approved; wound through a labyrinth of strange streets like the

streets in a nightmare, and roads to match; smelt mingled perfumes of

incense, burning braziers, cigarettes, and garlic (the true and intimate

smell of country Spain); saw Dueñas, where fair Isabel la Católica met

Ferdinand in the making of the most romantic of royal courtships; spun

through Cabezon: and then, as we entered Valladolid, began bumping and

buckjumping over such chasms and ruts as had not yet insulted our wheels

in Spain.

“Heavens! What can the City Fathers be thinking about?” gasped Dick,

between the jolts which even the best springs could not disguise. On we

went, through that famous old town which Philip the Second chose for the

capital of Spain; and each street was a more awful revelation than the

last. The car pitched and rolled like a vessel in a choppy sea, shuddering

to right herself between breakers, though Ropes drove at walking pace.

“Who ever heard of roads being all right outside a town, and going to bits

in it?” Dick went on. “Why, in America—”

“But this is Spain,” the Cherub reminded him.

We had left Burgos at half-past ten, and it was two when we plunged into

the town which Dick shortened to “Val.” There I took advantage of the part

I played, and sought the hotel at which Carmona must lunch or perhaps put

up for the night; but to my astonishment he was not to be found at either

of the two possible _fondas_. I was hungry, for I had had no breakfast

except a cup of coffee at the Sign of the Cid; but I would not eat until

the mystery was solved.

The grey car had been seen coming into town, and none had seen it go out;

nevertheless it, with all its passengers, had vanished. While the others

went through a high-sounding French menu at the hotel first on the

guide-book list, Ropes and I did detective work. It was he, really, who

picked up the trail of the Lecomte, when we had walked back to the street

it must have entered first; and even for Ropes this would have proved an

impossible feat if our automobiles had not been the only two which had

passed since the heavy rains. “I’ve got the pattern of those non-skids

printed on my brain, sir, since yesterday,” said he. “What I don’t know

about ’em, isn’t worth knowing.”

So he pounced upon the thick, straight, dotted line in the mud, and,

losing it often, but always picking it out again, we turned and wound till

the trail stopped in front of a private house. Later, it went on; but it

was evident that the car had paused. The mud was much trampled, and

probably luggage had been taken down.

We presumed, therefore, that those we sought were within; but the next

thing was to find the resting-place of the Lecomte, lest it should

disappear and leave us in the lurch, ignorant of its destination. Luckily

for us, the worst was over. The trail led to a stable not far away, and as

the doors stood wide open we had the joyous relief of seeing the car being

cleansed of its rich coat of mud. The chauffeur was superintending, his

back turned to the doors, and we walked quickly on lest he should spy a

leather coat and guess that his own game was being played upon him.

“Now you can rest easy, sir,” said Ropes. “That car won’t leave this town

without my knowing; and it’ll go hard if I aren’t able to tell you in the

course of the next hour whether it’s due to start to-day or to-morrow.”

I laughed gratefully. “Thank you, Ropes,” said I. “I shan’t ask how you

mean to get your information. When you say you can do a thing, I know it’s

as good as done.”

“It’s for me to thank you, sir—for everything,” he replied, flushing with

pleasure.

Then we went back to the hotel. And whether Ropes lunched or not I cannot

say; but I did, with a good appetite, Dick and my adopted family lingering

at the table to hear my news.

In three-quarters of an hour Sherlock Holmes kept his word by sending in a

short note, addressed (as I had suggested) to Waring. “Honoured Sir,” it

ran, “Lecomte remains night. Master and friends stopping with his

relatives. Will let you know time of start in morning, and have our car

ready—Respectfully, P. Ropes.”

Some servant of the house or stable-boy had doubtless earned a few

pesetas. Just how the trick had been done, was of little importance, for

it was done. With a light heart in my breast, and Cristóbal O’Donnel y

Alvarez’ uniform still unsuitably adorning my back, I went with the others

to do some sightseeing, and look for Monica.

We wandered rather aimlessly through the streets, stopping before any

building which caught our interest; staring up at the windows behind which

Cervantes wrote part of “Don Quixote” when he had come back from slavery;

admiring the graceful mirador of that corner house where Philip the Second

was born; (“Much too good for him, since the world would have been better

if he hadn’t been born at all,” said Dick, who has Dutch ancestors and a

long memory;) trying to identify the place where Gil Blas studied medicine

with Doctor Sangrado; wandering into two or three churches, but wasting no

time on the cathedral spoilt by Churriguera.

“As a Spaniard, what’s your opinion of the Inquisition?” Dick suddenly

asked the Cherub, as if he were inquiring the time of day. We had stopped

for a moment in the Plaza Mayor where Philip had watched the heretics

burning in their yellow, flame-painted shirts, in the first great

_auto-da-fé_ which he organized.

As another Spaniard, I know that this is the one question of all others,

perhaps, which it is not wise to put to a Spaniard, even in this

comfortable twentieth century. But Dick either did not know, or wished it

to appear that he did not know; and I watched the effect of the words. But

the Cherub was equal to the occasion—and his cherubicness.

He glanced round instinctively, as a man might a few centuries ago, to

make sure that nobody overheard; then smiling slowly, he replied, “I am no

judge, señor; I am half-Irishman.”

Pilar had looked disturbed, but she gave a little sigh at this, saying,

“Come on, and see the museum.”

Nowhere in Spain can there be a more beautiful thing than that façade,

well named Plateresque because of its resemblance to the workmanship of

silversmiths; and inside the museum we found a collection of carved wooden

figures marvellous enough, as Dick said, to “beat the world.” There were

crucifixions, painted saints, and weeping virgins by Hernandez and

Berruguete, faultlessly modelled, so vivid and beautiful as to be

well-nigh startling; and I hoped that Monica might come while we lingered.

But she did not, nor did we see her in the Colegio de San Gregorio. There,

in the lovely inner court, however, I found a little grey glove on the

marble pavement, and so like a certain other glove did it look that I

annexed it, to compare with that other which lived in my breast-pocket

with its friend the rose.

The pair matched in size, colour, and dainty shape. Even the fragrance of

orris hung about it, and I knew this second glove had not been dropped by

accident. Monica had been here, and she had left a message for me to read

if I followed.

XV

HOW THE DUKE CHANGED

“Lecomte getting ready, sir,” were Ropes’ first words to me next morning;

“and I’ve brought our car to the door.”

He had other news, too. An automobile had come in last night from Madrid,

a sixty horse-power Merlin, and the chauffeur had reported snow half a

metre deep on the mountains. The Merlin had stuck, he said, and had to be

pulled out with oxen. Supposing the Duke intended going to Madrid instead

of turning off by way of Salamanca, he—and incidentally we—seemed likely

to come in for an adventure.

We had all taken coffee and rolls in our rooms, as nobody dreams of going

downstairs for breakfast in a Spanish hotel; and soon after eight we were

jolting out of “Val” through streets as execrably paved as those by which

we entered. We had kept Ropes waiting after his announcement only long

enough to strap our luggage on the roof; and as the other car had luggage

and passengers also to pick up, we were just in time to see it leaving the

house of the Duke’s relations with everyone on board.

As the Lecomte took the road to the south on leaving town, it gave us an

assurance that it would not make for Salamanca; but there was still doubt

as to its movements. It could go to Madrid direct over the snow heights of

the Sierra Guadarrama, or it could pay a visit to the Escurial. It might

even halt there for the night; and as there were so many alternatives, we

were anxious to keep our leader continually in view.

The wind was bitter cold, and Pilar shivered in her cloak, which was not

made for motoring. When Dick saw this, before I could speak he had his own

fur-lined coat off, insisting that she should put it on. “I can take Casa

Triana’s,” said he, “since he’s still posing as a soldier of Spain.” And a

glance warned me not to blunder by asking why, in the name of common

sense, she shouldn’t have mine which I wasn’t using, instead of his, which

was on his back. He _wanted_ her to wear his coat, and hang common sense!

After an instant’s stupid bewilderment I saw this, and could hardly help

chuckling. How many days had he known her? Two and a bit. At Biarritz he

had given me sound advice on my affairs; couldn’t understand this

fall-in-love-at-sight business; thought a girl wasn’t worth a red cent

till she was twenty-two couldn’t see himself being sentimental in any

circumstances; was going to wait to make his choice till he went back to

America; believed a man owed it to his own country to put his

country-women first; and anyhow couldn’t stand a girl who wasn’t able to

converse rationally. Yet Pilar, if she were to talk with him in his own

tongue, must perforce limit her scintillations to “Varry nice, lo-vely,

all raight”; while, if he wrestled with hers, he could scarcely go beyond

phrase-book limits.

The language of the eyes remained; but that has no place in the realm of

common sense. My overcoat was singularly unbecoming to Dick; but he beamed

with happiness in it, as he regarded Pilar cosily folded in his; and

looking on the picture, certain things occurred to me which I might say to

Dick when I got him alone. But after all, I thought I would keep them to

laugh over myself.

On this morning of biting wind and brilliant sun, there was still more

dazzle of snow to illumine the mountain tops; and though the road was

dull, the beauty of the atmospheric effects was worth coming to Spain to

see. The road we travelled and the near meadows seemed, as we went

speeding on, the only solid ground in sight; as if we had landed on an

island floating at the rate of thirty miles an hour, through a vast sea of

translucent tints that changed with the light, as an opal changes.

Forests of strangely bunchy “umbrella” pines were blots of dark green ink

splashed against the sky; and scarcely five minutes passed but we saw the

finger of an old watch-tower pointing cloudward from a hill. Sometimes our

road, dividing endless cornfields, stretched before us long and straight

for miles ahead, over switchback after switchback, as if the hills chased

each other but never succeeded in catching up. Then, when we had grown

used to such an outlook, the road would twist so suddenly that it seemed

to spring up in our faces. It would turn upon itself and writhe like a

wounded cobra, before it was able to crawl on again.

Ours was a silent, uninhabited world, without a house visible anywhere,

save here and there some stony ruin—a landmark of the Peninsular War. One

could but think that gnomes stole out at night from holes under the hills,

to till the land for absentee owners; for the illimitable fields were

cultivated down to the last inch. We shared a queer impression that we had

strayed into a country which no human eye had seen for centuries; but when

we crossed the broad Douro running to the Bay of Biscay and Oporto, and

steered the car jerkily through the ragged village of Mojales, at an

abrupt turn of the road we were in a different world—a desert of stones.

Prehistoric giants had played with dolmens and cyclopean boulders, and

left their toys scattered in confusion. Stonehenge might have been copied

from one of their strange structures; and they had given later races a

rough idea of forts and cities. Giant children had fashioned stone

elephants, heads of warriors, dogs sitting on their haunches, granite

drinking cups, and misshapen baskets, all of astonishing size. Or was it

water, slow as the mills of the gods, and as sure, which had wrought all

these fantastic designs, and piled these tremendous blocks one upon

another?

A high stone bridge spanned a rocky ravine carved by that slow power in a

few leisure millions of years; and there, sheltered from the wind, would

have been an ideal place for motorists to picnic. But the Duke did not

picnic, therefore we must not. Following hard upon his heels we went on,

up and up into the mountain world, still in the playground of vanished

giants, winding along a road as wild as the way to Montenegro. Rising at

regular intervals before us, on either side stood tall stone columns,

sentinel-like, placed in pairs to guide wayfarers through white drifts in

time of winter storms. The country was wooded, and began to have the air

of a private park, though the heights were close above us now, and our

road ascended steadily. From the scenery of Montenegro we came plump into

the Black Forest; and Baden-Baden might have lain in the valley below

these pointed mountains clothed in mourning pines.

Squish! The brown slush of melted snow gushed out in fountains as our fat

tyres ploughed through, and on either hand it lay unbroken in virgin

purity beneath the pines. Half a mile higher, and even the traffic of

heavy ox-carts and the sun’s fierce fire had had no power to break the

marble pavement. It was shattered and chipped, and carved into deep ruts

by wooden wheels; but there were no muddy veins of brown. Ten minutes

more, and our engine began to labour. Then, before there was time to count

the moments, we were in snow to our axles.

The motor’s heart beat hard, but with a sturdy, dependable noise which

comforted Pilar, who was half laughing, half frightened, at this her first

adventure. At any instant now we might come upon the Lecomte held in the

snow-trap which threatened to catch us.

Ropes kept the car in the wide ruts made by ox-carts, but even with his

good driving we swayed to right and left, leaving the rough track and

ploughing into drifts dangerously near the precipice edge, or skidding as

if we skated on polished ice, failing to grip the frozen surface.

Now was the time to relieve the willing engine. Dick and I sprang out, and

Colonel O’Donnel followed, though we would have persuaded him to keep his

place. Only Pilar was left in the car, with Ropes driving, while we three

men, knee deep in snow, set our shoulders to help the Gloria as she made

the supreme effort. Pushing, and slipping at every step, our blood (which

had run sluggishly with cold) racing through our veins, we were putting on

a great spurt of united force, when gallantly rounding a bend we all but

rammed the back of Carmona’s car.

There it was, stuck in a drift like a frozen wave; and there was Carmona

himself up to his knees in diamond dust, gloomily superintending his

chauffeur who packed snow into the radiator to cool the overheated motor.

All the extra power of the Lecomte gave no advantage over the Gloria here.

Fate had set the stage for us, and we must obey the cue. No ingenuity of

Pilar’s could hide us in the wings any longer, and we must play our parts

as Destiny prompted.

Only one thing was clear. Carmona could have had no idea until now that

the O’Donnels (with that young soldier so like the Forbidden Man) were

travelling in the red car whence he had already plucked a suspected

passenger. The coincidence would seem strange to him; and if he were sure

enough of his ground to risk another error, he would probably denounce me

to the police in the next big town. Disguising my outcast self as an

officer in a Spanish regiment would not be a point in my favour; but—he

could do nothing now. Monica was here, and the moment was mine.

There was a savage joy in the situation, born of exaltation, of the high

altitude, and of uncertainty as to what might come next.

“Shall you keep out of the way?” asked Dick; for we were still screened

from Carmona’s sight by our own car, which Ropes had stopped with a

grinding of the brake; and Pilar’s face was veiled.

“Not I. I’m going to have some fun,” I answered. “It must come sooner or

later, better sooner, or what’s the good of playing Cristobal O’Donnel?”

With that, I appeared from behind the car, and the others were following,

while Pilar leaned out in anxious expectancy.

“How do you do?” said I, in Andaluz as lazy as the other Cristóbal could

have used. I took off my cap to the ladies, and so did Dick and the

Cherub, exposing heated foreheads, damp from honest toil. “Sorry to find

you in such a difficulty. But we’ll soon get you out of that, won’t we,

Señor Waring? Here are three of us with stout shoulders and willing

hearts.”

“Four, counting my chauffeur,” said Dick in English, playing up to my

lead, since there was no stopping me now. “We’re delighted to do anything

we can.”

Carmona glared as an animal glares when it is at bay; only, an animal can

attack his enemies, and he could not attack us; for he was not sure

whether we were enemies or no, and whether he would not be making a fool

of himself if he let us know what passed in his brain.

It was evident that he thought very hard for a moment, and was of two

minds as to what he had better do. But suddenly the baited look vanished

from his face, as a shadow is chased away by the sun, and I guessed that a

course of action had occurred to him with which he was well satisfied.

This seemed ominous for me, and I would have given something to read his

thoughts.

He answered our “How do you do?” with great cordiality—for him; said that

he had been taken by surprise, at first, as he had no idea the motoring

tour of which Señorita Pilar spoke would begin so soon, or bring us upon

his track. It was a good thing for him, however, that we were here, and

not only was he pleased to see us for our own sakes, but would be glad to

accept our kind offer.

Meanwhile Pilar had pushed up her veil, and she and Monica were exchanging

greetings. As for Lady Vale-Avon, her veil was up, too, and her lorgnettes

at her eyes. I did not doubt that she and the Duke had compared

impressions concerning our family party, after the episode at Burgos,

impressions startlingly confirmed now, and Carmona’s cordiality in such

circumstances must have puzzled her. As to the Duchess, her large face was

hidden behind a thick screen of lead-coloured tissue, and I could judge

nothing of her feelings.

When Monica heard the proposal for propelling the grey car through the

drifts, she had the door open in an instant, and would have been out in

the deep snow, if we had not stopped her.

“You must all stay where you are,” said Carmona hurriedly, fearing,

perhaps, that some opportunity for a word would be snatched in spite of

him, if I were really Casa Triana. “The weight of three women makes no

difference whatever; isn’t that true, señor?” and he turned to Dick, who,

according to our story, was the owner of the red automobile as well as the

host of the party.

Of course Dick agreed, and so did we all, that the ladies were not on any

account to get out. The Duke’s chauffeur jumped into his place again, and,

with a twist of the starting handle, the tired motor quivered to its iron

entrails. There was a sudden awaking of carburetor, pistons,

sparking-plugs, valves, trembler, each part which had been resting after

the long pull, striving to obey its master. With a sighing scream of the

gearing, the car stumbled forward and up, our united force pressed into

service. Staggering, plunging, pushing, we gave all the help we could, and

for a few minutes it seemed that with our aid the motor would claw its way

to the highest point.

Our hearts drummed in our breasts, and sent the hot blood jumping to our

heads as if in sympathy with the mighty struggle of the engine. But the

Lecomte’s forty horses, and the strength and goodwill of five men—counting

Carmona, who did as little work as he could—were not enough. The wheels

sank to the axles, whizzing round in the snow without propelling the car;

with the motor unable to do its part, we men alone could not do all. The

automobile would not budge for all our pushing; and, seeing that labour

was lost, we stopped to breathe and raise our eyebrows questioningly at

one another. Carmona, alarmed at finding that his chestnuts could not be

pulled out of the fire by any cat’s-paws at his service, wondered audibly

what he ought to do.

“Someone who came to Valladolid last night was hauled through the drifts

by oxen,” said I. And even as I spoke, like a ram caught in the bushes

ready for the sacrifice, I spied in the white distance the black

silhouette of an enormous ox.

He was not alone, for a more penetrating glance showed that he had a

yoke-fellow as big and black as himself; and guided by a red-sashed boy in

scarf and shawl they advanced towards us slowly but so surely that I

suspected something more than a coincidence. The great lumbering animals

were like blobs of ink against the snow, and the lithe figure of the boy

made a fine spot of colour as he walked before his beasts, his stick to

their noses as if it were a magnet which they, anchored head to head with

a beam of wood, were compelled to follow.

It flashed into my mind that this youth and his oxen were not wandering

through mountain snow-drifts for nothing. The wolves which howl in these

same wild fastnesses on a winter night scent prey; and so I thought did

the boy, with the trifling substitute of petrol for blood. This youth had

made a good haul (in every sense of the word) by accident yesterday; was

out searching for other hauls to-day, and would be while the snow lasted.

We hailed him. He feigned surprise, and hesitated, as if to enhance his

value. Then, casting down long lashes as he listened to our proposal,

pretended to consider pros and cons. It would be a terrible strain for his

animals to drag such a great weight, but—oh, certainly they would be

_able_ to do it. They were docile and strong. Every day nearly they drew

heavy loads of cut logs over the mountains. For twenty pesetas he would

risk injuring his oxen, but not a _real_ less; and they would drag the

grey car to the top of the pass, that he could promise.

“What extortion!” protested Carmona, who is not famed for generosity,

except when something can be made out of it.

“Oh, he’s too handsome to beat down!” pleaded Monica.

That settled it. To please her he would have given twice twenty pesetas

for half the distance. The boy was engaged without further haggling; the

animals were harnessed to the big Lecomte with rope which the youth

“happened” to have; and with a thrilling cry of “A-r-r-r-i! O-lah!” he

struck the two black backs with his goad.

“I can’t bear to see it!” Monica cried, covering her eyes, as the great

heads were lowered to adjust the strain, and every muscle in the powerful,

docile bodies writhed and bunched with the tremendous effort. Big as they

were, it seemed impossible that two oxen could do for the car, with

passengers and luggage, what its own engine refused to do; nevertheless

the huge thing moved, at first with a shuddering jerk, then with a steady,

if lumbering crawl.

“O-lah!” shouted the boy; “thump” on the thick hide over the straining

muscles fell the goad, and thus the car lurched through the deep snow, all

of us following except Ropes, who having poured melted snow into the

radiator, and let the cooling stream flow through the waterpipes, was

bringing on the Gloria slowly, by her own power. She had now but two

passengers, and not half as much luggage as the Lecomte, which perhaps

explained her prowess; nevertheless I was proud. “Brava, Gloria!” I should

have liked to shout.

I could now have pushed ahead, and keeping pace with Carmona’s car, as the

oxen struggled nobly up the pass, have tried for a word or two with

Monica. But perhaps Lady Vale-Avon expected such a move on the part of the

troublesome young officer; and by way of precaution she had crowded near

to the girl in the tonneau. A conversation worth having would have been

hopeless thus spied upon, and I disappointed the chaperon by making no

such attempt.

To my surprise, Carmona walked with us, instead of forging on beside his

own car. His friendliness puzzled me. Each look directed at my face was

sharp as a gimlet, though his words were genial; but the final shock came

when he announced that he was bound for the Escurial, and asked if we

would like to join his party.

“I know the palace like a book—better than I know most books,” said he;

“and if you’ve never been, I can get you into places not usually shown.”

The Cherub thanked Heaven that he had never been; and far would it be from

him to go to-day or any other day. He had beheld the Escurial from

outside, and had been depressed to the verge of tears. Often since he had

consoled himself for various misfortunes by reflecting that, at worst, he

was not enduring them at the Escurial. But he would sit in the automobile

and compose himself to doze while his dear children and friends were

martyred in the Monastery.

“You’re very good to personally conduct us,” Dick answered the Duke, “but

we’ve no time for the Escurial.”

“It will be worth while to make time,” I hurried to break in, though Dick

glared a warning which said, “You silly ass, don’t you see the man’s

laying a trap, and you’re falling into it?”

I was ready to risk that trap, and realizing that I meant to see the thing

through, Dick urged no further objections.

XVI

A SECRET OF THE KING’S

Pilar said that the oxen were idiotic dears to break their hearts for

nothing, not even a percentage on the twenty pesetas. But four-footed

beasts are tragically conscientious, and these farmyard martyrs

accomplished their task without a groan, while the Gloria crept up close

behind on her own power.

I thanked the patron saint of cow creation when the straining brutes got

to the top. The summit of the pass was crowned by a lion on a granite

pedestal; a lion with a cold air of pride in his mission of marking the

limit between Old Castile and New. For me also he marked something for

which I owed him gratitude; my deeper advance into the heart of my own

land.

Close to our resting-place at the top of the pass there was a rude hut,

and one or two wagons which had strained up from the other side were

halting their smoking teams. Here, seated in the car again, as we waited

to see the oxen unyoked and the boy paid, a girl came out from the little

house with a large volume, in which she asked us to sign our names. The

Cherub scrawled something; and as Dick was scribbling, Carmona strolled

across, to see whether or no I entrusted my name to the book. I had meant

not to do so, but now I would have changed my mind had not Colonel

O’Donnel stopped me. “I wrote your name, Cristóbal,” said he, in his

ambrosial voice; and the situation was saved. Carmona made some

commonplace remark to account for his approach, and walked away with a

self-conscious back, as Pilar’s glance and Monica’s crossed the distance

between the two automobiles and met mischievously.

The grey car took the lead again, and at a turn of the road it seemed that

the whole world lay at our feet; yet it was not even all of Old Castile,

so vast a country is my Spain.

Far as the eye could travel spread the fair land, green with the tender

green of spring, yellow with patches of golden sand, darkly tufted with

woods; struck with flying shafts of light, ringed in with ethereal blue.

Nothing could steal from me this illuminated missal of memories, and were

I to be banished to-morrow, I should have Spain to keep in my heart, I

said, as we rushed down the steep, winding way that serpentined along the

southern slope of the Guadarrama. A breakneck road it was, but nobly

engineered, twisting back upon itself in many coils, letting us fly with

the speed of a bird to lower levels; and it seemed that scarcely had we

sunk over the brink of the mountain than we were at the turn on the right

which would lead to the Escurial.

Straight before us, rising out of the bare mountain side and seeming a

part of it, towered and stretched a building vaster than any I had seen

even in the limitless spaces of dreamland. Were it not for its cold

regularity, I should have thought myself approaching another desert of

giants who made toys of monoliths and obelisks; but these appalling domes

and towers could be the work of man alone. There was no toying here; all

was forbidding and gloomy; for this was the Escurial—immense, sinister, as

if fashioned from the grim product of those iron mines which gave its

name.

I could imagine the fanatical satisfaction Philip’s dry mind had found in

planning this monument to represent the gridiron on which Saint Lawrence

was martyred. He who was to stand in history as the great Inquisitor, must

build his monastery and palace in honour of a martyr! But Philip was the

last man to have a sense of humour; and it was like him to appease an

injured saint by giving him a church a thousand times bigger than the one

destroyed on Saint Lawrence’s own day, in the battle of San Quentin.

“Wouldn’t the Escurial be hideous if it were anywhere else but just here?”

asked Pilar.

She was right; for on the Sierra it seemed an expression of the Sierra;

and in spite of Philip rather than because of him, it was splendid in the

melancholy strength which made it a brother of mountains.

We lunched on extremely Spanish food at a _fonda_ opposite the Escurial;

and when the time came for sightseeing—a time for us, but not for the

public—the Duke began by marshalling us all, except the weary Duchess and

the lazy Cherub, through the great door guarded by Saint Lawrence. Once

within, we saw the treasures, as a bird in flight sees the beauties of a

town over which he swoops; but we did see them, and once I had three words

and one look from Monica, before it occurred to Lady Vale-Avon to link an

arm in her daughter’s, in a sudden overflow of maternal affection.

Carmona had made a point of the “influence” which could open for us doors

that, for others, would remain shut; and he did smuggle us into the

Library of Manuscripts, the Queen’s Oratory, and the Capilla Mayor to see

the royal tombs. But after we had stopped longer than he wished in the

church, and the Choir, where Philip learned that Lepanto had saved Europe

from the Turks, and listened to the sad music of Mary Stuart’s requiem,

the Duke promised something still better, in the palace. “What you shall

see there,” he said, “is a secret. It was a secret of King Philip’s—so

great a secret that even the writers of guide-books know nothing of it;

while, if a tourist should have heard a rumour and asked a question, the

attendants would say, ‘There’s no such thing in existence.’ Only the Royal

Family know, a few privileged people about the Court, and the guardians of

the Escurial. As for me, I was told by someone here—someone whom I myself

placed in the palace.”

My curiosity was excited; and even Dick, who resented this expedition,

looked interested as we arrived at the palace—the great gridiron’s handle.

At the entrance Carmona separated himself from the rest of the party,

saying that he must have a few words in private with the attendant who

would show the rooms of Philip the Second. He walked ahead, engaged the

brown-liveried guide in low-voiced conversation, and seemed to ask a

question with some eagerness.

Observing the pantomime from a distance, I fancied that, for some reason,

Carmona was to be denied the privilege of which he had boasted; but,

apparently, he did not intend to accept defeat without a struggle. He and

the guide moved on, then stopped again to argue—this time with their backs

to us; but, from the action of Carmona’s elbows, I judged that he put his

hand into his pocket. Five or six minutes later he returned, to announce

that after some difficulty he had succeeded in getting his own way. We

might go, unattended, into the private apartments of Philip the Second;

and while we were there, other visitors would be kept out. “If there are

any, they’ll be taken another round,” said Carmona, “and won’t be ready to

come into the King’s rooms until we’re ready to come out.”

The guide led us down the narrow staircase to the outer door of Philip’s

suite, then slipped away, shutting the door behind him. Lady Vale-Avon and

Monica (the mother still clasping her daughter’s arm), Pilar, Dick,

Carmona, and I were now alone between the gloomy walls behind which the

bigot and despot had lived his miserable life and died his miserable

death.

There was a chill in the sombre place which froze the spirit; yet I, for

one, did not feel sad. I was conscious only of an excited expectancy, as

if I were waiting for something to happen.

We let our imagination set the meagre form of Philip in his chair, or by

the desk at which he used to write; examined the grim relics of his

monk-like existence; and finally moved to the death-chamber, set like a

stage-box at the theatre, beside the high altar of the chapel.

So small was the room that it was filled by our little party of six; yet I

felt there another presence which none of us could see—a grey ghost

agonising for his sins, through a bleak eternity.

Monica felt it too, for she shivered, and exclaimed, “Let us go. This room

seems haunted with evil. I can’t breathe in it.”

“But now for the secret,” said Carmona. “Would you guess at any hidden

opening in these walls?”

We stared critically about, and I began to test the wainscot, but the Duke

stopped me. “You’d never find the place,” he said; “and I promised the

person who told me not to give away the secret; but that doesn’t prevent

me from showing you what’s behind the door.”

He moved close to the wall, stood for an instant, then stepped back, as we

heard a slight clicking sound, like the snap of a spring on an old

box-lid. At the same time a part of the wainscoting rolled away, leaving a

narrow aperture.

It was dark on the other side, but Carmona took a gold match-box from his

pocket and struck a bunch of little wax _fosforos_.

“Philip had this cell made for a place of penance and self-torture,” he

said, “and it’s just as it used to be during his lifetime, before he was

too ill to go in any more. His twisted wire scourge is there, with his

blood on it, his horsehair shirt, and a girdle bristling with small, sharp

spikes. Will you have a look, Lady Vale-Avon? I can’t go with you, for the

cell isn’t big enough for two, but I’ll hold the matches at the door.”

Lady Vale-Avon is of the type of woman who enjoys seeing such things as

these; and though she would not have tortured herself had she lived in

feudal days, I am sure she would have dined calmly over an underground

dungeon where an enemy—an inconvenient wretch like me, for

instance—suffered the pangs of starvation.

She squeezed into the cell, descending a couple of steps, remained for two

or three minutes, and came out, pronouncing it extremely interesting.

“Now, Lady Monica, it’s your turn,” said Carmona; but Monica drew back, “I

hate seeing torture-things,” said she, “and blood, even wicked old blood

like Philip’s, which I used to think, when I read about him in history,

I’d love to shed. No, I won’t go in, thank you.”

Pilar also refused, for if she went she would certainly have a nightmare

and dream she was walled up; thus there remained only the three men to

inspect the hidden horrors.

Carmona held his match-box to me, saying that when we had seen the place

he would look in to refresh his recollections. But Dick calmly helped

himself to several _fosforos_ and took first turn, probably suspecting

something in the way of an _oubliette_, especially prepared for me.

He reappeared presently, however, his suspicions allayed. “Beastly hole,”

he remarked; “almost bad enough for Philip, though he did grill some of my

best ancestors.”

I took a couple of matches, lighting them on the Duke’s box; then, bending

my head low, and pushing in one shoulder at a time, I squirmed through the

aperture. In so doing, however, I contrived to trip over Carmona’s foot,

which must have been thrust forward, staggered against the opposite wall

of the narrow cell, and lost both my lighted vestas. Carmona exclaimed, I

stumbled, and almost simultaneously the door slid into place with a sharp

click.

There was not space to fall at length. I merely lost my balance, and saved

my head from a bump by shielding it with a raised arm, I steadied myself

in a second or two; but I was in black darkness. Outside I could hear a

confused murmur of voices, and would have given something to know what

Dick was saying at the moment.

I was thinking that I should not like to be a prisoner in this hole (only

large enough for the swing of Philip’s scourge) for many hours on end,

when there came an imperative tapping. “Holloa!” I answered, expecting to

hear Dick speak in return; but it was Carmona’s voice which replied.

Evidently he was speaking with his mouth close to the secret door.

“I’m very sorry for this accident,” said he distinctly. “When you

stumbled, you knocked my arm, and made me touch the spring. Unfortunately

the door closed with such a crash, that the spring seems out of order, and

I can’t move it. But if you’ll be patient a few minutes, I’ll look for an

attendant who understands the thing, to bail you out of gaol.”

If I had been Lieutenant Cristóbal O’Donnel I would have heard no more in

the rhyming junction of those words “gaol” and “bail” than met the ear,

but being the man I was—the man he suspected me to be—I did hear more; and

I believed that he wished me to catch a double meaning.

“Does he mean to hand me over to the police now, on suspicion?” I wondered

in my black cell—“before Monica’s eyes?” But aloud I said, “Thanks; don’t

be too long, or I shall be tempted to smash the door.”

“You’ll find that impossible,” answered Carmona. “Don’t worry if I seem to

be gone an age. There’s only one man on duty to-day who knows the secret

of this room; I asked for him when we came, but his comrade said he was

away on leave till four o’clock. It must be that now, and I’ll have him

here as soon as possible. He will be the more pleased to set you free, as

he’s an old friend of yours. You remember little Rafael Calmenare?”

I was silent, seeing, as if by the glare of lightning, the whole design of

the trap, and seeming to see also the triumph which must be in Carmona’s

eyes. But the pause had not lengthened to a second, when I heard Pilar’s

voice, speaking also close to the door.

“Of course you remember, Cristóbal. Rafael Calmenare of the Duke’s

_ganaderia_. But it’s a long time since he went away.”

“After he was gored by Nero and lost his health, through the influence of

a friend at Court I got him a place here,” I heard Carmona say. Then

raising his voice for my ears, he went on, “Poor Rafael will be pleased to

see you again. You must have played with him when a boy. I’m off to find

him now.”

Silence followed these last words. I could picture the consternation of

Dick and Pilar. Neither could do anything to help me, nor could I help

myself. I could but wait in this suffocating black hole for the moment

when a stranger should give me light, and exclaim, “This is not Don

Cristóbal!”

Almost I admired Carmona for his quick wit. After a few moments of rage,

at sight of the suspected man of Burgos Cathedral on his track in the red

motor-car, the thought of the Escurial and his old servant must have

sprung into his mind.

Had Calmenare been available at first, Carmona would have been spared the

trouble of shutting me up in Philip the Bigot’s torture-chamber; but hard

pressed for an excuse to keep us at the Escurial till his man came back,

he had put me where I could be kept while needed. And now that he was gone

in search of Rafael, we three loyal comrades could not discuss the

situation, because of Lady Vale-Avon’s presence.

A brilliant stroke of Carmona’s to have me betrayed by another than

himself, so that Monica might not bear him a grudge! Who was this person

masquerading as an officer of the Spanish army? would be the first

question of the police. And the answer need not be long in coming. The

Duke had reason to congratulate himself; I had been a fool to drop like a

fly into his net, and now that I was in, I saw no way out.

“Oh, how I wish we could open the secret door!” I heard Monica exclaim.

“I can’t even see exactly where it is now,” Pilar said. “Cristóbal?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Poor little Rafael; a good fellow, wasn’t he?”

“Very good,” I replied. To what end was she working? I wondered. But I was

not to be made wiser. Before she had time to finish the hint I heard

Carmona speaking.

“I’ve sent for Calmenare, who has returned, and will be here in a few

minutes,” he called to me. It was like him to hurry back, so that by no

possible means could the three suspected ones reach any understanding.

The moments dragged on, and I could have lashed myself with Philip’s

scourge in fury at the rashness which might involve the whole O’Donnel

family in my disaster. Never had I been able to think less clearly; but

perhaps it was the stifling atmosphere of the cell which made me feel that

fingers in a mailed glove were clenched round my temples.

Outside, voices buzzed; but those who spoke must have stood at a distance,

for I could catch no words. Then, at last, there was a new voice in the

room. Calmenare had come.

“How do you do, Don Rafael?” Pilar exclaimed, as politely as if she had

addressed an equal. “I’m glad to see you again. I’ve been waiting for you

impatiently. Only think, _my dear brother Cristóbal, whom you know so

well_, is in that dreadful place and can’t get out, because the Señor

Duque shut him in—by mistake—and broke the spring.”

“I do not find that it is broken, señorita,” answered the new voice.

“I couldn’t make it work,” Carmona said hastily.

Click! went the spring under skilled fingers. The door sliding back gave

me a rush of light and air which set me blinking for a second or two; and

there I stood at the stranger’s mercy.

What I saw, when my suddenly contracted pupils expanded, was a little man

in the palace livery; a pale little man with insignificant features, and

large, steady eyes. There was absolutely no expression in his face as for

one brief instant our glances met. Then—“God be with you, Don Cristóbal,”

said he. “I am glad to have been even of this slight service. I hope,

señorito, you have not suffered from lack of air?”

“Very little,” said I. I held out my hand. He took it respectfully.

“Is it long since you saw each other?” asked Carmona, sallow and red by

turns.

“About two years only, Señor Duque,” replied his ex-servant,

expressionless as before, and quietly respectful to all. “I could not

forget the date, for the Señor Colonel and the señorita, as well as the

señorito himself, were always very good to me.”

The Duke was silenced. The test invented by himself had failed. Calmenare

accepted me as Cristóbal O’Donnel; he was obliged to accept me too—at

least for the present.

“Shall we get out of this place?” he said to Lady Vale-Avon.

She swept her daughter with her; but Monica had a backward look for me,

sparkling now with malice for Carmona, radiant with relief for Casa

Triana.

We said good-bye to Calmenare in the Duke’s presence; and I would have

pressed a gold piece into his hand for “opening my prison door,” but he

would not have it. Afterwards, while we followed the grey car on the

downhill road to Madrid, Pilar told the whole story with dramatic effect

to the Cherub.

“My one hope was in Rafael,” she said. “I was good to him, you remember,

when he was ill. And he and I had a great sympathy over Corcito, the dear

grey bull. I prayed he’d never forgiven the Duke for that crime, and that

he’d still be grateful to me. Well, I looked Rafael straight in the eyes

when I said, ‘My brother Cristóbal is in that place, shut up by the Duke,

who has broken the spring.’ With all my soul I willed him to understand,

and he did. ‘If the señorita chooses to have a strange gentleman for her

brother, he is her brother for me,’ is what he said to himself; no more!

But what if he _hadn’t?_”

“That’s where I should have come in,” remarked Dick.

“What would you have done?” asked Pilar, breathless.

“I don’t know,” said Dick. “I only know I should have _done_ it; and that

if I had, maybe Carmona wouldn’t have been feeling as well as he feels

now.”

XVII

LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

No longer did the Duke desire our company. He had played his little comedy

of good-fellowship, and it was over, though it had not ended according to

his hopes. The grey car did its forty-horse best to outdistance us on the

way to Madrid, but the road—so good that perhaps we lost nothing in the

detour to the Escurial—distributed its favours evenly. We kept close on

the Lecomte’s flying heels until one of our four cylinders went to sleep,

and Ropes had to get down and wake it up by testing the ignition.

Some fellow-motorists would have turned to offer help, but the Lecomte was

ever a Levite where we were concerned; and when we were ready to go on,

the grey car was not even a speck in the distance. Luckily, however, there

was little or no doubt where its occupants would put up.

Though the Madrid house of the Carmonas had been burned down ten years ago

(since when the Duchess had made her home at the old palace in Seville),

there was scarcely a Continental paper which had not described the

splendours of the Duke’s apartment in one of the finest modern flat-houses

of Madrid. Naturally, he would entertain his mother and guests there, so

that it would be difficult to slip away with them unknown to us.

The thing I did not know was, how long he meant to stay in the capital;

but as he must show Seville in Holy Week, and later perhaps other places

in the south of Spain, to Lady Vale-Avon and Monica before their return to

Madrid for the Royal Wedding, it was almost certain that he would go on in

a couple of days.

The O’Donnels recommended to us the Hotel Inglés, the best Spanish hotel

in Madrid, as well as the most amusing, and it was with a heart

comparatively light that I looked forward to a first sight of my country’s

capital. How would it compare with Paris, with Vienna, with London? What

adventures awaited me there? What was to be the next pass in this queer

duel with Carmona?

But I need not have searched for comparisons. As we rushed into Madrid

without threading through any suburbs,—since suburbs the city has none,—I

discovered that it bore no resemblance to any other place.

We flashed from open country to a shady park, set about with buvettes and

beer gardens; ran through a massive gateway, and were in the heart of

Madrid. Electric trams whizzed confusingly round us, and far above the

hubbub of such traffic loomed proudly a hill crowned with an enormous

palace. There was no need to ask if it were the royal palace, for it was

essentially Royal, a house worthy of a king.

My father had fought to put Don Carlos there—Don Carlos, far away now in

Venice; but with all my admiration for his brave son Don Jaime, my

sympathies flowed loyally towards the young dweller on those heights.

We swept under and round the palace hill, as Colonel O’Donnel directed. In

spite of his instructions, however, Dick lost the way twice, plunging into

wrong turnings; but the second time he did this it seemed that San

Cristóbal—whose medal now adorned our Gloria and shaped our destinies—must

have twisted the steering-wheel. There, before the door of an official

building guarded by sentries, panted the grey car of Carmona; and among

its passengers Carmona alone was absent.

“That’s the Ministry of War,” said the Cherub, and with a quick thought I

asked Dick to slow down. Taking advantage of her son’s late cordiality, I

spoke to the Duchess.

“We thought we had lost you,” said I airily. “I hope nothing’s wrong, that

you stop here?”

“Not in the least, thank you,” coldly replied the Duchess.

But Monica spoke up bravely. “The Duke didn’t tell us why he wanted to go

in. He only said he wouldn’t keep us many minutes. Señorita O’Donnel,

shall you be in Madrid long?”

“Only a few days,” said Pilar. “And you?”

“We shall be here again at the time of the wedding,” Monica answered

quickly; “so I believe the Duke and Duchess will—”

“It is undecided,” Lady Vale-Avon cut in before the girl could make us a

present of Carmona’s plans. “We may take some excursions. As there’s a

fine road to Barcelona, we may go there and to Montserrat; and the Duke

has said something about Bilbao—”

“But, Mother, surely we’re going to Seville for Holy Week!” cried Monica.

“There’s no reason why we should arrive before Maundy Thursday,” replied

Lady Vale-Avon, hiding annoyance. “But isn’t that the Duke coming out? I

hope he won’t be long. It’s windy here, and you have a cold coming on, my

dear Duchess.”

We were dismissed; and raising our hats again we drove on, Pilar waving a

small, encouraging hand to Monica. “They won’t do any of those things,”

said the Spanish girl. “Something tells me they mean to start for Seville

as soon as they can.”

“Something tells me so too,” said I. “And something tells me that

Carmona’s errand at the Ministry of War is to find out whether Lieutenant

Cristóbal O’Donnel y Alvarez is really away from Burgos on leave.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” murmured the Cherub. “But the thought will

not bring a grey hair. Cristóbal _is_ on leave; and he told his brother

officers that he expected to go with his family to Seville. It was at the

last minute that his plans were changed. No one was taken into his

confidence; and it will be very negligent of San Cristóbal to let him meet

in Biarritz any common acquaintance of his and Carmona’s.”

“I’m putting my faith in San Cristóbal,” said I. “But as he has a good

deal to attend to, the less I show myself in Madrid, where my adopted

brother must be known, the better.”

“He hasn’t been as often here as Pilar and I,” said the Cherub, “so he

knows few people. Still, Cristóbal’s uniform should now be put away, and

Cristóbal should wear civilian clothes.”

“He certainly will,” I answered, laughing. And Colonel O’Donnel gave

himself up to directing Dick which way to go, as we were in the most

crowded centre now, close to the Puerta del Sol.

This big, open space, shaped like a parallelogram, walled by hotels,

Government buildings, and shops, struck me as a Spanish combination of

Piccadilly Circus and the Mansion House, thrown into one. Ten busy streets

poured their traffic into the place; intricate lines of tramways converged

there. The pavements were crowded with loungers who had the air of never

doing anything but lounge, and wait for excitements. There was much coming

and going of leisurely pedestrians, talking and laughing, all classes

mingling together; men in silk hats on the way to their clubs chatting

with men in _capas_ and grey sombreros, who belonged to very different

clubs; smart officers in uniform shoulder to shoulder with bull-fighters

whose little twisted pigtails of black hair appeared under their tilted

hats; ragged but handsome beggars thinking themselves as good, if not as

fortunate, as their brothers in broadcloth; merry boys shouting the

evening papers, black-eyed women and men selling cheap but colourful

jewelry, post-cards, toys, and marvellous sweets. It was as gay a scene as

could be found in any capital, and it seemed to me that this absolute

democracy was after all the true note of modern Spain. Whatever else we

may be, we never have been, never will be a nation of snobs, we Spaniards

whose favourite saint is the peasant Isidro.

Steering cautiously through the throng which scarcely troubled itself to

move before us, we took one of the main arteries leading out from the

Puerta del Sol (where no sign of a gate was to be seen), and turned into

the deep blue shadows of the Calle Echegaray to our hotel.

Already I had discovered that it is not the habit of Spanish landlords to

descend from the important first floor to the unimportant ground floor and

welcome their guests. They are glad to have you come if you choose, but

they do not care if you stop away, for there are plenty of others; and

whether you are cousin to the King of England or an American millionaire,

or a Spanish commercial traveller, very timid and just starting in

business, you will be given the same reception, unless you put on “proud

airs,” when you will be shown that you had better go elsewhere. But with

an old friend, all is different; everyone welcomed the Cherub and the

señorita; for their sakes everyone welcomed Dick and me. I was vaguely

introduced as a relative—no name given; no name, in the flurry of

greeting, asked; for Spain is not like France or Germany, where the first

thing to do is to write down all particulars about yourself on a piece of

paper.

Ropes drove the car off to a garage, and we were shown to rooms which made

us realize that we had left the provinces behind and come into the

capital.

“Thank goodness I shall have a pillow to sleep on to-night,” said Dick,

“instead of doing the carved-knight-on-a-marble-tomb act. I looked

particularly at the two neat, rounded blocks those chaps in Burgos

Cathedral had to rest their heads on, and the alleged pillows on my bed

were an exact copy, hardness and all.”

“I like them hard,” said I.

“That’s right! Stand up for Spanish institutions.”

“There’s one anyhow I don’t think you’d run down,” I remarked.

“Which one?”

“Spanish girls.”

We dined in great spirits that evening, in the big scarlet and gold

restaurant; and in rich, red Marqués de Riscal Dick drank confusion to the

Duque de Carmona. The Cherub had told us where Carmona’s flat was

situated, saying that his car would perhaps be kept under the same roof

with his carriage and the state coach.

The company was interesting to watch. Leoncavallo had as a guest the

famous ex-bull-fighter Mazzantini; a Russian prince entertained several

beauties of the Opera; and there were two or three politicians greatly in

the public eye. We were hungry; the dinner was good; there was much to

talk over; and all seemed to be going well.

But about half-past ten, when Pilar had gone, and the Cherub was having a

“yarn” and a cigar in the sitting-room of our suite; Ropes appeared,

looking serious.

“Something bad has happened, sir; and I blame myself,” said he.

“Something wrong with the car,” I asked quickly.

“Something _out_ of the car, sir,” he amended. “The main shaft of the

change-speed gear.”

“Impossible!” said I. “A car can’t go along dropping her gearing, as a

woman drops her purse!”

“No, sir. But she can, so to speak, have her pocket picked. After all

that’s come and gone, I ought to have kept my eyes open.”

“Out with it, my good chap,” said I; “don’t try to break it to us.”

“It’s the car that’s broken into, sir. I found the garage all right, left

her safe and sound, came back here, but after dinner thought I’d go round

again to tinker a bit at the car in case of an early start to-morrow. When

I got to the place there were three new fellows on duty, and they seemed

astonished when they saw I intended to work on the Gloria. The chauffeur

who looked after that car had been in, they said; and you can believe,

sir, I pricked up my ears. He’d been working like a demon, said they,

opening the gear-box and dismounting the main shaft. Then he went off with

it over his shoulder, after telling the foreman his master wouldn’t

believe the pinions were so worn there ought to be a new set, and he was

going to show it to him. They were surprised, I can tell you, sir, when I

said we’d been robbed, and that the thief wasn’t your chauffeur. But just

then one of the old lot came in, and bore witness that I was the right

man. It did seem like a bad dream, but a peep at the gear-box showed me it

was real enough. I was a fool not to give somebody warning, or pay a man

to stay by the car.”

“I can’t see that you had reason to be suspicious,” said I, “although it’s

a rascally outrage, and makes me feel murderous. Did they describe the

supposed chauffeur?”

“They did sir; and I expected to recognize the description. But I didn’t;

they’re too smart for that.”

“You think we know him?”

“Sure of it, sir. Nothing easier than a bit of disguise.”

“It might be a common motor-car thief, who wanted a main shaft for a

Gloria car.”

“And then again, sir, it mightn’t.”

“Anyhow,” said I, “the thing to do would be to apply to the police, have

the ruffian run to earth and arrested, no matter what his position. The

worst of it is, though, I’m not anxious to have the eye of the Spanish

police turned upon me, and there are those who count on that fact.”

“Wouldn’t I like to smash their heads for this! Wouldn’t I like to smash

their car!” growled Dick.

“No. That would be playing it too low down,” said I.

Ropes coloured under his sunburnt skin, and began to search for

non-existent dust on the leather cap in his hand.

“You’re right, sir, no doubt,” he said, in a meek voice.

I was half sorry that he, or anyone, should agree with me. It seemed

somehow as if my chauffeur were taking this monstrous thing too coolly.

“Well, the fact remains that we’re done,” I said, with suppressed fury.

“If the Duke of Carmona has had a hand in this act, it’s a sign that he

means to get off while we’re held up waiting for a new shaft and pinions

to arrive—probably all the way from Paris. He can go to-morrow—”

“Beg pardon, sir; he can’t, not in his own car,” said Ropes. “If _we_

can’t leave, no more can’t he.”

“Why, what have you done?” I tried to speak sternly.

“Oh, next to nothing, sir. A bit of a touch on his magneto ignition, and a

tickling of his coil, just enough to keep him in hospital till he’s

doctored up.”

Rope’s expression was so childlike that Dick and I burst out laughing.

“You demon!” I said. “How did you get at the car?”

“Much the same as they did at ours, though I don’t pretend to be as clever

as some. I said to myself, as this car of the Duke’s is new, and he

doesn’t drive it himself, chances are he’s never had a motor before, and

wouldn’t have a garage in Madrid, though he does live here part of the

year and must have fine stables. I inquired what was the best garage

besides ours, and strolled round, thinking the chauffeur would have gone

straight to the Duke with his news. I found the place, and all the chaps

were standing outside open doors, watching a couple of dogs having a

fight. I walked in, without a word to anyone, though I’d have said I came

from the Duke if I’d had to. There was the car; and before one of those

blessed dogs had chewed the other’s nose off, I’d polished up my little

job. Then I came to you, feeling a bit better than a few minutes before.”

“You ought to be crushed with remorse,” said I; but I’m afraid I grinned;

and Dick remarked that if he were King of England he’d give Ropes a

knighthood.

“Heaven knows what the next move will be,” I commented, when the avenger

had gone, not too stricken in spirit. “It begins to look as though the

enemy would stick at little, and we can’t go on giving tit for tat.”

“He won’t take open action against you for the present,” said the Cherub,

“as he isn’t sure you aren’t Cristóbal O’Donnel; and you’re warned if he

tries to strike in the dark. He’s probably found out through the Ministry

of War that Cristóbal’s on leave, so to rid himself of your company he’s

resorted to the only means which occurred to him.”

“I have to thank you that he had no surer means,” I said.

“It’s the fashion in Spain, if a friend wants a thing, to tell him it is

his,” replied Colonel O’Donnel. “You wanted me for a father, Pilar for a

sister. I said, ‘We are yours.’ There’s not much to be thankful for. I

would do ten times more for your father’s son; and my confessor’s a

sympathetic man. Besides, to tell you a secret of mine which even Pilar

doesn’t know, though she has most others at her finger-end, your mother

was my first love. I adored her! You have her eyes!”

Whereupon I shook hands with the Cherub.

XVIII

THE MAN WHO LOVED PILAR

When Ropes had gone to send a telegram to Paris, Dick and I talked the

matter over from so many points of view, that Colonel O’Donnel apparently

went to sleep. It was only when I burst into vituperation against Carmona,

that the excellent man suddenly showed signs of life.

“I’ve been thinking,” said he, and I found myself cheering up at the

statement; for I had noticed that, though the Cherub often had the air of

being silent through laziness; that from his mellifluous Andaluz he

discarded all possible consonants as he would discard the bones of fish;

yet, with his murmurings, invariably rolled from his tongue some jewel of

good sense.

“We have a friend near Madrid,” said he, “who has an automobile. I know

little about such things; but when I heard that you had a twenty-four

horse-power Gloria, I thought, ‘It is the same as the Conde de Roldan’s.’

It will be days before your new parts can come from Paris, even if you

send Ropes; and there are few automobiles on sale here, if any. It’s a

hundred chances to one you could get parts to fit your car in that way.

But if Don Cipriano’s car is what I think, he will give you what you want.

When the new parts arrive, they will be for him.”

“Colonel O’Donnel,” said Dick, “you and your family are bricks!”

“That’s true,” said I; “but if you could persuade your friend to such an

act of generosity, I couldn’t accept. I—”

“Oh,” said the good man, with cherubic slyness, “he would give his left

hand for such a chance to please us! Perhaps you haven’t noticed that my

_nina_ is rather attractive; but it has not escaped the observation of Don

Cipriano.”

So the wind blew from that quarter! I threw a glance at Dick, and saw on

his face the same expression of disconcerted _amour propre_ I had once

seen when a bullet went whistling by his nose. But he said nothing about

either missile; and now it was left for me to justify our appreciation of

the señorita.

Ordinarily, if there is one thing which the Cherub loves, it is to dawdle,

but now he rose without a sigh and remarked that there was no time to

waste. He must fetch Pilar.

“She will have gone to bed,” I objected.

The Cherub smiled. Pilar go to bed at half-past ten on her first night in

Madrid after months of absence? Not she. Her father was willing to bet

that she was at her window looking down upon the street, and wishing she

had been born a man that she might be in it. “Night is the time for

amusement in Madrid,” said he. “One can lie in bed till afternoon without

missing anything; but at night—that is the time to be alive here! And

though our home is in the southern country, when we are in Madrid my Pilar

and I, we are true Madrileños. Had she and I been alone, she would have

made me take her to the theatre or circus. We should not have got home

till one: and then I should have had to give her supper. Oh, she will be

enchanted when I call her back to life!”

With that he trotted off, and before it seemed that he could have

explained anything, he had brought Pilar to us in triumph, her hat on her

head, dimples in her cheeks, and stars in her eyes. “I’m ready!” she

exclaimed.

“Ready?” I echoed. “For what?”

“Why to drive with you all to Don Cipriano’s! What else? We mustn’t lose a

minute, or our bad fairy will have time to work some other evil charm

before we’ve remedied the first. Oh, I may be only a girl, and not of

importance; but Don Cipriano thinks me important, and I shall have to be

there to make smiles at him. He has a Gloria, and it is twenty-four

horse-power. Father sent to order a carriage while I put on my hat and

coat. Don Cipriano’s place is only half an hour out of Madrid, even with a

‘simón.’ He breeds horses, and oh, such dogs! Come along—come along!”

“At this time of night?” said Dick. “He’ll think we’re mad!”

“It’s always early till to-morrow morning in Madrid,” laughed Pilar. “Ah,

how nice to have an excitement!”

“He won’t be at home,” said Dick.

“Yes, he will. San Cristóbal will keep him there.”

Before we knew what we were doing, this small Spanish whirlwind had swept

us downstairs in her train, into the vehicle which had actually arrived,

and out into the midst of a night-scene as lively as a fair. Many shops

were open and brilliantly illuminated. Café windows blazed like diamonds;

half the population of Madrid was in the streets, and a stranger might

have thought that something unusual had happened; but Pilar assured us it

was “always like that.” “You can live in the street if you like, in

Madrid,” said she, “and I should think lots of quite charming people do.

There are sweets and fruit when you’re hungry, and water and wine and

fresh milk of goats when you’re thirsty, cool doorways or nice hot

pavements to sleep on when you’re tired, with lettuce leaves or a cabbage

for a pillow, all at a cost of a penny or two a day; and if you’re clever

somebody passing by will give you that penny. So, rich or poor, with a

palace or no home, you can be happy in Madrid.”

“I wonder how you’d like New York?” muttered Dick.

“That depends on the person I lived with!” said Pilar.

Soon we had left the gold and crimson glow of the streets, and were out in

the blue night. Over the Puente de Toledo we passed, and on along a broad

white road.

Pilar had said that we would reach our destination in half an hour; but

her enthusiasm ran faster than our horses; and it was nearly midnight when

we stopped in front of a tall archway that glimmered in the dark. A

clanging bell had to be pulled, and was echoed by a musical baying of many

dogs. “The darlings!” exclaimed Pilar. “I know their voices. It’s Melampo,

and Cubillon, and Lubina, the dearest pets of all; named after the dogs

who went with the shepherds to see the Christ-child in His cradle—you

remember—so they can never go mad.”

By this time the gate was open, and a wave of beautiful greyhounds surged

round us, although called imperatively back by a man who looked like a

cross between a porter and a gamekeeper. Then came a cordial burst of

recognition between the Cherub, Pilar, and the servant. We drove into a

courtyard, and before we could descend from our carriage the master of the

house had appeared at a lighted doorway, tall, brown, ruddy, picturesque

in Spanish riding breeches and short coat; a handsome man of thirty-five,

perhaps, whose face lit from surprise to rapture at sight of Pilar. Dick

and I came in for a welcome too, though I could see that the Conde de

Roldan was not easy in his mind about these young men who seemed on terms

of intimacy with his friends.

From the courtyard we passed through a doorway into a patio, and from the

_patio_ into a nondescript room which could have belonged to no one but a

bachelor and a sportsman. There was, however, a mother, and the poor lady

would have been torn from her bed to greet the welcome ones, had not the

father and daughter protested. To-morrow, if all went well, they would

come again, and see dear Doña Rosita; but now, let her sleep. We were here

on business.

“May I explain you?” Pilar appealed to me. “Don Cipriano is safe. And I

want him to be interested.”

Poor Don Cipriano! He had visibly a bad half moment, trembling lest we had

rushed out to announce my engagement to the adorable Pilarcita; but it was

good to see the light come back to his eyes when he heard that I—blind

worm—had fallen in love with another girl. Clever Pilarcita made this fact

clear, so that Don Cipriano’s jealous heart might warm to me before he

knew what thing was wanted. Dick became tolerable also, as a friend

following in the train of my adventures; and soon the poor fellow was

ready to put not only the gearing of his motor-car, but his house and

everything in it, at our service.

He blessed his patron saint for bringing us to his door, and for

permitting him to have ridden home from a distant farm in time to greet

us; he roundly cursed the Duke of Carmona, consigning him to Purgatory for

a longer period than usual; and when everyone of us (except Dick) was in

the best of humours with everybody else, we paid a visit to his car.

She might, in all but colour, have been twin-sister to mine. There seemed

reason to hope that the pinions of this Gloria would fit the other Gloria,

and that no time might be lost in making the experiment, the Conde de

Roldan volunteered to spin us into Madrid, letting our “simón” go back

empty. If we decieved ourselves, rather than I should be delayed (said

he), his car was mine to take where I would, and the Cherub stepped on my

foot to check a refusal.

There was a chauffeur in this interesting household, but he was several

other things as well, and was a better dog-doctor than the vet. At that

moment he was assisting at an addition to the family of Lubina’s daughter;

but in any case, Don Cipriano, protested, he would have allowed no one to

drive us save himself.

We raced to Madrid in a fourth of the time we had taken in coming; and two

hours after the moment when we had news of the disaster, we arrived at the

garage of my injured Gloria.

A somnolent night-porter (one of the few persons in Madrid who appeared to

use the night for sleep) let us in; and at the sound of our entrance the

figure of a man sprang from the cushions of my car. Pilar gave a cry,

which changed to a laugh as she saw that it was Ropes.

“San Cristóbal failed you for a few minutes this evening, didn’t he? But

he’s going to make up for it now,” she said. “And I’m going to see him do

it, if it takes all night.”

In vain did the Cherub try to persuade her that it would be well to let

him escort her home, as the experiment would be a long affair. Nobody

seconded his efforts, and, if they had, ten chances against one that

Pilarcita would have listened. Never, in all her life, said she, had she

known anything like the excitements of the last few days, and it was too

probable that she never would again.

With this, she climbed into her old place in my Gloria’s tonneau, her

bright eyes bewitching in the uncertain yellow light; and enchanted with

the prospect of retaining her society, Don Cipriano proposed a feast. He

would not listen to discussions, but rushed the bewildered watchman off to

a neighbouring restaurant, whence a waiter appeared with the speed of

magic. Supper was ordered; chicken, salad, champagne, all that could be

found of the best; and _dulces_ for the señorita.

While Ropes and I worked as if for a wager, a swarm of amused waiters came

buzzing about the garage, bringing chairs, a table, clattering dishes,

clinking knives and forks, and silver pails wherein tinkled ice embedding

gold-labelled bottles.

Ropes is unrivalled as a mechanic, and I am not unhandy with tools, so

that between us, under the inspiration of Pilar’s bright eyes and sayings,

we had the pinions out of Don Cipriano’s car by the time the champagne was

cold. Then, while corks were popping, the great experiment was tried. “A

fit! a fit!” I exclaimed, and joyously we drank to the health of the two

Glorias.

Such tips as they got that night, those waiters and that watchman could

never have seen. No doubt they thought us mad, and perhaps we were; but it

was partly the fault of San Cristóbal.

XIX

A PARCEL FOR LIEUTENANT O’DONNEL

Never was such a man as Don Cipriano, Conde de Roldan. Not content with

lending me his wings that I might fly while he was left to crawl, he

proposed to heap other favours upon the friend of his friends.

He offered me an asylum at his place for my rejuvenated car, lest the

enemy in reconnoitring should learn our secret before the time; and,

better still, he volunteered to visit the camp of that enemy, and discover

his plans.

Being an acquaintance of the lady whom Carmona had jilted, he was no

admirer of the Duke’s. Nevertheless, he was a member of a club which

Carmona frequented when in Madrid, and he thought that the Duke would look

in next day. Even if he should decide to proceed by rail, after

discovering how “two can play at the same game,” such a change of plan

would mean delay; therefore Carmona and his party would spend at least one

day in Madrid. Don Cipriano offered to go early to the club, and not to

leave until he had seen the Duke. The moment he had any news he would

bring it to us.

I accepted my new friend’s invitation to house the Gloria, as his place

was so close to town that Ropes or I could spin her back at short notice;

and at dawn, when merry Madrid was thinking of bed, my car towed out his

dismantled one. Pilar and her father had gone home to dream their good

deeds over; Dick, when he heard that we were to drive behind the Conde’s

horses, developed a headache, and Ropes and I had to carry the business

through ourselves.

We bathed and breakfasted in the country, and drove back to Madrid while

the gay world slept. He would now, Don Cipriano announced, spend the day

in the city, on watch-dog duty; but as he would have no news until

afternoon, I might visit the picture galleries if I liked. “They will make

you feel proud of your country,” he said; and so they would, no doubt. But

I resolved to sacrifice them in the fear that, after all, Carmona might

evade me if I gave him so good a chance.

Never had I seen Dick so gloomy as when I returned to him, and the black

dog was not chased away by my praises of Don Cipriano. He cheered up,

however, at the prospect of sightseeing with the Cherub and Pilar; the

Cherub martyred; Pilar joyous in the thought of showing off the Murillos

and Velasquez which she adored.

They did the Armería and picture galleries all the morning, until they

were drooping with fatigue; waggled back in a dilapidated cab, clamouring

for their lunch and my tidings; departed again in the afternoon to finish

what they had left undone.

Meanwhile I had heard nothing; and the day, spent in waiting for Don

Cipriano or for some bit of gossip picked up by Ropes, was long.

But five o’clock and Don Cipriano came together. Carmona had been to the

club. The Conde de Roldan had not spoken to him, but the Duke had talked

to another man, a motoring friend of the King’s. Perhaps, with few others,

would the Duke have been so expansive. He had said, “I’m only in Madrid

for the day. Should have been off this morning, with my mother and two

ladies who are going to visit her in Seville, but had an accident to my

automobile, which has made me a lot of bother. I hope to get away, though,

sometime to-morrow.” Then he had asked after the health of a certain

actress, and the subject had been definitely changed.

This was a triumph. I heartily thanked Don Cipriano, all the while feeling

a guilty thing; for if I were loyal to Dick and wished him luck, I must be

disloyal and wish defeat for my benefactor.

We spoke of the road, which he knew, and said was not too bad; and about

brigands, who were making themselves talked of just then. “You’d better

buy arms, if you haven’t them,” said Don Cipriano; “but there’s not much

danger on this side Seville.”

He had brought a road-map; and we were examining it, in the reading-room

of the hotel, wondering whether Cannona would take the direct way through

Manzanares, Valdepeñas, and Cordoba, or another which Don Cipriano

considered better, though longer, by Talavera de la Reina, Trujillo, and

Zafra, when the _concièrge_ came to say a messenger with a parcel wished

to see me.

“It must be a mistake,” I replied.

“He asked for el Teniente O’Donnel; and he has a packet for you.”

“Bring it in, please, and let me see how it’s addressed.”

“He won’t give it up, sir, without seeing you himself. Those were his

instructions.”

I got up impatiently and went into the hall, where a boy in the livery of

some shop handed me a small parcel. There was no address upon it, and I

wondered if this were not some purchase of Pilar’s, sent back to my care.

However, I decided to open it, and found nothing inside except a little

steel paper-knife with the word _Toledo_ engraved on the black and gold

handle.

I stared at the thing stupidly for a moment, as I fumbled for a

_pourboire_ to give the messenger, when it occurred to me that he might

explain the mystery. “Did a lady buy this?” I asked; “a young lady, with a

tall señor also young, and another middle-aged?”

“A young lady? yes, sir. But she was with only one señor, and two señoras,

both of an age.”

“You saw them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Describe all four, and you shall have two pesetas instead of one.”

“One señora was Spanish, brunette, fat, with dead eyes in a large, soft

face of two chins. The other was tall and foreign, handsome, but with an

air! I would not be her servant. The señor was distinguished. Dark, with a

thin nose that turned down, like his moustache; a face of an old picture;

one shoulder higher than the other.”

“But the young lady?”

“Oh, sir, the señorita was a white and gold angel, made of a sunbeam! It

was she who bought the knife, while the others chose a thing for the tall

señora. She quickly gave it and the money to an attendant, with the

address, saying it must be put into the gentleman’s own hand.”

I gave the boy five pesetas instead of two.

A paper-knife with the word _Toledo_ engraved upon it from Monica for me!

No message, only that! But was it not in itself a message—the only one she

could find a way to send?

I went back to Don Cipriano. “I’ve just heard,” said I, “that when Carmona

starts, he intends to go to Toledo.”

XX

THE MAGIC WORD

When the others came back, and the paper-knife was shown, all agreed with

me that it could mean but one thing. The best of it was that to go to

Toledo the grey car must pass the Conde de Roldan’s place where my Gloria

lay; and all we need do would be to await the moment when the Lecomte

flashed by. Then we might give Carmona a surprise.

None of us doubted that he must guess the cause of his accident, as we

guessed at ours; nevertheless, the blow he had inflicted was far more

severe than our retaliation, and he doubtless hoped that, despite our

revengeful scratch, he could slip out of Madrid leaving us _hors de

combat_.

Don Cipriano dined with us that night, and went with the others to the

Teatro Español, where the great Guerrero and her husband were acting. It

was not thought well for me to appear, lest the Duke should be there, and

say to some acquaintance, “You see the O’Donnel’s. Is that the son who is

in the army?”

When they returned, Pilar had news. Carmona, with the Duchess, Lady

Vale-Avon, and Monica had all been at the theatre in a box.

“I knew that girl was beautiful,” said Pilar, “but I didn’t know how

beautiful until to-night! With her pearly skin and golden hair among all

the dark heads, she gleamed like a pearl amid carbuncles, and everyone was

looking at her. You know how we admire fair beauties, and how we expect to

adore the young queen when she comes? Well, if it had been Princess Ena

herself, people could hardly have stared more, and the Duke was delighted.

He wants everything that’s best for himself, and to have others appreciate

it. He was so proud of Lady Monica between acts, and kept bending over her

as if she belonged to him. I don’t think he saw us; but I was glad you

weren’t there, or you would have been wild to fly at him.”

“You make me wild to do that now,” I said.

“Have a little patience, and you will steal her,” said Pilar.

“If she would only let me! But she won’t.”

“Who knows what she will be ready to do if they press her? And after

to-night, too! She seemed half afraid of him, as if she began to realize

more and more what he is. Oh, if you weren’t here I should want to do some

desperate deed and snatch her away myself! He likes having her admired,

while she’s not yet his; but he has enough of the Moor in him to shut up a

wife, so that no other man should see her beauty. And then presently he

would tire, and be cruel.”

“Don’t let’s talk of it,” said I. “It’s not going to happen.”

Though it was so late before we slept, we were dressed at an unearthly

hour—according to the Cherub—and driving out with the small luggage which

accompanied us on the car, to Don Cipriano’s place on the Toledo road.

Ropes had spent the night there, and the Gloria was ready. The luggage was

got into place; and Don Cipriano and his mother—a fairy godmother of an

old lady, with a white dome of hair under a priceless black lace

mantilla—were determined to provide us with food and drink as if to

withstand a siege.

There was a snow-cured ham from Trevelez, the most famed in Andalucía.

There was delicious home-made bread, _cuernos_, _molletes_, and

_panecillos_; and olives large as grapes. There was white, curded cheese;

quince jam or _carne de membrillo_; angels’ hair, made of shredded melons

with honey; _mazapan_, smelling of almonds, and shaped like figures of

saints, serpents, and horses; oranges from Seville and Tarifa; fat figs

dried on sticks; and, most wonderful of all, a wineskin of the country, so

old that the taste of the skin was gone a generation ago, and plump with

as much good red wine as would have filled six bottles.

“You will need these things,” insisted the old lady, giving the Cherub a

friendly pat on the arm, as she encircled Pilar’s waist. “It is different

on the road between Madrid and Seville, from those you have travelled. You

will want to lunch out of doors, in the sunshine, for you won’t find good

things like these at any little venta. I know, for I have been with my

son. I am a heroine, my friends say. We will pack everything well for

you.”

“And the wineskin you must hang on the side of the car,” said Don

Cipriano, all solicitude for our welfare, poor fellow, believing happily,

as he did now, that neither Dick nor I was dangerous. “There’s no cure for

Spanish dust, except Spanish wine. Besides, you’re going through wild

country where automobiles are seldom seen. If peasants are inclined to

throw stones, the sight of a good skin of wine should soften them. And

what true man would risk damaging a wineskin?”

That fairy godmother, Doña Rosita, conceived a fancy for Dick, who flirted

with her in his bad Spanish so outrageously that she was delighted. He

made her feel young again, she said, and it was a shock to find that he

was an American. She had not forgiven America for the Cuban war, which she

had not understood in the least. “But _you_ are not wicked!” she

exclaimed. “I thought all American men were wicked, and would do anything

for money. _Ay de mi!_ I must again pardon Columbus for discovering your

country, I suppose; though I have often said in these last years, how much

better if he had left it alone. I used to stop in my carriage near the

Cristóbal Colón statue in the Prado, when the war was on, and laugh to

watch the people throw things, because they were annoyed with him for the

trouble he had brought. Yet now I see there’s something to thank him for,

after all.” This last with a look at Dick which must have melted his

American heart like water if she had been of the age of Pilarcita. But

what would she have said had she known that—indirectly—Columbus had sent

to Spain a rival for her adored Cipriano?

Ignorance being bliss, the delightful mother and son were a hostess and a

host almost too hospitable.

As if the hampers stowed in the car were not enough, a tremendous

breakfast on a table loaded with flowers was provided for us. But just as

we sat down, at ten o’clock, a servant on duty as scout appeared, panting

after a scamper across fields, to say that a motor had passed. Our

chauffeur sent word that it was _the_ motor; and was ready to start our

car.

This was the signal for confusion, cries of regret, wishes for good luck,

laughter, and exclamations. Pilar and the Cherub were persuaded to finish

their cups of thick chocolate, flavoured with cinnamon, while Dick and I

drank our strong coffee and left our _aguardiente_.

Off we went, in flowery Spanish speech kissing the señora’s feet, while

she kissed our hands; Don Cipriano leaped upon a horse to see us off, all

his dogs about him; and ten minutes later our pneus were pressing the

track in the white dust made by the Lecomte.

We soon lost sight of gay Madrid, with its domes and spires clear cut

against the white mountains, to run through a green landscape of growing

corn and grape, vineyards framed for our eyes with distant hills flaming

in Spanish colours, red and gold. Colonel O’Donnel pointed out an isolated

elevation which he said was the exact centre of Spain; and of course there

was a convent on its top. Every other hill had a ruined watch-tower, brown

against a sky of deeper, more thoughtful blue than Italy’s radiant

turquoise. Men we met rode upright as statues on noble Andaluz animals,

grand as war-horses in mediæval pictures; but some did not scorn to turn

abruptly aside at sight and sound of our motor, to go cantering across

fields to a prudent distance. Carters with nervous mules held striped rugs

over the creatures’ faces till we had passed; donkeys brayed and hesitated

whether to sit down or run away, but ended in doing neither; yet no man

frowned.

Dick said that now, at last, he began to feel he was really in Spain,

because we met the right sort of Spanish faces, the only kind he was ready

to accept as Spanish. He had been satisfied with the strongly

characteristic qualities of everything else (especially the balconies, the

hall-mark of domestic architecture in Spain); the rich, oily cooking; the

pillows, oh, the stony pillows! the manners of the people, and the

costumes of Castile. But the features of the people hadn’t been, till

to-day, typical enough to please him. He had expected in the north

mysterious looking Basques; then, something Gothic or Iberian, if not

Moorish, with a touch of the Berber to give an extra aquiline curve to the

nose. But not a bit of it! Noses were as blunt as in England, Ireland, or

America, and might have been grown there. It was only this morning that we

had flashed past a few picture-book Spanish features, and fierce, curled

moustaches.

“Wait till you get farther south,” murmured the Cherub, “you will see the

handsome peasants. They put townspeople to shame.”

“And mantillas—I want mantillas,” said Dick. “I’ve only seen one so far,

except in the distance at Vitoria; I expected every woman to wear one. Now

you, señorita, owe it to your country.”

Pilar laughed. “Fancy a mantilla in a motor-car. You haven’t _seen_ me

yet, señores—no, not even when I went to the play. When we’re at Seville,

why, then you’ll be introduced to the Real Me. Look you, I have but one

sole hat in this wide world, beyond this motoring thing I bargained for at

Burgos. You’ve no idea what a hat—such a hat as a self-respecting señorita

can put upon the head God made—costs in this land of Spain. Twice—three

times what it would be elsewhere, so travelled women say, and to have a

smart one is necessary a trip at least to Biarritz. As for Doña Rosita,

she is old-fashioned, and always wears the mantilla; indeed, on her

wedding tour to Paris she had to buy her first hat in Marseilles, she

says; for thirty years ago, you could hardly find one in Spain. Now, most

of the ladies in Madrid wear hats, except for the bull-fight; but in dear

Seville, it’s different. I shall no longer have a headache with the

hatpins which pinch these hairs of mine. Santa María Purísima, you shall

see what you shall see.”

She spoke as if to me; but she glanced at Dick, who—though he had still to

pose as the owner of the car—was growing fond of the tonneau, while Ropes

drove. Woe betide Don Cipriano if he had seen that glance!

By and by we turned off the main road at Cetafe, and got caught by closed

bars at a railway crossing.

“We shall probably be here an hour, and might as well lunch,” said the

Cherub resignedly; but when a humble-looking luggage train had crept in,

it was so impressed with our air of superior importance that, to our

surprise, it backed out rather than obstruct our honourable path; and the

gates were wheeled back for us to pass in front of the engine’s polite

little nose.

It was a spin of but fifty miles from Madrid to the olive plantations (the

first I’d seen in Spain) near Toledo; but the road surface was not of

velvet; and we had often to slow down for animals who hated, because they

did not understand, that most faithful and loyal of beasts, the

automobile. Therefore it was close upon one o’clock when the noble old

town rose in wild majesty before us on its granite, horseshoe hill,

girdled by the dark gold bed of the Tagus.

Madrid seen from afar off had scarcely been impressive, but this Rome of

Spain—though we did not approach it by way of the world-famous bridge—was

grander than any picture had led me to believe.

We had seen nothing of the grey car yet, not even a cloud of dust, but we

knew it must be here, and everyone of us looked forward to watching the

face of the Duke when we should march into the dining-room of the best

hotel, where by this time he and his party were probably about to lunch.

In a few minutes I should see Monica, perhaps be as near to her as at the

_fonda_ of the Escurial. That was the thought most absorbing; yet my

spirit was on its knees before this ancient throne of kings.

I could hardly believe that the sullen yellow stream pounding its way

through the gorge, and shouldering aside huge rocks as if they were

pebbles, was really the Tagus, enchanted river of my childish dreams—the

river my father loved—the golden river I had scarcely dared hope to see.

Not a legend of the Tagus or Toledo that I did not know, I reminded myself

dreamily. I knew how, in the grand old days of the city’s glory, the Jews

of Jerusalem had respectfully sent a deputation to the wise Jews of

Toledo, asking: “Shall this man who says He is the Son of God be given up

to the Roman law, and die?” And how the Jews of Toledo had hastened to

return for answer: “By no means commit this great crime, because we

believe from the evidence that He is indeed the long looked-for Redeemer.”

How the caravan had made all speed back, arriving too late; and how,

because of their wisdom and piety, the Jews of Toledo had been spared by

the Inquisition when all others burned.

I knew how, in a time of disaster and poverty for Toledo, San Alonzo, a

poor man, prayed heartily to the Virgin, in whose lifetime the cathedral

had been begun, imploring her help for the town; how she came at his call,

and looking about to see what she could do, touched the rock, which

throbbed under her fingers like a heart, until all its veins flowed with

molten iron; how this iron was drunk by the Tagus in such draughts that

the water became the colour of old gold; and how after that, the city grew

rich and famous through the marvellous quality of its steel, which, the

faithful believe, owes its value to the iron-impregnated Tagus.

I knew how the King of the Visigoths had here become a Christian, and made

of Toledo the ecclesiastical capital of Spain. I knew how the Cid had

ridden to the city on Babieca, beside treacherous Alonzo. I knew how

Philip the Second had been driven away by the haughtiness of the clergy,

pretending greater love for Madrid, that town built to humour a king’s

caprice. I knew how, even as in the mountains round Granada, in every cave

among the rocks of the wild gorge, sleeps an enchanted Moor in armour, on

an enchanted steed, guarding hidden treasure, or waiting for the magic

word which will set him free to fight for his banished rulers. And yet,

here was I entering this ancient citadel mighty in history and fable, in

an automobile, with a photographic camera!

“But you are a banished prince yourself,” said Pilar, when I spoke

something of what was in my mind. “And you’ve come out of your enchanted

cave at the magic word. That magic word is—Love.”

XXI

THE DUCHESS’S HAND

High on the hill Colonel O’Donnel pointed out the Alcázar of many

vicissitudes, long since turned into a military academy, which has made

Toledo to Spain what Woolwich is to England. “There your father and I went

to school,” said he. “I come every year or two, and wander about with my

thoughts.”

With this, he began bowing right and left to young officers who sauntered

inside the gateway. Nearly everyone knew and seemed delighted to see him;

indeed, who could see the excellent Cherub, and not be glad?

He himself was happy. “There go your father and I!” he exclaimed, picking

out the two best-looking infants in a procession of incredibly small boys

proudly wearing a smart uniform. “Oh, where are the girls who used to

smile at us?”

So we drove into the Moorish-looking stronghold, through a labyrinth of

steeply ascending tunnels which were streets. They were so narrow that I

would not have believed the car could scrape along without smashing the

mud-guards, had not the Cherub valiantly urged us on, with assurances that

it could be done. And always we did slide through, the sides of the Gloria

so close to open doors and windows that we could have reached into dark

rooms, and helped ourselves to loaves of bread, brass cooking vessels,

coarse green pottery, jars of flowers, or astonished babies.

There was no space for dwellers in these shadowed lanes to rush from their

houses before our car, when warned by the “choof, choof” of the motor as

we rattled over the “agony stones,” that something extraordinary was

coming; but mothers shrieked for their offspring, while young girls hailed

their friends to the free show; and men, women, and children jostled each

other good-naturedly in every window and door as we approached, pouring

out in our wake, though seemingly half afraid even then that the dragon

might take to charging back upon them.

Beautiful faces peered from behind rusty bars, with eyes to tempt any man

to “eat iron,” as the saying is. Dark men with sun-warmed eyes, and black

heads wrapped in handkerchiefs of scarlet silk, stared curiously at

Pilar’s veil; and when we emerged from the stone-and-plaster labyrinth,

into a wider space where the hotel stands like an ancient palace, we were

swamped by the laughing crowd which had formed into a trotting procession

behind us.

Just as the marble whiteness of the _patio_ cooled our eyes, down the

stairs came those with whom my thoughts had raced ahead; the Duchess of

Carmona; Monica and her mother; behind them the Duke.

Monica grew rose-red at sight of us. Her elders, not in the Duke’s

confidence concerning the Gloria’s disabilities, appeared as little

surprised as pleased; but Carmona’s various and visible emotions included

extreme astonishment. I looked at him, my cap off for the ladies, smiling

and nonchalant as if nothing had happened since our last meeting; and

despite the self-control inherited from Oriental ancestors, for an instant

he tried in vain to hide mingled rage and bewilderment. Possibly he might

have fancied that we had come by train, had not Ropes been starting the

car at that moment, _en route_ for some resting-place masquerading as a

garage; and the “choof, choof” of my Gloria came in through the open doors

like a defiant laugh.

Then he must have wondered how, by all that was demoniac, we had contrived

to track him to Toledo!

“This is quite a surprise, Señor Duque!” said I, as we met in the _patio_

at the foot of the stairs.

“Ye—es,” he answered, tugging at his moustache, and wishing us and our car

on some uninhabited planet.

“And a great pleasure!”

“Um—er—of course,” he mumbled; and I dared not meet Monica’s laughing

eyes, lest our lips should laugh as well.

They went to lunch; but we were not many moments behind, and Pilar,

murmuring in my ear, “Cats may look at a king, whether the king likes or

not,” gaily selected a table next to the others. She then kept up a stream

of talk with Monica, exchanging impressions of Madrid. “Didn’t you love

the shops?” she asked. “And shall you buy Toledo things to-day; scarf-pins

and hatpins and paper-knives; or did you buy too many yesterday?”

“I think I bought _just enough_,” said Monica, with a quick smile. “But I

shall get more here. We’re going to a metal work-shop, after the

cathedral.”

But this was sheer audacity, and was punished as I feared it would be.

Not wishing to pursue with too conspicuous violence, lest we defeat our

object, we let Carmona’s party leave the dining-room before us. A quarter

of an hour later we followed, going out into the strange grey streets,

haunted by men and women who have made history. Dick (armed with a book by

Leonard Williams, greatest of authorities on Spain) was allowed to walk

beside Pilar, while that most unsuspecting and kindly of chaperons, the

Cherub, bestowed his society on me. But, according to his habit, he was

often silent, giving me time to dream of Toledo’s past.

Picturesque enough were the figures of to-day in the old grey capital of

the Visigoths, yet they were not as real for me as other figures which

only my mind’s eye could see.

Here was the long, flat façade of the building legend had chosen as the

palace of Wamba the Benefactor—the Farmer King. I saw the old man waking

to life in the dungeon where the treachery of one loved and trusted had

thrown him, dressed in the monkish garb which never again could be changed

for robes of state. I saw a haggard company of Jews marching into

“Tarshish,” scarred and bleeding from the persecutions of Nebuchadnezzar

who had flung them from Jerusalem. I saw Moorish men fighting to take

Toledo—the “Lookout,” “the Light of the World,” and fighting again to save

it for themselves.

There, in the towering Alcázar, had Rodrigo betrayed his beautiful queen,

Egilona, for the still more beautiful Florinda, daughter of Julian,

Espatorios of Spain; at least, so legend said, mingling the romantic music

of its ballads inextricably with the deep organ notes of history. Below,

on the cliff above the Tagus, in the Tower of Hercules, had Rodrigo taken

the painted linen cloths from the enchanted casket, and seen the awful

vision of the Moorish horde with his own figure fleeing before them, one

day when he forgot the prophecy which warned all kings of Spain against

entering that mysterious, locked door.

Up this narrow street in the town, behind that barred window with its

curious cannon-ball decorations, perhaps the incomparable Doña Flor of

Dumas’ “Bandit” had smiled and pierced the heart of the “Courier of Love”

with her beauty.

It was like awaking from a brilliant dream when the Cherub stopped

abruptly, to point up at the vast, incongruous bulk of the cathedral

towering over us. But there was nothing incongruous in the rich, Gothic

splendour within; and my sole shock of disappointment came when I gave up

hope of finding Monica.

They had punished her by changing their plan of campaign, and I must seek

her elsewhere. But I could not wrench my friends from this great monument

of Spanish glory, merely because I cared more to look on Monica Vale’s

face than the face of any saint, carved or painted by a master’s hand.

I stayed, therefore, finding such consolation as I could in the jewelled

gleam of rare old glass, the magnificence of bronze doors; tombs of kings

and heroes; and all the wonders of gold, silver, pearls, and diamonds

which, stored in the sacristy, do honour to the famous Black Virgin, the

cathedral’s Queen.

Coming out again into the town was like stepping with a single stride back

from Europe into Africa; for nowhere can Moslem and Christian

civilizations be more closely tangled than in Toledo. Moorish streets were

like scimitar strokes cleft deep in the city; narrow chasms lined with

secretive houses, giving here and there a glimpse of some bright, flowery

_patio_, through half-open doors studded with iron bosses, and heavy

enough to resist a siege; yet above the tiled roofs soared Christian

spires in the translucent blue.

No one cared for us now that we were no longer gods in a car, except an

occasional beggar, to whom the Cherub would murmur, “God will aid you,

sister!” “Pardon me, brother!” and then, changing his mind, drop a penny

into a withered old hand, or a pink, childish palm.

“They’ll leave the shopping to the last, because Lady Monica told us it

was to be done first,” said Pilar sagely; so we wandered through the

shabby aisles of Rag Fair, Pilar hoping against hope to unearth a

treasure; because, did not a man once pick up, for a song, a Greco worth a

fortune, and did not one always find something at least amusing in the Rag

Fair of Madrid? Thence we went on to the Moorish mosque, which the

Visigoths began, and so to San Juan de los Reyes, which, Pilar said, I

must like better than anything else in Toledo, because she did. With an

air of possession she explained the votive chains of captive Christians

darkly festooning the outer walls, and I did not tell her I had heard the

story long ago. She shuddered as she pointed to the crucifix which used to

go with the procession of the _auto-da-fé_. “Only think how different

times are now!” said she. “When Philip the Second was going to be married

to his bride, not fourteen, a great show in honour of the marriage was a

burning of heretics, here in the Zoco—the market-place of Toledo! I

shouldn’t have cared much to see a royal wedding then. I don’t even like

to look at that crucifix, it gives me such thoughts. But see, aren’t those

carved stone galleries where Ferdinand and Isabel used to hear mass, like

two great chased silver goblets? I hope the king and queen never sat there

watching the poor wretches bound before marching off to the Zoco to die;

but I’m sure Isabel wouldn’t: she was so sweet, she must often have wished

she hadn’t made that awful promise to Torquemada.”

“You’re Catholic, yet you say that!” I exclaimed, as we stood looking at

the gorgeous shields of Los Reyes Católicos. Dick was near, listening with

concealed eagerness for the girl’s answer,—and no wonder, since he was

Protestant, and not the man to be a turncoat, even for his love.

“Oh yes, I’m Catholic,” said she. “But,”—half whispering,—“Spaniards, even

the most ardent Catholics, didn’t really love the Inquisition. It was

thrust on them; and—I suppose in those brutal old days it was a horrible

excitement to see the burnings. It’s natural to us Latins to have

excitement; and after years of such dreadful ones as we had in those

times, do you wonder the people clamour for bull-fights?”

“Then you don’t think we Protestants deserve burning?” asked Dick, staring

at the crucifix.

“How can you ask such a question?”

“But you—couldn’t make a real _friend_ of one, I suppose, or—er—let

yourself care about one much?”

“I should try and convert him—or her.”

“Supposing you couldn’t?”

“Then, I’d have to like him—or her—in spite of all. And he—or she—would

have to leave my religion alone. But I’m tired of solemn things; and

brother Cristóbal’s dying to buy metal-work.”

I don’t think that Dick knew whether he had been encouraged or not. And he

must have remembered that the Conde de Roldan is the best and most

eligible of Catholics. Poor Dick! Perhaps he was beginning to realize how

much easier it is to advise another man to be sensible than to be sensible

yourself.

Pilar had been right in her surmises as to the workings of Carmona’s mind.

When we came to the showroom of the Fabrica de Espadas, where the dusk was

shot with a thousand gleams and glitters of strange weapons, there were

those we had sought in vain till now. The Duchess, yellow with fatigue,

was resting her stout person on a bench in the long, low room, Lady

Vale-Avon beside her, looking tired and bored. But Carmona was at the

glass-covered counter, begging Monica’s advice in the selection of his

purchases.

His back was towards us as we entered, and, unnoticed by him, we saw him

hold up to the light a small sharp dagger, with a handle beautifully

ornamented. He was indicating with his finger, for Monica’s benefit, the

delicate tracery upon gold, when, warned by lack of attention and

wandering glances on the part of his companion, he turned in our

direction. Then, hastily laying down the dagger, he pushed it away as

though resenting the intrusion of our eyes.

“After all, we went to the Cave of Hercules,” said Monica, “and to the

house where the Moorish nobles were supposed to be murdered; so we missed

you when we got to the cathedral. Señorita O’Donnel, do come and help me

choose presents for some girls at home, in England.”

She spoke brightly, yet wistfully, as if wondering whether she would be

allowed to go back to those girls, a girl herself, and able to call

England home.

Pilar crossed to her at once, and Dick and I followed. The good Cherub

tactfully engaged the attention of the Duchess and Lady Vale-Avon, looking

so innocent that it was more than they could do to be rude to him. And

while the Duke sulked, we picked out wonderful knives and forks for our

luncheon-hampers, and thin sword-sticks of leather which imitated bamboo

and concealed blades so flexible that they could be rolled up like

watch-springs.

“Let’s all buy presents for each other, in memory of the day,” suggested

Dick; and began by offering Pilar a pair of splendid hatpins. She

retaliated with sleeve-links; so, emboldened by this prelude, I begged

Monica to accept a brooch shaped like a shield. “Now I shall never lack

protection,” said she, with gentle emphasis; and it was well for me that

the Cherub was showing Lady Vale-Avon some marvellous sword passes. “Let

me see,” the girl went on, when she had defiantly pinned the trinket into

her lace cravat, under Carmona’s furious frown. “What shall I give you for

luck? Shall it be a dagger? Where’s the one you were looking at, Duke?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, so angry with me for my presumption that he

could hardly speak, though not daring to show his true feelings and

imperil his chances. “It seems to have disappeared. But we must really go

at once. My mother is tired, and we still have several things to see

before I can take you back to the hotel to rest.”

Purposely, he spoke in a loud tone, and Lady Vale-Avon heard through the

Cherub’s honeyed murmurs. She rose, and called Monica, who was swept away

without finding the dagger.

It was dinner-time when we returned to our hotel; but Carmona’s party did

not appear in the dining-room. We lingered on hoping that they would come,

until it was useless to hope longer, and as we drank black coffee, in the

_patio_, Colonel O’Donnel asked a waiter where were the people who had

lunched with us. “They have taken a private sitting-room,” replied the

man, which was a relief, as I began to be haunted by black fear that

Carmona had flitted by night.

By and by Pilar’s long lashes drooped, and the Cherub, catching her in the

act of stifling a yawn, laughingly ordered her off to bed. “You haven’t

had enough sleep these last few nights to keep a _cigarron_ alive,” said

he. Soon afterwards his own eyes began to look like those of a sleepy

child, and he excused himself with all the ceremony of Spanish

leave-takings. Dick and I were left alone together, and were discussing

what the morrow might bring forth, when a waiter hovered near us, bowing.

“The Excelentísima Señora Duquesa de Carmona would consider it a favour if

Señor Waring and Teniente O’Donnel would visit her in her sitting-room,”

he announced.

Were the heavens about to fall? My lifted eyebrows and Dick’s questioned

each other in bewilderment. But our lips were silent as we followed the

servant.

The sitting-room of the “Excelentísima Señora” was on the first floor,

perhaps a big bedroom hastily transformed. What we expected to see as the

waiter opened the door I hardly know; but we assuredly did not expect to

see the Duchess sitting alone.

The table where the party had dined was covered now by a piece of gaudy,

pseudo-Moorish embroidery, and adorned with flowers. A few guide-books and

novels were scattered about, and in her hand the Duchess held a

paper-covered volume, as if she had been reading. But the expression of

the dark, heavy face contradicted her pose. We could see that she was

excited.

“Forgive my not rising, as I am tired,” she said, as we came in. “It is

kind of you to be so prompt, and I thank you.” Then she paused, and we

waited.

“I beg you to sit down. I want the pleasure of a talk.”

We obeyed. And still waited.

“I am a little embarrassed,” went on the Duchess. “You must be patient.

What I wish to say is difficult. And yet the Señor Teniente, being himself

Spanish, will understand. We are in Spain, the land of formality and rigid

etiquette, among people of our class. That an automobile with two young

unmarried men in it (and even Colonel O’Donnel is a widower, not old)—that

such an automobile should be closely following ours which contains a

beautiful girl, is calculated to cause gossip. Everywhere we go along this

route my son and I have acquaintances, friends; and already there has been

talk, which flies from place to place in gossiping letters between women.

I am sure you would not like to think that you had caused me this distress

on account of my sweet young guest and her mother?”

Never had I been more completely taken aback. She had us at her mercy; for

how is a man to fight against a woman?

“We are motoring in your direction,” I said lamely. “The chances of the

road bring us together.”

“Ah! but I ask you, as a woman of my age may ask a favour of young men

like you, señores, not to take those chances. If it is as you say—and of

course I believe—that you happen to be motoring on our road, it would be

no great hardship to delay and give us a longer start. Remember, it is for

the sake of a young girl, and for an old woman’s peace of mind. Will you

do this kindness, then, for me?”

She had struck me dumb. I did not know how to answer her, and she knew it.

Even Dick, with his quick Yankee wit, for once was unready. And indeed,

the Duchess had us at a hateful disadvantage.

“We are in something of a hurry, Señora Duquesa,” I stammered awkwardly.

“Then, rather than cause you loss of time, we will be off very early, and

go as far as may be in the day. If we leave at—let us say seven o’clock

to-morrow, it would not be too inconvenient for you to wait till nine?

That is all I ask; and to stay the night at Manzanares instead of trying

to get on to some other stopping place. If you promise this, you are

honourable men, and I know you will keep your word.”

She had her lesson well, and had evidently rehearsed it with her son, for

this lymphatic, weary-eyed woman was not one to know in advance the names

of halting places on an automobile tour. It was clever of Carmona to use

his mother’s plump hand as a cat’s-paw to pull his chestnuts from the

fire; but it was not brave, because he must know that we could not let it

touch the flames.

I thought for a moment in silence. Only boors could in so many words

refuse such a request, put with apparent frankness by a woman old enough

to be their mother. Yet I must not be trapped into promising anything that

could separate me from Monica.

To be near her, at her service always, was the one thing of supreme

importance; but to throw aside my sheep’s clothing and declare myself a

wolf would be to lose her; for the instant that Carmona was sure of my

identity he would denounce me. I would be sent across the frontier while

Monica remained with him, unprotected save by her mother, who was his

loyal friend. This was sure to happen, even if I did not count the trouble

I might cause Colonel O’Donnel if I were arrested while posing as his son.

It seemed to me that we must agree to do what the Duchess asked, and,

while keeping the letter of our promise, take means to see Monica in

Seville. There, I must let her know all that had taken place, even if I

could not communicate with her before. And I must implore her to come away

with me lest some plot had been hatched meanwhile behind my back.

“What do you think, Waring?” I said. Then, giving him a cue, “I feel that

we must consent, even though we may not see things according to the

Duchess’s point of view.”

“Why, of course, a man can’t refuse a lady; a lady generally knows that,”

Dick answered, avenging our wrongs with one sharp dig.

She thanked us effusively. “Then I may depend on you?” she asked, looking

at me.

“You may depend upon us,” I said. “And pray don’t trouble to leave at an

inconvenient time. My friend and I promise you two hours’ start.”

XXII

THE LUCK OF THE DREAM-BOOK

It was late, and Monica must have gone to bed, therefore it was impossible

to send her a message. Next morning I was up early, and had my coffee and

roll on a little table in the _patio_, in the hope of snatching a word

with her. But she came down as closely attended by her mother and the

Duchess as if she had been a queen, and they her ladies-in-waiting. I had

only a chance to say good-bye, as they were ready to drive off; and when I

would have added a hasty explanation of our delay, the Duchess began to

speak, so that Monica was whisked away without hearing.

“Wicked—old—_cat!_” was Pilar’s exclamation when Dick told her the story

of last night’s dilemma. But when asked what she would have done in our

place, her invention failed; and the Cherub approved our course.

The others had taken full advantage of our generosity, and had not left

Toledo till nine. Therefore, according to our contract, we were obliged to

wait until eleven, surprising Ropes by our procrastination.

But as we were on the point of spinning away from the hotel, a goat-herd

turned the corner at the head of his shaggy flock. The man, tanned a dark

bronze with constant exposure, wore his rags with the air of a king

marching to conquest, and rather than show vulgar curiosity, strode past

scarcely deigning a look at the automobile, though it was as likely as not

the first he had ever seen. His goats, equally unconcerned, strayed among

our wheels without hurry, and when they chose clattered off with much play

of little cloven hoofs on cobblestones. A sharper note of contrast could

hardly have been struck, Dick and I said to each other. A meeting between

the automobile, latest product of man’s restless invention, made to fly

across states and continents, and the goat-herd whose knowledge of the

world might extend ten miles beyond the place where, since his birth, he

had carried on one of the most ancient occupations on the globe. So the

ages seemed united, and Virgil and Theocritus brought suddenly face to

face with Maeterlinck and Henley; and an instant later we had taken a

small excursion into the middle ages of superstition. Pilar told us

gravely that in a volume of “Dreams and Love Lore,” valued beyond all

other books by the young girls of Andalucía, one read that it brought good

luck to lovers to meet a flock of goats when starting on a journey in the

morning.

Thus encouraged to hope for what I dared not expect, we set off, again and

again finding ourselves hard put to it to get the long chassis of the

Gloria round sharp corners of narrow streets. More than once it could be

done only by backing the car, a feat which was witnessed with cries of

astonishment by a crowd of water-sellers with painted tin vessels, milkmen

on donkey back, knife-grinders, and Murillo cherubs who were following to

see us off. Thus attended we slid down the steep hill which twisted past

the old fortifications of Toledo, and brought us out at last upon the

Puente de Alcántara, that most wonderful bridge of all the world.

The Tagus, grandest river in Spain, and golden as old father Tiber

himself, plunged through his narrow gorge a hundred feet below the arch of

stone, and on either hand stood up the sun-baked cliffs, Toledo seated on

their summit, crowned with towers, like an empress upon her throne. Far

beneath, in the swirl of yellow water were Moorish mills, white with age,

grinding corn for their new masters.

As we passed across the bridge at a foot-pace between strings of tasselled

and jingling mules, little grey donkeys loaded with pigskins of wine,

brown jugs of olive oil, or bags of meal, and charming children who

offered us roses for a _perrilla_, we had our last sight of the cathedral

spires. The voice of a young girl, washing white and blue clothing in a

trough of running water, sped us upon our journey. Her head was bound in a

scarlet handkerchief; and smiling at us while she pounded the linen, she

sang a strange song, half chant, with that wild Eastern lilt which has

been handed down from the Moors to the sons and daughters of Spain.

“She’s improvising a _copla!_” exclaimed Pilar. “Listen; it’s for you,

brother Cristóbal.”

So I listened, and heard that my eyes though dark as starless skies, could

blaze as the sun with love, and that the blessing of a poor girl who had

none to care for her, was upon the rich girl who held the treasure of my

heart.

“You must blow her a kiss to pay for the song,” Pilar said. “Don’t you

know that? But then, you haven’t been in Spain long—except in your

thoughts. That’s expected; just as a girl must politely kiss her hand to a

bull-fighter if he kisses his to her; for if she doesn’t, she puts the

evil-eye upon him; and like as not he’s gored the next time he goes into

the arena. Oh, I love the _coplas_! And wasn’t that woman singing in good

Spanish? Even the common people speak well here, for Valladolid and Toledo

Spanish is the best in Spain.”

I looked back and kissed my hand to the girl, who would have been insulted

had I thrown money; and lifting my eyes once more to the towering city, I

saw a mediæval background such as old masters love to give their pictures.

The landscape was wild, and unchanged to all appearance from the days when

the Crescent and the Cross battled for supremacy on those stony hills and

in those savage gorges. Once again, I felt myself a crude anachronism, in

my automobile, nor did the impression leave me when Toledo was hidden

round a corner; nor when we flashed past ancient Eastern _norias_, slowly

turned by sleepy horses or indignant donkeys; nor with glimpses of

sentinel watch-towers, or ruined castles—such “castles in Spain” as Don

Pedro promised to the Black Prince’s soldiers—and seldom gave if they were

worth giving.

Now, our business was to hark back to the king’s highway between Madrid

and Seville—that road on which Dick thriftily planned his quick service of

automobiles for passengers and market gardeners; but to-day there was none

of that excitement of the chase to which we were accustomed. I was

depressed despite the good omen of the goats, and an encounter with a mule

who had four white feet—a sign of some extraordinary piece of luck,

according to Pilar’s Dream-Book. The gently undulating, olive-silvered

country, with its occasional far-off hamlets and fine church spires did

not interest me, and I was not as thankful as I should have been for the

good road.

At last we had left the zone of brown cities and sombre hued villages, and

come into the zone of dazzling white habitations, which meant that we were

nearing the southern land, loved by the sun. The huge, semi-fortified,

high-walled farmhouses standing in lonely spaces were white as great

shells floating solitary on seas of waving green. The close-grouped knots

of cottages huddled together for mutual protection might have been cut

from blocks of marble; and their tenants were vivid creatures, burning

like tropical flowers against the dazzling white of their rough walls.

Never for ten minutes was the landscape the same. From olive plantations

we rushed into a bleak country of savage hills, where windmills planted

upon rocks beckoned with slowly moving arms; so down into flowery valleys

with a thread of silver river tangled in the grasses near a long white

road. And always the horizon was broken with tumbled mountains, purple,

gold, and rose, swimming in a sea of light and changing colour.

“Soon we’ll be in Cervantes’ country,” said the Cherub; “and good country

it is—for sport. I come myself sometimes with friends, after wild boar;

and there are plenty of rabbits to be had when there’s nothing better.”

“Don’t speak of rabbits,” said Dick. “It makes me hungry to think of them;

and as nobody has said anything about lunching, and we’re having such a

good run, I haven’t liked to mention it. Still, there’s that Andaluz ham

and goodness knows how many other things wasting their sweetness—”

The Cherub shook his head. “We mustn’t stop here. It will be better to

wait till we come to another road-mender’s house. We’re sure to pass one

before long. Then we’ll pull up, and the women will bring us water, or

anything we want.”

“I believe what you’re really thinking of, is brigands!” exclaimed Pilar.

“Well,” smiled the Cherub, “maybe something of the sort was in my mind;

though you need have no fear, my Pilarcita.”

“As if I would—a soldier’s daughter!” sneered Pilarcita. “I wish we would

meet the Seven Men of Ecija, or El Vivillo himself—if they haven’t caught

him yet. It would be fun.”

“No fun with you among us, child,” the Cherub said. “The chivalrous

bandoleros of the past exist in these days only in story books and

ballads. Vivillo is a villainous brute, and a little farther south we’ll

find no one on the road who’ll care to speak his name. They’ll call him

Señor Coso. As for the Seven Men of Ecija, one says that they’re disbanded

long ago, yet there’s a rumour that they still exist; and by the way, Don

Ramón, for generations that famous band of seven brigands has had a

connection—at least in old wives’ gossip—with the Dukes of Carmona.”

“How’s that?” I inquired, interested; for though I had heard many things

about that house, I had not heard the story at which Colonel O’Donnel

hinted.

“I wonder you don’t know!” said he. “Why, the tale runs that, more than a

hundred years ago, the baby heir of the Carmonas was ailing. If they lost

him, the title would go to another branch of the family; but the Duchess

had died within a few days of his birth, and no foster-mother could be

found to give the child health. Then the Duke caused it to be known far

and near that, if any woman could save his boy, she should have a pension

for life, enough to keep her in comfort with all her family; and that her

daughter and her daughter’s daughter should, if she chose to make the

contract, be foster-mothers of future Dukes of Carmona. In answer to this

proclamation came a woman of Ecija, the town of the brigands; a Juno of a

creature. She nursed the ailing heir back to health, and when the child

had become devoted to her, the secret leaked out that she was the married

sister of the terrible priest who led the brigand band. But she was not

sent away for that reason. Instead, the Duke used his influence

successfully to obtain a pardon for her husband, the priest’s

brother-in-law, when he was taken red-handed for robbery and murder

between Carmona and Seville; and in gratitude for this the man promised

that his sons and sons’ sons should be always at the disposal of the ducal

house. For the rest, the story goes that more than once in the last

century this promise has been exacted and fulfilled in secret.”

“I wouldn’t put it past the present Carmona to have a nest of bandits up

his sleeve,” said Dick. “It’s a pretty black sleeve, if some of the things

one hears are true. But here’s a road-mender’s cottage. What about

halting, and cocking snooks at El Vivillo?”

“It will do very well,” replied the Cherub. “If worst came to worst, we

could make a good defence from inside.”

“Honestly, aren’t you pulling our legs about the brigands?” asked Dick,

half-scornful and half-amused, as we slowed down.

“No,” said the Cherub. “I’m not joking, if that’s what you mean; for we

are on the borders of the _bandido_ country now. It will be years before

brigandage is stamped out in Spain; and you must have read of the trouble

there’s been lately. Not that I think there’s much chance of an encounter,

but it’s well to be prepared; for if a band of men jump at you with

carbines to their shoulders, there’s no getting out revolvers.”

“H’m!” muttered Dick. “I suppose you know what you’re talking about; but I

wouldn’t mind betting that these people would laugh if we asked, ’What

about brigands?’”

“All right; let us ask,” said the Cherub calmly.

By this time the car had stopped close to a tiny white box of a house set

a few yards back from the road, with a strip of grass for a lawn; and an

old man, evidently an ex-soldier, with a plump wife and a pretty daughter

were coming out. We interchanged various compliments; said that, with the

kind permission of his honour, the road-mender, we would lunch near his

house; were told that the house and everyone as well as everything in it,

was at our worship’s disposal; and finally the Cherub murmured a question

as to whether any _bandidos_ had been seen lately.

This way and that the old man glanced before answering. Then below his

breath replied that, as it happened, four gentlemen of the profession had

passed no more than three or four hours ago. They were out of luck, for

they had been hunted by the civil guard; and as they were hungry had gone

over to the right, there, to see what could be got at the nearest farm. As

for this place, it was safe enough, for there was nothing in it which even

a brigand would have; and one had to be agreeable to these persons, if

they stopped to rest or chat; it was more prudent.

“You see, you would have lost your money if I’d taken your bet, Señor

Waring,” said the Cherub.

Never was such a lunch as that we had by the roadside. We all worked at

spreading out the contents of the hampers, while the road-mender and his

family bustled about, not as inferiors with the hope of a tip, but helping

us as friends and hosts.

When we arrived, not a soul was to be seen, save the dwellers in the white

box. The only living things beside the trio and ourselves, were the larks

that sprang heavenward pouring jewels from throbbing throats, and a few

unknown birds of brilliant red and yellow, like drifting flower-petals.

But whether these birds carried the news, or whether it blew over the

country with the scented wind, certain it is that an audience collected to

gaze upon us, as clouds boil up over a clear horizon.

It was not an intrusive crowd that came; neither did they approach

offensively near, or stare with vulgar curiosity. It’s component

members—three or four handsome young mule-drivers, princely in shabbiness;

an elderly tiller of the soil, with the eyes and profile of a half-tamed

hawk; an old woman and a young girl madonna-like in their hooded cloaks,

as they sat their patient donkeys; and a couple of shy children with the

eyes of startled deer—hovered, paused, and ruminated, ready to take

flight, like wild creatures of the forest, at a rude look or chaffing

word.

But they got no rude looks or chaffing words from us, though we dared not

smile too invitingly, lest they misunderstand, and flee from us, offended.

We bowed gravely; they gravely bowed in return. Then, following a hurried

whisper of advice from the tactful Cherub, we continued our meal. But

presently, sandwich in hand, he strolled towards the scattered group,

mingled with it, and murmured. What he murmured, we in the car and round

it could not hear; but the chill uncertainty on those dark faces

brightened into sympathetic amusement.

“He’s telling them about ourselves and the automobile,” chuckled

Pilarcita. “Oh, I know him! He’s probably making up nonsense about the car

and its workings. In another minute they’ll be his slaves, and friends of

us all.”

As she whispered, the plump figure sauntered back. “I think that now it’s

safe to offer them a share of our food,” said he, in the manner of one who

imparts a delicious secret. “They are dying for some; but they’ll refuse

unless we go about it in the right way, for they’re as proud as we are.”

Pilar was not allowed to move, because, in Spain, women are to be

worshipped from afar, and must not mingle with strangers. But she handed

plates of the dainties supplied by Doña Rosita, to Dick and me, and thus

laden we wandered towards our audience.

“Offer something first to the road-mender’s family,” suggested the Cherub,

and we obeyed. “Probably you are not hungry,” was his preface. “Why should

you be, when you have plenty of food as good as ours, maybe better? But

here are things from Madrid. It may happen they are new to you. We shall

be pleased if you taste them.”

Then proud, hesitating fingers hesitated no longer, but descended upon

thin slices of ham, shredded and sweetened eggs, cheese, and _mazapan_.

Nobody betrayed eagerness, but faces beamed, especially when the

road-mender, proud of us as if we had been his relations, went round with

our wineskin, cordially bidding every man put it to his lips.

As the company ate and drank, the Cherub circulated among them, and soon

was primed with the abbreviated life-story of each person, though he had

apparently asked no questions. Somehow, it was the first impulse of the

most reserved soul to confide in the Cherub; and when the meal was

finished, and no excuse remained for lingering, the wild birds, tamed by

kindness, flew away regretfully.

“They’ll all have good words to speak for automobilists after this,” said

Pilar.

“Until some ruffian comes tearing along, upsetting their carts and

breaking their illusions,” added Dick.

When we were ready to go on, the road-mender’s wife would not be content

unless Pilar would have a look at the house, which she took, and came back

delighted. “Tiny rooms, but clean as wax,” she reported. “Pictures and

crucifixes and Toledo knives on the snow-white walls, and beautiful bright

copper in the kitchen. I believe I could be happy to live there—with

someone I loved.”

Was the image of Don Cipriano in her mind as she said this? or Dick’s

tanned face and whimsical grey eyes? Or did she think only of an existence

in the society of her father?

“Beware gutters!” was the road-mender’s last word as we spun away; and we

were glad of the warning; for despite careful driving, a few seconds of

inattention might have sent us crashing into and over a deep trough across

the road, half hidden by thick dust. There were many of these gutters,

which might have been put underneath in the form of culverts; but, as the

Cherub remarked, since nobody takes the trouble to complain, in Spain, why

should anyone bother?

There were broken patches, too, where somebody had begun to build a

bridge, and then apparently forgotten all about going on with it; but

luckily there were side tracks made by other pioneers, by which, with

care, one could skirt the great square hole, and land safely on the other

side.

Thus we arrived before a walled town with a Moorish gateway; and, for all

the changes which had come or gone since the days of those who set it up,

the place might have been under a spell of enchantment, a kind of

“sleeping sickness,” for at least five hundred unnoticeable years.

Our maps said that it was Ciudad Real; Colonel O’Donnel added that of all

garrison towns it was the one which young officers hated worst. And while

the car paused with panting motor for a discussion as to the way on, two

dark youths by the roadside interested themselves in our situation. They

had red handkerchiefs twisted round their heads, and the smarter of the

pair wore two sombreros, one over the other—a simple way of carrying his

Sunday hat on week-days; and they looked up from a meal of maize bread and

onions to enter into conversation.

Had our honours any doubt as to the road? If so, and our worships would

deign to mention the destination desired, they might have the happiness of

helping us.

We wanted to go to Manzanares, I replied.

In that case, replied the owner of the two sombreros, there was a short

cut which would be of assistance. Not only would it save us a bad section

of road, but an hour’s time as well. We must not go through the town, but

turn to the left round the wall, nor must we enter the village which we

would soon see, but skirt that also. Presently we would come to fields

planted with olives, and our way would lead through these. We must not be

disheartened if it appeared wild and rough. We should be able to pass, and

in the end would be glad that we had availed ourselves of such advice.

Taking this for granted, I gave each of the lads a peseta, which they

accepted more as their just due than as a favour. To avoid the town, it

seemed that we must steer into chaos, void and formless; but there were

only a few hundred yards of desert. Beyond, we found ourselves in a good

road, which led to the white village we had been told to expect; and

there, as we were already primed with information, we wasted no time in

asking questions. Instead, we plunged into open country, with a vista of

olive trees in the grey-green distance. From fair, the road dwindled to

doubtful; then to a certainty of badness. It narrowed; softened to a

sandbank; hardened into a wilderness of rocks and stones scattered between

deep ruts dug by the wheels of ox-carts. Apparently no other vehicles than

these had ever weathered the terrors of this passage; yet we persevered;

for here were the promised olive trees, so near, indeed, that we lurched

against them as we rocked from side to side. We had been warned whatever

happened not to be discouraged, and we cheered each other bravely, while

our heads bumped the roof. “We shall be out of this presently,” we gasped.

“It will surely be all right soon.”

Meanwhile, however, it was a nightmare; the sort of thing which a

delirious chauffeur might dream and rave of, in a fever; and instead of

improving, the way grew worse.

“Can it be possible those chaps deceived us on purpose?” I jerked out

between chattering teeth, as the car sprang from one three-foot rut into

another, in spite of Ropes’ coaxing.

“I’ll bet it’s a trick of Carmona’s,” gasped Dick, at the risk of biting

his tongue. “I thought that fellow in the two hats looked a fox.”

“I _did_ see them laughing when I glanced round after we passed,” said

Pilar, as jumpily as if she rode a trotting horse. “But I—thought—they

were pleased with the pesetas.”

“I expect they’d got more than we gave, to send us the wrong way,” growled

Dick. “We must have been dreaming not to think of it.”

“We can’t go about suspecting everyone we meet to be in Carmona’s pay,”

said I. “We’d be mistaken as often as right, and then we should feel

small. After all, there isn’t much harm done.”

“It’s a wonder we haven’t smashed something, sir,” sighed the much

enduring Ropes.

“That’s what Carmona prayed to his demons we would do,” said Dick.

“I’ll back San Cristóbal against them all,” said I.

“Besides, there was the mule with the four white feet, and the goat-herd,”

Pilar reminded me.

“I can’t say they’ve brought us luck.”

“Wait,” said Pilar.

“Meanwhile let’s turn back,” said Dick. “Another hundred yards like this,

and even if we don’t smash the differential or the chassis, Ropes will get

side-slip of the brain. Half an hour of such driving must be equal to a

week in Purgatory for a chauffeur.”

We did turn back, and feeling years older, arrived once more at the point

from which he had started. We would have given something to see the man

with the two hats, and his companion, but they had prudently taken

themselves off, like full-fed vultures. This time we made no inquiries,

but trusted to our intuition and our maps, which, without once

contradicting each other, led us into a decent road that seemed like a

path to paradise after all we had endured.

Making up for lost time, and revelling in joy of motion, we put on our

best speed, which for a few moments brought the roadside telegraph posts

as close together as fir trees in a Norwegian forest. But suddenly the

motor slowed, and stopped with a tired sigh within sight of a village

white as newly polished silver.

“Petrol gone,” said Ropes. “It oughtn’t to be, but it is. Extra strain in

that short cut of the Duke’s used it up.”

He got out, and untied a _bidon_ from the reserve store fastened upon the

foot-board. But the tin was light in his hand as a feather. He gave a low

whistle, and a shadow darkened his face, a shadow which was not made by

the brim of his motor-cap as he bent his head to examine the _bidon_.

“There’s a leak here, sir,” he said to me—for though Dick was now supposed

to be his master, in moments of stress he clung to old habits. “Looks as

if the tin had been pricked with some sharp instrument. H’m! Shouldn’t

wonder if it had been. It would be of a piece with all the rest.”

“You mean at Toledo?”

“Yes, sir. Everything was right, then. I bought enough petrol in Madrid to

last to Cordoba, pretty well all we could carry, and ordered more to meet

us there, _grande vitesse_, in case I couldn’t get it—as you said we were

sure now to go that way.”

“Well, let’s look at your other bidons. We shall be in a fix if we’re held

up here.”

“Two more empty,” announced Ropes. “And three _bidons_ don’t suddenly take

to leaking, of themselves. I suppose if I’d had my wits about me, I’d have

looked, at Toledo, before starting; but who’s to think of everything? I

did have a thorough go at the car, for fear of mischief, but forgot the

_bidons_ However, there’s one to go on with, I’m pretty sure; for it’s

stowed away in a place nobody would think of, if they had to do the

villain act in a hurry.”

Whereupon he handed out a new _bidon_ from the tool box, and we both gave

a sigh of relief to see that it was intact. At least, we had now enough to

get us to Manzanares; and at worst we could but be hung up there while

Ropes went back by train as far as Madrid to buy petrol.

While we had been making these discoveries, however, the village had been

discovering us. It was not the time of year, as Pilar said, for bears and

monkeys to arrive by road, therefore when something was seen approaching

rapidly and stopping suddenly, the inhabitants of the white town had not

been able to bear the suspense. Somebody had given the word that there was

a thing to see, and out Torralba came pouring in its hundreds, a brilliant

procession a full quarter of a mile long.

Youth and beauty took the lead. Girls with arms thrown round the shoulders

of one another’s blue, pink, or yellow jackets skipped along the dazzling

road like peasant graces. Little, star-eyed brown boys had apparently

taken the trouble to step off Murillo’s canvases to find out what we were,

while their toddling sisters cried at being outdistanced. Behind these

came men, middle-aged and old, in strange-shaped caps like fur and leather

coal-scuttles, women with bare black heads, or faded blue handkerchiefs

shadowing withered faces, and beggars hobbling on their sticks; a

shouting, laughing army pouring its bright coloured stream down the white

line of the straight road. And before the Gloria had been refreshed with

her long drink of petrol, the wave of life had broken round her bonnet.

Bright eyes stared, brown hands all but touched us; and children knew not

whether to shriek with fright or laugh with joy as they saw themselves

reflected in the glass turned up against our roof. But at the first cough

of the motor as it throbbed into waking, the throng rolled back, dividing

to let us pass, as if the car had cloven it in two, and joining again to

tear home in our wake.

All the able-bodied women who had not come out to meet us were sitting

before the doors of their white houses, making lace mantillas and flounces

for the young Queen-elect,—Torralba is famous for its lace-makers,—and

they waved work-worn hands as we ran by, wishing us good speed, or

throwing an improvised _copla_ after the vanishing Gloria.

Now we were in Don Quixote land; and had we gone back to his day as we

entered his country of La Mancha, our red car could have roused little

more excitement. Village after village turned out for us; always the same

gorgeous colours against the background of white houses and blue arch of

sky; always the same brilliant eyes and rich brown faces with scarlet lips

that laughed. It was even a relief to the monotony to meet a band of

fierce-eyed young carters ranged in a line with big stones in their hands,

wanting to bash in the aristocrat’s features, if the aristocrats

frightened their mules. But neither the aristocrats nor mules showed fear.

Pilar even leaned out, as if daring the four or five sullen fellows to

throw their stones into a girl’s face, and their arms fell inoffensively.

“I don’t believe any Spaniard, no matter how bad, would hurt a woman who

had done him no harm!” she exclaimed.

The road, with its rutty, irritating surface, seemed endless. We had

started late, according to our promise, and having lost more than an hour

on the “short cut,” grey wings of twilight began at last to fold in the

landscape. It was long since we had passed a village; Manzanares was not

yet near, and I began to wonder whether the Gloria would not again grow

thirsty before we could give her drink.

Turn after turn; always the same jolting; always the same scene, till our

minds wearied. Then, suddenly rounding a bend, we came upon something

which made every one of us forget boredom.

There was the Duke’s car—the grey car which we had sworn to avoid—stuck in

a _caniveau_ that cut the road in two. There were Carmona and his

chauffeur staring balefully into the inner workings of the motor; there

were the Duchess and Lady Vale-Avon, dust-powdered and disconsolate,

sitting forlornly on roadside hillocks; and there was Monica, her veil

off, walking up and down impatiently with her little hands buried in the

pockets of her grey coat, the last gleam of sunset finding a responsive

note in the gold of her hair.

“What did I tell you!” exclaimed Pilar. “The goat-herd! The mule with the

white feet! It’s the luck of the Dream-Book!”

XXIII

THE GLORIFICATION OF MONICA

Slowing up, we were almost upon the group; and for once we were welcome to

our enemies. Even Carmona’s face brightened, a flicker of hope lit Lady

Vale-Avon’s grey eyes; and the Duchess deliberately courted us with a

smile.

As for Monica, she was radiant as a child who has been surprised by the

home-coming of loved ones; yet there was a new wistfulness in her eyes,

despite the joy she showed.

“Oh, how glorious that you’ve come to the rescue!” she cried, all dimples

and roses. Still, she looked from me to Pilar, and from Pilar to me, as if

she longed to ask one or the other some question which it was impossible

to speak; and I said to myself that it would go hard with me if I did not

find out before I was many hours older, what that question was.

Any port is welcome in a storm or among fellow-motorists, if you are

helpless by the roadside with several ladies when night is coming on; and

Carmona’s first words showed that he had no scruple in making use of us.

But with the trials he had gone through, and his natural preference for

the help of any other car rather than the hated Gloria, he was in a black

mood. He wished to be civil, lest we should be goaded into leaving him in

the lurch; yet it was plainly such an effort that I could have laughed

aloud. Pilar would have been able to quote paragraph and page of her

Dream-Book.

The worst damage to the car was a broken spring, though something seemed

to have gone wrong also with the ignition in that disastrous bump into the

_caniveau_. They had been where we found them for a couple of hours,

Carmona admitted, without encountering any vehicle or animal to give them

a tow. The first hope had been to stagger on to Manzanares (which

originally they had meant to pass) with a broken spring; but the bee in

the motor’s bonnet could not be made to buzz, and in despair, Carmona had

been about to send his chauffeur on foot, in search of some conveyance for

the ladies and their luggage. More hours must have passed, at best, before

the man could have returned to the rescue, and already everybody was

hungry.

The ladies of the Duke’s party had to be transferred to the Gloria; and

Dick, with airs of ownership, urged vague and voluble reasons why I should

be their companion in the tonneau. We were the masters of the situation,

and Carmona’s face, as he was obliged to take his seat beside the

chauffeur who must steer the car in tow, repaid me for grievous wrongs.

Pilar, not to be outdone in ingenuity by Dick, did for me what I could not

do for myself, in contriving that I should sit next to Monica. Though I

could say nothing for her ears which other ears might not hear, it was a

joy to feel her slight shoulder nestling warm against my arm, to know that

she could not be snatched from me by her mother or Carmona, but that as it

was now, so it must be for many moments, perhaps an hour, to come. There

was also satisfaction to be got from the fact that my enemy, bumping on

behind in his own disabled car (propelled by our generosity and power),

was glaring with malice, envy, and all uncharitableness at my back.

My one regret in these moments which should have been perfect, was that my

prophetic soul hadn’t caused me to write a long letter to Monica, which I

might have been able to slip into her hand under cover of rugs and

darkness.

Ropes had to light the lamps before we saw more of Manzanares than an

illusive church spire which kept appearing and disappearing like a

will-o’-the-wisp. But the petrol held out, and the Gloria’s breathing was

regular, despite the weight she had to tow over ruts and across gutters.

Once, however, Ropes looked back at me with an expressive movement of the

shoulders which I interpreted as, “we’re lucky if we get there!” so I

could have shouted “hurrah!” at sight of the first houses, though they

brought my last moment of happiness.

Another instant, and the population of Manzanares was answering to the

thrum of our motor, as soldiers to the call of the drum. From somewhere,

their saints alone knew where, an army of children poured into the long

straight street, and as we slowed to avoid wholesale murder, they took

advantage of our consideration to swarm up the car like ants. They ran

shouting beside us, climbed on to the steps, hung on behind, fighting so

ruthlessly for choice positions that they all but fell under the wheels.

One would not have supposed there could be other children left in Spain.

How there could be room for these in the town of Manzanares was a wonder;

how they could all have turned out on the second in their thousands, was a

miracle; and their promptness would have done credit to any commander.

The shrill cries of this legion, drowning the sound of the motor, and

increasing as the contingent was swelled from each side street, roused the

town. Families left their tables and rushed to the door, their supper in

their hands. Bakers with white arms left to-morrow’s bread in the troughs;

a group of farriers shoeing a horse stopped work, until the glowing iron

paled. Shopkeepers who had lighted their windows with a blaze of

electricity, ran into the street. Mules and donkeys tied to doorposts

shared the general excitement, plunged and reared before the advance of

the human breaker with the car on its crest snapped their cords, and

dashed into their master’s houses.

Never, among all our successes, had we made such a _succés fou_ as this;

but then, never before had we had a car in tow. Half our triumph belonged

to the Lecomte; yet either of us would gladly have dispensed with all; and

had it not been for a small but determined policeman who struggled to

preserve the credit of the town, we might have been half the night

fighting our way to an hotel.

He dealt blows and exhortations indiscriminately, piloted us through side

streets which it would never have occurred to our imagination to enter,

and with exertions worthy of him who “singly kept the bridge,” helped us

make a lane for the ladies to dart into the door of the little _fonda_.

It was an iron door of elaborate openwork, leading, Moorish fashion,

through a shallow vestibule into a _patio_—the first we had seen on our

way south; and if it had not been slammed shut with a loud click, by some

person inside, half Manzanares would have poured after the fugitives.

Assured of the ladies’ safety, the men of the two (outwardly) united

parties remained to help the chauffeurs and a bewildered landlord to take

down luggage. Overwhelmed by a wave of halfgrown children and a thick

spray of babies, Carmona’s man lost his presence of mind. The two cars had

hardly stopped before the little creatures were in them, and on them, and

under them, trying to pinch the tyres, blowing the horn, squalling,

laughing, crying. “Mon Dieu, c’est un obsession!” wailed the unfortunate

Frenchman; and even the imperturbable Ropes showed signs of “nerves.”

As fast as the thronging goblins were beaten off, they were up again in

redoubled force; but so merry they were, and so handsome was each bold

brown face, with its dazzling eyes, that it was impossible to be angry.

Somehow, we rescued the luggage, and with the aid of the landlord pitched,

or slid, or rolled it through the door, momentarily opened.

“For Heaven’s sake, sir, see me through this!” implored Ropes, noticing

that the men of the party were on the point of following the luggage.

“Hate to trouble you, but I don’t think my Spanish will run to it.” In

pity I climbed into the car to go with him to the stable which the

landlord indicated as our garage. It was an experience to be remembered in

nightmares; yet there was in it a sort of schoolboy pleasure. We seemed to

have done battle against the whole force of the army out against us;

nevertheless when we returned to the _fonda_, swept along by a large

bodyguard, we found a regiment assembled round the door. How we got

through was food for another wild dream, but we did get through, to stand

panting on the other side of the grating, in the _patio_.

Dozens of dark faces were pressed against the bars, like tier above tier

of glowing pansies in a flower-bed; and we knew at last the sensation of

those who are the observed, not the observers, in a menagerie.

Everyone was in the _patio_, where electric lights hanging from the

balconies mingled with rich yellow lamplight and ruddy firelight streaming

from the kitchen. All the luggage was piled anyhow, in a chaotic heap

surging with suit-cases, boiling with dressing-bags; while near by, like

Marius and a friend or two at the ruins of Carthage, stood the Duchess,

Lady Vale-Avon, Carmona, Dick, and the Cherub. Monica and Pilar had been

talking at a distance with a young girl of the house, but seeing me

gravitate in their direction, Lady Vale-Avon called her daughter.

“The ladies are saying they can’t stay here,” announced Dick, his voice in

sympathy with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m not saying so,” cut in Monica. “I think it will be fun; a real

adventure. The landlady’s wonderful, and all her daughters and nieces

beauties. If we’re nice to them, they’ll be adorable to us.”

“The place is a den!” exclaimed Lady Vale-Avon. “There must be something

better in the town.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t,” said the Duke. “This accident has made me

helpless. I’m horribly sorry; but we can’t get on anywhere else to-night.”

“We can sit up,” said the Duchess, “in the automobile.”

“Do let’s look at the rooms,” begged Monica. “And don’t let them see we’re

finding fault. Their feelings will be hurt.”

“What nonsense!” replied Lady Vale-Avon. “As if they had feelings!”

“If you don’t consider them, they won’t take pains to make you

comfortable,” I said, knowing by instinct the people with whom we had to

deal. “They’re beginning to suspect already that something’s wrong, and

judging from the expression of their faces it will take only a little more

for the landlord to say he has no rooms. Then we really may have to sit in

the automobiles.”

The keeper of the _fonda_ and his family, who had come so warmly to

welcome the strangers, were now hovering aloof, silent and suspicious,

their spirits dashed by the contemptuous looks of Lady Vale-Avon and the

Duchess. Standing in semi-darkness, the landlord’s face was a blur of

brown shadow, featureless, save for a pair of enormous eyes burning with

an emotion which was no longer hospitality. His wife, whose broad shoulder

was pressed against her husband’s as if to form a line of defence, was a

dark-browed, gypsy-like woman, who must once have been beautiful, and

might now be formidable. Behind them were grouped a handsome boy, and

three or four extraordinarily pretty girls with red and white roses in

their hair.

“They wouldn’t dare turn us out!” exclaimed Lady Vale-Avon. “They can

never have had persons of our sort before.”

“If you asked, they’d probably retort that Dukes and Marquesses were thick

as blackberries,” said I.

She glanced at Carmona, hoping for support, but he shrugged his shoulders

in despair; and a look from me was a signal for the Cherub to step

forward.

The atmosphere had begun to tingle, and in a few moments more it might

have been too late to make peace with these proud and self-respecting

people, who had never submitted to indignity. But in the space of six

seconds the magnetism of the Cherub had begun to do its work. He murmured,

nodded, and smiled, took the family into his confidence with a few graphic

gestures, explained that the ladies were upset by an accident, appealed to

the landlord’s chivalry, and the landlady’s heart. Gathering frowns were

chased away by smiles; and when Monica showed her dimples to the boy and

girls with a look which pleaded for kindness, the battle was fought and

won.

They had not many bedrooms. Several were engaged by commercial travellers,

but these gentlemen should be stowed into one room, their clothing and

luggage moved at once. Oh, they would not object when they learned that it

was a question of accommodating ladies; or if they did, they must eat

their objections for supper; it was no matter. And the landlord and

landlady would give up their room, a good one, their worships need have no

fear. All should be ready in the opening and closing of an eye. But would

we meanwhile have supper? There was always enough for a few unexpected

ones.

Having listened so far, the Cherub turned blandly to Carmona. These

arrangements need not include the Señor Duque’s party, unless he liked, of

course, but—his palms were extended as if to receive the decision. Plump

it fell into them. Everyone must stay, and make the best of it.

So the ladies were bundled into a room where they might get rid of the

dust, and the men into another; clean rooms, with whitewashed walls, bare

save for a pictured saint or two in lurid colours; floors covered with

coarse, bright matting; and iron beds with lace-frilled and embroidered

pillows.

In a quarter of an hour everyone was ready for dinner, but five out of

fifteen minutes I had given to the hasty scribbling of a pencilled note

for Monica. I hoped to slip it into her hand in the dining-room, but she

was closely under guard; and Carmona annexed four seats at the head of the

long table, by which manœuvre he secured isolation for his party. It was

safe from any sortie of ours, as there was a scattered contingent of

commercial travellers already earnestly engaged in dining on either side

of the table. Two polite men on the left, and three on the right, all with

napkins tucked under their chins, rose, offering to move rather than

divide friends; but Carmona assured them that the sacrifice was

unnecessary. As they were all paralysed by Monica’s beauty, of a type so

different from any to which they were accustomed, they had not the

self-command to protest; and as dinner went on (in many courses of which

the landlord was evidently proud), they could scarcely do justice to their

_merluza_ served with grilled lemon and minced red Spanish pepper; their

_tortilla_ of eggs, potatoes, peas, and ham; their pigeons with olives, or

even their freshly baked maccaroni, for gazing languorously at the vision

of pink and white and gold.

Such charms as Pilar’s, though unsurpassable of their kind, went for

nothing with these ardent gentlemen; and even the landlord’s son,

daughters, and nieces who waited upon their guests, forgot half their

duties in abject admiration. “An angel!” “a saint!” “a princess of

fairyland!” were a few of their whispered adjectives; and when the object

of their worship was snatched away by her mother and the Duchess, before

the goats’-milk cheese had been brought round, a gloom fell upon the room.

The commercial travellers galloped through the remainder of the meal, and

went out, hoping perhaps, if they promenaded the street, to have the joy

of seeing a light in the radiant being’s window. The pretty girls of the

household vanished with murmured excuses, leaving us at the mercy of the

boy, who sighed grievously, dropped a sugar bowl, and spilled coffee

within an ace of the Cherub’s shoulder.

Pilar presently disappeared also, leaving her three men alone at the

table, observed only by a few dozen eager faces pressed against the iron

bars protecting the open window.

Soon we heard peals of laughter from the _patio_; the pretty girls were

sallying forth on a foraging expedition in search of a warming-pan to heat

the beds of the three great ladies, who feared dampness. In twenty minutes

they came back, and we arrived in the _patio_ in time to see the triumphal

entrance of four or five charming creatures, bearing among them a

long-handled brass vessel which had probably existed since the days of

Philip the Second. But this was only the beginning of the fun; and we made

an excuse of our cigarettes to linger, and hear what we could not see.

It was not a beautiful _patio_; and the public still surged outside the

iron-grated door in the hope of further insight into the private lives of

the travelling menagerie; but our luggage had been carried to the rooms

which were now ready (thanks to the complaisance of the dazzled commercial

gentlemen), and there were garden seats, on which we settled ourselves in

spite of the chill in the evening air.

From the rooms above we heard laughter and ecstatic cries. Evidently the

warming-pan was making a sensation as it went its round, or something else

had happened; and when at last the girls trooped downstairs from the

balcony, I beckoned them to come our way. They skipped to us, wild with

delight at the prospect of pouring out their hearts to an appreciative

audience.

The great warming-pan, stuffed with embers that glowed and paled, was laid

on the tiled pavement while the girls wove themselves into a group, with

interlacing arms.

“Why are you so happy?” I asked

“Happy? We have been in paradise, with the angels,” replied the prettiest

girl with crimson roses stuck in a bank of copper hair.

“There was but one angel,” objected her brunette cousin.

“That is true. The two old ones think themselves everything, but they are

less than nothing. I would not change my years for theirs, with their

jewels and their quarterings. Thanks be to God, in our Spain, we are all

as noble as the nobles, or at least in this province!”

“You are also all beautiful!” said I.

“That you can say so, señor, after seeing that wonder!” exclaimed the

landlord’s eldest daughter, a creature of carnation and flame. “Ah, the

joy of it, we have been undressing her!”

“If you could have seen her, with gold hair down to her knees!” gasped a

gypsy of fifteen. “And when we had got her dress off, and she was in her—”

“Hush, Micaela! it is not seemly that you should mention such garments in

the presence of señores!” broke in the girl of the copper coronet.

["Now you are as bad as I was, Mariquita!"]

NOW YOU ARE AS BAD AS I WAS, MARIQUITA

“But why, then, since they are most beautiful? You know well, Mariquita,

you yourself said they were like the handwork of fairies, and her

shoulders—”

“Be silent, foolish one, or I shall have to burn your nose off with the

warming-pan!”

“And what did the elder ladies say to the young lady’s new maids?” I asked

quickly, as great eyes began to flash, and scarlet lips to pout.

Back came the smiles, and the maidens fell into a fit of schoolgirl

giggling.

“There was but one Majesty there, praise be to the saints, the English

one, who is no doubt the mother of our lady angel. They have two rooms

between them, but that of the señorita is tiny, with no door of its own,

and only a square glazed hole for a window, though the bed is as good as

any, and we have given it the best linen. When we took in the warming-pan,

our angel tried to say in Spanish that she was sure our beds were dry and

well aired, as indeed they were. She had taken off her bodice, and was

undoing her hair, which was so beautiful we could have fallen down and

prayed to her as a saint. Then we could not resist, but began helping her

to undress, talking about her beauty. She was not offended, though we

kissed her hands, and that silly Micaela one of her tiny white feet when

we had pulled off the stocking—”

“Now you are as bad as I was, Mariquita.”

“No, indeed; what is a stocking? A thing it is as well to go without as to

wear. That is different. The angel laughed till she was close to tears,

and said we were far nicer maids than the one her mother had sent on by

railway train in starting by automobile. After this, she would be spoiled

for others; and she gave us each one a present. Lola, two wondrous hatpins

with blue stones in silver—not that she would ever suffer the tortures of

a hat, but it is a great thing to have them. Teresa, a sweet round purse

of blue leather, of the size to hold a five peseta piece; Micaela, a

handkerchief with lace on the edge, and me an embroidered veil like a

gossamer. What did we care that Her Majesty the mother would have sent us

away if she could? She had not enough Spanish to make us understand what

we did not wish to understand, and at last she saved her breath for

another day. But by that time we had finished, for we had put our angel

into her night-dress, a thing of cobwebs and lace kept together by blue

ribbons, which I should have thought good enough for a queen to wear when

mounting her throne.”

“You must show us your presents,” said I, with deliberate cunning. All

were displayed on the instant, with chattering, laughing, and clamourous

claims for rival merits. But the veil was the thing which I looked on to

covet. She had worn it one day after rain, when the roads had been clear

of dust, and her face had gleamed through the lace as a star gleams

through a floating cloud-film. I felt that I could not see it in other

hands than mine.

While the Cherub compared the gifts with eloquence, I drew Mariquita

apart. “I want that veil very much,” said I; “so much that I’ll give you a

hundred pesetas if you’ll part with it.”

She opened her tobacco-brown eyes. “But the señor is only a man, and

cannot know that the bit of embroidered net is worth no more, in money,

than fifteen pesetas at most.”

“It wasn’t its money-worth I was thinking about.”

“A—ah, I see! The señorito—yes, of course, it would be strange if he did

not! I love my new veil, not only because it is pretty, but more because

it came to me from the most beautiful señorita I have ever seen. Still,

since the señorito will value it even more than I can, I will give it to

him, though not for the hundred pesetas. I will give it for nothing except

his thanks.”

I told the girl she was too good; that I could not rob her of the gift

just made; but she insisted, and I saw that her pride would be hurt if I

refused. So I accepted, while a way of benefitting myself and rewarding

her occurred to my mind.

“You see how it is with me.” I said, with a confidential air. “You have

been very generous. Will you be helpful too?”

“You may trust me,” she answered. “I love a love affair, especially if

there is difficulty. I shall have an acknowledged _novio_ myself soon, I

hope. He is a bull-fighter—only a beginner, but he will be great one day,

and though my father made a long face at first, now he shrugs his

shoulders; and when that is done, there is always hope. Her Majesty the

mother makes the long face, does she not?”

I nodded.

“She will shrug the shoulders by and by.”

“I doubt it. But meanwhile, I’ve written a letter. Will you try to give it

to the young lady?”

“Yes,” said Mariquita. “I will try my best. I think I can do it. Not

to-night, for she has gone to bed, and there would be no excuse to get

back to her room, since I must pass through Her Majesty’s. But to-morrow

morning I will take the ladies’ hot water, with oh, such an innocent face!

And I will take the letter too.”

“Thank you many times,” said I.

“The thing isn’t done yet.”

“It’s for your goodwill I thank you in advance. And this is for your

bull-fighter, as a present from his _novia_.”

I took out my scarf-pin. Her face flushed with pleasure, as it would have

flushed for no sum of money. She might have waived away a present for

herself, but she could not resist one for the _novio_, and I was thanked

far beyond the gift’s merit.

If she went to bed happy, so did I, for I believed that Monica would have

my letter in the morning; and if the wistfulness in her eyes meant some

new trouble in which I had a part, I hoped that the words I had written

might banish it.

XXIV

THE GOODWILL OF MARIQUITA

Nevertheless I could not sleep on my hard but clean pillows, for wondering

about that look of Monica’s, and its meaning; and whenever I shut my eyes,

hordes of red and yellow figures poured out of white houses upon white

roads, forming irritating, kaleidoscopic patterns on my tired retina.

Each hour that passed was cried by the watchman, far away, and then close

under my window; a fearsome cry like a groan of agony uttered by a madman

in a dying spasm.

I was glad when morning came; and after such a bath as two or three

miniature jugs of water afforded (the deer-eyed boy wondered in the name

of all the saints what I could do with so many), I threw off the

brain-clouds of a sleepless night.

Before long Monica would have my letter. She would know—if she could have

doubted—that if I had loved her at first, I worshipped her now. She would

know why we had not followed more closely yesterday; and why—unless

Carmona chose to accept our help again—we would go on before the grey car

to-day. She would know also that my most earnest hope was to take her

away, out of the reach of harm.

I was dressed, and had had my coffee and hard, fat roll of Spanish bread,

by half-past seven, as I was sure Ropes would be wanting to see me. I

would not have disturbed Dick, who slept in a room across the _patio_, but

I found him in the dining-room, wrestling with a glass of thick chocolate

and a finger-shaped sweet biscuit. “I’m trying to like Spanish customs,”

said he.

I laughed.

“Because, if I’m going to carry through that scheme of mine about motor

traffic, I may have to live on the spot, you see.”

“Oh!” said I. “And what about Colonel O’Donnel’s copper mines? Have you

thought of a means to persuade him it’s his duty to have them worked?”

“In a way, I have,” Dick answered dryly. “An indirect sort of way. What

about our gasoline? Heard anything about it?”

“No. I’m going to find Ropes.”

“Rather a sell for Carmona, if he did order our _bidons_ pricked, to feel

it’s his fault if we’re held up as long as he is.”

“There’s Ropes in the _patio_,” I said. “I’ll go and interview him.”

“What news?” I asked.

“Well, sir, I did what the landlord said last night, and had a try for

moto-naphtha—as they call it here—at the chemist’s.”

“Did they have any?”

“Oh yes, sir, they had some. As much as a pint apiece, in the two shops.

They wanted to sell it by the ounce.”

Dick and I laughed, though my mirth was not care-free. I had visions of

being stuck at this place until Ropes made a journey to Madrid and back,

Carmona’s car slipping away long before we were ready.

“I was afraid it was hopeless to look for petrol here,” I said, striving

for resignation, even though I saw Mariquita going upstairs with two

battered tins of hot water.

“Not yet, sir. A man who heard me asking for moto-naphtha at the

chemist’s, advised me to try the cemetery.”

“The cemetery? You misunderstood the word.”

“No, sir; it _was_ cemetery. And what’s more, he said the Mayor keeps it

there to kill lobsters.”

This statement, delivered somewhat nervously, was received with derision.

“The fellow was stuffing you,” said Dick.

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Then he’s mad,” I insisted. “Fishing for lobsters with moto-naphtha in a

cemetery at Manzanares is a story Baron Munchausen would have thought

twice about before telling.”

“_Langostas_ does mean _langouste_—or lobsters, I suppose, sir?” asked

Ropes.

“Ye—es,” I answered thoughtfully. Then lightning flashed across the

darkness of my mind. “It means locusts as well,” said I. “They use petrol

to kill locusts, and for some reason best known to themselves keep it at

the cemetery. We’ll go, Ropes, and persuade them to sell us more than an

ounce.”

“Right, sir. At once?”

“In a moment,” said I.

Mariquita, empty-handed, was coming downstairs. I waylaid her, under that

portion of the balcony hidden from the window of Lady Vale-Avon’s room.

“Did you deliver the letter?” I asked.

“Yes, señor.”

“To the young lady herself?”

“To herself. But I must tell you what worries me, señor. As I was leaving

the outer room, I heard a sound like a cry of distress, from the inner

room. I looked back, and Her Majesty the mother had gone in. That is all I

know. I could do nothing, whatever had happened, and I felt it would be

well to escape before I could be questioned.”

“What do you think happened?”

“How can I tell, señor? Unless the terrible lady snatched your letter from

the angel.”

“At least, I hope the angel had had time to read it.”

“I do not know, señorito. There was not much time; but she might have been

quick; and if the letter was not long, there is still hope.”

This was poor comfort. All my joyous anticipations dashed, I tried to

think of some way of finding out whether Monica had read my letter, and

whether there were any way of smuggling another to her.

The note had been written in such haste, that I scarcely knew what I had

said. No name had been signed; nevertheless, if Lady Vale-Avon read what I

had written, she would say to herself, “It is not Cristóbal O’Donnel who

says these things, but a more dangerous man.” If she had the letter, she

could show it to Carmona; but, as I thought the matter over, I decided

that it was unlikely she would do this.

Spaniards, especially Spaniards with Moorish blood in their veins, do not

like to think girls they love capable of carrying on secret correspondence

with other men; and I imagined that Lady Vale-Avon was a woman to guess

this. Already Carmona knew that Lady Monica was interested in someone

else, or had a girlish fancy for him, which might or might not have been

frightened away. But his desire for her would not be whetted by the fact

that she was receiving letters from that someone else, perhaps sending

them to him; and it struck me that Lady Vale-Avon would conceal the

correspondence, rather than flaunt it in Carmona’s face. If I were right,

then I was as safe as before from the Duke’s jealousy; but, had Monica

read my letter?

On the alert as her mother would be now, I should find it more difficult

than ever to communicate with the girl. Yet I could not bear to leave

Manzanares in fear of a misunderstanding.

Nothing more could be done at the moment, however; and I hurried Ropes off

that we might finish our errand and get back by the time that Monica was

down.

It appeared that the man who had volunteered information about

moto-naphtha was waiting to act as guide. He was still at the chemist’s,

and from there led us to the Casa Consistorial. At the Casa Consistorial

were two policemen in the hall, warming themselves over a hole in the

ground, where glowed charcoal embers. But the Mayor had not arrived.

Without him nothing could be arranged. Besides, even if he were present

and willing to consent, the key of the cemetery was with the _cura_, who

might be anywhere.

Off we dashed to the _cura’s_ house, and just in time. Five minutes later,

and we might have had to wait hours for him. But there he was, a

delightful, white-haired old man, who would be charmed to open the

cemetery for our worships, since it was not to bury us; but he could make

no move in that direction without the honourable concurrence of the Mayor.

Back, then, we bustled to the Casa Consistorial, with the sensation of

shuttlecocks, played between battledores at cross purposes.

But at last the second battledore was ready to send us in the right

direction. The Mayor, a young man, who looked like a lawyer in tall hat

and frock-coat, was as polite as only a Spaniard can be. He put himself,

and his house, and Manzanares at our service. It was something like being

given the freedom of London; and what was more to the point than anything

else, he offered us as much moto-naphtha as the town possessed, at any

price we pleased to pay.

The question was, how much did the town possess; a single quart, or a

hundred gallons? The Mayor himself was not sure, so we rattled off in an

ancient “simón” to the cemetery to find out; and luckily were able to

carry away all we were likely to need for the next two days, while leaving

some for the locusts. But between the Casa Consistorial, the house of the

_cura_, the distant cemetery, and the drive back to our stable-garage, it

had taken us nearly three hours to achieve our end. Then there was a

little lingering with the car, to make sure that all was well and no more

tricks had been played; and the walk back to the _fonda_ exhausted the

last of my patience. I had not expected to be gone more than an hour, and

I had been gone three. Meanwhile, I said to myself, almost anything might

have happened. My idea had been to get back by the time that Monica was

dressed, and now, for all I could tell, she might have gone.

Dick laughed at this suggestion, for, said he, Carmona’s chauffeur was not

a worker of miracles except, perhaps, on other men’s cars; and he could

not have got his master’s in order and ready to start. His arguments were

reasonable; nevertheless, like many other plausible deductions, they were

wrong; for the first news we heard at the hotel was that the grey

automobile had left nearly an hour before. The chauffeur, it seemed, had

been up all night working, and had had assistance in the early morning at

a machine-shop. The injuries had been patched up, and the car was expected

to get on either to Andujar, or Linares if a certain bridge had been

finished.

After all, this was not as bad as if we had made no promise to the

Duchess. We were bound not to lie in wait for, or closely follow, her

son’s car; and had it not been for the “luck of the Dream-Book,” Carmona

and his party would have been far away last night when we arrived at

Manzanares. Had I not been tortured by doubts about the fate of my letter,

I might have been philosopher enough to say: “Patience, until Seville!”

As it was, patience was the last virtue I could cultivate; and for what

remained of that day, I was unable to find the smallest pleasure in

motoring.

Again we were on the highroad between Madrid and Seville; yet the waving

ruts and ridges of hardened mud were sprinkled with a green glaze of

grass, as if in treacherous attempt at concealment. Dust curled behind us

like smoke, creeping under the tarpaulin that covered our luggage on the

roof, and into our suit-cases, powdering our clothing like fine white

sugar.

Despite the good springs and deep cushions of the car, Pilar’s light body

danced up and down, as Dick said, like a bit of American popcorn over a

hot fire; and our two guests, who had thought themselves motor

enthusiasts, did not respond ardently to Dick’s forced praises of the

sport.

How glorious, said he (every other word emphasized with a bump), how

glorious not to be bound down to the fixed and inconvenient hours of

trains. To stop where and when you like; to start on again when you

choose; never to have your view of the choicest bit of scenery blotted out

in a tunnel; to be grimed by no railway smoke; always to feel your face

fanned by a fresh breeze, tingling with ozone; to read—if you had the

seeing eye—the whole life of the country in writing on the road; the

tracks of heavy carts; the delicate prints of donkey’s feet, trotting to

market laden with wine or fruit; the tracing of diligence wheels, or

old-fashioned carriages on their way to a bull-fight; the footmarks of

peasants economically carrying their shoes over their shoulders; the

clover-like imprint of sheeps’ little hoofs, and goats’; the pads of

shepherd dogs. To flash through kinematographic glimpses of vineland and

oliveland, and graceful blue mountain shapes; to see strange villages of

whose existence you would never know when plodding along by train; to fly

from one living reminder of Don Quixote to another, as we were doing

to-day (had we not seen the inn where he was knighted?)—Bang! Never before

can I remember hailing with delight the pistol-like report which can mean

but one thing; the bursting of a tyre. But I was enchanted that Dick’s

eloquence should be interrupted.

We had jolted through wine-making Valdepeñas, where the red juice of the

grape seems to spout from a grey valley of stones; we had passed, in the

quaint market-place, the posada which Don Quixote knew; we had bounced

through Santa Cruz de Mudela, with its fine old fifteenth century church,

and had seen its famous and gaily coloured garters exposed for sale in the

shops; and now we were far from towns or villages, out in the country.

Luckily, everybody was ready for lunch, and Pilar and the Cherub had had

the forethought to order things which would not have occurred to Dick or

me. Not far away, on the crest of a hill-billow, stood a road-mender’s

house, with an outside, adobe oven like a huge beehive. We crawled to it,

travelling on the collapsed tyre, and were served by a delightful brown

family; served as if we had been the King and his suite who had lunched

(so said the brown family) on that spot a few weeks ago. Out came the

chairs which the King and his friends had sat in, plates and glasses from

which the King and his friends had drunk; and the simple people derived a

childlike pleasure from dwelling on the episode.

As before, the news of our presence seemed to flash through the air and

bring, in the same mysterious way, an audience out of empty space. Pilar

said that the people who came were in reality wild birds, seen by our

sophisticated eyes in the form of human beings; and as if they had been

wild birds, we coaxed them, till they trusted us and fed with us, drinking

from our wineskin the blood of the Spanish grape, almost innocent of

alcohol. The soft Spanish language, as it fell from their lips, was rich

as the taste of that Spanish wine on the tongue, and stirred in my heart a

pride of kinsmanship.

While we others lunched, Ropes jacked up the Gloria and changed the inner

tube, pausing now and then to munch a sandwich or swallow a draught of

wine with an unruffled air characteristic of him. When the road-mender

mentioned that four _bandidos_ had been captured in the morning by the

civil guard, on the road along which we had passed, his expression did not

change by the twitching of a muscle. Indeed, he looked equal to disposing

of half a dozen brigands without the aid of a single guardia civile.

After forty minutes by the wayside, we set off to penetrate farther into

that melancholy country which Cervantes loved, and almost at once were in

the Venta de Cordeñas, that wide and stony waste where Don Quixote rode to

do his penance. The gayest spirits must have been dashed by the gloom of

the knight’s self-imposed prison, and mine were not improved. I had a

disquieting impression that Monica’s voice, calling an appeal, came

echoing from the mountain walls.

Of course, there was nothing in it, except superstitious nonsense of which

I ought to be ashamed; yet I could not shut my ears to her voice, which

seemed to cry the words her fingers once had written: “Don’t desert me!

Don’t leave me alone!”

Always the echo followed, as the car mounted higher on the slopes of the

Sierra Morena, and such glories of Spain opened out before our eyes as we

had not seen yet, even in the splendid Gorge of Pancorbo.

Crest above crest, great chains of mountains cut the smooth sapphire of

the sky; and as we serpentined into their closer grasp, each loop of the

Alpine road gave a new and more fantastic combination of rock and stream.

The car was boring into a gorge of astounding sublimity, a hammer-stroke

of Vulcan which had cleft the mountain and left behind chips of copper, of

gold, of silver, and a rich sprinkling of precious gems.

As the god’s hammer fell, out of the ruin it made were shaped marvels of

form; Olympian castles and giant statues, images of such savage creatures

as roamed devastating the earth in days when man was in his childhood.

Even the calm countenance of Ropes was transfigured by this burst of

splendour. “Makes you forget that roads can be bad, and tyres go wrong,

doesn’t it, sir?” he said to me. “I could drive through places like these,

day and night on end, without food or drink, never knowing if I was done

up.”

And praise from a chauffeur is praise indeed!

We were in the defile of Despeñaperros, the most terrific and, at the same

time, the noblest gorge of Spain; and I should have known it from stories

told by my father, who had once fought with _bandoleros_ upon this very

road. Down into the river that tossed up white plumes of foam far below,

he had flung one man, while another fired shot after shot from his

carbine, screened behind a rock on the opposite side of the ravine,

scarcely a biscuit-throw away.

Long before, too, history had been made in this mountain passage whose

walls had rung with wilder sounds than the screaming of our siren. The

rival battle-cries of Moor and Spaniard had echoed among the rocks, and

Christian blood and pagan had mingled in the white spume of the river.

I thought of these things, as I looked down into the silent depths of the

gulf, and saw the sparkling veins of granite, and purple masses of slate

gleam with volcanic life and colour. But still I heard the haunting echo

of Monica’s voice, in the solitude through which she must lately have

passed, perhaps leaving some message, if I could only know.

Was it merely a fantastic twist of my nerves, or was her spirit calling,

trying to make itself heard and understood?

It was Pilar who broke the spell by a sudden clapping of her hands.

“Andalucía! dear Andalucía!” she cried; and each one of us, subdued and

silenced by the majesty of the scene, started as if waking from sleep.

She was pointing at a stone obelisk, looking at which her father smiled

and raised his hat.

“No more cold,” said he; “no more winds to nip our noses. Here’s the

dividing line between the north countries and the country of the sun.”

Then, as if the obelisk had been the finger of some genie invoking a magic

change, an enchantment blurred the stem features of the landscape. It was

as though the fierce face of an angry giant had been transformed into that

of a beautiful, laughing woman with the sun in her eyes.

The defile opened when we had slipped past a half-hidden mountain hamlet

or two; widened into a valley bright with colour as the jewels on the

spread tail of a peacock; and boat-like, the car rode an undulating sea of

green and azure and gold, that scintillated as if a spray of diamonds were

tossed into air with the speed of our going.

At Santa Elena we were in a Spain I had not seen. At La Carolina we burst

into a world fair and fertile as the Garden of Eden; and I remembered the

Moorish legend that Heaven is built on the blue that hangs over Andalucía.

Hedges of aloe brandished zincen swords and darts; cacti sprawled and

leered along the roadside; set in the vivid green of ripening grain, olive

groves seemed carved from jade; or the bare rosy shoulders of sloping

hillsides turned by contrast their pale tints to tarnished silver. Vines

with young gold leaves trailed the purple earth; avenues of acacias

dripped perfumes; and as the sun leaned towards the west, the quivering

pink light on violet mountains gave to Andalucía the vivid, almost violent

colouring one sees in sensational posters.

Each girl we passed wore a bright flower shining star-like through the

black cloud of her hair. The men had discarded the fur-trimmed Louis XI

caps for the broad-brimmed, grey sombreros de Cordoba, and the horses or

mules were harnessed with gay splashes of red and blue colour, and bobbing

tassels.

We had talked of Linares, the lead-mining town, as a halting-place for the

night, as we were pledged not to track down the Lecomte; and on the

outskirts of Bailen, as twilight fell, the Gloria was brought to a sudden

stop in the midst of a pulsating crowd, that we might ask the way.

If we aroused their curiosity, they piqued us to the same emotion, for

most of the men, and there were hundreds, not only wore upon their legs a

kind of divided pinafore, but carried on their backs an apparatus which

would have excited wonder in any other than this fairy country.

The machine reminded me at first glance of a fire-extinguisher; then of

some appliance used by miners to hold a supply of oxygen. One part of me

wished to know what the instrument was; the other preferred to remain in

ignorance, lest the explanation should prove too commonplace. But Waring

had all my curiosity, and none of my scruples; so he asked a question with

a gesture more intelligible than his Spanish; and just as I had feared,

the weird union of reservoirs and nozzles was no more than a contrivance

for spraying vines to protect them from phylloxera.

As always, we brought the fascinations of the Cherub to bear upon the

crowd, as one trains the latest gun upon the enemy; and his crooning

brought out facts which made Dick think it high time he got things into

shape, and his motor service to running. It seemed that once upon a time a

good road had been made from Bailen to Linares, but the road was crossed

by a river; and when the masonry supports for a bridge had been built, it

turned out that girders had been forgotten. Somehow, it was nobody’s place

to jog anybody else’s memory, and there the matter had ended, so long ago

that grass and flowers had sprouted among the futile stones.

It appeared the most natural thing in the world to the people of Bailen,

who were accustomed to ford the river, when they wanted to cross, with

horses; but though the weather had been dry for the last few days, the

recent torrents which had fallen in the mountains, still swelled the

volume of water to such a height that it might “put out the fire in the

automobile.”

I was glad to hear this, because if it would put out our fire, it would

put out Carmona’s; and as he was prudent in matters concerning his car, he

would probably have stopped at Andujar; thus fate would again bring me

near to Monica, despite our promise.

The main reason for going to Linares was because the Cherub believed there

was a fair hotel, built to accommodate Englishmen collected for the

lead-mining; therefore it was without regret that we turned the Gloria to

follow the _carretera_ to Cordoba.

Our advisers ran after us with a warning to avoid the rough cobbles of

Bailen by taking the _ronda_ which skirts the town on its left. So slowly,

in dusk that blossomed blue as the myrtle flower, we passed round outside

the town, regained the high road, leaping at speed into a world of wide,

silvery spaces and mystery of violet hollows, diving into the deep valley

of the swollen river, and rejoicing in a hard surface of good macadam for

fifteen miles or more.

Thus we arrived at Andujar, the lights of our great acetylene lamps (lit

before the sky turned from opal to amethyst) prying into dark doorways and

windows as Röntgen rays pry through flesh to bone.

In the white glare, pretty girls in doorways looked like actresses in a

costume play, waiting in the wings to “go on.” But no yells of a stage mob

ever were so realistic as those of the unrehearsed band who howled over my

poor Gloria as she deposited her passengers at the _fonda_; and Ropes and

I pushed her through a wall of human beings to a stable-garage, where her

flywheel gushed a protest of fiery sparks on the high stone step of

entrance.

The _fonda_ was passable; but Carmona and his party were not there;

neither were they anywhere else in Andujar, as we made it our business to

discover; and we guessed that the grey car must after all have ventured to

Linares.

As it had vanished, we were free to start when we chose next morning. So

we chose an early hour, flying over good roads through a land embroidered

with the scarlet of poppies, the blue of gentian, the pink of clover, and

gold of buttercups, stitched in with the silver of little running streams.

“ ‘Give us bread and give us bulls,’ is the cry of this country,” said the

Cherub, greeting with joyous glances each feature of his loved Andalucia.

“It sounds like a beef sandwich,” Dick reflected aloud; but Pilar

reproached him for flippancy. “You mustn’t make jokes about bread in

Andalucia!” she exclaimed. “And it’s called a sin ever to throw away a

crumb. Because it’s the gift of Heaven, if you drop a bit you must pick it

up and apologize by kissing it.”

“Why not eat it instead?” asked Dick.

“You can do that afterwards. And if bread’s made with holes in it, you

must stand the holey side up, because the spirit of God enters through the

holes to bless you.”

“I thought only olives were sacred in Andalucia,” said Dick, staring away

over enormous tracts of the silver-grey trees growing out of copper soil,

waving as far as the eye could follow, to the floating line of ethereal

blue mountains.

“They’re sacred, too,” assented Pilar. “Did you know, in the old days they

used to be sold only for gold, gold carried on mule back in great bags,

and exchanged on the spot, for the trees—so many for so much? We have

olives at our place, and they’re gathered in such a nice old-fashioned

way; papa doesn’t care for new ways, even if they make a little more

money. It’s pretty to watch. I should like you to see it, only—Señor

Waring doesn’t like old-fashioned things.”

“I like making the ‘little more money,’ I’m afraid,” Dick confessed.

“Sometimes I like money too—when I want to buy anything. At other times I

don’t care. Lately I’ve been saving up. I’ve got one thousand nine hundred

pesetas.”

“Good gracious!” laughed Dick, “are you going to buy a bull-farm with such

a gigantic sum?”

“Funny you should have said that. I’m going to buy one bull. He’s the only

possession of the Duke of Carmona’s that I want, and I want him so much

that I’ve sacrificed oh,—I can’t remember how many Paris hats, and shoes,

and silk petticoats, and pretty dresses to get him, with _all_ my own

money! The worst of it is, he’ll _never_ know about the hats and things.”

Dick was looking interested now.

“What in the name of goodness will you do with him when you get him?” he

inquired.

“Save him,” said the girl.

“From what?”

“From the bull-ring. Oh, he’s a _toro bravo_, is Vivillo, a heart of gold.

Not the most famous _torero_ in Spain shall pierce it. I’ve loved him for

four years, since he was a baby at his mother’s side, and Rafael Calmenare

used to take me to visit him; loved him better even than Corcito, and all

this time I’ve been saving up to buy him before he’s of the age for a

_corrida_. Now I’ve enough, or nearly, and there aren’t many weeks to

waste, for soon he’ll be five; and already he has the strength and courage

of three bulls, my Vivillo! I long to see him again—long for the day when

I can put my arms round his great neck, and say, ‘Hermanito, you’re

mine!’ ”

“Your arms round his neck!” gasped Dick. “A fighting bull! You’re joking.

Say you mean an Irish bull, and put me out of misery.”

“He’s a true Spanish grandee of a bull, and my arms have been round his

neck often,” said Pilarcita.

“Then he can’t be very fierce.”

“He can be terrible. He has nearly killed two men—strangers who teased

him, so he meant no harm, poor darling! and they daren’t let any except

black horses come near him. No Muira bull is more savage than he if he’s

roused. You know, the Duke of Carmona’s bulls are as celebrated as the

Muiras themselves. But Vivillo has always loved me, and one or two

others—me best, though—and he’ll eat out of my hand, the great brown

velvet beast, like a kitten.”

“How long since he’s seen you?” asked Dick.

“Six weeks.”

“I wouldn’t trust his memory.”

“I trust it as I would my brother’s. You shall see me petting him.”

“Great Scott! you won’t let her risk her life with this wild beast, will

you, Colonel O’Donnel?” Dick cried out.

But the Cherub smiled his placid smile.

“Don Cipriano calls her Una, because she can tame wild beasts,” said he.

Dick’s face became almost too expressive. If he did not want Pilar’s eyes

to read his every emotion, I thought he would be wiser to put on his

motor-mask.

XXV

WHAT CORDOBA LACKED

Through a flowery field of cloth-of-gold we came, while the afternoon was

young, into Cordoba—“Kartuba the Important,” lying like a grave entombing

its dead glory, prone at the foot of tombstone mountains.

After the dazzle of wild-flowers shining in the sun, and the ozone of

country breezes, a sudden entrance into the network of narrow streets was

like being thrown, without a clue, into the Minotaur’s dark labyrinth.

I had thought that no town could have narrower streets than Toledo; but

the streets of Cordoba were mere slits between house-walls. As we scraped

through on the car, Dick likened the town to a huge white cake divided

into slices by a sharp knife, but left in shape with only one or two

pieces pulled out to loosen the mass.

Still, the stone-paved slits contrived to make pictures; with here and

there a pair of splendid Moorish doors, a row of ancient eastern-patterned

windows, or a fairy glimpse of a sunlit _patio_ beyond a tunnel of shadow;

a fountain spraying jewels, a waving of palms and glow of hanging roses.

“She’s sure to be here,” I said to myself, as we stopped at last before

the principal hotel. “Since the journey’s supposed to be a pleasure trip,

Carmona’s bound to give his guests time to see the sights of Cordoba.”

But nothing was known of the Duke and his party at the hotel, although

there was a rumour that an automobile had passed through the town in the

morning.

The Cherub, consulted, was of opinion that if Carmona’s car had come, it

must have remained.

“There’d be nowhere for them to stop afterwards short of Seville,” he

said, “unless Carmona, and that’s near Seville. They must be lurking in

Cordoba—perhaps at the Marqués de Villa-blanca’s, who’s a friend of the

Duke’s. We shall come across our lovely little lady presently, if we get

about in the town; in the Paseo del Gran Capitán, or the Patio de los

Naranjos, or the cathedral, or by the ruins of the Alcázar.”

“Besides, I thought you’d made up your mind not to worry till we got to

Seville,” said Dick.

“So I had,” I answered. “But I have a feeling as if something had gone

wrong.”

“Any reason for the feeling—except the feeling itself?” asked Dick.

I shook my head, not caring to mention the letter that might have gone

astray. “Nothing I can define.”

“Then I guess it’s all right, and you’re developing nerves.”

“I know _just_ how he feels,” said Pilar, with a reproachful look at Dick,

with whom she was at odds since the episode of the bull. “There was an

expression in Lady Monica’s eyes, wasn’t there, at Manzanares, as if she

were sad? Oh, I saw it; and they wouldn’t let me get within whispering

distance of her afterwards, or I should have found out what it meant. I

had the idea that they were _particularly_ anxious to keep me away, and I

wondered if there were any new reason. I’m not surprised that Don Ramón is

worried. One can see that Señor Waring’s never been in love!”

“Oh, haven’t I?” exclaimed Dick; which, of course made matters worse; and

to mend them, he went on blundering. "What do _you_ know about the

symptoms?"

“Girls are born knowing things it takes men years to learn,” said Pilar.

It did not allay my anxiety that she should have noticed what I had

noticed. But I clung to the Cherub’s assurance, hoping, when we had set

out on our explorations, to meet her, to see her face light up with the

radiance I knew.

But there were no strangers save ourselves, and a few wandering Americans

under the palms and orange trees of the _paseo_ dedicated to the memory of

El Gran Capitán.

We wandered—Pilar keeping at my side, and leaving Dick to her father—from

gate to gate outside the Mosque-Cathedral which once made Cordoba the

Mecca of Europe; gazing up at the tremendous mass of honey-coloured

masonry rising like a vast fortress from its buttresses of stone;

lingering under the bell-tower of the Puerta del Perdon because Pilar

“felt as if something would happen there.” But nothing did happen; and we

went to face the blighting of renewed hopes in the Court of Oranges, whose

melancholy charm and sensuous perfume was sad as the song of a nightingale

when summer is dying.

She was not there; nor could we find her in the marble forest of the

pillared cathedral, though, while Dick and Pilar made up their differences

over the jewelled mosaics, I searched for her.

“I tell you, Ramón, there’s some satisfaction in feeling that you’re

looking at the best things the world’s got to show,” said Dick, almost in

my ear, “and there are lots of them in your country, especially in

Cordoba, though I suppose the Moors would weep to see it now. But you

don’t seem to be enjoying them, in spite of risking such a lot to come

where they are.”

I didn’t remind him that the risk I ran was for the one best thing in all

the world, which was only temporarily in my country, and that my

depression came because it was not at the moment visible. But Pilar did

not need reminding, and in the way of sweet women, tried to “keep my mind

occupied” by talking history and legend, confusing them deliciously, and

defending her stories of beautiful Egilona and fair Florinda by saying

that, anyhow, nobody cared whether they were true or not. Besides, what

_was_ history, since dull people were continually discovering that none of

the best bits had ever happened?

“I choose to believe in Florinda,” she cried, “and all the other beautiful

women who influenced kings, and made wars, and upset countries. Without

them and their love-stories, history would be like faded tapestry without

gold threads.”

So Dick ceased to argue, and in silence we left the gem-like perfection of

the third Mihrab, to wander once more through the wilderness of gleaming

columns that were now like over-arching trees, now like falling fountains.

No dusky vista out of those many changing ones framed the figure I longed

to see; and when we had left the cathedral and climbed to the gardens and

towers where stood once the Alcázar of Gothic and Moorish glories, it was

the same story of disappointment. Only the Americans we had seen in the

_paseo_ were there, more interested than I in such fragments as they could

catch of Pilar’s tales. Dungeons where Theodofredo had been blinded, and

Witica the wicked had paid for his crimes; vanished halls where Rodrigo

reigned and loved before the dark day beside the Guadalete lost the crown

for him and Christendom; what did they hold of interest since the garden

of lilacs and roses which covered their ruins was empty of one Presence?

When we had seen everything, I left my friends in the hall of the hotel

choosing curios from glass cases, and went out again in search of news

concerning the automobile which had passed in the morning.

Presumably it had attracted a crowd, yet no one seemed to know anything of

it until at last, just as I was giving up hope, I met an old man who had

seen a large grey motor-car at the railway station. A few minutes later, I

had solved the mystery of the Lecomte’s disappearance. It had arrived

early; its passengers had been conducted round Cordoba in the smallest

possible time by Carmona; it had then been driven to the station; and with

its late occupants had gone to Seville by the same train.

There might have been several motives for this move. The car might have

been partially disabled, not having been properly prepared at Manzanares;

or Carmona might have determined to thwart the destiny which so far had

kept me near him. I was inclined to accept the latter theory, and it did

not tend to promote my peace of mind.

I was glad to hear, however, that the train was not due at Seville until

late that evening. If we made an early start next day, it was not likely

that the situation could be much changed before I arrived, free of

obligations to the Duchess.

Of course, said Pilar, before I had time to ask, they would be ready to

start early, oh, very early. It would be beautiful to be in the country

before the sun had drunk up the dew on the grass, and withered the roses

of dawn in the clouds. There was no fear of cold now that we were in dear

Andalucía. Yes! we would have coffee at six, and leave at half-past.

I should not have dared suggest such a trial of moral courage, but I

accepted the sacrifice; so the roses of morning which Pilar loved still

bloomed in the garden of the sky, and trailed their reflection in the

Guadalquivir, as we rolled over the old bridge and past the white, Moorish

hills.

A morning in Paradise could scarcely be more beautiful; and the

pinky-purple blossoms of the _alamo_ shimmering in a rosy mist against

dark cypress trees, or mingling with the white lace of hawthorn was a

colour-symphony of Spring.

Dignified country houses no longer raised brown-tiled roofs from among

groves of olives; but an illimitable sea of waving downs lay bathed in the

amber light of Spain. Then, olive woods again, with a foam, of

field-flowers spraying their gnarled feet, hedges of sweetbrier, tangled

with tall, wild lilacs, and blossoming thorn. Beyond, high hills up which

the Gloria stormed boldly, frightening the horses of a troop of laughing

soldiers who rode without saddles; over stony roads, mere rough tracks

drawn through meadows, where bulls grazed, and bellowed at the automobile;

thus to a village which first showed itself like a white crown on a

hilltop, and proved to be inhabited by women and children of surpassing

beauty. Never were such eyes as those which looked from the faces in the

quick-gathering crowd; eyes like black wells with fallen stars in their

depths.

Peasant houses by the wayside had thatched roofs, grey and glistening as

silver plush; and outside ovens like huge cups turned upside down. The

fields were gay with flowers; the distance floated in waves of azure gauze

which touched the sky.

On we swept, as though to find the joining place, but found only Ecija,

the Town of the Seven Brigands, with its grand bridge and pearl-white

Moorish mills, in the yellow, swift-running Genil.

Kings had been lodged behind those brass-nailed doors and wrought-iron

balconies, the Cherub said; and malefactors famed in history and ballad

had swung from that tall gallows which caught the eye before Ecija’s eight

church towers. There had been famous fighting, too, by the river bank; but

now the place slept, dreaming of peace, and the whirr of the mill-wheels

sounded as comforting as the “chum-chum” of a motor that runs by night.

So we flashed out of the Province of Cordoba into the Province of Seville,

and tall, slender palms, rearing feathered heads among walnut trees and

oaks, were signposts pointing south. It was early in April, but the air

was the air of an English June, and I wondered to see men muffled in long

_capas_. “They do it to keep out the sun, as in the north to keep out the

wind,” explained Pilar; but she only laughed when Dick asked why they

shaved their donkeys’ backs, why they put red and yellow muzzles on their

donkeys’ mouths, why they always carried plaid “railway rugs” on their

beasts’ backs or their own, and why their trousers and leggings were made

in one piece?

Beyond the olives, black clumps of umbrella pines flung ink-blots against

the sky, and a purple carpet of budding heather was torn apart to let the

road pass through. It was ideal motor-country, and Dick recalled with

sneers the sixty horse-power man in Biarritz, who had feared the

experiment.

“The way is to _do_ what you want to do, and find out as you go along

whether it can be done or not,” he soliloquized.

I wondered if he were thinking of another difficult road, not to be

travelled by motors—a road where perhaps Don Cipriano already knew the

way.

Larks sprang skyward from beds of wild flowers as we fled by, little

fountains of music; tall cranes flew out of screening bushes beside bright

streams; and blurring the distance before us, a mist of rain floated like

a veil blown across the face of Spring.

In sight of Carmona’s splendid walls and ruined castle, the rain caught

us; and for Pilar’s sake we made the car cosey by fastening down the front

glass and filling in the space with drawn canvas curtains.

After this, our fleeting glimpses of pine and palm and olive were dimmed

as we bowled along a sandy road, yellow as beaten gold. Now and again a

patch of purple blossom burning through the mist sang a loud, exultant

note of spring and love; and pretty orange-pickers, in men’s jackets and

brown trousers, warbled of the same theme in that soft Andaluza which is

beyond all other languages of passion.

The colour, and the music, and the day went to my head. I knew that I was

young, and I wanted my chance of happiness—wanted it so much that I felt I

could kill a man who dared try to snatch it from me.

XXVI

IN THE PALACE OF THE KINGS

“Now I’ve something serious to say, Don Ramón,” began the Cherub, when we

had passed the first pink-and-white house which marked the suburbs of

Seville. “You mustn’t go to an hotel here. It would be dangerous. You must

be our guest; and Señor Waring, too. I feel now as if our little play were

true, and you were my son; while as for Señor Waring, we might have known

him for years, might we not, Pilarcita?”

“Of course. For my part, I’m ready to adopt him for a brother, too,”

replied Pilar.

I covered Dick’s recoil at this blow by thanking the Cherub. He was more

than kind, I said, but we couldn’t think of—

“You will not think of disappointing us,” broke in the dear brown fellow.

“Could you have imagined that our only reason is to keep you out of

danger? No. We’re not so unselfish. We want you. Partings will come soon

enough. We must have you with us, under our roof, at our table, as long as

we can. Now you understand, you will say ‘yes.’ ”

“In my country,” said Dick, as a broad hint to me, “when we tell people we

want them to visit us, we mean it; and I guess Colonel O’Donnel and Miss

O’Donnel are the same sort.”

Of course I wanted to say yes; and, of course, after this, I did say yes

without further parleying.

“Now begins the most critical time in this adventure of yours. Don Ramón,”

the Cherub went on. “You see, as our place is only five miles outside

Seville, we know many people; and though Carmona is seldom there with his

mother, he certainly has acquaintances, and some of them may be ours too.

You have travelled since Burgos as my son, though you wore his uniform

only for two days; but you may be sure Carmona has been looking forward to

shaking you off, once and for all, if you should venture to Seville to see

the show of _Semana Santa_ as other tourists see it.”

“He perhaps thinks that, because of our promise—which we’ve kept—he’s

shaken Ramón off already,” said Dick.

“He knows better. The trick answered for a few hours; but his car broke

down, and he had to accept our help. He said then that fate was against

him; I heard it; and Carmona’s a man to be actually superstitious about

you, now. So far, he’s kept the little señorita out of touch with you, but

that’s nearly all he has accomplished.”

“Thanks to you both,” I cut in. “If it hadn’t been for your help, I should

have been ‘pinched,’ and hustled over the border long ago. I see that now;

and though I should have come back and begun the chase again somehow, it

would have been a thousand times more difficult.”

“No use bothering about what _might_ have happened,” laughed Pilar. “Let’s

think of what did happen—and what will.”

“Nevertheless,” said I, “the thought’s often in my mind; what if we had

missed Colonel and Miss O’Donnel at Burgos?”

Dick chuckled; and when Pilar wanted to know what amused him, asked my

permission to tell. I gave him leave; and with a memory for detail which I

could have spared, to say nothing of an attempt at mimicry, he repeated,

word for word, my objections to meeting the Irish friends of Angèle de la

Mole.

We were so intimate now that my point of view before knowing them did seem

particularly comic, and Dick made the most of it.

“Well, think what we have to thank you for!” exclaimed Pilar; “this

delightful trip. If it hadn’t been for you, Cristóbal would be here

instead of with Angèle in Biarritz.”

“Come back to common sense,” implored the Cherub, “and help me plan for

the Cristóbal who is here. If he sits in our box for the processions,

Carmona will see him and say to some officious person, very different from

Rafael Calmenare, ‘who is that young man with the O’Donnels?’ And the

officious person will answer, ‘I never saw him in my life.’ ‘Ah,’ the Duke

will exclaim, ‘isn’t he Cristóbal O’Donnel?’ ‘Not at all,’ will come the

reply; and Carmona will proceed to make trouble.”

“For you as well as for me; that’s the worst of it,” said I.

“We care nothing for that. It’s of you we think,” said the Cherub. And

because I knew it was true, more than ever it became my duty to think of

him and his.

“Of course I don’t want to lose any chance of seeing Monica,” I said; “but

on the days of the processions I shall walk about in the crowd and keep

out of Carmona’s way.”

“As for us,” said Pilar, “we’ll try for a box near the Duke’s—though there

may be nothing left, as the King’s to be here and there’s sure to be a

crowd. I’ll do my best to whisper to Lady Monica, or send her a note, or

speak with my eyes if no more.”

“You know how I depend on you,” I answered. “She may give you a letter, an

answer to one which I hope she got at Manzanares.”

“I’ll be ready for the lightest hint,” said Pilar. “If she has a note for

you, she’ll show it behind her fan. Then I’ll motion her to crumple it up

and throw it on the floor as she goes out. If you don’t appear in our

society, the Duke will think perhaps that after all he’s safe.”

“No. We mustn’t count on any such thing,” broke in her father. “If he

can’t get rid of you in one way, he’ll try another; and there’s an old

saying which is still true: anything can happen in Spain, especially in

the south. Carmona will be watching for you. You must be prepared for

that.”

“I shall be,” I said.

“We’ll all be,” Pilar finished. “Oh, there’s the old Roman aqueduct! Isn’t

it splendid; and strong as if it had been built yesterday instead of in

the days before the Goths. I love Seville—love every brick and stone of

it, from the ruins of the Moorish wall and the Torre del Oro, and the

glorious cathedral, to the old house in the Callo del Candilejo, where the

witch-woman looked out and saw King Don Pedro fighting his duel. I don’t

believe any other place could make up to me for Seville.”

By the side of the two-thousand-years-old-aqueduct ran a modern electric

tramway; and one of the graceful arches made by Roman hands had been

widened to let pass the railway line for Madrid. Farther on, Moorish

houses with lofty miradors and beautiful capped windows were tucked

between ugly new buildings, and across the shaded avenue of a green park

was flung an extraordinary, four-winged spiral staircase of iron. I

groaned at the monstrosity, saying that Pedro himself had never

perpetrated an act more cruel; and the Cherub excused it sadly, by saying

that it was convenient for the crowds to pass from one side of the street

to the other, as I should see if I stayed beyond the _Semana Santa_ for

the _feria_.

“Look at the Giralda, and you’ll forget the iron bridge,” said Pilar. My

eyes followed hers, and lit like winging birds upon a beautiful tower

soaring delicately against the sky. So light, so fragile in effect was it,

I felt that it might lean upon a cloud. In the golden light of afternoon

the little pillars of old marble, the carved lozenges of stone, the arches

of the horseshoe windows, the dainty carvings of the balconies, and all

the marvellous ornamentation that broke the square surfaces of the tower,

were rosy as if with reflections from a sunset sky. Its beauty was a

Moorish poem in brick-work, such as no other hands save Moorish hands have

ever made.

I looked back until I lost sight of the Giralda, except the glittering

figure of Faith on the top (strange symbol for a weather-vane), while

threading through tortuous streets, mere strips of pavement veiled with

blue shadow, and walled with secretive, flat-fronted houses, old and new,

pearly with fresh whitewash, or painted pale lemon, faded orange, or a

green ethereal as the tints of seaweed. Even at first sight the quaint

town was singularly lovable, in its mingling of simplicity and mystery,

and as Spanish in this mixture as in all things else.

The tall, straight palms, with their tufted heads like falling fountains,

clear against the sky, were Oriental, and seemed scarcely kin to the palms

of Italy and Southern France. Nor were the narrow streets, through which

we pounded over cobbles, like the narrow streets of Italian towns. They

were Spanish; inexplicably but wholly Spanish, although Dick was not sure

they did not recall bits of Venice, “just as you turn away from St.

Mark’s.”

It was odd that shops so small could be so gay and attractive as these

with their rows of painted fans, their draped mantillas, their bright

sashes, foolish little tambourines, castanets tied with rosettes of ribbon

in Spanish colours; their curious and vivid antique jewelry; their

_sombreros cordobeses_ displayed in the same windows with silk hats from

Bond Street; their flaming flowers, Moorish pottery, old lace, and

cabinets of inlaid ebony and silver. And I knew that I should learn to

love the sounds of Seville better than the sounds of London or other

cities I had seen.

Haunting sounds they were, these noises of a closely peopled old town,

characteristic as those of Naples, not so strident as in Madrid; above

all, the sound of bells, ringing, booming, chiming, so continuously that

soon they would affect the senses like a heavy perfume always present. One

would cease to hear them, and be startled only if their clamouring tongues

were silenced.

In the streets, where the processions of _Semana Santa_ would pass,

already hundreds of rush-bottomed chairs were ranged in front of houses

and shops, piled in confusion, which would be reduced to order for

to-morrow, Palm Sunday. Beyond, in the Plaza de la Constitución—scene in

old days of the bull-fight and _auto-da-fé_,—many men were busy putting

the last touches on the crimson velvet and gold draperies of the royal

box, pounding barriers into place in the tribune in front of the

silver-like chasing of the Casa del Ayuntamiento’s Plateresque façade, or

arranging row after row of chairs in the open space opposite, leaving an

aisle for the procession to pass between.

“Now there is something to do before we drive home to the Cortijo de Santa

Rufina,” said the Cherub. “I must see about getting a box in the tribune

for the week; I must find out whether Carmona did come in by train last

night. Don Ramón hasn’t suggested this plan, but I think he would not

dislike it.”

“I meant to drop out of the car, to see what I could learn myself, and

join you afterwards at home,” I said. “But you can get hold of things

better than I, a stranger, can.”

“You must remain a stranger,” he supplemented my words. “If your chauffeur

will stop at the top of this narrow street, I’ll walk down it a few doors

to my club, and ask for the latest news. Carmona doesn’t honour his house

in Seville too often with his presence, though his mother is here every

season, and his arrival will be the talk of the club. I can take steps

too, about a box for the show. I won’t keep you long; but you’d better

wait at the Café Perla. Pilar can’t go there without me. Oh, you may

smile; but remember we’re in Spain. She must wait at the house of a

friend.”

The Cherub’s idea of a “little while” and a “long while” were always

rather vague, and apt to dovetail confusingly one into another; but

knowing what it was his aim to accomplish, I did not grudge the fifty

minutes before his ample form and smiling face appeared in the doorway of

the café.

“It’s all right,” were his first words. “I felt my luck wouldn’t desert

me. Who do you suppose”—and he turned to Pilar, who had come on with

him—“was the first man I ran across? No other than Don Esteban Villaroya.”

Pilar looked a little frightened. “But he’s a friend of the Duke’s. Won’t

that make it awkward?”

“No; all the better. I told him Cristóbal and my daughter and I had

motored from Burgos with an American friend, an important writer for the

papers, who was going to pay us a visit. Not an untrue word to trouble my

confessor with. Don Esteban may or may not mention our meeting to Carmona

when he dines with him this evening.”

“Dines with him? Oh, I hope that won’t make mischief.”

“It won’t. Carmona arrived late last night, with his mother and guests. It

seems preparations have been going on in the house for the past fortnight;

and the first thing Carmona and his mother did was to send out half a

dozen invitations for dinner this evening. Afterwards, he managed,

probably through royal influence, to get permission from the Governor to

take the party into the Alcázar by moonlight, and he’s going to have

coloured illuminations, music, and Spanish dances given by professionals

in the costumes of different provinces. A grand idea, Don Esteban thinks.”

“But why is he doing it?” asked Pilar, thoughtfully. “María purísima! It

isn’t as if he were an impulsive or hospitable man, fond of getting up

impromptu entertainments. This is done in a hurry. What can be his object?

for he always has an object.”

“To amuse Lady Monica, who’s not pleased with him so far,” explained the

Cherub. “And as he’s a good Catholic, at least in appearance, to-night or

the night after will be his last chance to entertain till _Semana Santa_

is over.”

“Somehow, I don’t feel that’s reason enough,” said Pilar, looking so

troubled that I felt new stirrings of anxiety, and must have shown it; for

Pilar exclaimed that she was a “little beast” to worry me.

“You haven’t worried me,” I protested. “Still, I think I’ll go to that

entertainment at the Alcázar.”

Pilar and her father stared. “I see what you mean,” said the girl. “You

hope to walk in and meet Lady Monica. But you can’t, because the Alcázar’s

closed to the public after sunset. It will only be open for the Duke as a

favour, because he’s rich and important, and care will be taken that no

outsider slips in.”

“If there should be one more guitarist than he hired, do you think it

would be noticed?” I asked, smiling.

Pilar clapped her hands. “You’re a true lover, Don Ramón,” she exclaimed.

“_Ay de mi!_ Nobody will ever love a little dark thing like myself, as

Lady Monica is loved. I must be satisfied with the affections of my

relations, and a few others, I suppose.” Great eyes lifted sadly

ceiling-ward as she spoke, then cast down with distracting play of long

curled lashes. Spanish after all to her finger-tips, this María del Pilar

Inés, despite her Irish quickness. Poor Dick!

“You believe I could manage it, then?”

“I believe you _will_. Señor Waring has told me about the masked ball, and

how you played Romeo to somebody’s Juliet.”

“The difficulty will be to get hold of the _impresario_.”

Pilar looked at her watch. “They’ll know at the Alcázar who’s been

engaged. There’s an hour and a half yet before closing time.”

“What if you and I take a stroll through?” suggested Dick.

“We’ll all take a stroll through,” said Pilar, “and papa shall find out.

You know, he can always make everybody tell him anything in five minutes.

Even Cristóbal and I have never been able to keep a secret from him. If

I’d planned to elope, he would only have to whisper and smile, for me to

tell all, even if it meant my going into a convent directly after.”

“Yes, we must go to the Alcázar now, or it will be too late,” said the

Cherub, with an indulgent twinkle at his spoiled daughter.

The car took us to the gate of the Alcázar, a gate of that unsuggestive

Moorish simplicity which purposely hid all splendours of decoration from

any save favoured eyes. The guardian knew and evidently respected Colonel

O’Donnel; but with apologies which comprehended the whole party, he

regretted that he could not let us in. The King was to arrive in a few

days, returning from his yachting trip to the Canaries, and would live in

the Alcázar which was being got ready for him. From now until the day

after his departure, the Alcázar was to be closed to the public.

This was just, and as it should be, admitted the Cherub; but we were not

the public. We were special ones, even as special as the Duke of Carmona

who would entertain his friends there that evening. Surely the guardian

must know that the O’Donnel family was on terms of friendship with the

Governor of the Alcázar, who would suffer severe pains of the heart if he

heard that such visitors had been turned away. Thus the good Cherub

continued to whisper. And whether or no coin changed hands I cannot tell;

but certain it is that in less than the five minutes allowed by Pilar for

the working of her father’s fascinations, we were inside the forbidden

precincts, accompanied by a lamb-like attendant.

It was from him that we must learn what we wished to know; but it would be

unwise to betray a premature thirst for information on any subject save

the history or beauties of the Alcázar. Asking a question now and then of

our guide, we wandered from _patio_ to _patio_, from room to room of that

wonderful royal dwelling once called “the house of Cæsar.” Many a rude

shock and vicissitude had it sustained when Goths fought for it with

Romans, when Moors seized it from Christians, when Christians won it back,

and conducted themselves within its jewelled walls in ways unworthy of

their faith and boasted chivalry, yet the beauties which Pedro the Cruel

restored in admiring imitation of the Alhambra, glowed still with undimmed

splendour, in the sunshine of this twentieth century afternoon.

If I had not been preoccupied by my own private and extremely modern

anxieties, I should have let imagination work the spell it longed to work,

and make of me some humble character gliding shadow-like, but ever

observant, through tale after tale of the “Arabian Nights.” In just such a

palace as this had the Seven Calenders lost each an eye; behind any one of

these fretted arches might one come upon a king, half man, half jet-black

marble. The most captious of genies could have found no fault with the

Hall of the Ambassadors save the absence of the roc’s egg; and despite my

impatience the storied enchantment of the place soon had me in its grip.

Scheherezade, I said to myself, could have invented no tales to surpass in

thrilling interest the scenes which had been enacted here. The drama of

widowed Egilona and her handsome Moorish prince, ruined by her love; the

tragedy of Abu Said, done to death by Pedro for the sake of his “fair

ruby, great as a racket ball,” and the store of gems for which men still

search secretly in hidden nooks of the Alcázar; the murder of the young

Master of Santiago, who came to Pedro as an honoured guest; the love story

of Maria de Padilla, whose spirit, the guardian whispered, could be seen

to this day flitting in moonlight and shadow along her favourite garden

walks, or trailing white robes through rooms which had been hers.

“Perhaps, as the moon is full, Maria will appear to-night in the garden to

the Duke of Carmona and his guests,” said Pilar; and I knew from this

preface that our probation was at an end.

The attendant laughed. “Perhaps,” he replied; “but I think there will be

too much noise to please her. The Duke has engaged a troupe of dancers and

guitarists to entertain his friends.”

“No doubt King Don Pedro used to amuse his in the same way,” remarked the

Cherub, “employing the forerunners of Ramiro Olivero and his school

maybe.”

“It is Ramiro Olivero who performs to-night,” said the attendant, playing

into our hands.

“Of course! He is the favoured one in such affairs,” assented the Cherub.

“It ought to be a pretty entertainment, and interesting to the Duke’s

English guests. It will be somewhere in the gardens?”

“In the lower garden of the Moorish kiosk,” was the unsuspecting reply.

Pilar looked at me, and her eyes said, “The key you wanted is in your

hand.”

XXVII

MOONLIGHT IN THE GARDEN

When the Cherub dies and is gathered to his Irish and Spanish fathers (far

distant be the day!) he will not know a happy moment in Paradise unless he

is doing something ingenuously kind for somebody. It is my conviction that

he will have to be made a guardian angel; and I mentioned this theory to

him as he took me to the house of Ramiro Olivero, ex-bull-fighter, present

professor of Spanish dancing.

The others were waiting in the car, as, according to the Cherub’s plan of

campaign, he and I were to visit Olivero alone.

We climbed many stairs to the flat where the celebrated man lives and

conducts his school for dancing. He it was who came to the door, and it

was a sight worth seeing to watch his somewhat hard, middle-aged features

relax in response to cherubic murmurings.

Colonel O’Donnel remembered Señor Olivero since the time when he was a

_banderillero_; oh, incomparably the most brilliant _banderillero_ of his

day. Then, afterwards, what triumphs as a _torero_! Ah, that was something

for an old admirer to remember. Not to regret, naturally, since the señor

was as great an artist in his present profession as in that other

doubtless sacrificed to family affections.

This gentleman whom he (Colonel O’Donnel) now ventured to introduce was

from England, travelling with a friend from the States who wrote articles

on Spain for well-known journals. The American could speak no Spanish, but

with the gentleman from England it was like the native tongue. Therefore

it was he who most often attended important ceremonies, and made notes for

his friend to work up into articles. This entertainment in which Señor

Olivero was assisting the Duke of Carmona, for instance; it would be all

that was characteristic of Spain, as well as beautiful. If the señor would

allow the gentleman from England to enter the Alcázar as one of his

guitarists, an article could be made for the great American newspapers

which would not only be a credit to the journalist, but would widely

advertise the skill of Señor Olivero and his pupils.

If every man has his price, it was not derogatory to his merits that these

pearls of flattery should be the price which bought Olivero. Not a penny

was to be paid for the favour. When the word “money” was hinted, rather

than spoken, the ex-hero of the bull-ring waved it away with a superb

gesture. But he would be glad to see the articles when they appeared; and

this was promised, for Dick must write them for the neglected papers he

was supposed to represent.

In return for the promise (and the compliments), it was arranged that I

should present myself at his house about ten o’clock (the dance was timed

to begin at 10.45), there dress for my part, and be furnished with a

guitar. Once inside the Alcázar I need not play upon the instrument; but,

said Olivero, it was well that I should be able to do so if called upon.

My costume was to be a short _chulo_ jacket and tight-hipped, loose-legged

grey trousers, with a low-collared, unstarched shirt, and a broad-brimmed

grey sombrero de Cordoba. With this hat, well tipped over my eyes, in

moonlight or even spasmodic rose-and-gold bursts of coloured fire,

recognition would be impossible at a distance; and I meant to keep at a

distance from all the Duke’s party—with one exception.

By the time the plan was mapped out, it was nearly seven o’clock, but the

O’Donnels still urged me to dine at the Cortijo de Santa Rufina. The

Gloria would eat up the six miles distance in ten minutes; I could bathe

and dress before 8.15, when dinner would be ready (a telegram had been

sent to the servants from Cordoba), and rested and refreshed, I could

start for Seville in the car again at half-past nine.

So we flashed out across the Guadalquivir, by way of the bridge of Isabel

Segunda, into that strange suburb which gave Trajan birth, and my family

their name; ancient Trajana, now Triana, town of potters, picadores, and

gypsies.

Dark-browed boys played _toreros_ to our car as bull, their coats

_muletas_, sticks their _banderillas_, yelling and springing lithely aside

as the enemy rushed on them. Girls, handsome as Carmen, flung us flowers,

staring boldly eye to eye; and this was my welcome to the place near which

the Casa Trianas had once lived and thought themselves great!

Almost could I have seen the towers of the old house—now the property of

the King—as we passed into open country again; but I did not speak, nor

did the others, though the thought in my mind must have been in Pilar’s

and Colonel O’Donnel’s.

Five miles more, through falling dusk and sweet country scents and we

turned off the main road into another, gleaming white as a path of snow in

the opal twilight. Then, in a wide-reaching plantation of olives, spraying

silver on a ruddy soil where glimmered irrigation tanks and grinding

mills, we came upon a large, irregular clump of white buildings grouped

together, and made one by a high wall with an open belfry at one corner.

“Here we are at home!” exclaimed the Cherub with a contented sigh, as he

gently touched Ropes’ shoulder. “Welcome, dear friends, to the Cortijo de

Santa Rufina. It, and all within its walls, is at your disposition.”

We drove in through a wide gate in the outer wall, where there was a

clamour of greeting from the steward, many servants, and more dogs, dogs

of all races, who selected Pilar for their wildest demonstrations. In a

second she was out of the car, and half drowned in a wave of tumultuous

doghood. Laughing, shaking hands with the servants, patting or suppressing

greyhounds, collies, setters, retrievers, she had never seemed so

charming. This was the _real_ Pilar—Pilar at home; the Pilar it would be

next to impossible to uproot from such associations. Again, poor Dick! And

now he no longer tried to hide the loving admiration in his eyes. I think

he would even have done his best to fondle a wild bull or two of her

acquaintance had they been among the friends who gave her welcome.

Away boomed the Gloria to the stables—the sole garage at the Cortijo—while

we were bidden through the Moorish entrance-porch and wrought-iron

_cancela_ into a _patio_ surrounded on all sides by an arcade, roofed with

green and brown tiling. The supporting pillars were of pale pink brick,

not marble, and the pavement was of brick also, interset with a pattern of

small blue tiles. But the tiles were old and good; from a carved stone

basin in the middle of the court sprang the tall crystal stem of a

fountain, blossoming into diamonds; pearly arum lilies, pink azaleas, and

pale green hydrangeas bloomed in huge white and blue and yellow pots from

Triana, of the same beautiful shapes made before Santa Justa and Santa

Rufina knew they were saints, and undertook to keep the Giralda from

falling.

The windows leading into the rooms surrounding the _patio_ were large as

doors, and all were hospitably open, giving through thin curtains glimpses

of old furniture carefully grouped to please a woman’s dainty taste. Pilar

again—always Pilar! Here were her _lares_ and _penates_; and she was a

goddess among lesser household gods. I knew that it would be safer for

Dick to say a hasty good-bye upon the threshold; but I knew also that no

power on earth could force him to do it.

“This is only a farm, you know,” said the girl, meekly, all the while

dimpling with pride in her home and what she had made it; “for we are only

farmers, aren’t we, Papa.”

Our rooms—Dick’s and mine—were not overstocked with furniture; but there

were two or three things for which an antiquary would have pawned his

soul. On one side, our windows looked upon the _patio_; on the other, we

gazed through iron bars over olives and meadows where grain was green.

There was no sound save the tinkling rain of the fountain, and now and

then the sleepy note of a bird, or a far-away lowing of cattle—perhaps the

welcoming bellow of Vivillo, the brown bull which was the sole possession

of Carmona coveted by Pilar.

The two servants who waited at dinner were wreathed in smiles at seeing

again their master and mistress; and their occasional furtive glances of

interest in my direction made me wonder if they had not received

mysterious instructions as to how they must answer any questions

concerning me. But, whatever those instructions might be, I was sure they

would be loyally carried out; for the Cherub is a man servants would obey

through torture until death, if these days were as the old.

At half-past nine Ropes was ready to spin me back into Seville. We arrived

earlier than need be; and having made an appointment to meet at a quiet

hotel, where Ropes would await me from half-past eleven till half-past

twelve, I decided to walk past Carmona’s house and reconnoitre.

I knew where to find it, in the Calle de las Dueñas; but if I had hoped

for a tell-tale glimpse within, as in a London or Parisian mansion, I was

disappointed. Once a Moorish palace, it showed a closed, secretive front

to the narrow street. But I knew, for I had read, that within there were

six courtyards, ninety marble pillars, half a dozen fountains, a garden of

orange and magnolia trees, with myrtle hedges clipped to represent the

ducal arms; that there were vast treasures of statuary, pictures by

Velasquez, Murillo, and Alonso Cano; gold-inlaid plate armour; tapestry

from the Netherlands not to be surpassed at the Royal Palace at Madrid.

I knew that these splendours would loom large in the eyes of Lady

Vale-Avon, and might count for something even with Monica, who confessed

to a love of all things beautiful. I thought of the famous Carmona jewels,

which would belong to the wife of the Duke, while she lived, as they had

belonged to generations of Duchesses. Above all, I thought of the

incomparable Blanca Laguna pearl and its glistening maids of honour,

which, by this time perhaps, had been shown to Monica. There were few

girls in Spain, or in the world, I remembered hearing my mother say, who

could resist that pearl as a bride. And now it was offered to Monica, a

penniless girl of eighteen, whose beauty formed her sole dowry.

There, behind the cold reserve of those white walls with the shut,

brass-studded doors and barred windows, she was being fêted by the Duke,

dining on gold plate, in a tapestried room fragrant with orange flowers. I

could see the pictures. I could see the look in Carmona’s eyes as they

turned to her, saying, “all this is yours if you will have it.” And

Carmona’s eyes were handsome eyes; I had to admit that, in justice.

Would she hold true to me—true to a man with no palaces, no lands, no

priceless pearls, and only half as many hundreds a year as her other lover

had thousands? Would she be able to resist her mother, now that mother had

seen with her own eyes how much there was to fight for and to win?

The question would come. But with it came a vision of Monica herself, pure

and sweet as beautiful, loyal and loving as she was lovely. And I said to

myself, “Yes, she will be true.”

It was with the clear ringing of these words in my mind that I turned my

back upon the house of Carmona.

Once I had passed into the Alcázar with Olivero’s band of dancers and

guitarists I was free to do as I pleased. And I pleased to escape from my

laughing, chattering companions before the arrival of the Duke and his

guests, and the illuminations in their honour. There was no better place

to wait and watch for the opportunity I wanted, than in the mock-Moorish

kiosk at the end of the lower garden. From there I could see without being

seen; and the moment a chance came I should be ready to take it.

It was early still, but Olivero lost no time in marshalling his little

army into place, that they might make a good effect as a _tableau vivant_

when the great people came. He seated his six men with guitars, their

sombreros at precisely the right angle on their glossy black heads, and in

a row of chairs in front six young women in black dresses with black lace

mantillas, the red and yellow ribbons of their castanets already in their

hands. Then, at intervals, he grouped the dancers, youths, and pretty

girls, carefully dressed in the costumes of different provinces, making a

bouquet of bright colours in the light of a few concealed lamps which

supplemented the silver radiance of the moon, now almost at the zenith.

The minutes passed. The dancers talked in subdued tones which scarcely

disturbed the nightingales. A breeze rustled the crisp leaves of the

orange trees and myrtle hedges; far away the voice of the watchman told

the hour of eleven, echoed by the chiming bells of a church clock; and the

last stroke had not sounded when there was a burst of merry voices in a

distant avenue. Carmona and his friends had come—late, of course—or there

could have been no Andalucíans among them; and suddenly, as if on a

signal, the gardens pulsed with rose-coloured light. In the pink blaze I

saw Monica, slender and fair as a lily, in a white dress sparkling with

silver; but I had only time to see that she walked beside Carmona, when

the rose flame died down and left the garden pure and peaceful under the

moon.

For an instant the soft light seemed darkness, and I lost the white

figure. When it sprang to my eyes again in a sharp emerald flash, while

all the hidden fountains in the garden walks spouted jewels, others were

grouped round it; only the gold crown of rippling hair shone out clear as

a star for me among other women’s dark coils and braids.

Old ebony chairs with crimson velvet cushions and the Carmona arms in

heavy gilding, had been sent to the Alcázar from the Duke’s house, for the

entertainment. The party sat down, and the dancing began, to the

_flamenco_ music of guitars and the clacking of castanets; the _fandango_,

the _bolero_, the _malagueña_, the _chaquera vella_; all the classical

dances of old Spain, and each one a variant on the theme of love, the

woman coy, coquettishly retreating; the man persuading or demanding, the

woman yielding in passionate abandonment at last.

In the midst of a _sevillana_ I came out from the shadows of the kiosk and

walked without a sound of rattling pebble or cracking twig, along a path

which the moon had not yet found.

The high backs of the ebony chairs were turned to me. I could not even see

the heads of the people who sat in them; but I had watched them take their

places, and I knew that Monica’s chair was the outside one on the end, at

the right.

Everyone was absorbed in watching the dance. As it approached its

tempestuous climax of joy and love, I moved into the deep shadow of a

magnolia tree, close to Monica—so close that, reaching out from behind the

round trunk which screened me, I touched her hand.

With a start, she glanced up, expecting perhaps to find that the breeze

had blown a rose-branch across her fingers. Instead, she saw my face; for

I had taken off the wide-brimmed grey sombrero and bared my head to her.

For a second she looked straight into my eyes, as if she doubted that she

saw aright. Then, an unbelievable thing happened. Her eyes grew cold as

glass. Her lips tightened into a line which I had not dreamed their soft

curves could take. Her youth and beauty froze under my gaze. With a

haughty lifting of her brows, and an indescribable movement of her

shoulder which could mean nothing but scornful indifference, she turned

away as if impatient at having lost a gesture of the dancers.

Astounded, I stepped back; and so vast was the chasm of my amazement that

I floundered in it bewildered, unable even to suffer.

Then came a pang of such pain and anger as I had never known—anger not

against the girl, but against Carmona; and the knife which pierced me was

dipped in the poison of jealously. My impulse was to leap out from the

shadow and strangle him. My hands tingled for his neck, and through the

drumming of the blood in my ears I could hear the crack his spine would

make as I twisted it. For that instant I was a madman. Then, something

that was myself conquered.

Horror of the savage thing just born in me overflowed in an icy flood that

swept it, drowning, out of my soul. But never again, so long as I may

live, shall I condemn a man who kills another in one blind moment of rage.

Even when the red glaze was gone from before my eyes, I could not trust

myself to stand there, looking at Carmona as he smiled and patronized the

dancers by clapping his hands. I turned away, not stopping until I had

regained the kiosk.

There I sat down, elbows on knees, head in my hands, trying to analyse

that look on Monica’s face, trying to tell myself that I must have

mis-read it—that such an expression as I imagined could not have been

there for me.

Perhaps, as I suddenly appeared behind a veil of flickering moonlight and

shadow she had not known who I was. She had mistaken me for some

impertinent stranger, and rather than give an alarm, she had hoped that a

frown might rid her of the intruder. Then, I had gone without giving her a

second chance to recognize me.

After a few minutes of such reflections, I almost persuaded myself that I

had been a fool and was wholly to blame for what I suffered. At least, I

said, I owed it to her to make sure that the look had been for me, and the

suspense must end to-night. I would know, even if I made her answer me

under the eyes of Carmona and the others.

But a moment later I saw that I need not be driven to such extremes.

The first part of the dance was over; the Duke and his guests were walking

through the gardens in the interval. They were coming my way—coming to the

kiosk. As they advanced, I retreated into shadow. I let the group linger

at the kiosk, admiring the beautiful _azulejos_; I let them move on; then,

as Monica loitered purposely behind the others, drooping and evidently

sad, I put myself in front of her.

“Monica,” I said, “what has happened? You—”

The girl flung up her head, and though there was a glitter of tears in her

eyes and her face was white under the moon, she stared defiance. “Don’t

speak to me,” she said. “I never wish to see you again. I’m going to marry

the Duke of Carmona.”

XXVIII

LET YOUR HEART SPEAK

Men do not kill themselves for such things. Fools, or cowards, or children

may; but not men who are worthy the name. Yet there was no joy of life

left in me, as I went out of the Alcázar garden, having had my answer.

Love cannot die in an hour, and I loved Monica still, though I said that

she was not the girl to whom I had dedicated my soul in worship.

She had let me follow her, only to say at last: “I never wish to see you

again. I’m going to marry the Duke of Carmona.”

After all, she had proved herself a docile daughter. She had seen what the

house of a grandee of Spain can be like. She had seen the Blanca Laguna

pearl. Poor child of eighteen years, brought up to know poverty and to

loathe it; was I to let my love turn to hate because she was not an angel,

but a woman like others?

A despairing pity and a sense of hopeless loss weighed upon my spirit with

such heaviness as I had never known. Not only had I lost the girl I loved,

but there was no such girl; she was a dream, and I had waked up. That was

all; but it seemed the end of everything.

My errand in Spain was finished, or rather broken short. She did not want

me any more. The sooner I took myself out of her life and let her forget

what must now seem childish folly, the better. I might have known—she was

so young; and she had warned me of disaster when she said, “Don’t leave me

alone.”

I went to Olivero’s flat and changed my clothes; then to the hotel where

Ropes and the car were waiting. For the first time since we had come into

Spain, I drove, “like a demon,” Ropes’ surprised face said, though his

tongue was discreet; and the wild rush through the air was wine to thirsty

lips.

At the Cortijo de Santa Rufina they were all sitting in the _patio_ in

floods of moonlight, the great awning which gave shade by day, fully

rolled back.

“You see,” exclaimed Pilar, “we sat up for you. Well, how did it go off?”

I heard myself laughing. It did not feel a pleasant laugh, but I was glad

to think that it sounded like any other. “Oh, it went off exactly as I

might have expected,” I said, knowing that it was useless to hide my

humiliation, though I might hide my misery. “And consequently, my car and

I will also go off, to-morrow. As for Dick, he must do as he pleases; but

I advise him, now he’s here, to stay for the _Semana Santa_.”

“What do you mean?” asked Pilar, almost letting fall the guitar on which

she had been playing. “Has—has Lady Monica promised to go with

you—to-morrow?”

“Not at all,” said I. “But what she’s promised to another man makes it

better that I should go. She’s engaged to Carmona.”

“I don’t believe it,” cried Pilar.

“I shouldn’t, if anyone but herself had told me.”

“She said it?”

“In exactly those words. She said too, that she didn’t want to see me

again.”

“Oh—oh!” breathed Pilar. “Thank _Heaven_ for that. You frightened me

horribly—just for a moment.”

I stared. “And now—”

“Now I know there’s some mistake—dreadful, but not too dreadful to clear

up.”

I laughed again, as bitterly as I felt this time. “Extraordinary idea!

Because she says she doesn’t want to see me, there’s a mistake—”

“Of course. Surely you aren’t so cold-hearted, so disloyal, so—so _stupid_

as to believe her? But tell me instantly all about it—everything; every

word; every look.”

“Easily done,” I said, “if it won’t bore you all. There were very few of

either; but what there were left nothing to the imagination.”

“Imagination indeed!” exclaimed Pilar. “But go on.”

So I went on, and she listened to the end without interruption, as did the

two others, who were only men, and therefore had no comments to make upon

such matters.

As I told the wretched story in as few and as bald words as possible,

Pilar sat grave-eyed, tense-lipped as Portia in the Court of Justice

before her turn to plead. When I finished she was silent for a moment, I

thought because, after all, she found herself with nothing to say. But,

when her father in his compassion would have begun some murmur of

consolation, she broke out quickly, “I suppose she _is_ engaged to the

Duke, or she wouldn’t have said so.”

“Not much doubt of that,” I assented.

“Nor _any_ doubt of her real feelings. Poor little girl, I know she’s

wishing she could die to-night. Those _devils!_ Yes, I _will_ say it,

Papa. I shall be forgiven, for they _are_. They’ve told her some hateful

lie, and made her so desperate she was ready to do anything. Why, it’s

just come to me; there’s only one thing that would make a girl who loves a

man do what she’s done.”

“What?” I broke in, breathless; for Pilar’s fire had flamed into my blood

now, and I waited for her answer as a man waits for an antidote to poison.

“Believing he’s in love with someone else.”

“How could she believe that? Who is there—” I stopped. My eyes met

Pilar’s, and she blushed, stammering as she hurried bravely on. “The

greatest nonsense, of course. But—but—_oh_, don’t you remember how she

looked that evening at Manzanares when we saw her last? So wistful, as if

there were something on her mind she mustn’t tell? I caught her looking at

me once or twice as if she were wondering—they must have begun, even then,

to upset her mind, poor, lonely child; but the worst hadn’t happened; she

was only a little doubtful. If you could have spoken to her, or if I—”

“I did write,” I said, “though I’ve always been afraid something went

wrong with that letter.”

“Ah!” Pilar caught at this, and would have the whole story with every

detail. I even found myself confessing my old presentiment, the fancy that

Monica was calling for me to help her.

“I believe she was, calling and praying. Of course she never got the

letter. What was in it? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“I said, a crisis seemed to be coming, and she must make up her mind to

let me take her away.”

“A splendid letter to fall into her mother’s hands. Did you sign your real

name?”

“No name at all. I wrote in a hurry, and—”

“That’s lucky. But even if you had, Lady Vale-Avon couldn’t have shown

such a letter to the Duke, he’s too Spanish—too Moorish, I ought to say.

She wouldn’t have dared, as she wants him for a son-in-law.”

“That occurred to me.”

“But there aren’t many other things she wouldn’t dare, to get rid of such

a danger as you. If she got the letter—and I’m sure she did—there was your

handwriting at her mercy. Supposing she—”

“I know what’s in your mind. But I don’t think such things are done—out of

novels.”

“Oh, aren’t they; when people are clever enough? I know of one case

myself. And the girl’s life was spoiled. Lady Monica’s shan’t be though,

if I can help it.”

“You’re taking a great deal for granted,” I said. But I felt as if the

radiance of heaven were pouring down upon me, instead of the pensive

moonlight.

“Doesn’t your heart tell you I’m right?” cried Pilar.

“Yes!” I answered. “Yes, you good angel, it does.”

XXIX

THE GARDEN OF FLAMING LILIES

The voice of some maid servant singing a _copla_ waked me early in the

morning, after an hour or two of sleep.

_El amor y la naranja_

_se parecen infinito;_

_Que por muy dulces que sean_

_de agrio tienen su poquito._(1)

Yes, always a little bitter, I said to myself. But if for me there were

after all to be some sweetness left?

Last night before parting, the Cherub, Dick and I had talked matters over

from every point of view. I was only too thankful to take the advice of

one girl on behalf of another, and give to Monica the benefit of that

doubt which at first had not seemed admissible. But even Pilar confessed

that Monica’s engagement to Carmona made our part a hundred times more

difficult.

Whatever her motive had been—revenge upon me for supposed disloyalty,

dread of her mother, or awakened ambition--she had in any case consented

to marry him, and Pilar suggested that the dinner invitations had been

sent out as an excuse for a public announcement, which would more firmly

bind her to her promise. The news would have flown all over Seville in

twenty-four hours; when the King arrived on Tuesday Carmona would

certainly lose no time in telling him; Lady Vale-Avon would not wait for

Monica to write to the Princess, but would probably wire; and no matter

what my private anxieties might be, for Monica’s sake I must do nothing

openly. As for defying Carmona to use his knowledge of my true name, and

challenging him to fight, that must not be thought of. Monica’s fair fame

would never survive such a scandal, especially in Spain, where a girl’s

reputation is as easily damaged as the down on a butterfly’s wing.

But, as the Cherub said, there are many roads which lead to the centre of

the world. He had learned at his club that the Duke had lent his box in

the tribune to a friend, for such processions as he and his household did

not care to see. That friend was a member of the club, and through him the

Cherub had found out that the box in question was next to the royal box

which would be occupied by the King, the Infanta Doña María Teresa, and

her husband. Immediately upon making this discovery, the Cherub had begun

to move heaven and earth to obtain a box for himself, either behind, in

front of, or on one side of Carmona’s box. He did not know yet if he

should succeed, for things were not done in a moment in Spain. Of course

all the boxes were already subscribed for the whole week by members of the

aristocracy and other persons of importance in Seville; but, then, the

Cherub had friends and acquaintances in every class. If it were a question

of money, money would not be spared; if it were a question of a favour for

a favour in return, that favour would be given. There was hope that the

thing might be arranged; and once Pilar came within speaking distance of

Monica, nothing short of sudden death could prevent her from telling the

girl the truth, vowing by all the saints that she had been deceived for

the one purpose of separating her from me. If Monica could be made to

believe that, she would have courage to be true in spite of all; and then

it would be for me to save her from keeping the engagement into which she

had been tricked.

As for my going to Carmona’s house and trying to see Monica, such a plan

appeared useless, as I should certainly not be allowed to come near her.

Therefore I must wait with such patience as I could, and let my friends

help me in the subtle ways favoured in Spain.

Now, Palm Sunday had dawned crystal clear; but Pilar had explained that

nobody occupied the boxes and chairs to see the procession of palms in the

morning; that, though it was pretty to see, it was not one of the great

sights; and, as one must be waiting early outside the cathedral, it was

unlikely that anyone from Carmona’s house would be there. Still there was

the chance, and I could not afford to miss it; so the O’Donnels offered to

go with me into Seville, Dick, of course, being of the party.

Consequently, every one at the Cortijo was astir by six; and before seven

Dick and I were in the _patio_, just in time to greet Pilar utterly

fascinating in a mantilla.

She was dressed as a Spanish woman of the upper class should be dressed on

Palm Sunday; and though the tight-fitting, rich black brocade silk which

she wore would, in any other country, have seemed a costume not for young

girlhood but for middle age, it suited her wonderfully. Her clear-skinned,

heart-shaped face, with its great soft eyes and red lips, was beautiful in

the cloudy frame of black lace; and her piled hair, of so dark a brown as

to appear black, except when the sunlight burnished threads of gold in its

masses, looked ruddy as the leaves of a copper-beech gleaming through the

figured lace.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dick, jumping to his feet when he saw her. No more

than that; but Pilar was woman enough to understand the value of the

compliment; and she smiled, patting the flounce of her mantilla into still

more graceful folds on her breast.

“You think me nice like this?” she asked. “I’m proud of my mantilla, you

know. It came to me from my great-grandmother, as all the best ones do

come to Spanish girls; and I’ve two lovely white mantillas which I wear on

great feast days when I want to be very beautiful.”

“At bull-fights?” asked Dick, his eyes adoring her in a way he would have

laughed at in any other man only a few weeks ago.

“I don’t go to bull-fights,” said Pilar. “I love the poor bulls and horses

so much, it would make me sad to see them die. Though, if I were a bull, I

would myself choose a brave death in the arena, after a life of five

glorious years, rather than the slaughter-house, or a weary existence of

labour till old age or overstrain finished me. But I drive in the _paseo_

on the bull-fight days, and for the _feria_. _Ay de mi!_ A girl in Spain

has few other chances to make herself pretty for the world to see, unless

she lives in Madrid; and if it were not for the bull-fights, I suppose

many girls would never get husbands. But, Our Lady be thanked, I do not

have to look for one.”

Did she mean that there was any understanding with Don Cipriano?

I knew this was the thought which flashed through Dick’s mind. And if

Pilar had been desirable in motoring days, she was irresistible at home.

Before eight o’clock the Gloria was at the gates, and twenty minutes later

we were on foot in the street of the Gran Capitán, mingling with the crowd

who waited for the first procession of _Semana Santa_ to pour out from the

cathedral doors. But the crowd was not a dense one, and the face I hoped

to see was not there. “It will be a long time before anything happens,”

said the Cherub. “Here, when a thing should be at eight, it is at nine, or

maybe half-past. What does a little time matter? But mass is being said.

Who knows that the old Duchess may not have had a religious fit, and come

to hear it, bringing her friends?”

No more was needed to make me anxious to go in; and we entered the

cathedral, which is, to my mind, the most beautiful, inspiring, and poetic

in the world.

The two O’Donnels flitted away in the dusk, mysterious as the twilight of

the gods, and we guessed that they were going to hear mass. Soon they

found us again. They had not seen those for whom we searched; but the

procession was starting.

We made haste out before it, and none too soon, for it billowed forth

after us in a glitter of gold and purple vestments, and tall, bleached

palm-branches like beams of moonlight streaming against the blue of the

morning sky.

“They’re not here,” said Pilar, when the last gleaming crucifix and waving

palm, blessed by the bishop, had disappeared. “I was sure they wouldn’t

come. And—it does seem hard to disappoint you—but I’m afraid they won’t be

in their box this afternoon. Oh, we shall go, of course! But that will be

the time for the Duke to lend the Conde de Ambulato his box. Thursday will

be the great day, when the King will be in the royal box, and will walk

with his _cofradia_ of the cigarette-makers before Our Lady of Victory.

You know how anxious the Duke is to win back the favour of the royal

family; and he’ll hardly think it worth while to sit through the hours of

a procession unless he can be next door to the King, with a chance of an

invitation to his box.”

This was discouraging; still, I determined to be in the crowd during the

afternoon; and I knew well that, though the splendid show of _Semana

Santa_ was an old story to the O’Donnels, they would not fail me for a

moment.

Dick shamefacedly bought from one of many vendors an armful of blessed

palms for Pilar to tie under the house windows, as a protection against

the rage of thunder-storms throughout the coming year; and we drove to the

country with the great glistening fronds blowing behind the motor-car like

giant plumes.

I spent hours writing, tearing up, and rewriting a letter to Monica which

Pilar was to try and deliver if she could, and when she could. We lunched

and did our best to make careless conversation, as if we were not anxious

and excited—Dick and I for our own selfish reasons; the two others in

sympathy. We talked of Seville, past and present—once “Sultana of the

South,” still beautiful and gay, though her reign is over. “We are very

happy even now, among ourselves, we Sevillanos,” said the Cherub. “You

should see a _tertulia_, if you want to know how families can enjoy

themselves together. But there’s another side of the picture, too. English

and American people—there are a few—accuse us of being unsociable. They

say we never give invitations to luncheons and dinners as people of other

countries do; that a few calls are exchanged, and that is all, in an

intercourse, it may be, of many years.”

“Oh, I know what they say!” laughed Pilar. “I heard an American girl give

a friend of hers a description of families she knew in Seville. ‘You go to

call,’ said she; ‘and if the ladies are at home (they won’t be if they can

help it), you’re shown into a shut-up drawing-room smelling of mustiness.

In front of the fireplace, if there is any, or else the brazier-table, a

hard yellow or red satin sofa is drawn up, an armchair on each side. All

the rest of the furniture’s ranged in a straight row round the wall. It’s

in the afternoon, but you wait till the ladies dress, because if they’re

in they’re sure to be in wrappers, unless it’s so late that their carriage

is ready for the _paseo_. After you’re nearly gone to sleep, they come,

and you talk of any uninteresting things they can think of; never

interesting ones, because they’re kept for intimate friends’ gossip; and

the girls simper and stare as if you were a curiosity, because you’re

allowed to walk in the street without a maid.’ That’s being ‘sociable’ in

Seville, according to the American girl; and I’m afraid that she’s right

from a foreigner’s point of view.”

All this, to amuse us; but unfortunately it was far from amusing to Dick.

He sat looking introspective, and wondering no doubt, if Pilar meant to

hint that, so far as the door of her heart was concerned, foreigners might

save themselves the trouble of knocking.

Seeing him taciturn, as hostess she felt it her duty to console him, so

when luncheon was over an invitation to go and visit Vivillo, the beloved

bull, was delivered to all, with an especially beguiling look at Dick. He

accepted with suspicious alacrity, and to please her I said yes; while the

Cherub, who was evidently longing for a siesta, shrugged his shoulders

dutifully. It seemed that we could see the pasture which was Vivillo’s

drawing-room without trespassing upon Carmona’s land, on which I should

have been loth to set my foot, even for Pilar; but when, after twenty

minutes’ walk across meadows, we arrived at the hedge which divided the

Duke’s _ganaderia_ from Colonel O’Donnel’s farm, Dick would not be

satisfied with a distant inspection of the grazing bulls. Pilar (denuded

of her mantilla, but still in the black brocade, ready for the afternoon

in Seville) was going to pay a friendly call upon her darling, and Dick

was resolved upon an introduction.

Pilar cried gaily to a herdsman visible in the distance, and joyously

obedient to the girl’s evidently familiar voice, the young fellow came

running towards us, _garrocha_ in hand. Between him and the hedge which

separated the two properties, was a deep ditch which no bull, save in a

state of fury, would care to jump. But not far away a long plank lay half

hidden in rich grass, and the _ganadero_ dragged it nearer, without a

question, as if he knew already what was expected of him. Having pushed it

across the ditch, to form a bridge at the spot where the hedge was

thinnest, he took off his hat, and welcomed the gracious señor and

señorita home. Vivillo, said he, was well, but would be the better for a

sight of the señorita, who was the one human being he had seemed to love

since the day of the _tienta_ which had proved him brave.

Yes, there he was—the “lively one,” well named indeed!—grazing for the

moment off there to the south-east. Could not the señorita see his brown

back among the grey and black ones, farthest away? But she had only to

call. Vivillo knew her voice and would answer to it as to no other. It was

really a marvel. And was it true that she had begun negotiating for his

purchase? Ah, it was a pity that such a _toro bravo_ would not have his

chance to fight in some splendid _corrida_, where the noblest bulls of

Spain must meet the most skilled of the _espadas_. He—Mateo—had often

thought what a grand spectacle it would be to see Fuentes and Vivillo

together. But—well, better waste the best bull that ever grazed on these

pastures, and please the señorita. For her interests it was a good thing

that the Señor Duque seldom or never troubled to come and see _los toros_,

for if his eye once lit upon Vivillo he would never part with him for any

money, except for the honour of the _corrida_.

“Then be sure you don’t let the Duke have a hint!” laughed Pilar, happy

and fearless as a boy, as she squeezed through the hedge and tripped

across the plank, followed by Dick.

“She is perfectly safe,” said the Cherub, in answer to an uneasy look from

me. “She’s as well known over there almost as the herdsmen who tend the

bulls from their birth; besides, she has some curious influence over

animals. I have never seen anything like it in another human being, though

I have read of such things. Since she was a child, I have no longer had

any fear for her over there; and Señor Waring is safe also, while he keeps

with her and Mateo, unless he were foolish enough to make some

demonstration. But for me, I am no friend of _los toros_ when they are at

home.”

Dick and Pilar were in Carmona’s pasture now, moving towards a troop of

grazing bulls, magnificent creatures whose terrible horns and silken hides

(branded with double circles under a crown) glittered in the sun. Scarcely

a head was tossed in honour of the new-comers; but as Pilar raised her

girlish voice to give a peculiar call, I saw a dark form in the distance

separate itself from a group. Then a brown, lean-flanked bull, nobly armed

with horns grand as the antlers of a stag, bounded away from his

companions, and rushed in so straight a line towards Pilar, that in spite

of the Cherub’s words, my heart was wrenched.

But I need not have feared. While the young herdsman and Dick stood by

passive and admiring, this _toro bravo_ of famous fighting breed reduced

his run to a canter, and trotted up to Pilar as tamely as if he had been a

belled _cabestro_.

The girl, opening a large knotted handkerchief which she had brought

filled with sweet biscuit, took a step or two forward to meet the bull.

Nestling against his huge head, powerful enough to bear up a horse and

rider impaled upon his horns, she calmly fed the great beast from her

store. Never could there have been a more beautiful picture since the day

when another bull submitted to the caresses of Europa.

Vivillo scarcely deigned to look at Dick, who made some bids for his

favour. All his chivalrous soul of _toro bravo_ was absorbed in pleasure

at Pilar’s return, gratitude for her remembrance of him. I would scarcely

have believed that it could be real, had I not seen it.

For ten minutes she stayed, Dick close at her side, always ignored by the

bull; then she returned and walked towards us, slowly, the herdsman

keeping near and Vivillo marching after in a resolute way which would have

turned grey the hair of a nervous man or woman.

But if Dick were conscious of his nerves in such an unusual situation, he

did not show it. His head was bent over Pilar’s, talking earnestly, and

though she never looked up at him in answer, once she broke out laughing,

so merrily, I wondered what he had said.

In our own meadow again, safely delivered from the bulls, Pilar slipped

instantly to her father’s side and began chattering about Vivillo, who

stood by the ditch looking wistfully after her as he chewed his last

biscuit. Dick and I were thus thrown together; and though Dick’s face is

no tell-tale, I guessed somehow that his mind was not as calm as his

features.

“I should think that might have been a little upsetting to an amateur,” I

said.

“Maybe,” answered Dick, absent-mindedly. “But it isn’t that, if I’m

looking queer. Say Ramón, I’ve done it.”

“What?”

“Proposed to a girl for the first time in my life. What’s more, I

grovelled. I called Vivillo a lamb, though at the moment he was looking

more like several dozen lions. I told her if she’d marry me, she could

have him and any other bulls sitting about on our hearthrug; that we’d

have a nice big one on purpose.”

“That ought to be an inducement—even from a heretic.”

“Oh, confound you, don’t harp on that. I’m mad about the girl. I know all

you’re suffering, and if I ever put on superior airs, I take them back and

swallow them.”

Even a man heartbroken would have had to grin; and Pilar had persuaded me

not to be heartbroken yet. If I laughed, I sympathized too, and liked Dick

better than ever because we were eating the same bitter-sweet orange of

which the voice had sung. It seemed that Pilar had neither accepted nor

refused him, but had asked for time to think; and he would have been a

little encouraged if she had not suddenly said, “Don Cipriano _loves_

bulls.”

At five o’clock we spun into Seville, with the car, for nobody knew at

what time the procession might begin; nobody ever did know, it appeared.

And Pilar was no longer merrily boyish, but feminine and seductive again

in her black mantilla.

The vast oblong of the Plaza de la Constitución was already humming with

the excitement of a moving crowd. The lane between chairs and tribune was

thronged with the poor of the town and peasants from the country, who

would have no seats and must press for places to see the procession; but

there was no ill-natured pushing, and gentlest care was taken not to crush

the toddling, star-eyed children who tumbled under people’s feet. Soldiers

laughed and edged their way past clinging groups of pretty girls. Civil

guards, looking as if they had stepped out of old pictures, strove to keep

order, their shouts lost among the cries which filled the air; cries of

water-sellers bearing big earthen vessels; cries of those who wheeled

cargoes of roasted peanuts in painted ships; cries of crab-sellers; cries

of shabby old men, and neat, white-capped boys, hawking fresh-fried

_calientes_, sugared cakes, and all kinds of _dulces_ on napkin-covered

trays.

English and American tourists in panamas wandered through the throng

searching for their numbered chairs; vendors of seats shouted reduced

prices; bareheaded women with brown babies in their arms offered

programmes of the week’s processions; tattered boys shrieked the daily

papers, and coloured post-cards; while from the balconies of private

houses ladies in black mantillas, children in white, and foreigners in gay

colours looked down upon the scene.

So passed an hour, while the boxes and best seats began to fill. Spanish

families of the middle class, men and women in black, took front seats of

the tribune, where the empty royal box made a brave splash of gold and

crimson; but more slowly came members of the aristocracy and officers in

blue and gold; and, jostled by the crowd, I waited in suspense.

Colonel O’Donnel had gone to his club for news of the box which, by

strategic means, he had been trying to get. Pilar and Dick had gone with

him, to remain in the car chaperoned by Ropes, until he should come out;

so that I had no means of learning whether the Cherub had triumphed or

failed. All I knew was, that a club acquaintance whose wife was ill, might

be induced to offer his box, close to the royalties, to a second

acquaintance in exchange for one directly behind that which the Duke of

Carmona had taken. If this could be arranged, the O’Donnels would be given

the latter, in exchange for—only the Cherub knew what. Borne back and

forth with the moving throng, like a leaf in an eddy, my eyes seldom

strayed for long from the tribune. Would the Carmona household come? Would

the O’Donnels be their neighbours?

At last I saw Pilar and the two men entering the tribune. Yes, they had

succeeded, I could tell from the Cherub’s description of the Duke’s box.

But Carmona’s was still empty.

The procession had not yet appeared, though the first _cofradia_ had been

due in the Plaza an hour ago, and twilight was falling over the vast

square, ethereally clear and pale. Only the figure of Faith on the soaring

Giralda, turned as if to watch the scene, still glittered in the sun; and

its dazzling brilliance had faded before a bugle note rang out, poignant

as a cry of bitter sorrow from a breaking heart.

This was the herald of a brotherhood with its sacred images; and the

police began to sweep the crowd before them out of the lane between the

chairs and tribune. Slowly the flock was forced along by the shepherd

dogs; and as the way cleared, forth from the dim tunnel of Las Sierpes

marched, with arms reversed, a squad of civil guards; then a company of

mounted soldiers, their bugles still wailing that sad warning of some

piteous spectacle to come.

The cavalry passed; it was but a modern preface to a mediæval poem which,

following closely, brought with it into the Plaza sad ghosts, grim ghosts,

sainted ghosts of long past days.

Headed by one of their number bearing aloft an exquisite crucifix, walked

a band of penitents carrying great lighted candles. Their white robes of

linen swept in long pointed trains over the cobbles, the silver buckles on

their black shoes glinting with each step; through the narrow slits in the

blue _capuchas_, whose conical peaks tapered far above the wearers’ heads,

their dark eyes burned with mysterious intensity. Two and two they moved,

noiseless as bats save for the tap of silver batons, making an avenue of

gliding stars, like will-o’-the-wisps, from the black mouth of Las Sierpes

across the length of the Plaza.

Then suddenly, in that dark, distant tunnel flashed something luminous,

something that moved, swung in air higher than the heads of men, something

that was like a great blazing casket of jewels or a cloud of fireflies.

It came on, halting, starting again, reaching the open square, and

revealing itself as an illuminated platform supporting a crucified Christ,

life size, with no detail spared of tragedy and torture.

One of those fine sculptures of painted wood, such as I had seen at

Valladolid, the sixteenth century artist had spent his soul in showing to

believers what Christ had suffered that they might be saved; and so

startling was the appeal of this terrible figure to the sympathies, that

for an instant I found myself forgetting everything except a wild desire

to rescue it.

As the _paso_, with its quivering silver lamps and strewn flowers, came

near to where I stood, I could see, beneath the long velvet curtains which

draped the platform, twenty pairs or more of slowly moving feet; and the

frequent pauses were accounted for.

I watched the heart-rending figure pass round the corner of the Plaza, out

of sight, swallows wheeling overhead as if once more to pluck the thorns

from that bleeding brow; and as it vanished, far away in the dusk of Las

Sierpes appeared another illumined mystery of clustering stars. Out from

darkness into hyacinth twilight it floated, a canopied platform of purple

velvet, crusted with silver and gold; under the glittering roof a virgin,

who seemed to stand praying in a garden of tall lilies, lit by a sacred

silver flame.

The crowding lilies, as the _paso_ came nearer, were only white, waxen

candles after all, but in their light the image of the Virgin gained a

womanliness and beauty extraordinary. Her gorgeous trailing robe of

gold-embroidered velvet, her under gown of satin scintillating with

diamonds, her blazing crown of jewels, the sparkling rings on her delicate

fingers, her necklaces, her bracelets, were such as the Mother of Christ

never dreamed of in her simple life; and half the watchers knew grinding

poverty, which a few of her gems might relieve.

That thought, I knew, would leap to many minds; but they would be the

minds of foreigners; and I, being Spanish, understood. I saw what this

procession of emblems meant to these people, rich and poor alike. They

were being reminded, in the realistic and dramatic way which appealed best

to their imaginations, of all Christ had suffered for them, of all the

mother-woman had endured. The gems, which to alien minds were incongruous,

crystallized their tears, their love, their gratitude; and Our Lady’s

jewels were the jewels of the poor—rich possessions which could not be

taken from them, joys for ever, objects of their highest pride.

Bending in gentle grief, the fair face bowed, the graceful figure passed

in fragrance of lilies, perfumed wax, and incense sending blue clouds from

silver censors swung by white-robed boys. With her, as she moved, went

music—our Lady’s own music, sad and beautiful as moonlight on a lonely

grave, cool as peace after hot pain.

Now the box in the tribune I had watched so long was filled with

strangers. Pilar had been right. Carmona had given his place to friends.

But with that soft, haunting music in my ears, sweet as remembered days of

joy, I could not fear anything. Somehow I was at peace, with good thoughts

in my mind and hope in my heart.

Brotherhoods in black, brotherhoods in purple, and _paso_ after _paso_

went by; Christus bending under the weight of the cross, Christus praying

among sleeping disciples in Gethsemane, Our Lady of the Rosary, Our Lady

of Tears, flaming rivers of light, suns rising out of purple clouds.

Night folded over the great square, with its crowd of people. No one had

gone away. Electric lights burst out and made the scene like the

auditorium of some vast theatre; but the stage and auditorium were one.

Then the full moon, yellow as honey, looked over the thronged roof-gardens

of tall houses opposite the tribune, and sailed high in heaven.

It was past nine o’clock when Colonel O’Donnel touched me on the shoulder.

“We saw you long ago,” he said. “You are so tall. Shall we go home to

dinner? But on Thursday you will have another chance.”

Thursday! and there were three days in between. I wished that he could

have left me in my dream of peace as long as it might last.

XXX

THE HAND UNDER THE CURTAINS

Like a dream the three days passed; but not a dream of peace, for that I

lost with the last echo of the Virgin music and the fragrance of her

lilies.

Dick thought himself miserable, but I would gladly have changed my state

of mind for his. Sometimes he hoped, sometimes he despaired, but at all

times he was really very happy, if only he had known it. He enjoyed

visiting the Murillos with Pilar and the Cherub when I had no heart to go.

He borrowed the motor to whisk them out to Italica. He went with the

O’Donnels late every afternoon for the drive in the fashionable _paseo_

along the river side, as pleased with the five handsome mules, in their

smart Spanish harness of white and crimson rope and brown leather, as if

they had been his own.

As for me, I would not go, although Dick urged that, in the never-ending

double line of fine carriages, we might meet the Duchess of Carmona’s. But

I did not dare to see Monica again after what had happened unless there

were some hope that Pilar could speak for me, or that I could speak for

myself. Still, I could not resist questioning the family in the evening.

Had they heard tidings of her? Had they seen her?

Presently there was news, but not good news. The engagement was known, and

was being talked of everywhere. The story was that the wedding would be

soon, as the Duchess was not strong, and professed herself anxious to see

her son married. Gossip said also that the marriage would be celebrated in

Madrid directly after the festivities of the royal wedding were over, so

that the young duchess, as the wife of a grandee of Spain, could become

lady-in-waiting to the bride-queen, when _los Reyes_ returned from their

honeymoon at La Granja.

The Cherub told me these things only because I insisted on hearing all;

and on Wednesday evening I dragged further details from Pilar. They had

passed the Duchess, Lady Vale-Avon, and Monica in the Carmona carriage,

the handsomest in Seville; and the Duke had been on horseback, looking

more attractive than Pilar had ever seen him in the _chulo_ costume, worn

at times as an amusing affectation by some young aristocrats of Andalucía.

I could picture him in the wide-brimmed grey sombrero, the tight short

jacket, and trousers fitting close as a glove until they widened below the

knee. Yes, the dress would suit him; and Pilar admitted reluctantly that

he was a perfect rider. I was horribly jealous, ready to fancy that, after

all, Monica had actually begun to care for him.

There had been a procession on Wednesday, but it was not an affair of

importance; and with Thursday, and the presence of the King, all the

greatest events of this _Semana Santa_ were to begin.

Early in the afternoon there was washing of poor men’s feet by the great

ecclesiastics in the cathedral, the King remaining at the Alcázar to

bathe—as Dick put it—a few carefully selected feet on his own account, as

a sign of humility. Later, would come the most splendid procession of the

week, the King walking with his own _cofradia_; in the evening, the

Miserere in the cathedral, and processions all night, till mass on Good

Friday morning. To myself I said, therefore, that I was to have two more

chances: the one for which I depended upon Pilar in the afternoon; the one

for which I depended on an inspiration of my own in the evening. For all

the world was going to hear the Miserere.

Though it was a week for penitence and fasting, Seville—honoured by the

King—thrilled with excitement. Thousands of strangers had poured into the

town for this day, and the crowds were three times as dense as on Sunday.

Though there had been disquieting rumours, whispers of anarchist plots and

bombs, the police had been alert; the King had taken a swift gunboat up

the Guadalquivir, instead of arriving by special train from Cadiz, had

reached Seville safely; and now anxiety was forgotten. All the town poured

into the Plaza de la Constitución more than an hour before there was any

hope that the procession might begin; and I was in the crowd.

The boxes filled earlier than before, many of the ladies no longer in

black, but wearing Paris hats and pale-tinted dresses, though to-morrow

there would be black mantillas again, and red carnations. Pilar, Dick, and

Colonel O’Donnel were in their places, and though the Duke’s box was still

empty, I was sure I should not be disappointed to-day. “He’ll appear about

the time the King does,” I was saying to myself, when suddenly there came

a stir in the royal box. The mayor and town councillors walked in, looking

important; four giant halberdiers of the royal guard took position, each

in a corner of the box. Then rose a shout, “Viva el Rey!” and against the

crimson velvet draperies the figure of the tall young King in white

uniform stood out like a slender statue of marble.

He was accompanied by his sister, the Infanta, and her husband, three or

four ladies, and a retinue of decorated officers; but for an instant I saw

only the King, because—rebel as I was supposed to be—my hat waved as high

and my cheers rang as loudly as any in the crowd.

I had not seen his face—that day at Biarritz long ago—when his automobile

stopped for want of petrol. He had worn his motor-mask, and had not

removed it, for he was incognito; but now, as he bowed in answer to the

people’s greeting, the young face was noble under the silver helmet. His

smile brought a deep dimple to either cheek, and a pleasant light to the

brown eyes. I was proud of my King, and found myself wishing that I could

serve him, though it seemed that that could never be; and with a sigh for

the perversities of fate I looked away, only to receive a shock of

surprise.

Among the ladies with the Infanta were the Duchess of Carmona, Lady

Vale-Avon, and Monica. With the officers and friends of the King stood the

Duke, his dark face radiating satisfaction, as if this were the crowning

moment of his life.

Not only was Monica with the man as his fiancée, but she was dressed, in

compliment to him, like a girl of Spain. She wore a mantilla such as the

Infanta wore, and so bright was her hair, so fair her skin framed in the

black flounce of lace, that she was almost as much stared at as the King.

On her breast, pinning the folds of the mantilla, there was a glint of

crimson; and looking closely, I made it out to be a large brooch of

rubies, forming the famous “No. 8 Do,” the motto of Seville. Only the Duke

could have given her this, I thought; and she had accepted it!

There was no more hope, then. It did not matter that her unexpected

presence in the royal box would prevent Pilar from speaking, or giving her

my letter. Still, I clung desperately to the one chance left; the

cathedral and the Miserere.

Hardly were the royalties and their friends settled in the red-draped box

when the next brotherhood marched out from Las Sierpes, and halted their

first _paso_ before the King, that he might see it well. He was on his

feet, his head bared and bowed; and while he stood veiled in rising

incense, some emotional soul in the audience broke into a Moorish wail,

the prayer song or _saeta_ of the people, improvising words which caught

the popular fancy.

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd, which pressed close, in spite

of the police; and as all eyes for the moment turned upon the King, or

upon the white-haired peasant singer, a thing happened which caught my

attention.

The velvet curtain which hid the bearers of the _paso_ resting before the

royal box, parted very slightly at one side, as if someone were peering

out; then a hand darted forth and received from a man in a black coat, who

stood with his back half-turned to me, a faded bouquet of flowers,

arranged Spanish fashion in a hard, stiff pyramid.

Quick as that darting hand a thought flashed through my brain. In a few

seconds the _paso_ would be moving on; the bearers were bracing themselves

for a new effort. That bouquet! if it should hold the threatened bomb?

This was the moment for such an attempt at wrecking the royal box, for the

King was a member of the next brotherhood that must pass; and soon he

would be leaving his sister and friends to walk with it, perhaps not

returning to his box that day.

The passing of light is no more swift than was the flight of these

thoughts; and without waiting to calculate the cost to myself, thinking

only of the King and of the girl I loved, I instantly thrust both hands

between the curtains, following the flowers as they were passed in. I

grasped the bouquet firmly round the stiff base of the pyramid, and pulled

it out before the hidden man who had received it knew that it had not been

withdrawn by his confederate. It was all over in a second, and I had the

bouquet. Also I had identified the man who pushed it through the curtains

of the _paso_, though which among the twenty or twenty-five concealed

bearers had taken it from him I could not tell.

Whether my act had been wise or foolish, it was done, and the _paso_ had

moved on, carrying the secret of one beating heart under the curtained

platform.

Prying cautiously among the tightly banked flowers, my blood quickened as

I touched something round and hard, a thing about the size of a large

orange, fastened into the centre of the pyramid by a network of thin wire.

Intuition had not played me a trick. There was death in this bunch of

roses, death for many, perhaps. Though it was of first importance to get

the bomb as far away as possible from the King and from Monica, and to

render it harmless, I would not give up my pursuit of the man in the black

coat, who was fighting his way through the crowd, only a few yards in

front of me,—a square-set figure, in the holiday clothes of a respectable

workman. I saw only his back now, every muscle tense in his desire to

escape the vengeance on his track; but I had seen his face for an instant,

and could identify it anywhere.

What if, in his desperation, he turned, and in the hope of saving himself

accused me of the crime he would have committed? It but needed that to

ruin me—after Barcelona, and this long journey to Seville, where the King

was due. Would any explanation I might make be credited, when the bomb was

in my hand?

I pushed the crowding thoughts out of my mind. There were other things to

think of—the bomb itself, what to do with it; and the man to be followed.

Meanwhile I was moving on after that broad back of which I must not lose

sight, and away from the neighbourhood of the royal box. I was in the lane

of the procession, close in front of the long ranks of occupied chairs,

and opposite the tribune. There were only two persons abreast in the

moving line which carried me along, driven on by the police, but we were

tightly packed, pressed against on one side by the knees of people in the

chairs, on the other by the purple brotherhood preceding another _paso_.

The situation seemed desperate, since to give an alarm would endanger the

crowd as well as jeopardize my future; and a panic would be a calamity.

Suddenly the cry of a water-seller struck my ear sharply. “Agua!—clear as

crystal and cold as mountain snow. Agua!”

He was just before me with his earthen vessel. “Sell me your jar,” I said.

“No, I don’t want a glass of water. I want the jar—for a curiosity. Twenty

pesetas for it.”

This offer saved questionings. The vessel with its contents was worth two

pesetas to the vendor, perhaps, and, lest I should change my mind, its

owner hastily handed over his jar and pocketed my silver. Even now I had

to wait for an opening in the throng, till I had been pushed on as far as

the lane leading from the square to the Plaza de San Fernando; and there,

to my joy, I jostled against Ropes. Without a word of explanation, I said,

“Follow that man in the cloth cap with the black coat and red tie. Get

hold of him; take care he doesn’t knife or shoot you. Don’t let him go—and

wait for me.”

This was all Ropes needed. “Right, sir,” said he, and forged after the

black back, which in this freer space was gaining distance.

Unexpectedly relieved of my second task, carefully shielding the bouquet

with the water-jar I worked my way into the lane, and struck the head of

the earthen vessel against a stone coping.

The porous clay cracked like an egg-shell, the top coming off in one

piece, with a few flying splinters; and I pressed the bouquet deep into

the water.

This was the best I could do at the moment, though, if the bomb was made

with picric acid, I had accomplished nothing. I could only hope; and

pressing on I came up with Ropes, who had collared his man and jammed him

against a wall.

Not a sound had the wretch uttered. He knew that, if he resisted, he would

be instantly denounced and torn to pieces by a crowd not likely to wait

for clear proof of such an accusation. Since he had failed, it was better

to trust to the mercy of his captor and of the police than to the

thousands wild with enthusiasm for the King. Fortunately for him, as for

us, the crowd had something better to do than stop to watch what they took

for some trifling private quarrel.

“He tried to knife me,” said Ropes; “but I stopped that. Knife’s in my

pocket. What next, sir?”

It was characteristic that he did not ask what the man had done.

“Give the brute up to the police,” I answered in English. “He was with

another chap whom I’ve lost, in a plot to throw a bomb at the royal box;

and the bomb’s in this water-jar.”

For the first time Ropes’ face lost its imperturbable expression. “What,

sir!” he exclaimed, “after your troubles—excuse my mentioning them—you

concern yourself in an affair like this!”

“I’ve no choice. We can’t let this beast escape. If they have him, the

police may get his mate. He looks a coward and sneak.”

“Beg pardon, sir, you have a choice. I’ve got the man. Give me the jar

with the bomb, and I’ll take the whole thing on my shoulders with the

police, though it’s a shame you should lose the credit. I’ve a clean bill;

chauffeur to Mr. R. Waring, American newspaper correspondent. No need to

bring you into it.”

“If you’re blown up by the bomb—”

“Would get blown up just the same sticking to you, for I _would_ stick

like a burr, sir. (Now, no good wriggling, you beast, or gabbling about a

mistake. There’s no mistake, and you won’t get away!) Better tell him

what’s in that jar, sir—my Spanish doesn’t run as far—and that’ll quiet

him.”

“You can’t manage the man and the jar.”

“Could manage two of each. There’s a couple of civil guards. Now, if

you’ve any kindness for me, sir, let go that jar; and don’t be seen with

me.”

I gave Ropes his way. But I lingered near enough to watch the scene which

followed; and had that innocent-looking jar been broken, or had the

contents of the soaked bouquet exploded of its own accord, I should have

been near enough to share my chauffeur’s fate.

He explained in broken Spanish, eked out with gesture; and the fact that

he was English, with the most honest of English faces to vouch for his

sincerity, helped him. The man in his grasp was Catalán, which was not in

his favour at Seville. The civil guards looked at the jar with respectful

interest, but did not offer to take it; and, after a moment of lively

conversation, Ropes and his captive marched rapidly away with the men in

red, black, and white.

At least, whatever happened now, the King was safe; and Monica was safe.

It was not until eight o’clock, when I went to the quiet hotel where we

had appointed to meet and dine, that I found out anything more. Then they

told me that the King returned to his box after walking in the procession,

and that, soon after, Dick had been surprised by a visit from a member of

the police in plain clothes. The man had come to the O’Donnels’ box,

inquired if the American gentleman were Mr. Waring, asked if he had a

chauffeur named Peter Ropes, and being answered in the affirmative had

told the story of the bomb. Dick had then gone with the policeman to see

Ropes, had made a statement concerning himself, his business, his car, his

chauffeur, his occupation in life, and the friends with whom he was

staying. All had proved satisfactory. Ropes had been thanked by the police

for his promptness and presence of mind, and threatened with active

gratitude from higher quarters. Both had been asked to remain within reach

for a few days; and the episode was over.

But it was not until they heard my part of the story that Dick or the

O’Donnels knew precisely where and how Ropes had come into the drama.

XXXI

BEHIND AN IRON GRATING

“Say,” remarked Dick in a stage whisper, “there’d be a big drop in the bee

industry if all the world turned Protestant and bought no more great wax

candles.”

We were standing inside the Moorish arch of the Puerta del Perdon, in the

Court of Oranges. Beyond, where the stuffed crocodile swung in a light

breeze, was the entrance to the cathedral, black as the mouth of a cave.

The wind which rocked that huge reptile—the gift of a disappointed

Sultan—sent the petals of ten thousand orange blossoms drifting over our

heads in a perfumed snow-storm. Past us trooped a dark-robed brotherhood,

each man with his tall candle raining wax on the grass-grown stones of the

old court.

This it was which had drawn forth Dick’s reflection; but I scarcely heard

his words. I was watching for Monica; and my last chance must come soon if

it were to come at all.

Pilar and her father were not with us. They had gone into the cathedral,

where they had secured seats not far from the royal chapel, and in the

best position to hear the Miserere. Though it was early still, not quite

nine o’clock, vast crowds were gathering and it was possible, they

thought, that Carmona and his guests were already in their places. If they

were seen there, Colonel O’Donnel would send out a messenger (a man

employed in the cathedral) with a word for me.

Earlier, this person had come to the hotel, where he had been told to look

well at me that he might not fail to recognize me again. And Dick and I

had not stood on sentinel duty for fifteen minutes when he appeared,

beating through the opposing tide of the multitude as it swept towards the

cathedral.

“His worship the Colonel O’Donnel, wished their worships the two

señoritos, to know that those they wished to find were not visible in the

cathedral.”

“Could they be there, and invisible?” I asked.

“The cathedral is very dimly lighted; and they might not be seen if they

were in some chapel. There are several with many people in them, and the

doors are locked.”

“Is that allowed?”

“The people have given something to a verger not to let others in. I have

power of the same kind, if any señor wished me to use it.”

“Here they come!” whispered Dick. “Carmona, Lady Vale-Avon, and Lady

Monica.”

We stepped farther back into shadow, though such precaution was hardly

needed. It was so dim in the Court of Oranges that the crowd groped its

way over the cracked, uneven pavement. Only because they were close upon

us, and he was watching, had Dick been able to make out the faces we knew.

“Stop with us,” I said to Colonel O’Donnel’s messenger. “You shall have a

hundred pesetas if you will open the door of an empty chapel for me, and

lock it again when I give the word.”

“But I fear there are no empty ones—” he began.

“Then make one empty. Can you do that—for a hundred pesetas?”

“Yes, señor, I think I can.”

By this time Monica, still in her black mantilla, had flitted past us

between her mother and the Duke, but we were following. Dim as it was in

the court, the moon looked out from behind the Giralda tower, and it was

not dark enough for my project. Inside the cathedral, however (save where

blazed the Holy Week monument, an illuminated temple of white and gold),

was a mysterious darkness. Not the hundreds of great wax candles sufficed

to light the aisles in that vast forest of stone. Stumbling, groping to

pass through a hanging veil of shadow, thousands of men and women drifted

aimlessly to and fro, themselves black as the shadows they fought, save

here and there some soldier whose uniform waked a brief flame of red and

gold, or a hooded brother who glowed purple under a lighted pillar.

Purposely we pushed against the people before us, so that in a space black

as a lake of ink the trio we followed was separated. The rush of people

from behind was so sudden—so well managed by us,—that it took the Duke

unawares. The three were caught in the eddy, divided, and before they

could come together again I had my arm through Monica’s, and was dragging

her away, the messenger clinging to me closely.

“Don’t be frightened,” I said. “It’s I—Ramón. I have to speak with you.”

She looked up at me, her pale face dim as a spirit’s in the dark.

“Shame!” she stammered brokenly. “To force me like this—you, who have—”

“Done nothing except love you too well; and you must give me the chance to

win you back. You owe it to me,” I said almost fiercely; and she was

silenced.

“Monica! where are you?” I heard Lady Vale-Avon’s voice call, and could

have thanked her for giving me the direction to avoid.

“Take us to that empty chapel quickly,” I said to the man. Then he, who

would have known how to find his way in that stone forest blindfold,

steered us through the sea of people, and into a haven beyond the waves.

Not a chapel was lighted; but as my eyes grew used to the gloom I could

see faces on the other side of the tall, shut gates of openwork iron which

we passed.

“I have the key of this one. I will promise the people a better place if

they’ll come out,” whispered the messenger, stopping before a pair of

these closed doors, and unlocking it with a great key.

I heard him speciously informing a group of shadows that they would be too

far from the music to hear it well. He had a friend who would open another

chapel nearer. Eagerly ten or twenty persons snapped at the bait, flocked

out, and the instant their backs were turned, I half dragged, half carried

Monica in. Then before she could escape, if she had wished to try, the

great iron gates were shut and locked upon us.

“They will be looking everywhere for you,” I said. “Come with me to the

back where it is so dark that no one can see us. This chapel must seem to

be empty.”

“I want to be found,” the girl answered cruelly. “I’m going to marry the

Duke.”

“If you love him and not me, I shan’t lift my hand to keep you,” I said.

“The other night I believed it was so, and made up my mind to trouble you

no more. But Miss O’Donnel said—”

“Miss O’Donnel!” exclaimed Monica. “I wonder you can speak of her to me.”

Her voice quivered with angry scorn, yet my heart leaped with joy at the

words which confirmed Pilar’s suspicions and my hopes.

“She’s as loyally your friend as I am loyally your lover,” I assured her.

“Now listen. There are things which you must hear; and if when you’ve

heard them you ask me to take you to your mother and Carmona, I’ll obey

instantly.” Then, without giving her time to cut me short, I began to talk

of the letter I had written at Manzanares, and how I sent it, and what it

had said. “Did you get it?” I asked.

“No such letter as that. It was a very different one—a horrible letter.

Oh, Ramón! if it were true; if _you_ had been true! If you could have gone

on loving me!” She broke into sobbing, and hid her face between her hands.

“Don’t dare to doubt that I did, and always will. Tell me what the letter

said?” I pulled her hands down, too roughly perhaps, and held them fast in

mine.

She tried to check her sobs. “I could show you the letter if there were a

light. Since that day I’ve carried it with me, so that I could look at it

sometimes, and have strength to hate you if my heart failed.”

“My own darling—mine again,” I soothed her. “It’s been a horrible plot. If

that letter was not full of love and longing for you, it was forged; no

doubt after the handwriting of the one I really sent.”

“You mean my mother—would do a thing like that?”

“She might have justified it by telling herself that the end sanctified

the means.”

“I know—she was ready to do almost anything to turn me from you,” Monica

admitted, leaning against me so confidingly that all I had suffered was

forgotten. “I couldn’t have believed this of her; but—she did tell me the

night before Manzanares that at Toledo she heard you calling Pilar

O’Donnel, ‘darling.’ ‘Young Mr. O’Donnel seems very fond of his sister,’

mother said, looking straight at me, though she seemed to speak

innocently. ‘I heard him call her “darling girl.” ’ You can imagine how I

felt! But I hoped she was mistaken, or that she’d invented it to make me

unhappy; so I wouldn’t let myself be _very_ unhappy, only a little

distressed. Because, you know, Miss O’Donnel is awfully pretty and

perfectly fascinating. Mother said, the night we were at Manzanares, that

she was one of those girls whom most men fall irresistibly in love with;

and—and I loved you so much, I couldn’t help being jealous.”

“As if any man could even _see_ poor little Pilar, when you were near!” I

exclaimed, forgetting Dick’s difference of opinion.

“Oh, I had faith in you, then. But next morning that pretty Mariquita

handed me a letter, which I was sure was from you, as she hid it behind a

tin of hot water. I was taking it, when mother saw, and snatched it away.

You can’t imagine the things I said to her, to make her give it back. I

was so furious, that for once in my life I wasn’t in the least afraid, and

I would have tried to rush past her and run out to you, when she’d refused

to give the letter up, but I wasn’t dressed. My room had no door of its

own. I had to go through mother’s room to get out; and before I knew what

she was doing, she’d slammed the door between us, locking it on her side.

I hadn’t even a proper window, only a little barred, square thing, high up

in the wall. I couldn’t scream for help, even if I hadn’t been ashamed to

make a scene in a strange hotel; so what was I to do.

“She kept me there, wild with rage against her, for quite an hour after I

was dressed and ready to dart out when I had the chance; but at last she

unlocked the door, looking very grave. ‘I’ve opened your letter,’ she

said, ‘and read it, as it was my duty and my right to do. It is different

from what I expected, and I’ve decided after all that it’s as well you

should have it.’

“Then she handed me a torn envelope, and I recognized it as the one we had

crumpled up between us when she snatched it away. Your handwriting was on

it, and I never doubted it was yours inside, though it looked as if you’d

written in a hurry, with a bad pen. No name was signed; but the letter

said you thought it best to tell me, without waiting longer, that you

feared we’d both been hasty and made a mistake in our feelings. Our

meeting was romantic, and we’d been carried away by our youth and hot

blood. Now you’d had time to see that it would be unwise of me to give up

a man like the Duke of Carmona for one unworthy enough to have fallen in

love with another girl. Accordingly, you released me from all obligations,

and took it for granted that you were also free. Then you bade me

good-bye, wishing me a happy future in case your car and the Duke’s

happened to go on by different ways. Do you wonder I tried to hate you,

and that I said ‘yes’ the very next night, when the Duke asked me again if

I wouldn’t change my mind and marry him?”

For answer, I caught her against my breast, and we clung to each other as

if we could never part.

“Such a promise is no promise,” I said at last. “I have you, and I don’t

mean to let you go, lest I lose you for ever. Monica, will you trust

yourself to me, and run away with me to-night?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I daren’t go back to them. But what shall we do?”

“I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking,” I said. “My car isn’t far off.

Colonel O’Donnel and Pilar, who’d do anything for you and me, are in the

cathedral. Just outside this chapel the man who locked us in is waiting

for my signal to open the door. With the O’Donnels and Dick Waring to see

you through, will you motor with me to Cadiz, take ship for Gibraltar, and

marry me on English soil?”

“Suppose there should be no ship for days?” she hesitated.

“There is one nearly every day; but at worst I can hire a boat of some

sort.”

“Once we were in Gibraltar, you’d be out of reach if the Duke tried to

take revenge,” she said. “Yes, I _will_ go! I love you and I can’t give

you up again. Oh, Ramón, I never would have promised to marry him, if I

hadn’t longed to show you that—that I didn’t care, and that there was

someone who wanted me very much, if you didn’t.”

“How like a woman!” I exclaimed, laughing—for I could laugh now.

“He has only kissed my hand,” she went on, “and I hated even that.”

“Yet you’re wearing his brooch,” a returning flash of jealousy made me

say; “and a mantilla, to please him.”

“The brooch is his mother’s. So is the mantilla. She at least has been

kind; so I let her put them both on for me to-day, when she asked.”

“Kind? When there’s time I’ll tell you one or two things. But now there’s

no time for anything except to take you away.”

“Listen! The Miserere has begun,” she said. “Has it been long? I heard it

only now. Can we get out before it’s over?”

“Of course we can—though not quite as easily, perhaps, as if the crowd

were moving with us. However, we can’t afford to wait.”

“What wonderful music!” Monica whispered. “I wish I dared to feel it were

blessing us.”

“Yes, feel it so,” I said, and involuntarily was silent to listen for an

instant to the melodious flood which swept from aisle to aisle in golden

billows. Out from the wave of organ music and men’s voices, boyish soprano

notes sprayed high, flinging their bright crystals up, up, until they

fell, shattered, from the vaulted ceiling of stone.

From each dimly seen column shot forth one of those slender-stemmed,

flaming white lilies of light, such as had bloomed in Our Lady’s garden,

as the _pasos_ moved blossoming through the streets. It seemed as if they

might have been gathered and replanted here, to lighten the darkness; and

as the music soared and sank, its waves set the lily-flames flickering.

I peered out, and saw my man hovering near. In the gloom he did not catch

the signal I gave him with my hand, but when I shook a handkerchief

between the gratings he came quickly. As he unlocked the doors I slid the

promised bribe into his palm; and having glanced about to make sure as far

as possible that we were not watched, I called Monica.

“Take us out by the nearest way,” I said; and the man began to hurry us

officiously through the crowd.

Monica clung to me tightly, and I could feel the tremblings that ran

through her body. My heart was pounding too; for it is when the ship is

nearest home, after a stormy voyage, that the captain remembers he has

nerves. It seemed too marvellous to be true, that the girl was mine at

last, and yet—what could separate us, now that I held her close against my

side, and she was ready to go with me, out of her world into mine?

“This way, this way, señorito,” our guide warned me, plucking at my arm as

I steered ahead, confused by a thousand moving shadows. I followed,

brushing sharply against a tall man in conical _capucha_ and trailing robe

of blue. He turned, his masked face close to mine, so close that even in

the dusk I caught a flash of glittering eyes. Then, giving me a sudden

push, he cried out, “Help—murder! An anarchist—a free-thinker! To the

rescue!”

It was Carmona’s voice, and I knew instantly that he must have borrowed

this dress from some friend in the cathedral—perhaps a member of the

_cofradìa_ to which he himself belonged—so that he could search for me and

Monica, without being seen by us.

Thrusting the girl behind me, yet keeping her close, I hurled him away,

but he sprang at me again, and this time something glittered in his right

hand. I fought with him for it, and pulled a slim length of steel up

through his closed fingers, so that the sharp dagger-blade must have cut

him to the bone. He gave a cry, and relaxed his grasp; but though he was

disabled for the instant a dozen men in the crowd, which swirled round us

now, caught and held me fast. Monica was wrenched from me; the dagger had

fallen to the ground (but not before I had seen it was of Toledo make);

the figure in the blue _capucha_ was swept out of my sight, and I was

fighting like a madman in a strait-jacket for freedom.

XXXII

ON THE ROAD TO CADIZ

It was a mouse who gnawed a hole in the net that entangled the lion.

Now, I am no lion in importance, nor was Colonel O’Donnel’s messenger of

as little significance as a mouse; yet he was the last creature to whom I

would have looked for succour in a moment of stress. Nevertheless to him I

owed my rescue.

“A mistake, a mistake,” he chirped, jumping about, bird-like, just outside

the circle of struggling men. “I am a verger here; this gentleman was with

me. He did nothing. He is a most respectable and twice wealthy person, a

tourist whom I guide. He is innocent—no anarchist, no free-thinker. That

other—that pretended brother—has made a practical joke. See, he has run

away to escape consequences. There is nothing against this noble señor;

you have it on the word of a verger.”

Because it was bewilderingly dark, and they might have got the wrong man;

because, too, the verger was probably right, and it had been a joke played

upon them by a person who had now disappeared, the twelve or fifteen men

who surrounded me fell back shamefacedly, glad on second thoughts to melt

away before they could be identified and reproached for disturbing the

public peace, and spoiling the music to which their King listened.

I was free, but I would not leave the cathedral yet, for my hope was to

find Monica again. I wandered in every direction, while the verger went

off to bring Dick and the O’Donnels to meet me in the Orange Court.

Pilar’s delight in the first part of my story was dashed by the sequel. Of

course, she said, it must come right in the end, since Monica and I

understood each other at last. But just for the moment everything seemed

difficult. The Duke was sure now that I was Casa Triana, and not Cristóbal

O’Donnel. He would almost certainly make all the trouble he could, and a

man of his influence could make a good deal. As his attempt to stick a

dagger into me—by way of a quick solution—had been covered by the

_capucha_ of a _cofradìa_, I could not take revenge by laying a counter

accusation. I might say I had recognized his voice, and that I thought I

had recognized the dagger bought in Toledo; but I could prove nothing, and

the Duke would score.

Still, as the Cherub remarked consolingly, he could not do much worse than

force me out of Spain. Neither I, nor anyone else, had ever said in so

many words that I was Cristóbal O’Donnel. If people had taken my identity

for granted because of a few round-about hints, and because for a joke I

had borrowed a friend’s uniform for a day or two, nothing very serious

could be made out of that after all; and as Cristóbal really was on leave,

he need not be involved. He was a good officer, whose services were

valued, and I was not to worry lest harm should come upon him. I need

think only of Monica and of myself. Had I formed any idea of what to do

next?

“I must get Monica out of Carmona’s house,” I said.

“You’ll have to lie in wait and snatch her from under their noses next

time they show them,” suggested Dick; “unless—”

“Unless?”

“Carmona keeps his indoors until he’s arranged to have yours politely

deported.”

“I can’t be got rid of in an hour.”

“You could to-morrow.”

“I’m afraid you can,” sighed the Cherub, “and that, though I shall do my

best, I may be powerless to help you.”

“What if it were known that he saved the King yesterday?” Pilar asked her

father.

“The King is going away to-morrow. You know, he’s off to England in a few

days. Besides, the incident to-day will be hushed up. The King will know,

of course, and a few others; but it will be kept out of the

papers,—anyhow, until they’ve got their hands on both the men concerned.”

“I’ve still got to-night,” I said, “and it’s not eleven yet. I hoped that

in the confusion Monica had given her mother and Carmona the slip, and

that if I waited here I might find her again. I thought she might try to

get back to the chapel where we had our talk, trusting that I’d look for

her there. But she didn’t come, and I searched everywhere in vain before I

tried watching the crowd pass through the Court of Oranges. Now, I’m

certain that Carmona or Lady Vale-Avon must have pounced upon her while I

was surrounded, and forced her away. No doubt they’re at home long ago.

Why shouldn’t I appeal to the English consul, and say that the Duke of

Carmona’s detaining an English girl in his house against her will?”

“No use,” said the Cherub. “She’s under age, and she’s with her mother,

who’s visiting the Duchess.”

“Then I’ll go to Carmona’s door and make such a row that they’ll be

obliged to let me in.”

“You’d get into a police cell instead. A man’s house is his castle,

especially when it’s a palace and he’s a Duke.”

I was silenced. I knew the Cherub was right; but it seemed monstrous that

in this twentieth century such tyranny should divide a girl from her

lover.

When I had thought for a moment I said, “Anyhow, I shall go to the house

and try to bribe a servant. Once in, I’d not come out without Monica. I’ve

done two satisfactory things to-day by bribery and corruption, and I don’t

see why I shouldn’t bring it off the third time.”

“The Duke’s servants have been in the employ of the family for years, and

their fathers and grandfathers before them. No money would bribe them to

deceive their master and mistress,” said the Cherub.

“I shouldn’t have thought either the Duke or his mother capable of

inspiring such devotion.”

“It isn’t devotion—it’s fear. To an unfaithful servant in that house—well,

almost anything might happen.”

“Have you any advice to give me, then?” I asked, in despair.

The Cherub shook his head. “The prudent thing would be to go away

to-night, and trust Lady Monica’s loyalty. She can’t be forced into

marrying the Duke, you know; and if she breaks the engagement he’ll have

to let her alone, for dignity’s sake.”

“That might be prudent; but of course I won’t do it.”

“Of course you won’t,” returned the Cherub, as if it went without saying.

“Very well, then; matters are desperate, and desperate remedies must be

tried; things can’t be worse than they are. I shall hang about Carmona’s

house early in the morning, and when the first person comes out I’ll go

in. If I don’t come out, you will know what’s become of me; and I don’t

suppose in these days even a Duke can kill a man without getting into

trouble?”

“He would merely have you arrested as a housebreaker,” said the Cherub.

“Well, I should have seen Monica first, and perhaps have got her on the

right side of the door.”

“We’ll have a go at the business together,” said Dick. “It would be more

sociable.”

“All right, thank you,” said I. “Then something’s settled; and these best

of friends can go home and sleep.”

“Sleep!” echoed Pilar scornfully. “Oh, if I were a man, and could do

_something_ to punish the Duke!”

“I wish you could set your bull at him,” said Dick. “Only, now I think of

it, it’s _his_ bull still.”

Try as we might, it was impossible to persuade either Colonel O’Donnel or

Pilar that they ought to return quietly to bed, if not to sleep. No, they

would do nothing of the kind. Besides, no properly disposed person within

ten miles of Seville would lie in bed that night. Processions would go on

till early morning. Many people would watch them, or spend the hours till

early mass in prayer in the cathedral, which would be open all night. Why

should not the O’Donnel family do as others did?

There was no answer to this; and it was finally arranged that, if they

wished to rest at all, it should be at the hotel in the Plaza de San

Fernando, where we had dined. That was to be the rendezvous; and the

Cherub would engage the verger we knew to watch the Duke’s house in the

morning, bringing news of our fate to the hotel—if we did not bring it

ourselves.

Never—if I live beyond the allotted threescore years and ten—shall I

forget that strange night of Holy Thursday in Seville.

Dick and I wandered through the streets, and in the Plaza de la

Constitución, where electric lamps and moonlight mingled bleakly, while

never-ending _cofradìas_ passed.

A sky of violet was like a veil of silky gauze, and as the moon slid down

the steeps of heaven the vast dome paled. One by one the stars went out

like spent matches; dawn was on its way. Electric lights flared and died,

leaving a pearly dusk more mysterious than any twilight which falls with

night.

The crowds had thinned; but silent brotherhoods moved through streets

where there was no other sound than the rustling of their feet, the tap of

their leaders’ silver batons. So faint was the dawn-dusk, that they were

droves of shadows on their way back into night, their candle-lights lost

stars. Now and then the clink of a baton brought to some half-shuttered

window a face, to be presently joined by other faces, peering down at the

dark processions of men and black-robed, penitent women.

Outside the great east door of the cathedral halted a _paso_, like a huge

golden car. Christ was nailed to a cross not yet lifted into place. A

Roman soldier, of exaggerated height and sardonic features, stood reading

the parchment with the mocking inscription about to be nailed above the

thorn-crowned head. His evil mouth was curled in a satirical smile. Two

centurions in armour sat their impatient horses, and gave directions for

raising the cross. The effect was startling; for in this pale beginning of

light, and the atmosphere of tingling exaltation which steeped the town,

it was difficult not to believe that the terrible carved figures of wood

had life, and that with the eyes of one’s flesh one beheld the world’s

great tragedy.

Somehow the impression of horror was but deepened by the fact that the

bearers had come out from under the curtains of the _paso_, to take off

the large pads they wore on their heads, to drink water, and smoke

cigarettes with the penitents who had rolled up the masks from their pale,

damp faces. They might have been comrades of the Roman soldiers, in their

obliviousness of that tortured form on the cross.

It was not yet five o’clock when Dick and I plunged into the cool gloom of

the cathedral, passing the spot where Carmona had struck at me, and the

chapel where I had taken Monica. The stones were slippery as the floor of

a ballroom, with wax dropped from innumerable candles, and the air was

heavy with the smoke of stale incense.

The searchlight of dawn could scarcely penetrate the black curtains which

throughout Holy Week had draped the cathedral; therefore a solitary beam,

like a bar of gold, slanted in through one superb window.

The amethysts, emeralds, and rubies of incomparable painted glass

transformed the yellow bar into a rainbow which streamed down the length

of the majestic aisle and struck full upon a golden altar. Then slowly the

jewelled band moved from the gold carvings, the flames dying as it passed.

Travelling, still like a searchlight, it found the prostrate forms of

sleeping men exhausted by their vigils, snatched out of veiling darkness

kneeling women clad in black, and at last rested on the Holy Week monument

itself, paled its myriad candles, and made pools of liquid gold on the

vestments of priests who had knelt all night in adoration of the Host.

“Say,” said Dick, half whispering, “I don’t gush as a rule; but doesn’t it

look like the light of salvation coming to save lost souls?”

Not a hotel in Seville had shut its doors that night of Holy Thursday; not

a _concièrge_ had done more than nod and wake out of a broken dream, for

there had been an excited coming and going through all the dark hours.

At six o’clock Dick and I were at the _fonda_, inquiring for Colonel

O’Donnel and his daughter. They had come in at two, and were now asleep,

it seemed; but had left a note for the señores. In this note we were

assured that the friendly verger of last night’s adventure would be

lurking in the neighbourhood of Carmona’s house as early as six o’clock,

and should we want him we would know where he was to be found.

We took bedrooms, bathed, dressed again, and after hot coffee and rolls

decided that is was time to go on guard. To be sure, it was absurdly

early; but by this time the Duke’s household might be astir, and we must

not risk letting Monica be carried away before we had had a chance to

practise the gentle art of housebreaking.

The clocks of Seville were spasmodically telling the hour of seven when we

entered the narrow and dusky lane of the Calle de las Dueñas. So fast

asleep were the shuttered windows that our mission seemed a fool’s errand;

but as we came in sight of the Duke’s closed door the Cherub’s messenger

loomed out of the shadows.

Unshaven and haggard, his eyes glittered like black beads in the daylight;

and he greeted us excitedly. “Señores,” he began, “I was going to look for

you at the hotel. A thing has happened. The Señor Colonel told me I must

watch the house of His Grace the Duke, and let you know when you came if

anyone had been out or in. Who would think of people starting upon a

journey before the day is awake? But so it is. The Duke, whom I have seen

in other years, has gone away in an automobile with his honourable mother

and two other ladies.”

“You are sure it was he?” I asked, completely taken aback.

“Sure, my señorito. The car was a large grey car. And”—his face grew sly

as a squirrel’s—“I can tell you where it is going, if you would like to

know.”

“I want to know all you can tell,” I said.

“Well, the grey car arrived a little before half-past six, I should think.

In it there was only the young man who drives, dressed in leather. ‘What

is going to happen?’ I asked myself. It seemed better to wait and see than

run to the hotel to say, ‘there’s an automobile at the door for the Duke,’

and perhaps find it gone, no one could tell where, when I got back. But I

do not sleep on my feet. There are always ideas running in my head. I

pretended to be strolling past, and stopping for a look at such a fine

machine. Perhaps I had matches in my pocket, perhaps not; in any case I

asked the young man in leather to give me a light for my cigarette. He

did, and it was a natural thing to fall into talk. ‘You make an early

start,’ I said. He nodded. ‘Going far?’ ‘To Cadiz to-day, by Jerez.’ That

is all, honoured señores; but I tell it for what it is worth. A few

minutes later the grand people came out, and the automobile shot away.”

“Did they put on luggage?” I asked.

“All the automobile would hold.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dick. “Carmona’s thrown sand in our eyes this time.

Who’d have supposed he’d turn tail and run away like a coward in the midst

of the Holy Week show, with the King still in town?”

“I was a fool not to expect the unexpected,” I said. “If anyone except

Colonel O’Donnel’s man had told me I should have been between two minds

whether to accept the story or not. But O’Donnel called him a trusty

fellow; and he served me well last night. If we wait to verify his story,

by the time we find out it’s true the grey car will have got too long a

start. I don’t like Carmona’s stealing off. It looks as if there were

something up.”

“He showed last night that he was desperate,” said Dick. “I guess we’d

better get on the road before much grass grows.”

“You’re the best of friends,” said I. And paying the verger well for his

services, we hurried back to the hotel to find Ropes and have the car got

ready.

It was still very early, and the Cherub and Pilar had not had many hours

beauty sleep; but we could not leave for an indefinite absence without

bidding them good-bye; and we were on our way to knock at Colonel

O’Donnel’s door when Pilar appeared from the room adjoining.

A moment, and she understood everything. “You’ll follow!” she exclaimed,

without waiting to hear my plans.

“And I’ll go with him,” said Dick, looking wistfully at her; for he had

not had his answer yet, and who could tell when he would have it now, or

what it would be when it came?

“Of course. I knew you would,” Pilar replied. And a light leaped up in her

dark eyes. If it meant nothing warmer, it meant approval. “You’ll want to

go at once. Oh, I _am_ sorry you’ll miss the fair. You don’t know what a

fairyland Seville is, with miles of streets and park roofed in with arches

of coloured lights, like jewels; and papa has a tent in the gayest place,

where we stay all day, and see our friends, and it’s such fun visiting the

booths and side-shows! But maybe next spring you’ll come back for the

_feria_ with your bride, Don Ramón; and as for you, Señor Waring—”

“As for me?” repeated Dick, anxiously. “Am I not to come back before

that?”

“You’re to come back when you like, and—papa will be glad to see you,” she

answered, just as any conventional little señorita might have answered.

But at least she had the kindness to blush; and I would have moved away to

give Dick a last chance if at that moment the Cherub had not come out of

his room.

Instantly Pilar dashed into explanations, and between the three of us he

soon had the history of events.

No one on earth looks less practical than the dreamy-eyed, soft-voiced

Cherub; yet it was he who thought of practical details which we had

forgotten. He it was who reminded us that it would not be prudent to take

Ropes away from Seville. As the man who said he had discovered the bomb,

his evidence would be wanted, and if he disappeared it would look

mysterious. His real connection with the Marqués of Casa Triana might be

unearthed by the police; and because of that miserable affair at

Barcelona, whose consequences were continually cropping up, some hideous

story might be concocted and believed.

Dick and I unhesitatingly decided to take the Cherub’s advice, and leave

Ropes behind. He was engaged in getting the car ready, and would no doubt

be disappointed to hear that he was to be temporarily abandoned; but he

would see the wisdom of such a course, and might be trusted to guard my

interests. As for Dick, he might turn his back on the proceedings in

Seville without danger, for he posed only as the employer of a man who had

found the bomb; besides, as I suggested without glancing at Pilar, he

could come back in a few days in case he were wanted to give evidence.

Thus it was settled; at eight o’clock we had said good-bye to Pilarcita

and the Cherub, softening the farewell with a hopeful “_au revoir_”; and

with Ropes staring disconsolately after us, we flashed out of the Plaza de

San Fernando.

I drove, with Dick beside me, for there was no longer need for subterfuge.

Carmona knew me for what I was, and I could help Monica more by defying

him than by playing the old waiting game, of which I was tired.

It seemed strange to be racing across country again in the car, after

those fevered days in Seville. With the steering-wheel in my hand, the

steady thrum of the motor seemed to say, “You’ll do it; you’ll do it;—I’ll

help you to do it.”

The air was made of perfume—orange blossoms and acacias; and the vast

flowery plain where Seville is queen gave us a tolerable road, on which

the car ran lightly. Soaring snow peaks of fantastic shapes walled the

green arena of rolling meadows, and the day was like a day of June.

Save for the grey Lecomte, scarcely a motor had we seen since leaving

Biarritz, except in Madrid; but now, when I tried to decipher the road

hieroglyphics, the dust showed more than one track of pneus. Cars had come

to Seville from Madrid for _Semana Santa_, and had evidently run out this

way for a spin more than once. As I had not Ropes’ detective talent I was

unable to distinguish the Lecomte’s tyre-marks from others.

In sight of the conspicuous church tower at Utrera—ancient home of

outlaws—we came upon a dusty white line diverging to Ecija. Pausing to

question a road-mender, I remembered Colonel O’Donnel’s story of the Seven

Men of Ecija, and the curious bond between them and the Dukes of Carmona.

But what brought the tale to my mind—unless it was the name of Ecija on

the road-map and signpost, or the fact that we were now in the real heart

of brigand-land—I could not have told.

Yes, said the road-mender, he had seen an automobile go by—a big one, not

long ago, steering as if for Jerez. Was it grey? He would not be sure, but

at all events the thing was so grey with dust that had there been another

colour underneath, no one could have seen it. Ladies in the car? Well, he

was not positive, for it had gone by like a cannon-ball in a cloud of

smoke; but there were several persons inside, and it was the only motor

which had passed him to-day. Several cars had appeared in the distance

yesterday, but they had turned back on the Seville side of Utrera.

One automobile, a big one, apparently grey, and with several persons

inside, had gone by at a tremendous pace not long before. That sounded as

if the car we chased could not be far away. Our eyes searched the

tell-tale dust, and found the sleek, straight trail of a pneu in the midst

of wobbling cart tracks. We had but to follow that straight trail, then, I

said, to come up with Carmona and interfere with his new plans.

Now we were racing through a wide region of salt marsh, where within

enclosures grazed hundreds of fierce black bulls, sooner or later to die

in the arena. The country became desolate, and curiously sad. We met no

more peasants’ carts or laden donkeys as the road began to undulate among

the foothills of distant mountain ranges.

“What an ideal place for a band of Colonel O’Donnel’s _bandidos_, eh?”

said Dick; then drew in his breath with a sharpness that cut the sentence

short, as we whirled round a hummock at a turning of the road.

XXXIII

THE SEVEN MEN OF ECIJA

Close in front of us was drawn up a large automobile, its front wheels

mounted on a barrier of rough stones built across the highway. Rolled in

the dust lay a leather-clad chauffeur, limp in unconsciousness or death;

and with their backs to the car, two young men stood bravely defending

themselves against seven.

So suddenly did we burst upon the scene, and so furiously had I to put on

the brake, that I saw only a wild picture of determined faces pale above

flashing blades, fierce faces under red peasant caps, and carbines used as

clubs. Then Dick and I were out of the Gloria; and instead of two there

were four against seven.

Where were the revolvers we had bought by Don Cipriano’s advice at Madrid,

for just such an emergency as this?—In our suit-cases at the Cortijo de

Santa Rufina, forgotten from the moment of purchase until this moment of

need. But, as by one accord, each seized a jagged stone which had rolled

from the barricade, and before we had had time for two consecutive

thoughts we had joined the strangers, and all four were fighting like

demons.

Oddly enough, the seven red caps did not fire their carbines, and had

apparently directed all their efforts to disarming or stunning the

automobilists. But at sight of us their tactics changed. Surprised at

first, their astonishment was burnt up by rage. Four of the seven turned

upon us, and drew knives, but quick as light I had wrenched one of them

out of a brown hand, giving its owner a smashing blow between the eyes

with my stone.

Down he dropped like an ox, and I was ready for another; but the blade of

a third would have slid between my ribs had not one of the seven cried out

sharply, “Stop! A red car—a red car. These are the men we want.”

“Disable them,” yelled another voice; but it was easier said than done.

The second’s pause which followed the warning shout saved my skin. The

brigand’s knife flew; and he got a side blow on the temple which sent him

spinning.

We were now four against five; but already the right arm of another red

cap spouted crimson from the blade in a sword-stick which was flashing

blue lightning, and another wore a dark spot on his shirt—a spot which

spread and changed its shape.

There was no time to look at faces. I scarcely saw the features of friend

or foe, and could not have sworn to the identity of one man had my life

depended on it. But I knew that two beside whom we fought were brave

beyond the common, that they were worth fighting for and with. We were all

four shoulder to shoulder now, our backs against the car, though how we

had won through to that position I could not have told.

Another red cap had gone down on one knee, cursing, and there was a fresh

blot of crimson on a dark-stained shirt. We four had the advantage now,

for we had come to no harm but a few bruises and an aching head or two,

when suddenly there was a howl from the fellow last down, “El guardia

civile!”

It was true. Out of the distance rode two men, dashing towards us from the

direction of Jerez. Far away still, their white, black, and red uniforms

caught the sun; and guessing from the knot of forms swaying round a

motor-car that something was wrong, the pair spurred their horses to a

gallop.

“It’s too hot for us!” panted the brigand I took for the leader. He

growled an order; and supporting two of their fallen comrades who were

able to help themselves, the uninjured pair made off towards a small wood

where I now saw horses tethered. After them we went; but they promptly

left their half-disabled friends to shift for themselves, and loaded their

carbines—so lately clubs—with quickness almost incredible.

An instant later two black muzzles covered us; and the tide of battle

might after all have turned disastrously, had not the shrill ping of a

bullet warned the enemy that there was no time to waste upon reprisals.

One of the civil guard had fired from a distance, but with precise aim, as

a yell of pain announced. A man already wounded got another souvenir of

the encounter; and out of the seven only four could get to their saddles.

One limped in the rear, but he had lost his carbine; one sat where his

comrades had flung him in their flight, and the last of the seven—stunned

by my stone—lay breathing stertorously on the road.

“After them—after them!” one of the young men who had fought so

brilliantly shouted now to the civil guards. “Don’t let them get away.”

For the first time I looked at him with seeing eyes. Then, I could hardly

stifle an exclamation. It was the King.

He gave me back look for look, smiling that brave and charming smile which

has magic in it to transform an enemy into a loyal servant.

I had my cap off now, and so had Dick, who wore the jaunty air I had seen

him wear in more than one battle.

“I have to thank you both,” said the King. “And—not for the first time.

Our cars, as well as ourselves, have met before. Wasn’t it—near Biarritz?”

I felt the blood stream up to the roots of my hair. “Your Majesty has a

King’s memory for faces,” I stammered.

“There are faces one doesn’t forget,” said he. “But we’ll talk of that

presently. Now we have work here.”

The King’s companion was already down on one knee by the side of the

chauffeur, pouring _aguardiente_ from a flask into the man’s half-open

mouth. As for the fellow I had hit, I was sure that he would presently

come round, but little the worse for wear; and I suggested that Dick and I

find a rope in the car, which would bind him and the two other

half-disabled ones. But the King would not let us work alone. He did as

much as we, and more, before we were joined by the young officer who was

his friend.

Discouraged and weak from loss of blood, as well as the loss of their

carbines and their comrades, the wounded brigands made no further fight.

But they were silent, save for a muttered oath or two, and I made up my

mind that the true secret of this morning’s work would never be torn from

them.

For there was, of course, a secret. The King, who had not the clue which I

held, saw that, and wondered why the brigands had not wished at first to

shoot us. Plainly, their plan had been to make captives.

The obvious idea was that they would have conveyed their prisoners to some

brigands’ nest in the mountains, in the hope of obtaining a rich ransom.

But they had evidently expected an automobile, or they would not have

raised a barricade, just round a sharp corner on a particularly lonely

piece of road.

Could they have been lying in wait for the King? This seemed impossible,

as he had told no one that he was going out, and the expedition had indeed

been made on the impulse, in the company of but one companion beside the

chauffeur. He had intended to have a spin, and discover the state of the

roads as far as practicable on the way to Jerez before turning back for

the procession in the afternoon. And that evening he must return to

Madrid. No, it was not the King for whom the seven men had prepared.

Who, then, was to have been their prey?

I believed that I could have answered this question, but I kept silent;

and there was no reason why the King should guess that I had a suspicion.

“At all events,” he said, “we have you and your friend to thank that the

affair was not more serious. I hope we should have been able to give a

good account of ourselves; but seven against two are long odds. And there

seems a fate in it that you should have come to me in the nick of time

to-day as well as at Biarritz. I should like to know your names.”

I had dreaded this. Foolishly, perhaps, I felt that I could not bear to

see the cordial light in his eyes fade to proud coldness, as it must when

he knew me for a son of the man who had tried to place another on his

throne. Besides, that I should at such a moment announce myself a Casa

Triana would seem like bidding for pardon as a reward for what I had done.

The confession stuck in my throat; and while I hesitated, Dick spoke.

“My friend didn’t mean you to know, sir,” said he, gabbling so fast that I

could not stop him; “but this isn’t the _second_ time he’s happened to be

around when there was a little thing to be done for your Majesty,—it’s the

third. Yesterday it was he who snatched that bomb away from the man under

the _paso_, collared the other fellow, and stuck the bomb in a smashed

water-jar, although he gave the credit to the chauffeur—who, by the way,

is ‘shover’ to this car. My friend here is travelling, as you might say,

incog. for important private reasons, which he’ll want you to know some

day, sir, if he doesn’t now; and that’s why, when Ropes the chauffeur

happened along, he made him a present of all the praise.”

The King flushed, looking me straight in the eyes with an expression so

noble and at the same time so kind that, had we lived a century or two

ago, when men were not ashamed to show their true feelings, I should have

thrown myself at his feet.

“I thank you again,” he said, “for _everything_. I’m glad to know you are

Spanish, even if I am to know no more. But am I to know no more?”

“Will your Majesty pardon me,” I asked, “if I beg to remain nameless for

the present?”

“I could pardon you far graver crimes,” the King said smiling; “and I’m

sure your reason, whatever it is, reflects nothing but honour on yourself.

I owe you a debt. Claim it’s payment in my gratitude whenever you will;

the sooner the better. And if you want a friend, you’ll know where to find

one.”

He held out his hand, and when I took it, shook mine warmly in English

fashion. Something else he was about to say on a second thought, when his

friend—who had now restored the chauffeur to dazed consciousness—drew his

attention. “Sir,” he said, “the guardia civile are coming back without

prisoners.”

A minute or two later the two men had galloped up to us, one wounded in

the cheek. They had chased the brigands, exchanging shots, until suddenly,

having passed beyond a clump of trees and a few lumpy hummocks of sand,

the band had vanished as if by magic. The civil guards had explored the

spot for some cleverly concealed hiding-place, which they knew must exist

within the space of two hundred metres, but they had found nothing. And as

they had had no time to ascertain the condition of the men left for us to

deal with, they had thought it best to return lest the wounded enemy prove

not to be _hors de combat_ after all.

Fortunately the distance from this lonely spot to Jerez was not more than

thirty kilometres, and within three miles there was a farm. Here a cart

could be got to take the wounded brigands into the town; and from Jerez a

posse of men would be immediately sent out to scour the country for the

escaped brigands.

The King, whom the guardia civile recognized with respectful surprise, was

now anxious to get back to Seville, where he was due in the royal box for

the Good Friday procession, and must appear by five o’clock at latest. He

delayed only long enough to be sure that his chauffeur was not hurt beyond

a slight concussion of the brain, to speak a few kind words to the civil

guard, and to say a significantly emphasized “_Au revoir_” to Dick and me.

Then, taking the wheel himself, whilst the half-dazed chauffeur lay in the

tonneau, he backed the big, reddish-brown car off the barricade, and

darted away in a cloud of dust at a good forty miles an hour.

It was left for us to do what we could to advance the civil guard with

their task; and though we had already lost too much time for my peace of

mind, it was our plain duty to help those who had helped us. When we had

levelled the rough barricade we reluctantly bundled the wounded men into

our tonneau, and going at a pace which enabled the civil guards to gallop

close behind us, we steered for the farm of which they had spoken. There,

in a buzz of excitement, the brigands were piled into a cart; and leaving

them to follow, presided over by one mounted guard leading his comrade’s

horse, we took the other on to Jerez in our car, so that the search party

might be organized the sooner.

Sometimes virtue brings its own reward, and mine came when I learned that

our new companion had met an automobile going at a great pace towards

Jerez. It had gone so fast that, in the dust, he was not sure of the

colour or number of persons inside, but he thought that he had seen

several ladies.

If he could he would have compelled us to stop in Jerez and give evidence

of the attack by brigands; but laughingly we told him that, rather than be

delayed again, we would spill him out by the roadside and vanish into

space before he could set the telegraph to work. As for the brigands, the

leader with three others had escaped, and the faces of those captured were

not known to the guard. But the fact that they had been seven was

significant in his opinion; and he believed that they would prove to be

men of Ecija, forming a band officially supposed to be defunct.

Should we give a hint of our suspicions, we knew well that every effort

would be made to detain us at Jerez, and such a catastrophe I would have

avoided at almost any price, unless there had been a hope of handicapping

Carmona. But that there was no such hope I was as sure as that the

abortive plan had been organized by him.

How he had communicated so quickly with his friends the Seven, I did not

pretend to say, unless he had known where to find their leader, and

visited him this morning in his car. Whatever he had done, however, he

would not have been fool enough to jeopardize his reputation for the sake

of laying me by the heels. The fact that he had claimed the aid of bandits

proved that he wished to dispose of me without implicating himself, though

why he had not adopted the far simpler plan of denouncing me as Casa

Triana to the police, I could not conceive. Still, there was ingenuity in

this idea. If a young man—or two young men—were captured in a lonely place

known to be infected with brigands; if such young men were held for

ransom, and kept out of the way for weeks or months, what was all that to

a Duke of Carmona?

What if, when one of those young men appeared in the world again (minus an

ear or a finger, perhaps), he told a fairy story about the enmity of the

Duke, and reminded the public of an old nurse’s tale concerning a bond

between the house of Carmona and the leader of the seven famous brigands?

Who would believe him? Who would not think it a silly and spiteful attempt

on the part of an embittered man to injure a grandee of Spain?

Carmona would not have taken the whole Seven into his confidence, that was

certain. He would have appealed to the leader alone. That leader had

escaped; and even if he were captured he would not betray the Duke. Why

should he, since it would not help himself; whereas, if he were loyal,

Carmona would secretly use influence to lighten his lot?

Dick and I discussed these matters in English, under the nose of the civil

guard, as I drove on to Jerez; and shrewd Yankee as he was, for once he

accepted the Spanish point of view. If we were to “get even with Carmona

and pay him out for this,” it must be in some less clumsy way, Dick

agreed.

XXXIV

THE RACE

It was lucky for us that the guard had met an automobile between the

brigands’ barricade and Jerez, otherwise we should have been at sea. The

road-mender near Utrera had seen but one car, and that might have been the

King’s; but now we had something to hope for still; and Dick and I

resolved to get out of Jerez as soon as possible, provided we could learn