Part 20
When we had walked on this way some few hundred yards up the hill, our guide found a track into the wood, and along this we went, the darkness deepening with every step, until it was impenetrable. We were some hundred yards from the entrance, when Andreas stopped so suddenly that we ran one against the other in a confused muddle of men and horses.
"There is a small clearing here on the right," he said in a whisper. "If you leave your horses free they will follow mine." And so it proved; the intelligent beasts knew his voice, and went after him with a sagacity that astonished and delighted me. "You will be safe here, I think, senor; and, with your permission, I will go back and find out the soldiers' movements. There is no risk for me. But please do not touch the horses; they will not be got to move without trouble until I return, and will stand like statues until I tell them; and, remember, voices travel far in such a still air--even whispers."
I told him to go, and then we three stood together and waited.
"What are we to do if they find us, senor?" asked Cabrera.
"Fight," I said, praying fervently there would be no need.
"Good. Knives, Garcia," he returned.
"And till then, silence," I ordered: and not another word was spoken.
The stillness was absolute, and, in the circumstances, awe-inspiring, and there was not a breath of air to stir even a leaf. It was some minutes before our eyes grew sufficiently accustomed to the darkness to discern the moonlight beyond the wood, which gleamed dimly, much like a phosphorescent light, through the thickly-planted trees. Suddenly the stillness was broken by a man's voice laughing and oathing, as he called to a comrade. We all three started and drew together at the sudden sound, so keen was the nerve tension.
"Had enough of this tomfoolery yet, Juan? Seen anything--where there's nothing to see?"
"By the corpse of St. Peter, this is a madman's freak, looking for nothing. I go no further, Jose," was the reply. "Have you been in the wood?"
"Yes; all the wood I'm going into. We're looking for houses, not men; and shan't find 'em there. Wait while I roll a cigarette, and, when I've smoked it, we'll go back and report," and we heard him strike a match and light it.
"Here, Jose, here's a path into the cursed darkness," called his comrade, and we heard the twigs snapping underneath his feet as he blundered about in the undergrowth.
"Let it stop," growled the other man. "It might be the pit of hell, without the fire to guide us."
"Holy Saints. I've got an idea. Suppose we set light to the cursed place, and then swear we saw someone in it, and fire our guns and bring up the others. It would be a mighty blaze, and we might get a step for our vigilance," and the scoundrel laughed and swore in unholy glee.
"Hold your tongue, idiot," said his companion, roughly. "If you want to see what's in the wood come with me along the path here;" and to our consternation we heard him coming towards us.
"Knives, Garcia," whispered Cabrera, and I felt them both loosen the knives they carried concealed in their girdles. The faint shadow of one of the men showed between us and the moon gleams, and the sound of crackling twigs came ominously nearer.
"The blight of hell on the place," cried the same voice suddenly, with a sound of heavy plunging among the shrubs, and the thud of a falling body. "What in the devil's name was that?"
His comrade laughed.
"Going to swim through, Jose? What are you doing on your belly like that?"
"I tripped over some infernal animal, or stump, or something, and struck my head against a tree, you fool."
"Serves you right for not looking where you are going. Put your eyes in your boots, you can't see else. Here, wait while I strike a light, blockhead;" and he lit a match and bent down over his fallen companion.
"Shall we rush on them now?" asked Garcia, trembling with excitement.
"No, no, wait," I said, laying a detaining hand on him.
"Why you're bleeding, Jose, man. Fine figure you'll cut on parade, with a black eye and a bloody nose. Jose Balso, promoted sergeant for gallantry in a wood; scouting for nothing and finding it; fought an old olive tree and fell covered with wounds. Here, come out of this, man; I'm going back. I've had enough of this foolery;" and without more ado he went, and we heard his footsteps die away in the distance. His comrade, growling and swearing and abusing him, stumbled to his feet and went after him, staggering about in the darkness as he tried to follow the sound of the other man's calls.
By the lucky chance of his fall we escaped, and I knew peace of mind once more. The men did not stay by the wood, and after a minute or so we heard no more of them; and Andreas came back to tell us they had rejoined the rest of the men, and all had mounted and ridden away on the road back to Daroca.
I told him of the narrow escape we had had from discovery and then he surprised us.
"I did it, senor. I was there when they entered the wood, and I got in his way in the dark and tripped him up when he was getting dangerously close."
"By heavens, but you are as brave as you are sharp, Andreas," I said, enthusiastically, giving him my hand. "And now for Calvarro's."
We continued our journey, riding with the greatest caution, and nothing occurred to interrupt us again. But the unexpected meeting with the soldiers had rendered me profoundly uneasy, and very doubtful of the safety of the place. This evidence that they were patrolling and scouting in the immediate vicinity of Calvarro's farm was very disquieting; and even the indifferent way in which the soldiers were doing the work did not reassure me.
I read in it more than mere chance work; for it looked much more likely that they were acting upon information that some good hiding-places for the Carlists were in the neighbourhood. The remark of one of the pair--"We're looking for houses, not men"--had ominous significance in this respect. They were not merely patrolling the roads in search of me and my two companions in response to messages sent by Rubio from Calatayud, for in that case they would merely have watched the roads and by-paths. They appeared to be one of a thoroughly organised system of search parties sent out to scour the whole country side, to find all the possible hiding-places and farms in the district where any Carlist refugees could possibly be hidden. And if this were so, it seemed to me so improbable as to be virtually impossible for Sarita's hiding-place to remain long undiscovered.
And this brought me once more face to face with a host of disturbing perplexities as to her and my future action. To remain at a place which the soldiers were likely to find was to plunge her into the almost certain danger of arrest; while to leave it in the attempt to steal into Daroca would, if the attempt were successful, bring me into still more imminent peril at the hands of the Carlists who would, unless a miracle chanced, discover my fraud. The dilemma baffled me.
I called Andreas to my side and explained to him fully my doubts in regard to the soldiers' movements, and I found then that to some extent he shared them, as did also Cabrera. But the latter had a plan of his own ready, founded on what I had said previously.
"If we are not to run like rabbits all over the country side and be caught or shot in couples, we must rally and make a stand somewhere, senor. Why not at Calvarro's? The house could be held for a long time, if we can only get a handful of men to it. I own I don't like these soldiers everywhere. It looks to me as if the blow had fallen at Daroca, and we were too late to do anything there. But we are men, I hope, and can fight and die, if need be, like men. For my part I'd rather find a lodging for a bullet in my body than have my whole body lodged in a gaol to rot there until the cursed Government chose to turn merciful and let me out. To hell with their mercy, say I. Give me the word and let me take my chance of getting into Daroca with a message from you to bring help to Calvarro's, and I'll do it and be back before the soldiers can find the place, or finding it, can smoke you out of it."
"Your life would----"
"I'll chance my life," he burst in, impatiently. "I beg your pardon, senor; but there are, or were, plenty in Daroca who are of my mind, and would a thousand times rather fight than go on manifestoeing and scheming and fooling the time and the opportunity away. For the Holy Virgin's sake let some of us do something like men. One good rally, and who knows but the fire will be kindled that will rage all over Spain? It will be the beacon which thousands of eyes are asking to see and thousands of hearts will welcome."
"I'm with Cabrera, senor," said Garcia. "Let us go to the town and bring out our friends. If we fail, well, we fail--but we shall at least have tried, while now----" and he shrugged his shoulders and ended with a sneer: "We might be children or Government men."
Had I been one of them in reality, the plan was just what I would have welcomed; but as it was, I could not counsel it and give my voice for fighting.
"No, not yet. We must wait and hear first, if we can, from Juan how things have gone in Daroca."
"Aye, aye, wait, wait, always wait, till the soldiers have time to get their firing platoons in position, and we can be shot like worn-out mules instead of fighting like men," growled Cabrera, gloomily; and he and Garcia turned to grumble in sympathy, while I rode on.
When we were quite close to Calvarro's--a place that lay indeed most marvellously concealed--and were approaching the farm by a path cunningly masked through a dense olive wood, a lad sprang out of the undergrowth and called to Andreas.
"Juan is here, senor," he said; and the boy, some two years younger than his brother and much resembling him, came to me. "Tell the senor the news in Daroca, Juan."
"It is of the worst, senor. Soon after midday the soldiers began to pour into the town from Saragossa, and special train after special train came loaded with them. They are everywhere; every house in the town has been searched; and they tell me hundreds of prisoners have been hurried away by train to Saragossa. Every road into the town is alive with soldiers, and search parties are spreading out everywhere in all directions. The house of every suspected person is in the hands of the soldiers or the police; and everywhere I heard stories of arms, papers, and property which have been seized."
"We are too late," exclaimed Cabrera. "The only chance will be to rally here, senor. It must be."
"Where is the senorita?" I asked the lad, unable to restrain my anxiety any longer; and I felt that the eagerness in my voice was very patent. When he told me, to my infinite relief, that she was in the house, a fervent "God be thanked for that!" burst from me, and turning I found Cabrera's eyes fixed upon me searchingly.
"So that's it," he growled, half under his breath, and he and Garcia whispered for a moment together. "Your pardon, senor," he said aloud to me, and waved the boys out of hearing. "Stand back a bit, lads. The senorita is much to us all, senor, but the cause is more than any one of us--more than even her safety. Our master first, ourselves after, is the rule; and in this crisis, the cause before all else. We must make the rally here, or all will be lost--so Garcia and I are agreed--and that cannot be."
"Do you think there's a chance of holding a place like this against half-a-dozen regiments? Are you mad? Why the place would be tumbling about our ears in half-an-hour, and every soul inside would be either captured or killed."
"And how could we die better? Your pardon if I speak bluntly and my words offend you, but anyone whose motive is what yours is may be forgiven if his judgment goes astray. A man with his heart in a woman's heart makes an ill counsellor. You are right in your way to think first of the safety of the woman you love; but this is no woman's matter. The thought of the senorita in peril of her life robs you of the power to think freely--we are all like that at such a time; but I for one can't let it influence me now. I'm going to the town, and Garcia with me; and, with the Virgin's help, we'll rally enough to make a stand here. And if you're afraid for her, get her away before we return."
I liked him for his blunt outspokenness, and felt like a traitor as I gripped his hand and wrung it.
"You have heard Juan's news, and you go on a hopeless quest, friend. I cannot leave the senorita."
"Get her away before we're back--if you can, that is; for, like you, I'd sooner she was out of such a scene as, please the Saints, shall make the name of Calvarro's farm ring through Spain; aye, and that before morning breaks, maybe."
"I fear the soldiers will be here before you can return," I said, eager to get them both gone, and yet loth to lose their help in case of need. In fact I was so distracted by my double set of anxieties I scarcely knew what to say or do.
"That must be your risk and hers, senor. Save her if you can; but if you can't, then God's will be done."
"I would rather you stayed in case of need," I said then, weakly.
"So that we three and the senorita be caught like rats in a trap;" and he smiled at my weakness. "No, no, if the soldiers get here before we are strong enough in numbers to hold the place, the fewer they find the better. Good-bye, senor, and the Saints protect you both. Here, Andreas," he called, and gave him his instructions, that one of the lads should lead him and Garcia the nearest and safest way to the town, and the other remain in readiness to give warning on his return if the soldiers came there; and having given me a final pressure of the hand he and Garcia rode off on their desperate business and were soon out of sight.
I gazed after them in a mood of almost desperate indecision; even then half-minded to call them back, risk everything, and bid them wait while I called out Sarita and joined them on the journey to the town. But the mood and the moment passed. I let them go. Their horses' footfalls died away in the distance; and swinging myself from the saddle, I followed Juan to the door of the house, on which he knocked, three times a soft double knock.
An old woman opened it, holding a candle over her head, and peering curiously and cautiously at me.
"Is all well, Juan?" she asked in a deep voice.
"All is well, Mother Calvarro," answered the boy.
"The senor is welcome," and she made way for me to enter.
"Shall I stop outside, senor?" asked the boy.
"And use your eyes like a lynx, my lad, and warn us instantly of anything you notice."
The old crone closed the door carefully after him, and then holding the candle near my face, she said:
"Counting all renegades, senor?"
"Lovers of Satan. By the Grace of God, Mother Calvarro," and I doffed my hat.
"By the Grace of God," she repeated, fervently. "And your name, senor?"
"Is my own, Mother. I would see the senorita at once," I said, putting a note of authority into my voice.
"She is broken by the ill-news that Juan brought. Truly a day of woe. The Holy Virgin save us and protect us all," and she raised her disengaged hand, sighed heavily, turned and shuffled slowly along the narrow bare-walled passage, pausing at a door. "Shall I tell her of your coming?"
"Better not," I replied, and as she opened the door, I entered, my heart beating quickly.
It was a low farmhouse room, very barely furnished; wooden chairs and a bare wooden table on which stood a candle that flickered feebly in the gust of air caused by the opening door.
Near the window and against the wall was a long wooden bench with arms, and on this, her head bowed on her hands which rested on one of the hard wooden arms, was Sarita, crouching in an attitude of deep despondency.
She did not lift her head at my entrance, thinking no doubt it was the woman of the house.
*CHAPTER XXVI*
*THE PLEA OF LOVE*
The sight of Sarita crushed down in this way by the load of her hopeless trouble was the most sorrowful my eyes had ever beheld. Knowing as I did her great strength, her buoyant confidence, her intense pride, her indomitable courage, I could gauge the force of the blow that had cast her down, and the depth of the bitterness of this hour of suffering.
For a while I gazed at her, almost ashamed that I had thus broken in upon her. Then a world of intense sympathy welled up from my heart, an infinite remorse even that in a measure I had helped to strike her down by my rescue of the young King, and an overpowering desire to take some of the burden upon myself; and my love for her came to my rescue and prompted me how to act.
I went forward swiftly and knelt down by the settle.
"Sarita, it is I. Let me help you, my dearest;" and I put my arm about her. "I have come to help you, Sarita, with my life if need be."
At the sound of my voice and the touch of my hand she started violently, lifted her face, dry-eyed but all worn and white with pain, gazed at me a second, and then jumped to her feet, and seemed as if about to repudiate my proffered sympathy.
"Ferdinand!" Eyes and voice and face were full of intense surprise; and as I rose quickly to my feet, she stepped back, and cried, "Why are you here?"
"I love you, my dearest; where else should I be but with you--now?" and I took her hands and held them firmly.
She tried to draw back, and would have struggled against her love, it seemed; but love and the woman in her would not be denied, and in this crisis of her sorrow she yielded to my will, and let me draw her to me.
Her head fell on my shoulder. For the moment at any rate the victory was mine, and I felt with a rare sense of delight that she was glad I had come to her, and that I was giving her strength in her weakness.
I did not attempt to speak. It was enough to have her once more in my arms, to feel that I was a comfort to her, that her love had triumphed overall else in that dread dreary time; and I waited while by slow degrees she battled with her emotion and fought her way back to self-strength.
Once in the long, sweet suspense of that battle she raised her head, looked at me and smiled--a sorrow-laden, anxious, wan smile--as if in deprecation of her own weakness and of her woman's need for aid and sympathy. Then her head sank again on my breast with a sigh of infinite content, such as might have slipped from the lips of a tired and overwrought child.
The sound was music in my ears, for it told me how for the moment at least my coming had eased her misery.
At length she began to stir again in my arms; not away from them, I thanked Heaven, but as though the sense of relieved happiness was passing, and the thoughts of trouble were gathering force again.
"I am shamed, Ferdinand," she murmured.
"I love you, sweetheart," was my whispered reply.
"How did you come here, and alone?" she asked next, after a pause, "You have caught me in my moment of weakness."
"I will tell you all presently," I said. "I have come to help you. Wait."
But her curiosity was rising as her composure returned.
"Tell me now."
"I knew you would be in trouble, dearest, and I followed you."
"But how did you find me?" and then a great and sudden change came over her. "What am I doing? I am mad," she cried in a quick tone of alarm; and drawing swiftly from my arms she stood, my hands still holding hers, and looked at me with fear in her face. "You must not stay here. You are in danger, Ferdinand. There are those coming here, will be here instantly may be, who will know you and--oh God, what shall we do? they will kill you."
The fear was for me, and had quickened her into active thought, as no fear for herself had done. I guessed her meaning instinctively, and allayed the fear.
"No, there is no danger. You mean the two men, Cabrera and Garcia. I came here with them, and Cabrera himself urged me, in his last words, to try and save you."
"But they--I can't understand. How could that be?" she cried, her face a mask of perplexity.
"Simply as I say. I recognised them, but they did not recognise me. I made myself known to them--as Ferdinand Carbonnell--in the train; we escaped from it together at Calatayud, and together we have ridden here. We were going to Daroca, when we heard that you were here, and that the roads were blocked with troops, and we came here."
"You were going to Daroca? Are you mad, too, Ferdinand?"
"Mad, if you will; or very sane, as I prefer. I was going to find you, Sarita. Do you think anything would have stopped me? I went where love called me."
"But nothing could have saved your being discovered--nothing--and your death would have been certain. This was rank madness."
"Had I not heard you were here, I should have been in Daroca at this minute, searching for you, Sarita."
Her hands tightened on mine, and her eyes were full of pain; but their light changed suddenly and grew radiant, and the soft colour streamed over her face.
"And you love me so well as that?" The question, the tone, the love in her eyes, the wondrous magic of her beauty, thrilled my every nerve and set my heart pulsing with passion; and for answer I drew her, now unresisting, to me, and pressed my lips to hers.
"You love me, dear one?" I whispered, passionately, like a child in my longing to hear an avowal from her lips. She seemed to read the thought, and, putting an arm on each shoulder, she looked up and smiled.
"Is this the garb of hate, Ferdinand?" she asked; then sighed and said gently, "If I do not love you, then am I really mad; and yet what is it but madness for us to talk of love? See! I kiss you of my own will--will, do I say?--of my own intense desire;" and reaching up she kissed me tenderly, half coyly; but growing suddenly bolder, closed her arms about my neck and pressed my face to hers, kissing me many times with feverish, passionate, intense fervour. "And if it be madness to love you, then, dearest, there was never so mad a heart and brain as mine. You make me burn out all else in the world when you kindle the flame of this love of mine." She drew back again and looked at me. "And I thought and meant never to see you again. What a creature of feebleness this love makes me!"
"We will never part again, Sarita," I said, fervently.
"Ah, that is different, that is all different;" and she unlocked her arms and fell away a pace, but I caught her hands again and held them.
"We will never part again," I repeated earnestly. "You will let me save you. I can do it. I have come to do it."
"How can you save me? Can you save me from myself? Would you tear me from my duty? Do you know what has happened? Ah, Ferdinand, when you make me think of aught else but our love, you force into my mind the barriers that stand between us."
"There shall be no barriers that can keep me from you? Yes, I know much of what has happened. I know that by Quesada's treachery this whole movement, on which you have built so much and laboured so hard, has collapsed like a house of cards. I know that through some treachery he had learned how matters stood in Daroca, and that his iron hand has closed on the place, and every hope you could have had there is crushed and ruined. And I know, too, that your only hope--as it is the only hope of any one of those whom he has duped--lies in flight. It is not too late for that, Sarita. But it is the only hope."