BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE (continued 9)

"I remember it all now. That's my friend the commissary."

"Well, he's peeling onions at this moment. A little change for him, but all in the same line of business. It was he told me what had happened; lucky I can make out two French words out of ten. By Jove! what bloodthirsty ruffians these Spaniards are! If it hadn't been for me all the prisoners would have been garroted or roasted before slow fires, or something. When I saw what was in the wind my blood boiled. I couldn't stand that; no Englishman could; so I made 'em a speech. Lord! I never knew I could rattle it off so; I must go into Parliament. Of course they couldn't understand what I said, but I threw my arms about, and pointed to my neck, and shook my head, and generally played the goat, as I've seen 'em do at the hustings; and they made out what I meant, and so the prisoners are here still,—except the captain, who died of over-drinking."

At this moment Antonio came quietly into the cave; he had been in and out during Jack's periods of unconsciousness, and now showed every mark of delight at his impending recovery.

"The saints be praised, Señor!" he said. "We feared you would die. We should have grieved."

Jack was touched by his simple sincerity.

"I am not gone yet," he said, smiling, "thanks, I understand, to my friend Señor Dugdale here."

"He is a clever doctor, Señor," said Antonio.

"He tells me that you have the Frenchmen we captured at Morata."

"Sí, Señor, and another lot too."

"Indeed! It is well that he managed to persuade you to do them no harm."

"What does the Señor mean?"

"My friend Señor Dugdale tells me that you were going to torture the prisoners, and he made a speech and—"

"Oh, that!" exclaimed Antonio, with a wave of the hand. "We didn't understand. We thought the Señor wanted us to cut all their throats; but I knew you would not like that."

Jack became almost hysterical with laughter at this explanation, and Dugdale bundled Antonio out of the cave, and told Jack he must go to sleep again. He allowed no more talk on that day, but the patient was so much better next morning that he made no objection when Jack asked to see the guerrillero again.

"I want to hear what has happened," said Jack to him. "I am anxious."

"I know, Señor; but there is no need. The day after we got back with the prisoners, the gitano Pepito came and said the Señorita Juanita had been captured by the French and was living with a colonel's lady in Morata. I got my men together and we went down at once, and in the night surprised the French, killed a great many, and captured the rest. But the Señorita was not among them. We found the colonel's lady; she told us that the Señorita had escaped."

"Where is she?" asked Jack anxiously.

"We do not know, Señor. The boy Pepito was frantic; he said you would punish him for losing the lady, and he went away to find her. He has never come back."

"Did he say anything about Señor Priego—the man who was in Saragossa, you remember?"

"He said that Señor Priego was with the French who captured the Señorita, but no more."

"And you did not capture him at the house? It was he I was fighting in the olive-grove."

"Por Dios, Señor, if I had known that! When we found you lying on the ground we let a few minutes slip. We thought you were dead, Señor. Then we searched all around, but we could find no one. Was it the cursed afrancesado that wounded you, Señor?"

"No. It was someone who came behind my back; his servant, I have no doubt. He has twice attempted my life."

Antonio swore a hearty oath, and vowed a terrible vengeance should either Priego or his servant fall into his hands. Jack was much perturbed. He hoped that Juanita in escaping from the French had escaped also from Miguel, but the latter had much to gain by not letting her slip through his hands.

"There is one thing, Señor, yet to be told," added Antonio. "In the morning, when we were bringing away the prisoners, one of my men found this at the back of the house, lying on the grass."

He produced a leather pocket-book, which he handed to Jack.

"I can't have this," said Dugdale, entering at this moment. "You're not well enough yet to be bothered with business."

"You will do me more good by letting me get to the bottom of things. My hand's all wobbles. Take the pocket-book, old fellow, and tell me what is in it."

Dugdale opened the case, and, taking out a number of papers, unfolded them one by one.

"All in foreign lingos," he said ruefully. "Can't read one of them."

"Let me see them," said Jack.

Dugdale handed him one of the papers. It was a pass through the French lines, signed by Marshal Lannes. At the first glance Jack understood. The pocket-book must have been jerked from Miguel's pocket when he fell on escaping from the house. Jack examined the papers eagerly. The second was a note from the marshal's aide-de-camp Saint-Marc: "In consideration of Monsieur Priego's services to the Government of His Majesty King Joseph, his excellency will use his influence with the commandant at Bayonne to facilitate the interview sought by Monsieur Priego". The third was a memorandum evidently relating to private business. The fourth was a long blue paper, on unfolding which Dugdale cried:

"By George, Lumsden, this is curious! Hanged if there isn't your name here!"

Jack took the paper with still more eagerness. He saw at once that it was in the same handwriting as the letter he had received from Don Fernan Alvarez at Salamanca. It was in Spanish, addressed to Mr. Lumsden, and Jack had only to read a few words to be assured that this was the very letter entrusted to the charge of General Palafox—the letter whose disappearance had so much perplexed him. Before he had read more than two or three lines, however, Antonio broke in:

"Señor, I know that paper. I saw it often in the hands of Pablo Quintanar in Saragossa. He used to take it out of his pocket every night and read it, and always when he came to a certain place he stopped, and frowned, and cursed. I am sure it is the same."

In a flash the mystery of Quintanar's assassination was made plain to Jack. Miguel must have discovered in some way that the letter was in the possession of the guerrillero, and the wretched man had been slain from behind by one-eyed Perez while Miguel tried to wrest the paper from him. Jack was aghast at this additional proof of Miguel's villainy; his heart misgave him as he thought of what might be Juanita's fate.

He read the letter. It gave a clear narrative of the events of which Juanita had told him—Don Fernan's making up of the accounts of the business, the journey from Barcelona to Saragossa, the ambush on the road, the suspected treachery of Miguel Priego. Then followed a declaration of the old merchant's intentions in regard to his property. In the last sentence he stated that the place where the treasure had been concealed was known only to his servant José, but that the secret was contained in a short postscript, which could only be read in the light of a private communication made to Jack himself in Salamanca.

Jack looked eagerly at the postscript. He uttered an exclamation of joy as he realized that Miguel must have found the letter useless to him. For the postscript consisted of a single line of sprawling uneven capital letters, set close together, not divided into words, and conveying to the uninitiated absolutely no meaning.

"What do you make of that?" said Jack, handing the letter to Dugdale.

"No good. Don't know a word of Spanish except pan, agua, cebolla, which I hear every day, and a few—interjections, I think they call 'em in grammar."

"I don't mean the letter, I mean the postscript."

"The postscript!" He held the paper at arm's-length, shut one eye, and frowned. "H'm! Looks like a cat's swearing, or Welsh. Too bad even for Spanish. Some infant set to practise his capitals, eh?"

Jack smiled.

"I'm as much in the dark as you are. Perhaps you wouldn't mind making a copy of the letters, in case the original goes astray?"

"Very well. Bet you I'll make a dozen mistakes. It dazzles my eyes. You'd better call 'em out one by one."

Accordingly Jack read the twenty-nine letters off separately, and Dugdale, whose inaptitude with the pencil was clearly shown by the frequency with which he licked his lips, made laborious strokes on a sheet of paper taken from Miguel's note-book.

"There," he said, when the task was finished. "Looks a deal prettier than the original, don't it?"

In big boyish capitals Jack saw the following puzzling sentence:—

S E O S F L S A E O A P E J E J P J J F J P J X P A P P F

"It's all right, Grampus," he said, after comparing it with the original. "How long shall I be on my back here?"

"Can't say. Why?"

"Because I've something to do when we've discovered the cipher. You and I must do that, and, by all appearance, it will take time."

"No good asking me. Never answered a riddle in my life. Blinks of Merton tried me just before I came down. Strolled into my room one morning—Blinks always dawdles,—threw his leg over a chair, and piped up: 'Grampus, my dear, would you like to answer a question?' 'Well?' says I. 'Tell me,' says he: 'Why do birds in their little nests agree?' 'Bet you they don't always,' says I. He was put out; I could see it. He don't like a chap to be serious, you know. Yet he's a good sort; so to please him I said: 'Why do they, then?' 'Because if they didn't they'd fall out,' says he, and strolled away quite happy. I call that mighty clever, don't you?"

Jack made a rapid recovery. The fresh air, the good simple food, the unremitting care of Dugdale and Antonio, and perhaps, more than all, his own strong determination, soon set him upon his feet. When he was first allowed by the Grampus to leave the cave, he was much amused at the sight of Commissary Taberne sitting on an upturned pail, peeling potatoes, and singing as blithely as a bird:

"Ma mie,

Ma douce amie,

Réponds à mes amours;

Fidèle

A cette belle,

Je l'aimerai toujours.

Si j'avais cent coeurs,

Ils ne seraient remplis que d'elle;

Si j'avais cent—"

"Bravo, monsieur, et bonjour!" said Jack,

"Ha! Qui est-ce que j'ai l'honneur de voir?"

The commissary sprang off his perch, catching at the bowl of potatoes just in time to prevent a cataclysm. He presented a queer figure as he stood there, in Spanish vest and pantaloons, with bare arms and legs, for it was a hot day. Laying his hand on his portly middle, he made a bow as low as he conveniently could.

"I congratulate you, monsieur," he said. "I am pleased to see you once more in health. Ah ça! but you have the courage, you English! It was magnificent—to come into the room alone and face me, Gustave Taberne, single-handed. Parbleu! you took me by surprise, or—Ah! and I congratulate myself that it was not my sword that wounded so admirable a warrior. Nom d'un tonnerre! that wretch, that scamp, that renegade, that Don Miguel What's-his-name—if I could catch him! Gr-r-r-r!"

"I hope you have been well treated, monsieur," said Jack politely.

The commissary shrugged.

"Me voici!" he said. "Here am I, a commissary-general of the emperor's, accustomed to feed huge armies, the winner of innumerable victories that others have the credit of,—and behold me, peeling potatoes for a herd of unwashed, thieving, villainous, abomin—"

"Stay, stay!" interrupted Jack. "I really cannot hear my friends abused."

"Pardon, monsieur. I for one moment forgot myself. I have feelings, I am sentimental, I am upset; I see myself on the road to glory; then, vlan! the vision dissolves; it is a mirage!"

"The marquisate is a little farther off, you mean, monsieur?"

"Hé quoi?"

Monsieur Taberne looked puzzled.

"Do you remember, monsieur," asked Jack, "a little inn at Olmedo, where one day last November you made your first acquaintance with the puchero, and honoured with your conversation a young Spaniard, about my own age, who happened to be able to speak a little French?"

"H'm! h'm! I have a slight recollection of the incident. I got a good deal of information out of the young cockerel, if I'm not mistaken."

Jack smiled.

"You were looking forward then, monsieur, to being made a peer of France, like Marshal Lefebvre, Duke of Dantzig. I am sorry that this little check has happened in your career. You promised then, you remember, to join me some day in drinking a bottle of Valdepenas—none of your tarred vinegar of Toro, you know—when your duty was done. You have one more potato to peel, monsieur. While you are doing that, no doubt my good friend Antonio will produce a bottle of Valdepenas from his store."

During this speech the commissary had stared at Jack in amazement.

"Par le sambleu!" he ejaculated, "it is the very same!"

He dropped down on his tub, his mouth agape, and mechanically took up his last potato, which he began to pare with the dexterity of long practice. He was evidently casting back to that November day, and racking his memory to recover the details of his conversation. Jack's eyes twinkled. The commissary caught his look, and, flinging the newly-peeled potato into the bowl, uttered a huge guffaw.

"Zut!" he cried, "I see twice, monsieur, that you are a dangerous person to meet. One needs to be of the greatest discretion. It is not only your sword that is formidable. Tenez: voici le Valdepenas! I had hoped you would have been my guest. N'importe; Valdepenas is Valdepenas. The fortune of war is now to you; perhaps on another occasion—"

"No, thank you," said Jack, laughing, "unless our two nations are at peace. Let me say, monsieur, how glad I am that you take your little mischance with so much philosophy. I am not in command here, of course, but if there is anything I can do—"

"Morbleu, monsieur, you can do me an infinite favour. The potatoes—they are nothing; but the onions!—sapristi! when one weeps for sentiment, it is noble, it is French; but when one weeps for onions, it is a degradation. Bien sûr! precisement ça! allez!"

CHAPTER XXXII

The Prisoner at Bayonne

Running the Gauntlet—A Bait—Figments—Prophecy—Judas—At Large

"You will excuse a little delay, monsieur le colonel. The letter from Monsieur le Maréchal Lannes is somewhat—indeed I may say very—unusual. We must assure ourselves that everything is en règle—a mere formality, but in official business we live by rule and regulation. Monsieur will understand."

The lieutenant-general in command of the port of Bayonne leaned back in his chair and smiled deprecatingly, at the same time eying his visitor with no little keenness. The stranger was a Spanish officer in the French service, and as such to be distrusted; and although his manner lacked nothing in ease and assurance, there was something in his bearing and expression that added to the Frenchman's instinctive suspicion. But from motives of prudence he forbore to explain that he was detaining his visitor until an aide-de-camp had ransacked the archives for an undoubted autograph of Marshal Lannes with which the letter brought by the Spaniard could be compared. For nearly half an hour the two chatted on indifferent subjects, the Spaniard growing more and more impatient, the Frenchman more and more apologetic. At last the aide-de-camp entered, and handed a document to the general, which the latter keenly scrutinized.

"I am glad to say, monsieur," he said, rising, "that I find his excellency's letter perfectly in order. I am delighted to make the acquaintance of one who, as the marshal informs me, has done good service to the emperor and to France, and, let us hope, to Spain. Captain Broussier will see that you are granted the most complete facilities for a private interview with the man José Pinzon. I understand that he is at present delirious—fever, monsieur, carries off too many of our prisoners,—but he has lucid intervals. For any service I may be able to render you, command me."

Captain Broussier led the way from the general's quarters near the Place d'Armes, across the St. Esprit bridge that spanned the Adour, to the grim citadel in which some hundreds of prisoners, Spanish, Portuguese, and English, were immured. Passing under the massive archway, they entered the great courtyard in which the unhappy captives were allowed to take exercise; some were sitting, the picture of dejection; others maintaining the semblance of cheerfulness; many endeavouring to add, by basket-weaving and similar light occupations possible within prison walls, to the wretched subsistence allowance doled out to French prisoners of war. A group of Spaniards, looking up as the two officers passed through the courtyard, caught sight of the afrancesado, and as they did so their attitude underwent an instant and extraordinary change. Listlessness gave place to the most intense interest; every man showed, each in his own way, the most passionate hatred of the new-comer. But for the presence of the two French sentries in the courtyard, and half a dozen more in the guard-house beyond the gate, they would have thrown themselves upon him as he passed. He caught the look of murder in their eyes and paled visibly, shrinking as if for protection closer to his companion, who noted the action and its cause, and smiled questioningly.

"Some men of—the opposite party—in Saragossa. Misguided, but dangerous; they bear me no good-will."

"If appearances go for anything, monsieur, those basket knives of theirs would have some pretty work to do but for the bayonets of our men yonder."

The Spaniard winced. He was clearly relieved when they passed from the courtyard into a long corridor leading to the room used as a hospital for the prisoners. There were several occupants, many in the last stage of disease, and the captain, having directed that a screen should be placed round the bed of the patient whom the visitor had come to see, left hastily. A visit to the hospital of the citadel was not without its dangers, for prison fever was no respecter of persons.

Upon a low truckle-bed in one corner of the room a man, shrunken to a skeleton, lay stretched, apparently at the point of death. He was conscious, for the light in his eyes was clear although dim, but so weak was his breathing, so wasted his figure, that at any moment it seemed the wan flame of life might flicker out. He turned his gaze slowly upon the stranger as he approached; then there came into his eyes the same look of inextinguishable hatred that had transfigured the wretched prisoners in the courtyard.

"Traidor!"

It was a mere movement of the lips, from which no sound issued; but the visitor, already unnerved, started as if stung; his face flushed, bringing into relief the livid scar across his brow. Then, collecting himself with an effort, he said, ignoring the unspoken insult:

"It pains me, my good José, to find you thus—sick and a prisoner. I have come a long way to see you, to bring you freedom—for the sake of old times. Fortunately I am not too late. A few more days in this place would have killed you; but we shall soon see what liberty and good nursing will do, eh, my friend?"

An eager light came into the sick man's eyes. In his feeble state he was unable to grasp the full import of what his visitor was saying. He was only capable of mastering one idea at a time. The word "liberty" had sent a sudden flash of colour into his cheek. The mere prospect of freedom, dim though it was, had banished for a brief moment his mortal antipathy to the man beside him. The walls of his prison-house fell asunder; he saw himself once again among his own people, the trusted servant of a beloved mistress whom he had sworn to serve, and whom his capture had left unprotected, exposed to all the dangers of a besieged city. The other, watching him keenly, was quick to note the changed expression of his face; and without giving the weakened intelligence time for ordered thought, he continued in the same tone of kindly interest:

"But I must first give you news of the señorita. I know, my good José, you care nothing for yourself. It is of her you think. I honour your fidelity; it is because of that that I am here."

"What of her? Tell me!" whispered the sick man. The voice was scarcely audible, but the eyes showed an agony of doubt and apprehension; he had wholly forgotten his distrust. He moved as if to raise himself; but he was unable to lift his head from the pillow.

"Make your mind easy; she is well, quite well. I left her with the wife of the old porter. She is a worthy woman, and devoted to the señorita. My influence with the government of King Joseph ensured the safety of your mistress after the fall of the city. She sends you the kindest messages. When you did not return from that brave sortie, she feared you were dead, and she grieved. But I learnt that you were a prisoner, and when I told her she clasped her hands and cried for joy, and bade me come at once to find you. 'Tell my good José that I shall know no peace until I am assured of his safety. I pray for him. He is much in my thoughts.'"

The sick man's eyes filled with tears. He would have lifted his hand to dash them away, but his strength was unequal to the effort. The visitor continued, his accent carefully modulated, gentle, persuasive:

"But, alas! my good friend, she is poor, very poor. The house in Saragossa is destroyed, burned during the siege. The house at Morata is pillaged by brigands. There is no rent from the estate; the people are all dispersed; and the good aunt is dead. The worthy porter and his wife have scarcely enough to keep themselves. It is terrible, this war; would that all good Spaniards thought with me that it is best to make peace with the king!"

The speaker bent forward, intently watching the effect of these words. As he had expected, a look of keen distress crossed the prisoner's face. Again he strove to rise, as if by raising himself he could shake off his intolerable weakness. He was suffering acutely. The visitor was silent for a while, giving the imagination of the sick man full play. Then he continued:

"I, alas! can do little to help. I am poor, my good José, miserably poor. I have sacrificed all—you will know how. I would willingly share my last crust with the señorita, but in this fatal war so many things may happen. I begged her to take shelter in a convent, but she would not; brave girl, she would stay to help her people! 'José,' she said, 'could assist us if only he were free. He alone knows what my poor father has done to provide for me. Go to him, Miguel; tell him of our distress; he will find a means of helping us.'"

"What would you wish me to do?"

The visitor, bending low, caught the whispered words. The man's clear eyes were upon him, and he checked the involuntary expression of satisfaction that crossed his face. But, instantaneous though it was, the sick man, strangely sensitive to shades of tone and manner, seemed to be instinctively aware of it, and the other was clearly ill at ease under his searching gaze.

"Well, my good José," he said hesitatingly, "your illness places us in a difficulty. I have here an order for your release" (he drew from his pocket a blue paper which might or might not be what he described); "I hoped that we should have been able to return to Spain together. You could have then placed the señorita beyond the reach of want; for from what she told me it is clear that your master left a large sum in your charge. But, alas! you are not at present able to travel. The best plan that I can think of is that you send the señorita instructions where she can find her property—you can either write her a letter or give me the message,—and I will see that you are released and nursed back to health. You can return to Spain when you are fit to travel."

The sick man feebly shook his head, whispering:

"I must not tell—anything. I swore it."

"Yes, you swore it, and you have kept your oath. But it was never Don Fernan's wish that the señorita should be allowed to—to starve while her fortune remained hidden. It is your duty to be guided by circumstances—by common sense."

The other winced, but still replied: "I cannot; I swore it. Not till the war is over."

Then, a ripple of impatience showing above his suave manner, the visitor said hastily:

"Certainly, but the war is over; the fall of Saragossa finished the war. Joseph is again king in Madrid."

"You are mistaken, Señor. If what you say is true, the war is only just beginning." There was a light in the man's eyes, a fierce energy in his whispered words, that seemed first to embarrass, then to anger his visitor.

"Well, my friend, if you will not listen to reason, if you prefer to allow your mistress to starve, I can do nothing more. I will give her your message." He rose from his seat. "And I shall at least have the satisfaction of being able to add that such an ungrateful rascal is dead; for in this hole you won't live another week, and you can't expect me to do anything for your release."

"Stay!"

The afrancesado caught the word and halted expectantly as he was turning away. With a supreme effort the sick man had raised himself on his elbow, and, struggling hard for breath, gasped out:

"Liar! Traitor! Spy! Do you think—I do not—do not see you—for what you are? Go back—go back, accursed afrancesado, to those who have—bought you. Out of my sight! The price of blood!—Judas!—the doom of Judas—awaits you—the doom—of—Judas!"

The afrancesado recoiled as at the stroke of a lash; then an ugly look crossed his face, and his hand sought the hilt of his knife. But even as it did so the man sank back half insensible, the gleam of fierce rage faded from his face, and while Miguel was hesitating whether to stay or go, the prisoner began to talk in a low but distinct voice, as repeating a lesson he had learned by heart.

"Yes, Señor, dear master, I swear it. I will watch over the señorita as long as I have life; I swear it. None shall ever know except the señor Ingles. In the garden—the old—"

His voice was dying away again into a whisper; the afrancesado bent eagerly over him to catch the feeble tones, and when he rose a look of mingled greed and malignant triumph shone in his eyes. He waited for a while longer, while the sick man continued to babble in the same strain, his voice occasionally rising so that it could plainly be heard by the sufferers in the neighbouring beds. Murmurs arose, and, helpless as they were, their mutterings struck the heart of the afrancesado with a cold chill of dread. Rising, and throwing one hurried backward glance at the now silent figure on the bed, he hastened from the room, pursued by the vengeful glance of all who were conscious enough to recognize him.

An hour later the sick man opened his eyes and looked around, as though fearing to meet once more the traitor's malign glance.

"What is that you were saying about a promise, and a garden, and a señorita?" whispered the prisoner in the next bed.

"Saying! When?" he asked with a note of mortal anguish.

"Just now, when the vile afrancesado was with you. Have you forgotten?"

The man waited a moment, expecting a reply. None came; the man had fainted.

The afrancesado did not leave Bayonne that night as he intended. Stricken with the prison fever, he took to his bed, and there lay for several weeks, tended with unstinted care by his one-eyed servant. When he recovered from his delirium he was eager to set out, as soon as his strength permitted, on his return journey to Spain, and was amazed to hear from the French commandant that he must consider himself a prisoner.

"Nonsense!" he said; "la prisoner! What have you against me?"

"The prisoner you talked with in the sick ward, monsieur—"

"Is he dead?" asked Miguel eagerly.

"He may be, but his body has not been recovered. His health rapidly mended from the day of your interview with him, and ten days ago he escaped by swimming the Adour—a marvellous feat for a man in his condition."

"Escaped!" screamed Miguel, starting up. "I must go, I must go at once, before it is too late!"

"Then you did not arrange the escape, monsieur?" said the Frenchman, surprised at the other's violence.

"Arrange it! Am I a fool? Am I mad? Arrange the escape of my worst enemy! I must go! He has gone to rob me; he will ruin me; I must go, before it is too late!"

His agitation was so sincere that, after a consultation among the French officers, the afrancesado was permitted, a few days later, to depart with his servant, and they rode southward out of Bayonne at a furious pace, the stones clattering, the dust flying behind, and all who saw them staring after them in amazement.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Palafox the Name

Nonplussed—In the Convent—A Warning—The Key—Permutations and Combinations—Light Ahead—Don Fernan's Message

One day the guerrilla camp in the mountains was thrown into some excitement by the sudden reappearance of Pepito. All the guerrilleros by this time knew something of the strange complications in which the English señor was involved. They had been constantly on the look-out for the gipsy boy whom he was so anxious to see; and when, on this sunny morning, the boy was seen bounding up the hillside, they flocked to him in a crowd, crying "Qué hay de nuevo? Qué hay de nuevo?" Pepito made them no answer. He had already caught sight of his master sitting some yards above him, and rushed forward with a piercing cry of delight.

"Found, Señor!" he shouted. "Found!"

Jack needed no telling who was found.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"Glad Señor is well, glad Señor is well!" shouted the little fellow. "The Señorita will be glad too. Oh, she will! When I told the Señorita—"

"Where is she?" repeated Jack impatiently.

"When I told the Señorita that Señor was ill, she jumped up; said she must come; but the old Busna looked ugly; said no; and I come to fetch Señor."

"Pepito, tell me at once where she is."

"Safe, at a convent near Cariñena, Señor, all among the trees and flowers. Señor can go, now he is well, and I know who will be pleased. Yes, I know!"

"You're a good boy, Pepito." He turned to Dugdale. "Grampus, when shall I be fit to ride?"

"Good heavens! Not for a long time. Look here, Lumsden, I'm not going to have my cure spoilt and my career ruined by you going raiding before you're fit. Don't laugh. I'm in dead earnest. I'm sick and tired of playing the fool at Oxford. As soon as I get home I'm going to be a doctor. New idea, you know; fresh air and cold water. The pater will laugh himself into a fit when I tell him; but don't you see, if you back me up, and I can show you as my first case—why, bet you the old boy comes round and doubles my allowance, to encourage me. See?"

"All right!" said Jack, laughing. "But you must finish my cure quickly, for the instant I can manage it I'm going to ride over to Cariñena."

"What for? What is there special about Cariñena?"

"Well, I've a—a friend there I want specially to see."

"H'm! A friend? Bet you my first year's fees it's a girl. Now look here, Lumsden, don't be a fool. An Englishman oughtn't to marry till he's thirty at least. I've got ten years yet, and it won't be too much. It takes time to be able to face a girl without flinching, and for my part I'd rather learn Greek verbs than—"

"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed Jack. "Who said anything about marrying? Juanita—"

"Oho! Juanita! Sorry for you, my boy; no cure for that complaint. Well, I'll take care of you, but it'll be a long time yet before you can ride."

Nearly a month passed away before Jack, after a few experiments, was pronounced fit to undertake the ride to Cariñena. The period of waiting was diversified by one or two expeditions against French convoys, in which Antonio achieved brilliant successes. Jack chafed at being obliged to remain inactive, and to share in these raids merely in imagination. He spent hour after hour in attempting to decipher the postscript of Don Fernan's letter, always without success. Remembering the enigmatical phrase in the letter he himself had received in Salamanca, "Palafox the Man, Palafox the Name", he believed that the key must be contained in that; but though he tried to fit it to the ciphered message, and made considerable demands on Dugdale's patience, he drew no nearer to solving the puzzle, and finally gave it up in disgust.

At length the day arrived when, feeling well and strong, he set off on his ride to the convent. Pepito had several times conveyed verbal messages between him and Juanita, but nothing had been committed to paper for fear lest it should fall into the hands of the French. Guided by the boy, who rode before him, he reached the convent in the afternoon of a beautiful April day, and was at once admitted to the presence of Juanita, with whom he found the old duenna he had seen in Saragossa.

Though Juanita greeted him with as much cordiality as ever, he was conscious of a slight difference in her manner; there was not quite the same frank comradeship she had shown in Saragossa.

"I am very glad to see you looking so well, Jack," she said. "Will you take a cup of chocolate?"

"Thanks!" replied Jack briefly. He sipped it for a brief interval without speaking, then said suddenly: "I say, Juanita, I am mighty glad you escaped, you know. It was good of Padre Consolacion to help you—after trying to persuade you to marry Miguel, too. Tell me about it."

Without her usual animation Juanita recounted how she had been captured as she neared Morata by a party of troopers, among whom she had recognized Perez, Miguel's one-eyed man. She had been treated kindly enough by the wife of a colonel of chasseurs, who, however, irritated her beyond endurance by constant reference to her approaching marriage. Miguel himself had only seen her once. He had asked what had become of her father's old servant José, and shown some annoyance when she refused to answer. But she had had another and a more frequent visitor. After the capitulation, Padre Consolacion had been surprised to find that, though he had been as consistent an opponent as Don Basilio and Santiago Sass, he had not met with the same fate at the hands of the French. He could only conclude that he owed his security to the good offices of Miguel, whom, however, he now held in utter abhorrence. Making his escape from the city, he had gone into hiding at Morata, where he soon learnt of what had befallen Juanita. It was not difficult for him, with the assistance of the people of the house, to obtain secret interviews with her. On the day before Miguel went with Commissary Taberne on the foraging expedition, Juanita learnt from the colonel's wife that pressure was to be brought to bear in high quarters for the purpose of bringing about her marriage with Don Miguel. She sent a message by a secret channel to Padre Consolacion, informing him of this alarming news. On the next evening, almost at the moment when Jack was surprising the commissary, she had slipped out of the house in the dress of one of the Spanish maid-servants, fled to where the priest was awaiting her, and by him was escorted to the convent, where she was joined in a few days by the duenna, after the sudden swoop of Antonio had cleared the place of French.

"The padre is a trump," said Jack. "I confess I didn't like him in Saragossa; but then, of course, he hadn't found Miguel out. I thought he must be either stupid or something worse. I shall do him more justice in future."

He would not perhaps have been so cordial if he had known that it was to Padre Consolacion he owed the strange alteration in Juanita's manner which had puzzled him. When he left her in the convent, the padre's last words had been: "Now, querida mia, though I have helped you to escape a marriage with a traitor and a villain, remember I shall not approve, I shall forbid, your marriage with a heretic. You will understand me."

All unconscious of this, Jack waxed eloquent in praise of the padre, and went on: "Well now, I've something to tell you besides what you have heard from Pepito. You remember that a letter left with General Palafox for my father disappeared—a letter about your property?"

"Yes. I hate the sound of the word 'property'."

"I have the letter. It was—perhaps you guess—in the possession of Miguel."

He proceeded to tell the whole story. Juanita listened with growing interest, and when it was concluded every trace of her stiffness had passed away.

"Ah, Jack!" she cried, "now we can get this wretched treasure that has nearly cost your life—for but for it you would never have come to Saragossa—and then—oh! do you think we can get away to England?"

"I'm very sorry, Juanita. I was just going to tell you that I'm afraid we can't get the treasure."

"Why not? You said the letter was about it."

"So it is. But, unfortunately, the secret of its whereabouts is locked up in a postscript—a single line of capital letters, which I can't read. It is in cipher."

"Show it to me. You have it with you?"

Jack took out the paper, and unfolded it before her. She read over the postscript letter by letter:

S E O S F L S A E O A P E J E J P J J F J P J X P A P P F

"Certainly a most curious-looking sentence," said Juanita. "And have you no clue at all?"

"None whatever. I thought I had. I made sure I had, but when I tried to work it out in the cipher it proved useless."

"What was it?"

"Well, I had never told anyone. Your father said I was to burn the letter as soon as I received it, and I did so; but now that things have altogether changed, there can be no harm in telling you all about it. In the letter I received at Salamanca, Don Fernan said that I was to remember the phrase, 'Palafox the Man, Palafox the Name'. It occurred to me, of course, that the clue to the cipher might be found in that phrase; but, try it as I might, I couldn't make anything of it. You see, the cipher message contains all the letters of the word Palafox, but there are a number of J's and other letters that have nothing to do with it."

"And you gave it up!" exclaimed Juanita, with some scorn. "Just like a boy!"

"Really, Juanita—" began Jack, but she interrupted him.

"Don't talk. Let me see if I've a little more perseverance. I count six P's, three A'S, one L, three F's, two O's, and one X; that accounts for PALAFOX. Why are there so many P's? Besides, there are four E'S, six J's, and three S's. What can EJS stand for? EJS, ESJ, JES, JSE—I see it! Take an O out of PALAFOX and you have JOSÉ. That is the name of our old servant, and of the Captain-General too. Now, do you see, Señor Don Juan?—the key to the cipher is JOSÉ PALAFOX."

"What an ass I am!" said Jack. "It never struck me that Palafox's Christian name might be included. But what then? The only ciphering I ever did was in money sums, and weights and measures. How do you work out the thing now?"

"Why, it's clear that my father's message is made up of the words JOSÉ PALAFOX, which have only nine different letters. It's not likely that the message contains only nine letters; therefore one letter of the cipher probably stands for several, and I shouldn't wonder if all the letters of the alphabet were represented by those nine. Suppose we put down the letters of the alphabet and the other letters underneath, and see what can be made of it then."

"We don't know what language it is in."

"Probably Spanish, like the letter itself. Let us try."

She wrote down the twenty-seven letters of the Spanish alphabet, and under each the corresponding letter of the key words:—

"There you are, Jack. Now look. The first letter of the cipher, s, may stand for either c or m or x; we can't tell which of the three until we get a little further."

"It's a pretty puzzle," said Jack. "The next letter is E; that may be either ch or n or y, and if we put either of them after c, m, or x, we sha'n't begin to make any Spanish word that I know of."

"No," agreed Juanita, putting her pencil to her lips. "It looks as if the sentence can't be Spanish."

"Don Fernan wrote to me in English. Let us try that. I'll do it this time."

Jack wrote down the letters of the English alphabet, placing the key-words below as before:—

"S is either c, n, or y this time, and E is either d, o, or a. We can drop d and e, because they can't follow any of the first three; that leaves co, no, and yo. This is getting interesting, Juanita."

"Yes, I am getting quite excited. Now for the next letter, O. That can stand for b, j, m, u, x. I'll write down all the combinations, and see how they look."

They were fifteen, as follows:—

"Some of these are too comical for anything," said Jack; "but we've one complete word, you. Let us see what the next comes to. S again; that's c, n, or y. Then F; that's i or t. No English word begins with ct, nt, or yt, so t goes out. Now for L; that's g or r; and the combinations now are:—

I say, your father wouldn't begin by addressing me as 'you nigger', would he? The next letter is S; c, n, or y again. Not a single one of them helps to make a word. We are on the wrong track, Juanita."

"Perhaps the first word is not you at all."

"Well, let's go back and see how many of the fifteen combinations of the first three letters will fit on to the fourth. It's quite clear that you can't make a word by putting c or y after any of them; there's only n left, and all we can make is coun and noun. Don Fernan wouldn't go in for grammar, would he? If we drop noun we've only coun, and that looks most unlikely."

"Be quick with the next letter, Jack. Why do you talk so much? I could jump with excitement."

"Don't be in a hurry; perhaps the whole thing will come to grief again. The next letter is F; that stands for i or t; i won't do, but t will, and we get count; that's a word at any rate. I wonder what we're to count. Now for L; that's g or r; and S again; that's c, n, or y. And unless I'm a Dutchman, that makes the word country."

Juanita clapped her hands and laughed.

"You are getting clever!" she said.

The irony escaped Jack, who was busy working out the next word. In a few minutes he had made out house.

"Country house!" exclaimed Juanita. "Oh, you are slow, Jack; do be quick! What about the country house?"

But the same process had to be gone through with every letter, and it was quite half an hour before the whole message was deciphered. The excitement of Juanita and himself increased with every fresh discovery, and when the task was finished, and the simple English words were written down, each gave a gasp of relief. The message consisted of but six words:—

Country house old well twelve feet.

"I see it! I see it all!" exclaimed Juanita. "Oh, Jack, we shall get it after all! I don't care for the treasure itself one bit really, not one bit; but I could dance with joy at defeating that wretch Miguel, and I should like to have some money to give to the poor people ruined in Saragossa. You must go, Jack. The well is in the garden behind the house, near the wall. It has not been used for many years; we got water from a new well by the kitchen. Only to think that all is coming right after all!"

"Yes," said Jack; "Pepito and I will go to-morrow. How deep is the well, Juanita?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. Twelve feet means something. You will find out what, Jack. And then—"

"Then, Juanita, for England!"

CHAPTER XXXIV

Dead Men Tell no Tales

The Old Well—A Voice—Visions—Infimis

"It is locked, Señor."

Pepito had dismounted at the gate of the Casa Alvarez on the hillside.

"Shout, Pepito," replied Jack from the saddle of his mule. "Perhaps the old man will hear us from the house."

The gipsy put his hands to his mouth, and called shrilly. There was no answer, no sound save the hum of bees and the song of birds.

"We must climb the wall, then," said Jack, springing to the ground.

"See, Señor, a face in the bush!" cried Pepito, pointing through the iron railings into the garden.

Looking, Jack saw, framed in the foliage of a dense laurel, the face of the old gardener.

"Adelante, hombre!" he said.

Instantly the face vanished. Jack called again; no voice answered, no footstep was heard. The two riders tied their steeds to trees in the plantation on the right, then scaled the wall and hastened towards the house.

Nearly two months had elapsed since Jack's night adventure. He was struck by the alteration in the place. It had looked untidy, ill-cared-for, then; it was now a wilderness. Flowers and shrubs bloomed in unchecked luxuriance; hollyhocks drooped their heavy heads, sprays of woodbine twined in and out among the laurels, unpruned vines crept over the weedy paths, the sweltering air was sickly with mingled perfumes. The house stood white and brown in the glowing sunlight; lush creepers almost hid the door; the dry wood-work was blistered, the lattices falling away; all was decay, silence, and desolation.

It was high noon of a sultry summer day, yet Jack shivered. He rapped at the door. There was no response save an echo. He walked round the house; every window was shuttered, every door barred. He went on down the garden at the back, following the directions given him by Juanita, and Pepito crept along behind him, his big eyes wide with awe. A vulture flew up in front, and clattered away on creaking wings. He stepped from the path, and pushed his way through tangled shrubs and matted undergrowth towards a broad chestnut in the angle of the wall. Tendrils of convolvulus clung around his feet, the scent of thyme came in gusts with the cloying odour of gardenias. Suddenly the rank vegetation ceased, and before him, in a clear space, he saw the circular covering of the old well.

Frame and winch had been removed. A broken moss-grown bucket lay hard by; near it was a long bar of wood. Around the well was a broad patch of soft black earth. As Jack approached to remove the wooden cover from the well-mouth, Pepito touched him on the arm.

"Marks, Señor!" he said under his breath; "footsteps, and marks of a mule's hoofs; fresh, Señor; made to-day."

Jack started. A green lizard, sunning itself at the edge of the well, disappeared in a flash. He saw the hoof-marks in the soil; his heart sank with a sudden misgiving. The well-cover seemed to have been clumsily replaced.

"Help me lift it," said Jack.

They removed the heavy cover. The well opened black before them. Pepito peered over the edge; he saw nothing; there was neither rope nor ladder.

"How can we get down?" said Jack.

Looking around, he saw what appeared to be the end of a ladder projecting from beneath a bush. He dragged it out; a snake dropped from it and vanished in the grass; it was a ladder some sixteen feet long.

"It will not reach the bottom of the well," said Jack. His eye caught the bar of wood.

"Bring me that, Pepito."

He laid it across the well-mouth; on its mossy side there was a dull splash of red. The bar stretched across the opening. Lifting it again, Jack gave it to Pepito, and, taking the ladder, lowered this into the well till only the topmost rungs were above the brickwork.

"Put the wood through," he said.

Thus the ladder hung dangling on its support, fifteen feet into the well. Pepito looked at his master enquiringly.

"Yes, you are to climb down. Stay!" he added, as the boy prepared to step down on to the swinging ladder.

He took some papers from his pocket, twisted them into a loose mass, and wound about them the end of a long vine tendril. Then he kindled them from his tinder-box, and let the flaming mass down quickly into the well. It burned until it was consumed.

"There is air enough. Go down, Pepito."

He steadied the ladder as the boy descended step by step. Jack counted twelve rungs, then ordered the boy to stop.

"Do you see anything, Pepito?"

A few moments passed. The gipsy's eyes were adjusting themselves to the gloom.

"A hole, Señor, a big hole in the wall."

"Can you get into it?"

"No, Señor, it is on the other side, too far away."

Bidding the boy ascend, Jack shifted the ladder across the bar. Pepito went down again, and soon Jack heard his muffled voice exclaim that he was in the hole.

"Do you find anything there? Search thoroughly."

A minute passed. Jack was crouched at the brink, holding the joists of the ladder firmly with both hands.

"There is nothing, Señor; all emptiness."

"Come up again."

He stepped out on to the brickwork, and Jack rose to his feet.

"Dead! dead! dead!" said a quavering voice behind him.

He turned with a nervous start. While he had been engaged at the well, a figure had been slowly approaching from a thicket of laurel, furtively, with hesitation, stopping for a moment, then taking another unsteady step and stopping again. Jack recognized the old gardener, but how altered! His limbs shook as with a palsy; his lips mumbled without sound; his eyes were wild.

"What is it, hombre?" said Jack quietly without moving.

The old man stood as if listening. Then, raising his shaking right hand, the long fingers working convulsively, he murmured:

"I saw it! ... Dead!"

Then he smiled, a thin wan smile, and tottering forward pointed waveringly to the well. Jack recoiled. The old man's smile was more awful than a sob of agony.

"They came through the gate;" he pointed across the garden to the farther wall. "There were two; I was hidden in the copse; I watched them. I watched them. They brought a mule; it was a fine mule, with gay trappings,—a fine mule..." The old man passed his hand across his brow. "What was I saying? I have forgotten."

"They brought a mule," said Jack.

"Yes, they brought a mule. They led it across the garden, trampling down the poor flowers—my flowers! I saw them! There were two. One was in front—the cursed afrancesado; I knew him; yes, did I not serve him at my master's table? the afrancesado! He was in front; behind him a man, a long thin man, a one-eyed man, with the mule. They crushed the flowers—my flowers ... what was I saying?"

"They came across the garden," said Jack.

"They came across the garden. They came here, here! where we are standing. The man, the one-eyed man, fastened the mule to yonder tree; then they stooped down and lifted the cover. It was heavy...I watched them. They peered down into the well, into the deep well, but they could see nothing. Then the tall man, the man with the one eye, went away; the other, the afrancesado, the cursed afrancesado, waited, and while he waited he cast pebbles into the well ... horrible! horrible!" He covered his eyes with his hand, as if to shut out some dreadful thing. "What was I saying?"

"The tall man came back," said Jack.

"The tall man came back; he brought a ladder; he fetched a beam, that beam, and they let down the ladder into the well, the deep well ... I watched them. 'Twelve steps,' said the afrancesado, the cursed afrancesado, and the tall man, the man with the one eye, went down ... Twelve steps! ... The other, the afrancesado, bent over; there was a noise below; the afrancesado said 'Bien!'—I heard him. Then the man, the long man, the man with the one eye, came up, slowly; there was a box, a heavy box; the other took it, and the man, the one-eyed man, went down, ... twelve steps ... He came up again; there was another box, a small box. I knew it; it was the master's. Then he went down again, ... twelve steps, ... and the other, the afrancesado, the accursed afrancesado, drew his knife, silently; it flashed in the sun; I watched him..." The old man stared fixedly before him. "What was I saying?" he whispered.

"He drew his knife," said Jack.

"He drew his knife," said the old man, still in a whisper. "The other, the long man, the man with one eye, came slowly, slowly, up. He stretched his left hand for the box, he raised the arm with the knife. He was behind him. He leant forward; I saw him—him, and the long man, the man with one eye—he drove it between his shoulders..."

The old man made as if to brush a cobweb from before his eyes.

"Horrible! horrible! ... down! down! down! ... What was I saying?"

CHAPTER XXXV

Doom

Outcast—Spectres—Conscience—Tracked—Vanity—Scylla— Charybdis—José—Faithful unto Death

Within a few miles of Calatayud, a narrow path, little more than a foot-track, leads down from the hills on to the highroad to Saragossa. Just before joining the highway, the path winds between two low bluffs that screen it from the sight of wayfarers below. Indeed, any muleteer or arriero unacquainted with the country might almost pass unawares the spot where road and hill-path meet, so completely is it hidden by the ash-gray contours of the hills.

About the time when Jack dismounted at the gate of the Casa Alvarez, a man was making his way downward along this narrow track, urging a heavily-laden mule with low cries to hasten its flagging pace. He was a young man, in the costume of a muleteer; his cheeks were pale and sunken, his eyes unnaturally bright. Every now and again he would throw an anxious backward glance over his shoulder, not consciously, as if he feared pursuit, but as though in obedience to some impulse of which he was hardly aware.

When he approached the point where the track joined the road he stepped to the mule's head and brought the animal to a stand-still, looking from left to right as if in doubt. After a moment's hesitation he tied the mule to one of the rare saplings that grew at the side of the track, and advanced warily towards the highway, pausing at short intervals, and bending his head forward to listen. There was no sound save the silver trill of a lark far above, and the soughing of a light breeze as it lapped the edges of the hills. The man moved forward again, still more cautiously; rounding a knoll, he came to the road, that stretched in gentle undulations for several hundreds of yards in a straight line east and west. No one was in sight. The man gave a sigh of relief, followed by one of those quick uneasy backward glances that seemed to be habitual with him. Rapidly scanning the road once more, he returned to the mule, released the bridle from the tree, and slowly led the laden animal down the path.

He was within a dozen paces of the dusty highway when he halted suddenly, dragging heavily upon the reins. His dusky, olive-hued features paled, the hand that grasped the bridle trembled nervously; his whole attitude was one of dire apprehension. For a moment he stood intently listening, his eyes fixed in a wide stare; then, wheeling the mule sharply round and prodding the weary beast desperately with the knife he drew from his belt, he raced back along the track. For a full quarter of a mile he continued his upward course; then he stopped, and again turned his head towards the road in the attitude of listening. At first he could hear nothing but the throbbing of his heart and the quick breathing of the mule by his side; but gradually the clatter of many hoofs on the hard road became more and more audible through the clear air, though the horsemen were hidden from view by the obstructing hills. They arrived at what he judged to be the place he had just left. He heard "Halt!" in a rough stentorian tone. The voice was Spanish, and its effect on the anxious listening man was as that of a galvanic shock. With a smothered cry he dashed forward, dragging the unwilling mule, which he goaded with alternate stabs of the knife and whispered words half of menace half of entreaty.

There was no halting now. For mile after mile they continued their flight, until, when both mule and man were exhausted, they at length stopped at the edge of a wild gorge high up in the mountains. There, for the first time since he fled the voice, the man looked carefully around. The place was evidently new to him. In his flight he had diverged at the first opportunity from the track, along which he had come, not then alone, earlier in the day. The new path was more difficult than the old; it wound away from his obvious destination; it led, indeed, almost due north into the heart of the mountain country—the Sierra de Moncayo, the precipitous granite range where King Æolus had his mythic throne. But the fugitive knew not, cared not, whither he went, so long as it was away from the voice of his countrymen. And he avoided, with the shrinking of dread, the track he knew.

One thing was remarkable during his late impetuous flight. He seemed to have forgotten his strange trick of glancing backward over his shoulder. Many times he turned half round to see if he was followed, but consciously, less abjectly, for all his panic fear.

When he had rested for a few minutes, he rose and carefully scanned the surrounding country, debating with himself what course to follow. His view was circumscribed by the irregular masses of bare rock and sparsely wooded slopes that formed the horizon. But he appeared at last to have made up his mind, for, pulling the mule slowly round on the narrow track, he took a few steps as if to return in the direction from which he had come. But his bearing was timid, uncertain, vacillating, and when a mountain eagle swept from its eyry, and screamed just above his head, he started as if struck, hauled his poor beast feverishly across the track, and once more pressed in hot haste towards the north.

For some time he marched on rapidly. Then the fatigue of travelling over the steep uneven track again made itself felt; his pace slackened; he moved along behind the mule as if mechanically, while mechanically he still urged it forward with his knife. For minutes at a stretch he seemed as in a dream, immersed in dark thought. Again he glanced fearfully backward, not as though seeking a visible object of menace, not at the frowning hills, but with eyes that attempted to pierce the infinite for a something beyond. At moments he started from his waking nightmare to a full consciousness of his position among these bleak inhospitable hills. The phantoms dogging his thoughts then vanished, giving place to real cares—physical pain, a sense of desolation. At such times he searched anxiously for a path to the west, whereby making a circuit he might reach his goal, avoiding the highroad, where he had so narrowly escaped the hands of his countrymen the guerrilleros. But the track wound on, swerving sometimes to right or left, yet leading remorselessly northward, no by-path branching towards Calatayud. He dared not turn back. The danger of the road, had he known it, was past; but the awful risk of capture made him sick with fear. He plodded on, sunk more and more in dark imaginings, until at last, when the red sun was sinking below the distant purple peaks on his left, the mule suddenly stopped, and, breathing heavily, dropped upon its knees. The poor brute was spent. The man awoke with a start from his reverie. He was on the edge of a deep gully; giant rocks hemmed him in on either side; the path—there was no path! For the first time he realized that the granite hills held him in their grip.

He looked at the mule, that lay with lolling tongue and starting eyes. The animal was famished. He had no food for it, none for himself; only now was he conscious of his own gnawing hunger. He loosened the girths, and, removing the heavy panniers from the mule's back, enabled it to rise. There was nothing to tie it to. Sinking down on a flat rock, he held the bridle and peered into the deepening gloom. He dared not move forward; one careless step in this wild place might hurl them both into an abyss. There he sat, and the darkness gathered, and the chill of night wrapped him round.

What were his thoughts as he waited and endured? Who shall say? Human justice may falter, may be long upon the road; Eternal Justice is instant, relentless, inevitable. The sense of doom was upon this man, as he held sombre vigil with the cold accusing stars.

It was an unkempt, haggard, agued figure that rose stiffly and dizzily from his hard couch as soon as the pale dawn came creeping through the narrow gully among the hills. He could just see the mule standing motionless a few yards away. He shuddered as his eye fell upon the brass-clamped coffers at its feet. Then he moved as if to pass away, leaving behind him both mule and treasure, the visible links that bound him to the past. But after a few staggering steps he hesitated, set his teeth in desperate resolve, and returning, painfully lifted the boxes on to the panniers, the mule standing with drooped ears, and shivering in the raw air. In the half-light he led the famished beast away from the ravine, searching the rocky ground narrowly for marks of its track. Here and there appeared a stone covered with gray lichen; at these the mule halted and licked a scanty, bitter meal. At one point a silver rivulet poured from a fissure and fell clattering upon the rocks far down the steep. There Miguel dropped to his knees and drank with the animal, then went on again.

It was nearly two hours before he saw, on the far side of a deep ravine, a foot-path winding about a wall of rock. Was it the path he had left? He did not know. Only the guerrilleros he feared to meet could have told him that but one other path led across these barren heights. Leading the mule cautiously down one face of the ravine, he hauled it with infinite difficulty up the other. The poor beast, faint with hunger, had scarcely strength to crawl when at last it scrambled with its burden on to the track. But for the constant goad it would have fallen by the way. The path ran north and south; Miguel hesitated which direction to take. Northward he would have to scale steeper heights, but would increase his distance from the garden of his fear; southward, he might reach Calatayud and safety with the French, but who knew what danger might lie between? As the question beat this way and that in his tortured brain, his eyes lit upon a long, thin, jagged rock in which, in the gloom of the preceding evening, he had marked with a shudder a grotesque resemblance to a human form he would have given worlds to forget. Then he knew that he was upon the track from which he had wandered; he would persevere in the attempt to find a cross-path to the west. Surely there must be one that would lead, by however long a circuit, to his goal?

He turned wearily towards the north and instinctively glanced back across the hills, now variously tinted by the ascending sun. As he did so his eyes dilated, and for some moments he stood as if rooted to the ground. In the clear distance two figures mounted on mules were coming towards him. Even while he looked he saw one, the smaller of the two, pointing in his direction. The other drew rein for an instant, then both urged their mules to a trot. A bend in the path hid them from view, and Miguel leapt round, knowing that he was in very truth a hunted man. For nearly a day he had been pursued by the phantom of his crime. He had run from the shadow of a sound, fled from the perils his own imagination had created. Terror of he knew not what had left him all unstrung. But now that vengeance dogged him in real bodily form his mind braced itself to meet it. Only for a moment did his heart quail with misgiving; he reeled slightly, and clutched at the mule's bridle for support; then, recovering himself instantly, he struck the jaded beast, and with a fierce cry drove it before him up the path.

Suddenly the track bent eastward, it ceased to rise, he seemed to be on the northern slope of the watershed up which he had toiled during the previous day. He topped the crest. The path stretched downwards before him; and, scattering the loose stones to right and left, Miguel raced on with the mule until at a turn in the track a vast and brilliant panorama opened before his yearning eyes. Below him, at the edge of the long slope, stretched a rolling wooded country intersected by numerous watercourses shining in the morning sun. Far away on the horizon a silver streak wound and doubled on itself. It must be the river Ebro. Could he but gain the rich champaign below, he hoped that, for a time at least, he would be safe. In some copse or covert, vineyard or olive-ground, even in the byways of some hamlet, he might find a temporary refuge. But with the thought itself its utter hopelessness was borne in upon him. His pursuers must be closing in fast, although the windings of the track hid them from him when at intervals he turned to see. Panting himself, he dragged his panting beast with reckless haste, though in his inmost consciousness sure that the road was too long, the time too short. One solitary hope remained to him. If he left the mule with its retarding load, abandoned the prize for which he had staked his all, he might perhaps even yet find some rocky defile, some favouring grove, wherein to hide and baffle pursuit. But no, the renunciation was too great for his blighted soul. For the treasure he had schemed and sinned; he could not, dared not, let it go.

Scrambling on down the mountain track, he spied at length, some hundreds of feet below him, a narrow hillroad to which his headlong course must lead him by and by. Its farther side bordered a ravine. The road seemed near at hand, but as he continued his flight he found that the downward track zigzagged on the face of the slope, so that sometimes two or three of its coils lay immediately beneath him. There was no shorter way. Approaching the end of the last of these windings, he was warned by the clatter of dislodged stones that his pursuers were now hard upon his heels. He threw a quick glance upward; there, two hundred feet above him, the riders crossed his sight, following at headlong speed the first winding of the track. Without pause he raced staggeringly along.

All unknowing, he had himself been watched for some time from below. At the edge of the hill-road, hidden from him by a jutting mass of rock, a man was resting, seated on a boulder, eating a frugal meal from a wallet hung at his neck. He was a gaunt, hollow-eyed man, with wasted cheeks; thin, unkempt locks straggled from beneath his cap; his long tangled beard was snowy white. His attitude was of one in pain. At first he watched the impetuous muleteer dully, without attention; then he started, paused in lifting a piece of bread, and stared long with quickening breath. As the mule turned the last of the zigzags a sunbeam flashed on the brass of one of the boxes. The seated man rose; his eyes, opened to their fullest width, now fixed themselves with a glare of the intensest hatred upon the fugitive approaching, until once more he was hidden from sight.

Then with the stealthy movement of a cat the worn, panting wayfarer glided from the brink of the ravine to the opposite side of the road, and crouched down under cover of the rocks that had hidden him from the man above. Almost ceasing to breathe, he drew his knife, and waited. His movements suggested that he expected the muleteer to emerge into the road between himself and the animal. But not thus was the event ordered. Rounding the last turn of the path, Miguel, to avoid a projecting rock, had changed sides; thus when, after a few seconds, he reached the junction of path and road, the mule was between him and the man who lay there waiting, ready to strike. The anticipated moment was come. But Miguel was snatched from human vengeance; for him was reserved another fate. With an inarticulate cry of baffled rage the ambuscader sprang forward as if to overtake the mule, but, under the impetus gained during the last few yards of the hill-path, the beast was still moving quickly in an oblique direction across the road. Miguel at one and the same moment heard the cry and saw the flash of the knife. Till then he was unaware of his enemy's presence, so absorbed was his attention with the path ahead and the progress of the pursuers behind. At the cry he gave a startled side-long glance at the wild menacing features glaring at him across the mule's neck. In that dark look he read his doom.

It fell more quickly than any of the four persons—the actors themselves, the spectators above—could have thought possible. The two riders on the steep hill-path had now come within full sight of the scene passing on the road. As they gazed, holding their breath, they saw the mule between the two men staggering across the road. Startled by the sudden flash of the uplifted blade, the poor beast swerved towards the ravine, driving Miguel, all unconscious, on to the brink. He had already slipped towards the almost perpendicular descent before he realized his peril; then he clutched wildly at the slackened bridle, dragging the mule after him. It stumbled at the edge; burdened with its treasure-laden panniers it could not recover its footing, and in a moment man and beast, with one mingled scream of terror, disappeared into the yawning gulf.

The spectators above had halted, transfixed by the appalling tragedy. Then they hastened downward impetuously. The older man had fallen forward on the very edge of the ravine. Jack feared that he would follow Miguel Priego to destruction. But when, reaching the road, he threw himself from his mule and stooped to the prone figure, he found that the man had fainted, overcome by his fierce passion and the agitation of the last tense moments. Then for the first time Jack was aware of the thunderous roar of a torrent, and looking into the ravine he saw a white flood swirling over the rocks hundreds of feet below.

"Pepito," he said in a strained voice, "clamber down carefully. See what has become of Don Miguel—if anything can be done for him."

While the boy was gone on his perilous errand Jack loosened the clothing of the prostrate man, fetched water from a mountain-rill, and bathed his head. He opened his eyes, but there was no speculation in them. They wandered vacantly and closed again. Jack looked at him pityingly, and, as he looked, felt vaguely that the worn features were familiar to him. They reminded him of someone he had known as a child in Barcelona, a man who had mended his toys for him, and carried him on his back when tired; who had petted him and scolded him by turns, and whom he had alternately plagued and domineered over. Was it José Pinzon? Jack could scarcely believe it. The José he had known was a man touching his prime, strong, stalwart, bright-eyed, raven-haired; the man lying before him was bent and aged, wasted, hoary, decrepit. Yet the likeness to the old José was remarkable. Was it possible that the faithful servant had not been killed in Galindo's sortie, as Juanita had believed?

It was three-quarters of an hour before Pepito returned from his descent of the precipice. Nothing living could have survived so terrible a fall; Miguel must instantaneously have gone to his account. Fragments of the boxes, but for which the mule might have regained its footing, lay scattered on the rocks, and out of the ruin Pepito had recovered but one relic—one gold pendant,—which he handed to his master; all else had been swept away by the torrent. Then he helped him lift the poor wayfarer to the back of his mule, and together they bore him to a muleteer's cabin in the hills.

For three days the man lingered there, unconscious for the most part, and in intervals of consciousness talking at random of people and things that were quite strange to his hearers. Jack nursed him with every care; but it was evident from the first that his days were numbered. On the third evening, when the sun was near setting and the cicalas had commenced their chant, the man opened his eyes wide and looked amazedly about him. He made an effort to rise, but fell back upon the rough blanket that formed his bed. He seemed to be listening. Jack, watching him, saw for the first time a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes. Through the open door came the sound of hoofs rapidly approaching. There was a strange eagerness in the man's upward gaze. The sound ceased; Pepito came into the hut, followed by a young lady and a priest fetched in hot haste from Cariñena. The former bent over the bed and looked hard at the pallid face; the latter fell on his knees and began to recite the prayers for the dying.

"José! José!" whispered Juanita; "you know me, my dear friend?"

"My mistress!" he murmured faintly.

She clasped his hand; a look of glad content shone for a brief moment in the sick man's eyes. There was a silence; then, as the light faded, came the solemn voice of Padre Consolacion:

"Domine, in manus tuas animam suam commendamus!"

CHAPTER XXXVI

Sergeant Wilkes wants to know

Mr. Lumsden and Me—Me and Mr. Lumsden—A Lady in the Case—The Pleasure of your Company—O'Hare and the Ladies—The Grampus takes Cover—The Eve of Parting—The Age Limit—Poor Mr. Dugdale!—The Question

"Want to know about the fight at Corunna, do you? Hanged if you ain't always wanting to know something. Well, attention! dress by the right! and stand easy while I endeavour to reconstruct the situation."

The scene was the quay at Lisbon; the speaker was Sergeant Wilkes; the audience was a knot of green-coated recruits who, to judge by their docility, regarded the sergeant with admiration and awe. Since he had won the three stripes Wilkes had lost nothing of his loquacity, and had, indeed, cultivated a vocabulary of words long enough to match his new importance.

"Here you are, then; that there stands for the formidable French battery at the summit of the eminence"—he placed a jack-knife on the wall before him,—"this here stands for General Disney's brigade"—he put a plug of black tobacco at a distance from the knife,—"this here stands for the Reserve of that exemplary and notorious general Ted Paget"—he ranged two pebbles to the right of the tobacco,—"and this here," taking up one of the pebbles, "is Captain O'Hare's company. Look at him well, 'cos 'twas Captain O'Hare's company, and me in it, that won the battle on that most fatal and obstrepolous day. We was a-going up the hill towards that there battery, when blowed if we didn't get variegated with a lot of French dragoons in among the farmyards. Then up comes Mr. Lumsden, and says to me, 'Corp'ril Wilkes,' he says—I was only a corp'ril then, you understand—'Corp'ril Wilkes,' he says, 'we've got to shove down that there wall and drive the mounseers out. You an' me can do it if we puts our backs into it,' says he. 'Right you are, sir,' says I, 'we'll fustigate the mounseers and extipulate them to the last individual.' Them were the words I used. Well—"

"I say, sargint," said Corporal Bates, strolling across the road, "that's a smart little craft a-spanking up the river there. Looks like a despatch-boat, eh?"

"Don't interjeculate," said Wilkes irritably. "You always must put your spoke in. I was just telling the young 'uns how Mr. Lumsden and me won the fight at Corunna; who cares for a despatch-boat?—which it ain't, but only a common sloop."

"Go on, sargint, if you please," said one of the men.

"Well, as I was saying, Mr. Lumsden and me was just a-going to shove down the wall what was intermediate between us and the mounseers when—"

"Hold hard a bit, sargint," put in Bates; "ain't that there little chap on the boat there rather like the gipsy brat what Mr. Lumsden took up with?"

"Corp'ril Bates, if you keep on interrupting your superior orficer I shall rejuce you. Gipsy brats is neither here nor there; what the young 'uns want to know is how me and Mr. Lumsden licked the French at Corunna."

"That's him; that's Pepito!" cried Bates, heedless of Wilkes' increasing irritation. "P'r'aps he'll be able to tell us what's become of his master."

Bates sheered off, and Wilkes resumed his much-interrupted narrative. He was in the middle of a very vivid description of how Mr. Lumsden and himself fought eight Frenchmen at the wall, when he became aware of a commotion at some distance along the quay. Chagrined to find the attention of his audience wandering, he stood up, exclaiming:

"What are the rampaging Vamooses at now?—hang them!"

But he saw, not Portuguese, but a number of men in the well-known green of the 95th Rifles, marching up the street, cheering vigorously. Among them, in the middle of the causeway, strode two young Spaniards, the one slim and lissom, the other broad and bulky. Both walked buoyantly, and seemed in high good-humour. Behind them, over their heads, could be seen the antic figure of Pepito, perched on Bates's shoulders, and looking as proud as a peacock. Wilkes stared at the procession as it approached, wondering to see two Spaniards with the unprecedented escort of British Riflemen. All at once he drew himself up, struck his feet together, and, just as the head of the procession reached him, brought his hand to his eyebrow in the stiff military salute. His face was a study in its successive expressions of perplexity, vexation, and pleasure.

The recruits were taken too much aback to be able to make their salute before the procession had passed.

"Who's that ragged Don you're saluting, sargint?" asked one of them.

"Who's that, you dough-faced clod-hopping chaw-bacon, you!" cried Wilkes, seizing the opportunity of venting his feelings. "Why, that's Lieutenant Jack Lumsden, him what helped me to lick the mounseers at Corunna. And I'll make it warm for Charley Bates," he muttered, "stealing a march on me like that. Why didn't I perpetrate the disguise? That's what I want to know."

Meanwhile Jack and the Grampus had continued their progress until they arrived at the head-quarters of the 95th. There, two or three subalterns were seated at an open window, to catch a breath of air from the sea, grateful on that hot June day.

"Hullo!" said Pomeroy, catching sight of the procession, "what are the rascals up to now?"

"Some mischief, you may be sure," said Smith, looking over his shoulder. "I shall be glad when we get marching orders to join Sir Arthur. The men will get horribly loose if we're here long."

"By George!" said Pomeroy, "they appear to have got two Spaniards among them. Why—what—look here, Shirley, isn't that Lumsden's boy Pepito grinning like a monkey on Bates's shoulder?"

"Eh! What? Where?" said Smith, pushing his head out. "Jehoshaphat! That fat Spaniard—ha! ha!—don't you see, you fellows?—ha! ha!—he's the Grampus, bigger than ever. Gad! I shall die of this! The Grampus in Spanish toggery!"

"And the other fellow's Jack himself!" shouted Pomeroy excitedly. "Hurray! hurray!"

"'Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!'" quoted Shirley. "Hurray! Three cheers for Lumsden! But what am I to do with my epitaph?"

"What's all this pandemonium about?" cried a loud voice from the door of the room. "I wish you gentlemen would behave less like a pack of schoolb—"

"Lumsden's back, sir," said Smith. "The men are escorting him up the street."

"Good gad!" ejaculated Colonel Beckwith. Then, without more ado, he caught up Smith's cap from the table, stuck it on his head, and ran downstairs buttoning up his jacket on the way. He reached the door just in time to meet Jack before he entered.

"'Pon my honour—how d'e do?—glad to see you, hang it! You're not dead, then, after all?"

"Not a bit, sir," said Jack, heartily returning his handgrip. "Come to report myself, sir."

"Good gad! What a—what a villainous brigand you look! But we'll soon put that right. 'Pon my honour, I am deuced glad to see you."

The colonel shook hands again, and for some minutes Jack's arm was going up and down like a pump handle as he returned the greetings of his old friends, who meanwhile volleyed questions at him with clamorous excitement.

"Uncommonly kind of you fellows," he panted, "but if you'll excuse me—"

"Not a bit of it," cried Smith. "Excuse you, indeed!"

"No, begad," said the colonel. "You'll come in and let us drink your health—three times three. Come along."

"Most happy, sir, if you'll just allow me five or six minutes. The fact is, there's a lady on board, and—"

"Good gad! A lady!"

"And I came to get a coach to fetch her."

"Of course. A lady! My barouche is at your service. Here, Ogbourne, bring the barouche round in two minutes, for Mr. Lumsden.—Used to be your man, I think; a useful fellow.—Hang me! I must go and find Captain O'Hare."

Not many minutes later the subalterns at the window were as much surprised as interested to see the colonel's heavy rumbling chariot draw up at a house almost exactly opposite.

"I say, you fellows," cried Smith, "get out of sight. We don't want the lady to think we're a lot of peeping Toms."

"She's probably as old as your grandmother," said Pomeroy, "and long past blushing. Still—"

Consequently, when Juanita and her old duenna stepped out of the coach and entered the opposite house, there were no spectators of the scene. But when Jack returned to head-quarters he was instantly the mark of a running fire of questions. His fellow-officers, from the colonel downwards, were consumed with curiosity to know whether she was young or old, tall or short, dark or fair; where he had found her; what was her name. Shirley eagerly asked whether she was the famous Maid of Saragossa; Pomeroy was boiling with impatience because the Grampus had absolutely refused to give any information.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried Jack, "I can't attend to you all at once. The lady is the Señorita Juanita Alvarez, daughter of my father's old partner, on her way to England, and the friend with whom she is staying has invited the officers of my company to dinner to-morrow, so that if you care to go I'll introduce you en bloc."

"Bedad now," said Captain O'Hare, "that's mighty perlite. I must practise my best bow, and get my hair cut. 'Tis a powerful pity pigtails are just gone out of fashion, for sure I always looked killing in a pigtail. Ah well!"

"Come, Mr. Lumsden," said the colonel, "the Señorita has driven you out of our heads. What have you been doing with yourself? We learnt when Mr. Frere came home that you had gone to Saragossa, and not a man of us expected to see you again. Ogbourne, get some tumblers, and we'll do the honours."

It was late before the meeting broke up, and then not one of the company was satisfied. Jack had given them, indeed, a full and interesting account of the siege of Saragossa in general, but he appeared to be woefully lacking in detailed information about his own part in it. He was not so affectedly modest as to conceal the facts that Palafox had entrusted him with the defence of a certain district, and that the district was still in Spanish hands when the siege ended; but of the weeks of ceaseless work, unresting vigilance and anxious thought which had purchased his success he said never a word. Colonel Beckwith watched him closely as he told his story, and at its conclusion made a brief comment which gave him a thrill of pleasure.

"Gentlemen," he said, rising, "I speak for you all when I say that we're glad to have Lumsden back at the mess. There are big gaps in his story which somebody has to fill; but we don't want 'em filled to know that he's been an honour to the British army, and a credit to the Rifles. I give you Mr. Lumsden!"

When the cheers that followed the toast had died away, Jack on his side was eager to learn what had brought his old friends back to the Peninsula. Hearing that a new campaign was opening under Sir Arthur Wellesley, his face clouded for a moment.

"Sure an' ye've done enough for glory," said Captain O'Hare, noticing the expression, "and there's never a doubt the colonel will let ye go home to your sorrowing mother,—not to speak of escorting the colleen."

Jack blushed.

"Thank 'ee!" he said, "but I'm not going to run away from the regiment. Have you got a uniform to spare?"

"What, aren't ye in love then? Sure an' when I was your age I was desp'rately in love with half a dozen at once—the milkmaid, and the doctor's daughter, and the girl in the haberdasher's in Sackville Street, and a lot more."

"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Loved I not honour more,'"

quoted Shirley lugubriously.

"Honour, bedad! That's what I said to Patsy O'Dowd when she taxed me with making eyes at Honour O'Grady, and she boxed my ears,—and Patsy had a powerful heavy hand, begore. And if ye're not afraid of someone cutting you out—Mr. Dugdale, for instance ... By the way, is he going home too?"

"Not a doubt of that, sir," said the Grampus himself. "Amateuring isn't such fun as you'd think; why, I had to peel the onions till the Frenchman came! I'm sick of it; and I'm going home to practise doctoring on a new plan."

"What's that about onions?" called Colonel Beckwith from the head of the table.

The Grampus proceeded to relate his capture by the guerrilleros, and to expatiate on various little grievances incident to his state of bondage, which the company appeared to find vastly entertaining. This want of sympathy with his misadventures nettled even the good-natured Grampus, who became more and more red and indignant, until at length he burst out:

"Well, at any rate I did some good, and that was no laughing matter. If it hadn't been for me they'd have tortured some scores of poor devils of Frenchmen that Lumsden bagged—so there!"

"Story! story!" was shouted round the table.

"You must get Lumsden to tell you that. He caught 'em; but 'twas a speech I made saved 'em from being fried or boiled or something."

"Now, Lumsden, fill up that gap," said the colonel.

Seeing that there was no help for it, Jack gave a brief account of his adventure with the commissary's party at Morata, awarding a due meed of praise to Antonio the guerrilla captain.

"He was a good sort," he added, "quite mild-mannered for a Spaniard. None of them knew a word of English, and he complained that his men had been roused to fury against the prisoners by the violent harangue of the English senior. He could hardly hold them."

"Oh, come now!" expostulated Dugdale. "I didn't know Spanish, but I made myself clear enough."

"Exactly," said Jack; "when you pointed to your throat and then to the fire, the poor simple guerrilleros were only in doubt as to whether you meant roasting or garrotting."

A roar of laughter completed the Grampus's discomfiture.

"Bet you—" he began in desperation; but finding himself unable to state a wager that would meet the case, he buried his face in a tankard, from which it took a considerable time to emerge.

Next day it was a quiet and subdued group that crossed to the house opposite. Captain O'Hare was unmistakeably nervous, Pomeroy self-consciously gorgeous, and Shirley pale with sitting up late the previous night over a Spanish grammar, conjugating the verb Amor in all its moods and tenses. The Grampus took his revenge in chaffing them, and they all grunted approval when Captain O'Hare exclaimed:

"Bedad, if 'twas on Shannon's shore 'tis meself that would be at home, but 'tis a mighty different thing meeting a Spanish lady on the banks of the Taygus without a word of the lingo to turn a compliment."

But they were agreeably surprised when, after being welcomed in broken English by their portly and amiable Portuguese hostess, they were greeted in the same tongue, spoken with the prettiest accent imaginable, by a charming young señorita. Her beauty made an instant and visible impression on Captain O'Hare's susceptible soul.

The dinner was long remembered and talked of by the officers of O'Hare's company. There was a numerous party, Spanish, Portuguese, and English. Jack was unwillingly the hero of the evening, and the flattering attentions paid him would have been still more embarrassing had he not been so preoccupied in watching Juanita, who appeared to him in a quite unaccustomed light. He had admired her courage during the dark days of the siege; he had got an inkling even then of the essential brightness of her temperament; but he was hardly prepared for her perfect ease and self-possession, the vivacity of her conversation, and her social tact. He felt an inexplicable sinking at the heart; Juanita seemed to be farther away from him than at any time since he had first met her in Saragossa. They had been frank comrades during the hazardous journey across country to the coast, and the delightful voyage that had just closed their adventures, and under stress of circumstances Jack had for so long taken the lead that it was a sort of awakening to find that she was now independent of his counsel and protection. Moreover, she was going to England. He had intended to go with her, but the return of his regiment had altered all that. Till this moment he had not realized what a separation might really mean. He felt that they were at the parting of the ways.

It was from Juanita's lips that his brother officers heard the full story of his work in Saragossa, and after. Simply, without exaggeration, yet glowingly, she described how, with unfailing resource, he had met and frustrated all the attacks of the French on his little garrison and kept the flag flying to the last. Captain O'Hare followed her story with unwavering interest. He was not the man to praise lightly. Indeed, it was not the custom in that age of hard fighters to scatter vain compliments; his subalterns were therefore the more deeply impressed when, in a pause, he turned to Juanita and said in a tone vibrant with earnestness: