Front matter (continued 5)

"For to-night to the Hotel de l'Opera, where my sister is." I explained the position there, and then the change my brother's death had caused, and that I was no longer to be known as Ferdinand Carbonnell, but as Lord Glisfoyle; that the next day our whole party would leave Madrid, and that she and Madame Chansette would leave with us. "You can stay if you please in Paris, or anywhere out of Spain, and for the purpose of the escape we must decide in what character you will travel. That's as far as I've got with our plans, but no one will look for you in Mrs. Curwen's rooms at the hotel."

"I will not promise to leave Madrid," she said, firmly.

"Just as you please. No doubt Quesada can find a cell for each of us if we remain," I returned, pointedly. "If you stay, I stay, Sarita: on that I take my oath."

Without waiting for a reply, I told her rapidly so much of what had occurred since I had seen her as I deemed necessary: the quarrel with Livenza, the interview with Quesada, my discovery of his connivance in the Carlist plot, and that I had faced him with it, and then the scene at Quesada's house that evening; and I was at great pains to make it as clear as I could that all the Minister's plans were laid well in advance to deal this overwhelming blow at the Carlists, when the King had once been put away.

Told as the story was now, with all the evidence of police activity in full sight, and broken by more than one pause, as we had to stand aside to avoid the rush of the howling mob as some party of prisoners was dragged past us, it carried conviction.

"This is no chance work of an hour, Sarita. The plans have been ready and the preparations made for days past, merely waiting the signal. The very warrants under which these men and women here are being imprisoned have been lying ready signed in the pigeon-holes of Quesada's office, and the lists have been made out with scrupulous deliberation and method. This was the reception he had in readiness for the friends by whose deed he meant to climb. Success or failure was all one to him. If the plot had succeeded, he would have crushed you Carlists, to leave no one in his path; it has failed, and he can still use it to consolidate his power and strengthen his influence as a jealous Minister of the King. His treachery is the only true thing in him."

As we drew nearer the heart of the city, the throng in the streets increased, and the noise and din of the clamour were incessant. Something of the infection of the wonderful enthusiasm I had witnessed in the Opera had spread to the streets. It was known that the young King was unhurt, and had appeared there; and the vast crowds were giving tongue to their feelings in every key of frantic enthusiasm, vented now in roystering, rollicking shouts of loyalty, and again in fierce, wild curses upon the Carlists and all traitors. A scene to try the strongest nerves; and I was not surprised that even Sarita's courage began to fail, and she clung to my arm in apprehension.

There was cause indeed, for the mob was growing dangerous, and more than one ugly incident occurred close by us. The mere cry of "Carlist!" raised against either man or woman, was enough to bring the mob howling round like wolves scenting prey. And, as in all mobs, there were not wanting those who from motives of robbery or personal spite were ready to raise the cry, and so set light to the dangerous fires of violence.

Thus on one occasion we were standing back from the on-pressing crowd as a couple of prisoners were being taken by, when the cry of "Carlist spies!" was raised against a man and woman. It was started in the shrill tone of an old tatterdemalion hag who had begged an alms and had been refused. In an instant the two found themselves surrounded by a cursing, shouting, shrieking throng, their angry faces thrust forward in fierce denunciation, threateningly close to the pallid, fear-set features of the couple, and a hundred outstretched hands were quivering with the menace of violence. Someone gave the man a push from behind, and in a trice the two were separated, the man pulled, thrust, hustled, and whirled away like a leaf on the tempest of passionate ruthlessness, amid a war of oaths and curses; while by a chance the woman, forgotten in the instant of violence, drifted to us, and we let her creep in behind us and hide till the storm had passed.

A cry of "Carlist!" from below us soon carried the mob in search of the fresh victims, and we stood a minute, Sarita whispering to the woman to gather courage, as the danger was passed. And while we waited, the man who had been with her came back, helped by some friend who had found him battered, bruised, bleeding from a dozen hurts, and with the remnants of his clothing hanging on him in rags.

Sarita would have stayed to help the unfortunate pair, but the danger of the streets was too great, and I led her away.

The scene was repeated more than once, with variations mainly in the degree of violence used by the mob. More than once, too, we only just escaped finding ourselves in the midst of one of the innumerable street fights that occurred, where some man against whom the cry had been raised had friends, and, rallying them, shouted a counter charge against his accusers, and followed it up with an attack, in which knives were drawn freely on both sides and blood spilt.

Never was I more thankful in my life than when at length we reached the doors of the hotel, to which at last I had literally to force and fight my way through the mob still surging in the neighbourhood of the Opera House, and swarming all over the plaza where the hotel stood.

No sooner were we safe, however, and I stood a moment in the spacious hall of the hotel to recover my breath, than a fresh difficulty of a quite different character occurred to me. How should I explain matters in regard to Sarita to Mrs. Curwen and Mercy? I had scarcely mentioned her name to either of them; they knew nothing, of course, of the weird undercurrent of events; and yet here was I turning up with her at eleven o'clock at night, in defiance of all the conventionalities, and as the climax of a series of acts which must have appeared to them as the very type of eccentricity.

Besides, there was Mrs. Curwen's own undercurrent motive for her presence in Madrid.

CHAPTER XX

AT THE HOTEL DE L'OPERA

It is, of course, a very simple thing to laugh at the conventions, and to declare that it would be preposterous to give the least thought to them in the face of the really serious pass to which matters had come. I was trying to do that all the way to Mrs. Curwen's room as we followed the waiter, to whom I had given my name as Lord Glisfoyle.

But, as a matter of fact, I felt more nervous and uncomfortable at having to subject Sarita to the sharp inquisitive fire of the widow's eyes, than if I had been going to face a roomful of armed men. My companion saw my embarrassment.

"You are anxious how your sister will receive me?" she whispered with a quick discernment.

"My sister, Mercy, is one of the best, staunchest little souls in the world."

"Ah, then it is this friend of hers?"

"It will be all right," I answered evasively; and as the waiter threw the door open and announced me at that moment, there was no time to say any more. Our entrance could scarcely have been at a more inopportune moment. My sister had taken the news of Lascelles' death very badly, and was lying on a sofa overcome by grief. Mrs. Curwen was kneeling by her with scent and smelling salts, and Mayhew was standing near in the helpless attitude usual with men under such circumstances.

Mrs. Curwen did not get up or look round for a moment, but an exclamation from Mayhew, who recognised Sarita and bowed to her, and then stared at her with an expression of bewilderment, drew the widow's attention.

"Mercy is,"—she began in a tone of warning but glancing round, then seeing I was not alone, and that my companion was an exceedingly lovely girl, she stopped, jumped up and looked at Sarita with eyes and face that appeared to harden rapidly from surprised confusion to indignant anger. She seemed instinctively to divine enough of the case between Sarita and myself to make her exceedingly uneasy and angry; and she was never in the habit of concealing her feelings.

"I have brought my cousin, Senorita Castelar, who is at this moment in deep trouble, Mrs. Curwen, to ask you and Mercy to help her." I must admit Sarita did not wear the appearance of trouble to bear out my words. She met Mrs. Curwen's most sarcastic look with one of almost queenly hostility, held her head high and had a light in her flashing eyes which augured ill for peace.

"Any friend of yours is welcome, of course,"—oh, the sting of that "of course," and the wicked bow that accompanied it—"but the hour is very late and unfortunately Mercy is prostrated with grief at the terrible news which you left to Mr. Mayhew to tell us. Will you be seated, senorita?" Mayhew glanced across at me, shrugged his shoulders very slightly, and then like, a good fellow plunged in to the rescue.

"Thank God, you are safe, senorita," he said, coming forward. "You must have had an awful experience in the streets to-night. They are almost impassable for the frantic excitement of the mob. You will not have forgotten me, I hope. I have had the pleasure of meeting you more than once; the last time I think was at the French Embassy ball. No? Well, it must have been at some other, for I know that we danced together. My name is Mayhew. I'm at the British Embassy, you know—at least you would know if my good friend Ferd—Lord Glisfoyle, I mean, hadn't got his head too high in the clouds just now to tell you who I am."

His glib chatter was a wonderful relief and broke the exceedingly awkward strain at the moment when everything seemed to spell crisis; and he bustled about and went on chattering in an unconcerned and irrepressible manner, for all the world as though there was no electricity in the air, and the visit at such an hour and under such circumstances was just the most usual thing in the world.

Under cover of this fusillade of small talk I crossed to Mercy's side and bent over and kissed her.

"Mercy, dear, I am in sore trouble and perplexity. If you can make an effort and rally now and help me, you will do me the greatest favour in the world. Both Sarita Castelar—who is your cousin—and I are in imminent danger of being arrested and sent to gaol, and I want your woman's wit, and that of our good friend here—to get us out of it. Mrs. Curwen, you have often declared your friendship for me, will you show it now in this?"

I knew my sister well enough to be sure that such an appeal would be the finest tonic in the world, and that it would stir up every scrap of pluck in her to face the emergency. And I was right. She pulled herself together, and kissing me, sat up.

"This awful news about Lascelles——" she began.

"You must put the thought of it away for the present, Mercy, and face the danger here," I interposed, earnestly. "There is no time for the indulgence of grief."

Mrs. Curwen had stood in silence during the short by-scene with Mercy, and the catchy breathing, slightly paled cheek, firmly pressed lip, and quick glances flashed from me to Sarita, told me she was moved. She bent forward as Mercy sat up in answer to my appeal, laid a hand on my arm and looked into my face with more earnestness and feeling than I had ever known her display, as she asked—

"What is this girl to you, Ferdinand?" and her eyes searched mine keenly for the truth.

"As I live, she is more to me than life itself," I answered in a low whisper that trembled with suppressed passion.

At the reply, she drew her hand hastily from my arm, closed her eyes, bit her lip as she drew one deep breath, and clenched her hands in a moment of intense agitation. But in the moment she had herself in hand again, a smile broke the set pallor of her face, she gave me her hand.

"Then, of course, we'll do all we can. What queer, clumsy creatures you men are sometimes. Why on earth didn't you tell us before?" and like the plucky little soul she was, the smile quickened into a rallying laugh.

I had no words ready for a reply. I was too much moved; and I held out my hand in silence and pressed hers. Mercy had been scarcely less moved by my news, and getting up now, put her arms round her friend's waist and kissed her.

"What a fuss you two make about a trifle," said the widow, shrugging her shoulders. "Come, Mercy, we must do something, instead of chattering here; and let poor Mr. Mayhew off duty. I hope he isn't as awfully uncomfortable as he looks;" and she and Mercy crossed to Sarita.

"Lord Glisfoyle wants you a minute, Mr. Mayhew," she said, and then earnestly to Sarita, "My dear, let me call you that, I want to apologise to you, but I didn't know. Will you forgive me? Lord Glisfoyle is a very dear friend of mine—and you must be too."

"I didn't know that I had a cousin in Madrid," chimed in Mercy, kissing Sarita. "And you in such trouble too." And at that point Mayhew and I went out of the room on his suggestion, that if we left the three together while we smoked a cigarette, we should find them thick friends by the time we returned.

"This is a ticklish touch-and-go thing, Ferdinand," he said, as we lighted our cigarettes in the corridor.

"My dear Silas, it's a devil of a job, and how to get out——"

"I meant Mrs. Curwen," he said, drily. "You didn't tell me she'd ever cared for you; and to bring your cousin,"—with a distinct emphasis—"here was a bit risky, wasn't it? But I must say you have a devil of a way with you. I couldn't have done it."

"My dear fellow, Mrs. Curwen is a shrewd, level-headed, clever commonsense little woman, who is not of the type you seem to think. Her liking for me is much more platonic than romantic, and—well, I'm thundering glad it's all right. But I couldn't have done anything else if I'd wished to, for I had nowhere else to go. And look here, you behaved like a brick and just saved the situation. And now listen while I tell you something of the mess we're in." I told him pretty well everything, except my rescue of the young King, as shortly as I could, and very grave it made him look.

"You're in deep, sure enough," he said when I finished. "But there's a way out, and if I were you I should take it. I suppose that as your brother's dead you won't stay on at the Embassy here; well, I should go to the chief, tell him pretty well the whole show and just stop at the Embassy until you can get safely away. Quesada can't touch you, of course; and even he won't dare to try any games when he learns through official channels, of course, that the chief knows the facts. But you must give up the fight with him. You can't beat him. No one can."

"And Senorita Castelar?"

"I should get that plucky little widow-woman and your sister to smuggle her out of the country. It's no good blinking things, and there's no doubt that the Carlists will have a mighty bad time for a while; while those who took an active part in the abduction business have—well, they've put their heads in a noose, and that's the truth. It's a life and death matter for some of them: and you say she was a sort of leader?"

"Your plan won't do, Silas. We must get something better. I can't make up my mind to separate from her."

"Then you'll double the danger for you both. Quesada will have a double trail to follow, and he's a sleuth-hound at the game."

"I shall not leave her," I said, firmly. "I couldn't. I have still something in reserve for Quesada if need be, and I won't give in. Oh, by the way, did any one come to the box to-night?"

"Yes, of course, they did. I'd forgotten it in this hubbub. It was somebody from the royal box too, for you to go there. What on earth does that mean?"

"I think there was some mistake or other. What message did you send?"

"That you had left the house; and when they asked for your address in Madrid, I gave them this hotel, as you said. Are there any more mysteries about, Ferdinand?"

Mercy came out then in search of us and saved me from replying, and as we were entering the room she kept me back a moment and pressed my arm as she looked up and whispered—

"I like her, Nand, and she is beautiful. And it's all right now, but we had such trouble. She's as proud as Lucifer, and we could do nothing with her until Angela—hasn't she behaved splendidly?—kept declaring that if she didn't do what we wanted she'd bring you into all kinds of trouble. For herself, I believe she'd go to the stake with a smile on her face. But she loves you, Nand, and that settled things. You'll see a change in her."

"You're a true little chum, Mercy," I said, kissing her for her news. She was right; there was a change. Sarita was dressed in sober black, with white cuffs and collar, her glorious hair done with quite severe plainness; a costume that seemed a sort of compromise between that of a companion and superior maid. But no change could hide her looks, and the very plainness of her dress enhanced her beauty, at least in my eyes.

"I am the victim of circumstances, and of these two good souls' solicitude for your safety," she said to me.

"And what does it all mean?" I asked.

"We start for Paris to-morrow," replied Mrs. Curwen; "and while you gentlemen have been smoking and talking, I have been fortunate enough to secure the services of a new companion, whose name to the world is Juanita Sanchez. You will remember that. Mr. Mayhew, who can be trusted to see to any business arrangements, will, I know, kindly arrange for me to-morrow to have a special train through to Paris—I am too frightened by these Madrid mobs to remain longer—and will get passports for Mercy and myself and Juanita; and if Lord Glisfoyle joins us, so much the better. And now as I am desperately hungry let us have supper."

It was a strange feast, and had it not been for Mayhew's ever ready glibness of speech, it would have been an embarrassing business. But he opened a vein of anecdotal chatter, and Mrs. Curwen being very excited, soon began to keep up her end, so that gradually the feeling of strangeness wore away and we came to the discussion of our plans. There is no need to dwell upon them further, for they were all fated to be suddenly checkmated.

We had finished the supper; and in the lull that followed, Mayhew and I, at Mrs. Curwen's request, lighted cigarettes, and Mercy and Sarita having risen from the table, stood talking together at the far end of the room when a waiter came in, and approaching Mrs. Curwen, said in a very apologetic tone—

"I am sorry to disturb you, madam, but someone desires to see you—in point of fact, a police agent." As he spoke, we heard the sound of men moving in the corridor and a whispered word of command; and the next moment the police agent was in the room.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Mrs. Curwen, indignantly, in English, and the official, not understanding her words but replying to her gestures, bowed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Permit me to interpret," said Mayhew, readily, and he put the question in Spanish; and meanwhile the man's eyes were all over the room, settling finally on me.

"My instructions are to come here—the rooms of Senora Curwen, Hotel de l'Opera—" this he read from his instructions—"in search of the Carlist, Ferdinand Carbonnell."

Mayhew made a show of interpreting this to Mrs. Curwen, and jumbled in a half-coherent caution that he knew the man understood English, so that we must look out.

"Tell him he has made a mistake; and you," she said to the waiter, "go and fetch the manager of the Hotel. I will not stand this kind of treatment."

"In the presence of the police we are powerless, madam," replied the waiter. "The manager is away, I am acting in his place."

Meanwhile Mercy had turned so pale that I was afraid the official would notice it. Then Mayhew answered—

"You are under a grave mistake. This lady is an English visitor to Madrid, has been here only two or three days, knows nothing of any Carlists, and desires you to leave her rooms."

"There is no mistake. That is Ferdinand Carbonnell; or at least he answers to the description well enough for me, and he must accompany me," and he came and stood by my chair.

"I don't know what you're driving at," I said, thinking it time to take a hand on my own account. "If you want me to go anywhere with you, I've no particular objection. But you'll find yourself in a mess if you carry this blunder, or fooling, or whatever it is, any further."

"You speak excellent Spanish, senor. May I ask your name?"

"Is that a crime?" I asked with a sneer, while Mayhew laughed unconstrainedly and most naturally. "If you want to know who I am—I'm an Englishman, Lord Glisfoyle; and if you want anyone to prove it, we'll go and knock up the English Ambassador, and ask him what he thinks of this kind of outrage. I say it's monstrous."

"Lord Glisfoyle," he returned, stumbling over the pronunciation. He was obviously impressed by my coolness and the little touch of indignation. He took out a paper and scanned it closely. "You answer in every particular to Ferdinand Carbonnell's description. These are anxious times, senor, and I have only my duty to do," he added apologetically.

"I can't help that," said I, quietly. "If you want to arrest me because I speak Spanish well and look like somebody else, you must have a queer set of laws here in Madrid. Had we better knock the Ambassador up, for the enlightenment of the gentleman?" I asked Mayhew.

"Nonsense," he said, with another laugh. "The thing's absurd. Here, you probably know me—or some of your men will. My name is Silas Mayhew, of the British Embassy. I tell you, this is Lord Glisfoyle. Don't get yourself into trouble and cause no end of complications by carrying this thing any further."

"May I ask the names of all present?" was the reply, for he was by no means satisfied yet.

"Of course you may. I've told you this is Mrs. Curwen," said Mayhew, coolly. "That is Lord Glisfoyle's sister, and that Mrs. Curwen's companion—maid, Juanita Sanchez." He did it excellently, as though the matter were the merest form. The official was puzzled, and stood pulling his beard in indecision. But he scarcely glanced at the two girls, vastly to my relief. If Sarita was safe, I cared little about myself.

"Excuse me a moment," he said, and going to the door he spoke to one of his men who came back to the room with him.

"You are Ferdinand Carbonnell, we are sure," he said then, and to my consternation he was holding a photograph in his hand. I remembered then that Quesada had obtained one from me.

"There is no room for doubt," and he showed it to Mayhew.

I saw Sarita start at this, while Mercy had to cling hold to her and be helped to a chair.

"I'll go with you, of course," I said. "But I shall hold you responsible for this. My sister is not well, and your clumsy blunder has made her positively ill. It's all right, Mercy," I said, going over to them, and taking occasion to whisper to Sarita, "I shall be perfectly safe if you'll only get away. They can do nothing to me, and by to-morrow they'll have a broadside from the Embassy that'll make them shake in their shoes. But promise to leave Madrid with Mrs. Curwen."

"Should I run away and leave you in danger?" she said.

"I can't stop to argue, but if you care for me and my safety, you'll do what I ask. I'm ready," I said aloud. "Just let me see your documents."

He showed me an order signed by Quesada himself, the alleged offence being high treason; and I read it aloud in order that Sarita should hear it, and I was shaking hands with Mrs. Curwen preparatory to leaving when there came another interruption.

Two officers in very elaborate uniforms were ushered in by a waiter, with every sign of extreme deference. They were complete strangers to me, and my heart leapt into my mouth in fear that it boded mischief to Sarita.

"Pray pardon me, madam," said one of them in English to Mrs. Curwen. "I hope we are not intruding; but we come on a mission of the highest importance. I was told Lord Glisfoyle was your guest, and I see"—this with a most courteous bow to me—"I was not misinformed."

"I am Lord Glisfoyle, but I do not recall the pleasure of having seen you before."

"That is my loss, sir," and he bowed again. "I know you, however, by sight, having seen you to-night in Mrs. Curwen's box at the Opera, and afterwards I learnt from this gentleman, Mr. Mayhew, of your Embassy, that you were staying here. I am Colonel Vasca, this is Colonel Damara," and we all bowed again like willows in a breeze. "We come from the King, and bring His Majesty's earnest request that you will wait upon him at the Palace at eleven o'clock to-morrow, when he desires to present you to Her Majesty the Queen Mother, who adds her request to His Majesty's."

The amazement of everyone in the room was complete, while the police official was lost in bewilderment. I think I rather enjoyed the situation, and answered very gravely—

"Their Majesty's desires would have been commands, but unfortunately I shall be prevented. This person, a police agent, has arrested me, so that instead of being in His Majesty's Palace I shall be in one of His Majesty's prisons, I presume. Perhaps you will be good enough to explain the cause of my absence."

The seriousness of my manner and the incongruity of the reply turned the thing in a moment to broad farce; with results which can be easily understood.

The King's messengers routed the Quesada agent in half a dozen words, and sent him and his men packing about their business. Then they made me a thousand profuse, most elaborate, and somewhat tedious apologies, and took their leave with signs of respect for me that were almost overpowering.

And no sooner were they gone than the other side of the incident was put before me very pungently by Sarita, who asked with a very sharp and searching glance—

"How comes the young King to be so friendly with you, Ferdinand, and apparently under so great an obligation?"

The question showed that even a king's favour may not be without its embarrassments; for in truth I did not know how to answer.

CHAPTER XXI

SARITA'S FLIGHT

Mrs. Curwen, Mercy and Mayhew, were almost as keenly interested as Sarita herself in the question she had asked with such vehemence, and thus my hesitation in answering was the more noticeable. Their motives were, of course, very different from hers, and I could have put them off with some light evasion; but with Sarita that would probably be both useless and dangerous; and her suspicion deepened with every second of my hesitation.

It was all but impossible for me to tell her the truth—that I had thwarted the long cherished plot and saved the young King. I could only tell her that when I was in a position to convince her that Quesada's policy was, as I had described it, to use the Carlist plot and then crush the plotters.

Moreover, the position, so far as I myself was concerned, had been completely changed by the death of my brother. Up till that moment I had been a soldier of fortune with my way to make; and the rescue of the King had offered just the chance of chances which a man with such an aim might most desire. I had meant to make Spain my home and to build a career on the foundation of my contest with Quesada. There was danger in it, of course; but I was not scared by that; and when I gained my knowledge of his double treachery, the means to success were I felt, practically within my reach.

The fact that Quesada feared me sufficiently to resort to the extreme step of clapping into gaol a member of the Embassy staff on a charge he knew to be false, and one which he could not substantiate, and the extraordinary admission he had made to his sister, that by demanding my release she was ruining them, had given powerful confirmation to my confidence; and this attempted arrest in despite of Dolores' intervention, and probably without her knowledge, was still further corroboration of my view that he feared me.

But the fact that I was now the head of the family had altered everything. From the instant I had known that, my purpose changed, and my object was to save Sarita, and with her get out of Spain at the earliest moment. I had no thought or intention of declaring my identity to the King unless in actual need of His Majesty's protection, and in view of the difficulty of explaining that act of mine to Sarita, I had meant the whole thing to remain a mystery.

And yet here I was faced at the most critical and inopportune moment with the necessity of explaining.

"The question seems strangely difficult to answer," said Sarita, when I did not reply.

"I don't know that I need say that. There seems to be a good deal of misapprehension about me everywhere. Probably I can better answer the question when I have been to the Palace—if I go at all, that is. But I am not particularly anxious for His Majesty's goodwill, and prefer to leave Madrid."

"I shall not leave Madrid now," cried Sarita, instantly. "And I shall go at once to my home." At this Mercy and Mrs. Curwen broke into earnest protests, to which Sarita listened unmoved.

"You are one of us now, Sarita, you must not act in this desperate way, your very life may be in danger," said Mercy, earnestly.

"You do not understand," was the firm, steady reply. "I am in no real danger; and if I were I should care nothing. For what I have done, I am prepared to answer. I have plotted for my rightful King, Don Carlos, and I am not afraid to own it. I had built everything upon this stroke to-day, and it has failed. Why? Your brother knows probably better than any one else; and until that mystery is cleared up, I cannot accept your brother's or your help. I thank you for your offer—from my heart I thank you—but I cannot accept it."

"This is madness, Sarita," I cried warmly, going to her. I spoke in Spanish, and Mrs. Curwen and Mercy left us and with Mayhew went to the other end of the room.

"The name of it does not matter; it is the thing itself I care for. I consented to leave not because of my own risk in remaining. I am not a coward to run away because I have failed. I have always had the possibility, nay, the probability, of failure in my thoughts, and have always been prepared to face the consequences. If I could contemplate the necessity of marrying Sebastian Quesada, do you think I should fear a prison? I consented now, because of the danger to you; but you stand safe under the golden light of His Majesty's favour; how gained you know and I fear; but being gained, my motive for flight is gone. I shall stay in Madrid and shall return to my home."

I knew her too well to entertain much hope that she would change her mind, and what to do I knew not.

"You judge me very quickly," I said.

"Can you explain the King's sudden favour?"

"Is it not clear that this raiding of to-night had nothing to do with the success or failure of the attempt on the King?"

"Can you explain the King's sudden favour?" I paused, and then took the plunge.

"Yes. I took His Majesty this afternoon from the hands of the men who were carrying him off."

"It is enough. I will go, if you please," she said, quietly.

"You will step straight into danger," I cried.

"I would rather be in danger where you are not, than safe where you are, Lord Glisfoyle." The cold, cutting words struck me to the heart.

"That is very hard to hear, Sarita."

"It is harder to say, but it is no less than the truth."

"Yet, I will not believe it. Your heart will not say it. You know how I love you. You know I have not a thought or care but for your good, your safety, your happiness. You have confessed you love me; I know you do. I know that it was your love for me that prompted you just now to think of my danger and consent to leave Madrid. Even now I can read it in your eyes, for all the coldness you would try to force into them. You shall not go like this. I swear to God you shall not. If you speak of truth and mean that we must part, there must be at least some sign from you of that other truth—the heart truth—that you love me, Sarita. I will not let you go else."

She was moved by my passion, although she would not let her own respond to it. But the struggle kept her silent a moment. Then she lifted her head and looked me calmly and still even coldly in the eyes.

"Do you think I would let my love weigh against treachery to the cause of my country that is more to me than life itself? Am I so poor a thing as that? If you wish to give me pain you are causing it. I love you; I know, as you know. I was not ashamed of it; even if I now feel shame that I loved one who could deal Spain this blow. But I shall live it down—I will. But you and I must not meet again." Her firmness began to give out then, and breaking slightly, she said in a quicker tone of agitation, "Let me go now. Nay, I will go."

"You are as hard as steel, Sarita, but before you break both our lives in this wild, impulsive way, you must have time to think. Remember what I have told you, how all that has occurred to-night has long been planned, and that it would have occurred just the same if I had not saved the King. Indeed, it was actually being done while Quesada still believed the attempt on the King had been successful."

"There is no proof of this," she interposed.

"That is the first ray of hope you have given me. If I prove it, will you recall the wild words you have spoken to-night? Give our love at least this one chance, Sarita," I pleaded.

"You cannot prove it," she said wavering.

"When I have proved it, I will put that question again. And now as to to-night. You cannot go out into the streets in the midst of uproar, and no power on God's earth shall make me let you do it. Stay here to-night, promise to see me to-morrow—I will take no refusal; and I have some claim on you, if for nothing else, for the warning I carried to-night to the Calle Valencia. Promise that, and I will see Madame Chansette and relieve her anxiety. She herself is leaving Madrid, broken down by all this trouble, and when we meet to-morrow, you can make your decision. You will do this?" At first she would not promise, but my determination prevailed, and she agreed to stay at the hotel until the morning; but would not promise to see me then.

I accepted the compromise, however, and having hurriedly explained the matter to Mrs. Curwen and Mercy, I left with Mayhew, to go and relieve Madame Chansette's anxiety.

"Did I hear you say you saved the young King?" he asked me as we passed down the stairs.

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Unfortunately! Why, when it's known, you'll be the most popular hero in all Spain."

"And to-night, I am about the most wretched. I could wish His Majesty had gone to the devil before I interfered in the matter;" and feeling half-distracted by my gloomy thoughts, I pushed on through the now clearing streets in the direction of Madame Chansette's house.

We found her waiting up in great distress at Sarita's prolonged absence, and dreading to hear she had been arrested. The news we brought relieved her anxiety, and having stayed with her a short time we left.

"Where are you going now?" asked Mayhew. "Hadn't you better come and turn in with me?"

"No, I think I'll take the risk of going to my own rooms. I don't fancy the police or Quesada will think for a moment that I shall return there. And in fact I don't care if they do."

"Rubbish, man. You come with me. You're hipped now, and want an hour or two's sleep. I'll go to your rooms first thing in the morning;" and not caring, I agreed. I was as tired as a dog after a hard day's hunting, and within a few minutes of reaching Mayhew's rooms I fell into a heavy sleep and did not wake until late in the morning, to find my friend by my bed shaking me vigorously.

I was vastly refreshed, and had my bath and some breakfast while he went over to my rooms.

"Everything seems all right there," he reported. "And I brought over the first things I could find. But I think you may venture there to get something decent to wear for the interview at the Palace."

"My dear fellow, I wouldn't put my head inside my rooms for a pension, till I've been to the hotel."

"But last night you wanted to go and sleep there."

"Last night was last night, Silas, and I felt done; but I'm myself again this morning. Now look here, there are things to do. In the first place, I've written out a wire for the lawyers about matters in London. Poor Lascelles' funeral must wait a day or two if need be. Then you've got to see about the special train for Mrs. Curwen and Mercy to leave, with Sarita, if she'll go. But the others must go, and probably poor old Madame Chansette with them. If Sarita goes, I go; if she stops on, I stop on. I was a fool to leave the hotel at all last night, and my brain must have been addled or in my boots for me to do it."

"Why not go to London and clear the business there out of the way; let things simmer down here, and leave me in charge of them; and then come back and do what has to be done?"

"Have you ever cared for a woman, Silas?"

He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders as he said—

"Too busy and too poor for luxuries of the kind."

"Ah, well, everything comes to those who wait. If you haven't, you don't know how I felt in this; if you ever do, you'll understand me. I'm ready now, and feel fit. I'm off to the hotel."

"You'd better see the chief and tell him. He can do more than you."

"He can't save Sarita from Quesada, and I can, and will. Of course, there's the chance that these agents of his will lay me by the heels, and we must reckon with that. I don't know what's going to happen; but I do know this, that where Sarita goes, I follow; and so long as I'm outside a gaol I'll try and communicate with you twice a day. If a day passes and you don't hear from me, then tell the chief what's wrong; and if he can't get me out of any bother, then let the people at the Palace know. So much for emergencies. As for the rest, I'll cut the knots as I find them."

"You'll come out on top, Ferdinand, I'm sure of that. I wish to Heaven I had your energy."

With that we parted for the time, and a good deal was to happen before we shook hands again.

As I drove to the Hotel de l'Opera I saw the city was as full of soldiery as if it had been under siege; but no one interfered with me, and at the hotel the marks of increased respect with which I was received evidenced the influence of the previous night's message from the King.

Everything else was wrong, however.

Mrs. Curwen and Mercy were waiting for me in a condition of nervous excitement, and Madame Chansette was with them. But as I had more than half dreaded, Sarita was gone. She had slept with Mercy and had got up early, dressed, and written a note for me before Mercy had awoke.

"She was just leaving, and her kiss woke me," said Mercy, who was in sore trouble. "I did my utmost to persuade her to stay, at all events until you came, but I could do nothing against her resolve. I asked her where she was going, but she would not say. 'I am going to my friends, who are in trouble and have need of me. I have work to do, and under no circumstances could I stay with you. Give your brother a note I have written,' was all she would answer. I am so sorry, Ferdinand."

"It is not your fault, Mercy; I more than half feared it, and blame myself for not having stayed here in the hotel. Do you know anything of her movements, Madame Chansette?"

"She did not come home. I sent here the first thing in the morning for news of her, and when word came that she was no longer here, I hurried to the hotel myself. I meant to tell her I will not stay any longer in Madrid. I cannot. I am miserable. It will kill me, this incessant danger," and she wrung her hands.

"She will be sure to let you hear from her," I said, quietly, wishing to calm her anxiety.

"How can she if she is in one of those horrible prisons?"

"She is not there, and I shall find her, be assured," I answered, with much more confidence than I felt. "Do you know where Ramon is?"

"I never know where he is," was the helplessly spoken reply. "But I believe some days ago he was somewhere near Saragossa, or Daroca, or some such place. But I don't know. I know nothing."

"Do you know what name he is using?"

"No—yes—I think so. I believe it is Solano."

"Good. I will find him, at any rate. Now I will see what she says to me;" and I opened the letter.

"I have thought over everything, and have decided not to see you again. Do not seek me: it will be useless. To stay here longer would be treachery to those who have been ruined by your act; and for us to meet would cause only pain to both. You cannot prove what you said, for I know the facts. One last request I make you—go to England and forget we ever met. Good-bye. Sarita Castelar."

"Does she tell you anything?" asked Madame Chansette, eagerly, for I had read the letter twice with long pauses of thought.

"Not a word as to where she is going. She tells me only that she does not wish to stay and see me." I spoke calmly, and tried to hide every sign of the feelings of dismay, pain, and anxiety that were gnawing at my heart; and, putting the letter in my pocket, I added: "And now as to your plans. I should like you to return to London, Mercy, with Mrs. Curwen."

"Do you think I am going away under such circumstances?" burst in Mrs. Curwen, in a tone of indignation, "and leave you in this pickle of a mess? If I can't help you find the senorita—and I don't suppose I can do much good in that—I can at least be at hand to help you when you've found her. And here I stop."

"Mr. Mayhew is arranging for a special train," I said.

"Then Mr. Mayhew can travel in it, and take this dear old lady and Mercy. I stop in Madrid, and nothing shall move me—unless you want me to be somewhere else in this detestable country."

"And I can't go without Mrs. Curwen, Nand, can I?" cried Mercy.

"I call it just real mean of her to have gone off in this way; but I will say she is a brick to stick to her friends in a mess. And if ever she wants a friend, I am on call; and that's all about it. Don't you think Madame Chansette had better stay with us until the senorita's found?"

"You are a true friend, and I shall never forget this," I answered; and, indeed, I was much moved by her spirited declaration, and more by her praise of Sarita. "I will not say another word about it. But I must get to work."

I wrote a letter to the young King, apologising for not being able to go to the Palace, and pleading urgent and most embarrassing business; and, having despatched it, promised Mrs. Curwen and Mercy to let them know how things went, if I could, and said that in any case they would hear of me through Mayhew.

With that I hurried away to commence my search.

CHAPTER XXII

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

My knowledge of Sarita's real relations with the Carlist leaders was, of course, too slight to enable me to form anything approaching a definite opinion as to where she would go. I could only guess, build up a workable theory, and act upon it until something turned up to guide me.

I had one or two points in my favour, the chief being that her brother was probably to be sought, under the name of Solano, either at Saragossa or Daroca. I regarded it as likely that she would endeavour to join Ramon, if other considerations did not render such a course undesirable.

My plan was quickly formed. I intended to adopt the Carlist character of Ferdinand Carbonnell, and in that name push my inquiries among the Carlists themselves. The name was a sure passport among them, or it would be unless Sarita herself should proclaim me an impostor. That was a contingency which I did not anticipate, but I had no option but to face it.

In this character, there were two men who might be valuable allies—Dr. Vedia, at whose house I had been the previous night, and Vidal de Pelayo, either in Saragossa itself, or at Huesca.

I resolved to go first to the doctor, and hurried to the Calle Valencia. If Sarita had left Madrid, I guessed it would have been by the doctor's help, and I worked on that theory. I found Dr. Vedia in a condition of considerable nervous excitement.

"It is very dangerous to come here, senor," he said, directly.

"It is not a time to think of personal considerations, doctor. You have had Senorita Castelar here, and I am anxious to know that she succeeded in getting the disguise she sought to leave the city." I deemed it best to appear to know everything, and I watched him like a lynx for any sign that my guess was right. The start he gave was very slight, but perceptible to eyes looking for it, and without waiting for his answer I made a further shot. "The railway to Saragossa is watched with Argus eyes by Quesada's men—you know that, of course—but I thought she might learn through you if the attempt to get away might be dared."

"She told me you knew nothing of her journey," he said, completely off his guard in surprise.

"That is immaterial," I replied, nodding my head, smiling, and waving the remark aside as a superfluity, seeing that I had already shown my knowledge. "I thought that either a peasant's or a nun's dress would be safest, and knew, of course, that she could get from you one or the other." It was notorious that disguises of the kind were frequently kept in the houses of the Carlist agents. "And she came to you because of all our houses in Madrid, yours will be the least suspected."

"I don't understand you," he said then, cautiously.

"Nor is it necessary," I returned, warmly, with an air of offended authority. "It is your part, senor, to comply with the requests laid upon you, not to question their wisdom or expediency." My sternly-uttered, insolent bluff succeeded where anything else might well have failed.

"I did all that lay in my power," he replied, almost apologetically.

"All I want to know is that she got away. So much depends upon her mission that I came for the news at first hand. Will she get through to Daroca—you know the movement there?"

"I knew nothing of it until I read the news this morning, which the senorita confirmed. I have every hope she will get through. Heaven send she may be in time."

"So we all pray to-day," I answered, mysteriously; for I did not in the least know what news he meant and dared not question him. I had the news I wanted, however, and was turning to leave when he stopped me.

"I ought to tell you, I think, that she warned me particularly against you."

"She was quite right, but she knows no more than you, senor. These are troubled times;" and having given him this conundrum to chew at leisure, I added: "I am glad to tell you the trouble will pass your house untouched," and then left him, congratulating myself that I had completely mystified him and had much impressed him with my importance as a Carlist emissary.

The next problem was how to get out of the city and follow Sarita to Daroca. As I had said to Dr. Vedia, the railways were infested with police, and watched closely. In all probability every applicant for a ticket would be under observation, and would have to give a sufficient reason for his journey as well as a good account of himself; and not only had I no papers of any kind, but I must almost inevitably be the object of embarrassing police solicitude.

As I neared the station, therefore, I entered a restaurant, and calling for some wine, told the waiter to bring me a time-table and a newspaper. A glance at the paper showed me it was full of the Carlist troubles. There was a short official account of the young King's adventure and a dozen unofficial ones, while from all parts of the country were scores of telegrams speaking of Carlist outbreaks, actual and anticipated. Among these was one that arrested my attention instantly.

The Carlist movement was described as being in chief force along the eastern littoral, from Alicante to the north of Barcelona; and spreading over the whole of Catalonia and Aragon; while Huesca, Saragossa and Daroca were referred to as so many central danger spots inland.

The message from Saragossa contained the following:

"Telegrams from Daroca suggest that that secluded place, being so difficult of access, has been used as a kind of headquarters for a strong and active Carlist body; the proximity to the mountains having rendered it especially liked by those bands of wild and lawless mountaineers who are known to be deeply embroiled in the present disturbances. The government agents here (Saragossa) have learnt that a man known as Solano, believed to be one of the most reckless and venturesome of the Carlist propagandists, came here lately from Daroca. He narrowly escaped capture, and in the room he had occupied were found a quantity of compromising documents, such as addresses to the people and stamped brevets of appointments in a Castilian rifle brigade. A quantity of arms and ammunition were also discovered through the papers he left when he fled. The situation here is decidedly serious. A conflict has occurred between here and Huesca, in which blood was shed, and the military beaten by the superior numbers of the Carlists. The authorities have now closed all the known Carlist clubs, have arrested a number of the leaders, and have placed many others under close police and military surveillance. There is every fear of an outbreak."

The news might well make me grave. It was into this hornets' nest I had to follow Sarita, and in following her had to take the double risk of danger from both sides.

If the police agents identified me, I should be clapped into gaol by them as the dangerous revolutionary, Ferdinand Carbonnell; while the Carlists might very probably hold me for a spy and a traitor, the proper mark for either bullet or dagger.

But go to Saragossa and on to Daroca, aye, and on to the end of the world, I would, if necessary, and if I could get there, in search of Sarita; and, putting down the paper, I picked up the railway guide to find the route and the train time.

Then came a very pertinent and unpleasant reminder of the difficulties ahead of me. Chancing to glance into the street, I saw three men in earnest conversation close to the door, and recognised two of them; Senor Rubio, the official who had been at Quesada's house the night before, and the man who had come in search of me to the Hotel de l'Opera. The third was a stranger.

They stood for two or three minutes talking earnestly, and when they parted, the two I knew went together hurriedly toward the railway. I sauntered to the door and watched them enter the station, after exchanging a word with one or two men standing about in front of the building.

How could I hope to get away unrecognised, was my perplexed thought as I returned to my table. These men knew me personally, and had spoken to me; one of them had my photograph, and I did not doubt that it had been reproduced by the hundred and distributed among the police spies. Quesada was not the man to do things by halves, and this Rubio was no doubt both a willing and clever agent.

Still, the attempt must be made, and if they laid hold of me I must rely on the Embassy or the palace to procure my liberty; and I turned up Daroca in the guide. It was a beast of a place to get at and there was no train for some hours.

It was the terminus of a loop-line some forty odd miles south of Saragossa, and could only be reached by going to that place first. It seemed to be a sort of cul-de-sac with the mountains all about it—just the place of all others in the country that would be most difficult to reach, and having been reached, probably a hundred times worse to leave. As I realised the inaccessibility of the spot, and the proportionate increase in my difficulties and risks, my irritation and chagrin found vent in a curse which paradoxically proved most providential.

"Damn the place," I exclaimed aloud, heartily, as I tossed the book on the table.

"That's just the sweetest word I've heard to-day, and if it is anything to do with the railway, sir, I'd like to join you in the curse."

The speaker was a florid, flabby-faced, square-shouldered, middle-aged man, who was sitting at the other end of my table, and received my look of surprised and somewhat intolerant protest at his interruption, with a broad, good-natured, knowing smile.

"No offence, I hope," he went on, glibly, "I meant none; but when I heard you swear in dear old English, I couldn't help chipping in. This is an infernal country to do business in at the best of times, but at the worst, and I suppose this is about the worst; it's the most God-forsaken, riotous, bundle-you-about, stick-a-knife-into-you-if-you-say-anything, and run-you-in-if-you-don't cursed hole that ever a man was condemned to travel in. I don't do much in their beastly lingo at any time, and I haven't heard a word of English this day till I heard your 'damn,' and if there's any sympathy in any word of ours, I say it's in a good old hearty damn. And damn the place I say too."

"You put it crudely, my friend, but there's something in the theory, perhaps; though I haven't heard it before," I replied, amused, in spite of myself. "What's your worry? I know what you call the lingo, and if I can help you, well, we're both English, and that's enough."

"My name's Hunter, David Hunter, of the firm of Ross and Catter, the lace people of London, Nottingham, Calais, and everywhere where lace counts. You'll know them if you're on the road, or ever have been;" and he gave me one of his business cards.

"I've been on a good many roads," said I, taking the card; "but never on such a queer one as this."

"May I ask your name, sir?"

"Glisfoyle."

"Glisfoyle, umph, I haven't met it. In any particular line, may I ask?"

"In no particular line at present; travelling for myself, and not exactly on business, commercial business, that is. But all the same, if I can be of any service, I shall be glad."

"I wish you could, but it isn't anything to do with the language, as you suggested. I can patter along in my way, sufficient for what I want. But this isn't the lingo. I wanted to get to Daroca; a big order depends on my getting certain samples there, and now they tell me the place is full of those hot-headed fools of Carlists, and that it's as much as a man's life is worth to poke his head into the hole. I like my firm, and like a good order too, but I like my head a thundering sight better; and so I say, damn the place and the Carlists too—stopping business in this fat-headed way."

The mention of Daroca set my ears tingling, as may be imagined. Here might be a chance in a thousand for me to get there, and while he chattered, I thought and planned.

"I am going to Daroca," I said quietly. "If you like we could travel in company, and if one of us chanced to get killed—not, perhaps, a great improbability—the other could deliver your samples. The order might thus reach your firm, and even if you were not fortunate to live and profit by it your widow might be glad of the commission. I know there's danger there, but then a man can only die once, Mr. Hunter, and how better than in the performance of his duty?"

His fat, flabby face paled slightly, and I went on to give a vivid and coloured picture of the risks, until he was obviously very much frightened indeed.

"And you are going to such a place?" he asked, looking at me as though I were a madman.

"Oh yes, why not? It's so difficult to find a little excitement nowadays," I said, in a rather languid, bored tone. "You'll find it pleasant enough after a bit."

"No thank you, sir. David Hunter doesn't travel in bullets and guns and explosives. My skin ain't warranted not to puncture either. It's out of my line altogether. But if you really mean that you are going, that you're really bent on going——" he stopped and looked at me.

"Well?"

"I wouldn't do a blessed thing to persuade any fellow creature to shove his head into such a devil's pit, but if you are going, perhaps you wouldn't mind undertaking a little commission for me."

"Not the least in the world. What is it?"

"It's only to deliver a few samples—they aren't big enough to bother you, and just say they're from me," and he gave me particulars of what he wanted. "It wouldn't take me an hour, and I'd be awfully obliged to you, and so would my firm."

"I don't care a cent for your firm, but I'll do it to oblige you, Mr. Hunter, if you think you can trust me with the samples."

"I hope I know a gentleman when I see one, Mr. Glisfoyle; and you're one of the right sort. Besides, the samples are of no great value;" and this excellent caution made me smile.

"I won't run away with them, anyhow; and if you'll go to the station when the time comes and get me a ticket—get a return if you can, and if any questions are asked just give your own name and the lace business as the reason for the journey, and you may consider the thing settled." I handed him a bank-note.

"Oh, you think they mightn't let you go then?" he said, shrewdly.

"They will let a man with definite business to do pass much more readily than one who can plead nothing more than a wish to see the fun."

He gave me a meaning look, a knowing twist of the head, and a wink.

"I twig. I'll soon have a ticket," he said, and went off briskly. He was soon back with the ticket. "It's all right. I gave a card and showed 'em my samples, and that did the trick. And if you don't mind my giving you a wrinkle, you take my case with you and some of my cards. Looks workmanlike;" and seeing the policy of it, I accepted the case.

"We'll go over together when the train's due out," I said; "and as there might still be some questions asked, you'd better appear to be going until the last moment."

In this way we managed. Just before the train was due out we went together and I kept as much out of sight as possible; and taking care to avoid Rubio and the other official who knew me, I succeeded, under the pretence of seeing Mr. Hunter off, in getting away without any difficulty at all. It was so simple a matter indeed that I was disposed to laugh at my careful precautions; but I had ample reason to be glad of them before we had travelled far. Not once only but half a dozen times I had to show my ticket and explain the purpose of my journey, and that I was Mr. David Hunter, representing the great lace firm of Messrs. Ross & Catter.

Nor were those the only exciting incidents of the journey. We made a stoppage of some minutes at a station some thirty miles out from Madrid, Guadalajara, and there I made the unpleasant discovery that the police agent Rubio was travelling by the same train. I caught sight of him as he was walking along the platform scanning the passengers pretty closely. I thrust my head out of the opposite window, therefore, and kept it out until we started again, feeling, I must admit, profoundly uncomfortable.

He did not see me, however, or at any rate recognise me, but I did not breathe freely until we were well clear of the station and again steaming north, when I drew in my head and resumed my seat, with a casual look at the fresh passengers who had entered the carriage at the station. And then I made a discovery, which sent the blood for an instant rushing to my heart and made me catch my breath in sudden dismay.

Right opposite me, their knees almost touching mine and their eyes staring full into my face, were two men, whom I recognised instantly, and who were as unwelcome fellow-passenger's as the keenest scented police spy in Spain could have been.

They were two of the men from whose hands I had snatched the young King on the previous day. One was the man I had ridden down and then knocked unconscious on the road, and the other was he who had come running up at the last moment, whose horse I had borrowed for the young King's use.

If they recognised me, and both were staring at me as though trying to place me in their memory, who could tell what would be the result? We had over 100 miles to travel together, if they were bound for Saragossa; and the thought of it might well set my teeth on edge.

With an effort I pulled myself together, however, and to get my nerves quite steady, I opened Mr. Hunter's despatch case, holding it on my knees with the name turned towards them, and made a pretence of looking through my samples, watching them well the while. I saw them interchange a sneer and a shrug of the shoulders as they rolled fresh cigarettes. I thanked my luck profusely. That little ruse of the small silken mask had kept my secret safe, and they did not know me. Very soon their interest in my features slackened, and they began to talk in low tones.

When I felt safe, my doubts gave place to pleasure; and I set to work to consider whether I could turn the incident to good account and make use of the two men for the purpose I had in view.

What better chance could I ever hope to have of playing my part of Carlist leader? These two were sure to be among the best known of the Carlists; for none but picked men would have been told off for such a task as theirs of the previous day. It was clear they did not know me; and as Ferdinand Carbonnell was to them or to anyone no more than a name, why should I not declare myself to them in that name? That I knew them would be sufficient to impress them greatly; while the interchange of the password would probably convince them of my sincerity.

It was an easy guess that they were on their way either to Saragossa or to Daroca; and they had no doubt come so far on horseback or on foot, deeming it safer to join the train where they had, than to risk going back to do so at Madrid. In all probability their object in going there was the same which had taken Sarita in the same direction. Either it had been pre-arranged that the leaders should gather there in the event of the abduction plot failing, or there had been some summons when the failure was known.

All these thoughts and a hundred other conjectures rushed into my mind as I sat fiddling with the bits of lace and making sham jottings in a pocket-book. And I resolved to take the risk.

Catching one of them looking at a bit of the lace I smiled and, holding it towards him, said casually—

"A pretty bit of work that, senor."

He took hold of it gingerly and nodded with a laugh, as if to humour me.

"Very, senor; but I don't know anything about it; and don't want any."

"I'm not offering to sell it you. But anyone can tell good lace, I should think. That's a bit of a kind—fit for a King's ransom;" and I looked him straight in the eyes. It was a somewhat daring move, but I wanted them both to look well at me with the thought of the King in their minds; and so that I could be quite positive that they did not know me. They both grunted, and one of them swore softly under his breath; but no look of recognition came into his eyes.

"Thank you, I don't want any, senor," was the answer, shortly spoken, as though to close the conversation.

"Ah well, I suppose you've no King to ransom," I returned, and laughed pleasantly; but as the laugh ended, I looked again at him meaningly; and then surprise and question showed on his face.

"Do you travel in this?" he asked, sharply.

"Yes, my name's Hunter, David Hunter, of the great lace firm of Ross and Catter, of London. Here's my card;" and I handed him one; I said this for the benefit of the rest of the people in the carriage who were listening. "If you care about such things, I can find you something of interest."

"I don't, thank you, Senor Hunter. Odd time for such business, I should think," and he returned the card.

"Depends on the business, of course," said I, "and of course on the man. I'm going to Daroca; and expect to do a good stroke there," and while I was speaking, I wrote on the back of the card: "Counting all Renegades lovers of Satan. By the Grace of God;" and covering it with a piece of lace, I handed it to him again. "Now, there's something you might care to see."

The start he gave caused him to let his cigarette fall, and as he stooped down to recover it, he whispered for me to hear—

"By the Grace of God," and when he sat up his face was set like steel in his sudden excitement. He muttered a word to his companion and passed him the card. He in his turn was scarcely less excited.

"It's quite a unique pattern. Very rare;" I said; and when he returned me the lace and card, I scribbled hurriedly my name, "Ferdinand Carbonnell;" and as they read it our eyes met.

"You are right, senor. We have never seen anything like it before, and are more glad than we can tell you to have seen it to-day."

"I thought you would be interested," I replied, lightly; and taking the card I tore it into a hundred pieces, and flung it out of the window; and in silence put the samples away into the case.

All had gone well, so far, very well; for I had turned two of the most dangerous enemies a man could well have, into two staunch allies at the very moment of peril.

CHAPTER XXIII

NEWS OF SARITA

Having made myself known to my two travelling companions, I had next to ascertain their destination and plans. I had not much doubt that they were going to Daroca, and when I had allowed enough time for the impression I had created to have due effect, I began to talk in the casual tone one uses with chance acquaintances, covering the real meaning of my words in the form of business chatter.

"I suppose you gentlemen are in the same line as myself, and going to Daroca by way of Saragossa?"

"We are newspaper correspondents. I represent the 'Puebla,' and my name is Cabrera, senor," replied the elder of the two—this was he whose head I had cracked on the highway. "My friend, Senor Garcia, is of the 'Correo.' We are going up about the Carlist outbreak. We are going to Daroca, of course," and gave me a significant glance, and added in a lower tone, "But we shall ride from Calatayud; much quicker."

"Of course," I assented, trying to rally my scanty geographical knowledge of the place to understand his meaning. I must not show ignorance on such a point, seeing that my character was that of a kind of flying scout who would be presumed to know all such things. "I think, perhaps, I'll join you. They tell me business at Saragossa is seriously interfered with, but that at Daroca something can still be done. I am, therefore, going there."

"Good," said both.

"I suppose there's nothing really serious in this Carlist business?" I said, in a tone of indifference. "You newspaper gentlemen generally know these things."

"From our point of view you may call it serious, perhaps; seeing that we are ordered to such a place as Daroca. The authorities too are pretty much in earnest."

"Ah, yes, so it appeared at Madrid. By the way, I saw on the station there, the great police agent, Rubio, I think his name is. He is travelling in this very train; I suppose also on Carlist business."

"Rubio in this train, is he?" exclaimed Cabrera. "We must get hold of him, Garcia, and see what he's after. He'll have news;" and both were evidently surprised and somewhat uneasy.

"I suppose you know all these officials by sight?" said I, with a light laugh. "That's the best of newspaper work; at least so it seems to me."

"We have not been long enough in the work to know many people, and we are scarcely known by anyone."

"Then I am more fortunate than you, perhaps, for this Senor Rubio and I have met, and I daresay he would know me again." They were quick enough to read this as a caution that Rubio must not see me; and then I turned the talk to general matters, and one or two other passengers joined in it.

At the next station, the last we were to stop at before we alighted, our fellow passengers got out. Our tickets were examined again; we were once more questioned, and the two Carlists produced credentials from their supposed newspapers, which proved sufficiently satisfactory. But when the matter had just ended and the official was closing the carriage door, an incident occurred that gave me a passing twinge of anxiety. The police agent, Rubio, passed the carriage, and a quick little start as his keen gaze flashed through the carriage showed me that he had recognised me.

"Rubio has seen and recognised me," I whispered hurriedly to my companions, in a sharp authoritative manner. "He may arrest me. In that case do nothing, but go on to Daroca, and make it your chief charge to find and protect, with your lives if need be, the Senorita Sarita Castelar. I can get out of Ruble's clutches again quite safely."

"They shan't take you," said Cabrera, with grim earnestness.

"You will do nothing to prevent it. I can protect myself," and opening my sample case, I began fingering the samples again while I waited during three minutes of as anxious suspense as I have ever endured. Then to my intense relief the train started, and I breathed freely. It was moving along the platform when a young man, protesting excitedly that he must go, opened the door, jumped in and sank breathless in the corner seat, while the porter, swearing generously, ran alongside and fastened the door after him.

"That was a near thing, wasn't it?" he said to me. "Wonder if they got my luggage in;" and putting his head out, shouted vociferously to those on the platform to throw his bags into the luggage break. "Good," he exclaimed, as he sat down again. "They can do things if you only shout at them. They got them in." Then rolling himself a cigarette, he asked me for a light, and began to chat.

"A commercial traveller, I see," he said. He had a pleasant voice, and to keep my character, I went all through the lace business again. In reply he gave a long account of himself, to which I paid little attention, and then he gradually led the conversation to Carlism, and professed a good deal of sympathy with the Carlists who seemed to have fallen on evil times.

"I am an Englishman, senor, and these things can be nothing to me except so far as they are bad for trade," I answered, and commenced to make some entries in a note book as if to close the conversation. He would not be put off, however, and continued to talk, asking a host of questions and trying to draw my companions into the conversation.

To my surprise they would not speak to him, not even replying when he put questions direct to them, and after a while the talk ceased, and we travelled a number of miles in silence. Then he began again, and pestered me with questions as to my journey, where I had come from, where I was going, what business I had done, and soon, and again made strenuous efforts to get my companions to speak.

"We must be within a few miles of Calatayud," he said, at length, and at that Garcia, having exchanged a glance with Cabrera, crossed the carriage, and saying they would have the window closed now, pulled it up and sat down opposite the stranger.

"You have been very anxious to make us talk with you, senor; may I ask why?" he said.

"Merely because I hate travelling in silence."

"You are very interested in the Carlists, too, I notice," and Garcia looking him straight in the face said, "Kindly tell us the nature of that interest?"

"Mere sympathy with them of course. I think they're being very hardly dealt with. That's all."

"Are you one of them?"

"Oh no, certainly not."

"Perhaps you know some of them?"

"No, I don't think I do." The answer was lightly spoken, but I noticed that a shadow of anxiety began to show on his face.

"By sight, perhaps?"

"No. No, not even by sight." The tone was growing less firm.

"What did you say you were?"

"Really, I am not here for examination," and I saw his hand go stealing towards his pocket.

"Keep your hand out of your pocket, please. I must know more about you. You are armed, I observe, and I must know why. My friend and I are of the secret police; and our mission is in search of Carlist spies. You are one; and we are going to search you." And almost before I grasped the meaning of the thing, Garcia had whipped out a revolver, and the stranger, now showing unmistakable signs of fear, was looking along the barrel into the strong, threatening face. At that Cabrera crossed the carriage and sat beside him. "The right pocket," said Garcia, coolly; and his companion plunged his hand in and drew out a revolver.

"Put your hands up," cried Garcia, his voice ringing with menace.

"I'm no Carlist spy," cried the fellow, and then appealed to me. "You won't see this done, senor, without trying to help me?"

"It's not my affair. I'm neither police nor Carlist," I answered. And then in my turn I had a most disquieting surprise.

"You evidently know this man," said Garcia, in the same rough, blunt tone, indicating me with a side jerk of the head. "Who is he?" while Cabrera half turned toward me holding his revolver in readiness. "If you won't answer, we'll find the way to make you. I believe you're both Carlist spies." It was so naturally done that for the moment I more than half believed I was really suspected. But I was not long in doubt. While Garcia threatened him with the revolver, Cabrera searched him thoroughly.

"Why, you infernal scoundrel, you are not only a Carlist spy, but you dare to carry papers on you to make you out one of us secret police," cried Cabrera in a voice of thunder.

"I am a police agent," was the reply. "But I don't know you."

"Then who is this man here? You know him. I saw that the instant I clapped eyes on you. You're here to spy on him, if you're one of us. Quick, who is he? You want to keep this capture all to yourself, do you, you selfish dog?"

"He's Ferdinand Carbonnell, and pretends to be an Englishman."

"And who the devil is Ferdinand Carbonnell?"

"Who should he be but one of the Carlist leaders?" was the answer sullenly spoken, the tone showing that the fear for his life was passing and giving place to the minor one of losing an important prisoner and the credit of the capture.

"Good, then we'll see to him. As for you, you're a disgrace to the whole of us, getting in and talking your magpie chatter about sympathies with the Carlists and all the rest of it. Why, if we'd been Carlists ourselves, we should have known you by your lying tongue. You must have a lesson, my friend. If you knew this man, why didn't you arrest him at the last station, or before? Or is the whole thing only a lie to cover some Carlist trick?"

"He was only recognised at the last station, and there wasn't a strong enough body of police there to take him. He may have a lot of friends in the train. These are Senor Rubio's own orders. He is in the train and has wired for help to Calatayud."

"Oh, well, we're going to make the capture now, not you. Now, Cabrera," he said quickly, and they both darted on him, and tied him up hands and feet. "We shall be in Calatayud in a few minutes. Shall we shoot him and pitch him out of the window? Dead men keep silence longest." And Garcia looked so reckless and fierce that I thought he would do it on the spot.

"Is that necessary?" I said, hastily, shrinking from the thought of bloodshed. "Gag him and leave him under the seat. We need no entanglements we can avoid."

For a moment the man's fate hung in the balance, and his bloodless face and staring eyes of terror as he glanced from one to another were sickening to look upon.

"For God's sake, don't kill me," he cried, eagerly. "I won't say a word of what has passed. I swear on my soul I won't."

"He'll know us now by sight," muttered Cabrera, who was clearly of Garcia's mind; and the argument was undoubtedly strong.

But I could not see murder done in cold blood, and in a very firm, authoritative voice and manner I said:

"I will have no blood needlessly shed. Let it be as I say." And somewhat to my surprise, and greatly to my satisfaction, the two yielded to me.

"Mischief may come of a tongue that can wag as his does," growled Cabrera, and his companion gave way with equal reluctance. But I insisted, and the spy's bonds were tightened, he was gagged securely, and laid for the while on the seat, while we held a whispered council.

"There'll be a strong body of men in waiting for us at Calatayud. What are we to do?" asked Garcia; and in all truth it was an awkward puzzle.

It was clear we couldn't hope to make a fight of it. Any attempt of the kind would be the instant signal for us to be surrounded and probably shot. For the moment I was disposed to let my companions escape, and give myself up to Rubio; but against this course were very strong arguments arising out of the scene with the police spy. At the best of it I should have some difficulty in explaining my presence, while the treatment meted out to him constituted in itself an offence of which I could not clear myself. If Rubio arrested me on such a charge and in such an out-of-the-way place, it would be an easy matter for Quesada to instruct him to put me away where the Embassy might not find me, and inquiries even from the palace might prove abortive.

At all hazards I must get away therefore, and the question was—how? I could only think of one means, and I explained it rapidly.

"I think I have it," I said. "Calatayud is an out-of-the-way place with not many police, and probably the men wired for by Rubio will be soldiers—much easier folk to fool. Rubio will reckon that we have no suspicion of his intentions, and will simply have wired to have the men at the station to await his instructions. We'll leave the train as it slows down before entering the station, therefore; and if any attempt is made to interfere with us, we'll play another scene of this farce of yours—that I'm an escaped Carlist and you're the police after me. Then we must hustle things through as chance serves, and get horses as quickly as can be."

"They'll be waiting for us at old Tomaso's," said Cabrera, readily. "Yes, it'll do. Fortunately we're well at the back of the train, and there's a curve through a cutting just before the station that will serve us well; and Tomaso's isn't five hundred yards from the top of it. We can slip out, dash up the side of the cutting, and be half-way there before the train pulls up."

"And give this brute a whack on the head to keep him silent for a while," put in Garcia, who seemed to have a keener appetite for violence than his really sterner comrade.

"It'll serve no purpose, and may only get us charged with attempting to murder him. There must be no violence," I said, and Cabrera agreed, seeing the force of my words.

"We're close there now," he added; and giving a final look at our prisoner to see that he was securely tied and gagged, we thrust him under the seat and made ready to leave the carriage.

The place could not have suited better such a plan as ours. We were in luck, too, for the train slowed down on approaching the curve, so that we were able to leave it quite safely. I jumped out first and sprang rapidly up the high bank, the others following me. I let them catch me up before we reached the top, as I did not, of course, know in which direction to run, and then together we darted off as fast as our legs would carry us.

We had only one incident. Having crossed a field we leapt into the road, and almost jumped on the top of a couple of soldiers who were obviously on patrol duty. Up went their guns as they called us to halt.

"Now we've got you," cried Cabrera, fiercely, clapping his hand on my shoulder. "Tie his hands, Garcia;" and with ready presence of mind he turned to the soldiers and laughed, as he took his hat off and breathed hard.

"They'll want you at the station," he said. "There's half a trainful of these cursed Carlists, and our chief Rubio, from the capital, has only got a handful of men with him, and is at his wit's end for help. But he'll be glad we've netted this bird;" and, turning to me, he shook me, cursing and abusing me with voluble violence.

The soldiers, completely taken in, lowered their weapons, and were obviously interested in the smart capture.

"Who is he?" asked one, with a grin.

"He broke from the train, the brute," answered Cabrera, "and gave us all the trouble. I wish you'd tell the chief we've taken him on, and that he's safe in the lock-up. Come on, Garcia, or the beast may be up to some of his tricks again. Let's get him under lock and key;" and, shoving me forward, they pushed by the soldiers, who drew aside and wished them luck for this good day's work.

"Thank the Virgin, we hadn't to break their heads with their own guns," growled Cabrera; and the moment we were out of sight of the men we set off running again at full speed, and did not stop until we reached the house where we were to find horses. This was an inn, and both my companions were well known to the old man who came out to meet them. A white-haired, exceptionally dark-skinned, and most picturesque-looking old fellow, who greeted the two quietly, but cordially, and looked suspiciously at me.

"Who's this?" he asked.

"The most honoured guest who ever crossed your threshold, Tomaso," answered Cabrera. "Take off your hat to him; and if his name were whispered in your ear, you'd be ready to bow your head to his boots. We must have three horses instantly. The dogs are close on our heels."

The old fellow raised his hat and bowed his head, and the long white locks shone in the mellow light of the now dying sun. To act the part which Cabrera had thus assigned to me, I returned the bow, and in a quick, imperious tone, said:

"The horses, my good Tomaso, the horses, with all the dispatch you can show. Even minutes may spell danger."

"Your lordship can depend upon me," he returned, deferentially, and, turning, gave a sharp order to a groom who stood near. "You will take wine while you wait. It will be but a minute."

We entered the house, and food and wine being laid out in readiness, we ate and drank hastily; and the moment the horses were at the door I paid him liberally, and we mounted.

"Is the road clear, Tomaso?" asked Cabrera.

"Yes, senor, I believe so. Juan and Andreas rode forward with the senorita some four hours ago. I instructed them to ride with their eyes open, and if they saw anything suspicious during the first half-score of miles, one of them is to hide with the senorita and the other return and warn you. After that you will be safe, and among our own people. I wish you all God-speed on the journey, and glorious success at the end of it. If there is any trouble, Andreas or Juan will show you the mountain paths."

"The senorita?" I asked, pricking up my ears at his words.

"Aye, the blessings of the Holy Virgin rest ever on her lovely face—the Senorita Castelar," and he bared his old head again, with a look of deep enthusiasm on his rugged features.

I waited for no more.

"Forward, gentlemen," I cried. "Great work lies ahead of us."

It was full time we started. We had paused but a few minutes at the inn, but already in the distance behind us signs of commotion in the direction of the station were to be discerned.

Only one thought found place in my mind, however. It was not for the danger we had escaped, nor the work that lay ahead, nor the risk inseparable from this close companionship with the two Carlists, of whose desperate character I had had full evidence. Sarita was but four hours ahead of me, and we should meet at latest in Daroca.

CHAPTER XXIV

A CHECK

We were all three well mounted, and we rattled our horses along at a good pace, quickening soon into a smart gallop, until we felt that the risks of pursuit from Rubio's men or the soldiery were over, and then we slackened and took matters more leisurely. We had five and twenty miles to cover, and a good deal of the road was rough and hilly enough to make us desirous to save our horses as much as possible.

But the slower pace gave the greater opportunity for conversation, and in this I knew there must be a certain amount of risk that something might be said which would rouse my companions' doubts of my sincerity. So far they had an absolute conviction that I was heart and soul with them in the cause, that I was a very Carlist of Carlists, and one to whom they owed that kind of rough-and-ready obedience which a recognised leader might rightly demand.

So long as we were engaged together in escaping from the police there was little chance of their making any compromising discoveries about me; but every mile that carried us nearer to Daroca was also bringing me face to face with a very different position, in which a hundred pitfalls would threaten me with discovery in every direction. There were a thousand things I should be expected to know, and any number of people whom I ought to be able to recognise; and failure in any one of them might bring the glaring search-light of suspicion of treachery upon me. A mere hint that I was a spy would expose me instantly to the imminent peril of death.

These considerations made me thoughtful, as well they might, and I rode plunged in deep thought. But I could see no alternative except to leave everything to blind chance and just do what my wits might suggest as each crisis arose. Sarita was ahead, and, as I knew, in danger; and to Sarita I would go, let the peril be what it might, and come from either Government men or Carlists.

"Have you formed any plans, senor?" asked Cabrera, in his strong, deep voice, as we rode side by side. Garcia was riding some hundred yards ahead at my suggestion, to warn us of trouble should any threaten us, and we could only make out his form indistinctly in the evening gloom.

"How can we plan till we know what is happening with our friends? If all is well, we must carry on the fight; if all ill, we can only scatter and hide. A child can plan so far, and the wisest of us no farther. I am very anxious."

"You are right. Things have gone badly. Instead of the simultaneous risings, the Government have got their hands in first, and have dealt us a heavy blow," he answered, rather dismally.