The Velvet Glove

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE MAKERS OF HISTORYNumber Five Calle de la Merced is to this day an empty house, like manyin Saragossa, presenting to the passer-by a dusty stone face and hugebarred windows over which the spiders have drawn their filmy curtain. Forone reason or another there are many empty houses in the larger cities ofSpain and many historical names have passed away. With them have fadedinto oblivion some religious orders and not a few kindred brotherhoods.

  Number Five Calle de la Merced has its history like the rest of themonasteries, and the rounded cobblestones of the large courtyard bearto-day a black stain where, the curious inquirer will be told, thecaretakers of the empty house have been in the habit of cooking theirbread on a brazier of charcoal fanned into glow with a palm leafscattering the ashes. But the true story of the black stain is in realityquite otherwise. For it was here that the infuriated people burnt thechapel furniture when the monasteries of Saragossa were sacked.

  The Sarrions left their carriage at the corner of the Calle de la Merced,in the shadow of a tall house, for the sun was already strong at middaythough the snow lay on the hills round Torre Garda. They found the houseclosely barred. The dust and the cobwebs were undisturbed on the hugewindows. The house was as empty as it had been these forty years.

  Marcos tried the door, which resisted his strength like a wall. It was atrue monastic door with no crack through which even a fly could pass.

  "That house stands empty," said an old woman who passed by. "It has stoodempty since I was a girl. It is accursed. They killed the good fathersthere."

  Sarrion thanked her and walked on. Marcos was examining the dust on theroad out of the corners of his eyes.

  "Two carriages have stopped here," he said, "at this small door whichlooks as if it belonged to the next house."

  "Ah!" answered Sarrion, "that is an old trick. I have seen doors likethat before. There are several in the Calle San Gregorio. Sitting on mybalcony in the Casa Sarrion I have seen a man go into one house and lookout of the window of the next a minute later."

  "Mon has not arrived," said Marcos, with his eye on the road. "He has thecarriage of One-eyed Pedro whose near horse has a circular shoe."

  "But we must not wait for him. The risk would be too great. They maydispense with his presence."

  "No," answered Marcos thoughtfully, looking at the smaller door whichseemed to belong to the next house. "We must not wait."

  As he spoke a carriage appeared at the farther end of the Calle de laMerced, which is a straight and narrow street.

  "Here they come," he added, and drew his father into a doorway across thestreet.

  It was indeed the carriage of the man known as One-eyed Pedro, a victimto the dust of Aragon, and the near horse left a circular mark with itshind foot on the road.

  Evasio Mon descended from the carriage and paid the man, giving, it wouldseem, a liberal "propina," for the One-eyed Pedro expectorated on thecoin before putting it into his pocket.

  Mon tapped on the door with the stick he always carried. It was instantlyopened to give him admittance, and closed as quickly behind him.

  "Ah!" whispered Sarrion, with a smile on his keen face. "I have heardthem knock like that on the doors in the Calle San Gregorio. It is simpleand yet distinctive."

  He turned and illustrated the knock on the balustrade of the stairs upwhich they had hastened.

  "We will try it," he added grimly, "on that door when Evasio has had timeto go away from it."

  They waited a few minutes, and then went out again into the Calle de laMerced. It was the luncheon hour, and they had the street to themselves.They stood for a moment in the doorway through which Mon had passed.

  "Listen," said Marcos in a whisper.

  It was the sound of an organ coming almost muffled from the back of theempty house, and it seemed to travel through long corridors beforereaching them.

  "They had," said Sarrion, "so far as I recollect, a large and beautifulchapel in the patio opposite to that great door, which has probably beenbuilt up on the inside."

  Then he gave the peculiar knock on the door. At a gesture from Marcos hestood back so that he who opened the door would need to open it wide andalmost come out into the street to see who had summoned him.

  They heard the door opening, and the head that came round the door wasthat of the tall and powerful friar who had come to the assistance ofFrancisco de Mogente in the Calle San Gregorio. He drew back at once andtried to close the door, but both father and son threw their weightagainst it and slowly pressed him back, enabling Marcos at length to gethis shoulder in. Both men were somewhat smaller than the friar, but bothwere quicker to see an advantage and take it.

  In a moment the friar abandoned the attempt and ran down the longcorridor, into which the light filtered dimly through cobwebs. Marcosgave chase while Sarrion stayed behind to close the door. At the cornerof the corridor the friar slipped, and, finding himself out-matched,raised his voice to shout. But the cry was smothered by Marcos, who leaptat him like a cat, and they rolled on the floor together.

  The friar was heavier and stronger. He had led a simple and healthy life,his muscles were toughened by his wanderings and the hardships of hiscalling. At first Marcos was underneath, but as Sarrion hurried up he sawhis son come out on the top and heard at the same moment a dull thud. Itwas the friar's head against the floor, a Guipuzcoan trick of wrestlingwhich usually meant death to its victim, but the friar's thick cloakhappened to fall between his head and the hard floor. This alone savedhim; for Marcos was a Spaniard and did not care at that moment whether hekilled the holy man or not. Indeed Sarrion hastily leant down to hold himback and Marcos rose to his feet with blazing eyes and the bloodtrickling from a cut lip. The friar would have killed him if he could;for the blood that runs in Southern men is soon heated and the primevalinstinct of fight never dies out of the human heart.

  "He is not killed," said Marcos breathlessly.

  "For which we may thank Heaven," added Sarrion with a short laugh. "Come,let us find the chapel."

  They hurried on through the dimly lighted corridors guided by the soundof the distant organ. There seemed to be many closed doors between themand it; for only the deeper and more resonant notes reached their ears.They gained the large patio where the grass grew thickly, and theiron-work of the well in the centre was hidden by the trailing ropes oflast year's clematis.

  "The chapel is there, but the door is built up," said Sarrion pointing toa doorway which had been filled in. And they paused for a moment as allmen must pause when they find sudden evidence that that Sword which wasbrought into the world nineteen hundred years ago is not yet sheathed.

  Marcos had already found a second door leading from the cloister thatsurrounded the patio, back in the direction from which they had come.They entered the corridor which turned sharply back again--the handiworkof some architect skilful, not in the carrying of sound, but in killingit.

  "It is the way to the organ loft," whispered Marcos.

  "It is probably the only entrance to the chapel."

  They opened a door and were faced by a second one covered and padded withfaded felt. Marcos pushed it ajar and the notes of the organ almostdeafened them. They were in the chapel, behind the organ, at the westend.

  They passed in and stood in the dark, the notes of the great organbraying in their ears. They could hear the panting of the man working atthe bellows. Marcos led the way and they passed on into the chapel whichwas dimly lighted by candles. The subtle odour of stale incense hungheavily in the atmosphere which seemed to vibrate as if the deeper notesof the organ shook the building in their vain search for an exit.

  The chapel was long and narrow. Marcos and his father were alone at thewest end, concealed by the font of which the wooden cover rose like aminiature spire almost to the ceiling. A group of people were kneeling onthe bare floor by the screen which had never been repaired but showedclearly where the carving had been knocked and torn to make the bonfirein the patio.

  Two
priests were on the altar steps while the choristers were dimlyvisible through the broken railing of the screen. There seemed to be somenuns within the screen while others knelt without; four knelt apart, asif awaiting admission to the inner sanctum.

  "That is Juanita," whispered Marcos, pointing with a steady finger. Thegirl kneeling next to her was weeping. But Juanita knelt upright, herface half turned so that they could see her clear-cut profile against thecandle-light beyond. To those who study human nature, every attitude orgesture is of value; there were energy and courage in the turn ofJuanita's head. She was listening.

  Near to her the motionless black form of Sor Teresa towered among theworshippers. She was looking straight in front of her. Not far away abowed figure all curved and cringing with weak emotion--a sight to makemen pause and think--was Leon de Mogente. Behind him, upright with asleek bowed head, was Evasio Mon. From his position and in the attitudein which he knelt, he could without moving see Juanita, and was probablywatching her.

  The chapel was carpeted with an old and faded matting of grass such as ismade on all the coasts of the Mediterranean. Marcos and Sarrion wentforward noiselessly. Instinctively they crossed themselves as they nearedthe chancel. Evasio Mon was nearest to them kneeling apart, a few pacesbehind Leon. He could see every one from this position, but he did nothear the Sarrions a few yards behind him.

  At this moment Juanita turned round and perceiving them gave a littlestart which Mon saw. He turned his head to the left; Sarrion was standingin the semi-darkness at his shoulder. Then he turned to the right andthere was Marcos, motionless, with a handkerchief held to his lips.

  Evasio Mon reflected for a moment; then he turned to Sarrion with hisready smile.

  "Do you come here to see me?" he whispered.

  "I want you to get Juanita de Mogente away from this as quickly aspossible," returned Sarrion in a whisper. "We need not disturb theservice."

  "But, my friend," protested Mon, still smiling, "by what right?"

  "That you must ask of Marcos."

  Mon turned to Marcos in silent inquiry and he received a wordless answer;for Marcos held under his eyes in the half light the certificate ofmarriage signed by that political bishop who was no Carlist, and was evera thorn in the side of the Churchmen striving for an absolute monarchy.

  Mon shook his head still smiling, more in sorrow than in anger, at themisfortune which his duty compelled him to point out.

  "It is not legal, my dear Marcos; it is not legal."

  He glanced round into Marcos' still face and perceived perhaps that hemight as well try the effect of words upon the stone pillar behind him.He reflected again for a moment, while the service proceeded and thevoices of the choir rose and fell like the waves of the sea in a deepcave. It was a simple enough ceremonial denuded of many of the mediaevalmummeries which have been revived by a newer emotional Church for theedification of the weak-minded.

  Juanita glanced back again and saw Mon kneeling between the twomotionless upright men, who were grave while he smiled ... and smiled.

  Then at length he rose to his feet and stood for a moment. If he everhesitated in his life it was at that instant. And Marcos' hand cameforward beneath his eyes pointing inexorably at Juanita. There was apause in the service, a momentary silence only broken by the smotheredsobs of the novice who knelt next to Juanita.

  The organ rolled out its deep voice again, and under cover of the soundMon stepped forward and touched Juanita on the shoulder. She turnedinstantly, and he beckoned to her to follow him. If the priests at thealtar perceived anything they made no sign. Sor Teresa, absorbed inprayer, never turned her head. The service went on uninterruptedly.

  Sarrion led the way and Mon followed. Juanita glanced at Marcos,indicated with a nod Evasio Mon's back, and made a gay little grimace,suggestive of that schemer's discomfiture. Then she followed Mon, andMarcos came noiselessly behind her.

  They passed out through the dark passage behind the organ into the oldcloister.

  There Mon turned to look at Juanita and from her to Marcos. He wasdistressed for them.

  "It is illegal," he repeated, gently. "Without a dispensation."

  And by way of reply Marcos handed him a second paper, bearing at its footthe oval seal of the Vatican. It was the usual dispensation, easy enoughto procure, for the marriage of an orphan under age.

  "I am glad," said Mon, and he tried to look it.

  Sarrion went on into the narrow corridor. The friar was sitting on aworm-eaten bench there, leaning back against the wall, his hand over hiseyes.

  "He is hurt," explained Marcos, simply. "He tried to stop us."

  Mon made no comment but accompanied them to the door, which he closedbehind them, and then returned to the chapel, reflecting perhaps upon howsmall an incident the history of nations may turn. For if the friar hadbeen able to withstand the Sarrions--if there had been a grating to thesmall door in the Calle de la Merced--Don Carlos de Borbone might haveworn the three crowns of Spain.