Chapter 19

“She is perfectly safe,” said the Cherub, in answer to an uneasy look from me. “She’s as well known over there almost as the herdsmen who tend the bulls from their birth; besides, she has some curious influence over animals. I have never seen anything like it in another human being, though I have read of such things. Since she was a child, I have no longer had any fear for her over there; and Señor Waring is safe also, while he keeps with her and Mateo, unless he were foolish enough to make some demonstration. But for me, I am no friend of _los toros_ when they are at home.”

Dick and Pilar were in Carmona’s pasture now, moving towards a troop of grazing bulls, magnificent creatures whose terrible horns and silken hides (branded with double circles under a crown) glittered in the sun. Scarcely a head was tossed in honour of the new-comers; but as Pilar raised her girlish voice to give a peculiar call, I saw a dark form in the distance separate itself from a group. Then a brown, lean-flanked bull, nobly armed with horns grand as the antlers of a stag, bounded away from his companions, and rushed in so straight a line towards Pilar, that in spite of the Cherub’s words, my heart was wrenched.

But I need not have feared. While the young herdsman and Dick stood by passive and admiring, this _toro bravo_ of famous fighting breed reduced his run to a canter, and trotted up to Pilar as tamely as if he had been a belled _cabestro_.

The girl, opening a large knotted handkerchief which she had brought filled with sweet biscuit, took a step or two forward to meet the bull. Nestling against his huge head, powerful enough to bear up a horse and rider impaled upon his horns, she calmly fed the great beast from her store. Never could there have been a more beautiful picture since the day when another bull submitted to the caresses of Europa.

Vivillo scarcely deigned to look at Dick, who made some bids for his favour. All his chivalrous soul of _toro bravo_ was absorbed in pleasure at Pilar’s return, gratitude for her remembrance of him. I would scarcely have believed that it could be real, had I not seen it.

For ten minutes she stayed, Dick close at her side, always ignored by the bull; then she returned and walked towards us, slowly, the herdsman keeping near and Vivillo marching after in a resolute way which would have turned grey the hair of a nervous man or woman.

But if Dick were conscious of his nerves in such an unusual situation, he did not show it. His head was bent over Pilar’s, talking earnestly, and though she never looked up at him in answer, once she broke out laughing, so merrily, I wondered what he had said.

In our own meadow again, safely delivered from the bulls, Pilar slipped instantly to her father’s side and began chattering about Vivillo, who stood by the ditch looking wistfully after her as he chewed his last biscuit. Dick and I were thus thrown together; and though Dick’s face is no tell-tale, I guessed somehow that his mind was not as calm as his features.

“I should think that might have been a little upsetting to an amateur,” I said.

“Maybe,” answered Dick, absent-mindedly. “But it isn’t that, if I’m looking queer. Say Ramón, I’ve done it.”

“What?”

“Proposed to a girl for the first time in my life. What’s more, I grovelled. I called Vivillo a lamb, though at the moment he was looking more like several dozen lions. I told her if she’d marry me, she could have him and any other bulls sitting about on our hearthrug; that we’d have a nice big one on purpose.”

“That ought to be an inducement—even from a heretic.”

“Oh, confound you, don’t harp on that. I’m mad about the girl. I know all you’re suffering, and if I ever put on superior airs, I take them back and swallow them.”

Even a man heartbroken would have had to grin; and Pilar had persuaded me not to be heartbroken yet. If I laughed, I sympathized too, and liked Dick better than ever because we were eating the same bitter-sweet orange of which the voice had sung. It seemed that Pilar had neither accepted nor refused him, but had asked for time to think; and he would have been a little encouraged if she had not suddenly said, “Don Cipriano _loves_ bulls.”

At five o’clock we spun into Seville, with the car, for nobody knew at what time the procession might begin; nobody ever did know, it appeared. And Pilar was no longer merrily boyish, but feminine and seductive again in her black mantilla.

The vast oblong of the Plaza de la Constitución was already humming with the excitement of a moving crowd. The lane between chairs and tribune was thronged with the poor of the town and peasants from the country, who would have no seats and must press for places to see the procession; but there was no ill-natured pushing, and gentlest care was taken not to crush the toddling, star-eyed children who tumbled under people’s feet. Soldiers laughed and edged their way past clinging groups of pretty girls. Civil guards, looking as if they had stepped out of old pictures, strove to keep order, their shouts lost among the cries which filled the air; cries of water-sellers bearing big earthen vessels; cries of those who wheeled cargoes of roasted peanuts in painted ships; cries of crab-sellers; cries of shabby old men, and neat, white-capped boys, hawking fresh-fried _calientes_, sugared cakes, and all kinds of _dulces_ on napkin-covered trays.

English and American tourists in panamas wandered through the throng searching for their numbered chairs; vendors of seats shouted reduced prices; bareheaded women with brown babies in their arms offered programmes of the week’s processions; tattered boys shrieked the daily papers, and coloured post-cards; while from the balconies of private houses ladies in black mantillas, children in white, and foreigners in gay colours looked down upon the scene.

So passed an hour, while the boxes and best seats began to fill. Spanish families of the middle class, men and women in black, took front seats of the tribune, where the empty royal box made a brave splash of gold and crimson; but more slowly came members of the aristocracy and officers in blue and gold; and, jostled by the crowd, I waited in suspense.

Colonel O’Donnel had gone to his club for news of the box which, by strategic means, he had been trying to get. Pilar and Dick had gone with him, to remain in the car chaperoned by Ropes, until he should come out; so that I had no means of learning whether the Cherub had triumphed or failed. All I knew was, that a club acquaintance whose wife was ill, might be induced to offer his box, close to the royalties, to a second acquaintance in exchange for one directly behind that which the Duke of Carmona had taken. If this could be arranged, the O’Donnels would be given the latter, in exchange for—only the Cherub knew what. Borne back and forth with the moving throng, like a leaf in an eddy, my eyes seldom strayed for long from the tribune. Would the Carmona household come? Would the O’Donnels be their neighbours?

At last I saw Pilar and the two men entering the tribune. Yes, they had succeeded, I could tell from the Cherub’s description of the Duke’s box. But Carmona’s was still empty.

The procession had not yet appeared, though the first _cofradia_ had been due in the Plaza an hour ago, and twilight was falling over the vast square, ethereally clear and pale. Only the figure of Faith on the soaring Giralda, turned as if to watch the scene, still glittered in the sun; and its dazzling brilliance had faded before a bugle note rang out, poignant as a cry of bitter sorrow from a breaking heart.

This was the herald of a brotherhood with its sacred images; and the police began to sweep the crowd before them out of the lane between the chairs and tribune. Slowly the flock was forced along by the shepherd dogs; and as the way cleared, forth from the dim tunnel of Las Sierpes marched, with arms reversed, a squad of civil guards; then a company of mounted soldiers, their bugles still wailing that sad warning of some piteous spectacle to come.

The cavalry passed; it was but a modern preface to a mediæval poem which, following closely, brought with it into the Plaza sad ghosts, grim ghosts, sainted ghosts of long past days.

Headed by one of their number bearing aloft an exquisite crucifix, walked a band of penitents carrying great lighted candles. Their white robes of linen swept in long pointed trains over the cobbles, the silver buckles on their black shoes glinting with each step; through the narrow slits in the blue _capuchas_, whose conical peaks tapered far above the wearers’ heads, their dark eyes burned with mysterious intensity. Two and two they moved, noiseless as bats save for the tap of silver batons, making an avenue of gliding stars, like will-o’-the-wisps, from the black mouth of Las Sierpes across the length of the Plaza.

Then suddenly, in that dark, distant tunnel flashed something luminous, something that moved, swung in air higher than the heads of men, something that was like a great blazing casket of jewels or a cloud of fireflies.

It came on, halting, starting again, reaching the open square, and revealing itself as an illuminated platform supporting a crucified Christ, life size, with no detail spared of tragedy and torture.

One of those fine sculptures of painted wood, such as I had seen at Valladolid, the sixteenth century artist had spent his soul in showing to believers what Christ had suffered that they might be saved; and so startling was the appeal of this terrible figure to the sympathies, that for an instant I found myself forgetting everything except a wild desire to rescue it.

As the _paso_, with its quivering silver lamps and strewn flowers, came near to where I stood, I could see, beneath the long velvet curtains which draped the platform, twenty pairs or more of slowly moving feet; and the frequent pauses were accounted for.

I watched the heart-rending figure pass round the corner of the Plaza, out of sight, swallows wheeling overhead as if once more to pluck the thorns from that bleeding brow; and as it vanished, far away in the dusk of Las Sierpes appeared another illumined mystery of clustering stars. Out from darkness into hyacinth twilight it floated, a canopied platform of purple velvet, crusted with silver and gold; under the glittering roof a virgin, who seemed to stand praying in a garden of tall lilies, lit by a sacred silver flame.

The crowding lilies, as the _paso_ came nearer, were only white, waxen candles after all, but in their light the image of the Virgin gained a womanliness and beauty extraordinary. Her gorgeous trailing robe of gold-embroidered velvet, her under gown of satin scintillating with diamonds, her blazing crown of jewels, the sparkling rings on her delicate fingers, her necklaces, her bracelets, were such as the Mother of Christ never dreamed of in her simple life; and half the watchers knew grinding poverty, which a few of her gems might relieve.

That thought, I knew, would leap to many minds; but they would be the minds of foreigners; and I, being Spanish, understood. I saw what this procession of emblems meant to these people, rich and poor alike. They were being reminded, in the realistic and dramatic way which appealed best to their imaginations, of all Christ had suffered for them, of all the mother-woman had endured. The gems, which to alien minds were incongruous, crystallized their tears, their love, their gratitude; and Our Lady’s jewels were the jewels of the poor—rich possessions which could not be taken from them, joys for ever, objects of their highest pride.

Bending in gentle grief, the fair face bowed, the graceful figure passed in fragrance of lilies, perfumed wax, and incense sending blue clouds from silver censors swung by white-robed boys. With her, as she moved, went music—our Lady’s own music, sad and beautiful as moonlight on a lonely grave, cool as peace after hot pain.

Now the box in the tribune I had watched so long was filled with strangers. Pilar had been right. Carmona had given his place to friends. But with that soft, haunting music in my ears, sweet as remembered days of joy, I could not fear anything. Somehow I was at peace, with good thoughts in my mind and hope in my heart.

Brotherhoods in black, brotherhoods in purple, and _paso_ after _paso_ went by; Christus bending under the weight of the cross, Christus praying among sleeping disciples in Gethsemane, Our Lady of the Rosary, Our Lady of Tears, flaming rivers of light, suns rising out of purple clouds.

Night folded over the great square, with its crowd of people. No one had gone away. Electric lights burst out and made the scene like the auditorium of some vast theatre; but the stage and auditorium were one. Then the full moon, yellow as honey, looked over the thronged roof-gardens of tall houses opposite the tribune, and sailed high in heaven.

It was past nine o’clock when Colonel O’Donnel touched me on the shoulder.

“We saw you long ago,” he said. “You are so tall. Shall we go home to dinner? But on Thursday you will have another chance.”

Thursday! and there were three days in between. I wished that he could have left me in my dream of peace as long as it might last.

XXX

THE HAND UNDER THE CURTAINS

Like a dream the three days passed; but not a dream of peace, for that I lost with the last echo of the Virgin music and the fragrance of her lilies.

Dick thought himself miserable, but I would gladly have changed my state of mind for his. Sometimes he hoped, sometimes he despaired, but at all times he was really very happy, if only he had known it. He enjoyed visiting the Murillos with Pilar and the Cherub when I had no heart to go. He borrowed the motor to whisk them out to Italica. He went with the O’Donnels late every afternoon for the drive in the fashionable _paseo_ along the river side, as pleased with the five handsome mules, in their smart Spanish harness of white and crimson rope and brown leather, as if they had been his own.

As for me, I would not go, although Dick urged that, in the never-ending double line of fine carriages, we might meet the Duchess of Carmona’s. But I did not dare to see Monica again after what had happened unless there were some hope that Pilar could speak for me, or that I could speak for myself. Still, I could not resist questioning the family in the evening. Had they heard tidings of her? Had they seen her?

Presently there was news, but not good news. The engagement was known, and was being talked of everywhere. The story was that the wedding would be soon, as the Duchess was not strong, and professed herself anxious to see her son married. Gossip said also that the marriage would be celebrated in Madrid directly after the festivities of the royal wedding were over, so that the young duchess, as the wife of a grandee of Spain, could become lady-in-waiting to the bride-queen, when _los Reyes_ returned from their honeymoon at La Granja.

The Cherub told me these things only because I insisted on hearing all; and on Wednesday evening I dragged further details from Pilar. They had passed the Duchess, Lady Vale-Avon, and Monica in the Carmona carriage, the handsomest in Seville; and the Duke had been on horseback, looking more attractive than Pilar had ever seen him in the _chulo_ costume, worn at times as an amusing affectation by some young aristocrats of Andalucía. I could picture him in the wide-brimmed grey sombrero, the tight short jacket, and trousers fitting close as a glove until they widened below the knee. Yes, the dress would suit him; and Pilar admitted reluctantly that he was a perfect rider. I was horribly jealous, ready to fancy that, after all, Monica had actually begun to care for him.

There had been a procession on Wednesday, but it was not an affair of importance; and with Thursday, and the presence of the King, all the greatest events of this _Semana Santa_ were to begin.

Early in the afternoon there was washing of poor men’s feet by the great ecclesiastics in the cathedral, the King remaining at the Alcázar to bathe—as Dick put it—a few carefully selected feet on his own account, as a sign of humility. Later, would come the most splendid procession of the week, the King walking with his own _cofradia_; in the evening, the Miserere in the cathedral, and processions all night, till mass on Good Friday morning. To myself I said, therefore, that I was to have two more chances: the one for which I depended upon Pilar in the afternoon; the one for which I depended on an inspiration of my own in the evening. For all the world was going to hear the Miserere.

Though it was a week for penitence and fasting, Seville—honoured by the King—thrilled with excitement. Thousands of strangers had poured into the town for this day, and the crowds were three times as dense as on Sunday. Though there had been disquieting rumours, whispers of anarchist plots and bombs, the police had been alert; the King had taken a swift gunboat up the Guadalquivir, instead of arriving by special train from Cadiz, had reached Seville safely; and now anxiety was forgotten. All the town poured into the Plaza de la Constitución more than an hour before there was any hope that the procession might begin; and I was in the crowd.

The boxes filled earlier than before, many of the ladies no longer in black, but wearing Paris hats and pale-tinted dresses, though to-morrow there would be black mantillas again, and red carnations. Pilar, Dick, and Colonel O’Donnel were in their places, and though the Duke’s box was still empty, I was sure I should not be disappointed to-day. “He’ll appear about the time the King does,” I was saying to myself, when suddenly there came a stir in the royal box. The mayor and town councillors walked in, looking important; four giant halberdiers of the royal guard took position, each in a corner of the box. Then rose a shout, “Viva el Rey!” and against the crimson velvet draperies the figure of the tall young King in white uniform stood out like a slender statue of marble.

He was accompanied by his sister, the Infanta, and her husband, three or four ladies, and a retinue of decorated officers; but for an instant I saw only the King, because—rebel as I was supposed to be—my hat waved as high and my cheers rang as loudly as any in the crowd.

I had not seen his face—that day at Biarritz long ago—when his automobile stopped for want of petrol. He had worn his motor-mask, and had not removed it, for he was incognito; but now, as he bowed in answer to the people’s greeting, the young face was noble under the silver helmet. His smile brought a deep dimple to either cheek, and a pleasant light to the brown eyes. I was proud of my King, and found myself wishing that I could serve him, though it seemed that that could never be; and with a sigh for the perversities of fate I looked away, only to receive a shock of surprise.

Among the ladies with the Infanta were the Duchess of Carmona, Lady Vale-Avon, and Monica. With the officers and friends of the King stood the Duke, his dark face radiating satisfaction, as if this were the crowning moment of his life.

Not only was Monica with the man as his fiancée, but she was dressed, in compliment to him, like a girl of Spain. She wore a mantilla such as the Infanta wore, and so bright was her hair, so fair her skin framed in the black flounce of lace, that she was almost as much stared at as the King. On her breast, pinning the folds of the mantilla, there was a glint of crimson; and looking closely, I made it out to be a large brooch of rubies, forming the famous “No. 8 Do,” the motto of Seville. Only the Duke could have given her this, I thought; and she had accepted it!

There was no more hope, then. It did not matter that her unexpected presence in the royal box would prevent Pilar from speaking, or giving her my letter. Still, I clung desperately to the one chance left; the cathedral and the Miserere.

Hardly were the royalties and their friends settled in the red-draped box when the next brotherhood marched out from Las Sierpes, and halted their first _paso_ before the King, that he might see it well. He was on his feet, his head bared and bowed; and while he stood veiled in rising incense, some emotional soul in the audience broke into a Moorish wail, the prayer song or _saeta_ of the people, improvising words which caught the popular fancy.

A murmur of approval ran through the crowd, which pressed close, in spite of the police; and as all eyes for the moment turned upon the King, or upon the white-haired peasant singer, a thing happened which caught my attention.

The velvet curtain which hid the bearers of the _paso_ resting before the royal box, parted very slightly at one side, as if someone were peering out; then a hand darted forth and received from a man in a black coat, who stood with his back half-turned to me, a faded bouquet of flowers, arranged Spanish fashion in a hard, stiff pyramid.

Quick as that darting hand a thought flashed through my brain. In a few seconds the _paso_ would be moving on; the bearers were bracing themselves for a new effort. That bouquet! if it should hold the threatened bomb? This was the moment for such an attempt at wrecking the royal box, for the King was a member of the next brotherhood that must pass; and soon he would be leaving his sister and friends to walk with it, perhaps not returning to his box that day.

The passing of light is no more swift than was the flight of these thoughts; and without waiting to calculate the cost to myself, thinking only of the King and of the girl I loved, I instantly thrust both hands between the curtains, following the flowers as they were passed in. I grasped the bouquet firmly round the stiff base of the pyramid, and pulled it out before the hidden man who had received it knew that it had not been withdrawn by his confederate. It was all over in a second, and I had the bouquet. Also I had identified the man who pushed it through the curtains of the _paso_, though which among the twenty or twenty-five concealed bearers had taken it from him I could not tell.

Whether my act had been wise or foolish, it was done, and the _paso_ had moved on, carrying the secret of one beating heart under the curtained platform.

Prying cautiously among the tightly banked flowers, my blood quickened as I touched something round and hard, a thing about the size of a large orange, fastened into the centre of the pyramid by a network of thin wire. Intuition had not played me a trick. There was death in this bunch of roses, death for many, perhaps. Though it was of first importance to get the bomb as far away as possible from the King and from Monica, and to render it harmless, I would not give up my pursuit of the man in the black coat, who was fighting his way through the crowd, only a few yards in front of me,—a square-set figure, in the holiday clothes of a respectable workman. I saw only his back now, every muscle tense in his desire to escape the vengeance on his track; but I had seen his face for an instant, and could identify it anywhere.

What if, in his desperation, he turned, and in the hope of saving himself accused me of the crime he would have committed? It but needed that to ruin me—after Barcelona, and this long journey to Seville, where the King was due. Would any explanation I might make be credited, when the bomb was in my hand?

I pushed the crowding thoughts out of my mind. There were other things to think of—the bomb itself, what to do with it; and the man to be followed.