CHAPTER XI
CARTEL OF DEFIANCE
It was indeed Ramon Garcia, who on a stout shaggy pony, a portmanteauslung before and behind him, followed his masters with the half-sullen,wholly downcast look of the true Gallegan servitor. He was well attiredin the Galician manner, appearing indeed like one of those Highlandersreturning from successful service in the Castillas or in Catalunia, allin rusty brown double-cloth, the _pano pardo_ of his class, hiswide-brimmed hat plumed, and his _alpargatas_ of esparto grass exchangedfor holiday shoes of brown Cordovan leather.
But in his eyes, whenever he raised them, there burned, morose andunquenchable, the anger of the outcast El Sarria against the world. Helifted them indeed but seldom, and no one of the cavaliers who rode sogallantly before him recognised in the decently clad, demure,well-shaven man-servant supplied to them by the Abbot, the wild ElSarria, whom with torn mantle and bleeding shoulder, they had seen flinghimself upon the altar of the Abbey of Montblanch.
So when little Etienne de Saint Pierre, that Parisian exquisite and trueLegitimist, finding himself emancipated alike from vows conventual andmonkish attire, and having his head, for the time being, full of thesmall deceiver Concha, the companion of Dolores Garcia, inquired forthe village of Sarria and whether they would chance to pass that way, henever for a moment thought that their honest dullish Jaime from far awayLugo, took any more interest in the matter than might serve him tospeculate upon what sort of _anisete_ they might chance to find at thevillage venta.
By favour of the Abbot the three voyagers into the unknown had mostgallant steeds under them, and were in all things well appointed, withEnglish and French passports in their own several names and styles asgentlemen travelling for pleasure, to see strange lands, and especiallythis ancient, restless, war-distracted country of Spain.
Their servant, Jaime de Lugo, was appropriately horsed on a littleround-barrelled Asturian pony, able to carry any weight, which padded onits way with a quiet persistence that never left its master far behindthe most gallant galloper of the cavalcade.
So these three rode on towards the camp of the most redoubted andredoubtable General Cabrera.
This chief of all the armies of Don Carlos was then at the height of hisfame. His fear was on all the land. He was brave, cruel, perfectlyunscrupulous, this "Killer of Aragon," this "Butcher of Tortosa." In afew months he had achieved a fame greater almost than that ofZumalacarregui, the prince of _guerrilleros_, himself.
At this time Cabrera was holding half a dozen of the Cristino generalsat bay, including Minos himself, the chief of all. His tactics consistedin those immemorial rapid movements and unexpected appearances whichhave characterised Spanish guerilla warfare ever since the Carthageniansinvaded the land, and the aboriginal Celtiberians took to the mountainsof Morella and the wild passes of Aragon, just as Cabrera and ElSerrador were doing at this date.
Meanwhile southward out of the pleasant hills of Montblanch, our threelads were riding, each with his own hopes and fears in his heart. Rolloof course was the keenest of the party; for not only was the work to hisliking, but he was the natural as well as the actual leader. He aloneknew the Abbot's purposes, or at least as much of them as Don Baltasarhad thought it wise to reveal to his emissary--which after all was not agreat deal.
But John Mortimer had failed to rouse himself to any enthusiasm evenunder the spur of Rollo's defiant optimism.
They would return to Montblanch in a week or two, the latter averred. Bythat time the passes would be cleared. John's wine would be safe. TheAbbot's seven-year undertaking in his pocket was good for the face of itat any wine-shipper's in Barcelona. In a month he (Rollo) would be acolonel--perhaps a general, and he (John Mortimer) rich beyond thedreams of avarice.
"Or both of us may be dead, more likely!" suggested the latter, withgloomy succinctness.
"Dead--nonsense!" cried Rollo. "See here, man, you believe in God, or atany rate your father does. So, hang it, you must have at least a kind ofsecond-hand interest Above. Now, is there not a time appointed for youto die? Here, look at this clock" (he took an ancient and verybulbous-faced watch out of his pocket). "This minute hand has to pushthat hour hand so many times round before the moment comes for yourghost to mount and ride. Till that time comes, let your heart sitcare-free. You cannot hasten, or retard that event by one solitarytick--can you? No? Well then, keep the ball rolling meantime, and if itrolls to the camp of Cabrera, why, you will be just as safe there as inyour bed at Chorley with the curtains drawn and your prayers said!"
"I have a notion I could hasten the event in my own case by some fewticks, with the assistance of this unaccustomed little plaything!" saidJohn Mortimer, who had been listening to this harangue of Rollo's withmanifest impatience. And as if to prove his words, he made a sweepingmotion with his pistol in the air. Instantly Rollo showed greatinterest.
"Good heavens, man, do you know that weapon is fresh-primed, and thetrigger at full cock? If you are anxious to get a ball through yourhead, I am not!"
John Mortimer laughed long and loud.
"What about the appointed ticks on the watch-dial now, Master Blair?Have you forgotten you can neither hasten nor retard the day of yourdeath? When the minute hand approaches the inevitable moment, Fate'sfull stop--did you not call it, you must mount and ride to Hades! Tillthen, you know, you are perfectly safe."
Rollo looked disgusted.
"That is the worst of trying to argue with an Englishman," he said; "hishead is like a cannon ball, impervious to all logic. He does not attendto your premisses, and he never has any of his own! Of course, _if_ itwere ordained by the powers Above that at this moment you shouldsuddenly go mad and shoot us all, _that_ would be our appointed time,and you would no more hasten it by your tomfoolery than if a star fellout of the firmament and knocked this round world to everlastingpotsherds!"
"_Umm!_" said John Mortimer, still unconvinced, "very likely--but--if Isaw my wine-barrels on the ship '_Good Intent_' of Liverpool, and mythousand pounds upon deposit receipt in honest William Deacon's Bank inChorley, it would be a hanged sight more comfort to me than all theappointed ticks on all the appointed watches in the world!"
And so saying, the Englishman rode on his way very sullenly, mutteringand shaking his head at intervals, as if the journey and adventure theyhad entered upon, were not at all to his liking.
During this fatalistic controversy between Rollo and his friend, Etiennede Saint Pierre had dropped somewhat behind. He had been interested inthe remark of the glum servitor who followed them that they must ofnecessity pass through the village of Sarria.
"Do you know that place well?" he said, speaking in Castilian, which,being of Spanish descent on his mother's side, he knew as accurately ashis native language.
"What place?" queried the Gallegan without raising his eyes. Etienne wasnot disturbed by the apparent ill-humour of the fellow. It was, as heknew, natural to these corner-men of Spain. But he wondered at therascal's quite remarkable size and strength. The arm which showed belowthe velvet-banded cuff of the rusty brown coat was knotted and corded,like the roots of an oak where the water wears away the bank in thespring rains. His chest, where his embroidered shirt was open for ahand's-breadth down, showed a perfect network of scars, ridged whitecuts, triangular purple stabs, as it were punched out and only halffilled in, as well as cicatrices where wounds reluctant to heal had beentreated by the hot iron of half the unskilful surgeons in Spain.
But after all these things are no novelty in Iberia, where the knife isstill among the lower orders the only court of appeal, and Etienne madeno remark upon them. He had indeed other affairs on his mind of a moreengrossing nature.
"Mon Dieu," he communed with himself, "'tis a full calendar month sinceI kissed a pretty girl. I wonder what on earth it feels like?"
The path to Sarria was steep and long, but their guide, now permanentlyin the van, threaded his way betwixt stone and stone, now down thenarrow gorge of an _arroyo_ littered with _debris_ and then up the nexttalus
of slate chips like a man familiar from infancy with the way.
From a commanding hill-top he pointed away to the southward and showedthem where the bayonet of a Cristino outpost glinted every half minuteas the sentinel stalked to and fro upon his beat.
The Gallegan chuckled a little when the Englishman remarked upon theirdanger, and tapped his long rifle significantly.
"The danger of the Cristino soldier, you mean," he said, "why, mastersmine, I could lead you to a place from which you might shoot yonder ladso secretly that his comrades would never know from what quarter arrivedhis death."
It was evening ere they drew near the village of Sarria, which lay, adrift of rusty red roofs and whitewashed walls beneath the tumbledAragonese foot-hills. The river ran nearly dry in its channel and themill had stopped. There was not enough water to drive the clackingundershot wheel of Luis Fernandez the comfortable, propertied miller ofSarria, who had been so cruelly wounded by the outlaw Ramon on the nightwhen he claimed shelter from the Carlist monks of Montblanch. Ah, well,all that would soon be at an end, so at least they whispered in Sarria!If all tales were true, monks, monastery tithes, and rights ofsanctuary, they would all go together. The wise politicians at Madrid,eager for their country's good (and certain advantages upon the stockexchange), were about to pass the besom of destruction over thereligious houses, sweeping away in a common ruin grey friar and whitefriar and black friar. Nay, the salaried parish priests would findthemselves sadly docked, and even stout Father Mateo himself wasbeginning to quake in his shoes and draw his girdle tighter by a hole ata time to prepare for the event.
So at least the bruit went forth, and though none save the Prior ofMontblanch and his confidant knew anything for certain, the air was fullof rumours; while between the Carlist war and the report of the greatcoming changes, the minds of men were growing grievously unsettled.Honest folk and peaceful citizens now went about armed. The men satlonger at the _cafes_. They returned later home. They spoke more sharplyto their wives when they asked of them why these things were so.
By the little village gate where Gaspar Perico, the chief representativeof the town dues of Sarria, sat commonly at the receipt of custom, agroup of men occupied a long bench, with their pints of wine and thesweet syrup of pomegranates before them, as is the custom of Aragon onsummer evenings.
The venta of Sarria was kept by a nephew of Gaspar's, the octroi man,one recently come to the district. His name was Esteban, and like hisuncle he had already got him the name of a "valiant," or of a man readywith his tongue and equally ready with his knife.
With the younger Perico's coming, the venta _El Corral_ had promptlybecome the Cafe de Madrid, while the prices of all liquors rose to markthe change, even as in a like proportion their quality speedilydiminished. Customers would doubtless have left at this juncture but forthe fact that Esteban was his uncle's nephew, and that Perico the Eldersat at the receipt of custom.
So at this newly named Cafe de Madrid our travellers alighted, and thesilent Gallegan, gathering the reins in his hands, disappeared into thestables, whose roofs rose over the low front of the venta like acathedral behind its cloisters.
"Good evening to you, young cavaliers!" cried the gallant Gaspar, whocommonly did the honours even in the presence of his nephew, the nominalhost of the venta. The younger man had followed the Gallegan to thestables with a declared intent of seeing that the horses were properlyprovided for.
"You have come far to-day?" inquired Gaspar courteously.
"From the Abbey of----" (here Rollo kicked Etienne suddenly) "I mean wepassed the Abbey of Montblanch, leaving behind us gladly such a nest ofCarlist thieves! From the true nationalist city of Zaragoza we come,"said the Count de Saint Pierre in a breath.
"You are all good men and true here, I observe," said Rollo, who hadseen Cristino colours on the official coat of Gaspar Perico.
"Good men and good nationals!" cried Gaspar. "Indeed, I believe you! Ishould like to see any other show his face in Sarria. There never wasone since Ramon Garcia became an outlaw, and he fled the village ratherthan face me, the champion of the province. Ah, he knew better than toencounter this noble and well-tried weapon!"
And as he spoke he tapped the brown stock of his blunderbuss, and took awholly superfluous squint down the stock to be certain that the sightswere properly adjusted, or perhaps to show the excellent terms he was onwith his weapon.
At this very moment, Esteban the bully, Esteban the unconquered valiant,came running from the stables of the venta, holding his hands to hisface, and behind him, towering up suddenly and filling the entiredoorway, appeared the huge figure of the Gallegan. What had occurredbetween them no man could say. But the Gallegan with great coolnessproceeded to cast out upon the rubbish heap before the door, armfulafter armful of chopped and partly rotten straw which exhaled a thinsteam into the cool air of evening. He followed this up by emptying ahuge leather-covered sieve full of bad barley several times upon thesame vaporous mound. Then with the greatest composure and with acomplete understanding of the premises, the Gallegan walked across to asmaller stable, where the landlord's own cattle were kept. He kicked thedoor open with two applications of his foot, and presently was lost tosight within.
"Shoot him--shoot him, uncle!" cried the half-tearful bully; "he hathsmitten me upon the nose to the outpouring of my blood! Shall a Pericoabide this? Shoot--for the honour of our name!"
But the valiant man of the receipt of customs was also a cautious one.
"Not so, dear Esteban," he said; "this man is the servant of three noblecavaliers of a foreign nation. If he has done wrong, their purses willmake reparation. They are all rich, these foreigners! For all the spiltfodder they will also doubtless pay. Is it not so, _caballeros_?"
But Rollo, the readily furious, gripped his sword and said, "Not onegroat or stiver, not a single maravedi, will I pay till I have spokenwith our man-servant and know the cause of this disorder from himself."
And he laid his hand so determinedly on the hilt of Killiecrankie, whosebasket had been endued with a new silk lining of red and tassels of thesame colour, that the valiant men of Sarria thought better of anydesigns of attack they might have entertained, and preferred to awaitthe event.
The Gallegan by this time had emerged from the smaller private stablewith a good bushel measure of straw and barley, which he carried on hishead towards the larger premises where his masters' three steeds and hisown round-barrelled Aragonese pony had been settled for the night.
He waved his hand to the three at the venta door.
"There is now no fault! It is of good quality this time!" he cried.
And no one said a word more concerning the matter. Nor did Senor EstebanPerico again advert to the stout buffet his nose had received at thebeginning of the affair. On the contrary, he was laboriously polite tothe Gallegan, and put an extra piece of fresh-cut garlic in his soupwhen it came to supper-time. For after this fashion was the youngerPerico made.
And while the three waited, they talked to all and sundry. For Etiennehad questions to ask which bore no small relation to the presentpreoccupation of his mind.
Concha--oh yes, little Concha Cabezos from Andalucia, certainly theyknew her. All the village knew her.
"A pretty girl and dances remarkably well," said Esteban Pericocomplacently, "but holds her head too high for one in her position."
"I do not call that a fault," said Etienne, moving along the woodensettle in front of the venta door to make room for the huge Gallegan,who at that moment strolled up. He did this quite naturally, for inSpain no distinctions of master or servant hold either upon churchpavements or on venta benches.
"No, it is certainly no fault of Concha's that she keeps herself aloof,"said a young fellow in a rustic galliard's dress--light stockings, kneebreeches of black cloth, a short shell jacket, and a broad sash of redabout his waist. He twirled his moustachios with the air of one whocould tell sad tales of little Concha if only he had the mind.
"And why, sir?" cried Eti
enne, bristling in a moment like a turkeycock;"pray, has the young lady vouchsafed you any token of her regard?"
"Nay, not to me," said the local Don Juan, cautiously; "but if you areanxious upon the question, I advise you to apply to Don Rafael deFlores, our alcalde's son."
"What," cried the Frenchman, "is he her lover?"
"Her lover of many months," answered Don Juan, "truly you say right. Andthe strange thing is that he got himself stabbed for it too, by thatgreat oaf Ramon Garcia, whom they now call 'El Sarria.' Ha! ha! and hewas as innocent as yourself all the time."
"I will presently interview the Don Rafael de Flores," muttered Etienne."This is some slander. 'Tis not possible Concha has been deceivingme--and she so young, so innocent. Oh, it would be bitter indeed if itwere so!"
He meditated a moment, flicking his polished boot with a riding-whip.
"And all the more bitter, that up to this moment I thought it was I whowas deceiving her."
But the young Don Juan of the Sarrian _cafe_ liked to hold the floor,and with three distinguished cavaliers for listeners, it was somethingto find a subject of common interest. Besides, who knew whether he mightnot hear a tale or two to the disadvantage of little Concha Cabezos, whohad flouted him so sadly at last carnival and made a score of girlslaugh at him upon the open Rambla.
"It happened thus," he said, "you have heard of El Sarria the outlaw, onwhose head both parties have set a price?"
"He was of our village," cried half a dozen at once. It was their onetitle to respect, indisputable in any company. They began allconversations when they went from home with Ramon Garcia's name, and thestatement of the fact that they had known his father.
"And a fine old man he was; very gracious and formal and of muchdignity."
"It happened thus," the youthful dandy went on. "El Sarria came homelate one night, and when he arrived at his own gable-end, lo, there bythe _reja_, where the inside stairway mounts, was a youth 'plucking theturkey' with his sweetheart through a broken bar, and that apparentlywith great success. And the fool Ramon, his head being filled with hisDolores, never bethought himself for a moment that there might beanother pretty girl in the house besides his wife, and so withoutwaiting either '_Buenos!_' or '_Hola!_'--_click_ went Ramon's knife intothe lover's back! Such a pair of fools as they were!"
"And did this--this Rafael de Flores die?" asked Etienne, dividedbetween a hope that he had, and a fear that if so he might be balked ofhis revenge.
"Die? No--he was about again before many weeks. But this foolish Ramontook straightway to the hills, because he thought that his wife wasfalse and that he had killed her cousin and lover."
And even as Don Juan was speaking these words a young man of a slenderform and particularly lithe carriage, dressed in the height of Madridfashion, walked into the _cafe_ with a smiling flourish of his hat tothe company.
"A glass of vermuth, Esteban," he said, "and if any of these gentlemenwill join me I shall feel honoured. Be good enough to tell them who Iam, Gaspar, my friend."
"Senor cavalier," said the valiant man of Sarria, planting the butt ofhis blunderbuss firmly on the ground that he might lean upon it, and asit were more officially make the important introduction, "this is noother than the only son of our rich and distinguished alcalde, Senor DonRafael de Flores, concerning whom you have already heard some speech."
And Gaspar, who knew his place, stood back for the impressive civilitieswhich followed. The jaws of the villagers dropped as they saw the threeforeigners with one accord raise their hats from their heads and makeeach a reverence after his kind. Rollo, the tragical Scot, swept backhis sombrero-brim in a grand curve as if it bore a drooping plume. JohnMortimer jerked his beaver vertically off and clapped it down again asif he had a spite at the crown, while M. Etienne turned out his toes andin his elbows, as he bowed sharply at the waist with a severe andhaughty expression, without, however, taking his hat from his head.
"I must do the honours, I see," said Rollo, laughing, "since we have nolocal trumpeter to do them for us. (Where in the world is that sullendog, our most faithful Galician?) This to the left is Monsieur de SaintPierre, count of that name. Then next Mr. John Mortimer of Chorley inEngland, and as for me I am Rollo Blair of Blair Castle in the county ofFife, at your service."
At this point the aforesaid M. de Saint Pierre stepped forward. He haddrawn out his card-case and selected a pasteboard with the care anddeliberation with which a connoisseur may choose a cigar.
"I have the honour to present Senor Don Rafael with my cartel ofdefiance," he said simply.
The young man thus addressed stood a long moment dumb and fixed in themiddle of the floor, gazing at the engraved lines on the card, which hehad mechanically accepted, without comprehending their meaning.
"A cartel!" he stammered at last; "impossible. I can have no cause ofquarrel with this gentleman from France. I do not even know him!"
But Etienne had all the science of the affair of honour at hisfinger-ends.
"I have nothing to say, sir," he replied, frigidly; "I refer you to mysecond!"
And he turned to his nearest companion, who happened to be JohnMortimer. The Englishman, however, had but imperfectly understood.
"Well," he said in his best Spanish, "I am prepared to treat for anyquantity, provided the quality be to my satisfaction. But mind, theterms are, 'delivered on the quay at Barcelona.' _No more Priorato pigsin pokes for John Mortimer of Chorley._"
He relapsed into English with the last clause, and sticking his thumbsinto the pockets of his waistcoat, he waited Don Rafael's reply to hisultimatum.
"Holy Virgin, are they all mad?" that young gentleman was crying in apassion of despair when Rollo stepped forward and bowed courteously.
"The matter is briefly this, as I understand it," he said. "My friend,M. Etienne de Saint Pierre, has been in terms of considerable amity witha certain young lady--whose name I need not repeat in a public place. Hehas been given to understand that you claim a similar high position inher favour. If this be so, Senor, my principal wishes to end thedifficulty by a duel to the death, so that the young lady may not be putto the painful necessity of making a choice between two such gallantmen. I make it _quite_ clear, do I not? Two of you love one lady. Thelady cannot accept both. You fight. There remains but one. The lady isin no difficulty! Do you both agree?"
"I agree most heartily," said Etienne, rubbing his hands cheerfully, andpractising feints in the air with his forefinger.
"But not I--not I!" cried Don Rafael, with sudden frenzy; "I do notagree--far from it, indeed. I would have you know that I am a marriedman. My wife is waiting for me at home at this moment. I must go. Imust, indeed. Besides, I am under age, and it is murder in the firstdegree to shoot an unarmed man. I am not in love with any person. I makeclaims to no lady's affection. I am a married man, I tell you,gentlemen--I was never in love with anybody else. I told my wife so onlythis morning!"
"Not with Dona Concha Cabezos of this village?" said Etienne, sternly."I am advised that you have been in the habit of making that claim."
"Never, never," cried the gallant, wringing his hands. "Saints, angels,and martyrs--if this should come to my wife's ears! I swear to you I donot know any Concha--I never heard of her. I will have nothing to dowith her! Gentlemen, you must excuse me. I have an engagement!"
And with this hurried adieu the little man in the Madrid suit fairlybolted out of the _cafe_, and ran down the street at full speed.
And in the dusk of the gable arches the Gallegan sat with his head sunklow in his hands.
"What a fool, Ramon Garcia! What a mortal fool you were--to have thoughtfor a moment that your little Dolores could have loved a thing likethat!"
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