The Firebrand

by S. R. Crockett

  CHAPTER XLIX

  LIKE FIRE THROUGH SUMMER GRASS

  On the whole Rollo could not complain of his reception at the Abbey ofMontblanch. His heart had indeed been at war within him as he took hisway up the long zigzags of the hill road. There was the very thornbranch which had brushed off his hat as he set forth so gladsomely withhis new commission in his pocket, his comrades riding staunchly by hisside, and the Abbot's good horse between his knees.

  Well, he had done his best. Things, after their manner, had turned outcross-grained--that was all. He had, thank Heaven, enough ofMendizabal's generous draft left in his pocket to repay the Abbot forwhat he had spent upon their outfit. After returning the commission, itonly remained as delicately as possible to impart the disastrous news ofthe coming dissolution of monasteries and the date of the assumption ofall conventual property by the State.

  Then he would depart. Sarria and Concha were not so far off. He began totake heart even before he reached the great gate of the Abbey.

  No one could have been more cordially moved to see a long-lost brotherthan Don Baltasar Varela, the Abbot of Montblanch, to welcome his dear,his well-beloved Don Rollo.

  And his noble nephew Saint Pierre--how fared he? Then that stolid solemnEnglishman--did he know that his _Priorato_ had long been shipped fromBarcelona, an arrangement having been made with the Cristinocustom-house?

  "But the price? He has not paid it. I warrant that Mortimer knowsnothing of the matter," said Rollo, excited for his friend's credit andgood name.

  The Abbot smiled as he answered.

  "Our agent in France," he said blandly, "has received and cashed a draftfrom some one of the same name in England--ah, there are none like theEnglish for business the world over! But here is a letter which has longbeen waiting for that young gentleman here."

  "I will deliver it to him immediately, and with great pleasure," quothRollo.

  The Abbot did not pursue the subject, but rising, said courteously, "Youwill excuse me for the present. You know the library. You will find myFather-Confessor there, whom I think you have met. There are also workson travel and lives of the saints in various languages, exceedinglyimproving to the mind. And above all you must dine with me to-night."

  Thus the Abbot, with a kindness which Rollo felt deeply, put off hearingthe full story of his adventures till the evening. Dinner was served inthe Prior's own chamber as before, but on this occasion much moresimply--indeed rather as two gentlemen might have dined at a good innwhere their arrival had been expected and prepared for.

  Rollo's simple heart was opened by the hospitality shown him. Thebeaming and paternal graciousness of Don Baltasar, the differencebetween what he had expected and what he found, wrung his soul withremorse for the message he had to deliver.

  At last he was permitted to tell his tale, which he did from thebeginning, slurring only such matters as concerned his relations withConcha. And at the end of each portion of his story the Abbot raised afinger and said smilingly to his Father-Confessor, who stood gloomilysilent in the arch of the doorway, "A marvel--a wonder! You hear, FatherAnselmo?"

  And without stirring a muscle of his immovable countenance theex-inquisitor answered, "I have heard, my Lord Abbot."

  Then Rollo told of the plague and the strange things that had happenedat La Granja, their setting out thence with the Queen-Regent and thelittle Princess, their safe arrival upon the spurs of Moncayo, almostindeed at the camp of General Elio. Then, with his head for the firsttime hanging down, he narrated the meeting with Cabrera, and thatGeneral's determination to murder the Queen-Regent and her littledaughter.

  "Abominations such as that no man could endure," said Rollo more thanonce as he proceeded to tell the tale of their delivery, of how he haddespatched mother and daughter to the camp of General Elio, of theirsubsequent capture by Espartero, and how he, Rollo Blair, had hastenedall the way from Madrid to lay the whole matter before the Prior.

  "'Tis a marvellous tale, indeed, that our young friend tells--have youmissed nothing?" inquired the Abbot of the Father-Confessor.

  "Nothing!" said the Confessor, glaring down upon Rollo as a vulturemight upon a weakly lamb on the meadows of Estramadura, "not one singleword hath escaped me!"

  Then Rollo delivered to the Abbot (who handed them forthwith to hisreverend conscience-keeper) all his commissions and letters ofrecommendation. With a drooping head and a tear in his eye, he gave themup. For though he had enlisted in the Carlist cause purely as amercenary, he had yet meant to carry out his undertakings to the letter.

  When at last Rollo looked up, he found the grey eyes of the Abbotregarding him with a quiet persistence of scrutiny which perturbed himslightly.

  "Have you anything more to tell me?" inquired the ecclesiastic, layinghis hand affectionately on Rollo's shoulder, "you have done all that waspossible for you. No man could have done more. May a continual peaceabide in your heart, my son!"

  "My Father," said Rollo, laying a strong constraint upon himself, "Ihave indeed a thing to tell that is hard and painful. The monasteriesthroughout all Spain are to be suppressed on the twentieth day of thismonth by order of the Madrid Government."

  As the words passed his lips, the bland expression on Don Baltasar'sface changed into one of fierce hatred and excitement. There was forcedfrom his lips that sharp hiss of indrawn breath which a maninstinctively makes as he winces under the surgeon's knife.

  Then almost instantly he recovered himself.

  "Well," he said, "we cannot save the Abbey, we cannot save the HolyChurch from this desecration. I have cried 'Pater mi, si possibile est,transeat a me calix iste!' But now I say 'Verumtamen non sicut ego volo,sed sicut tu!'"

  Then with a curious change of countenance (the difference between apriest's expression at the altar and in the sacristy when things havegone crossly) he turned to Rollo.

  "Nevertheless," he said, "I do not deny that to you we owe all thanksand gratitude. Perhaps some day you shall be repaid!"

  When Rollo looked round the saturnine priest had disappeared. His hostand he were alone. The Abbot poured out the coffee.

  "You will take some of our famous _liqueur_," he said, calmly andgraciously as ever. "The receipt has been in the possession of the Abbeyfor well-nigh a thousand years."

  It seemed a pity that so many things which had lasted a thousand yearsshould come to an end on the twentieth day of the month. Meantime,however, he imitated the nonchalance of the Abbot. The _liqueur_ was notto be despised.

  Rollo held out his glass scarcely knowing what he did. The Abbot pouredinto it a generous portion of the precious fluid. It was of the keencold green known to painters as viridian--the colour of turnip leaveswith the dew on them.

  Don Baltasar drew a glass towards him across the table.

  "I am no winebibber," he said, "my vows do not allow of it. But I willgive you a toast, which, if you permit me, I will drink with you in thepure wine of the flint."

  Rollo rose to his feet, and stood looking at the Prior out of hissteadfast blue eyes. They touched their glasses ceremoniously, theelder, however, avoiding the gaze of the younger.

  "May you be rewarded, not according to your successes, but according toyour deserts!" said Don Baltasar.

  They drank, and Rollo, astonished by the strange bitter-sweet taste ofthe _liqueur_, could only stammer, "I thank you, Prior. Indeed, you areover kind to me. I only wish I had had--better news--better news tobring you!"

  And then, somehow, it appeared to the young man that a kind of wavingblackness in wreaths and coils like thick smoke began to invade theroom, bellying upwards from the floor and descending from the roof. Heseemed to be sinking back into the arms of the Father-Confessor Anselmo,who grimaced at him through the empty eye-sockets and toothless jaws ofa skull. There were at least fifty abbots in the room, and a certain hueof dusky red in the shadows of the window curtains first made himshudder to the soul and then affected him with terror unutterable.Finally chaos whirled down darkling and multitudinous, and Rollo
knew nomore.

  * * * * *

  When the young man came to himself he was in altogether another place.He lay flat on his back, with something hard under his head. His faceseemed cold and wet. The place, as his eyes wandered upward, was full ofshifting shadows and uncertain revealings of cobwebby roof-spaces filledwith machinery, huge wheels and pulleys, ropes and rings and hooks, onall of which the blown light of candles flickered fitfully.

  To one side he could dimly perceive the outlines of what seemed like agreat washerwoman's mangle. He remembered in Falkland town turning oldBetty Drouthy's for hours and hours, every moment expecting that PeggyRamsay would come in, basket on arm, the sweetest of Lady Bountifuls,to visit that venerable humbug, who had all her life lived on too muchcharity and who died at last of too much whiskey. Strange, was it not,that he should think of those far-off days now?

  His head, too, was singing and thumping even as poor Betty's must havedone many a morning after Rollo had paid her for the privilege ofturning the mangle, and Peggy Ramsay secretly bestowed half-a-crown outof her scanty pocket-money upon her, because--well, because she was awidow and everybody spoke ill of her.

  After a while Rollo began to see his surroundings more clearly. Some onewas sitting at a great table covered with black cloth. A huge crucifixswung over his head--upon it a figure of the Safety of the World,startlingly realistic.

  "Who has brought me here?" he said aloud, uncertain whether or not hestill dreamed. His voice sounded in his own ears harsh and mechanical.

  Then Rollo tried to lift a hand in order to wipe his brow. He could moveneither the right nor the left. Both appeared to be fastened firmly tosome band or ring let into a framework of wood.

  Then he heard a voice from the figure seated under the black crucifix.

  "Bring forward the traitor! He shall learn the great mystery!"

  Rollo felt himself slowly lifted on to his feet, or rather the entirewooden oblong to which his limbs were lashed was erected by unseenforces. He could discern the breathing of men very close to his ear.

  "Listen," said the voice from the tribunal. "You, Rollo Blair, have notonly betrayed the sacred cause of the blessed King Carlos, but, what isten thousand times worse, you have been a traitor to Holy Church, in herbattle against much wickedness in high places."

  "Who charges me with these things?" cried Rollo, giving up a vainstruggle for freedom.

  "Out of your own mouth are you condemned," came the answer. "I who speakhave heard your confession."

  Then Rollo knew that Anselmo, the dark confessor, was his accuser andjudge. His executioners he had yet to make acquaintance with. The voicefrom the tribunal went on, level and menacing.

  "The Abbot of Montblanch may forgive a traitor and he will. He may makeand unmake pacts with a heretic if it please him. As for me, myconscience shall be clean as were those of blessed San Fernando, ofGimenez, of holy Torquemada, and of the most religious San VicenteFerrar. Die you shall, as every traitor ought. But since I would notsend an immortal soul quick to hell, I offer you this opportunity to bereconciled to Holy Church. I bid you disavow and utterly abhor all yourtreacheries and heretic opinions!"

  "I am sorry enough for my sins, God knows, if so be I must die," saidRollo, making a virtue of necessity; "but I have done no treacheries.And as for heresy--I have none too much religion of any sort. If you canhelp me to more and better, I shall be grateful, without being tooparticular as to creed. But my father lived and died a goodPresbyterian, and so, Heaven helping me, shall I!"

  The gloomy monk rose at these words, made the gesture of washing thehands, and then, turning about, kissed the wood of the black crucifix.

  "Lay the young man on the rack," he said; "when he is ready to recantand be reconciled, you know where to find me!"

  The two executioners of Anselmo's will were clad in black robes fromhead to foot, even their hands being hidden. A tall pointed mask witheye-holes alone revealed anything human underneath, as, panting with theexertion, the men raised Rollo to the level of the huge table with thedouble rollers beneath. Then he felt his hands and feet one by onedeftly loosened and refastened. The frame was slipped from underneathhim, and Rollo found himself stretched on the rack.

  Then calmly seating themselves on a raised shelf close to his head, histwo executioners removed their tall black hoods, apparently in orderthat they might wipe their beaded brows. But that they had a furtherpurpose was immediately apparent.

  With infinite surprise Rollo recognised Luis Fernandez and his brotherTomas. Luis smiled evilly as his ancient enemy rolled his head in hisdirection.

  "Yes," he said, "I told you my turn would come. I only wish that we hadalso the pleasure of the company of your friend the outlaw, RamonGarcia. But after all, that great maundering oaf would never have spoiltmy plans but for your cursed interference. Twice, thrice, I had himtrapped as surely as a sheep in a slaughter-pen with the butcher's knifeat his throat. And then you must needs come in my way. Well, every doghas his day, and now this day I shall square all reckonings."

  Fernandez waited for Rollo to reply, but though his Scots instinct wasto give back defiance for defiance, he held his peace. After a pause theex-miller of Sarria rolled a cigarette and continued serenely betweenthe puffs.

  "Now listen," he said, "this is my revenge. I have had to pay blood forit, but now it is mine. For this I sold myself to the monks, truckled tothem, fetched and carried for them. To poor mad Anselmo, with hisantiquated inquisition and holy office, I became a bond-slave. I knewyou would come back hither, and now I can do with you as I will. Howmuch the Prior knows or suspects of this pleasant subterranean retreat Iam unable to determine. At any rate you cannot expect that he will bevery much delighted with your performances. But, mark you, it is I, andnot he, who will rack your body till you weep and howl for mercy. I havestudied these dainty instruments. I alone put them in order--I, LuisFernandez, whose home you broke up, whose house you burnt down to thebare blackened walls, whom you made desolate of the love of woman----"

  "Nay," cried Rollo, hot on a sudden as El Sarria himself--"the love ofDolores Garcia never was yours--no, nor ever would have been in athousand years!"

  "It would--I tell you!" responded Fernandez, as fiercely. "I know thesesoft, still, easy-tempered women. They cannot do without a shoulder tolean upon. In time she would have loved me--aye, and better than evershe did that hulking man-mountain of a Garcia! Do you hear that?"

  Rollo heard but did not reply.

  "So this is my sweet revenge," Fernandez continued. "The goodFather-Confessor prates of heretics and times for repentance. But he ismad--mad--mad as Don Quixote, do you understand? I, Luis Fernandez, amnot mad. But if you have any reason for desiring to live--live youshall--_on my terms_. All I ask is that you answer me one question, orrather two--as the price of your life."

  Only Rollo's eyes looked an interrogation. For the rest he held hispeace and waited.

  "Tell me where you have hidden Dolores Garcia--and at what hour, and inwhat place Ramon, her husband, lays him down to sleep! If you declaretruthfully these two things, I promise to leave you with three days'water and provisions, and to provide for your liberation at the end ofthat time. If not, I bid you prepare to die, as the men died who havelain where you lie now!"

  Rollo's answer came like the return of a ball at tennis.

  "Senor Don Luis," he said, "if I had ten Paradises from which to choosemy eternal pleasures, I would not tell you! If I had as many hells fromwhich to select for you the tortures of the damned, I would not speak aword which might aid such a villain in his villany! Let it suffice foryou to know that Dolores Garcia is now where you will never reach her,and as for her husband--why, you cowardly dog, asleep or awake, sick orwell, you dare not venture within a mile of him! Nay, I doubt greatly ifyou dare even face him dead!"

  Fernandez rose and motioned his brother to the handle which turned thegreat wooden wheel at Rollo's feet. Then the young man lay very still,listening to the dismal gr
oaning of the ungreased bearings and wonderingalmost idly what was about to happen to him.

  * * * * *

  "God in Heaven, he is here! I tell you I heard him cry! Do you think Ido not know his voice? I will tear up the floor with my fingers, if youdo not make haste!"

  It was Concha who spoke or rather shouted these words along therabbit-warren of passages which ran this way and that under the Abbey ofMontblanch.

  But it had been through Ezquerra and La Giralda that the dread rumour ofdanger to Rollo had first come to Sarria. The gipsies have strange waysof knowledge--mole-runs and rat-holes beneath, birds of the air to carrythe matter above. Some servitor in the Monastery, with a drop of blackblood in him, had heard a word let fall by Don Tomas Fernandez in hiscups. The brothers, so he boasted, would not now have long to wait. Thecherry had dropped into their mouths of its own accord--thus Don Tomas,half-seas-over, averred--or at least his confessorship would shake thebough and the fruit would come down with a run. This silly Tomas alsoknew who was to have Rollo's horse when all was over--a _tostado_ notmet with every day.

  It was enough--more than enough. From Sarria to Espluga in FrancoliConcha raged through the villages like fire through summer grass. TheAbbey--the Friars, the accumulated treasure of centuries, the power ofpit and gallows, of servitude and Holy Office--all these were to end onthe twentieth of the month. Meantime a man was being tortured, done todeath by ghouls--a friend of El Sarria, a friend of Jose Maria--nay, thesaviour of two Queens and the beloved of generals and Prime Ministers!Would they help to save him? Ah, would they not!

  Other rumours came up, thick and rank as toadstools on dead wood. Therewas such-an-one of the village of Esplena, such-an-other of Campillo inthe nether Francoli--they refused the Friars this, that, and the other!Well, did not they enter the Monastery walls, never to be heard of more?

  Given the ignorant prejudices of villagers, the hopes of plunderawakened by a lawless time and an uncertain government, Concha aprophetess volleying threats and promises--and what wonder is it that inan hour or two a band of a thousand men was pouring through the gates ofthe great Abbey, clambering over the tiles, and with fierce outcriesdiving down to the deepest cellars! But from gateway to gateway not abrother was found. All had been warned in time. All haddeparted--whither no man knew.

  El Sarria, by his reputation for desperate courage, for a while kept themob from deeds of violence and spoliation. But still Rollo was notfound.

  Concha, pale of face and with deep circles under her eyes, ran this wayand that, her fingers bleeding and bruised. In her despair she flungherself upon one obstacle after another, calling for this door and thatto be forced. And strong men followed and did her will without halt orquestion.

  But of all others it was the cool practical John Mortimer who hit uponthe trail. He remembered how, on their first visit to Montblanch, Rollohimself, at a certain place near the door of the strong-room in whichthe relics were kept, had declared that he heard a sound like a groan.And there in that very place Concha was driven wild by hearing, she knewnot whence, the voice of her lover. It seemed to her that he called herby name.

  Men ran for crowbars and forehammers. The floor was forced up by merestrength of arm. The dislodging of a heavy stone gave access to anunderground passage, and men swarmed down one after the other, ElSarria leading the way, a bar of iron like a weaver's beam in his hand.

  The searchers found themselves in a strange place. The vaulting whichthey had broken through so rudely, enabled them to scramble downwardamongst great beams and wheels to a raised platform covered withmoth-eaten black. The groaning which Concha had heard was stilled, butas El Sarria held up his hand for silence they could hear somethingscuffling away along the dark passages like rats behind a wainscot.

  Without regarding for the moment something vague and indefinite whichlay stretched out on a strange mechanism of wood, El Sarria darted likea sleuth-hound on the trail up one of the passages into which he hadseen a fugitive disappear. It was no long chase. The pursued doubled tothe right under a low archway. The dim passage opened suddenly upon akind of gallery, one side of which was supported on pillars and lookedout upon the great gulf of air and space on the verge of which theMonastery was built.

  The quarry came into view as they reached the sunlight, dazzled andblinking--a smallish lithe man, running and dodging with terror in hiseyes. But he was no match for his pursuer, and before he had gained theend of the gallery, the giant's hand closed upon the neck of his enemy.

  Then Luis Fernandez, knowing his hour, screamed like a rabbit taken in asnare.

  And through the manifold corridors of the Abbey, and up fromunderground, rang the dread cry "Torture!" "They have been torturing himto death in their accursed dungeons! Kill! Kill! Death to the Friarswherever found!"

  For the blind mouths of down-trodden villages, long dumb, had at lastfound a universal tongue.

  Ramon Garcia looked once only into the face which glared up at him. Inthat glance Luis Fernandez read his fate. Without a word of anger or anysound save his own footsteps, El Sarria walked to the nearest openarcade of the gallery and threw his enemy over with one hand, with thecontemptuous gesture of a man who flings carrion to the dogs.

  Luis Fernandez fell six hundred feet clear and scarce knew that he hadbeen hurt.

  "God grant us all as merciful a death!" cried Concha; "little did hedeserve it!"

  They untied Rollo from the trestle work of the rack which the miller ofSarria had used to gratify his revenge. At first he could not stand onhis feet. His hands trembled like aspen leaves, and he had perforce tosit down and lean his head against Concha's shoulder.

  "Nay, do not weep, little one," he said, "I am not hurt. You came intime! But" (here he smiled) "another turn of that wheel and I would havetold them all!"

  Meanwhile the hammers were clanging multitudinous. At the sight ofRollo's pale drawn face the populace went wild. Their mad clamour roseto heaven. All that night the great Abbey of Montblanch, with itsgarniture of stall and chapel, carven reredos and painted picture, wentblazing up to the skies.

  At such times men knew no half measures, drew no fine distinctions. For,especially in Spain, revolutions are never yet effected with a spray ofrose-water. The great Order of our Lady of Montblanch which had endureda thousand years, perished in one day because of the vengeance of LuisFernandez and the madness of the priest Anselmo.

  Meanwhile, in the sacristy of a little chapel by the gate, safe from thespoilers' hand, but lit irregularly by the bursting flames, and to whichthe wild cries of the iconoclasts penetrated, Concha sat nursing Rollo.

  From time to time he would doze off, awaking with a start to find hishand clasped in that of his betrothed. Her ear was very near his lips,and when he wandered a little she soothed him with the tender crooningsof a mother over a sick child, moaning and cooing over him withinarticulate love, her hands a hundred times lifted to caress him, butever fluttering aside lest they should awake the beloved from hisrepose.

  "Who is it?" he said once, more clearly than usual, yet with remains offear in his eyes very pitiful to see.

  "It is I--Concha!"

  Ah, how soft, how tender at such times a woman's voice can be! The windin the barley, the dove calling her mate, the distant murmur of asheltered sea--these are not one-half so sweet. The angels' voices aboutthe throne--they are not so human. Children's voices at play--they haveknown no sorrow, no sin. They are not so divine.

  "_It is I--Concha!_"

  "Ah, beloved, do not leave me--they may come again!"

  "_They cannot. They are dead!_"

  Keen as the clash of rapiers, triumphant as trumpets sounding thecharge, rang the voice that was erstwhile so soft, so tender.

  "All the same, do not leave me! I need you, Concha!"

  Who would have believed that this swift and resolute Rollo, thisfirebrand adventurer of ours, would have been brought so low--or sohigh. But his words were better than all sweet singing in the ears ofConc
ha Cabezos. She clasped his hand tightly and smiled. She would havespoken but could not.

  "Ah--I knew you would not leave me!" he murmured, turning a littletowards her. "It was foolish to ask!"

  Then he was silent for a moment, and as she settled his head more easilyon an extemporised pillow, he glanced towards the closed shutters of thelittle sacristy.

  "When will the morning come?" he asked wearily.

  For answer Concha threw open the outer door and the new-risen sun shonefull upon his pale face.

  "_The morning is here!_" she said, with all the glory of it in hereyes.

  CHAPTER L

  AVE CONCHA IMPERATRIX!

  Thus ended the princely Abbey and its inmates. And so it stands untothis day, a desolation of charred beams, desecrated altars, fire-scarredwalls roofless and weed o'ergrown, to witness if I lie. Time hathscarcely yet set its least finger-mark upon it. Under the white-hotsouthern sun and in that dry upland air, Montblanch may remain withscarce a change for many a hundred years. Ezquerra's hammer strokes areplain on the stones. The crowbar holes wherewith El Sarria drove out theflagstones over the torture chamber--once called the Place of the HolyOffice--these any man may see who chooses to journey thither onmule-back, jolting _tartana_, or by the plain-song office ofheel-and-toe.

  As to the brethren, they had had, thanks to Rollo Blair, due andsufficient warning. They mounted their white mules and rode over themountains into France, by a secret way long settled upon and laid withfriendly relays of food and equipage.

  Only the Father-Confessor, the gloomy and fanatic Anselmo, was founddead in his bed, whether from the excitement of reviving his ancientfunctions of Inquisitor-in-Chief, or from poison self-administered wasnever rightly known or indeed inquired into. Men had other things tothink of in those days.

  His body was hastily huddled into a grave in the cloister, where,equally with those of mitred priors and nobles of twenty descents, youmay see the wild roses clambering about it in the spring.

  On the day which followed the great spoliation, a man limped painfullyand slowly along the ravine beneath the still smouldering turrets andgables of Montblanch. From the despoiled Abbey a thin blue reekdisengaged itself lazily into the air far above him. The man wasfollowing a path which passed along the side of the deep cleft. Hismethod of advance was at once skulking and arrogant.

  Thirty yards or so beneath him he saw a congregation of vultures, thenational and authorised scavengers of Spain. So thickly did these unholyfowls cluster that the man, being evidently curious, was compelled tothrow several stones among them, before he could induce them to movethat he might catch a glimpse of their quarry.

  Then having made his observation, he said, "Ah, brother Luis, you thatwere so clever and despised poor Tomas, giving him ever the rough wordand the bitter jest, hath not that same poor Tomas somewhat the best ofit now? He at least shall not be meat for vultures yet awhile. No, hewill drink many good draughts yet--that is, when he hath sold thefreehold of the mill and disposed of any outlying properties that areleft. Luis liked red wine, I liked white--and _aguardiente_. Ha, ha,Luis will never again taste the flavour of the _Val-de-penas_ he was sofond of, and so the more will be left for Tomas!"

  He stood and meditated awhile. Then he struck his pockets lugubriously."I wish I had a cup of good _aguardiente_ now," he muttered. Anon hisface brightened, as he looked at the dark object among the vulture folk.

  "_Caramba!_ I have it. It will help me over a difficulty. Brother Luis'spockets were always well lined. The birds have no need of golden ouncesnor do they carry off silver _duros_. Besides, there is the key of thestrong box hidden in the ravine! Ah, I remember that he carried it abouthis neck. These can do no good now to Luis, or indeed, for the matter ofthat, to any vulture alive. It were only kind and fraternal to take suchthings for a keepsake. I ever loved Luis. He was my favourite brother!"

  So saying, Don Tomas descended slowly and painfully to the body--forindeed he had been roughly used by the mob before they brought him to ElSarria, that the outlaw might do with him as with his brother. For theywanted to see the sight.

  The vultures slowly and reluctantly withdrew on heavily flappingpinions.

  "Ah," meditated Tomas, as he went placidly about his gruesome business,"what a fine thing it is to be known for a man quiet and harmless. ForRamon Garcia said to me with a wave of his hand, 'There is the door! Getthrough it hastily and let me see your face no more!' Then to the robbercrew he said, 'Without his brother, senors, this fellow is as a serpentwithout the fangs, harmless as a blade of grass among the stones whichthe goats nibble as they wag their beards.'"

  So after a pause this most respectable man finished his task and wenthis way, jingling full pockets and pleasing himself with meditationsupon the abiding usefulness of a good character and of being in allthings blameless, humble, and a man of peace.

  * * * * *

  There dwells an old peasant now at Montblanch who will act as your guidefor a _real_, and points you out the place before the great altar whereRamon Garcia, sometime called El Sarria, cast himself down. Then heshows you where the Abbot stood when he stopped the pursuit of theoutlaw to his own ultimate undoing.

  "Yes, Excellency," he says, in a voice like green frogs croaking in thespring, "true it is as the sermon preached last Easter Day. For thesedim old eyes saw it--also the chamber of the relics I will show you, andthe cloisters with the grave of the Father-Confessor Anselmo.

  "And truly the devil's own work I have to keep that same reverend andundefiled, for Anselmo was a man much hated. Yet as I think unjustly,being mad and at the last not rightly responsible for his acts. But onlya stout stick will convince these young demons of the village thatthrice-blessed ground is not a draught-house wherein to play their evilcantrips! I declare to the Virgin I have worn out an entire plantationof saplings chasing them forth of the holy place."

  Last of all (but this will cost another _real_ and is worth the money)the peasant-guide shows you the Place of the Holy Office. That blackstain against the wall is where they burnt the last rack in Spain. Oneor two great wooden wheels with scarce a spoke remaining, loom up,imagined rather than seen, in the dusky shadows above.

  "This way along a passage (take care of your honourable head!) and Iwill show you the window from which Luis Fernandez was cast forth likethe evil spawn he was."

  "And was anything ever heard thereafter of the Prior or the Brethren?"you ask, looking around on all the wasted splendour.

  The old man shakes his head, but there is something in his eye which, ifyou are wise, causes you to slip him a piece of silver.

  "Nothing more," he says, "nothing!"

  Then looking about him cautiously, he adds, "But upon a certain eveningnear the time of sundown there came one all clad in poor garments ofleather, worn and frayed. He wore a broad hat and the names of many holyplaces were cut on his staff--altogether such a wandering pilgrim theman was, as you may see at any fair in Spain. And very humbly thepenitent asked permission of me to view the ruins. So knowing him for apilgrim and thinking that perchance he desired to say a prayer in peacebefore the great altar (and also because I had no expectations of agift), I let him go his way unattended, and so forgat about him. Butwhen I came up out of my vegetable garden a little after sunset to closethe great gate, such being the order of the Governor of the Province whopays me a yearly stipend (four duros it is, and very little, but Idepend upon the generous charity of those who like your Excellency comehither!)--well, as I say, coming out of my pottage garden I rememberedof this pilgrim. I went in search of him, and lo! he stood weeping inthe place where the Abbot's great chair had been.

  "Then looked I full in his face and all at once I knew him. It was DonBaltasar Varela--of a surety the last Abbot of Montblanch. There was nomistake. For many years I had known him as well as I knew my old dame.And through his tears he also knew that I knew him. So he saidpresently, 'Reveal not that I came hither, and I will givethee--this--together with my bless
ing!' And with one hand he gave me agolden ounce worth sixty _pesetas_ and more in these bad times. And withthe other, as I kneeled down (for I am a good Christian), he bestowedupon me his episcopal blessing with two fingers outstretched, being asyou remember a bishop as well as an Abbot! Then after he had stoodawhile and the sun was quite gone down, Baltasar Varela, Abbot ofMontblanch--the last they say of eighty-four, went out into thedarkness, weeping very bitterly."

  * * * * *

  With the after history of the Queens Maria Cristina and Isabel theSecond, this historian is not concerned. Nor is it his to tell how,greatly wronged and greatly tempted, the daughter followed all tooclosely in the footsteps of her mother. Such things belong to history,and especially to Spanish history--which, because of its contradictionsand pitiful humanities, is the most puzzling in the world. His businessis other and simpler.

  For a moment only he must lift the curtain, or rather a corner ofit--like one who from the stage desires to see how the house is filling,or perchance to give the carpet a final tug for the characters to pairoff upon and make their farewell bows.

  * * * * *

  In another southern province far enough from the village of Sarria,there is a white house with sentinels before it. They do not slouch asthey walk nor lean bent-backed against a pillar when nobody is looking,as is the wont of Spanish sentries elsewhere. It is the house of theGovernor of the once turbulent province of Valencia. The Governor isone General Blair, Duke of Castellon del Mar, and twice-hatted grandeeof Spain, but he is still known from Murcia even to Tarragona as "DonRollo." For he has cleared the southern countries of Carlists, put downthe Red Republicans of Valencia and Cartagena with jovial good humour,breaking their heads affectionately with his stout oak staff when theyrioted. They had grown accustomed to being shot in batches, and ratherresented the change at first, as reflecting on their seriousness.However, they have since come to understand the firebrand General and tolike him. Usually they favour him with a private message a day or twobefore they intend to make a revolution. Whereupon Rollo goes himselfinto the woods and cuts himself a new stick of satisfactory proportions.

  In this manner he has survived an abdication, two dictatorships, and arestoration with undiminished credit, chiefly by holding his provinceeasily and asking from Madrid neither reinforcements of soldiers nor ofmoney.

  His wife is not receiving to-day, but in English fashion there are a fewfriends who drop in for dinner, _habitues_ of the house, belovedcomrades of Don Rollo's with whom (for the Senora is the old Conchastill) his wife flirts a little, chats a great deal, and gives the bestadvice in return for boundless admiration and delight in her beauty andwit.

  "Dolores," she says to a friend who has arrived and sits patientlyfolding her little hands on a sofa, "it was pretty of you to come insuch a lovely gown--just to please those poor old bachelors. Here,Etienne, hold the baby, and be sure not to drop him, sir. There--whatdid I tell you? You have made him cry! Monster! Well, he shall be sentaway, sweetest pet, that he shall! He is a buffalo of the _marisma_, atiger of the jungle, an ogre out of a story book--that he is, sweetest!There, La Giralda, take the darling away! Oh, and give him--but stay--Itoo will come, else the little villain may howl till midnight."

  She continues to talk quickly as she goes toward the door.

  "What a voice--just like his father's when he is in the place of armsand the men do not please him! There--sweetest" (she goes behind thecurtain), "there----!"

  And, contented, the young man stills that parade voice of his intogentle murmurings like those of a bee within the bell of a flower.

  Presently a tall young man comes striding in, in a plain uniform withthe starred shoulder-straps of the highest rank. Behind him is abroad-chested, deep-bearded veteran, his chest blazing with decorations.

  The younger man, whose hair gives promise of early threads of grey,enters with swift impetuosity, dashing a chance servitor out of the wayand opening the inner door as if a gust of wind had come rioting throughthe corridors.

  "Where is Concha?" he cries as soon as he enters.

  "Here!" replies a voice, a little muffled, it is true, from aneighbouring room; "no, stay where you are! I shall be back in amoment."

  "Ah, Etienne--John, how are you? Have they given you any breakfast?Etienne, any more loves? There are four pretty girls in the PlazaVillarasa. I saw them on the balcony as I rode through with the Saguntoregiment the other day----"

  "Trust him for that!" comes the voice from behind the curtain.

  "My Lord Duke," says Etienne in a master-of-ceremonies' voice, "so longas I am permitted daily to gaze upon the beauty of your incomparablewife, how can this heart turn from that to the admiration of any meanerobject?"

  "What nonsense is he talking now?" asks Concha, returning demurely. "Iknow at least three girls of this city of Valencia who have the bestreasons for expecting M. de Saint Pierre to make proposals for thehonour of their hands. But what can you expect of such a wretch?"

  "Well, Master Etienne," says Rollo, "you will now have a chance toforget Mistress Concha and make some fair Castilian happy. For I mustsend you immediately with these despatches to Madrid. You will stay aweek and return with the answers. That will give such a lady-killerample time to bring matters to a head with the most hard-hearted of thesenoritas of the capital."

  "Ah," sighs Etienne, kissing a hand to Concha, as he prepares to takehis leave, "your husband wrongs me. He who hath so much, misjudges mewho have so little! Truly, I shall be soon able to say, turning aboutthe old catch:

  "'_My soul is in Valencia, My body is in Madrid!_'"

  "Well, John, this is great seeing," said Rollo, when Etienne haddeparted to busy himself about horses and an escort; "what in the worldhas brought you hither? Surely your father cannot want you to makeanother thousand pounds in order that you may have the right to attendhis twirling spindles from 8.30 every morning to 5.30 every night?"

  "Oh, I am a partner now," Mortimer answered, "even though the old boyinsisted upon pocketing every penny of the profit on the Abbot's_Priorato_. Strict man of business, my father! He said it would teach mein the future to be spry about getting my goods shipped. And when Iexplained, he only said that what had been possible for him there inEngland, sitting at ease in his arm-chair, ought to have been possiblefor me on the spot and with money in my pocket!"

  "And what did you do?" asked Rollo, smiling.

  "Well, at any rate, I struck him for a commission on my having securedthe order, and the Convent onions were good for the rest. So now I am apartner in the firm with a good quarter interest."

  "And what are you doing here? More onions?" laughed his friend.

  John blushed and looked down at the carpet. They had a carpet at theGovernor's house--though in her heart Concha always wants to have it upwhen any one comes in lest they should tread upon it.

  "No," he said slowly, "the fact is I think you spoiled me a bit forstaying at home, mill hours--and that sort of thing. So now I am to beforeign agent and buyer. I've been taking lessons in the language, andif you can put any business in my way, I shall be glad."

  Rollo took him to the window by the arm.

  "Do you see those fellows?" he demanded.

  As he spoke he pointed to a detail of the wiry little Valenciansoldiers in their white undress blouses and _bragas_.

  "Now, John," he went on, "I can't get stuff here that won't tear thefirst time they do the goose-step or even sneeze extra hard. Thecontractors are thieves every man Jack. What can you do for me? I havetwenty thousand of these fellows and lots more coming on, down in the_huertas_ and rice fields!"

  "Heavens!" cried John Mortimer, "this is an order indeed. Wait! I willlet you know my best possible in a moment!"

  And he pulled out a notebook crammed with figures.

  "I can give you very good terms indeed," he said after a moment.

  Concha jumped to her feet and clapped her hands.

  "Oh," she cried
joyously, "and I know Senor de Mendia, the head of theCustoms. And oh, Rollo, you and he can arrange about getting it through,and all my dress materials as well. It will be quite an addition to ourincome, if Don Juan sells you the stuff cheap!"

  For an instant Rollo looked a little indignant and then went up to hiswife and kissed her.

  "My dear," he said, "you can never understand! We don't do these thingsin our country!"

  At which John grinned incredulously.

  "I have done business in Glasgow," he said suggestively.

  "At any rate," said Rollo, nettled, "_I_ don't do them."

  Here Concha pouted adorably, and with her slippered toe kicked afootstool which certainly was not doing her any harm.

  "I am sure we are very poor!" she cried. "I wish that wretch Ezquerra,whom they have made a General of, had given us much more than he did. Ithink you should write to him, Rollo!"

  "Better keep friends with Ezquerra," laughed the Governor; "you and Iare rich enough, Concha, and baby shall have an ivory ring to cut histeeth upon. You shall have one new dress a year, and there are alwaysenough vegetables in the garden with which to toss you up a salad. Oh,we shall live, spoilt one, we shall live!"

  And he kissed her, not heeding the others.

  "But why must we keep in with Ezquerra?" said Concha, still unsatisfied;"he was an executioner once."

  "Well," said Rollo, "the fellow has been at his old trade again, itseems. He may be Dictator any day now. They say he has ended the war inthe north--murdered fourteen of his own brother Generals and boughtfourteen of the other side. Bravo, Ezquerra, I always knew he would dosomething in the fine old style one of these days! But fourteen at atime is epic, even for Spain!"

  "And so the war is ended--well, that is always one good thing anyway!"said Concha, careless of the means; "come, Dolores, let us go and lookat the babes! These people ache to talk politics. They don't want us. Itis easy to see that!"

  So taking the arm of Dolores Garcia (who had glanced once at her husbandwhen he came in and never looked at him again), little Concha walked tothe door sedately as became a matron and the wife of a grandee. Then inher old flashing manner she turned about swiftly and from herfinger-tips blew the company a dainty collective kiss.

  The curtain closed, leaving the three men all staring after her.

  But in another moment it was put aside and Concha's pretty head peepedout.

  "Rollo," she said, softly, "you can come up when you like--when you havequite finished your politics--just to look at baby. He has not seen yousince morning."