The Firebrand

by S. R. Crockett

  CHAPTER XII

  THE CRYING OF A YOUNG CHILD

  "And now, gentlemen," said Monsieur Etienne grandly, "where is the younggentleman who traduced in my hearing the fair fame of Dona ConchaCabezos? _Ma foi_, I will transfer my cartel to him!"

  Then, with great dignity, uprose the ancient valiant man of the octroiof Sarria, for he felt that some one must vindicate the municipality.

  "Cavalier," he said, with a sweeping bow which did honour at once tohimself and to the place in which they were assembled, "there may bethose amongst us who have spoken too freely, and on their behalf and myown I convey to you an apology if we have unwittingly offended. In aventa--I beg my nephew's pardon--in a _cafe_, like the Cafe de Madrid,men's tongues wag fast without harm being intended to any man, much lessto any honourable lady. So it was in this case, and in the name of theloyal town of Sarria, I express my regret. If these words be sufficient,here is my hand. The Cafe de Madrid, sir, begs your acceptance of abottle of the best within its cellars. But if your lordship be stilloffended, there are twenty men here who are ready to meet you on thefield of honour. For I would have you know, gentlemen, that we are also_Caballeros_. But it must be with the weapons in the use of which wehave some skill--the cloak wrapped about the left arm, the Mancheganknife in the right hand. Or, if our Aragonese custom please not yourhonours, I make myself personally responsible for any words that mayhave been spoken; aye, and will be proud to stand out upon the hillsideand exchange shots with you till you are fully satisfied--standing up,man to man, at one hundred yards. This I do because the offence wasgiven in my nephew's _cafe_, and because for forty years I have beencalled the Valiant Man of Sarria!"

  The ancient Gaspar stood before them, alternately patting the stock ofhis blunderbuss and pulling the ragged ends of his long whitemoustachios, till Rollo, who could recognise true courage when he sawit, stepped up to him, and making a low bow held out a hand, which theother immediately grasped amid plaudits from the assembled company.

  "You are a brave man, a valiant man, indeed, Senor----" he wasbeginning.

  "Gaspar Perico, at your service--of the wars of the Independence!"interrupted the old man, proudly.

  "You have not forgotten the use of your weapons, _Senor Valiente_!" saidthe young Scot. "Take off your hat, Etienne," he added in French, "andaccept the old fellow's apology as graciously as you can. I am yoursecond, and have arranged the matter for you already!"

  With a little grumbling Etienne complied, and was graciously pleased toallow himself to be appeased. Rollo felt for him, for he himself knewwell what it is to itch to fight somebody and yet have to put up one'ssword with the point untried. But a new feeling had come into his soul.A steadying-rein was thrown over his shoulder--the best that can be setto diminish the ardours of a firebrand like this hot-headed Scot. Thiswas responsibility. He was upon a mission of vast importance, and thoughhe cared about the rights and wrongs of the affair not at all, and wouldjust as soon have taken service with the red and yellow of the nationalsas with the white _boinas_ of Don Carlos, once committed to theadventure he resolved that no follies that he could prevent shoulddamage a successful issue.

  So, having settled the quarrel, and partaken of the excellent smuggledvermuth de Torino, in which, by his uncle's order, Esteban the host andhis guests washed away all traces of ill-feeling, the three sat down toenjoy the _puchero_, which all this while had been quietly simmering inthe kitchen of the inn. At their request the repast was shared by GasparPerico, while the nephew, in obedience to a sign from his uncle, waitedat table. It was not difficult to perceive that Senor Gaspar was thetrue patron of the Cafe de Madrid in the village of Sarria.

  * * * * *

  So soon as he knew that the cause for which he had stabbed his wife'scousin had been one that in no wise concerned little Dolores thedisguised Ramon Garcia went out to seek his wife, a great pity and agreat remorse tearing like hungry Murcian vultures at his heart. He wasnot worthy even to speak to that pure creature. His hasty jealousy hadruined their lives. He it was who had squandered his chances, lost hispatrimony, broken up their little home behind the whispering reeds ofthe Cerde. Yes, he had done all that, but--_he loved her_. So he wentforth to seek her, and the night closed about him, grey and solemn witha touch of chill in the air. It was not hot and stifling like that otherwhen he had come home to meet his doom and crept up through a kind ofblood-red haze to strike that one blow by the latticed _reja_ of hishouse.

  Ramon did not hide and skulk now. He walked down the street with hislong locks shorn, his beard clean shaven, his Gallegan dress and plumedhat, secure that none of his fellow townsmen would recognise him. And,at least in the semi-darkness, he was entirely safe.

  There he could see the little white shed on the roof where Dolores usedto feed her pigeons, and he smiled as he remembered how before hemarried he had been wont to keep various breeds, such as Valenciatumblers, pouters, and fast-flying carriers upon which he used to wagera few reals with his friends.

  But that was in his bachelor days. He smiled again as he thought thatwhen Dolores came it was a different story. Never was such a littlehouse-wife. She was all for the pot. She would have him part with hisfine sorts, save and except one or two tumblers that she used to feedfrom her balcony. She loved to see them from her window circling,wheeling, and as it were, play-acting in the air. For the rest, thecommonest kinds that laid the most eggs, brought up the largest broods,and took on the plumpest breasts when fed with ground maize and Indiancorn, green from the patch which he grew on purpose for her behind thewillows--these were his wife's especial delight.

  Ramon opened the little wicket to which she had so often run to meethim, under the three great fig trees. The gate creaked on unaccustomedhinges. The white square of a placard on the post caught his eye. Itwas too dark to see clearly, or else El Sarria would have seen that itwas a bill of sale of the house and effects of a certain Ramon Garcia,outlaw. As he stepped within his foot slipped among the rotten figswhich lay almost ankle-deep on the path he had once kept so clean. Abuzz of angry wasps arose. They were drunken, however, with thefermenting fruit, and blundered this way and that like men tipsy withnew wine.

  The path before him was tangled across and across with bindweed andrunners of untended vine. The neglected artichokes had shot, and theirglary seed-balls rose as high as his chin like gigantic thistles.

  The house that had been so full of light and loving welcome lay all darkbefore him, blank and unlovely as a funeral vault.

  Yet for all these signs of desolation Ramon only reproached himself themore.

  "The little Dolores," he thought, "she has felt herself forsaken. Like awounded doe she shrinks from sight. Doubtless she comes and goes by theback of the house. The sweet little Dolores----" And he smiled. It didnot occur to him that she would ever be turned out of the house that washis and hers. She would go on living there and waiting for him. And nowhow surprised she would be. But he would tell her all, and she wouldforgive him. And it is typical of the man and of his nation that henever for a moment dreamed that his being "El Sarria," a pennilessoutlaw with a price on his head, would make one whit of difference toDolores.

  After all what was it to be outlawed? If he did this service for theAbbot and Don Carlos--a hard one, surely--he would be received into thearmy of Navarra, and he might at once become an officer. Or he mightescape across the seas and make a home for Dolores in a new country.Meantime he would see her once more, for that night at least hold hersafe in his arms.

  But by this time he had gone round the gable by the little narrow pathover which the reeds continually rustled. He passed the window with thebroken _reja_, and he smiled when he thought of the ignominious flightof Don Rafael down the village street. With a quickened step and hisheart thudding in his ears he went about the little reed-built hut inwhich he had kept Concha's firewood, and stood at the back-door.

  It was closed and impervious. No ray of light penetrated. "PerhapsConcha has gone out, an
d the little one, being afraid, is sitting alonein the dark, or has drawn the clothes over her head in bed."

  He had always loved the delightful terrors with which Dolores was wontto cling to him, or flee to throw herself on his bosom from someimaginary peril--a centipede that scuttled out of the shutter-crack or ahe-goat that had stamped his foot at her down on the rocks by the river.And like a healing balm the thought came to him. For all that talk inthe venta--of Concha this and Concha that, of lovers and aspirants, nosingle word had been uttered of his Dolores.

  "What a fool, Ramon! What an inconceivable fool!" he murmured tohimself. "_You_ doubted her, but the common village voice, so insolentlyfree-spoken, never did so for a moment!"

  He knocked and called, his old love name for her, "Lola--dearLola--open! It is I--Ramon!"

  He called softly, for after all he was the outlaw, and the Migueletesmight be waiting for him in case he should return to his first home.

  But, call he loud or call he soft, there was no answer from the littlehouse where he had been so happy with Dolores. He struck a light withhis tinder-box and lit the dark lantern he carried.

  There was another bill on the back-door, and now with the lantern in hishand he read it from top to bottom. It was dated some months previouslyand was under the authority of the _alcalde_ of Sarria and by order ofGeneral Nogueras, the Cristino officer commanding the district.

  "This house, belonging to the well-known rebel, outlaw and murderer,Ramon Garcia, called El Sarria, is to be sold for the benefit of thegovernment of the Queen-Regent with all its contents----" And herefollowed a list, among which his heart stood still to recognise thegreat chair he had bought at Lerida for Dolores to rest in when she wasdelicate, the bed they twain had slept in, the very work-table at whichshe had sewn the household linen, and sat gossiping with Concha overtheir embroidery.

  But there was no doubt about the matter. Dolores was gone, and the eyeof El Sarria fell upon a notice rudely printed with a pen and insertedin a corner of the little square trap-door by which it was possible tosurvey a visitor without opening the door.

  "Any who have letters, packages, or other communications for persons lately residing in this house, are honourably requested to give themselves the trouble of carrying them to the Mill of Sarria, where they will receive the sincere thanks and gratitude of the undersigned

  "LUIS FERNANDEZ."

  Ramon saw it all. He knew now why his friend had arranged for his deathat the mouth of the secret hiding-place. He understood why there was notalk about Dolores at the inn. She was under the protection of the mostpowerful man in the village, save the alcalde alone. Not that Ramondoubted little Dolores. He would not make that mistake a second time.

  But they would work upon her, he knew well how, tell her that he wasdead, that Luis Fernandez has been his only friend. He recollected, witha hot feeling of shame and anger, certain speeches of his own in whichhe had spoken to her of the traitor as his "twin brother," the "friendof his heart," and how even on one occasion he had commended Dolores tothe good offices of Luis when he was to be for some weeks absent fromSarria upon business.

  He turned the lamp once more on the little announcement so rudely tracedupon the blue paper. A spider had spun its web across it. Many flies hadleft their wings there. So, though undated, Ramon judged that it was byno means recent.

  "Ah, yes, Don Luis," he thought grimly, "here is one who has a messageto leave at the mill-house of Sarria."

  But before setting out Ramon Garcia went into the little fagot-house,and sitting down upon a pile of kindling-wood which he himself had cut,he drew the charges of his pistols and reloaded them with quiteextraordinary care.

  Then he blew out his lantern and stepped forth into the night.

  * * * * *

  At the venta the three adventurers supped by themselves. Their Galleganretainer did not put in an appearance, to the sorrow of Mons. Etiennewho wished to employ him in finding out the abiding-place of thefaithless but indubitably charming Dona Concha.

  However, the Gallegan did not return all night. He had, in fact, gone todeliver a message at the house of his sometime friend Don LuisFernandez.

  When he arrived at the bottom of the valley through which the waters ofthe Cerde had almost ceased to flow, being so drained for irrigation andbled for village fountains that there remained hardly enough of them tobe blued by the washerwomen at their clothes, or for the drink of thebrown goats pattering down to the stray pools, their hard little hoofsclicking like castanets on the hot and slippery stones of the river-bed.Meanwhile El Sarria thought several things.

  First, that Luis Fernandez had recovered from his wound and was so sureof his own security that he could afford to take over his friend's wifeand all her responsibilities. Ramon gritted his teeth, as he stole likea shadow down the dry river-bed. He had learned many a lesson duringthese months, and the kite's shadow flitted not more silently over theun-peopled moor than did El Sarria the outlaw down to the oldmill-house. He knew the place, too, stone by stone, pool by pool, for inold days Luis and he had often played there from dawn to dark.

  The mill-house of Sarria was in particularly sharp contrast to the abodehe had left. Luis had always been a rich man, especially since hisuncle died; he, Ramon, never more than well-to-do. But here weremagazines and granaries, barns and drying-lofts. Besides, in thepleasant angle where the windows looked down on the river, there was adwelling-house with green window-shutters and white curtains, the likeof which for whiteness and greenness were not to be seen even within themagnificent courtyard of Senor de Flores, the rich alcalde of Sarria.

  This was illuminated as Ramon came near, and, from the darkness of theriver gully, he looked up at its lighted windows from behind one of thegreat boulders, which are the teeth of the Cerde when the floods comedown from the mountains. How they rolled and growled and groaned andcrunched upon each other! Ramon, in all the turmoil of his thoughts,remembered one night when to see Dolores and to stand all drippingbeneath her window, he had dared even that peril of great waters.

  But all was now clear and bright and still. The stars shone above and innearly every window of the mill-house there burned a larger, a mellowerstar. It might have been a _festa_ night, save that the windows werecurtained and the lights shone through a white drapery of lace, subduedand tender.

  He crept nearer to the house. He heard a noise of voices within. Anequipage drove up rapidly to the front. What could bring a carriage tothe house of Luis Fernandez?

  A wild idea sprang into Ramon's brain. He had been so long in solitudethat he drew conclusions rapidly. So he followed the train of thoughtupon which he had fallen, even as the flame runs along a train ofgunpowder laid on the floor.

  They had been long persuading her--all these months he had been on themountain, and now they had married her to his false friend, to LuisFernandez. It was the eve of the wedding-feast, and the guests werearriving. His knife had deceived him a second time. He had not strucktrue. Where was his old skill? There--surely his eyesight did notdeceive him--was Luis Fernandez walking to and fro within his own house,arm in arm with a friend. They had lied to Dolores and told her he wasdead, even as the Migueletes would certainly do to claim the reward.There upon the balcony was a stranger dressed in black; he and Luis cameto an open window, leaned out, and talked confidentially together. Thestranger was peeling an orange, and he flung the peel almost upon thehead of El Sarria.

  Ramon, fingering his pistol butt, wondered if he should shoot now orwait. The two men went in again, and solved the difficulty for thattime. Moreover, the outlaw did not yet know for certain that his wifewas within the mill-house.

  He would reconnoitre and find out. So he hid his gun carefully in a dryplace under a stone, and stole up to the house through the garden,finding his way by instinct, for all the lighted windows were now on theother side.

  Yet El Sarria never halted, never stumbled, was never at a loss. Now hestepped over the little str
eam which ran in an artificial channel toreinforce the undershot wheel from above, when the Cerde was low.Another pace forward and he turned sharply to the left, parted a tangleof oleanders, and looked out upon the broad space in front of the house.

  It was a doctor's carriage all the way from La Bisbal that stood there.It was not a wedding then; some one was ill, very ill, or the_Sangrador_ would not have come from so far, nor at such an expense toDon Luis, who in all things was a careful man. Moreover, to Ramon'ssimple Spanish mind the _Sangrador_ and the undertaker arrived in onecoach. Could he have struck some one else instead of Don Luis that nightat the chasm? Surely no!

  And then a great keen pain ran through his soul. He heard Dolores callhis name! High, keen, clear--as it were out of an eternity of pain, itcame to him. "_Ramon, Ramon--help me, Ramon!_"

  He stood a moment clutching at his breast. The cry was not repeated. Butall the same, there could be no mistake. It was her voice or that of anangel from heaven. She had summoned him, and alive or dead he would findher. He drew his knife and with a spring was in the road. Along the wallhe sped towards the door of the dwelling-place: it stood open and thewide hall stretched before him empty, vague, and dark.

  Ramon listened, his upper lip lifted and his white teeth showing alittle. He held his knife, yet clean and razor-sharp in his hand. Therewas a babel of confused sounds above; he could distinguish the tones ofLuis Fernandez. But the voice of his Dolores he did not hear again. Nomatter, he had heard it once and he would go--yes, into the midst of hisfoes. Escape or capture, Carlist or Cristino did not matter now. She wasinnocent; she loved him; she had called his name. Neither God nor devilshould stop him now. He was already on the staircase. He wentnoiselessly, for he was bare of foot, having stripped in the river-bed,and left his brown cordovans beside his gun. But before his bare soletouched the hollow of the second step, the one sound in the universewhich could have stopped him reached his ear--and that foot was neverset down.

  _El Sarria heard the first cry of a new-born child._