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A Castle in Spain: A Novel

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Title: A Castle in Spain: A Novel

Author: James De Mille


        
Release date: January 5, 2010 [eBook #30863]
                Most recently updated: December 15, 2013

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CASTLE IN SPAIN: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Marlo Dianne








A CASTLE IN SPAIN


By JAMES DE MILLE


AUTHOR OF "CORD AND CREESE" "THE CRYPTOGRAM" "THE DODGE CLUB"
"THE LIVING LINK" "THE AMERICAN BARON" ETC.


ILLUSTRATED BY E. A. ABBEY


NEW YORK

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS

FRANKLIN SQUARE




JAMES DE MILLE'S WORKS.


A CASTLE IN SPAIN. A Novel. Illustrated by E. A. Abbey. 8vo, Paper,
50 cents; Cloth, $1.00.

THE DODGE CLUB; OR, ITALY IN 1859. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents;
Cloth, $1.00.

CORD AND CREESE. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents.

THE CRYPTOGRAM. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents.

THE AMERICAN BARON. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.

THE LIVING LINK. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents; Cloth, $1.10.

Published By HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.


Any of the above works will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any
part of the United States, on receipt of the price.


Copyright, 1878, by James De Mille. Copyright, 1883, by Harper &
Brothers.




A CASTLE IN SPAIN.




CHAPTER I.


HOW A PARTY OF TRAVELLERS SET OUT ON A JOURNEY.


The train for the North was about to start from Madrid, and the
station was filled with the usual varied and bustling crowd. Throngs
of soldiers were there; throngs of priests; throngs of civilians;
throngs of peasants; all moving to and fro, intermingled with the
railway employes, and showing the power of steam to stir up even the
lazy Spaniard to unwonted punctuality and portentous activity. In the
midst of this busy scene two men stood apart, each by himself, with
eyes fixed upon the entrance, as though expecting some one whose
advent was of no ordinary importance. One of these was an
unmistakable Spaniard, of medium size, dark complexion, penetrating
black eyes, and sombre countenance. His dress was that of a civilian,
but his bearing was military, and his face and general expression
savored of the camp. The other was an Englishman, with all his
country beaming in his face, tall in stature, light in complexion,
with gray eyes, and open, frank expression. He had a thin mustache,
flaxen side whiskers, and no beard. He stood in an easy, nonchalant
attitude, with an eye-glass stuck in one eye, and a light cane in his
hand, which he switched carelessly upon his leg.

At length the two were roused by the approach of a party of people
who were undoubtedly the very ones for whom they had been thus
waiting.

This party consisted of three persons. First, there was an elderly
man, florid, stoutish, and fussy--the Paterfamilias of Punch, with a
dash of the heavy father of comedy. He was evidently in a terrible
strait, and halting between two opinions, namely, whether he should
stay and watch over his family, or go away and see after his luggage.

Then there was a lady of certain or uncertain age--a faded,
washed-out blonde, who surveyed the scene with a mixture of
trepidation and caution.

Neither of these, however, could have had any interest in the eyes of
the two watchers; and it must have been the third member of this
party who had led them to lie in wait.

In truth, this third one seemed well worthy of such attention. She
was a young lady, of slight and elegant figure; with a sweet and
lovely face, round, arch, full of liveliness, merriment, and
volatility, which were expressed in every glance of her sparkling
eyes. And while the man fidgeted and the woman fussed, this young
person stood with admirable self-possession, looking round
inquiringly, as though she too might be expecting some one.

Paterfamilias hesitated a little longer, and then made up his mind,
for, telling the ladies to wait, he hurried away after his luggage.
No sooner had he gone than the two young men, who had held back till
then, hurried to the spot. The Englishman reached it first. The elder
lady, on seeing him, stared for an instant, and then abruptly turned
her back, thus giving him the cut direct in the most pointed and
insulting manner. In thus turning she found herself face to face with
the Spaniard, who made a very ceremonious bow, saying,

"It gif me mooch pleasure, Madame Russell, to pay my respetts, an' to
weesh the good-day."

At this the lady hesitated, as though intending to give this man also
the cut, but finally she chose to be gracious; so extending her hand,
she said,

"Thanks, Captain Lopez, I'm glad to see you, for Mr. Russell has left
us, and I'm a little frightened in this crowd."

"Oh, then," said Lopez, "I hope to haf the honnaire to codut you to
the carriage, and to say the adios."

"Oh, thanks," said Mrs. Russell, "I shall really feel very much
obliged."

Now the Englishman had scarcely seemed to notice the insult of Mrs.
Russell; for, brushing past her, he had instantly advanced toward the
young lady aforesaid, and seized her hand with a quick, strong,
hungry grasp. And the young lady aforesaid, whose eyes had been fixed
on him as he advanced, grasped his hand also, while a flush passed
over her lovely face, and her eyes rested upon him with a look which
might well thrill through and through the favored recipient of such a
glance.

"Why, Mr. Ashby!" said she, in innocent surprise--"you here?"

"Katie," said Ashby, in a tremulous voice--"little darling," he
continued, in a lower tone--"didn't you know that I'd be here?"

"Well, I should have felt disappointed," said Katie, softly, "if you
had not been here."

At this moment Mrs. Russell turned, and said, sharply,

"Come, Katie."

"All right," said Ashby, coolly; "I'll see Miss Westlotorn on board
the train."

Mrs. Russell looked vexed.

"Katie," said she, "I wish you to stay by me."

"Oh yes, auntie dearest," said Katie, with her usual self-possession;
"of course I shall."

But she made not the slightest movement to leave Ashby, and this
annoyed Mrs. Russell all the more. She looked all around, as though
for help. The Spaniard's eyes were all ablaze with wrath and
jealousy.

"Madame Russell," said he, in an eager voice, "commanda me, I beg, I
shall help."

These words were plainly audible to Ashby, who, however, only smiled.

"Madame," said Lopez, still more eagerly, "commanda me. Shall I
condut the mees?"

For a moment Mrs. Russell seemed inclined to accept the proffered
aid, but it was only for a moment. The good lady was timid. She
dreaded a scene. A quarrel in so public a place between these two
jealous and hot-headed youths would be too terrible, so she at once
gave way.

"Oh no, no," she said, hurriedly. "Thanks, Captain Lopez, I think I
shall ask you to conduct me to our carriage. Mr. Russell will be with
us immediately."

Upon this Lopez offered his arm, which Mrs. Russell took, and they
both went off. Ashby followed slowly with Katie.

"Katie," said he, after a pause, "I'm going too."

"What!" said Katie, in a joyous voice, "in this train?"

"Yes, along with you."

"How perfectly lovely!" said Katie--which expression showed that
these two were on very good terms with one another.

"But then, you know," she resumed, "Mr. Russell has the carriage for
us only."

"Oh, well, it's all the same," said Ashby. "I'm going on in the same
train. That will be happiness enough. But see here," he added, in a
hurried voice, "take this letter;" and with this he slipped a letter
into her hand, which she instantly concealed in her pocket. "I'll see
you to-night at Burgos," he continued, in a low tone, "and then at
Biarritz or Bayonne. I have friends in both places. You must do what
I ask you. You must be mine. You must, darling. Don't mind these
confounded Russells. They're nothing to you compared with me. Russell
has no right to interfere. He's not your uncle, he's only a miserable
guardian; and he's a contemptible scoundrel too, and I told him so to
his face. He's planning to get you to marry that cad of a son of his.
But read my letter. Make up your mind to-day, darling. I'll see you
tonight at Burgos."

Ashby poured forth this in a quiet, low, earnest voice as they
traversed the short space that lay between them and the cars, while
Katie listened in silence. Meanwhile the others had reached a
carriage, which Mrs. Russell entered: Lopez immediately followed.

"Oh, look!" cried Katie; "Captain Lopez has gone into our carriage.
He must be going to travel with us."

"The infernal sneak!" growled Ashby. "But then," he continued,
"what's the use of that? He can't go. Why, old Russell hates him
worse than me."

At this moment Mrs. Russell put forth her head.

"Katie!" she called, in a thin, shrill voice.

"Yes, auntie dear," said Katie.

"In a moment," chimed in Ashby.


[Illustration: Delores.]


"Perhaps I'd better go," said Katie; "she's so horrid, you know."

"Then," said Ashby, "good-bye for the present, my own darling."

Saying this, he took her in his arms and deliberately kissed her two
or three times. Katie then darted away and entered the carriage, to
find Mrs. Russell speechless with indignation.

The moment Katie had gone, up came Russell in a fury.

"Look here, sir!" he cried, shaking his fist at Ashby. "I say, sir!
Look here, sir! You scoundrel! Didn't I tell you--"

"And look here, you!" said Ashby, in a stern voice, laying his hand
heavily on the other's shoulder, "none of this insolence, my good
man, or I shall have to teach you better manners. You know perfectly
well that Katie is engaged to me, and that I mean to make her my
wife."

"You shall never!" cried Russell, passionately; "never--never!"

"Pooh!" exclaimed Ashby, contemptuously.

"I'm her guardian," said Russell.

"That may be," said Ashby, calmly, "but only for a few months longer.
I can wait. Don't be alarmed."

"You shall never marry her!"

"Pooh, my good man! attend to your luggage."

Muttering inarticulate threats, mingled with curses, Russell now
stamped off, and entered the carriage. Here he found Lopez. At the
sight of this man his fury burst all bounds. With Ashby he had felt
under some restraint; but with Lopez there was nothing of the kind,
and he ordered him out in the most insulting manner.

Lopez, however, refused to stir, telling him that Madame Russell had
given him permission to remain.

"Madame Russell be hanged!" roared the other. "You get out of this,
or else I'll kick you out!"

"No, senor," said Lopez, coolly, "I advisa you not to try violencia."

For a moment Russell measured him from head to foot; but the sight of
the sinewy young Spaniard did not reassure him. His own muscles were
somewhat flabby, and by no means fit for a struggle with this
vigorous youth.

So he chose another and a safer mode. He sprang out and began to bawl
loudly for the guard. But, very unfortunately, Russell could not
speak a word of Spanish, and when the guard came up he could not
explain himself. And so Russell, after all, might have had to travel
with his unwelcome companion had not an unexpected ally appeared upon
the scene. This was Ashby, who had been standing by, and had
comprehended the whole situation. Now Ashby could speak Spanish like
a native.

"See here, Russell," said he, "I don't mind giving you a lift. What's
the row?"

Russell hesitated for a moment, but his rage against Lopez had quite
swallowed up his anger at Ashby, and he accepted the aid of the
latter. So he went on to explain what Ashby very well knew--the
situation in the carriage. Ashby thereupon explained to the guard.
The guard then ordered Lopez out. At which summons the gallant
captain thought fit to beat a retreat, which he effected in good
order, drums beating and colors flying, and with many expressions of
polite regret to the ladies and many wishes for a pleasant journey.

Arriving outside, however, our noble hidalgo found the blast of war
blowing, and so he at once proceeded to stiffen his sinews and summon
up his blood. Taking no notice of Russell, he advanced to Ashby.

"Senor," said he, in Spanish, "for the part that you have taken in
this matter I will call you to account."

Ashby smiled disdainfully.

"You have insulted me," said Lopez, fiercely. "This insult must be
washed out in blood--your heart's-blood or mine. I am going in this
train."

"Indeed! So am I," said Ashby.

"We shall find a place--and a time."

"Whenever you please," said the other, shortly.

"Senor, I will communicate with you."

Both the young men bowed, and with their hearts full of hate they
separated to take their places in the train.

And now at this particular juncture there came forth from behind a
pillar a female figure, which figure had been there for some time,
and had closely watched the whole of Ashby's proceedings from
beginning to end. It was impossible to see her face, but her graceful
shape, and quiet, active movements, indicated youth, and suggested
possible beauty. This figure hastened toward the train, and entered
the very carriage into which Ashby had gone.

The next moment the guard banged the door to behind her, the great
bell rang, the engine puffed and snorted, and then, with the roar of
steam, the clank of machinery, and the rumble of many wheels, the
long train thundered out of the station on its eventful journey to
the North.




CHAPTER II.


HOW MR. ASHBY MEETS WITH A VERY DEAR AND VERY LOVELY YOUNG FRIEND.


On entering the carriage Ashby took a seat and prepared to make
himself comfortable for the journey. The hurried events of the last
few minutes, the farewell to Katie, the prospect of a new meeting at
Burgos, the additional prospect of a hostile encounter with Lopez,
were certainly sufficient food for reflection. Consequently he was in
a fit of abstraction so profound that he did not notice the female
who entered the carriage.

As the train rolled out, the new-comer also made herself comfortable
in her seat, which, being opposite to that of Ashby, gave her the
opportunity of examining his face at her leisure, if she felt so
inclined, while she herself was so closely veiled as to baffle
recognition. Her dress, though very plain, was in the latest fashion,
and she wore with inimitable grace that marvellous Spanish mantilla
which is equally adapted to adorn and to conceal. Although in the
opposite seat, she was not close to Ashby, but at the other end of
the carriage, in which position she could watch him the more easily.
These two were the only occupants.

Once or twice Ashby's eyes fell on her as he raised his head or
changed his position; but he paid no attention to her, nor did he
even seem aware of her existence; while she sat veiled, so that the
direction of her glance could not be seen.

For about half an hour the situation remained unaltered, and then at
the end of that time the lady made a readjustment of her mantilla,
which exposed all her head and face. The hands which were raised to
perform this act were soft, round, plump, and dimpled, and might of
themselves have attracted the admiration of one less preoccupied than
Ashby; while the face that was now revealed was one which might have
roused the dullest of mortals. It was a dark olive face, with
features of exquisite delicacy; the eyes were large, lustrous, and
melting, fringed with long lashes; the eyebrows delicately pencilled;
the hair rich black, glossy, and waving in innumerable ripples. Her
cheeks were dimpled, and her lips were curved into a faint smile as
she sat with a demure face and watched Ashby. It may have been a
certain mesmerism in her gaze, or it may only have been that Ashby
had at last grown weary of his own thoughts, for suddenly he looked
up, and caught her eyes fixed thus on him. For a moment an expression
of astonishment filled his face; then the smile of the lady deepened,
and her eyes fell.

At this Ashby jumped from his seat.

"By heavens!" he exclaimed. "Dolores! Oh, Dolores!"

He uttered these words with a strange intonation, yet there was joy
in his eyes and in the tone of his voice, together with the wonder
that had been at first displayed. As he spoke he seized her hand in
both of his, and, holding it fast, seated himself in the place
immediately opposite. After a moment Dolores drew away her hand with
a light laugh.

"Ah, senor," said she, "you do not seem very quick at recognizing
your old acquaintances."

She spoke with the purest Castilian accent, and the rich and mellow
tones of her voice were inexpressibly sweet.

"I--I--had no idea--no idea that you were anywhere near. You were the
last, the very last person that I could have expected to see. How
could I expect to see you here, Dolores? I thought that you were
still at Valencia. And are you alone?"

"Yes--just now--from here to Burgos. I am on my way to visit my aunt
at Pampeluna. She is ill. Mamma could not come with me, for she is
ill too. So I have to travel alone. The good Tilda came with me to
Madrid, but had to return to mamma. There was no time to seek another
companion. Besides, it is only from here to Burgos."

"Oh, Dolores, little Dolores!" cried Ashby, "how delightful it is to
see you again! What a lucky chance!"

"But it was not altogether chance," said Dolores.

"How?"

"Why, I saw you.

"Saw me?"

"Yes; I was watching you. You see, I was in the station waiting for
the train, and saw you come in. I then watched you all the time till
you entered this carriage, and then I came here too. Now, sir!"

Saying this, Dolores tossed her pretty little head with a triumphant
air, and smiled more bewitchingly than ever.

"You see," she continued, in the frankest and most engaging manner,
"I was so veiled that no one could know me, and when I saw you I was
very glad indeed; and I thought I would follow you, and speak to you,
and see if you had any remembrance left of poor little me."

For a moment there was a shade of embarrassment on Ashby's face, and
then it passed. He took her hand and pressed it fervently.

"Dolores," he said--"dear little friend of mine, I can never forget
you as long as I live, and all that was done for me by you and yours.
This sudden meeting with you is the most delightful thing that could
possibly have happened."

Dolores laughed, and again drew her hand demurely away.

"But oh, Senor Ashby," she said, "how absent you were in the
station!--and here--not one look for the poor Dolores!"

"Oh, Dolores!" said Ashby, in a tone of tender apology, "how could I
imagine that it was you? You were veiled so closely that no one could
recognize you. Why did you not speak before?"

"Ah, senor, young ladies in Spain cannot be so bold as I hear they
are in England. Even this is an unheard-of adventure--that I, a young
lady, should travel alone. But it is a case of life and death, you
know, and it is only from here to Burgos, where I shall find friends.
And then I wanted to speak to you once more. And you, senor--are you
going to England now?"

Again there came over Ashby's face a look of embarrassment. His
present journey was a delicate subject, which he could not discuss
very well with Dolores.

"Well, no," he said, after a brief pause. "I'm only going as far as
Bayonne--on business. But how long it seems since I saw you, Dolores!
It's more than a year."

"And have I changed, senor?" she asked, sweetly.

"Yes," said Ashby, looking at her intently.

Dolores returned his look with another, the intensity of which was
wonderful to Ashby. He seemed to look into the depths of her soul,
and the lustrous eyes which were fastened on his appeared as though
they strove to read his inmost heart. Her manner, however, was light
and bantering, and it was with a merry smile that she went on:

"Ah! so I have changed? And how, senor--for the better?"

"No, and yes," said Ashby, drinking in her dark, deep, liquid
glances. "In the first place, you could not possibly be better or
more beautiful than you used to be; but, in the second place, you are
more womanly."

"But I am not yet seventeen, senor."

"I know," said Ashby, of course.

"And you have not yet asked after the dear one--the mamma, who loves
you so," said Dolores, in rather an inconsequential way.

"I was thinking of you, so that all other thoughts were driven out of
my head."

"That's pretty," said Dolores; "but do you not want to hear about the
dear mamma?"

"Of course. I shall love her and revere her till I die. Did she not
save my life? Was she not a mother to me in my sorest need? And you,
Dolores--"

He stopped short, and seemed somewhat confused and agitated.

"Yes," said Dolores, in a tone of indescribable tenderness; "yes, she
loved you--the dear mamma--like a mother, and has always talked about
you. It is always, Dolores, child, sing that song that Senor Assebi
taught you; sing that beautiful, beautiful English song of 'Sweet
Home;' sing that sweetest, loveliest, most mournful Scottish song of
'Lochaber.'"

And here, in a voice full of exquisite tenderness and pathos, Dolores
sang that mournful air, "Lochaber," with Spanish words. The tender
regret of her voice affected herself; she faltered, and her eyes
filled; but the tears were instantly chased away by a sunny smile.

"And so, senor," said she, "you see that I have forgotten nothing of
it--nothing."

"Nor I," said Ashby; "nor I--nothing. I have forgotten not one
thing."

His voice was low and tremulous. There was a strange, yearning look
in his eyes. With a sudden impulse he held out his hand, as though to
take hers, but Dolores gently drew hers away.

"And have you been in Madrid ever since?" she asked, in a tone that
seemed to convey something of reproach.

"No," said Ashby. "You know, when I fell ill at Valencia, where you
saved my life by your tender care, I was on my way to Barcelona. When
I left you I resumed my interrupted journey. Then I went to
Marseilles and Leghorn, then to Cadiz, and finally to Madrid. I've
been in Madrid three months."

"And you didn't think it worth while to write to us in all that long
time?" said Dolores, with a reproachfulness in her tone which was now
very marked.

"Write?" said Ashby; "why, I wrote twice--once from Marseilles, and
once from Leghorn."

"We never heard," said Dolores, sadly, "not once."

"But I wrote," said Ashby, earnestly. "Don't you believe me,
Dolores?"

"Believe you, senor? What a question! It was the fault of the
post-office in these times of trouble--that was all. And, senor, I am
very glad to know all, for I did not know what to think about it."

"And am I forgiven, Dolores?" Ashby asked.

Dolores replied with a sweet smile, and held out her hand, which the
young man took and pressed tenderly, not caring to let it go.

"I did not know," said he, "there was anything against me to be
forgiven; but this is a sign that you are the same Dolores that you
were a year ago."

"Always," said she, "always the same;" and then she withdrew her
hand.

"And now, senor," said she, with a perceptible effort, as of one who
approaches a disagreeable subject, "this beautiful Inglesa--who is
she?"

Ashby's eyes fell before the fixed and profound inquiry of those of
Dolores's, who watched him close, and lost nothing of his change of
features.

"This lady?" said he, and hesitated.

"Yes," said Dolores, gently.

"She is a--a--Miss Westlotorn."

"And she loves you very, very, very dearly and tenderly," said
Dolores, in a quick, breathless voice; "and you are going to be
married to her, and she will soon be your wife."

Ashby said nothing, but sat looking strangely embarrassed.

"You never mentioned her to us at Valencia," continued Dolores.

"No," said Ashby.

"And why not?" asked Dolores, who saw his confusion, but was eager to
know the truth.

"I had not seen her," said Ashby.

"You had not seen her," repeated Dolores. "Ah!"--she hesitated for a
moment and then went on--"so you saw her afterward. And she loves
you!"

These last words were spoken with indescribable tenderness and
mournfulness. "And--she--loves--you," she repeated, in a voice that
had sunk almost to a whisper; "and she is to be your wife--the
English girl!"

"Well," said Ashby, making an effort to overcome his embarrassment,
"it is--it is about time. The fact is, I--I did ask her to--to be my
wife."

"And she?"

"She? Well--she said she would, I think," said Ashby, evasively.

"You think!" exclaimed Dolores.

"Well, you see, there's a difficulty."

"A difficulty?"

"Yes. Her guardian will not consent."

"But that is nothing," said Dolores, in an animated tone. "You must
take her, and run away with her."

Ashby looked at Dolores with a strange, eager, hungry gaze.

"But there's another objection," said he.

"Objection? What is that?"

"I don't want to."

"What?" asked Dolores, in surprise.

Ashby hesitated for a moment, and then said, with an effort,

"I thought before we left that I loved her; but since I have seen you
again--I feel--that I do not."

These words were spoken rapidly, in a low, feverish whisper. At first
Dolores started as though she had been shot. Then she averted her
face, and held up her hands deprecatingly.

"Ah," said she, in a sad voice, "that is all idle, idle, idle,
foolish, foolish, foolish compliment, and nothing more. You must not
say that again, or I will never forgive you--never, never!"

At this Ashby was brought back to his senses with a sudden and
wholesome shock, and said no more upon that point. In fact, he now
felt afraid that he had said altogether too much.




CHAPTER III.


HOW ASHBY MEETS WITH ANOTHER FRIEND, AND HOW HE TAKES HIM INTO HIS
CONFIDENCE.


That evening they arrived at Burgos, where, on account of troubles
along the line, the train was to remain until ten o'clock on the
following day. Dolores informed Ashby that she was going to stay with
friends, and refused to allow him to accompany her to the house, in
spite of his earnest entreaties. She had been in Burgos before, she
said. The house was not far from the station, and she was firm in her
resolve to go alone. Ashby followed her, however, and saw her pass in
safety through the streets and into a large and venerable house not
far from the Cathedral. He then retraced his steps, and made the best
of his way to the Fonda del Norte, where he put up for the night.

Here, after dinner, he loitered about for a time, meditating over the
events of the day, and conjecturing about the morrow. His situation
was growing somewhat complicated; for there was Katie, whom he had
promised to see at Burgos; but on leaving the train he had followed
Dolores, and now he had not the faintest idea where the Russells had
gone. They were not at the Fonda del Norte. It was also too late now
to hunt them up, and too late to hope to see Katie. That must be
postponed till the morrow.

Ashby was beginning to feel more melancholy than ever in his life
before, when suddenly he was roused by a loud exclamation.

"Well, by Jove! Halloo, old boy! Ashby himself, by all that's
wonderful!"

At this Ashby looked up, and the next instant he was heartily
wringing the hand of the new-comer.

"Rivers! Harry Rivers! How are you, my boy? and where in the world
did you come from?"

"By Jove! do you know, old fellow," said Harry Rivers, "I call this
no end of a piece of good luck? I've been bored to death at Burgos.
But come along to my rooms and give an account of yourself."

The two friends then went off, and soon were comfortably seated in
the rooms of Harry Rivers, with some flasks of wine and Havanas to
help along the evening hours.

Harry Rivers was of about the same age as Ashby, but totally
different in appearance. He was of medium height, very well knit in
his frame, and very well dressed. His hair was crisp and curling; his
brow broad and open; his eyes full of light, and life, and
volatility. He had a small mustache, but no beard or whiskers, and
his laughing eyes, with his smooth face and winning smile, gave him a
most engaging appearance. In short, Harry Rivers was one of those
rare good fellows who make friends wherever they go; who take the
world into their confidence; who insist on making every one familiar
with their varying fortunes; and carry about with them a perpetual
atmosphere of joyousness and breezy cheerfulness.

"Well, old chap," said Harry, as they sat enjoying their cigars and
wine, "I haven't seen you or heard of you since you left Barcelona.
How did you get on with your business in Italy? What made you turn up
in this queer way at Burgos? This isn't the sort of place that I'd
expect to find a friend in."

"I'm on my way to Bayonne just now," said Ashby, "and I stopped
here--because the train stopped."

"Bayonne isn't a bad place," said Harry; "I spent a week there
once--good wine, but bad tobacco and infernal cigars. Here we have
good cigars and bad wine. Do you know, old chap, I don't dote on any
of the Spanish wines--do you? At the same time, I drink your very
good health, together with future prosperity and good luck in your
present undertaking, whatever that may be."

"Thanks," said Ashby, "and the same to you."

"Look here, old chap," said Harry, "you look a little down in the
mouth--a trifle seedy. No bad luck, I hope?"

"Oh no," said Ashby, "nothing in particular."

"The fact is, you seem to have lost your high moral tone, and your
former happy flow of genial conversation. I don't want to be a Paul
Pry, my dear boy; but if you wish to gain sympathy and find a friend
who can hear and help, why, all I can say is--here you have him."

"Well," said Ashby, "I'm a little preoccupied, that's a fact."

"Preoccupied? That's your name for it, is it? Well, suppose we adopt
that word--what then?"

Ashby knocked the ashes off his cigar with a reflective look, and
said, "I rather think, Harry, that I had better make you my
father-confessor."

"All right," said Harry; "that's what I was made for. Go ahead, my
son. Confess--out with it. Cleanse your bosom of its perilous stuff:
make a clean breast of it."

"Well," said Ashby, "in the first place, I'm just now meditating
matrimony."

"Matrimony!"

"Yes; but that's not all. It's a sort of runaway match."

"A runaway match! By Jove! Only think of a fellow like you planning a
runaway match! Now if it was me, it would be the proper thing. But is
it really to be a runaway match?"

"Well, it amounts to that, for I've asked the girl to clear out from
her friends and come with me."

"Well, old fellow, all I can say is, good luck to you both. And
please, mayn't I be the best man?" he added, with a droll accent that
brought an involuntary smile to Ashby's face. "But go on. Who is the
charmer? and where is she now?"

"Well, to answer your last question first, she's here--in Burgos."

"Ah," said Harry, "I twig! Came on in the same train. Both planned it
together. You cut across the border, and are made one. Why, it's like
Gretna Green!"

"Well, you've hit it partly, only she's with her friends just
now--that is to say, she's with her guardian and his wife; and the
problem to be solved by me is, how I am to get her from those two
dragons."

"Oh, that can be done. But now, my boy, to come to the point, who is
she?--her name?"

"Her name," said Ashby, "is Westlotorn--Katie Westlotorn."

"Westlotorn," repeated Harry: "never saw her, and don't think I ever
heard the name in all my life."

"I got acquainted with her at Cadiz a few months ago," said Ashby.
"Her father had been a merchant there, and had died about a year
before. She was there with her step-mother, who took no particular
care of her--a miserable beast of a woman. She was in correspondence
with her sister in England, a Mrs. Russell, whom she kept urging to
come on and take Katie away from Spain. This Mrs. Westlotorn had
induced her husband before his death to appoint Russell, her sister's
husband, Katie's guardian, and it was this Russell and his wife whom,
she expected on, but they could not get away very easily. After a
time Mrs. Westlotorn decided to move to Madrid, which she thought
would be a pleasanter residence. So about three months ago she made
the move, and after that Katie and I saw as much of one another as we
wished, and she became regularly engaged to me."

"So the step-mother approved, did she?"

"Oh, altogether!"

"Well, what's the trouble?"

"Oh, this infernal Russell, the guardian, you know! As soon as he
came on, he and his wife began to make trouble, and tried to break up
the engagement; they also tried to keep me away from the house. Then
there was another difficulty: they allowed some Spanish blackguards
to get acquainted with them. Mrs. Westlotorn, the widow, you know, is
hot-and-heavy in the chase of a husband, and thought that all the
young fellows who came after Katie were after her. The worst of them
was a chap named Lopez, who calls himself a captain in the Spanish
army--a poor, pitiful beggar whom I shall have to horsewhip. And,
by-the-bye, that reminds me--I expect to be called out to-morrow or
next day."

"Called out? how?"

"Oh, by this pitiful fellow Lopez;" and Ashby related the incident at
the Madrid station.

"By Jove!" said Harry, "this is lucky. I'm glad I came upon you at
such a time. You won't have to trust to a bungling Spaniard to be
your second."

"The worst of it is," said Ashby, "I believe that this Russell is one
of the most infernal villains that ever lived, and that he is
concocting some scheme against Katie."

"A scheme! how?"

"Well, I'll tell you. I saw from the first that he was hostile to me.
Possibly this may have been my own fault, for I saw the fellow was a
beastly cad, not at all fit to be Katie's guardian. Why, he's a
tailor! think of that--a tailor! that's all he is. By Jove! only
think--a tailor! and Katie's guardian! Do you suppose I was going to
stand any nonsense from a tailor?"

"By Jove! no--not unless you're deep in his books," said Harry; "and
even then, when you're away from home you ought to be a free man. So
you rather slighted the guardian, did you?"

"Well, I told him to go to the devil; and the fellow took offence,
you know."

"H'm--odd, too," said Harry. "Why should he take offence at such a
simple remark?"

"Don't know, I'm sure," said Ashby; "but there it is, you see.
However, that makes no difference. I've defied him and threatened
him."

"Threatened! Why?"

"Why, because the infernal scoundrel is deep in some plan to get hold
of Katie's money."

"Katie's money? Oh, she has money, then?"

"Of course--about thirty or forty thousand pounds. Most of this, I
believe, is in Spanish bonds, in which Westlotorn was foolish enough
to invest."

"Not very good just now, hey?"

"Oh, they'll be good ultimately. At any rate, old Russell's bound to
get hold of all this and keep it for himself, and I'm resolved that
he shall disgorge. He's got half a dozen plans. One plan is to try to
get her to marry his son, an infernal redheaded, cock-eyed cad of a
fellow--a tailor too. Another plan is to put her off in some
out-of-the-way place here in Spain, where no one will ever hear of
her. Another plan is to ship her off to America; another is to keep
her in seclusion in his own home, where no one will ever see her;
while another is to dispose of the Spanish bonds in such a way as to
make it appear that they are a dead loss."

"You seem to be very deep in Russell's plans," said Harry. "He could
not have told you all this himself. If he did, he must be of an
uncommonly confiding disposition."

"He tell me!" said Ashby. "Of course he didn't. I found it all
out--no matter how. Oh, the fellow's a desperate swindler--he'll
stick at nothing. But, at any rate, he knows that I have my eye on
him, and he'll hardly dare to do anything against Katie's interest so
long as I am near enough to watch over her."

"You and Russell must have had rather interesting conversations. Did
you ever tell him your suspicions?"

"They're not suspicions, they're facts. Tell him--of course I did,
and that's one reason why he hates me. He knows perfectly well that I
see through and through him. We had a row at the station, just before
leaving Madrid, because I came down to see Katie off; and he's now on
the watch to prevent me from seeing her again."

"And what do you propose to do about it?"

"Oh, I've arranged it all. I'll tell you. I wrote a letter, and
handed it to her just as we were leaving Madrid, asking her to meet
me at Biarritz, naming a place. I have friends there, and I will take
her to their house. The English chaplain can marry us. We will then
cut off to England. On the arrival of Russell I will go to him and
demand my wife's property. If he refuses to disgorge I will at once
commence legal proceedings against him, and by way of preliminary I
will give the scoundrel a horsewhipping."

"This arrangement is all very well; but what about the lady? Will she
consent?"

"Consent? Why, she'll jump at the chance," said Ashby, confidently.

"She must be very fond of you."

"Fond of me? Why, she's perfectly infatuated about me."

"Good!" said Harry. "Well, my boy, I'm your man. You want me for war
and for peace, so here am I--your second at the duel and your
groomsman at the wedding."




CHAPTER IV.


HOW THE RAILWAY TRAIN COMES TO A SUDDEN STOP.


Very early on the following morning Ashby was up and out. He walked
over the town in all directions, with a strange, furtive watchfulness
in his eyes, as though on the lookout for some one. Who was the
object of his search? Was it Katie, whose answer to his proposal had
not yet been given? Was it Dolores, whom he had tracked on the
previous evening? Or was it his rival Lopez, with whom he had yet to
stand in mortal conflict? Whichever it was did not appear, for Ashby
was doomed to be unsuccessful, and to return to his inn a baffled
man. Barely time enough was now left him to snatch a hasty repast,
after which he hurried to the station.

The place was thronged. Passengers were arriving, and the train was
filling rapidly. Ashby stood, as he had stood on the previous day,
watching. Singularly enough, Lopez also, like himself, was again on
the lookout, for he could see him scowling in the distance. No words,
however, passed between them, and the challenge which Lopez had
threatened was not yet forthcoming. At length the patience of both
was rewarded.

A cab drove up. The broad face of Russell was seen through the
window. The rest of the party were inside. But, to Ashby's amazement,
he saw Harry Rivers riding outside with the driver. As the cab
stopped, Rivers leaped lightly down, and opened the cab door himself.
Then old Russell got out. Then Harry assisted Mrs. Russell to
descend. After this he assisted Katie out of the cab, and Ashby saw
that she looked as fresh, as bright, and as blooming as a rose, that
she showed not a trace of care or anxiety, and that she was as
sprightly and coquettish as ever.

"Confound the fellow!" growled Ashby to himself, as he wondered how
Harry had found them out and made their acquaintance, envying him
also his good luck. But the climax had yet to come. There was one
passenger more. This one also was assisted out of the cab by Harry.
To the utter stupefaction of Ashby, this one was Dolores.

So overwhelmed was Ashby that he stood without motion, having quite
lost all that presence of mind and coolness which usually
distinguished him. It was wonderful enough to find Harry hand in
glove with the Russells, but to find Dolores there along with Katie
was a knock-down blow. It made his situation so confused and full of
complications that he could not think of any course of action. So he
stood, and he stared, and the party came along on their way to the
train. As they approached Katie looked at him with a bright smile,
full of tender meaning, and a flush passed over her face. Dolores, on
the contrary, allowed her dark eyes to rest on him for an instant,
and then looked down. This troubled him, for at that moment it
happened that he was longing for a smile from Dolores. Still, he was
glad to get that look from Katie. The fact is, the fellow was too
ridiculous, for he actually wanted a smile from each of them.

As they passed Harry dropped behind.

"Look here, Ashby," said he; "where in Heaven's name have you hid
yourself all the morning? I thought you wanted to find Miss
Westlotorn."

"So I did," said Ashby, in a rueful tone.

"Why, confound it, man, she was close by us all the time. When I went
out I found your dear friend, old Russell."

"Russell!" cried Ashby; "but how did you get acquainted with him?"

"Acquainted!" cried Harry. "Man alive! By Jove! a man ought to know
his own tailor, oughtn't he? I didn't think of it last night. I
thought your Russell was a different man: the name is common enough,
you know. People generally dodge their tailors, but I'm not proud,
and I don't owe him very much; and, besides, this is Spain, and he
can't dun me. Moreover, he was in a street row, and I helped him out
with my Spanish. What the mischief does he mean by coming with his
family to Burgos with no other language than English? But,
by-the-bye, old fellow, I must hurry: I'm going to join their party
and travel in their carriage. Hope you'll enjoy yourself as well as I
intend to. I would have excused myself, only, you know, when there's
a chance of travelling with a couple of such pretty girls as those,
only a madman would decline."

All this Harry poured forth in a torrent of words, and before Ashby
had a chance of making a remark he was off. Ashby watched him, and
saw him enter the carriage where Katie and Dolores had gone with the
Russells; and then, drawing a long breath, he went slowly to the
train and took his seat. There was only one other occupant of the
carriage where he sat. This was a priest. He wore a broad-brimmed
hat; his eyes were concealed by spectacles: he had also a heavy brown
beard and mustache. So engaged was he in reading his breviary, that
as Ashby entered he did not look up or take any notice of him
whatever.

Lopez, also, had seen the whole proceeding, and had put on it his own
interpretation. As Ashby entered the train so did he, and soon the
whole of these people whose fortunes were so entangled were whirling
along to the North.

Ashby sat buried in gloom, with his heart full of bitterness and
wrath; of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. He had
hoped to see Katie. He had counted quite confidently on meeting once
more with Dolores. He had felt sure of Harry Rivers. But now all
three had failed him; and, what was worse, all three had drifted away
from him in one another's company, and appeared to be perfectly
indifferent to him, and perfectly happy without him.

The priest was unsociable, and kept reading his breviary as though
his life depended upon it. Yet this made no difference to Ashby. He
did not desire to make any new acquaintances or talk small-talk with
strangers. He preferred to be left to his own thoughts, dismal as
they were. He was in no mood for conversation, for his mind was full
of material for meditation, conjecture, wonder, and bewilderment.

Why, he thought, had Dolores deserted him? How had she become
acquainted with Katie? And Harry--to which of these two was he making
himself so infernally agreeable? Whichever it was, it seemed equally
bad. Ashby felt bitterly resentful against all of them. Katie seemed
to be the worst. She might have contrived, he thought, to give him
some sign. But then he recollected that on the previous evening he
was tracking Dolores, when he ought to have gone on Katie's trail. As
for Dolores, he thought that she might at least have shown herself
when he was wandering through the streets in the morning hours. But
perhaps she expected to find him in the neighborhood of Katie.
Evidently he himself had acted like a fool in leaving the hotel. As
for Harry Rivers, he could not help feeling as though this was the
worst of all. Harry had it now all his own way: a gay, careless,
impulsive dog--a fellow who would forget the whole world while under
the influence of a pair of bright eyes--a fellow who was even now,
perhaps, trying to cut him out. The miserable humbug, also, by a most
abominable chance, had both these girls. Both! Insatiate monster!
would not one suffice?

Thus Ashby chafed, and fumed, and, I am sorry to add, swore terribly;
but all the while the train kept rolling on and on, until at length
the Ebro valley was reached. Here the scenes that opened to view were
most attractive. Far away on either side was a broad plain, dotted
with towns and villages, and filled with olive-groves and vineyards,
where cattle, and sheep, and goats grazed peacefully, and shepherds,
goatherds, and vine-dressers stared lazily up as the train rolled by.
The distant horizon was everywhere terminated by lofty mountains--on
the south, the circling range of the Sierra de Grados; on the north,
the long line of the Pyrenees and the Asturian mountains, their sides
covered with foliage, their summits crowned with snow. It was a
ground, too, which was rich in associations of history and romance,
the arena of gallant struggle and heroic effort for many and many an
age; a place that called up memories of Hannibal, with his conquering
armies; of Rome, with her invincible legions; of Charlemagne, with
his Paladins; of Abd-er-Rahman, with his brilliant Saracens; of the
steel-clad Crusaders; of the martial hosts of Arragon; of the
resistless infantry of Ferdinand and Isabella; of the wars of the
Spanish succession; of the redcoats of Wellington; through all the
ages down to the time of this story, when Don Carlos was standing
among these northern mountains, as Pelajo stood more than a thousand
years ago, leading on his hardy warriors to battle against all the
rest of Spain.

So the train rolled on--past the numerous stations; past the towns
and villages; past the long groves and vineyards; past the barren,
sandy tracts; past the hill-sides, with shepherds, and flocks, and
herds; past the roads, with long trains of mules; past the peasants
lolling over walls and fences--so the train passed on, mile after
mile and hour after hour; but nothing of all this was noticed by
Ashby, who sat buried in his gloomy reverie, from which he was unable
to rally, until at length the train came to a sudden full-stop.

About such a sudden and abrupt stop there was something very singular
indeed. No station was near. The country seemed wild and deserted,
and no cause was likely to stop the train at such a place except some
serious accident.

The priest started up with a quick movement, thrust the breviary into
his pocket, and peered cautiously out of the window, looking first
backward and then forward. It was this movement that first roused
Ashby. He too started up and looked out.

The sight that he saw was so startling that it served most
effectually to chase away all morbid fancies, and give him something
to think about of a far more serious character.




CHAPTER V.


HOW THE WHOLE PARTY COME TO GRIEF, AND ARE CARRIED AWAY CAPTIVE.


It was, in truth, a strange and startling sight that met Ashby's eyes
as he looked out of the window. The train had been stopped in the
middle of a plain, where the road ran along an embankment about three
feet high. A crowd of armed men were here, gathered about the
locomotive, and already forming lines along each side of the train.
All looked shabby, none had any pretensions to uniforms, and their
appearance was not sufficiently picturesque for brigands. In fact,
they looked like a gang of goatherds who had just taken to
brigandage.

"A hard lot," muttered Ashby to himself.

Soon the tatterdemalions reached the spot, and extended their lines
on both sides to the end of the train. At every window they shouted,
"Back! back! Be quiet, and no harm will be done!" Shouting such words
as these, they aimed their guns so recklessly and with such furious
gestures at the windows, that the passengers all shrank back, not
only into their seats, but even into their boots.

The lines of armed men thus stood guarding the train, while the
passengers cowered inside. After a time a cry was heard from some one
who was passing along, and who, as he passed, kept shouting into each
carriage,

"This train has been stopped in the name of his Majesty King Charles.
All passengers are ordered to come out forthwith. Arms and weapons of
all kinds must be left behind. Resistance will be punished with
death. God save the King!"

After this the guards came and opened all the doors, and the
passengers stepped forth in obedience to orders. Of these there were
about a hundred altogether, and each one remained on the spot where
he alighted, and was forbidden to move in any direction. From where
Ashby stood he could see the whole crowd--the prisoners and their
captors. He saw a group alighting from a carriage a little ahead.
First came Harry Rivers, stepping out quite gayly, as though it was a
picnic. On reaching the ground, he turned and assisted the ladies to
descend. This he did by the simple yet pleasing process of lifting
them down bodily--first Katie, then Dolores. At this sight Ashby
gnashed his teeth with jealous rage. Then came Russell, whom, it is
perhaps unnecessary to state, Harry did not lift down. Nor did that
gallant and chivalrous youth venture to lift down Mrs. Russell, being
at that particular moment engaged in conversation with Katie.

Dolores, having descended, stood apart, and her dark-glancing eyes,
as they wandered searchingly about, fell full upon Ashby. It was a
glance full of that same deep, earnest meaning which he had noticed
in the morning; and so she stood looking at him, too far away to
speak, while Ashby looked at her also. After a time Harry's roving
eyes rested upon his friend, and with a laugh he drew Katie's
attention to him. At this Katie looked, and smiled brightly, and
nodded her pretty little head half a dozen times. To Ashby this
seemed like mockery. Katie, he saw, could very well bear this
separation, which was so painful to himself, and could laugh and be
happy with others, and could, perhaps, jest about his own melancholy
face. So Ashby bowed sulkily, and turned away his head.

It was rather a novelty--this sort of thing. Brigands in every age
had stopped travellers, but then they had always been in coaches or
carriages, on horseback or on foot. Never before had they tried to
stop a railway train. And yet in the progress of civilization the
world had to come to this. The manners of man easily accommodate
themselves to the inventions of man, and highway robbery can be done
as easily on a railroad as on a carriage road. Nevertheless, these
particular men who stopped this particular train were not brigands:
on the contrary, they were soldiers, forming part of the army of one
who called himself King of Spain--in short, Carlists.

The passengers were now ordered to come forward for examination, one
by one. Here, on a little knoll, on one side of the locomotive, stood
the leader of the band. He was a stout, thick-set man, with dark hair
and bushy beard. Around him were a score or so of armed men. The rest
of the band stood guarding the train. One by one the passengers came
forward. Each one was then ordered to hand over all the money,
jewellery, watches, or other valuables which he possessed. This was
to be a contribution to his Royal Majesty King Charles, who was in
sore need of such contributions from all his loving and loyal
subjects, in order to carry on the war against the rebels who were
resisting him. Against such a command as this there could be no
protest, and from it no appeal. No one offered to do either. Gold,
silver, copper, dirty paper-money, watches, rings, brooches, pins,
bracelets, trinkets of male and female use, were thrown promiscuously
down into a large basket which stood at the feet of the Carlist
chief, who loftily disdained searching any one, assuring them that he
trusted to their honor as Spaniards.

Then came the turn of the Russell party. First the Paterfamilias
disgorged. It was a well-filled wallet, and Russell flung it down
without a word. His watch followed. Then came some trinkets from the
ladies; then Harry's purse and watch. After this they were about to
move away to where the other passengers had gone, but the Carlist
chief stopped them.


[Illustration: "The Two Friends Were Comfortably Seated In The Rooms
Of Harry Rivers."]


[Illustration: The Capture Of The Train.]


"By the command of his Most Gracious Majesty King Charles," said he,
"you are to be detained."

"May I inquire for what cause?" asked Harry.

"Because you are foreigners," said the Carlist chief.

Harry translated this to Russell, whose face assumed a sickly pallor.
To him this was terrible.

The Carlist chief then directed them where to go, and two of the band
led them to the spot.

Other Spaniards now followed, and deposited their superfluous cash in
peace, without being detained. Then came the priest. He threw down a
very lean wallet. No notice was taken of him, and he followed the
others. These were all gathered in a group, and though conversation
had not been prohibited, they were all quite silent, as was perhaps
natural. Among them was Lopez, who had come there among the first. He
stood there silent, watchful, and attentive. He regarded the Russell
party in particular, and marked their arrest.

It was now Ashby's turn. He came up and threw down his purse and
watch. The Carlist chief scrutinized him carefully, and then said,

"Senor, you, being a foreigner, are to be detained for a future
examination."

"May I join the other foreigners?" asked Ashby.

The Carlist chief shook his head.

"Pardon me, senor, but His Majesty has issued strict orders, which
must be obeyed. Each foreigner must be examined by himself. The
regulations are very stringent."

With this he directed one of his men to lead the prisoner away; and
Ashby, who for a moment had hoped that he would be able to join the
Russell party, now, to his great chagrin, found himself led away to
another place too distant to allow of any communication with his
friends.

The mere fact of this arrest was not so bad to Ashby, since the
others were in the same case precisely; but in this continued
separation from them he found material for fresh suspicion and
renewed jealousy. Katie seemed to him to be altogether too bright,
and lively, and joyous. He could see that she was laughing and
talking with Harry quite merrily. This separation, which brought
sorrow to him, evidently brought joy to her. Was she, then, after
all, a mere shallow flirt? Had all her love been feigned? Was it
possible that she could so soon forget? With these thoughts, and
others like them, this idiotic youth persisted in tormenting himself.

At length the examination was ended, and at its close the Carlist
chief improved the occasion by addressing a few words to the
Spaniards. He reminded them that Don Carlos was their rightful king;
that this contribution was no more than his due; that they, one and
all, ought to cherish a lively affection for his sacred person; that
they ought to continue this good work which they had begun by sending
more; and that the king would be graciously pleased to accept
whatever they might contribute. In his own person the gallant
chieftain thanked them, and also in the name of His Majesty, for
their generous contributions. Finally, he informed them that His
Majesty, in his boundless pity and compassion, had graciously
permitted them to resume their journey. The only exception to this
permission was that of a few foreigners, who were detained, lest
there might be spies among them. Against gentry of this sort, His
Majesty's government had to be particularly on their guard. The
country was swarming with them. They generally pretended to be news
correspondents, but in reality they were paid agents of the enemy. If
any such should be caught, they would be shown no mercy.

With this address he dismissed the Spanish portion of the passengers,
who hastily re-entered the train. The English prisoners were allowed
to retain their luggage. Accompanied by some Carlists, they chose out
what they thought needful, and this was set aside. Russell took
nearly all of his. Meanwhile others of the band went through the
train, and helped themselves to whatever seemed useful. Among the
things thus selected as useful were the mail-bags, which, like the
foreigners, were taken away for further examination.

After this the obstructions were removed from the road, the engine
started, the train went on its way, and the prisoners saw it no more.




CHAPTER VI.


HOW HARRY AND KATIE MANAGE TO ENJOY THEMSELVES IN THEIR CAPTIVE
STATE.


The train moved off; and as the puffing and panting of the engine,
the rumble of the wheels, and the shriek of the whistle died away in
the distance, the captive passengers felt desolate indeed, for it
seemed as though hope itself had been taken from them.

The Carlist chief then spent some time in examining the contributions
of the loyal subjects of King Charles. These appeared to give him
much satisfaction, and, after due inspection, were gathered up and
deposited in a stout oaken chest.

He now turned his attention to the prisoners, and briefly examined
them as to their nationality, residence, etc. Harry acted as general
interpreter, so that there was no difficulty in coming to a full
understanding. The chief informed them that they would have to be
conveyed to another place for fuller examination. He deplored the
necessity of this, and advised them to be patient, telling them that
they should be put to as little trouble as possible, and that all
would no doubt turn out well in the end. This he said first to the
Russell party, and afterward to Ashby. The Russell party had nothing
to say, except old Russell himself, who said, perhaps, more than was
prudent under such delicate circumstances. He chafed and fumed, all
in English, and muttered something about British ironclads and
writing to the Times. He also made some vague threats about the wrath
of England, and made the statement that Britons never would be
slaves. But this was in English, and Harry did not think it worth
while, on the whole, to translate it to the Carlist chief. Nor did
Harry feel very much inclined to say anything on his own behalf.
There was, indeed, nothing to be said; and, besides, he happened to
be enjoying himself very much with the young ladies.

The Carlist chief made the same statement to Ashby, who once more
tried to effect a communication with his friends.

"Will you allow me now, Senor Captain," he said, "to join the other
foreign prisoners? They are my fellow-countrymen, and, in fact, my
intimate friends."

"Certainly, senor," said the Carlist chief, graciously. "For my own
part, I have no objection--that is, for the present. But I must first
see what they have to say about it."

He did so.

Ashby would have gained his wish if it had not been for Russell. When
the Carlist chief informed them that the other Englishman wished to
join them, Russell made Harry translate this to him. The moment that
he understood the request, he burst forth into a passionate tirade
against Ashby; and all the rage and fury that might be due to this
misadventure was now poured forth upon Ashby's head.

"The infernal puppy!" he cried. "He join us? Never! I'd rather turn
Carlist myself, or brigand. If he is forced upon us, I will keep my
wife and my ward apart and aloof from him. Oh, curse it all! if I
could only speak Spanish! But, Mr. Rivers, I insist upon your telling
this Spanish captain that we will not have it."

And so on. Harry found it useless to argue with him, and so he told
the Carlist chief that Russell objected. The Carlist chief then
returned and told Ashby, to whom this was another cruel blow.

"It will make no difference," said the Carlist chief, who saw his
dejection, "as you will all be taken to the same place."

Two mules were now driven up, harnessed to a curious vehicle that
might have taken Noah and family to the ark. Into this the Russell
party entered, namely, Mr. Russell, Mrs. Russell, Katie, Dolores, and
Harry. In addition to these there was the driver. Armed men followed
on foot.

Another similar vehicle drove up to take the luggage, and into this
Ashby was told to go. Some time was occupied in loading this, so that
when Ashby started the others were already far ahead.

The Russell party were conveyed very slowly. At first their route lay
along a plain, and then when this was traversed they began to ascend
among the mountains. The pace had all along been slow enough, but now
it became a crawl. The party were variously occupied. Russell was
grumbling and growling; Mrs. Russell was sighing and whining; Dolores
was silent and thoughtful; Harry, however, maintained his usual flow
of spirits, and found in Katie a congenial soul. These two had been
devoting themselves to one another during the whole journey, and by
this time they felt quite like old friends. Each had a lively
disposition, too buoyant to remain depressed, and each was glad to
take any opportunity of rallying from the strokes of adverse fortune.
Thus each was able to assist the other bravely in the noble effort to
rise superior to circumstances.

"This is a bore," said Harry, "a beastly bore! I know what I should
like to do--I should walk, if it were not that I very much prefer
being with you."

"But I should like to walk too," said Katie. "Do you think they will
let us, Mr. Rivers? It would be too lovely!"

"Will you, really?" said Harry, in a joyous voice. "Oh, they'll let
us, fast enough. I'll ask."

So Harry asked, and permission was granted readily enough, for the
mules could then go on faster, and there was no danger of these two
escaping from twenty armed men. Accordingly, Harry got out and
assisted Katie in the usual way, namely, by lifting her down. They
then fell behind the wagon, walking along at a slow pace, having this
advantage, that, although they were not making any greater progress
than before, they were left more to themselves, and were under less
restraint.

"Do you like this?" asked Harry, as they trudged along.

"Oh, very much indeed."

"It's better than the wagon, isn't it?"

"I'm so _awfully_ tired of the wagon!" said Katie.

"And we can talk without being overheard," said Harry. "Of course I
don't mean to say that we say anything that everybody mightn't hear;
but then, you know, Miss Westlotorn, one can talk much more freely
when one isn't surrounded by a coldly critical audience."

At this Katie laughed, and stole a shy, sidelong glance at him, as
though she suspected some deeper meaning in his words than that which
appeared on the surface.

"Do you feel very much frightened at this adventure?" continued
Harry.

"Me frightened?" said Katie. "Not at all. What an idea!"

"Really not?"

"No, really. Do you know, I'm rather fond of adventures."

"But isn't this a little too serious?"

"Why, Mr. Rivers, I'm sure I think it's delightful. These men are
Carlists, and all Carlists are gentlemen. I dote on Carlists--I do,
really."

"Well, so do I--if you do," said Harry, laughingly; "only you must
allow that it isn't a very gentlemanly thing to stop us on our
journey, relieve us of our purses, and carry us off to parts unknown
in a mule-cart."

"Oh, you shouldn't look at it in that light. That's too awfully
prosaic. Now I'm romantic, and I'm positively grateful to them for
providing me with such a delightful little adventure."

"Do you love adventures?"

"Love them?" replied Katie, with the drollest look in the world.
"Why, I positively dote on them!"

Her smile was so sweet, and her face so bewitching, that Harry
thought he never saw any face so lovely.

"You see," continued Katie, "I mope and mope, and keep moping so; and
things grow so tiresome, that I fairly ache for an adventure."

"Well, but suppose that you were in an awful hurry to meet some one,
and were stopped in this fashion?"

At this Katie's whole expression changed. She looked at Harry with a
face full of sympathy, behind which there was visible the most
intense curiosity.

"Oh, Mr. Rivers," said she, "I'm so sorry! And are you in an awful
hurry to meet some one?"

"Awful!" said Harry.

"Oh, Mr. Rivers, I'm so sorry!" said Katie again. "And won't you tell
me all about it, please?"

Now Harry was by nature inclined to make the world his confidant; and
how much more was he ready to confide in such a one as Katie, who
invited his confidence with such tender sympathy! Besides, he already
felt, as has been said, quite like an old acquaintance. Ashby's
relations to Katie made her seem nearer to him. She was his friend's
betrothed. And then, too, he had been chatting with her all day long.

"You see," said he, "I'm on the lookout for a friend."

At this Katie smiled with indescribable comicality.

"Won't I do?" she asked.

Harry stared at her for a moment, and then burst into a laugh, in
which Katie joined merrily.

"I dare say now, Mr. Rivers," said she, "you think I'm too slight an
acquaintance to be trusted; but you know, in Spain, when one meets
with a fellow-countryman who can speak English, why, you know, one
can't help feeling quite like an old friend, and that sort of thing;
and, mind you, when one has been taken prisoner by the Carlists, one
feels much more so, you know. But all the same, I hope you'll excuse
me; I didn't mean any harm."

At this Harry laughed still more.

"You're not mad?" said Katie, with a droll assumption of anxiety.

"Will you really be my friend?" asked Harry.

"Of course. Didn't I say as much?" said Katie.

"Then let's shake hands over it," said Harry, "and swear an eternal
friendship."

Saying this, he held out his baud, and Katie held out hers. Harry
pressed it warmly and tenderly.

"Well," said Harry, after a pause, "I'll tell you all about it, for I
want your--your sympathy, you know, and your advice, you know, and
all that sort of thing, you know."

"Well, do you know, Mr. Rivers," said Katie, "that's my strong point.
I always have at my disposal any amount of sympathy; and as for
advice, why, I could begin and go on advising, and advising, and
advising, from now till--well, not to be too extravagant, I'll merely
say till doomsday. So now--won't you begin?"




CHAPTER VII.


IN WHICH HARRY BECOMES CONFIDENTIAL, AND TELLS A VERY REMARKABLE
STORY.


Harry paused a little longer, and then said, "Well, you see, the
friend that I wanted to see is a lady."

"Of course," said Katie; "that's a self-evident fact. I know that,
and she is your ladylove. But I want to know all about her, and,
first of all, her name."

"I didn't think that you thought I was thinking of a lady," said
Harry.

"What a ridiculous observation!" said Katie; "and I know you only say
that to tease me, when you know I'm so curious about this friend of
yours."

"Well," said Harry, "in the first place, her name is Talbot."

"Talbot? What else?"

"Sydney--Sydney Talbot."

"Sydney Talbot! But that isn't a girl's name; it's a man's name."

"At any rate," said Harry, "it's her name."

"Well, but hasn't she some pet name--something more feminine, such as
'Minnie,' for instance, or 'Nellie,' or 'Kittie,' or 'Florrie,' or
something of that sort?"

"No; her only name is Sydney Talbot. You see, Sydney is a family
name, and had to be perpetuated. She had no brothers, and so it was
given to her. Her father's name was also Sydney Talbot, and her
grandfather's, and--"

"And her great-grandfather's," chimed in Katie, "and so on up to
Noah; but his name, at any rate, was not Sydney Talbot. Now this is a
very romantic beginning, so go on. I will only remark that I intend
to be great friends with your wife some day, and that I've made up my
mind to call her 'Syddie.' She is actually pining for a pet name. But
what do you call her?"

"I? Oh, I call her Miss Talbot."

"Miss! You call her Miss--Talbot? What a horrible idea! And you
pretend to love her!" cried Katie, reproachfully.

"Well--but, you know, Sydney is too stiff."

"Then why not invent a name? Call her 'Poppet,' or 'Topsy,' or
'Fifine,' or 'Rosie,' or 'Gracie.' Why, I could supply you with fifty
or sixty names on the spot. But this is all idle trifling. Go on and
tell me more. Give a full and complete account of yourself and your
'own one.'"

"Well, you know, I'm doing business in Barcelona, and we were engaged
to be married last year."

"Did you see her last in Barcelona?"

"No, in England, last year. I met her in London."

"Have you not seen her since?"

"No. We have corresponded ever since, and this marriage was arranged
by letter."

"Oh, but you're not married yet?" said Katie, in a low voice.

"No," said Harry, "and Heaven only knows when we ever shall be."

"Why?"

"Oh, well--because there's been such a muddle about it all. You see,
I proposed, and was accepted, in the usual course of things."

"Ah, now, Mr. Rivers," said Katie, "that's not fair!"

"Fair! what isn't fair?"

"Why, you're skipping all the best part."

"The best part? I don't understand."

"Well, I mean you're leaving out all the love parts. I want to hear
all about your love affair--how you first saw her; how you felt; how
she treated you; how you were tormented by the pangs of jealousy,
agitated by hope and fear, until you knew that she was yours. And you
have the heart to skip all this and go on to the stupid, commonplace
end of it!"

Harry laughed.

"Well," said he, "the end of my case has not yet come; and the
farther on I go the more exciting it grows. But I'll tell you all if
you want me to. Shall I begin at the beginning, and tell you how I
first became acquainted with her?"

"Yes, yes, do!" said Katie, eagerly.

"Well, it was at sea, in a tremendous gale, when we both were face to
face with death."

At this Katie threw up her eyes, clasped her hands, and exclaimed,

"Oh, how perfectly _ex_quisite! how utterly delicious! how quite too
awfully jolly! But when? where? Oh, _do_ go on!"

"It was aboard the steamer from Marseilles to Leghorn. During the
night after leaving a furious storm arose. The steamer was an old
rattletrap, and soon began to leak fearfully. I was in my berth,
trying to sleep, when at last I was roused by a yell from all the
crew and passengers. I rushed out and on deck, and saw the sea all
breaking in foam over the vessel. The passengers and crew were all
mixed up in a wild, confused mass, trying to scramble into the boats.
This was made visible by the lightning flashes at intervals, after
which everything would become as black as night. I saw that nothing
could be done, so I took my station near the mizzen shrouds, and held
on there, waiting for the end. While here I saw a female figure
crouching down under the bulwarks and clinging there. Partly out of
pity, and partly for the sake of having something to do, I helped her
up to her feet, held her up in that position, and told her to cling
to the shrouds, and stay by me as long as she possibly could.

"At length, in the midst of a flash of lightning, I happened to
notice that the jolly-boat was hanging from the davits astern. No one
was near: every one was running about forward. I determined to make
an effort for life. The woman was almost senseless, so I half
carried, half dragged her to the boat and got her in. Then I passed a
line around the seat of the boat and secured her to it; after which I
began to lower the boat down. This was a deuced hard job, but I
managed it at last. Then I jumped in, and cut the line that held us,
and away we went in the boat, which was sent spinning along like a
feather over the boiling sea. I don't know how we kept afloat, but we
did. The woman never spoke one word. So we passed a fearful night,
and at length morning came. Then the woman began to cry bitterly. I
soothed her as well as I could.

"We were in a terrible situation. The storm had nearly gone down, but
we were threatened with something worse, for we had neither water nor
provisions. I gave my companion some brandy, which revived her. We
were far away out of sight of land, and no sails were visible
anywhere. I had a couple of oars, and with these I pulled toward the
north. My companion soon regained her composure and her strength, and
we were able to discuss our prospects. She told me her name and
destination. She was on her way to Rome to join her father, in
company with an aged relative and her maid. Her father had been ill,
and had been living in Italy for his health. She was anxious about
him, but still more troubled about her relative, who had been left on
board the steamer.

"Miss Talbot was very beautiful, and the most unselfish person I ever
saw. She was perpetually trying to lighten my labor. She insisted on
taking an oar and trying to row. She bore up most uncomplainingly
against our hardships. In fact, she acted like a regular brick. Of
course, before I had talked with her half an hour I was head over
heels in love with her."

"But it's awfully nice to have your life saved, and be alone together
in a boat like that," said Katie. She spoke in an injured tone, as
though a shipwreck was something highly desirable, which a harsh fate
had cruelly kept away from her.

"Well," continued Harry, "we starved, and starved, and choked with
thirst, for two or three days; but she never uttered one single
murmur."

"I should think not," said Katie. "What had she to complain of? What
more could she want? Why, it was utterly lovely! I'm sure I shouldn't
care to eat one single bit if I were in such a situation. I could not
be hungry at such times--I never am. Hungry, indeed!"

The idea was too absurd, so Katie dismissed it with scorn.

"I could see," continued Harry, "that she was suffering. Her face
grew paler and paler. She was evidently growing weaker. She looked at
me piteously--"

"Oh, you will be so prosaic!" interrupted Katie. "Can't you see that
it wasn't hunger at all? It's the old, old story:


  "'Then her cheek was pale, and thinner
    Than should be for one so young,
    And her eyes on all my motions
    With a mute observance hung.'


"And I said," continued Katie--


  "'And I said, my dearest Pard'ner,
    Speak, and speak the truth to me;
    Trust me, Pard'ner; all the current
    Of my being turns to thee.'


"The fact is," she added, abruptly, "I believe you're making up
nearly the whole of this!"

"Making it up!" cried Harry. "Me! Why?"

"Why, because such delightful situations never do occur in real life.
It's only in fiction."

"No, really, now--it was really so," said Harry. "Why should I make
this up? Really, on my honor--"

"Well, you're coloring the facts, at least," said Katie. "If it's all
true, I think it's hard on poor people like me, that never can find
any pleasant excitement to break the monotony of life. But never
mind--please go on."

"Well," continued Harry, "we drifted on for several days. We saw
vessels, but they were too far away to see us. At last we came in
sight of land, and there we were picked up by a boat that took us to
Leghorn. I then went on with Miss Talbot to Rome. I learned that we
were the only ones that had been saved out of the ill-fated steamer.
Miss Talbot's father, who, as I said, was an invalid, had heard the
news, and, thinking his daughter lost, sank under the blow. On our
arrival at Rome he was dead. It was a mournful end to our journey.

"He was buried in Rome. Miss Talbot returned to England with an
English family, with whom her father had been acquainted. I did not
intrude on her just then, but paid her a visit afterward. At that
time we came to an understanding, and then I went back to Barcelona.
And now I come to the real point of my story--the thing that I was
going to tell you."

"Oh, I'm so very much obliged," said Katie, "for what you've told me
thus far!"

"Now, Miss Talbot, you must know, has very few relatives. She's the
last of an ancient family, and one or two uncles and aunts are all
that are left besides herself. Her life has been by no means gay, or
even cheerful, and perhaps that was one reason why she was willing to
accept me."

"How delightful it is," said Katie, "to see such perfect modesty! Mr.
Rivers, you are almost too diffident to live!"

"Oh, but really I mean that a girl like Miss Talbot, with her wealth,
and ancient family, and social standing, and all that, might have the
pick of all the best fellows in the country."

"That stands to reason; and so you imply that when such a lady chose
you, you--"

"Ah, now, Miss Westlotorn, I didn't," said Harry. "I'm not so
infernally conceited as all that, you know."

"But hadn't she promised in the boat?"

"In the boat! Well, yes--"

"Of course: then why did she have to choose you again?"

"Oh, well--in the boat it was an informal sort of thing. But never
mind. She promised to marry me, and I went back to Barcelona. We then
corresponded for about a year."

"How awfully dreary!" sighed Katie. "I do so detest letter-writing!
If I had to write letters, I would break the engagement."

"Well, it's a bother, of course," said Harry; "but, after all, a
letter is the only substitute one can have for the absent one."

"And how long is it since you last saw her?"

"A year."

"A year! Why, you must have utterly forgotten what she looks like.
Should you be able to recognize her, if you were to meet her in a
crowd?"

"Oh yes," said Harry, with a laugh. "Now you must know that when I
was engaged I expected to go to England in about three months' time
to get married. Business, however, detained me. I hoped to go again,
a few months later. But the fact is, I found it impossible; and so on
for a whole year I was detained, until at last I had to write,
imploring her to come out to me and be married in Barcelona."

"Well, for my part, I never would marry a man unless he came for me,"
said Katie.


[Illustration: "Here Stood The Leader Of The Band."]


[Illustration: "They Then Fell Behind The Wagon, Walking At A Slow
Pace."]


"Then I'm glad," said Harry, "that you are not Miss Talbot. She was
not so cruel as that; for though at first she refused, she at last
consented and promised to come. This, however, was only after long
begging on my part, and a full explanation of the difficulties of my
position. So she consented, and finally mentioned a certain day on
which she would leave; and that was about a fortnight ago.

"Now, you know, all the time, I felt awfully about her having to come
on alone, until at length, as ill-luck would have it, it so happened
that I was able to steal a few days from my business. So I
determined, after all, to go on for her. Fool that I was, I didn't
telegraph! There was no time to write, of course. You see, I was such
an idiot that I only thought of giving her a pleasant surprise. This
filled my mind and occupied all my thoughts, and all the way on I was
chuckling to myself over my scheme; and I kept fancying how delighted
she would be at finding that, after all, she would not have to make
the journey alone. I was so full of this that I couldn't think of
anything else. And now I should like to ask you calmly, Miss
Westlotorn, one simple question: Did you ever hear in all your life
of such a perfect and unmitigated chuckle-head?"

"Never!" said Katie, in a demure tone.

"Well," continued Harry, ruefully, "luck was against me. I met with
several delays of a tedious kind, and lost in all about two days. At
last I got to my destination, and then--then--in one word, there came
a thunder-clap. What do you think?"

"What?"

"She was gone!"

"Gone?"

"Yes. She had gone the day before my arrival. She had written again,
and had telegraphed. She had then set out, expecting me to receive
her with all a lover's eagerness at Barcelona, at the hotel which I
had mentioned to her in my last letter, and hoping also that I might
possibly turn up at any station after passing the Pyrenees. What do
you think of that? Wasn't that a blow? And was it my fault?"

"Certainly not," said Katie, in a soothing voice. "Not your fault,
only your misfortune. But what did her friends say?"

"Her friends? Oh, they were awfully indignant, of course, but I
couldn't wait to explain it all to them. The moment I found out how
it was, I turned on my heel and hurried back to Barcelona. I
travelled night and day. I got there without any interruption, and
rushed to the hotel where, according to my direction, she was to have
gone."

"Well," asked Katie, as Harry paused, "was she there?"

"No," said Harry; "but, worst of all, she had been there! Yes, she
had been there. She had made the journey; she had reached Barcelona;
and I--I, for whom she had come, I was not there to meet her. Well,
when I did get back she was gone."

"Gone?--gone where?"

"Why, where else could she have gone but home again?"

"True. Being a girl of spirit, she never could stand such treatment
as that. But did she leave no message for you?"

"Not a word, either in writing or in any other way. I asked the hotel
people about her, but they knew nothing in particular. She had not
told anything about herself. She had come, and, after two or three
days, had gone. She had gone only the day before I got back."

"And you, of course, must have started after her all the way back to
England, and that's the reason why you are here--"

"Yes," said Harry: "the only hope I had was to overtake the train
that preceded me. It was not impossible that it might be delayed, and
that my train should come up with hers. That was my only hope, but of
course all this is now up."

"Oh, well," said Katie, in a consoling tone, "you'll see her again
before long, and you can explain it all; and when she finds out that
it all arose from an excess of zeal, she will see that your fault was
one on the right side, and she will love you all the better. And so
you will both have many and many a laugh over this queer
misadventure; and it will be something that will give flavor and
spice to all your future life. Why, I'd give anything to have just
such an adventure--I would, really. I wish I was in Miss Talbot's
place. I quite envy her--I do, really; that is," she added, with a
little confusion, "her adventure, you know."

"You have such a nice way of putting things," said Harry, "that I
wish I could always have you to go to for sympathy."

"Sympathy?" said Katie. "Oh, you know that's quite my forte."

Harry looked into her clear, sunny eyes as they were raised to his,
full of brightness, and archness, and joyousness.

"And won't you let me call you 'Katie,'" said he, "just while we're
travelling together? I feel so awfully well acquainted with you, you
know; and I've told you all about my affairs, you know, just as if
you were my oldest friend."

"I should like it above all things," said Katie. "I hate to be called
Miss Westlotorn by my friends. It's too formal."

"And you must call me 'Harry,'" said this volatile young man. "You
will, now, won't you?" he added, in a coaxing tone.

Katie did not prove obdurate.

"Well--Harry," she said, with a bewitching smile.

"I think you're awfully nice," said Harry.

"Well, I'm sure I think you're a very nice boy," said Katie, in a
childish way.

For some time longer the party continued their journey. Harry and
Katie found walking so much pleasanter than riding in the rude cart
that they refused to get into the vehicle again, although urged to do
so very strongly both by Mr. and Mrs. Russell. For his part, Harry
declared that he infinitely preferred walking; and Katie, on being
appealed to, said that the jolts of the wagon made her head ache. So
these two continued their walk.

Gradually it grew darker, and the twilight deepened with the rapidity
common in southern latitudes. Then, fearing lest Katie might be
fatigued, Harry made her take his arm. After this, being still full
of anxious fears lest so fair and fragile a being might sink under
the wearisome tramp, he took her little hand as it lay on his arm,
and held it in his for all the rest of the way. And what Ashby would
have said or thought if he had seen that, is more than I can tell,
I'm sure.

The moon was shining, and its brilliancy was wonderful. Now they
entered among the mountains. Far on high ascended the lofty wooded
slopes on one side, while on the other they descended into a valley.
Beyond this there were other heights, while in the valley between
there was a beautiful winding river. A turn in the road brought them
at length to a place where the valley widened, and far away, shining
like silver in the moonbeams, flowed the river,


"With many a winding through the vale."



All around rose an amphitheatre of hills, some wooded, some
precipitous, and behind these rose the summits of loftier mountains
far into the sky.

Here, full before them, there arose a grand and stately castle.
Perched upon the crest of a spur where it projected from the flank of
a mountain, it stood before the new-comers the centre of the whole
scene, the crown and glory of it all. In the garish sunlight there
might have been perceptible many and many a mark wrought by the
destructive hand of time, for ages had passed since it first reared
its lordly form on high. Its architecture spoke of hoar antiquity, of
a time long past, when the Moor still fought around these scenes, and
rushed to the fight to the war-cry of Allah Akbar! But now, bathed in
the mellow moonlight, this ancient castle showed all its grand
proportions, with not a trace of decay or desolation; and its massive
walls arose in solemn majesty; its battlements frowned in heavy
shadows overhead; its lofty towers and turrets seemed still able to
defy the assaults of time for ages yet to come.

For some time past the country had been growing steadily wilder and
less peopled, until here there seemed a virtual solitude. On reaching
the spot the party found a massive gate-way with a ponderous portal.
Beyond this opened the court-yard, and in the distance rose the keep.
Here lights shone, and the noise of revelry came to their ears.

And now the prisoners entered and were taken in charge by others, and
Ashby, who arrived about an hour afterward, was also taken to his
quarters.




CHAPTER VIII.


HOW THE SPANISH PRIEST MEETS WITH A STRANGE ADVENTURE.


The train, which had been released by the Carlists, went on its way,
and after running about ten miles, came to a little town. Here a long
stay was made, during which information was received of so serious a
character that it was resolved, for the present at least, not to go
any farther. In the first place, the train which had immediately
preceded had halted at the next station beyond, and this train could
not move until the other had started; but, in addition to this, there
came reports of all sorts, to the effect that the whole country was
swarming with Carlists, who had occupied the lines of railroad and
cut the telegraph wires. It was the latter circumstance that was most
troublesome, since it made it impossible to get any definite
information.

The end of it was, that the passengers had to shift for themselves,
and find shelter and occupation as best they could, until they should
be able to go on to their destinations: of which passengers only two
need be mentioned here, namely, Captain Lopez and the priest. The
former, having been thus rudely separated from Katie, had no object
in going any farther, and therefore was quite willing to remain in
this place. But it soon appeared that he had plenty to do. He at once
set forth to communicate with the civil and military authorities, in
the hope of obtaining assistance toward rescuing Katie from her
captivity; and such was his zeal and energy, that before long he had
received the most earnest promises of assistance and co-operation
from all to whom he applied. As for the priest aforesaid, he had a
different purpose, and that purpose did not lead him to make any
effort to procure lodgings. He refreshed himself with a repast at the
nearest hosteria, after which, girding up his loins, he left the
place by the high-road.

The road at first ran through the plain, where, on every side, there
stretched away fields of brown grass, with flocks of sheep and goats.
The attendants upon these were nowhere visible, and this lack of
human life and action gave to the country an indescribable air of
solitude and desertion. In other respects, however, there was
everything which could gratify the eye and the taste. The land was
fertile, the soil cultivated, the scenery beautiful. Tall trees--the
mulberry and the poplar--arose in long lines; here and there the
cactus stretched forth its thorny arms, and at intervals there
appeared the dark green of extensive olive-groves. Behind the
traveller there extended a wall of purple hills, and before him arose
the giant heights of the Pyrenees. Among these last the road at
length entered, and, winding along at the base of sloping hills, it
ascended very gradually.

The priest walked onward at a long, slinging pace, which told of the
experienced pedestrian. For three hours he kept this up, being too
intent upon his progress, and upon his own thoughts, to pay much
attention to the scenery, except so far as was needed for purposes of
precaution. Save for this, the external form of nature and the many
beauties around him were disregarded; and at length, after three
hours, he sat down to rest at a rock by the wayside. Sitting here, he
drew forth from his pocket a well-used pipe, which he filled and
lighted; after which he sat smoking, and surveying, in a
contemplative manner, the scene before him.

It was, in truth, a scene well worthy of contemplation. For many a
mile the eye of the beholder could rove over the course of the Ebro,
and take in the prospect of one of the fairest lands in all the
world. He had advanced high enough to overlook the valley, which lay
behind him, with lines of hills in the distance, while in front arose
the mountains dark in the heavy shade. To the west the country spread
away until, in the far distance, it ended in a realm of glory. For
here the sun was sinking into a wide basin formed by a break in the
lines of mountains, filling it all with fire and splendor; and while
the hollow between the hills was thus filled with flame, immediately
above this there were piled up vast masses of heavy strata clouds, of
fantastic shapes and intense blackness. Above these the sky grew
clearer, but was still overlaid with thin streaks of cirrus clouds,
which were tinted with every hue of the rainbow, and spread over all
the western heavens up to the zenith and beyond.

In that low mass of strata clouds which overhung the sunset there was
now a wild convulsion. A storm was raging there, too far away to be
felt, but plainly visible. The fantastic shapes were flung together
in furious disorder; through the confused masses electric flashes
shot forth; sometimes in floods of glory, sometimes in straight lines
of forked lightning, sometimes in rounded lumps of suddenly revealed
fire--the true bolts of Jove. Toward the south the hills lay wrapped
in haze and gloom, and in one part there was a heavy shower, where
the rain streamed down in vertical lines.

The sun went down, leaving behind it a redder splendor by which all
was glorified; the river wound in molten gold; the trees were tipped
with purple lustre; the crests of the mountains took on aureoles of
light. As the sun still descended, the scene was slowly transformed;
the splendor lessened; the clouds broke up into other forms; the
thick strata mass dissipated itself; then came a golden haze over the
wide west; the moon revealed itself over the head of Scorpio, with
Antares beaming from a bright place in the sky.

The scenes shifted rapidly, and twilight deepened, until the clouds
made way for the moon, and, breaking up into thin light masses, swept
away over the sky; while the moon, assuming its proper functions,
looked mildly down, and bathed all the valley in a mellow lustre.

After about half an hour's rest, the priest arose, put his pipe in
his pocket, and resumed his long stride. Up the road he went, without
stopping again, as though he had resolved to cross the Pyrenees in
that one night, and be over in France by morning: of whom it might be
said, in the words of the Chinese poet,


"That young man walkee no can stop."


Another hour brought him a good four miles farther on, and still he
kept up the same pace. He now reached a place where the road took a
somewhat sudden turn, and wound around a rocky projection on the
lull-side. Here, as he turned, he came full upon a figure that was
walking in the opposite direction.

It was the figure of a woman; and in that bright moonshine it was
easy to see that she was young, and graceful, and light, and elastic.
Coming suddenly upon the priest as she did, at the turn in the road,
she was evidently quite terrified. Her attitude was that of a
stealthy fugitive; and as she met him there was, in her sudden
involuntary gesture, the appearance of one who has been captured by a
pursuer. For an instant she recoiled in an agony of terror, but then
one glance at the costume of the priest seemed to reassure her; and
then, clasping her hands, she came nearer, and said, in tremulous
tones:

"_Padre! padre! per l'amor de Dios soccorre me_!"

The priest looked at her for a few moments in silence. Then he spoke.

"_Etez vous Francaise, mademoiselle_?"

The woman shook her head.

"_E ella Italiana_?"

Again she shook her head.

"_Sind sie Deutsch_?"

Another shake of the head, and then she said:

"_Yo soy Inglesa_."

The priest gave a long whistle.

"English!" he cried; "English! Then in future please be kind enough
to speak English, for your Spanish--is--well, declined, with thanks."

At these words the woman started, and then, with an uncontrollable
impulse, seized the hand of the priest in a convulsive grasp.

"Oh!" she cried, "are you really--really an Englishman? Oh, thank
Heaven! thank Heaven! Then you will help me!"

"English?" said the priest; "well, for the matter of that, I'm
anything you please just now, in this infernal country. I certainly
do speak English, but at the same time I prefer calling myself what I
am--namely, an American."

This loquacity of the priest made no impression upon the woman, who
was absorbed now by her one idea of escape, of obtaining help, of
flight.

"Oh, sir," she continued, "can you help me? Can I go on by this road?
Do you know what I can do? Will you tell me?"

"Oh yes," said the priest, "I'll tell you. I do not know what you can
do. What can you do? You can read, perhaps, and I suppose you can
play the piano, and crochet; but I know what you cannot do--you
cannot speak Spanish."

These words were spoken with the indifferent air of one who is
thinking of something else.

"Ah, sir," said the woman, in a tone of anguish, "don't mock at me!
I'm in distress unspeakable. I've--I've lost my way."

She could scarcely speak from agitation. The priest was silent for a
moment. Then he drew a long breath.

"Lost your way?" said he. "Well, that is queer too. Your way--and
what way can that be in times like these, and here in this country,
and, above all, in this part of the country? Are you walking for a
wager? Are you going round the world in a bee-line? Do you carry a
portable canoe?"

"I was in the diligence," said the woman, not choosing to notice such
ill-timed levity, "and we were stopped--by the Carlists--and I
escaped--and I'm trying to find my way to some safe place--but I
cannot--I cannot."

"H'm!" said the priest, "that is a coincidence too--just my own case
to a T. I've been captured by the Carlists too, and I've escaped, and
I'm now making a bolt for a place of safety. Well, this does beat my
grandmother, I must say!"

The lady was too full of her own troubles to notice the peculiar
expressions of the priest. She merely continued, as before, to beg
for help.

"Oh, sir," said she, "do you know the way here? and can you help me?"


[Illustration: "Coming Suddenly Upon The Priest, She Was Evidently
Quite Terrified."]


"Well," said the priest, "I know some of it, I may say, but that
depends on what you mean by knowing it. But will you allow me to ask
you one or two questions? In the first place, where did you come from
last?"

"Last?" said the lady; "the last place I came from was Barcelona."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"You spoke of a diligence. You must have come from Barcelona by
train."

"Of course."

"Then that must have been the train that stopped over there."

"Yes; the train stopped. I understood that it was not going on any
farther for a long time, for that the track was torn up. A diligence
was prepared for those passengers who were anxious to go on
immediately, and I was most eager to proceed without delay, so as to
get to my home as soon as possible. So, early this morning, we left,
and came, without any incident of any kind until we reached a place
about five miles away. There we were stopped and robbed. I believe
all the passengers were detained and held as prisoners--at least I
myself was. I was handed over to the care of a peasant woman, who
took me to a cottage. About two hours ago she came to me and told me
that I might go, and urged me to fly at once. I could not understand
her very well, for I know very little Spanish indeed, but I could see
that she was sorry for me, and offered me this chance of escape. It
was also quite evident that she considered me in great danger, and
was frightened about me. I felt deeply grateful, and offered her a
gold locket which had escaped the notice of the robbers, but she
refused it. So then I started off. I've come along the road ever
since, and have seen no one except yourself. And now, sir," continued
the lady, looking at the priest with intense earnestness, "can you
help me? Will you? Oh, for the love of--"

Here the priest interrupted her. The lady had spoken in a low voice,
which had a very mournful cadence, and besides this there were signs
of deep emotion in the tremulous tones and the agitated manner. Her
flight had been a long and a hurried one; the exertion had been
severe; her strength had been put forth to the utmost; she was on the
verge of utter exhaustion. Everything in her appearance, voice, and
manner combined to inspire pity and sympathy. The good priest had
seemed not unmoved as she was speaking, and now he interrupted her,
raising his hand, and speaking in a very gentle voice.

"Ah, now," said he, "come--none of that! Do you think me a savage,
that you must pray to me for mercy? Help you!" he repeated, in
stronger tones. "Ay, madame, that will I, and with the last drop of
my heart's-blood and to my life's end. There, is that strong enough?
Help you!"--and he gave a short laugh--"that's good, too! Why, what
else have I been thinking of ever since I met you? What else can you
suppose that I intend to do? Isn't it enough for me to see your
distress? But come--it isn't quite so safe as it might be, and
enemies may be lurking near. We must first find a place of
retirement, where we can decide on what is best to be done."

The tones of the priest's voice were now totally different from those
which he had employed hitherto. These were harsh, dry, indifferent,
almost mocking; but now they were full of sincere feeling and
unmistakable truth. Their effect upon the lady was very marked and
strong. She clasped her hands, bowed her head, and in her weakness
was unable to bear up under this new revulsion of feeling; so she
burst into tears and stood there weeping.

At this the priest was not a little embarrassed. For a moment he
seemed about to try to soothe her; but be checked this impulse, and
looked away, whistling softly to himself. After a few moments he went
on, speaking in a gentle voice:

"I've been going along alone easily enough, but now, if you will come
with me, I shall have to make some changes in my plans. You see, two
cannot travel so easily as one; and then you are a lady, and an
English lady too, which in these parts means a wealthy foreigner--an
object of plunder. You, as an English lady, run an amount of risk to
which I, as a Spanish priest, am not at all exposed. So you see we
can no longer remain in so public a place as this high-road. We must
seek some secure place, at least for the present. You don't seem able
to go much farther. This moonlight night is just the time for flight,
but you need rest now, and unless you get that first you won't be
able to escape at all. And so--what do you say to my hunting up a
hiding-place for the night?"

As the priest began to speak, the lady had made a violent effort to
recover herself and had succeeded well enough to listen attentively,
only showing by an occasional sigh or sob that her distress had not
yet passed away altogether. At the priest's question she paused
thoughtfully for a short time, and then said,

"My being with you will make a great difference to you?"

"Oh yes," said the priest.

"It will perhaps endanger your safety," continued the lady, anxiously.

"Oh, that is nothing," said the priest; "that is my normal state. I
am always in danger."

"Still, I should be sorry to add to your danger," she said,
hesitatingly; "and if--if--"

"Well," said the priest, sharply, "if what?"

"If I am a source of danger," said the lady, calmly, "I should prefer
going on alone, just as I was; and I shall only ask you to tell me
what is the nearest town, and to give me generally the direction to
it."

"Oh, you will, will you?" said the priest, in the mocking tone which
he had previously used. "Well, then, madame, I shall only ask you to
do as I say, and ask no questions. I know the country--you don't. I
have registered a vow in heaven to save you, and save you I will,
even in spite of all your teeth. I swear it in the name of the great
Jehovah and the Continental Congress!"

At these strange words the lady was silent for a few moments, and
then said, in a tremulous voice,

"I'll do anything that you wish me to do."

"Furthermore, my hearer," continued the priest, suddenly assuming and
immediately dropping the whine of a rustic preacher, "mark this--I
don't mind saying a few words to ease your scruples: you cannot make
my position any more dangerous than it is already. I carry my life in
my hand all the time."

"Still," said the lady, "you can easily take care of yourself; but
what a terrible thing it would be if you should get into trouble on
my account!"

"Well, I'll ask only one question--what is your calling in life?"

"I have no calling. I'm a lady--"

"Spinster?" said the priest, in a mild voice.

"Yes," said the lady, gravely, and with deep sadness. It seemed to
the priest that he had unwittingly touched upon a tender point.

"Pardon me," said he, "this is all I wish to get at. You are not a
politician, not a political agent, not a spy?"

"Certainly not."

"Nor a newspaper correspondent?"

"No."

"Not even an artist?"

"No; nothing but a simple English lady, and only anxious to get back
home."

"Very well--very good!" said the priest, approvingly. "And you shall
go home, too; but remember what I said, and trust in me. And now let
us see what we had better do. I've been here before, all through and
through this country, and know it like a book. Now just over there, a
little to the west, there is an old unoccupied castle, which is in
very good condition, considering that it's a thousand years old. It
is just the place for us. Unfortunately, there may be others in it,
for it is held from time to time by the one or the other of the
fighting factions; yet, even in that case I know of an odd corner or
two where we can elude observation for the present; for it is a
very--a monstrously large castle, and I happen to know the ins and
outs of it pretty well. I can assure you a good night's rest there."

"It is not inhabited, you say."

"No, not as a general thing."

"I'm sorry for that. If it were, the people would perhaps give us
shelter and food, and help us on our way."

"The people would perhaps give us more shelter than we might care
for. But come--we ought to be off, for you need rest, and that soon."

The lady said nothing, but walked along with the priest. For about a
quarter of a mile they followed the road, and then turned away to the
left over the country. Here their pathway lay over the flank of the
mountain, and traversed open fields which were used for pasture. The
moon shone brightly, illuminating the scene, and the priest walked
with the assured air of one who knew his way thoroughly.

The lady, who all along had seemed much fatigued, now began to give
more evident signs of distress. The priest made her take his arm: she
did so, and for a time was relieved. He sought to cheer her with
encouraging words. She responded nobly, and certainly made all the
effort in her power; but her strength had that day been too sorely
tasked, and threatened to fail her utterly. At last she sank to the
ground, and sat there, while the priest waited patiently.

"Courage!" said he. "Cheer up! We shall soon be there now."

After a short rest the lady recovered a little, and made a final
effort. They walked on as before, the lady holding the priest's arm,
and moving forward by dint of desperate exertions. So they went until
at last there appeared immediately ahead a massive tower, which
seemed to arise from behind some trees.

"There it is," said the priest. "One more effort."

But the lady could go no farther. She sank down on the ground once
more, with something like a groan.

"I can go no farther," said she, in a faint voice.

The priest made no reply, but stood for some time in silence watching
her. It was evident that he hoped for another rally of her powers,
but he was disappointed; for the lady sat with her head bowed down,
trembling, weeping, and all unnerved. Time passed, and there was no
revival of strength.

"Madame!" said the priest at length, in a harsh and constrained
voice.

At this the lady gave a sigh, and tried to raise herself, but without
success. After a useless effort she sank down again.

"Madame," said the priest, "to stay here is out of the question. We
have not much farther to go; the place of our destination is not far
off, and I am going to carry you there."

"No," said the lady, "you must not. I--I--"

"Madame," interrupted the other, "as a priest it is my duty to succor
the distressed, and even as a man I should feel bound to save you."

"It's too much for you," said the lady, faintly. "Save yourself. It's
no matter--what--becomes of--of me."

"Oh, it isn't, isn't it?" said the priest, in his dryest manner.
"Well, you will please remember that you and I are in the same boat,
and we must win or lose together. And so, as I don't intend to be
captured yet awhile, why, madame, with your permission, and begging
your pardon, I'll take the liberty of saving you in my own way. At
the same time, please remember that it's not for your sake I'm doing
this so much as for my own."

What possible meaning there might be to these last words the priest
did not explain, nor did the lady understand. In fact, there was no
time for explanation. The priest, without any more ado, raised the
lady in his arms and marched off with her.

He was not a very large man, but he was very muscular, and in
excellent training; so he trudged on at a pace which, under all the
circumstances, was really wonderful. Fortunately he did not have very
far to carry his burden. Before long he came to a grove of large
trees, which stood wide apart and admitted of an easy passage.
Traversing this, he at length reached a low tower, which was in a
half-ruinous condition. It stood upon the brink of a deep chasm, the
sides of which were densely wooded, while at the bottom there was a
brawling brook. Upon the other side of the chasm appeared the outline
of a stately castle, with walls and towers and battlements and keep,
all plainly discernible as they rose up in giant proportions.




CHAPTER IX.


IN WHICH THE PRIEST SEES A VISION, AND GOES IN SEARCH OF A BREAKFAST.


The priest placed the lady on the ground near the trunk of a fallen
tree, against which she might lean, and then, turning away, he drew a
clasp-knife from his pocket, and began cutting armfuls of brushwood
and twigs of shrubs. These he canned into the tower and spread over
the floor with the skill of a practised hand, while the lady sat
where he had left her, with her head bowed down, taking no notice of
anything, and seeming like one who was quite prostrated in mind as
well as in body. When at last the priest's task was ended, he went to
her and carried her inside the tower.

"Here," said he, "is some brushwood. I'm sorry that there isn't
anything better, but better is a stone couch with liberty than a bed
of down with captivity. Don't be worried or frightened. If there is
any danger, I'll sound the alarm in Zion and get you off in time."

The lady murmured some inarticulate words, and the priest then left
her and went outside. He there spent some little time in gathering
some brush for himself, which he spread upon the grass, under the
castle wall; after which, he seated himself upon it, and pulling out
his pipe, he filled it and began to smoke.

Hitherto he had been too much preoccupied to pay any very close
attention to the world around; but now, as he sat there, he became
aware of sounds which arose apparently from the interior of the great
castle on the other side of the chasm. The sounds did not startle him
in the least, however, and he was evidently prepared for something of
this sort. Between this tower and the great castle there intervened
the deep chasm; and though no doubt the two structures had once been
connected, yet all connection had long since been destroyed, and now
there was no visible way of passing from the one to the other. The
priest, therefore, felt as secure as though he were miles away, and
listened serenely to the noises.

There came to his ears sounds of singing, and laughter, and revelry,
with shouts and cries that rang out upon the air of night. There
seemed to be no small stir in the castle, as though a multitude had
gathered there, and had given themselves up securely to general
merriment. But all this troubled not the priest one whit, for he
calmly finished his pipe, and then, laying it down, he disposed his
limbs in a comfortable position, still keeping a sitting posture, and
in this attitude he fell asleep and slept the sleep of the just.

Very early on the following morning our good priest opened his eyes,
and the first object that they rested upon was the lady, who stood
there full before him, and greeted him with a gentle smile.

The priest had not seen her very well on the previous evening, and
now as he saw her face in full daylight, it seemed different from
that which had met his view under the moonbeams. The lady was of
slender form, a trifle over the middle height, and of marked dignity
of bearing. Her face was perfectly beautiful in the outline of its
features, but this was as nothing when compared with the refined and
exquisite grace, the perfect breeding, the quick intelligence, and
the womanly tenderness that were all expressed in those noble
lineaments. It was a face full of calm self-possession, and gave
indications of a great and gracious nature, which could be at once
loving and brave, and tender and true. Her hair, which was very
luxuriant, was closely bound up in dark auburn masses; her lips were
full of sweet sensitiveness; and thus she stood looking at him with
dark hazel eyes that seemed to glow with feeling and intelligence,
till the good priest thought that never in all his life had he seen
anything half so fair. In fact, so overcome was he that he sat
staring at her for some time without one word, and without giving any
response whatever to the pleasant words of greeting which she spoke.

"I'm very sorry indeed," said she, as the priest still stared in
silence at her, "that I was such a trouble to you, after all
your--your kindness; but the fact is, I was so wretchedly fatigued
that I was scarcely responsible for my actions. It was too selfish in
me; but now I mean to make amends, and help you in every possible
way. Would you like me to do anything? Sha'n't I get breakfast?"

She spoke these words with a smile, in which, however, there was not
a little sadness. There was nothing in the words themselves beyond
that painful consideration for others and forgetfulness of self which
the priest had observed in her the night before; but the voice was a
wonderful one--a round, full contralto, yet soft and low, with a
certain mysteriously tremulous undertone that fell with a thrill upon
his ear.

The priest started up.

"Breakfast!" said he, with a short laugh. "That is the very thing I
was thinking of myself. I consider that an all-important subject."

"It is certainly a serious matter," said she.

"And you propose to get it for me?"

"Yes," said she, with a faint smile, "if I can."

"I really wish you would," continued the priest, "for it would save
me from a great responsibility; for if you don't get it for me, hang
me if I know where I can get any for myself."

"What do you mean?" said she. "Have we nothing to eat?"

"Well, not so bad as that. I have a bit of a sandwich, I believe, and
you may have it."

With this he produced from his pocket a tin sandwich case and offered
it to her.

She refused.

"If that is the last that you have," said she, "I can wait."

"But you must eat it, so as to get back your strength."


[Illustration: "The Priest Placed The Lady On The Ground Near The
Trunk Of A Fallen Tree."]


"And what will you do?"

"Oh, I'm an old hand at fasting. It's my business."

"As priest, I suppose?" said the lady, with a smile that was
brighter, or rather less mournful, than any which the priest had thus
far seen on her melancholy face.

"Yes, as priest," said the other, dryly. "And now will you take it?"

"Do you ever think about yourself?" asked the lady, in a low voice,
in which the thrill was more perceptible than usual.

"About myself? Oh yes," said he; "I never think of anything else. My
motto is to take care of Number One. It's only for my own sake that
I'm anxious for you to eat; but if you won't take it all, why, you'll
have to be content with half. You won't refuse to share with me and
take half?"

"By no means. I sha'n't object to take the half, if you choose."

"Well," said he, "that's fair; so let's begin our breakfast. Would
you mind sitting on that tree over there?"

He led the way to the fallen tree already mentioned, and the two
seated themselves. He then opened the tin case and drew forth a few
sandwiches. From these they made their frugal repast.

"You must cultivate patience," said the priest, as he ate. "I know
exactly what's in your mind. You want to be off. But, according to
the proverb, the more haste the less speed. Tell me--would you rather
be here or in the hands of the Carlists?"

"Here."

"Well, I'm afraid if we move incautiously we may be seen and captured
by the Carlists. So before we start I propose to reconnoitre. Will
you remain here?"

"I will do whatever you direct."

"You are very good and sensible."

"Thanks; but where do you propose to go."

"I'm going to visit the castle over there."

"The castle?"

"Yes. It is full of people. That they are Carlists I haven't a doubt.
I mean to visit them, and find out how the land lies."

"But the danger is too great, is it not? May they not detain you?"

"I must run the risk of that."

"Was it your intention to go among the Carlists before you met me?"

"Well, not exactly. I was on my way, and that way might have led
among them."

"Are you running this risk for my sake?"

"Well, not particularly, although I have an eye to you in this
matter. My chief aim is, just now, to get something for dinner, and
after that to find out what is the safest direction for us to take."

The lady sat in thoughtful silence for some time.

"I am afraid," said she, "that you are incurring a terrible risk. You
are now out of danger; why put yourself into it? Why may we not fly
now, or to-night? I can fast for any length of time."

"The danger is," said the priest, "that we may both fall into the
hands of the very men we wish to avoid."

"But that is the very thing you are going to do."

"I--Oh, I can go alone anywhere."

"Ah, there it is!" said the lady, bitterly. "It is I who am a drag on
you. It is I who am getting you into danger. Yet why not leave me?
Tell me where the road is: I will go back alone."

"Oh, well," said the priest, with his usual short laugh, "as for
that, we may talk of it again. I'll tell you presently. It may come
to that, but I hope not. I am going to that castle all the same. I've
been there before, and without harm: I expect to come back. But
suppose I do not, how long will you wait here for me?"

"As long as you say."

"Twenty-four hours?"

"Yes."

"Very well. I do not think they will detain me, but it is best to be
prepared. And now, by way of preliminary, I will show you how I can
go over there. Remember, I have been here before, and have become
acquainted with some of the secrets of this place. If you should be
in danger, or if I should not come back, you will be able to fly by
the way which I will now show you."

The priest arose and entered the tower, followed by the lady. The
pavement was of stone: part of it was open, and some ruinous steps
led into a cellar. Here they descended, and found themselves in a
place which had been excavated from the rock which formed three sides
of the place. On the fourth was a wall, in which was a wide gap that
looked out upon the chasm. It seemed as though there had once been a
bridge at this point leading over to the castle.

"Here," said the priest, "if you look out you cannot imagine any
possibility of descent, but if you examine carefully you will
perceive a narrow ledge among the shrubbery. Go out on this, and
follow it along, and you will find it growing wider as it goes down.
It will take you all the way to the bottom of this chasm, and there
you will find stepping-stones by which to cross the brook, and on the
opposite side a trail like this, which will lead you to the top of
the opposite ridge."

"I don't think that I should feel inclined to try it," said the lady;
"but I am glad, all the same, that I have a mode of retreat. It makes
one feel less desperate."

"Oh, you know, I hope to be back again."

"But what shall I do if you do not return?" said the lady.

"That is what troubles me," said the priest. "To think of you making
your escape alone--"

"That is not what I meant," said the lady. "I referred to my own
self-reproach. If you do not come back, I shall feel as though your
blood is required at my hands."

The priest looked at her and gave his short laugh.

"I shouldn't advise you to come after me to the castle," said he.
"Your chief difficulty will be the commissariat. If I do not come
back before twenty-four hours, you will then have to fly for
yourself. In that case, do not go back to the road you were on
before. Do not go to the castle. Take this path and go down to the
bottom of the chasm, and up the other side to the top of the ridge.
Keep under trees as much as possible. Travel due south. Heaven help
you! God bless you! Good-bye!"

He looked at the lady. Her eyes, which were fixed on him, seemed
overflowing with feeling; but whether of anxiety for him or fear for
herself did not appear.

"You seem to me to be going to death," said she, in a low voice, "and
I am the cause!"

"To death!" said the priest, with his usual laugh. "_Moriturus te
salutat_. Pardon!--that's Latin. At any rate, we may as well shake
hands over it."

He held out his hand. She caught it in both of hers.

"God protect you!" she murmured, in a low voice, with quivering lips.
"I shall be in despair till you come back. I shall never have the
courage to fly. If you do not come back, I shall die in this tower."

"Child," said the priest, in a sad, sweet voice, "you are too
despondent. I will come back--do not fear. Try and get rid of these
gloomy thoughts. And now, once more, good-bye."

He pressed her hand and departed through the gap. He then began his
descent, while the lady stood watching him with anxious eyes and
despairing face till he had passed out of sight.




CHAPTER X.


HOW THE PRIEST BEARDS A LION IN HIS DEN.


The priest walked down the path into the chasm. It ran along a ledge,
which at first was narrow, and quite concealed from view by dense
masses of shrubbery, which grew all down the sloping sides of the
abyss, covering the rock with a green mantle, and giving it an
inviting aspect of richness and verdure. In such a place no one could
have suspected the existence or even the possibility of any pathway;
and this one must have been made with no little labor and skill, in
the ancient days, when fighting bands had need to pass and repass.

After a few paces the path became more clearly defined. It was very
steep, yet easy enough in the descent, and went down in a zigzag
direction until it reached the bottom of the chasm. Here there was a
brook whose babbling had been heard from above. In winter this was a
fierce torrent, but now it was reduced to a slender and shallow
stream. In its bed lay great bowlders of granite, which afforded
stepping-stones to those who might wish to pass, and could be used at
any time except when the water was swollen by mountain floods.

After traversing these the priest came to the other side, and began
to ascend a path of the same kind as that by which he had descended.
Here he climbed about halfway up, and then paused. At this point
there were two paths, one of which seemed to go up to the castle,
while the other went along the side of the chasm. The latter he
chose, and along this he went, ascending very gradually, until at
last he reached the top of the ridge on which the castle was
situated.

He now turned and directed his steps straight toward the castle,
which he soon reached. At the gate stood some armed tatterdemalions,
whom the priest recognized as having formed part of the gang that had
stopped the train the day before. Of these he took no heed, but
walked up boldly and asked to see their captain. One of the guards
went with him, and after traversing the court-yard they came to the
keep. Here the Carlist chief was seen lolling on a stone bench
outside, and smoking a villanous cigar. As the priest approached, he
started to his feet with no little surprise on his face, together
with a dark and menacing frown, which did not by any means augur well
for the bold adventurer.

"Who are you?" he asked, fiercely.

The priest in return eyed the Carlist from head to foot, and then
said, in a sharp, authoritative tone,

"Your name and rank?"

At this singular rejoinder to his question the Carlist chief looked
somewhat amazed.

"My name?" said he, with a sneer. "Never mind what it is. What are
you? Who are you? What the devil do you mean by coming here?"

"Give your name and rank," persisted the priest, in the same tone as
before, "and beware how you trifle with one who may be your master.
Who gave you authority to occupy this post?"

"Master?--authority?" cried the Carlist chief, with an oath, which
was followed by a laugh. "Who is my master? I never saw him. Here,
you fellows!" he cried, to some of his gang who stood near, "take
this fellow off--take him inside. Let me see--take him to the lower
dungeons, and let him see who is master here!"

At this a score of stout ruffians came forward to obey the order. But
the priest remained as cool as before. He simply drew forth a paper,
and looking round upon the ruffians, he said, in a quiet voice,

"Keep back, you fellows, and take care what you do! I'm the Cure of
Santa Cruz."

At that formidable name the whole band stopped short, mute and
awe-struck; for it was no common name which he had thus announced. It
was a name which already had been trumpeted over the world, and in
Spain had gained a baleful renown--a name which belonged to one who
was known as the right arm of Don Carlos, one who was known as the
beau ideal of the Spanish character, surpassing all others in
splendid audacity and merciless cruelty; lavish generosity and
bitterest hate; magnificent daring and narrowest fanaticism. At once
chivalrous and cruel, pious and pitiless, brave and bigoted, meek and
merciless, the Cure of Santa Cruz had embodied in himself all that
was brightest and darkest in the Spanish character, and his name had
become a word to conjure by--a word of power like that of Garibaldi
in Italy, Schamyl in Circassia, or Stonewall Jackson in America. And
 thus when these ruffians heard that name it worked upon them like a
spell, and they stood still, awe-struck and mute. Even the Carlist
chief was compelled to own its power, although, perhaps, he would not
have felt by any means inclined to submit to that potent spell had he
not seen its effect upon his followers.

"I don't believe it," he growled.

"You do believe it," said the priest, fiercely: "you know it.
Besides, I hold here the mandate of the King;" and he brandished the
paper, shouting at the same time, "Viva el Rey!" at which all the men
caught up the same cry and shouted in unison.

The priest smiled a good-natured, amiable, forgiving smile.

"After all," said he, in a milder voice, "it is well for you to be
cautious. I approve of this rough reception: it is soldierlike. It
shows that you are true to the King. But read this. Give me something
to eat and drink, and then I will tell you my errand."

With these words he handed the paper to the Carlist chief, who took
it somewhat sulkily, and read as follows:


"_Head-quarters, Vera, August 23d, 1873.

"To all officers of the army, and to all good and loyal subjects,
greeting: Receive and respect our friend and lieutenant the Cure of
Santa Cruz, who bears this, and is engaged in a special mission in
our service. CARLOS_."


On reading this the Carlist chief drew a long breath, looked around
upon his followers, elevated his eyebrows, and finally turned to the
priest.

"What do you want?" he asked, in no very courteous manner.

"Nothing," said the priest. "Not one single thing from you
but--breakfast. Don't be alarmed. I haven't come in here to interfere
with you at all. My business is elsewhere. Do you understand me?"

The priest gave him a glance which was meant to convey more than the
words expressed. At this the whole manner of the Carlist chief
underwent a change. He at once dropped all his sourness and gloom.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, eagerly.

The priest nodded.

"Certainly."

"Then," cried the Carlist, "you're right welcome, and I hope you'll
not mind what's happened. We have to be cautious, you know, and
suspicious."

"My dear friend, I assure you I shouldn't have troubled you at all,
only I'm starving."

"Then I swear you shall have the best breakfast in all Spain. Come
in; come in. Come, in the name of Heaven, and I'll give you a
breakfast that will last you for a week."

With these words the Carlist chief led the way inside, and the priest
followed.

It was the lower story of the central building, or keep, and was
constructed, in the most massive manner, out of vast blocks of
rough-hewn stone. The apartment was about fifty feet in length,
twenty-five in width, and twelve in height. On either side there were
openings into chambers or passage-ways. The roof was vaulted, and at
the farther end of the apartment there was a stairway constructed of
the same cyclopean stones as the rest of the edifice. All the
stone-work here visible had the same ponderous character, and seemed
formed to last for many centuries to come.

Around the sides of this lower hall were suspended arms and
accoutrements. There were also rude massive benches, upon which were
flung rugs and blankets. Here and there were little groups, not only
of men, but also of women and children. On the left side there was an
enormous chimney, which was large enough for a separate chamber. In
this a fire was burning, and a woman was attending to the cooking of
a savory stew. An aromatic smell of coffee was diffusing itself
through the atmosphere; and this was surrounded and intermingled with
the stronger and ranker, though less pungent, odors of the stew
aforesaid.

The priest flung himself carelessly into a seat near a massive oaken
table, and the Carlist chief took a seat beside him. The priest
questioned the chief very closely as to his doings, and the
disposition of his people through the country, while the chief
surveyed the priest furtively and cautiously.

At last he said, abruptly,

"You were on the train yesterday."

"I was," replied the priest, coolly.

"Why did you not tell me who you were?"

"What a question to ask!" said the priest. "Don't you understand?
When _I_ am out I don't want any one to know or suspect. I did not
choose to tell even you. Why should I? I didn't know you."

"But you lost your purse," said the chief, in rather a humble voice.

"And was there much in it?" asked the Priest.

The chief laughed.

Breakfast now followed, and of this the priest partook heartily. Then
he started up.

"I must make haste," said he, "and continue my journey; but as I am
going into out-of-the-way places, I shall have to ask you for some
supplies."

This request was very cheerfully granted, loaves and cold meats being
furnished from the Carlist larder. These the priest put into a
wallet, and thus equipped, he was ready for the march.

"_Adios_," said he, "noble captain, till we meet again."

"_Adios_," said the chief.

The priest then shook hands with his entertainer and turned away.
Leaving the castle, he walked down the slope for some distance, until
at length he reached the skirts of the forest. Turning round here, he
stood looking back cautiously, till he felt convinced that he had not
been followed, and was not observed. He now plunged into the forest,
and worked his way along until he came to the chasm and found the
path before mentioned. Down this he went on his way back to the
tower.




CHAPTER XI.


HOW THE FIRST PRIEST VANISHES, AND ANOTHER PRIEST APPEARS UPON THE
SCENE.


As the priest emerged from the brushwood at the top of the path, he
suddenly found himself face to face with the lady. She had come
through the opening, and was standing outside waiting there,
breathless, her hands clasped, and her eyes set in a fixed and eager
gaze of vigilant outlook and of terrified apprehension. As she
recognized the priest, her whole expression changed; her face
flushed, her eyes grew moist with tears of joy, her lips quivered.

"Oh, thank God! thank God!" she cried. "Oh, how glad I am!"

The priest stood and looked at her in silence, although there was
certainly every occasion for saying something. Finally he held out
his hand, and she took it in hers, which were cold as ice, and
tremulous.


[Illustration: "I'm The Cure Of Santa Cruz."]


"Poor child!" said the priest, "you have been too excited. But were
you not afraid that it might be some one else?"

"Yes," said she; "so afraid that I lost all strength and could not
get back. I thought I heard something like that little short laugh of
yours that you give, but then it seemed imagination. So I waited, and
if it had been an enemy he would have caught me. But I was right,
after all," she ended, joyously. "It was your laugh--and you."

Again the priest stood in silence looking at her.

"It's worth going over there," said he at last, "to make a
fellow-creature happy by coming back."

"Oh no," she said, "not for that. Nothing can compensate for the
frightful, the terrible anxiety--nothing. But I will say no more. I
am ready now for any fatigue or peril. My worst fear is over."

"Oh, it's all very well to be glad to see me," said the priest, with
that short laugh to which the lady had referred, "but that's nothing
to the gladness you'll feel when you see what I've brought back with
me. You just wait and see--that's all!"

With these words he ascended into the tower through the gap, and
assisted the lady after him. They then went up the broken stairway,
and out into the open air to the fallen tree where they had taken
their breakfast. Upon this he seated himself, and the lady did the
same. He now opened the wallet, and distributed to her some of his
stock of provisions, pointing out to her with an air of triumph the
fact that they had enough to last them for a week. The lady said but
little and ate but little; the priest, for his part, ate less; so the
breakfast was soon despatched; after which the priest loaded his pipe
and smoked the smoke of peace.

The priest, as he smoked, occasionally threw a furtive glance at the
lady, who now sat absorbed in her own meditations.

"I propose to ask you a few questions," said the priest, "merely for
the sake of conversation, and you needn't answer unless you like. In
the first place, you haven't been long in Spain, I take it?"

"No," said the lady; "only a few days."

"And you are on your way back to England?"

"Yes."

"Have you been travelling alone?"

"At first I had a maid, but she got frightened and left me at
Bayonne. Since then I have had to travel alone."

"You mustn't think me too inquisitive," said the priest. "I merely
wished to know in a general way, and am by no means trying to pry
into your affairs."

He spoke in a careless tone. He was lolling in an easy attitude, and
appeared to be enjoying his smoke very much. After saying these words
he began to fuss with his pipe, which did not draw well, humming to
himself at the same time some absurd verses:


"My love he was a draper's clerk,
He came to see me after dark:
Around the Park we used to stray
To hear the lily-white bandsmen play.

CHORUS OF DRAPER'S CLERKS.

Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
My love lies buried underground!"


A faint smile came over the lady's face as she heard these
nonsensical words from one in the garb of a priest. Still, she
reflected that while it was his voice that was singing, his mind was
no doubt intent on something else.

"By-the-bye," resumed the priest, "as I'm asking questions, I should
like to ask one more. May I?"

"Most certainly," said the lady. "What is it?"

"Well, your name, you know. It's awkward to be as we are. Now, if I
were shot, and wanted you to help me, I shouldn't know what to call
you."

The lady smiled.

"My name is Talbot," said she.

"Ah--Mrs. Talbot," said the priest; "thanks."

"Not 'Mrs.'" said the lady, again smiling; "Miss Talbot. My full name
is Sydney Talbot."

"Sydney Talbot," repeated the priest. "Thanks. That's all. Everything
else is told. I may add, however, in an incidental way, that my name
is Brooke."

"Father Brooke?" said the lady, interrogatively, with a furtive smile
which was perhaps occasioned by the incongruity between the priest's
sacred garb and somewhat eccentric manner.

To this question the reply was not particularly appropriate. The
priest, or Brooke, as he may now be called, looked with a smile of
quiet drollery at Miss Talbot, and then, in a strange whining voice,
began to drone out some verses of a song:


  "Old Bluebeard was a warrior bold,
  He kept his wives in a great stronghold.
  One--Two--Three--Four--Five--Six--Seven--
  They all of them died and went to Heaven.
  Old B. fell into a dismal state,
  And went and married Number Eight."



"Well," he resumed, in his natural voice, "Father Brooke isn't bad;
Brother Brooke, however, would be better; but, on the whole, simple
'Brooke' is the best of all."

"Well, now, Mr. Brooke," asked the lady, anxiously, "what are our
prospects? Have you found out anything?"

"Oh yes; I've had a conversation with an amiable Carlist who was on
the point of blowing my brains out, and was only prevented by the
unparalleled 'cheek' of the unworthy being who now addresses you."

"Did you really incur such danger?" asked Miss Talbot, in unfeigned
anxiety.

"Danger? Oh, a trifle; but a miss is as good as a mile. I'm here now,
safe and sound, but for two or three seconds you ran a great risk of
making your journey alone. However, I made friends with them, and was
entertained royally. Now, as to escape. I'm sorry to say that the
country is swarming everywhere with these noble Carlists; that there
is no such thing as law; that there are no magistrates, no police, no
post-office, no telegraph, no railway trains, no newspapers, and no
taxes except of an irregular kind."

"That is very bad," said Miss Talbot, slowly, and in a low, anxious
voice.

"Oh yes," said Brooke, "but it's just as I feared.


  "'There was an old man with a beard,'


"you know,


  "'Who said, "It is just as I feared--
  Two owls and a wren
  And a cock and a hen
  Have all built their nests in my beard."'


"That's me. I told you so. Still, there's no need to despair. It's
quite plain that we cannot travel by day without being discovered, so
we shall have to try it by night. This will be all the better. So you
must spend this day in meditation and prayer, and also in laying up a
stock of bodily and mental strength. To-night we set forth, and we
must move on all night long. May I ask if there is any place in
particular to which you prefer going?"

"None whatever. I must leave myself altogether to you."

"So I suppose," said Brooke.

"But is there no danger in this place, Mr. Brooke?"

"Danger? None whatever. I can't explain to you how completely this is
out of the way of every one, whether marauder or honest man. You may
be perfectly at your case on that score. Will this place satisfy
you?"

"Perfectly. But I should like very much to tell you, Mr. Brooke, how
grateful I feel for all this trouble and--"

"Ah, now, Miss Talbot!" cried Brooke, averting his face, and holding
up both hands, "don't--don't! Let's drop all that sort of thing. It's
part of the mockery of civilization. Words generally count for
nothing. Acts are all in all. What I ask of you is for you to gather
up your strength so as to be able to foot it with me and not break
down. But first of all, I must say I very much wish you had some
costume a little less marked than that of an English lady. Now, if
you could pass as a peasant-girl, or an old woman, or a goatherd's
wife, or a vender of quack medicines, or anything humble and yet
national, why--"

Miss Talbot shook her head with a mournful smile, and looked
troubled.

"I've had an idea all day," said Brooke, "which I suppose there's no
great harm in mentioning."

"What?"

"What do you say to disguising yourself as a priest?"

"A priest? How can I?"

"Well, with a dress like this of mine. It's very convenient--long,
ample, hides everything--just the thing, in fact. You can slip it on
over your present dress, and--there you are, transformed into a
priest. I hope you're not proud."

"I'm sure I should be only too glad to disguise myself, but where can
I get the dress?"

"Take this one."

"The one that you have?"

"Yes."

"But what will you do?"

"Do without."

"But that will expose you to danger."

"No it won't. It won't make the slightest difference. I'm only
wearing this for the sake of variety. The fact is, you see, I found I
was growing too volatile, and so I assumed a priest's dress, in the
hope that it would give me greater sobriety and weight of character.
I've been keeping it up for three days, and feel a little tired of
it. So you may have it--a free gift--breviary and all, especially the
breviary. Come--there's a fair offer."

"I really cannot make out," said Miss Talbot, with a laugh, "whether
you are in jest or earnest."

"Oh, then take me in earnest," said Brooke, "and accept the offer.
You see, it's your only chance of escape. You know old Billy Magee--


  "'Old Billy Magee wore a flaxen wig,
  And a beard did his face surround,
  For the bailie came racing after he
  With a bill for fifty pound.'


"So what do you say to gracefully giving way to necessity?"

"If you really think that you will be running no risk--"

"No more than I've always been running until three days ago."

"Well, I shall be very glad indeed, and only too much obliged."

"That's an uncommonly sensible decision," said Brooke. "You see,"
said he, as he unbuttoned the priest's robe, "I've merely been
wearing this over my usual dress, and you can do the same." As he
spoke he drew off the robe. "You can slip it on," he continued, "as
easy as wink, and you'll find it quite large enough every way."

And now Brooke stood divested of the priest's dress, revealing
himself clothed in a suit of brown tweed--hunting-coat,
knickerbockers, stockings, laced boots, etc. He then took from his
coat pocket a travelling-cap with a visor, which he put upon his
head.

"You can have the priest's hat too," he added, "and--But no, by Jove!
I won't--no, I won't let you have the spectacles. You might wear them
in case of need, though, for they're only plain glass. But hang it! I
can't--I can't, and you sha'n't. Only fancy putting spectacles on the
angel Gabriel!"

Meanwhile Miss Talbot had taken the priest's robe and had thrown it
over her own dress. The clerical frock was of cloth, long enough to
reach to her feet, and buttoned all the way from her chin down.
Around the neck was a cape, which descended half-way to the knees. As
she passed her arms through the sleeves she remarked that it would
fit her admirably; and then taking the hat, she retired inside the
tower, so as to adjust the outlines of her new costume in a more
satisfactory manner than was possible before a spectator. At the door
of the tower she turned.

"One thing will be against me," said she. "What shall I do about it?"

"What is that?"

"Why, my hair."

"Your hair!" repeated Brooke. "H'm--well, that is a puzzle!"

"It will interfere with anything like a real disguise, of course."

"Well, I suppose it would. In which case we can only hope not to come
near enough to the enemy to be closely inspected."

"Had I not better cut it off?" said Miss Talbot.

"What!" exclaimed Brooke, with amazement in his face.

Miss Talbot repeated her question.

"Cut off your hair--that hair!" said Brooke. "What a horrible idea!"

"Will you cut it?"

"Never!" said Brooke, fervently.

"Shall I?"

Brooke drew a long breath and looked earnestly at her.

"Oh, don't ask me," said he, at length, in a dejected tone. "I'm
floored! It's like throwing overboard a cargo of gold, and silver,
and precious stones to lighten the ship. Yea, more--it's like the
Russian woman who threw over her child to the wolves to make possible
the escape of the rest of the family. But there are some who would
prefer to be eaten by wolves rather than sacrifice the child."

"Well," said Miss Talbot, "your comparison of the child is a little
too much; but if it comes to throwing the treasure overboard to save
the ship, I shall not hesitate a moment."

Brooke made no reply, and Miss Talbot went into the tower.

Brooke then resumed his seat, and, looking thoughtfully into vacancy,
sang in a low voice all to himself:


  "Oh, a princess there was in the north countree,
  And her hair reached down below her knee;
  And lovers they gathered by thousands there,
  For love of the maid with the golden hair."




CHAPTER XII.


HOW BROOKE AND TALBOT TAKE TO FLIGHT.


Brooke was roused from his meditations by a light footstep close
beside him. He looked up, and saw Miss Talbot standing before him in
her new costume. As he looked he rose to his feet and gazed at her
fixedly without a word.

The change was wonderful.

It was no longer a young lady that he saw--it was a young priest. The
broad hat came down low upon the head, and beneath it there was a
face full of sweet dignity and gentle grace--a face serene, and
noble, and pure. Such a face Raffaelle loved to reproduce while
portraying the Angel of the Visitation, where youth, and radiant
beauty, and unsullied purity, and divinest grace all appear combined
in one celestial visage.

Brooke looked for some time with the an intent gaze, and in utter
silence.

"How do you think I look?" asked Miss Talbot.

"Look?" repeated Brooke. He hesitated as if at a loss, and then went
on in a way that was peculiarly his own. "Look? Oh, first-rate--very
well--very well indeed. In fact, I had no idea that you could
transform yourself so completely. I believe I was on the point of
saying something about a vision of angels, but I'll be commonplace.
All I can say is, that if I were to meet such a priest in real life,
I'd down on my knees at once, make a confession, and--No, I wouldn't;
I'd try to become a priest myself, so as to be always somewhere near
him. And if he were a monk, I'd join the same monastery; and if he
were a missionary, I'd go with him to the uttermost ends of the
earth; if the cannibals ate him up, I'd make them eat me too; and, in
any event, I should feel that in such company I should be nearer
heaven than anywhere else. For, you see, you've always lived in a
serene atmosphere, where you have known nothing of the evil of the
world, and so your face has on it the stamp of Heaven itself, which
it first received, and which has never been effaced. So, you see,
you're just the one to go about as a priest. Oh, it's a great
advantage to be as you are, and to have that angelic face! Like the
old man in the song:


  "'Oh, he never got drunk and he never swore,
  And he never did violate the lor;
  And so we buried him underground,
  And the funeral-bell did merrily sound
  Ding! Dong! Dell!'"


Thus far Brooke had rattled on in a strange, dry fashion; but
suddenly he stopped, and then exclaimed,

"Good Heavens!"

"What's the matter?" asked Miss Talbot, who had seemed much amused at
all this nonsense.

"Why, what have you done with your hair?"

Miss Talbot raised her hat from her head, and looked at him. Again he
looked at her in silence.

Yes, it was all gone! That glorious hair, which awhile ago had been
folded in great masses round her head, was there no longer. She had
cut it off! It was short now, like the hair of a young man, and hung
loose in wavy curls over her forehead. Yet so far from her appearance
being marred or disfigured by such a mutilation, the result was
actually more becoming to her as she stood there in her new costume.
Few could have made such a sacrifice without serious injury to their
appearance; but in this case there was merely a change from one
character to another, and all the beauty and all the subtle
fascination still remained.

"I couldn't have believed it," said Brooke, at length.

"What?"

"Oh, well--several things. In the first place, I couldn't have
believed that any living girl could have made the sacrifice. In the
second place, I couldn't have believed that the one who had passed
through such an ordeal could come forth more glorious than ever. But
the sacrifice was too much. However, it's done. Nay--never shake your
gory locks at me. Thou cans't not say I did it. But where is it all?"

"It? what?"

"As if you don't know! Why, the treasure that you threw
overboard--the child that you flung to the wolves, Russian mother!"

"Oh, you mean the hair! Why, I left it in there."

She pointed carelessly to the tower. At this Brooke went over and
entered it. He saw a mass of hair lying there on the stone floor,
where she had carelessly thrown it after cutting it off. This he
gathered up very carefully and even tenderly, picking up even small
scattered locks of it. Then he rolled it all up into the smallest
possible space, after which he bound it tight in his handkerchief and
put it in his pocket. He was, as usual, singing to himself snatches
of old songs which expressed nothing in particular:


  "The maiden she says to him, says she,
  Another man's wife I've got to be;
  So go thy ways across the sea,
  For all is over with you and me.'"


Which words had certainly no particular application to present
circumstances.

When he came out again, Miss Talbot was seated on the tree in a
meditative mood.

"I was just picking up the hair," said Brooke, in an indifferent
tone. "If we were tracked here and pursued it might tell tales, and
it would tell too much."

"Oh, how thoughtless of me!" said she. "But really I did intend to go
back and throw it down into the torrent. You see, I was so anxious to
know if my disguise was right, that I hurried out at once to show
you."

"Oh, it's all the same. I've disposed of it better than you would
have done."

"I shall try not to be so thoughtless again."

Brooke said nothing, but seated himself near her on the log.

"I'm sorry you don't smoke," said he, after a pause; "but I hope you
don't object to my taking a small whiff now and then."

"Oh no," said Miss Talbot. "I like to see you smoking."

"Do you know," said Brooke, after he had again filled and lighted his
inevitable pipe--"do you know, I think your character is almost
perfect."

"Why, because I don't object to smoking?" asked Miss Talbot, with a
smile.

"Well, I take that as one of the many straws which show how the wind
blows. But do you really mean to tell me that you don't regret what
you have done?"

"What, with my hair? What a question! Regret it? Not at all. It will
grow again--in time. To use your own figure, when the sailor is
struggling for life against the storm, he doesn't regret the treasure
that he has flung overboard so as to lighten the ship. And do you
think that I am so weak as to hesitate for a moment when your safety
as well as my own is concerned? For, you see, I have to remember that
while I am with you, you too are in danger. So, no hesitation is
possible. How could I have the heart to ask you to help me, if I
persisted in keeping up any kind of dress that might endanger both of
us?"

Brooke made no reply, but sat puffing out great clouds of smoke.
After some lapse of time he opened his mouth to speak.

"I wish you had heavier boots," said he.

"Yes," said Miss Talbot, "my boots are my weak point. But, you see, I
never anticipated a walk of twenty or thirty miles. However, my dress
is long, and perhaps my feet will not be noticed."

"Oh, it isn't the fear of their being noticed, but the danger that
they may give way altogether in our rough walk, and leave you
barefoot among the rocks."

"Well, if I find them giving way, I shall wrap rags around them
before they go to pieces altogether."

After a further silence Brooke spoke again.

"There's one thing more," said he, "that may be mentioned. We may
make good our escape to-night, as I hope, but then--we may not. To
provide against occurrences of all sorts, it's as well to adopt
certain fixed characters and act them out. You are a priest--remember
that; never forget it. You have that breviary, which you will do well
to look at from time to time. There's mighty good reading in that
breviary, though I'm sorry to say I never could find it; but no doubt
you'll do more justice to it than I did, especially if you understand
Latin, which I'm afraid you don't. But, you see, it won't do for me
to call you 'Miss Talbot.' We might be captured by fellows who
understand English, and they would at once take the hint. And so
suppose I drop the 'Miss,' and call you simply 'Talbot?'"

"That's a very good suggestion," said Miss Talbot. "The name will be
my own, and familiar, and better than any strange name or title which
you might invent. Oh yes, by all means drop the 'Miss.'"

"You will understand, of course," said Brooke, anxiously, "that in
this proposal there is no disrespect, no attempt at undue
familiarity, no--"

"Surely, surely," said Miss Talbot, earnestly, "it's hardly necessary
to say all that. If you adopt that tone, I shall have to begin and
tell you how deeply grateful I am, how much I owe you, how I long to
do something to--"

"Oh! well. Come, now! if you go on in that way, I am shut up at
once."

He relapsed into silence. After a few minutes he spoke again.

"Talbot," said he, in a strange tone, much softer than his usual
voice.

"Well?" said Miss Talbot, gently.

"As I have dropped the 'Miss,' have you any objections to drop the
'Mister,' and address me by the simple and unconventional name of
'Brooke?' You see, it's very important for us, in our circumstances,
to cultivate this seeming familiarity. If you were really a young
priest, and I were really your friend and travelling companion, we
should address one another in this simple fashion."

"I have no objection whatever," said Miss Talbot, "and I do not see
why you should take such pains to explain. It is enough for you to
ask. Whatever you say I will do."

"Say 'Brooke,' then."

"Brooke," said Miss Talbot, with a little shyness.

"And now, Talbot, I intend to use your surname only in speaking to
you, and I hope that you will do the same with me. This is merely for
practice."

"Certainly, Brooke."

The name came a little awkwardly at first, but after a little further
conversation this difficulty passed away, and the two addressed one
another quite naturally in this simple fashion. And now, as Brooke
has chosen this name for Miss Talbot, I also will drop the "Miss,"
and call her henceforth simply "Talbot."

Brooke made Talbot lie down all the rest of the day, so as to sleep,
if possible, and, at any rate, to lay up a good stock of strength for
the formidable work of the approaching night. With her usual
considerateness and docility, Talbot obeyed; and although she did not
sleep, she certainly obtained an amount of rest of which she stood in
great need.

At length the evening came, and the two ate their repast, after which
Brooke secreted the remainder of the provisions in the tower by way
of precaution. It was not necessary, he said, to carry that load, and
if they were forced to return it would be there for their use.

They started a little after sunset. An hour's walk brought them to
the road, at the spot where they had first met, after which they
turned toward the place where Brooke had left the train on the
previous day. Their pace was a moderate one, for the whole night was
before them, and Brooke was anxious to save Talbot's strength as much
as possible.

For about an hour more they walked along, until they came to where
the country was more open. The moon was shining brightly, and thus
far there had been no signs of life. But at this point there came up
sounds from the road before them which were not a little alarming.
Brooke laid himself upon the ground, and listened for some time.

"People are approaching," said he. "There is quite a large crowd.
They must be Carlists. It will be dangerous for us to go on any
farther. It will be better to hide here until they pass."

"Very well," said Talbot. "I quite agree with you. I should hate to
go back again."

There was on their right, not far from the road, an old windmill,
which stood upon a gently rising ground, and was quite a conspicuous
object. This caught the eye of Brooke as he looked all around.

"There," said he, "is the place for us. These fellows seem to be on
the march. They will soon pass by this and be gone. Let us hide in
the old mill."

Talbot at once assented. They then left the road and crossed the
fields. In a short time they reached the mill. It was deserted, and
the machinery was out of order, but otherwise it was in good
preservation. The door was open, and they entered. Having once
obtained this concealment, they stood in the door-way anxiously
watching. At length they saw a crowd of men come up along the road,
and these they regarded with quick-beating hearts.

"Brooke," said Talbot, in a whisper.

"What?"

"What shall we do if they come here?"

"That's a solemn question," said Brooke. "We ought to have something
to fall back on. Wait."

He went away for a few minutes, and then returned. As he came back to
the door Talbot pressed his arm and pointed. Brooke looked out.

To his horror the whole band had stopped, and some of them were
facing toward the mill as though about to approach it.

"What a mistake we've made!" said Brooke.

"They're coming here!" said Talbot, in a thrilling whisper. "What can
we do? Can we fly?"

"No," said Brooke; "they'll see us. We have only one hope. There's a
ladder here, and we can climb up into the loft. Come."

Taking Talbot's hand, Brooke led her to the ladder, and they climbed
up into the loft, where they sat listening.

Talbot's anticipation was too true. The band approached the mill, and
soon the two fugitives heard them all around.




CHAPTER XIII.


BROOKE AND TALBOT MAKE SEVERAL NEW ACQUAINTANCES.


For some time the two fugitives remained motionless and listened.
There seemed to be a large number of men below, of whom a few were
inside the mill, but the greater part remained outside. These kept up
an incessant jabber; but it was of a discordant character, some
talking about getting ready a supper, some about making a fire, some
about forage, while at times a word would be dropped which seemed to
indicate that they were in pursuit of fugitives. Nothing more
definite than this could be learned.

Brooke, however, had been gradually creeping to one side of the mill,
where there was a window, while Talbot followed as noiselessly as
possible, until they both were able from their concealment to look
out upon the scene below, which was in no way calculated to reassure
them. They saw a crowd of men, about a hundred in number, who looked
very much to Brooke like the train-stoppers of the day before. Their
arms were piled, and they themselves were dispersed about, engaged in
various occupations; some eating, some drinking, some smoking, while
from them all a confused hubbub arose.

Half a dozen ill-looking fellows came toward the door of the mill.

"A fire!" said one. "Let's burn down the old mill. There's wood
enough in it."

"Ay," said another, "wood enough for a hundred fires."

A shout of applause greeted this proposal, but the hearers above felt
their hearts quail with horror. Talbot laid her hand on Brooke's arm.
Brooke, to reassure her, took her hand in his and pressed it gently,
and felt it cold and tremulous. He drew her nearer to him, and
whispered softly in her ear,

"Don't be alarmed. At the worst, we can give ourselves up. Trust to
me."

Talbot drew a long breath, and made a desperate effort to master her
fears; but the scene below grew more and more terrible. The wild
shout of approbation which followed the proposal to bum the mill was
caught up by one after another, till at last the whole band was
filled with that one idea. A dozen men rushed inside, and began to
hammer, and tear, and pull at the flooring and other parts of the
wood-work, while others busied themselves with preparing splints with
which to kindle the fire.

"Brooke," whispered Talbot, in a tremulous voice--"oh, Brooke, let us
go down."

"Wait--not yet," said Brooke, on whose brow cold drops of
perspiration were already standing. "Wait. Let us see what they will
do."

Talbot drew back with a shudder.

"The mill is of stone," said Brooke. "They can't burn it."

"But all the inside is of wood," said Talbot--"the floors, the doors,
the machinery, the beams."

Brooke was silent, and watched the preparations outside. These grew
more and more menacing. A great pile of wood was soon collected,
which grew rapidly to more formidable proportions. If these prisoners
hoped for life, they must leave their present hiding-place, and soon,
too; for soon--ah, too soon, if that pile were once kindled--the
flames would pour in, and burn all the inner wood-work, even if the
walls were of stone.

At this moment a man came hurrying forward and burst in among the
crowd.

"What's the meaning of all this nonsense?" he asked, in a stern
voice.

"Why, we're burning the mill," said one of the most active of the
party.

"Fools!" cried the other, "are you mad? It will attract attention. We
shall be seen--perhaps attacked."

"Pooh!" said the man, impudently, "what of that? That's all the
better."

The other laid his hand upon his sword, and looked as though he was
about to use it; but a wild outcry burst forth from all the crowd,
and with an impatient gesture he turned away. By his dress, which was
the only uniform visible, and also by his bearing, he seemed to be
the captain of the band, yet his authority did not seem to receive
any very strong recognition. Still, the sight of this uniform was of
itself encouraging to Brooke, who now at once decided upon the course
which he should adopt. There was no longer time to hesitate. Already
the match was struck, the next moment the flame would be touched to
the kindling, and the fires would blaze up.

So Brooke called in a loud voice,

"Stop! stop! till we come down!"

At this cry they all looked up in amazement. The match dropped from
the hand of the man who held it, and several of the men sprang to
their arms.

"Who goes there?" cried the one who seemed to be the captain.

"Friends," said Brooke; "we'll come down."

Then turning to Talbot, he whispered:

"Now, Talbot, is the time to show the stuff you're made of. Courage,
my boy! courage! Remember, Talbot, you're not a girl now--not a weak
girl, but you're a boy--and an English boy! Remember that, my lad,
for now your life and mine too depend upon you!"

"Don't fear for me," said Talbot, firmly.

"Good!" said Brooke. "Now follow me, and be as cool as a clock, even
if you feel the muzzle of a pistol against your forehead."

With these cheerful words Brooke descended and Talbot followed. The
ladder had not been removed, for the simple reason that it consisted
of slats nailed against two of the principal beams, too solid even
for Samson himself to shake. On reaching the lower story they hurried
out at once, and the gang stood collected together awaiting them--a
grim and grisly throng. Among them, the man whom Brooke had taken for
their captain was now their spokesman.

"Who are you?" he asked, rudely, after a hasty glance at each.

Brooke could not now adopt the tone which had been so effective in
the morning, for his gown was off, and he could no longer be the Cure
of Santa Cruz. He kept his coolness, however, and answered in an
off-hand manner.

"Oh, it's all right; we're friends. I'll show you our papers."

"All right?" said the other, with a laugh. "That's good too!"

At this all the crowd around laughed jeeringly.

"I belong to the good cause," said Brooke. "I'm a loyal subject of
His Majesty. _Viva el Rey_!"

He expected some response to this loyal sentiment, but the actual
result was simply appalling. The captain looked at him, and then at
Talbot, with a cruel stare.

"Ah!" said he. "I thought so. Boys," he continued, turning to his
men, "we're in luck. We'll get something out of these devils. They're
part of the band. They can put us on the track."

This remark was greeted with a shout of applause.

"Allow me to inform you, senor," said the captain to the unfortunate
Brooke, "that you have made a slight mistake. You are not our
friends, but our enemies. We are not Carlists, but Republicans. I am
Captain Lopez, of the Fourteenth Regiment, and have been detailed
with these brave fellows on a special mission. You are able to give
us useful information; but if you refuse to give it you shall both be
shot."

In spite of the terrible mistake which he had made, Brooke kept his
coolness and his presence of mind admirably.

"I'm very glad to hear it," said he to Lopez. "The fact is, I thought
you were Carlists, and so I said that I was one too--as any one would
 do. But I'm not a Carlist; I'm a Republican."

Lopez, at this, gave utterance to a derisive laugh.

"Oh yes," he said, "of course, you are anything we please. And if we
should turn out, after all, to be Carlists, you would swear that you
are a Carlist again. Doesn't it strike you, senor, that you are
trifling with us?"

"I assure you, Captain Lopez," said Brooke, "that I'm not a Carlist,
for I'm not a Spaniard."

"You may not be a Spaniard, yet still be a devoted Carlist."

"Yes, but I'm not. I assure you that I'm a Republican. Shall I prove
it to you and to all these gentlemen?"

"Try it," sneered Lopez.

"I'm an American," said Brooke.

"An American," repeated Lopez, bitterly. "Better for you to be a
Carlist than that. Is it not enough for you Americans to intermeddle
with our affairs in Cuba, and help our rebels there, but must you
also come to help our rebels here? But come--what is your business
here? Let's see what new pretence you have to offer."

"I am a traveller."

"Yes, I suppose so," sneered Lopez. "And who is this other?"

"He is a young priest."

"A young priest? Ah! Then, senor, let me inform you that as Spaniards
we hate all Americans, and as Republicans we hate all priests. Spain
has had too much of both. Americans are her worst enemies outside and
priests inside. Down with all Americans and priests!"

The echo to this sentiment came in a shout from all the followers of
Lopez,

"Down with all Americans and priests!"

With this cry a hundred fierce faces surrounded them, and glared at
them with fiery eyes. It seemed as though their last hour had come.
The crowd pressed closer, and clamored for their immediate
destruction. The only thing that held them back was the attitude of
Brooke, who stood perfectly cool and tranquil, with his eyes fixed on
Lopez, a good-natured smile on his face, and his hands carelessly in
his pockets. Close beside him stood Talbot, pale, it is true, but
with a calm exterior that showed not one trace of fear. Brooke did
not see her, and did not venture to look at her, but he felt that she
was as firm as a rock. Had they faltered in the slightest degree, the
storm must have burst; but as it was, the calmness of these two
disarmed the fury of the mob, and their fierce passion died away.

"Captain Lopez," said Brooke, in a quiet and friendly tone, "you may
have reason to hate my country, but I assure you that you have
absolutely no cause for complaint against me and my friend. We are
simple travellers who have been interrupted on our journey, and are
now trying to get to the nearest railway station so as to resume it
as soon as possible."

"How did you get here?" asked Lopez, after a pause, in which he again
scrutinized severely the two prisoners.

Brooke had anticipated this question, and had made up his mind as to
his answer. It was his intention to identify himself with Talbot, and
speak as though he had all along been travelling with "the young
priest."

"Our train stopped," said he, "and we took the diligence over this
road yesterday. We were stopped again, captured and robbed by
Carlists, and we have escaped from them, and are now trying to get
back."

"Was your train stopped by Carlists?"

"No; the diligence."

"Where did the Carlists go?"

"I have no idea."

"Where did you come from last?"

"Barcelona."

"Where are you going now?"

"To England," said Brooke; "and finally." he added, "allow me to show
you this, which I am sure will establish my character in your eyes."

With these words he drew forth a paper and handed it to Lopez. The
latter took it, and one of the men lighted a bit of wood which served
as a torch, after which Lopez read the following:


"_Head-quarters, Vittoria, May 10th. 1873.

"This is to certify that the bearer of this is an American citizen
named Raleigh Brooke, and is correspondent of a New York journal. He
has permission to traverse our lines in pursuit of his business.
CONCHA_."


Lopez read it over a second time.

"A newspaper correspondent!" said he. "H'm! That means a spy." He
handed it back again to Brooke, who replaced it in his pocket. "I'll
think it over," continued Lopez. "I'll examine you both to-morrow and
inspect your papers. I'm too tired now. You may both go inside again
where you were hiding before. We won't burn you up."

At these last words the whole gang burst into a jeering laugh that
foreboded something so horrible that the stout heart of Brooke
quailed within him, as, followed by Talbot, he once more entered the
old mill.




CHAPTER XIV.


HOW THE ANXIOUS RUSSELL SEEKS TO CONCEAL A TREASURE.


The Russell party, on reaching the castle, were all conducted inside,
where they found themselves in an arched hall which has already been
described. Traversing this, they ascended the massive stairway at the
end, and came to another large hall immediately above the lower one.
This had once been the grand banqueting hall of the castle, and was
less rough and severe in its appearance than other parts; for while
the walls elsewhere showed the unfinished faces of the rude blocks of
stone, here there was an effort after something like ornament; yet
this was so slight that even here the general air was still one of
severe and austere graudeur, as if there had been wrought out in this
stone-work the mind of the stern Goth who reared it, who held it, not
for a home, but rather for a fortress, whence he could dominate the
surrounding country.

If Harry had cherished any hope of prolonging his acquaintance with
Katie he was now destined to be disappointed; for on reaching this
upper hall they were informed that they would have to be
separated--the men to go in one direction and the women in another.
This arrangement was partly for the comfort of both parties, but
still more for their safe-keeping, since escape would thus be far
more difficult. Accordingly the ladies were taken away by some female
attendants; while Russell, in company with Harry, was taken to their
quarters on the opposite side of the great hall.

Here they found themselves in an apartment which was very long, very
wide, and very lofty. The roof was arched, and all the stones were of
cyclopean dimensions. At one end there was an immense fireplace. On
either side there were narrow windows, which on one side looked down
on the front yard inside the wall, while on the other they commanded
a view of one of the inner courtyards. Harry, on his first entrance
into the room, walked about surveying the place, and noting these
particulars by the lurid glow of the torches.

This first survey assured him that, as far as appearances went, there
was scarcely any possibility of escape. The walls were too strong to
be penetrated in any way, and the windows were too narrow for any one
to pass through. In fact, they were slits rather than windows.
Moreover, even if it had been possible for any one to pass through
the windows, the ground below was too far away to be reached without
some means of descent. Finally, there were the armed men outside, and
the extreme wall, which was too lofty to be scaled. On the whole, the
prospect was highly unsatisfactory, and Hurry turned away from this
first survey with a feeling of mild dejection. There was scarcely
anything in the room which deserved the name of furniture. In one
corner there was a rude structure with straw on it, which was
intended for a bed. Opposite this there was a ponderous oaken bench,
and upon this old Russell seated himself wearily. Here he sat, and as
Harry completed his survey of the apartment, his eyes rested upon his
unfortunate companion as he sat there, the picture of terror,
despondency, and misery. Harry felt an involuntary pity for the man;
and as his own flow of spirits was unfailing, he set himself to work
to try and cheer him.

"Well," said he, "this is rather a dismal place, Russell; but, after
all, it's better than being put in a vault underground."

"It's pup-precious kik-kik-cold," said Russell, his teeth chattering,
partly from cold and partly from terror. "This'll bring on an attack
of rheumatiz--that's what it's going to do. Oh, I know it!"

"Well, it a little chilly, that's a fact," said Harry, shrugging his
shoulders. "It's a pity we couldn't use that fireplace. But what a
tremendous fireplace it is! Why, it's as big as a barn. What do you
say to our amusing ourselves by starting a fire? It would be great
fun."

"But we've gig-gig-got no fuel," said Russell, with a shiver.

"Fuel? Why, let's cut up that big bench."

"What with?"

"Why, with my pocket-knife, of course. We could whittle enough chips
off it to make a good big fire, and still have enough left for a
bench. In fact, we could get enough fuel off that for a dozen fires.
Why, man, there must be at least a cord of wood in that bench.
Whittling's rather slow work, it's true, but in a place like this
it'll be an occupation, and that's something. Prisoners go mad unless
they have something to do; and so, just to save myself from madness,
I mean to go in for fuel--unless you can think of something else
that's better."

Rattling out this in his usual lively fashion, Harry went to the
bench, and began a solemn examination of it, with a view toward
whittling it up into firewood. Russell did not move, but regarded
Harry with the same silent misery in his face. At last he spoke:

"What did-did-do you think they're a-going to did-did-do?"

"Who?" asked Harry.

"Why, these people--that kik-kik-captured us."

"These Carlists? Well, I don't know--seems to me they want to make
some money out of us."

"Why did they let all the Spaniards go and kik-kik-capture us?"

"Oh, well, they think as we're English we'll probably have more money
about us than their own countrymen, and be safer plunder also."

"Did-did-do you think they'll go so far as to pip-pup-plunder us?"
asked Russell, in a voice of horror.

"Haven't a doubt of it."

"Oh Lord!" groaned the other.

"What's the matter?"

Russell gave a fresh groan.

"This kik kik-cursed kik-kik-country!" he at length ejaculated.

"Oh, well," said Harry, "it isn't the country, it's the people."

"Do you think they're really Kik-kik-Carlists?"

"Well, yes. I don't see any reason why they shouldn't be."

"I was thinking that they might be bub-bub-bandits."

"Well, there isn't any very great difference between the two, so far
as we are concerned."

"But isn't there any law among the Kik-kik-Carlists? Can't we appeal
to Did-did-Don Carlos?"

"Oh yes, of course--if we could only get at him, and if he could only
get at us; but these two things are just what can't be done. And so
I'm afraid we'll have to make up our minds to pay the piper."

At this Russell again gave a heavy groan.

"Don't be alarmed," said Hurry, in a soothing tone. "We can beat them
down."

"No," moaned Russell, "we can't do anything. And I've got too much
about me altogether."

"You haven't carried any large sum of money with you, surely?" cried
Harry. "Why, man, you're mad!"

"But I didn't think there'd be any danger on the railway," said
Russell.

"If your money is in bills of exchange you'll be right enough," said
Harry.

Russell shook his head.

"No," said he, "it's worse than that."

"How?"

"My money is in bub-bub-bonds--Spanish bub-bub-bonds."

"Bonds!" repeated Harry.

"Yes," groaned Russell--"kik-kik-coupon bub-bub-bonds."

"Coupon bonds! Why, man, what in Heaven's name are you doing with
coupon bonds in this country?"

"Why, they're Spanish bonds, and I was taking them out of the country
to England."

"Whew!" whistled Harry. "In how much?"

"Thirty thousand pounds!" wailed Russell, in a voice of despair.

Another prolonged whistle was the result of this information.

"It's no use making it a secret to you," continued Russell. "I'll be
searched, I suppose, and the bonds'll be taken."

"I'll tell you what to do," said Harry: "let me take care of them."

Russell shook his head.

"N-no; you'll be searched too. They'll be no safer."

"Well, then, hide them in this room somewhere."

"I don't know where to hide them," said Russell, dolefully; "besides,
we may be taken to another room, and so it's no use hiding them here.
I've been thinking of sewing them up inside the lining of my coat,
only I haven't any needle and thread to sew with. Oh, if Mrs. Russell
were here! I didn't think of this. I'd get her to stitch them inside
my coat to-night. And now I don't know what to do. If it weren't for
these bonds I should feel safe enough. But the amount is so
e-normous!"

"Are they registered?"

"Oh no. I don't believe they register bonds in this miserable
country, or do anything but steal them," groaned Russell. "I suppose
they'll overhaul us all to-morrow."

"Very likely."

"Can you think of any way by which I can hide these bonds?"

Harry shook his head. At the same moment there occurred to him what
Ashby had told him about certain Spanish bonds. If Ashby was right,
then this must be the very money which belonged to Katie, and which,
according to Ashby, Russell was trying to get hold of for himself.
From this point of view it suddenly assumed an immense interest in
his eyes, and drove away the thought of every other thing. Even the
fire was now forgotten, and the bench was not desecrated by the
knife.

"See here; I'll tell you what to do," said Harry, thoughtfully and
earnestly. "The very worst thing that you can do is to carry all that
money about with you, on your own person, mind that. You'll be
searched, of course. To stitch them in your clothes is absurd. These
people will examine every square inch of all your clothes, including
your shirt-collar, your pocket-handkerchief, your silk hat, and your
boots. They'd find the smallest fragment of a bit of paper, even if
you had it hidden inside your bootlaces. Now, I'll tell you what
you'll have to do. You'll have to get rid of that money of yours."

"Bub-bub-bub-but how?" stammered Russell, in fresh consternation.

"How? Why, hide it."

"Where?"

"Somewhere about here--and soon too--before you go to sleep."

"But suppose I am tit-tit-taken away, and don't come back again?"

"Well, in that case your only hope is to confide in me, and then if
you are taken way I shall perhaps be left. It's not likely that both
of us will be taken away from here. We shall perhaps be separated,
and one will be left behind. In that case the one who is left can
watch over the treasure. Besides, in case we should escape we shall
know where it is, and we may be able to get the government to send a
body of men here to help us recover it."

"Oh yes--the government!" said Russell, bitterly. "I know the
government here--only too well. The government will send a body of
men here to help us recover it, and then--why, then of course they'll
keep it all for themselves, every farthing. Yes, sir, that's the
Spanish style--every farthing. No; don't talk to me about the
government. I'm bound to hold on to this, and not trust to any of
your beggarly Spanish governments."

"But if you hold on to it you'll be sure to lose it," said Harry, in
great impatience.

"I don't believe they'll examine me at all," said Russell, suddenly
changing his tone.

"They will," persisted Harry, "as sure as you're alive, and that too
before this time to-morrow. In that case you'll lose every penny of
the thirty thousand pounds."

(And of course, thought Harry, it'll be poor little Katie's loss; and
all through the infernal obstinacy of this pig-headed tailor!)

"Oh, well. I'll think it over," said Russell, cautiously avoiding any
further discussion.

"You won't have much time for that," urged Harry.

"Oh yes, I will--plenty of time. I'll have all night, for I won't
sleep a wink, and I shall have nothing else to do but to think over
this."

This was droned out in a tone of utter despair.

Harry spent some more time in trying to change Russell's mind, but in
vain; and at length he gave up, thinking that he would have a better
chance in the morning. Besides, he was beginning to feel sleepy, and
his arguments were growing somewhat incoherent; so he flung himself
on the rude couch just as he was, "all standing," and in a few
minutes was sound asleep.

Russell sat motionless for some time, until at length the heavy
breathing of his companion showed that he was asleep. Upon this he
rose, and went on tiptoe softly over to Harry's bed, and tried in
various ways to see whether the sleep was false or real. Having
assured himself that it was real, he took up the torch and began to
survey the apartment more closely. Already, while talking with Harry,
his eyes had narrowly scanned every corner of the room, and no place
had appeared which could afford the slightest chance of concealment.
From the very first he had thought of the stone pavement of the
floor; but now, on examination, this proved to be far too ponderous
to be moved by any force that he could command. Thus, after having
traversed the whole room, he reached the fireplace.

This, as has been said, was of gigantic dimensions, being intended to
hold enough wood to heat this vast apartment. Here among the
mountains, inside this stone castle, the cold was sometimes severe,
and the builders of the castle had in this way made provision for the
comfort of its occupants. To this chimney Russell now turned his
attention, in the hope that something might present itself here which
could be used as a place of concealment. So he walked stealthily and
noiselessly toward it, and on reaching it stood surveying its huge
dimensions in great astonishment. Such chimneys may still be seen in
many an old castle or palace in the north of Europe, though less
frequent in the castles of Spain. This one was deep and wide and
high, and our friend Russell could easily enter it without stooping.

He entered thus the great fireplace and looked around, holding his
torch so as to light up the interior. Below, there was the pavement
of stone, which seemed solid and immovable. Above, the chimney arose
far on high, and through the wide opening the sky overhead was
plainly visible, with its glittering stars.

Now, as Russell stood peering about, he noticed something in the
construction of the chimney which struck him as rather peculiar, and
this was several stones on the left side, which projected from the
wall and were placed one above another. The arrangement was so
singular that it at once arrested his attention, and being in search
of a hiding-place for his treasure, he could not avoid examining it
further with keener interest. This arrangement of the stones one
above another was suggestive of climbing. They seemed intended for
steps, and he therefore peered upward more curiously, to see how far
these steps continued and what was the end. Looking thus upward, he
noticed on one side what seemed like a niche in the chimney wall. It
was so formed that it was not visible unless one were standing deep
inside the chimney and looking up for it, and it seemed to be deep
and spacious. No sooner had he caught sight of this niche than he
determined to investigate it farther. For a few moments he paused to
see whether Harry was still asleep or not, and then, being satisfied
on this point, he began to climb up. So nicely were the stones
adjusted that this was easy even to an inactive and heavy man like
him, and after ascending three steps ho stood and peered into the
niche. It seemed quite deep. He could not see any end to it or any
terminating wall. What the design of it was he could not imagine. He
saw, however, that it afforded an admirable place of concealment for
his treasure, and he determined at once to avail himself of it. Here
he thought it would be secure from discovery, and it might remain
here undetected and unharmed for any length of time. As for fire, it
was not likely that the chimney was ever used; but even if it were,
there was scarcely any possibility that the flames could affect
anything in this deep niche.

Russell now took from his pocket a bulky parcel, and leaning far
inside the niche, he laid it carefully down. Then he held up the
torch and allowed its light to fall into the niche, so as to see that
all was secure; after which, feeling fully satisfied with his work,
and experiencing a great sense of relief, he descended from his
perch. Shortly after he extinguished the torch, and then, stretching
himself out on the bed beside Harry, he resigned himself to oblivion.




CHAPTER XV.


IN WHICH RUSSELL UNDERGOES AN EXAMINATION.


Early on the following morning Russell was roused from sleep by a
messenger, who made a peremptory demand for him to rise and follow.
Harry explained that he was wanted by the Carlist chief for
examination, and reproached him for not having concealed the bonds
the previous night; at which reproachful words Russell showed no
signs of dejection, as Harry had expected, but, on the contrary, to
his amazement, seemed to have upon his face a slight air of triumph,
regarding him with a self-satisfied smile and a cunning leer which
puzzled him greatly. This strange and unexpected change in Russell,
from terror and despair to peace of mind and jocularity, was a puzzle
over which Harry racked his brains for some time, but to no purpose.

Meanwhile Russell was led away. He didn't take up any time with his
toilet, for the unfortunate man saw nothing with which he could even
wash his face. However, he made no complaint, and for a very good
reason, since he could not speak a word of Spanish; and, moreover, he
still felt so joyful over his concealment of the treasure, that he
was able to bear with considerable equanimity all the lesser ills of
life.

In a few minutes he found himself ushered into the presence of the
Carlist chief. The latter was seated upon a chest, over which some
rugs were spread. Another chest was also there, upon which he signed
to Russell to be seated.

"Ye doesn't spake Spanish?" said the chief.

At these words Russell started and stared in surprise. The words were
English, with an accent that was not altogether unfamiliar. It seemed
a good omen.

"Do you speak English?" he exclaimed.

"A throifle," said the chief. "I had a frind that learned me a few
sintincis av it; so I doesn't moind spakin it, as it'll be more
convaynient for both av us. Ye must know, thin, that, in the first
place, I lamint the necessichood that compils me to arrest the loikes
av you, but I've got arders from me military shupariors, an' I've got
to obey thim, so I have. It's no use protistin, for I'm only an
agint. So I'd loike yez to be honest wid me, an' I'll be the same wid
you."

"Why, you speak English first-rate--in fact, splendid," said the
delighted Russell. "I never heard a foreigner speak it so well
before."

"Sure an' it's aisy enough," said the chief; "as aisy as dhrinkin',
whin ye have practice. I've got a farm accint, av coorse, but that's
nayther here nor there."

Russell thought that his accent had a little smack of Irish about it,
and wondered whether all Spaniards spoke English like that.

"Ye'll excuse me," said the chief, "if I have to ax you a few
throiflin interrogations for farrum's sake. I'll now begin. What is
your name?"

"Russell."

"Russell--ah! What profession?"

"A gentleman," said Russell, somewhat pompously.

"A gintleman, eh; an' ye live on yer own money?"

"Of course."

"That's right," said the chief, with deep satisfaction. "It's meself
that's the proud man this day to meet wid the loikes avyou that's got
an indepindint fartune, an' can call his sowl his own. An' have yez
been long in Spain, thin?"

"No, only a couple of months."

"Thravellin' for plisure, av coorse," insinuated the chief.

"Yes; I wanted to take a run through the Continent," said Russell, in
a grandiose way, as though the "Continent" was something belonging to
him; "and I'm also bringing home with me a ward of mine--Miss
Westlotorn."

"Ah! an' so the young lady is a ward av yours? I thought she was your
daughter."

"No, she's my ward."

"Is she rich?"

"Well, sir, she's comfortable; she's worth about fifty thousand
pounds sterling. Now I don't call that rich; I only call it
comfortable."

"An' what do yez call rich?" asked the chief, in a tender voice, full
of affectionate interest.

"Well, a couple of hundred thousand pounds or so. You see, when I was
worth fifty thousand I thought I was somebody, but I soon learned how
paltry an amount that is. No, sir; two hundred thousand pounds are
necessary to make a rich man, and not a penny less, sir--not a penny,
sir."

"Thim's me own sintimints intirely," said the chief; "that shuits me,
so it does. I saw by the cut av yez that ye must be a millionnaire at
laste--so I did."

"A millionnaire!" said Russell, with affected modesty. "Well, you
know, in England that's a big word; but I suppose here in Spain, or
anywhere on the Continent, I might be called one."

"I suppose," said the chief, after a pause, "that ye've got an
ixtinsive acquaintince wid the nobility an' gintry an' all thira
fellers?"

"Yes," said Russell, "I have; and not in England only, but throughout
the Continent. Not that I think much of the Continental nobility.
Between you and me, I think they're a beggarly lot."

"Thrue for you," said the chief. "Thim's me own sintimints."

"Why, sir," continued Russell, who evidently thought he was making a
deep impression, and so went on all the more in his vainglorious
boastings, "some of these here Continental nobility ain't worth a
brass farthing. Why, sir, there's lots of respectable English
merchants--tailors, for instance--and other quiet, unassuming
gentlemen, who could buy out these Continental nobles, out and out,
over and over again."

"Divil a doubt av that same," said the chief. "Ye know how to ixpriss
yourself wid very shuitable sintimints. I'd like to know more av you.
I suppose ye've got a passport?"

"A passport?" said Russell. "Well, yes, I believe I did get one;" and
fumbling in his pocket, he succeeded in bringing to light that
important document. This the chief took, and, without opening it, put
it in his own pocket.

"I'll take a luk at it prisintly," said he. "Perhaps ye can tell me
about yer frind, the young man that's wid yez. Is he yer son?"

"Son? Oh no; but he's a doosed fine young feller. His name's Rivers."

"Is he rich?"

"Well, he's pretty comfortable, I think. He's in the wine and fruit
business, and has an agency at Barcelona."

"Sure an' it's meself that's glad to hear that same," said the chief.
"An' can ye tell me anything about that other young man that was
shtrivin' to join yer party?"

"That fellow--his name's Ashby."

"Ashby, is it?"

"Yes, and the greatest scoundrel that ever lived--a miserable
fortune-hunter, trying to inveigle my ward into a marriage. I came
here barely in time to save her. And the only object the infernal
scoundrel has now in sneaking after me is to try and get hold of her
and get her from me. But he'll find he's got pretty tough work before
him. He's got me to deal with this time."

"Is the young gyerrul fond av him?" asked the chief, in a tone of
deep anxiety.

"She? Fond of him? Pooh! Nonsense! She's like all girls--likes to
have attentions paid her, that's all; and so this poor fool thought
she would marry him. Why, the man's an ass! But I guess he's had
enough of chasing her by this time. By Jove! there's some
satisfaction, after all, in being caught this way, since he's caught
too."

Some further conversation followed of the same kind. Russell
continued to indulge in a strain of self-glorification, and the chief
to ask him questions. By yielding to his silly vanity Russell was
preparing the way for results which he little expected. Little did he
dream of what was soon to disclose itself. He thought that he was
impressing the mind of the Carlist chief with ideas of the greatness,
grandeur, power, wealth, and glory of the celebrated Russell whom he
had made his prisoner, and hoped in this way to overawe his captor so
as to secure good treatment, or even to terrify him into letting him
go. He little knew that the chief regarded him merely as a bird to be
plucked. In his eyes, the more the feathers the greater the yield.
The moment the chief found that his prisoner professed to be a
millionnaire, that moment the fate of Russell and his party was
sealed. The effect upon the chief was already manifest in part, for
every moment he grew more courteous in his manner.

"Sure it's meself," said he, at length, "that's bothered about the
accommodations ye have. It's a cowld, damp room that, an' no
furniture at all at all."

"Yes," said Russell, "it _is_ rather rough; and for a man that's
accustomed to high living and luxurious surroundings it's very bad.
I'm dreadful afraid of rheumatiz."

"Don't spake another word about it," said the chief, briskly. "I'll
find ye another room where ye'll be as comfortable as the Quane av
England. Ye'll have as good a bed as the best."

This sudden offer startled Russell and excited dreadful
apprehensions. What would become of his bonds? He hastened now to
modify his last words.

"Oh, well," said he, "for that matter, you needn't trouble yourself.
I dare say I shall do very well where I am."

"Do very well, is it? What! an' you wid the rheumatiz! Sure to glory
an' ye'll not do anything av the kind. I'll get yez another room
where ye'll be warrum."

"Oh, but," said Russell, in deep uneasiness, "I like that room, I do,
really. I like the view and the--the--the ventilation. It's
splendid--in fact it's the finest room to sleep in I ever saw. If you
could only let me have a bed to myself--"

"A bed to yerself? Sure an' that's jist what I'm going to give ye--a
bed to yerself altogether an' a room too; an' so ye'll have comfort,
an' warrunith, an' solichood all comboined."

"But, really," persisted Russell, "my dear sir, all that is quite
unnecessary."

"Not a bit av it. Ye'll have the best; an' the room 'll be yours at
onct, so it will; an' ye'll not go back to bed again in that frozen
hole."

"But I assure you--I assure you," persisted Russell, most earnestly,
"it's a noble room--a comfortable room--a splendid room."

"Oh, sure ye're too modest, so ye are," said the chief. "But nivir ye
moind--lave it all to me. I'll fix it for ye."

Russell was in deep dejection and anxiety, yet he felt afraid to
press the matter too eagerly. To be taken away from the vicinity of
his treasure was indeed a crushing blow, yet he dared not object too
strongly lest the chief might suspect something. So he could only
submit with the best grace possible under the circumstances, and find
faint consolation in the thought that the treasure was at least
secure.

After a brief silence the chief resumed:

"It's pained I am, so I am, to trouble a gintleman av fartune, but
I'm undher the onplisint naycissichood av subjictin' ye to a further
examination. It's a mite onplisint at first, but it's nothin' whin
yer used to it."

"Another examination?" repeated Russell, with no little uneasiness.
"What is that?"

"Oh, it's only an examination av yer apparel, yer clothes, bit by
bit."

"My clothes?"

"Yes--to gyard against anythin' bein' concailed about ye."

"But I have nothing concealed, on my honor!"

At this the chief waved his hands deprecatingly.

"Hush!" said he. "Whisht, will ye! don't I know it? begorra meself
does. It's all a mere farrum. It's a laygal inactmint that I've got
to follow. Discipline must be kept up. Sure an' if I didn't obey the
law meself first an' foremost, me own mind 'ud all revolt against me,
an' thin where'd I be? But it'll not be anythin'. Sure to glory,
many's the fine man I've shtripped, an' him none the worse for it. So
go ahead, fool, an' the sooner ye begin, the sooner it'll be over."

"I--I--don't see--I--I--don't know--" stammered Russell.

"Arrah, sure to glory, it's as aisy as wink. Begin where ye are."

"What, here?" cried Russell, aghast.

"Yis."

"Undress here?"

"Av coorse."

"But--but--mayn't I have a private room?"

"But ye mayn't, for ye moight consale somethin'. Ye've got to ondress
before the examinin' committee--that's me. Sometimes it's done in the
presence av a committee av the whole--that's the whole regiment av
us; but this time, out av jue respect for you an' considherations av
decarrum, I've farrumed a committee av one."

"But what other clothes may I put on?" asked Russell, ruefully.

"Sure an' I've got a fine shuit for ye."

"I don't see any."

"Oh, they're handy enough to here: they're in the next room, quite
convaynient, an' I'll let ye have thim afther ye get these off."

Russell stood still in deep gloom and despondency. All his finest
feelings were outraged beyond description at this proposal. The
chief, however, sat calm and smiling, as though quite unconscious of
any evil intent.

"Come," said he, "hurry up!"

There was no help for it. He was clearly in this man's power. It was
a dreadful thought; yet he had to obey.

So he took off his cravat. This he did slowly and solemnly, as though
preparing to bare his neck for the axe of the executioner.

"Come, make haste," said the chief. "I've only got a few minutes to
spare; an' if ye can't change yer clothes before me alone, why, I'll
have to go off, an' thin ye'll have half a dozen av thim up here at
ye."

"And must I?" moaned the unhappy man.

"Av coorse," said the chief. "An' what is it all? Sure it's nothin'
at all at all, so it isn't."

Russell gave a heavy sigh, and then taking off his coat he laid it on
the floor. Then he cast an appealing glance at the chief, who,
however, only responded with an impatient gesture. Thereupon Russell
took off his waistcoat. Another appealing glance was then thrown at
the chief, who only responded by a gesture more impatient than
before.

"Come," said he, "be quick! Ye see, ye may have no end av val'able
dockymints stitched in between the lining av yer clothes--I've often
knowed that same. Begorra, we get more in that way that we find
stitched in the clothes, than we do from the wallets an' the opin
conthributions."

"But I haven't anything stitched between my clothes."

"So ye say, an' so I'm bound to believe," said the chief. "Sure I
wouldn't for the worruld be afther hintiu' that ye iver spake
anythin' but the truth. Howandiver, I'll tell ye somethin'. Ye see, I
was standin' at the dure av yer room last night by the marest
accidint, an' I happened to overhear a confabulation between you an'
Rivers. An' ye know what ye towld him, and ye know what he said to
you. Ye said somethin' about havin' Spanish bonds--to the chune av
thirty thousand pounds--in yer pocket, or about ye somewhere, an' ye
wanted some place to hide it, an' Rivers advised ye to have it
stitched in yer clothes. Now, I scorrun avesdhroppin', so I does, but
whin iufarrumation av that kind comes free to yer ears, ye're bound
to I get the good av it. An' so I'm goin' to instichoot an
invistigation over yer clothes, an' over yer room, an' over yer
thrunks, an' over everythin' ye've got, an' I'm not goin' to rist
till I've got thim bonds. Oh, ye needn't say anythin'--I can see it
all in yer face. There's nothin' to say. I don't expect ye to own up
an' hand over the money. I'm contint to hunt it up meself--that is,
for the prisint. Ye see, it's mine, for it belongs to His R'yal
Majesty Carlos, King av Spain. The bonds are issued by Spain, an' as
he is King av Spain he owns thim bonds. If ye was a native Spaniard
ye'd give thim up out av pure loyalty, but as ye're a farr'ner, why,
av coorse ye can't be ixpicted to deny yerself to such an ixtint."

At this astounding disclosure Russell was struck dumb. So, then, his
secret was betrayed, and in the most dangerous quarter, and, worst of
all, by his own folly! Once or twice he was about to speak, but the
chief checked him, and he himself was only too well aware of the
utter futility of any denial or of any attempt to explain away what
the chief had overheard. Only one consolation now remained, and that
was the hope that the chief might not find it. The place in which he
had hidden the bonds seemed to him to be very much out of the way of
an ordinary search, and not at all likely to be explored by any one.



[Illustration: "His Unfortunate Companion Sat There, The Picture Of
Terror, Despondency, And Misery."]


[Illustration: "An' So, I Say, Ye'll Have To Look On Thim Gin'ral's
Clothes As Yer Own."]


At length Russell had finished his task, and had divested himself of
everything, his remorseless captor insisting on his leaving nothing;
and so he stood shivering and crouching on the stone floor.

"Now," sa

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