Chapter 21

Pilar’s delight in the first part of my story was dashed by the sequel. Of course, she said, it must come right in the end, since Monica and I understood each other at last. But just for the moment everything seemed difficult. The Duke was sure now that I was Casa Triana, and not Cristóbal O’Donnel. He would almost certainly make all the trouble he could, and a man of his influence could make a good deal. As his attempt to stick a dagger into me—by way of a quick solution—had been covered by the _capucha_ of a _cofradìa_, I could not take revenge by laying a counter accusation. I might say I had recognized his voice, and that I thought I had recognized the dagger bought in Toledo; but I could prove nothing, and the Duke would score.

Still, as the Cherub remarked consolingly, he could not do much worse than force me out of Spain. Neither I, nor anyone else, had ever said in so many words that I was Cristóbal O’Donnel. If people had taken my identity for granted because of a few round-about hints, and because for a joke I had borrowed a friend’s uniform for a day or two, nothing very serious could be made out of that after all; and as Cristóbal really was on leave, he need not be involved. He was a good officer, whose services were valued, and I was not to worry lest harm should come upon him. I need think only of Monica and of myself. Had I formed any idea of what to do next?

“I must get Monica out of Carmona’s house,” I said.

“You’ll have to lie in wait and snatch her from under their noses next time they show them,” suggested Dick; “unless—”

“Unless?”

“Carmona keeps his indoors until he’s arranged to have yours politely deported.”

“I can’t be got rid of in an hour.”

“You could to-morrow.”

“I’m afraid you can,” sighed the Cherub, “and that, though I shall do my best, I may be powerless to help you.”

“What if it were known that he saved the King yesterday?” Pilar asked her father.

“The King is going away to-morrow. You know, he’s off to England in a few days. Besides, the incident to-day will be hushed up. The King will know, of course, and a few others; but it will be kept out of the papers,—anyhow, until they’ve got their hands on both the men concerned.”

“I’ve still got to-night,” I said, “and it’s not eleven yet. I hoped that in the confusion Monica had given her mother and Carmona the slip, and that if I waited here I might find her again. I thought she might try to get back to the chapel where we had our talk, trusting that I’d look for her there. But she didn’t come, and I searched everywhere in vain before I tried watching the crowd pass through the Court of Oranges. Now, I’m certain that Carmona or Lady Vale-Avon must have pounced upon her while I was surrounded, and forced her away. No doubt they’re at home long ago. Why shouldn’t I appeal to the English consul, and say that the Duke of Carmona’s detaining an English girl in his house against her will?”

“No use,” said the Cherub. “She’s under age, and she’s with her mother, who’s visiting the Duchess.”

“Then I’ll go to Carmona’s door and make such a row that they’ll be obliged to let me in.”

“You’d get into a police cell instead. A man’s house is his castle, especially when it’s a palace and he’s a Duke.”

I was silenced. I knew the Cherub was right; but it seemed monstrous that in this twentieth century such tyranny should divide a girl from her lover.

When I had thought for a moment I said, “Anyhow, I shall go to the house and try to bribe a servant. Once in, I’d not come out without Monica. I’ve done two satisfactory things to-day by bribery and corruption, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t bring it off the third time.”

“The Duke’s servants have been in the employ of the family for years, and their fathers and grandfathers before them. No money would bribe them to deceive their master and mistress,” said the Cherub.

“I shouldn’t have thought either the Duke or his mother capable of inspiring such devotion.”

“It isn’t devotion—it’s fear. To an unfaithful servant in that house—well, almost anything might happen.”

“Have you any advice to give me, then?” I asked, in despair.

The Cherub shook his head. “The prudent thing would be to go away to-night, and trust Lady Monica’s loyalty. She can’t be forced into marrying the Duke, you know; and if she breaks the engagement he’ll have to let her alone, for dignity’s sake.”

“That might be prudent; but of course I won’t do it.”

“Of course you won’t,” returned the Cherub, as if it went without saying.

“Very well, then; matters are desperate, and desperate remedies must be tried; things can’t be worse than they are. I shall hang about Carmona’s house early in the morning, and when the first person comes out I’ll go in. If I don’t come out, you will know what’s become of me; and I don’t suppose in these days even a Duke can kill a man without getting into trouble?”

“He would merely have you arrested as a housebreaker,” said the Cherub.

“Well, I should have seen Monica first, and perhaps have got her on the right side of the door.”

“We’ll have a go at the business together,” said Dick. “It would be more sociable.”

“All right, thank you,” said I. “Then something’s settled; and these best of friends can go home and sleep.”

“Sleep!” echoed Pilar scornfully. “Oh, if I were a man, and could do _something_ to punish the Duke!”

“I wish you could set your bull at him,” said Dick. “Only, now I think of it, it’s _his_ bull still.”

Try as we might, it was impossible to persuade either Colonel O’Donnel or Pilar that they ought to return quietly to bed, if not to sleep. No, they would do nothing of the kind. Besides, no properly disposed person within ten miles of Seville would lie in bed that night. Processions would go on till early morning. Many people would watch them, or spend the hours till early mass in prayer in the cathedral, which would be open all night. Why should not the O’Donnel family do as others did?

There was no answer to this; and it was finally arranged that, if they wished to rest at all, it should be at the hotel in the Plaza de San Fernando, where we had dined. That was to be the rendezvous; and the Cherub would engage the verger we knew to watch the Duke’s house in the morning, bringing news of our fate to the hotel—if we did not bring it ourselves.

Never—if I live beyond the allotted threescore years and ten—shall I forget that strange night of Holy Thursday in Seville.

Dick and I wandered through the streets, and in the Plaza de la Constitución, where electric lamps and moonlight mingled bleakly, while never-ending _cofradìas_ passed.

A sky of violet was like a veil of silky gauze, and as the moon slid down the steeps of heaven the vast dome paled. One by one the stars went out like spent matches; dawn was on its way. Electric lights flared and died, leaving a pearly dusk more mysterious than any twilight which falls with night.

The crowds had thinned; but silent brotherhoods moved through streets where there was no other sound than the rustling of their feet, the tap of their leaders’ silver batons. So faint was the dawn-dusk, that they were droves of shadows on their way back into night, their candle-lights lost stars. Now and then the clink of a baton brought to some half-shuttered window a face, to be presently joined by other faces, peering down at the dark processions of men and black-robed, penitent women.

Outside the great east door of the cathedral halted a _paso_, like a huge golden car. Christ was nailed to a cross not yet lifted into place. A Roman soldier, of exaggerated height and sardonic features, stood reading the parchment with the mocking inscription about to be nailed above the thorn-crowned head. His evil mouth was curled in a satirical smile. Two centurions in armour sat their impatient horses, and gave directions for raising the cross. The effect was startling; for in this pale beginning of light, and the atmosphere of tingling exaltation which steeped the town, it was difficult not to believe that the terrible carved figures of wood had life, and that with the eyes of one’s flesh one beheld the world’s great tragedy.

Somehow the impression of horror was but deepened by the fact that the bearers had come out from under the curtains of the _paso_, to take off the large pads they wore on their heads, to drink water, and smoke cigarettes with the penitents who had rolled up the masks from their pale, damp faces. They might have been comrades of the Roman soldiers, in their obliviousness of that tortured form on the cross.

It was not yet five o’clock when Dick and I plunged into the cool gloom of the cathedral, passing the spot where Carmona had struck at me, and the chapel where I had taken Monica. The stones were slippery as the floor of a ballroom, with wax dropped from innumerable candles, and the air was heavy with the smoke of stale incense.

The searchlight of dawn could scarcely penetrate the black curtains which throughout Holy Week had draped the cathedral; therefore a solitary beam, like a bar of gold, slanted in through one superb window.

The amethysts, emeralds, and rubies of incomparable painted glass transformed the yellow bar into a rainbow which streamed down the length of the majestic aisle and struck full upon a golden altar. Then slowly the jewelled band moved from the gold carvings, the flames dying as it passed. Travelling, still like a searchlight, it found the prostrate forms of sleeping men exhausted by their vigils, snatched out of veiling darkness kneeling women clad in black, and at last rested on the Holy Week monument itself, paled its myriad candles, and made pools of liquid gold on the vestments of priests who had knelt all night in adoration of the Host.

“Say,” said Dick, half whispering, “I don’t gush as a rule; but doesn’t it look like the light of salvation coming to save lost souls?”

Not a hotel in Seville had shut its doors that night of Holy Thursday; not a _concièrge_ had done more than nod and wake out of a broken dream, for there had been an excited coming and going through all the dark hours.

At six o’clock Dick and I were at the _fonda_, inquiring for Colonel O’Donnel and his daughter. They had come in at two, and were now asleep, it seemed; but had left a note for the señores. In this note we were assured that the friendly verger of last night’s adventure would be lurking in the neighbourhood of Carmona’s house as early as six o’clock, and should we want him we would know where he was to be found.

We took bedrooms, bathed, dressed again, and after hot coffee and rolls decided that is was time to go on guard. To be sure, it was absurdly early; but by this time the Duke’s household might be astir, and we must not risk letting Monica be carried away before we had had a chance to practise the gentle art of housebreaking.

The clocks of Seville were spasmodically telling the hour of seven when we entered the narrow and dusky lane of the Calle de las Dueñas. So fast asleep were the shuttered windows that our mission seemed a fool’s errand; but as we came in sight of the Duke’s closed door the Cherub’s messenger loomed out of the shadows.

Unshaven and haggard, his eyes glittered like black beads in the daylight; and he greeted us excitedly. “Señores,” he began, “I was going to look for you at the hotel. A thing has happened. The Señor Colonel told me I must watch the house of His Grace the Duke, and let you know when you came if anyone had been out or in. Who would think of people starting upon a journey before the day is awake? But so it is. The Duke, whom I have seen in other years, has gone away in an automobile with his honourable mother and two other ladies.”

“You are sure it was he?” I asked, completely taken aback.

“Sure, my señorito. The car was a large grey car. And”—his face grew sly as a squirrel’s—“I can tell you where it is going, if you would like to know.”

“I want to know all you can tell,” I said.

“Well, the grey car arrived a little before half-past six, I should think. In it there was only the young man who drives, dressed in leather. ‘What is going to happen?’ I asked myself. It seemed better to wait and see than run to the hotel to say, ‘there’s an automobile at the door for the Duke,’ and perhaps find it gone, no one could tell where, when I got back. But I do not sleep on my feet. There are always ideas running in my head. I pretended to be strolling past, and stopping for a look at such a fine machine. Perhaps I had matches in my pocket, perhaps not; in any case I asked the young man in leather to give me a light for my cigarette. He did, and it was a natural thing to fall into talk. ‘You make an early start,’ I said. He nodded. ‘Going far?’ ‘To Cadiz to-day, by Jerez.’ That is all, honoured señores; but I tell it for what it is worth. A few minutes later the grand people came out, and the automobile shot away.”

“Did they put on luggage?” I asked.

“All the automobile would hold.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Dick. “Carmona’s thrown sand in our eyes this time. Who’d have supposed he’d turn tail and run away like a coward in the midst of the Holy Week show, with the King still in town?”

“I was a fool not to expect the unexpected,” I said. “If anyone except Colonel O’Donnel’s man had told me I should have been between two minds whether to accept the story or not. But O’Donnel called him a trusty fellow; and he served me well last night. If we wait to verify his story, by the time we find out it’s true the grey car will have got too long a start. I don’t like Carmona’s stealing off. It looks as if there were something up.”

“He showed last night that he was desperate,” said Dick. “I guess we’d better get on the road before much grass grows.”

“You’re the best of friends,” said I. And paying the verger well for his services, we hurried back to the hotel to find Ropes and have the car got ready.

It was still very early, and the Cherub and Pilar had not had many hours beauty sleep; but we could not leave for an indefinite absence without bidding them good-bye; and we were on our way to knock at Colonel O’Donnel’s door when Pilar appeared from the room adjoining.

A moment, and she understood everything. “You’ll follow!” she exclaimed, without waiting to hear my plans.

“And I’ll go with him,” said Dick, looking wistfully at her; for he had not had his answer yet, and who could tell when he would have it now, or what it would be when it came?

“Of course. I knew you would,” Pilar replied. And a light leaped up in her dark eyes. If it meant nothing warmer, it meant approval. “You’ll want to go at once. Oh, I _am_ sorry you’ll miss the fair. You don’t know what a fairyland Seville is, with miles of streets and park roofed in with arches of coloured lights, like jewels; and papa has a tent in the gayest place, where we stay all day, and see our friends, and it’s such fun visiting the booths and side-shows! But maybe next spring you’ll come back for the _feria_ with your bride, Don Ramón; and as for you, Señor Waring—”

“As for me?” repeated Dick, anxiously. “Am I not to come back before that?”

“You’re to come back when you like, and—papa will be glad to see you,” she answered, just as any conventional little señorita might have answered. But at least she had the kindness to blush; and I would have moved away to give Dick a last chance if at that moment the Cherub had not come out of his room.

Instantly Pilar dashed into explanations, and between the three of us he soon had the history of events.

No one on earth looks less practical than the dreamy-eyed, soft-voiced Cherub; yet it was he who thought of practical details which we had forgotten. He it was who reminded us that it would not be prudent to take Ropes away from Seville. As the man who said he had discovered the bomb, his evidence would be wanted, and if he disappeared it would look mysterious. His real connection with the Marqués of Casa Triana might be unearthed by the police; and because of that miserable affair at Barcelona, whose consequences were continually cropping up, some hideous story might be concocted and believed.

Dick and I unhesitatingly decided to take the Cherub’s advice, and leave Ropes behind. He was engaged in getting the car ready, and would no doubt be disappointed to hear that he was to be temporarily abandoned; but he would see the wisdom of such a course, and might be trusted to guard my interests. As for Dick, he might turn his back on the proceedings in Seville without danger, for he posed only as the employer of a man who had found the bomb; besides, as I suggested without glancing at Pilar, he could come back in a few days in case he were wanted to give evidence.

Thus it was settled; at eight o’clock we had said good-bye to Pilarcita and the Cherub, softening the farewell with a hopeful “_au revoir_”; and with Ropes staring disconsolately after us, we flashed out of the Plaza de San Fernando.

I drove, with Dick beside me, for there was no longer need for subterfuge. Carmona knew me for what I was, and I could help Monica more by defying him than by playing the old waiting game, of which I was tired.

It seemed strange to be racing across country again in the car, after those fevered days in Seville. With the steering-wheel in my hand, the steady thrum of the motor seemed to say, “You’ll do it; you’ll do it;—I’ll help you to do it.”

The air was made of perfume—orange blossoms and acacias; and the vast flowery plain where Seville is queen gave us a tolerable road, on which the car ran lightly. Soaring snow peaks of fantastic shapes walled the green arena of rolling meadows, and the day was like a day of June.

Save for the grey Lecomte, scarcely a motor had we seen since leaving Biarritz, except in Madrid; but now, when I tried to decipher the road hieroglyphics, the dust showed more than one track of pneus. Cars had come to Seville from Madrid for _Semana Santa_, and had evidently run out this way for a spin more than once. As I had not Ropes’ detective talent I was unable to distinguish the Lecomte’s tyre-marks from others.

In sight of the conspicuous church tower at Utrera—ancient home of outlaws—we came upon a dusty white line diverging to Ecija. Pausing to question a road-mender, I remembered Colonel O’Donnel’s story of the Seven Men of Ecija, and the curious bond between them and the Dukes of Carmona. But what brought the tale to my mind—unless it was the name of Ecija on the road-map and signpost, or the fact that we were now in the real heart of brigand-land—I could not have told.

Yes, said the road-mender, he had seen an automobile go by—a big one, not long ago, steering as if for Jerez. Was it grey? He would not be sure, but at all events the thing was so grey with dust that had there been another colour underneath, no one could have seen it. Ladies in the car? Well, he was not positive, for it had gone by like a cannon-ball in a cloud of smoke; but there were several persons inside, and it was the only motor which had passed him to-day. Several cars had appeared in the distance yesterday, but they had turned back on the Seville side of Utrera.

One automobile, a big one, apparently grey, and with several persons inside, had gone by at a tremendous pace not long before. That sounded as if the car we chased could not be far away. Our eyes searched the tell-tale dust, and found the sleek, straight trail of a pneu in the midst of wobbling cart tracks. We had but to follow that straight trail, then, I said, to come up with Carmona and interfere with his new plans.

Now we were racing through a wide region of salt marsh, where within enclosures grazed hundreds of fierce black bulls, sooner or later to die in the arena. The country became desolate, and curiously sad. We met no more peasants’ carts or laden donkeys as the road began to undulate among the foothills of distant mountain ranges.

“What an ideal place for a band of Colonel O’Donnel’s _bandidos_, eh?” said Dick; then drew in his breath with a sharpness that cut the sentence short, as we whirled round a hummock at a turning of the road.

XXXIII

THE SEVEN MEN OF ECIJA

Close in front of us was drawn up a large automobile, its front wheels mounted on a barrier of rough stones built across the highway. Rolled in the dust lay a leather-clad chauffeur, limp in unconsciousness or death; and with their backs to the car, two young men stood bravely defending themselves against seven.

So suddenly did we burst upon the scene, and so furiously had I to put on the brake, that I saw only a wild picture of determined faces pale above flashing blades, fierce faces under red peasant caps, and carbines used as clubs. Then Dick and I were out of the Gloria; and instead of two there were four against seven.

Where were the revolvers we had bought by Don Cipriano’s advice at Madrid, for just such an emergency as this?—In our suit-cases at the Cortijo de Santa Rufina, forgotten from the moment of purchase until this moment of need. But, as by one accord, each seized a jagged stone which had rolled from the barricade, and before we had had time for two consecutive thoughts we had joined the strangers, and all four were fighting like demons.

Oddly enough, the seven red caps did not fire their carbines, and had apparently directed all their efforts to disarming or stunning the automobilists. But at sight of us their tactics changed. Surprised at first, their astonishment was burnt up by rage. Four of the seven turned upon us, and drew knives, but quick as light I had wrenched one of them out of a brown hand, giving its owner a smashing blow between the eyes with my stone.

Down he dropped like an ox, and I was ready for another; but the blade of a third would have slid between my ribs had not one of the seven cried out sharply, “Stop! A red car—a red car. These are the men we want.”

“Disable them,” yelled another voice; but it was easier said than done. The second’s pause which followed the warning shout saved my skin. The brigand’s knife flew; and he got a side blow on the temple which sent him spinning.

We were now four against five; but already the right arm of another red cap spouted crimson from the blade in a sword-stick which was flashing blue lightning, and another wore a dark spot on his shirt—a spot which spread and changed its shape.

There was no time to look at faces. I scarcely saw the features of friend or foe, and could not have sworn to the identity of one man had my life depended on it. But I knew that two beside whom we fought were brave beyond the common, that they were worth fighting for and with. We were all four shoulder to shoulder now, our backs against the car, though how we had won through to that position I could not have told.

Another red cap had gone down on one knee, cursing, and there was a fresh blot of crimson on a dark-stained shirt. We four had the advantage now, for we had come to no harm but a few bruises and an aching head or two, when suddenly there was a howl from the fellow last down, “El guardia civile!”

It was true. Out of the distance rode two men, dashing towards us from the direction of Jerez. Far away still, their white, black, and red uniforms caught the sun; and guessing from the knot of forms swaying round a motor-car that something was wrong, the pair spurred their horses to a gallop.

“It’s too hot for us!” panted the brigand I took for the leader. He growled an order; and supporting two of their fallen comrades who were able to help themselves, the uninjured pair made off towards a small wood where I now saw horses tethered. After them we went; but they promptly left their half-disabled friends to shift for themselves, and loaded their carbines—so lately clubs—with quickness almost incredible.

An instant later two black muzzles covered us; and the tide of battle might after all have turned disastrously, had not the shrill ping of a bullet warned the enemy that there was no time to waste upon reprisals.