1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
|
<!DOCTYPE html
PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
<html>
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" />
<title>In Kedar's Tents</title>
</head>
<body>
<h2>
<a href="#startoftext">In Kedar's Tents, by Henry Seton Merriman</a>
</h2>
<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of In Kedar's Tents, by Henry Seton Merriman
(#2 in our series by Henry Seton Merriman)
Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.
This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.
Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
Title: In Kedar's Tents
Author: Henry Seton Merriman
Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5987]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on October 8, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
</pre>
<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p>
<p>Transcribed from the 1909 Smith, Elder and Co. edition by Les Bowler,
St. Ives, Dorset.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h1>IN KEDAR’S TENTS<br />by Henry Seton Merriman.</h1>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<p>CONTENTS</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<pre>CHAPTER<br />I. ONE SOWETH.<br />II. ANOTHER REAPETH.<br />III. LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA.<br />IV. LE PREMIER PAS.<br />V. CONTRABAND.<br />VI. AT RONDA.<br />VII. IN A MOORISH GARDEN.<br />VIII. THE LOVE LETTER.<br />IX. A WAR OF WIT.<br />X. THE CITY OF DISCONTENT.<br />XI. A TANGLED WEB.<br />XII. ON THE TOLEDO ROAD.<br />XIII. A WISE IGNORAMUS.<br />XIV. A WEIGHT OF EVIDENCE.<br />XV. AN ULTIMATUM.<br />XVI. IN HONOUR.<br />XVII. IN MADRID.<br />XVIII. IN TOLEDO.<br />XIX. CONCEPÇION TAKES THE ROAD.<br />XX. ON THE TALAVERA ROAD.<br />XXI. A CROSS-EXAMINATION.<br />XXII. REPARATION.<br />XXIII. LARRALDE’S PRICE.<br />XXIV. PRIESTCRAFT.<br />XXV. SWORDCRAFT.<br />XXVI. WOMANCRAFT.<br />XXVII. A NIGHT JOURNEY.<br />XXVIII. THE CITY OF STRIFE.<br />XXIX. MIDNIGHT AND DAWN.<br />XXX. THE DAWN OF PEACE.</pre>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER I. ONE SOWETH.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘If it be a duty to respect other men’s claims, so
also is it a duty to maintain our own.’</i></p>
<p>It is in the staging of her comedies that fate shows herself superior
to mere human invention. While we, with careful regard to scenery,
place our conventional puppets on the stage and bid them play their
old old parts in a manner as ancient, she rings up the curtain and starts
a tragedy on a scene that has obviously been set by the carpenter for
a farce. She deals out the parts with a fine inconsistency, and
the jolly-faced little man is cast to play Romeo, while the poetic youth
with lantern jaw and an impaired digestion finds no Juliet to match
his love.</p>
<p>Fate, with that playfulness which some take too seriously or quite
amiss, set her queer stage as long ago as 1838 for the comedy of certain
lives, and rang up the curtain one dark evening on no fitter scene than
the high road from Gateshead to Durham. It was raining hard, and
a fresh breeze from the south-east swept a salt rime from the North
Sea across a tract of land as bare and bleak as the waters of that grim
ocean. A hard, cold land this, where the iron that has filled
men’s purses has also entered their souls.</p>
<p>There had been a great meeting at Chester-le-Street of those who
were at this time beginning to be known as Chartists, and, the Act having
been lately passed that torchlight meetings were illegal, this assembly
had gathered by the light of a waning moon long since hidden by the
clouds. Amid the storm of wind and rain, orators had expounded
views as wild as the night itself, to which the hard-visaged sons of
Northumbria had listened with grunts of approval or muttered words of
discontent. A dangerous game to play - this stirring up of the
people’s heart, and one that may at any moment turn to the deepest
earnest.</p>
<p>Few thought at this time that the movement awakening in the working
centres of the North and Midlands was destined to spread with the strange
rapidity of popular passion - to spread and live for a decade.
Few of the Chartists expected to see the fulfilment of half of their
desires. Yet, to-day, a moiety of the People’s Charter has
been granted. These voices crying in the night demanded an extended
suffrage, vote by ballot, and freedom for rich and poor alike to sit
in Parliament. Within the scope of one reign these demands have
been granted.</p>
<p>The meeting at Chester-le-Street was no different from a hundred
others held in England at the same time. It was illegal, and yet
the authorities dared not to pronounce it so. It might prove dangerous
to those taking part in it. Lawyers said that the leaders laid
themselves open to the charge of high treason. In this assembly
as in others there were wirepullers - men playing their own game, and
from the safety of the rear pushing on those in front. With one
of these we have to do. With his mistake Fate raised the curtain,
and on the horizon of several lives arose a cloud no bigger than a man’s
hand.</p>
<p>Geoffrey Horner lived before his time, insomuch as he was a gentleman-Radical.
He was clever, and the world heeded not. He was brilliant, well
educated, capable of great achievements, and the world refused to be
astonished. Here were the makings of a malcontent. A well-born
Radical is one whom the world has refused to accept at his own valuation.
A wise man is ready to strike a bargain with Fate. The wisest
are those who ask much and then take half. It is the coward who
asks too little, and the fool who imagines that he will receive without
demanding.</p>
<p>Horner had thrown in his lot with the Chartists in that spirit of
pique which makes a man marry the wrong woman because the right one
will have none of him. At the Chester-le-Street meeting he had
declared himself an upholder of moral persuasion, while in his heart
he pandered to those who knew only of physical force and placed their
reliance thereon. He had come from Durham with a contingent of
malcontents, and was now returning thither on foot in company with the
local leaders. These were intelligent mechanics seeking clumsily
and blindly enough what they knew to be the good of their fellows.
At their heels tramped the rank and file of the great movement.
The assembly was a subtle foreshadowing of things to come - of Newport
and the march of twenty thousand men, of violence and bloodshed, of
strife between brethren, and of justice nonplussed and hesitating.</p>
<p>The toil-worn miners were mostly silent, their dimly enlightened
intellects uneasily stirred by the words they had lately heard - their
stubborn hearts full of a great hope with a minute misgiving at the
back of it. With this dangerous material Geoffrey Horner proposed
to play his game.</p>
<p>Suddenly a voice was raised.</p>
<p>‘Mates,’ it cried, at the cross-roads, ‘let’s
go and smash Pleydell’s windows!’</p>
<p>And a muttered acquiescence to the proposal swept through the moving
mass like a sullen breeze through reeds.</p>
<p>The desire for action rustled among these men of few words and mighty
arms.</p>
<p>Horner hurriedly consulted his colleagues. Was it wise to attempt
to exert an authority which was merely nominal? The principles
of Chartism were at this time to keep within the limits of the law,
and yet to hint, when such a course was safe, that stronger measures
lay behind mere words. Their fatal habit was to strike softly.</p>
<p>In peace and war, at home and abroad, there is but one humane and
safe rule: Hesitate to strike - strike hard.</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell was a member of that Parliament which had treated
the Charter with contempt. He was one of those who had voted with
the majority against the measures it embodied.</p>
<p>In addition to these damnatory facts, he was a local Tory of some
renown - an ambitious man, the neighbours said, who wished to leave
his son a peerage.</p>
<p>To the minds of the rabble this magnate represented the tyranny against
which their protest was raised. Geoffrey Horner looked on him
as a political opponent and a dangerous member of the winning party.
The blow was easy to strike. Horner hesitated - at the cross roads
of other lives than his own - and held his tongue.</p>
<p>The suggestion of the unknown humorist in the crowd commended itself
to the more energetic of the party, who immediately turned towards the
by-road leading to Dene Hall. The others - the minority - followed
as minorities do, because they distrusted themselves. Some one
struck up a song with words lately published in the ‘Northern
Liberator’ and set to a well-known local air.</p>
<p>The shooting party assembled at Dene Hall was still at the dinner
table when the malcontents entered the park, and the talk of coverts
and guns ceased suddenly at the sound of their rough voices. Sir
John Pleydell, an alert man still, despite his grey hair and drawn,
careworn face, looked up sharply. He had been sitting silently
fingering the stem of his wineglass - a habit of his when the ladies
quitted the room - and, although he had shot as well as, perhaps better
than, any present, had taken but little part in the conversation.
He had, in fact, only half listened, and when a rare smile passed across
his grey face it invariably owed its existence to some sally made by
his son, Alfred Pleydell, gay, light-hearted, <i>débonnaire</i>,
at the far end of the table. When Sir John’s thoughtful
eyes rested on his motherless son, a dull and suppressed light gleamed
momentarily beneath his heavy lids. Superficial observers said
that John Pleydell was an ambitious man; ‘not for himself,’
added the few who saw deeper.</p>
<p>When his quick mind now took in the import of the sound that broke
the outer silence of the night, Sir John’s glance sought his son’s
face. In moments of alarm the glance flies to where the heart
is.</p>
<p>‘What is that?’ asked Alfred Pleydell, standing up.</p>
<p>‘The Chartists,’ said Sir John.</p>
<p>Alfred looked round. He was a soldier, though the ink had hardly
dried upon the parchment that made him one - the only soldier in the
room.</p>
<p>‘We are eleven here,’ he said, ‘and two men downstairs
- some of you fellows have your valets too - say fifteen in all.
We cannot stand this, you know. ‘</p>
<p>As he spoke the first volley of stones crashed through the windows,
and the broken glass rattled to the floor behind the shutters.
The cries of the ladies in the drawing-room could be heard, and all
the men sprang to their feet. With blazing eyes Alfred Pleydell
ran to the door, but his father was there before him.</p>
<p>‘Not you,’ said the elder man, quiet but a little paler
than usual; ‘I will go and speak to them. They will not
dare to touch me. They are probably running away by this time.
‘</p>
<p>‘Then we’ll run after ’em,’ answered Alfred
with a fine spirit, and something in his attitude, in the ring of his
voice, awoke that demon of combativeness which lies dormant in men of
the Anglo-Saxon race.</p>
<p>‘Come on, you fellows!’ cried the boy with a queer glad
laugh, and without knowing that he did it Sir John stood aside, his
heart warm with a sudden pride, his blood stirred by something that
had not moved it these thirty years. The guests crowded out of
the room - old men who should have known better - laughing as they threw
aside their dinner napkins. What a strange thing is man, peaceful
through long years, and at a moment’s notice a mere fighting devil.</p>
<p>‘Come on, we’ll teach them to break windows!’ repeated
Alfred Pleydell, running to the stick rack. The rain rattled on
the skylight of the square hall, and the wind roared down the open chimney.
Among the men hastily arming themselves with heavy sticks and cramming
caps upon their heads were some who had tasted of rheumatism, but they
never thought of an overcoat.</p>
<p>‘We’ll know each other by our shirt fronts,’ said
a quiet man who was standing on a chair in order to reach an Indian
club suspended on the wall.</p>
<p>Alfred was at the door leading through to the servants’ quarters,
and his summons brought several men from the pantry and kitchens.</p>
<p>‘Come on!’ he cried, ‘take anything you can find
- stick or poker - yes, and those old guns, use ’em like a club,
hit very hard and very often. We’ll charge the devils -
there’s nothing like a charge - come on!’</p>
<p>And he was already out of the door with a dozen at his heels.</p>
<p>The change from the lighted rooms to the outer darkness made them
pause a moment, during which time the defenders had leisure to group
themselves around Alfred Pleydell. A hoarse shout, which indeed
drowned Geoffrey Horner’s voice, showed where the assailants stood.
Horner had found his tongue after the first volley of stones.
It was the policy of the Chartist leaders and wirepullers to suggest
rather than demonstrate physical force. Enough had been done to
call attention to the Chester-le-Street meeting, and give it the desired
prominence in the eyes of the nation.</p>
<p>‘Get back, go to your homes!’ he was shouting, with upraised
arms, when the hoarse cry of his adherents and the flood of light from
the opened door made him turn hastily. In a moment he saw the
meaning of this development, but it was too late.</p>
<p>With a cheer, Alfred Pleydell, little more than a boy, led the charge,
and seeing Horner in front, ran at him with upraised stick. Horner
half warded the blow, which came whistling down his own stick and paralysed
his thumb. He returned the stroke with a sudden fury, striking
Pleydell full on the head. Then, because he had a young wife and
child at home, he pushed his way through the struggling crowd, and ran
away in the darkness. As he ran he could hear his late adherents
dispersing in all directions, like sheep before a dog. He heard
a voice calling:</p>
<p>‘Alfred! Alfred!’</p>
<p>And Horner, who an hour - nay, ten minutes - earlier had had no thought
of violence, ran his fastest along the road by which he had lately come.
His heart was as water within his breast, and his staring eyes played
their part mechanically. He did not fall, but he noted nothing,
and had no knowledge whither he was running.</p>
<p>Alfred Pleydell lay quite still on the lawn in front of his father’s
house.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER II. ANOTHER REAPETH.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt.’</i></p>
<p>During the course of a harum-scarum youth in the city of Dublin certain
persons had been known to predict that Mr. Frederick Conyngham had a
future before him. Mostly pleasant-spoken Irish persons these,
who had the racial habit of saying that which is likely to be welcome.
Many of them added, ‘the young divil,’ under their breath,
in a pious hope of thereby cleansing their souls from guilt.</p>
<p>‘I suppose I’m idle, and what is worse, I know I’m
a fool,’ said Conyngham himself to his tutor when that gentleman,
with a toleration which was undeserved, took him severely to task before
sending him up for the Bar examination. The tutor said nothing,
but he suspected that this, his wildest pupil, was no fool. Truth
to tell, Frederick Conyngham had devoted little thought to the matter
of which he spoke, namely, himself, and was perhaps none the worse for
that. A young man who thinks too often usually falls into the
error of also thinking too much, of himself.</p>
<p>The examination was, however, safely passed, and in due course Frederick
was called to the Irish Bar, where a Queen’s Counsel, with an
accent like rich wine, told him that he was now a gintleman, and entitled
so to call himself.</p>
<p>All these events were left behind, and Conyngham, sitting alone in
his rooms in Norfolk Street, Strand, three days after the breaking of
Sir John Pleydell’s windows, was engaged in realising that the
predicted future was still in every sense before him, and in nowise
nearer than it had been in his mother’s lifetime.</p>
<p>This realisation of an unpleasant fact appeared in no way to disturb
his equanimity, for, as he knocked his pipe against the bars of the
fire, he murmured a popular air in a careless voice. The firelight
showed his face to be pleasant enough in a way that left the land of
his birth undoubted. Blue eyes, quick and kind; a square chin,
closely curling hair, and square shoulders bespoke an Irishman.
Something, however, in the cut of his lips - something close and firm
- suggested an admixture of Anglo-Saxon blood. The man looked
as if he might have had an English mother. It was perhaps this
formation of the mouth that had led those pleasant-spoken persons to
name to his relatives their conviction that Conyngham had a future before
him. The best liars are those who base their fancy upon fact.
They knew that the ordinary thoroughbred Irishman has usually a cheerful
enough life before him, but not that which is vaguely called a future.
Fred Conyngham looked like a man who could hold to his purpose, but
at this moment he also had the unfortunate appearance of not possessing
one to hold to.</p>
<p>He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and held the hot briar bowl against
the ear of a sleeping fox terrier, which animal growled, without moving,
in a manner that suggested its possession of a sense of humour and a
full comprehension of the harmless practical joke.</p>
<p>A moment later the dog sat up and listened with an interest that
gradually increased until the door opened and Geoffrey Horner came into
the room.</p>
<p>‘Faith, it’s Horner!’ said Conyngham. ‘Where
are you from?’</p>
<p>‘The North.’</p>
<p>‘Ah - sit down. What have you been doing up there - tub-thumping?’</p>
<p>Horner came forward and sat down in the chair indicated. He
looked five years older than when he had last been there. Conyngham
glanced at his friend, who was staring into the fire.</p>
<p>‘Edith all right?’ he asked carelessly.</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>‘And - the little chap?’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>Conyngham glanced at his companion again. Horner’s eyes
had the hard look that comes from hopelessness; his lips were dry and
white. He wore the air of one whose stake in the game of life
was heavy, who played that game nervously. For this was an ambitious
man with wife and child whom he loved. Conyngham’s attitude
towards Fate was in strong contrast. He held his head up and faced
the world without encumbrance, without a settled ambition, without any
sense of responsibility at all. The sharp-eyed dog on the hearthrug
looked from one to the other. A moment before, the atmosphere
of the room had been one of ease and comfortable assurance - an atmosphere
that some men, without any warrant or the justification of personal
success or distinction, seem to carry with them through life.
Since Horner had crossed the threshold the ceaseless hum of the streets
seemed to be nearer, the sound of it louder in the room; the restlessness
of that great strife stirred the air. The fox terrier laid himself
on the hearthrug again, but instead of sleeping watched his two human
companions.</p>
<p>Conyngham filled his pipe. He turned to the table where the
matchbox stood at his elbow, took it up, rattled it, and laid it down.
He pressed the tobacco hard with his thumb, and, turning to Horner,
said sharply:</p>
<p>‘What is it?’</p>
<p>‘I don’t know yet; ruin, I think.’</p>
<p>‘Nonsense, man!’ said Conyngham cheerily. ‘There
is no such thing in this world. At least, the jolliest fellows
I know are bankrupts, or no better. Look at me: never a brief;
literary contributions returned with thanks; balance at the bank, seventeen
pounds ten shillings; balance in hand, none; debts, the Lord only knows!
Look at me! I’m happy enough.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, you’re a lonely devil.’</p>
<p>Conyngham looked at his friend with inquiry in his gay eyes.</p>
<p>‘Ah! perhaps so. I live alone, if that is what you mean.
But as for being lonely - no, hang it! I have plenty of friends,
especially at dividend time.’</p>
<p>‘You have nobody depending on you,’ said Horner with
the irritability of sorrow.</p>
<p>‘Because nobody is such a fool. On the other hand, I
have nobody to care a twopenny curse what becomes of me. Same
thing, you see, in the end. Come, man, cheer up. Tell me
what is wrong. Seventeen pounds ten shillings is not exactly wealth,
but if you want it you know it is there, eh?’</p>
<p>‘I do not want it, thanks,’ replied the other.
‘Seventeen hundred would be no good to me. ‘</p>
<p>He paused, biting his under lip and staring with hard eyes into the
fire.</p>
<p>‘Read that,’ he said at length, and handed Conyngham
a cutting from a daily newspaper.</p>
<p>The younger man read, without apparent interest, an account of the
Chester-le-Street meeting, and the subsequent attack on Sir John Pleydell’s
house.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ he commented, ‘the usual thing. Brave
words followed by a cowardly deed. What in the name of fortune
you were doing in that <i>galère</i> you yourself know best.
If these are politics, Horner, I say drop them. Politics are a
stick, clean enough at the top, but you’ve got hold of the wrong
end. Young Pleydell was hurt, I see - “seriously, it is
feared.”’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Horner significantly; and his companion,
after a quick look of surprise, read the slip of paper carefully a second
time. Then he looked up and met Horner’s eyes.</p>
<p>‘Gad!’ he exclaimed in a whisper.</p>
<p>Horner said nothing. The dog moved restlessly, and for a moment
the whole world - that sleepless world of the streets - seemed to hold
its breath.</p>
<p>‘And if he dies,’ said Conyngham at length.</p>
<p>‘Exactly so,’ answered the other with a laugh - of scaffold
mirth.</p>
<p>Conyngham turned in his chair and sat with his elbows on his knees,
his face resting on his closed fists, staring at the worn old hearthrug.
Thus they remained for some minutes.</p>
<p>‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Horner at length.</p>
<p>‘Nothing - got nothing to think with. You know that,
Geoffrey. Wish I had - never wanted it as I do at this moment.
I’m no good, you know that. You must go to some one with
brains - some clever devil.’</p>
<p>As he spoke he turned and took up the paper again, reading the paragraph
slowly and carefully. Horner looked at him with a breathless hunger
in his eyes. At some moments it is a crime to think, for we never
know but that thought may be transmitted without so much as a whisper.</p>
<p>‘“The miners were accompanied by a gentleman from London,”’
Conyngham read aloud, ‘“a barrister, it is supposed, whose
speech was a feature of the Chester le-Street meeting. This gentleman’s
name is quite unknown, nor has his whereabouts yet been discovered.
His sudden disappearance lends likelihood to the report that this unknown
agitator actually struck the blow which injured Mr. Alfred Pleydell.
Every exertion is being put forth by the authorities to trace the man
who is possibly a felon and certainly a coward.”’</p>
<p>Conyngham laid aside the paper and again looked at Horner, who did
not meet his glance nor ask now of what he was thinking. Horner,
indeed, had his own thoughts, perhaps of the fireside - modest enough,
but happy as love and health could make it - upon which his own ambition
had brought down the ruins of a hundred castles in the air - thoughts
he scarce could face, no doubt, and yet had no power to drive away,
of the young wife whose world was that same fireside; of the child,
perhaps, whose coming had opened for a time the door of Paradise.</p>
<p>Conyngham broke in upon these meditations with a laugh.</p>
<p>‘I have it!’ he cried. ‘It’s as simple
as the alphabet. This paper says it was a barrister - a man from
London - a malcontent, a felon, a coward. Dammy, Geoff - that’s
me!’</p>
<p>He leapt to his feet. ‘Get out of the way, Tim!’
he cried to the dog, pushing the animal aside and standing on the hearthrug.</p>
<p>‘Listen to this,’ he went on. ‘This thing,
like the others, will blow over. It will be forgotten in a week.
Another meeting will be held - say in South Wales, more windows will
be broken, another young man’s head cracked, and Chester-le-Street
(God-forsaken place, never heard of it!) will be forgotten.’</p>
<p>Horner sat looking with hollow eyes at the young Irishman, his lips
twitching, his fingers interlocked - there is nothing makes so complete
a coward of a man as a woman’s love. Conyngham laughed as
the notion unfolded itself in his mind. He might, as he himself
had said, be of no great brain power, but he was at all events a man
and a brave one. He stood a full six foot, and looked down at
his companion, who sat whitefaced and shrinking.</p>
<p>‘It is quite easy,’ he said, ‘for me to disappear
in such a manner as to arouse suspicion. I have nothing to keep
me here; my briefs - well, the Solicitor-General can have ’em!
I have no ties - nothing to keep me in any part of the world.
When young Pleydell is on his feet again, and a few more windows have
been broken, and nine days have elapsed, the wonder will give place
to another, and I can return to my - practice.’</p>
<p>‘I couldn’t let you do it.’</p>
<p>‘Oh yes, you could,’ said Conyngham with the quickness
of his race to spy out his neighbour’s vulnerable point.
‘For the sake of Edith and the little devil.’</p>
<p>Horner sat silent, and after a moment Conyngham went on.</p>
<p>‘All we want to do is to divert suspicion from you now - to
put them on a false scent, for they must have one of some sort.
When they find that they cannot catch me they will forget all about
it.’</p>
<p>Horner shuffled in his seat. This was nothing but detection
of the thoughts that had passed through his own mind.</p>
<p>‘It is easily enough done,’ went on the Irishman.
‘A paragraph here and there in some of the newspapers; a few incriminating
papers left in these rooms, which are certain to be searched.
I have a bad name - an Irish dog goes about the world with a rope round
his neck. If I am caught it will not be for some time, and then
I can get out of it somehow - an alibi or something. I’ll
get a brief at all events. By that time the scent will be lost,
and it will be all right. Come, Geoff, cheer up! A man of
your sort ought not to be thrown by a mischance like this.’</p>
<p>He stood with his legs apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets,
a gay laugh on his lips, and much discernment in his eyes.</p>
<p>‘Oh, d---n Edith!’ he added after a pause, seeing that
his efforts met with no response. ‘D---n that child!
You used to have some pluck, Horner.’ Horner shook his head
and made no answer, but his very silence was a point gained. He
no longer protested nor raised any objection to his companion’s
hare-brained scheme. The thing was feasible, and he knew it.</p>
<p>Conyngham went on to set forth his plans, which with characteristic
rapidity of thought he evolved as he spoke.</p>
<p>‘Above all,’ he said, ‘we must be prompt.
I must disappear to-night, the paragraphs must be in to-morrow’s
papers. I think I’ll go to Spain. The Carlists seem
to be making things lively there. You know, Horner, I was never
meant for a wig and gown - there’s no doubt about that.
I shall have a splendid time of it out there - ’</p>
<p>He stopped, meeting a queer look in Horner’s eyes, who sat
leaning forward and searching his face with jealous glance.</p>
<p>‘I was wondering,’ said the other, with a pale smile,
‘if you were ever in love with Edith.’</p>
<p>‘No, my good soul, I was not,’ answered Conyngham, with
perfect carelessness, ‘though I knew her long before you did.’</p>
<p>He paused, and a quick thought flashed through his mind that some
men are seen at their worst in adversity. He was ready enough
to find excuses for Horner, for men are strange in the gift of their
friendship, often bestowing it where they know it is but ill deserved.</p>
<p>He rattled on with unbroken gaiety, unfolding plans which in their
perfection of detail suggested a previous experience in outrunning the
constable.</p>
<p>While they were still talking a mutual friend came in - a quick-spoken
man already beginning to be known as a journalist of ability.
They talked on indifferent topics for some time. Then the new-comer
said jerkily:</p>
<p>‘Heard the news?’</p>
<p>‘No,’ answered Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘Alfred Pleydell - young fellow who resisted the Chartist rioters
at Durham - died yesterday morning.’ Frederick Conyngham
had placed himself in front of Horner, who was still seated in the low
chair by the fire. He found Horner’s toe with his heel.</p>
<p>‘Is that so?’ he said gravely. ‘Then I’m
off.’</p>
<p>‘What do you mean?’ asked the journalist with a quick
look - the man had the manner of a ferret.</p>
<p>‘Nothing, only I’m off, that’s all, old man.
And I cannot ask you to stay this evening, you understand, because I
have to pack.’</p>
<p>He turned slowly on Horner, who had recovered himself, but still
had his hand over his face.</p>
<p>‘Got any money, Geoff?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘Yes, I have twenty pounds if you want it,’ answered
the other in a hoarse voice.</p>
<p>‘I do want it - badly.’</p>
<p>The journalist had taken up his hat and stick. He moved slowly
towards the door, and, there pausing, saw Horner pass the bank-notes
to Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘You had better go too,’ said the Irishman. ‘You
two are going in the same direction, I know.’</p>
<p>Horner rose, and, half laughing, Conyngham pushed him towards the
door.</p>
<p>‘See him home, Blake,’ he said. ‘Horner has
the blues to-night.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER III. LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘No one can be more wise than destiny.’</i></p>
<p>‘What are we waiting for? why, two more passengers - grand
ladies as they tell me - and the captain has gone ashore to fetch them,’
the first mate of the ‘Granville’ barque, of London, made
answer to Frederick Conyngham, and he breathed on his fingers as he
spoke, for the north-west wind was blowing across the plains of the
Medoc, and the sun had just set behind the smoke of Bordeaux.</p>
<p>The ‘Granville’ was lying at anchor in the middle of
the Garonne river, having safely discharged her deck cargo of empty
claret casks and landed a certain number of passengers. There
are few colder spots on the Continent than the sunny town of Bordeaux
when the west wind blows from Atlantic wastes in winter time.
A fine powder of snow scudded across the flat land, which presented
a bleak brown face, patched here and there with white. There were
two more passengers on board the ‘Granville,’ crouching
in the cabin - two French gentlemen who had taken passage from London
to Algeciras in Spain, on their way to Algiers.</p>
<p>Conyngham, with characteristic good-nature, had made himself so entirely
at home on board the Mediterranean trader that his presence was equally
welcomed in the forecastle and the captain’s cabin. Even
the first mate, his present interlocutor, a grim man given to muttered
abuse of his calling and a pious pessimism in respect to human nature,
gradually thawed under the influence of so cheerful an acceptance of
heavy weather and a clumsy deck cargo.</p>
<p>‘The ladies will be less trouble than the empty casks, at all
events,’ said Conyngham, ‘because they will keep below.’</p>
<p>The sailor shook his head forebodingly and took an heroic pinch of
snuff.</p>
<p>‘One’s as capable of carrying mischief as the other,’
he muttered in the bigoted voice of a married teetotaller.</p>
<p>The ship was ready for sea, and this mariner’s spirit was ever
uneasy and restless till the anchor was on deck and the hawser stowed.</p>
<p>‘There’s a boat leaving the quay now,’ he added.
‘Seems she’s lumbered up forr’ard wi’ women’s
hamper.’</p>
<p>And indeed the black form of a skiff so laden could be seen approaching
through the driving snow and gloom. The mate called to the steward
to come on deck, and this bearded servitor of dames emerged from the
galley with uprolled sleeves and a fine contempt for cold winds.
A boy went forward with a coil of rope on his arm, for the tide was
running hard and the Garonne is no ladies’ pleasure stream.
It is not an easy matter to board a ship in mid-current when tide and
wind are at variance, and the fingers so cold that a rope slips through
them like a log-line. The ‘Granville,’ having still
on board her cargo of coals for Algeciras, lay low in the water with
both her anchors out and the tide singing round her old-fashioned hempen
hawsers.</p>
<p>‘Now see ye throw a clear rope,’ shouted the mate to
the boy who had gone forward. The proximity of the land and the
approach of women - a <i>bête noire</i> no less dreaded - seemed
to flurry the brined spirit of the Granville’s’ mate.</p>
<p>Perhaps the knowledge that the end of a rope, not judged clear, would
inevitably be applied to his own person, shook the nerve of the boy
on the forecastle - perhaps his hands were cold and his faculties benumbed.
He cast a line which seemed to promise well at first. Two coils
of it unfolded themselves gracefully against the grey sky, and then
Confusion took the others for herself. A British oath from the
deck of the ship went out to meet a fine French explosion of profanity
from the boat, both forestalling the splash of the tangled rope into
the water under the bows of the ship, and a full ten yards out of the
reach of the man who stood, boathook in hand, ready to catch it.
There were two ladies in the stern of the boat, muffled up to the eyes,
and betokening by their attitude the hopeless despair and misery which
seize the southern fair the moment they embark in so much as a ferry
boat. The fore part of the heavy craft was piled up with trunks
and other impedimenta of a feminine incongruity. A single boatman
had rowed the boat from the shore, guiding it into mid-stream, and there
describing a circle calculated to insure a gentle approach on the lee
side. This man, having laid aside his oars, now stood, boathook
in hand, awaiting the inevitable crash. The offending boy in the
bows was making frantic efforts to haul in his misguided rope, but the
possibility of making a second cast was unworthy of consideration.
The mate muttered such a string of foreboding expletives as augured
ill for the delinquent. The boatman was preparing to hold on and
fend off at the same moment - a sudden gust of wind gave the boat a
sharp buffet just as the man grappled the mizzen-chains - he overbalanced
himself, fell, and recovered himself, but only to be jerked backwards
into the water by the boathook, which struck him in the chest.</p>
<p>‘<i>À moi</i>!’ cried the man, and disappeared
in the muddy water. He rose to the surface under the ship’s
quarter, and the mate, quick as lightning, dumped the whole coil of
the slack of the main sheet on to the top of him. In a moment
he was at the level of the rail, the mate and the steward hauling steadily
on the rope, to which he clung with the tenacity and somewhat the attitude
of a monkey. At the same instant a splash made the rescuers turn
in time to see Conyngham, whose coat lay thrown on the deck behind them,
rise to the surface ten yards astern of the ‘Granville’
and strike out towards the boat, now almost disappearing in the gloom
of night.</p>
<p>The water, which had flowed through the sunniest of the sunny plains
of France, was surprisingly warm, and Conyngham, soon recovering from
the shock of his dive, settled into a quick side-stroke. The boat
was close in front of him, and in the semi-darkness he could see one
of the women rise from her seat and make her way forward, while her
companion crouched lower and gave voice to her dismay in a series of
wails and groans. The more intrepid lady was engaged in lifting
one of the heavy oars, when Conyngham called out in French:</p>
<p>‘Courage, mesdames! I will be with you in a moment.’</p>
<p>Both turned, and the pallor of their faces shone whitely through
the gloom. Neither spoke, and in a few strokes Conyngham came
alongside. He clutched the gunwale with his right hand, and drew
himself breast high.</p>
<p>‘If these ladies,’ he said, ‘will kindly go to
the opposite side of the boat, I shall be able to climb in without danger
of upsetting.’</p>
<p>‘If mama inclines that way I think it will be sufficient,’
answered the muffled form which had made its way forward. The
voice was clear and low, remarkably self-possessed, and not without
a suggestion that its possessor bore a grudge against some person present.</p>
<p>‘Perhaps mademoiselle is right,’ said Conyngham with
becoming gravity, and the lady in the stern obeyed her daughter’s
suggestion, with the result anticipated. Indeed, the boat heeled
over with so much goodwill that Conyngham was lifted right out of the
water. He clambered on board and immediately began shivering,
for the wind cut like a knife.</p>
<p>The younger lady made her way cautiously back to the seat which she
had recently quitted, and began at once to speak very severely to her
mother. This stout and emotional person was swaying backwards
and forwards, and, in the intervals of wailing and groaning, called
in Spanish upon several selected saints to assist her. At times,
and apparently by way of a change, she appealed to yet higher powers
to receive her soul.</p>
<p>‘My mother,’ said the young lady to Conyngham, who had
already got the oars out, ‘has the heart of a rabbit, but - yes
- of a very young rabbit.’</p>
<p>‘Madame may rest assured that there is no danger,’ said
Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘Monsieur is an Englishman - ’</p>
<p>‘Yes, and a very cold one at the moment. If madame could
restrain her religious enthusiasm so much as to sit still, we should
make better progress.’</p>
<p>He spoke rather curtly, as if refusing to admit the advisability
of manning the boat with a crew of black-letter saints. The manner
in which the craft leapt forward under each stroke of the oars testified
to the strength of his arms, and madame presently subsided into whispers
of thankfulness, having reason, it would seem, to be content with mere
earthly aid in lieu of that heavenly intervention which ladies of her
species summon at every turn of life.</p>
<p>‘I wish I could help you,’ said the younger woman presently,
in a voice and manner suggestive of an energy unusual to her countrywomen.
She spoke in French, but with an accent somewhat round and full, like
an English accent, and Conyngham divined that she was Spanish.
He thought also that under their outer wraps the ladies wore the mantilla,
and had that graceful carriage of the head which is only seen in the
Peninsula.</p>
<p>‘Thank you, mademoiselle, but I am making good progress now.
Can you see the ship?’</p>
<p>She rose and stood peering into the darkness ahead - a graceful,
swaying figure. A faint scent as of some flower was wafted on
the keen wind to Conyngham, who had already decided with characteristic
haste that this young person was as beautiful as she was intrepid.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘it is quite close.
They are also showing lights to guide us.’</p>
<p>She stood looking apparently over his head towards the ‘Granville,’
but when she spoke it would seem that her thoughts had not been fixed
on that vessel.</p>
<p>‘Is monsieur a sailor?’</p>
<p>‘No, but I fortunately have a little knowledge of such matters
- fortunate, since I have been able to turn it to the use of these ladies.’</p>
<p>‘But you are travelling in the “Granville.”’</p>
<p>‘Yes; I am travelling in the “Granville.”’</p>
<p>Over his oars Conyngham looked hard at his interlocutrice, but could
discern nothing of her features. Her voice interested him, however,
and he wondered whether there were ever calms on the coast of Spain
at this time of the year.</p>
<p>‘Our sailors,’ said the young lady, ‘in Spain are
brave, but they are very cautious. I think none of them would
have done such a thing as you have just done for us. We were in
danger. I knew it. Was it not so?’</p>
<p>‘The boat might have drifted against some ship at anchor and
been upset. You might also have been driven out to sea.
They had no boat on board the “Granville” ready to put out
and follow you.’</p>
<p>‘Yes; and you saved us. But you English are of a great
courage. And my mother, instead of thanking you, is offering her
gratitude to James and John the sons of Zebedee, as if they had done
it.’</p>
<p>‘I am no relation to Zebedee,’ said Conyngham with a
gay laugh. ‘Madame may rest assured of that.’</p>
<p>‘Julia,’ said the elder lady severely, and in a voice
that seemed to emanate from a chest as deep and hollow as an octave
cask, ‘I shall tell Father Concha, who will assuredly reprove
you. The saints upon whom I called were fishermen, and therefore
the more capable of understanding our great danger. As for monsieur,
he knows that he shall always be in my prayers.’</p>
<p>‘Thank you, madame,’ said Conyngham gravely.</p>
<p>‘And at a fitter time I hope to be able to tender him my thanks.’</p>
<p>At this moment a voice from the ‘Granville’ hailed the
boat, asking whether all was well and Mr. Conyngham on board.
Being reassured on this point, the mate apparently attended to another
matter requiring his attention, the mingled cries and expostulations
of the cabin boy sufficiently indicating its nature.</p>
<p>The boat, under Conyngham’s strong and steady strokes, now
came slowly and without mishap alongside the great black hull of the
vessel, and it soon became manifest that, although all danger was past,
there yet remained difficulty ahead; for when the boat was made fast
and the ladder lowered, the elder of the two ladies firmly and emphatically
denied her ability to make the ascent. The French boatman, shivering
in a borrowed great coat, and with a vociferation which flavoured the
air with cognac, added his entreaties to those of the mate and steward.
In the small boat Conyngham, in French, and the lady’s daughter,
in Spanish, represented that at least half of the heavenly host, having
intervened to save her from so great a peril as that safely passed through,
could surely accomplish this smaller feat with ease. But the lady
still hesitated, and the mate, having clambered down into the boat,
grabbed Conyngham’s arm with a large and not unkindly hand, and
pushed him forcibly towards the ladder.</p>
<p>‘You hadn’t got no business, Mr. Conyngham,’ he
said gruffly, ‘to leave the ship like that, and like as not you’ve
got your death of cold. Just you get aboard and leave these women
to me. You get to your bunk, mister, and stooard’ll bring
you something hot.’</p>
<p>There was nought but obedience in the matter, and Conyngham was soon
between the blankets, alternately shivering and burning in the first
stages of a severe chill.</p>
<p>The captain having come on board, the ‘Granville’ presently
weighed anchor, and on the bosom of an ebbing tide turned her blunt
prow towards the winter sea. The waves out there beat high, and
before the lights of Pauillac, then a mere cluster of fishers’
huts, had passed away astern, the good ship was lifting her bow with
a sense of anticipation, while her great wooden beams and knees began
to strain and creak.</p>
<p>During the following days, while the sense of spring and warmth slowly
gave life to those who could breathe the air on deck, Conyngham lay
in his little cabin and heeded nothing; for when the fever left him
he was only conscious of a great lassitude, and scarce could raise himself
to take such nourishment as the steward, with a rough but kindly skill,
prepared for him.</p>
<p>‘Why the deuce I ever came - why the deuce I ever went overboard
after a couple of señoras - I don’t know,’ he repeated
to himself during the hours of that long watch below.</p>
<p>Why, indeed? except that youth must needs go forth into the world
and play the only stake it owns there. Nor is Frederick Conyngham
the first who, having no knowledge of the game of life, throws all upon
the board to wait upon the hazard of a die.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER IV. LE PREMIER PAS.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Be as one that knoweth and yet holdeth his tongue.’</i></p>
<p>The little town of Algeciras lies, as many know, within sight of
Gibraltar, and separated from that stronghold by a broad bay.
It is on the mainland of Spain, and in direct communication by road
with the great port of Cadiz. Another road, little better than
a bridle-path, runs northward to Ximena and through the corkwood forests
of that plain towards the mountain ranges that rise between Ronda and
the sea.</p>
<p>By this bridle-path, it is whispered, a vast smuggled commerce has
ever found passage to the mainland, and scarce a boatman or passenger
lands at Algeciras from Gibraltar but carries somewhere on his person
as much tobacco as he may hope to conceal with safety. Algeciras,
with its fair white houses, its prim church, and sleepy quay, where
the blue waters lap and sparkle in innocent sunlight, is, it is to be
feared, a town of small virtue and the habitation of scoundrels.
For this is the stronghold of those contrabandistas whom song and legend
have praised as the boldest, the merriest, and most romantic of law-breakers.
Indeed, in this country the man who can boast of a smuggling ancestry
holds high his head and looks down on honest folk.</p>
<p>The ‘Granville’ having dropped anchor to the north of
the rough stone pier, was soon disburdened of her passengers - the ladies
going ashore with undisguised delight, and leaving behind them many
gracious messages of thanks to the gentleman whose gallantry had resulted
so disastrously; for Conyngham was still in bed, though now nearly recovered.
Truth to tell, he did not hurry to make his appearance in the general
cabin, and came on deck a few hours after the departure of the ladies,
whose gratitude he desired to avoid.</p>
<p>Two days of the peerless sunshine of these southern waters completely
restored him to health, and he prepared to go ashore. It was afternoon
when his boat touched the beach, and the idlers, without whom no Mediterranean
seaboard is complete, having passed the heat of the day in a philosophic
apathy amounting in many cases to a siesta, now roused themselves sufficiently
to take a dignified and indifferent interest in the new arrival.
A number of boys, an old soldier, several artillerymen from the pretty
and absolutely useless fort, a priest and a female vendor of oranges
put themselves out so much as to congregate in a little knot at the
spot where Conyngham landed.</p>
<p>‘Body of Bacchus!’ said the priest, with a pinch of snuff
poised before his long nose, ‘an Englishman - see his gold watch
chain.’</p>
<p>This remark called forth several monosyllabic sounds, and the onlookers
watched the safe discharge of Conyngham’s personal effects with
a characteristic placidity of demeanour which was at once tolerant and
gently surprised. That any one should have the energy to come
ashore when he was comfortable on board, or leave the shore when amply
provided there with sunshine, elbowroom, and other necessaries of life,
presented itself to them as a fact worthy of note but not of emulation.
The happiest man is he who has reduced the necessities of life to a
minimum.</p>
<p>No one offered to assist Conyngham. In Spain the onlooker keeps
his hands in his pockets.</p>
<p>‘The English, see you, travel for pleasure,’ said the
old soldier, nodding his head in the direction of Gibraltar, pink and
shimmering across the bay.</p>
<p>The priest brushed some stray grains of snuff from the front of his
faded cassock - once black, but now of a greeny brown. He was
a singularly tall man, gaunt and grey, with deep lines drawn downwards
from eye to chin. His mouth was large and tender, with a humorous
corner ever awaiting a jest. His eyes were sombre and deeply shaded
by grey brows, but one of them had a twinkle lurking and waiting, as
in the corner of his mouth.</p>
<p>‘Everyone stretches his legs according to the length of his
coverlet,’ he said, and, turning, he courteously raised his hat
to Conyngham, who passed at that moment on his way to the hotel.
The little knot of onlookers broke up, and the boys wandered towards
the fort, before the gate of which a game at bowls was in progress.</p>
<p>‘The Padre has a hungry look,’ reflected Conyngham.
‘Think I’ll invite him to dinner.’</p>
<p>For Geoffrey Horner had succeeded in conveying more money to the
man who had taken his sins upon himself, and while Conyngham possessed
money he usually had the desire to spend it.</p>
<p>Conyngham went to the Fonda de la Marina, which stands to-day - a
house of small comfort and no great outward cleanliness; but, as in
most Spanish inns, the performance was better than the promise, and
the bedroom offered to the traveller was nothing worse than bare and
ill furnished. With what Spanish he at this time possessed the
Englishman made known his wants, and inquired of the means of prosecuting
his journey to Ronda.</p>
<p>‘You know the Captain-General Vincente of Ronda?’ he
asked.</p>
<p>‘But. . . yes - by reputation. Who does not in Andalusia?’
replied the host, a stout man, who had once cooked for a military mess
at Gibraltar, and professed himself acquainted with the requirements
of English gentlemen.</p>
<p>‘I have a letter to General Vincente, and must go to Ronda
as soon as possible. These are stirring times in Spain.’</p>
<p>The man’s bland face suddenly assumed an air of cunning, and
he glanced over his shoulder to see that none overheard.</p>
<p>‘Your Excellency is right,’ he answered. ‘But
for such as myself one side is as good as another - is it not so?
Carlist or Christino - the money is the same.’</p>
<p>‘But here in the South there are no Carlists.’</p>
<p>‘Who knows?’ said the innkeeper with outspread hands.
‘Anything that his Excellency requires shall be forthcoming,’
he added grandiosely. ‘This is the dining-room, and here
at the side a little saloon where the ladies sit. But at present
we have only gentlemen in the hotel - it being the winter time.’</p>
<p>‘Then you have other guests?’ inquired Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘But. . . yes - always. In Algeciras there are always
travellers. Noblemen - like his Excellency - for pleasure.
Others - for commerce, the Government - the politics.’</p>
<p>‘No flies enter a shut mouth, my friend,’ said a voice
at the door, and both turned to see standing in the doorway the priest
who had witnessed Conyngham’s arrival.</p>
<p>‘Pardon, señor,’ said the old man, coming forward
with his shabby hat in his hand. ‘Pardon my interruption.
I came at an opportune moment, for I heard the word politics.’</p>
<p>He turned and shook a lean finger at the innkeeper, who was backing
towards the door with many bows.</p>
<p>‘Ah, bad Miguel,’ he said, ‘will you make it impossible
for gentlemen to put up at your execrable inn? The man’s
cooking is superior to his discretion, señor. I, too, am
a traveller, and for the moment a guest here. I have the honour.
My name is Concha - the Padre Concha - a priest, as you see.’</p>
<p>Conyngham nodded, and laughed frankly.</p>
<p>‘Glad to meet you,’ he said. ‘I saw you as
I came along. My name is Conyngham, and I am an Englishman, as
you hear. I know very little Spanish.’</p>
<p>‘That will come - that will come,’ said the priest, moving
towards the window. ‘Perhaps too soon, if you are going
to stay any length of time in this country. Let me advise you
- do not learn our language too quickly.’</p>
<p>He shook his head and moved towards the open window.</p>
<p>‘See to your girths before you mount, eh? Here is the
verandah, where it is pleasant in the afternoon. Shall we be seated?
That chair has but three legs - allow me! this one is better.’</p>
<p>He spoke with the grave courtesy of his countrymen. For every
Spaniard, even the lowest muleteer, esteems himself a gentleman, and
knows how to act as such. The Padre Concha had a pleasant voice,
and a habit of gesticulating slowly with one large and not too clean
hand, that suggested the pulpit. He had led the way to a spacious
verandah, where there were small tables and chairs, and at the outer
corners orange trees in square green boxes.</p>
<p>‘We will have a bottle of wine - is it not so? - yes,’
he said, and gravely clapped his hands together to summon the waiter
- an Oriental custom still in use in the Peninsula.</p>
<p>The wine was brought and duly uncorked, during which ceremony the
priest waited and watched with the preoccupied air of a host careful
for the entertainment of his guest. He tasted the wine critically.</p>
<p>‘It might be worse,’ he said. ‘I beg you
to excuse it not being better.’</p>
<p>There was something simple in the old man’s manner that won
Conyngham’s regard.</p>
<p>‘The wine is excellent,’ he said. ‘It is
my welcome to Spain.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! Then this is your first visit to this country,’
the priest said indifferently, his eyes wandering to the open sea, where
a few feluccas lay becalmed.</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>Conyngham turned and looked towards the sea also. It was late
in the afternoon, and a certain drowsiness of the atmosphere made conversation,
even between comparative strangers, a slower, easier matter than with
us in the brisk North. After a moment the Englishman turned with,
perhaps, the intention of studying his companion’s face, only
to find the deep grey eyes fixed on his own.</p>
<p>‘Spain,’ said the Padre, ‘is a wonderful country,
rich, beautiful, with a climate like none in Europe; but God and the
devil come to closer quarters here than elsewhere. Still for a
traveller, for pleasure, I think this country is second to none.’</p>
<p>‘I am not exactly a traveller for pleasure, my father.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ and Concha drummed idly on the table with his fingers.</p>
<p>‘I left England in haste,’ added Conyngham lightly.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’</p>
<p>‘And it will be inexpedient for me to return for some months
to come. I thought of taking service in the army, and have a letter
to General Vincente, who lives at Ronda, as I understand, sixty miles
from here across the mountains.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said the priest thoughtfully, ‘Ronda is
sixty miles from here - across the mountains.’</p>
<p>He was watching a boat which approached the shore from the direction
of Gibraltar. The wind having dropped, the boatmen had lowered
the sail and were now rowing, giving voice to a song which floated across
the smooth sea sleepily. It was an ordinary Algeciras wherry built
to carry a little cargo, and perhaps a dozen passengers, a fishing boat
that smelt strongly of tobacco. The shore was soon reached, and
the passengers, numbering half a dozen, stepped over the gunwale on
to a small landing stage. One of them was better dressed than
his companions, a smart man with a bright flower in the buttonhole of
his jacket, carrying the flowing cloak brightly lined with coloured
velvet without which no Spaniard goes abroad at sunset. He looked
towards the hotel, and was evidently speaking of it with a boatman whose
attitude was full of promise and assurance.</p>
<p>The priest rose and emptied his glass.</p>
<p>‘I must ask you to excuse me. Vespers wait for no man,
and I hear the bell,’ he said with a grave bow, and went indoors.</p>
<p>Left to himself, Conyngham lapsed into the easy reflections of a
man whose habit it is to live for the present, leaving the future and
the past to take care of themselves. Perhaps he thought, as some
do, that the past dies - which is a mistake. The past only sleeps,
and we carry it with us through life, slumbering. Those are wise
who bear it gently so that it may never be aroused.</p>
<p>The sun had set, and Gibraltar, a huge couchant lion across the bay,
was fading into the twilight of the East when a footstep in the dining-room
made Conyngham turn his head, half expecting the return of Father Concha.
But in the doorway, and with the evident intention of coming towards
himself, Conyngham perceived a handsome dark-faced man of medium height,
with a smart moustache brushed upward, clever eyes, and the carriage
of a soldier. This stranger unfolded his cloak, for in Spain it
is considered ill-mannered to address a stranger and remain cloaked.</p>
<p>‘Señor,’ he said, with a gesture of the hat, courteous
and yet manly enough to savour more of the camp than the court, ‘señor,
I understand you are journeying to Ronda.’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>‘I, too, intended to go across the mountains, and hoped to
arrive here in time to accompany friends who I learn have already started
on their journey. But I have received letters which necessitate
my return to Malaga. You have already divined that I come to ask
a favour.’</p>
<p>He brought forward a chair and sat down, drawing from his pocket
a silver cigarette case, which he offered to the Englishman. There
was a certain picturesqueness in the man’s attitude and manner.
His face and movements possessed a suggestion of energy which seemed
out of place here in the sleepy South, and stamped him as a native not
of dreamy Andalusia, but of La Mancha perhaps, where the wit of Spain
is concentrated, or of fiery Catalonia, where discontent and unrest
are in the very atmosphere of the brown hills. This was a Spanish
gentleman in the best sense of the word, as scrupulous in personal cleanliness
as any Englishman, polished, accomplished, bright and fascinating, and
yet carrying with him a subtle air of melancholy and romance which lingers
still among the men and women of aristocratic Spain.</p>
<p>‘’Tis but to carry a letter,’ he explained, ‘and
to deliver it into the hand of the person to whom it is addressed.
Ah, I would give five years of life to touch that hand with my lips.’</p>
<p>He sighed, gave a little laugh which was full of meaning, and yet
quite free from self-consciousness, and lighted a fresh cigarette.
Then, after a little pause, he produced the letter from an inner pocket
and laid it on the table in front of Conyngham. It was addressed,
‘To the Señorita J. B.,’ and had a subtle scent of
mignonette. The envelope was of a delicate pink.</p>
<p>‘A love letter,’ said Conyngham bluntly.</p>
<p>The Spaniard looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘Ah! you do not understand,’ he said, ‘in that
cold country of the North. If you stay in Spain, perhaps some
dark-eyed one will teach you. But,’ and his manner changed
with theatrical rapidity, as he laid his slim hand on the letter, ‘if,
when you see her you love her, I will kill you.’</p>
<p>Conyngham laughed and held out his hand for the letter.</p>
<p>‘It is insufficiently addressed,’ he said practically.
‘How shall I find the lady?’</p>
<p>‘Her name is Barenna, the Señorita Barenna; that is
sufficient in Ronda.’</p>
<p>Conyngham took up the letter and examined it. ‘It is
of importance?’ he said.</p>
<p>‘Of the utmost.’</p>
<p>‘And of value?’</p>
<p>‘Of the greatest value in the world to me.’</p>
<p>The Spaniard rose and took up his cloak, which he had thrown over
the back of the nearest chair, not forgetting to display a picturesque
corner of its bright lining.</p>
<p>‘You swear you will deliver it, only with your own hand, only
to the hand of the Señorita Barenna? And - you will observe
the strictest secrecy?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, yes,’ answered Conyngham carelessly, ‘if you
like.’</p>
<p>The Spaniard turned, and, leaning one hand on the table, looked almost
fiercely into his companion’s face. ‘You are an Englishman,’
he said, ‘and an Englishman’s word - is it not known all
the world over? In the North, in my country, where Wellington
fought, the peasants still say “word of an Englishman” instead
of an oath.’</p>
<p>He threw his cloak over his shoulder, and stood looking down at his
companion with a little smile as if he were proud of him.</p>
<p>‘There!’ he said. ‘Adios. My name is
Larralde, but that is of no consequence. Adios!’</p>
<p>With a courteous bow he took his leave, and Conyngham presently saw
him walking down to the landing stage. It seemed that this strange
visitor was about to depart as abruptly as he had come. Conyngham
rose and walked to the edge of the verandah, where he stood watching
the departure of the boat in which his new friend had taken passage.</p>
<p>While he was standing there, the old priest came quietly out of the
open window of the dining room. He saw the letter lying on the
table where Conyngham had left it. He approached, his shabby old
shoes making no sound on the wooden flooring, and read the address written
on the pink and scented envelope. When the Englishman at length
turned, he was alone on the verandah, with the wine bottle, the empty
glasses, and the letter.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER V. CONTRABAND.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘What rights are his that dares not strike for them?’</i></p>
<p>An hour before sunrise two horses stood shuffling their feet and
chewing their bits before the hotel of the Marina at Algeciras, while
their owner, a short and thick-set man of an exaggeratedly villanous
appearance, attended to such straps and buckles as he suspected of latent
flaws. The horses were lean and loose of ear, with a melancholy
thoughtfulness of demeanour that seemed to suggest the deepest misgivings
as to the future. Their saddles and other accoutrements were frankly
theatrical, and would have been at once the delight of an artist and
the despair of a saddler. Fringes and tassels of bright-coloured
worsted depended from points where fringes and tassels were distinctly
out of place. Where the various straps should have been strong
they looked weak, and scarce a buckle could boast an innocence of knotted
string. The saddles were of wood, and calculated to inflict serious
internal injuries to the rider in case of a fall. They stood at
least a foot above the horse’s backbone, raised on a thick cushion
upon the ribs of the animal, and leaving a space in the middle for the
secretion of tobacco and other contraband merchandise.</p>
<p>‘I’ll take the smallest cut-throat of the crew,’
Conyngham had said on the occasion of an informal parade of guides the
previous evening. And the host of the Fonda, in whose kitchen
the function had taken place, explained to Concepçion Vara that
the English Excellency had selected him on his - the host’s -
assurance that Algeciras contained no other so honest.</p>
<p>‘Tell him,’ answered Concepçion with a cigarette
between his lips and a pardonable pride in his eyes, ‘that my
grandfather was a smuggler and my father was shot by the Guardia Civil
near Algatocin.’</p>
<p>Concepçion, having repaired one girth and shaken his head
dubiously over another, lighted a fresh cigarette and gave a little
shiver, for the morning air was keen. He discreetly coughed.
He had seen Conyngham breakfasting by the light of a dim oil lamp of
a shape and make unaltered since the days of Nebuchadnezzar, and, without
appearing impatient, wished to convey to one gentleman the fact that
another awaited him.</p>
<p>Before long Conyngham appeared, having paid an iniquitous bill with
the recklessness that is only thoroughly understood by the poor.
He appeared as usual to be at peace with all men, and returned his guide’s
grave salutation with an easy nod.</p>
<p>‘These the horses?’ he inquired.</p>
<p>Concepçion Vara spread out his hands. ‘They have
no equal in Andalusia,’ he said.</p>
<p>‘Then I am sorry for Andalusia,’ answered Conyngham with
a pleasant laugh.</p>
<p>They mounted and rode away in the dim cool light of the morning.
The sea was of a deep blue, and rippled all over as in a picture.
Gibraltar, five miles away, loomed up like a grey cloud against the
pink of sunrise. The whole world wore a cleanly look as if the
night had been passed over its face like a sponge, wiping away all that
was unsightly or evil. The air was light and exhilarating, and
scented by the breath of aromatic weeds growing at the roadside.</p>
<p>Concepçion sang a song as he rode - a song almost as old as
his trade - declaring that he was a smuggler bold. And he looked
it, every inch. The road to Ronda lies through the cork woods
of Ximena, leaving St. Roque on the right hand - such at least was the
path selected by Conyngham’s guide; for there are many ways over
the mountains, and none of them to be recommended. Beguiling the
journey with cigarette and song, calling at every venta on the road,
exchanging chaff with every woman and a quick word with all men, Concepçion
faithfully fulfilled his contract, and, as the moon rose over the distant
snow-clad peaks of the Sierra Nevada, pointed forward to the lights
of Gaucin, a mountain village with an evil reputation.</p>
<p>The dawn of the next day saw the travellers in the saddle again,
and the road was worse than ever. A sharp ascent led them up from
Gaucin to regions where foliage grew scarcer at every step, and cultivation
was unknown. At one spot they turned to look back, and saw Gibraltar
like a tooth protruding from the sea. The straits had the appearance
of a river, and the high land behind Ceuta formed the farther bank of
it.</p>
<p>‘There is Africa,’ said Concepçion gravely, and
after a moment turned his horse’s head uphill again. The
people of these mountain regions were as wild in appearance as their
country. Once or twice the travellers passed a shepherd herding
sheep or goats on the mountain side, himself clad in goatskin, with
a great brown cloak floating from his shoulders - a living picture of
Ishmael or those sons of his who dwelt in the tents of Kedar.
A few muleteers drew aside to let the horses pass, and exchanged some
words in an undertone with Conyngham’s guide. Fine-looking
brigands were these, with an armoury of knives peeping from their bright-coloured
waistbands. The Andalusian peasant is for six days in the week
calculated to inspire awe by his clothing and general appearance.
Of a dark skin and hair, he usually submits his chin to the barber’s
office but once a week, and the timid traveller would do well to take
the road on Sundays only. Towards the end of the week, and notably
on a Saturday, every passer-by is an unshorn brigand capable of the
darkest deeds of villany, while twenty-four hours later the land will
be found to be peopled by as clean and honest and smart, and withal
as handsome, a race of men as any on earth.</p>
<p>Before long all habitations were left behind, and the horses climbed
from rock to rock like cats. There was no suggestion of pathway
or landmark, and Concepçion paused once or twice to take his
bearings. It was about two in the afternoon when, after descending
the bed of a stream long since dried up, Concepçion called a
halt, and proposed to rest the horses while he dined. As on the
previous day, the guide’s manner was that of a gentleman, conferring
a high honour with becoming modesty when he sat down beside Conyngham
and untied his small sack of provisions. These consisted of dried
figs and bread, which he offered to his companion before beginning to
eat. Conyngham shared his own stock of food with his guide, and
subsequently smoked a cigarette which that gentleman offered him.
They were thus pleasantly engaged when a man appeared on the rocks above
them in a manner and with a haste that spoke but ill of his honesty.
The guide looked up knife in hand, and made answer to a gesture of the
arm with his own hand upraised.</p>
<p>‘Who is this?’ said Conyngham. ‘Some friend
of yours? Tell him to keep his distance, for I don’t care
for his appearance.’</p>
<p>‘He is no friend of mine, Excellency. But the man is,
I dare say, honest enough. In these mountains it is only of the
Guardia Civil that one must beware. They have ever the finger
on the trigger and shoot without warning.’</p>
<p>‘Nevertheless,’ said the Englishman, now thoroughly on
the alert, ‘let him state his business at a respectable distance.
Ah! he has a comrade and two mules.’</p>
<p>And indeed a second man of equally unprepossessing exterior now appeared
from behind a great rock leading a couple of heavily laden mules.</p>
<p>Concepçion and the first traveller, who was now within a dozen
yards, were already exchanging words in a patois not unlike the Limousin
dialect, of which Conyngham understood nothing.</p>
<p>‘Stop where you are,’ shouted the Englishman in Spanish,
‘or else I shoot you! If there is anything wrong, Señor
Vara,’ he added to the guide, ‘I shoot you first, understand
that.’</p>
<p>‘He says,’ answered Concepçion with dignity, ‘that
they are honest traders on the road to Ronda, and would be glad of our
company. His Excellency is at liberty to shoot if he is so disposed.’</p>
<p>Conyngham laughed.</p>
<p>‘No,’ he answered, ‘I am not anxious to kill any
man, but each must take care of himself in these times.’</p>
<p>‘Not against an honest smuggler.’</p>
<p>‘Are these smugglers?’</p>
<p>‘They speak as such. I know them no more than does his
Excellency.’</p>
<p>The second new-comer was now within hail, and began at once to speak
in Spanish. The tale he told was similar in every way to that
translated by Concepçion from the Limousin dialect.</p>
<p>‘Why should we not travel together to Ronda?’ he said,
coming forward with an easy air of confidence, which was of better effect
than any protestation of honesty. He had a quiet eye, and the
demeanour of one educated to loftier things than smuggling tobacco across
the Sierra, though indeed, he was no better clad than his companion.
The two guides instinctively took the road together, Concepçion
leading his horse, for the way was such that none could ride over it.
Conyngham did the same, and his companion led the mule by a rope, as
is the custom in Andalusia.</p>
<p>The full glare of the day shone down on them, the bare rock giving
back a puff of heat that dried the throat. Conyngham was tired
and not too trustful of his companion, who, indeed, seemed to be fully
occupied with his own thoughts. They had thus progressed a full
half-hour when a shout from the rocks above caused them to halt suddenly.
The white linen head coverings of the Guardia Civil and the glint of
the sun on their accoutrements showed at a glance that this was not
a summons to be disregarded.</p>
<p>In an instant Concepçion’s companion was leaping from
rock to rock with an agility only to be acquired in the hot fear of
death. A report rang out and echoed among the hills. A bullet
went ‘splat’ against a rock near at hand, making a frayed
blue mark upon the grey stone. The man dodged from side to side
in the panic-stricken irresponsibility of a rabbit seeking covert where
none exists. There was not so much as to hide his head.
Conyngham looked up towards the foe in time to see a puff of white smoke
thrown up against the steely sky. A second report, and the fugitive
seemed to trip over a stone. He recovered himself, stood upright
for a moment, gave a queer spluttering cough, and sat slowly down against
a boulder.</p>
<p>‘He is killed!’ said Concepçion, throwing down
his cigarette. ‘Mother of God! these Guardias Civiles!’</p>
<p>The two guards came clambering down the face of the rock. Concepçion
glanced at his late companion writhing in the sharpness of death.</p>
<p>‘Here or at Ronda, to-day, or to-morrow, what matters it?’
muttered the quiet-eyed man at Conyngham’s side. The Englishman
turned and looked at him.</p>
<p>‘They will shoot me too, but not now.’</p>
<p>Concepçion sullenly awaited the arrival of the guards.
These men ever hunt in couples of a widely different age, for the law
has found that an old head and a young arm form the strongest combination.
The elder of the two had the face of an old grey wolf. He muttered
some order to his companion, and went towards the mule. He cut
away the outer covering of the burden suspended from the saddle, and
nodded his head wisely. These were boxes of cartridges to carry
one thousand each. The grey old man turned and looked at him who
lay on the ground.</p>
<p>‘A la longa,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘In
the long run, Antonio.’</p>
<p>The man gave a sickly grin and opened his mouth to speak, but his
jaw dropped instead, and he passed across that frontier which is watched
by no earthly sentinel.</p>
<p>‘This gentleman,’ said the quiet-eyed man, whose guide
had thus paid for his little mistake in refusing to halt at the word
of command, ‘is a stranger to me - an Englishman, I think.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ answered Conyngham.</p>
<p>The old soldier looked from one to the other.</p>
<p>‘That may be,’ he said, ‘but he sleeps in Ronda
prison to-night. To-morrow the Captain-General will see to it.’</p>
<p>‘I have a letter to the Captain-General,’ said Conyngham,
who drew from his pocket a packet of papers. Among these was the
pink scented envelope given to him by the man called Larralde at Algeciras.
He had forgotten its existence, and put it back in his pocket with a
smile. Having found that for which he sought, he gave it to the
soldier, who read the address in silence and returned the letter.</p>
<p>‘You I know,’ he said, turning to the man at Conyngham’s
side, who merely shrugged his shoulders. ‘And Concepçion
Vara, we all know him.’</p>
<p>Concepçion had lighted a cigarette, and was murmuring a popular
air with the indifferent patience and the wandering eye of perfect innocence.
The old soldier turned and spoke in an undertone to his comrade, who
went towards the dead man and quietly covered his face with the folds
of his own faja or waistcloth. This he weighted at the corners
with stones, carrying out this simple office to the dead with a suggestive
indifference. To this day the Guardias Civiles have plenary power
to shoot whomsoever they think fit - flight and resistance being equally
fatal.</p>
<p>No more heeding the dead body of the man whom he had shot than he
would have heeded the carcase of a rat, the elder of the two soldiers
now gave the order to march, commanding Concepçion to lead the
way.</p>
<p>‘It will not be worth your while to risk a bullet by running
away,’ he said. ‘This time it is probably a matter
of a few pounds of tobacco only.’</p>
<p>The evening had fallen ere the silent party caught sight of the town
of Ronda, perched, as the Moorish strongholds usually are, on a height.
Ronda, as history tells, was the last possession of the brave and gifted
Moslems in Spain. The people are half Moorish still, and from
the barred windows look out deep almond eyes and patient faces that
have no European feature. The narrow streets were empty as the
travellers entered the town, and the clatter of the mules slipping and
stumbling on the cobble stones brought but few to the doors of the low-built
houses. To enter Ronda from the south the traveller must traverse
the Moorish town, which is divided from the Spanish quarter by a cleft
in the great rock that renders the town impregnable to all attack.
Having crossed the bridge spanning the great gorge into which the sun
never penetrates even at midday, the party emerged into the broader
streets of the more modern town, and, turning to the right through a
high gateway, found themselves in a barrack yard of the Guardias Civiles.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VI. AT RONDA.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Le plus grand art d’un habile homme est celui de
savoir cacher son habileté.’</i></p>
<p>When Conyngham awoke after a night conscientiously spent in that
profound slumber which waits on an excellent digestion and a careless
heart, he found the prison attendant at his bedside. A less easy-going
mind would perhaps have leapt to some nervous conclusion at the sight
of this fierce-visaged janitor, who, however, carried nothing more deadly
in his hand than a card.</p>
<p>‘It is the Captain-General,’ said he, ‘who calls
at this early hour. His Excellency’s letter has been delivered,
and the Captain-General scarce waited to swallow his morning chocolate.’</p>
<p>‘Very much to the Captain-General’s credit,’ returned
Conyngham rising. ‘Cold water,’ he went on, ‘soap,
a towel, and my luggage - and then the Captain-General.’</p>
<p>The attendant, with an odd smile, procured the necessary articles,
and when the Englishman was ready led the way downstairs. He was
a solemn man from Galicia, this, where they do not smile.</p>
<p>In the patio of the great house, once a monastery, now converted
into a barrack for the Guardias Civiles, a small man of fifty years
or more stood smoking a cigarette. On perceiving Conyngham he
came forward with outstretched hand and a smile which can only be described
as angelic. It was a smile at once sympathetic and humorous, veiling
his dark eyes between lashes almost closed, parting moustached lips
to disclose a row of pearly teeth.</p>
<p>‘My dear sir,’ said General Vincente in very tolerable
English, ‘I am at your feet. That such a mistake should
have been made in respect to the bearer of a letter of introduction
from my old friend General Watterson - we fought together in Wellington’s
day - that such a mistake should have occurred overwhelms me with shame.’</p>
<p>He pressed Conyngham’s hand in both of his, which were small
and white - looked up into his face, stepped back and broke into a soft
laugh. Indeed his voice was admirably suited to a lady’s
drawing-room, and suggested nought of the camp or battle field.
From the handkerchief which he drew from his sleeve and passed across
his white moustache a faint scent floated on the morning air.</p>
<p>‘Are you General Vincente?’ asked Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘Yes - why not?’ And in truth the tone of the Englishman’s
voice had betrayed a scepticism which warranted the question.</p>
<p>‘It is very kind of you to come so early. I have been
quite comfortable, and they gave me a good supper last night,’
said Conyngham. ‘Moreover, the Guardias Civiles are in no
way to blame for my arrest. I was in bad company, it seems.’</p>
<p>‘Yes; your companions were engaged in conveying ammunition
to the Carlists; we have wanted to lay our hands upon them for some
weeks. They have carried former journeys to a successful termination.’</p>
<p>He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘The guide, Antonio something-or-other, died, as I understand.’</p>
<p>‘Well, yes; if you choose to put it that way,’ admitted
Conyngham.</p>
<p>The General raised his eyebrows in a gentle grimace expressive of
deprecation, with, as it were, a small solution of sympathy, indicated
by a moisture of the eye, for the family of Antonio something-or-other
in their bereavement.</p>
<p>‘And the other man? Seemed a nice enough fellow. . .’
inquired Conyngham.</p>
<p>The General raised one gloved hand as if to fend off some approaching
calamity.</p>
<p>‘He died this morning - at six o’clock.’</p>
<p>Conyngham looked down at this gentle soldier with a dawning light
of comprehension. This might after all be the General Vincente
whom he had been led to look upon as the fiercest of the Spanish Queen’s
adherents.</p>
<p>‘Of the same complaint?’</p>
<p>‘Of the same complaint,’ answered the General softly.
He slipped his hand within Conyngham’s arm, and thus affectionately
led him across the patio towards the doorway where sentinels stood at
attention. He acknowledged the attitude of his subordinates by
a friendly nod; indeed, this rosy-faced warrior seemed to brim over
with the milk of human kindness.</p>
<p>‘The English,’ he said, pressing his companion’s
arm, ‘have been too useful to us for me to allow one of them to
remain a moment longer in confinement. You say you were comfortable.
I hope they gave you a clean towel and all that.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, thanks,’ answered Conyngham, suppressing a desire
to laugh.</p>
<p>‘That is well. Ronda is a pleasant place, as you will
find. Most interesting - Moorish remains, you understand.
I will send my servant for your baggage, and of course my poor house
is at your disposal. You will stay with me until we can find some
work for you to do. You wish to take service with us, of course?’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ answered Conynghamn. ‘Rather thought
of it - if you will have me.’</p>
<p>The General glanced up at his stalwart companion with a measuring
eye.</p>
<p>‘My house,’ he said, in a conversational way, as if only
desirous of making matters as pleasant as possible in a life which nature
had intended to be peaceful and sunny, and perhaps trifling, but which
the wickedness of men had rendered otherwise, ‘my house is, as
you would divine, only an official residence, but pleasant enough -
pleasant enough. The garden is distinctly tolerable; there are
orange trees now in bloom - so sweet of scent.’</p>
<p>The street into which they had now emerged was no less martial in
appearance than the barrack yard, and while he spoke the General never
ceased to dispense his kindly little nod on one side or the other in
response to military salutations.</p>
<p>‘We have quite a number of soldiers in Ronda at present,’
he said, with an affectionate little pressure of Conyngham’s arm,
as if to indicate his appreciation of such protection amid these rough
men. ‘There is a great talk of some rising in the South
- in Andalusia - to support Señor Cabrera, who continually threatens
Madrid. A great soldier, they tell me, this Cabrera, but not -
well, not perhaps quite, eh? - a caballero, a gentleman. A pity,
is it not?’</p>
<p>‘A great pity,’ answered Conyngham, taking the opportunity
at last afforded him of getting a word in.</p>
<p>‘One must be prepared,’ went on the General with a good-natured
little sigh, ‘for such measures. There are so many mistaken
enthusiasts - is it not so? Such men as your countryman, Señor
Flinter. There are so many who are stronger Carlists than Don
Carlos himself, eh?’</p>
<p>The secret of conversational success is to defer to one’s listener.
A clever man imparts information by asking questions, and obtains it
without doing so.</p>
<p>‘This is my poor house,’ continued the soldier, and as
he spoke he beamed on the sentries at the door. ‘I am a
widower, but God has given me a daughter who is now of an age to rule
my household. Estella will endeavour to make you comfortable,
and an Englishman - a soldier - will surely overlook some small defects.’</p>
<p>He finished with a good-natured laugh. There was no resisting
the sunny good-humour of this little officer, or the gladness of his
face. His attitude towards the world was one of constant endeavour
to make things pleasant, and acquit himself to his best in circumstances
far beyond his merits or capabilities. He was one who had had
good fortune all his days. Those who have greatness thrust upon
them are never much impressed by their burden. And General Vincente
had the air of constantly assuring his subordinates that they need not
mind him.</p>
<p>The house to which he conducted Conyngham stood on the broad main
street, immediately opposite a cluster of shops where leather bottles
were manufactured and sold. It was a large gloomy house with a
patio devoid of fountain and even of the usual orange trees in green
boxes.</p>
<p>‘Through there is the garden - most pleasant and shady,’
said the General, indicating a doorway with the riding-whip he carried.</p>
<p>A troop of servants awaited them at the foot of the broad Moorish
staircase open on one side to the patio and heavily carved in balustrade
and cornice. These gentlemen bowed gravely - indeed, they were
so numerous that the majority of them must have had nothing to do but
cultivate this dignified salutation.</p>
<p>‘The señorita?’ inquired the General.</p>
<p>‘The señorita is in the garden, Excellency,’ answered
one with the air of a courtier.</p>
<p>‘Then let us go there at once,’ said General Vincente,
turning to Conyngham, and gripping his arm affectionately.</p>
<p>They passed through a doorway whither two men had hurried to open
the heavy doors, and the scent of violets and mignonette, of orange
in bloom, and of a hundred opening buds swept across their faces.
The brilliant sunlight almost dazzled eyes that had grown accustomed
to the cool shade of the patio, for Ronda is one of the sunniest spots
on earth, and here the warmth is rarely oppressive. The garden
was Moorish, and running water in aqueducts of marble, yellow with stupendous
age, murmured in the shade of tropical plants. A fountain plashed
and chattered softly, like the whispering of children. The pathways
were paved with a fine white gravel of broken marble. There was
no weed amid the flowers. It seemed a paradise to Conyngham, fresh
from the grey and mournful northern winter, and no part of this weary,
busy world. For here were rest and silence, and that sense of
eternity which is only conveyed by the continuous voice of running or
falling water. It was hard to believe that this was real and earthly.
Conyngham rubbed his eyes and instinctively turned to look at his companion,
who was as unreal as his surroundings - a round-faced, chubby little
man, with a tender mouth and moist dark eyes looking kindly out upon
the world, who called himself General Vincente; and the name was synonymous
in all Spain with bloodthirstiness and cruelty, with daring and an unsparing
generalship.</p>
<p>‘Come,’ said he, ‘let us look for Estella.’</p>
<p>He led the way along a path winding among almond and peach trees
in full bloom, in the shadow of the weird eucalyptus and the feathery
pepper tree. Then with a little word of pleasure he hurried forward.
Conyngham caught sight of a black dress and a black mantilla, of fair
golden hair, and a fan upraised against the rays of the sun.</p>
<p>‘Estella, here is a guest: Mr. Conyngham, one of the brave
Englishmen who remember Spain in her time of trouble.’</p>
<p>Conyngham bowed with a greater ceremony than we observe to-day, and
stood upright to look upon that which was for him from that moment the
fairest face in the world. As, to some men, success or failure
seems to come early and in one bound, so, for some, Love lies long in
ambush, to shoot at length a single and certain shaft. Conyngham
looked at Estella Vincente, his gay blue eyes meeting her dark glance
with a frankness which was characteristic, and knew from that instant
that his world held no other woman. It came to him as a flash
of lightning that left his former life grey and neutral, and yet he
was conscious of no surprise, but rather of a feeling of having found
something which he had long sought.</p>
<p>The girl acknowledged his salutation with a little inclination of
the head and a smile which was only of the lips, for her eyes remained
grave and deep. She had all the dignity of carriage famous in
Castilian women, though her figure was youthful still, and slight.
Her face was a clean-cut oval, with lips that were still and proud,
and a delicately aquiline nose.</p>
<p>‘My daughter speaks English better than I do,’ went on
the General in the garrulous voice of an exceedingly domesticated man.
‘She has been at school in England - at the suggestion of my dear
friend Watterson - with his daughters, in fact.’</p>
<p>‘And must have found it dull and grey enough compared with
Spain,’ said Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘Ah! Then you like Spain?’ said the General eagerly.
‘It is so with all the English. We have something in common,
despite the Armada, eh? Something in manner and in appearance,
too; is it not so?’</p>
<p>He left Conyngham, and walked slowly on with one hand at his daughter’s
waist.</p>
<p>‘I was very happy in England,’ said Estella to Conyngham,
who walked at her other side; ‘but happier still to get home to
Spain.’</p>
<p>Her voice was rather low, and Conyngham had an odd sensation of having
heard it before.</p>
<p>‘Why did you leave your home?’ she continued in a leisurely
conversational way which seemed natural to the environments.</p>
<p>The question rather startled the Englishman, for the only answer
seemed to be that he had quitted England in order to come to Ronda and
to her, following the path in life that fate had assigned to him.</p>
<p>‘We have troubles in England also - political troubles,’
he said, after a pause.</p>
<p>‘The Chartists,’ said the General cheerfully. ‘We
know all about them, for we have the English newspapers. I procure
them in order to have reliable news of Spain.’</p>
<p>He broke off with a little laugh, and looked towards his daughter.</p>
<p>‘In the evening Estella reads them to me. And it was
on account of the Chartists that you left England?’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, you are a Chartist, Mr. Conyngham.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ admitted the Englishman after a pause, and he
glanced at Estella.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VII. IN A MOORISH GARDEN.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘When love is not a blasphemy, it is a religion.’</i></p>
<p>There is perhaps a subtle significance in the fact that the greatest,
the cruellest, the most barbarous civil war of modern days, if not of
all time, owed its outbreak and its long continuance to the influence
of a woman. When Ferdinand VII. of Spain died, in 1833, after
a reign broken and disturbed by the passage of that human cyclone, Napoleon
the Great, he bequeathed his kingdom, in defiance of the Salic law,
to his daughter Isabella. Ferdinand’s brother Charles, however,
claimed the throne under the very just contention that the Salic law,
by which women were excluded from the heritage of the crown, had never
been legally abrogated.</p>
<p>This was the spark that kindled in many minds ambition, cruelty,
bloodthirstiness, self-seeking and jealousy - producing the <i>morale</i>,
in a word, of the Spain of sixty years ago. Some sided with the
Queen Regent Christina, and rallied round the child-queen because they
saw that that way lay glory and promotion. Others flocked to the
standard of Don Carlos because they were poor and of no influence at
Court. The Church as a whole raised its whispering voice for the
Pretender. For the rest, patriotism was nowhere, and ambition
on every side. ‘For five years we have fought the Carlists,
hunger, privation, and the politicians at Madrid! And the holy
saints only know which has been the worst enemy,’ said General
Vincente to Conyngham when explaining the above related details.</p>
<p>And indeed the story of this war reads like a romance, for there
came from neutral countries foreign legions as in the olden days.
From England an army of ten thousand mercenaries landed in Spain, prepared
to fight for the cause of Queen Christina, and very modestly estimating
the worth of their services at the sum of thirteenpence per diem.
After all, the value of a man’s life is but the price of his daily
hire.</p>
<p>‘We did not pay them much,’ said General Vincente with
a deprecating little smile, ‘but they did not fight much.
Their pay was generally in arrear, and they were usually in the rear
as well. What will you, my dear Conyngham? You are a commercial
people - you keep good soldiers in the shop window, and when a buyer
comes you serve him with second-class goods from behind the counter.’</p>
<p>He beamed on Conyngham with a pleasant air of benign connivance in
a very legitimate commercial transaction.</p>
<p>This is no time or place to go into the history of the English Legion
in Spain, which, indeed, had quitted that country before Conyngham landed
there, horrified by the barbarities of a cruel war where prisoners received
no quarter and the soldiers on either side were left without pay or
rations. In a half-hearted manner England went to the assistance
of the Queen Regent of Spain, and one error in statesmanship led to
many. It is always a mistake to strike gently.</p>
<p>‘This country,’ said General Vincente in his suavest
manner, ‘owes much to yours, my dear Conyngham; but it would have
been better for us both had we owed you a little more.’</p>
<p>During the five years prior to Conyngham’s arrival at Ronda
the war had raged with unabated fury, swaying from the west to the east
coast as fortune smiled or frowned on the Carlist cause. At one
time it almost appeared certain that the Christino forces were unable
to stem the rising tide which bade fair to spread over all Spain - so
unfortunate were their generals, so futile the best endeavours of the
bravest and most patient soldiers. General Vincente was not alone
in his conviction that had the gallant Carlist leader Zumalacarreguy
lived he might have carried all before him. But this great leader
at the height of his fame - beloved of all his soldiers, worshipped
by his subordinate officers - died suddenly, by poison, as it was whispered,
the victim of jealousy and ambition. Almost at once there arose
in the East of Spain one, obscure in birth and unknown to fame, who
flashed suddenly to the zenith of military glory - the ruthless, the
wonderful Cabrera. The name is to this day a household word in
Catalonia, while the eyes of a few old men still living, who fought
with or against him, flash in the light of other days at the mere mention
of it.</p>
<p>Among the many leaders who had attempted in vain to overcome by skill
and patriotism the thousand difficulties placed in their way by successive
unstable, insincere Ministers of War, General Vincente occupied an honoured
place. This mild-mannered tactician enjoyed the enviable reputation
of being alike unconquerable and incorruptible. His smiling presence
on the battlefield was in itself worth half a dozen battalions, while
at Madrid the dishonest politicians, who through those years of Spain’s
great trial systematically bartered their honour for immediate gain,
dreaded and respected him.</p>
<p>During the days that followed his arrival at Ronda and release from
the prison there, Frederick Conyngham learnt much from his host and
little of the man himself, for General Vincente had that in him with
which no great leader in any walk of life can well dispense - an unsoundable
depth.</p>
<p>Conyngham learnt also that the human heart is capable of rising at
one bound above differences of race or custom, creed and spoken language.
He walked with Estella in that quiet garden between high walls on the
trim Moorish paths, and often the murmur of the running water which
ever graced the Moslem palaces was the only sound that broke the silence.
For this thing had come into the Englishman’s life suddenly, leaving
him dazed and uncertain. Estella, on the other hand, had a quiet
<i>savoir-faire</i> that sat strangely on her young face. She
was only nineteen, and yet had a certain air of authority, handed down
to her from two great races of noble men and women.</p>
<p>‘Do all your countrymen take life thus gaily?’ she asked
Conyngham one day; ‘surely it is a more serious affair than you
think it.’</p>
<p>‘I have never found it very serious, señorita,’
he answered. ‘There is usually a smile in human affairs
if one takes the trouble to look for it.’</p>
<p>‘Have you always found it so?’</p>
<p>He did not answer at once, pausing to lift the branch of a mimosa
tree that hung in yellow profusion across the pathway.</p>
<p>‘Yes, señorita, I think so,’ he answered at length,
slowly. There was a sense of eternal restfulness in this old Moorish
garden which acted as a brake on the thoughts, and made conversation
halt and drag in an Oriental way that Europeans rarely understand.</p>
<p>‘And yet you say you remember your father’s death?’</p>
<p>‘He made a joke to the doctor, señorita, and was not
afraid.’</p>
<p>Estella smiled in a queer way, and then looked grave again.</p>
<p>‘And you have always been poor, you say, sometimes almost starving?’</p>
<p>‘Yes - always poor, deadly poor, señorita,’ answered
Conyngham with a gay laugh; ‘and since I have been on my own resources
frequently - well, very hungry. The appetite has been large and
the resources have been small. But when I get into the Spanish
army they will no doubt make me a general, and all will be well.’</p>
<p>He laughed again, and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket.</p>
<p>‘See here,’ he said, ‘your father’s recommendation
to General Espartero in a confidential letter.’</p>
<p>But the envelope he produced was that pink one which the man called
Larralde had given him at Algeciras.</p>
<p>‘No - it is not that,’ he said, searching in another
pocket. ‘Ah! here it is - addressed to General Espartero,
Duke of Vittoria.’</p>
<p>He showed her the superscription, which she read with a little inclination
of the head, as if in salutation of the great name written there.
The greatest names are those that men have made for themselves.
Conyngham replaced the two letters in his pocket and almost immediately
asked:</p>
<p>‘Do you know anyone called Barenna in Ronda, señorita?’
thereby proving that General Espartero would do ill to give him an appointment
requiring even the earliest rudiments of diplomacy.</p>
<p>‘Julia Barenna is my cousin. Her mother was my mother’s
sister. Do you know them, Señor Conyngham?’</p>
<p>‘Oh no,’ answered Conyngham, truthfully enough.
‘I met a man who knows them. Do they live in Ronda?’</p>
<p>‘No; their house is on the Cordova road, about half a league
from the Customs station.’</p>
<p>Estella was not by nature curious, and asked no questions.
Some who knew the Barennas would have been glad to claim acquaintance
with General Vincente and his daughter, but could not do so. For
the Captain-General moved in a circle not far removed from the Queen
Regent herself, and mixed but little in the society of Ronda, where,
for the time being, he held a command.</p>
<p>Conyngham required no further information, and in a few moments dismissed
the letter from his mind. Events seemed for him to have moved
rapidly within the last few days, and the world of roadside inns and
casual acquaintance into which he had stepped on his arrival in Spain
was quite another from that in which Estella moved at Ronda.</p>
<p>‘I must set out for Madrid in a few days at the latest,’
he said a few moments afterwards; ‘but I shall go against my will,
because you tell me that you and your father will not be coming North
until the spring.’</p>
<p>Estella shook her head with a little laugh. This man was different
from the punctilious aides-de-camp and others who had hitherto begged
most respectfully to notify their admiration.</p>
<p>‘And three days ago you did not know of our existence,’
she said.</p>
<p>‘In three days a man may be dead of an illness of which he
ignored the existence, señorita. In three days a man’s
life may be made miserable or happy - perhaps in three minutes.’</p>
<p>And she looked straight in front of her in order to avoid his eyes.</p>
<p>‘Yours will always be happy, I think,’ she said, ‘because
you never seem to go below the surface, and on the surface life is happy
enough.’</p>
<p>He made some light answer, and they walked on beneath the orange
trees, talking of these and other matters - indulging in those dangerous
generalities which sound so safe, and in reality narrow down to a little
world of two.</p>
<p>They were thus engaged when the servant came to announce that the
horse which the General had placed at Conyngham’s disposal was
at the door in accordance with the Englishman’s own order.
He went away sorrowfully enough, only half consoled by the information
that Estella was about to attend a service at the Church of Santa Maria,
and could not have stayed longer in the garden.</p>
<p>The hour of the siesta was scarce over, and as Conyngham rode through
the cleanly streets of the ancient town more than one idler roused himself
from the shadow of a doorway to see him pass. There are few older
towns in Andalusia than Ronda, and scarce anywhere the habits of the
Moors are so closely followed. The streets are clean, the houses
whitewashed within and without. The trappings of the mules and
much of the costume of the people are Oriental in texture and brilliancy.</p>
<p>Conyngham asked a passer-by to indicate the way to the Cordova road,
and the polite Spaniard turned and walked by his stirrup until a mistake
was no longer possible.</p>
<p>‘It is not the most beautiful approach to Ronda,’ said
this garrulous person, ‘but well enough in the summer, when the
flowers are in bloom and the vineyards green. The road is straight
and dusty until one arrives at the possession of the Señora Barenna
- a narrow road to the right leading up into the mountain. One
can perceive the house - oh, yes - upon the hillside, once beautiful,
but now old and decayed. Mistake is now impossible. It is
a straight way. I wish you a good journey.’</p>
<p>Conyngham rode on, vaguely turning over in his mind a half-matured
plan of effecting a seemingly accidental entry to the house of Señora
Barenna, in the hope of meeting that lady’s daughter in the garden
or grounds. Once outside the walls of the town he found the country
open and bare, consisting of brown hills, of which the lower slopes
were dotted with evergreen oaks. The road soon traversed a village
which seemed to be half deserted, for men and women alike were working
in the fields. On the balcony of the best house a branch of palm
bound against the ironwork balustrade indicated the dwelling of the
priest, and the form of that village despot was dimly discernible in
the darkened room behind. Beyond the village Conyngham turned
his horse’s head towards the mountain, his mind preoccupied with
a Macchiavellian scheme of losing his way in this neighbourhood.
Through the evergreen oak and olive groves he could perceive the roof
of an old grey house which had once been a mere hacienda or semi-fortified
farm.</p>
<p>Conyngham did not propose to go direct to Señora Barenna’s
house, but described a semicircle, mounting from terrace to terrace
on his sure-footed horse.</p>
<p>When at length he came in sight of the high gateway where the ten-foot
oaken gates still swung, he perceived someone approaching the exit.
On closer inspection he saw that this was a priest, and on nearing him
recognised the Padre Concha, whose acquaintance he had made at the Hotel
of the Marina at Algeciras.</p>
<p>The recognition was mutual, for the priest raised his shabby old
hat with a tender care for the insecurity of its brim.</p>
<p>‘A lucky meeting, Señor Englishman,’ he said;
‘who would have expected to see you here?’</p>
<p>‘I have lost my way.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ And the grim face relaxed into a smile.
‘Lost your way?’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>‘Then it is lucky that I have met you. It is so easy
to lose one’s way - when one is young.’</p>
<p>He raised his hand to the horse’s bridle.</p>
<p>‘You are most certainly going in the wrong direction,’
he said; ‘I will lead you right.’</p>
<p>It was said and done so quietly that Conyngham had found no word
to say before his horse was moving in the opposite direction.</p>
<p>‘This is surely one of General Vincente’s horses,’
said the priest; ‘we have few such barbs in Ronda. He always
rides a good horse, that Miguel Vincente.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, it is one of his horses. Then you know the General?’</p>
<p>‘We were boys together,’ answered the Padre; ‘and
there were some who said that he should have been the priest and I the
soldier.’</p>
<p>The old man gave a little laugh.</p>
<p>‘He has prospered, however, if I have not. A great man,
my dear Miguel, and they say that his pay is duly handed to him.
My own - my princely twenty pounds a year - is overdue. I am happy
enough, however, and have a good house. You noticed it, perhaps,
as you passed through the village, a branch of palm against the rail
of the balcony - my sign, you understand. The innkeeper next door
displays a branch of pine, which, I notice, is more attractive.
Every man his day. One does not catch rabbits with a dead ferret.
That is the church - will you see it? No? Well, some other
day. I will guide you through the village. The walk will
give me appetite, which I sometimes require, for my cook is one whose
husband has left her.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII. THE LOVE LETTER.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘I must mix myself with action lest I wither by despair.’</i></p>
<p>‘No one,’ Conyngham heard a voice exclaiming as he went
into the garden on returning from his fruitless ride, ‘no one
knows what I have suffered.’</p>
<p>He paused in the dark doorway, not wishing to intrude upon Estella
and her visitors; for he perceived the forms of three ladies seated
within a miniature jungle of bamboo, which grew in feathery luxuriance
around a fountain. It was not difficult to identify the voice
as that of the eldest lady, who was stout, and spoke in deep, almost
manly tones. So far as he was able to judge, the suffering mentioned
had left but small record on its victim’s outward appearance.</p>
<p>‘Old lady seems to have stood it well,’ commented the
Englishman in his mind.</p>
<p>‘Never again, my dear Estella, do I leave Ronda, except indeed
for Toledo, where, of course, we shall go in the summer if this terrible
Don Carlos is really driven from the country. Ah! but what suffering!
My mind is never at ease. I expect to wake up at night and hear
that Julia is being murdered in her bed. For me it does not matter;
my life is not so gay that it will cost me much to part from it.
No one would molest an old woman, you think? Well, that may be
so; but I know all the anxiety, for I was once beautiful - ah! more
beautiful than you or Julia; and my hands and feet - have you ever noticed
my foot, Estella? - even now - !’</p>
<p>And a sonorous sigh completed the sentence. Conyngham stepped
out of the doorway, the clank of his spurred heel on the marble pavement
causing the sigh to break off in a little scream. He had caught
the name of Julia, and hastily concluded that these ladies must be no
other than Madame Barenna and her daughter. In the little bamboo
grove he found the elder lady lying back in her chair, which creaked
ominously, and asking in a faint voice whether he were Don Carlos.</p>
<p>‘No,’ answered Estella, with a momentary twinkle in her
grave, dark eyes; ‘this is Mr. Conyngham - my aunt, Señora
Barenna, and my cousin Julia.’</p>
<p>The ladies bowed.</p>
<p>‘You must excuse me,’ said Madame Barenna volubly, ‘but
your approach was so sudden. I am a great sufferer - my nerves,
you know. But young people do not understand.’</p>
<p>And she sighed heavily, with a side glance at her daughter, who did
not even appear to be trying to do so. Julia Barenna was darker
than her cousin, quicker in manner, with an air of worldly capability
which Estella lacked. Her eyes were quick and restless, her face
less beautiful, but expressive of a great intelligence, which, if brought
to bear upon men in the form of coquetry, was likely to be infinitely
dangerous.</p>
<p>‘It is always best to approach my mother with caution,’
she said with a restless movement of her hands. This was not a
woman at her ease in the world or at peace with it. She laughed
as she spoke, but her eyes were grave, even while her lips smiled, and
watched the Englishman’s face with an air almost of anxiety.
There are some faces that seem to be watching and waiting. Julia
Barenna’s had such a look.</p>
<p>‘Conyngham,’ said Madame Barenna reflectively.
‘Surely I have heard that name before. You are not the Englishman
with whom Father Concha is so angry - who sells forbidden books - the
Bible, it is said?’</p>
<p>‘No, señora,’ answered Conyngham with perfect
gravity; ‘I have nothing to sell.’</p>
<p>He laughed suddenly, and looked at the elder lady with that air of
good humour which won for him more friends than he ever wanted; for
this Irishman had a ray of sunshine in his heart which shone upon his
path through life, and made that uneven way easier for his feet.
He glanced at Julia, and saw in her eyes the look of expectancy which
was, in reality, always there. The thought flashed through his
mind that by some means, or perhaps feminine intuition beyond his comprehension,
she knew that he possessed the letter addressed to her, and was eagerly
awaiting it. This letter seemed to have been gaining in importance
the longer he carried it, and this opportunity of giving it to her came
at the right moment. He remembered Larralde’s words concerning
the person to whom the missive was addressed, and the high-flown sentiments
of that somewhat theatrical gentleman became in some degree justified.
Julia Barenna was a woman who might well awaken a passionate love.
Conyngham realised this, as from a distance, while Julia’s mother
spoke of some trivial matter of the moment to unheeding ears.
That distance seemed now to exist between him and all women. It
had come suddenly, and one glance of Estella’s eyes had called
it into existence.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ Señora Barenna was saying, ‘Father
Concha is very angry with the English. What a terrible man!
You do not know him, Señor Conyngham?’</p>
<p>‘I think I have met him, señora.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, but you have never seen him angry. You have never
confessed to him! A little, little sin - no larger than the eye
of a fly - a little bite of a calf’s sweetbread on Friday in mere
forgetfulness, and Sancta Maria! what a penance is required! What
suffering! It is a purgatory to have such a confessor.’</p>
<p>‘Surely madame can have no sins,’ said Conyngham pleasantly.</p>
<p>‘Not now,’ said Señora Barenna with a deep sigh.
‘When I was young it was different.’</p>
<p>And the memory of her sinful days almost moved her to tears.
She glanced at Conyngham with a tragic air of mutual understanding,
as if drawing a veil over that blissful past in the presence of Julia
and Estella. ‘Ask me another time,’ that glance seemed
to say.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ the lady continued, ‘Father Concha is very
angry with the English. Firstly, because of these bibles.
Blessed Heaven! what does it matter? No one can read them except
the priests, and they do not want to do so. Secondly, because
the English have helped to overthrow Don Carlos - ’</p>
<p>‘You will have a penance,’ interrupted Miss Julia Barenna
quietly, ‘from Father Concha for talking politics.’</p>
<p>‘But how will he know?’ asked Señora Barenna sharply;
and the two young ladies laughed.</p>
<p>Señora Barenna looked from one to the other, and shrugged
her shoulders. Like many women she was a strange mixture of foolishness
and worldly wisdom. She adjusted her mantilla and mutely appealed
to Heaven with a glance of her upturned eyes. Conyngham, who was
no diplomatist, nor possessed any skill in concealing his thoughts,
looked with some interest at Julia Barenna, and Estella watched him.
‘Julia is right,’ Señora Barenna was saying, though
nobody heeded her; ‘one must not talk nor even think politics
in this country. You are no politician, I trust, Señor
Conyngham - Señor Conyngham, I ask you, you are no politician?’</p>
<p>‘No, señora,’ replied Conyngham hastily; ‘no;
and if I were, I should never understand Spanish politics.’</p>
<p>‘Father Concha says that Spanish politics are the same as those
of any other country - each man for himself,’ said Julia with
a bitter laugh.</p>
<p>‘And he is, no doubt, right.’</p>
<p>‘Do you really think so?’ asked Julia Barenna, with more
earnestness than the question would seem to require; ‘are there
not true patriots who sacrifice all - not only their friends, but themselves
- to the cause of their country?’</p>
<p>‘Without the hope of reward?’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>‘There may be, señorita - a few,’ answered Conyngham
with a laugh, ‘but not in my country. They must all be in
Spain.’</p>
<p>She smiled and shook her head in doubt. But it was a worn smile.</p>
<p>The Englishman turned away and looked through the trees. He
was wondering how he could get speech with Julia alone for a moment.</p>
<p>‘You are admiring the garden,’ said that young lady;
and this time he knew that there had in reality been that meaning in
her eyes which he had imagined to be there.</p>
<p>‘Yes, señorita, I think it must be the most beautiful
garden in the world.’</p>
<p>He turned as he spoke, and looked at Estella, who met his glance
quietly. Her repose of manner struck him afresh. Here was
a woman having that air of decision which exacts respect alike from
men and women. Seen thus, with the more vivacious Julia at her
side, Estella gained suddenly in moral strength and depth - suggesting
a steady fire in contrast with a flickering will-o’-the-wisp blown
hither and thither on every zephyr. Yet Julia Barenna would pass
anywhere as a woman of will and purpose.</p>
<p>Julia had risen, and was moving towards the exit of the little grove
in which they found themselves. Conyngham had never been seated.</p>
<p>‘Are the violets in bloom, Estella? I must see them,’
said the visitor. ‘We have none at home, where all is dry
and parched.’</p>
<p>‘So bad for the nerves - what suffering! - such a dry soil
that one cannot sleep at night,’ murmured Madame Barenna, preparing
to rise from her seat.</p>
<p>Julia and Conyngham naturally led the way. The paths winding
in and out among the palms and pepper trees were of a width that allowed
two to walk abreast.</p>
<p>‘Señorita, I have a letter for you.’</p>
<p>‘Not yet - wait!’</p>
<p>Señora Barenna was chattering in her deep husky tones immediately
behind them. Julia turned and looked up at the windows of the
house, which commanded a full view of the garden. The dwelling
rooms were as usual upon the first floor, and the windows were lightly
barred with curiously wrought iron. Each window was curtained
within with lace and muslin.</p>
<p>The paths wound in and out among the trees, but none of these were
large enough to afford a secure screen from the eye of any watcher within
the house. There was neither olive nor ilex in the garden to afford
shelter with their heavy leaves. Julia and Conyngham walked on,
out-distancing the elder lady and Estella. From these many a turn
in the path hid them from time to time, but Julia was distrustful of
the windows and hesitated, in an agony of nervousness. Conyngham
saw that her face was quite colourless, and her teeth closed convulsively
over her lower lip. He continued to talk of indifferent topics,
but the answers she made were incoherent and broken. The course
of true love did not seem to run smooth here.</p>
<p>‘Shall I give you the letter? No one can see us, señorita.
Besides, I was informed that it was of no importance except to yourself.
You have doubtless had many such before, unless the Spanish gentlemen
are blind.’</p>
<p>He laughed and felt in his pocket.</p>
<p>‘Yes!’ she whispered. ‘Quickly - now.’</p>
<p>He gave her the letter in its romantic pink, scented envelope with
a half-suppressed smile at her eagerness. Would anybody - would
Estella - ever be thus agitated at the receipt of a letter from himself?
They were at the lower end of the inclosure, which was divided almost
in two by a broader pathway leading from the house to the centre of
the garden, where a fountain of Moorish marble formed a sort of carrefour,
from which the narrower pathways diverged in all directions.</p>
<p>Descending the steps into the garden from the house were two men,
one talking violently, the other seeking to calm him.</p>
<p>‘My uncle and the Alcalde - they have seen us from the windows,’
said Julia quickly. All her nervousness of manner seemed to have
vanished, leaving her concentrated and alert. Some men are thus
in warfare - nervous until the rifle opens fire, and then cool and ready.</p>
<p>‘Quick!’ whispered Julia. ‘Let us turn back.’</p>
<p>She wheeled round, and Conyngham did the same.</p>
<p>‘Julia!’ they heard General Vincente call in his gentle
voice.</p>
<p>Julia, who was tearing the pink envelope, took no heed. Within
the first covering a second envelope appeared, bearing a longer address.
‘Give that to the man whose address it bears, and save me from
ruin,’ said the girl, thrusting the letter into Conyngham’s
hand. She kept the pink envelope.</p>
<p>When, a minute later, they came face to face with General Vincente
and his companion, a white-faced, fluttering man of sixty years, Julia
Barenna received them with a smile. There are some men who, conscious
of their own quickness of resource, are careless of danger, and run
into it from mere heedlessness, trusting to good fortune to aid them
should peril arise. Frederick Conyngham was one of these.
He now suspected that this was no love letter which the man called Larralde
had given him in Algeciras.</p>
<p>‘Julia,’ said the General, ‘the Alcalde desires
to speak with you.’</p>
<p>Julia bowed with that touch of hauteur which in Spain the nobles
ever observe in their manner towards the municipal authorities.</p>
<p>‘Mr. Conyngham,’ continued the General, ‘this is
our brave Mayor, in whose hands rests the well-being of the people of
Ronda.’</p>
<p>‘Honoured to meet you,’ said Conyngham, holding out his
hand with that frankness of manner which he accorded to great and small
alike. The Alcalde, a man of immense importance in his own estimation,
hesitated before accepting it.</p>
<p>‘General,’ he said, turning and bowing very low to Señora
Barenna and Estella, who now joined them, ‘General, I leave you
to explain to your niece the painful duties of my office.’</p>
<p>The General smiled and raised a deprecating shoulder.</p>
<p>‘Well, my dear,’ he said kindly to Julia, ‘it appears
that our good Alcalde has news of a letter which is at present passing
from hand to hand in Andalusia. It is a letter of some importance.
Our good Mayor, who was at the window a minute ago, saw Mr. Conyngham
hand you a letter. Between persons who only met in this garden
five minutes ago such a transaction had a strange air. Our good
friend, who is all zeal for Spain and the people of Ronda, merely asks
you if his eyes deceived him. It is a matter at which we shall
all laugh presently over a lemonade - is it not so? A trifle,
eh?’ He passed his handkerchief across his moustache, and
looked affectionately at his niece.</p>
<p>‘A letter!’ exclaimed Julia. ‘Surely the
Alcalde presumes. He takes too much upon himself.’
The official stepped forward.</p>
<p>‘Señorita,’ he said, ‘I must be allowed
to take that risk. Did this gentleman give you a letter three
minutes ago?’</p>
<p>Julia laughed and shrugged her shoulders.</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>‘May I ask the nature of the letter?’</p>
<p>‘It was a love letter.’</p>
<p>Conyngham bit his lip and looked at Estella.</p>
<p>The Alcalde looked doubtful, with the cunning lips of a cheap country
lawyer.</p>
<p>‘A love letter from a gentleman you have never seen before?’
he said with a forced laugh.</p>
<p>‘Pardon me, Señor Alcalde, this gentleman travelled
in the same ship with my mother and myself from Bordeaux to Algeciras,
and he saved my life.’</p>
<p>She cast a momentary glance at Conyngham; which would have sealed
his fate had the fiery Mr. Larralde been there to see it. The
Prefect paused, somewhat taken aback. There was a momentary silence,
and every moment gave Julia and Conyngham time to think. Then
the Alcalde turned to Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘It will give me the greatest pleasure,’ he said, ‘to
learn that I have been mistaken. I have only to ask this gentleman’s
confirmation of what the señorita has said. It is true,
señor, that you surreptitiously handed to the Señorita
Barenna a letter expressing your love?’</p>
<p>‘Since the señorita has done me the honour of confessing
it, I must ask you to believe it,’ answered Conyngham steadily
and coldly.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER IX. A WAR OF WIT.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘La discrétion est l’art du mensonge.’</i></p>
<p>The Alcalde blew out his cheeks and looked at General Vincente.
Señora Barenna would with small encouragement have thrown herself
into Conyngham’s arms; but she received none whatever, and instead
frowned at Julia. Estella was looking haughtily at her father,
and would not meet Conyngham’s glance.</p>
<p>‘I feel sure,’ said General Vincente in his most conciliating
manner, ‘that my dear Julia will see the necessity of satisfying
the good Alcalde by showing him the letter - with, of course, the consent
of my friend Conyngham.’</p>
<p>He laughed, and slipped his hand within Conyngham’s arm.</p>
<p>‘You see, my dear friend,’ he said in English, ‘these
local magnates are a trifle inflated; local magnitude is a little inclined
to inflate, eh? Ha! ha! And it is so easy to conciliate
them. I always try to do so myself. Peace at any price -
that is my motto.’</p>
<p>And he turned aside to arrange his sword, which dragged on the ground.</p>
<p>‘Tell her, my dear Conyngham, to let the old gentleman read
the letter.’</p>
<p>‘But it is nothing to do with me, General.’</p>
<p>‘I know that, my friend, as well as you do,’ said Vincente
with a sudden change of manner, which gave the Englishman an uncomfortable
desire to know what he meant. But General Vincente, in pursuit
of that peace which had earned him such a terrible reputation in war,
turned to Señora Barenna with his most reassuring smile.</p>
<p>‘It is nothing, my dear Iñez,’ he said.
‘In these times of trouble the officials are so suspicious, and
our dear Alcalde knows too much. He remembers dear Julia’s
little affair with Esteban Larralde, now long since lived down and forgotten.
Larralde is, it appears, a malcontent, and on the wrong side of the
wall. You need have no uneasiness. Ah! your nerves - yes,
I know! A great sufferer - yes, I remember. Patience, dear
Iñez, patience!’</p>
<p>And he patted her stout white hand affectionately.</p>
<p>The Alcalde was taking snuff with a stubborn air of disbelief, glancing
the while suspiciously at Conyngham, who had eyes for none but Estella.</p>
<p>‘Alcalde,’ said General Vincente, ‘the incident
is past, as we say in the diplomatic service; a lemonade now?’</p>
<p>‘No, General, the incident is not past, and I will not have
a lemonade.’</p>
<p>‘Oh!’ exclaimed General Vincente in gentle horror.</p>
<p>‘Yes, this young lady must give me the letter, or I call in
my men.’</p>
<p>‘But your men could not touch a lady, my dear Alcalde.’</p>
<p>‘You may be the Alcalde of Ronda,’ said Conyngham cheerfully,
in continuation of the General’s argument; ‘but if you offer
such an insult to Señorita Barenna, I throw you into the fountain,
in the deepest part, where it is wettest, just there by the marble dolphin.’</p>
<p>And Conyngham indicated the exact spot with his riding-whip.</p>
<p>‘Who is this gentleman?’ asked the Alcalde. The
question was in the first place addressed to space and the gods - after
a moment the speaker turned to General Vincente.</p>
<p>‘A prospective aide-de-camp of General Espartero.’</p>
<p>At the mention of the great name the Mayor of Ronda became beautifully
less and half bowed to Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘I must do my duty,’ he said with the stubbornness of
a small mind.</p>
<p>‘And what do you conceive that to be, my dear Alcalde?’
inquired the General.</p>
<p>‘To place the Señorita Barenna under arrest unless she
will hand to me the letter she has in her possession.’ Julia
looked at him with a smile. She was a brave woman, playing a dangerous
game with consummate courage, and never glanced at Conyngham, who with
an effort kept his hand away from the pocket where the letter lay concealed.
The manner in which she trusted him unreservedly and entirely was in
itself cunning enough, for it appealed to that sense of chivalry which
is not yet dead in men.</p>
<p>‘Place me under arrest, Señor Alcalde,’ she said
indifferently, ‘and when you have satisfied me that you have a
right to inspect a lady’s private correspondence I will submit
to be searched - but not before.’</p>
<p>She made a little signal to Conyngham not to interfere.</p>
<p>Señora Barenna took this opportunity of asserting herself
and her nerves. She sat heavily down on a stone seat and wept.
She could hardly have done better, for she was a countess in her own
right, and the sight of high-born tears distinctly unnerved the Alcalde.</p>
<p>‘Well,’ he said, ‘the señorita has made
her own choice. In these times’ (he glanced nervously at
the weeping lady) ‘one must do one’s duty.’</p>
<p>‘My dear Julia,’ protested the General, ‘you who
are so sensible - ’</p>
<p>Julia shrugged her shoulders and laughed. She not only trusted
Conyngham but relied upon his intelligence. It is as a rule safer
to confide in the honesty of one’s neighbour than in his wit;
better still, trust in neither. Conyngham, who was quick enough
when the moment required it, knew that she was fostering the belief
that the letter at that moment in his pocket was in her possession.
He suspected also that he and Julia Barenna were playing with life and
death. Further, he recognised her and her voice. This was
the woman who had showed discrimination and calmness in face of a great
danger on the Garonne. Had this Englishman, owning as he did to
a strain of Irish blood, turned his back on her and danger at such a
moment he would assuredly have proved himself untrue to the annals of
that race which has made a mark upon the world that will never be wiped
out. He looked at the Alcalde and smiled, whereupon that official
turned and made a signal with his hand to a man who, dressed in a quiet
uniform, had appeared in the doorway of the house.</p>
<p>‘What the deuce we are all trying to do I don’t know,’
reflected Conyngham, who indeed was sufficiently at sea to awake the
most dormant suspicions.</p>
<p>The Alcalde, now thoroughly aroused, protested his inability to neglect
a particle of his duty at this troubled period of Spain’s history,
and announced his intention of placing Julia Barenna under surveillance
until she handed him the letter she had received from Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘I am quite prepared,’ he added, ‘to give this
caballero the benefit of the doubt, and assume that he has been in this
matter the tool of unscrupulous persons. Seeing that he is a friend
of General Vincente’s, and has an introduction to his Excellency
the Duke of Vittoria, he is without the pale of my jurisdiction.’</p>
<p>The Alcalde made Conyngham a profound bow and proceeded to conduct
Julia and her indignant mother to their carriage.</p>
<p>‘There goes,’ said General Vincente with his most optimistic
little chuckle, ‘a young woman whose head will always be endangered
by her heart.’ And he nodded towards Julia’s retreating
form.</p>
<p>Estella turned and walked away by herself.</p>
<p>‘Come,’ said the General to Conyngham, ‘let us
sit down. I have news for you. But what a susceptible heart
- my dear young friend - what a susceptible heart! Julia is, I
admit, a very pretty girl - <i>la beauté du diable</i>, eh!
But on so short an acquaintance - rather rapid, rather rapid!’</p>
<p>As he spoke he was searching among some letters which he had produced
from his pocket, and at length found an official envelope that had already
been opened.</p>
<p>‘I have here,’ he said, ‘a letter from Madrid.
You have only to proceed to the capital, and there I hope a post awaits
you. Your duties will at present be of a semi-military character,
but later I hope we can show you some fighting. This pestilential
Cabrera is not yet quelled, and Morella still holds out. Yes,
there will be fighting.’</p>
<p>He closed the letter and looked at Conyngham. ‘If that
is what you want,’ he added.</p>
<p>‘Yes, that is what I want.’</p>
<p>The General nodded and rose, pausing to brush a few grains of dust
from his dapper riding-breeches.</p>
<p>‘Come,’ he said, ‘I have seen a horse which will
suit you at the cavalry quarters in the Calle de Bobadilla. Shall
we go and look at him?’</p>
<p>Conyngham expressed his readiness to do as the General proposed.</p>
<p>‘When shall I start for Madrid?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘Oh, to-morrow morning will be time enough,’ was the
reply, uttered in an easy-going, indolent tone, ‘if you are early
astir. You see, it is now nearly five o’clock, and you could
scarcely be in saddle before sunset.’</p>
<p>‘No,’ laughed Conyngham, ‘scarcely, considering
that I have not yet bought the saddle or the horse.’</p>
<p>The General led the way into the house, and Conyngham thought of
the letter in his pocket. He had not yet read the address.
Julia relied upon him to deliver it, and her conduct towards the Alcalde
had the evident object of gaining time for him to do so. She had
unhesitatingly thrust herself into a position of danger to screen him
and further her own indomitable purpose. He thought of her - still
as from a distance at which Estella had placed him - and knew that she
not only had a disquieting beauty, but cleverness and courage, which
are qualities that outlast beauty and make a woman powerful for ever.</p>
<p>When he and his companion emerged from the great doorway of the house
into the sunlight of the Calle Mayor, a man came forward from the shade
of a neighbouring porch. It was Concepçion Vara, leisurely
and dignified, twirling a cigarette between his brown fingers.
He saluted the General with one finger to the brim of his shabby felt
hat as one great man might salute another. He nodded to Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘When does his Excellency take the road again?’ he said.
‘I am ready. The Guardia Civil was mistaken this time -
the judge said there was no stain on my name.’</p>
<p>He shrugged his shoulders and waved away the slight with the magnanimity
of one who can forgive and forget.</p>
<p>‘I take the road to-morrow; but our contract ceased at Ronda.
I had no intention of taking you on.’</p>
<p>‘You are not satisfied with me?’ inquired Concepçion,
offering his interlocutor the cigarette he had just made.</p>
<p>‘Oh, yes.’</p>
<p>‘Buen! We take the road together.’</p>
<p>‘Then there is nothing more to be said?’ inquired Conyngham
with a good-natured laugh.</p>
<p>‘Nothing, except the hour at which your Excellency starts.’</p>
<p>‘Six o’clock,’ put in General Vincente quietly.
‘Let me see, your name is Concepçion Vara.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, Excellency - of Algeciras.’</p>
<p>‘It is well. Then serve this gentleman well, or else
- ’ The General paused, and laughed in his most deprecating
manner.</p>
<p>Concepçion seemed to understand, for he took off his hat and
turned gravely away. The General and Conyngham walked rapidly
through the streets of Ronda, than which there are none cleaner in the
whole world, and duly bought a great black horse at a price which seemed
moderate enough to the Englishman, though the vendor explained that
the long war had made horseflesh rise in value. Conyngham, at
no time a keen bargainer, hurried the matter to an end, and scarce examined
the saddle. He was anxious to get back to the garden of the great
house in the Calle Mayor before the cool of evening came to drive Estella
indoors.</p>
<p>‘You will doubtless wish to pack your portmanteau,’ said
the General rather breathlessly, as he hurried along with small steps
beside Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ answered the Englishman ingenuously, ‘yes,
of course.’</p>
<p>‘Then I will not detain you,’ said General Vincente.
‘I have affairs at headquarters. We meet at dinner, of course.’</p>
<p>He waved a little salutation with his whip and took a side turning.</p>
<p>The sun had not set when Conyngham with a beating heart made his
way through the house into the garden. He had never been so serious
about anything in his life. Indeed, his life seemed only to have
begun in that garden. Estella was there. He saw her black
dress and mantilla through the trees, and the gleam of her golden hair
made his eyes almost fierce for the moment.</p>
<p>‘I am going to-morrow morning,’ he said bluntly when
he reached her where she sat in the shade of a mimosa.</p>
<p>She raised her eyes for a moment - deep velvet eyes with something
in them that made his heart leap within his breast.</p>
<p>‘And I love you, Estella,’ he added. ‘You
may be offended - you may despise me - you may distrust me. But
nothing can alter me. I love you - now and ever.’</p>
<p>She drew a deep breath and sat motionless.</p>
<p>‘How many women does an Englishman love at once?’ she
asked coldly at length.</p>
<p>‘Only one, señorita.’</p>
<p>He stood looking at her for a moment. Then she rose and walked
past him into the house.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER X. THE CITY OF DISCONTENT.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘En paroles ou en actions, être discret, c’est
s’abstenir.’</i></p>
<p>‘There is,’ observed Frederick Conyngham to himself as
he climbed into the saddle in the grey dawn of the following morning,
‘there is a certain picturesqueness about these proceedings which
pleases me.’</p>
<p>Concepçion Vara indeed supplied a portion of this romantic
atmosphere, for he was dressed in the height of contrabandista fashion,
with a bright-coloured handkerchief folded round his head underneath
his black hat, a scarlet waistcloth, a spotless shirt, and a flower
in the ribbon of his hat.</p>
<p>He was dignified and leisurely, but so far forgot himself as to sing
as he threw his leg across his horse. A dark-eyed maiden had come
to the corner of the Calle Vieja, and stood there watching him with
mournful eyes. He waved her a salutation as he passed.</p>
<p>‘It is the waiting-maid at the venta where I stay in Ronda
- what will you?’ he explained to Conyngham with a modest air
as he cocked his hat farther on one side.</p>
<p>The sun rose as they emerged from the narrow streets into the open
country that borders the road to Bobadilla. A pastoral country
this, where the land needs little care to make it give more than man
requires for his daily food. The evergreen oak studded over the
whole plain supplies food for countless pigs and shade where the herdsmen
may dream away the sunny days. The rich soil would yield two or
even three crops in the year, were the necessary seed and labour forthcoming.
Underground, the mineral wealth outvies the richness of the surface,
but national indolence leaves it unexplored.</p>
<p>‘Before General Vincente one could not explain oneself,’
said Concepçion, urging his horse to keep pace with the trot
of Conyngham’s huge mount.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’</p>
<p>‘No,’ pursued Concepçion. ‘And yet
it is simple. In Algeciras I have a wife. It is well that
a man should travel at times. So,’ he paused and bowed towards
his companion with a gesture of infinite condescension, ‘so -
we take the road together.’</p>
<p>‘As long as you are pleased, Señor Vara,’ said
Conyngham, ‘I am sure I can but feel honoured. You know
I have no money.’</p>
<p>The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘What matter?’ he said. ‘What matter?
We can keep an account - a mere piece of paper - so: “Concepçion
Vara, of Algeciras, in account current with F. Conyngham; Englishman.
One month’s wages at one hundred pesetas.” It is simple.’</p>
<p>‘Very,’ acquiesced Conyngham. ‘It is only
when pay-day comes that things will get complicated.’</p>
<p>Concepçion laughed.</p>
<p>‘You are a caballero after my own heart,’ he said.
‘We shall enjoy ourselves in Madrid. I see that.’</p>
<p>Conyngham did not answer. He had remembered the letter and
Julia Barenna’s danger. He rose in his stirrups and looked
behind him. Ronda was already hidden by intervening hills, and
the bare line of the roadway was unbroken by the form of any other traveller.</p>
<p>‘We are not going to Madrid yet,’ said Conyngham.
‘We are going to Xeres, where I have business. Do you know
the road to Xeres?’</p>
<p>‘As well that as any other, Excellency.’</p>
<p>‘What do you mean?’</p>
<p>‘I know no roads north of Ronda. I am of Andalusia, I,’
replied Concepçion easily, and he looked round about him with
an air of interest which was more to the credit of his intelligence
as a traveller than his reliability as a guide.</p>
<p>‘But you engaged to guide me to Madrid.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, Excellency - by asking the way,’ replied Concepçion
with a light laugh, and he struck a sulphur match on the neck of his
horse to light a fresh cigarette.</p>
<p>Thus with an easy heart Frederick Conyngham set out on his journey,
having for companion one as irresponsible as himself. He had determined
to go to Xeres, though that town of ill repute lay far to the westward
of his road towards the capital. It would have been simple enough
to destroy the letter entrusted to him by Julia Barenna, a stranger
whom he was likely never to see again - simple enough and infinitely
safer as he suspected, for the billet-doux of Mr. Larralde smelt of
grimmer things than love. But Julia Barenna wittingly, or in all
innocence, appealed to that sense of chivalry which is essentially the
quality of lonely men who have never had sisters, and Conyngham was
ready to help Julia where he would have refused his assistance to a
man, however hard pressed.</p>
<p>‘Cannot leave the girl in a hole,’ he said to himself,
and proceeded to act upon this resolution with a steadiness of purpose
for which some may blame him.</p>
<p>It was evening when the two travellers reached Xeres after some weary
hours of monotonous progress through the vine-clad plains of this country.</p>
<p>‘It is no wonder,’ said Concepçion, ‘that
the men of Xeres are malcontents, when they live in a country as flat
as the palm of my hand.’</p>
<p>It happened to be a fête day, which in Spain, as in other countries
farther North, is synonymous with mischief. The men of Xeres had
taken advantage of this holiday to demonstrate their desire for more.
They had marched through the streets with banner and song, arrayed in
their best clothes, fostering their worst thoughts. They had consumed
marvellous quantities of that small Amontillado which is as it were
a thin fire to the blood, heating and degenerating at once. They
had talked much nonsense and listened to more. Carlist or Christino
- it was all the same to them, so long as they had a change of some
sort. In the meantime they had a desire to break something, if
only to assert their liberty.</p>
<p>A few minutes before Conyngham and his guide rode into the market-place,
which in Xeres is as long as a street, some of the free sons of Spain
had thought fit to shout insulting remarks to a passer-by. With
a fire too bright for his years this old gentleman, with fierce white
moustache and imperial, had turned on them, calling them good-for-nothings
and sons of pigs.</p>
<p>Conyngham rode up just in time to see the ruffians rise as one man
and rush at the victim of their humour. The old man with his back
to the wall repelled his assailants with a sort of fierce joy in his
attitude which betokened the soldier.</p>
<p>‘Come on, Concepçion!’ cried Conyngham, with a
dig of the spurs that made his tired horse leap into the air.
He charged down upon the gathering crowd, which scattered right and
left before the wild onslaught. But he saw the flash of steel,
and knew that it was too late. The old man, with an oath and a
gasp of pain, sank against the wall with the blood trickling through
the fingers clasped against his breast. Conyngham would have reined
in, but Concepçion on his heels gave the charger a cut with his
heavy whip that made him bound forward and would have unseated a short-stirruped
rider.</p>
<p>‘Go on,’ cried the Spaniard; ‘it is no business
of ours. The police are behind.’</p>
<p>And Conyngham, remembering the letter in his pocket, rode on without
looking back. In the day of which the present narrative treats,
the streets of Xeres were but ill paved, and the dust lay on them to
the depth of many inches, serving to deaden the sound of footsteps and
facilitate the commission of such deeds of violence as were at this
time of daily occurrence in Spain. Riding on at random, Conyngham
and his companion soon lost their way in the narrow streets, and were
able to satisfy themselves that none had followed them. Here in
a quiet alley Conyngham read again the address of the letter of which
he earnestly desired to rid himself without more ado.</p>
<p>It was addressed to Colonel Monreal at No. 84 Plaza de Cadiz.</p>
<p>‘Let his Excellency stay here and drink a glass of wine at
this venta,’ said Concepçion. ‘Alone, I shall
be able to get information without attracting attention. And then,
in the name of the saints, let us shake the dust of Xeres off our feet.
The first thing we see is steel, and I do not like it. I have
a wife in Algeciras to whom I am much attached, and I am afraid - yes,
afraid. A gentleman need never hesitate to say so.’</p>
<p>He shook his head forebodingly as he loosened his girths and called
for water for the horses.</p>
<p>‘I could eat a cocida,’ he went on, sniffing the odours
of a neighbouring kitchen, ‘with plenty of onions and the mutton
as becomes the springtime - young and tender. Dios! this quick
travelling and an empty stomach, it kills one.’</p>
<p>‘When I have delivered my letter,’ replied Conyngham,
‘we shall eat with a lighter heart.’</p>
<p>Concepçion went away in a pessimistic humour. He was
one of those men who are brave enough on good wine and victuals, but
lack the stamina to fight when hungry. He returned presently with
the required information. The Plaza de Cadiz was, it appeared,
quite close. Indeed, the town of Xeres is not large, though the
intricacies of its narrow streets may well puzzle a new-comer.
No. 84 was the house of the barber, and on his first floor lived Colonel
Monreal, a retired veteran who had fought with the English against Napoleon’s
armies.</p>
<p>During his servant’s absence, Conyngham had written a short
note in French, conveying, in terms which she would understand, the
news that Julia Barenna doubtless awaited with impatience; namely, that
her letter had been delivered to him whose address it bore.</p>
<p>‘I have ordered your cocida and some good wine,’ he said
to Concepçion. ‘Your horse is feeding. Make
good use of your time, for when I return I shall want you to take the
road again at once. You must make ten miles before you sleep to-night,
and then an early start in the morning.’</p>
<p>‘For where, señor?’</p>
<p>‘For Ronda.’</p>
<p>Concepçion shrugged his shoulders. His life had been
spent upon the road, his wardrobe since childhood had been contained
in a saddle-bag, and Spaniards, above all people, have the curse of
Ishmael. They are a homeless race, and lay them down to sleep,
when fatigue overtakes them, under a tree or in the shade of a stone
wall. It often happens that a worker in the fields will content
himself with the lee side of a haystack for his resting-place when his
home is only a few hundred yards up the mountain side.</p>
<p>‘And his Excellency?’ inquired Concepçion.</p>
<p>‘I shall sleep here to-night and proceed to Madrid to-morrow,
by way of Cordova, where I will wait for you. I have a letter
here which you must deliver to the Señorita Barenna at Ronda
without the knowledge of anyone. It will be well that neither
General Vincente nor any other who knows you should catch sight of you
in the streets of Ronda.’</p>
<p>Concepçion nodded his head with much philosophy.</p>
<p>‘Ah! these women,’ he said, turning to the steaming dish
of mutton and vegetables which is almost universal in the South, ‘these
women, what shoe leather they cost us!’</p>
<p>Leaving his servant thus profitably employed, Conyngham set out to
find the barber’s shop in the Plaza de Cadiz. This he did
without difficulty, but on presenting himself at the door of Colonel
Monreal’s apartment learnt that that gentleman was out.</p>
<p>‘But,’ added the servant, ‘the Colonel is a man
of regular habits. He will return within the next fifteen minutes,
for he dines at five.’</p>
<p>Conyngham paused. He had no desire to make Colonel Monreal’s
acquaintance, indeed preferred to remain without it, for he rightly
judged that Señor Larralde was engaged in affairs best left alone.</p>
<p>‘I have a letter for the Colonel,’ he said to the servant,
a man of stupid countenance. ‘I will place it here upon
his table, and can no doubt trust you to see that he gets it.’</p>
<p>‘That you can, Excellency,’ replied the man, with a palm
already half extended to receive a gratuity.</p>
<p>‘If the Colonel fails to receive the letter I shall certainly
know of it,’ said Conyngham, stumbling down the dark staircase,
and well pleased to have accomplished his mission.</p>
<p>He returned with all speed to the inn in the quiet alley where he
had elected to pass the night, and found Concepçion still at
table.</p>
<p>‘In half an hour I take the road,’ said the Spaniard.
‘The time for a cup of coffee, and I am ready to ride all night.’</p>
<p>Having eaten, Concepçion was in a better frame of mind, and
now cheerfully undertook to carry out his master’s instructions.
In little more than half an hour he was in the saddle again, and waved
an airy adieu to Conyngham as he passed under the swinging oil lamp
that hung at the corner of the street.</p>
<p>It was yet early in the evening, and Conyngham, having dined, set
out to explore the streets of Xeres, which were quiet enough now, as
the cafes were gayer and safer than the gloomy thoroughfares where a
foe might lurk in every doorway. In the market-place, between
rows of booths and tents, a dense crowd walked backwards and forwards
with that steady sense of promenading which the Spaniard understands
above all other men. The dealers in coloured handkerchiefs from
Barcelona or mantillas from Seville were driving a great trade, and
the majority of them had long since shouted themselves hoarse.
A few quack dentists were operating upon their victims under the friendly
covert of a big drum and a bassoon. Dealers in wonderful drugs
and herbs were haranguing the crowd, easily gaining the attention of
the simple peasants by handling a live snake or a crocodile which they
allowed to crawl upon their shoulders.</p>
<p>Conyngham lingered in the crowd, which was orderly enough, and amused
himself by noting the credulity of the country folk, until his attention
was attracted by a solemn procession passing up the market-place behind
the tents. He inquired of a bystander what this might be.</p>
<p>‘It is the police carrying to his apartment the body of Colonel
Monreal, who was murdered this afternoon in the Plaza Mayor,’
was the answer.</p>
<p>Conyngham made his way between two tents to the deserted side of
the market-place, and, running past the procession, reached the barber’s
shop before it. In answer to his summons a girl came to the door
of the Colonel’s apartment. She was weeping and moaning
in great mental distress.</p>
<p>Without explanation Conyngham pushed past her into the room where
he had deposited the letter. The room was in disorder, and no
letter lay upon the table.</p>
<p>‘It is,’ sobbed the girl, ‘my husband, who, having
heard that the good Colonel had been murdered, stole all his valuables
and papers and has run away from me.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XI. A TANGLED WEB.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Wherein I am false, I am honest - not true to be true.’</i></p>
<p>‘And - would you believe it? - there are soldiers in the house,
at the very door of Julia’s apartments.’ Señora
Barenna, who made this remark, heaved a sigh and sat back in her canework
chair with that jerkiness of action which in elderly ladies usually
betokens impatience with the ways of young people.</p>
<p>‘Policemen - policemen, not soldiers,’ corrected Father
Concha patiently, as if it did not matter much. They were sitting
in the broad vine-clad verandah of the Casa Barenna, that grim old house
on the Bobadilla road, two miles from Ronda. The priest had walked
thither, as the dust on his square-toed shoes and black stockings would
testify. He had laid aside his mournful old hat, long since brown
and discoloured, and was wiping his forehead with a cheap pocket-handkerchief
of colour and pattern rather loud for his station in life.</p>
<p>‘Well, they have swords,’ persisted the lady.</p>
<p>‘Policemen,’ said Father Concha, in a stern and final
voice, which caused Señora Barenna to cast her eyes upwards with
an air of resigned martyrdom.</p>
<p>‘Ah, that Alcalde!’ she whispered between her teeth.</p>
<p>‘A little dog, when it is afraid, growls,’ said Concha
philosophically. ‘The Alcalde is a very small dog, and he
is at his wit’s end. Such a thing has not occurred in Ronda
before, and the Alcalde’s world is Ronda. He does not know
whether his office permits him to inspect young ladies’ love letters
or not.’</p>
<p>‘Love letters!’ ejaculated Señora Barenna.
She evidently had a keen sense of the romantic, and hoped for something
more tragic than a mere flirtation begotten of idleness at sea.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Concha, crossing his legs and looking at
his companion with a queer cynicism. ‘Young people mostly
pass that way.’</p>
<p>He had had a tragedy, this old man. One of those grim tragedies
of the cassock which English people rarely understand. And his
tragedy sat beside him on the cane chair, stout and eminently worldly,
while he had journeyed on the road of life with all his illusions, all
his half-fledged aspirations, untouched by the cold finger of reality.
He despised the woman now, the contempt lurked in his cynical smile,
but he clung with a half-mocking, open-eyed sarcasm to his memories.</p>
<p>‘But,’ he said reassuringly, ‘Julia is a match
for the Alcalde, you may rest assured of that.’</p>
<p>Señora Barenna turned with a gesture of her plump hand indicative
of bewilderment.</p>
<p>‘I do not understand her. She laughs at the soldiers
- the policemen, I mean. She laughs at me. She laughs at
everything.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, it is the hollow hearts that make most noise in the world,’
said Concha, folding his handkerchief upon his knee. He was deadly
poor, and had a theory that a folded handkerchief remains longer clean.
His whole existence was an effort to do without those things that make
life worth living.</p>
<p>‘Why did you send for me?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘But to advise me - to help me. I have been, all my life,
cast upon the world alone. No one to help me - no one to understand.
No one knows what I have suffered - my husband - ’</p>
<p>‘Was one of the best and most patient of mortals, and is assuredly
in heaven, where I hope there are a few mansions reserved for men only.’</p>
<p>Señora Barenna fetched one of her deepest sighs. She
had a few lurking in the depth of her capacious being, reserved for
such occasions as this. It was, it seemed, no more than her life
had led her to expect.</p>
<p>‘You have had,’ went on her spiritual adviser, ‘a
life of ease and luxury, a husband who denied you nothing. You
have never lost a child by death, which I understand is - one of the
greatest sorrows that God sends to women. You are an ungrateful
female.’</p>
<p>Señora Barenna, whose face would have graced one of the very
earliest of the martyrs, sat with folded hands waiting until the storm
should pass.</p>
<p>‘Do you wish me to see Julia?’ asked Concha abruptly.</p>
<p>‘Yes - yes! And persuade her to conciliate the Alcalde
- to tell him some story or another. It does not surely matter
if it be not the strict truth. Anything to get these men out of
the house. My maid Maria is so flighty. Ah - these young
people! What a trial - my dear Padre, what a trial!’</p>
<p>‘Of course,’ said Father Concha. ‘But what
a dull world it would be if our neighbour knew how to manage his own
affairs! Shall we go to Julia?’</p>
<p>The perturbed lady preferred that the priest should see her daughter
alone. A military-looking individual in white trousers and a dark
green tunic stood guard over the door of Julia’s apartment, seeking
by his attitude and the curl of his moustache to magnify his office
in the eyes of a maid who happened to have an unusual amount of cleaning
to do in that particular corridor.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Father Concha, by no means abashed by the
sentinel’s sword. ‘Ah, it is you, Manuel. Your
wife tells me you have objections to the christening of that last boy
of yours, number five, I think. Bring number five on Sunday, after
vespers - eh? You understand - and a little something for the
poor. It is pay day on Saturday. And no more nonsense about
religion, Manuel, eh?’</p>
<p>He shook his lean finger in the official’s face and walked
on unchallenged.</p>
<p>‘May I come in?’ he said, tapping at the door; and Julia’s
voice bade him enter.</p>
<p>He closed the door behind him and laid aside his hat. Then
he stood upright, and slowly rubbing his hands together looked at Julia
with the humorous twinkle lurking in his eye and its companion dimple
twitching in his lean cheek. Then he began to feel his pockets,
passing his hands down his worn cassock.</p>
<p>‘Let me see, I had a love letter - was it from Don Carlos?
At all events, I have lost it!’</p>
<p>He laughed, made a perfunctory sign of the cross and gave her his
blessing. Then, his face having become suddenly grave as if by
machinery at the sound of the solemn Latin benediction, he sat down.</p>
<p>Julia looked worn and eager. Her eyes seemed to search his
face for news.</p>
<p>‘Yes, my dear child,’ he said. ‘Politics
are all very well as a career. But without a distinct profit they
are worth the attention of few men, and never worth the thought of a
woman.’</p>
<p>He looked at her keenly, and she turned to the window, which was
open to admit the breath of violets and other flowers of the spring.
She shrugged her shoulders and gave a sharp sigh.</p>
<p>‘See here, my child,’ said Padre Concha abruptly.
‘For reasons which concern no one, I take a great interest in
your happiness. You resemble some one whose welfare was once more
important to me than my own. That was long ago, and I now consider
myself first, as all wise men should. I am your friend, Julia,
and much too old to be over-scrupulous. I peep and pry into my
neighbours’ affairs, and I am uneasy about you, my child.’</p>
<p>He shook his head and drummed upon the table with his dirty fingers.</p>
<p>‘Thank you,’ answered the girl with her defiant little
laugh, ‘but I can manage my own affairs.’</p>
<p>The priest nodded reflectively.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is natural that you should
say that. One of the chief blessings of youth is self confidence.
Heaven forbid that I should shake yours. But, you see, there are
several people who happen to be anxious that this little affair should
blow over and be forgotten. The Alcalde is a mule, we know that,
and anything that serves to magnify himself and his office is likely
to be prolonged. Do not play into his hand. As I tell you,
there are some who wish to forget this incident, and one of them is
coming to see you this afternoon.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said the girl indifferently.</p>
<p>‘General Vincente.’</p>
<p>Julia changed colour and her eyelids flickered for a moment as she
looked out of the open window.</p>
<p>‘A good friend,’ continued Concha, ‘but - ’</p>
<p>He finished the phrase with an eloquent little gesture of the hand.
At this moment they both heard the sound of an approaching carriage.</p>
<p>‘He is coming now,’ said Concha. ‘He is driving,
so Estella is with him.’</p>
<p>‘Estella is of course jealous.’</p>
<p>The priest looked at her with a slow wise smile and said nothing.</p>
<p>‘She - ’ began Julia, and then closed her lips - true
to that <i>esprit de sexe</i> which has ruled through all the ages.
Then Julia Barenna gave a sharp sigh as her mind reverted from Estella’s
affairs to her own.</p>
<p>Sitting thus in silence, the two occupants of the quiet room heard
the approach of steps and the clink of spurs in the corridor.</p>
<p>‘It is the reverendo who visits the señorita,’
they heard the voice of the sentinel explain deprecatingly.</p>
<p>The priest rose and went to the door, which he opened.</p>
<p>‘Only as a friend,’ he said. ‘Come in, General.’</p>
<p>General Vincente entered the room followed by Estella. He nodded
to Concha and kissed his niece affectionately.</p>
<p>‘Still obdurate?’ he said, with a semi-playful tap on
her shoulder. ‘Still obdurate? My dear Julia, in peace
and war the greatest quality in the strong is mercy. You have
proved yourself strong - you have worsted that unfortunate Alcalde -
be merciful to him now, and let this incident finish.’</p>
<p>He drew forward a chair, the others being seated, and laid aside
his gloves. The sword which he held upright between his knees,
with his two hands resting on the hilt, looked incongruously large and
reached the level of his eyes. He gave a little chuckling laugh.</p>
<p>‘I saw him last night at the Café Real - the poor man
had the air of a funeral, and took his wine as if it were sour.
Ah! these civilians, they amuse one - they take life so seriously.’</p>
<p>He laughed and looked round at those assembled as if inviting them
to join him in a gayer and easier view of existence. The Padre’s
furrowed face answered the summons in a sudden smile, but it was with
grave eyes that he looked searchingly at the most powerful man in Andalusia;
for General Vincente’s word was law south of the Tagus.</p>
<p>The two men sat side by side in strong contrast. Fate indeed
seems to shake men together in a bag, and cast them out upon the world
heedless where they may fall; for here was a soldier in the priest’s
habit, and one carrying a sword who had the keen heart and sure sympathy
for joy or sorrow that should ever be found within a black coat if the
Master’s work is to be well done.</p>
<p>General Vincente smiled at Estella with <i>sang-froid</i> and an
unruffled good nature, while the Padre Concha, whose place it surely
was to take the lead in such woman’s work as this, slowly rubbed
his bony hands together, at a loss and incompetent to meet the urgency
of the moment.</p>
<p>‘Our guest left us yesterday morning,’ said the General,
‘and of course the Alcalde placed no hindrance on his departure.’</p>
<p>He did not look at Julia, who drew a deep breath and glanced at Estella.</p>
<p>‘I do not know if Señor Conyngham left any message for
you with Estella - to me he said nothing,’ continued Estella’s
father; and that young lady shook her head.</p>
<p>‘No,’ she put in composedly.</p>
<p>‘Then it remains for us to close this foolish incident, my
dear Julia; and for me to remind you, seeing that you are fatherless,
that there are in Spain many adventurers who come here seeking the sport
of love or war, who will ride away when they have had their fill of
either.’</p>
<p>He ceased speaking with a tolerant laugh, as one who, being a soldier
himself, would beg indulgence for the failings of his comrades, examined
the hilt of his sword, and then looked blandly round on three faces
which resolutely refused to class the absent Englishman in this category.</p>
<p>‘It remains, my dear niece, to satisfy the Alcalde - a mere
glance at the letter - sufficient to satisfy him as to the nature of
its contents.’</p>
<p>‘I have no letter,’ said Julia quietly, with her level
red lips set hard.</p>
<p>‘Not in your possession, but perhaps concealed in some place
near at hand - unless it is destroyed.’</p>
<p>‘I have destroyed no letter, I have concealed no letter, and
I have no letter,’ said the girl quietly. Estella moved
uneasily in the chair. Her face was colourless and her eyes shone.
She watched her cousin’s face intently, and beneath his shaggy
brows the old priest’s eyes went from one fair countenance to
the other.</p>
<p>‘Then,’ cried the General, rising to his feet with an
air of relief, ‘you have but to assure the Alcalde of this, and
the whole incident is terminated. Blown over, my dear Concha -
blown over!’</p>
<p>He tapped the priest on the shoulder with great good nature.
Indeed, the world seemed sunny enough and free from cares when General
Vincente had to deal with it.</p>
<p>‘Yes - yes,’ said the Padre, snuff-box in hand.
‘Blown over - of course.’</p>
<p>‘Then I may send the Alcalde to you, Julia - and you will tell
him what you have told us? He cannot but take the word of a lady.’</p>
<p>‘Yes - if you like,’ answered Julia.</p>
<p>The General’s joy knew no bounds.</p>
<p>‘That is well,’ he cried, ‘I knew we could safely
rely upon your good sense. Kiss me, Julia - that is well!
Come, Estella - we must not keep the horses waiting.’</p>
<p>With a laugh and a nod he went towards the door. ‘Blown
over, my dear Concha,’ he said over his shoulder.</p>
<p>A few minutes later the priest walked down the avenue of walnut trees
alone. The bell was ringing for vespers, but the Padre was an
autocratic shepherd and did not hurry towards his flock. The sun
had set, and in the hollows of the distant mountains the shades of night
already lay like a blue veil.</p>
<p>The priest walked on and presently reached the high road. A
single figure was upon it - the figure of a man sitting in the shadow
of an ilex tree half a mile up the road towards Bobadilla. The
man crouched low against a heap of stones and had the air of a wanderer.
His face was concealed in the folds of his cloak.</p>
<p>‘Blown over,’ muttered the Padre as he turned his back
upon Bobadilla and went on towards his church. ‘Blown over,
of course; but what is Concepçion Vara doing in the neighbourhood
of Ronda to-night?’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XII. ON THE TOLEDO ROAD.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Une bonne intention est une échelle trop courte.’</i></p>
<p>Conyngham made his way without difficulty or incident from Xeres
to Cordova, riding for the most part in front of the clumsy diligencia
wherein he had bestowed his luggage. The road was wearisome enough,
and the last stages, through the fertile plains bordering the Guadalquivir,
dusty and monotonous.</p>
<p>At Cordova the traveller found comfortable quarters in an old inn
overlooking the river. The ancient city was then, as it is now,
a great military centre, and the headquarters of the picturesque corps
of horse-tamers, the ‘Remonta,’ who are responsible for
the mounting of the cavalry and the artillery of Spain. Conyngham
had, at the suggestion of General Vincente, made such small changes
in his costume as would serve to allay curiosity and prevent that gossip
of the stable and kitchen which may follow a traveller to his hurt from
one side of a continent to the other.</p>
<p>‘Wherever you may go learn your way in and out of every town,
and you will thus store up knowledge most useful to a soldier,’
the General had said in his easy way.</p>
<p>‘See you,’ Concepçion had observed, wagging his
head over a cigarette; ‘to go about the world with the eyes open
is to conquer the world.’</p>
<p>From his guide, moreover, whose methods were those that Nature teaches
to men who live their daily lives in her company, Conyngham learnt much
of that road craft which had raised Concepçion Vara to such a
proud eminence among the rascals of Andalusia. Cordova was a good
object upon which to practise, for Roman and Goth, Moor and Christian,
have combined to make its tortuous streets well-nigh incomprehensible
to the traveller’s mind.</p>
<p>Here Conyngham wandered, or else he sat somnolently on a seat in
the Paseo del Gran Capitan in the shade of the orange trees, awaiting
the arrival of Concepçion Vara. He made a few acquaintances,
as every traveller who is not a bear must needs do in a country where
politeness and hospitality and a grave good fellowship are the natural
habit of high and low alike. A bullfighter or two, who beguiled
the long winter months, when the rings are closed, by a little innocent
horse dealing, joined him quietly in the streets and offered him a horse
- as between gentlemen of undoubted honour - at a price much below the
current value. Or it was perhaps a beggar who came to him on the
old yellow marble seat under the orange trees, and chatted affably about
his business as being bad in these times of war. Once, indeed,
it was a white-haired gentleman, who spoke in English, and asked some
very natural questions as to the affairs that brought an Englishman
to the town of Cordova. This sweet-spoken old man explained that
strangers would do well to avoid all questions of politics and religion,
which he classed together in one dangerous whole. Nevertheless,
Conyngham thought that he perceived his ancient friend the same evening
hurrying up the steps of the Jesuit College of La Campania.</p>
<p>Two days elapsed and Concepçion Vara made neither appearance
nor sign. On the second evening Conyngham decided to go on alone,
prosecuting his journey through the sparsely populated valley of the
Alcadia to Ciudad Real, Toledo, and Madrid.</p>
<p>‘You will ride,’ the innkeeper told him, ‘from
the Guadalquivir to the Guadiana, and if there is rain you may be a
month upon the road.’</p>
<p>Conyngham set out in the early morning, and as he threw his leg across
the saddle the sun rose over the far misty hills of Ronda, and Concepçion
Vara awoke from his night’s rest under the wall of an olive terrace
above the Bobadilla road, to begin another day of patient waiting and
watching to get speech with the maid or the mistress; for he had already
inaugurated what he lightly called ‘an affair’ with Julia’s
flighty attendant. The sun rose also over the plains of Xeres,
and lighted up the picturesque form of Esteban Larralde, in the saddle
this hour and more, having learnt that Colonel Monreal’s death
took place an hour before Conyngham’s arrival in the town of Xeres
de la Frontera. The letter, therefore, had not been delivered
to Colonel Monreal, and was still in Conyngham’s possession.</p>
<p>Larralde bestrode a shocking steed, and had but an indifferent seat
in the saddle. Nevertheless, the dust rose beneath his horse’s
feet, and his spurs flashed in the sunlight as this man of many parts
hurried on towards Utrera and Cordova.</p>
<p>In the old Moorish palace in Ronda, General Vincente, summoned to
a great council of war at Madrid, was making curt military preparations
for his journey and the conveyance of his household to the capital.
Señora Barenna was for the moment forgetful of her nerves in
the excitement of despatching servants in advance to Toledo, where she
owned a summer residence. Julia was nervously anxious to be on
the road again, and showed by every word and action that restlessness
of spirit which is the inheritance of hungry hearts. Estella,
quiet and self-contained, attended to the details of moving a vast and
formal household with a certain eagerness which in no way resembled
Julia’s feverish haste. Estella seemed to be one of those
happy people who know what they want.</p>
<p>Thus Frederick Conyngham, riding northward alone, seemed to be a
pilot to all these persons into whose lives he had suddenly stepped
as from a side issue, for they were one and all making ready to follow
him to the colder plains of Castile, where existence was full of strife
and ambition, of war and those inner wheels that ever jar and grind
where politicians contend together for the mastery of a moment.</p>
<p>As he rode on, Conyngham left a message from time to time for his
self-appointed servant. At the offices of the diligencias in various
towns on the great road from Cordova to Madrid he left word for Concepçion
Vara to follow, should the spirit of travel be still upon him, knowing
that at these places where travellers were ever passing, the tittle-tattle
of the road was on the tongue of every ostler and stable help.
And truly enough there followed one who made careful inquiries as to
the movements of the Englishman, and heard his messages with a grim
smile. But this was not Concepçion Vara.</p>
<p>It was late one evening when Conyngham, who had quitted Toledo in
the morning, began to hunger for the sight of the towers and steeples
of Madrid. He had ridden all day through the bare country of Cervantes,
where to this day Spain rears her wittiest men and plainest women.
The sun had just set behind the distant hills of Old Castile, and from
the east, over Aranjuez, where the great river cuts Spain in two parts
from its centre to the sea, a grey cloud - a very shade of night - was
slowly rising. The aspect of the brown plains was dismal enough,
and on the horizon the rolling unbroken land seemed to melt away into
eternity and infinite space.</p>
<p>Conyngham reined in and looked around him. So far as eye could
reach, no house arose to testify to the presence of man. No labourer
toiled home to his lonely hut. For, in this country of many wars
and interminable strife, it has, since the days of Nebuchadnezzar, been
the custom of the people to congregate in villages and small townships,
where a common danger secured some protection against a lawless foe.
The road rose and fell in a straight line across the table-land without
tree or hedge, and Madrid seemed to belong to another world, for the
horizon, which was distant enough, bore no sign of cathedral spire or
castle height.</p>
<p>Conyngham turned in his saddle to look back, and there, not a mile
away, the form of a hurrying horseman broke the bare line of the dusty
road. There was something weird and disturbing in this figure,
a suggestion of pursuit in every line. For this was not Concepçion
Vara. Conyngham would have known him at once. This was one
wearing a better coat; indeed Concepçion preferred to face life
and the chances of the world in shirt sleeves.</p>
<p>Conyngham sat in his saddle awaiting the new-comer. To meet
on such a road in Spain without pausing to exchange a salutation would
be a gratuitous insult, to ride in solitude within hail of another traveller
were to excite or betray the deepest distrust. It was characteristic
of Conyngham that he already waved his hand in salutation, and was prepared
to hail the new-comer as the jolliest companion in the world.</p>
<p>Esteban Larralde, seeing the salutation, gave a short laugh, and
jerked the reins of his tired horse. He himself wore a weary look,
as if the fight he had in hand were an uphill one. He had long
recognised Conyngham; indeed the chase had been one of little excitement,
but rather an exercise of patience and dogged perseverance. He
raised his hat to indicate that the Englishman’s gay salutations
were perceived, and pulled the wide brim well forward again.</p>
<p>‘He will change his attitude when it becomes apparent who I
am,’ he muttered.</p>
<p>But Conyngham’s first word would appear to suggest that Esteban
Larralde was a much less impressive person than he considered himself.</p>
<p>‘Why, it’s the devout lover!’ he cried. ‘Señor
Larralde, you remember me, Algeciras, and your pink love letter - deuced
fishy love letter, that; nearly got me into a devil of a row, I can
tell you. How are you, eh?’</p>
<p>And the Englishman rode forward with a jolly laugh and his hand held
out. Larralde took it without enthusiasm. It was rather
difficult to pick a picturesque quarrel with such a person as this.
Moreover, the true conspirator never believes in another man’s
honesty.</p>
<p>‘Who would have expected to meet you here?’ went on Conyngham
jovially.</p>
<p>‘It is not so surprising as you think.’</p>
<p>‘Oh!’</p>
<p>There was no mistaking Larralde’s manner, and the Englishman’s
gay blue eyes hardened suddenly and rather surprisingly.</p>
<p>‘No, I have followed you. I want that letter.’</p>
<p>‘Well, as it happens, Señor Larralde, I have not got
your letter, and if I had I am not quite sure that I would give it to
you. Your conduct in the matter has not been over-nice, and, to
tell you the truth, I don’t think much of a man who gets strangers
and women to do his dirty work for him.’</p>
<p>Larralde stroked his moustache with a half-furtive air of contempt.</p>
<p>‘I should have given the confounded letter to the Alcalde of
Ronda if it had not been that a lady would have suffered for it, and
let you take your chance, Señor Larralde.’</p>
<p>Larralde shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘You would not have given it to the Alcalde of Ronda,’
he said in a sneering voice, ‘because you want it yourself.
You require it in order to make your peace with Estella Vincente.’</p>
<p>‘We are not going to talk of Señorita Vincente,’
said Conyngham quietly. ‘You say you followed me because
you wanted that letter. It is not in my possession. I left
it in the house of Colonel Monreal at Xeres. If you are going
on to Madrid, I think I will sit down here and have a cigarette.
If, on the other hand, you propose resting here, I shall proceed, as
it is getting late.’</p>
<p>Conyngham looked at his companion with a nod and a smile which was
not in the least friendly and at the same time quite cheerful.
He seemed to recognise the necessity of quarrelling, but proposed to
do so as light-heartedly as possible. They were both on horseback
in the middle of the road, Larralde a few paces in the direction of
Madrid.</p>
<p>Conyngham indicated the road with an inviting wave of the hand.</p>
<p>‘Will you go on?’ he asked.</p>
<p>Larralde sat looking at him with glittering eyes, and said nothing.</p>
<p>‘Then I will continue my journey,’ said the Englishman,
touching his horse lightly with the spur. The horse moved on and
passed within a yard of the other. At this moment Larralde rose
in his stirrups and flung himself on one side.</p>
<p>Conyngham gave a sharp cry of pain and threw back his head.
Larralde had stabbed him in the back. The Englishman swayed in
the saddle as if trying to balance himself, his legs bent back from
the knee in the sharpness of a biting pain. The heavy stirrups
swung free. Then, slowly, Conyngham toppled forward and rolled
out of the saddle, falling to the road with a thud.</p>
<p>Larralde watched him with a white face and staring eyes. Then
he looked quickly round over the darkening landscape. There was
no one in sight. This was one of the waste places of the world.
Larralde seemed to remember the Eye that seeth even there, and crossed
himself as he slipped from the saddle to the ground. He was shaking
all over. His face was ashen, for it is a terrible thing to kill
a man and be left alone with him.</p>
<p>Conyngham’s eyes were closed. There was blood on his
lips. With hands that shook like leaves Esteban Larralde searched
the Englishman, found nothing, and cursed his ill fortune. Then
he stood upright, and in the dim light his face shone as if he had dipped
it in water. He crept into the saddle and rode on towards Madrid.</p>
<p>It was quite dark when Conyngham recovered consciousness. In
turning him over to search his pockets Larralde had perhaps, unwittingly,
saved his life by placing him in a position that checked the internal
hæmorrhage. What served to bring back the Englishman’s
wandering senses was the rumbling of heavy wheels and the crack of a
great whip as a cart laden with hay and drawn by six mules approached
him from the direction of Toledo.</p>
<p>The driver of the team was an old soldier, as indeed were most of
the Castilians at this time, and knew how to handle wounded men.
With great care and a multitude of oaths he lifted Conyngham on to his
cart and proceeded with him to Madrid.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII. A WISE IGNORAMUS.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘God help me! I know nothing - can but pray.’</i></p>
<p>It was Father Concha’s custom to attend, at his church between
the hours of nine and ten in the morning, to such wants spiritual or
temporal as individual members of his flock chose to bring to him.</p>
<p>Thus it usually happened that the faithful found the old priest at
nine o’clock sunning himself at the front door of the sacred edifice,
smoking a reflective cigarette and exchanging the time of day with passers-by
or such as had leisure to pause a moment.</p>
<p>‘Whether it is body or soul that is in trouble - come to me,’
he would say. ‘For the body I can do a little - a very little.
I have twenty pounds a year, and it is not always paid to me, but I
sometimes have a trifle for charity. For the soul I can do a little
more.’ After a storm of wind and rain, such as come in the
winter-time, it was no uncommon sight to see the priest sweeping the
leaves and dust from the church steps and using the strongest language
at the bootmaker over the way whose business this was supposed to be.</p>
<p>‘See!’ he would cry to some passer-by. ‘See!
- it is thus that our sacristan does his work. It is for this
that the Holy Church pays him fifteen - or is it twenty? - pesetas each
year.’</p>
<p>And the bootmaker would growl and shake his head over his last; for,
like most who have to do with leather, he was a man of small humour.</p>
<p>Here, too, mothers would bring their children - little girls cowering
under their bright handkerchiefs, the mantilla of the poor, and speak
with the Padre of the Confirmation and first Communion which had lately
begun to hang like a cloud over the child’s life. Father
Concha would take the child upon his knee as he sat on the low wall
at the side of the steps, and when the mother had left them, would talk
quietly with the lines of his face wonderfully softened, so that before
long the little girl would run home quite happy in mind and no longer
afraid of the great unknown. Here, in the spring time, came the
young men with thoughts appropriate to the season, and sheepish exceedingly;
for they knew that Father Concha knew all about them, and would take
an unfair advantage of his opportunities, refusing probably to perform
the ceremony until he was satisfied as to the ways and means and prudence
of the contracting parties - which of course he had no right to do.
Here came the halt, the lame, the blind, the poor, and also the rich.
Here came the unhappy. They came naturally and often. Here,
so the bootmaker tells, came one morning a ruined man, who after speaking
a few words to the Padre, produced a revolver and tried to shoot himself.
And the Padre fell on him like a wild beast. And they fought,
and fell, and rolled down the steps together into the road, where they
still fought till they were white like millers with dust. Then
at last the Padre got the strong man under him and took the revolver
away and threw it into the ditch. Then he fell to belabouring
the would-be suicide with his fists, until the big man cried for mercy
and received it not.</p>
<p>‘You saved his life,’ the people said.</p>
<p>‘It was his soul that I was caring for,’ replied the
Padre with his grim smile.</p>
<p>Concha was not a clever man, but he was wise. Of learning he
had but little. It is easy, however, to be wise without being
learned. It is easier still to be learned without being wise.
The world is full of such persons to-day when education is too cheap.
Concha steered his flock as best he could through the stormy paths of
insurrection and civil war. He ruled with a rod of iron whom he
could, and such as were beyond his reach he influenced by ridicule and
a patient tolerance. True to his cloth, he was the enemy of all
progress and distrusted every innovation.</p>
<p>‘The Padre,’ said the barber, who was a talker and a
radical, ‘would have the world stand still.’</p>
<p>‘The Padre,’ replied Concha, tenderly drying his chin
with a towel, ‘would have all barbers attend to their razors.
Many are so busy shouting “Advance!” that they have no breath
to ask whither they are going.’</p>
<p>On the whole, perhaps, his autocratic rule was a beneficent one,
and contributed to the happiness of the little northern suburb of Ronda
over which it extended. At all events, he was a watchful guardian
of his flock, and knew every face in his parish.</p>
<p>It thus happened one morning that a strange woman, who had come quietly
into church to pray, attracted his attention as he passed out after
matins. She was a mere peasant and ill clad. The child seated
on a chair by her side and staring with wondering eyes at the simple
altar and stained-glass window had a hungry look.</p>
<p>Concha sat down on the low wall without the doors and awaited the
exit of this devotee who was not of his flock. For though, as
he often said, the good God had intended him for a soldier, his own
strong will and simple faith had in time produced a very passable priest
who, with a grim face, went about doing good.</p>
<p>The woman presently lifted the heavy leathern curtain and let out
into the sunlight a breath of cool, incense-laden air.</p>
<p>She curtsied and paused as if expecting recognition. Concha
threw away his cigarette and raised his hand to his hat. He had
not lifted it except to ladies of the highest quality for some years,
out of regard to symptoms of senile decay which had manifested themselves
at the junction of the brim and the crown.</p>
<p>‘Have I not seen your face before, my child?’ he said.</p>
<p>‘Yes, reverendo. I am of Ronda but have been living in
Xeres.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! then your husband is no doubt a malcontent?’</p>
<p>The woman burst into tears, burying her face in her hands and leaning
against the wall in an attitude that was still girlish. She had
probably been married at fifteen.</p>
<p>‘No, reverendo! He is a thief.’</p>
<p>Concha merely nodded his head. He never had been a man to betray
much pious horror when he heard of ill-doing.</p>
<p>‘The two are almost identical,’ he said quietly.
‘One does what the other fears to do. And is your husband
in prison? Is that why you have come back? Ah! you women
- in foolishness you almost equal the men!’</p>
<p>‘No, reverendo. I am come back because he has left me.
Sebastian has run away, and has stolen all his master’s property.
It was the Colonel Monreal of Xeres - a good man, reverendo, but a politician.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’</p>
<p>‘Yes, and he was murdered, as your reverence has no doubt seen
in the newspapers. A week ago it was - the day that the Englishman
came with a letter.’</p>
<p>‘What Englishman was that?’ inquired Father Concha, brushing
some grains of snuff from his sleeve. ‘What Englishman was
that, my child?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, I do not know! His name is unknown to me, but I
could tell he was English from his manner of speaking. The Colonel
had an English friend who spoke so - one engaged in the sherry in Xeres.’</p>
<p>‘Ah yes! And this Englishman, what was he like?’</p>
<p>‘He was very tall and straight, like a soldier, and had a moustache
quite light in colour, like straw.’</p>
<p>‘Ah yes. The English are so. And he left a letter?’</p>
<p>‘Yes, reverendo.’</p>
<p>‘A rose-coloured letter - ?’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said the woman, looking at him with surprise.</p>
<p>‘And tell me what happened afterwards. I may perhaps
be able to help you, my child, if you tell me all you know.’</p>
<p>‘And then, reverendo, the police brought back the Colonel who
had been murdered in the streets - and I who had his Excellency’s
dinner on the table waiting for him!’</p>
<p>‘And - ’</p>
<p>‘And Sebastian ate the dinner, reverendo.’</p>
<p>‘Your husband appears to be a man of action,’ said Concha
with a queer smile. ‘And then - ’</p>
<p>‘Sebastian sent me on a message to the town, and when I came
back he was gone and all his Excellency’s possessions were gone
- his papers and valuables.’</p>
<p>‘Including the letter which the Englishman had left for the
Colonel?’</p>
<p>‘Yes, reverendo. Sebastian knew that in these times the
papers of a politician may perhaps be sold for money.’</p>
<p>Concha nodded his head reflectively and took a pinch of snuff with
infinite deliberation and enjoyment.</p>
<p>‘Yes - assuredly, Sebastian is one of those men who get on
in the world - up to a certain point - and at that point they get hanged.
There is in the universe a particular spot for each man - where we all
think we should like to go if we had the money. For me it is Rome.
Doubtless Sebastian had some such spot, of which he spoke when he was
intoxicated. Where is Sebastian’s earthly paradise, think
you, my child?’</p>
<p>‘He always spoke of Madrid, reverendo.’</p>
<p>‘Yes - yes, I can imagine he would.’</p>
<p>‘And I have no money to follow him,’ sobbed the woman,
breaking into tears again. ‘So I came to Ronda, where I
am known, to seek it.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, foolish woman!’ exclaimed the priest severely, and
shaking his finger at her. ‘Foolish woman to think of following
such a person. More foolish still is it to weep for a worthless
husband, especially in public, thus, on the church steps, where all
may see. All the other women will be so pleased. It is their
greatest happiness to think that their neighbour’s husband is
worse than their own. Failure is the royal road to popularity.
Dry your tears, foolish one, before you make too many friends.’</p>
<p>The woman obeyed him mechanically with a sort of dumb hopelessness.</p>
<p>At this moment a horseman clattered past, coming from Ronda and hastening
in the direction of Bobadilla or perhaps to the Casa Barenna.
He wore his flat-brimmed hat well forward over the eyes, and kept his
gaze fixed upon the road in front. There was a faint suggestion
of assumed absorption in his attitude, as if he knew that the priest
was usually at the church door at this hour, and had no desire to meet
his eye. It was Larralde.</p>
<p>A few minutes later Julia Barenna, who was sitting at her window
watching and waiting - her attitude in life - suddenly rose with eyes
that gleamed and trembling hands. She stood and gazed down into
the valley below, her attention fixed on the form of a horseman slowly
making his way through the olive groves. Then breathlessly she
turned to her mirror.</p>
<p>‘At last!’ she whispered, her fingers busy with her hair
and mantilla, a thousand thoughts flying through her brain, her heart
throbbing in her breast. In a moment the aspect of the whole world
had changed - in a moment Julia herself was another woman. Ten
years seemed to have rolled away from her heart, leaving her young and
girlish and hopeful again. She gave one last look at herself and
hurried to the door.</p>
<p>It was yet early in the day, and the air beneath the gnarled and
ancient olive trees was cool and fresh as Julia passed under them to
meet her lover. He threw himself out of the saddle when he saw
her, and, leaving his horse loose, ran to meet her. He took her
hands and raised her fingers to his lips with a certain fervour which
was sincere enough. For Larralde loved Julia according to his
lights, though he had another mistress, Ambition, who was with him always
and filled his thoughts, sleeping or waking. Julia, her face all
flushed, her eyes aglow, received his gallant greeting with a sort of
breathless eagerness. She knew she had not Larralde’s whole
heart, and, woman-like, was not content with half.</p>
<p>‘I have not seen you for nearly a fortnight,’ she said.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ answered Larralde, who had apparently not kept
so strict an account of the days. ‘Ah! yes - I know.
But, dearest, I have been burning the high-roads. I have been
almost to Madrid. Ah! Julia, why did you make such a mistake?’</p>
<p>‘What mistake?’ she asked with a sudden light of coquetry
in her eyes. She thought he was about to ask her why she loved
him. In former days he had had a pretty turn for such questions.</p>
<p>‘In giving the letter to that scoundrel Conyngham - he has
betrayed us, and Spain is no longer safe for me.’</p>
<p>‘Are you sure of this?’ asked Julia, alert. Had
she possessed Larralde’s whole heart she would have been happy
enough to take part in his pursuits.</p>
<p>Larralde gave a short laugh and shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘Heaven only knows where the letter is now,’ he answered.
Julia unfolded a note and handed it to him. She had received it
three weeks earlier from Concepçion Vara, and it was from Conyngham,
saying that he had left her note at the house of the Colonel.</p>
<p>‘The Colonel was dead before Conyngham arrived at Xeres,’
said Larralde shortly. ‘And I do not believe he ever left
the letter. I suspected that he had kept it as a little recommendation
to the Christinos under whom he takes service. It would have been
the most natural thing to do. But I have satisfied myself that
the letter is not in his possession.’</p>
<p>‘How?’ asked Julia with a sudden fear that blanched her
face.</p>
<p>Larralde smiled in rather a sickly way and made no answer.
He turned and looked down the avenue.</p>
<p>‘I see Father Concha approaching,’ he said; ‘let
us go towards the house.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV. A WEIGHT OF EVIDENCE.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘The woman who loves you is at once your detective and accomplice.’</i></p>
<p>The old priest was walking leisurely up the avenue towards the Casa
Barenna when the branches of a dwarf ilex were pushed aside, and there
came to him from their leafy concealment, not indeed a wood-nymph, but
Señora Barenna, with her finger at her lips.</p>
<p>‘Hush!’ she said; ‘he is here.’</p>
<p>And from the anxious and excited expression of her face it became
apparent that madame’s nerves were astir.</p>
<p>‘Who is here?’</p>
<p>‘Why, Esteban Larralde, of course.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Concha patiently. ‘But need we
for that hide behind the bushes and walk on the flower borders?
Life would be much simpler, señora, if people would only keep
to the footpath. Less picturesque, I allow you, but simpler.
Shall I climb up a tree?’</p>
<p>The lady cast her eyes up to heaven and heaved an exaggerated sigh.</p>
<p>‘Ah - what a tragedy life is!’ she whispered, apparently
to the angels, but loud enough for her companion to hear.</p>
<p>‘Or a farce,’ said Concha, ‘according to our reading
of the part. Where is Señor Larralde?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, he has gone to the fruit garden with Julia - there is
a high wall all round, and one cannot see. She may be murdered
by this time. I knew he was coming from the manner in which she
ran downstairs. She walks at other times.’</p>
<p>Concha smiled rather grimly.</p>
<p>‘She is not the first to do that,’ he said, ‘and
many have stumbled on the stairs in their haste.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! You are a hard man - a terrible man with no heart.
And I have no one to sympathise with me. No one knows what I suffer.
I never sleep at night - not a wink - but lie and think of my troubles.
Julia will not obey me. I have warned her not to rouse me to anger
- and she laughs at me. She persists in seeing this terrible Esteban
Larralde - a Carlist, if you please.’</p>
<p>‘We are all as God made us,’ said Concha - ’with
embellishments added by the Evil One,’ he added, in a lower tone.</p>
<p>‘And now I am going to see General Vincente. I shall
tell him to send soldiers. This man’s presence is intolerable
- I am not obeyed in my own house,’ cried the lady. ‘I
have ordered the carriage to meet me at the lower gate. I dare
not drive away from my own door. Ah! what a tragedy!’</p>
<p>‘I will go with you, since you are determined to go,’
said Concha.</p>
<p>‘What! And leave Julia here with that terrible man?’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ answered the priest. ‘Happiness is
a dangerous thing to meddle with. There is so little of it in
the world, and it lasts so short a time.’</p>
<p>Señora Barenna indicated by a sigh and her attitude that she
had had no experience in the matter. As a simple fact, she had
been enabled all through her life to satisfy her own desires - the subtlest
form of misfortune.</p>
<p>‘Then you would have Julia marry this terrible man,’
said the lady, shielding her face from the sun with the black fan which
she always carried.</p>
<p>‘I am too old and too stupid to take any active part in my
neighbours’ affairs. It is only the young and inexperienced
who are competent to do that,’ answered the priest.</p>
<p>‘But you say you are fond of Julia.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said the priest quietly.</p>
<p>‘I wonder why.’</p>
<p>‘So do I,’ he said in a tone that Señora Barenna
never understood.</p>
<p>‘You are always kinder to her than you are to me,’ went
on the lady in her most martyred manner. ‘Her penances are
always lighter than mine. You are patient with her and not with
me. And I am sure I have never done you any injury - ’</p>
<p>The old Padre smiled. Perhaps he was thinking of those illusions
which she had during the years pulled down one by one - for the greater
peace of his soul.</p>
<p>‘There is the carriage,’ he said. ‘Let us
hasten to General Vincente - if you wish to see him.’</p>
<p>In a few minutes they were rattling along the road, while Esteban
Larralde and Julia sat side by side in the shade of the great wall that
surrounded the fruit garden. And one at least of them was gathering
that quick harvest of love which is like the grass of the field, inasmuch
as to-day it is, and to-morrow is not.</p>
<p>General Vincente was at home. He was one of those men who are
happy in finding themselves where they are wanted. So many have,
on the contrary, the misfortune to be always absent when they are required,
and the world soon learns to progress without them.</p>
<p>‘That man - that Larralde is in Ronda,’ said Señora
Barenna, bursting in on the General’s solitude. Vincente
smiled, and nevertheless exchanged a quick glance with Concha, who confirmed
the news by a movement of his shaggy eyebrows.</p>
<p>‘Ah, these young people!’ exclaimed the General with
a gay little sigh. ‘What it is to be young and in love!
But be seated, Iñez - be seated. Padre - a chair.’</p>
<p>‘What do you propose to do?’ asked Señora Barenna
breathlessly, for she was stout and agitated and had hurried up the
steps.</p>
<p>‘When, my dear Iñez - when?’</p>
<p>‘But now - with this man in Ronda. You know quite well
he is dangerous. He is a Carlist. It was only the other
day that you received an anonymous letter saying that your life was
in danger. Of course it was from the Carlists, and Larralde has
something to do with it; or that Englishman - that Señor Conyngham
with the blue eyes. A man with blue eyes - bah! Of course
he is not to be trusted.’</p>
<p>The receiver of the anonymous warning seemed to be amused.</p>
<p>‘A little sweeping, your statements, my dear Iñez.
Is it not so? Now, a lemonade! the afternoon is warm.’</p>
<p>He rose and rang the bell.</p>
<p>‘My nerves,’ whispered the Señora to Concha.
‘My nerves - they are so easily upset.’</p>
<p>‘The liqueurs,’ said the General to the servant with
perfect gravity.</p>
<p>‘You must take steps at once,’ urged Señora Barenna
when they were alone again. She was endowed with a magnificent
imagination without much wisdom to hold it in check, and at times persuaded
herself that she was in the midst, and perhaps the leader, of a dangerous
whirl of political events.</p>
<p>‘I will, my dear Iñez; I will. And we will take
a little maraschino, to collect ourselves, eh?’</p>
<p>And his manner quite indicated that it was he and not Madame Barenna
who was upset. The lady consented, and proceeded to what she took
to be a consultation, which in reality was a monologue. During
this she imparted a vast deal of information, and received none in return,
which is the habit of voluble people, and renders them exceedingly dangerous
to themselves and useful to others.</p>
<p>Presently the two men conducted her to her carriage, with many reassurances.</p>
<p>‘Never fear, Iñez; never fear. He will be gone
before you return,’ said the General, with a wave of the hand.
He had consented to invite Julia to accompany Estella and himself to
Madrid, where she would be out of harm’s way.</p>
<p>The two men then returned to the General’s study, and sat down
in that silence which only grows to perfection on the deep soil of a
long-standing friendship. Vincente was the first to speak.</p>
<p>‘I have had a letter from Madrid,’ he said, looking gravely
at his companion. ‘My correspondent tells me that Conyngham
has not yet presented his letter of introduction, and, so far as is
ascertainable, has not arrived in the capital. He should have
been there six weeks ago.’</p>
<p>The Padre took a pinch of snuff, and held the box out towards his
companion, who waved it aside. The General was too dainty a man
to indulge in such a habit.</p>
<p>‘He possessed no money, so he cannot have fallen a victim to
thieves,’ said Concha.</p>
<p>‘He was accompanied by a good guide, and an honest enough scoundrel,
so he cannot have lost his way,’ observed the General, with a
queer expression of optimistic distress on his face.</p>
<p>‘His movements were not always above suspicion - ’ the
priest closed his snuff-box and laboriously replaced it in the pocket
of his cassock.</p>
<p>‘That letter - it was a queer business!’ and the General
laughed.</p>
<p>‘Most suspicious.’</p>
<p>There was a silence, during which Concha sneezed twice with enjoyment
and more noise than is usually considered necessary.</p>
<p>‘And your letter,’ he said, carefully folding his handkerchief
into squares; ‘that anonymous letter of warning that your life
is threatened - is that true? It is the talk of Ronda.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, that!’ laughed Vincente. ‘Yes, it is
true enough. It is not the first time - a mere incident, that
is all.’</p>
<p>‘That which the Señora Barenna said just now,’
observed the priest slowly, ‘about our English friend - may be
true. Sometimes thoughtless people arrive at a conclusion which
eludes more careful minds.’</p>
<p>‘Yes - my dear Padre - yes.’</p>
<p>The two grey-headed men looked at each other for a moment in silence.</p>
<p>‘And yet you trust him,’ said Concha.</p>
<p>‘Despite myself, despite my better judgment, my dear friend.’</p>
<p>The priest rose and went to the window which overlooked the garden.</p>
<p>‘Estella is in the garden?’ he asked, and received no
answer.</p>
<p>‘I know what you are thinking,’ said the General.
‘You are thinking that we should do well to tell Estella of these
distressing suspicions.’</p>
<p>‘For you it does not matter,’ replied the priest.
‘It is a mere incident, as you say. Your life has been attempted
before, and you killed both the men with your own hand, if I recollect
aright.’</p>
<p>Vincente shrugged his shoulders and looked rather embarrassed.</p>
<p>‘But a woman,’ went on Concha, ‘cannot afford to
trust a man against her better judgment.’</p>
<p>By way of reply the General rose and rang the bell, requesting the
servant when he answered the summons to ask the señorita to spare
a few moments of her time.</p>
<p>They exchanged no further words until Estella came hurrying into
the room with a sudden flush on her cheeks and something in her dark
eyes that made her father say at once -</p>
<p>‘It is not bad news that we have, my child.’</p>
<p>Estella glanced at Concha and said nothing. His wise old eyes
rested for a moment on her face with a little frown of anxiety.</p>
<p>‘We have had a visit from the Señora Barenna,’
went on the General, ‘and she is anxious that we should invite
Julia to go to Madrid with us. It appears that Esteban Larralde
is still attempting to force his attentions on Julia, and is at present
in Ronda. You will not object to her coming with us?’</p>
<p>‘Oh no,’ said Estella without much interest.</p>
<p>‘We have also heard rather disquieting news about our pleasant
friend, Mr. Conyngham,’ said the General, examining the tassel
of his sword. ‘And I think it is only right to tell you
that I fear we have been deceived in him.’</p>
<p>There was silence for a few moments, and then Vincente spoke again.</p>
<p>‘In these times, one is almost compelled to suspect one’s
nearest friends. Much harm may be done by being over-trustful,
and appearances are so consistently against Mr. Conyngham that it would
be folly to ignore them.’</p>
<p>The General waited for Estella to make some comment, and after a
pause continued</p>
<p>‘He arrived in Ronda under singularly unfortunate circumstances,
and I was compelled to have his travelling companion shot. Then
occurred that affair of the letter, which he gave to Julia - an affair
which has never been explained. Conyngham would have to show me
that letter before I should be quite satisfied. I obtained for
him an introduction to General Espartero in Madrid. That was six
or seven weeks ago. The introduction has not been presented, nor
has Conyngham been seen in Madrid. In England, on his own confession,
he was rather a scamp; why not the same in Spain?’</p>
<p>The General spread out his hands in his favourite gesture of deprecation.
He had not made the world, and while deeply deploring that such things
could be, he tacitly admitted that the human race had not been, creatively
speaking, a complete success.</p>
<p>Father Concha was brushing invisible grains of snuff from his cassock
sleeve and watching Estella with anxious eyes.</p>
<p>‘I only tell you, my dear,’ continued the General, ‘so
that we may know how to treat Mr. Conyngham should we meet him in Madrid.
I liked him. I like a roving man - and many Englishmen are thus
wanderers - but appearances are very much against him.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ admitted Estella quietly. ‘Yes.’</p>
<p>She moved towards the door, and there turning looked at Concha.</p>
<p>‘Does the Padre stay to dinner?’ she asked.</p>
<p>‘No, my child, thank you. No; I have affairs at home.’</p>
<p>Estella went out of the room, leaving a queer silence behind her.</p>
<p>Presently Concha rose.</p>
<p>‘I, too, am going to Madrid,’ he said. ‘It
is an opportunity to press my claim for the payment of my princely stipend,
now two years overdue.’</p>
<p>He walked home on the shady side of the street, exchanging many salutations,
pausing now and then to speak to a friend. Indeed, nearly every
passer-by counted himself as such. In his bare room, where the
merest necessities of life scarce had place, he sat down thoughtfully.
The furniture, the few books, his own apparel, bespoke the direst poverty.
This was one who in his simplicity read his Master’s words quite
literally, and went about his work with neither purse nor scrip.
The priest presently rose and took from a shelf an old wooden box quaintly
carved and studded with iron nails. A search in the drawer of
the table resulted in the finding of a key and the final discovery of
a small parcel at the bottom of the box which contained letters and
other papers.</p>
<p>‘The rainy day - it comes at last,’ said the Padre Concha,
counting out his little stock of silver with the care that only comes
from the knowledge that each coin represents a self-denial.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XV. AN ULTIMATUM.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘I do believe yourself against yourself.’</i></p>
<p>Neither Estella nor her father had a great liking for the city of
Madrid, which indeed is at no time desirable. In the winter it
is cold, in the summer exceedingly hot, and during the changes of the
seasons of a treacherous weather difficult to surpass. The social
atmosphere was no more genial at the period with which we deal.
For it blew hot and cold, and treachery marked every change.</p>
<p>Although the Queen Regent seemed to be nearing at last a successful
issue to her long and eventful struggle against Don Carlos, she had
enemies nearer home whose movements were equally dangerous to the throne
of the child queen.</p>
<p>‘I cannot afford to have an honest soldier so far removed from
the capital,’ said Christina, who never laid aside the woman while
playing the Queen, as Vincente kissed her hand on presenting himself
at Court. The General smiled and shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘What did she say? What did she say?’ the intriguers
whispered eagerly as the great soldier made his way towards the door,
with the haste of one who was no courtier. But they received no
answer.</p>
<p>The General had taken a suite of rooms in one of the hotels on the
Puerta del Sol, and hurried thither, well pleased do have escaped so
easily from a palace where self-seeking - the grim spirit that haunts
the abodes of royalty - had long reigned supreme. There was, the
servants told him, a visitor in the salon - one who had asked for the
General, and on learning of his absence had insisted on being received
by the señorita.</p>
<p>‘That sounds like Conyngham,’ muttered the General, unbuckling
his sword - for he had but one weapon, and wore it in the presence of
the Queen and her enemies alike.</p>
<p>It was indeed Conyngham, whose gay laugh Vincente heard before he
crossed the threshold of Estella’s drawing-room. The Englishman
was in uniform, and stood with his back turned towards the door by which
the General entered.</p>
<p>‘It is Señor Conyngham,’ said Estella at once,
in a quiet voice, ‘who has been wounded and six weeks in the hospital.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Conyngham. ‘But I am well again
now! And I got my appointment while I was still in the Sisters’
care.’</p>
<p>He laughed, though his face was pale and thin, and approached the
General with extended hand. The General had come to Madrid with
the intention of refusing to take that hand, and those who knew him
said that this soldier never swerved from his purpose. He looked
for a moment into Conyngham’s eyes, and then shook hands with
him. He did not disguise the hesitation, which was apparent to
both Estella and the Englishman.</p>
<p>‘How were you wounded?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘I was stabbed in the back on the Toledo road, ten miles from
here.’</p>
<p>‘Not by a robber - not for your money?’</p>
<p>‘No one ever hated me or cared for me on that account,’
laughed Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘Then who did it?’ asked General Vincente, unbuttoning
his gloves.</p>
<p>Conyngham hesitated.</p>
<p>‘A man with whom I quarrelled on the road,’ he made reply;
but it was no answer at all, as hearers and speaker alike recognised
in a flash of thought.</p>
<p>‘He left me for dead on the road, but a carter picked me up
and brought me to Madrid, to the hospital of the Hermanas, where I have
been ever since.’</p>
<p>There were flowers on the table, and the General stooped over them
with a delicate appreciation of their scent. He was a great lover
of flowers, and indeed had a sense of the beautiful quite out of keeping
with the colour of his coat.</p>
<p>‘You must beware,’ he said, ‘now that you wear
the Queen’s uniform. There is treachery abroad, I fear.
Even I have had an anonymous letter of warning.’</p>
<p>‘I should like to know who wrote it,’ exclaimed Conyngham,
with a sudden flash of anger in his eyes. The General laughed
pleasantly.</p>
<p>‘So should I,’ he said. ‘Merely as a matter
of curiosity.’</p>
<p>And he turned towards the door, which was opened at this moment by
a servant.</p>
<p>‘A gentleman wishing to see me - an Englishman, as it would
appear,’ he continued, looking at the card.</p>
<p>‘By the way,’ said Conyngham, as the General moved away,
‘I am instructed to inform you that I am attached to your staff
as extra aide-de-camp during your stay in Madrid.’</p>
<p>The General nodded and left Estella and Conyngham alone in the drawing-room.
Conyngham turned on Estella.</p>
<p>‘So that I have a right to be near you,’ he said, ‘which
is all that I want.’</p>
<p>He spoke lightly enough, as was his habit; but Estella, who was wise
in those matters that women know, preferred not to meet his eyes, which
were grave and deep.</p>
<p>‘Such things are quickly said,’ Estella retorted.</p>
<p>‘Yes - and it takes a long time to prove them.’</p>
<p>The General had left his gloves on the table. Estella took
them up and appeared to be interested in them. ‘Perhaps
a lifetime,’ she suggested.</p>
<p>‘I ask no less, señorita.’</p>
<p>‘Then you ask much.’</p>
<p>‘And I give all - though that is little enough.’</p>
<p>They spoke slowly - not bandying words but exchanging thoughts.
Estella was grave. Conyngham’s attitude was that which he
ever displayed to the world - namely, one of cheerful optimism, as behoved
a strong man who had not yet known fear.</p>
<p>‘Is it too little, señorita?’ he asked.</p>
<p>She was sitting at the table and would not look up - neither would
she answer his question. He was standing quite close to her -
upright in his bright uniform, his hand on his sword - and all her attention
was fixed on the flowers which had called forth the General’s
unspoken admiration. She touched them with fingers hardly lighter
than his.</p>
<p>‘Now that I think of it,’ said Conyngham after a pause,
‘what I give is nothing.’</p>
<p>Estella’s face wore a queer little smile, as of a deeper knowledge.</p>
<p>‘Nothing at all,’ continued the Englishman. ‘For
I have nothing to give, and you know nothing of me.’</p>
<p>‘Three months ago,’ answered Estella, ‘we had never
heard of you - and you had never seen me,’ she added, with a little
laugh.</p>
<p>‘I have seen nothing else since,’ Conyngham replied deliberately;
‘for I have gone about the world a blind man.’</p>
<p>‘In three months one cannot decide matters that affect a whole
lifetime,’ said the girl.</p>
<p>‘This matter decided itself in three minutes, so far as I am
concerned, señorita, in the old palace at Ronda. It is
a matter that time is powerless to affect one way or the other.’</p>
<p>‘With some people; but you are hasty and impetuous. My
father said it of you - and he is never mistaken.’</p>
<p>‘Then you do not trust me, señorita?’</p>
<p>Estella had turned away her face so that he could only see her mantilla
and the folds of her golden hair gleaming through the black lace.
She shrugged her shoulders.</p>
<p>‘It is not due to yourself, nor to all who know you in Spain,
if I do,’ she said.</p>
<p>‘All who know me?’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ she continued; ‘Father Concha, Señora
Barenna, my father, and others at Ronda.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! And what leads them to mistrust me?’</p>
<p>‘Your own actions,’ replied Estella.</p>
<p>And Conyngham was too simple-minded, too inexperienced in such matters,
to understand the ring of anxiety in her voice.</p>
<p>‘I do not much mind what the rest of the world thinks of me,’
he said; ‘I have never owed anything to the world nor asked anything
from it. They are welcome to think what they like. But with
you it is different. Is it possible, señorita, to make
you trust me?’</p>
<p>Estella did not answer at once. After a pause she gave an indifferent
jerk of the head.</p>
<p>‘Perhaps,’ she said.</p>
<p>‘If it is possible, I will do it.’</p>
<p>‘It is quite easy,’ she answered, raising her head and
looking out of the window with an air that seemed to indicate that her
interests lay without and not in this room at all.</p>
<p>‘How can I do it?’</p>
<p>She gave a short, hard laugh, which to experienced ears would have
betrayed her instantly.</p>
<p>‘By showing me the letter you wrote to Julia Barenna,’
she said.</p>
<p>‘I cannot do that.’</p>
<p>‘No,’ she said significantly. A woman fighting
for her own happiness is no sparing adversary.</p>
<p>‘Will nothing else than the sight of that letter satisfy you,
señorita?’</p>
<p>Her profile was turned towards him - delicate and proud, with the
perfect chiselling of outline that only comes with a long descent, and
bespeaks the blood of gentle ancestors. For Estella Vincente had
in her veins blood that was counted noble in Spain - the land of a bygone
glory.</p>
<p>‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘Though the question
of my being satisfied is hardly of importance. You asked me to
trust you, and you make it difficult by your actions. In return
I ask a proof, that is all.’</p>
<p>‘Do you want to trust me?’</p>
<p>He had come a little closer to her, and was grave enough now.</p>
<p>‘Why do you ask that?’ she inquired in a low voice.</p>
<p>‘Do you want to trust me?’ he asked, and it is to be
supposed that he was able to detect an infinitesimal acquiescent movement
of her head.</p>
<p>‘Then, if that letter is in existence, you shall have it,’
he said. ‘You say that my actions have borne evidence against
me. I shall trust to action and not to words to refute that evidence.
But you must give me time - will you do that?’</p>
<p>‘You always ask something.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, señorita, from you; but from no one else in the
world.’</p>
<p>He gave a sudden laugh and walked to the window, where he stood looking
at her.</p>
<p>‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘I shall be asking all my
life from you. Perhaps that is why we were created, señorita
- I to ask, you to give. Perhaps that is happiness, Estella.’</p>
<p>She raised her eyes but did not meet his, looking past him through
the open window. The hotel was situated at the lower end of the
Puerta del Sol - the quiet end, and farthest removed from the hum of
the market and the busy sounds of traffic. These only came in
the form of a distant hum, like the continuous roar of surf upon an
unseen shore. Below the windows a passing waterseller plied his
trade, and his monotonous cry of ‘Agua-a-a! Agua-a-a!’
rose like a wail - like the voice of one crying in that human wilderness
where solitude reigns as surely as in the desert.</p>
<p>For a moment Estella glanced at Conyngham gravely, and his eyes were
no less serious. They were not the first, but only two out of
many millions, to wonder what happiness is and where it hides in this
busy world.</p>
<p>They had not spoken or moved when the door was again opened by a
servant, who bowed towards Conyngham and then stood aside to allow ingress
to one who followed on his heels. This was a tall man, white-haired,
and white of face. Indeed, his cheeks had the dead pallor of paper,
and seemed to be drawn over the cheekbones at such tension as gave to
the skin a polish like that of fine marble. One sees many such
faces in London streets, and they usually indicate suffering, either
mental or physical.</p>
<p>The stranger came forward with a perfect lack of embarrassment, which
proved him to be a man of the world. His bow to Estella clearly
indicated that his business lay with Conyngham. He was the incarnation
of the Continental ideal of the polished cold Englishman, and had the
air of a diplomate such as this country sends to foreign Courts to praise
or blame, to declare friendship or war with the same calm suavity and
imperturbable politeness.</p>
<p>‘I come from General Vincente,’ he said to Conyngham,
‘who will follow in a moment, when he has despatched some business
which detains him. I have a letter to the General, and am, in
fact, in need of his assistance.’</p>
<p>He broke off, turning to Estella, who was moving towards the door.</p>
<p>‘I was especially instructed,’ he said quickly to her,
‘to ask you not to leave us. You were, I believe, at school
with my nieces in England, and when my business, which is of the briefest,
is concluded, I have messages to deliver to you from Mary and Amy Mainwaring.’</p>
<p>Estella smiled a little and resumed her seat. Then the stranger
turned to Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘The General told me,’ he went on in his cold voice,
without a gleam of geniality or even of life in his eyes, ‘that
if I followed the servant to the drawing-room I should find here an
English aide-de-camp who is fully in his confidence, and upon whose
good-nature and assistance I could rely.’</p>
<p>‘I am for the time General Vincente’s aide-de-camp, and
I am an Englishman,’ answered Conyngham.</p>
<p>The stranger bowed.</p>
<p>‘I did not explain my business to General Vincente,’
said he, ‘who asked me to wait until he came, and then tell the
story to you both at one time. In the meantime I was to introduce
myself to you.’</p>
<p>Conyngham waited in silence.</p>
<p>‘My name is Sir John Pleydell,’ said the stranger quietly.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVI. IN HONOUR.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘He makes no friend who never made a foe.’</i></p>
<p>Conyngham remembered the name of Pleydell well enough, and glanced
sharply at Estella, recollecting that the General received the ‘Times’
from London. Before he had time to make an answer, and indeed
he had none ready, the General came into the room.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Vincente in his sociable manner, ‘I
see you know each other already - so an introduction is superfluous.
And now we will have Sir John’s story. Be seated, my dear
sir. But first - a little refreshment. It is a dusty day
- a lemonade?’</p>
<p>Sir John declined, his manner strikingly cold and reserved beside
the genial <i>empressement</i> of General Vincente. In truth the
two men seemed to belong to opposite poles - the one of cold and the
other of heat. Sir John had the chill air of one who had mixed
among his fellow men only to see their evil side; for the world is a
cold place to those that look on it with a chilling glance. General
Vincente, on the other hand, whose life had been passed in strife and
warfare, seemed ready to welcome all comers as friends and to hold out
the hand of good-fellowship to rich and poor alike.</p>
<p>Conyngham shrugged his shoulders with a queer smile. Here was
a quandary requiring a quicker brain than his. He did not even
attempt to seek a solution to his difficulties, and the only thought
in his mind was a characteristic determination to face them courageously.
He drew forward a chair for Sir John Pleydell, his heart stirred with
that sense of exhilaration which comes to some in moments of peril.</p>
<p>‘I will not detain you long,’ began the new-comer, with
an air slightly suggestive of the law court, ‘but there are certain
details which I am afraid I must inflict upon you, in order that you
may fully understand my actions.’</p>
<p>The remark was addressed to General Vincente, although the speaker
appeared to be demanding Conyngham’s attention in the first instance.
The learned gentlemen of the Bar thus often address the jury through
the ears of the judge.</p>
<p>General Vincente had seated himself at the table and was drawing
his scented pocket-handkerchief across his moustache reflectively.
He was not, it was obvious, keenly interested, although desirous of
showing every politeness to the stranger. In truth, such Englishmen
as brought their affairs to Spain at this time were not as a rule highly
desirable persons or a credit to their country. Estella was sitting
near the window, rather behind her father, and Conyngham stood by the
fireplace, facing them all.</p>
<p>‘You perhaps know something of our English politics,’
continued Sir John Pleydell, and the General making a little gesture
indicative of a limited but sufficient knowledge, went on to say - ’of
the Chartists more particularly?’</p>
<p>The General bowed. Estella glanced at Conyngham, who was smiling.</p>
<p>‘One cannot call them a party, as I have heard them designated
in Spain,’ said Sir John parenthetically. ‘They are
quite unworthy of so distinguished a name. These Chartists consist
of the most ignorant people in the land - the rabble, in fact, headed
by a few scheming malcontents: professional agitators who are not above
picking the pockets of the poor. Many capitalists and landowners
have suffered wrong and loss at the hands of these disturbers of the
peace, none - ’ He paused and gave a sharp sigh which seemed
to catch him unawares, and almost suggested that the man had, after
all, or had at one time possessed, a heart. ‘None more severely
than myself,’ he concluded.</p>
<p>The General’s face instantly expressed the utmost concern.</p>
<p>‘My dear sir,’ he murmured.</p>
<p>‘For many years,’ continued Sir John hurriedly, as if
resenting anything like sympathy, as all good Britons do, ‘the
authorities acted in an irresolute and foolish manner, not daring to
put down the disturbances with a firm hand. At length, however,
a riot of a more serious character at a town in Wales necessitated the
interference of the military. The ringleaders were arrested, and
for some time the authorities were in considerable doubt as to what
to do to them. I interested myself strongly in the matter - having
practised the law in my younger days - and was finally enabled to see
my object carried out. These men were arraigned, not as mere brawlers
and rioters, but under a charge of high treason - a much more serious
affair for them.’</p>
<p>He broke off with a harsh laugh, which was only a matter of the voice,
for his marble face remained unchanged, and probably had not at any
time the power of expressing mirth.</p>
<p>‘The ringleaders of the Newport riots were sentenced to long
terms of imprisonment, which served my purpose excellently.’</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell spoke with that cynical frankness which seems often
to follow upon a few years devoted to practice at the Common Law Bar,
where men in truth spend their days in dissecting the mental diseases
of their fellow creatures, and learn to conclude that a pure and healthy
mind is possessed by none. He moved slightly in his chair, and
seemed to indicate that he had made his first point.</p>
<p>‘I hope,’ he said, addressing Conyngham directly, ‘that
I am not fatiguing you?’</p>
<p>‘Not at all,’ returned the younger Englishman coolly;
‘I am much interested.’</p>
<p>The General was studying the texture of his pocket-handkerchief.
Estella’s face had grown cold and set. Her eyes from time
to time turned towards Conyngham. Sir John Pleydell was not creating
a good impression.</p>
<p>‘I will now come to the more personal part of my story,’
went on that gifted speaker, ‘and proceed to explain my reason
for inflicting it upon you.’</p>
<p>He still spoke directly to Conyngham, who bowed his head in silence,
with the queer smile still hovering on his lips. Estella saw it
and drew a sharp breath. In the course of her short life, which
had almost been spent in the midst of warfare, she had seen men in danger
more than once, and perhaps recognised that smile.</p>
<p>‘I particularly beg your attention,’ explained Sir John
to Conyngham, ‘because I understand from General Vincente that
you are in reality attached to the staff of General Espartero, and it
is to him that I look for help.’</p>
<p>Sir John paused again. He had established another point.
One almost expected to see him raise his hand to his shoulder to throw
back the silken gown.</p>
<p>‘Some months ago,’ he went on, ‘these Chartists
attacked my house in the North of England, and killed my son.’</p>
<p>There was a short silence, and the General muttered a curt and polite
Spanish oath under his breath. But somehow the speaker had failed
to make that point, and he hurried on.</p>
<p>‘It was not, technically speaking, a murder; my boy, who had
a fine spirit, attacked the rioters, and a clever counsel might have
got a verdict for the scoundrel who actually struck the blow.
I knew this, and awaited events. I did not even take steps against
the man who killed my son - an only son and child. It was not,
from a legal point of view, worth while.’</p>
<p>He laughed his unpleasant laugh again and presently went on.</p>
<p>‘Fortune, however, favoured me. The trouble grew worse,
and the Newport riots at last aroused the Government. The sentence
upon the ringleaders gave me my opportunity. It was worth while
to hunt down the murderer of my son when I could ensure him sixteen
or twenty years’ penal servitude.’</p>
<p>‘Quite,’ said the General; ‘quite.’
And he smiled. He seemed to fail to realise that Sir John Pleydell
was in deadly earnest, and really harboured the implacable spirit of
revenge with which he cynically credited himself.</p>
<p>‘I traced my man to Gibraltar, and thence he appears to have
come north,’ continued Sir John Pleydell. ‘He has
probably taken service under Espartero - many of our English outlaws
wear the Spanish Queen’s uniform. He is, of course, bearing
an assumed name; but surely it would be possible to trace him?’</p>
<p>‘Oh, yes,’ answered Conyngham, ‘I think you will
be able to find him.’</p>
<p>Sir John’s eyes had for a moment a gleam of life in them.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ he said, ‘I am glad to hear you say that.
For that is my object in coming to this country; and although I have
during the course of my life had many objects of ambition or desire,
none of them has so entirely absorbed my attention as this one.
Half a dozen men have gone to penal servitude in order that I might
succeed in my purpose.’</p>
<p>There was a cold deliberation in this statement which was more cruel
than cynicism, for it was sincere. Conyngham looked at Estella.
Her face had lost all colour, her eyes were burning - not with the dull
light of fear, for the blood that ran in her veins had no taint of that
in it - but with anger. She knew who it was that Sir John Pleydell
sought. She looked at Conyngham, and his smile of cool intrepidity
made her heart leap within her breast. This lover of hers was
at all events a brave man - and that which through all the ages reaches
the human heart most surely is courage. The coward has no friends.</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell had paused, and was seeking something in his pocket.
General Vincente preserved his attitude of slightly bored attention.</p>
<p>‘I have here,’ went on the baronet, ‘a list of
the English officers serving in the army of General Espartero at the
time of my quitting England. Perhaps you will, at your leisure,
be kind enough to cast your eye over it, and make a note of such men
as are personally unknown to you, and may therefore be bearing assumed
names.’</p>
<p>Conyngham took the paper, and, holding it in his hand, spoke without
moving from the mantelpiece against which he leant.</p>
<p>‘You have not yet made quite clear your object in coming to
Spain,’ he said. ‘There exists between Spain and England
no extradition treaty; and even if such were to come in force I believe
that persons guilty of political offences would be exempt from its action.
You propose to arraign this man for high treason - a political offence
according to the law of many countries.’</p>
<p>‘You speak like a lawyer,’ said Sir John, with a laugh.</p>
<p>‘You have just informed us,’ retorted Conyngham, ‘that
all the English in the Spanish service are miscreants. None know
the law so intimately as those who have broken it.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ laughed Sir John again, with a face of stone.
‘There are exceptions to all rules - and you, young sir, are an
exception to that which I laid down as regards our countrymen in Spain,
unless my experience of faces and knowledge of men play me very false.
But your contention is a just one. I am not in a position to seek
the aid of the Spanish authorities in this matter. I am fully
aware of the fact. You surely did not expect me to come to Spain
with such a weak case as that?’</p>
<p>‘No,’ answered Conyngham slowly, ‘I did not.’</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell raised his eyes and looked at his fellow countryman
with a dawning interest. The General also looked up, from one
face to the other. The atmosphere of the room seemed to have undergone
a sudden change, and to be dominated by the personality of these two
Englishmen. The one will, strong on the surface, accustomed to
assert itself and dominate, seemed suddenly to have found itself faced
by another as strong and yet hidden behind an easy smile and indolent
manner.</p>
<p>‘You are quite right,’ he went on in his cold voice.
‘I have a better case than that, and one eminently suited to a
country such as Spain, where a long war has reduced law and order to
a somewhat low ebb. I at first thought of coming here to await
my chance of shooting this man - his name, by the way, is Frederick
Conyngham; but circumstances placed a better vengeance within my grasp
- one that will last longer.’</p>
<p>He paused for a moment to reflect upon this long-drawn-out expiation.</p>
<p>‘I propose to get my man home to England, and let him there
stand his trial. The idea is not my own; it has, in fact, been
carried out successfully before now. Once in England I shall make
it my business to see that he gets twenty years’ penal servitude.’</p>
<p>‘And how do you propose to get him to England?’ asked
Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘Oh! that is simple enough. Only a matter of paying a
couple of such scoundrels as I understand abound in Spain at this moment
- a little bribing of officials, a heavy fee to some English ship-captain.
I propose, in short, to kidnap Frederick Conyngham. But I do not
ask you to help me in that. I only ask you to put me on his track
- to help me to find him, in fact. Will you do it?’</p>
<p>‘Certainly,’ said Conyngham, coming forward with a card
in his hand. ‘You could not have come to a better man.’</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell read the card, and had himself in such control
that his face hardly changed. His teeth closed over his lower
lip for a second; then he rose. The perspiration stood out on
his face - the grey of his eyes seemed to have faded to the colour of
ashes. He looked hard at Conyngham, and then, taking up his hat,
went to the door with curious, uneven steps. On the threshold
he turned.</p>
<p>‘Your insolence,’ he said breathlessly, ‘is only
exceeded by your - daring.’</p>
<p>As the door closed behind him there came, from that part of the room
where General Vincente sat, a muffled click of steel, as if a sword
half out of its scabbard had been sent softly home again.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVII. IN MADRID.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Some keepeth silence knowing his time.’</i></p>
<p>‘Who travels slowly may arrive too late,’ said the Padre
Concha, with a pessimistic shake of the head, as the carrier’s
cart in which he had come from Toledo drew up in the Plazuela de la
Cebada at Madrid. The careful penury of many years had not, indeed,
enabled the old priest to travel by the quick diligences, which had
often passed him on the road with a cloud of dust and the rattle of
six horses. The great journey had been accomplished in the humbler
vehicles plying from town to town, that ran as often as not by night
in order to save the horses.</p>
<p>The priest, like his fellow-travellers, was white with dust.
Dust covered his cloak so that its original hue of rusty black was quite
lost. Dust coated his face and nestled in the deep wrinkles of
it. His eyebrows were lost to sight, and his lashes were like
those of a miller.</p>
<p>As he stood in the street the dust arose in whirling columns and
enveloped all who were abroad; for a gale was howling across the tableland,
which the Moors of old had named ‘Majerit’ - a draught of
wind. The conductor, who, like a good and jovial conductor, had
never refused an offer of refreshment on the road, was now muddled with
drink and the heat of the sun. He was, in fact, engaged in a warm
controversy with a passenger. So the Padre found his own humble
portmanteau, a thing of cardboard and canvas, and trudged up the Calle
de Toledo, bearing the bag in one hand and his cloak in the other -
a lean figure in the sunlight.</p>
<p>Father Concha had been in Madrid before, though he rarely boasted
of it, or indeed of any of his travels.</p>
<p>‘The wise man does not hang his knowledge on a hook,’
he was in the habit of saying.</p>
<p>That this knowledge was of that useful description which is usually
designated as knowing one’s way about, soon became apparent; for
the dusty traveller passed with unerring steps through the narrower
streets that lie between the Calle de Toledo and the street of Segovia.
Here dwell the humbler citizens of Madrid, persons engaged in the small
commerce of the marketplace, for in the Plazuela de la Cebada a hundred
yards away is held the corn market, which, indeed, renders the dust
in this quarter particularly trying to the eyes. Once or twice
the priest was forced to stop at the corner of two streets and there
do battle with the wind.</p>
<p>‘But it is a hurricane,’ he muttered; ‘a hurricane.’</p>
<p>With one hand he held his hat, with the other clung to his cloak
and portmanteau.</p>
<p>‘But it will blow the dust from my poor old capa,’ he
added, giving the cloak an additional shake.</p>
<p>He presently found himself in a street which, if narrower than its
neighbours, smelt less pestiferous. The open drain that ran down
the middle of it pursued its varied course with a quite respectable
speed. In the middle of the street Father Concha paused and looked
up, nodding as if to an old friend at the sight of a dingy piece of
palm bound to the ironwork of a balcony on the second floor.</p>
<p>‘The time to wash off the dust,’ he muttered as he climbed
the narrow stairs, ‘and then to work.’</p>
<p>An hour later he was afoot again in a quarter of the city which was
less known to him - namely, in the Calle Preciados, where he sought
a venta more or less suspected by the police. The wind had risen,
and was now blowing with the force of a hurricane. It came from
the north-west with a chill whistle which bespoke its birthplace among
the peaks of the Gaudarramas. The streets were deserted; the oil
lamps swung on their chains at the street corners, casting weird shadows
that swept over the face of the houses with uncanny irregularity.
It was an evening for evil deeds, except that when Nature is in an ill-humour
human nature is mostly cowed, and those who have bad consciences cannot
rid their minds of thoughts of the hereafter.</p>
<p>The priest found the house he sought, despite the darkness of the
street and the absence of any from whom to elicit information.
The venta was on the ground-floor, and above it towered storey after
storey, built with the quaint fantasy of the middle ages, and surmounted
by a deep, overhanging gabled roof. The house seemed to have two
staircases of stone and two doors - one on each side of the venta.
There is a Spanish proverb which says that the rat which has only one
hole is soon caught. Perhaps the architect remembered this, and
had built his house to suit his tenants. It was on the fifth floor
of this tenement that Father Concha, instructed by Heaven knows what
priestly source of information, looked to meet with Sebastian, the whilom
bodyservant of the late Colonel Monreal of Xeres.</p>
<p>It was known among a certain section of the Royalists that this man
had papers and perchance some information of value to dispose of, and
more than one respectable, black-clad elbow had brushed the greasy walls
of this staircase. Sebastian, it was said, passed his time in
drinking and smoking. The boasted gaieties of Madrid had, it would
appear, diminished to this sordid level of dissipation.</p>
<p>The man was, indeed, thus occupied when the old priest opened the
door of his room.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ he answered in a thick voice, ‘I am Sebastian
of Xeres, and no other; the man who knows more of the Carlist plots
than any other in Madrid.’</p>
<p>‘Can you read?’</p>
<p>‘No.’</p>
<p>‘Then you know nothing,’ said the Padre. ‘You
have, however, a letter in a pink envelope which a friend of mine desires
to possess. It is a letter of no importance, of no political value
- a love letter, in fact.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, yes! Ah, yes! That may be, reverendo.
But there are others who want it - your love letter.’</p>
<p>‘I offer you, on the part of my friend, a hundred pesetas for
this letter.’</p>
<p>The priest’s wrinkled face wore a grim smile. It was
so little - a hundred pesetas, the price of a dinner for two persons
at one of the great restaurants on the Puerta del Sol. But to
Father Concha the sum represented five hundred cups of black coffee
denied to himself in the evening at the cafe - five hundred packets
of cigarettes, so-called of Havana, unsmoked - two new cassocks in the
course of twenty years - a hundred little gastronomic delights sternly
resisted season after season.</p>
<p>‘Not enough, your hundred pesetas, reverendo, not enough,’
laughed the man. And Concha, who could drive as keen a bargain
as any market-woman of Ronda, knew by the manner of saying it that Sebastian
only spoke the truth when he said that he had other offers.</p>
<p>‘See, reverendo,’ the man went on, leaning across the
table and banging a dirty fist upon it, ‘come to-night at ten
o’clock. There are others coming at the same hour to buy
my letter in the pink envelope. We will have an auction, a little
auction, and the letter goes to the highest bidder. But what does
your reverence want with a love letter, eh?’</p>
<p>‘I will come,’ said the Padre, and, turning, he went
home to count his money once more.</p>
<p>There are many living still who remember the great gale of wind which
was now raging, and through which Father Concha struggled back to the
Calle Preciados as the city clocks struck ten. Old men and women
still tell how the theatres were deserted that night and the great cafés
wrapt in darkness. For none dare venture abroad amid such whirl
and confusion. Concha, however, with that lean strength that comes
from a life of abstemiousness and low-living, crept along in the shadow
of the houses and reached his destination unhurt. The tall house
in the alley leading from the Calle Preciados to the Plazuela Santa
Maria was dark, as indeed were most of the streets of Madrid this night.
A small moon struggled, however, through the riven clouds at times,
and cast streaks of light down the narrow streets. Concha caught
sight of the form of a man in the alley before him. The priest
carried no weapon, but he did not pause. At this moment a gleam
of light aided him.</p>
<p>‘Señor Conyngham!’ he said. ‘What
brings you here?’</p>
<p>And the Englishman turned sharply on his heel.</p>
<p>‘Is that you - Father Concha, of Ronda?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘No other, my son.’</p>
<p>Standing in the doorway Conyngham held out his hand with that air
of good-fellowship which he had not yet lost amid the more formal Spaniards.</p>
<p>‘Hardly the night for respectable elderly gentlemen of your
cloth to be in the streets,’ he said; whereat Concha, who had
a keen appreciation of such small pleasantries, laughed grimly.</p>
<p>‘And I have not even the excuse of my cloth. I am abroad
on worldly business, and not even my own. I will be honest with
you, Señor Conyngham. I am here to buy that malediction
of a letter in a pink envelope. You remember - in the garden at
Ronda, eh?’</p>
<p>‘Yes, I remember; and why do you want that letter?’</p>
<p>‘For the sake of Julia Barenna.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! I want it for the sake of Estella Vincente.’</p>
<p>Concha laughed shortly.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is only up to the age
of twenty-five that men imagine themselves to be the rulers of the world.
But we need not bid against each other, my son. Perhaps a sight
of the letter before I destroy it would satisfy the señorita.’</p>
<p>‘No, we need not bid against each other,’ began Conyngham;
but the priest dragged him back into the doorway with a quick whisper
of ‘Silence!’</p>
<p>Someone was coming down the other stairway of the tall house, with
slow and cautious steps. Conyngham and his companion drew back
to the foot of the stairs and waited. It became evident that he
who descended the steps did so without a light. At the door he
seemed to stop, probably making sure that the narrow alley was deserted.
A moment later he hurried past the door where the two men stood.
The moon was almost clear, and by its light both the watchers recognised
Larralde in a flash of thought. The next instant Esteban Larralde
was running for his life with Frederick Conyngham on his heels.</p>
<p>The lamp at the corner of the Calle Preciados had been shattered
against the wall by a gust of wind, and both men clattered through a
slough of broken glass. Down the whole length of the Preciados
but one lamp was left alight, and the narrow street was littered with
tiles and fallen bricks, for many chimneys had been blown down, and
more than one shutter lay in the roadway, torn from its hinges by the
hurricane. It was at the risk of life that any ventured abroad
at this hour and amid the whirl of falling masonry. Larralde and
Conyngham had the Calle Preciados to themselves - and Larralde cursed
his spurs, which rang out at each footfall, and betrayed his whereabouts.</p>
<p>A dozen times the Spaniard fell, but before his pursuer could reach
him, the same obstacle threw Conyngham to the ground. A dozen
times some falling object crashed to earth on the Spaniard’s heels,
and the Englishman leapt aside to escape the rebound. Larralde
was fleet of foot despite his meagre limbs, and leapt over such obstacles
as he could perceive, with the agility of a monkey. He darted
into the lighted doorway - the entrance to the palatial mansion of an
upstart politician. The large doors were thrown open, and the
hall-porter stood in full livery awaiting the master’s carriage.
Larralde was already in the patio, and Conyngham ran through the marble-paved
entrance hall, before the porter realised what was taking place.
There was no second exit as the fugitive had hoped - so it was round
the patio and out again into the dark street, leaving the hall-porter
dumfoundered.</p>
<p>Larralde turned sharply to the right as soon as he gained the Calle
Preciados. It was a mere alley running the whole way round a church
- and here again was solitude, but not silence, for the wind roared
among the chimneys overhead as it roars through a ship’s rigging
at sea. The Calle Preciados again! and a momentary confusion among
the tables of a café that stood upon the pavement, amid upturned
chairs and a fallen, flapping awning. The pace was less killing
now, but Larralde still held his own - one hand clutched over the precious
letter regained at last - and Conyngham was conscious of a sharp pain
where the Spaniard’s knife had touched his lung.</p>
<p>Larralde ran mechanically with open mouth and staring eyes.
He never doubted that death was at his heels, should he fail to distance
the pursuer. For he had recognised Conyngham in the patio of the
great house, and as he ran the vague wonder filled his mind whether
the Englishman carried a knife. What manner of death would it
be if that long arm reached him? Esteban Larralde was afraid.
His own life - Julia’s life - the lives of a whole Carlist section
were at stake. The history of Spain, perhaps of Europe, depended
on the swiftness of his foot.</p>
<p>The little crescent moon was shining clearly now between the long-drawn
rifts of the rushing clouds. Larralde turned to the right again,
up a narrow street which seemed to promise a friendly darkness.
The ascent was steep, and the Spaniard gasped for breath as he ran -
his legs were becoming numb. He had never been in this street
before, and knew not whither it led. But it was at all events
dark and deserted. Suddenly he fell upon a heap of bricks and
rubbish, a whole stack of chimneys. He could smell the soot.
Conyngham was upon him, touched him, but failed to get a grip.
Larralde was afoot in an instant, and fell heavily down the far side
of the barricade. He gained a few yards again, and, before Conyngham’s
eyes, was suddenly swallowed up in a black mass of falling masonry.
It was more than a chimney this time; nothing less than a whole house
carried bodily to the ground by the fall of the steeple of the church
of Santa Maria del Monte. Conyngham stopped dead, and threw his
arms over his head. The crash was terrific, deafening - and for
a few moments the Englishman was stunned. He opened his eyes and
closed them again, for the dust and powdered mortar whirled round him
like smoke. Almost blinded, he crept back by the way he had come,
and the street was already full of people. In the Calle Preciados
he sat down on a door-step, and there waited until he had gained mastery
over his limbs, which shook still. Presently he made his way back
to the house where he had left Concha.</p>
<p>The man Sebastian had, a week earlier, seen and recognised Conyngham
as the bearer of the letter addressed to Colonel Monreal, and left at
that officer’s lodging in Xeres at the moment of his death in
the streets. Sebastian approached Conyngham, and informed him
that he had in his possession sundry papers belonging to the late Colonel
Monreal, which might be of value to a Royalist. This was, therefore,
not the first time that Conyngham had climbed the narrow stairs of the
tall house with two doors.</p>
<p>He found Concha busying himself by the bedside, where Sebastian lay
in the unconsciousness of deep drink.</p>
<p>‘He has probably been drugged,’ said the priest.
‘Or, he may be dying. What is more important to us is, that
the letter is not here. I have searched. Larralde escaped
you?’</p>
<p>‘Yes; and of course has the letter.’</p>
<p>‘Of course, amigo.’</p>
<p>The priest looked at the prostrate man with a face of profound contempt,
and, shrugging his shoulders, went towards the door.</p>
<p>‘Come,’ he said, ‘I must return to Toledo and Julia.
It is thither that this Larralde always returns, and she, poor woman,
believes in him. Ah, my friend’ - he paused and shook his
long finger at Conyngham. ‘When a woman believes in a man
she makes him or mars him; there is no medium.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XVIII. IN TOLEDO.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Meddle not with many matters; for if thou meddle much thou
shalt not be innocent.’</i></p>
<p>The Café of the Ambassadeurs in the Calle de la Montera was
at this time the fashionable resort of visitors to the city of Madrid.
Its tone was neither political nor urban, but savoured rather of the
cosmopolitan. The waiters at the first-class hotels recommended
the Café of the Ambassadeurs, and stepped round to the manager’s
office at the time of the New Year to mention the fact.</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell had been rather nonplussed by his encounter with
Conyngham, and, being a man of the world as well as a lawyer, sat down,
as it were, to think. He had come to Spain in the first heat of
a great revenge, and such men as he take, like the greater volcanoes,
a long time to cool down. He had been prepossessed in the favour
of the man who subsequently owned to being Frederick Conyngham.
And the very manner in which this admission was made redounded in some
degree to the honour of the young Englishman. Here, at least,
was one who had no fear, and fearlessness appeals to the heart of every
Briton from the peer to the navvy.</p>
<p>Sir John took a certain cold interest in his surroundings, and in
due course was recommended to spend an evening at the Café des
Ambassadeurs, as it styled itself, for the habit of preferring French
to Spanish designations for places of refreshment had come in since
the great revolution. Sir John went, therefore, to the café,
and with characteristic scorn of elemental disturbance chose to resort
thither on the evening of the great gale. The few other occupants
of the gorgeous room eyed his half-bottle of claret with a grave and
decorous wonder, but made no attempt to converse with this chill-looking
Englishman. At length, about ten o’clock or a few minutes
later, entered one who bowed to Sir John with an air full of affable
promise. This was Larralde, who called a waiter and bade him fetch
a coat-brush.</p>
<p>‘Would you believe it, sir?’ he said, addressing Sir
John in broken English, ‘but I have just escaped a terrible death.’</p>
<p>He shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands, and laughed good-humouredly,
after the manner of one who has no foes.</p>
<p>‘The fall of a chimney - so - within a metre of my shoulder.’
He threw back his cloak with a graceful swing of the arm and handed
it to the waiter. Then he drew forward a chair to the table occupied
by Sir John, who sipped his claret and bowed coldly.</p>
<p>‘You must not think that Madrid is always like this,’
said Larralde. ‘But perhaps you know the city - ’</p>
<p>‘No - this is my first visit.’</p>
<p>Larralde turned aside to give his order to the waiter. His
movements were always picturesque, and in the presence of Englishmen
he had a habit of accentuating those characteristics of speech and manner
which are held by our countrymen to be native to the Peninsula.
There is nothing so disarming as conventionality - and nothing less
suspicious. Larralde seemed ever to be a typical Spaniard - indolently
polite, gravely indifferent - a cigarette-smoking nonentity.</p>
<p>They talked of topics of the day, and chiefly of that great event,
the hurricane, which was still raging. Larralde, whose habit it
was to turn his neighbour to account - a seed of greatness this! - had
almost concluded that the Englishman was useless when the conversation
turned, as it was almost bound to turn between these two, upon Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘There are but few of your countrymen in Madrid at the moment,’
Larralde had said.</p>
<p>‘I know but one,’ was the guarded reply.</p>
<p>‘And I also,’ said Larralde, flicking the ash from his
cigarette. ‘A young fellow who has made himself somewhat
notorious in the Royalist cause - a cause in which I admit I have no
sympathy. His name is Conyngham.’</p>
<p>Then a silence fell upon the two men, and over raised glasses they
glanced surreptitiously at each other.</p>
<p>‘I know him,’ said Sir John at length, and the tone of
his voice made Larralde glance up with a sudden gleam in his eyes.
There thus sprang into existence between them the closest of all bonds
- a common foe.</p>
<p>‘The man has done me more than one ill-turn,’ said Larralde
after a pause, and he drummed on the table with his cigarette-stained
fingers.</p>
<p>Sir John, looking at him, coldly gauged the Spaniard with the deadly
skill of his calling. He noted that Larralde was poor and ambitious
- qualities that often raise the devil in a human heart when fate brings
them there together. He was not deceived by the picturesque manner
of Julia’s lover, but knew exactly how much was assumed of that
air of simple vanity to which Larralde usually treated strangers.
He probably gauged at one glance the depth of the man’s power
for good or ill, his sincerity, his possible usefulness. In the
hands of Sir John Pleydell, Larralde was the merest tool.</p>
<p>They sat until long after midnight, and before they parted Sir John
Pleydell handed to his companion a roll of notes, which he counted carefully
and Larralde accepted with a grand air of condescension and indifference.</p>
<p>‘You know my address,’ said Sir John, with a slight suggestion
of masterfulness which had not been noticeable before the money changed
hands. ‘I shall remain at the same hotel.’</p>
<p>Larralde nodded his head.</p>
<p>‘I shall remember it,’ he said. ‘And now
I go to take a few hours’ rest. I have had a hard day, and
am as tired as a shepherd’s dog.’</p>
<p>And indeed the day had been busy enough. Señor Larralde
hummed an air between his teeth as he struggled against the fierce wind.</p>
<p>Before dawn the gale subsided, and daylight broke with a clear, calm
freshness over the city, where sleep had been almost unknown during
the night. The sun had not yet risen when Larralde took the road
on his poor, thin black horse. He rode through the streets, still
littered with the <i>débris</i> of fallen chimneys, slates, and
shutters, with his head up and his mind so full of the great schemes
which gave him no rest, that he never saw Concepçion Vara going
to market with a basket on his arm and a cigarette, unlighted, between
his lips. Concepçion turned and watched the horseman, shrugged
his shoulders, and quietly followed until the streets were left behind
and there could no longer be any doubt that Larralde was bound for Toledo.</p>
<p>Thither, indeed, he journeyed throughout the day with a leisureliness
begotten of the desire to enter the ancient city after nightfall only.
Toledo was at this time the smouldering hotbed of those political intrigues
which some years later burst into flame, and resulted finally in the
expulsion of the Bourbons from the throne of Spain. Larralde was
sufficiently dangerous to require watching, and, like many of his kind,
considered himself of a greater importance than his enemies were pleased
to attach to him. The city of Toledo is, as many know, almost
surrounded by the rapid Tagus, and entrance to its narrow confine is
only to be gained by two gates. To pass either of these barriers
in open day would be to court a publicity singularly undesirable at
this time, for Esteban Larralde was slipping down the social slope,
which gradual progress is the hardest to arrest. If one is mounting
there are plenty to help him - those from above seeking to make unto
themselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness; those from below
hoping to tread in the footsteps he may leave. Each step, however,
of the upward progress has to be gained at the expense of another.
But on the descent there are none to stay and many to push behind, while
those in front make room readily enough. Larralde had for the
first time accepted a direct monetary reward for his services.
That this had been offered and accepted in a polite Spanish manner as
an advance of expenses to be incurred was, of course, only natural under
the circumstances, but the fact remained that Esteban Larralde was no
longer a picturesque conspirator, serving a failing cause with that
devotion which can only be repaid later by high honours, and a post
carrying with it emoluments of proportionate value. He had, in
fact, been paid in advance; which is the surest sign of distrust upon
one side or the other.</p>
<p>The Barennas had been established at their house in Toledo some weeks,
and, for Julia, life had been dull enough. She had hastened northward,
knowing well that her lover’s intrigues must necessarily bring
him to the neighbourhood of the capital - perhaps to Toledo itself.
Larralde had, however, hitherto failed to come near her, and the news
of the day reported an increasing depression in the ranks of the Carlists.
Indeed, that cause seemed now at such a low ebb that the franker mercenaries
were daily drifting away to more promising scenes of warfare, while
some cynically accepted commissions in the army of Espartero.</p>
<p>‘I always said that Don Carlos would fail if he employed such
men - as - well, as he does,’ Madame Barenna took more than one
opportunity of observing at this time, and her emphatic fan rapped the
personal application home.</p>
<p>She had just made this remark for perhaps the sixth time one evening
when the door of the patio where she and Julia sat was thrown open,
and Larralde - the person indirectly referred to - came towards the
ladies. He was not afraid of Madame Barenna, and his tired face
lightened visibly at the sight of Julia. Concha was right.
According to his lights Larralde loved Julia. She, who knew every
expression, noted the look in his face, and her heart leapt within her
breast. She had long secretly rejoiced over the failure of the
Carlist cause. Such, messieurs, is the ambition of a woman for
the man she really loves.</p>
<p>Señora Barenna rose and held out her hand with a beaming smile.
She was rather bored that evening, and it was pleasant to imagine herself
in the midst of great political intrigues.</p>
<p>‘We were wondering if you would come,’ she said.</p>
<p>‘I am here - there - everywhere - but I always come back to
the Casa Barenna,’ he said gallantly.</p>
<p>‘You look tired,’ said Julia quietly. ‘Where
are you from?’</p>
<p>‘At the moment I am from Madrid. The city has been wrecked
by a tornado - I myself almost perished.’</p>
<p>He paused, shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘What will you?’ he added carelessly. ‘What
is life - a single life - in Spain to-day?’</p>
<p>Julia winced. It is marvellous how an intelligent woman may
blind herself into absolute belief in one man. Señora Barenna
shuddered.</p>
<p>‘Blessed Heaven!’ she whispered. ‘Why does
not someone do something?’</p>
<p>‘One does one’s best,’ answered Larralde, with
his hand at his moustache.</p>
<p>‘But yes!’ said Madame eagerly. She had a shrewd
common sense, as many apparently foolish women have, and probably put
the right value on Señor Larralde’s endeavours. Father
Concha and the General were, however, far away, and all women are time-servers.</p>
<p>Larralde spoke of general news, and when he at length proposed to
Julia that they should take a ‘paseo’ in the garden the
elder lady made no objection. For some moments Julia was quite
happy. She had schooled herself into a sort of contentment in
the hope that her turn would come when ambition failed. Perhaps
this moment had arrived. At all events, Larralde acquitted himself
well, and seemed sincere enough in his joy at seeing her again.</p>
<p>‘Do you love me?’ he asked suddenly.</p>
<p>Julia gave a little laugh. Heaven has been opened by such a
laugh ere now, and men have seen for a moment the brightness of it.</p>
<p>‘Enough to leave Spain for ever and live in another country?’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>‘Enough to risk something now for my sake?’</p>
<p>‘Enough to risk everything,’ she answered.</p>
<p>‘I have tried to gain a great position for you,’ went
on Larralde, ‘and fortune has been against me. I have failed.
The Carlist cause is dead, Julia. Our chief has failed us - that
is the truth of it. We set him up as a king, but unless we hold
him upright he falls. He is a man of straw. We are making
one last effort, as you know, but it is a dangerous one, and we have
had misfortunes. This pestilential Englishman! No one may
say how much he knows. He has had the letter too long in his possession
for our safety. But I have outwitted him this time.’</p>
<p>Larralde paused, and drew from his pocket the letter in the pink
envelope - somewhat soiled by its passage through the hands of Colonel
Monreal’s servant.</p>
<p>‘It requires two more signatures and will then be complete,’
said the upholder of Don Carlos. ‘We shall then make our
“coup,” but we cannot move while Conyngham remains in Spain.
It would never do for me to - well, to get shot at this moment.’</p>
<p>Julia breathed hard.</p>
<p>‘And that is what Mr. Conyngham is endeavouring to bring about.
In the first place he wants this letter to show to Estella Vincente
- some foolish romance. In the second place he hates me, and seeks
promotion in the Royalist ranks. These Englishmen are unscrupulous.
He tried to take my life - only last night. I bear him no ill-feeling.
<i>A la guerre comme à la guerre</i>. My only intention
is to get him quietly out of Spain. It can be managed easily enough.
Will you help me - to save my own life?’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ answered Julia.</p>
<p>‘I want you to write a letter to Conyngham saying that you
are tired of political intrigue.’</p>
<p>‘Heaven knows that would be true enough,’ put in Julia.</p>
<p>‘And that you will give him the letter he desires on the condition
that he promises to show it to no one but Estella Vincente and return
it to you. That you will also swear that it is the identical letter
that he handed to you in the General’s garden at Ronda.
If Conyngham agrees, he must meet you at the back of the Church of Santo
Tome in the Calle Pedro Martir here, in Toledo, next Monday evening
at seven o’clock. Will you write this letter, Julia?’</p>
<p>‘And Estella Vincente?’ inquired Julia.</p>
<p>‘She will forget him in a week,’ laughed Larralde.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XIX. CONCEPÇION TAKES THE ROAD.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Who knows? the man is proven by the hour.’</i></p>
<p>After the great storm came a calm almost as startling. It seemed
indeed as if Nature stood abashed and silent before the results of her
sudden rage. Day after day the sun glared down from a cloudless
sky, and all Castile was burnt brown as a desert. In the streets
of Madrid there arose a hot dust and the subtle odour of warm earth
that rarely meets the nostrils in England. It savoured of India
and other sun-steeped lands where water is too precious to throw upon
the roads.</p>
<p>Those who could, remained indoors or in their shady patios until
the heat of the day was past; and such as worked in the open lay unchallenged
in the shade from midday till three o’clock. During those
days military operations were almost suspended, although the heads of
departments were busy enough in their offices. The confusion of
war, it seemed, was past, and the sore-needed peace was immediately
turned to good account. The army of the Queen Regent was indeed
in an almost wrecked condition, and among the field officers jealousy
and backbiting, which had smouldered through the war-time, broke out
openly. General Vincente was rarely at home, and Estella passed
this time in quiet seclusion. Coming as she did from Andalusia,
she was accustomed to an even greater heat, and knew how to avoid the
discomfort of it.</p>
<p>She was sitting one afternoon, with open windows and closed jalousies,
during the time of the siesta, when the servant announced Father Concha.</p>
<p>The old priest came into the room wiping his brow with simple ill
manners.</p>
<p>‘You have been hurrying and have no regard for the sun,’
said Estella.</p>
<p>‘You need not find shelter for an old ox,’ replied Concha,
seating himself. ‘It is the young ones that expose themselves
unnecessarily.’</p>
<p>Estella glanced at him sharply but said nothing. He sat, handkerchief
in hand, and stared at a shaft of sunlight that lay across the floor
from a gap in the jalousies. From the street under the windows
came the distant sounds of traffic and the cries of the vendors of water,
fruit, and newspapers.</p>
<p>Father Concha looked puzzled, and seemed to be seeking his way out
of a difficulty. Estella sat back in her chair, half hidden by
her slow-waving, black fan. There is no pride so difficult as
that which is unconscious of its own existence, no heart so hard to
touch as that which has thrown its stake and asks neither sympathy nor
admiration from the outside world. Concha glanced at Estella and
wondered if he had been mistaken. There was in the old man’s
heart, as indeed there is in nearly all human hearts, a thwarted instinct.
How many are there with maternal instincts who have no children; how
many a poet has been lost by the crying need of hungry mouths!
It was a thwarted instinct that made the old priest busy himself with
the affairs of other people, and always of young people.</p>
<p>‘I came hoping to see your father,’ he said at length,
blandly untruthful. ‘I have just seen Conyngham, in whom
we are all interested, I think. His lack of caution is singular.
I have been trying to persuade him not to do something most rash and
imprudent. You remember the incident in your garden at Ronda -
a letter which he gave to Julia?’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ answered Estella quietly, ‘I remember.’</p>
<p>‘For some reason which he did not explain I understand that
he is desirous of regaining possession of that letter, and now Julia,
writing from Toledo, tells him that she will give it to him if he will
go there and fetch it. The Toledo road, as you will remember,
is hardly to be recommended to Mr. Conyngham.’</p>
<p>‘But Julia wishes him no harm,’ said Estella.</p>
<p>‘My child, rarely trust a political man and never a political
woman. If Julia wished him to have the letter she could have sent
it to him by post. But Conyngham, who is all eagerness, must needs
refuse to listen to any argument, and starts this afternoon for Toledo
- alone. He has not even his servant Concepçion Vara, who
has suddenly disappeared, and a woman who claims to be the scoundrel’s
wife from Algeciras has been making inquiries at Conyngham’s lodging.
A hen’s eyes are where her eggs lie. I offered to go to
Toledo with Conyngham, but he laughed at me for a useless old priest,
and said that the saddle would gall me.’</p>
<p>He paused, looking at her beneath his shaggy brows, knowing, as he
had always known, that this was a woman beyond his reach - cleverer,
braver, of a higher mind than her sisters - one to whom he might perchance
tender some small assistance, but nothing better. For women are
wiser in their generation than men, and usually know better what is
for their own happiness. Estella returned his glance with steady
eyes.</p>
<p>‘He has gone,’ said Concha. ‘I have not been
sent to tell you that he is going.’</p>
<p>‘I did not think that you had,’ she answered.</p>
<p>‘Conyngham has enemies in this country,’ continued the
priest, ‘and despises them - a mistake to which his countrymen
are singularly liable. He has gone off on this foolish quest without
preparation or precaution. Toledo is, as you know, a hotbed of
intrigue and dissatisfaction. All the malcontents in Spain congregate
there, and Conyngham would do well to avoid their company. Who
lies down with dogs gets up with fleas.’</p>
<p>He paused, tapping his snuffbox, and at that moment the door opened
to admit General Vincente.</p>
<p>‘Oh! the Padre!’ cried the cheerful soldier. ‘But
what a sun, eh? It is cool here, however, and Estella’s
room is always a quiet one.’</p>
<p>He touched her cheek affectionately, and drew forward a low chair
wherein he sat, carefully disposing of the sword that always seemed
too large for him.</p>
<p>‘And what news has the Padre?’ he asked, daintily touching
his brow with his pocket-handkerchief.</p>
<p>‘Bad,’ growled Concha, and then told his tale over again
in a briefer, blunter manner. ‘It all arises,’ he
concluded, ‘from my pestilential habit of interfering in the affairs
of other people.’</p>
<p>‘No,’ said General Vincente; ‘it arises from Conyngham’s
pestilential habit of acquiring friends wherever he goes.’</p>
<p>The door was opened again, and a servant entered.</p>
<p>‘Excellency,’ he said, ‘a man called Concepçion
Vara, who desires a moment.’</p>
<p>‘What did I tell you?’ said the General to Concha.
‘Another of Conyngham’s friends. Spain is full of
them. Let Concepçion Vara come to this room.’</p>
<p>The servant looked slightly surprised, and retired. If, however,
this manner of reception was unusual, Concepçion was too finished
a man of the world to betray either surprise or embarrassment.
By good fortune he happened to be wearing a coat. His flowing
unstarched shirt was as usual spotless, he wore a flower in the ribbon
of the hat carried jauntily in his hand, and about his person in the
form of handkerchief and faja were those touches of bright colour by
means of which he so irresistibly attracted the eye of the fair.</p>
<p>‘Excellency,’ he murmured, bowing on the threshold; ‘Reverendo,’
with one step forward and a respectful semi-religious inclination of
the head towards Concha; ‘Señorita!’ The ceremony
here concluded with a profound obeisance to Estella full of gallantry
and grave admiration. Then he stood upright, and indicated by
a pleasant smile that no one need feel embarrassed, that in fact this
meeting was most opportune.</p>
<p>‘A matter of urgency, Excellency,’ he said confidentially
to Vincente. ‘I have reason to suspect that one of my friends
- in fact, the Señor Conyngham, with whom I am at the moment
in service - happens to be in danger.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! what makes you suspect that, my friend?’</p>
<p>Concepçion waved his hand lightly, as if indicating that the
news had been brought to him by the birds of the air.</p>
<p>‘When one goes into the café,’ he said, ‘one
is not always so particular - one associates with those who happen to
be there - muleteers, diligencia-drivers, bull-fighters, all and sundry,
even contrabandistas.’</p>
<p>He made this last admission with a face full of pious toleration,
and Father Concha laughed grimly.</p>
<p>‘That is true, my friend,’ said the General, hastening
to cover the priest’s little lapse of good manners, ‘and
from these gentlemen - honest enough in their way, no doubt - you have
learnt - ?’</p>
<p>‘That the Señor Conyngham has enemies in Spain.’</p>
<p>‘So I understand; but he has also friends?’</p>
<p>‘He has one,’ said Vara, taking up a fine, picturesque
attitude, with his right hand at his waist where the deadly knife was
concealed in the rolls of his faja.</p>
<p>‘Then he is fortunate,’ said the General, with his most
winning smile; ‘why do you come to me, my friend.’</p>
<p>‘I require two men,’ answered Concepçion airily,
‘that is all.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! What sort of men. Guardias Civiles?’</p>
<p>‘The Holy Saints forbid! Honest soldiers, if it please
your Excellency. The Guardia Civil! See you, Excellency.’</p>
<p>He paused, shaking his outspread hand from side to side, palm downwards,
fingers apart, as if describing a low level of humanity.</p>
<p>‘A brutal set of men,’ he continued; ‘with the
finger ever on the trigger and the rifle ever loaded. Pam! and
a life is taken - many of my friends - at least, many persons I have
met - in the café!’</p>
<p>‘It is better to give him his two men,’ put in Father
Concha, in his atrocious English, speaking to the General. ‘The
man is honest in his love of Conyngham, if in nothing else.’</p>
<p>‘And if I accord you these two men, my friend,’ said
the General, from whose face Estella’s eyes had never moved, ‘will
you undertake that Mr. Conyngham comes to no harm?’</p>
<p>‘I will arrange it,’ replied Concepçion, with
an easy shrug of the shoulders. ‘I will arrange it, never
fear.’</p>
<p>‘You shall have two men,’ said General Vincente, drawing
a writing-case towards himself and proceeding to write the necessary
order. ‘Men who are known to me personally. You can
rely upon them at all times.’</p>
<p>‘Since they are friends of his Excellency’s,’ interrupted
Concepçion with much condescension, ‘that suffices.’</p>
<p>‘He will require money,’ said Estella in English - her
eyes bright and her cheeks flushed. For she came of a fighting
race, and her repose of manner, the dignity which sat rather strangely
on her slim young shoulders, were only signs of that self-control which
had been handed down to her through the ages.</p>
<p>The General nodded as he wrote.</p>
<p>‘Take that to headquarters,’ he said, handing the papers
to Concepçion, ‘and in less than half an hour your men
will be ready. Mr. Conyngham is a friend of mine, as you know,
and any expenses incurred on his behalf will be defrayed by myself -
’</p>
<p>Concepçion held up his hand.</p>
<p>‘It is unnecessary, Excellency,’ he said. ‘At
present Mr. Conyngham has funds. Only yesterday he gave me money.
He liquidated my little account. It has always been a jest between
us - that little account.’</p>
<p>He laughed pleasantly, and moved towards the door.</p>
<p>‘Vara,’ said Father Concha.</p>
<p>‘Yes, reverendo.’</p>
<p>‘If I meet your wife in Madrid, what shall I say to her?’</p>
<p>Concepçion turned and looked into the smiling face of the
old priest.</p>
<p>‘In Madrid, reverendo? How can you think of such a thing?
My wife lives in Algeciras, and at times, see you - ’ he stopped,
casting his eyes up to the ceiling and fetching an exaggerated sigh,
‘at times my heart aches. But now I must get to the saddle.
What a thing is Duty, reverendo! Duty! God be with your
Excellencies.’</p>
<p>And he hurried out of the room.</p>
<p>‘If you would make a thief honest, trust him,’ said Concha,
when the door was closed.</p>
<p>In less than an hour Concepçion was on the road accompanied
by two troopers, who were ready enough to travel in company with a man
of his reputation. For in Spain, if one cannot be a bull-fighter
it is good to be a smuggler. At sunset the great heat culminated
in a thunderstorm, which drew a veil of heavy cloud across the sky,
and night fell before its time.</p>
<p>The horsemen had covered two-thirds of their journey when he whom
they followed came in sight of the lights of Toledo, set upon a rock
like the jewels in a lady’s ring, and almost surrounded by the
swift Tagus. Conyngham’s horse was tired, and stumbled more
than once on the hill by which the traveller descends to the great bridge
and the gate that Wamba built thirteen hundred years ago.</p>
<p>Through this gate he passed into the city, which was a city of the
dead, with its hundred ruined churches, its empty palaces and silent
streets. Ichabod is written large over all these tokens of a bygone
glory; where the Jews flying from Jerusalem first set foot; where the
Moor reigned unmolested for nearly four hundred years; where the Goth
and the Roman and the great Spaniard of the middle ages have trod on
each other’s heels. Truly these worn stones have seen the
greatness of the greatest nations of the world.</p>
<p>A single lamp hung slowly swinging in the arch of Wamba’s Gate,
and the streets were but ill lighted with an oil lantern at an occasional
corner. Conyngham had been in Toledo before, and knew his way
to the inn under the shadow of the great Alcazar, now burnt and ruined.
Here he left his horse; for the streets of Toledo are so narrow and
tortuous, so ill-paved and steep, that wheel traffic is almost unknown,
while a horse can with difficulty keep his feet on the rounded cobble
stones. In this city men go about their business on foot, which
makes the streets as silent as the deserted houses.</p>
<p>Julia had selected a spot which was easy enough to find, and Conyngham,
having supped, made his way thither without asking for directions.</p>
<p>‘It is at all events worth trying,’ he said to himself,
‘and she can scarcely have forgotten that I saved her life on
the Garonne as well as at Ronda.’</p>
<p>But there is often in a woman’s life one man who can make her
forget all. The streets were deserted, for it was a cold night,
and the cafés were carefully closed against the damp air.
No one stirred in the Calle Pedro Martir, and Conyngham peered into
the shadow of the high wall of the Church of San Tome in vain.
Then he heard the soft tread of muffled feet, and turning on his heel
realised Julia’s treachery in a flash of thought. He charged
to meet the charge of his assailants. Two of them went down like
felled trees, but there were others - four others - who fell on him
silently like hounds upon a fox, and in a few moments all was quiet
again in the Calle Pedro Martir.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XX. ON THE TALAVERA ROAD.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Les barrières servent à indiquer où
il faut passer.’</i></p>
<p>An hour’s ride to the west of Toledo, on the road to Torrijos
and Talavera, and in the immediate neighbourhood of the village of Galvez,
two men sat in the shadow of a great rock, and played cards. They
played quietly and without vociferation, illustrating the advantages
of a minute coinage. They had gambled with varying fortune since
the hour of the siesta, and a sprinkling of cigarette ends on the bare
rocks around them testified to the indulgence in a kindred vice.</p>
<p>The elder of the two men glanced from time to time over his shoulder,
and down towards the dusty high road which lay across the arid plain
beneath them like a tape. The country here is barren and stone-ridden,
but to the west, where Torrijos gleamed whitely on the plain, the earth
was green with lush corn and heavy blades of maize, now springing into
ear. Where the two soldiers sat the herbage was scant and of an
aromatic scent, as it mostly is in hot countries and in rocky places.
That these men belonged to a mounted branch of the service was evident
from their equipment, and notably from the great rusty spurs at their
heels. They were clad in cotton - dusky white breeches, dusky
blue tunics - a sort of undress, tempered by the vicissitudes of a long
war and the laxity of discipline engendered by political trouble at
home.</p>
<p>They had left their horses in the stable of a venta, hidden among
ilex trees by the roadside, and had clambered to this point of vantage
above the highway, to pass the afternoon after the manner of their race.
For the Spaniard will be found playing cards amid the wreck of the world
and in the intervals between the stupendous events of the last day.</p>
<p>‘He comes,’ said the elder man at length, as he leisurely
shuffled the greasy cards. ‘I hear his horse’s hoofs.’</p>
<p>And, indeed, the great silence which seems to brood over the uplands
of Spain - the silence, as it were, of an historic past and a dead present
- was broken by the distant regular beat of hoofs.</p>
<p>The trooper who had spoken was a bullet-headed Castilian, with square
jaw and close-set eyes. His companion, a younger man, merely nodded
his head, and studied the cards which had just been dealt to him.
The game progressed, and Concepçion Vara, on the Toledo road,
approached at a steady trot. This man showed to greater advantage
on horseback and beneath God’s open sky than in the streets of
a city. Here, in the open and among the mountains, he held his
head erect and faced the world, ready to hold his own against it.
In the streets he wore a furtive air, and glanced from left to right
fearing recognition.</p>
<p>He now took his tired horse to the stable of the little venta, where,
with his usual gallantry, he assisted a hideous old hag to find a place
in the stalls. While uttering a gay compliment, he deftly secured
for his mount a feed of corn which was much in excess of that usually
provided for the money.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ he said, as he tipped the measure; ‘I can
always tell when a woman has been pretty; but with you, señora,
no such knowledge is required. You will have your beauty for many
years yet.’</p>
<p>Thus Vara and his horse fared ever well upon the road. He lingered
at the stable door, knowing perhaps that corn poured into the manger
may yet find its way back to the bin, and then turned his steps towards
the mountain.</p>
<p>The cards were still falling with a whispering sound upon the rock
selected as a table, and, with the spirit of a true sportsman, Concepçion
waited until the hand was played out before imparting his news.</p>
<p>‘It is well,’ he said at length. ‘A carriage
has been ordered from a friend of mine in Toledo to take the road to-night
to Talavera - and Talavera is on the way to Lisbon. What did I
tell you?’</p>
<p>The two soldiers nodded. One was counting his gains, which
amounted to almost threepence. The loser wore a brave air of indifference,
as behoved a reckless soldier taking loss or gain in a Spartan spirit.</p>
<p>‘There will be six men,’ continued Concepçion.
‘Two on horseback, two on the box, two inside the carriage with
their prisoner - my friend.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said the younger soldier thoughtfully.</p>
<p>Concepçion looked at him.</p>
<p>‘What have you in your mind?’ he asked.</p>
<p>‘I was wondering how three men could best kill six.’</p>
<p>‘Out of six,’ said the older man, ‘there is always
one who runs away. I have found it so in my experience.’</p>
<p>‘And of five there is always one who cannot use his knife,’
added Concepçion.</p>
<p>Still the younger soldier, who had medals all across his chest, shook
his head.</p>
<p>‘I am afraid,’ he said. ‘I am always afraid
before I fight.’</p>
<p>Concepçion looked at the man whom General Vincente had selected
from a brigade of tried soldiers, and gave a little upward jerk of the
head.</p>
<p>‘With me,’ he said, ‘it is afterwards - when all
is over. Then my hand shakes, and the wet trickles down my face.’</p>
<p>He laughed, and spread out his hands.</p>
<p>‘And yet,’ he said gaily, ‘it is the best game
of all - is it not so?’</p>
<p>The troopers shrugged their shoulders. One may have too much
of even the best game.</p>
<p>‘The carriage is ordered for eight o’clock,’ continued
the practical Concepçion, rolling a cigarette, which he placed
behind his ear where a clerk would carry his pen. ‘Those
who take the road when the night-birds come abroad have something to
hide. We will see what they have in their carriage, eh?
The horses are hired for the journey to Galvez, where a relay is doubtless
ordered. It will be a fine night for a journey. There is
a half moon, which is better than the full for those who use the knife;
but the Galvez horses will not be required, I think.’</p>
<p>The younger soldier, upon whose shoulder gleamed the stars of a rapid
promotion, looked up to the sky, where a few fleecy clouds were beginning
to gather above the setting sun like sheep about a gate.</p>
<p>‘A half moon for the knife and a full moon for firearms,’
he said.</p>
<p>‘Yes; and they will shoot quick enough if we give them the
chance,’ said Concepçion. ‘They are Carlists!
There is a river between this and Galvez - a little stream such as we
have in Andalusia - so small that there is only a ford and no bridge.
The bed of the river is soft; the horses will stop, or, at all events,
must go at the walking pace. Across the stream are a few trees’
(he paused, illustrating his description with rapid gestures and an
imaginary diagram drawn upon the rock with the forefinger), ‘ilex,
and here, to the left, some pines. The stream runs thus from north-east
to south-west. This bank is high, and over here are low-lying
meadows where pigs feed.’</p>
<p>He looked up, and the two soldiers nodded. The position lay
before them like a bird’s-eye view; and Concepçion, in
whom Spain had perhaps lost a guerilla general, had only set eyes on
the spot once as he rode past it.</p>
<p>‘This matter is best settled on foot; is it not so? We
cross the stream, and tie our horses to the pine trees. I will
recross the water, and come back to meet the carriage at the top of
the hill - here. The horsemen will be in advance. We will
allow them to cross the stream. The horses will come out of the
water slowly, or I know nothing of horses. As they step up the
incline, you take their riders, and remember to give them the chance
of running away. In midstream I will attack the two on the box,
pulling him who is not driving into the water by his legs, and giving
him the blade in the right shoulder above the lung. He will think
himself dead, but should recover. Then you must join me.
We shall be three to three, unless the Englishman’s hands are
loose; then we shall be four to three, and need do no man any injury.
The Englishman is as strong as two, and quick with it, as big men rarely
are.’</p>
<p>‘Do you take a hand?’ asked the Castilian, fingering
the cards.</p>
<p>‘No; I have affairs. Continue your game.’</p>
<p>So the sun went down, and the two soldiers continued their game,
while Concepçion sat beside them and slowly, lovingly sharpened
his knife on a piece of slate which he carried in his pocket for the
purpose.</p>
<p>After sunset there usually arises a cold breeze which blows across
the table-lands of Castile quite gently and unobtrusively. A local
proverb says of this wind that it will extinguish a man but not a candle.
When this arose, the three men descended the mountain-side and sat down
to a simple if highly-flavoured meal provided by the ancient mistress
of the venta. At half-past eight, when there remained nothing
of the day but a faint greenish light in the western sky, the little
party mounted their horses and rode away towards Galvez.</p>
<p>‘’Tis better,’ said Concepçion, with a meaning
and gallant bow to the hostess. ‘’Tis for my peace
of mind. I am but a man.’</p>
<p>Then he haggled over the price of the supper.</p>
<p>They rode forward to the ford described by Concepçion, and
there made their preparations - carefully and coolly - as men recognising
the odds against them. The half moon was just rising as the soldiers
splashed through the water leading Concepçion’s horse,
he remaining on the Toledo side of the river.</p>
<p>‘The saints protect us!’ said the nervous soldier, and
his hand shook on the bridle. His companion smiled at the recollection
of former fights passed through together. It is well, in love
and war, to beware of him who says he is afraid.</p>
<p>Shortly after nine o’clock the silence of that deserted plain
was broken by a distant murmur, which presently shaped itself into the
beat of horses’ feet. To this was added soon the rumble
of wheels. The elder soldier put a whole cigarette into his mouth
and chewed it. The younger man made no movement now. They
crouched low at their posts one on each side of the ford. Concepçion
was across the river, but they could not see him. In Andalusia
they say that a contrabandist can conceal himself behind half a brick.</p>
<p>The two riders were well in front of the carriage, and, as had been
foreseen, the horses lingered on the rise of the bank as if reluctant
to leave the water without having tasted it. In a moment the younger
soldier had his man out of the saddle, raising his own knee sharply
as the man fell, so that the falling head and the lifted knee came into
deadly contact. It was a trick well known to the trooper, who
let the insensible form roll to the ground, and immediately darted down
the bank to the stream. The other soldier was chasing his opponent
up the hill, shelling him, as he rode away, with oaths and stones.</p>
<p>In mid-stream the clumsy travelling carriage had come to a standstill.
The driver on the box, having cast down his reins, was engaged in imploring
the assistance of a black-letter saint, upon which assistance he did
not hesitate to put a price, in candles. There was a scurrying
in the water, which was about two feet deep, where Concepçion
was settling accounts with the man who had been seated by the driver’s
side. A half-choked scream of pain appeared to indicate that Concepçion
had found the spot he sought, above the right lung, and that amiable
smuggler now rose dripping from the flood and hurried to the carriage.</p>
<p>‘Conyngham!’ he shouted, laying aside that ceremony upon
which he never set great store.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ answered a voice from within. ‘Is
that you, Concepçion?’</p>
<p>‘Of course; throw them out.’</p>
<p>‘But the door is locked,’ answered Conyngham in a muffled
voice. And the carriage began to rock and crack upon its springs,
as if an earthquake were taking place inside it.</p>
<p>‘The window is good enough for such rubbish,’ said Concepçion.
As he spoke a man, violently propelled from within, came head foremost,
and most blasphemously vociferous, into Concepçion’s arms,
who immediately, and with the rapidity of a terrier, had him by the
throat and forced him under water.</p>
<p>‘You have hold of my leg - you, on the other side,’ shouted
Conyngham from the turmoil within.</p>
<p>‘A thousand pardons, señor!’ said the soldier,
and took a new grip of another limb.</p>
<p>Concepçion, holding his man under water, heard the sharp crack
of another head upon the soldier’s kneecap, and knew that all
was well.</p>
<p>‘That is all?’ he inquired.</p>
<p>‘That is all,’ replied the soldier, who did not seem
at all nervous now. ‘And we have killed no one.’</p>
<p>‘Put a knife into that son of a mule who prays upon the box
there,’ said Concepçion judicially. ‘This is
no time for prayer. Just where the neck joins the shoulder - that
is a good place.’</p>
<p>And a sudden silence reigned upon the box.</p>
<p>‘Pull the carriage to the bank,’ commanded Concepçion.
‘There is no need for the English Excellency to wet his feet.
He might catch a cold.’</p>
<p>They all made their way to the bank, where, in the dim moonlight,
one man sat nursing his shoulder while another lay, at length, quite
still, upon the pebbles.</p>
<p>The young soldier laid a second victim to the same deadly trick beside
him, while Concepçion patted his foe kindly on the back.</p>
<p>‘It is well,’ he said, ‘you have swallowed water.
You will be sick, and then you will be well. But if you move from
that spot I will let the water out another way.’</p>
<p>And, laughing pleasantly at this delicate display of humour, he turned
to help Conyngham, who was clambering out of the carriage window.</p>
<p>‘Whom have you with you?’ asked Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘Two honest soldiers of General Vincente’s division.
You see, señor, you have good friends.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, I see that.’</p>
<p>‘One of them,’ said Concepçion meaningly, ‘is
at Toledo at the moment, journeying after you.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’</p>
<p>‘The Señor Pleydell.’</p>
<p>‘Then we will go back to meet him.’</p>
<p>‘I thought so,’ said Concepçion.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXI. A CROSS-EXAMINATION.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Wherein I am false I am honest - not true to be true.’</i></p>
<p>‘I will sing you a contrabandista song,’ said Concepçion,
as the party rode towards Toledo in the moonlight. ‘The
song we - they sing when the venture has been successful. You
may hear it any dark night in the streets of Gaucin.’</p>
<p>‘Sing,’ said the older soldier, ‘if it is in your
lungs. For us - we prefer to travel silent.’</p>
<p>Conyngham, mounted on the horse from which the Carlist rider had
been dragged unceremoniously enough, rode a few paces in front.
The carriage had been left behind at the venta, where no questions were
asked, and the injured men revived readily enough.</p>
<p>‘It is well,’ answered Concepçion, in no way abashed.
‘I will sing. In Andalusia we can all sing. The pigs
sing better there than the men of Castile.’</p>
<p>It was after midnight when the party rode past the Church of the
Cristo de la Vega, and faced the long hill that leads to the gate Del
Cambron. Above them towered the city of Toledo - silent and dreamlike.
Concepçion had ceased singing now, and the hard breathing of
the horses alone broke the silence. The Tagus, emerging here from
rocky fastness, flowed noiselessly away to the west - a gleaming ribbon
laid across the breast of the night. In the summer it is no uncommon
thing for travellers to take the road by night in Spain, and although
many doubtless heard the clatter of horses’ feet on the polished
cobble stones of the city, none rose from bed to watch the horsemen
pass.</p>
<p>At that time Toledo possessed, and indeed to the present day can
boast of, but one good inn - a picturesque old house in the Plaza de
Zocodover, overhung by the mighty Alcazar. Here Cervantes must
have eaten and Lazarillo de Tormes no doubt caroused. Here those
melancholy men and mighty humorists must have delighted the idler by
their talk. Concepçion soon aroused the sleeping porter,
and the great doors being thrown open, the party passed into the courtyard
without quitting the saddle.</p>
<p>‘It is,’ said Concepçion, ‘an English Excellency
and his suite.’</p>
<p>‘We have another such in the house,’ answered the sleepy
doorkeeper, ‘though he travels with but one servant.’</p>
<p>‘We know that, my friend, which is the reason why we patronise
your dog-hole of an inn. See that the two Excellencies breakfast
together at a table apart in the morning.’</p>
<p>‘You will have matters to speak about with the Señor
Pleydell in the morning,’ said Concepçion, as he unpacked
Conyngham’s luggage a few minutes later.</p>
<p>‘Yes, I should like to speak to Señor Pleydell.’</p>
<p>‘And I,’ said Concepçion, turning round with a
brush in his hand, ‘should like a moment’s conversation
with Señor Larralde.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’</p>
<p>‘Yes, Excellency, he is in this matter too. But the Señor
Larralde is so modest - so modest! He always remains in the background.’</p>
<p>In the tents of Kedar men sleep as sound as those who lie on soft
pillows, and Conyngham was late astir the next morning. Sir John
Pleydell was, it transpired, already at his breakfast, and had ordered
his carriage for an early hour to take the road to Talavera. It
was thus evident that Sir John knew nothing of the arrival of his fellow-countryman
at midnight.</p>
<p>The cold face of the great lawyer wore a look of satisfaction as
he sat at a small table in the patio of the hotel and drank his coffee.
Conyngham watched him for a moment from the balcony of the courtyard,
himself unseen, while Concepçion stood within his master’s
bedroom, and rubbed his brown hands together in anticipation of a dramatic
moment. Conyngham passed down the stone steps and crossed the
patio with a gay smile. Sir John recognised him as he emerged
from the darkness of the stairway, but his face betrayed neither surprise
nor fear. There was a look in the grey eyes, however, that seemed
to betoken doubt. Such a look a man might wear who had long travelled
with assurance upon a road which he took to be the right one, and then
at a turning found himself in a strange country with no landmark to
guide him.</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell had always outwitted his fellows. He had,
in fact, been what is called a successful man - a little cleverer, a
little more cunning than those around him.</p>
<p>He looked up now at Conyngham, who was drawing forward a chair to
the neighbouring table, and the cold eye, which had been the dread of
many a criminal, wavered.</p>
<p>‘The waiter has set my breakfast near to yours,’ said
Conyngham, unconcernedly seating himself.</p>
<p>And Concepçion in the balcony above cursed the English for
a cold-blooded race. This was not the sort of meeting he had anticipated.
He could throw a knife very prettily, and gave a short sigh of regret
as he turned to his peaceful duties.</p>
<p>Conyngham examined the simple fare provided for him, and then looked
towards his companion with that cheerfulness which is too rare in this
world; for it is born of a great courage, and outward circumstances
cannot affect it. Sir John Pleydell had lost all interest in his
meal, and was looking keenly at Conyngham - dissecting, as it were,
his face, probing his mind, searching through the outward manner of
the man, and running helplessly against a motive which he failed to
understand.</p>
<p>‘I have in my long experience found that all men may be divided
into two classes,’ he said acidly.</p>
<p>‘Fools and knaves?’ suggested Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘You have practised at the Bar,’ parenthetically.</p>
<p>Conyngham shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘Unsuccessfully - anybody can do that.’</p>
<p>‘Which are you - a fool or a knave?’ asked Sir John.</p>
<p>And suddenly Conyngham pitied him. For no man is proof against
the quick sense of pathos aroused by the sight of man, or dumb animal,
baffled. At the end of his life Sir John had engaged upon the
greatest quest of it - an unworthy quest, no doubt, but his heart was
in it - and he was an old man, though be bore his years well enough.</p>
<p>‘Perhaps that is the mistake you have always made,’ said
Conyngham gravely. ‘Perhaps men are not to be divided into
two classes. There may be some who only make mistakes, Sir John.’</p>
<p>Unconsciously he had lapsed into the advocate, as those who have
once played the part are apt to do. This was not his own cause,
but Geoffrey Horner’s. And he served his friend so thoroughly
that for the moment he really was the man whose part he had elected
to play. Sir John Pleydell was no mean foe. Geoffrey Horner
had succeeded in turning aside the public suspicion, and in the eternal
march of events, of which the sound is louder as the world grows older
and hollower, the murder of Alfred Pleydell had been forgotten by all
save his father. Conyngham saw the danger, and never thought to
avoid it. What had been undertaken half in jest would be carried
out in deadly earnest.</p>
<p>‘Mistakes,’ said Sir John sceptically. In dealing
with the seamy side of life men come to believe that it is all stitches.</p>
<p>‘Which they may pass the rest of their lives in regretting.’</p>
<p>Sir John looked sharply at his companion, with suspicion dawning
in his eyes again. It was Conyngham’s tendency to overplay
his part. Later, when he became a soldier, and found that path
in life for which he was best fitted, his superior officers and the
cooler tacticians complained that he was over-eager, and in battle outpaced
the men he led.</p>
<p>‘Then you see now that it was a mistake?’ suggested Sir
John. In cross-examinations the suggestions of Sir John Pleydell
are remembered in certain courts of justice to this day.</p>
<p>‘Of course.’</p>
<p>‘To have mixed yourself in such an affair at all?’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>Sir John seemed to be softening, and Conyngham began to see a way
out of this difficulty which had never suggested itself to him before.</p>
<p>‘Such mistakes have to be paid for - and the law assesses the
price.’</p>
<p>Conyngham shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘It is easy enough to say you are sorry - the law can make
no allowance for regret.’</p>
<p>Conyngham turned his attention to his breakfast, deeming it useless
to continue the topic.</p>
<p>‘It was a mistake to attend the meeting at Durham - you admit
that?’ continued Sir John.</p>
<p>‘Yes - I admit that, if it is any satisfaction to you.’</p>
<p>‘Then it was worse than a mistake to actually lead the men
out to my house for the purpose of breaking the windows. It was
almost a crime. I would suggest to you, as a soldier for the moment,
to lead a charge up a steep hill against a body of farm labourers and
others entrenched behind a railing.’</p>
<p>‘That is a mere matter of opinion.’</p>
<p>‘And yet you did that,’ said Sir John. ‘If
you are going to break the law you should insure success before embarking
on your undertaking.’</p>
<p>Conyngham made no answer.</p>
<p>‘It was also a stupid error, if I may say so, to make your
way back to Durham by Ravensworth, where you were seen and recognised.
You see I have a good case against you, Mr. Conyngham.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, I admit you have a good case against me, but you have
not caught me yet.’</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell looked at him coldly.</p>
<p>‘You do not even take the trouble to deny the facts I have
named.’</p>
<p>‘Why should I, when they are true?’ asked Conyngham carelessly.</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell leant back in his chair.</p>
<p>‘I have classified you,’ he said with a queer laugh.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ answered Conyngham, suddenly uneasy.</p>
<p>‘Yes - as a fool.’</p>
<p>He leant forward with a deprecating gesture of his thin white hand.</p>
<p>‘Do not be offended,’ he said, ‘and do not reproach
yourself for having given your case away. You never had a case,
Mr. Conyngham. Chartists are not made of your material at all.
As soon as you gave me your card in Madrid, I had a slight suspicion.
I thought you were travelling under a false name. It was plain
to the merest onlooker that you were not the man I sought. You
are too easy-going, too much of a gentleman to be a Chartist.
You are screening somebody else. You have played the part well,
and with an admirable courage and fidelity. I wish my boy Alfred
had had a few such friends as you. But you are a fool, Mr. Conyngham.
No man on earth is worth the sacrifice that you have made.’</p>
<p>Conyngham slowly stirred his coffee. He was meditating.</p>
<p>‘You have pieced together a very pretty tale,’ he said
at length. ‘Some new scheme to get me within the reach of
the English law, no doubt.’</p>
<p>‘It is a pretty tale - too pretty for practical life.
And if you want proofs I will mention the fact that the Chartist meeting
was at Chester-le-Street, not Durham; that my house stands in a hollow
and not on a hill; that you could not possibly go to Durham <i>viâ</i>
Ravensworth, for they lie in opposite directions. No, Mr. Conyngham,
you are not the man I seek. And, strange to say, I took a liking
to you when I first saw you. I am no believer in instinct, or
mutual sympathy, or any such sentimental nonsense. I do not believe
in much, Mr. Conyngham, and not in human nature at all. I know
too much about it for that. But there must have been something
in that liking for you at first sight. I wish you no harm, Mr.
Conyngham. I am like Balaam - I came to curse, and now stay to
bless. Or, perhaps, I am more like Balaam’s companion and
adviser - I bray too much.’</p>
<p>He sat back again with a queer smile.</p>
<p>‘You may go home to England to-morrow if you care to,’
he added, after a pause, ‘and if that affair is ever raked up
against you I will be your counsel, if you will have me.’</p>
<p>‘Thank you.’</p>
<p>‘You do not want to go home to England?’ suggested Sir
John, whose ear was as quick as his eye.</p>
<p>‘No, I have affairs in Spain.’</p>
<p>‘Or - perhaps a castle here. Beware of such - I once
had one.’</p>
<p>And the cold grey face softened for an instant. It seemed at
times as if there were after all a man behind that marble casing.</p>
<p>‘A man who can secure such a friendship as yours has proved
itself to be,’ said Sir John after a short silence, ‘can
scarcely be wholly bad. He may, as you say, have made a mistake.
I promise nothing; but perhaps I will make no further attempts to find
him.’</p>
<p>Conyngham was silent. To speak would have been to admit.</p>
<p>‘So far as I am concerned,’ said Sir John, rising, ‘you
are safe in this or any country. But I warn you - you have a dangerous
enemy in Spain.’</p>
<p>‘I know,’ answered Conyngham, with a laugh, ‘Mr.
Esteban Larralde. I once undertook to deliver a letter for him.
It was not what he represented it to be, and after I had delivered it
he began to suspect me of having read it. He is kind enough to
consider me of some importance in the politics of this country owing
to the information I am supposed to possess. I know nothing of
the contents of the letter, but I want to regain it - if only for a
few moments. That is the whole story, and that is how matters
stand between Larralde and myself.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXII. REPARATION.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Il s’en faut bien que l’innocence trouve autant
de protection que le crime.’</i></p>
<p>For those minded to leave Spain at this time, there was but one route,
namely, the south, for the northern exits were closed by the Carlists,
still in power there, though thinning fast. Indeed, Don Carlos
was now illustrating the fact, which any may learn by the study of the
world’s history, that it is not the great causes, but the great
men, who have made and destroyed nations. Nearly half of Spain
was for Don Carlos. The Church sided with him, and the best soldiers
were those who, unpaid, unfed, and half clad, fought on the southern
slopes of the Pyrenees for a man who dared not lead them.</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell had intended crossing the frontier into Portugal,
following the carriage conveying his prisoner to the seaport of Lisbon,
where he anticipated no difficulty in finding a ship captain who would
be willing to carry Conyngham to England. All this, however, had
been frustrated by so unimportant a person as Concepçion Vara,
and the carriage ordered for nine o’clock to proceed to Talavera
now stood in the courtyard of the hotel, while the Baronet in his lonely
apartment sat and wondered what he should do next. He had dealt
with justice all his life, and had ensued it not from love, but as a
matter of convenience and a means of livelihood. From the mere
habit, he now desired to do justice to Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘See if you can find out for me the whereabouts of General
Vincente at the moment, and let the carriage wait,’ he said to
his servant, a valet-courier of taciturn habit.</p>
<p>The man was absent about half an hour, and returned with a face that
promised little.</p>
<p>‘There is a man in the hotel, sir,’ he said, ‘the
servant of Mr. Conyngham, who knows, but will not tell me. I am
told, however, that a lady living in Toledo, a Contessa Barenna, will
undoubtedly have the information. General Vincente was lately
in Madrid, but his movements are so rapid and uncertain, that he has
become a by-word in Spain.’</p>
<p>‘So I understand. I will call on this Contessa this afternoon,
unless you can get the information elsewhere during the morning.
I shall not want the carriage.’</p>
<p>Sir John walked slowly to the window, deep in thought. He was
interested in Conyngham, despite himself. It is possible that
he had not hitherto met a man capable of so far forgetting his own interests
as to undertake a foolish and dangerous escapade without anything in
the nature of gain or advantage to recommend it. The windows of
the hotel of the Comercio in Toledo look out upon the market-place,
and Sir John, who was an indoor man, and mentally active enough to be
intensely bored at times, frequently used this opportunity of studying
Spanish life.</p>
<p>He was looking idly through the vile panes, when an old priest passed
by, and glanced up beneath shaggy brows.</p>
<p>‘Seen that man before,’ said Sir John.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ muttered Father Concha, as he hurried on towards
the Palazzo Barenna. ‘So far, so good. Where the fox
is, will be found the stolen fowl.’</p>
<p>Concepçion Vara, who was saddling his horse in the stable
yard of the inn, saw the Padre pass.</p>
<p>‘Ah, clever one!’ he muttered, ‘with your jokes
about my wife. Now you may make a false journey for all the help
you receive from me.’</p>
<p>And a few minutes later Concepçion rode across the Bridge
of Alcantara, some paces behind Conyngham, who deemed it wise to return
to his duties at Madrid without delay.</p>
<p>Despite the great heat on the plains, which, indeed, made it almost
dangerous to travel at midday, the streets of Toledo were cool and shady
enough, as Sir John Pleydell traversed them in search of the Palazzo
Barenna. The Contessa was in, and the Englishman was ushered into
a vast room, which even the taste of the day could not entirely deprive
of its mediæval grandeur. Sir John explained to the servant
in halting Spanish that his name was unknown to the Señora Barenna,
but that - a stranger in some slight difficulty - he had been recommended
to seek her assistance.</p>
<p>Sir John was an imposing-looking man, with that grand air which enables
some men not only to look, but to get over a wall while an insignificant
wight may not so much as approach the gate. The señora’s
curiosity did the rest. In a few minutes the rustle of silk made
Sir John turn from the contemplation of a suit of armour.</p>
<p>‘Madame speaks French?’</p>
<p>‘But yes, señor.’</p>
<p>Madame Barenna glanced towards a chair, which Sir John hastened to
bring forward. He despised her already, and she admired his manner
vastly.</p>
<p>‘I have taken the immense liberty of intruding myself upon
your notice, Madame.’</p>
<p>‘Not to sell me a Bible?’ exclaimed Señora Barenna,
with her fan upheld in warning.</p>
<p>‘A Bible! I believe I have one at home, in England, Madame,
but - ’</p>
<p>‘It is well,’ said Madame sinking back and fanning herself
rather faintly. ‘Excuse my fears. But there is an
Englishman - what is his name? I forget.’</p>
<p>‘Borrow.’</p>
<p>‘Yes; that is it, Borrow. And he sells Bibles; and Father
Concha, my confessor, a bear, but a holy man - a holy bear, as one might
say - has forbidden me to buy one. I am so afraid of disobeying
him, by heedlessness or forgetfulness. There are, it appears,
some things in the Bible which one ought not to read, and one naturally
- ’</p>
<p>She finished the sentence with a shrug, and an expressive gesture
of the fan.</p>
<p>‘One naturally desires to read them,’ suggested Sir John.
‘The privilege of all Eve’s daughters, Madame.’</p>
<p>Señora Barenna treated the flatterer to what the French call
a <i>fin sourire</i>, and wondered how long Julia would stay away.
This man would pay her a compliment in another moment.</p>
<p>‘I merely called on the excuse of a common friendship, to ask
if you can tell me the whereabouts of General Vincente,’ said
Sir John, stating his business in haste and when the opportunity presented
itself.</p>
<p>‘Is it politics?’ asked the lady, with a hasty glance
round the room.</p>
<p>‘No, it is scarcely politics; but why do you ask? You
are surely too wise, Madame, to take part in such. It is a woman’s
mission to please - and when it is so easy!’</p>
<p>He waved his thin white hand in completion of a suggestion which
made his hearer bridle her stout person.</p>
<p>‘No, no,’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at
the door. ‘No; it is my daughter. Ah! señor,
you can scarce imagine what it is to live upon a volcano!’</p>
<p>And she pointed to the oaken floor with her fan. Sir John deemed
it wise to confine his display of sympathy to a glance of the deepest
concern.</p>
<p>‘No,’ he said; ‘it is merely a personal matter.
I have a communication to make to my friend General Vincente or to his
daughter.’</p>
<p>‘To Estella?’</p>
<p>‘To the Señorita Estella.’</p>
<p>‘Do you think her beautiful? Some do, you know.
Eyes - I admit - yes, lovely.’</p>
<p>‘I admire the señorita exceedingly.’</p>
<p>‘Ah yes, yes. You have not seen my daughter, have you,
señor? Julia - she rather resembles Estella.’</p>
<p>Señora Barenna paused and examined her fan with a careless
air.</p>
<p>‘Some say,’ she went on, apparently with reluctance,
‘that Julia is - well - has some advantages over Estella.
But <i>I</i> do not, of course. I admire Estella, excessively
- oh yes, yes.’</p>
<p>And the señora’s dark eyes searched Sir John’s
face. They might have found more in sculptured marble.</p>
<p>‘Do you know where she is?’ asked Sir John, almost bluntly.
Like a workman who has mistaken his material, he was laying aside his
finer conversational tools.</p>
<p>‘Well, I believe they arrive in Toledo this evening.
I cannot think why. But with General Vincente one never knows.
He is so pleasant, so playful - such a smile - but you know him.
Well, they say in Spain that he is always where he is wanted.
Ah!’ Madame paused and cast her eyes up to the ceiling, ‘what
it is to be wanted somewhere, señor.’</p>
<p>And she gave him the benefit of one of her deepest sighs. Sir
John mentally followed the direction of her glance, and wondered what
the late Count thought about it.</p>
<p>‘Yes, I am deeply interested in Estella - as indeed is natural,
for she is my niece. She has no mother, and the General has such
absurd ideas. He thinks that a girl is capable of choosing a husband
for herself. But to you - an Englishman - such an idea is naturally
not astonishing. I am told that in your country it is the girls
who actually propose marriage.’</p>
<p>‘Not in words, Madame - not more in England than elsewhere.’</p>
<p>‘Ah,’ said Madame, looking at him doubtfully, and thinking,
despite herself, of Father Concha.</p>
<p>Sir John rose from the chair he had taken at the señora’s
silent invitation.</p>
<p>‘Then I may expect the General to arrive at my hotel this evening,’
he said. ‘I am staying at the Comercio, the only hotel,
as I understand, in Toledo.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, he will doubtless descend there. Do you know Frederick
Conyngham, señor?’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>‘But everyone knows him!’ exclaimed the lady vivaciously.
‘Tell me how it is. A most pleasant young man, I allow you
- but without introductions and quite unconnected. Yet he has
friends everywhere.’</p>
<p>She paused and, closing her fan, leant forward in an attitude of
intense confidence and secrecy.</p>
<p>‘And how about his little affair?’ she whispered.</p>
<p>‘His little affair, Madame?’</p>
<p>‘De coeur,’ explained the lady, tapping her own breast
with an eloquent fan.</p>
<p>‘Estella,’ she whispered after a pause.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Sir John, as if he knew too much about it
to give an opinion. And he took his leave.</p>
<p>‘That is the sort of woman to break one’s heart in the
witness box,’ he said as he passed out into the deserted street,
and Señora Barenna, in the great room with the armour, reflected
complacently that the English lord had been visibly impressed.</p>
<p>General Vincente and Estella arrived at the hotel in the evening,
but did not of course appear in the public rooms. The dusty old
travelling carriage was placed in a quiet corner of the courtyard of
the hotel, and the General appeared on this, as on all occasions, to
court retirement and oblivion. Unlike many of his brothers-in-arms,
he had no desire to catch the public eye.</p>
<p>‘There is doubtless something astir,’ said the waiter,
who, in the intervals of a casual attendance on Sir John, spoke of these
things, cigarette in mouth. ‘There is doubtless something
astir, since General Vincente is on the road. They call him the
Stormy Petrel, for when he appears abroad there usually follows a disturbance.’</p>
<p>Sir John sent his servant to the General’s apartment about
eight o’clock in the evening asking permission to present himself.
In reply, the General himself came to Sir John’s room.</p>
<p>‘My dear sir,’ he cried, taking both the Englishman’s
hands in an affectionate grasp, ‘to think that you were in the
hotel and that we did not dine together. Come, yes, come to our
poor apartment, where Estella awaits the pleasure of renewing your acquaintance.’</p>
<p>‘Then the señorita,’ said Sir John, following
his companion along the dimly-lighted passage, ‘has her father’s
pleasant faculty of forgetting any little <i>contretemps</i> of the
past?’</p>
<p>‘Ask her,’ exclaimed the General in his cheery way.
‘Ask her.’ And he threw open the door of the dingy
salon they occupied.</p>
<p>Estella was standing with her back to the window, and her attitude
suggested that she had not sat down since she had heard of Sir John’s
presence in the hotel.</p>
<p>‘Señorita,’ said the Englishman, with that perfect
knowledge of the world which usually has its firmest basis upon indifference
to criticism, ‘señorita, I have come to avow a mistake
and to make my excuses.’</p>
<p>‘It is surely unnecessary,’ said Estella, rather coldly.</p>
<p>‘Say rather,’ broke in the General in his smoothest way,
‘that you have come to take a cup of coffee with us and to tell
us your news.’</p>
<p>Sir John took the chair which the General brought forward.</p>
<p>‘At all events,’ he said, still addressing Estella, ‘it
is probably a matter of indifference to you, as it is merely an opinion
expressed by myself which I wish to retract. When I first had
the pleasure of meeting you, I took it upon myself to speak of a guest
in your father’s house, fortunately in the presence of that guest
himself, and I now wish to tell you that what I said does not apply
to Frederick Conyngham himself, but to another whom Conyngham is screening.
He has not confessed so much to me, but I have satisfied myself that
he is not the man I seek. You, General, who know more of the world
than the señorita, and have been in it almost as long as I have,
can bear me out in the statement that the motives of men are not so
easy to discern as younger folks imagine. I do not know what induced
Conyngham to undertake this thing; probably he entered into it in a
spirit of impetuous and reckless generosity, which would only be in
keeping with his character. I only know that he has carried it
out with a thoroughness and daring worthy of all praise. If such
a tie were possible between an old man and a young, I should like to
be able to claim Mr. Conyngham as a friend. There, señorita
- thank you, I will take coffee. I made the accusation in your
presence. I retract it before you. It is, as you see, a
small matter.’</p>
<p>‘But it is of small matters that life is made up,’ put
in the General in his deferential way. ‘Our friend,’
he went on after a pause, ‘is unfortunate in misrepresenting himself.
We also have a little grudge against him - a little matter of a letter
which has not been explained. I admit that I should like to see
that letter.’</p>
<p>‘And where is it?’ asked Sir John.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ replied Vincente, with a shrug of the shoulders
and a gay little laugh, ‘who can tell? Perhaps in Toledo,
my dear sir - perhaps in Toledo.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIII. LARRALDE’S PRICE.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘It is as difficult to be entirely bad as it is to be entirely
good.’</i></p>
<p>To those who say that there is no Faith, Spain is in itself a palpable
answer. No country in the world can show such cathedrals as those
of Granada, Cordova, Seville, Toledo, Burgos. In any other land
any one of these great structures would suffice. But in Spain
these huge monuments to that Faith which has held serenely through war
and fashion, through thought and thoughtlessness, are to be found in
all the great cities. And the queen of them all is Toledo.</p>
<p>Father Concha, that sour-visaged philosopher, had a queer pride in
his profession and in the history of that Church which is to-day seen
in its purest form in the Peninsula, while it is so entangled with the
national story of Spain that the two are but one tale told from a different
point of view. As a private soldier may take pleasure in standing
on a great battlefield noting each spot of interest - here a valley
of death, there the scene of a cavalry charge of which the thunder will
echo down through all the ages - so Concha, a mere country priest, liked
to pace the aisles of a great cathedral, indulging the while in a half-cynical
pride. He was no great general, no leader, of no importance in
the ranks. But he was of the army, and partook in a minute degree
in those victories that belonged to the past. It was his habit
thus to pay a visit to Toledo Cathedral whensoever his journeys led
him to Castile. It was, moreover, his simple custom to attend
the early mass which is here historical; and, indeed, to walk through
the church, grey and cool, with the hush that seems to belong only to
buildings of stupendous age, is in itself a religious service.</p>
<p>Concha was passing across the nave, hat in hand, a gaunt, ill-clad,
and somewhat pathetic figure, when he caught sight of Sir John Pleydell.
The Englishman paused involuntarily and looked at the Spaniard.
Concha bowed.</p>
<p>‘We met,’ he said, ‘for a moment in the garden
of General Vincente’s house at Ronda.’</p>
<p>‘True,’ answered Sir John. ‘Are you leaving
the Cathedral? We might walk a little way together. One
cannot talk idly - here.’</p>
<p>He paused and looked up at the great oak screen - at the towering
masonry.</p>
<p>‘No,’ answered Concha gravely. ‘One cannot
talk idly here.’</p>
<p>Concha held back the great leathern <i>portière</i>, and the
Englishman passed out.</p>
<p>‘This is a queer country, and you are a queer people,’
he said presently. ‘When I was at Ronda I met a certain
number of persons - I can count them on my fingers. General Vincente,
his daughter, Señora Barenna, Señorita Barenna, the Englishman
Conyngham, yourself, Señor Concha. I arrived in Toledo
yesterday morning; in twenty-four hours I have caught sight of all the
persons mentioned, here in Toledo.’</p>
<p>‘And here, in Toledo, is another of whom you have not caught
sight,’ said Concha.</p>
<p>‘Ah?’</p>
<p>‘Yes; Señor Larralde.’</p>
<p>‘Is he here?’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Concha.</p>
<p>They walked on in silence for some minutes.</p>
<p>‘What are we all doing here, Padre?’ inquired Sir John,
with his cold laugh.</p>
<p>‘What are you doing here, señor?’</p>
<p>Sir John did not answer at once. They were walking leisurely.
The streets were deserted, as indeed the streets of Toledo usually are.</p>
<p>‘I am putting two and two together,’ the great lawyer
answered at length. ‘I began doing so in idleness, and now
I have become interested.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’</p>
<p>‘Yes. I have become interested. They say, Padre,
that a pebble set in motion at the summit of a mountain may gather other
pebbles and increase in bulk and speed until, in the form of an avalanche,
it overwhelms a city in the valley.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, señor.’</p>
<p>‘And I have conceived the strange fancy that Frederick Conyngham,
when he first came to this country, set such a pebble in motion at the
summit of a very high mountain. It has been falling and falling
silently ever since, and it is gaining in bulk. And you, and General
Vincente, and Estella Vincente, and Señorita Barenna, and Frederick
Conyngham, and in a minor degree myself, are on the slope in the track
of the avalanche, and are sliding down behind it. And the General
and Estella, and yourself and Conyngham, are trying to overtake it and
stop it. And, reverendo, in the valley below is the monarchy of
Spain - the Bourbon cause.’</p>
<p>Father Concha, remembering his favourite maxim that no flies enter
a shut mouth, was silent.</p>
<p>‘The pebble was a letter,’ said Sir John.</p>
<p>‘And Larralde has it,’ he added after a pause.
‘And that is why you are all in Toledo - why the air is thick
with apprehension, and why all Spain seems to pause and wait breathlessly.
Will the avalanche be stopped, or will it not? Will the Bourbons
- than whom history has known no more interesting and more unsatisfactory
race, except our own Stuarts - will the Bourbons fall, Señor
Padre?’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Concha, whose furrowed face and pessimistic
glance betrayed nothing. ‘Ah!’</p>
<p>‘You will not tell me, of course. You know much that
you will not tell me, and I merely ask you from curiosity. You
perhaps know one thing, and that I wish to learn from you - not out
of curiosity, but because I, too, would fain overtake the avalanche
and stop it. I am no politician, señor, though of course
I have my views. When a man has reached my age, he knows assuredly
that politics merely mean self-aggrandisement, and nothing else.
No - the Bourbons may fall; Spain may follow the lead of France and
make an exhibition of herself before the world as a Republic.
I am indifferent to these events. But I wish to do Frederick Conyngham
a good turn, and I ask you to tell me where I shall find Larralde -
you who know everything, Señor Padre.’</p>
<p>Concha reflected while they walked along on the shady side of the
narrow street. It happened to be the street where the saddlers
live, and the sharp sound of their little hammers on leather and wood
came from almost every darkened doorway. The Padre had a wholesome
fear of Esteban Larralde, and an exaggerated estimation of that schemer’s
ability. He was a humble-minded old man, and ever hesitated to
pit his own brain against that of another. He knew that Sir John
was a cleverer man than Larralde, deeper versed in that side of human
nature where the seams are and the knots and the unsightly stitches;
older, more experienced, and probably no more scrupulous.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said the priest, ‘I can tell you that.
Larralde lodges in the house of a malcontent, one Lamberto, a scribbling
journalist, who is hurt because the world takes him at its own valuation
and not at his. The house is next to the little synagogue in the
Calle de Madrid, a small stationer’s shop, where one may buy the
curse of this generation - pens and paper.’</p>
<p>‘Thank you,’ said Sir John, civilly and simply.
This man has no doubt been ill-painted, but some may have seen that
with different companions he wore a different manner. He was,
as all successful men are, an unconscious actor, and in entering into
the personality of the companion of the moment he completely sank his
own. He never sought to be all things to all men, and yet he came
near to the accomplishment of that hard task. Sir John was not
a sympathetic man; he merely mistook life for a court of justice, and
arraigned all human nature in the witness-box, with the inward conviction
that this should by rights be exchanged for the felon’s dock.</p>
<p>With Concha he was as simple, as direct, and as unsophisticated as
the old priest himself, and now took his leave without attempting to
disguise the fact that he had accomplished a foreset purpose.</p>
<p>Without difficulty he found the small stationer’s shop next
to the synagogue in the Calle de Madrid, and bade the stationer - a
spectacled individual with upright hair and the air of seeking something
in the world which is not usually behind a counter - take his card to
Señor Larralde. At first the stationer pretended ignorance
of the name, but on discovering that Sir John had not sufficient Spanish
to conduct a conversation of intrigue, disappeared into a back room,
whence emanated a villanous smell of cooking.</p>
<p>While Sir John waited in the little shop, Father Concha walked to
the Plazuela de l’Iglesia Vieja, which small square, overhanging
the Tagus and within reach of its murmuring voice, is deserted except
at midday, when the boys play at bull-fighting and a few workmen engage
in a grave game of bowls. Concha sat, book in hand, opened honestly
at the office of the day and hour, and read no word. Instead,
he stared across the gorge at the brown bank of land which commands
the city and renders it useless as a fortress in the days of modern
artillery. He sat and stared grimly, and thought perhaps of those
secret springs within the human heart that make one man successful and
unhappy, while another, possessing brains and ability and energy, fails
in life, yet is perhaps the happier of the two. For it had happened
to Father Concha, as it may happen to writer and reader at any moment,
to meet one who in individuality bears a resemblance to that self which
we never know and yet are ever conscious of.</p>
<p>Sir John Pleydell, a few hundred yards away, obeyed the shopman’s
invitation to step upstairs with something approaching alacrity.</p>
<p>Larralde was seated at a table strewn with newspapers and soiled
by cigarette ash. He had the unkempt and pallid look of one who
has not seen the sun or breathed fresh air for days. For, as Concepçion
had said, this was a conspirator who preferred to lurk in friendly shelter
while others played the bolder game at the front. Larralde had,
in fact, not stirred abroad for nearly a week.</p>
<p>‘Well, señor,’ he said, with a false air of bravado.
‘How fares it with your little undertaking?’</p>
<p>‘That,’ replied Sir John, ‘is past - and paid for.
And I have another matter for your consideration. Conyngham is
not, after all, the man I seek.’</p>
<p>Sir John’s manner had changed. He spoke as one having
authority. And Larralde shrugged his shoulders, remembering a
past payment.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ he said, rolling a cigarette with a fine air of
indifference.</p>
<p>‘On the one hand,’ continued Sir John judicially, ‘I
come to make you an offer which can only be beneficial to you; on the
other hand, Señor Larralde, I know enough to make things particularly
unpleasant for you.’</p>
<p>Larralde raised his eyebrows and sought the matchbox. His thoughts
seemed to amuse him.</p>
<p>‘I have reason to assume that a certain letter is now in your
possession again. I do not know the contents of this letter, and
I cannot say that I am at all interested in it. But a friend of
mine is particularly anxious to have possession of it for a short space
of time. I have, unasked, taken upon myself the office of intermediary.’</p>
<p>Larralde’s eyes flashed through the smoke.</p>
<p>‘You are about to offer me money; be careful, señor,’
he said hotly, and Sir John smiled.</p>
<p>‘Be careful, that it is enough,’ he suggested.
‘Keep your grand airs for your fellows, Señor Larralde.
Yes, I am about to offer you two hundred pounds - say three thousand
pesetas - for the loan of that letter for a few hours only. I
will guarantee that it is read by one person only, and that a lady.
This lady will probably glance at the first lines, merely to satisfy
herself as to the nature of its contents. Three thousand pesetas
will enable you to escape to Cuba if your schemes fail. If you
succeed, three thousand pesetas will always be of use, even to a member
of a Republican Government.’</p>
<p>Larralde reflected. He had lately realised the fact that the
Carlist cause was doomed. There is a time in the schemes of men,
and it usually comes just before the crisis, when the stoutest heart
hesitates and the most reckless conspirator thinks of his retreat.
Esteban Larralde had begun to think of Cuba during the last few days,
and the mention of that haven for Spanish failures almost unnerved him.</p>
<p>‘In a week,’ suggested Sir John again, ‘it may
be - well - settled one way or the other.’</p>
<p>Larralde glanced at him sharply. This Englishman was either
well-informed or very cunning. He seemed to have read the thought
in Larralde’s mind.</p>
<p>‘No doubt,’ went on the Englishman, ‘you have divined
for whom I want the letter and who will read it. We have both
mistaken our man. We both owe Conyngham a good turn - I, in reparation,
you, in gratitude; for he undoubtedly saved the Señorita Barenna
from imprisonment for life.’</p>
<p>Larralde shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘Each man,’ he said, ‘must fight for himself.’</p>
<p>‘And the majority of us for a woman as well,’ amended
Sir John. ‘At least, in Spain, chivalry is not dead.’</p>
<p>Larralde laughed. He was vain, and Sir John knew it.
He had a keen sight for the breach in his opponent’s armour.</p>
<p>‘You have put your case well,’ said the Spaniard patronisingly,
‘and I do not see why, at the end of a week, I should not agree
to your proposal. It is, as you say, for the sake of a woman.’</p>
<p>‘Precisely.’</p>
<p>Larralde leant back in his chair, remembering the legendary gallantry
of his race, and wearing an appropriate expression.</p>
<p>‘For a woman,’ he repeated with an eloquent gesture.</p>
<p>‘Precisely.’</p>
<p>‘Then I will do it, señor. I will do it.’</p>
<p>‘For two hundred pounds?’ inquired Sir John coldly.</p>
<p>‘As you will,’ answered the Spaniard, with a noble indifference
to such sordid matters.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIV. PRIESTCRAFT.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘No man I fear can effect great benefits for his country
without some sacrifice of the minor virtues.’</i></p>
<p>The Señora Barenna was a leading social light in Toledo, insomuch
as she never refused an invitation.</p>
<p>‘One has one’s duties towards society,’ she would
say with a sigh. ‘Though the saints know that I take no
pleasure in these affairs.’</p>
<p>Then she put on her best Seville mantilla and bustled off to some
function or another, where she talked volubly and without discretion.</p>
<p>Julia had of late withdrawn more and more from that life of continued
and mild festivity of which it is to be feared the existence of many
women is composed. This afternoon she sat alone in the great gloomy
house in Toledo, waiting for Larralde. For she, like thousands
of her sisters, loved an unworthy object - <i>faute de mieux</i> - with
open eyes and a queer philosophy that bade her love Larralde rather
than love none. She had lately spent a large part of her existence
in waiting for Larralde, who, indeed, was busy enough at this time,
and rarely stirred abroad while the sun was up.</p>
<p>‘Julia,’ said Señora Barenna to Concha, ‘is
no longer a companion to me. She does not even attempt to understand
my sensitive organisation. She is a mere statue, and thinks of
nothing but politics.’</p>
<p>‘For her, Madame, as for all women, there would be no politics
if there were no politicians,’ the priest replied.</p>
<p>This afternoon Julia was more restless than ever. Larralde
had not been to see her for many days, and had only written a hurried
note from time to time in answer to her urgent request, telling her
that he was well and in no danger.</p>
<p>She now no longer knew whether he was in Toledo or not, but had sufficient
knowledge of the schemes in which he was engaged to be aware of the
fact that these were coming to a crisis. Esteban Larralde had
indeed told her more than was either necessary or discreet, and it was
his vanity that led him into this imprudence. We are all ready
enough to impart information which will show our neighbours that we
are more important than we appear.</p>
<p>After a broiling day the sun was now beginning to lose a little of
his terrific power, and, in the shade of the patio upon which the windows
of Julia’s room opened, the air was quite cool and pleasant.
A fountain plashed continuously in a little basin that had been white
six centuries ago, when the Moors had brought the marble across the
Gulf of Lyons to build it. The very sound of the water was a relief
to overstrained nerves, and seemed to diminish the tension of the shimmering
atmosphere.</p>
<p>Julia was alone, and barely made pretence to read the book she held
in her hand. From her seat she could see the bell suspended on
the opposite wall of the courtyard, of which the deep voice at any time
of day or night had the power of stirring her heart to a sudden joy.
At last the desired sound broke the silence of the great house, and
Julia stood breathless at the window while the servant leisurely crossed
the patio and threw open the great door, large enough to admit a carriage
and pair. It was not Larralde, but Father Concha, brought hither
by a note he had received from Sir John Pleydell earlier in the afternoon.</p>
<p>‘I shall have the letter in a week from now,’ the Englishman
had written.</p>
<p>‘Which will be too late,’ commented Concha pessimistically.</p>
<p>The señora was out, they told him, but the señorita
had remained at home.</p>
<p>‘It is the señorita I desire to see.’</p>
<p>And Julia, at the window above, heard the remark with a sinking heart.
The air seemed to be weighted with the suggestion of calamity.
Concha had the manner of one bringing bad news. She forgot that
this was his usual mien.</p>
<p>‘Ah, my child,’ he said, coming into the room a minute
later and sitting down rather wearily.</p>
<p>‘What?’ she asked, her two hands at her breast.</p>
<p>He glanced at her beneath his brows. The wind was in the north-east,
dry and tingling. The sun had worn a coppery hue all day.
Such matters affect women and those who are in mental distress.
After such a day as had at last worn to evening, the mind is at a great
tension, the nerves are strained. It is at such times that men
fly into sudden anger and whip out the knife. At such times women
are reckless, and the stories of human lives take sudden turns.</p>
<p>Concha knew that he had this woman at a disadvantage.</p>
<p>‘What?’ he echoed. ‘I wish I knew.
I wish at times I was no priest.’</p>
<p>‘Why?’</p>
<p>‘Because I could help you better. Sometimes it is the
man and not the priest who is the truest friend.’</p>
<p>‘Why do you speak like this?’ she cried. ‘Is
there danger? What has happened?’</p>
<p>‘You know best, my child, if there is danger; you know what
is likely to happen.’</p>
<p>Julia stood looking at him with hard eyes - the eyes of one in mortal
fear.</p>
<p>‘You have always been my friend,’ she said slowly, ‘my
best friend.’</p>
<p>‘Yes. A woman’s lover is never her best friend.’</p>
<p>‘Has anything happened to Esteban?’</p>
<p>The priest did not answer at once, but paused, reflecting, and dusting
his sleeve, where there was always some snuff requiring attention at
such moments.</p>
<p>‘I know so little,’ he said. ‘I am no politician.
What can I say? What can I advise you when I am in the dark?
And the time is slipping by - slipping by.’</p>
<p>‘I cannot tell you,’ she answered, turning away and looking
out of the window.</p>
<p>‘You cannot tell the priest - tell the man.’</p>
<p>Then, suddenly, she reached the end of her endurance. Standing
with her back towards him, she told her story, and Concha listened with
a still, breathless avidity as one who, having long sought knowledge,
finds it at last when it seemed out of reach. The little fountain
plashed in the courtyard below; a frog in the basin among the water-lilies
croaked sociably while the priest and the beautiful woman in the room
above made history. For it is not only in kings’ palaces
nor yet in Parliaments that the story of the world is shaped.</p>
<p>Concha spoke no word, and Julia, having begun, left nothing unsaid,
but told him every detail in a slow mechanical voice, as if bidden thereto
by a stronger will than her own.</p>
<p>‘He is all the world to me,’ she said simply, in conclusion.</p>
<p>‘Yes; and the happiest women are those who live in a small
world.’</p>
<p>A silence fell upon them. The old priest surreptitiously looked
at his watch. He was essentially a man of action.</p>
<p>‘My child,’ he said, rising, ‘when you are an old
woman with children to harass you and make your life worth living, you
will probably look back with thankfulness to this moment. For
you have done that which was your only chance of happiness.’</p>
<p>‘Why do you always help me?’ she asked, as she had asked
a hundred times.</p>
<p>‘Because happiness is so rare that I hate to see it wasted,’
he answered, going towards the door with a grim laugh.</p>
<p>He passed out of the room and crossed the patio slowly. Then,
when the great door had closed behind him, he gathered up the skirts
of his cassock and hurried down the narrow street. In such thoroughfares
as were deserted he ran with the speed and endurance of a spare, hard-living
man. Woman-like, Julia had, after all, done things by half.
She had timed her confession too late.</p>
<p>At the hotel they told the Padre that General Vincente was at dinner
and could not be disturbed.</p>
<p>‘He sees no one,’ the servant said.</p>
<p>‘You do not know who I am,’ said Concha, in an irony
which, under the circumstances, he alone could enjoy. Then he
passed up the stairs and bade the waiter begone.</p>
<p>‘But I carry the General’s dessert,’ protested
the man.</p>
<p>‘No,’ said Concha half to himself, ‘I have that.’</p>
<p>Vincente was indeed at table with Estella. He looked up as
the priest entered, fingering a cigarette delicately.</p>
<p>‘How soon can you take the road?’ asked Concha abruptly.</p>
<p>‘Ten minutes - the time for a cup of coffee,’ was the
answer, given with a pleasant laugh.</p>
<p>‘Then order your carriage.’</p>
<p>Vincente looked at his old friend, and the smile never left his lips,
though his eyes were grave enough. It was hard to say whether
aught on earth could disturb this man’s equanimity. Then
the General rose and went to the window which opened upon the courtyard.
In the quiet corner near the rain-tank, where a vine grows upon trellis-work,
the dusty travelling-carriage stood, and upon the step of it, eating
a simple meal of bread and dried figs, sat the man who had the reputation
of being the fastest driver in Spain.</p>
<p>‘In ten minutes, my good Manuel,’ said the General.</p>
<p>‘Bueno,’ grumbled the driver, with his mouth full - a
man of few words.</p>
<p>‘Is it to go far?’ asked the General, turning on his
heel and addressing Concha.</p>
<p>‘A long journey.’</p>
<p>‘To take the road, Manuel,’ cried Vincente, leaning out.
He closed the window before resuming his seat.</p>
<p>‘And now, have you any more orders?’ he asked with a
gay carelessness. ‘I counted on sleeping in a bed to-night.’</p>
<p>‘You will not do that,’ replied Concha, ‘when you
hear my news.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’</p>
<p>‘But first you must promise me not to make use of the information
I give you against any suspected persons - to take, in fact, only preventive
measures.’</p>
<p>‘You have only to name it, my friend. Proceed.’</p>
<p>The old priest paused and passed his hand across his brow.
He was breathless still, and looked worn.</p>
<p>‘It is,’ he said, ‘a very grave matter. I
have not had much experience in such things, for my path has always
lain in small parochial affairs - dealings with children and women.’</p>
<p>Estella was already pouring some wine into a glass. With a
woman’s instinct she saw that the old man was overwrought and
faint. It was a Friday, and in his simple way there was no more
austere abstinent than Father Concha, who had probably touched little
food throughout the long hot day.</p>
<p>‘Take your time, my friend; take your time,’ said the
General, who never hurried and was never too late. ‘A pinch
of snuff now - it stimulates the nerves.’</p>
<p>‘It is,’ said Concha at length - breaking a biscuit in
his long bony fingers and speaking unembarrassedly with his mouth full
- ’it is that I have by the merest accident lighted upon a matter
of political importance.’</p>
<p>The General nodded, and held his wine up to the light.</p>
<p>‘There are matters of much political importance,’ he
said, ‘in the air just now.’</p>
<p>‘A plot,’ continued Concha, ‘spreading over all
Spain; the devil is surely in it, and I know the Carlists are.
A plot, believe me, to assassinate and rob and kidnap.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said the General with his tolerant little smile.
‘Yes, my dear Padre. Some men are so bloodthirsty; is it
not so?’</p>
<p>‘This plot is directed against the little Queen; against the
Queen Regent; against many who are notable Royalists occupying high
posts in the Government or the army.’</p>
<p>He glanced at Estella, and then looked meaningly at the General,
who could scarcely fail to comprehend. ‘Let us deal with
the Queen and the Queen Regent,’ said Vincente; ‘the others
are probably able to take care of themselves.’</p>
<p>‘None can guard himself against assassination.’</p>
<p>The General seemed for a moment inclined to dispute this statement,
but shrugged his shoulders and finally passed it by.</p>
<p>‘The Queen,’ he said. ‘What of her?’</p>
<p>In response, Concha took a newspaper from his pocket and spread it
out on the table. After a brief search up and down the ill-printed
columns, he found the desired paragraph, and read aloud:</p>
<p>‘The Queen is in Madrid. The Queen Regent journeys from
Seville to rejoin her daughter in the capital, prosecuting her journey
by easy stages and accompanied by a small guard. Her Majesty sleeps
at Ciudad Real to-night, and at Toledo to-morrow night.’</p>
<p>‘This,’ said Concha, folding the newspaper, ‘is
a Carlist and revolutionary rag whose readers are scarcely likely to
be interested for a good motive in the movements of the Queen Regent.’</p>
<p>‘True, my dear Padre - true,’ admitted Vincente, half
reluctantly.</p>
<p>‘Many kiss hands they would fain see chopped off. In
the streets and on the Plaza I have seen many reading this newspaper
and talking over it with unusual interest. Like a bad lawyer,
I am giving the confirmation of the argument before the argument itself.’</p>
<p>‘No matter - no matter.’</p>
<p>‘Ah! but we have no time to do things ill or carelessly,’
said the priest. ‘My story is a long one, but I will tell
it as quickly as I can.’</p>
<p>‘Take your time,’ urged the General soothingly.
‘This great plot, you say, which is to spread over all Spain -
’</p>
<p>‘Is for to-morrow night, my friend.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXV. SWORDCRAFT.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Rien n’est plus courageux qu’un coeur patient,
rien n’est plus sûr de soi qu’un ésprit doux.’</i></p>
<p>The General set down his glass, and a queer light came into his eyes,
usually so smiling and pleasant.</p>
<p>‘Ah! Then you are right, my friend. Tell us your
story as quickly as possible.’</p>
<p>‘It appears,’ said Concha, ‘that there has been
in progress for many months a plot to assassinate the Queen Regent and
to seize the person of the little Queen, expelling her from Spain, and
bringing in, not Don Carlos, who is a spent firework, but a Republic
- a more dangerous firework, that usually bursts in the hands of those
that light it. This plot has been finally put into shape by a
letter - ’</p>
<p>He paused, tapped on the table with his bony fingers, and glanced
at Estella.</p>
<p>‘A letter which has been going the round of all the malcontents
in the Peninsula. Each faction-leader, to show that he has read
it and agrees to obey its commands, initials the letter. It has
then been returned to an intermediary, who sends it to the next - never
by post, because the post is watched - always by hand, and usually by
the hand of a person innocent of its contents.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ murmured the General absently, and there was a
queer little smile on Estella’s lips.</p>
<p>‘To think,’ cried Concha, with a sudden fire less surprising
in Spain than in England, ‘to think that we have all seen it -
have touched it! Name of a saint! I had it under my hand
in the hotel at Algeciras, and I left it on the table. And now
it has been the round, and all the initials are placed upon it, and
it is for to-morrow night.’</p>
<p>‘Where have you learnt this?’ asked the General in a
voice that made Estella look at him. She had never seen him as
his enemies had seen him, and even they confessed that he was always
visible enough in action. Perhaps there was another man behind
the personality of this deprecating, pleasant-spoken little sybarite
- a man who only appeared (oh <i>rara avis</i>!) when he was wanted.</p>
<p>‘No matter,’ replied Concha, in a voice as hard and sharp.</p>
<p>‘No; after all, it is of no matter, so long as your information
is reliable.’</p>
<p>‘You may stake your life on that,’ said Concha, and remembered
the words ever after. ‘It has been decided to make this
journey from Seville to Madrid the opportunity of assassinating the
Queen Regent.’</p>
<p>‘It will not be the first time they have tried,’ put
in the General.</p>
<p>‘No. But this time they will succeed, and it is to be
here - to-morrow night - in Toledo. After the Queen Regent’s
death, and in the confusion that will supervene, the little Queen will
disappear, and then upon the rubbish-heap will spring up the mushrooms
as they did in France; and this rubbish-heap, like the other, will foul
the whole air of Europe.’</p>
<p>He shook his head pessimistically till the long, wispy grey hair
waved from side to side, and his left hand, resting on the wrist-bone
on the table, made an indescribable gesture that showed a fœtid
air tainted by darksome growths.</p>
<p>There was a silence in the room broken by no outside sound but the
chink of champed bits as the horses stood in their traces below.
Indeed, the city of Toledo seemed strangely still this evening, and
the very air had a sense of waiting in it. The priest sat and
looked at his lifelong friend, his furrowed face the incarnation of
cynical hopelessness. ‘What is, is worst,’ he seemed
to say. His yellow, wise old eyes watched the quick face with
the air of one who, having posed an insoluble problem, awaits with a
sarcastic humour the admission of failure.</p>
<p>General Vincente, who had just finished his wine, wiped his moustache
delicately with his table-napkin. He was thinking - quickly, systematically,
as men learn to think under fire. Perhaps, indeed, he had the
thoughts half matured in his mind - as the greatest general the world
has seen confessed that he ever had - that he was never taken quite
by surprise. Vincente smiled as he thought: a habit he had acquired
on the field, where a staff, and perhaps a whole army, took its cue
from his face and read the turn of fortune there. Then he looked
up straight at Estella, who was watching him.</p>
<p>‘Can you start on a journey, now - in five minutes?’
he asked.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ she answered, rising and going towards the door.</p>
<p>‘Have you a white mantilla among your travelling things?’
he asked again.</p>
<p>Estella turned at the doorway and nodded. ‘Yes,’
she said again.</p>
<p>‘Then take it with you, and a cloak, but no heavy luggage.’</p>
<p>Estella closed the door.</p>
<p>‘You can come with us?’ said the General to Concha, half
command, half interrogation.</p>
<p>‘If you wish it.’</p>
<p>‘You may be wanted. I have a plan - a little plan,’
and he gave a short laugh. ‘It may succeed.’</p>
<p>He went to a side table, where some cold meats still stood, and,
taking up a small chicken daintily with a fork, he folded it in a napkin.</p>
<p>‘It will be Saturday,’ he said simply, ‘before
we have reached our journey’s end, and you will be hungry.
Have you a pocket?’</p>
<p>‘Has a priest a pocket?’ asked Concha, with a grim humour,
and he slipped the provisions into the folds of his cassock. He
was still eating a biscuit hurriedly.</p>
<p>‘I believe you have no money?’ said the General suddenly.</p>
<p>‘I have only enough,’ admitted the old man, ‘to
take me back to Ronda; whither, by the way, my duty calls me.’</p>
<p>‘I think not. Your Master can spare you for a while;
my mistress cannot do without you.’</p>
<p>At this moment Estella came back into the room ready for her journey.
The girl had changed of late. Her face had lost a little roundness
and had gained exceedingly in expression. Her eyes, too, were
different. That change had come to them which comes to all women
between the ages of twenty and thirty, quite irrespective of their state.
A certain restlessness, or a quiet content, are what one usually sees
in a woman’s face. Estella’s eyes wore that latter
look, which seems to indicate a knowledge of the meaning of life and
a contentment that it should be no different.</p>
<p>Vincente was writing at the table.</p>
<p>‘We shall want help,’ he said, without looking up.
‘I am sending for a good man.’</p>
<p>And he smiled as he shook the small sand-castor over the paper.</p>
<p>‘May one ask,’ said Concha, ‘where we are going?’</p>
<p>‘We are going to Ciudad Real, my dear friend, since you are
so curious. But we shall come back - we shall come back.’</p>
<p>He was writing another despatch as he spoke, and at a sign from him
Estella went to the door and clapped her hands, the only method of summoning
a servant in general use at that time in Spain. The call was answered
by an orderly, who stood at attention in the doorway for a full five
minutes while the General wrote further orders in his neat, small calligraphy.
There were half a dozen letters in all - curt military despatches without
preamble and without mercy. For this soldier conducted military
matters in a singularly domestic way, planning his campaigns by the
fireside and bringing about the downfall of an enemy while sitting in
his daughter’s drawing-room. Indeed, Estella’s blotting-book
bore the impress of more than one death warrant or an order as good
as such, written casually on her stationery and with her pen.</p>
<p>‘Will you have the goodness to despatch these at once?’
was the message taken by the orderly to the General’s aide-de-camp,
and the gallopers, who were always in readiness, smiled as they heard
the modest request.</p>
<p>‘It will be pleasant to travel in the cool of the evening,
provided that one guards against a chill,’ said the General, making
his final preparations. ‘I require but a moment to speak
to my faithful aide-de-camp, and then we embark.’</p>
<p>The moon was rising as the carriage rattled across the Bridge of
Alcantara, and Larralde, taking the air between Wamba’s Gate and
the little fort that guards the entrance to the city, recognised the
equipage as it passed him. He saw also the outline of Concha’s
figure in the darkest corner of the carriage, with his back to the horses,
his head bowed in meditation. Estella he saw and recognised, while
two mounted attendants clattering in the rear of the carriage testified
by their presence to the fact that the General had taken the road again.</p>
<p>‘It is well,’ said Larralde to himself. ‘They
are all going back to Ronda, and Julia will be rid of their influence.
Ronda will serve as well as Toledo so far as Vincente is concerned.
But I will wait to make sure that they are not losing sight of him.’</p>
<p>So Señor Larralde, cloaked to the eyebrows, leant gracefully
against the wall, and, like many another upon the bridge after that
breathless day, drank in the cool air that rose from the river.
Presently - indeed, before the sound of the distant wheels was quite
lost - two horsemen, cloaked and provided with such light luggage as
the saddle can accommodate, rode leisurely through the gateway and up
the incline that makes a short cut to the great road running southward
to Ciudad Real. Larralde gave a little nod of self-confidence
and satisfaction, as one who, having conceived and built up a great
scheme, is pleased to see each component part of it act independently,
and slip into its place.</p>
<p>The General’s first thought was for Estella’s comfort,
and he utilised the long hill which they had to ascend on leaving the
town to make such arrangements as space would allow for their common
ease.</p>
<p>‘You must sleep, my child,’ he said. ‘We
cannot hope to reach Ciudad Real before midday to-morrow, and it is
as likely as not that we shall have but a few hours’ rest there.’</p>
<p>And Estella, who had travelled vast distances over vile roads so
long as her memory went back, who had never known what it is to live
in a country that is at peace, leant back in her corner and closed her
eyes. Had she really been disposed to sleep, however, she could
scarcely have done it, for the General’s solicitude manifested
itself by a hundred little devices for her greater repose. For
her comfort he made Concha move.</p>
<p>‘An old traveller like you must shift for yourself,’
he said gaily.</p>
<p>‘No need to seek shelter for an old ox,’ replied Concha,
moving into the other corner, where he carefully unfolded his pocket-handkerchief
and laid it over his face, where his long nose, protruding, caused it
to fall into fantastic folds. He clasped his hands upon his hat,
which lay on his knee, and, leaning back, presently began to snore gently
and regularly - a peaceful, sleep-inducing sound, and an excellent example.
The General, whose sword seemed to take up half the carriage, still
watched Estella, and if the air made her mantilla flutter, drew up the
window with the solicitude of a lover and a maternal noiselessness.
Then, with one hand on hers, and the other grasping his sword, he leant
back, but did not close his eyes.</p>
<p>Thus they travelled on through the luminous night. The roads
were neither worse nor better than they are to-day in Spain - than they
were in England in the Middle Ages - and their way lay over the hill
ranges that lie between the watersheds of the Tagus and the Guadiana.
At times they passed through well-tended valleys, where corn and olives
and vines seemed to grow on the same soil, but for the greater part
of the night they ascended and descended the upper slopes, where herds
of goats, half awakened as they slept in a ring about their guardian,
looked at them with startled eyes. The shepherds and goatherds,
who, like those of old, lay cloaked upon the ground, and tended their
flocks by night, did not trouble to raise their heads.</p>
<p>Concha alone slept, for the General had a thousand thoughts that
kept him awake and bright-eyed, while Estella knew from her father’s
manner and restlessness that these were no small events that now stirred
Spain, and seemed to close men’s mouths, so that near friends
distrusted one another, and brother was divided against brother.
Indeed, others were on the road that night, and horsemen passed the
heavy carriage from time to time.</p>
<p>In the early morning a change of horses was effected at a large inn
near the summit of a pass above Malagon, and here an orderly, who seemed
to recognise the General, was climbing into the saddle as the Vincentes
quitted their carriage and passed into the common room of the venta
for a hasty cup of coffee.</p>
<p>‘It is the Queen’s courier,’ said the innkeeper
grandly, ‘who takes the road before her Majesty in order to secure
horses.’</p>
<p>‘Ah,’ said the General, breaking his bread and dropping
it into his cup. ‘Is that so? The Queen Regent, you
mean?’</p>
<p>‘Queen or Queen Regent, she requires four horses this evening,
Excellency - that is all my concern.’</p>
<p>‘True, my friend; true. That is well said. And
the horses will be forthcoming, no doubt.’</p>
<p>‘They will be forthcoming,’ said the man. ‘And
the Excellency’s carriage is ready.’</p>
<p>In the early morning light they drove on, now descending towards
the great valley of the Guadiana, and at midday, as Vincente had foreseen,
gained a sight of the ancient city of Ciudad Real lying amid trees below
them. Ciudad Real is less interesting than its name, and there
is little that is royal about its dirty streets and ill-kept houses.
No one gave great heed to the travelling-carriage, for this is a great
centre where travellers journeying east or west, north or south, must
needs pause for a change of horses. At the inn there were vacant
rooms, and that hasty welcome accorded to the traveller at wayside houses
where none stay longer than they can help.</p>
<p>‘No,’ said the landlord, in answer to the General’s
query. ‘We are not busy, though we expect a lady who will
pass the hour of the siesta here and then proceed northward.’</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVI. WOMANCRAFT.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Il est rare que la tête des rois soit faite à
la mesure de leur couronne.’</i></p>
<p>In the best room of the inn where Vincente and his tired companions
sought a few hours’ rest there sat alone, and in thought, a woman
of middle age. Somewhat stout, she yet had that air which arouses
the attention without being worthy of the name of beauty. This
lady had doubtless swayed men’s hearts by a word or a glance,
for she still carried herself with assurance, and a hundred little details
of her dress would have told another woman that she still desired to
please. She wore a white mantilla.</p>
<p>The hour of the siesta was over, and after the great heat of the
day a cool air was swinging down on the bosom of the river to the parched
lowlands. It stirred the leaves of a climbing heliotrope which
encircled the open windows, and wafted into the ill-furnished room a
scent of stable-yard and dust.</p>
<p>The lady, sitting with her chin resting in the palm of her small
white hand, seemed to have lately roused herself from sleep, and now
had the expectant air of one who awaits a carriage and is about to set
out on a long journey. Her eyes were dark and tired-looking, and
their expression was not that of a good woman. A sensual man is
usually weak, but women are different; and this face, with its faded
complexion and tired eyes, this woman of the majestic presence and beautiful
hands, was both strong and sensual. This, in a word, was a Queen
who never forgot that she was a woman. As it was said of the Princess
Christina, so it has been spoken of the Queen, that many had killed
themselves for hopeless love of her. For this was the most dangerous
of the world’s creatures - a royal coquette. Such would
our own Queen Bess have been had not God, for the good of England, given
her a plain face and an ungainly form. For surely the devil is
in it when a woman can command both love and men. Queen Christina,
since the death of a husband who was years older than herself (and,
as some say, before that historic event), had played a woman’s
game with that skill which men only half recognise, and had played it
with the additional incentive that behind her insatiable vanity lay
the heavier stake of a crown.</p>
<p>She was not the first to turn the strong current of man’s passion
to her own deliberate gain - nay, ninety-nine out of a hundred women
do it. But the majority only play for a suburban villa and a few
hundred pounds a year; Queen Christina of Spain handled her cards for
a throne and the continuance of an ill-starred dynasty.</p>
<p>As she sat in the hotel chamber in Ciudad Real - that forlornest
of royal cities - her face wore the pettish look of one who, having
passed through great events, having tasted of great passions and moved
amid the machinery of life and death, finds the ordinary routine of
existence intolerably irksome. Many faces wear such a look in
this country; every second beautiful face in London has it. And
these women - heaven help them - find the morning hours dull, because
every afternoon has not its great event and every evening the excitement
of a social function.</p>
<p>The Queen was travelling incognita, and that fact alone robbed her
progress of a sense of excitement. She had to do without the shout
of the multitude - the passing admiration of the man in the street.
She knew that she was yet many hours removed from Madrid, where she
had admirers, and the next best possession - enemies. Ciudad Real
was intolerably dull and provincial. A servant knocked at the
door.</p>
<p>‘General Vincente, your Majesty, craves the favour of a moment.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ exclaimed the Queen, the light returning to her
eyes, a faint colour flushing her cheek. ‘In five minutes
I will receive him.’</p>
<p>And there is no need to say how the Queen spent those minutes.</p>
<p>‘Your Majesty,’ said the General, bending over her hand,
which he touched with his lips, ‘I have news of the greatest importance.’</p>
<p>The suggestion of a scornful smile flickered for a moment in the
royal eyes. It was surely news enough for any man that she was
a woman - beautiful still - possessing still that intangible and fatal
gift of pleasing. The woman slowly faded from her eyes as they
rested on the great soldier’s face, and the Queen it was who,
with a gracious gesture, bade him be seated. But the General remained
standing. He alone perhaps of all the men who had to deal with
her - of all those military puppets with whom she played her royal game
- had never crossed that vague boundary which many had overstepped to
their own inevitable undoing.</p>
<p>‘It concerns your Majesty’s life,’ said Vincente
bluntly, and calm in the certainty of his own theory that good blood,
whether it flow in the veins of man or woman, assuredly carries a high
courage.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said the Queen Regent, whose humour still inclined
towards those affairs which interested her before the affairs of State.
‘But with men such as you about me, my dear General, what need
I fear?’</p>
<p>‘Treachery, Madame,’ he answered, with his sudden smile
and a bow. ‘Treachery.’</p>
<p>She frowned. When a Queen stoops to dalliance a subject must
not be too practical.</p>
<p>‘Ah! What is it that concerns my life? Another
plot?’ she inquired shortly.</p>
<p>‘Another plot, but one of greater importance than those that
exist in the republican cafés of every town in your Majesty’s
kingdom. This is a widespread conspiracy, and I fear that many
powerful persons are concerned in it; but that, your Majesty, is not
my department nor concern.’</p>
<p>‘What is your concern, General?’ she asked, looking at
him over her fan.</p>
<p>‘To save your Majesty’s life to-night.’</p>
<p>‘To-night!’ she echoed, her coquetry gone.</p>
<p>‘To-night.’</p>
<p>‘But how and where?’</p>
<p>‘Assassination, Madame, in Toledo. You are three hours
late in your journey. But all Toledo will be astir awaiting you,
though it be till dawn.’</p>
<p>The Queen Regent closed her fan slowly. She was, as the rapid
events of her reign and regency have proved, one of those women who
rise to the occasion.</p>
<p>‘Then one must act at once,’ she said.</p>
<p>The General bowed.</p>
<p>‘What have you done?’ she asked.</p>
<p>‘I have sent to Madrid for a regiment that I know; they are
as my own children. I have killed so many of them that the remainder
love me. I have travelled from Toledo to meet your Majesty on
the road, or here.’</p>
<p>‘And what means have you of preventing this thing?’</p>
<p>‘I have brought the means with me, Madame.’</p>
<p>‘Troops?’ asked the Queen doubtfully, knowing where the
canker-worm lay hidden.</p>
<p>‘A woman and a priest, Madame.’</p>
<p>‘And - ’</p>
<p>‘And I propose that your Majesty journey to Madrid in my carriage,
attended only by my orderlies, by way of Aranjuez. You will be
safe in Madrid, where the Queen will require her mother’s care.’</p>
<p>‘Yes. And the remainder of your plan?’</p>
<p>‘I will travel back to Toledo in your Majesty’s carriage
with the woman and the priest and your bodyguard - just as your Majesty
is in the habit of travelling. Toledo wants a fight; nothing else
will satisfy them. They shall have it - before dawn. The
very best I have to offer them.’</p>
<p>And General Vincente gave a queer, cheery little laugh, as if he
were arranging a practical joke.</p>
<p>‘But the fight will be round my carriage - ’</p>
<p>‘Possibly. I would rather that it took place in the Calle
de la Ciudad, or around the Casa del Ayuntamiento, where your Majesty
is expected to sleep to-night.’</p>
<p>‘And these persons - this woman who risks her life to save
mine - who is she?’</p>
<p>‘My daughter,’ answered the General gravely.</p>
<p>‘She is here - in the hotel now?’</p>
<p>The General bowed.</p>
<p>‘I have heard that she is beautiful,’ said the Queen,
with a quick glance towards her companion. ‘How is it that
you have never brought her to Court, you who come so seldom yourself?’</p>
<p>Vincente made no reply.</p>
<p>‘However, bring her to me now.’</p>
<p>‘She has travelled far, Madame, and is not prepared for presentation
to her Queen.’</p>
<p>‘This is no time for formalities. She is about to run
a great risk for my sake, a greater risk than I could ever ask her to
run. Present her as one woman to another, General.’</p>
<p>But General Vincente bowed gravely and made no reply. The colour
slowly rose to the Queen Regent’s face - a dull red. She
opened her fan, closed it again, and sat with furtive downcast eyes.
Suddenly she looked up and met his gaze.</p>
<p>‘You refuse,’ she said, with an insolent air of indifference.
‘You think that I am unworthy to - meet your daughter.’</p>
<p>‘I think only of the exigency of the moment,’ was his
reply. ‘Every minute we lose is a gain to our enemies.
If our trick is discovered Aranjuez will be no safer for your Majesty
than is Toledo. You must be safely in Madrid before it is discovered
in Toledo that you have taken the other route, and that the person they
have mistaken for you is in reality my daughter.’</p>
<p>‘But she may be killed,’ exclaimed the Queen.</p>
<p>‘We may all be killed, Madame,’ he replied lightly.
‘I beg that you will start at once in my carriage with your chaplain
and the holy lady who is doubtless travelling with you.’</p>
<p>The Queen glanced sharply at him. It was known that although
her own life was anything but exemplary, she loved to associate with
women who, under the cloak of religion and an austere virtue, intrigued
with all parties and condoned the Queen’s offences.</p>
<p>‘I cannot understand you,’ she said, with that sudden
lapse into familiarity which had led to the undoing of more than one
ambitious courtier. ‘You seem to worship the crown and despise
the head it rests on.’</p>
<p>‘So long as I serve your Majesty faithfully - ’</p>
<p>‘But you have no right to despise me,’ she interrupted
passionately.</p>
<p>‘If I despised you, should I be here now - should I be doing
you this service?’</p>
<p>‘I do not know. I tell you I do not understand you.’</p>
<p>And the Queen looked hard at the man who, for this very reason, interested
one who had all her life dealt and intrigued with men of obvious motive
and unblushing ambition.</p>
<p>So strong is a ruling passion that even in sight of death (for the
Queen Regent knew that Spain was full of her enemies and rendered callous
to bloodshed by a long war) vanity was alert in this woman’s breast.
Even while General Vincente, that unrivalled strategist, detailed his
plans, she kept harking back to the question that puzzled her, and but
half listened to his instructions.</p>
<p>Those desirous of travelling without attracting attention in Spain
are wise to time their arrival and departure for the afternoon.
At this time, while the sun is yet hot, all shutters are closed, and
the business of life, the haggling in the market-place, the bustle of
the barrack yard, the leisurely labour of the fields, are suspended.
It was about four o’clock - indeed, the city clocks were striking
that hour - when the two carriages in the inn yard at Ciudad Real were
made ready for the road. Father Concha, who never took an active
part in passing incidents while his old friend and comrade was near,
sat in a shady corner of the patio and smoked a cigarette. An
affable ostler had in vain endeavoured to engage him in conversation.
Two small children had begged of him, and now he was left in meditative
solitude.</p>
<p>‘In a short three minutes,’ said the ostler, ‘and
the Excellencies can then depart. In which direction, reverendo,
if one may ask?’</p>
<p>‘One may always ask, my friend,’ replied the priest.
‘Indeed, the holy books are of opinion that it cannot be overdone.
That chin strap is too tight.’</p>
<p>‘Ah, I see the reverendo knows a horse.’</p>
<p>‘And an ass,’ added Concha.</p>
<p>At this moment the General emerged from the shadow of the staircase,
which was open and of stone. He was followed by Estella, as it
would appear, and they hurried across the sunlighted patio, the girl
carrying her fan to screen her face.</p>
<p>‘Are you rested, my child?’ asked Concha at the carriage
door.</p>
<p>The lady lowered the fan for a moment and met his eyes. A quick
look of surprise flashed across Concha’s face and he half bowed.
Then he repeated his question in a louder voice:</p>
<p>‘Are you rested, my child, after our long journey?’</p>
<p>‘Thank you, my father, yes.’</p>
<p>And the ostler watched with open-mouthed interest.</p>
<p>The other carriage had been drawn up to that side of the courtyard
where the open stairway was, and here also the bustle of departure and
a hurrying female form, anxious to gain the shade of the vehicle, were
discernible. It was all done so quickly, with such a military
completeness of detail, that the carriages had passed through the great
doorway and the troopers - merely a general’s escort - had clattered
after them before the few onlookers had fully realised that these were
surely travellers of some note.</p>
<p>The ostler hurried to the street to watch them go.</p>
<p>‘They are going to the north,’ he said to himself, as
he saw the carriages turn in the direction of the river and the ancient
Puerta de Toledo. ‘They go to the north - and assuredly
the General has come to conduct her to Toledo.’</p>
<p>Strange to say, although it was the hour of rest, many shutters in
the narrow street were open, and more than one peeping face was turned
towards the departing carriages.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVII. A NIGHT JOURNEY.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p><i>‘Let me but bear your love, I’ll bear your cares.’</i></p>
<p>At the cross-roads on the northern side of the river the two carriages
parted company, the dusty equipage of General Vincente taking the road
to Aranjuez that leads to the right and mounts steadily through olive
groves. The other carriage - which, despite its plain and sombre
colours, still had an air of grandeur and almost of royalty, with its
great wheels and curved springs - turned to the left and headed for
Toledo. Behind it clattered a dozen troopers, picked men, with
huge swinging swords and travel-stained clothes. The dust rose
in a cloud under the horses’ feet and hovered in the sullen air.
There was no breath of wind, and the sun shone through a faint haze
which seemed only to add to the heat.</p>
<p>Concha lowered the window and thrust forward his long inquiring nose.</p>
<p>‘What is it?’ asked the General.</p>
<p>‘Thunder - I smell it. We shall have a storm to-night.’
He looked out mopping his brow. ‘Name of a saint! how thick
the air is.’</p>
<p>‘It will be clear before the morning,’ said Vincente
the optimist.</p>
<p>And the carriage rattled on towards the city of strife, where Jew,
Goth and Roman, Moor and Inquisitor, have all had their day. Estella
was silent, drooping with fatigue. The General alone seemed unmoved
and heedless of the heat - a man of steel, as bright and ready as his
own sword.</p>
<p>There is no civilised country in the world so bare as Spain, and
no part of the Peninsula so sparsely populated as the Castiles.
The road ran for the most part over brown and barren uplands, with here
and there a valley where wheat and olives and vineyards graced the lower
slopes. The crying need of all nature was for shade; for the ilex
is a small-leaved tree giving a thin shadow with no cool depths amid
the branches. All was brown and barren and parched. The
earth seemed to lie fainting and awaiting the rain. The horses
trotted with extended necks and open mouths, their coats wet with sweat.
The driver - an Andalusian, with a face like a Moorish pirate - kept
encouraging them with word and rein, jerking and whipping only when
they seemed likely to fall from sheer fatigue and sun-weariness.
At last the sun began to set in a glow like that of a great furnace,
and the reflection lay over the land in ruddy splendour.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Concha, looking out, ‘it will be a great
storm - and it will soon come.’</p>
<p>Vast columns of cloud were climbing up from the sunset into a sullen
sky, thrown up in spreading mares’ tails by a hundred contrary
gusts of wind, as if there were explosive matter in the great furnace
of the west.</p>
<p>‘Nature is always on my side,’ said Vincente, with his
chuckling laugh. He sat, watch in hand, noting the passage of
the kilometres.</p>
<p>At last the sun went down behind a distant line of hill - the watershed
of the Tagus - and immediately the air was cool. Without stopping,
the driver wrapped his cloak round him, and the troopers followed his
example. A few minutes later a cold breeze sprung up suddenly,
coming from the north and swirling the dust high in the air.</p>
<p>‘It is well,’ said Vincente, who assuredly saw good in
everything; ‘the wind comes first, and therefore the storm will
be short.’</p>
<p>As he spoke the thunder rolled among the hills.</p>
<p>‘It is almost like guns,’ he added, with a queer look
in his eyes suggestive of some memory.</p>
<p>Then, preceded by a rushing wind, the rain came, turning to hail,
and stopping suddenly in a breathless pause, only to recommence with
a renewed and splashing vigour. Concha drew up the windows, and
the water streamed down them in a continuous ripple. Estella,
who had been sleeping, roused herself. She looked fresh, and her
eyes were bright with excitement. She had brought home with her
from her English school that air of freshness and a dainty vigour which
makes Englishwomen different from all other women in the world, and
an English schoolgirl one of the brightest, purest, and sweetest of
God’s creatures.</p>
<p>Concha looked at her with his grim smile - amused at a youthfulness
which could enable her to fall asleep at such a time and wake up so
manifestly refreshed.</p>
<p>A halt was made at a roadside venta, where the travellers partook
of a hurried meal. Darkness came on before the horses were sufficiently
rested, and by the light of an ill-smelling lamp the General had his
inevitable cup of coffee. The rain had now ceased, but the sky
remained overcast and the night was a dark one. The travellers
took their places in the carriage, and again the monotony of the road,
the steady trot of the horses, the sing-song words of encouragement
of their driver, monopolised the thoughts of sleepy minds. It
seemed to Estella that life was all journeys, and that she had been
on the road for years. The swing of the carriage, the little varieties
of the road, but served to add to her somnolence. She only half
woke up when, about ten o’clock, a halt was made to change horses,
and the General quitted the carriage for a few minutes to talk earnestly
with two horsemen, who were apparently awaiting their arrival.
No time was lost here, and the carriage went forward with an increased
escort. The two new-comers rode by the carriage, one on either
side.</p>
<p>When Estella woke up, the moon had risen and the carriage was making
slow progress up a long hill. She noticed that a horseman was
on either side, close by the carriage window.</p>
<p>‘Who is that?’ she asked.</p>
<p>‘Conyngham,’ replied the General.</p>
<p>‘You sent for him?’ inquired Estella, in a hard voice.</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>Estella was wakeful enough now, and sat upright, looking straight
in front of her. At times she glanced towards the window, which
was now open, where the head of Conyngham’s charger appeared.
The horse trotted steadily, with a queer jerk of the head and that willingness
to do his best which gains for horses a place in the hearts of all who
have to do with them.</p>
<p>‘Will there be fighting?’ asked Estella suddenly.</p>
<p>The General shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p>‘One cannot call it fighting. There may be a disturbance
in the streets,’ he answered.</p>
<p>Concha, quiet in his corner, with his back to the horses, watched
the girl, and saw that her eyes were wide with anxiety now - quite suddenly.
She, who had never thought of fear till this moment. She moved
uneasily in her seat, fidgeting as the young ever do when troubled.
It is only with years that we learn to bear a burden quietly.</p>
<p>‘Who is that?’ she asked shortly, pointing to the other
window, which was closed.</p>
<p>‘Concepçion Vara - Conyngham’s servant,’
replied the General, who for some reason was inclined to curtness in
his speech.</p>
<p>They were approaching Toledo, and passed through a village from time
to time, where the cafés were still lighted up, and people seemed
to be astir in the shadow of the houses. At last, in the main
thoroughfare of a larger village within a stage of Toledo, a final halt
was made to change horses. The street, dimly lighted by a couple
of oil lamps swinging from gibbets at the corners of a crossroad, seemed
to be peopled by shadows surreptitiously lurking in doorways.
There was a false air of quiet in the houses, and peeping eyes looked
out from behind the bars that covered every window, for even modern
Spanish houses are barred as if for a siege, and in the ancient villages
every man’s house is indeed his castle.</p>
<p>The driver had left the box, and seemed to be having some trouble
with the ostlers and stable-helps; for his voice could be heard raised
in anger and urging them to greater haste.</p>
<p>Conyngham, motionless in the saddle, touched his horse with his heel,
advancing a few paces so as to screen the window. Concepçion,
on the other side, did the same, so that the travellers in the interior
of the vehicle saw but the dark shape of the horses and the long cloaks
of their riders. They could perceive Conyngham quickly throw back
his cape in order to have a free hand. Then there came the sound
of scuffling feet and an indefinable sense of strife in the very air.</p>
<p>‘But we will see - we will see who is in the carriage!’
cried a shrill voice, and a hoarse shout from many bibulous throats
confirmed the desire.</p>
<p>‘Quick!’ said Conyngham’s voice. ‘Quick
- take your reins - never mind the lamps.’</p>
<p>And the carriage swayed as the man leapt to his place. Estella
made a movement to look out of the window, but Concha had stood up against
it, opposing his broad back alike to curious glances or a knife or a
bullet. At the other window the General, better versed in such
matters, held the leather cushion upon which he had been sitting across
the sash. With his left hand he restrained Estella.</p>
<p>‘Keep still,’ he said. ‘Sit back. Conyngham
can take care of himself.’</p>
<p>The carriage swayed forward, and a volley of stones rattled on it
like hail. It rose jerkily on one side, and bumped over some obstacle.</p>
<p>‘One who has his quietus,’ said Concha; ‘these
royal carriages are heavy.’</p>
<p>The horses were galloping now. Concha sat down rubbing his
back. Conyngham was galloping by the window, and they could see
his spur flashing in the moonlight as he used it. The reins hung
loose, and both his hands were employed elsewhere, for he had a man
half across the saddle in front of him, who held to him with one arm
thrown round his neck, while the other was raised and a gleam of steel
was at the end of it. Concepçion, from the other side,
threw a knife over the roof of the carriage - he could hit a cork at
twenty paces but he missed this time.</p>
<p>The General, from within, leant across Estella, sword in hand, with
gleaming eyes. But Conyngham seemed to have got the hold he desired,
for his assailant came suddenly swinging over the horse’s neck,
and one of his flying heels crashed through the window by Concha’s
head, making that ecclesiastic swear like any layman. The carriage
was lifted on one side again, and bumped heavily.</p>
<p>‘Another,’ said Concha, looking for broken glass in the
folds of his cassock. ‘That is a pretty trick of Conyngham’s.’</p>
<p>‘And the man is a horseman,’ added the General, sheathing
his sword - ’a horseman. It warms the heart to see it.’</p>
<p>Then he leant out of the window and asked if any were hurt.</p>
<p>‘I am afraid, Excellency, that I hurt one,’ answered
Vara. ‘Where the neck joins the shoulder. It is a
pretty spot for the knife - nothing to turn a point.’</p>
<p>He rubbed a sulphur match on the leg of his trouser, and lighted
a cigarette as he rode along.</p>
<p>‘On our side no accidents,’ continued Vara, with a careless
grandeur, ‘unless the reverendo received a kick in the face.’</p>
<p>‘The reverendo received a stone in the small of the back,’
growled Concha pessimistically, ‘where there was already a corner
of lumbago.’</p>
<p>Conyngham, standing in his stirrups, was looking back. A man
lay motionless on the road, and beyond, at the cross-roads, another
was riding up a hill to the right at a hand gallop.</p>
<p>‘It is the road to Madrid,’ said Concepçion, noting
the direction of the Englishman’s glance.</p>
<p>The General, leaning out of the carriage window, was also looking
back anxiously.</p>
<p>‘They have sent a messenger to Madrid, Excellency, with the
news that the Queen is on the road to Toledo,’ said Concepçion.</p>
<p>‘It is well,’ answered Vincente, with a laugh.</p>
<p>As they journeyed, although it was nearly midnight, there appeared
from time to time, and for the most part in the neighbourhood of a village,
one who seemed to have been awaiting their passage, and immediately
set out on foot or horseback by one of the shorter bridle-paths that
abound in Spain. No one of these spies escaped the notice of Concepçion,
whose training amid the mountains of Andalusia had sharpened his eyesight
and added keenness to every sense.</p>
<p>‘It is like a cat walking down an alley full of dogs,’
he muttered.</p>
<p>At last the lights of Toledo hove in sight, and across the river
came the sound of the city clocks tolling the hour.</p>
<p>‘Midnight,’ said Concha. ‘And all respectable
folk are in their beds. At night all cats are grey.’</p>
<p>No one heeded him. Estella was sitting upright, bright-eyed
and wakeful. The General looked out of the window at every moment.
Across the river they could see lights moving, and many houses that
had been illuminated were suddenly dark.</p>
<p>‘See,’ said the General, leaning out of the window and
speaking to Conyngham, ‘they have heard the sound of our wheels.’</p>
<p>At the farther end of the Bridge of Alcantara, on the road which
now leads to the railway station, two horsemen were stationed, hidden
in the shadow of the trees that border the pathway.</p>
<p>‘Those should be Guardias Civiles,’ said Concepçion,
who had studied the ways of those gentry all his life. ‘But
they are not. They have horses that have never been taught to
stand still.’</p>
<p>As he spoke the men vanished, moving noiselessly in the thick dust
which lay on the Madrid road.</p>
<p>The General saw them go - and smiled. These men carried word
to their fellows in Madrid for the seizure of the little Queen.
But before they could reach the capital the Queen Regent herself would
be there - a woman in a thousand, of inflexible nerve, of infinite resource.</p>
<p>The carriage rattled over the narrow bridge which rings hollow to
the sound of wheels. It passed under the gate that Wamba built
and up the tree-girt incline to the city. The streets were deserted,
and no window showed a light. A watchman in his shelter, at the
corner by the synagogue, peered at them over the folds of his cloak,
and noting the clank of scabbard against spur, paid no further heed
to a traveller who took the road with such outward signs of authority.</p>
<p>‘It is still enough - and quiet,’ said Concha, looking
out.</p>
<p>‘As quiet as a watching cat,’ replied Vincente.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CITY OF STRIFE.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p> <i> ‘What
lot is mine<br /> Whose foresight preaches
peace, my heart so slow<br /> To feel it!’</i></p>
<p>Through these quiet streets the party clattered noisily enough, for
the rain had left the rounded stones slippery, and the horses were too
tired for a sure step. There were no lights at the street corners,
for all had been extinguished at midnight, and the only glimmer of a
lamp that relieved the darkness was shining through the stained-glass
windows of the Cathedral, where the sacred oil burnt night and day.</p>
<p>The Queen was evidently expected at the Casa del Ayuntamiento, for
at the approach of the carriage the great doors were thrown open and
a number of servants appeared in the patio, which was but dimly lighted.
By the General’s orders the small body-guard passed through the
doors, which were then closed, instead of continuing their way to the
barracks in the Alcazar.</p>
<p>This Casa del Ayuntamiento stands, as many travellers know, in the
Plaza of the same name, and faces the Cathedral, which is without doubt
the oldest, as it assuredly is the most beautiful, church in the world.
The mansion-house of Toledo, in addition to some palatial halls which
are of historic renown, has several suites of rooms used from time to
time by great personages passing through or visiting the city.
The house itself is old, as we esteem age in England, while in comparison
to the buildings around it it is modern. Built, however, at a
period when beauty of architecture was secondary to power of resistance,
the palace is strong enough, and General Vincente smiled happily as
the great doors were closed. He was the last to look out into
the streets and across the little Plaza del Ayuntamiento, which was
deserted and looked peaceful enough in the light of a waning moon.</p>
<p>The carriage door was opened by a lacquey, and Conyngham gave Estella
his hand. All the servants bowed as she passed up the stairs,
her face screened by the folds of her white mantilla. There was
a queer hush in this great house, and in the manner of the servants.
The cathedral clock rang out the half-hour. The General led the
way to the room on the first floor that overlooks the Plaza del Ayuntamiento.
It is a vast apartment, hung with tapestries and pictures such as men
travel many miles to see. The windows, which are large in proportion
to the height of the room, open upon a stone balcony, which runs the
length of the house and looks down upon the Plaza and across this to
the great façade of the Cathedral. Candles, hurriedly lighted,
made the room into a very desert of shadows. At the far end, a
table was spread with cold meats and lighted by high silver candelabra.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Concha, going towards the supper-table.</p>
<p>Estella turned, and for the first time met Conyngham’s eyes.
His face startled her. It was so grave.</p>
<p>‘Were you hurt?’ she asked sharply.</p>
<p>‘Not this time, señorita.’</p>
<p>Then she turned with a sudden laugh towards her father. ‘Did
I play my part well?’ she asked.</p>
<p>‘Yes, my child.’ And even he was grave.</p>
<p>‘Unless I am mistaken,’ he continued, glancing at the
shuttered windows, ‘we have only begun our task.’
He was reading, as he spoke, some despatches which a servant had handed
to him.</p>
<p>‘There is one advantage in a soldier’s life,’ he
said, smiling at Conyngham, ‘which is not, I think, sufficiently
recognised - namely, that one’s duty is so often clearly defined.
At the present moment it is a question of keeping up the deception we
have practised upon these good people of Toledo sufficiently long to
enable the Queen Regent to reach Madrid. In order to make certain
of this we must lead the people to understand that the Queen is in this
house until, at least, daylight. Given so much advantage, I think
that her Majesty can reach the capital an hour before any messenger
from Toledo. Two horsemen quitted the Bridge of Alcantara as we
crossed it, riding towards Madrid; but they will not reach the capital
- I have seen to that.’</p>
<p>He paused and walked to one of the long windows, which he opened.
The outer shutters remained closed, and he did not unbar them, but stood
listening.</p>
<p>‘All is still as yet,’ he said, returning to the table,
where Father Concha was philosophically cutting up a cold chicken.
‘That is a good idea of yours,’ he said. ‘We
may all require our full forces of mind and body before the dawn.’</p>
<p>He drew forward a chair, and Estella, obeying his gesture, sat down
and so far controlled her feelings as to eat a little.</p>
<p>‘Do queens always feed on old birds such as this?’ asked
Concha discontentedly; and Vincente, spreading out his napkin, laughed
with gay good humour.</p>
<p>‘Before the dawn,’ he said to Conyngham, ‘we may
all be great men, and the good Concha here on the high road to a bishopric.’</p>
<p>‘He would rather be in bed,’ muttered the priest, with
his mouth full.</p>
<p>It was a queer scene, such as we only act in real life. The
vast room, with its gorgeous hangings, the flickering candles, the table
spread with delicacies, and the strange party seated at it - Concha
eating steadily, the General looking round with his domesticated little
smile, Estella with a new light in her eyes and a new happiness on her
face, Conyngham, a giant among these southerners, in his dust-laden
uniform - all made up a picture that none forgot.</p>
<p>‘They will probably attack this place,’ said the General,
pouring out a glass of wine; ‘but the house is a strong one.
I cannot rely on the regiments stationed at Toledo, and have sent to
Madrid for cavalry. There is nothing like cavalry - in the streets.
We can stand a siege - till the dawn.’</p>
<p>He turned, looking over his shoulder towards the door; for he had
heard a footstep unnoticed by the others. It was Concepçion
Vara who came into the room, coatless, his face grey with dust, adding
a startling and picturesque incongruity to the scene.</p>
<p>‘Pardon, Excellency,’ he said, with that easy grasp of
the situation which always made an utterly unabashed smuggler of him,
‘but there is one in the house whom I think his Excellency should
speak with.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’</p>
<p>‘The Señorita Barenna.’</p>
<p>The General rose from the table.</p>
<p>‘How did she get in here?’ he asked sharply.</p>
<p>‘By the side door in the Calle de la Ciudad. The keeper
of that door, Excellency, is a mule. The señorita forced
him to admit her. The sex can do so much,’ he added, with
a tolerant shrug of the shoulders.</p>
<p>‘And the other - this Larralde?’</p>
<p>Concepçion raised his hand with outspread fingers, and shook
it slowly from side to side from the wrist, with the palm turned towards
his interlocutor - a gesture which seemed to indicate that the subject
was an unpleasant, almost an indelicate, one.</p>
<p>‘Larralde, Excellency,’ he said, ‘is one of those
who are never found at the front. He will not be in Toledo to-night
- that Larralde.’</p>
<p>‘Where is the Señorita Barenna?’ asked the General.</p>
<p>‘She is downstairs - commanding his Excellency’s soldiers
to let her pass.’</p>
<p>‘You go down, my friend, and bring her here. Then take
that door yourself.’</p>
<p>Concepçion bowed ceremoniously and withdrew. He might
have been an ambassador, and his salutation was worthy of an Imperial
Court.</p>
<p>A moment later Julia Barenna came into the room, her dark eyes wide
with terror, her face pale and drawn.</p>
<p>‘Where is the Queen Regent?’ she asked, looking from
one face to the other, and seeing all her foes assembled as if by magic
before her.</p>
<p>‘Her Majesty is on the road between Aranjuez and Madrid - in
safety, my dear Julia,’ replied the General soothingly.</p>
<p>‘But they think she is here. The people are in the streets.
Look out of the window. They are in the Plaza.’</p>
<p>‘I know it, my dear,’ said the General.</p>
<p>‘They are armed - they are going to attack this house.’</p>
<p>‘I am aware of it.’</p>
<p>‘Their plan is to murder the Queen.’</p>
<p>‘So we understand,’ said the General gently. He
had a horror of anything approaching sensation or a scene, a feeling
which Spaniards share with Englishmen. ‘That is the Queen
for the time being,’ added Vincente, pointing to Estella.</p>
<p>Julia stood looking from one to the other - a self-contained woman
made strong by love. For there is nothing in life or human experience
that raises and strengthens man or woman so much as a great and abiding
love. But Julia Barenna was driven and almost panic-stricken.
She held herself in control by an effort that was drawing lines in her
face never to be wiped out.</p>
<p>‘But you will tell them? I will do it. Let me go
to them. I am not afraid.’</p>
<p>‘No one must leave this house now,’ said the General.
‘You have come to us, my dear, you must now throw in your lot
with ours.’</p>
<p>‘But Estella must not take this risk,’ exclaimed Julia.
‘Let me do it.’</p>
<p>And some woman’s instinct sent her to Estella’s side
- two women alone in that great house amid this man’s work, this
strife of reckless politicians.</p>
<p>‘And you, and Señor Conyngham,’ she cried, ‘you
must not run this great risk.’</p>
<p>‘It is what we are paid for, my dear Julia,’ answered
the General, holding out his arm and indicating the gold stripes upon
it.</p>
<p>He walked to the window and opened the massive shutters, which swung
back heavily. Then he stepped out on to the balcony without fear
or hesitation.</p>
<p>‘See,’ he said, ‘the square is full of them.’</p>
<p>He came back into the room, and Conyngham, standing beside him, looked
down into the moonlit Plaza. The square was, indeed, thronged
with dark and silent shadows, while others, stealing from the doorways
and narrow alleys with which Toledo abounds, joined the groups with
stealthy steps. No one spoke, though the sound of their whispering
arose in the still night air like the murmur of a breeze through reeds.
A hundred faces peered upwards through the darkness at the two intrepid
figures on the balcony.</p>
<p>‘And these are Spaniards, my dear Conyngham,’ whispered
the General. ‘A hundred of them against one woman.
Name of God! I blush for them.’</p>
<p>The throng increased every moment, and withal the silence never lifted,
but brooded breathlessly over the ancient town. Instead of living
men, these might well have been the shades of the countless and forgotten
dead who had come to a violent end in the streets of a city where Peace
has never found a home since the days of Nebuchadnezzar. Vincente
came back into the room, leaving shutter and window open.</p>
<p>‘They cannot see in,’ he said, ‘the building is
too high. And across the Plaza there is nothing but the Cathedral,
which has no windows accessible without ladders.’</p>
<p>He paused, looking at his watch.</p>
<p>‘They are in doubt,’ he said, speaking to Conyngham.
‘They are not sure that the Queen is here. We will keep
them in doubt for a short time. Every minute lost by them is an
inestimable gain to us. That open window will whet their curiosity,
and give them something to whisper about. It is so easy to deceive
a crowd.’</p>
<p>He sat down and began to peel a peach. Julia looked at him,
wondering wherein this man’s greatness lay, and yet perceiving
dimly that, against such as he, men like Esteban Larralde could do nothing.</p>
<p>Concha, having supped satisfactorily, was now sitting back in his
chair seeking for something in the pockets of his cassock.</p>
<p>‘It is to be presumed,’ he said, ‘that one may
smoke - even in a palace.’</p>
<p>And under their gaze he quietly lighted a cigarette with the deliberation
of one in whom a long and solitary life had bred habits only to be broken
at last by death.</p>
<p>Presently the General rose and went to the window again.</p>
<p>‘They are still doubtful,’ he said, returning, ‘and
I think their numbers have decreased. We cannot allow them to
disperse.’</p>
<p>He paused, thinking deeply.</p>
<p>‘My child,’ he said suddenly to Estella, ‘you must
show yourself on the balcony.’</p>
<p>Estella rose at once; but Julia held her back.</p>
<p>‘No,’ she said; ‘let me do it. Give me the
white mantilla.’</p>
<p>There was a momentary silence while Estella freed herself from her
cousin’s grasp. Conyngham looked at the woman he loved while
she stood, little more than a child, with something youthful and inimitably
graceful in the lines of her throat and averted face. Would she
accept Julia’s offer? Conyngham bit his lip and awaited
her decision. Then, as if divining his thought, she turned and
looked at him gravely.</p>
<p>‘No,’ she said; ‘I will do it.’</p>
<p>She went towards the window. Her father and Conyngham had taken
their places, one on each side, as if she were the Queen indeed.
She stood for a moment on the threshold, and then passed out into the
moonlight, alone. Immediately there arose the most terrifying
of all earthly sounds - the dull, antagonistic roar of a thousand angry
throats. Estella walked to the front of the balcony and stood,
with an intrepidity which was worthy of the royal woman whose part she
played, looking down on the upturned faces. A red flash streaked
the darkness of a far corner of the square, and a bullet whistled through
the open window into the woodwork of a mirror.</p>
<p>‘Come back,’ whispered General Vincente. ‘Slowly,
my child - slowly.’</p>
<p>Estella stood for a moment looking down with a royal insolence, then
turned, and with measured steps approached the window. As she
passed in she met Conyngham’s eyes, and that one moment assuredly
made two lives worth living.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIX. MIDNIGHT AND DAWN.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p> <i> ‘I
have set my life upon a cast<br /> And
I will stand the hazard of the die.’</i></p>
<p>‘Excellency,’ reported a man who entered the room at
this moment, ‘they are bringing carts of fuel through the Calle
de la Ciudad to set against the door and burn it.’</p>
<p>‘To set against which door, my honest friend?’</p>
<p>‘The great door on the Plaza, Excellency; the other is an old
door of iron.’</p>
<p>‘And they cannot burn it or break it open?’</p>
<p>‘No, Excellency. And, besides, there are loopholes in
the thickness of the wall at the side.’</p>
<p>The General smiled on this man as being after his own heart.</p>
<p>‘One may not shoot to-night, my friend. I have already
given the order.’</p>
<p>‘But one may prick them with the sword, Excellency?’
suggested the trooper, with a sort of suppressed enthusiasm.</p>
<p>The General shrugged his shoulders, wisely tolerant.</p>
<p>‘Oh yes,’ he answered, ‘I suppose one may prick
them with the sword.’</p>
<p>Conyngham, who had been standing half in and half out of the open
window, listening to this conversation, now came forward.</p>
<p>‘I think,’ he said, ‘that I can clear the Plaza
from time to time if you give me twenty men. We can thus gain
time.’</p>
<p>‘Street-fighting,’ answered the General gravely.
‘Do you know anything of it? It is nasty work.’</p>
<p>‘I know something of it. One has to shout very loud.
I studied it - at Dublin University.’</p>
<p>‘To be sure - I forgot.’</p>
<p>Julia and Estella watched and listened. Their lot had been
cast in the paths of war, and since childhood they had remembered naught
else. But neither had yet been so near to the work, nor had they
seen and heard men talk and plan with a certain grim humour - a curt
and deliberate scorn of haste or excitement - as these men spoke and
planned now. Conyngham and Concepçion Vara were altered
by these circumstances - there was a light in their eyes which women
rarely see, but the General was the same little man of peace and of
a high domestic virtue, who seemed embarrassed by a sword which was
obviously too big for him. Yet in all their voices there rang
alike a queer note of exultation. For man is a fighting animal,
and from St. Paul down to the humblest little five-foot-one recruit,
would find life a dull affair were there no strife in it.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said the General, after a moment’s reflection,
‘that is a good idea, and will gain time. But let them first
bring their fuel and set it up. Every moment is a gain.’</p>
<p>At this instant some humorist in the crowd threw a stone in at the
open window. The old priest picked up the missile and examined
it curiously.</p>
<p>‘It is fortunate,’ he said, ‘that the stones are
fixed in Toledo. In Xeres they are loose, and are always in the
air. I wonder if I can hit a citizen.’ And he threw
the stone back.</p>
<p>‘Close the shutters,’ said the General. ‘Let
us avoid arousing ill-feeling.’</p>
<p>The priest drew the jalousies together, but did not quite shut them.
Vincente stood and looked out through the aperture at the moonlit square
and the dark shadows moving there.</p>
<p>‘I wish they would shout,’ he said. ‘It is
unnatural. They are like children. When there is noise there
is little mischief.’</p>
<p>Then he remained silent for some minutes, watching intently.
All in the room noted his every movement. At length he turned
on his heel.</p>
<p>‘Go, my friend,’ he said to Conyngham. ‘Form
your men in the Calle de la Ciudad, and charge round in line.
Do not place yourself too much in advance of your men, or you will be
killed, and remember - the point! Resist the temptation to cut
- the point is best.’</p>
<p>He patted Conyngham on the arm affectionately, as if he were sending
him to bed with a good wish, and accompanied him to the door.</p>
<p>‘I knew,’ he said, returning to the window and rubbing
his hands together, ‘that that was a good man the first moment
I saw him.’</p>
<p>He glanced at Estella, and then, turning, opened another window,
setting the shutters ajar so as to make a second point of observation.</p>
<p>‘My poor child,’ he whispered, as she went to the window
and looked out, ‘it is an ill-fortune to have to do with men whose
trade this is.’</p>
<p>Estella smiled - a little whitely - and said nothing. The moon
was now shining from an almost cloudless sky. The few fleecy remains
of the storm sailing towards the east only added brightness to the night.
It was almost possible to see the faces of the men moving in the square
below, and to read their expressions. The majority stood in a
group in the centre of the Plaza, while a daring few, reckoning on the
Spanish aversion to firearms, ran forward from time to time and set
a bundle of wood or straw against the door beneath the balcony.</p>
<p>Some, who appeared to be the leaders, looked up constantly and curiously
at the windows, wondering if any resistance would be made. Had
they known that General Vincente was in that silent house they would
probably have gone home to bed, and the crowd would have dispersed like
smoke.</p>
<p>Suddenly there arose a roar to the right hand of the square where
the Calle de la Ciudad was situated, and Conyngham appeared for a moment
alone, running towards the group, with the moonlight flashing on his
sword. At his heels an instant later a single line of men swung
round the corner and charged across the square.</p>
<p>‘Dear, dear,’ muttered the General; ‘too quick,
my friend, too quick!’</p>
<p>For Conyngham was already among the crowd, which broke and surged
back towards the Cathedral. He paused for a moment to draw his
sword out of a dark form that lay upon the ground, as a cricketer draws
a stump. He had, at all events, remembered the point. The
troopers swept across the square like a broom, sending the people as
dust before them, and leaving the clean, moonlit square behind.
They also left behind one or two shadows, lying stark upon the around.
One of these got upon its knees and crawled painfully away, all one-sided,
like a beetle that has been trodden underfoot. Those watching
from the windows saw with a gasp of horror that part of him - part of
an arm - had been left behind, and a sigh of relief went up when he
stopped crawling and lay quite still.</p>
<p>The troopers were now retreating slowly towards the Calle de la Ciudad.</p>
<p>‘Be careful, Conyngham,’ shouted the General from the
balcony. ‘They will return.’</p>
<p>And as he spoke a rattling fire was opened upon them from the far
corner of the square, where the crowd had taken refuge in the opening
of the Calle del Arco. Immediately, the people, having noted that
the troopers were few in number, charged down upon them. The men
fought in line, retreating step by step, their swords gleaming in the
moonlight. Estella, hearing footsteps in the room behind her,
turned in time to see her father disappearing through the doorway.
Concepçion Vara, coatless, as he loved to work, his white shirtsleeves
fluttering as his arm swung, had now joined the troopers, and was fighting
by Conyngham’s side.</p>
<p>Estella and Julia were out on the balcony now, leaning over and forgetting
all but the breathless interest of battle. Concha stood beside
them, muttering and cursing like any soldier.</p>
<p>They saw Vincente appear at the corner of the Calle de la Ciudad
and throw away his scabbard as he ran.</p>
<p>‘Now, my children!’ he cried in a voice that Estella
had never heard before, which rang out across the square, and was answered
by a yell that was nothing but a cry of sheer delight. The crowd
swayed back as if before a gust of wind, and the General, following
it, seemed to clear a space for himself as a reaper clears away the
standing corn before him. It was, however, only for a moment.
The crowd surged back, those in front against their will, and on to
the glittering steel - those behind shouting encouragement.</p>
<p>‘Name of God!’ shouted Concha, and was gone. They
saw him a minute later appear in the square, having thrown aside his
cassock. He made a strange lean figure of a man with his knee-breeches
and dingy purple stockings, his grey flannel shirt, and the moonlight
shining on his tonsured head. He fought without skill, and heedless
of danger, swinging a great sword that he had picked up from the hand
of a fallen trooper, and each blow that he got home killed its victim.
The metal of the man had suddenly shown itself after years of suppression.
This, as Vincente had laughingly said, was no priest, but a soldier.
Concepçion, in the thick of it, using the knife now with a deadly
skill, looked over his shoulder and laughed.</p>
<p>Suddenly the crowd swayed. The faint sound of a distant bugle
came to the ears of all.</p>
<p>‘It is nothing,’ shouted Concha, in English. ‘It
is nothing. It is I who sent the bugler round.’</p>
<p>And his great sword whistled into a man’s brain. In another
moment the square was empty, for the politicians who came to murder
a woman had had enough steel. The sound of the bugle, intimating,
as they supposed, the arrival of troops, completed the work of demoralisation
which the recognition of General Vincente had begun.</p>
<p>The little party - the few defenders of the Casa del Ayuntamiento
- were left in some confusion in the Plaza, and Estella saw with a sudden
cold fear that Conyngham and Concha were on their knees in the midst
of a little group of hesitating men. It was Concha who rose first
and held up his hand to the watchers on the balcony, bidding them stay
where they were. Then Conyngham rose to his feet slowly, as one
bearing a burden. Estella looked down in a sort of dream, and
saw her lover carrying her father towards the house, her mind only half
comprehending, in that semi-dreamlike reception of sudden calamity which
is one of Heaven’s deepest mercies.</p>
<p>It was Concepçion who came into the room first, his white
shirt dyed with blood in great patches like the colour on a piebald
horse. A cut in his cheek was slowly dripping. He went straight
to a sofa covered in gorgeous yellow satin, and set the cushions in
order.</p>
<p>‘Señorita,’ he said, and spread out his hands.
The tears were in his eyes, ‘Half of Spain,’ he added, ‘would
rather that it had been the Queen - and the world is poorer.’</p>
<p>A moment later Concha came into the room dragging on his cassock.</p>
<p>‘My child, we are in God’s hand,’ he said, with
a break in his gruff voice.</p>
<p>And then came the heavy step of one carrying sorrow.</p>
<p>Conyngham laid his burden on the sofa. General Vincente was
holding his handkerchief to his side, and his eyes, which had a thoughtful
look, saw only Estella’s face.</p>
<p>‘I have sent for a doctor,’ said Conyngham. ‘Your
father is wounded.’</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said Vincente immediately; ‘but I am in
no pain, my dear child. There is no reason, surely, for us to
distress ourselves.’</p>
<p>He looked round and smiled.</p>
<p>‘And this good Conyngham,’ he added, ‘carried me
like a child.’</p>
<p>Julia was on her knees at the foot of the sofa, her face hidden in
her hands.</p>
<p>‘My dear Julia,’ he said, ‘why this distress?’</p>
<p>‘Because all of this is my doing,’ she answered, lifting
her drawn and terror-stricken face.</p>
<p>‘No, no!’ said Vincente, with a characteristic pleasantry.
‘You take too much upon yourself. All these things are written
down for us beforehand. We only add the punctuation - delaying
a little or hurrying a little.’</p>
<p>They looked at him silently, and assuredly none could mistake the
shadows that were gathering on his face. Estella, who was holding
his hand, knelt on the floor by his side, quiet and strong, offering
silently that sympathy which is woman’s greatest gift.</p>
<p>Concepçion, who perhaps knew more of this matter than any
present, looked at Concha and shook his head. The priest was buttoning
his cassock, and began to seek something in his pocket.</p>
<p>‘Your breviary?’ whispered Concepçion; ‘I
saw it lying out there - among the dead.’</p>
<p>‘It is a comfort to have one’s duty clearly defined,’
said the General suddenly, in a clear voice. He was evidently
addressing Conyngham. ‘One of the advantages of a military
life. We have done our best, and this time we have succeeded.
But - it is only deferred. It will come at length, and Spain will
be a republic. It is a failing cause - because, at the head of
it, is a bad woman.’</p>
<p>Conyngham nodded, but no one spoke. No one seemed capable of
following his thoughts. Already he seemed to look at them as from
a distance, as if he had started on a journey and was looking back.
During this silence there came a great clatter in the streets, and a
sharp voice cried ‘Halt!’ The General turned his eyes
towards the window.</p>
<p>‘The cavalry,’ said Conyngham, ‘from Madrid.’</p>
<p>‘I did not expect - them,’ said Vincente slowly, ‘before
the dawn.’</p>
<p>The sound of the horses’ feet and the clatter of arms died
away as the troop passed on towards the Calle de la Ciudad, and the
quiet of night was again unbroken.</p>
<p>Then Concha, getting down on to his knees, began reciting from memory
the office - which, alas! he knew too well.</p>
<p>When it was finished, and the gruff voice died away, Vincente opened
his eyes.</p>
<p>‘Every man to his trade,’ he said, with a little laugh.</p>
<p>Then suddenly he made a grimace.</p>
<p>‘A twinge of pain,’ he said deprecatingly, as if apologising
for giving them the sorrow of seeing it. ‘It will pass -
before the dawn.’</p>
<p>Presently he opened his eyes again and smiled at Estella, before
he moved with a tired sigh and turned his face towards that Dawn which
knows no eventide.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>CHAPTER XXX. THE DAWN OF PEACE.</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>‘Quien no ama, no vive.’</p>
<p>The fall of Morella had proved to be, as many anticipated, the knell
of the Carlist cause. Cabrera, that great general and consummate
leader, followed Don Carlos, who had months earlier fled to France.
General Espartero - a man made and strengthened by circumstances - was
now at the height of his fame, and for the moment peace seemed to be
assured to Spain. It was now a struggle between Espartero and
Queen Christina. But with these matters the people of Spain had
little to do. Such warfare of the council-chamber and the boudoir
is carried on quietly, and the sound of it rarely reaches the ear, and
never the heart, of the masses. Politics, indeed, had been the
daily fare of the Spaniards for so long that their palates were now
prepared to accept any sop so long as it was flavoured with peace.
Aragon was devastated, and the northern provinces had neither seed nor
labourers for the coming autumn. The peasants who, having lost
faith in Don Carlos, rallied round Cabrera, now saw themselves abandoned
by their worshipped leader, and turned hopelessly enough homewards.
Thus gradually the country relapsed into quiet, and empty garners compelled
many to lay aside the bayonet and take up the spade who, having tasted
the thrill of battle, had no longer any taste for the ways of peace.</p>
<p>Frederick Conyngham was brought into sudden prominence by the part
he played in the disturbance at Toledo - which disturbance proved, as
history tells, to be a forerunner of the great revolution a year later
in Madrid. Promotion was at this time rapid, and the Englishman
made many strides in a few months. Jealousy was so rife among
the Spanish leaders, Christinos distrusted so thoroughly the reformed
Carlists, that one who was outside these petty considerations received
from both sides many honours on the sole recommendation of his neutrality.</p>
<p>‘And besides,’ said Father Concha, sitting in the sunlight
on his church steps at Ronda, reading to the barber, and the shoemaker,
and other of his parishioners, the latest newspaper, ‘and besides
- he is clever.’</p>
<p>He paused, slowly taking a pinch of snuff.</p>
<p>‘Where the river is deepest it makes least noise,’ he
added.</p>
<p>The barber wagged his head after the manner of one who will never
admit that he does not understand an allusion. And before any
could speak the clatter of horses in the narrow street diverted attention.
Concha rose to his feet.</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ he said, and went forward to meet Conyngham, who
was riding with Concepçion at his side.</p>
<p>‘So you have come, my son,’ he said, shaking hands.
He looked up into the Englishman’s face, which was burnt brown
by service under a merciless sun. Conyngham looked lean and strong,
but his eyes had no rest in them. This was not a man who had all
he wanted.</p>
<p>‘Are you come to Ronda, or are you passing through?’
asked the priest.</p>
<p>‘To Ronda. As I passed the Casa Barenna I made inquiries.
The ladies are in the town, it appears.’</p>
<p>‘Yes; they are with Estella in the house you know - unless
you have forgotten it.’</p>
<p>‘No,’ answered Conyngham getting out of the saddle.
‘No; I have forgotten nothing.’</p>
<p>Concepçion came forward and led the horse away.</p>
<p>‘I will walk to the Casa Vincente. Have you the time
to accompany me?’ said Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘I have always time - for my neighbour’s business,’
replied Concha. And they set off together.</p>
<p>‘You walk stiffly,’ said Concha. ‘Have you
ridden far?’</p>
<p>‘From Osuna - forty miles since daybreak.’</p>
<p>‘You are in a hurry.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, I am in a hurry.’</p>
<p>Without further comment he extracted from inside his smart tunic
a letter - the famous letter in a pink envelope - which he handed to
Concha.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ said the priest, turning it over. ‘You
and I first saw this in the Hotel de la Marina at Algeciras, when we
were fools not to throw it into the nearest brazier. We should
have saved a good man’s life, my friend.’</p>
<p>He handed the letter back, and thoughtfully dusted his cassock where
it was worn and shiny with constant dusting, so that the snuff had nought
to cling to.</p>
<p>‘And you have got it - at last. Holy saints - these Englishmen!
Do you always get what you want, my son?’</p>
<p>‘Not always,’ replied Conyngham, with an uneasy laugh.
‘But I should be a fool not to try.’</p>
<p>‘Assuredly,’ said Concha, ‘assuredly. And
you have come to Ronda - to try?’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>They walked on in silence, on the shady side of the street, and presently
passed and saluted a priest - one of Concha’s colleagues in this
city of the South.</p>
<p>‘There walks a tragedy,’ said Concha, in his curt way.
‘Inside every cassock there walks a tragedy - or a villain.’</p>
<p>After a pause it was Concha who again broke the silence. Conyngham
seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts.</p>
<p>‘And Larralde - ?’ said the priest.</p>
<p>‘I come from him - from Barcelona,’ answered Conyngham,
‘where he is in safety. Catalonia is full of such as he.
Sir John Pleydell, before leaving Spain, bought this letter for two
hundred pounds - a few months ago - when I was a poor man and could
not offer a price for it. But Larralde disappeared when the plot
failed, and I have only found him lately in Barcelona.’</p>
<p>‘In Barcelona?’ echoed Concha.</p>
<p>‘Yes; where he can take a passage to Cuba, and where he awaits
Julia Barenna.’</p>
<p>‘Ah!’ said Concha, ‘so he also is faithful - because
life is not long, my son. That is the only reason. How wise
was the great God when He made a human life short! ‘</p>
<p>‘I have a letter,’ continued Conyngham, ‘from Larralde
to the Señorita Barenna.’</p>
<p>‘So you parted friends in Barcelona - after all - when his
knife has been between your shoulders?’</p>
<p>‘Yes.’</p>
<p>‘God bless you, my son!’ said the priest, in Latin, with
his careless, hurried gesture of the Cross.</p>
<p>After they had walked a few paces he spoke again.</p>
<p>‘I shall go to Barcelona with her,’ he said, ‘and
marry her to this man. When one has no affairs of one’s
own there always remain - for old women and priests - the affairs of
one’s neighbour. Tell me - ’ he paused and looked
fiercely at him under shaggy brows - ’tell me why you came to
Spain.’</p>
<p>‘You want to know who and what I am - before we reach the Calle
Mayor?’ said Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘I know what you are, <i>amigo mio</i>, better than yourself,
perhaps.’</p>
<p>As they walked through the narrow streets Conyngham told his simple
history, dwelling more particularly on the circumstances preceding his
departure from England, and Concha listened with no further sign of
interest than a grimace or a dry smile here and there.</p>
<p>‘The mill gains by going, and not by standing still,’
he said, and added, after a pause, ‘But it is always a mistake
to grind another’s wheat for nothing.’</p>
<p>They were now approaching the old house in the Calle Mayor, and Conyngham
lapsed into a silence which his companion respected. They passed
under the great doorway into the patio, which was quiet and shady at
this afternoon hour. The servants, of whom there are a multitude
in all great Spanish houses, had apparently retired to the seclusion
of their own quarters. One person alone was discernible amid the
orange trees and in the neighbourhood of the murmuring fountain.
She was asleep in a rocking-chair, with a newspaper on her lap.
She preferred the patio to the garden, which was too quiet for one of
her temperament. In the patio she found herself better placed
to exchange a word with those engaged in the business of the house,
to learn, in fact, from the servants the latest gossip, to ask futile
questions of them, and to sit in that idleness which will not allow
others to be employed. In a word, this was the Señora Barenna,
and Concha, seeing her, stood for a moment in hesitation. Then,
with a signal to Conyngham, he crept noiselessly across the tessellated
pavement to the shadow of the staircase. They passed up the broad
steps without sound and without awaking the sleeping lady. In
the gallery above, the priest paused and looked down into the courtyard,
his grim face twisted in a queer smile. Then, at the woman sitting
there - at life and all its illusions, perhaps - he shrugged his shoulders
and passed on.</p>
<p>In the drawing-room they found Julia, who leapt to her feet and hurried
across the floor when she saw Conyngham. She stood looking at
him breathlessly, her whole history written in her eyes.</p>
<p>‘Yes,’ she whispered, as if he had called her.
‘Yes - what is it? Have you come to tell me - something?’</p>
<p>‘I have come to give you a letter, señorita,’
he answered, handing her Larralde’s missive. She held out
her hand, and never took her eyes from his face.</p>
<p>Concha walked to the window - the window whence the Alcalde of Ronda
had seen Conyngham hand Julia Barenna another letter. The old
priest stood looking down into the garden, where, amid the feathery
foliage of the pepper trees and the bamboos, he could perceive the shadow
of a black dress. Conyngham also turned away, and thus the two
men who held this woman’s happiness in the hollow of their hands
stood listening to the crisp rattle of the paper as she tore the envelope
and unfolded her lover’s letter. A great happiness and a
great sorrow are alike impossible of realisation. We only perceive
their extent when their importance has begun to wane.</p>
<p>Julia Barenna read the letter through to the end, and it is possible
(for women are blind in such matters) failed to perceive the selfishness
in every line of it. Then, with the message of happiness in her
hand, she returned to the chair she had just quitted, with a vague wonder
in her mind, and the very human doubt that accompanies all possession,
as to whether the price paid has not been too high.</p>
<p>Concha was the first to move. He turned and crossed the room
towards Conyngham.</p>
<p>‘I see,’ he said, ‘Estella in the garden.’</p>
<p>And they passed out of the room together, leaving Julia Barenna alone
with her thoughts. On the broad stone balcony Concha paused.</p>
<p>‘I will stay here,’ he said. He looked over the
balustrade. Señora Barenna was still asleep.</p>
<p>‘Do not awake her,’ he whispered. ‘Let all
sleeping things sleep.’</p>
<p>Conyngham passed down the stairs noiselessly, and through the doorway
into the garden.</p>
<p>‘And at the end - the Gloria is chanted,’ said Concha,
watching him go.</p>
<p>The scent of the violets greeted Conyngham as he went forward beneath
the trees planted there in the Moslems’ day. The running
water murmured sleepily as it hurried in its narrow channel towards
the outlet through the grey wall, whence it leapt four hundred feet
into the Tajo below.</p>
<p>Estella was seated in the shade of a gnarled fig tree, where tables
and chairs indicated the Spanish habit of an out-of-door existence.
She rose as he came towards her, and met his eyes gravely. A gleam
of sun glancing through the leaves fell on her golden hair, half hidden
by the mantilla, and showed that she was pale with some fear or desire.</p>
<p>‘Señorita,’ he said, ‘I have brought you
the letter.’ He held it out, and she took it, turning over
the worn envelope absent-mindedly.</p>
<p>‘I have not read it myself, and am permitted to give it to
you on one condition - namely, that you destroy it as soon as you have
read it.’</p>
<p>She looked at it again.</p>
<p>‘It contains the lives of many men - their lives and the happiness
of those connected with them,’ said Conyngham. ‘That
is what you hold in your hand, señorita - as well as my life
and happiness.’</p>
<p>She raised her dark eyes to his for a moment, and their tenderness
was not of earth or of this world at all. Then she tore the envelope
and its contents slowly into a hundred pieces, and dropped the fluttering
papers into the stream pacing in its marble bed towards the Tajo and
the oblivion of the sea.</p>
<p>‘There - I have destroyed the letter,’ she said, with
a thoughtful little smile. Then, looking up, she met his eyes.</p>
<p>‘I did not want it. I am glad you gave it to me.
It will make a difference to our lives. Though - I never wanted
it.’</p>
<p>Then she came slowly towards him.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines4"><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>
<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, IN KEDAR'S TENTS ***</p>
<pre>
******This file should be named kdrt10h.htm or kdrt10h.zip******
Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, kdrt11h.htm
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, kdrt10ah.htm
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.
Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.
Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg
These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).
Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.
http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext04 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext04
Or /etext03, 02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90
Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.
Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):
eBooks Year Month
1 1971 July
10 1991 January
100 1994 January
1000 1997 August
1500 1998 October
2000 1999 December
2500 2000 December
3000 2001 November
4000 2001 October/November
6000 2002 December*
9000 2003 November*
10000 2004 January*
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.
We need your donations more than ever!
As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.
We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.
As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.
In answer to various questions we have received on this:
We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.
While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.
International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.
Donations by check or money order may be sent to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109
Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.
We need your donations more than ever!
You can get up to date donation information online at:
http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html
***
If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:
Michael S. Hart hart@pobox.com
Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.
We would prefer to send you information by email.
**The Legal Small Print**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.
To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.
THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word
processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
*EITHER*:
[*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
author, and additional characters may be used to
indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to
let us know your plans and to work out the details.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.
The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com
[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]
*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*
</pre></body>
</html>
|
