We were passing now through a wild and desolate region, a portion of the western extremity of northern Spain, in which we met no sign of human life or human habitation, hardly, indeed, any sign of animal life. Also we had struck a chain of mountains densely clothed with cork and chestnut woods, the trees of which were bare of leaves, and through the branches of which the wind moaned cheerlessly. On our left these mountains, after an interval of barren moorland, rose precipitously; to our right the Minho rolled sullenly along, the road we traversed lying between it and the moor. So desolate, indeed, was all around us now that we might have been two travellers from another world journeying through this, a forgotten or undiscovered one; no light either far or near twinkled from hut or cottage, neither bark of dog nor low of cattle reached our ears; all was desolate, silent and deserted.
Yet, even as the road lifted so that we knew we were ascending those mountains step by step, we observed signs which, added to the well kept state of the road itself, told us it was not an altogether unused one. For though the snow lay hard and caked upon it, we could observe where it had taken the impression of cart wheels and of animals' hoofs, could perceive by this that it was sometimes traversed.
And, presently, we observed something else, something that told us plainly enough that we were now in the direct way for Lugo, observed that there branched into the road we were travelling an even broader one than it-causing, too, our own road to broaden out itself as it ran further north; a road in the middle of which was a huge stone column or pedestal, with arms also of stone upon it, pointing different ways, and with, carved on them, words and figures.
And of these arms one pointed west and bore upon it the words: To Vigo; another pointed north with, on it, the words: To Lugo.
And seeing all this by the aid of a tinder box and lantern which we carried amongst our necessaries-seeing it, too, by craning our necks and standing up in our stirrups-we knew that we had now struck the route along which those must have come who had fled from Vigo after the taking of the galleons.
CHAPTER XVII.
MY GOD! WHO IS HE?
All that night we rode, yet slowly, too, for the sake of the horses, and in the morning-which broke bright, clear and frosty, the sun sparkling and shining gaily amongst the leafless branches and trees of the forests through which we passed-reached a little town, or village, about half way 'twixt the frontier and Lugo, a place called Chantada, and not far from another town named Orense, which, because it had a large population-as we gathered from a sight of its roofs and spires, all a-shining in the morning sun, as we could see very well from the mountains as we passed along them-we avoided. Also, we avoided it because it lay not so much upon our direct route, by some three or four leagues, as Chantada itself.
"Now, come what may," said I to Juan, as we drew near this place, "and even though we should be pursued from the border-which is not very like-we must stop here for some hours. We require rest ourselves; as for the beasts, they must have it; otherwise they will have to be left behind and others found. And that would be a pity-they are better than might have been looked for!" As, indeed, they were, especially considering the haphazard manner in which we had come by them, both having kept on untiring on the road, while, as for the jennet which Juan bestrode, it was, possibly because of his light weight, as fresh as on the hour we set out.
Then, turning to him, I said, even as I noticed that he showed no signs of fatigue-at which I marvelled somewhat! – and that his handsome face was as bright and full of colour as it had ever been:
"You must be a-weary, Juan? Three or four hours' sleep will do you a world of good. And you shall have it, my lad, even though I sit at your door with a drawn sword in my hand to prevent interruption."
As usual, he smiled that gracious, winsome smile upon me-a smile which was always forthcoming in response to any simple little kindness I evidenced to him-and said:
"I could ride on for hours thus-feel no fatigue. Maybe 'tis the brightness of the morning that heartens me so; perhaps the crisp coolness of these mountains-Heavens! how different 'tis from aught we know of in the Indies! – that makes me insensible to it! Yet, Mervan," and he gave me a glance from his eyes, under the dark and now dishevelled curls that hung almost over them, "there is one thing I long to do now. Mervan, do not refuse. I have earned the right!"
"What is it, child?" I asked, wondering what strange request he might be about to prefer.
"Let me sing and play a little. 'Twill do no harm, and-and-you know-the viol is here," and he touched lightly the valise strapped in front of his saddle.
"Sing, if you will," I said, yet casting a glance around and ahead of me to see if there were any about whose curiosity might be attracted by the music-though in sober truth it would not much have mattered had there been. In such a land as this-though I scarce knew it then! – for a traveller to pass along on his way singing for cheerfulness and for solace was no strange thing, but rather, instead, the custom. "Sing, if you wish-I shall be glad enough to hear a merry note or so. For audience, however, there will be no other."
"I want none," he replied, "if you are content." And by now, having got out the little viol d'amore, he struck a few notes upon it and began to sing.
At first his song was, as I understood and as he told me afterward, a love-ballad addressed by a youth to his mistress; the words-as he uttered them-soft and luscious as the trill of the nightingale on summer night. And his marvellous beauty added also to the effect it had on me, made me wonder how many dark, tropic beauties in the lands he came from had already lost their hearts to him. Nay, wondered so much that, as the last sweet tones of both his voice and viol died upon the crisp morning air, I asked him a question to that effect.
"Ho! Ho!" he laughed, yet softly as he had just now sung. "None! None! None! In the Indies I am nothing; all are as dark as I except when they are golden-fair-and-and-Mervan, mon ami, no woman has ever said a word of love to me."
"Humph!" I said, doubting. "Nor you, perhaps, a word of love to them."
"Nor I a word of love to them. Never, never. Le grand jamais!"
"Nor ever loved?" with a tone of doubt so strong in my voice now that he could not fail to understand it.
"Nor ever loved," he repeated. "Yes-yes-I love now. Now!" Then, impetuously, as he ever spoke-like a torrent let loose from mountain side-he went on:
"Love! Love! Love! With heart and soul, and brain on fire. Love! so that for the creature I adore-have learnt to worship, I would-ah! what would I not do? Cast my body beneath that creature, plunge through fire or water-Oh!" he exclaimed, breaking off as suddenly as he had begun, "Oh! I am a fool! A fool! A fool!"
"But, surely," I said, "surely, with such as you are, that love does not go unrequited. If you have spoken to the object of this passion, told of this love you say you bear-and are believed-it must be returned. Such love as yours would not be simulated, must therefore be appreciated."
"Simulated!" he exclaimed. "Simulated. It cannot be simulated, not assumed like a mountebank's robe ere he plays a part. Any one can paint a flame, any tawdry daubster of an inn signboard, but not even Murillo himself could paint the heat. And my love is heat-not-not flame."
"And the lady? The lady?" I asked almost impatiently. "Surely she does-she must-return this love."
Volatile as he was, and, changing his mood again in a moment, he looked slyly at me under the dark locks, twanged the viol again and burst into another song, different from the one he had but recently finished, the song which I had previously known him to sing:
"Oh! have you heard of a Spanish lady,
How she wooed an Englishman?"
"I am an Englishman now, you know, Mervan," interrupting the song. Then going on:
"Garments gay and rich as may be,
Decked with jewels, she had on."
"Did she woo you, then?" I asked, as he paused a moment.
For answer he sang again:
"As his prisoner fast he kept her,
In his hands her life did lie;
Cupid's bands did tie them faster
By the twinkling of an eye-"
He stopped abruptly and pointed ahead of him with the little viol, then wrapped it up again in his valise and said:
"See, amígo, there is the village-what was its name cut on the pedestal? Now what are we? Eh? And whence come we if any questions are asked?"
"You are a young Spanish gentleman," I said, repeating a lesson I had hitherto in our ride tutored him in, "from Vigo. I am a Frenchman. We are on our way to Bayonne to join the French forces. Also, we neither of us know English."
"Bon, pas un mot," he replied, catching me up brightly. "Et nous parlons Anglais comme une vache parte Espagnol. N'est-ce fas, mon ami?"
"C'est ça. En avant," I replied, and with a laugh we each touched our horses with the heel and cantered down into the village of Chantada.
'Twas a poor place enough for any travellers to see, consisting of a long, but very wide street, with a fountain in the midst of a wide open square, around which there lay a number of grunting swine-lean and repulsive-and also some score or so of geese, all basking in the morning sun.
Yet next in importance to the church, which was on one side of this plaza, was that which we most sought for, an inn, and, perhaps because of the road being one of importance 'twixt both Portugal and Vigo to France, it was a large, substantial-looking house, long, and with many rooms on either side the great porte, as well as in the two stories beneath its sloping and serrated Spanish roof; also, it looked prosperous-a huge gilt coronet hung out over the unpaved street. For name it had painted along all its front, the words "Taverna Duquesa Santa Ana."
Under the great archway we rode in, seeing that in a vast courtyard there stood a travelling coach on which, although there were no horses attached to it, some baggage was still left piled up beneath some skins; hearing also the stamping of several horses in their stables.
"Ask," said I to Juan, speaking in French-as agreed between us, there was to be no more English spoken unless we were certain no ears could overhear us-"ask if we can be accommodated for some hours, say, until night. Then we must resume our journey. Ask that."
Obedient to my behest, the youth turned to a man who came out from the door giving entrance to the inn itself and, in Spanish, made his demand, whereupon the fellow, after bowing politely, said:
"There is ample accommodation for-for more-alas! – than travel these roads."
Then, because I addressed a word or so in French to him, he continued in that language, which, however, he had exceedingly badly:
"Messieurs will stay here till night, then push on to Lugo? Bon, they will be there by morning. So! So! Yes, in verity, they can have a good meal. There are geese, fowls, meat, also some wine of excellence. Messieurs may refresh themselves in all ways."
Our horses put in the stable, therefore, we sat down half an hour later in a vast sala-in which a great banquet might have been given with ease-to a dish of veal, a fowl, and an olla-podrida, all of which would have been good enough had they not been flavoured so much with garlic that-to my taste, at least-all pleasure was destroyed; also we had some most excellent chocolate and some good spirituous liquor to follow-at which latter Juan turned a wry face. Then ordering another meal to be ready ere we set out-with strict injunctions that the flavouring should on this occasion be omitted-we betook ourselves to the rooms above, where we were to get a few hours' rest.
Yet, as we passed along the whitewashed corridor, the windows of which gave on to the stable yard, the travelling coach standing there caught our eyes, and I said to the host:
"You have at least some one else here besides us. Some great personage, I should suppose, by his equipage," and I directed my glance to where the great carriage was.
"Ho!" said the man with the true Spanish shrug of the shoulder, which is even more emphatic than the French one, more suggestive, as it seems to me; "a personage of wealth, I should say, but no grandee-of Spain, at least."
"Of what land, then?" I asked. "And why a personage of wealth, yet no grandee?"
"Oh! well, for that," the man said, with again the inimitable shrug, "his deportment, his conduct is not that which our nobility permit themselves. Though I know not-perhaps it may be so-he is a nobleman of-well-possibly, England. He drinks heavily-name of a dog! but he drinks like a fiend, un enragé-cognac, cognac, cognac-also he sings all the night, sometimes so that even the fowls and the dogs are awakened, also all our house. Yet he pays well-very well!"
"Doubtless," I replied, quietly, "an English nobleman. Such is their custom, according to the ideas of other nations. Well, let us to rest," whereon Juan and I turned each into a room which the landlord indicated, and, so far as I was concerned, I slept calmly and peacefully until awakened by him at three of the afternoon.
Now, when I descended to where our other repast was prepared for us, which would probably be the last one of a substantial nature which we should be likely to get ere reaching Lugo, I found Juan there walking up and down the great sala, his sword swishing about against his left leg as he turned backward and forward petulantly. Also, I could see that something had ruffled his usually sweet disposition-that his colour was a little higher than in general, and that the soft velvet-looking eyes were sparkling angrily.
"Why, what is it?" I asked, even as the landlord brought in the first cover, "what is it, my boy? You are ruffled."
"Be very sure I am!" he exclaimed, speaking rapidly, and of course in French, so that the man heard and understood all he said. "I have been insulted-"
"Insulted!"
"At least rebuffed, and rudely, too; and by, of all men, a filthy blackamoor-a-a-por Diôs!-a slave! Oh! that I had him in the Indies! He would insult no white one again, I tell you!" and he fingered the hilt of his weapon and stamped his shapely foot on the uncarpeted floor till his spurs jangled.
"Come," I said, "you can afford to despise the creature. How did it happen?"
"Happen! Happen!" Juan replied, still angry. "How?"
"Monsieur saw the black man preparing the luggage on the great coach," the landlord said, as he removed the dish-cover from a course of pork and raisins, "and asked which way his master went. And the fellow was surly, rude-said that was their business, not the affair of strangers. Also, they sought no companions, if-if the young señor meant that-"
"Who never offered our company," Juan broke in again. "Curse him! I wish I had him in the Indies!" he repeated.
"Come," I said again, "come. This is beneath you, Juan-to be angry with a slave! As well be vexed with a dog that yaps and snaps at you when you go to pat it. Sit down and eat your meal. We have a long ride before us."
Perhaps he saw some sense in my suggestion, for he flung himself into a chair and began to eat; and meanwhile the host, who was still hovering about, handing us now a dish of mutton dressed with oysters and pistachio nuts, and now some stewed pomegranates, chattered away at one side, telling us that the negro's master was not well-that he had been drinking again; but yet he was determined to set out at once.
"Though," said he, "but an hour before the caballeros rode in he had resolved to stay until to-morrow. I know not why he has changed his mind so swiftly. Oh! – the drink, the drink, the drink!" and he wagged his head.
That the dissolute man whom the landlord considered to be, in consequence, an English nobleman, was about to depart there could be no possibility of doubt. From where we sat at table, and because curtains to the windows seemed to be things of which those who kept the inn had never thought, we could see out into the courtyard quite plainly. Saw first the horses brought out-four of them-and harnessed to the huge, lumbering vehicle-the nobleman would have proved himself a kinder-hearted man if he had used six! – saw their cloths taken off their backs by the postillion, and observed the latter make ready to mount the near side leader. Also we saw the facchinos on ladders strapping tight the baggage which had been brought down and hoisted on top, then heard the landlord, who had now left serving us to attend to his parting guest, give orders that the noble traveller should be informed that all was ready for his departure. Upon which we quitted our seats at the table and walked over to the window, Juan's curiosity much excited at the chance of seeing this drunken English milor, as he called him. We had not long to wait. For presently we heard a considerable trampling on the stairs and some mumbled words-to my surprise the deep, guttural tones seemed familiar! – and then we saw a wrapped figure carried out between two of the facchinos and lifted up into the carriage.
And behind that figure walked a negro, his head also enveloped in a rich red shawl-as though the black creature feared the cold night air, forsooth!
But, even as they lifted the debauched man into his carriage, the wrappings about his face became disturbed and fell back on his shoulders, so that I could see his face-and I started as I did so. Started even more, too, when, a second later, I heard Juan exclaim in a subdued voice:
"My God, who is he? Almost I could swear-"
While in my excitement I interrupted him, saying:
"That an English nobleman! That! – Why, 'tis the drunken old ruffian who came from Rotterdam with me in the ship."
"And his name? His name?" Juan asked, breathlessly. "His name?"
"John Carstairs."
Even as I spoke the postillion cracked his whip, and the great carriage rolled out of the courtyard, the lamps twinkling and illuminating our faces as it passed before the window. Showed, too, as they flashed on Juan's face, that he was once more deathly pale and all his rich colouring vanished-as I had seen it vanish more than once before.
CHAPTER XVIII.
BETRAYED
"His name is Carstairs? Humph!" Juan said to me when the last sound of the wheels had died away, and we no longer heard the rumbling of the great Berlin upon the stones of the roughly paved street outside. "Carstairs!"
"That is the name under which he was entered as a passenger in the papers of La Mouche Noire," I answered. Then continued, looking at the boy as a thought came to my mind. "Why! have you ever seen him before, Juan, or have you any reason to suppose it is anything else than Carstairs?"
For the thought that had come to me, the recollection which had suddenly sprung to my mind, was the memory of the words Captain Tandy had used when first we discussed the old man. "'Tis no more his name than 'tis mine or yours."
Also I recalled that he had said, after meditation, that he was more like to have been one Cuddiford than anybody else.
And now it seemed as though this stripling who had become my companion, this boy whose years scarce numbered eighteen, also knew something of him-disbelieved that his name was Carstairs.
"Do you think," I went on, "that it is something else? Cuddiford, say?"
"Nay," he replied. "Nay. Not that. Not that. I have heard of Cuddiford, though. I think he was brought to London and tried. But-but-oh!" he exclaimed, breaking off, "it cannot be!"
"What cannot be?"
"If," he said, speaking very slowly, very gravely now, "if it were not eight years since I last set eyes on him, when I was quite a child; if he had a beard down over his chest instead of being close shaven, I should say, Mervan, that this was the ruffian I have come to England to seek; the villain who robbed me of the fortune my father left me-the scoundrel, James Eaton."
"James Eaton!" I exclaimed. "The man you asked me about; thought I might be like to know?"
"The same."
"Had he, this Eaton, been a buccaneer? for I make no doubt that man has." I said. "The captain of La Mouche Noire thought so-and-and-his ravings and deliriums seemed to point that way."
"I know not," Juan said. "Eaton was a villain-yet-yet-I can scarce suppose my father would have trusted him with a fortune if he had known him to be such as that."
"Who was your father, Juan?"
"I-I," he answered, looking at me with those clear starry eyes-eyes into which none could gaze without marvelling at their beauty-"I do not know."
"You do not know! – yet you know he bequeathed a fortune to you and left it in the man Eaton's hands."
"Mervan," he said, speaking quickly, "you must be made acquainted with my history-I will tell it you. To-night, when we ride forth again; but not now. See, our horses are ready, they are bringing them from the stables. When we are on the road I will tell you my story. 'Twill not take long. Come, let us pay the bill, and away."
"I will pay the bill," I said; "later we can regulate our accounts. And as you say, we had best be on the road. For if that old man has seen me, or if his black servant has done so-it-it-may be serious."
"Serious!" he repeated. "Serious! For you, my friend?" And as he spoke there was in his voice so tender an evidence that he thought nothing of any danger which could threaten him, but only of what might befall me, that I felt sure, now and henceforth, of the noble, unselfish heart he possessed. "Oh! not serious for you."
"Ay," I replied. "Ay. Precious serious! Remember, he knows I went ashore in Lagos bay, that I sailed in the English fleet to Vigo. What will happen, think you, if he warns them at Lugo that such a one as I-an Englishman-who assisted at the taking of the galleons, is on the road 'twixt here and there?"
"My God!" the boy exclaimed, thrusting his hand through the curls clustering over his eyes-as he always did when in the least excited. "It might mean-"
"Death," I said, "sharp and swift; without trial or time for shrift; without-"
"But-whether he be Eaton-or-Carstairs-he is English himself."
"Ay, and so he is." I answered, "But be sure he has papers-also he can speak Spanish well, will doubtless pass for a Spaniard. Also, unless I am much mistook, had a cargo in one of those galleons-for what else has he followed up here? For what-but the hopes of getting back some of the saved spoil which has been brought to Lugo? That alone would give him the semblance of being Spanish-would earn him sympathy. Meanwhile, what should I be deemed? A spy! And I should die the spy's death."
"What then to do next?" Juan asked, with a helpless, piteous look.
"There is but one thing for me to do," I replied. "One thing alone. As I told you ere we set out from Viana, my task is to ride on straight, unerringly, to my goal-on to Flanders, through every obstacle, every barrier; to crash through them, if heaven permits, as Hopson crashed through that boom at Vigo-to reach Lord Marlborough or to fall by the wayside. That is my duty, and I mean to do it."
"Mervan! Mervan!" he almost moaned.
"'Tis that," I went on. "But-think not I say it unkindly, with lack of friendship or in forgetfulness of our new found camaraderie-for you the need does not exist."
"What!"
"Hear me, I say, Juan. I speak but for your safety. For you there is no duty calling; the risk does not exist. You are free-a traveller at your ease."
"Silence!" he cried-his rich, musical voice ringing clear through the vast sala in the midst of which we now stood once more; and as he spoke he raised his hand with a gesture of command. "Silence, I say! By the body of my dead and unknown father, you do not know Juan Belmonte. What! Set out with you and turn back at the first sign of danger, and that a danger to you alone! Oh!" he exclaimed, changing his tone again, emotional as ever. "Oh! Mervan, Mervan."
"I spoke but for your sake," I said, sorry and grieved to see I had wounded him. "For that alone."
"Then speak no more, never again in such a strain. I said I would never quit your side till Flanders is reached; no need to repeat those words. Where you go I go-unless you drive me from your side."
And now it was my turn to exclaim against him, to cry: "Juan! you think I should do that!" Yet even as I spoke, I could not but add: "The danger to you as well as me may be terrible."
"No more," he said. "No more. We ride together until the end comes-for one or both of us. Now, let us call the reckoning and begone. The horses are there," and he strode to the window and made a sign to the stable-man to be ready for us. Yet ere the landlord came, he spoke to me again.
"Remember," he said, "that beyond our camaraderie, of which you have spoken-ay! 'tis that and more, far more-beyond all this, I do believe the old man whose face I saw as the great lamps shone full on it is James Eaton. I have come to Europe, to this cold quarter of the world, to find him. Do you think with him not half a league ahead that I will be turned from the trail? Never! I follow that man to Lugo-since his beard is gone I cannot pluck him by that, but I can take his throat in my hands, thrust this through his evil heart," and he rapped the quillon of his sword sharply as he spoke. Then added: "As I will. As I will."
"You do not think he has recognised you, too? Seen you, though unseen himself, while we have been in this house, passing through these passages and corridors? as I doubt not either he saw me, or that negro of his."
He thought a moment after I said this, then suddenly emerged from his meditation and laughed a bright, ringing laugh, such as I had learnt to love the hearing of.
"Nay," he replied. "Nay," and still he laughed, "He has not-could not recognise me. No! No! No! When I present myself to him he-will-he will be astonished."
And once more he laughed.
What a strange creature it was, I thought. As brave as a young lion; as emotional and variable as a woman.
In answer to our pealing at the bell, to our calls also, the landlord came in at last, not hurrying himself at all, as it seemed to us, to bring the bill. Indeed, we had observed him, as we looked forth from the window, engaged in a conversation with two of the townspeople-shrouded in the long cloaks which Spaniards wear-their heads as close together as if they were concocting a crime, though, doubtless, talking of nothing more important than the weather.
"The bill," I said, "the bill. Quick. Our horses await us, and we have far to ride."
"Ay," he replied. "Ay," and flinging down a filthy piece of paper on the table, added: "There is the bill"; and he stood drumming his fingers on the table while I felt for the coins with which to pay it. Yet, even as I did so, I noticed that the fellow's manner was quite changed from what it had been hitherto. His obsequiousness of the morning had turned to morose surliness, which he took no trouble to conceal. And, wondering if Juan, who was standing by, fastening his spur strap, had observed the same thing, I glanced at him and saw his eyes fixed on the man.
"There are two pistoles," I said, flinging them on the table. "They will more than pay our addition; give the rest to the servants."
"Ay!" he replied. "Ay!" but with no added word of thanks.
"Is't not enough?" Juan asked.
"It is enough." Then he turned to me and said: "You are riding to Lugo to-night?"
"That is our road," I replied, feeling my temper mount at the man's changed manner. "What of it? Does that route displeasure you, pray?"
"Ho!" he grunted; "for that, it makes no matter to me." Then added: "The horses are there," in so insolent a tone that I had a difficulty in restraining myself from kicking or striking him. But I remembered that, before all else, our safety had to be consulted, and that naught should be done to cause delay to our progress; wherefore, I swallowed my ire as best I might.
Yet, as we rode out of the courtyard, I saw at once that Juan's own thoughts tended exactly in the same direction as mine, since he said to me:
"That fellow has been told something by the old man-doubtless, that you are English-that we both are. Por Diôs! Suppose he has informed him that you were in the English fleet!"
"I have no doubt that the man has been told so," I replied. "But no matter. If it were not for you I should not care a jot."
Then once more I saw the dark eyes turned on me, and wished that I had held my tongue-at least as regarded the latter part of my speech.
It seemed as if the town had gone to bed already. The great square was deserted-except that the geese and pigs were still in it, huddled together around the fountain, and severally cackled and grunted as we trotted by them; down the long street, as we rode, we saw no signs of any one being outside the doors.
Yet, as we neared the extremity of both the town and the street, and came to where the latter ended off into a country road stretching along a dreary-looking plain, over which the moon had risen, we saw that such was not precisely the case. At the end of the street, that which was the last building was a little, low, whitewashed chapel; above its black door there was a figure in a little niche, with, burning in front of it, a candle in a miserable red-glassed lantern; and, feeble as were the rays cast forth from this poor, yet sacred, lamp, they were sufficient to show us three men on horseback, all sitting their steeds as rigidly as statues.
Judging by their long black cloaks and the tips of steel scabbards which protruded beneath them, and which were plainly enough to be seen, even in that dim, cloudy light, I imagined these men to be the town gendarmerie-though doubtless they had some other name to denominate them-and supposed this was a comfortable position which they probably selected nightly. Also, the position was at both an exit and an entrance to the place, therefore a natural one.